ACT I.

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.