THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES CASSELL'S STANDARD LIBRARY THE 1NGOLDSBY LEGENDS CASSELL-S STANDARD LIBRARY. Crown 8w t doth gilt, is. each net. i. Adam Bede - 9. Westward Ho By GEORGE ELIOT. By CHARLES KINGSLKY. 3. The Old Curiosity Shop - By CHARLES DICKENS. 4. Ivanhoe - By Sir WALTER SCOTT. 5. The Last Days of Pompeii By LORD LYTTON. 6. Pride and Prejudice 7. Mill on the Floss - 8. The Last of the Mohicans 9. American Humour - 10. Jane Eyre .... 11. Handy Andy ... 12. Uncle Tom's Cabin 13. The Prince of the House of David 14. The Ingoldsby Legends By JANK AUSTEN. By GEORGE ELIOT. By FENIMORB COOPER. Selected. By CHARLOTTE BRONTB. By SAMUEL LOVER. By HARRIET BEBCHBR STOWB. By the Rev. T. H. INGRAHAM. - By the Rev. RICI 15. Rienzi 16. The Scarlet Letter - 17. Oliver Twist 18. The Heart of Midlothian HARD H. BARHAM. By BULWER LYTTON. By NATHANIEL HAW* THORNE. By CHARLES DICKENS. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. Casstll & Company, Limited, London ; Paris, New York & Mtlbournt, THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS By the REV, RICHARD R BARHAM Cassell and Company, Limited London, Paris, New York and Melbourne. MCMH College Library FR CONTENTS. FA1JS THE NURSE'S STOEY THE HAND ov GLORY 7 PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY "LOOK AT THE CLOCK !" 13 THE GHOST .' . 20 THE CYNOTAPH . . .'.''. 29 LKOEND OP HAMILTON TIGHE . '. ". '".."'.'. ". 33 THE WITCHES' FROLIC . '.'.'. . ? ' . .36 THE JACKDAW OP RHEIMS 50 A LAY OP ST. DUNSTAN . ^ . ' 54 A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS ' "**'. ***. 63 THE LAY OP ST. ODILLE . , .72 A LAY OP ST. NICHOLAS 78 THE TRAGEDY 85 MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION . . 88 THE "MONSTHE" BALLOON 91 HON. MR. SUOKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY THE EXECUTION ... 94 SOME ACCOUNT OF A NKW PLAY 98 MR. PETEHS'S STORY THE BAGMAN'S DOG 106 THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE 121 SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS .',, . 140 THE MERCHANT OP VENICE 148 THE AUTO-DA-F 159 THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE ^ . ; 175 NETLEY ABBEY 188 I H, CONTENTS MM FRAGMENT 192 NELL COOK 193 NURSTOY REMINISCENCES 201 AUNT FANNY 203 MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE 210 THB SMUGGLER'S LEAP 214 BLOUDIB JACKE OF SHREWSBEIIKIE ....... 220 THE BABES IN THE WOOD .... . . . . 231 THE DEAD DRUMMER 236 A Row IN AN OMNIBUS (Box) 247 THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBEHT . . . ^ ...... 251 THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS 262 THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY . . . 272 RAISING THE DEVIL 287 THE LAY OF ST. MEDABD 288 THE LORD OF THOULOUSE 294 THE WEDDING DAY ; OH, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE ... 307 THB BLASPHEMER'S WARNING 320 THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON 340 THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY 351 THE HOUSE-WARMING 360 THE FORLORN ONE ...... t; v .,.. . . 373 UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES 374 HERMANN ; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAK 375 THE POPLAR 378 NEW-MADE HONOUR 378 THE CONFESSION ... 379 SONG . ... 379 As I LAY A-THINKYNGC ... .... 380 THE IMOLDSBY LEGENDS. THE HAND OF GLORY. ON the lone bleak moor, At the midnight hour, Beneath the Gallows Tree, Hand in hand The Murderers stand, By one, by two, by three 1 And the Moon that night With a grey, cold light Each baleful object tips ; One half of her form Is seen through the storm, The other half 's hid in Eclipse ! And the cold Wind howls, And the Thunder growls, And the Lightning is broad and bright ; And altogether It's very bad weather, And an unpleasant sort of a night ! " Now mount who list, And close by the wrist, Sever me quickly the Dead Man's fist ! Now climb who dare Where he swings in air, And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man's hair ! " There's an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor, She hath years on her back at the least fourscore, And some people fancy a great many more ; Her nose it is hook'd, Her back it is crook'd, Her eyes blear and red : On the top of her head Is a mutch, and on that A shocking bad hat, Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat ! Then, My Gracious ! her beard ! it would sadly perplex A spectator at first to distinguish her sex ; 8 . THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS, Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy. Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within, With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin ; Leering up with that queer, indescribable grin, You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry, " Well ! I never did see such a regular Guy ! " And now before That old Woman's door, Where nought that's good may be, Hand in hand The Murderers stand, By one, by two, by three ! Oh ! 'tis a horrible sight to view, In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew, By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame, Doing the deed that hath never a name ! 'Tis awful to hear Those words of fear ! The prayer mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer 1 (Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when A witch says her prayers, she begins with " Amen.") 'Tis awful to see On that old Woman's knee The dead, shrivell'd hand, as she clasps it with glee 1 And now with care, The five locks of hair From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there, With the grease and the fat Of a black Tom Cat. She hastens to mix, And to twist into wicks, And one on the thumb and each finger to fix. (For another receipt the same charm to prepare, Consult Mr. Ainsworth and Petit Albert.) " Now open lock To the Dead Man's knock ! Fly bolt, and bar, and band ! Nor move, nor swerve, Joint, muscle, or nerve, At the spell of the Dead Man's hand ! Sleep all who sleep ! Wake all who wake I But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake 1 " All is silent ! all is still, Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill, And in Tappington Hall Great and Small, THE HAND OF GLORY, Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom, Each one hath sought his separate room, And sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast, For the midnight hour hath long been past ! All is darksome in earth and sky, Save from yon casement, narrow and high, A quivering beam On the tiny stream Plays, like some taper's fitful gleam By one that is watching wearily. Within that casement, narrow and high, In his secret lair, where none may spy, Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care, And the thin grey locks of his failing hair Have left his little bald pate all bare ; For his full-bottom'd wig Hangs, bushy and big, On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair. Unbraced are his clothes, Ungarter'd his hose. His gown is bedizen'd with tulip and rose, Flowers of remarkable size and hue, Flowers such as Eden never knew ; And there by many a sparkling heap Of the good red gold, The tale is told What powerful spell avails to keep That careworn man from his needful sleep ! Haply, he deems no eye can see As he gloats on his treasure greedily, The shining store Of glittering ore, The fair rose-noble, the bright moidore, And the broad Double- Joe from ayont the sea, But there's one that watches as well as he ; For, wakeful and sly, In a closet hard by, On his truckle bed lieth a little Foot-page, A boy who's uncommonly sharp of his ag, Like young Master Homer, Who erst in a corner Sat eating a Christmas pie : And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards, Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards ! There's a voice in the air, There's a step on the stair, The old man starts in his cane-back'd chair ; A* 10 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. At the first faint sound He gazes around, And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound. Then half arose From beside his toes His little pug-dog with his little pug nose, But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff, That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff, For low, yet clear, Now fall on the ear Where once pronounced for ever they dwell The unholy words of the Dead Man's spell ! " Open lock To the Dead Man's knock ! Fly bolt, and bar, and band ! Nor move, nor swerve, Joint, muscle, or nerve, At the spell of the Dead Man's hand I Sleep all who sleep ! Wake all who wake ! But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake ! " Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails, Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails. Heavy and harsh the hinges creak, Though they had been oil'd in the course of the week ; The door opens wide as wide may be And there they stand, That murderous band, Lit by the light of that GLORIOUS HAND, By one ! by two ! by three ! They have pass'd through the porch, they have pass'd throttg& the hall, Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall ; The very snore froze In his very snub nose. You'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last When the GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him pass'd ! E'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat, At the top of its speed to escape from the cat, Though half dead with affright, Paused in its flight ; And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing Lay oouch'd as a statue in act to spring 1 And now they are there, On the head of the stair, And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare ! I really don't think any money would bribe Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe, THE HAND Of GLORY. U Or the wild, wild glare of that old man's eye, His dumb despair, and deep agony. The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold, Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold ; They dream not ah, happier they ! that the knife, Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life ; It falls ; the frail thread of their being is riven, They dread not, suspect not, the blow till 'tis given. But, oh ! what a thing 'tis to see and to know That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe, Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow ! Enough I let's pass over as fast as we can The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man ! But fancy poor Hugh, Aghast at the view, Powerless alike to speak or to do ! In vain doth he try To open the eye That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink, Though he'd give all the world to be able to wink ! No ! for all that this world can give or refuse, I would not be now in that little boy's shoes, Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh's ! 'Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall He has peep'd through so long is so narrow and small ! Wailing voices, sounds of woe Such as follow departing friends, That fatal night round Tappington go, Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends : Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good, Aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood. Tis early dawn the morn is grey, And the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away, And all things betoken a very fine day ; But, while the lark her carol is singing, Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing ! Upstarting all, Great and small. Each one who's found within Tappington Hall, Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom, All seek at once that old Gentleman's room : 13 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. And there, on the floor, Drench'd in its gore, A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view, Carotid and jugular both cut through ! And there, by its side, 'Mid the crimson tide, Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years ; Adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears Are coursing each other round and big, And he's staunching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig. Alas ! and alack for his staunching ! 'tis plain, As anatomists tell us, that never again Shall life revisit the foully slain, When once they've been cut through the jugular vein There's a hue and a cry through the County of Kent, And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable's sent, But no one can tell the man which way they went : There's a little Foot-page with that Constable goes, And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose. In Rochester town, At the sign of the Crown, Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown ; When a little Foot-page Rushes in, in a rage. Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage. That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat, And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat, And the Constable seizes the one more remote ; And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores, The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores, And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare ; And the Constable says, with a dignified air, " You're wanted, Gen'lemen, one and all, For that 'ere precious lark at Tappington Hall ! " There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor, Where a former black gibbet has frowned before ; It is as black as black may be, And murderers there Are dangling in air, By one ! by two ! by three ! "LOOK AT THE CLOCK T 18 There's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown'd hat, Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat A dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat 1 They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes. They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs : Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes, With a whoop and a halloo ! " She swims ! She swims ! " They have dragg'd her to land, And every one's hand Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand, When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black, Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack, Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack No one can tell, Though they guess pretty well, Which way that grim rider and old woman go, For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow ; And she scream'd so, and cried, We may fairly decide That the old woman did not much relish her ride ! MORAL. This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt That truest of adages " Murder will out ! " In vain may the blood-spiller " double " and fly, In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try : Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry I t&e "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!" FYTTE L " LOOK at the Clock ! " quoth Winifred Pryce, As she open'd the door to her husband's knock, Then paused to give him a piece of advice, " You nasty Wannint, look at the Clock ! 14 THE INGOLDSBY LEOENDS. Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you ? Out all night ! Me in a fright ; Staggering home as it's just getting light 5 You intoxified brute! you insensible block 1 Look at the clock ! Do 1 Look at the Clock ! " Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, Her buckles were bright as her milking cans, And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's ; Her little red eyes were deep-set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket* holes; A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit : To conclude, Mrs Pryce was not over young, Had very short legs, and a very long tongue. Now David Pryce Had one darling vice : Remarkably partial to anything nice ; Nought that was good to him came amiss, Whether to eat, to drink, or to kiss ! Especially ale If it was not too stale I really believe he'd have emptied a pail : Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales ; To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W. That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots, With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers ; And long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out " Shenkin ! " and " Ar hydd y nos ; " While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, Sang, " We've drunk down the Sun, boys ! let's drink down the Moon ! What have we with day to do 1 Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you." "LOOK AT THE CLOCK I" 16 At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old " Goat-in-Boots " showed them the door : And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, " Look at the Clock ! " For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three 1 That self -same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan, And often, among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an " Uncle " of his, who'd a " Spout." That horrid word " Spout " No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, " Spout " herself till her nose grew red at the tip. " You thundering willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife ay, a dozen of wives for a shilling ! You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise, (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her smock) But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock 1 " Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast ; But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick : Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient. So he threw it instead Direct at her head ; It knock'd off her hat ; Down she fell fiat ; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that : But whatever it was, whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble produced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain but this I can, When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne ! The fearful catastrophe, Named in my last strophe, As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, 16 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. Made a great noise ; and the shocking fatality Ran over, like wildfire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her. Mr. Pryce, to commence His " ingenious defence," Made a " powerful appeal " to the jury's " good sense : " " The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption' of ' Malice Prepense.'" The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He " deplored," he was " apt to be rather too quick ; " - But, really, her prating Was so aggravating : Some trifling correction was just what he meant : all The rest, he assured them, was " quite accidental ! " Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones, And her gestures, and hints about u breaking his bones ; " While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declare the deceased Had styled him " a Beast," And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes. The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy, Return'd about half -past eleven at night The following verdict, " We find, Sarve her right I u Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, Felt lonely, and moped ; and one evening he said He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead. Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain ; its name you'll excuse me from telling, For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do ; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far, On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R. Its first syllable, " PEN," Is pronounceable ; then Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N ; About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow, Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow : But we shan't have to mention it often, so when We do. with your leave, we'll curtail it to " PEN.' "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!" 17 Well the moon shone bright Upon " PEN " that night, When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, Was scaling its side With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride. Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire, 'Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paused, and turn'd round to take breath and to rest : A walk all up hill is apt, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopp'd and look'd down on the valley below. O'er fell and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold, Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold ; Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst ; And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, Killing poets by dozens, With their uncles and cousins, Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap ; And how Mr. Tudor Successfully woo'd her, Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, And so made him Father-in-law to the King. He thought upon Arthur and Merlin of yore, On Gryffith ap Conan and Owen Glendour ; On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more. He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce ; When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, Which went pit-a-pat As he cried out, " What's that ? " That very queer sound 1 Does it come from the ground ? Or the air, from above, or below, or around 1 It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking, It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, Or the tramp of a horse, or the tread of a man,-- 18 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. Or the hum of a crowd, or the shouting of boys, It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise ! Not unlike a cart's, but that can't be ; for when Could " all the King's horses, and all the King's men, ' With old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up " PEN } " Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk, Now experienced what schoolboys denominate " funk" In vain he look'd back On the whole of the track He had traversed ; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pass away soon ; While clearer and clearer, Twas plain to the hearer, Be the noise what it might, it grew nearer and nearer, And soundai, as Pryce to this moment declares, Very much "like a Coffin a- walking up-stairs." Mr. Pryce had begun To " make up " for a run, As in such a companion he saw no great fun. When a single bright ray Shone out on the way He had pass'd, and he saw, with no little dismay, Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, The deceased Mrs. Winifred's " Grandmother's Clock '. ' 'Twas so ! it had certainly moved from its place, And come lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase ; 'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, And nothing was altered at all but the Face ! In that he perceived, with no little surprise, The two little winder-holes turned into eyes Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire ; And the " Name of the Maker " was changed to a Lip, And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip. No ! he could not mistake it, 'twas SHE to the life ! The identical face of his poor defunct wife ! One glance was enough, Completely " Quant, suff." As the doctors write down when they send you their " stuff/ Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff, David turn'd himself round ; Ten feet of ground He cleared, in his start, at the very first bound 1 I've seen people run at West-end Fair for cheeses I've seen ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises "LOOK AI THE CLOCK I n 19 At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, And one from a Bailiff much faster than that : At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder I've seen Irish bricklayers run up a ladder I've seen little boys run away from a cane And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain ; But I never did read Of, or witness, such speed As David exerted that evening. Indeed, All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over " PEN ! " He reaches its brow, He has past it, and now Having once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity ; But run as he will, Or roll down the hill, The bugbear behind him is after him still ! And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking, Till exhausted and sore, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, " Oh 1 Look at the Clock ! Do ! Look at the Clock ! ! " Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, She saw nothing there to alarm her ; a frown Came o'er her white forehead ; She said " it was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, And give her Mamma and herself such a fright ; To squall and to bawl About nothing at all ! " She beggtt " he'd not think of repeating his call : His late wife's disaster By no means had past her ; " She'd " have him to know she was meat for his Master ! " Then regardless alike of his love and his woes, She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose. Poor David in vain Implored to remain ; He " dared not," he said, " cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows, to be sure, it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate. Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole ! In that shady retreat, With nothing to eat, And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, 20 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. All night close he kept ; I can't say he slept ; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept ; Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis, Consigning to Satan viz., cruel Miss Davis ! Mr. David has since had a " serious call," He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And they say he is going to Exeter Hall To make a grand speech, And to preach and to teach People that " they can't brew their malt liquor too small." That an ancient Welsh poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR, Was right in proclaiming " ARISTON MEN UDOR ! " Which means " The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant ! " And that Gtin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder. And " still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-iri-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup, Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into " The Chair " And make all his qiumdam, associates stare By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter, " Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water 1 " The dial he constantly watches ; and when The long hand's at the " XII.," and the short at the " X.," He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly " Gentlemen, " LOOK AT THE CLOCK ! ! ! " THERK stands a City, neither large nor small, Its air and situation sweet and pretty ; \t matters very little if at all Whether its denizens are dull or witty, THE GHOST. Whether the ladies there are short or tall, Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city ! Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute That there's a Castle and a Cobbler in it. A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, And kings and heroes lie entomb'd within her ; There pious Saints in marble pomp repose, Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a sinner ; There, too, full many an Aldennanic nose RoITd its loud diapason after dinner ; And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, Till four assassins came from France to crack it. The Castle was a huge and antique mound, Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver, Ere those abominable guns were found, To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver. It stands upon a gently rising ground, Sloping down gradually to the river, Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) A well-scoop'd, mouldy Stilton cheese but taller. The Keep, I find,'s been sadly alter'd lately, And, 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honour jealous, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are fill'd with money-making fellows, And stuffd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, and bellows : In short, so great a change has come to pass, 'Tis now a manufactory of Gas. But to my tale. Before this profanation, And ere its ancient glories were cut short all, A poor, hard-working Cobbler took his station In a small house, just opposite the portal ; His birth, his parentage, and education, I know but little of a strange, odd mortal ; His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous ; His name was Mason he'd been christen'd Nicholas. Nick had a wife possess'd of many a charm, And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion ; I THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. But, spite of all her piety, her arm She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion ; And, being of a temper somewhat warm, Would now and then seize, upon small occasion, A stick, or stool, or anything that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly. No matter ! 'tis a thing that's not uncommon, Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman, Such as I own I entertain a dread of ; And so did Nick, whom sometimes there would come on A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head oft Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, She shone so much in " facers " and in " fibbing." " There's time and place for all things," said a sage, (King Solomon, I think,) and this I can say, Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage, Boxing may be a very pretty Fancy, When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage : 'Tis not so well in Susan, Jane, or Nancy : To get well mill'd by any one's an evil, But by a lady 'tis the very Devil And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble (At least his worst) was this his rib's propensity : For sometimes from the alehouse he would hobble, His senses lost in a sublime immensity Of cogitation then he couldn't cobble And then his wife would often try the density Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, As fast as kitchen-wenches strike a light. Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, Of this same striking had a morbid dread ; He hated it like poison or his wife A rast antipathy ! but so he said And very often, for a quiet life, On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, Grope darkling in, and, soon as at the door He heard his lady he'd pretend to snore. THE GHOST. One night, then, ever partial to society, Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), Went to a club I should have said Society At the " City Arms," once called the Porto Bello ; A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow : There they discuss the tax on salt and leather, And change of ministers and change of weather. In short, it was a kind of British Forum, Like John Gale Jones's, erst in Piccadilly, Only they managed things with more decorum, And the orations were not quite so silly ; Far different questions, too, would come before 'em Not always Politics, which, will ye nill ye, Their London prototypes were always willing To give one quantum suff. of for a shilling. It more resembled one of later date, And ten-fold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street, Where kindlier-natured souls do congregate ; And, though there are who deem that same a low street Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate And genuine humour it's surpass'd by no street, When the " Chief Baron " enters, and assumes To " rule " o'er mimic " Thesigers " and " Broughams." Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults, And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper ; Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapour, Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions. One learned gentleman, " a sage, grave man," Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, " sheath'd in steel " His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, " That was Poetry, and nothing real ; " A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiera' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal ; \ THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Of sheeted Spectres spoke with shorten'd breath, And thrice he quoted '' Drelincourt on Death." Nick smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it, How, frequently, some murder'd man appeared, To tell his wife and children who had done it ; Or how a Miser's ghost, with grizzly beard, And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, Wander'd about, to watch his buried money ! When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One, he Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture Impended from his fond and faithful She ; Nor could he well to pardon him expect her, For he had promised to " be home to tea ; " But having luckily the key o' the back door, He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he Might creep up-stairs again, pretend to doze, And hoax his spouse with music from his nose. Vain, fruitless hope ! the wearied sentinel At eve may overlook the crouching foe, Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, He sinks beneath the unexpected blow ; Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go But woman, wake . al woman, 's never weary, Above all, when she waits to thump her deary. Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread ; She heard the key slow creaking in the door, Spied, through the gloom obscure, towards the bed, Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before ; When, bang, she threw a something at his head, And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor ; While she exclaim'd, with her indignant face on u How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason ? " Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated, Especially the length of her oration Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated, Roused by the bump into a good set passion, THE GHOST. 25 So great, that more than once he execrated, Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion : The Muses hate brawls ; suffice it then to say, He duck'd below the clothes and there he lay ! Twas now the very witching time of night, When churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead, And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead, And hurried off with schoolboy-like delight, To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed, Sleeping, perhaps serenely as a porpoise, Nor dreaming 'of this fiendish Habeas Corpus. Not so our Nicholas : his meditations Still to the same tremendous theme recurr'd, The same dread subject of the dark narrations, Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard : Lost in his own horrific contemplations, He ponder'd o'er each well-remember'd word ; When at the bed's foot, close beside the post, He verily believed he saw a Ghost ! Plain, and more plain, the unsubstantial Sprite To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew ; Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height, Of more than mortal seeming to the view, And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course all white; The moon that moment peeping through a cloud, Nick very plainly saw it through the shroud ! And now those matted locks, which never yet Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce, Their long-contracted amity forget, And spring asunder with elastic force ; Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse, Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet, Uprose in agony the Gorgon's head Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed. From every pore distill'd a clammy dew, Quaked every limb the candle, too, no doubt, I THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. En regie, would have burnt extremely blue, But Nick unluckily had put it out ; And he, though naturally bold and stout, In short, was in a most tremendous stew ; The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell, But where that came from Mason could not telL All motionless the Spectre stood and now Its reVrend form more clearly shone confest ; From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow Descended o'er its venerable breast ; The thin grey hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow, Told of years long gone by. An awful guest It stood, and with an action of command, Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand. 1 Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape ? " Nick might have cried, could he have found a tongue, But his distended jaws could only gape, And not a sound upon the welkin rung : His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung Forth from their sockets like a frighten'd Ape He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door ; And many an ireful glance, and frown, between, The angry visage of the Phantom wore, As if quite vex*d that Nick would do no more Than stare, without e'en asking, " What d'ye mean 1 " Because, as we are told a sad old joke, too Ghosts, like the ladies, " never speak till spoke to." Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations. Derive a sort of courage from despair, And then perform, from downright desperation, Much more than many a bolder man would dare. Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion, And therefore, groping till he found the chair, Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed, And follow'd, quaking, where the Spectre led. THE GHOST. 27 And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread, The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on, Each mazy turning of the humble shed Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown ; So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread As though the domicile had been his own, Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop, Had almost broke his nose against the mop. Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound, The door upon its hinges open flew ; And forth the Spirit issued yet around It turn'd, as if its follower's fears it knew, And, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound, The antique Keep, on which the bright moon tin %w With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam, The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam. Beneath a pond'rous archway's sombre shade, Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime, 'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid, Sole, sad memorials of the olden time, The Phantom held its way and though afraid Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime, Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending, And wondering what on earth it all would end in. Within the mouldering fabric's deep recess, At length they reach'd a court obscure and lone- It seem'd a drear and desolate wilderness, The blacken'd walls with ivy all o'ergrown ; The night-bird shriek'd her note of wild distress, Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, As though indignant mortal step should dare, So led, at such an hour, to venture there 1 The Apparition paused, and would have spoke, Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring, But then a neighbouring chanticleer awoke, And loudly 'gan his early matins sing ; And then " it started like a guilty thing," As that shrill clarion the silence broke. J THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew The appalling sound of " Cock-a-doodle-do ! " The vision was no more and Nick alone '* His streamers waving " in the midnight wind, Which through the ruins ceased not to groan ; His garment, too, was somewhat short behind, And, worst of all, he knew not where to find The ring, which made him most his fate bemoan The iron-ring, no doubt of some trap-door, 'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store. " What's to be done 1 " he cried : " 'Twere vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clue Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray ! 'Fore George, Fm vastly puzzled what to do. " (Then clapped his hand behind) " 'Tis chilly, too I'll mark the spot, and come again by day. What can I mark it by 1 Oh, here's the wall The mortar's yielding here I'll stick my awl ! " Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, And o'er the side the masts in thunder go ; While on the deck resistless billows break, And drag their victims to the gulfs below ; Such was the scream when, for the want of candle, Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle. Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, Vanish'd at once poor Mason's golden dream For dream it was ; and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream. And still he listens with averted eye, When gibing neighbours make " the Ghost " their theme ; While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair ! THE CYNOTAPH, Cfte Cpnotapft. Poor Tray charmant ! Poor Tray de mon. ami ! Dog-bury and Vergers. OH ! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray, Now his fleeting breath has passed away \ Seventeen years, I can venture to say, Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play, Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay, As though every one of his months was May, And the whole of his life one long holiday Now he's a lifeless lump of clay, Oh ! where shall I bury my faithful Tray ? I am almost tempted to think it hard That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard, Where the green willows wave O'er the peaceful grave, Which holds all that once was honest and brave, Kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true ! Qualities, Tray, that were found in you. But it may not be yon sacred ground By holiest feelings fenced around, May ne'er within its hallow'd bound Receive the dust of a soul-less hound. I would not place him in yonder fane, Where the mid-day sun through the storied pane Throws on the pavement a crimson stain ; Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing O'er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King, With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing. No ! come what may, My gentle Tray Shan't be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor, Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder Whom you see on their backs, In stone or in wax, Though the Sacristans now are " forbidden to ax " For what Mr. Hume calls " a scandalous tax ; " While the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks No ! Tray's humble tomb would look but shabby 'Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey. 30 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. Besides, in the place They say there's not space To bury what wet-nurses call " a Babby." Even " Rare Ben Jonson," that famous wight, I am told, is interr'd there bolt upright, In just such a posture, beneath his bust, As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust The epitaph, too, "Would scarcely do : For what could it say, but, " Here lies Tray, A very good kind of a dog in his day ! " And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet. No ! no ! The Abbey may do very well For a feudal " Nob," or poetical " Swell," Crusaders," or " Poets," or " Knights of St. John," Or Knights of St. John's Wood, who once went on To the astlc of (.Gootic ICottre t, torg, THE BAGMAN'S DOG. Stant littore Puppies ! VIBGIL. IT was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drown'd, and one left alive, He was thought worthy alone to survive ; And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up, To eat of his bread and drink of his cup, He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup ! The Bagman taught him many a trick ; He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, Could well understand The word of command, And appear to doze With a crust on his nose Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand : Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail Never was puppy so bien instruit, Or possess'! of such natural talent as he ; And as he grew older, Every beholder Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder. Time, however his wheels we may clog, Wends steadily still with onward jog, And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog ! When, just at the time He was reaching his prime, And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day, How, no one could say, THE SAGMAXTS DOG. 10? Whether soft liaison induced him to stray, Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away, He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew ; He had been, and was not that's all that they knew ; And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore As never a Bagman had sworn before ; But storming or swearing of little avails To recover lost dogs with great curly tails. In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there ; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps, some half score, Then you reach the ground floor, With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door. It is spacious,- and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the reign of Queen Anne ; Which is odd, for, although, As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho. Be this as it may, at the date I assign To my tale, that's about Seventeen Sixty-nine, This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Eogers, and Pyne A respectable House in the Manchester line. There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travell'd full oft for the firm before ; But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend A trustworthy body half agent, half friend, On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend ; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog, The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog. 108 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS, " The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea !- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily ! " So all sing and say By night and by day, In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of coxcombical roundelay ; You may roam through the City, transversely or straight . From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate, And every young lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustachio'd Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion, Of being a " Rover " and " child of the Ocean " Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, They aU of them long for the " Wide, Wide Sea ! " But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, 1 efo : p The " Wessel " they " Woyage " in has made half her way Between Shell Ness Point and the Pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of " the Sea ! " I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where " palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise," That too 's a stone one, this is made of iron And little donkey boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence ; and, should you hire one. For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres and back And there, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self -same morn, now disembark so queer ; Then to myself I've sigh'd, and said, " Oh dear ! Who would believe yon sickly looking man's a London Jack Tar, a Cheapside Buccaneer ! r But hold, my Muse ! for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza BAGMAJfS DOG. 109 So now we'll go up, up, up, And now we'll go down, down, down, And now we'll go backwards and forwards, And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'. I hope you've sufficient discernment to see, Gentle reader, that here the discarding the d Is a fault which you must not attribute to me ; Thus my Nurse cut it off when, " with counterfeit glee," She sung, as she danced me about on her knee, In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three : All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, And no longer, like Filch, midst the felons and debtors At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters. Resuming her track, At once she goes back To our hero, the Bagman. Alas ! and Alack ! Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog, Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea, With the sands called the Goodwin's a league on her lee. And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, And talking of " caulking," And " quarter-deck walking," " Fore and aft," And " abaft," " Hookers," " barkeys," and " craft " (At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laught), Of binnacles, bilboes, the boom call'd the spanker, The best bower cable, the jib, and sheet anchor ; Of lower-deck guns, and of broadsides and chases, Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, And " Shiver my timbers ! " and other odd phrases Employ'd by old pilots with hard-featured faces ; Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use, The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews ; How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair, And what very long pigtails a great many wear. But, Reader, I scorn it the fact is, I fear, To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear As Marryatt, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier, Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear 110 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Of the " Nauticals," just at the end of the year Eighteen thirty-nine (how Time flies ! Oh, dear !) With a well-written preface, to make it appear That his play, the " Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer. There ! "brought up the rear" you see there's a mistake Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make, I ought to have said that he " sail'd in their wake." So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher The more my poor hero continued to suffer, Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, " Poor Buffer ! " Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew, And the thunder it kick'd up such a halliballoo, That even the Skipper began to look blue ; While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too, And seem'd not to know what exactly to do, And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, "Wind N.E. blows a hurricane rains cats and dogs." In short, it soon grew to a tempest as rude as That Shakespeare describes near the " still vext Bermudas." When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court, And swamp'd it to give " the King's Son, Ferdinand," a Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda. While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom. You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm, As so many have done, and in colours so warm : Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious, Mr. Ainsworth^more gravely, see also Lucretius, A writer who gave me no trifling vexation When a youngster at school on Dean Colet's foundation. Suffice it to say That the whole of that day, And the next, and the next, they were scudding away Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force, Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, Driven quite at their mercy 'Twixt Guernsey and Jersey Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows, In West longitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Haloes ; THE BAOMAITS DOG. Ill There you'll not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specifical gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, Midst the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoln by a shower, Huns down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour. You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Reader, that is, if you've ever been there, With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavour ; Exactly as Poets say, how, though, they can't tell us, Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus. Stay ! I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here ; 'Twas the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear ; Faith, I can't recollect and I haven't Lempriere. No matter, poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakespeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown 'd him in Malmsey. " Oh Lord," he thought, " what pain it was to drown ! " And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize j When, as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws ! A shark ? No such thing, Reader : most opportunely for Blo^rg, Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog ! I'm not much of a traVller, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast. But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout Are a class that society doesn't much care about ; 112 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Men who gain a subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call " stealing ; " Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach ; And they were so to Blogg When the curly-tail'd Dog At last dragged him out, high and dry on the beach. But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think " all that glitters is gold ; " And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a Maifoe de Danse, To the morals (as Johnson of Chesterfield said) Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red. Be this as it might, It embarrass 'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite. A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced The petite* soins, tender'd with so much good taste, To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist, And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant no one could have guess'd they were paste. The group on the shore Consisted of four ; You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more ; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term 'a " too dense population," Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation Was merely a single Kude hut in a dingle That led away inland direct from the shingle, Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark ; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz., an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he, The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels. They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Man Dieuing, Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing. THE BAGMA1TS DOG. 113 Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Header, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it ? (Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, a " c d Committee one," An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, its clear, That, with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer ; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnish'd room. " Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot Well replenished, but really I can't say with what ; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoe? ; Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd, " By Jove, Cocky-leeky ! " In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon, Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli. Meanwhile that old man standing by, Subducted his long coat-tails on high, With his back to the fire, as if to dry A part of his dress which the watery sky Had visited rather inclemently. Blandly he smiled, but still he look'd sly, And a something sinister lurk'd in his eye. Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing, He'd a " dreadnought " coat, and heavy sabots With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes, 114 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose, And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose, So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes. Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew ; She fish d up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She helped him to lean, and she help'd him to fat, And it look'd like Hare but it might have been Cat The little garfons too strove to express Their sympathy towards the " Child of distress " With a great deal of juvenile French politesse : But the Bagman bluff Continued to " stuff " Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender and tough, Till they thought he would never cry, " Hold, enough ! " And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like peste ! and sacre ! and diable ! I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, That says, "ffioofc Satpnge JBeaerfottf) goofc Brunfepnge." You'll find it so printed by "ffaiton or t, Perhaps thinking " Enough is as good as a feast ; " And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting and crying " Poor fellow ! " So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his " That's a good dog ! " into " Down, Sancho ! down ! " But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, " Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed ; Yoxi had much better sit up, and pat me instead ! ' Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose ; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest ; above all, when at length The dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength. Extremely annoy'd by the " tarnation whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg showed fight ; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, 118 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratched off the quilt, Which hinted a story of horror and guilt ! 'Twas " no mistake," He was " wide awake " In an instant ; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as " funk.' And hark ! what's that 1 They have got into chat In the kitchen below what the deuce are they at ? There's the ugly old fisherman scolding his wife And she by the Pope ! she's whetting a knife : At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder ! The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder, It ceases all silent ! and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair. The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping ; He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping ! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some ''Precious mischief" on foot, had resolved to play "'Possum/' Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead ; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthy still, in, And you'd not have insured his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam 'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, " tipp'd " the fellow " a facer ; " Down went man and weapon Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose. Now had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was called James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where). THE BAGMANS DOG. 119 Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to " Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street ; I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in " fibbings " and bruises, I'd describe now to you As " prime a Set-to," And " regular turn up," as ever you knew ; Not inferior in " bottom " to aught you have read of Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off. But my dainty Urania says, " Such things are shocking ! " Lace mittens she loves, Detesting " The Gloves ; " And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking, So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to " fancy " The thumps and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg ; While what's call'd " The Claret " Flew over the garret ; Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd ; Making both the garfons, who came running in, sheer off, With " Hippolyte's " thumb, and " Alphonse's " left ear off ; Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes. Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay : But a few fresh arrivals decided the day ; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore ! It's a great many years ago mine then were few Since I spent a short time in old Courageux ; I think that they say She had been, in her day, A First-rate, but was then what they term'd a Rasee, 120 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay, (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtain'd, inter alia, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard I think it's call'd " cobbing How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a boot-jack is brought into play That is if I'm right : it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done ; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse than be " cobb'd " That's mere matter of taste : But the Frenchman was placed I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced In such a position, that, on this unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, " Cobb'd " the whole party, ay, " every man Jack of them. MORAL And now. Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good Jay, Attend to the moral I draw from my lay ! If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers ! don't take too much grog ! And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog ! Above all carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog ! Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing ; But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye, INGRATUM si DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI ! ! ! L'Envoye. I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him. I never once thought to inquire what became of him ; THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 121 If you want to know, Reader, the way I opine, To achieve your design, Mind, it's no wish of mine, Is, (a penny will do't) by addressing a line To Turner.'Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne. iftm&quetat're* A LEGEND OF FRANCE. FRANCOIS XAVIER AUGUSTE was a gay Mousquetaire, The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair : He'd a mien so distingue and so debonnaire, And shrugg'd with a grace so recherche and rare, And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an aiv, His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair, And, in short, showed so much of the true scavoir faire, All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare, That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a " Fox Paw," It would be Francois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix. Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day, The Court of Versailles was a little too gay ; The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play, To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray, Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo), While Louis Quatorze Kept about him in scores, What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term'd his " Jane Shores," They were call'd by a much coarser name out-of-doors. This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting ! For such courses, when follow'd by persons of quality, Are apt to detract on the score of morality. Fran9ois Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them, Dress'd, drank, and fought, and chassee'd with the best of them ; Took his ceil de perdrix Till he scarcely could see, He would then sally out in the streets for a " spree ; " 122 THE INGOLDSDY LEGENDS. His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeois (A word which the English translate " Johnny Raw ") ; For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in, Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen ; And perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes, In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes, Defines " an amalgam of Tigers and Apes," Should be merely consider'd as "Little Escapes." But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks, Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks. Be this as it will, In the general, still, Though blame him we must, It is really but just To our lively young friend, Francois Xavier Auguste, To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were, At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair, And when gambling his worst, always play"d on the square ; So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he Lost large sums at faro (a game like " Blind Hookey "), And continued to lose, And to give I O U's, Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews ; And, a parallel if I may venture to draw Between Francois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix, And his namesake, a still more distinguish'd Francois, Who wrote to his "soeur " From Pavia, " Mon Coeur, I have lost all I had in the world fors Vhonneur." So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note " Vive la bagatelle ! tovjours gai idem sempei I've lost all I had in the world but my temper ! " From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning, His air was so cheerful, his manner so winning, That once he prevail'd or his friends coin the tale for him On the bailiff who "nabb'd" him, himself to "go bail" for him. Well we know in these cases, Your " Crabs " and " Deuce Aces " Are wont to promote frequent changes of places ; Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare That there's nothing so good as the pure " country air," THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 123 Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing : A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging, Fransois Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in. But what could be done t It's clear as the sun, That, though nothing's more easy than say, " Cut and run ! Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do, Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue. And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes, It won't, I am sure, create any surprise, That reflections like these half reduced to despair Fransois Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire. Patience par force ! He consider' d, of course, But in vain he could hit on no sort of resource Love ? Liquor ? Law ? Loo ? They would each of them do, There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he Could hope to get on sans I 'argent i.e., money. Love I no ; ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor. Liquor? no, that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter." Then Law ? 'tis the same ; It's a very fine game, But the fees and delays of " the Courts " are a shame. As Lord Brougham says himself who's a very great name, Though the TIMES made it clear he was perfectly lost in his Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes, And don't know his " particles," Who wrote the articles, Showing his Greek up so, is not known very well ; Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell some Merivale ; But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw, Viz. : 'twas not Fra^ois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix ! Loo ? No ; that he had tried : 'Twas, in fact, his weak side, But required more than any a purse well supplied. " Love t Liquor ? Law 1 Loo ? No ! 'tis all the same story. Stay! I have it Ma foil (that's "Odd's Bobs!") there is GLORY. Away with dull care ! Vive le Roi I Vive la Guerre ! 7*tste ! I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire ! 124 THE IN GOLD SET LEGENDS. When a man is like me, Sans six sous, sans souci, A bankrupt in puree, And in character worse, With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at zero, What on earth can he hope to become, but a Hero ? What a famous thought this is ! I'll go as Ulysses Of old did like him I'll see manners and know countries ; Cut Paris, and gaming and throats in the Low Countries. So said, and so done he arranged his affairs, And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires. Now it happen'd just then That Field- Marshal Turenne Was a good deal in want of " some active young men," To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps, Had been made in his ranks by a certain " Great Conde," A General unrivall'd at least in his own day Whose valour was such, That he did not care much If he fought with the French, or the Spaniards, or Dutch, A fact which has stamp'd him a rather " Cool hand," Being nearly related to Louis le Grand. It had been all the same had that King been his brother ; He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another ; For war, so exciting, He took such delight in, He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting. And, as I've just said, had amused himself then By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne ; Since which, the Field- Marshal's most pressing concern Was to tickle some other Chiefs tail in his turn. What a fine thing a battle is ! not one of those Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew DucroVs, Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose, Taking great care their blows Did not injure thiir foes, And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes, Which were varied, to give more effect to " Tableaux" While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to Fate, And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come On to encounter bold General Widdicombe But a real good fight, like Pultowa, or Liitzen Which Gustavus the Great ended all his disputes in). Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in, THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 126 Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden, Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden, Where " the sun was low," The ground all over snow And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow, Till its colour was alter'd by General Moreau : While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night, Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright, And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight. 'Twas in just such another one (Names only bother one Dutch ones indeed are sufficient to smother one ) In the Netherlands somewhere I cannot say where Suffice it that there La fortune de guerre Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire. One fine morning, in short, Fran9ois Xavier Auguste, After making some scores of his foes " bite the dust," Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust ; And though, as the Bard says, " No law is more jn.st Than for Neds artificis" so they call'd fiery Soldados at Rome, " arte sud perire" Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix. His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw, And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's Call'd by Professional men the " osfemoris ;" And the ball being one of those named from its shape, And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape, St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown > And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown. Stagger'd a bit By this " palpable hit,' He turn'd on his face, and went off in a fit. Yes ! a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting, But a sombre sight is a Battle-field To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye, Where those, who scorned to fly or yield, In one promiscuous carnage lie ; When the cannon's roar Is heard no more, And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away, 126 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. And the victor comes for a last survey Of the well-fought field of yesterday ! No triumphs flush that haughty brow, No proud exulting look is there, His eagle glance is humbled now, As, earthward bent, in anxious care It seeks the form whose stalwart pride But yester-morn was by his side ! And there it lies ! on yonder bank Of corses, which themselves had breath But yester-morn now cold and dank, With other dews than those of death ! Powerless as it had ne'er been born The hand that clasp'd his yester-morn ! And there are widows wand'ring there, That roam the blood-besprinkled plain, And listen in their dumb despair For sounds they ne'er may hear again ! One word, however faint and low, Ay, e'en a groan, were music now ! And this is Glory ! Fame ! But, pshaw ; Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental ; Besides, such things we never saw ; In fact they're merely Continental. And then your Ladyship forgets Some widows came for epaulettes. So go back to your canter ; for one, I declare, Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire, A beetle-brow'd hag, With a knife and a bag, And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses The ginger complexion, and one of those noses Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses, Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion. You remember, I trust, Francois Xavier Auguste, Had uncommon fine limbs and a very fine bust. THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. Now there's something I cannot tell what it may be About good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty -three, Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, Which affects female hearts in no common degree With emotions in which many feelings combine, Very easy to fancy, though hard to define ; Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty, Young or old, they experience, in country or city, What's clearly not Love yet it's warmer than Pity And some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise, Arm'd with the blade, So oft used in her trade, The horrible calling e'en now she is plying, Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying ! For these " nimble Conveyancers," after such battles, Regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattels, Think nought, in " perusing and settling " the titles, So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals. Now don't make a joke of, That feeling I spoke of ; For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling, whate'er It may be, saves the life of the young Mousquetaire ! The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat, Is employ 'd now in ripping the lace from his coat, And from what, I suppose, I must call his culotte; And his pockets, no doubt, Being turn'd inside out, That his mouchoir and gloves may be put " up the spout " (For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do Fails to ferret out even a single ecu) ; As a muscular Giant would handle an elf, The virago at last lifts the soldier himself, And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down In a hospital f orm'd in a neighbouring town ! I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur ; And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure. CANTO II. I ABOMINATE physic I care not who knows That there's nothing on earth I detest like " a dose," That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue I consider extremely unpleasant to view, 128 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear ; XAopoj/ Sfos, I mean, A nasty pale green, Though for want of some word that may better avail, I presume, our translators have rendered it " pale ; " For consider the cheeks Of those " well-booted Greeks," Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks ; Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's ; And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it, A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it I repeat, I abominate physic ; but then, If folks will go campaigning about with such men As the Great Prince de Cond6s and Marshal Turenne, They may fairly expect To be now and then check'd By a bullet or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is Found, I admit, in green potions and boluses ; So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix, wounded and If he swallow'd a decent qvunt. suff. of the same ; Though I'm told, in such cases, it's not the French plan To pour in their drastics as fast as they can, The practice of many an English Savan, But to let off a man With a little ptisanne, And gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan). " Oh, woman ! " Sir Walter observes, " when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou ! a Thou'rt a " minist'ring Angel " in no less degree, I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee : And medical friction, Is, past contradiction, Much better perform'd by a She than a He. A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge, For I well recollect, when a youngster at College, And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note, Mr. Grosvenor, of Oxford, who not only wrote On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, And rubb'd out their complaints in a couple of cracks. Now they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 129 On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses Attend without any demand on their purses ; And these females, some old, others still in their teens, Some call " Sisters of Charity," others " Beguines." They don't take the vows ; but, half -Nun and half -Lay, Attend you ; and when you've got better, they say, " You're exceedingly welcome ! There's nothing to pay. Our task is now done ; You are able to run. We never take money ; we cure you for fun ! " Then they drop you a curt'sy, and wish you good day, And go off to cure somebody else the same way. A great many of these, at the date of my tale, In Namur walk'd the hospitals, workhouse, and jail. Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun, Her cheek pensive and pale ; tresses bright as the Sun,-- Not carroty no ; though you'd fancy you saw burn Such locks as the Greeks loved, which moderns call auburn. These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral ; Her eye-lashes silken ; her eyes, fine large blue ones ; Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones ; But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning). Then, for figure ? In faith it was downright barbarity To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm In the fusty stuff gown of a Sceur de la Charite; And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw, Than hers who now sits by the couch of St. Foix, Chafing there, With such care, And so dove-like an air, His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard ; Their Dutch appellations are really too hard To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard. Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me, When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee, And a lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair, To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, 130 THE JNGOLDSBY LEGENDS, And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square ; Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair, And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire, It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, And may lead on to mischief before they're aware. I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his "Penchant for liaisons" and graver men " follies " (For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows. And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows, Is not to be class'd among mere peccadilloes), His "faults," I should say I don't think Francois Xavier Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant While superintending his draughts and his liniment : But, as he grew stout, And was getting about, Thoughts came into his head that had better been out ; While Cupid's an urchin We know deserves birching He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in. 'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin Was the end of all poor dear Ther&e's shampooing. 'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on ; but such Things will happen ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch. "When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly, And finds out too late that false man can betray," She is apt to look dismal, and grow " melan-choly," And, in short, to be anything rather than gay. He goes on to remark that " to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method " which he can discover That's likely to answer that one is " to die ! " He's wrong the wan and withering cheek ; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart ; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart ; The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear ; Th' imploring glances heavenward thrown, As heedless, helpless, hopeless here ; THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 131 These wring the false one's heart enough, If " made of penetrable stuff." And poor Ther^se Thus pines and decays, Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise With, for " wheelers," two bays, And, for " leaders," two greys, And soon reaches France, by the help of relays. Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim, And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him. She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner, Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her. One evening 'twas just as the clock struck eleven They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven, She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven, And all was o'er ! Poor Therese was no more She was gone ! the last breath that she managed to draw Escaped in one half-utter'd word 'twas " St. Foix 1 " Who can fly from himself 1 Bitter cares, when you feel 'em, Are not cured by travel as Horace says, " Ccelum, Non aniyium mutant qui currunt trans mare ! " It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary Remorse from temptation to which you have yielded, is A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his ; It haunts you for ever in bed and at board, Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems, Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored ! It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few Francois Xavier Auguste was an instance can do. Indeed, from the time He committed the crime Which cut off poor sister Therese in her prime, He was not the same man that he had been his plan Was quite changed in wild freaks he no more led the van ; He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week ; but sit thinking, From company shrinking He quite gave up drinking At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came, Fish, fricassee, fricandeau, potage, or game, Dindon aux tru/es, or turbot a la creme, 132 THE INGOLDKBY LEGENDS. No ! he still shook his head, it was always the same, Still he never complain'd that the cook was to blaiuc ! Twas his appetite fail'd him no matter how rare And recherche the dish, how delicious the fare, What he used to like best he no longer could bear ; But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair ; Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair ; Such a shirt too ! you'd think he'd no linen to spare. He omitted to shave ; he neglected his hair, And look'd more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire. One thing, above all, most excited remark ; In the evening he seldom sat long after dark, Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for " a lark " With his friends ; but when they, After taking cafe, Would have broil'd bones and kidneys brought in on a tray, Which I own I consider a very good way, If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day No persuasion on earth, could induce him to stay ; But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head, By way of " Good evening ! " and walk off to bed. Yet even when there he seem'd no better off, For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he'd cough. And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright, While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep, Declared that " his master was never asleep 1 But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep ; That about ten o'clock His door he would lock, And then never would open it, let who would knock ! He had heard him," he said, " Sometimes jump out of bed, And talk as if speaking to one who was dead ! He'd groan, and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone, Begging some one or other to let him alone, That it really would soften tne heart of a stone To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven Then The bother began always just at eleven ! " Francois Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before, I believe was a popular man in his corps, THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 133 And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun, Now began to consult what was best to be done. Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue Confess'd they did not know at all what to do : But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel For their friend, so distinguish'd an officer, 's weal. " The first thing," he said, " was to find out the matter That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter Mort de ma vie ! " Here he took some rappee " Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me ! " He was right, sure enough in a couple of days He worms out the whole story of Sister Therese, Now entomb'd, poor dear soul ! in some Dutch Pere la Chaist " But the worst thing of all," Fran9ois Xavier declares, " Is, whenever I've taken my candle upstairs, There's There'se sitting there upon one of those chairs ! Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares, That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs, While an odour, the very reverse of perfume, More like rhubarb or senna, pervades the whole room ! " Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel ; Not that he cared for Ghosts he was far too genteel ; Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun On his person and principles, nick -named Sans Foi, A man whom they had, you see, Mark'd as a Sadducee, In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw, And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe ! It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise ; He shrugg'd up his shoulders, he turn'd up his eyes, And he thought with himself that he could not do less Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess. Repetition's detestable ; So, as you're best able Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table How the bold Brigadiers Prick'd up their ears, And received the account, some with fears, some with sneera 134 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. How the Sieur de la Roue Said to Count Cordon Bleu, " Ma Foi c'est bien drdle Monseigneur what say you 1 " How Count Cordon Bleu Declared he " thought so too ; " How the Colonel affirm'd that " the case was quite new : " How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers How far the Ghost part of the story was true ; How, at last, when ask'd " What was the best thing to do ? " Everybody was silent, for nobody knew ! And how, in the end, they said, " No one could deal With the matter so 'well, from his prudence and zeal As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal This strange story viz. Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville ! I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great, Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate To rescue his friend from his terrible foes, Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose From extravagant notions respecting their hue, Has strangely agreed to denominate " Blue," Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail Than those he had, early in life, found to fail, When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail In vain did he try With strong waters to ply His friend, on the ground that he never could spy Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye ; St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry ; Besides, what the vulgar call u sucking the monkey " Has much less effect on a man when he's funky. In vain did he strive to detain him at table Till his " dark hour " was over he never was able, Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address, Which the British call " Humbug " and Frenchmen " Finesse ' (It's " Blarney " in Irish I don't know the Scotch), He fell to admiring his friend's English watch. He examined the face, And the back of the case, And the young Lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he ** Saw by the likeness was one of the Family ; " Cried " Superbe ! Magnifique I " (,With his tongue in his cheek) THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 135 Then he open'd the case, just to take a peep in it, and Seized the occasion to put back the minute hand. With a demi-conge, and a shrug, and a grin, he Returns the bijou and c'est une affaire finie " I've done him," thinks he, " now I'll wager a guinea ! " It happen'd that day They were all very gay, Twas the Grand Monarque's birthday that is, 'twas St. Louis's, Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view as his So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw, He cried, " Come that won't do, my fine fellow, St. Foix, Give us five minutes longer, and drink Vive le Roi ! " Fran9ois Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust, Of the trick that was play'd, drew his watch from his fob, Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to " hob-nob," Fill'd a bumper, and rose With " Messieurs, I propose- " He paused his blanch 'd lips fail'd to utter the toast. Twas eleven / he thought it half-past ten at most Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew firm as a post. His jaw dropp'd his eyes Swell'd to twice their own size And he stood as a pointer would stand at a Ghost ! Then shriek'd, as he fell on the floor like a stone, " Ah ! Sister There*se ! now do let me alone ! " It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do, As water wears stone by the " Scepe cadendo " If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto, " Agendo ! " Was it not Robert Bruce ? I declare I've forgot, But I think it was Robert you'll find it in Scott Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a Spider, " She's sure to come round, if you will but abide her." Then another great Rob, Call'd " White-headod Bob," Whom I once saw receive such a tlmmp on the "nob " From a fist which might almost an elephant brain, That I really believed, at the first, he was slain, For he lay like a log on his back on the plain, Till a gentleman present accustom'd to train, Drew out a small lancet, and open'd a vein Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain, 186 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. He stood up like a trump, with an air of disdain, While his " backer " was fain For he could not refrain (He was dress'd in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain, And I think I heard somebody call him " Squire Hayue,") To whisper ten words one should always retain, "TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON AND AT HIM AGAIN !!!''- A hint ne'er surpass'd, though thus spoken at random, Since Teucer's apostrophe Nil desperandum ! Qranville acted on it, and orderM his Tandem. He had heard St Foix say, That no very great way From Namur was a snug little town called Grandpre, Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese, Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therese, Of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother, And as like to Therese as one pea to another ; She lived with her Mamma, Having lost her Papa, Late of contraband schnaps an unlicensed distiller, And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller). Now, though Hippolyte Hector Could hardly expect her To feel much regard for her sister's " protector," When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her ; Still, he very well knew In this world there are few But are ready much Christian forgiveness to show For other folk's wrongs if well paid so to do And he'd seen to what acts " Res angustce " compel beaux And belles, whose affairs have once got out at elbows, With the magic effect of a handful of crowns Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but " browns ; M A few francs well applied He'd no doubt would decide Miss Agnes Des Moulins to jump up and ride As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side ; For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison, To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrison ; Then he thought, by the aid Of a veil, and gown made Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray'd, They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade, Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid, Come each uight, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid ; THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 187 That if once introduced to his room, thus array'd, And then unmask'd as soon as she'd long enough stay"d, 'Twould be no very difficult task to persuade Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly play*d, Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade ! With respect to the scheme though I do not call that a gem Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem, And that, too, among the decided approvers Of General Sir David Dundas's " Manoeuvres." There's a proverb, however, I've always thought clever, Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeating, " The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating ! " We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille Had mix'd up the suet and plums for his meal The night had set in ; 'twas a dark and a gloomy one : Off went St. Foix to his chamber ; a roomy one, Five stories high, The first floor from the sky, And lofty enough to afford great facility For playing a game, with the youthful nobility, Of " crack corps" a deal in Request, when they're feeling, In dull country quarters, ennui on them stealing ; A wet wafer's applied To a sixpence's side, Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling ; Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops, I've seen it here practised at home by our Household troops. He'd a table, and bed, And three chairs ; and all's said. A bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're Sure not to find over-burthen'd with furniture, Fran$ois Xavier Auguste lock'd and bolted his door With just the same caution he'd practised before ; Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu, With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue, Had been up there before him, and drawn eVry screw ! And now comes the moment the watches and clocks All point to eleven I the bolts and the locks Give way and the party turn out their bag-fox ! With step noiseless and light, Though half in a fright, A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right, E* 138 THE INGOLDSSY LEGENDS. In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white, Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a sprite ! She approaches the bed With the same silent tread Just as though she had been at least half a year dead ! Then seating herself on the " rush-bottom'd chair,' Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire. If you're one of the " play-going public," kind reader, And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder, You've seen Mr. Kean, I mean in that scene Of Macbeth, by some thought the crack one of the piece, Which has been so well painted by Mr. M'Clise, When he wants, after having stood up to say grace, To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place ; You remember his stare At the high-back'd arm-chair Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there, And how, after saying, " What man dares I dare ! " He proceeds to declare He should not so much care If it came in the shape of a " tiger " or " bear," But he don't like it shaking its long gory hair ! While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him With a horrible grin, Sits, and cock's up his chin, Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him. And Lennox and Ross Seem quite at a loss If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce ; And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross, And says in a huff It's all " Proper stuff ! " All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough ; So, perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion Of what must have been Francis Xavier's emotion If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be doubled, And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face Without " speculation," suppose he'd a brace ! I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel- ieve was exceeded in painting the terrible, Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a- droit in depicting it vide his piece Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease, Where that prelate is lying, Decidedly dying, With the King and his suite, Standing just at his feet, And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet ; THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE. 139 While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner, " Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner. But painting's an art I confess I am raw in, The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing, Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read, I'd have giv"n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dread ! Fran9ois Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed, His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead, Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head, As when Agnes des Moulins first catching his view, Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw, Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo, " Mon Dieu ! v'lct deux ! BY THE POPE THERE ARE TWO ! !1 " He fell back one long aspiration he drew. In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu, Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew. He stirr'd not, he spoke not, he none of them knew, And Achille cried, " Odzooks ! I fear by his looks, Our friend, Fransois Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks ! " 'Twas too true ! Malheureux ! ! It was done ! he had ended his earthly career, He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear ; The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer ! ! UEnvoye. A moral more in point I scarce could hope Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope. If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay And pious Maid, as, possibly, it may, rom Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green ; O'er some pale marble when they join their heads To kiss the falling tears each other sheds ; Oh ! may they pause ! and think, in silent awe, He, that lie reads the words, " Ci git St. Foix ! " She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys Bears this sad line, " Hicjacet Soeur Therese I " Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say, * Oh ! may we never play such tricks as they ! " 140 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. And if at such a time some Bard there be, Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea And sentimental song like Ingoldsby If such there be who sings and sips so well, Let him this sad, this tender story tell ! Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast, " I've 'scaped the Broken Heart ! " " aud I the Ghost ! !" Rupert tfee 4fearUsfSu A LEGEND OF GERMANY. SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS, a gallant young knight, Was equally ready to tipple or fight, Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle ! In brief, or, as Hume says, " to sum up the tottle," Unstain'd by dishonour, unsullied by fear, All his neighbours pronounced him a preux chevalier. Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental, He had one slight defect, viz. a rather lean rental ; Besides, as 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun, So it must be confess'd that Sir Rupert had one ; Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking, And what moralists say Is as naughty to play, To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarte ; Till these, and a few less defensible fancies, Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances. When at length through his boozing, And tenants refusing Their rents, swearing " times were so bad they were losing," His steward said, " O, sir, It's some time ago, sir, Since aught through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer, And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers," Sir Rupert the Brave thus address'd his retainers : ' My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock Is out, with the Kirschwasser, Barsac, Moselle, And we re fairly reduced to the pump and the well, SIM RUPERT THE FEARLESS. 141 I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes, Mount his horse, if he has one, and follow his nose ; As to me, I opine, Left sans money or wine, My best way is to throw myself into the Khine, Where pitying travelers may sigh, as they cross over, ' Though he lived a rout, yet he died a philosopher.' " The knight, having boVd out his friends thus politely, Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly, By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream ; Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes, In other respects she was scanty of clothes ; For, so says tradition, both written and oral, Her one garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral. Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar, With silver chords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar, And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight, Soon found his astonishment merged in delight ; But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees, Til] at length it invaded her very chemise, While the heavenly strain, as the wave seem'd to swallow her, And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower. Jumping up in his boat And discarding his coat, " Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, " by jingo, I'll follow her ! " Then into the water he plunged with a souse That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house. Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink, Sir Rupert the fearless continues to sink, And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose, Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch : Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood, Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud. But oh ! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight, When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright ! 142 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal, Rose above and about him ; great fishes and small Came thronging around him, regardless of danger, And seem'd all agog for a peep at the stranger. Their figures and forms to describe, language fails They'd such very odd heads and such very odd tails ; Of their genus or species a sample to gain, You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain ; E'en the famed Mr. Myers Would scarcely find buyers, Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop To stare, were such monsters exposed in his shop. But little reck'd Rupert these queer little brutes, Or the efts and the newts That crawl'd up his boots. For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention, In a moment completely absorb'd his attention. A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer, Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer), Have ever distill'd, To the summit was fill'd, Lay stretch'd out before him, and every nerve thrill'd As scores of young women Were diving and swimming, Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in ; All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns, They came floating about him like so many prawns. Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes Alluded to) ere he leapt into the billows Possess'd irreproachable morals, began To feel rather queer, as a modest young man ; When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognised soon As the one he had seen by the light of the moon, And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence, " Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance ; My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen, All do me the honour to call me their Queen ; I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here, And hope you can make it convenient to dine here." The Knight blush'd and bow'd, As he ogled the crowd Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud : ' Ma'am, you do me much honour, I cannot express The delight I shall feel if vou'U pardon my dress. SIB RUPERT THE FEARLESS. 143 May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps In the river at midnight for want of ' the dumps/ He rarely puts on his knees-breeches and pumps ; If I could but have guess'd what I sensibly feel Your politeness I'd not have come en deshabille, But have put on my silk tights in lieu of my steel." Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray, You will take our ' pot-luck ' in the family way ; We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish, And our water's thought fairish ; but here in the Rhine I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine." The Knight made a bow more profound than before, When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door, And said, bending his knee, " Madame on a servi ! " Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place, And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace. What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she Apologised much for their plain water-souchy, Want of Harvey's, and Crosse's, And Burgess's sauces ? Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he Perferr'd*his fish plain, without soy or anchovy. Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel, Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel. The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes Than, of what they were served on, the massive gold dishes While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls, Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls, And a thought came across him and caused him to muse, " If I could but get hold Of some of that gold, I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews ! " When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses, The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses ; Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas, " Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us 1 " Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender, Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender, And told her outright How that he, a young Knight, Had never been last at a feast or a fight ; 144 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. But that keeping good cheer, Every day in the year, And drinking neat wines all the same as small- beer, Had exhausted his rent, And his money all spent, How he borrowed large sums at two hundred per cent. ; How they followed and then, The once civilest of men, Messrs Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he 'd ever raised money by way of annuity ; And, his mortgages being about to foreclose, How he jump'd in the river to finish his woes ! Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear, That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear ; Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly, And said with some emphasis, " Ah ! miss, had I A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles, Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain, A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign, With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride (For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied) ; No couple so happy on earth should be seen As Sir Rupert the Brave and his charming Lurline ; Not that money's my object No, hang it ! I scorn it And as for my rank but that you'd so adorn it I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall, And instead of ' the Great,' be call'd ' Rupert the Small ; ' To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus, I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse." Lurline hung her head, Turn'd pale and then red, Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed, As though his abruptness, in " popping the question" So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion. Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh " You are welcome," she murmur'd in tones most bewitching, " To every utensil I have in my kitchen ! " Up started the Knight, Half mad with delight, Round her finely-form'd waist He immediately placed One arm, which the lady most closely embraced, Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture, And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture. " And, oh ! " he exclaim'd, " let them go catch my skiff, T '11 be home in a twinkling and back in a jiffy, SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS. 145 Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey Than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney." One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand, And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land, For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one, Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny, Which some others already had half-fill'd with money ; In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore : But Sir Rupert was strong, And while pulling along, Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song. LAY OF THE NAIADS. " Away ! away ! to the mountain's brow, Where the castle is darkly frowning ; And the vassals, all in goodly row, Weep for their lord a-drowning ! Away ! away ! to the steward's room, Where law with its wig and robe is ; Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe, And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies ! " The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling, When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling. What rejoicing was there ! How the vassals did stare ! The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air, For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp, And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago and cramp ; But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded Wet jacket or trousers, nor thought of repining, Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining, But oh ! what dismay Fill'd the tribe of Ca Sa, When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay ! Away went " cognovits," " bills," " bonds," and " escheats," Rupert clear'd off all scores, and took proper receipts. Now no more he sends out For pots of brown stout, Or schnaps, but resolves to do henceforth without, Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety, Enroll'd himself one of a Temp'rance Society, 146 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. All riot eschew, Begin life anew, And new-cushion and hassock the family pew ! Nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life, He boldly determines to take him a wife. Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense Of honour, should put Lurline's name in the licence, And that, for a man of his breeding and quality, To break faith and troth, Confirm'd by an oath, Is not quite consistent with rigid morality ; But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and- water, And declined as unsuited, A bride so diluted Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say (For all things consider"d, I own 'twas a rum thing), Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von something (Her name has escaped me), sole heiress, and niece To a highly respectable Justice of Peace. " Thrice happj^s the wooing Thafs not long a-doing So much time is saved in the billing and cooing The ring is now bought, the white favours, and gloves, And all the et cetera which crown people's loves ; A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker, And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre, That shaft which the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is, A plum-colour'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries. Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight, With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white, And the bridesmaids fair with their long lace veils, As they all walk'd up to the altar rails, While nice little boys, the incense dispensers, March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers With a gracious air, and a smiling look, Mess John had open'd his awful book, And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant ? And if " he knew any just cause of impediment ? " When from base to turret the castle shook ! ! ! Then came a sound of a mighty rain [Dashing against each storied pane, SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS. 147 The wind blew loud, And a coal-black cloud O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd ; How it could happen they could not divine, The morning had been so remarkably fine ! Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pasa That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas ; But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd, As if heaven and earth were coming together : None ever had witness'd such terrible weather. Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd, Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears In the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers ; The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon, When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon. Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected, Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected, And endeavour'd to cheer His bride, in her ear Whisp'ring tenderly, " Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear ; Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it you're Amply insured both for buildings and furniture." But now, from without, A trustworthy scout Rush'd hurriedly in, Wet through to the skin, Informing his master, " the river was rising, And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising." He'd no time to say more, For already the roar Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door, While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen, Biding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline ; And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy, She was stung by the spretce injuria formce. What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride, What she said to the ladies who stood by her side, What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes, Oh, nobody mentions for nobody knows ; For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out, And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout, The rain kept on pouring, The flood keep on roaring, The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in ; Ere the close of the day All was clean wash'd away 148 THE SNGOLDSBY LEGENDS. One only survived who could hand down the news, A little old woman that open'd the pews ; She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck, In an oak tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming, And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in ; In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek ; In vain was their search After aught in the church, They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch ; The Humane Society Tried a variety Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackle* 1 , But they only fish'd up the clerk's tortoiseshell spectacles. MORAL. This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware Of liquor, and how you run after the fair ! Shun playing at shorts avoid quarrels and jars And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars ! Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide ! Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven ! Be up in the morning by half after seven ! Keep from flirting nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage, An action for breach of a promise of marriage ; Don't fancy odd fishes ! Don't prig silver dishes ! And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know, BEWARE OP THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OP THE RHINO ! ilertfeant of I BELIEVE there are few But have heard of a Jew, Named Shylock, of Venice, as arrant a " screw In money transactions as ever you knew ; An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent A ducat at less than three hundred per cent, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 149 Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice, Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies, When press'd for a loan, at the very first sight Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in Might. It is not my purpose to pause and inquire If he might not, in managing thus to retire, Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire ; Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do, Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew. But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives, We've been most of us taught in the course of our lives, That " Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives ! ' In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool, Bassanio, a Lord of the Tomnoddy school, Who, by showing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court, A " swelling " (Payne Collier would read " swilling ") " port," And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup, Had shrunk his " weak means," and was " stump'd " and " hard up," Took occasion to send To his very good friend Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end, And who'd often before had the kindness to lend Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend. " Antonio," said he, " Now listen to me ; I've just hit on a scheme which, I think you'll agree, All matters consider'd, is no bad design, And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine. " In the first place, you know all the money I've got, Time and often, from you, has been long gone to pot, And in making those loans you have made a bad shot ; Now do as the boys do, when shooting at sparrows And torn-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows, Shoot another the same way I'll watch well its track, And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back ! So list to my plan, And do what you can To attend to and second it, that's a good man ! M There's a Lady, young, handsome, beyond all compare, at A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at 150 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat Was giving last season, we all used to stare at. Then, as to her wealth, her solicitor told mine, Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine, Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks, It's stuffd so with shares in " Grand Junctions " and H Docks," Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks, French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian and Chilian, In English Exchequer-bills full half a million, Not ' kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle, But the right sort of ' flimsy,' all sign'd by Monteagle. Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Eailways y And more speculations I need not detail, ways Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em, Contribute a deal to improving one's income ; In short, she's a Mint ! Now I say, deuce is in't If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint, And her ' eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print At the time that I told you of, know from a squint. In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony, Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan I Am sure of my game though, of course, there are brutes, Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits To her, you may call the Italian Miss Coutts. Yet Portia she's named from that daughter of Cato's Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes, And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson cut them all out- Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her ! Then hey ! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed, For her three-and-a-half per Cents New and Reduced ! With a wink of his eye His friend made reply In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry. " Still the same boy, Bassanio never say ' die ! ' Well I hardly know how I shaU do't, but I'll try, Don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash, But the fact is, at present I'm quite out of cash ; The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 151 Tending, of course, my resources to cripple, I 've one bound to England, another to Tripoli Cyprus Masulipatam and Bombay ; A sixth, by the way, I consign'd t'other day To Sir Gregor M'Gregor, Cacique of Poyais, A country where silver's as common as clay. Meantime, till they tack, And come, some of them, back What with custom-house duties, and bills falling due, My account with Jones Loyd and Co. looks rather blue ; While, as for the ' ready,' I'm like a Church-mouse, I really don't think there's five pounds in the house. But, no matter for that, Let me just get my hat, And my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat, And we'll go forth at once to the market we two, And try what my credit in Venice can do ; I stand well on 'Change, and, when all's said and done, I Don't doubt I shall get it for love or for money." They were going to go, When, lo ! down below, In the street, they heard somebody crying, " Old Clo' ! " " By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose ! I knew We should not have to search long. Solanio, run you, Salarino, quick ! haste ! ere he get out of view, And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew ! " With a pack, Like a sack Of old clothes at his back, And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack, Saying, " Rest you fair, Signior Antonio ! vat, pray, Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay 1 ' " Why, Shylock, although. As you very well know, I am what they call ' warm,' pay my way as I go, And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend, I can break through a rule to oblige an old friend ; And that's the case now Lord Bassanio would raise Some three thousand ducats well, knowing your ways, And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will, Unless you've a couple of names to the bill, Why, for once, 111 put mine to it, Yea, seal and sign to it 1M THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say As to ' doing ' a bill at three months from to-day ? Three thousand gold ducats, mind all in good bags Of hard money no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags ? " " Veil, ma tear," says the Jew, " I'll see vat I can do ! But Mishter Antonio, hark you, tish funny You say to me, ' Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money ? ' Ven you very veil knows, How you shpit on my clothes, And use naughty vords call me Dog and avouch Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch, And vhile I, like de resht of my tribe, shrug and crouch, You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch. Veil ! no matters, ma tear, Von vord in your ear I'd be friends mit you bote and to make dat appear, Vy, 111 find you de monies as soon as you vill, Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill ; Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day Such sum, or such sums, you shall fail to repay, I shall cut vhere I like, as de pargain is proke, A fair pound of your flesh chest by vay of a joke." So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause ; But Antonio, like most of those sage " Johnny Raws *' Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws And think cheaply of "Old Father Antic," because They have never experienced a gripe from his claws, " Pooh pooh'd " the whole thing. " Let the Smouch have his way, Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty ? Nay, It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay : And, come what come may, I hardly need say My ships will be back a full month ere the day." So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey, And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, ho Affix'd with all speed His name to a deed, Duly stamp'd and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney. Thus again furnish'd forth, Lord Bassanio, instead Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread, With fiddling and masques, at the Saracen's Head, In the morning " made play," And without more delay, Started off in the steamboat for Belmont next day. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 163 But scarcely had he From the harbour got free. And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea, Ere the 'Change and Rialto both rung with the news That he'd carried off more than mere cash from the Jew's. Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold, Was as ugly a dog as you'd wish to behold, For few in his tribe 'mongst their Levis and Moseses Sported so Jewish an eye, beard, and nose as his, Still, whate'er the opinions of Horace and some be, Your aquilce generate sometimes Columbce, Jike Jepthaji, as Hamlet says, he'd " one fair daughter, And every gallant, who caught sight of her, thought her A jewel a gem of the very first water ; A great many sought her, Till one at last caught her, And, upsetting all that the Rabbis had taught her, To feelings so truly reciprocal brought her, That the very same night Bassanio thought right To give all his old friends that farewell " invite," And while Shylock was gone there to feed out of spite, On " wings made by a tailor " the damsel took flight. By these " wings " I'd express A grey duffle dress, With brass badge aud muffin cap, made, as by rule, For an upper-class boy in the National School Jessy ransack'd the house, popp'd her breeks on, and when so Disguised, bolted off with her beau one Lorenzo, An " Unthrif t," who lost not a moment in whisking Her into a boat, And was fairly afloat, Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin. Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket, And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket Who'd help'd her in getting aboard of the packet, Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing, And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing, Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest ; And, if left to herself, he no doubt had succeeded, For none of them waltz'd so genteelly as he did ; But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way, The defunct Mr. P., who was now turn'd to clay, 154 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant. Left but a queer sort of " Last will and testament," Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land, , " Well-a-day ! well-a-day ! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Why really I hardly know what to say : ISO THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay, Because she's perhaps been a little too gay. Monk must chant and Nun must pray For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say, For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray A fair rose-noble must duly pay I So may his qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace ! " " Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, Holy Father, pardon and grace ! No power could save That paramour knave ; 1 left him, I wot, in evil case ! There, 'midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain, Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain, His legs lie here, and his arms lie there, And his head lies I can't tell your Holiness where "Now out and alas 1 Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of Holy Church in such pitiful plight I Foul sin her warriors so to slay, When they're scarcer and scarcer every day ! A chantry fair, And of Monks a pair, To pray for his soul for ever and aye, Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, And fourteen marks by the year must thou pay For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights .None of your rascally " dips " but sound, Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound ; .And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear ! :So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace ! " " Now nay, Holy Father, now nay, now nay ! Xess penance may serve ! " quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray, No champion free of the Cross was he ; .No belted Baron of high degree ; No Knight nor Squire Did there expire j fle was, I trow but a bare-footed Friar ! THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE. 181 And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait With his monks around him, and early and late May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, He hath lost his Prior his Prior his pate ! " " Now Thunder and turf ! " Pope Gregory said, And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head - " Now Thunder and turf ! and out and alas ! A horrible thing has come to pass ! What ! cut off the head of a reverend Prior, And say he was ' only ( ' ' h a bare-footed Friar ! ' ' What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire, Is half so good as a holy Friar ? ' iwrpissime ! Vir nequissime ! Sceleratissime ! quissime I issime ! Never, I trow, have the Servi servorum Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum. Such a gross violation of morwm bonorum, And won't have again scecula sceculorum ! Come hither to me, My Cardinals three, My Bishops in partibus, Masters in Artibua, Hither to me A.B. and D.D. Doctors and Proctors of every degree. Go fetch me a book ! go fetch me a bell As big as a dustman's ! and a candle as well I'll send him where good manners won't let me tell ! ' " Pardon and grace ! now pardon and grace ! " Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face Med culpd ! in sooth I'm in pitiful case. Peccavi I peccavi I I've done very wrong ! But my heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong, And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long ; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they're here, and they're there, and I can't tell you where, And Holy Church shall come in for her share ! " Pope Gregory paused, and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three the.y pick'd up his crown. 182 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. " Now, if it be so that you own you've been wrong, And your heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong, And you really will fight like a trump all day long ; If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, And Holy Church shall come in for her share, Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me That it gives a new turn to the whole affair, And I think that the Penitent need not despair ! If it be so, as you seem to say, Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray ! " An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground ; And there in that Abbey all the year round, A full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns, Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross buns. And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain : And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his Abbey so fair ; And plenty of lights Shall be there o' nights ; None of your rascally ' dips,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound ; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon ! And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe, But shall dine upon tripe. And blackberries gather'd before they are ripe, And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and liqueur : " (Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallow'd it down, by an effort, again, And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a Mere repetition of 0, med culpd ! ) THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE. 183 " Thrice three times upon Candlemas-day, Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, Well and truly laid on by a barefooted Friar, With a stout cat-o'-nine-tails of whip-cord and wire ; And nor he, nor his heir, Shall take, use, or bear Any more, from this day, The surname of Bray, As being dishonour'd ; but all issue male he has Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias ! So his qualms of conscience at length may cease, And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace ! " Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain. " Look out, my Squire, Look higher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar ! And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, And pick up his body, and pick up his head ! " FYTTE IIL Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, With right of free warren (whatever that be) ; Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, All in full leaf at the right time of year ; About Christmas, or so, they fall into the sear, And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear : But it's really delightful in spring-time, and near The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear ; Cobham woods to the right, on the opposite shore Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more ; Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind, and before You can see almost all the way down to the Nore. So charming a spot It's rarely one's lot To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot. 184 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, ; And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three, And there they all stand each in their degree, Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, Two by two in their regular mode, While a funeral comes down the Rochester road. Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, Cockle in hat, and staff in hand, Come marching in pairs, a holy band ! Little boys twelve, dress'd all in white, Each with his brazen censer bright, And singing away with all their might, Follow the Palmers a goodly sight ; Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care, A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd, Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard. Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied With a stout cat-o'-nine-tails of tough cow-hide, While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear Men- -at-Arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men. It boots not to tell What youTI guess very well, How some sang the requiem, some toll'd the bell ; Suffice it to say, 'Twaa on Candlemas-day The procession I speak about reach'd the Sacellvm ; And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupj Received the first taste of the Father's flagellwn ; That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded, By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns, Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns ; That year after year, having run round the Quad "With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, Having not only kiss'd it, but bless'd it, and thank'd it, he Died, as all thought, in the odour of sanctity ; When, strange to relate ! and you'll hardly believe What I'm going to tell you, next Candlemas Eve THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE. 185 The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright, Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls, and the equal 1 Of some one who seem'd running all round the walls ! Looking out, soon, By the light of the moon, There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that " Matchless ! " of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz ; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A flageUum,, whose lashes appear to be snakes ; While more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate In his left hand, out straight, As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small " bull's-eye lantern," as placed By our own New Police, in a belt round bis waist All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries, In vain, for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, " Kunning after him," so said the Abbot, " like Bricks ! ' Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might, Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill, Then a whoop and a halloo, and all was still ! Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray ; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight, Accoutred and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard, and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, 186 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood : More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy, And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail, They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail What 'tis breaks the rest Of these souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and pack'd up in a chest Caulk'd and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's Pericranium was nowhere in sight ; So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head ! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd. Now though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me, I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This fact with the reason these people assign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call " genu-ina. Tis a very nice question but be 't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray), It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall, And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall So, I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz. : that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d d after all J THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE. 187 MORAL. Foot-pages, and Servant's of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me ! See what comes of lying ! don't join in a league To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue ! Ladies ! married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand ! Don't stand for the sake of a penny, but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue ! Rev'rend gentlemen ! you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home ! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives ; Love your neighbours, and welcome, but dont love their wives! And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, " TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS ! " Knights ! whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn, to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong ! If your servants offend you or give themselves airs, Rebuke them but mildly don't kick them downstairs ! To " Poor Richard's " homely old proverb attend, " If you want matters well-managed, Go ! if not, Send ' " A servant's too often a negligent elf ; If it's business of consequence, Do IT YOURSELF ! The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life ; Now don't do that by proxy ! but choose your own wife ! For think how annoying 'twould be when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for A SARACEN'S HEAD 1 GL 188 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE. I SAW thee, Netley, as the sun Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave ; And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green, That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovelily bright, In that glorious light, And I felt 'twas holy ground. Then I thought of the ancient time The days of the Monks of old, When to Matin and Vesper, and Compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And thy courts, and " long-drawn aisles " among, SwelTd the full tide of sacred song. And then a vision pass'd Across my mental eye ; And silver shrines, and shaven crowns, And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns, And long white veils, went by ; Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad, But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad ! Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring, And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell, And " dear little souls," In clean linen stoles, Swinging their censers, and making a smell, And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear, With front severe, And brow austere, Now and then pinching a little boy's ear When he chaunts the responses too late, or too soon, Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune. (Then you know, They'd a " movable Do," Not a fix'd one as now and of course never knew How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.) It was, in sooth, a comely sight, And I welcomed the vision with pure delight. NETLEY ABBEY. 189 But then " a change came o'er " My spirit a change of fear That gorgeous scene I beheld no more, But deep beneath the basement floor A dungeon dark and drear ! And there was an ugly hole in the wall For an oven too big, for a cellar too small ! And mortar and bricks All ready to fix, And I said, " Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks !~ That horrible hole ! it seems to say, ' I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey ! ' " And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad. Ah me ! ah me ! 'tis sad to think That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink, Should be here compell'd to grow blear and blink, Or be closed for aye In this kind of way, Shut out for ever from wholesome day, Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink, No light, no air, no victuals, no drink ! And that Maiden's lip, Which was made to sip, Should here grow withered and dry as a chip ! That wandering glance and furtive kiss, Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis, Should yet be considered so much amiss As to call for a sentence severe as this ! And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh, The poor lone victim's stifled cry, " Well, I can't understand How any man's hand Could wall up that hole in a Christian land ! Why a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work, And though when his Ladies run after the fellows, he Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy, Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak, In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek, ' When all's said and done, far better it was for us, Tied back to back, And sown up in a sack, To be pitch'd neck and beels from a boat in the Bosphorus ! ' Oh ! a Saint 'twould vex To think that the sex Should be treated no better than Combe's double X ! 190 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar." If ever on polluted walk Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls, If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride ! Lo where it comes ! the tempest lours, It bursts on thy devoted towers ; Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Hides on the blast and guides the storm ; I hear the sacrilegious cry, " Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly ! " Down ! down they come a fearful fall Arch, and pillar, and roof -tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown Mouldering walls remain alone. Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown, Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown ! And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that grey and mouldering wall, The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall ! They " come like shadows, so depart " I see thee as thou wert and art Sublime in ruin ! grand in woe ! Lone refuge of the owl and bat ; No voice awakes thine echoes now ! No sound Good Gracious ! what was that ? Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone 1 Full and clear On my listening ear NETLEY ABBEY. 191 It comes again near, and more near Why 'zooks 1 it's the popping of Ginger Beer ! I rush'd to the door I tread the floor, By Abbots and Abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there ? In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag surrounded by crockery- ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng, A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong, And a squeaking fiddle and wry-neck'd fife Are screeching away, for the life ! for the life 1 Danced to by " All the World and his Wife." Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair ! Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns, Playing at " pitch and toss," sport their " Browns," Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea, Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love. Then the " toot toot toot " Ol that vile demi-flute, The detestable din Of that crack'd violin, And the odours of " Stout," and tobacco, and gin. " Dear me ! " I exclaim'd, " what a place to be in ! " And I said to the person who drove my " shay " (A very intelligent man, by the way), " This all things consider'd is rather too gay ! It don't suit my humour, so take me away ! Dancing ! and drinking 1 cigar and song ! If not profanation, it's " coming it strong," And I really consider it all very wrong. Pray, to whom does this property now belong 1 " He paused, and said, Scratching his head, "Why I really do think he's a little to blame, But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name ! " " Well well ! " quoth I, As I heaved a sigh, And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, " My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt That some day or other you'll find it out, THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Should he come in your way, Or ride in your ' shay ' (As perhaps he may), Be so good as to say That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day, Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalised, Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalised, And thus of their owner to speak began, As he ordered you home in haste, ' No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN, But I can't say much for his taste.' " ^fragment, A PEELING sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around : I stepp'd with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal tread Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the mighty dead ! The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those cloisters pale, With fitful light on regal vest, and warriors sculptured mail, As from the stain'd and storied pane it danced with quivering gleam, Each cold and prostrate form below seem'd quickening in the beam. Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell, And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell : It died and not a breath did stir; above each knightly stall, Unmoved, the banner'd blazonry hung waveless as a pall I stood alone! & living thing 'midst those that were no more T thought on ages past and gone the glorious deeds of yore On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain, The fatal Roses twined at length on great Eliza's reign. NELL COOK. 193 I thought on Naseby Marston Moor on Worc'ster's " crown- ing fight ; " When on mine ear a sound there fell it chill'd me with affright, As thus in low, unearthly tones I heard a voice begin, " This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk ! Sir ! please put summut in ! " Caofe, A LEGEND OP THE "DARK ENTRY." THE KING'S SCHOLAR'S STORY. " From the ' Brick Walk ' branches off to the right a long narrow vaulted passage, paved with flagstones, vulgarly known by the name of the 'Dark Entry.' Its eastern extremity communicates with the cloisters, crypt, and, by a private staircase, with the interior of the cathedral. On the west it opens into the ' Green Court,' forming a com- munication between it and the portion of the 'Precinct' called the ' Oaks. ' " A Walk round Canterbury, &c. Scene A back parlour in Mr. John Ingoldsby's house in the Precinct. A blazing fire. Mine Uncle is seated in a high- backed easy-chair, twirling his thumbs, and contemplating his list shoe. Little Tom, the " King's Scholar," on a stool opposite. Mrs. John Ingoldsby at the table, busily employed in manufacturing a cabbage-rose (cauliflower?) in many- coloured worsteds. Mine Uncle's meditations are interrupted by the French clock on the mantel-piece. He prologizeth with vivacity. " HARK ! listen, Mrs. Ingoldsby, the clock is striking nine ! Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine, And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring his coat, And a warm bandana handkerchief to tie about his throat " Arid bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has said That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed ; And well we know when little boys their coming home delay, They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day G 194 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. " Now nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray, Back by that Entry dark, for that you knoVs the nearest way ; I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour, It fears me quite it's Friday night ! and then Nell Cook hath ' powV!" "And, who's Nell Cook, thou silly child 1 and what's Nell Cook to thee ? That thou shouldst dread at night to tread with Jane that dark entrW " Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear ! such fearsome things they tell Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell! " It was in bluff King Harry's days, and Monks and Friars were then, You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen. They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns, no shirts, and no cravats, And a cord was placed about their waist they had no shovel hats! "It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift, And long before he stamp'd and swore, and cut the Pope adrift ; There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk ; He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry dark ! " The Canon was a portly man of Latin and of Greek, And learned lore, he had good store, yet health was on his cheek. The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye, The beer was weak, yet he was sleek he had a merry eye. " For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin, The Canon's house it stood without; he kept good cheer within ; Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look, And Ellen Bean ruled his cuisine. He called her 'Nelly Cook.' NELL COOK. 195 " For soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, Nell Cook was famous still ! She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wondrous . skill: Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely brown'd, Her boil'd and roast, they were the boast of all the ' Precinct ' round ; " And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air, And earthward bent her modest look yet was she passing fair j And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave people shook : They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook. " One day, 'twas on a Whitsun-Eve there came a coach and four ; It pass'd the 'Green-Court' gate, and stopp'd before the Canon's door ; The travel-stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way, Each panting steed relax'd its speed out stept a Lady gay. " ' Now, welcome ! welcome ! dearest Niece ! ' the Canon then did cry, And to his breast the Lady prest he had a merry eye, ' Now,' w'elcome ! welcome ! dearest Niece ! in sooth, thou'rt welcome here, f Tis many a day since we have met how fares jny Brother dear 1 ' " ' Now thanks, my loving Uncle,' that Lady gay replied : ' Gramercy for thy benison ! ' then ' Out, alas ! ' she sigh'dj ' My father dear he is not near ; he seeks the Spanish Main ; He prays thee give me shelter here till he return again ! ' " ' Now, welcome ! welcome ! dearest Niece ; come lay thy mantle by ! ' The Canon kiss'd her ruby lip he had a merry eye, But Nelly Cook askew did look, it came into her mind They were a little less than 'kin,' and rather more than 'kind.' 196 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. " Three weeks are gone and over full three weeks and a day, Yet still within the Canon's house doth dwell that Lady gay ; On capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare, And they quaff good store of Bordeaux wine, so dainty is their fare. M And fine upon the virginals is that gay Lady's touch, And sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any such ; But is it ' Sanctissima / ' she sings in dulcet tone 1 Or ' Angels ever bright and fair ? ' Ah, no ! it's ' Bobbing Joan ! ' " The Canon's house is lofty, and spacious to the view ; The Canon's cell is order'd well yet Nelly looks askew ; The Lady's bower is in the tower, yet Nelly shakes her head She hides the poker and the tongs in that gay Lady's bed ! " Six weeks were gone and over full six weeks and a day, Yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay ! From which, I fear, it's pretty clear that Lady rest had none ; Or, if she slept in any bed it was not in her own. " But where that Lady pass'd her night, I may not well divine, Perhaps in pious orisons at good St. Thomas' Shrine, And for her father far away breathed tender vows and true It may be so I cannot say But Nelly look'd askew. " And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were lock'd in sleep, She'd listen at the Canon's door, she'd through the keyhole peep I know not what she heard or saw, but fury fill'd her eye She bought some nasty Doctor's stuff, and she put it in a pie! " It was a glorious summer's eve with beams of rosy red, The Sun went down all Nature smiled but Nelly shook her head ! Full softly to the balmy breeze rang out the Vesper bell Upon the Canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell ! NELL COOK. 197 * * Now, here's to thee, mine Uncle ! a health I drink to thee ! Now, pledge me back in Sherris sack, or a cup of Malvoisie ! ' The Canon sigh'd but, rousing, cried, ' I answer to thy call, And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal ! ' "Tis early dawn the matin chime rings out for morning pray'r And Prior and Friar is in his stall the Canon is not there ! Nor in the small Refect'ry hall, nor cloister'd walk is he All wonder and the Sacristan says, ' Lauk-a-daisy-me ! ' M They've search'd the aisles and Baptistry they've sear<;h'd above around The 'Sermon House' the 'Audit Room' the Canon is not found. They only find that pretty Cook concocting a ragout, They ask her where her master is but Nelly looks askew. "They call for crow-bars 'jemmies' is the modern name they bear They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar but what a sight is there ! The Canon's head lies on the bed his Niece lies on the floor ! They are as dead as any nail that is in any door ! " The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back ! His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and black ! The livid spot is on her cheek, it's on her neck of snow, And the Prior sighs, and sadly cries, 'Well, here's a pretty Go!' " All at the silent hour of night a bell is heard to toll, A knell is rung, a requiem 's sung as for a sinful soul, And there's a grave within the Nave ; it's dark, and deep, and wide, And they bury there a Lady fair, and a Canon by her side ! "An Uncle so 'tis whisper'd now throughout the sacred Fane, And a Niece whose father's far away upon the Spanish Main. 198 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. The Sacristan, he says no word that indicates a doubt, But he puts his thumb unto his nose, and spreads his fingers out! "And where doth tarry Nelly Cook, that staid and comely lass? Ay, where 1 for ne'er from forth that door' was 'Nelly known to pass. Her coif and gown of russet brown were lost unto the view, And if you mention'd Nelly's name the Monks allj look'd askew ! " There is a heavy paving-stone fast by the Canon's door, Of granite grey, and it may weigh some half a ton or more, And it is laid deep in the shade within that Entry dark, Where sun or moon-beam never play'd, or e'en one starry spark. " That heavy granite stone was moved that night, 'twas darkly said, And the mortar round its sides next morn seem'd fresh and newly laid, But what within the narrow vault beneath that stone doth lie, Or if that there be vault or no I cannot tell not I ! " But I've been told that moan and groan, and fearful wail and shriek Came from beneath that paving-stone for nearly half a week For three long days and three long nights came forth those sounds of fear ; Then all was o'er they never more fell on the listening ear. U A hundred years have gone and past since last Nell Cook was seen, When worn by use, that stone got loose, and they went and told the Dean. Says the Dean, says he, ' My Masons three ! now haste and fix it tight ;' And the Masons three peep'd down to see, and they saw a fear- some sight. NELL COOK. 199 "Beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they found It was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve feet round ; A fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well ! But who the deuce 'twas put it there those Masons could not tell " And near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie, And a mouldy piece of ' kissing-crust,' as from a Warden- pie! And Dr. Jones declared the bones were female bones, and, 'Zooks! I should not be surprised,' said he, 'If these were Nelly Cook's!' " It was in good Dean Bargrave's days, if I remember right, Those fleshless bones beneath the stones these Masons brought to light ; And you may well in the ' Dean's Chapelle ' Dean Bargrave's portrait view, 'Who died one night,' says old Tom Wright, 'in sixteen forty-two ! ' "And so two hundred years have pass'd since that these Masons three, With curious looks, did set Nell Cook's unquiet spirit free ; That granite stone had kept her down till then so some suppose, Some spread their fingers out, and put their thumb unto their nose. " But one thing's clear that all the year, on every Friday night, Throughout that Entry dark doth roam Nell Cook's unquiet Sprite : On Friday was that Warden-pie all by that Canon tried ; On Friday died he, and that tidy Lady by his side ! " And though two hundred years have flown, Nell Cook doth still pursue Her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may rue; 200 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. Her fatal breath is fell as death ! the Simoom's blast is not More dire (a wind in Africa that blows uncommon hot). " But all unlike the Simoom's blast, her breath is deadly cold, Delivering quivering, shivering shocks upon both young and old, And whoso in that Entry dark doth feel that fatal breath, He ever dies within the year some dire untimely death ; " No matter who no matter what condition, age, or sex, But some ' get shot,' and some ' get drown'd,' and some ' get ' broken necks ; Some 'get run over ' by a coach; and one beyond the seas ' Got ' scraped to death with oyster -shells among the Carib- bees ! "Those Masons three, who set her free, fell first! it is averr"d That two were hangM on Tyburn tree for murdering of the third : Charles Storey, too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth they tell, Been gibbeted on Chatham Downs, had they not met with NeU! "Then send me not, mine Uncle dear, oh! send me not, 1 pray, Back through that Entry dark to-night, but round some other way ! I will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book, For Heaven forfend that ever I foregather with Nell Cook ! " The class was call'd at morning tide, and Master Tom was there ; He look'd askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and chair. He did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his eye, He had not e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and cry. Hence little boys may learn, when they from schools go out to dine, They should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by nine ; NURSERY REMINISCENCES. 201 For if when they've their great coat on, they pause, before they part, To tell a long arid prosy tale, perchance their own may smart MORAL. A few remarks to learned Clerks in country and in town Don't keep a pretty serving-maid, though clad in russet brown ! Don't let your Niece sing " Bobbing Joan ! " don't, with a merry eye, Hob-nob in Sack and Malvoisie, and don't eat too much pie! ! And oh ! beware that Entry dark, Especially at night, And don't go there with Jenny Smith all by the pale moon- light! So bless the Queen and her Royal Weans, And the Prince whose hand she took, And bless us all, both great and small, and 'keep us from Nell Cook! I REMEMBER, I remember, When I was a little Boy, One fine morning in September Uncle brought me home a toy. I remember how he patted Both my cheeks in kindliest mood ; " Then," said he, " you little Fat-head, There's a top because you're good." Grandmamma a shrewd observer I remember gazed upon My new top, and said with fervour, " Oh ! how kind of Uncle John ! " While mamma, my form caressing, In her eye the tear-drop stood, THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Read me this fine moral lesson, " See what comes of being good ! ' I remember, I remember, On a wet and windy day, One cold morning in December I stole out and went to play ; I remember Billy Hawkins Came, and with his pewter squirt Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings, Till they were all over dirt ! To my mother for protection I ran, quaking every limb ; She exclaim'd, with fond affection, " Gracious Goodness ! look at him ! "- Pa cried, when he saw my garment, 'Twas a newly-purchased dress " Oh ! you nasty little Warment, How came you in such a mess 1 " Then he caught me by the collar, Cruel only to be kind And to my exceeding dolour, Gave me several slaps behind. Grandmamma, while yet I smarted, As she saw my evil plight, Said 'twas rather stony-hearted " Little rascal ! sarve him right ! " I remember, I remember, From that sad and solemn day, Never more in dark December Did I venture out to play. And the moral which they taught, I Well remember ; thus they said u Little Boys, when they are naughty, Must be whipp'd and sent to bed ! " AUNT FANNY. 203 8imt Jfannp, A LEGEND OP A SHIRT. Virginibus, Puerisque canto. HOR. Old Maids, and Bachelors I chant to ! T. 1. I SING of a Shirt that never was new ! In the course of the year Eighteen hundred and two, Aunt Fanny began, Upon Grandmamma's plan, To make one for me, then her " dear little man." At the epoch I speak about, I was between A man and a boy, A hobble-de-hoy, A fat, little, punchy concern of sixteen, Just beginning to flirt, And ogle, so pert, I'd been whipt every day had I had my desert, And Aunt Fan volunteer'd to make me a shirt ! I've said she began it, Some unlucky planet No doubt interfered, for before she and Janet Completed the " cutting out," " hemming," and " stitching, " A tall Irish footman appear'd in the kitchen ; This took off the maid, And, I'm sadly afraid, My respected Aunt Fanny's attention, too, stray*d ; For, about the same period, a gay son of Mars, Cornet Jones of the Tenth (then the Prince's) Hussars, With his fine dark eyelashes, And finer moustaches, And the ostrich plume work'd on the corps' sabre-tasches (I say nought of the gold-and-red cord of the sashes, Or the boots far above the Guards' vile spatterdashes), So eyed, and so sigh'd, and so lovingly tried To engage her whole ear as he lounged by her side, Looking down on the rest with such dignified pride, That she made up her mind, She should certainly find Cornet Jones at her feet, whisp'ring, " Fan, be my bride ! " She had even resolved to say " Yes," should he ask it And I and my Shirt were both left in the basket. To her grief and dismay She discover'd one day Cornet Jones of the Tenth was a little too gay ; For, besides that she saw him he could not say nay Wink at one of the actresses capering away 204 THE 1NGOLDSBY LEGENDS. In a Spanish bolero, one night at the play, She found he'd already a wife at Cambray ; One at Paris a nymph of the corps de ballet ; And a third down in Kent, at a place call'd Foot's Cray. He was " viler than dirt ! "- Fanny vow'd to exert All her powers to forget him, and finish my Shirt. But, oh ! lack-a-day ! How time slips away ! Who'd have thought that while Cupid was playing these tricks, Ten years had elapsed, and I'd turn'd twenty-six ? " I care not a whit, He's grown not a bit," Says my Aunt, " it will still be a very good fit," So Janet and She, Now about thirty-three (The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee), Each taking one end of " the Shirt " on her knee, Again began working with hearty good will, " Felling the Seams," and " whipping the Frill," For, twenty years since, though the Ruffle had vanish'd. A Frill like a Fan had by no means been banish'd ; People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches, Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches. Now, then, by these two thus laying their caps Together, my " Shirt " had been finish'd, perhaps, But for one of those queer little three-corner'd straps, Which the ladies call "Side-bits," that sever the " Flaps ; " Here unlucky Janet, Took her needle, and ran it Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, " Ads cuss it ! I've spoil'd myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset ! " For a month to come Poor dear Janet's thumb Was in that sort of state vulgar people call " Rum." At the end of that time, A youth, still in his prime, The Doctor's fat Errand-boy, j ust such a dolt as is Kept to mix draughts, and spread plasters and poultices, Who a bread-cataplasm each morning had carried her, Sigh'd, ogled, proposed, was accepted, and married her ! Much did Aunt Fan Disapprove of the plan ; She turn'd up her dear little snub at " the Man." She " could not believe it," " Could scarcely conceive it Was possible What! such a place ! aoid then leave it 1 AUNT FANNY. 2fV5 And all for a ' Shrimp ' not as high as my hat A little contemptible ' Shaver ' like that ! ! With a broad pancake face, and eyes buried in fat * " For her part, " She was sure She could never endure A lad with a lisp, and a leg like a skewer ! Such a name too ; ('twas Potts !) and so nasty a trade No, no, she would much rather die an old maid ! He a husband, indeed ! Well, mine, come what may come, Shan't look like a blister, or smell of Guaiacum ! " But there ! She'd " declare, It was Janet's affair Chacun ct son gout As she baked she might brew She could not prevent her 'twas no use in trying it Oh, no, she had made her own bed, and might lie in it, They ' repent at leisure who marry at random.' No matter De gustibus non disputandum ! " Consoling herself with this choice bit of Latin, Aunt Fanny resignedly bought some white satin, And, as the Soubrette, Was a very great pet After all, she resolved to forgive and forget, And sat down to make her a bridal rosette, With magnificent bits of some white-looking metal Stuck in, here and there, each forming a petal. On such an occasion, one couldn't feel hurt, Of course, that she ceased to remember my Shirt ! Ten years, or nigh, Had again gone by, When Fan accidentally casting her eye On a dirty old work-basket, hung up on high In the store-closet where herbs were put by to dry, Took it down to explore it she didn't know why. Within, a pea-soup colour'd fragment she spied, Of the hue of a November fog in Cheapside, Or a bad piece of ginger-bread spoilt in the baking. I still hear her cry, " I wish I may die If here isn't Tom's Shirt, that's been so long a-making ! My gracious me ! Well, only to see ! 1 declare it's as yellow as yellow can be ! Why it looks as though't had been soak'd in green tea ! Dear me, did you ever 1 But come 'twill be clever 200 THE JNGOLDSBY LEGENDS. To bring matters round ; so I'll do my endeavour ' Better Late,' says an excellent proverb, ' than Never ! ' It is stain'd, to be sure ; but 'grass-bleaching ' will bring it To rights ' in a jiffy.' We'll wash it, and wring it ; Or, stay, ' Hudson's Liquor ' Will do it still quicker, And " Here the new maid chimed in, "Ma'am, Salt of Lemon Will make it, in no time, quite fit for a Gemman ! " So they " set in the gathers," the large round the collar, While those at the wristbands of course were much smaller, The button-holes now were at length " overcast ; " Then a button itself was sewn on 'twas the last ! All's done ! All's won ! Never under the sun Was Shirt so late finish'd so early begun ! The work would defy The most critical eye. It was " bleach'd " it was wash'd, it was hung out to dry,- It was mark'd on the tail with a T and an I ! On the back of a chair it Was placed just to air it, In front of the fire. " Tom to-morrow shall wear it ! " cceca mens hominum ! Fanny, good soul, Left her charge for one moment but one a vile coal Bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole ! Had it been Doctor Arnott's new stove not a grate : Had the coal been a " Lord Mayor's coal," viz., a slate ; What a different tale had I had to relate ! And Aunt Fan and my shirt been superior to Fate ; One moment no more ! Fan open'd the door ! The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before ; And Aunt Fanny sank down in despair on the floor ! You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement, When looking one fine moonlight night from her casement, She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing, And, losing at once all restraint on her temper, or Feelings, exclaim'd " Hang that Scamp of an Emperor, Although he's my son ! He thinks it prime fun, No doubt ! While the flames are demolishing Rome, There's my Nero a fiddling and singing ' Sweet Home ! ' " AUNT FANNY. 207 Stay I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said The words I've put down, as she stepp'd into bed, On reflection I rather believe she was dead ; But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I Never was very precise in Chronology ; So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a Mistake of no very great moment in fine, a Mere slip 'twas some Pleb's wife, if not Agrippina. You may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony, Whom thirty years since we all used to call BONEY, When, engaged in what he styled " fulfilling his destinies, He led his rapscallions across the Borysthenes, And made up his mind, Snug quarters to find In Moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs Which are apt to prevail 'mongst the " Owskis " and " Offs." At a time of the year When your nose and your ear Are by no means as safe there as people's are here, Inasmuch as " Jack Frost," that most fearful of Bogles, Makes folks leave their cartilage oft in their "fogies." You may fancy, I say, That same BONEY'S dismay, When Count Rostopchin At once made him drop chin, And turn up his eyes, as his rappee he took, With a sort of mort-de-ma-vie kind of look, On perceiving that " Swing," And " all that sort of thing," Was at work that he'd just lost the game without knowing it; That the Kremlin was blazing the Russians " a-going it," Every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground, And the deuce of a Turncock at all to be found ! You may fancy King Charles at some Court Fancy-Bali, (The date we may fix In Sixteen sixty-six,) In the room built by Inigo Jones at Whitehall, Whence his father, the Martyr, (as such mourn'd by all Who, in his, wept the Law's and the Monarchy's fall,) Stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall You may fancy King Charles, I say, stopping the brawl, As burst on his sight the old church of St. Paul, By the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl From basement to buttress, and topping its wall You may fancy old Clarendon making a call, And stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl, 208 THE INGOLDSBY LEOENIS. " Sire, from Pudding Lane's End, close by Fishmongers' Hall To Pye Corner, in Smithfield, there is not a stall There, in market, or street, not a house great or small, In which Knight wields his falchion, or Cobbler his awl, But's on fire ! ! " You may fancy the general squall, And bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl ! You may fancy all this but I boldly assert You can't fancy Aunt Fan as she look'd on MY SHIRT ! ! Was't Apelles ? or Zeuxis ? I think 'twas Apelles, That artist of old I declare I can't tell his Exact patronymic I write and pronounce ill These classical names whom some Grecian Town-Council Employ'd I believe by command of the Oracle, To produce them a splendid piece, purely historical, For adorning the wall Of some fane or Guildhall, And who for his subject determined to try a Large painting in oils of Miss Iphigenia At that moment her Sire, By especial desire Of " that Spalpeen, O'Dysseus " (see Barney Maguire), Had resolved to devote Her beautiful throat To old Chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire ; An act which we moderns by no means admire, An off ring, 'tis true, to Jove, Mars, or Apollo cost No trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust, Still, although for economy we should condemn none, In an ava avSpuv like the great Agamemnon, To give up to slaughter An elegant daughter, After all the French, Music, and Dancing they'd taught her, And Singing, at Heaven knows how much a quarter, In lieu of a Calf ! It was too bad by half ! At a " nigger " so pitiful who would not laugh, And turn up their noses at one who could find No decenter method of " Raising the Wind 1 " No doubt but he might, Without any great Flight, Have obtain'd it by what we call " flying a kite." Or on mortgage or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he Must have succeeded " by way of annuity." But there it appears, His crocodile tears, His "Oh!s" and his "Ah!s," his "Oh Lawls" and "Oh dear! s," AUNT FANNY. 200 Were all thought sincere, so in painting his Victim The Artist was splendid but could not depict Him, His features and phiz awry Showed so much misery, And so like a dragon he Look'd in his agony, That the foiled Painter buried despairing to gain a Good likeness his face in a printed Bandana, Such a veil is best thrown o'er one's face when one's hurt By some grief which no power can repair or avert ! Such a veil I shall throw o'er Aunt Fan and My Shirt ! MOKAL. And now for some practical hints from the story Of Aunt Fan's mishap, which I've thus laid before ye : For, if rather too gay, I can venture to say, A fine vein of morality is, in each lay Of my primitive Muse, the distinguishing trait ! First of all Don't put off till to-morrow what may, Without inconvenience, be managed to-day ! That golden occasion we call " Opportunity " Rarely's neglected by man with impunity ! And the " Future," how brightly soe'er by Hood's dupe colour'd. Ne'er may afford You a lost chance restored, Till both you, and YOUR SHIRT, are grown old and pea-soup- colour'd ! I would also desire You to guard your attire, Young Ladies, and never go too near the fire ! Depend on't there's many a dear little Soul Has found that a Spark is as bad as a coal, And " in her best petticoat burnt a great hole ! " Last of all, gentle Reader, don't be too secure ! Let seeming success never make you " cock-sure ! " But beware ! and take care, When all things look fair, How you hang your Shirt over the back of your chair ! " There's many a slip Twixt the cup and the lip ! " Be this excellent proverb, then, well understood, And DON'T HALLOO BEFORE YOU'RE QUITE OUT OF THE WOOD ! 210 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS, at jftargate. A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur). 'TWAS in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy I said, "What make you herel The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy ;" Again I said, " What make you here, you little vulgar Boy ? " He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy, he deem'd I meant to scoff- And when the little heart is big, a little " sets it off ; " He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose, He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose ! " Hark ! don't you hear, my little man ! it's striking nine," I said, " An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed, Kun home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold Oh ! fie! It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry ! " The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony, he cried like anything. I stoop'd and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur " Ah 1 I haven't got no supper ! and I haven't got no Ma ! " My father he is on the seas, my mother's dead and gone f And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone ; I have not had, this livelong day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor ' brown ' to buy a bit of bread with, let alone a tart. " If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight ! " (he was a vulgar Boy ;) 4 And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fix'd intent To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monu-ment ! " Cheer up ! cheer up ! my little man cheer up ! " I kindly said, " You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head : MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. 211 If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs! " Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup, My landlady is Mrs. Jones we must not keep her up There's roast potatoes at the fire, enough for me and you Come home, you little vulgar Boy I lodge at Number 2." I took him home to Number 2, the house beside " The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes, that little vulgar Boy, And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, " Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X ! " But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she " did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and as she rubb'd the deli Said I might " go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself ! " I did not go to Jericho I went to Mr. Cobb I changed a shilling (which in town the people call " a Bob ") It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child And I said, " A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild ! " When I came back I gazed about I gazed on stool and chair I could not see my little friend because he was not there 1 I peep'd beneath the table-cloth beneath the sofa too I said, " You little vulgar Boy ! why what's become of you 1 " I could not see my table-spoons I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea ; I could not see my sugar-tongs my silver watch oh dear! I know 'twas on the mantelpiece when I went out for beer. I could not see my Macintosh it was not to be seen ! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad brimm'd and lined with green ; My carpet-bag my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy, My roast potatoes ! all are gone ! and so's that vulgar Boy I 212 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think? ain't this a pretty go? That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, He's stolen my things and run away ! ! " Says she, " And sarve you right ! ! " Next morning I was up betimes I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so ; But when the Crier cried, " O Yes ! " the people cried, " O No!" I went to " Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down, I told my tale he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And call'd me " Poor old Buffer ! " what that means I cannot tell That Sailor-man he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of something 'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little " gallows-looking chap " dear me ; what could he mean? With a " carpet-swab " and " muckintogs," and a hat turn'd up with green. He spoke about his "precious eyes" and said he'd seen him "sheer," It's very odd that Sailor-men should talk so very queer And then he hitch'd his trousers up, as is, I'm told, their use, - It's very odd that Sailor-men should wear those things so loose. I did not understand him well, but think he meant to aay He'd seen that little vulgar boy, that morning, swim away In Captain Large's Royal George, about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, " somewheres " about the Nore. A landsman said, "I twig the chap he's been upon the Mill- ed 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. 213 He said, " he'd done me wery brown," and nicely " stow'd the swag," That's French, I fancy, for a hat or else a carpet-bag. I went and told the constable my property to track : He ask'd me if " I did not wish that I might get it back ? " I answer 'd, "To be sure I do ! it's what I'm come about." He smiled and said, " Sir, does your mother know that you are out 1 " Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd " done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about. He sent for Mr. Withair then, and I described " the swag," My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag ; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ ! But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy. MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, " BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO PULL WELL ! " Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fixed abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say " they wish they may be blowtt!" Don't take too much of double X ! and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout ! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well ! 214 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. A LEGEND OF THANET. THE fire-flash shines from Reculver cliff, And the answering light burns blue in the skiff, And there they stand, That smuggling band, Some in the water and some on the sand, Ready those contraband goods to land : The night is dark, they are silent and still, At the head of the party is Smuggler Bill ! " Now lower away ! come, lower away ! We must be far ere the dawn of the day. If Exciseman Gill should get scent of the prey, And should come, and should catch us here, what would he say? Come, lower away, lads once on the hill, We'll laugh, ho ! ho ! at Exciseman Gill ! " The cargo's lower'd from the dark skiffs side, And the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide, No flick nor flam, But your real Schiedam, " Now mount, my merry men, mount and ride ! " Three on the crupper and one before, And the led-horse laden with five tubs more ; But the rich point-lace, In the oil-skin case Of proof to guard its contents from ill, The " prime of the swag," is with Smuggler Bill ! Merrily now in a goodly row, Away and away those smugglers go, And they laugh at Exciseman Gill, ho ! ho ! When out from the turn Of the road to Herne, Comes Gill, wide awake to the whole concern ! Exciseman Gill, in all his pride, With the Custom-house officers all at his side ! They were call'd Custom-house officers then ; There were no such things as " Preventive men." Sauve qui pent I That lawless crew, Away, and away, and away they flew ! Some dropping one tub, some dropping two ; > THE SMUGGLERS LEAP. 215 Some gallop this way, and some gallop that, Through Fordwich Level o'er Sandwich Flat, Some fly that way, and some fly this, Like a covey of birds when the sportsmen miss ; These in their hurry Made for Sturry, With Custom-house officers close in their rear. Down Rushbourne Lane, and so by Westbere, None of them stopping, But shooting and popping, And many a Custom-house bullet goes slap Through many a three-gallon tub like a tap, And the gin spurts out And squirts all about, And many a heart grew sad that day, That so much good liquor was so thrown away. Sauve qui pent / That lawless crew Away, and away, and away they flew ! Some seek Whitstable some Grove Ferry, Spurring and whipping like madmen very For the life ! for the life ! they ride ! they ride ! And the Custom-house officers all divide, And they gallop on after them far and wide ! All, all, save one Exciseman Gill, He sticks to the skirts of Smuggler Bill ! Smuggler Bill is six feet high, He has curling locks, and a roving eye, He has a tongue and he has a smile Trained the female heart to beguile, And there is not a farmer's wife in the Isle, From St. Nicholas quite To the Foreland Light, But that eye, and that tongue, and that smile will wheedle her To have done with the Grocer and make him her Tea-dealer ; There is not a farmer there but he still Buys gin and tobacco from Smuggler Bill. Smuggler Bill rides gallant and gay On his dapple-grey mare, away, and away, And he pats her neck, and he seems to say, " Follow who will, ride after who may, In sooth he had need Fodder his steed, .In lieu of Lent-corn, with a Quicksilver feed ; 216 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Nor oats, nor beans, nor the best of old hay, Will make him a match for my own dapple-grey ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho ! " says Smuggler Bill He draws out a flask and he sips his fill, And he laughs " Ho ! ho ! " at Exciseman GilL Down Chislett Lane, so free and so fleet Rides Smuggler Bill, and away to Up-street ; Sarre Bridge is won Bill thinks it fun ; " Ho ! ho ! the old tub-gauging son of a gun His wind will be thick, and his breeks be thin, Ere a race like this he may hope to win ! " Away, away Goes the fleet dapple-grey, Fresh as the breeze and free as the wind, And Exciseman Gill lags far behind. '* / would give my soul" quoth Exciseman Gill, " For a nag that would catch that Smuggler Bill I- No matter for blood, no matter for bone, No matter for colour, bay, brown, or roan, So I had but one ! " A voice cried " Done ! " " Ay, dun," said Exciseman Gill, and he spied A custom-house officer close by his side, On a high-trotting horse with a dun-colour 'd hide. " Devil take me," again quoth Exciseman Gill, "HI had but that horse, I'd have Smuggler Bill ! From his using such shocking expressions, it's plain That Exciseman Gill was rather profane. He was, it is true, As bad as a Jew, A sad old scoundrel as ever you knew, And he rode in his stirrups sixteen stone two. He'd just utter'd the words which I've mention 'd to you, When his horse coming slap on his knees with him, threw Him head over heels, and away he flew, And Exciseman Gill was bruised black and blue. When he arose His hands and his clothes Were as filthy as could be, he'd pitched on his nose, And rolled over and over again in the mud, And his nose and his chin were all cover'd with blood ; Yet he scream'd with passion, " I'd rather grill Than not come up with that Smuggler Bill ! " THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP. 217 " Mount ! Mount ! " quoth the Custom-house officer, "get On the back of my Dun, you'll bother him yet. Your words are plain, though they're somewhat rough, ' Done and done' between gentlemen's always enough ! I'll lend you a lift there you're up on him so, He's a rum one to look at a devil to go I " Exciseman Gill Dash'd up the hill, And mark'd not, so eager was he in pursuit, The queer Custom-house officer's queer-looking boot. Smuggler Bill rides on amain, He slacks not girth and he draws not rein, Yet the dapple-grey mare bounds on in vain, For nearer now and he hears it plain Sounds the tramp of a horse " 'Tis the Ganger again ! " Smuggler Bill Dashes round by the mill That stands near the road upon Monkton Hill, " Now speed, now speed, My dapple-grey steed, Thou ever, my dapple, wert good at need ! O'er Monkton Mead, and through Minster Level, We'll baffle him yet be he gauger or devil ! For Manston Cave, away ! away ! Now speed thee, now speed thee, my good dapple-grey, It shall never be said that Smuggler Bill Was run down like a hare by Exciseman Gill ! " Manston Cave was Bill's abode, A mile to the north of the Ramsgate Road, (Of late they say It's been taken away, That is, levell'd and fill'd up with chalk and clay, By a gentleman there of the name of Day), Thither he urges his good dapple-grey ; And the dapple-grey steed, Still good at need, Though her chest it pants, and her flanks they bleed, Dashes along at the top of her speed ; But nearer and nearer Exciseman Gill Cries " Yield thee ! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill ! " Smuggler Bill, he looks behind, And sees the Dun horse come swift as the wind, And his nostrils smoke and his eyes they blaze Like a couple of lamps on a yellow post-chaise ! Every shoe he has got Appears red-hot ! 218 THE INOOLDSBY LEOENDS. And sparks round his ears snap, crackle, and play, And his tail cocks up in a very odd way ; Every hair in his mane seems a porcupine's quill, And there on his back sits Exciseman Gill, Crying " Yield thee ! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill ! ' Smuggler Bill from his holster drew A large horse-pistol of which he had two ! Made by Nock ; He pull'd back the cock As far as he could to the back of the lock ; The trigger he touch'd, and the welkin rang To the sound of the weapon, it made such a bang ; Smuggler Bill ne'er miss'd his aim, The shot told true on the Dun but there came From the hole where it enter'd not blood, but flame, He changed his plan, And fired at the man ; But his second horse-pistol flash'd in the pan ! And Exciseman Gill, with a hearty good will, Made a grab at the collar of Smuggler Bill The dapple-grey mare made a desperate bound When that queer Dun horse; on her flank she found, Alack ! and alas ! on what dangerous ground ! It's enough to make one's flesh to creep To stand on that fearful verge and peep Down the rugged sides so dreadfully steep, Where the chalk-hole yawns full sixty feet deep, O'er which that steed took that desperate leap ! It was so dark then under the trees, No horse in the world could tell chalk from cheese Down they went o'er that terrible fall, Horses, Exciseman, Smuggler, and all ! ! Below were found Next day on the ground By an elderly gentleman walking his round (I wouldn't have seen such a sight for a pound), All smash'd and dash'd, three mangled corses, Two of them human the third was a horse's That good dapple-grey, and Exciseman Gill Yet grasping the collar of Smuggler Bill ! But where was the Dun 1 that terrible Dun ? From that terrible night he was seen by none ! THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP. 219 There are some people think, though I am not one, That part of the story all nonsense and fun, But the country-folks there, One and all declare, When the " Crowner's 'Quest " came to sit on the pair, They heard a loud Horse-laugh up in the air ! If in one of the trips Of the steam-boat Eclipse You should go down to Margate to look at the ships, Or to take what the bathing-room people call " Dips," You may hear old folks talk Of that quarry of chalk : Or go over it's rather too far for a walk, But a three-shilling drive will give you a peep At that fearful chalk-pit so awfully deep, Which is call'd to this moment " The Smuggler's Leap ! " Nay more, I am told, on a moonshiny night, If you're " plucky," and not over-subject to fright, And go and look over that chalk-pit white, You may see if you will, The Ghost of Old Gill Grappling the Ghost of Smuggler Bill, And the Ghost of the dapple-grey lying between 'em I'm told so I can't say I know one who's seen 'em ! MORAL. And now, gentle Reader, one word ere we part, Just take a friend's counsel, and lay it to heart. Imprimis, don't smuggle ! if bent to please Beauty, You must buy French lace, purchase what has paid duty ! Don't use naughty words, in the next place, and ne'er in Your language adopt a bad habit of swearing ! Never say, " Devil take me ! " Or " shake me ! " or " bake me ! " Or such-like expressions Remember Old Nick To take folks at their word is remarkably quick. Another sound maxim I'd wish you to keep, Is, " Mind what you're after, and Look ere you Leap ! " Above all, to my last gravest caution attend NEVER BORROW A HORSE YOU DON'T KNOW OF A FRIEND ! ! 220 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. Bloutrte 3attte of THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD. A LEGEND OP "THE PKOUD SALOPIANS. 1 ' OH ! why doth thine eye gleam so bright, fclotitrir Jlarftr ? Oh ! why doth thine eye gleam so bright ? The Mother's at home, The Maid may not roam, She never will meet thee to-night 1 By the light Of the moon it's impossible quite ! Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright, fcloutur Jatfte ! It gleams with a fiendish delight " 'Tis done She is won 1 Nothing under the sun Can loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight ! Ho! ho! It fits so remarkably tight ! " The wire is as thin as a thread, iiUiutitf Jarfcr ! The wire is as thin as a thread ! " Though slight be the chain, Again might and main Cannot rend it in twain, she is wed ! She is wed ! She is mine, be she living or dead ! Haw ! haw ! ! " Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud, Oh ! laugh not so loud and so clear ! Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile, Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear, O dear ! It makes the blood curdle with fear ! The Maiden is gone by the glen, UlouDte BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE, 221 She is gone by the glen and the wood It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring, While her tresses are bound with a snood. By the rood ! It's a thing that's not well understood ! The maiden is stately and tall, iiloutuc Jacfce ! And stately she walks in her pride ; But the young Mary- Anne Huns as fast as she can. To o'ertake her, and walk by her side ! Though she chide She deems not her sister a bride ! But the Maiden is gone by the glen, iiloutttp Jtecfte ! Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea ; She o'ertakes not her sister It's clear she has miss'd her, And cannot think where she can be ! Dear me ! " Ho ! ho ! We shall see ! we shall see ! " Mary- Anne is gone over the lea, iiloutitr Jfac&e ! Mary- Anne she is come to the Tower ! But it makes her heart quail For it looks like a jail, A deal more than a fair Lady's bower, So sour It's ugly grey walls seem to lour. For the barbican's massy and high, ttlouiue Jacfer ! And the oak-door is heavy and brown ; And with iron it's plated And machicollated, To pour boiling oil and lead down ; How you'd frown Should a ladle-full fall on your own crown ' The rock that it stands on is steep, ttlou&te #acfte ! To gain it one's forced for to creep ; The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long, B THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. And the water runs all round the Keep ; At a peep You can see that the moat's very deep ! The Drawbridge is long, but it's down, iSloubie Jfacfte ! And the Portcullis hangs in the air ; And no Warder is near, With his horn and his spear, To give notice when people come there. I declare Mary- Anne has run into the Square ! The oak-door is heavy and brown, But the oak-door is standing ajar, And no one is there To say, " Pray take a chair, You seem tired, Miss, with running so far So you are With grown people you're scarce on a par ! " But the young Mary- Anne is not tired, Ulou&ie ; t In some Chronicle whose, has gone out of my he;. \ That, what with these candles, and other expenses, Which no man would go to if quite in his senses, He reduced, and brought low His property so, That at last he'd not much of it left to bestow ; And that, many years after that terrible feast, Sir Guy, in the Abbey, was living a Priest ; And there, in one thousand and something, deceased. THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBEllT. 2T>1 (It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick And slipp'd through his fingers remarkably " slick.") While, as to young Curly-wig, dear little Soul, Would you know more of him, you must look at " The Roll," Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit, Commenced in " Thirteen seventy-five," which took root In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore That none but his ancestors, ever before, In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, To wit, " On a Prussian-blue Field, a Bend Or; " While the Grosvenor averr'd that his ancestor bore The same, and Scroope lied like a somebody tore Off the simile, so I can tell you no more, Till some A double S shall the fragment restore. MORAL. This Legend sound maxims exemplifies e.g. Into. Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you, Remember what Lilly says, " Animum rege !" And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing, - In all good society voted past bearing, Eschew it ! and leave it to dustmen and mobs, Nor commit yourself much beyond " Zooks ! " or " Odd- bobs ! " 2do. When ask'd out to dine by a Person of Quality, Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality ! For should you come late, And make dinner wait, And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate. And though both may, perhaps, be too well-bred to swear, They heartily wish you I need not say Where. Stio. Look well to your Maid-servants ! say you expect them To see to the children, and not to neglect them ! And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery. 262 THE INGOLDSBV LEGES DS. Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And from pears in the season, and sucking their thumbs! 4fc>. To sum up the whole with a " Saw " of much use, "BejiMt and be generous, don't be profuse ! Pay the debts that you owe, keep your word to your friends, But DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS ! ! For of this be assured, if you " go it " too fast, You'll be " dish'd " like Sir Guy And like him, perhaps, die A poor, old, half-starved, Country Parson at last 1 of A LEGEND OF BLOIS. SAINT ALOYS Was the Bishop of Blois, And a pitiful man was he, He grieved and he pined For the woes of mankind, And of brutes in their degree, He would rescue the rat From the claws of the cat, And set the poor captive free ; Though his cassock was swarming With all sorts of vermin, He'd not take the life of a flea ! Kind, tender, forgiving, To all things living, From injury still he'd endeavour to screen 'em, Fish, flesh, or fowl, no difference between 'em- NlHIL PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM. The Bishop of Blois was a holy man, A holy man was he ! For Holy Church He'd seek and he'd search THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS. 2GS As a Bishop in his degree From foe and from friend He'd "rap and he'd rend," To augment her treasurie. Nought would he give, and little he'd lend, That Holy Church might have more to spend u Count Stephen " (of Blois) " was a worthy Peer, His breeches cost him but a crown, He held them sixpence all too dear, And so he call'd the Tailor lown ! " Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count, And he'd overcharged him to half the amount, He had knock'd that Tailor down ! Not for himself ! He despised the pelf ; He dress'd in sackcloth, he dined off delf ; And, when it was cold, in lieu of a surtout, The good man would wrap himself up in his virtue. Alack ! that a man so holy as he, So frank and free in his degree, And so good and so kind, should mortal be ! Yet so it is for loud and clear From St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear, With solemn swell The deep-toned bell Flings to the gale a funeral knell ; And hark ! at its sound, As a cunning old hound, When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps, So the little bells all, No matter how small, From the steeples both inside and outside the wall With bell-metal throat Respond to the note, And join the lament that a prelate so pious is Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese, Or, as Blois' Lord May'r Is heard to declare, " Should leave this here world for to go to that there." And see, the portals opening wide, From the Abbey flows the living tide ; Forth from the doors The torrent pours, Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores, 264 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. This with his chasuble, that with his rosary, This from his incense-pot turning his nose awry, Holy Father, and Holy Mother, Holy Sister, and Holy Brother, Holy Son, and Holy Daughter, Holy Wafer, and Holy Water ; Every one drest Like a guest in his best, In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear, Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair, Or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair, And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic, a Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica. Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone, With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown, Slowly the throng Come passing along, With many a chaunt and solemn song, Adapted for holidays, high-days and Sundays - Dies irce, and De profundis, Miserere, and Domine dirige nos, Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral, To secure the defunct's repose, And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, That he'd better be minding his Fs and his Q's, And not come too near, since they can, if they choose Make him shake in his hoofs as he does not wear shoes Still on they go, A goodly show, With footsteps sure, though certainly slow, Two by two in a very long row ; With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits, Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots, Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold, Borne by a lad about eighteen years old ; Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre, Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter. Eight Franciscans, sturdy and strong, Bear, in the midst, the good Bishop along THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS. 2<>3 Eight Franciscans, stout and tall, Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall Eight more hold a canopy high over all, With eight Trumpeters tooting the Dead March, in Saul. Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his Monks coming after him, all with posies, And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses, Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his- - And oh ! 'tis a comely sight to see How Lords and Ladies of high degree, Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee, While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights, In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights. Ay, 'tis a comely sight to behold, As the company march Through the rounded arch Of that Cathedral old !- Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em, All of them ranging in due decorum, Around the inside of the Sanctum Sanctorum, While brilliant and bright An unwonted light (I forgot to premise this was all done at night) The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead, That rest below, mostly buried in lead, And above, recumbent in grim repose, With their mailed hose, And their dogs at their toes, And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows, Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes, With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives, As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives, To ipraie (or tfjc Sotoks of themselves and their wives. The effect of the music, too, really was fine, When they let the good prelate down into his shrine, And by old and young The " Requiem " was sung ; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is Latin I doii't think they meddled with Greek In short, the whole thii.g produced so to speak What in Blois they would call a Coup d'ceil magniftque I 266 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Yet, surely, when the level ray Of some mild eve's descending sun Lights on the village pastor, grey In years ere ours had well begun As there in simplest vestment clad, He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree, In solemn tones, but yet not sad. Of what Man is what Man shall be ! And clustering round the grave, half hid By that same quiet churchyard yew, The rustic mourners bend, to bid The dust they loved a last adieu That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen Upon each briar-bound hillock green, So calm, so tranquil, so serene, Gives to the eye a fairer scene, Speaks to the heart with holier breath Than all this pageantry of Death. But cliacun a son gout this is talking at random We all know " De Gustibus non disputandum ! " So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story The Cathedral of Blois Where the Sainted Aloys Is by this time, you'll find, " left alone in his glory," " In the dead of the night," though with labour opprest, Some " mortals " disdain " the calm blessings of rest ; " Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best To break open a door, or the lid of a chest ; And the gipsy who close round your premises prowls, To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls, Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls, So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls To say nothing at all of those troublesome " Swells " Who eome from the playhouses " flash kens ," and " hells," To pull off people's knockers, and ring people's bells. Well 'tis now the hour HI things have power ! And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views, Have long been in bed, and enjoying a snooze, Nought is waking Save Mischief and " Faking," And a few who are sitting up brewing or baking, THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS. 267 When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue, Who stands in his slippers some six feet two (A rather remarkable height for a Jew), Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew, Into which, during service, he managed to slide himself While all were intent on the anthem and hide himself. From his lurking-place, With stealthy pace, Through the " long-drawn aisle " he begins to crawl, As you see a cat walk on the top of the wall, When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel (An invention on which we've improved a great deal Of late years the substitute best to rely on 's what Jones of the Strand calls his Pyrogeneiori), He strikes with dispatch ! his Tinder catches ! Now, where is his candle 1 and where are his matches ? 'Tis done ! they are found ! He stands up and looks round By the light of a " dip " of sixteen to the pound ! What is it now that makes his nerves to quiver ? His hand to shake and his limbs to shiver 1 Fear 1 pooh ! it is only a touch of the liver All is silent all is still It's " gammon " it's " stuff ! " he may do what he will ! Carefully now he approaches the shrine, la which, as I've mention'd before, about nine, They had placed in such state the lamented Divine ! But not to worship No ! No such thing ! His aim is TO " PRIG " THE PASTORAL RING ! 1 Fancy his fright, When, with all his might Having forced up the lid, which they'd not fasten'd quite, Of the marble sarcophagus " All in white " The dead Bishop started up, bolt upright On his hinder end, and grasp'd him so tight, That the clutch of a kite, Or a bull-dog's bite When he's most provoked and in bitterest spite, May well be conceived in comparison slight, And having thus " tackled " him blew out his light ! ! 268 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! The fright and the fear ! No one to hear nobody near ! In the dead of the night ! at a bad time of year 1 A defunct Bishop squatting upright on his bier, And shouting so loud, that the drum of his ear He thought would have split as these awful words met it "An! HA! MY GOOD FRIEND! DON'T YOU WISH YOU GET IT?" Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! 'Twas a night of fear ! I should just like to know, if the boldest man here, In his situation would not have felt queer ? The wretched man bawls, And he yells and he squalls, But there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls, And the desk, and the pulpit, the pews, and the stalls. Held firmly at bay, Kick and plunge as he may, His struggles are fruitless he can't get away, He really can't tell what to do or to say, And being a Pagan, don't know how to pray ; Till through the east window, a few streaks of grey Announce the approach of the dawn of the day ! Oh, a welcome sight Is the rosy light Which lovelily heralds a morning bright, Above all to a wretch kept in durance all night By a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight, Of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap, The most disagreeable kind of a man trap ! Oh ! welcome that bell's Matin chime, which tellfe To one caught in this worst of all possible snares, That the hour is arrived to begin Morning Prayers, And the Monks and the Friars are coming down-stairs ! Conceive the surprise Of the Choir how their eye , Are distended to twice their original size, How some begin bless, some anathematize, And all look on the thief as old Nick in disguise. While the mystified Abbot cries, " Well ! I declare ! This is really a very mysterious atfair ! Bid the bandy-legg'd Sexton go run for the May'r ! " The May'r and his suite Are soon on their feet, (His worship kept house in the very same street, ) THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS. 269 At once he awakes, " His compliments " makes " He'll be up at the church in a couple of shakes ! Meanwhile the whole Convent is pulling and hauling, And bawling and squalling, And terribly mauling, The thief whose endeavour to follow his calling Had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling. Now high, now low, They drag " to and fro," Now this way, now that way they twist him but- -No ! The glazed eye of St. Aloys distinctly says, " Poh ! 5Tou may pull as you please, I shall not let him go ! " Nay, more ; when his worship at length came to say He was perfectly ready to take him away, And fat him to grace the next Auto-da-fe, Still closer he prest The poor wretch to his breast, While a voice though his jaws still together were jamm'd Was heard from his chest, " If you do, I'll " here slamm'd The great door of the church, with so awful a sound That the close of the good Bishop's sentence was drown'd ! Out spake Frere Jehan, A pitiful man, Oh ! a pitiful man was he ! And he wept and he pined For the sins of mankind, As a Friar in his degree. " Remember, good gentlefolks," so he began, " Dear Aloys was always a pitiful man ! That voice from his chest Has clearly exprest He has pardon'd the culprit and as for the rest, Before you shall burn him he'll see you all blest ! " The Monks, and the Abbot, the Sexton, and Clerk Were exceedingly struck with the Friar's remark, And the Judge, who himself was by no means a shark Of a Lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark, But still lean'd (having once been himself a gay spark) To the merciful side, like the late Allan Park, Agreed that, indeed, The best way to succeed, And by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed, Would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon, On a certain condition, and that not a hard one, Viz. " That he, the said Infidel, straightway should ope His mind to conviction, and worship the Pope, And ' ev'ry man Jack ' in an amice or cope ; 270 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. And that, to do so, He should forthwith go To Rome, and salute there his Holiness' toe ; And never again Read Voltaire or Tom Paine, Or Percy Bysshe Shelley or Lord Byron's Cain ; His pilgrimage o'er, take St. Francis's habit ; If anything lay about never to ' nab ' it ; Or, at worst, if he should light on articles gone astray, To be sure and deposit them straight in the Monast'ry ! ' The oath he took As he kiss'd the book, Nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook ! The Bishop sank down with a sanctified look, And the Thief, released By the saint deceased Fell into the arms of a neighbouring Priest ! It skills not now To tell you how The transmogrified Pagan performed his vow ; How he quitted his home, Travell'd to Rome, And went to St. Peter's and look'd at the Dome, And obtain'd from the Pope an assurance of bliss, And kiss'd whatever he gave him to kiss Toe, relic, embroidery, nought came amiss ; And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban Hung up in the Sistine chapel, by way Of a relic and how it hangs there to this day. Suffice it to tell, Which will do quite as well, That the whole of the Convent the miracle saw, And the Abbot's report was sufficient to draw Ev'ry bon Catholique in la belle France to Blois, Among others, the Monarch himself, Francois, The Archbishop of Rheims, and his " Pious Jackdaw,"* And there was not a man in Church, Chapel, or Meeting- house, Btill less in Cabaret, Hotel, or Eating-house, But made an oration, And said, " In the nation If ever a man deserved canonization, It was the kind, pitiful, pious Aloys." So the Pope says says he, " Then a saint he shall be ! " So he made him a Saint, and remitted the fee. * Vide page 50. THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS. 271 What became of the Pagan I really can't say ; But I think I've been told, When he'd enter'd their fold, And was now a Franciscan some twenty days old, He got up one fine morning before break of day, Put the Pyx in his pocket and then ran away. MORAL. I think we may coax out a moral or two From the facts which have lately come under our view. First Don't meddle with Saints ! for you'll find if you do They're what Scotch people call " kittle cattle to shoe ! " And when once they have managed to take you in tow, It's a deuced hard matter to make them let go ! Now to you, wicked Pagans ! who wander about, Up and down Eegent Street every night, " on the scout," Recollect the Police keep a sharpish look-out, And if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to Till they catch you at last in flagrante delicto ! Don't the inference draw That because he of Blois Suffer'd one to bilk " Old father Antic the Law," That our May'rs and owr Aldermen and we've a City full- Show themselves, at our Guildhall, quite so pitiful ! Lastly, as to the Pagan who play'd such a trick, First assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick, There is but one thing which occurs to me that Is Don't give too much credit to people who " rat ! " Never forget Early habit's a net Which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh ; And, " What's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh ! " We must all be aware Nature's prone to rebel, as Old Juvenal tells us, Naturam expellas Tamen usque recurret I There's no use making Her rat ! So that all that I have on this head to advance Is, whatever they think of these matters in France, There's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here, " YOU NEVER CAN MAKE A SILK PURSE OP A SOW'S EAR ! " THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Cfte Cap of tl)t amt A LEGEND OF AFRIC. IN good King Dagobert's palmy days, When Saints were many, and sins were few, Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested One evening, and could not tell what to do. He had been East, and he had been West, And far had he journey'd o'er land and sea ; For women and men, Were warier then, And he could not catch one where he'd now catch threa He had been North, and he had been South, From Zembla's snores unto far Peru, Ere he fill'd the sack Which he bore on his back- Saints were so many, and sins so few ! The way was long, and the day was hot ; His wings were weary ; his hoofs were sore ; And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail, As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore ! The day had been hot, and the way was long ; Hoof -sore, and weary, and faint was he ; He lower'd his sack, And the heat of his back, As he lean'd on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree ! He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade, And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight, As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide, He had sewn for a sacK, and had crammed so tight SAINT MEDARD. ?89 For, though he'd " gone over a good deal of ground." And game had been scarce, he might well report That still, he had got A decentish lot, And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport. He had pick'd up in France a Maitre de danse, A Maifresse en titre, two smart Grisettes, A Courtier at play, And an English Roue Who had bolted from home without paying his debts. He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk, A Quaker, a Baker, a Doctor of Laws, And a jockey of York- But Paddy from Cork " Desaved the ould divil," and slipp'd through his claws ! In Moscow a Boyar knouting his wife A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome, He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece. He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain A mendicant Friar of Monks a score, A grave Don, or two, And a Portuguese Jew, Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore. And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips, " Those nice little Dears ! what a delicate roast ! Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire, Dressed like a Woodcock, and served on toast ! " At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice Never did mouth water more than Nick's ; But, alas ! and alack ! He had stuff'd his sack So full that he found himself quite " in a fix : " For, all he could do, or all he could say, When, a little recruited, he rose to go, Alas ! and alack ! He could not get the sack Up again on his shoulders " whether or no ! " Old Nick look'd East, Old Nick look'd West, With many a stretch, and with many a strain, He bent till his back Was ready to crack, And he pull'd and he tugg'd, but he tugg'd in vain. 290 THE INOOLDSBT LEGENDS. Old Nick look'd North, Old Nick look'd South ; Weary was Nicholas, weak and faint, And he was aware Of an old man there, In Palmer's weeds, who look'd much like a Saint Nick eyed the Saint, then he eyed the Sack The greedy old glutton ! and thought with a grin, " Dear heart alive ! If I could but contrive To pop that elderly gentleman in ! " For were I to choose among all the ragouts The cuisine can exhibit flesh, fowl, or fish, To myself I can paint That a barbecued Saint Would be for my palate the best side-dish ! " Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile, In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea. (We call it " Semiramis," Why not say Pyramis t Why should we change the S into a D ?) St. Medard, he was a holy man, A holy man I ween was he, And even by day, When he went up to pray, He would light up a candle, that all might see ! He salaam'd to the East, He salaam'd to the West ; Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown Were his Palmer's weeds, And he finger'd his beads With the right side up, and the wrong side down. (Hiatus in MSS. valde deflendus.) St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile ; He had been living there years fourscore, And now, " taking the air," and saving a pray'r, He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore. Little he deem'd that holy man ! Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks, When he was aware Of a stranger there, Who seem'd to have got himself into a fix SAINT MEDAED. 291 Deeply that Stranger groan'd and sigh'd, That wayfaring Stranger, grisly and grey : " I can't raise my sack On my poor old back ! Oh, lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray ! " For I have been East, and I have been West, Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I, And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew borne, Here in this desert I well may die ! " " Now Heav'n thee save ! " Nick winced at the words, As ever he winces at words divine " Now Heav'n thee save! What strength I have, It's little, I wis, shall be freely thine 1 " For foul befall that Christian man Who shall fail, in a fix, woe worth the while ! His hand to lend To foe or to friend, Or to help a lame dog over a stile ! " St. Medard had boon'd himself for the task : To hoist up the sack he doth well begin ; But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels, For the folks are all curling, and kicking within. St Medard paused he began to " smoke " For a Saint, if he isn't exactly a cat, Has a very good nose, As this world goes, And not worse than his neighbour's for " smelling a rat." The Saint look'd up, and the Saint look'd down ; He " smelt the rat," and he " smoked " the trick : When he came to view His comical shoe, He saw in a moment his friend was Nick ! He whipp'd out his oyster-knife, broad and keen A Brummagem blade which he always bore, To aid him to eat, By way of a treat, The " natives " he found on the Ked Sea shore ; He whipp'd out his Brummagem blade so keen, And he made three slits in the buffalo's hide, And all its contents, Through the rents, and the vents, Came tumbling out, and away they all hied! 292 THE INOOLDSBY LEGENDS. Away went the Quaker away went the Baker, Away went the Friar that fine fat Ghost, Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick, Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast ! Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece, And the pretty Grisettes, and the Dons from Spain And the Corsair's crew, And the coin-clipping Jew, And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain. Old Nick is a black-looking fellow at best, Ay, e'en when he's pleased ; but never before Had he look'd so black As on seeing his sack Thus cut into slits on the Red Sea shore. You may fancy his rage, and his deep despair, When he saw himself thus befool'd by one Whom, in anger wild, He profanely styled " A stupid, old, snuff-colour'd son of a gun ! ' Then his supper so nice ! that had cost him such pains Such a hard day's work now " all on the go ! " 'Twas beyond a joke, And enough to provoke The mildest and best-temper'd Fiend below ! Nick snatch'd up one of those great, big stones, Found in such numbers on Egypt's plains, And he hurl'd it straight At the Saint's bald pate, To knock out " the gruel he call'd his brains." Straight at his pate he hurl'd the weight, The crushing weight of that great, big stone ; But St Medard Was remarkably hard, And solid about the parietal bone. And, though the whole weight of that great, big stone, Came straight on his pate, with a great, big thump, It fail'd to graze The skin, or to raise On the tough epidermis a lump, or a bump ! As the hail bounds off from the pent-house slope, As the cannon recoils when it sends its shot, As the finger and thumb Of an old woman coine From the kettJ' she handles, and finds too hot ; SAINT MEDARD. 293 Or, as you may see, in the Fleet, or the Bench, Many folks do in the course of their lives, The well-struck ball Rebound from the wall, When the Gentlemen jail-birds are playing at " fives : " All these, and a thousand fine similes more, Such as all have heard of, or seen, or read Recorded in print, May give you a hint How the stone bounced off from St. Medard's hea J . And it curl'd, and it twirl'd, and it whirl'd in air, As this great, big stone at a tangent flew ! Just missing his crown, It at last came down Plump upon Nick's Orthopedical shoe ! Oh ! what a yell and a screech were there ! How did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar ! " Oh dear ! oh dear ! " You might hear him here, Though we're such a way off from the Red Sea shore ! It smash'd his shin, and it smash'd his hoof, Notwithstanding his stout Orthopedical shoe ; And this is the way That, from that same day. Old Nick became what the French call Boiteux ! Quakers, and Bakers, Grisettes, and Friars, And Cardinal's Nieces, wherever ye be, St. Medard bless ; You can scarcely do less If you of your corps possess any esprit. And, mind and take care, yourselves, and beware How you get in Nick's buffalo bag ! if you do, I very much doubt If you'll ever get out, Now sins are so many, and Saints so few ! ! MORAL. Gentle Reader, attend To the voice of a friend ! And if ever you go to Herne Bay or Southern!, Or any gay wat'ring place outside the Nore, Don't walk out at eve on the lone sea-shore ! Unless you're too saintly to care about Nick, And are sure that your head is sufficiently thick ! Learn not to be greedy ! and, Avhen you've enough, Don't be anxious your bags any tighter to stun 294 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. Recollect that good fortune too far you may push, And, " A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH ! " Then turn not each thought to increasing your store, Nor look always like " Oliver asking for more ! * Oourmandise is a vice a sad failing at least ; So remember " Enough is as good as a feast ! " And don't set your heart on "stew'd," "fried," "boil'd," or "roast," Nor on delicate " Woodcocks served up upon toast ! '" Don't give people nicknames ! don't, even in fun ! Call any one "snuff-colour'd son of a gun ! " Nor fancy, because a man nous seems to lack, That, whenever you please, you can " give him the sack ! " Last of all, as you'd thrive, and still sleep in whole bones, IF YOU'VE ANT GLASS WINDOWS NEVER THROW STONES ! ! ! ILorti of A LEGEND OP LANGUEDOC. COUNT RAYMOND rules in Languedoc, O'er the champaign fair and wide, With town and stronghold many a one, Wash'd by the wave of the blue Garonne, And from far Auvergne to Rousillon, And away to Narbonne, And the mouths of the Rhone ; And his Lyonnois silks, and his Narbonne honey Bring in his lordship a great deal of money. A thousand lances, stout and true, Attend Count Raymond's call ; And Knights and Nobles of high degree, From Guienne, Provence, and Burgundy, Before Count Raymond bend the knee, And vail to him one and all And Isabel of Arragon He weds, the pride of Spain ; THE LORD OF THOULOUSK 295 You might not find so rich a prize, A Dame so " healthy, wealthy, and wise ; " So pious withal with such beautiful eyes So exactly the Venus de Medicis' size In all that wide domain. Then his cellar is stored As well as his board, With the choicest of all La Belle France can afford ; Chambertin, Chateau Margaux, La Kose, and Lafitte, With Moet's Champagne, " of the Comet year," " neat As imported," " fine sparkling," and not over-sweet ; While his Chaplain, good man, when call'd in to say grace, Would groan, and put on an elongated face At such turtle, such turbot, John Dory, and plaice ; Not without blushing, pronouncing a benison, Worthy old soul ! on such very fat venison, Sighing to think Such victuals and drink Are precisely the traps by which Satan makes men his own. And grieving o'er scores Of huge barbecued Boars, Which he thinks should not darken a Christian man's doors, Though 'twas all very well Pagan Poets should rate 'em As " Animal propter convivia natum" He was right, I must say, For at this time of day, When we're not so precise, whether cleric or lay, With respect to our food, as in time so passe, We still find our Boars, whether grave ones or gay, After dinner, at least, very much in the way, (We spell the word now with an E, not an A ; ) And as honest Pere Jacques was inclined to spare diet, he Gave this advice to all grades of society, " Think less of pudding and think more of piety." As to his clothes, Oh ! nobody knows What lots the Count had of cloaks, doublets, and hose, Panioufles, with bows, Each as big as a rose, And such shirts with lace ruffles, such waistcoats, and those Indescribable garments it is not thought right To do more than whisper to oreilles polite. Still in spite of his power, and in spite of his riches, In spite of his dinners, his dress, and his which is 296 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. The strangest of all things in spite of his Wife, The Count led a rather hum-drum sort of life. He grew tired, in fact, of mere eating and drinking, Grew tired of flirting, and ogling, and winking At nursery maids As they walk'd the Parades, The Crescents, the Squares, and the fine Colonnades, And the other gay places, which young ladies use As their promenade through the good town of Thoulouse. He was tired of hawking, and fishing, and hunting, Of billiards, short-whist, chicken-hazard, and punting ; Of popping at pheasants, Quails, woodcocks, and peasants ; Of smoking, and joking, And soaking, provoking Such headaches next day As his fine St. Peray, Though the best of all Rhone wines, can never repay. Till weary of war, women, roast-goose, and glory, With no great desire to be " famous in story," All the day long, This was his song, " Oh, dear ! what will become of us ? Oh, dear ! what shall we do 1 We shall die of blue devils if some of us Can't hit on something that's new !" Meanwhile his sweet Countess, so pious and good, Such pomps and such vanities stoutly escheVd, With all fermented liquors and high-season'd food, Devill'd kidneys, and sweet-breads, and ducks and green pea.s Baked sucking-pig, goose, and all viands like these, Hash'd calf s-head included, no longer could please ; A curry was sure to elicit a breeze, So was ale, or a glass of port- wine after cheese : Indeed, anything strong, As to tipple, was wrong ; She stuck to " fine Hyson," " Bohea," and " Souchong," And similar imports direct from Hong- Kong. In vain does the family Doctor exhort her To take with her chop one poor half -pint of porter ; No ! she alleges She's taken the pledges ! Determined to aid In a gen'ral crusade Against publicans, vintners, and all of that trade, And to bring in sherbet, ginger-pop, lemonade, Eau sucree, and drinkables, mild and home-made ! THE LORD OF THOULOU&E. 297 So she claims her friends' efforts, and vows to devote all hen? Solely to found " The Thoulousian Teetotalers." Large sums she employs In dressing small boys In long duffle jackets, and short corderoys, And she boxes their ears when they make too much noise ; In short, she turns out a complete Lady Bountiful, Filling with drugs and brown Holland the county full. Now just at the time when our story commences, It seems that a case Past the common took place, To entail on her ladyship further expenses, In greeting with honour befitting his station The Prior of Aries, with a Temperance Legation, Dispatched by Pope Urban, who seized the occasion To aid in diluting that part of the nation. An excellent man, One who stuck to his can Of cold water " without " and he'd take such a lot of it : None of your sips That just moistens the lips ; At one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it, No such bad thing, By the way, if they bring It you iced as at Verey's, or fresh from the spring. When the Dog-star compels folks in town to take wing, Though I own even then I should see no great sin in it, Were there three drops of Sir Felix's gin in it. Well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure, And finish the pump with the Prior at leisure, Let's go back to Ptaymond, still bored beyond measure, And harping away, On the same dismal lay, " Oh dear ! what will become of us 1 Oh dear ! what can we do ? We shall die of blue devils if some of us Can't find out something that's new ! " At length in despair of obtaining his ends By his own mother wit, he takes courage and sends, Like a sensible man as he is, for his friends, Not his Lyndhursts or Eldons, or any such high sirs, But only a few of his u backstairs " advisers ; " Come hither," says he, " My gallants so f ree, My bold Rigmarole, and my brave Rigmaree, And my grave Baron Proser, now listen to me ! You three can't but see I'm half dead with ennui. 298 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. What's to be done 1 I must have some fun, And I will too, that's flat ay, as sure as a gun. So find me out " something new under the sun," Or I'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one ! You three Agree ! Come, what shall it be 1 Resolve me propound in ' three skips of a flea ! ' " Rigmarole gave a " Ha ! " Rigmaree gave a " Hem ; " They look'd at Count Raymond Count Raymond at them, As much as to say, " Have you nihil ad rent ? " At length Baron Proser Responded, " You know, sir, That question's some time been a regular poser ; Dear me ! let me see, In the way of a ' spree ' Something new 1 Eh ! No ! Yes ! No ! 'tis really no go, sir." Says the Count, " Rigmarole, You're as jolly a soul, On the whole, as King Cole, with his pipe and his bowl ; Come, I'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll" In vain, Rigmarole, with a look most profound, With his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground, Shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found. " I can only remark, That as touching a ' lark ' I'm as much as your Highness can be, in the dark ; I can hit on no novelty none, on my life, Unless, peradventure, you'd ' tea ' with your wife ! " Quoth Raymond, " Enough ! Nonsense ! humbug ! fudge ! stuff ! Rigmarole, you're an ass, you're a regular Muff! Drink tea with her ladyship ? 1 1 not a bit of it ! Call you that fun ? faith, I can't see the wit of it ; Mort de ma vie I My dear Rigmaree, You're the man, after all, come, by way of a fee, If you will but be bright, from the simple degree Of a knight I'll create you at once a Mar-quis ! Put your conjuring cap on consider and see, If you can't beat that stupid old ' Sumph ' with his ' tea ! '" " That's the thing ! that will do ! Ay, marry, that's new ! " Cries Rigmaree, rubbing his hands, " that will please My ' Conjuring cap ' it's the thing ; it's ' the cheese ! ' It was only this morning I pick'd up the news ; Please your Highness, a Conjurer's come to Thoulouse ; THE LORD OF THOULOUSE. 299 I'll defy you to name us A man half so famous For devildoms, Sir, it's the great Nostradamus ; Cornelius Agrippa, 'tis said, went to school to him, Gyngell's an ass, and old Faustus a fool to him. Talk of Lilly, Albertus, Jack Dee ! pooh ! all six He'd soon put in a pretty particular fix ; Why, he'd beat at digesting a sword, or ' Gun tricks,' The great Northern Wizard himself all to sticks ! I should like to see you Try to sauter le coup With this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo, By the Pope, you'd soon find it a regular ' Do .' Why, he does as he likes with the cards, when he's got 'em There's always an Ace or a King at the bottom ; Then for casting Nativities ! Only you look At the volume he's publish'd, that wonderful book ! In all France not another, to swear I dare venture, is Like, by long chalks, his ' Prophetical Centuries ' Don't you remember how, early last summer, he Warn'd the late Bang 'gainst the Tournament mummery ? Didn't his Majesty call it all flummery, Scorning ;The Warning, And get the next morning His poke in the eye from that clumsy Montgomery ? Why, he'll tell you, before You're well inside his door, All your Highness may wish to be up to, and more ! " " Bravo ! capital ! come, let's disguise ourselves quick ! Fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick ; We'll see if old Hocus will smell out the trick ', Let's start off at once Bigmaree, you're a Brick ! " The moon in gentle radiance shone O'er lowly roof and lordly bower, O'er holy pile and armed tower, And danced upon the blue Garonne : Through all that silver'd city fair, No sound disturb'd the calm, cool air, Save the lover's sigh alone I Or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose Proclaim'd the depth of his repose, Provoking from connubial toes A hint or elbow bone ; 800 THE INQOLDSBY LEGENDS. It might, with such trifling exceptions, be said, That Thoulouse was as still as if Thoulouse were dead, And her "oldest inhabitant" buried in lead. But hark ! a sound invades the ear, Of horses' hoofs advancing near ! They gain the bridge they pass they're here ! Side by side Two strangers ride, For the streets in Thoulouse are sufficiently wide, That is, I'm assured they are not having tried. See, now they stop Near an odd-looking shop, And they knock and they ring, and they won't be denied. At length the command Of some unseen hand Chains, and bolts, and bars obey, And the thick-ribb'd oaken door, old and grey. In the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way. They leave their steeds to a page's care, Who comes mounted behind on a Flanders mare, And they enter the house, that resolute pair, With a blundering step, but a dare-devil air, And ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair ; While, arm'd with a lamp that just helps you to see How uncommonly dark a place can be, The grimmest of lads with the grimmest of grins, Says, " Gentlemen, please to take care of your shins ! Who ventures this road need be firm on his pins ! Now turn tr, the left now turn to the right Now a step now stoop now again upright Now turn once again, and directly before ye 's the door of the great Doctor's Labora-tory." A word ! a blow ! And in they go ! No time to prepare, or to get up a show, Yet everything there they find quite comme il faut Such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row, Retorts, crucibles, such as all conjurer's stow In the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow The fire burning blue with its sulphur and tow ! From the roof a huge crocodile hangs rather low, With a tail such as that, which we all of us know, Mr. Waterton managed to tie in a bow , THE LORD OF THOULOUSE. 801 Pickled snakes, potted lizards, in bottles and basins, Like those at Morel's, or at Fortnum and Mason's, All articles found, you're aware without telling, In every respectable conjurer's dwelling. Looking solemn and wise, Without turning his eyes, Or betraying the slightest degree of surprise. In the midst sits the doctor his hair is white, And his cheek is wan but his glance is bright, And his long black roquelaure, not over tight, Is mark'd with strange characters, much, if not quite, Like those on the bottles of green and blue light Which you see in a chymist's shop-window at night. His figure is tall and erect rather spare about Ribs, and no wonder, such folk never care about Eating or drinking, While reading and thinking Don't fatten his age might be sixty or thereabout. Raising his eye so grave and so sage, From some manuscript work of a bygone age, The seer very composedly turns down the page, Then shading his sight With his hand from the light, Says, " Well, sirs, what would you at this time of night 1 What brings you abroad these lone chambers to tread, When all sober folks are at home and abed ? " " TraVlers, we, In our degree, All strange sights we fain would see, And hither we come in company ; We have far to go, and we come from far, Through Spain and Portingale, France and Navarre ; We have heard of your name, And your fame, and our aim, Great sir, is to witness, ere yet we depart From Thoulouse, and to-morrow at cock-crow we start - Your skill we would fain crave a touch of your art ! " " Now naye, now naye no trav'lers ye ! Nobles ye be Of high degree ! With half an eye that one may easily see, Count Raymond, your servant ! Yours, Lord Rigmaree f I must call you so now since you're made a Mar-quis ; Faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me ! 802 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS No matter for that ! I see what you'd be at Well pray no delay, For it's late, and ere day I myself must be hundreds of miles on my way ; So tell me at once what you want with me say ! Shall I call up the dead From their mouldering bed 1 Shall I send you yourselves down to Hades instead 1 Shall I summon old Harry himself to the spot 1 " " Ten thousand thanks, No ! we had much rather not. We really can't say That we're curious that way ; But, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving, We'd much rather take a sly peep at the living ! Kigmaree, what say you, in This case, as to viewing Our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing ? " " Just what pleases your Highness I don't care a sous in The matter but don't let old Nick and his crew in ! " " Agreed ! pray proceed, then, most sage Nostradamus, And show us our wives I dare swear they won't shame us ! " A change came o'er the wizard's face, And his solemn look by degrees gives place To a half grave, half comical, kind of grimace. " For good or for ill, I work your will 1 Yours be the risk and mine the skill ; Blame not my art if unpleasant the pill ! " He takes from a shelf, and he pops on his head, A square sort of cap, black, and turn'd up with red, And desires not a syllable more may be said ; He goes on to mutter, And stutter, and sputter Hard words, such as no men but wizards dare utter. " Dies mies ! Hocus pocus Adsis Demon ! non est jokus ! Hi Cocolorum don't provoke us ! Adesto ! Presto ! Put forth your best toe ! " And many more words, to repeat which would choke us, Such a sniff then of brimstone ! it did not last long, Or they could not have borne it, the smell was so strong, A mirror is near, So large and so clear, Jf you priced such a one in a drawing-room here, THE LORD OF TIIOULOUSE. 303 And was ask'd fifty pounds, you'd not say it was dear ; But a mist gathered round at the words of the seer, Till at length as the gloom Was subsiding, a room On its broad polish'd surface began to appear, And the Count and his comrade saw plainly before 'em The room Lady Isabel called her "Sanctorum." They start, well they might, With surprise, at the sight Methinks I hear some lady say, " Serve 'em right ! * For on one side of the fire Is seated the Prior, At the opposite corner a fat little Friar : By the side of each gentleman, easy and free, Sits a lady, as close as close well may be, She might almost as well have been perch'd on his knee. Dear me ! dear me ! Why one's Isabel she On the opposite side's La Marquise Rigmaree I To judge from the spread On the board, you'd have said, That the partie quarree had like aldermen fed ; And now from long flasks, with necks cover'd with lead, They were helping themselves to champagne, white and red Hobbing and nobbing, And nodding and bobbing, With many a sip Both from cup and from lip, And with many a toast follow'd up by a " Hip ! Hip ! hip ! huzzay ! " The Count, by the way, Though he sees all they're doing, can't hear what they say, Notwithstanding both he And Mar-quis Rigmaree Are so vex'd and excited at what they can see, That each utters a sad word beginning with D. That word once spoke The silence broke, In an instant the vision is cover'd with smoke ! But enough has been seen. " Horse ! horse ! and away ! ' They have, neither, the least inclination to stay, E'en to thank Nostradamus, or ask what's to pay. They rush down the stair, How, they know not, nor care. The next moment the Count is astride on his bay, And my Lord Rigmaree on his mettlesome grey ; 804 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. They dash through the town, Now up, and now down ; And the stones rattle under the hoofs as they ride, As if poor Thoulouse were as mad as Cheapside : Through lane, alley, and street, Over all that they meet, The Count leads the way on his courser so fleet, My Lord Bigmaree close pursuing his beat, With the page in the rear to protect the retreat, Where the bridge spans the river, so wide and so deep, Their headlong career o'er the causeway they keep, Upsetting the watchman, two dogs, and a sweep, All the town population that was not asleep. They at length reach the castle, just outside the town Where in peace it was usual for Knights of renown The portcullis was up, and the drawbridge was down. They dash by the sentinels " France et Thoulouse ! " EVry soldier ( they then wore cock'd hats and long queues^ Appendages banish'd from modern reviews), His arquebus lower"d, and bow'd to his shoes ; While Count Raymond push'd on to his lady's boudoir he Had made up his mind to make one at her soiree. He rush'd to that door, Where ever before He had rapp'd with his knuckles, and " tirl'd at the pin." Till he heard the soft sound of his Lady's " Come in ! " But now, with a kick from his iron-heel'd boot, Which, applied to a brick wall, at once had gone through't, He daah'd open the lock j It gave way at the shock ! ( Dear ladies, don't think in recording the fact, That your bard's for one moment defending the act. No it is not a gentleman's none but a low body No could perform it) and there he saw NOBODY ! ! Nobody 1 No ! ! Oh, ho ! Oh, ho ! There was not a table, there was not a chair Of all that Count Raymond had ever seer there (They'd maroon-leather bottoms well stuff d with horse-hair) That was out of its place ! There was not a trace Of a party there was not a dish or a plate No sign of a table-cloth nothing to prate Of a supper, symposium, or sitting up late ; THE LORD OF THOULOUSE. 305 There was not a spark of fire left in the grate, It had all been poked out, and remain'd in that state. If there was not a fire, Still less was there Friar, Marquise, or long glasses, or Countess, or Prior. And the Count, who rush'd in open-mouth'd, was struck dumb, And could only ejaculate, " Well! this is rum." He rang for the maids had them into the room With the butler, the footman, the coachman, the groom. He examined them all very strictly but no ! Notwithstanding he cross- and re-questioned them so, Twas in vain it was clearly a case of " No Go ! " "Their lady," they said, " Had gone early to bed, Having rather complain'd of a cold in her head The stout little Friar, as round as an apple, Had pass'd the whole night in a vigil in chapel, While the Prior himself, as he'd usually done, Had rung in the morning, at half -after one, For his jug of cold water and twopenny bun, And been visible, since they were brought him, to none. But," the servants averr'd, " From the sounds that were heard To proceed now and then from the father's sacellum, They thought he was purging His sins with a scourging, And making good use of his knotted flagellwm," For Madame Rigmaree, They all testified, she Had gone up to her bed-chamber soon after tea, And they really supposed that there still she must be, Which her spouse the Mar-quis, Found at once to agree With the rest of their tale, when he ran up to sea Alack for Count Raymond ! he could not conceive How the case really stood, or know what to believe ; Nor could Rigmaree settle to laugh or to grieve. There was clearly a hoax, But which of the folks Had managed to make them the butt of their jokes, Wife or wizard, they both knew no more than Jack Nokes ; That glass of the wizard's Stuck much in their gizzards, His cap, and his queer cloak all 'Xs and Izzarrls ; 306 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS, Then they found, when they came to examine again, Some slight falling off in the stock of champagne, Small, but more than the butler could fairly explain. However, since nothing could make the truth known, Why, they thought it was best to let matters alone. The Count in the garden Begg"d Isabel's pardon Next morning for waking her up in a fright, By the racket he'd kick*d up at that time of night : And gave her his word he had ne'er misbehaved so, Had he not come home as tipsy as David's sow. Still, to give no occasion for family snarls, The Friar was pack'd back to his convent at Aries. While as for the Prior, At Kaymond's desire, The Pope raised his reverence a step or two higher, And made him a bishop inpartibus where His see was I cannot exactly declare, Or describe his cathedral, not having been there, But I dare say you'll all be prepared for the news, When I say 'twas a good many miles from Thoulouse. Where the prelate, in order to set a good precedent, Was enjoin'd, as a sine qua non, to be resident. You will fancy with me, That Count Raymond was free, For the rest of his life, from his former ennui ; Still it somehow occurr'd that as often as he Chanced to look in the face of my Lord Rigmaree, There was something or other a trifling degree Of constraint or embarrassment easy to see, And which seem'd to be shared by the noble Mar-quis, While the ladies the queerest of all things by half in My tale never met from that hour without laughing. MORAL. Good gentlemen, all, who are subjects of Hymen, Don't make new acquaintances rashly, but try men, Avoid above all things your cunning (that's sly) men ! Don't go out o' nights To see conjuring sleights, But shun all such people, delusion whose trade is ; Be wise ! stay at home and take tea with the ladies. If you chance to be out, At a " regular bout," And get too much of " Abbot's Pale Ale " or " Brown Stout," THE WEDDINQ-DAY. 307 Don't be cross when you come home at night to your spouse, Nor be noisy, nor kick up a dust in the house 1 Be careful yourself, and admonish your sons, To beware of all folks who love twopenny buns ! And don't introduce to your wife or your daughter, A sleek, meek, weak gent who subsists on cold water ! OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE. A FAMILY LEGEND. IT has a jocund sound, That gleeful marriage chime, As from the old and ivied tower, It peals, at the early matin hour, Its merry, merry round ; And the Spring is in its prime, And the song-bird, on the spray, Trills from his throat, in varied note, An emulative lay It has a joyous sound ! ! And the Vicar is there with his wig and his book, And the Clerk, with his grave, s, Like the short, sharp, strong nails of a Polar Bear's paws ! ! Then she " scream'd such a scream ! " Such another, I deem, As, long after, Miss Mary Brown scream'd in her dream. Well she might 1 for 'twas shrewdly remark'd by her Page, A sharp little boy about twelve years of age, Who was standing close by When she utter'd her cry, That the whole of her arm shrivell'd up, and grew dry, While the fingers and thumb of the hand he had got In his clutches became on the instant RED HOT 1 ! Now he whirls and he twirls Through the girls in their curls, THE HOUSE-WARMING. 871 And their rouge, and their feathers, and diamonds, and pearls ; Now high, now low, Now fast, and now slow, In terrible circumgyration they go ; The flame-colour'd Belle and he* coffee-faced Beau ! Up they go once ! and up they go twice ! Round the hall! round the hall 1 and now up they go thrice ! Now one grand pirouette, the performance to crown ! Now again they go UP ! 1 and they NEVER COME DOWN 1 1 1 The thunder roars ! And the rain it pours I And the lightning comes in through the windows and doors I Then more calling, and bawling, And squalling, and falling, Oh ! what a fearful " stramash " they are all in ! Out they all sally, The whole corps de .ballet Some dash down Holborn-hill into the valley, Where stagnates Fleet Ditch at the end of Harp Alley, Some t'other way with a speed quite amazing, Nor pause to take breath till they get beyond Gray's Inn. In every sense of the word, such a rout of it, Never was made in London, or out of it I When they came the next day to examine the scene, There was scarcely a vestige of all that had been ; The beautiful tapestry, blue, red, and green, Was all blacken'd and scorch'd, and look'd dirty and mean. All the crockery broken, dish, plate, and tureen ! While those that look'd up could perceive in the roof, One very large hole in the shape of a hoof/ Of poor Lady Hatton, it's needless to say, No traces have ever been found to this day, Or the terrible dancer who whisk'd her away ; But out in the court-yard and just in that part Where the pump stands lay bleeding a LARGE HUMAN Heart, And sundry large stains Of blood and of brains, Which had not been wash'd off notwithstanding the rains, Appear'd on the wood, and the handle and chains, As if somebody's head, with a very hard thump, Had been recently knock'd on the top of the pump. 372 THE 1NOOLDSBY LEGENDS. That pump is no more ! that of which you've just read, But they've put a new iron one up in its stead, And still, it is said, At that " small hour " so dread, When all sober people are cosy in bed, There may sometimes be seen on a moonshiny night, Standing close by the new pump a Lady in White, Who keeps pumping away with, 'twould seem, all her might, Though never a drop comes her pains to requite ! And hence many passengers now are debarr'd From proceeding at nightfall through Bleeding-Heart Yard 1 MORAL Fair ladies, attend I And if you've a ** friend At Court," don't attempt to bamboozle or trick her ! Don't meddle with negus, or any mix'd liquor 1 Don't dabble in " Magic ! " my story has shown How wrong 'tis to use any charms but your own ! Young gentlemen, too, may, I think, take a hint Of the same kind, from what I've here ventured to print All Conjuring's bad ! they may get in a scrape, Before they're aware, and whatever its shape, They may find it no easy affair to escape. It's not everybody that comes off so well Erom leger-de-main tricks as Mr. Brunei Don't dance with a Stranger who looks like a Guy, And when dancing don't cut your capers too high I Depend on't the fault's in Your method of waltzing, If ever you kick out the candles don't try ! At a ball or a play, Or any soiree, When a petit souper constitutes the " Apres" If strawb'ries and cream with CHAMPAGNE form a part, Take care of your HEAD and take care of your HEART ! If you want a new house For yourself and your spouse, Buy, or build one, and honestly pay, every brick, for it I Don't be so green as to go to Old Nick for it Go to George Robins he'll find you " a perch " (Dulce Domum's his word) without robbing the Church. THE FORLORN ONE. 373 The last piece of advice which I'd have you regard Is, " don't go of a night into Bleeding-Heart Yard," It's a dark, little, dirty, black, ill-looking square, With queer people about, and unless you take care, You may find when your pocket's clean'd out and left bare, That the iron one is not the only " PUMP " there ! jforlont AH 1 why those piteous sounds of woe, Lone wanderer of the dreary night 1 Thy gushing tears in torrents flow, Thy bosom pants in wild affright ! And thou, within whose iron breast Those frowns austere too truly tell, Mild pity, heaven-descended guest, Hath never, never deign'd to dwell. " That rude, uncivil touch forego," Stern despot of a fleeting hour ! Nor "make the angels weep " to know The fond " fantastic tricks " of power ! Know'st thou not " mercy is not strain'd, But droppeth as the gentle dew," And while it blesseth him who gain'cl, It blesseth him who gave it, too 1 Say, what art thou ? and what is he, Pale victim of despair and pain, Whose streaming eyes and bended knee Sue to thee thus and sue in vain 1 Cold callous man ! he scorns to yield, Or aught relax his felon gripe, But answers, " I'm Inspector Field ! And this here warment's prigg'd your wipe.' 874 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. BY MISS JEMIMA INGOLDSBY, AGED 15. {Communicated by her Cousin Tom.) OH ! how I should like in a Coach to ride, Like the Sheriffs I saw upon Lord Mayor's day, With a Coachman and little Postilion astride On the back of the leader, a prancing bay. And then behind it, oh ! I should glory To see the tall serving men standing upright, Like the two who attend Mr. Montefiore (Sir Moses I should say), for now he's a Knight. And then the liveries, I know it is rude to Find fault but I'll hint as he can't see me blush, That I'd not have the things I can only allude to Either orange in hue or constructed of plush ; But their coats and their waistcoats and hats are delightful, Their charming silk stockings I vow and declare Our John's ginger gaiters so wrinkled and frightful, I never again shall be able to bear. Oh ! how I should like to have diamonds and rubies, And large plume of feathers and flowers in my hair. My gracious ! to think how our Tom and those boobies, Jack Smith and his friend Mister Thompson, would stare. Then how I should like to drive to Guildhall, And to see the nobility flocking in shoals, With their two-guinea tickets to dance at the ball Which the Lord Mayor gives for the relief of the Poles. And to look at the gas so uncommonly pretty, And the stars and the armour all just as they were The day that the Queen came in state to the City To dine with the whole Corporation and Mayor. Oh ! how I shoiild like to see Jane and Letitia, Miss Jones and the two Misses Frump sitting still, While dear Ensign Brown, of the West Kent Militia, Solicits my hand for the "Supper" Quadrille. HERMANN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR. With fine white his teeth and his cheek like a rose, And his black cravat and his diamond pin, And the nice little moustache under his nose, And the dear little tuft on the tip of his chin. And how I should like some fine morning to ride In my coach, and my white satin shoes and gown, To St. James's Church, with a Beau by my side, And I shouldn't much care if his name was Brown, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Hermann; or, tfte Broken >pear* AN Emperor, famous in council and camp, Has a son who turns out a remarkable scamp ; Takes to dicing and drinking, And d inning and sinking, And carries off maids, wives, and widows, like winking ! Since the days of Arminius, his namesake, than Hermann There never was seen a more profligate German. He escapes from the city ; And joins some banditti Insensible quite to remorse, fear, and pity ; Joins in all their carousals, and revels and robberies, And in kicking up all sorts of shindies and bobberies. Well, hearing one day His associates say That a bridal procession was coming their way, Inflamed with desire, he Breaks into a priory, And kicking out every man Jack of a friar, he Upsets in a twinkling the mass-books and hassocks, And dresses his rogues in the clergymen's cassocks. The new-married folks Taken in by this hoax, Mister Hermann grows frisky and full of his jokes : 376 THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. To the serious chagrin of her late happy suitor, Catching hold of the Bride, he attempts to salute her. Now Heaven knows what Had become of the lot, It's Turtle to Tripe they'd have all gone to pot If a Dumb Lady, one Of her friends, had not run To her aid, and, quite scandalized, stopp'd all his fun ! Just conceive what a caper He cut, when her taper Long fingers scrawl'd this upon whitey-brown paper (At the instant he seized, and before he had kiss'd her) " Ha' done, Mister Hermann ! for shame : it's your sister ! " His hair stands on end, he desists from his tricks, And remains in a " pretty particular fix," As he knows Sir John Nicholl Still keeps rods in pickle Offences of this kind severely to tickle. At so near an escape from his court and its sentence His eyes fill with tears and his breast with repentance : So, picking and stealing, And unrighteous dealing Of all sorts, he cuts, from this laudable feeling : Of wickedness weary, With many a tear, he Now takes a French leave of the vile Condottieri : And the next thing we hear of this penitent villain He is begging in rags in the suburbs of Milan. Half -starved, meagre, and pale, His energies fail, When his sister comes in with a pot of mild ale : But though tatter'd his jerkins, His heart is whole, workings Of conscience debar him from " Barclay and Perkins." " I'll drink," exclaims he, " Nothing stronger than tea, And that but the worst and the weakest Bohea, Till I've done from my past scenes of folly a far actor- Some feat shall redeem both my wardrobe and character." At signs of remorse so decided and visible Nought can equal the joy of his fair sister Isabel, And the Dumb Lady too, Who runs off to a Jew And buys him a coat of mail spick and span new, In the hope that his prowess and deeds as a Knight Will keep his late larcenies quite out of sight. By the greatest good luck, his old friends the banditti Choose this moment to make an attack on the city ! HERMANN ; OR, THK BROKEN SPEAR. 377 Now you all know the way, Heroes hack, hew, and slay, When once they get fairly mixed up in a fray : Hermann joins in the mele, Pounds this to a jelly, Kuns that through the back, and a third through the belly, Till many a broken bone, bruised rib, and flat head, Makes his ci-devant friends curse the hour that he ratted. Amid so many blows, Of course you'll suppose He must get a black eye, or, at least, bloody nose : " Take that ! " cried a bandit, and struck, while he spoke it, His spear in his breast, and, in pulling it out, broke it Hermann fainted away, When, as breathless he lay, A rascal claim'd all the renown of the day ; A recreant, cowardly, white-liver'd knight, Who had skulk'd in a furze-bush the whole of the fight. But the Dumb Lady soon Put some gin in a spoon, And half strangles poor Hermann, who wakes from his swoon, And exhibits his wound, when the head of the spear Fits its handle, and makes his identity clear, The murder thus out, Hermann's feted and thanked, While his rascally rival gets toss'd in a blanket ; And to finish the play As reform'd rakes, they say, Make the best of all husbands the very same day Hermann sends for a priest, as he must wed with some lady, Buys a ring and a licence, and marries the Dumb Lady. MORAL. Take warning, young people, of every degree, From Hermann's example, and don't live too free 1 If you get in bad company, fly from it soon 1 If you chance to get thrash'd, take some gin in a spoon ; And remember, since wedlock's not all sugar-candy, If you wish to 'scape " wigging " a dumb wife's the dandy ! 878 THE INGOLDSBY" LEGENDS. Cf;e poplar. AY, here stands the poplar so tall and so stately, On whose tender rind 'twas a little one then We carved her initials ; though not very lately We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. Yes, here is the G which proclaim'd Georgiana ; Our heart's empress then ; see, 'tis grown all askew : And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q. This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin, Her loved patronymic ah ! can it be so ? Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing ; A D 1 we'll be Deed if it isn't an O ! Alas ! how the soul sentimental it vexes, That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown, Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes, And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down ! (IMITATED FROM MAETIAL.) A FRIEND I met some half -hour since u Good morrow, Jack ! " quoth I ; The new-made Knight, like any Prince Frown'd, nodded, and pass'd by ; When up came Jem " Sir John, your Slave ! " " Ah, James ; we dine at eight Fail not (low bows the supple knave) Don't make my lady wait" The King can do no wrong 1 As I'm a sinner, He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner. SON&. 370 Cmtfesfcum, THERE'S somewhat on my breast, father. There's somewhat on my breast ! The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so ; A weary weight oppresseth me This weary weight of woe 1 'Tis not the lack of gold, father, Nor want of worldly gear ; My lands are broad, and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear. My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief ; But, oh ! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief ! 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind ; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast ; It's that confounded cucumber I've ate and can't digest THERE sits a bird on yonder tree, More fond than Cushat Dove ; There sits a bird on yonder tree, And sings to me of love. Oh ! stoop thee from thine eyrie down f And nestle thee near my heart, THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. For the moments fly, And the hour is nigh, When thou and I must part, My love ! When thou and I must part. In yonder covert lurks a Fawn, The pride of the sylvan scene ; In yonder covert lurks a Fawn, And I am his only queen ; Oh ! bound from thy secret lair, For the sun is below the west ; No mortal eye May our meeting spy, For all are closed in rest, My love ! Each eye is closed in rest. Oh ! sweet is the breath of morn, When the sun's first beams appear : Oh ! sweet is the shepherd's strain, When it dies on the list'ning ear ; And sweet the soft voice which speaks The Wanderer's welcome home ; But sweeter far By yon pale mild star, With our true Love thus to roam, My dear ! With our own true Love to roam ! THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye ! There came a noble Knyghte, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, And his gallant heart was lyghte, Free and gaye ; As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNOE. 381 As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree ! There seem'd a crimson plain, Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see ! As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkyuge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the bough e ; A lovely Mayde came bye, And a gentil youth was nyghe, And he breathed many a syghe And a vowe ; As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. As I laye a thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne ; No more a youth was there, But a Maiden rent her haire, And cried in sad despaire, " That I was borne ! " As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished f orlorne. As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar ; There came a lovely Childe, And his face was meek and mild, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire ; As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd upon a bier ; That joyous smile was gone, And the face was white and wan, As the downe upon the Swan Doth appear, As I laye a-thynkynge oh ! bitter flow'd the tear ! As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on her breast. 882 THE 1NQOLDSBY LEGENDS. With a thousand gorgeous dyes, While soaring to the skies, 'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise, As to her nest. As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest : " Follow, follow me away, It boots not to delay," Twas so she seem'd to saye, " HERE is BEST ! " T. I. THE END. BY CABBKLL