The Ingoldsby Legends




         MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,
  PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.




  [Illustration: REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.
                 (_Thomas Ingoldsby._)]




                     The

              Ingoldsby Legends

                     OR

              Mirth and Marvels

                    _By
              THOMAS INGOLDSBY
                  Esquire_

       WITH EIGHTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY
           CRUIKSHANK, LEECH, ETC.
                AND PORTRAIT

  [Illustration: Decoration]

             LONDON AND NEW YORK
           FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.

                   1889




CONTENTS.


                                                                PAGE
  MEMOIR,                                                         xi
  PREFACE,                                                       xxi

  FIRST SERIES.

  THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON,                                       5
  THE NURSE'S STORY--THE HAND OF GLORY,                           29
  PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY--"LOOK AT THE CLOCK,"         35
  GREY DOLPHIN,                                                   41
  THE GHOST,                                                      59
  THE CYNOTAPH,                                                   69
  MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY--THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE,                 74
  LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE,                                       99
  THE WITCHES' FROLIC,                                           104
  SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.,   118
  THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS,                                         139
  A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN,                                          145
  A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS,                                       153
  A LAY OF ST. ODILLE,                                           162
  A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS,                                         168
  THE LADY ROHESIA,                                              178
  THE TRAGEDY,                                                   185
  MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION,                188
  THE "MONSTRE" BALLOON,                                         191
  HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY--THE EXECUTION,                194
  SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY,                                    198
  MR PETERS'S STORY--THE BAGMAN'S DOG,                           205
  APPENDIX,                                                      218

  SECOND SERIES.

  THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE,                                        224
  SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS,                                       244
  THE MERCHANT OF VENICE,                                        252
  THE AUTO-DA-FÉ,                                                264
  THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE,                                         282
  NETLEY ABBEY,                                                  293
  FRAGMENT,                                                      297
  NELL COOK,                                                     299
  NURSERY REMINISCENCES,                                         306
  AUNT FANNY,                                                    308
  MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE,                                      314
  THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP,                                           318
  BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE,                                 323
  THE BABES IN THE WOOD,                                         334
  THE DEAD DRUMMER,                                              339
  A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX),                                     351
  THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT,                                       355
  THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS,                                          368
  THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY,                      377
  RAISING THE DEVIL,                                             393
  THE LAY OF ST. MEDARD,                                         394

  THIRD SERIES.

  THE LORD OF THOULOUSE,                                         405
  THE WEDDING-DAY; OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE,                    418
  THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING,                                      432
  THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON,                                   449
  THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY,                                       460
  THE HOUSE-WARMING,                                             469
  THE FORLORN ONE,                                               483
  JERRY JARVIS'S WIG,                                            483
  UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES,                                        501
  HERMANN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR,                                 503
  HINTS FOR AN HISTORICAL PLAY,                                  505
  MARIE MIGNOT,                                                  507
  THE TRUANTS,                                                   508
  THE POPLAR,                                                    512
  MY LETTERS,                                                    512
  NEW-MADE HONOUR,                                               515
  THE CONFESSION,                                                516
  EPIGRAM,                                                       517
  SONG,                                                          517
  EPIGRAM,                                                       518
  SONG,                                                          518
  AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE,                                         519




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                PAGE

  REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM (_Thomas Ingoldsby_),   _Frontispiece_.
  THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON,                                       4
  THE GHOST,                                                      66
  HAMILTON TIGHE,                                                102
  GRANDFATHER'S STORY; OR, THE WITCHES' FROLIC,                  113
  THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS,                                         143
  A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS,                                         175
  THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE,                                        241
  THE MERCHANT OF VENICE,                                        260
  THE AUTO-DA-FÉ,                                                277
  THE DEAD DRUMMER,                                              343
  THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT,                                       362
  A LEGEND OF DOVER,                                             381
  LEGEND OF ST. MEDARD,                                          399
  THE LORD OF THOULOUSE,                                         413
  THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE,                                         428
  THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY,                                       467
  THE HOUSE-WARMING,                                             479
  JERRY JARVIS'S WIG,                                            497




MEMOIR.


Richard Harris Barham, the "Thomas Ingoldsby" of literature, was born
at Canterbury, December 6th, 1788. His family had long been residents
in the archiepiscopal city, and had estates in Kent. He (Barham) used
to trace his descent from a knight who came over to England with
William the Conqueror, and whose son, Reginald Fitzurse, was one of the
assassins of Thomas à Becket. After the deed Fitzurse fled to Ireland,
and there changed his name to MacMahon, which has the same meaning.
His brother Robert, who succeeded to the English estates, changed his
patronymic to de Berham, converted in process of time into Barham.

Richard Barham was only between five and six years old when his father
died, leaving him heir to a small estate in Kent. A portion of it
consisted of a manor called Tappington Wood, often alluded to in the
_Ingoldsby Legends_.

Richard was sent to St. Paul's School, and it was on his road thither,
in 1802, that he met with an accident that endangered his life. The
horses of the Dover mail, in which he was travelling, took fright and
galloped off furiously: the boy put his right hand out of the window
to open the door, when at that moment the coach upset; his hand was
caught under it, and it was dragged along on a rough road and seriously
mutilated. The surgeons, believing he would die, did not amputate the
limb; and through the tender care of the headmaster's wife (he had been
sent on to school) he recovered.

At school Barham formed some friendships which lasted his life: one
of these school friends was afterwards his publisher, Mr. Bentley;
Dr. Roberts, who attended him in his last illness, was another. He
remained captain of St. Paul's School for two years, and when nineteen
was entered as a Gentleman Commoner at Brasennose College. Here he was
speedily elected a member of a first-class university club,--the Phœnix
Common Room,--where he became acquainted with Lord George Grenville,
Cecil Tattersall, and Theodore Hook, a friend of his after-life.

A specimen of his youthful humour has been preserved in an answer he
made to his tutor, Mr. Hodson, when reproved by him for the late hours
he kept and his absence from chapel. "The fact is, sir," said Barham,
"you are too late for me." "Too late!" repeated the tutor. "Yes, sir; I
cannot sit up till seven in the morning. I am a man of regular habits;
and unless I get to bed by four or five at latest, I am really fit for
nothing the next day." The habit that he had acquired of sitting up
late continued during his life, and he believed that he wrote best at
night.

His original intention had been to study for the Bar, but a very severe
though short illness brought serious thoughts to the young man, and he
determined to enter the Church, his mind having also been painfully
impressed by the suicide of a young college friend; consequently he
took Holy Orders, and obtained the curacy of Ashford, in Kent, from
whence he was transferred to Westwell, a parish a few miles distant
from his first one.

In 1814, when he had attained the age of twenty-six, Barham married
Caroline, third daughter of Captain Smart of the Royal Engineers, a
very charming young lady; and shortly afterwards he was presented to
the living of Snargate, and accepted also the curacy of Warehorn. Both
these parishes were situated in Romney Marsh, at the distance of only
two miles from each other. The young clergyman took up his abode at
Warehorn, a place then noted as a haunt of smugglers.

A second accident, by the upsetting of a gig, caused Mr. Barham a
fracture of the leg, and it was during the seclusion entailed by this
misfortune that he produced his first literary effort, a novel called
_Baldwin_, for which he received £20; it issued from the Minerva Press,
and was unsuccessful. He had scarcely recovered from this accident
when the illness of one of his children took him to London, for the
purpose of consulting Abernethy. Here he chanced to meet a friend,
who was about to post a letter to invite a young clergyman to come up
and become a candidate for a vacant Minor Canonry at St. Paul's. It
suddenly struck him that the place might suit Mr. Barham, and they at
once agreed that he should stand for it. He resigned at once his curacy
and living, stood for the Canonship, and was elected. Thus in 1821 he
exchanged Romney Marsh, its dulness and smugglers, for a residence in
London and the society of a highly intellectual circle.

We will give here the testimony of a dear friend of the poet's, as
to his character, at this time. "My first acquaintance with Mr.
Barham," writes the Rev. John Hughes, "dated from his election into
the body of Minor Canons of St. Paul's, of which Cathedral my late
father was then a Residentiary. Mr. Barham had married early in life,
and in every respect enviably. His previous career as a graduate of
Brasennose College had thrown him much into contact with several
gifted and accomplished men, upon whom a shred of Reginald Heber's
mantle, and a smack and savour of the 'Whippiad,' had descended in the
way of corporate inheritance, and his quick talents had mended the
lesson. It was soon evident to the Dean and Chapter, and to my father
in particular, that their new subordinate combined superior powers of
conversation with most decorous and gentlemanly tact and attention to
all points connected with his duties."

In 1824, Mr. Barham was appointed a priest in ordinary of the King's
Chapel Royal, and was shortly afterwards presented with the incumbency
of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Gregory-by-St. Paul. Mr. Barham was not
an eloquent preacher, because he disapproved of all oratorical display
in the pulpit, but he was an excellent parish priest, ever watchful
over his flock, and delighting in doing good.

In 1825 a series of domestic sorrows fell on the Minor Canon. His
dearly-loved eldest daughter died; her loss was followed at intervals
by that of four of his other children, to all of whom he was devotedly
attached. How deeply the gentle-hearted clergyman felt these severe
afflictions, some touching lines in _Blackwood's Magazine_ of that date
testify, though he bore them with Christian resignation. "The best
substitute for stoicism which a man of keen and sensitive feelings
finds it possible to adopt, is to think a little less of his own
sorrows, and more of those of others; and this," writes Mr. Hughes, "I
believe to have been Barham's secret for bearing with equanimity the
loss of more than one

  Who ne'er gave him pain till they died.

He strove to be happy in making others so, especially those more
congenial spirits who more directly shared in his affections .... Here
it may not be amiss to notice one trait of character connected with
the appointment which he held as chaplain to the Vintners' Company.
Part of his duty in this capacity was to perform divine service at
an almshouse in the vicinity of town, tenanted by certain widows of
decayed members of the corporation. The old ladies quarrelled sadly,
and Barham was in the habit of devoting one extra morning a week to a
pastoral visitation of these poor isolated old women, for charity and
decency's sake, and acted as arbiter and referee in their ridiculous
feuds, with as much gravity as it was in his nature to assume on such
an occasion." There was surely no small degree of self-denial in a man
of such talent devoting his valuable time to such an office.

The expenses of an increasing family made Mr. Barham once more attempt
literary work--this time successfully; and he contributed light
articles in rapid succession to _Blackwood_, _John Bull_, and _The
Globe_. He also assisted in the completion of _Gorton's Biographical
Dictionary_. "Cousin Nicholas" appeared in _Blackwood_ in 1878. It owed
its publication to Mrs. Hughes, the mother of John Hughes, Esq.,--from
whose account of Barham we have just quoted,--a most remarkable and
highly-gifted woman, the friend and correspondent of Scott, Southey,
etc. The MS. was in an unfinished state, having been laid by for some
years, when Barham submitted it to this lady. So highly did she think
of it, and so aware was she of the author's sensitive doubts, that she
sent it off at once to Mr. Blackwood, who was greatly pleased with
it, and at once inserted it in his magazine. The first Barham knew of
the fate of his MSS. was the appearance of the introductory chapters
in _Blackwood_. He was thus compelled to finish it, and worked up the
catastrophe with great skill. Nor was this the only benefit he derived
from this gifted friend. It was to her he was indebted for much of the
material of the poems that have made his fame as a writer, though this
was to come afterwards.

In 1831, Sidney Smith was appointed one of the Canons of St. Paul's,
and thus two of our famous wits became intimate. On October 2, 1831,
Sidney Smith read himself in as Residentiary at St. Paul's. He told
Barham that he had once nearly offended Sam Rogers by recommending him,
when he sat for his picture, to be drawn saying his prayers--_with his
face in his hat_.

Mr. Barham was by no means an ardent politician, and he never used
his pastoral influence on either side. For himself, he was a staunch
Conservative, and never failed, in spite of any personal inconvenience,
himself to record his vote. He told one amusing anecdote about an
election. As he was landing from the steamer at Gravesend, where his
vote was to be taken, it was raining heavily, and the passengers
landing from the boat naturally put up their umbrellas. Partisans of
both candidates lined the pier, watching eagerly to see what colours
the arrivals wore. Barham, remembering a dead cat that had been thrown
at him on a previous occasion, wore none; nevertheless he was detected.
He heard the Tory partisans cry out, "Here comes one on our side."
"You be blowed," said a voter in sky-blue ribbons, "I say he's our'n."
"Be blowed yourself," was the reply; "don't you see the gemman's got a
_silk umbrella_?"

In 1837 appeared the famous "Ingoldsby Legends" in _Blackwood_.

Of their production Mr. Hughes thus writes: "In my mother's
presentation copy of the _Ingoldsby Legends_, written in Barham's own
hand, occurs the following distich,--

  To Mrs. Hughes, who made me do 'em,
  Quod placeo est--si placeo--tuum.

The fact is that my mother, to whom Lockhart has alluded as a frequent
correspondent of Scott and Southey, and who inherited a family stock of
strange tales and legends, suggested the subject of 'Hamilton Tighe'
to Barham. The original ghost story, in the circumstances of which he
made some slight alteration, was said to have occurred in the family
of Mr. Pye, the poet laureate, a neighbour and brother magistrate of
my maternal grandfather, Mr. W., and the date of it was supposed to
be connected with the taking of Vigo. This legend, which appeared in
_Bentley's Miscellany_, was the first in the series, and is, as an
illustration of his peculiar style, worth better criticism than my own.
Suffice it to state that which my friend Miss Mitford can confirm, that
the simple recitation of 'Hamilton Tighe' has actually made persons
start and turn pale, and complain of nervous excitement. 'Patty Morgan
the Milkmaid's Story' and the 'Dead Drummer' were transmitted also
to him through the same medium,--the former having been recounted
to us by Lady Eleanor Butler, as a whimsical Welsh legend which had
diverted her much; the latter by Sir Walter Scott, who, having better
means than most men of ascertaining facts and names, believed in their
authenticity. I think, but am not certain, that the 'Hand of Glory'
was suggested by a conversation at our house on the subject of country
superstition. Of the source of the remaining legends I am ignorant,
save that the basis of some of them was furnished by an old Popish book
in the library of Sion College, from which, as from other sources,
Barham was wont to gratify his love of heraldry and antiquarianism ....
The _Ingoldsby Legends_ were the occasional relief of a suppressed
plethora of native fun.

"Many of these effusions were written while waiting for a cup of tea,
a railroad train, or an unpunctual acquaintance, on some stray cover
of a letter in his pocket-book; one in particular served to relieve
the tedium of a hot walk up Richmond Hill. It was rather a piece of
luck if he found time to joint together the _disjecti membra poetæ_
in a fair copy; and before the favoured few had done laughing at some
rhymes which had never entered a man's head before, the zealous Bentley
had popped the whole into type. After all, the imputed instances of
inadvertence (for no one who knew him would style it irreverence)
chiefly occur in that part of the series in which his purpose, to my
knowledge, was to quiz that spirit of flirtation with the Scarlet Lady
of Babylon, which had of late assumed a pretty marked shape; and it was
difficult to prosecute this end without confounding the Scriptural St.
Peter with the Dagon of the Vatican."

We give these extracts from a letter written by Mr. John Hughes, of
Donnington Priory, to Mr. Ainsworth, believing that the reprinted
report of a personal friend will be more interesting than a condensed
account of it. Mr. Hughes himself was a ripe scholar and a wit. He
published poetical pleasantries, under the name of "Mr. Butler of
Brasen-nose," in _Blackwood_ and _Ainsworth's Magazine_, and was the
father of Mr. Thomas Hughes, the author of _Tom Brown's Schooldays_.

"As regards the 'Dead Drummer,' the story was attested in a
contemporary pamphlet, called A Narrative of the Life, Confession,
and Dying Speech of Jarvis Matchan, which was signed by the Rev. J.
Nicholson, who attended him as minister, and by another witness. The
murder was not committed on Salisbury Plain, but near Alconbury in
Huntingdonshire, and the culprit was hanged in chains at Huntingdon,
August 2nd, 1786, for the wilful murder of Benjamin Jones, a drummer
boy in the 48th Regiment of Foot, on August 19, 1780. Matchan's escape
to sea, and the subsequent vision on Salisbury Plain, which wrung
from him his confession, are given with great minuteness, and are as
marvellous as any in the poem."

"Nell Cook," "Grey Dolphin," "The Ghost," and "The Smuggler's Leap"
are Kentish legends, well known, though of course much embellished by
the poet. "The Old Woman clothed in Grey" was taken from the story of
a ghost that haunted an old rectory near Cambridge, whose custom it
was to stroll about the house at midnight, with a bag of money in
her hand, which she offered to whomever she met; but no one was brave
enough to take it from her.

The foundation of most of the legends on subjects of Popish
superstition may be found in the Monkish Chronicles which the
library at Sion College contains. He tells us that the "Jackdaw of
Rheims"--one, by the way, of his most popular legends--was a version of
an old Roman Catholic legend "picked up" out of a High Dutch author.

The strange details contained in "The Singular Passage in the Life of
the late Dr. Harris" were communicated to Mr. Barham by a young lady
on her sick-bed, who fully believed all she told him, and even urged
the arrest of the young man, to whose arts she believed herself to be
a victim. She retained the delusion as long as she lived. The story
appeared first in _Blackwood_.

In 1839, Sidney Smith placed a Residentiary house, in Amen Corner, at
the disposal of Mr. Barham, and the family moved into it in September.
This dwelling dated from the erection of the Cathedral itself, and,
having been long unoccupied, had become the stronghold of legions of
rats, which had first to be destroyed before the family could settle in
it.

In 1840, Mr. Barham succeeded, in course of rotation, to the Presidency
of Sion College, which was held for one year only by the London
incumbents in rotation.

The death of Theodore Hook, his life-long friend, occurred in 1841,
and Mr. Barham was deeply affected by it. "One of the last parties at
which Hook was present" (Mr. Barham's son tells us in his "Memoirs" of
his father) "was at Amen Corner" (Barham's house). He was unusually
late, and dinner was served before he made his appearance; Mr. Barham
apologized for having sat down without him, observing that he had quite
given him up, and supposed that the weather had deterred him.

"Oh," replied the former, "I had determined to come--_weather_ or no."

The friends met only once more after that evening.

Within a year after taking up his abode at Amen Corner, a far heavier
sorrow had fallen on Mr. Barham. His youngest son, a boy of great
promise and precocious talent, died. His second son had died of cholera
in 1832. This last blow fell heavily on the father. His elastic spirits
had rebounded from the previous ones, but this loss was never fully
recovered by him. The death of Hook, coming soon after, depressed him
still more.

In 1842, Mr. Barham was appointed to the Divinity Readership of St.
Paul's, and was permitted to exchange the living he held for the more
valuable one of St. Faith; the duties of which were, also, less onerous
than those of the parish in which he had worked for twenty years.

His parishioners felt the separation from their excellent pastor
deeply, and no doubt their feelings were shared by him who had so long
been their guide and sympathetic friend. Mrs. Barham was also greatly
loved, and had rendered good service in the management of the school,
and visiting the poor; a testimonial was presented to both by their
grateful people, in the shape of a handsome silver salver.

His new living being contiguous to his old one, Mr. Barham did not
change his residence, in which, in fact, he was permitted to live for
the remainder of his life. But he was always delighted when a little
leisure enabled him to go into the country and to the seaside, or to
his native Kent to find legends; but such excursions were few and brief
for the hardly worked clergyman.

Mr. Barham was one of the first members of the Archæological
Association, instituted for the purpose of making trips to places where
antiquarian research could be carried on; he had always possessed a
great taste for, and much knowledge of, antiquarian subjects. He was
also an excellent Shakspearian scholar, and could supply the context
to any quotation made from the plays, and mention the play, act,
and generally the scene from which it came. He was therefore deeply
interested in the formation of the Garrick Club, of which he wrote
the words of a glee song at the opening dinner (the music was by Mr.
Hawes),--

  Let poets of superior parts
    Consign to deathless fame
  The larceny of the Knave of Hearts,
    Who spoiled his Royal Dame.

  Alack! my timid muse would quail
    Before such thievish cubs,
  But plumes a joyous wing to hail
    Thy birth, fair Queen of _Clubs_.

On October 28, 1844, Her Majesty the Queen visited the city to open
the Royal Exchange. Mr. Barham, his wife and daughters, had accepted
an invitation from a friend to witness the procession, and, standing
at an open window, he remarked that the cutting east wind then blowing
would cost many of the spectators their lives. The speech seemed in
his own case prophetic. In the course of the evening he was attacked
by a violent fit of coughing, and his old friend and schoolfellow Dr.
Roberts was called in. The poet rallied from this attack, but fresh
ones succeeded it, and at length his articulation became impeded. He
was advised to leave London for Bath, rest being absolutely necessary;
but a meeting of the Archæological Association induced him to hurry
back to town to attend it, and then other business pressed on him, and
another attack followed. His son relates a little incident that shows
Barham had begun to realize the serious nature of his illness. He had
been for many years on the Committee of the Garrick Club, and by the
rules of the society the names of the Committee were placed in a ballot
box and six withdrawn, by chance, on St. George's day, which was the
anniversary of the birth and death of Shakspeare. The first name drawn
out that year was Barham's; but he was unanimously re-elected. When
he was told of the circumstance, he said: It had been well to have
accepted the omen, and filled up his place at once. In fact he never
entered the Club again.

Mrs. Barham had also been ill; therefore he and she went together in
the following May to Clifton, for change of air and rest; but unhappily
they had only been a few hours in their lodgings before Mrs. Barham
was taken dangerously ill, and unable to attend to her husband. Their
eldest daughter soon joined them, and a slight amendment enabled her
to bring them back to their home; but the expedition proved to have
been a fatal one. Here Dr. Roberts, and the great surgeon Coulson, did
all that was possible to save the life of the beloved poet. But they
knew that their skill was vain, and their patient readily divined the
truth that he was dying. He learned the certainty of the approaching
end with perfect calmness and cheerfulness, only disturbed by anxiety
about his wife, who was still extremely ill. He arranged his worldly
affairs; received the Holy Communion with his household; and waited
for the certain result of his malady with patience and resolution. His
last lines, "As I lay a-thinking," referring chiefly to the death of
his youngest son, were written, his son tells us, just before he left
Clifton; he now desired that they might be sent to Mr. Bentley for
publication.

He died on the 17th of June 1845. His life as a clergyman had been most
useful and beneficial to his parishioners; his poems have cheered many
a weary spirit, and been a source of much innocent household mirth.

The _Ingoldsby Legends_ are not only remarkable for their humour; they
are equally to be praised for their wonderful versification. That he
was a perfect master of the language who could thus use every variety
of stanza, and find rhymes for the most extraordinary, even technical
words, no one can doubt; there are no harsh lines or imperfect rhymes
in the Legends, and the wit and mirth are charmingly blended at times
with touching pathos. The poet's antiquarian knowledge gives much
effect, also, to his tales, and there is never anything in his most
comic relations that would be unworthy the pen of a gentleman and a
cultured scholar. England has cause to be proud of such a writer as
"Thomas Ingoldsby," otherwise Richard Harris Barham.




PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.


TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

I should have replied sooner to your letter, but that the last three
days in January are, as you are aware, always dedicated, at the Hall,
to an especial _battue_, and the old house is full of shooting-jackets,
shot-belts, and "double Joes." Even the women wear percussion caps,
and your favourite (?) Rover, who, you may remember, examined the
calves of your legs with such suspicious curiosity at Christmas, is
as pheasant-mad as if he were a biped, instead of being a genuine
four-legged scion of the Blenheim breed. I have managed, however, to
avail myself of a lucid interval in the general hallucination, (how
the rain _did_ come down on Monday!) and as you tell me the excellent
friend whom you are in the habit of styling "a Generous and Enlightened
Public" has emptied your shelves of the first edition, and "asks for
more," why, I agree with you, it _would_ be a want of _respect_ to that
very _respectable_ personification, when furnishing him with a farther
supply, not to endeavour at least to amend my faults, which are few,
and your own, which are more numerous. I have, therefore, gone to work
_con amore_, supplying occasionally on my own part a deficient note, or
elucidatory stanza, and on yours knocking out, without remorse, your
superfluous i's, and now and then eviscerating your _colon_.

My duty to our illustrious friend thus performed, I have a crow
to pluck with him,--Why will he persist--as you tell me he does
persist--in calling me by all sorts of names but those to which I
am entitled by birth and baptism--my "Sponsorial and Patronymic
appellations," as Dr. Pangloss has it?--Mrs. Malaprop complains, and
with justice, of an "assault upon her parts of speech:" but to attack
one's very existence--to deny that one _is_ a person _in esse_, and
scarcely to admit that one _may_ be a person _in posse_, is tenfold
cruelty;--"it is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging!"--let me
entreat all such likewise to remember, that as Shakspeare beautifully
expresses himself elsewhere--I give his words as quoted by a very
worthy Baronet in a neighbouring county, when protesting against a
defamatory placard at a general election--

          "Who steals my purse steals stuff!--
  'Twas mine--'tisn't his--nor nobody else's!
  But he who runs away with my GOOD NAME,
  Robs me of what does not do him any good,
  And makes me deuced poor!!"[1]

  [Illustration]

In order utterly to squabash and demolish every gainsayer, I had
thought, at one time, of asking my old and esteemed friend, Richard
Lane, to crush them at once with his magic pencil, and to transmit my
features to posterity, where all his works are sure to be "delivered
according to the direction;" but somehow the noble-looking profiles
which he has recently executed of the Kemble family put me a little
out of conceit with my own, while the undisguised amusement which my
"Mephistopheles Eyebrow," as he termed it, afforded him, in the "full
face," induced me to lay aside the design. Besides, my dear Sir, since,
as has well been observed, "there never was a married man yet who had
not somebody remarkably like him walking about town," it is a thousand
to one but my lineaments might, after all, out of sheer perverseness
be ascribed to anybody rather than to the real owner. I have therefore
sent you, instead thereof, a very fair sketch of Tappington, taken from
the Folkestone road (I tore it last night out of Julia Simpkinson's
_album_); get Gilks to make a woodcut of it. And now, if any miscreant
(I use the word only in its primary and "Pickwickian" sense of
"Unbeliever,") ventures to throw any further doubt upon the matter,
why, as Jack Cade's friend says in the play, "There are the chimneys in
my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it!"

"Why, very well then--we hope here be truths!"

Heaven be with you, my dear Sir!--I was getting a little excited;
but you, who are mild as the milk that dews the soft whisker of the
new-weaned kitten, will forgive me when, wiping away the nascent
moisture from my brow, I "pull in," and subscribe myself,

                          Yours quite as much as his own,

                                                 THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

  TAPPINGTON EVERARD,
             _Feb. 2nd, 1843_


FOOTNOTES:

[1] A reading which seems most unaccountably to have escaped the
researches of all modern Shakspearians, including the rival editors of
the new and illustrated versions.




                     THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.

                         _FIRST SERIES._




  [Illustration: THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.]




The Ingoldsby Legends.




THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.


"It is very odd, though; what can have become of them?" said Charles
Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an old-fashioned
bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned
manor-house; "'tis confoundedly odd, and I can't make it out at all.
Why, Barney, where are they?--and where the d--l are you?"

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant, who was, in
the main, a reasonable person,--at least as reasonable a person as any
young gentleman of twenty-two in "the service" can fairly be expected
to be,--cooled when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply
extempore to a summons which it was impossible he should hear.

An application to the bell was the considerate result; and the
footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt sounded along
the gallery.

"Come in!" said his master.--An ineffectual attempt upon the door
reminded Mr. Seaforth that he had locked himself in.--"By Heaven! this
is the oddest thing of all," said he, as he turned the key and admitted
Mr. Maguire into his dormitory.

"Barney, where are my pantaloons?"

"Is it the breeches?" asked the valet, casting an inquiring eye round
the apartment;--"is it the breeches, sir?"

"Yes; what have you done with them?"

"Sure then your honour had them on when you went to bed, and it's
hereabout they'll be, I'll be bail;" and Barney lifted a fashionable
tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in his examination.
But the search was vain: there was the tunic aforesaid,--there was a
smart-looking kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article of
all in a gentleman's wardrobe was still wanting.

"Where _can_ they be?" asked the master, with a strong accent on the
auxiliary verb.

"Sorrow a know I knows," said the man.

"It _must_ have been the devil, then, after all, who has been here and
carried them off!" cried Seaforth, staring full into Barney's face.

Mr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his countrymen, still
he looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the _sequitur_.

His master read incredulity in his countenance. "Why, I tell you,
Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair, when I got into bed; and,
by Heaven! I distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told me
of, come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them."

"May be so," was the cautious reply.

"I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then,--where the d--l are
the breeches?"

The question was more easily asked than answered. Barney renewed his
search, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against the
toilet, sunk into a reverie.

"After all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving cousins," said
Seaforth.

"Ah! then, the ladies!" chimed in Mr. Maguire, though the observation
was not addressed to him; "and will it be Miss Caroline, or Miss Fanny,
that's stole your honour's things?"

"I hardly know what to think of it," pursued the bereaved lieutenant,
still speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubiously on the
chamber-door. "I locked myself in, that's certain; and--but there must
be some other entrance to the room--pooh! I remember--the private
staircase; how could I be such a fool?" and he crossed the chamber to
where a low oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. He
paused before it. Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation;
but it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period concealed by
tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side the
portal.

"This way they must have come," said Seaforth; "I wish with all my
heart I had caught them!"

"Och! the kittens!" sighed Mr. Barney Maguire.

But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before. True, there
_was_ the "other door;" but then that, too, on examination, was even
more firmly secured than the one which opened on the gallery,--two
heavy bolts on the inside effectually prevented any _coup de main_ on
the lieutenant's _bivouac_ from that quarter. He was more puzzled than
ever; nor did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any
light upon the subject! one thing only was clear,--the breeches were
gone! "It is _very_ singular," said the lieutenant.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an antiquated but
commodious manor-house in the eastern division of the county of Kent. A
former proprietor had been High-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, and
many a dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentiousness
of his life, and the enormity of his offences. The Glen, which the
keeper's daughter was seen to enter, but never known to quit, still
frowns darkly as of yore; while an ineradicable bloodstain on the oaken
stair yet bids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it
is with one particular apartment that a deed of more especial atrocity
is said to be connected. A stranger guest--so runs the legend--arrived
unexpectedly at the mansion of the "Bad Sir Giles." They met in
apparent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their master's brow
told the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the banquet,
however, was not spared; the wine-cup circulated freely,--too freely,
perhaps,--for sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even the
excluded serving-men as they were doing their best to imitate their
betters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach
the parlour; one, an old and favoured retainer of the house, went so
far as to break in upon his master's privacy. Sir Giles, already high
in oath, fiercely enjoined his absence, and he retired; not, however,
before he had distinctly heard from the stranger's lips a menace that
"There was that within his pocket which could disprove the knight's
right to issue that or any other command within the walls of Tapton."

The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced a beneficial
effect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the conversation was
carried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening closed
in, the domestics, when summoned to attend with lights, found not only
cordiality restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated.
Fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it
till at a late, or rather early hour, that the revellers sought their
chambers.

The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the
eastern angle of the building, and had once been the favourite
apartment of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this preference to the
facility which a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had
afforded him, in the old knight's time, of following his wicked courses
unchecked by parental observation; a consideration which ceased to be
of weight when the death of his father left him uncontrolled master
of his estate and actions. From that period Sir Giles had established
himself in what were called the "state apartments;" and the "oaken
chamber" was rarely tenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary
festivity, or when the yule log drew an unusually large accession of
guests around the Christmas hearth.

On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown visitor, who
sought his couch heated and inflamed from his midnight orgies, and
in the morning was found in his bed a swollen and blackened corpse.
No marks of violence appeared upon the body; but the livid hue of
the lips, and certain dark-coloured spots visible on the skin,
aroused suspicions which those who entertained them were too timid to
express. Apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the preceding night, Sir
Giles's confidential leech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden
dissolution; the body was buried in peace; and though some shook their
heads as they witnessed the haste with which the funeral rites were
hurried on, none ventured to murmur. Other events arose to distract the
attention of the retainers; men's minds became occupied by the stirring
politics of the day, while the near approach of that formidable
armada, so vainly arrogating to itself a title which the very elements
joined with human valour to disprove, soon interfered to weaken, if
not obliterate, all remembrance of the nameless stranger who had died
within the walls of Tapton Everard.

Years rolled on: the "Bad Sir Giles" had himself long since gone to his
account, the last, as it was believed, of his immediate line; though
a few of the older tenants were sometimes heard to speak of an elder
brother, who had disappeared in early life, and never inherited the
estate. Rumours, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands were at
one time rife; but they died away, nothing occurring to support them:
the property passed unchallenged to a collateral branch of the family,
and the secret, if secret there were, was buried in Denton churchyard,
in the lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. One circumstance
alone occurred, after a long-intervening period, to revive the memory
of these transactions. Some workmen employed in grubbing an old
plantation, for the purpose of raising on its site a modern shrubbery,
dug up, in the execution of their task, the mildewed remnants of what
seemed to have been once a garment. On more minute inspection, enough
remained of silken slashes and a coarse embroidery to identify the
relics as having once formed part of a pair of trunk hose; while a few
papers which fell from them, altogether illegible from damp and age,
were by the unlearned rustics conveyed to the then owner of the estate.

Whether the squire was more successful in deciphering them was never
known; he certainly never alluded to their contents; and little would
have been thought of the matter but for the inconvenient memory of one
old woman, who declared she heard her grandfather say that when the
"stranger guest" was poisoned, though all the rest of his clothes were
there, his breeches, the supposed repository of the supposed documents,
could never be found. The master of Tapton Everard smiled when he heard
Dame Jones's hint of deeds which might impeach the validity of his own
title in favour of some unknown descendant of some unknown heir; and
the story was rarely alluded to, save by one or two miracle-mongers,
who had heard that others had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles, in his
night-cap, issue from the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring
his shadowy hands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly for something
hidden among the evergreens. The stranger's death-room had, of course,
been occasionally haunted from the time of his decease; but the periods
of visitation had latterly become very rare,--even Mrs. Botherby, the
housekeeper, being forced to admit that, during her long sojourn at the
manor, she had never "met with anything worse than herself;" though, as
the old lady afterwards added upon more mature reflection, "I must say
I think I saw the devil _once_."

Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and such the story
which the lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed to her equally mercurial
cousin Charles Seaforth, lieutenant in the Hon. East India Company's
second regiment of Bombay Fencibles, as arm-in-arm they promenaded a
gallery decked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and,
among others, with that of the redoubted Sir Giles himself. The gallant
commander had that very morning paid his first visit to the house of
his maternal uncle, after an absence of several years passed with his
regiment on the arid plains of Hindostan, whence he was now returned on
a three years' furlough. He had gone out a boy,--he returned a man; but
the impression made upon his youthful fancy by his favourite cousin
remained unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even before
he sought the home of his widowed mother,--comforting himself in this
breach of filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manor was so
little out of his way, it would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door
of his relatives without just looking in for a few hours.

But he found his uncle as hospitable and his cousin more charming
than ever; and the looks of one, and the requests of the other, soon
precluded the possibility of refusing to lengthen the "few hours" into
a few days, though the house was at the moment full of visitors.

The Peterses were there from Ramsgate; and Mr., Mrs., and the two Miss
Simpkinsons, from Bath, had come to pass a month with the family;
and Tom Ingoldsby had brought down his college friend the Honourable
Augustus Sucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a
fortnight's shooting. And then there was Mrs. Ogleton, the rich young
widow, with her large black eyes, who, people did say, was setting
her cap at the young squire, though Mrs. Botherby did not believe
it; and, above all, there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her _femme de
chambre_, who "_mon-Dieu_'d" everything and everybody, and cried "_Quel
horreur!_" at Mrs. Botherby's cap. In short, to use the last-named and
much-respected lady's own expression, the house was "choke-full" to the
very attics,--all, save the "oaken chamber," which, as the lieutenant
expressed a most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith
appropriated to his particular accommodation. Mr. Maguire meanwhile
was fain to share the apartment of Oliver Dobbs, the squire's own man:
a jocular proposal of joint occupancy having been first indignantly
rejected by "Mademoiselle," though preferred with the "laste taste in
life" of Mr. Barney's most insinuating brogue.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your breakfast will
be quite spoiled: what can have made you so idle?" Such was the morning
salutation of Miss Ingoldsby to the _militaire_ as he entered the
breakfast-room half an hour after the latest of the party.

"A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment with," chimed
in Miss Frances. "What is become of our ramble to the rocks before
breakfast?"

"Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise now," said Mrs.
Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone eyes.

"When I was a young man," said Mr. Peters, "I remember I always made a
point of--"

"Pray how long ago was that? asked Mr. Simpkinson from Bath.

"Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was--let me see--I was--"

"Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your breakfast!" interrupted his
better half, who had a mortal horror of chronological references; "it's
very rude to tease people with your family affairs."

The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence,--a
good-humoured nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-inquisitive, being
the extent of his salutation. Smitten as he was, and in the immediate
presence of her who had made so large a hole in his heart, his manner
was evidently _distrait_, which the fair Caroline in her secret soul
attributed to his being solely occupied by her _agrémens_,--how would
she have bridled had she known that they only shared his meditations
with a pair of breeches!

Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen eggs, darting
occasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies, in hope of detecting
the supposed waggery by the evidence of some furtive smile or conscious
look. But in vain; not a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did
the slightest elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions.
Hints and insinuations passed unheeded,--more particular inquiries were
out of the question:--the subject was unapproachable.

In the meantime, "patent cords" were just the thing for a morning's
ride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the party over the downs,
till, every faculty absorbed by the beauties, animate and inanimate,
which surrounded him, Lieutenant Seaforth of the Bombay Fencibles
bestowed no more thought upon his breeches than if he had been born on
the top of Ben Lomond.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly, forming with
his level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-off west, whither the
heavy cloud, which for the last two hours had been pouring its waters
on the earth, was now flying before him.

"Ah! then, and it's little good it'll be the claning of ye,"
apostrophised Mr. Barney Maguire, as he deposited, in front of his
master's toilet, a pair of "bran-new" jockey boots, one of Hoby's
primest fits, which the lieutenant had purchased in his way through
town. On that very morning had they come for the first time under the
valet's depuriating hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride
of the preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might, perhaps,
have considered the application of "Warren's Matchless," or oxalic
acid, altogether superfluous. Not so Barney: with the nicest care had
he removed the slightest impurity from each polished surface, and there
they stood, rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder a pang shot
across Mr. Maguire's breast, as he thought on the work now cut out for
them, so different from the light labours of the day before; no wonder
he murmured with a sigh, as the scarce-dried window-panes disclosed
a road now inch-deep in mud, "Ah! then, it's little good the claning
of ye!"--for well had he learned in the hall below that eight miles
of a stiff clay soil lay between the manor and Bolsover Abbey, whose
picturesque ruins,

  "Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay,"

the party had determined to explore. The master had already commenced
dressing, and the man was fitting straps upon a light pair of
crane-necked spurs, when his hand was arrested by the old question,
"Barney, where are the breeches?"

They were nowhere to be found!

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and equipped in
a handsome green riding-frock, but no "breeches and boots to match"
were there: loose jean trowsers, surmounting a pair of diminutive
Wellingtons, embraced, somewhat incongruously, his nether man, _vice_
the "patent cords," returned, like yesterday's pantaloons, absent
without leave. The "top-boots" had a holiday.

"A fine morning after the rain," said Mr. Simpkinson from Bath.

"Just the thing for the 'ops," said Mr. Peters. "I remember when I was
a boy--"

"Do hold your tongue, P.," said Mrs. Peters,--advice which that
exemplary matron was in the constant habit of administering to "her
P.," as she called him, whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences.
Her precise reason for this it would be difficult to determine, unless,
indeed, the story be true which a little bird had whispered into Mrs.
Botherby's ear,--Mr. Peters, though now a wealthy man, had received a
liberal education at a charity-school, and was apt to recur to the days
of his muffin-cap and leathers. As usual, he took his wife's hint in
good part, and "paused in his reply."

"A glorious day for the ruins!" said young Ingoldsby. "But, Charles,
what the deuce are you about?--you don't mean to ride through our lanes
in such toggery as that?"

"Lassy me!" said Miss Julia Simpkinson, "won't you be very wet?"

"You had better take Tom's cab," quoth the squire.

But this proposition was at once overruled; Mrs. Ogleton had already
nailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best adapted for a snug
flirtation.

"Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?" No; that was the post of Mr.
Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had acquired some fame as
a whip while travelling through the midland counties for the firm of
Bagshaw, Snivelby, and Ghrimes.

"Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins," said Charles, with as much
_nonchalance_ as he could assume,--and he did so; Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs.
Peters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his eldest daughter with her
_album_, following in the family coach. The gentleman-commoner "voted
the affair d--d slow," and declined the party altogether in favour
of the gamekeeper and a cigar. "There was 'no fun' in looking at old
houses!" Mrs. Simpkinson preferred a short _séjour_ in the still-room
with Mrs. Botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand
_arcanum_, the transmutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Did you ever see an old abbey before, Mr. Peters?"

"Yes, miss, a French one; we have got one at Ramsgate; he teaches the
Miss Joneses to parley-voo, and is turned of sixty."

Miss Simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable disdain.

Mr. Simpkinson from Bath was a professed antiquary, and one of the
first water; he was master of Gwillim's Heraldry, and Milles's History
of the Crusades; knew every plate in the Monasticon; had written an
essay on the origin and dignity of the office of overseer, and settled
the date of a Queen Anne's farthing. An influential member of the
Antiquarian Society, to whose "Beauties of Bagnigge Wells" he had
been a liberal subscriber, procured him a seat at the board of that
learned body, since which happy epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a more
indefatigable correspondent. His inaugural essay on the President's
cocked hat was considered a miracle of erudition: and his account of
the earliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a masterpiece of
antiquarian research. His eldest daughter was of a kindred spirit: if
her father's mantle had not fallen upon her, it was only because he had
not thrown it off himself; she had caught hold of its tail, however,
while it yet hung upon his honoured shoulders. To souls so congenial,
what a sight was the magnificent ruin of Bolsover! its broken arches,
its mouldering pinnacles, and the airy tracery of its half-demolished
windows. The party were in raptures; Mr. Simpkinson began to meditate
an essay, and his daughter an ode: even Seaforth, as he gazed on
these lonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a momentary
forgetfulness of his love and losses; the widow's eye-glass turned from
her _cicisbeo's_ whiskers to the mantling ivy: Mrs. Peters wiped her
spectacles; and "her P." supposed the central tower "had once been the
county jail." The squire was a philosopher, and had been there often
before, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens.

"Bolsover Priory," said Mr. Simpkinson, with the air of a
connoisseur,--"Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of Henry the
Sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century. Hugh de Bolsover
had accompanied that monarch to the Holy Land, in the expedition
undertaken by way of penance for the murder of his young nephews in
the Tower. Upon the dissolution of the monasteries, the veteran was
enfeoffed in the lands and manor, to which he gave his own name of
Bowlsover, or Bee-owls-over (by corruption Bolsover),--a Bee in chief,
over three Owls, all proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this
distinguished crusader at the siege of Acre."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith," said Mr. Peters; "I've heard tell of
him, and all about Mrs. Partington, and--"

"P., be quiet, and don't expose yourself!" sharply interrupted his
lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout.

"These lands," continued the antiquary, "were held in grand serjeantry
by the presentation of three white owls and a pot of honey--"

"Lassy me! how nice!" said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked his lips.

"Pray give me leave, my dear--owls and honey, whenever the king should
come a rat-catching into this part of the country."

"Rat-catching!" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in the
mastication of a drumstick.

"To be sure, my dear sir: don't you remember that rats once came under
the forest laws--a minor species of venison? 'Rats and mice, and such
small deer,' eh?--Shakspear, you know. Our ancestors ate rats ("The
nasty fellows!" shuddered Miss Julia in a parenthesis); and owls, you
know, are capital mousers--"

"I've seen a howl," said Mr. Peters; "there's one in the Sohological
Gardens,--a little hook-nosed chap in a wig,--only its feathers and--"

Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech.

"_Do_ be quiet!" cried the authoritative voice, and the would-be
naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the "Sohological
Gardens."

"You should read Blount's 'Jocular Tenures,' Mr. Ingoldsby," pursued
Simpkinson. "A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, his Royal Highness the
Duke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers--"

"I've heard of him," broke in the incorrigible Peters; "he was hanged
at the Old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr. Johnson."

The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking a
pinch of snuff, continued his harangue.

"A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty
who rides across one of his manors; and if you look into the penny
county histories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will
find that Langhale in Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin _per saltum,
sufflatum, et pettum_; that is, he was to come every Christmas into
Westminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and--"

"Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?" cried Tom Ingoldsby, hastily.

"Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed _Le--_"

"Mrs. Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it," said Tom,
still more rapidly; at the same time filling a glass, and forcing it on
the _sçavant_, who, thus arrested in the very crisis of his narrative,
received and swallowed the potation as if it had been physic.

"What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered there?" continued Tom;
"something of interest. See how fast she is writing."

The diversion was effectual: every one looked towards Miss Simpkinson,
who, far too ethereal for "creature comforts," was seated apart on
the dilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to paper
something that had strongly impressed her: the air,--the eye "in a fine
frenzy rolling,"--all betokened that the divine _afflatus_ was come.
Her father rose, and stole silently towards her.

"What an old boar!" muttered young Ingoldsby; alluding, perhaps, to a
slice of brawn which he had just begun to operate upon, but which, from
the celerity with which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficult
of mastication.

But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline all this while?
Why, it so happened that they had been simultaneously stricken with
the picturesque appearance of one of those high and pointed arches,
which that eminent antiquary, Mr. Horseley Curties, has described in
his "Ancient Records" as "a _Gothic_ window of the _Saxon_ order;"--and
then the ivy clustered so thickly and so beautifully on the other
side, that they went round to look at that;--and then their proximity
deprived it of half its effect, and so they walked across to a little
knoll, a hundred yards off, and in crossing a small ravine, they came
to what in Ireland they call "a bad step," and Charles had to carry his
cousin over it;--and then, when they had to come back, she would not
give him the trouble again for the world, so they followed a better but
more circuitous route, and there were hedges and ditches in the way,
and stiles to get over, and gates to get through; so that an hour or
more had elapsed before they were able to rejoin the party.

"Lassy me!" said Miss Julia Simpkinson, "how long you have been gone!"

And so they had. The remark was a very just as well as a very natural
one. They were gone a long while, and a nice cosey chat they had; and
what do you think it was all about, my dear miss?

"O, lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes, and nightingales,
and--"

Stay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the fervour of your
feelings run away with you! I do not pretend to say, indeed, that one
or more of these pretty subjects might not have been introduced; but
the most important and leading topic of the conference was--Lieutenant
Seaforth's breeches.

"Caroline," said Charles, "I have had some very odd dreams since I have
been at Tappington."

"Dreams, have you?" smiled the young lady, arching her taper neck like
a swan in pluming. "Dreams, have you?"

"Ay, dreams,--or dream, perhaps, I should say; for, though repeated, it
was still the same. And what do you imagine was its subject?"

"It is impossible for me to divine," said the tongue;--"I have not the
least difficulty in guessing," said the eye, as plainly as ever eye
spoke.

"I dreamt--of your great grandfather!"

There was a change in the glance--"My great grandfather?"

"Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about the other day:
he walked into my bedroom in his short cloak of murrey-coloured velvet,
his long rapier, and his Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as the
picture represents him: but with one exception."

"And what was that?"

"Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were--those of a
skeleton."

"Well."

"Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and looking round him
with a wistful air, he came to the bed's foot, stared at me in a manner
impossible to describe,--and then he--he laid hold of my pantaloons;
whipped his long bony legs into them in a twinkling; and strutting up
to the glass, seemed to view himself in it with great complacency. I
tried to speak, but in vain. The effort, however, seemed to excite
his attention; for, wheeling about, he showed me the grimmest-looking
death's head you can well imagine, and with an indescribable grin
strutted out of the room."

"Absurd! Charles. How can you talk such nonsense?"

"But, Caroline,--the breeches are really gone."

       *       *       *       *       *

On the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, Seaforth
was the first person in the breakfast parlour. As no one else was
present, he did precisely what nine young men out of ten so
situated would have done; he walked up to the mantel-piece,
established himself upon the rug, and subducting his coat-tails one
under each arm, turned towards the fire that portion of the human
frame which it is considered equally indecorous to present to a
friend or an enemy. A serious, not to say anxious, expression was
visible upon his good-humoured countenance, and his mouth was
fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle, when little Flo, a
tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed,--the pet object of Miss Julia
Simpkinson's affections,--bounced out from beneath a sofa, and
began to bark at--his pantaloons.

They were cleverly "built," of a light grey mixture, a broad stripe
of the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a perpendicular
direction from hip to ankle,--in short, the regimental costume of
the Royal Bombay Fencibles. The animal, educated in the country,
had never seen such a pair of breeches in her life--_Omne ignotum
pro magnifico!_ The scarlet streak, inflamed as it was by the
reflection of the fire, seemed to act on Flora's nerves as the same
colour does on those of bulls and turkeys; she advanced at the _pas
de charge_, and her vociferation, like her amazement, was unbounded.
A sound kick from the disgusted officer changed its character, and
induced a retreat at the very moment when the mistress of the
pugnacious quadruped entered to the rescue.

"Lassy me! Flo! what _is_ the matter?" cried the sympathising
lady, with a scrutinising glance levelled at the gentleman.

It might as well have lighted on a feather bed.--His air of
imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination; and as he would
not, and Flora could not expound, that injured individual was compelled
to pocket up her wrongs. Others of the household soon
dropped in, and clustered round the board dedicated to the most
sociable of meals; the urn was paraded "hissing hot," and the cups
which "cheer, but not inebriate," steamed redolent of hyson and
pekoe; muffins and marmalade, newspapers and Finnon haddies,
left little room for observation on the character of Charles's warlike
"turn-out." At length a look from Caroline, followed by a smile
that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly and
address his neighbour. It was Miss Simpkinson, who, deeply
engaged in sipping her tea and turning over her album, seemed,
like a female Chrononotonthologos, "immersed in cogibundity of
cogitation." An interrogatory on the subject of her studies drew
from her the confession that she was at that moment employed in
putting the finishing touches to a poem inspired by the romantic
shades of Bolsover. The entreaties of the company were of course
urgent. Mr. Peters, "who liked verses," was especially persevering,
and Sappho at length compliant. After a preparatory hem! and a
glance at the mirror to ascertain that her look was sufficiently
sentimental, the poetess began:--

  "There is a calm, a holy feeling,
    Vulgar minds can never know,
  O'er the bosom softly stealing,--
    Chasten'd grief, delicious woe!
  Oh! how sweet at eve regaining
    Yon lone tower's sequester'd shade--
  Sadly mute and uncomplaining--"

--Yow!--yeough!--yeough!--yow!--yow! yelled a hapless sufferer from
beneath the table.--It was an unlucky hour for quadrupeds; and if
"every dog will have his day," he could not have selected a more
unpropitious one than this. Mrs. Ogleton, too, had a pet,--a favourite
pug,--whose squab figure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that
curled like a head of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his Dutch
extraction. Yow! yow! yow! continued the brute,--a chorus in which Flo
instantly joined. Sooth to say, pug had more reason to express his
dissatisfaction than was given him by the muse of Simpkinson; the other
only barked for company. Scarcely had the poetess got through her first
stanza, when Tom Ingoldsby, in the enthusiasm of the moment, became so
lost in the material world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid
his hand on the cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it
such an unlucky twist, that the full stream of its scalding contents
descended on the gingerbread hide of the unlucky Cupid.--The confusion
was complete;--the whole economy of the table disarranged;--the company
broke up in most admired disorder;--and "Vulgar minds will never know"
anything more of Miss Simpkinson's ode till they peruse it in some
forthcoming Annual.

Seaforth profited by the confusion to take the delinquent who had
caused this "stramash" by the arm, and to lead him to the lawn, where
he had a word or two for his private ear. The conference between the
young gentlemen was neither brief in its duration nor unimportant in
its result. The subject was what the lawyers call tripartite, embracing
the information that Charles Seaforth was over head and ears in love
with Tom Ingoldsby's sister; secondly, that the lady had referred
him to "papa" for his sanction; thirdly and lastly, his nightly
visitations, and consequent bereavement. At the two first items Tom
smiled auspiciously; at the last he burst out into an absolute "guffaw."

"Steal your breeches!--Miss Bailey over again, by Jove," shouted
Ingoldsby. "But a gentleman, you say,--and Sir Giles too.--I am not
sure, Charles, whether I ought not to call you out for aspersing the
honour of the family."

"Laugh as you will, Tom,--be as incredulous as you please. One fact is
incontestible,--the breeches are gone! Look here--I am reduced to my
regimentals; and if these go, to-morrow I must borrow of you!"

Rochefoucault says, there is something in the misfortunes of our very
best friends that does not displease us;--assuredly we can, most of
us, laugh at their petty inconveniences, till called upon to supply
them. Tom composed his features on the instant, and replied with more
gravity, as well as with an expletive, which, if my Lord Mayor had been
within hearing, might have cost him five shillings.

"There is something very queer in this, after all. The clothes, you
say, have positively disappeared. Somebody is playing you a trick;
and, ten to one, your servant has a hand in it. By the way, I heard
something yesterday of his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and
seeing a ghost, or something of that kind, himself. Depend upon it,
Barney is in the plot."

It now struck the lieutenant at once, that the usually buoyant spirits
of his attendant had of late been materially sobered down, his
loquacity obviously circumscribed, and that he, the said lieutenant,
had actually rung his bell three several times that very morning before
he could procure his attendance. Mr. Maguire was forthwith summoned,
and underwent a close examination. The "bobbery" was easily explained.
Mr. Oliver Dobbs had hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying
on between the gentleman from Munster and the lady from the Rue St.
Honoré. Mademoiselle had boxed Mr. Maguire's ears, and Mr. Maguire had
pulled Mademoiselle upon his knee, and the lady had _not_ cried _Mon
Dieu!_ And Mr. Oliver Dobbs said it was very wrong; and Mrs. Botherby
said it was "scandalous," and what ought not to be done in any moral
kitchen; and Mr. Maguire had got hold of the Honourable Augustus
Sucklethumbkin's powder-flask, and had put large pinches of the best
double Dartford into Mr. Dobbs's tobacco-box;--and Mr. Dobbs's pipe had
exploded, and set fire to Mrs. Botherby's Sunday cap;--and Mr. Maguire
had put it out with the slop-basin, "barring the wig;"--and then they
were all so "cantankerous," that Barney had gone to take a walk in the
garden; and then--then Mr. Barney had seen a ghost!!

"A what? you blockhead!" asked Tom Ingoldsby.

"Sure then, and it's meself will tell your honour the rights of it,"
said the ghost-seer. "Meself and Miss Pauline, sir,--or Miss Pauline
and meself, for the ladies comes first anyhow,--we got tired of the
hobstroppylous skrimmaging among the ould servants, that didn't know a
joke when they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet,--that's
the rory-bory-alehouse, they calls him in this country,--and we walked
upon the lawn,--and divil of any alehouse there was there at all;
and Miss Pauline said it was because of the shrubbery maybe, and why
wouldn't we see it better beyonst the trees?--and so we went to the
trees, but sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big ghost
instead of it."

"A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?"

"Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honour. A tall ould gentleman
he was, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of him, and a big
torch in his fist,--though what he wanted with that it's meself can't
tell, for his eyes were like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the
comet, which wasn't there at all;--and 'Barney,' says he to me,--'cause
why he knew me,--'Barney,' says he, 'what is it you're doing with
the _colleen_ there, Barney?'--Divil a word did I say. Miss Pauline
screeched, and cried murther in French, and ran off with herself; and
of course meself was in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time
to stop palavering with him any way; so I dispersed at once, and the
ghost vanished in a flame of fire!"

Mr. Maguire's account was received with avowed incredulity by both
gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with unflinching pertinacity.
A reference to Mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither
party had a taste for delicate investigations.

"I'll tell you what, Seaforth," said Ingoldsby, after Barney had
received his dismissal, "that there is a trick here, is evident; and
Barney's vision may possibly be a part of it. Whether he is most knave
or fool, you best know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night,
and see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaintance.
Meanwhile your finger on your lip!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  "'Twas now the very witching time of night,
  When churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead."

Gladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and therefore I do
beseech the "gentle reader" to believe, that if all the _succedanea_ to
this mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe
it only to the disgraceful innovations of modern degeneracy upon the
sober and dignified habits of our ancestors. I can introduce him, it is
true, into an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls covered on three
sides with black oak wainscotting, adorned with carvings of fruit and
flowers long anterior to those of Grinling Gibbons; the fourth side is
clothed with a curious remnant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of
some Scriptural history, but of _which_ not even Mrs. Botherby could
determine. Mr. Simpkinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined
to believe the principal figure to be either Bathsheba, or Daniel in
the lions' den; while Tom Ingoldsby decided in favour of the King of
Bashan. All, however, was conjecture, tradition being silent on the
subject.--A lofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal
led out of, this apartment; they were opposite each other, and each
possessed the security of massy bolts on its interior. The bedstead,
too, was not one of yesterday, but manifestly coeval with days ere
Seddons was, and when a good four-post "article" was deemed worthy
of being a royal bequest. The bed itself, with all the appurtenances
of palliasse, mattresses, etc., was of far later date, and looked
most incongruously comfortable; the casements, too, with their little
diamond-shaped panes and iron binding, had given way to the modern
heterodoxy of the sash-window. Nor was this all that conspired to ruin
the costume, and render the room a meet haunt for such "mixed spirits"
only as could condescend to don at the same time an Elizabethan doublet
and Bond Street inexpressibles.

With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in front of
a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen, clad in
"shawl-pattern" dressing gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance
with the high cane-backed chairs which supported them. A bunch of
abomination, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the
mouth of one, and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of the
other;--an arrangement happily adapted for the escape of the noxious
fumes up the chimney, without that unmerciful "funking" each other,
which a less scientific disposition of the weed would have induced.
A small pembroke table filled up the intervening space between them,
sustaining, at each extremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy;--thus in
"lonely pensive contemplation" were the two worthies occupied, when the
"iron tongue of midnight had tolled twelve."

"Ghost-time's come!" said Ingoldsby, taking from his waistcoat pocket a
watch like a gold half-crown, and consulting it as though he suspected
the turret-clock over the stables of mendacity.

"Hush!" said Charles; "did I not hear a footstep?"

There was a pause:--there _was_ a footstep--it sounded distinctly--it
reached the door--it hesitated, stopped, and--passed on.

Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became aware of
Mrs. Botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other end of the gallery,
after dosing one of the housemaids with an approved julep from the
Countess of Kent's "Choice Manual."

"Good night, sir!" said Mrs. Botherby.

"Go to the d--l!" said the disappointed ghost-hunter.

An hour--two--rolled on, and still no spectral visitation; nor did
aught intervene to make night hideous; and when the turret-clock
sounded at length the hour of three, Ingoldsby, whose patience and grog
were alike exhausted, sprang from his chair, saying,--

"This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce of any ghost
shall we see to-night; it's long past the canonical hour. I'm off to
bed; and as to your breeches, I'll insure them for the next twenty-four
hours at least, at the price of the buckram."

"Certainly.--Oh! thank'ee;--to be sure!" stammered Charles, rousing
himself from a reverie, which had degenerated into an absolute snooze.

"Good night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and defy the Pope, the
Devil, and the Pretender!--"

Seaforth followed his friend's advice, and the next morning came down
to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of the preceding day. The charm
was broken, the demon defeated; the light greys with the red stripe
down the seams were yet _in rerum naturâ_, and adorned the person of
their lawful proprietor.

Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the result of
their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage, which warns us against
self-gratulation before we are quite "out of the wood."--Seaforth was
yet within its verge.

       *       *       *       *       *

A rap at Tom Ingoldsby's door the following morning startled him as he
was shaving;--he cut his chin.

"Come in, and be d--d to you!" said the martyr, pressing his thumb on
the scarified epidermis.--The door opened, and exhibited Mr. Barney
Maguire.

"Well, Barney, what is it?" quoth the sufferer, adopting the vernacular
of his visitant.

"The master, sir--"

"Well, what does he want?"

"The loanst of a breeches, plase your honour."

"Why, you don't mean to tell me--By Heaven, this is too good!" shouted
Tom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "Why, Barney, you
don't mean to say the ghost has got them again?"

Mr. Maguire did not respond to the young squire's risibility; the cast
of his countenance was decidedly serious.

"Faith, then, it's gone they are, sure enough! Hasn't meself been
looking over the bed, and under the bed, and _in_ the bed, for the
matter of that, and divil a ha'p'orth of breeches is there to the fore
at all:--I'm bothered entirely!"

"Hark'ee! Mr. Barney," said Tom, incautiously removing his thumb, and
letting a crimson stream "incarnadine the multitudinous" lather
that plastered his throat,--"this may be all very well with your
master, but you don't humbug _me_, sir:--tell me instantly what have
you done with the clothes?"

This abrupt transition from "lively to severe" certainly took Maguire
by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as much disconcerted as it is
possible to disconcert an Irish gentleman's gentleman.

"Me? is it meself, then, that's the ghost to your honour's thinking?"
said he, after a moment's pause, and with a slight shade of indignation
in his tones: "is it I would stale the master's things,--and what would
I do with them?"

"That you best know:--what your purpose is I can't guess, for I
don't think you mean to 'stale' them, as you call it; but that you
are concerned in their disappearance, I am satisfied. Confound this
blood!--give me a towel, Barney."

Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. "As I've a sowl, your
honour," said he solemnly, "little it is meself knows of the matter:
and after what I seen--"

"What you've seen! Why, what _have_ you seen?--Barney, I don't want to
inquire into your flirtations; but don't suppose you can palm off your
saucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!"

"Then, as sure as your honour's standing there I saw him: and why
wouldn't I, when Miss _Pauline_ was to the fore as well as meself,
and--"

"Get along with your nonsense,--leave the room, sir!"

"But the master?" said Barney imploringly; "and without a
breeches?--sure he'll be catching cowld!--"

"Take that, rascal!" replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair of pantaloons
at, rather than to, him: "but don't suppose, sir, you shall carry on
your tricks here with impunity; recollect there is such a thing as a
treadmill, and that my father is a county magistrate."

Barney's eye flashed fire,--he stood erect, and was about to speak;
but, mastering himself, not without an effort, he took up the garment,
and left the room as perpendicular as a Quaker.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Ingoldsby," said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, "this is now past
a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, notwithstanding the ties
which detain me, common decency obliges me to visit home after so long
an absence. I shall come to an immediate explanation with your father
on the subject nearest my heart, and depart while I have a change of
dress left. On his answer will my return depend! In the meantime tell
me candidly,--I ask it in all seriousness, and as a friend,--am I not a
dupe to your well-known propensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand in--"

"No, by heaven! Seaforth; I see what you mean: on my honour, I am as
much mystified as yourself; and if your servant--"

"Not he:--if there be a trick, he at least is not privy to it."

"If there _be_ a trick? Why, Charles, do you think--"

"I know not _what_ to think, Tom. As surely as you are a living man, so
surely did that spectral anatomy visit my room again last night, grin
in my face, and walk away with my trousers; nor was I able to spring
from my bed, or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow."

"Seaforth!" said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, "I will--But hush!
here are the girls and my father.--I will carry off the females, and
leave you a clear field with the governor: carry your point with him,
and we will talk about your breeches afterwards."

Tom's diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies _en
masse_ to look at a remarkable specimen of the class _Dodecandria
Monogynia_,--which they could not find;--while Seaforth marched boldly
up to the encounter, and carried "the governor's" outworks by a _coup
de main_. I shall not stop to describe the progress of the attack;
suffice it that it was as successful as could have been wished, and
that Seaforth was referred back again to the lady. The happy lover was
off at a tangent; the botanical party was soon overtaken; and the arm
of Caroline, whom a vain endeavour to spell out the Linnæan name of a
daffy-down-dilly had detained a little in the rear of the others, was
soon firmly locked in his own.

                    "What was the world to them,
  Its noise, its nonsense, and its 'breeches' all?"

Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night
as happy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, and
personal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not
so Tom Ingoldsby: the mystery,--for mystery there evidently was,--had
not only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The watch of
the previous night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was
undisguised. To-night he would "ensconce himself,"--not indeed "behind
the arras,"--for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed
to the wall,--but in a small closet which opened from one corner of
the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give to its occupant
a view of all that might pass in the apartment. Here did the young
ghost-hunter take up a position, with a good stout sapling under his
arm, a full half-hour before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even
his friend did he let into his confidence, fully determined that if his
plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone.

At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from his
concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and, after taking a few
turns in it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his
thoughts were mainly occupied by his approaching happiness, proceed
slowly to disrobe himself. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk
stock, were gradually discarded; the green morocco slippers were kicked
off, and then--ay, and then--his countenance grew grave; it seemed to
occur to him all at once that this was his last stake,--nay, that the
very breeches he had on were not his own,--that to-morrow morning was
his last, and that if he lost _them_--A glance showed that his mind was
made up; he replaced the single button he had just subducted, and threw
himself upon the bed in a state of transition,--half chrysalis, half
grub.

Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flickering light of
the night-lamp, till the clock, striking one, induced him to increase
the narrow opening which he had left for the purpose of observation.
The motion, slight as it was, seemed to attract Charles's attention;
for he raised himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a
moment, and then stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on the
point of discovering himself, when, the light, flashing full upon his
friend's countenance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open,
"their sense was shut,"--that he was yet under the influence of sleep.
Seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that
stood on it, then, going back to the bed's foot, appeared to search
eagerly for something which he could not find. For a few moments he
seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the apartment and examining
the chairs, till, coming fully in front of a large swing-glass that
flanked the dressing-table, he paused, as if contemplating his figure
in it. He now returned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and,
with cautious and stealthy steps, proceeded towards the little arched
doorway that opened on the private staircase.

As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his hiding-place;
but the sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly down stairs,
followed at a due distance by his friend; opened the door which led
out upon the gardens; and stood at once among the thickest of the
shrubs, which there clustered round the base of a corner turret, and
screened the postern from common observation. At this moment Ingoldsby
had nearly spoiled all by making a false step: the sound attracted
Seaforth's attention,--he paused and turned; and as the full moon shed
her light directly upon his pale and troubled features, Tom marked,
almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of his eyes:--

  "There was no speculation in those orbs
  That he did glare withal."

The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure
him; he turned aside; and from the midst of a thickset laurustinus,
drew forth a gardener's spade, shouldering which he proceeded with
greater rapidity into the midst of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain
point where the earth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he
set himself heartily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up
several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his tool, and very
composedly began to disencumber himself of his pantaloons.

Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary eye: he now advanced
cautiously, and, as his friend was busily engaged in disentangling
himself from his garment, made himself master of the spade. Seaforth,
meanwhile, had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with

  "His streamers waving in the wind,"

occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as compact
a form as possible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven, which
might certainly be supposed, at such a moment, and in such a plight, to
"visit his frame too roughly."

He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons in the
grave which he had been digging for them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close
behind him, and with the flat side of the spade--

       *       *       *       *       *

The shock was effectual;--never again was Lieutenant Seaforth known
to act the part of a somnambulist. One by one, his breeches,--his
trousers,--his pantaloons,--his silk-net tights,--his patent
cords,--his showy greys with the broad red stripe of the Bombay
Fencibles were brought to light,--rescued from the grave in which they
had been buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie; and, after having
been well aired by Mrs. Botherby, became once again effective.

The family, the ladies especially, laughed;--the Peterses laughed;--the
Simpkinsons laughed;--Barney Maguire cried "Botheration!" and
_Ma'mselle Pauline_, "_Mon Dieu!_"

Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited him on all
sides, started off two hours earlier than he had proposed:--he soon
returned, however; and having, at his father-in-law's request, given up
the occupation of Rajah-hunting and shooting Nabobs, led his blushing
bride to the altar.

Mr. Simpkinson from Bath did not attend the ceremony, being engaged
at the Grand Junction Meeting of _Sçavans_, then congregating from
all parts of the known world in the city of Dublin. His essay,
demonstrating that the globe is a great custard, whipped into
coagulation by whirlwinds, and cooked by electricity,--a little too
much baked in the Isle of Portland, and a thought underdone about the
Bog of Allen,--was highly spoken of, and narrowly escaped obtaining a
Bridgewater prize.

Miss Simpkinson and her sister acted as bridesmaids on the occasion;
the former wrote an _epithalamium_, and the latter cried "Lassy me!" at
the clergyman's wig.--Some years have since rolled on; the union has
been crowned with two or three tidy little offshoots from the family
tree, of whom Master Neddy is "grandpapa's darling," and Mary-Anne
mamma's particular "Sock." I shall only add, that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth
are living together quite as happily as two good-hearted, good-tempered
bodies, very fond of each other, can possibly do: and, that since
the day of his marriage Charles has shown no disposition to jump out
of bed, or ramble out of doors o' nights,--though, from his entire
devotion to every wish and whim of his young wife, Tom insinuates that
the fair Caroline does still occasionally take advantage of it so far
as to "slip on the breeches."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not till some years after the events just recorded, that Miss
Mary-Anne, the "pet Sock" before alluded to, was made acquainted with
the following piece of family biography. It was communicated to her in
strict confidence by Nurse Botherby, a maiden niece of the old lady's,
then recently promoted from the ranks in the still-room, to be second
in command in the nursery department.

The story is connected with a dingy wizzen-faced portrait, in an oval
frame, generally known by the name of "Uncle Stephen," though from the
style of his cut-velvet, it is evident that some generations must have
passed away since any living being could have stood towards him in that
degree of consanguinity.




THE NURSE'S STORY.


THE HAND OF GLORY.

 "Malefica quædam auguriatrix in Angliâ fuit, quam demones horribiliter
 extraxerunt, et imponentes super equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt;
 Clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per quatuor fermè miliaria
 audiebantur."

  --_Nuremb. Chron._

    On the lone bleak moor,  At the midnight hour,
  Beneath the Gallows Tree,
    Hand in hand  The Murderers stand
  By one, by two, by three!
    And the Moon that night  With a grey, cold light
  Each baleful object tips;
    One half of her form  Is seen through the storm,
  The other half's hid in Eclipse!
    And the cold Wind howls,  And the Thunder growls,
  And the Lightning is broad and bright;
    And altogether  It's very bad weather,
  And an unpleasant sort of a night!
    "Now mount who list,  And close by the wrist
  Sever me quickly the Dead Man's fist!--
    Now climb who dare Where he swings in air,
  And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man's hair!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  There's an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor,
  She hath years on her back at the least fourscore,
  And some people fancy a great many more;
      Her nose it is hook'd,  Her back it is crook'd,
      Her eyes blear and red:  On the top of her head
      Is a mutch, and on that  A shocking bad hat,
  Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat!
  Then,--My Gracious!--her beard!--it would sadly perplex
  A spectator at first to distinguish her sex;
  Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he
  Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy.
  Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within,
  With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin,
  Leering up with that queer indescribable grin,
  You'd lift up your hands in amazement and cry,
  "--Well!--I never _did_ see such a regular Guy!"
      And now before That old Woman's door,
    Where nought that's good may be,
      Hand in hand The Murderers stand
    By one, by two, by three!
  Oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view,
  In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew,
  By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame,
  Doing the deed that hath never a name!
      'Tis awful to hear Those words of fear!
  The pray'r mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer!
  (Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when
  A witch says her pray'rs, she begins with "Amen.")--
      --'Tis awful to see On that Old Woman's knee
  The dead, shrivell'd hand, as she clasps it with glee!--
      And now, with care, The five locks of hair
  From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there,
      With the grease and the fat Of a black Tom Cat
      She hastens to mix, And to twist into wicks,
  And one on the thumb, and each finger to fix.--
  (For another receipt the same charm to prepare,
  Consult Mr. Ainsworth and _Petit Albert_.)

      "Now open lock To the Dead Man's knock!
      Fly bolt, and bar, and band!--
      Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
  At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!
  Sleep all who sleep!--Wake all who wake!--
  But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  All is silent! all is still,
  Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill
  As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill;
      And in Tappington Hall Great and Small,
  Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom,
  Each one hath sought his separate room,
  And sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast,
  For the midnight hour hath long been past!

  All is darksome in earth and sky,
  Save, from yon casement, narrow and high,
      A quivering beam On the tiny stream
  Plays, like some taper's fitful gleam
  By one that is watching wearily.

  Within that casement, narrow and high,
  In his secret lair, where none may spy,
  Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care,
  And the thin grey locks of his failing hair
  Have left his little bald pate all bare;
      For his full-bottom'd wig  Hangs, bushy and big,
  On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair.
      Unbraced are his clothes,  Ungarter'd his hose,
  His gown is bedizened with tulip and rose,
  Flowers of remarkable size and hue,
  Flowers such as Eden never knew;
  --And there, by many a sparkling heap
      Of the good red gold,  The tale is told
  What powerful spell avails to keep
  That care-worn man from his needful sleep!

  Haply, he deems no eye can see
  As he gloats on his treasure greedily,--
      The shining store  Of glittering ore,
  The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore,
  And the broad Double-Joe from ayont the sea,--
  But there's one that watches as well as he;
      For, wakeful and sly,  In a closet hard by,
  On his truckle-bed lieth a little Foot-page,
  A boy who's uncommonly sharp of his age,
      Like young Master Horner,  Who erst in a corner
      Sat eating a Christmas pie:
  And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards,
  Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards!

         *       *       *       *       *

      There's a voice in the air,  There's a step on the stair,
  The old man starts in his cane-back'd chair;
      At the first faint sound  He gazes around,
  And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound.
      Then half arose  From beside his toes
  His little pug-dog with his little pug nose,
  But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff,
  That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff,
      For low, yet clear,  Now fall on the ear,
  --Where once pronounced for ever they dwell,--
  The unholy words of the Dead Man's spell!
      "Open lock  To the Dead Man's knock!
      Fly bolt, and bar, and band!
      Nor move, nor swerve  Joint, muscle, or nerve,
  At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!
  Sleep all who sleep!--Wake all who wake!--
  But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!"

  Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails,
  Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails.
  Heavy and harsh the hinges creak,
  Though they had been oil'd in the course of the week;
  The door opens wide as wide may be,
      And there they stand,  That murderous band,
          Lit by the light of the GLORIOUS HAND,
            By one!--by two!--by three!

  They have pass'd through the porch, they have pass'd through the hall,
  Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall;
    The very snore froze  In his very snub nose,
  You'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last
  When the GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him past!
  E'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat
  At the top of its speed to escape from the cat,
      Though half dead with affright,  Paused in its flight;
  And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing
  Lay crouch'd as a statue in act to spring!
      And now they are there,  On the head of the stair,
  And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare!
  --I really don't think any money would bribe
  Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe,
      Or the wild, wild glare  Of that old man's eye,
      His dumb despair,  And deep agony.

  The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold,
  Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold;
  They dream not--ah, happier they!--that the knife,
  Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life;
  It falls;--the frail thread of their being is riven,
  They dread not, suspect not, the blow till 'tis given.--
  But, oh! what a thing 'tis to see and to know
  That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe,
  Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow!--
  --Enough!--let's pass over as fast as we can
  The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man!

      But fancy poor Hugh,  Aghast at the view,
      Powerless alike to speak or to do!
      In vain doth he try  To open the eye
  That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink,
  Though he'd give all the world to be able to wink!--
  No!--for all that this world can give or refuse,
  I would not be now in that little boy's shoes,
  Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh's!
  --'Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall
  He has peep'd through so long, is so narrow and small!
            Wailing voices, sounds of woe
              Such as follow departing friends,
            That fatal night round Tappington go,
              Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends:
            Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good,
            Aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood.

         *       *       *       *       *

  'Tis early dawn--the morn is grey,
  And the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away,
  And all things betoken a very fine day;
  But, while the lark her carol is singing,
  Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing!
      Upstarting all  Great and small,
  Each one who's found within Tappington Hall,
  Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom,
  All seek at once that old Gentleman's room;
      And there, on the floor,  Drench'd in its gore,
  A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view,
  Carotid and jugular both cut through!
      And there, by its side,  'Mid the crimson tide,
  Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years;
  Adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears
  Are coursing each other round and big,
  And he's staunching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig!
  Alas! and alack for his staunching!--'tis plain,
  As anatomists tell us, that never again
  Shall life revisit the foully slain,
  When once they've been cut through the jugular vein.

         *       *       *       *       *

  There's a hue and a cry through the County of Kent,
  And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable's sent,
  But no one can tell the man which way they went,
  There's a little Foot-page with that Constable goes,
  And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.

         *       *       *       *       *

      In Rochester town,  At the sign of the Crown,
  Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down
  To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown;
      When a little Foot-page  Rushes in, in a rage,
  Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage.
  That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat,
  And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat,
  And a Constable seizes the one more remote;
  And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores,
  The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores,
  And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare;
  And the Constable says, with a dignified air,
  "You're _wanted_, Gen'lemen, one and all,
  For that 'ere precious lark at Tappington Hall!"

  There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor,
  Where a former black gibbet has frown'd before:
    It is as black as black may be,
      And murderers there  Are dangling in air,
    By one!--by two!--by three!

  There's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown'd hat,
  Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat
  A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat!
  They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes,
    They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs!
  Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes,
    With a whoop and a halloo!--"She swims!--She swims!"
      They have dragg'd her to land,  And every one's hand,
    Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand,
  When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black,
  Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack
  To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack,
  Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack!--
      No one can tell,  Though they guess pretty well,
  Which way that grim rider and old woman go,
  For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow;
      And she scream'd so, and cried,  We may fairly decide
  That the old woman did not much relish her ride!


                          MORAL.

  This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt
  That truest of adages--"Murder will out!"
  In vain may the blood-spiller "double" and fly,
  In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try:
  Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by
  He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry!

       *       *       *       *       *

One marvel follows another as naturally as one "shoulder of mutton" is
said "to drive another down." A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes
her way from the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense
interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with the sum
and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, I shall
call--




PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY.

"LOOK AT THE CLOCK!"


FYTTE 1.

  "Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce,
    As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,
  Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,
    "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!
      Is this the way, you  Wretch, every day you
  Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?--
      Out all night!  Me in a fright;
  Staggering home as it's just getting light!
  You intoxified brute!--you insensible block!--
  Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!"

  Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
  Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
  Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
  And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;
  Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
  Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes;
      A face like a ferret  Betoken'd her spirit:
  To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
  Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

      Now David Pryce  Had one darling vice;
  Remarkably partial to anything nice,
  Nought that was good to him came amiss,
  Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss!
      Especially ale--  If it was not too stale
  I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
      Not that in Wales  They talk of their Ales;
  To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,
  Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

      That particular day,  As I've heard people say,
  Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
  And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
  The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,
      With a couple more soakers,  Thoroughbred smokers,
  Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers
  And, long after day had drawn to a close,
  And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,
  They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;"
  While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
  Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!
      What have we with day to do?
      Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!"--
  At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,
  Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door:
      And then came that knock,  And the sensible shock
  David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!"
  For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
  The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

  That self-same clock had long been a bone
  Of contention between this Darby and Joan;
  And often among their pother and rout,
  When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
      Pryce would drop a cool hint,  With an ominous squint
  At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout."
      That horrid word "Spout"  No sooner came out
  Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
      And with scorn on her lip,  And a hand on each hip,
  "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip,
      "You thundering Willin,  I know you'd be killing
  Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling!
      You may do what you please,  You may sell my chemise,
  (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock),
  But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"

  Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;
  But patience is apt to wear out at last,
  And David Pryce in temper was quick,
  So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
  Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
  But walking just then wasn't very convenient,
      So he threw it, instead,  Direct at her head;
      It knock'd off her hat;  Down she fell flat;
  Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
  But whatever it was,--whether rage and pain
  Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,
  Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,
  I can't say for certain,--but _this_ I can,
  When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
  Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!

      The fearful catastrophe  Named in my last strophe
  As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
  Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality,
  Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality.
  And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
  With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.
      Mr. Pryce to commence  His "ingenious defence,"
  Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense:"

      "The world he must defy  Ever to justify
  Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"--
      The unlucky lick  From the end of his stick
  He "deplored,"--he was "apt to be rather too quick;"--
      But, really, her prating  Was so aggravating:
  Some trifling correction was just what he meant;--all
  The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"

      Then he calls Mr. Jones,  Who depones to her tones,
  And her gestures, and hints about "breaking his bones."
  While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys
      Declared the Deceased  Had styled him "a Beast,"
  And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
  The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

  The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
  The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
  Return'd about half-past eleven at night
  The following verdict, "We find, _Sarve her right!_"

  Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
  Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said
  He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

      Not far from his dwelling,  From the vale proudly swelling,
  Rose a mountain; it's name you'll excuse me from telling,
  For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
  That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
  Have really but little or nothing to do;
  And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far,
  On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
      Its first syllable "PEN,"  Is pronounceable;--then
  Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N
  About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
  Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
  But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
  We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN."

      Well--the moon shone bright  Upon "PEN" that night,
  When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
      Was scaling its side  With that sort of stride
  A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
      Mounting higher and higher,  He began to perspire,
  Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
      And feeling opprest  By a pain in his chest,
  He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest;
  A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
  To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
  So he stopp'd and look'd down on the valley below.

      O'er fell, and o'er fen,  Over mountain and glen,
  All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
  All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
  Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught
      Of her Heroes of old,  So brave and so bold,--
  Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold;
      Of King Edward the First,  Of memory accurst;
  And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
      Killing Poets by dozens,  With their uncles and cousins,
  Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved--
  Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap,
  Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap;
      And how Mr. Tudor  Successfully woo'd her,
  Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
  And so made him Father-in-law to the King.

  He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
  On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;
  On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
  He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
  And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;
  When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
  And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
      Which went pit-a-pat  As he cried out "What's that?"--
      That very queer sound?--  Does it come from the ground?
  Or the air,--from above,--or below,--or around?--
      It is not like Talking,  It is not like Walking,
  It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
  Or the tramp of a horse,--or the tread of a man,--
  Or the hum of a crowd,--or the shouting of boys,--
  It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
  Not unlike a cart's,--but that can't be; for when
  Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men,"
  With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up "PEN?"

  Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
  Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk."
      In vain he look'd back  On the whole of the track
  He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
  At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
  And did not seem likely to pass away soon;
      While clearer and clearer,  'Twas plain to the hearer,
  Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
  And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
  Very much "like a Coffin a-walking up stairs."

      Mr. Pryce had begun  To "make up" for a run,
  As in such a companion he saw no great fun,
      When a single bright ray  Shone out on the way
  He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
  Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,
  The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!"
  'Twas so!--it had certainly moved from its place,
  And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;
  'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
  And nothing was altered at all--but the Face!
  In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
  The two little winder-holes turned into eyes
      Blazing with ire,  Like two coals of fire;
  And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip,
  And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
  No!--he could not mistake it,--'twas SHE to the life!
  The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

      One glance was enough  Completely "_Quant. suff._"
  As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"--
  Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff,
      David turned himself round;  Ten feet of ground
  He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

  I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses--
  I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises--
  At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
  And one from a Bailiff much faster than that--
  At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder--
  I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder--
  I've seen little boys run away from a cane--
  And I've seen (that is, _read of_) good running in Spain;[2]
      But I never did read  Of, or witness, such speed
  As David exerted that evening.--Indeed
  All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,
  Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!"

      He reaches it's brow,--  He has past it,--and now
  Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he
  Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity;
      But, run as he will,  Or roll down the hill,
  That bugbear behind him is after him still!
  And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
  The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking,
      Till, exhausted and sore,  He can't run any more,
  But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,
  And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,
  "Oh! Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!!

  Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,
  She saw nothing there to alarm her;--a frown
      Came o'er her white forehead, She said, "It was horrid
  A man should come knocking at that time of night,
  And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;--
      To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!"
  She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call:
      His late wife's disaster By no means had past her,"
  She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!"
  Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,
  She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose.

      Poor David in vain Implored to remain,
  He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again."
      Why the fair was obdurate None knows,--to be sure, it
  Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;--
  Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole
  Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
      In that shady retreat With nothing to eat,
  And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
      All night close he kept; I can't say he slept;
  But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept;
      Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins,
  Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,
  And her he once thought a complete _Rara Avis_,
  Consigning to Satan,--viz., cruel Miss Davis!

  Mr. David has since had a "serious call,"
  He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
  And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
      To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach
  People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!"
  That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,
  Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!"
      Which means "The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant!"
  And that _Gin's_ but a _Snare_ of Old Nick the deluder!

  And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"
  At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
      Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair,"
  And make all his _quondam_ associates stare
  By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,
  "Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!"
  The dial he constantly watches; and when
  The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.,"
      He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs,
  Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
  With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,
  And says solemnly--"Gentlemen!
                          "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The succeeding Legend has long been an established favourite with
all of us, as containing much of the personal history of one of the
greatest ornaments of the family tree.

To the wedding between the sole heiress of this redoubted hero and
a direct ancestor is it owing that the Lioncels of Shurland hang so
lovingly parallel with the Saltire of the Ingoldsbys, and now form as
cherished a quartering in their escutcheon as the "dozen white lowses"
in the "old coat" of Shallow.




GREY DOLPHIN.

A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.


"He won't--won't he? Then bring me my boots!" said the Baron.

Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland--a caitiff
had dared to disobey the Baron! and--the Baron had called for his boots!

A thunderbolt in the great hall had been a _bagatelle_ to it.

A few days before, a notable miracle had been wrought in the
neighbourhood; and in those times miracles were not so common as they
are now;--no royal balloons, no steam, no railroads,--while the few
Saints who took the trouble to walk with their heads under their arms,
or to pull the Devil by the nose, scarcely appeared above once in a
century;--so the affair made the greater sensation.

The clock had done striking twelve, and the Clerk of Chatham was
untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his truckle-bed; a
half-emptied tankard of mild ale stood at his elbow, the roasted
crab yet floating on its surface. Midnight had surprised the worthy
functionary while occupied in discussing it, and with his task yet
unaccomplished. He meditated a mighty draft: one hand was fumbling
with his tags, while the other was extended in the act of grasping the
jorum, when a knock on the portal, solemn and sonorous, arrested his
fingers. It was repeated thrice ere Emmanuel Saddleton had presence of
mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that untimeous hour.

"Open! open! good Clerk of St. Bridget's," said a female voice, small,
yet distinct and sweet,--an excellent thing in woman.

The Clerk arose, crossed to the doorway, and undid the latchet.

On the threshold stood a Lady of surpassing beauty: her robes were
rich, and large, and full; and a diadem, sparkling with gems that shed
a halo around, crowned her brow: she beckoned the Clerk as he stood in
astonishment before her.

"Emmanuel!" said the Lady; and her tones sounded like those of a silver
flute. "Emmanuel Saddleton, truss up your points, and follow me!"

The worthy Clerk stared aghast at the vision; the purple robe, the
cymar, the coronet,--above all, the smile; no, there was no mistaking
her; it was the blessed St. Bridget herself!

And what could have brought the sainted lady out of her warm shrine at
such a time of night? and on such a night? for it was as dark as pitch,
and, metaphorically speaking, "rained cats and dogs."

Emmanuel could not speak, so he looked the question.

"No matter for that," said the Saint, answering to his thought. "No
matter for that, Emmanuel Saddleton; only follow me, and you'll see!"

The Clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner-cupboard.

"Oh! never mind the lantern, Emmanuel: you'll not want it: but you may
bring a mattock and a shovel." As she spoke, the beautiful apparition
held up her delicate hand. From the tip of each of her long taper
fingers issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancy as would
have plunged a whole gas company into despair--it was a "Hand of
Glory,"[3] such a one as tradition tells us yet burns in Rochester
Castle every St. Mark's Eve. Many are the daring individuals who have
watched in Gundulph's Tower, hoping to find it, and the treasure it
guards;--but none of them ever did.

"This way, Emmanuel!" and a flame of peculiar radiance streamed
from her little finger as it pointed to the pathway leading to the
churchyard.

Saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence.

The cemetery of St. Bridget's was some half-mile distant from the
Clerk's domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated to that illustrious
lady, who, after leading but a so-so life, had died in the odour of
sanctity. Emmanuel Saddleton was fat and scant of breath, the mattock
was heavy, and the Saint walked too fast for him: he paused to take
second wind at the end of the first furlong.

"Emmanuel," said the holy lady good-humouredly, for she heard him
puffing; "rest awhile, Emmanuel, and I'll tell you what I want with
you."

Her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and looked all
attention and obedience.

"Emmanuel," continued she, "what did you and Father Fothergill, and the
rest of you, mean yesterday by burying that drowned man so close to me?
He died in mortal sin, Emmanuel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution:
why, he might as well have been excommunicated. He plagues me with his
grinning, and I can't have any peace in my shrine. You must howk him up
again, Emmanuel!"

"To be sure, madam,--my lady,--that is, your holiness," stammered
Saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task assigned to him. "To be
sure, your ladyship; only--that is--"

"Emmanuel," said the Saint, "you'll do my bidding; or it would be
better you had!" and her eye changed from a dove's eye to that of a
hawk, and a flash came from it as bright as the one from her little
finger. The Clerk shook in his shoes; and, again dashing the cold
perspiration from his brow, followed the footsteps of his mysterious
guide.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning all Chatham was in an uproar. The Clerk of St
Bridget's had found himself at home at daybreak, seated in his own
arm-chair, the fire out, and--the tankard of ale out too! Who had drunk
it?--where had he been?--how had he got home?--all was a mystery!--he
remembered "a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;" all was fog
and fantasy. What he could clearly recollect was, that he had dug
up the Grinning Sailor, and that the Saint had helped to throw him
into the river again. All was thenceforth wonderment and devotion.
Masses were sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled; the monks
of St. Romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their head, the
sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St. Thomas à Becket
in the centre;--Father Fothergill brewed a XXX puncheon of holy water.
The Rood of Gillingham was deserted; the chapel of Rainham forsaken;
every one who had a soul to be saved, flocked with his offering to St.
Bridget's shrine, and Emmanuel Saddleton gathered more fees from the
promiscuous piety of that one week than he had pocketed during the
twelve preceding months.

Meanwhile the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated like a
pendulum between Sheerness and Gillingham Reach. Now borne by the
Medway into the Western Swale,--now carried by the refluent tide
back to the vicinity of its old quarters,--it seemed as though
the River god and Neptune were amusing themselves with a game of
subaqueous battledore, and had chosen this unfortunate carcass as a
marine shuttlecock. For some time the alternation was kept up with
great spirit, till Boreas, interfering in the shape of a stiffish
"Nor'-wester," drifted the bone (and flesh) of contention ashore on the
Shurland domain, where it lay in all the majesty of mud. It was soon
discovered by the retainers, and dragged from its oozy bed, grinning
worse than ever. Tidings of the god-send were of course carried
instantly to the castle; for the Baron was a very great man; and if
a dun cow had flown across his property unannounced by the warder,
the Baron would have kicked him, the said warder, from the topmost
battlement into the bottommost ditch,--a descent of peril, and one
which "Ludwig the leaper," or the illustrious Trenck himself might well
have shrunk from encountering.

"An't please your lordship--" said Peter Periwinkle.

"No, villain! it does not please me!" roared the Baron.

His lordship was deeply engaged with a peck of Feversham oysters,--he
doted on shellfish, hated interruption at meals, and had not yet
despatched more than twenty dozen of the "natives."

"There's a body, my lord, washed ashore in the lower creek," said the
Seneschal.

The Baron was going to throw the shells at his head; but paused in the
act, and said with much dignity,--

"Turn out the fellow's pockets!"

But the defunct had before been subjected to the double scrutiny of
Father Fothergill, and the Clerk of St. Bridget's. It was ill gleaning
after such hands; there was not a single maravedi.

We have already said that Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of the Isle
of Sheppey, and of many a fair manor on the mainland, was a man of
worship. He had rights of freewarren, saccage and sockage, cuisage and
jambage, fosse and fork, infang theofe and outfang theofe; and all
waifs and strays belonged to him in fee simple.

"Turn out his pockets!" said the Knight.

"An't please you, my lord, I must say as how they was turned out afore,
and the devil a rap's left."

"Then bury the blackguard!"

"Please your lordship, he has been buried once."

"Then bury him again, and be----!" The Baron bestowed a benediction.

The Seneschal bowed low as he left the room, and the Baron went on with
his oysters.

Scarcely ten dozen more had vanished when Periwinkle reappeared.

"An't please you, my lord, Father Fothergill says as how that it's the
Grinning Sailor, and he won't bury him anyhow."

"Oh! he won't--won't he?" said the Baron. Can it be wondered at that he
called for his boots?

Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of Shurland and Minster, Baron of Sheppey
_in comitatu_ Kent, was, as has been before hinted, a very great man.
He was also a very little man; that is, he was relatively great,
and relatively little,--or physically little, and metaphorically
great,--like Sir Sidney Smith and the late Mr. Bonaparte. To the frame
of a dwarf he united the soul of a giant, and the valour of a gamecock.
Then, for so small a man, his strength was prodigious; his fist would
fell an ox, and his kick--oh! his kick was tremendous, and, when he
had his boots on, would,--to use an expression of his own, which he
had picked up in the holy wars,--would "send a man from Jericho to
June."--He was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest was broad
and deep, his head large, and uncommonly thick, his eyes a little
bloodshot, and his nose _retroussé_ with a remarkably red tip. Strictly
speaking, the Baron could not be called handsome: but his _tout
ensemble_ was singularly impressive: and when he called for his boots,
everybody trembled and dreaded the worst.

"Periwinkle," said the Baron, as he encased his better leg, "let the
grave be twenty feet deep!"

"Your lordship's command is law."

"And, Periwinkle,"--Sir Robert stamped his left heel into its
receptacle,--"and, Periwinkle, see that it be wide enough to hold not
exceeding two!"

"Ye--ye--yes, my lord."

"And, Periwinkle,--tell Father Fothergill I would fain speak with his
Reverence."

"Ye--ye--yes, my lord."

The Baron's beard was peaked; and his mustaches, stiff and stumpy,
projected horizontally like those of a Tom Cat; he twirled the one,
he stroked the other, he drew the buckle of his surcingle a thought
tighter, and strode down the great staircase three steps at a stride.

The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland Castle; every
cheek was pale, every tongue was mute: expectation and perplexity were
visible on every brow. What would his lordship do?--Were the recusant
anybody else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but too
good for him:--but it was Father Fothergill who had said "I won't;" and
though the Baron was a very great man, the Pope was a greater, and the
Pope was Father Fothergill's great friend--some people said he was his
uncle.

Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory trying conclusions with a
venison pasty, when he received the summons of his patron to attend him
in the chapel cemetery. Of course he lost no time in obeying it, for
obedience was the general rule in Shurland Castle. If anybody ever said
"I won't," it was the exception; and, like all other exceptions, only
proved the rule the stronger. The Father was a friar of the Augustine
persuasion; a brotherhood which, having been planted in Kent some few
centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and overspread
the county much as hops did some few centuries later. He was plump and
portly, a little thick-winded, especially after dinner,--stood five
feet four in his sandals, and weighed hard upon eighteen stone. He was
moreover a personage of singular piety; and the iron girdle, which, he
said, he wore under his cassock to mortify withal, might have been well
mistaken for the tire of a cart-wheel.--When he arrived, Sir Robert was
pacing up and down by the side of a newly opened grave.

"_Benedicite!_ fair son,"--(the Baron was as brown as a
cigar,)--"_Benedicite!_" said the Chaplain.

The Baron was too angry to stand upon compliment. "Bury me that
grinning caitiff there!" quoth he, pointing to the defunct.

"It may not be, fair son," said the Friar; "he hath perished without
absolution."

"Bury the body!" roared Sir Robert.

"Water and earth alike reject him," returned the Chaplain; "holy St.
Bridget herself--"

"Bridget me no Bridgets!--do me thine office quickly, Sir Shaveling;
or, by the Piper that played before Moses--" The oath was a fearful
one; and whenever the Baron swore to do mischief, he was never known
to perjure himself. He was playing with the hilt of his sword.--"Do me
thine office, I say. Give him his passport to Heaven!"

"He is already gone to Hell!" stammered the Friar.

"Then do you go after him!" thundered the Lord of Shurland.

His sword half leaped from its scabbard. No!--the trenchant blade, that
had cut Suleiman Ben Malek Ben Buckskin from helmet to chine, disdained
to daub itself with the cerebellum of a miserable monk;--it leaped back
again;--and as the Chaplain, scared at its flash, turned him in terror,
the Baron gave him a kick!--one kick!--it was but one!--but such a one!
Despite its obesity, up flew his holy body in an angle of forty-five
degrees; then, having reached its highest point of elevation, sunk
headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it. If the reverend
gentleman had possessed such a thing as a neck, he had infallibly
broken it; as he did not, he only dislocated his vertebræ,--but that
did quite as well. He was as dead as ditch-water!

"In with the other rascal!" said the Baron,--and he was obeyed; for
there he stood in his boots. Mattock and shovel made short work of it;
twenty feet of superincumbent mould pressed down alike the saint and
the sinner. "Now sing a requiem who list!" said the Baron, and his
lordship went back to his oysters.

The vassals at Castle Shurland were astounded, or, as the Seneschal
Hugh better expressed it, "perfectly conglomerated," by this event.
What! murder a monk in the odour of sanctity,--and on consecrated
ground too!--They trembled for the health of the Baron's soul. To the
unsophisticated many it seemed that matters could not have been much
worse had he shot a bishop's coach-horse;--all looked for some signal
judgment. The melancholy catastrophe of their neighbours at Canterbury
was yet rife in their memories: not two centuries had elapsed since
those miserable sinners had cut off the tail of the blessed St.
Thomas's mule. The tail of the mule, it was well known, had been
forthwith affixed to that of the Mayor; and rumour said it had since
been hereditary in the corporation. The least that could be expected
was, that Sir Robert should have a friar tacked on to his for the
term of his natural life! Some bolder spirits there were, 'tis true,
who viewed the matter in various lights, according to their different
temperaments and dispositions; for perfect unanimity existed not
even in the good old times. The verderer, roistering Hob Roebuck, swore
roundly, "'Twere as good a deed as eat to kick down the chapel as well
as the monk."--Hob had stood there in a white sheet for kissing Giles
Miller's daughter.--On the other hand, Simpkin Agnew, the bell-ringer,
doubted if the devil's cellar, which runs under the bottomless abyss,
were quite deep enough for the delinquent, and speculated on the
probability of a hole being dug in it for his especial accommodation.
The philosophers and economists thought, with Saunders McBullock, the
Baron's bagpiper, that "a feckless monk more or less was nae great
subject for a clamjamphry," especially as "the supply considerably
exceeded the demand;" while Malthouse, the tapster, was arguing to Dame
Martin that a murder now and then was a seasonable check to population,
without which the Isle of Sheppey would in time be devoured, like a
mouldy cheese, by inhabitants of its own producing.--Meanwhile, the
Baron ate his oysters and thought no more of the matter.

But this tranquillity of his lordship was not to last. A couple
of Saints had been seriously offended; and we have all of us read
at school that celestial minds are by no means insensible to the
provocations of anger. There were those who expected that St. Bridget
would come in person, and have the friar up again, as she did the
sailor; but perhaps her ladyship did not care to trust herself within
the walls of Shurland Castle. To say the truth, it was scarcely a
decent house for a female Saint to be seen in. The Baron's gallantries,
since he became a widower, had been but too notorious; and her own
reputation was a little blown upon in the earlier days of her earthly
pilgrimage: then things were so apt to be misrepresented: in short, she
would leave the whole affair to St. Austin, who, being a gentleman,
could interfere with propriety, avenge her affront as well as his own,
and leave no loop-hole for scandal. St. Austin himself seems to have
had his scruples, though of their precise nature it would be difficult
to determine, for it were idle to suppose him at all afraid of the
Baron's boots. Be this as it may, the mode which he adopted was at once
prudent and efficacious. As an ecclesiastic, he could not well call the
Baron out,--had his boots been out of the question;--so he resolved
to have recourse to the law. Instead of Shurland Castle, therefore,
he repaired forthwith to his own magnificent monastery, situate just
within the walls of Canterbury, and presented himself in a vision to
its abbot. No one who has ever visited that ancient city, can fail
to recollect the splendid gateway which terminates the vista of St.
Paul's-street, and stands there yet in all its pristine beauty. The
tiny train of miniature artillery which now adorns its battlements
is, it is true, an ornament of a later date; and is said to have been
added some centuries after by a learned but jealous proprietor, for
the purpose of shooting any wiser man than himself who might chance to
come that way. Tradition is silent as to any discharge having taken
place, nor can the oldest inhabitant of modern days recollect any such
occurrence.[4] Here it was, in a handsome chamber, immediately over the
lofty archway, that the Superior of the monastery lay buried in a brief
slumber snatched from his accustomed vigils. His mitre--for he was a
Mitred Abbot, and had a seat in parliament--rested on a table beside
him; near it stood a silver flagon of Gascony wine, ready, no doubt,
for the pious uses of the morrow. Fasting and watching had made him
more than usually somnolent, than which nothing could have been better
for the purpose of the Saint, who now appeared to him radiant in all
the colours of the rainbow.

"Anselm!"--said the beatific vision,--"Anselm! are you not a pretty
fellow to lie snoring there, when your brethren are being knocked at
head, and Mother Church herself is menaced?--It is a sin and a shame.
Anselm!"

"What's the matter?--Who are you?" cried the Abbot, rubbing his eyes,
which the celestial splendour of his visitor had set a-winking. "Ave
Maria! St. Austin himself!--Speak, _Beatissime_! what would you with
the humblest of your votaries?"

"Anselm!" said the Saint, "a brother of our order, whose soul Heaven
assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. He hath been ignominiously kicked
to the death, Anselm; and there he lieth cheek-by-jowl with a wretched
carcass, which our sister Bridget has turned out of her cemetery for
unseemly grinning.--Arouse thee, Anselm!"

"Ay, so please you, _Sanctissime_!" said the Abbot. "I will order
forthwith that thirty masses be said, thirty _Paters_, and thirty
_Aves_."

"Thirty fools' heads!" interrupted his patron, who was a little peppery.

"I will send for bell, book, and candle--"

"Send for an inkhorn, Anselm.--Write me now a letter to his Holiness
the Pope in good round terms, and another to the Coroner, and another
to the Sheriff, and seize me the never-enough-to-be-anathematised
villain who hath done this deed! Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm!--up
with him!--down with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearthstone
and roof-tree,--down with it all, and sow the site with salt and
sawdust!"

St. Austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer.

"Marry will I," quoth the Abbot, warming with the Saint's eloquence:
"ay, marry will I, and that _instanter_. But there is one thing you
have forgotten, most Beatified--the name of the culprit."

"Robert de Shurland."

"The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!" said the Abbot, crossing himself,
"won't that be rather inconvenient? Sir Robert is a bold baron, and a
powerful;--blows will come and go, and crowns will be cracked and--"

"What is that to you, since yours will not be of the number?"

"Very true, _Beatissime_!--I will don me with speed, and do your
bidding."

"Do so, Anselm!--fail not to hang the baron, burn his castle,
confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax candles for my own
particular shrine out of your share of the property."

With this solemn injunction the vision began to fade.

"One thing more!" cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.

"What is that?" asked the Saint.

"_O Beate Augustine, ora pro nobis!_"

"Of course I shall," said St. Austin. "_Pax vobiscum!_"--and Abbot
Anselm was left alone.

Within an hour all Canterbury was in commotion. A friar had been
murdered,--two friars--ten--twenty; a whole convent had been
assaulted,--sacked,--burnt,--all the monks had been killed, and all the
nuns had been kissed!--Murder!--fire!--sacrilege! Never was city in
such an uproar. From St. George's gate to St. Dunstan's suburb, from
the Donjon to the borough of Staplegate, all was noise and hubbub.
"Where was it?"--"When was it?"--"How was it?" The Mayor caught up
his chain, the Aldermen donned their furred gowns, the Town-clerk put
on his spectacles. "Who was he?"--"What was he?"--"Where was he?"--he
should be hanged,--he should be burned,--he should be broiled,--he
should be fried,--he should be scraped to death with red-hot
oyster-shells! "Who was he?"--"What was his name?"

The Abbot's Apparitor drew forth his roll and read aloud:--"Sir Robert
de Shurland, Knight banneret, Baron of Shurland and Minster, and Lord
of Sheppey."

The Mayor put his chain in his pocket, the Aldermen took off their
gowns, the Town Clerk put his pen behind his ear.--It was a county
business altogether:--the Sheriff had better call out the _posse
comitatus_.

While saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him, the Baron de
Shurland was quietly eating his breakfast. He had passed a tranquil
night, undisturbed by dreams of cowl or capuchin; nor was his appetite
more affected than his conscience. On the contrary, he sat rather
longer over his meal than usual: luncheon-time came, and he was ready
as ever for his oysters: but scarcely had Dame Martin opened his first
half-dozen when the warder's horn was heard from the barbican.

"Who the devil's that?" said Sir Robert. "I'm not at home, Periwinkle.
I hate to be disturbed at meals, and I won't be at home to anybody."

"An't please your lordship," answered the Seneschal, "Paul Prior hath
given notice that there is a body--"

"Another body!" roared the Baron. "Am I to be everlastingly plagued
with bodies? No time allowed me to swallow a morsel. Throw it into the
moat!"

"So please you, my lord, it is a body of horse,--and--and Paul says
there is a still larger body of foot behind it; and he thinks, my
lord,--that is, he does not know, but he thinks--and we all think, my
lord, that they are coming to--to besiege the castle!"

"Besiege the castle! Who? What? What for?"

"Paul says, my lord, that he can see the banner of St. Austin, and the
bleeding heart of Hamo de Crevecœur, the Abbot's chief vassal; and
there is John de Northwood, the sheriff, with his red-cross engrailed;
and Hever, and Leybourne, and Heaven knows how many more; and they are
all coming on as fast as ever they can."

"Periwinkle," said the Baron, "up with the drawbridge; down with the
portcullis; bring me a cup of canary, and my nightcap. I won't be
bothered with them. I shall go to bed."

"To bed, my lord?" cried Periwinkle, with a look that seemed to say,
"He's crazy!"

At this moment the shrill tones of a trumpet were heard to sound thrice
from the champaign. It was the signal for parley: the Baron changed his
mind; instead of going to bed, he went to the ramparts.

"Well, rapscallions! and what now!" said the Baron.

A herald, two pursuivants, and a trumpeter, occupied the foreground
of the scene; behind them, some three hundred paces off, upon a
rising ground, was drawn up in battle array the main body of the
ecclesiastical forces.

"Hear you, Robert de Shurland, Knight, Baron of Shurland and Minster,
and Lord of Sheppey, and know all men, by these presents, that I do
hereby attach you, the said Robert, of murder and sacrilege, now, or of
late, done and committed by you, the said Robert, contrary to the peace
of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown and dignity: and I do hereby
require and charge you, the said Robert, to forthwith surrender and
give up your own proper person, together with the castle of Shurland
aforesaid, in order that the same may be duly dealt with according to
law. And here standeth John de Northwood, Esquire, good man and true,
sheriff of this his Majesty's most loyal county of Kent, to enforce the
same, if need be, with his _posse comitatus_--"

"His what?" said the Baron.

"His _posse comitatus_, and--"

"Go to Bath!" said the Baron.

A defiance so contemptuous roused the ire of the adverse commanders.
A volley of missiles rattled about the Baron's ears. Nightcaps avail
little against contusions. He left the walls, and returned to the great
hall.

"Let them pelt away," quoth the Baron; "there are no windows to break,
and they can't get in."--So he took his afternoon nap, and the siege
went on.

Towards evening his lordship awoke, and grew tired of the din. Guy
Pearson, too, had got a black eye from a brick-bat, and the assailants
were clambering over the outer wall. So the Baron called for his
Sunday hauberk of Milan steel, and his great two-handed sword with the
terrible name;--it was the fashion in feudal times to give names to
swords: King Arthur's was christened Excalibar; the Baron called his
Tickletoby, and whenever he took it in hand it was no joke.

"Up with the portcullis! down with the bridge!" said Sir Robert; and
out he sallied, followed by the _élite_ of his retainers. Then there
was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one way--arms and legs another; round
went Tickletoby; and, wherever it alighted, down came horse and man:
the Baron excelled himself that day. All that he had done in Palestine
faded in the comparison; he had fought for fun there, but now it was
for life and lands. Away went John de Northwood; away went William
of Hever, and Roger of Leybourne.--Hamo de Crevecœur, with the church
vassals and the banner of St. Austin, had been gone some time.--The
siege was raised, and the Lord of Sheppey was left alone in his glory.

But, brave as the Baron undoubtedly was, and total as had been the
defeat of his enemies, it cannot be supposed that _La Stoccata_ would
be allowed to carry it away thus. It has before been hinted that Abbot
Anselm had written to the Pope, and Boniface the Eighth piqued himself
on his punctuality as a correspondent in all matters connected with
church discipline. He sent back an answer by return of post; and by it
all Christian people were strictly enjoined to aid in exterminating the
offender, on pain of the greater excommunication in this world, and a
million of years of purgatory in the next. But then, again, Boniface
the Eighth was rather at a discount in England just then. He had
affronted Longshanks, as the loyal lieges had nicknamed their monarch;
and Longshanks had been rather sharp upon the clergy in consequence. If
the Baron de Shurland could but get the King's pardon for what, in his
cooler moments, he admitted to be a peccadillo, he might sniff at the
Pope, and bid him "do his devilmost."

Fortune, who, as the poet says, delights to favour the bold, stood his
friend on this occasion. Edward had been, for some time, collecting a
large force on the coast of Kent, to carry on his French wars for the
recovery of Guienne; he was expected shortly to review it in person;
but, then, the troops lay principally in cantonments about the mouth of
the Thames, and his Majesty was to come down by water. What was to be
done?--the royal barge was in sight, and John de Northwood and Hamo de
Crevecœur had broken up all the boats to boil their camp-kettles.--A
truly great mind is never without resources.

"Bring me my boots!" said the Baron.

They brought him his boots, and his dapple-grey steed along with them.
Such a courser! all blood and bone, short-backed, broad-chested,
and,--but that he was a little ewe-necked,--faultless in form and
figure. The Baron sprang upon his back, and dashed at once into the
river.

The barge which carried Edward Longshanks and his fortunes had by this
time nearly reached the Nore; the stream was broad and the current
strong, but Sir Robert and his steed were almost as broad, and a great
deal stronger. After breasting the tide gallantly for a couple of
miles, the Knight was near enough to hail the steersman.

"What have we got here?" said the King.--"It's a mermaid," said
one.--"It's a grampus," said another.--"It's the devil," said a
third.--But they were all wrong; it was only Robert de Shurland.
"Grammercy," quoth the King, "that fellow was never born to be drowned!"

It has been said before that the Baron had fought in the Holy wars; in
fact, he had accompanied Longshanks, when only heir apparent, in his
expedition twenty-five years before, although his name is unaccountably
omitted by Sir Harris Nicolas in his list of crusaders. He had been
present at Acre when Amirand of Joppa stabbed the prince with a
poisoned dagger, and had lent Princess Eleanor his own tooth-brush
after she had sucked out the venom from the wound.--He had slain
certain Saracens, contented himself with his own plunder, and never
dunned the commissariat for arrears of pay.--Of course he ranked high
in Edward's good graces, and had received the honour of knighthood at
his hands on the field of battle.

In one so circumstanced it cannot be supposed that such a trifle as the
killing of a frowzy friar would be much resented, even had he not taken
so bold a measure to obtain his pardon. His petition was granted, of
course, as soon as asked; and so it would have been had the indictment
drawn up by the Canterbury town-clerk, viz., "That he the said Robert
de Shurland, etc., had then and there, with several, to wit, one
thousand, pairs of boots, given sundry, to wit, two thousand, kicks,
and therewith and thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand, Austin
friars," been true to the letter.

Thrice did the gallant grey circumnavigate the barge, while Robert
de Winchelsey, the chancellor, and archbishop to boot, was making
out, albeit with great reluctance, the royal pardon. The interval was
sufficiently long to enable His Majesty, who, gracious as he was, had
always an eye to business, just to hint that the gratitude he felt
towards the Baron was not unmixed with a lively sense of services to
come; and that, if life were now spared him, common decency must oblige
him to make himself useful. Before the archbishop, who had scalded
his fingers with the wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take
them out of his mouth, all was settled, and the Baron de Shurland had
pledged himself to be forthwith in readiness, _cum suis_, to accompany
his liege lord to Guienne.

With the royal pardon secured in his vest, boldly did his lordship turn
again to the shore; and as boldly did his courser oppose his breadth of
chest to the stream. It was a work of no common difficulty or danger;
a steed of less "mettle and bone" had long since sunk in the effort:
as it was, the Baron's boots were full of water, and Grey Dolphin's
chamfrain more than once dipped beneath the wave. The convulsive snorts
of the noble animal shewed his distress; each instant they became more
loud and frequent; when his hoof touched the strand, and "the horse and
his rider" stood once again in safety on the shore.

Rapidly dismounting, the Baron was loosening the girths of his
demi-pique, to give the panting animal breath, when he was aware of
as ugly an old woman as he had ever clapped eyes upon, peeping at him
under the horse's belly.

"Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland! Make much of your steed!"
cried the hag, shaking at him her long and bony finger. "Groom to the
hide, and corn to the manger! He has saved your life, Robert Shurland,
for the nonce; but he shall yet be the means of your losing it, for all
that!"

The Baron started: "What's that you say, you old faggot?"--He ran round
by his horse's tail;--the woman was gone!

The Baron paused; his great soul was not to be shaken by trifles; he
looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated the word "Humbug!"--then
slinging the bridle across his arm, walked slowly on in the direction
of the castle.

The appearance, and still more the disappearance, of the crone,
had however made an impression; every step he took he became more
thoughtful. "'Twould be deuced provoking, though, if he _should_
break my neck after all."--He turned and gazed at Dolphin with the
scrutinizing eye of a veterinary surgeon.--"I'll be shot if he is not
groggy!" said the Baron.

With his lordship, like another great Commander, "Once to be in doubt,
was once to be resolved:" it would never do to go to the wars on a
rickety prad. He dropped the rein, drew forth Tickletoby, and, as the
enfranchised Dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his ewe-neck to
the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. "There, you lying
old beldame!" said the Baron, "now take him away to the knacker's."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three years were come and gone. King Edward's French wars were over;
both parties, having fought till they came to a standstill, shook
hands; and the quarrel, as usual, was patched up by a royal marriage.
This happy event gave his Majesty leisure to turn his attention to
Scotland, where things, through the intervention of William Wallace,
were looking rather queerish. As his reconciliation with Philip now
allowed of his fighting the Scotch in peace and quietness, the monarch
lost no time in marching his long legs across the border, and the short
ones of the Baron followed him of course. At Falkirk, Tickletoby was in
great request; and in the year following, we find a contemporary poet
hinting at his master's prowess under the walls of Caerlaverock,

  Ovec eus fu achiminez
  Li beau Robert de Shurland
  Ki kant seoit sur le cheval
  Ne sembloit home ke someille.

A quatrain which Mr. Simpkinson translates,

  "With them was marching
  The good Robert de Shurland,
  Who, when seated on horseback,
  Does not resemble a man asleep!"

So thoroughly awake, indeed, does he seem to have proved himself, that
the bard subsequently exclaims, in an ecstasy of admiration,

  Si ie estoie une pucelette
  Je li donrie ceur et cors
  Tant est de lu bons li recors.

  "If I were a young maiden,
  I would give my heart and person,
  So great is his fame!"

Fortunately the poet was a tough old monk of Exeter; since such a
present to a nobleman, now in his grand climacteric, would hardly have
been worth the carriage. With the reduction of this stronghold of the
Maxwells seem to have concluded the Baron's military services; as on
the very first day of the fourteenth century we find him once more
landed on his native shore, and marching, with such of his retainers
as the wars had left him, towards the hospitable shelter of Shurland
Castle. It was then, upon that very beach, some hundred yards distant
from high-water mark, that his eye fell upon something like an ugly
old woman in a red cloak! She was seated on what seemed to be a large
stone, in an interesting attitude, with her elbows resting upon her
knees, and her chin upon her thumbs. The Baron started: the remembrance
of his interview with a similar personage in the same place some three
years since, flashed upon his recollection. He rushed towards the spot,
but the form was gone;--nothing remained but the seat it had appeared
to occupy. This, on examination, turned out to be no stone, but the
whitened skull of a dead horse!--A tender remembrance of the deceased
Grey Dolphin shot a momentary pang into the Baron's bosom; he drew the
back of his hand across his face; the thought of the hag's prediction
in an instant rose, and banished all softer emotions. In utter contempt
of his own weakness, yet with a tremor that deprived his redoubtable
kick of half its wonted force, he spurned the relic with his foot. One
word alone issued from his lips, elucidatory of what was passing in
his mind,--it long remained imprinted on the memory of his faithful
followers,--that word was "Gammon!" The skull bounded across the beach
till it reached the very margin of the stream;--one instant more, and
it would be engulfed for ever. At that moment a loud "Ha! ha! ha!" was
distinctly heard by the whole train to issue from its bleached and
toothless jaws; it sank beneath the flood in a horse laugh!

Meanwhile Sir Robert de Shurland felt an odd sort of sensation in his
right foot. His boots had suffered in the wars. Great pains had been
taken for their preservation. They had been "soled" and "heeled" more
than once;--had they been "goloshed," their owner might have defied
Fate! Well has it been said that "there is no such thing as a trifle."
A nobleman's life depended upon a question of ninepence.

The Baron marched on; the uneasiness in his foot increased. He plucked
off his boot;--a horse's tooth was sticking in his great toe!

The result may be anticipated. Lame as he was, his lordship, with
characteristic decision, would hobble on to Shurland; his walk
increased the inflammation; a flagon of _aqua vitæ_ did not mend
matters. He was in a high fever; he took to his bed. Next morning the
toe presented the appearance of a Bedfordshire carrot; by dinner-time
it had deepened to beet-root; and when Bargrave, the leech, at last
sliced it off, the gangrene was too confirmed to admit of remedy. Dame
Martin thought it high time to send for Miss Margaret, who, ever since
her mother's death, had been living with her maternal aunt, the abbess,
in the Ursuline convent at Greenwich. The young lady came, and with
her came one Master Ingoldsby, her cousin-german by the mother's side;
but the Baron was too far gone in the dead-thraw to recognise either.
He died as he lived, unconquered and unconquerable. His last words
were--"Tell the old hag she may go to----." Whither remains a secret.
He expired without fully articulating the place of her destination.

But who and what _was_ the crone who prophesied the catastrophe? Ay,
"that is the mystery of this wonderful history."--Some say it was Dame
Fothergill, the late confessor's mamma; others, St. Bridget herself;
others thought it was nobody at all, but only a phantom conjured up by
conscience. As we do not know, we decline giving an opinion.

And what became of the Clerk of Chatham?--Mr. Simpkinson avers that he
lived to a good old age, and was at last hanged by Jack Cade, with his
inkhorn about his neck, for "setting boys copies." In support of this
he adduces his name "Emmanuel," and refers to the historian Shakspear.
Mr. Peters, on the contrary, considers this to be what he calls one of
Mr. Simpkinson's "Anacreonisms," inasmuch as, at the introduction of
Mr. Cade's reform measure, the Clerk, if alive, would have been hard
upon two hundred years old. The probability is, that the unfortunate
alluded to was his great-grandson.

Margaret Shurland in due course became Margaret Ingoldsby, her portrait
still hangs in the gallery at Tappington. The features are handsome,
but shrewish, betraying, as it were, a touch of the old Baron's
temperament; but we never could learn that she actually kicked her
husband. She brought him a very pretty fortune in chains, owches, and
Saracen ear-rings; the barony, being a male fief, reverted to the Crown.

In the abbey-church at Minster may yet be seen the tomb of a recumbent
warrior, clad in the chain-mail of the 13th century.[5] His hands are
clasped in prayer; his legs, crossed in that position so prized by
Templars in ancient, and tailors in modern days, bespeak him a soldier
of the faith in Palestine. Close behind his dexter calf lies sculptured
in bold relief a horse's head; and a respectable elderly lady, as she
shows the monument, fails not to read her auditors a fine moral lesson
on the sin of ingratitude, or to claim a sympathising tear to the
memory of poor "Grey Dolphin!"

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[2] I-run, is a town said to have been so named from something
of this sort.

[3] One of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was put,
was the protection of secreted treasure. Blow out all the fingers at
one puff and you had the money.

[4] Since the appearance of the first edition of this Legend
"the guns" have been dismounted. Rumour hints at some alarm on the part
of the Town Council.

[5] Subsequent to the first appearance of the foregoing
narrative, the tomb alluded to has been opened during the course of
certain repairs which the church has undergone. Mr. Simpkinson, who
was present at the exhumation of the body within, and has enriched his
collection with three of its grinders, says the bones of one of the
great toes were wanting. He speaks in terms of great admiration at the
thickness of the skull, and is of opinion that the skeleton is that of
a great patriot much addicted to Lundy-foot.

It is on my own personal reminiscences that I draw for the following
story; the scene of its leading event was most familiar to me in early
life. If the principal actor in it be yet living, he must have reached
a very advanced age. He was often at the Hall, in my infancy, on
professional visits. It is, however, only from those who "prated of his
whereabouts" that I learned the history of his adventure with




THE GHOST.


  There stands a City,--neither large nor small,
    Its air and situation sweet and pretty;
  It matters very little--if at all--
    Whether its denizens are dull or witty,
  Whether the ladies there are short or tall,
    Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!--
  Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute
  That there's a Castle and a Cobbler in it.

  A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,
    And kings and heroes lie entomb'd within her;
  There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose,
    Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner;
  There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose
    Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner;
  And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,
  --Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

  The Castle was a huge and antique mound,
    Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver,
  Ere those abominable guns were found,
    To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver.
  It stands upon a gently rising ground,
    Sloping down gradually to the river,
  Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)
  A well-scooped, mouldy Stilton cheese,--but taller.

  The keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately,
    And, 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honour jealous,
  In martial panoply so grand and stately,
    Its walls are filled with money-making fellows,
  And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly,
    With leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, and bellows;
  In short, so great a change has come to pass,
  'Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

  But to my tale.--Before this profanation,
    And ere its ancient glories were cut short all,
  A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station
    In a small house, just opposite the portal;
  His birth, his parentage, and education,
    I know but little of--a strange, odd mortal;
  His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
  His name was Mason--he'd been christened Nicholas.

  Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,
    And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion;
  But, spite of all her piety, her arm
    She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion;
  And, being of a temper somewhat warm,
    Would now and then seize, upon small occasion,
  A stick, or stool, or anything that round did lie,
  And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

  No matter!--'tis a thing that's not uncommon,
    'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,--
  I mean, a bruizing, pugilistic woman,
    Such as I own I entertain a dread of,
  --And so did Nick,--whom sometimes there would come on
    A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off,
  Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,
  She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

  "There's time and place for all things," said a sage,
    (King Solomon, I think,) and this I can say,
  Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,
    Boxing may be a very pretty _Fancy_,
  When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage;
    --'Tis not so well in Susan, Jane, or Nancy:--
  To get well mill'd by any one's an evil,
  But by a lady--'tis the very Devil.

  And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble,
    (At least his worst,) was this his rib's propensity,
  For sometimes from the alehouse he would hobble,
    His senses lost in a sublime immensity
  Of cogitation--then he couldn't cobble--
    And then his wife would often try the density
  Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might,
  As fast as kitchen-wenches strike a light.

  Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,
    Of this same striking had a morbid dread,
  He hated it like poison--or his wife.
    A vast antipathy!--but so he said
  And very often, for a quiet life,
    On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed,
  Grope darkling in, and, soon as at the door
  He heard his lady--he'd pretend to snore.

  One night, then, ever partial to society,
    Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow),
  Went to a Club--I should have said Society--
    At the "City Arms," once call'd the Porto Bello;
  A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I
    Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow;
  There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather,
  And change of ministers and change of weather.

  In short, it was a kind of British Forum,
    Like John Gale Jones's, erst in Piccadilly,
  Only they managed things with more decorum,
    And the Orations were not _quite_ so silly;
  Far different questions, too, would come before 'em,
    Not always Politics, which, will ye nill ye,
  Their London prototypes were always willing,
  To give one _quantum suff._ of--for a shilling.

  It more resembled one of later date,
    And tenfold talent, as I'm told in Bow Street,
  Where kindlier natured souls do congregate,
    And, though there are who deem that same a low street,
  Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate
    And genuine humour it's surpassed by no street,
  When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes
  To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."

  Here they would oft forget their Ruler's faults,
    And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper,
  Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz,
    How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapour,
  Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts,
    And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper;--
  This night the subject of their disquisitions
  Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions.

  One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man,"
    Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel;"--
  His well-read friend, who next to speak began,
    Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;"
  A third, of more extensive learning, ran
    To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal;
  Of sheeted Spectres spoke with shorten'd breath,
  And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."

  Nick smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard
    The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it,
  How, frequently, some murder'd man appear'd,
    To tell his wife and children who had done it;
  Or how a Miser's ghost, with grisly beard,
    And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet,
  Wander'd about to watch his buried money!
  When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One,--he

  Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture
    Impended from his fond and faithful She;
  Nor could he well to pardon him expect her,
    For he had promised to "be home to tea;"
  But having luckily the key o' the back door,
    He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he
  Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze,
  And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

  Vain fruitless hope!--The wearied sentinel
    At eve may overlook the crouching foe,
  Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell,
    He sinks beneath the unexpected blow;
  Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell,
    When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go;--
  But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary,
  --Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

  Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread;
    She heard the key slow creaking in the door,
  Spied, through the gloom obscure, towards the bed
    Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before;
  When, bang, she threw a something at his head,
    And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor;
  While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,--
  "How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"

  Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated,
    Especially the length of her oration,--
  Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated,
    Roused by the bump into a good set passion,
  So great, that more than once he execrated,
    Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion;
  --The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say,
  He duck'd below the clothes--and there he lay!

  'Twas now the very witching time of night,
    When churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead,
  And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite
    Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,
  And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,
    To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed,
  Sleeping perhaps serenely as a porpoise,
  Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

  Not so our Nicholas, his meditations
    Still to the same tremendous theme recurred,
  The same dread subject of the dark narrations,
    Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard;
  Lost in his own horrific contemplations,
    He ponder'd o'er each well-remember'd word;
  When at the bed's foot, close beside the post,
  He verily believed he saw--a Ghost!

  Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite
    To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew;
  Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height,
    Of more than mortal seeming to the view,
  And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew
    A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course _all white_;--
  The moon that moment peeping through a cloud,
  Nick very plainly saw it _through the shroud_!

  And now those matted locks, which never yet
    Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce,
  Their long-contracted amity forget,
    And spring asunder with elastic force;
  Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse,
    Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet,
  Uprose in agony--the Gorgon's head
  Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.

  From every pore distill'd a clammy dew,
    Quaked every limb,--the candle too no doubt,
  _En règle_, _would_ have burnt extremely blue,
    But Nick unluckily had put it out;
  And he, though naturally bold and stout,
    In short, was in a most tremendous stew;--
  The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell,
  But where that came from Mason could not tell.

  All motionless the Spectre stood,--and now
    Its rev'rend form more clearly shone confest;
  From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow
    Descended o'er its venerable breast;
  The thin grey hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow,
    Told of years long gone by.--An awful guest
  It stood, and with an action of command,
  Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.

  "Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?"
    Nick _might_ have cried, could he have found a tongue,
  But his distended jaws could only gape,
    And not a sound upon the welkin rung:
  His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung
    Forth from their sockets,--like a frightened Ape
  He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright,
  And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.

  And still the shadowy finger, long and lean,
    Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door;
  And many an ireful glance, and frown, between,
    The angry visage of the Phantom wore,
  As if quite vex'd that Nick would do no more
    Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d'ye mean?"

[Illustration: THE GHOST.]

  Because, as we are told,--a sad old joke too,--
  Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."

  Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations,
    Derive a sort of courage from despair,
  And then perform, from downright desperation,
    Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
  Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
    And therefore, groping till he found the chair,
  Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
  And follow'd quaking where the Spectre led.

  And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread,
    The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on,
  Each mazy turning of the humble shed
    Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown,
  So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread
    As though the domicile had been his own,
  Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop,
  Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

  Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound,
    The door upon its hinges open flew;
  And forth the Spirit issued,--yet around
    It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew,
  And, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,
    The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw
  With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
  The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.

  Beneath a pond'rous archway's sombre shade,
    Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
  'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,
    Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,
  The Phantom held its way,--and though afraid
    Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime,
  Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
  And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

  Within the mouldering fabric's deep recess
    At length they reach a court obscure and lone;--
  It seem'd a drear and desolate wilderness,
    The blacken'd walls with ivy all o'ergrown;
  The night-bird shriek'd her note of wild distress,
    Disturb'd upon her solitary throne,
  As though indignant mortal step should dare,
  So led, at such an hour, to venture there!

  --The Apparition paused, and would have spoke,
    Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring,
  But then a neighbouring chanticleer awoke,
    And loudly 'gan his early matins sing;
  And then "it started like a guilty thing,"
    As that shrill clarion the silence broke.
  --We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew
  The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

  The vision was no more--and Nick alone--
    "His streamers waving" in the midnight wind,
  Which through the ruins ceased not to groan;
    --His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,--
  And, worst of all, he knew not where to find
    The ring,--which made him most his fate bemoan--
  The iron ring,--no doubt of some trap door,
  'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.

  "What's to be done?" he cried, "'Twere vain to stay
    Here in the dark without a single clue--
  Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray!
    'Fore George, I'm vastly puzzled what to do,"
  (Then clapped his hand behind)--"'Tis chilly too--
    I'll mark the spot, and come again by day.
  What can I mark it by?--Oh, here's the wall--
  The mortar's yielding--here I'll stick my awl!"

  Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek,
    A loud, a long-protracted note of woe,
  Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak,
    And o'er the side the masts in thunder go;
  While on the deck resistless billows break,
    And drag their victims to the gulfs below;--
  Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,
  Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

  Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry,
    Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream--
  For dream it was;--and all his visions high,
    Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream--
  And still he listens with averted eye,
    When gibing neighbours make "the Ghost" their theme;
  While ever from that hour they all declare
  That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!

       *       *       *       *       *

Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the following
monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of "Yow-Yow"-ing
memory. Tray was an attached favourite of many years' standing. Most
people worth loving have had a friend of this kind; Lord Byron says he
"never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman,) lies!"




THE CYNOTAPH.


  Poor Tray charmant!
  Poor Tray de mon Ami!
                   Dog-bury and Vergers.

  Oh! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray,
  Now his fleeting breath has passed away?--
  Seventeen years, I can venture to say,
  Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play,
  Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay,
  As though every one of his months was May,
  And the whole of his life one long holiday--
  Now he's a lifeless lump of clay,
  Oh! where shall I bury my faithful Tray?

  I am almost tempted to think it hard
  That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard,
      Where the green willows wave  O'er the peaceful grave,
  Which holds all that once was honest and brave,
  Kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true;
  Qualities, Tray, that were found in you.
  But it may not be--yon sacred ground,
  By holiest feelings fenced around,
  May ne'er within its hallow'd bound
  Receive the dust of a soul-less hound.

  I would not place him in yonder fane,
  Where the mid-day sun through the storied pane
  Throws on the pavement a crimson stain;
  Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing
  O'er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King,
  With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing.
      No!--come what may,  My gentle Tray
  Shan't be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor,
  Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder,
      Whom you see on their backs,  In stone or in wax,
  Though the Sacristans now are "forbidden to ax"
  For what Mister Hume calls "a scandalous tax;"
  While the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks.--
  No!--Tray's humble tomb would look but shabby
  'Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey.
      Besides, in the place  They say there's no space
  To bury what wet-nurses call "a Babby."
  Even "Rare Ben Jonson," that famous wight,
  I am told, is interr'd there bolt upright,
  In just such a posture, beneath his bust,
  As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust.
      The epitaph, too,  Would scarcely do:
  For what could it say, but, "Here lies Tray,
  A very good kind of a dog in his day?"
  And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it
  Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet.

  No! no!--The Abbey may do very well
  For a feudal "Nob," or poetical "Swell,"
  "Crusaders," or "Poets," or "Knights of St. John,"
  Or Knights of St. John's Wood, who once went on
  To the ~Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintonne~.
  Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle,
  "Sir Craven," "Sir Gael," and "Sir Campbell of Saddell,"
  (Who, as poor Hook said, when he heard of the feat,
  "Was somehow knock'd out of his family-seat:")
      The Esquires of the body  To my Lord Tomnoddy;
  "Sir Fairlie," "Sir Lamb,"
  And the "Knight of the Ram,"
  The "Knight of the Rose," and the "Knight of the Dragon,"
      Who, save at the flagon,  And prog in the wagon,
  The newspapers tell us did little "to brag on;"

  And more, though the Muse knows but little concerning 'em,
  "Sir Hopkins," "Sir Popkins," "Sir Gage," and "Sir Jerningham,"
  All _Preux Chevaliers_, in friendly rivalry
  Who should best bring back the glory of Chi-valry.--
  --(Pray be so good, for the sake of my song,
  To pronounce here the ante-penultimate long;
  Or some hyper-critic will certainly cry,
  "The word 'Chivalry' is but a 'rhyme to the eye.'"
      And I own it is clear  A fastidious ear
  Will be, more or less, always annoy'd with you when you
  insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine.
      As to pleasing the "eye,"  'Tisn't worth while to try,
  Since Moore and Tom Campbell themselves admit "Spinach"
  Is perfectly antiphonetic to "Greenwich.")--
  But stay!--I say!
  Let me pause while I may--
  This digression is leading me sadly astray
  From my object--A grave for my poor dog Tray!

  I would not place him beneath thy walls,
  And proud o'ershadowing dome, St. Paul's!
  Though I've always consider'd Sir Christopher Wren,
  As an architect, one of the greatest of men;
  And,--talking of Epitaphs,--much I admire his,
  "_Circumspice, si Monumentum requiris_;"
  Which an erudite Verger translated to me,
  "If you ask for his monument, _Sir-come-spy-see!_--"
      No!--I should not know where  To place him there;
  I would not have him by surly Johnson be;--
  Or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Ponsonby;--
      Or those ugly minxes  The sister Sphynxes,
  Mix'd creatures, half lady, half lioness, _ergo_,
  (Denon says), the emblems of _Leo_ and _Virgo_;
  On one of the backs of which singular jumble,
  Sir Ralph Abercrombie is going to tumble,
  With a thump which alone were enough to despatch him,
  If the Scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him.

  No! I'd not have him there,--nor nearer the door,
  Where the man and the Angel have got Sir John Moore,[6]
  And are quietly letting him down through the floor,
  By Gillespie, the one who escaped, at Vellore,
      Alone from the row;--  Neither he, nor Lord Howe
  Would like to be plagued with a little Bow-wow.
      No, Tray, we must yield,  And go further a-field;
  To lay you by Nelson were downright effront'ry;--
  --We'll be off from the City, and look at the country.

      It shall not be there,  In that sepulchred square,
  Where folks are interr'd for the sake of the air,
  (Though, pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse
  To Tray what they grant to Thuggs, and Hindoos,
  Turks, Infidels, Heretics, Jumpers, and Jews,)

      Where the tombstones are placed In the very _best taste_,
      At the feet and the head Of the elegant Dead,
  And no one's received who's not "buried in lead:"
  For, there lie the bones of Deputy Jones,
  Whom the widow's tears, and the orphan's groans
  Affected as much as they do the stones
  His executors laid on the Deputy's bones;
      Little rest, poor knave! Would Tray have in his grave;
      Since Spirits, 'tis plain, Are sent back again,
  To roam round their bodies,--the bad ones in pain,--
  Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain;
  Whenever they met, alarm'd by its groans, his
  Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones's.

      Nor shall he be laid By that cross Old Maid,
  Miss Penelope Bird,--of whom it is said
  All the dogs in the parish were ever afraid.
      He must not be placed By one so strait-laced
  In her temper, her taste, and her morals, and waist.
  For, 'tis said, when she went up to Heaven, and St. Peter,
      Who happened to meet her, Came forward to greet her,
  She pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature,
  And bade him "Get out for a horrid Male Creature!"
  So, the Saint, after looking as if he could eat her,
  Not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her,
  And not being willing,--or able,--to beat her,
  Sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter,
  With an epithet--which I decline to repeat here.
      No,--if Tray were interr'd By Penelope Bird,
  No dog would be e'er so be "whelp"'d and be-"cur"r'd--
  All the night long her cantankerous Sprite
  Would be running about in the pale moon-light,
  Chasing him round, and attempting to lick
  The ghost of poor Tray with the ghost of a stick.

      Stay!--let me see!-- Ay--here it shall be
  At the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree,
      Where Tray and I Would often lie,
  And watch the bright clouds as they floated by
  In the broad expanse of the clear blue sky,
  When the sun was bidding the world good b'ye;
  And the plaintive Nightingale, warbling nigh,
  Pour'd forth her mournful melody;
  While the tender Wood-pigeon's cooing cry
  Has made me say to myself, with a sigh,
  "How nice you would eat with a steak in a pie!"
  Ay, here it shall be!--far, far from the view
  Of the noisy world and its maddening crew.
      Simple and few, Tender and true
  The lines o'er his grave.--They have, some of them, too,
  The advantage of being remarkably new.


_Epitaph._

    Affliction sore  Long time he bore,
  Physicians were in vain!--
    Grown blind, alas! he'd  Some Prussic Acid,
  And that put him out of his pain!

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE, PAGE 71.

In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain
beautiful lines on the burial of that gallant officer might have been
the production of Lord Byron's Muse, the late Mr. Sydney Taylor,
somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late
Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up
in the person of a _soi-disant_ "Doctor Marshall," who turned out to
be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that
a certain "Doctor Peppercorn" put forth _his_ pretensions, to what he
averred was the only "true and original" version, viz.:--

  Not a _sous_ had he got,--not a guinea or note,
    And he look'd confoundedly flurried,
  As he bolted away without paying his shot,
    And the Landlady after him hurried.

  We saw him again at dead of night,
    When home from the Club returning;
  We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light
    Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

  All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
    Reclined in the gutter we found him;
  And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,
    With his _Marshall_ cloak around him.

  "The Doctor's as drunk as the d----," we said,
    And we managed a shutter to borrow;
  We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head
    Would "consumedly ache" on the morrow.

  We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
    And we told his wife and his daughter
  To give him, next morning, a couple of red
    Herrings, with soda-water.--

  Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,
    And his Lady began to upbraid him;
  But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on
    'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

  We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done
    When, beneath the window calling,
  We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
    Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

  Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down
    From his room in the uppermost story;
  A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
    And we left him alone in his glory!!


FOOTNOTES:

[6] See note at end of "The Cynotaph."


  Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--VIRGIL.

  I wrote the lines-- ... owned them--he told stories!

                                       THOMAS INGOLDSBY.




MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.

THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.


Reader, were you ever bewitched?--I do not mean by a "white wench's
black eye," or by love potions imbibed from a ruby lip;--but, were you
ever really and _bonâ fide_ bewitched, in the true Matthew Hopkins
sense of the word? Did you ever, for instance, find yourself from head
to heel one vast complication of cramps?--or burst out into sudorific
exudation like a cold thaw, with the thermometer at zero?--Were your
eyes ever turned upside down, exhibiting nothing but their whites?--Did
you ever vomit a paper of crooked pins? or expectorate Whitechapel
needles?--These are genuine and undoubted marks of possession; and if
you never experienced any of them,--why, "happy man be his dole!"

Yet such things have been: yea, we are assured, and that on no mean
authority, still are.

The World, according to the best geographers, is divided into Europe,
Asia, Africa, America, and Romney Marsh. In this last-named, and fifth,
quarter of the globe, a Witch may still be occasionally discovered in
favourable, _i.e._, stormy, seasons, weathering Dungeness Point in an
egg-shell, or careering on her broomstick over Dymchurch wall. A cow
may yet be sometimes seen galloping like mad, with tail erect, and an
old pair of breeches on her horns, an unerring guide to the door of
the crone whose magic arts have drained her udder.--I do not, however,
remember to have heard that any Conjuror has of late been detected in
the district.

Not many miles removed from the verge of this recondite region, stands
a collection of houses, which its maligners call a fishing-town, and
its well-wishers a Watering-place. A limb of one of the Cinque Ports,
it has (or lately had) a corporation of its own, and has been thought
considerable enough to give a second title to a noble family. Rome
stood on seven hills; Folkestone seems to have been built upon seventy.
Its streets, lanes, and alleys,--fanciful distinctions without much
real difference,--are agreeable enough to persons who do not mind
running up and down stairs; and the only inconvenience, at all felt by
such of its inhabitants as are not asthmatic, is when some heedless
urchin tumbles down a chimney, or an impertinent pedestrian peeps into
a garret window.

At the eastern extremity of the town, on the sea-beach, and scarcely
above high-water mark, stood, in the good old times, a row of houses
then denominated "Frog-hole." Modern refinement subsequently euphonized
the name into "East-street;" but "what's in a name?"--the encroachments
of Ocean have long since levelled all in one common ruin.

Here, in the early part of the seventeenth century, flourished in
somewhat doubtful reputation, but comparative opulence, a compounder of
medicines, one Master Erasmus Buckthorne; the effluvia of whose drugs
from within, mingling agreeably with the "ancient and fish-like smells"
from without, wafted a delicious perfume throughout the neighbourhood.

At seven of the clock, on the morning when Mrs. Botherby's narrative
commences, a stout Suffolk "punch," about thirteen hands and a
half in height, was slowly led up and down before the door of the
pharmacopolist by a lean and withered lad, whose appearance warranted
an opinion, pretty generally expressed, that his master found him as
useful in experimentalizing as in household drudgery; and that, for
every pound avoirdupois of solid meat, he swallowed, at the least,
two pounds troy-weight of chemicals and galenicals. As the town clock
struck the quarter, Master Buckthorne emerged from his laboratory, and,
putting the key carefully into his pocket, mounted the surefooted cob
aforesaid, and proceeded up and down the acclivities and declivities of
the town with the gravity due to his station and profession. When he
reached the open country, his pace was increased to a sedate canter,
which, in somewhat more than half an hour, brought "the horse and his
rider" in front of a handsome and substantial mansion, the numerous
gable-ends and bayed windows of which bespoke the owner a man of
worship, and one well to do in the world.

"How now, Hodge Gardener?" quoth the Leech, scarcely drawing bit; for
Punch seemed to be aware that he had reached his destination, and
paused of his own accord; "How now, man? How fares thine employer,
worthy Master Marsh? How hath he done? How hath he slept?--My potion
hath done its office? Ha!"

"Alack! ill at ease, worthy sir--ill at ease," returned the hind; "his
honour is up and stirring; but he hath rested none, and complaineth
that the same gnawing pain devoureth, as it were, his very vitals: in
sooth he is ill at ease."

"Morrow, doctor!" interrupted a voice from a casement opening on the
lawn. "Good morrow! I have looked for, longed for, thy coming this hour
and more; enter at once; the pasty and tankard are impatient for thine
attack!"

"Marry, Heaven forbid that I should baulk their fancy!" quoth the Leech
_sotto voce_, as, abandoning the bridle to honest Hodge, he dismounted,
and followed a buxom-looking handmaiden into the breakfast parlour.

There, at the head of his well-furnished board, sat Master Thomas
Marsh, of Marston-hall, a Yeoman well respected in his degree: one of
that sturdy and sterling class which, taking rank immediately below
the Esquire (a title in its origin purely military), occupied, in the
wealthier counties, the position in society now filled by the Country
Gentleman. He was one of those of whom the proverb ran:

  "A Knight of Cales,
  A Gentleman of Wales,
    And a Laird of the North Countree;
  A Yeoman of Kent,
  With his yearly rent,
    Will buy them out all three!"

A cold sirloin, big enough to frighten a Frenchman, filled the place
of honour, counter-checked by a game-pie of no stinted dimensions;
while a silver flagon of "humming-bub,"--_viz._ ale strong enough to
blow a man's beaver off,--smiled opposite in treacherous amenity.
The sideboard groaned beneath sundry massive cups and waiters of
the purest silver; while the huge skull of a fallow deer, with its
branching horns, frowned majestically above. All spoke of affluence,
of comfort,--all save the master, whose restless eye and feverish look
hinted but too plainly the severest mental or bodily disorder. By the
side of the proprietor of the mansion sat his consort, a lady now past
the bloom of youth, yet still retaining many of its charms. The clear
olive of her complexion, and "the darkness of her Andalusian eye," at
once betrayed her foreign origin; in fact, her "lord and master," as
husbands were even then, by a legal fiction, denominated, had taken
her to his bosom in a foreign country. The cadet of his family, Master
Thomas Marsh, had early in life been engaged in commerce. In the
pursuit of his vocation he had visited Antwerp, Hamburg, and most of
the Hanse Towns; and had already formed a tender connexion with the
orphan offspring of one of old Alva's officers, when the unexpected
deaths of one immediate, and two presumptive, heirs placed him next in
succession to the family acres. He married, and brought home his bride:
who, by the decease of the venerable possessor, heart-broken at the
loss of his elder children, became eventually lady of Marston-Hall.
It has been said that she was beautiful, yet was her beauty of a
character that operates on the fancy more than the affections; she was
one to be admired rather than loved. The proud curl of her lip, the
firmness of her tread, her arched brow and stately carriage, showed
the decision, not to say haughtiness, of her soul; while her glances,
whether lightening with anger, or melting in extreme softness, betrayed
the existence of passions as intense in kind as opposite in quality.
She rose as Erasmus entered the parlour, and, bestowing on him a look
fraught with meaning, quitted the room, leaving him in unrestrained
communication with his patient.

"'Fore George, Master Buckthorne!" exclaimed the latter, as the Leech
drew near, "I will no more of your pharmacy;--burn, burn,--gnaw,
gnaw,--I had as lief the foul fiend were in my gizzard as one of your
drugs. Tell me in the devil's name, what is the matter with me!"

Thus conjured, the practitioner paused, and even turned somewhat
pale. There was a perceptible faltering in his voice, as, evading the
question, he asked, "What say your other physicians?"

"Doctor Phiz says it is wind,--Doctor Fuz says it is water,--and Doctor
Buz says it is something between wind and water."

"They are all of them wrong," said Erasmus Buckthorne.

"Truly, I think so," returned the patient. "They are manifest asses;
but you, good Leech, you are a horse of another colour. The world talks
loudly of your learning, your skill, and cunning in arts the most
abstruse; nay, sooth to say, some look coldly on you therefore, and
stickle not to aver that you are cater-cousin with Beelzebub himself."

"It is ever the fate of science," murmured the professor, "to be
maligned by the ignorant and superstitious. But a truce with such
folly; let me examine your palate."

Master Marsh thrust out a tongue long, clear, and red as beetroot.
"There is nothing wrong there," said the Leech. "Your wrist:--no;--the
pulse is firm and regular, the skin cool and temperate. Sir, there is
nothing the matter with you!"

"Nothing the matter with me, Sir 'Potecary?--But I tell you there is
the matter with me,--much the matter with me. Why is it that something
seems ever gnawing at my heart-strings?--Whence this pain in the region
of the liver?--Why is it that I sleep not o' nights,--rest not o' days?
Why?"

"You are fidgety, Master Marsh," said the doctor.

Master Marsh's brow grew dark; he half rose from his seat, supported
himself by both hands on the arms of his elbow-chair, and in accents of
mingled anger and astonishment repeated the word "Fidgety!"

"Ay, fidgety," returned the doctor calmly. "Tut, man, there is nought
ails thee save thine own overweening fancies. Take less of food, more
air, put aside thy flagon, call for thy horse; be boot and saddle the
word! Why,--hast thou not youth?--"

"I have," said the patient.

"Wealth and a fair domain?"

"Granted," quoth Marsh cheerily.

"And a fair wife?"

"Yea," was the response, but in a tone something less satisfied.

"Then arouse thee, man, shake off this fantasy, betake thyself to thy
lawful occasions,--use thy good hap,--follow thy pleasures, and think
no more of these fancied ailments."

"But I tell you, master mine, these ailments are not fancied. I lose my
rest, I loathe my food, my doublet sits loosely on me,--these racking
pains. My wife, too,--when I meet her gaze, the cold sweat stands on
my forehead, and I could almost think--" Marsh paused abruptly, mused
awhile, then added, looking steadily at his visitor, "These things are
not right; they pass the common, Master Erasmus Buckthorne."

A slight shade crossed the brow of the Leech, but its passage was
momentary; his features softened to a smile, in which pity seemed
slightly blended with contempt. "Have done with such follies, Master
Marsh. You are well, an you would but think so. Ride, I say, hunt,
shoot, do anything,--disperse these melancholic humours, and become
yourself again."

"Well, I will do your bidding," said Marsh, thoughtfully. "It may be
so; and yet,--but I will do your bidding. Master Cobbe of Brenzet
writes me that he hath a score or two of fat ewes to be sold a
pennyworth; I had thought to have sent Ralph Looker, but I will essay
to go myself. Ho, there!--saddle me the brown mare, and bid Ralph be
ready to attend me on the gelding."

An expression of pain contracted the features of Master Marsh as he
rose and slowly quitted the apartment to prepare for his journey; while
the Leech, having bidden him farewell, vanished through an opposite
door, and betook himself to the private boudoir of the fair Mrs.
Marston, muttering as he went a quotation from a then newly-published
play,

          "Not poppy, nor mandragora,
  Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
  Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
  Which thou own'dst yesterday."

       *       *       *       *       *

Of what passed at this interview between the Folkestone doctor and
the fair Spaniard, Mrs. Botherby declares she could never obtain
any satisfactory elucidation. Not that tradition is silent on the
subject,--quite the contrary; it is the abundance, not paucity, of the
materials she supplies, and the consequent embarrassment of selection,
that makes the difficulty. Some have averred that the Leech, whose
character, as has been before hinted, was more than threadbare,
employed his time in teaching her the mode of administering certain
noxious compounds, the unconscious partaker whereof would pine and die
so slowly and gradually as to defy suspicion. Others there were who
affirmed that Lucifer himself was then and there raised _in propriâ
personâ_, with all his terrible attributes of horn and hoof. In
support of this assertion, they adduce the testimony of the aforesaid
buxom housemaid, who protested that the hall smelt that evening like
a manufactory of matches. All, however, seemed to agree that the
confabulation, whether human or infernal, was conducted with profound
secrecy, and protracted to a considerable length; that its object, as
far as could be divined, meant anything but good to the head of the
family: that the lady, moreover, was heartily tired of her husband;
and that, in the event of his removal by disease or casualty, Master
Erasmus Buckthorne, albeit a great philosophist, would have no violent
objection to "throw physic to the dogs," and exchange his laboratory
for the estate of Marston, its live stock included. Some, too, have
inferred that to him did Madame Isabel seriously incline; while others
have thought, induced perhaps by subsequent events, that she was
merely using him for her purposes; that one José, a tall, bright-eyed,
hook-nosed stripling from her native land, was a personage not unlikely
to put a spoke in the doctor's wheel; and that, should such a chance
arise, the Sage, wise as he was, would, after all, run no slight risk
of being "bamboozled."

Master José was a youth well-favoured, and comely to look upon. His
office was that of page to the dame; an office which, after long
remaining in abeyance, has been of late years revived, as may well be
seen in the persons of sundry smart hobbledehoys, now constantly to
be met with on staircases and in boudoirs, clad, for the most part,
in garments fitted tightly to the shape, the lower moiety adorned
with a broad strip of crimson or silver lace, and the upper with what
the first Wit of our times has described as "a favourable eruption
of buttons." The precise duties of this employment have never, as
far as we have heard, been accurately defined. The perfuming a
handkerchief, the combing a lap-dog, and the occasional presentation
of a sippet-shaped _billet doux_, are, and always have been, among
them; but these a young gentleman standing five foot ten, and aged
nineteen "last grass," might well be supposed to have outgrown. José,
however, kept his place, perhaps because he was not fit for any other.
To the conference between his mistress and the physician he had not
been admitted; his post was to keep watch and ward in the ante-room;
and, when the interview was concluded, he attended the lady and her
visitor as far as the court-yard, where he held, with all due respect,
the stirrup for the latter, as he once more resumed his position on the
back of Punch.

Who is it that says "little pitchers have large ears?" Some deep
metaphysician of the potteries, who might have added that they have
also quick eyes, and sometimes silent tongues. There was a little
metaphorical piece of crockery of this class, who, screened by a huge
elbow-chair, had sat a quiet and unobserved spectator of the whole
proceedings between her mamma and Master Erasmus Buckthorne. This was
Miss Marian Marsh, a rosy-cheeked laughter-loving imp of some six years
old; but one who could be mute as a mouse when the fit was on her. A
handsome and highly polished cabinet of the darkest ebony occupied a
recess at one end of the apartment; this had long been a great subject
of speculation to little Miss. Her curiosity, however, had always
been repelled; nor had all her coaxing ever won her an inspection
of the thousand and one pretty things which its recesses no doubt
contained. On this occasion it was unlocked, and Marian was about to
rush forward in eager anticipation of a peep at its interior, when,
child as she was, the reflection struck her that she would stand a
better chance of carrying her point by remaining _perdue_. Fortune for
once favoured her: she crouched closer than before, and saw her mother
take something from one of the drawers, which she handed over to the
Leech. Strange mutterings followed, and words whose sound was foreign
to her youthful ears. Had she been older, their import, perhaps, might
have been equally unknown.--After a while there was a pause; and then
the lady, as in answer to a requisition from the gentleman, placed in
his hand a something which she took from her toilet. The transaction,
whatever its nature, seemed now to be complete, and the article was
carefully replaced in the drawer from which it had been taken. A long,
and apparently interesting, conversation then took place between
the parties, carried on in a low tone. At its termination, Mistress
Marsh and Master Erasmus Buckthorne quitted the boudoir together. But
the cabinet!--ay, that was left unfastened; the folding-doors still
remained invitingly expanded, the bunch of keys dangling from the lock.
In an instant the spoiled child was in a chair; the drawer, so recently
closed, yielded at once to her hand, and her hurried researches were
rewarded by the prettiest little waxen doll imaginable. It was a
first-rate prize, and Miss lost no time in appropriating it to herself.
Long before Madame Marsh had returned to her _Sanctum_, Marian was
seated under a laurestinus in the garden, nursing her new baby with the
most affectionate solicitude.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Susan, look here; see what a nasty scratch I have got upon my hand,"
said the young lady, when routed out at length from her hiding-place to
her noontide meal.

"Yes, Miss, this is always the way with you! mend, mend, mend,--nothing
but mend! Scrambling about among the bushes, and tearing your clothes
to rags. What with you, and with madam's farthingales and kirtles, a
poor bower-maiden has a fine time of it!"

"But I have not torn my clothes, Susan, and it was not the bushes; it
was the doll: only see what a great ugly pin I have pulled out of it!
and look, here is another!" As she spoke, Marian drew forth one of
those extended pieces of black pointed wire, with which, in the days
of toupees and pompoons, our foremothers were wont to secure their
fly-caps and head-gear from the impertinent assaults of "Zephyrus and
the Little Breezes."

"And pray, Miss, where did you get this pretty doll, as you call
it!" asked Susan, turning over the puppet, and viewing it with a
scrutinizing eye.

"Mamma gave it me," said the child.--This was a fib!

"Indeed!" quoth the girl thoughtfully; and then, in half soliloquy,
and a lower key, "Well! I wish I may die if it doesn't look like
master!--But come to your dinner, Miss! Hark! the _bell is striking
One_!"

Meanwhile Master Thomas Marsh, and his man Ralph, were threading the
devious paths, then, as now, most pseudonymously dignified with the
name of roads, that wound between Marston-Hall and the frontier of
Romney Marsh. Their progress was comparatively slow; for though the
brown mare was as good a roadster as man might back, and the gelding
no mean nag of his hands, yet the tracts, rarely traversed save by the
rude wains of the day, miry in the "bottoms," and covered with loose
and rolling stones on the higher grounds, rendered barely passable the
perpetual alternation of hill and valley.

The master rode on in pain, and the man in listlessness; although
the intercourse between two individuals so situated was much less
restrained in those days than might suit the refinement of a later age,
little passed approximating to conversation beyond an occasional and
half-stifled groan from the one, or a vacant whistle from the other.
An hour's riding had brought them among the woods of Acryse; and they
were about to descend one of those green and leafy lanes, rendered by
matted and over-arching branches alike impervious to shower or sunbeam,
when a sudden and violent spasm seized on Master Marsh, and nearly
caused him to fall from his horse. With some difficulty he succeeded
in dismounting, and seating himself by the road side. Here he remained
for a full half-hour in great apparent agony; the cold sweat rolled
in large round drops adown his clammy forehead, a universal shivering
palsied every limb, his eye-balls appeared to be starting from their
sockets, and to his attached, though dull and heavy serving-man, he
seemed as one struggling in the pangs of impending dissolution. His
groans rose thick and frequent; and the alarmed Ralph was hesitating
between his disinclination to leave him, and his desire to procure such
assistance as one of the few cottages, rarely sprinkled in that wild
country, might afford, when, after a long-drawn sigh, his master's
features as suddenly relaxed; he declared himself better, the pang had
passed away, and, to use his own expression, he "felt as if a knife had
been drawn from out his very heart." With Ralph's assistance, after a
while, he again reached his saddle; and though still ill at ease, from
a deep-seated and gnawing pain, which ceased not, as he averred, to
torment him, the violence of the paroxysm was spent, and it returned no
more.

Master and man pursued their way with increased speed, as, emerging
from the wooded defiles, they at length neared the coast; then, leaving
the romantic castle of Saltwood, with its neighbouring town of Hithe, a
little on their left, they proceeded along the ancient paved causeway,
and, crossing the old Roman road, or Watling, plunged again into the
woods that stretched between Lympne and Ostenhanger.

The sun rose high in the heavens, and its meridian blaze was powerfully
felt by man and horse, when, again quitting their leafy covert, the
travellers debouched on the open plain of Aldington Frith, a wide tract
of unenclosed country stretching down to the very borders of "the
Marsh" itself.

Here it was, in the neighbouring chapelry, the site of which may yet
be traced by the curious antiquary, that Elizabeth Barton, the "Holy
Maid of Kent," had, something less than a hundred years previous to
the period of our narrative, commenced that series of supernatural
pranks which eventually procured for her head an unenvied elevation
upon London Bridge; and though the parish had since enjoyed the benefit
of the incumbency of Master Erasmus's illustrious and enlightened
Namesake, still, truth to tell, some of the old leaven was even yet
supposed to be at work. The place had, in fact, an ill name; and,
though Popish miracles had ceased to electrify its denizens, spells
and charms, operating by a no less wondrous agency, were said to have
taken their place. Warlocks, and other unholy subjects of Satan,
were reported to make its wild recesses their favourite rendezvous,
and that to an extent which eventually attracted the notice of
no less a personage than the sagacious Matthew Hopkins himself,
Witchfinder-General to the British government.

A great portion of the Frith, or Fright, as the name was then, and
is still pronounced, had formerly been a Chase, with rights of
Free-warren, etc., appertaining to the Archbishops of the Province.
Since the Reformation, however, it had been disparked; and when Master
Thomas Marsh, and his man Ralph, entered upon its confines, the open
greensward exhibited a lively scene, sufficiently explanatory of
certain sounds that had already reached their ears while yet within the
sylvan screen which concealed their origin.

It was Fair-day: booths, stalls, and all the rude _paraphernalia_
of an assembly that then met as much for the purposes of traffic
as festivity, were scattered irregularly over the turf; pedlars,
with their packs, horse-coupers, pig-merchants, itinerant vendors
of crockery and cutlery, wandered promiscuously among the mingled
groups, exposing their several wares and commodities, and soliciting
custom. On one side was the gaudy riband, making its mute appeal to
rustic gallantry; on the other, the delicious brandy-ball and alluring
lollipop, compounded after the most approved receipt in the "True
Gentlewoman's Garland," and "raising the waters" in the mouth of many
an expectant urchin.

Nor were rural sports wanting to those whom pleasure, rather than
business, had drawn from their humble homes. Here was the tall and
slippery pole, glittering in its grease, and crowned with the ample
cheese, that mocked the hopes of the discomfited climber. There the
fugitive pippin, swimming in water not of the purest, and bobbing
from the expanded lips of the juvenile Tantalus. In this quarter the
ear was pierced by squeaks from some beleaguered porker, whisking his
well-soaped tail from the grasp of one already in fancy his captor. In
that, the eye rested, with undisguised delight, upon the grimaces of
grinning candidates for the honours of the horse-collar. All was fun,
frolic, courtship, junketing, and jollity.

Maid Marian, indeed, with her lieges, Robin Hood, Scarlet, and Little
John, was wanting; Friar Tuck was absent; even the Hobby-horse had
disappeared: but the agile Maurice-dancers yet were there, and jingled
their bells merrily among stalls well stored with gingerbread, tops,
whips, whistles, and all those noisy instruments of domestic torture in
which scenes like these are even now so fertile.--Had I a foe whom I
held at deadliest feud, I would entice his favourite child to a Fair,
and buy him a Whistle and a Penny-trumpet.

In one corner of the green, a little apart from the thickest of the
throng, stood a small square stage, nearly level with the chins of
the spectators, whose repeated bursts of laughter seemed to intimate
the presence of something more than usually amusing. The platform was
divided into two unequal portions; the smaller of which, surrounded
by curtains of a coarse canvass, veiled from the eyes of the profane
the _penetralia_ of this moveable temple of Esculapius, for such
it was. Within its interior, and secure from vulgar curiosity, the
Quack-salver had hitherto kept himself ensconced; occupied, no doubt,
in the preparation and arrangement of that wonderful _panacea_ which
was hereafter to shed the blessings of health among the admiring
crowd. Meanwhile his attendant Jack-pudding was busily employed on
the _proscenium_, doing his best to attract attention by a practical
facetiousness which took wonderfully with the spectators, interspersing
it with the melodious notes of a huge cow's horn. The fellow's costume
varied but little in character from that in which the late (alas!
that we should have to write the word--late!) Mr. Joseph Grimaldi
was accustomed to present himself before "a generous and enlightened
public:" the principal difference consisted in this, that the upper
garment was a long white tunic of a coarse linen, surmounted by a
caricature of the ruff then fast falling into disuse, and was secured
from the throat downwards by a single row of broad white metal
buttons; and his legs were cased in loose wide trousers of the same
material; while his sleeves, prolonged to a most disproportionate
extent, descended far below the fingers, and acted as flappers in the
somersets and caracoles, with which he diversified and enlivened his
antics. Consummate impudence, not altogether unmixed with a certain sly
humour, sparkled in his eye through the chalk and ochre with which his
features were plentifully bedaubed; and especially displayed itself in
a succession of jokes, the coarseness of which did not seem to detract
from their merit in the eyes of his applauding audience.

He was in the midst of a long and animated harangue explanatory of his
master's high pretensions; he had informed his gaping auditors that the
latter was the seventh son of a seventh son, and of course, as they
very well knew, an Unborn Doctor; that to this happy accident of birth
he added the advantage of most extensive travel; that in his search
after science he had not only perambulated the whole of this world,
but had trespassed on the boundaries of the next: that the depths of
the Ocean and the bowels of the Earth were alike familiar to him; that
besides salves and cataplasms of sovereign virtue, by combining sundry
mosses, gathered many thousand fathoms below the surface of the sea,
with certain unknown drugs found in an undiscovered island, and boiling
the whole in the lava of Vesuvius, he had succeeded in producing his
celebrated balsam of Crackapanoko, the never-failing remedy for all
human disorders, and which, a proper trial allowed, would go near to
reanimate the dead. "Draw near!" continued the worthy, "draw near, my
masters! and you, my good mistresses, draw near, every one of you. Fear
not high and haughty carriage: though greater than King or Kaiser,
yet is the mighty Aldrovando milder than mother's milk; flint to the
proud, to the humble he is as melting wax; he asks not your disorders,
he sees them himself at a glance--nay, without a glance; he tells your
ailments with his eyes shut!--Draw near! draw near! the more incurable
the better! List to the illustrious Doctor Aldrovando, first physician
to Prester John, Leech to the Grand Llama, and Hakim in Ordinary to
Mustapha Muley Bey!"

"Hath your master ever a charm for the toothache, an't please you?"
asked an elderly countryman, whose swollen cheek bespoke his interest
in the question.

"A charm!--a thousand, and every one of them infallible. Toothache,
quotha! I had hoped you had come with every bone in your body fractured
or out of joint. A toothache!--propound a tester, master o' mine--we
ask not more for such trifles: do my bidding, and thy jaws, even with
the word, shall cease to trouble thee!"

The clown, fumbling a while in a deep leathern purse, at length
produced a sixpence, which he tendered to the jester. "Now to thy
master, and bring me the charm forthwith."

"Nay, honest man; to disturb the mighty Aldrovando on such slight
occasion were pity of my life: areed my counsel aright, and I will
warrant thee for the nonce. Hie thee home, friend; infuse this powder
in cold spring-water, fill thy mouth with the mixture, and sit upon thy
fire till it boils!"

"Out on thee for a pestilent knave!" cried the cozened countryman;
but the roar of merriment around bespoke the bystanders well-pleased
with the jape put upon him. He retired, venting his spleen in audible
murmurs; and the mountebank, finding the feelings of the mob enlisted
on his side, waxed more impudent every instant, filling up the
intervals between his fooleries with sundry capers and contortions, and
discordant notes from the cow's horn.

"Draw near, draw near, my masters! Here have ye a remedy for every evil
under the sun, moral, physical, natural, and supernatural! Hath any man
a termagant wife?--here is that will tame her presently! Hath any one a
smoky chimney?--here is an incontinent cure!"

To the first infliction no man ventured to plead guilty, though there
were those standing by who thought their neighbours might have profited
withal. For the last-named recipe started forth at least a dozen
candidates. With the greatest gravity imaginable, Pierrot, having
pocketed their groats, delivered to each a small packet curiously
folded and closely sealed, containing, as he averred, directions
which, if truly observed, would preclude any chimney from smoking for
a whole year. They whose curiosity led them to dive into the mystery,
found that a sprig of mountain ash culled by moonlight was the charm
recommended, coupled, however, with the proviso that no fire should be
lighted on the hearth during its exercise.

The frequent bursts of merriment proceeding from this quarter at length
attracted the attention of Master Marsh, whose line of road necessarily
brought him near this end of the fair; he drew bit in front of the
stage just as its noisy occupant, having laid aside his formidable
horn, was drawing still more largely on the amazement of "the public"
by a feat of especial wonder,--he was eating fire! Curiosity mingled
with astonishment was at its height; and feelings not unallied to alarm
were beginning to manifest themselves, among the softer sex especially,
as they gazed on the flames that issued from the mouth of the living
volcano. All eyes, indeed, were fixed upon the fire-eater with an
intentness that left no room for observing another worthy who had now
emerged upon the scene. This was, however, no less a personage than the
_Deus ex machinâ_,--the illustrious Aldrovando himself.

Short in stature and spare in form, the sage had somewhat increased
the former by a steeple-crowned hat adorned with a cock's feather;
while the thick shoulder-padding of a quilted doublet, surmounted by
a falling band, added a little to his personal importance in point of
breadth. His habit was composed throughout of black serge, relieved
with scarlet slashes in the sleeves and trunks; red was the feather in
his hat, red were the roses in his shoes, which rejoiced moreover in a
pair of red heels. The lining of a short cloak of faded velvet, that
hung transversely over his left shoulder, was also red. Indeed, from
all that we could ever see or hear, this agreeable alternation of red
and black appears to be the mixture of colours most approved at the
court of Beelzebub, and the one most generally adopted by his friends
and favourites. His features were sharp and shrewd, and a fire sparkled
in his keen grey eye, much at variance with the wrinkles that ran their
irregular furrows above his prominent and bushy brows. He had advanced
slowly from behind the screen while the attention of the multitude
was absorbed by the pyrotechnics of Mr. Merryman, and, stationing
himself at the extreme corner of the stage, stood quietly leaning on
a crutch-handle walking-staff of blackest ebony, his glance steadily
fixed on the face of Marsh, from whose countenance the amusement he had
insensibly begun to derive had not succeeded in removing all traces of
bodily pain.

For a while the latter was unobservant of the inquisitorial survey with
which he was regarded; the eyes of the parties, however, at length met.
The brown mare had a fine shoulder; she stood pretty nearly sixteen
hands. Marsh himself, though slightly bowed by ill health and the
"coming autumn" of life, was full six feet in height. His elevation
giving him an unobstructed view over the heads of the pedestrians, he
had naturally fallen into the rear of the assembly, which brought him
close to the diminutive Doctor, with whose face, despite the red heels,
his own was about upon a level.

"And what makes Master Marsh here?--what sees he in the mummeries of a
miserable buffoon to divert him when his life is in jeopardy?" said a
shrill cracked voice that sounded as in his very ear. It was the Doctor
who spoke.

"Knowest thou me, friend?" said Marsh, scanning with awakened interest
the figure of his questioner: "I call thee not to mind; and yet--stay,
where have we met?"

"It skills not to declare," was the answer; "suffice it we _have_
met,--in other climes perchance,--and now meet happily again--happily
at least for thee."

"Why truly the trick of thy countenance reminds me of somewhat I have
seen before; where or when I know not: but what wouldst thou with me?"

"Nay, rather what wouldst thou here, Thomas Marsh? What wouldst thou on
the Frith of Aldington?--is it a score or two of paltry sheep? or is it
something _nearer to thy heart_?"

Marsh started as the last words were pronounced with more than
common significance: a pang shot through him at the moment, and the
vinegar aspect of the charlatan seemed to relax into a smile half
compassionate, half sardonic.

"Grammercy," quoth Marsh, after a long-drawn breath, "what knowest thou
of me, fellow, or of my concerns? What knowest thou--"

"This know I, Master Thomas Marsh," said the stranger gravely, "that
thy life is even now perilled, evil practices are against thee; but no
matter, thou art quit for the nonce--other hands than mine have saved
thee! Thy pains are over. Hark! _the clock strikes One!_" As he spoke
a single toll from the bell-tower of Bilsington came, wafted by the
western breeze, over the thick-set and lofty oaks which intervened
between the Frith and what had been once a priory. Doctor Aldrovando
turned as the sound came floating on the wind, and was moving, as
if half in anger, towards the other side of the stage, where the
mountebank, his fires extinct, was now disgorging to the admiring crowd
yard after yard of gaudy-coloured riband.

"Stay! Nay, prithee stay!" cried Marsh eagerly, "I was wrong; in faith
I was. A change, and that a sudden and most marvellous, hath indeed
come over me; I am free; I breathe again; I feel as though a load of
years had been removed; and--is it possible?--hast thou done this?"

"Thomas Marsh!" said the doctor, pausing, and turning for the moment on
his heel, "I have _not_: I repeat that other and more innocent hands
than mine have done this deed. Nevertheless, heed my counsel well! Thou
art parlously encompassed; I, and I only, have the means of relieving
thee. Follow thy courses; pursue thy journey; but as thou valuest life
and more than life, be at the foot of yonder woody knoll what time the
rising moon throws her first beam upon the bare and blighted summit
that towers above its trees."

He crossed abruptly to the opposite quarter of the scaffolding, and
was in an instant deeply engaged in listening to those whom the cow's
horn had attracted, and in prescribing for their real or fancied
ailments. Vain were all Marsh's efforts again to attract his notice;
it was evident that he studiously avoided him; and when, after an hour
or more spent in useless endeavour, he saw the object of his anxiety
seclude himself once more within his canvass screen, he rode slowly and
thoughtfully off the field.

What should he do? Was the man a mere quack? an impostor?--His name
thus obtained?--that might be easily done. But then, his secret griefs;
the doctor's knowledge of them; their cure; for he felt that his pains
were gone, his healthful feelings restored!

True, Aldrovando, if that were his name, had disclaimed all
cooperation in his recovery; but he knew, or he at least announced
it. Nay, more, he had hinted that he was yet in jeopardy; that
practices--and the chord sounded strangely in unison with one that had
before vibrated within him--that practices were in operation against
his life! It was enough! He would keep tryst with the Conjuror, if
conjuror he were; and, at least, ascertain who and what he was, and how
he had become acquainted with his own person and secret afflictions.

When the late Mr. Pitt was determined to keep out Bonaparte, and
prevent his gaining a settlement in the county of Kent, among other
ingenious devices adopted for that purpose, he caused to be constructed
what was then, and has ever since been conventionally termed a
"Military Canal." This is a not very practicable ditch, some thirty
feet wide, and nearly nine feet deep--in the middle,--extending from
the town and port of Hithe to within a mile of the town and port of
Rye, a distance of about twenty miles, and forming, as it were, the
cord of a bow, the arc of which constitutes that remote fifth quarter
of the globe spoken of by travellers. Trivial objections to the plan
were made at the time by cavillers; and an old gentleman of the
neighbourhood, who proposed as a cheap substitute, to put down his own
cocked-hat upon a pole, was deservedly pooh-pooh'd down; in fact, the
job, though rather an expensive one, was found to answer remarkably
well. The French managed indeed to scramble over the Rhine and the
Rhone, and other insignificant currents, but they never did, or could,
pass Mr. Pitt's "Military Canal." At no great distance from the centre
of this cord rises abruptly a sort of woody promontory, in shape almost
conical; its sides covered with thick underwood, above which is seen a
bare and brown summit rising like an Alp in miniature. The "defence
of the nation" not being then in existence, Master Marsh met with no
obstruction in reaching this place of appointment long before the time
prescribed.

So much, indeed, was his mind occupied by his adventure and
extraordinary cure, that his original design had been abandoned, and
Master Cobbe remained unvisited. A rude hostel in the neighbourhood
furnished entertainment for man and horse; and here, a full hour before
the rising of the moon, he left Ralph and the other beasts, proceeding
to his rendezvous on foot and alone.

"You are punctual, Master Marsh," squeaked the shrill voice of the
Doctor, issuing from the thicket as the first silvery gleam trembled on
the aspens above. "'Tis well: now follow me and in silence."

The first part of the command Marsh hesitated not to obey, the second
was more difficult of observance.

"Who and what are you? Whither are you leading me?" burst not
unnaturally from his lips; but all question was at once cut short by
the peremptory tones of his guide.

"Hush! I say; your finger on your lip, there be hawks abroad: follow
me, and that silently and quickly." The little man turned as he spoke,
and led the way through a scarcely perceptible path or track, which
wound among the underwood. The lapse of a few minutes brought them
to the door of a low building, so hidden by the surrounding trees
that few would have suspected its existence. It was a cottage of
rather extraordinary dimensions, but consisting of only one floor. No
smoke rose from its solitary chimney; no cheering ray streamed from
its single window, which was, however, secured by a shutter of such
thickness as to preclude the possibility of any stray beam issuing
from within. The exact size of the building it was, in that uncertain
light, difficult to distinguish, a portion of it seeming buried in
the wood behind. The door gave way on the application of a key, and
Marsh followed his conductor resolutely but cautiously along a narrow
passage, feebly lighted by a small taper that winked and twinkled at
its farther extremity. The Doctor, as he approached, raised it from the
ground, and, opening an adjoining door, ushered his guest into the room
beyond.

It was a large and oddly furnished apartment, insufficiently lighted
by an iron lamp that hung from the roof, and scarcely illuminated the
walls and angles, which seemed to be composed of some dark-coloured
wood. On one side, however, Master Marsh could discover an article
bearing strong resemblance to a coffin; on the other was a large oval
mirror in an ebony frame, and in the midst of the floor was described
in red chalk a double circle about six feet in diameter, its inner
verge inscribed with sundry hieroglyphics, agreeably relieved at
intervals with an alternation of skulls and cross bones. In the very
centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing size and thickness as
would have filled the soul of a Spurzheim or De Ville with wonderment.
A large book, a naked sword, an hour glass, a chafing dish, and a
black cat, completed the list of moveables; with the exception of a
couple of tapers which stood on each side of the mirror, and which the
strange gentleman now proceeded to light from the one in his hand. As
they flared up with what Marsh thought a most unnatural brilliancy,
he perceived reflected in the glass behind a dial suspended over the
coffin-like article already mentioned: the hand was fast verging
towards the hour of nine. The eyes of the little Doctor seemed riveted
on the horologe.

"Now strip thee, Master Marsh, and that quickly: untruss, I say!
discard thy boots, doff doublet and hose, and place thyself incontinent
in yonder bath."

The visitor cast his eyes again upon the formidable-looking article,
and perceived that it was nearly filled with water. A cold bath, at
such an hour and under such auspices, was anything but inviting: he
hesitated, and turned his eyes alternately on the Doctor and the Black
Cat.

"Trifle not the time, man, an you be wise," said the former: "Passion
of my heart! let but yon minute-hand reach the hour, and thou not
immersed, thy life were not worth a pin's fee!"

The Black Cat gave vent to a single Mew,--a most unnatural sound for a
mouser,--it seemed as it were mewed through a cow's horn.

"Quick, Master Marsh! uncase, or you perish!" repeated his strange
host, throwing as he spoke a handful of some dingy-looking powders into
the brazier. "Behold the attack is begun!" A thick cloud rose from the
embers; a cold shivering shook the astonished Yeoman; sharp pricking
pains penetrated his ankles and the palms of his hands, and, as the
smoke cleared away, he distinctly saw and recognised in the mirror the
boudoir of Marston Hall.

The doors of the well-known ebony cabinet were closed; but fixed
against them, and standing out in strong relief from the contrast
afforded by the sable background, was a waxen image--of himself! It
appeared to be secured, and sustained in an upright posture, by large
black pins driven through the feet and palms, the latter of which were
extended in a cruciform position. To the right and left stood his wife
and José; in the middle, with his back towards him, was a figure which
he had no difficulty in recognising as that of the Leech of Folkestone.
The latter had just succeeded in fastening the dexter hand of the
image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and keen-edged sabre
from its sheath. The Black Cat mewed again. "Haste or you die!" said
the Doctor,--Marsh looked at the dial; it wanted but four minutes of
nine: he felt that the crisis of his fate was come. Off went his heavy
boots; doublet to the right, galligaskins to the left; never was man
more swiftly disrobed: in two minutes, to use an Indian expression, "he
was all face!" in another he was on his back, and up to his chin, in a
bath which smelt strongly as of brimstone and garlic.

"Heed well the clock!" cried the Conjuror: "with the first stroke of
Nine plunge thy head beneath the water, suffer not a hair above the
surface: plunge deeply, or thou art lost!"

The little man had seated himself in the centre of the circle upon the
large skull, elevating his legs at an angle of forty-five degrees. In
this position he spun round with a velocity to be equalled only by that
of a tee-totum, the red roses on his insteps seeming to describe a
circle of fire. The best buckskins that ever mounted at Melton had soon
yielded to such rotatory friction--but he spun on--the Cat mewed, bats
and obscene birds fluttered over-head; Erasmus was seen to raise his
weapon, the clock struck!--and Marsh, who had "ducked" at the instant,
popped up his head again, spitting and sputtering, half-choked with
the infernal solution, which had insinuated itself into his mouth, and
ears, and nose. All disgust at his nauseous dip, was, however, at once
removed, when, casting his eyes on the glass, he saw the consternation
of the party whose persons it exhibited. Erasmus had evidently made his
blow and failed; the figure was unmutilated; the hilt remained in the
hand of the striker, while the shivered blade lay in shining fragments
on the floor.

The Conjuror ceased his spinning, and brought himself to an anchor;
the Black Cat purred,--its purring seemed strangely mixed with the
self-satisfied chuckle of a human being.--Where had Marsh heard
something like it before?

He was rising from his unsavoury couch, when a motion from the little
man checked him. "Rest where you are, Thomas Marsh; so far all goes
well, but the danger is not yet over!" He looked again, and perceived
that the shadowy triumvirate were in deep and eager consultation; the
fragments of the shattered weapon appeared to undergo a close scrutiny.
The result was clearly unsatisfactory; the lips of the parties moved
rapidly, and much gesticulation might be observed, but no sound fell
upon the ear. The hand of the dial had nearly reached the quarter:
at once the parties separated: and Buckthorne stood again before the
figure, his hand armed with a long and sharp-pointed _misericorde_,
a dagger little in use of late, but such as, a century before, often
performed the part of a modern oyster-knife, in tickling the osteology
of a dismounted cavalier through the shelly defences of his plate
armour. Again he raised his arm. "Duck!" roared the Doctor, spinning
away upon his cephalic pivot:--the Black Cat cocked his tail, and
seemed to mew the word "Duck!" Down went Master Marsh's head;--one of
his hands had unluckily been resting on the edge of the bath: he drew
it hastily in, but not altogether scatheless; the stump of a rusty
nail, projecting from the margin of the bath, had caught and slightly
grazed it. The pain was more acute than is usually produced by such
trivial accidents; and Marsh, on once more raising his head, beheld the
dagger of the Leech sticking in the little finger of the wax figure,
which it had seemingly nailed to the cabinet door.

"By my truly, a scape o' the narrowest!" quoth the Conjuror: "the next
course, dive you not the readier, there is no more life in you than in
a pickled herring.--What! courage, Master Marsh; but be heedful; an
they miss again, let them bide the issue!"

He drew his hand athwart his brow as he spoke, and dashed off the
perspiration, which the violence of his exercise had drawn from
every pore. Black Tom sprang upon the edge of the bath, and stared
full in the face of the bather: his sea-green eyes were lambent with
unholy fire, but their marvellous obliquity of vision was not to be
mistaken;--the very countenance, too!--Could it be?--the features were
feline, but their expression was that of the Jack Pudding! Was the
Mountebank a Cat?--or the Cat a Mountebank?--it was all a mystery;--and
Heaven knows how long Marsh might have continued staring at Grimalkin,
had not his attention been again called by Aldrovando to the magic
mirror.

Great dissatisfaction, not to say dismay, seemed now to pervade the
conspirators; Dame Isabel was closely inspecting the figure's wounded
hand, while José was aiding the pharmacopolist to charge a huge
petronel with powder and bullets. The load was a heavy one; but Erasmus
seemed determined this time to make sure of his object. Somewhat of
trepidation might be observed in his manner as he rammed down the
balls, and his withered cheek appeared to have acquired an increase of
paleness; but amazement rather than fear was the prevailing symptom,
and his countenance betrayed no jot of irresolution. As the clock was
about to chime half-past nine, he planted himself with a firm foot in
front of the image, waved his unoccupied hand with a cautionary gesture
to his companions, and, as they hastily retired on either side, brought
the muzzle of his weapon within half a foot of his mark. As the shadowy
form was about to draw the trigger, Marsh again plunged his head
beneath the surface; and the sound of an explosion, as of fire-arms,
mingled with the rush of water that poured into his ears. His immersion
was but momentary, yet did he feel as though half suffocated: he sprang
from the bath, and, as his eye fell on the mirror, he saw,--or thought
he saw,--the Leech of Folkestone lying dead on the floor of his wife's
boudoir, his head shattered to pieces, and his hand still grasping the
stock of a bursten petronel.

He saw no more; his head swam; his senses reeled, the whole room was
turning round, and, as he fell to the ground, the last impressions to
which he was conscious were the chucklings of a hoarse laughter, and
the mewings of a Tom Cat!

Master Marsh was found the next morning by his bewildered serving-man,
stretched before the door of the humble hostel at which he sojourned.
His clothes were somewhat torn and much bemired! and deeply did
honest Ralph marvel that one so staid and grave as Master Marsh of
Marston should thus have played the roisterer, missing, perchance, a
profitable bargain for the drunken orgies of midnight wassail, or the
endearments of some rustic light-o'-love. Tenfold was his astonishment
increased when, after retracing in silence their journey of the
preceding day, the Hall, on their arrival about noon, was found in a
state of uttermost confusion.--No wife stood there to greet with the
smile of bland affection her returning spouse; no page to hold his
stirrup, or receive his gloves, his hat, and riding-rod.--The doors
were open, the rooms in most admired disorder; men and maidens peeping,
hurrying hither and thither, and popping in and out, like rabbits in a
warren.--The lady of the mansion was nowhere to be found.

José, too, had disappeared; the latter had been last seen riding
furiously towards Folkestone early in the preceding afternoon; to a
question from Hodge Gardener he had hastily answered, that he bore a
missive of moment from his mistress. The lean apprentice of Erasmus
Buckthorne declared that the page had summoned his master, in haste,
about six of the clock, and that they had rode forth together, as he
verily believed, on their way back to the Hall, where he had supposed
Master Buckthorne's services to be suddenly required on some pressing
emergency. Since that time he had seen nought of either of them: the
grey cob, however, had returned late at night, masterless, with his
girths loose, and the saddle turned upside down.

Nor was Master Erasmus Buckthorne ever seen again. Strict search was
made through the neighbourhood, but without success; and it was at
length presumed that he must, for reasons which nobody could divine,
have absconded, together with José and his faithless mistress. The
latter had carried off with her the strong box, divers articles of
valuable plate, and jewels of price. Her boudoir appeared to have been
completely ransacked; the cabinet and drawers stood open and empty; the
very carpet, a luxury then newly introduced into England, was gone.
Marsh, however, could trace no vestige of the visionary scene which he
affirmed to have been last night presented to his eyes.

Much did the neighbours marvel at his story:--some thought him mad;
others, that he was merely indulging in that privilege to which, as
a traveller, he had a right indefeasible. Trusty Ralph said nothing,
but shrugged his shoulders; and, falling into the rear, imitated the
action of raising a wine-cup to his lips. An opinion, indeed, soon
prevailed, that Master Thomas Marsh had gotten, in common parlance,
exceedingly drunk on the preceding evening, and had dreamt all that
he so circumstantially related. This belief acquired additional
credit when they, whom curiosity induced to visit the woody knoll of
Aldington Mount, declared that they could find no building such as that
described, nor any cottage near; save one, indeed, a low-roofed hovel,
once a house of public entertainment, but now half in ruins. The "Old
Cat and Fiddle"--so was the tenement called--had been long uninhabited;
yet still exhibited the remains of a broken sign, on which the keen
observer might decipher something like a rude portrait of the animal
from which it derived its name. It was also supposed still to afford
an occasional asylum to the smugglers of the coast, but no trace of
any visit from sage or mountebank could be detected; nor was the wise
Aldrovando, whom many remembered to have seen at the fair, ever found
again on all that country-side.

Of the runaways nothing was ever certainly known. A boat, the property
of an old fisherman who plied his trade on the outskirts of the town,
had been seen to quit the bay that night; and there were those who
declared that she had more hands on board than Carden and his son, her
usual complement; but, as the gale came on, and the frail bark was
eventually found keel upwards on the Goodwin Sands, it was presumed
that she had struck on that fatal quicksand in the dark, and that all
on board had perished.

Little Marian, whom her profligate mother had abandoned, grew up to be
a fine girl, and a handsome. She became, moreover, heiress to Marston
Hall, and brought the estate into the Ingoldsby family by her marriage
with one of its scions.

Thus far Mrs. Botherby.

It is a little singular that, on pulling down the old Hall in my
grandfather's time, a human skeleton was discovered among the rubbish;
under what particular part of the building I could never with any
accuracy ascertain; but it was found enveloped in a tattered cloth,
that seemed to have been once a carpet, and which fell to pieces almost
immediately on being exposed to the air. The bones were perfect,
but those of one hand were wanting; and the skull, perhaps from the
labourer's pick-axe, had received considerable injury; the worm-eaten
stock of an old-fashioned pistol lay near, together with a rusty piece
of iron which a workman, more sagacious than his fellows, pronounced a
portion of the lock, but nothing was found which the utmost stretch of
human ingenuity could twist into a barrel.

The portrait of the fair Marian hangs yet in the Gallery of Tappington;
and near it is another, of a young man in the prime of life, whom Mrs.
Botherby affirms to be that of her father. It exhibits a mild and
rather melancholy countenance, with a high forehead, and the peaked
beard and moustaches of the seventeenth century. The signet-finger
of the left hand is gone, and appears, on close inspection, to have
been painted out by some later artist; possibly in compliment to the
tradition, which, _teste Botherby_, records that of Mr. Marsh to have
gangrened, and to have undergone amputation at the knuckle-joint. If
really the resemblance of the gentleman alluded to, it must have been
taken at some period antecedent to his marriage. There is neither date
nor painter's name; but, a little above the head, on the dexter side of
the picture, is an escutcheon, bearing "Quarterly, Gules and Argent,
in the first quarter a horse's head of the second;" beneath it are the
words "_Ætatis suæ_ 26." On the opposite side is the following mark,
which Mr. Simpkinson declares to be that of a Merchant of the Staple,
and pretends to discover, in the monogram comprised in it, all the
characters which compose the name of THOMAS MARSH, of MARSTON.

[Illustration]

Respect for the feelings of an honourable family,--nearly connected
with the Ingoldsbys,--has induced me to veil the _real_ "sponsorial
and patronymic appellations" of my next hero under a _sobriquet_
interfering neither with rhyme nor rhythm.[7] I shall merely add that
every incident in the story bears, on the face of it, the stamp of
veracity, and that many "persons of honour" in the county of Berks,
who well recollected Sir George Rooke's expedition against Gibraltar,
would, if they were now alive, gladly bear testimony to the truth of
every syllable.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Pack o' nonsense!--Every body as belongs to him is dead
and gone--and every body knows that the poor young gentleman's real
name wasn't _Sobriquet_ at all, but Hampden Pye, Esq., and that one
of his uncles--or cousins--used to make verses about the king and the
queen, and had a sack of money for doing it every year;--and that's
his picture in the blue coat and little gold-laced cocked hat, that
hangs on the stairs over the door of the passage that leads to the blue
room.--_Sobriquet!_--but there!--The Squire wrote it after dinner!

                                             ELIZABETH BOTHERBY.




LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE.


  The Captain is walking his quarter-deck,
  With a troubled brow and a bended neck;
  One eye is down through the hatchway cast,
  The other turns up to the truck on the mast;
  Yet none of the crew may venture to hint
  "Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"

  The Captain again the letter hath read
  Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead--
  Still, since the good ship sail'd away,
  He reads that letter three times a-day;
  Yet the writing is broad and fair to see
  As a Skipper may read in his degree,
  And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,
  As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat:
  He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,
  "Curse the old woman--she bothers me so!"

  He pauses now, for the topmen hail--
  "On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!"
  That grim old Captain he turns him quick,
  And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick.

  "The breeze is blowing--huzza! huzza!
  The breeze is blowing--away! away!
  The breeze is blowing--a race! a race!
  The breeze is blowing--we near the chase!
  Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,--
  Oh where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"

  --"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,
  With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.
  Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,
  But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,
  Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew,
  And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,
  Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.

  Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade;
  He stands by the breech of a long carronade,
  The linstock glows in his bony hand,
  Waiting that grim old Skipper's command.

  "The bullets are flying--huzza! huzza!
  The bullets are flying--away! away!"--
  The brawny boarders mount by the chains,
  And are over their buckles in blood and in brains:
  On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,
      Young Hamilton Tighe  Waves his cutlass high,
  And _Capitaine Crapaud_ bends low at his knee.

  Hairy-face Dick, linstock in hand,
  Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:--
      A wink comes sly  From that sinister eye--
  Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly,
  And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!

  There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,
  Her pages and handmaidens come at her call:
  "Now, haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see
  How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!"
  The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,
  They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy;
  And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother dear,
  Now Hamilton's dead, I've a thousand a-year!"

  The lady has donn'd her mantle and hood,
  She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:--
  "Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,
  And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul,
  And the tablet fair shall be hung on high,
  _Orate pro animâ Hamilton Tighe!_"

      Her coach and four  Draws up to the door,
  With her groom, and her footman, and half a score more;
  The lady steps into her coach alone,
  And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan;
  They close the door, and they turn the pin,
  _But there's One rides with her that never stept in!_
  All the way there, and all the way back,
  The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack,
  The horses snort, and plunge, and kick,
  Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick;
  And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say
  "What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?"

[Illustration: HAMILTON TIGHE.]

  But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees
  A man sitting there with his head on his knees!

  'Tis ever the same,--in hall or in bower,
  Wherever the place, whatever the hour,
  That Lady mutters, and talks to the air,
  And her eye is fix'd on an empty chair;
  But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,
  "She talks to a man with never a head!"

         *       *       *       *       *

  There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath,
  As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath;
  And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers,
  They seem to be trying to peep at his ears;
  That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms,
  And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes,
  For all his Knaves stand upside down,
  And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown;
  And the Kings, and the Aces, and all the best trumps
  Get into the hands of the other old frumps;
  While, close to his partner, a man he sees
  Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.

  In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store,
  And a great black doll hangs out of the door;
  There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,
  And musty phials, and fusty rags,
  And a lusty old woman, call'd Thirsty Nan,
  And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man!

  That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,
  And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone;
  And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chap
  That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!"
  And the neighbours say, as they see him look sick,
  "What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"

  That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man
  May say what they please, and may do what they can;
  But one thing seems remarkably clear,--
  They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,--
  But wherever they live, or whenever they die,
  They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!

The When,--the Where,--and the How,--of the succeeding narrative
speak for themselves. It may be proper, however, to observe, that the
ruins here alluded to, and improperly termed "the Abbey," are not
those of Bolsover, described in a preceding page, but the remains
of a Preceptory once belonging to the Knights Templars, situate
near Swynfield, Swinkefield, or, as it is now generally spelt and
pronounced, Swingfield, Minnis, a rough tract of common land now
undergoing the process of enclosure, and adjoining the woods and arable
lands of Tappington, at the distance of some two miles from the Hall,
to the South-eastern windows of which the time-worn walls in question,
as seen over the intervening coppices, present a picturesque and
striking object.




THE WITCHES' FROLIC.


 [Scene, the "Snuggery" at Tappington.--Grandpapa in a high-backed
 cane-bottomed elbow-chair of carved walnut-tree, dozing; his nose
 at an angle of forty-five degrees,--his thumbs slowly perform the
 rotatory motion described by lexicographers as "twiddling."--The "Hope
 of the family" astride on a walking-stick, with burnt-cork mustachios,
 and a pheasant's tail pinned in his cap, solaceth himself with martial
 music.--Roused by a strain of surpassing dissonance, Grandpapa
 _loquitur_.]

  Come hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
      Come hither unto my knee--
  I cannot away with that horrible din,
  That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.
  Oh, better to wander frank and free
  Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy,
  Than list to such awful minstrelsie.
  Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,
  And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.

 [Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano,
 proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophiseth the Abbey in the
 distance.]

      I love thy tower, Grey Ruin,
        I joy thy form to see,
      Though reft of all, Cell, cloister, and hall,
  Nothing is left save a tottering wall
  That, awfully grand and darkly dull,
  Threaten'd to fall and demolish my skull,
  As, ages ago, I wander'd along
  Careless thy grass-grown courts among,
  In sky-blue jacket, and trowsers laced,
  The latter uncommonly short in the waist.
  Thou art dearer to me, thou Ruin grey,
  Than the Squire's verandah over the way;
          And fairer, I ween,  The ivy sheen
      That thy mouldering turret binds,
  Than the Alderman's house about half a mile off,
      With the green Venetian blinds.

  Full many a tale would my Grandam tell,
    In many a bygone day,
  Of darksome deeds, which of old befell
    In thee, thou Ruin grey!
  And I the readiest ear would lend,
    And stare like frighten'd pig!
  While my Grandfather's hair would have stood up on end,
    Had he not worn a wig.

  One tale I remember of mickle dread--
  Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned,
    Though thy mother thine idlesse blames,
  In Doctor Goldsmith's history book,
    Of a gentleman called King James,
  In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches,
  Who held in abhorrence Tobacco and Witches.

  Well,--in King James's golden days,--
    For the days were golden then,--
  They could not be less, for good Queen Bess
    Had died, aged threescore and ten,
      And her days we know,  Were all of them so;
  While the Court poets sung, and the Court gallants swore
  That the days were as golden still as before.

  Some people, 'tis true, a troublesome few,
    Who historical points would unsettle,
  Have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt
    Of the genuine ring of the metal;
  But who can believe to a monarch so wise
  People would dare tell a parcel of lies!

  --Well, then, in good King James's days,--
  Golden or not does not matter a jot,--
  Yon Ruin a sort of a roof had got;
  For though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking
  Since Harry the Eighth sent its people a-packing,
      Though joists, and floors, And windows, and doors
  Had all disappear'd, yet pillars by scores
  Remain'd, and still propp'd up a ceiling or two,
  While the belfry was almost as good as new;
  You are not to suppose matters look'd just so
  In the Ruin some two hundred years ago.

  Just in that farthermost angle, where
  There are still the remains of a winding-stair,
  One turret especially high in air
    Uprear'd its tall gaunt form;
  As it defying the power of Fate, or
  The hand of "Time the Innovator;"
    And though to the pitiless storm
  Its weaker brethren all around
  Bowing, in ruin had strew'd the ground,
  Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strew'd,
  Like a four-bottle man in a company "screw'd,"
  Not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued.

  One night--'twas in Sixteen hundred and six,--
  I like when I can, Ned, the date to fix,--
      The month was May,  Though I can't well say
  At this distance of time the particular day--
  But oh! that night, that horrible night!
  --Folks ever afterwards said with affright
  That they never had seen such a terrible sight.

  The Sun had gone down fiery red;
  And if, that evening, he laid his head
  In Thetis's lap beneath the seas,
  He must have scalded the goddess's knees.
  He left behind him a lurid track
  Of blood-red light upon clouds so black,
  That Warren and Hunt, with the whole of their crew,
  Could scarcely have given them a darker hue.

  There came a shrill and a whistling sound,
  Above, beneath, beside, and around,
    Yet leaf ne'er moved on tree!
  So that some people thought old Beelzebub must
  Have been lock'd out of doors, and was blowing the dust
  From the pipe of his street-door key.
  And then a hollow moaning blast
  Came, sounding more dismally still than the last,
  And the lightning flash'd, and the thunder growl'd,
  And louder and louder the tempest howl'd,
  And the rain came down in such sheets as would stagger a
  Bard for a simile short of Niagara.

      Rob Gilpin "was a citizen;"
        But, though of some "renown,"
      Of no great "credit" in his own,
        Or any other town.

      He was a wild and roving lad,
        For ever in the alehouse boozing;
      Or romping,--which is quite as bad,--
        With female friends of his own choosing.

      And Rob this very day had made,
        Not dreaming such a storm was brewing,
      An assignation with Miss Slade,--
        Their trysting-place that same grey Ruin.

  But Gertrude Slade become afraid,
    And to keep her appointment unwilling,
  When she spied the rain on her window-pane
    In drops as big as a shilling;
  She put off her hat and her mantle again,--
  "He'll never expect me in all this rain!"

  But little he recks of the fears of the sex,
    Or that maiden false to her tryst could be,
  He had stood there a good half hour
  Ere yet had commenced that perilous shower,
    Alone by the trysting-tree!

  Robin looks east, Robin looks west,
  But he sees not her whom he loves the best;
  Robin looks up, and Robin looks down,
  But no one comes from the neighbouring town.

  The storm came at last,--loud roar'd the blast,
  And the shades of evening fell thick and fast;
  The tempest grew; and the straggling yew,
  His leafy umbrella, was wet through and through;
  Rob was half dead with cold and with fright,
  When he spies in the Ruins a twinkling light--
  A hop, two skips, and a jump, and straight
  Rob stands within that postern gate.

  And there were gossips sitting there,
    By one, by two, by three:
    Two were an old ill-favour'd pair;
    But the third was young, and passing fair,
  With laughing eyes, and with coal-black hair;
    A daintie quean was she!
  Rob would have given his ears to sip
  But a single salute from her cherry lip.

  As they sat in that old and haunted room,
  In each one's hand was a huge birch broom,
  On each one's head was a steeple-crown'd hat,
  On each one's knee was a coal-black cat;
  Each had a kirtle of Lincoln green--
  It was, I trow, a fearsome scene.

  "Now riddle me, riddle me right, Madge Gray,
  What foot unhallow'd wends this way?
  Goody Price, Goody Price, now areed me aright,
  Who roams the old Ruins this drearysome night?"

  Then up and spake that sonsie quean,
    And she spake both loud and clear:
  "Oh, be it for weal, or be it for woe,
  Enter friend, or enter foe,
    Rob Gilpin is welcome here!--

  "Now tread we a measure! a hall! a hall!
    Now tread we a measure," quoth she--
      The heart of Robin  Beat thick and throbbing--
    "Roving Bob, tread a measure with me!"
  "Ay, lassie!" quoth Rob, as her hand he gripes,
  "Though Satan himself were blowing the pipes!"

  Now around they go, and around, and around,
  With hop-skip-and-jump, and frolicsome bound,
      Such sailing and gliding,  Such sinking and sliding,
      Such lofty curvetting,  And grand pirouetting;
  Ned, you would swear that Monsieur Gilbert
  And Miss Taglioni were capering there!

  And oh! such awful music!--ne'er
  Fell sounds so uncanny on mortal ear,
  There were the tones of a dying man's groans
  Mix'd with the rattling of dead men's bones:
  Had you heard the shrieks, and the squeals, and the squeaks,
  You'd not have forgotten the sound for weeks.

  And around, and around, and around they go,
  Heel to heel, and toe to toe,
  Prance and caper, curvet and wheel,
  Toe to toe, and heel to heel.
  "'Tis merry, 'tis merry, Cummers, I trow,
  To dance thus beneath the nightshade bough!"--

  "Goody Price, Goody Price, now riddle me right,
  Where may we sup this frolicsome night?"

  "Mine host of the Dragon hath mutton and veal!
  The Squire hath partridge, and widgeon, and teal;
  But old Sir Thopas hath daintier cheer,
  A pasty made of the good red deer,
  A huge grouse pie, and a fine Florentine,
  A fat roast goose, and a turkey and chine."

  --"Madge Gray, Madge Gray,
  Now tell me, I pray,
  Where's the best wassail bowl to our roundelay?"

  --"There is ale in the cellars of Tappington Hall,
  But the Squire[8] is a churl, and his drink is small;
      Mine host of the Dragon  Hath many a flaggon
  Of double ale, lamb's wool, and _eau de vie_,
      But Sir Thopas, the Vicar,  Hath costlier liquor,--
  A butt of the choicest _Malvoisie_.
      He doth not lack  Canary or sack;
  And a good pint stoup of Clary wine
  Smacks merrily off with a Turkey and Chine!"

  "Now away! and away! without delay,
  Hey _Cockalorum_! my Broomstick gay!
  We must be back ere the dawn of the day:
  Hey up the chimney! away! away!"--
      Old Goody Price  Mounts in a trice,
  In showing her legs she is not over nice;
      Old Goody Jones,  All skin and bones,
  Follows "like winking."--Away go the crones,
  Knees and nose in a line with the toes,
  Sitting their brooms like so many Ducrows;
      Latest and last  The damsel pass'd,
  One glance of her coal-black eye she cast;
  She laugh'd with glee loud laughters three,
  "Dost fear, Rob Gilpin, to ride with me?"--

  Oh, never might man unscath'd espy
  One single glance from that coal-black eye.
      --Away she flew!-- Without more ado
  Rob seizes and mounts on a broomstick too,
  "Hey! up the chimney, lass! Hey after you!"

  It's a very fine thing, on a fine day in June,
  To ride through the air in a Nassau Balloon;
  But you'll find very soon, if you aim at the Moon
  In a carriage like that, you're a bit of a "Spoon,"
      For the largest can't fly Above twenty miles high,
  And you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh;
      While no man alive Could ever contrive,
  Mr. Green has declared, to get higher than five.
  And the soundest Philosophers hold that, perhaps,
  If you reach'd twenty miles your balloon would collapse,
     Or pass by such action The sphere of attraction,
  Getting into the track of some comet--Good-lack!
  'Tis a thousand to one that you'd never come back;
  And the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear,
  Rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere.
      No, no; when I try A trip to the sky,
  I shan't go in that thing of yours, Mr. Gye,
  Though Messieurs Monk Mason, and Spencer, and Beazly,
  All join in saying it travels so easily.
      No; there's nothing so good As a pony of wood--
  Not like that which, of late, they stuck up on the gate
  At the end of the Park, which caused so much debate,
  And gave so much trouble to make it stand straight,--
  But a regular Broomstick--you'll find that the favourite--
  Above all, when, like Robin, you haven't to pay for it.
      --Stay--really I dread-- I am losing the thread
  Of my tale; and it's time you should be in your bed,
  So lithe now, and listen, my little boy Ned!

         *       *       *       *       *

  The Vicarage walls are lofty and thick,
  And the copings are stone, and the sides are brick,
  The casements are narrow, and bolted and barr'd,
  And the stout oak door is heavy and hard;
  Moreover, by way of additional guard,
  A great big dog runs loose in the yard,
  And a horse-shoe is nail'd on the threshold sill,--
  To keep out aught that savours of ill,--
  But, alack! the chimney-pot's open still!
  --That great big dog begins to quail,
  Between his hind-legs he drops his tail,
  Crouch'd on the ground, the terrified hound
  Gives vent to a very odd sort of a sound;
  It is not a bark, loud, open, and free,
  As an honest old watch-dog's bark should be;
  It is not a yelp, it is not a growl,
  But a something between a whine and a howl;
  And, hark!--a sound from the window high
  Responds to the watch-dog's pitiful cry:
      It is not a moan, It is not a groan;
  It comes from a nose,--but is not what a nose
  Produces in healthy and sound repose.
  Yet Sir Thopas the Vicar is fast asleep,
  And his respirations are heavy and deep!

  He snores, 'tis true, but he snores no more
  As he's aye been accustom'd to snore before,
  And as men of his kidney are wont to snore;--
  (Sir Thopas's weight is sixteen stone four;)
  He draws his breath like a man distress'd
  By pain or grief, or like one oppress'd
  By some ugly old Incubus perch'd on his breast.
      A something seems To disturb his dreams,
  And thrice on his ear, distinct and clear,
  Falls a voice as of somebody whispering near
  In still small accents, faint and few,
  "Hey down the chimney-pot!--Hey after you!"

  Throughout the Vicarage, near and far,
  There is no lack of bolt or of bar;
      There are plenty of locks To closet and box,
  Yet the pantry wicket is standing ajar!
  And the little low door, through which you must go,
  Down some half-dozen steps, to the cellar below,
  Is also unfastened, though no one may know
  By so much as a guess, how it comes to be so;
  For wicket and door, The evening before,
  Were both of them lock'd, and the key safely placed
  On the bunch that hangs down from the Housekeeper's waist.

  Oh! 'twas a jovial sight to view
  In that snug little cellar that frolicsome crew!--
      Old Goody Price Had got something nice,
  A turkey-poult larded with bacon and spice;--
      Old Goody Jones Would touch nought that had bones,--
  She might just as well mumble a parcel of stones.
  Goody Jones, in sooth, hath got never a tooth,
  And a New-College pudding of marrow and plums
  Is the dish of all others that suiteth her gums.
      Madge Gray was picking The breast of a chicken,
  Her coal-black eye, with its glance so sly,
  Was fixed on Rob Gilpin himself, sitting by
  With his heart full of love, and his mouth full of pie;
      Grouse pie, with hare In the middle, is fare
  Which, duly concocted with science and care,
  Doctor Kitchener says, is beyond all compare;
      And a tenderer leveret Robin had never ate;
  So, in after times, oft he was wont to asseverate.

  "Now pledge we the wine-cup!--a health! a health!
  Sweet are the pleasures obtain'd by stealth!
  Fill up! fill up!--the brim of the cup
  Is the part that aye holdeth the toothsomest sup!
  Here's to thee, Goody Price!--Goody Jones, to thee!--
  To thee, Roving Rob! and again to me!
  Many a sip, never a slip
  Come to us four 'twixt the cup and the lip!"

      The cups pass quick, The toasts fly thick,
  Rob tries in vain out their meaning to pick,
  But hears the words "Scratch," and "Old Bogey," and "Nick,"
      More familiar grown, Now he stands up alone,
  Volunteering to give them a toast of his own.
      "A bumper of wine! Fill thine! Fill mine!
  Here's a health to old Noah who planted the Vine!"
      Oh then what sneezing, What coughing and wheezing,
  Ensued in a way that was not over pleasing!
  Goody Price, Goody Jones, and the pretty Madge Gray,
  All seem'd as their liquor had gone the wrong way.

  But the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke
  Those words which the party seem'd almost to choke,
  As by mentioning Noah some spell had been broke,
  Every soul in the house at that instant awoke!
  And, hearing the din from barrel and binn,
  Drew at once the conclusion that thieves had got in.
  Up jump'd the Cook and caught hold of her spit;
  Up jump'd the Groom and took bridle and bit;
  Up jump'd the Gardener and shoulder'd his spade;
  Up jump'd the Scullion,--the Footman,--the Maid;
  (The two last, by the way, occasioned some scandal,
  By appearing together with only one candle,
  Which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle;)
  Up jump'd the Swineherd,--and up jump'd the big boy,
  A nondescript under him, acting as Pig-boy;
  Butler, Housekeeper, Coachman--from bottom to top
  Everybody jump'd up without parley or stop,
  With the weapon which first in their way chanced to drop,--
  Whip, warming-pan, wig-block, mug, musket, and mop.

[Illustration: GRANDPAPA'S STORY; OR, THE WITCHES' FROLIC.]

      Last of all doth appear, With some symptoms of fear,
  Sir Thopas in person to bring up the rear,
  In a mix'd kind of costume half _Pontificalibus_,
  Half what scholars denominate Pure _Naturalibus_;
      Nay, the truth to express, As you'll easily guess,
  They have none of them time to attend much to dress;
      But He, or She, As the case may be,
  He or She seizes what He or She pleases,
  Trunk-hosen or kirtles, and shirts or chemises,
  And thus one and all, great and small, short and tall,
  Muster at once in the Vicarage-hall,
  With upstanding locks, starting eyes, shorten'd breath,
  Like the folks in the Gallery Scene in Macbeth,
  When Macduff is announcing their Sovereign's death.
  And hark!--what accents clear and strong,
  To the listening throng came floating along!
  'Tis Robin encoring himself in a song--
      "Very good song! very well sung!
      Jolly companions every one!"

  On, on to the cellar! away! away!
  On, on to the cellar without more delay!
  The whole _posse_ rush onwards in battle array--
  Conceive the dismay of the party so gay,
  Old Goody Jones, Goody Price, and Madge Gray,
  When the door bursting wide, they descried the allied
  Troops, prepared for the onslaught, roll in like a tide,
  And the spits, and the tongs, and the pokers beside!--
  "Boot and saddle's the word! mount, Cummers, and ride!"--
  Alarm was ne'er caused more strong and indigenous
  By cats among rats, or a hawk in a pigeon-house;
      Quick from the view Away they all flew,
  With a yell, and a screech, and a halliballoo,
  "Hey up the chimney! Hey after you!"--
  The Volscians themselves made an exit less speedy
  From Corioli, "flutter'd like doves" by Macready.

      They are gone,--save one, Robin alone!
  Robin, whose high state of civilisation
  Precludes all idea of aërostation,
      And who now has no notion Of more locomotion
  Than suffices to kick, with much zeal and devotion,
  Right and left at the party, who pounced on their victim,
  And maul'd him, and kick'd him, and lick'd him, and prick'd him,
  As they bore him away scarce aware what was done,
  And believing it all but a part of the fun,
  Hic--hiccoughing out the same strain he'd begun,
  "Jol--jolly companions every one!"

         *       *       *       *       *

      Morning grey Scarce bursts into day
  Ere at Tappington Hall there's the deuce to pay;
  The tables and chairs are all placed in array
  In the old oak-parlour, and in and out
  Domestics and neighbours, a motley rout,
  Are walking, and whispering, and standing about;
      And the Squire is there In his large arm-chair,
  Leaning back with a grave magisterial air;
     In the front of a seat a Huge volume, called Fleta,
  And Bracton, a tome of an old-fashion'd look,
  And Coke upon Lyttleton, then a new book;
      And he moistens his lips With occasional sips
  From a luscious sack-posset that smiles in a tankard
  Close by on a side-table--not that he drank hard,
      But because at that day, I hardly need say,
  The Hong Merchants had not yet invented How Qua,
  Nor as yet would you see Souchong or Bohea
  At the tables of persons of any degree:
  How our ancestors managed to do without tea
  I must fairly confess is a mystery to me;
      Yet your Lydgates and Chaucers Had no cups and saucers;
  Their breakfast, in fact, and the best they could get,
  Was a sort of a _déjeûner à la fourchette_;
      Instead of our slops They had cutlets and chops,
  And sack-possets, and ale in stoups, tankards, and pots;
  And they wound up the meal with rumpsteaks and 'schalots.

      Now the Squire lifts his hand With an air of command,
  And gives them a sign, which they all understand,
  To bring in the culprit; and straightway the carter
  And huntsman drag in that unfortunate martyr,
  Still kicking, and crying, "Come,--what are you arter?"
  The charge is prepared, and the evidence clear,
  "He was caught in the cellar a-drinking the beer!
  And came there, there's very great reason to fear,
  With companions,--to say but the least of them,--queer;
      Such as Witches, and creatures With horrible features,
      And horrible grins, And hook'd noses and chins,
  Who'd been playing the deuce with his Reverence's binns."

  The face of his worship grows graver and graver,
  As the parties detail Robin's shameful behaviour;
  Mister Buzzard, the clerk, while the tale is reciting,
  Sits down to reduce the affair into writing,
      With all proper diction, And due "legal fiction;"
  Viz.: "That he, the said prisoner, as clearly was shown,
  Conspiring with folks to deponents unknown,
  With divers, that is to say, two thousand people,
  In two thousand hats, each hat peak'd like a steeple,
      With force and with arms, And with sorcery and charms,
      Upon two thousand brooms; Enter'd four thousand rooms,
  To wit, two thousand pantries, and two thousand cellars,
  Put in bodily fear twenty thousand in-dwellers,
  And with sundry,--that is to say, two thousand,--forks,
  Drew divers,--that is to say, ten thousand--corks,
  And, with malice prepense, down their two thousand throttles,
  Emptied various,--that is to say, ten thousand--bottles;
  All in breach of the peace,--moved by Satan's malignity--
  And in spite of King James, and his Crown, and his Dignity."

      At words so profound Rob gazes around,
  But no glance sympathetic to cheer him is found.
      --No glance, did I say? Yes, one!--Madge Gray!--
  She is there in the midst of the crowd standing by,
  And she gives him one glance from her coal-black eye,
  One touch to his hand, and one word to his ear,--
  (That's a line which I've stolen from Sir Walter, I fear,)--
      While nobody near Seems to see her or hear;
  As his worship takes up, and surveys, with a strict eye,
  The broom now produced as the _corpus delicti_,
      Ere his fingers can clasp, It is snatch'd from his grasp,
  The end poked in his chest with a force makes him gasp,
  And, despite the decorum so due to the _Quorum_,
  His worship's upset, and so too is his jorum
  And Madge is astride on the broomstick before 'em.
  "_Hocus Pocus!_ Quick, _Presto!_ and _Hey Cockalorum!
  Mount, mount for your life, Rob!--Sir Justice, adieu!--
  --Hey up the chimney-pot! hey after you!"

      Through the mystified group,
      With a halloo and a whoop,
  Madge on the pommel, and Robin _en croupe_,
  The pair through the air ride as if in a chair,
  While the party below stand mouth open and stare!
  "Clean bumbaized" and amazed, and fix'd, all the room stick,
  "Oh! what's gone with Robin,--and Madge,--and the broomstick?"
  Ay, "what's gone" indeed, Ned?--of what befell
  Madge Gray, and the broomstick, I never heard tell:
  But Robin was found, that morn, on the ground,
  In yon old grey Ruin again, safe and sound,
  Except that at first he complained much of thirst,
  And a shocking bad headache, of all ills the worst,
      And close by his knee A flask you might see,
  But an empty one, smelling of _eau-de-vie_.

  Rob from this hour is an alter'd man;
  He runs home to his lodgings as fast as he can,
      Sticks to his trade, Marries Miss Slade,
  Becomes a Te-totaller--that is the same
  As Te-totallers now, one in all but the name;
  Grows fond of Small-beer, which is always a steady sign,
  Never drinks spirits except as a medicine;
      Learns to despise Coal-black eyes,
  Minds pretty girls no more than so many Guys;
  Has a family, lives to be sixty, and dies!

      Now, my little boy Ned, Brush off to your bed,
  Tie your night-cap on safe, or a napkin instead,
  Or these terrible nights you'll catch cold in your head;
  And remember my tale, and the moral it teaches,
  Which you'll find much the same as what Solomon preaches.
  Don't flirt with young ladies; don't practise soft speeches;
  Avoid waltzes, quadrilles, pumps, silk nose, and knee-breeches;--
  Frequent not grey Ruins,--shun riot and revelry,
  Hocus Pocus, and Conjuring, and all sorts of devilry;--
  Don't meddle with broomsticks,--they're Beelzebub's switches;
  Of cellars keep clear,--they're the devil's own ditches;
  And beware of balls, banquettings, brandy, and--witches!
  Above all! don't run after black eyes!--if you do,--
  Depend on't you'll find what I say will come true,--
  Old Nick, some fine morning, will "hey after you!"

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Stephen Ingoldsby, surnamed "The Niggard," second cousin
and successor to "The Bad Sir Giles." (Visitation of Kent, 1666.) For
an account of his murder by burglars, and their subsequent execution,
see Dodsley's "Remarkable Trials," &c. Lond. 1776, vol. ii. p. 264, ex
the present volume, Art. "Hand of Glory."

       *       *       *       *       *

Strange as the events detailed in the succeeding narrative may appear,
they are, I have not the slightest doubt, true to the letter. Whatever
impression they may make upon the Reader, that produced by them on the
narrator, I can aver, was neither light nor transient.




SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, DOCTOR IN
DIVINITY.

AS RELATED BY THE REV. JASPER INGOLDSBY, M.A., HIS FRIEND AND EXECUTOR.


In order that the extraordinary circumstance which I am about to
relate, may meet with the credit it deserves, I think it necessary
to premise, that my reverend friend, among whose papers I find it
recorded, was, in his lifetime, ever esteemed as a man of good plain
understanding, strict veracity, and unimpeached morals,--by no means
of a nervous temperament, or one likely to attach undue weight to any
occurrence out of the common course of events, merely because his
reflections might not, at that moment, afford him a ready solution of
its difficulties.

On the truth of this narrative, as far as he was personally concerned,
no one who knew him would hesitate to place the most implicit reliance.
His history is briefly this:--He had married early in life, and was a
widower at the age of thirty-nine, with an only daughter, who had then
arrived at puberty, and was just married to a near connexion of our own
family. The sudden death of her husband, occasioned by a fall from his
horse, only three days after her confinement, was abruptly communicated
to Mrs. S---- by a thoughtless girl, who saw her master brought
lifeless into the house, and, with all that inexplicable anxiety to be
the first to tell bad news, so common among the lower orders, rushed
at once into the sick-room with her intelligence. The shock was too
severe; and though the young widow survived the fatal event several
months, yet she gradually sunk under the blow, and expired, leaving a
boy, not a twelvemonth old, to the care of his maternal grandfather.

My poor friend was sadly shaken by this melancholy catastrophe; time,
however, and a strong religious feeling, succeeded at length in
moderating the poignancy of his grief--a consummation much advanced
by his infant charge, who now succeeded, as it were by inheritance,
to the place in his affections left vacant by his daughter's decease.
Frederick S---- grew up to be a fine lad; his person and features were
decidedly handsome; still there was, as I remember, an unpleasant
expression in his countenance, and an air of reserve, attributed,
by the few persons who called occasionally at the vicarage, to the
retired life led by his grandfather, and the little opportunity he
had, in consequence, of mixing in the society of his equals in age and
intellect. Brought up entirely at home, his progress in the common
branches of education was, without any great display of precocity,
rather in advance of the generality of boys of his own standing; partly
owing, perhaps, to the turn which even his amusements took from the
first. His sole associate was the son of the village apothecary, a boy
about two years older than himself, whose father, being really clever
in his profession, and a good operative chemist, had constructed for
himself a small laboratory, in which, as he was fond of children,
the two boys spent a great portion of their leisure time, witnessing
many of those little experiments so attractive to youth, and in time
aspiring to imitate what they admired.

In such society, it is not surprising that Frederick S---- should
imbibe a strong taste for the sciences which formed his principal
amusement; or that, when, in process of time, it became necessary to
choose his walk in life, a profession so intimately connected with his
favourite pursuit, as that of medicine, should be eagerly selected. No
opposition was offered by my friend, who, knowing that the greater part
of his own income would expire with his life, and that the remainder
would prove an insufficient resource to his grandchild, was only
anxious that he should follow such a path as would secure him that
moderate and respectable competency which is, perhaps, more conducive
to real happiness than a more elevated or wealthy station. Frederick
was, accordingly, at the proper age, matriculated at Oxford, with the
view of studying the higher branches of medicine, a few months after
his friend, John W----, had proceeded to Leyden, for the purpose of
making himself acquainted with the practice of surgery in the hospitals
and lecture-rooms attached to that university. The boyish intimacy
of their younger days did not, as is frequently the case, yield to
separation; on the contrary, a close correspondence was kept up between
them. Dr. Harris was even prevailed upon to allow Frederick to take
a trip to Holland to see his friend; and John returned the visit to
Frederick at Oxford.

Satisfactory as, for some time, were the accounts of the general course
of Frederick S---- 's studies, by degrees rumours of a less pleasant
nature reached the ears of some of his friends; to the vicarage,
however, I have reason to believe they never penetrated. The good old
Doctor was too well beloved in his parish for any one voluntarily to
give him pain; and, after all, nothing beyond whispers and surmises
had reached X----, when the worthy Vicar was surprised on a sudden
by a request from his grandchild, that he might be permitted to take
his name off the books of the university, and proceed to finish his
education in conjunction with his friend W---- at Leyden. Such a
proposal, made, too, at a time when the period for his graduating could
not be far distant, both surprised and grieved the Doctor; he combated
the design with more perseverance than he had ever been known to exert
in opposition to any declared wish of his darling boy before, but, as
usual, gave way, when more strongly pressed, from sheer inability to
persist in a refusal which seemed to give so much pain to Frederick,
especially when the latter, with more energy than was quite becoming
their relative situations, expressed his positive determination of not
returning to Oxford, whatever might be the result of his grandfather's
decision. My friend, his mind, perhaps, a little weakened by a short
but severe nervous attack which he had scarcely recovered from, at
length yielded a reluctant consent, and Frederick quitted England.

It was not till some months had elapsed after his departure, that I
had reason to suspect, that the eager desire of availing himself of
opportunities for study abroad, not afforded him at home, was not
the sole, or even the principal, reason which had drawn Frederick so
abruptly from his _Alma Mater_. A chance visit to the university, and
a conversation with a senior fellow belonging to his late college,
convinced me of this; still I found it impossible to extract from
the latter the precise nature of his offence. That he had given way
to most culpable indulgences, I had before heard hinted; and when I
recollected how he had been at once launched, from a state of what
might be well called seclusion, into a world where so many enticements
were lying in wait to allure,--with liberty, example, everything to
tempt him from the straight road,--regret, I frankly own, was more the
predominant feeling in my mind than either surprise or condemnation.
But here was evidently something more than mere ordinary excess--some
act of profligacy, perhaps, of a deeper stain, which had induced his
superiors, who, at first, had been loud in his praises, to desire him
to withdraw himself quietly, but for ever; and such an intimation, I
found, had in fact been conveyed to him from an authority which it was
impossible to resist. Seeing that my informant was determined not to
be explicit, I did not press for a disclosure, which, if made, would,
in all probability, only have given me pain, and that the rather, as
my old friend the Doctor had recently obtained a valuable living from
Lord M----, only a few miles distant from the market town in which I
resided, where he now was, amusing himself in putting his grounds into
order, ornamenting his house, and getting everything ready against
his grandson's expected visit in the following autumn. October came,
and with it came Frederick: he rode over more than once to see me,
sometimes accompanied by the Doctor, between whom and myself the recent
loss of my poor daughter Louisa had drawn the cords of sympathy still
closer.

More than two years had flown on in this way, in which Frederick
S---- had as many times made temporary visits to his native country.
The time was fast approaching when he was expected to return and
finally take up his residence in England, when the sudden illness of
my wife's father obliged us to take a journey into Lancashire, my old
friend, who had himself a curate, kindly offering to fix his quarters
at my parsonage, and superintend the concerns of my parish till my
return.--Alas! when I saw him next he was on the bed of death!

My absence was necessarily prolonged much beyond what I had
anticipated. A letter, with a foreign post-mark, had, as I afterwards
found, been brought over from his own house to my venerable substitute
in the interval, and barely giving himself time to transfer the charge
he had undertaken to a neighbouring clergyman, he had hurried off at
once to Leyden. His arrival there was, however, too late. Frederick
_was dead_!--killed in a duel, occasioned, it was said, by no ordinary
provocation on his part, although the flight of his antagonist had
added to the mystery which enveloped its origin. The long journey,
its melancholy termination, and the complete overthrow of all my poor
friend's earthly hopes, were too much for him. He appeared too,--as
I was informed by the proprietor of the house in which I found him,
when his summons at length had brought me to his bed-side,--to have
received some sudden and unaccountable shock, which even the death of
his grandson was inadequate to explain. There was, indeed, a wildness
in his fast-glazing eye, which mingled strangely with the glance of
satisfaction thrown upon me as he pressed my hand;--he endeavoured to
raise himself, and would have spoken, but fell back in the effort,
and closed his eyes for ever.--I buried him there, by the side of the
object of his more than parental affection,--in a foreign land.

It is from the papers that I discovered in his travelling-case that I
submit the following extracts, without, however, presuming to advance
an opinion on the strange circumstances which they detail, or even as
to the connexion which some may fancy they discover between different
parts of them.

The first was evidently written at my own house, and bears date August
the 15, 18--, about three weeks after my own departure from Preston.

It begins thus:--

"Tuesday, August 15.--Poor girl!--I forget who it is that says,
'the real ills of life are light in comparison with fancied evils;'
and certainly the scene I have just witnessed goes some way towards
establishing the truth of the hypothesis.--Among the afflictions
which flesh is heir to, a diseased imagination is far from being the
lightest, even when considered separately, and without taking into
the account those bodily pains and sufferings which,--so close is the
connexion between mind and matter,--are but too frequently attendant
upon any disorder of the fancy. Seldom has my interest been more
powerfully excited than by poor Mary Graham. Her age, her appearance,
her pale, melancholy features, the very contour of her countenance,
all conspired to remind me, but too forcibly, of one who, waking or
sleeping, is never long absent from my thoughts;--but enough of this.

"A fine morning had succeeded one of the most tempestuous nights I
ever remember, and I was just sitting down to a substantial breakfast,
which the care of my friend Ingoldsby's housekeeper, kind-hearted Mrs.
Wilson, had prepared for me, when I was interrupted by a summons to
the sick-bed of a young parishioner whom I had frequently seen in my
walks, and had remarked for the regularity of her attendance at Divine
worship.--Mary Graham is the elder of two daughters, residing with
their mother, the widow of an attorney, who, dying suddenly in the
prime of life, left his family but slenderly provided for. A strict
though not parsimonious economy has, however, enabled them to live with
an appearance of respectability and comfort; and from the personal
attractions which both the girls possess, their mother is evidently not
without hopes of seeing one, at least, of them advantageously settled
in life. As far as poor Mary is concerned, I fear she is doomed to
inevitable disappointment, as I am much mistaken if consumption has
not laid its wasting finger upon her; while this last recurrence, of
what I cannot but believe to be a most formidable epileptic attack,
threatens to shake out, with even added velocity, the little sand that
may yet remain within the hour-glass of time. Her very delusion, too,
is of such a nature as, by adding to bodily illness the agitation of
superstitious terror, can scarcely fail to accelerate the catastrophe,
which I think I see fast approaching.

"Before I was introduced into the sick-room, her sister, who had
been watching my arrival from the window, took me into their little
parlour, and, after the usual civilities, began to prepare me for the
visit I was about to pay. Her countenance was marked at once with
trouble and alarm, and in a low tone of voice, which some internal
emotion, rather than the fear of disturbing the invalid in a distant
room, had subdued almost to a whisper, informed me that my presence
was become necessary, not more as a clergyman than a magistrate;--that
the disorder with which her sister had, during the night, been so
suddenly and unaccountably seized, was one of no common kind, but
attended with circumstances which, coupled with the declarations of the
sufferer, took it out of all ordinary calculations, and, to use her own
expression, that 'malice was at the bottom of it.'

"Naturally supposing that these insinuations were intended to intimate
the partaking of some deleterious substance on the part of the invalid,
I inquired what reason she had for imagining, in the first place, that
anything of a poisonous nature had been administered at all; and,
secondly, what possible incitement any human being could have for the
perpetration of so foul a deed towards so innocent and unoffending
an individual? Her answer considerably relieved the apprehensions I
had begun to entertain lest the poor girl should, from some unknown
cause, have herself been attempting to rush uncalled into the presence
of her Creator; at the same time, it surprised me not a little by
its apparent want of rationality and common sense. She had no reason
to believe, she said, that her sister had taken poison, or that any
attempt upon her life had been made, or was, perhaps, contemplated,
but that 'still malice was at work,--the malice of villains or fiends,
or of both combined; that no causes purely natural would suffice to
account for the state in which her sister had been now twice placed,
or for the dreadful sufferings she had undergone while in that
state;' and that she was determined the whole affair should undergo
a thorough investigation. Seeing that the poor girl was now herself
labouring under a great degree of excitement, I did not think it
necessary to enter at that moment into a discussion upon the absurdity
of her opinion, but applied myself to the tranquillising her mind by
assurances of a proper inquiry, and then drew her attention to the
symptoms of the indisposition, and the way in which it had first made
its appearance.

"The violence of the storm last night had, I found, induced the whole
family to sit up far beyond their usual hour, till, wearied out at
length, and, as their mother observed, 'tired of burning fire and
candle to no purpose,' they repaired to their several chambers.

"The sisters occupied the same room; Elizabeth was already at their
humble toilet, and had commenced the arrangement of her hair for the
night, when her attention was at once drawn from her employment by a
half-smothered shriek and exclamation from her sister, who, in her
delicate state of health, had found walking up two flights of stairs,
perhaps a little more quickly than usual, an exertion, to recover from
which she had seated herself in a large arm-chair.

"Turning hastily at the sound, she perceived Mary deadly pale;
grasping, as it were convulsively, each arm of the chair which
supported her, and bending forward in the attitude of listening; her
lips were trembling and bloodless, cold drops of perspiration stood
upon her forehead, and in an instant after exclaiming in a piercing
tone, 'Hark! they are calling me again! it is--_it is the same
voice_;--Oh no! no!--Oh my God! save me, Betsy,--hold me--save me!' she
fell forward upon the floor. Elizabeth flew to her assistance, raised
her, and by her cries brought both her mother, who had not yet got into
bed, and their only servant girl to her aid. The latter was despatched
at once for medical help; but from the appearance of the sufferer it
was much to be feared that she would soon be beyond the reach of art.
Her agonised parent and sister succeeded in bearing her between them
and placing her on a bed: a faint and intermittent pulsation was for
a while perceptible; but in a few moments a general shudder shook the
whole body; the pulse ceased, the eyes became fixed and glassy, the jaw
dropped, a cold clamminess usurped the place of the genial warmth of
life. Before Mr. I---- arrived everything announced that dissolution
had taken place, and that the freed spirit had quitted its mortal
tenement.

"The appearance of the surgeon confirmed their worst apprehensions;
a vein was opened, but the blood refused to flow, and Mr. I----
pronounced that the vital spark was indeed extinguished.

"The poor mother, whose attachment to her children was perhaps the
more powerful as they were the sole relatives or connections she
had in the world, was overwhelmed with a grief amounting almost to
frenzy; it was with difficulty that she was removed to her own room
by the united strength of her daughter and medical adviser. Nearly an
hour had elapsed during the endeavour at calming her transports; they
had succeeded, however, to a certain extent, and Mr. I---- had taken
his leave, when Elizabeth, re-entering the bedchamber in which her
sister lay, in order to pay the last sad duties to her corpse, was
horror-struck at seeing a crimson stream of blood running down the
side of the counterpane to the floor. Her exclamation brought the girl
again to her side, when it was perceived, to their astonishment, that
the sanguine stream proceeded from the arm of the body, which was now
manifesting signs of returning life. The half-frantic mother flew to
the room, and it was with difficulty that they could prevent her in her
agitation from so acting as to extinguish for ever the hope which had
begun to rise in their bosoms. A long-drawn sigh, amounting almost to
a groan, followed by several convulsive gaspings, was the prelude to
the restoration of the animal functions in poor Mary: a shriek, almost
preternaturally loud, considering her state of exhaustion, succeeded;
but she did recover, and with the help of restoratives was well enough
towards morning to express a strong desire that I should be sent
for,--a desire the more readily complied with, inasmuch as the strange
expressions and declarations she had made since her restoration to
consciousness had filled her sister with the most horrible suspicions.
The nature of these suspicions was such as would at any other time,
perhaps, have raised a smile upon my lips; but the distress, and even
agony of the poor girl, as she half hinted and half expressed them,
were such as entirely to preclude every sensation at all approaching
to mirth. Without endeavouring, therefore, to combat ideas, evidently
too strongly impressed upon her mind at the moment to admit of present
refutation, I merely used a few encouraging words, and requested her to
precede me to the sick-chamber.

"The invalid was lying on the outside of the bed partly dressed, and
wearing a white dimity wrapping-gown, the colour of which corresponded
but too well with the deadly paleness of her complexion. Her cheek was
wan and sunken, giving an extraordinary prominence to her eye, which
gleamed with a lustrous brilliancy not unfrequently characteristic
of the aberration of intellect. I took her hand; it was chill and
clammy, the pulse feeble and intermittent, and the general debility of
her frame was such that I would fain have persuaded her to defer any
conversation which, in her present state, she might not be equal to
support. Her positive assurance that until she had disburdened herself
of what she called her 'dreadful secret,' she could know no rest
either of mind or body, at length induced me to comply with her wish,
opposition to which in her then frame of mind might perhaps be attended
with even worse effects than its indulgence. I bowed acquiescence, and
in a low and faltering voice, with frequent interruptions occasioned
by her weakness, she gave me the following singular account of the
sensations which, she averred, had been experienced by her during her
trance:--

"'This, sir,' she began, 'is not the first time that the cruelty of
others has, for what purpose I am unable to conjecture, put me to a
degree of torture which I can compare to no suffering, either of body
or mind, which I have ever before experienced. On a former occasion
I was willing to believe it the mere effect of a hideous dream, or
what is vulgarly termed the nightmare; but this repetition, and the
circumstances under which I was last _summoned_, at a time, too, when
I had not even composed myself to rest, fatally convince me of the
reality of what I have seen and suffered.

"'This is no time for concealment of any kind. It is now more than
a twelvemonth since I was in the habit of occasionally encountering
in my walks a young man of prepossessing appearance and gentlemanly
deportment. He was always alone, and generally reading; but I could
not be long in doubt that these rencounters, which became every week
more frequent, were not the effect of accident, or that his attention,
when we did meet, was less directed to his book than to my sister and
myself. He even seemed to wish to address us, and I have no doubt
would have taken some other opportunity of doing so, had not one been
afforded him by a strange dog attacking us one Sunday morning in our
way to church, which he beat off, and made use of this little service
to promote an acquaintance. His name, he said, was Francis Somers, and
added that he was on a visit to a relation of the same name, resident
a few miles from X----. He gave us to understand that he was himself
studying surgery with the view to a medical appointment in one of the
colonies. You are not to suppose, sir, that he had entered thus into
his concerns at the first interview; it was not till our acquaintance
had ripened, and he had visited our house more than once with my
mother's sanction, that these particulars were elicited. He never
disguised from the first that an attachment to myself was his object
originally in introducing himself to our notice; as his prospects were
comparatively flattering, my mother did not raise any impediment to his
attentions, and I own I received them with pleasure.

"'Days and weeks elapsed; and although the distance at which his
relation resided prevented the possibility of an uninterrupted
intercourse, yet neither was it so great as to preclude his frequent
visits. The interval of a day, or at most of two, was all that
intervened, and these temporary absences certainly did not decrease
the pleasure of the meetings with which they terminated. At length a
pensive expression began to exhibit itself upon his countenance, and I
could not but remark that at every visit he became more abstracted and
reserved. The eye of affection is not slow to detect any symptom of
uneasiness in a quarter dear to it. I spoke to him, questioned him on
the subject; his answer was evasive, and I said no more. My mother too,
however, had marked the same appearance of melancholy, and pressed him
more strongly. He at length admitted that his spirits were depressed,
and that their depression was caused by the necessity of an early,
though but a temporary, separation. His uncle and only friend, he said,
had long insisted on his spending some months on the Continent with the
view of completing his professional education, and that the time was
now fast approaching when it would be necessary for him to commence
his journey. A look made the inquiry which my tongue refused to utter.
'Yes, dearest Mary,' was his reply, 'I have communicated our attachment
to him, partially at least; and though I dare not say that the
intimation was received as I could have wished, yet I have, perhaps, on
the whole, no fair reason to be dissatisfied with his reply.

"'The completion of my studies, and my settlement in the world, must,
my uncle told me, be the first consideration; when these material
points were achieved, he should not interfere with any arrangement
that might be found essential to my happiness; at the same time he has
positively refused to sanction any engagement at present, which may,
he says, have a tendency to divert my attention from those pursuits,
on the due prosecution of which my future situation in life must
depend. A compromise between love and duty was eventually wrung from
me, though reluctantly; I have pledged myself to proceed immediately to
my destination abroad, with a full understanding that on my return, a
twelvemonth hence, no obstacle shall be thrown in the way of what are,
I trust, our mutual wishes.'

"'I will not attempt to describe the feelings with which I received
this communication, nor will it be necessary to say anything of
what passed at the few interviews which took place before Francis
quitted X----. The evening immediately previous to that of his
departure he passed in this house, and, before we separated, renewed
his protestations of an unchangeable affection, requiring a similar
assurance from me in return. I did not hesitate to make it. 'Be
satisfied, my dear Francis,' said I, 'that no diminution in the
regard I have avowed can ever take place, and though absent in body,
my heart and soul will still be with you.'--'Swear this,' he cried,
with a suddenness and energy which surprised, and rather startled me;
'promise that you will be with me _in spirit_, at least, when I am far
away.' I gave him my hand, but that was not sufficient. 'One of these
dark shining ringlets, my dear Mary,' said he, 'as a pledge that you
will not forget your vow!' I suffered him to take the scissors from
my work-box and to sever a lock of my hair, which he placed in his
bosom.--The next day he was pursuing his journey, and the waves were
already bearing him from England.

"'I had letters from him repeatedly during the first three months of
his absence; they spoke of his health, his prospects, and of his love,
but by degrees the intervals between each arrival became longer, and
I fancied I perceived some falling off from that warmth of expression
which had at first characterised his communications.

"'One night I had retired to rest rather later than usual, having
sat by the bed-side, comparing his last brief note with some of his
earlier letters, and was endeavouring to convince myself that my
apprehensions of his fickleness were unfounded, when an undefinable
sensation of restlessness and anxiety seized upon me. I cannot compare
it to anything I had ever experienced before; my pulse fluttered,
my heart beat with a quickness and violence which alarmed me, and a
strange tremour shook my whole frame. I retired hastily to bed, in
hopes of getting rid of so unpleasant a sensation, but in vain; a vague
apprehension of I knew not what occupied my mind, and vainly did I
endeavour to shake it off. I can compare my feelings to nothing but
those which we sometimes experience when about to undertake a long and
unpleasant journey, leaving those we love behind us. More than once
did I raise myself in my bed and listen, fancying that I heard myself
called, and on each of those occasions the fluttering of my heart
increased. Twice I was on the point of calling to my sister, who then
slept in an adjoining room, but she had gone to bed indisposed, and
an unwillingness to disturb either her or my mother checked me; the
large clock in the room below at this moment began to strike the hour
of twelve. I distinctly heard its vibrations, but ere its sounds had
ceased, a burning heat, as if a hot iron had been applied to my temple,
was succeeded by a dizziness,--a swoon,--a total loss of consciousness
as to where or in what situation I was.

"'A pain, violent, sharp, and piercing, as though my whole frame were
lacerated by some keen-edged weapon, roused me from this stupor,--but
where was I? Everything was strange around me--a shadowy dimness
rendered every object indistinct and uncertain; methought, however,
that I was seated in a large, antique, high-backed chair, several of
which were near, their tall black carved frames and seats interwoven
with a lattice-work of cane. The apartment in which I sat was one of
moderate dimensions, and from its sloping roof, seemed to be the upper
story of the edifice, a fact confirmed by the moon shining without,
in full effulgence, on a huge round tower, which its light rendered
plainly visible through the open casement, and the summit of which
appeared but little superior in elevation to the room I occupied.
Rather to the right, and in the distance, the spire of some cathedral
or lofty church was visible, while sundry gable-ends, and tops of
houses, told me I was in the midst of a populous but unknown city.

"'The apartment itself had something strange in its appearance; and,
in the character of its furniture and appurtenances, bore little
or no resemblance to any I had ever seen before. The fireplace was
large and wide, with a pair of what are sometimes called andirons,
betokening that wood was the principal, if not the only fuel consumed
within its recess; a fierce fire was now blazing in it, the light
from which rendered visible the remotest parts of the chamber. Over
a lofty old-fashioned mantelpiece, carved heavily in imitation of
fruits and flowers, hung the half-length portrait of a gentleman in a
dark-coloured foreign habit, with a peaked beard and mustaches, one
hand resting upon a table, the other supporting a sort of a baton, or
short military staff, the summit of which was surmounted by a silver
falcon. Several antique chairs, similar in appearance to those already
mentioned, surrounded a massive oaken table, the length of which much
exceeded its width. At the lower end of this piece of furniture stood
the chair I occupied; on the upper, was placed a small chafing-dish
filled with burning coals, and darting forth occasionally long flashes
of various-coloured fire, the brilliance of which made itself visible,
even above the strong illumination emitted from the chimney. Two huge,
black, japanned cabinets, with clawed feet, reflecting from their
polished surfaces the effulgence of the flame, were placed one on
each side the casement-window to which I have alluded, and with a few
shelves loaded with books, many of which were also strewed in disorder
on the floor, completed the list of the furniture in the apartment.
Some strange-looking instruments, of unknown form and purpose, lay
on the table near the chafing-dish, on the other side of which a
miniature portrait of myself hung, reflected by a small oval mirror in
a dark-coloured frame, while a large open volume, traced with strange
characters of the colour of blood, lay in front; a goblet, containing a
few drops of liquid of the same ensanguined hue, was by its side.

"'But of the objects which I have endeavoured to describe, none
arrested my attention so forcibly as two others. These were the figures
of two young men, in the prime of life, only separated from me by the
table. They were dressed alike, each in a long flowing gown, made of
some sad-coloured stuff, and confined at the waist by a crimson girdle;
one of them, the shorter of the two, was occupied in feeding the
embers of the chafing-dish with a resinous powder, which produced and
maintained a brilliant but flickering blaze, to the action of which his
companion was exposing a long lock of dark chestnut hair, that shrank
and shrivelled as it approached the flame. But, O God!--that hair!--and
the form of him who held it! that face! those features!--not for one
instant could I entertain a doubt--it was He! Francis!--the lock he
grasped was mine, the very pledge of affection I had given him, and
still, as it partially encountered the fire, a burning heat seemed to
scorch the temple from which it had been taken, conveying a torturing
sensation that affected my very brain.

"'How shall I proceed?--but no, it is impossible,--not even to you,
sir, can I--dare I--recount the proceedings of that unhallowed night
of horror and of shame. Were my life extended to a term commensurate
with that of the Patriarchs of old, never could its detestable, its
damning pollutions be effaced from my remembrance; and oh! above all,
never could I forget the diabolical glee which sparkled in the eyes
of my fiendish tormentors, as they witnessed the worse than useless
struggles of their miserable victim. Oh! why was it not permitted me
to take refuge in unconsciousness--nay, in death itself, from the
abominations of which I was compelled to be, not only a witness, but a
partaker! But it is enough, sir; I will not further shock your nature
by dwelling longer on a scene, the full horrors of which, words, if
I even dared employ any, would be inadequate to express; suffice it
to say, that after being subjected to it, how long I knew not, but
certainly for more than an hour, a noise from below seemed to alarm my
persecutors; a pause ensued,--the lights were extinguished,--and, as
the sound of a footstep ascending a staircase became more distinct,
my forehead felt again the excruciating sensation of heat, while the
embers, kindling into a momentary flame, betrayed another portion of
the ringlet consuming in the blaze. Fresh agonies succeeded, not less
severe, and of a similar description to those which had seized upon me
at first; oblivion again followed, and on being at length restored to
consciousness, I found myself as you see me now, faint and exhausted,
weakened in every limb, and every fibre quivering with agitation.--My
groans soon brought my sister to my aid; it was long before I could
summon resolution to confide, even to her, the dreadful secret, and
when I had done so, her strongest efforts were not wanting to persuade
me that I had been labouring under a severe attack of nightmare. I
ceased to argue, but I was not convinced: the whole scene was then too
present, too awfully real, to permit me to doubt the character of the
transaction; and if, when a few days had elapsed, the hopelessness
of imparting to others the conviction I entertained myself, produced
in me an apparent acquiescence with their opinion, I have never
been the less satisfied that no cause reducible to the known laws
of nature occasioned my sufferings on that hellish evening. Whether
that firm belief might have eventually yielded to time, whether I
might at length have been brought to consider all that had passed,
and the circumstances which I could never cease to remember, as a
mere phantasm, the offspring of a heated imagination, acting upon an
enfeebled body, I know not--last night, however, would in any case
have dispelled the flattering illusion--last night--last night was
the whole horrible scene acted over again. The place--the actors--the
whole infernal apparatus were the same;--the same insults, the same
torments, the same brutalities--all were renewed, save that the period
of my agony was not so prolonged. I became sensible to an incision
in my arm, though the hand that made it was not visible; at the same
moment my persecutors paused; they were manifestly disconcerted,
and the companion of him, whose name shall never more pass my lips,
muttered something to his abettor in evident agitation; the formula
of an oath of horrible import was dictated to me in terms fearfully
distinct. I refused it unhesitatingly; again and again was it proposed,
with menaces I tremble to think on--but I refused; the same sound was
heard--interruption was evidently apprehended,--the same ceremony was
hastily repeated, and I again found myself released, lying on my own
bed, with my mother and my sister weeping over me.--O God! O God! when
and how is this to end!--When will my spirit be left in peace?--Where,
or with whom shall I find refuge?'

"It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the emotions with
which this unhappy girl's narrative affected me. It must not be
supposed that her story was delivered in the same continuous and
uninterrupted strain in which I have transcribed its substance. On the
contrary, it was not without frequent intervals, of longer or shorter
duration, that her account was brought to a conclusion: indeed, many
passages of her strange dream were not without the greatest difficulty
and reluctance communicated at all.--My task was no easy one; never, in
the course of a long life spent in the active duties of my Christian
calling,--never had I been summoned to such a conference before!

"To the half-avowed, and palliated, confession of committed guilt,
I had often listened, and pointed out the only road to secure its
forgiveness. I had succeeded in cheering the spirit of despondency,
and sometimes even in calming the ravings of despair; but here I had
a different enemy to combat, an ineradicable prejudice to encounter,
evidently backed by no common share of superstition, and confirmed
by the mental weakness attendant upon severe bodily pain. To argue
the sufferer out of an opinion so rooted was a hopeless attempt. I
did, however, essay it; I spoke to her of the strong and mysterious
connection maintained between our waking images and those which haunt
us in our dreams, and more especially during that morbid oppression
commonly called nightmare. I was even enabled to adduce myself as a
strong, and living, instance of the excess to which fancy sometimes
carries her freaks on these occasions; while by an odd coincidence,
the impression made upon my own mind, which I adduced as an example,
bore no slight resemblance to her own. I stated to her, that on my
recovery from the fit of epilepsy, which had attacked me about two
years since, just before my grandson Frederick left Oxford, it was with
the greatest difficulty I could persuade myself that I had not visited
him, during the interval, in his rooms at Brazenose, and even conversed
both with himself and his friend W----, seated in his arm-chair, and
gazing through the window full upon the statue of Cain, as it stands
in the centre of the quadrangle. I told her of the pain I underwent
both at the commencement and termination of my attack,--of the extreme
lassitude that succeeded; but my efforts were all in vain; she listened
to me, indeed, with an interest almost breathless, especially when
I informed her of my having actually experienced the very burning
sensation in the brain alluded to, no doubt a strong attendant
symptom of this peculiar affection, and a proof of the identity of
the complaint; but I could plainly perceive that I failed entirely in
shaking the rooted opinion which possessed her, that her spirit had,
by some nefarious and unhallowed means, been actually subtracted for a
time from its earthly tenement."

       *       *       *       *       *

The next extract which I shall give from my old friend's memoranda is
dated August 24th, more than a week subsequent to his first visit at
Mrs. Graham's. He appears, from his papers, to have visited the poor
young woman more than once during the interval, and to have afforded
her those spiritual consolations which no one was more capable of
communicating. His patient, for so in a religious sense she may well be
termed, had been sinking under the agitation she had experienced; and
the constant dread she was under, of similar sufferings, operated so
strongly on a frame already enervated, that life at length seemed to
hang only by a thread. His papers go on to say,

"I have just seen poor Mary Graham,--I fear for the last time. Nature
is evidently quite worn out; she is aware that she is dying, and
looks forward to the termination of her existence here, not only with
resignation but with joy. It is clear that her dream, or what she
persists in calling her 'subtraction,' has much to do with this. For
the last three days her behaviour has been altered; she has avoided
conversing on the subject of her delusion, and seems to wish that I
should consider her as a convert to my view of her case. This may,
perhaps, be partly owing to the flippances of her medical attendant
upon the subject, for Mr. I---- has, somehow or other, got an inkling
that she has been much agitated by a dream, and thinks to laugh off
the impression,--in my opinion injudiciously; but though a skilful,
and a kind-hearted, he is a young man, and of a disposition, perhaps,
rather too mercurial for the chamber of a nervous invalid. Her manner
has since been much more reserved to both of us: in my case, probably
because she suspects me of betraying her secret."

       *       *       *       *       *

"August 26th.--Mary Graham is yet alive, but sinking fast; her
cordiality towards me has returned since her sister confessed
yesterday, that she had herself told Mr. I---- that his patient's mind
'had been affected by a terrible vision.' I am evidently restored to
her confidence.--She asked me this morning, with much earnestness,
'What I believed to be the state of departed spirits during the
interval between dissolution and the final day of account?--And whether
I thought they would be safe, in another world, from the influence of
wicked persons employing an agency more than human?'--Poor child!--One
cannot mistake the prevailing bias of her mind.--Poor child!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"August 27th.--It is nearly over; she is sinking rapidly, but quietly
and without pain. I have just administered to her the sacred elements,
of which her mother partook. Elizabeth declined doing the same; she
cannot, she says, yet bring herself to forgive the villain who has
destroyed her sister. It is singular that she, a young woman of good
plain sense in ordinary matters, should so easily adopt, and so
pertinaciously retain a superstition so puerile and ridiculous. This
must be matter of a future conversation between us; at present, with
the form of the dying girl before her eyes, it were vain to argue with
her. The mother, I find, has written to young Somers, stating the
dangerous situation of his affianced wife; indignant, as she justly
is, at his long silence, it is fortunate that she has no knowledge of
the suspicions entertained by her daughter. I have seen her letter, it
is addressed to Mr. Francis Somers, in the Hogewoert, at Leyden,--a
fellow-student then of Frederick's. I must remember to inquire if he is
acquainted with this young man."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mary Graham, it appears, died the same night. Before her departure
she repeated to my friend the singular story she had before told him,
without any material variation from the detail she had formerly given.
To the last she persisted in believing that her unworthy lover had
practised upon her by forbidden arts. She once more described the
apartment with great minuteness, and even the person of Francis's
alleged companion, who was, she said, about the middle height,
hard-featured, with a rather remarkable scar upon his left cheek,
extending in a transverse direction from below the eye to the nose.
Several pages of my reverend friend's manuscript are filled with
reflections upon this extraordinary confession, which, joined with
its melancholy termination, seems to have produced no common effect
upon him. He alludes to more than one subsequent discussion with the
surviving sister, and piques himself on having made some progress in
convincing her of the folly of her theory respecting the origin and
nature of the illness itself.

His memoranda on this and other subjects are continued till about the
middle of September, when a break ensues, occasioned, no doubt, by
the unwelcome news of his grandson's dangerous state, which induced
him to set out forthwith for Holland. His arrival at Leyden was, as
I have already said, too late. Frederick S---- had expired, after
thirty hours' intense suffering, from a wound received in a duel
with a brother student. The cause of quarrel was variously related;
but according to his landlord's version it had originated in some
silly dispute about a dream of his antagonist's, who had been the
challenger. Such, at least, was the account given to him, as he said,
by Frederick's friend and fellow-lodger, W----, who had acted as
second on the occasion, thus acquitting himself of an obligation of the
same kind due to the deceased, whose services he had put in requisition
about a year before on a similar occasion, when he had himself been
severely wounded in the face.

From the same authority I learned that my poor friend was much affected
on finding that his arrival had been deferred too long. Every attention
was shown him by the proprietor of the house, a respectable tradesman,
and a chamber was prepared for his accommodation; the books and few
effects of his deceased grandson were delivered over to him duly
inventoried, and, late as it was in the evening when he reached Leyden,
he insisted on being conducted immediately to the apartments which
Frederick had occupied, there to indulge the first ebullitions of his
sorrow before he retired to his own. Madame Müller accordingly led the
way to an upper room, which, being situated at the top of the house,
had been, from its privacy and distance from the street, selected by
Frederick as his study. The Doctor entered, and taking the lamp from
his conductress motioned to be left alone. His implied wish was of
course complied with; and nearly two hours had elapsed before his
kind-hearted hostess reascended, in the hope of prevailing upon him to
return with her and partake of that refreshment which he had in the
first instance peremptorily declined. Her application for admission
was unnoticed; she repeated it more than once without success; then,
becoming somewhat alarmed at the continued silence, opened the door
and perceived her new inmate stretched on the floor in a fainting
fit. Restoratives were instantly administered, and prompt medical aid
succeeded at length in restoring him to consciousness. But his mind had
received a shock from which, during the few weeks he survived, it never
entirely recovered. His thoughts wandered perpetually; and though,
from the very slight acquaintance which his hosts had with the English
language, the greater part of what fell from him remained unknown, yet
enough was understood to induce them to believe that something more
than the mere death of his grandson had contributed thus to paralyse
his faculties.

When his situation was first discovered, a small miniature was found
tightly grasped in his right hand. It had been the property of
Frederick, and had more than once been seen by the Müllers in his
possession. To this the patient made continued reference, and would
not suffer it one moment from his sight. It was in his hand when he
expired. At my request it was produced to me. The portrait was that of
a young woman in an English morning dress, whose pleasing and regular
features, with their mild and somewhat pensive expression, were not, I
thought, altogether unknown to me. Her age was apparently about twenty.
A profusion of dark chestnut hair was arranged in the Madonna style
above a brow of unsullied whiteness, a single ringlet depending on the
left side. A glossy lock of the same colour, and evidently belonging to
the original, appeared beneath a small crystal, inlaid in the back of
the picture, which was plainly set in gold, and bore in a cipher the
letters M. G. with the date 18--. From the inspection of this portrait
I could at the time collect nothing, nor from that of the Doctor
himself, which also I found the next morning in Frederick's desk,
accompanied by two separate portions of hair. One of them was a lock,
short, and deeply tinged with grey, and had been taken, I have little
doubt, from the head of my old friend himself; the other corresponded
in colour and appearance with that at the back of the miniature. It was
not till a few days had elapsed, and I had seen the worthy Doctor's
remains quietly consigned to the narrow house, that while arranging his
papers previous to my intended return upon the morrow, I encountered
the narrative I have already transcribed. The name of the unfortunate
young woman connected with it forcibly arrested my attention. I
recollected it immediately as one belonging to a parishioner of my own,
and at once recognised the original of the female portrait as its owner.

I rose not from the perusal of his very singular statement till I had
gone through the whole of it. It was late, and the rays of the single
lamp by which I was reading did but very faintly illumine the remoter
parts of the room in which I sat. The brilliancy of an unclouded
November moon, then some twelve nights old, and shining full into the
apartment, did much towards remedying the defect. My thoughts filled
with the melancholy details I had read, I rose and walked to the
window. The beautiful planet rode high in the firmament, and gave to
the snowy roofs of the houses and pendant icicles, all the sparkling
radiance of clustering gems. The stillness of the scene harmonised
well with the state of my feelings. I threw open the casement and
looked abroad. Far below me the waters of the principal canal shone
like a broad mirror in the moonlight. To the left rose the Burght, a
huge round tower of remarkable appearance, pierced with embrasures
at its summit; while a little to the right and in the distance, the
spire and pinnacles of the Cathedral of Leyden rose in all their
majesty, presenting a _coup d'œil_ of surpassing though simple beauty.
To a spectator of calm, unoccupied mind the scene would have been
delightful. On me it acted with an electric effect. I turned hastily
to survey the apartment in which I had been sitting. It was the one
designated as the study of the late Frederick S----. The sides of
the room were covered with dark wainscot; the spacious fire-place
opposite to me, with its polished andirons, was surmounted by a large
old-fashioned mantelpiece, heavily carved in the Dutch style with
fruits and flowers; above it frowned a portrait, in a Vandyke dress,
with a peaked beard and mustaches; one hand of the figure rested on
a table, while the other bore a marshal's staff, surmounted with a
silver falcon; and--either my imagination, already heated by the scene,
deceived me,--or a smile as of malicious triumph curled the lip and
glared in the cold leaden eye that seemed fixed upon my own. The heavy,
antique, cane-backed chairs,--the large oaken table,--the book-shelves,
the scattered volumes--all, all were there; while, to complete the
picture, to my right and left, as half-breathless I leaned my back
against the casement, rose on each side a tall, dark, ebony cabinet, in
whose polished sides the single lamp upon the table shone reflected as
in a mirror.

       *       *       *       *       *

What am I to think? Can it be that the story I have been reading was
written by my poor friend here, and under the influence of delirium?
Impossible! Besides they all assure me that from the fatal night of
his arrival he never left his bed--never put pen to paper. His very
directions to have me summoned from England were verbally given during
one of those few and brief intervals in which reason seemed partially
to resume her sway. Can it then be possible that----? W----? where is
he who alone may be able to throw light on this horrible mystery?--No
one knows. He absconded, it seems, immediately after the duel. No trace
of him exists, nor, after repeated and anxious inquiries, can I find
that any student has ever been known in the University of Leyden by the
name of Francis Somers.

  "There are more things in heaven and earth
  Than are dreamt of in your philosophy!!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Father John Ingoldsby, to whose papers I am largely indebted for the
Saintly records which follow, was brought up by his father, a cadet
of the family, in the Romish faith, and was educated at Douai for the
church. Besides the manuscripts now at Tappington, he was the author
of two controversial treatises on the connection between the Papal
Hierarchy and the Nine of Diamonds.

From his well-known loyalty, evinced by secret services to the Royal
cause during the Protectorate, he was excepted by name out of the acts
against the Papists, became superintendent of the Queen Dowager's
chapel at Somerset House, and enjoyed a small pension until his death,
which took place in the third year of Queen Anne (1704), at the mature
age of ninety-six. He was an ecclesiastic of great learning and piety,
but from the stiff and antiquated phraseology which he adopted, I have
thought it necessary to modernise it a little: this will account for
certain anachronisms that have unavoidably crept in; the substance of
his narratives has, however, throughout been strictly adhered to.

His hair-shirt, almost as good as new, is still preserved at
Tappington,--but nobody ever wears it.




THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.


 "Tune miser Corvus adeo conscientiæ stimulis compunctus fuit, et
 execratio eum tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde tabescere inciperet,
 maciem contraheret, omnem cibum aversaretur, nec amplius crocitaret:
 pennæ præterea ei defluebant, et alis pendulis omnes facetias
 intermisit, et tam macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miserescent."

 "Tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem absolverent; quo
 facto, Corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pristinam
 sanitatem recuperavit."

                                             _De Illust. Ord. Cisterc._


  The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
  Bishop and abbot, and prior were there;
      Many a monk, and many a friar,
      Many a knight, and many a squire,
  With a great many more of lesser degree,--
  In sooth, a goodly company;
  And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
      Never, I ween,  Was a prouder seen,
  Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
  Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

      In and out  Through the motley rout,
  That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
      Here and there,  Like a dog in a fair,
      Over comfits and cates,  And dishes and plates,
  Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
  Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
      With a saucy air,  He perch'd on the chair
  Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
  In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
      And he peer'd in the face  Of his Lordship's Grace,
  With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
  "We Two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
      And the priests, with awe,  As such freaks they saw,
  Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!!"

  The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
  The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
  And six little Singing-boys,--dear little souls!
  In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
      Came, in order due,  Two by two,
  Marching that grand refectory through!
  A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
  Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
  As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
  Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
  In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
  Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
  Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
  And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
  Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
      One little boy more  A napkin bore,
  Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
  And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink."

  The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
  Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
      From his finger he draws  His costly turquoise;
  And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
      Deposits it straight  By the side of his plate,
  While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
  Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
  That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

         *       *       *       *       *

      There's a cry and a shout,  And a deuce of a rout,
  And nobody seems to know what they're about,
  But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out;
      The friars are kneeling,  And hunting, and feeling
  The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
      The Cardinal drew  Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
  And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
      He peeps, and he feels  In the toes and the heels;
  They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,--
  They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
      --They turn up the rugs,  They examine the mugs:--
      But, no!--no such thing;--  They can't find THE RING!
  And the Abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it,
  Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!"

  The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
  He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
    In holy anger, and pious grief,
    He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
    He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
    From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
    He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
    He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
    He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
    He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
    He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
    He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
    He cursed him in living, he cursed him dying!--
  Never was heard such a terrible curse!!
      But what gave rise  To no little surprise,
  Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

      The day was gone,  The night came on,
  The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
      When the Sacristan saw,  On crumpled claw,
  Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
      No longer gay,  As on yesterday;
  His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;--
  His pinions droop'd--he could hardly stand,--
  His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
      His eye so dim,  So wasted each limb,
  That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT HIM!--
  That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
  That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"
      The poor little Jackdaw,  When the monks he saw,
  Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
  And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
  "Pray, be so good as to walk this way!"
      Slower and slower He limp'd on before,
  Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,
      Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw,
  Was the RING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

  Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
  And off that terrible curse he took;
      The mute expression Served in lieu of confession,
  And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
  The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
      --When those words were heard, That poor little bird
  Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd,
      He grew sleek, and fat; In addition to that,
  A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
      His tail waggled more Even than before;
  But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
  No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
      He hopp'd now about With a gait devout;
  At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
  And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
  He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
  If any one lied,--or if any one swore,--
  Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore,
      That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw!"
  As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
  While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
  That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
      He long lived the pride Of that country side,
  And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
      When, as words were too faint His merits to paint
  The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
  And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
  It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
  So they canonised him by the name of Jem Crow!

[Illustration: THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.]




A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.


"This holy childe Dunstan was borne in y^e yere of our Lorde ix.
hondred & xxv. that tyme regnynge in this londe Kinge Athelston. * * *

"Whan it so was that Saynt Dunstan was wery of prayer than used he to
werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for to eschewe ydelnes."

  _Golden Legend._

    St. Dunstan stood in his ivied tower,
      Alembic, crucible, all were there;
    When in came Nick to play him a trick,
      In guise of a damsel passing fair.
          Every one knows  How the story goes:
  He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose.
  But I beg that you won't for a moment suppose
  That I mean to go through, in detail, to you
  A story at least as trite as it's true;
      Nor do I intend  An instant to spend
  On the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend,
  When, bolting away to a chamber remote,
  Inconceivably bored by his Witen-gemote,
      Edwy left them all joking,  And drinking, and smoking,
  So tipsily grand, they'd stand nonsense from no King,
      But sent the Archbishop  Their Sovereign to fish up,
  With a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel taps,
  Unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps.
  You must not be plagued with the same story twice,
  And perhaps have seen this one, by W. DYCE,
  At the Royal Academy, very well done,
  And mark'd in the catalogue Four, seven, one.

  You might there view the Saint, who in sable array'd is,
  Coercing the Monarch away from the Ladies;
  His right hand has hold of his Majesty's jerkin,
  His left shows the door, and he seems to say, "Sir King,
  Your most faithful Commons won't hear of your shirking!
  Quit your tea, and return to your Barclai and Perkyn,
  Or, by Jingo,[9] ere morning, no longer alive, a
  Sad victim you'll lie to your love for Elgiva!"

      No farther to treat  Of this ungallant feat,
  What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint
  One particular fact in the life of the Saint,
  Which somehow, for want of due care, I presume,
  Has escaped the researches of Rapin and Hume,
  In recounting a miracle, both of them men, who a
  Great deal fall short of Jaques Bishop of Genoa,
  An Historian who likes deeds like these to record--
  See his _Aurea Legenda_, by ~Wynkyn de Worde~.

    St. Dunstan stood again in his tower,
      Alembic, crucible, all complete;
    He had been standing a good half hour,
    And now he utter'd the words of power,
      And call'd to his Broomstick to bring him a seat.

  The words of power!--and what be they
  To which e'en Broomsticks bow and obey?--
  Why,--'twere uncommonly hard to say,
  As the prelate I named has recorded none of them,
      What they may be, But I know they are three,
  And ABRACADABRA, I take it, is one of them:
  For I'm told that most Cabalists use that identical
  Word, written thus in what they call "a Pentacle."

[Illustration: Pentacle]

      However that be,  You'll doubtless agree
  It signifies little to you or to me,
  As not being dabblers in Grammarye;
  Still, it must be confess'd, for a Saint to repeat
  Such language aloud is scarcely discreet;
  For, as Solomon hints to folks given to chatter,
  "A bird of the air may carry the matter;"
      And in sooth,  From my youth  I remember a truth
  Insisted on much in my earlier years,
  To wit, "Little Pitchers have very long ears!"
  Now, just such a "Pitcher" as those I allude to
  Was outside the door, which his "ears" appeared glued to.

  Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,
    Five feet one in his sandal-shoon,
  While the saint thought him sleeping,
  Was listening and peeping,
    And watching his master the whole afternoon.

  This Peter the Saint had pick'd out from his fellows,
  To look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows,
  To put on the Wall's-Ends and Lambtons whenever he
  Chose to indulge in a little _orfevrerie_;
      --Of course you have read,  That St. Dunstan was bred
  A Goldsmith, and never quite gave up the trade!
  The Company--richest in London, 'tis said--
  Acknowledge him still as their Patron and Head;
      Nor is it so long  Since a capital song
  In his praise--now recorded their archives among--
  Delighted the noble and dignified throng
  Of their guests, who, the newspapers told the whole town,
  With cheers "pledged the wine-cup to Dunstan's renown,"
  When Lord Lyndhurst, THE DUKE, and Sir Robert, were dining
  At the Hall some time since with the Prime Warden Twining.--
  --I am sadly digressing--a fault which sometimes
  One can hardly avoid in these gossiping rhymes--
  A slight deviation's forgiven! but then this is
  Too long, I fear, for a decent parenthesis,
  So I'll rein up my Pegasus sharp, and retreat, or
  You'll think I've forgotten the Lay-brother Peter,
      Whom the Saint, as I said,  Kept to turn down his bed,
      Dress his palfreys and cobs,  And do other odd jobs,--
      As reducing to writing  Whatever he might, in
  The course of the day or the night, be inditing,
  And cleaning the plate of his mitre with whiting;
  Performing, in short, all those duties and offices
  Abbots exact from Lay-brothers and Novices.

      It occurs to me here  You'll perhaps think it queer
  That St. Dunstan should have such a personage near,
      When he'd only to say  Those words,--be what they may,--
  And his Broomstick at once his commands would obey.--
      That's true--but the fact is  'Twas rarely his practice
  Such aid to resort to, or such means apply,
  Unless he'd some "dignified knot" to untie,
  Adopting, though sometimes, as now, he'd reverse it,
  Old Horace's maxim "_nec Broomstick intersit_."--
  --Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,
  Heard all the Saint was saying within;
  Peter, the Lay-brother, sallow and spare,
  Peep'd through the key-hole, and--what saw he there?--
  Why,--A BROOMSTICK BRINGING A RUSH-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

  What Shakspeare observes, in his play of King John,
      Is undoubtedly right,  That "ofttimes the sight
  Of means to do ill deeds will make ill deeds done."
  Here's Peter, the Lay-brother, pale-faced and meagre,
  A good sort of man, only rather too eager
  To listen to what other people are saying,
  When he ought to be minding his business or praying,
  Gets into a scrape,--and an awkward one too,--
  As you'll find, if you've patience enough to go through
      The whole of the story  I'm laying before ye,--
  Entirely from having "the means" in his view
  Of doing a thing which he ought not to do!

      Still rings in his ear,  Distinct and clear,
  Abracadabra! that word of fear!
  And the two which I never yet happen'd to hear.
      Still doth he spy,  With Fancy's eye,
  The Broomstick at work, and the Saint standing by;
  And he chuckles, and says to himself with glee,
  "Aha! that Broomstick shall work for _me_!"

      Hark!--that swell  O'er flood and o'er fell,
  Mountain, and dingle, and moss-cover'd dell!
  List!--'tis the sound of the Compline bell,
  And St. Dunstan is quitting his ivied cell;
      Peter, I wot,  Is off like a shot,
  Or a little dog scalded by something that's hot,
  For he hears his Master approaching the spot
  Where he'd listened so long, though he knew he ought not:
  Peter remember'd his Master's frown--
  He trembled--he'd not have been caught for a crown;
      Howe'er you may laugh,  He had rather, by half,
  Have run up to the top of the tower and jump'd down.

         *       *       *       *       *

  The Compline hour is past and gone,
  Evening service is over and done;
      The monks repair  To their frugal fare,
  A snug little supper of something light
  And digestible, ere they retire for the night.
  For, in Saxon times, in respect to their cheer,
  St. Austin's Rule was by no means severe,
  But allowed, from the Beverley Roll 'twould appear,
  Bread and cheese, and spring onions, and sound table-beer,
  And even green peas, when they were not too dear;
  Not like the rule of La Trappe, whose chief merit is
  Said to consist in its greater austerities;
  And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws,
      Ne'er are suffer'd to speak,  Think only in Greek,
  And subsist, as the Bears do, by sucking their paws.
      Astonish'd I am  The gay Baron Geramb,
  With his head sav'ring more of the Lion than Lamb,
  Could e'er be persuaded to join such a set--I
  Extend the remark to Signor Ambrogetti.--
  For a monk of La Trappe is as thin as a rat,
  While an Austin Friar was jolly and fat;
  Though, of course, the fare to which I allude,
  With as good table-beer as ever was brew'd,
  Was all "caviare to the multitude,"
  Extending alone to the clergy, together in
  Hall assembled,--and not to Lay-brethren.
  St. Dunstan himself sits there at his post,
      On what they say is  Called a Dais,
  O'erlooking the whole of his clerical host,
  And eating poach'd eggs with spinach and toast;
  Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair,
  But where is the sixth?--Where's Peter!--Ay, WHERE?

      'Tis an evening in June,  And a little half moon,
  A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on,
      Gleaming and beaming,  And dancing the stream in,
  Has made her appearance above the horizon;
  Just such a half moon as you see, in a play,
  On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey,
  Or the fair Turk who weds with the "Noble Lord Bateman;"
  --_Vide_ plate in George Cruickshank's memoirs of that great man.

  She shines on a turret remote and lone,
  A turret with ivy and moss overgrown,
  And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone;
  Such a tower as a poet of no mean _calibre_
  I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber,
  Assigns to oblivion[10]--a den for a She bear;
      Within it are found,  Strew'd above and around,
  On the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground,
  All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools,
  To name which, and their uses, would puzzle the Schools,
  And make very wise people look very like fools;
      Pincers and hooks, And black-letter books,
  All sorts of pokers, and all sorts of tongs,
  And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs
  To Goldsmith's work, chemistry, alchymy,--all,
      In short that a Sage, In that erudite age,
  Could require, was at hand, or at least within call.
  In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick!--and there
  A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottom'd chair!

  Abracadabra, that fearful word,
  And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard,
      Are utter'd.--'Tis done! Peter, full of his fun,
  Cries, "Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun!
  Bring ale!--bring a flagon--a hogshead--a tun!
      'Tis the same thing to you; I have nothing to do;
  And, 'fore George, I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all's blue!"

  No doubt you've remark'd how uncommonly quick
  A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick,
  Brings it back to his master, and gives it him--Well,
          So potent the spell,
  The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel,
  So ran off like that puppy;--some cellar was near,
  For in less than ten seconds 'twas back with the beer!
  Peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck
  Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck,
  The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck;
      Continues to run At the rate it begun,
  And, _au pied de lettre_, next brings in a tun!
  A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another,
  Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother;
  Who, had he possess'd fifty pitchers or stoups,
  They all had been too few; for, arranging in groups
  The barrels, the Broomstick next _started the hoops_;
      The ale deluged the floor, But, still, through the door,
  Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more.
      E'en Macbeth to Macduff _Would_ have cried "Hold! enough!"
  If half as well drench'd with such "perilous stuff,"
  And, Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit,
  Cried lustily, "Stop!--That will do, Broomstick!--_Sufficit!_"

      But ah, well-a-day! The Devil, they say,
  'Tis easier at all times to raise than to lay.
      Again and again Peter roar'd out in vain
  His Abracadabra, and t'other words twain:--
      As well might one try A pack in full cry
  To check, and call off from their headlong career,
  By bawling out, "Yoicks!" with one's hand at one's ear.
  The longer he roar'd, and the louder and quicker,
  The faster the Broomstick was bringing in liquor.

      The poor Lay-brother knew Not on earth what to do--
  He caught hold of the Broomstick and snapt it in two.--
      Worse and worse!--Like a dart Each part made a start,
  And he found he'd been adding more fuel to fire,
  For _both_ now came loaded with Meux's entire;
  Combe's, Delafield's, Hanbury's, Truman's--no stopping--
  Goding's, Charenton's, Whitbread's continued to drop in,
  With Hodson's pale ale, from the Sun Brewhouse, Wapping.
  The firms differ'd then, but I can't put a tax on
  My memory to say what their names were in Saxon.
      To be sure the best beer Of all did not appear;
  For I've said 'twas in June, and so late in the year
  The "Trinity Audit Ale" is not come-at-able,
  --As I've found to my great grief when dining at that table.

  Now extremely alarm'd, Peter scream'd without ceasing,
  For a flood of brown-stout he was up to his knees in,
  Which, thanks to the Broomstick, continued increasing;
      He fear'd he'd be drown'd, And he yell'd till the sound
  Of his voice, wing'd by terror, at last reach'd the ear
  Of St. Dunstan himself, who had finish'd _his_ beer,
  And had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes,
  And was just stepping into his bed for a snooze.

  His Holiness paused when he heard such a clatter;
  He could not conceive what on earth was the matter.
  Slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum,
  He issued forthwith from his _Sanctum sanctorum_.
  And calling a few of the Lay-brothers near him,
  Who were not yet in bed, and who happen'd to hear him,
      At once led the way, Without further delay,
  To the tower where he'd been in the course of the day.
  Poor Peter!--alas!--though St. Dunstan was quick,
  There were two there before him--Grim Death, and Old Nick!--
  When they open'd the door out the malt-liquor flow'd,
  Just as when the great Vat burst in Tot'n'am Court Road;
  The Lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks
  In an instant, and swimming in strong double X;
  While Peter, who, spite of himself now had drank hard,
  After floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard,
      To the bottom had sunk, And was spied by a monk,
  Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drown'd and half drunk.

  In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, "_Vade retro_
  _Strongbeerum!--discede a Lay-fratre Petro!_"--
      Queer Latin, you'll say, That præfix of "_Lay_,"
  And _Strongbeerum_!--I own they'd have call'd me a blockhead if
  At school I had ventured to use such a Vocative;
  'Tis a barbarous word, and to me it's a query
  If you'll find it in Patrick, Morell, or Moreri;
  But, the fact is, the Saint was uncommonly flurried,
  And apt to be loose in his Latin when hurried;
  The Brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter,
  Quite as well as if talk'd to, in Latin much better,
      By a grave Cambridge Johnian, Or graver Oxonian,
  Whose language, we all know, is quite Ciceronian.
  It retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry;
  But, in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply,
  And other means used by the faculty try.
      When once a man's dead There's no more to be said;
  Peter's "Beer with an _e_" was his "Bier with an _i_!!"

Moral.

  By way of a moral, permit me to pop in
  The following maxims:--Beware of eaves-dropping!--
  Don't make use of language that isn't well scann'd!--
  Don't meddle with matters you don't understand!--
  Above all, what I'd wish to impress on both sexes
  Is,--Keep clear of Broomsticks, Old Nick, and three XXXs.

L'Envoye.

  In Goldsmith's Hall there's a handsome glass-case,
  And in it a stone figure, found on the place,
  When, thinking the old Hall no longer a pleasant one,
  They pull'd it all down, and erected the present one.
  If you look, you'll perceive that this stone figure twists
  A thing like a broomstick in one of its fists.
  It's so injured by time, you can't make out a feature;
  But it is not St. Dunstan,--so doubtless it's Peter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gengulphus, or, as he is usually styled in this country, "Jingo," was
perhaps more in the mouths of the "general" than any other Saint, on
occasions of adjuration (see note, page 145). Mr. Simpkinson from
Bath had kindly transmitted me a portion of a primitive ballad, which
has escaped the researches of Ritson and Ellis, but is yet replete
with beauties of no common order. I am happy to say that, since these
Legends first appeared, I have recovered the whole of it.--_Vide infra._

  "A Franklyn's dogge leped over a style,
  And hys name was littel Byngo.
  B wyth a Y--Y wyth an N,--
  N wyth a G--G wyth an O,--
  They call'd hym littel Byngo!

  Thys Franklyn, Syrs, he brewed goode ayle,
  And he called it Rare goode Styngo!
  S, T, Y, N, G, O!
  He call'd it Rare goode Styngo!

  Nowe is notte thys a prettie song?
  I thinke it is bye Jyngo!
  J wythe a Y--N, G, O--
  I sweare yt is by Jyngo!"

       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES:

[9] St. Jingo, or Gengo (Gengulphus), sometimes styled "The
Living Jingo," from the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by
his severed members. See his Legend, as recorded hereafter in the
present volume.

[10]

  And cold oblivion, midst the ruin laid,
  Folds her dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
                                       PALESTINE.




A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.


 "Non multò post, Gengulphus, in domo suâ dormiens, occisus est à
 quodam clerico qui cum uxore suâ adulterare solebat. Cujus corpus dum,
 in fereto, in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati
 sunt."

       *       *       *       *       *

 "Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancillâ sua, scilicet dominum
 suum, quam martyrem sanctum, miracula facere, irridens illa, et
 subsurrans, ait, 'Ita Gengulphus miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum
 cantat,'" &c. &c.
                                                WOLFII MEMORAB.


  Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
    With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon,
  Full many a day hath he been away,
    Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon

  Full many a day hath he been away,
    Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
  Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
    Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

  This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
    Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
  They laugh'd, and they ate and they drank of the best,
    And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.

  They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
    With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
  Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
    To get rid of what French people called _Ennui_.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Now the festive board with viands is stored,
    Savoury dishes be there, I ween,
  Rich puddings and big, and a barbecued pig,
    And oxtail soup in a China tureen.

  There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail--
    When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
  While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking,
    Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

  "You must be pretty deep to catch weazels asleep,"
    Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares;"
  A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
    Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."

  Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
    With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste,
  And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
    As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

  Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
    When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd!
  She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast,
    In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard.

  Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing,
    A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;[11]
  She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad,
    And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

  Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid,
    And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;
  On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
    And she mixes a stiff glass of "Cold Without."

  Then again she began at the "poor dear" man;
    She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat,
  And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
    To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.

  "Nor night nor day since he'd been away,
    Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared."
  She "never could eat one morsel of meat,
    For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."

  She "really did think she had not slept a wink
    Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long;"
  He here shook his head,--right little he said,
    But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."

  Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles,
    Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,
  His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy,
    Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.

  Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
    He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,
  And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
    Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

  Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
    And his night-cap into his mouth they cram;
  And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,
    Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.

         *       *       *       *       *

  And now they tried the deed to hide;
    For a little bird whisper'd, "Perchance you may swing;
  Here's a corpse in the case with a sad swell'd face,
    And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"

  So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife,
    And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea;
  With the edges and points they sever'd the joints
    At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.

  Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him
    So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists,
  With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,"
    As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

  When they'd cut off his head, entertaining a dread
    Lest folks should remember Gengulphus's face,
  They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
    Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.

  But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd,
    And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,
  With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
    That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.

  They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack,
    Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,
  The Clerk bearing arms, legs and all on his back,
    As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.

  But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
    And that in a manner the least expected!
  Who could surmise a man ever could rise
    Who'd been thus carbonado'd, cut up, and dissected?

  No doubt 'twould surprise the pupils at Guy's;
    I am no unbeliever--no man can say that o' me--
  But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
    If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.

  You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
    Or a Mussulman making his heathen _salaam_, or
  A Jew or a Turk, but it's other guess work
    When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.

         *       *       *       *       *

  By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
    Sends his cards round the neighbourhood next day, and urges his
  Wish to receive a snug party to dine,
    Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.

  At a quarter past five they are all alive,
    At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in;
  And to every guest his card had express'd
    "Half-past" as the hour for "a greasy chin."

  Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
    With the choicest Rhine wines in his Highness's stock;
  When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
    Requested some water to mix with his Hock.

  The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
    But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
  Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said
    In mild accents, "Do help us out, that's good girl!"

  Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head
    In her bucket;--with fright she was ready to drop:--
  Conceive, if you can, how she roar'd and she ran,
    With the head rolling after her, bawling out "Stop!"

  She ran and she roar'd, till she came to the board
    Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
  When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll
    At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.

  Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
    The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
  The head smiles, and begs them to bring him his legs,
    As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.

  Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement,
    Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,
  And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
    Behind,--for the left leg was troubled with corns.

  Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
    And arms on their bent elbows dance through the throng,
  While two hands assist, though nipp'd off at the wrist,
    The said shoulders in bearing a body along.

  They march up to the head, not one syllable said,
    For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
  As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,
    Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.

  I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
    Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene;
  Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
    With a dead body placed in the centre between.

  Yes, they stared--well they might at so novel a sight:
    No one utter'd whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
  But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
    And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.

  The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent,
    As he view'd the whole thirty, in jocular terms
  Said, "They put him in mind of a Council of _Trente_
    Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."

  But what should they do?--Oh! nobody knew
    What was best to be done, either stranger or resident;
  The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through
    In vain, for his books could not furnish a precedent.

  The Prince Bishop mutter'd a curse, and a prayer,
    Which his double capacity hit to a nicety:
  His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
    His Episcopal moiety said "_Benedicite!_"

  The Coroner sat on the body that night,
    And the jury agreed,--not a doubt could they harbour,--
  "That the chin of the corpse--the sole thing brought to light--
    Had been recently shaved by a very bad barber."

  They sent out Von Taünsend, Von Bürnie, Von Roe,
    Von Maine, and Von Rowantz--through châlets and châteaux,
  Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
    And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.


"MURDER!!

  "WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown,
    Has been recently found at his Highness's banquet,
  Rather shabbily dressed in an Amice, or gown
    In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket;

  "And WHEREAS, there's great reason indeed to suspect
    That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice
  Aforethought, have kill'd, and begun to dissect
    The said Gentleman, not very far from the palace;

  "THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE!--Whoever shall seize,
    And such person, or persons, to justice surrender,
  Shall receive--such REWARD--as his Highness shall please,
    On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.

  "And, in order the matter more clearly to trace
    To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop, further,
  Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace
    To all such as have _not_ been concern'd in the murther.

  "Done this day, at our palace,--July twenty-five,--
    By Command,

                 (Signed)
                           Johann Von Rüssell,
                                               N.B.

  Deceased rather in years--had a squint when alive;
    And smells slightly of gin--linen mark'd with a "G."

  The Newspapers, too, made no little ado,
    Though a different version each managed to dish up;
  Some said "The Prince Bishop had run a man through,"
    Others said "an assassin has kill'd the Prince Bishop."

  The "Ghent Herald" fell foul of the "Bruxelles Gazette,"
    The "Bruxelles Gazette," with much sneering ironical,
  Scorned to remain in the "Ghent Herald's" debt,
    And the "Amsterdam Times" quizz'd the "Nuremberg Chronicle."

  In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed,
    Spite of "politics," "bias," or "party collision;"
  Viz.: to "give," when they'd "further accounts" of the deed,
    "Full particulars" soon, in "a later Edition."

  But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
    Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
  Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began
    To think it high time to "astonish the natives."

  First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
    And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland,
  Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,
    From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dollond.

  By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose,
    Megrims, headache, and vapours were put to the rout;
  And one single touch of his precious Great Toes
    Was a certain specific for chilblains and gout.

  Rheumatics,--sciatica,--tic-doloureux!
    Apply to his shin-bones--not one of them lingers;--
  All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew,
    If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.

  Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs;
    When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing,
  Sea-sickness, and cholic; or, rubb'd on the gums,
    Were "A blessing to Mothers," for infants in teething.

  Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
    Where the mark remain'd visible still of the knife,
  Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check,
    Was safe from sore-throat for the rest of his life.

  Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint
    Giving way, proved an influence clearly divine,
  They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint,
    So they lock'd him up, body and bones, in a shrine.

  Through country and town his new Saintship's renown
    As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing,
  Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,
    It seem'd as if "Wonders had never _done ceasing_."

  The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
    A sad falling off in their off'rings to find,
  His feats were so many--still the greatest of any,--
    In every sense of the word, was--behind;

  For the German Police were beginning to cease
    From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd,
  When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
    Unravell'd the whole by the help of--his beard!

  If you look back you'll see the aforesaid _barbe gris_,
    When divorced from the chin of its murder'd proprietor,
  Had been stuff'd in the seat of a kind of settee,
    Or double-arm'd chair, to keep the thing quieter.

  It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange
    Itself in its place when the limbs join'd together;
  P'rhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
    And constructed of good, strong, maroon-colour'd leather.

  Or, what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose,
    For Saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition,
  It should rest there, to aid some particular views,
    Produced by his very peculiar position.

  Be that as it may, on the very first day
    That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee,
  What occurr'd almost frignten'd her senses away,
    Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty.

  They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds
    Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons:
  And especially how, as regards invalids,
    His miraculous cures far outrivall'd Von Morison's.

  "The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away,
    And people born blind now can easily see us!"--
  But she, (we presume, a disciple of Hume,)
    Shook her head, and said angrily, "_Credat Judæus!_"

  "Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,
    To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on.--
  He works miracles!--pooh!--I'd believe it of you
    Just as soon, you great Geese,--or the Chair that I sit on!"

  The Chair,--at that word--it seems really absurd,
    But the truth must be told,--what contortions and grins
  Distorted her face!--She sprang up from her place
    Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins!

  For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard
    Which she uttered, of what was beneath her forgetful,
  Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,
    Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful.

  That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether,
    Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within,
  And the maids cried "Good gracious! how very tenacious!"
    --They as well might endeavour to pull off her skin!--

  She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain;
    In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,--
  The cushion stuck fast!--From that hour to her last
    She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle!"

  And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death
    Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;'
  So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life
    Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,--or thereabouts.

  With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark
    As to what his fate was; but I cannot imagine he
  Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be
    Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine:

  For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure,
    And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds,
  As you'll see, if you look in a rather scarce book,
    "_God's Revenge against Murder_," by one Mr. Reynolds.

MORAL.

  Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away,
    Like Ulysses of old,[12] (_vide_ Homer and Naso,)
  Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
    And when you _are_ coming home, just write and say so!

  And you, learned Clerks, who're _not_ given to roam,
    Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum;
  Don't visit a house when the Master's from home!
   Shun drinking,--and study the "_Vitæ Sanctorum!_"

  Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect
    In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail;
  But remember Gengulphus's wife!--and reflect
    On the moral enforced by her terrible tale!

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Ενι δαχρυσι γελασασα.--HOM.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Barney Maguire has laid claim to the next Saint as a country-woman;
and "Why wouldn't he?" when all the world knows the O'Dells were a fine
ould, ancient family, sated in Tipperary

  "Ere the Lord Mayor stole his collar of gowld,
  And sowld it away to a trader?"[13]

He is manifestly wrong; but, as he very rationally observes, "No matter
for that,--she's a Saint any way!"


THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.

  Odille was a maid of a dignified race;
  Her father, Count Otto, was lord of Alsace;
      Such an air, such a grace,  Such a form, such a face,
  All agreed, 'twere a fruitless endeavour to trace
  In the Court, or within fifty miles of the place.
  Many ladies in Strasburg were beautiful, still
  They were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odille.

  But Odille was devout, and, before she was nine,
  Had "experienced a call" she consider'd divine,
  To put on the veil at St. Ermengarde's shrine.--
  Lords, Dukes, and Electors, and Counts Palatine
  Came to seek her in marriage from both sides the Rhine;
      But vain their design,  They are all left to pine,
  Their oglings and smiles are all useless; in fine,
  Not one of these gentlefolks, try as they will,
  Can draw "Ask my papa" from the cruel Odille.

  At length one of her suitors, a certain Count Herman,
  A highly respectable man as a German,
  Who smoked like a chimney, and drank like a Merman,
  Paid his court to her father, conceiving his firman
      Would soon make her bend,  And induce her to lend
  An ear to a love-tale in lieu of a sermon.
  He gain'd the old Count, who said, "Come, Mynheer, fill!
  Here's luck to yourself and my daughter Odille!"

  The Lady Odille was quite nervous with fear,
  When a little bird whisper'd that toast in her ear;
      She murmur'd "O, dear!  My Papa has got queer,
  I am sadly afraid, with that nasty strong beer!
  He's so very austere, and severe, that it's clear,
  If he gets in his 'tantrums,' I can't remain here;
  But St. Ermengarde's convent is luckily near;
      It were folly to stay  _Pour prendre congé_,
  I shall put on my bonnet, and e'en run away!"
  --She unlock'd the back door and descended the hill,
  On whose crest stood the towers of the sire of Odille.

  --When he found she'd levanted, the Count of Alsace
  At first turn'd remarkably red in the face;
  He anathematised, with much unction and grace,
  Every soul who came near, and consign'd the whole race
  Of runaway girls to a very warm place;
      With a frightful grimace  He gave orders for chase;
  His vassals set off at a deuce of a pace,
  And of all whom they met, high or low, Jack or Jill,
  Ask'd, "Pray have you seen anything of Odille?"--

  Now I think I've been told,--for I'm no sporting man,--
  That the "knowing-ones" call this by far the best plan,
  "Take the lead and then keep it!"--that is if you can.--
  Odille thought so too, so she set off and ran,
      Put her best leg before,  Starting at score,
  As I said some lines since, from that little back door,
  And not being miss'd until half after four,
  Had what hunters call "law" for a good hour and more;
      Doing her best,  Without stopping to rest,
  Like "young Lochinvar who came out of the West."
  "'Tis done!--I am gone!--over briar, brook, and rill!
  They'll be sharp lads who catch me!" said young Miss Odille.

  But you've all read in Æsop, or Phædrus, or Gay,
  How a tortoise and hare ran together one day;
      How the hare, making play,  "Progress'd right slick away,"
  As "them tarnation chaps" the Americans say;
  While the tortoise, whose figure is rather _outré_
  For racing, crawl'd straight on, without let or stay,
  Having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay,
      Till, ere noon's ruddy ray  Changed to eve's sober grey,
  Though her form and obesity caused some delay,
  Perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way,
  And she chased her fleet-footed "praycursor" until
  She o'ertook her at last;--so it fared with Odille!

  For although, as I said, she ran gaily at first,
  And showed no inclination to pause, if she durst;
  She at length felt opprest with the heat, and with thirst,
  Its usual attendant; nor was that the worst,
  Her shoes went down at heel; at last one of them burst.
      Now a gentleman smiles  At a trot of ten miles;
  But not so the Fair; then consider the stiles,
  And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill
  Round the ankle, these stiles sadly bother'd Odille.

  Still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track,
  She kept steadily on, though the terrible crack
  In her shoe made of course her progression more slack,
  Till she reach'd the Swartz Forest (in English the Black);
      I cannot divine  How the boundary line
  Was pass'd which is somewhere there form'd by the Rhine--
      Perhaps she'd the knack  To float o'er on her back--
  Or, perhaps, cross'd the old bridge of boats at Brisach,
  (Which Vauban, some years after, secured from attack
  By a bastion of stone which the Germans call "Wacke,")
  All I know is, she took not so much as a snack,
  Till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill,
  On a mountain's brow sank down the weary Odille.

  I said on its "brow," but I should have said "crown,"
  For 'twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown,
  And so high that 'twas frightful indeed to look down
  Upon Friburg, a place of some little renown,
  That lay at its foot; but imagine the frown
  That contracted her brow, when full many a clown
  She perceived coming up from that horrid post-town.
      They had follow'd her trail,
      And now thought without fail,
  As little boys say, to "lay salt on her tail;"
  While the Count, who knew no other law but his will,
  Swore that Herman that evening should marry Odille.

  Alas, for Odille! poor dear! what could she do?
  Her father's retainers now had her in view,
  As she found from their raising a joyous halloo;
  While the Count, riding on at the head of his crew,
  In their snuff-colour'd doublets and breeches of blue,
  Was huzzaing and urging them on to pursue.--
      What, indeed, _could_ she do?  She very well knew
  If they caught her how much she should have to go through;
  But then--she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe!
  And to go further on was impossible;--true,
  She might jump o'er the precipice;--still there are few
  In her place, who could manage their courage to screw
  Up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu:--
  Alack! how she envied the birds as they flew;
  No Nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe,
  Came to bear her from him she loath'd worse than a Jew;
  So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew,
      Crying "Holy St. Ermengarde!
      Oh, from these vermin guard
  Her whose last hope rests entirely on you;--
  Don't let papa catch me, dear Saint!--rather kill
  At once, _sur-le-champ_, your devoted Odille!"

  It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress
  Get baulk'd when they think themselves sure of success.
  The Saint came to the rescue!--I fairly confess
  I don't see, as a Saint, how she well could do less
  Than to get such a votary out of her mess.
  Odille had scarce closed her pathetic address,
  When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness,
  Closed again, and secured her within its recess,
      In a natural grotto,  Which puzzled Count Otto,
  Who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to.
  'Twas her voice!--but 'twas _Vox et præterea Nil_!
  Nor could any one guess what was gone with Odille!

  Then burst from the mountain a splendour that quite
  Eclipsed, in its brilliance, the finest Bude light,
  And there stood St. Ermengarde, drest all in white,
  A palm-branch in her left hand, her beads in her right;
  While, with faces fresh gilt, and with wings burnish'd bright,
  A great many little boys' heads took their flight
  Above and around to a very great height,
  And seem'd pretty lively considering their plight,
      Since every one saw,  With amazement and awe,
  They could never sit down, for they hadn't _de quoi_.--
      All at the sight,  From the knave to the knight,
  Felt a very unpleasant sensation, call'd fright;
      While the Saint, looking down,  With a terrible frown,
  Said, "My Lords, you are done most remarkably brown!--
  I am really ashamed of you both;--my nerves thrill
  At your scandalous conduct to poor, dear Odille!

  "Come, make yourselves scarce!--it is useless to say,
  You will gain nothing here by a longer delay.
  'Quick! Presto! Begone!' as the conjurors say;
  For as to the Lady, I've stow'd her away
  In this hill, in a stratum of London blue clay;
  And I shan't, I assure you, restore her to-day
  Till you faithfully promise no more to say 'Nay,'
  But declare, 'If she will be a nun, why she may.'
  For this you've my word, and I never yet broke it,
  So put that in your pipe, my Lord Otto, and smoke it!--
  One hint to your vassals,--a month at 'the Mill'
  Shall be nuts to what they'll get who worry Odille!"

  The Saint disappear'd as she ended, and so
  Did the little boys' heads, which, above and below,
  As I told you a very few stanzas ago,
  Had been flying about her, and jumping Jem Crow;
  Though, without any body, or leg, foot, or toe,
  How they managed such antics, I really don't know;
  Be that as it may, they all "melted like snow
  Off a dyke," as the Scotch say in sweet Edinbro'.
      And there stood the Count,  With his men on the mount,
  Just like "twenty-four jackasses all on a row."
  What was best to be done--'twas a sad bitter pill--
  But gulp it he must, or else lose his Odille.

  The lord of Alsace therefore alter'd his plan,
  And said to himself, like a sensible man,
  "I can't do as I would,--I must do as I can;
  It will not do to lie under any Saint's ban,
  For your hide, when you do, they all manage to tan,
  So Count Herman must pick up some Betsy or Nan,
  Instead of my girl,--some Sue, Polly, or Fan;--
  If he can't get the corn he must do with the bran,
  And make shift with the pot if he can't have the pan."
      With such proverbs as these  He went down on his knees,
  And said, "Blessed St. Ermengarde, just as you please--
  They shall build a new convent,--I'll pay the whole bill,
  (Taking discount,) its Abbess shall be my Odille!"

  There are some of my readers, I'll venture to say,
  Who have never seen Friburg, though some of them may,
  And others, 'tis likely may go there some day.
  Now, if ever you happen to travel that way,
  I do beg and pray, 'twill your pains well repay,--
  That you'll take what the Cockney folks calls a "po-shay,"
  (Though in Germany these things are more like a dray,)
  You may reach this same hill with a single relay,--
      And do look how the rock,  Through the whole of its block,
  Is split open, as though by some violent shock
  From an earthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock
  From the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock
  Of a Germanised giant, Thor, Woden, or Lok:
      And see how it rears  Its two monstrous great ears,
  For when once you're between them such each side appears;
  And list to the sound of the water one hears
  Drip, drip, from the fissures, like rain-drops or tears,
  --Odille's, I believe,--which have flowed all these years;
  --I think they account for them so;--but the rill
  I am sure is connected some way with Odille.

MORAL.

  _Now then, for a moral, which always arrives
  At the end, like the honey bees take to their hives,
  And the more one observes it the better one thrives,--
  We have all heard it said in the course of our lives,
  "Needs must when a certain old gentleman drives;"
  'Tis the same with a lady,--if once she contrives
  To get hold of the ribands, how vainly one strives
  To escape from her lash, or to shake off her gyves!
  Then let's act like Count Otto, and while one survives,
  Succumb to _our_ She-Saints--videlicet wives!

(_Aside._)

  That is if one has not a "good bunch of fives."--
  (I can't think how that last line escaped from my quill,
  For I am sure it has nothing to do with Odille.)
      Now, young ladies, to you!--  Don't put on the shrew!
  And don't be surprised if your father looks blue
  When you're pert, and won't act as he wants you to do!
  Be sure that you never elope;--there are few,--
  Believe me, you'll find what I say to be true,--
  Who run restive, but find as they bake they must brew,
  And come off at last with "a hole in their shoe;"
  Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville,
  Can produce enough saints to save _every_ Odille.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.

[13] The "Inglorious Memory" of this ould ancient transaction
is still, we understand, kept up in Dublin by an annual proclamation
at one of the city gates. The jewel, which has replaced the abstracted
ornament, is said to have been presented by King William, and worn by
Daniel O'Connell, Esq.


       *       *       *       *       *

  "Nycolas, cytezyn of ye cyte[14] of Pancraes, was borne of ryche
          and holye kynne,
  And hys fader was named Epiphanus, and his moder Johane."

He was born on a cold frosty morning, on the 6th of December, (upon
which day his feast is still observed,) but in what _anno Domini_ is
not so clear; his baptismal register, together with that of his friend
and colleague, St. Thomas at Hill, having been "lost in the great fire
of London."

St. Nicholas was a great patron of Mariners, and, saving your
presence--of Thieves also, which honourable fraternity have long
rejoiced in the appellation of his "Clerks." Cervantes's story of
Sancho's detecting a sum of money in a swindler's walking-stick, is
merely the Spanish version of a "Lay of St. Nicholas," extant "in
choice Italian" a century before honest Miguel was born.


A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.

 "Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis
 miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta
 armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ
 Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere
 valens, mugitibus fugit."
                                                      ROGER HOVEDEN.

  "Lord Abbot! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
    I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
  Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
    And haunt me whithersoever I go!"

  On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
    "Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!"--
  "Now naye, Fair Daughter," the Lord Abbot said,
    "Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be;

  "There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
    Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!
  And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell,
    Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey!"

  "--Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John,
    Though sage Penitauncers I trow they be;
  Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone,
    Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.

  "Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
    Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!
  I am a Maiden royally born,
    And I come of old Plantagenet's line.

  "Though hither I stray, in lowly array,
    I am a damsel of high degree;
  And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
    They serve my father on bended knee!

  "Counts a many, and Dukes a few,
    A suitoring came to my father's Hall;
  But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
    He pleased my father beyond them all.

  "Dukes a many, and Counts a few,
    I would have wedded right cheerfullie;
  But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain,
    And I vow'd that he ne'er should my bridegroom be!

  "So hither I fly, in lowly guise,
    From their gilded domes and their princely halls;
  Fain would I dwell in some holy cell,
    Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!"

  --Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot,
    "Now rest thee, Fair Daughter, withouten fear;
  Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
    Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:

  "Holy Church denieth all search
    'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams;
  And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock,
    Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.

  "Then lay, Fair Daughter, thy fears aside,
    For here this day shalt thou dine with me!"--
  "Now naye, now naye," the fair maiden cried;
    "In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be!

  "Friends would whisper, and foes would frown,
    Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree,
  And ill mote it match with thy fair renown
    That a wandering damsel dine with thee!

  "There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
    With beans and lettuces fair to see;
  His lenten fare now let me share,
    I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!"

  --"Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
    To our patron Saint foul shame it were
  Should wayworn guest, with toil oppress'd,
    Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.

  "There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
    And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
  Small scandal I ween shall then be seen;
    They are a goodly companie!"

  The Abbot hath donn'd his mitre and ring,
    His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine;
  And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring
    To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.

  The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety;
    Liver, and gizzard, and all are there;
  Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce _Benedicite_
    Over more lucious or delicate fare.

  But no pious stave he, no _Pater_ or _Ave_
    Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face:
  She ask'd him for stuffing, she ask'd him for gravy,
    She ask'd him for gizzard:--but not for Grace!

  Yet gaily the Lord Abbot smiled, and press'd,
    And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup fill'd;
  And he help'd his guest to a bit of the breast,
    And he sent the drumsticks down to be grill'd.

  There was no lack of old Sherris sack,
    Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
  And aye, as he drain'd off his cup with a smack,
    He grew less pious and more polite.

  She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
    And she drank as Lady ought not to drink;
  And he press'd her hand 'neath the table thrice,
    And he wink'd as Abbot ought not to wink.

  And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
    Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
  But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
    So they put him to bed, and they tuck'd him in!

  The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed;
    And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
  As he peep'd through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real
    The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

  In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing,--
    He could not distinguish the words very plain,
  But 'twas all about "Cole," and "jolly old Soul,"
    And "Fiddlers," and "Punch," and things quite as profane.

  Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such revelling,
    With fervour himself began to bless;
  For he thought he must somehow have let the devil in,--
    And perhaps was not very much out in his guess.

  The Accusing Buyers[15] "flew up to Heaven's Chancery,"
    Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
  The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
    Wept--(See the works of the late Mr. Sterne).

  Indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in
    When, after a lapse of a great many years,
  They book'd Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing,
    And blotted the fine out again with their tears!

  But St. Nicholas' agony who may paint?
    His senses at first were well-nigh gone;
  The beatified saint was ready to faint
    When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on!

  For never, I ween, had such doings been seen
    There before, from the time that most excellent Prince
  Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders,
    Had built and endowed it some centuries since.

  --But hark!--'tis a sound from the outermost gate!
    A startling sound from a powerful blow.--
  Who knocks so late?--it is half after eight
    By the clock,--and the clock's five minutes too slow.

  Never, perhaps, had such loud double raps
    Been heard in St. Nicholas' Abbey before;
  All agreed "it was shocking to keep people knocking,"
    But none seem'd inclined to "answer the door."

  Now a louder bang through the cloisters rang,
    And the gate on its hinges wide open flew;
  And all were aware of a Palmer there,
    With his cockle, hat, staff, and his sandal shoe.

  Many a furrow, and many a frown
    By toil and time on his brow were traced;
  And his long loose gown was of ginger brown,
    And his rosary dangled below his waist.

  Now seldom, I ween, in such costume seen,
    Except at a stage-play, or masquerade;
  But who doth not know it was rather the go
    With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade?

  With noiseless stride did that Palmer glide
    Across that oaken floor;
  And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump
    Against the Refectory door!

  Wide open it flew, and plain to the view
    The Lord Abbot they all mote see;
  In his hand was a cup, and he lifted it up,
  "Here's the Pope's good health with three!!"

  Rang in their ears three deafening cheers,
    "Huzza! huzza! huzza!"
  And one of the party said, "Go it, my hearty!"--
    When outspake that Pilgrim grey--

  "A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon!
    Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;
  And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
    Of food, Lord Abbot, hath pass'd my lip.

  "And I am come from a far countree,
    And have visited many a holy shrine;
  And long have I trod the sacred sod
    Where the Saints do rest in Palestine!"--

  "An thou art come from a far countree,
    And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,
  Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight,
    Thou Palmer grey, that thine eyes have seen.

  "Arede me aright the most wonderful sight,
    Grey Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,
  And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
    And a cup o' the best shall thy guerdon be!"

  "Oh! I have been east, and I have been west,
    And I have seen many a wonderful sight;
  But never to me did it happen to see
    A wonder like that which I see this night!

  "To see a Lord Abbot, in rochet and stole,
    With Prior and Friar,--a strange mar-velle!--
  O'er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl,
    And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell!"

  He felt in his gown of ginger-brown,
    And he pull'd out a flask from beneath;
  It was rather tough work to get out the cork,
    But he drew it at last with his teeth.

  O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water
    He made the sacred sign;
  And he dash'd the whole on the _soi-disant_ daughter
    Of old Plantagenet's line!

  Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek,
    With a wild unearthly scream;
  And fizzl'd, and hiss'd, and produced such a mist,
    They were all half-choked by the steam.

  Her dove-like eyes turn'd to coals of fire,
    Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout,
  Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws,
    And her bosom went in, and her tail came out.

  On her chin there appear'd a long Nanny-goat's beard,
    And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;
  And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
    'Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost Hell!

  The Palmer threw down his ginger gown,
    His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight,
  Stood St. Nicholas' self, and his shaven crown
    Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light.

  The Fiend made a grasp, the Abbot to clasp;
    But St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe,
  And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick
    On his elderly Namesake, he made him let go.

  And out of the window he flew like a shot,
    For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
  And caught the foul demon about the spot
    Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.

  And he bounded away, like a foot-ball at play,
    Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,
  Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor,
    And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap.

  Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip,
    That saved the Lord Abbot,--though, breathless with fright,
  In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip,
    And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!

         *       *       *       *       *

  On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine,
    From a certain Inn-window the traveller is shown
  Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
    Some miles up the river, south-east of Cologne.

[Illustration: A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.]

  And, while "_sour-kraut_" she sells you, the Landlady tells you
    That there, in those walls, now all roofless and bare,
  One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one,
    On filling a _ci-devant_ Abbot's state chair.

  How a _ci-devant_ Abbot, all clothed in drab, but
    Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt, and no shoes,
  (His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing
    Laid aside,) in yon Cave lived a pious recluse;

  How he rose with the sun, limping "dot and go one,"
    To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather,
  Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher
    Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together;

  How a thirsty old codger, the neighbours called Roger,
    With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine!
  What its quality wanted he made up in quantity,
    Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine!

  And how, as their bodily strength fail'd, the mental man
    Gain'd tenfold vigour and force in all four;
  And how, to the day of their death, the "Old Gentleman"
    Never attempted to kidnap them more.

  And how, when at length, in the odour of sanctity,
    All of them died without grief or complaint;
  The Monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous
    Not to suppose every one was a Saint.

  And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby
    As not to say yearly four masses a head,
  On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper
    Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!

  How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories,
    How the _ci-devant_ Abbot's obtain'd greater still,
  When some cripples, on touching his fractured _os femoris_,
    Threw down their crutches, and danced a quadrille!

  And how Abbot Simon, (who turn'd out a prime one,)
    These words, which grew into a proverb full soon,
  O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto,
    "~Who suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!!~"

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Parish.

[15] The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage
Coachmen when such things were. Alack! alack! the Railroads have ruined
his "vested interest."




Rohesia, daughter of Ambrose, and sister to Sir Everard Ingoldsby,
was born about the beginning of the 16th century, and was married in
1526, at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in the City of London. The following
narrative contains all else that is known of


THE LADY ROHESIA.

The Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed!

So said the doctor,--and doctors are generally allowed to be judges
in these matters;--besides, Doctor Butts was the Court Physician:
he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of the blackest
ebony,--_raison de plus!_

"Is there no hope, Doctor?" said Beatrice Grey.

"Is there no hope?" said Everard Ingoldsby.

"Is there no hope?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.--He was the Lady
Rohesia's husband;--he spoke the last.

The doctor shook his head: he looked at the disconsolate widower _in
posse_, then at the hour-glass;--its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow
forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butts was a very learned
man. "_Ars longa, vita brevis!_" said Doctor Butts.

"I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but he was no scholar.

"Alas! my poor Sister!" sighed Ingoldsby.

"Alas! my poor Mistress!" sobbed Beatrice.

Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed;--his grief was too deep-seated for
outward manifestation.

"And how long, Doctor--?" The afflicted husband could not finish the
sentence.

Doctor Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady; he
pointed to the horologe; scarcely a quarter of its sand remained in the
upper moiety. Again he shook his head; the eye of the patient waxed
dimmer, the rattling in the throat increased.

"What's become of Father Francis?" whimpered Beatrice.

"The last consolations of the church--" suggested Everard.

A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy.

"Where _is_ the Confessor?" continued his grieving brother-in-law.

"In the pantry," cried Marion Hacket pertly, as she tripped down stairs
in search of that venerable ecclesiastic;--"in the pantry, I warrant
me."--The bower-woman was not wont to be in the wrong;--in the pantry
was the holy man discovered,--at his devotions.

"_Pax vobiscum!_" said Father Francis, as he entered the chamber of
death.

"_Vita brevis!_" retorted Doctor Butts:--he was not a man to be
browbeat out of his Latin,--and by a paltry Friar Minim, too. Had
it been a Bishop, indeed,--or even a mitred Abbot;--but a miserable
Franciscan!

"_Benedicite!_" said the friar.

"_Ars longa!_" returned the Leech.

Doctor Butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band; drew his short
sad-coloured cloak closer around him; and, grasping his cross-handled
walking-staff, stalked majestically out of the apartment.--Father
Francis had the field to himself.

The worthy chaplain hastened to administer the last rites of the
church. To all appearance he had little time to lose; as he concluded,
the dismal toll of the passing-bell sounded from the belfry tower;
little Hubert, the bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with all his
might.--It was a capital contrivance that same passing-bell:--which of
the Urbans or Innocents invented it is a query; but, whoever he was, he
deserved well of his country and of Christendom.

Ah! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we, their
degenerate children, conceit them to have been. The passing bell! a
most solemn warning to imps of every description, is not to be regarded
with impunity: the most impudent _Succubus_ of them all dare as well
dip his claws in holy water, as come within the verge of its sound.
Old Nick himself, if he sets any value at all upon his tail, had
best convey himself clean out of hearing, and leave the way open to
Paradise. Little Hubert continued pulling with all his might, and St.
Peter began to look out for a customer.

The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the Lady Rohesia:
she raised her head slightly; inarticulate sounds issued from her
lips,--inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. Those
of Father Francis, indeed, were sharper; nothing, as he averred, could
be more distinct than the words, "A thousand marks to the priory of St.
Mary Rouncival."

Now the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsby had brought her husband broad lands
and large possessions; much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own
disposal; and nuncupative wills had not yet been abolished by Act of
Parliament.

"Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis. "A thousand marks, she said--"

"If she did, I'll be shot!" said Guy de Montgomeri.

"--A thousand marks!" continued the Confessor, fixing his cold grey
eye upon the knight, as he went on heedless of the interruption;--"a
thousand marks! and as many _Aves_ and _Paters_ shall be duly said--as
soon as the money is paid down."

Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the window, and
muttered to himself something that sounded like "Don't you wish you may
get it?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the room, taking
with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for Extreme
Unction. Everard Ingoldsby waited on him down stairs.

"A thousand thanks!" said the latter.

"A thousand marks!" said the friar.

"A thousand devils!" growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri, from the top of the
landing-place.

But his accents fell unheeded; his brother-in-law and the friar were
gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and Beatrice Grey.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the bed: his arms
were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his breast; his
eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays of the fading watch-light
gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint
to the little bald patch on the top of his head,--for Sir Guy was a
middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight bend
in his shoulders, but that not much: his complexion was somewhat
florid,--especially about the nose; but his lady was _in extremis_, and
at this particular moment he was paler than usual.

"Bim! bome!" went the bell. The knight groaned audibly; Beatrice
Grey wiped her eye with her little square apron of lace de Malines;
there was a moment's pause,--a moment of intense affliction; she
let it fall,--all but one corner, which remained between her finger
and thumb.--She looked at Sir Guy; drew the thumb and forefinger
of her other hand slowly along its border, till they reached the
opposite extremity. She sobbed aloud: "So kind a lady!" said Beatrice
Grey.--"So excellent a wife!" responded Sir Guy. "So good!" said the
damsel.--"So dear!" said the knight.--"So pious!" said she.--"So
humble!" said he.--"So good to the poor!"--"So capital a manager!"--"So
punctual at matins!"--"Dinner dished to a moment!"--"So devout!"
said Beatrice.--"So fond of me!" said Sir Guy.--"And of Father
Francis!"--"What the devil do you mean by that?" said Sir Guy de
Montgomeri.

The knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic changes on the fine
qualities of the departing Lady, like the _Strophe_ and _Antistrophe_
of a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once disposed of, her minor
excellences came under review:--She would drown a witch, drink
lambs'-wool at Christmas, beg Dominie Dumps's boys a holiday, and dine
upon sprats on Good Friday!--A low moan from the subject of these
eulogies seemed to intimate that the enumeration of her good deeds was
not altogether lost on her,--that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced
in the testimony.

"She was too good for earth!" continued Sir Guy.

"Ye-ye-yes!" sobbed Beatrice.

"I did not deserve her!" said the knight.

"No-o-o-o!" cried the damsel.

"Not but that I made her an excellent husband, and a kind; but she is
going, and--and--where, or when, or how--shall I get such another?"

"Not in broad England--not in the whole wide world!" responded Beatrice
Grey; "that is, not _just_ such another!"--Her voice still faltered,
but her accents on the whole were more articulate; she dropped the
corner of her apron, and had recourse to her handkerchief; in fact, her
eyes were getting red,--and so was the tip of her nose.

Sir Guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments stedfastly on the face
of his lady. The single word "Another!" fell from his lips like a
distant echo;--it is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more
than is necessary.

"Bim! bome!" went the bell.--Bandy-legged Hubert had been tolling for
half an hour;--he began to grow tired, and St. Peter fidgety.

"Beatrice Grey!" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, "what's to be done? What's
to become of Montgomeri Hall?--and the buttery,--and the servants? And
what--what's to become of _me_, Beatrice Grey?"--There was pathos in
his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. "I'll turn monk myself!" said
Sir Guy.

"Monk?" said Beatrice.

"I'll be a Carthusian!" repeated the knight, but in a tone less
assured: he relapsed into a reverie.--Shave his head!--he did not so
much mind that,--he was getting rather bald already;--but, beans for
dinner,--and those without butter--and then a horse-hair shirt!

The knight seemed undecided: his eye roamed gloomily around the
apartment; it paused upon different objects, but as if it saw them
not; its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance:
it rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathising damsel at his
side, beautiful in her grief.

Her tears had ceased; but her eyes were cast down, and mournfully fixed
upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the devil's tattoo.

There is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. Sir Guy
turned round,--he seated himself on the edge of the bed; and, placing
his hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle
of fifteen degrees.

"I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but what's to become
of me? Poor, miserable, old--that is, poor, miserable, middle-aged man
that I am!--No one to comfort, no one to care for me!"--Beatrice's
tears flowed afresh, but she opened not her lips.--"'Pon my life!"
continued he, "I don't believe there is a creature now would care a
button if I were hanged to-morrow!"

"Oh! don't say so, Sir Guy!" sighed Beatrice; "you know
there's--there's Master Everard, and--and Father Francis--"

"Pish!" cried Sir Guy testily.

"And--there's your favourite old bitch."

"I am not thinking of old bitches!" quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

Another pause ensued: the knight had released her chin, and taken
her hand;--it was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and
filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the palm said little for its
owner's industry.

"Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the knight, thoughtfully; "you must
be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat, my child."--Sir Guy
did not relinquish her hand; but he sidled along the counterpane, and
made room for his companion between himself and the bed-post.

Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in,
especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the
other:--in such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with
his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his
knuckles rested on the bed a little in the rear of his companion.

"Another!" repeated Sir Guy, musing;--"if, indeed, I could find such
another!"--He was talking to his thought, but Beatrice Grey answered
him.

"There's Madam Fitzfoozle."

"A frump!" said Sir Guy.

"Or the Lady Bumbarton."

"With her hump!" muttered he.

"There's the Dowager--"

"Stop--stop!" said the knight, "stop one moment!"--He paused; he was
all on the tremble; something seemed rising in his throat, but he gave
a great gulp, and swallowed it. "Beatrice," said he, "what think you
of--" his voice sank into a most seductive softness,--"what think you
of--Beatrice Grey?"

The murder was out:--the knight felt infinitely relieved; the knuckles
of his left hand unclosed spontaneously; and the arm he had felt such
a difficulty in disposing of, found itself,--nobody knows how,--all
at once, encircling the gimp waist of the pretty Beatrice. The young
lady's reply was expressed in three syllables. They were,--"Oh,
Sir Guy!" The words might be somewhat indefinite, but there was no
mistaking the look. Their eyes met; Sir Guy's left arm contracted
itself spasmodically: when the eyes meet,--at least, as theirs
meet,--the lips are very apt to follow the example. The knight had
taken one long, loving kiss--nectar and ambrosia! He thought on Doctor
Butts and his _repetatur haustus_,--a prescription Father Francis had
taken infinite pains to translate for him:--he was about to repeat it,
but the dose was interrupted _in transitu_.--Doubtless the adage,

  "There is many a slip
    'Twixt the cup and the lip,"

hath reference to medicine. Sir Guy's lip was again all but in
conjunction with that of his bride elect.

It has been hinted already that there was a little round polished patch
on the summit of the knight's _pericranium_, from which his locks had
gradually receded; a sort of _oasis_,--or rather a _Mont Blanc_ in
miniature, rising above the highest point of vegetation. It was on
this little spot, undefended alike by Art and Nature, that at this
interesting moment a blow descended, such as we must borrow a term from
the Sister Island adequately to describe,--it was a "Whack!"

Sir Guy started upon his feet; Beatrice Grey started upon hers; but
a single glance to the rear reversed her position,--she fell upon her
knees and screamed.

The knight, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight which might have
turned a bolder man to stone.--It was She!--the all but defunct
Rohesia--there she sat, bolt upright!--her eyes no longer glazed with
the film of impending dissolution, but scintillating like flint and
steel; while in her hand she grasped the bed-staff,--a weapon of mickle
might, as her husband's bloody coxcomb could now well testify. Words
were yet wanting, for the quinsy, which her rage had broken, still
impeded her utterance; but the strength and rapidity of her guttural
intonations augured well for her future eloquence.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood for a while like a man distraught; this
resurrection--for such it seemed--had quite overpowered him. "A husband
ofttimes makes the best physician," says the proverb; he was a living
personification of its truth. Still it was whispered he had been
content with Doctor Butts; but his lady was restored to bless him for
many years.--Heavens, what a life he led!

The Lady Rohesia mended apace; her quinsy was cured; the bell was
stopped; and little Hubert, the sacristan, kicked out of the chapelry.
St. Peter opened his wicket, and looked out;--there was nobody there;
so he flung-to the gate in a passion, and went back to his lodge,
grumbling at being hoaxed by a runaway ring.

Years rolled on.--The improvement of Lady Rohesia's temper did not
keep pace with that of her health; and one fine morning Sir Guy de
Montgomeri was seen to enter the _porte-cochère_ of Durham House, at
that time the town residence of Sir Walter Raleigh. Nothing more was
ever heard of him; but a boat full of adventurers was known to have
dropped down with the tide that evening to Deptford Hope, where lay the
good ship the Darling, commanded by Captain Keymis, who sailed next
morning on the Virginia voyage.

A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may yet be seen in Denton
chancel, let into a broad slab of Bethersden marble; it represents a
lady kneeling, in her wimple and hood; her hands are clasped in prayer,
and beneath is an inscription in the characters of the age--

  "Praie for ye sowle of ye Lady Royse,
    And for alle Christen sowles!"

The date is illegible; but it appears that she survived King Henry
the Eighth, and that the dissolution of monasteries had lost St. Mary
Rouncival her thousand marks.--As for Beatrice Grey, it is well known
that she was alive in 1559, and then had virginity enough left to be a
maid of Honour to "good Queen Bess."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was during the "Honey (or, as it is sometimes termed, the
"Treacle,) Moon," that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth passed through London. A
"good-natured friend," who dropped in to dinner, forced them in the
evening to the theatre for the purpose of getting rid of him. I give
Charles's account of the Tragedy, just as it was written, without
altering even the last couplet--for there would be no making "Egerton"
rhyme with "Story."


THE TRAGEDY.

 Quæque ipse miserrima vidi.--VIRGIL.

  Catherine of Cleves was a Lady of rank,
  She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the Bank;
      She had jewels and rings,  And a thousand smart things;
      Was lovely and young,  With a _rather_ sharp tongue,
  And she wedded a Noble of high degree
  With the star of the order of _St. Esprit_;
      But the Duke de Guise  Was, by many degrees,
  Her senior, and not very easy to please;
  He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
  And a frown on his brow,--and he look'd like a Guy,--
      So she took to intriguing  With Monsieur St. Megrin,
  A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
  But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;
      He would sing, fence, and dance
      With the best man in France,
  And took his rappee with genteel _nonchalance_;
  He smiled, and he flatter'd, and flirted with ease,
  And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.

  Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to know
  If the Lady approved of his passion or no;
      So without more ado,  He put on his _surtout_,
  And went to a man with a beard like a Jew,
      One Signor Ruggieri,  A Cunning-man near, he
  Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,
  Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides,
  Bring back a stray'd cow, silver ladle, or spoon,
  And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon.
      The Sage took his stand  With his wand in his hand,
  Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
  Saying solemnly--"_Presto!--Hey, quick!--Cock-a-lorum!!_"
  When the Duchess immediately popp'd up before 'em.

  Just then a Conjunction of Venus and Mars,
  Or something peculiar above in the stars,
  Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,
  Who "bolted," and left him alone with his deary.--
  Monsieur St. Megrin went down on his knees,
  And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas,
      When,--fancy the shock,--  A loud double knock,
  Made the Lady cry "Get up, you fool!--there's De Guise!"--
      'Twas his Grace, sure enough;  So Monsieur, looking bluff,
  Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff,
  While, unseen by either, away flew the Dame
  Through the opposite key-hole, the same way she came;
      But, alack! and alas!  A mishap came to pass,
  In her hurry she, some how or other, let fall
  A new silk _Bandana_ she'd worn as a shawl;
      She used it for drying  Her bright eyes while crying,
  And blowing her nose, as her Beau talk'd of dying!

  Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,
  And he knew the great C with the Crown in the corner,
  The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss,
  And said, with some energy, "D---- it! what's this?"
      He went home in a fume,  And bounced into her room,
  Crying, "So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous!
  Look here!--here's a proof you run after the fellows!
  --Now take up that pen,--if it's bad choose a better,--
  And write, as I dictate, this moment a letter
      To Monsieur--you know who!"  The Lady look'd blue;
  But replied with much firmness--"Hang me if I do!"
      De Guise grasped her wrist  With his great bony fist,
  And pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist,
  That his hard, iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,--
  She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching;
      So she sat down and wrote  This polite little note:--

      "Dear Mister St. Megrin, The Chiefs of the League in
      Our house mean to dine  This evening at nine;
      I shall, soon after ten,  Slip away from the men,
  And you'll find me upstairs in the drawing-room then;
  Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves
  Of Servants will see you;  Yours
                                 CATHERINE OF CLEVES."

  She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,
  And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.

  St. Megrin had almost jumped out of his skin
  For joy that day when the post came in;
      He read the note through,  Then began it anew,
  And thought it almost too good news to be true.--
      He clapp'd on his hat,  And a hood over that,
  With a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat;
  So great his impatience, from half after Four
  He was waiting till Ten at De Guise's back-door.
  When he heard the great clock of St. Genevieve chime,
  He ran up the back staircase six steps at a time.
      He had scarce made his bow,  He hardly knew how,
      When alas! and alack!  There was no getting back,
  For the drawing-room door was bang'd to with a whack;--
      In vain he applied  To the handle and tried,
  Somebody or other had locked it outside!
  And the Duchess in agony mourn'd her mishap,
  "We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap."

      Now the Duchess's Page,  About twelve years of age,
  For so little a boy was remarkably sage;
  And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
  Popp'd the Gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement.
      But all would not do,--  Though St. Megrin got through
  The window,--below stood De Guise and his crew.
  And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,
  Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;
      He thrust _carte_ and _tierce_  Uncommonly fierce,
  But not Beelzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce:
      While his doublet and hose,  Being holiday clothes,
  Were soon cut through and through from his knees to his nose.
  Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjuror gave him
  From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him,
      But, when beat on his knees,  That confounded De Guise
  Came behind with the "fogle" that caused all this breeze,
  Whipp'd it tight round his neck, and, when backward he'd jerk'd him,
  The rest of the rascals jump'd on him and Burked him.
  The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but
      Was served the same way,  And was found the next day
  With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt;
    Catherine of Cleves  Roar'd "Murder!" and "Thieves!"
    From the window above  While they murder'd her love;
  Till, finding the rogues had accomplish'd his slaughter,
  She drank Prussic acid without any water,
  And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess's daughter!

MORAL.

  Take warning, ye Fair, from this tale of the Bard's,
  And don't go where fortunes are told on the cards,
  But steer clear of Conjurors,--never put query
  To "Wise Mrs. Williams," or folks like Ruggieri.
  When alone in your room, shut the door close, and lock it;
  Above all,--KEEP YOUR HANDKERCHIEF SAFE IN YOUR POCKET!
  Lest you too should stumble, and Lord Levenson Gower, he
  Be call'd on,--sad poet!--to tell your sad story!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in the summer of 1838 that a party from Tappington reached the
metropolis with a view of witnessing the coronation of their youthful
Queen, whom God long preserve!--This purpose they were fortunate enough
to accomplish, by the purchase of a peer's ticket, from a stationer
in the Strand, who was enabled so to dispose of some, greatly to the
indignation of the hereditary Earl Marshal. How Mr. Barney managed to
insinuate himself into the Abbey remains a mystery: his characteristic
modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he unquestionably
was. The result of his observations were thus communicated to his
associates in the Servants' Hall upon his return, to the infinite
delectation of _Mademoiselle Pauline_ over a _Cruiskeen_ of his own
concocting.


MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.

 AIR--"_The Groves of Blarney._"

  Och! the Coronation! what celebration
    For emulation can with it compare?
  When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
    And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
  'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen
    Making a skrimmage at half after four,
  And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys,
    All standing round before the Abbey door.

  Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning
    Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,
  With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
    And gould, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright.
  And then approaches five hundred coaches,
    With Gineral Dullbeak.--Och! 'twas mighty fine
  To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
    With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

  Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums,
    All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
  Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
    The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;
  'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
    All joo'ls from his jasey to his di'mond boots,
  With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
    The famale heiress, Miss Anjā-ly Coutts.

  And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking
    To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;
  And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,
    (They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)
  Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading
    The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
  And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
    The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.

  Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
    In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,
  And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
    And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.
  Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
    All in the Gallery you might persave;
  But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,
    Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

  There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
    And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more,
  Och! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd
    To tell the half of 'em was to the fore;
  With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
    And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;
  But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,
    "I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!"

  Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
    In her purple garments and her goulden Crown;
  Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
    With eight young ladies houlding up her gown,
  Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
    The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
  And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play'd a Consarto,
    With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

  Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,
    For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
  Saying, "Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!
    Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!"
  Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating;
    "Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can!
  And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,
    Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!"

  Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs appealing,
    "Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!"
  And Sir Cladius Hunter he did confront her,
    All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.
  The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too,
    But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
  For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,
    Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

  Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,
    With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;
  And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
    And the Queen said, "Ah! then thank ye all for me!"--
  Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
    And sweet trombones with their silver tones;
  But Lord Rolle was rolling;--'twas mighty consoling
    To think his Lordship did not break his bones!

  Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,
    All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop;
  With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,
    And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!
  There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
    With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,--
  Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
    The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.

  Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,
    Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!"--
    Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
    Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen!--
  And now, I've ended, what I pretended,
    This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,
  Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
    Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry!

       *       *       *       *       *

As a _pendant_ to the foregoing, I shall venture to insert Mr.
Simpkinson's lucubrations on a subject to him, as a _Savant_ of the
first class, scarcely less interesting. The aërial voyage to which it
alludes took place about a year and a half previously to the august
event already recorded, and the excitement manifested in the learned
Antiquary's effusion may give some faint idea of that which prevailed
generally among the Sons of Science at that memorable epoch.


THE "MONSTRE" BALLOON.

  Oh! the balloon, the great balloon,
  It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,
  And every one said we should hear of it soon
  With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.
  But very soon after folks changed their tune:
  "The netting had burst--the silk--the shalloon;--
  It had met with a trade-wind--an awful monsoon--
  It was blown out to sea--it was blown to the moon--
  They ought to have put off their journey till June;
  Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon
  Would go up in November in any balloon!"

  Then they talk'd about Green--"Oh! where's Mister Green?
  And where's Mister Hollond who hired the machine?
  And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been
  Up so often before--twelve times or thirteen--
  And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?
  And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?
  The press'd beef, with the fat cut off--nothing but lean,
  And the portable soup in the patent tureen?
  Have they got to Grand Cairo, or reach'd Aberdeen?
  Or Jerusalem--Hamburgh--or Ballyporeen?
  No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!"

  Stay! here's Mister Gye--Mr. Frederick Gye--
  "At Paris," says he, "I've been up very high,
  A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,
  A cockstride the Tuilleries' pantiles, to spy,
  With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,
  And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,
  But I could see nothing at all but the sky;
  So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to try
  Any longer: and, feeling remarkably dry
  From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,
  I came down again, and--you see--here am I!"

  But here's Mr. Hughes!--What says young Mr. Hughes?--
  "Why, I'm sorry to say we've not got any news
  Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,
  Which gave the mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,
  As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruise
  Over Dover; and which the folks flock'd to peruse
  At Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews--
  Politicians, news-mongers, town-council, and blues,
  Turks, Heretics, Infidels, Jumpers, and Jews,
  Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews;
  But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,
  And my father and I are in terrible stews,
  For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose!"--

  Here's news come at last!--Here's news come at last!
  A vessel's come in, which has sail'd very fast;
  And a gentleman serving before the mast,--
  Mister Nokes--has declared that "the party has past
  Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast,
  As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast
  To see such a monster come borne on the blast,
  And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast!"--
  Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,--for shame, Mr. Nokes!
  To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks--
  Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,
  And such jesting your malice but scurvily cloaks;
  Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,
  And we know very well your whole story's a hoax!--

  "Oh! what shall we do?--Oh! where will it end?--
  Can nobody go?--Can nobody send
  To Calais--or Bergen-op-zoom--or Ostend?
  Can't you go there yourself?--Can't you write to a friend,
  For news upon which we may safely depend?"--

  Huzza! huzza! one and eight-pence to pay
  For a letter from Hamborough, just come to say
  They descended at Weilburg, about break of day;
  And they've lent them the palace there, during their stay,
  And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,
  And they're feasting the party, and soaking their clay
  With Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay!
  And the Landgraves, and Margraves, and Counts beg and pray
  That they won't think, as yet, about going away;
  Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,
  But pack up the balloon in a waggon, or dray,
  And pop themselves into a German "_po-shay_,"
  And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;
  Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay,
  If the gas people there do not ask them to pay
  Such a sum as must force them at once to say "Nay,"
  They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs-Elysées,
  And be back again here the beginning of May.--

  Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile _fête_!
  What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!
  There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,
  For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,
  And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,
  For this all preceding attraction must beat:
  Since, they'll unfold, what we want to be told,
  How they cough'd,--how they sneez'd,--how they shiver'd with cold,--
  How they tippled the "cordial" as racy and old
  As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,
  And how they all then felt remarkably bold:
  How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold;
  And how Mr. Green was beginning to scold
  Because Mr. Mason would try to lay hold
  Of the moon, and had very near overboard roll'd!

  And there they'll be seen--they'll be all to be seen!
  The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!
  With the tight rope, and fire-works, and dancing between,
  If the weather should only prove fair and serene,
  And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,
  In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,
  Mr. Hollond on one side, who hired the machine,
  Mr. Mason on t'other, describing the scene;
  And Fame, on one leg, in the air, like a queen,
  With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;
  While Envy, in serpents and black bombazin,
  Looks on from below with an air of chagrin!

  Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,
  And the people will dance by the light of the moon,
  And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;
  And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,
  The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,
  The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,
  Will all join in three cheers for the "Monstre" Balloon.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is much to be regretted that I have not as yet been able to
discover more than a single specimen of my friend "Sucklethumbkin's"
Muse. The event it alludes to, probably the _euthanasia_ of the late
Mr. Greenacre, will scarcely have yet faded from the recollection
of an admiring public. Although, with the usual diffidence of a man
of fashion, Augustus has "sunk" the fact of his own presence on
that interesting occasion, I have every reason to believe, that, in
describing the party at the _auberge_ hereafter mentioned, he might
have said, with a brother Exquisite, "_Quorum pars magna fui_."


HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY.

THE EXECUTION.

A SPORTING ANECDOTE.

  My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
      It was half after two,  He had nothing to do,
  So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

      Tiger Tim  Was clean of limb,
  His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim;
  With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
  And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
  Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
  He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
  And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing,
  "Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"

  My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
  And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
      "Malibran's dead,  Duvernay's fled,
  Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;
  Tiger Tim, come tell me true,
  What may a Nobleman find to do?"--

  Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down,
  He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,
  And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown;
  He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head,
  He let go the handle, and thus he said,
  As the door, released, behind him bang'd:
  "An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hang'd."

  My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the news,
      "Run to M'Fuze,  And Lieutenant Tregooze,
  And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
      Rope-dancers a score  I've seen before--
  Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more;
      But to see a man swing  At the end of a string,
  With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"

  My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab--
  Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
      Through street, and through square,
      His high-trotting mare,
  Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air.
  Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
  Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
      She produced some alarm,  But did no great harm,
  Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
      Spattering with clay  Two urchins at play,
  Knocking down--very much to the sweeper's dismay--
  An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
      And upsetting a stall  Near Exeter Hall,
  Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall.
      But eastward afar,  Through Temple Bar,
  My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
      Never heeding their squalls,  Or their calls, or their bawls,
  He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
  And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
      Turns down the Old Bailey,
      Where in front of the gaol, he
  Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
  Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
  For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?"

         *       *       *       *       *

  The clock strikes twelve--it is dark midnight--
  Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
      The parties are met;  The tables are set;
  There is "punch," "cold _without_," "hot _with_," "heavy wet,"
      Ale-glasses and jugs,  And rummers and mugs,
  And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
      Cold fowl and cigars,  Pickled onions in jars,
  Welsh rabbits and kidneys--rare work for the jaws!--
  And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
      And there is M'Fuze,  And Lieutenant Tregooze,
  And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,
      All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"

      The clock strikes One!  Supper is done,
  And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
  Singing "Jolly companions every one!"
      My Lord Tomnoddy  Is drinking gin-toddy,
  And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.--
  The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
  --"Who so merry, so merry as we?"
      Save Captain M'Fuze,  Who is taking a snooze,
  While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
  Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

      The clock strikes Four!-- Round the debtors' door
  Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more;
      As many await  At the press-yard gate,
  Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
  The mob divides, and between their ranks
  A waggon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

      The clock strikes Five!  The Sheriffs arrive,
  And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;
      But Sir Carnaby Jenks  Blinks, and winks,
  A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks.
      Lieutenant Tregooze  Is dreaming of Jews,
  And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
      My Lord Tomnoddy  Has drunk all his toddy,
  And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
  The whole of the party are fast asleep.

  Sweetly, oh!  sweetly, the morning breaks,
      With roseate streaks,
  Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
  Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
  Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
  On all--save the wretch condemn'd to die!
  Alack!  that ever so fair a Sun
  As that which its course has now begun,
  Should rise on such a scene of misery!--
  Should gild with rays so light and free
  That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!

  And hark!--a sound comes, big with fate;
  The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes--Eight!--
  List to that low funereal bell:
  It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!--
  And see!--from forth that opening door
  They come--HE steps that threshold o'er
  Who never shall tread upon threshold more!
  --God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
  That pale wan man's mute agony,--
  The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
  Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky,
  As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
  The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
  Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er
  Shall be lifted again,--not even in prayer;
  That heaving chest!--Enough--'tis done!
  The bolt has fallen!--the spirit is gone--
  For weal or for woe is known but to One!
  --Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!--Ah me!
  A deed to shudder at,--not to see.

  Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time!
  The hour is past:--with its earliest chime
  The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
  By "dungeon villains" is borne away:
  Nine!--'twas the last concluding stroke!
  And then--my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
  And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
  And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose:
  And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
      "Hollo! Hollo!  Here's a rum Go!
  Why, Captain!--my Lord!--Here's the devil to pay!
  The fellow's been cut down and taken away!--
      What's to be done?  We've miss'd all the fun!--
  Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,
  We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"

  What _was_ to be done?--'twas perfectly plain
  That they could not well hang the man over again:
  What _was_ to be done?--The man was dead!
  Nought _could_ be done--nought could be said;
  So--my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

       *       *       *       *       *

The following communication will speak for itself:--

 "On their own actions modest men are dumb!"




SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.

 IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER-IN-LAW, LIEUT. SEAFORTH, H.P., LATE
 OF THE HON. E.I.C.'S 2ND REGT. OF BOMBAY FENCIBLES.

  "The play's the thing!"--_Hamlet._


                                        _Tavistock Hotel, Nov. 1839._

  DEAR CHARLES,
            --In reply to your letter, and Fanny's,
  Lord Brougham, it appears, isn't dead,--though Queen Anne is;
  'Twas a "plot" and a "farce"--you hate farces, you say--
  Take another "plot," then, viz. the plot of the Play.

         *       *       *       *       *

  The Countess of Arundel, high in degree,
  As a lady possess'd of an earldom in fee,
  Was imprudent enough, at fifteen years of age,
  --A period of life when we're not over sage,--
  To form a _liaison_--in fact, to engage
  Her hand to a Hop-o'-my-thumb of a Page.
      This put her Papa--  She had no Mamma--
  As may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage.

  Mr. Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat,
  In his budget of proverbs, "Stol'n kisses are sweet!"
      But they have their alloy--  Fate assumed, to annoy
  Miss Arundel's peace, and embitter her joy,
  The equivocal shape of a fine little Boy.

  When, through "the young Stranger," her secret took wind,
  The old Lord was neither "to haud nor to bind."
      He bounced up and down,  And so fearful a frown
  Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind.
      The young lady, they say,  Having fainted away,
  Was confined to her room for the whole of that day;
  While her beau--no rare thing in the old feudal system--
  Disappear'd the next morning, and nobody miss'd him.

  The fact is, his Lordship, who hadn't, it seems,
  Form'd the slightest idea, not ev'n in his dreams,
  That the pair had been wedded according to law,
  Conceived that his daughter had made a _faux pas_;
      So he bribed at a high rate  A sort of a Pirate
  To knock out the poor dear young Gentleman's brains,
  And gave him a handsome _douceur_ for his pains.
  The Page thus disposed of, his Lordship now turns
  His attention at once to the Lady's concerns;
      And, alarm'd for the future,  Looks out for a suitor,
  One not fond of raking, nor giv'n to "the pewter,"
  But adapted to act both the husband and tutor--
  Finds a highly respectable, middle-aged widower,
  Marries her off, and thanks Heaven that he's rid of her.
      Relieved from his cares,  The old Peer now prepares
  To arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs;
  Has his will made anew by a Special Attorney,
  Sickens,--takes to his bed,--and sets out on his journey.
      Which way he travell'd  Has not been unravell'd;
  To speculate much on the point were too curious,
  If the climate he reach'd were serene or sulphureous.
  To be sure in his balance-sheet all must declare
  One item--the Page--was an awkward affair;
  But _per contra_, he'd lately endow'd a new Chantry
  For Priests, with ten marks, and the run of the pantry.
      Be that as it may,  It's sufficient to say
  That his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day,
  Built of Bethersden marble--a dark bluish grey.
  The figure, a fine one of pure alabaster,
  Some cleanly churchwarden has cover'd with plaster;
      While some Vandal or Jew,  With a taste for _virtu_,
  Has knock'd off his toes, to place, I suppose,
  In some Pickwick Museum, with part of his nose;
      From his belt and his sword  And his _misericorde_
  The enamel's been chipp'd out, and never restored;
  His _ci-gît_ in old French is inscribed all around,
  And his head's in his helm, and his heel's on his hound,
  The palms of his hands, as if going to pray,
  Are joined and upraised o'er his bosom--But stay!
  I forgot that his tomb's not described in the Play!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Lady Arundel, now in her own right a Peeress,
  Perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries,
  But produces in time, to her husband's great joy,
  Another remarkably "fine little boy."
      As novel connections  Oft change the affections,
  And turn all one's love into different directions,
  Now to young "Johnny Newcome" she seems to confine hers,
  Neglecting the poor little dear out at dry-nurse;
      Nay, far worse than that,  She considers "the brat"
  As a bore--fears her husband may smell out a rat.

      For her legal adviser  She takes an old Miser,
  A sort of "poor cousin."  She might have been wiser;
      For this arrant deceiver,  By name Maurice Beevor,
  A shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail,
  By the law of the land stands the next in entail;
  So, as soon as she ask'd him to hit on some plan
  To provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran
  To that self-same unprincipled sea-faring man;
  In his ear whisper'd low ... --"Bully Gaussen" said "Done!--
  I Burked the papa, now I'll Bishop the son!"
      'Twas agreed; and, with speed  To accomplish the deed,
  He adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed.
      By long cock-and-bull stories  Of Candish and Noreys,
  Of Drake, and bold Raleigh, (then fresh in his glories,
  Acquired 'mongst the Indians, and Rapparee Tories,)
      He so work'd on the lad,  That he left, which was bad,
  The only true friend in the world that he had,
  Father Onslow, a priest, though to quit him most loth,
  Who in childhood had furnish'd his pap and his broth,
  At no small risk of scandal, indeed, to his cloth.

      The kidnapping crimp  Took the foolish young imp
  On board of his cutter so trim and so jimp,
  Then, seizing him just as you'd handle a shrimp,
  Twirl'd him thrice in the air with a whirligig motion,
  And soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean;
      This was off Plymouth Sound,
      And he must have been drown'd,
  For 'twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground,
      If "A very great Warman,  Call'd Billy the Norman,"
  Had not just at that moment sail'd by, outward bound.
      A shark of great size,  With his great glassy eyes,
  Sheer'd off as he came, and relinquish'd the prize;
  So he pick'd up the lad,[16] swabb'd, and dry-rubb'd, and mopp'd him,
  And, having no children, resolv'd to adopt him.

      Full many a year  Did he hand, reef, and steer,
  And by no means consider'd himself as small beer,
  When old Norman at length died and left him his frigate,
  With lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it.
      A sailor ne'er moans; So, consigning the bones
  Of his friend to the locker of one Mr. Jones,
      For England he steers.-- On the voyage it appears
  That he rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers;
  And at length reached the Sussex coast, where, in a bay,
  Not a great way from Brighton, most cosey-ly lay
  His vessel at anchor, the very same day
  That the Poet begins,--thus commencing his play:

ACT I.

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

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


ACT II.

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

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


ACT III.

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

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


ACT IV.

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


ACT V.

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

MORAL.

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES:

[16]

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

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


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

 "Of something better they have seen before."




MR. PETERS'S STORY.

THE BAGMAN'S DOG.


 Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL.

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

MORAL.

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

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

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

_L'Envoye._

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


FOOTNOTES:

[17] See Appendix.




APPENDIX.[18]


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

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


FOOTNOTES:

[18] See page 209.




The Ingoldsby Legends.

       *       *       *       *       *

_SECOND SERIES_




The Ingoldsby Legends.

SECOND SERIES.




TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.


MY DEAR SIR,

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

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

  Tappington Everard,
    Dec. 16th, 1842.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.

 A LEGEND OF FRANCE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CANTO II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.]


L'Envoye.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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


FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

[22]
  May good digestion wait on appetite,
  And health on both.--_Macbeth._




SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.

 A LEGEND OF GERMANY.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  LAY OF THE NAIADS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  MORAL.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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


FOOTNOTES:

[23] "Sardanapalus" and "Boots," the _Zenith_ and _Nadir_ of
human society.




THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

A LEGEND OF ITALY.


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

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

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

 _Reasons for a new edition of Shakspeare's Works, by J. Payne
 Collier_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

 [Illustration: THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  MORAL.

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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


 FOOTNOTES:

 [24]

  Nec imbellem feroces
  Progenerant aquilæ columbam.--HOR.




 THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.

 A LEGEND OF SPAIN.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  (Signed)
  YO EL RE!


 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,"

 [Illustration: THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.]

      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!"

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


[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._

[28] Cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est.
  _Propria quæ maribus._

[29] O fortunati nimium sua si bona nôrint!

[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."

  (_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."




 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.

 [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.

       *       *       *       *       *

 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.

 [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.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

 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._

       *       *       *       *       *

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!

[Illustration: THE DARK ENTRY]


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_."

       *       *       *       *       *

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!"

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

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--

  "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_.

       *       *       *       *       *

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_.

       *       *       *       *       *

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._

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

[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~.

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."

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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!

[Illustration: THE DEAD DRUMMER.]

      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!"--

[Illustration: THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.]

  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!

[Illustration: seal]

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.

[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.

[49] _Vide_ Dugdale's Monasticon, Art. _Prioratus de Bolton,
in agro Eboracensi_.

[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."

[51] Animum rege - qui nisi paret, imperat.--LILLY'S _Grammar_.]

         *       *       *       *       *

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._

[53]
  ----Meâ
  Virtute me involvo.--HOR.

[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.

[55] _Vide_ Ingoldsby Legends (First Series), page 139.




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

[Illustration: A LEGEND OF DOVER.]

      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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

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

[61] Effodiuntur Opes Irritamenta Malorum.

  LILLY'S _Grammar_.

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

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

[63] See page 299.]

[64] Thrones! Dominations! Princedoms! Virtues! Powers!




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!--

[Illustration: THE LEGEND OF ST. MEDARD.]

  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!"

[Illustration: THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.]

      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."

  _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,--

[Illustration: THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE.]

  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.

[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!--

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

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

         *       *       *       *       *

 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.

[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._

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




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.

      But here, it's pretended,  The parallel ended;
  In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended,
  And people who spoke of the Prior with delight,
  Shook their heads if you mention'd his brother, the Knight.

      If you'd credit report,  There was nothing but sport,
  And High Jinks going on night and day at "the Court,"
  Where Sir Robert, instead of devotion and charity,
  Spent all his time in unseemly hilarity.

      He drinks and he eats  Of choice liquors and meats,
  And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats,
  Gets tipsy whenever he dines or he sups,
  And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his cups.

      No _Paters_, no _Aves_;  An absolute slave he's
  To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies;
  While as to his beads--what a shame in a Knight!--
  He really don't know the wrong end from the right!

      So, though 'twas own'd then  By nine people in ten,
  That "Robert and Richard were two pretty men,"
  Yet there the praise ceased, or, at least the good Priest
  Was consider'd the "Beauty," Sir Robert the "Beast."

      Indeed, I'm afraid  More might have been laid
  To the charge of the Knight than was openly said,
  For then we'd no "Phiz's," no "H. B.'s," nor "Leeches,"
  To call Roberts "Bobs," and illustrate their speeches.

      'Twas whisper'd he'd rob,  Nay murder! a job
  Which would stamp him no "Brick," but a "Regular Snob,"
  (An obsolete term, which, at this time of day,
  We should probably render by _Mauvais Sujet_.)

      Now if _here_ such affairs  Get wind unawares,
  They are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs,"
  Where Old Nick has a register-office, they say,
  With Commissioners quite of such matters _au fait_.

      Of course, when he heard  What his people averr'd
  Of Sir Robert's proceedings in deed and in word,
  He asked for the ledger, and hastened to look
  At the leaves on the Creditor side of this book.

      'Twas with more than surprise  That he now ran his eyes
  O'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies,
  _Et cetera_, set down in Sir Robert's account,
  He was quite "flabbergasted" to see the amount.

      "Dear me! this is wrong!  It's a great deal too strong,
  I'd no notion this bill had been standing so long--
  Send Levybub here!" and he filled up a writ
  Of "_Ca sa_," duly prefaced with "Limbo to wit."

      "Here Levybub, quick!"  To his bailiff, said Nick,
  "I'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,' 'Go a-head slick'
  Up to Kent--not Kentuck--and at once fetch away
  A snob there--I guess that's a _Mauvais Sujet_.

      "One De Birchington, knight--  'Tis not clear quite
  What his t'other name is--they've not enter'd it right
  Ralph, Robert, or Richard? they've not gone so far,
  Our critturs have put it down merely as 'R.'

      "But he's tall and upright,  About six feet in height,
  His complexion, I reckon, you'd calculate light,
  And he's farther 'set down' having ringlets of brown,
  With a little bald patch oh the top of his crown.

      "Then his eye and his lip,  Hook-nose, red at tip
  Are marks your attention can't easily slip;
  Take Slomanoch with you, he's got a good knack
  Of soon grabbing his man, and be back in a crack!"

      That same afternoon,  Father Dick, who as soon
  Would "knock in" or "cut chapel" as jump o'er the moon,
  Was missing at vespers--at compline--all night!
  And his monks were, of course, in a deuce of a fright.

            Morning dawn'd--'twas broad day,
            Still no Prior! the tray
  With his muffins and eggs went untasted away;--
  He came not to luncheon--all said, "it was rum of him!"
  --None could conceive what on earth had become of him.

      They examined his cell,  They peep'd down the well;
  They went up the tow'r, and looked into the bell,
  They dragg'd the great fish-pond, the little one tried,
  But found nothing at all, save some carp--which they fried.

      "Dear me! Dear me!  Why, where can he be?
  He's fall'n over the cliff?--tumbled into the sea?"
  "Stay--he talk'd," exclaimed one, "if I recollect right,
  Of making a call on his brother, the Knight!"

      He turns as he speaks,  The "Court Lodge," he seeks,
  Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes
  But scarce half a mile on his way had he sped,
  When he spied the good Prior in the paddock--stone dead!

      Alas! 'twas too true!  And I need not tell you
  In the convent his news made a pretty to do;
  Through all its wide precincts so roomy and spacious,
  Nothing was heard but "Bless _me_!" and "Good Gracious!!"

      They sent for the May'r  And the Doctor, a pair
  Of grave men, who began to discuss the affair,
  When in bounced the Coroner, foaming with fury,
  "Because," as he said, "'twas pooh! pooh! ing his jury."

      Then commenced a dispute,  And so hot they went to't,
  That things seem'd to threaten a serious _émeute_,
  When, just in the midst of the uproar and racket,
  Who should walk in but St. Thomas à Becket.

            Quoth his saintship, "How now?
            Here's a fine coil, I trow!
  I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row?
  Mr. Wickliffe--or Wackliffe--whatever your name is--
  And you, Mr. May'r, don't you know, Sirs, what shame is?

            "Pray what's all this clatter
            About?--what's the matter?"
  Here a monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter,
  Sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor,
  "'Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick--he's no more!"

            "How!--what?" says the saint,
            "Yes he is--no he ain't[73]
  He can't be deceased--pooh! it's merely a faint,
  Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter,
  'He _should_ have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'

      "His time is not out;  Some blunder, no doubt,
  It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about--
  I sha'n't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's
  Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks."

      When a crafty old hound  Claps his nose to the ground,
  Then throws it up boldly, and bays out, "I've found!"
  And the Pack catch the note, I'd as soon think to check it,
  As dream of bamboozling St. Thomas à Becket.

      Once on the scent,  To business he went,
  "You Scoundrel, come here, Sir," ('twas Nick that he meant,)
  "Bring your books here this instant--bestir yourself--do,
  I've no time to waste on such fellows as you."

      Every corner and nook  In all Erebus shook,
  As he struck on the pavement his pastoral crook,
  All its tenements trembled from basement to roofs,
  And their _nigger_ inhabitants shook in their hoofs.

      Hanging his ears,  Yet dissembling his fears,
  Ledger in hand, straight "Auld Hornie" appears,
  With that sort of half-sneaking, half-impudent look,
  Bankrupts sport when cross-question'd by Cresswell or Cooke.

      "So Sir-r-r! you are here,"  Said the Saint with a sneer,
  "My summons, I trust, did not much interfere
  With your morning engagements--I merely desire,
  At your leisure, to know what you've done with my Prior?

      "Now, none of your lies, Mr. Nick! I'd advise
  You to tell me the truth without any disguise,
  Or-r-r!" The Saint, while his rosy gills seem'd to grow rosier,
  Here gave another great thump with his Crosier.

      Like a small boy at Eton, Who's not quite a Crichton,
  And don't know his task but expects to be beaten,
  Nick stammer'd, scarce knowing what answer to make,
  "Sir, I'm sadly afraid here has been a mistake.

      "These things will occur, We are all apt to err,
  The most cautious sometimes as you know, holy Sir;
  For my own part--I'm sure I do all that I can--
  But--the fact is--I fear--we have got the wrong man."

          "Wrong man!" roar'd the Saint--
          But the scene I can't paint,
  The best colours I have are a vast deal too faint--
  Nick afterwards own'd that he ne'er knew what fright meant,
  Before he saw Saint under so much excitement.

      "Wrong man! don't tell me-- Pooh!--fiddle-de-dee!
  What's your right, Scamp, to _any_ man!--come, let me see;
  I'll teach you, you thorough-paced rascal, to meddle
  With church matters, come, Sirrah, out with your schedule!"

      In support of his claim The Fiend turns to the name
  Of "De Birchington" written in letters of flame,
  Below which long items stand, column on column,
  Enough to have eked out a decent-sized volume!

      Sins of all sorts and shapes, From small practical japes,
  Up to dicings, and drinkings, and murders, and rapes,
  And then of such standing!--a merciless tick,
  From an Oxford tobacconist,--let alone Nick.

      The Saint in surprise Scarce believed his own eyes,
  Still he knew he'd to deal with the father of lies,
  And "So _this_!--you call _this_!" he exclaimed in a searching tone,
  "This!!! the account of my friend Dick de Birchington!"

          "Why," said Nick, with an air
          Of great candour, "it's there
  Lies the awkwardest part of this awkward affair--
  I thought all was right--see the height tallies quite,
  The complexion's what all must consider as light;
  There's the nose, and the lip, and the ringlets of brown,
  And the little bald patch on the top of the crown.

      "And then the surname, So exactly the same--
  I don't know--I can't tell how the accident came,
  But _some_ how--I own it's a very sad job,
  But--my bailiff grabb'd Dick when he _should_ have nabb'd Bob.

          "I am vex'd beyond bounds
          You should have such good grounds
  For complaint; I would rather have given five pounds,
  And any apology, Sir, you may choose,
  I'll make with much pleasure, and put in the news."

      "An apology!--pooh! Much good that will do!
  An '_apology_' quoth a!--and that too from you!--
  Before any proposal is made of the sort,
  Bring back your stol'n goods, thief!--produce them in Court!"

      In a moment, so small It seem'd no time at all,
  Father Richard sat up on his what-do-ye-call--
  _Sur son séant_--and, what was as wondrous as pleasing,
  At once began coughing, and snifting, and sneezing.

      While, strange to relate, The Knight, whom the fate
  Of his brother had reach'd, and who'd knocked at the gate,
  To make farther enquiries, had scarce made his bow
  To the Saint, ere he vanish'd and no one knew how!

      _Erupit_--_evasit_, As Tully would phrase it,
  And none could have known where to find his _Hic jacet_--
  That sentence which man his mortality teaches--
  Sir Robert had disappeared, body and breeches!

      "Heyday! Sir, heyday! What's the matter now--eh?"
  Quoth A'Becket, observing the gen'ral dismay,
  "How, again!--'pon my word this is really too bad!
  It would drive _any_ Saint in the calendar mad.

      "What, still at your tricking? You _will_ have a kicking?
  I see you won't rest till you've got a good licking--
  Your claim, friend?--what claim?--why you show'd me before
  That your _old_ claim was cancell'd--you've crossed out the score!

          "Is it that way you'd Jew one?
          You've settled the true one?
  Do you mean to tell me he has run up a new one?
  Of the thousands you've cheated And scurvily treated,
  Name one you've dared charge with a bill once receipted!
  In the Bankruptcy Court should you dare to presume
  To attempt it, they'd soon kick you out of the room,
  --Ask Commissioner Fonblanque, or ask my Lord Brougham.

      "And then to make under So barefaced a blunder,
  Your caption!--why, what's the world come to, I wonder?
  My patience! it's just like his impudence, drat him!
  --Stand out of the way there, and let me get at him!"

      The Saint raised his arm, But Old Nick, in alarm,
  Dash'd up through the skylight, not doing much harm,
  While, _quitte pour la peur_, the Knight, sound on the whole,
  Down the chimney came tumbling as black as a coal!

      Spare we to tell Of what after befell!
  How the Saint lectured Robert de Birchington well,
  Bade him alter his life, and held out as a warning
  The narrow escape he'd made on't that morning.

      Nor need we declare How, then and there,
  The Jury and Coroner blew up the May'r
  For his breach of decorum as one of the _Quorum_,
  In not having Levybub brought up before 'em.

      Nor will you require Me to state how the Prior
  Could never thenceforth bear the sight of a fire,
  Nor ever was heard to express a desire
  In cold weather to see the thermometer higher.

      Nor shall I relate The subsequent fate
  Of St. Thomas à Becket, whose reverend pate
  Fitzurse and De Morville, and Brito and Tracy
  Shaved off, as his crown had been merely a jasey.[74]

      Suffice it to say, From that notable day
  The "Twin Birchington Brothers" together grew gray:
  In the same holy convent continued to dwell,
  Same food and same fastings, same habit, same cell.

      No more the Knight rattles In broils and in battles,
  But sells, by De Robins, his goods and his chattels,
  And counting all wealth a mere Will-o'-the-wisp,
  Disposes of Quekes to Sir Nicholas Crispe.

      One spot alone  Of all he had known
  Of his spacious domain he retain'd as his own,
  In a neighbouring parish, whose name, I may say,
  Scarce any two people pronounce the same way.

      Re-_cul_-ver some style it,  While others revile it
  As bad, and say _Re_-culver--'tisn't worth while, it
  Would seem, to dispute, when we know the result immat-
  erial--I accent, myself, the penultimate.

      Sages, with brains  Full of "Saxon remains,"
  May call me a booby, perhaps, for my pains,
  Still I hold, at the hazard of being thought dull by 'em,
  Fast by the quantity mark'd for _Regulbium_.

      Call't as you will,  The Traveller still,
  In the voyage that we talk'd about, marks on the hill
  Overhanging the sea, the "twin towers" raised then
  By "Robert and Richard, those two pretty men."

      Both tall and upright,  And just equal in height;
  The Trinity House talked of painting them white,
  And the thing was much spoken of some time ago,
  When the Duke, I believe--but I really don't know.

      Well--there the "Twins" stand  On the verge of the land,
  To warn mariners off from the Columbine sand,
  And many a poor man have Robert and Dick
  By their vow caused to 'scape, like themselves, from Old Nick.

      So, whether you're sailors  Or Tooley-street Tailors,
  Broke loose from your masters, those sternest of jailers,
  And, bent upon pleasure, are taking your trip
  In a craft which you fondly conceive is a ship,
          When you've passed by the Nore,
          And you hear the winds roar
  In a manner you scarce could have fancied before,
          When the cordage and tackling
          Are flapping and crackling,
      And the boy with the bell  Thinks it useless to tell
  You that "dinner's on table," because you're unwell;

      When above you all's "scud,"  And below you the flood
  Looks a horrible mixture of soap-suds and mud,
          When the timbers are straining,
          And folks are complaining,
  The dead-lights are letting the spray and the rain in,
      When the helm's-man looks blue,  And Captain Large too,
  And you really don't know what on earth you shall do.

      In this hubbub and row,  Think where you'd be now
  Except for the Birchington boys and their vow!
  And while o'er the wide wave you feel the craft pitch hard,
  ~Praie for ye sowles of Robertte and Rychard~.

MORAL.

  It's a subject of serious complaint in some houses,
  With young married men who have elderly spouses,
  That persons are seen in their figures and faces,
  With very queer people in very queer places,
  _So_ like them that one for the other's oft taken,
  And conjugal confidence thereby much shaken:
  Explanations too often are thought mere pretences,
  And Richard gets scolded for Robert's offences.

      In a matter so nice,  If I'm ask'd my advice,
  I say copy King Henry to obviate that,
  And stick something remarkable up in your hat!

  Next, observe, in this world where we've so many cheats,
  How useful it is to preserve your receipts!
  If you deal with a person whose truth you don't doubt,
  Be particular, still, that your bill is cross'd out;
  But, with any inducement to think him a scamp,
  Have a formal receipt on a regular stamp!

  Let every gay gallant my story who notes,
  Take warning, and not go on "sowing wild oats!"
      Nor depend that some friend  Will always attend,
  And by "making all right" bring him off in the end;
  He may be mistaken, so let him beware,
  St. Thomas à Beckets are now rather rare.

  Last of all, may'rs and magistrates, never be rude
  To juries! they are people who _won't_ be pooh-pooh'd!
  Especially Sandwich ones--no one can say
  But himself may come under their clutches one day;
      They then may pay off  In kind any scoff,
  And, turning their late verdict quite "_wisey wersey_"
  "_Acquit_ you," and _not_ "recommend you to mercy."[75]


FOOTNOTES:

[73] _Cantise_ for "is not;" St. Thomas, it seems, had lived
long enough in the country to pick up a few of its provincialisms.

[74] Nec satis fuit eis sanguine sacerdotis et nece ecclesiam
prophanare, nisi, coronâ capitis amputatâ, funestis gladiis jam
defuncti ejicerent cerebrum.--_Matt, Paris._

[75] At a Quarter Sessions held at Sandwich, (some six miles
from Birchington,) on Tuesday the 8th of April last, before W. F.
Boteler, Esq., the recorder, Thomas Jones, mariner, aged 17, was tried
for stealing a jacket, value ten shillings. The jury, after a patient
hearing, found him "not guilty," and "recommended him to mercy."--See
the whole case reported in the "Kentish Observer," April 10, 1845.




THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

A DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.


  "Hail, wedded love! mysterious tie!"
                       _Thomson--or Somebody_.

  The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
    The Lady Jane was fair,
  And Sir Thomas, her Lord, was stout of limb,
  But his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,
  And he wore green "specs," with a tortoiseshell rim,
  And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,
  And she was uncommonly fond of him,--
    And they were a loving pair!--
      And the name and the fame  Of the Knight and his Dame
  Were ev'rywhere hail'd with the loudest acclaim;
  And wherever they went, or wherever they came,
      Far and wide,  The people cried,
  Huzza! for the Lord of this noble domain,--
  Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!--once again!--
      Encore!--Encore!--  One cheer more!--
  --All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain
  To Sir Thomas the Good, and the Fair Lady Jane!!

      Now Sir Thomas the Good,  Be it well understood,
  Was a man of a very contemplative mood,--
      He would pore by the hour,  O'er a weed, or a flower,
  Or the slugs that come crawling out after a shower;
  Black-beetles, and Bumble-bees,--Blue-bottle flies,
  And Moths were of no small account in his eyes;
  An "Industrious Flea" he'd by no means despise,
  While an "Old Daddy-long-legs," whose "long legs" and thighs
  Pass'd the common in shape, or in colour, or size,
  He was wont to consider an absolute prize.
  Nay, a hornet or wasp he could scarce "keep his paws off"--he
      Gave up, in short,  Both business and sport,
  And abandon'd himself, _tout entier_, to Philosophy.

  Now, as Lady Jane was tall and slim,
    And Lady Jane was fair,
  And a good many years the junior of him,--
      And as he,  All agree,
    Look'd less like her _Mari_,
  As he walk'd by her side, than her _Père_,[76]
  There are some might be found entertaining a notion
  That such an entire and exclusive devotion
  To that part of science, folks style Entomology,
      Was a positive shame, And, to such a fair Dame,
  Really demanded some sort of apology;
      --No doubt, it _would_ vex One half of the sex
  To see their own husband, in horrid green "specs,"
  Instead of enjoying a sociable chat,
  Still poking his nose into this and to that,
  At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat,
      Or great ugly things, All legs and wings,
  With nasty long tails arm'd with nasty longs stings;
  And they'd join such a log of a spouse to condemn,
      --One eternally thinking, And blinking, and winking
  At grubs,--when he ought to be winking at them.--
      But no!--oh no! 'Twas by no means so
  With the Lady Jane Ingoldsby--she, far discreeter,
  And, having a temper more even and sweeter,
      Would never object to _Her_ spouse, in respect to
      His poking and peeping After "things creeping;"
  Much less be still keeping lamenting, and weeping,
  Or scolding at what she perceived him so deep in.

      _Tout au contraire_, No lady so fair
  Was e'er known to wear more contented an air;
  And,--let who would call,--every day she was there,
  Propounding receipts for some delicate fare,
  Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple, or pear,
  Or distilling strong waters,--or potting a hare,--
  Or counting her spoons and her crockery-ware;--
  Or else, her tambour-frame before her, with care
  Embroidering a stool or a back for a chair,
  With needle-work roses, most cunning and rare,
  Enough to make less-gifted visitors stare,
      And declare, where'er They had been, that, "they ne'er
  In their lives had seen aught that at all could compare
  With dear Lady Jane's housewifery--that they would swear."

      Nay more; don't suppose With such doings as those
  This account of her merits must come to a close;
  No;--examine her conduct more closely, you'll find
  She by no means neglected improving her mind;
  For there, all the while, with air quite bewitching,
  She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching,
  Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen,
      Close by her side, Sat her kinsman, MacBride,
  Her cousin, fourteen-times removed,--as you'll see
  If you look at the Ingoldsby family tree,
  In "Burke's Commoners," vol. xx. page 53.
      All the papers I've read agree, Too, with the pedigree,
  Where, among the collateral branches, appears
  "Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusileers;"
  And I doubt if you'd find in the whole of his clan
  A more highly-intelligent, worthy young man;--
      And there he'd be sitting, While she was a-knitting,
  Or hemming, or stitching, or darning and fitting,
  Or putting "a gore," or a "gusset," or "bit" in,
  Reading aloud, with a very grave look,
  Some very "wise saw" from some very good book,--
      Some such pious divine as St. Thomas Aquinas:
      Or, equally charming, The works of Bellarmine;
      Or else he unravels The "voyages and travels"
  Of Hackluytz--(how sadly these Dutch names _do_ sully verse!)--
  Purchas's, Hawksworth's, or Lemuel Gulliver's,--
  Not to name others, 'mongst whom there are few so
  Admired as John Bunyan, and Robinson Crusoe.--
      No matter who came, It was always the same,
  The Captain was reading aloud to the Dame,
  Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf,
  They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.

      Well,--it happened one day, --I really can't say
  The particular month;--but I _think_ 'twas in May,--
  'Twas, I _know_, in the Spring-time,--when "Nature looks gay,"
  As the Poet observes,--and on tree-top and spray
  The dear little dickey-birds carol away;
  When the grass is so green, and the sun is so bright,
  And all things are teeming with life and with light,--
  That the whole of the house was thrown into affright,
  For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight!

      It seems he had taken A light breakfast--bacon,
  An egg--with a little broiled haddock--at most
  A round and a half of some hot butter'd toast,
  With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast.
      And then--let me see!-- He had two--perhaps three
  Cups (with sugar and cream) of strong Gunpowder tea,
  With a spoonful in each of some choice _eau de vie_,
  --Which with nine out of ten would perhaps disagree.--
      --In fact, I and my son Mix "black" with our "Hyson,"
  Neither having the nerves of a bull, or a bison,
  And both hating brandy like what some call "pison,"
  No matter for that-- He had call'd for his hat,
  With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat,
  And his "specs" with the tortoiseshell rim, and his cane
  With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain
  His steps in his walks, and to poke in the shrubs
  And the grass, when unearthing his worms and his grubs--
  Thus arm'd, he set out on a ramble--alack!
  He _set out_, poor dear Soul!--but he never came back!

      "First dinner-bell" rang Out its euphonous clang
  At five--folks keptearly hours then--and the "Last"
  Ding-dong'd, as it ever was wont, at half-past,
      While Betsey, and Sally, And Thompson, the _Valet_,
  And every one else was beginning to bless himself,
  Wondering the Knight had not come in to dress himself.--
  --Quoth Betsey, "Dear me! why, the fish will be cold!"--
  Quoth Sally, "Good gracious! how 'Missis' _will_ scold!"--
      Thompson, the _Valet_, Look'd gravely at Sally,
  As who should say "Truth must not always be told!"
  Then, expressing a fear lest the Knight might take cold,
          Thus exposed to the dews,
          Lambs'-wool stockings, and shoes,
      Of each a fresh pair, He put down to air,
    And hung a clean shirt to the fire on a chair.--

  Still the Master was absent--the Cook came and said, "he
  Much fear'd, as the dinner had been so long ready,
      The roast and the boil'd Would be all of it spoil'd,
  And the puddings, her Ladyship thought such a treat,
  He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat!"
      This closed the debate-- "'Twould be folly to wait,"
  Said the Lady. "Dish up!--Let the meal be served straight;
  And let two or three slices be put on a plate,
  And keep hot for Sir Thomas.--He's lost, sure as fate!
  And, a hundred to one, won't be home till it's late!"
  --Captain Dugald MacBride then proceeded to face
  The Lady at table,--stood up, and said grace,--
  Then set himself down in Sir Thomas's place.

      Wearily, wearily, all that night,
        That live-long night, did the hours go by;
          And the Lady Jane, In grief and in pain,
        She sat herself down to cry!--
          And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side,
  Though I really can't say that he actually cried,
    At least had a tear in his eye!--
  As much as can well be expected, perhaps,
  From very "young fellows," for very "old chaps;"
      And if he had said What he'd got in his head,
  'Twould have been, "Poor old Buffer! he's certainly dead!"

  The morning dawn'd,--and the next,--and the next
  And all in the mansion were still perplex'd;
  No watch-dog "bay'd a welcome home," as
  A watch-dog should, to the "Good Sir Thomas;"
      No knocker fell His approach to tell,
  Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell--
  The Hall was silent as Hermit's cell.

  Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree,
  And the meads smiled green as green may be,
  And the dear little dickey-birds caroll'd with glee,
  And the lambs in the park skipp'd merry and free--
  --Without, all was joy and harmony!
      "And thus 'twill be,--nor long the day,--
      Ere we, like him, shall pass away!
      Yon Sun, that now _our_ bosoms warms,
      Shall shine,--but shine on other forms;--
      Yon Grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers
      Us now, shall sound on other ears,--
      The joyous Lamb, as now, shall play,
      But other eyes its sports survey,--
      The Stream we loved shall roll as fair,
      The flowery sweets, the trim Parterre
      Shall scent, as now, the ambient air,--
      The Tree, whose bending branches bear
      The One loved name--shall yet be there;--
      But where the hand that carved it?--Where?"--

      These were hinted to me as The very ideas
  Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane,
  Her thoughts having taken a sombre-ish train,
  As she walk'd on the esplanade, to and again,
      With Captain MacBride Of course, at her side,
  Who could not look quite so forlorn,--though he tried,
  --An "idea," in fact, had got into _his_ head,
  That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead,
  It might be no bad "spec." to be there in his stead,
  And, by simply contriving, in due time, to wed
      A Lady who was young and fair,
        A Lady slim and tall,
      To set himself down in comfort there
        The Lord of Tapton[77] Hall.--

      Thinks he, "We have sent Half over Kent,
  And nobody knows how much money's been spent,
  Yet no one's been found to say which way he went!--

      The groom, who's been over  To Folkestone and Dover,
  Can't get any tidings at all of the rover!
  --Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried
  Every plan we could hit on--the whole country-side,
  Upon all its dead walls, with placards we've supplied,--
  And we've sent out the Crier, and had him well cried--
      'MISSING!! Stolen, or stray'd,  Lost, or mislaid,
  A GENTLEMAN;--middle-aged, sober, and staid;--
  Stoops slightly;--and when he left home was array'd
  In a sad-coloured suit, somewhat dingy and fray'd;--
  Had spectacles on with a tortoiseshell rim,
  And a hat rather low-crowned, and broad in the brim.--
      Whoe'er  Shall bear,  Or shall send him with care,
  (Right side uppermost) home;--or shall give notice where
  The said middle-aged GENTLEMAN is; or shall state
  Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate,
  To the man at the turnpike, called TAPPINGTON GATE,
  Shall receive a REWARD of FIVE POUNDS for his trouble,--
  ([Fist] N.B.--If defunct the REWARD will be double!! [Fist])'

      "Had he been above ground  He _must_ have been found.
  No; doubtless he's shot,--or he's hang'd,--or he's drown'd!--
      Then his Widow--ay! ay!--  But, what will folk say!--
  To address her at once--at so early a day!
  Well--what then?--who cares?--let 'em say what they may--
  A fig for their nonsense and chatter!--suffice it, her
  Charms will excuse one for casting sheep's eyes at her!"

      When a man has decided  As Captain MacBride did,
  And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he
  Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery.
  He began on the instant, and vow'd that "her eyes
  Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies,--
  That her lips were like roses--her cheeks were like lilies--
  Her breath had the odour of daffy-down-dillies!"--
  With a thousand more compliments equally true,
  And expressed in similitudes equally new!
          --Then his left arm he placed
          Round her jimp, taper waist--
  --Ere she'd fix'd to repulse, or return, his embrace,
  Up came running a man, at a deuce of a pace,
  With that very peculiar expression of face
  Which always betokens dismay or disaster,
  Crying out,--'twas the Gardener,--"Oh, Ma'am! we've found Master!"--
  --"Where? where?" scream'd the lady; and Echo scream'd--"Where?"--
      --The man couldn't say "There!" He had no breath to spare,
  But, gasping for air, he could only respond,
  By pointing--he pointed, alas!--TO THE POND!!

  --'Twas e'en so--poor dear Knight!--with his "specs" and his hat
  He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that;
      When, close to the side  Of the bank, he espied
  An "uncommon fine" Tadpole, remarkably fat!
          He stooped;--and he thought her
          His own;--he had caught her!
  Got hold of her tail,--and to land almost brought her,
  When--he plump'd head and heels into fifteen feet water!

      The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
        The Lady Jane was fair,
      Alas, for Sir Thomas!--she grieved for him,
      As she saw two serving-men, sturdy of limb,
        His body between them bear.
  She sobb'd, and she sigh'd; she lamented, and cried,
    For of sorrow brimful was her cup;
  She swoon'd, and I think she'd have fall'n down and died,
      If Captain MacBride  Had not been by her side,
  With the Gardener; they both their assistance supplied,
    And managed to hold her up.--
      But, when she "comes to,"  Oh! 'tis shocking to view
    The sight which the corpse reveals!
      Sir Thomas's body,  It look'd so odd--he
    Was half eaten up by the eels!
  His waistcoat and hose, and the rest of his clothes
    Were all gnawed through and through;
      And out of each shoe  An eel they drew;
  And from each of his pockets they pull'd out two!
  And the Gardener himself had secreted a few,
        As well we may suppose;
  For, when he came running to give the alarm,
  He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.

        Good Father John[78]  Was summon'd anon;
        Holy water was sprinkled,  And little bells tinkled,
        And tapers were lighted,  And incense ignited,
  And masses were sung, and masses were said,
  All day, for the quiet repose of the dead,
  And all night no one thought about going to bed.

      But Lady Jane was tall and slim,
        And Lady Jane was fair,--

[Illustration: THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.]

  And, ere morning came, that winsome dame
  Had made up her mind---or, what's much the same,
  Had _thought about_--once more "changing her name,"
    And she said, with a pensive air,
  To Thompson, the valet, while taking away,
  When supper was over, the cloth and the tray,--
      "Eels a many I've ate; but any
    So good ne'er tasted before!--
  They're a fish, too, of which I'm remarkably fond.--
  Go--pop Sir Thomas again in the Pond--
    Poor dear!--HE'LL CATCH US SOME MORE!!"

MORAL.

  All middle-aged Gentlemen let me advise,
  If you're married, and have not got very good eyes,
  Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies!--
  If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoiseshell rim,
  And don't go near the water,--unless you can swim!

  Married Ladies, especially such as are fair,
  Tall, and slim, I would next recommend to beware
  How, on losing _one_ spouse, they give way to despair;
  But let them reflect, "There are fish, and no doubt on't--
  As good _in_ the river as ever came _out_ on't!"

  Should they light on a spouse who is given to roaming
  In solitude--_raison de plus_, in the "gloaming,"--
  Let them have a fix'd time for said spouse to come home in!
  And if, when "last dinner-bell"'s rung, he is late,
  To insure better manners in future--Don't wait!--

  If of husband or children they chance to be fond,
  Have a stout iron-wire fence put all round the pond!

  One more piece of advice, and I close my appeals--
  That is--if you chance to be partial to eels,
  Then--_Crede experto_--trust one who has tried--
  Have them spitch-cock'd,--or stew'd--they're too oily when fried!
FOOTNOTES:

[76]
                    My friend, Mr. Hood,
                    In his comical mood,
  Would have probably styled the good Knight and his Lady--
  Him--"Stern-old and Hopkins," and her "Tête and Braidy."

[77] The familiar abbreviation for Tappington Everard still in
use among the tenantry.--_Vide Prefatory Introduction to the Ingoldsby
Legends_.

[78] For some account of Father John Ingoldsby, to whose
papers I am so much beholden, see _Ingoldsby Legends, First Series_, p.
216 (2nd Edit.). This was the last ecclesiastical act of his long and
valuable life.




THE HOUSE-WARMING!!

A LEGEND OF BLEEDING HEART YARD.


Did you ever see the Devil dance?--OLD QUERY.

  Sir Christopher Hatton he danced with grace,
  He'd a very fine form and a very fine face,
  And his cloak and his doublet were guarded with lace,
      And the rest of his clothes,  As you well may suppose,
  In taste were by no means inferior to those;
      He'd a yellow-starched ruff,  And his gloves were of buff,
  On each of his shoes a red heel and a rose,
  And nice little moustaches under his nose;
      Then every one knows  How he turned out his toes,
  And a very great way that accomplishment goes,
  In a Court where it's thought, in a lord or a duke, a
  Disgrace to fall short in "the Brawls"--(their Cachouca).
  So what with his form, and what with his face,
  And what with his velvet cloak guarded with lace,
  And what with his elegant dancing and grace,
      His dress and address  So tickled Queen Bess
  That her Majesty gave him a very snug place;
  And seeing, moreover, at one single peep, her
  Advisers were, few of them, sharper or deeper
  (Old Burleigh excepted), she made him Lord Keeper!

         *       *       *       *       *

  I've heard, I confess, with no little surprise,
  English history called a farrago of lies;
      And a certain Divine,  A connexion of mine,
  Who ought to know better, as some folks opine,
      Is apt to declare,  Leaning back in his chair,
  With a sort of a smirking, self-satisfied air,
  That "all that's recorded in Hume, and elsewhere,
      "Of our early '_Annales_'  A trumpery tale is,
  "Like the 'bold Captain Smith's,' and the 'Luckless Miss Bayley's'--
  "That old Roger Hoveden, and Ralph de Diceto,
  "And others (whose names should I try to repeat o-
  "ver, well I'm assured you would put in your veto),
      "Though all holy friars,  Were very great liars,
  "And raised stories faster than Grissel and Peto--
  "That Harold escaped with the loss of a 'glim'--
  "--That the shaft which killed Rufus ne'er glanced from a limb
  "Of a tree, as they say, but was aimed slap at _him_,--
  "That Fair Rosamond never was poisoned or spitted,
  "But outlived Queen Nell, who was much to be pitied;--
  "That Nelly her namesake, Ned Longshanks's wife,
  "Ne'er went crusading at all in her life,
  "Nor suck'd the wound made by the poison-tipped knife!
          "For as she,  O'er the sea,
          "Towards far Galilee,
  "Never, even in fancy, march'd carcass or shook shanks,
  "Of course she could no more suck Longshanks than Cruikshanks,
  "But, leaving her spindle-legged liege-lord to roam,
  "Stayed behind, and suck'd something much better at home,--
      "That it's quite as absurd  To say Edward the Third,
  "In reviving the Garter, afforded a handle
  "For any Court-gossip, detraction, or scandal,
      "As 'twould be to say  That at Court t'other day,
  "As the fête which the newspapers say was so gay,
  "His Great Representative then stole away
  "Lady Salisbury's garters as part of the play,--
  "--That as to Prince Hal's being taken to jail,
  "By the London Police, without mainprize or bail,
      "For cuffing a judge,  It's a regular fudge;
  "And that Chief-Justice Gascoigne, it's very well known,
  "Was kicked out the moment he came to the throne,--
  "--Then that Richard the Third was a 'marvellous proper man'--
  "Never killed, injured, or wrong'd of a copper, man!--
      "Ne'er wished to smother  The sons of his brother,--
  "Nor ever stuck Harry the Sixth, who, instead
  "Of being squabashed, as in Shakspeare we've read,
  "Caught a bad influenza, and died in his bed,
  "In the Tower, not far from the room where the Guard is
  "(The octagon one that adjoins Duffus Hardy's);
  "--That, in short, all the 'facts' in the _Decem Scriptores_,
  "Are nothing at all but sheer humbugging stories."

  Then if, as he vows, both this country and France in,
  Historians thus gave themselves up to Romancing,
  Notwithstanding what most of them join in advancing
  Respecting Sir Christopher's capering and prancing,
      'Twill cause no surprise  If we find that his rise
  Is _not_ to be solely ascribed to his dancing!
  The fact is, Sir Christopher, early in life,
  As all bachelors should do, had taken a wife,
  A Fanshawe by family,--one of a house
  Well descended, but boasting less "nobles" than _nous_;
      Though e'en as to purse  He might have done worse,
  For I find, on perusing her Grandfather's will, it is
  Clear she had "good gifts beside possibilities,"[79]
      Owches and rings,  And such sort of things,
  Orellana shares (then the American Stocks),
  Jewell'd stomachers, coifs, ruffs, silk-stockings with clocks,
  Point-lace, cambric handkerchiefs, nightcaps, and--socks--
  (Recondite apparel contained in her box),
          --Then the height of her breeding
          And depth of her reading
  Might captivate any gay youth, and, in leading
  Him on to "propose," well excuse the proceeding:
  Truth to tell, as to "reading," the Lady was thought to do
  More than she should, and know more than she ought to do;
      Her maid, it was said, Declared that she read
  (A custom all staid folks discourage) in bed;
      And that often o' nights Odd noises and sights
  In her mistress's chamber had giv'n her sad frights,
  After all in the mansion had put out their lights,
  And she verily thought that hobgoblins and sprites
  Were there, kicking up all sorts of devil's delights;--
  Miss Alice, in short, was supposed to "collogue"--I
  Don't much like the word--with the subtle old rogue, I
  've heard call'd by so many names--one of them's "Bogy"--
      Indeed 'twas conceived, And by most folks believed,
  --A thing at which all of her well-wishers griev'd--
  That should she incline to play such a vagary,
  Like sage Lady Branxholm, her contempo-rary,
  (Excuse the false quantity, reader, I pray),
  She could turn a knight into a waggon of hay,
  Or two nice little boys into puppies at play,
  _Raison de plus_, not a doubt could exist of her
  Pow'r to turn "Kit Hatton" into "Sir Christopher;"
  But what "mighty magic," or strong "conjuration,"
  Whether love-powder, philtre, or other potation
      She used, I confess, I'm unable to guess,--
      Much less to express By what skill and address
  She "cut and contrived" with such signal success,
  As we Londoners say, to "inwiggle" Queen Bess,
      Inasmuch as I lack heart To study the Black Art;
  Be that as it may,--it's as clear as the sun,
  That, however she did it, 'twas certainly done!

  Now, they're all very well, titles, honour, and rank,
  Still we can't but admit, if we choose to be frank,
  There's no harm in a snug little sum in the Bank!
      An old proverb says, "Pudding still before praise!"
  An adage well known I've no doubt in those days,
  And George Colman the Younger, in one of his plays,
  Makes one of his characters loudly declare
  That "a Lord without money,"--I quote from his "Heir-
  At-Law"--"'s but a poor wishy-washy affair!"--
  In her subsequent conduct I think we can see a
  Strong proof the Dame entertain'd some such idea,
      For, once in the palace, We find Lady Alice
  Again playing tricks with her Majesty's chalice
          In the way that the jocose, in
          Our days, term "hocussing;"
  The liquor she used, as I've said, she kept close,
  But, whatever it was, she now doubled the dose!
      (So true is the saying, "We never can stay, in
  Our progress, when once with the foul fiend we league us.")
  --She "doctor'd" the punch, and she "doctor'd" the negus,
  Taking care not to put in sufficient to flavour it,
      Till, at every fresh sip That moisten'd her lip,
  The Virgin Queen grew more attach'd to her Favourite.

      "No end" now he commands Of money and lands,
  And, as George Robins says, when he's writing about houses,
  "Messuages, tenements, crofts, tofts, and outhouses,"
  Parks, manors, chases, She "gives and she grants,
  To him and his heirs, and his uncles and aunts;"
  Whatever he wants, he has only to ask it,
  And all other suitors are "left in the basket,"
      Till Dudley and Rawleigh Began to look squally,
  While even grave Cecil, the famous Lord Burleigh,
  Himself, "shook his head," and grew snappish and surly.
      All this was fine sport, As our authors report,
  To dame Alice, become a great Lady at Court,
  Where none than her Ladyship's husband look'd bigger,
  Who "led the brawls"[80] still with the same grace and vigour,
  Though losing a little in slimness and figure;
  For eating and drinking all day of the best
      Of viands well drest, With "Burgess's Zest,"
  Is apt, by degrees, to enlarge a man's vest;
  And, what in Sir Christopher went to increase it, he
  'd always been rather inclined to obesity;
  --Few men in those times were found to grow thinner
  With beefsteaks for breakfast and pork-pie for dinner.

  Now it's really a difficult problem to say
  How long matters might have gone on in this way,
  If it had not unluckily happened one day
      That NICK,--who, because He'd the gout in his claws,
  And his hoofs--(he's by no means so young as he was,
  And is subject of late to a sort of rheumatic a-
  -ttack that partakes both of gout and sciatica,)--
  All the night long had twisted and grinn'd,
  His pains much increased by an easterly wind,
  Which always compels him to hobble and limp,
  Was strongly advised by his Medical Imp
  To lie by a little, and give over work,
  For he'd lately been slaving away like a Turk,
  On the Guinea-coast, helping to open a brave trade
  In Niggers, with Hawkins[81] who founded the slave-trade,
  So he call'd for his ledger, the constant resource
  Of your Mercantile folk, when they're "not in full force;"
  --If a cold or catarrh makes them husky and hoarse,
  Or a touch of gout keeps them away from "the BOURSE,"
  They look over their books as a matter of course.

  Now scarce had Nick turn'd over one page, or two,
  Ere a prominent _item_ attracted his view,
  A Bill!--that had now been some days overdue,
  From one Alice Hatton, _née_ Fanshawe--a name
  Which you'll recognise, reader, at once as the same
  With that borne by Sir Christopher's erudite dame!
  The signature--much more _prononcée_ than pink,
  Seem'd written in _blood_--but it might be red ink--
      While the rest of the deed He proceeded to read,
  Like ev'ry "bill, bond, or acquittance" whose date is
  Three hundred years old, ran in Latin,--"_Sciatis
  (Diaboli?) omnes ad quos hæc pervenient_"--
  --But courage, dear Reader, I mean to be lenient,
  And scorn to inflict on you half the "Law-reading"
  I picked up "umquhile" in three days' Special-pleading,
  Which cost me--a theme I'll not pausemto digress on--
  Just thirty-three pounds six-and-eightpence a lesson--
  "As I'm stout, I'll be merciful," therefore, and sparing
  All those technicalities, end by declaring
      The Deed so correct As to make one suspect,
  (Were it possible any such person could go there)
  Old Nick had a Special Attorney below there:
  'Twas so fram'd and express'd no tribunal could shake it,
  And firm as red wax and _black_ ferret could make it.

      By the roll of his eye As Old Nick put it by,
  It was clear he had made up his mind what to do
  In respect to the course he should have to pursue,
  When his hoof would allow him to put on a shoe!!

  No, although the Lord Keeper held under the crown, house
  And land in the country--he'd never a Town-house,
      And, as we have seen, His course always had been,
  When he wanted a thing, to solicit the Queen,
  So now, in the hope of a fresh acquisition,
  He danced off to Court with his "Humble Petition."

      "Please your Majesty's Grace,  I have not a place
  "I can well put my head in, to dine, sup, or sleep!
  "Your Grace's Lord Keeper has nowhere to _keep_,
      "So I beg and intreat,  At your Majesty's feet,
  "That your Grace will be graciously pleas'd for to say,
      "With as little delay  As your Majesty may,
  "Where your Majesty's Grace's Lord Keeper's to stay--
  "--And your Grace's Petitioner ever will pray!"

      The Queen, when she heard  This petition preferred,
  Gave ear to Sir Christopher's suit at a word;--
  "Odds Bobs, my good Lord!" was her gracious reply,
      "I don't know, not I,  Any good reason why
  "A Lord Keeper, like you, should not always be nigh
  "To advise--and devise--and revise--our supply--
  "A House! we're surprised that the thing did not strike
  "Us before--Yes!--of course!--Pray, whose House would you like?
  "When I _do_ things of this kind, I do them genteelly,
  "A House?--let me see! there's the Bishop of Ely!
  "A capital mansion, I'm told, the proud knave is in,
  "Up there in Holborn, just opposite Thavies' Inn--
  "Where the Strawberries grow so fine and so big,
  "Which our Grandmother's Uncle tucked in like a pig,
  "King Richard the Third, which you all must have read of--
  "The day,--don't you know?--he cut Hastings' head off--
  "And mark me, proud Prelate!--I'm speaking to you,
  "Bishop Heaton!--you need not, my lord, look so blue--
  "Give it up on the instant! I don't mean to shock you,
  "Or else by ----!--(The Bishop _was_ shocked!)--I'll unfrock you!!"

  The Queen turns abruptly her back on the group,
  The Courtiers all bow as she passes, and stoop
  To kiss, as she goes, the hind flounce of her hoop,
  And Sir Christopher, having thus danced to some tune,
  Skips away with much glee in his best rigadoon!
      While poor Bishop Heaton,  Who found himself beaten,
  In serious alarm at the Queen's contumelious
  And menacing tone, at once gave him up Ely House,
  With every appurtenance thereto belonging,
  Including the strawberry beds 'twas so strong in;
  Politely he bow'd to the gratified minion,
  And said, "There can be, my good lord, in opinion
      No difference betwixt yours  And mine as to fixtures,
      And tables, and chairs--  We need no survey'rs--
  Take them just as you find them, without reservation,
  Grates, coppers, and all, at your own valuation!"

      Well! the object is gain'd!  A good Town-house obtained!
  The next thing to be thought of, is now
  The "house-warming" party--the _when_ and the _how_--
      The Court ladies call,  One and all, great and small,
  For an elegant "Spread," and more elegant Ball,
  So, Sir Christopher, vain as we know of his capering,
  No sooner had finished his painting and papering,
      Than he sat down and wrote  A nice little pink note
  To every great Lord, whom he knew, and his spouse,
  "From our poor place on Holborn-hill (late Ely House),
  "Lord Keeper and Dame Alice Hatton request
  "Lord So-and-so's (name, style, or title exprest)
      "Good company on  The next Eve of St. John,
  "Viz.: Friday week, June 24th, as their guest,
      "To partake of pot-luck,  And taste a fat buck.
  "N.B. Venison on table exactly at 3,
  "Quadrilles in the afternoon, R. S. V. P.
  "For my good Lord of So-and-so these, and his wife;
  "Ride! ride! for thy life! for thy life! for thy life!"
  Thus courtiers were wont to indorse their expresses
  In Harry the VIIIth's time, and also Queen Bess's.
  The Dame, for her part, too, took order that cards
  Should be sent to the mess-rooms of all the Hussards,
  The Household troops, Train-bands, and horse and foot Guards.

      Well, the day for the rout  At length came about,
  And the bells of St. Andrew's rang merrily out,
  As horse-litter, coach, and pad-nag, with its pillion,
  (The mode of conveyance then used by the "Million,")
      All gallant and grand,  Defiled from the Strand,
  Some through Chancery (then an unpaved and much wetter) Lane,
  Others through Shoe (which was not a whit better) Lane;
  Others through Fewtar's (corrupted to Fetter) Lane;
  Some from Cheapside, and St. Mary-le-Bow,
  From Bishopsgate Street, Dowgate Hill,[82] and Budge Row.
      They come and they go,  Squire and Dame, Belle and Beau,
  Down Snore Hill (which we have since whitewashed to Snow),
  All eager to see the magnificent show,
  And sport what some call "a fantastical toe;"
      In silk and in satin,  To batten and fatten
  Upon the good cheer of Sir Christopher Hatton.

      A flourish, trumpets!--sound again!--
        He comes, bold Drake, the chief who made a
      Fine hash of all the pow'rs of Spain,
        And so serv'd out their Grand Armada:
      With him come Frobisher and Hawkins,
      In yellow ruffs, rosettes, and stockings.

      Room for my Lord!--proud Leicester's Earl
        Retires awhile from courtly cares,
      Who took his wife, poor hapless girl!
        And pitch'd her neck and heel down stairs;
      Proving, in hopes to wed a richer,
      If not her "friend," at least her "pitcher."

      A flourish, trumpets! strike the drums!
        Will Shakspeare, never of his pen sick,
      Is here--next Doctor Masters comes,
        Renown'd afar for curing men sick,--
      Queen's Serjeant Barham[83] with his bums
        And tipstaves, coif, and wig forensic;
      (He lost, unless Sir Richard lies, his
      Life at the famous "Black Assizes.")

  Room! Room! for great Cecil!--place, place for his Dame!--
  Room! Room! for Southampton--for Sidney, whose name
  As a _Preux Chevalier_, in the records of Fame,
  "Beats Banagher"--e'en now his praises, we all sing 'em,
  Knight, Poet, Gentleman!--Room! for sage Walsingham!--

  Room! for Lord Hunsdon!--for Sussex!--for Rawleigh!--
  For INGOLDSBY!! Oh! it's enough to appal ye!
          Dear me! how they call!
          How they squall! how they bawl!
  This dame has lost her shoe--that one her shawl--
  My lord's got a tumble--my lady a fall!--
      Now a Hall! a Hall! A Brawl! a Brawl!
  Here's my Lord Keeper Hatton, so stately and tall!
  Has led out Lady Hunsdon to open the Ball!

  Fiddlers! Fiddlers! fiddle away!
  Resin your catgut! fiddle and play!
      A roundelay! Fiddle away!
  Obey! obey!--hear what they all say!
  Hip!--Music!--Nosey!!--play up there!--play!
  Never was anything half so gay
  As Sir Christopher Hatton's grand holiday!

  The clock strikes twelve!--Who cares for the clock?
  Who cares for----Hark!--What a loud Single-knock!
      Dear me! dear me! Who can it be?--
  Why, who can be coming at this time of night,
  With a knock _like that_ honest folk to affright?--

  "Affright?"--yes _affright_!--there are many who mock
  At fear, and in danger stand firm as a rock,
  Whom the roar of the battle-field never could shock,
  Yet quail at the sound of a vile "Single-knock!"
  Hark!--what can the Porter be thinking of?--What!--
  If the booby has not let him in I'll be shot!--
      Dear me! how hot  The room's all at once got!--
          And what rings through the roof?--
          It's the sound of a _hoof_!--
  It's some donkey a-coming upstairs at full trot!
  Stay!--the folding-doors open! the leaves are thrown back,
  And in dances a tall _Figurant_--ALL IN BLACK!!

  Gracious me what an _entrechat_!  Oh, what a bound!
  Then with what an _a-plomb_ he comes down to the ground!
      Look there! look there!  Now he's up in the air!
  Now he's here!--now he's there--now he's no one knows where!--
  See! see!--he's kick'd over a table and chair!
  There they go!--all the strawberries, flowers, and sweet herbs,
      Turn'd o'er and o'er,  Down on the floor,
  Ev'ry caper he cuts oversets or disturbs
  All the "Keen's Seedlings" and "Wilmot's Superbs!"
      There's a _pirouette_!--we're  All a great deal too near!
  A ring!--give him room or he'll "shin" you--stand clear!
  There's a spring again!--oh! 'tis quite frightful!--oh dear!
  His toe's broke the top of the glass chandelier!!
  Now he's down again!--look at the _congees_ and bows
  And _salaams_ which he makes to the Dame of the House,
  Lady Alice, the noble Lord Treasurer's spouse!
      Come, now we shall view  A grand _pas de deux_
  Perform'd in the very first style by these two
  --But no!--she recoils--she could scarce look more pale if
  Instead of a Beau's 'twas the bow of a Bailiff!--
  He holds out his hand--she declines it, and draws
  Back her own--see!--he grasps it with horrid black claws,
  Like the short, sharp, strong nails of a Polar Bear's paws!!

          Then she "scream'd such a scream!"
          Such another, I deem,
  As, long after, Miss Mary Brown[84] scream'd in her dream.
  Well she might! for 'twas shrewdly remark'd by her Page,
  A sharp little boy about twelve years of age,
      Who was standing close by  When she utter'd her cry,
  That the whole of her arm shrivell'd up, and grew dry,
  While the fingers and thumb of the hand he had got
  In his clutches became on the instant RED HOT!!

[Illustration: THE HOUSE-WARMING.]

          Now he whirls and he twirls
          Through the girls in their curls,
  And their rouge, and their feathers, and diamonds, and pearls;
      Now high,--now low,-- Now fast, and now slow,
  In terrible circumgyration they go,
  The flame-coloured Belle and her coffee-faced Beau!
  Up they go once! and up they go twice!--
  Round the hall!--round the hall!--and now up they go thrice!
  Now one grand _pirouette_, the performance to crown!
  Now again they go UP!!--and they NEVER COME DOWN!!!

         *       *       *       *       *

      The thunder roars! And the rain it pours!
  And the lightning comes in through the windows and doors!
          Then more calling, and bawling,
          And squalling, and falling,
  Oh! what a fearful "stramash" they are all in!
      Out they all sally, The whole _corps de ballet_--
  Some dash down Holborn-hill into the valley,
  Where stagnates Fleet Ditch at the end of Harp Alley,
  Some t'other way, with a speed quite amazing,
  Nor pause to take breath till they get beyond Gray's Inn.
  In every sense of the word, such a _rout_ of it,
  Never was made in London, or out of it!

  When they came the next day to examine the scene,
  There was scarcely a vestige of all that had been;
  The beautiful tapestry, blue, red, and green,
  Was all blacken'd and scorch'd, and look'd dirty and mean,
  All the crockery broken, dish, plate, and tureen!
  While those who look'd up could perceive in the roof
  One very large hole in the shape of a _hoof_!

  Of poor Lady Hatton, it's needless to say
  No traces have ever been found to this day,
  Or the terrible dancer who whisk'd her away;
  But out in the court-yard--and just in that part
  Where the pump stands--lay bleeding a LARGE HUMAN HEART!
      And sundry large stains Of blood and of brains,
  Which had not been wash'd off notwithstanding the rains,
  Appear'd on the wood, and the handle and chains,
  As if somebody's head with a very hard thump,
  Had been recently knock'd on the top of the pump.
  That pump is no more!--that of which you've just read,--
  But they've put a new iron one up in its stead,
      And still, it is said,  At that "small hour" so dread,
  When all sober people are cosey in bed,
  There may sometimes be seen on a moonshiny night,
  Standing close by the new pump, a Lady in White,
  Who keeps pumping away with, 'twould seem, all her might,
  Though never a drop comes her pains to requite!
  And hence many passengers now are debarr'd
  From proceeding at nightfall through Bleeding Heart Yard!

MORAL.

      Fair ladies, attend!  And if you've a "friend
  At Court," don't attempt to bamboozle or trick her!
  --Don't meddle with negus, or any mix'd liquor!--
  Don't dabble in "Magic!" my story has shown
  How wrong 'tis to use any charms but your own!

  Young Gentlemen, too, may, I think, take a hint
  Of the same kind, from what I've here ventured to print,
  All Conjuring's bad! they may get in a scrape
  Before they're aware, and whatever its shape,
  They may find it no easy affair to escape.
  It's not every body that comes off so well
  From _leger-de-main_ tricks as Mr. Brunel.

  Don't dance with a Stranger who looks like a Guy,
  And _when_ dancing don't cut your capers too high!
      Depend on't the fault's in  Your method of waltzing,
  If ever you kick out the candles--don't try!

      At a ball or a play,  Or any _soirée_,
  When a _petit souper_ constitutes the "_Après_,"
  If strawb'ries and cream with CHAMPAGNE form a part,
  Take care of your HEAD!--and take care of your HEART!

      If you want a new house  For yourself and your spouse,
  Buy, or build one,--and honestly pay, every brick, for it!
  Don't be so green as to go to Old Nick for it--
  --Go to George Robins--he'll find you "a perch,"
  (_Dulce domum_'s his word,) without robbing the Church!

  The last piece of advice which I'd have you regard
  Is, "don't go of a night into Bleeding-Heart-Yard,"
  It's a dark, little, dirty, black, ill-looking square,
  With queer people about, and unless you take care,
  You may find, when your pocket's clean'd out and left bare,
  That the _iron_ one is not the _only_ "PUMP" there!


FOOTNOTES:

[79] "Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is good gifts."
     SIR HUGH EVANS.

[80]
  The grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,
    The seals and maces danced before him.--GRAY.

[81] Sir John Hawkins for "his _worthye_ attempts and services," and
because "in the same he had dyvers conflights with the Moryans and
slew and toke dyvers of the same Moryans" received from Elizabeth an
_honourable_ augmentation to his coat armour, including, for his crest,
"_A Demi-Moor sable, with two manacles on each arm, or_."

[82] Sir Francis Drake's house, "the Arbour," stood here.

[83] Called by Sir Richard Baker "The famous Lawyer."--_See his
Chronicle._

[84] _Vide_ the celebrated ballad of "Giles
Scroggins."--_Catnach's ed. 7 Dials, Lond._ 1841.




  THE FORLORN ONE.


  Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe,
    Lone wanderer of the dreary night?
  Thy gushing tears in torrents flow,
    Thy bosom pants in wild affright!

  And thou, within whose iron breast
    Those frowns austere too truly tell,
  Mild pity, heaven-descended guest,
    Hath never, never deign'd to dwell.

  That rude, uncivil touch forego,
    Stern despot of a fleeting hour!
  Nor "make the angels weep" to know
    The fond "fantastic tricks" of power!

  Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd,
    But droppeth as the gentle dew,"
  And while it blesseth him who gain'd,
    It blesseth him who gave it too?

  Say, what art thou? and what is he,
    Pale victim of despair and pain,
  Whose streaming eyes and bended knee
    Sue to thee thus--and sue in vain?

  Cold, callous man!--he scorns to yield,
    Or aught relax his felon gripe,
  But answers, "I'm Inspector Field!
    And this here Warmint's prigg'd your wipe!"


FOOTNOTES:

[84]_Vide_ the celebrated ballad of "Giles
Scroggins."--_Catnach's ed. 7 Dials, Lond._ 1841.




JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.

A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.


"The wig's the thing! the wig! the wig."--_Old Song._


"Joe," said old Jarvis, looking out of his window,--it was his
ground-floor back,--"Joe, you seem to be very hot, Joe,--and you have
got no wig!"

"Yes, sir," quoth Joseph, pausing, and resting upon his spade, "it's as
hot a day as ever I _see_; but the celery must be got in, or there'll
be no autumn crop, and--"

"Well, but, Joe, the sun's so hot, and it shines so on your bald head,
it makes one wink to look at it. You'll have a _coup de soleil_, Joe."

"A _what_, sir?"

"No matter; it's very hot working; and if you'll step in doors, I'll
give you--"

"Thank ye, your honour, a drop of beer will be very acceptable."

Joe's countenance brightened amazingly.

"Joe, I'll give you--my old wig!"

The countenance of Joseph fell, his grey eye had glistened as a blest
vision of double X flitted athwart his fancy; its glance faded again
into the old, filmy, gooseberry-coloured hue, as he growled in a minor
key, "A wig, sir!"

"Yes, Joe, a wig! The man who does not study the comfort of his
dependents is an unfeeling scoundrel. You shall have my old, worn-out
wig."

"I hope, sir, you'll give me a drop o' beer to drink your honour's
health in,--it _is_ very hot, and--"

"Come in, Joe, and Mrs. Witherspoon shall give it you."

"Heaven bless your honour!" said honest Joe, striking his spade
perpendicularly into the earth, and walking with more than usual
alacrity towards the close-cut, quickset hedge which separated Mr.
Jarvis's garden from the high road.

From the quickset hedge aforesaid he now raised, with all due delicacy,
a well-worn and somewhat dilapidated jacket, of a stuff by drapers most
pseudonymously termed "everlasting." Alack! alack! what is there to
which _tempus edax rerum_ will accord that epithet?--In its high and
palmy days it had been all of a piece; but as its master's eye now fell
upon it, the expression of his countenance seemed to say with Octavian,

  "Those days are gone, Floranthe!"

It was now, from frequent patching, a coat not unlike that of the
patriarch, one of many colours.

Joseph Washford inserted his wrists into the corresponding orifices of
the tattered garment, and with a steadiness of circumgyration, to be
acquired only by long and sufficient practice, swung it horizontally
over his ears, and settled himself into it.

"Confound your old jacket!" cried a voice from the other side the
hedge, "keep it down, you rascal! don't you see my horse is frightened
at it?"

"Sensible beast!" apostrophized Joseph, "I've been frighten'd at it
myself every day for the last two years!"

The gardener cast a rueful glance at its sleeve, and pursued his way to
the door of the back kitchen.

"Joe," said Mrs. Witherspoon, a fat, comely dame, of about
five-and-forty, "Joe, your master is but too good to you; he is always
kind and considerate. Joe, he has desired me to give you his old wig."

"And the beer, Ma'am Witherspoon?" said Washford, taking the proffered
caxon, and looking at it with an expression somewhat short of
rapture;--"and the beer, ma'am?"

"The beer, you guzzling wretch!--what beer? Master said nothing about
no beer. You ungrateful fellow, has not he given you a wig?"

"Why, yes, Madam Witherspoon; but then, you see, his honour said it was
very hot, and I'm very dry, and--"

"Go to the pump, sot!" said Mrs. Witherspoon, as she slammed the
back-door in the face of the petitioner.

Mrs. Witherspoon was "of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion," and Honorary
Assistant Secretary to the Appledore branch of the "Ladies' Grand
Junction Water-working Temperance Society."

Joe remained for a few moments lost in mental abstraction; he looked
at the door, he looked at the wig; his first thought was to throw it
into the pig-stye,--his corruption rose, but he resisted the impulse;
he got the better of Satan; the half-formed imprecation died before
it reached his lips. He looked disdainfully at the wig; it had once
been a comely jasey enough, of the colour of over-baked ginger-bread,
one of the description commonly known during the latter half of the
last century by the name of a "brown George." The species, it is to be
feared, is now extinct, but a few, a very few of the same description
might, till very lately, be occasionally seen,--_rari nantes in
gurgite vasto_,--the glorious relics of a by-gone day, crowning the
_cerebellum_ of some venerated and venerable provost, or judge of
assize; but Mr. Jarvis's wig had one peculiarity; unlike most of its
fellows, it had a tail!--"cribbed and confined," indeed, by a shabby
piece of faded shalloon.

Washford looked at it again; he shook his bald head; the wig had
certainly seen its best days; still it had about it something of
an air of faded gentility,--it was "like ancient Rome, majestic in
decay,"--and as the small ale was not to be forthcoming, why--after
all, an old wig was better than nothing!

Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis, of Appledore, in the Weald of Kent, was a
gentleman by act of parliament; one of that class of gentlemen who,
disdaining the _bourgeois_-sounding name of "attorney-at-law," are,
by a legal fiction, denominated solicitors. I say by a legal fiction,
for surely the general tenor of the intimation received by such as
enjoy the advantage of their correspondence, has little in common with
the idea usually attached to the term "solicitation." "If you don't
pay my bill, and costs, I'll send you to jail," is a very energetic
_entreaty_. There are, it is true, etymologists who derive their
style and title from the Latin infinitive "_solicitare_," to "make
anxious,"--in all probability they are right.

If this be the true etymology of his title, as it was the main end of
his calling, then was Jeremiah Jarvis a worthy exemplar of the _genus_
to which he belonged. Few persons in his time had created greater
solicitude among his Majesty's lieges within the "Weald." He was rich,
of course. The best house in the country-town is always the lawyer's,
and it generally boasts a green door, stone steps, and a brass knocker.
In neither of these appendages to opulence was Jeremiah deficient; but
then, he was so _very_ rich; his reputed wealth, indeed, passed all the
common modes of accounting for its increase. True, he was so universal
a favourite that every man whose will he made was sure to leave him a
legacy; that he was a sort of general assignee to all the bankruptcies
within twenty miles of Appledore; was clerk to half the "trusts;" and
treasurer to most of the "rates," "funds," and "subscriptions," in that
part of the country; that he was land-agent to Lord Mountrhino, and
steward to the rich Miss Tabbytale of Smerrididdle Hall! that he had
been guardian (?) to three young profligates, who all ran through their
property, which, somehow or another, came at last into his hands, "at
an equitable valuation." Still his possessions were so considerable,
as not to be altogether accounted for, in vulgar esteem, even by
these and other honourable modes of accumulation; nor were there
wanting those who conscientiously entertained a belief that a certain
dark-coloured gentleman, of indifferent character, known principally by
his predilection for appearing in perpetual mourning, had been through
life his great friend and counsellor, and had mainly assisted in the
acquirement of his revenues. That "old Jerry Jarvis had sold himself
to the devil" was, indeed, a dogma which it were heresy to doubt in
Appledore;--on this head, at least, there were few schismatics in the
parish.

When the worthy "Solicitor" next looked out of his ground-floor back,
he smiled with much complacency at beholding Joe Washford again hard at
work--in his wig--the little tail aforesaid oscillating like a pendulum
in the breeze. If it be asked what could induce a gentleman, whose
leading principle seems to have been self-appropriation, to make so
magnificent a present, the answer is, that Mr. Jarvis might, perhaps,
have thought an occasional act of benevolence necessary or politic; he
is not the only person, who, having stolen a quantity of leather, has
given away a pair of shoes, _pour l'amour de Dieu_,--perhaps he had
other motives.

Joe, meanwhile, worked away at the celery bed; but truth obliges us
to say, neither with the same degree of vigour or perseverance as
had marked the earlier efforts of the morning. His pauses were more
frequent; he rested longer on the handle of his spade; while ever and
anon his eye would wander from the trench beneath him to an object
not unworthy the contemplation of a natural philosopher. This was an
apple-tree.

Fairer fruit never tempted Eve, or any of her daughters; the bending
branches groaned beneath their luxuriant freight, and, drooping to
earth, seemed to ask the protecting aid of man either to support or
to relieve them. The fine, rich glow of their sun-streaked clusters
derived additional loveliness from the level beams of the descending
day-star. An anchorite's mouth had watered at the pippins.

On the precise graft of the espalier of Eden, "Sanchoniathon, Manetho,
and Berosus" are undecided; the best-informed Talmudists, however,
have, if we are to believe Dr. Pinner's German Version, pronounced
it a Ribstone pippin, and a Ribstone pippin-tree it was that now
attracted the optics, and discomposed the inner man of the thirsty,
patient, but perspiring gardener. The heat was still oppressive; no
beer had moistened his lip, though its very name, uttered as it was
in the ungracious tones of a Witherspoon, had left behind a longing
as intense as fruitless. His thirst seemed supernatural, when at this
moment his left ear experienced "a slight and tickling sensation," such
as we are assured is occasionally produced by an infinitesimal dose in
homœopathy; a still, small _voice_--it was as though a daddy-long-legs
were whispering in his _tympanum_--a small _voice_ seemed to say,
"Joe!--take an apple, Joe!!"

Honest Joseph started at the suggestion; the rich crimson of his
jolly nose deepened to a purple tint in the beams of the setting sun;
his very forehead was incarnadine. He raised his hand to scratch his
ear,--the little tortuous tail had worked its way into it,--he pulled
it out by the bit of shalloon, and allayed the itching, then cast his
eye wistfully towards the mansion where his master was sitting by the
open window. Joe pursed up his parched lips into an arid whistle, and
with a desperate energy struck his spade once more into the celery-bed.

Alack! alack! what a piece of work is man!--how short his
triumphs!--how frail his resolutions!

From this fine and very original moral reflection we turn reluctantly
to record the sequel. The celery-bed, alluded to as the main scene
of Mr. Washford's operations, was drawn in a rectilinear direction,
nearly across the whole breadth of the parallelogram that comprised
the "kitchen garden." Its northern extremity abutted to the hedge
before mentioned, its southern one--woe is me that it should have
been so!--was in fearful vicinity to the Ribstone pippin-tree. One
branch, low bowed to earth, seemed ready to discharge its precious
burden into the very trench. As Joseph stooped to insert the last plant
with his dibble, an apple of more than ordinary beauty bobbed against
his knuckles.--"He's taking snuff, Joe," whispered the same small
_voice_;--the tail had twisted itself into its old position. "He is
sneezing!--now, Joe!--now!" And, ere the agitated horticulturist could
recover from his surprise and alarm, the fruit was severed, and--in his
hand!

"He! he! he!" shrilly laughed, or seemed to laugh, that accursed little
pigtail.--Washford started at once to the perpendicular;--with an
enfrenzied grasp he tore the jasey from his head, and, with that in one
hand, and his ill-acquired spoil in the other, he rushed distractedly
from the garden!

       *       *       *       *       *

All that night was the humble couch of the once happy gardener haunted
with the most fearful visions. He was stealing apples,--he was robbing
hen-roosts,--he was altering the chalks upon the milk-score,--he had
purloined three _chemises_ from a hedge, and he awoke in the very
act of cutting the throat of one of Squire Hodge's sheep! A clammy
dew stood upon his temples,--the cold perspiration burst from every
pore,--he sprang in terror from the bed.

"Why, Joe, what ails thee, man?" cried the usually incurious Mrs.
Washford; "what be the matter with thee? Thee hast done nothing but
grunt and growl all t' night long, and now thee dost stare as if thee
saw summut. What bees it, Joe?"

A long-drawn sigh was her husband's only answer; his eye fell upon the
bed. "How the devil came _that_ here?" quoth Joseph, with a sudden
recoil: "who put that thing on my pillow?"

"Why, I did, Joseph. Th' ould night-cap is in the wash, and thee didst
toss and tumble so, and kick the clothes off, I thought thee mightest
catch cowld, so I clapt t' wig atop o' thee head."

And there it lay,--the little sinister-looking tail impudently perked
up, like an infernal gnomon on a Satanic dial-plate--Larceny and
Ovicide shone in every hair of it!

  "The dawn was overcast, the morning lower'd,
  And heavily in clouds brought on the day,"

when Joseph Washford once more repaired to the scene of his daily
labours; a sort of unpleasant consciousness flushed his countenance,
and gave him an uneasy feeling as he opened the garden gate; for Joe,
generally speaking, was honest as the skin between his eyebrows;--his
hand faltered as it pressed the latch. "Pooh, pooh! 'twas but an apple,
after all!" said Joseph. He pushed open the wicket, and found himself
beneath the tempting tree.

But vain now were all its fascinations; like fairy gold seen by the
morning light, its charms had faded into very nothingness. Worlds, to
say nothing of apples, which in shape resemble them, would not have
bought him to stretch forth an unhallowed hand again. He went steadily
to his work.

The day continued cloudy, huge drops of rain fell at intervals,
stamping his bald pate with spots as big as halfpence; but Joseph
worked on. As the day advanced, showers fell thick and frequent; the
fresh-turned earth was itself fragrant as a _bouquet_.--Joseph worked
on--and when at last _Jupiter Pluvius_ descended in all his majesty,
soaking the ground into the consistency of a dingy pudding, he put
on his party-coloured jacket, and strode towards his humble home,
rejoicing in his renewed integrity. "'Twas but an apple, after all! Had
it been an apple-pie, indeed!"--

"An apple-pie!"--the thought was a dangerous one--too dangerous to
dwell on. But Joseph's better Genius was at this time lord of the
ascendant;--he dismissed it, and passed on.

On arriving at his cottage, an air of bustle and confusion prevailed
within, much at variance with the peaceful serenity usually observable
in its economy. Mrs. Washford was in high dudgeon; her heels
clattered on the red-tiled floor, and she whisked about the house
like a parched pea upon a drum-head; her voice, generally small and
low,--"an excellent thing in woman,"--was pitched at least an octave
above its ordinary level; she was talking fast and furious. Something
had evidently gone wrong. The mystery was soon explained. The "_cussed
ould twoad_ of a cat" had got into the dairy, and licked off the cream
from the only pan their single cow had filled that morning! And there
she now lay,--purring as in scorn,--Tib, heretofore the meekest of
mousers, the honestest, the least "_scaddle_" of the feline race,--a
cat that one would have sworn might have been trusted with untold
fish,--yes,--there was no denying it,--proofs were too strong against
her,--yet there she lay, hardened in her iniquity, coolly licking her
whiskers, and reposing quietly upon--what?--Jerry Jarvis's old wig!!

The patience of a Stoic must have yielded;--it had been too much for
the temperament of the Man of Uz--Joseph Washford lifted his hand--that
hand which had never yet been raised on Tibby, save to fondle and
caress--it now descended on her devoted head in one tremendous "dowse."
Never was cat so astonished,--so enraged--all the tiger portion
of her nature rose in her soul. Instead of galloping off, hissing
and sputtering, with arched back and tail erected, as any ordinary
Grimalkin would unquestionably have done under similar circumstances,
she paused a moment,--drew back on her haunches,--all her energies
seemed concentrated for one prodigious spring; a demoniac fire gleamed
in her green and yellow eyeballs, as, bounding upwards, she fixed her
talons firmly in each of her assailant's cheeks!--many and many a day
after were sadly visible the marks of those envenomed claws,--then,
dashing over his shoulder with an unearthly mew, she leaped through the
open casement, and--was seen no more.

"The Devil's in the cat!" was the apostrophe of Mrs. Margaret Washford.
Her husband said nothing, but thrust the old wig into his pocket, and
went to bathe his scratches at the pump.

Day after day, night after night, 'twas all the same--Joe Washford's
life became a burden to him; his natural upright and honest mind
struggled hard against the frailty of human nature. He was ever
restless and uneasy; his frank, open, manly look, that blenched not
from the gaze of the spectator, was no more; a sly and sinister
expression had usurped the place of it.

Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis had little of what the world calls "Taste," still
less of Science--Ackerman would have called him a "Snob," and Buckland
a "Nincompoop." Of the Horticultural Society, its _fêtes_, its fruits,
and its fiddlings, he knew nothing. Little reeked he of flowers--save
cauliflowers--in these, indeed, he was a _connoisseur_--to their
cultivation and cookery the respective talents of Joe and Madame
Witherspoon had long been dedicated; but as for a _bouquet_!--Hardham's
37 was "the only one fit for a gentleman's nose." And yet, after all,
Jerry Jarvis had a good-looking tulip-bed. A female friend of his had
married a Dutch merchant; Jerry drew the settlements; the lady paid
him by a cheque on "Child's," the gentleman by a present of a "box of
roots." Jerry put the latter in his garden--he had rather they had been
schalots.

Not so his neighbour, Jenkinson; he _was_ a man of "Taste" and of
"Science;" he was an F.R.C.E.B.S., which, as he told the vicar, implied
"Fellow of the Royal Cathartico-Emetico-Botanical Society," and his
autograph in Sir John Frostyface's album stood next to that of the
Emperor of all the Russias. Neighbour Jenkinson fell in love with the
pips and petals of "neighbour Jarvis's" tulips. There were one or two
among them of such brilliant, such surpassing beauty,--the "cups" so
well formed,--the colours so defined. To be sure, Mr. Jenkinson had
enough in his own garden; but then "Enough," says the philosopher,
"always means a little more than a man has got."--Alas! alas! Jerry
Jarvis was never known to _bestow_,--his neighbour dared not offer to
_purchase_ from so wealthy a man; and, worse than all, Joe the gardener
was incorruptible--ay, but the Wig?

Joseph Washford was working away again in the blaze of the mid-day sun;
his head looked like a copper saucepan fresh from the brazier's.

"Why, where's your wig, Joseph?" said the voice of his master from the
well-known window; "what have you done with your wig?" The question was
embarrassing,--its tail had tickled his ear till it had made it sore;
Joseph had put the wig in his pocket.

Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis was indignant; he liked not that his benefits
should be ill appreciated by the recipient.--"Hark ye, Joseph
Washford," said he, "either wear my wig, or let me have it again!"

There was no mistaking the meaning of his tones; they were resonant of
indignation and disgust, of mingled grief and anger, the amalgamation
of sentiment naturally produced by

  "Friendship unreturn'd
      And unrequited Love."

Washford's heart smote him: he felt all that was implied in his
master's appeal. "It's here, your Honour," said he; "I had only
taken it off because we have had a smartish shower; but the sky is
brightening now." The wig was replaced, and the little tortuous pigtail
wriggled itself into its accustomed position.

At this moment neighbour Jenkinson peeped over the hedge.

"Joe Washford!" said neighbour Jenkinson.

"Sir, to you," was the reply.

"How beautiful your tulips look after the rain!"

"Ah! sir, master sets no great store by them flowers," returned the
gardener.

"Indeed!--Then perhaps he would have no objection to part with a few?"

"Why, no!--I don't think master would like to _give_ them,--or anything
else,--away, sir;"--and Washford scratched his ear.

"Joe!!"--said Mr. Jenkinson--"Joe!!"

The Sublime, observes Longinus, is often embodied in a
monosyllable--"Joe!!!"--Mr. Jenkinson said no more; but a half-crown
shone from between his upraised fingers, and its "poor, poor dumb
mouth" spoke for him.

How Joseph Washford's left ear _did_ itch!--He looked to the
ground-floor back--Mr. Jarvis had left the window.

Mr. Jenkinson's ground-plot boasted, at daybreak next morning,
a splendid _Semper Augustus_, "which was not so before," and
Joseph Washford was led home, much about the same time, in a most
extraordinary state of "civilation," from "The Three Jolly Pot-boys."

From that hour he was the Fiend's!!

       *       *       *       *       *

"_Facilis descensus Averni!_" says Virgil.--"It is only the first step
that is attended with any difficulty," says--somebody else,--when
speaking of the decollated martyr, St. Dennis's walk with his
head under his arm. "The First Step!"--Joseph Washford had taken
that step!--he had taken two--three--four steps;--and now, from a
hesitating, creeping, cat-like mode of progression, he had got into a
firmer tread--an amble--a positive trot!--He took the family linen "to
the wash:"--one of Madame Witherspoon's best Holland _chemises_ was
never seen after.

"Lost?--impossible! How _could_ it be lost?--where _could_ it be gone
to?--who _could_ have got it? It was her best--her _very_ best!--she
should know it among a hundred--among a thousand!--it was marked with
a great W in the corner!--Lost?--impossible?--She would _see_!"--Alas!
she never _did_ see--the _chemise_--_abiit_, _erupit_, _evasit_!--it was

  "Like the lost Pleiad, seen on earth no more!"

--but Joseph Washford's Sunday shirt _was_ seen, finer and fairer than
ever, the pride and _dulce decus_ of the Meeting.

The Meeting?--ay, the Meeting. Joe Washford never missed the Appledore
Independent Meeting House, whether the service were in the morning or
afternoon,--whether the Rev. Mr. Slyandry exhorted or made way for
the Rev. Mr. Tearbrain. Let who would officiate, there was Joe. As
I have said before, he never missed;--but other people missed--one
missed an umbrella,--one a pair of clogs. Farmer Johnson missed his
tobacco-box,--Farmer Jackson his greatcoat;--Miss Jackson missed her
hymn-book,--a diamond edition, bound in maroon-coloured velvet, with
gilt corners and clasps. Everything, in short, was missed--but Joe
Washford; there _he_ sat, grave, sedate, and motionless--all save
that restless, troublesome, fidgety little Pigtail attached to his
wig, which nothing _could_ keep quiet, or prevent from tickling and
interfering with Miss Thompson's curls, as she sat, back to back with
Joe, in the adjoining pew. After the third Sunday, Nancy Thompson
eloped with the tall recruiting sergeant of the Connaught Rangers.

The summer passed away,--autumn came and went,--and Christmas, jolly
Christmas, that period of which we are accustomed to utter the mournful
truism, it "comes but _once_ a-year," was at hand. It was a fine
bracing morning; the sun was just beginning to throw a brighter tint
upon the Quaker-coloured ravine of Orlestone-hill, when a medical
gentleman, returning to the quiet little village of Ham Street, that
lies at its foot, from a farm-house at Kingsnorth, rode briskly down
the declivity.

After several hours of patient attention, Mr. Moneypenny had succeeded
in introducing to the notice of seven little expectant brothers and
sisters a "remarkably fine child," and was now hurrying home in the
sweet hope of a comfortable "snooze" for a couple of hours before the
announcement of tea and muffins should arouse him to fresh exertion.
The road at this particular spot had, even then, been cut deep below
the surface of the soil, for the purpose of diminishing the abruptness
of the descent, and, as either side of the superincumbent banks was
clothed with a thick mantle of tangled copsewood, the passage, even
by day, was sufficiently obscure, the level beams of the rising or
setting sun, as they happened to enfilade the gorge, alone illuminating
its recesses. A long stream of rosy light was just beginning to make
its way through the vista, and Mr. Moneypenny's nose had scarcely
caught and reflected its kindred ray, when the sturdiest and most
active cob that ever rejoiced in the appellation of a "Suffolk punch,"
brought herself up in mid career upon her haunches, and that with
a suddenness which had almost induced her rider to describe that
beautiful mathematical figure, the _parabola_, between her ears.
Peggy--her name was Peggy--stood stock-still, snorting like a stranded
grampus, and alike insensible to the gentle hints afforded her by hand
and heel.

"Tch!--tch!--get along, Peggy!" half exclaimed, half whistled the
equestrian. If ever steed said in its heart, "I'll be shot if I do!"
it was Peggy at that moment. She planted her forelegs deep in the
sandy soil, raised her stump of a tail to an elevation approaching the
horizontal, protruded her nose like a pointer at a covey, and with
expanded nostril continued to snuffle most egregiously.

Mr. Geoffrey Gambado, the illustrious "Master of the Horse to the Doge
of Venice," tells us, in his far-famed treatise on the Art Equestrian,
that the most embarrassing position in which a rider can be placed
is, when _he_ wishes to go one way, and his horse is determined to
go another. There is, to be sure, a _tertium quid_, which, though it
"splits the difference," scarcely obviates the inconvenience; this is
when the parties compromise the matter by not going any way at all--to
this compromise Peggy, and her (_soi-disant_) master were now reduced;
they had fairly joined issue. "Budge!" quoth the doctor.--"Budge not!"
quoth the fiend,--for nothing short of a fiend could, of a surety,
inspire Peggy at such a time with such unwonted obstinacy.--Moneypenny
whipped and spurred--Peggy plunged, and reared, and kicked, and for
several minutes to a superficial observer the termination of the
contest might have appeared uncertain; but your profound thinker sees
at a glance that, however the scales may appear to vibrate, when the
question between the sexes is one of perseverance, it is quite a lost
case for the masculine gender. Peggy beat the doctor "all to sticks,"
and when he was fairly tired of goading and thumping, maintained her
position as firmly as ever.

It is of no great use, and not particularly agreeable, to sit still,
on a cold frosty morning in January, upon the outside of a brute that
will neither go forwards nor backwards--so Mr. Moneypenny got off, and
muttering curses _both_ "loud" _and_ "deep" between his chattering
teeth, "progressed," as near as the utmost extremity of the extended
bridle would allow him, to peep among the weeds and brushwood that
flanked the road, in order to discover, if possible, what it was that
so exclusively attracted the instinctive attention of his Bucephalus.

His curiosity was not long at fault; the sunbeam glanced partially upon
some object ruddier even than itself--it was a scarlet waistcoat, the
wearer of which, overcome perchance by Christmas compotation, seemed to
have selected for his "thrice driven bed of down," the thickest clump
of the tallest and most-imposing nettles, thereon to doze away the
narcotic effects of superabundant juniper.

This, at least, was Mr. Moneypenny's belief, or he would scarcely have
uttered, at the highest pitch of his _contralto_, "What are you doing
there, you drunken rascal? frightening my horse!"--We have already
hinted, if not absolutely asserted, that Peggy was a mare; but this was
no time for verbal criticism.--"Get up, I say,--get up, and go home,
you scoundrel!"--But the "scoundrel" and "drunken rascal" answered
not; he moved not, nor could the prolonged shouting of the appellant,
aided by significant explosions from a double-thonged whip, succeed in
eliciting a reply. No motion indicated that the recumbent figure, whose
outline alone was visible, was a living and a breathing man!

The clear, shrill tones of a ploughboy's whistle sounded at this
moment from the bottom of the hill, where the broad and green expanse
of Romney Marsh stretches away from its foot for many a mile, and now
gleamed through the mists of morning, dotted and enamelled with its
thousand flocks. In a few minutes his tiny figure was seen "slouching"
up the ascent, casting a most disproportionate and ogre-like shadow
before him.

"Come here, Jack," quoth the doctor,--"come here, boy, lay hold of this
bridle, and mind that my horse does not run away."

Peggy threw up her head, and snorted disdain of the insinuation,--she
had not the slightest intention of doing any such thing.

Mr. Moneypenny meanwhile, disencumbered of his restive nag, proceeded
by manual application to arouse the sleeper. Alas! the Seven of Ephesus
might sooner have been awakened from their century of somnolency.
His was that "dreamless sleep that knows no walking;" his cares in
this world were over. Vainly did Moneypenny practise his own constant
precept, "To be well shaken!"--there lay before him the lifeless body
of a MURDERED MAN!

The corpse lay stretched upon its back, partially concealed, as we
have before said, by the nettles which had sprung up among the stumps
of the half-grubbed underwood; the throat was fearfully lacerated, and
the dark, deep, arterial dye of the coagulated blood shewed that the
carotid had been severed. There was little to denote the existence of
any struggle; but as the day brightened, the sandy soil of the road
exhibited an impression as of a body that had fallen on its plastic
surface, and had been dragged to its present position, while fresh
horse-shoe prints seemed to intimate that either the assassin or his
victim had been mounted. The pockets of the deceased were turned out,
and empty; a hat and heavy-loaded whip lay at no great distance from
the body.

"But what have we here?" quoth Doctor Moneypenny; "what is it that the
poor fellow holds so tightly in his hand?"

That hand had manifestly clutched some article with all the spasmodic
energy of a dying grasp--IT WAS AN OLD WIG!!

       *       *       *       *       *

Those who are fortunate enough to have seen a Cinque Port court-house
may possibly divine what that useful and most necessary edifice was
some eighty years ago. Many of them seem to have undergone little
alteration, and are in general of a composite order of architecture, a
fanciful arrangement of brick and timber, with what Johnson would have
styled "interstices, reticulated, and decussated between intersections"
of lath and plaster. Its less euphonious designation in the "Weald"
is a "noggin." One half the basement story is usually of the more
solid material, the other, open to the street,--from which it is
separated only by a row of dingy columns, supporting a portion of the
superstructure,--is paved with tiles, and sometimes does duty as a
market-place, while, in its centre, flanking the broad staircase that
leads to the sessions-house above, stands an ominous-looking machine,
of heavy perforated wood, clasped within whose stern embrace "the
rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep" off occasionally the drowsiness
produced by convivial excess, in a most undignified position, an
inconvenience much increased at times by some mischievous urchin, who,
after abstracting the shoes of the helpless _detenu_, amuses himself by
tickling the soles of his feet.

It was in such a place, or rather in the Court-room above, that in the
year 1761 a hale, robust man, somewhat past the middle age, with a very
bald pate, save where a continued tuft of coarse, wiry hair, stretching
from above each ear, swelled out into a greyish-looking bush upon
the occiput, held up his hand before a grave and enlightened assemblage
of Dymchurch jurymen. He stood arraigned for that offence most heinous
in the sight of God and man, the deliberate and cold-blooded butchery
of an unoffending, unprepared fellow-creature,--_homicidium quod nullo
vidente, nullo auscultante, clam perpetratur_.

[Illustration: JERRY JARVIS'S WIG]

The victim was one Humphry Bourne, a reputable grazier of Ivychurch,
worthy and well to do, though, perchance, a thought too apt to indulge
on a market-day, when "a score of ewes" had brought in a reasonable
profit. Some such cause had detained him longer than usual at an
Ashford cattle-show; he had left the town late and alone; early in the
following morning his horse was found standing at his own stable-door,
the saddle turned round beneath its belly, and much about the time that
the corpse of its unfortunate master was discovered some four miles
off, by our friend the pharmacopolist.

That poor Bourne had been robbed and murdered there could be no
question.

Who, then, was the perpetrator of the atrocious deed?--The unwilling
hand almost refuses to trace the name of--Joseph Washford.

Yet so it was. Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis was himself the coroner for that
division of the county of Kent known by the name of "The Lath of
Scraye." He had not sat two minutes on the body before he recognised
his _quondam_ property, and started at beholding in the grasp of the
victim, as torn in the death-struggle from the murderer's head, his
own OLD WIG,--his own perky little pigtail, tied up with a piece of
shabby shalloon, now wriggling and quivering, as in salutation of its
ancient master. The silver buckles of the murdered man were found
in Joe Washford's shoes,--broad pieces were found in Joe Washford's
pockets,--Joe Washford had himself been found, when the hue-and-cry was
up, hid in a corn-rig at no great distance from the scene of slaughter,
his pruning-knife red with the evidence of his crime--"the grey hairs
yet stuck to the heft!"

For their humane administration of the laws, the lieges of this portion
of the realm have long been celebrated. Here it was that merciful
verdict was recorded in the case of the old lady accused of larceny,
"We find her Not Guilty, and hope she will never do so any more!"
Here it was that the more experienced culprit, when called upon to
plead with the customary, though somewhat superfluous, inquiry, as
to "how he would be tried?" substituted for the usual reply, "By
God and my country," that of "By your worship and a Dymchurch Jury."
Here it was--but enough!--not even a Dymchurch jury could resist such
evidence, even though the gallows (_i.e._ the expense of erecting
one) stared them, as well as the criminal, in the face. The very
pig-tail alone!--ever at his ear!--a clearer case of _suadente Diabolo_
never was made out. Had there been a doubt, its very conduct in the
Court-house would have settled the question. The Rev. Joel Ingoldsby,
umquhile chaplain to the Romney Bench, has left upon record that, when
exhibited in evidence, together with the blood-stained knife, its
twistings, its caperings, its gleeful evolutions quite "flabbergasted"
the jury, and threw all beholders into a consternation. It was
remarked, too, by many in the Court, that the Forensic Wig of the
Recorder himself was, on that trying occasion, palpably agitated, and
that its three depending, learned-looking tails lost curl at once, and
slunk beneath the obscurity of the powdered collar, just as the boldest
dog recoils from a rabid animal of its own species, however small and
insignificant.

Why prolong the painful scene?--Joe Washford was tried--Joe Washford
was convicted--Joe Washford was hanged!!

The fearful black gibbet, on which his body clanked in its chains to
the midnight winds, frowns no more upon Orlestone Hill; it has sunk
beneath the encroaching hand of civilization; but there it might be
seen late in the last century, an awful warning to all bald-pated
gentlemen how they wear, or accept, the old wig of a Special Attorney,

  _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!_

Such gifts, as we have seen, may lead to a "Morbid Delusion, the climax
of which is Murder!"

The fate of the Wig itself is somewhat doubtful: nobody seems to
have recollected, with any degree of precision, what became of it.
Mr. Ingoldsby "had heard" that, when thrown into the fire by the
Court-keeper, after whizzing, and fizzling, and performing all sorts
of supernatural antics and contortions, it at length whirled up the
chimney with a bang that was taken for the explosion of one of the
Feversham powder-mills, twenty miles off; while others insinuate that
in the "Great Storm" which took place on the night when Mr. Jeremiah
Jarvis went to his "long home,"--wherever that may happen to be,--and
the whole of "The Marsh" appeared as one broad sheet of flame,
something that looked very like a Fiery Wig--perhaps a miniature
Comet--it had unquestionably a tail--was seen careering in the
blaze,--and seeming to "ride on the whirlwind and direct the storm."




UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES.

BY MISS JEMIMA INGOLDSBY, AGED 15.

(_Communicated by her Cousin Tom._)


  Oh! how I should like in a Coach to ride,
    Like the Sheriffs I saw upon Lord Mayor's day,
  With a Coachman and little Postilion astride
    On the back of the leader, a prancing bay.

  And then behind it, oh! I should glory
    To see the tall serving men standing upright,
  Like the two who attend Mister Montefiore,
    (Sir Moses I should say) for now he's a Knight.

  And then the liveries, I know it is rude to
    Find fault--but I'll hint as he can't see me blush,
  That I'd not have the things I can only allude to
    Either orange in hue or constructed of plush;

  But their coats and their waistcoats and hats are delightful,
    Their charming silk stockings--I vow and declare
  Our John's ginger gaiters so wrinkled and frightful,
    I never again shall be able to bear.

  Oh! how I should like to have diamonds and rubies,
    And large plume of feathers and flowers in my hair,
  My gracious! to think how our Tom and those boobies,
    Jack Smith and his friend Mister Thompson, would stare.

  Then how I should like to drive to Guildhall,
    And to see the nobility flocking in shoals,
  With their two guinea tickets to dance at the ball
    Which the Lord Mayor gives for relief of the Poles.

  And to look at the gas so uncommonly pretty,
    And the stars and the armour all just as they were,
  The day that the Queen came in state to the city
    To dine with the whole Corporation and Mayor.

  Oh! how I should like to see Jane and Letitia,
    Miss Jones and the two Misses Frump sitting still,
  While dear Ensign Brown, of the West Kent Militia,
    Solicits my hand for the "Supper" Quadrille.

  With his fine white teeth and his cheek like a rose,
    And his black cravat and his diamond pin,
  And the nice little mustache under his nose,
    And the dear _little_ tuft on the tip of his chin.

  And how I should like some fine morning to ride
    In my coach, and my white satin shoes and gown,
  To St. James's Church, with a Beau by my side,
    And I shouldn't much care if his name was Brown.




Miscellaneous Poems.




HERMANN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR.


  An Emperor famous in council and camp,
  Has a son who turns out a remarkable scamp;
      Takes to dicing and drinking  And d--mning and sinking,
  And carries off maids, wives, and widows, like winking!
  Since the days of Arminius, his namesake, than Hermann
  There never was seen a more profligate German.
      He escapes from the City;  And joins some banditti
  Insensible quite to remorse, fear, and pity;
  Joins in all their carousals, and revels, and robberies,
  And in kicking up all sorts of shindies and bobberies.
      Well, hearing one day  His associates say
  That a bridal procession was coming their way,
      Inflamed with desire, he  Breaks into a priory,
  And kicking out every man Jack of a friar, he
  Upsets in a twinkling the mass-books and hassocks,
  And dresses his rogues in the clergymen's cassocks.
      The new married folks  Taken in by this hoax,
  Mister Hermann grows frisky and full of his jokes:
  To the serious chagrin of her late happy suitor,
  Catching hold of the Bride, he attempts to salute her.

      Now Heaven knows what  Had become of the lot,
  It's Turtle to Tripe they'd have all gone to pot--
      If a dumb Lady, one  Of her friends, had not run
  To her aid, and, quite scandalized, stopp'd all his fun!
      Just conceive what a caper  He cut, when her taper
  Long fingers scrawled this upon whitey-brown paper,
  (At the instant he seized, and before he had kissed her)--
  "Ha' done, Mister Hermann! for shame! it's your sister!"
  His hair stands on end,--he desists from his tricks,
  And remains in "a pretty particular fix."
      As he knows Sir John Nicholl  Still keeps rods in pickle,
  Offences of this kind severely to tickle,
  At so near an escape from his court and its sentence
  His eyes fill with tears, and his breast with repentance:
      So, picking and stealing,  And unrighteous dealing,
  Of all sorts, he cuts, from this laudable feeling:
      Of wickedness weary,  With many a tear, he
  Now takes a French leave of the vile _Condottieri_:
  And the next thing we hear of this penitent villain,
  He is begging in rags in the suburbs of Milan.

      Half starv'd, meagre, and pale,  His energies fail,
  When his sister comes in with a pot of mild ale;
          But though tatter'd his jerkins,
          His heart is whole,--workings
  Of conscience debar him from "Barclay and Perkins."
      "I'll drink," exclaims he,  "Nothing stronger than tea,
  And that but the worst and the weakest Bohea,
  Till I've done--from my past scenes of folly a far actor--
  Some feat shall redeem both my wardrobe and character."
  At signs of remorse so decided and visible
  Nought can equal the joy of his fair sister Isabel,
      And the Dumb Lady too,  Who runs off to a Jew,
  And buys him a coat of mail spick and span new,
  In the hope that his prowess and deeds as a Knight
  Will keep his late larcenies quite out of sight.
  By the greatest good luck, his old friends the banditti
  Choose this moment to make an attack on the city!
      Now you all know the way  Heroes hack, hew, and slay,
  When once they get fairly mixed up in a fray:
      Hermann joins in the _mêlée_,  Pounds this to a jelly,
  Runs that through the back, and a third through the belly.
  Till many a broken bone, bruised rib, and flat head,
  Make his _ci-devant_ friends curse the hour that he ratted.
      Amid so many blows,  Of course you'll suppose
  He must get a black eye, or, at least, bloody nose:
  "Take that!" cried a bandit, and struck, while he spoke it,
  His spear in his breast, and, in pulling out, broke it.
          Hermann fainted away  When, as breathless he lay,
  A rascal claimed all the renown of the day;
  A recreant, cowardly, white-livered knight,
  Who had skulked in a furze-bush the whole of the fight.
      But the Dumb Lady soon  Put some gin in a spoon,
  And half strangles poor Hermann, who wakes from his swoon,
  And exhibits his wound, when the head of the spear
  Fits its handle, and makes its identity clear.
  The murder thus out, Hermann's _fêted_ and thanked,
  While his rascally rival gets tossed in a blanket:
      And to finish the play--  As reformed rakes, they say,
  Make the best of all husbands--the very same day
  Hermann sends for a priest, as he must wed with some--lady,
  Buys a ring and a licence, and marries the Dumb Lady.

MORAL.

  Take warning, young people of every degree,
  From Hermann's example, and don't live too free!
  If you get in bad company, fly from it soon!
  If you chance to get thrash'd, take some gin in a spoon;
  And remember, since wedlock's not _all_ sugar-candy,
  If you wish to 'scape "wigging," a dumb wife's the dandy!




HINTS FOR AN HISTORICAL PLAY;

TO BE CALLED

WILLIAM RUFUS; OR, THE RED ROVER.


ACT 1.

  Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman Papa,
  Has, somehow or other, a Saxon Mama:
  Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons,
  He's a sort of a sub in the Rufus dragoons;
  Has travelled, but comes home abruptly, the rather
  That some unknown rascal has murder'd his father;
  And scarce has he picked out, and stuck in his quiver,
  The arrow that pierced the old gentleman's liver,
  When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone,
  That his sweetheart has bolted,--with whom is not known.
  But, as murder will out, he at last finds the lady
  At court with her character grown rather shady:
  This gives him the "blues," and impairs the delight
  He'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a Knight,
  For giving a runaway stallion a check,
  And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.


ACT 2.

  Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost,
  And frightens a soldier away from his post;
  Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher,
  Draws it over his ears and pretends he's a Friar.
  This gains him access to his sweetheart, Miss Faucit;
  But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet;
  Where oddly enough, among some of her things,
  He discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's,
  Of the very same pattern with that which he found
  Sticking into his father when dead on the ground!
  Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door,
  Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor,
  With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye,
  And blows up King William the Second, sky-high;
  Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs,
  That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.


ACT 3.

  King Rufus is cross when he comes to reflect,
  That as King, he's been treated with gross disrespect;
  So he pens a short note to a holy physician,
  And gives him a rather unholy commission,
  Viz., to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup,
  Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up.
  Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter
  Perceives, in his walks, this same cup on the altar.
  As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking,
  When Miss Faucit in tears, comes in running like winking;
  He pauses of course, and as she's thirsty too,
  Says, very politely, "Miss, I after you!"
  The young lady curtsies, and being so dry,
  Raises somehow her fair little finger so high,
  That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye;"
  While the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise,
  She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter," and dies.
  At that moment the King, who is riding to cover,
  Pops in _en passant_ on the desperate lover,
  Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him,
  --So he does,--he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him.
  From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows,
  The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose;
  And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel,
  Walks down to the footlights, and draws this fine moral:
          "Ladies and Gentlemen,
                Lead sober lives:--
  Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!--
  When you go out a sporting, take care of your gun,
  And--never shoot elderly people in fun!"




MARIE MIGNOT.


  Miss Marie Mignot was a nice little Maid,
  Her Uncle a Cook, and a Laundress her trade,
  And she loved as dearly as any one can
  Mister Lagardie, a nice little man.
      But Oh!  But Oh!  Story of woe!
  A sad interloper, one Monsieur Modeau,
      Ugly and old,  With plenty of gold,
      Made his approach  In an elegant coach,
  Her fancy was charmed with the splendour and show
  And he bore off the false-hearted Molly Mignot.

  Monsieur Modeau was crazy and old,
  And Monsieur Modeau caught a terrible cold,
  His nose was stuffed, and his throat was sore,
  He had physic by the quart and Doctors by the score.
      They sent squills  And pills,  And very long bills
  And all they could do did not make him get well,
  He sounded his M's and his N's like an L.
      A shocking bad cough  At last took him off,
  And Mister Lagardie her former young beau,
  Came a courting again to the Widow Modeau.

  Mister Lagardie, to gain him _éclat_,
  Had cut the Cook's shop and followed the law;
  And when Monsieur Modeau set out on his journey,
  Was an Articled Clerk to a Special Attorney.
      He gave her a call  On the day of a ball,
  To which she'd invited the court, camp and all;
      But "poor dear Lagardie"  Again was too tardy,
  For a Marshal of France  Had just asked her to dance;
  In a twinkling, the _ci-devant_ Madame Modeau
  Was wife of the Marshal Lord Marquis Dinot.
  Mister Lagardie was shocked at the news,
  And went and enlisted at once in the Blues.
      The Marquis Dinot  Felt a little so so--
  Took physic, grew worse, and had _notice to go_--
  He died, and was shelved, and his Lady so gay
  Smiled again on Lagardie now placed on full pay,
  A Swedish Field-Marshal with a guinea a day;
      When an old ex-King  Just showed her the ring:
  To be Queen, she conceived was a very fine thing;
      But the King turned a Monk,
      And Lagardie got drunk,
  And said to the Lady with a deal of ill-breeding,
  "You may go to the d--l and I'll go to Sweden."
      Thus between the two stools,  Like some other fools,
      Her Ladyship found  Herself plump on the ground;
  So she cried, and she stamped, and she sent for a hack,
  And she drove to a convent and never came back.

MORAL.

  Wives, Maidens, and Widows, attend to my lay
  If a fine moral lesson you'd draw from a play,
      To the Haymarket go  And see _Marie Mignot_,
  Miss Kelly plays Marie, and Williams Modeau;
      Mrs. Glover and Vining  Are really quite shining,
        And though Thompson for a Marquis
        Has almost too much carcass,
        Yet it's not fair to pass him or
        John Cooper's Cassimir,
        And the piece would be barren
        Without Mr. Farren;
  No matter, go there, and they'll teach you the guilt
  Of coquetting and ogling, and playing the jilt.
  Such folks gallop awhile, but at last they get spilt;
      Had Molly Mignot  Behaved _comme il faut_,
  Nor married the Lawyer nor Marquis Dinot,
  She had ne'er been a nun, whose fare very hard is,
  But the mother of half-a-score little Lagardies.




THE TRUANTS.


  Three little Demons have broken loose
    From the National School below!
  They are resolved to play truant to-day,
  Their primer and slate they have cast away,
    And away, away they go!
      "Hey boys! hey boys! up go we!
      Who so merry as we three?"

  The reek of that most infernal pit,
    Where sinful souls are stewing,
  Rises so black, that in viewing it,
  A thousand to one but you'd ask with surprise
  As its murky columns meet your eyes,
    "Pray is Old Nick a-brewing?"
  Thither these three little Devils repair,
  And mount by steam to the uppermost air.

  They have got hold of a wandering star,
  That happened to come within hail.
      O swiftly they glide!  As they merrily ride
      All a cock-stride  Of that Comet's tail.
      Oh the pranks!  Oh the pranks,
      The merry pranks, the mad pranks,
        These wicked urchins play!
  They kissed the _Virgin_ and filled her with dread,
  They popped the _Scorpion_ into her bed;
  They broke the pitcher of poor _Aquarius_,
  They stole the arrows of _Sagittarius_,
  And they skimmed the _Milky Way_.
  They filled the _Scales_ with sulphur full,
  They halloed the _Dog-star_ on at the _Bull_,
  And pleased themselves with the noise.
      They set the _Lion_  On poor _Orion_;
      They shaved all the hair  Off the _Lesser Bear_!
      They kicked the shins  Of the _Gemini Twins_--
      Those heavenly Siamese Boys!--
  Never was such confusion and wrack,
  As they produced in the Zodiac!--

      "Huzza!  Huzza!  Away!  Away!
  Let us go down to the earth and play!
      Now we go up, up, up,  Now we go down, down, down,
      Now we go backwards, and forwards,
      Now we go round, round, round!"
  Thus they gambol, and scramble, and tear,
  Till at last they arrive at the nethermost air.

  And pray now what were these Devilets called?
  These three little Fiends so gay?
      One was _Cob_!  Another was _Mob_!
  The last and the least was young _Chittabob_!
  Queer little Devils were they!
      _Cob_ was the strongest,  _Mob_ was the wrongest,
  _Chittabob's_ tail was the finest and longest!
  Three more frolicsome Imps, I ween,
  Beelzebub's self hath seldom seen.

    Over Mountain, over Fell,  Glassy Fountain, mossy Dell,
    Rocky Island, barren Strand,  Over Ocean, over Land;
  With frisk and bound, and squeaks and squalls,
  Heels over head, and head over heels;
  With curlings and twistings, and twirls and wheeleries,
  Down they drop at the gate of the _Tuilleries_.

  Courtiers were bowing and making legs,
  While Charley _le Roi_ was bolting eggs;
      "_Mob_," says _Cob_,  "_Chittabob_," says _Mob_,
  "Come here, you young Devil, _we're in for a job_!"
      Up jumps _Cob_ to the Monarch's ear,
      "Charley, my jolly boy, never fear;
      If you mind all their jaw  About Charter and Law,
  You might just as well still be the _Count d'Artois_!
      No such thing,  Show 'em you're King,
  Tip 'em an Ordinance, that's the thing!"
      Charley dined,  Took his pen and signed;
  Then _Mob_ kicked over his throne from behind!
  "Huzza! Huzza! we may scamper now!
  For here we have kicked up a jolly good row!"

  "Over the water, and over the Sea,
    And over the water with Charlie;"
  Now they came skipping and grinning with glee,
    Not pausing to _chaff_ or to parley.
      Over, over,  On to Dover;
      On fun intent,  All through Kent
  These mischievous devils so merrily went.

  Over hill and over dale,
  Sunken hollow, lofty ridge,
  Frowning cliff, and smiling vale,
  Down to the foot of Westminster-bridge.
      "Hollo," says _Cob_,  "There's the Duke and Sir Bob!
  After 'em Chittabob, after 'em Mob."
  _Mob_ flung gravel, and Chittabob pebbles,
  His Grace c----'d them both for a couple of rebels;
      His feelings were hurt  By the stones and the dirt--
      In went he,  In an ecstasy,
  And _blew up_ the nobles of high degree.

      "Mr. Brougham, Mr. Hume,  May fret and may fume--
  And so may all you whom I see in this room;
  Come weal, come woe, come calm, come storm--
  I'll see you all--_blessed_--ere I give you reform;"
    "Bravo," says Chittabob, "That's your sort,
  Come along, schoolfellows, here's more sport.
      Look there! look there!  There's the great Lord May'r!
  With the gravest of Deputies close to his chair;
      With Hobbler, his Clerk!  Just the thing for _a lark_;
  Huzza! huzza! boys, follow me now;
  Here we may _kick_ up another good row."
      Here they are,  Swift as a star,
  They shoot in mid air, over Temple Bar!
    Tom Macaulay beheld the flight
  Of these three little dusky sons of night,
    And his heart swell'd with joy and elation--
        "Oh, see!" quoth he,  "Those _Niggerlings_ three,
    Who have just got _emancipation_!"

        Lord Key took fright:  At the very first sight,
    The whole Court of Aldermen wheel'd to the right;
    Some ran from _Chittabob_--more from _Mob_,
    The great _locum tenens_ jump'd up upon _Cob_,
        Who roar'd and ran,  With the Alderman
    To the Home Office, pick-a-back--catch 'em who can!
        "Stay at home--here's a plot,  And I can't tell you what,
        If you don't I'll be shot,  But you'll all go to pot."
  Ah, little he weened while the ground he thus ran over,
  'Twas a _Cob_ he bestrode--not his white horse from Hanover.

    Back they came galloping through the Strand,
    When Joseph Lancaster, stick in hand,
    Popped up his head before 'em.
        Well we know  That honest old Joe
    Is a sort of High Master down below,
    And teaches the Imps decorum.
    Satan had started him off in a crack,
    To flog those three little runaways back.

        Fear each assails; Every one quails;
    "Oh dear! how he'll tickle our little black tails!
        Have done, have done,  Here's that son of a gun,
    Old Joe, come after us,--run, boys, run."
        Off ran _Cob_,  Off ran _Mob_,
    And off in a fright ran young Chittabob.
      Joe caught Chittabob just by the tail,
        And Cob by his crumpled horn;
      Bitterly then did these Imps bewail
        That ever they were born!
        _Mob_ got away,  But none to this day
    Know exactly whither he went;
    Some say he's been seen about Blackfriars-bridge,
    And some say he's down in Kent.

      But where'er he may roam,
      He has not ventured home
      Since the day the three took wing,
        And many suppose  He has chang'd his clothes,
      And now goes by the name of "_Swing_."




THE POPLAR.


  Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
    On whose tender rind--'twas a little one then--
  We carved _her_ initials; though not very lately--
    We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.

  Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
    Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
  And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
    Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.

  This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
    Her lov'd patronymic--ah! can it be so?
  Its once fair proportions, time too has been robbing;
    A D?--we'll be _Deed_ if it isn't an O!

  Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
    That thus on our labours stern _Chronos_ should frown;
  Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,
    And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!




MY LETTERS.

"_Litera scripta manet._"--OLD SAW.


  Another mizzling, drizzling day!
    Of clearing up there's no appearance;
  So I'll sit down without delay,
    And here, at least, I'll make a clearance.

  Oh, ne'er "on such a day as this"
    Would Dido, with her woes oppressèd,
  Have wooed Æneas back to bliss,
    Or Troilus gone to hunt for Cressid!

  No, they'd have stayed at home, like me,
    And popped their toes upon the fender,
  And drank a quiet cup of tea:--
    On days like this one can't be tender.

  So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
    And put my desk upon the table--
  Bring that Portfolio--stir the fire--
    Now off as fast as you are able!

  First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,
    "A Ball!"--she knows that I'm no dancer--
  That woman's asked me fifty times,
    And yet I never send an answer.

  "DEAR JACK,--
              Just lend me twenty pounds,
  Till Monday next, when I'll return it.
                Yours truly,
                            HENRY GIBBS,"
                  Why, Z--ds!
  I've seen the man but twice--here, burn it.

  One from my Cousin Sophy Daw--
    Full of Aunt Margery's distresses;
  "The Cat has kittened in 'the _draw_,'
    And ruined two bran-new silk dresses."

  From Sam, "The Chancellor's motto,"--nay,
    Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em;
  "Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,"--Ay,
    "For King read Mob!" Brougham's old _erratum_.

  From Seraphina Price--"At two"--
    "Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir;"
  Two more because I did not go,
    Beginning "Wretch" and "Faithless Monster!"

  "DEAR SIR,--
              "This morning Mrs. P----
    Who's doing quite as well as may be,
  Presented me, at half-past three
    Precisely, with another baby.

  "We'll name it John, and know with pleasure
    You'll stand"--Five guineas more, confound it!--
  I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,
    Or thrown it in the Thames and drowned it.

  What have we next?  A civil Dun:
    "John Brown would take it as a favour"--
  Another, and a surlier one,
    "I can't put up with _sich_ behaviour."

  "Bill so long standing,"--"quite tired out,"--
    "Must sit down to insist on payment,"
  "Called ten times,"--Here's a fuss about
    A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment!

  For once I'll send an answer, and inform
    Mr. Snip he needn't "call" so;
  But when his bill's as "tired of standing"
    As he is, beg 'twill "sit down also."

  This from my rich old Uncle Ned,
    Thanking me for my annual present;
  And saying he last Tuesday wed
    His cook-maid, Molly--vastly pleasant!

  An ill-spelt note from Tom at school,
    Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle;
  Another from that precious fool,
    Miss Pyefinch, with a stupid riddle.

  "D'ye give it up?" indeed I do!
    Confound these antiquated minxes;
  I won't play "_Billy Black_" to a "_Blue_,"
    Or Œdipus to such old sphinxes.

  A note sent up from Kent to show me,
    Left with my bailiff, Peter King:
  "I'll burn them precious stacks down, blow me!
    "Your's most sincerely,
                                  "CAPTAIN SWING."

  Four begging letters with petitions,
    One from my sister Jane, to pray
  I'll "execute a few commissions"
    In Bond Street, "when I go that way;"

  "And buy at Pearsal's in the City
    Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses:
  Colour no matter, so it's pretty;--
    Two hundred pens--" two hundred curses!

  From Mistress Jones: "My little Billy
    Goes up his schooling to begin,
  Will you just step to Piccadilly,
    And meet him when the coach comes in?

  "And then, perhaps, you will as well, see
    The poor dear fellow safe to school
  At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea!"
    Heaven send he flog the little fool!

  From Lady Snooks: "Dear Sir, you know
    You promised me last week a Rebus;
  A something smart and _apropos_,
    For my new Album?"--Aid me, Phœbus!

  "My first is followed by my second;
    Yet should my first my second see,
  A dire mishap it would be reckon'd,
    And sadly shocked my first would be,

  "Were I but what my whole implies,
    And passed by chance across your portal;
  You'd cry, 'Can I believe my eyes?
    I never saw so queer a mortal!'

  "For then my head would not be on,
    My arms their shoulders must abandon;
  My very body would be gone,
    I should not have a leg to stand on."

  Come, that's dispatched--what follows?--Stay,
    "Reform demanded by the nation;
  Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!" Ay,
    By Jove, a blessed _Reformation_!

  Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose--
    Or no!--the filly--she's the fleeter
  The devil take the rain--here goes,
    I'm off--a plumper for Sir Peter!




NEW-MADE HONOUR.

(IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.)


  A friend I met, some half hour since--
    "_Good-morrow, Jack!_" quoth I;
  The new-made Knight, like any Prince,
    Frowned, nodded, and passed by;
  When up came Jem--"_Sir John, your Slave!_"
    "Ah, James; we dine at eight--
  Fail not--(low bows the supple knave)
    Don't make my lady wait."
  The King can do no wrong?  As I'm a sinner,
  He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.




THE CONFESSION.


  There's somewhat on my breast, father,
    There's somewhat on my breast!
  The livelong day I sigh, father,
    And at night I cannot rest.
  I cannot take my rest, father,
    Though I would fain do so;
  A weary weight oppresseth me--
    This weary weight of woe!

  'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
    Nor want of worldly gear;
  My lands are broad, and fair to see,
    My friends are kind and dear.
  My kin are leal and true, father,
    They mourn to see my grief;
  But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
    Can give my heart relief!

  'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
    'Tis not that she's unkind;
  Tho' busy flatterers swarm around--
    I know her constant mind.
  'Tis not _her_ coldness, father,
    That chills my labouring breast,
  It's that confounded cucumber
    I've eat and can't digest.




EPIGRAM.


  BRAVE L----, so says a knight of the pen,
  "Has exposed himself much at the head of his men,"
  As his men ran away without waiting to fight,
  To expose himself there's to be first in the flight.
  Had it not been as well, when he saw his men quail,
  To have stayed and exposed himself more at their tail?
  Or say, is it fair, in this noblest of quarrels,
  To suffer the chief to engross all the laurels?
  No! his men, so the muse to all Europe shall sing,
  Have exposed themselves fully as much as their king.




SONG.


I.

  There sits a bird on yonder tree,
    More fond than Cushat Dove;
  There sits a bird on yonder tree,
    And sings to me of love.
  Oh! stoop thee from thine eyrie down!
    And nestle thee near my heart,
      For the moments fly,  And the hour is nigh,
    When thou and I must part,
                  My love!
    When thou and I must part.


II.

  In yonder covert lurks a Fawn,
    The pride of the sylvan scene;
  In yonder covert lurks a Fawn,
    And I am his only queen;
  Oh! bound from thy secret lair,
    For the sun is below the west;
      No mortal eye  May our meeting spy,
    For all are clos'd in rest,
                My love!
    Each eye is closed in rest.


III.

  Oh, sweet is the breath of morn!
    When the sun's first beams appear;
  Oh! sweet is the shepherd's strain,
    When it dies on the listening ear;
  And sweet the soft voice which speaks
    The Wanderer's welcome home;
      But sweeter far  By yon pale mild star,
    With our true Love thus to roam,
              My dear!
    With our own true Love to roam!




EPIGRAM.

EHEU FUGACES.


  What Horace says is, _Eheu fugaces
  Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume!_
  Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me!
  _Now_, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes,
  Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos,
  Sighing I murmur, "_O mihi præteritos!_"




SONG.


  'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being,
    Whose mortal form reposes with the dead,
  Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing,
    Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!

  She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness
    I hear her voice, in still small accents tell
  Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness,
    Where those who lov'd on earth, together dwell.

  Ah! yet a while, blest shade, thy flight delaying,
    The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer;
  To her rapt gaze, in visions bland displaying
    The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!

  Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted,
    She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay;
  Then as on earth, in tenderest love united,
    Together seek the realms of endless day!




AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY.


  As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
  Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;
      There came a noble Knyghte,
      With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
      And his gallant heart was lyghte,
            Free and gaye;
  As I lay a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

  As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
  Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
      There seem'd a crimson plain,
      Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,
      And a steed with broken rein
            Ran free,
  As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

  As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
  Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;
      A lovely Mayde came bye,
      And a gentil youth was nyghe,
      And he breathed many a syghe
            And a vowe;
  As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.

  As I laye a-thynkynge, a thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
  Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne;
      No more a youth was there,
      But a Maiden rent her haire,
      And cried in sad despaire,
            "That I was borne!"
  As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.

  As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
  Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;
      There came a lovely childe,
      And his face was meek and mild,
      Yet joyously he smiled
            On his sire;
  As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.

  As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
  And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd upon a bier;
      That joyous smile was gone,
      And the face was white and wan,
      As the downe upon the Swan
            Doth appear,
  As I laye a-thynkynge--oh! bitter flow'd the tear!

  As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
  O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on her breast
      With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
      While soaring to the skies,
      'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise,
            As to her nest;
  As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:--
      "Follow, follow me away,
      It boots not to delay,"--
      'Twas so she seem'd to saye,
            "HERE IS REST!"
                                                        T. I.


THE END.


MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY
OFFICE.

Z67051188668.




Transcriber's Notes

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