singular character. It would have been difficult to have disposed of so
gigantic a monster by any ordinary process. It could not have travelled
by land to the ocean, except on wheels; and although it might have been
possible to have paid expenses by sending it thither in the caravan of
a travelling showman--supposing a vehicle of that description, and of
sufficiently large size, to have been in being--such a course would have
been scarcely consistent with the usage of fairyland, or with the nature
and circumstances of the case. It might, of course, have been possible
to have floated the creature down the waters of my river, but against
such a proceeding my nymphs, elves, and swans would have protested
indignantly, even had I been disposed for a moment to sanction it.
Besides this, the inconvenience to traffic, and the bad odour which so
foul a reptile would leave in the water, not to mention its possible
indulgence in some mischievous and destructive habits which would have
brought the river into bad repute, were all difficulties in the way. I
could not allow a “Thames nuisance” to be thus originated which would
have been probably fraught with most unpleasant consequences, and could
have done no possible good to anybody. This, therefore, being out of the
question, it only remained for the owl-fairy to exercise his magic power
somewhat further, and get rid of the vast and cumbrous body which he
had seen fit to create. The wonderful being made not the slightest
difficulty. Waving his rod three times above his head, and describing
with it a circle in the air, he struck upon the ground, which
immediately opened wide beneath the hideous {225}serpent, and exhibited
an enormous chasm, down which it slowly disappeared, and was seen no
more in those regions of the earth.
[Illustration: 242]
Marvellous legends, however, have been told of the great Sea-serpent
since that day, and those who know the circumstances which I have
related are able to judge of their truth better than the ignorant and
unlearned.
At times, when, far out at sea, the waves are running mountains high,
the ship can scarce weather the storm, and some of the affrighted
sailors have betaken themselves to their boats in hopes to preserve
their lives, a hideous monster is said to rise from the deep, encircling
and crushing the boat with its gigantic coil, and striking with its
cruel fangs the drowning mariners. At other times, when all is calm,
and the surface of the ocean ripples softly, like a lake stirred by the
zephyrs’ softest breath, {226}a huge and awful form may be seen floating
on the waves, slowly making its way through the waters, and ever
and anon raising its hideous serpent-head aloft, as if in search of
something to injure or destroy. Wonderful tales do the sailor men bring
home of this extraordinary creature, and wise folk oftentimes shake
their heads and affect to disbelieve in its existence. But we, Brother
Rhine, who know this chronicle of early days which I have just been
telling, shake no heads over the matter, and entertain no doubt of the
reality of the sight which the sons of Neptune aver that they have seen.
Old Goody Tickleback is the great Sea-serpent, and my only wonder is
that, when the great owl-fairy was about it, he did not put her out of
the way altogether, instead of leaving her in a position in which she
could still work so much mischief to mortal men. I suppose, however,
that fairies, like other people, know their own business best; and there
was probably some reason against this self-evidently wise course which
does not occur to those who do not happen themselves to be fairies.
In this manner, anyhow, the three witches were comfortably disposed of,
and, to my mind, there never was a clearer case of “a good riddance of
bad rubbish.” Having accomplished his task, the owl-fairy now reentered
his carriage, and directed the troops to pass before him, which they
accordingly did, each company saluting as it passed. The review being
finished, the whole procession returned to the wood in the same order
as that in which they had emerged from it, and in a very short time the
banks of the river were as quiet as if nothing unusual had happened.
The mannikins were never {227}afterwards molested by witches or any such
nefarious customers, and, as long as they chose to inhabit the castle,
they were perfectly free from disturbance or attack. Time at last did
its work upon the old walls, and when the hum of the steam-engine began
to be heard in the land this was no longer a place for mannikins. They
flitted I know not where, and the owl-fairy doubtless went with them. I
could perhaps tell you more, but melancholy thoughts come over me as I
speak of the departure of old friends and neighbours, and I think, with
your good leave, I will here bring my legend to a conclusion.
“Thanks, good brother,” said the Monarch of the Rhine, as Father Thames
ceased speaking. “Yet would I fain inquire who or what was this great
owl-fairy?”
His companion smiled grimly. “Hast thou so soon forgotten thine own
objection to questions concerning our legends when finished?” he asked.
“Nevertheless I would tell thee if I could, but I fear to speak with
certainty upon a subject which has ever been shrouded in doubt. Most
authorities agree that this mighty being could be none other than he
of whom mention was made in my first legend--that of the Wild Boar
of Windsor Forest. But the great fairy, Toddlekins, did not announce
himself on the occasion of the transformation of the three witches;
and the only proof that it was he who reigned over the mannikins and
delivered them from their enemies consists in the similarity of his
appearance with that of the rescuer of Smith in the Druid days. I
incline to think it may have been him; and we know that wherever
Toddlekins has power good prevails {228}and evil flies from his
presence; but more I cannot tell you.”
“Be it so, brother,” returned he of the Rhine; “the matter, anyhow,
ended well, and I would that my Rhineland had a fairy Toddlekins as well
as thy favoured country.”
Father Thames smiled grimly. “There never could be two such as
Toddlekins in this world,” replied he; “and it is a blessing for me and
mine that there has been one. But come, Brother Rhine, there is yet
time for another legend. Hast thou none of the old war times, and of the
brave German barons who fought so oft and so fiercely?”
“Ay, that have I, many an one,” responded the other. “I bethink me,
moreover, of one which is not strictly or wholly of mine own land, nor
in truth do I know precisely to what land it can be said entirely to
belong. It is one, however, which has been handed down to us in verse,
if you object not to a tale told in such fashion.”
“Object, indeed!” cried jolly old Father Thames in a pleasant voice.
“How or why should I object? Are not some of our very best English
legends told in verse? Witness that excellent old story of--
‘Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And so was old King Tudor;
But merrier still was Miss Mary Cole,
When the Earl of Pembroke woo’d her.’
That _is_ a fine legend, if you please! I heard it all told by a
descendant of the Cole family, who stumbled on the story in an old
manuscript, and instantly went out to Cannes, in the South of France,
where he studied it carefully {229}with a view to producing it for the
benefit of the English public, and was only prevented from doing so by
his sisters, who insisted upon it that the wooing done in their family,
even at a remote period, was a matter of private history which should
never be allowed to become public property. Perhaps they had some affair
of the same kind in hand themselves, and did not want to establish an
inconvenient precedent.”
“Very likely,” remarked the Rhine King somewhat sulkily; “but if you go
on like this I shall never get away. Pray give a fellow a chance, and
don’t keep all the talk to yourself--you and your Coles.”
“Hold hard!” cried Father Thames at this. “I am not going to be ‘called
over the coals’ by any foreigner.”
“A truce to your puns!” said he of the Rhine; and as Father Thames said
no more, he at once began the song of:--
SIR RODERICK FOWLE--A LEGEND OF THE OLDEN TIME.
I.
Sir Roderick Fowle has returned from the East,
Where believers are fighting the Paynim;
Though they slaughtered his squire, and they wounded his beast,
No Saracen foeman has slain him.
II.
He has crossed the salt seas, and has come to the land
Where no man of battle afraid is,
But all have, in war, a keen blade and strong hand,
And, in peace, a true heart for the ladies.
III.
To {230}the land of the Gaul is Sir Roderick come
(Concluded his Saracen fighting),
And with joy and delight is struck perfectly dumb,
On the shores of his country alighting--
IV.
The land where he’d lived as an innocent child
(And now he’s a vigorous man, see!),
Where Ida, the lovely, had first on him smiled
And captured his heart and his fancy.
V.
Sweet Ida, the daughter of Montmolon’s lord
(How blest to possess such a daughter!),
Was fairest of fair demoiselles--in a word,
All the marrying bachelors sought her.
VI.
But “attentions” she cared for but little, said she,
And, really, seemed scarcely to heed’em;
And for marrying! oh! ’twas like “felo de se,”
If you _could_ keep your spinsterly freedom.
VII.
So she turned up her aquiline nose at them all,
And refused a round dozen of offers
From lords and from knights, who would constantly fall
At her feet with their hearts and their coffers.
VIII.
Till fate in her way threw Sir Roderick Fowle,
Before he departed this war on,
Then love made the damsel as blind as an owl,
And she promised herself to the Baron.
IX.
The {231}war was declared--there was no time to woo,
When legions and armies were forming,
But, handsome and bold, he knew well what to do,
So he carried the fortress by storming.
X.
And she promised to wed, if he shouldn’t be dead,
When the Christians had settled the Paynim.
He must go there, he said; but she wanted, instead,
By her apron-string still to detain him.
XI.
But he’d promised to go, and he would, and he must
(These men are such obstinate cattle!),
So his heart to her keeping the lover did trust,
And set off, like a man, to the battle.
XII.
He went, and he came, and sustained his great name,
For when was a Fowle e’er behindhand?
And returned to receive the sweet laurels of fame
From his Ida’s most willing and kind hand.
XIII.
When a man’s seeking _laurels_, to keep him at _bay_
Is a deed most exceedingly cruel,
So we’ll hasten our baron along on his way
To the casket which held his bright jewel.
XIV.
Lofty and high were the Montmolon towers,
And fortified, too, beyond measure,
Lest any bold lord of the neighbouring powers
Should harry the Montmolon treasure.
XV.
Sir {232}Roderick gazed on the gloomy old wall,
Which the ivy was slowly corroding,
When a sight met his eyes which his heart did appal,
And fill with a fearful foreboding.
XVI.
Where the Montmolon banner of old used to wave,
And merrily flaunt in the breezes,
No banner hung now--all was still as the grave,
Or the form that death’s quietude seizes.
XVII.
The place looked so bleak--‘tis a sad thing to speak,
But sad things sometimes must be spoken;
And the winds they did shriek through that castle antique,
For there wasn’t a window unbroken!
XVIII.
The mark of a foe did Sir Roderick know
Full well--far too well to mistake it;
And he groaned deep and low, in sad accents of woe,
Ere he turned round his horse to forsake it.
XIX.
But he stopped; for a groan quite as sad as his own
Seemed to come from the shrubberies near him,
And an old man he spied, sitting there all alone,
Who appeared in no manner to fear him.
XX.
He approached, and affright half gave way to delight
At the chance his lost bride to regain her,
When he recognised quite, in this dolorous wight,
A Montmolon former retainer.
XXI.
“Old {233}man!” he cried out, “what’s this fuss all about?
And has there been any disaster?
You seemed crippled, no doubt: is’t rheumatics or gout?
And where are your mistress and master?”
XXII.
With a guttural sigh, like one going to die,
The man raised him up on his knees, and
Thus made him reply, though the news, by-the-bye,
He scarce could get out of his weasand.
XXIII.
“I’ve a sad tale to crack. Noble sir, you’ve come back
To a house sacked from basement to attics;
Too long do I lack kitchen chimney and jack
For gout--let alone the rheumatics!
XXIV.
“I speak but with pain, for I’m slaughtered and slain
(Just look at my garments all gory),
But my breath I would fain a while longer retain
Till I’ve told you our terrible story.
XXV.
“Fair Ida, I fear, you will scarcely find here,
Though the room which was hers still you may see,
For ‘tis nearly a year since with bow and with spear
Hither hastened Sir Marmaduke Tracy.
XXVI.
“With soldiers in scores, ammunition, and stores,
He attacked our unfortunate village;
He battered our doors [‘twas the greatest of bores).
And allowed all his people to pillage.
XXVII.
“When {234}the storm ‘gan to lower, folks fled to the tower,
Young and old the same thing very soon did;
We did all in our power, and young Ida’s own bower
Was turned into a ward for the wounded.
XXVIII.
“For months four or five we continued to strive;
None ventured on shirking or shamming,
Till one-half of our hive were no longer alive--
Consumed between firing and famine.
XXIX.
“When our lord ‘gainst the rout could no longer hold out,
He gave in, like a sensible covey;
No food was about, save one bottle of stout,
Half a loaf, and a pot of anchovy.
XXX.
“Then at length did we let (though with wondrous regret)
Sir Marmaduke through the portcullis;
And the treatment we met no one there will forget,
Unless he a regular gull is.
XXXI.
“The Tracy began, and took ev’ry tenth man ‘
Of the Baron of Montmolon’s people,
Saying, ‘Fly, if ye can, for ye soon will be dan--
Cling from top of the neighbouring steeple.
XXXII.
“‘Since ye foolishly list, Tracy’s arms to resist,
Ye shall see how his mercy shall treat ye;
And your wives shall be kissed, if by them ye are missed
In your homes, while the carrion eat ye.’
XXXIII.
“His {235}men had the knack; not a rope was too slack,
Not a victim could loosen or slip cord.
Our baron looked black; but his arms ‘hind his back
Were fastened together with whipcord.
XXXIV.
“He hanged these poor chaps, but I fancy that, perhaps,
The other men’s lot was the sorest;
Without clothes, shoes, or caps, but with plenty of slaps,
He turned them adrift in the forest.
XXXV.
“Some starved, sank, and died; some few went beside
Themselves with cold, hunger, and sorrow.
‘Twas little you spied of the Montmolon pride,
When you looked at this place on the morrow.
XXXVI.
“That truculent Goth, Sir Tracy, took both
Our lord and his beautiful daughter.
‘To wed me,’ he quoth, ‘though the damsel be loth,
To reason I soon shall have brought her.’
XXXVII.
“I, escaping from hurt, more by chance than desert
(My brother on Tracy’s estate is),
Have lived, I assert, sitting here in the dirt,
Upon nothing but berries and praties.
XXXVIII.
“I was wounded, indeed; don’t you see how I bleed?
And I’ve had ne’er a surgeon, which _is_ hard;
But my master’s sad need, and the loss of his breed,
‘Tis _that_, sir, which sticks in my gizzard.
XXXIX.
“My {236}strength ‘gins to fail: want of beef and of ale
(How well I remember the brewin’!)
My frame doth assail; but I’ve told you the tale,
And your eyes may behold the sad ruin.”
XL.
He stopped: faint and sore, he could utter no more,
But sank on the ground, softly sighing;
His troubles were o’er: he was turned of four-score,
And was dead ere he knew he was dying.
XLI.
Sir Roderick stood at the tidings aghast:
Sad change from glad anticipation;
But he spoke out at last; not too loud or too fast,
But in accents of deep indignation.
XLII.
“By all that is holy, by all that is blue,
By the eyes of adorable Ida,
Sir Marmaduke Tracy shall bitterly rue
The moment when first he espied her!
XLIII.
“I vow and declare, and I solemnly swear,
That, fearless of dagger or bullet,
I’ll rout out that bear from his murderous lair,
And slit his detestable gullet.
XLIV.
“My life to the project henceforth I devote;
All else to this _one_ shall knock under,
Till I fasten my hand on his treacherous throat
And tear the vile spoiler asunder!
XLV.
“When {237}next here I tread, it shall be to be wed;
But I mustn’t stay now any longer;
This old fellow’s dead--there’s no more to be said,
He has perished of wounds and of hunger.”
XLVI.
Then he turned his horse round (who sprang off with a bound,
Accustomed in battle to dash on),
And with clattering sound, galloped over the ground
In a most irrepressible passion.
XLVII.
Two months had elapsed since that terrible day
When the Montmolon castle was taken,
And the baron and Ida were carried away
With small prospect of “saving their bacon.”
XLVIII.
The Tracy had taken them off to the rock
On which his own castle was builded;
Which, he boasted, was safe from an enemy’s shock,
Whatever his valour or skill did.
XLIX.
Glenlighton its name; ’twas a beautiful place,
As you saw when you came nigh and nigher it;
But delectable Ida averted her face,
Too wrapt in her grief to admire it.
L.
Arrived, they were placed in a large suite of rooms,
Locked up, and a strong guard set by ‘em,
And for weeks they saw none but retainers and grooms,
Who were ordered with food to supply ‘em.
LI.
For {238}Sir Marmaduke Tracy had reason to ride
To some lord’s in the neighbouring valley:
Ere he thought of a bride, he the spoils must divide
With the friends who’d connived at his sally.
LII.
But returning (too soon!) one fine morning in June,
When brightly and warmly the sun shone,
He came whistling a tune all along the saloon,
And joined the small party at luncheon.
LIII.
“Now, Baron,” quoth he, “prithee hearken to me:
To escape you may shortly the way see:
If you e’er would be free, you must quickly agree,
That your daughter becomes Lady Tracy.
LIV.
“I am elderly, true; it were better for you
That death hadn’t taken my son John.
But refuse! if you do, why, the day you shall rue
In a most insalubrious dungeon.”
LV.
Says the Baron, “I burn your assault to return,
And, spite of your luncheons and _he_ cook,
My child will soon learn your proposals to spurn,
You lubberly son of a sea-cook!
LVI.
“The battle you’ve won, vile son of a gun,
Though more by your cunning than merit;
But, much though you’ve done, I can tell you that none
Can break the true Montmolon spirit.
LVII.
“Sir {239}Guy de la Vaux, I assuredly know,
Will avenge the foul trick that you’ve played me;
And the Lord Montereaux to my rescue will go,
Though houseless and homeless you’ve made me.
LVIII.
“No daughter of mine to a man will incline
Who has murdered her father’s retainers.
Those are _my_ views in fine; my brave girl, I opine,
Will in language more pretty explain hers!”
LIX.
Then Ida, “Papa, all your sentiments are
My own--you are always so ready.
And besides, much I fear, that though mighty in war,
Sir Marmaduke’s rather unsteady.
LX.
“And I’m bound to declare, though hardly I dare
(And my courage is quite down at zero),
For _another_ I care, and it wouldn’t be fair
To give up my faithful young hero.
LXI.
“I met him, you know, nearly five years ago,
Abroad, at the Henley regatta,
So I’m bound to reply to Sir Marmaduke ‘No,’
Although his attentions may flatter.”
LXII.
The Tracy laughed loud at the maiden so proud,
But, says he, “Come, a truce to your chaffing;
It must be allowed that you don’t seem much cowed,
But you’ll find it no matter for laughing.
LXIII.
“You, {240}madam, when cool, your affections must school
To follow Sir Marmaduke’s pleasure;
And, Baron, you fool and cantankerous mule,
In a dungeon shall ponder at leisure.
LXIV.
“Nor think you secure that your friends will be truer
Than others have been in like cases;
Sir Guy is too poor, and I’m perfectly sure
‘Twill be long ere the Tracy he faces.
LXV.
“And the Lord Montereaux died lately, I know
(He always was rather dyspeptic);
‘Tis a good week ago since they popped him below,
Carried off by a fit epileptic.
LXVI.
“‘Tis never my bent, you must know, to relent,
And trouble you’re surely enough in,
So your aid must be lent to make Ida consent,
Unless you’re a regular muffin.
LXVII.
“Meantime, to a dungeon I’ll order you off,
Where the damp very constant and dense is;
And when crippled entirely with fever and cough,
You’ll probably come to your senses.”
LXVIII.
He spoke, and withdrew, and the baron they threw
Into dungeon both damp and unpleasant;
And left him to ponder, as well he might do,
On the change from the past to the present.
LXIX.
Still, {241}with wonderful pluck, to his orders he stuck
That his child shouldn’t marry the tyrant;
And Ida, sweet duck, though quite “down on her luck,”
Still frowned on the daring aspirant.
LXX.
Then Sir Tracy, irate, said she tempted her fate,
Declining so firmly to choose him;
For he ne’er could abate in his love for a mate,
Who he knew would be sorry to lose him.
LXXI.
Ten days he’d allow her, he swore, when much vexed,
And partially drunk on his own ale;
But each day she refused to be his, on the next
Should be wrenched from her father a toe-nail!
LXXII.
Now the baron was gouty and tender of feet,
A man, too, of delicate nurture,
And to injure him thus would be making complete
The system of underground torture.
LXXIII.
So Ida she stood on the turreted wall
On that very identical even,
And loudly for aid and assistance did call
On Roderick Fowle and on Heaven.
LXXIV.
What is it she sees through the leaves of the trees?
By Jove! ’tis a warrior’s banner,
And men, thick as bees, drawing nigh by degrees
In a most unmistakable manner.
LXXV.
She {242}views them approaching the castle so dread,
And prays they may soon overwhelm it;
For she sees they are led by a chief at their head
With a Hen, painted large, on his helmet.
[Illustration: 260]
LXXVI.
At this gladdening sight, she exclaimed in delight,
“My Fowle is at hand to assist me!
I’m positive quite I shall soon be all right,
And again those dear lips will have kissed me!”
LXXVII.
Sir Roderick true, as he came full in view
And espied his adorable lady,
Like a cock loudly crew, “Im coming to you!”
And a spring towards the battlements made he.
LXXVIII.
He’d got a siege-train (as I here should explain),
And a terrible ram for to batter,
Which with might and with main, plied again and again,
The walls of the fortress should shatter.
LXXIX.
Then he shouted his war-cry,--well known in the East,--’
“Cock-a-doodle!” and brandished his pennon,
Rushed on to the castle, not fearing the least,
But urging his valorous men on.
LXXX.
The cruel Sir Marmaduke Tracy, meanwhile,
Had been taking a quiet siesta,
For he’d promised poor Ida, with sinister smile,
That day, that he wouldn’t molest her.
LXXXI.
But, {243}hearing the shock, at the foot of the rock,
He came up by the maiden upon it,
Of his foeman took stock, and exclaimed, “My young cock,
‘Tis a daring attempt, had you won it!”
LXXXII.
Fowle, clambering high, could invent no reply;
Says Tracy, “Though parleying _you_ shun,
Your end is so nigh, let me hope that to die
You prepared ere you planned this intrusion.”
LXXXIII.
Then a vast mass of brickwork he moved on a ledge
Just above the unfortunate lover,
And with all his great strength pushed it just to the edge
Of the turret, then toppled it over.
LXXXIV.
With a rush and a roar, it went tumbling o’er,
With but little less rumble than thunder;
Fowle’s chance, small before, what event can restore
If that terrible mass he lies under?
LXXXV.
Then Sir Marmaduke bowed to the maiden quite cowed
While her flesh with sheer terror was creeping,
And said, “Madam so proud, it must now be allowed,
There’s no catching the Tracy a-sleeping.”
LXXXVI.
“Come near, without dread,” he tauntingly said,
“On this ledge I will make by my side room;
See, your lover is dead! so we now may be wed,
And I’ll make you a capital bridegroom!”
LXXXVII.
But {244}she looked with disdain, for, that moment, again
From the thick cloud of dust just emerging,
Fowle stood forth quite plain ‘mid the wounded and slain
His heroes to energy urging.
LXXXVIII.
“False Tracy,” he cried, “from my beautiful bride
Avert your detestable gazes,
Descend to my side that the fight may be tried!”
Says Sir Marmaduke, “Fowle, go to blazes!”
LXXXIX.
Quoth he, with a sneer, and a laugh and a jeer,
“Go home with your battering ram, Fowle;
‘Tis perfectly clear I am better up here,
So I think I shall stay where I am, Fowle!”
XC.
He stood, winking his eye, on that battlement high,
And was turning, poor Ida to wheedle,
When the maiden, so spry, clapt her hand to his thigh,
And thrust up to the hilt a sharp needle.
XCI.
With pain did he flush--gave a jump and a rush--
Lost his balance--strove hard to re-win it,
When she gave him a push, and with terrible crush
He was over the cliff in a minute!
XCII.
The sides of the hill he clutched at, until--
He found that he couldn’t quite come it,
So at last had his fill, and, exhausted, lay still,
Having rolled to the foot from the summit.
XCIII.
And {245}there did he lay, dying fast, in a way
Which nobody willingly chooses;
For the light of the day did his carcase display,
A mass of incurable bruises.
XCIV.