In Rome, beside the Forum,
A cobbler had his shop,
Where, on his way to school,
The schoolboy loved to stop.
The sheets of well-tanned leather
Hung all about the wall;
The cobbler stitched and scolded,
Bent over last and awl.
'Twas not the cobbler's scolding
At which the schoolboys laughed,
Nor did they care to watch
His cunning handicraft.
It was a dapper person
With coat as black as night,
That offered to the schoolboy
An all-year-round delight--
A droll yet silent person,
"Good morrow"--all his speech;
He stood upon a rostrum,
As though to teach or preach.
It was the cobbler's raven,
"Good morrow!" clear and loud
He called, with mimic laughter
That charmed the truant crowd,
Until, at last, reminded
Of school and pedagogue,
Of lecture, and of ferrule
To point his apologue.
And now, would Master Corvus,
To while the time away,
Look 'round, to see what mischief
He might devise to-day.
Alas, the raven's cunning
No bound nor measure knew;
Alas, the cobbler's temper--
It never better grew!
And when his choicest leather
Embossed with claw and beak,
He saw--upon the raven
Swift vengeance he did wreak!
Which done, morose and sullen,
He sat him down once more;
Nor scolded when the schoolboys
Called through the open door:
"Good morrow, Master Corvus!"...
No shrill and joyous croak
Responded from within;
And then their anger broke.
"How daredst thou kill the raven,--
The better man of two?"
They seized and beat the cobbler,
Till he for life did sue.
Then took they Master Corvus
From where he lifeless lay--
Their dear and droll companion,
And carried him away.
Said one, "There is a duty
Which to our friend we owe:
In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we'll show!"
"That will we!" cried they warmly
(Young Romans long ago)--
"In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we'll show!"
Next day, along the Forum,
With slow and measured tread,
Defiled the long cortège
Of Master Corvus dead.
His bier was heaped with garlands,
A piper went before;
And (as they had been kinsmen)
Two blacks the casket bore.
Then, down the Via Sacra
The sad procession moved,
While at their doors and windows
The people all approved.
And thus to Master Corvus
Full rites his friends did pay,
And buried him, 'tis said,
Beside the Appian Way,
With lightly sprinkled earth
Above his glossy breast--
With stone, and due inscription,
_Hic jacet_--and the rest.
"P. ABBOTT"
(_A Tradition of Westminster Abbey_)
'Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter,
And so with my hero it was, I think,
"P. Abbott,"--if Philip or Paul or Peter,
'Twill never be known; there's a missing link.
The legend declares (without praise or censure)
A youth had been challenged to sleep all night
In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure,
But madcap adventures were his delight.
In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey,
You may see the stone that was brought from Scone,
And above it, the armchair, old and shabby,
Where every king has _once_ had his throne.
Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser,
And at least three queens of the English land--
In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,
Crown on the head and scepter in hand.
Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches
It once did hold, both of gems and gold;
But you still may see the Gothic niches
Where the sick awaited the cure of old.
Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,
Alike might they hope for the good saint's aid;
And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches
As token that not in vain had they prayed.
'Twas St. Edward's Day, and the throng, gladhearted
With the blessing of peace had gone its way;
The last red beam of the sun had departed,
And twilight spread through the chapel gray.
And the marble kings on their marble couches
Once more they are lying in state, alone
Save for a nimble shadow that crouches
Behind the stone that was brought from Scone;
And the aged verger was never the wiser,
As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;
Though watchful was he as watchful miser,
He never discovered my hero was there.
When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,
How loud did they sound in young Abbott's ear!
And when they were still, how the silence tingled!
How dim was the light!--yet why should he fear?
The night was before him, the shadows were dreary
As forth from his hiding-place he crept.
There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,
And into the chair he crept and slept.
Never before, and nevermore since then,
Hath any but royalty sat in that chair;
But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then--
Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!
But with the dawn his slumbers were broken,
And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright.
"'Twere folly," he cried, "if I left no token
To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night."
So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly,
As pleased him best, on that ancient seat.
And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly--
But never a one forbade the feat!
Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted;
And when the old verger returned for the day,
"I warrant," he muttered, with bent brows knitted,
"Something uncanny hath passed this way!"
With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages,
This of a mischievous youth is shown:
"P. Abbott,"--a name that has lasted for ages,
Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!