~Bloudie Jacke~!
Number 2's full of diamond and pearl;
But what does she see In drawer Number 3
That makes all her senses to whirl,
Poor Girl!
And each lock of her hair to uncurl?--
Wedding Fingers are sweet pretty things,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
To salute them one eagerly strives,
When one kneels to "propose"--
It's another _quelque chose_
When cut off at the knuckles with knives
From our wives,
They are tied up in bunches of fives.
Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four!
~Bloudie Jacke~!
There lie they, five, six, seven, eight!
And by them, in rows, Like eight little Great-Toes,
To match in size, colour, and weight!
From their state,
It would seem they'd been sever'd of late.
Beside them are eight Wedding-rings,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the gold is as thin as a thread--
"Ho! ho!--She is mine--
This will make up the Nine!"--
Dear me! who those shocking words said?--
--She fled
To hide herself under the bed.
But, alas! there's no bed in the room,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And she peeps from the window on high;
Only fancy her fright And the terrible sight
Down below, which at once meets her eye!
"Oh My!!"
She half utter'd,--but stifled her cry.
For she saw it was You and your Man,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And she heard your unpleasant "Haw! haw!"
While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head,
O'er the bridge you were trying to draw,
As she saw--
A thing quite contra-ry to law!
Your man has got hold of her heels,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
~Bloudie Jacke!~ you've got hold of her hair!--
But nor ~Jacke~ nor his Man Can see young Mary-Anne,
She has hid herself under the stair,
And there
Is a horrid great Dog, I declare!
His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
He's a sad ugly cur for a pet;
He seems of the breed Of that "Billy," indeed,
Who used to kill rats for a bet;
--I forget
How many one morning he ate.
He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And thigh-bones;--and, though it's so dim,
Yet it's plain to be seen
He has pick'd them quite clean,--
She expects to be torn limb from limb,
So grim
He looks at her--and she looks at him!
She has given him a bun and a roll,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She has given him a roll and a bun,
And a Shrewsbury cake, Of ~Pailin's~[42] own make,
Which she happened to take ere her run
She begun--
She'd been used to a luncheon at One.
It's "a pretty particular Fix,"
~Bloudie Jacke~!
--Above,--there's the Maiden that's dead;
Below--growling at her-- There's that Cannibal Cur,
Who at present is munching her bread,
Instead
Of her leg,--or her arm,--or her head.
It's "a pretty particular Fix,"
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She is caught like a mouse in a trap;--
Stay! there's something, I think,
That has slipp'd through a chink,
And fall'n, by a singular hap,
Slap,
Into poor little Mary-Anne's lap!
It's a very fine little gold ring,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout,
But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remain
On her frock--for Blood will not wash out;
I doubt
Salts of Lemon won't bring it about!
She has grasp'd that gold ring in her hand,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
In an instant she stands on the floor,
She makes but one bound O'er the back of the hound,
And a hop, skip, and jump to the door,
And she's o'er
The drawbridge she'd traversed before!
Her hair's floating loose in the breeze,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
For gone is her "bonnet of blue."
--Now the Barbican's past!-- Her legs "go it" as fast
As two drumsticks a-beating tattoo,
As they do
At Réveillie, Parade, or Review!
She has run into Shrewsbury town,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
She has called out the Beadle and May'r,
And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police,
Till "Battle Field" swarms like a Fair,--
And see there!--
E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!
There's a pretty to-do in your Tower,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
In your Tower there's a pretty to-do!
All the people of Shrewsbury Playing old gooseberry
With your choice bits of taste and _virtù_;
Each bijou
Is upset in their search after you!
They are playing the deuce with your things,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
There's your Cupid is broken in two,
And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses,
The "Antique" ones you bought of the Jew,
And the new
One, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.
The CALLIPYGE'S injured behind,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
The DE MEDICI'S injured before;
And the ANADYOMENE 's injured in so many
Places, I think there's a score,
If not more,
Of her fingers and toes on the floor.
They are hunting you up stairs and down,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Every person to pass is forbid,
While they turn out the closets And all their deposits--
"There's the dust-hole--come lift up the lid!"--
So they did--
But they could not find where you were hid!
Ah! Ah!--they will have you at last,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
The chimneys to search they begin;--
They have found you at last!--
There you are, sticking fast,
With your knees doubled up to your chin,
Though you're thin!
--Dear me! what a mess you are in!--
What a terrible pickle you're in,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Why, your face is as black as your hat!
Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt!
And so is your point-lace cravat!
What a Flat
To seek such an asylum as that!
They can scarcely help laughing, I vow,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
In the midst of their turmoil and strife;
You're not fit to be seen!-- You look like Mr. Kean
In the play, where he murders his wife!--
On my life
You ought to be scraped with a knife!
They have pull'd you down flat on your back,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
They have pull'd you down flat on your back!
And they smack, and they thwack,
Till your "funny bones" crack,
As if you were stretched on the rack,
At each thwack!--
Good lack! what a savage attack!
They call for the Parliament Man,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And the Hangman, the matter to clinch,
And they call for the Judge, But others cry "Fudge!--
Don't budge Mr. Calcraft,[43] an inch!
Mr. Lynch![44]
Will do very well at a pinch!"
It is useless to scuffle and cuff,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
It is useless to struggle and bite!
And to kick and to scratch!
You have met with your match,
And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight,
Despite
Your determined attempts "to shew fight."
They are pulling you all sorts of ways,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
They are twisting your right leg Nor-West,
And your left leg due South,
And your knee's in your mouth,
And your head is poked down on your breast,
And it's prest,
I protest, almost into your chest!
They have pulled off your arms and your legs,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
As the naughty boys serve the blue flies;
And they've torn from their sockets,
And put in their pockets
Your fingers and thumbs for a prize!
And your eyes
A Doctor has bottled--from Guy's.[45]
Your trunk, thus dismember'd and torn,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
They hew, and they hack, and they chop;
And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole
In the place that's still called the "~Wylde Coppe~,"
And they pop
Your grim gory head on the top!
They have buried the fingers and toes,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
Of the victims so lately your prey.
From those fingers and eight toes Sprang early potatoes,
"~Ladyes' fyngers~" they're called to this day;
--So they say,--
And you usually dig them in May.
What became of the dear little girl?
~Bloudie Jacke~!
What became of the young Mary-Anne?
Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid,
For she fancied that every Young Man
Had a plan
To trepan her like "poor Sister Fan!"
So they say she is now leading apes,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
And mends Bachelors' small-clothes below;
The story is old, And has often been told,
But I cannot believe it is so--
No! No!
Depend on't the tale is "No Go!"
MORAL.
And now for the moral I'd fain,
~Bloudie Jacke~!
That young Ladies should draw from my pen,--
It's--"Don't take these flights Upon moon-shiny nights,
With gay, _harum-scarum_ young men,
Down a glen!--
You really can't trust one in ten!"
Let them think of your terrible Tower,
~Bloudie Jacke~;
And don't let them liberties take,
Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses;
Or, some time or another, they'll make
A Mistake!
And lose--more than a ~Shrewsberrie Cake~!!
FOOTNOTES:
[41] "The Pope is said--this fact is hardly credible--to have
sold the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for
nine million of francs."--_Globe and Traveller._
[42] Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth
liquefies at thy very name--but there!
[43] Jehan de Ketche acted as Provost Marshal to the army
of William the Conqueror, and received from that monarch a grant of
the dignity of Hereditary Grand Functionary of England, together
with a croft or "parcel of land," known by the name of the ~Old
Bailie~, co. Middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of
his body, in Grand Serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane
hempen cravatte." After remaining for several generations in the same
name, the office passed, by marriage of the heiress, into the ancient
family of the Kirbys, and thence again to that of Callcraft (1st Eliz.
1558).--Abhorson Callcraft, Esq. of Saffron Hill, co. Middx., the
present representative of the Ketches, exercised his "function" on a
very recent occasion, and claimed and was allowed the fee of 13-1/2_d._
under the ancient grant as ~Hangman's Wages~.
ARMS.--1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter
a Gibbet of the second, noosed proper, _Callcraft_. 2nd, Sable, three
Nightcaps Argent, tufted Gules, 2 and 1, _Ketche_. 3rd, Or, a Nosegay
_fleurant_, _Kirby_.
SUPPORTERS.--_Dexter_: a Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained
and collared Or.--_Sinister_: An Ordinary displayed proper, wigged and
banded Argent, nosed Gules.
MOTTO.--SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!
[44] The American Justinian, Compiler of the "Yankee
Pandects."
[45] A similar appropriation is said to have been made, by an
eminent practitioner, of those of the late Monsieur Courvoisier.
* * * * *
Her niece, of whom I have before made honourable mention, is not a whit
behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment for the young folks.
If little Charles has the aunt to _sol fa_ him into slumber, Miss Jenny
is equally fortunate in the possession of a Sappho of her own. It is
to the air of "Drops of Brandy" that Patty has adapted her version
of a venerable ditty, which we have all listened to with respect and
affection under its old title of
THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY.
AN OLD SONG TO A NEW TUNE.
When we were all little and good,--
A long time ago, I'm afraid, Miss--
We were told of the Babes in the Wood
By their false, cruel Uncle betray'd, Miss;
Their Pa was a Squire, or a Knight;
In Norfolk I think his estate lay--
That is, if I recollect right,
For I've not read the history lately.[46]
_Rum ti_, &c.
Their Pa and their Ma being seized
With a tiresome complaint, which, in some seasons,
People are apt to be seized
With, who're not on their guard against plum-seasons,
Their medical man shook his head
As he could not get well to the root of it;
And the Babes stood on each side the bed,
While their Uncle, he stood at the foot of it.
"Oh, Brother!" their Ma whisper'd, faint
And low, for breath seeming to labour, "Who'd
Think that this horrid complaint,
That's been going about in the neighbourhood,
Thus should attack me,--nay, more,
My poor husband besides,--and so fall on him!
Bringing us so near to Death's door
That we can't avoid making a call on him!
"Now think, 'tis your Sister invokes
Your aid, and the last word she says is,
Be kind to those dear little folks
When our toes are turned up to the daisies!--
By the servants don't let them be snubb'd,--
--Let Jane have her fruit and her custard,--
And mind Johnny's chilblains are rubb'd
Well with Whitehead's best essence of mustard.
"You know they'll be pretty well off in
Respect to what's called 'worldly gear,'
For John, when his Pa's in his coffin,
Comes in to three hundred a-year;
And Jane's to have five hundred pound
On her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny,
So you'll own a worse match might be found,
Any day in the week, than our Jenny!"
Here the Uncle pretended to cry,
And, like an old thorough-paced rogue, he
Put his handkerchief up to his eye,
And devoted himself to Old Bogey
If he did not make matters all right,
And said, should he covet their riches,
He "wished the old Gentleman might
Fly away with him, body and breeches!"
No sooner, however, were they
Put to bed with a spade by the sexton,
Than he carried the darlings away
Out of that parish into the next one,
Giving out he should take them to town,
And select the best school in the nation,
That John might not grow up a clown,
But receive a genteel education.
"Greek and Latin old twaddle I call!"
Says he, "While his mind's ductile and plastic,
I'll place him at Dotheboys Hall,
Where he'll learn all that's new and gymnastic.
While Jane, as, when girls have the dumps,
Fortune-hunters, by scores, to entrap 'em rise,
Shall go to those worthy old frumps,
The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise!"
Having thought on the How and the When
To get rid of his nephew and niece,
He sent for two ill-looking men,
And he gave them five guineas a-piece.--
Says he, "Each of you take up a child
On the crupper, and when you have trotted
Some miles through that wood lone and wild,
Take your knife out, and cut its carotid!"--
"Done" and "done" is pronounced on each side,
While the poor little dears are delighted
To think they a-cock-horse shall ride,
And are not in the least degree frighted;
They say their "Ta! Ta!" as they start,
And they prattle so nice on their journey,
That the rogues themselves wish to their heart
They could finish the job by attorney.
Nay, one was so taken aback
By seeing such spirit and life in them,
That he fairly exclaim'd, "I say, Jack,
I'm blowed if I _can_ put a knife in them!"--
"Pooh!" says his pal, "you great dunce!
You've pouched the good gentleman's money,
So out with your whinger at once,
And scrag Jane, while I spiflicate Johnny!"
He refused, and harsh language ensued,
Which ended at length in a duel,
When he that was mildest in mood
Gave the truculent rascal his gruel;
The Babes quake with hunger and fear,
While the ruffian his dead comrade, Jack, buries;
Then he cries, "Loves, amuse yourselves here
With the hips, and the haws, and the blackberries!
"I'll be back in a couple of shakes;
So don't, dears, be quivering and quaking:
I'm going to get you some cakes,
And a nice butter'd roll that's a-baking!"
He rode off with a tear in his eye,
Which ran down his rough cheek, and wet it,
As he said to himself with a sigh,
"Pretty souls!--don't they wish they may get it!!"
From that moment the Babes ne'er caught sight
Of the wretch who thus wrought their undoing,
But passed all that day and that night
In wandering about and "boo-hoo"-ing.
The night proved cold, dreary, and dark,
So that, worn out with sighings and sobbings,
Next morn they were found stiff and stark,
And stone-dead, by two little Cock-Robins.
These two little birds it sore grieves
To see what so cruel a dodge I call,--
They cover the bodies with leaves,
An interment quite ornithological;
It might more expensive have been,
But I doubt, though I've not been to see 'em,
If among those in all Kensal Green
You could find a more neat Mausoleum.
Now, whatever your rogues may suppose,
Conscience always makes restless their pillows,
And Justice, though blind, has a nose
That sniffs out all conceal'd peccadilloes.
The wicked old Uncle, they say,
In spite of his riot and revel,
Was hippish and qualmish all day,
And dreamt all night long of the d--l.
He grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour,
And his brow, once so smooth and so placid,
Fresh wrinkles acquired every hour,
And whatever he swallow'd turn'd acid.
The neighbours thought all was not right,
Scarcely one with him ventured to parley,
And Captain Swing came in the night,
And burnt all his beans and his barley.
There was hardly a day but some fox
Ran away with his geese and his ganders;
His wheat had the mildew, his flocks
Took the rot, and his horses the glanders;
His daughters drank rum in their tea,
His son, who had gone for a sailor,
Went down in a steamer at sea,
And his wife ran away with a tailor!
It was clear he lay under a curse,
None would hold with him any communion;
Every day matters grew worse and worse,
Till they ended at length in The Union;
While his man being caught in some fact,
(The particular crime I've forgotten,)
When he came to be hanged for the act,
Split, and told the whole story to Cotton.
Understanding the matter was blown,
His employer became apprehensive
Of what, when 'twas more fully known,
Might ensue--he grew thoughtful and pensive;
He purchased some sugar-of-lead,
Took it home, popp'd it into his porridge,
Ate it up, and then took to his bed,
And so died in the workhouse at Norwich.
MORAL.
Ponder well now, dear Parents, each word
That I've wrote, and when Sirius rages
In the dog-days, don't be so absurd
As to blow yourself out with Green-gages!
Of stone-fruits in general be shy,
And reflect it's a fact beyond question
That Grapes, when they're spelt with an _i_,
Promote anything else but digestion.--
--When you set about making your will,
Which is commonly done when a body's ill,
Mind, and word it with caution and skill,
And avoid, if you can, any codicil!
When once you've appointed an heir
To the fortune you've made, or obtained, ere
You leave a reversion, beware
Whom you place in contingent remainder!
Executors, Guardians, and all
Who have children to mind, don't ill treat them,
Nor think that, because they are small
And weak, you may beat them, and cheat them!
Remember that "ill-gotten goods
Never thrive;" their possession's but cursory;
So never turn out in the woods
Little folks you should keep in the nursery.
Be sure he who does such base things
Will ne'er stifle Conscience's clamour;
His "riches will make themselves wings,"
And his property come to the hammer!
Then He,--and not those he bereaves,--
Will have most cause for sighings and sobbings,
When he finds _himself_ smother'd with leaves
(Of fat catalogues) heaped up by Robins!
FOOTNOTES:
[46] See Bloomfield's History of the County of Norfolk, in
which all the particulars of this lamentable history are (or ought to
be) fully detailed, together with the names of the parties, and an
elaborate pedigree of the family.
* * * * *
The incidents recorded in the succeeding Legend were communicated to a
dear friend of our family by the late lamented Sir Walter Scott. The
names and localities have been scrupulously retained, as she is ready
to testify. The proceedings in this case are, I believe, recorded in
some of our law reports, though I have never been able to lay my hand
upon them.
THE DEAD DRUMMER.
A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,--
At least so I've heard many people declare,
For I fairly confess I never was there;--
Not a shrub nor a tree, Nor a bush can you see;
No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles,
Much less a house, or a cottage for miles;--
--It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain
When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.
Now, I'd have you to know That, a great while ago,
The best part of a century, may be, or so,
Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,
A couple of Travellers, wayworn and weary,
Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say,
At a single glance did not admit of a query;
The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers, worn then,
With scarce an exception by seafaring men,
The jacket,--the loose trousers "bows'd up together"--all
Guiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall,--
The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,
Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,
And shew'd in a moment their real char_á_cters,
(The accent's so placed on this word by our Jack Tars.)
The one in advance was sturdy and strong,
With arms uncommonly bony and long,
And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt,
Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong.
He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested;
His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did,
Except as to height, for he could not be more
At the most, you would say, than some five feet four,
And if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower.
Dame Nature, in fact,--whom some person or other,
--A Poet,--has call'd a "capricious step-mother,"--
You saw, when beside him, Had somehow denied him
In longitude what she had granted in latitude,
A trifling defect You'd the sooner detect
From his having contracted a stoop in his attitude.
Square-built and broad-shoulder'd, good-humoured and gay,
With his collar and countenance open as day,
The latter--'twas mark'd with small-pox, by the way,--
Had a sort of expression good will to bespeak;
He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek!
And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height,
He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight,
You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight!
The other, his friend and companion, was taller
By five or six inches, at least, than the smaller;--
From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen,
That he was, or had been, A something between
The real "Jack Tar" and the "Jolly Marine."
For, though he would give an occasional hitch,
Sailor-like to his "slops," there was something, the which,
On the whole savoured more of the pipe-clay than pitch.--
Such were now the two men who appeared on the hill,
Harry Waters the tall one, the short "Spanking Bill."
To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again,
Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain;
And when with a good soaking shower there are blended
Blue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended;
Such was the case In this wild dreary place,
On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the brace
Of trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace,
Till a good steady walk became more like a race,
To get quit of the tempest which held them in chase.
Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder,
The heav'nly artill'ry kept crashing and roaring,
The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring,
While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelter
From, what I have heard term'd, "a regular pelter;"
But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen,
Or an object except that on one of the rises,
An old way-post show'd Where the Lavington road
Branch'd off to the left from the one to Devizes;
And thither the footsteps of Waters seem'd tending,
Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending,
To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes,
Is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;--
While Harry kept "backing
And filling,"--and "tacking,"--
Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, are
Meant to imply What you, Reader, and I
Would call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.
But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuse
All mistakes I may make in the words sailors use
'Mongst themselves, on a cruise, Or ashore with the Jews,
Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues,
Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat--women
Known in our navy as oddly-named boat-women.
The fact is, I can't say I'm vers'd in the school
So ably conducted by Marryat and Poole;
(See the last-mentioned gentleman's "Admiral's Daughter,")
The grand _vade mecum_ For all who to sea come,
And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water;
Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonder
If I now and then should fall into some blunder,
For which Captain Chamier, or Mr. T. P. Cooke
Would call me a "Lubber," and "Son of a Sea-cook."
_To return to our muttons_--This mode of progression
At length upon Spanking Bill made some impression.
--"Hillo, messmate, what cheer?
How queer you _do_ steer!"
Cried Bill, whose short legs kept him still in the rear.
"Why, what's in the wind, Bo?--what is it you fear?"
For he saw in a moment that something was frightening
His shipmate much more than the thunder and lightning.
--"Fear?" stammer'd out Waters, "why, HIM!--don't you see
What faces that Drummer-boy's making at me!--
--How he dodges me so Wherever I go?--
What is it he wants with me, Bill,--do you know?"
--"What Drummer-boy, Harry?" cries Bill, in surprise,
(With a brief explanation, that ended in "eyes,")
"What Drummer-boy, Waters?--the coast is all clear,
We haven't got never no Drummer-boy here!"
--"Why, there!--don't you see How he's following me?
Now this way, now that way, and won't let me be!
Keep him off, Bill--look here-- Don't let him come near!
Only see how the blood-drops his features besmear!
What, the dead come to life again!--Bless me!--Oh dear!"
Bill remarked in reply, "This is all very queer--
What, a Drummer-boy--bloody, too--eh!--well, I never--
I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!"
"Not see him!--why there;--look!--he's close by the post--
Hark!--hark!--how he drums at me now!--he's a Ghost!"
"A what?" return'd Bill,--at that moment a flash
More than commonly awful preceded a crash
Like what's call'd in Kentucky "an Almighty Smash."--
And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees,
While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees;
In its last sinking echoes, however, were some
Which, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!
"Hollo! Waters!--I says," Quoth he in amaze,
"Why, I never see'd _nuffin_ in all my born days
Half so queer As this here, And I'm not very clear
But that one of us two has good reason for fear--
You to jaw about drummers, with nobody near us!--
I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus."
"Oh, mercy!" roared Waters, "do keep him off, Bill,
And, Andrew, forgive!--I'll confess all!--I will!
[Illustration: THE DEAD DRUMMER.]
I'll make a clean breast, And as for the rest,
You may do with me just what the lawyers think best;
But haunt me not thus!--let these visitings cease,
And, your vengeance accomplish'd, Boy, leave me in peace!"
--Harry paused for a moment,--then turning to Bill,
Who stood with his mouth open, steady and still,
Began "spinning" what nauticals term "a tough yarn,"
Viz.: his tale of what Bill call'd "this precious _consarn_."
* * * * *
"It was in such an hour as this,
On such a wild and wint'ry day,
The forked lightning seemed to hiss,
As now, athwart our lonely way,
When first these dubious paths I tried--
_Yon livid form_ was by my side!--
"Not livid then--the ruddy glow
Of life, and youth, and health it bore!
And bloodless was that gory brow,
And cheerful was the smile it wore,
And mildly then those eyes did shine--
--Those eyes which now are blasting mine!!
"They beamed with confidence and love
Upon my face,--and Andrew Brand
Had sooner fear'd yon frighten'd dove
Than harm from Gervase Matcham's hand!
--I am no Harry Waters--men
Did call me Gervase Matcham then.
"And Matcham, though a humble name,
Was stainless as the feathery flake
From Heaven, whose virgin whiteness came
Upon the newly-frozen lake;
Commander, comrade, all began
To laud the Soldier,--like the Man.
"Nay, muse not, William,--I have said
I was a soldier--staunch and true
As any he above whose head
Old England's lion banner flew;
And, duty done,--her claims apart,-
'Twas said I had a kindly heart.
"And years roll'd on,--and with them came
Promotion--Corporal--Sergeant--all
In turn--I kept mine honest fame--
Our Colonel's self,--whom men did call
The veriest Martinet--ev'n he,
Though cold to most, was kind to me!--
"One morn--oh! may that morning stand
Accursed in the rolls of fate
Till latest time!--there came command
To carry forth a charge of weight
To a detachment far away,--
--It was their regimental pay!--
"And who so fit for such a task
As trusty Matcham, true and tried,
Who spurn'd the inebriating flask,
With honour for his constant guide?--
On Matcham fell their choice--and HE,--
'Young Drum,'--should bear him company!
"And grateful was that sound to hear,
For he was full of life and joy,
The mess-room pet--to each one dear
Was that kind, gay, light-hearted boy.
--The veriest churl in all our band
Had aye a smile for Andrew Brand.--
"--Nay, glare not as I name thy name!
That threat'ning hand, that fearful brow
Relax--avert that glance of flame!
Thou seest I do thy bidding now!
Vex'd Spirit, rest!--'twill soon be o'er,--
Thy blood shall cry to Heaven no more!
"Enough--we journey'd on--the walk
Was long,--and dull and dark the day,--
And still young Andrew's cheerful talk
And merry laugh beguiled the way;
Noon came--a sheltering bank was there,--
We paused our frugal meal to share.
"Then 'twas, with cautious hand, I sought
To prove my charge secure,--and drew
The packet from my vest, and brought
The glittering mischief forth to view,
And Andrew cried,--No!--'twas not He!--
It was THE TEMPTER spoke to me!
"But it was Andrew's laughing voice
That sounded in my tingling ear,
'Now, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice,'
It seem'd to say, 'are gawds and gear,
And all that wealth can buy or bring,
Ease,--wassail,--worship,--every thing!
"'No tedious drill, no long parade,
No bugle call at early dawn;--
For guard-room bench, or barrack bed,
The downy couch, the sheets of lawn
And I thy Page,--thy steps to tend,
Thy sworn companion,--servant,--friend!
--"He ceased--that is, I heard no more,
Though other words pass'd idly by,
And Andrew chatter'd as before,
And laugh'd--I mark'd him not--not I.
'_Tis at thy choice!_' that sound alone
Rang in mine ear--voice else was none.
"I could not eat,--the untasted flask
Mocked my parch'd lip,--I passed it by.
'What ails thee, man?' he seem'd to ask.--
I _felt_, but could not _meet_ his eye.--
'_Tis at thy choice!_'--it sounded yet,--
A sound I never may forget.
--"'Haste! haste! the day draws on,' I cried,
'And, Andrew, thou hast far to go!'--
'_Hast far to go!_' the Fiend replied
Within me,--'twas _not_ Andrew--no!
'Twas Andrew's voice no more--'twas HE
_Whose_ then I was, and aye must be!
--"On, on we went;--the dreary plain
Was all around us--we were _Here_!
Then came the storm,--the lightning,--rain,--
No earthly living thing was near,
Save one wild Raven on the wing,
--If that, indeed, were earthly thing!
"I heard its hoarse and screaming voice
High hovering o'er my frenzied head,
'_'Tis, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice!
But he--the Boy!_' methought it said.
--Nay, Andrew, check that vengeful frown,--
I lov'd thee when I struck thee down!
* * * * *
"'Twas done!--the deed that damns me--done
I know not how--I never knew;--
And _Here_ I stood--but not alone,--
The prostrate Boy my madness slew,
Was by my side--limb, feature, name,
'Twas HE!!--another--yet the same!
* * * * *
"Away! away! in frantic haste
Throughout that live-long night I flew--
Away! away!--across the waste,--
I know not how--I never knew,--
My mind was one wild blank--and I
Had but one thought,--one hope--to fly!
"And still the lightning ploughed the ground,
The thunder roared--and there would come
Amidst its loudest bursts a sound,
Familiar once--it was--A DRUM!--
Then came the morn,--and light,--and then
Streets,--houses,--spires,--the hum of men.
"And Ocean roll'd before me--fain
Would I have whelm'd me in its tide,
At once beneath the billowy main
My shame, my guilt, my crime to hide;
But HE was there!--HE cross'd my track,--
I dared not pass--HE waved me back!
"And then rude hands detained me--sure
Justice had grasp'd her victim--no!
Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure,
A captive thrall, it was not so;
They cry 'The Frenchman's on the wave!'
The press was hot--and I a slave.
"They dragg'd me o'er the vessel's side;
The world of waters roll'd below;
The gallant ship, in all her pride
Of dreadful beauty, sought her foe;
--Thou saw'st me, William, in the strife--
Alack! I bore a charmed life;
"In vain the bullets round me fly,
In vain mine eager breast I bare;
Death shuns the wretch who longs to die,
And every sword falls edgeless there!
Still HE is near!--and seems to cry,
'Not _here_, nor _thus_, may Matcham die!'--
"Thou saw'st me, on that fearful day,
When, fruitless all attempts to save,
Our pinnace foundering in the bay,
The boat's-crew met a watery grave,--
All, all--save ONE--the ravenous sea
That swallow'd all--rejected ME!
"And now, when fifteen suns have each
Fulfilled in turn its circling year,
Thrown back again on England's beach,
Our bark paid off--HE drives me _Here_!
I could not die in flood or fight--
HE drives me HERE!!"--
"And sarve you right!
"What! bilk your Commander!--desart--and then rob!
And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boy's nob!
Why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab!--
There's old Davy Jones, Who cracks Sailors' bones
For his jaw-work would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob,
Have come for to go for to do sich a job!
Hark ye, Waters,--or Matcham,--whichever's your purser-name,
--T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,--
Twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother!--
Now--your course lays one way, and mine lays another!"
"No, William, it may not be so;
Blood calls for blood!--'tis Heaven's decree!
And thou with me this night must go,
And give me to the gallows-tree!
Ha!--see--HE smiles--HE points the way!
On, William, on! no more delay!"
Now Bill,--so the story, as told to me, goes,
And who, as his last speech sufficiently shows,
Was a "regular trump,"--did not like to "turn Nose;"
But then came a thunder-clap louder than any
Of those that preceded, though they were so many;
And hark!--as its rumblings subside in a hum,
What sound mingles too?--"By the hokey--A DRUM!!"
* * * * *
I remember I once heard my Grandfather say,
That some sixty years since he was going that way,
When they shew'd him the spot
Where the gibbet--was not--
On which Matcham's corse had been hung up to rot;
It had fall'n down--but how long before, he'd forgot;
And they told him, I think, at the Bear in Devizes,
The town where the Sessions are held,--or the 'Sizes,
That Matcham confess'd, And made a clean breast
To the May'r; but that, after he'd had a night's rest,
And the storm had subsided, he "pooh-pooh'd" his friend,
Swearing all was a lie from beginning to end;
Said "he'd only been drunk-- That his spirits had sunk
At the thunder--the storm put him into a funk,--
That, in fact, he had nothing at all on his conscience,
And found out, in short, he'd been talking great nonsense."--
But now one Mr. Jones Comes forth and depones
That, fifteen years since, he had heard certain groans
On his way to Stone Henge (to examine the stones
Described in a work of the late Sir John Soane's,)
That he'd followed the moans, And, led by their tones,
Found a Raven a-picking a Drummer-boy's bones!--
--Then the Colonel wrote word
From the King's Forty-third,
That the story was certainly true which they'd heard,
For, that one of their drummers, and one Sergeant Matcham,
Had "brushed with the dibs," and they never could catch 'em.
So Justice was sure, though a long time she'd lagg'd,
And the Sergeant, in spite of his "Gammon," got "scragg'd;"
And people averred That an ugly black bird,
The Raven, 'twas hinted, of whom we have heard,
Though the story, I own, appears rather absurd,
Was seen (Gervase Matcham not being interr'd),
To roost all that night on the murderer's gibbet;
An odd thing, if so, and it may be a fib--it,
However, 's a thing Nature's laws don't prohibit.
--Next morning, they add, that "black gentleman" flies out,
Having picked Matcham's nose off, and gobbled his eyes out!
MORAL.
_Avis au Voyageur._
_Imprimis._
If you contemplate walking o'er Salisbury Plain,
Consult Mr. Murphy, or Moore, and refrain
From selecting a day when it's likely to rain!
2^o.
When trav'lling, don't "flash" Your notes or your cash
Before other people--it's foolish and rash!
3^o.
At dinner be cautious, and note well your party;--
There's little to dread where the appetite's hearty,--
But mind and look well to your purse and your throttle
When you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle!
4^o.
If you chance to be needy, Your coat and hat seedy,
In war-time especially, never go out
When you've reason to think there's a press-gang about!
5^o.
Don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think,
Nor blab secrets,--especially when you're in drink,--
But keep your own counsel in all that you do!
--Or a Counsel may, some day or other, keep you.
6^o.
Discard superstition!--and don't take a post,
If you happen to see one at night, for a Ghost!
--Last of all, if by choice, or convenience, you're led,
To cut a man's throat, or demolish his head,
Don't do't in a thunderstorm--wait for the summer!
And mind, above all things, the MAN'S NOT A DRUMMER!!
* * * * *
Among a bundle of letters I find one from Sucklethumbkin, dated from
London, and containing his version of perhaps the greatest theatrical
Civil War since the celebrated "O. P. row." As the circumstances are
now become matter of history, and poor Doldrum himself has been,
alas! for some time the denizen of a far different "House," I have
ventured to preserve it. Perhaps it may be unnecessary to add, that my
Honourable friend has of late taken to Poetry, and goes without his
cravat.
A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX).
A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.
Omnibus hoc vitium cantoribus.--HOR.
Dol-drum the Manager sits in his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
And he says as he slaps his hands on his knee,
"I'll have nothing to do with Fiddle-de-dee!"
--"But Fiddle-de-dee sings clear and loud,
And his trills and his quavers astonish the crowd;
Such a singer as he You'll nowhere see;
They'll all be screaming for Fiddle-de-dee!"--"Though
Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear,
And his tones are sweet, yet his terms are dear!
The 'glove won't fit!' The deuce a bit.
I shall give an engagement to Fal-de-ral-tit!"
The Prompter bow'd, and he went to his stall,
And the green-baize rose at the Prompter's call,
And Fal-de-ral-tit sang fol-de-rol-lol;
But, scarce had he done When a row begun,
Such a noise was never heard under the sun.
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- --Where is he?
He's the _Artiste_ whom we all want to see!--
Dol-drum!--Dol-drum!-- Bid the Manager come!
It's a scandalous thing to exact such a sum
For boxes and gallery, stalls and pit,
And then fob us off with a Fal-de-ral-tit!--
Deuce a bit! We'll never submit!
_Vive_ Fiddle-de-dee! _à bas_ Fal-de-ral-tit!"
Dol-drum the Manager rose from his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air;
But he smooth'd his brow, As he well knew how,
And he walk'd on, and made a most elegant bow,
And he paused, and he smiled, and advanced to the lights,
In his opera-hat, and his opera-tights;
"Ladies and Gentlemen," then said he,
"Pray what may you please to want with me?"
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- Fiddle-de-dee!"
Folks of all sorts and of every degree,
Snob, and Snip, and haughty Grandee,
Duchesses, Countesses, fresh from their tea,
And Shopmen, who'd only come there for a spree,
Halloo'd, and hooted, and roar'd with glee
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- --None but He!--
Subscribe to his terms, whatever they be!--
Agree, agree, or you'll very soon see
In a brace of shakes we'll get up an O.P.!"
Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
Looks distrest, And he bows his best,
And he puts his right hand on the side of his breast,
And he says,--says he, "We _can't_ agree;
His terms are a vast deal too high for me.--
There's the rent, and the rates, and the sesses, and taxes--
I can't afford Fiddle-de-dee what he _axes_.
If you'll only permit Fal-de-ral-tit----"
The "Generous Public" cried, "Deuce a bit!
Dol-drum!--Dol-drum!-- We'll none of us come.
It's 'No Go!'--it's 'Gammon!'--it's 'all a Hum:'--
You're a miserly Jew!-- 'Cock-a-doodle-do!'
He _don't_ ask too much, as you know--so you do--
It's a shame--it's a sin--it's really too bad--
You ought to be 'shamed of yourself--so you had!"
Dol-drum the Manager never before
In his life-time had heard such a wild uproar.
Dol-drum the Manager turn'd to flee;
But he says--says he, "_Mort de ma vie!_
I shall _nevare_ engage vid dat Fiddle-de-dee!"
Then all the gentlefolks flew in a rage,
And they jump'd from the Omnibus on to the Stage,
Lords, Squires, and Knights, they came down to the lights,
In their opera-hats, and their opera-tights.
Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Shook to her very toes,
She couldn't hop on, so hopped off on her merry toes.
And the "evening concluded" with "Three times three!"
"Hip!--hip!--hurrah! for Fiddle-de-dee!"
Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
With a troubled brow and dissatisfied air,
Saddest of men, Sat down, and then
Took from his table a Perryan pen,
And he wrote to the "News,"
How MacFuze, and Tregooze,
Lord Tomnoddy, Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
And the whole of their tail, and the separate crews
Of the Tags and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos,
Had combined Monsieur Fal-de-ral-tit to abuse,
And make Dol-drum agree With Fiddle-de-dee,
Who was not a bit better singer than he.
--Dol-drum declared "he never could see,
For the life of him, yet, why Fiddle-de-dee,
Who, in B flat, or C, Or whatever the key,
Could never at any time get below G,
Should expect a fee the same in degree
As the great Burlybumbo who sings double D."
Then slyly he added a little N.B.
"If they'd have him in Paris he'd not come to me!"
The Manager rings, And the Prompter springs
To his side in a jiffy, and with him he brings
A set of those odd-looking envelope things,
Where Britannia (who seems to be crucified,) flings
To her right and her left funny people with wings,
Amongst Elephants, Quakers, and Catabaw Kings;
And a taper and wax, And small Queen's heads in packs,
Which, when notes are too big, you're to stick on their backs.
Dol-drum the Manager sealed with care
The letter and copies he'd written so fair,
And sat himself down with a satisfied air;
Without delay He sent them away,
In time to appear in "our columns" next day!
Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
Walk'd on to the stage with an anxious air,
And peep'd through the curtain to see who were there.
There was MacFuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there was Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos;
And the green-baize rose at the Prompter's call,
And they all began to hoot, bellow, and bawl,
And cry "Cock-a-doodle," and scream, and squall
"Dol-drum!--Dol-drum! Bid the Manager come!"
You'd have thought from the tones
Of their hisses and groans,
They were bent upon breaking his (Opera) bones.
And Dol-drum comes, and he says--says he,
"Pray what may you please to want with me?"--
"Fiddle-de-dee!-- Fiddle-de-dee!--
We'll have nobody give us _sol fa_ but He!
For he's the _Artiste_ whom we all want to see."
--Manager Dol-drum says--says he--
(And he looks like an Owl in "a hollow beech-tree,")
"Well, since I see The thing must be,
I'll sign an agreement with Fiddle-de-dee!"
Then MacFuze, and Tregooze, And Jenks of the Blues,
And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos,
Extremely delighted to hear such good news,
Desist from their shrill "Cock-a-doodle-doos."
"_Vive_ Fiddle-de-dee! Dol-drum, and He!
They are jolly good fellows as ever need be!
And so's Burlybumbo, who sings double D!
And whenever they sing, why, we'll all come and see!"
So, after all This terrible squall,
Fiddle-de-dee 's at the top of the tree,
And Dol-drum and Fal-de-ral-tit sing small!
Now Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear
At I can't tell you how many thousands a year,
And Fal-de-ral-tit is considered "Small Beer;"
And Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Sports her merry toes.
Dancing away to the fiddles and flutes,
In what the folks call a "Lithuanian" in boots.
So here's an end to my one, two, and three;
And bless the Queen--and long live She!
And grant that there never again may be
Such a halliballoo as we've happened to see
About nothing on earth but "Fiddle-de-dee!"
* * * * *
We come now to the rummaging of Father John's stores. The extracts
which I shall submit from them are of the same character as those
formerly derived from the same source, and may be considered as
theologico-historical, or Tracts for his times.
With respect to the first legend on this list, I have to remark that,
though the good Father is silent on the subject, there is every reason
to believe that the "little curly-wigged" gentleman, who plays, though
passively, so prominent a part in it, had Ingoldsby blood in his veins.
This conjecture is supported by the fact of the arms of Scroope,
impaling Ingoldsby, being found, as in the Bray case, in one of the
windows, and by a very old marriage-settlement, nearly, or quite,
illegible, a fac-simile of the seal affixed to which is appended to
this true history.
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT;
OR,
THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY.
A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
Nobilis quidam, cui nomen _Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler_, cum invitasset
convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe
frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent,
prorupit iratus in hæc verba: "_Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si
nullus hominum mecum esse potest!_"
* * * * *
Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo
properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non
auferunt. Dæmones incipiunt comessari et vociferari, prospicereque
per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula
vino repleta. _Ah_, inquit pater, _ubi infans meus?_ Vix cum hæc
dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat,
&c.
_Chronicon de Bolton._
It's in Bolton Hall, and the Clock strikes One,
And the roast meat's brown, and the boil'd meat's done
And the barbecu'd sucking-pig's crisp'd to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn;
The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating--they're all ready drest.
But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?
Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page,
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks, With fidgetty looks,
Are grumbling, and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunn'd snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnish'd with stool and with chair,
And plate of _orfèvrerie_ costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace.
Yet where is the Host?--and his convives--where?
The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks,
And he utters--a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!"
As he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?--
What can delay De Vaux and De Saye?
What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay?
What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye?
Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away?
And De Nokes, and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey?
And De Roe? And De Doe?--
Poynings, and Vavasour--where be they?
Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son)?
Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!'
There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"
It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves in "a stew,"
And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do,
For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
And the fish is all spoil'd And the butter's all oil'd,
And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
And still fidgets, and looks More cross than the cooks,
And repeats that bad word, which we've soften'd to "Zooks!"
Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily on,
Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir,
That nice little boy who sits there in his chair,
Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair,
Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.
Again, Sir Guy the silence broke,
"It's hard upon Three!--it's just on the stroke!
Come, serve up the dinner!--A joke is a joke!"--
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,[47]
Who "his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes,"
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Stiles, and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all, Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there, and sup, and wind up with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie he
Cook'd up, that "the _fête_ was postponed _sine die_,
The dear little curly-wig'd heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!"
When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee
Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, _On a servi_!"
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near To partake of his cheer,
He stamp'd, and he storm'd--then his language!--Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-deck'd Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi_,"
"Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
--The Devil take _them_! and the Devil take _thee_!
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!!"
In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed Grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn, at the gate of the Barbican tower,
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,
And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!--such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the doors of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye--
And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye--
This has somewhat the favour of Marmaduke Grey--
But stay!--_Where on earth did he get those long nails?_
Why, they're _claws_!--then, Good Gracious!--they've all of
them _tails_!
That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say, a beak!--and he can't keep it still!--
Is that Poynings?--Oh Gemini!--look at his feet!!
Why, they're absolute _hoofs_!--is it gout or his corns
That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's _horns_!
Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--_they've all got them on!_
Then their great saucer eyes-- It's the Father of lies
And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connexions,
And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf--
Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!
And now what a din Without and within!
For the court-yard is full of them.--How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin!
Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking.
And then such a lot As together had got!
Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses,--I ween
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,--
Declared, when he'd made, By the said machine's aid,
Up, what's now called, the "tottle" of those he survey'd,
There were just--how he proved it I cannot divine,--
_Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine_,
Exclusive of Him, Who, giant in limb,
And black as the crow they denominate _Jim_,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window,--and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear?
Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare
It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wig'd Heir!
Whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear!
What words can express The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into?
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!--
He sobb'd, and he sigh'd, And he scream'd, and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,--he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary,"[48]
Stamped on the jasey, As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were "hazy,"
Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times,)
"To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs
To that window above there, _en ogive_, and painted,
And brings down my curly-wi'----" here Sir Guy fainted!
With many a moan And many a groan,
What with tweaks of the nose, and some _eau de Cologne_,
He revived,--Reason once more remounted her throne,
Or rather the instinct of Nature,--'twere treason
To Her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason,--
But what saw he then?--Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright!
In that broad banquet hall The fiends, one and all,
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small,
Pretty, curly-wig'd boy, as if playing at ball:
Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue, or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wig'd Heir!
Well a day! Well a day! All he can say
Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away;
Not a man can be tempted to join the _mélée_,
E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay
Fifty pounds on demand," have, for once, lost their sway,
And there the Knight stands, Wringing his hands
In his agony--when, on a sudden, one ray
Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!--Oh, it's funny,
And almost absurd, That it never occurr'd!--
"Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money!
Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame,--
On my word I'm afraid,--I confess it with shame,--
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,--
Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no!--CUTHBERT!--egad
St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad!
Oh! holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine--
Of myself I say little,--have knelt at your shrine,
And have lash'd their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine,
Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow!
Bring him back here in safety!--perform but this task,
And I'll give!--Oh!--I'll give you whatever you ask!--
There is not a shrine In the County shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!--
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,--hasten in pity!"--
--Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies,
"It's a bargain!--but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!"--
[Illustration: THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.]
Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side,
That old, old grey man, with his beard long and wide,
In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?--
And, how did he come?--did he walk?--did he ride?--
Oh! none could determine,--oh! none could decide,--
The fact is, I don't believe any one tried,
For while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride,
And without a word more, He march'd on before,
Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door,
To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wig'd Heir.--
--I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepp'd in between,
With his resolute air, and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided, though mild,
"Come!--I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!"
The Demoniac crowd In an instant seem'd cowed;
Not one of the crew volunteer'd a reply,
All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye,
Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seem'd by his talk,
And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk,
He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,
And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"
My goodness!--the look that the old Palmer gave!
And his frown!--'twas quite dreadful to witness--"Why, slave!
You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to ME!!
--At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee,
And hand me that curly-wig'd boy!--I command it--
Come!--none of your nonsense!--you know I won't stand it."
Old Nicholas trembled,--he shook in his shoes,
And seem'd half inclined, but afraid, to refuse.
"Well, Cuthbert," said he, "If so it must be,
--For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;--
Take your curly-wig'd brat, and much good may he do ye!
But I'll have in exchange--"--here his eye flash'd with rage--
"That chap with the buttons--he _gave me_ the Page!"
"Come, come," the Saint answer'd, "you very well know
The young man's no more his than your own to bestow--
Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick--no! no!
Cut your stick, sir--come, mizzle!--be off with you!--go!"--
The Devil grew hot-- "If I do I'll be shot!
An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what;
He has _asked_ us to _dine here_, and go we will not!
Why, you Skinflint,--at least
You may leave us the feast!
Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode,
Ten million good leagues, Sir, as ever you strode,
And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road--
--'Go!'--'Mizzle!' indeed--Mr. Saint, who are you,
I should like to know?--'Go!'--I'll be hang'd if I do!
He invited us all--we've a right here--it's known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own--
Here, Asmodeus--a slice of that beef!--now the mustard!--
What have _you_ got?--oh, apple-pie--try it with custard!"
The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because
He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws,
And they _might_ be on _his_ side--and then, he'd such claws!
On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire
With the curly-wig'd boy he'd pick'd out of the fire,
And give up the victuals--to retrace his path,
And to compromise--(spite of the Member for Bath).
So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turn'd on his heel,
He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal.
And the soup _à la Reine_, and the sauce _Bechamel_.
As The Scroope _did_ invite you to dinner, I feel
I can't well turn you out--'twould be hardly genteel--
But be moderate, pray,--and remember thus much,
Since you're treated as Gentlemen, shew yourselves such,
And don't make it late, But mind and go straight
Home to bed when you've finish'd--and don't steal the plate!
Nor wrench off the knocker--or bell from the gate.
Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace,
And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!"
Having thus said his say, That Palmer grey
Took up little Le Scroope, and walk'd coolly away,
While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurray!"
Then fell, tooth and claw, on the victuals, as they
Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day,
All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em,
No care for precedence or common decorum.
Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte,
And Hecate,--considered the Belles of the party,
Between them was seated Leviathan, eager
To "do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor;
Here was _Morbleu_ (a French devil), supping soup-meagre,
And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar
(A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan,
To "follow the sea,"--and next him Demogorgon,--
Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ
To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers.
Who'd joined with Medusa to get up "the Lancers;"
--Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale,
While Beëlzebub's tying huge knots in his tail.
There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles
Gave him the lie, Said he'd "blacken his eye,"
And dash'd in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;--
Ramping, and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring,--
Never was seen such a riot before in
A gentleman's house, or such profligate revelling
At any _soirée_--where they don't let the Devil in.
Hark!--as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight!
(An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,")
When Nick, who by this time was rather elate,
Rose up and addressed them.
"'Tis full time," he said,
"For all elderly Devils to be in their bed;
For my own part I mean to be jogging, because
I don't find myself now quite so young as I was;
But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post,
I must call on you all for one bumper--the toast
Which I have to propose is,--OUR EXCELLENT HOST!
--Many thanks for his kind hospitality--may
_We_ also be able To see at _our_ table
Himself, and enjoy, in a family way,
His good company _down stairs_ at no distant day!
You'd, I'm sure, think me rude
If I did not include
In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wig'd Heir.
He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware
That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care;
Though I must not say 'bless,'--
--Why, you'll easily guess,--
May our Curly-wig'd Friend's shadow never be less!"
Nick took off his heel-taps--bow'd--smiled--with an air
Most graciously grim,--and vacated the chair,--
Of course the _elite_ Rose at once on their feet,
And followed their leader, and beat a retreat;
When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat,
And, requesting that each would replenish his cup,
Said, "Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!"--
--It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!
* * * * *
I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay
To fulfil his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay
For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day
The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay.
In fact, when the votaries came there to pray,
All said there was nought to compare with it--nay,
For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby,
Four Brethren thenceforward, two cleric, two lay,
He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry,
With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry;
In short, the whole County
Declared, through his bounty,
The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes
From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines,[49]
And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation
With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.
For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read
In some Chronicle--whose, has gone out of my head--
That, what with these candles, and other expenses,
Which no man would go to if quite in his senses,
He reduced, and brought low His property so,
That, at last, he'd not much of it left to bestow;
And that, many years after that terrible feast,
Sir Guy in the Abbey was living a Priest;
And there, in one thousand and--something,--deceased.
(It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick,
And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick"),
While, as to young Curly-wig,--dear little Soul,
Would you know more of him, you must look at "The Roll,"
Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit,
Commenced in "Thirteen sev'nty-five,"--which took root
In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore
That none but _his_ ancestors, ever before,
In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore,
To wit, "_On a Prussian-blue Field_, a _Bend Or_;"--
While the Grosvenor averred that _his_ ancestors bore
The same, and Scroope lied like a--somebody tore
Off the simile,--so I can tell you no more,
Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.[50]
MORAL.
This Legend sound maxims exemplifies--e. g.--
_1mo._
Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you,
Remember what Lilly says, "_Animum rege!_"[51]
And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing,--
In all good society voted past bearing,--
Eschew it!--and leave it to dust-men and mobs,
Nor commit yourself much beyond "Zooks!" or "Odsbobs!"
_2do._
When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality,
Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality!--
For should you come late, And make dinner wait,
And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate,
The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate--
And--though both may, perhaps, be too well bred to swear,
They'll heartily _wish_ you--I need not say _Where_.
_3tio._
Look well to your Maid-servants!--say you expect them
To see to the children, and not to neglect them!--
And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory
Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery!--
--Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums,
And from pears in the season,--and sucking their thumbs!
_4to._
To sum up the whole with a "Saw" of much use,
Be _just_, and be _generous_--don't be _profuse_!--
Pay the debts that you owe,--keep your word to your friends,
But--DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS!!--
For of this be assured, if you "go it" too fast,
You'll be "dish'd" like Sir Guy,
And like him, perhaps, die
A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last!
[Illustration: seal]
From a seal attached to an ancient deed _penes_ =Thomas
Ingoldsby=, Esq., preserved in the archives at Tappington Everard.
FOOTNOTES:
[47] For a full account of this facetious "_Chivaler_," see
the late (oh! that we should have to say "late"!) Theodore Hook's
"History of the illustrious Commoners of Great Britain," as quoted in
the Memoirs of John Bragg, Esq., page 344 of the 75th volume of the
Standard Novels. In the third volume of Sir Harris Nicolas's elaborate
account of the Scrope and Grosvenor controversy, commonly called the
"Scrope Roll," a Stephen de Hoques, Ecuyer, is described as giving his
testimony on the Grosvenor side.--_Vide_ page 247.
[48] A peruke so named from its inventor. Robert de Ros and
Eudo Fitz-Vicari were celebrated _perruquiers_, who flourished in the
eleventh century. The latter is noticed in the Battle-Abbey roll, and
is said to have curled William the Conqueror's hair when dressing for
the battle of Hastings. Dugdale makes no mention of him, but Camden
says, that Humfrey, one of his descendants, was summoned to Parliament,
26 Jan. 25 Edw. I. (1297). It is doubtful, however, whether that writ
can be deemed a regular writ of summons to Parliament, for reasons
amply detailed in the "Synopsis of the British Peerage."--(Art.
Fitz-John.) A writ was subsequently addressed to him as "_Humfry
Fitz-Vicari, Chiv^{r.}_" 8 Jan. 6 Edw. II. (1313), and his descendants
appear to have been regularly summoned as late as 5 and 6 of Philip and
Mary, 1557-8. Soon after which Peter Fitz-Vicari dying, S. P. M. this
Barony went into abeyance between his two daughters, Joan, married to
Henry de Truefit, of Fullbottom, and Alice, wife of Roger Wigram, of
Caxon Hall, in Wigton, co. Cumb. Esq., among whose representatives it
is presumed to be still in abeyance.
[49] _Vide_ Dugdale's Monasticon, Art. _Prioratus de Bolton,
in agro Eboracensi_.
[50] It is with the greatest satisfaction that I learn from Mr.
Simpkinson this consummation, so devoutly to be wished, is about to be
realized, and that the remainder of this most interesting document,
containing the whole of the defendant's evidence, will appear in the
course of the ensuing summer, under the same auspices as the former
portion. We shall look with eagerness for the identification of
"Curly-wig."
[51] Animum rege - qui nisi paret, imperat.--LILLY'S _Grammar_.]
* * * * *
For the Legend that follows Father John has, it will be seen, the grave
authority of a Romish Prelate. The good Father, who, as I have before
had occasion to remark, received his education at Douai, spent several
years, in the earlier part of his life, upon the Continent. I have no
doubt but that during this period he visited Blois, and there, in all
probability, picked up, in the very scene of its locality, the history
which he has thus recorded.
THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS.
A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
S. Heloïus in hâc urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus
est a fidelibus. Nocte autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus
lapidem, qui sarcophagum tegebat, revolvit, erectumque contra se
corpus Sancti spoliare conatur. At ille, lacertis constrictum, ad se
hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus,
tanquam constipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat .... Judex
loci sepulchri violatorem jubet abstrahi, et legali pœnæ sententiâ
condemnari; sed non laxabatur a Sancto. Tunc intelligens voluntatem
defuncti, Judex, factâ de vitâ promissione, absolvit, deinde laxatur,
et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur demissus quin se
vitam monastericam amplexurum spopondisset.
_Greg: Turonens: de Gloriâ Confessorum._
Saint Aloys
Was the Bishop of Blois,
And a pitiful man was he,
He grieved and he pined
For the woes of mankind,
And of brutes in their degree.--
He would rescue the rat
From the claws of the cat,
And set the poor captive free;
Though his cassock was swarming
With all sorts of vermin,
He'd not take the life of a flea!--
Kind, tender, forgiving
To all things living,
From injury still he'd endeavour to screen 'em,
Fish, flesh, or fowl,--no difference between 'em--
NIHIL PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM.
The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,--
A holy man was he!
For Holy Church
He'd seek and he'd search
As a Bishop in his degree.
From foe and from friend
He'd "rap and he'd rend,"
To augment her treasurie.
Nought would he give, and little he'd lend,
That Holy Church might have more to spend.--
"Count Stephen"[52] (of Blois) "was a worthy Peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown,
He held them sixpence all too dear,
And so he call'd the Tailor lown."
Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count,
And he'd overcharged him to half the amount,
He had knock'd that Tailor down!--
Not for himself!-- He despised the pelf;
He dressed in sackcloth, he dined off delf;
And, when it was cold, in lieu of a _surtout_,
The good man would wrap himself up in his virtue.[53]
Alack! that a man so holy as he,
So frank and free in his degree,
And so good and so kind, should mortal be!
Yet so it is--for loud and clear
From St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear,
With solemn swell, The deep-toned bell
Flings to the gale a funeral knell;
And hark!--at its sound, As a cunning old hound,
When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps
Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps,
So--the little bells all, No matter how small,
From the steeples both inside and outside the wall,
With bell-metal throat Respond to the note,
And join the lament that a prelate so pious is
Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese,
Or, as Blois' Lord May'r Is heard to declare,
"Should leave this here world for to go to that there."
And see, the portals opening wide,
From the Abbey flows the living tide;--
Forth from the doors The torrent pours,
Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores,
This with his chasuble, that with his rosary,
This from his incense-pot turning his nose awry,
Holy Father, and Holy Mother,
Holy Sister, and Holy Brother,
Holy Son, and Holy Daughter,
Holy Wafer, and Holy Water;
Every one drest Like a guest in his best,
In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear,
Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair
As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair,
Or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair,
And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,--a
Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica.
Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone,
With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown,
Slowly the throng Come passing along,
With many a chaunt and solemn song,
Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,--
_Dies iræ_, and _De profundis_,
_Miserere_, and _Domine dirige nos_,--
Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all,
Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral,
To secure the defunct's repose,
And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news
Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise,
That he'd better be minding his P's and his Q's,
And not come too near,--since they can, if they choose,
Make him shake in his hoofs--as he does not wear shoes.
Still on they go, A goodly show,
With footsteps sure, though certainly slow,
Two by two, in a very long row;
With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits,
Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,--
Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold,
Borne by a lad about eighteen years old;
Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre,
Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter.
Eight Franciscans, sturdy and strong,
Bear, in the midst, the good Bishop along;
Eight Franciscans, stout and tall,
Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall;
Eight more hold a canopy high over all,
With eight Trumpeters tooting the Dead March in Saul.--
Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his
Monks coming after him, all with posies,
And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses,
Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his--
And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see
How Lords and Ladies, of high degree,
Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee,
While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights,
In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights.
Ay, 'tis a comely sight to behold,
As the company march
Through the rounded arch
Of that Cathedral old!--
Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em,
All of them ranging in due decorum,
Around the inside of the _Sanctum Sanctorum_,
While, brilliant and bright, An unwonted light
(I forgot to premise this was all done at night)
The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed
On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead,
That rest below, mostly buried in lead,
And above, recumbent in grim repose,
With their mailed hose,
And their dogs at their toes,
And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows,
Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes,
With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives,
As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives,
To ~Praie for the Sowles~ of themselves and their wives.--
--The effect of the music, too, really was fine,
When they let the good prelate down into his shrine,
And by old and young The "_Requiem_" was sung;
Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue,
That is--Latin--I don't think they meddled with Greek--
In short, the whole thing produced--so to speak--
What in Blois they would call a _Coup d'œil magnifique_!
Yet, surely, when the level ray
Of some mild eve's descending sun
Lights on the village pastor, grey
In years ere ours had well begun--
As there--in simplest vestment clad,
He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree,
In solemn tones,--but yet not sad,--
Of what Man is--what Man shall be!
And clustering round the grave, half hid
By that same quiet churchyard yew,
The rustic mourners bend, to bid
The dust they loved a last adieu--
--That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen
Upon each briar-bound hillock green,
So calm, so tranquil, so serene,
Gives to the eye a fairer scene,--
Speaks to the heart with holier breath
Than all this pageantry of Death.--
But _Chacun à son gout_--this is talking at random--
We all know "_De gustibus non disputandum!_"
So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story,
The Cathedral of Blois-- Where the Sainted Aloys
Is by this time, you'll find, "left alone in his glory,"
"In the dead of the night," though with labour opprest,
Some "mortals" disdain "the calm blessings of rest;"
Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best
To break open a door, or the lid of a chest;
And the gipsy who close round your premises prowls,
To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls,
Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls,
--So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls,
To say nothing at all of these troublesome "Swells"
Who come from the playhouses, "flash-kens," and "hells,"
To pull off people's knockers, and ring people's bells.
Well--'tis now the hour Ill things have power!
And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views,
Have long been in bed, and enjoying a snooze,--
Nought is waking Save Mischief, and "Faking,"[54]
And a few who are sitting up brewing or baking,
When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue,
Who stands in his slippers some six feet two
(A rather remarkable height for a Jew),
Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew,
Into which, during service, he'd managed to slide himself--
While all were intent on the anthem, and hide himself.
From his lurking place, With stealthy pace,
Through the "long-drawn" aisle he begins to crawl,
As you see a cat walk on the top of a wall,
When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall.
--He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel,
(An invention on which we've improved a great deal
Of late years--the substitute best to rely on
's what Jones of the Strand calls his _Pyrogeneion_,)
He strikes with despatch!--his Tinder catches!--
Now where is his candle?--and where are his matches?--
'Tis done!--they are found!--
He stands up, and looks round
By the light of a "dip" of sixteen to the pound!
--What is it that now makes his nerves to quiver?--
His hand to shake--and his limbs to shiver?--
Fear?--Pooh!--it is only a touch of the liver,--
All is silent--all is still--
It's "gammon"--it's "stuff!"--he may do what he will!
Carefully now he approaches the shrine,
In which, as I've mentioned before, about nine,
They had placed in such state the lamented Divine!
But not to worship--No!--No such thing!--
His aim is--TO "PRIG" THE PASTORAL RING!!
Fancy his fright, When, with all his might
Having forced up the lid, which they'd not fastened quite,
Of the marble sarcophagus--"All in white"
The dead Bishop started up, bolt upright
On his hinder end,--and grasped him so tight,
That the clutch of a kite, Or a bull-dog's bite
When he's most provoked and in bitterest spite,
May well be conceived in comparison slight,
And having thus "tackled" him--blew out his light!!
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The fright and the fear!--
No one to hear!--nobody near!
In the dead of the night!--at a bad time of year!--
A defunct Bishop squatting upright on his bier,
And shouting so loud, that the drum of his ear
He thought would have split as these awful words met it--
"AH, HA! MY GOOD FRIEND!--DON'T YOU WISH YOU MAY GET IT?"--
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! _'Twas_ a night of fear!
--I should just like to know, if the boldest man here,
In his situation, would not have felt queer?
The wretched man bawls, And he yells, and he squalls,
But there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls,
And the desk, and the pulpit, the pews, and the stalls.
Held firmly at bay, Kick and plunge as he may,
His struggles are fruitless--he can't get away,
He really, can't tell what to do or to say,
And being a Pagan, don't know how to pray;
Till, through the east window, a few streaks of grey
Announce the approach of the dawn of the day!
Oh, a welcome sight Is the rosy light,
Which lovelily heralds a morning bright,
Above all to a wretch kept in durance all night
By a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight,--
Of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap,
The most disagreeable kind of a man-trap!
--Oh! welcome that bell's Matin chime, which tells
To one caught in this worst of all possible snares,
That the hour is arrived to begin Morning Prayers,
And the monks and the friars are coming down stairs!
Conceive the surprise Of the Choir--how their eyes
Are distended to twice their original size,--
How some begin bless,--some anathematize,--
And all look on the thief as Old Nick in disguise.
While the mystified Abbot cries, "Well!--I declare!--
--This is really a very mysterious affair!--
Bid the bandy-legg'd Sexton go run for the May'r!"
The May'r and his _suite_ Are soon on their feet,--
(His worship kept house in the very same street,--)
At once he awakes, "His compliments" makes,
"He'll be up at the Church in a couple of shakes!"
Meanwhile the whole Convent is pulling and hauling,
And bawling and squalling, And terribly mauling
The thief whose endeavour to follow his calling
Had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling.--
Now high, now low, They drag "to and fro,"--
Now this way, now that way they twist him--but--No!--
The glazed eye of St. Aloys distinctly says "Poh!
You may pull as you please, I shall _not_ let him go!"
Nay, more;--when his Worship at length came to say
He was perfectly ready to take him away,
And fat him to grace the next _Auto-da-fé_,
Still closer he prest The poor wretch to his breast,
While a voice--though his jaws still together were jamm'd--
Was heard from his chest, "If you do, I'll----" here slamm'd
The great door of the Church,--with so awful a sound
That the close of the good Bishop's sentence was drown'd!
Out spake _Frère Jehan_, A pitiful man,
Oh! a pitiful man was he!
And he wept, and he pined For the sins of mankind,
As a Friar in his degree.
"Remember, good gentlefolks," so he began,
"Dear Aloys was always a pitiful man!--
That voice from his chest Has clearly exprest
He has pardoned the culprit--and as for the rest,
Before you shall burn him--he'll see you all blest!"
The Monks, and the Abbot, the Sexton, and Clerk
Were exceedingly struck with the Friar's remark,
And the Judge, who himself was by no means a shark
Of a Lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark,
But still leaned (having once been himself a gay spark,)
To the merciful side,--like the late Alan Park,--
Agreed that, indeed, The best way to succeed,
And by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed,
Would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon,
On a certain condition, and that not a hard one,
Viz.--"That he, the said Infidel, straightway should ope
His mind to conviction, and worship the Pope,
And 'ev'ry man Jack' in an amice or cope;--
And that, to do so, He should forthwith go
To Rome, and salute there his Holiness' toe;--
And never again Read Voltaire, or Tom Paine,
Or Percy Bysshe Shelley, or Lord Byron's Cain;--
His pilgrimage o'er, take St. Francis's habit;--
If anything lay about, never to 'nab' it;--
Or, at worst, if he _should_ light on articles gone astray,
To be sure and deposit them safe in the Monast'ry!"
The oath he took-- --As he kiss'd the book,
Nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook!
The Bishop sank down with a satisfied look,
And the Thief, releas'd By the Saint deceas'd,
Fell into the arms of a neighbouring Priest!
It skills not now To tell you how
The transmogrified Pagan perform'd his vow;
How he quitted his home, Travell'd to Rome,
And went to St. Peter's and look'd at the Dome,
And obtain'd from the Pope an assurance of bliss,
And kiss'd--whatever he gave him to kiss--
Toe, relic, embroidery, naught came amiss;
And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban
Hung up in the Sistine Chapel, by way
Of a relic--and how it hangs there to this day.--
Suffice it to tell, Which will do quite as well,
That the whole of the Convent the miracle saw,
And the Abbot's report was sufficient to draw
Ev'ry _bon Catholique_ in _la belle France_ to Blois,
Among others, the Monarch himself, François,
The Archbishop of Rheims, and his "Pious Jack-daw,"[55]
And there was not a man in Church, Chapel, or Meeting-house,
Still less in _Cabaret_, Hotel, or Eating-house,
But made an oration, And said, "In the nation
If ever a man deserved canonization,
It was the kind, pitiful, pious Aloys."--
So the Pope says,--says he, "Then a Saint he shall be!"
So he made him a Saint,--and remitted the fee.
What became of the Pagan I really can't say;
But I think I've been told, When he'd enter'd their fold,
And was now a Franciscan some twenty days old,
He got up one fine morning before break of day,
Put the _Pyx_ in his pocket--and then ran away.
MORAL.
I think we may coax out a moral or two
From the facts which have lately come under our view.
First--Don't meddle with Saints!--for you'll find if you do,
They're what Scotch people call, "kittle cattle to shoe!"
And when once they have managed to take you in tow,
It's a deuced hard matter to make them let go!
Now to you, wicked Pagans!--who wander about,
Up and down Regent Street every night, "on the scout,"--
Recollect the Police keep a sharpish look-out,
And, if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to,
Till they catch you at last _in flagrante delicto!_--
Don't the inference draw That because he of Blois
Suffer'd _one_ to bilk "Old father Antic the Law,"
That _our_ May'rs and _our_ Aldermen--and we've a City full--
Shew themselves, at _our_ Guildhall, quite so pitiful!
Lastly, as to the Pagan who play'd such a trick,
First assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick,
There is but one thing which occurs to me--that
Is,--Don't give too much credit to people who "rat!"
--Never forget Early habit's a net
Which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh;
And "What's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh!"
We must all be aware Nature's prone to rebel, as
Old Juvenal tells us, _Naturam expellas_,
_Tamen usque recurret_! There's no making Her rat
So that all that I have on this head to advance
Is,--whatever they think of these matters in France,
There's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here,
"YOU NEVER CAN MAKE A SILK PURSE OF A SOW'S EAR!"
* * * * *
In the succeeding Legend we come nearer home.--Father Ingoldsby is
particular in describing its locality, situate some eight miles from
the Hall--less, if you take the bridle-road by the Church-yard, and
so along the valley by Mr. Fector's Abbey.--In the enumeration of
the various attempts to appropriate the treasure (drawn from a later
source), is omitted one, said to have been undertaken by the worthy
ecclesiastic himself, who, as Mrs. Botherby insinuates, is reported to
have started for Dover, one fine morning, duly furnished with all the
means and appliances of Exorcism.--I cannot learn, however, that the
family was ever enriched by his expedition.
FOOTNOTES:
[52] _Teste_ Messire Iago, a distinguished subaltern in the
Venetian service, _circiter_ A.D. 1580. His Biographer, Mr. William
Shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note, makes him say "_King_
Stephen," inasmuch as the "worthy peer" subsequently usurped the crown
of England. The anachronism is a pardonable one.--_Mr. Simpkinson of
Bath._
[53]
----Meâ
Virtute me involvo.--HOR.
[54] "Nix my dolly, pals, _Fake_ away!"--words of deep and
mysterious import in the ancient language of Upper Egypt, and recently
inscribed on the sacred standard of Mehemet Ali. They are supposed to
intimate, to the initiated in the art of Abstraction, the absence of
all human observation, and to suggest the propriety of making the best
use of their time--and fingers.
[55] _Vide_ Ingoldsby Legends (First Series), page 139.
THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY.
A LEGEND OF DOVER.
Once there lived, as I've heard people say,
An "Old Woman clothed in grey,"
So furrow'd with care, So haggard her air,
In her eye such a wild supernatural stare,
That all who espied her Immediately shied her,
And strove to get out of her way.
This fearsome Old Woman was taken ill:
--She sent for the Doctor--he sent her a pill,
And by way of a trial, A two shilling phial
Of green-looking fluid, like lava diluted,
To which I've profess'd an abhorrence most rooted,[56]
One of those draughts they so commonly send us,
Labell'd "_Haustus catharticus, mane sumendus_;"--
She made a wry face, And, without saying Grace,
Toss'd it off like a dram--it improved not her case.
--The Leech came again; He now open'd a vein,
Still the little Old Woman continued in pain.
So her "Medical Man," although loth to distress her,
Conceived it high time that her Father Confessor
Should be sent for to shrive, and assoilzie, and bless her,
That she might not slip out of these troublesome scenes
"Unanneal'd and Unhouseled,"--whatever that means.[57]
Growing afraid, He calls to his aid
A bandy-legg'd neighbour, a "_Tailor by trade_,"[58]
Tells him his fears, Bids him lay by his shears,
His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie
With all possible speed to the Convent hard by,
Requests him to say That he begs they'll all pray,
Viz.: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay,
For the soul of an Old Woman clothed in grey,
Who was just at that time in a very bad way,
And he really believed couldn't last out the day;--
And to state his desire That some erudite Friar
Would run over at once, and examine, and try her;
For he thought he would find
There was "something behind,"
A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,--
"In fact he was sure, from what fell from her tongue,
That this little Old Woman had done something wrong."
--Then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man,
"Mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!"
Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe,
Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago;
I can't say exactly _how_ long, nor, I own,
What particular monarch was then on the throne,
But 'twas here in Old England: and all that one knows is,
It must have preceded the Wars of the Roses.[59]
Inasmuch as the times Described in these rhymes
Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes;
And if 'mongst the Laity Unseemly gaiety
Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two,
At once all the Clerics Went into hysterics,
While scarcely a convent but boasted its Saint or two;
So it must have been long ere the line of the Tudors,
As since then the breed Of Saints rarely indeed
With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors.
--Hence the late Mr. Froude, and the live Dr. Pusey
We moderns consider as each worth a Jew's eye;
Though Wiseman, and Dullman[60] combined against Newman,
With Doctors and Proctors, and say he's no true man.
--But this by the way.--The Convent I speak about
Had Saints in scores--they said Mass week and week about;
And the two now on duty were each, for their piety,
"Second to none" in that holy society,
And well might have borne
Those words which are worn
By our "_Nulli Secundus_" Club--poor dear lost muttons
Of Guardsmen--on Club days, inscribed on their buttons.--
They would read, write, and speak
Latin, Hebrew, and Greek,
A radish-bunch munch for a lunch,--or a leek;
Though scoffers and boobies Ascribe certain rubies
That garnished the nose of the good Father Hilary
To the overmuch use of Canary and Sillery,
--Some said spirituous compounds of viler distillery--
Ah! little reck'd they That with Friars, who say
Fifty _Paters_ a night, and a hundred a day,
A very slight sustenance goes a great way--
Thus the consequence was that his colleague, Basilius
Won golden opinions, by looking more bilious,
From all who conceived strict monastical duty
By no means conducive to personal beauty;
And being more meagre, and thinner, and paler,
He was snapt up at once by the bandy-legg'd Tailor.
The latter's concern For a speedy return
Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals,
Or go round to his shrines, and snuff all his Saint's candles;
Still less had he leisure to change the hair-shirt he
Had worn the last twenty years--probably thirty,--
Which, not being wash'd all that time, had grown dirty.
--It seems there's a sin in The wearing clean linen,
Which Friars must eschew at the very beginning,
Though it makes them look frowsy, and drowsy, and blowsy,
And--a rhyme modern etiquette never allows ye.--
As for the rest, E'en if time had not prest,
It didn't much matter how Basil was drest,
Nor could there be any great need for adorning,
The Night being almost at odds with the Morning.
Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is high,
And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the sky,
While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whispering down
the glen,
And one fond voice alone is heard--oh! Night is lovely then!
But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain,
But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,--
When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light,
Where all we love is fading fast--how terrible is Night!!
More terrible yet, If you happen to get
By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long,
Has been what the vulgar call, "coming it strong"
In all sorts of ways that are naughty and wrong.--
As Confessions are sacred, it's not very facile
To ascertain what the old hag said to Basil;
But whatever she said, It fill'd him with dread,
And made all his hair stand on end on his head,--
No great feat to perform, inasmuch as said hair
Being clipp'd by the tonsure, his crown was left bare,
So of course Father Basil had little to spare;
But the little he had
Seem'd as though't had gone mad,
Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears
In the two little tufts on the tops of his ears.--
_What_ the old woman said
That so "fill'd him with dread,"
We should never have known any more than the dead,
If the bandy-legg'd Tailor, his errand thus sped,
Had gone quietly back to his needle and thread,
As he ought; but instead, Curiosity led,--
A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred,--
He contrived to secrete himself under the bed!
--Not that he heard One half, or a third
[Illustration: A LEGEND OF DOVER.]
Of what past as the Monk and the Patient conferred,
But he here and there managed to pick up a word,
Such as "Knife," And "Life,"
And he thought she said "Wife,"
And "Money," that source of all evil and strife;[61]
Then he plainly distinguished the words "Gore," and "Gash,"
Whence he deem'd--and I don't think his inference rash--
She had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash!
Intermix'd with her moans,
And her sighs, and her groans,
Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones,
Came at intervals Basil's sweet, soft silver tones,
For somehow it happened--I can't tell you why--
The good Friar's indignation,--at first rather high,--
To judge from the language he used in reply,
Ere the Old Woman ceased, had a good deal gone by;
And he gently addrest her in accents of honey,
"Daughter, don't you despair!--WHAT'S BECOME OF THE MONEY?"
In one just at Death's door it was really absurd
To see how her eye lighted up at that word--
Indeed there's not one in the language that I know,
(Save its synonyms "Spanish," "Blunt," "Stumpy," and "Rhino,")
Which acts so direct, And with so much effect
On the human _sensorium_, or makes one erect
One's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect--
It's a question with me Which of the three,
Father Basil himself, though a grave S. T. P.
(Such as he have, you see, the degree of D.D.)
Or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legg'd Tailor,--or She
Caught it quickest--however, traditions agree
That the Old Woman perked up as brisk as a bee,--
'Twas the last quivering flare of the taper,--the fire
It so often emits when about to expire!
Her excitement began the same instant to flag,
She sank back, and whisper'd, "Safe!--Safe! in the Bag!!"
Now I would not by any means have you suppose
That the good Father Basil was just one of those
Who entertain views We're so apt to abuse,
As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews,
Who haunt death-bed scenes, By underhand means
To toady or teaze people out of a legacy,--
For few folk, indeed, had such good right to beg as he,
Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty,
Not only permits, but enjoins, as a duty,
Her sons to take care That, let who will be heir,
The Pontiff shall not be chous'd out of his share,
Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods,
As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's;
Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods, in short, main
-tain principles adverse to statutes of _Mortmain_;
Besides, you'll discern It at once, when you learn
That Basil had something to give in return,
Since it rested with him to say how she should burn,
Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all
To uses he named, he could say, "You shan't burn at all,
Or nothing to signify, Not what you'd dignify
So much as even to call it a roast,
But a mere little singeing, or scorching at most,--
What many would think not unpleasantly warm,--
Just to keep up appearance--mere matter of form."
All this in her ear He declared, but I fear
That her senses were wand'ring--she seem'd not to hear,
Or, at least understand,--for mere unmeaning talk her
Parch'd lips babbled now,--such as "Hookey!"--and "Walker!"
--She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt
If "his Mother were fully aware he was out?"
Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry--so
I must write it, my verse not admitting the O--
But as for the _venue_, I vow I'm perplext
To say if it's in this world, or if in the next--
Or whether in both--for 'tis very well known
That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own,
In a "tight little Island" that stands in a Lake
Call'd "Lough-dearg"--that's "The Red Lake," unless I mistake,--
In Fermanagh--or Antrim--or Donegal--which
I declare I can't tell, But I know very well
It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch
(At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer,
But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here).
There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare
There's "no differ" at all 'twixt "this here" and "that there,"
That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry
For the separate use of the "finest of pisentry,"
And that his is no more Than a mere private door
From the _rez-de-chaussée_,--as some call the ground floor,--
To the one which the Pope had found out long before.
But no matter--lay The _locale_ where you may;
--And where it is no one exactly can say--
There's one thing, at least, which is known very well,
That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel.
"Entertainment" there's worse
Both for "Man and for Horse;"
For broiling the souls
They use Lord Mayor's coals;--
Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower
Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower,
It's by no means so strong-- Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong;
The "prokers" are not half so hot, or so long,
By an inch or two, either in handle or prong;
The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,
And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth;--
In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator,
Made for what's called by Cockneys a "Minor The-átre."
Better suited, of course, for a "minor performer,"
Than the "House," that's so much better lighted and warmer,
Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,--
--You understand where, I don't question--down there,
Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions,
The Paving Commissioners use "Good Intentions,"
Materials which here would be thought on by few men,
With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen
At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.
To go on with my story, This same Purga-tory,
(There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory),
Is close lock'd, and the Pope keeps the keys of it--that I can
Boldly affirm--in his desk in the Vatican;
--Not those of St. Peter-- Those of which I now treat, are
A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater--
And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a
Key better contrived for its purpose--nor Bramah.
Now it seems that by these Most miraculous keys
Not only the Pope, but his "clargy," with ease
Can let people in and out, just as they please;
And--provided you "make it all right" about fees,
There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them,
But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them;
And Basil, no doubt, Had brought matters about,
If the little old woman would but have "spoke out,"
So far as to get for her one of those tickets,
Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets;
So that after a grill, Or short turn on the Mill,
And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Than a Freemason gets in the "Lodge of Antiquity,"
She'd have rubb'd off old scores, Popped out of doors,
And sheer'd off at once for a happier port,
Like a white-wash'd Insolvent that's "gone through the Court."
But Basil was one Who was not to be _done_
By any one, either in earnest or fun;--
The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun,
In all bargains, unless he'd his _quid_ for his _quo_,
Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it "No Go."
So, unless you're a dunce, You'll see clearly, at once,
When you come to consider the facts of the case, he
Of course never gave her his _Vade in pace_;
And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe
Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe,
The little Old Woman had no where to go!
For, what could she do? She very well knew
If she went to the gates I have mention'd to you,
Without Basil's, or some other passport to shew,
The Cheque-takers never would let her go through;
While, as to _the other place_, e'en had she tried it,
And really had wished it, as much as she shied it,
(For no one who knows what it is can abide it,)
Had she knock'd at the portal with ne'er so much din,
Though she died in, what folks at Rome call, "Mortal sin,"
Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in,
As she'd not been turn'd formally out of "the pale;"--
So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail,
In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail
Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail.
Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail;
Though, now he's grown older, They say he's much bolder,
And his Holiness not only gets the "cold shoulder,"
But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a
_Dump_--that's the word--for his triple tiara.
Well--what shall she do?-- What's the course to pursue?--
"Try St. Peter?--the step is a bold one to take;
For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt, 'wide awake;'
But then there's a quaint Old Proverb says, 'Faint
Heart ne'er won fair Lady,' then how win a Saint?--
I've a great mind to try-- One can but apply;
If things come to the worst, why he can but deny--
The sky 's rather high To be sure--but, now I
That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by,
I am just in the 'order' which some folks--though why
I am sure I can't tell you--would call 'Apple-pie.'
Then 'never say die!' It won't do to be shy,
So I'll tuck up my shroud, and--here goes for a fly!"----So
said and so done--she was off like a shot,
And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.
When she drew so near That the Saint could see her,
In a moment he frown'd, and began to look queer,
And scarce would allow her to make her case clear,
Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer,
With "It's all very well,--but you do not lodge here!"--
Then, calling her everything but "My dear!"
He applied his great toe with some force _au derrière_,
And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear.
"Alas! poor Ghost!" It's a doubt which is most
To be pitied--one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,--
Or one bandied about thus from pillar to post,--
To be "all abroad"--to be "stump'd" not to know where
To go--so disgraced As not to be "placed,"
Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, "To be Nowhere."--
However that be, The _affaire_ was _finie_,
And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see!
Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes--not the Jew--
That the "Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,"
Having no other sort of asylum in view,
"Returns back again to the place whence she flew,"--
A fact which experience has proved to be true.--
Mr. Gray,--in opinion with whom Johnson clashes,--
Declares that our "wonted fires live in our ashes."[62]--
These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag,
The first to her mansion, the last to her bag,
When only conceive her dismay and surprise,
As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes,
When there,--on the spot where she'd hid her "supplies,"--
In an underground cellar of very small size,
Working hard with a spade, All at once she survey'd
That confounded old bandy-legged "Tailor by trade."
Fancy the tone Of the half moan, half groan,
Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone!
As she stood there,--a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,--
Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone!
Although, as Macbeth says, "they'd no speculation,"
While she uttered that word, Which American Bird
Or James Fenimore Cooper, would render "Tarnation!!"
At the noise which she made Down went the spade!--
And up jump'd the bandy-legg'd "Tailor by trade,"
(Who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell, her
Deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar;)
Turning round at a sound So extremely profound,
The moment her shadowy form met his view
He gave vent to a sort of a lengthen'd "Bo-o--ho-o!"--
With a countenance Keeley alone could put on,
Made one grasshopper spring to the door--and was gone!
_Erupit! Evasit!_ As at Rome they would phrase it--
His flight was so swift, the eye scarcely could trace it,
Though elderly, bandy-legg'd, meagre, and sickly,
I doubt if the Ghost could have vanish'd more quickly;--
He reach'd his own shop, and then fell into fits,
And it's said never rightly recover'd his wits,
While the chuckling old Hag takes his place, and there sits.
I'll venture to say, She'd sat there to this day,
Brooding over what Cobbett calls "vile yellow clay,"
Like a Vulture, or other obscene bird of prey,
O'er the nest-full of eggs she has managed to lay,
If, as legends relate, and I think we may trust 'em, her
Stars had not brought her another guess customer--
'Twas Basil himself!-- Come to look for her pelf:
But not, like the tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel,
And grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel;
Full well he knew Such tools would not do,--
Far other the weapons he brought into play,
_Viz._ a Wax-taper "hallow'd on Candlemas-day,"
To light to her ducats,-- Holy Water, two buckets,
(Made with salt--half a peck to four gallons--which brews a
Strong triple X "strike,"--see Jacobus de Chusa.)
With these, too, he took His bell and his book--
Not a nerve ever trembled,--his hand never shook
As he boldly march'd up where she sat in her nook,
Glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look,
Which _Some_ may have read of, perchance, in "Nell Cook,"[63]
_All._ in "Martha the Gipsy" by Theodore Hook.
And now, for the reason I gave you before,
Of what passed then and there I can tell you no more,
As no Tailor was near with his ear at the door;
But I've always been told, With respect to the gold,
For which she her "jewel eternal" had sold,
That the old Harridan, Who, no doubt, knew her man,
Made some compromise--hit upon some sort of plan,
By which Friar and Ghost were both equally pinn'd--
Heaven only knows how the "Agreement" got wind;--
But its purport was this, That the things done amiss
By the Hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss;
Provided--"_Imprimis_, The cash from this time is
The Church's--impounded for good pious uses--
--Father B. shall dispose of it just as he chooses,
And act as trustee-- In the meantime, that She,
The said Ghostess,--or Ghost,--as the matter may be,--
From 'impediment,' 'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free,
To sleep in her grave, or wander, as he,
The said Friar, with said Ghost may hereafter agree.--
Moreover--The whole Of the said cash, or 'cole,'
Shall be spent for the good of said Old Woman's soul!
"It is farther agreed--while said cash is so spending,
Said Ghost shall be fully absolv'd from attending,
And shall quiet remain In the grave, her domain,
To have, and enjoy, and uphold, and maintain,
Without molestation, or trouble, or pain,
Hindrance, let, or impediment, (over again)
From Old Nick, or from any one else of his train,
Whether Pow'r,--Domination,--or Princedom,--or Throne,[64]
Or by what name soever the same may be known,
Howsoe'er called by Poets, or styled by Divines,--
Himself,--his executors, heirs, and assigns.
"Provided that,--nevertheless,--notwithstanding
All herein contained,--if whoever's a hand in
Dispensing said cash,--or said 'cole,'--shall dare venture
To misapply money, note, bill, or debenture
To uses not named in this present Indenture,
Then that such sum, or sums, shall revert, and come home again
Back to said Ghost,--who thenceforward shall roam again
Until such time, or times, as the said Ghost produces
Some good man and true, who no longer refuses
To put sum, or sums, aforesaid, to said uses;
Which duly performed, the said Ghost shall have rest,
The full term of her natural death, of the best,
In full consideration of this, her bequest,
In manner and form aforesaid,--as exprest:--
In witness whereof, we, the parties aforesaid,
Hereunto set our hands and our seals--and no more said,
Being all that these presents intend to express,
Whereas--notwithstanding--and nevertheless.--
"Sign'd, sealed, and delivered, this 20th of May,
_Anno Domini_, blank, (though I've mentioned the day,)
(Signed)
BASIL.
OLD WOMAN (late) CLOTHED IN GREY."
Basil now, I am told, Walking off with the gold,
Went and straight got the document duly enroll'd,
And left the testatrix to mildew and mould
In her sepulchre, cosey, cool,--not to say cold.
But somehow--though how I can hardly divine,--
A runlet of fine Rich Malvoisie wine
Found its way to the Convent that night before nine,
With custards, and "flawns," and a "fayre florentine,"
Peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine;--
And some half a score Nuns of the rule Bridgetine,
Abbess and all, were invited to dine
At a very late hour,--that is after Compline.--
--Father Hilary's rubies began soon to shine
With fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine;
Through all the next year, Indeed, 'twould appear
That the Convent was much better off, as to cheer,
Even Basil himself, as I very much fear,
No longer addicted himself to small beer;
His complexion grew clear, While in front and in rear
He enlarged so, his shape seem'd approaching a sphere.
No wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night,
That a servant girl going down stairs with a light
To the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright,
An Old Woman, astride on a barrel, invite
Her to take, in a manner extremely polite,
With her left hand, a bag, she had got in her right;--
For tradition asserts that the Old Woman's purse
Had come back to her _scarcely one penny the worse_!