Chapter V
Having bought some spangled stuffs for the trousers of the harem of our exalted grand vizier, (upon whom be blessings!) and despatched them, with letters, to the foot of the Shah's throne by an express Tatar, I joined my Greek companions at the Adrianople Gate, and left Constantinople for the country of the Francs.
I found my new friends were raving with the new malady. It seems that they now called themselves free,--a blessing which they endeavoured to persuade me was beyond all price; for, as far as I could learn from their definition of it, I found that now they could wear yellow slippers, put on a green coat, and wrap white muslin round their heads, without being called to account. However, in order to secure these advantages, it appeared that they were making no small sacrifices, for they were quarrelling amongst themselves to their hearts' content; and that more fell by the knives and stabs of their neighbours and countrymen than ever in former times fell even by the despotism of their Turkish rulers. Although I frequently asserted that quiet, peace, and security from danger were great objects in life; yet I found that I had a great deal to undergo before I could make them agree to that plain fact; and at length, seeing that they had made out a certain scheme of happiness of their own, the principal ingredient of which, was the endurance of every thing rather than to give power to the true believers, I allowed them to enjoy it without further molestation.
After many adventures,--such as robberies by Bulgars, an escape from shipwreck on the Danube, dislocation of bones in little carts in Wallachia, incarceration within four bare walls at the Austrian frontier on pretence of our being unclean men, contamination from pork and wine among the Majars, and disordered patience brought about by phlegmatic, smoking, slow-driving, ya! ya! post-boys in Germany,--we reached Vienna. It was a day upon which I frequently exclaimed "Ilham dulillah!" the day when I first saw the lofty spire of the great infidel church of that city; for I was tired of everything: tired of my companions, tired of my eternal hot seat in the corner of a coach, and longed to have a place to myself where I might bless and curse at my pleasure whomsoever I should like so to do.
My first care upon arriving here, was to inquire about the object of my mission,--the state of England. Wherever I went, I heard with a chuckle that she had had her day, that she was going down fast, that too much prosperity was daily destroying her; and every one added, with a sneer, "Ah, they thought themselves the wisest of the sons of the earth; but see! they are its greatest fools, for they do not know how to keep what they have got." One of the great proofs which I continually heard brought forward of the decay of her power and wealth, was the failure of an enterprise which to me was inexplicable, but which, every one said, in her better days would never have been abandoned. What I could make out of the story was this:--It seems the Ingliz, in their madness, were tired of going over their river in the common way,--that is, by bridges; and so they determined to try a new way,--that is, to go under it. Madness seized them; money poured in; they dug into the bowels of the earth like moles; the workmen heard the river flowing over them,--still they feared not, but dug on; at length it broke in upon them,--still they cared not; they were drowned,--still they dug. All the world was alive about it; everybody thought of the pleasure of cheating the old bridges, and the nation seemed charmed that they had found a totally novel mode of getting from one side of a river to another, without going over it, when, all at once, symptoms of decay broke out. They had got halfway when the work stopped; and the whole population, putting the finger of astonishment into the mouth of disappointment, went home, and, stepping over their thresholds with their right legs instead of their left, waited for a return of good-luck--but it came not; their luck evidently has turned, and there is the half-finished hole to attest it. "Poor Ingliz!" thought I, when I heard this; "where are now my old friends the Hoggs, my moon-faced Bessy, and her infidel Figsby? Shall I find them again? perhaps they may have been lost, with many others, in the mad enterprise of digging this great hole under their river!"
I left my Greeks at Vienna, and, taking a place in a moving caravan on wheels, called a diligence, but which went slower than one of our strings of camels, I travelled onwards through towns, cities, hamlets,--through forests, over rivers, over mountains peopled by various tribes of Francs, all indifferent about showing their women's faces, eating the unclean beast, drinking wine, shaving and washing just as they pleased: ignorant of the blessed Koran, and staring wide when such a country as Iran was mentioned to them. They all agreed in sneering at the Ingliz, and assuring me that I should find that nation upon their last legs, and their king with scarcely any power left him.
At length we reached the country of the French Francs. Here I heard that they had got rid of two or three kings since those days when I was last near them; and that, after having sworn to maintain new governments as fast as they were made, were now tired of the last king they had created, and were in the full enjoyment of all the wretchedness naturally flowing from change. I was told that they had been increasing in wealth and respectability, until they lost their last king, when their prosperity fell, as if by magic. Now, no man was certain of the possession of his property even for a day; and every one was obliged by turns to arm himself cap-a-pie, to do his duty as a soldier, in order to secure public happiness at the point of the bayonet.
We entered the happy city of Paris just at the moment when a large band of well-dressed soldiers were firing upon a mob, who were throwing large stones at them, and crying out, as the words were interpreted to us, "Liberty for ever!" "Down with the king!" This ceremony, we were assured, was performed about once a month. I asked my companions in the coach what they meant by liberty, but I found no one could give me any intelligible explanation; for it seems the French had all that they could possibly require, and that, if they wanted more, it must be to live without laws, without a king, without religion, and with a right to appropriate their neighbour's goods, or cut their neighbour's throat.
I trembled from head to foot all the time that I lived in this happy city, fearful of never being able to get out of it with a whole skin; at length I made an effort, and, accompanied by Mahboob, I took places in a travelling coach, and reached the sea-side opposite to the coast of England. I was lucky to see with my own eyes that this country was yet in existence after the many accounts I had heard of its total destruction.
Chapter VI
I crossed over from France to England, mounted upon a species of dragon spouting smoke and exhaling fire, to which the famous monster of Mazanderan, slain by Rustam the Valiant, was a mere plaything. But--shall I say it?--the awful sickness which seized me whilst performing this feat, so overpowered me, that it was impossible for me, the slave of the asylum of the universe, to put my instructions into execution, and to write down in a book all the wonders which in part came to my understanding on that auspicious day. I may confidently assert that no follower of the blessed Ali ever suffered so much in so short a time as I then did. I was first taken from my French bed before the day began to dawn, and put upon this English monster. As soon as its wings began to expand, and to move through the waters, an universal tremor assailed it, which communicated itself to me and all with me; and I continued to be well shaken until I reached the shores of England. Then I felt so giddy that I thought my head had got into the infernal regions, until I soon became certain that my stomach had followed it there also. There I lay groaning, making noises,--oh, such noises!--that if they could have been wafted to the ear of the king of kings, his heart would have smote him for having placed his slave in this predicament! When I was told that we were arrived, I soon was restored to myself, and hastened from the bowels of the monster to the light of heaven; and there, indeed, I saw a town, and a castle, and living men and women, and, truly, nothing indicating a ruined country and a desponding people. We landed at this place. It was called Dover; and as I was told, is famous for a recent controversy whether it should be spelt with an o or an e in the last syllable. From time immemorial it had possessed the e; but such was the spirit of change that they had now transformed it into the o, although the lovers of old customs and good order kept to the old sacred e. "When that spirit seizes a nation, who knows," thought I, "when changes begin, where they may end?" If we were to hearken to all our enlightened sofis in Persia, they would expunge many sayings in our blessed Koran; and, as we have not a second prophet to direct us, one man's change would be as good as another's. Bit by bit all would be upset; we should not have a law left for our direction, and we should finish by cutting each other's throats in order to settle which was the best way to live.
I thought, however, that I could discover some symptoms of beggary in the state of the country, by what happened when I was first setting foot on the infidel shore. Two scrutinising-looking Francs stood on each side of a board over which I was to walk on stepping from the boat to land; and when I ventured to do so, they stopped me, passed their hands over the protuberances of my person, and were about to seize a cashmere shawl which I wore round my waist, when I exclaimed, "The dogs are eating dirt!" which brought some of my friends on board the packet to my help. Explanations were made, and I was let pass. These were officers of customs. "But," thought I, "is it possible that this great nation can be brought to such a state of want that it permits its officers to rob a poor stranger!" I was told of odd things. It was hinted to me, that the burnt father's whelps looked mightily hard at my beard, and that they had hinted that, by rights, I ought to pay duty for it, as foreign hair.
Having landed, with Mahboob close at my heels, we were almost crushed to death by a mob of ruffians, who took violent possession of our persons, one pulling us one way, the other the other, roaring the oddest words by way of congratulations on first landing, which to this day I have not made out. "The Ship!" bawled one; "York!" cried another; "Red Lion!" said the next; "Blue Posts!" said the next. "Be Jehanum!" roared I; and, at length, by dint of main force, I was rescued by my friend in the packet, and taken safe into a caravanserai that stood by the sea-shore. Here, indeed, the kindness shown me by many men and women,--the bows, the dips, the smiles, the sugared words which were lavished upon me, made up in part for the rude sort of reception which I had hitherto experienced, and the sunshine of satisfaction dawned over my heart. But still a doubt hung about my mind; and I asked myself how it was possible that I should all at once have become such an object of tender interest and affection to a set of infidels who had never seen me before,--who probably did not know whether Iran was situated above the surface of the heavens, or within the bowels of the earth,--who perhaps had never heard of the name of our asylum of the universe, nor even of our blessed prophet? I then reflected upon what had happened to us when we had landed before, in England, and recollected that, at the end of all things, there came a certain little odd-looking bit of paper which the infidels called "bill," by virtue of which all their civilities, all their kindness, all their apparent hospitality were condensed into two or three crooked cyphers, and then converted into sums of gold, whether the stranger was agreeable, or not agreeable, to the transformation. I quite streamed from every pore as I thought upon that moment of my retribution, for my wits were my principal stock in hand; money being little, and, I feared, credit less. However, as long as the civility lasted, I was delighted, and I made as free a use of the caravanserai as if it had been the Shah's Gate.
I never lost sight of the object of my mission. I was delighted to have landed without having excited a suspicion of the nature of my character; and, as England is the head-quarters for curious men,--for, owing to her vast foreign possessions, she imports them from all parts,--no one thought it strange that two men with beards, with sheep-skin caps on, and mounted on high-heeled green slippers, should arrive amongst them to take a walk through their country. I was charmed, too, to have created an interest in the breast of an infidel Englishman who had been my fellow-passenger on board the packet. He was a low, rotund man, of evident discretion in speech, the master of moderation, and the lord of few words. There was no display in his dress, for he buttoned himself up tight in his broadcloth coat, exhibited no chains, and contented himself with a rough stick with a hook to it. I found that he had been in India,--where many English have been; and, when I could not understand all he said to me in his own language, I was glad to find he could explain himself fully by the help of some score of indifferent Persian words. He had helped me out of the dilemma with the custom-house officers, had rescued me out of the fangs of the complimentary harpies, had installed me in the caravanserai; and had thus gained a claim upon my gratitude.
I had occasionally asked him about the state of his country, but I had never been able to get more out of him than a shake of his head. From what I could discover from the exterior of things, certainly there was no indication of decay; and indeed, compared with what I had observed in the other countries of Europe, there seemed here to be an increased state of prosperity. It was evident that I had been everywhere hoaxed upon the declining state of England, and that envy alone had excited the report spread to her disadvantage. When we talk of ruin in Persia, we see it at once: villages without inhabitants, dry water-courses, abandoned caravanserais, ragged and wan-looking peasants, and tyrannical governors. But here I saw a flourishing town, happy people, new buildings, busy faces, and no appearance at all of governors. I remarked this to my infidel friend: still he wagged his head, and talked of things unknown to my understanding. The utmost I could draw from him was, that he did not like chopping and changing. When I had discovered the true meaning of these words I could not help saying to myself, "Our Shah has long enough tried 'chopping,' without gaining prosperity, I wish he too would try changing; he might perhaps succeed better." I, however, for the present determined to keep my own counsel, and apply the opening draught of inquiry to the malady of ignorance as often as such relief came within my power.
[Greek: Scholazontos ascholia.]
A LONDON FOG.
Who has not seen a London fog? I ween All those who live there, often must have seen This "darkness visible:" For much I write not; but, for those who dwell Where 'tis not known, an anecdote I'll tell Both droll and risible.
'Twas on a day,--I'm not quite certain when, For many such have been, and will again Occur, I'll stake my life,-- A heavy fog took daylight out of sight;[91] So thick it was, that I am sure you might Have cut it with a knife.
You could not see your hand before your face. E'en cabs and coaches knew not how to trace Their way along the town; But, on that day, through many a window flew, To shopmen's horror! On the pavements, too, Folks ran each other down.
Imagine, now, a pork-shop--I don't know Quite where; but there, in many a tempting row, Most pleasing to the sight, Hung pork and hams, inside, and at the door Outside; "'twas grease, but living grease no more." (Byron is my delight.)
Behind the counter, mute and anxious, sat The owner of these goodly things; and at Them first, and then the door, He look'd alternate, for no one that day Had call'd to buy; the fog kept folks away. He thought the fog a bore!
Long had he sat in expectation vain; "He sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd and look'd again," Yet no one came to buy! The day was spent, he rose to shut his shop: Just at that moment he was led to stop,-- A person caught his eye.
"A customer at last!" the porkman thought; Fancied some pork or hams already bought, And bow'd, "Your servant, ma'am! "Bad walking out o' doors to-day," quoth he. (This could not be gainsaid at all.) Said she, "Do you see there here ham?"
Now, though the fog as dark enough without, Inside 'twas clear: the porkman had no doubt, His ham he saw and knew: He could not make the question out; no more Could fancy why she kept so near the door, But said, "Of course I do."
She, with a grin facetious, said, "Well, then, I'm blow'd if you will ever see't again;" And ran away outright. The porkman hurried quickly to the door, Too late, alas! to see; for, long before, His ham was out of sight! T. G. G.
[91] "Eripiunt subito nubes coelumque diemque."--Virg. Æn. i. v. 88.
EPIGRAM.
You ask me, Roger, what I gain By living on a barren plain:-- This credit to the spot is due, I live there without seeing you.
SHAKSPEARE PAPERS.--No. I.
SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
"For those who read aright are well aware That Jaques, sighing in the forest green, Oft on his heart felt less the load of care Than Falstaff, revelling his rough mates between." MS. penes me.
"Jack Falstaff to my familiars!"--By that name, therefore, must he be known by all persons, for all are now the familiars of Falstaff. The title of "Sir John Falstaff to all Europe" is but secondary and parochial. He has long since far exceeded the limit by which he bounded the knowledge of his knighthood; and in wide-spreading territories, which in the day of his creation were untrodden by human foot, and in teeming realms where the very name of England was then unheard of, Jack Falstaff is known as familiarly as he was to the wonderful court of princes, beggars, judges, swindlers, heroes, bullies, gentlemen, scoundrels, justices, thieves, knights, tapsters, and the rest whom he drew about him.
It is indeed his court. He is lord paramount, the suzerain to whom all pay homage. Prince Hal may delude himself into the notion that he, the heir of England, with all the swelling emotions of soul that rendered him afterwards the conqueror of France, makes a butt of the ton of man that is his companion. The parts are exactly reversed. In the peculiar circle in which they live, the prince is the butt of the knight. He knows it not,--he would repel it with scorn if it were asserted; but it is nevertheless the fact that he is subdued. He calls the course of life which he leads, the unyoked humour of his idleness; but he mistakes. In all the paths where his journey lies with Falstaff, it is the hard-yoked servitude of his obedience. In the soliloquies put into his mouth he continually pleads that his present conduct is but that of the moment, that he is ashamed of his daily career, and that the time is ere long to come which will show him different from what he seems. As the dramatic character of Henry V. was conceived and executed by a man who knew how genius in any department of human intellect would work,--to say nothing of the fact that Shakspeare wrote with the whole of the prince's career before him,--we may consider this subjugation to Falstaff as intended to represent the transition state from spoiled youth to energetic manhood. It is useless to look for minute traces of the historical Henry in these dramas. Tradition and the chronicles had handed him down to Shakspeare's time as a prince dissipated in youth, and freely sharing in the rough debaucheries of the metropolis. The same vigour "that did affright the air at Agincourt" must have marked his conduct and bearing in any tumult in which he happened to be engaged. I do not know on what credible authority the story of his having given Gascoigne a box on the ear for committing one of his friends to prison may rest, and shall not at present take the trouble of inquiring. It is highly probable that the chief justice amply deserved the cuffing, and I shall always assume the liberty of doubting that he committed the prince. That, like a "sensible lord," he should have hastened to accept any apology which should have relieved him from a collision with the ruling powers at court, I have no doubt at all, from a long consideration of the conduct and history of chief justices in general.
More diligent searchers into the facts of that obscure time have seen reason to disbelieve the stories of any serious dissipations of Henry. Engaged as he was from his earliest youth in affairs of great importance, and with a mind trained to the prospect of powerfully acting in the most serious questions that could agitate his time,--a disputed succession, a rising hostility to the church, divided nobility, turbulent commons, an internecine war with France impossible of avoidance, a web of European diplomacy just then beginning to develope itself, in consequence of the spreading use of the pen and inkhorn so pathetically deplored by Jack Cade, and forerunning the felonious invention, "contrary to the king's crown and dignity," of the printing-press, denounced with no regard to chronology by that illustrious agitator;--in these circumstances, the heir of the house of Lancaster, the antagonist of the Lollards,--a matter of accident in his case, though contrary to the general principles of his family,--and at the same time suspected by the churchmen of dangerous designs against their property,--the pretender on dubious title, but not at the period appearing so decidedly defective as it seems in ours, to the throne of France,--the aspirant to be arbiter or master of all that he knew of Europe,--could not have wasted all his youth in riotous living. In fact, his historical character is stern and severe; but with that we have here nothing to do. It is not the Henry of battles, and treaties, and charters, and commissions, and parliaments, we are now dealing with;--we look to the Henry of Shakespeare.
That Henry, I repeat, is subject and vassal of Falstaff. He is bound by the necromancy of genius to the "white-bearded Satan," who he feels is leading him to perdition. It is in vain that he thinks it utterly unfitting that he should engage in such an enterprise as the robbery at Gadshill; for, in spite of all protestations to the contrary, he joins the expedition merely to see how his master will get through his difficulty. He struggles hard, but to no purpose. Go he must, and he goes accordingly. A sense of decorum keeps him from participating in the actual robbery; but he stand close by, that his resistless sword may aid the dubious valour of his master's associates. Joining with Poins in the jest of scattering them and seizing their booty, not only is no harm done to Falstaff, but a sense of remorse seizes on the prince for the almost treasonable deed--
"Falstaff sweats to death, And lards the lean earth as he walks along; Wer't not for laughing, I should pity him."
At their next meeting, after detecting and exposing the stories related by the knight, how different is the result form what had been predicted by Poins when laying the plot! "The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest." Reproof indeed! All is detected and confessed. Does Poins reprove him, interpret the word as we will? Poins indeed! That were lèze majesté. Does the prince? Why, he tries a jest, but it breaks down; and Falstaff victoriously orders sack and merriment with an accent of command not to be disputed. In a moment after he is selected to meet Sir John Bracy, sent special with the villainous news of the insurrection of the Percies; and in another moment he is seated on his joint-stool, the mimic King of England, lecturing with a mixture of jest and earnest the real Prince of Wales.
Equally inevitable is the necessity of screening the master from the consequence of his delinquencies, even at the expense of a very close approximation to saying the thing that is not; and impossible does Hal find it not to stand rebuked when the conclusion of his joke of taking the tavern-bills from the sleeper behind the arras is the enforced confession of being a pickpocket. Before the austere king his father, John his sober-blooded brother, and other persons of gravity or consideration, if Falstaff be in presence, the prince is constrained by his star to act in defence and protection of the knight. Conscious of the carelessness and corruption which mark all the acts of his guide, philosopher, and friend, it is yet impossible that he should not recommend him to a command in a civil war which jeopardied the very existence of his dynasty. In the heat of the battle and the exultation of victory he is obliged to yield to the fraud that represents Falstaff as the actual slayer of Hotspur. Prince John quietly remarks, that the tale of Falstaff is the strangest that he ever heard: his brother, who has won the victory, is content with saying that he who has told it is the strangest of fellows. Does he betray the cheat? Certainly not,--it would have been an act of disobedience; but in privy council he suggests to his prince in a whisper,
"Come, bring your luggage [the body of Hotspur] nobly--"
nobly--as becomes your rank in our court, so as to do the whole of your followers, myself included, honour by the appearance of their master--
"Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back: For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have."
Tribute, this, from the future Henry V.! Deeper tribute, however, is paid in the scene in which state necessity induces the renunciation of the fellow with the great belly who had misled him. Poins had prepared us for the issue. The prince had been grossly abused in the reputable hostelrie of the Boar's Head while he was thought to be out of hearing. When he comes forward with the intention of rebuking the impertinence, Poins, well knowing the command to which he was destined to submit, exclaims, "My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge, and turn all to merriment, if you take not the heat." Vain caution! The scene, again, ends by the total forgetfulness of Falstaff's offence, and his being sent for to court. When, therefore, the time had come that considerations of the highest importance required that Henry should assume a more dignified character, and shake off his dissolute companions, his own experience and the caution of Poins instruct him that if the thing be not done on the heat,--if the old master-spirit be allowed one moment's ground of vantage,--the game is up, the good resolutions dissipated into thin air, the grave rebuke turned all into laughter, and thoughts of anger or prudence put to flight by the restored supremacy of Falstaff. Unabashed and unterrified he has heard the severe rebuke of the king--"I know thee not, old man," &c. until an opportunity offers for a repartee:
"Know, the grave doth gape For thee thrice wider than for other men."
Some joke on the oft-repeated theme of his unwieldy figure was twinkling in Falstaff's eye, and ready to leap from his tongue. The king saw his danger: had he allowed a word, he was undone. Hastily, therefore, does he check that word;
"Reply not to me with a fool-born jest;"
forbidding, by an act of eager authority,--what he must also have felt to be an act of self-control,--the outpouring of those magic sounds which, if uttered, would, instead of a prison becoming the lot of Falstaff, have conducted him to the coronation dinner, and established him as chief depositary of what in after days was known by the name of backstairs influence.
In this we find the real justification of what has generally been stigmatized as the harshness of Henry. Dr. Johnson, with some indignation, asks why should Falstaff be sent to the Fleet?--he had done nothing since the king's accession to deserve it. I answer, he was sent to the Fleet for the same reason that he was banished ten miles from court, on pain of death. Henry thought it necessary that the walls of a prison should separate him from the seducing influence of one than whom he knew many a better man, but none whom it was so hard to miss. He felt that he could not, in his speech of predetermined severity, pursue to the end the tone of harshness towards his old companion. He had the nerve to begin by rebuking him in angry terms as a surfeit-swelled, profane old man,--as one who, instead of employing in prayer the time which his hoary head indicated was not to be of long duration in this world, disgraced his declining years by assuming the unseemly occupations of fool and jester,--as one whom he had known in a dream, but had awakened to despise,--as one who, on the verge of the gaping grave, occupied himself in the pursuits of such low debauchery as excluded him from the society of those who had respect for themselves or their character. But he cannot so continue; and the last words he addresses to him whom he had intended to have cursed altogether, hold forth a promise of advancement, with an affectionate assurance that it will be such as is suitable to his "strength and qualities." If in public he could scarce master his speech, how could he hope in private to master his feelings? No. His only safety was in utter separation: it should be done, and he did it. He was emancipated by violent effort; did he never regret the ancient thraldom? Shakspeare is silent: but may we not imagine that he who sate crowned with the golden rigol of England, cast, amid all his splendours, many a sorrowful thought upon that old familiar face which he had sent to gaze upon the iron bars of the Fleet?
As for the chief justice, he never appears in Falstaff's presence, save as a butt. His grave lordship has many solemn admonitions, nay, serious threats to deliver; but he departs laughed at and baffled. Coming to demand explanation of the affair at Gadshill, the conversation ends with his being asked for the loan of a thousand pounds. Interposing to procure payment of the debt to Dame Quickly, he is told that she goes about the town saying that her eldest son resembles him. Fang and Snare, his lordship's officers, are not treated with less respect, or shaken off with less ceremony. As for the other followers of the knight,--Pistol, Nym, Bardolph,--they are, by office, his obsequious dependents. But it is impossible that they could long hang about him without contracting, unknown even to themselves, other feelings than those arising from the mere advantages they derived from his service. Death is the test of all; and when that of Falstaff approaches, the dogged Nym reproaches the king for having run bad humours on the knight; and Pistol in swelling tone, breathing a sigh over his heart "fracted and corroborate," hastens to condole with him. Bardolph wishes that he was with him wheresoever he has gone, whether to heaven or hell: he has followed him all his life,--why not follow him in death? The last jest has been at his own expense; but what matters it now? In other times Bardolph could resent the everlasting merriment at the expense of his nose--he might wish it in the belly of the jester; but that's past. The dying knight compares a flea upon his follower's nose to a black soul burning in hell-fire; and no remonstrance is now made. "Let him joke as he likes," says and thinks Bardolph with a sigh, "the fuel is gone that maintained that fire. He never will supply it more; nor will it, in return, supply fuel for his wit. I wish that it could." And Quickly, whom he had for nine and twenty years robbed and cheated,--pardon me, I must retract the words,--from whom he had, for the space of a generation, levied tax and tribute as matter of right and due,--she hovers anxiously over his dying bed, and, with a pathos and a piety well befitting her calling, soothes his departing moments by the consolatory assurance, when she hears him uttering the unaccustomed appeal to God, that he had no necessity for yet troubling himself with thoughts to which he had been unused during the whole length of their acquaintance. Blame her not for leaving unperformed the duty of a chaplain: it was not her vocation. She consoled him as she could,--and the kindest of us can do no more.
Of himself, the centre of the circle, I have, perhaps, delayed too long to speak; but the effect which he impresses upon all the visionary characters around, marks Shakspeare's idea that he was to make a similar impression on the real men to whom he was transmitting him. The temptation to represent the gross fat man upon the stage as a mere buffoon, and to turn the attention of the spectators to the corporal qualities and the practical jests of which he is the object, could hardly be resisted by the players; and the popular notion of the Falstaff of the stage is, that he is no better than an upper-class Scapin. A proper consideration, not merely of the character of his mind as displayed in the lavish abundance of ever ready wit, and the sound good sense of his searching observation, but of the position which he always held in society, should have freed the Falstaff of the cabinet from such an imputation. It has not generally done so. Nothing can be more false, nor, pace tanti viri, more unphilosophical, than Dr. Johnson's critique upon his character. According to him,
"Falstaff is a character loaded with faults, and with those faults which naturally produce contempt. He is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a boaster, always ready to cheat the weak, and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous, and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirizes in their absence those whom he lives by flattering. He is familiar with the prince only as an agent of vice, but of this familiarity he is so proud, as not only to be supercilious and haughty with common men, but to think his interest of importance to the Duke of Lancaster. Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the prince that despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety; by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy scapes and sallies of levity, which make sport, but raise no envy. It must be observed, that he is stained with no enormous or sanguinary crimes, so that his licentiousness is not so offensive but that it may be borne for his mirth.
"The moral to be drawn from this representation is, that no man is more dangerous than he that, with a will to corrupt, hath the power to please; and that neither wit nor honesty ought to think themselves safe with such a companion, when they see Henry seduced by Falstaff."
What can be cheaper than the venting of moral apophthegms such as that which concludes the critique? Shakspeare, who had no notion of copybook ethics, well knew that Falstaffs are not as plenty as blackberries, and that the moral to be drawn from the representation is no more than that great powers of wit will fascinate, whether they be joined or not to qualities commanding grave esteem. In the commentary I have just quoted, the Doctor was thinking of such companions as Savage; but the interval is wide and deep.
How idle is the question as to the cowardice of Falstaff. Maurice Morgann wrote an essay to free his character from the allegation; and it became the subject of keen controversy. Deeply would the knight have derided the discussion. His retreat from before Prince Henry and Poins, and his imitating death when attacked by Douglas, are the points mainly dwelt upon by those who make him a coward. I shall not minutely go over what I conceive to be a silly dispute on both sides: but in the former case Shakspeare saves his honour by making him offer at least some resistance to two bold and vigorous men when abandoned by his companions; and, in the latter, what fitting antagonist was the fat and blown soldier of three-score for
"That furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain the appearance of the king?"
He did no more than what Douglas himself did in the conclusion of the fight: overmatched, the renowned warrior
"'Gan vail his stomach, and did grace the shame Of those that turned their backs; and, in his flight, Stumbling in fear, was took."
Why press cowardice on Falstaff more than upon Douglas? In an age when men of all ranks engaged in personal conflict, we find him chosen to a command in a slaughterous battle; he leads his men to posts of imminent peril; it is his sword which Henry wishes to borrow when about to engage Percy, and he refuses to lend it from its necessity to himself; he can jest coolly in the midst of danger; he is deemed worthy of employing the arm of Douglas at the time that Hotspur engages the prince; Sir John Coleville yields himself his prisoner; and, except in the jocular conversations among his own circle, no word is breathed that he has not performed, and is not ready to perform, the duties of a soldier. Even the attendant of the chief justice, with the assent of his hostile lordship, admits that he has done good service at Shrewsbury. All this, and much more, is urged in his behalf by Maurice Morgann; but it is far indeed from the root of the matter.
Of his being a thief and a glutton I shall say a few words anon; but where does he cheat the weak or prey upon the poor,--where terrify the timorous or insult the defenceless,--where is he obsequious; where malignant,--where is he supercilious and haughty with common men,--where does he think his interest of importance to the Duke of Lancaster? Of this last charge I see nothing whatever in the play. The "Duke" of Lancaster[92] is a slip of the Doctor's pen. But Falstaff nowhere extends his patronage to Prince John; on the contrary, he asks from the prince the favour of his good report to the king, adding, when he is alone, that the sober-blooded boy did not love him. He is courteous of manner; but, so far from being obsequious, he assumes the command wherever he goes. He is jocularly satirical of speech; but he who has attached to him so many jesting companions for such a series of years, never could have been open to the reproach of malignity. If the sayings of Johnson himself about Goldsmith and Garrick, for example, were gathered, must he not have allowed them to be far more calculated to hurt their feelings than anything Falstaff ever said of Poins or Hal? and yet would he not recoil from the accusation of being actuated by malignant feelings towards men whom, in spite of wayward conversations, he honoured, admired, and loved?
"Health and fair greeting from our general, The prince Lord John and Duke of Lancaster;"
but it occurs nowhere else, and we must not place much reliance on the authenticity or the verbal accuracy of such verses. He was Prince John of Lancaster, and afterwards Duke of Bedford. The king was then, as the king is now, Duke of Lancaster.
Let us consider for a moment who and what Falstaff was. If you put him back to the actual era in which his date is fixed, and judge him by the manners of that time; a knight of the days perhaps of Edward III.--at all events of Henry IV.--was a man not to be confounded with the knights spawned in our times. A knight then was not far from the rank of peer; and with peers, merely by the virtue of his knighthood, he habitually associated as their equal. Even if we judge of him by the repute of knights in the days when his character was written,--and in dealing with Shakspeare it is always safe to consider him as giving himself small trouble to depart from the manners which he saw around him,--the knights of Elizabeth were men of the highest class. The queen conferred the honour with much difficulty, and insisted that it should not be disgraced. Sir John Falstaff, if his mirth and wit inclined him to lead a reckless life, held no less rank in the society of the day than the Earl of Rochester in the time of Charles II. Henry IV. disapproves of his son's mixing with the loose revellers of the town; but admits Falstaff unreproved to his presence. When he is anxious to break the acquaintance, he makes no objection to the station of Sir John, but sends him with Prince John of Lancaster against the archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland. His objection is not that the knight, by his rank, is no fitting companion for a son of his own, but that he can better trust him with the steadier than the more mercurial of the brothers.
We find by incidental notices that he was reared, when a boy, page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, head of one of the greatest houses that ever was in England, and the personal antagonist of him who was afterwards Henry IV; that he was in his youth on familiar terms with John of Gaunt, the first man of the land after the death of his father and brother; and that, through all his life, he had been familiar with the lofty and distinguished. We can, therefore, conjecture what had been his youth and his manhood; we see what he actually is in declining age. In this, if I mistake not, will be found the true solution of the character; here is what the French call the mot d'énigme. Conscious of powers and talents far surpassing those of the ordinary run of men, he finds himself outstripped in the race. He must have seen many a man whom he utterly despised rising over his head to honours and emoluments. The very persons upon whom, it would appear to Doctor Johnson, he was intruding, were many of them his early companions,--many more his juniors at court. He might have attended his old patron, the duke, at Coventry, upon St. Lambert's day, when Richard II. flung down the warder amidst the greatest men of England. If he jested in the tilt-yard with John of Gaunt, could he feel that any material obstacle prevented him from mixing with those who composed the court of John of Gaunt's son?
In fact, he is a dissipated man of rank, with a thousand times more wit than ever fell to the lot of all the men of rank in the world. But he has ill played his cards in life. He grumbles not at the advancement of men of his own order; but the bitter drop of his soul overflows when he remembers how he and that cheeseparing Shallow began the world, and reflects that the starveling justice has land and beeves, while he, the wit and the gentleman, is penniless, and living from hand to mouth by the casual shifts of the day. He looks at the goodly dwelling and the riches of him whom he had once so thoroughly contemned, with an inward pang that he has scarcely a roof under which he can lay his head. The tragic Macbeth, in the agony of his last struggle, acknowledges with a deep despair that the things that should accompany old age,--as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,--he must not look to have. The comic Falstaff says nothing on the subject; but, by the choice of such associates as Bardolph, Pistol, and the rest of that following, he tacitly declares that he too has lost the advantages which should be attendant on years. No curses loud or deep have accompanied his festive career,--its conclusion is not the less sad on that account: neglect, forgotten friendships, services overlooked, shared pleasures unremembered, and fair occasions gone for ever by, haunt him, no doubt, as sharply as the consciousness of deserving universal hatred galls the soul of Macbeth.
And we may pursue the analogy farther without any undue straining. All other hope lost, the confident tyrant shuts himself up in what he deems an impregnable fortress, and relies for very safety upon his interpretation of the dark sayings of riddling witches. Divested of the picturesque and supernatural horror of the tragedy, Macbeth is here represented as driven to his last resource, and dependent for life only upon chances, the dubiousness of which he can hardly conceal from himself. The Boar's Head in Eastcheap is not the castle of Dunsinane, any more than the conversation of Dame Quickly and Doll Tearsheet is that of the Weird Sisters; but in the comedy, too, we have the man, powerful in his own way, driven to his last "frank," and looking to the chance of the hour for the living of the hour. Hope after hope has broken down, as prophecy after prophecy has been discovered to be juggling and fallacious. He has trusted that his Birnam Wood would not come to Dunsinane, and yet it comes;--that no man not of woman born is to cross his path, and lo! the man is here. What then remains for wit or warrior when all is lost--when the last stake is gone--when no chance of another can be dreamt of--when the gleaming visions that danced before their eyes are found to be nothing but mist and mirage? What remains for them but to die?--And so they do.
With such feelings, what can Falstaff, after having gone through a life of adventure, care about the repute of courage or cowardice? To divert the prince, he engages in a wild enterprise,--nothing more than what would be called a "lark" now. When deer-stealing ranked as no higher offence than robbing orchards,--not indeed so high as the taking a slice off a loaf by a wandering beggar, which some weeks ago has sent the vagrant who committed the "crime" to seven years' transportation,--such robberies as those at Gadshill, especially as all parties well knew that the money taken there was surely to be repaid, as we find it is in the end,[93] were of a comparatively venial nature. Old father antic, the Law, had not yet established his undoubted supremacy; and taking purses, even in the days of Queen Elizabeth, was not absolutely incompatible with gentility. The breaking up of the great households and families by the wars of the Roses, the suppression of the monasteries and the confiscation of church property by Henry VIII, added to are adventurous spirit generated throughout all Europe by the discovery of America, had thrown upon the world "men of action," as they called themselves, without any resources but what lay in their right hands. Younger members of broken houses, or aspirants for the newly lost honours or the ease of the cloister, did not well know what to do with themselves. They were too idle to dig; they were ashamed to beg;--and why not apply at home the admirable maxim,
"That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can,"
which was acted upon with so much success beyond the sea. The same causes which broke down the nobility, and crippled the resources of the church, deprived the retainers of the great baron, and the sharers of the dole of the monastery, of their accustomed mode of living; and robbery in these classes was considered the most venial of offences. To the system of poor laws,--a system worthy of being projected "in great Eliza's golden time" by the greatest philosopher of that day, or, with one exception, of any other day,--are we indebted for that general respect for property which renders the profession of a thief infamous, and consigns him to the hulks, or the tread-mill, without compassion. But I must not wander into historical disquisitions; though no subject would, in its proper place, be more interesting than a minute speculation upon the gradual working of the poor-law system on English society. It would form one of the most remarkable chapters in that great work yet to be written, "The History of the Lowest Order from the earliest times,"--a work of far more importance, of deeper philosophy, and more picturesque romance, than all the chronicles of what are called the great events of the earth. Elsewhere let me talk of this. I must now get back again to Falstaff.
"Fal. Now Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery, lad? How is that answered?
P. Hen. My sweet beef, I must Still be good angel to thee. The money is paid back.
Fal. I do not like That paying back; it is a double labour.
P. Hen. I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.
Fal. Rob me the exchequer, the first thing thou dost; And do't with unwashed hands too.
Bard. Do, my lord."
The quiet and business-like manner in which Bardolph enforces on the heir-apparent his master's reasonable proposition of robbing the exchequer, is worthy of that plain and straightforward character. I have always considered it a greater hardship that Bardolph should be hanged "for pix of little price" by an old companion at Gadshill, than that Falstaff should have been banished. But Shakspeare wanted to get rid of the party; and as, in fact, a soldier was hanged in the army of Henry V. for such a theft, the opportunity was afforded. The king is not concerned in the order for his execution however, which is left with the Duke of Exeter.
I have omitted a word or two from the ordinary editions in the above quotation, which are useless to the sense and spoil the metre. A careful consideration of Falstaff's speeches will show that, though they are sometimes printed as prose, they are in almost all cases metrical. Indeed, I do not think that there is much prose in any of Shakspeare's plays.
His Gadshill adventure was a jest,--a jest, perhaps, repeated after too many precedents; but still, according to the fashion and the humour of the time, nothing more than a jest. His own view of such transactions is recorded; he considers Shallow as a fund of jesting to amuse the prince, remarking that it is easy to amuse "with a sad brow" (with a solemnity of appearance) "a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders." What was to be accomplished by turning the foolish justice into ridicule, was also to be done by inducing the true prince to become for a moment a false thief. The serious face of robbery was assumed "to keep Prince Harry in perpetual laughter." That, in Falstaff's circumstances, the money obtained by the night's exploit would be highly acceptable, cannot be doubted; but the real object was to amuse the prince. He had no idea of making an exhibition of bravery on such an occasion; Poins well knew his man when he said beforehand, "As for the third, if he fight longer than he see reason, I'll forswear arms:" his end was as much obtained by the prince's jokes upon his cowardice. It was no matter whether he invented what tended to laughter, or whether it was invented upon him. The object was won so the laughter was in any manner excited. The exaggerated tale of the misbegotten knaves in Kendal-green, and his other lies, gross and mountainous, are told with no other purpose; and one is almost tempted to believe him when he says that he knew who were his assailants, and ran for their greater amusement. At all events, it is evident that he cares nothing on the subject. He offers a jocular defence; but immediately passes to matter of more importance then the question of his standing or running:
But, lads, I'm glad you have the money. Hostess! Clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts-o'-gold! All the titles of Good fellowship come to you!"[94]
The money is had; the means of enjoying it are at hand. Why waste our time in inquiring how it has been brought here, or permit nonsensical discussions on my valour or cowardice to delay for a moment the jovial appearance of the bottle?
I see no traces of his being a glutton. His roundness of paunch is no proof of gormandising propensities; in fact, the greatest eaters are generally thin and spare. When Henry is running over the bead-roll of his vices, we meet no charge of gluttony urged against him.
"There is a devil Haunts thee i' the likeness of a fat old man; A ton of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, That bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of Dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed Cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox With the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, That grey iniquity, that father ruffian, That vanity in years? Wherein is he good But to taste sack, and drink it? Wherein neat And cleanly, but to carve a capon, and eat it?"[95]
The sack and sugar Falstaff admits readily; of addiction to the grosser pleasures of the table neither he nor his accuser says a word. Capon is light eating; and his neatness in carving gives an impression of delicacy in the observances of the board. He appears to have been fond of capon; for it figures in the tavern-bill found in his pockets as the only eatable beside the stimulant anchovy for supper, and the halfpenny-worth of bread. Nor does his conversation ever turn upon gastronomical topics. The bottle supplies an endless succession of jests; the dish scarcely contributes one.
We must observe that Falstaff is never represented as drunk, or even affected by wine. The copious potations of sack do not cloud his intellect, or embarrass his tongue. He is always self-possessed, and ready to pour forth his floods of acute wit. In this he forms a contrast to Sir Toby Belch. The discrimination between these two characters is very masterly. Both are knights, both convivial, both fond of loose or jocular society, both somewhat in advance of their youth--there are many outward points of similitude, and yet they are as distinct as Prospero and Polonius. The Illyrian knight is of a lower class of mind. His jests are mischievous; Falstaff never commits a practical joke. Sir Toby delights in brawling and tumult; Sir John prefers the ease of his own inn. Sir Toby sings songs, joins in catches, and rejoices in making a noise; Sir John knows too well his powers of wit and conversation to think it necessary to make any display, and he hates disturbance. Sir Toby is easily affected by liquor and roystering; Sir John rises from the board as cool as when he sate down. The knight of Illyria had nothing to cloud his mind; he never aspired to higher things than he has attained; he lives a jolly life in the household of his niece, feasting, drinking, singing, rioting, playing tricks from one end of the year to the other: his wishes are gratified, his hopes unblighted. I have endeavoured to show that Falstaff was the contrary of all this. And we must remark that the tumultuous Toby has some dash of romance in him, of which no trace can be found in the English knight. The wit and grace, the good-humour and good looks of Maria, conquer Toby's heart, and he is in love with her--love expressed in rough fashion, but love sincere. Could we see him some dozen years after his marriage, we should find him sobered down into a respectable, hospitable, and domestic country gentleman, surrounded by a happy family of curly-headed Illyrians, and much fonder of his wife than of his bottle. We can never so consider of Falstaff; he must always be a dweller in clubs and taverns, a perpetual diner-out at gentlemen's parties, or a frequenter of haunts where he will not be disturbed by the presence of ladies of condition or character. In the "Merry Wives of Windsor,"--I may remark, in passing, that the Falstaff of that play is a different conception from the Falstaff of Henry IV, and an inferior one,--his love is of a very practical and unromantic nature. The ladies whom he addresses are beyond a certain age; and his passion is inspired by his hopes of making them his East and West Indies,--by their tables and their purses. No; Falstaff never could have married,--he was better "accommodated than with a wife." He might have paid his court to old Mistress Ursula, and sworn to marry her weekly from the time when he perceived the first white hair on his chin; but the oath was never kept, and we see what was the motive of his love, when we find him sending her a letter by his page after he has been refused credit by Master Dombledon, unless he can offer something better than the rather unmarketable security of himself and Bardolph.
We must also observe that he never laughs. Others laugh with him, or at him; but no laughter from him who occasions or permits it. He jests with a sad brow. The wit which he profusely scatters about is from the head, not the heart. Its satire is slight, and never malignant or affronting; but still it is satirical, and seldom joyous. It is anything but fun. Original genius and long practice have rendered it easy and familiar to him, and he uses it as a matter of business. He has too much philosophy to show that he feels himself misplaced; we discover his feelings by slight indications, which are, however, quite sufficient. I fear that this conception of the character could never be rendered popular on the stage; but I have heard in private the part of Falstaff read with a perfectly grave, solemn, slow, deep, and sonorous voice, touched occasionally somewhat with the broken tone of age, from beginning to end, with admirable effect. But I can imagine him painted according to my idea. He is always caricatured. Not to refer to ordinary drawings, I remember one executed by the reverend and very clever author of the "Miseries of Human Life," (an engraving of which, if I do not mistake, used to hang in Ambrose's parlour in Edinburgh, in the actual room which was the primary seat of the "Noctes Ambrosianæ,") and the painter had exerted all his art in making the face seamed with the deep-drawn wrinkles and lines of a hard drinker and a constant laugher. Now, had jolly Bacchus
"Set the trace in his face that a toper will tell,"
should we not have it carefully noted by those who everlastingly joked upon his appearance? should we not have found his Malmsey nose, his whelks and bubukles, his exhalations and meteors, as duly described as those of Bardolph? A laughing countenance he certainly had not. Jests such as his are not, like Ralph's, "lost, unless you print the face." The leering wink in the eye introduced into this portraiture is also wrong, if intended to represent the habitual look of the man. The chief justice assures us that his eyes were moist like those of other men of his time of life; and, without his lordship's assurance, we may be certain that Falstaff seldom played tricks with them. He rises before me as an elderly and very corpulent gentleman, dressed like other military men of the time, [of Elizabeth, observe, not Henry,] yellow-cheeked, white-bearded, double-chinned, with a good-humoured but grave expression of countenance, sensuality in the lower features of his face, high intellect in the upper.
Such is the idea I have formed of Falstaff and perhaps some may think I am right. It required no ordinary genius to carry such a character through so great a variety of incidents with so perfect a consistency. It is not a difficult thing to depict a man corroded by care within, yet appearing gay and at ease without, if you every moment pull the machinery to pieces, as children do their toys, to show what is inside. But the true art is to let the attendant circumstances bespeak the character, without being obliged to label him: "Here you may see the tyrant;" or, "Here is the man heavy of heart, light of manner." Your ever-melancholy and ostentatiously broken-hearted heroes are felt to be bores, endurable only on account of the occasional beauty of the poetry in which they figure. We grow tired of "the gloom the fabled Hebrew wanderer wore," &c. and sympathise as little with perpetual lamentations over mental sufferings endured, or said to be endured, by active youth and manhood, as we should be with its ceaseless complaints of the physical pain of corns or toothache. The death-bed of Falstaff, told in the patois of Dame Quickly to her debauched and profligate auditory, is a thousand times more pathetic to those who have looked upon the world with reflective eye, than all the morbid mournings of Childe Harold and his poetical progeny.
At the table of Shallow, laid in his arbour, Falstaff is compelled by the eager hospitality of his host to sit, much against his will. The wit of the court endures the tipsy garrulity of the prattling justice, the drunken harmonies of Silence, whose tongue is loosed by the sack to chaunt but-ends of old-fashioned ballads, the bustling awkwardness of Davy, and the long-known ale-house style of conversation of Bardolph, without uttering a word except some few phrases of common-place courtesy. He feels that he is in mind and thought far above his company. Was that the only company in which the same accident had befallen him? Certainly not; it had befallen him in many a mansion more honoured than that of Shallow, and amid society loftier in name and prouder in place. His talent, and the use to which he had turned it, had as completely disjoined him in heart from those among whom he mixed, or might have mixed, as it did from the pippin-and-caraway-eating party in Gloucestershire. The members of his court are about him, but not of him; they are all intended for use. From Shallow he borrows a thousand pounds; and, as the justice cannot appreciate his wit, he wastes it not upon him, but uses other methods of ingratiating himself. Henry delights in his conversation and manner, and therefore all his fascinations are exerted to win the favour of one from whom so many advantages might be expected. He lives in the world alone and apart, so far as true community of thought with others is concerned; and his main business in life is to get through the day. That--the day--is his real enemy; he rises to fight it in the morning; he gets through its various dangers as well as he can; some difficulties he meets, some he avoids; he shuns those who ask him for money, seeks those from whom he may obtain it; lounges here, bustles there; talks, drinks, jokes, schemes; and at last his foe is slain, when light and its troubles depart. "The day is gone--the night's our own." Courageously has he put an end to one of the three hundred and sixty-five tormentors which he has yearly to endure; and to-morrow--why--as was to-day, so to-morrow shall be. At all events I shall not leave the sweet of the night unpicked, to think anything more about it. Bring me a cup of sack! Let us be merry! Does he ever think of what were his hopes and prospects at the time, when was
"Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, And page to Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk?"
Perhaps!----but he chases away the intrusive reflection by another cup of sack and a fresh sally of humour.
Dryden maintained that Shakspeare killed Mercutio, because, if he had not, Mercutio would have killed him. In spite of the authority of
"All those prefaces of Dryden, For these our critics much confide in,"
Glorious John is here mistaken. Mercutio is killed precisely in the part of the drama where his death is requisite. Not an incident, scarcely a sentence, in this most skilfully managed play of Romeo and Juliet, can be omitted or misplaced. But I do think that Shakspeare was unwilling to hazard the reputation of Falstaff by producing him again in connexion with his old companion, Hal, on the stage. The dancer in the epilogue of the Second Part of Henry IV. promises the audience, that "if you be not too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine of France; where, for any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already he be killed with your hard opinions."[96] The audience was not cloyed with fat meat, Sir John was not killed with their hard opinions; he was popular from the first hour of his appearance: but Shakspeare never kept his word. It was the dramatist, not the public, who killed his hero in the opening scenes of Henry V; for he knew not how to interlace him with the story of Agincourt. There Henry was to be lord of all; and it was matter of necessity that his old master should disappear from the scene. He parted therefore even just between twelve and one, e'en at turning of the tide, and we shall never see him again until the waters of some Avon, here or elsewhere,--it is a good Celtic name for rivers in general,--shall once more bathe the limbs of the like of him who was laid for his last earthly sleep under a gravestone bearing a disregarded inscription, on the north side of the chancel in the great church at Stratford. W. M. [92] He is once called so by Westmoreland, Second Part of Henry IV. Act iv. Sc. 1.
[93] Henry IV. Part 1. Act iii. Sc. 3.
[94] These passages also are printed as prose: I have not altered a single letter, and the reader will see not only that they are dramatical blank-verse, but dramatical blank-verse of a very excellent kind. After all the editions of Shakspeare, another is sadly wanted. The text throughout requires a searching critical revision.
[95] See Footnote 94 above.
[96] I consider this epilogue to be in blank-verse,--
"First my fear, then my courtesy, then my speech," &c.
but some slight alterations should be made: the transposition of a couple of words will make the passage here quoted metrical.
"One word more I beseech you. If you be not Too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author The story will continue with Sir John in't, And make you merry with fair Kate of France. Where (For any thing I know) Falstaff shall die of A sweat, unless already he be killed with Your hard opinions; Oldcastle died a martyr, And this is not the man. My tongue is weary, when my legs are too, I'll bid you good-night; and kneel down before you, But indeed to pray for the queen."
EPIGRAM
'Twas thought that all who dined on hare, For seven days after, grew most fair: Fanny, it seems, this tale believed, When I from her a hare received: But if the tale be true, odsfish! Fanny has never tried the dish.
A STEAM TRIP TO HAMBURG.
The world is about equally divided into two parts; viz. the first and most unfortunate part, who have made trips by steam; and the other, whose ill-luck is to come, and who have not yet been subject to the "vapours." Both of these divisions of society will be equally interested in my narration; one will see a faithful delineation of what they have already suffered, and the other will be enabled clearly to apprehend what, when their time comes, they will have to undergo. Not that I wish to deter anybody from such undertakings, inasmuch as there will be a degree of naval heroism in anybody who ventures his person after he has become fully aware of his necessary calamities. I need not say that this will give him a high station in society, and that, if he announces in a tolerably loud voice at a dinner-table that he has made a long trip by steam, more than one eye-glass will be devoted to a survey of him. This is no mean advantage, and not to be lightly lost.
Before I state what happened to me in particular, I just wish to say half-a-dozen words about the sea in general. The sea has been described by a great natural historian as
"The sea! the sea! The bright and open sea!"
Now, I differ from this description altogether. The sea is undoubtedly "the sea,"--there's no denying that; but that it at all comes up to the jaunty débonnaire character indicated by the rest of the description, I absolutely traverse. In my mind it is a boisterous "dissolute companion," whose bad example corrupts the most respectable characters. Only see how our gentlemanlike, quiet old friend, Father Thames, forgets himself when he falls into bad company. Gentlemen from Shad Thames and the Barbican, who have been to Margate, know very well what his conduct is. Instead of moving quietly along, as he has done all the way from Lechlade in Gloucestershire, no sooner does he get within hearing of the noise his bad acquaintance is making, than it seems as if Old Nick possessed him. He begins splashing, and dashing, and foaming about, just as if he had never seen a weeping willow or the Monument in his life; and exchanges his white-bait for porpoises, and his stately swans for cantankerous sea-gulls, whose pleasure seems to increase in proportion to the tumult. And, not contented with his own misconduct, he involves all the gentle company he has brought with him in the common disorder: there is the Loddon tossing about as if it had been a cataract all its life; the Mole seems to forget all about Mickleham Valley, and how quietly it has been accustomed to behave there; and the Kennet and Avon, which have come all the way from the Wiltshire Downs, where they were born in stillness among the Druids, take just as much upon them, and are as noisy, as if they had derived their parentage from a well-frequented metropolitan pump. No more need be said to prove the audacious character of this "agitator," whose inflammatory conduct makes everybody that comes in contact with him, as bad as himself. I should not have said so much about it, but I want to put down the sea, which, owing to gross misstatements and vile flattery, has acquired a credit and notoriety which it does not deserve; and this ought to be stopped, as it misleads people.
Having made up my mind to go to Hamburg, I bade adieu to my fond friends; and, having settled my London affairs, I prepared to go, and went.
At twelve P.M. on the night of Tuesday, August 13, 1836, it was my unhappy lot to emerge from hackney-coach No. 369, the number of which I had taken, knowing the state of my mind, for the better preservation of my valuables; fearing that, in my dread of approaching evils, I might forget either my valued trunk or my respected hat-box. Having emerged, my next act was, to ejaculate in as sonorous a voice as my flabby energies permitted, "Boat a-hoy!"
This cry brought to me a waterman of an "ancient and fish-like" appearance, who, for the filthy lucre of gain, agreed to transport my person and packages on board the Steam Navigation Company's steam ship, Britannia, carrying his majesty's mails, "warranted to perform the journey in fifty hours;" with a steward on board, and numerous other enticing particulars duly set forth in the bill of her performances. For all these advantages, the Steam Navigation Company expected no greater return than five pounds lawful money of Great Britain,--an expectation which I satisfied to the proper extent, and considered myself very fortunate.
Probably feeling much embarrassed by my gratitude on this occasion, I must have betrayed some little passing emotion on ascending the side of the vessel; as the naval person who offered me his hand as an assistance, took occasion to observe, "Never mind, sir; you'll soon be all right." Scarcely feeling entire confidence in this gentleman's statement, I entered the "splendid saloon," on the tables of which were the remains of certain spirituous liquors; faint and distant traces of which, ascending from below, enabled me to attribute their consumption to the various gentlemen there deposited, who were to be my fellow-passengers. "Below" is a very nasty, unpleasant, underground word of itself; but when it is coupled with the vile concomitants which a sea "below" embraces, it is still more distasteful.
Diving down the stairs with the sad impression that I had taken my last farewell of the upper world, I found my way to No. 14, which was the number of the "berth" in which I was to bestow, and did bestow accordingly, myself and luggage.
Before getting into bed, I thought I would see who and what the victims were, who were to be offered up on a common altar with myself.
I could, however, see nobody, as the curtains were all closed; and, therefore, trusting to the chance of finding somebody awake, I hazarded the general inquiry of "I beg your pardon, sir; did you speak?" There was, however, no reply; but certain of them snored lustily, and one, more portly than his fellows, puffed withal as though he were a grampus. Feeling I had made a vain attempt at opening a communication with my neighbours, I was obliged to undress myself, and get into bed with the unsatisfactory feeling that I might be drowned in company with twelve or fourteen individuals without even knowing their names.
And here allow me to observe that different people appear to have taken various views of the meaning of the term "bed," taken as a simple term. One gentleman apprehends it to mean a four-posted, ample convenience, provided with downy cushions and suitable appurtenances, wherein he may roll himself about, at pleasure, and enjoy all recumbent attitudes with freedom. Another, with less luxurious views, erects a dormitory with a circular roof, of smaller size, and less accommodations and comforts; and this, under the Christian name of "tent," is his "bed." There are also other sorts of beds, each differing from the others in comfort and appearance, in various degrees.
Most of these are extremely consistent with the personal comfort of the individual adopting them; but the "bed-maker" of the crib which I now occupied, had departed widely from all these well-approved and convenient plans, and conceived the comforts of a bed to consist in the following items:--one narrow, short trough of deal or oak plank, as may be; one mattress of half the same size, stuffed tightly with an unelastic, unyielding substance called "flock;" one oblong pillow of the same material and consistency; two blankets rather shorter than the mattress; two sheets rather shorter than the blankets; one counterpane rather shorter than the sheets; each declining in a sort of gradual progression, so that, if there had been fifty of them the last would have ended in a piece of tape, or a penny riband.
Making myself into as small, and the clothes into as large a heap as I could, just as one does with one's foot in a tight boot, I tranquilly awaited our departure, which was announced as punctually at two A.M.
I must do them the justice to say that there never was an execution conducted more punctually to the moment for which it had been promised. As the clock struck two, a clanking of chains, which sounded just as if they were knocking off my fetters in another prison for the last time, and a continued shouting and tramping overhead, announced that they were weighing "the anchor." If it were half as heavy as my heart, how it must have fatigued them! We could hear--or rather I could hear (for it did not seem to wake the snorers or him who puffed)--all the din and hallooing above, just as well as if we had been on deck. Somebody kept swearing at somebody else, which somebody else seemed to take in very bad part, as I heard him say, "I arn't a going to put up with no gammon from a feller like you, as doesn't know an umbreller from a spring ini'n."
I didn't exactly believe that there could be anybody in these march-of-intellect days, incapable of distinguishing an umbrella from a spring onion, and therefore I felt this to be most unjustifiable abuse, whomsoever it was addressed to; but it was no business of mine, and I didn't care how much they abused each other, if they had only done it in a lower tone of voice, so as not to disturb me.
When the "tumult dwindled to a calm," a splash and a hiss, accompanied by the moving of the vessel, gave me intelligence that we were "off." As we dropped down the river, memory recalled the peaceful recreation of dining at Blackwall on white-bait; while certain matters which occurred at a Greenwich fair, stared me accusingly in the face.
Amid these reflections I fell into an uneasy slumber, which lasted till six, broken at intervals by various thumps on the deck, which seemed directed immediately at my head below. In the morning "the pie was opened, and the birds began to sing;" that is to say, my companions began to draw their dingy little curtains back, and gradually to unfold themselves. I found we consisted of fourteen souls and bodies,--ten Germans, and four of the same free and enlightened nation of which I have the honour to be a component part.
We chatted till about seven; and then one got up, and another got up, and, lastly, I myself got up and dressed; not, however, without a feeling that I had better have left well alone. When I got up on deck, I asked a sailor, "How's the wind?"--"Dead agin yer," was the satisfactory reply. I wasn't surprised.
While I dressed, I paid due attention to a request posted up over the washing-stands, "That gentlemen should refrain from throwing their shaving-paper into their basins, as it stopped up the pipes, and increased the smell of the cabins." This of itself seemed a tacit acknowledgement of the existence of a very agreeable concomitant to our comforts,--as you can hardly increase a thing which did not previously exist; indeed there was no doubt about that, without any notice.
When we had all got up stairs by different instalments, after pacing the decks a little, we received a summons to breakfast. I endeavoured to sham an appetite, but it was no go; so I ate sparingly, being most distrustful of the future.
"Waiter!" cried one of the English,--a short, stout gentleman, in a dressing-gown,--"bring up the parcel in front of my berth."
"Sart'nly, sir!" replied the smart handman.
Up came the parcel; and, as I had heard the demand, I had the curiosity to see what came of it. The parcel turned out to be a nice brown-bread loaf, off which the owner cut a small slice, and carefully put it on a plate by his side. His neighbour on the other side then began talking to him, which diverted his attention from the loaf. His other neighbour, who had not seen where it came from, wanting some bread, and finding it at his elbow, helped himself; and a man, a little lower down, said,
"May I trouble you for the bread?"
"With pleasure, sir;" and another slice went, and so on, till the last remnant came round to the man who sat opposite the rightful owner, who was talking away still, with his friend, as if they had been settling the tithe question. He took the bit left, and began devouring it; and a pause having taken place in the conversation opposite, he said to the loaf-proprietor,
"For myself, I like brown bread just as well as white; what do you say?"
"Why, I prefer it; and, not knowing that we should get it on board, I took the precaution of bringing a loaf with me, big enough to last me all the----"
As he spoke, he turned to illustrate his remark by showing the size of his loaf, when, to his dismay, he found nothing but the empty plate. I never shall forget his face. He first of all turned to the man who had addressed him, and into whose capacious mouth the last morsel was vanishing:
"Confound it, sir! that's my bread you're eating!"
Then to his next neighbour on his right:
"Was it you who took my loaf, sir?"
"Your loaf, sir? Who are you?"
"Yes, sir! I repeat, my loaf; my brown loaf."
"I certainly took a loaf, sir, and a brown loaf, which stood next to me; but whether it was yours or not I can't say; and I believe everybody else took it too!"
"Why, then it's gone!" It was.
Breakfast being over, we had but little to do, and nothing to divert our thoughts from our mournful position. I went fidgeting about, asking how the weather was. The answers were delightful. The wind was so violent and adverse that the captain thought it useless to go out to sea, and therefore intended to "bring up"--ominous term!--in Owesly Bay, near Harwich. The rain drove me into the "splendid saloon," which I would have bartered for a cellar in Fetterlane; and, after half an hour's doubt and wonder whether I was going round the world, or the world round me, I felt it not only prudent, but necessary, to seek greater privacy; and, after much sorrow and tempest of spirit, I got into my comfortable bed.
The captain was as good, or rather as bad, as his word. He "brought up" in Owesly Bay, and I will say no more than that the force of example was astonishing. How long we waited about in that sad bay, I cannot exactly say, as I had become insensible to the nice distinction between tossing up and down, and pitching and rolling at anchor, or going on. It was enough, and too much for me, that we did toss up and down, and pitch and roll.
So ended Wednesday the 14th. We were intended to arrive at Hamburg at two o'clock on Friday morning; but the adverse wind, and bringing up, seemed to throw a doubt over this.
Still it was not impossible, if the wind abated. Thursday morning was ushered in by numerous inquiries as to where we were. We were more than gratified by being told "Much where we were last night." This was told to me, who felt that I had signed a lease for my life, extending only to Friday, at two A.M., as the longest possible time I could hold out; and that after that time the lease would be up, and I should be ejected from my mortal tenement.
The Germans who were on board ate and drank heartily, and wanted me to get up and shave. I thought that the chance of being drowned was enough, without the certainty of cutting my throat from ear to ear, which I should inevitably have done if I had attempted to use a razor in the state of the vessel's movements. They endeavoured to get me up, by touching my national pride.
"What! an Englishman afraid?" said they.
"No," answered I; "but very sick."
Thursday heard many groans, and, if it had eyes, might have seen many strange sights.
Friday morning, two A.M.--the promised period of our arrival at the haven of our hopes--found us still wide at sea; and it was not till Friday evening that we heard the news that we were off the mouth of the Texel, one hundred miles from the Elbe, which was our destination. We were then in that sort of reckless state that we regarded distance as nothing,--one hundred miles seemed to me, much the same as one thousand; and I opened and shut my mouth in the agonies of despair, and something worse.
All this time I had continued in bed, eating what they brought me, not from any relish or appetite, but on the principle that if you are in a den with a roaring lion, and have a leg of mutton to give him, it is prudent to do so; and there was in my den with me an intolerant and savage spirit, which treated me exceedingly ill when I gave it nothing to wreak its fury upon, and showed but little gratitude when I did, either declining the proffered gifts, or only receiving them to render me more dejected by a speedy and contemptuous return.
Saturday morning early, we heard, with as much joy, and with as much interest as we could feel in anything, that we should soon be in the Elbe, and in tolerably smooth water. What ideas these sailors have of smooth water! I wonder if they ever look in a washing-basin?
As I lay waiting for the smooth water, I could not help anathematising those deceitful vagabonds, the poets, who write very pretty and pleasing lines about a tender affair they call a zephyr, and describe it as "softly sighing on a summer's eve," "lightly dancing on the moonlit lake," "mildly breaking over the bending corn," and a variety of agreeable and amiable habits. But these worthy gentlemen, who write in a comfortable arm-chair, little know the change which takes place in their sighing friend when a dozen or two of them club together to make a gale of wind for an afternoon's amusement. I wish I had had a score of these same poets on board,--the world would never have heard anything from them again about "bending corn!" A zephyr bears about the some proportion to a gale of wind as a Vauxhall slice of ham does to the "whole hog." However, all evils have an end, and ours began to conclude a little; for certainly I seemed to get a little better, and was well enough when we passed Heligoland--which is an island in the possession of his most gracious majesty, whom Heaven long preserve!--to sing lustily, and like a true Briton as I am,
"Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the king!"
I then dressed myself, the water being still too rough to allow me to do anything but cut my throat with my razor; and went on deck, where I soon afterwards enjoyed the sight of green fields, and the villas which ornament the banks of the Elbe, with a most satisfactory view of Hamburg at no great distance.
And, now that I have brought myself to dry land, do I make a vow never again to make a long sea-voyage,--always excepting "leaving my country for my country's good," which may happen; but the Britannia, if she chooses "to rule the waves," never shall have me as an accomplice again, though
"The bark be stoutly timber'd, and the pilot Of very perfect and approv'd allowance."
STRAY CHAPTERS. BY "BOZ."
II. SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION
We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and charming philanthropy, which prompts them never to eat people except when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion of high moral dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example to the rising generation.
All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and indeed says a very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state, however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with, have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to the chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never saw a lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair under a tropical sun waiting till his dinner should happen to come by, hot from the baker's. But we have seen some under the influence of captivity and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.
The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well; he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us! what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant characteristics, whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.
We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon the subject.
With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal of her invitation to an evening party; "for," said she, "I have got a lion coming." We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.
We went early and posted ourself in an eligible part of the drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became inconsolable,--for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to make solemn appointments and never keep them,--when all of a sudden there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, "My dear, Mr. ---- (naming the lion) has this moment arrived."
Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously with great gaiety and good-humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and smalltalk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the company, and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been ordered from the music-shop to play the pianoforte, was visibly affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his excitement.
All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of "Oh, capital! excellent!" from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands and every expression of half-suppressed admiration, that ---- (naming the lion again) was in such cue to-night!
The lion was a literary one: of course there were a vast number of people present, who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon them.
While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously. To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble animal had said in the very act of coming up stairs, which, of course, rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of interceding to procure the majestic brute's sign-manual for their albums. Then, there were little private consultations in different corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion; whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his portrait or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of conversation--themselves and each other.
We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house down stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female of our acquaintance, who--dear old soul!--is the very best person that ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best dishes on the table;--we say we offered our arm to this elderly female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.
Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all they began to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on the lobster-salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities, quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on, however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.
When the salt-cellar, and the fowl's breast, and the trifle, and the lobster-salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal's mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly fuddled.
Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack-wire; and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn the barrel-organ: but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion, literary or otherwise,--and we state it as a fact which is highly creditable to the whole species,--who, occasion offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to his heart's content on the first violin.
THE LEGEND OF BOHIS HEAD.
One of the most south-western points of Ireland is the promontory of Bohis, which forms the northern shore of the bay of Balinskeligs. A singular conformation of rock is observable upon the extremity of the wild cape, it being worn by the incessant beating of the billows into a grotesque resemblance of the human profile. The waves, however, are not suffered to claim undisputed this rude sculpture as their own; a far different origin being attributed to it by the legends of the country around. The following is the legend, as told to us.
In times long, very long ago,--prior even to that early age when Milesius came over from Spain, to plant in Ireland the prolific tribes of the O's and the Mac's,--Bohis Head, instead of the abrupt, broken cliffs that now terminate it, presented a lofty and uniform wall of rock to the assaults of the Atlantic. Upon the topmost summit (much about where now stand the unfinished walls of one of those desirable winter-residences, the coast watch-towers, built at the end of the last war,) there stood, at the period of our tale, the castle of a very celebrated personage, generally known in those parts as the Baon Ri Dhuv,--in plain English, "The Black Lady,"--a title partly bestowed on her, on account of her dark hair and face, and partly on account of the cruelty and tyranny which she exercised upon all those who were subject to her dominion. She must have been redoubtable in no small degree, as, besides the possession of a large army, which she could at any time collect from her numerous array of vassals, she was a deep proficient in the art of magic, and was even said to have once, by the potency of her spells, prevented a drop of rain from falling upon her territories (which included the whole of Munster) for a week together. But as the south of Ireland at least has never since been known to be so long without showers, this feat is not so implicitly believed as other of the traditions about her. However that may be, this at least is certain, that she wanted for nothing that force or fraud, fair means or means the most unholy, could give her; and she was deemed the happiest as well as the most powerful being in the world.
Those who said this, did not judge truly. In the midst of all her splendour and state, caressed, feared, flattered, obeyed as she was by all, she was not happy; and it is strange that her tenants and servants did not find this out, as her usual method of easing her feelings was by ill-treating and abusing them. But they were, in all probability, too much afraid of her to call even their thoughts their own, for fear of being metamorphosed into goats, or cows, or some other species of beasts; a change of life which, from the scanty grazing of the neighbouring mountain pastures, they did not deem very inviting. She was not happy; and simply because, among her myriad of vassals, flatterers, and slaves, she had not one friend. There was the whole secret. In her inmost soul she--that proud, tyrannical, haughty, hard-hearted woman--felt that, all feared and all potent as she was, she still was no more than mortal; and that within her own breast there was that which tyrannised over herself,--the innate longings of our nature for sympathy, for companionship, for affection. The humblest hind that served her, had a comrade,--a friend; while she, the queen and mistress of all, was the object of detestation as universal as the slavish obedience that met her at every step. At first she scoffed and spurned at the dull internal aching; it was a weakness, she thought, that needed but to be fought against, to be for ever quelled. She sought wars and conflicts; she dived deeper than ever before into the unholy mysteries of the "Black Art;" she revelled, she feasted, and she succeeded in quelling the rebel feeling for a time,--but only for a time. There came a reaction to her excitement; and, while her spirits and all else seemed exhausted and worn out, this dull yearning was stronger and more aching than ever. At length, one day, after a long and painful reverie, she started up, striking her forehead violently, and vowed that she would have a friend,--a companion,--nay, even (as her sentimentality increased with indulgence) a husband,--or perish in the attempt! As the oath passed her lips, a tremendous peal of thunder rolled over the castle towers and passed off to seaward, dying away in the distance with a sound not unlike a wild and prolonged shout of laughter.
She had not much time to lose, if she intended to marry. The little servant-boy, who had been allowed to get drunk on the night of rejoicings for her birth, was now a grave and sedate major-domo of most venerable age. She herself, but some fifteen or sixteen years his junior, was long past the time when the grossest flattery could make her believe that she was young; and her years had not passed over her head without leaving their traces behind. She had been in her best days what is called by friends "rather plain," which generally means "very ugly." Her forehead bowed out and overhung her nose, which endeavoured to stretch out to some decent length, but was unfortunately foiled by the want of a bridge. The mouth, as if it perceived this failure on the part of the feature immediately above it, modestly declined the contest, and retreated far inward. The chin, however, amply made up for all intermediate deficiencies, and even surpassed the forehead in the hugeness of its proportions, or _dis_proportions. Her hair was black, as has been said, and hung in long, lanky clusters about her face. Time seldom improves the human countenance, and certainly made no exception in favour of the Baon Ri Dhuv. At the time of her vow many wrinkles had made their appearance, and unequivocal grey hairs chequered the once uniform sable that covered her head. Magic had not then arrived at the pitch of perfection to which it afterwards attained in the times of Virgilius and Apollonius Rhodius; and, among the inventions yet in the womb of time, were the charms for restoring youth and imparting beauty.
The lady of the castle set off, one fine morning, on the back of a cloud which she had hailed as it was drifting over her chimney-tops, driven inland by the fresh breeze from the ocean. As she was borne along, she looked anxiously right and left down upon the earth, to spy out, if possible, the desired companion. But she found she had grown very fastidious, now that the means of ridding herself of her troublesome desires appeared open to her. She looked at no women; she felt instinctively that none of her own sex could be the friend that would satisfy her heart: but all the young men that she passed over, she scrutinized, as if her life depended upon it. They in their turn stared a good deal at her, as well they might; for it was no common thing, even in those days, to see a woman perched up on a cloud, sailing over your head before a rattling breeze of wind. Perhaps it was their staring at her, so different from the downcast eyes and humble mien of her slaves at home,--perhaps it was their rude remarks that displeased her; whatever it was, on she went without making her choice, until towards the close of the day she found she had nearly crossed Ireland in a diagonal line from south-west to north-east, the wind blowing in that direction. As it still blew merrily, and it was full-moon night, she determined to go on to Scotland, and try whether Sawnie could please her, better then Paddy. With this resolve she had not proceeded more than half a league from the shore of Ireland, when she perceived she was going over a mountain-islet some five or six miles in girth, and apparently very fertile in its soil, for large herds of cattle were grazing upon its sides. It is a trite and true saying, that those who possess much, are often covetous of more; and in her case it was especially true. With a word she stayed the cloud over the island; the wind falling all at once, in obedience to her will. If there were any of the old Vikingir, those daring privateersmen of ancient times, that night upon the waters, how they and their fierce crews must have heaped maledictions on the unseen power that quelled the merry breeze before which they were late careering gaily with bended mast and bellying sail, and summoned them to ply the labouring oar throughout the hours they had vainly hoped to give to slumber! But the Black Lady was not a person to care much for such trifles as curses. If she had been so, she would have led an extremely uncomfortable life, for she had merited a good many of them in her time. Over the island she hung, gazing down upon it, and gloating on its richness and fertility, while she inwardly resolved to strain her magical powers to the utmost, to transfer it from its present position to the neighbourhood of her own coast. Her attention, however, was soon withdrawn from all other objects, and concentrated on one that had just caught her eye: it was a young man, the only one she had as yet seen who did not stare up at her, rudely and impertinently. Indeed he did not look up at all. He seemed to have no eyes, no soul, for any one but a young girl who was by his side. The lady on the cloud could see by the moonlight that the girl's face was exceedingly beautiful; that is to say, as much as could be perceived of it when she occasionally, and but for a moment, raised her eyes from the ground, on which they were riveted.
"Speak! will you not speak to me?" were the words of the young man: "but one word, Eva,--dearest Eva,--to tell me have I offended by my boldness?"
The girl blushed ten times deeper than before, and her lips quivered as at length she slowly murmured out, "No, Conla!"
"Thanks! thanks!" was his rapturous exclamation; "a thousand times thanks, my own, my ... Hallo! what is this? Whence come you?" These latter words were addressed to the Black Lady, as, to his utter astonishment, she alighted from the cloud right in his path. Eva shrieked, and hid her face in his bosom.
"I am the Baon Ri Dhuv," said the enchantress, trying to look dignified, and to smooth away the scowl that had darkened her visage since she perceived his companion,--"the Queen of the South!"
"And what can the Baon Ri Dhuv, the Queen of the South, want with Conla, a shepherd of the north?"
"Young man, mock me not," replied she, frowning most awfully: "you know not, but you may be made to feel, my power. Listen to me," continued she in a milder tone, and putting on what she intended to be a most amiable and engaging look; but which gave her coarse lineaments a still more grotesque hideousness, that almost made the young shepherd laugh in her face, despite the secret dread he felt creeping on his heart. "I am the ruler of a vast tract of country; I have a vast army to do my will; nay, more, I have dominion over the elements in their fiercest rage, and spirits obey my bidding. I am rich beyond counting. You smile, and believe not. Look here!"
As she spoke, she struck the ground three times with her foot, muttering rapidly to herself, when up sprang close to her, a tall tree of the purest gold, the glittering branches laden with jewels beyond all price. Seizing one of these, a magnificent emerald, and pulling it off the branch, again she stamped her foot, and the tree disappeared, leaving the jewel in her hands.
"Here," continued she, putting it into Conla's passive hand, "here is earnest of my wealth; leave that weak girl, and come with me to wealth and happiness!"
Conla had hitherto been kept dumb by the strange scene before him; but now, rousing himself, he looked at his Eva, and meeting her gaze of deep, whole-hearted, confiding affection, he dashed the glittering jewel on the ground, and cried,
"Away, sorceress! I spurn your gifts, your accursed power, yourself! With Eva will I live or die!"
The face of the Black Lady showed horrible in the pale moonlight, as, with a withering scowl of hatred and vengeance, she again spoke:
"You shall not die, insolent wretch! You shall live in agonies to which death were mercy; ay, and she, too,--that worthless thing you prefer to me,--she, too, shall suffer!"
As she spoke, she described a circle in the air with her hand round the island. At once the moon became obscured, and a terrible darkness fell upon all, while a sudden storm swept over the island. Conla and his Eva tried to fly to some cave for refuge, but were arrested by the sight that met their eyes when the transitory darkness cleared away. The moon again shone out brilliantly, and by its light the lovers perceived, to their great horror, that the island itself was in motion! A little ahead of its southernmost point their persecutor was scudding over the waters in a bark, the traditional accounts of which, represent it as a good deal resembling the steam-boats of modern days, for there was smoke issuing out of it; and two or three respectable individuals, with black faces, fiery eyes, horns on their heads, and tails twirled in graceful folds, might be seen through an open hatchway, employed in much the same manner as the hard-working, hard-drinking steam-packet engineers of our own times, while a clacking and clanging of iron was continually heard, similar to the sounds that annoy sea-sick passengers at present. From the taffrail of this inviting-looking vessel, three or four strong cables stretched to the island, and were rove through an immense hole in a huge projecting rock, that seemed as if it had been bored for this especial purpose. The steamer tugged gallantly, and the island plashed and splashed heavily along, at the rate of twenty or thirty knots an hour: the cows and sheep upon the latter, not having their sea-legs aboard, tumbled and rolled about in fine style. Eva got exceedingly sea-sick, and Conla exceedingly indignant: but there was no use in his anger. On the island went.
On and on,--past Belfast, Drogheda, Dublin,--rattling and splashing along, greatly to the astonishment of the fishes, who, besides being then quite unaccustomed to public steaming, had never before seen an island on the move. Between Dublin and Holyhead there was a little difficulty; for the island, which was exceedingly unmanageable, fetched away to starboard, and took the ground a little outside of Howth. This was a cause of great delight to the lovers, who thought their voyage was now at an end; but they were much mistaken; two of the amiable gentry who manned the tug-boat jumped lightly on the island, and cut away with a couple of strokes of an axe the part that was aground, it breaking into two pieces, which remain to this day, proof of the truth of this tale, under the names of Lambay and Ireland's Eye. On went the steamer again, and on went the island merrily and clumsily as ever, and the Black Lady looked back and laughed at the disappointed lovers.
Wicklow went by,--Wexford,--and now the shores of the county Waterford hove in sight; and the vessel and island, rounding Point Carnsore in gallant style, issued out from the Irish Channel into the waters of the Atlantic.
Morning had broken by this time, and a bright and beautiful morning it was. Eva, overpowered by fatigue, had sunk to sleep; Conla sate beside her, deep anxiety lowering on his brow, and his soul rent with the most agonizing emotions. Meantime his body was just as much disturbed, for the island was now heaving and pitching worse than before, upon the longer billows of the ocean; and he occasionally had to hold on with both his hands to the stones and shrubs near him, to prevent himself from being what sailors would call "hove overboard" by the violent motion of the strange craft in, or rather on, which he was embarked. Disliking his situation exceedingly, and greatly fearing that he would have still more reason to do so, he saw that there was no chance of his delivery from it, if he could not succeed in mollifying the enraged enchantress. Espying her again seated upon the steamer's taffrail, he therefore hailed her, and sought by humble prayers and entreaties to induce her to release him and his Eva; or, if one should suffer, to set her free, and vent the heaviest vengeance upon his head. But the Black Lady let him talk on. He had a very sweet voice, and she liked to hear that; and, when he had done, she contented herself with simply shaking her head in token of refusal: then, as he again stooped his proud spirit to still more vehement entreaties and supplications, and raved in the intensity of his anguish, she mocked at him, and laughed loud and long in scorn, till at length, wearied out and despairing, he sunk his head upon his bosom, and was silent. Slowly the day wore on, but quickly the headlands and bays of the southern shore of Ireland glided by; and great was the wonder and amaze of those who looked to seaward from that shore. Many were the noble fishes left that day in the depths of the ocean with the barbed hook fast in their jaws, as the wild natives of the coast, in terror at the sight of the demon vessel and her charge, hove overboard their rude fishing-gear to lighten their frail coracles, and plied sail and oar to seek refuge on the land. It has been even surmised that it was some such sight as this, that scared that first great geographer, Ptolemy, and made him fly the Irish coast ere he had completed his survey. However, this is a point that has never been fully ascertained.
The sun was sinking gloriously into the bosom of the slow-heaving main as the steamer, with the island in tow, rounded Dursey Head, and hove in sight of their destination, the promontory of Bohis. With exultation in her eyes, the Baon Ri Dhuv pointed out her lofty castle, shining in the distance with the last rays of the departing orb of day. Eva was now awake, and her and Conla's supplications were poured out for mercy and for pity; but they might as well have been uttered to Bohis Head itself. The leagues between the latter place and Dursey Head were rapidly traversed, and now the island had been towed within a mile of its final destination, which was the promontory on which the castle stood. At this moment another sudden storm, such as that of the preceding night, passed athwart the scene; and, when it cleared away, the steamer had disappeared, and the Black Lady was to be seen, upon the headland tugging at the island to bring it closer.
"Is there no help in Heaven!" cried Conla, as, after another appeal in vain to their persecutor, he threw his eyes up with a reproachful glance.
"Hush, Conla! reproach not the powers above; they are most merciful, and will protect us. Hark! they answer!"
At this moment a heavy peal of thunder crashed over head, and, rolling towards the castle, seemed to expend itself over its summit.
"Dread lady," cried Eva, animated to unusual courage by the omen, "hearken to that, and yield to the powers of Heaven!--they declare against thy tyranny!"
"Never!" roared the tyrant, her eyes flashing baleful fire. "Sooner will I become part of this mountain on which I stand mistress, than ye shall escape me!"
As she spoke, she gave a pull with her utmost strength to the chains. At the moment a vivid flash of lightning darted from the clouds, and the chains snapped right asunder. With the force of the shock the Black Lady was precipitated into the sea, the island at the same time rebounding back and becoming fixed for ever about halfway between Dursey and Bohis Head.
The Baon Ri Dhuv's tenants and servants spent the night in vainly searching for her. The morning revealed to them a terrible sight. Upon the extremity of the cape her well-known visage appeared, but transformed to stone, and doomed for ages to remain there, lashed by the raging billows of the ocean. Thus was her fatal wish accomplished!
The island so strangely brought round, remains where it recoiled to, and is now known by the name of Scariff. It is still rich land, and feeds many herds; a strong proof of the authenticity of this tale, and which is farther borne out by the fact, that the hole through which the towing-chains were rove remains to this hour. Conla and Eva lived happily for the rest of their days where they were, and left a numerous progeny. It is said that the little old man who, with his strapping offspring, fourteen in number, now tenants the island, is their lineal descendant. The emerald that Conla threw away was afterwards found, and preserved as a memorial of the events narrated until the times of Cromwell; when some of his soldiers, having visited the island for the laudable purpose of killing a friar who lived there as a hermit, indulged another of their virtuous propensities by carrying the jewel away with them.
BOB BURNS AND BERANGER. SAM LOVER AND OVIDIUS NASO.
BY FATHER PROUT.
TO THE EDITOR OF BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.
SIR,--Under the above title I forward you two more scraps from Water-grass-hill.
The first is a glee in praise of poverty, a subject on which poets of every country have a common understanding. The Italian BERNI, indeed, went a step farther when he sang the "comforts of being in debt,"--La laude del debito; but your enthusiast never knows where to stop. This MS. may suit in the present state of the money market,--a bill drawn by Burns and endorsed by Beranger. You can rely on the Scotchman's signature, experto crede Roberto; while there can be no doubt that the French songster's financial condition fully entitles him to join Burns in an attempt of this kind. Since, however, much spurious paper appears to be afloat, you will use your own discretion as to the foreign acceptance.
Of Scrap No. VI. I say nothing, Doctor Prout having left a note on the subject prefixed to the same. Yours, &c. RORY O'DRYSCULL. Water-grass-hill, April 20.
SCRAP NO. V.
I. 1. Is there, Quoi! Pauvre honnête For honest poverty, Baisser la tête? That hangs his head Quoi! rougir de la sorte? And a' that? Que l'âme basse The coward slave S'éloigne et passe We pass him by, Nous--soyons gueux! n'importe! We dare be poor for a' that: Travail obscur-- For a' that, and a' that, N'importe! Our toils obscure, Quand l'or est pur And a' that; N'importe! The rank is but Qu'il ne soit point The guinea's stamp, Marqué au coin The MAN's the gowd for a' that. D'un noble rang--qu'importe!
II. 2. What! though Quoiqu'on dût faire On homely fare we dine, Bien maigre chère Wear hidden grey, Et vêtir pauvre vêtement; And a' that; Aux sots leur soie, Give fools their silks, Leur vin, leur joie; And knaves their wine, Ça fait'il L'HOMME? eh, nullement! A man's a MAN for a' that: 'Luxe et grandeur-- For a' that, for a' that, Qu'importe! Their tinsel show, Train et splendeur-- And a' that; Qu'importe! The honest man, Coeurs vils et creux! Though e'er so poor, Un noble gueux Is king o' men for a' that. Vaut toute la cohorte!
III. 3. Ye see Voyez ce fat-- Yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Un vain éclat Wha struts and stares, L'entoure, et on l'encense, And a' that; Mais après tout Though hundreds worship Ce n'est qu'un fou,-- At his word, Un sot, quoiqu'il en pense; He's but a coof for a' that: Terre et maison, For a' that, for a' that, Qu'il pense-- His riband, star, Titre et blazon, And a' that; Qu'il pense-- The man of Or et ducats, Independent mind Non! ne font pas Can look and laugh at a' that. La vraie indépendence!
IV. 4. A king Un roi peut faire Can make a belted knight, Duc, dignitaire, A marquis, duke, Comte et marquis, journellement; And a' that; Mais ce qu'on nomme But an HONEST MAN Un HONNÊTE HOMME, 's aboon his might, Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement! Guid faith he manna fa' that. Tristes faveurs! For a' that, for a' that, Réellement; Their dignities, Pauvres honneurs! And a' that; Réellement; The pith o' sense Le fier maintien And pride o' warth Des gens de bien Are higher ranks than a' that. Leur manque essentiellement.
V. 5. Then let us pray Or faisons voeu That come it may-- Qu'à tous, sous peu, As come it will Arrive un jour de jugement;-- For a' that-- Amis, ce jour That sense and warth, Aura son tour, O'er all the earth, J'en prends, j'en prends, l'engagement. May bear the gree, and a' that! Espoir et encouragement, For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, Aux pauvres gens For a' that, Soulagement; That man to man, 'Lors sure la terre The warld a' o'er, Vivrons en frères, Shall brothers be, for a' that. Et librement, et sagement!
SCRAP NO. VI.
Possevino, in his History of the Gonzagas, (fol. Mantua, 1620,) tells us, at page 781, that a Polish army, having penetrated to the Euxine, found the ashes, with many MSS. of Ovid under a marble monument, which they transferred in pomp to Cracow, A.D. 1581. It is well known that the exiled Roman had written sundry poems in barbaric metre to gratify the Scythian and Getic literati with whom he was surrounded. We have his own words for it:
"_Cæpique poetæ Inter inhumanos nomen habere Getas._"
The following is a fair specimen, procured by the kindness of the late erudite Quaff-y-punchovitz, Keeper of the Archives of the Cracovian University. The rhythmic termination, called by the Greeks [Greek: omoioteleuton] is here clearly traceable to a Northern origin. It would appear that the Scandinavian poets took great pride in the nicety and richness of these rhymes, by which they beguiled the tediousness of their winter nights:
"Accipiunt inimicam hyemem RIMIS_que, fatiscunt._"
Ovid first tried thus an experiment on his native tongue, which was duly followed up by the CHURCH, not unwilling to indulge by any reasonable concession her barbarous converts in the sixth century. Of Mr. Lover's translation it were superfluous to point out the miraculous fidelity; delicate gallantry and well-sustained humour distinguish every line of his vernacular version, hardly to be surpassed by the Ars amandi of his Latin competitor.
TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY AD MOLLISSIMAM PUELLAM, È GETICÂ CAREW, THE LAMENT OF HER CARUARUM FAMILIÂ OVIDIUS IRISH LOVER. NASO LAMENTATUR.
1. I. Och hone! Heu! heu! Oh! what will I do? Me tædet, me piget o! Sure my love is all crost, Cor mihi riget o! Like a bud in the frost ... Ut flos sub frigido ... And there's no use at all Et nox ipsa mî, tum In my going to bed; Cum vado dormitùm, For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, Infausta, insomnis, That comes into my head ... Transcurritur omnis ... And 'tis all about you, Hoc culpâ fit tuâ My sweet Molly Carew, Mî, ollis Carùa, And indeed 'tis a sin Sic mihi illudens, And a shame.-- Nec pudens.-- You're complater than nature Prodigum tu, re In every feature; Es, verâ, naturæ, The snow can't compare Candidor lacte;-- To your forehead so fair: Plus fronte cum hâc te, And I rather would spy Cum istis ocellis, Just one blink of your eye Plus omnibus stellis Than the purtiest star Mehercule vellem.-- That shines out of the sky; Sed heu, me imbellem! Tho'--by this and by that! A me, qui sum fidus, For the matter o' that-- Vel ultimum sidus You're more distant by far Non distat te magis ... Than that same. Quid agis! Och hone, wierasthrew! Heu! heu! nisi tu I am alone Me ames, In this world without you! Pero! pillauleu!
2. II. Och hone! Heu! heu! But why should I speak Sed cur sequar laude Of your forehead and eyes, Ocellos aut frontem When your nose it defies Si NASI, cum fraude, Paddy Blake the schoolmaster Prætereo pontem?... To put it in rhyme?-- Ast hic ego minùs Though there's one BURKE, Quàm ipse LONGINUS He says, In verbis exprimem Who would call it _Snub_lime ... Hunc nasum sublimem ... And then for your cheek, De floridâ genâ Throth 'twould take him a week Vulgaris camoena Its beauties to tell Cantaret in vanum As he'd rather:-- Per annum.-- Then your lips, O machree! Tum, tibi puella! In their beautiful glow Sic tument labella They a pattern might be Ut nil plus jucundum For the cherries to grow.-- Sit, aut ribicundum; 'Twas an apple that tempted Si primitùs homo Our mother, we know; Collapsus est pomo, For apples were scarce Si dolor et luctus I suppose long ago: Venerunt per fructus, But at this time o' day, Proh! ætas nunc serior 'Pon my conscience I'll say, Ne cadat, vereor, Such cherries might tempt Icta tam bello A man's father! Labello: Och hone, wierasthrew! Heu! heu! nisi tu I'm alone Me ames, In this world without you! Pereo! pillaleu!
3. III. Och hone! Heu! heu! By the man in the moon! Per cornua lunæ You teaze me all ways Perpetuò tu ne That a woman can plaze; Me vexes impunè?... For you dance twice as high I nunc choro salta With that thief Pat Macghee (Mac-ghìus nam tecùm) As when you take share Plantâ magis altâ Of a jig, dear, with me; Quàm sueveris mecùm!... Though the piper I bate, Tibicinem quando For fear the ould chate Cogo fustigando Wouldn't play you your Ne falsum det melus, Favourite tune. Anhelus.-- And when you're at Mass A te in sacello My devotion you crass, Vix mentem revello, For 'tis thinking of you Heu! miserè scissam I am, Molly Carew; Te inter et Missam; While you wear on purpose Tu latitas vero A bonnet so deep, Tam stricto galero That I can't at your sweet Ut cernere vultum Pretty face get a peep. Desiderem multùm. Oh! lave off that bonnet, Et dubites jam, nùm Or else I'll lave on it (Ob animæ damnum) The loss of my wandering Sit fas hunc deberi Sowl! Auferri! Och hone! like an owl, Heu! heu! nisi tu Day is night, Coràm sis, Dear, to me without you! Cæcus sim: eleleu!
4. IV. Och hone! Heu! heu! Don't provoke me to do it; Non me provocato, For there's girls by the score Nam virginum sat, o! That loves me, and more. Stant mihi amato ... And you'd look very queer, Et stuperes planè, If some morning you'd meet Si aliquo manè My wedding all marching Me sponsum videres; In pride down the street. Hoc quomodo ferres? Throth you'd open your eyes, Quid diceres, si cum And you'd die of surprise Triumpho per vicum, To think 'twasn't you Maritus it ibi, Was come to it. Non tibi! And 'faith! Katty Naile Et pol! Catherinæ And her cow, I go bail, Cui vacca, (tu, sine) Would jump if I'd say, Si proferem hymen "Katty Naile, name the day." Grande esset discrimen; And though you're fair and fresh Tu quamvis, hìc aio As the blossoms in May, Sis blandior Maio, And she's short and dark Et hæc calet rariùs Like a cowld winter's day, Quàm Januarius; Yet, if you don't repent Si non mutas brevi, Before Easter,--when Lent Hanc mihi decrevi Is over--I'll marry (Ut sic ultus forem) For spite. Uxorem; Och hone! and when I Tum posthâc diù Die for you, Me spectrum 'Tis my ghost that you'll see Verebere tu ... eleleu! every night!
FAMILY STORIES. No. IV.--THE SQUIRE'S STORY.
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. A GOLDEN LEGEND.
"Tunc miser Corvus adeo conscientiæ stimulis compunctus fuit, et execratio eum tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde tabescere inciperet, maciem contraheret, omnem cibum aversaretur, nec ampliùs crocitaret: pennæ præterea ei defluebant, et alis pendulis omnes facetias intermisit, et tam macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miserescerent."
"Tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem absolverent; quo facto, Corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pristinam santitatem recuperavit." De Illust. Ord. Cisterc.
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,-- In sooth, a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out, Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all! With a saucy air, He perch'd on the chair Where in state the great Lord Cardinal sat In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peer'd in the face Of his Lordship's Grace With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, "The devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"
The feast was over, the board was clear'd, The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd, And six little singing-boys,--dear little souls In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed, and filled with water as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender water and eau de Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more A napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fring'd with pink, And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in permanent ink.
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white: From his finger he draws His costly turquoise; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring.
* * * * *
There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out; The friars are kneeling, And hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-coloured shoe, And left his red stockings expos'd to the view; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels. They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs:-- But no! no such thing; They can't find the ring; And the abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it, Some rascal or other had popped in, and prigg'd it!"
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger, and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He curs'd him at board, he curs'd him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He curs'd him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He curs'd him in eating, he curs'd him in drinking, He curs'd him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He curs'd him in sitting, in standing, in lying, He curs'd him in walking, in riding, in flying, He curs'd him living, he curs'd him dying! Never was heard such a terrible curse; But, what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!
The day was gone, The night came on, The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn; When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay, As on yesterday; His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way; His pinions droop'd, he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That's him!-- That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray, be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limp'd on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, 'Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the ring, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Serv'd in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution. When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. He hopped now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumber'd in pray'r time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "caw," As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manner they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw! He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint, The conclave determined to make him a Saint; And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, So they canoniz'd him by the name of Jem Crow!
OUR SONG OF THE MONTH. No. VI. June, 1837.
I. Mother of summer roses! Winter's ling'ring closes Made us fear for thee:-- Many a hope was wailing, Thinking thou wert sailing, With thy smile, To some false isle, Upon our tribute sea!
II. Mother of summer roses! Nought on earth opposes Our fond claim to thee! Find'st thou welcome dearer? Beauty or minstrels nearer? In the arch Of thy round march Can gentler rest-place be?
III. Mother of summer roses, June! thy month discloses All that is sweet and fair: Birds and flower wreathing Minstrel garlands, breathing Song and bloom In one perfume, Reviving the faint air!
IV. Mother of summer roses! On thy breast reposes The flush'd cheek of the year: Break not his soft slumbers With rude music-numbers: Mingled gush Of stream and thrush Be all that may come near! W.
PERIODICAL LITERATURE OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS.
It is an astounding but gratifying proof of the rapid march of civilization, that periodical literature springs up and flourishes among tribes and nations which, but twenty or thirty years ago, had hardly advanced a few steps beyond barbarism. A Cherokee newspaper has for some time been published, and in the Sandwich Islands a gazette has recently been established; and a file of a paper called "the Indian Phoenix," published in the United States, under the superintendence of an Indian editor, and addressed exclusively to his countrymen, has just fallen under our notice. These are pleasing facts for the consideration of every true philanthropist, and stable data on which the philosopher may argue that the day is not far distant when the rays of knowledge shall illumine every nation of the earth. Wherever a newspaper is established, ignorance must diminish; for the newspaper is not only the effect, but the cause of civilization,--not only the work itself, but the means by which the work is performed. The Indian Phoenix is published in the English language at Washington, and is from thence distributed among these roving aborigines, not only in every part of the United States, but throughout the vast territories of Mexico and Texas. The paper is not only edited, but printed by Indians; and, whatever may be said of the intellectual portions of it, the mechanical parts will certainly bear comparison with the provincial journals of England, and are much before the newspapers of several of the nations of Europe, those of Germany and Portugal for instance, which are as wretched specimens of typography as it is now possible to meet with.
For the amusement of our readers we shall proceed to make a few extracts from these very curious journals. The principles which are advocated therein will, no doubt, appear startling at first sight; but a little reflection will show, that, although strange, they are not altogether unfounded. These men have, by the strong arms of European civilization, been driven from the wild forests inherited by their forefathers, the woods they hunted in have been converted into corn-fields, and the clear waters of the lonely rivers beside which they dwelt have been contaminated by the refuse of smoky manufactories, and rendered busy with the sails and paddle-wheels of enterprising commerce. The civilization which thus came upon the land from afar has now reached its original inhabitants; and the Indians, savages no more, have begun to employ the arts of peace and the powerful weapons of opinion to reconquer a portion of the broad lands of which they have been despoiled. The struggles in Texas, and the unsettled state of Mexico, have caused them to turn their eyes in that direction; and they have been inspired by the hope that Mexico is to be the region in which all the scattered tribes will be collected together to form one great independent nation. It is not intended in this brief notice to speculate upon the probability or improbability of such a scheme, or to say whether or not these dispersed and dismembered clans, without leader or bond of union, will ever be able to accomplish so gigantic a project. It is sufficient to state that such is their object, in order that the reader may understand the allusions in the extracts which we shall place before him. The following will show the prose these Indians are capable of writing (we shall come to their poetry by and by), and will also give an idea of their political creed. In the leading article of the first number, the editor says,
"Our creed may be met with in these words. We render unto the self-esteemed civilized world the things which are the self-esteemed civilized world's, and unto the long-oppressed, yet noble, elevated, and dignified Indian the things which once belonged and shall again belong to him."
These sentiments, and their open avowal, although they may not cause the settler to tremble for the safety of his homestead, ought nevertheless to make the statesman ponder well on the condition and aspirations of this ill-used race. The editor continues:
"In the deep gloom of the future position of these countries we see no evidence of a single periodical grasping with energetic vision the coming time. Alone, therefore, do we step on the arena of public opinion. With nerved heart and nerved hand shall we advance: the curiosity of the many, the surprise of others, the encouragement of the few, the denunciations of the National Gazette, or New York American, or all who may follow in their fetid and nauseous trail, shall not turn wide one of the barbed arrows which shall now and henceforth be launched unsparingly at all who cross our path."--"We are not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of truth and soberness."
The following little bit of Scriptural exposition will, no doubt, cause a smile even on the grave faces of the learned doctors who are versed in Biblical knowledge. The Indians, stigmatized by the civilized nations of the earth for the cruel practice of scalping their fallen enemies, bring forward the authority of our sacred book in their justification. Even David, the man after God's own heart, and one of the finest poets the world ever produced, went out on the war-path like a Mohican or a Cherokee, and bore away the scalps of his enemies! The editor hints that this alone would warrant the assertion which has been so often put forth, that America was peopled by the lost ten tribes of Israel. He says,
"We invite the attention--we throw down the gauntlet of defiance to all and every civilized Christian in Europe or America to gainsay or dispute the correctness or validity of the inferences and facts stated below. The Scriptures say,
"'And Michal, Saul's daughter, loved David; and they told Saul, and the thing pleased him.
"'And Saul said, I will give him her that she may be a snare to him, and that the hand of the Philistines may be against him.
"'And Saul said, Thus shall ye say to David: the king desireth not any dowry, but a hundred foreskins of the Philistines, to be avenged on the king's enemies. But Saul thought to make David fall by the hand of the Philistines.
"'Wherefore David arose, he and his men, and slew of the Philistines two hundred men, and David brought their foreskins, and they gave them in full toll to the king, that he might be the king's son-in-law.'
"We see from this," (continues the editor of the Phoenix,) "that David, who was a great Jewish warrior, went out on the war-path not from any motive of war, or to revenge the death of his fallen comrades; but for what? Why, to get a marriage portion to lay before the king of the Jewish nation. And what was this marriage portion? Lo! it was one hundred scalps of the Philistines. * * * * * At the conclusion we are told that Michal, Saul's daughter, loved him. Why? Because he was a great warrior, who had taken many scalps, and, moreover, David behaved himself wisely, that is, cunning, in taking of scalps from the Philistines, so that his name was much set by. As the Jews were in the time of Saul and David, so are the Indian tribes of the West and of North America. They go out on the war-path, they return with scalps; and the daughters of the tribe sing, as in the days of David, 'The warrior Dutch hath slain his tens, but the warrior Smith hath slain his fifties in the villages of the Tarwargans.'"
The following is a specimen of the poetry,--one of the war-songs of these regenerated Indians. We cannot say it is quite equal to the prose, but it is certainly more curious.
"Indian chiefs, arise! The glorious hour's gone forth, And in the world's eyes Display who gave you birth! Indian chiefs, let us go In arms to Mexico; Till the Spanish blood shall flow In a river at our feet.
Then, manfully despising The pale faces' yoke, Let your tribes see you rising Till your chains is broke!"
Fastidious readers may object both to the vigour and the grammar of the above; but we have still richer specimens in store for them. The song continues:
"As rose the tribes of Judah In days long past and gone, I'll lead you to as good a Land to be your own.
Cherokee! in slumbers Why lethargic wilt thou lie? Arise, and bring thy numbers Us to ally.
Arouse! Oh, then, awake thee! And hasten to my standard; For I will ne'er forsake thee, But ever lead the vanguard!
Come on, the brave Oneida, Seneca, Delaware, The promised land divide a- -Mong you when you're there."
The rhymes of "Judah" and "good a" and "standard" and "vanguard," are tolerably original; but they are beaten hollow by that of the last verse, "Oneida" and "divide a-"!--"-Mong you when you're there," is a sequel which has much more truth than elegance in it. "-Mong you (when you're there?)" we would suggest as a new and improved reading of the passage. The following is in a much more elevated style; there is a rough vigour about it which many of our own namby-pamby poetasters would do well to imitate. The rhymes are also more felicitous, and the measure and grammar less objectionable.
"The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We planned an expedition: We met a host, and quelled it; We took a strong position, And killed the men who held it!"
The above stanza is unique. Every line tells; and there is a raciness, a tartness about it, if we may so express it, which is quite delightful.
"The valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter."
Many ballads have been written about Rob Roy, who also had a sneaking inclination for the "fat sheep" of other people: but the daring simplicity of these lines has never been surpassed. The song continues:
"On Norte's richest valley, There herds of kine were browsing; We made a nightly sally To furnish our carousing. Fierce soldiers rushed to meet us, We met them, and o'erthrew them; They struggled hard to beat us, But we conquered them, and slew them!
As we drove our prize at leisure, Santa Anna marched to catch us; His rage surpassed all measure, Because he could not match us. He fled to his hall pillars; But, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, While others cut his head off."
Poetry has always been allowed some licence, and we suppose we must pass over the assertion in the last line, by merely observing by the way that Santa Anna is, in vulgar phrase, still "alive and kicking." The song ends thus:
"We then, in strife bewildering, Spilt blood enough to swim in; We orphaned many children, (childering) And widowed many women.
The eagles and the ravens We glutted with the foemen; Their heroes and their cravens, Their lancers and their bowmen.
As for Santa Anna, their blood-red chief, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow our chorus."
The foregoing extracts are all in a warlike strain. We will now give a few specimens of the softer lyrics in which these scalpers indulge. The Irish melodies of Moore are, it appears, not unknown even amongst them; and that they are admired, the following imitation, or rather parody, of one of the most beautiful of them will sufficiently show.
"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that Mexican vale in whose bosom "lakes" meet. Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal, and brightest of green; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill: Oh, no, it was something more heart-touching still!
'Twas remembrance of all,--Montezuma--his throne-- The power and the glory of Aztek all gone! Like the leaves of the forest in autumn are strewn, Were the splendour and hope of that race overthrown.
But the day-star is rising unclouded and bright, That shall clear and illumine long ages of night, And restore to that valley the Indian race, And leave of their white lords no longer a trace.
Sweet "Mexican valley," how calm shall we rest In thy bosom of shade, when thy sons are all blest! When 'neath the fig-tree and the vine of each man They shall sing to the praise of the Almighty one! When the storm of the war, and its bloodshed, shall cease, And our hearts, like her lakes, be mingled in peace!"
Interspersed through the papers are various imitations of our poets, especially of Scott, Byron, and Mrs. Hemans. As an apology for the plagiarisms, the editor places over the poet's corner the following motto:
"To the living poets we beg to say, that it not being fair for them to monopolize the best words in the language we write in, to say nothing of the ideas, we take free liberty with them when need is. We will make them amends two years hence when they come to see us in the valleys of Mexico. To the illustrious dead we shall fully explain our reasons when we may chance to meet them in the 'great elsewhere.'"
The next specimen is an imitation of Ossian, a bard whose poetry must necessarily possess many charms for them.
"Come, all ye warriors! come with your chief--come! The song rises like the sun in my soul! I feel the joys of other times. The Cherokee was on the land of Arkansas. The strange warriors of the prairie were rich in horses. We said in our souls, why not give the Tarwargans of their abundance? Six of our warriors were found on the great prairie, advancing like the moon among clouds, concealed from the view. Days had passed when they approached the wigwams of the Tarwargans. A narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged trees. The blue course of a stream is there. The horses were secured. Their feet were slowly advancing towards the wigwams. Not without eyes were the Tarwargans. The warriors had not been invisible. High hopes of prairie horses and the scalps of the enemy fill their souls. A blast came upon them. The sound of rifles was heard in the air. Three of the warriors fell! The tomahawk descended, and they were left in their shame without scalps. Two warriors fled together. SMOKE (a warrior) fled not: he rushed for safety, and laid himself low with his rifle among the briers. Shouts of triumph are heard. The Tarwargans return. The slain are dragged to the dancing-ground--oh, grief! oh, revenge! Did you not know the heart of Smoke? Placed in the ground are three stakes; tied are the scalpless dead! Upright they sit. Oh, grief! the derision of the Tarwargans! 'Cunning warriors are ye, oh, Cherokees! but your scalps are at our feet.'"
The following, which the editor assures us is a literal translation from an old song highly popular among the aboriginal tribes of Mexico, is interesting. The poetry of the original is so sublime that the translator, in despair of equalling it in rhyme, has given it us in plain prose.
"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl (the Terrible God) o-ah! o-ah! o-ah! The son of the woman of Tula. The green plume is on his head, the wing of the eagle is on his leg; his forehead is blue, like the firmament. He carries a spear and buckler, and with the fir-tree of Colhuacan he crushes the mountains! O-ah! o-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteotl!"
* * * * *
"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl! o-ah! o-ah! o-ah! my father ate the heart of Xochimilco! Where was Painalton, the god of the swift foot, when the Miztecas ran to the mountains? 'Fast, warrior, fast!' said Painalton, the brother of Mexitli. His foot-print is on the snows of Istaccihuatl, and on the tops of the mountains of Orizaba. Toktepec, and Chinantla, and Matlalzinco were strong warriors, but they shook under his feet as the hills shake when the king of hell groans in the caverns. So my father killed the men of the south, the men of the east, and the men of the west, and Mexitli shook the fir-tree with joy, and Painalton danced by night among the stars! O-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteotl!"
* * * * *
"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl! o-ah! o-ah! Where is the end of Mexico? It begins in Huehuetapallan in the north, and who knows the end of Huehuetapallan? In the south it sees the land of crocodiles and vultures,--the bog and the rock where man cannot live. The sea washes it on the east, the sea washes it on the west, and that is the end: who has looked to the end of the waters? Mexico is the land of blossoms,--the land of the tiger-flower, and the cactus-bud that opens at night like a star,--the land of the dahlia, that ghosts come to snuff at. It is a land dear to Mexitli! O-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteotl!
* * * * *
"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl! o-ah! o-ah! o-ah! Who were the enemies of Mexico? Their heads are in the wall of the house of skulls, and the little child strikes them as he goes by with a twig. Once Mexico was a bog of reeds, and Mexitli slept on a couch of bulrushes. Our god now sits on a world of gold, and the world is Mexico. Will any one fight me? I am a Mexican. Mexitli is the god of the brave. Our city is fair on the island, and Mexitli sleeps with us. When he calls me in the morning, I grasp the quiver,--the quiver and the axe,--and I am not afraid. When he winds his horn from the woods, I know that he is my father, and that he will look at me while I fight. Sound the horn of battle; I see the spear of a foe. Mexitli Tetzauhteotl, we are the men of Mexico! O-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteotl!
With this extract we shall conclude our notice of this very curious subject, promising, however, to return to it at a future period.
EPITAPH.
When London, of a rogue bereft, Saw Tompkins, the distiller, die; It seems some twenty pounds he left, To pay a poet for a lie. Thus wrote the bard, who, lacking gold, Was yet to tell a fib unwilling: "This stone need not his worth disclose, Who half his life was good in-stilling." R. J.
A GEOGRAPHICAL EPIGRAM.
"Oh, dear! such a climate 'tis death to be in-- I surely shall die in the 'Bights of Benin'!"
"All look for your death, and the more shall we rue it, Since the sups, not the 'Bights,' will, alas! bring you to it." R. J.
DARBY THE SWIFT; OR, THE LONGEST WAY ROUND IS THE SHORTEST WAY HOME.
"He who runs may read."