Set apart for such Nobles as have the _entrée_,
_Viz._ Grandees of the first class, both cleric and lay;
Walks up to the monarch, and makes him a bow,
As a dignified clergyman always knows how,
Then replaces the mitre at once on his brow;
For, in Spain, recollect, As a mark of respect
To the Crown, if a Grandee uncovers, it's quite
As a matter of option, and not one of right;
A thing not conceded by _our_ Royal Masters,
Who always make Noblemen take off their "castors,"
Except the heirs male Of John Lord Kinsale,
A stalwart old Baron, who, acting as Henchman
To one of our early Kings, kill'd a big Frenchman;
A feat which his Majesty deigning to smile on,
Allow'd him thenceforward to stand with his "tile" on;
And all his successors have kept the same privilege
Down from those barbarous times to our civil age.
Returning his bow with a slight demi-bob,
And replacing the watch in his hand in his fob,
"My Lord," said the King, "here's a rather tough job,
Which it seems, of a sort is To puzzle our _Cortes_.
And since it has quite flabbergasted that Diet, I
Look to your Grace with no little anxiety
Concerning a point Which has quite out of joint
Put us all with respect to the good of society:--
Your Grace is aware That we've not got an Heir;
Now, it seems, one and all, they don't stick to declare
That of all our advisers there is not in Spain one
Can tell, like your Grace, the best way to obtain one;
So put your considering cap on--we're curious
To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias."
One without the nice tact Of his Grace would have backt
Out at once, as the Noblemen did,--and, in fact,
He was, at the first, rather pozed how to act--
One moment--no more!--Bowing then, as before,
He said, "Sire, 'twere superfluous for me to acquaint
The 'Most Catholic King' in the world, that a Saint
Is the usual resource In these cases,--of course
Of their influence your Majesty well knows the force;
If I may be, therefore, allow'd to suggest
The plan which occurs to my mind as the best,
Your Majesty may go At once to St. Jago,
Whom, as Spain's patron Saint, I pick out from the rest;
If your Majesty looks Into Guthrie, or Brooks,
In all the approved Geographical books,
You will find Compostella laid down in the maps
Some two hundred and sev'nty miles off; and, perhaps,
In a case so important, you may not decline
A pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine;
And, Sire, should you choose To put peas in your shoes,
The Saint, as a Gentleman, can't well refuse
So distinguish'd a Pilgrim,--especially when he
Considers the boon will not cost him one penny!"
His speech ended, his Grace bow'd, and put on his mitre
As tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter.
"Pooh! pooh!" says the King, "I shall do no such thing!
It's nonsense,--Old fellow--you see--no use talking--
The peas set apart, I abominate walking--
Such a deuced way off, too--hey?--walk there--what me?
Pooh!--it's no Go, Old fellow!--you know--don't you see?"
"Well, Sire," with much sweetness the Prelate replied,
"If your Majesty don't like to walk--you can ride!
And then, if you please, In lieu of the peas,
A small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert,
As a substitute, under your Majesty's shirt;
Then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,--
A few nettles tuck'd into your Majesty's waistband,--
Asafœtida mix'd with your _bouquet_ and civet,
I'll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!"
"Pooh! pooh! I tell you,"
Quoth the King, "It won't do!"
A cold perspiration began to bedew
His Majesty's cheek, and he grew in a stew,
When Jozé de Humez, the King's privy-purse-keeper,
(Many folks thought it could scarce have a worse keeper)
Came to the rescue, and said with a smile,
"Sire, your Majesty _can't_ go--'twould take a long while,
And you won't post it under TWO SHILLINGS A MILE!!
Twenty-seven pounds ten To get there--and then
Twenty-seven pounds ten more to get back agen!!!
Sire, the _tottle's_ enormous--you ought to be King
Of Golconda as well as the Indies, to fling
Such a vast sum away upon any such thing!"
At this second rebuff The Archbishop look'd gruff,
And his eye glanced on Humez as if he'd say "Stuff!"
But seeing the King seem'd himself in a huff,
He changed his demeanour, and grew smooth enough;
Then taking his chin 'twixt his finger and thumb,
As a help to reflection, gave vent to a "Hum!"
'Twas the pause of an instant--his eye assumed fast
That expression which says, "Come, I've got it at last!"
"There's one plan," he resumed, "which, with all due respect to
Your Majesty, no one, I think, can object to--
--Since your Majesty don't like the peas in the shoe--or to
Travel--what say you to burning a Jew or two?--
Of all cookeries, most The Saints love a roast!
And a Jew's, of all others, the best dish to toast;
And then for a Cook We have not far to look--
Father Dominic's self, Sire, your own Grand Inquisitor,
Luckily now at your Court is a visitor;
Of his Rev'rence's functions there is not one weightier
Than Heretic-burning--in fact, 'tis his _métier_.
Besides Alguazils Who still follow his heels,
He has always Familiars enough at his beck at home,
To pick you up Hebrews enough for a hecatomb!
And depend on it, Sire, such a glorious specific
Would make every Queen throughout Europe prolific!"
Says the King, "That'll do! Pooh! pooh!--burn a Jew?
Burn half a score Jews--burn a dozen--burn two--
Your Grace, it's a match! Burn all you can catch,
Men, women, and children--Pooh! pooh!--great and small--
Old clothes--slippers--sealing-wax--Pooh!--burn them all.
For once we'll be gay, A Grand _Auto-da-fé_
Is much better fun than a ball or a play!"
So the warrant was made out without more delay,
Drawn, seal'd, and delivered, and
(Signed)
YO EL RE!
CANTO II.
There is not a nation in Europe but labours
To toady itself, and to humbug its neighbours--
"Earth has no such folks--no folks such a city,
So great, or so grand, or so fine, or so pretty,"
Said Louis Quatorze, "As this Paris of ours!"
--Mr. Daniel O'Connell exclaims, "By the Pow'rs,
_Ould_ Ireland's on all hands admitted to be
The first flow'r of the earth, and first _Gim_ of the sea!"--
--Mr. Bull will inform you that Neptune,--a lad he,
With more of affection than rev'rence, styles "Daddy,"--
Did not scruple to "say To Freedom, one day,"
That if ever he changed his aquatics for dry land,
His home should be Mr. B.'s "Tight little Island."--
He adds, too, that he, The said Mr. B.,
Of all possible Frenchmen can fight any three;
That, with no greater odds, he knows well how to treat them,
To meet them, defeat them, and beat them, and eat them.--
--In Italy, too, 'tis the same to the letter;
There each Lazzarone Will cry to his crony,
"See Naples, then die![25] and the sooner the better!"
The Portuguese say, as a well understood thing,
"Who has not seen Lisbon[26] has not seen a good thing!"--
While an old Spanish proverb runs glibly as under,
"QUIEN NO HA VISTO SEVILLA
NO HA VISTO MARAVILLA!"
"He who ne'er has viewed Seville has ne'er view'd a Wonder!"
And from all I can learn this is no such great blunder.
In fact, from the river, The fam'd Guadalquiver,
Where many a knight's had cold steel through his liver,[27]
The prospect _is_ grand. The _Iglesia Mayor_
Has a splendid effect on the opposite shore,
With its lofty _Giralda_, while two or three score
Of magnificent structures around, perhaps more,
As our Irish friends have it, are there "to the fore;"
Then the old Alcazar, More ancient by far,
As some say, while some call it one of the palaces
Built in twelve hundred and odd by Abdalasis,
With its horse-shoe shaped arches of Arabesque tracery,
Which the architect seems to have studied to place awry,
Saracenic and rich; And more buildings, "the which,"
As old Lilly, in whom I've been looking a bit o' late,
Says, "You'd be bored should I now recapitulate;"[28]
In brief, then, the view Is so fine and so new,
It would make you exclaim, 'twould so forcibly strike ye,
If a Frenchman, "_Superbe!_"--if an Englishman, "Crikey!!"
Yes! thou _art_ "WONDERFUL!"--but oh,
'Tis sad to think, 'mid scenes so bright
As thine, fair Seville, sounds of woe,
And shrieks of pain, and wild affright,
And soul-wrung groans of deep despair,
And blood, and death should mingle there!
Yes! thou art "WONDERFUL!"--the flames
That on thy towers reflected shine,
While earth's proud Lords and high-born Dames,
Descendants of a mighty line,
With cold unalter'd looks are by
To gaze, with an unpitying eye,
On wretches in their agony.
All speak thee "WONDERFUL"--the phrase
Befits thee well--the fearful blaze
Of yon piled faggots' lurid light,
Where writhing victims mock the sight,--
The scorch'd limb shrivelling in its chains,--
The hot blood parch'd in _living_ veins,--
The crackling nerve--the fearful knell
Rung out by that remorseless bell,--
Those shouts from human fiends that swell,--
That withering scream,--that frantic yell,--
All Seville,--all too truly tell
Thou _art_ a "MARVEL"--and a Hell!
God!--that the worm whom thou hast made
Should thus his brother worm invade!
Count deeds like these good service done,
And deem THINE eye looks smiling on!!
Yet there at his ease, with his whole Court around him,
King Ferdinand sits "in his GLORY"--confound him!--
Leaning back in his chair, With a satisfied air,
And enjoying the bother, the smoke, and the smother,
With one knee cocked carelessly over the other;
His pouncet-box goes To and fro at his nose,
As somewhat misliking the smell of old clothes,
And seeming to hint, by this action emphatic,
That Jews, e'en when roasted, are not aromatic;
There, too, fair Ladies From Xeres, and Cadiz,
Catalinas, and Julias, and fair Iñesillas,
In splendid lace-veils and becoming mantillas;
Elviras, Antonias, and Claras, and Floras,
And dark-eyed Jacinthas, and soft Isidoras,
Are crowding the "boxes," and looking on coolly as
Though 'twas but one of their common _tertulias_,
Partaking, as usual, of wafers and ices,
Snow-water, and melons cut out into slices,
And chocolate,--furnished at coffee-house prices;
While many a suitor, And gay coadjutor
In the eating-and-drinking line, scorns to be neuter;
One, being perhaps just return'd with his tutor
From travel in England, is tempting his "_future_"
With a luxury neat as imported, "The Pewter,"
And charming the dear Violantes and Iñeses
With a three-corner'd Sandwich, and _soupçon_ of "Guinness's;"
While another, from Paris but newly come back,
Hints "the least taste in life" of the best cogniac.
Such ogling and eyeing, In short, and such sighing,
And such complimenting (one must not say l--g),
Of smart Cavaliers with each other still vying,
Mix'd up with the crying, And groans, of the dying,
All hissing, and spitting, and broiling and frying,
Form a scene, which, although there can be no denying
To a _bon Catholique_ it may prove edifying,
I doubt if a Protestant, smart Beau, or merry Belle
Might not shrink from it as somewhat too terrible.
It's a question with me if you ever survey'd a
More stern-looking mortal than old Torquemada,
Renown'd Father Dominic, famous for twisting dom-
-estic and foreign necks all over Christendom;
Morescoes or Jews, Not a penny to choose,
If a dog of a heretic dared to refuse
A glass of old port, or a slice from a griskin,
The good Padre soon would so set him a frisking,
That I would not, for--more than I'll say--be in his skin.
'Twas just the same thing with his own race and nation,
And Christian Dissenters of every persuasion,
Muggletonian, or Quaker, Or Jumper, or Shaker,
No matter with whom in opinion partaker,
George Whitfield, John Bunyan, or Thomas Gat-acre,
They'd no better chance than a Bonze or a Fakir;
If a woman, it skill'd not--if she did not deem as he
Bade her to deem touching Papal supremacy,
By the Pope, but he'd make her!
From error awake her,
Or else--pop her into an oven and bake her!
No one, in short, ever came half so near as he
Did, to the full extirpation of heresy;
And if, in the times of which now I am treating,
There had been such a thing as a "Manchester Meeting,"
"Pretty pork" he'd have made "Moderator" and "Minister,"
Had he but caught them on his side Cape Finisterre;--
Pye Smith, and the rest of them once in his bonfire, hence-
-forth you'd have heard little more of the "CONFERENCE."
And--there on the opposite side of the ring,
He, too, sits "in his GLORY," confronting the King,
With his cast-iron countenance frowning austerely,
That matched with his _en bon point_ body but queerly,
For, though grim his visage, his person was pursy,
Belying the rumour Of fat folks' good-humour;
Above waves his banner of "Justice and Mercy,"
Below and around stand a terrible band ad-
-ding much to the scene,--_viz._ The "Holy _Hermandad_,"
That's "Brotherhood,"--each looking grave as a Grand-dad.
Within the arena Before them is seen a
Strange, odd-looking group, each one dress'd in a garment
Not "dandified" clearly, as certainly "varment,"
Being all over vipers and snakes, and stuck thick
With multiplied _silhouette_ profiles of NICK;
And a cap of the same, All devils and flame,
Extinguisher-shaped, much like Salisbury Spire,
Except that the latter's of course somewhat higher;
A long yellow pin-a-fore Hangs down, each chin afore,
On which, ere the wearer had donn'd it, a man drew
The Scotch badge, a _Saltire_, or Cross of St. Andrew;
Though I fairly confess I am quite at a loss
To guess why they should choose that particular cross,
Or to make clear to you What the Scotch had to do
At all with the business in hand,--though it's true
That the vestment aforesaid, perhaps, from its hue,
_Viz. yellow_, in juxta-position with _blue_,
(A tinge of which latter tint could but accrue
On the faces of wretches, of course, in a stew
As to what their tormentors were going to do,)
Might make people fancy, who no better knew,
They were somehow connected with Jeffrey's Review;
Especially too As it's certain that few
Things would make Father Dominic blither or happier
Than to catch hold of _it_, or its _Chef_, Macvey Napier.--
No matter for that--my description to crown,
All the flames and the devils were turn'd upside down
On this habit, facetiously term'd _San Benito_,
Much like the dress suit Of some nondescript brute
From the show-van of Wombwell, (not George,) or Polito.
And thrice happy they,[29] Dress'd out in this way
To appear with _éclat_ at the _Auto-da-Fé_,
Thrice happy indeed whom the good luck might fall to
Of devils tail upward, and "_Fuego revolto_,"
For, only see there, In the midst of the Square,
Where, perch'd up on poles six feet high in the air,
Sit, chained to the stake, some two, three, or four pair
Of wretches, whose eyes, nose, complexion, and hair
Their Jewish descent but too plainly declare,
Each clothed in a garment more frightful by far, a
Smock-frock sort of gaberdine, call'd a _Samarra_,
With three times the number of devils upon it,--
A proportion observed on the sugar-loaf'd bonnet,
With this farther distinction--of mischief a proof--
That every fiend Jack stands upright on his hoof!
While the pictured flames, spread Over body and head,
Are three times as crooked, and three times as red!
All, too, pointing upwards, as much as to say,
"Here's the real _bonne bouche_ of the Auto-da-fé!"
Torquemada, meanwhile, With his cold, cruel smile,
Sits looking on calmly, and watching the pile,
As his hooded "Familiars" (their names, as some tell, come
From their being so much more "familiar" than "welcome,")
Have, by this time, begun To be "poking their fun,"
And their firebrands, as if they were so many posies
Of lilies and roses, Up to the noses
Of Lazarus Levi, and Money Ben Moses;
While similar treatment is forcing out hollow moans
From Aby Ben Lasco, and Ikey Ben Solomons,
Whose beards--this a black, that inclining to grizzle--
Are smoking, and curling, and all in a fizzle;
The King, at the same time, his Dons and his visitors,
Sit, sporting smiles, like the Holy Inquisitors,----
Enough!--no more!--Thank Heaven, 'tis o'er!
The tragedy's done! and we now draw a veil
O'er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail;
The last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket,
The last wretched Hebrew's burnt down in his socket!
The Barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners,
King, Court, Lords, and Commons, gone home to their dinners,
With a pleasing emotion Produced by the notion
Of having exhibited so much devotion,
All chuckling to think how the Saints are delighted
At having seen so many "_Smouches_" ignited:--
All, save Privy-purse Humez, Who sconced in his room is,
And, Cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair,
Is puzzling to find out how much the "affair"
(By deep calculations, the which I can't follow,) cost,--
The _tottle_, in short, _of the whole_ of the Holocaust.
Perhaps you may think it a rather odd thing,
That, while talking so much of the Court and the King,
In describing the scene Through which we've just been,
I've not said one syllable as to the Queen;
Especially, too, as her Majesty's "Whereabouts,"
All things considered, might well be thought thereabouts;
The fact was, however, although little known,
_Sa Magestad_ had hit on a plan of her own,
And suspecting, perhaps, that an _Auto_ alone
Might fail in securing this "Heir to the throne,"
[Illustration: THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.]
Had made up her mind, Although well inclined
Towards _galas_ and shows of no matter what kind,
For once to retire, And bribe the Saints higher
Than merely by sitting and seeing a fire,--
A sight, after all, she did not much admire;
So she locked herself up, Without platter or cup,
In her Oriel, resolved not to take bite or sup,
Not so much as her matin-draught (our "early purl"),
Nor put on her jewels, nor e'en let the girl,
Who help'd her to dress, take her hair out of curl,
But to pass the whole morning in telling her beads,
And in reading the lives of the Saints, and their deeds,
And in vowing to visit, without shoes or sandals,
Their shrines, with unlimited orders for candles,
Holy water, and Masses of Mozart's, and Handel's.[30]
And many a _Pater_, and _Ave_, and _Credo_
Did She, and her Father Confessor, Quevedo,
(The clever Archbishop, you know, of Toledo,)
Who came, as before, at a very short warning,
Get through, without doubt, in the course of that morning;
Shut up, as they were, With nobody there
To at all interfere with so pious a pair;
And the Saints must have been stony-hearted indeed,
If they had not allow'd all these pains to succeed.
Nay, it's not clear to me but their very ability
Might, Spain throughout, Have been brought into doubt,
Had the Royal bed still remain'd curs'd with sterility;
St. Jago, however, who always is jealous
In Spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us,
And who, if he saw Anything like a flaw
In Spain's welfare, would soon sing "Old Rose, burn the bellows!"
Set matters to rights like a King of good fellows;
By his interference, Three-fourths of a year hence,
There was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing,
Cachucas, Boleros, and bells set a ringing,
In both the Castilles, Triple-bob-major peals,
Rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging,
Seguidillas, Fandangos, While ev'ry gun bang goes;
And all the way through, from Gibraltar to Biscay,
Figueras and Sherry make all the Dons frisky,
(Save Moore's "Blakes and O'Donnells," who stick to the whisky;)
All the day long The dance and the song
Continue the general joy to prolong;
And even long after the close of the day
You can hear little else but "Hip! hip! hip! hurray!"
The Escurial, however, is not quite so gay,
For, whether the Saint had not perfectly heard
The petition the Queen and Archbishop preferr'd,--
Or whether his head, from his not being used
To an _Auto-da-fé_, was a little confused,--
Or whether the King, in the smoke and the smother,
Got bother'd, and so made some blunder or other,
I am sure I can't say; All I know is, that day
There must have been _some_ mistake!--that, I'm afraid, is
Only too clear, Inasmuch as the dear
Royal Twins--though fine babies,--proved both little LADIES!!
MORAL.
Reader!--Not knowing what your "persuasion" may be,
Mahometan, Jewish, or even Parsee,
Take a little advice which may serve for all three!
First--"When you're at _Rome_, do as Rome does!" and note all her
Ways--drink what She drinks! and don't turn Tea-totaler!
In Spain, _raison de plus_, You must do as they do,
Inasmuch as they're all there "at sixes and sevens,"
Just, as you know, They were, some years ago,
In the days of Don Carlos and Brigadier Evans;
Don't be nice, then--but take what they've got in their shops,
Whether griskins, or sausages, ham, or pork-chops!
Next--Avoid Fancy-trousers!--their colours and shapes
Sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes!
For myself, I confess I've but small taste in dress,
My opinion is, therefore, worth nothing--or less--
But some friends I've consulted,--much given to watch one's
Apparel--do say It's by far the best way,
And the safest, to do as Lord Brougham does--buy Scotch ones!
I might now volunteer some advice to a King,--
Let Whigs say what they will, I shall do no such thing,
But copy my betters, and never begin
Until, like Sir Robert, "I'm duly CALLED IN!"
* * * * *
In the windows of the great Hall, as well as in those of the long
Gallery, and the Library at Tappington, are, and have been many of
them from a very early period, various "storied panes" of stained
glass, which, as Blue Dick's[31] exploits did not extend beyond the
neighbouring city, have remained unfractured down to the present
time. Among the numerous escutcheons there displayed, charged with
armorial bearings of the family and its connexions, is one in which a
_chevron between three eagles' cuisses, sable_, is blazoned quarterly
with the _engrailed saltire_ of the Ingoldsbys. Mr. Simpkinson from
Bath,--whose merits as an antiquary as so well known and appreciated
as to make eulogy superfluous, not to say impertinent,--has been for
some time bringing his heraldic lore to bear on those _monumenta
vetusta_. He pronounces the coat in question to be that of a certain
Sir Ingoldsby Bray who flourished _temp. Ric. I._, and founded the
Abbey of Ingoldsby, in the county of Kent and diocese of Rochester,
early in the reign of that monarch's successor. The history of the
origin of that pious establishment has been rescued from the dirt and
mildew in which its chartularies have been slumbering for centuries,
and is here given. The link of connexion between the two families is
shown by the accompanying extract from our genealogical tree.
Peter de Ingoldsby, Lord of Tappington
temp: Stephen, killed at the battle of Lincoln
_ex parte regis_. =
|
|
+------+----+
| |
| |
Vitalis de = Alice de Geoffrey = Joan Richard Ingoldsby, of
Engaine. | Lizures, de Brai. | only Tappington aforesaid. _A_
| 2d wife. | dau. _quo_ HODIERNUS INGOLDSBY.
| | |
+-------+ +------------------+----------+ /|\
| | |
Alicia = Ingoldsby de Bray, Chiv'ler, Reginald de Bray, 2d son,
dau. & afterwards assumed his mother's heir to his brother, from whom
heir, name, founder of Ingoldsby descended Edmund Lord Bray,
sus: Abbey, A.D. 1202, summoned to parliament 21
per ob. S. P. _circiter_ 1214. 28 Hen. 8.
coll |
/|\
In this document it will be perceived that the death of Lady Alice
Ingoldsby is attributed to strangulation superinduced by suspension,
whereas in the veritable legend annexed no allusion is made to the
intervention of a halter. Unluckily Sir Ingoldsby left no issue, or
we might now be "calling Cousins" with (_ci devant_) Mrs. Otway Cave,
in whose favour the abeyance of the old Barony of Bray has recently
been determined by the Crown. To this same Barony we ourselves were
not without our pretensions, and, _teste Simpkinson_, had "as good a
right to it as any body else." The "Collective wisdom of the Country"
has, however, decided the point, and placed us among that very numerous
class of claimants who are "wrongfully kept out of their property and
dignities--by the right owners."
I seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a malicious
report that Mr. Simpkinson has, in a late publication, confounded
King Henry the Fifth with the _Duke_ of Monmouth, and positively deny
that he has ever represented Walter Lord Clifford, (father to Fair
Rosamond,) as the leader of the O. P. row.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] "Vedi Napoli e poi mori!"
[26]
"Quem naõ tem visto Lisboa
Naõ tem visto cousa boa."
[27]
"Rio verde, Rio verde, etc."
"Glassy water, glassy water,
Down whose current clear and strong,
Chiefs, confused in mutual slaughter,
Moor and Christian, roll along."--_Old Spanish Romance._
[28] Cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est.
_Propria quæ maribus._
[29] O fortunati nimium sua si bona nôrint!
[30]
"That is, She _would_ have order'd them--but none are known,
I fear, as his,
For Handel never wrote a Mass--and so She'd David Perez's--
Bow! wow! wow! Fol, lol, &c. &c."
(_Posthumous Note by the Ghost of James Smith, Esq._)
[31] Richard Culmer, parson of Chartham, commonly so called,
distinguished himself, while Laud was in the Tower, by breaking the
beautiful windows in Canterbury Cathedral, "standing on the top of the
city ladder, near sixty steps high, with a whole pike in his hand,
when others would not venture so high." This feat of Vandalism the
cærulean worthy called "rattling down proud Becket's glassie bones."
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE!
A LEGEND OF PALESTINE--AND WEST KENT.
I'll devise thee brave punishments for him!
SHAKSPERE.
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,
"Come east, come west, Come lance in rest,
Come faulchion in hand, I'll tickle the best
Of all the Soldan's Chivalrie!"
Oh, they came west, and they came east,
Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,--
But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;
Twenty and three, Of high degree,
Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,
All--all save one--and he ran up a tree!
"Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!"
"Twenty and three! Twenty and three!--
All of them Nobles of high degree:
There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"What news? what news? come, tell to me!
What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?--
I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age
Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
Come tell me now, thou Page so small!"
"Oh, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound,
Beast in byre, and Steed in stall;
And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark,
Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"
--"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound,
For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay:
Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear;
How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"--
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,
"What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page!"--
That little Foot-page full low crouch'd he,
And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee,
"Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me:
Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,
Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall:
She sits alone, And she makes her moan;
Dance and song She considers quite wrong;
Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil;
She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!
When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"
"Thou liest! thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page,
Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me!
There, in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest,
What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,
That little Foot-page he blench'd with fear;
"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he,
And tidings rare To him do I bear,
And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"
"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
No learned clerk, I trow, am I,
But well, I ween, May there be seen
Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;
Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;
Although no clerk, Well may I mark
The particular turn of her P's and her Q's!"
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage,
By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;
The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes,
And buffets,--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;--
Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads
Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's-heads.
When the contents of the scroll met his view,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew,
Backward he drew His mailed shoe,
And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew
Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,
I may not say whither--I never knew.
"Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain,--
Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"
"Twenty and three! There they be,
Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!--
Twenty and three?-- --Stay--let me see!
Stretched in his gore There lieth one more!
By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and _four_!
Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there,
But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where!
Ay, twenty-four corses, I rede, there be,
Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"
"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!"--
"One is the corse of a barefooted Friar!!"
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he,
"Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave,
A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;
A year and a day Have I been away,
King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free;
Dame Alice, she sits there in lonely guise,
And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,
And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,
And she darneth her hose, and she crieth, 'Alack!
Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'
A boon, a boon, my Liege," quoth he,
"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"
"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,"
King Richard said right graciously,
"Of all in my host That I love the most,
I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!
Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon;
But--mind you make haste, and come back again soon!
FYTTE II.
Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,
Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,
And a belted Knight In armour dight,
Is begging a boon on his bended knee,
With signs of grief and sounds of woe,
Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.
"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
In my fury and rage A little Foot-page
I have left, I fear me, in evil case:
A scroll of shame From a faithless dame
Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear;
I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick,
That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where!
Had he as many necks as hairs,
He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"
"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou;
Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee!
Ill it beseems that a soldier true
Of holy Church should vainly sue:--
--Foot-pages, they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they,
Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair,
For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
But stout and true Soldiers, like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!--
Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said;
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"
"--Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,
I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
Alack! alack! too surely I knew
The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,
And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
Dame Alice I found,-- She sank on the ground,--
I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
With jibe and jeer, and mock, and scoff,
I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!--
All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"
"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Why really--I hardly know what to say:--
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.--
--Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray;
For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,
For a year, and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"
"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
No power could save That paramour knave;
I left him, I wot, in evil case!
There, 'midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,
Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain,
His legs lie here, and his arms lie there,
And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"
"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Foul sin it were, though doughty Knight,
To hack and to hew A champion true
Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!--
--A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair,
To pray for his soul for ever and aye,
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year must thou pay
For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights--
None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound,
Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;--
And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!--
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"
"Now nay, Holy Father, now nay, now nay!
Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
"No champion free of the Cross was he;
No belted Baron of high degree;
No Knight nor Squire Did there expire;
He was, I trow, but a bare-footed Friar!
And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait
With his monks around him, and early and late
May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,
--He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"
"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said,
And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head--
"Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!
A horrible thing has come to pass!
What! cut off the head of a reverend Prior,
And say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'--
'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire
Is half so good as a holy Friar?'
_O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!
Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_
Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_
Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum,
Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_,
And won't have again _sæcula sæculorum_!--
Come hither to me, My Cardinals three,
My Bishops _in partibus_, Masters _in Artibus_,
Hither to me, A.B. and D.D.
Doctors and Proctors of every degree!
Go fetch me a book!--go fetch me a bell
As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well--
I'll send him--_where_ good manners won't let me tell!"
--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!"
--Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face--
"_Meâ culpâ!_--in sooth I'm in pitiful case.
_Peccavi! peccavi!_--I've done very wrong!
But my heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong.
And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long;
And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,
And they're here, and they're there, and I can't tell you where,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share!"
Pope Gregory paused, and he sat himself down,
And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,
And his Cardinals three they pick'd up his crown.
"Now, if it be so that you own you've been wrong,
And your heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong,
And you really will fight like a trump all day long;--
If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share,--
Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me,
That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,
And I think that the Penitent need not despair!
--If it be so, as you seem to say,
Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!
An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
Whose innermost wall's encircling bound
Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
And there in that Abbey all the year round,
A full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns,
Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross-buns;
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay,
Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain,
And gather the bones of the foully slain:
And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;
And plenty of lights Shall be there o' nights;
None of your rascally '_dips_,' but sound,
Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one,
For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave,
Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy,
Nor indulge in a pipe,-- But shall dine upon tripe,
And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,
And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure
Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and _liqueur_!"
(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way
To a feeling which prompted a word profane,
But he swallow'd it down, by an effort, again,
And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
More repetition of _O, meâ culpâ!_)
"Thrice three times upon Candlemas-day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,
Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,
Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,
With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire;
And nor he, nor his heir[32] Shall take, use, or bear
Any more, from this day, The surname of Bray,
As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_!
So his qualms of conscience at length may cease,
And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace!"
Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)
Is off like a shot away and away,
Over the brine To far Palestine,
To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain
For the unburied bones of his victim slain.
"Look out, my Squire, Look higher and nigher,
Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!
And pick up the arms, and the legs, of the dead,
And pick up his body, and pick up his head!"
FYTTE III.
Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three,
With right of free-warren (whatever that be);
Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,
All in full leaf at the right time of year;
About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear,
And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear:
But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near
The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear.
Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore
Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more;
Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind,--and before
You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.[33]
So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot
To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.
Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,
And there they all stand each in their degree,
Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,
Two by two, in their regular mode,
While a funeral comes down the Rochester road.
Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand,
Cockle in hat, and staff in hand,
Come marching in pairs, a holy band!
Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,
Each with his brazen censer bright,
And singing away with all their might,
Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight;
Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear
On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care,
A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd,
Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd),
And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.
Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied
With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide,
While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear--Men-
-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men.
It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well,
How some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell;
Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day
The procession I speak about reached the _Sacellum_;
And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper
Received the first taste of the Father's _flagellum_;--
That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell
All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded,
By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns;
--That year after year, having run round the _Quad_
With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod,
Having not only kiss'd it, but bless'd it, and thank'd it, he
Died, as all thought, in the odour of sanctity,
When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe
What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve
The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright,
Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls, and the squalls
Of some one who seem'd running all round the walls!
Looking out, soon By the light of the moon
There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,
And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,
As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless!" of Hunt's,
And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes
A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes;
While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders
Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS,
But is holding his pate In his left hand, out straight,
As if by a closer inspection to find
Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
With the aid of a small "bull's-eye lantern,"--as placed
By our own New Police,--in a belt round his waist.
All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes,
When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies
From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,--
In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
"Running after him,"--so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!"
Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight
Course round the Abbey as best he might,
Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite,
While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,--
Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!
Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
And at this time of day One can hardly survey
Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey
With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
But still there are many folks living who say
That on every Candlemas eve, the Knight,
Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright,
With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite,
With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood;
More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,
You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy
And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail,
They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail.
What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest
Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd,
Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd
That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain
Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest,
Caulk'd, and made water-tight,
By command of the Knight,
Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,
And the body itself in a decentish plight,
Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight;
So, to save themselves trouble, they'd pick'd up instead,
And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head!
Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd,
And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd.
Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree
With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,--
I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine
Containing the bones brought from far Palestine
Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine
This _fact_ with the reason these people assign,
Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine
Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-_ine_."
'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may,
The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ Bray),
It is boldly affirm'd, by the folks great and small
About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall,
Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall.
And that many have seem him, and more heard him squall.
So I think, when the facts of the case you recall,
My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,
Viz.: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d--d after all!
MORAL.
Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,
In livery or out of it, listen to me!
See what comes of lying!--don't join in a league
To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue!
Ladies!--married and single, from this understand
How foolish it is to send letters by hand!
Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you
've a _billet_ to send To a lover or friend,
Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!
Reverend gentlemen!--you who are given to roam,
Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!
But while you're abroad lead respectable lives;
Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives!
And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads
When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS!"
Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong,
Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!
If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,
Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them down stairs!
To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend,
"If you want matters well managed, _Go!_--if not, _Send!_"
A servant's too often a negligent elf;
--If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!
The state of society seldom requires
People now to bring home with them unburied Friars,
But they sometimes _do_ bring home an inmate for life;
Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife!
For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed,
To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead
Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!
FOOTNOTES:
[32] His brother Reginald, it would seem by the pedigree,
disregarded this prohibition.
[33] Alas! one might almost say that of this sacred, and once
splendid, edifice, _periêrunt etiam ruinæ_. An elderly gentleman,
however, of ecclesiastical cut, who oscillates between the Garrick
Club and the Falcon in Gravesend, and is said by the host to be a
"foreigneering Bishop," does not scruple to identify the ruins still
to be seen by the side of the high Dover road, about a mile and a half
below the town, with those of the haunted _Sacellum_. The general
features of the landscape certainly correspond, and tradition, as
certainly, countenances his conjecture.
* * * * *
Alas, for Ingoldsby Abbey!--Alas that one _should_ have to say
Periêrunt etiam Ruinæ!
Its very Ruins now are tiny.
There is a something in the very sight of an old Abbey--family
associations apart--as Ossian says (or Macpherson for him), "pleasing
yet mournful to the soul!" nor could I ever yet gaze on the roofless
walls and ivy-clad towers of one of these venerable monuments of the
piety of bygone days, without something very like an unbidden tear
rising to dim the prospect. Something of this, I think, I have already
hinted in recording our pic-nic with the Seaforths at Bolsover. Since
then I have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once was
Netley, and never experienced the sensation to which I have alluded
in a stronger degree;--if its character was somewhat changed before
we parted--it is not my fault. Still, be the drawbacks what they may,
I shall ever mark with a white stone the day on which I for the first
time beheld the time-worn cloisters of
NETLEY ABBEY.
A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.
I saw thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
Was sinking slow, And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green,
That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovelily bright In that glorious light,
And I felt 'twas holy ground.
Then I thought of the ancient time--
The days of thy Monks of old,--
When to Matin, and Vesper, and Compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,
And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,
Swell'd the full tide of sacred song;
And then a Vision pass'd
Across my mental eye;[34]
And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white veils, went by,
Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,--
--But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-Lad!
Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,
And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell,
And "dear little souls," In clean linen stoles,
Swinging their censers, and making a smell.--
And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear,
With front severe, And brow austere,
Now and then pinching a little boy's ear
When he chaunts the responses too late, or too soon,
Or his _Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La_'s not quite in tune.
(Then, you know, They'd a "moveable _Do_,"
Not a fixed one as now--and of course never knew
How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)
It was, in sooth, a comely sight,
And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.
But then "a change came o'er"
My spirit--a change of fear--
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall--
For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks All ready to fix,
And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!--
That horrible hole!--it seems to say,
'I'm a Grave that gapes for a living prey!'"
And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad--
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think
That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink,
Or be closed for aye In this kind of way,
Shut out for ever from wholesome day,
Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!--
And that Maiden's lip, Which was made to sip,
Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
--That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this!--
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The poor lone victim's stifled cry,[35]
"Well! I can't understand How any man's hand
_Could_ wall up that hole in a Christian land!--
Why, a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work,
And though, when his Ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
'When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back, And sewn up in a sack,
To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!'
--Oh! a Saint 'twould vex To think that the sex
Should be treated no better than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."
If ever on polluted walls
Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls,--
If e'er its justice wraps in flame
The black abodes of sin and shame,
That justice, in its own good time,
Shall visit for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!
Lo where it comes!--the tempest lours,--
It bursts on thy devoted towers;
Ruthless Tudor's bloated form
Rides on the blast, and guides the storm;
I hear the sacrilegious cry,
"Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"
Down! down they come--a fearful fall--
Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
Stained pane, and sculptured stone,
There they lie on the greensward strown--
Mouldering walls remain alone!
Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown,
Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!
And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
Upon that grey and mouldering wall,
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall!--
They "come like shadows, so depart"--
I see thee as thou wert--and art--
Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe!
Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
No voice awakes thine echoes now!
No sound--Good Gracious!--what was that?
Was it the moan, The parting groan
Of her who died forlorn and alone,
Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?--
--Full and clear On my listening ear
It comes--again--near, and more near--
Why 'zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer!
--I rush to the door-- I tread the floor,
By Abbots and Abbesses trodden before,
In the good old chivalric days of yore,
And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair
A hag, surrounded by crockery-ware,
Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng,
A nasty decoction miscall'd "Souchong,"--
And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"
Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life!--
Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."
Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there,
Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!--
Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns,
Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns,"
Two or three damsels, frank and free,
Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.
Parties below, and parties above,
Some making tea, and some making love.
Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,--
The detestable din Of that cracked violin,
And the odours of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin!
"--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!"
And I said to the person who drove my "shay,"
(A very intelligent man, by the way,)
"This, all things considered, is rather too gay!
It don't suit my humour,--so take me away!
Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song!
If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,'
And I really consider it all very wrong.--
--Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"--
--He paused, and said, Scratching his head,
"Why, I really _do_ think he's a little to blame,
But I can't say I knows the Gentleman's name!"
"Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh,
And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye,
"My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt
That some day or other you'll find it out,
Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay,'
(As perhaps he may,) Be so good as to say
That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day,
Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,
Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,
And thus of their owner to speak began,
As he ordered you home in haste,
"NO DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN,
But--_I can't say much for his taste_."[36]
FOOTNOTES:
[34] In my mind's eye, Horatio!--HAMLET.
[35] About the middle of the last century a human skeleton
was discovered in a recess in the wall among the ruins of Netley. On
examination the bones were pronounced to be those of a female. _Teste_
James Harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver of Southampton,
who "well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that 'Somebody
told her so.'"
* * * * *
My very excellent brother-in-law, Seaforth, late of the Bombay
Fencibles (lucky dog to have quitted the service before this shocking
Afghan business!), seems to have been even more forcibly affected on
the evening when he so narrowly escaped being locked in at Westminster
Abbey, and when--but let him describe his own feelings, as he has
done, indeed, in the subjoined
FRAGMENT.
* * * * *
A feeling sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground
Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around:
I stepp'd with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal tread
Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the mighty
dead!
The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those cloisters
pale,
With fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured mail;
As from the stained and storied pane it danced with quivering
gleam,
Each cold and prostrate form below seem'd quickening in the beam.
Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell,
And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell:
It died--and not a breath did stir;--above each knightly stall,
Unmoved, the banner'd blazonry hung waveless as a pall.
I stood alone!--a living thing 'midst those that were no more--
I thought on ages past and gone--the glorious deeds of yore--
On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain,
The fatal roses twined at length--on great Eliza's reign.
I thought on Naseby--Marston Moor--on Worc'ster's "crowning
fight;"
When on mine ear a sound there fell--it chill'd me with affright,
As thus in low, unearthly tones I heard a voice begin,
"--This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!--Sir! please put summut
in!"
* * * * *
_Cætera desiderantur._
FOOTNOTES:
[36] Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes
de prospérités, avec un peu plus de goût!--_Gil Blas._
* * * * *
That Seaforth's nervous system was powerfully acted upon on this
occasion I can well believe. The circumstance brings to my recollection
a fearful adventure--or what might perhaps have proved one--of my own
in early life while grinding Gerunds at Canterbury. A sharp touch of
the gout, and the reputed sanatory qualities of a certain spring in
St. Peter's Street, then in much repute, had induced my Uncle to take
up a temporary abode within the Cathedral "Precinct." It was on one
of those temporary visits which I was sometimes permitted to pay on
half-holidays, that, in self-defence, I had to recount the following
true narrative. I may add, that this tradition is not yet worn out:
a small maimed figure of a female in a sitting position, and holding
something like a frying-pan in her hand, may still be seen on the
covered passage which crosses the Brick Walk, and adjoins the house
belonging to the sixth prebendal stall.--There are those, whom I
know, who would, even yet, hesitate at threading the Dark Entry on a
Friday--"not," _of course_, "that they believe one word about"
NELL COOK!!
A LEGEND OF THE "DARK ENTRY."
THE KING'S SCHOLAR'S STORY.
"From the 'Brick Walk' branches off to the right a long narrow
vaulted passage, paved with flagstones, vulgarly known by the name
of the 'Dark Entry.' Its eastern extremity communicates with the
cloisters, crypt, and, by a private stair-case, with the interior of
the Cathedral. On the west it opens into the 'Green-court,' forming a
communication between it and the portion of the 'Precinct' called the
'Oaks.'"--_A Walk round Canterbury_, etc.
Scene--A back parlour in Mr. John Ingoldsby's house in the
Precinct.--A blazing fire.--Mine Uncle is seated in a high-backed
easy-chair, twirling his thumbs, and contemplating his list
shoe.--Little Tom, the "King's Scholar," on a stool opposite.--Mrs.
John Ingoldsby at the table, busily employed in manufacturing
a cabbage-rose (cauliflower?) in many-coloured worsteds.--Mine
Uncle's meditations are interrupted by the French clock on the
mantelpiece.--He prologizeth with vivacity.
"Hark! listen, Mrs. Ingoldsby,--the clock is striking nine!
Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine,
And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring his coat,
And a warm bandana handkerchief to tie about his throat.
"And bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has said
That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed;
And well we know when little boys their coming home delay,
They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day!"
"--Nay, nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray,
Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way;
I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour,
It fears me quite--it's Friday night!--and then Nell Cook hath
pow'r!"
"And, who's Nell Cook, thou silly child?--and what's Nell Cook to
thee?
That thou shouldst dread at night to tread with Jane that dark
entrée?"
--"Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear! such fearsome things they
tell
Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell!"
"It was in bluff King Harry's day's,--and Monks and Friars were then,
You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen.
They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns,--no shirts,--and no
cravats;
And a cord was placed about their waist--they had no shovel hats!
"It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift,
And long before he stamped and swore, and cut the Pope adrift;
There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk;
He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry dark!
"The Canon was a portly man--of Latin and of Greek,
And learned lore, he had good store,--yet health was on his cheek.
The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye,
The beer was weak, yet he was sleek--he had a merry eye.
"For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin,
The Canon's house it stood without;--he kept good cheer within;
Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look,
And Ellen Bean ruled his _cuisine_.--He called her 'Nelly Cook!'
"For soups, and stews, and choice _ragouts_, Nell Cook was famous
still;
She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wond'rous skill:
Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely brown'd,
Her boil'd and roast, they were the boast of all the 'Precinct' round;
"And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air,
And earthward bent her modest look--yet she was passing fair;
And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave people shook:
--They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook.
"One day--'twas on a Whitsun-Eve--there come a coach and four;--
It pass'd the 'Green-Court' gate, and stopp'd before the Canon's door;
The travel-stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way,--
Each panting steed relax'd its speed--out stept a Lady gay.
"'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece,'--the Canon then did cry,
And to his breast the Lady prest--he had a merry eye,--
'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece! in sooth thou'rt welcome here,
'Tis many a day since we have met--how fares my Brother dear?'--
"'Now, thanks, my loving Uncle,' that Lady gay replied;
'Gramercy for thy benison!'--then 'Out, alas!' she sighed;
'My father dear he is not near; he seeks the Spanish Main;
He prays thee give me shelter here till he return again!'--
"'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece; come lay thy mantle by!'
The Canon kissed her ruby lip--he had a merry eye,--
But Nelly Cook askew did look,--it came into her mind
They were a little less than 'kin,' and rather more than 'kind.'
* * * * *
"Three weeks are gone and over--full three weeks and a day,
Yet still within the Canon's house doth dwell that Lady gay;
On capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare,
And they quaff good store of Bourdeaux wine,--so dainty is their fare.
"And fine upon the virginals is that gay Lady's touch,
And sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any such;
But is it '_O Sanctissima!_' she sings in dulcet tone?
Or '_Angels ever bright and fair_?'--Ah, no!--it's '_Bobbing Joan_!'
* * * * *
"The Canon's house is lofty, and spacious to the view;
The Canon's cell is ordered well--yet Nelly looks askew;
The Lady's bower is in the tower,--yet Nelly shakes her head--
She hides the poker and the tongs in that gay Lady's bed?
* * * * *
"Six weeks were gone and over--full six weeks and a day,
Yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay!
From which, I fear, it's pretty clear that Lady rest had none;
Or, if she slept in any bed--it was not in her own.
"But where that Lady pass'd her nights, I may not well divine,
Perhaps in pious oraisons at good St Thomas' Shrine,
And for her father far away breathed tender vows and true--
It may be so--I cannot say--but Nelly look'd askew.
"And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were lock'd in sleep,
She'd listen at the Canon's door,--she'd through the keyhole peep--
I know not what she heard or saw, but fury filled her eye--
--She bought some nasty Doctor's-stuff, and she put it in a pie!
* * * * *
"It was a glorious summer's-eve--with beams of rosy red
The Sun went down--all Nature smiled--but Nelly shook her head!
Full softly to the balmy breeze rang out the Vesper bell--
--Upon the Canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell!
"'Now here's to thee, mine Uncle! a health I drink to thee!
Now pledge me back in Sherris sack, or a cup of Malvoisie!'--
The Canon sigh'd--but rousing, cried, 'I answer to thy call,
And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal!'
"'Tis early dawn--the matin chime rings out for morning pray'r--
And Prior and Friar is in his stall--the Canon is not there!
Nor in the small Refect'ry hall, nor cloister'd walk is he--
All wonder--and the Sacristan says, 'Lauk-a-daisey-me!'
"They've searched the aisles and Baptistry--they've search'd
above--around--
The 'Sermon House'--the 'Audit Room'--the Canon is not found.
They only find that pretty Cook concocting a _ragout_,
They ask her where her master is--but Nelly looks askew!
"They call for crow-bars--'jemmies' is the modern name they bear--
They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar--but what a sight is
there!--
The Canon's head lies on the bed--his Niece lies on the floor!
--They are as dead as any nail that is in any door!
"The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back!
His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and black!--
The livid spot is on her cheek,--it's on her neck of snow,
And the Prior sighs, and sadly cries, 'Well!--here's a pretty Go!'
* * * * *
"All at the silent hour of night a bell is heard to toll,
A knell is rung, a _requiem_'s sung as for a sinful soul,
And there's a grave within the Nave, it's dark, and deep, and wide,
And they bury there a Lady fair, and a Canon by her side!
"An Uncle--so 'tis whisper'd now throughout the sacred fane,--
And a Niece--whose father's far away upon the Spanish Main--
The Sacristan, he says no word that indicates a doubt,
But he puts his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his fingers out!
"And where doth tarry Nelly Cook, that staid and comely lass?
Ay, where?--for ne'er from forth that door was Nelly known to pass.
Her coif, and gown of russet brown were lost unto the view,
And if you mention'd Nelly's name--the Monks all looked askew!
* * * * *
"There is a heavy paving-stone fast by the Canon's door,
Of granite grey, and it may weigh some half a ton or more,
And it is laid deep in the shade within that Entry dark,
Where sun or moonbeam never play'd, or e'en one starry spark.
"That heavy granite stone was moved that night, 'twas darkly said,
And the mortar round its sides next morn seem'd fresh and newly laid;
But what within the narrow vault beneath that stone doth lie,
Or if that there be vault, or no--I cannot tell--not I!
"But I've been told that moan and groan, and fearful wail and shriek
Came from beneath that paving-stone for nearly half a week--
For three long days and three long nights came forth those sounds of
fear;
Then all was o'er--they never more fell on the listening ear.
* * * * *
"A hundred years were gone and past since last Nell Cook was seen,
When, worn by use that stone got loose, and they went and told the
Dean.--
--Says the Dean, says he, 'My Masons three! now haste and fix it
tight;'
And the Masons three peep'd down to see, and they saw a fearsome
sight.
"Beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they found--
It was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve feet round;
--A fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well!
But who the deuce 'twas put it there those Masons could not tell.
"And near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie,
And a mouldy piece of 'kissing crust,' as from a warden-pie!
And Doctor Jones declared the bones were female bones and, 'Zooks!
I should not be surprised,' said he, 'if these were Nelly Cook's!'
"It was in good Dean Bargrave's days, if I remember right,
Those fleshless bones beneath the stones these Masons brought to
light;
And you may well in the 'Dean's Chapelle' Dean Bargrave's portrait
view,
'Who died one night,' says old Tom Wright, 'in sixteen forty-two!'
"And so two hundred years have passed since that these Masons three,
With curious looks, did set Nell Cook's unquiet spirit free;
That granite stone had kept her down till then--so some suppose,--
--Some spread their fingers out, and put their thumb unto their nose.
"But one thing's clear--that all the year on every Friday night,
Throughout that Entry dark doth roam Nell Cook's unquiet Sprite:
On Friday was that Warden-pie all by that Canon tried;
On Friday died he, and that tidy Lady by his side!
"And though two hundred years have flown, Nell Cook doth still pursue
Her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may rue;
Her fatal breath is fell as death! the Simoom's blast is not
More dire--(a wind in Africa that blows uncommon hot).
"But all unlike the Simoom's blast, her breath is deadly cold,
Delivering quivering, shivering shocks unto both young and old,
And whoso in that Entry dark doth feel that fatal breath,
He ever dies within the year some dire, untimely death!
"No matter who--no matter what condition, age, or sex,
But some 'get shot,' and some 'get drown'd,' and some 'get' broken
necks;
Some 'get run over' by a coach;--and one beyond the seas
'Got' scraped to death with oyster-shells among the Caribbees!
"Those Masons three, who set her free, fell first!--it is averred
That two were hang'd on Tyburn tree for murdering of the third:
Charles Storey,[37] too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth they
tell,
Been gibbeted on Chartham Downs, had they not met with Nell!
"Then send me not, mine Uncle dear, oh! send me not, I pray,
Back through that Entry dark to-night, but round some other way!
I will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book,
For Heaven forfend that ever I foregather with Nell Cook!"
* * * * *
The class was call'd at morning tide, and Master Tom was there;
He look'd askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and chair.
He did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his eye,--
He had not e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and cry.
Hence little boys may learn, when they from school go out to dine,
They should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by nine;
For if when they've their great-coat on, they pause before they part
To tell a long and prosy tale,--perchance their own may smart!
MORAL.
--A few remarks to learned Clerks in country and in town--
Don't keep a pretty serving-maid, though clad in russet brown!--
Don't let your Niece sing "Bobbing Joan!"--don't with a merry eye,
Hob-nob in Sack and Malvoisie,--and don't eat too much pie!!
And oh! beware that Entry dark,--especially at night,--
And don't go there with Jenny Smith all by the pale moonlight!--
So bless the Queen and her Royal Weans,--and the Prince whose hand
she took,--
And bless us all, both great and small.--and keep us from Nell Cook!
[Illustration: THE DARK ENTRY]
FOOTNOTES:
[37] In or about the year 1780, a worthy of this name cut the
throat of a journeyman paper-maker, was executed on Oaten Hill, and
afterwards hung in chains near the scene of his crime. It was to this
place, as being the extreme boundary of the City's jurisdiction, that
the worthy Mayor with so much _naïveté_ wished to escort Archbishop
M---- on one of his progresses, when he begged to have the honour of
"attending his Grace _as far as the Gallows_."
* * * * *
Kind, good-hearted, gouty Uncle John! how well I remember all the
kindness and affection which my mischievous propensities so ill
repaid--his bright blue coat and resplendent gilt buttons--his "frosty
pow" _si bien poudré_--his little quill-like pigtail!--Of all my
praiseworthy actions--they were "like angels visits, few and far
between"--the neverfailing and munificent rewarder; of my naughty
deeds--they were multitudinous as the sands on the seashore--the
ever-ready palliator; my intercessor, and sometimes even my defender
against punishment, "staying harsh justice in its mid career!"--Poor
Uncle John! he will ever rank among the dearest of my
NURSERY REMINISCENCES.
I remember, I remember,
When I was a little Boy,
One fine morning in September
Uncle brought me home a toy.
I remember how he patted
Both my cheeks in kindliest mood;
"Then," said he, "you little Fat-head,
There's a top because you're good!"
Grandmama--a shrewd observer--
I remember gazed upon
My new top, and said with fervour,
"Oh! how kind of Uncle John!"
While Mama, my form caressing,--
In her eye the tear-drop stood,
Read me this fine moral lesson,
"See what comes of being good!"
* * * * *
I remember, I remember,
On a wet and windy day,
One cold morning in December,
I stole out and went to play;
I remember Billy Hawkins
Came, and with his pewter squirt
Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings
Till they were all over dirt!
To my mother for protection
I ran, quaking every limb:
--She exclaimed, with fond affection,
"Gracious Goodness! look at _him_!"--
Pa cried, when he saw my garment,
--'Twas a newly-purchased dress--
"Oh! you nasty little _Warment_,
How came you in such a mess?"
Then he caught me by the collar,
--Cruel only to be kind--
And to my exceeding dolour,
Gave me--several slaps behind.
Grandmama, while yet I smarted,
As she saw my evil plight,
Said--'twas rather stony-hearted--
"Little rascal! _sarve_ him right!"
I remember, I remember,
From that sad and solemn day,
Never more in dark December
Did I venture out to play.
And the moral, which they taught, I
Well remember; thus they said--
"Little Boys, when they are naughty,
Must be whipped and sent to bed!"
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Poor Uncle John!
"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well,"
in the old family vault in Denton chancel--and dear Aunt Fanny
too!--the latter also "loo'd me weel," as the Scotch song has
it,--and since, at this moment, I am in a most soft and sentimental
humour--(--whisky toddy should ever be made by pouring the _boiling_
fluid--_hotter_ if possible--upon the thinnest lemon-peel,--and
then--but everybody knows "what _then_--") I dedicate the following
"True History" to my beloved
AUNT FANNY.
A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.
Virginibus, Puerisque canto.--HOR.
Old Maids, and Bachelors I chaunt to!--T. I.
I sing of a Shirt that _never was_ new!
In the course of the year Eighteen hundred and two,
Aunt Fanny began, Upon Grandmama's plan,
To make one for me, then her "dear little man."--
--At the epoch I speak about, I was between
A man and a boy, A hobble-de-hoy,
A fat, little, punchy concern of sixteen,--
Just beginning to flirt, And ogle,--so pert,
I'd been whipt every day had I had my desert,
--And Aunt Fan volunteer'd to make me a shirt!
I've said she _began_ it,-- Some unlucky planet
No doubt interfered,--for, before she, and Janet
Completed the "cutting-out," "hemming," and "stitching,"
A tall Irish footman appear'd in the kitchen;--
--This took off the maid,-- And, I'm sadly afraid,
My respected Aunt Fanny's attention, too, stray'd;
For, about the same period, a gay son of Mars,
Cornet Jones of the Tenth (then the Prince's) Hussars,
With his fine dark eyelashes, And finer moustaches,
And the ostrich plume work'd on the corps' sabre-taches,
(I say nought of the gold-and-red cord of the sashes,
Or the boots far above the Guards' vile spatterdashes,)--
So eyed, and so sigh'd, and so lovingly tried
To engage her whole ear as he lounged by her side,
Looking down on the rest with such dignified pride,
That she made up her mind She should certainly find
Cornet Jones at her feet, whisp'ring, "Fan, be my bride!"--
--She had even resolved to say "Yes" should he ask it,
--And I--and my Shirt--were both left in the basket.
To her grief and dismay She discover'd one day
Cornet Jones of the Tenth was a little too gay;
For, besides that she saw him--he could not say nay--
Wink at one of the actresses capering away
In a Spanish _bolero_, one night at the play,
She found he'd already a wife at Cambray;--
One at Paris,--a nymph of the _corps de ballet_;--
And a third down in Kent, at a place call'd Foot's Cray.--
He was "viler than dirt!"-- Fanny vow'd to exert
All her powers to forget him,--and finish my Shirt.
But, oh! lack-a-day! How time slips away!--
Who'd have thought that while Cupid was playing these tricks,
Ten years had elapsed, and--I'd turn'd twenty-six?--
"I care not a whit, --He's not grown a bit,"
Says my Aunt, "it will still be a very good fit."
So Janet, and She, Now about thirty-three,
(The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee,)
Each taking one end of "the Shirt" on her knee,
Again began working with hearty good will,
"Felling the Seams," and "whipping the Frill,"--
For, twenty years since, though the Ruffle had vanish'd,
A Frill like a fan had by no means been banish'd;
People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches,
Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches.--
Now, then, by these two thus laying their caps
Together, my "Shirt" had been finish'd, perhaps,
But for one of those queer little three-corner'd straps,
Which the ladies call "Side-bits," that sever the "Flaps;"
--Here unlucky Janet Took her needle, and ran it
Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, "Ads cuss it!
I've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset!"
For a month to come Poor dear Janet's thumb
Was in that sort of state vulgar people call "Rum."
At the end of that time, A youth, still in his prime,
The Doctor's fat Errand-boy,--just such a dolt as is
Kept to mix draughts, and spread plaisters and poultices,--
Who a bread-cataplasm each morning had carried her,
Sigh'd,--ogled,--proposed,--was accepted,--and married her!
Much did Aunt Fan Disapprove of the plan;--
She turn'd up her dear little snub at "the Man."
She "could not believe it"-- "Could scarcely conceive it
Was possible--What! _such_ a place!--and then leave it!--
And all for a 'Shrimp' not as high as my hat--
A little contemptible 'Shaver' like that!!
With a broad pancake face, and eyes buried in fat!"
--For her part, "She was sure She could never endure
A lad with a lisp, and a leg like a skewer.--
Such a name too!--('twas Potts!)--and so nasty a trade--
No, no,--she would much rather die an old maid!--
He a husband, indeed!--Well--mine, come what may come,
Shan't look like a blister, or smell of Guaiacum!"--
But there! She'd "declare, It was Janet's affair--
--_Chacun à son goût_-- As she baked she might brew--
She could not prevent her--'twas no use in trying it--
Oh, no--she had made her own bed, and might lie in it.--
They 'repent at leisure who marry at random.'
No matter--_De gustibus non disputandum!_"
Consoling herself with this choice bit of Latin,
Aunt Fanny resignedly bought some white satin,
And, as the Soubrette Was a very great pet
After all,--she resolved to forgive and forget,
And sat down to make her a bridal rosette,
With magnificent bits of some white-looking metal
Stuck in, here and there, each forming a petal.--
--On such an occasion one couldn't feel hurt,
Of course, that she ceased to remember--my Shirt!
Ten years,--or nigh,-- Had again gone by,
When Fan, accidentally casting her eye
On a dirty old work-basket, hung up on high
In the store-closet where herbs were put by to dry,
Took it down to explore it--she didn't know why.--
Within, a pea-soup colour'd fragment she spied,
Of the hue of a November fog in Cheapside,
Or a bad piece of gingerbread spoilt in the baking.--
--I still hear her cry,-- "I wish I may die
If here isn't Tom's Shirt, that's been so long a-making!
My gracious me! Well,--only to see!
I declare it's as yellow as yellow can be!
Why, it looks just as though't had been soak'd in green tea.
Dear me! _Did_ you _ever_?-- But come--'twill be clever
To bring matters round; so I'll do my endeavour--
'Better Late,' says an excellent proverb, 'than Never!'--
It _is_ stain'd, to be sure; but 'grass-bleaching' will bring it
To rights 'in a jiffy,'--We'll wash it, and wring it;
Or, stay,--'Hudson's Liquor' Will do it still quicker,
And--" Here the new maid chimed in, "Ma'am, Salt of Lemon
Will make it, in no time, quite fit for the Gemman!"--
So they "set in the gathers,"--the large round the collar,
While those at the wrist-bands of course were much smaller,--
The button-holes now were at length "overcast;"
Then a button itself was sewn on--'twas the last!
All's done! All's won! Never under the sun
Was Shirt so late finish'd--so early begun!--
--The work would defy The most critical eye.
It was "bleach'd,"--it was wash'd,--it was hung out to dry,--
It was mark'd on the tail with a T, and an I!
On the back of a chair it Was placed, just to air it,
In front of the fire.--"Tom to-morrow shall wear it!"--
-_O cæca mens hominum!_--Fanny, good soul,
Left her charge for one moment--but one--a vile coal
Bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole!
* * * * *
Had it been Doctor Arnott's new stove--not a grate;--
Had the coal been a "Lord Mayor's coal,"--viz.: a slate;--
What a diff'rent tale had I had to relate!
And Aunt Fan--and my Shirt--been superior to Fate!--
One moment--no more! --Fan open'd the door!
The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before;
And Aunt Fanny sank down--in despair--on the floor!
You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement,
When, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement,
She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing,
And, losing at once all restraint on her temper, or
Feelings, exclaimed, "Hang that Scamp of an Emperor,
Although he's my son!-- --He thinks it prime fun,
No doubt!--While the flames are demolishing Rome,
There's my Nero a-fiddling, and singing 'Sweet Home!'"
--Stay--I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said
The words I've put down, as she stepp'd into bed,--
On reflection, I rather believe _she_ was dead;
But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I
Never was very precise in Chronology;
So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a
Mistake of no very great moment--in fine, a
Mere slip--'twas some Pleb's wife, if not Agrippina.
You may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony,
Whom thirty years since we all used to call BONEY,
When, engaged in what he styled "fulfilling his destinies,"
He led his rapscallions across the Borysthenes,
And had made up his mind Snug quarters to find
In Moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs
Which are apt to prevail 'mongst the "Owskis" and "Offs,"
At a time of the year When your nose and your ear
Are by no means so safe there as people's are here,
Inasmuch as "Jack Frost," that most fearful of Bogles,
Makes folks leave their cartilage oft in their "fogles."
You may fancy, I say, That same BONEY'S dismay,
When Count Rostopchin At once made him drop chin,
And turn up his eyes, as his rapee he took,
With a sort of a _mort-de-ma-vie_ kind of look,
On perceiving that "Swing," And "all that sort of thing,"
Was at work,--that he'd just lost the game without knowing it--
That the Kremlin was blazing--the Russians "a going it,"--
Every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground,
And never a Turn-cock at all to be found!
You may fancy King Charles at some Court Fancy-Ball,
(The date we may fix In Sixteen sixty-six,)
In the room built by Inigo Jones at Whitehall,
Whence his father, the Martyr,--(as such mourn'd by all
Who, in _his_, wept the Law's and the Monarchy's fall,)--
Stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall--
You may fancy King Charles, I say, stopping the brawl,[38]
As bursts on his sight the old church of St. Paul,
By the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl
From basement to buttress, and topping its wall--
--You may fancy old Clarendon making a call,
And stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl,
"Sire, from Pudding Lane's End, close by Fishmongers' Hall,
To Pye Corner, in Smithfield, there is not a stall
There, in market, or street,--not a house, great or small,
In which Knight wields his faulchion, or Cobbler his awl,
But's on fire!!"--You may fancy the general squall,
And bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl!--
--You may fancy all this--but I boldly assert
You _can't_ fancy Aunt Fan--as she looked on MY SHIRT!!!
Was't Apelles? or Zeuxis?--I think 'twas Apelles,
That artist of old--I declare I can't tell his
Exact patronymic--I write and pronounce ill
These Classical names--Whom some Grecian Town-Council
Employ'd--I believe, by command of the Oracle,--
To produce them a splendid piece, purely historical,
For adorning the wall Of some fane, or Guildhall,
And who for his subject determined to try a
Large painting in oils of Miss Iphigenia
At the moment her Sire, By especial desire
Of "that Spalpeen, O'Dysseus" (see Barney Maguire),
Has resolved to devote Her beautiful throat
To old Chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire;
--An act which we moderns by no means admire,--
An off'ring, 'tis true, to Jove, Mars, or Apollo cost
No trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust,--
Still, although for economy we should condemn none,
In an αναξ ανδρων, like the great Agamemnon,
To give up to slaughter An elegant daughter,
After all the French, Music, and Dancing they'd taught her,
And Singing,--at Heaven knows how much a quarter,--
In lieu of a Calf!-- It was too bad by half!
At a "nigger"[39] so pitiful who would not laugh,
And turn up their noses at one who could find
No decenter method of "Raising the Wind"?
No doubt but he might, Without any great _Flight_,
Have obtain'd it by what we call "flying a kite."
Or on mortgage--or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he
Must have succeeded "by way of annuity."
But there--it appears, His crocodile tears,
His "Oh!s" and his "Ah!s" his "Oh Law!s" and "Oh dear!s"
Were all thought sincere,--so in painting his Victim
The Artist was splendid--but could not depict _Him_.
His features, and phiz awry Shewed so much misery,
And so like a dragon he Look'd in his agony,
That the foil'd Painter buried--despairing to gain a
Good likeness--his face in a printed Bandana.
--Such a veil is best thrown o'er one's face when one's hurt
By some grief which no power can repair or avert!--
--Such a veil I shall throw o'er Aunt Fan--and My Shirt!
MORAL.
And now for some practical hints from the story
Of Aunt Fan's mishap, which I've thus laid before ye;
For, if rather too gay, I can venture to say
A fine vein of morality is, in each lay
Of my primitive Muse, the distinguishing _trait_!--
First of all--Don't put off till to-morrow what may,
Without inconvenience, be managed to-day!
That golden occasion we call "Opportunity"
Rarely's neglected by man with impunity!
And the "Future," how brightly soe'er by Hope's dupe colour'd,
Ne'er may afford You a lost chance restored,
Till both you, and YOUR SHIRT, are grown old,
and pea-soup-colour'd!You to guard your attire,
Young Ladies,--and never go too near the fire!--
--Depend on't there's many a dear little Soul
Has found that a Spark is as bad as a coal,--
And "in her best petticoat burnt a great hole!"
Last of all, gentle Reader, don't be too secure!--
Let seeming success never make you "cock-sure!"
But beware!--and take care, When all things look fair,
How you hang your Shirt over the back of your chair!--
--"There's many a slip 'Twixt the cup and the lip!"
Be this excellent proverb, then, well understood,
And DON'T HALLOO BEFORE YOU'RE QUITE OUT OF THE WOOD!!!
FOOTNOTES:
[38] Not a "row," but a dance--
"The brave Lord Keeper led the _brawls_,
The seals and maces danced before him."--GRAY.
And truly Sir Christopher danced to some tune.
[39] Hibernicè "nigger," _quasi_ "niggard." _Vide_ B. Maguire
_passim_.
* * * * *
It is to my excellent and erudite friend, Simpkinson, that I am
indebted for his graphic description of the well-known chalk-pit,
between Acol and Minster, in the Isle of Thanet, known by the name
of the "Smuggler's Leap." The substance of the true history attached
to it he picked up while visiting that admirable institution, the
"Sea-Bathing Infirmary," of which he is a "Life Governor," and enjoying
his _otium cum dignitate_ last summer at the least aristocratic of all
possible watering-places.
Before I proceed to detail it, however, I cannot, in conscience, fail
to bespeak for him the reader's sympathy in one of his own
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.
A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.
MR. SIMPKINSON _loquitur_.
'Twas in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said, "What make you here?--
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;"
Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"
He frowned, that little vulgar Boy,--he deem'd I meant to scoff--
And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;"
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,--
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!
"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking Nine," I said,
"An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh! fie!--
It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"
The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbb'd with agony,--he cried like any thing!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur--"Ah!
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!!--
"My father, he is on the seas,--my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor '_brown_' to buy a bit of bread with--let alone a tart!
"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;)
"And, now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent
To jump, as Master Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"
"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said,
"You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,
Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!
"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up--
There's roast potatoes at the fire,--enough for me and you--
Come home, you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2."
I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy,"
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,--
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"
But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf,
Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"
I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb--[40]
I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")--
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child--
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"
When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair--
I could not see my little friend--because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too--
I said, "You little vulgar Boy! why, what's become of you?"
I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;
--I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear!
I know 'twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.
I could not see my Macintosh--it was not to be seen!--
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;
My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,--
My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy!
I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
"--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what _do_ you think?--ain't this a pretty go?--
--That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night,
--He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you
right!!"
* * * * *
Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round,
All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried, "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"
I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a Common-sailor-man a-walking up and down,
I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well,
And call'd me "Poor old Buffer!"--what that means I cannot tell.
That Sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me! what could he mean?
With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with
green.
He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer,"
--It's very odd that Sailor-men should talk so very queer--
And then he hitched his trousers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
--It's very odd that Sailor-men should wear those things so loose.
I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning, swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George, about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, "some_wheres_" about the Nore.
A landsman said, "I _twig_ the chap--he's been upon the Mill--
And 'cause he _gammons_ so the _flats_, ve calls him Veeping Bill!"
He said he'd "done me wery brown," and nicely "_stow'd_ the _swag_,"
--That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.
I went and told the constable my property to track;
He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?"
I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I'm come about."
He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"
Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown."
His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out,
But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."
He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag,"
My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ;
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
MORAL.
Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell,
"BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!"
Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fixed abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"
Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop, and ring the bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!
FOOTNOTES:
[40] QUI FACIT PER ALIUM FACIT PER SE--Deem not, gentle stranger, that
Mr. Cobb is a petty dealer and chapman, as Mr. Simpkinson would here
seem to imply. He is a _maker_, not a retailer of stingo,--and mighty
pretty tipple he _makes_.
* * * * *
And now for his Legend, which, if the facts took place rather beyond
"the memory of the oldest inhabitant," are yet well known to have
occurred in the neighbourhood "once on a time;" and the scene of
them will be readily pointed out by any one of the fifty intelligent
fly-drivers who ply upon the pier, and who will convey you safely to
the spot for a guerdon which they term "three bob."
THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP.
A LEGEND OF THANET.
"Near this hamlet (Acol) is a long-disused chalk-pit of formidable
depth, known by the name of "The Smuggler's leap." The tradition of
the parish runs, that a riding-officer from Sandwich, called Anthony
Gill, lost his life here in the early part of the present (last)
century, while in pursuit of a smuggler. A fog coming on, both parties
went over the precipice. The smuggler's horse _only_, it is said, was
found crushed beneath its rider. The spot has, of course, been haunted
ever since."
_See "Supplement to Lewis's History of Thanet, by the Rev. Samuel
Pegge, A.M., Vicar of Gomersham." W. Bristow, Canterbury, 1796, p.
127._
The fire-flash shines from Reculver cliff,
And the answering light burns blue in the skiff,
And there they stand That smuggling band,
Some in the water, and some on the sand,
Ready those contraband goods to land;
The night is dark, they are silent and still,
--At the head of the party is Smuggler Bill!
"Now lower away! come, lower away!
We must be far ere the dawn of the day.
If Exciseman Gill should get scent of the prey,
And should come, and should catch us here, what would he say?
Come, lower away, lads--once on the hill,
We'll laugh, ho! ho! at Exciseman Gill!"
The cargo's lower'd from the dark skiff's side,
And the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide,
No trick nor flam, But your real Schiedam.
"Now mount, my merry men, mount and ride!"
Three on the crupper and one before,
And the led-horse laden with five tubs more;
But the rich point-lace, In the oil-skin case
Of proof to guard its contents from ill,
The "prime of the swag," is with Smuggler Bill!
Merrily now, in a goodly row,
Away, and away, those smugglers go,
And they laugh at Exciseman Gill, ho! ho!
When out from the turn Of the road to Herne,
Comes Gill, wide awake to the whole concern!
Exciseman Gill, in all his pride,
With his Custom-house officers all at his side;
--They were called Custom-house officers then;
There were no such things as "Preventive men."
_Sauve qui peut!_ That lawless crew,
Away, and away, and away they flew!
Some dropping one tub, some dropping two:--
Some gallop this way, and some gallop that,
Through Fordwich Level--o'er Sandwich Flat,
Some fly that way, and some fly this,
Like a covey of birds when the sportsmen miss;
These in their hurry Make for Sturry,
With Custom-house officers close in their rear,
Down Rushbourne Lane, and so by Westbere,
None of them stopping, But shooting and popping,
And many a Custom-house bullet goes slap
Through many a three-gallon tub like a tap,
And the gin spirts out, And squirts all about,
And many a heart grew sad that day
That so much good liquor was so thrown away.
_Sauve qui peut!_ That lawless crew,
Away, and away, and away they flew!
Some seek Whitstable--some Grove Ferry,
Spurring and whipping like madmen--very--
For the life! for the life! they ride! they ride!
And the Custom-house officers all divide,
And they gallop on after them far and wide!
All, all, save one--Exciseman Gill,--
He sticks to the skirts of Smuggler Bill!
Smuggler Bill is six feet high,
He has curling locks, and a roving eye,
He has a tongue, and he has a smile
Train'd the female heart to beguile,
And there is not a farmer's wife in the Isle,
From St. Nicholas quite To the Foreland Light,
But that eye, and that tongue, and that smile will wheedle her
To have done with the Grocer, and make _him_ her Tea-dealer;
There is not a farmer there but he still
Buys gin and tobacco from Smuggler Bill.
Smuggler Bill rides gallant and gay
On his dapple-grey mare, away, and away,
And he pats her neck, and he seems to say,
"Follow who will, ride after who may,
In sooth he had need Fodder his steed,
In lieu of Lent-corn, with a Quicksilver feed;
--Nor oats, nor beans, nor the best of old hay,
Will make him a match for my own dapple-grey!
Ho! ho!--ho! ho!" says Smuggler Bill--
He draws out his flask, and he sips his fill,
And he laughs "Ho! ho!" at Exciseman Gill.
Down Chistlett Lane, so free and so fleet
Rides Smuggler Bill, and away to Up-street;--
Sarre Bridge is won-- Bill thinks it fun;
"Ho! ho! the old tub-gauging son of a gun--
His wind will be thick, and his breeks be thin,
Ere a race like this he may hope to win!"
Away, away Goes the fleet dapple-grey,
Fresh as the breeze, and free as the wind,
And Exciseman Gill lags far behind.
"_I would give my soul_," quoth Exciseman Gill,
"For a nag that would catch that Smuggler Bill!--
No matter for blood, no matter for bone,
No matter for colour, bay, brown, or roan,
So I had but one!"-- A voice cried "Done!"
"Ay, dun," said Exciseman Gill,--and he spied
A custom-house officer close by his side,
On a high-trotting horse with a dun-coloured hide.--
"_Devil take me_," again quoth Exciseman Gill,
"If I had but that horse, I'd have Smuggler Bill!"
From his using such shocking expressions, it's plain
That Exciseman Gill was rather profane.
He was, it is true, As bad as a Jew,
A sad old scoundrel as ever you knew,
And he rode in his stirrups sixteen stone two.
--He'd just utter'd the words which I've mention'd to you,
When his horse, coming slap on his knees with him, threw
Him head over heels, and away he flew,
And Exciseman Gill was bruised black and blue.
When he arose, His hands and his clothes
Were as filthy as could be,--he'd pitch'd on his nose,
And roll'd over and over again in the mud,
And his nose and his chin were all covered with blood;
Yet he scream'd with passion, "I'd rather _grill_
Than not come up with that Smuggler Bill!"
--"Mount! Mount!" quoth the Custom-house officer, "get
On the back of my Dun, you'll bother him yet.
Your words are plain, though they're somewhat rough,
'Done and Done' between gentlemen's always enough!--
I'll lend you a lift--there--you're up on him--so,--
He's a rum one to look at--_a devil to go!_"
Exciseman Gill Dash'd up the hill,
And mark'd not, so eager was he in pursuit,
The queer Custom-house officer's queer-looking boot.
Smuggler Bill rides on amain,
He slacks not girth--and he draws not rein,
Yet the dapple-grey mare bounds on in vain,
For nearer now--and he hears it plain--
Sounds the tramp of a horse--"'Tis the Gauger again!"
Smuggler Bill Dashes round by the mill
That stands near the road upon Monkton Hill,--
"Now speed,--now speed, My dapple-grey steed,
Thou ever, my dapple, wert good at need!
O'er Monkton Mead, and through Minster Level,
We'll baffle him yet, be he gauger or devil!
For Manston Cave, away! away!
Now speed thee, now speed thee, my good dapple-grey!
It shall never be said that Smuggler Bill
Was run down like a hare by Exciseman Gill!"
Manston Cave was Bill's abode;
A mile to the north of the Ramsgate Road,
(Of late they say It's been taken away,
That is, levell'd, and filled up with chalk and clay,
By a gentleman there of the name of Day,)
Thither he urges his good dapple-grey;
And the dapple-grey steed, Still good at need,
Though her chest it pants, and her flanks they bleed,
Dashes along at the top of her speed;
But nearer and nearer Exciseman Gill
Cries "Yield thee! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill!"
Smuggler Bill, he looks behind,
And he sees a Dun horse come swift as the wind,
And his nostrils smoke, and his eyes they blaze
Like a couple of lamps on a yellow post-chaise!
Every shoe he has got Appears red-hot!
And sparks round his ears snap, crackle, and play,
And his tail cocks up in a very odd way,
Every hair in his mane seems a porcupine's quill,
And there on his back sits Exciseman Gill,
Crying "Yield thee! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill!"
Smuggler Bill from his holster drew
A large horse-pistol, of which he had two,
Made by Nock; He pull'd back the cock
As far as he could to the back of the lock;
The trigger he touch'd, and the welkin rang
To the sound of the weapon, it made such a bang;
Smuggler Bill ne'er miss'd his aim,
The shot told true on the Dun--but there came
From the hole where it enter'd,--not blood,--but flame!
--He changed his plan, And fired at the man;
But his second horse-pistol flashed in the pan!
And Exciseman Gill, with a hearty good will,
Made a grab at the collar of Smuggler Bill.
The dapple-grey mare made a desperate bound
When that queer Dun horse on her flank she found,
Alack! and alas! on what dangerous ground!
It's enough to make one's flesh to creep
To stand on that fearful verge, and peep
Down the rugged sides so dreadfully steep,
Where the chalk-hole yawns full sixty feet deep,
O'er which that steed took that desperate leap!
It was so dark then under the trees,
No horse in the world could tell chalk from cheese--
Down they went--o'er that terrible fall,--
Horses, Exciseman, Smuggler, and all!!
Below were found Next day on the ground,
By an elderly Gentleman walking his round,
(I wouldn't have seen such a sight for a pound,)
All smash'd and dash'd, three mangled corses,
Two of them human,--the third was a horse's,--
That good dapple-grey,--and Exciseman Gill
Yet grasping the collar of Smuggler Bill!
But where was the Dun? that terrible Dun?--
From that terrible night he was seen by none!--
There are some people think, though I am not one,
That part of the story all nonsense and fun,
But the country-folks there, One and all, declare,
When the "Crowner's 'Quest" came to sit on the pair,
They heard a loud Horse-laugh up in the air!--
--If in one of the trips Of the steam-boat Eclipse
You should go down to Margate to look at the ships,
Or to take what the bathing-room people call "Dips,"
You may hear old folks talk
Of that quarry of chalk;
Or go over--it's rather too far for a walk,
But a three shilling drive will give you a peep
At that fearful chalk-pit--so awfully deep,
Which is call'd to this moment "The Smuggler's Leap!"
Nay more, I am told, on a moonshiny night,
If you're "plucky," and not over-subject to fright,
And go and look over that chalk-pit white,
You may see, if you will, The Ghost of Old Gill
Grappling the Ghost of Smuggler Bill,
And the Ghost of the dapple-grey lying between 'em.--
I'm told so--I can't say I know one who's seen 'em!
MORAL.
And now, gentle Reader, one word ere we part,
Just take a friend's counsel, and lay it to heart.
_Imprimis_, don't smuggle!--if, bent to please Beauty,
You _must_ buy French lace,--purchase what has paid duty!
Don't use naughty words, in the next place,--and ne'er in
Your language adopt a bad habit of swearing!
Never say "Devil take me!"--
Or, "shake me!"--or, "bake me!"
Or such-like expressions.--Remember Old Nick
To take folks at their word is remarkably quick.
Another sound maxim I'd wish you to keep,
Is, "Mind what you are after, and--Look ere you Leap!"
Above all, to my last gravest caution attend--
NEVER BORROW A HORSE YOU DON'T KNOW OF A FRIEND!!!
* * * * *
For the story which succeeds I am indebted to Mrs. Botherby. She is
a Shropshire Lady by birth, and I overheard her, a few weeks since,
in the nursery, chaunting the following, one of the Legends peculiar
to her native County, for the amusement and information of Seaforth's
little boy, who was indeed "all ears." As Ralph de Diceto, who alludes
to the main facts, was Dean of St. Paul's in 1183, about the time
that the Temple Church was consecrated, the history is evidently as
ancient as it is authentic, though the author of the present paraphrase
has introduced many unauthorized, as well as "anachronismatical
interpolations."--For the interesting note on the ancient family of
Ketch, I need scarcely say, I am obliged to _the_ Simpkinson.
Bloudie Jacke of Shrewsberrie,
THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD.
A LEGEND OF "THE PROUD SALOPIANS."
Hisce ferè temporibus, in agro Salopiensi, Quidam, cui nomen Johannes,
~Le Sanglaunt~ deinde nuncupatus, uxores quamplurimas ducit,
enecat et (ita referunt) manducat; ossa solùm cani miræ magnitudinis
relinquens. Tùm demùm in flagrante delicto, vel "manu rubrâ," ut
dicunt Jurisconsulti, deprensus, carnifice vix opprimitur.--RADULPHUS
DE DICETO.
Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright,
~Bloudie Jacke~?
Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright?--
The Mother's at home, The Maid may not roam,
She never will meet thee to-night!
By the light
Of the moon--it's impossible--quite!
Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
It gleams with a fiendish delight--
"'Tis done-- She is won! Nothing under the sun
Can loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight!
Ho! ho!
It fits so remarkably tight!"--
The wire is as thin as a thread,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
The wire is as thin as a thread!--
"Though slight be the chain, Again might and main
Cannot rend it in twain--She is wed!
She is wed!
She is mine, be she living or dead!
Haw! haw!!"--
Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!
Though sweet is thy smile The heart to beguile,
Yet thy laugh is quite shocking to hear,
O dear!
It makes the blood curdle with fear!
The Maiden is gone by the glen,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She is gone by the glen and the wood--
It's a very odd thing She should wear such a ring,
While her tresses are bound with a snood.
By the rood!
It's a thing that's not well understood!
The Maiden is stately and tall,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And stately she walks in her pride;
But the Young Mary-Anne Runs as fast as she can,
To o'ertake her, and walk by her side:
Though she chide--
She deems not her sister a bride!
But the Maiden is gone by the glen,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Mary-Anne she is gone by the lea;
She o'ertakes not her sister, It's clear she has miss'd her,
And cannot think where she can be!
Dear me!
"Ho! ho!--We shall see--we shall see!"
Mary-Anne is gone over the lea,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower;
But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail,
A deal more than a fair Lady's bower,
So sour
Its ugly grey walls seem to lour.
For the Barbican's massy and high,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the oak-door is heavy and brown,
And with iron it's plated And machecollated,
To pour boiling oil and lead down;
How you'd frown
Should a ladle-full fall on your crown!
The rock that it stands on is steep,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
To gain it one's forced for to creep;
The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long,
And the water runs all round the Keep;
At a peep
You can see that the Moat's very deep!
The Drawbridge is long, but it's down,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the Portcullis hangs in the air;
And no Warder is near With his horn and his spear,
To give notice when people come there.--
I declare
Mary-Anne has run into the square!
The oak-door is heavy and brown,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
But the oak-door is standing ajar,
And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair,
You seem tired, Miss, with running so far--
So you are--
With grown people you're scarce on a par!"
But the young Mary-Anne is _not_ tired,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She roams o'er your Tower by herself;
She runs through, very soon, Each boudoir and saloon,
And examines each closet and shelf,
Your pelf,
All your plate, and your china--and delf.
She looks at your Arras so fine,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
So rich, all description it mocks;
And she now and then pauses To gaze at the vases,
Your pictures, and or-molu clocks;
Every box,
Every cupboard, and drawer she unlocks.
She looks at the paintings so rare,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
That adorn every wall in your house;
Your _impayable_ pieces, Your Paul Veroneses,
Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows,
Moreland's Cows,
Claude's Landscapes,--and Landseer's Bow-wows.
She looks at your Statues so fine,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And mighty great notice she takes
Of your Niobe crying, Your Mirmillo dying,
Your Hercules strangling the snakes,--
How he shakes
The nasty great things as he wakes!
Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She views with some little dismay;
A copy of that I can See in the Vatican,
Unless the Pope's sent it away,
As they say,
In the Globe, he intended last May.[41]
There's your Belvidere Phœbus, with which,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Mr. Milman says none other vies.
(His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow,
And gained him the Newdigate prize.)
How the eyes
Seem watching the shaft as it flies!
There's a room full of satins and silks,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
There's a room full of velvets and lace,
There are drawers full of rings, And a thousand fine things,
And a splendid gold watch with a case
O'er its face,
Is in every room in the place.
There are forty fine rooms on a floor,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And every room fit for a Ball,
It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch,
And so long, and so broad, and so tall;
Yes, all,
Save the last one--and that's very small!
It boasts not stool, table, or chair,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
But _one_ Cabinet, costly and grand,
Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers,
With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.--
It's japann'd,
And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand.
It's hinges and clasps are of gold,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And of gold are its keyhole and key,
And the drawers within Have each a gold pin,
And they're number'd with 1, 2, and 3,
You may see
All the figures in gold filigree!