pace nearer to the miller; neither do thou threaten nor browbeat him, I
enjoin thee.”
“Were it not for the reverence I owe to those who are round me, and
my unwillingness to commit even so trifling a sin,” said Nicodemus, “I
would take this slanderous and ungrateful knave betwixt my finger and
thumb, and drop him among the hungry eels of his own mill-stream. I
chafe apace:--lay hands on me, brethren!--for I wax wroth, and am sure,
in these moods,--so weak is man--to do mischief ere my humour subside.”
“Speak on, miller,” said the Abbot; “and thou, Brother Nicodemus, give
way to thine inward enemy, at thy peril.”
“I will tell him,--an' you will hold him back and seize his staff,” said
the miller,--“how he and the roystering boatman of Frampton Ferry--”
“My time is coming,” exclaimed Nicodemus, interrupting the miller: “bid
him withdraw, or he will have a sore head at his supper.”
“They caroused and carolled,” said the miller, “with two travellers,
like skeldring Jacks o' the flagon, until--”
“Lay hands on Nicodemus, all!” cried the Abbot, as the enraged friar
strode towards the miller;--“lay hands on the madman at once!”
“It is too late,” said Nicodemus, drawing forth a cudgel from beneath
his cloak; “do not hinder me now, for my blackthorn reverences not the
heads of the holy fraternity of Fairoak. Hold off, I say!” exclaimed he,
as several of his brethren roughly attempted to seize him; “hold off,
and mar me not in this mood; or to-day will, hereafter, be called
the Feast of Blows. Nay, then, if you will not, I strike:--may you be
marked, but not maimed!” The friar began to level a few of the most
resolute of those about him as he spoke. “I will deal lightly as my
cudgel will let me,” pursued he. “I strike indiscriminately, and without
malice, I protest. May blessings follow these blows! Brother Ulick, I
grieve that you have thrust yourself within my reach. Look to the Abbot,
some of ye, for,--miserable me!--I have laid him low. Man is weak,
and this must be atoned for by fasting. Where is the author of this
mischief? Miller, where art thou?”
Father Nicodemus continued to lay about him very lustily for several
minutes; but, before he could deal with the miller as he wished, Friar
Hugo's brother, who was on the floor, caught him by the legs, and
suddenly threw him prostrate. He was immediately overwhelmed by numbers,
bound hand and foot, and carried to his own cell; where he was closely
confined, and most vigilantly watched, until the superiors of his order
could be assembled. He was tried in the chamber which had been the scene
of his exploits: the charge of having rudely raised his hand against the
Abbot, and belaboured the holy brotherhood, was fully proved; and, ere
twenty-four hours had elapsed, Father Nicodemus found himself enclosed,
with a pitcher of water and a loaf, in a niche of a stone wall, in the
lowest vault of Fairoak Abbey.
He soon began to feel round him, in order to ascertain if there were
any chance of escaping from the tomb to which he had been consigned: the
walls were old, but tolerably sound; he considered, however, that it
was his duty to break out if he could; and he immediately determined on
making an attempt. Putting his back to the wall, which had been built
up to enclose him for ever from the world, and his feet against the
opposite side of the niche, he strained every nerve to push one of them
down. The old wall at length began to move: he reversed his position,
and with his feet firmly planted against the new work, he made such a
tremendous effort, that the ancient stones and mortar gave way behind
him: the next moment he found himself lying on his back, with a quantity
of rubbish about him, on the cold pavement of a vault, into which
sufficient light glimmered, through a grating, to enable him to
ascertain that he was no longer in any part of Fairoak Abbey.
The tongue-tied neighbours to whom Nicodemus had alluded, when he
broke silence at that meeting of his brethren which terminated so
unfortunately, were monks of the same order as those of Fairoak Abbey;
among whom, about a century and a half before the time of Nicodemus,
such dissensions took place, that the heads of the order were compelled
to interfere; and under their sanction and advice, two-and-twenty monks,
who were desirous of following the fine example of the Arroasians of
Saint Augustin,--who neither wore linen nor ate flesh, and observed a
perpetual silence,--seceded from the community, and elected an Abbot
of their own. The left-wing of Fairoak Abbey was assigned to them for
a residence, and the rents of a certain portion of its lands were set
apart for their support. Their first care was to separate themselves, by
stout walls, from all communication with their late brethren; and up to
the days of Nicodemus, no friendly communion had taken place between the
Arroasian and its mother Abbey.
Nicodemus had no doubt but that he was in one of the vaults of the
silent monks: in order that he might not be recognised as a brother of
Fairoak, he took off his black cloak and hood, and even his cassock
and rochet, and concealed them beneath a few stones, in a corner of the
recess from which he had just liberated himself. With some difficulty,
he reached the inhabited part of the building: after terrifying several
of the Arroasians, by abruptly breaking upon their meditations, he at
length found an old white cloak and hood, arrayed in which he took a
seat at the table of the refectory, and, to the amazement of the monks,
tacitly helped himself to a portion of their frugal repast. The Superior
of the community, by signs, requested him to state who and what he was;
but Nicodemus, pointing to the old Arroasian habit which he now wore,
wisely held his peace. The good friars knew not how to act:--Nicodemus
was suffered to enter into quiet possession of a vacant cell; he joined
in their silent devotions, and acted in every respect as though he had
been an Arroasian all his life.
By degrees the good monks became reconciled to his presence, and looked
upon him as a brother. He behaved most discreetly for several months:
but at length having grown weary of bread, water, and silence, he, one
evening, stole over the garden-wall, resolving to have an eel-pie and
some malmsey, spiced with a little jovial chat, in the company of his
trusty friend, the boatman of Frampton Ferry. His first care, on finding
himself at large, was to go to the coppice of Fairoak, and cut a yard
of good blackthorn, which he slung by a hazel gad to his girdle, but
beneath his cassock. Resuming his path towards the Ferry, he strode on
at a brisk rate for a few minutes; when, to his great dismay, he heard
the sound of the bell which summoned the Arroasians to meet in the
chapel of their Abbey.
“A murrain on thy noisy tongue!” exclaimed Nicodemus, “on what emergency
is thy tail tugged, to make thee yell at this unwonted hour? There is a
grievous penalty attached to the offence of quitting the walls, either
by day or by night; and as I am now deemed a true Arroasian, by Botolph,
I stand here in jeopardy; for they will assuredly discover my absence.
I will return at once, slink into my cell, and be found there afflicted
with a lethargy, when they come to search for me; or, if occasion serve,
join my brethren boldly in the chapel.”
The bell had scarcely ceased to toll, when Nicodemus reached the
garden-wall again: he clambered over it, alighted safely on a heap of
manure, and was immediately seized by half a score of the stoutest among
the Arroasians. Unluckily for Nicodemus, the Superior himself had seen
a figure, in the costume of the Abbey, scaling the garden-wall, and had
immediately ordered the bell to be rung, and a watch to be set, in
order to take the offender in the fact, on his return. The mode of
administering justice among the Arroasians, was much more summary than
in the Abbey of Fairoak. Nicodemus was brought into the Superior's cell,
and divested of his cloak; his cassock was then turned down from his
belt, and a bull's-hide thong severely applied to his back, before he
could recover himself from the surprise into which his sudden capture
had thrown him. His wrath rose, not gradually as it did of old,--but in
a moment, under the pain and indignity of the thong, it mounted to its
highest pitch. Breaking from those who were holding him, he plucked
the blackthorn he had cut, from beneath his cassock, and without either
benediction or excuse, silently but severely belaboured all present, the
Superior himself not excepted. When his rage and strength were somewhat
exhausted, the prostrate brethren rallied a little, and with the aid
of the remainder of the community, who came to their assistance, they
contrived to despoil Nicodemus of his staff, and to secure him from
doing further mischief.
The next morning, Nicodemus was stripped of his Arroasian habit; and,
attired in nothing but the linen in which he had first appeared among
the brethren, he was conducted, with very little ceremony, to the vaults
beneath the Abbey. Every member of the community advanced to give him a
parting embrace, and the Superior pointed with his finger to a recess in
the wall: Nicodemus was immediately ushered into it, the wall was built
up behind him, and once more he found himself entombed alive.
“But that I am not so strong as I was of yore, after the lenten fare of
my late brethren,” said Nicodemus, “I should not be content to die thus,
in a coffin of stones and mortar. What luck hast thou here, Nicodemus?”
continued the friar, as, poking about the floor of his narrow cell, he
felt something like a garment, with his foot. “By rood and by rochet,
mine own attire!--the cloak and cassock, or I am much mistaken, which I
left behind me when I was last here;--for surely these are my old
quarters! I did not think to be twice tenant of this hole; but man is
weak, and I was born to be the bane of blackthorn. The lazy rogues found
this niche ready-made to their hands, and, truth to say, they have
walled me up like workmen. Ah, me! there is no soft place for me to
bulge my back through now. Hope have I none: but I will betake me to my
anthems; and perchance, in due season, I may light upon some means of
making egress.”
Nicodemus had, by this time, contrived to put on his cassock and cloak,
which somewhat comforted his shivering body, and he forthwith began to
chant his favourite anthem in such a lusty tone, that it was faintly
heard by the Fairoak Abbey cellarman, and one of the friars who was
in the vaults with him, selecting the ripest wines. On the alarm being
given, a score of the brethren betook themselves to the vaults;
and, with torches in their hands, searched every corner for the
anthem-singer, but without success. At length the cellarman ventured to
observe, that, in his opinion, the sounds came from the wall; and the
colour left the cheeks of all as the recollection of Nicodemus flashed
upon them. They gathered round the place where they had enclosed him,
and soon felt satisfied that the awful anthem was there more distinctly
heard, than in any other part of the vault. The whole fraternity soon
assembled, and endeavoured to come to some resolution as to how they
ought to act. With fear and trembling, Father Hugo's brother moved that
they should at once open the wall: this proposal was at first rejected
with contempt, on account of the known stupidity of the person with whom
it originated; but as no one ventured to suggest anything, either better
or worse, it was at last unanimously agreed to. With much solemnity,
they proceeded to make a large opening in the wall. In a few minutes,
Father Nicodemus appeared before them, arrayed in his cloak and cassock,
and not much leaner or less rosy than when they bade him, as they
thought, an eternal adieu, nearly a year before. The friars shouted,
“A miracle! a miracle!” and Nicodemus did not deem it by any means
necessary to contradict them. “Ho, ho! brethren,” exclaimed he, “you are
coming to do me justice at last, are you? By faith and troth, but you
are tardy! Your consciences, methinks, might have urged you to enact
this piece of good-fellowship some week or two ago. To dwell ten months
and more in so dark and solitary a den, like a toad in a hole, is no
child's-play. Let the man who doubts, assume my place, and judge for
himself. I ask no one to believe me on my bare word. You have wronged
me, brethren, much; but I forgive you freely.”
“A miracle! a miracle!” again shouted the amazed monks: they most
respectfully declined the proffered familiarities of Nicodemus, and
still gazed on him with profound awe, even after the most incredulous
among them were convinced, by the celerity with which a venison pasty,
flanked by a platter of brawn, and a capacious jack of Cyprus wine
vanished before him, in the refectory, that he was truly their Brother
Nicodemus, and still in the flesh. Ere long, the jolly friar became
Abbot of Fairoak: he was dubbed a saint after his decease; but as no
miracles were ever wrought at his shrine, his name has since been struck
out of the calendar.
THE PAIR OF PUMPS.
“Where is the pumps?” cried Mrs. Jones,
“Where is the pumps, I say?
They can't be lost; and, by the bones!
I'll have them found to-day.
“There is but three beneath the roof,
That's master, you, and I;--
How they has walked I'll have good proof,
Or know the reason why.
“Your master wore them this day week;
You knows he did, you jade!
That you're a thief, albeit so meek,
In truth I'm half afraid.
“Don't answer me, you saucy minx!
You're lazy as you're long;
At thousands of your faults I winks,
Although I knows 'tis wrong.
“You looks the baker in the face,
When he comes with the bread;
You trims your cap with shilling lace,
And flirts with Butcher Ned.
“You acts as though you thought yourself
The fairest of the fair;
And seems to think that master's pelf
You're qualified to share.
“Now don't deny it--hussy, don't!
For I has watched you long;
But I can tell you, Miss, you won't
Win master with a song.
“In vain at him you sets your cap;
He's not the sort of man;
With all your ogles bait your trap,
And catch him if you can!
“Beneath his roof, for fifteen years,
Housekeeper I have been;
I cares not if my speech he hears--
No wrong in me he's seen.
“I slaves like any Trojan Turk;
I makes his bed and mine;
While you, you hussy! does no work,
And yet you dares repine!
“Why don't you take a pattern by
Your master, slut, and me?
We never thinks a thought awry,--
There is but few like we!
“The pumps was worn but this day week;
You knows they were, you jade!
That you're a thief, albeit so meek,
In truth I'm half afraid.
“You stands accused of stealing them--
A very naughty sin;
And if you're hoity-toity, Me'em,
I'll call the neighbours in!”
And hoity-toity Kitty was,
She didn't care a pin!
Says Mistress Jones, “I vow, that's poz!
I'll have the neighbours in!”
And in she call'd them one by one,
By two, and three, and four;
Such lots came in to see the fan,
The house could hold no more.
“Oh! what's the matter?” quoth they all,
“And what is here amiss?”
Says Mrs. Jones, “Pray don't you bawl;
My friends, the case is this:--
“I keeps my master's house; and he,
Good soul! is half afraid,
That spite of all precaution, we
Is robb'd by Kate, our maid.
“Of all the lazy, idle drones
That ever yet I knew,
Not one could match,” says Mrs. Jones,
“The girl you have in view.
“In all the house three beds we makes,
For master, she, and me;
Both master's and my own I takes,
She does but one of three.
“And though she grumbles,--yes, indeed,--
That she is worked too much;
Yet she can oft her novels read,
Ay, and the likes of such.
“She won't by me a pattern take,
Although full well she knows,
In books 'tis said, 'the wayward rake
Contemns the gather'd rose.'
“I've lost a pair of stockings, and
About a week ago,
I'd master's pumps in this here hand,
A-looking at'em so.
“I hung'em up upon the pegs,
I recollects it well;
How they has walked without their legs,
Miss Kate, perhaps, can tell.”
“False Mrs. Jones!” young Kate replies,
As forward now she jumps;
“She would not ask, were she but wise,
If I had stol'n the pumps.
“There is but three beds in the house,
And Mrs. Jones makes two;
We haven't room to stow a mouse;--
So far her story 's true.
“She brags about her virtue, but
She's got a silly head;
A week ago, the pumps
I put _In Mrs, Jones's bed!_”
[Illustration: 428]
WANTED A PARTNER.
“Ah! now, Michael, be quiet,--why can't you?--It brakes the heart o' me,
cousin,--so it does thin, and I'll own it,--to see you laugh that way,
and the pair of us ruined, as we are!”
“Is it ruined, Thady?--and yourself there with a bull and a hog in your
pocket?”
“What's half-a-crown and a shilling? A bull and a hog is but
three-and-sixpence.--I'll be starved intirely whin that's gone; for
there's no work for us, far or near. I tell you we're ruined.”
“Then let's go partners; and who knows but we'll make a fine fortune?
What's invention but the daughter of necessity?--So now's the time to
shew our abilities, if we have any.”
“Divil of any abilities have I, Michael; and you know it.”
“Ah! Thady, Thady--”
“I'll give you my oath I hav'n't!--so don't be suspecting me. If I'd
abilities, do you think I'd be such a blackguard as to consale them? Not
I, thin!”
“Well but, Thady, boy, hav'n't you three-and-sixpence?--hav'n't you
now?”
“I have,--I won't deny it.”
“And hav'n't I abilities?”
“I won't deny that either, unless you've lost them since we last saw
one another,--that's two years ago, I think:--I won't deny but you've
abilities, Michael; if I did I'd be giving you the lie; for it's often
you tould me you had grand ones, if you'd only a field large enough to
display them. But where'll we get a field, big or little, for a bull?
I would'nt risk more than that of my money upon your abilities,--though
it's much I respect them.”
“Thady, you're a fool, with your big field and your bull!--Besides, I've
a reaping hook, and a long rope.”
“I see you have: but tell me, Michael, as we're spaking of reap-hooks
and abilities, how did you lose your last place? Wasn't your master a
good one?”
“Say 'employer,' Thady, the next time you mintion him. Well, thin,
he wasn't so bad, but for two things:--being an Englishman, he hadn't
exactly got into our mode of transacting things, don't you see,
Thady?--he stuck to the letter o' the law too closely for me.”
“You didn't rob him Michael,--did you?”
“Of a little time only, Thady: he'd too many eyes to be robbed of
anything else,--if I was dishonest,--but I'm not, you know.”
“So I say, Michael, to _every_ one who spakes of you.”
“Thank you, Thady, for that:--and, faith! the time I took wasn't worth
noticing. He put me into a little patch of peas, and bid me reap them as
fast as I could. So I began to work as though I'd the strength of ten;
and he stood by me and tould me I was a fine fellow. I got on well
enough till he wint, and a while after even,--so I did. But I'd
over-rated my own powers, and was soon obliged to lay down, just by
the way of recruiting myself a little, under the hedge. By-and-by, who
should be passing that way again but my employer; and, says he,
putting his toe in my ribs, 'What did you lie there for,' says he, 'you
blackguard?' 'To repose a little, sir,' says L 'Bad luck to you!' says
he, 'didn't I hire you to reap _peas?_' 'Well, sir,' says I, mimicking
his way of spaking, 'and isn't sleep a weary man's harvest? and,' says
I, quite pleasant, 'if it isn't in sleep I'd reap _ease_, how else would
I?' 'Don't be quibbling that way,' says he; I'll be obeyed to the very
letter.' 'Well, sir,' says I, 'O's and P's ar'n't far apart; they're
next door to one another in the alphabet.' But it wouldn't do for him;
he'd have the letter itself; and if he paid me to reap peas, he wouldn't
have me repose: so we parted. But don't let's be losing time: there's a
rope and a reaping-hook, and they're mine, ar'n't they?”
“I'd be wrong if I denied that, whin I see them in your hand, and
possession is nine points of the law. But what of your rope and your
reap-hook, Michael?”
“Why, thin, let them be our stock, and your three-and-six-pence our
capital, and us partners and sole and only proprietors. What say you to
that? You'll own it looks like business, I hope.”
“Yes, Michael; but where'll the customers come from?”
“Don't bother about them; they'll come fast enough when we want them,
as you'll see. It's no use to be reckoning our chickens before they're
hatched, is it?”
“Not a bit:--what you say can't very soon find one that'll contradict
it. It is no use to be reckoning our chickens before they're hatched.”
“So far, thin, we go on by mutual consint. Now, Thady, would you like to
make a great stroke or a little one?”
“The sooner we make money the better, I think.”
“But little fishes are sweet, you fool!”
“So they are, Michael: I'm vexed that I didn't think of that; and it's
but little we'll risk by way o' bait to catch them.”
“But what's the use, Thady,--answer me now, you who set yourself up for
a sinsible man--”
“Not I, thin! I'd fall out with you if you said so.”
“Well, thin, where's the use, I'll ask you--fool as you are,--of our
catching sprats and wullawaughs, when there's sea-cows and whales in the
ocean?--A sprat isn't a sea-cow, is it?”
“No, faith!”
“Nor a wullawaugh a whale?”
“How should it?”
“Then why not try for a sea-cow?”
“Bekase I wouldn't like to risk my silver bull, Michael.”
“Why, thin, you're a lunatic,--so you are. Suppose you lost your
bull--tell me now, where'd your hog be?”
“Gone to try to bring back my bull, may be. I don't think we'll try for
a sea-cow, or a whale, Michael.”
“Thin you'll be contint with catching wullawaughs and shrimps, is it?”
“Not exactly: I'd like to try for a whale, but not so as to risk what
money I have.”
“Well, I'll tell you what we'll do:--let us set up a show.”
“That plazes me. But what'll we shew, Michael? Is it your reap-hook,
that's worn out doing divil a ha'p'orth but going to the grinstone?--or
your rope, bekase you found it?”
“No, Thady; that wouldn't do: but I think if you'd tar and feather
yourself, I might make something of you, by swearing you were a
monster,--a big bird I caught on a furze-bush with bird-lime.”
“I'll not consint to that; for if you'd be showman, you'd take all the
money.”
“And what thin?”
“Suppose you took yourself off one day?”
“And what thin?”
“Suppose you took the money with you, thin what'd I do? Sore, you know,
I couldn't run after you in my tar and feathers; for, if I did, wouldn't
the people see me without paying?”
“That would be a loss, I'll admit, if it happened: but I'd have you to
know, Thady--”
“Now don't look big, for I'll apologize: but I may spake my mind, I
hope.”
“You certainly may.”
“Well, thin, I won't tar and feather myself; bekase, how'd we get tar
and feathers to do it, without risking my bull, or my hog at the least?”
“Oh! thin, if you've doubts in your mind, I'll abandon the project: but
I'll insist upon it that you don't take advantage of my idea, and tar
and feather yourself for your own benefit.”
“I give you my word, I won't:--but listen, Michael, and I'll tell you
what we'll do, and there's no risk in it.”
“I'd like to hear:--though I expect you'll be proposing to shoot the
stars with a big bow and arrow, and sell them for diamonds.”
“That wouldn't be bad, if we'd a bow and arrow that could do it; but I'm
afraid we'd find it hard to get one. That's not my plan, Michael; but
this is it:--there's a big hole, a stone's-throw from this; dark and
deep it is, for I've looked down it; and far below, at the very bottom,
runs a stream, that goes under the waters, and under the land, away off
to the Red Sea: and it's often a big ould crocodile comes to it, for
a day or so, in the summer, by the way of getting a change of air and
retirement.”
“Well, Thady, and suppose he does?”
“Why, thin, this is my plan:--let us fish for the crocodile, and make a
show of him if we catch him.”
“Arrah! Thady! I didn't think it was in you. But what'll we do for a
hook and line?”
“Haven't you your reap-hook and rope?”
“That's true, Thady, so I have; but by way of a bait--you know
crocodiles ates man's flesh, Thady.”
“I know it: and it's the beauty o' my plan, that we've bait, hook, and
line,--all the materials, without a penny expense.”
“Oh! I see:--faith I you're a genius, Thady:--you'd have me bait the
hook with yourself.”