ACT V.

Now comes the catastrophe!--Ashdale, who's wrapt in

The cloak, with the hat and the plume of the Captain,

Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel

Where Gaussen's conceal'd--he springs forward to grapple

The man he's erroneously led to suppose

Captain Norman himself by the cut of his clothes.

In the midst of their strife, And just as the knife

Of the Pirate is raised to deprive him of life,

The Captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals

Of the Lady, and, knocking Giles head over heels,

Fractures his "nob," Saves the hangman a job,

And executes justice most strictly, the rather,

'Twas the spot where that rascal had murder'd his father.

Then in comes the mother, Who, finding one brother

Had the instant before saved the life of the other,

Explains the whole case. Ashdale puts a good face

On the matter; and, since he's obliged to give place,

Yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace;

Norman vows he won't have it--the kinsmen embrace,--

And the Captain, the first in this generous race,

To remove every handle For gossip and scandal,

Sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle;

An arrangement takes place--on the very same night, all

Is settled and done, and the points the most vital

Are, N. takes the personals;--A., in requital,

Keeps the whole real property, Mansion, and Title.--

V. falls to the share of the Captain, and tries a

Sea-voyage, as a Bride, in the "Royal Eliza."--

Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs,

And old Maurice Beevor is bundled down stairs!

MORAL.

The public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel

If deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral;

This may serve for all three then:--

"Young Ladies of property,

Let Lady A.'s history serve as a stopper t'ye;

Don't wed with low people beneath your degree,

And if you've a baby, don't send it to sea!

"Young Noblemen! shun every thing like a brawl;

And be sure when you dine out, or go to a ball,

Don't take the best hat that you find in the hall,

And leave one in it's stead that's worth nothing at all!

"Old Knights, don't give bribes!--above all, never urge a man

To steal people's things, or to stick an old Clergyman!

"And you, ye Sea-Captains! who've nothing to do

But to run round the world, fight, and drink till all's blue,

And tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true,

Reflect, notwithstanding your sea-faring life,

That you can't get on well long, without you've a wife;

So get one at once, treat her kindly and gently,

Write a nautical novel,--and send it to Bentley!"

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[16]

An incident very like one in Jack Sheppard--

A work some have lauded, and others have pepper'd--

Where a Dutch pirate kidnaps, and tosses Thames Darrel

Just so in the sea, and he's saved by a barrel,--

On the coast, if I recollect rightly, it's flung whole,

And the hero, half-drown'd, scrambles out of the bung-hole.

[It aint no sich thing!--the hero aint bung'd in no barrel

at all.--He's picked up by a Captain, just as Norman was

arterwards.--PRINT. DEV.]

It has been already hinted that Mr. Peters had been a "traveller" in

his day. The only story which his lady would ever allow "her P." to

finish--he began as many as would furnish an additional volume to the

"Thousand and One Nights"--is the last I shall offer. The subject, I

fear me, is not over new, but will remind my friends

"Of something better they have seen before."

MR. PETERS'S STORY.

THE BAGMAN'S DOG.

Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL.

It was a litter, a litter of five,

Four are drown'd, and one left alive,

He was thought worthy alone to survive;

And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,

To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,

He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick;

He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick,

Could well understand The word of command,

And appear to doze With a crust on his nose

Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand:

Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,

As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.

Never was puppy so _bien instruit_,

Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;

And as he grew older, Every beholder

Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.--

Time, however his wheels we may clog,

Wends steadily still with onward jog,

And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!

When, just at the time He was reaching his prime,

And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime,

One unlucky day, How, no one could say,

Whether soft _liaison_ induced him to stray,

Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away,

He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;--

He had been, and was not--that's all that they knew!

And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore

As never a Bagman had sworn before;

But storming or swearing but little avails

To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.--

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,

Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair,

The only thing strange, from the general air

Of its size and appearance, is how it got there;

In front is a short semicircular stair

Of stone steps,--some half score,--

Then you reach the ground floor,

With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.

It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan

Of a Gentleman's house in the reign of Queen Anne;

Which is odd, for, although, As we very well know,

Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show

Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below,

Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go

From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow,

To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho.--

Be this as it may,--at the date I assign

To my tale,--that's about Seventeen Sixty Nine,--

This mansion, now rather upon the decline,

Had less dignified owners,--belonging, in fine,

To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne--

A respectable House in the Manchester line.

There were a score Of Bagmen, and more,

Who had travell'd full oft for the firm before;

But just at this period they wanted to send

Some person on whom they could safely depend--

A trustworthy body, half agent, half friend--

On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend;

And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg,

A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog,--

The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog.

* * * * *

"The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!--

That is the place where we all wish to be,

Rolling about on it merrily!"--

So all sing and say By night and by day,

In the _boudoir_, the street, at the concert, and play,

In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;--

You may roam through the City, transversely or straight,

From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate,

And every young Lady who thrums a guitar,

Ev'ry mustachio'd Shopman who smokes a cigar,

With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion,

Of being a "Rover" and "child of the Ocean"--

Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be,

They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!"

But, however they dote, Only set them afloat

In any craft bigger at all than a boat,

Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before

The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way

Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay,

Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree,

They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!"

* * * * *

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size

Inferior far to that described by Byron,

Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise,"--

--That too's a stone one, this is made of iron--

And little donkey-boys your steps environ,

Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,

Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one,

For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,

The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day,

I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier,

And seen the crews, that did embark so gay

That self-same morn, now disembark so queer;

Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear!

Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a

London Jack Tar,--a Cheapside Buccaneer!"--

But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza

Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

* * * * *

"So now we'll go up, up, up,

And now we'll go down, down down,

And now we'll go backwards and forwards,

And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."--

--I hope you've sufficient decernment to see,

Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the _d_

Is a fault which you must not attribute to me;

Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee,"

She sung, as she danced me about on her knee,

In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three:--

All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free

From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters,

And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors

At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters.

Resuming her track, At once she goes back

To our hero, the Bagman--Alas! and Alack!

Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog,

Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog,

By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea,

With the sands called the Goodwin's a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity

To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity,

And talking of "caulking," And "quarter-deck walking,"

"Fore and aft," And "abaft,"

"Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft,"

(At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laught,)

Of binnacles,--bilboes,--the boom call'd the spanker,

The best bower cable,--the jib,--and sheet anchor;

Of lower-deck guns,--and of broadsides and chases,

Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces,

And "Shiver my timbers!" and other odd phrases

Employed by old pilots with hard-featured faces;--

Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use,

The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;--

How the Sailors, too, swear,

How they cherish their hair,

And what very long pigtails a great many wear.--

But, Reader, I scorn it--the fact is, I fear,

To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear

As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier,

Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear

Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year

Eighteen thirty-nine--(how Time flies!--Oh dear!)--

With a well-written preface, to make it appear

That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer;

There!--"brought up the rear"--you see there's a mistake

Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make,

I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."--

So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher,

The more my poor hero continued to suffer,

Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!"

Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew,

And the thunder kick'd up such a halliballoo,

That even the Skipper began to look blue;

While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too,

And seem'd not to know what exactly to do,

And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs,

"Wind N.E.--blows a hurricane--rains cats and dogs."

In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as

That Shakspeare describes near the "still vext Bermudas,"[17]

When the winds, in their sport,

Drove aside from its port

The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court,

And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a

Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda,

While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em

For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom.

You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm,

As so many have done, and in colours so warm;

Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious,

Mr. Ainsworth more gravely,--see also Lucretius,

--A writer who gave me no trifling vexation

When a youngster at school on Dean Colet's foundation.--

Suffice it to say That the whole of that day,

And the next, and the next, they were scudding away

Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force

Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as

Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas,

Driven quite at their mercy

'Twixt Guernsey and Jersey,

Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows,

In West longitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes;

There you will not be surprised

That the vessel capsized,

Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions,

His specifical gravity less than the Ocean's,

Should go floating away, Midst the surges and spray,

Like a cork in a gutter, which, sworn by a shower,

Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair,

Gentle Reader,--that is, if you've ever been there,--

With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair

Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair,

Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in,

Their faces and hair with the water all dripping,

In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin,

That bobs up and down in the water whenever

They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavour;

Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,--

Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus.

--Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here;

'Twas the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear;

Faith, I can't recollect--and I haven't Lempriere.--

No matter,--poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing,

Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing,

Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he

Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

"O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!"

And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes,

Glaring as he was bobbing up and down,

And looking as they thought him quite a prize;

When as he sank, and all was growing dark,

A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?--

No such thing, Reader:--most opportunely for Blogg,

'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog!

* * * * *

I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast

That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast,

But I've often heard say That e'en to this day,

The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout

Are a class that society doesn't much care about;

Men who gain their subsistence by contraband dealing,

And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing;"

Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech,

Above all to a stranger who comes within reach;

And they were so to Blogg, When the curly-tail'd dog

At last dragg'd him out, high and dry on the beach.

But we all have been told, By the proverb of old,

By no means to think "all that glitters is gold;"

And, in fact, some advance That most people in France

Join the manners and air of a _Maître de Danse_,

To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)--

Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred,

Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.--

Be this as it might, It embarrass'd Blogg quite

To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced

The _petites soins_, tendered with so much good taste,

To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed

In a black leather belt well secured round his waist,

And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced,

So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste.

The group on the shore Consisted of four;

You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more;

But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation,

What Malthus would term a "too dense population,"

Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation

Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle

That led away inland direct from the shingle,

Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark,

Some two hundred yards above high-water mark;

And thither the party, So cordial and hearty,

Viz. an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he,

The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding,

To express, in indifferent French, all he feels,

The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.--

They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin,

All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, _Mon-Dieu_-ing,

Grimacing, and what sailors call _parley-vooing_.

* * * * *

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts

You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts,

To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it,

A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it?

(Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one

Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one,"

An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.)

However, it's clear That, with sound table beer,

Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer;

Especially too When a person's wet through,

And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do.

Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage

Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage,

And casting a truly delicious perfume

Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnish'd room;

"Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot

Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what;

For, famed as the French always are for ragouts,

No creature can tell what they put in their stews,

Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes;

Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse,

Any more than poor Blogg did, when, seeing the reeky

Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he

In ecstasy mutter'd "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!"

In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon,

Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he

No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly,

But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the _bouilli_.

* * * * *

Meanwhile that old man standing by,

Subducted his long coat-tails on high,

With his back to the fire, as if to dry

A part of his dress which the watery sky

Had visited rather inclemently.--

Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly,

And a something sinister lurk'd in his eye.

Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in,

You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing;

He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy _sabots_

With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes,

His nether man cased in a striped _quelque chose_,

And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose,

So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose

That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present,

And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant.

The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado,

Helping her guest to a deal of the stew;

She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that,

She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat,

And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat.

The little _garçons_ too strove to express

Their sympathy towards the "Child of distress"

With a great deal of juvenile French _politesse_;

But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff"

Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender and tough,

Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!"

And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable,

Sounding like _peste!_ and _sacre!_ and _diable!_

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating,

That says,

"~Good Eatynge

Deserveth good Drynkynge~."

You'll find it so printed by ~Caxton~ or ~Wynkyn~,

And a very good proverb it is to my thinking.

Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew,

His ear caught the sound of the word "_Morbleu!_"

Pronounced by the old woman under her breath.

Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!"

He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing

Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin."

So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee,

In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, _Vee_!"

Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy;

So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy,

Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it,

An orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it;

In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his,

Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"--

--And here by the way, Allow me to say,

Kind Reader, you sometimes permit me to stray--

'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing,

So inferior to us in the science of cursing:

Kick a Frenchman down stairs,

How absurdly he swears!

And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly,

Roar out, in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from this little digression:--

Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression

As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one;

Too little he heeded How fast they succeeded.

Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did;

For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps,

It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink!

At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps,

There's not one that is half so seducing as _Schnaps_.

Mr. Blogg, besides being uncommonly dry,

Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy,

--"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply"

Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t'other eye;"

For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup,

Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup.

At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose

Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze,

And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."--

His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post,

During all the long meal had continued to toast

That garment 'twere rude to Do more than allude to,

Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views

Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:"

So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw,

With (as Blogg used to tell it) "_Mounseer, swivvy maw!_"

And "marshall'd" him so "The way he should go,"

Upstairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low,

Without table or chair, Or a moveable there,

Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair,

That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.--

With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug,

Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!"

Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door,

Makes a formal _Salaam_, and is then seen no more;

When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread,

To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread,

The great curly-tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!--

--It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright,

And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right;

As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night

Through a Churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white,

Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite,

To find that the Ghost Is merely a post,

Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most;

Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin

To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in,"

And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze,

Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze,

Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head,

Or a sever'd carotid, to find that instead

Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men,

It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"--

Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein;

You're delighted with what just before gave you pain;

You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog

Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg

Now bestow'd on _his_ friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place

On each side his neck in a canine embrace,

And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face,

And he waggled his tail as much as to say,

"Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!"

And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up,

What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out

Before, had he not been so eager to sup,

'Twas Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!--

The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair,--

The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there,--

The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!!

It's passing sweet, An absolute treat,

When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet,--

With what warmth and affection each other they greet!

Especially too, as we very well know,

If there seems any chance of a little _cadeau_,

A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show,

In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so,

That our friends don't forget us, although they may go

To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.

If some little advantage seems likely to start,

From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart,

It's surprising to see how it softens the heart,

And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest,

Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest.

But it was not so here; For, although it is clear,

When abroad, and we have not a single friend near,

E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear,

And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog

Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg,

Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast,

Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;"

And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow,

He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!"

So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown,

And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing,

Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing,

Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said,

"Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed;

You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!"

Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose,

Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes,

Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too,

And kept him awake with his very cold nose;

Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining,

Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in

Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length

The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation, whop," as it

's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite,

Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light

Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite

Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright,

Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt,

Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt,--

Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!--

'Twas "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake"

In an instant; for, when only decently drunk,

Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat

In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?--

There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife--

And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!--

At each twist Of her wrist,

And her great mutton fist,

The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!--

The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire

Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.--

It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare

There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

* * * * *

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;--

He opens the door just sufficient to peep in,

And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping!

For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some

"Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"--

Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed,

Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead;

While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing,

Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.

Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in,

And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling,

As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor,

Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"--

--Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows,

From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose

There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer,

(Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer,

And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson,

While, as to the second, they stoutly declare

He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where,)

Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer

Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter

For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers,

Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat

Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street;--

--I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses,

More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and bruises,

I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to,"

And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew;

Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of,

Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux' head off.

But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!"

Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;"

And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking,

From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking.

So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy"

The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs,

And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns,

That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog,

As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg;

While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret:

Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack'd,

The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd;

Making both the _garçons_, who came running in, sheer off,

With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off

Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on

The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's _jupon_;

Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's

Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.--

Really, which way This desperate fray

Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say,

The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay:

But a few fresh arrivals decided the day;

For bounce went the door, In came half a score

Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more

Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

* * * * *

It's a great many years ago--mine then were few--

Since I spent a short time in the old _Courageux_;--

I think that they say

She had been, in her day,

A First-rate,--but was then what they term a _Rasée_,--

And they took me on board in the Downs where she lay.

(Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.)

In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion,

The little I know that concerns Navigation,

And obtained, _inter alia_, some vague information

Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing,

Is adopted on shipboard--I think it's call'd "Cobbing."

How it's managed exactly I really can't say,

But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play--

That is, if I'm right:--it exceeds my ability

To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one

Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility.

And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd

Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"--

That's mere matter of taste:

But the Frenchman was placed--

I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced--

In such a position, that, on this unmasking,

His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.

The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through,

With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew,

Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them,

"Cobb'd" the whole party,--ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say

Farewell for the present, and wish you good day,

Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!--

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg,

Be wary of strangers!--don't take too much grog!--

And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!--

Above all--carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing,

Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing;

But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye,

INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

_L'Envoye._

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him,

I never once thought to inquire what became of him;

If _you_ want to know, Reader, the way, I opine,

To achieve your design,-- --Mind, it's no wish of mine,--

Is,--(a penny will do't,)--by addressing a line

To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] See Appendix.

APPENDIX.[18]

Since penning this stanza, a learn'd Antiquary

Has put my poor Muse in no trifling quandary,

By writing an essay to prove that he knows a

Spot which, in truth, is The _real_ "Bermoothes,"

In the Mediterranean,--now called Lampedosa;

--For proofs, having made, as he farther alleges, stir,

An entry was found in the old Parish Register,

The which at his instance the excellent Vicar ex-

tracted: viz. "Caliban, base son of Sycorax."

--He had rather, by half, Have found Prospero's "Staff;"

But 'twas useless to dig, for the want of a pick or axe.--

Colonel Pasley, however, 'tis everywhere said,

Now he's blown up the old Royal George at Spithead,

And the great cliff at Dover, of which we've all read,

Takes his whole apparatus, and goes out to look

And see if he can't try and blow up "the Book."

--Gentle Reader, farewell!--If I add one more line,

"He'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up _mine_!"

FOOTNOTES:

[18] See page 209.

The Ingoldsby Legends.

* * * * *

_SECOND SERIES_

The Ingoldsby Legends.

SECOND SERIES.

TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

You tell me that "a generous and enlightened Public" has given a

favourable reception to those extracts from our family papers, which,

at your suggestion, were laid before it some two years since;--and

you hint, with all possible delicacy, that a second volume might not

be altogether unacceptable at a period of the year when "auld warld

stories" are more especially in request.--With all my heart,--the old

oak chest is not yet empty; in addition to which, I have recently

laid my hand upon a long MS. correspondence of my great-uncle, Sir

Peregrine Ingoldsby, a cadet of the family, who somehow contrived

to attract the notice of George the Second, and received from his

"honour-giving hand" the _accolade_ of knighthood. To this last-named

source I am indebted for several of the accompanying histories, while

my inestimable friend Simpkinson has bent all the powers of his mighty

mind to the task. From Father John's stores I have drawn largely. Our

"Honourable" friend Sucklethumbkin--by the way, he has been beating

our covers lately, when he shot a woodcock, and one of the Governor's

pointers--gives a graphic account of the Operatic "row" in which he

was heretofore so conspicuous; while even Mrs. Barney Maguire (_née

Mademoiselle Pauline_), whose horror of Mrs. Botherby's cap has no jot

diminished, furnishes me with the opening Legend of the series from the

_historiettes_ of her own _belle France_.

Why will you not run down to Tappington this Christmas?--We have

been rather busy of late in carrying into execution the enclosure

of Swingfield Minnis under the auspices of my Lord Radnor, and Her

Majesty's visit to the neighbourhood has kept us quite alive: the

Prince in one of his rides pulled up at the end of the avenue, and,

as A---- told Sucklethumbkin, was much taken with the picturesque

appearance of our old gable-ends. Unluckily we were all at Canterbury

that morning, or proud indeed should we have been to offer his Royal

Highness the humble hospitalities of the Hall,--and then--fancy Mrs.

Botherby's--"My Gracious!" By the way, the old lady tells me you left

your night-cap here on your last visit; it is laid up in lavender for

you;--come and reclaim it. The Yule log will burn bright as ever in the

cedar room. Bin No. 6 is still one liquid ruby--the old October yet

smiles like mantling amber, in utter disdain of that vile concoction of

camomile which you so pseudonymously dignify with the title of "Bitter

Ale."--Make a start, then:--pitch printers'-ink to old Harry,--and come

and spend a fortnight with

Yours, till the crack of doom,

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

Tappington Everard,

Dec. 16th, 1842.

* * * * *

THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.

A LEGEND OF FRANCE.

François Xavier Auguste was a gay Mousquetaire,

The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair:

He'd a mien so _distingué_, and so _debonnaire_,

And shrugg'd with a grace so _recherché_ and rare,

And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an air,

--His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,--

And, in short, shew'd so much of the true _sçavoir faire_,

All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare,

That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law,

Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a "Fox Paw,"

It would be François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix.

Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day,

The Court of Versailles was a little too gay;

The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play,

To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray,

Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo

On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo),

While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores,

What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term'd his "Jane Shores,"

--They were call'd by a much coarser name out of doors.--

This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting!

For such courses, when followed by persons of quality,

Are apt to detract on the score of morality.

François Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them,

Dress'd, drank, and fought, and _chassée'd_ with the best of them;

Took his _œil de perdrix_ Till he scarcely could see,

He would then sally out in the streets for a "spree;"

His rapier he'd draw, Pink a _Bourgeois_,

(A word which the English translate "Johnny Raw,")

For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in,

Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen;

And, perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes,

In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes,

Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes,"

Should be merely considered as "Little Escapes."

But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad

A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks

Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks,

Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.

Be this as it will, In the general, still,

Though blame him we must, It is really but just

To our lively young friend, François Xavier Auguste,

To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were,

At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair,

And, when gambling his worst, always play'd on the square,

So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he

Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"),

And continued to lose, And to give I O U's,

Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews;

And, a parallel if I may venture to draw

Between François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix,

And his namesake, a still more distinguished François,

Who wrote to his "_sœur_"[19] From Pavia, "_Mon Cœur_,

I have lost all I had in the world _fors l'honneur_."

So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note,

"_Vive la bagatelle!--toujours gai--idem semper_--

I've lost all I had in the world but--my temper!"

From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning,

His air was so cheerful, his manners so winning,

That once he prevailed--or his friends coin the tale for him--

On the bailiff who "nabbed" him, himself to "go bail" for him.

Well--we know in these cases

Your "Crabs" and "Deuce Aces"

Are wont to promote frequent changes of places;

Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare

That there's nothing so good as the pure "country air,"

Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in

An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing:

A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging,

François Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in.

But what could be done? It's clear as the sun,

That, though nothing's more easy than say "Cut and run!"

Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun--

E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do,

Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue.

And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes,

It won't, I am sure, create any surprise

That reflections like these half reduced to despair

François Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.

_Patience par force!_ He _considered_, of course,

But in vain--he could hit on no sort of resource--

Love?--Liquor?--Law?--Loo?

They would each of them do,

There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he

Could hope to get on _sans l'argent_--_i.e._ money.

Love?--no;--ladies like little _cadeaux_ from a suitor.

Liquor?--no,--that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter."--

Then Law?--'tis the same; It's a very fine game,

But the fees and delays of "the Courts" are a shame,

As Lord Brougham says himself--who's a very great name,

Though the TIMES made it clear he was perfectly lost in his

Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes,

And don't know his "particles."--Who wrote the articles,

Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very well;

Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell,--some Merivale;

But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date

Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw,

Viz.: 'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix!

Loo?--no;--that he had tried; 'Twas, in fact, his weak side,

But required more than any a purse well supplied.

"Love?--Liquor?--Law?--Loo? No! 'tis all the same story.

Stay! I have it--_Ma foi!_ (that's 'Odd's Bob's!') there is GLORY!

Away with dull care! _Vive le Roi! Vive la Guerre!_

_Peste!_ I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire!

When a man is like me, _Sans six sous, sans souci_,

A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse,

With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at Zero,

What on earth can he hope to become,--but a Hero?

What a famous thought this is! I'll go as Ulysses

Of old did--like him I'll see manners, and know countries;[20]

Cut Paris,--and gaming,--and throats in the Low Countries."

So said, and so done--he arranged his affairs,

And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.

Now it happen'd just then That Field-Marshal Turenne

Was a good deal in want of "some active young men,"

To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps,

Had been made in his ranks by a certain "Great Condé,"

A General unrivall'd--at least in his own day--

Whose valour was such, That he did not care much

If he fought with the French,--or the Spaniards,--or Dutch,--

A fact which has stamped him a rather "Cool hand,"

Being nearly related to _Louis le Grand_.

It had been all the same had that King been his brother;

He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another;

For war, so exciting, He took such delight in,

He did not care whom he fought, so he _was_ fighting.

And, as I've just said, had amused himself then

By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne;

Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern

Was to tickle some other Chief's tail in his turn.

What a fine thing a battle is!--not one of those

Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's,

Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows,

Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose,

Taking great care their blows Did not injure their foes,

And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes,

Which were varied, to give more effect to "_Tableaux_,"

While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to Fate,

And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come

On to encounter bold General Widdicombe--

But a real, good fight, like Pultowa, or Lützen,

(Which Gustavus the great ended all his disputes in,)

Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in,

Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden,

Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden,

Where "the sun was low," The ground all over snow,

And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow,--

Till its colour was alter'd by General Moreau;

While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night,

Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright,

And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight.

'Twas in just such another one, (Names only bother one--

Dutch ones, indeed, are sufficient to smother one--)

In the Netherlands somewhere--I cannot say where--

Suffice it that there _La Fortune de guerre_

Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire.

One fine morning, in short, François Xavier Auguste,

After making some scores of his foes "bite the dust,"

Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust;

And though, as the Bard says, "No law is more just

Than for _Necis artifices_"--so they call'd fiery

Soldados at Rome,--"_arte suâ perire_,"

Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law

To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix.

His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw,

And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot

To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's

Call'd by Professional men the "_os femoris_;"

And the ball being one of those named from its shape,

And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape,

St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown,

And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown.--

--Stagger'd a bit By this "palpable hit,"

He turn'd on his face, and went off in a fit!

Yes!--a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting,

These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting.

But a sombre sight is a Battle-field

To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye,

Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield,

In one promiscuous carnage lie;

When the cannon's roar Is heard no more,

And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away,

And the victor comes for a last survey

Of the well-fought field of yesterday!

No triumphs flush that haughty brow,--

No proud exulting look is there,--

His eagle glance is humbled now,

As, earth-ward bent, in anxious care

It seeks the form whose stalwart pride

But yester-morn was by his side!

And there it lies!--on yonder bank

Of corses, which themselves had breath

But yester-morn--now cold and dank

With other dews than those of death!

Powerless as it had ne'er been born

The hand that clasp'd his--yester-morn!

And there are widows wand'ring there,

That roam the blood-besprinkled plain,

And listen in their dumb despair

For sounds they ne'er may hear again!

One word, however faint and low,--

Ay, e'en a groan,--were music now!

And this is Glory!--Fame!--

But, pshaw!

Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental;

Besides, such things _we_ never saw;

In fact, they're merely Continental.

And then your Ladyship forgets

Some widows came for epaulettes.

So go back to your canter; for one, I declare,

Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire,

A beetle-brow'd hag, With a knife and a bag,

And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses

The ginger complexion, and one of those noses

Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses,

Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun,

Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.

You remember, I trust, François Xavier Auguste,

Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust.

Now there's something--I cannot tell what it may be--

About good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty-three,

Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee,

Which affects female hearts, in no common degree,

With emotions in which many feelings combine,

Very easy to fancy, though hard to define;

Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty,

Young or old, they experience, in country or city,

What's clearly not Love--yet it's warmer than Pity--

And some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays

The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise,

Arm'd with the blade, So oft used in her trade,

The horrible calling e'en now she is plying,

Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying!

For these "nimble Conveyancers," after such battles,

Regarding as _treasure trove_ all goods and chattels,

Think nought, in "perusing and settling" the titles,

So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.

Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of;

For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,--whate'er

It may be,--saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!--

The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat,

Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coat,

And from what, I suppose, I must call his _culotte_;

And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out,

That his _mouchoir_ and gloves may be put "up the spout,"

(For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do

Fails to ferret out even a single _écu_;)

As a muscular Giant would handle an elf,

The virago at last lifts the soldier himself,

And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down

In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring town!

I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur;

And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.

CANTO II.

I abominate physic--I care not who knows

That there's nothing on earth I detest like "a dose"--

That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue

I consider extremely unpleasant to view,

With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near

On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear;

Χλωρον δεος, I mean, A nasty pale green,

Though for want of some word that may better avail,

I presume, our translators have rendered it "pale;"

For consider the cheeks Of those "well-booted Greeks,"

Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks;

Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's;

And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it,

A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it.

I repeat, I abominate physic; but then,

If folks _will_ go campaigning about with such men

As the Great Prince de Condé, and Marshal Turenne,

They may fairly expect To be now and then check'd

By a bullet, or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is

Found, I admit, in green potions, and boluses;

So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix, wounded and lame,

If he swallowed a decent _quant. suff._ of the same;

Though I'm told, in such cases, it's not the French plan

To pour in their drastics as fast as they can,

The practice of many an English _Savan_,

But to let off a man With a little _ptisanne_.

And gently to chafe the _patella_ (knee-pan).

"Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow

's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!"

Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree,

I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee;

And medical friction Is, past contradiction,

Much better performed by a She than a He.

A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge,

For I well recollect, when a youngster at College,

And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note,

Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote

On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his

Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises

Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs,

And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.--

Now, they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay

On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses

Attend, without any demand on their purses;

And these females, some old, others still in their teens,

Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines."

They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay,

Attend you; and when you've got better, they say,

"You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay.

Our task is now done. You are able to run.

We never take money; we cure you for fun!"

Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day,

And go off to cure somebody else the same way.

--A great many of these, at the date of my tale,

In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.

Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun.

Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,--

Not carroty--no; though you'd fancy you saw burn

Such locks as the Greeks lov'd, which moderns call auburn.

These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all;

Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral;

Her eyelashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones,

Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones;

But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning

To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).--

Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity

To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm

In the fusty stuff gown of a _Sœur de la Charité_;

And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw

One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw,

Than her's who now sits by the couch of St. Foix,

Chafing there, With such care, And so dove-like an air,

His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd

With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard;

--Their Dutch appellations are really too hard

To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.--

Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me,

When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee:

And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair,

To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare,

And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square;

Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair,

And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire,

It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair,

And may lead on to mischief before they're aware.

I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his

"_Penchant_ for _liaisons_," and graver men "follies,"

(For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows,

And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows,

Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,)

His "_faults_," I should say--I don't think François Xavier

Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour

Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant

While superintending his draughts and his liniment.

But, as he grew stout, And was getting about,

Thoughts came into his head that had better been out;

While Cupid's an urchin We know deserves birching,

He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in.

'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin

Was the end of all poor dear Therèse's shampooing.--

'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on: but such

Things will happen--ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch.

"When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly,

And finds out too late that false man can betray,"

She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly,"

And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that "to punish her lover,

Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,

There is but one method" which he can discover

That's likely to answer--that one is "to die!"

He's wrong--the wan and withering cheek;

The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;

The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak

The misery of the breaking heart;

The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone

That whispering mocks the pitying ear;

Th' imploring glances heaven-ward thrown,

As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;

These wring the false one's heart enough,

If "made of penetrable stuff."

And poor Therèse Thus pines and decays,

Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise,

With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders," two greys,

And soon reaches France, by the help of relays,

Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim,

And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him.

She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner,

Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner,

Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.--

One evening--'twas just as the clock struck eleven--

They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,--

She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven,

And all was o'er!-- Poor Therèse was no more--

She was gone!--the last breath that she managed to draw

Escaped in one half-utter'd word--'twas "St. Foix!"

* * * * *

Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you feel 'em,

Are not cured by travel--as Horace says, "_Cœlum

Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!_"

It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary--

Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is

A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his;

It haunts you for ever--in bed and at board,--

Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems,

Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored!

It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few,

--François Xavier Auguste was an instance--can do.

Indeed, from the time He committed the crime

Which cut off poor Sister Therèse in her prime,

He was not the same man that he had been--his plan

Was quite changed--in wild freaks he no more led the van;

He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking,

From company shrinking-- He quite gave up drinking.

At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came,

Fish, _fricassee_, _fricandeau_, _potage_, or game,

_Dindon aux truffes_, or _turbot à la crême_,

No!--he still shook his head,--it was always the same,

Still he never complained that the cook was to blame!

'Twas his appetite fail'd him--no matter how rare

And _recherché_ the dish, how delicious the fare,--

What he used to like best he no longer could bear;

But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair:

Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair;

Such a shirt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare.

He omitted to shave;--he neglected his hair,

And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.

One thing, above all, most excited remark:

In the evening he seldom sat long after dark.

Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark"

With his friends; but when they, After taking _cafe_,

Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray,

--Which I own I consider a very good way,

If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day--

No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay;

But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head

By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed.

Yet even when there he seem'd no better off,

For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he cough;

And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright,

While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep,

Declared that "his master was never asleep!

But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep;

That about ten o'clock His door he would lock,

And then never would open it, let who would knock!--

He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed,

And talk as if speaking to one who was dead!

He'd groan and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone,

Begging some one or other to let him alone,

That it really would soften the heart of a stone

To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven;

Then--The bother began always _just at eleven_!"

François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before,

I believe, was a popular man in his _corps_,

And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun,

Now began to consult what was best to be done.

Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue

Confess'd they did _not_ know at all what to do:

But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille

Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville

Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel

For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal.

"The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter

That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter--

_Mort de ma vie!_" --Here he took some rapee--

"Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!"--

He was right, sure enough--in a couple of days

He worms out the whole story of Sister Therèse,

Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch _Père la Chaise_.

--"But the worst thing of all," François Xavier declares,

"Is, whenever I've taken my candle up-stairs,

There's Therèse sitting there--upon one of those chairs!

Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares,

That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs,

While an odour,--the very reverse of perfume,--

More like rhubarb or senna,--pervades the whole room!

Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile,

When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel;

Not that _he_ cared for Ghosts--he was far too genteel;

Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw

Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun

On his person and principles, nick-named _Sans Foi_,

--A man whom they had, you see, Mark'd as a Sadducee,--

In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw,

And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe!--

It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise;

He shrugg'd up his shoulders, he turn'd up his eyes,

And he thought with himself that he could not do less

Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess.

Repetition's detestable;-- So, as you're best able,

Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table--

How the bold Brigadiers Prick'd up their ears,

And received the account, some with fears, some with sneers;

How the Sieur de la Roue Said to Count Cordon Bleu,

"_Ma foi--c'est bien drôle_--Monseigneur, what say you?"--

How Count Cordon Bleu Declared he "thought so too;"--

How the Colonel affirm'd that "the case was quite new;"--

How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers

How far the Ghost part of the story was true;--

How, at last, when asked, "What was the best thing to do?"

Everybody was silent,--for nobody knew!--

And how, in the end, they said, "No one could deal

With the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal,

As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal

This strange story--viz. Hippolyte Hector Achille

Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville!"

I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great,

Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate

To rescue his friend from his terrible foes,

Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose,

From extravagant notions respecting their hue

Has strangely agreed to denominate "Blue,"

Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail

Than those he had, early in life, found to fail,

When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail.

In vain did he try With strong waters to ply

His friend, on the ground that he never could spy

Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye;

St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry;

Besides, what the vulgar call "sucking the monkey"

Has much less effect on a man when he's funky.

In vain did he strive to detain him at table

Till his "dark hour" was over--he never was able,

Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address

Which the British call "Humbug," and Frenchmen "_Finesse_,"

(It's "Blarney" in Irish--I don't know the Scotch,)

He fell to admiring his friend's English watch.[21]

He examined the face, And the back of the case,

And the young Lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he

"Saw by the likeness was one of the family;"

Cried "_Superbe!_--_Magnifique!_"

(With his tongue in his cheek)--

Then he open'd the case, just to take a peep in it, and

Seized the occasion to pop back the minute-hand.

With a demi-_congé_, and a shrug, and grin, he

Returns the _bijou_ and--_c'est une affaire finie_--

"I've done him," thinks he, "now I'll wager a guinea!"

It happen'd that day They were all very gay,

'Twas the _Grand Monarque's_ birthday--that is, 'twas St. Louis's,

Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view as his--

So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw,

He cried, "Come--that won't do, my fine fellow, St. Foix,--

Give us five minutes longer and drink _Vive le Roi_."

François Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust

Of the trick that was play'd, drew his watch from his fob,

Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to "hob-nob,"

Fill'd a bumper, and rose With "_Messieurs_, I propose"--

He paused--his blanch'd lips fail'd to utter the toast!

'Twas _eleven_!--he thought it half-past ten at most--

Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post,--

His jaw dropp'd--his eyes

Swell'd to twice their own size--

And he stood as a pointer would stand--at a Ghost!

--Then shriek'd, as he fell on the floor like a stone.

"Ah! Sister Therèse! now--do let me alone!"

* * * * *

It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,--

As waters wear stone by the "_Sæpe cadendo_,"

If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto, "_Agendo!_"

Was it not Robert Bruce?--I declare I've forgot,

But I think it was Robert--you'll find it in Scott--

Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a Spider,

"She's sure to come round, if you will but abide her."

Then another great Rob, Called "White-headed Bob,"

Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the "nob"

From a fist which might almost an elephant brain,

That I really believed, at the first, he was slain,

For he lay like a log on his back, on the plain,

Till a gentleman present, accustomed to _train_,

Drew out a small lancet, and open'd a vein

Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain,

He stood up, like a trump, with an air of disdain,

While his "backer" was fain,

--For he could not refrain--

(He was dress'd in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain,

And I think I heard somebody call him "Squire Hayne,")

To whisper _ten words_ one should always retain,

--"TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON, AND AT HIM AGAIN!!!"--

A hint ne'er surpassed, though thus spoken at random,

Since Teucer's apostrophe--_Nil desperandum!_--

--Grandville acted on it, and order'd his Tandem.

He had heard St Foix say, That no very great way

From Namur was a snug little town call'd Grandpré,

Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese,

Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therèse,

Of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother,

And as like to Therèse as one pea to another;

She liv'd with her Mamma, Having lost her Papa,

Late of contraband _schnaps_ an unlicensed distiller,

And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).

Now, though Hippolyte Hector Could hardly expect her

To feel much regard for her sister's "protector,"

When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her;

Still, he very well knew In this world there are few

But are ready much Christian forgiveness to shew,

For other folk's wrongs--if well paid so to do--

And he'd seen to what acts "_Res angustæ_" compel _beaux_

And _belles_, whose affairs have once got out at elbows,

With the magic effect of a handful of crowns

Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but "browns;"

A few _francs_ well applied He'd no doubt would decide

Miss Agnes des Moulins to jump up and ride

As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side;

For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison,

To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrison;

Then he thought, by the aid Of a veil, and gown made

Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray'd,

They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade,

Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid,

Come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid;

That if once introduced to his room, thus array'd,

And then unmask'd as soon as she'd long enough stay'd,

'Twould be no very difficult task to persuade

Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly play'd,

Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade!

With respect to the scheme--though I do not call that a gem--

Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem,

And that, too, among the decided approvers

Of General Sir David Dundas's "Manœuvres."

There's a proverb, however, I've always thought clever,

Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeating,

"The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating!"

We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille

Had mix'd up the suet and plums for _his_ meal.

The night had set in;--'twas a dark and a gloomy one;--

Off went St. Foix to his chamber; a roomy one,

Five stories high, The first floor from the sky,

And lofty enough to afford great facility

For playing a game, with the youthful nobility

Of "crack _corps_" a deal in Request, when they're feeling,

In dull country quarters, _ennui_ on them stealing;

A wet wafer's applied To a sixpence's side,

Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling;

Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops,--

I've seen it here practised at home by our Household troops.

He'd a table, and bed, And three chairs; and all's said.--

A bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're

Sure to find not overburthen'd with furniture.

François Xavier Auguste lock'd and bolted his door

With just the same caution he'd practised before;

Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu,

With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue,

Had been up there before him, and drawn ev'ry screw!

And now comes the moment--the watches and clocks

All point to _eleven_!--the bolts and the locks

Give way--and the party turn out their bag-fox!--

With step noiseless and light, Though half in a fright,

"A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right,"

In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white,

Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a Sprite!--

She approaches the bed With the same silent tread

Just as though she had been at least half a year dead!

Then seating herself on the "rush-bottom'd chair,"

Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire.

If you're one of the "play-going public," kind reader,

And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder,

You've seen Mr. Kean, I mean in that scene

Of Macbeth,--by some thought the crack one of the piece,

Which has been so well painted by Mr. M'Clise,--

When he wants, after having stood up to say grace,[22]

To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place;

You remember his stare At the high-back'd arm-chair,

Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there,

And how, after saying "What man dares I dare!"

He proceeds to declare He should not so much care

If it came in the shape of a "tiger" or "bear,"

But he don't like its shaking its long gory hair!

While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him,

With a horrible grin, Sits, and cocks up his chin,

Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him.

And Lenox and Rosse Seem quite at a loss

If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce;

And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross,

And says in a huff It's all "Proper stuff!"--

All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough;

So, perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion

Of what must have been François Xavier's emotion,

If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be _doubled_,

And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face

Without "speculation," suppose he'd _a brace_!

I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel-

ieve was succeeded in painting the terrible,

Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a-

droit in depicting it--_vide_ his piece

Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease,

Where that prelate is lying Decidedly dying,

With the King and his _suite_, Standing just at his feet,

And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet;

While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner,

"Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner.

But painting's an art I confess I am raw in,

The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing:

Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read,

I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dread;

François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed,

His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead,

Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head,

As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view,

Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw,

Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo,

_Mon Dieu! v'la deux!!_

BY THE POPE THERE ARE TWO!!!"

He fell back--one long aspiration he drew.

In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu,

Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew.

He stirr'd not,--he spoke not,--he none of them knew!

And Achille cried "Odzooks! I fear, by his looks,

Our friend, François Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks!"

'Twas too true! _Malheureux!!_

It was done!--he had ended his earthly career,--

He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear;

--The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!!

[Illustration: THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.]

L'Envoye.

A moral more in point I scarce could hope

Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope.

If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay,

And pious Maid,--as, possibly, it may,--

From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene

Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green;

O'er some pale marble when they join their heads

To kiss the falling tears each other sheds;

Oh! may they pause!--and think, in silent awe,

He, that he reads the words, "_Ci gît St. Foix!_"--

She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys

Bears this sad line,--"_Hic jacet Sœur Therèse!_"--

Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say,

"Oh! may we never play such tricks as they!"--

And if at such a time some Bard there be,

Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea

And sentimental song--like Ingoldsby--

If such there be--who sings and sips so well,

Let him this sad, this tender story tell!

Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast,

"I've 'scaped the Broken Heart!"--"and I the Ghost!!"

* * * * *

The next in order of these "lays of many lands" refers to a period far

earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the banks of what our

Teutonic friends are won't to call their "own imperial River!" The

incidents which it records afford sufficient proof (and these are days

of demonstration), that a propensity to flirtation is not confined to

age or country, and that its consequences were not less disastrous to

the mail-clad _Ritter_ of the dark ages than to the silken courtier

of the seventeenth century. The whole narrative bears about it the

stamp of truth, and from the papers among which it was discovered I am

inclined to think it must have been picked up by Sir Peregrine in the

course of one of his valetudinary visits to "The German Spa."

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Mrs. Ingoldsby, who is deeply read in Robertson, informs

me that this is a mistake; that the lady to whom this memorable

_billet_ was delivered by the hands of Pennalosa, was the unfortunate

monarch's mamma, and not his sister. I would gladly rectify the error,

but, then,--what am I to do for a rhyme?--On the whole, I fear I must

content myself, like Talleyrand, with admitting that "it is worse than

a fault--it's a blunder!" for which enormity,--as honest old Pepys says

when he records having kissed his cookmaid,--"I humbly beg pardon of

Heaven, and Mrs. Ingoldsby!"

[20]

Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.

Who viewed men's manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys.

[21] "Tompion's, I presume?"--FARQUHAR.

[22]

May good digestion wait on appetite,

And health on both.--_Macbeth._

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.

A LEGEND OF GERMANY.

Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight,

Was equally ready to tipple or fight,

Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle;

In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle,"

Unstain'd by dishonour, unsullied by fear,

All his neighbours pronounced him a _preux chevalier_.

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,

He had one slight defect, viz. a rather lean rental;

Besides, as 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun,

So it must be confessed that Sir Rupert had one;

Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in

A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking,

And, what moralists say Is as naughty--to play,

To _Rouge et Noir_, Hazard, Short Whist, _Ecarté_;

Till these, and a few less defensible fancies

Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

When at length through his boozing, And tenants refusing

Their rents, swearing "times were so bad they were losing,"

His steward said, "O, sir, It's some time ago, sir,

Since ought through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer,

And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers."

Sir Rupert the brave thus addressed his retainers:

"My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock

Is out, with the Kürchwasser, Barsac, Moselle,

And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well,

I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best

For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes,

Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose;

As to me, I opine, Left _sans_ money or wine,

My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine,

Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over,

'Though he lived a _roué_, yet he died a philosopher.'"

The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely,

Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly,

By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream

A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream;

Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes,

In other respects she was scanty of clothes;

For, so says tradition, both written and oral,

Her _one_ garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral.

Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar,

With silver cords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar,

And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight,

Soon found his astonishment merged in delight;

But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees,

Till at length it invaded her very chemise,

While the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to swallow her,

And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower;

--Jumping up in his boat, And discarding his coat,

"Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!"

Then into the water he plunged with a souse

That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.

Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink,

Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink,

And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows

Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose,

Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch

Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch;

Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood,

Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud.

But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight,

When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!--

A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal,

Rose above and about him;--great fishes and small

Came thronging around him, regardless of danger,

And seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger.

Their figures and forms to describe, language fails--

They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails;

Of their genus or species a sample to gain,

You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain;

E'en the famed Mr. Myers Would scarcely find buyers,

Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop

To stare, were such monsters expos'd in his shop.

But little reck'd Rupert these queer-looking brutes,

Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots,

For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention,

In a moment completely absorb'd his attention.

A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer

Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer),

Have ever distill'd, To the summit was fill'd,

Lay stretch'd out before him,--and every nerve thrill'd

As scores of young women Were diving and swimming,

Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in;--

All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns,

They came floating about him like so many prawns.

Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes

Alluded to,) ere he lept into the billows

Possess'd irreproachable morals, began

To feel rather queer, as a modest young man;

When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognised soon

As the one he had seen by the light of the moon,

And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence,

"Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance;

My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen,

All do me the honour to call me their Queen;

I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here,

And hope you can make it convenient to dine here."

The Knight blush'd, and bowed, As he ogled the crowd

Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud:

"Ma'am, you do me much honour,--I cannot express

The delight I shall feel--if you'll pardon my dress--

May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps

In the river at midnight for want of 'the dumps,'

He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps;

If I could but have guess'd--what I sensibly feel--

Your politeness--I'd not have come _en dishabille_,

But have put on my _silk_ tights in lieu of my _steel_."

Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray,

You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way;

We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish,

And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine,

I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine."

The Knight made a bow more profound than before,

When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door,

And said, bending his knee, "_Madame, on a servi!_"

Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place,

And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace.

What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she

Apologiz'd much for their plain water-souchy,

Want of Harvey's, and Cross's, And Burgess's sauces?

Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he

Preferred his fish plain, without soy or anchovy.

Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel,

Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel.

The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes

Than of what they were served on, the massive gold dishes;

While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls,

Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls,

And a thought came across him and caused him to muse,

"If I could but get hold Of some of that gold,

I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!"

When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses,

The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses;

Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest

Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas,

"Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?"--

Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender,

Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender,

And told her outright How that he, a young Knight,

Had never been last at a feast or a fight;

But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year,

And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer,

Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent,

How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent.;

How they follow'd--and then, The once civillest of men,

Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he

'd ever raised money by way of annuity;

And, his mortgages being about to foreclose,

How he jump'd in the river to finish his woes!

Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear,

That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear;

Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly,

And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I

A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles,

Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain,

A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign,

With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride,

(For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied;)

No couple so happy on earth should be seen

As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline;

Not that money's my object--No, hang it! I scorn it--

And as for my rank--but that _you'd_ so adorn it--

I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall,

And, instead of 'the _Great_,' be call'd 'Rupert the _Small_;'

--To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus,

I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse."[23]

Lurline hung her head, Turned pale, and then red,

Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed,

As though his abruptness, in "popping the question"

So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion.

Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh,

"You are welcome," she murmur'd, in tones most bewitching,

"To every utensil I have in my kitchen!"

Upstarted the Knight, Half mad with delight,

Round her finely-form'd waist He immediately placed

One arm, which the lady most closely embraced,

Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture,

And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture.

"And, oh!" he exclaim'd, "let them go catch my skiff, I

'll be home in a twinkling, and back in a jiffy,

Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey

Than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney."

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand,

And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land,

For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten

Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one,

Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny,

Which some others already had half-fill'd with money;

In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore

And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore;

But Sir Rupert was strong, And, while pulling along,

Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

"Away! away! to the mountain's brow,

Where the castle is darkly frowning;

And the vassals, all in goodly row,

Weep for their lord a-drowning!

Away! away! to the steward's room,

Where law with its wig and robe is;

Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe,

And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies!"

The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling,

When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling.

What rejoicing was there! How the vassals did stare!

The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air,

For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp,

And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago and cramp;

But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded

Wet jacket or trowsers, nor thought of repining,

Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining.

But oh! what dismay Fill'd the tribe of _Ca Sa_,

When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay!

Away went "_cognovits_," "bills," "bonds," and escheats,"--

Rupert clear'd off all scores, and took proper receipts.

Now no more he sends out For pots of brown stout

Or _schnaps_, but resolves to do henceforth without,

Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety,

Enrol himself one of a Temp'rance Society,

All riot eschew, Begin life anew,

And new-cushion and hassock the family pew!

Nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life,

He boldly determines to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense

Of honour, should put Lurline's name in the licence,

And that, for a man of his breeding and quality,

To break faith and troth, Confirm'd by an oath,

Is not quite consistent with rigid morality;

But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her

From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water,

And declined as unsuited A bride so diluted--

Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say,

(For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing,)

Made proposals in form to Miss _Una Von_--something,

(Her name has escaped me,) sole heiress, and niece

To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

"Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!"

So much time is saved in the billing and cooing--

The ring is now bought, the white favours, and gloves,

And all the _et cetera_ which crown people's loves;

A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker,

And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre,

That shaft which the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is,

A plum-colour'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries.

'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight,

With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white,

And the bridemaids fair with their long lace veils,

As they all walk'd up to the altar rails,

While nice little boys, the incense dispensers,

March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers.

With a gracious air, and a smiling look,

Mess John had open'd his awful book,

And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant?

And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?"

When from base to turret the castle shook!!!

Then came a sound of a mighty rain

Dashing against each storied pane,

The wind blew loud, And a coal-black cloud

O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd;

How it could happen they could not divine,

The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pass

That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas;

But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd,

As if heaven and earth were coming together;

None ever had witness'd such terrible weather.

Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd,

Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears

In the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers;

The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon,

When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected,

Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected,

And endeavoured to cheer His bride, in her ear

Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear;

Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're

Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture."

But now, from without A trustworthy scout

Rush'd hurriedly in, Wet through to the skin,

Informing his master "the river was rising,

And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising."

He'd no time to say more, For already the roar

Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door,

While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen,

Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline;

And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,

She was stung by the _spretæ injuriâ formæ_.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,

What she said to the ladies who stood by her side,

What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes,

Oh, nobody mentions,--for nobody knows;

For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,

And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout,

The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring,

The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in;

Ere the close of the day All was clean washed away--

One only survived who could hand down the news,

A little old woman that open'd the pews;

She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck.

In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming,

And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in;

In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek

For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek;

In vain was their search After ought in the church,

They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch;

The Humane Society Tried a variety

Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles,

But they only fish'd up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware

Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!

Shun playing at _shorts_--avoid quarrels and jars--

And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars!

--Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed

Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide!

Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!--

Be up in the morning by half after seven!

Keep from flirting--nor risk, warned by Rupert's miscarriage,

An action for breach of a promise of marriage;--

Don't fancy old fishes! Don't prig silver dishes!

And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,

BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

* * * * *

And now for "Sunny Italy,"--the "Land of the unforgotten brave,"--the

land of blue skies and black-eyed Signoras.--I cannot discover from

any recorded memoranda that "Uncle Perry" was ever in Venice, even in

Carnival time--that he ever saw Garrick in Shylock I do not believe,

and am satisfied that he knew nothing of Shakspeare, a circumstance

that would by no means disqualify him from publishing an edition of

that Poet's works. I can only conclude that, in the course of his

Continental wanderings, Sir Peregrine had either read, or heard of the

following history, especially as he furnishes us with some particulars

of the eventual destination of his _dramatis personæ_ which the Bard

of Avon has omitted. If this solution be not accepted, I can only say,

with Mr. Puff, that probably "two men hit upon the same idea, and

Shakspeare made use of it first."

FOOTNOTES:

[23] "Sardanapalus" and "Boots," the _Zenith_ and _Nadir_ of

human society.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

A LEGEND OF ITALY.

... Of the Merchant of Venice there are two 4to. editions in 1600, one

by Heyes and the other by Roberts. The Duke of Devonshire and Lord

Francis Egerton have copies of the edition by Heyes, and _they vary

importantly_.

... It must be acknowledged that _this_ is a very easy and happy

emendation, which does not admit of a moment's doubt or dispute.

... Readers in general are not all aware of the _nonsense_ they have

in many cases been accustomed to receive as the genuine text of

Shakspeare!

_Reasons for a new edition of Shakspeare's Works, by J. Payne

Collier_.

I believe there are few But have heard of a Jew,

Named Shylock, of Venice, as errant a "Screw"

In money transactions, as ever you knew;

An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent

A ducat at less than three hundred per cent.,

Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice,

Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies,

When press'd for a loan, at the very first sight

Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in _Flight_.

It is not my purpose to pause and inquire

If he might not, in managing thus to retire,

Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire;

Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do,

Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew.

But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives,

We've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives,

That "Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives!"

In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool,

Bassanio, a Lord of the Tom-noddy school,

Who, by shewing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court,

A "swelling" (Payne Collier would read "swilling") "port,"

And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup,

Had shrunk his "weak means," and was "stump'd" and "hard up,"

Took occasion to send To his very good friend

Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end,

And who'd often before had the kindness to lend

Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend.

"Antonio," said he, "Now listen to me:

I've just hit on a scheme which, I think, you'll agree,

All matters considered, is no bad design,

And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine.

"In the first place, you know all the money I've got,

Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot,

And in making those loans you have made a bad shot;

Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows

And tom-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows,

--Shoot another the same way--I'll watch well its track,

And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back!--

So list to my plan, And do what you can

To attend to and second it, that's a good man!

"There's a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at

A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at

The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat

Was giving last season, we all used to stare at.

Then, as to her wealth, her Solicitor told mine,

Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine,

Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks,

It's stuffed so with shares in 'Grand Junctions' and 'Docks',

Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks,

French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian, and Chilian,

In English Exchequer-bills full half a million,

Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle,

But the right sort of 'flimsy,' all sign'd by Monteagle.

Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Railways,

And more speculations I need not detail, ways

Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em,

Contribute a deal to improving one's income;

In short, she's a Mint! --Now I say, deuce is in't

If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint,

And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print

At the time that I told you of, know from a squint.

In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony,

Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan--I

Am sure of my game--though, of course, there are brutes,

Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits

To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts,

Yet Portia--she's named from that daughter of Cato's--

Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes,

And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout

Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson--cut them all out--

Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her!

--Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed,

For her Three-and-a-half per Cents--New and Reduced!

With a wink of his eye His friend made reply

In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry,

"Still the same boy, Bassanio--never say 'die'!

--Well--I hardly know how I shall do't, but I'll try,--

Don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash,

But the fact is, at present I'm quite out of cash;

The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is

Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies,

Tending, of course, my resources to cripple,--I

've one bound to England,--another to Tripoli--

Cyprus--Masulipatam--and Bombay;

A sixth, by the way, I consigned t'other day,

To Sir Gregor M'Gregor, Cacique of Poyais,

A country where silver's as common as clay.

Meantime, till they tack, And come, some of them, back,

What with Custom-house duties, and bills falling due,

My account with Jones Loyd and Co. looks rather blue;

While, as for the 'ready,' I'm like a Church-mouse,--

I really don't think there's five pounds in the house.

But, no matter for that, Let me just get my hat,

And my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat,

And we'll go forth at once to the market--we two,--

And try what my credit in Venice can do;

I stand well on 'Change, and, when all's said and done, I

Don't doubt I shall get it for love or for money."

They were going to go, When, lo! down below,

In the street, they heard somebody crying, "Old Clo'!"

--"By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose!--I knew

We should not have to search long. Solanio, run you,

--Salarino,--quick!--haste! ere he get out of view,

And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!"

With a pack, Like a sack

Of old clothes, at his back,

And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack,

Saying, "Rest you fair, Signior Antonio!--vat, pray,

Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?"

--"Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know,

I am what they call 'warm,'--pay my way as I go,

And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend,

I can break through a rule, to oblige an old friend;

And that's the case now--Lord Bassanio would raise

Some three thousand ducats--well,--knowing your ways,

And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will,

Unless you've a couple of names to the bill,

Why, for once, I'll put mine to it,

Yea, seal and sign to it--

Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say

As to 'doing' a bill at three months from to-day?

Three thousand gold ducats, mind--all in good bags

Of hard money--no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags?"

"--Vell, ma tear," says the Jew, "I'll see vat I can do!

But Mishter Antonio, hark you, 'tish funny

You say to me, 'Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money!'

Ven you very vell knows How you shpit on ma clothes,

And use naughty vords--call me Dog--and avouch

Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch,

And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch,

You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch.

--Vell!--no matters, ma tear,-- Von vord in your ear!

I'd be friends mit you bote--and to make dat appear,

Vy, I'll find you de monies as soon as you vill,

Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill;--

Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day

Such sum, or such sums, you shall fail to repay,

I shall cut vere I like, as de pargain is proke,

A fair pound of your flesh--chest by vay of a joke."

So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause;

But Antonio, like most of those sage "Johnny Raws"

Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws,

And think cheaply of "Old Father Antic," because

They have never experienced a gripe from his claws,

"Pooh pooh'd" the whole thing.--"Let the Smouch have his way--

Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty?--Nay,

It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay;

And, come what come may, I hardly need say

My ships will be back a full month ere the day."

So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey,

And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he

Affixed with all speed His name to a deed,

Duly stamp'd and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney.

Thus again furnished forth, Lord Bassanio, instead

Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread,

With fiddling and masques at the Saracen's Head,

In the morning "made play," And, without more delay,

Started off in the steam-boat for Belmont next day.

But scarcely had he From the harbour got free,

And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea,

Ere the 'Change and Rialto both rung with the news

That he'd carried off more than mere cash from the Jew's.

Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold,

Was as ugly a dog as you'd wish to behold,

For few in his tribe 'mongst their Levis and Moseses

Sported so Jewish an eye, beard, and nose as his,

Still, whate'er the opinions of Horace and some be,

Your _aquilæ_ generate _some_times _Columbæ_.[24]

Like Jephthah, as Hamlet says, he'd "one fair daughter,"

And every gallant, who caught sight of her, thought her

A jewel--a gem of the very first water;

A great many sought her, Till one at last caught her,

And, upsetting all that the Rabbis had taught her,

To feelings so truly reciprocal brought her,

That the very same night Bassanio thought right

To give all his old friends that farewell "invite,"

And while Shylock was gone there to feed out of spite,

On "wings made by a tailor" the damsel took flight.

By these "wings" I'd express A grey duffle dress,

With brass badge and muffin cap, made, as by rule,

For an upper class boy in the National School.

Jessy ransack'd the house, popped her breeks on, and when so

Disguised, bolted off with her beau--one Lorenzo,

An "Unthrift," who lost not a moment in whisking

Her into the boat, And was fairly afloat

Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin.

Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket,

And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket

Who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet,

Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing,

And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing,

Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best

To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest;

And, if left to herself, he, no doubt, had succeeded,

For none of them waltz'd so genteelly as he did;

But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way,

The defunct Mr. P., who was now turned to clay,

Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant,

Left but a queer sort of "Last will and testament,"--

Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land,

&c., from motives one don't understand,

As she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing,

To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing!

Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid;

In one of three caskets her picture she hid,

And clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid.

A couple of Princes, a black and a white one,

Tried first, but they both failed in choosing the right one.

Another from Naples, who shoed his own horses;

A French Lord, whose graces might vie with Count D'Orsay's;--

A young English Baron;--a Scotch Peer his neighbour:--

A dull drunken Saxon, all mustache and sabre;--

All followed, and all had their pains for their labour.

Bassanio came last--happy man be his dole!

Put his conjuring cap on,--considered the whole,--

The gold put aside as Mere "hard food for Midas,"

The silver bade trudge As a "pale common drudge;"

Then choosing the little lead box in the middle,

Came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle.

Now you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say,

Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day,

Any more than the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome

Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact,

Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing,

Three months had gone by ere he reach'd the fifth act;

Meanwhile, that unfortunate bill became due,

Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew,

And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew,

For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do;

(The bitter old Israelite would not renew),

What with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and embargoes, his

Funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies,

None of the set having come into port,

And Shylock's attorney was moving the Court

For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport.

The serious news Of this step of the Jew's,

And his fix'd resolution all terms to refuse,

Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of "the Blues,"

Especially, too, as it came from the pen

Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,--then,

When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and when

The Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen.

"Dear Friend," it continued, "all's up with me--I

Have nothing on earth now to do but to die!

And, as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor;

I should take it as kind Could you come--never mind--

If your love don't persuade you, why--don't let this letter!"

I hardly need say this was scarcely read o'er

Ere a post-chaise and four

Was brought round to the door,

And Bassanio, though, doubtless, he thought it a bore,

Gave his Lady one kiss, and then started at score.

But scarce in his flight Had he got out of sight,

Ere Portia, addressing a groom, said, "My lad, you a

Journey must take on the instant to Padua;

Find out there Bellario, a Doctor of Laws,

Who, like Follett, is never left out of a cause,

And give him this note, Which I've hastily wrote,

Take the papers he'll give you--then push for the ferry

Below, where I'll meet you--you'll do't in a wherry,

If you can't find a boat on the Brenta with sails to it--

--Stay!--bring his gown too, and wig with three tails to it."

Giovanni (that's Jack) Brought out his hack,

Made a bow to his mistress, then jump'd on its back,

Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack.

The Signora soon followed herself, taking as her

Own escort Nerissa her maid, and Balthazar.

* * * * *

"The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met,

The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!"

As Captain Macheath says,--and when one's in debt,

The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know,

Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose,

As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes,

They should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose;

Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late

A Merchant, might vie e'en with Princes in state,

With his waistcoat unbutton'd, prepared for the knife,

Which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life;

--On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor,

And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before,

Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands,

With his scales and his great _snicker-snee_ in his hands;

--Between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands,

With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer,

Whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer,

Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his _possible_

To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline,

And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine,

Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine,

Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line.

But vain are all efforts to soften him--still

He points to the bond He so often has conn'd,

And says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will.

[Illustration: THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.]

So the dandified Lawyer, with talking grown hoarse,

Says, "I _can_ say no more--let the law take its course."

Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew,

As he sharpen'd his knife on the sole of his shoe

From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel,

With a business-like air was beginning to feel

Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal,

When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel.

"Stay, Shylock," says he, "Here's one thing--you see

This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood!

--the words are 'A pound of flesh,'--that's clear as mud--

Slice away, then, old fellow--but mind!--if you spill

One drop of his claret that's not in your bill,

I'll hang you like Haman!--by Jingo I will!"

When apprized of this flaw, You never yet saw

Such an awfully marked elongation of jaw

As in Shylock, who cried, "Plesh ma heart! ish dat law?"--

--Off went his three hats, And he look'd as the cats

Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw.

"--Ish't the law?"--why the thing won't admit of a query--

"No doubt of the fact, Only look at the act;

_Acto quinto, cap: tertio, Dogi Falieri_--

Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt,

The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet.

See Foscari's 'Statutes at large'--'If a Stranger

A Citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger,

The whole of his property, little or great,

Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State,

And one to the person pursued by his hate;

And, not to create Any farther debate,

The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.'

So down on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy!

Defendant and Plaintiff are now _wisy wersy_."

What need to declare How pleased they all were

At so joyful an end to so sad an affair?

Or Bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken,

His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?--

How Shylock got shaved, and turn'd Christian, though late,

To save a life-int'rest in half his estate?--

How the dandified Lawyer, who'd managed the thing,

Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring

Which Mrs. Bassanio had giv'n to her spouse,

With injunctions to keep it, on leaving the house?--

How when he, and the spark Who appeared as his clerk,

Had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their jetty coats,

There stood Nerissa and Portia in petticoats?--

How they pouted, and flouted, and acted the cruel,

Because Lord Bassanio had not kept his jewel?--

How they scolded and broke out,

Till, having their joke out,

They kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and blessed,

Drove home by the light Of a moonshiny night,

Like the one in which Troilus, the brave Trojan knight,

Sat astride on a wall, and sigh'd after his Cressid?--

All this, if 'twere meet, I'd go on to repeat,

But a story spun out so's by no means a treat,

So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains

I have taken to rummage among his remains,

No edition of Shakspeare, I've met with, contains;

But, if the account which I've heard be the true one,

We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one.

In an MS., then, sold For its full weight in gold,

And knock'd down to my friend, Lord Tomnoddy, I'm told

It's recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain,

Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain;

Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again,

Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main,

Became known by the name of the "Flower of Dumblane."

That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen,

Him to spit upon every old Jew's gaberdine,

And whose goodness to paint All colours were faint,

Acquired the well-merited prefix of "Saint,"

And the Doge, his admirer, of honour the fount,

Having given him a patent, and made him a Count,

He went over to England, got nat'ralis'd there,

And espous'd a rich heiress in Hanover Square.

That Shylock came with him, no longer a Jew,

But converted, I think may be possibly true,

But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver,

By changing the _y_ in his name into _er_,

Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up,

And in Seventeen-twenty-eight make him a Bishop,

I cannot believe--but shall still think them two men

Till some Sage proves the fact "with his usual _acumen_."

MORAL.

From this tale of the Bard It's uncommonly hard

If an Editor can't draw a moral.--'Tis clear,

Then,--In ev'ry young wife-seeking Bachelor's ear

A maxim, 'bove all other stories, this one drums,

"PITCH GREEK TO OLD HARRY, AND STICK TO CONUNDRUMS!!"

To new-married Ladies this lesson it teaches,

"You're 'no that far wrong' in assuming the breeches!"

Monied men upon 'Change, and rich Merchants it schools

To look well to assets--nor play with edge-tools!

Last of all, this remarkable History shews men,

What caution they need when they deal with old-clothesmen!

So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary,

And never let one of them come down the are'!

* * * * *

From St. Mark to St. Lawrence--from the Rialto to the Escurial--from

one Peninsula to another!--it is but a hop, step, and jump--your

toe at Genoa, your heel at Marseilles, and a good hearty spring

pops you down at once in the very heart of Old Castille. That Sir

Peregrine Ingoldsby, then a young man, was at Madrid soon after the

peace of Ryswick, there is extant a long correspondence of his to

prove. Various passages in it countenance the supposition that his

tour was partly undertaken for political purposes; and this opinion

is much strengthened by certain allusions in several of his letters,

addressed, in after life, to his friend Sir Horace Mann, then acting

in the capacity of Envoy to the Court of Tuscany. Although the Knight

spent several months in Spain, and visited many of her principal

cities, there is no proof of his having actually "seen Seville,"

beyond the internal evidence incidentally supplied by the following

legend. The events to which it alludes were, of course, of a much

earlier date, though the genealogical records of the "Kings of both

the Indies" have been in vain consulted for the purpose of fixing

their precise date, and even Mr. Simpkinson's research has failed to

determine which of the royal stock rejoicing in the name of Ferdinand

is the hero of the legend. The conglomeration of Christian names

usual in the families of the _haute noblesse_ of Spain adds to the

difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of prefixes is

peculiar to the country in question, witness my excellent friend

Field-Marshal Count Herman Karl Heinrich Socrates von der Nodgerrie zü

Pfefferkorn, whose appellations puzzled the recording clerk of one of

our Courts lately,--and that not a little.

That a splendid specimen of the _genus Homo, species Monk_, flourished

in the earlier moiety of the 15th century, under the appellation of

Torquemada, is notorious,--and this fact might seem to establish the

era of the story; but then _his_ name was John--not Dominic--though

he was a _Dominican_, and hence the mistake, if any, may perhaps have

originated--but then again the Spanish Queen to whom he was Confessor

was called Isabella, and not Blanche--it is a puzzling affair

altogether.

From his own silence on the subject, it may well be doubted whether

the worthy transcriber knew, himself, the date of the transactions

he has recorded; the authenticity of the details, however, cannot be

well called in question.--Be this as it may, I shall make no further

question, but at once introduce my "pensive public" to

FOOTNOTES:

[24]

Nec imbellem feroces

Progenerant aquilæ columbam.--HOR.

THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.

A LEGEND OF SPAIN.

With a moody air, from morn till noon,

King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon;

From morn till eve He does nothing but grieve;

Sighings and sobbings his midriff heave,

And he wipes his eyes with his ermined sleeve,

And he presses his feverish hand to his brow,

And he frowns, and he looks I can't tell you how;

And the Spanish Grandees In their degrees,

Are whispering about in twos and in threes,

And there is not a man of them seems at his ease,

But they gaze on the monarch, as watching what he does,

With their very long whiskers, and longer Toledos.

Don Gaspar, Don Gusman, Don Juan, Don Diego,

Don Gomez, Don Pedro, Don Blas, Don Rodrigo,

Don Jerome, Don Giacomo join Don Alphonso

In making inquiries Of grave Don Ramirez,

The Chamberlain, what it is makes him take on so;

A Monarch so great that the soundest opinions

Maintain the sun can't set throughout his dominions;

But grave Don Ramirez In guessing no nigher is

Than the other grave Dons who propound these inquiries;

When, pausing at length, as beginning to tire, his

Majesty beckons, with stately civility,

To Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez,

Who in birth, wealth, and consequence second to few is,

And Señor Don Manuel, Count de Pacheco,

A lineal descendant from King Pharaoh Neco,

Both Knights of the Golden Fleece, highborn Hidalgos,

With whom e'en the King himself quite as a "pal" goes.

"Don Lewis," says he, "Just listen to me;

And you, Count Pacheco,--I think that we three

On matters of state, for the most part agree,--

Now you both of you know That some six years ago,

Being then, for a King, no indifferent Beau,

At the altar I took, like my forbears of old,

The Peninsula's paragon, Fair Blanche of Aragon,

For better, for worse, and to have and to hold--

And you're fully aware, When the matter took air,

How they shouted, and fired the great guns in the Square,

Cried '_Viva!_' and rung all the bells in the steeple,

And all that sort of thing The mob do when a King

Brings a Queen-Consort home for the good of his people.

"Well!--six years and a day Have flitted away

Since that blessed event, yet I'm sorry to say--

In fact it's the principal cause of my pain--

I don't see any signs of an Infant of Spain!--

Now I want to ask you, Cavaliers true,

And Counsellors sage--what the deuce shall I do?--

The State--don't you see?--hey?--an heir to the throne--

Every monarch--you know--should have one of his own--

Disputed succession--hey?--terrible Go!--

Hum!--hey?--Old fellows--you see!--don't you know?"--

Now, Reader, dear, If you've ever been near

Enough to a Court to encounter a Peer

When his principal tenant's gone off in arrear,

And his brewer has sent in a long bill for beer,

And his butcher and baker, with faces austere,

Ask him to clear Off, for furnish'd good cheer,

Bills, they say, "have been standing for more than a year,"

And the tailor and shoemaker also appear

With their "little account" Of "trifling amount,"

For Wellingtons, waistcoats, pea-jackets, and--gear

Which to name in society's thought rather queer,--

While Drummond's chief clerk, with his pen in his ear,

And a kind of a sneer, says, "We've no effects here!"

--Or if ever you've seen An Alderman, keen

After turtle, peep into a silver tureen,

In search of the fat call'd _par excellence_ "green,"

When there's none of the meat left--not even the lean!--

--Or if ever you've witness'd the face of a sailor

Return'd from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or

_Poeticè_ "Boreas," that "blustering railer,"

To find that his wife, when he hastens to "hail" her,

Has just run away with his cash--and a tailor--

If one of these cases you've ever survey'd,

You'll, without my aid, To yourself have pourtray'd

The beautiful mystification display'd,

And the puzzled expression of manner and air

Exhibited now by the dignified pair,

When thus unexpectedly ask'd to declare

Their opinions as Counsellors, several and joint,

On so delicate, grave, and important a point.

Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez

At length forced a smile 'twixt the prim and the grim,

And look'd at Pacheco--Pacheco at him--

Then, making a rev'rence, and dropping his eyes,

Cough'd, hemm'd, and deliver'd himself in this wise:

"My Liege!--unaccustom'd as I am to speaking

In public--an art I'm remarkably weak in--

I feel I should be--quite unworthy the name

Of a man and a Spaniard--and highly to blame,

Were there not in my breast What--can't be exprest,--

And can therefore,--your Majesty,--only be guess'd--

--What I mean to say is--since your Majesty deigns

To ask my advice on your welfare--and Spain's,--

And on that of your Majesty's Bride--that is, Wife--

It's the--as I may say--proudest day of my life!

But as to the point--on a subject so nice

It's a delicate matter to give one's advice,

Especially, too, When one don't clearly view

The best mode of proceeding,--or know what to do;

My decided opinion, however, is this,

And I fearlessly say that you can't do amiss,

If, with all that fine tact Both to think and to act,

In which all know your Majesty so much excels--

You are graciously pleased to--ask somebody else!"

Here the noble Grandee Made that sort of congée,

Which, as Hill used to say, "I once _happen'd to see_"

The great Indian conjuror, Ramo Samee,

Make, while swallowing what all thought a regular choker,

_Viz._ a small sword as long and as stiff as a poker.

Then the Count de Pacheco, Whose turn twas to speak, omitting

all preface, exclaim'd with devotion,

"Sire, I beg leave to second Don Lewis's motion!"

Now a Monarch of Spain Of course could not deign

To expostulate, argue, or, much less, complain

Of an answer thus giv'n, or to ask them again;

So he merely observed, with an air of disdain,

"Well, Gentlemen,--since you both shrink from the task

Of advising your Sovereign--pray, whom shall I ask?"

Each felt the rub, And in Spain not a Sub,

Much less an Hidalgo, can stomach a snub,

So the noses of these Castilian Grandees

Rise at once in an angle of several degrees,

Till the under-lip's almost becoming the upper,

Each perceptibly grows, too, more stiff in the crupper,

Their right hands rest On the left side the breast,

While the hilts of their swords, by their left hands deprest,

Make the ends of their scabbards to cock up behind,

Till they're quite horizontal instead of inclined,

And Don Lewis, with scarce an attempt to disguise

The disgust he experiences, gravely replies,

"Sire, ask the Archbishop--his Grace of Toledo!--

He understands these things much better than we do!"

--_Pauca Verba!_--enough, Each turns off in a huff,

This twirling his mustache, that fingering his ruff,

Like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale,

With a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail.

* * * * *

King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon,

With a moody brow, and he looks like a "Spoon,"

And all the Court Nobles, who form the ring,

Have a spoony appearance, of course, like the King,

All of them eyeing King Ferdinand

As he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand,

Which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro,--

"What is it can make the Archbishop so slow?"

Hark!--at last there's a sound in the courtyard below,

Where the Beefeaters all are drawn up in a row,--

I would say the "Guards," for in Spain they're in chief eaters

Of _omelettes_ and garlick, and can't be call'd Beefeaters;

In fact, of the few Individuals I knew

Who ever had happened to travel in Spain,

There has scarce been a person who did not complain

Of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain,

And no one I'm sure will deny it who's tried a

Vile compound they have that's called _Olla podrida_.

(This, by the bye, 's a mere rhyme to the eye,

For in Spanish the _i_ is pronounced like an _e_,

And they've not quite our mode of pronouncing the _d_.

In Castille, for instance, it's giv'n through the teeth,

And what we call Ma_drid_ they sound more like Mad_reeth_,)

Of course you will see in a moment they've no men

That at all corresponds with our Beefeating Yeomen;

So call them "Walloons," or whatever you please,

By their rattles and slaps they're not "standing at ease,"

But, beyond all disputing, Engaged in saluting

Some very great person among the Grandees;--

Here a Gentleman Usher walks in and declares,

"His Grace the Archbishop's a-coming up stairs!"

The Most Reverend Don Garcilasso Quevedo

Was just at this time, as he Now held the Primacy,

(Always attached to the See of Toledo,)

A man of great worship _Officii virtute_

Versed in all that pertains to a Counsellor's duty.

Well skill'd to combine Civil law with divine;

As a statesman, inferior to none in that line;

As an orator, too, He was equalled by few;

Uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen,

The very great powers of three very great men,

Talleyrand,--who will never drive down Piccadilly more

To the Traveller's Club-House!--Charles Phillips--and Phillimore.

Not only at home But even at Rome

There was not a Prelate among them could cope

With the Primate of Spain in the eyes of the Pope.

(The Conclave was full, and they'd not a spare hat, or he

'd long since been Cardinal, Legate _à latere_,

A dignity fairly his due, without flattery,

So much he excited among all beholders

Their marvel to see At his age--thirty-three

Such a very old head on such very young shoulders,)

No wonder the King, then, in this his distress,

Should send for so sage an adviser express,

Who, you'll readily guess, Could not do less

Than start off at once, without stopping to dress,

In his haste to get Majesty out of a mess.