The girl, as they say, Ran screaming away,

Quite scared by the Old Woman clothed in grey;

But there came down a Knight, at no distant a day,

Sprightly and gay As the bird on the spray,

One Sir Rufus Mountfardington, Lord of Foot's-cray,

Whose estate, not unlike those of most of our "Swell" beaux,

Was, what's, by a metaphor, term'd "out at elbows;"

And the fact was, said knight was now merely delay'd

From crossing the water to join the Crusade

For converting the Pagans with bill, bow, and blade,

By the want of a little pecuniary aid

To buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade,

And enable his troop to appear on parade;--

The unquiet Shade Thought Sir Rufus, 'tis said,

Just the man for her money,--she readily paid

For the articles named, and with pleasure convey'd

To his hands every farthing she ever had made;

But alas! I'm afraid Most unwisely she laid

Out her cash--the _beaux yeux_ of a Saracen maid

(Truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade)

Converted the gallant converter--betray'd

Him to do everything which a Knight could degrade,

--E'en to worship Mahound!--She required--He obey'd,--

The consequence was, all the money was wasted

On Infidel pleasures he should not have tasted;

So that, after a very short respite, the Hag

Was seen down in her cellar again with her bag.

Don't fancy, dear Reader, I mean to go on

_Seriatim_ through so many ages by-gone,

And to bore you with names

Of the Squires, and the Dames,

Who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack,

But spent the cash so that it always came back;

The list is too long To be giv'n in my song,--

There are reasons beside would perhaps make it wrong;

I shall merely observe, in those orthodox days,

When Mary set Smithfield all o'er in a blaze,

And shew'd herself very se- -vere against heresy,

While many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as he

Burnt for denying the Papal supremacy,

Bishop Bonner the bag got, And all thought the Hag got

Releas'd, as he spent all in fuel and faggot.--

But somehow--though how I can't tell you, I vow--

I suppose by mismanagement--ere the next reign

The Spectre had got all her money again.

The last time, I'm told, That the Old Woman's gold

Was obtained,--as before,--for the asking,--'twas had

By a Mr. O--Something--from Ballinafad;

And the whole of it, so 'tis reported, was sent

To John Wright's, in account for the Catholic Rent,

And thus--like a great deal more money--"it went!"

So 'tis said at Maynooth, But I can't think it's truth;

Though I know it was boldly asserted last season,

Still I can _not_ believe it; and that for this reason,

It's certain _the cash has got back to its owner_!--

--Now no part of the Rent to do _so_ e'er was known,--or,

In any shape, ever come home to the donor.

GENTLE READER!--you must know the proverb, I think--

"To a blind horse a Nod is as good as a Wink!"

Which some learned Chap, In a square College cap,

Perhaps would translate by the words "_Verbum Sap_!"

--Now, should it so chance That you're going to France

In the course of next Spring, as you probably may,

Do pull up, and stay, Pray, If but for a day,

At Dover, through which you must pass on your way,

At the York,--or the Ship,--where, as all people say,

You'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay,

Perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will _pay_,

And you cannot lose much by so short a delay.

First DINE!--you can do That on joint or _ragoût_--

Then say to the waiter,--"I'm just passing through,--

Pray,--where can I find out the old _Maison Dieu_?--

He'll shew you the street--(the French call it a _Rue_,

But you won't have to give here a _petit écu_).

Well,--when you've got there,--never mind how you're taunted,--

Ask boldly, "Pray, which is the house here that's haunted?"

--I'd tell you myself, but I can't recollect

The proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect

Who call themselves "Friends," and whom others call "Quakers,"--

You'll be sure to find out if you ask at the Baker's.--

Then go down, with a light, To the cellar at night!

And as soon as you see her don't be in a fright!

But ask the old Hag, At once, for the bag!--

If you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle,

Nay, "Ma'am, I insist!--in the name of St. Basil!"

If she gives it you, seize It, and--do as you please--

But there is not a person I've ask'd but agrees,

You should spend--part at least--for the Old Woman's ease!

--For the rest--if it _must_ go back some day--why--let it!--

Meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it

May do you some good, and--

I WISH YOU MAY GET IT!!!

* * * * *

To whom is the name of Cornelius Agrippa otherwise than familiar,

since "a Magician," of renown not inferior to his own, has brought

him and his terrible "Black Book" again before the World?--That he

was celebrated, among other exploits, for raising the Devil, we

are all well aware;--how he performed this feat,--at least one, and

that, perhaps, the most certain method, by which he did it,--is thus

described.

FOOTNOTES:

[56] _Vide_ page 230.

[57] Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His

elucidation of Macbeth's "Hurlyburly" casts a halo around his memory.

In him the world lost one of its kindliest Spirits, and the Garrick

Club its acutest commentator.

[58] All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other

Records of our Courts of Justice, will recollect that every gentleman

of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in

contradistinction to the Bricklayer, whom he probably presumes to be

indigenous, and to the Shoemaker, _born_ a Snob.

[59] "An antient and most pugnacious family," says our Bath Friend.

"One of their descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M.P. for

Christchurch (an elderly gentleman now defunct), was equally celebrated

for his vocal abilities and his wanton destruction of furniture when in

a state of excitement."--"Sing, old Rose, and burn the bellows!" has

grown into a proverb.

[60] The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.--I am not quite

sure as to the orthography;--it's _idem sonans_, at all events.

[61] Effodiuntur Opes Irritamenta Malorum.

LILLY'S _Grammar_.

[62] "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!"--GRAY.

"A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even

Fancy stares!"--JOHNSON.

[63] See page 299.]

[64] Thrones! Dominations! Princedoms! Virtues! Powers!

RAISING THE DEVIL.

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.

And hast thou nerve enough?" he said,

That grey Old Man, above whose head

Unnumber'd years had roll'd,--

"And hast thou nerve to view," he cried,

"The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied?--

--Art thou indeed so bold?

"Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze,

Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze

Of that unearthly eye,

That blasts where'er it lights,--the breath

That, like the Simoom, scatters death

On all that yet _can_ die!

--"Darest thou confront that fearful form,

That rides the whirlwind, and the storm,

In wild unholy revel?--

The terrors of that blasted brow,

Archangel's once,--though ruin'd now--

--Ay,--dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"--

"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied,

And placed him by that Old Man's side,

In fierce and frantic glee,

Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb;

--"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM!

--THE DEVIL!--I fain would see!--

"In all his Gorgon terrors clad,

His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad

Rejoined in reckless tone.--

--"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said,

And sigh'd, and shook his hoary head,

With many a bitter groan.

He drew the mystic circle's bound,

With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around;

He traced full many a sigil there;

He mutter'd many a backward pray'r,

That sounded like a curse--

"He comes!"--he cried, with wild grimace,

"The fellest of Apollyon's race!"--

--Then in his startled pupil's face

He dash'd an EMPTY PURSE!!

* * * * *

One more legend, and then, gentle Reader, "A merry Christmas to you and

a happy New Year!"--We have travelled over many lands together, and had

many a good-humoured laugh by the way;--if we have, occasionally, been

"more merry than wise," at least we have not jostled our neighbours on

the road,--much less have we kicked any one into a ditch.

So wishing you heartily all the compliments of the season,--and

thanking you cordially for your good company, I, Thomas Ingoldsby, bid

you heartily farewell, and leave you in that of

SAINT MEDARD.

A LEGEND OF AFRIC.

"Heus tu! inquit Diabolus, hei mihi! fessis insuper humeris reponenda

est sarcina; fer opem quæso!"

"Le Diable a des vices;--c'est là ce qui le perd.--Il est gourmand. Il

eut dans cette minute-là l'idée de joindre l'âme de Medard aux autres

âmes qu'il allait emporter.--Se rejeter en arrière, saisir de sa main

droite son poignard, et en percer l'outre avec une violence, et une

rapidité formidable,--c'est ce que fit Medard.--Le Diable poussa un

grand cri. Les âmes délivrés s'enfuirent par l'issue que le poignard

venait de leur ouvrir, laissant dans l'outre leurs noirceurs, leurs

crimes, et leurs méchancetés," &c. &c.

In good king Dagobert's palmy days,

When Saints were many, and sins were few,

Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested

One evening,--and could not tell what to do.--

He had been East, and he had been West,

And far had he journeyed o'er land and sea;

For women and men Were warier then,

And he could not catch one where he'd now catch three.

He had been North, and he had been South,

From Zembla's shores unto far Peru,

Ere he fill'd the sack Which he bore on his back--

Saints were so many, and sins so few!

The way was long, and the day was hot;

His wings were weary; his hoofs were sore;

And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail,

As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore!

The day had been hot, and the way was long;

--Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint was he;

He lower'd his sack, And the _heat of his back

As he leaned on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree_!

He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade,

And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight,

As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide

He had sewn for a sack, and had cramm'd so tight.

For, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground,"

And game had been scarce, he might well report

That still he had got A decentish lot,

And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.

He had pick'd up in France a _Maître de Danse_,--

_A Maîtresse en titre_,--two smart _Grisettes_,

A Courtier at play,-- And an English _Roué_--

Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.--

--He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk,

A Quaker,--a Baker,--a Doctor of Laws,--

And a Jockey of York-- But Paddy from Cork

"Desaved the ould divil," and slipp'd through his claws!

In Moscow, a Boyar knouting his wife

--A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece--

And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome,

He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.--

He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain--

A mendicant Friar--of Monks a score;

A grave Don or two, And a Portuguese Jew,

Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore.

And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips,

"Those nice little Dears!--what a delicate roast!--

--Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire,

Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!"

--At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice

Never did mouth water more than Nick's;

But,--alas! and alack!-- He had stuff'd his sack

So full that he found himself quite "in a fix:"

For, all he could do, or all he could say,

When, a little recruited, he rose to go,

Alas! and alack! He could _not_ get the sack

Up again on his shoulders "whether or no!"

Old Nick look'd East, old Nick look'd West,

With many a stretch, and with many a strain,

He bent till his back Was ready to crack,

And he pull'd and he tugg'd,--but he tugg'd in vain.

Old Nick look'd North, old Nick look'd South;

--Weary was Nicholas, weak, and faint,--

And he was aware Of an old man there,

In Palmer's weeds, who look'd much like a Saint.

Nick eyed the Saint,--then he eyed the Sack--

The greedy old glutton!--and thought, with a grin,

--"Dear heart alive! If I could but contrive

To pop that elderly gentleman in!--

"For, were I to choose among all the _ragoûts_

The _cuisine_ can exhibit--flesh, fowl, or fish,--

To myself I can paint, That a barbecued Saint

Would be for my palate the best side-dish!"--

Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile,

--In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea.

(We call it "Semiramis," Why not say Pyramis?--

Why should we change the S into a D?)

St. Medard, he was a holy man,

A holy man I ween was he,

And even by day, When he went to pray,

He would light up a candle, that all might see!

He _salaam'd_ to the East,--He _salaam'd_ to the West;--

--Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown

Were his Palmer's weeds,-- And he finger'd his beads

With the right side up, and the wrong side down.--

* * * * *

(_Hiatus in MSS. valde deflendus._)

St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile;--

He had been living there years fourscore,--

And now, "taking the air, And saying a pray'r,"

He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore.

Little he deem'd--that Holy man!--

Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,--

When he was aware Of a Stranger there,

Who seem'd to have got himself into a fix.

Deeply that Stranger groan'd and sigh'd,

That wayfaring Stranger, grisly and grey:--

"I can't raise my sack On my poor old back!--

Oh! lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray!--

"For I have been East, and I have been West,

Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I,

And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew bome,

Here in this desert I well may die!"

"Now Heav'n thee save!"--Nick winced at the words,

As ever he winces at words divine--

"Now Heav'n thee save!-- What strength I have,--

It's little, I wis,--shall be freely thine!

"For foul befall that Christian man

Who shall fail, in a fix,--woe worth the while!--

His hand to lend To foe, or to friend,

Or to help a lame dog over a stile!"--

--St. Medard hath boon'd himself for the task:

To hoist up the sack he doth well begin;

But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels,

For the folks are all curling, and kicking within.--

St. Medard paused--he began to "smoke"--

For a Saint,--if he isn't exactly a cat,--

Has a very good nose, As this world goes,

And not worse than his neighbour's for "smelling a rat."

The Saint look'd up, and the Saint look'd down;

He "_smelt_ the rat," and he "_smoked_" the trick;

--When he came to view His comical shoe,

He saw in a moment his friend was Nick!

He whipp'd out his oyster-knife, broad and keen--

A Brummagem blade which he always bore,

To aid him to eat, By way of a treat,

The "natives" he found on the Red Sea shore;--

He whipp'd out his Brummagem blade so keen,

And he made three slits in the Buffalo's hide,

And all its contents, Through the rents, and the vents,

Came tumbling out,--and away they all hied!

Away went the Quaker,--away went the Baker,

Away went the Friar--that fine fat Ghost,

Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick,

Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!

--Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece,--

And the pretty _Grisettes_--and the Dons from Spain,--

And the Corsair's Crew, And the coin-clipping Jew,--

And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain!--

Old Nick is a black-looking fellow at best,

Ay, e'en when he's pleased; but never before

Had he look'd so black As on seeing his sack

Thus cut into slits on the Red Sea shore.

You may fancy his rage, and his deep despair,

When he saw himself thus befool'd by one

Whom, in anger wild, He profanely styled

"A stupid old snuff-colour'd Son of a gun!"

Then his supper--so nice!--that had cost him such pains--

--Such a hard day's work--now "all on the go!"

--'Twas beyond a joke, And enough to provoke

The mildest and best-temper'd Fiend below!

Nick snatch'd up one of those great big stones,

Found in such numbers on Egypt's plains,

And he hurl'd it straight At the Saint's bald pate,

To knock out "the gruel he call'd his brains."

Straight at his pate he hurl'd the weight,

The crushing weight of that great big stone;--

But Saint Medard Was remarkably hard

And solid about the parietal bone.

And though the whole weight of that great big stone

Came straight on his pate, with a great big thump,

It fail'd to graze The skin,--or to raise

On the tough epidermis a lump, or bump!--

[Illustration: THE LEGEND OF ST. MEDARD.]

As the hail bounds off from the pent-house slope,--

As the cannon recoils when it sends its shot,--

As the finger and thumb Of an old woman come

From the kettle she handles, and finds too hot;--

--Or, as you may see, in the Fleet, or the Bench,--

--Many folks do in the course of their lives,--

The well-struck ball Rebound from the wall,

When the Gentlemen jail-birds are playing at "fives:"

All these,--and a thousand fine similes more,--

Such as all have heard of, or seen, or read

Recorded in print, May give you a hint

How the stone bounced off from St. Medard's head!

--And it curl'd, and it twirl'd, and it whirl'd in air,

As this great big stone at a tangent flew!--

--Just missing his crown, It at last came down

Plump upon Nick's Orthopedical shoe!

Oh! what a yell and a screech were there!--

How did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar!

--"Oh dear! oh dear!"-- You might hear him here,

Though we're such a way off from the Red-Sea shore!

It smash'd his shin, and it smash'd his hoof,

Notwithstanding his stout Orthopedical shoe;

And this is the way That, from that same day,

Old Nick became what the French call _Boiteux_!

Quakers, and Bakers, _Grisettes_, and Friars,

And Cardinal's Nieces,--wherever ye be,

St. Medard bless; You can scarcely do less

If you of your _corps_ possess any _esprit_.--

And, mind and take care, yourselves,--and beware

How you get in Nick's buffalo bag!--if you do,

I very much doubt If you'll ever get out,

Now sins are so many, and Saints so few!!

MORAL.

Gentle Reader, attend To the voice of a friend!

And if ever you go to Herne Bay or Southend,

Or any gay Wat'ring-place outside the Nore,

Don't walk out at eve on the lone sea-shore!

--Unless you're too Saintly to care about Nick,

And are sure that your head is sufficiently thick!--

Learn not to be greedy!--and, when you've enough,

Don't be anxious your bags any tighter to stuff--

Recollect that good fortune too far you may push,

And, "A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH!"

Then turn not each thought to increasing your store,

Nor look always like "Oliver asking for more!"

_Gourmandise_ is a vice--a sad failing, at least;--

So remember "Enough is as good as a feast!"

And don't set your heart on "stew'd," "fried," "boil'd," or "roast,"

Nor on delicate "Woodcocks served up upon toast!"

Don't give people nick-names!--don't, even in fun,

Call any one "snuff-coloured son of a gun!"

Nor fancy, because a man _nous_ seems to lack,

That, whenever you please, you can "give him the sack!"

Last of all, as you'd thrive, and still sleep in whole bones,

IF YOU'VE ANY GLASS WINDOWS, NEVER THROW STONES!!!

The Ingoldsby Legends.

_THIRD SERIES._

The Ingoldsby Legends.

THIRD SERIES.

THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.

A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.

Veluti in speculum.

_Theatre Royal Cov. Gard._

Count Raymond rules in Languedoc,

O'er the champaign fair and wide,

With town and stronghold many a one,

Wash'd by the wave of the blue Garonne,

And from far Auvergne to Rousillon,

And away to Narbonne,

And the mouths of the Rhone;

And his Lyonnois silks and his Narbonne honey,

Bring in his lordship a great deal of money.

A thousand lances, stout and true,

Attend Count Raymond's call;

And Knights and Nobles, of high degree,

From Guienne, Provence, and Burgundy,

Before Count Raymond bend the knee,

And vail to him one and all.

And Isabel of Arragon

He weds, the Pride of Spain,

You might not find so rich a prize,

A Dame so "healthy, wealthy, and wise;"

So pious withal--with such beautiful eyes--

So exactly the Venus de Medicis' size--

In all that wide domain.

Then his cellar is stored As well as his board,

With the choicest of all _La Belle France_ can afford;

Chambertin, Chateau Margaux, La Rose, and Lafitte,

With Moet's Champagne, "of the Comet year," "neat

As imported,"--"fine sparkling,"--and not over sweet;

While his Chaplain, good man, when call'd in to say Grace,

Would groan, and put on an elongated face

At such turtle, such turbot, John Dory, and plaice;

Not without blushing, pronouncing a benison,

Worthy old soul! on such _very_ fat venison,

Sighing to think Such victuals and drink

Are precisely the traps by which Satan makes men his own,

And grieving o'er scores Of huge barbecued Boars,

Which he thinks should not darken a Christian man's doors,

Though 'twas all very well Pagan Poets should rate 'em

As "_Animal propter convivia natum_."

He was right, I must say, For at this time of day,

When we're not so precise, whether cleric or lay,

With respect to our food, as in time so _passé_,

We still find our Boars, whether grave ones or gay,

_After_ dinner, at least, very much in the way,

(We spell the word now with an E, not an A;)

And as honest _Père Jacques_ was inclined to spare diet, he

Gave this advice to all grades of society,

"Think less of pudding--and think more of piety."

As to his clothes, Oh! nobody knows

What lots the Count had of cloaks, doublets, and hose,

_Pantoufles_, with bows Each as big as a rose,

And such shirts with lace ruffles, such waistcoats, and those

Indescribable garments it is not thought right

To do more than whisper to _oreilles_ polite.

Still in spite of his power, and in spite of his riches,

In spite of his dinners, his dress, and his----which is

The strangest of all things--in spite of his Wife,

The Count led a rather hum-drum sort of life.

He grew tired, in fact, of mere eating and drinking,

Grew tired of flirting, and ogling, and winking

At nursery maids As they walk'd the Parades,

The Crescents, the Squares, and the fine Colonnades,

And the other gay places, which young ladies use

As their _promenade_ through the good town of Thoulouse.

He was tired of hawking, and fishing, and hunting,

Of billiards, short-whist, chicken-hazard, and punting;

Of popping at pheasants, Quails, woodcocks, and--peasants:

Of smoking, and joking, And soaking, provoking

Such headaches next day As his fine St. Peray,

Though the best of all Rhone wines can never repay,

Till weary of war, women, roast-goose, and glory,

With no great desire to be "famous in story,"

All the day long, This was his song,

"Oh, dear! what will become of us?

Oh, dear! what shall we do?

We shall die of blue devils if some of us

Can't hit on something that's new!"

Meanwhile his sweet Countess, so pious and good,

Such pomps and such vanities stoutly eschew'd,

With all fermented liquors and high-seasoned food,

Deviled kidneys, and sweetbreads, and ducks and green peas;

Baked sucking-pig, goose, and all viands like these,

Hash'd calf's-head included, no longer could please,

A curry was sure to elicit a breeze,

So was ale, or a glass of Port wine after cheese,

Indeed, anything strong, As to tipple, was wrong;

She stuck to "fine Hyson," "Bohea," and "Souchong,"

And similar imports direct from Hong Kong.

In vain does the family doctor exhort her

To take with her chop one poor half-pint of porter;

No!--she alleges She's taken the pledges!

Determined to aid In a gen'ral Crusade

Against publicans, vintners, and all of that trade,

And to bring in sherbet, ginger-pop, lemonade,

_Eau sucrée_, and drinkables mild and home made;

So she claims her friends' efforts, and vows to devote all hers

Solely to found "The Thoulousian Teetotallers."

Large sums she employs In dressing small boys

In long duffle jackets, and short corduroys,

And she boxes their ears when they make too much noise;

In short, she turns out a complete Lady Bountiful,

Filling with drugs and brown Holland the county full.

Now just at the time when our story commences,

It seems that a case Past the common took place,

To entail on her ladyship further expenses,

In greeting with honour befitting his station

The Prior of Arles, with a Temperance Legation,

Despatched by Pope Urban, who seized this occasion

To aid in diluting that part of the nation,

An excellent man, One who stuck to his can

Of cold water "without"--and he'd take such a lot of it;

None of your sips That just moisten the lips;

At one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it,

No such bad thing By the way, if they bring

It you iced, as at Verrey's, or fresh from the spring,

When the Dog Star compels folks in town to take wing,

Though I own even then I should see no great sin in it,

Were there three drops of Sir Felix's gin in it.

Well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure,

And finish the pump with the Prior at leisure,

Let's go back to Raymond, still bored beyond measure,

And harping away On the same dismal lay,

"On dear! what will become of us?

Oh dear! what can we do?

We shall die of blue devils if some of us

Can't find out something that's new!"

At length in despair of obtaining his ends

By his own mother wit, he takes courage, and sends,

Like a sensible man as he is, for his friends,

Not his Lyndhursts or Eldons, or any such high sirs,

But only a few of his "backstairs" advisers;

"Come hither," says he, "My gallants so free,

My bold Rigmarole, and my brave Rigmaree,

And my grave Baron Proser, now listen to me!

You three can't but see I'm half dead with _ennui_.

What's to be done? I _must_ have some fun,

And I will too, that's flat--ay, as sure as a gun.

So find me out 'something new under the sun,'

Or I'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one;--

You three Agree! Come, what shall it be?

Resolve me--propound in three skips of a flea!"

Rigmarole gave a "Ha!" Rigmaree gave a "Hem!"

They look'd at Count Raymond--Count Raymond at them,

As much as to say, "Have you _nihil ad rem_?"

At length Baron Proser Responded, "You know, sir,

That question's some time been a regular poser;

Dear me!--Let me see,-- In the way of a 'spree'

Something new?--Eh!--No!--Yes!----_No!_--'tis really no go, sir."

Says the Count, "Rigmarole, You're as jolly a soul,

On the whole, as King Cole, with his pipe and his bowl;

Come, I'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll."--

In vain--Rigmarole with a look most profound,

With his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground,

Shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found.

"I can only remark, That as touching a 'lark'

I'm as much as your Highness can be, in the dark;

I can hit on no novelty--none, on my life,

Unless, peradventure you'd 'tea' with your wife!"

Quoth Raymond, "Enough!

Nonsense!--humbug!--fudge!--stuff!

Rigmarole, you're an ass,--you're a regular Muff!

Drink tea with her ladyship?--I?--not a bit of it!

Call you that fun?--faith I can't see the wit of it;

_Mort de ma vie!_ My dear Rigmaree,

You're the man, after all,--come, by way of a fee,

If you will but be bright, from the simple degree

Of a knight I'll create you at once a _Mar-quis_!

Put your conjuring cap on--consider and see,

If you can't beat that stupid old 'Sumph' with his 'tea!'"

"That's the thing! that will do! Ay, marry, that's new!"

Cries Rigmaree, rubbing his hands, "that will please--

My '_Conjuring cap_'--it's the thing;--it's 'the cheese!'

It was only this morning I picked up the news;

Please your Highness a _Conjuror's_ come to Thoulouse;

I'll defy you to name us A man half so famous

For devildoms,--Sir, it's the great Nostradamus!

Cornelius Agrippa 'tis said went to school to him,

Gyngell's an ass, and old Faustus a fool to him,

Talk of Lilly, Albertus, Jack Dee!--pooh! all six

He'd soon put in a pretty particular fix;

Why, he'd beat at digesting a sword, or 'Gun tricks'

The great Northern Wizard himself all to sticks!

I should like to see you, Try to _sauter le coup_

With this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo,

By the Pope you'd soon find it a regular 'Do:'

Why, he does as he likes with the cards,--when he's got 'em,

There's always an Ace or a King at the bottom;

Then for casting Nativities!--only you look

At the volume he's published,--that wonderful book!

In all France not another, to swear I dare venture, is

Like, by long chalks, his 'Prophetical Centuries'--

Don't you remember how, early last summer, he

Warned the late King 'gainst the Tournament mummery?

Didn't his Majesty call it all flummery,

Scorning The warning, And get the next morning

His poke in the eye from that clumsy Montgomery?

Why, he'll tell you, before You're well inside his door,

All you're Highness may wish to be up to, and more!"

"Bravo!--capital!--come, let's disguise ourselves--quick!

--Fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick;

We'll see if old Hocus will smell out the trick;

Let's start off at once--Rigmaree, you're a Brick!"

The moon in gentle radiance shone

O'er lowly roof and lordly bower,

O'er holy pile and armed tower,

And danced upon the blue Garonne:

Through all that silver'd city fair,

No sound disturbed the calm, cool air,

Save the lover's sigh alone!

Or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose

Proclaim'd the depth of his repose,

Provoking from connubial toes

A hint--or elbow bone;

It might, with such trifling exceptions, be said,

That Thoulouse was as still as if Thoulouse were dead,

And her "oldest inhabitant" buried in lead.

But hark! a sound invades the ear,

Of horses' hoofs advancing near!

They gain the bridge--they pass--they're here!

Side by side Two strangers ride,

For the streets in Thoulouse are sufficiently wide,

That is I'm assured they are--not having tried.

--See, now they stop Near an odd-looking shop,

And they knock, and they ring, and they won't be denied.

At length the command Of some unseen hand

Chains, and bolts, and bars obey,

And the thick-ribbed oaken door, old and grey,

In the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way.

They leave their steeds to a page's care,

Who comes mounted behind on a Flanders mare,

And they enter the house, that resolute pair,

With a blundering step but a dare-devil air,

And ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair;

While, armed with a lamp that just helps you to see

How uncommonly dark a place can be,

The grimmest of lads with the grimmest of grins,

Says, "Gentlemen, please to take care of your shins!

Who ventures this road need be firm on his pins!

Now turn to the left--now turn to the right--

Now a step--now stoop--now again upright--

Now turn once again, and directly before ye

's the door of the great Doctor's Labora-tory."

A word! a blow! And in they go!

No time to prepare, or to get up a show,

Yet everything there they find quite _comme il faut_:

Such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row,

Retorts, crucibles, such as all Conjurors stow

In the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow

The fire burning blue with its sulphur and tow;

From the roof a huge crocodile hangs rather low,

With a tail such as that which, we all of us know,

Mr. Waterton managed to tie in a bow;

Pickled snakes, potted lizards, in bottles and basins

Like those at Morel's, or at Fortnum and Mason's,

All articles found, you're aware without telling,

In every respectable Conjuror's dwelling.

Looking solemn and wise, Without turning his eyes,

Or betraying the slightest degree of surprise,

In the midst sits the Doctor--his hair is white,

And his cheek is wan--but his glance is bright,

And his long black roquelaure, not over-tight,

Is marked with strange characters much, if not quite,

Like those on the bottles of green and blue light

Which you see in a chymist's shop-window at night.

His figure is tall and erect--rather spare about

Ribs,--and no wonder--such folks never care about

Eating or drinking, While reading and thinking,

Don't fatten--his age might be sixty or thereabout.

Raising his eye so grave and so sage,

From some manuscript work of a bygone age,

The seer very composedly turns down the page,

Then shading his sight, With his hand from the light,

Says, "Well, Sirs, what would you at this time of night?

What brings you abroad these lone chambers to tread,

When all sober folks are at home and abed?"

"Trav'lers we, In our degree,

All strange sights we fain would see,

And hither we come in company;

We have far to go, and we come from far,

Through Spain and Portingale, France and Navarre;

We have heard of your name,

And your fame, and our aim,

Great Sir, is to witness, ere yet we depart

From Thoulouse,--and to-morrow at cock-crow we start--

Your skill--we would fain crave a touch of your art!"

"Now naye, now naye--no trav'lers ye!

Nobles ye be Of high degree!

With half an eye that one may easily see,--

Count Raymond, your servant!--Yours, Lord Rigmaree!

I must call you so now since you're made a _Mar-quis_;

Faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me!

No matter for that! I see what you'd be at--

Well--pray no delay, For it's late, and ere day

I myself must be hundreds of miles on my way;

So tell me at once what you want with me--say!

Shall I call up the dead From their mouldering bed?--

Shall I send you yourselves down to Hades instead?--

Shall I summon old Harry himself to this spot?"

--"Ten thousand thanks, No! we had much rather not.

We really can't say That we're curious that way;

But, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving,

We'd much rather take a sly peep at the living?

Rigmaree, what say you, in This case, as to viewing

Our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing?"

"Just what pleases your Highness--I don't care a _sous_ in

The matter--but don't let old Nick and his crew in!"

--"Agreed!--pray proceed then, most sage Nostradamus,

And show us our _Wives_--I dare swear they won't shame us!"

A change comes o'er the Wizard's face,

And his solemn look by degrees gives place

To a half grave, half comical, kind of grimace.

"For good or for ill, I work your will!

Yours be the risk and mine the skill;

Blame not my art if unpleasant the pill!"

He takes from a shelf, and he pops on his head,

A square sort of cap, black, and turned up with red,

And desires not a syllable more may be said;

He goes on to mutter, And stutter, and sputter

Hard words, such as no men but Wizards dare utter.

"Dies mies!--Hocus pocus--

Adsis Demon! non est jokus!

Hi Cocolorum--don't provoke us!--

Adesto! Presto! Put forth your best toe!"

And many more words, to repeat which would choke us,--

Such a sniff then of brimstone!--it did not last long,

Or they could not have borne it, the smell was so strong.

A mirror is near, So large and so clear,

If you priced such a one in a drawing-room here,

And was ask'd fifty pounds, you'd not say it was dear;

But a mist gather'd round at the words of the Seer,

Till at length, as the gloom Was subsiding, a room

On its broad polish'd surface began to appear,

And the Count and his comrade saw plainly before 'em

The room Lady Isabel called her "_Sanctorum_."

They start, well they might, With surprise at the sight,

Methinks I hear some lady say, "Serve 'em right!"

[Illustration: THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.]

For on one side the fire Is seated the Prior,

At the opposite corner a fat little Friar;

By the side of each gentleman, easy and free,

Sits a lady, as close as close well may be,

She might almost as well have been perch'd on his knee.

Dear me! dear me! Why, one's Isabel--she

On the opposite side's _La Marquise Rigmaree_!--

To judge from the spread On the board, you'd have said

That the _partie quarrée_ had like aldermen fed,

And now from long flasks, with necks covered with lead,

They were helping themselves to champagne, white and red

Hobbing and nobbing, And nodding and bobbing,

With many a sip Both from cup and from lip,

And with many a toast followed up by a "Hip!--

Hip!--hip!--huzzay!" --The Count, by the way,

Though he sees all they're doing, can't hear what they say,

Notwithstanding both he And _Mar-quis Rigmaree_

Are so vex'd and excited at what they can _see_,

That each utters a sad word beginning with D.

That word once spoke, The silence broke,

In an instant the vision is cover'd with smoke!

But enough has been seen. "Horse! horse! and away!"

They have, neither, the least inclination to stay,

E'en to thank Nostradamus, or ask what's to pay.--

They rush down the stair, How, they know not, nor care,

The next moment the Count is astride on his bay,

And my Lord Rigmaree on his mettlesome grey;

They dash through the town, Now up, and now down,

And the stones rattle under their hoofs as they ride,

As if poor Thoulouse were as mad as Cheapside;[65]

Through lane, alley, and street,

Over all that they meet;

The Count leads the way on his courser so fleet,

My Lord Rigmaree close pursuing his beat,

With the Page in the rear to protect the retreat.

Where the bridge spans the river, so wide and so deep,

Their headlong career o'er the causeway they keep,

Upsetting the Watchman, two dogs, and a Sweep,

All the town population that was not asleep.

They at length reach the castle, just outside the town,

Where--in peace it was usual with Knights of renown--

The portcullis was up, and the drawbridge was down.

They dash by the sentinels--"_France et Thoulouse!_"

Ev'ry soldier (--they then wore cock'd hats and long _queues_,

Appendages banish'd from modern reviews),

His arquebus lower'd, and bow'd to his shoes;

While Count Raymond pushed on to his lady's _boudoir_--he

Had made up his mind to make one at her _soirée_.

He rush'd to that door, Where ever before

He had rapped with his knuckles, and "tirled at the pin,"

Till he heard the soft sound of his Lady's "Come in!"

But now, with a kick from his iron-heel'd boot,

Which, applied to a brick wall, at once had gone through't,

He dash'd open the lock; It gave way at the shock!

(--Dear ladies, don't think, in recording the fact,

That your bard's for one moment defending the act,

No--it is not a gentleman's--none but a low body

_Now_--could perform it)--and there he saw--NOBODY!!

Nobody?--No!! Oh, ho!--Oh, ho!

There was not a table--there was not a chair

Of all that Count Raymond had ever seen there

(They'd maroon-leather bottoms well stuff'd with horse-hair),

That was out of its place!-- There was not a trace

Of a party--there was not a dish or a plate--

No sign of a tablecloth--nothing to prate

Of a supper, _symposium_, or sitting up late;

There was not a spark of fire left in the grate,

It had all been poked out, and remained in that state.

If there was not a fire, Still less was there Friar,

_Marquise_, or long glasses, or Countess, or Prior,

And the Count, who rush'd in open mouth'd, was struck dumb,

And could only ejaculate, "Well, this _is_ rum!"

He rang for the maids--had them into the room,

With the butler, the footman, the coachman, the groom.

He examined them all very strictly--but no!

Notwithstanding he cross- and re-question'd them so,

'Twas in vain--it was clearly a case of "No Go!"

"Their Lady," they said, "Had gone early to bed,

Having rather complain'd of a cold in her head--

The stout little Friar, as round as an apple,

Had pass'd the whole night in a vigil in chapel,

While the Prior himself, as he'd usually done,

Had rung in the morning, at half-after one,

For his jug of cold water and twopenny bun,

And been visible, since they were brought him, to none.

But," the servants averr'd,

"From the sounds that were heard

To proceed now and then from the father's _sacellum_,

They thought he was purging His sins with a scourging,

And making good use of his knotted _flagellum_."

For Madame Rigmaree, They all testified, she

Had gone up to her bed-chamber soon after tea,

And they really supposed that there still she must be,

Which her spouse, the _Mar-quis_,

Found at once to agree

With the rest of their tale, when he ran up to see.

Alack for Count Raymond! he could not conceive

How the case really stood, or know _what_ to believe;

Nor could Rigmaree settle to laugh or to grieve.

There was clearly a hoax,

But which of the folks

Had managed to make them the butt of their jokes,

Wife or Wizard, they both knew no more than Jack Nokes;

That glass of the Wizard's

Stuck much in their gizzards,

His cap, and his queer cloak all X's and Izzards;

Then they found, when they came to examine again,

Some slight falling off in the stock of champagne,

Small, but more than the butler could fairly explain.

However, since nothing could make the truth known,

Why,--they thought it was best to let matters alone.

The Count in the garden Begg'd Isabel's pardon

Next morning for waking her up in a fright,

By the racket he'd kicked up at that time of night;

And gave her his word he had ne'er misbehaved so,

Had he not come home as tipsy as David's sow.

Still, to give no occasion for family snarls,

The Friar was pack'd back to his convent at Arles,

While as for the Prior, At Raymond's desire,

The Pope raised his rev'rence a step or two higher,

And made him a Bishop _in partibus_--where

His see was I cannot exactly declare,

Or describe his cathedral, not having been there,

But I dare say you'll all be prepared for the news,

When I say 'twas a good many miles from Thoulouse,

Where the prelate, in order to set a good precedent,

Was enjoined, as a _sine quâ non_, to be resident.

You will fancy with me,

That Count Raymond was free,

For the rest of his life, from his former _ennui_;

Still it somehow occurr'd that as often as he

Chanced to look in the face of my Lord Rigmaree,

There was something or other--a trifling degree

Of constraint--or embarrassment--easy to see,

And which seem'd to be shared by the noble _Mar-quis_,

While the ladies--the queerest of all things by half in

My tale, never met from that hour without laughing!

MORAL.

Good gentlemen all, who are subjects of Hymen,

Don't make new acquaintances rashly, but try men,

Avoid above all things your cunning (that's sly) men!

Don't go out o' nights To see conjuring sleights,

But shun all such people, delusion whose trade is;

Be wise!--stay at home and take tea with the ladies.

If you _chance_ to be out, At a "regular bout,"

And get too much of "Abbot's Pale Ale" or "Brown Stout,"

Don't be cross when you come home at night to your spouse,

Nor be noisy, nor kick up a dust in the house!

Be careful yourself, and admonish your sons,

To beware of all folks who love twopenny buns!

And don't introduce to your wife or your daughter

A sleek, meek, weak gent--who subsists on cold water!

* * * * *

The main incident recorded in the following _excerpta_ from our family

papers has but too solid a foundation. The portrait of Roger Ingoldsby

is not among those in the gallery, but I have some recollection of

having seen, when a boy, a picture answering the description here given

of him, much injured, and lying without a frame in one of the attics.

FOOTNOTES:

[65]

"The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad."

_Gilpin's Tour in Middlesex and Herts._

THE WEDDING-DAY;

OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE.

A FAMILY LEGEND.

It has a jocund sound,

That gleeful Marriage chime,

As from the old and ivied tower,

It peals, at the early Matin hour,

Its merry, merry round;

And the Spring is in its prime,

And the Song-bird, on the spray,

Trills from his throat, in varied note,

An emulative lay--

It has a joyous sound!!

And the Vicar is there with his wig and his book,

And the Clerk with his grave, _quasi_-sanctified look,

And there stand the Village maids all with their posies,

Their lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and roses,

Dight in white, A comely sight,

Fringing the path to the left and the right;

--From our nursery days we all of us know

Ne'er doth "Our Ladye's garden grow"

So fair for a "Grand Horticultural Show"

As when border'd with "pretty maids all on a row."

And the urchins are there, escap'd from the rule

Of that "Limbo of Infants," the National School,

Whooping, and bawling, And squalling, and calling,

And crawling, and creeping, And jumping, and leaping,

Bo-peeping 'midst "many a mouldering heap" in

Whose bosom their own "rude forefathers" are sleeping;

--Young rascals!--instead of lamenting and weeping,

Laughing and gay, _A gorge deployée_--

Only now and then pausing--and checking their play,

To "wonder what 'tis makes the gentlefolks stay,"

Ah, well-a-day! Little deem they,

Poor ignorant dears! the bells, ringing away,

Are anything else Than mere parish bells,

Or that each of them, should we go into its history,

Is but a "Symbol" of some deeper mystery--

That the clappers and ropes Are mere practical tropes

Of "trumpets" and "tongues," and of "preachers," and popes,

Unless Clement the fourth's worthy Chaplin, _Durand_, err,

See the "_Rationale_" of that goosey-gander.

Gently! gently, Miss Muse!

Mind your P's and your Q's!

Don't be malapert--laugh, Miss, but never abuse!

Calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism,

Is, Miss, believe me, a great piece of Jack-ass-ism,

And as, on the whole, You're a good-natured soul,

You must never enact such a pitiful _rôle_.

No, no, Miss, pull up, and go back to your boys

In the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise--

But hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming,

For voices are heard--here's the company coming!

And see!--the avenue gates unfold,

And forth they pace, that bridal train,

The grave, the gay, the young, the old,

They cross the green and grassy lane,

Bridesman, Bridesmaid, Bridegroom, Bride,

Two by two, and side by side,

Uncles, and aunts, friends tried and prov'd,

And cousins, a great many times removed.

A fairer or a gentler She,

A lovelier Maid, in her degree,

Man's eye might never hope to see,

Than darling, bonnie Maud Ingoldsby,

The flow'r of that goodly company;

While whispering low, with bated voice,

Close by her side, her heart's dear choice,

Walks Fredville's hope, young Valentine Boys.

--But where, oh where,-- Is Ingoldsby's heir?

Little Jack Ingoldsby?--where, oh where?

Why, he's here,--and he's there, And he's every where--

He's there, and he's here; In the front--in the rear,--

Now this side, now that side,--now far, and now near--

The Puck of the party, the darling "pet" boy,

Full of mischief, and fun, and good humour and joy;

With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose,

And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose;

In his tunic, and trousers, and cap--there he goes!

Now pinching the bridesmen,--now teasing his sister,

And telling the bridesmaids how "Valentine kiss'd her;"

The torment, the plague, the delight of them all,

See he's into the churchyard!--he's over the wall--

Gambolling, frolicking, capering away,

He's the first in the church, be the second who may!

* * * * *

'Tis o'er;--the holy rite is done,

The rite that "incorporates two in one,"

--And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun!

Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing,

The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying,

The "toot--toot--toot" Of the tabour and flute,

Of the white wigg'd Vicar's prolonged salute,

Or of how the blithe "College _Youths_"--rather old stagers,

Accustom'd, for years, to pull bell ropes for wagers--

Rang, faster than ever, their "triple-bob-MAJORS;"

(So loud as to charm ye, At once and alarm ye;

--"_Symbolic_," of course, of that rank in the army.)

Spare we to tell of the fees and the dues

To the "little old woman that open'd the pews,"

Of the largesse bestow'd on the Sexton and Clerk,

Of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park,

Of the laughing and joking, The quaffing and smoking,

And chaffing, and broaching--that is to say, poking

A hole in a mighty magnificent tub

Of what men, in our hemisphere, term "Humming Bub,"

But which Gods,--who, it seems, use a different lingo

From Mortals,--are wont to denominate "Stingo."

Spare we to tell of the Horse-collar grinning;

The Cheese! the reward of the ugly one winning;

Of the young ladies racing for Dutch body-linen,--

--The soapy-tailed Sow,--a rich prize when you've caught her,--

Of little boys bobbing for pippins in water;

The smacks and the whacks, And the jumpers in sacks,

These down on their noses and those on their backs;--

Nor skills it to speak of those darling old ditties,

Sung rarely in hamlets now--never in cities,

The "_King and the Miller_," the "_Bold Robin Hood_,"

"_Chevy Chase_," "_Gilderoy_," and the "_Babes in the Wood_!"

--You'll say that my taste Is sadly misplaced,

But I can't help confessing these simple old tunes

The "_Auld Robin Grays_," and the "_Aileen Aroons_,"

The "_Gramachree Mollys_," and "_Sweet Bonny Doons_,"

Are dearer to me, In a tenfold degree,

Than a fine _fantasia_ from over the sea;

And, for sweetness, compared with a Beethoven fugue, are

As "best-refined loaf" to the coarsest "brown sugar;"[66]

--Alack, for the Bard's want of science! to which he owes

All this misliking of foreign _capricios_!--

Not that he'd say One word, by the way,

To disparage our new Idol, Monsieur Duprez--

But he grudges, he owns, his departed half guinea,

Each Saturday night when, devoured by chagrin, he

Sits listening to singers whose names end in _ini_.

But enough of the rustics--let's leave them pursuing

Their out-of-door gambols, and just take a view in

The inside the Hall, and see what _they_ are doing;

And first there's the Squire, The hale, hearty Sire

Of the Bride,--with his coat-tails subducted and higher,

A thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire;

His back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;--

--Bright, bright are his buttons,--and bright is the hue

Of his squarely-cut coat of fine Saxony blue;

And bright the shalloon of his little quilled _queue_;

--White, white as "Young England's," the dimity vest

Which descends like an _avalanche_ o'er his broad breast,

Till its further progression is put in arrest

By the portly projection that springs from his chest,

Overhanging the garment--that can't be exprest;

--White, white are his locks,--which, had Nature fair play,

Had appeared a clear brown, slightly sprinkled with grey;

But they're white as the peaks of Plinlimmon to-day,

Or Ben Nevis, his pate is _si bien poudré_!

Bright, bright are the boots that envelope his heels,

--Bright, bright is the gold chain suspending his seals,

And still brighter yet may the gazer descry

The Tear-drop that spangles the fond Father's eye

As it lights on the Bride-- His belov'd One--the pride

And delight of his heart,--sever'd now from his side;--

But brighter than all, Arresting its fall,

Is the smile, that rebukes it for spangling at all,

--A clear case, in short, of what old Poets tell, as

Blind Homer for instance, εν δαχρυσι γελας.

Then, there are the Bride and the Bridegroom, withdrawn

To the deep Gothic window that looks on the lawn,

Ensconced on a squab of maroon-coloured leather,

And talking--and _thinking_, no doubt--of the weather.

But here comes the party--Room! room for the guests!

In their Pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests,

--First, Sir Charles Grandison, Baronet, and his Son,

Charles,--the Mamma does not venture to "show"--

--Miss Byron, you know, She was call'd long ago--

For that Lady, 'twas _said_, had been playing the d--l,

Last season, in town, with her old beau, Squire Greville,

Which very much shock'd, and chagrin'd, as may well be

Supposed, "Doctor Bartlett," and "Good Uncle Selby."

--Sir Charles, of course, could not give Greville his gruel, in

Order to prove his abhorrence of duelling,

Nor try for, deterr'd by the serious expense, a

Complete separation _a thoro et mensâ_,

So he "kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party,

A dance, or a dinner, or tea and _ecarté_,

He went with his son, and said, looking demurely,

He'd "left her at home, as she found herself poorly."

Two Foreigners near, "Of distinction," appear;

A pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw,

Count Ferdinand Fathom,--Count Thaddeus of Warsaw,

All cover'd with glitt'ring _bijouterie_ and hair--Poles,

Whom Lord Dudley Stuart calls "Patriot,"--Hook "Bare Poles;"

Such rings, and such brooches, such studs, and such pins.

'Twere hard to say which Were more gorgeous and rich,

Or more truly Mosaic, their chains or their chins!

Next Sir Roger de Coverley,--Mr. Will Ramble,

With Dame Lismahago, (_née_ Tabitha Bramble),--

Mr. Random and Spouse,--Mrs. Pamela Booby,

(Whose nose was acquiring a tinge of the ruby,

And "people _did say_"--but no matter for that, ...

Folks were not then enlighten'd by good Father Mat.)--

--Three friends from "the Colonies" near them were seen,

The great Massachusetts man, General Muff Green,--

Mr. Jonathan W. Doubikins,--men

"Influential _some_"--and their "smart" Uncle Ben;--

Rev. Abraham Adams (preferr'd to a stall),--

--Mr. Jones and his Lady, from Allworthy Hall;

--Our friend Tom, by the way, Had turn'd out rather gay

For a married man--certainly "people _did say_,"

He was shrewdly suspected of using his wife ill,

And being as sly as his half-brother Blifil.--

(Miss Seagrim, 'tis well known, was now in high feather,

And "people _did say_" they'd been seen out together,--

A fact, the "Boy Jones," who, in our days, with malice

Aforethought, so often got into the Palace,

Would seem to confirm, as, 'tis whispered he owns, he's

The son of a natural son of Tom Jones's.)

Lady Bellaston, (_mem._ she had not been invited!)

Sir Peregrine Pickle, now recently knighted,--

All joyous, all happy, all looking delighted!

--It would bore you to death should I pause to describe,

Or enumerate, half of the elegant tribe

Who filled the back ground, And among whom were found

The _elite_ of the old County families round,

Such as Honeywood, Oxenden, Knatchbull, and Norton,

Matthew Robinson,[67] too, with his beard from Monk's Horton,

The Faggs, and Finch-Hattons, Tokes, Derings, and Deedses,

And Fairfax, (who then called the castle of Leeds his;)

Esquires, Knights, and Lords, In bag-wigs and swords;

And the troops, and the groups Of fine Ladies in hoops;

The _pompoons_, the _toupées_, and the diamonds and feathers,

The flowered-silk _sacques_

Which they wore on their backs,--

--How?--_sacques_ and _pompoons_, with the Squire's boots and

leathers?--

Stay! stay!--I suspect, Here's a trifling neglect

On your part, Madame Muse--though you're commonly accurate

As to costume, as brown Quaker, or black Curate,

For once, I confess, Here you're out as to dress;--

You've been fairly caught napping, which gives me distress,

For I can't but acknowledge it is not the thing,

Sir Roger de Coverley's laced suit to bring

Into contact with square-cut coats,--such as George Byng,

And poor dear Sir Francis appeared in, last spring.--

So, having for once been compelled to acknowledge, I

've made a small hole in our mutual chronology,

Canter on, Miss, without further apology,--

Only don't make Such another mistake,

Or you'll get in a scrape, of which I shall partake;--

Enough!--you are sorry for what you have done,

So dry your eyes, Miss, blow your nose, and go on!

Well--the party are met, all radiant and gay,

And how ev'ry person is dress'd--we won't say;

Suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay

To our dear "bonnie Maud," on her own wedding-day,

To dance at her bridal, and help "throw the stocking,"

--A practice that's now discontinued as shocking.

There's a breakfast, they know-- There always is so

On occasions like these, wheresoever you go.

Of course there are "lots" of beef, potted and hung,

Prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue,

Hot tea, and hot coffee, hot rolls, and hot toast,

Cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boil'd and cold roast,

Scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, colder ices--

_Blancmange_, which young Ladies say, so very nice is,--

Rock-melons in thick, Pines in much thinner slices,--

Char, potted with clarified butter and spices,

Renewing an appetite long past its crisis--

Refined barley-sugar, in various devices,

Such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes--

And nasty French lucifer snappers with mottoes.

--In short, all those gimcracks together were met

Which people of fashion tell Gunter to get

When they give a _grand déjeûner à la fourchette_--

(A phrase which, though French, in our language still lingers,

Intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers.)

And see! what a mountainous bridecake!--a thing

By itself--with small pieces to pass through the ring!

Now as to the wines!--"Ay, the Wine?" cries the Squire,

Letting fall both his coat-tails,--which nearly take fire,--

Rubbing his hands, He calls out, as he stands,

To the serving-men waiting "his Honour's" commands,

"The wine!--to be sure--here you, Harry--Bob--Dick--

The wine, don't you hear?--bring us lights--come, be quick!--

And a crow-bar to knock down the mortar and brick--

Say what they may, 'Fore George, we'll make way

Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day;

And let loose his captives, imprison'd so long,

His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong!"--

--"Oh dear! oh dear! Squire Ingoldsby, bethink you what you do!"

Exclaims old Mrs. Botherby,[68]--she is in _such_ a stew!--

"Oh dear! oh dear! what do I hear?--full oft you've heard me tell

Of the curse 'Wild Roger' left upon whoe'er should break his cell!"

"Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away,

As I bethink me, too, it was upon this very day!

And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay,

Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play;

Your locks were nut-brown then, Squire--you grow a little grey!--

"Wild Roger,' so we call'd him then, your Grandsire's youngest son,

He was in truth A wayward youth, We fear'd him, every one.

In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be stayed by none,

And when he did a naughty thing, he laugh'd and call'd it fun!

--One day his father chid him sore--I know not what he'd done,

But he scorn'd reproof; And from this roof

Away that night he run!

"Seven years were gone and over--'Wild Roger' came again,

He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main;

And he had store of gold galore, and silks, and satins fine,

And flasks and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine!

Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave,

And came, in penitence and shame, now of his Sire to crave

Forgiveness and a welcome home--his Sire was in his grave!

"Your Father was a kindly man--he played a brother's part,

He press'd his brother to his breast--he had a kindly heart,

Fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to share,

But Roger was the same man still,--he scorn'd his brother's pray'r!

He call'd his crew,--away he flew, and on those foreign shores

Got kill'd in some outlandish place--they call it the Eyesores;[69]

But ere he went, And quitted Kent,

--I well recall the day,--

His flasks and casks of Gascon wine he safely 'stow'd away;'

Within the cellar's deepest nook, he safely stow'd them all,

And Mason Jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up the wall.

"Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear 'Wild Roger's' ban!

Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man;

'Here's that,' quoth he, 'shall serve me well when I return at last,

A batter'd hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past;

Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine,

Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon wine!'

And more he said, which filled with dread all those who listen'd there;

In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair

With very fear, to stand and hear 'Wild Roger' curse and swear!!

He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game,

He called me 'Mother Bounce-about,' my Gracious, what a name!

Nay more, 'an old'--some 'boat-woman,'--I may not say for shame!--

Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell,

Nor break, on such a day as this, 'Wild Roger's' secret cell!"

"Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire,

As he mov'd from the fire,

And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire,

"Pooh!--never tell me! Nonsense--fiddle-de-dee!

What?--wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea?--

Why he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too gay,

And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way;

But what's that to us, now, at this time of day?

What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell--

--I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,--

[Illustration: THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE.]

Sent him back in a huff to his old privateering,

Or what his unfriends chose to call Buccaneering,

It's twenty years since, as we very well know,

He was knock'd on the head in a skirmish, and so

Why rake up 'auld warld' tales of deeds long ago?--

--Foul befall him who would touch the deposit

Of living man, whether in cellar or closet!

But since, as I've said, Knock'd on the head,

Uncle Roger has now been some twenty years dead.

As for his wine, I'm his heir, and it's mine!

And I'd long ago work'd it well, but that I tarried

For this very day--

And I'm sure you'll all say

I was right--when my own darling Maud should get married!

So lights and a crow-bar!--the only thing lies

On my conscience, at all, with respect to this prize,

Is some little compunction anent the Excise--

Come--you, Master Jack,

Be the first, and bring back

Whate'er comes to hand--Claret, Burgundy, Sack--

Head the party, and mind that you're back in a crack!"

Away go the clan, With cup and with can,

Little Jack Ingoldsby leading the van;

Little reck they of the Buccaneer's ban:

Hope whispers, "Perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too here!"

Blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear!

Through cellar one, through cellars two,

Through cellars three they past!

And their way they took To the farthest nook

Of cellar four--the last!--

Blithe and gay, they batter away,

On this wedding-day of Maud's,

With all their might, to bring to light

"Wild Roger's" "Custom-house frauds!"

And though stone and brick Be never so thick,

When stoutly assailed, they are no bar

To the powerful charm Of a Yeoman's arm

When wielding a decentish crow-bar!

Down comes brick, and down comes stone,

One by one-- The job's half done!--

"Where is he?--now come--where's Master John?"--

--There's a breach in the wall three feet by two,

And little Jack Ingoldsby soon pops through!

Hark!--what sound's that?--a sob?--a sigh?--

The choking gasp of a stifled cry?--

"--What can it be?--

Let's see!--let's see!--

It _can't_ be little Jack Ingoldsby?

The candle--quick!"--

Through stone and through brick

They poke in the light on a long split stick;

But ere he who holds it can wave it about,

He gasps, and he sneezes--the LIGHT GOES OUT!

Yet were there those, in after days,

Who said that pale light's flickering blaze,

For a moment, gleam'd on a dark Form there,

Seem'd as bodied of foul black air!--

--In Mariner's dress,--with cutlass braced

By buckle and broad black belt, to its waist,--

--On a cock'd-hat, laced With gold, and placed

With a _degagée_, devil-may-care, kind of taste,

O'er a _balafré_ brow by a scar defaced!--

That Form, they said, so foul and so black,

Grinn'd as it pointed at poor little Jack.--

--I know not, I, how the truth may be,

But the pent-up vapour, at length set free,

Set them all sneezing, And coughing, and wheezing,

As, working its way To the regions of day,

It, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in!

Of their senses bereft, To the right and the left,

Those varlets so lately courageous and stout,

There they lay kicking and sprawling about,

Like Billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice,

Or those which, the newspapers give us advice,

Mr. Taylor, of Lombard-street, sells at half-price;

--Nearer the door, some half dozen, or more!

Scramble away To the _rez de chaussee_,

(As our Frenchified friend always calls his ground-floor,)

And they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar

For lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more.

At length, after no little clamour and din,

The foul air let out, and the fresh air let in,

They drag one and all Up into the hall,

Where a medical Quaker, the great Dr. Lettsom,

Who's one of the party, "bleeds, physicks, and sweats 'em."

All?--all--save One-- --"But He!--my Son?--

Merciful Heaven!--where--WHERE IS JOHN?"

Within that cell, so dark and deep,

Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep,

A sight to make the sternest weep!--

--That little heart is pulseless now,

And cold that fair and open brow,

And closed that eye that beam'd with joy

And hope--"Oh, God!--my Boy!--my Boy!"

Enough!--I may not,--dare not,--show

The wretched Father's frantic woe,

The Mother's tearless, speechless--No!

I may not such a theme essay--

Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay

My pen--sad memory will have way!

Enough!--at once I close the lay,

Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!

It has a mournful sound,

That single, solemn Bell!

As to the hills and woods around

It flings its deep-toned knell;

That measured toll!--alone--apart,

It strikes upon the human heart!

--It has a mournful sound!--

MORAL.

Come, come, Mrs. Muse, we can't part in this way,

Or you'll leave me as dull as ditch-water all day.

Try and squeeze out a Moral or two from your lay!

And let us part cheerful, at least, if not gay!

First and foremost then, Gentlefolks, learn from my song,

Not to lock up your wine, or malt-liquor, too long!

Though Port should have age, Yet I don't think it sage

To entomb it, as some of your _connoisseurs_ do,

Till it's losing in flavour, and body, and hue;

--I question if keeping it does it much good

After ten years in bottle and three in the wood.

If any young man, though a snubb'd younger brother,

When told of his faults by his father and mother,

Runs restive, and goes off to sea in a huff,

Depend on't, my friends, that young man is a Muff!

Next--ill-gotten gains Are not worth the pains!--

They prosper with no one!--so whether cheroots,

Or Havanna cigars,--or French gloves, or French boots,--

Whatever you want, pay the duty! nor when you

Buy any such articles, cheat the revenue!

And "now to conclude,"-- For it's high time I should,--

When you _do_ rejoice, mind,--whatsoever you do,

That the hearts of the lowly rejoice with you too!--

Don't grudge them their jigs, And their frolics and "rigs,"

And don't interfere with their soapy-tail'd pigs;

Nor "because thou art virtuous," rail, and exhale

An _anathema_, breathing of vengeance and wail,

Upon every complexion less pale than sea-kail!

Nor dismiss the poor man to his pump and his pail,

With "Drink _there_!--we'll have henceforth no more cakes and ale!!"

FOOTNOTES:

[66] _Ad Amicum, Servientem ad legem_--

This rhyme, if, when scann'd by your critical ear, it

Is not _quite_ legitimate, comes pretty near it.--T. I.

[67] A worthy and eccentric country gentleman, afterwards

the second Lord Rokeby, being cousin ("a great many times removed")

and successor in the barony to Richard, Archbishop of Armagh, who

first bore that title.--His beard was truly patriarchal.--Mr.

Muntz's--pooh!--

[68] Great grandmamma, by the father's side, to the excellent

lady of the same name who yet "keeps the keys" at Tappington.

[69] Azores?--Mrs. Botherby's orthography, like that of her

distinguished contemporary Baron Duberly, was "a little loose."

* * * * *

Mox Regina filium peperit a multis optatum et a Deo sanctificatum.

Cumque Infans natus fuisset, statim clarâ voce, omnibus audientibus,

clamavit "_Christianus sum! Christianus sum! Christianus sum!_" Ad

hanc vocem Presbyteri duo, Widerinus et Edwoldus, dicentes _Deo

Gratias_, et omnes qui aderant mirantes, cœperunt cantare _Te Deum

laudamus_. Quo facto rogabat Infans cathecumenum a Widerino sacerdote

fieri, et ab Edwoldo teneri ad præsignaculum fidei et Romwoldum

vocari.--NOV. LEGEND. ANGL. IN VITA SCTI ROMUALDI.

THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.

A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.

In Kent, we are told, There was seated of old,

A handsome young gentleman, courteous and bold,

He'd an oaken strong-box, well replenish'd with gold,

With broad lands, pasture, arable, woodland, and wold,

Not an acre of which had been mortgaged or sold;

He'd a Plesaunce and Hall passing fair to behold,

He had beeves in the byre, he had flocks in the fold,

And was somewhere about five-and-twenty years old.

His figure and face, For beauty and grace,

To the best in the county had scorn'd to give place.

Small marvel, then, If, of women and men

Whom he chanced to foregather with, nine out of ten

Express'd themselves charm'd with Sir Alured Denne.

From my earliest youth, I've been taught, as a truth,

A maxim which most will consider as sooth,

Though a few, peradventure, may think it uncouth;

There are three social duties, the whole of the swarm

In this great human hive of ours, ought to perform,

And that too as soon as conveniently may be;

The first of the three-- Is, the planting a Tree!

The next, the producing a Book--then, a Baby!

(For my part, dear Reader, without any jesting, I

So far at least, have accomplished my destiny.)

From the foremost, _i.e._ The "planting the Tree,"

The Knight may, perchance, have conceiv'd himself free,

Inasmuch as that, which way soever he looks,

Over park, mead, or upland, by streamlets and brooks,

His fine beeches and elms shelter thousands of rooks;

In twelve eighty-two, There would also accrue

Much latitude as to the article, Books;

But, if those we've disposed of, and need not recall,

Might, as duties, appear in comparison small,

One remain'd, there was no getting over at all,

--The providing a male Heir for Bonnington Hall;

Which, doubtless, induced the good Knight to decide,

As a matter of conscience, on taking a Bride.

It's a very fine thing, and delightful to see

Inclination and duty unite and agree,

Because it's a case That so rarely takes place;

In the instance before us, then, Alured Denne

Might well be esteem'd the most lucky of men,

Inasmuch as hard by, Indeed so very nigh,

That her chimneys, from his, you might almost descry,

Dwelt a Lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye,

One whose character scandal itself could defy,

While her charms and accomplishments rank'd very high,

And who would not deny A propitious reply,

But reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh.

(A line that's not mine, but Tom Moore's, by-the-bye.)

There was many a gay and trim bachelor near,

Who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear,

That fair Edith Ingoldsby, she whom they all

The "Rosebud of Tappington" ceased not to call,

Was going to say, "Honour, love, and obey"

So Sir Alured Denne, Knight, of Bonnington Hall,

That all other suitors were left in the lurch,

And the parties had even been "out-asked" in church,

For every one says, In those primitive days,

And I must own I think it redounds to their praise,

None dream'd of transferring a daughter or niece

As a bride, by an "unstamp'd agreement," or lease,

'Fore a Register's Clerk, or a Justice of Peace,

While young ladies had fain Single women remain,

And unwedded maids to the last "crack of doom" stick,

Ere marry, by taking a jump o'er a broomstick.

So our bride and bridegroom agreed to appear

At holy St. Romwold's, a Priory near,

Which a long while before, I can't say in what year,

Their forebears had join'd with the neighbours to rear,

And endow'd, some with bucks, some with beef, some with beer,

To comfort the friars, and make them good cheer.

Adorning the building, With carving and gilding,

And stone altars, fix'd to the chantries and fill'd in;

(Papistic in substance and form, and on this count

With Judge Herbert Jenner Fust justly at discount.

See _Cambridge Societas Camdeniensis_

V. _Faulkner, tert. prim. Januarii mensis_,

With "Judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses;")

All raised to St. Romwold, with some reason, styled

By Duke Humphrey's confessor,[70] "a Wonderful Child,"

For ne'er yet was Saint, except him, upon earth

Who made "his profession of faith" at his birth,

And when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth,

Converted his "Ma," and contrived to amend a

Sad hole in the creed of his grandsire, King Penda.

Of course to the shrine Of so young a divine

Flow'd much holy water, and some little wine,

And when any young folks did to marriage incline,

The good friars were much in request, and not one

Was more "sought unto" than the Sub-prior, Mess John;

To him, there and then, Sir Alured Denne

Wrote a three-corner'd note with a small crow-quill pen,

To say what he wanted, and fix "the time when,"

And, as it's well known that your people of quality

Pique themselves justly on strict punctuality,

Just as the clock struck the hour he'd nam'd in it,

The whole bridal party rode up to the minute.

Now whether it was that some rapturous dream,

Comprehending "fat pullets and clouted cream,"

Had borne the good man, in his vision of bliss,

Far off to some happier region than this--

Or whether his beads, 'gainst the fingers rebelling,

Took longer than usual that morning in telling;

Or whether, his conscience with knotted cord purging,

Mess John was indulging himself with a scourging,

In penance for killing some score of the fleas,

Which, infesting his hair-shirt, deprived him of ease,

Or whether a barrel of Faversham oysters,

Brought in, on the evening before, to the cloisters,

Produced indigestion, Continues a question,

The particular cause is not worth a debate;

For my purpose it's clearly sufficient to state

That whatever the reason, his rev'rence _was_ late,

And Sir Alured Denne, Not the meekest of men,

Began banning away at a deuce of a rate.

Now here, though I do it with infinite pain,

Gentle reader, I find I must pause to explain

That there was--what, I own, I grieve to make known--

On the worthy Knight's character one single stain,

But for which, all his friends had borne witness, I'm sure,

He had been _sans reproche_, as he still was _sans peur_.

The fact is, that many distinguish'd commanders

"Swore terribly (_teste_ T. Shandy) in Flanders."

Now into these parts our Knight chancing to go, countries

Named from this sad, vulgar custom, "The _Low_ Countries,"

Though on common occasions as courteous as daring,

Had pick'd up this shocking bad habit of swearing.

And if anything vex'd him, or matters went wrong,

Was given to what low folks call "Coming it strong."

Good, bad, or indifferent then, young or old,

He'd consign them, when once in a humour to scold,

To a place where they certainly would not take cold.

--Now if there are those, and I've some in my eye,

Who'd esteem this a crime of no very deep dye,

Let them read on--they'll find their mistake by and bye.

Near or far, Few people there are

But have heard, read, or sung about Young Lochinvar,

How in Netherby Chapel, "at morning tide,"

The Priest and the Bridegroom stood waiting the Bride;

How they waited, "but ne'er A Bride was there."

Still I don't find, on reading the ballad with care,

The bereaved Mr. Graham proceeded to swear,

And yet to experience so serious a blight in

One's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting.

'Tis manifest then That Sir Alured Denne

Had far less excuse for such bad language, when

It was only the Priest not the Bride who was missing--

He had fill'd up the interval better with kissing.

And 'twas really surprising, And not very wise in

A Knight to go on so anathematising,

When the head and the front of the Clergyman's crime

Was but being a little behind as to time:--

Be that as it may, He swore so that day

At the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay,

That not a bystander who heard what he said,

But listen'd to all his expressions with dread,

And felt all his hair stand on end on his head;

Nay, many folks there Did not stick to declare

The phenomenon was not confined to the hair,

For the little stone Saint who sat perched o'er the door,

St. Romwold himself, as I told you before,

What will scarce be believed, Was plainly perceived

To shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved,

And look down with a frown So remarkably brown,

That all saw he'd now quite a different face on

From that he received at the hands of the mason;

Nay, many averr'd he half rose in his niche,

When Sir Alured, always in metaphor rich,

Call'd his priest an "old son of--" some animal--which,

Is not worth the inquiry--a hint's quite enough on

The subject--for more I refer you to Buffon.

It's supposed that the Knight Himself saw the sight,

And it's likely he did, as he easily might,

For 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack,

And, in nautical language, seem'd "taken aback."

In so much that when now The "prime cause of the row,"

Father John, in the chapel at last made his bow,

The Bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued,

None could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude,

Or made use of the language to which I allude;

Fair Edith herself, while the knot was a tying,

Her bridemaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing,

Some smiling, some blushing, half-laughing, half-crying,

Scarce made her responses in tones more complying

Than he who'd been raging and storming so recently,

All softness now, and behaving quite decently.

Many folks thought too the cold stony frown

Of the Saint up aloft from his niche looking down,

Brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown,

When, the rite being over, the fees were all paid,

And the party remounting, the whole cavalcade

Prepared to ride home with no little parade.

In a climate so very unsettled as ours

It's as well to be cautious and guard against showers,

For though, about One, You've a fine brilliant sun,

When your walk or your ride is but barely begun,

Yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the Two,

There is not in the whole sky one atom of blue,

But it "rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through

Ere you know where to turn, what to say, or to do;

For which reason I've bought, to protect myself well, a

Good stout _Taglioni_ and gingham umbrella.

But in Edward the First's days I very much fear,

Had a gay cavalier Thought fit to appear

In any such "toggery"--then 'twas term'd "gear"--

He'd have met with a highly significant sneer,

Or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear

On the features of every soul he came near;

There was no taking refuge too then, as with us,

On a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a _'bus_;

As they rode through the woods

In their wimples and hoods,

Their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain

Was, as Spenser describes it, to "pryck o'er the plaine,"

That is to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter

In search of some building or other for shelter.

Now it seems that the sky, Which had been of a dye

As bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye,

The season in fact being genial and dry,

Began to assume An appearance of gloom

From the moment the Knight began fidget and fume,

Which deepen'd and deepen'd till all the horizon

Grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on,

And soon, from the far west the elements' rumbling

Increased, and kept pace with Sir Alured's grumbling,

Bright flashes between, Blue, red, and green,

All livid and lurid began to be seen;

At length down it came--a whole deluge of rain,

A perfect Niagara, drenching the plain,

And up came the reek, And down came the shriek

Of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train;

And the tempest began so to roar and to pour,

That the Dennes and the Ingoldsbys, starting at score,

As they did from the porch of St. Romwold's church door,

Had scarce gain'd a mile, or a mere trifle more,

Ere the whole of the crew Were completely wet through.

They dash'd o'er the downs, and they dash'd through the vales,

They dash'd up the hills, and they dash'd down the dales,

As if elderly Nick was himself at their tails;

The Bridegroom in vain Attempts to restrain

The Bride's frighten'd palfrey by seizing the rein,

When a flash and a crash,

Which produced such a splash

That a Yankee had called it "an Almighty Smash,"

Came down so complete At his own courser's feet,

That the rider, though famous for keeping his seat,

From its kickings and plungings, now under now upper,

Slipp'd out of his demi-pique over the crupper,

And fell from the back of his terrified cob

On what bards less refined than myself term his "Nob."

(To obtain a _genteel_ rhyme's sometimes a tough job).--

Just so--for the nonce to enliven my song

With a classical simile cannot be wrong--

Just so--in such roads and in similar weather,

Tydides and Nestor were riding together,

When, so says old Homer, the King of the Sky,

The great "Cloud-compeller," his lightnings let fly,

And their horses both made such a desperate shy

At this freak of old Zeus, That at once they broke loose,

Reins, traces, bits, breechings were all of no use;

If the Pylian Sage, without any delay,

Had not whipp'd them sharp round and away from the fray,

They'd have certainly upset his _cabriolet_,

And there'd been the--a name I won't mention--to pay.

Well, the Knight in a moment recover'd his seat,

Mr. Widdicombe's mode of performing that feat

At Astley's could not be more neat or complete,

--It's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen

Of our own days, that this _our_ great Widdicombe, then

In the heyday of life, had afforded some ten

Or twelve lessons in riding to Alured Denne,--

It is certain the Knight Was so agile and light

That an instant sufficed him to set matters right,

Yet the Bride was by this time almost out of sight;

For her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace

Her descent from the "pure old Caucasian race,"

Sleek, slim, and bony, as Mr. Sidonia's

Fine "Arab Steed" Of the very same breed,

Which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly

--See "Coningsby" written by "B. Disraeli"--

That palfrey, I say, From this trifling delay

Had made what at sea's call'd "a great deal of way."

"More fleet than the roe-buck," and free as the wind,

She had left the good company rather behind;

They whipp'd and they spurr'd, and they after her prest,

Still Sir Alured's steed was "by long chalks" the best

Of the party, and very soon distanced the rest;

But long ere e'en he had the fugitive near'd,

She dash'd into the wood and at once disappear'd!

It's a "fashious" affair when you're out on a ride,

--Ev'n supposing you're _not_ in pursuit of a bride,

If you are it's more fashious, which can't be denied,--

And you come to a place where three cross-roads divide

Without any way-post, stuck up by the side

Of the road, to direct you and act as a guide,

With a road leading here, and a road leading there,

And a road leading no one exactly knows where.

When Sir Alured came In pursuit of the dame

To a fork of this kind,--a three-prong'd one--small blame

To his scholarship if in selecting his way

His respect for the Classics now led him astray;

But the rule, in a work I won't stop to describe, is

_In medio semper tutissimus ibis_,

So the Knight being forced of the three paths to enter one,

Dash'd, with these words on his lips, down the centre one.

Up and down hill, Up and down hill,

Through brake and o'er briar he gallops on still

Aye, banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill

At his courser because he had given him a "spill;"

Yet he did not gain ground On the palfrey, the sound,

On the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast

Grew fainter, and fainter,--and fainter,--and--ceased!

Sir Alured burst through the dingle at last,

To a sort of a clearing, and there--he stuck fast;

For his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on,

Stood fix'd as the Governor's nag in "Don Juan,"

Or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a

Few yards south-east of the door of the Opera,

Save that Alured's horse had not got such a big tail,

While Alured wanted the cock'd hat and pig-tail.

Before him is seen A diminutive Green

Scoop'd out from the covert--a thick leafy screen

Of wild foliage, trunks with broad branches between

Encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen,

For the weather at once appear'd clear and serene,

And the sky up above was a bright mazarine,

Just as though no such thing as a tempest had been,

In short it was one of those sweet little places

In Egypt and Araby known as "oases."

There, under the shade That was made by the glade,

The astonish'd Sir Alured sat and survey'd

A little low building of Bethersden stone,

With ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown,

A _Sacellum_, or cell, In which Chronicles tell

Saints and anchorites erst were accustom'd to dwell;

A little round arch, on which, deeply indented,

The zig-zaggy pattern by Saxons invented

Was cleverly chisell'd, and well represented,

Surmounted a door, Some five feet by four,

It might have been less or it might have been more,

In the primitive ages they made these things lower

Than we do in buildings that had but one floor.

And these Chronicles say When an anchorite gray

Wish'd to shut himself up and keep out of the way,

He was commonly wont in such low cells to stay,

And pray night and day on the _rez de chaussée_.

There, under the arch I've endeavoured to paint,

With no little surprise, And scarce trusting his eyes,

The Knight now saw standing that little Boy Saint!

The one whom before He'd seen over the door

Of the Priory shaking his head as he swore--

With mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on,

The very self-same--or at least his Eidolon!

With a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak

You'd expect, that small Saint now address'd him to speak:

In a bold, manly tone, he Began, while his stony

Cold lips breath'd an odour quite _Eau-de-Cologne-y_;

In fact, from his christening, according to rumour, he

Beat Mr. Brummell to sticks, in perfumery.[71]

"Sir Alured Denne!" Said the Saint, "be atten-

--tive! Your ancestors, all most respectable men,

Have for some generations been vot'ries of mine;

They have bought me mould candles, and bow'd at my shrine,

They have made my monks presents of ven'son and wine,

With a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine.

And, though you in this Have been rather remiss,

Still I owe you a turn for the sake of 'Lang Syne.'

And I now come to tell you, your cursing and swearing

Have reach'd to a pitch that is really past bearing.

'Twere a positive scandal In even a Vandal,

It ne'er should be done, save with bell, book, and candle:

And though I've now learn'd, as I've always suspected,

Your own education's been somewhat neglected;

Still, you're not such an uninformed pagan, I hope,

As not to know cursing belongs to the Pope!

And his Holiness feels, very properly, jealous

Of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows.

Now, take my advice, Saints never speak twice,

So take it at once, as I once for all give it;

Go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet,

But mind, and remember, if once you give way

To that shocking bad habit, I'm sorry to say,

I have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day,

As sure as you're born, on the very first trip

That you make--the first oath that proceeds from your lip,

I'll soon make you rue it! --I've said it--I'll do it!

'Forewarned is forearmed,' you shan't say but you knew it;

Whate'er you hold dearest or nearest your heart,

I'LL TAKE IT AWAY, if I come in a cart!

I will, on my honour! you know it's absurd

To suppose that a Saint ever forfeits his word

For a pitiful Knight, or to please any such man--

I've said it! I'll do't--if I don't, I'm a Dutchman!"--

He ceased--he was gone as he closed his harangue,

And some one inside shut the door with a bang!

Sparkling with dew, Each green herb anew

Its profusion of sweets round Sir Alured threw,

As pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew,

(For the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue,)

And the cud of reflection continued to chew

Till the gables of Bonnington Hall rose in view.

Little reck'd he what he smelt, what he saw,

Brilliance of scenery, Fragrance of greenery,

Fail'd in impressing his mental machinery;

Many an hour had elapsed, well I ween, ere he

Fairly was able distinction to draw

'Twixt the odour of garlic and _bouquet du Roi_.

Merrily, merrily sounds the horn,

And cheerily ring the bells;

For the race is run, The goal is won,

The little lost mutton is happily found,

The Lady of Bonnington's safe and sound

In the Hall where her new Lord dwells!

Hard had they ridden, that company gay,

After fair Edith, away and away:

This had slipp'd back o'er his courser's rump,

That had gone over his ears with a plump,

But the Lady herself had stuck on like a trump,

Till her panting steed Relax'd her speed,

And feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels

When he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels,

Stopp'd of herself, as it's very well known

Horses will do, when they're thoroughly blown,

And thus the whole group had foregathered again,

Just as the sunshine succeeded the rain.

Oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking

Doings indulged in by one and by all!

Gaiety seized on the most melancholic in

All the broad lands around Bonnington Hall.

All sorts of revelry, All sorts of devilry,

All play at "High Jinks" and keep up the ball.

Days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing

When one's so happy, how Time flies away;

Meanwhile the Bridegroom requires no admonishing

As to what pass'd on his own wedding day;

Never since then Had Sir Alured Denne

Let a word fall from his lip or his pen

That began with a D, or left off with an N!

Once, and once only, when put in a rage,

By a careless young rascal he'd hired as a Page,

All buttons and brass, Who in handling a glass

Of spiced hippocras, throws It all over his clothes,

And spoils his best pourpoint, and smartest trunk hose,

While stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he

'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety),

Then, and then only, came into his head

A very sad word that began with a Z,

But he check'd his complaint,

He remember'd the Saint,

In the nick--Lady Denne was beginning to faint--

That sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung,

Like Mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung

Half-way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue.

Many a year Of mirth and good cheer

Flew over their heads, to each other more dear

Every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer

As the rarest examples of love ever known,

Since the days of _Le Chivaler D'Arbie_ and _Joanne_,

Who in Bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone.

Well--it happen'd at last, After certain years past,

That an embassy came to our court from afar--

From the Grand-duke of Muscovy--now call'd the Czar,

And the Spindleshank'd Monarch, determined to do

All the grace that he could to a Nobleman, who

Had sail'd all that way from a country which few

In our England had heard of, and nobody knew,

With a hat like a muff, and a beard like a Jew,

Our arsenals, buildings, and dock-yards to view,

And to say how desirous His Prince Wladimirus

Had long been with mutual regard to inspire us,

And how he regretted he was not much nigher us,

With other fine things, Such as Kings say to Kings

When each tries to humbug his dear Royal Brother, in

Hopes by such "gammon" to take one another in--

King Longshanks, I say, Being now on his way

Bound for France, where the rebels had kept him at bay

Was living in clover At this time at Dover

I' the castle there, waiting a tide to go over.

He had summon'd, I can't tell you how many men,

Knights, nobles, and squires to the wars of Guienne,

And among these of course was Sir Alured Denne,

Who, acting like most Of the knights in the host,

Whose residence was not too far from the coast,

Had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting,

Fond souls, till the very last moment of starting.

Of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights,

In their _Saracenettes_,[72] and their bright chain-mail tights,

All accustom'd to galas, grand doings, and sights,

A matter like this was at once put to rights;

'Twould have been a strange thing, If so polish'd a king,

With his board of Green Cloth, and Lord Steward's department,

Couldn't teach an Ambassador what the word "smart" meant.

A banquet was order'd at once for a score,

Or more, of the _corps_ that had just come on shore,

And the King, though he thought it "a bit of a bore,"

Ask'd all the _elite_ Of his _levée_ to meet

The illustrious Strangers and share in the treat;

For the Boyar himself, the Queen graciously made him her

Beau for the day, from respect to Duke Wladimir.

(Queer as this name may appear in the spelling,

You won't find it trouble you, Sound but the W

Like the first L in Llan, Lloyd, and Llewellyn!")

Fancy the fuss and the fidgetty looks

Of Robert de Burghersh, the constables, cooks;

For of course the _cuisine_ Of the King and the Queen

Was behind them at London, or Windsor, or Sheene,

Or wherever the Court ere it started had been,

And it's really no jest, When a troublesome guest

Looks in at a time when you're busy and prest,

Just going to fight, or to ride, or to rest,

And expects a good lunch when you've none ready drest.

The servants no doubt Were much put to the rout

By this very _extempore_ sort of set out,

But they wisely fell back upon Poor Richard's plan,

"When you can't what you would, you must do what you can!"

So they ransack'd the country, folds, pig-styes, and pens,

For the sheep and the porkers, the cocks and the hens;

'Twas said a Tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne's,

A fine tabby-gray, Disappear'd on that day,

And whatever became of him no one could say;

They brought all the food That ever they cou'd,

Fish, flesh, and fowl, with sea-coal and dry wood,

To his Majesty's _Dapifer_, Eudo (or Ude),

They lighted the town up, sat ringing the bells,

And borrow'd the waiters from all the hotels.

A bright thought, moreover, came into the head

Of _Dapifer_ Eudo, who'd some little dread,

As he said, for the thorough success of his spread.

So he said to himself, "What a thing it would be

Could I have here with me Some one two or three

Of their outlandish scullions from over the sea!

It's a hundred to one if the _Suite_ or their Chief

Understand our plum-puddings, and barons of beef;

But with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets

We'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!"

With this happy conceit for improving the Mess,

Pooh-poohing expense, he dispatch'd an express

In a waggon and four on the instant to Deal,

Who dash'd down the hill without locking the wheel,

And, by means which I guess but decline to reveal,

Seduced from the Downs, where at anchor their vessel rode,

Lumpoff Icywitz, serf to a former Count Nesselrode,

A cook of some fame, Who invented the same

Cold pudding that still bears the family name.

This accomplish'd, the _Chef's_ peace of mind was restor'd

And in due time a banquet was placed on the board

"In the very best style," which implies in a word

"All the dainties the season" (and king) "could afford."

There were snipes, there were rails,

There were woodcocks and quails,

There were peacocks served up in their pride (that is tails),

Fricandeau, fricassees, Ducks and green peas,

_Cotelettes à l'Indienne_, and chops _à la Soubise_

(Which last you may call "onion sauce" if you please),

There were barbecu'd pigs Stuff'd with raisins and figs,

_Omelettes_ and _haricots_, stews and _ragouts_,

And pork griskins, which Jews still refuse and abuse.

Then the wines,--round the circle how swiftly they went!

Canary, Sack, Malaga, Malvoisie, Tent;

Old Hock from the Rhine, wine remarkably fine,

Of the Charlemagne vintage of seven ninety-nine,--

Five cent'ries in bottle had made it divine!

The rich juice of Rousillon, Gascoygne, Bourdeaux,

Marasquin, Curaçoa, Kirchen Wasser, Noyeau,

And Gin which the company voted "No Go;"

The guests all hob-nobbing, And bowing and bobbing;

Some prefer white wine, while others more value red,

Few, a choice few, Of more orthodox _goût_,

Stick to "old crusted port," among whom was Sir Alured;

Never indeed at a banquet before

Had that gallant commander enjoy'd himself more.

Then came "sweets"--served in silver were tartlets and pies--in glass

Jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass,

Creams, and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool,

_Blancmange_, and quince-custards, and gooseberry fool.

And now from the good taste which reigns it's confest

In a gentleman's, that is an Englishman's, breast,

And makes him polite to a stranger and guest,

They soon play'd the deuce

With a large _Charlotte Russe_;

More than one of the party dispatched his plate twice

With "I'm really ashamed, but--another small slice!

Your dishes from Russia are really _so_ nice!"

Then the prime dish of all! "There was nothing so good in

The whole of the Feed" One and all were agreed,

"As the great Lumpoff Icywitz' Nesselrode pudding!"

Sir Alured Denne, who'd all day, to say sooth,

Like Iago, been "plagued with a sad raging tooth,"

Which had nevertheless interfered very little

With his--what for my rhyme I'm obliged to spell--vittle,

Requested a friend Who sat near him to send

Him a spoonful of what he heard all so commend,

And begg'd to take wine with him afterwards, grateful

Because for a spoonful he'd sent him a plateful.

Having emptied his glass--he ne'er balk'd it or spill'd it--

The gallant Knight open'd his mouth--and then fill'd it!

You must really excuse me--there's nothing could bribe

Me at all to go on and attempt to describe

The fearsome look then Of Sir Alured Denne!

--Astonishment, horror, distraction of mind,

Rage, misery, fear, and iced pudding--combined!

Lip, forehead, and cheek--how these mingle and meet

All colours, all hues, now advance, now retreat,

Now pale as a turnip, now crimson as beet!

How he grasps his arm-chair in attempting to rise,

See his veins how they swell! mark the roll of his eyes!

Now east and now west, now north and now south,

Till at once he contrives to eject from his mouth

That vile "spoonful"--what He has got he knows not,

He isn't quite sure if it's cold or it's hot;

At last he exclaims, as he starts from his seat,

"A SNOWBALL by ----!" what I decline to repeat,--

'Twas the name of a bad place, for mention unmeet.

Then oh what a volley!--a great many heard

What flow'd from his lips, and 'twere really absurd

To suppose that each man was not shock'd by each word;

A great many heard too, with mix'd fear and wonder,

The terrible crash of the terrible thunder,

That broke as if bursting the building asunder;

But very few heard, although every one might,

The short, half-stifled shriek from the chair on the right,

Where the Lady of Bonnington sat by her Knight;

And very few saw--some--the number was small,

In the large ogive window that lighted the hall,

A small stony Saint in a small stony pall,

With a small stony mitre, and small stony crosier,

And small stony toes that owed nought to the hosier,

Beckon stonily downward to _some one_ below,

As Merryman says, "for to come for to go!"

While every one smelt a delicious perfume

That seem'd to pervade every part of the room!

Fair Edith Denne, The _bonne et belle_ then,

Never again was beheld among men!

But there was the _fauteuil_ on which she was placed,

And there was the girdle that graced her small waist,

And there was her stomacher brilliant with gems,

And the mantle she wore, edged with lace at the hems,

Her rich brocade gown sat upright in its place,

And her wimple was there--but where--WHERE WAS HER FACE?

'Twas gone with her body--and nobody knows,

Nor could any one present so much as suppose

How that Lady contrived to slip out of her clothes!

But 'twas done--she was quite gone--the how and the where,

No mortal was ever yet found to declare;

Though inquiries were made, and some writers record

That Sir Alured offered a handsome reward.

* * * * *

King Edward went o'er to his wars in Guienne,

Taking with him his barons, his knights, and his men.

You may look through the whole

Of that King's muster-roll,

And you won't find the name of Sir Alured Denne;

But Chronicles tell that there formerly stood

A little old chapel in Bilsington wood;

The remains to this day, Archæologists say,

May be seen, and I'd go there and look if I could.

There long dwelt a hermit remarkably good,

Who lived all alone, And never was known

To use bed or bolster, except the cold stone;

But would groan and would moan in so piteous a tone,

A wild Irishman's heart had responded "Och hone!"

As the fashion with hermits of old was to keep skins

To wear with the wool on--most commonly sheep-skins-.

He, too, like the rest was accustom'd to do so;

His beard, as no barber came near him, too, grew so,

He bore some resemblance to Robinson Crusoe,

In Houndsditch, I'm told, you'll sometimes see a Jew so.

He lived on the roots, And the cob-nuts and fruits,

Which the kind-hearted rustics, who rarely are churls

In such matters, would send by their boys and their girls;

They'd not get him to speak, If they'd tried for a week,

But the colour would always mount up in his cheek,

And he'd look like a dragon if ever he heard

His young friends use a naughty expression or word.

How long he lived, or at what time he died,

'Twere hard, after so many years, to decide,

But there's one point on which all traditions agree.

That he _did_ die at last, leaving no legatee,

And his linen was marked with an A and a D.

Alas! for the glories of Bonnington Hall!

Alas, for its splendour! alas for its fall!

Long years have gone by Since the trav'ler might spy

Any decentish house in the parish at all.

For very soon after the awful event

I've related, 'twas said through all that part of Kent

That the maids of a morning, when putting the chairs

And the tables to rights, would oft pop unawares

In one of the parlours, or galleries, or stairs.

On a tall female figure, or find her, far horrider,

Slowly o' nights promenading the corridor;

But whatever the hour, or wherever the place,

_No one could ever get sight of her face!_

Nor could they perceive Any arm in her sleeve,

While her legs and her feet too, seem'd mere "make-believe,"

For she glided along with that shadow-like motion

Which gives one the notion

Of clouds on a zephyr, or ships on the ocean;

And though of her gown they could _hear_ the silk rustle,

They saw but that side on't _ornée_ with the bustle.

The servants, of course, though the house they were born in,

Soon "wanted to better themselves," and gave warning,

While even the new Knight grew tired of a guest

Who would not let himself or his family rest;

So he pack'd up his all, And made a bare wall

Of each well-furnished room in his ancestors' Hall,

Then left the old Mansion to stand or to fall,

Having previously barr'd up the windows and gates,

To avoid paying sesses and taxes and rates,

And settled on one of his other estates,

Where he built a new mansion, and called it Denne Hill,

And there his descendants reside, I think, still.

Poor Bonnington, empty, or left, at the most,

To the joint occupation of rooks and a Ghost,

Soon went to decay, And moulder'd away,

But whether it dropp'd down at last I can't say,

Or whether the jackdaws produced, by degrees, a

Spontaneous combustion like that one at Pisa

Some cent'ries ago, I'm sure I don't know,

But you can't find a vestige now ever so tiny,

"_Perierunt_," as some one says, "_etiam ruinæ_."

MORAL.

The first maxim a couple of lines may be said in,

If you _are_ in a passion, don't swear at a wedding!

Whenever you chance to be ask'd out to dine,

Be exceedingly cautious--don't take too much wine!

In your eating remember one principal point,

Whatever you do, have your eye on the joint!

Keep clear of side dishes, don't meddle with those

Which the servants in livery, or those in plain clothes,

Poke over your shoulders and under your nose;

Or, if you _must_ live on the fat of the land,

And feed on fine dishes you don't understand,

Buy a good book of cookery! I've a compact one,

First rate of the kind, just brought out by Miss Acton,

This will teach you their names, the ingredients they're made of,

And which to indulge in, and which be afraid of,

Or else, ten to one, between ice and cayenne,

You'll commit yourself some day, like Alured Denne.

"To persons about to be married," I'd say,

Don't exhibit ill-humour, at least on The Day!

And should there perchance be a trifling delay

On the part of officials, extend them your pardon,

And don't snub the parson, the clerk, or churchwarden!

To married men this--For the rest of your lives,

Think how your misconduct may act on your wives!

Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint,

Or what sometimes occurs--run away with a Saint!

* * * * *

A serious error, similar to that which forms the subject of the

following legend, is said to have occurred in the case of one, or

rather two gentlemen named Curina, who dwelt near Hippo in the days

of St. Augustine. The matter was set right, and a friendly hint at

the same time conveyed to the ill-used individual, that it would be

advisable for him to apply to the above-mentioned Father, and be

baptized with as little delay as possible. The story is quoted in "The

Doctor," together with another of the same kind, which is given on no

less authority than that of Gregory the Great.

FOOTNOTES:

[70] Honest John Capgrave, the veracious biographer of

"English Saints," author, or rather compiler of the "Nova Legenda

Angliæ," was chaplain to Humphrey, "the Good Duke" of Gloucester. A

beautiful edition of his work was printed by Wynkyn de Worde.

[71] In eodem autem prato in quo baptizatus Sanctus Romualdus

nunquam gratissimus odor deficit; neque ibi herbæ pallescunt,

sed semper in viriditate permanentes magna nectaris suavitate

redolent.--_Nov. Legend. Angl._

[72] This silk, of great repute among our ancestors, had been

brought home, a few years before, by Edward, from the Holy Land.

THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.

A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.

You are all aware that On our throne there once sat

A very great King who'd an Angevin hat,

With a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it,

Named from this circumstance, Henry Plantagenet.

Pray don't suppose That I'm going to prose

O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes,

With the dagger and bowl, and all that sort of thing,

Not much to the credit of Miss, Queen, or King.

The tale may be true, But between me and you,

With the King's _escapade_ I'll have nothing to do;

But shall merely select, as a theme for my rhymes,

A fact, which occurr'd to some folks in his times.

If for health, or a "lark," You should ever embark

In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark,

The steam-vessel call'd the "Red Rover," the barge

Of an excellent officer, named Captain Large,

You may see, some half way 'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay

And Margate, the place where you're going to stay,

A village called Birchington, fam'd for its "Rolls,"

As the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for Soles.

Well,--there stood a fane In this Harry Broom's reign,

On the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main,

Renown'd for its sanctity all through the nation,

And orthodox friars of the Austin persuasion.

Among them there was one, Whom if once I begun

To describe as I ought I should never have done,

Father Richard of Birchington, so was the Friar

Yclept, whom the rest had elected their Prior.

He was tall and upright, About six feet in height,

His complexion was what you'd denominate light,

And the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown,

A little bald patch on the top of his crown.

His bright sparkling eye Was of hazel, and nigh

Rose a finely arch'd eyebrow of similar dye,

He'd a small, well-formed mouth with the _Cupidon_ lip

And an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip.

In doors and out He was very devout,

With his _Aves_ and _Paters_--and oh, such a knout!!

For his self-flagellations! the Monks used to say

He would wear out two penn'orth of whip-cord a day!

Then how his piety Shows in his diet, he

Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety,

Sand-eels or dabs; or his appetite mocks

With those small periwinkles that crawl on the rocks.

In brief, I don't stick To declare Father Dick--

So they call'd him, "for short"--was a "Regular Brick,"

A metaphor taken--I have not the page aright--

Out of an ethical work by the Stagyrite.

Now Nature, 'tis said, Is a comical jade,

And among the fantastical tricks she has play'd,

Was the making our good Father Richard a Brother,

As like him in form as one pea's like another;

He was tall and upright, About six feet in height,

His complexion was what you'd denominate light,

And, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown,

He'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown.

He'd a bright sparkling eye Of the hazel, hard by

Rose a finely-arch'd sourcil of similar dye;

He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a _Cupidon_ lip,

And a good Roman nose, rather red at the tip.

But here, it's pretended, The parallel ended;

In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended,

And people who spoke of the Prior with delight,

Shook their heads if you mention'd his brother, the Knight.

If you'd credit report, There was nothing but sport,

And High Jinks going on night and day at "the Court,"

Where Sir Robert, instead of devotion and charity,

Spent all his time in unseemly hilarity.

He drinks and he eats Of choice liquors and meats,

And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats,

Gets tipsy whenever he dines or he sups,

And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his cups.

No _Paters_, no _Aves_; An absolute slave he's

To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies;

While as to his beads--what a shame in a Knight!--

He really don't know the wrong end from the right!

So, though 'twas own'd then By nine people in ten,

That "Robert and Richard were two pretty men,"

Yet there the praise ceased, or, at least the good Priest

Was consider'd the "Beauty," Sir Robert the "Beast."

Indeed, I'm afraid More might have been laid

To the charge of the Knight than was openly said,

For then we'd no "Phiz's," no "H. B.'s," nor "Leeches,"

To call Roberts "Bobs," and illustrate their speeches.

'Twas whisper'd he'd rob, Nay murder! a job

Which would stamp him no "Brick," but a "Regular Snob,"

(An obsolete term, which, at this time of day,

We should probably render by _Mauvais Sujet_.)

Now if _here_ such affairs Get wind unawares,

They are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs,"

Where Old Nick has a register-office, they say,

With Commissioners quite of such matters _au fait_.

Of course, when he heard What his people averr'd

Of Sir Robert's proceedings in deed and in word,

He asked for the ledger, and hastened to look

At the leaves on the Creditor side of this book.

'Twas with more than surprise That he now ran his eyes

O'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies,

_Et cetera_, set down in Sir Robert's account,

He was quite "flabbergasted" to see the amount.

"Dear me! this is wrong! It's a great deal too strong,

I'd no notion this bill had been standing so long--

Send Levybub here!" and he filled up a writ

Of "_Ca sa_," duly prefaced with "Limbo to wit."

"Here Levybub, quick!" To his bailiff, said Nick,

"I'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,' 'Go a-head slick'

Up to Kent--not Kentuck--and at once fetch away

A snob there--I guess that's a _Mauvais Sujet_.

"One De Birchington, knight-- 'Tis not clear quite

What his t'other name is--they've not enter'd it right

Ralph, Robert, or Richard? they've not gone so far,

Our critturs have put it down merely as 'R.'

"But he's tall and upright, About six feet in height,

His complexion, I reckon, you'd calculate light,

And he's farther 'set down' having ringlets of brown,

With a little bald patch oh the top of his crown.

"Then his eye and his lip, Hook-nose, red at tip

Are marks your attention can't easily slip;

Take Slomanoch with you, he's got a good knack

Of soon grabbing his man, and be back in a crack!"

That same afternoon, Father Dick, who as soon

Would "knock in" or "cut chapel" as jump o'er the moon,

Was missing at vespers--at compline--all night!

And his monks were, of course, in a deuce of a fright.

Morning dawn'd--'twas broad day,

Still no Prior! the tray

With his muffins and eggs went untasted away;--

He came not to luncheon--all said, "it was rum of him!"

--None could conceive what on earth had become of him.

They examined his cell, They peep'd down the well;

They went up the tow'r, and looked into the bell,

They dragg'd the great fish-pond, the little one tried,

But found nothing at all, save some carp--which they fried.

"Dear me! Dear me! Why, where can he be?

He's fall'n over the cliff?--tumbled into the sea?"

"Stay--he talk'd," exclaimed one, "if I recollect right,

Of making a call on his brother, the Knight!"

He turns as he speaks, The "Court Lodge," he seeks,

Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes

But scarce half a mile on his way had he sped,

When he spied the good Prior in the paddock--stone dead!

Alas! 'twas too true! And I need not tell you

In the convent his news made a pretty to do;

Through all its wide precincts so roomy and spacious,

Nothing was heard but "Bless _me_!" and "Good Gracious!!"

They sent for the May'r And the Doctor, a pair

Of grave men, who began to discuss the affair,

When in bounced the Coroner, foaming with fury,

"Because," as he said, "'twas pooh! pooh! ing his jury."

Then commenced a dispute, And so hot they went to't,

That things seem'd to threaten a serious _émeute_,

When, just in the midst of the uproar and racket,

Who should walk in but St. Thomas à Becket.

Quoth his saintship, "How now?

Here's a fine coil, I trow!

I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row?

Mr. Wickliffe--or Wackliffe--whatever your name is--

And you, Mr. May'r, don't you know, Sirs, what shame is?

"Pray what's all this clatter

About?--what's the matter?"

Here a monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter,

Sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor,

"'Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick--he's no more!"

"How!--what?" says the saint,

"Yes he is--no he ain't[73]

He can't be deceased--pooh! it's merely a faint,

Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter,

'He _should_ have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'

"His time is not out; Some blunder, no doubt,

It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about--

I sha'n't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's

Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks."

When a crafty old hound Claps his nose to the ground,

Then throws it up boldly, and bays out, "I've found!"

And the Pack catch the note, I'd as soon think to check it,

As dream of bamboozling St. Thomas à Becket.

Once on the scent, To business he went,

"You Scoundrel, come here, Sir," ('twas Nick that he meant,)

"Bring your books here this instant--bestir yourself--do,

I've no time to waste on such fellows as you."

Every corner and nook In all Erebus shook,

As he struck on the pavement his pastoral crook,

All its tenements trembled from basement to roofs,

And their _nigger_ inhabitants shook in their hoofs.

Hanging his ears, Yet dissembling his fears,

Ledger in hand, straight "Auld Hornie" appears,

With that sort of half-sneaking, half-impudent look,

Bankrupts sport when cross-question'd by Cresswell or Cooke.

"So Sir-r-r! you are here," Said the Saint with a sneer,

"My summons, I trust, did not much interfere

With your morning engagements--I merely desire,

At your leisure, to know what you've done with my Prior?

"Now, none of your lies, Mr. Nick! I'd advise

You to tell me the truth without any disguise,

Or-r-r!" The Saint, while his rosy gills seem'd to grow rosier,

Here gave another great thump with his Crosier.

Like a small boy at Eton, Who's not quite a Crichton,

And don't know his task but expects to be beaten,

Nick stammer'd, scarce knowing what answer to make,

"Sir, I'm sadly afraid here has been a mistake.

"These things will occur, We are all apt to err,

The most cautious sometimes as you know, holy Sir;

For my own part--I'm sure I do all that I can--

But--the fact is--I fear--we have got the wrong man."

"Wrong man!" roar'd the Saint--

But the scene I can't paint,

The best colours I have are a vast deal too faint--

Nick afterwards own'd that he ne'er knew what fright meant,

Before he saw Saint under so much excitement.

"Wrong man! don't tell me-- Pooh!--fiddle-de-dee!

What's your right, Scamp, to _any_ man!--come, let me see;

I'll teach you, you thorough-paced rascal, to meddle

With church matters, come, Sirrah, out with your schedule!"

In support of his claim The Fiend turns to the name

Of "De Birchington" written in letters of flame,

Below which long items stand, column on column,

Enough to have eked out a decent-sized volume!

Sins of all sorts and shapes, From small practical japes,

Up to dicings, and drinkings, and murders, and rapes,

And then of such standing!--a merciless tick,

From an Oxford tobacconist,--let alone Nick.

The Saint in surprise Scarce believed his own eyes,

Still he knew he'd to deal with the father of lies,

And "So _this_!--you call _this_!" he exclaimed in a searching tone,

"This!!! the account of my friend Dick de Birchington!"

"Why," said Nick, with an air

Of great candour, "it's there

Lies the awkwardest part of this awkward affair--

I thought all was right--see the height tallies quite,

The complexion's what all must consider as light;

There's the nose, and the lip, and the ringlets of brown,

And the little bald patch on the top of the crown.

"And then the surname, So exactly the same--

I don't know--I can't tell how the accident came,

But _some_ how--I own it's a very sad job,

But--my bailiff grabb'd Dick when he _should_ have nabb'd Bob.

"I am vex'd beyond bounds

You should have such good grounds

For complaint; I would rather have given five pounds,

And any apology, Sir, you may choose,

I'll make with much pleasure, and put in the news."

"An apology!--pooh! Much good that will do!

An '_apology_' quoth a!--and that too from you!--

Before any proposal is made of the sort,

Bring back your stol'n goods, thief!--produce them in Court!"

In a moment, so small It seem'd no time at all,

Father Richard sat up on his what-do-ye-call--

_Sur son séant_--and, what was as wondrous as pleasing,

At once began coughing, and snifting, and sneezing.

While, strange to relate, The Knight, whom the fate

Of his brother had reach'd, and who'd knocked at the gate,

To make farther enquiries, had scarce made his bow

To the Saint, ere he vanish'd and no one knew how!

_Erupit_--_evasit_, As Tully would phrase it,

And none could have known where to find his _Hic jacet_--

That sentence which man his mortality teaches--

Sir Robert had disappeared, body and breeches!

"Heyday! Sir, heyday! What's the matter now--eh?"

Quoth A'Becket, observing the gen'ral dismay,

"How, again!--'pon my word this is really too bad!

It would drive _any_ Saint in the calendar mad.

"What, still at your tricking? You _will_ have a kicking?

I see you won't rest till you've got a good licking--

Your claim, friend?--what claim?--why you show'd me before

That your _old_ claim was cancell'd--you've crossed out the score!