AN INTERLUDE.
On the conclusion of Mr. Crucible's narrative that gentleman was highly
complimented on his tale by each member of the club in turn, especially
by Mr. Oldstone. Our worthy host, owing to a strong potation he had
imbibed before the commencement of the recital, more than once
manifested symptoms of dropping into the arms of Morpheus, but was
prevented from doing so each time by the opportune administration of
sundry pinches of snuff from Mr. Oldstone's snuff-box.
If there was one thing this gentleman never forgave, it was a man going
to sleep in the middle of a good story; he, therefore, as soon as the
narrator had finished, felt it his solemn duty to remonstrate with our
host severely upon his want of good breeding, to which the worthy man
replied in a humble apology to all the company. As for his daughter
Helen, she was attention itself throughout, and with the exception of
Mr. Oldstone, was the loudest in praise of Mr. Crucible's recital.
"Well, Helen," said one of the members, "what do you think of the last
story?"
"Oh, I am delighted with it," exclaimed the girl in ecstasy. "How I
wish it had happened to me! I should so like to have a vision of that
sort."
"Would you my dear?" said Mr. Crucible, "then I hope that if ever you
see the Paradise I saw that you may remain there, for there you belong.
You are too good for this earth."
"Now then, Crucible, none of your nonsense," said Mr. Oldstone. "Is that
the way you talk to young ladies? I'm surprised at you. Look how you
have made the poor girl blush."
"Don't be jealous, old boy," retorted the last narrator, "but give us
another story. This is your turn."
"Yes, yes!" cried several voices at once. "Mr. Oldstone for a story!
Hear, hear!"
"Really, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "it is so soon after the last,
and as it is now getting somewhat late, I would fain put off my story
for another time, and spend the evening between this and bedtime in some
other way. Suppose we all fill our glasses. Perhaps someone may
recollect a song."
"Agreed!" cried all the guests at once, "but who's to be the songster?"
"Can't you favour us, Helen?" asked Mr. Parnassus.
Helen declared that she could not sing, that she did not know any songs.
"Come, come, Helen, that's all nonsense," said the doctor, "I've heard
your voice before now warbling away when you thought no one was
listening to you."
"Ay, ay," said our host, "you are right, sir, she _can_ sing when she
likes as pretty a little song as ever you'd wish to hear, though I say
it, that shouldn't."
"Come, Helen, don't be shy, sing away my girl," said Hardcase.
"Let us make a bargain, Helen," said McGuilp. "If _you_ will sing a
song, _I_ will. There, you cannot refuse."
The girl's face brightened up as she stole a glance at our artist, and
thus urged, began in a clear and sweet voice the following ditty:--
THE NIGHTINGALE.
The nightingale sang to her love the rose,
One night when the moon was shining,
The earth was hushed in still repose,
But a heart with love was pining.
Two lovers through the misty air,
Beneath the trees were strolling,
A gallant and a lady fair,
A bell in the distance tolling.
"Beloved, hear'st thou that distant wail,
That sad and mournful knelling?"
"Sweetheart, 'tis but the nightingale,
That her tale of love is telling."
"No, no, 'tis not the nightingale,
I feel a dire foreboding,
The night spreads o'er her dusky veil,
Our joys of love corroding."
"Nay, loved one; banish idle fears,
The moon is bright and beaming,
Seek not to drown thy joy in tears,
When thy star above is gleaming."
"See here this flower," (he plucked a rose),
"How beautious is its blossom.
Wear this for me, for it but grows,
To deck thy snow white bosom."
Then out and shrieked the nightingale,
"Oh spare, oh spare, my lover.
Too late!" she cries, with dismal wail,
Beneath the greenwood cover.
"Ah me!" outshrieked that bird of night,
"My love is gone for ever,
But vengeance waits thee, cruel knight;
Thou from thy love shalt sever."
Too true, alas! the night bird's curse,
For 'neath the trees did hover,
An envious wight with arquebus,
T'await his rival lover.
Scarce had the gloomy prophecy
Died on his ears unheeding,
When the foe a poisoned shaft let fly,
And the knight fell pale and bleeding.
A lady mourns her love deceased,
Her eyes in death are rolling,
The distant tolling knell had ceased,
But again the knell is tolling.
"Thank you, Helen, thank you; very well sung," said several voices at
once.
"It is a fanciful and mournful ditty," said Parnassus, "but the tune is
good."
"It is, indeed, somewhat melancholy," said McGuilp. "Have you no other,
Helen?"
"I did but bargain for one," said the girl, smiling.
"True," said McGuilp, "and now you want to hear one from me, eh?"
"Precisely so," said Mr. Oldstone. "Keep him to his word, Helen. Don't
let him shirk off."
"Now, Mr. McGuilp," said several voices at once, "we are all waiting."
"Well, gentlemen," began the painter, "if you will permit me to
retire----"
"Retire!--Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Oldstone, Crucible, and others
simultaneously. "Why you never mean to back out after having----"
"No, gentlemen, nothing of the sort, I assure you," said our artist, "I
was only going to ask leave of the company to retire a moment to my
chamber to bring down an article indispensable to the song I am about to
sing."
"I believe he is going to sing in costume," said Mr. Blackdeed, "and
that he is going in search of some 'property.'"
"No, nor that either," said the painter. "The song I shall sing to you
this evening, gentlemen, is an ode that I composed myself to a skull
which I found among some ancient ruins in Rome, and out of which I have
made a drinking cup. As this is a drinking song, in which the cup is
often alluded to, it will be necessary that the goblet itself be
present."
"By all means," said several members.
"Let us see the precious relic," said the antiquary. "These things are
quite in my line."
"And mine too," said the doctor.
Our artist left the apartment and returned with the relic, which he
placed in the centre of the table for all to admire.
"There, Helen," said he, "that cup was once a man's head, who laughed,
sang, and told stories, too, I've no doubt, like the best of us."
"And you use it to drink out of!" exclaimed the girl, in extreme
disgust. "What a horrible idea."
Mr. Oldstone put on his spectacles and bent over the table attentively
to examine it. Dr. Bleedem took it up, tapped it, looked at it all over,
and declared that it was different in form to the skulls of the present
day, observing that it was evidently of great antiquity, as the enamel
had worn away. The bone, he said, was of great thickness.
The object of general curiosity was handed round the table from one to
the other. At length Mr. Blackdeed took it up, and striking into a
Hamlet-like attitude, quoted at full length the well-known passage:
"'Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of
most excellent fancy,' etc., etc."
Applause followed the quotation.
"The song! the song!" cried others, impatiently.
"Composed by himself; mark that, gentlemen," said Mr. Parnassus. "A
brother poet! Hear, hear!"
The company then drew themselves eagerly round the table, while our
artist filled the human goblet to the brim, and after taking a sip from
it, stood up, and holding it aloft, sang in a clear rich voice the
following words:--
LINES TO A SKULL.
Stern relic of a bygone age,
What changes hast thou seen ere now?
Wert thou a warrior or a sage,
And did the laurel deck thy brow?
Wert of Imperial Caesar's line,
Or poet inspired with art divine?
Whate'er thou wert in days of old,
Whate'er the deeds they sing of thee,
Though ne'er so great and manifold,
Thy crown as a cup shall serve for me.
Here from they soul's deep-vaulted shrine,
Quaff I the blood of thy native vine.
And while it braces every nerve,
Hail! to Bacchus and Venus, too,
The gods that thou wert wont to serve,
In days of yore, to me be true,
As I lie 'neath the shade of the clustering vine,
Merrily quaffing the red, red wine.
Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achaean,
Whilst fighting for thy purple land,
Wert thou patrician or plebeian,
Or fell thou by th' assassin's hand,
Did'st thou in arms thy foes outshine,
Or did thy foe's arm conquer thine?
Or in the crowded Colosseum,
Did'st fall to glut the beasts of prey?
Wert thou reared in the athenaeum,
Or were thy haunts among the gay?
Now from thy skull on the Palatine,
I drink to thee and the muses nine.
On the banks of the Tiber's yellow tide,
In the mighty days of ancient Rome,
Perchance thou ruled'st in all thy pride,
O'erlooking thy seven-hilled home.
Thus I muse as at noonday I recline,
Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine.
Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell,
This toast to the quiet of thy remains,
I quaff from out thy hollow shell,
That once was filled with Roman brains.
In the land of the cypress and the pine,
Some future bard may drink from mine.
* * * * *
At the end of our artist's song he was unanimously cheered by the
members of the club, and highly complimented upon his poetical skill,
especially by Mr. Parnassus, who voted that he should be crowned with
laurel. Mr. Oldstone eagerly seconded the proposal, but McGuilp modestly
declined the honour. However, our worthy host, Jack Hearty, was sent out
once more in the snow to gather laurel for the brow of the new poet
laureate, in spite of our artist's modest protestations. He returned
shortly afterwards with a branch of laurel, off which he first shook the
snow, and then deposited upon the table. Mr. Oldstone quickly converted
it into a wreath, and decreed it should be placed upon the songster's
head by the fair hands of the pretty Helen. The decree was greeted with
cheers, and Helen, blushing deeply and smiling, placed it on the head of
the newly-discovered poet, our artist receiving it on bended knee amid
the cheering of the club. McGuilp having risen from his knees, took his
seat again at the table by the side of our host's pretty daughter, then
rising to his feet and raising the skull aloft, he proposed the
following toast in these words:--
"Gentlemen, I propose the health of the 'Wonder Club,' and that of our
worthy host and his fair daughter, our guest, to be drunk by every
member present solemnly and devoutly from this goblet."
More cheering, during which McGuilp took a sip at the funereal chalice,
and then passed it on to his neighbour, who did the same, each member in
his turn sipping and nodding round to the rest.
When the skull had been the round of the table, it was then passed on to
our host, who hoped that the company would excuse him, but that his
lips had never yet been contaminated by dead men's bones, and he hoped
they never would be.
Persuasions and remonstrances from the members were alike vain, for
neither our host nor his daughter could be persuaded to touch the
sacrilegious relic.
In order not to give offence to the company, our host proclaimed his
willingness to drink the toast out of a clean glass. This was at length
agreed to, and the worthy man rose, and in a short bluff speech, thanked
the company present for having drunk his health and that of his
daughter. A clapping of hands followed our host's speech, and then Mr.
Crucible, being the eldest member, returned thanks on the part of the
club.
At that moment the hooting of an owl was heard outside. Helen turned
pale, and instinctively drew nearer to our artist.
"Why, Helen my girl!" cried the doctor, "how pale you are. What are you
frightened at?"
"Do you not hear?" said the girl. "It is the cry of the owl; they say it
is a sign of death in the house."
"Come, Helen," said Hardcase, "you must not be superstitious; those
things are all nonsense."
"Oh, no, I can assure you----" began the girl, when Mr. Oldstone broke
in.
"I say, Mr. Poet Laureate, look how your fair companion trembles at your
side. Cannot you think of some lay that might cheer her spirits and
dispel her fears? Just try."
"Well," answered he of the laurel crown, "talking about owls, I once
kept a pet owl myself, that I captured one night in a nook under the
arches of the Colosseum. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to
perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every
movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear
it----"
"Oh, by all means," promptly answered Oldstone.
"In that case, Jack," said McGuilp, addressing our host, "you will
oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that
you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of
accompaniment."
Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument.
"Ah, now we shall hear some music," said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and
by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes
glistened in anticipation.
Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of
prelude and began the following ditty.
ODE TO AN OWL.
Grim bird of Pallas old,
For what purpose yet untold
Wert thou cast in such a mould?
Speak, declare!
Though thou utterest not a word
As thou gazest on the herd,
I scarce can deem thee bird,
Such thy air.
There thou stand'st, a ghastly sight,
Sworn enemy of light,
Thou ill-omened bird of night,
'Neath the moon.
The charnel's dusky hue
Is lovelier to thy view
Than the clear cerulean blue
Of the noon.
As my task I daily ply,
Every movement thou dost spy,
From my easel perched on high
Gazing down.
Thou look'st so wondrous wise,
With those round mysterious eyes.
What unearthly glitter lies
In thy frown.
Once with thy friends so gay
Thou did'st turn night into day,
And while seeking for thy prey
Round would'st prowl.
Now from out thy ruined hall
In the Colosseum's wall
They nightly miss thy call,
Oh, my owl!
A captive now, alas!
Thou for aye art doomed to pass
Thy life far from the mass
Of thy race.
Like Stoic thou dost stand,
Exiled from his native land,
With that look so sage and grand
In thy face.
Were Pythagorean lore,
Current now as once before,
In the classic days of yore,
I could swear,
That the spirit of some sage,
From some dark and mythic age,
In thy body found a cage
Or a lair.
And once more on Earth was sent,
To retrieve a life misspent,
Till his crimes he should repent.
In that form.
But hereafter might arise,
After penance to the skies,
Where bliss awaiting lies
His reform.
My lamp burns low. Farewell.
Thus ends my verse's spell.
And now thy mournful yell--
Fearful din--
May commence, my eyeballs ache,
For my couch I now must make,
I to sleep and thou to wake,
May'st begin.
* * * * *
Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist's, and the health
of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all
round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which
called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of
hands and rattling of glasses ensued. Glasses were then refilled, and
after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the
night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber.
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