Act I…

Act I

Giles Gaussen accosts old Sir Maurice de Beevor, And puts the poor Knight in a deuce of a fever, By saying the boy, whom he took out to please him, Is come back a Captain on purpose to tease him.-- Sir Maurice, who gladly would see Mr. Gaussen Breaking stones on the highway, or sweeping a crossing, Dissembles--observes, It's of no use to fret,-- And hints he may find some more work for him yet; Then calls at the castle, and tells Lady A. That the boy they had ten years ago sent away Is return'd a grown man, and, to come to the point, Will put her son Percy's nose clean out of joint; But adds, that herself she no longer need vex, If she'll buy him (Sir Maurice) a farm near the Ex. "Oh! take it," she cries; "but secure every document."-- "A bargain," says Maurice,--"including the stock you meant?"--

The Captain, meanwhile, With a lover-like smile, And a fine cambric handkerchief, wipes off the tears From Miss Violet's eyelash, and hushes her fears. (That's the Lady he saved from the Dey of Algiers.) Now arises a delicate point, and this is it-- The young Lady herself is but down on a visit. She's perplex'd; and, in fact, Does not know how to act. It's her very first visit--and then to begin By asking a stranger--a gentleman, in-- One with moustaches too--and a tuft on his chin-- She "really don't know-- He had much better go,"-- Here the Countess steps in from behind, and says "No!-- Fair sir, you are welcome. Do, pray, stop and dine-- You will take our pot-luck--and we've decentish wine." He bows, looks at Miss,--and he does not decline.

Act II

After dinner the Captain recounts, with much glee, All he's heard, seen, and done since he first went to sea, All his perils and scrapes, And his hair-breadth escapes, Talks of boa-constrictors, and lions, and apes, And fierce "Bengal Tigers," like that which, you know, If you've ever seen any respectable "Show," "Carried off the unfortunate Mr. Munro." Then, diverging a while, he adverts to the mystery Which hangs, like a cloud, o'er his own private history-- How he ran off to sea--how they set him afloat, (Not a word, though, of barrel or bung-hole--See Note) --How he happen'd to meet With the Algerine fleet, And forced them, by sheer dint of arms to retreat, Thus saving his Violet--(One of his feet Here just touch'd her toe, and she moved on her seat,)-- How his vessel was batter'd-- In short, he so chatter'd, Now lively, now serious, so ogled and flatter'd, That the ladies much marvell'd a person should be able To "make himself," both said, "so very agreeable."

Captain Norman's adventures were scarcely half done, When Percy Lord Ashdale, her ladyship's son, In a terrible fume, Bounces into the room, And talks to his guest as you'd talk to your groom, Claps his hand on his rapier, and swears he'll be through him-- The Captain does nothing at all but "pooh! pooh!" Unable to smother His hate of his brother, He rails at his cousin, and blows up his mother.-- "Fie! fie!" says the first--Says the latter, "In sooth, This is sharper by far than a keen serpent's tooth!" (A remark, by the way, which King Lear had made years ago, When he ask'd for his Knights, and his Daughter said, "Here's a go!")-- This made Ashdale ashamed; But he must not be blamed Too much for his warmth, for, like many young fellows, he Was apt to lose temper when tortur'd by jealousy. Still speaking quite gruff, He goes off in a huff; Lady A., who is now what some call "up to snuff," Straight determines to patch Up a clandestine match Between the Sea-Captain she dreads like Old Scratch, And Miss,--whom she does not think any great catch For Ashdale;--besides, he won't kick up such shindies Were she once fairly married and off to the Indies.

Act III

Miss Violet takes from the Countess her tone; She agrees to meet Norman "by moonlight alone," And slip off to his bark, "The night being dark," Though "the moon," the Sea-Captain says, rises in Heaven "One hour before midnight," i.e. at eleven. From which speech I infer,-- Though perhaps I may err-- That, though weatherwise, doubtless, 'midst surges and surf, he When "capering on shore" was by no means a Murphy.

He starts off, however, at sunset, to reach An old chapel in ruins, that stands on the beach, Where the Priest is to bring, as he's promised by letter, a Paper to prove his name, "birthright," &c. Being rather too late, Gaussen, lying in wait, Gives poor Father Onslow a knock on the pate, But bolts, seeing Norman, before he has wrested From the hand of the Priest, as Sir Maurice requested, The marriage certificate duly attested.-- Norman kneels by the clergyman fainting and gory, And begs he won't die till he's told him his story; The Father complies, Re-opens his eyes, And tells him all how and about it--and dies!

Act IV

Norman, now call'd Le Mesnil, instructed of all, Goes back, though it's getting quite late for a call, Hangs his hat and his cloak on a peg in the hall, And tells the proud Countess it's useless to smother The fact any longer--he knows she's his Mother! His Pa's wedded Spouse,-- She questions his νους, And threatens to have him turn'd out of the house.-- He still perseveres, Till, in spite of her fears, She admits he's the son she had cast off for years, And he gives her the papers "all blister'd with tears," When Ashdale, who chances his nose in to poke, Takes his hat and his cloak, Just as if in a joke, Determined to put in his wheel a new spoke, And slips off thus disguised, when he sees by the dial it 's time for the rendezvous fixed with Miss Violet.-- --Captain Norman, who, after all, feels rather sore At his mother's reserve, vows to see her no more, Rings the bell for the servant to open the door, And leaves his Mamma in a fit on the floor.

Act V

Now comes the catastrophe!--Ashdale, who's wrapt in The cloak, with the hat and the plume of the Captain, Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel Where Gaussen's conceal'd--he springs forward to grapple The man he's erroneously led to suppose Captain Norman himself by the cut of his clothes. In the midst of their strife, And just as the knife Of the Pirate is raised to deprive him of life, The Captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals Of the Lady, and, knocking Giles head over heels, Fractures his "nob," Saves the hangman a job, And executes justice most strictly, the rather, 'Twas the spot where that rascal had murder'd his father. Then in comes the mother, Who, finding one brother Had the instant before saved the life of the other, Explains the whole case. Ashdale puts a good face On the matter; and, since he's obliged to give place, Yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace; Norman vows he won't have it--the kinsmen embrace,-- And the Captain, the first in this generous race, To remove every handle For gossip and scandal, Sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle; An arrangement takes place--on the very same night, all Is settled and done, and the points the most vital Are, N. takes the personals;--A., in requital, Keeps the whole real property, Mansion, and Title.-- V. falls to the share of the Captain, and tries a Sea-voyage, as a Bride, in the "Royal Eliza."-- Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs, And old Maurice Beevor is bundled down stairs!

MORAL.

The public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel If deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral; This may serve for all three then:--

"Young Ladies of property, Let Lady A.'s history serve as a stopper t'ye; Don't wed with low people beneath your degree, And if you've a baby, don't send it to sea!

"Young Noblemen! shun every thing like a brawl; And be sure when you dine out, or go to a ball, Don't take the best hat that you find in the hall, And leave one in it's stead that's worth nothing at all! "Old Knights, don't give bribes!--above all, never urge a man To steal people's things, or to stick an old Clergyman!

"And you, ye Sea-Captains! who've nothing to do But to run round the world, fight, and drink till all's blue, And tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true, Reflect, notwithstanding your sea-faring life, That you can't get on well long, without you've a wife; So get one at once, treat her kindly and gently, Write a nautical novel,--and send it to Bentley!"

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[16]

An incident very like one in Jack Sheppard-- A work some have lauded, and others have pepper'd-- Where a Dutch pirate kidnaps, and tosses Thames Darrel Just so in the sea, and he's saved by a barrel,-- On the coast, if I recollect rightly, it's flung whole, And the hero, half-drown'd, scrambles out of the bung-hole.

[It aint no sich thing!--the hero aint bung'd in no barrel at all.--He's picked up by a Captain, just as Norman was arterwards.--PRINT. DEV.]

It has been already hinted that Mr. Peters had been a "traveller" in his day. The only story which his lady would ever allow "her P." to finish--he began as many as would furnish an additional volume to the "Thousand and One Nights"--is the last I shall offer. The subject, I fear me, is not over new, but will remind my friends

"Of something better they have seen before."

MR. PETERS'S STORY.

THE BAGMAN'S DOG.

Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL.

It was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drown'd, and one left alive, He was thought worthy alone to survive; And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up, To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup, He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick; He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, Could well understand The word of command, And appear to doze With a crust on his nose Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand: Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail. Never was puppy so bien instruit, Or possess'd of such natural talent as he; And as he grew older, Every beholder Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.-- Time, however his wheels we may clog, Wends steadily still with onward jog, And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog! When, just at the time He was reaching his prime, And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day, How, no one could say, Whether soft liaison induced him to stray, Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away, He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;-- He had been, and was not--that's all that they knew! And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore As never a Bagman had sworn before; But storming or swearing but little avails To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.--

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps,--some half score,-- Then you reach the ground floor, With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door. It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the reign of Queen Anne; Which is odd, for, although, As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho.-- Be this as it may,--at the date I assign To my tale,--that's about Seventeen Sixty Nine,-- This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners,--belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne-- A respectable House in the Manchester line.

There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travell'd full oft for the firm before; But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend-- A trustworthy body, half agent, half friend-- On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg, A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog,-- The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog.

* * * * * "The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!-- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily!"-- So all sing and say By night and by day, In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;-- You may roam through the City, transversely or straight, From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate, And every young Lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustachio'd Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion, Of being a "Rover" and "child of the Ocean"-- Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!" But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!"

* * * * *

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise,"-- --That too's a stone one, this is made of iron-- And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear! Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar,--a Cheapside Buccaneer!"-- But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

* * * * *

"So now we'll go up, up, up, And now we'll go down, down down, And now we'll go backwards and forwards, And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."-- --I hope you've sufficient decernment to see, Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the d Is a fault which you must not attribute to me; Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee," She sung, as she danced me about on her knee, In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three:-- All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters. Resuming her track, At once she goes back To our hero, the Bagman--Alas! and Alack! Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog, Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea, With the sands called the Goodwin's a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, And talking of "caulking," And "quarter-deck walking," "Fore and aft," And "abaft," "Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft," (At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laught,) Of binnacles,--bilboes,--the boom call'd the spanker, The best bower cable,--the jib,--and sheet anchor; Of lower-deck guns,--and of broadsides and chases, Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, And "Shiver my timbers!" and other odd phrases Employed by old pilots with hard-featured faces;-- Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use, The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;-- How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair, And what very long pigtails a great many wear.-- But, Reader, I scorn it--the fact is, I fear, To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier, Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year Eighteen thirty-nine--(how Time flies!--Oh dear!)-- With a well-written preface, to make it appear That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer; There!--"brought up the rear"--you see there's a mistake Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make, I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."-- So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher, The more my poor hero continued to suffer, Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!" Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew, And the thunder kick'd up such a halliballoo, That even the Skipper began to look blue; While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too, And seem'd not to know what exactly to do, And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, "Wind N.E.--blows a hurricane--rains cats and dogs." In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as That Shakspeare describes near the "still vext Bermudas,"[17] When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court, And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda, While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom. You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm, As so many have done, and in colours so warm; Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious, Mr. Ainsworth more gravely,--see also Lucretius, --A writer who gave me no trifling vexation When a youngster at school on Dean Colet's foundation.-- Suffice it to say That the whole of that day, And the next, and the next, they were scudding away Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, Driven quite at their mercy 'Twixt Guernsey and Jersey, Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows, In West longitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes; There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specifical gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, Midst the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, sworn by a shower, Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Reader,--that is, if you've ever been there,-- With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavour; Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,-- Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus. --Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here; 'Twas the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear; Faith, I can't recollect--and I haven't Lempriere.-- No matter,--poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

"O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!" And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize; When as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?--

No such thing, Reader:--most opportunely for Blogg, 'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog!

* * * * *

I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast, But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout Are a class that society doesn't much care about; Men who gain their subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing;" Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach; And they were so to Blogg, When the curly-tail'd dog At last dragg'd him out, high and dry on the beach. But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think "all that glitters is gold;" And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a Maître de Danse, To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)-- Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.-- Be this as it might, It embarrass'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced The petites soins, tendered with so much good taste, To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist, And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste. The group on the shore Consisted of four; You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term a "too dense population," Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle That led away inland direct from the shingle, Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz. an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he, The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.-- They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon-Dieu-ing, Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing.

* * * * *

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it? (Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one," An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, it's clear That, with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnish'd room; "Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes; Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when, seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!" In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon, Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli.

* * * * *

Meanwhile that old man standing by, Subducted his long coat-tails on high, With his back to the fire, as if to dry A part of his dress which the watery sky Had visited rather inclemently.-- Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly, And a something sinister lurk'd in his eye. Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing; He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes, His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose, And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose, So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew; She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat, And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat. The little garçons too strove to express Their sympathy towards the "Child of distress" With a great deal of juvenile French politesse; But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff" Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender and tough, Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!" And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable!

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, That says, "~Good Eatynge Deserveth good Drynkynge~." You'll find it so printed by ~Caxton~ or ~Wynkyn~, And a very good proverb it is to my thinking. Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew, His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!" Pronounced by the old woman under her breath. Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!" He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin." So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, Vee!" Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy; So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy, Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, An orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it; In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"-- --And here by the way, Allow me to say, Kind Reader, you sometimes permit me to stray-- 'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing, So inferior to us in the science of cursing: Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears! And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, Roar out, in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from this little digression:-- Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one; Too little he heeded How fast they succeeded. Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did; For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps, It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink! At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.

Mr. Blogg, besides being uncommonly dry, Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy, --"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply" Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t'other eye;" For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup. At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."-- His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast That garment 'twere rude to Do more than allude to, Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:" So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!" And "marshall'd" him so "The way he should go," Upstairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, Without table or chair, Or a moveable there, Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair, That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.-- With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!" Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more; When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread, The great curly-tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!--

--It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night Through a Churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white, Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite, To find that the Ghost Is merely a post, Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in," And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze, Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head, Or a sever'd carotid, to find that instead Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"-- Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein; You're delighted with what just before gave you pain; You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg Now bestow'd on his friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place On each side his neck in a canine embrace, And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face, And he waggled his tail as much as to say, "Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!" And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out Before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'Twas Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!-- The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair,-- The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there,-- The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!!

It's passing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet,-- With what warmth and affection each other they greet! Especially too, as we very well know, If there seems any chance of a little cadeau, A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po. If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest. But it was not so here; For, although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg, Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;" And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!" So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation, whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt,-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!-- 'Twas "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

* * * * *

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where,) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street;-- --I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and bruises, I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to," And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of, Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux' head off. But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!" Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;" And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.-- Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

* * * * *

It's a great many years ago--mine then were few-- Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux;-- I think that they say She had been, in her day, A First-rate,--but was then what they term a Rasée,-- And they took me on board in the Downs where she lay. (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtained, inter alia, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard--I think it's call'd "Cobbing." How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play-- That is, if I'm right:--it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"-- That's mere matter of taste: But the Frenchman was placed-- I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced-- In such a position, that, on this unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,--ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good day, Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!--

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers!--don't take too much grog!-- And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!-- Above all--carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing; But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye, INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

L'Envoye.

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him, I never once thought to inquire what became of him; If you want to know, Reader, the way, I opine, To achieve your design,-- --Mind, it's no wish of mine,-- Is,--(a penny will do't,)--by addressing a line To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] See Appendix.Return to passage

APPENDIX.[18]

Since penning this stanza, a learn'd Antiquary Has put my poor Muse in no trifling quandary, By writing an essay to prove that he knows a Spot which, in truth, is The real "Bermoothes," In the Mediterranean,--now called Lampedosa;

--For proofs, having made, as he farther alleges, stir, An entry was found in the old Parish Register, The which at his instance the excellent Vicar ex- tracted: viz. "Caliban, base son of Sycorax." --He had rather, by half, Have found Prospero's "Staff;" But 'twas useless to dig, for the want of a pick or axe.-- Colonel Pasley, however, 'tis everywhere said, Now he's blown up the old Royal George at Spithead, And the great cliff at Dover, of which we've all read, Takes his whole apparatus, and goes out to look And see if he can't try and blow up "the Book." --Gentle Reader, farewell!--If I add one more line, "He'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up mine!"

FOOTNOTES:

[18] See page 209.Return to passage

The Ingoldsby Legends.

* * * * *

SECOND SERIES

The Ingoldsby Legends.

SECOND SERIES.

TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

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

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

Tappington Everard, Dec. 16th, 1842.

* * * * *

THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.

A LEGEND OF FRANCE.

François Xavier Auguste was a gay Mousquetaire, The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair: He'd a mien so distingué, and so debonnaire, And shrugg'd with a grace so recherché and rare, And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an air, --His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,-- And, in short, shew'd so much of the true sçavoir faire, All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare, That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law, Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a "Fox Paw," It would be François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix.

Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day, The Court of Versailles was a little too gay; The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play, To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray, Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo), While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores, What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term'd his "Jane Shores," --They were call'd by a much coarser name out of doors.-- This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting! For such courses, when followed by persons of quality, Are apt to detract on the score of morality.

François Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them, Dress'd, drank, and fought, and chassée'd with the best of them; Took his œil de perdrix Till he scarcely could see, He would then sally out in the streets for a "spree;" His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeois, (A word which the English translate "Johnny Raw,") For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in, Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen; And, perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes, In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes, Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes," Should be merely considered as "Little Escapes." But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks, Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.

Be this as it will, In the general, still, Though blame him we must, It is really but just To our lively young friend, François Xavier Auguste, To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were, At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair, And, when gambling his worst, always play'd on the square, So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"), And continued to lose, And to give I O U's, Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews; And, a parallel if I may venture to draw Between François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix, And his namesake, a still more distinguished François, Who wrote to his "sœur"[19] From Pavia, "Mon Cœur, I have lost all I had in the world fors l'honneur."

So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note, "Vive la bagatelle!--toujours gai--idem semper-- I've lost all I had in the world but--my temper!" From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning, His air was so cheerful, his manners so winning, That once he prevailed--or his friends coin the tale for him-- On the bailiff who "nabbed" him, himself to "go bail" for him.

Well--we know in these cases Your "Crabs" and "Deuce Aces" Are wont to promote frequent changes of places; Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare That there's nothing so good as the pure "country air," Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing: A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging, François Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in. But what could be done? It's clear as the sun, That, though nothing's more easy than say "Cut and run!" Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun-- E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do, Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue. And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes, It won't, I am sure, create any surprise That reflections like these half reduced to despair François Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.

Patience par force! He considered, of course, But in vain--he could hit on no sort of resource-- Love?--Liquor?--Law?--Loo? They would each of them do, There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he Could hope to get on sans l'argent--i.e. money. Love?--no;--ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor. Liquor?--no,--that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter."-- Then Law?--'tis the same; It's a very fine game, But the fees and delays of "the Courts" are a shame, As Lord Brougham says himself--who's a very great name, Though the TIMES made it clear he was perfectly lost in his Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes, And don't know his "particles."--Who wrote the articles, Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very well; Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell,--some Merivale; But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw, Viz.: 'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix! Loo?--no;--that he had tried; 'Twas, in fact, his weak side, But required more than any a purse well supplied. "Love?--Liquor?--Law?--Loo? No! 'tis all the same story. Stay! I have it--Ma foi! (that's 'Odd's Bob's!') there is GLORY! Away with dull care! Vive le Roi! Vive la Guerre! Peste! I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire! When a man is like me, Sans six sous, sans souci, A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse, With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at Zero, What on earth can he hope to become,--but a Hero? What a famous thought this is! I'll go as Ulysses Of old did--like him I'll see manners, and know countries;[20] Cut Paris,--and gaming,--and throats in the Low Countries."

So said, and so done--he arranged his affairs, And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.

Now it happen'd just then That Field-Marshal Turenne Was a good deal in want of "some active young men," To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps, Had been made in his ranks by a certain "Great Condé," A General unrivall'd--at least in his own day-- Whose valour was such, That he did not care much If he fought with the French,--or the Spaniards,--or Dutch,-- A fact which has stamped him a rather "Cool hand," Being nearly related to Louis le Grand. It had been all the same had that King been his brother; He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another; For war, so exciting, He took such delight in, He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting. And, as I've just said, had amused himself then By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne; Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern Was to tickle some other Chief's tail in his turn.

What a fine thing a battle is!--not one of those Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's, Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose, Taking great care their blows Did not injure their foes, And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes, Which were varied, to give more effect to "Tableaux," While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to Fate, And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come On to encounter bold General Widdicombe-- But a real, good fight, like Pultowa, or Lützen, (Which Gustavus the great ended all his disputes in,) Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in, Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden, Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden, Where "the sun was low," The ground all over snow, And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow,-- Till its colour was alter'd by General Moreau; While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night, Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright, And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight. 'Twas in just such another one, (Names only bother one-- Dutch ones, indeed, are sufficient to smother one--) In the Netherlands somewhere--I cannot say where-- Suffice it that there La Fortune de guerre Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire. One fine morning, in short, François Xavier Auguste, After making some scores of his foes "bite the dust," Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust; And though, as the Bard says, "No law is more just Than for Necis artifices"--so they call'd fiery Soldados at Rome,--"arte suâ perire," Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix. His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw, And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's Call'd by Professional men the "os femoris;" And the ball being one of those named from its shape, And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape, St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown, And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown.-- --Stagger'd a bit By this "palpable hit," He turn'd on his face, and went off in a fit!

Yes!--a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting.

But a sombre sight is a Battle-field To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye, Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield, In one promiscuous carnage lie; When the cannon's roar Is heard no more, And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away, And the victor comes for a last survey Of the well-fought field of yesterday!

No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-- No proud exulting look is there,-- His eagle glance is humbled now, As, earth-ward bent, in anxious care It seeks the form whose stalwart pride But yester-morn was by his side!

And there it lies!--on yonder bank Of corses, which themselves had breath But yester-morn--now cold and dank With other dews than those of death! Powerless as it had ne'er been born The hand that clasp'd his--yester-morn!

And there are widows wand'ring there, That roam the blood-besprinkled plain, And listen in their dumb despair For sounds they ne'er may hear again! One word, however faint and low,-- Ay, e'en a groan,--were music now!

And this is Glory!--Fame!-- But, pshaw! Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental; Besides, such things we never saw; In fact, they're merely Continental. And then your Ladyship forgets Some widows came for epaulettes.

So go back to your canter; for one, I declare, Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire, A beetle-brow'd hag, With a knife and a bag, And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses The ginger complexion, and one of those noses Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses, Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun, Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.

You remember, I trust, François Xavier Auguste, Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust. Now there's something--I cannot tell what it may be-- About good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty-three, Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, Which affects female hearts, in no common degree, With emotions in which many feelings combine, Very easy to fancy, though hard to define; Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty, Young or old, they experience, in country or city, What's clearly not Love--yet it's warmer than Pity-- And some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise, Arm'd with the blade, So oft used in her trade, The horrible calling e'en now she is plying, Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying! For these "nimble Conveyancers," after such battles, Regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattels, Think nought, in "perusing and settling" the titles, So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.

Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of; For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,--whate'er It may be,--saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!-- The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat, Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coat, And from what, I suppose, I must call his culotte; And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out, That his mouchoir and gloves may be put "up the spout," (For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do Fails to ferret out even a single écu;) As a muscular Giant would handle an elf, The virago at last lifts the soldier himself, And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring town! I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur; And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.

Canto II

I abominate physic--I care not who knows That there's nothing on earth I detest like "a dose"-- That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue I consider extremely unpleasant to view, With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear; Χλωρον δεος, I mean, A nasty pale green, Though for want of some word that may better avail, I presume, our translators have rendered it "pale;" For consider the cheeks Of those "well-booted Greeks," Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks; Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's; And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it, A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it. I repeat, I abominate physic; but then, If folks will go campaigning about with such men As the Great Prince de Condé, and Marshal Turenne, They may fairly expect To be now and then check'd By a bullet, or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is Found, I admit, in green potions, and boluses; So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix, wounded and lame, If he swallowed a decent quant. suff. of the same; Though I'm told, in such cases, it's not the French plan To pour in their drastics as fast as they can, The practice of many an English Savan, But to let off a man With a little ptisanne. And gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan).

"Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!" Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree, I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee; And medical friction Is, past contradiction, Much better performed by a She than a He. A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge, For I well recollect, when a youngster at College, And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note, Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.-- Now, they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses Attend, without any demand on their purses; And these females, some old, others still in their teens, Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines." They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay, Attend you; and when you've got better, they say, "You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay. Our task is now done. You are able to run. We never take money; we cure you for fun!" Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day, And go off to cure somebody else the same way. --A great many of these, at the date of my tale, In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.

Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun. Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,-- Not carroty--no; though you'd fancy you saw burn Such locks as the Greeks lov'd, which moderns call auburn. These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all; Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral; Her eyelashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones, Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones; But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).-- Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm In the fusty stuff gown of a Sœur de la Charité; And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw, Than her's who now sits by the couch of St. Foix, Chafing there, With such care, And so dove-like an air, His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard; --Their Dutch appellations are really too hard To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.--

Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me, When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee: And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair, To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square; Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair, And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire, It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, And may lead on to mischief before they're aware.

I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his "Penchant for liaisons," and graver men "follies," (For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows, And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows, Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,) His "faults," I should say--I don't think François Xavier Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant While superintending his draughts and his liniment. But, as he grew stout, And was getting about, Thoughts came into his head that had better been out; While Cupid's an urchin We know deserves birching, He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in. 'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin Was the end of all poor dear Therèse's shampooing.-- 'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on: but such Things will happen--ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch.

"When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly, And finds out too late that false man can betray," She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly," And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that "to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method" which he can discover That's likely to answer--that one is "to die!"

He's wrong--the wan and withering cheek; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart;

The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear; Th' imploring glances heaven-ward thrown, As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;

These wring the false one's heart enough, If "made of penetrable stuff." And poor Therèse Thus pines and decays, Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise, With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders," two greys, And soon reaches France, by the help of relays, Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim, And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him.

She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner, Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.-- One evening--'twas just as the clock struck eleven-- They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,-- She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven, And all was o'er!-- Poor Therèse was no more-- She was gone!--the last breath that she managed to draw Escaped in one half-utter'd word--'twas "St. Foix!"

* * * * *

Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you feel 'em, Are not cured by travel--as Horace says, "_Cœlum Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!_" It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary-- Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his; It haunts you for ever--in bed and at board,-- Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems, Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored! It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few, --François Xavier Auguste was an instance--can do. Indeed, from the time He committed the crime Which cut off poor Sister Therèse in her prime, He was not the same man that he had been--his plan Was quite changed--in wild freaks he no more led the van; He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking, From company shrinking-- He quite gave up drinking. At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came, Fish, fricassee, fricandeau, potage, or game, Dindon aux truffes, or turbot à la crême, No!--he still shook his head,--it was always the same, Still he never complained that the cook was to blame! 'Twas his appetite fail'd him--no matter how rare And recherché the dish, how delicious the fare,-- What he used to like best he no longer could bear; But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair: Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair; Such a shirt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare. He omitted to shave;--he neglected his hair, And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.

One thing, above all, most excited remark: In the evening he seldom sat long after dark. Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark" With his friends; but when they, After taking cafe, Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray, --Which I own I consider a very good way, If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day-- No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay; But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed. Yet even when there he seem'd no better off, For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he cough; And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright, While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep, Declared that "his master was never asleep! But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep; That about ten o'clock His door he would lock, And then never would open it, let who would knock!-- He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed, And talk as if speaking to one who was dead! He'd groan and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone, Begging some one or other to let him alone, That it really would soften the heart of a stone To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven; Then--The bother began always just at eleven!"

François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before, I believe, was a popular man in his corps, And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun, Now began to consult what was best to be done. Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue Confess'd they did not know at all what to do: But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal. "The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter-- Mort de ma vie!" --Here he took some rapee-- "Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!"-- He was right, sure enough--in a couple of days He worms out the whole story of Sister Therèse, Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch Père la Chaise. --"But the worst thing of all," François Xavier declares, "Is, whenever I've taken my candle up-stairs, There's Therèse sitting there--upon one of those chairs! Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares, That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs, While an odour,--the very reverse of perfume,-- More like rhubarb or senna,--pervades the whole room!

Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile, When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel; Not that he cared for Ghosts--he was far too genteel; Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun On his person and principles, nick-named Sans Foi, --A man whom they had, you see, Mark'd as a Sadducee,-- In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw, And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe!-- It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise; He shrugg'd up his shoulders, he turn'd up his eyes, And he thought with himself that he could not do less Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess.

Repetition's detestable;-- So, as you're best able, Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table-- How the bold Brigadiers Prick'd up their ears, And received the account, some with fears, some with sneers; How the Sieur de la Roue Said to Count Cordon Bleu, "Ma foi--c'est bien drôle--Monseigneur, what say you?"-- How Count Cordon Bleu Declared he "thought so too;"-- How the Colonel affirm'd that "the case was quite new;"-- How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers How far the Ghost part of the story was true;-- How, at last, when asked, "What was the best thing to do?" Everybody was silent,--for nobody knew!-- And how, in the end, they said, "No one could deal With the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal, As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal This strange story--viz. Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville!"

I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great, Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate To rescue his friend from his terrible foes, Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose, From extravagant notions respecting their hue Has strangely agreed to denominate "Blue," Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail Than those he had, early in life, found to fail, When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail. In vain did he try With strong waters to ply His friend, on the ground that he never could spy Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye; St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry; Besides, what the vulgar call "sucking the monkey" Has much less effect on a man when he's funky. In vain did he strive to detain him at table Till his "dark hour" was over--he never was able, Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address Which the British call "Humbug," and Frenchmen "Finesse," (It's "Blarney" in Irish--I don't know the Scotch,) He fell to admiring his friend's English watch.[21] He examined the face, And the back of the case, And the young Lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he "Saw by the likeness was one of the family;" Cried "Superbe!--Magnifique!" (With his tongue in his cheek)-- Then he open'd the case, just to take a peep in it, and Seized the occasion to pop back the minute-hand. With a demi-congé, and a shrug, and grin, he Returns the bijou and--c'est une affaire finie-- "I've done him," thinks he, "now I'll wager a guinea!"

It happen'd that day They were all very gay, 'Twas the Grand Monarque's birthday--that is, 'twas St. Louis's, Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view as his-- So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw, He cried, "Come--that won't do, my fine fellow, St. Foix,-- Give us five minutes longer and drink Vive le Roi."

François Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust Of the trick that was play'd, drew his watch from his fob, Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to "hob-nob," Fill'd a bumper, and rose With "Messieurs, I propose"-- He paused--his blanch'd lips fail'd to utter the toast! 'Twas eleven!--he thought it half-past ten at most-- Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post,-- His jaw dropp'd--his eyes Swell'd to twice their own size-- And he stood as a pointer would stand--at a Ghost! --Then shriek'd, as he fell on the floor like a stone. "Ah! Sister Therèse! now--do let me alone!"

* * * * *

It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,-- As waters wear stone by the "Sæpe cadendo," If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto, "Agendo!" Was it not Robert Bruce?--I declare I've forgot, But I think it was Robert--you'll find it in Scott-- Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a Spider, "She's sure to come round, if you will but abide her." Then another great Rob, Called "White-headed Bob," Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the "nob" From a fist which might almost an elephant brain, That I really believed, at the first, he was slain, For he lay like a log on his back, on the plain, Till a gentleman present, accustomed to train, Drew out a small lancet, and open'd a vein Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain, He stood up, like a trump, with an air of disdain, While his "backer" was fain, --For he could not refrain-- (He was dress'd in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain, And I think I heard somebody call him "Squire Hayne,") To whisper ten words one should always retain, --"TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON, AND AT HIM AGAIN!!!"-- A hint ne'er surpassed, though thus spoken at random, Since Teucer's apostrophe--Nil desperandum!-- --Grandville acted on it, and order'd his Tandem. He had heard St Foix say, That no very great way From Namur was a snug little town call'd Grandpré, Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese, Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therèse, Of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother, And as like to Therèse as one pea to another; She liv'd with her Mamma, Having lost her Papa, Late of contraband schnaps an unlicensed distiller, And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).

Now, though Hippolyte Hector Could hardly expect her To feel much regard for her sister's "protector," When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her; Still, he very well knew In this world there are few But are ready much Christian forgiveness to shew, For other folk's wrongs--if well paid so to do-- And he'd seen to what acts "Res angustæ" compel beaux And belles, whose affairs have once got out at elbows, With the magic effect of a handful of crowns Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but "browns;" A few francs well applied He'd no doubt would decide Miss Agnes des Moulins to jump up and ride As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side; For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison, To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrison; Then he thought, by the aid Of a veil, and gown made Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray'd, They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade, Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid, Come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid; That if once introduced to his room, thus array'd, And then unmask'd as soon as she'd long enough stay'd, 'Twould be no very difficult task to persuade Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly play'd, Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade!

With respect to the scheme--though I do not call that a gem-- Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem, And that, too, among the decided approvers Of General Sir David Dundas's "Manœuvres." There's a proverb, however, I've always thought clever, Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeating, "The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating!" We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille Had mix'd up the suet and plums for his meal.

The night had set in;--'twas a dark and a gloomy one;-- Off went St. Foix to his chamber; a roomy one, Five stories high, The first floor from the sky, And lofty enough to afford great facility For playing a game, with the youthful nobility Of "crack corps" a deal in Request, when they're feeling, In dull country quarters, ennui on them stealing; A wet wafer's applied To a sixpence's side, Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling; Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops,-- I've seen it here practised at home by our Household troops. He'd a table, and bed, And three chairs; and all's said.-- A bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're Sure to find not overburthen'd with furniture.

François Xavier Auguste lock'd and bolted his door With just the same caution he'd practised before; Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu, With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue, Had been up there before him, and drawn ev'ry screw!

And now comes the moment--the watches and clocks All point to eleven!--the bolts and the locks Give way--and the party turn out their bag-fox!-- With step noiseless and light, Though half in a fright, "A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right," In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white, Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a Sprite!-- She approaches the bed With the same silent tread Just as though she had been at least half a year dead! Then seating herself on the "rush-bottom'd chair," Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire.

If you're one of the "play-going public," kind reader, And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder, You've seen Mr. Kean, I mean in that scene Of Macbeth,--by some thought the crack one of the piece, Which has been so well painted by Mr. M'Clise,-- When he wants, after having stood up to say grace,[22] To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place; You remember his stare At the high-back'd arm-chair, Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there, And how, after saying "What man dares I dare!" He proceeds to declare He should not so much care If it came in the shape of a "tiger" or "bear," But he don't like its shaking its long gory hair!

While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him, With a horrible grin, Sits, and cocks up his chin, Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him. And Lenox and Rosse Seem quite at a loss If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce; And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross, And says in a huff It's all "Proper stuff!"-- All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough; So, perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion Of what must have been François Xavier's emotion, If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be doubled, And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face Without "speculation," suppose he'd a brace!

I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel- ieve was succeeded in painting the terrible, Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a- droit in depicting it--vide his piece Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease, Where that prelate is lying Decidedly dying, With the King and his suite, Standing just at his feet, And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet; While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner, "Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner. But painting's an art I confess I am raw in, The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing: Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read, I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dread; François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed, His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead, Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head, As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view, Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw, Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo, Mon Dieu! v'la deux!! BY THE POPE THERE ARE TWO!!!"

He fell back--one long aspiration he drew. In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu, Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew. He stirr'd not,--he spoke not,--he none of them knew! And Achille cried "Odzooks! I fear, by his looks, Our friend, François Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks!"

'Twas too true! Malheureux!! It was done!--he had ended his earthly career,-- He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear; --The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!!

L'Envoye.

A moral more in point I scarce could hope Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope.

If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay, And pious Maid,--as, possibly, it may,-- From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green; O'er some pale marble when they join their heads To kiss the falling tears each other sheds; Oh! may they pause!--and think, in silent awe, He, that he reads the words, "Ci gît St. Foix!"-- She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys Bears this sad line,--"Hic jacet Sœur Therèse!"-- Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say, "Oh! may we never play such tricks as they!"-- And if at such a time some Bard there be, Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea And sentimental song--like Ingoldsby-- If such there be--who sings and sips so well, Let him this sad, this tender story tell! Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast, "I've 'scaped the Broken Heart!"--"and I the Ghost!!"

* * * * *

The next in order of these "lays of many lands" refers to a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the banks of what our Teutonic friends are won't to call their "own imperial River!" The incidents which it records afford sufficient proof (and these are days of demonstration), that a propensity to flirtation is not confined to age or country, and that its consequences were not less disastrous to the mail-clad Ritter of the dark ages than to the silken courtier of the seventeenth century. The whole narrative bears about it the stamp of truth, and from the papers among which it was discovered I am inclined to think it must have been picked up by Sir Peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits to "The German Spa."

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Mrs. Ingoldsby, who is deeply read in Robertson, informs me that this is a mistake; that the lady to whom this memorable billet was delivered by the hands of Pennalosa, was the unfortunate monarch's mamma, and not his sister. I would gladly rectify the error, but, then,--what am I to do for a rhyme?--On the whole, I fear I must content myself, like Talleyrand, with admitting that "it is worse than a fault--it's a blunder!" for which enormity,--as honest old Pepys says when he records having kissed his cookmaid,--"I humbly beg pardon of Heaven, and Mrs. Ingoldsby!"

[20] Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes. Who viewed men's manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys.

[21] "Tompion's, I presume?"--FARQUHAR.Return to passage

[22] May good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both.--Macbeth.Return to passage

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.

A LEGEND OF GERMANY.

Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight, Was equally ready to tipple or fight, Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle; In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle," Unstain'd by dishonour, unsullied by fear, All his neighbours pronounced him a preux chevalier.

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental, He had one slight defect, viz. a rather lean rental; Besides, as 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun, So it must be confessed that Sir Rupert had one; Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking, And, what moralists say Is as naughty--to play, To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarté; Till these, and a few less defensible fancies Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

When at length through his boozing, And tenants refusing Their rents, swearing "times were so bad they were losing," His steward said, "O, sir, It's some time ago, sir, Since ought through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer, And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers." Sir Rupert the brave thus addressed his retainers:

"My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock Is out, with the Kürchwasser, Barsac, Moselle, And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well, I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes, Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose; As to me, I opine, Left sans money or wine, My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine, Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over, 'Though he lived a roué, yet he died a philosopher.'"

The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely, Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly, By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream; Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes, In other respects she was scanty of clothes; For, so says tradition, both written and oral, Her one garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral.

Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar, With silver cords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar, And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight, Soon found his astonishment merged in delight; But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees, Till at length it invaded her very chemise, While the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to swallow her, And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower; --Jumping up in his boat, And discarding his coat, "Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!" Then into the water he plunged with a souse That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.

Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink, Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink, And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose, Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch; Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood, Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud.

But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight, When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!-- A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal, Rose above and about him;--great fishes and small Came thronging around him, regardless of danger, And seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger.

Their figures and forms to describe, language fails-- They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails; Of their genus or species a sample to gain, You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain; E'en the famed Mr. Myers Would scarcely find buyers, Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop To stare, were such monsters expos'd in his shop.

But little reck'd Rupert these queer-looking brutes, Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots, For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention, In a moment completely absorb'd his attention. A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer), Have ever distill'd, To the summit was fill'd, Lay stretch'd out before him,--and every nerve thrill'd As scores of young women Were diving and swimming, Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in;-- All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns, They came floating about him like so many prawns.

Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes Alluded to,) ere he lept into the billows Possess'd irreproachable morals, began To feel rather queer, as a modest young man; When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognised soon As the one he had seen by the light of the moon, And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence, "Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance; My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen, All do me the honour to call me their Queen; I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here, And hope you can make it convenient to dine here."

The Knight blush'd, and bowed, As he ogled the crowd Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud: "Ma'am, you do me much honour,--I cannot express The delight I shall feel--if you'll pardon my dress-- May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps In the river at midnight for want of 'the dumps,' He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps; If I could but have guess'd--what I sensibly feel-- Your politeness--I'd not have come en dishabille, But have put on my silk tights in lieu of my steel." Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray, You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way; We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish, And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine, I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine."

The Knight made a bow more profound than before, When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door, And said, bending his knee, "Madame, on a servi!" Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place, And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace.

What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she Apologiz'd much for their plain water-souchy, Want of Harvey's, and Cross's, And Burgess's sauces? Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he Preferred his fish plain, without soy or anchovy. Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel, Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel. The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes Than of what they were served on, the massive gold dishes; While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls, Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls, And a thought came across him and caused him to muse, "If I could but get hold Of some of that gold, I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!"

When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses, The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses; Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas, "Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?"--

Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender, Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender, And told her outright How that he, a young Knight, Had never been last at a feast or a fight; But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year, And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer, Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent, How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent.; How they follow'd--and then, The once civillest of men, Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he 'd ever raised money by way of annuity; And, his mortgages being about to foreclose, How he jump'd in the river to finish his woes!

Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear, That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear; Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly, And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles, Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain, A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign, With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride, (For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied;) No couple so happy on earth should be seen As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline; Not that money's my object--No, hang it! I scorn it-- And as for my rank--but that you'd so adorn it-- I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall, And, instead of 'the Great,' be call'd 'Rupert the Small;' --To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus, I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse."[23]

Lurline hung her head, Turned pale, and then red, Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed, As though his abruptness, in "popping the question" So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion.

Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh, "You are welcome," she murmur'd, in tones most bewitching, "To every utensil I have in my kitchen!" Upstarted the Knight, Half mad with delight, Round her finely-form'd waist He immediately placed One arm, which the lady most closely embraced, Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture, And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture. "And, oh!" he exclaim'd, "let them go catch my skiff, I 'll be home in a twinkling, and back in a jiffy, Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey Than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney."

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand, And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land, For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one, Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny, Which some others already had half-fill'd with money; In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore; But Sir Rupert was strong, And, while pulling along, Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

"Away! away! to the mountain's brow, Where the castle is darkly frowning; And the vassals, all in goodly row, Weep for their lord a-drowning! Away! away! to the steward's room, Where law with its wig and robe is; Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe, And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies!"

The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling, When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling.

What rejoicing was there! How the vassals did stare! The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air, For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp, And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago and cramp; But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded Wet jacket or trowsers, nor thought of repining, Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining. But oh! what dismay Fill'd the tribe of Ca Sa, When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay! Away went "cognovits," "bills," "bonds," and escheats,"-- Rupert clear'd off all scores, and took proper receipts.

Now no more he sends out For pots of brown stout Or schnaps, but resolves to do henceforth without, Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety, Enrol himself one of a Temp'rance Society, All riot eschew, Begin life anew, And new-cushion and hassock the family pew! Nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life, He boldly determines to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense Of honour, should put Lurline's name in the licence, And that, for a man of his breeding and quality, To break faith and troth, Confirm'd by an oath, Is not quite consistent with rigid morality; But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water, And declined as unsuited A bride so diluted-- Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say, (For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing,) Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von--something, (Her name has escaped me,) sole heiress, and niece To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

"Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!" So much time is saved in the billing and cooing-- The ring is now bought, the white favours, and gloves, And all the et cetera which crown people's loves; A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker, And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre, That shaft which the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is, A plum-colour'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries.

'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight, With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white, And the bridemaids fair with their long lace veils, As they all walk'd up to the altar rails, While nice little boys, the incense dispensers, March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers.

With a gracious air, and a smiling look, Mess John had open'd his awful book, And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant? And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?" When from base to turret the castle shook!!! Then came a sound of a mighty rain Dashing against each storied pane, The wind blew loud, And a coal-black cloud O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd; How it could happen they could not divine, The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pass That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas; But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd, As if heaven and earth were coming together; None ever had witness'd such terrible weather. Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd, Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears In the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers; The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon, When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected, Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected, And endeavoured to cheer His bride, in her ear Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear; Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture." But now, from without A trustworthy scout Rush'd hurriedly in, Wet through to the skin, Informing his master "the river was rising, And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising."

He'd no time to say more, For already the roar Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door, While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen, Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline; And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy, She was stung by the spretæ injuriâ formæ.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride, What she said to the ladies who stood by her side, What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes, Oh, nobody mentions,--for nobody knows; For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out, And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout, The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring, The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in; Ere the close of the day All was clean washed away-- One only survived who could hand down the news, A little old woman that open'd the pews; She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck. In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming, And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in; In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek; In vain was their search After ought in the church, They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch; The Humane Society Tried a variety Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles, But they only fish'd up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware Of liquor, and how you run after the fair! Shun playing at shorts--avoid quarrels and jars-- And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars! --Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide! Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!-- Be up in the morning by half after seven! Keep from flirting--nor risk, warned by Rupert's miscarriage, An action for breach of a promise of marriage;-- Don't fancy old fishes! Don't prig silver dishes! And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know, BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

* * * * *

And now for "Sunny Italy,"--the "Land of the unforgotten brave,"--the land of blue skies and black-eyed Signoras.--I cannot discover from any recorded memoranda that "Uncle Perry" was ever in Venice, even in Carnival time--that he ever saw Garrick in Shylock I do not believe, and am satisfied that he knew nothing of Shakspeare, a circumstance that would by no means disqualify him from publishing an edition of that Poet's works. I can only conclude that, in the course of his Continental wanderings, Sir Peregrine had either read, or heard of the following history, especially as he furnishes us with some particulars of the eventual destination of his dramatis personæ which the Bard of Avon has omitted. If this solution be not accepted, I can only say, with Mr. Puff, that probably "two men hit upon the same idea, and Shakspeare made use of it first."

FOOTNOTES:

[23] "Sardanapalus" and "Boots," the Zenith and Nadir of human society.Return to passage

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

A LEGEND OF ITALY.

... Of the Merchant of Venice there are two 4to. editions in 1600, one by Heyes and the other by Roberts. The Duke of Devonshire and Lord Francis Egerton have copies of the edition by Heyes, and they vary importantly.

... It must be acknowledged that this is a very easy and happy emendation, which does not admit of a moment's doubt or dispute.

... Readers in general are not all aware of the nonsense they have in many cases been accustomed to receive as the genuine text of Shakspeare!

Reasons for a new edition of Shakspeare's Works, by J. Payne Collier.

I believe there are few But have heard of a Jew, Named Shylock, of Venice, as errant a "Screw" In money transactions, as ever you knew; An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent A ducat at less than three hundred per cent., Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice, Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies, When press'd for a loan, at the very first sight Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in Flight. It is not my purpose to pause and inquire If he might not, in managing thus to retire, Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire; Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do, Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew.

But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives, We've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives, That "Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives!" In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool, Bassanio, a Lord of the Tom-noddy school, Who, by shewing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court, A "swelling" (Payne Collier would read "swilling") "port," And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup, Had shrunk his "weak means," and was "stump'd" and "hard up," Took occasion to send To his very good friend Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end, And who'd often before had the kindness to lend Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend.

"Antonio," said he, "Now listen to me: I've just hit on a scheme which, I think, you'll agree, All matters considered, is no bad design, And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine. "In the first place, you know all the money I've got, Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot, And in making those loans you have made a bad shot; Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows And tom-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows, --Shoot another the same way--I'll watch well its track, And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back!-- So list to my plan, And do what you can To attend to and second it, that's a good man!

"There's a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat Was giving last season, we all used to stare at. Then, as to her wealth, her Solicitor told mine, Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine, Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks, It's stuffed so with shares in 'Grand Junctions' and 'Docks', Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks, French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian, and Chilian, In English Exchequer-bills full half a million, Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle, But the right sort of 'flimsy,' all sign'd by Monteagle. Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Railways, And more speculations I need not detail, ways Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em, Contribute a deal to improving one's income; In short, she's a Mint! --Now I say, deuce is in't If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint, And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print At the time that I told you of, know from a squint. In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony, Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan--I Am sure of my game--though, of course, there are brutes, Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts, Yet Portia--she's named from that daughter of Cato's-- Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes, And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson--cut them all out-- Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her! --Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed, For her Three-and-a-half per Cents--New and Reduced!

With a wink of his eye His friend made reply In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry, "Still the same boy, Bassanio--never say 'die'! --Well--I hardly know how I shall do't, but I'll try,-- Don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash, But the fact is, at present I'm quite out of cash; The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies, Tending, of course, my resources to cripple,--I 've one bound to England,--another to Tripoli-- Cyprus--Masulipatam--and Bombay; A sixth, by the way, I consigned t'other day, To Sir Gregor M'Gregor, Cacique of Poyais, A country where silver's as common as clay. Meantime, till they tack, And come, some of them, back, What with Custom-house duties, and bills falling due, My account with Jones Loyd and Co. looks rather blue; While, as for the 'ready,' I'm like a Church-mouse,-- I really don't think there's five pounds in the house. But, no matter for that, Let me just get my hat, And my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat, And we'll go forth at once to the market--we two,-- And try what my credit in Venice can do; I stand well on 'Change, and, when all's said and done, I Don't doubt I shall get it for love or for money."

They were going to go, When, lo! down below, In the street, they heard somebody crying, "Old Clo'!" --"By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose!--I knew We should not have to search long. Solanio, run you, --Salarino,--quick!--haste! ere he get out of view, And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!"

With a pack, Like a sack Of old clothes, at his back, And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack, Saying, "Rest you fair, Signior Antonio!--vat, pray, Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?"

--"Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know, I am what they call 'warm,'--pay my way as I go, And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend, I can break through a rule, to oblige an old friend; And that's the case now--Lord Bassanio would raise Some three thousand ducats--well,--knowing your ways, And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will, Unless you've a couple of names to the bill, Why, for once, I'll put mine to it, Yea, seal and sign to it-- Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say As to 'doing' a bill at three months from to-day? Three thousand gold ducats, mind--all in good bags Of hard money--no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags?"

"--Vell, ma tear," says the Jew, "I'll see vat I can do! But Mishter Antonio, hark you, 'tish funny You say to me, 'Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money!' Ven you very vell knows How you shpit on ma clothes, And use naughty vords--call me Dog--and avouch Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch, And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch, You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch. --Vell!--no matters, ma tear,-- Von vord in your ear! I'd be friends mit you bote--and to make dat appear, Vy, I'll find you de monies as soon as you vill, Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill;-- Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day Such sum, or such sums, you shall fail to repay, I shall cut vere I like, as de pargain is proke, A fair pound of your flesh--chest by vay of a joke."

So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause; But Antonio, like most of those sage "Johnny Raws" Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws, And think cheaply of "Old Father Antic," because They have never experienced a gripe from his claws, "Pooh pooh'd" the whole thing.--"Let the Smouch have his way-- Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty?--Nay, It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay; And, come what come may, I hardly need say My ships will be back a full month ere the day." So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey, And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he Affixed with all speed His name to a deed, Duly stamp'd and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney. Thus again furnished forth, Lord Bassanio, instead Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread, With fiddling and masques at the Saracen's Head, In the morning "made play," And, without more delay, Started off in the steam-boat for Belmont next day. But scarcely had he From the harbour got free, And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea, Ere the 'Change and Rialto both rung with the news That he'd carried off more than mere cash from the Jew's.

Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold, Was as ugly a dog as you'd wish to behold, For few in his tribe 'mongst their Levis and Moseses Sported so Jewish an eye, beard, and nose as his, Still, whate'er the opinions of Horace and some be, Your aquilæ generate _some_times Columbæ.[24] Like Jephthah, as Hamlet says, he'd "one fair daughter," And every gallant, who caught sight of her, thought her A jewel--a gem of the very first water; A great many sought her, Till one at last caught her, And, upsetting all that the Rabbis had taught her, To feelings so truly reciprocal brought her, That the very same night Bassanio thought right To give all his old friends that farewell "invite," And while Shylock was gone there to feed out of spite, On "wings made by a tailor" the damsel took flight.

By these "wings" I'd express A grey duffle dress, With brass badge and muffin cap, made, as by rule, For an upper class boy in the National School. Jessy ransack'd the house, popped her breeks on, and when so Disguised, bolted off with her beau--one Lorenzo, An "Unthrift," who lost not a moment in whisking Her into the boat, And was fairly afloat Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin.

Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket, And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket Who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet, Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing, And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing, Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest; And, if left to herself, he, no doubt, had succeeded, For none of them waltz'd so genteelly as he did; But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way, The defunct Mr. P., who was now turned to clay, Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant, Left but a queer sort of "Last will and testament,"-- Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land, &c., from motives one don't understand, As she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing, To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing!

Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid; In one of three caskets her picture she hid, And clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid. A couple of Princes, a black and a white one, Tried first, but they both failed in choosing the right one. Another from Naples, who shoed his own horses; A French Lord, whose graces might vie with Count D'Orsay's;-- A young English Baron;--a Scotch Peer his neighbour:-- A dull drunken Saxon, all mustache and sabre;-- All followed, and all had their pains for their labour. Bassanio came last--happy man be his dole! Put his conjuring cap on,--considered the whole,-- The gold put aside as Mere "hard food for Midas," The silver bade trudge As a "pale common drudge;" Then choosing the little lead box in the middle, Came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle.

Now you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say, Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day, Any more than the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact, Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing, Three months had gone by ere he reach'd the fifth act; Meanwhile, that unfortunate bill became due, Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew, And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew, For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do; (The bitter old Israelite would not renew), What with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and embargoes, his Funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies, None of the set having come into port, And Shylock's attorney was moving the Court For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport.

The serious news Of this step of the Jew's, And his fix'd resolution all terms to refuse, Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of "the Blues," Especially, too, as it came from the pen Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,--then, When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and when The Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen.

"Dear Friend," it continued, "all's up with me--I Have nothing on earth now to do but to die! And, as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor; I should take it as kind Could you come--never mind-- If your love don't persuade you, why--don't let this letter!" I hardly need say this was scarcely read o'er Ere a post-chaise and four Was brought round to the door, And Bassanio, though, doubtless, he thought it a bore, Gave his Lady one kiss, and then started at score. But scarce in his flight Had he got out of sight, Ere Portia, addressing a groom, said, "My lad, you a Journey must take on the instant to Padua; Find out there Bellario, a Doctor of Laws, Who, like Follett, is never left out of a cause, And give him this note, Which I've hastily wrote, Take the papers he'll give you--then push for the ferry Below, where I'll meet you--you'll do't in a wherry, If you can't find a boat on the Brenta with sails to it-- --Stay!--bring his gown too, and wig with three tails to it."

Giovanni (that's Jack) Brought out his hack, Made a bow to his mistress, then jump'd on its back, Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack. The Signora soon followed herself, taking as her Own escort Nerissa her maid, and Balthazar.

* * * * *

"The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met, The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!" As Captain Macheath says,--and when one's in debt, The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know, Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose, As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes, They should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose; Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late A Merchant, might vie e'en with Princes in state, With his waistcoat unbutton'd, prepared for the knife, Which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life; --On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor, And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before, Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands, With his scales and his great snicker-snee in his hands; --Between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands, With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer, Whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer, Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his possible To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline, And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine, Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine, Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line. But vain are all efforts to soften him--still He points to the bond He so often has conn'd, And says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will.

So the dandified Lawyer, with talking grown hoarse, Says, "I can say no more--let the law take its course."

Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew, As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel, With a business-like air was beginning to feel Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal, When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel. "Stay, Shylock," says he, "Here's one thing--you see This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood! --the words are 'A pound of flesh,'--that's clear as mud-- Slice away, then, old fellow--but mind!--if you spill One drop of his claret that's not in your bill, I'll hang you like Haman!--by Jingo I will!"

When apprized of this flaw, You never yet saw Such an awfully marked elongation of jaw As in Shylock, who cried, "Plesh ma heart! ish dat law?"-- --Off went his three hats, And he look'd as the cats Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw. "--Ish't the law?"--why the thing won't admit of a query-- "No doubt of the fact, Only look at the act; Acto quinto, cap: tertio, Dogi Falieri-- Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt, The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet. See Foscari's 'Statutes at large'--'If a Stranger A Citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger, The whole of his property, little or great, Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State, And one to the person pursued by his hate; And, not to create Any farther debate, The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.' So down on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy! Defendant and Plaintiff are now wisy wersy."

What need to declare How pleased they all were At so joyful an end to so sad an affair? Or Bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken, His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?-- How Shylock got shaved, and turn'd Christian, though late, To save a life-int'rest in half his estate?-- How the dandified Lawyer, who'd managed the thing, Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring Which Mrs. Bassanio had giv'n to her spouse, With injunctions to keep it, on leaving the house?-- How when he, and the spark Who appeared as his clerk, Had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their jetty coats, There stood Nerissa and Portia in petticoats?-- How they pouted, and flouted, and acted the cruel, Because Lord Bassanio had not kept his jewel?-- How they scolded and broke out, Till, having their joke out, They kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and blessed, Drove home by the light Of a moonshiny night, Like the one in which Troilus, the brave Trojan knight, Sat astride on a wall, and sigh'd after his Cressid?--

All this, if 'twere meet, I'd go on to repeat, But a story spun out so's by no means a treat, So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains I have taken to rummage among his remains, No edition of Shakspeare, I've met with, contains; But, if the account which I've heard be the true one, We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one.

In an MS., then, sold For its full weight in gold, And knock'd down to my friend, Lord Tomnoddy, I'm told It's recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain, Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain; Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again, Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main, Became known by the name of the "Flower of Dumblane."

That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen, Him to spit upon every old Jew's gaberdine, And whose goodness to paint All colours were faint, Acquired the well-merited prefix of "Saint," And the Doge, his admirer, of honour the fount, Having given him a patent, and made him a Count, He went over to England, got nat'ralis'd there, And espous'd a rich heiress in Hanover Square. That Shylock came with him, no longer a Jew, But converted, I think may be possibly true, But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver, By changing the y in his name into er, Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up, And in Seventeen-twenty-eight make him a Bishop, I cannot believe--but shall still think them two men Till some Sage proves the fact "with his usual acumen."

MORAL.

From this tale of the Bard It's uncommonly hard If an Editor can't draw a moral.--'Tis clear, Then,--In ev'ry young wife-seeking Bachelor's ear A maxim, 'bove all other stories, this one drums, "PITCH GREEK TO OLD HARRY, AND STICK TO CONUNDRUMS!!"

To new-married Ladies this lesson it teaches, "You're 'no that far wrong' in assuming the breeches!"

Monied men upon 'Change, and rich Merchants it schools To look well to assets--nor play with edge-tools!

Last of all, this remarkable History shews men, What caution they need when they deal with old-clothesmen! So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary, And never let one of them come down the are'!

* * * * *

From St. Mark to St. Lawrence--from the Rialto to the Escurial--from one Peninsula to another!--it is but a hop, step, and jump--your toe at Genoa, your heel at Marseilles, and a good hearty spring pops you down at once in the very heart of Old Castille. That Sir Peregrine Ingoldsby, then a young man, was at Madrid soon after the peace of Ryswick, there is extant a long correspondence of his to prove. Various passages in it countenance the supposition that his tour was partly undertaken for political purposes; and this opinion is much strengthened by certain allusions in several of his letters, addressed, in after life, to his friend Sir Horace Mann, then acting in the capacity of Envoy to the Court of Tuscany. Although the Knight spent several months in Spain, and visited many of her principal cities, there is no proof of his having actually "seen Seville," beyond the internal evidence incidentally supplied by the following legend. The events to which it alludes were, of course, of a much earlier date, though the genealogical records of the "Kings of both the Indies" have been in vain consulted for the purpose of fixing their precise date, and even Mr. Simpkinson's research has failed to determine which of the royal stock rejoicing in the name of Ferdinand is the hero of the legend. The conglomeration of Christian names usual in the families of the haute noblesse of Spain adds to the difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of prefixes is peculiar to the country in question, witness my excellent friend Field-Marshal Count Herman Karl Heinrich Socrates von der Nodgerrie zü Pfefferkorn, whose appellations puzzled the recording clerk of one of our Courts lately,--and that not a little.

That a splendid specimen of the genus Homo, species Monk, flourished in the earlier moiety of the 15th century, under the appellation of Torquemada, is notorious,--and this fact might seem to establish the era of the story; but then his name was John--not Dominic--though he was a Dominican, and hence the mistake, if any, may perhaps have originated--but then again the Spanish Queen to whom he was Confessor was called Isabella, and not Blanche--it is a puzzling affair altogether.

From his own silence on the subject, it may well be doubted whether the worthy transcriber knew, himself, the date of the transactions he has recorded; the authenticity of the details, however, cannot be well called in question.--Be this as it may, I shall make no further question, but at once introduce my "pensive public" to

FOOTNOTES:

[24]

Nec imbellem feroces Progenerant aquilæ columbam.--HOR.

THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.

A LEGEND OF SPAIN.

With a moody air, from morn till noon, King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon; From morn till eve He does nothing but grieve; Sighings and sobbings his midriff heave, And he wipes his eyes with his ermined sleeve, And he presses his feverish hand to his brow, And he frowns, and he looks I can't tell you how; And the Spanish Grandees In their degrees, Are whispering about in twos and in threes, And there is not a man of them seems at his ease, But they gaze on the monarch, as watching what he does, With their very long whiskers, and longer Toledos. Don Gaspar, Don Gusman, Don Juan, Don Diego, Don Gomez, Don Pedro, Don Blas, Don Rodrigo, Don Jerome, Don Giacomo join Don Alphonso In making inquiries Of grave Don Ramirez, The Chamberlain, what it is makes him take on so; A Monarch so great that the soundest opinions Maintain the sun can't set throughout his dominions; But grave Don Ramirez In guessing no nigher is Than the other grave Dons who propound these inquiries; When, pausing at length, as beginning to tire, his Majesty beckons, with stately civility, To Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez, Who in birth, wealth, and consequence second to few is, And Señor Don Manuel, Count de Pacheco, A lineal descendant from King Pharaoh Neco, Both Knights of the Golden Fleece, highborn Hidalgos, With whom e'en the King himself quite as a "pal" goes.

"Don Lewis," says he, "Just listen to me; And you, Count Pacheco,--I think that we three On matters of state, for the most part agree,-- Now you both of you know That some six years ago, Being then, for a King, no indifferent Beau, At the altar I took, like my forbears of old, The Peninsula's paragon, Fair Blanche of Aragon, For better, for worse, and to have and to hold-- And you're fully aware, When the matter took air, How they shouted, and fired the great guns in the Square, Cried 'Viva!' and rung all the bells in the steeple, And all that sort of thing The mob do when a King Brings a Queen-Consort home for the good of his people.

"Well!--six years and a day Have flitted away Since that blessed event, yet I'm sorry to say-- In fact it's the principal cause of my pain-- I don't see any signs of an Infant of Spain!-- Now I want to ask you, Cavaliers true, And Counsellors sage--what the deuce shall I do?-- The State--don't you see?--hey?--an heir to the throne-- Every monarch--you know--should have one of his own-- Disputed succession--hey?--terrible Go!-- Hum!--hey?--Old fellows--you see!--don't you know?"--

Now, Reader, dear, If you've ever been near Enough to a Court to encounter a Peer When his principal tenant's gone off in arrear, And his brewer has sent in a long bill for beer, And his butcher and baker, with faces austere, Ask him to clear Off, for furnish'd good cheer, Bills, they say, "have been standing for more than a year," And the tailor and shoemaker also appear With their "little account" Of "trifling amount," For Wellingtons, waistcoats, pea-jackets, and--gear Which to name in society's thought rather queer,-- While Drummond's chief clerk, with his pen in his ear, And a kind of a sneer, says, "We've no effects here!" --Or if ever you've seen An Alderman, keen After turtle, peep into a silver tureen, In search of the fat call'd par excellence "green," When there's none of the meat left--not even the lean!-- --Or if ever you've witness'd the face of a sailor Return'd from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or Poeticè "Boreas," that "blustering railer," To find that his wife, when he hastens to "hail" her, Has just run away with his cash--and a tailor-- If one of these cases you've ever survey'd, You'll, without my aid, To yourself have pourtray'd The beautiful mystification display'd, And the puzzled expression of manner and air Exhibited now by the dignified pair, When thus unexpectedly ask'd to declare Their opinions as Counsellors, several and joint, On so delicate, grave, and important a point.

Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez At length forced a smile 'twixt the prim and the grim, And look'd at Pacheco--Pacheco at him-- Then, making a rev'rence, and dropping his eyes, Cough'd, hemm'd, and deliver'd himself in this wise:

"My Liege!--unaccustom'd as I am to speaking In public--an art I'm remarkably weak in-- I feel I should be--quite unworthy the name Of a man and a Spaniard--and highly to blame, Were there not in my breast What--can't be exprest,-- And can therefore,--your Majesty,--only be guess'd-- --What I mean to say is--since your Majesty deigns To ask my advice on your welfare--and Spain's,-- And on that of your Majesty's Bride--that is, Wife-- It's the--as I may say--proudest day of my life! But as to the point--on a subject so nice It's a delicate matter to give one's advice, Especially, too, When one don't clearly view The best mode of proceeding,--or know what to do; My decided opinion, however, is this, And I fearlessly say that you can't do amiss, If, with all that fine tact Both to think and to act, In which all know your Majesty so much excels-- You are graciously pleased to--ask somebody else!"

Here the noble Grandee Made that sort of congée, Which, as Hill used to say, "I once happen'd to see" The great Indian conjuror, Ramo Samee, Make, while swallowing what all thought a regular choker, Viz. a small sword as long and as stiff as a poker.

Then the Count de Pacheco, Whose turn twas to speak, omitting all preface, exclaim'd with devotion, "Sire, I beg leave to second Don Lewis's motion!"

Now a Monarch of Spain Of course could not deign To expostulate, argue, or, much less, complain Of an answer thus giv'n, or to ask them again; So he merely observed, with an air of disdain, "Well, Gentlemen,--since you both shrink from the task Of advising your Sovereign--pray, whom shall I ask?"

Each felt the rub, And in Spain not a Sub, Much less an Hidalgo, can stomach a snub, So the noses of these Castilian Grandees Rise at once in an angle of several degrees, Till the under-lip's almost becoming the upper, Each perceptibly grows, too, more stiff in the crupper, Their right hands rest On the left side the breast, While the hilts of their swords, by their left hands deprest, Make the ends of their scabbards to cock up behind, Till they're quite horizontal instead of inclined, And Don Lewis, with scarce an attempt to disguise The disgust he experiences, gravely replies, "Sire, ask the Archbishop--his Grace of Toledo!-- He understands these things much better than we do!" --Pauca Verba!--enough, Each turns off in a huff, This twirling his mustache, that fingering his ruff, Like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale, With a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail.

* * * * *

King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon, With a moody brow, and he looks like a "Spoon," And all the Court Nobles, who form the ring, Have a spoony appearance, of course, like the King, All of them eyeing King Ferdinand As he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand, Which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro,-- "What is it can make the Archbishop so slow?" Hark!--at last there's a sound in the courtyard below, Where the Beefeaters all are drawn up in a row,-- I would say the "Guards," for in Spain they're in chief eaters Of omelettes and garlick, and can't be call'd Beefeaters; In fact, of the few Individuals I knew Who ever had happened to travel in Spain, There has scarce been a person who did not complain Of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain, And no one I'm sure will deny it who's tried a Vile compound they have that's called Olla podrida. (This, by the bye, 's a mere rhyme to the eye, For in Spanish the i is pronounced like an e, And they've not quite our mode of pronouncing the d. In Castille, for instance, it's giv'n through the teeth, And what we call Ma_drid_ they sound more like Mad_reeth_,) Of course you will see in a moment they've no men That at all corresponds with our Beefeating Yeomen; So call them "Walloons," or whatever you please, By their rattles and slaps they're not "standing at ease," But, beyond all disputing, Engaged in saluting Some very great person among the Grandees;-- Here a Gentleman Usher walks in and declares, "His Grace the Archbishop's a-coming up stairs!"

The Most Reverend Don Garcilasso Quevedo Was just at this time, as he Now held the Primacy, (Always attached to the See of Toledo,) A man of great worship Officii virtute Versed in all that pertains to a Counsellor's duty. Well skill'd to combine Civil law with divine; As a statesman, inferior to none in that line; As an orator, too, He was equalled by few; Uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen, The very great powers of three very great men, Talleyrand,--who will never drive down Piccadilly more To the Traveller's Club-House!--Charles Phillips--and Phillimore. Not only at home But even at Rome There was not a Prelate among them could cope With the Primate of Spain in the eyes of the Pope. (The Conclave was full, and they'd not a spare hat, or he 'd long since been Cardinal, Legate à latere, A dignity fairly his due, without flattery, So much he excited among all beholders Their marvel to see At his age--thirty-three Such a very old head on such very young shoulders,) No wonder the King, then, in this his distress, Should send for so sage an adviser express, Who, you'll readily guess, Could not do less Than start off at once, without stopping to dress, In his haste to get Majesty out of a mess.

His grace the Archbishop comes up the back way, Set apart for such Nobles as have the entrée, Viz. Grandees of the first class, both cleric and lay; Walks up to the monarch, and makes him a bow, As a dignified clergyman always knows how, Then replaces the mitre at once on his brow; For, in Spain, recollect, As a mark of respect To the Crown, if a Grandee uncovers, it's quite As a matter of option, and not one of right; A thing not conceded by our Royal Masters, Who always make Noblemen take off their "castors," Except the heirs male Of John Lord Kinsale, A stalwart old Baron, who, acting as Henchman To one of our early Kings, kill'd a big Frenchman; A feat which his Majesty deigning to smile on, Allow'd him thenceforward to stand with his "tile" on; And all his successors have kept the same privilege Down from those barbarous times to our civil age.

Returning his bow with a slight demi-bob, And replacing the watch in his hand in his fob, "My Lord," said the King, "here's a rather tough job, Which it seems, of a sort is To puzzle our Cortes. And since it has quite flabbergasted that Diet, I Look to your Grace with no little anxiety Concerning a point Which has quite out of joint Put us all with respect to the good of society:-- Your Grace is aware That we've not got an Heir; Now, it seems, one and all, they don't stick to declare That of all our advisers there is not in Spain one Can tell, like your Grace, the best way to obtain one; So put your considering cap on--we're curious To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias."

One without the nice tact Of his Grace would have backt Out at once, as the Noblemen did,--and, in fact, He was, at the first, rather pozed how to act-- One moment--no more!--Bowing then, as before, He said, "Sire, 'twere superfluous for me to acquaint The 'Most Catholic King' in the world, that a Saint Is the usual resource In these cases,--of course Of their influence your Majesty well knows the force; If I may be, therefore, allow'd to suggest The plan which occurs to my mind as the best, Your Majesty may go At once to St. Jago, Whom, as Spain's patron Saint, I pick out from the rest; If your Majesty looks Into Guthrie, or Brooks, In all the approved Geographical books, You will find Compostella laid down in the maps Some two hundred and sev'nty miles off; and, perhaps, In a case so important, you may not decline A pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine; And, Sire, should you choose To put peas in your shoes, The Saint, as a Gentleman, can't well refuse So distinguish'd a Pilgrim,--especially when he Considers the boon will not cost him one penny!" His speech ended, his Grace bow'd, and put on his mitre As tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter. "Pooh! pooh!" says the King, "I shall do no such thing! It's nonsense,--Old fellow--you see--no use talking-- The peas set apart, I abominate walking-- Such a deuced way off, too--hey?--walk there--what me? Pooh!--it's no Go, Old fellow!--you know--don't you see?"

"Well, Sire," with much sweetness the Prelate replied, "If your Majesty don't like to walk--you can ride! And then, if you please, In lieu of the peas, A small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert, As a substitute, under your Majesty's shirt; Then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,-- A few nettles tuck'd into your Majesty's waistband,-- Asafœtida mix'd with your bouquet and civet, I'll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!"

"Pooh! pooh! I tell you," Quoth the King, "It won't do!" A cold perspiration began to bedew His Majesty's cheek, and he grew in a stew, When Jozé de Humez, the King's privy-purse-keeper, (Many folks thought it could scarce have a worse keeper) Came to the rescue, and said with a smile, "Sire, your Majesty can't go--'twould take a long while, And you won't post it under TWO SHILLINGS A MILE!! Twenty-seven pounds ten To get there--and then Twenty-seven pounds ten more to get back agen!!! Sire, the tottle's enormous--you ought to be King Of Golconda as well as the Indies, to fling Such a vast sum away upon any such thing!"

At this second rebuff The Archbishop look'd gruff, And his eye glanced on Humez as if he'd say "Stuff!" But seeing the King seem'd himself in a huff, He changed his demeanour, and grew smooth enough; Then taking his chin 'twixt his finger and thumb, As a help to reflection, gave vent to a "Hum!" 'Twas the pause of an instant--his eye assumed fast That expression which says, "Come, I've got it at last!"

"There's one plan," he resumed, "which, with all due respect to Your Majesty, no one, I think, can object to-- --Since your Majesty don't like the peas in the shoe--or to Travel--what say you to burning a Jew or two?-- Of all cookeries, most The Saints love a roast! And a Jew's, of all others, the best dish to toast; And then for a Cook We have not far to look-- Father Dominic's self, Sire, your own Grand Inquisitor, Luckily now at your Court is a visitor; Of his Rev'rence's functions there is not one weightier Than Heretic-burning--in fact, 'tis his métier. Besides Alguazils Who still follow his heels, He has always Familiars enough at his beck at home, To pick you up Hebrews enough for a hecatomb! And depend on it, Sire, such a glorious specific Would make every Queen throughout Europe prolific!"

Says the King, "That'll do! Pooh! pooh!--burn a Jew? Burn half a score Jews--burn a dozen--burn two-- Your Grace, it's a match! Burn all you can catch, Men, women, and children--Pooh! pooh!--great and small-- Old clothes--slippers--sealing-wax--Pooh!--burn them all. For once we'll be gay, A Grand Auto-da-fé Is much better fun than a ball or a play!"

So the warrant was made out without more delay, Drawn, seal'd, and delivered, and

(Signed) YO EL RE!