Canto II

Canto II

There is not a nation in Europe but labours To toady itself, and to humbug its neighbours-- "Earth has no such folks--no folks such a city, So great, or so grand, or so fine, or so pretty," Said Louis Quatorze, "As this Paris of ours!" --Mr. Daniel O'Connell exclaims, "By the Pow'rs, Ould Ireland's on all hands admitted to be The first flow'r of the earth, and first Gim of the sea!"-- --Mr. Bull will inform you that Neptune,--a lad he, With more of affection than rev'rence, styles "Daddy,"-- Did not scruple to "say To Freedom, one day," That if ever he changed his aquatics for dry land, His home should be Mr. B.'s "Tight little Island."-- He adds, too, that he, The said Mr. B., Of all possible Frenchmen can fight any three; That, with no greater odds, he knows well how to treat them, To meet them, defeat them, and beat them, and eat them.-- --In Italy, too, 'tis the same to the letter; There each Lazzarone Will cry to his crony, "See Naples, then die![25] and the sooner the better!"

The Portuguese say, as a well understood thing, "Who has not seen Lisbon[26] has not seen a good thing!"-- While an old Spanish proverb runs glibly as under, "QUIEN NO HA VISTO SEVILLA NO HA VISTO MARAVILLA!" "He who ne'er has viewed Seville has ne'er view'd a Wonder!" And from all I can learn this is no such great blunder. In fact, from the river, The fam'd Guadalquiver, Where many a knight's had cold steel through his liver,[27] The prospect is grand. The Iglesia Mayor Has a splendid effect on the opposite shore, With its lofty Giralda, while two or three score Of magnificent structures around, perhaps more, As our Irish friends have it, are there "to the fore;" Then the old Alcazar, More ancient by far, As some say, while some call it one of the palaces Built in twelve hundred and odd by Abdalasis, With its horse-shoe shaped arches of Arabesque tracery, Which the architect seems to have studied to place awry, Saracenic and rich; And more buildings, "the which," As old Lilly, in whom I've been looking a bit o' late, Says, "You'd be bored should I now recapitulate;"[28] In brief, then, the view Is so fine and so new, It would make you exclaim, 'twould so forcibly strike ye, If a Frenchman, "Superbe!"--if an Englishman, "Crikey!!"

Yes! thou art "WONDERFUL!"--but oh, 'Tis sad to think, 'mid scenes so bright As thine, fair Seville, sounds of woe, And shrieks of pain, and wild affright, And soul-wrung groans of deep despair, And blood, and death should mingle there!

Yes! thou art "WONDERFUL!"--the flames That on thy towers reflected shine, While earth's proud Lords and high-born Dames, Descendants of a mighty line, With cold unalter'd looks are by To gaze, with an unpitying eye, On wretches in their agony.

All speak thee "WONDERFUL"--the phrase Befits thee well--the fearful blaze Of yon piled faggots' lurid light, Where writhing victims mock the sight,-- The scorch'd limb shrivelling in its chains,-- The hot blood parch'd in living veins,-- The crackling nerve--the fearful knell Rung out by that remorseless bell,-- Those shouts from human fiends that swell,-- That withering scream,--that frantic yell,-- All Seville,--all too truly tell Thou art a "MARVEL"--and a Hell! God!--that the worm whom thou hast made Should thus his brother worm invade! Count deeds like these good service done, And deem THINE eye looks smiling on!!

Yet there at his ease, with his whole Court around him, King Ferdinand sits "in his GLORY"--confound him!-- Leaning back in his chair, With a satisfied air, And enjoying the bother, the smoke, and the smother, With one knee cocked carelessly over the other; His pouncet-box goes To and fro at his nose, As somewhat misliking the smell of old clothes, And seeming to hint, by this action emphatic, That Jews, e'en when roasted, are not aromatic; There, too, fair Ladies From Xeres, and Cadiz, Catalinas, and Julias, and fair Iñesillas, In splendid lace-veils and becoming mantillas; Elviras, Antonias, and Claras, and Floras, And dark-eyed Jacinthas, and soft Isidoras, Are crowding the "boxes," and looking on coolly as Though 'twas but one of their common tertulias, Partaking, as usual, of wafers and ices, Snow-water, and melons cut out into slices, And chocolate,--furnished at coffee-house prices; While many a suitor, And gay coadjutor In the eating-and-drinking line, scorns to be neuter; One, being perhaps just return'd with his tutor From travel in England, is tempting his "future" With a luxury neat as imported, "The Pewter," And charming the dear Violantes and Iñeses With a three-corner'd Sandwich, and soupçon of "Guinness's;" While another, from Paris but newly come back, Hints "the least taste in life" of the best cogniac. Such ogling and eyeing, In short, and such sighing, And such complimenting (one must not say l--g), Of smart Cavaliers with each other still vying, Mix'd up with the crying, And groans, of the dying, All hissing, and spitting, and broiling and frying, Form a scene, which, although there can be no denying To a bon Catholique it may prove edifying, I doubt if a Protestant, smart Beau, or merry Belle Might not shrink from it as somewhat too terrible. It's a question with me if you ever survey'd a More stern-looking mortal than old Torquemada, Renown'd Father Dominic, famous for twisting dom- -estic and foreign necks all over Christendom; Morescoes or Jews, Not a penny to choose, If a dog of a heretic dared to refuse A glass of old port, or a slice from a griskin, The good Padre soon would so set him a frisking, That I would not, for--more than I'll say--be in his skin.

'Twas just the same thing with his own race and nation, And Christian Dissenters of every persuasion, Muggletonian, or Quaker, Or Jumper, or Shaker, No matter with whom in opinion partaker, George Whitfield, John Bunyan, or Thomas Gat-acre, They'd no better chance than a Bonze or a Fakir; If a woman, it skill'd not--if she did not deem as he Bade her to deem touching Papal supremacy, By the Pope, but he'd make her! From error awake her, Or else--pop her into an oven and bake her! No one, in short, ever came half so near as he Did, to the full extirpation of heresy; And if, in the times of which now I am treating, There had been such a thing as a "Manchester Meeting," "Pretty pork" he'd have made "Moderator" and "Minister," Had he but caught them on his side Cape Finisterre;-- Pye Smith, and the rest of them once in his bonfire, hence- -forth you'd have heard little more of the "CONFERENCE." And--there on the opposite side of the ring, He, too, sits "in his GLORY," confronting the King, With his cast-iron countenance frowning austerely, That matched with his en bon point body but queerly, For, though grim his visage, his person was pursy, Belying the rumour Of fat folks' good-humour; Above waves his banner of "Justice and Mercy," Below and around stand a terrible band ad- -ding much to the scene,--viz. The "Holy Hermandad," That's "Brotherhood,"--each looking grave as a Grand-dad. Within the arena Before them is seen a Strange, odd-looking group, each one dress'd in a garment Not "dandified" clearly, as certainly "varment," Being all over vipers and snakes, and stuck thick With multiplied silhouette profiles of NICK; And a cap of the same, All devils and flame, Extinguisher-shaped, much like Salisbury Spire, Except that the latter's of course somewhat higher; A long yellow pin-a-fore Hangs down, each chin afore, On which, ere the wearer had donn'd it, a man drew The Scotch badge, a Saltire, or Cross of St. Andrew; Though I fairly confess I am quite at a loss To guess why they should choose that particular cross, Or to make clear to you What the Scotch had to do At all with the business in hand,--though it's true That the vestment aforesaid, perhaps, from its hue, Viz. yellow, in juxta-position with blue, (A tinge of which latter tint could but accrue On the faces of wretches, of course, in a stew As to what their tormentors were going to do,) Might make people fancy, who no better knew, They were somehow connected with Jeffrey's Review; Especially too As it's certain that few Things would make Father Dominic blither or happier Than to catch hold of it, or its Chef, Macvey Napier.-- No matter for that--my description to crown, All the flames and the devils were turn'd upside down On this habit, facetiously term'd San Benito, Much like the dress suit Of some nondescript brute From the show-van of Wombwell, (not George,) or Polito.

And thrice happy they,[29] Dress'd out in this way To appear with éclat at the Auto-da-Fé, Thrice happy indeed whom the good luck might fall to Of devils tail upward, and "Fuego revolto," For, only see there, In the midst of the Square, Where, perch'd up on poles six feet high in the air, Sit, chained to the stake, some two, three, or four pair Of wretches, whose eyes, nose, complexion, and hair Their Jewish descent but too plainly declare, Each clothed in a garment more frightful by far, a Smock-frock sort of gaberdine, call'd a Samarra, With three times the number of devils upon it,-- A proportion observed on the sugar-loaf'd bonnet, With this farther distinction--of mischief a proof-- That every fiend Jack stands upright on his hoof! While the pictured flames, spread Over body and head, Are three times as crooked, and three times as red! All, too, pointing upwards, as much as to say, "Here's the real bonne bouche of the Auto-da-fé!"

Torquemada, meanwhile, With his cold, cruel smile, Sits looking on calmly, and watching the pile, As his hooded "Familiars" (their names, as some tell, come From their being so much more "familiar" than "welcome,") Have, by this time, begun To be "poking their fun," And their firebrands, as if they were so many posies Of lilies and roses, Up to the noses Of Lazarus Levi, and Money Ben Moses; While similar treatment is forcing out hollow moans From Aby Ben Lasco, and Ikey Ben Solomons, Whose beards--this a black, that inclining to grizzle-- Are smoking, and curling, and all in a fizzle; The King, at the same time, his Dons and his visitors, Sit, sporting smiles, like the Holy Inquisitors,----

Enough!--no more!--Thank Heaven, 'tis o'er! The tragedy's done! and we now draw a veil O'er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail; The last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket, The last wretched Hebrew's burnt down in his socket! The Barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners, King, Court, Lords, and Commons, gone home to their dinners, With a pleasing emotion Produced by the notion Of having exhibited so much devotion, All chuckling to think how the Saints are delighted At having seen so many "Smouches" ignited:-- All, save Privy-purse Humez, Who sconced in his room is, And, Cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair, Is puzzling to find out how much the "affair" (By deep calculations, the which I can't follow,) cost,-- The tottle, in short, of the whole of the Holocaust.

Perhaps you may think it a rather odd thing, That, while talking so much of the Court and the King, In describing the scene Through which we've just been, I've not said one syllable as to the Queen; Especially, too, as her Majesty's "Whereabouts," All things considered, might well be thought thereabouts; The fact was, however, although little known, Sa Magestad had hit on a plan of her own, And suspecting, perhaps, that an Auto alone Might fail in securing this "Heir to the throne,"

Had made up her mind, Although well inclined Towards galas and shows of no matter what kind, For once to retire, And bribe the Saints higher Than merely by sitting and seeing a fire,-- A sight, after all, she did not much admire; So she locked herself up, Without platter or cup, In her Oriel, resolved not to take bite or sup, Not so much as her matin-draught (our "early purl"), Nor put on her jewels, nor e'en let the girl, Who help'd her to dress, take her hair out of curl, But to pass the whole morning in telling her beads, And in reading the lives of the Saints, and their deeds, And in vowing to visit, without shoes or sandals, Their shrines, with unlimited orders for candles, Holy water, and Masses of Mozart's, and Handel's.[30]

And many a Pater, and Ave, and Credo Did She, and her Father Confessor, Quevedo, (The clever Archbishop, you know, of Toledo,) Who came, as before, at a very short warning, Get through, without doubt, in the course of that morning; Shut up, as they were, With nobody there To at all interfere with so pious a pair; And the Saints must have been stony-hearted indeed, If they had not allow'd all these pains to succeed. Nay, it's not clear to me but their very ability Might, Spain throughout, Have been brought into doubt, Had the Royal bed still remain'd curs'd with sterility; St. Jago, however, who always is jealous In Spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us, And who, if he saw Anything like a flaw In Spain's welfare, would soon sing "Old Rose, burn the bellows!" Set matters to rights like a King of good fellows; By his interference, Three-fourths of a year hence, There was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing, Cachucas, Boleros, and bells set a ringing, In both the Castilles, Triple-bob-major peals, Rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging, Seguidillas, Fandangos, While ev'ry gun bang goes; And all the way through, from Gibraltar to Biscay, Figueras and Sherry make all the Dons frisky, (Save Moore's "Blakes and O'Donnells," who stick to the whisky;) All the day long The dance and the song Continue the general joy to prolong; And even long after the close of the day You can hear little else but "Hip! hip! hip! hurray!" The Escurial, however, is not quite so gay, For, whether the Saint had not perfectly heard The petition the Queen and Archbishop preferr'd,-- Or whether his head, from his not being used To an Auto-da-fé, was a little confused,-- Or whether the King, in the smoke and the smother, Got bother'd, and so made some blunder or other, I am sure I can't say; All I know is, that day There must have been some mistake!--that, I'm afraid, is Only too clear, Inasmuch as the dear Royal Twins--though fine babies,--proved both little LADIES!!

MORAL.

Reader!--Not knowing what your "persuasion" may be, Mahometan, Jewish, or even Parsee, Take a little advice which may serve for all three!

First--"When you're at Rome, do as Rome does!" and note all her Ways--drink what She drinks! and don't turn Tea-totaler! In Spain, raison de plus, You must do as they do, Inasmuch as they're all there "at sixes and sevens," Just, as you know, They were, some years ago, In the days of Don Carlos and Brigadier Evans; Don't be nice, then--but take what they've got in their shops, Whether griskins, or sausages, ham, or pork-chops!

Next--Avoid Fancy-trousers!--their colours and shapes Sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes! For myself, I confess I've but small taste in dress, My opinion is, therefore, worth nothing--or less-- But some friends I've consulted,--much given to watch one's Apparel--do say It's by far the best way, And the safest, to do as Lord Brougham does--buy Scotch ones!

I might now volunteer some advice to a King,-- Let Whigs say what they will, I shall do no such thing, But copy my betters, and never begin Until, like Sir Robert, "I'm duly CALLED IN!"

* * * * *

In the windows of the great Hall, as well as in those of the long Gallery, and the Library at Tappington, are, and have been many of them from a very early period, various "storied panes" of stained glass, which, as Blue Dick's[31] exploits did not extend beyond the neighbouring city, have remained unfractured down to the present time. Among the numerous escutcheons there displayed, charged with armorial bearings of the family and its connexions, is one in which a chevron between three eagles' cuisses, sable, is blazoned quarterly with the engrailed saltire of the Ingoldsbys. Mr. Simpkinson from Bath,--whose merits as an antiquary as so well known and appreciated as to make eulogy superfluous, not to say impertinent,--has been for some time bringing his heraldic lore to bear on those monumenta vetusta. He pronounces the coat in question to be that of a certain Sir Ingoldsby Bray who flourished temp. Ric. I., and founded the Abbey of Ingoldsby, in the county of Kent and diocese of Rochester, early in the reign of that monarch's successor. The history of the origin of that pious establishment has been rescued from the dirt and mildew in which its chartularies have been slumbering for centuries, and is here given. The link of connexion between the two families is shown by the accompanying extract from our genealogical tree.

Peter de Ingoldsby, Lord of Tappington temp: Stephen, killed at the battle of Lincoln ex parte regis. = | | +------+----+ | | | | Vitalis de = Alice de Geoffrey = Joan Richard Ingoldsby, of Engaine. | Lizures, de Brai. | only Tappington aforesaid. A | 2d wife. | dau. quo HODIERNUS INGOLDSBY. | | | +-------+ +------------------+----------+ /|\ | | | Alicia = Ingoldsby de Bray, Chiv'ler, Reginald de Bray, 2d son, dau. & afterwards assumed his mother's heir to his brother, from whom heir, name, founder of Ingoldsby descended Edmund Lord Bray, sus: Abbey, A.D. 1202, summoned to parliament 21 per ob. S. P. circiter 1214. 28 Hen. 8. coll | /|\

In this document it will be perceived that the death of Lady Alice Ingoldsby is attributed to strangulation superinduced by suspension, whereas in the veritable legend annexed no allusion is made to the intervention of a halter. Unluckily Sir Ingoldsby left no issue, or we might now be "calling Cousins" with (ci devant) Mrs. Otway Cave, in whose favour the abeyance of the old Barony of Bray has recently been determined by the Crown. To this same Barony we ourselves were not without our pretensions, and, teste Simpkinson, had "as good a right to it as any body else." The "Collective wisdom of the Country" has, however, decided the point, and placed us among that very numerous class of claimants who are "wrongfully kept out of their property and dignities--by the right owners."

I seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a malicious report that Mr. Simpkinson has, in a late publication, confounded King Henry the Fifth with the Duke of Monmouth, and positively deny that he has ever represented Walter Lord Clifford, (father to Fair Rosamond,) as the leader of the O. P. row.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] "Vedi Napoli e poi mori!"Return to passage

[26] "Quem naõ tem visto Lisboa Naõ tem visto cousa boa."Return to passage

[27] "Rio verde, Rio verde, etc." "Glassy water, glassy water, Down whose current clear and strong, Chiefs, confused in mutual slaughter, Moor and Christian, roll along."--Old Spanish Romance.Return to passage

[28] Cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est. Propria quæ maribus.Return to passage

[29] O fortunati nimium sua si bona nôrint!Return to passage

[30] "That is, She would have order'd them--but none are known, I fear, as his, For Handel never wrote a Mass--and so She'd David Perez's-- Bow! wow! wow! Fol, lol, &c. &c."Return to passage

(Posthumous Note by the Ghost of James Smith, Esq.)

[31] Richard Culmer, parson of Chartham, commonly so called, distinguished himself, while Laud was in the Tower, by breaking the beautiful windows in Canterbury Cathedral, "standing on the top of the city ladder, near sixty steps high, with a whole pike in his hand, when others would not venture so high." This feat of Vandalism the cærulean worthy called "rattling down proud Becket's glassie bones."Return to passage

THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE!

A LEGEND OF PALESTINE--AND WEST KENT.

I'll devise thee brave punishments for him! SHAKSPERE.

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, A stalwart knight, I ween, was he, "Come east, come west, Come lance in rest, Come faulchion in hand, I'll tickle the best Of all the Soldan's Chivalrie!"

Oh, they came west, and they came east, Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least, And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,-- But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint; Twenty and three, Of high degree, Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea, All--all save one--and he ran up a tree! "Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!" "Twenty and three! Twenty and three!-- All of them Nobles of high degree: There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "What news? what news? come, tell to me! What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?-- I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free! What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall? Come tell me now, thou Page so small!"

"Oh, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound, Beast in byre, and Steed in stall; And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark, Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"

--"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound, For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay: Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear; How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"-- Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage, "What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page!"--

That little Foot-page full low crouch'd he, And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee, "Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me: Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall, Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall: She sits alone, And she makes her moan; Dance and song She considers quite wrong; Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil; She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"

"Thou liest! thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page, Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me! There, in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest, What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near, That little Foot-page he blench'd with fear;

"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie? King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he, And tidings rare To him do I bear, And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"

"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page! No learned clerk, I trow, am I, But well, I ween, May there be seen Dame Alice's hand with half an eye; Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page, From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news; Although no clerk, Well may I mark The particular turn of her P's and her Q's!"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage, By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page; The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes, And buffets,--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;-- Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's-heads.

When the contents of the scroll met his view, Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew, Backward he drew His mailed shoe, And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, I may not say whither--I never knew.

"Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain,-- Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"

"Twenty and three! There they be, Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!-- Twenty and three?-- --Stay--let me see! Stretched in his gore There lieth one more! By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and four! Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there, But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where! Ay, twenty-four corses, I rede, there be, Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"

"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!"-- "One is the corse of a barefooted Friar!!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he, "Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave, A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee; A year and a day Have I been away, King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free; Dame Alice, she sits there in lonely guise, And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs, And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes, And she darneth her hose, and she crieth, 'Alack! Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?' A boon, a boon, my Liege," quoth he, "Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray," King Richard said right graciously, "Of all in my host That I love the most, I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee! Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon; But--mind you make haste, and come back again soon!

FYTTE II.

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair, Pontiff proud, I ween, is he, And a belted Knight In armour dight, Is begging a boon on his bended knee, With signs of grief and sounds of woe, Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe. "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! In my fury and rage A little Foot-page I have left, I fear me, in evil case: A scroll of shame From a faithless dame Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear; I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick, That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where! Had he as many necks as hairs, He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Rise up, rise up, I say to thee; A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou; Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee! Ill it beseems that a soldier true Of holy Church should vainly sue:-- --Foot-pages, they are by no means rare, A thriftless crew, I ween, be they, Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair, For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray, But stout and true Soldiers, like you, Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!-- Be prayers for the dead Duly read, Let a mass be sung, and a pater be said; So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"--Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave. O Holy Father, pardon and grace! Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life, I have left, I fear me, in evil case! A scroll of shame in my rage I tore, Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore; 'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore; Alack! alack! too surely I knew The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q, And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew! Dame Alice I found,-- She sank on the ground,-- I twisted her neck till I twisted it round! With jibe and jeer, and mock, and scoff, I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!-- All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Why really--I hardly know what to say:-- Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay, Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.-- --Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray; For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say, For a year, and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray A fair rose-noble must duly pay! So may his qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! No power could save That paramour knave; I left him, I wot, in evil case! There, 'midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain, Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain, His legs lie here, and his arms lie there, And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"

"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, though doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of holy Church in such pitiful plight! Foul sin her warriors so to slay, When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!-- --A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair, To pray for his soul for ever and aye, Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, And fourteen marks by the year must thou pay For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights-- None of your rascally 'dips'--but sound, Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;-- And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!-- So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"

"Now nay, Holy Father, now nay, now nay! Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray. "No champion free of the Cross was he; No belted Baron of high degree; No Knight nor Squire Did there expire; He was, I trow, but a bare-footed Friar! And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait With his monks around him, and early and late May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, --He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"

"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said, And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head-- "Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas! A horrible thing has come to pass! What! cut off the head of a reverend Prior, And say he was 'only (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'-- 'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire Is half so good as a holy Friar?' _O, turpissime! Vir nequissime! Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_ Never, I trow, have the Servi servorum Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum, Such a gross violation of morum bonorum, And won't have again sæcula sæculorum!-- Come hither to me, My Cardinals three, My Bishops in partibus, Masters in Artibus, Hither to me, A.B. and D.D. Doctors and Proctors of every degree! Go fetch me a book!--go fetch me a bell As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well-- I'll send him--where good manners won't let me tell!"

--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!" --Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face-- "Meâ culpâ!--in sooth I'm in pitiful case. Peccavi! peccavi!--I've done very wrong! But my heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong. And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they're here, and they're there, and I can't tell you where, And Holy Church shall come in for her share!"

Pope Gregory paused, and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three they pick'd up his crown.

"Now, if it be so that you own you've been wrong, And your heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong, And you really will fight like a trump all day long;-- If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, And Holy Church shall come in for her share,-- Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me, That it gives a new turn to the whole affair, And I think that the Penitent need not despair! --If it be so, as you seem to say, Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!

An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground; And there in that Abbey all the year round, A full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns, Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross-buns; And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain: And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; And plenty of lights Shall be there o' nights; None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon! And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe,-- But shall dine upon tripe, And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and liqueur!"

(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallow'd it down, by an effort, again, And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a More repetition of O, meâ culpâ!)

"Thrice three times upon Candlemas-day, Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar, With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire; And nor he, nor his heir[32] Shall take, use, or bear Any more, from this day, The surname of Bray, As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias!

So his qualms of conscience at length may cease, And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace!"

Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain.

"Look out, my Squire, Look higher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar! And pick up the arms, and the legs, of the dead, And pick up his body, and pick up his head!"

FYTTE III.

Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, With right of free-warren (whatever that be); Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, All in full leaf at the right time of year; About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear, And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear: But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear. Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more; Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind,--and before You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.[33] So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.

Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three, And there they all stand each in their degree, Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, Two by two, in their regular mode, While a funeral comes down the Rochester road.

Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, Cockle in hat, and staff in hand, Come marching in pairs, a holy band! Little boys twelve, dressed all in white, Each with his brazen censer bright, And singing away with all their might, Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight; Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care, A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd, Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard. Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide, While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear--Men- -at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men.

It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well, How some sang the requiem, some toll'd the bell; Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day The procession I speak about reached the Sacellum; And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper Received the first taste of the Father's flagellum;-- That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded, By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns, Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns; --That year after year, having run round the Quad With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, Having not only kiss'd it, but bless'd it, and thank'd it, he Died, as all thought, in the odour of sanctity, When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright, Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls, and the squalls Of some one who seem'd running all round the walls!

Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless!" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A flagellum, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate In his left hand, out straight, As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull's-eye lantern,"--as placed By our own New Police,--in a belt round his waist. All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,-- In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him,"--so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!"

Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might, Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,-- Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail, They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd, and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's Pericranium was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they'd pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd.

Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,-- I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This fact with the reason these people assign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-ine." 'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray), It is boldly affirm'd, by the folks great and small About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall. And that many have seem him, and more heard him squall. So I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz.: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d--d after all!

MORAL.

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me! See what comes of lying!--don't join in a league To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue!

Ladies!--married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand! Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen!--you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives! And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS!"

Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them down stairs! To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend, "If you want matters well managed, Go!--if not, Send!" A servant's too often a negligent elf; --If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife! For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!

FOOTNOTES:

[32] His brother Reginald, it would seem by the pedigree, disregarded this prohibition.Return to passage

[33] Alas! one might almost say that of this sacred, and once splendid, edifice, periêrunt etiam ruinæ. An elderly gentleman, however, of ecclesiastical cut, who oscillates between the Garrick Club and the Falcon in Gravesend, and is said by the host to be a "foreigneering Bishop," does not scruple to identify the ruins still to be seen by the side of the high Dover road, about a mile and a half below the town, with those of the haunted Sacellum. The general features of the landscape certainly correspond, and tradition, as certainly, countenances his conjecture.Return to passage

* * * * *

Alas, for Ingoldsby Abbey!--Alas that one should have to say

Periêrunt etiam Ruinæ! Its very Ruins now are tiny.

There is a something in the very sight of an old Abbey--family associations apart--as Ossian says (or Macpherson for him), "pleasing yet mournful to the soul!" nor could I ever yet gaze on the roofless walls and ivy-clad towers of one of these venerable monuments of the piety of bygone days, without something very like an unbidden tear rising to dim the prospect. Something of this, I think, I have already hinted in recording our pic-nic with the Seaforths at Bolsover. Since then I have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once was Netley, and never experienced the sensation to which I have alluded in a stronger degree;--if its character was somewhat changed before we parted--it is not my fault. Still, be the drawbacks what they may, I shall ever mark with a white stone the day on which I for the first time beheld the time-worn cloisters of

NETLEY ABBEY.

A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave; And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green, That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovelily bright In that glorious light, And I felt 'twas holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time-- The days of thy Monks of old,-- When to Matin, and Vesper, and Compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among, Swell'd the full tide of sacred song;

And then a Vision pass'd Across my mental eye;[34] And silver shrines, and shaven crowns, And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns, And long white veils, went by, Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,-- --But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-Lad!

Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring, And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell, And "dear little souls," In clean linen stoles, Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-- And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear, With front severe, And brow austere, Now and then pinching a little boy's ear When he chaunts the responses too late, or too soon, Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune. (Then, you know, They'd a "moveable Do," Not a fixed one as now--and of course never knew How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.) It was, in sooth, a comely sight, And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er" My spirit--a change of fear-- That gorgeous scene I beheld no more, But deep beneath the basement floor A dungeon dark and drear! And there was an ugly hole in the wall-- For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small! And mortar and bricks All ready to fix, And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!-- That horrible hole!--it seems to say, 'I'm a Grave that gapes for a living prey!'"

And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad-- And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad. Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink, Should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink, Or be closed for aye In this kind of way, Shut out for ever from wholesome day, Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink, No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!-- And that Maiden's lip, Which was made to sip, Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip! --That wandering glance and furtive kiss, Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis, Should yet be considered so much amiss As to call for a sentence severe as this!-- And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh The poor lone victim's stifled cry,[35] "Well! I can't understand How any man's hand Could wall up that hole in a Christian land!-- Why, a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work, And though, when his Ladies run after the fellows, he Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy, Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak, In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek, 'When all's said and done, far better it was for us, Tied back to back, And sewn up in a sack, To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!' --Oh! a Saint 'twould vex To think that the sex Should be treated no better than Combe's double X! Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls,-- If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!--the tempest lours,-- It bursts on thy devoted towers;

Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Rides on the blast, and guides the storm; I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come--a fearful fall-- Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown-- Mouldering walls remain alone! Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown, Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that grey and mouldering wall, The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!-- They "come like shadows, so depart"-- I see thee as thou wert--and art--

Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No voice awakes thine echoes now! No sound--Good Gracious!--what was that? Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?-- --Full and clear On my listening ear It comes--again--near, and more near-- Why 'zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer! --I rush to the door-- I tread the floor, By Abbots and Abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag, surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng, A nasty decoction miscall'd "Souchong,"-- And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife" Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life!-- Danced to by "All the World and his Wife." Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-- Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns, Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns," Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea. Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love. Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,-- The detestable din Of that cracked violin, And the odours of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin! "--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!" And I said to the person who drove my "shay," (A very intelligent man, by the way,) "This, all things considered, is rather too gay! It don't suit my humour,--so take me away! Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song! If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,' And I really consider it all very wrong.-- --Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"-- --He paused, and said, Scratching his head, "Why, I really do think he's a little to blame, But I can't say I knows the Gentleman's name!"

"Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh, And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, "My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt That some day or other you'll find it out, Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay,' (As perhaps he may,) Be so good as to say That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day, Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized, Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized, And thus of their owner to speak began, As he ordered you home in haste, "NO DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN, But--I can't say much for his taste."[36]

FOOTNOTES:

[34] In my mind's eye, Horatio!--HAMLET.Return to passage

[35] About the middle of the last century a human skeleton was discovered in a recess in the wall among the ruins of Netley. On examination the bones were pronounced to be those of a female. Teste James Harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver of Southampton, who "well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that 'Somebody told her so.'"Return to passage

* * * * *

My very excellent brother-in-law, Seaforth, late of the Bombay Fencibles (lucky dog to have quitted the service before this shocking Afghan business!), seems to have been even more forcibly affected on the evening when he so narrowly escaped being locked in at Westminster Abbey, and when--but let him describe his own feelings, as he has done, indeed, in the subjoined

FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

A feeling sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around: I stepp'd with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal tread Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the mighty dead!

The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those cloisters pale, With fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured mail; As from the stained and storied pane it danced with quivering gleam, Each cold and prostrate form below seem'd quickening in the beam.

Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell, And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell: It died--and not a breath did stir;--above each knightly stall, Unmoved, the banner'd blazonry hung waveless as a pall.

I stood alone!--a living thing 'midst those that were no more-- I thought on ages past and gone--the glorious deeds of yore-- On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain, The fatal roses twined at length--on great Eliza's reign.

I thought on Naseby--Marston Moor--on Worc'ster's "crowning fight;" When on mine ear a sound there fell--it chill'd me with affright, As thus in low, unearthly tones I heard a voice begin, "--This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!--Sir! please put summut in!"

* * * * *

Cætera desiderantur.

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un peu plus de goût!--Gil Blas.Return to passage

* * * * *

That Seaforth's nervous system was powerfully acted upon on this occasion I can well believe. The circumstance brings to my recollection a fearful adventure--or what might perhaps have proved one--of my own in early life while grinding Gerunds at Canterbury. A sharp touch of the gout, and the reputed sanatory qualities of a certain spring in St. Peter's Street, then in much repute, had induced my Uncle to take up a temporary abode within the Cathedral "Precinct." It was on one of those temporary visits which I was sometimes permitted to pay on half-holidays, that, in self-defence, I had to recount the following true narrative. I may add, that this tradition is not yet worn out: a small maimed figure of a female in a sitting position, and holding something like a frying-pan in her hand, may still be seen on the covered passage which crosses the Brick Walk, and adjoins the house belonging to the sixth prebendal stall.--There are those, whom I know, who would, even yet, hesitate at threading the Dark Entry on a Friday--"not," of course, "that they believe one word about"

NELL COOK!!

A LEGEND OF THE "DARK ENTRY."

THE KING'S SCHOLAR'S STORY.

"From the 'Brick Walk' branches off to the right a long narrow vaulted passage, paved with flagstones, vulgarly known by the name of the 'Dark Entry.' Its eastern extremity communicates with the cloisters, crypt, and, by a private stair-case, with the interior of the Cathedral. On the west it opens into the 'Green-court,' forming a communication between it and the portion of the 'Precinct' called the 'Oaks.'"--A Walk round Canterbury, etc.

Scene--A back parlour in Mr. John Ingoldsby's house in the Precinct.--A blazing fire.--Mine Uncle is seated in a high-backed easy-chair, twirling his thumbs, and contemplating his list shoe.--Little Tom, the "King's Scholar," on a stool opposite.--Mrs. John Ingoldsby at the table, busily employed in manufacturing a cabbage-rose (cauliflower?) in many-coloured worsteds.--Mine Uncle's meditations are interrupted by the French clock on the mantelpiece.--He prologizeth with vivacity.

"Hark! listen, Mrs. Ingoldsby,--the clock is striking nine! Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine, And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring his coat, And a warm bandana handkerchief to tie about his throat.

"And bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has said That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed; And well we know when little boys their coming home delay, They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day!"

"--Nay, nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray, Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way; I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour, It fears me quite--it's Friday night!--and then Nell Cook hath pow'r!"

"And, who's Nell Cook, thou silly child?--and what's Nell Cook to thee? That thou shouldst dread at night to tread with Jane that dark entrée?" --"Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear! such fearsome things they tell Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell!"

"It was in bluff King Harry's day's,--and Monks and Friars were then, You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen. They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns,--no shirts,--and no cravats; And a cord was placed about their waist--they had no shovel hats!

"It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift, And long before he stamped and swore, and cut the Pope adrift; There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk; He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry dark!

"The Canon was a portly man--of Latin and of Greek, And learned lore, he had good store,--yet health was on his cheek. The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye, The beer was weak, yet he was sleek--he had a merry eye.

"For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin, The Canon's house it stood without;--he kept good cheer within; Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look, And Ellen Bean ruled his cuisine.--He called her 'Nelly Cook!'

"For soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, Nell Cook was famous still; She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wond'rous skill: Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely brown'd, Her boil'd and roast, they were the boast of all the 'Precinct' round;

"And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air, And earthward bent her modest look--yet she was passing fair; And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave people shook: --They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook.

"One day--'twas on a Whitsun-Eve--there come a coach and four;-- It pass'd the 'Green-Court' gate, and stopp'd before the Canon's door; The travel-stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way,-- Each panting steed relax'd its speed--out stept a Lady gay.

"'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece,'--the Canon then did cry, And to his breast the Lady prest--he had a merry eye,-- 'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece! in sooth thou'rt welcome here, 'Tis many a day since we have met--how fares my Brother dear?'--

"'Now, thanks, my loving Uncle,' that Lady gay replied; 'Gramercy for thy benison!'--then 'Out, alas!' she sighed; 'My father dear he is not near; he seeks the Spanish Main; He prays thee give me shelter here till he return again!'--

"'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece; come lay thy mantle by!' The Canon kissed her ruby lip--he had a merry eye,-- But Nelly Cook askew did look,--it came into her mind They were a little less than 'kin,' and rather more than 'kind.'

* * * * *

"Three weeks are gone and over--full three weeks and a day, Yet still within the Canon's house doth dwell that Lady gay; On capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare, And they quaff good store of Bourdeaux wine,--so dainty is their fare.

"And fine upon the virginals is that gay Lady's touch, And sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any such; But is it 'O Sanctissima!' she sings in dulcet tone? Or 'Angels ever bright and fair?'--Ah, no!--it's 'Bobbing Joan!'

* * * * *

"The Canon's house is lofty, and spacious to the view; The Canon's cell is ordered well--yet Nelly looks askew; The Lady's bower is in the tower,--yet Nelly shakes her head-- She hides the poker and the tongs in that gay Lady's bed?

* * * * *

"Six weeks were gone and over--full six weeks and a day, Yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay! From which, I fear, it's pretty clear that Lady rest had none; Or, if she slept in any bed--it was not in her own.

"But where that Lady pass'd her nights, I may not well divine, Perhaps in pious oraisons at good St Thomas' Shrine, And for her father far away breathed tender vows and true-- It may be so--I cannot say--but Nelly look'd askew.

"And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were lock'd in sleep, She'd listen at the Canon's door,--she'd through the keyhole peep-- I know not what she heard or saw, but fury filled her eye-- --She bought some nasty Doctor's-stuff, and she put it in a pie!

* * * * *

"It was a glorious summer's-eve--with beams of rosy red The Sun went down--all Nature smiled--but Nelly shook her head! Full softly to the balmy breeze rang out the Vesper bell-- --Upon the Canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell!

"'Now here's to thee, mine Uncle! a health I drink to thee! Now pledge me back in Sherris sack, or a cup of Malvoisie!'-- The Canon sigh'd--but rousing, cried, 'I answer to thy call, And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal!'

"'Tis early dawn--the matin chime rings out for morning pray'r-- And Prior and Friar is in his stall--the Canon is not there! Nor in the small Refect'ry hall, nor cloister'd walk is he-- All wonder--and the Sacristan says, 'Lauk-a-daisey-me!'

"They've searched the aisles and Baptistry--they've search'd above--around-- The 'Sermon House'--the 'Audit Room'--the Canon is not found. They only find that pretty Cook concocting a ragout, They ask her where her master is--but Nelly looks askew!

"They call for crow-bars--'jemmies' is the modern name they bear-- They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar--but what a sight is there!-- The Canon's head lies on the bed--his Niece lies on the floor! --They are as dead as any nail that is in any door!

"The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back! His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and black!-- The livid spot is on her cheek,--it's on her neck of snow, And the Prior sighs, and sadly cries, 'Well!--here's a pretty Go!'

* * * * *

"All at the silent hour of night a bell is heard to toll, A knell is rung, a requiem's sung as for a sinful soul, And there's a grave within the Nave, it's dark, and deep, and wide, And they bury there a Lady fair, and a Canon by her side!

"An Uncle--so 'tis whisper'd now throughout the sacred fane,-- And a Niece--whose father's far away upon the Spanish Main-- The Sacristan, he says no word that indicates a doubt, But he puts his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his fingers out!

"And where doth tarry Nelly Cook, that staid and comely lass? Ay, where?--for ne'er from forth that door was Nelly known to pass. Her coif, and gown of russet brown were lost unto the view, And if you mention'd Nelly's name--the Monks all looked askew!

* * * * *

"There is a heavy paving-stone fast by the Canon's door, Of granite grey, and it may weigh some half a ton or more, And it is laid deep in the shade within that Entry dark, Where sun or moonbeam never play'd, or e'en one starry spark.

"That heavy granite stone was moved that night, 'twas darkly said, And the mortar round its sides next morn seem'd fresh and newly laid; But what within the narrow vault beneath that stone doth lie, Or if that there be vault, or no--I cannot tell--not I!

"But I've been told that moan and groan, and fearful wail and shriek Came from beneath that paving-stone for nearly half a week-- For three long days and three long nights came forth those sounds of fear; Then all was o'er--they never more fell on the listening ear.

* * * * *

"A hundred years were gone and past since last Nell Cook was seen, When, worn by use that stone got loose, and they went and told the Dean.-- --Says the Dean, says he, 'My Masons three! now haste and fix it tight;' And the Masons three peep'd down to see, and they saw a fearsome sight.

"Beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they found-- It was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve feet round; --A fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well! But who the deuce 'twas put it there those Masons could not tell.

"And near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie, And a mouldy piece of 'kissing crust,' as from a warden-pie! And Doctor Jones declared the bones were female bones and, 'Zooks! I should not be surprised,' said he, 'if these were Nelly Cook's!'

"It was in good Dean Bargrave's days, if I remember right, Those fleshless bones beneath the stones these Masons brought to light; And you may well in the 'Dean's Chapelle' Dean Bargrave's portrait view, 'Who died one night,' says old Tom Wright, 'in sixteen forty-two!'

"And so two hundred years have passed since that these Masons three, With curious looks, did set Nell Cook's unquiet spirit free; That granite stone had kept her down till then--so some suppose,-- --Some spread their fingers out, and put their thumb unto their nose.

"But one thing's clear--that all the year on every Friday night, Throughout that Entry dark doth roam Nell Cook's unquiet Sprite: On Friday was that Warden-pie all by that Canon tried; On Friday died he, and that tidy Lady by his side!

"And though two hundred years have flown, Nell Cook doth still pursue Her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may rue; Her fatal breath is fell as death! the Simoom's blast is not More dire--(a wind in Africa that blows uncommon hot).

"But all unlike the Simoom's blast, her breath is deadly cold, Delivering quivering, shivering shocks unto both young and old, And whoso in that Entry dark doth feel that fatal breath, He ever dies within the year some dire, untimely death!

"No matter who--no matter what condition, age, or sex, But some 'get shot,' and some 'get drown'd,' and some 'get' broken necks; Some 'get run over' by a coach;--and one beyond the seas 'Got' scraped to death with oyster-shells among the Caribbees!

"Those Masons three, who set her free, fell first!--it is averred That two were hang'd on Tyburn tree for murdering of the third: Charles Storey,[37] too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth they tell, Been gibbeted on Chartham Downs, had they not met with Nell!

"Then send me not, mine Uncle dear, oh! send me not, I pray, Back through that Entry dark to-night, but round some other way! I will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book, For Heaven forfend that ever I foregather with Nell Cook!"

* * * * *

The class was call'd at morning tide, and Master Tom was there; He look'd askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and chair. He did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his eye,-- He had not e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and cry.

Hence little boys may learn, when they from school go out to dine, They should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by nine; For if when they've their great-coat on, they pause before they part To tell a long and prosy tale,--perchance their own may smart!

MORAL.

--A few remarks to learned Clerks in country and in town-- Don't keep a pretty serving-maid, though clad in russet brown!-- Don't let your Niece sing "Bobbing Joan!"--don't with a merry eye, Hob-nob in Sack and Malvoisie,--and don't eat too much pie!!

And oh! beware that Entry dark,--especially at night,-- And don't go there with Jenny Smith all by the pale moonlight!-- So bless the Queen and her Royal Weans,--and the Prince whose hand she took,-- And bless us all, both great and small.--and keep us from Nell Cook!

FOOTNOTES:

[37] In or about the year 1780, a worthy of this name cut the throat of a journeyman paper-maker, was executed on Oaten Hill, and afterwards hung in chains near the scene of his crime. It was to this place, as being the extreme boundary of the City's jurisdiction, that the worthy Mayor with so much naïveté wished to escort Archbishop M---- on one of his progresses, when he begged to have the honour of "attending his Grace as far as the Gallows."Return to passage

* * * * *

Kind, good-hearted, gouty Uncle John! how well I remember all the kindness and affection which my mischievous propensities so ill repaid--his bright blue coat and resplendent gilt buttons--his "frosty pow" si bien poudré--his little quill-like pigtail!--Of all my praiseworthy actions--they were "like angels visits, few and far between"--the neverfailing and munificent rewarder; of my naughty deeds--they were multitudinous as the sands on the seashore--the ever-ready palliator; my intercessor, and sometimes even my defender against punishment, "staying harsh justice in its mid career!"--Poor Uncle John! he will ever rank among the dearest of my

NURSERY REMINISCENCES.

I remember, I remember, When I was a little Boy, One fine morning in September Uncle brought me home a toy.

I remember how he patted Both my cheeks in kindliest mood; "Then," said he, "you little Fat-head, There's a top because you're good!"

Grandmama--a shrewd observer-- I remember gazed upon My new top, and said with fervour, "Oh! how kind of Uncle John!"

While Mama, my form caressing,-- In her eye the tear-drop stood, Read me this fine moral lesson, "See what comes of being good!"

* * * * *

I remember, I remember, On a wet and windy day, One cold morning in December, I stole out and went to play;

I remember Billy Hawkins Came, and with his pewter squirt Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings Till they were all over dirt!

To my mother for protection I ran, quaking every limb: --She exclaimed, with fond affection, "Gracious Goodness! look at him!"--

Pa cried, when he saw my garment, --'Twas a newly-purchased dress-- "Oh! you nasty little Warment, How came you in such a mess?"

Then he caught me by the collar, --Cruel only to be kind-- And to my exceeding dolour, Gave me--several slaps behind.

Grandmama, while yet I smarted, As she saw my evil plight, Said--'twas rather stony-hearted-- "Little rascal! sarve him right!"

I remember, I remember, From that sad and solemn day, Never more in dark December Did I venture out to play.

And the moral, which they taught, I Well remember; thus they said-- "Little Boys, when they are naughty, Must be whipped and sent to bed!"

* * * * *

Poor Uncle John!

"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well,"

in the old family vault in Denton chancel--and dear Aunt Fanny too!--the latter also "loo'd me weel," as the Scotch song has it,--and since, at this moment, I am in a most soft and sentimental humour--(--whisky toddy should ever be made by pouring the boiling fluid--hotter if possible--upon the thinnest lemon-peel,--and then--but everybody knows "what then--") I dedicate the following "True History" to my beloved

AUNT FANNY.

A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.

Virginibus, Puerisque canto.--HOR.

Old Maids, and Bachelors I chaunt to!--T. I.

I sing of a Shirt that never was new! In the course of the year Eighteen hundred and two, Aunt Fanny began, Upon Grandmama's plan, To make one for me, then her "dear little man."-- --At the epoch I speak about, I was between A man and a boy, A hobble-de-hoy, A fat, little, punchy concern of sixteen,-- Just beginning to flirt, And ogle,--so pert, I'd been whipt every day had I had my desert, --And Aunt Fan volunteer'd to make me a shirt!

I've said she began it,-- Some unlucky planet No doubt interfered,--for, before she, and Janet Completed the "cutting-out," "hemming," and "stitching," A tall Irish footman appear'd in the kitchen;-- --This took off the maid,-- And, I'm sadly afraid, My respected Aunt Fanny's attention, too, stray'd; For, about the same period, a gay son of Mars, Cornet Jones of the Tenth (then the Prince's) Hussars, With his fine dark eyelashes, And finer moustaches, And the ostrich plume work'd on the corps' sabre-taches, (I say nought of the gold-and-red cord of the sashes, Or the boots far above the Guards' vile spatterdashes,)-- So eyed, and so sigh'd, and so lovingly tried To engage her whole ear as he lounged by her side, Looking down on the rest with such dignified pride, That she made up her mind She should certainly find Cornet Jones at her feet, whisp'ring, "Fan, be my bride!"-- --She had even resolved to say "Yes" should he ask it, --And I--and my Shirt--were both left in the basket.

To her grief and dismay She discover'd one day Cornet Jones of the Tenth was a little too gay; For, besides that she saw him--he could not say nay-- Wink at one of the actresses capering away In a Spanish bolero, one night at the play, She found he'd already a wife at Cambray;-- One at Paris,--a nymph of the corps de ballet;-- And a third down in Kent, at a place call'd Foot's Cray.-- He was "viler than dirt!"-- Fanny vow'd to exert All her powers to forget him,--and finish my Shirt. But, oh! lack-a-day! How time slips away!-- Who'd have thought that while Cupid was playing these tricks, Ten years had elapsed, and--I'd turn'd twenty-six?--

"I care not a whit, --He's not grown a bit," Says my Aunt, "it will still be a very good fit." So Janet, and She, Now about thirty-three, (The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee,) Each taking one end of "the Shirt" on her knee, Again began working with hearty good will, "Felling the Seams," and "whipping the Frill,"-- For, twenty years since, though the Ruffle had vanish'd, A Frill like a fan had by no means been banish'd; People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches, Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches.--

Now, then, by these two thus laying their caps Together, my "Shirt" had been finish'd, perhaps, But for one of those queer little three-corner'd straps, Which the ladies call "Side-bits," that sever the "Flaps;" --Here unlucky Janet Took her needle, and ran it Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, "Ads cuss it! I've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset!"

For a month to come Poor dear Janet's thumb Was in that sort of state vulgar people call "Rum." At the end of that time, A youth, still in his prime, The Doctor's fat Errand-boy,--just such a dolt as is Kept to mix draughts, and spread plaisters and poultices,-- Who a bread-cataplasm each morning had carried her, Sigh'd,--ogled,--proposed,--was accepted,--and married her!

Much did Aunt Fan Disapprove of the plan;-- She turn'd up her dear little snub at "the Man." She "could not believe it"-- "Could scarcely conceive it Was possible--What! such a place!--and then leave it!-- And all for a 'Shrimp' not as high as my hat-- A little contemptible 'Shaver' like that!! With a broad pancake face, and eyes buried in fat!" --For her part, "She was sure She could never endure A lad with a lisp, and a leg like a skewer.-- Such a name too!--('twas Potts!)--and so nasty a trade-- No, no,--she would much rather die an old maid!-- He a husband, indeed!--Well--mine, come what may come, Shan't look like a blister, or smell of Guaiacum!"-- But there! She'd "declare, It was Janet's affair-- --Chacun à son goût-- As she baked she might brew-- She could not prevent her--'twas no use in trying it-- Oh, no--she had made her own bed, and might lie in it.-- They 'repent at leisure who marry at random.' No matter--De gustibus non disputandum!"

Consoling herself with this choice bit of Latin, Aunt Fanny resignedly bought some white satin, And, as the Soubrette Was a very great pet After all,--she resolved to forgive and forget, And sat down to make her a bridal rosette, With magnificent bits of some white-looking metal Stuck in, here and there, each forming a petal.-- --On such an occasion one couldn't feel hurt, Of course, that she ceased to remember--my Shirt!

Ten years,--or nigh,-- Had again gone by, When Fan, accidentally casting her eye On a dirty old work-basket, hung up on high In the store-closet where herbs were put by to dry, Took it down to explore it--she didn't know why.--

Within, a pea-soup colour'd fragment she spied, Of the hue of a November fog in Cheapside, Or a bad piece of gingerbread spoilt in the baking.-- --I still hear her cry,-- "I wish I may die If here isn't Tom's Shirt, that's been so long a-making! My gracious me! Well,--only to see! I declare it's as yellow as yellow can be! Why, it looks just as though't had been soak'd in green tea. Dear me! Did you ever?-- But come--'twill be clever To bring matters round; so I'll do my endeavour-- 'Better Late,' says an excellent proverb, 'than Never!'-- It is stain'd, to be sure; but 'grass-bleaching' will bring it To rights 'in a jiffy,'--We'll wash it, and wring it; Or, stay,--'Hudson's Liquor' Will do it still quicker, And--" Here the new maid chimed in, "Ma'am, Salt of Lemon Will make it, in no time, quite fit for the Gemman!"-- So they "set in the gathers,"--the large round the collar, While those at the wrist-bands of course were much smaller,-- The button-holes now were at length "overcast;" Then a button itself was sewn on--'twas the last!

All's done! All's won! Never under the sun Was Shirt so late finish'd--so early begun!-- --The work would defy The most critical eye. It was "bleach'd,"--it was wash'd,--it was hung out to dry,-- It was mark'd on the tail with a T, and an I! On the back of a chair it Was placed, just to air it, In front of the fire.--"Tom to-morrow shall wear it!"--

-O cæca mens hominum!--Fanny, good soul, Left her charge for one moment--but one--a vile coal Bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole!

* * * * *

Had it been Doctor Arnott's new stove--not a grate;-- Had the coal been a "Lord Mayor's coal,"--viz.: a slate;-- What a diff'rent tale had I had to relate! And Aunt Fan--and my Shirt--been superior to Fate!-- One moment--no more! --Fan open'd the door! The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before; And Aunt Fanny sank down--in despair--on the floor!

You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement, When, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement, She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing, And, losing at once all restraint on her temper, or Feelings, exclaimed, "Hang that Scamp of an Emperor, Although he's my son!-- --He thinks it prime fun, No doubt!--While the flames are demolishing Rome, There's my Nero a-fiddling, and singing 'Sweet Home!'" --Stay--I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said The words I've put down, as she stepp'd into bed,-- On reflection, I rather believe she was dead; But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I Never was very precise in Chronology; So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a Mistake of no very great moment--in fine, a Mere slip--'twas some Pleb's wife, if not Agrippina.

You may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony, Whom thirty years since we all used to call BONEY, When, engaged in what he styled "fulfilling his destinies," He led his rapscallions across the Borysthenes, And had made up his mind Snug quarters to find In Moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs Which are apt to prevail 'mongst the "Owskis" and "Offs," At a time of the year When your nose and your ear Are by no means so safe there as people's are here, Inasmuch as "Jack Frost," that most fearful of Bogles, Makes folks leave their cartilage oft in their "fogles." You may fancy, I say, That same BONEY'S dismay, When Count Rostopchin At once made him drop chin, And turn up his eyes, as his rapee he took, With a sort of a mort-de-ma-vie kind of look, On perceiving that "Swing," And "all that sort of thing," Was at work,--that he'd just lost the game without knowing it-- That the Kremlin was blazing--the Russians "a going it,"-- Every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground, And never a Turn-cock at all to be found!

You may fancy King Charles at some Court Fancy-Ball, (The date we may fix In Sixteen sixty-six,) In the room built by Inigo Jones at Whitehall, Whence his father, the Martyr,--(as such mourn'd by all Who, in his, wept the Law's and the Monarchy's fall,)-- Stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall-- You may fancy King Charles, I say, stopping the brawl,[38] As bursts on his sight the old church of St. Paul, By the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl From basement to buttress, and topping its wall-- --You may fancy old Clarendon making a call, And stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl, "Sire, from Pudding Lane's End, close by Fishmongers' Hall, To Pye Corner, in Smithfield, there is not a stall There, in market, or street,--not a house, great or small, In which Knight wields his faulchion, or Cobbler his awl, But's on fire!!"--You may fancy the general squall, And bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl!-- --You may fancy all this--but I boldly assert You can't fancy Aunt Fan--as she looked on MY SHIRT!!!

Was't Apelles? or Zeuxis?--I think 'twas Apelles, That artist of old--I declare I can't tell his Exact patronymic--I write and pronounce ill These Classical names--Whom some Grecian Town-Council Employ'd--I believe, by command of the Oracle,-- To produce them a splendid piece, purely historical, For adorning the wall Of some fane, or Guildhall, And who for his subject determined to try a Large painting in oils of Miss Iphigenia At the moment her Sire, By especial desire Of "that Spalpeen, O'Dysseus" (see Barney Maguire), Has resolved to devote Her beautiful throat To old Chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire; --An act which we moderns by no means admire,-- An off'ring, 'tis true, to Jove, Mars, or Apollo cost No trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust,-- Still, although for economy we should condemn none, In an αναξ ανδρων, like the great Agamemnon, To give up to slaughter An elegant daughter, After all the French, Music, and Dancing they'd taught her, And Singing,--at Heaven knows how much a quarter,-- In lieu of a Calf!-- It was too bad by half! At a "nigger"[39] so pitiful who would not laugh, And turn up their noses at one who could find No decenter method of "Raising the Wind"? No doubt but he might, Without any great Flight, Have obtain'd it by what we call "flying a kite." Or on mortgage--or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he Must have succeeded "by way of annuity." But there--it appears, His crocodile tears, His "Oh!s" and his "Ah!s" his "Oh Law!s" and "Oh dear!s" Were all thought sincere,--so in painting his Victim The Artist was splendid--but could not depict Him. His features, and phiz awry Shewed so much misery, And so like a dragon he Look'd in his agony, That the foil'd Painter buried--despairing to gain a Good likeness--his face in a printed Bandana. --Such a veil is best thrown o'er one's face when one's hurt By some grief which no power can repair or avert!-- --Such a veil I shall throw o'er Aunt Fan--and My Shirt!

MORAL.

And now for some practical hints from the story Of Aunt Fan's mishap, which I've thus laid before ye; For, if rather too gay, I can venture to say A fine vein of morality is, in each lay Of my primitive Muse, the distinguishing trait!--

First of all--Don't put off till to-morrow what may, Without inconvenience, be managed to-day! That golden occasion we call "Opportunity" Rarely's neglected by man with impunity! And the "Future," how brightly soe'er by Hope's dupe colour'd, Ne'er may afford You a lost chance restored, Till both you, and YOUR SHIRT, are grown old, and pea-soup-colour'd!You to guard your attire, Young Ladies,--and never go too near the fire!-- --Depend on't there's many a dear little Soul Has found that a Spark is as bad as a coal,-- And "in her best petticoat burnt a great hole!"

Last of all, gentle Reader, don't be too secure!-- Let seeming success never make you "cock-sure!" But beware!--and take care, When all things look fair, How you hang your Shirt over the back of your chair!-- --"There's many a slip 'Twixt the cup and the lip!" Be this excellent proverb, then, well understood, And DON'T HALLOO BEFORE YOU'RE QUITE OUT OF THE WOOD!!!

FOOTNOTES:

[38] Not a "row," but a dance--Return to passage

"The brave Lord Keeper led the brawls, The seals and maces danced before him."--GRAY.

And truly Sir Christopher danced to some tune.

[39] Hibernicè "nigger," quasi "niggard." Vide B. Maguire passim.Return to passage

* * * * *

It is to my excellent and erudite friend, Simpkinson, that I am indebted for his graphic description of the well-known chalk-pit, between Acol and Minster, in the Isle of Thanet, known by the name of the "Smuggler's Leap." The substance of the true history attached to it he picked up while visiting that admirable institution, the "Sea-Bathing Infirmary," of which he is a "Life Governor," and enjoying his otium cum dignitate last summer at the least aristocratic of all possible watering-places.

Before I proceed to detail it, however, I cannot, in conscience, fail to bespeak for him the reader's sympathy in one of his own

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.

A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.

MR. SIMPKINSON loquitur.

'Twas in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said, "What make you here?-- The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;" Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frowned, that little vulgar Boy,--he deem'd I meant to scoff-- And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;" He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-- He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking Nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh! fie!-- It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony,--he cried like any thing! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur--"Ah! I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!!--

"My father, he is on the seas,--my mother's dead and gone! And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with--let alone a tart!

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And, now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Master Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said, "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up-- There's roast potatoes at the fire,--enough for me and you-- Come home, you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,-- And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf, Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb--[40] I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")-- It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child-- And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"

When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair-- I could not see my little friend--because he was not there! I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too-- I said, "You little vulgar Boy! why, what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea; --I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Macintosh--it was not to be seen!-- Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,-- My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?--ain't this a pretty go?-- --That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, --He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you right!!"

* * * * *

Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried, "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a Common-sailor-man a-walking up and down, I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And call'd me "Poor old Buffer!"--what that means I cannot tell.

That Sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me! what could he mean? With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer," --It's very odd that Sailor-men should talk so very queer-- And then he hitched his trousers up, as is, I'm told, their use, --It's very odd that Sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning, swim away In Captain Large's Royal George, about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, "some_wheres_" about the Nore.

A landsman said, "I twig the chap--he's been upon the Mill-- And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said he'd "done me wery brown," and nicely "stow'd the swag," --That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?" I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I'm come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL.

Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!" Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fixed abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"

Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!

FOOTNOTES:

[40] QUI FACIT PER ALIUM FACIT PER SE--Deem not, gentle stranger, that Mr. Cobb is a petty dealer and chapman, as Mr. Simpkinson would here seem to imply. He is a maker, not a retailer of stingo,--and mighty pretty tipple he makes.Return to passage

* * * * *

And now for his Legend, which, if the facts took place rather beyond "the memory of the oldest inhabitant," are yet well known to have occurred in the neighbourhood "once on a time;" and the scene of them will be readily pointed out by any one of the fifty intelligent fly-drivers who ply upon the pier, and who will convey you safely to the spot for a guerdon which they term "three bob."

THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP.

A LEGEND OF THANET.

"Near this hamlet (Acol) is a long-disused chalk-pit of formidable depth, known by the name of "The Smuggler's leap." The tradition of the parish runs, that a riding-officer from Sandwich, called Anthony Gill, lost his life here in the early part of the present (last) century, while in pursuit of a smuggler. A fog coming on, both parties went over the precipice. The smuggler's horse only, it is said, was found crushed beneath its rider. The spot has, of course, been haunted ever since."

See "Supplement to Lewis's History of Thanet, by the Rev. Samuel Pegge, A.M., Vicar of Gomersham." W. Bristow, Canterbury, 1796, p. 127.

The fire-flash shines from Reculver cliff, And the answering light burns blue in the skiff, And there they stand That smuggling band, Some in the water, and some on the sand, Ready those contraband goods to land; The night is dark, they are silent and still, --At the head of the party is Smuggler Bill!

"Now lower away! come, lower away! We must be far ere the dawn of the day. If Exciseman Gill should get scent of the prey, And should come, and should catch us here, what would he say? Come, lower away, lads--once on the hill, We'll laugh, ho! ho! at Exciseman Gill!"

The cargo's lower'd from the dark skiff's side, And the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide, No trick nor flam, But your real Schiedam. "Now mount, my merry men, mount and ride!" Three on the crupper and one before, And the led-horse laden with five tubs more; But the rich point-lace, In the oil-skin case Of proof to guard its contents from ill, The "prime of the swag," is with Smuggler Bill!

Merrily now, in a goodly row, Away, and away, those smugglers go, And they laugh at Exciseman Gill, ho! ho! When out from the turn Of the road to Herne, Comes Gill, wide awake to the whole concern! Exciseman Gill, in all his pride, With his Custom-house officers all at his side; --They were called Custom-house officers then; There were no such things as "Preventive men."

Sauve qui peut! That lawless crew, Away, and away, and away they flew! Some dropping one tub, some dropping two:-- Some gallop this way, and some gallop that, Through Fordwich Level--o'er Sandwich Flat, Some fly that way, and some fly this, Like a covey of birds when the sportsmen miss; These in their hurry Make for Sturry, With Custom-house officers close in their rear, Down Rushbourne Lane, and so by Westbere, None of them stopping, But shooting and popping, And many a Custom-house bullet goes slap Through many a three-gallon tub like a tap, And the gin spirts out, And squirts all about, And many a heart grew sad that day That so much good liquor was so thrown away.

Sauve qui peut! That lawless crew, Away, and away, and away they flew! Some seek Whitstable--some Grove Ferry, Spurring and whipping like madmen--very-- For the life! for the life! they ride! they ride! And the Custom-house officers all divide, And they gallop on after them far and wide! All, all, save one--Exciseman Gill,-- He sticks to the skirts of Smuggler Bill!

Smuggler Bill is six feet high, He has curling locks, and a roving eye, He has a tongue, and he has a smile Train'd the female heart to beguile, And there is not a farmer's wife in the Isle, From St. Nicholas quite To the Foreland Light, But that eye, and that tongue, and that smile will wheedle her To have done with the Grocer, and make him her Tea-dealer; There is not a farmer there but he still Buys gin and tobacco from Smuggler Bill.

Smuggler Bill rides gallant and gay On his dapple-grey mare, away, and away, And he pats her neck, and he seems to say, "Follow who will, ride after who may, In sooth he had need Fodder his steed, In lieu of Lent-corn, with a Quicksilver feed; --Nor oats, nor beans, nor the best of old hay, Will make him a match for my own dapple-grey! Ho! ho!--ho! ho!" says Smuggler Bill-- He draws out his flask, and he sips his fill, And he laughs "Ho! ho!" at Exciseman Gill.

Down Chistlett Lane, so free and so fleet Rides Smuggler Bill, and away to Up-street;-- Sarre Bridge is won-- Bill thinks it fun; "Ho! ho! the old tub-gauging son of a gun-- His wind will be thick, and his breeks be thin, Ere a race like this he may hope to win!"

Away, away Goes the fleet dapple-grey, Fresh as the breeze, and free as the wind, And Exciseman Gill lags far behind. "I would give my soul," quoth Exciseman Gill, "For a nag that would catch that Smuggler Bill!-- No matter for blood, no matter for bone, No matter for colour, bay, brown, or roan, So I had but one!"-- A voice cried "Done!" "Ay, dun," said Exciseman Gill,--and he spied A custom-house officer close by his side, On a high-trotting horse with a dun-coloured hide.-- "Devil take me," again quoth Exciseman Gill, "If I had but that horse, I'd have Smuggler Bill!"

From his using such shocking expressions, it's plain That Exciseman Gill was rather profane. He was, it is true, As bad as a Jew, A sad old scoundrel as ever you knew, And he rode in his stirrups sixteen stone two. --He'd just utter'd the words which I've mention'd to you, When his horse, coming slap on his knees with him, threw Him head over heels, and away he flew, And Exciseman Gill was bruised black and blue.

When he arose, His hands and his clothes Were as filthy as could be,--he'd pitch'd on his nose, And roll'd over and over again in the mud, And his nose and his chin were all covered with blood; Yet he scream'd with passion, "I'd rather grill Than not come up with that Smuggler Bill!" --"Mount! Mount!" quoth the Custom-house officer, "get On the back of my Dun, you'll bother him yet. Your words are plain, though they're somewhat rough, 'Done and Done' between gentlemen's always enough!-- I'll lend you a lift--there--you're up on him--so,-- He's a rum one to look at--a devil to go!" Exciseman Gill Dash'd up the hill, And mark'd not, so eager was he in pursuit, The queer Custom-house officer's queer-looking boot.

Smuggler Bill rides on amain, He slacks not girth--and he draws not rein, Yet the dapple-grey mare bounds on in vain, For nearer now--and he hears it plain-- Sounds the tramp of a horse--"'Tis the Gauger again!" Smuggler Bill Dashes round by the mill That stands near the road upon Monkton Hill,-- "Now speed,--now speed, My dapple-grey steed, Thou ever, my dapple, wert good at need! O'er Monkton Mead, and through Minster Level, We'll baffle him yet, be he gauger or devil! For Manston Cave, away! away! Now speed thee, now speed thee, my good dapple-grey! It shall never be said that Smuggler Bill Was run down like a hare by Exciseman Gill!"

Manston Cave was Bill's abode; A mile to the north of the Ramsgate Road, (Of late they say It's been taken away, That is, levell'd, and filled up with chalk and clay, By a gentleman there of the name of Day,) Thither he urges his good dapple-grey; And the dapple-grey steed, Still good at need, Though her chest it pants, and her flanks they bleed, Dashes along at the top of her speed; But nearer and nearer Exciseman Gill Cries "Yield thee! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill!"

Smuggler Bill, he looks behind, And he sees a Dun horse come swift as the wind, And his nostrils smoke, and his eyes they blaze Like a couple of lamps on a yellow post-chaise! Every shoe he has got Appears red-hot! And sparks round his ears snap, crackle, and play, And his tail cocks up in a very odd way, Every hair in his mane seems a porcupine's quill, And there on his back sits Exciseman Gill, Crying "Yield thee! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill!"

Smuggler Bill from his holster drew A large horse-pistol, of which he had two, Made by Nock; He pull'd back the cock As far as he could to the back of the lock; The trigger he touch'd, and the welkin rang To the sound of the weapon, it made such a bang; Smuggler Bill ne'er miss'd his aim, The shot told true on the Dun--but there came From the hole where it enter'd,--not blood,--but flame! --He changed his plan, And fired at the man; But his second horse-pistol flashed in the pan! And Exciseman Gill, with a hearty good will, Made a grab at the collar of Smuggler Bill.

The dapple-grey mare made a desperate bound When that queer Dun horse on her flank she found, Alack! and alas! on what dangerous ground! It's enough to make one's flesh to creep To stand on that fearful verge, and peep Down the rugged sides so dreadfully steep, Where the chalk-hole yawns full sixty feet deep, O'er which that steed took that desperate leap! It was so dark then under the trees, No horse in the world could tell chalk from cheese-- Down they went--o'er that terrible fall,-- Horses, Exciseman, Smuggler, and all!!

Below were found Next day on the ground, By an elderly Gentleman walking his round, (I wouldn't have seen such a sight for a pound,) All smash'd and dash'd, three mangled corses, Two of them human,--the third was a horse's,-- That good dapple-grey,--and Exciseman Gill Yet grasping the collar of Smuggler Bill!

But where was the Dun? that terrible Dun?-- From that terrible night he was seen by none!-- There are some people think, though I am not one, That part of the story all nonsense and fun, But the country-folks there, One and all, declare, When the "Crowner's 'Quest" came to sit on the pair, They heard a loud Horse-laugh up in the air!-- --If in one of the trips Of the steam-boat Eclipse You should go down to Margate to look at the ships, Or to take what the bathing-room people call "Dips," You may hear old folks talk Of that quarry of chalk; Or go over--it's rather too far for a walk, But a three shilling drive will give you a peep At that fearful chalk-pit--so awfully deep, Which is call'd to this moment "The Smuggler's Leap!" Nay more, I am told, on a moonshiny night, If you're "plucky," and not over-subject to fright, And go and look over that chalk-pit white, You may see, if you will, The Ghost of Old Gill Grappling the Ghost of Smuggler Bill, And the Ghost of the dapple-grey lying between 'em.-- I'm told so--I can't say I know one who's seen 'em!

MORAL.

And now, gentle Reader, one word ere we part, Just take a friend's counsel, and lay it to heart. Imprimis, don't smuggle!--if, bent to please Beauty, You must buy French lace,--purchase what has paid duty! Don't use naughty words, in the next place,--and ne'er in Your language adopt a bad habit of swearing! Never say "Devil take me!"-- Or, "shake me!"--or, "bake me!" Or such-like expressions.--Remember Old Nick To take folks at their word is remarkably quick. Another sound maxim I'd wish you to keep, Is, "Mind what you are after, and--Look ere you Leap!"

Above all, to my last gravest caution attend-- NEVER BORROW A HORSE YOU DON'T KNOW OF A FRIEND!!!

* * * * *

For the story which succeeds I am indebted to Mrs. Botherby. She is a Shropshire Lady by birth, and I overheard her, a few weeks since, in the nursery, chaunting the following, one of the Legends peculiar to her native County, for the amusement and information of Seaforth's little boy, who was indeed "all ears." As Ralph de Diceto, who alludes to the main facts, was Dean of St. Paul's in 1183, about the time that the Temple Church was consecrated, the history is evidently as ancient as it is authentic, though the author of the present paraphrase has introduced many unauthorized, as well as "anachronismatical interpolations."--For the interesting note on the ancient family of Ketch, I need scarcely say, I am obliged to the Simpkinson.

Bloudie Jacke of Shrewsberrie,

THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD.

A LEGEND OF "THE PROUD SALOPIANS."

Hisce ferè temporibus, in agro Salopiensi, Quidam, cui nomen Johannes, ~Le Sanglaunt~ deinde nuncupatus, uxores quamplurimas ducit, enecat et (ita referunt) manducat; ossa solùm cani miræ magnitudinis relinquens. Tùm demùm in flagrante delicto, vel "manu rubrâ," ut dicunt Jurisconsulti, deprensus, carnifice vix opprimitur.--RADULPHUS DE DICETO.

Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright, ~Bloudie Jacke~? Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright?-- The Mother's at home, The Maid may not roam, She never will meet thee to-night! By the light Of the moon--it's impossible--quite!

Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright, ~Bloudie Jacke~! It gleams with a fiendish delight-- "'Tis done-- She is won! Nothing under the sun Can loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight! Ho! ho! It fits so remarkably tight!"--

The wire is as thin as a thread, ~Bloudie Jacke~! The wire is as thin as a thread!-- "Though slight be the chain, Again might and main Cannot rend it in twain--She is wed! She is wed! She is mine, be she living or dead! Haw! haw!!"--

Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear! Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile, Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear, O dear! It makes the blood curdle with fear!

The Maiden is gone by the glen, ~Bloudie Jacke~! She is gone by the glen and the wood-- It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring, While her tresses are bound with a snood. By the rood! It's a thing that's not well understood!

The Maiden is stately and tall, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And stately she walks in her pride; But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can, To o'ertake her, and walk by her side: Though she chide-- She deems not her sister a bride!

But the Maiden is gone by the glen, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea; She o'ertakes not her sister, It's clear she has miss'd her, And cannot think where she can be! Dear me! "Ho! ho!--We shall see--we shall see!"

Mary-Anne is gone over the lea, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower; But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail, A deal more than a fair Lady's bower, So sour Its ugly grey walls seem to lour.

For the Barbican's massy and high, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And the oak-door is heavy and brown, And with iron it's plated And machecollated, To pour boiling oil and lead down; How you'd frown Should a ladle-full fall on your crown!

The rock that it stands on is steep, ~Bloudie Jacke~! To gain it one's forced for to creep; The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long, And the water runs all round the Keep; At a peep You can see that the Moat's very deep!

The Drawbridge is long, but it's down, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And the Portcullis hangs in the air; And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear, To give notice when people come there.-- I declare Mary-Anne has run into the square!

The oak-door is heavy and brown, ~Bloudie Jacke~! But the oak-door is standing ajar, And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair, You seem tired, Miss, with running so far-- So you are-- With grown people you're scarce on a par!"

But the young Mary-Anne is not tired, ~Bloudie Jacke~! She roams o'er your Tower by herself; She runs through, very soon, Each boudoir and saloon, And examines each closet and shelf, Your pelf, All your plate, and your china--and delf.

She looks at your Arras so fine, ~Bloudie Jacke~! So rich, all description it mocks; And she now and then pauses To gaze at the vases, Your pictures, and or-molu clocks; Every box, Every cupboard, and drawer she unlocks.

She looks at the paintings so rare, ~Bloudie Jacke~! That adorn every wall in your house; Your impayable pieces, Your Paul Veroneses, Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows, Moreland's Cows, Claude's Landscapes,--and Landseer's Bow-wows.

She looks at your Statues so fine, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And mighty great notice she takes Of your Niobe crying, Your Mirmillo dying, Your Hercules strangling the snakes,-- How he shakes The nasty great things as he wakes!

Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys, ~Bloudie Jacke~! She views with some little dismay; A copy of that I can See in the Vatican, Unless the Pope's sent it away, As they say, In the Globe, he intended last May.[41]

There's your Belvidere Phœbus, with which, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Mr. Milman says none other vies. (His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow, And gained him the Newdigate prize.) How the eyes Seem watching the shaft as it flies!

There's a room full of satins and silks, ~Bloudie Jacke~! There's a room full of velvets and lace, There are drawers full of rings, And a thousand fine things, And a splendid gold watch with a case O'er its face, Is in every room in the place.

There are forty fine rooms on a floor, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And every room fit for a Ball, It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch, And so long, and so broad, and so tall; Yes, all, Save the last one--and that's very small!

It boasts not stool, table, or chair, ~Bloudie Jacke~! But one Cabinet, costly and grand, Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers, With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.-- It's japann'd, And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand.

It's hinges and clasps are of gold, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And of gold are its keyhole and key, And the drawers within Have each a gold pin, And they're number'd with 1, 2, and 3, You may see All the figures in gold filigree!

Number 1's full of emeralds green, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Number 2's full of diamond and pearl; But what does she see In drawer Number 3 That makes all her senses to whirl, Poor Girl! And each lock of her hair to uncurl?--

Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things, ~Bloudie Jacke~! To salute them one eagerly strives, When one kneels to "propose"-- It's another quelque chose When cut off at the knuckles with knives From our wives, They are tied up in bunches of fives.

Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four! ~Bloudie Jacke~! There lie they, five, six, seven, eight! And by them, in rows, Like eight little Great-Toes, To match in size, colour, and weight! From their state, It would seem they'd been sever'd of late.

Beside them are eight Wedding-rings, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And the gold is as thin as a thread-- "Ho! ho!--She is mine-- This will make up the Nine!"-- Dear me! who those shocking words said?-- --She fled To hide herself under the bed.

But, alas! there's no bed in the room, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And she peeps from the window on high; Only fancy her fright And the terrible sight Down below, which at once meets her eye! "Oh My!!" She half utter'd,--but stifled her cry.

For she saw it was You and your Man, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!" While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head, O'er the bridge you were trying to draw, As she saw-- A thing quite contra-ry to law!

Your man has got hold of her heels, ~Bloudie Jacke~! ~Bloudie Jacke!~ you've got hold of her hair!-- But nor ~Jacke~ nor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne, She has hid herself under the stair, And there Is a horrid great Dog, I declare!

His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear, ~Bloudie Jacke~! He's a sad ugly cur for a pet; He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed, Who used to kill rats for a bet; --I forget How many one morning he ate.

He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And thigh-bones;--and, though it's so dim, Yet it's plain to be seen He has pick'd them quite clean,-- She expects to be torn limb from limb, So grim He looks at her--and she looks at him!

She has given him a bun and a roll, ~Bloudie Jacke~! She has given him a roll and a bun, And a Shrewsbury cake, Of ~Pailin's~[42] own make, Which she happened to take ere her run She begun-- She'd been used to a luncheon at One.

It's "a pretty particular Fix," ~Bloudie Jacke~! --Above,--there's the Maiden that's dead; Below--growling at her-- There's that Cannibal Cur, Who at present is munching her bread, Instead Of her leg,--or her arm,--or her head.

It's "a pretty particular Fix," ~Bloudie Jacke~! She is caught like a mouse in a trap;-- Stay! there's something, I think, That has slipp'd through a chink, And fall'n, by a singular hap, Slap, Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap!

It's a very fine little gold ring, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout, But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remain On her frock--for Blood will not wash out; I doubt Salts of Lemon won't bring it about!

She has grasp'd that gold ring in her hand, ~Bloudie Jacke~! In an instant she stands on the floor, She makes but one bound O'er the back of the hound, And a hop, skip, and jump to the door, And she's o'er The drawbridge she'd traversed before!

Her hair's floating loose in the breeze, ~Bloudie Jacke~! For gone is her "bonnet of blue." --Now the Barbican's past!-- Her legs "go it" as fast As two drumsticks a-beating tattoo, As they do At Réveillie, Parade, or Review!

She has run into Shrewsbury town, ~Bloudie Jacke~! She has called out the Beadle and May'r, And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police, Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,-- And see there!-- E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!

There's a pretty to-do in your Tower, ~Bloudie Jacke~! In your Tower there's a pretty to-do! All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberry With your choice bits of taste and virtù; Each bijou Is upset in their search after you!

They are playing the deuce with your things, ~Bloudie Jacke~! There's your Cupid is broken in two, And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses, The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew, And the new One, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.

The CALLIPYGE'S injured behind, ~Bloudie Jacke~! The DE MEDICI'S injured before; And the ANADYOMENE 's injured in so many Places, I think there's a score, If not more, Of her fingers and toes on the floor.

They are hunting you up stairs and down, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Every person to pass is forbid, While they turn out the closets And all their deposits-- "There's the dust-hole--come lift up the lid!"-- So they did-- But they could not find where you were hid!

Ah! Ah!--they will have you at last, ~Bloudie Jacke~! The chimneys to search they begin;-- They have found you at last!-- There you are, sticking fast, With your knees doubled up to your chin, Though you're thin! --Dear me! what a mess you are in!--

What a terrible pickle you're in, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Why, your face is as black as your hat! Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt! And so is your point-lace cravat! What a Flat To seek such an asylum as that!

They can scarcely help laughing, I vow, ~Bloudie Jacke~! In the midst of their turmoil and strife; You're not fit to be seen!-- You look like Mr. Kean In the play, where he murders his wife!-- On my life You ought to be scraped with a knife!

They have pull'd you down flat on your back, ~Bloudie Jacke~! They have pull'd you down flat on your back! And they smack, and they thwack, Till your "funny bones" crack, As if you were stretched on the rack, At each thwack!-- Good lack! what a savage attack!

They call for the Parliament Man, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And the Hangman, the matter to clinch, And they call for the Judge, But others cry "Fudge!-- Don't budge Mr. Calcraft,[43] an inch! Mr. Lynch![44] Will do very well at a pinch!"

It is useless to scuffle and cuff, ~Bloudie Jacke~! It is useless to struggle and bite! And to kick and to scratch! You have met with your match, And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight, Despite Your determined attempts "to shew fight."

They are pulling you all sorts of ways, ~Bloudie Jacke~! They are twisting your right leg Nor-West, And your left leg due South, And your knee's in your mouth, And your head is poked down on your breast, And it's prest, I protest, almost into your chest!

They have pulled off your arms and your legs, ~Bloudie Jacke~! As the naughty boys serve the blue flies; And they've torn from their sockets, And put in their pockets Your fingers and thumbs for a prize! And your eyes A Doctor has bottled--from Guy's.[45]

Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn, ~Bloudie Jacke~! They hew, and they hack, and they chop; And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole In the place that's still called the "~Wylde Coppe~," And they pop Your grim gory head on the top!

They have buried the fingers and toes, ~Bloudie Jacke~! Of the victims so lately your prey. From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes, "~Ladyes' fyngers~" they're called to this day; --So they say,-- And you usually dig them in May.

What became of the dear little girl? ~Bloudie Jacke~! What became of the young Mary-Anne? Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid, For she fancied that every Young Man Had a plan To trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!"

So they say she is now leading apes, ~Bloudie Jacke~! And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below; The story is old, And has often been told, But I cannot believe it is so-- No! No! Depend on't the tale is "No Go!"

MORAL.

And now for the moral I'd fain, ~Bloudie Jacke~! That young Ladies should draw from my pen,-- It's--"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights, With gay, harum-scarum young men, Down a glen!-- You really can't trust one in ten!"

Let them think of your terrible Tower, ~Bloudie Jacke~; And don't let them liberties take, Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses; Or, some time or another, they'll make A Mistake! And lose--more than a ~Shrewsberrie Cake~!!

FOOTNOTES:

[41] "The Pope is said--this fact is hardly credible--to have sold the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for nine million of francs."--Globe and Traveller.Return to passage

[42] Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name--but there!Return to passage

[43] Jehan de Ketche acted as Provost Marshal to the army of William the Conqueror, and received from that monarch a grant of the dignity of Hereditary Grand Functionary of England, together with a croft or "parcel of land," known by the name of the ~Old Bailie~, co. Middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of his body, in Grand Serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane hempen cravatte." After remaining for several generations in the same name, the office passed, by marriage of the heiress, into the ancient family of the Kirbys, and thence again to that of Callcraft (1st Eliz. 1558).--Abhorson Callcraft, Esq. of Saffron Hill, co. Middx., the present representative of the Ketches, exercised his "function" on a very recent occasion, and claimed and was allowed the fee of 13-1/2_d._ under the ancient grant as ~Hangman's Wages~.Return to passage

ARMS.--1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper, Callcraft. 2nd, Sable, three Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1, Ketche. 3rd, Or, a Nosegay fleurant, Kirby.

SUPPORTERS.--Dexter: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.--Sinister: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules.

MOTTO.--SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!

[44] The American Justinian, Compiler of the "Yankee Pandects."Return to passage

[45] A similar appropriation is said to have been made, by an eminent practitioner, of those of the late Monsieur Courvoisier.Return to passage

* * * * *

Her niece, of whom I have before made honourable mention, is not a whit behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks. If little Charles has the aunt to sol fa him into slumber, Miss Jenny is equally fortunate in the possession of a Sappho of her own. It is to the air of "Drops of Brandy" that Patty has adapted her version of a venerable ditty, which we have all listened to with respect and affection under its old title of

THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY.

AN OLD SONG TO A NEW TUNE.

When we were all little and good,-- A long time ago, I'm afraid, Miss-- We were told of the Babes in the Wood By their false, cruel Uncle betray'd, Miss; Their Pa was a Squire, or a Knight; In Norfolk I think his estate lay-- That is, if I recollect right, For I've not read the history lately.[46] Rum ti, &c.

Their Pa and their Ma being seized With a tiresome complaint, which, in some seasons, People are apt to be seized With, who're not on their guard against plum-seasons, Their medical man shook his head As he could not get well to the root of it; And the Babes stood on each side the bed, While their Uncle, he stood at the foot of it.

"Oh, Brother!" their Ma whisper'd, faint And low, for breath seeming to labour, "Who'd Think that this horrid complaint, That's been going about in the neighbourhood, Thus should attack me,--nay, more, My poor husband besides,--and so fall on him! Bringing us so near to Death's door That we can't avoid making a call on him!

"Now think, 'tis your Sister invokes Your aid, and the last word she says is, Be kind to those dear little folks When our toes are turned up to the daisies!-- By the servants don't let them be snubb'd,-- --Let Jane have her fruit and her custard,-- And mind Johnny's chilblains are rubb'd Well with Whitehead's best essence of mustard.

"You know they'll be pretty well off in Respect to what's called 'worldly gear,' For John, when his Pa's in his coffin, Comes in to three hundred a-year; And Jane's to have five hundred pound On her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny, So you'll own a worse match might be found, Any day in the week, than our Jenny!"

Here the Uncle pretended to cry, And, like an old thorough-paced rogue, he Put his handkerchief up to his eye, And devoted himself to Old Bogey If he did not make matters all right, And said, should he covet their riches, He "wished the old Gentleman might Fly away with him, body and breeches!"

No sooner, however, were they Put to bed with a spade by the sexton, Than he carried the darlings away Out of that parish into the next one, Giving out he should take them to town, And select the best school in the nation, That John might not grow up a clown, But receive a genteel education.

"Greek and Latin old twaddle I call!" Says he, "While his mind's ductile and plastic, I'll place him at Dotheboys Hall, Where he'll learn all that's new and gymnastic. While Jane, as, when girls have the dumps, Fortune-hunters, by scores, to entrap 'em rise, Shall go to those worthy old frumps, The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise!"

Having thought on the How and the When To get rid of his nephew and niece, He sent for two ill-looking men, And he gave them five guineas a-piece.-- Says he, "Each of you take up a child On the crupper, and when you have trotted Some miles through that wood lone and wild, Take your knife out, and cut its carotid!"--

"Done" and "done" is pronounced on each side, While the poor little dears are delighted To think they a-cock-horse shall ride, And are not in the least degree frighted; They say their "Ta! Ta!" as they start, And they prattle so nice on their journey, That the rogues themselves wish to their heart They could finish the job by attorney.

Nay, one was so taken aback By seeing such spirit and life in them, That he fairly exclaim'd, "I say, Jack, I'm blowed if I can put a knife in them!"-- "Pooh!" says his pal, "you great dunce! You've pouched the good gentleman's money, So out with your whinger at once, And scrag Jane, while I spiflicate Johnny!"

He refused, and harsh language ensued, Which ended at length in a duel, When he that was mildest in mood Gave the truculent rascal his gruel; The Babes quake with hunger and fear, While the ruffian his dead comrade, Jack, buries; Then he cries, "Loves, amuse yourselves here With the hips, and the haws, and the blackberries!

"I'll be back in a couple of shakes; So don't, dears, be quivering and quaking: I'm going to get you some cakes, And a nice butter'd roll that's a-baking!" He rode off with a tear in his eye, Which ran down his rough cheek, and wet it, As he said to himself with a sigh, "Pretty souls!--don't they wish they may get it!!"

From that moment the Babes ne'er caught sight Of the wretch who thus wrought their undoing, But passed all that day and that night In wandering about and "boo-hoo"-ing. The night proved cold, dreary, and dark, So that, worn out with sighings and sobbings, Next morn they were found stiff and stark, And stone-dead, by two little Cock-Robins.

These two little birds it sore grieves To see what so cruel a dodge I call,-- They cover the bodies with leaves, An interment quite ornithological; It might more expensive have been, But I doubt, though I've not been to see 'em, If among those in all Kensal Green You could find a more neat Mausoleum.

Now, whatever your rogues may suppose, Conscience always makes restless their pillows, And Justice, though blind, has a nose That sniffs out all conceal'd peccadilloes. The wicked old Uncle, they say, In spite of his riot and revel, Was hippish and qualmish all day, And dreamt all night long of the d--l.

He grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour, And his brow, once so smooth and so placid, Fresh wrinkles acquired every hour, And whatever he swallow'd turn'd acid. The neighbours thought all was not right, Scarcely one with him ventured to parley, And Captain Swing came in the night, And burnt all his beans and his barley.

There was hardly a day but some fox Ran away with his geese and his ganders; His wheat had the mildew, his flocks Took the rot, and his horses the glanders; His daughters drank rum in their tea, His son, who had gone for a sailor, Went down in a steamer at sea, And his wife ran away with a tailor!

It was clear he lay under a curse, None would hold with him any communion; Every day matters grew worse and worse, Till they ended at length in The Union; While his man being caught in some fact, (The particular crime I've forgotten,) When he came to be hanged for the act, Split, and told the whole story to Cotton.

Understanding the matter was blown, His employer became apprehensive Of what, when 'twas more fully known, Might ensue--he grew thoughtful and pensive; He purchased some sugar-of-lead, Took it home, popp'd it into his porridge, Ate it up, and then took to his bed, And so died in the workhouse at Norwich.

MORAL.

Ponder well now, dear Parents, each word That I've wrote, and when Sirius rages In the dog-days, don't be so absurd As to blow yourself out with Green-gages! Of stone-fruits in general be shy, And reflect it's a fact beyond question That Grapes, when they're spelt with an i, Promote anything else but digestion.--

--When you set about making your will, Which is commonly done when a body's ill, Mind, and word it with caution and skill, And avoid, if you can, any codicil! When once you've appointed an heir To the fortune you've made, or obtained, ere You leave a reversion, beware Whom you place in contingent remainder!

Executors, Guardians, and all Who have children to mind, don't ill treat them, Nor think that, because they are small And weak, you may beat them, and cheat them! Remember that "ill-gotten goods Never thrive;" their possession's but cursory; So never turn out in the woods Little folks you should keep in the nursery.

Be sure he who does such base things Will ne'er stifle Conscience's clamour; His "riches will make themselves wings," And his property come to the hammer! Then He,--and not those he bereaves,-- Will have most cause for sighings and sobbings, When he finds himself smother'd with leaves (Of fat catalogues) heaped up by Robins!

FOOTNOTES:

[46] See Bloomfield's History of the County of Norfolk, in which all the particulars of this lamentable history are (or ought to be) fully detailed, together with the names of the parties, and an elaborate pedigree of the family.Return to passage

* * * * *

The incidents recorded in the succeeding Legend were communicated to a dear friend of our family by the late lamented Sir Walter Scott. The names and localities have been scrupulously retained, as she is ready to testify. The proceedings in this case are, I believe, recorded in some of our law reports, though I have never been able to lay my hand upon them.

THE DEAD DRUMMER.

A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.

Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,-- At least so I've heard many people declare, For I fairly confess I never was there;-- Not a shrub nor a tree, Nor a bush can you see; No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles, Much less a house, or a cottage for miles;-- --It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.

Now, I'd have you to know That, a great while ago, The best part of a century, may be, or so, Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary, A couple of Travellers, wayworn and weary, Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say, At a single glance did not admit of a query; The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers, worn then, With scarce an exception by seafaring men, The jacket,--the loose trousers "bows'd up together"--all Guiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall,-- The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion, Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean, And shew'd in a moment their real char_á_cters, (The accent's so placed on this word by our Jack Tars.)

The one in advance was sturdy and strong, With arms uncommonly bony and long, And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt, Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong. He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested; His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did, Except as to height, for he could not be more At the most, you would say, than some five feet four, And if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower. Dame Nature, in fact,--whom some person or other, --A Poet,--has call'd a "capricious step-mother,"-- You saw, when beside him, Had somehow denied him In longitude what she had granted in latitude, A trifling defect You'd the sooner detect From his having contracted a stoop in his attitude. Square-built and broad-shoulder'd, good-humoured and gay, With his collar and countenance open as day, The latter--'twas mark'd with small-pox, by the way,-- Had a sort of expression good will to bespeak; He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek! And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height, He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight, You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight!

The other, his friend and companion, was taller By five or six inches, at least, than the smaller;-- From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen, That he was, or had been, A something between The real "Jack Tar" and the "Jolly Marine." For, though he would give an occasional hitch, Sailor-like to his "slops," there was something, the which, On the whole savoured more of the pipe-clay than pitch.-- Such were now the two men who appeared on the hill, Harry Waters the tall one, the short "Spanking Bill." To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again, Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain; And when with a good soaking shower there are blended Blue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended; Such was the case In this wild dreary place, On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the brace Of trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace, Till a good steady walk became more like a race, To get quit of the tempest which held them in chase.

Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder, The heav'nly artill'ry kept crashing and roaring, The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring, While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelter From, what I have heard term'd, "a regular pelter;" But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen, Or an object except that on one of the rises, An old way-post show'd Where the Lavington road Branch'd off to the left from the one to Devizes; And thither the footsteps of Waters seem'd tending, Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending, To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes, Is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;-- While Harry kept "backing And filling,"--and "tacking,"-- Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, are Meant to imply What you, Reader, and I Would call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.

But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuse All mistakes I may make in the words sailors use 'Mongst themselves, on a cruise, Or ashore with the Jews, Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues, Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat--women Known in our navy as oddly-named boat-women. The fact is, I can't say I'm vers'd in the school So ably conducted by Marryat and Poole; (See the last-mentioned gentleman's "Admiral's Daughter,") The grand vade mecum For all who to sea come, And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water; Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonder If I now and then should fall into some blunder, For which Captain Chamier, or Mr. T. P. Cooke Would call me a "Lubber," and "Son of a Sea-cook."

To return to our muttons--This mode of progression At length upon Spanking Bill made some impression. --"Hillo, messmate, what cheer? How queer you do steer!" Cried Bill, whose short legs kept him still in the rear. "Why, what's in the wind, Bo?--what is it you fear?" For he saw in a moment that something was frightening His shipmate much more than the thunder and lightning.

--"Fear?" stammer'd out Waters, "why, HIM!--don't you see What faces that Drummer-boy's making at me!-- --How he dodges me so Wherever I go?-- What is it he wants with me, Bill,--do you know?"

--"What Drummer-boy, Harry?" cries Bill, in surprise, (With a brief explanation, that ended in "eyes,") "What Drummer-boy, Waters?--the coast is all clear, We haven't got never no Drummer-boy here!"

--"Why, there!--don't you see How he's following me? Now this way, now that way, and won't let me be! Keep him off, Bill--look here-- Don't let him come near! Only see how the blood-drops his features besmear! What, the dead come to life again!--Bless me!--Oh dear!"

Bill remarked in reply, "This is all very queer-- What, a Drummer-boy--bloody, too--eh!--well, I never-- I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!" "Not see him!--why there;--look!--he's close by the post-- Hark!--hark!--how he drums at me now!--he's a Ghost!"

"A what?" return'd Bill,--at that moment a flash More than commonly awful preceded a crash Like what's call'd in Kentucky "an Almighty Smash."-- And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees, While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees; In its last sinking echoes, however, were some Which, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!

"Hollo! Waters!--I says," Quoth he in amaze, "Why, I never see'd nuffin in all my born days Half so queer As this here, And I'm not very clear But that one of us two has good reason for fear-- You to jaw about drummers, with nobody near us!-- I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus."

"Oh, mercy!" roared Waters, "do keep him off, Bill, And, Andrew, forgive!--I'll confess all!--I will!

I'll make a clean breast, And as for the rest, You may do with me just what the lawyers think best; But haunt me not thus!--let these visitings cease, And, your vengeance accomplish'd, Boy, leave me in peace!" --Harry paused for a moment,--then turning to Bill, Who stood with his mouth open, steady and still, Began "spinning" what nauticals term "a tough yarn," Viz.: his tale of what Bill call'd "this precious consarn."

* * * * *

"It was in such an hour as this, On such a wild and wint'ry day, The forked lightning seemed to hiss, As now, athwart our lonely way, When first these dubious paths I tried-- Yon livid form was by my side!--

"Not livid then--the ruddy glow Of life, and youth, and health it bore! And bloodless was that gory brow, And cheerful was the smile it wore, And mildly then those eyes did shine-- --Those eyes which now are blasting mine!!

"They beamed with confidence and love Upon my face,--and Andrew Brand Had sooner fear'd yon frighten'd dove Than harm from Gervase Matcham's hand! --I am no Harry Waters--men Did call me Gervase Matcham then.

"And Matcham, though a humble name, Was stainless as the feathery flake From Heaven, whose virgin whiteness came Upon the newly-frozen lake; Commander, comrade, all began To laud the Soldier,--like the Man.

"Nay, muse not, William,--I have said I was a soldier--staunch and true As any he above whose head Old England's lion banner flew; And, duty done,--her claims apart,- 'Twas said I had a kindly heart.

"And years roll'd on,--and with them came Promotion--Corporal--Sergeant--all In turn--I kept mine honest fame-- Our Colonel's self,--whom men did call The veriest Martinet--ev'n he, Though cold to most, was kind to me!--

"One morn--oh! may that morning stand Accursed in the rolls of fate Till latest time!--there came command To carry forth a charge of weight To a detachment far away,-- --It was their regimental pay!--

"And who so fit for such a task As trusty Matcham, true and tried, Who spurn'd the inebriating flask, With honour for his constant guide?-- On Matcham fell their choice--and HE,-- 'Young Drum,'--should bear him company!

"And grateful was that sound to hear, For he was full of life and joy, The mess-room pet--to each one dear Was that kind, gay, light-hearted boy. --The veriest churl in all our band Had aye a smile for Andrew Brand.--

"--Nay, glare not as I name thy name! That threat'ning hand, that fearful brow Relax--avert that glance of flame! Thou seest I do thy bidding now! Vex'd Spirit, rest!--'twill soon be o'er,-- Thy blood shall cry to Heaven no more!

"Enough--we journey'd on--the walk Was long,--and dull and dark the day,-- And still young Andrew's cheerful talk And merry laugh beguiled the way; Noon came--a sheltering bank was there,-- We paused our frugal meal to share.

"Then 'twas, with cautious hand, I sought To prove my charge secure,--and drew The packet from my vest, and brought The glittering mischief forth to view, And Andrew cried,--No!--'twas not He!-- It was THE TEMPTER spoke to me!

"But it was Andrew's laughing voice That sounded in my tingling ear, 'Now, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice,' It seem'd to say, 'are gawds and gear, And all that wealth can buy or bring, Ease,--wassail,--worship,--every thing!

"'No tedious drill, no long parade, No bugle call at early dawn;-- For guard-room bench, or barrack bed, The downy couch, the sheets of lawn And I thy Page,--thy steps to tend, Thy sworn companion,--servant,--friend!

--"He ceased--that is, I heard no more, Though other words pass'd idly by, And Andrew chatter'd as before, And laugh'd--I mark'd him not--not I. 'Tis at thy choice!' that sound alone Rang in mine ear--voice else was none.

"I could not eat,--the untasted flask Mocked my parch'd lip,--I passed it by. 'What ails thee, man?' he seem'd to ask.-- I felt, but could not meet his eye.-- 'Tis at thy choice!'--it sounded yet,-- A sound I never may forget.

--"'Haste! haste! the day draws on,' I cried, 'And, Andrew, thou hast far to go!'-- 'Hast far to go!' the Fiend replied Within me,--'twas not Andrew--no! 'Twas Andrew's voice no more--'twas HE Whose then I was, and aye must be!

--"On, on we went;--the dreary plain Was all around us--we were Here! Then came the storm,--the lightning,--rain,-- No earthly living thing was near, Save one wild Raven on the wing, --If that, indeed, were earthly thing!

"I heard its hoarse and screaming voice High hovering o'er my frenzied head, '_'Tis, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice! But he--the Boy!_' methought it said. --Nay, Andrew, check that vengeful frown,-- I lov'd thee when I struck thee down!

* * * * *

"'Twas done!--the deed that damns me--done I know not how--I never knew;-- And Here I stood--but not alone,-- The prostrate Boy my madness slew, Was by my side--limb, feature, name, 'Twas HE!!--another--yet the same!

* * * * *

"Away! away! in frantic haste Throughout that live-long night I flew-- Away! away!--across the waste,-- I know not how--I never knew,-- My mind was one wild blank--and I Had but one thought,--one hope--to fly!

"And still the lightning ploughed the ground, The thunder roared--and there would come Amidst its loudest bursts a sound, Familiar once--it was--A DRUM!-- Then came the morn,--and light,--and then Streets,--houses,--spires,--the hum of men.

"And Ocean roll'd before me--fain Would I have whelm'd me in its tide, At once beneath the billowy main My shame, my guilt, my crime to hide; But HE was there!--HE cross'd my track,-- I dared not pass--HE waved me back!

"And then rude hands detained me--sure Justice had grasp'd her victim--no! Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure, A captive thrall, it was not so; They cry 'The Frenchman's on the wave!' The press was hot--and I a slave.

"They dragg'd me o'er the vessel's side; The world of waters roll'd below; The gallant ship, in all her pride Of dreadful beauty, sought her foe; --Thou saw'st me, William, in the strife-- Alack! I bore a charmed life;

"In vain the bullets round me fly, In vain mine eager breast I bare; Death shuns the wretch who longs to die, And every sword falls edgeless there! Still HE is near!--and seems to cry, 'Not here, nor thus, may Matcham die!'--

"Thou saw'st me, on that fearful day, When, fruitless all attempts to save, Our pinnace foundering in the bay, The boat's-crew met a watery grave,-- All, all--save ONE--the ravenous sea That swallow'd all--rejected ME!

"And now, when fifteen suns have each Fulfilled in turn its circling year, Thrown back again on England's beach, Our bark paid off--HE drives me Here! I could not die in flood or fight-- HE drives me HERE!!"-- "And sarve you right!

"What! bilk your Commander!--desart--and then rob! And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boy's nob! Why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab!-- There's old Davy Jones, Who cracks Sailors' bones For his jaw-work would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob, Have come for to go for to do sich a job! Hark ye, Waters,--or Matcham,--whichever's your purser-name, --T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,-- Twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother!-- Now--your course lays one way, and mine lays another!"

"No, William, it may not be so; Blood calls for blood!--'tis Heaven's decree! And thou with me this night must go, And give me to the gallows-tree! Ha!--see--HE smiles--HE points the way! On, William, on! no more delay!"

Now Bill,--so the story, as told to me, goes, And who, as his last speech sufficiently shows, Was a "regular trump,"--did not like to "turn Nose;" But then came a thunder-clap louder than any Of those that preceded, though they were so many; And hark!--as its rumblings subside in a hum, What sound mingles too?--"By the hokey--A DRUM!!"

* * * * *

I remember I once heard my Grandfather say, That some sixty years since he was going that way, When they shew'd him the spot Where the gibbet--was not-- On which Matcham's corse had been hung up to rot; It had fall'n down--but how long before, he'd forgot; And they told him, I think, at the Bear in Devizes, The town where the Sessions are held,--or the 'Sizes, That Matcham confess'd, And made a clean breast To the May'r; but that, after he'd had a night's rest, And the storm had subsided, he "pooh-pooh'd" his friend, Swearing all was a lie from beginning to end; Said "he'd only been drunk-- That his spirits had sunk At the thunder--the storm put him into a funk,-- That, in fact, he had nothing at all on his conscience, And found out, in short, he'd been talking great nonsense."--

But now one Mr. Jones Comes forth and depones That, fifteen years since, he had heard certain groans On his way to Stone Henge (to examine the stones Described in a work of the late Sir John Soane's,) That he'd followed the moans, And, led by their tones, Found a Raven a-picking a Drummer-boy's bones!-- --Then the Colonel wrote word From the King's Forty-third, That the story was certainly true which they'd heard, For, that one of their drummers, and one Sergeant Matcham, Had "brushed with the dibs," and they never could catch 'em.

So Justice was sure, though a long time she'd lagg'd, And the Sergeant, in spite of his "Gammon," got "scragg'd;" And people averred That an ugly black bird, The Raven, 'twas hinted, of whom we have heard, Though the story, I own, appears rather absurd, Was seen (Gervase Matcham not being interr'd), To roost all that night on the murderer's gibbet; An odd thing, if so, and it may be a fib--it, However, 's a thing Nature's laws don't prohibit. --Next morning, they add, that "black gentleman" flies out, Having picked Matcham's nose off, and gobbled his eyes out!

MORAL.

Avis au Voyageur.

Imprimis. If you contemplate walking o'er Salisbury Plain, Consult Mr. Murphy, or Moore, and refrain From selecting a day when it's likely to rain!

2^o. When trav'lling, don't "flash" Your notes or your cash Before other people--it's foolish and rash!

3^o. At dinner be cautious, and note well your party;-- There's little to dread where the appetite's hearty,-- But mind and look well to your purse and your throttle When you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle!

4^o. If you chance to be needy, Your coat and hat seedy, In war-time especially, never go out When you've reason to think there's a press-gang about!

5^o. Don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think, Nor blab secrets,--especially when you're in drink,-- But keep your own counsel in all that you do! --Or a Counsel may, some day or other, keep you.

6^o. Discard superstition!--and don't take a post, If you happen to see one at night, for a Ghost! --Last of all, if by choice, or convenience, you're led, To cut a man's throat, or demolish his head, Don't do't in a thunderstorm--wait for the summer! And mind, above all things, the MAN'S NOT A DRUMMER!!

* * * * *

Among a bundle of letters I find one from Sucklethumbkin, dated from London, and containing his version of perhaps the greatest theatrical Civil War since the celebrated "O. P. row." As the circumstances are now become matter of history, and poor Doldrum himself has been, alas! for some time the denizen of a far different "House," I have ventured to preserve it. Perhaps it may be unnecessary to add, that my Honourable friend has of late taken to Poetry, and goes without his cravat.

A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX).

A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.

Omnibus hoc vitium cantoribus.--HOR.

Dol-drum the Manager sits in his chair, With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air, And he says as he slaps his hands on his knee, "I'll have nothing to do with Fiddle-de-dee!"

--"But Fiddle-de-dee sings clear and loud, And his trills and his quavers astonish the crowd; Such a singer as he You'll nowhere see; They'll all be screaming for Fiddle-de-dee!"--"Though Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear, And his tones are sweet, yet his terms are dear! The 'glove won't fit!' The deuce a bit. I shall give an engagement to Fal-de-ral-tit!"

The Prompter bow'd, and he went to his stall, And the green-baize rose at the Prompter's call, And Fal-de-ral-tit sang fol-de-rol-lol; But, scarce had he done When a row begun, Such a noise was never heard under the sun. "Fiddle-de-dee!-- --Where is he? He's the Artiste whom we all want to see!-- Dol-drum!--Dol-drum!-- Bid the Manager come! It's a scandalous thing to exact such a sum For boxes and gallery, stalls and pit, And then fob us off with a Fal-de-ral-tit!-- Deuce a bit! We'll never submit! Vive Fiddle-de-dee! à bas Fal-de-ral-tit!"

Dol-drum the Manager rose from his chair, With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air; But he smooth'd his brow, As he well knew how, And he walk'd on, and made a most elegant bow, And he paused, and he smiled, and advanced to the lights, In his opera-hat, and his opera-tights; "Ladies and Gentlemen," then said he, "Pray what may you please to want with me?"

"Fiddle-de-dee!-- Fiddle-de-dee!" Folks of all sorts and of every degree, Snob, and Snip, and haughty Grandee, Duchesses, Countesses, fresh from their tea, And Shopmen, who'd only come there for a spree, Halloo'd, and hooted, and roar'd with glee "Fiddle-de-dee!-- --None but He!-- Subscribe to his terms, whatever they be!-- Agree, agree, or you'll very soon see In a brace of shakes we'll get up an O.P.!"

Dol-drum the Manager, full of care, With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air, Looks distrest, And he bows his best, And he puts his right hand on the side of his breast, And he says,--says he, "We can't agree; His terms are a vast deal too high for me.-- There's the rent, and the rates, and the sesses, and taxes-- I can't afford Fiddle-de-dee what he axes. If you'll only permit Fal-de-ral-tit----"

The "Generous Public" cried, "Deuce a bit! Dol-drum!--Dol-drum!-- We'll none of us come. It's 'No Go!'--it's 'Gammon!'--it's 'all a Hum:'-- You're a miserly Jew!-- 'Cock-a-doodle-do!' He don't ask too much, as you know--so you do-- It's a shame--it's a sin--it's really too bad-- You ought to be 'shamed of yourself--so you had!"

Dol-drum the Manager never before In his life-time had heard such a wild uproar. Dol-drum the Manager turn'd to flee; But he says--says he, "Mort de ma vie! I shall nevare engage vid dat Fiddle-de-dee!" Then all the gentlefolks flew in a rage, And they jump'd from the Omnibus on to the Stage, Lords, Squires, and Knights, they came down to the lights, In their opera-hats, and their opera-tights. Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Shook to her very toes, She couldn't hop on, so hopped off on her merry toes. And the "evening concluded" with "Three times three!" "Hip!--hip!--hurrah! for Fiddle-de-dee!"

Dol-drum the Manager, full of care, With a troubled brow and dissatisfied air, Saddest of men, Sat down, and then Took from his table a Perryan pen, And he wrote to the "News," How MacFuze, and Tregooze, Lord Tomnoddy, Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues, And the whole of their tail, and the separate crews Of the Tags and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos, Had combined Monsieur Fal-de-ral-tit to abuse, And make Dol-drum agree With Fiddle-de-dee, Who was not a bit better singer than he. --Dol-drum declared "he never could see, For the life of him, yet, why Fiddle-de-dee, Who, in B flat, or C, Or whatever the key, Could never at any time get below G, Should expect a fee the same in degree As the great Burlybumbo who sings double D." Then slyly he added a little N.B. "If they'd have him in Paris he'd not come to me!"

The Manager rings, And the Prompter springs To his side in a jiffy, and with him he brings A set of those odd-looking envelope things, Where Britannia (who seems to be crucified,) flings To her right and her left funny people with wings, Amongst Elephants, Quakers, and Catabaw Kings; And a taper and wax, And small Queen's heads in packs, Which, when notes are too big, you're to stick on their backs. Dol-drum the Manager sealed with care The letter and copies he'd written so fair, And sat himself down with a satisfied air; Without delay He sent them away, In time to appear in "our columns" next day!

Dol-drum the Manager, full of care, Walk'd on to the stage with an anxious air, And peep'd through the curtain to see who were there. There was MacFuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze, And there was Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues, And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos; And the green-baize rose at the Prompter's call, And they all began to hoot, bellow, and bawl, And cry "Cock-a-doodle," and scream, and squall "Dol-drum!--Dol-drum! Bid the Manager come!" You'd have thought from the tones Of their hisses and groans, They were bent upon breaking his (Opera) bones. And Dol-drum comes, and he says--says he, "Pray what may you please to want with me?"-- "Fiddle-de-dee!-- Fiddle-de-dee!-- We'll have nobody give us sol fa but He! For he's the Artiste whom we all want to see."

--Manager Dol-drum says--says he-- (And he looks like an Owl in "a hollow beech-tree,") "Well, since I see The thing must be, I'll sign an agreement with Fiddle-de-dee!" Then MacFuze, and Tregooze, And Jenks of the Blues, And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos, Extremely delighted to hear such good news, Desist from their shrill "Cock-a-doodle-doos." "Vive Fiddle-de-dee! Dol-drum, and He! They are jolly good fellows as ever need be! And so's Burlybumbo, who sings double D! And whenever they sing, why, we'll all come and see!"

So, after all This terrible squall, Fiddle-de-dee 's at the top of the tree, And Dol-drum and Fal-de-ral-tit sing small! Now Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear At I can't tell you how many thousands a year, And Fal-de-ral-tit is considered "Small Beer;" And Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Sports her merry toes. Dancing away to the fiddles and flutes, In what the folks call a "Lithuanian" in boots.

So here's an end to my one, two, and three; And bless the Queen--and long live She! And grant that there never again may be Such a halliballoo as we've happened to see About nothing on earth but "Fiddle-de-dee!"

* * * * *

We come now to the rummaging of Father John's stores. The extracts which I shall submit from them are of the same character as those formerly derived from the same source, and may be considered as theologico-historical, or Tracts for his times.

With respect to the first legend on this list, I have to remark that, though the good Father is silent on the subject, there is every reason to believe that the "little curly-wigged" gentleman, who plays, though passively, so prominent a part in it, had Ingoldsby blood in his veins. This conjecture is supported by the fact of the arms of Scroope, impaling Ingoldsby, being found, as in the Bray case, in one of the windows, and by a very old marriage-settlement, nearly, or quite, illegible, a fac-simile of the seal affixed to which is appended to this true history.

THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT;

OR,

THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.

Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba: "Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest!"

* * * * *

Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferunt. Dæmones incipiunt comessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi infans meus? Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, &c. Chronicon de Bolton.

It's in Bolton Hall, and the Clock strikes One, And the roast meat's brown, and the boil'd meat's done And the barbecu'd sucking-pig's crisp'd to a turn, And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn; The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use; Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best, Want nothing but eating--they're all ready drest. But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?

Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page, Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage), And the scullions and cooks, With fidgetty looks, Are grumbling, and mutt'ring, and scowling as black As cooks always do when the dinner's put back; For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair As the unsunn'd snow-flake, is spread out with care, And the Dais is furnish'd with stool and with chair, And plate of orfèvrerie costly and rare, Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there, And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face, And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace. Yet where is the Host?--and his convives--where?

The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall, And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall, He watches the large hand, he watches the small, And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks, And he utters--a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!" As he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?-- What can delay De Vaux and De Saye? What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye? Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away? And De Nokes, and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey? And De Roe? And De Doe?-- Poynings, and Vavasour--where be they? Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son)? Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!' There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting! It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"

It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two! And the scullions and cooks are themselves in "a stew," And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do, For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags, And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags, And the fish is all spoil'd And the butter's all oil'd, And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen, And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen! While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume, And to fret by himself in the tapestried room, And still fidgets, and looks More cross than the cooks, And repeats that bad word, which we've soften'd to "Zooks!"

Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone, And the large and the small hands move steadily on, Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare, To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare, Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir, That nice little boy who sits there in his chair, Some four years old, and a few months to spare, With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair, Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.

Again, Sir Guy the silence broke, "It's hard upon Three!--it's just on the stroke! Come, serve up the dinner!--A joke is a joke!"-- Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,[47] Who "his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes," And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes, Has written a circular note to De Nokes, And De Stiles, and De Roe, and the rest of the folks, One and all, Great and small, Who were asked to the Hall To dine there, and sup, and wind up with a ball, And had told all the party a great bouncing lie he Cook'd up, that "the fête was postponed sine die, The dear little curly-wig'd heir of Le Scroope Being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!"

When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi!" And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear, With nobody near To partake of his cheer, He stamp'd, and he storm'd--then his language!--Oh dear! 'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear! And he cried to the button-deck'd Page at his knee, Who had told him so civilly "On a servi," "Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be! --The Devil take them! and the Devil take thee! And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!!"

In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room, He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard Of this left-handed Grace the last finishing word, Ere the horn, at the gate of the Barbican tower, Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power, And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!--such a group As had ne'er before darkened the doors of the Scroope!

This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye-- And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye-- This has somewhat the favour of Marmaduke Grey-- But stay!--Where on earth did he get those long nails? Why, they're claws!--then, Good Gracious!--they've all of them tails! That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill, Or, I would say, a beak!--and he can't keep it still!-- Is that Poynings?--Oh Gemini!--look at his feet!! Why, they're absolute hoofs!--is it gout or his corns That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's horns! Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son), And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--they've all got them on! Then their great saucer eyes-- It's the Father of lies And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise, Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions, The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connexions, And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf-- Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!

And now what a din Without and within! For the court-yard is full of them.--How they begin To mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin! Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather, And butt at each other, all eating and drinking, The viands and wine disappearing like winking. And then such a lot As together had got! Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine To calculate with, and count noses,--I ween The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,-- Declared, when he'd made, By the said machine's aid, Up, what's now called, the "tottle" of those he survey'd, There were just--how he proved it I cannot divine,-- Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine, Exclusive of Him, Who, giant in limb, And black as the crow they denominate Jim, With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear, Stands forth at the window,--and what holds he there, Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air, And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear? Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wig'd Heir! Whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear!

What words can express The dismay and distress Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess His cursing and banning had now got him into? That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too, Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!-- He sobb'd, and he sigh'd, And he scream'd, and he cried, And behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,--he Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary,"[48] Stamped on the jasey, As though he were crazy, And staggering about just as if he were "hazy," Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times,) "To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs To that window above there, en ogive, and painted, And brings down my curly-wi'----" here Sir Guy fainted!

With many a moan And many a groan, What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de Cologne, He revived,--Reason once more remounted her throne, Or rather the instinct of Nature,--'twere treason To Her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason,-- But what saw he then?--Oh! my goodness! a sight Enough to have banished his reason outright! In that broad banquet hall The fiends, one and all, Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall, From one to another were tossing that small, Pretty, curly-wig'd boy, as if playing at ball: Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare To fly to the rescue, or rush up the stair, And bring down in safety his curly-wig'd Heir!

Well a day! Well a day! All he can say Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away; Not a man can be tempted to join the mélée, E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay Fifty pounds on demand," have, for once, lost their sway, And there the Knight stands, Wringing his hands In his agony--when, on a sudden, one ray Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!--Oh, it's funny, And almost absurd, That it never occurr'd!-- "Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money! Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame,-- On my word I'm afraid,--I confess it with shame,-- That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,-- Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no!--CUTHBERT!--egad St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad! Oh! holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine-- Of myself I say little,--have knelt at your shrine, And have lash'd their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine, Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now, Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow, And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! Bring him back here in safety!--perform but this task, And I'll give!--Oh!--I'll give you whatever you ask!-- There is not a shrine In the County shall shine With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine, Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!-- Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,--hasten in pity!"-- --Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies, "It's a bargain!--but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!"--

Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side, That old, old grey man, with his beard long and wide, In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?-- And, how did he come?--did he walk?--did he ride?-- Oh! none could determine,--oh! none could decide,-- The fact is, I don't believe any one tried, For while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride, And without a word more, He march'd on before, Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door, To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor, While the fiendish assembly were making a rare Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wig'd Heir.-- --I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen The pause that ensued when he stepp'd in between, With his resolute air, and his dignified mien, And said, in a tone most decided, though mild, "Come!--I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!"

The Demoniac crowd In an instant seem'd cowed; Not one of the crew volunteer'd a reply, All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seem'd by his talk, And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk, He quailed not before it, but saucily met it, And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"

My goodness!--the look that the old Palmer gave! And his frown!--'twas quite dreadful to witness--"Why, slave! You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to ME!! --At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee, And hand me that curly-wig'd boy!--I command it-- Come!--none of your nonsense!--you know I won't stand it."

Old Nicholas trembled,--he shook in his shoes, And seem'd half inclined, but afraid, to refuse. "Well, Cuthbert," said he, "If so it must be, --For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;-- Take your curly-wig'd brat, and much good may he do ye! But I'll have in exchange--"--here his eye flash'd with rage-- "That chap with the buttons--he gave me the Page!"

"Come, come," the Saint answer'd, "you very well know The young man's no more his than your own to bestow-- Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick--no! no! Cut your stick, sir--come, mizzle!--be off with you!--go!"-- The Devil grew hot-- "If I do I'll be shot! An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what; He has asked us to dine here, and go we will not! Why, you Skinflint,--at least You may leave us the feast! Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode, Ten million good leagues, Sir, as ever you strode, And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road-- --'Go!'--'Mizzle!' indeed--Mr. Saint, who are you, I should like to know?--'Go!'--I'll be hang'd if I do! He invited us all--we've a right here--it's known That a Baron may do what he likes with his own-- Here, Asmodeus--a slice of that beef!--now the mustard!-- What have you got?--oh, apple-pie--try it with custard!"

The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws, And they might be on his side--and then, he'd such claws! On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire With the curly-wig'd boy he'd pick'd out of the fire, And give up the victuals--to retrace his path, And to compromise--(spite of the Member for Bath). So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turn'd on his heel, He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal. And the soup à la Reine, and the sauce Bechamel. As The Scroope did invite you to dinner, I feel I can't well turn you out--'twould be hardly genteel-- But be moderate, pray,--and remember thus much, Since you're treated as Gentlemen, shew yourselves such, And don't make it late, But mind and go straight Home to bed when you've finish'd--and don't steal the plate! Nor wrench off the knocker--or bell from the gate. Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace, And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!"

Having thus said his say, That Palmer grey Took up little Le Scroope, and walk'd coolly away, While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurray!" Then fell, tooth and claw, on the victuals, as they Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day, All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em, No care for precedence or common decorum. Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte, And Hecate,--considered the Belles of the party, Between them was seated Leviathan, eager To "do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor; Here was Morbleu (a French devil), supping soup-meagre, And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar (A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan, To "follow the sea,"--and next him Demogorgon,-- Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers. Who'd joined with Medusa to get up "the Lancers;" --Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale, While Beëlzebub's tying huge knots in his tail. There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles Gave him the lie, Said he'd "blacken his eye," And dash'd in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;-- Ramping, and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring,-- Never was seen such a riot before in A gentleman's house, or such profligate revelling At any soirée--where they don't let the Devil in.

Hark!--as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight! (An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,") When Nick, who by this time was rather elate, Rose up and addressed them. "'Tis full time," he said, "For all elderly Devils to be in their bed; For my own part I mean to be jogging, because I don't find myself now quite so young as I was; But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post, I must call on you all for one bumper--the toast Which I have to propose is,--OUR EXCELLENT HOST! --Many thanks for his kind hospitality--may We also be able To see at our table Himself, and enjoy, in a family way, His good company down stairs at no distant day! You'd, I'm sure, think me rude If I did not include In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wig'd Heir. He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care; Though I must not say 'bless,'-- --Why, you'll easily guess,-- May our Curly-wig'd Friend's shadow never be less!" Nick took off his heel-taps--bow'd--smiled--with an air Most graciously grim,--and vacated the chair,-- Of course the elite Rose at once on their feet, And followed their leader, and beat a retreat; When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat, And, requesting that each would replenish his cup, Said, "Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!"-- --It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!

* * * * *

I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay To fulfil his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay. In fact, when the votaries came there to pray, All said there was nought to compare with it--nay, For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby, Four Brethren thenceforward, two cleric, two lay, He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry, With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry; In short, the whole County Declared, through his bounty, The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines,[49] And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.

For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read In some Chronicle--whose, has gone out of my head-- That, what with these candles, and other expenses, Which no man would go to if quite in his senses, He reduced, and brought low His property so, That, at last, he'd not much of it left to bestow; And that, many years after that terrible feast, Sir Guy in the Abbey was living a Priest; And there, in one thousand and--something,--deceased. (It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick, And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick"), While, as to young Curly-wig,--dear little Soul, Would you know more of him, you must look at "The Roll," Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit, Commenced in "Thirteen sev'nty-five,"--which took root In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore That none but his ancestors, ever before, In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, To wit, "On a Prussian-blue Field, a Bend Or;"-- While the Grosvenor averred that his ancestors bore The same, and Scroope lied like a--somebody tore Off the simile,--so I can tell you no more, Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.[50]

MORAL.

This Legend sound maxims exemplifies--e. g.-- 1mo. Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you, Remember what Lilly says, "Animum rege!"[51] And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing,-- In all good society voted past bearing,-- Eschew it!--and leave it to dust-men and mobs, Nor commit yourself much beyond "Zooks!" or "Odsbobs!"

2do. When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality, Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality!-- For should you come late, And make dinner wait, And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate-- And--though both may, perhaps, be too well bred to swear, They'll heartily wish you--I need not say Where.

3tio. Look well to your Maid-servants!--say you expect them To see to the children, and not to neglect them!-- And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery!-- --Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And from pears in the season,--and sucking their thumbs!

4to. To sum up the whole with a "Saw" of much use, Be just, and be generous--don't be profuse!-- Pay the debts that you owe,--keep your word to your friends, But--DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS!!-- For of this be assured, if you "go it" too fast, You'll be "dish'd" like Sir Guy, And like him, perhaps, die A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last!

From a seal attached to an ancient deed penes =Thomas Ingoldsby=, Esq., preserved in the archives at Tappington Everard.

FOOTNOTES:

[47] For a full account of this facetious "Chivaler," see the late (oh! that we should have to say "late"!) Theodore Hook's "History of the illustrious Commoners of Great Britain," as quoted in the Memoirs of John Bragg, Esq., page 344 of the 75th volume of the Standard Novels. In the third volume of Sir Harris Nicolas's elaborate account of the Scrope and Grosvenor controversy, commonly called the "Scrope Roll," a Stephen de Hoques, Ecuyer, is described as giving his testimony on the Grosvenor side.--Vide page 247.Return to passage

[48] A peruke so named from its inventor. Robert de Ros and Eudo Fitz-Vicari were celebrated perruquiers, who flourished in the eleventh century. The latter is noticed in the Battle-Abbey roll, and is said to have curled William the Conqueror's hair when dressing for the battle of Hastings. Dugdale makes no mention of him, but Camden says, that Humfrey, one of his descendants, was summoned to Parliament, 26 Jan. 25 Edw. I. (1297). It is doubtful, however, whether that writ can be deemed a regular writ of summons to Parliament, for reasons amply detailed in the "Synopsis of the British Peerage."--(Art. Fitz-John.) A writ was subsequently addressed to him as "Humfry Fitz-Vicari, Chiv^{r.}" 8 Jan. 6 Edw. II. (1313), and his descendants appear to have been regularly summoned as late as 5 and 6 of Philip and Mary, 1557-8. Soon after which Peter Fitz-Vicari dying, S. P. M. this Barony went into abeyance between his two daughters, Joan, married to Henry de Truefit, of Fullbottom, and Alice, wife of Roger Wigram, of Caxon Hall, in Wigton, co. Cumb. Esq., among whose representatives it is presumed to be still in abeyance.Return to passage

[49] Vide Dugdale's Monasticon, Art. Prioratus de Bolton, in agro Eboracensi.Return to passage

[50] It is with the greatest satisfaction that I learn from Mr. Simpkinson this consummation, so devoutly to be wished, is about to be realized, and that the remainder of this most interesting document, containing the whole of the defendant's evidence, will appear in the course of the ensuing summer, under the same auspices as the former portion. We shall look with eagerness for the identification of "Curly-wig."Return to passage

[51] Animum rege - qui nisi paret, imperat.--LILLY'S Grammar.]Return to passage

* * * * *

For the Legend that follows Father John has, it will be seen, the grave authority of a Romish Prelate. The good Father, who, as I have before had occasion to remark, received his education at Douai, spent several years, in the earlier part of his life, upon the Continent. I have no doubt but that during this period he visited Blois, and there, in all probability, picked up, in the very scene of its locality, the history which he has thus recorded.

THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS.

A LEGEND OF BLOIS.

S. Heloïus in hâc urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus est a fidelibus. Nocte autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus lapidem, qui sarcophagum tegebat, revolvit, erectumque contra se corpus Sancti spoliare conatur. At ille, lacertis constrictum, ad se hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus, tanquam constipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat .... Judex loci sepulchri violatorem jubet abstrahi, et legali pœnæ sententiâ condemnari; sed non laxabatur a Sancto. Tunc intelligens voluntatem defuncti, Judex, factâ de vitâ promissione, absolvit, deinde laxatur, et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur demissus quin se vitam monastericam amplexurum spopondisset. Greg: Turonens: de Gloriâ Confessorum.

Saint Aloys Was the Bishop of Blois, And a pitiful man was he, He grieved and he pined For the woes of mankind, And of brutes in their degree.-- He would rescue the rat From the claws of the cat, And set the poor captive free; Though his cassock was swarming With all sorts of vermin, He'd not take the life of a flea!-- Kind, tender, forgiving To all things living, From injury still he'd endeavour to screen 'em, Fish, flesh, or fowl,--no difference between 'em-- NIHIL PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM.

The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,-- A holy man was he! For Holy Church He'd seek and he'd search As a Bishop in his degree. From foe and from friend He'd "rap and he'd rend," To augment her treasurie. Nought would he give, and little he'd lend, That Holy Church might have more to spend.-- "Count Stephen"[52] (of Blois) "was a worthy Peer, His breeches cost him but a crown, He held them sixpence all too dear, And so he call'd the Tailor lown." Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count, And he'd overcharged him to half the amount, He had knock'd that Tailor down!-- Not for himself!-- He despised the pelf; He dressed in sackcloth, he dined off delf; And, when it was cold, in lieu of a surtout, The good man would wrap himself up in his virtue.[53] Alack! that a man so holy as he, So frank and free in his degree, And so good and so kind, should mortal be!

Yet so it is--for loud and clear From St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear, With solemn swell, The deep-toned bell Flings to the gale a funeral knell; And hark!--at its sound, As a cunning old hound, When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps, So--the little bells all, No matter how small, From the steeples both inside and outside the wall, With bell-metal throat Respond to the note, And join the lament that a prelate so pious is Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese, Or, as Blois' Lord May'r Is heard to declare, "Should leave this here world for to go to that there."

And see, the portals opening wide, From the Abbey flows the living tide;-- Forth from the doors The torrent pours, Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores, This with his chasuble, that with his rosary, This from his incense-pot turning his nose awry, Holy Father, and Holy Mother, Holy Sister, and Holy Brother, Holy Son, and Holy Daughter, Holy Wafer, and Holy Water; Every one drest Like a guest in his best, In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear, Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair, Or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair, And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,--a Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica.

Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone, With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown, Slowly the throng Come passing along, With many a chaunt and solemn song, Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,-- Dies iræ, and De profundis, Miserere, and Domine dirige nos,-- Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all, Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral, To secure the defunct's repose, And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, That he'd better be minding his P's and his Q's, And not come too near,--since they can, if they choose, Make him shake in his hoofs--as he does not wear shoes.

Still on they go, A goodly show, With footsteps sure, though certainly slow, Two by two, in a very long row; With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits, Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,-- Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold, Borne by a lad about eighteen years old; Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre, Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter. Eight Franciscans, sturdy and strong, Bear, in the midst, the good Bishop along; Eight Franciscans, stout and tall, Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall; Eight more hold a canopy high over all, With eight Trumpeters tooting the Dead March in Saul.-- Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his Monks coming after him, all with posies, And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses, Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his-- And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see How Lords and Ladies, of high degree, Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee, While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights, In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights.

Ay, 'tis a comely sight to behold, As the company march Through the rounded arch Of that Cathedral old!-- Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em, All of them ranging in due decorum, Around the inside of the Sanctum Sanctorum, While, brilliant and bright, An unwonted light (I forgot to premise this was all done at night) The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead, That rest below, mostly buried in lead, And above, recumbent in grim repose, With their mailed hose, And their dogs at their toes, And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows, Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes, With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives, As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives, To ~Praie for the Sowles~ of themselves and their wives.-- --The effect of the music, too, really was fine, When they let the good prelate down into his shrine, And by old and young The "Requiem" was sung; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is--Latin--I don't think they meddled with Greek-- In short, the whole thing produced--so to speak-- What in Blois they would call a Coup d'œil magnifique!

Yet, surely, when the level ray Of some mild eve's descending sun Lights on the village pastor, grey In years ere ours had well begun--

As there--in simplest vestment clad, He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree, In solemn tones,--but yet not sad,-- Of what Man is--what Man shall be!

And clustering round the grave, half hid By that same quiet churchyard yew, The rustic mourners bend, to bid The dust they loved a last adieu--

--That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen Upon each briar-bound hillock green, So calm, so tranquil, so serene, Gives to the eye a fairer scene,-- Speaks to the heart with holier breath Than all this pageantry of Death.--

But Chacun à son gout--this is talking at random-- We all know "De gustibus non disputandum!" So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story, The Cathedral of Blois-- Where the Sainted Aloys Is by this time, you'll find, "left alone in his glory," "In the dead of the night," though with labour opprest, Some "mortals" disdain "the calm blessings of rest;" Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best To break open a door, or the lid of a chest; And the gipsy who close round your premises prowls, To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls, Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls, --So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls, To say nothing at all of these troublesome "Swells" Who come from the playhouses, "flash-kens," and "hells," To pull off people's knockers, and ring people's bells.

Well--'tis now the hour Ill things have power! And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views, Have long been in bed, and enjoying a snooze,-- Nought is waking Save Mischief, and "Faking,"[54] And a few who are sitting up brewing or baking, When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue, Who stands in his slippers some six feet two (A rather remarkable height for a Jew), Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew, Into which, during service, he'd managed to slide himself-- While all were intent on the anthem, and hide himself.

From his lurking place, With stealthy pace, Through the "long-drawn" aisle he begins to crawl, As you see a cat walk on the top of a wall, When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall. --He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel, (An invention on which we've improved a great deal Of late years--the substitute best to rely on 's what Jones of the Strand calls his Pyrogeneion,) He strikes with despatch!--his Tinder catches!-- Now where is his candle?--and where are his matches?-- 'Tis done!--they are found!-- He stands up, and looks round By the light of a "dip" of sixteen to the pound! --What is it that now makes his nerves to quiver?-- His hand to shake--and his limbs to shiver?-- Fear?--Pooh!--it is only a touch of the liver,-- All is silent--all is still-- It's "gammon"--it's "stuff!"--he may do what he will! Carefully now he approaches the shrine, In which, as I've mentioned before, about nine, They had placed in such state the lamented Divine! But not to worship--No!--No such thing!-- His aim is--TO "PRIG" THE PASTORAL RING!!

Fancy his fright, When, with all his might Having forced up the lid, which they'd not fastened quite, Of the marble sarcophagus--"All in white" The dead Bishop started up, bolt upright On his hinder end,--and grasped him so tight, That the clutch of a kite, Or a bull-dog's bite When he's most provoked and in bitterest spite, May well be conceived in comparison slight, And having thus "tackled" him--blew out his light!!

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The fright and the fear!-- No one to hear!--nobody near! In the dead of the night!--at a bad time of year!-- A defunct Bishop squatting upright on his bier, And shouting so loud, that the drum of his ear He thought would have split as these awful words met it-- "AH, HA! MY GOOD FRIEND!--DON'T YOU WISH YOU MAY GET IT?"-- Oh, dear! Oh, dear! 'Twas a night of fear! --I should just like to know, if the boldest man here, In his situation, would not have felt queer?

The wretched man bawls, And he yells, and he squalls, But there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls, And the desk, and the pulpit, the pews, and the stalls. Held firmly at bay, Kick and plunge as he may, His struggles are fruitless--he can't get away, He really, can't tell what to do or to say, And being a Pagan, don't know how to pray; Till, through the east window, a few streaks of grey Announce the approach of the dawn of the day!

Oh, a welcome sight Is the rosy light, Which lovelily heralds a morning bright, Above all to a wretch kept in durance all night By a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight,-- Of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap, The most disagreeable kind of a man-trap! --Oh! welcome that bell's Matin chime, which tells To one caught in this worst of all possible snares, That the hour is arrived to begin Morning Prayers, And the monks and the friars are coming down stairs!

Conceive the surprise Of the Choir--how their eyes Are distended to twice their original size,-- How some begin bless,--some anathematize,-- And all look on the thief as Old Nick in disguise. While the mystified Abbot cries, "Well!--I declare!-- --This is really a very mysterious affair!-- Bid the bandy-legg'd Sexton go run for the May'r!"

The May'r and his suite Are soon on their feet,-- (His worship kept house in the very same street,--) At once he awakes, "His compliments" makes, "He'll be up at the Church in a couple of shakes!" Meanwhile the whole Convent is pulling and hauling, And bawling and squalling, And terribly mauling The thief whose endeavour to follow his calling Had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling.-- Now high, now low, They drag "to and fro,"-- Now this way, now that way they twist him--but--No!-- The glazed eye of St. Aloys distinctly says "Poh! You may pull as you please, I shall not let him go!" Nay, more;--when his Worship at length came to say He was perfectly ready to take him away, And fat him to grace the next Auto-da-fé, Still closer he prest The poor wretch to his breast, While a voice--though his jaws still together were jamm'd-- Was heard from his chest, "If you do, I'll----" here slamm'd The great door of the Church,--with so awful a sound That the close of the good Bishop's sentence was drown'd! Out spake Frère Jehan, A pitiful man, Oh! a pitiful man was he! And he wept, and he pined For the sins of mankind, As a Friar in his degree. "Remember, good gentlefolks," so he began, "Dear Aloys was always a pitiful man!-- That voice from his chest Has clearly exprest He has pardoned the culprit--and as for the rest, Before you shall burn him--he'll see you all blest!"

The Monks, and the Abbot, the Sexton, and Clerk Were exceedingly struck with the Friar's remark, And the Judge, who himself was by no means a shark Of a Lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark, But still leaned (having once been himself a gay spark,) To the merciful side,--like the late Alan Park,-- Agreed that, indeed, The best way to succeed, And by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed, Would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon, On a certain condition, and that not a hard one, Viz.--"That he, the said Infidel, straightway should ope His mind to conviction, and worship the Pope, And 'ev'ry man Jack' in an amice or cope;-- And that, to do so, He should forthwith go To Rome, and salute there his Holiness' toe;-- And never again Read Voltaire, or Tom Paine, Or Percy Bysshe Shelley, or Lord Byron's Cain;-- His pilgrimage o'er, take St. Francis's habit;-- If anything lay about, never to 'nab' it;-- Or, at worst, if he should light on articles gone astray, To be sure and deposit them safe in the Monast'ry!"

The oath he took-- --As he kiss'd the book, Nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook! The Bishop sank down with a satisfied look, And the Thief, releas'd By the Saint deceas'd, Fell into the arms of a neighbouring Priest!

It skills not now To tell you how The transmogrified Pagan perform'd his vow; How he quitted his home, Travell'd to Rome, And went to St. Peter's and look'd at the Dome, And obtain'd from the Pope an assurance of bliss, And kiss'd--whatever he gave him to kiss-- Toe, relic, embroidery, naught came amiss; And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban Hung up in the Sistine Chapel, by way Of a relic--and how it hangs there to this day.--

Suffice it to tell, Which will do quite as well, That the whole of the Convent the miracle saw, And the Abbot's report was sufficient to draw Ev'ry bon Catholique in la belle France to Blois, Among others, the Monarch himself, François, The Archbishop of Rheims, and his "Pious Jack-daw,"[55] And there was not a man in Church, Chapel, or Meeting-house, Still less in Cabaret, Hotel, or Eating-house, But made an oration, And said, "In the nation If ever a man deserved canonization, It was the kind, pitiful, pious Aloys."-- So the Pope says,--says he, "Then a Saint he shall be!" So he made him a Saint,--and remitted the fee.

What became of the Pagan I really can't say; But I think I've been told, When he'd enter'd their fold, And was now a Franciscan some twenty days old, He got up one fine morning before break of day, Put the Pyx in his pocket--and then ran away.

MORAL.

I think we may coax out a moral or two From the facts which have lately come under our view. First--Don't meddle with Saints!--for you'll find if you do, They're what Scotch people call, "kittle cattle to shoe!" And when once they have managed to take you in tow, It's a deuced hard matter to make them let go!

Now to you, wicked Pagans!--who wander about, Up and down Regent Street every night, "on the scout,"-- Recollect the Police keep a sharpish look-out, And, if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to, Till they catch you at last in flagrante delicto!-- Don't the inference draw That because he of Blois Suffer'd one to bilk "Old father Antic the Law," That our May'rs and our Aldermen--and we've a City full-- Shew themselves, at our Guildhall, quite so pitiful!

Lastly, as to the Pagan who play'd such a trick, First assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick, There is but one thing which occurs to me--that Is,--Don't give too much credit to people who "rat!" --Never forget Early habit's a net Which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh; And "What's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh!"

We must all be aware Nature's prone to rebel, as Old Juvenal tells us, Naturam expellas, Tamen usque recurret! There's no making Her rat So that all that I have on this head to advance Is,--whatever they think of these matters in France, There's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here, "YOU NEVER CAN MAKE A SILK PURSE OF A SOW'S EAR!"

* * * * *

In the succeeding Legend we come nearer home.--Father Ingoldsby is particular in describing its locality, situate some eight miles from the Hall--less, if you take the bridle-road by the Church-yard, and so along the valley by Mr. Fector's Abbey.--In the enumeration of the various attempts to appropriate the treasure (drawn from a later source), is omitted one, said to have been undertaken by the worthy ecclesiastic himself, who, as Mrs. Botherby insinuates, is reported to have started for Dover, one fine morning, duly furnished with all the means and appliances of Exorcism.--I cannot learn, however, that the family was ever enriched by his expedition.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] Teste Messire Iago, a distinguished subaltern in the Venetian service, circiter A.D. 1580. His Biographer, Mr. William Shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note, makes him say "King Stephen," inasmuch as the "worthy peer" subsequently usurped the crown of England. The anachronism is a pardonable one.--Mr. Simpkinson of Bath.Return to passage

[53] ----Meâ Virtute me involvo.--HOR.Return to passage

[54] "Nix my dolly, pals, Fake away!"--words of deep and mysterious import in the ancient language of Upper Egypt, and recently inscribed on the sacred standard of Mehemet Ali. They are supposed to intimate, to the initiated in the art of Abstraction, the absence of all human observation, and to suggest the propriety of making the best use of their time--and fingers.Return to passage

[55] Vide Ingoldsby Legends (First Series), page 139.Return to passage

THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY.

A LEGEND OF DOVER.

Once there lived, as I've heard people say, An "Old Woman clothed in grey," So furrow'd with care, So haggard her air, In her eye such a wild supernatural stare, That all who espied her Immediately shied her, And strove to get out of her way.

This fearsome Old Woman was taken ill: --She sent for the Doctor--he sent her a pill, And by way of a trial, A two shilling phial Of green-looking fluid, like lava diluted, To which I've profess'd an abhorrence most rooted,[56] One of those draughts they so commonly send us, Labell'd "Haustus catharticus, mane sumendus;"--

She made a wry face, And, without saying Grace, Toss'd it off like a dram--it improved not her case. --The Leech came again; He now open'd a vein, Still the little Old Woman continued in pain. So her "Medical Man," although loth to distress her, Conceived it high time that her Father Confessor Should be sent for to shrive, and assoilzie, and bless her, That she might not slip out of these troublesome scenes "Unanneal'd and Unhouseled,"--whatever that means.[57]

Growing afraid, He calls to his aid A bandy-legg'd neighbour, a "Tailor by trade,"[58] Tells him his fears, Bids him lay by his shears, His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie With all possible speed to the Convent hard by, Requests him to say That he begs they'll all pray, Viz.: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay, For the soul of an Old Woman clothed in grey, Who was just at that time in a very bad way, And he really believed couldn't last out the day;-- And to state his desire That some erudite Friar Would run over at once, and examine, and try her; For he thought he would find There was "something behind," A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,-- "In fact he was sure, from what fell from her tongue, That this little Old Woman had done something wrong." --Then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man, "Mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!"

Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe, Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago; I can't say exactly how long, nor, I own, What particular monarch was then on the throne, But 'twas here in Old England: and all that one knows is, It must have preceded the Wars of the Roses.[59]

Inasmuch as the times Described in these rhymes Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes; And if 'mongst the Laity Unseemly gaiety Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two, At once all the Clerics Went into hysterics, While scarcely a convent but boasted its Saint or two; So it must have been long ere the line of the Tudors, As since then the breed Of Saints rarely indeed With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors. --Hence the late Mr. Froude, and the live Dr. Pusey We moderns consider as each worth a Jew's eye; Though Wiseman, and Dullman[60] combined against Newman, With Doctors and Proctors, and say he's no true man. --But this by the way.--The Convent I speak about Had Saints in scores--they said Mass week and week about; And the two now on duty were each, for their piety, "Second to none" in that holy society, And well might have borne Those words which are worn By our "Nulli Secundus" Club--poor dear lost muttons Of Guardsmen--on Club days, inscribed on their buttons.-- They would read, write, and speak Latin, Hebrew, and Greek, A radish-bunch munch for a lunch,--or a leek; Though scoffers and boobies Ascribe certain rubies That garnished the nose of the good Father Hilary To the overmuch use of Canary and Sillery, --Some said spirituous compounds of viler distillery-- Ah! little reck'd they That with Friars, who say Fifty Paters a night, and a hundred a day, A very slight sustenance goes a great way-- Thus the consequence was that his colleague, Basilius Won golden opinions, by looking more bilious, From all who conceived strict monastical duty By no means conducive to personal beauty; And being more meagre, and thinner, and paler, He was snapt up at once by the bandy-legg'd Tailor.

The latter's concern For a speedy return Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals, Or go round to his shrines, and snuff all his Saint's candles; Still less had he leisure to change the hair-shirt he Had worn the last twenty years--probably thirty,-- Which, not being wash'd all that time, had grown dirty. --It seems there's a sin in The wearing clean linen, Which Friars must eschew at the very beginning, Though it makes them look frowsy, and drowsy, and blowsy, And--a rhyme modern etiquette never allows ye.-- As for the rest, E'en if time had not prest, It didn't much matter how Basil was drest, Nor could there be any great need for adorning, The Night being almost at odds with the Morning.

Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is high, And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the sky, While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whispering down the glen, And one fond voice alone is heard--oh! Night is lovely then! But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain, But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,-- When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light, Where all we love is fading fast--how terrible is Night!!

More terrible yet, If you happen to get By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long, Has been what the vulgar call, "coming it strong" In all sorts of ways that are naughty and wrong.-- As Confessions are sacred, it's not very facile To ascertain what the old hag said to Basil; But whatever she said, It fill'd him with dread, And made all his hair stand on end on his head,-- No great feat to perform, inasmuch as said hair Being clipp'd by the tonsure, his crown was left bare, So of course Father Basil had little to spare; But the little he had Seem'd as though't had gone mad, Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears In the two little tufts on the tops of his ears.-- What the old woman said That so "fill'd him with dread," We should never have known any more than the dead, If the bandy-legg'd Tailor, his errand thus sped, Had gone quietly back to his needle and thread, As he ought; but instead, Curiosity led,-- A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred,-- He contrived to secrete himself under the bed! --Not that he heard One half, or a third

Of what past as the Monk and the Patient conferred, But he here and there managed to pick up a word, Such as "Knife," And "Life," And he thought she said "Wife," And "Money," that source of all evil and strife;[61] Then he plainly distinguished the words "Gore," and "Gash," Whence he deem'd--and I don't think his inference rash-- She had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash!

Intermix'd with her moans, And her sighs, and her groans, Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones, Came at intervals Basil's sweet, soft silver tones, For somehow it happened--I can't tell you why-- The good Friar's indignation,--at first rather high,-- To judge from the language he used in reply, Ere the Old Woman ceased, had a good deal gone by; And he gently addrest her in accents of honey, "Daughter, don't you despair!--WHAT'S BECOME OF THE MONEY?"

In one just at Death's door it was really absurd To see how her eye lighted up at that word-- Indeed there's not one in the language that I know, (Save its synonyms "Spanish," "Blunt," "Stumpy," and "Rhino,") Which acts so direct, And with so much effect On the human sensorium, or makes one erect One's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect-- It's a question with me Which of the three, Father Basil himself, though a grave S. T. P. (Such as he have, you see, the degree of D.D.) Or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legg'd Tailor,--or She Caught it quickest--however, traditions agree That the Old Woman perked up as brisk as a bee,--

'Twas the last quivering flare of the taper,--the fire It so often emits when about to expire! Her excitement began the same instant to flag, She sank back, and whisper'd, "Safe!--Safe! in the Bag!!"

Now I would not by any means have you suppose That the good Father Basil was just one of those Who entertain views We're so apt to abuse, As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews, Who haunt death-bed scenes, By underhand means To toady or teaze people out of a legacy,-- For few folk, indeed, had such good right to beg as he, Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty, Not only permits, but enjoins, as a duty, Her sons to take care That, let who will be heir, The Pontiff shall not be chous'd out of his share, Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods, As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's; Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods, in short, main -tain principles adverse to statutes of Mortmain; Besides, you'll discern It at once, when you learn That Basil had something to give in return, Since it rested with him to say how she should burn, Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all To uses he named, he could say, "You shan't burn at all, Or nothing to signify, Not what you'd dignify So much as even to call it a roast, But a mere little singeing, or scorching at most,-- What many would think not unpleasantly warm,-- Just to keep up appearance--mere matter of form." All this in her ear He declared, but I fear That her senses were wand'ring--she seem'd not to hear, Or, at least understand,--for mere unmeaning talk her Parch'd lips babbled now,--such as "Hookey!"--and "Walker!" --She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt If "his Mother were fully aware he was out?"

Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry--so I must write it, my verse not admitting the O-- But as for the venue, I vow I'm perplext To say if it's in this world, or if in the next-- Or whether in both--for 'tis very well known That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own, In a "tight little Island" that stands in a Lake Call'd "Lough-dearg"--that's "The Red Lake," unless I mistake,-- In Fermanagh--or Antrim--or Donegal--which I declare I can't tell, But I know very well It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch (At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer, But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here). There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare There's "no differ" at all 'twixt "this here" and "that there," That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry For the separate use of the "finest of pisentry," And that his is no more Than a mere private door From the rez-de-chaussée,--as some call the ground floor,-- To the one which the Pope had found out long before. But no matter--lay The locale where you may; --And where it is no one exactly can say-- There's one thing, at least, which is known very well, That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel. "Entertainment" there's worse Both for "Man and for Horse;" For broiling the souls They use Lord Mayor's coals;-- Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower, It's by no means so strong-- Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong; The "prokers" are not half so hot, or so long, By an inch or two, either in handle or prong; The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth, And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth;-- In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator, Made for what's called by Cockneys a "Minor The-átre." Better suited, of course, for a "minor performer," Than the "House," that's so much better lighted and warmer, Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,-- --You understand where, I don't question--down there, Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions, The Paving Commissioners use "Good Intentions," Materials which here would be thought on by few men, With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.

To go on with my story, This same Purga-tory, (There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory), Is close lock'd, and the Pope keeps the keys of it--that I can Boldly affirm--in his desk in the Vatican; --Not those of St. Peter-- Those of which I now treat, are A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater-- And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a Key better contrived for its purpose--nor Bramah. Now it seems that by these Most miraculous keys Not only the Pope, but his "clargy," with ease Can let people in and out, just as they please; And--provided you "make it all right" about fees, There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them, But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them; And Basil, no doubt, Had brought matters about, If the little old woman would but have "spoke out," So far as to get for her one of those tickets, Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets; So that after a grill, Or short turn on the Mill, And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity, Than a Freemason gets in the "Lodge of Antiquity," She'd have rubb'd off old scores, Popped out of doors, And sheer'd off at once for a happier port, Like a white-wash'd Insolvent that's "gone through the Court."

But Basil was one Who was not to be done By any one, either in earnest or fun;-- The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun, In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo, Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it "No Go." So, unless you're a dunce, You'll see clearly, at once, When you come to consider the facts of the case, he Of course never gave her his Vade in pace; And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe, The little Old Woman had no where to go!

For, what could she do? She very well knew If she went to the gates I have mention'd to you, Without Basil's, or some other passport to shew, The Cheque-takers never would let her go through; While, as to the other place, e'en had she tried it, And really had wished it, as much as she shied it, (For no one who knows what it is can abide it,) Had she knock'd at the portal with ne'er so much din, Though she died in, what folks at Rome call, "Mortal sin," Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in, As she'd not been turn'd formally out of "the pale;"-- So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail, In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail. Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail; Though, now he's grown older, They say he's much bolder, And his Holiness not only gets the "cold shoulder," But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a Dump--that's the word--for his triple tiara.

Well--what shall she do?-- What's the course to pursue?-- "Try St. Peter?--the step is a bold one to take; For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt, 'wide awake;' But then there's a quaint Old Proverb says, 'Faint Heart ne'er won fair Lady,' then how win a Saint?-- I've a great mind to try-- One can but apply; If things come to the worst, why he can but deny-- The sky 's rather high To be sure--but, now I That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by, I am just in the 'order' which some folks--though why I am sure I can't tell you--would call 'Apple-pie.' Then 'never say die!' It won't do to be shy, So I'll tuck up my shroud, and--here goes for a fly!"----So said and so done--she was off like a shot, And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.

When she drew so near That the Saint could see her, In a moment he frown'd, and began to look queer, And scarce would allow her to make her case clear, Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer, With "It's all very well,--but you do not lodge here!"-- Then, calling her everything but "My dear!" He applied his great toe with some force au derrière, And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear.

"Alas! poor Ghost!" It's a doubt which is most To be pitied--one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,-- Or one bandied about thus from pillar to post,-- To be "all abroad"--to be "stump'd" not to know where To go--so disgraced As not to be "placed," Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, "To be Nowhere."-- However that be, The affaire was finie, And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see!

Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes--not the Jew-- That the "Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue," Having no other sort of asylum in view, "Returns back again to the place whence she flew,"-- A fact which experience has proved to be true.-- Mr. Gray,--in opinion with whom Johnson clashes,-- Declares that our "wonted fires live in our ashes."[62]-- These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag, The first to her mansion, the last to her bag, When only conceive her dismay and surprise, As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes, When there,--on the spot where she'd hid her "supplies,"-- In an underground cellar of very small size, Working hard with a spade, All at once she survey'd That confounded old bandy-legged "Tailor by trade."

Fancy the tone Of the half moan, half groan, Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone! As she stood there,--a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,-- Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone! Although, as Macbeth says, "they'd no speculation," While she uttered that word, Which American Bird Or James Fenimore Cooper, would render "Tarnation!!"

At the noise which she made Down went the spade!-- And up jump'd the bandy-legg'd "Tailor by trade," (Who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell, her Deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar;) Turning round at a sound So extremely profound, The moment her shadowy form met his view He gave vent to a sort of a lengthen'd "Bo-o--ho-o!"-- With a countenance Keeley alone could put on, Made one grasshopper spring to the door--and was gone! Erupit! Evasit! As at Rome they would phrase it-- His flight was so swift, the eye scarcely could trace it, Though elderly, bandy-legg'd, meagre, and sickly, I doubt if the Ghost could have vanish'd more quickly;-- He reach'd his own shop, and then fell into fits, And it's said never rightly recover'd his wits, While the chuckling old Hag takes his place, and there sits.

I'll venture to say, She'd sat there to this day, Brooding over what Cobbett calls "vile yellow clay," Like a Vulture, or other obscene bird of prey, O'er the nest-full of eggs she has managed to lay, If, as legends relate, and I think we may trust 'em, her Stars had not brought her another guess customer-- 'Twas Basil himself!-- Come to look for her pelf: But not, like the tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel, And grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel; Full well he knew Such tools would not do,-- Far other the weapons he brought into play, Viz. a Wax-taper "hallow'd on Candlemas-day," To light to her ducats,-- Holy Water, two buckets, (Made with salt--half a peck to four gallons--which brews a Strong triple X "strike,"--see Jacobus de Chusa.) With these, too, he took His bell and his book-- Not a nerve ever trembled,--his hand never shook As he boldly march'd up where she sat in her nook, Glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look, Which Some may have read of, perchance, in "Nell Cook,"[63] All. in "Martha the Gipsy" by Theodore Hook.

And now, for the reason I gave you before, Of what passed then and there I can tell you no more, As no Tailor was near with his ear at the door; But I've always been told, With respect to the gold, For which she her "jewel eternal" had sold, That the old Harridan, Who, no doubt, knew her man, Made some compromise--hit upon some sort of plan, By which Friar and Ghost were both equally pinn'd-- Heaven only knows how the "Agreement" got wind;-- But its purport was this, That the things done amiss By the Hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss; Provided--"Imprimis, The cash from this time is The Church's--impounded for good pious uses-- --Father B. shall dispose of it just as he chooses, And act as trustee-- In the meantime, that She, The said Ghostess,--or Ghost,--as the matter may be,-- From 'impediment,' 'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free, To sleep in her grave, or wander, as he, The said Friar, with said Ghost may hereafter agree.-- Moreover--The whole Of the said cash, or 'cole,' Shall be spent for the good of said Old Woman's soul!

"It is farther agreed--while said cash is so spending, Said Ghost shall be fully absolv'd from attending, And shall quiet remain In the grave, her domain, To have, and enjoy, and uphold, and maintain, Without molestation, or trouble, or pain, Hindrance, let, or impediment, (over again) From Old Nick, or from any one else of his train, Whether Pow'r,--Domination,--or Princedom,--or Throne,[64] Or by what name soever the same may be known, Howsoe'er called by Poets, or styled by Divines,-- Himself,--his executors, heirs, and assigns.

"Provided that,--nevertheless,--notwithstanding All herein contained,--if whoever's a hand in Dispensing said cash,--or said 'cole,'--shall dare venture To misapply money, note, bill, or debenture To uses not named in this present Indenture, Then that such sum, or sums, shall revert, and come home again Back to said Ghost,--who thenceforward shall roam again Until such time, or times, as the said Ghost produces Some good man and true, who no longer refuses To put sum, or sums, aforesaid, to said uses; Which duly performed, the said Ghost shall have rest, The full term of her natural death, of the best, In full consideration of this, her bequest, In manner and form aforesaid,--as exprest:-- In witness whereof, we, the parties aforesaid, Hereunto set our hands and our seals--and no more said, Being all that these presents intend to express, Whereas--notwithstanding--and nevertheless.--

"Sign'd, sealed, and delivered, this 20th of May, Anno Domini, blank, (though I've mentioned the day,) (Signed) BASIL. OLD WOMAN (late) CLOTHED IN GREY."

Basil now, I am told, Walking off with the gold, Went and straight got the document duly enroll'd, And left the testatrix to mildew and mould In her sepulchre, cosey, cool,--not to say cold. But somehow--though how I can hardly divine,-- A runlet of fine Rich Malvoisie wine Found its way to the Convent that night before nine, With custards, and "flawns," and a "fayre florentine," Peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine;-- And some half a score Nuns of the rule Bridgetine, Abbess and all, were invited to dine At a very late hour,--that is after Compline.-- --Father Hilary's rubies began soon to shine With fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine; Through all the next year, Indeed, 'twould appear That the Convent was much better off, as to cheer, Even Basil himself, as I very much fear, No longer addicted himself to small beer; His complexion grew clear, While in front and in rear He enlarged so, his shape seem'd approaching a sphere.

No wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night, That a servant girl going down stairs with a light To the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright, An Old Woman, astride on a barrel, invite Her to take, in a manner extremely polite, With her left hand, a bag, she had got in her right;-- For tradition asserts that the Old Woman's purse Had come back to her scarcely one penny the worse!

The girl, as they say, Ran screaming away, Quite scared by the Old Woman clothed in grey; But there came down a Knight, at no distant a day, Sprightly and gay As the bird on the spray, One Sir Rufus Mountfardington, Lord of Foot's-cray, Whose estate, not unlike those of most of our "Swell" beaux, Was, what's, by a metaphor, term'd "out at elbows;" And the fact was, said knight was now merely delay'd From crossing the water to join the Crusade For converting the Pagans with bill, bow, and blade, By the want of a little pecuniary aid To buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade, And enable his troop to appear on parade;-- The unquiet Shade Thought Sir Rufus, 'tis said, Just the man for her money,--she readily paid For the articles named, and with pleasure convey'd To his hands every farthing she ever had made; But alas! I'm afraid Most unwisely she laid Out her cash--the beaux yeux of a Saracen maid (Truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade) Converted the gallant converter--betray'd Him to do everything which a Knight could degrade, --E'en to worship Mahound!--She required--He obey'd,-- The consequence was, all the money was wasted On Infidel pleasures he should not have tasted; So that, after a very short respite, the Hag Was seen down in her cellar again with her bag.

Don't fancy, dear Reader, I mean to go on Seriatim through so many ages by-gone, And to bore you with names Of the Squires, and the Dames, Who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack, But spent the cash so that it always came back; The list is too long To be giv'n in my song,-- There are reasons beside would perhaps make it wrong; I shall merely observe, in those orthodox days, When Mary set Smithfield all o'er in a blaze, And shew'd herself very se- -vere against heresy, While many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as he Burnt for denying the Papal supremacy, Bishop Bonner the bag got, And all thought the Hag got Releas'd, as he spent all in fuel and faggot.-- But somehow--though how I can't tell you, I vow-- I suppose by mismanagement--ere the next reign The Spectre had got all her money again.

The last time, I'm told, That the Old Woman's gold Was obtained,--as before,--for the asking,--'twas had By a Mr. O--Something--from Ballinafad; And the whole of it, so 'tis reported, was sent To John Wright's, in account for the Catholic Rent, And thus--like a great deal more money--"it went!" So 'tis said at Maynooth, But I can't think it's truth; Though I know it was boldly asserted last season, Still I can not believe it; and that for this reason, It's certain the cash has got back to its owner!-- --Now no part of the Rent to do so e'er was known,--or, In any shape, ever come home to the donor.

GENTLE READER!--you must know the proverb, I think-- "To a blind horse a Nod is as good as a Wink!" Which some learned Chap, In a square College cap, Perhaps would translate by the words "Verbum Sap!"

--Now, should it so chance That you're going to France In the course of next Spring, as you probably may, Do pull up, and stay, Pray, If but for a day, At Dover, through which you must pass on your way, At the York,--or the Ship,--where, as all people say, You'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay, Perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will pay, And you cannot lose much by so short a delay.

First DINE!--you can do That on joint or ragoût-- Then say to the waiter,--"I'm just passing through,-- Pray,--where can I find out the old Maison Dieu?-- He'll shew you the street--(the French call it a Rue, But you won't have to give here a petit écu).

Well,--when you've got there,--never mind how you're taunted,-- Ask boldly, "Pray, which is the house here that's haunted?" --I'd tell you myself, but I can't recollect The proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect Who call themselves "Friends," and whom others call "Quakers,"-- You'll be sure to find out if you ask at the Baker's.-- Then go down, with a light, To the cellar at night! And as soon as you see her don't be in a fright! But ask the old Hag, At once, for the bag!-- If you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle, Nay, "Ma'am, I insist!--in the name of St. Basil!" If she gives it you, seize It, and--do as you please-- But there is not a person I've ask'd but agrees, You should spend--part at least--for the Old Woman's ease! --For the rest--if it must go back some day--why--let it!-- Meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it May do you some good, and-- I WISH YOU MAY GET IT!!!

* * * * *

To whom is the name of Cornelius Agrippa otherwise than familiar, since "a Magician," of renown not inferior to his own, has brought him and his terrible "Black Book" again before the World?--That he was celebrated, among other exploits, for raising the Devil, we are all well aware;--how he performed this feat,--at least one, and that, perhaps, the most certain method, by which he did it,--is thus described.

FOOTNOTES:

[56] Vide page 230.Return to passage

[57] Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His elucidation of Macbeth's "Hurlyburly" casts a halo around his memory. In him the world lost one of its kindliest Spirits, and the Garrick Club its acutest commentator.Return to passage

[58] All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other Records of our Courts of Justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the Bricklayer, whom he probably presumes to be indigenous, and to the Shoemaker, born a Snob.Return to passage

[59] "An antient and most pugnacious family," says our Bath Friend. "One of their descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M.P. for Christchurch (an elderly gentleman now defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities and his wanton destruction of furniture when in a state of excitement."--"Sing, old Rose, and burn the bellows!" has grown into a proverb.Return to passage

[60] The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.--I am not quite sure as to the orthography;--it's idem sonans, at all events.Return to passage

[61] Effodiuntur Opes Irritamenta Malorum.Return to passage

LILLY'S Grammar.

[62] "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!"--GRAY.Return to passage

"A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy stares!"--JOHNSON.

[63] See page 299.]Return to passage

[64] Thrones! Dominations! Princedoms! Virtues! Powers!Return to passage

RAISING THE DEVIL.

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.

And hast thou nerve enough?" he said, That grey Old Man, above whose head Unnumber'd years had roll'd,-- "And hast thou nerve to view," he cried, "The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied?-- --Art thou indeed so bold?

"Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze, Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze Of that unearthly eye, That blasts where'er it lights,--the breath That, like the Simoom, scatters death On all that yet can die!

--"Darest thou confront that fearful form, That rides the whirlwind, and the storm, In wild unholy revel?-- The terrors of that blasted brow, Archangel's once,--though ruin'd now-- --Ay,--dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"--

"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied, And placed him by that Old Man's side, In fierce and frantic glee, Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb; --"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM! --THE DEVIL!--I fain would see!--

"In all his Gorgon terrors clad, His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad Rejoined in reckless tone.-- --"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said, And sigh'd, and shook his hoary head, With many a bitter groan.

He drew the mystic circle's bound, With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around; He traced full many a sigil there; He mutter'd many a backward pray'r, That sounded like a curse-- "He comes!"--he cried, with wild grimace, "The fellest of Apollyon's race!"-- --Then in his startled pupil's face He dash'd an EMPTY PURSE!!

* * * * *

One more legend, and then, gentle Reader, "A merry Christmas to you and a happy New Year!"--We have travelled over many lands together, and had many a good-humoured laugh by the way;--if we have, occasionally, been "more merry than wise," at least we have not jostled our neighbours on the road,--much less have we kicked any one into a ditch.

So wishing you heartily all the compliments of the season,--and thanking you cordially for your good company, I, Thomas Ingoldsby, bid you heartily farewell, and leave you in that of

SAINT MEDARD.

A LEGEND OF AFRIC.

"Heus tu! inquit Diabolus, hei mihi! fessis insuper humeris reponenda est sarcina; fer opem quæso!"

"Le Diable a des vices;--c'est là ce qui le perd.--Il est gourmand. Il eut dans cette minute-là l'idée de joindre l'âme de Medard aux autres âmes qu'il allait emporter.--Se rejeter en arrière, saisir de sa main droite son poignard, et en percer l'outre avec une violence, et une rapidité formidable,--c'est ce que fit Medard.--Le Diable poussa un grand cri. Les âmes délivrés s'enfuirent par l'issue que le poignard venait de leur ouvrir, laissant dans l'outre leurs noirceurs, leurs crimes, et leurs méchancetés," &c. &c.

In good king Dagobert's palmy days, When Saints were many, and sins were few, Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested One evening,--and could not tell what to do.--

He had been East, and he had been West, And far had he journeyed o'er land and sea; For women and men Were warier then, And he could not catch one where he'd now catch three.

He had been North, and he had been South, From Zembla's shores unto far Peru, Ere he fill'd the sack Which he bore on his back-- Saints were so many, and sins so few!

The way was long, and the day was hot; His wings were weary; his hoofs were sore; And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail, As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore!

The day had been hot, and the way was long; --Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint was he; He lower'd his sack, And the _heat of his back As he leaned on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree_!

He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade, And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight, As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide He had sewn for a sack, and had cramm'd so tight.

For, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground," And game had been scarce, he might well report That still he had got A decentish lot, And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.

He had pick'd up in France a Maître de Danse,-- A Maîtresse en titre,--two smart Grisettes, A Courtier at play,-- And an English Roué-- Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.--

--He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk, A Quaker,--a Baker,--a Doctor of Laws,-- And a Jockey of York-- But Paddy from Cork "Desaved the ould divil," and slipp'd through his claws!

In Moscow, a Boyar knouting his wife --A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece-- And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome, He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.--

He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain-- A mendicant Friar--of Monks a score; A grave Don or two, And a Portuguese Jew, Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore.

And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips, "Those nice little Dears!--what a delicate roast!-- --Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire, Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!"

--At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice Never did mouth water more than Nick's; But,--alas! and alack!-- He had stuff'd his sack So full that he found himself quite "in a fix:"

For, all he could do, or all he could say, When, a little recruited, he rose to go, Alas! and alack! He could not get the sack Up again on his shoulders "whether or no!"

Old Nick look'd East, old Nick look'd West, With many a stretch, and with many a strain, He bent till his back Was ready to crack, And he pull'd and he tugg'd,--but he tugg'd in vain.

Old Nick look'd North, old Nick look'd South; --Weary was Nicholas, weak, and faint,-- And he was aware Of an old man there, In Palmer's weeds, who look'd much like a Saint.

Nick eyed the Saint,--then he eyed the Sack-- The greedy old glutton!--and thought, with a grin, --"Dear heart alive! If I could but contrive To pop that elderly gentleman in!--

"For, were I to choose among all the ragoûts The cuisine can exhibit--flesh, fowl, or fish,-- To myself I can paint, That a barbecued Saint Would be for my palate the best side-dish!"--

Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile, --In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea. (We call it "Semiramis," Why not say Pyramis?-- Why should we change the S into a D?)

St. Medard, he was a holy man, A holy man I ween was he, And even by day, When he went to pray, He would light up a candle, that all might see!

He salaam'd to the East,--He salaam'd to the West;-- --Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown Were his Palmer's weeds,-- And he finger'd his beads With the right side up, and the wrong side down.--

* * * * *

(Hiatus in MSS. valde deflendus.)

St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile;-- He had been living there years fourscore,-- And now, "taking the air, And saying a pray'r," He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore.

Little he deem'd--that Holy man!-- Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,-- When he was aware Of a Stranger there, Who seem'd to have got himself into a fix.

Deeply that Stranger groan'd and sigh'd, That wayfaring Stranger, grisly and grey:-- "I can't raise my sack On my poor old back!-- Oh! lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray!--

"For I have been East, and I have been West, Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I, And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew bome, Here in this desert I well may die!"

"Now Heav'n thee save!"--Nick winced at the words, As ever he winces at words divine-- "Now Heav'n thee save!-- What strength I have,-- It's little, I wis,--shall be freely thine!

"For foul befall that Christian man Who shall fail, in a fix,--woe worth the while!-- His hand to lend To foe, or to friend, Or to help a lame dog over a stile!"--

--St. Medard hath boon'd himself for the task: To hoist up the sack he doth well begin; But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels, For the folks are all curling, and kicking within.--

St. Medard paused--he began to "smoke"-- For a Saint,--if he isn't exactly a cat,-- Has a very good nose, As this world goes, And not worse than his neighbour's for "smelling a rat."

The Saint look'd up, and the Saint look'd down; He "smelt the rat," and he "smoked" the trick; --When he came to view His comical shoe, He saw in a moment his friend was Nick!

He whipp'd out his oyster-knife, broad and keen-- A Brummagem blade which he always bore, To aid him to eat, By way of a treat, The "natives" he found on the Red Sea shore;--

He whipp'd out his Brummagem blade so keen, And he made three slits in the Buffalo's hide, And all its contents, Through the rents, and the vents, Came tumbling out,--and away they all hied!

Away went the Quaker,--away went the Baker, Away went the Friar--that fine fat Ghost, Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick, Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!

--Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece,-- And the pretty Grisettes--and the Dons from Spain,-- And the Corsair's Crew, And the coin-clipping Jew,-- And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain!--

Old Nick is a black-looking fellow at best, Ay, e'en when he's pleased; but never before Had he look'd so black As on seeing his sack Thus cut into slits on the Red Sea shore.

You may fancy his rage, and his deep despair, When he saw himself thus befool'd by one Whom, in anger wild, He profanely styled "A stupid old snuff-colour'd Son of a gun!"

Then his supper--so nice!--that had cost him such pains-- --Such a hard day's work--now "all on the go!" --'Twas beyond a joke, And enough to provoke The mildest and best-temper'd Fiend below!

Nick snatch'd up one of those great big stones, Found in such numbers on Egypt's plains, And he hurl'd it straight At the Saint's bald pate, To knock out "the gruel he call'd his brains."

Straight at his pate he hurl'd the weight, The crushing weight of that great big stone;-- But Saint Medard Was remarkably hard And solid about the parietal bone.

And though the whole weight of that great big stone Came straight on his pate, with a great big thump, It fail'd to graze The skin,--or to raise On the tough epidermis a lump, or bump!--

As the hail bounds off from the pent-house slope,-- As the cannon recoils when it sends its shot,-- As the finger and thumb Of an old woman come From the kettle she handles, and finds too hot;--

--Or, as you may see, in the Fleet, or the Bench,-- --Many folks do in the course of their lives,-- The well-struck ball Rebound from the wall, When the Gentlemen jail-birds are playing at "fives:"

All these,--and a thousand fine similes more,-- Such as all have heard of, or seen, or read Recorded in print, May give you a hint How the stone bounced off from St. Medard's head!

--And it curl'd, and it twirl'd, and it whirl'd in air, As this great big stone at a tangent flew!-- --Just missing his crown, It at last came down Plump upon Nick's Orthopedical shoe!

Oh! what a yell and a screech were there!-- How did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar! --"Oh dear! oh dear!"-- You might hear him here, Though we're such a way off from the Red-Sea shore!

It smash'd his shin, and it smash'd his hoof, Notwithstanding his stout Orthopedical shoe; And this is the way That, from that same day, Old Nick became what the French call Boiteux!

Quakers, and Bakers, Grisettes, and Friars, And Cardinal's Nieces,--wherever ye be, St. Medard bless; You can scarcely do less If you of your corps possess any esprit.--

And, mind and take care, yourselves,--and beware How you get in Nick's buffalo bag!--if you do, I very much doubt If you'll ever get out, Now sins are so many, and Saints so few!!

MORAL.

Gentle Reader, attend To the voice of a friend! And if ever you go to Herne Bay or Southend, Or any gay Wat'ring-place outside the Nore, Don't walk out at eve on the lone sea-shore! --Unless you're too Saintly to care about Nick, And are sure that your head is sufficiently thick!--

Learn not to be greedy!--and, when you've enough, Don't be anxious your bags any tighter to stuff-- Recollect that good fortune too far you may push, And, "A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH!" Then turn not each thought to increasing your store, Nor look always like "Oliver asking for more!"

Gourmandise is a vice--a sad failing, at least;-- So remember "Enough is as good as a feast!" And don't set your heart on "stew'd," "fried," "boil'd," or "roast," Nor on delicate "Woodcocks served up upon toast!"

Don't give people nick-names!--don't, even in fun, Call any one "snuff-coloured son of a gun!" Nor fancy, because a man nous seems to lack, That, whenever you please, you can "give him the sack!"

Last of all, as you'd thrive, and still sleep in whole bones, IF YOU'VE ANY GLASS WINDOWS, NEVER THROW STONES!!!

The Ingoldsby Legends.

THIRD SERIES.

The Ingoldsby Legends.

THIRD SERIES.

THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.

A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.

Veluti in speculum. Theatre Royal Cov. Gard.

Count Raymond rules in Languedoc, O'er the champaign fair and wide, With town and stronghold many a one, Wash'd by the wave of the blue Garonne, And from far Auvergne to Rousillon, And away to Narbonne, And the mouths of the Rhone; And his Lyonnois silks and his Narbonne honey, Bring in his lordship a great deal of money.

A thousand lances, stout and true, Attend Count Raymond's call; And Knights and Nobles, of high degree, From Guienne, Provence, and Burgundy, Before Count Raymond bend the knee, And vail to him one and all.

And Isabel of Arragon He weds, the Pride of Spain, You might not find so rich a prize, A Dame so "healthy, wealthy, and wise;" So pious withal--with such beautiful eyes-- So exactly the Venus de Medicis' size-- In all that wide domain.

Then his cellar is stored As well as his board, With the choicest of all La Belle France can afford; Chambertin, Chateau Margaux, La Rose, and Lafitte, With Moet's Champagne, "of the Comet year," "neat As imported,"--"fine sparkling,"--and not over sweet; While his Chaplain, good man, when call'd in to say Grace, Would groan, and put on an elongated face At such turtle, such turbot, John Dory, and plaice; Not without blushing, pronouncing a benison, Worthy old soul! on such very fat venison, Sighing to think Such victuals and drink Are precisely the traps by which Satan makes men his own, And grieving o'er scores Of huge barbecued Boars, Which he thinks should not darken a Christian man's doors, Though 'twas all very well Pagan Poets should rate 'em As "Animal propter convivia natum."

He was right, I must say, For at this time of day, When we're not so precise, whether cleric or lay, With respect to our food, as in time so passé, We still find our Boars, whether grave ones or gay, After dinner, at least, very much in the way, (We spell the word now with an E, not an A;) And as honest Père Jacques was inclined to spare diet, he Gave this advice to all grades of society, "Think less of pudding--and think more of piety."

As to his clothes, Oh! nobody knows What lots the Count had of cloaks, doublets, and hose, Pantoufles, with bows Each as big as a rose, And such shirts with lace ruffles, such waistcoats, and those Indescribable garments it is not thought right To do more than whisper to oreilles polite.

Still in spite of his power, and in spite of his riches, In spite of his dinners, his dress, and his----which is The strangest of all things--in spite of his Wife, The Count led a rather hum-drum sort of life. He grew tired, in fact, of mere eating and drinking, Grew tired of flirting, and ogling, and winking At nursery maids As they walk'd the Parades, The Crescents, the Squares, and the fine Colonnades, And the other gay places, which young ladies use As their promenade through the good town of Thoulouse.

He was tired of hawking, and fishing, and hunting, Of billiards, short-whist, chicken-hazard, and punting; Of popping at pheasants, Quails, woodcocks, and--peasants: Of smoking, and joking, And soaking, provoking Such headaches next day As his fine St. Peray, Though the best of all Rhone wines can never repay, Till weary of war, women, roast-goose, and glory, With no great desire to be "famous in story," All the day long, This was his song, "Oh, dear! what will become of us? Oh, dear! what shall we do? We shall die of blue devils if some of us Can't hit on something that's new!"

Meanwhile his sweet Countess, so pious and good, Such pomps and such vanities stoutly eschew'd, With all fermented liquors and high-seasoned food, Deviled kidneys, and sweetbreads, and ducks and green peas; Baked sucking-pig, goose, and all viands like these, Hash'd calf's-head included, no longer could please, A curry was sure to elicit a breeze, So was ale, or a glass of Port wine after cheese, Indeed, anything strong, As to tipple, was wrong; She stuck to "fine Hyson," "Bohea," and "Souchong," And similar imports direct from Hong Kong. In vain does the family doctor exhort her To take with her chop one poor half-pint of porter; No!--she alleges She's taken the pledges! Determined to aid In a gen'ral Crusade Against publicans, vintners, and all of that trade, And to bring in sherbet, ginger-pop, lemonade, Eau sucrée, and drinkables mild and home made; So she claims her friends' efforts, and vows to devote all hers Solely to found "The Thoulousian Teetotallers." Large sums she employs In dressing small boys In long duffle jackets, and short corduroys, And she boxes their ears when they make too much noise; In short, she turns out a complete Lady Bountiful, Filling with drugs and brown Holland the county full.

Now just at the time when our story commences, It seems that a case Past the common took place, To entail on her ladyship further expenses, In greeting with honour befitting his station The Prior of Arles, with a Temperance Legation, Despatched by Pope Urban, who seized this occasion To aid in diluting that part of the nation, An excellent man, One who stuck to his can Of cold water "without"--and he'd take such a lot of it; None of your sips That just moisten the lips; At one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it, No such bad thing By the way, if they bring It you iced, as at Verrey's, or fresh from the spring, When the Dog Star compels folks in town to take wing, Though I own even then I should see no great sin in it, Were there three drops of Sir Felix's gin in it.

Well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure, And finish the pump with the Prior at leisure, Let's go back to Raymond, still bored beyond measure, And harping away On the same dismal lay, "On dear! what will become of us? Oh dear! what can we do? We shall die of blue devils if some of us Can't find out something that's new!" At length in despair of obtaining his ends By his own mother wit, he takes courage, and sends, Like a sensible man as he is, for his friends, Not his Lyndhursts or Eldons, or any such high sirs, But only a few of his "backstairs" advisers; "Come hither," says he, "My gallants so free, My bold Rigmarole, and my brave Rigmaree, And my grave Baron Proser, now listen to me! You three can't but see I'm half dead with ennui. What's to be done? I must have some fun, And I will too, that's flat--ay, as sure as a gun. So find me out 'something new under the sun,' Or I'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one;-- You three Agree! Come, what shall it be? Resolve me--propound in three skips of a flea!" Rigmarole gave a "Ha!" Rigmaree gave a "Hem!" They look'd at Count Raymond--Count Raymond at them, As much as to say, "Have you nihil ad rem?" At length Baron Proser Responded, "You know, sir, That question's some time been a regular poser; Dear me!--Let me see,-- In the way of a 'spree' Something new?--Eh!--No!--Yes!----No!--'tis really no go, sir." Says the Count, "Rigmarole, You're as jolly a soul, On the whole, as King Cole, with his pipe and his bowl; Come, I'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll."-- In vain--Rigmarole with a look most profound, With his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground, Shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found. "I can only remark, That as touching a 'lark' I'm as much as your Highness can be, in the dark; I can hit on no novelty--none, on my life, Unless, peradventure you'd 'tea' with your wife!" Quoth Raymond, "Enough! Nonsense!--humbug!--fudge!--stuff! Rigmarole, you're an ass,--you're a regular Muff! Drink tea with her ladyship?--I?--not a bit of it! Call you that fun?--faith I can't see the wit of it; Mort de ma vie! My dear Rigmaree, You're the man, after all,--come, by way of a fee, If you will but be bright, from the simple degree Of a knight I'll create you at once a Mar-quis! Put your conjuring cap on--consider and see, If you can't beat that stupid old 'Sumph' with his 'tea!'"

"That's the thing! that will do! Ay, marry, that's new!" Cries Rigmaree, rubbing his hands, "that will please-- My 'Conjuring cap'--it's the thing;--it's 'the cheese!' It was only this morning I picked up the news; Please your Highness a Conjuror's come to Thoulouse; I'll defy you to name us A man half so famous For devildoms,--Sir, it's the great Nostradamus! Cornelius Agrippa 'tis said went to school to him, Gyngell's an ass, and old Faustus a fool to him, Talk of Lilly, Albertus, Jack Dee!--pooh! all six He'd soon put in a pretty particular fix; Why, he'd beat at digesting a sword, or 'Gun tricks' The great Northern Wizard himself all to sticks! I should like to see you, Try to sauter le coup With this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo, By the Pope you'd soon find it a regular 'Do:' Why, he does as he likes with the cards,--when he's got 'em, There's always an Ace or a King at the bottom; Then for casting Nativities!--only you look At the volume he's published,--that wonderful book! In all France not another, to swear I dare venture, is Like, by long chalks, his 'Prophetical Centuries'-- Don't you remember how, early last summer, he Warned the late King 'gainst the Tournament mummery? Didn't his Majesty call it all flummery, Scorning The warning, And get the next morning His poke in the eye from that clumsy Montgomery? Why, he'll tell you, before You're well inside his door, All you're Highness may wish to be up to, and more!"

"Bravo!--capital!--come, let's disguise ourselves--quick! --Fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick; We'll see if old Hocus will smell out the trick; Let's start off at once--Rigmaree, you're a Brick!" The moon in gentle radiance shone O'er lowly roof and lordly bower, O'er holy pile and armed tower, And danced upon the blue Garonne: Through all that silver'd city fair, No sound disturbed the calm, cool air, Save the lover's sigh alone! Or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose Proclaim'd the depth of his repose, Provoking from connubial toes A hint--or elbow bone; It might, with such trifling exceptions, be said, That Thoulouse was as still as if Thoulouse were dead, And her "oldest inhabitant" buried in lead.

But hark! a sound invades the ear, Of horses' hoofs advancing near! They gain the bridge--they pass--they're here! Side by side Two strangers ride, For the streets in Thoulouse are sufficiently wide, That is I'm assured they are--not having tried. --See, now they stop Near an odd-looking shop, And they knock, and they ring, and they won't be denied. At length the command Of some unseen hand Chains, and bolts, and bars obey, And the thick-ribbed oaken door, old and grey, In the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way.

They leave their steeds to a page's care, Who comes mounted behind on a Flanders mare, And they enter the house, that resolute pair, With a blundering step but a dare-devil air, And ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair; While, armed with a lamp that just helps you to see How uncommonly dark a place can be, The grimmest of lads with the grimmest of grins, Says, "Gentlemen, please to take care of your shins! Who ventures this road need be firm on his pins! Now turn to the left--now turn to the right-- Now a step--now stoop--now again upright-- Now turn once again, and directly before ye 's the door of the great Doctor's Labora-tory."

A word! a blow! And in they go! No time to prepare, or to get up a show, Yet everything there they find quite comme il faut: Such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row, Retorts, crucibles, such as all Conjurors stow In the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow The fire burning blue with its sulphur and tow; From the roof a huge crocodile hangs rather low, With a tail such as that which, we all of us know, Mr. Waterton managed to tie in a bow; Pickled snakes, potted lizards, in bottles and basins Like those at Morel's, or at Fortnum and Mason's, All articles found, you're aware without telling, In every respectable Conjuror's dwelling.

Looking solemn and wise, Without turning his eyes, Or betraying the slightest degree of surprise, In the midst sits the Doctor--his hair is white, And his cheek is wan--but his glance is bright, And his long black roquelaure, not over-tight, Is marked with strange characters much, if not quite, Like those on the bottles of green and blue light Which you see in a chymist's shop-window at night. His figure is tall and erect--rather spare about Ribs,--and no wonder--such folks never care about Eating or drinking, While reading and thinking, Don't fatten--his age might be sixty or thereabout.

Raising his eye so grave and so sage, From some manuscript work of a bygone age, The seer very composedly turns down the page, Then shading his sight, With his hand from the light, Says, "Well, Sirs, what would you at this time of night? What brings you abroad these lone chambers to tread, When all sober folks are at home and abed?" "Trav'lers we, In our degree, All strange sights we fain would see, And hither we come in company; We have far to go, and we come from far, Through Spain and Portingale, France and Navarre; We have heard of your name, And your fame, and our aim, Great Sir, is to witness, ere yet we depart From Thoulouse,--and to-morrow at cock-crow we start-- Your skill--we would fain crave a touch of your art!"

"Now naye, now naye--no trav'lers ye! Nobles ye be Of high degree! With half an eye that one may easily see,-- Count Raymond, your servant!--Yours, Lord Rigmaree! I must call you so now since you're made a Mar-quis; Faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me! No matter for that! I see what you'd be at-- Well--pray no delay, For it's late, and ere day I myself must be hundreds of miles on my way; So tell me at once what you want with me--say! Shall I call up the dead From their mouldering bed?-- Shall I send you yourselves down to Hades instead?-- Shall I summon old Harry himself to this spot?" --"Ten thousand thanks, No! we had much rather not. We really can't say That we're curious that way; But, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving, We'd much rather take a sly peep at the living? Rigmaree, what say you, in This case, as to viewing Our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing?" "Just what pleases your Highness--I don't care a sous in The matter--but don't let old Nick and his crew in!" --"Agreed!--pray proceed then, most sage Nostradamus, And show us our Wives--I dare swear they won't shame us!"

A change comes o'er the Wizard's face, And his solemn look by degrees gives place To a half grave, half comical, kind of grimace. "For good or for ill, I work your will! Yours be the risk and mine the skill; Blame not my art if unpleasant the pill!"

He takes from a shelf, and he pops on his head, A square sort of cap, black, and turned up with red, And desires not a syllable more may be said; He goes on to mutter, And stutter, and sputter Hard words, such as no men but Wizards dare utter. "Dies mies!--Hocus pocus-- Adsis Demon! non est jokus! Hi Cocolorum--don't provoke us!-- Adesto! Presto! Put forth your best toe!" And many more words, to repeat which would choke us,-- Such a sniff then of brimstone!--it did not last long, Or they could not have borne it, the smell was so strong.

A mirror is near, So large and so clear, If you priced such a one in a drawing-room here, And was ask'd fifty pounds, you'd not say it was dear; But a mist gather'd round at the words of the Seer, Till at length, as the gloom Was subsiding, a room On its broad polish'd surface began to appear, And the Count and his comrade saw plainly before 'em The room Lady Isabel called her "Sanctorum." They start, well they might, With surprise at the sight, Methinks I hear some lady say, "Serve 'em right!"

For on one side the fire Is seated the Prior, At the opposite corner a fat little Friar; By the side of each gentleman, easy and free, Sits a lady, as close as close well may be, She might almost as well have been perch'd on his knee. Dear me! dear me! Why, one's Isabel--she On the opposite side's La Marquise Rigmaree!-- To judge from the spread On the board, you'd have said That the partie quarrée had like aldermen fed, And now from long flasks, with necks covered with lead, They were helping themselves to champagne, white and red Hobbing and nobbing, And nodding and bobbing, With many a sip Both from cup and from lip, And with many a toast followed up by a "Hip!-- Hip!--hip!--huzzay!" --The Count, by the way, Though he sees all they're doing, can't hear what they say, Notwithstanding both he And Mar-quis Rigmaree Are so vex'd and excited at what they can see, That each utters a sad word beginning with D.

That word once spoke, The silence broke, In an instant the vision is cover'd with smoke! But enough has been seen. "Horse! horse! and away!" They have, neither, the least inclination to stay, E'en to thank Nostradamus, or ask what's to pay.-- They rush down the stair, How, they know not, nor care, The next moment the Count is astride on his bay, And my Lord Rigmaree on his mettlesome grey; They dash through the town, Now up, and now down, And the stones rattle under their hoofs as they ride, As if poor Thoulouse were as mad as Cheapside;[65] Through lane, alley, and street, Over all that they meet; The Count leads the way on his courser so fleet, My Lord Rigmaree close pursuing his beat, With the Page in the rear to protect the retreat. Where the bridge spans the river, so wide and so deep, Their headlong career o'er the causeway they keep, Upsetting the Watchman, two dogs, and a Sweep, All the town population that was not asleep. They at length reach the castle, just outside the town, Where--in peace it was usual with Knights of renown-- The portcullis was up, and the drawbridge was down. They dash by the sentinels--"France et Thoulouse!" Ev'ry soldier (--they then wore cock'd hats and long queues, Appendages banish'd from modern reviews), His arquebus lower'd, and bow'd to his shoes; While Count Raymond pushed on to his lady's boudoir--he Had made up his mind to make one at her soirée. He rush'd to that door, Where ever before He had rapped with his knuckles, and "tirled at the pin," Till he heard the soft sound of his Lady's "Come in!" But now, with a kick from his iron-heel'd boot, Which, applied to a brick wall, at once had gone through't, He dash'd open the lock; It gave way at the shock! (--Dear ladies, don't think, in recording the fact, That your bard's for one moment defending the act, No--it is not a gentleman's--none but a low body Now--could perform it)--and there he saw--NOBODY!! Nobody?--No!! Oh, ho!--Oh, ho! There was not a table--there was not a chair Of all that Count Raymond had ever seen there (They'd maroon-leather bottoms well stuff'd with horse-hair), That was out of its place!-- There was not a trace Of a party--there was not a dish or a plate-- No sign of a tablecloth--nothing to prate Of a supper, symposium, or sitting up late; There was not a spark of fire left in the grate, It had all been poked out, and remained in that state. If there was not a fire, Still less was there Friar, Marquise, or long glasses, or Countess, or Prior, And the Count, who rush'd in open mouth'd, was struck dumb, And could only ejaculate, "Well, this is rum!"

He rang for the maids--had them into the room, With the butler, the footman, the coachman, the groom. He examined them all very strictly--but no! Notwithstanding he cross- and re-question'd them so, 'Twas in vain--it was clearly a case of "No Go!" "Their Lady," they said, "Had gone early to bed, Having rather complain'd of a cold in her head-- The stout little Friar, as round as an apple, Had pass'd the whole night in a vigil in chapel, While the Prior himself, as he'd usually done, Had rung in the morning, at half-after one, For his jug of cold water and twopenny bun, And been visible, since they were brought him, to none. But," the servants averr'd, "From the sounds that were heard To proceed now and then from the father's sacellum, They thought he was purging His sins with a scourging, And making good use of his knotted flagellum." For Madame Rigmaree, They all testified, she Had gone up to her bed-chamber soon after tea, And they really supposed that there still she must be, Which her spouse, the Mar-quis, Found at once to agree With the rest of their tale, when he ran up to see.

Alack for Count Raymond! he could not conceive How the case really stood, or know what to believe; Nor could Rigmaree settle to laugh or to grieve. There was clearly a hoax, But which of the folks Had managed to make them the butt of their jokes, Wife or Wizard, they both knew no more than Jack Nokes; That glass of the Wizard's Stuck much in their gizzards, His cap, and his queer cloak all X's and Izzards; Then they found, when they came to examine again, Some slight falling off in the stock of champagne, Small, but more than the butler could fairly explain. However, since nothing could make the truth known, Why,--they thought it was best to let matters alone. The Count in the garden Begg'd Isabel's pardon Next morning for waking her up in a fright, By the racket he'd kicked up at that time of night; And gave her his word he had ne'er misbehaved so, Had he not come home as tipsy as David's sow. Still, to give no occasion for family snarls, The Friar was pack'd back to his convent at Arles, While as for the Prior, At Raymond's desire, The Pope raised his rev'rence a step or two higher, And made him a Bishop in partibus--where His see was I cannot exactly declare, Or describe his cathedral, not having been there, But I dare say you'll all be prepared for the news, When I say 'twas a good many miles from Thoulouse, Where the prelate, in order to set a good precedent, Was enjoined, as a sine quâ non, to be resident. You will fancy with me, That Count Raymond was free, For the rest of his life, from his former ennui; Still it somehow occurr'd that as often as he Chanced to look in the face of my Lord Rigmaree, There was something or other--a trifling degree Of constraint--or embarrassment--easy to see, And which seem'd to be shared by the noble Mar-quis, While the ladies--the queerest of all things by half in My tale, never met from that hour without laughing!

MORAL.

Good gentlemen all, who are subjects of Hymen, Don't make new acquaintances rashly, but try men, Avoid above all things your cunning (that's sly) men! Don't go out o' nights To see conjuring sleights, But shun all such people, delusion whose trade is; Be wise!--stay at home and take tea with the ladies.

If you chance to be out, At a "regular bout," And get too much of "Abbot's Pale Ale" or "Brown Stout," Don't be cross when you come home at night to your spouse, Nor be noisy, nor kick up a dust in the house!

Be careful yourself, and admonish your sons, To beware of all folks who love twopenny buns! And don't introduce to your wife or your daughter A sleek, meek, weak gent--who subsists on cold water!

* * * * *

The main incident recorded in the following excerpta from our family papers has but too solid a foundation. The portrait of Roger Ingoldsby is not among those in the gallery, but I have some recollection of having seen, when a boy, a picture answering the description here given of him, much injured, and lying without a frame in one of the attics.

FOOTNOTES:

[65] "The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad."Return to passage

Gilpin's Tour in Middlesex and Herts.

THE WEDDING-DAY;

OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE.

A FAMILY LEGEND.

It has a jocund sound, That gleeful Marriage chime, As from the old and ivied tower, It peals, at the early Matin hour, Its merry, merry round; And the Spring is in its prime, And the Song-bird, on the spray, Trills from his throat, in varied note, An emulative lay-- It has a joyous sound!! And the Vicar is there with his wig and his book, And the Clerk with his grave, quasi-sanctified look, And there stand the Village maids all with their posies, Their lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and roses, Dight in white, A comely sight, Fringing the path to the left and the right; --From our nursery days we all of us know Ne'er doth "Our Ladye's garden grow" So fair for a "Grand Horticultural Show" As when border'd with "pretty maids all on a row." And the urchins are there, escap'd from the rule Of that "Limbo of Infants," the National School, Whooping, and bawling, And squalling, and calling, And crawling, and creeping, And jumping, and leaping, Bo-peeping 'midst "many a mouldering heap" in Whose bosom their own "rude forefathers" are sleeping; --Young rascals!--instead of lamenting and weeping, Laughing and gay, A gorge deployée-- Only now and then pausing--and checking their play, To "wonder what 'tis makes the gentlefolks stay," Ah, well-a-day! Little deem they, Poor ignorant dears! the bells, ringing away, Are anything else Than mere parish bells, Or that each of them, should we go into its history, Is but a "Symbol" of some deeper mystery-- That the clappers and ropes Are mere practical tropes Of "trumpets" and "tongues," and of "preachers," and popes, Unless Clement the fourth's worthy Chaplin, Durand, err, See the "Rationale" of that goosey-gander.

Gently! gently, Miss Muse! Mind your P's and your Q's! Don't be malapert--laugh, Miss, but never abuse! Calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism, Is, Miss, believe me, a great piece of Jack-ass-ism, And as, on the whole, You're a good-natured soul, You must never enact such a pitiful rôle. No, no, Miss, pull up, and go back to your boys In the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise-- But hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming, For voices are heard--here's the company coming!

And see!--the avenue gates unfold, And forth they pace, that bridal train, The grave, the gay, the young, the old, They cross the green and grassy lane, Bridesman, Bridesmaid, Bridegroom, Bride, Two by two, and side by side, Uncles, and aunts, friends tried and prov'd, And cousins, a great many times removed. A fairer or a gentler She, A lovelier Maid, in her degree, Man's eye might never hope to see, Than darling, bonnie Maud Ingoldsby, The flow'r of that goodly company; While whispering low, with bated voice, Close by her side, her heart's dear choice, Walks Fredville's hope, young Valentine Boys. --But where, oh where,-- Is Ingoldsby's heir? Little Jack Ingoldsby?--where, oh where? Why, he's here,--and he's there, And he's every where-- He's there, and he's here; In the front--in the rear,-- Now this side, now that side,--now far, and now near-- The Puck of the party, the darling "pet" boy, Full of mischief, and fun, and good humour and joy; With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose, And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose; In his tunic, and trousers, and cap--there he goes! Now pinching the bridesmen,--now teasing his sister, And telling the bridesmaids how "Valentine kiss'd her;" The torment, the plague, the delight of them all, See he's into the churchyard!--he's over the wall-- Gambolling, frolicking, capering away, He's the first in the church, be the second who may!

* * * * *

'Tis o'er;--the holy rite is done, The rite that "incorporates two in one," --And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun! Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing, The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying, The "toot--toot--toot" Of the tabour and flute, Of the white wigg'd Vicar's prolonged salute, Or of how the blithe "College Youths"--rather old stagers, Accustom'd, for years, to pull bell ropes for wagers-- Rang, faster than ever, their "triple-bob-MAJORS;" (So loud as to charm ye, At once and alarm ye; --"Symbolic," of course, of that rank in the army.)

Spare we to tell of the fees and the dues To the "little old woman that open'd the pews," Of the largesse bestow'd on the Sexton and Clerk, Of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park, Of the laughing and joking, The quaffing and smoking, And chaffing, and broaching--that is to say, poking A hole in a mighty magnificent tub Of what men, in our hemisphere, term "Humming Bub," But which Gods,--who, it seems, use a different lingo From Mortals,--are wont to denominate "Stingo."

Spare we to tell of the Horse-collar grinning; The Cheese! the reward of the ugly one winning; Of the young ladies racing for Dutch body-linen,-- --The soapy-tailed Sow,--a rich prize when you've caught her,-- Of little boys bobbing for pippins in water; The smacks and the whacks, And the jumpers in sacks, These down on their noses and those on their backs;-- Nor skills it to speak of those darling old ditties, Sung rarely in hamlets now--never in cities, The "King and the Miller," the "Bold Robin Hood," "Chevy Chase," "Gilderoy," and the "Babes in the Wood!" --You'll say that my taste Is sadly misplaced, But I can't help confessing these simple old tunes The "Auld Robin Grays," and the "Aileen Aroons," The "Gramachree Mollys," and "Sweet Bonny Doons," Are dearer to me, In a tenfold degree, Than a fine fantasia from over the sea; And, for sweetness, compared with a Beethoven fugue, are As "best-refined loaf" to the coarsest "brown sugar;"[66] --Alack, for the Bard's want of science! to which he owes All this misliking of foreign capricios!-- Not that he'd say One word, by the way, To disparage our new Idol, Monsieur Duprez-- But he grudges, he owns, his departed half guinea, Each Saturday night when, devoured by chagrin, he Sits listening to singers whose names end in ini.

But enough of the rustics--let's leave them pursuing Their out-of-door gambols, and just take a view in The inside the Hall, and see what they are doing; And first there's the Squire, The hale, hearty Sire Of the Bride,--with his coat-tails subducted and higher, A thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire; His back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;-- --Bright, bright are his buttons,--and bright is the hue Of his squarely-cut coat of fine Saxony blue; And bright the shalloon of his little quilled queue; --White, white as "Young England's," the dimity vest Which descends like an avalanche o'er his broad breast, Till its further progression is put in arrest By the portly projection that springs from his chest, Overhanging the garment--that can't be exprest; --White, white are his locks,--which, had Nature fair play, Had appeared a clear brown, slightly sprinkled with grey; But they're white as the peaks of Plinlimmon to-day, Or Ben Nevis, his pate is si bien poudré! Bright, bright are the boots that envelope his heels, --Bright, bright is the gold chain suspending his seals, And still brighter yet may the gazer descry The Tear-drop that spangles the fond Father's eye As it lights on the Bride-- His belov'd One--the pride And delight of his heart,--sever'd now from his side;-- But brighter than all, Arresting its fall, Is the smile, that rebukes it for spangling at all, --A clear case, in short, of what old Poets tell, as Blind Homer for instance, εν δαχρυσι γελας.

Then, there are the Bride and the Bridegroom, withdrawn To the deep Gothic window that looks on the lawn, Ensconced on a squab of maroon-coloured leather, And talking--and thinking, no doubt--of the weather.

But here comes the party--Room! room for the guests! In their Pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests, --First, Sir Charles Grandison, Baronet, and his Son, Charles,--the Mamma does not venture to "show"-- --Miss Byron, you know, She was call'd long ago-- For that Lady, 'twas said, had been playing the d--l, Last season, in town, with her old beau, Squire Greville, Which very much shock'd, and chagrin'd, as may well be Supposed, "Doctor Bartlett," and "Good Uncle Selby." --Sir Charles, of course, could not give Greville his gruel, in Order to prove his abhorrence of duelling, Nor try for, deterr'd by the serious expense, a Complete separation a thoro et mensâ, So he "kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party, A dance, or a dinner, or tea and ecarté, He went with his son, and said, looking demurely, He'd "left her at home, as she found herself poorly."

Two Foreigners near, "Of distinction," appear; A pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw, Count Ferdinand Fathom,--Count Thaddeus of Warsaw, All cover'd with glitt'ring bijouterie and hair--Poles, Whom Lord Dudley Stuart calls "Patriot,"--Hook "Bare Poles;" Such rings, and such brooches, such studs, and such pins. 'Twere hard to say which Were more gorgeous and rich, Or more truly Mosaic, their chains or their chins! Next Sir Roger de Coverley,--Mr. Will Ramble, With Dame Lismahago, (née Tabitha Bramble),-- Mr. Random and Spouse,--Mrs. Pamela Booby, (Whose nose was acquiring a tinge of the ruby, And "people did say"--but no matter for that, ... Folks were not then enlighten'd by good Father Mat.)-- --Three friends from "the Colonies" near them were seen, The great Massachusetts man, General Muff Green,-- Mr. Jonathan W. Doubikins,--men "Influential some"--and their "smart" Uncle Ben;-- Rev. Abraham Adams (preferr'd to a stall),-- --Mr. Jones and his Lady, from Allworthy Hall; --Our friend Tom, by the way, Had turn'd out rather gay For a married man--certainly "people did say," He was shrewdly suspected of using his wife ill, And being as sly as his half-brother Blifil.-- (Miss Seagrim, 'tis well known, was now in high feather, And "people did say" they'd been seen out together,-- A fact, the "Boy Jones," who, in our days, with malice Aforethought, so often got into the Palace, Would seem to confirm, as, 'tis whispered he owns, he's The son of a natural son of Tom Jones's.) Lady Bellaston, (mem. she had not been invited!) Sir Peregrine Pickle, now recently knighted,-- All joyous, all happy, all looking delighted! --It would bore you to death should I pause to describe, Or enumerate, half of the elegant tribe Who filled the back ground, And among whom were found The elite of the old County families round, Such as Honeywood, Oxenden, Knatchbull, and Norton, Matthew Robinson,[67] too, with his beard from Monk's Horton, The Faggs, and Finch-Hattons, Tokes, Derings, and Deedses, And Fairfax, (who then called the castle of Leeds his;) Esquires, Knights, and Lords, In bag-wigs and swords; And the troops, and the groups Of fine Ladies in hoops; The pompoons, the toupées, and the diamonds and feathers, The flowered-silk sacques Which they wore on their backs,-- --How?--sacques and pompoons, with the Squire's boots and leathers?--

Stay! stay!--I suspect, Here's a trifling neglect On your part, Madame Muse--though you're commonly accurate As to costume, as brown Quaker, or black Curate, For once, I confess, Here you're out as to dress;-- You've been fairly caught napping, which gives me distress, For I can't but acknowledge it is not the thing, Sir Roger de Coverley's laced suit to bring Into contact with square-cut coats,--such as George Byng, And poor dear Sir Francis appeared in, last spring.-- So, having for once been compelled to acknowledge, I 've made a small hole in our mutual chronology, Canter on, Miss, without further apology,-- Only don't make Such another mistake, Or you'll get in a scrape, of which I shall partake;-- Enough!--you are sorry for what you have done, So dry your eyes, Miss, blow your nose, and go on!

Well--the party are met, all radiant and gay, And how ev'ry person is dress'd--we won't say; Suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay To our dear "bonnie Maud," on her own wedding-day, To dance at her bridal, and help "throw the stocking," --A practice that's now discontinued as shocking.

There's a breakfast, they know-- There always is so On occasions like these, wheresoever you go. Of course there are "lots" of beef, potted and hung, Prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue, Hot tea, and hot coffee, hot rolls, and hot toast, Cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boil'd and cold roast, Scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, colder ices-- Blancmange, which young Ladies say, so very nice is,-- Rock-melons in thick, Pines in much thinner slices,-- Char, potted with clarified butter and spices, Renewing an appetite long past its crisis-- Refined barley-sugar, in various devices, Such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes-- And nasty French lucifer snappers with mottoes. --In short, all those gimcracks together were met Which people of fashion tell Gunter to get When they give a grand déjeûner à la fourchette-- (A phrase which, though French, in our language still lingers, Intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers.) And see! what a mountainous bridecake!--a thing By itself--with small pieces to pass through the ring!

Now as to the wines!--"Ay, the Wine?" cries the Squire, Letting fall both his coat-tails,--which nearly take fire,-- Rubbing his hands, He calls out, as he stands, To the serving-men waiting "his Honour's" commands, "The wine!--to be sure--here you, Harry--Bob--Dick-- The wine, don't you hear?--bring us lights--come, be quick!-- And a crow-bar to knock down the mortar and brick-- Say what they may, 'Fore George, we'll make way Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day; And let loose his captives, imprison'd so long, His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong!"-- --"Oh dear! oh dear! Squire Ingoldsby, bethink you what you do!" Exclaims old Mrs. Botherby,[68]--she is in such a stew!-- "Oh dear! oh dear! what do I hear?--full oft you've heard me tell Of the curse 'Wild Roger' left upon whoe'er should break his cell!"

"Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away, As I bethink me, too, it was upon this very day! And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay, Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play; Your locks were nut-brown then, Squire--you grow a little grey!--

"Wild Roger,' so we call'd him then, your Grandsire's youngest son, He was in truth A wayward youth, We fear'd him, every one. In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be stayed by none, And when he did a naughty thing, he laugh'd and call'd it fun! --One day his father chid him sore--I know not what he'd done, But he scorn'd reproof; And from this roof Away that night he run!

"Seven years were gone and over--'Wild Roger' came again, He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main; And he had store of gold galore, and silks, and satins fine, And flasks and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine! Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave, And came, in penitence and shame, now of his Sire to crave Forgiveness and a welcome home--his Sire was in his grave!

"Your Father was a kindly man--he played a brother's part, He press'd his brother to his breast--he had a kindly heart, Fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to share, But Roger was the same man still,--he scorn'd his brother's pray'r! He call'd his crew,--away he flew, and on those foreign shores Got kill'd in some outlandish place--they call it the Eyesores;[69] But ere he went, And quitted Kent, --I well recall the day,-- His flasks and casks of Gascon wine he safely 'stow'd away;' Within the cellar's deepest nook, he safely stow'd them all, And Mason Jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up the wall.

"Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear 'Wild Roger's' ban! Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man; 'Here's that,' quoth he, 'shall serve me well when I return at last, A batter'd hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past; Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine, Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon wine!' And more he said, which filled with dread all those who listen'd there; In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair With very fear, to stand and hear 'Wild Roger' curse and swear!! He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game, He called me 'Mother Bounce-about,' my Gracious, what a name! Nay more, 'an old'--some 'boat-woman,'--I may not say for shame!-- Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell, Nor break, on such a day as this, 'Wild Roger's' secret cell!"

"Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire, As he mov'd from the fire, And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire, "Pooh!--never tell me! Nonsense--fiddle-de-dee! What?--wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea?-- Why he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too gay, And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way; But what's that to us, now, at this time of day? What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell-- --I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,--

Sent him back in a huff to his old privateering, Or what his unfriends chose to call Buccaneering, It's twenty years since, as we very well know, He was knock'd on the head in a skirmish, and so Why rake up 'auld warld' tales of deeds long ago?-- --Foul befall him who would touch the deposit Of living man, whether in cellar or closet! But since, as I've said, Knock'd on the head, Uncle Roger has now been some twenty years dead. As for his wine, I'm his heir, and it's mine! And I'd long ago work'd it well, but that I tarried For this very day-- And I'm sure you'll all say I was right--when my own darling Maud should get married! So lights and a crow-bar!--the only thing lies On my conscience, at all, with respect to this prize, Is some little compunction anent the Excise-- Come--you, Master Jack, Be the first, and bring back Whate'er comes to hand--Claret, Burgundy, Sack-- Head the party, and mind that you're back in a crack!"

Away go the clan, With cup and with can, Little Jack Ingoldsby leading the van; Little reck they of the Buccaneer's ban: Hope whispers, "Perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too here!" Blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear!

Through cellar one, through cellars two, Through cellars three they past! And their way they took To the farthest nook Of cellar four--the last!-- Blithe and gay, they batter away, On this wedding-day of Maud's, With all their might, to bring to light "Wild Roger's" "Custom-house frauds!" And though stone and brick Be never so thick, When stoutly assailed, they are no bar To the powerful charm Of a Yeoman's arm When wielding a decentish crow-bar! Down comes brick, and down comes stone, One by one-- The job's half done!-- "Where is he?--now come--where's Master John?"-- --There's a breach in the wall three feet by two, And little Jack Ingoldsby soon pops through! Hark!--what sound's that?--a sob?--a sigh?-- The choking gasp of a stifled cry?-- "--What can it be?-- Let's see!--let's see!-- It can't be little Jack Ingoldsby? The candle--quick!"-- Through stone and through brick They poke in the light on a long split stick; But ere he who holds it can wave it about, He gasps, and he sneezes--the LIGHT GOES OUT!

Yet were there those, in after days, Who said that pale light's flickering blaze, For a moment, gleam'd on a dark Form there, Seem'd as bodied of foul black air!-- --In Mariner's dress,--with cutlass braced By buckle and broad black belt, to its waist,-- --On a cock'd-hat, laced With gold, and placed With a degagée, devil-may-care, kind of taste, O'er a balafré brow by a scar defaced!-- That Form, they said, so foul and so black, Grinn'd as it pointed at poor little Jack.-- --I know not, I, how the truth may be, But the pent-up vapour, at length set free, Set them all sneezing, And coughing, and wheezing, As, working its way To the regions of day, It, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in!

Of their senses bereft, To the right and the left, Those varlets so lately courageous and stout, There they lay kicking and sprawling about, Like Billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice, Or those which, the newspapers give us advice, Mr. Taylor, of Lombard-street, sells at half-price; --Nearer the door, some half dozen, or more! Scramble away To the rez de chaussee, (As our Frenchified friend always calls his ground-floor,) And they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar For lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more. At length, after no little clamour and din, The foul air let out, and the fresh air let in, They drag one and all Up into the hall, Where a medical Quaker, the great Dr. Lettsom, Who's one of the party, "bleeds, physicks, and sweats 'em." All?--all--save One-- --"But He!--my Son?-- Merciful Heaven!--where--WHERE IS JOHN?"

Within that cell, so dark and deep, Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep, A sight to make the sternest weep!-- --That little heart is pulseless now, And cold that fair and open brow, And closed that eye that beam'd with joy And hope--"Oh, God!--my Boy!--my Boy!"

Enough!--I may not,--dare not,--show The wretched Father's frantic woe, The Mother's tearless, speechless--No! I may not such a theme essay-- Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay My pen--sad memory will have way! Enough!--at once I close the lay, Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!

It has a mournful sound, That single, solemn Bell! As to the hills and woods around It flings its deep-toned knell; That measured toll!--alone--apart, It strikes upon the human heart! --It has a mournful sound!--

MORAL.

Come, come, Mrs. Muse, we can't part in this way, Or you'll leave me as dull as ditch-water all day. Try and squeeze out a Moral or two from your lay! And let us part cheerful, at least, if not gay!

First and foremost then, Gentlefolks, learn from my song, Not to lock up your wine, or malt-liquor, too long! Though Port should have age, Yet I don't think it sage To entomb it, as some of your connoisseurs do, Till it's losing in flavour, and body, and hue; --I question if keeping it does it much good After ten years in bottle and three in the wood.

If any young man, though a snubb'd younger brother, When told of his faults by his father and mother, Runs restive, and goes off to sea in a huff, Depend on't, my friends, that young man is a Muff!

Next--ill-gotten gains Are not worth the pains!-- They prosper with no one!--so whether cheroots, Or Havanna cigars,--or French gloves, or French boots,-- Whatever you want, pay the duty! nor when you Buy any such articles, cheat the revenue!

And "now to conclude,"-- For it's high time I should,-- When you do rejoice, mind,--whatsoever you do, That the hearts of the lowly rejoice with you too!-- Don't grudge them their jigs, And their frolics and "rigs," And don't interfere with their soapy-tail'd pigs; Nor "because thou art virtuous," rail, and exhale An anathema, breathing of vengeance and wail, Upon every complexion less pale than sea-kail! Nor dismiss the poor man to his pump and his pail, With "Drink there!--we'll have henceforth no more cakes and ale!!"

FOOTNOTES:

[66] Ad Amicum, Servientem ad legem-- This rhyme, if, when scann'd by your critical ear, it Is not quite legitimate, comes pretty near it.--T. I.Return to passage

[67] A worthy and eccentric country gentleman, afterwards the second Lord Rokeby, being cousin ("a great many times removed") and successor in the barony to Richard, Archbishop of Armagh, who first bore that title.--His beard was truly patriarchal.--Mr. Muntz's--pooh!--Return to passage

[68] Great grandmamma, by the father's side, to the excellent lady of the same name who yet "keeps the keys" at Tappington.Return to passage

[69] Azores?--Mrs. Botherby's orthography, like that of her distinguished contemporary Baron Duberly, was "a little loose."Return to passage

* * * * *

Mox Regina filium peperit a multis optatum et a Deo sanctificatum. Cumque Infans natus fuisset, statim clarâ voce, omnibus audientibus, clamavit "Christianus sum! Christianus sum! Christianus sum!" Ad hanc vocem Presbyteri duo, Widerinus et Edwoldus, dicentes Deo Gratias, et omnes qui aderant mirantes, cœperunt cantare Te Deum laudamus. Quo facto rogabat Infans cathecumenum a Widerino sacerdote fieri, et ab Edwoldo teneri ad præsignaculum fidei et Romwoldum vocari.--NOV. LEGEND. ANGL. IN VITA SCTI ROMUALDI.

THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.

A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.

In Kent, we are told, There was seated of old, A handsome young gentleman, courteous and bold, He'd an oaken strong-box, well replenish'd with gold, With broad lands, pasture, arable, woodland, and wold, Not an acre of which had been mortgaged or sold; He'd a Plesaunce and Hall passing fair to behold, He had beeves in the byre, he had flocks in the fold, And was somewhere about five-and-twenty years old. His figure and face, For beauty and grace, To the best in the county had scorn'd to give place. Small marvel, then, If, of women and men Whom he chanced to foregather with, nine out of ten Express'd themselves charm'd with Sir Alured Denne.

From my earliest youth, I've been taught, as a truth, A maxim which most will consider as sooth, Though a few, peradventure, may think it uncouth; There are three social duties, the whole of the swarm In this great human hive of ours, ought to perform, And that too as soon as conveniently may be; The first of the three-- Is, the planting a Tree! The next, the producing a Book--then, a Baby! (For my part, dear Reader, without any jesting, I So far at least, have accomplished my destiny.)

From the foremost, i.e. The "planting the Tree," The Knight may, perchance, have conceiv'd himself free, Inasmuch as that, which way soever he looks, Over park, mead, or upland, by streamlets and brooks, His fine beeches and elms shelter thousands of rooks; In twelve eighty-two, There would also accrue Much latitude as to the article, Books; But, if those we've disposed of, and need not recall, Might, as duties, appear in comparison small, One remain'd, there was no getting over at all, --The providing a male Heir for Bonnington Hall; Which, doubtless, induced the good Knight to decide, As a matter of conscience, on taking a Bride.

It's a very fine thing, and delightful to see Inclination and duty unite and agree, Because it's a case That so rarely takes place; In the instance before us, then, Alured Denne Might well be esteem'd the most lucky of men, Inasmuch as hard by, Indeed so very nigh, That her chimneys, from his, you might almost descry, Dwelt a Lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye, One whose character scandal itself could defy, While her charms and accomplishments rank'd very high, And who would not deny A propitious reply, But reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh. (A line that's not mine, but Tom Moore's, by-the-bye.)

There was many a gay and trim bachelor near, Who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear, That fair Edith Ingoldsby, she whom they all The "Rosebud of Tappington" ceased not to call, Was going to say, "Honour, love, and obey" So Sir Alured Denne, Knight, of Bonnington Hall, That all other suitors were left in the lurch, And the parties had even been "out-asked" in church, For every one says, In those primitive days, And I must own I think it redounds to their praise, None dream'd of transferring a daughter or niece As a bride, by an "unstamp'd agreement," or lease, 'Fore a Register's Clerk, or a Justice of Peace, While young ladies had fain Single women remain, And unwedded maids to the last "crack of doom" stick, Ere marry, by taking a jump o'er a broomstick.

So our bride and bridegroom agreed to appear At holy St. Romwold's, a Priory near, Which a long while before, I can't say in what year, Their forebears had join'd with the neighbours to rear, And endow'd, some with bucks, some with beef, some with beer, To comfort the friars, and make them good cheer. Adorning the building, With carving and gilding, And stone altars, fix'd to the chantries and fill'd in; (Papistic in substance and form, and on this count With Judge Herbert Jenner Fust justly at discount. See Cambridge Societas Camdeniensis V. Faulkner, tert. prim. Januarii mensis, With "Judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses;") All raised to St. Romwold, with some reason, styled By Duke Humphrey's confessor,[70] "a Wonderful Child," For ne'er yet was Saint, except him, upon earth Who made "his profession of faith" at his birth, And when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth, Converted his "Ma," and contrived to amend a Sad hole in the creed of his grandsire, King Penda.

Of course to the shrine Of so young a divine Flow'd much holy water, and some little wine, And when any young folks did to marriage incline, The good friars were much in request, and not one Was more "sought unto" than the Sub-prior, Mess John; To him, there and then, Sir Alured Denne Wrote a three-corner'd note with a small crow-quill pen, To say what he wanted, and fix "the time when," And, as it's well known that your people of quality Pique themselves justly on strict punctuality, Just as the clock struck the hour he'd nam'd in it, The whole bridal party rode up to the minute.

Now whether it was that some rapturous dream, Comprehending "fat pullets and clouted cream," Had borne the good man, in his vision of bliss, Far off to some happier region than this-- Or whether his beads, 'gainst the fingers rebelling, Took longer than usual that morning in telling; Or whether, his conscience with knotted cord purging, Mess John was indulging himself with a scourging, In penance for killing some score of the fleas, Which, infesting his hair-shirt, deprived him of ease, Or whether a barrel of Faversham oysters, Brought in, on the evening before, to the cloisters, Produced indigestion, Continues a question, The particular cause is not worth a debate; For my purpose it's clearly sufficient to state That whatever the reason, his rev'rence was late, And Sir Alured Denne, Not the meekest of men, Began banning away at a deuce of a rate.

Now here, though I do it with infinite pain, Gentle reader, I find I must pause to explain That there was--what, I own, I grieve to make known-- On the worthy Knight's character one single stain, But for which, all his friends had borne witness, I'm sure, He had been sans reproche, as he still was sans peur. The fact is, that many distinguish'd commanders "Swore terribly (teste T. Shandy) in Flanders." Now into these parts our Knight chancing to go, countries Named from this sad, vulgar custom, "The Low Countries," Though on common occasions as courteous as daring, Had pick'd up this shocking bad habit of swearing. And if anything vex'd him, or matters went wrong, Was given to what low folks call "Coming it strong." Good, bad, or indifferent then, young or old, He'd consign them, when once in a humour to scold, To a place where they certainly would not take cold. --Now if there are those, and I've some in my eye, Who'd esteem this a crime of no very deep dye, Let them read on--they'll find their mistake by and bye.

Near or far, Few people there are But have heard, read, or sung about Young Lochinvar, How in Netherby Chapel, "at morning tide," The Priest and the Bridegroom stood waiting the Bride; How they waited, "but ne'er A Bride was there." Still I don't find, on reading the ballad with care, The bereaved Mr. Graham proceeded to swear, And yet to experience so serious a blight in One's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting. 'Tis manifest then That Sir Alured Denne Had far less excuse for such bad language, when It was only the Priest not the Bride who was missing-- He had fill'd up the interval better with kissing. And 'twas really surprising, And not very wise in A Knight to go on so anathematising, When the head and the front of the Clergyman's crime Was but being a little behind as to time:-- Be that as it may, He swore so that day At the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay, That not a bystander who heard what he said, But listen'd to all his expressions with dread, And felt all his hair stand on end on his head; Nay, many folks there Did not stick to declare The phenomenon was not confined to the hair, For the little stone Saint who sat perched o'er the door, St. Romwold himself, as I told you before, What will scarce be believed, Was plainly perceived To shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved, And look down with a frown So remarkably brown, That all saw he'd now quite a different face on From that he received at the hands of the mason; Nay, many averr'd he half rose in his niche, When Sir Alured, always in metaphor rich, Call'd his priest an "old son of--" some animal--which, Is not worth the inquiry--a hint's quite enough on The subject--for more I refer you to Buffon.

It's supposed that the Knight Himself saw the sight, And it's likely he did, as he easily might, For 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack, And, in nautical language, seem'd "taken aback." In so much that when now The "prime cause of the row," Father John, in the chapel at last made his bow, The Bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued, None could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude, Or made use of the language to which I allude; Fair Edith herself, while the knot was a tying, Her bridemaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing, Some smiling, some blushing, half-laughing, half-crying, Scarce made her responses in tones more complying Than he who'd been raging and storming so recently, All softness now, and behaving quite decently. Many folks thought too the cold stony frown Of the Saint up aloft from his niche looking down, Brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown, When, the rite being over, the fees were all paid, And the party remounting, the whole cavalcade Prepared to ride home with no little parade.

In a climate so very unsettled as ours It's as well to be cautious and guard against showers, For though, about One, You've a fine brilliant sun, When your walk or your ride is but barely begun, Yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the Two, There is not in the whole sky one atom of blue, But it "rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through Ere you know where to turn, what to say, or to do; For which reason I've bought, to protect myself well, a Good stout Taglioni and gingham umbrella. But in Edward the First's days I very much fear, Had a gay cavalier Thought fit to appear In any such "toggery"--then 'twas term'd "gear"-- He'd have met with a highly significant sneer, Or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear On the features of every soul he came near; There was no taking refuge too then, as with us, On a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a 'bus; As they rode through the woods In their wimples and hoods, Their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain Was, as Spenser describes it, to "pryck o'er the plaine," That is to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter In search of some building or other for shelter.

Now it seems that the sky, Which had been of a dye As bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye, The season in fact being genial and dry, Began to assume An appearance of gloom From the moment the Knight began fidget and fume, Which deepen'd and deepen'd till all the horizon Grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on, And soon, from the far west the elements' rumbling Increased, and kept pace with Sir Alured's grumbling, Bright flashes between, Blue, red, and green, All livid and lurid began to be seen; At length down it came--a whole deluge of rain, A perfect Niagara, drenching the plain, And up came the reek, And down came the shriek Of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train; And the tempest began so to roar and to pour, That the Dennes and the Ingoldsbys, starting at score, As they did from the porch of St. Romwold's church door, Had scarce gain'd a mile, or a mere trifle more, Ere the whole of the crew Were completely wet through.

They dash'd o'er the downs, and they dash'd through the vales, They dash'd up the hills, and they dash'd down the dales, As if elderly Nick was himself at their tails; The Bridegroom in vain Attempts to restrain The Bride's frighten'd palfrey by seizing the rein, When a flash and a crash, Which produced such a splash That a Yankee had called it "an Almighty Smash," Came down so complete At his own courser's feet, That the rider, though famous for keeping his seat, From its kickings and plungings, now under now upper, Slipp'd out of his demi-pique over the crupper, And fell from the back of his terrified cob On what bards less refined than myself term his "Nob." (To obtain a genteel rhyme's sometimes a tough job).--

Just so--for the nonce to enliven my song With a classical simile cannot be wrong-- Just so--in such roads and in similar weather, Tydides and Nestor were riding together, When, so says old Homer, the King of the Sky, The great "Cloud-compeller," his lightnings let fly, And their horses both made such a desperate shy At this freak of old Zeus, That at once they broke loose, Reins, traces, bits, breechings were all of no use; If the Pylian Sage, without any delay, Had not whipp'd them sharp round and away from the fray, They'd have certainly upset his cabriolet, And there'd been the--a name I won't mention--to pay.

Well, the Knight in a moment recover'd his seat, Mr. Widdicombe's mode of performing that feat At Astley's could not be more neat or complete, --It's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen Of our own days, that this our great Widdicombe, then In the heyday of life, had afforded some ten Or twelve lessons in riding to Alured Denne,-- It is certain the Knight Was so agile and light That an instant sufficed him to set matters right, Yet the Bride was by this time almost out of sight; For her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace Her descent from the "pure old Caucasian race," Sleek, slim, and bony, as Mr. Sidonia's Fine "Arab Steed" Of the very same breed, Which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly --See "Coningsby" written by "B. Disraeli"-- That palfrey, I say, From this trifling delay Had made what at sea's call'd "a great deal of way." "More fleet than the roe-buck," and free as the wind, She had left the good company rather behind; They whipp'd and they spurr'd, and they after her prest, Still Sir Alured's steed was "by long chalks" the best Of the party, and very soon distanced the rest; But long ere e'en he had the fugitive near'd, She dash'd into the wood and at once disappear'd! It's a "fashious" affair when you're out on a ride, --Ev'n supposing you're not in pursuit of a bride, If you are it's more fashious, which can't be denied,-- And you come to a place where three cross-roads divide Without any way-post, stuck up by the side Of the road, to direct you and act as a guide, With a road leading here, and a road leading there, And a road leading no one exactly knows where. When Sir Alured came In pursuit of the dame To a fork of this kind,--a three-prong'd one--small blame To his scholarship if in selecting his way His respect for the Classics now led him astray; But the rule, in a work I won't stop to describe, is In medio semper tutissimus ibis, So the Knight being forced of the three paths to enter one, Dash'd, with these words on his lips, down the centre one.

Up and down hill, Up and down hill, Through brake and o'er briar he gallops on still Aye, banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill At his courser because he had given him a "spill;" Yet he did not gain ground On the palfrey, the sound, On the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast Grew fainter, and fainter,--and fainter,--and--ceased! Sir Alured burst through the dingle at last, To a sort of a clearing, and there--he stuck fast; For his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on, Stood fix'd as the Governor's nag in "Don Juan," Or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a Few yards south-east of the door of the Opera, Save that Alured's horse had not got such a big tail, While Alured wanted the cock'd hat and pig-tail.

Before him is seen A diminutive Green Scoop'd out from the covert--a thick leafy screen Of wild foliage, trunks with broad branches between Encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen, For the weather at once appear'd clear and serene, And the sky up above was a bright mazarine, Just as though no such thing as a tempest had been, In short it was one of those sweet little places In Egypt and Araby known as "oases." There, under the shade That was made by the glade, The astonish'd Sir Alured sat and survey'd A little low building of Bethersden stone, With ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown, A Sacellum, or cell, In which Chronicles tell Saints and anchorites erst were accustom'd to dwell; A little round arch, on which, deeply indented, The zig-zaggy pattern by Saxons invented Was cleverly chisell'd, and well represented, Surmounted a door, Some five feet by four, It might have been less or it might have been more, In the primitive ages they made these things lower Than we do in buildings that had but one floor. And these Chronicles say When an anchorite gray Wish'd to shut himself up and keep out of the way, He was commonly wont in such low cells to stay, And pray night and day on the rez de chaussée.

There, under the arch I've endeavoured to paint, With no little surprise, And scarce trusting his eyes, The Knight now saw standing that little Boy Saint! The one whom before He'd seen over the door Of the Priory shaking his head as he swore-- With mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on, The very self-same--or at least his Eidolon! With a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak You'd expect, that small Saint now address'd him to speak: In a bold, manly tone, he Began, while his stony Cold lips breath'd an odour quite Eau-de-Cologne-y; In fact, from his christening, according to rumour, he Beat Mr. Brummell to sticks, in perfumery.[71]

"Sir Alured Denne!" Said the Saint, "be atten- --tive! Your ancestors, all most respectable men, Have for some generations been vot'ries of mine; They have bought me mould candles, and bow'd at my shrine, They have made my monks presents of ven'son and wine, With a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine. And, though you in this Have been rather remiss, Still I owe you a turn for the sake of 'Lang Syne.' And I now come to tell you, your cursing and swearing Have reach'd to a pitch that is really past bearing.

'Twere a positive scandal In even a Vandal, It ne'er should be done, save with bell, book, and candle: And though I've now learn'd, as I've always suspected, Your own education's been somewhat neglected; Still, you're not such an uninformed pagan, I hope, As not to know cursing belongs to the Pope! And his Holiness feels, very properly, jealous Of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows. Now, take my advice, Saints never speak twice, So take it at once, as I once for all give it; Go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet, But mind, and remember, if once you give way To that shocking bad habit, I'm sorry to say, I have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day, As sure as you're born, on the very first trip That you make--the first oath that proceeds from your lip, I'll soon make you rue it! --I've said it--I'll do it! 'Forewarned is forearmed,' you shan't say but you knew it; Whate'er you hold dearest or nearest your heart, I'LL TAKE IT AWAY, if I come in a cart! I will, on my honour! you know it's absurd To suppose that a Saint ever forfeits his word For a pitiful Knight, or to please any such man-- I've said it! I'll do't--if I don't, I'm a Dutchman!"--

He ceased--he was gone as he closed his harangue, And some one inside shut the door with a bang! Sparkling with dew, Each green herb anew Its profusion of sweets round Sir Alured threw, As pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew, (For the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue,) And the cud of reflection continued to chew Till the gables of Bonnington Hall rose in view. Little reck'd he what he smelt, what he saw, Brilliance of scenery, Fragrance of greenery, Fail'd in impressing his mental machinery; Many an hour had elapsed, well I ween, ere he Fairly was able distinction to draw 'Twixt the odour of garlic and bouquet du Roi.

Merrily, merrily sounds the horn, And cheerily ring the bells; For the race is run, The goal is won, The little lost mutton is happily found, The Lady of Bonnington's safe and sound In the Hall where her new Lord dwells! Hard had they ridden, that company gay, After fair Edith, away and away: This had slipp'd back o'er his courser's rump, That had gone over his ears with a plump, But the Lady herself had stuck on like a trump, Till her panting steed Relax'd her speed, And feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels When he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels, Stopp'd of herself, as it's very well known Horses will do, when they're thoroughly blown, And thus the whole group had foregathered again, Just as the sunshine succeeded the rain.

Oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking Doings indulged in by one and by all! Gaiety seized on the most melancholic in All the broad lands around Bonnington Hall. All sorts of revelry, All sorts of devilry, All play at "High Jinks" and keep up the ball. Days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing When one's so happy, how Time flies away; Meanwhile the Bridegroom requires no admonishing As to what pass'd on his own wedding day; Never since then Had Sir Alured Denne Let a word fall from his lip or his pen That began with a D, or left off with an N!

Once, and once only, when put in a rage, By a careless young rascal he'd hired as a Page, All buttons and brass, Who in handling a glass Of spiced hippocras, throws It all over his clothes, And spoils his best pourpoint, and smartest trunk hose, While stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he 'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety), Then, and then only, came into his head A very sad word that began with a Z, But he check'd his complaint, He remember'd the Saint, In the nick--Lady Denne was beginning to faint-- That sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung, Like Mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung Half-way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue.

Many a year Of mirth and good cheer Flew over their heads, to each other more dear Every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer As the rarest examples of love ever known, Since the days of Le Chivaler D'Arbie and Joanne, Who in Bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone.

Well--it happen'd at last, After certain years past, That an embassy came to our court from afar-- From the Grand-duke of Muscovy--now call'd the Czar, And the Spindleshank'd Monarch, determined to do All the grace that he could to a Nobleman, who Had sail'd all that way from a country which few In our England had heard of, and nobody knew, With a hat like a muff, and a beard like a Jew, Our arsenals, buildings, and dock-yards to view, And to say how desirous His Prince Wladimirus Had long been with mutual regard to inspire us, And how he regretted he was not much nigher us, With other fine things, Such as Kings say to Kings When each tries to humbug his dear Royal Brother, in Hopes by such "gammon" to take one another in-- King Longshanks, I say, Being now on his way Bound for France, where the rebels had kept him at bay Was living in clover At this time at Dover I' the castle there, waiting a tide to go over.

He had summon'd, I can't tell you how many men, Knights, nobles, and squires to the wars of Guienne, And among these of course was Sir Alured Denne, Who, acting like most Of the knights in the host, Whose residence was not too far from the coast, Had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting, Fond souls, till the very last moment of starting. Of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights, In their Saracenettes,[72] and their bright chain-mail tights, All accustom'd to galas, grand doings, and sights, A matter like this was at once put to rights; 'Twould have been a strange thing, If so polish'd a king, With his board of Green Cloth, and Lord Steward's department, Couldn't teach an Ambassador what the word "smart" meant. A banquet was order'd at once for a score, Or more, of the corps that had just come on shore, And the King, though he thought it "a bit of a bore," Ask'd all the elite Of his levée to meet The illustrious Strangers and share in the treat; For the Boyar himself, the Queen graciously made him her Beau for the day, from respect to Duke Wladimir. (Queer as this name may appear in the spelling, You won't find it trouble you, Sound but the W Like the first L in Llan, Lloyd, and Llewellyn!")

Fancy the fuss and the fidgetty looks Of Robert de Burghersh, the constables, cooks; For of course the cuisine Of the King and the Queen Was behind them at London, or Windsor, or Sheene, Or wherever the Court ere it started had been, And it's really no jest, When a troublesome guest Looks in at a time when you're busy and prest, Just going to fight, or to ride, or to rest, And expects a good lunch when you've none ready drest. The servants no doubt Were much put to the rout By this very extempore sort of set out, But they wisely fell back upon Poor Richard's plan, "When you can't what you would, you must do what you can!" So they ransack'd the country, folds, pig-styes, and pens, For the sheep and the porkers, the cocks and the hens; 'Twas said a Tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne's, A fine tabby-gray, Disappear'd on that day, And whatever became of him no one could say; They brought all the food That ever they cou'd, Fish, flesh, and fowl, with sea-coal and dry wood, To his Majesty's Dapifer, Eudo (or Ude), They lighted the town up, sat ringing the bells, And borrow'd the waiters from all the hotels. A bright thought, moreover, came into the head Of Dapifer Eudo, who'd some little dread, As he said, for the thorough success of his spread. So he said to himself, "What a thing it would be Could I have here with me Some one two or three Of their outlandish scullions from over the sea! It's a hundred to one if the Suite or their Chief Understand our plum-puddings, and barons of beef; But with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets We'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!" With this happy conceit for improving the Mess, Pooh-poohing expense, he dispatch'd an express In a waggon and four on the instant to Deal, Who dash'd down the hill without locking the wheel, And, by means which I guess but decline to reveal, Seduced from the Downs, where at anchor their vessel rode, Lumpoff Icywitz, serf to a former Count Nesselrode, A cook of some fame, Who invented the same Cold pudding that still bears the family name. This accomplish'd, the Chef's peace of mind was restor'd And in due time a banquet was placed on the board "In the very best style," which implies in a word "All the dainties the season" (and king) "could afford." There were snipes, there were rails, There were woodcocks and quails, There were peacocks served up in their pride (that is tails), Fricandeau, fricassees, Ducks and green peas, Cotelettes à l'Indienne, and chops à la Soubise (Which last you may call "onion sauce" if you please), There were barbecu'd pigs Stuff'd with raisins and figs, Omelettes and haricots, stews and ragouts, And pork griskins, which Jews still refuse and abuse. Then the wines,--round the circle how swiftly they went! Canary, Sack, Malaga, Malvoisie, Tent; Old Hock from the Rhine, wine remarkably fine, Of the Charlemagne vintage of seven ninety-nine,-- Five cent'ries in bottle had made it divine! The rich juice of Rousillon, Gascoygne, Bourdeaux, Marasquin, Curaçoa, Kirchen Wasser, Noyeau, And Gin which the company voted "No Go;" The guests all hob-nobbing, And bowing and bobbing; Some prefer white wine, while others more value red, Few, a choice few, Of more orthodox goût, Stick to "old crusted port," among whom was Sir Alured; Never indeed at a banquet before Had that gallant commander enjoy'd himself more.

Then came "sweets"--served in silver were tartlets and pies--in glass Jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass, Creams, and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool, Blancmange, and quince-custards, and gooseberry fool. And now from the good taste which reigns it's confest In a gentleman's, that is an Englishman's, breast, And makes him polite to a stranger and guest, They soon play'd the deuce With a large Charlotte Russe; More than one of the party dispatched his plate twice With "I'm really ashamed, but--another small slice! Your dishes from Russia are really so nice!" Then the prime dish of all! "There was nothing so good in The whole of the Feed" One and all were agreed, "As the great Lumpoff Icywitz' Nesselrode pudding!" Sir Alured Denne, who'd all day, to say sooth, Like Iago, been "plagued with a sad raging tooth," Which had nevertheless interfered very little With his--what for my rhyme I'm obliged to spell--vittle, Requested a friend Who sat near him to send Him a spoonful of what he heard all so commend, And begg'd to take wine with him afterwards, grateful Because for a spoonful he'd sent him a plateful. Having emptied his glass--he ne'er balk'd it or spill'd it-- The gallant Knight open'd his mouth--and then fill'd it!

You must really excuse me--there's nothing could bribe Me at all to go on and attempt to describe The fearsome look then Of Sir Alured Denne! --Astonishment, horror, distraction of mind, Rage, misery, fear, and iced pudding--combined! Lip, forehead, and cheek--how these mingle and meet All colours, all hues, now advance, now retreat, Now pale as a turnip, now crimson as beet! How he grasps his arm-chair in attempting to rise, See his veins how they swell! mark the roll of his eyes! Now east and now west, now north and now south, Till at once he contrives to eject from his mouth That vile "spoonful"--what He has got he knows not, He isn't quite sure if it's cold or it's hot; At last he exclaims, as he starts from his seat, "A SNOWBALL by ----!" what I decline to repeat,-- 'Twas the name of a bad place, for mention unmeet.

Then oh what a volley!--a great many heard What flow'd from his lips, and 'twere really absurd To suppose that each man was not shock'd by each word; A great many heard too, with mix'd fear and wonder, The terrible crash of the terrible thunder, That broke as if bursting the building asunder; But very few heard, although every one might, The short, half-stifled shriek from the chair on the right, Where the Lady of Bonnington sat by her Knight; And very few saw--some--the number was small, In the large ogive window that lighted the hall, A small stony Saint in a small stony pall, With a small stony mitre, and small stony crosier, And small stony toes that owed nought to the hosier, Beckon stonily downward to some one below, As Merryman says, "for to come for to go!" While every one smelt a delicious perfume That seem'd to pervade every part of the room!

Fair Edith Denne, The bonne et belle then, Never again was beheld among men! But there was the fauteuil on which she was placed, And there was the girdle that graced her small waist, And there was her stomacher brilliant with gems, And the mantle she wore, edged with lace at the hems, Her rich brocade gown sat upright in its place, And her wimple was there--but where--WHERE WAS HER FACE? 'Twas gone with her body--and nobody knows, Nor could any one present so much as suppose How that Lady contrived to slip out of her clothes!

But 'twas done--she was quite gone--the how and the where, No mortal was ever yet found to declare; Though inquiries were made, and some writers record That Sir Alured offered a handsome reward.

* * * * *

King Edward went o'er to his wars in Guienne, Taking with him his barons, his knights, and his men. You may look through the whole Of that King's muster-roll, And you won't find the name of Sir Alured Denne; But Chronicles tell that there formerly stood A little old chapel in Bilsington wood; The remains to this day, Archæologists say, May be seen, and I'd go there and look if I could. There long dwelt a hermit remarkably good, Who lived all alone, And never was known To use bed or bolster, except the cold stone; But would groan and would moan in so piteous a tone, A wild Irishman's heart had responded "Och hone!" As the fashion with hermits of old was to keep skins To wear with the wool on--most commonly sheep-skins-. He, too, like the rest was accustom'd to do so; His beard, as no barber came near him, too, grew so, He bore some resemblance to Robinson Crusoe, In Houndsditch, I'm told, you'll sometimes see a Jew so.

He lived on the roots, And the cob-nuts and fruits, Which the kind-hearted rustics, who rarely are churls In such matters, would send by their boys and their girls; They'd not get him to speak, If they'd tried for a week, But the colour would always mount up in his cheek, And he'd look like a dragon if ever he heard His young friends use a naughty expression or word. How long he lived, or at what time he died, 'Twere hard, after so many years, to decide, But there's one point on which all traditions agree. That he did die at last, leaving no legatee, And his linen was marked with an A and a D.

Alas! for the glories of Bonnington Hall! Alas, for its splendour! alas for its fall! Long years have gone by Since the trav'ler might spy Any decentish house in the parish at all. For very soon after the awful event I've related, 'twas said through all that part of Kent That the maids of a morning, when putting the chairs And the tables to rights, would oft pop unawares In one of the parlours, or galleries, or stairs.

On a tall female figure, or find her, far horrider, Slowly o' nights promenading the corridor; But whatever the hour, or wherever the place, No one could ever get sight of her face! Nor could they perceive Any arm in her sleeve, While her legs and her feet too, seem'd mere "make-believe," For she glided along with that shadow-like motion Which gives one the notion Of clouds on a zephyr, or ships on the ocean; And though of her gown they could hear the silk rustle, They saw but that side on't ornée with the bustle. The servants, of course, though the house they were born in, Soon "wanted to better themselves," and gave warning, While even the new Knight grew tired of a guest Who would not let himself or his family rest; So he pack'd up his all, And made a bare wall Of each well-furnished room in his ancestors' Hall, Then left the old Mansion to stand or to fall, Having previously barr'd up the windows and gates, To avoid paying sesses and taxes and rates, And settled on one of his other estates, Where he built a new mansion, and called it Denne Hill, And there his descendants reside, I think, still.

Poor Bonnington, empty, or left, at the most, To the joint occupation of rooks and a Ghost, Soon went to decay, And moulder'd away, But whether it dropp'd down at last I can't say, Or whether the jackdaws produced, by degrees, a Spontaneous combustion like that one at Pisa Some cent'ries ago, I'm sure I don't know, But you can't find a vestige now ever so tiny, "Perierunt," as some one says, "etiam ruinæ."

MORAL.

The first maxim a couple of lines may be said in, If you are in a passion, don't swear at a wedding!

Whenever you chance to be ask'd out to dine, Be exceedingly cautious--don't take too much wine! In your eating remember one principal point, Whatever you do, have your eye on the joint! Keep clear of side dishes, don't meddle with those Which the servants in livery, or those in plain clothes, Poke over your shoulders and under your nose; Or, if you must live on the fat of the land, And feed on fine dishes you don't understand, Buy a good book of cookery! I've a compact one, First rate of the kind, just brought out by Miss Acton, This will teach you their names, the ingredients they're made of, And which to indulge in, and which be afraid of, Or else, ten to one, between ice and cayenne, You'll commit yourself some day, like Alured Denne.

"To persons about to be married," I'd say, Don't exhibit ill-humour, at least on The Day! And should there perchance be a trifling delay On the part of officials, extend them your pardon, And don't snub the parson, the clerk, or churchwarden!

To married men this--For the rest of your lives, Think how your misconduct may act on your wives! Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint, Or what sometimes occurs--run away with a Saint!

* * * * *

A serious error, similar to that which forms the subject of the following legend, is said to have occurred in the case of one, or rather two gentlemen named Curina, who dwelt near Hippo in the days of St. Augustine. The matter was set right, and a friendly hint at the same time conveyed to the ill-used individual, that it would be advisable for him to apply to the above-mentioned Father, and be baptized with as little delay as possible. The story is quoted in "The Doctor," together with another of the same kind, which is given on no less authority than that of Gregory the Great.

FOOTNOTES:

[70] Honest John Capgrave, the veracious biographer of "English Saints," author, or rather compiler of the "Nova Legenda Angliæ," was chaplain to Humphrey, "the Good Duke" of Gloucester. A beautiful edition of his work was printed by Wynkyn de Worde.Return to passage

[71] In eodem autem prato in quo baptizatus Sanctus Romualdus nunquam gratissimus odor deficit; neque ibi herbæ pallescunt, sed semper in viriditate permanentes magna nectaris suavitate redolent.--Nov. Legend. Angl.Return to passage

[72] This silk, of great repute among our ancestors, had been brought home, a few years before, by Edward, from the Holy Land.Return to passage

THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.

A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.

You are all aware that On our throne there once sat A very great King who'd an Angevin hat, With a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it, Named from this circumstance, Henry Plantagenet.

Pray don't suppose That I'm going to prose O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes, With the dagger and bowl, and all that sort of thing, Not much to the credit of Miss, Queen, or King.

The tale may be true, But between me and you, With the King's escapade I'll have nothing to do; But shall merely select, as a theme for my rhymes, A fact, which occurr'd to some folks in his times.

If for health, or a "lark," You should ever embark In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark, The steam-vessel call'd the "Red Rover," the barge Of an excellent officer, named Captain Large,

You may see, some half way 'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay And Margate, the place where you're going to stay, A village called Birchington, fam'd for its "Rolls," As the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for Soles.

Well,--there stood a fane In this Harry Broom's reign, On the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main, Renown'd for its sanctity all through the nation, And orthodox friars of the Austin persuasion.

Among them there was one, Whom if once I begun To describe as I ought I should never have done, Father Richard of Birchington, so was the Friar Yclept, whom the rest had elected their Prior.

He was tall and upright, About six feet in height, His complexion was what you'd denominate light, And the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown, A little bald patch on the top of his crown.

His bright sparkling eye Was of hazel, and nigh Rose a finely arch'd eyebrow of similar dye, He'd a small, well-formed mouth with the Cupidon lip And an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip.

In doors and out He was very devout, With his Aves and Paters--and oh, such a knout!! For his self-flagellations! the Monks used to say He would wear out two penn'orth of whip-cord a day!

Then how his piety Shows in his diet, he Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety, Sand-eels or dabs; or his appetite mocks With those small periwinkles that crawl on the rocks.

In brief, I don't stick To declare Father Dick-- So they call'd him, "for short"--was a "Regular Brick," A metaphor taken--I have not the page aright-- Out of an ethical work by the Stagyrite.

Now Nature, 'tis said, Is a comical jade, And among the fantastical tricks she has play'd, Was the making our good Father Richard a Brother, As like him in form as one pea's like another;

He was tall and upright, About six feet in height, His complexion was what you'd denominate light, And, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown, He'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown.

He'd a bright sparkling eye Of the hazel, hard by Rose a finely-arch'd sourcil of similar dye; He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a Cupidon lip, And a good Roman nose, rather red at the tip.