"Is it that way you'd Jew one?

You've settled the true one?

Do you mean to tell me he has run up a new one?

Of the thousands you've cheated And scurvily treated,

Name one you've dared charge with a bill once receipted!

In the Bankruptcy Court should you dare to presume

To attempt it, they'd soon kick you out of the room,

--Ask Commissioner Fonblanque, or ask my Lord Brougham.

"And then to make under So barefaced a blunder,

Your caption!--why, what's the world come to, I wonder?

My patience! it's just like his impudence, drat him!

--Stand out of the way there, and let me get at him!"

The Saint raised his arm, But Old Nick, in alarm,

Dash'd up through the skylight, not doing much harm,

While, _quitte pour la peur_, the Knight, sound on the whole,

Down the chimney came tumbling as black as a coal!

Spare we to tell Of what after befell!

How the Saint lectured Robert de Birchington well,

Bade him alter his life, and held out as a warning

The narrow escape he'd made on't that morning.

Nor need we declare How, then and there,

The Jury and Coroner blew up the May'r

For his breach of decorum as one of the _Quorum_,

In not having Levybub brought up before 'em.

Nor will you require Me to state how the Prior

Could never thenceforth bear the sight of a fire,

Nor ever was heard to express a desire

In cold weather to see the thermometer higher.

Nor shall I relate The subsequent fate

Of St. Thomas à Becket, whose reverend pate

Fitzurse and De Morville, and Brito and Tracy

Shaved off, as his crown had been merely a jasey.[74]

Suffice it to say, From that notable day

The "Twin Birchington Brothers" together grew gray:

In the same holy convent continued to dwell,

Same food and same fastings, same habit, same cell.

No more the Knight rattles In broils and in battles,

But sells, by De Robins, his goods and his chattels,

And counting all wealth a mere Will-o'-the-wisp,

Disposes of Quekes to Sir Nicholas Crispe.

One spot alone Of all he had known

Of his spacious domain he retain'd as his own,

In a neighbouring parish, whose name, I may say,

Scarce any two people pronounce the same way.

Re-_cul_-ver some style it, While others revile it

As bad, and say _Re_-culver--'tisn't worth while, it

Would seem, to dispute, when we know the result immat-

erial--I accent, myself, the penultimate.

Sages, with brains Full of "Saxon remains,"

May call me a booby, perhaps, for my pains,

Still I hold, at the hazard of being thought dull by 'em,

Fast by the quantity mark'd for _Regulbium_.

Call't as you will, The Traveller still,

In the voyage that we talk'd about, marks on the hill

Overhanging the sea, the "twin towers" raised then

By "Robert and Richard, those two pretty men."

Both tall and upright, And just equal in height;

The Trinity House talked of painting them white,

And the thing was much spoken of some time ago,

When the Duke, I believe--but I really don't know.

Well--there the "Twins" stand On the verge of the land,

To warn mariners off from the Columbine sand,

And many a poor man have Robert and Dick

By their vow caused to 'scape, like themselves, from Old Nick.

So, whether you're sailors Or Tooley-street Tailors,

Broke loose from your masters, those sternest of jailers,

And, bent upon pleasure, are taking your trip

In a craft which you fondly conceive is a ship,

When you've passed by the Nore,

And you hear the winds roar

In a manner you scarce could have fancied before,

When the cordage and tackling

Are flapping and crackling,

And the boy with the bell Thinks it useless to tell

You that "dinner's on table," because you're unwell;

When above you all's "scud," And below you the flood

Looks a horrible mixture of soap-suds and mud,

When the timbers are straining,

And folks are complaining,

The dead-lights are letting the spray and the rain in,

When the helm's-man looks blue, And Captain Large too,

And you really don't know what on earth you shall do.

In this hubbub and row, Think where you'd be now

Except for the Birchington boys and their vow!

And while o'er the wide wave you feel the craft pitch hard,

~Praie for ye sowles of Robertte and Rychard~.

MORAL.

It's a subject of serious complaint in some houses,

With young married men who have elderly spouses,

That persons are seen in their figures and faces,

With very queer people in very queer places,

_So_ like them that one for the other's oft taken,

And conjugal confidence thereby much shaken:

Explanations too often are thought mere pretences,

And Richard gets scolded for Robert's offences.

In a matter so nice, If I'm ask'd my advice,

I say copy King Henry to obviate that,

And stick something remarkable up in your hat!

Next, observe, in this world where we've so many cheats,

How useful it is to preserve your receipts!

If you deal with a person whose truth you don't doubt,

Be particular, still, that your bill is cross'd out;

But, with any inducement to think him a scamp,

Have a formal receipt on a regular stamp!

Let every gay gallant my story who notes,

Take warning, and not go on "sowing wild oats!"

Nor depend that some friend Will always attend,

And by "making all right" bring him off in the end;

He may be mistaken, so let him beware,

St. Thomas à Beckets are now rather rare.

Last of all, may'rs and magistrates, never be rude

To juries! they are people who _won't_ be pooh-pooh'd!

Especially Sandwich ones--no one can say

But himself may come under their clutches one day;

They then may pay off In kind any scoff,

And, turning their late verdict quite "_wisey wersey_"

"_Acquit_ you," and _not_ "recommend you to mercy."[75]

FOOTNOTES:

[73] _Cantise_ for "is not;" St. Thomas, it seems, had lived

long enough in the country to pick up a few of its provincialisms.

[74] Nec satis fuit eis sanguine sacerdotis et nece ecclesiam

prophanare, nisi, coronâ capitis amputatâ, funestis gladiis jam

defuncti ejicerent cerebrum.--_Matt, Paris._

[75] At a Quarter Sessions held at Sandwich, (some six miles

from Birchington,) on Tuesday the 8th of April last, before W. F.

Boteler, Esq., the recorder, Thomas Jones, mariner, aged 17, was tried

for stealing a jacket, value ten shillings. The jury, after a patient

hearing, found him "not guilty," and "recommended him to mercy."--See

the whole case reported in the "Kentish Observer," April 10, 1845.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

A DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.

"Hail, wedded love! mysterious tie!"

_Thomson--or Somebody_.

The Lady Jane was tall and slim,

The Lady Jane was fair,

And Sir Thomas, her Lord, was stout of limb,

But his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,

And he wore green "specs," with a tortoiseshell rim,

And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,

And she was uncommonly fond of him,--

And they were a loving pair!--

And the name and the fame Of the Knight and his Dame

Were ev'rywhere hail'd with the loudest acclaim;

And wherever they went, or wherever they came,

Far and wide, The people cried,

Huzza! for the Lord of this noble domain,--

Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!--once again!--

Encore!--Encore!-- One cheer more!--

--All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain

To Sir Thomas the Good, and the Fair Lady Jane!!

Now Sir Thomas the Good, Be it well understood,

Was a man of a very contemplative mood,--

He would pore by the hour, O'er a weed, or a flower,

Or the slugs that come crawling out after a shower;

Black-beetles, and Bumble-bees,--Blue-bottle flies,

And Moths were of no small account in his eyes;

An "Industrious Flea" he'd by no means despise,

While an "Old Daddy-long-legs," whose "long legs" and thighs

Pass'd the common in shape, or in colour, or size,

He was wont to consider an absolute prize.

Nay, a hornet or wasp he could scarce "keep his paws off"--he

Gave up, in short, Both business and sport,

And abandon'd himself, _tout entier_, to Philosophy.

Now, as Lady Jane was tall and slim,

And Lady Jane was fair,

And a good many years the junior of him,--

And as he, All agree,

Look'd less like her _Mari_,

As he walk'd by her side, than her _Père_,[76]

There are some might be found entertaining a notion

That such an entire and exclusive devotion

To that part of science, folks style Entomology,

Was a positive shame, And, to such a fair Dame,

Really demanded some sort of apology;

--No doubt, it _would_ vex One half of the sex

To see their own husband, in horrid green "specs,"

Instead of enjoying a sociable chat,

Still poking his nose into this and to that,

At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat,

Or great ugly things, All legs and wings,

With nasty long tails arm'd with nasty longs stings;

And they'd join such a log of a spouse to condemn,

--One eternally thinking, And blinking, and winking

At grubs,--when he ought to be winking at them.--

But no!--oh no! 'Twas by no means so

With the Lady Jane Ingoldsby--she, far discreeter,

And, having a temper more even and sweeter,

Would never object to _Her_ spouse, in respect to

His poking and peeping After "things creeping;"

Much less be still keeping lamenting, and weeping,

Or scolding at what she perceived him so deep in.

_Tout au contraire_, No lady so fair

Was e'er known to wear more contented an air;

And,--let who would call,--every day she was there,

Propounding receipts for some delicate fare,

Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple, or pear,

Or distilling strong waters,--or potting a hare,--

Or counting her spoons and her crockery-ware;--

Or else, her tambour-frame before her, with care

Embroidering a stool or a back for a chair,

With needle-work roses, most cunning and rare,

Enough to make less-gifted visitors stare,

And declare, where'er They had been, that, "they ne'er

In their lives had seen aught that at all could compare

With dear Lady Jane's housewifery--that they would swear."

Nay more; don't suppose With such doings as those

This account of her merits must come to a close;

No;--examine her conduct more closely, you'll find

She by no means neglected improving her mind;

For there, all the while, with air quite bewitching,

She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching,

Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen,

Close by her side, Sat her kinsman, MacBride,

Her cousin, fourteen-times removed,--as you'll see

If you look at the Ingoldsby family tree,

In "Burke's Commoners," vol. xx. page 53.

All the papers I've read agree, Too, with the pedigree,

Where, among the collateral branches, appears

"Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusileers;"

And I doubt if you'd find in the whole of his clan

A more highly-intelligent, worthy young man;--

And there he'd be sitting, While she was a-knitting,

Or hemming, or stitching, or darning and fitting,

Or putting "a gore," or a "gusset," or "bit" in,

Reading aloud, with a very grave look,

Some very "wise saw" from some very good book,--

Some such pious divine as St. Thomas Aquinas:

Or, equally charming, The works of Bellarmine;

Or else he unravels The "voyages and travels"

Of Hackluytz--(how sadly these Dutch names _do_ sully verse!)--

Purchas's, Hawksworth's, or Lemuel Gulliver's,--

Not to name others, 'mongst whom there are few so

Admired as John Bunyan, and Robinson Crusoe.--

No matter who came, It was always the same,

The Captain was reading aloud to the Dame,

Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf,

They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.

Well,--it happened one day, --I really can't say

The particular month;--but I _think_ 'twas in May,--

'Twas, I _know_, in the Spring-time,--when "Nature looks gay,"

As the Poet observes,--and on tree-top and spray

The dear little dickey-birds carol away;

When the grass is so green, and the sun is so bright,

And all things are teeming with life and with light,--

That the whole of the house was thrown into affright,

For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight!

It seems he had taken A light breakfast--bacon,

An egg--with a little broiled haddock--at most

A round and a half of some hot butter'd toast,

With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast.

And then--let me see!-- He had two--perhaps three

Cups (with sugar and cream) of strong Gunpowder tea,

With a spoonful in each of some choice _eau de vie_,

--Which with nine out of ten would perhaps disagree.--

--In fact, I and my son Mix "black" with our "Hyson,"

Neither having the nerves of a bull, or a bison,

And both hating brandy like what some call "pison,"

No matter for that-- He had call'd for his hat,

With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat,

And his "specs" with the tortoiseshell rim, and his cane

With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain

His steps in his walks, and to poke in the shrubs

And the grass, when unearthing his worms and his grubs--

Thus arm'd, he set out on a ramble--alack!

He _set out_, poor dear Soul!--but he never came back!

"First dinner-bell" rang Out its euphonous clang

At five--folks keptearly hours then--and the "Last"

Ding-dong'd, as it ever was wont, at half-past,

While Betsey, and Sally, And Thompson, the _Valet_,

And every one else was beginning to bless himself,

Wondering the Knight had not come in to dress himself.--

--Quoth Betsey, "Dear me! why, the fish will be cold!"--

Quoth Sally, "Good gracious! how 'Missis' _will_ scold!"--

Thompson, the _Valet_, Look'd gravely at Sally,

As who should say "Truth must not always be told!"

Then, expressing a fear lest the Knight might take cold,

Thus exposed to the dews,

Lambs'-wool stockings, and shoes,

Of each a fresh pair, He put down to air,

And hung a clean shirt to the fire on a chair.--

Still the Master was absent--the Cook came and said, "he

Much fear'd, as the dinner had been so long ready,

The roast and the boil'd Would be all of it spoil'd,

And the puddings, her Ladyship thought such a treat,

He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat!"

This closed the debate-- "'Twould be folly to wait,"

Said the Lady. "Dish up!--Let the meal be served straight;

And let two or three slices be put on a plate,

And keep hot for Sir Thomas.--He's lost, sure as fate!

And, a hundred to one, won't be home till it's late!"

--Captain Dugald MacBride then proceeded to face

The Lady at table,--stood up, and said grace,--

Then set himself down in Sir Thomas's place.

Wearily, wearily, all that night,

That live-long night, did the hours go by;

And the Lady Jane, In grief and in pain,

She sat herself down to cry!--

And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side,

Though I really can't say that he actually cried,

At least had a tear in his eye!--

As much as can well be expected, perhaps,

From very "young fellows," for very "old chaps;"

And if he had said What he'd got in his head,

'Twould have been, "Poor old Buffer! he's certainly dead!"

The morning dawn'd,--and the next,--and the next

And all in the mansion were still perplex'd;

No watch-dog "bay'd a welcome home," as

A watch-dog should, to the "Good Sir Thomas;"

No knocker fell His approach to tell,

Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell--

The Hall was silent as Hermit's cell.

Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree,

And the meads smiled green as green may be,

And the dear little dickey-birds caroll'd with glee,

And the lambs in the park skipp'd merry and free--

--Without, all was joy and harmony!

"And thus 'twill be,--nor long the day,--

Ere we, like him, shall pass away!

Yon Sun, that now _our_ bosoms warms,

Shall shine,--but shine on other forms;--

Yon Grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers

Us now, shall sound on other ears,--

The joyous Lamb, as now, shall play,

But other eyes its sports survey,--

The Stream we loved shall roll as fair,

The flowery sweets, the trim Parterre

Shall scent, as now, the ambient air,--

The Tree, whose bending branches bear

The One loved name--shall yet be there;--

But where the hand that carved it?--Where?"--

These were hinted to me as The very ideas

Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane,

Her thoughts having taken a sombre-ish train,

As she walk'd on the esplanade, to and again,

With Captain MacBride Of course, at her side,

Who could not look quite so forlorn,--though he tried,

--An "idea," in fact, had got into _his_ head,

That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead,

It might be no bad "spec." to be there in his stead,

And, by simply contriving, in due time, to wed

A Lady who was young and fair,

A Lady slim and tall,

To set himself down in comfort there

The Lord of Tapton[77] Hall.--

Thinks he, "We have sent Half over Kent,

And nobody knows how much money's been spent,

Yet no one's been found to say which way he went!--

The groom, who's been over To Folkestone and Dover,

Can't get any tidings at all of the rover!

--Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried

Every plan we could hit on--the whole country-side,

Upon all its dead walls, with placards we've supplied,--

And we've sent out the Crier, and had him well cried--

'MISSING!! Stolen, or stray'd, Lost, or mislaid,

A GENTLEMAN;--middle-aged, sober, and staid;--

Stoops slightly;--and when he left home was array'd

In a sad-coloured suit, somewhat dingy and fray'd;--

Had spectacles on with a tortoiseshell rim,

And a hat rather low-crowned, and broad in the brim.--

Whoe'er Shall bear, Or shall send him with care,

(Right side uppermost) home;--or shall give notice where

The said middle-aged GENTLEMAN is; or shall state

Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate,

To the man at the turnpike, called TAPPINGTON GATE,

Shall receive a REWARD of FIVE POUNDS for his trouble,--

([Fist] N.B.--If defunct the REWARD will be double!! [Fist])'

"Had he been above ground He _must_ have been found.

No; doubtless he's shot,--or he's hang'd,--or he's drown'd!--

Then his Widow--ay! ay!-- But, what will folk say!--

To address her at once--at so early a day!

Well--what then?--who cares?--let 'em say what they may--

A fig for their nonsense and chatter!--suffice it, her

Charms will excuse one for casting sheep's eyes at her!"

When a man has decided As Captain MacBride did,

And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he

Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery.

He began on the instant, and vow'd that "her eyes

Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies,--

That her lips were like roses--her cheeks were like lilies--

Her breath had the odour of daffy-down-dillies!"--

With a thousand more compliments equally true,

And expressed in similitudes equally new!

--Then his left arm he placed

Round her jimp, taper waist--

--Ere she'd fix'd to repulse, or return, his embrace,

Up came running a man, at a deuce of a pace,

With that very peculiar expression of face

Which always betokens dismay or disaster,

Crying out,--'twas the Gardener,--"Oh, Ma'am! we've found Master!"--

--"Where? where?" scream'd the lady; and Echo scream'd--"Where?"--

--The man couldn't say "There!" He had no breath to spare,

But, gasping for air, he could only respond,

By pointing--he pointed, alas!--TO THE POND!!

--'Twas e'en so--poor dear Knight!--with his "specs" and his hat

He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that;

When, close to the side Of the bank, he espied

An "uncommon fine" Tadpole, remarkably fat!

He stooped;--and he thought her

His own;--he had caught her!

Got hold of her tail,--and to land almost brought her,

When--he plump'd head and heels into fifteen feet water!

The Lady Jane was tall and slim,

The Lady Jane was fair,

Alas, for Sir Thomas!--she grieved for him,

As she saw two serving-men, sturdy of limb,

His body between them bear.

She sobb'd, and she sigh'd; she lamented, and cried,

For of sorrow brimful was her cup;

She swoon'd, and I think she'd have fall'n down and died,

If Captain MacBride Had not been by her side,

With the Gardener; they both their assistance supplied,

And managed to hold her up.--

But, when she "comes to," Oh! 'tis shocking to view

The sight which the corpse reveals!

Sir Thomas's body, It look'd so odd--he

Was half eaten up by the eels!

His waistcoat and hose, and the rest of his clothes

Were all gnawed through and through;

And out of each shoe An eel they drew;

And from each of his pockets they pull'd out two!

And the Gardener himself had secreted a few,

As well we may suppose;

For, when he came running to give the alarm,

He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.

Good Father John[78] Was summon'd anon;

Holy water was sprinkled, And little bells tinkled,

And tapers were lighted, And incense ignited,

And masses were sung, and masses were said,

All day, for the quiet repose of the dead,

And all night no one thought about going to bed.

But Lady Jane was tall and slim,

And Lady Jane was fair,--

[Illustration: THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.]

And, ere morning came, that winsome dame

Had made up her mind---or, what's much the same,

Had _thought about_--once more "changing her name,"

And she said, with a pensive air,

To Thompson, the valet, while taking away,

When supper was over, the cloth and the tray,--

"Eels a many I've ate; but any

So good ne'er tasted before!--

They're a fish, too, of which I'm remarkably fond.--

Go--pop Sir Thomas again in the Pond--

Poor dear!--HE'LL CATCH US SOME MORE!!"

MORAL.

All middle-aged Gentlemen let me advise,

If you're married, and have not got very good eyes,

Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies!--

If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoiseshell rim,

And don't go near the water,--unless you can swim!

Married Ladies, especially such as are fair,

Tall, and slim, I would next recommend to beware

How, on losing _one_ spouse, they give way to despair;

But let them reflect, "There are fish, and no doubt on't--

As good _in_ the river as ever came _out_ on't!"

Should they light on a spouse who is given to roaming

In solitude--_raison de plus_, in the "gloaming,"--

Let them have a fix'd time for said spouse to come home in!

And if, when "last dinner-bell"'s rung, he is late,

To insure better manners in future--Don't wait!--

If of husband or children they chance to be fond,

Have a stout iron-wire fence put all round the pond!

One more piece of advice, and I close my appeals--

That is--if you chance to be partial to eels,

Then--_Crede experto_--trust one who has tried--

Have them spitch-cock'd,--or stew'd--they're too oily when fried!

FOOTNOTES:

[76]

My friend, Mr. Hood,

In his comical mood,

Would have probably styled the good Knight and his Lady--

Him--"Stern-old and Hopkins," and her "Tête and Braidy."

[77] The familiar abbreviation for Tappington Everard still in

use among the tenantry.--_Vide Prefatory Introduction to the Ingoldsby

Legends_.

[78] For some account of Father John Ingoldsby, to whose

papers I am so much beholden, see _Ingoldsby Legends, First Series_, p.

216 (2nd Edit.). This was the last ecclesiastical act of his long and

valuable life.

THE HOUSE-WARMING!!

A LEGEND OF BLEEDING HEART YARD.

Did you ever see the Devil dance?--OLD QUERY.

Sir Christopher Hatton he danced with grace,

He'd a very fine form and a very fine face,

And his cloak and his doublet were guarded with lace,

And the rest of his clothes, As you well may suppose,

In taste were by no means inferior to those;

He'd a yellow-starched ruff, And his gloves were of buff,

On each of his shoes a red heel and a rose,

And nice little moustaches under his nose;

Then every one knows How he turned out his toes,

And a very great way that accomplishment goes,

In a Court where it's thought, in a lord or a duke, a

Disgrace to fall short in "the Brawls"--(their Cachouca).

So what with his form, and what with his face,

And what with his velvet cloak guarded with lace,

And what with his elegant dancing and grace,

His dress and address So tickled Queen Bess

That her Majesty gave him a very snug place;

And seeing, moreover, at one single peep, her

Advisers were, few of them, sharper or deeper

(Old Burleigh excepted), she made him Lord Keeper!

* * * * *

I've heard, I confess, with no little surprise,

English history called a farrago of lies;

And a certain Divine, A connexion of mine,

Who ought to know better, as some folks opine,

Is apt to declare, Leaning back in his chair,

With a sort of a smirking, self-satisfied air,

That "all that's recorded in Hume, and elsewhere,

"Of our early '_Annales_' A trumpery tale is,

"Like the 'bold Captain Smith's,' and the 'Luckless Miss Bayley's'--

"That old Roger Hoveden, and Ralph de Diceto,

"And others (whose names should I try to repeat o-

"ver, well I'm assured you would put in your veto),

"Though all holy friars, Were very great liars,

"And raised stories faster than Grissel and Peto--

"That Harold escaped with the loss of a 'glim'--

"--That the shaft which killed Rufus ne'er glanced from a limb

"Of a tree, as they say, but was aimed slap at _him_,--

"That Fair Rosamond never was poisoned or spitted,

"But outlived Queen Nell, who was much to be pitied;--

"That Nelly her namesake, Ned Longshanks's wife,

"Ne'er went crusading at all in her life,

"Nor suck'd the wound made by the poison-tipped knife!

"For as she, O'er the sea,

"Towards far Galilee,

"Never, even in fancy, march'd carcass or shook shanks,

"Of course she could no more suck Longshanks than Cruikshanks,

"But, leaving her spindle-legged liege-lord to roam,

"Stayed behind, and suck'd something much better at home,--

"That it's quite as absurd To say Edward the Third,

"In reviving the Garter, afforded a handle

"For any Court-gossip, detraction, or scandal,

"As 'twould be to say That at Court t'other day,

"As the fête which the newspapers say was so gay,

"His Great Representative then stole away

"Lady Salisbury's garters as part of the play,--

"--That as to Prince Hal's being taken to jail,

"By the London Police, without mainprize or bail,

"For cuffing a judge, It's a regular fudge;

"And that Chief-Justice Gascoigne, it's very well known,

"Was kicked out the moment he came to the throne,--

"--Then that Richard the Third was a 'marvellous proper man'--

"Never killed, injured, or wrong'd of a copper, man!--

"Ne'er wished to smother The sons of his brother,--

"Nor ever stuck Harry the Sixth, who, instead

"Of being squabashed, as in Shakspeare we've read,

"Caught a bad influenza, and died in his bed,

"In the Tower, not far from the room where the Guard is

"(The octagon one that adjoins Duffus Hardy's);

"--That, in short, all the 'facts' in the _Decem Scriptores_,

"Are nothing at all but sheer humbugging stories."

Then if, as he vows, both this country and France in,

Historians thus gave themselves up to Romancing,

Notwithstanding what most of them join in advancing

Respecting Sir Christopher's capering and prancing,

'Twill cause no surprise If we find that his rise

Is _not_ to be solely ascribed to his dancing!

The fact is, Sir Christopher, early in life,

As all bachelors should do, had taken a wife,

A Fanshawe by family,--one of a house

Well descended, but boasting less "nobles" than _nous_;

Though e'en as to purse He might have done worse,

For I find, on perusing her Grandfather's will, it is

Clear she had "good gifts beside possibilities,"[79]

Owches and rings, And such sort of things,

Orellana shares (then the American Stocks),

Jewell'd stomachers, coifs, ruffs, silk-stockings with clocks,

Point-lace, cambric handkerchiefs, nightcaps, and--socks--

(Recondite apparel contained in her box),

--Then the height of her breeding

And depth of her reading

Might captivate any gay youth, and, in leading

Him on to "propose," well excuse the proceeding:

Truth to tell, as to "reading," the Lady was thought to do

More than she should, and know more than she ought to do;

Her maid, it was said, Declared that she read

(A custom all staid folks discourage) in bed;

And that often o' nights Odd noises and sights

In her mistress's chamber had giv'n her sad frights,

After all in the mansion had put out their lights,

And she verily thought that hobgoblins and sprites

Were there, kicking up all sorts of devil's delights;--

Miss Alice, in short, was supposed to "collogue"--I

Don't much like the word--with the subtle old rogue, I

've heard call'd by so many names--one of them's "Bogy"--

Indeed 'twas conceived, And by most folks believed,

--A thing at which all of her well-wishers griev'd--

That should she incline to play such a vagary,

Like sage Lady Branxholm, her contempo-rary,

(Excuse the false quantity, reader, I pray),

She could turn a knight into a waggon of hay,

Or two nice little boys into puppies at play,

_Raison de plus_, not a doubt could exist of her

Pow'r to turn "Kit Hatton" into "Sir Christopher;"

But what "mighty magic," or strong "conjuration,"

Whether love-powder, philtre, or other potation

She used, I confess, I'm unable to guess,--

Much less to express By what skill and address

She "cut and contrived" with such signal success,

As we Londoners say, to "inwiggle" Queen Bess,

Inasmuch as I lack heart To study the Black Art;

Be that as it may,--it's as clear as the sun,

That, however she did it, 'twas certainly done!

Now, they're all very well, titles, honour, and rank,

Still we can't but admit, if we choose to be frank,

There's no harm in a snug little sum in the Bank!

An old proverb says, "Pudding still before praise!"

An adage well known I've no doubt in those days,

And George Colman the Younger, in one of his plays,

Makes one of his characters loudly declare

That "a Lord without money,"--I quote from his "Heir-

At-Law"--"'s but a poor wishy-washy affair!"--

In her subsequent conduct I think we can see a

Strong proof the Dame entertain'd some such idea,

For, once in the palace, We find Lady Alice

Again playing tricks with her Majesty's chalice

In the way that the jocose, in

Our days, term "hocussing;"

The liquor she used, as I've said, she kept close,

But, whatever it was, she now doubled the dose!

(So true is the saying, "We never can stay, in

Our progress, when once with the foul fiend we league us.")

--She "doctor'd" the punch, and she "doctor'd" the negus,

Taking care not to put in sufficient to flavour it,

Till, at every fresh sip That moisten'd her lip,

The Virgin Queen grew more attach'd to her Favourite.

"No end" now he commands Of money and lands,

And, as George Robins says, when he's writing about houses,

"Messuages, tenements, crofts, tofts, and outhouses,"

Parks, manors, chases, She "gives and she grants,

To him and his heirs, and his uncles and aunts;"

Whatever he wants, he has only to ask it,

And all other suitors are "left in the basket,"

Till Dudley and Rawleigh Began to look squally,

While even grave Cecil, the famous Lord Burleigh,

Himself, "shook his head," and grew snappish and surly.

All this was fine sport, As our authors report,

To dame Alice, become a great Lady at Court,

Where none than her Ladyship's husband look'd bigger,

Who "led the brawls"[80] still with the same grace and vigour,

Though losing a little in slimness and figure;

For eating and drinking all day of the best

Of viands well drest, With "Burgess's Zest,"

Is apt, by degrees, to enlarge a man's vest;

And, what in Sir Christopher went to increase it, he

'd always been rather inclined to obesity;

--Few men in those times were found to grow thinner

With beefsteaks for breakfast and pork-pie for dinner.

Now it's really a difficult problem to say

How long matters might have gone on in this way,

If it had not unluckily happened one day

That NICK,--who, because He'd the gout in his claws,

And his hoofs--(he's by no means so young as he was,

And is subject of late to a sort of rheumatic a-

-ttack that partakes both of gout and sciatica,)--

All the night long had twisted and grinn'd,

His pains much increased by an easterly wind,

Which always compels him to hobble and limp,

Was strongly advised by his Medical Imp

To lie by a little, and give over work,

For he'd lately been slaving away like a Turk,

On the Guinea-coast, helping to open a brave trade

In Niggers, with Hawkins[81] who founded the slave-trade,

So he call'd for his ledger, the constant resource

Of your Mercantile folk, when they're "not in full force;"

--If a cold or catarrh makes them husky and hoarse,

Or a touch of gout keeps them away from "the BOURSE,"

They look over their books as a matter of course.

Now scarce had Nick turn'd over one page, or two,

Ere a prominent _item_ attracted his view,

A Bill!--that had now been some days overdue,

From one Alice Hatton, _née_ Fanshawe--a name

Which you'll recognise, reader, at once as the same

With that borne by Sir Christopher's erudite dame!

The signature--much more _prononcée_ than pink,

Seem'd written in _blood_--but it might be red ink--

While the rest of the deed He proceeded to read,

Like ev'ry "bill, bond, or acquittance" whose date is

Three hundred years old, ran in Latin,--"_Sciatis

(Diaboli?) omnes ad quos hæc pervenient_"--

--But courage, dear Reader, I mean to be lenient,

And scorn to inflict on you half the "Law-reading"

I picked up "umquhile" in three days' Special-pleading,

Which cost me--a theme I'll not pausemto digress on--

Just thirty-three pounds six-and-eightpence a lesson--

"As I'm stout, I'll be merciful," therefore, and sparing

All those technicalities, end by declaring

The Deed so correct As to make one suspect,

(Were it possible any such person could go there)

Old Nick had a Special Attorney below there:

'Twas so fram'd and express'd no tribunal could shake it,

And firm as red wax and _black_ ferret could make it.

By the roll of his eye As Old Nick put it by,

It was clear he had made up his mind what to do

In respect to the course he should have to pursue,

When his hoof would allow him to put on a shoe!!

No, although the Lord Keeper held under the crown, house

And land in the country--he'd never a Town-house,

And, as we have seen, His course always had been,

When he wanted a thing, to solicit the Queen,

So now, in the hope of a fresh acquisition,

He danced off to Court with his "Humble Petition."

"Please your Majesty's Grace, I have not a place

"I can well put my head in, to dine, sup, or sleep!

"Your Grace's Lord Keeper has nowhere to _keep_,

"So I beg and intreat, At your Majesty's feet,

"That your Grace will be graciously pleas'd for to say,

"With as little delay As your Majesty may,

"Where your Majesty's Grace's Lord Keeper's to stay--

"--And your Grace's Petitioner ever will pray!"

The Queen, when she heard This petition preferred,

Gave ear to Sir Christopher's suit at a word;--

"Odds Bobs, my good Lord!" was her gracious reply,

"I don't know, not I, Any good reason why

"A Lord Keeper, like you, should not always be nigh

"To advise--and devise--and revise--our supply--

"A House! we're surprised that the thing did not strike

"Us before--Yes!--of course!--Pray, whose House would you like?

"When I _do_ things of this kind, I do them genteelly,

"A House?--let me see! there's the Bishop of Ely!

"A capital mansion, I'm told, the proud knave is in,

"Up there in Holborn, just opposite Thavies' Inn--

"Where the Strawberries grow so fine and so big,

"Which our Grandmother's Uncle tucked in like a pig,

"King Richard the Third, which you all must have read of--

"The day,--don't you know?--he cut Hastings' head off--

"And mark me, proud Prelate!--I'm speaking to you,

"Bishop Heaton!--you need not, my lord, look so blue--

"Give it up on the instant! I don't mean to shock you,

"Or else by ----!--(The Bishop _was_ shocked!)--I'll unfrock you!!"

The Queen turns abruptly her back on the group,

The Courtiers all bow as she passes, and stoop

To kiss, as she goes, the hind flounce of her hoop,

And Sir Christopher, having thus danced to some tune,

Skips away with much glee in his best rigadoon!

While poor Bishop Heaton, Who found himself beaten,

In serious alarm at the Queen's contumelious

And menacing tone, at once gave him up Ely House,

With every appurtenance thereto belonging,

Including the strawberry beds 'twas so strong in;

Politely he bow'd to the gratified minion,

And said, "There can be, my good lord, in opinion

No difference betwixt yours And mine as to fixtures,

And tables, and chairs-- We need no survey'rs--

Take them just as you find them, without reservation,

Grates, coppers, and all, at your own valuation!"

Well! the object is gain'd! A good Town-house obtained!

The next thing to be thought of, is now

The "house-warming" party--the _when_ and the _how_--

The Court ladies call, One and all, great and small,

For an elegant "Spread," and more elegant Ball,

So, Sir Christopher, vain as we know of his capering,

No sooner had finished his painting and papering,

Than he sat down and wrote A nice little pink note

To every great Lord, whom he knew, and his spouse,

"From our poor place on Holborn-hill (late Ely House),

"Lord Keeper and Dame Alice Hatton request

"Lord So-and-so's (name, style, or title exprest)

"Good company on The next Eve of St. John,

"Viz.: Friday week, June 24th, as their guest,

"To partake of pot-luck, And taste a fat buck.

"N.B. Venison on table exactly at 3,

"Quadrilles in the afternoon, R. S. V. P.

"For my good Lord of So-and-so these, and his wife;

"Ride! ride! for thy life! for thy life! for thy life!"

Thus courtiers were wont to indorse their expresses

In Harry the VIIIth's time, and also Queen Bess's.

The Dame, for her part, too, took order that cards

Should be sent to the mess-rooms of all the Hussards,

The Household troops, Train-bands, and horse and foot Guards.

Well, the day for the rout At length came about,

And the bells of St. Andrew's rang merrily out,

As horse-litter, coach, and pad-nag, with its pillion,

(The mode of conveyance then used by the "Million,")

All gallant and grand, Defiled from the Strand,

Some through Chancery (then an unpaved and much wetter) Lane,

Others through Shoe (which was not a whit better) Lane;

Others through Fewtar's (corrupted to Fetter) Lane;

Some from Cheapside, and St. Mary-le-Bow,

From Bishopsgate Street, Dowgate Hill,[82] and Budge Row.

They come and they go, Squire and Dame, Belle and Beau,

Down Snore Hill (which we have since whitewashed to Snow),

All eager to see the magnificent show,

And sport what some call "a fantastical toe;"

In silk and in satin, To batten and fatten

Upon the good cheer of Sir Christopher Hatton.

A flourish, trumpets!--sound again!--

He comes, bold Drake, the chief who made a

Fine hash of all the pow'rs of Spain,

And so serv'd out their Grand Armada:

With him come Frobisher and Hawkins,

In yellow ruffs, rosettes, and stockings.

Room for my Lord!--proud Leicester's Earl

Retires awhile from courtly cares,

Who took his wife, poor hapless girl!

And pitch'd her neck and heel down stairs;

Proving, in hopes to wed a richer,

If not her "friend," at least her "pitcher."

A flourish, trumpets! strike the drums!

Will Shakspeare, never of his pen sick,

Is here--next Doctor Masters comes,

Renown'd afar for curing men sick,--

Queen's Serjeant Barham[83] with his bums

And tipstaves, coif, and wig forensic;

(He lost, unless Sir Richard lies, his

Life at the famous "Black Assizes.")

Room! Room! for great Cecil!--place, place for his Dame!--

Room! Room! for Southampton--for Sidney, whose name

As a _Preux Chevalier_, in the records of Fame,

"Beats Banagher"--e'en now his praises, we all sing 'em,

Knight, Poet, Gentleman!--Room! for sage Walsingham!--

Room! for Lord Hunsdon!--for Sussex!--for Rawleigh!--

For INGOLDSBY!! Oh! it's enough to appal ye!

Dear me! how they call!

How they squall! how they bawl!

This dame has lost her shoe--that one her shawl--

My lord's got a tumble--my lady a fall!--

Now a Hall! a Hall! A Brawl! a Brawl!

Here's my Lord Keeper Hatton, so stately and tall!

Has led out Lady Hunsdon to open the Ball!

Fiddlers! Fiddlers! fiddle away!

Resin your catgut! fiddle and play!

A roundelay! Fiddle away!

Obey! obey!--hear what they all say!

Hip!--Music!--Nosey!!--play up there!--play!

Never was anything half so gay

As Sir Christopher Hatton's grand holiday!

The clock strikes twelve!--Who cares for the clock?

Who cares for----Hark!--What a loud Single-knock!

Dear me! dear me! Who can it be?--

Why, who can be coming at this time of night,

With a knock _like that_ honest folk to affright?--

"Affright?"--yes _affright_!--there are many who mock

At fear, and in danger stand firm as a rock,

Whom the roar of the battle-field never could shock,

Yet quail at the sound of a vile "Single-knock!"

Hark!--what can the Porter be thinking of?--What!--

If the booby has not let him in I'll be shot!--

Dear me! how hot The room's all at once got!--

And what rings through the roof?--

It's the sound of a _hoof_!--

It's some donkey a-coming upstairs at full trot!

Stay!--the folding-doors open! the leaves are thrown back,

And in dances a tall _Figurant_--ALL IN BLACK!!

Gracious me what an _entrechat_! Oh, what a bound!

Then with what an _a-plomb_ he comes down to the ground!

Look there! look there! Now he's up in the air!

Now he's here!--now he's there--now he's no one knows where!--

See! see!--he's kick'd over a table and chair!

There they go!--all the strawberries, flowers, and sweet herbs,

Turn'd o'er and o'er, Down on the floor,

Ev'ry caper he cuts oversets or disturbs

All the "Keen's Seedlings" and "Wilmot's Superbs!"

There's a _pirouette_!--we're All a great deal too near!

A ring!--give him room or he'll "shin" you--stand clear!

There's a spring again!--oh! 'tis quite frightful!--oh dear!

His toe's broke the top of the glass chandelier!!

Now he's down again!--look at the _congees_ and bows

And _salaams_ which he makes to the Dame of the House,

Lady Alice, the noble Lord Treasurer's spouse!

Come, now we shall view A grand _pas de deux_

Perform'd in the very first style by these two

--But no!--she recoils--she could scarce look more pale if

Instead of a Beau's 'twas the bow of a Bailiff!--

He holds out his hand--she declines it, and draws

Back her own--see!--he grasps it with horrid black claws,

Like the short, sharp, strong nails of a Polar Bear's paws!!

Then she "scream'd such a scream!"

Such another, I deem,

As, long after, Miss Mary Brown[84] scream'd in her dream.

Well she might! for 'twas shrewdly remark'd by her Page,

A sharp little boy about twelve years of age,

Who was standing close by When she utter'd her cry,

That the whole of her arm shrivell'd up, and grew dry,

While the fingers and thumb of the hand he had got

In his clutches became on the instant RED HOT!!

[Illustration: THE HOUSE-WARMING.]

Now he whirls and he twirls

Through the girls in their curls,

And their rouge, and their feathers, and diamonds, and pearls;

Now high,--now low,-- Now fast, and now slow,

In terrible circumgyration they go,

The flame-coloured Belle and her coffee-faced Beau!

Up they go once! and up they go twice!--

Round the hall!--round the hall!--and now up they go thrice!

Now one grand _pirouette_, the performance to crown!

Now again they go UP!!--and they NEVER COME DOWN!!!

* * * * *

The thunder roars! And the rain it pours!

And the lightning comes in through the windows and doors!

Then more calling, and bawling,

And squalling, and falling,

Oh! what a fearful "stramash" they are all in!

Out they all sally, The whole _corps de ballet_--

Some dash down Holborn-hill into the valley,

Where stagnates Fleet Ditch at the end of Harp Alley,

Some t'other way, with a speed quite amazing,

Nor pause to take breath till they get beyond Gray's Inn.

In every sense of the word, such a _rout_ of it,

Never was made in London, or out of it!

When they came the next day to examine the scene,

There was scarcely a vestige of all that had been;

The beautiful tapestry, blue, red, and green,

Was all blacken'd and scorch'd, and look'd dirty and mean,

All the crockery broken, dish, plate, and tureen!

While those who look'd up could perceive in the roof

One very large hole in the shape of a _hoof_!

Of poor Lady Hatton, it's needless to say

No traces have ever been found to this day,

Or the terrible dancer who whisk'd her away;

But out in the court-yard--and just in that part

Where the pump stands--lay bleeding a LARGE HUMAN HEART!

And sundry large stains Of blood and of brains,

Which had not been wash'd off notwithstanding the rains,

Appear'd on the wood, and the handle and chains,

As if somebody's head with a very hard thump,

Had been recently knock'd on the top of the pump.

That pump is no more!--that of which you've just read,--

But they've put a new iron one up in its stead,

And still, it is said, At that "small hour" so dread,

When all sober people are cosey in bed,

There may sometimes be seen on a moonshiny night,

Standing close by the new pump, a Lady in White,

Who keeps pumping away with, 'twould seem, all her might,

Though never a drop comes her pains to requite!

And hence many passengers now are debarr'd

From proceeding at nightfall through Bleeding Heart Yard!

MORAL.

Fair ladies, attend! And if you've a "friend

At Court," don't attempt to bamboozle or trick her!

--Don't meddle with negus, or any mix'd liquor!--

Don't dabble in "Magic!" my story has shown

How wrong 'tis to use any charms but your own!

Young Gentlemen, too, may, I think, take a hint

Of the same kind, from what I've here ventured to print,

All Conjuring's bad! they may get in a scrape

Before they're aware, and whatever its shape,

They may find it no easy affair to escape.

It's not every body that comes off so well

From _leger-de-main_ tricks as Mr. Brunel.

Don't dance with a Stranger who looks like a Guy,

And _when_ dancing don't cut your capers too high!

Depend on't the fault's in Your method of waltzing,

If ever you kick out the candles--don't try!

At a ball or a play, Or any _soirée_,

When a _petit souper_ constitutes the "_Après_,"

If strawb'ries and cream with CHAMPAGNE form a part,

Take care of your HEAD!--and take care of your HEART!

If you want a new house For yourself and your spouse,

Buy, or build one,--and honestly pay, every brick, for it!

Don't be so green as to go to Old Nick for it--

--Go to George Robins--he'll find you "a perch,"

(_Dulce domum_'s his word,) without robbing the Church!

The last piece of advice which I'd have you regard

Is, "don't go of a night into Bleeding-Heart-Yard,"

It's a dark, little, dirty, black, ill-looking square,

With queer people about, and unless you take care,

You may find, when your pocket's clean'd out and left bare,

That the _iron_ one is not the _only_ "PUMP" there!

FOOTNOTES:

[79] "Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is good gifts."

SIR HUGH EVANS.

[80]

The grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,

The seals and maces danced before him.--GRAY.

[81] Sir John Hawkins for "his _worthye_ attempts and services," and

because "in the same he had dyvers conflights with the Moryans and

slew and toke dyvers of the same Moryans" received from Elizabeth an

_honourable_ augmentation to his coat armour, including, for his crest,

"_A Demi-Moor sable, with two manacles on each arm, or_."

[82] Sir Francis Drake's house, "the Arbour," stood here.

[83] Called by Sir Richard Baker "The famous Lawyer."--_See his

Chronicle._

[84] _Vide_ the celebrated ballad of "Giles

Scroggins."--_Catnach's ed. 7 Dials, Lond._ 1841.

THE FORLORN ONE.

Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe,

Lone wanderer of the dreary night?

Thy gushing tears in torrents flow,

Thy bosom pants in wild affright!

And thou, within whose iron breast

Those frowns austere too truly tell,

Mild pity, heaven-descended guest,

Hath never, never deign'd to dwell.

That rude, uncivil touch forego,

Stern despot of a fleeting hour!

Nor "make the angels weep" to know

The fond "fantastic tricks" of power!

Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd,

But droppeth as the gentle dew,"

And while it blesseth him who gain'd,

It blesseth him who gave it too?

Say, what art thou? and what is he,

Pale victim of despair and pain,

Whose streaming eyes and bended knee

Sue to thee thus--and sue in vain?

Cold, callous man!--he scorns to yield,

Or aught relax his felon gripe,

But answers, "I'm Inspector Field!

And this here Warmint's prigg'd your wipe!"

FOOTNOTES:

[84]_Vide_ the celebrated ballad of "Giles

Scroggins."--_Catnach's ed. 7 Dials, Lond._ 1841.

JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.

A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.

"The wig's the thing! the wig! the wig."--_Old Song._

"Joe," said old Jarvis, looking out of his window,--it was his

ground-floor back,--"Joe, you seem to be very hot, Joe,--and you have

got no wig!"

"Yes, sir," quoth Joseph, pausing, and resting upon his spade, "it's as

hot a day as ever I _see_; but the celery must be got in, or there'll

be no autumn crop, and--"

"Well, but, Joe, the sun's so hot, and it shines so on your bald head,

it makes one wink to look at it. You'll have a _coup de soleil_, Joe."

"A _what_, sir?"

"No matter; it's very hot working; and if you'll step in doors, I'll

give you--"

"Thank ye, your honour, a drop of beer will be very acceptable."

Joe's countenance brightened amazingly.

"Joe, I'll give you--my old wig!"

The countenance of Joseph fell, his grey eye had glistened as a blest

vision of double X flitted athwart his fancy; its glance faded again

into the old, filmy, gooseberry-coloured hue, as he growled in a minor

key, "A wig, sir!"

"Yes, Joe, a wig! The man who does not study the comfort of his

dependents is an unfeeling scoundrel. You shall have my old, worn-out

wig."

"I hope, sir, you'll give me a drop o' beer to drink your honour's

health in,--it _is_ very hot, and--"

"Come in, Joe, and Mrs. Witherspoon shall give it you."

"Heaven bless your honour!" said honest Joe, striking his spade

perpendicularly into the earth, and walking with more than usual

alacrity towards the close-cut, quickset hedge which separated Mr.

Jarvis's garden from the high road.

From the quickset hedge aforesaid he now raised, with all due delicacy,

a well-worn and somewhat dilapidated jacket, of a stuff by drapers most

pseudonymously termed "everlasting." Alack! alack! what is there to

which _tempus edax rerum_ will accord that epithet?--In its high and

palmy days it had been all of a piece; but as its master's eye now fell

upon it, the expression of his countenance seemed to say with Octavian,

"Those days are gone, Floranthe!"

It was now, from frequent patching, a coat not unlike that of the

patriarch, one of many colours.

Joseph Washford inserted his wrists into the corresponding orifices of

the tattered garment, and with a steadiness of circumgyration, to be

acquired only by long and sufficient practice, swung it horizontally

over his ears, and settled himself into it.

"Confound your old jacket!" cried a voice from the other side the

hedge, "keep it down, you rascal! don't you see my horse is frightened

at it?"

"Sensible beast!" apostrophized Joseph, "I've been frighten'd at it

myself every day for the last two years!"

The gardener cast a rueful glance at its sleeve, and pursued his way to

the door of the back kitchen.

"Joe," said Mrs. Witherspoon, a fat, comely dame, of about

five-and-forty, "Joe, your master is but too good to you; he is always

kind and considerate. Joe, he has desired me to give you his old wig."

"And the beer, Ma'am Witherspoon?" said Washford, taking the proffered

caxon, and looking at it with an expression somewhat short of

rapture;--"and the beer, ma'am?"

"The beer, you guzzling wretch!--what beer? Master said nothing about

no beer. You ungrateful fellow, has not he given you a wig?"

"Why, yes, Madam Witherspoon; but then, you see, his honour said it was

very hot, and I'm very dry, and--"

"Go to the pump, sot!" said Mrs. Witherspoon, as she slammed the

back-door in the face of the petitioner.

Mrs. Witherspoon was "of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion," and Honorary

Assistant Secretary to the Appledore branch of the "Ladies' Grand

Junction Water-working Temperance Society."

Joe remained for a few moments lost in mental abstraction; he looked

at the door, he looked at the wig; his first thought was to throw it

into the pig-stye,--his corruption rose, but he resisted the impulse;

he got the better of Satan; the half-formed imprecation died before

it reached his lips. He looked disdainfully at the wig; it had once

been a comely jasey enough, of the colour of over-baked ginger-bread,

one of the description commonly known during the latter half of the

last century by the name of a "brown George." The species, it is to be

feared, is now extinct, but a few, a very few of the same description

might, till very lately, be occasionally seen,--_rari nantes in

gurgite vasto_,--the glorious relics of a by-gone day, crowning the

_cerebellum_ of some venerated and venerable provost, or judge of

assize; but Mr. Jarvis's wig had one peculiarity; unlike most of its

fellows, it had a tail!--"cribbed and confined," indeed, by a shabby

piece of faded shalloon.

Washford looked at it again; he shook his bald head; the wig had

certainly seen its best days; still it had about it something of

an air of faded gentility,--it was "like ancient Rome, majestic in

decay,"--and as the small ale was not to be forthcoming, why--after

all, an old wig was better than nothing!

Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis, of Appledore, in the Weald of Kent, was a

gentleman by act of parliament; one of that class of gentlemen who,

disdaining the _bourgeois_-sounding name of "attorney-at-law," are,

by a legal fiction, denominated solicitors. I say by a legal fiction,

for surely the general tenor of the intimation received by such as

enjoy the advantage of their correspondence, has little in common with

the idea usually attached to the term "solicitation." "If you don't

pay my bill, and costs, I'll send you to jail," is a very energetic

_entreaty_. There are, it is true, etymologists who derive their

style and title from the Latin infinitive "_solicitare_," to "make

anxious,"--in all probability they are right.

If this be the true etymology of his title, as it was the main end of

his calling, then was Jeremiah Jarvis a worthy exemplar of the _genus_

to which he belonged. Few persons in his time had created greater

solicitude among his Majesty's lieges within the "Weald." He was rich,

of course. The best house in the country-town is always the lawyer's,

and it generally boasts a green door, stone steps, and a brass knocker.

In neither of these appendages to opulence was Jeremiah deficient; but

then, he was so _very_ rich; his reputed wealth, indeed, passed all the

common modes of accounting for its increase. True, he was so universal

a favourite that every man whose will he made was sure to leave him a

legacy; that he was a sort of general assignee to all the bankruptcies

within twenty miles of Appledore; was clerk to half the "trusts;" and

treasurer to most of the "rates," "funds," and "subscriptions," in that

part of the country; that he was land-agent to Lord Mountrhino, and

steward to the rich Miss Tabbytale of Smerrididdle Hall! that he had

been guardian (?) to three young profligates, who all ran through their

property, which, somehow or another, came at last into his hands, "at

an equitable valuation." Still his possessions were so considerable,

as not to be altogether accounted for, in vulgar esteem, even by

these and other honourable modes of accumulation; nor were there

wanting those who conscientiously entertained a belief that a certain

dark-coloured gentleman, of indifferent character, known principally by

his predilection for appearing in perpetual mourning, had been through

life his great friend and counsellor, and had mainly assisted in the

acquirement of his revenues. That "old Jerry Jarvis had sold himself

to the devil" was, indeed, a dogma which it were heresy to doubt in

Appledore;--on this head, at least, there were few schismatics in the

parish.

When the worthy "Solicitor" next looked out of his ground-floor back,

he smiled with much complacency at beholding Joe Washford again hard at

work--in his wig--the little tail aforesaid oscillating like a pendulum

in the breeze. If it be asked what could induce a gentleman, whose

leading principle seems to have been self-appropriation, to make so

magnificent a present, the answer is, that Mr. Jarvis might, perhaps,

have thought an occasional act of benevolence necessary or politic; he

is not the only person, who, having stolen a quantity of leather, has

given away a pair of shoes, _pour l'amour de Dieu_,--perhaps he had

other motives.

Joe, meanwhile, worked away at the celery bed; but truth obliges us

to say, neither with the same degree of vigour or perseverance as

had marked the earlier efforts of the morning. His pauses were more

frequent; he rested longer on the handle of his spade; while ever and

anon his eye would wander from the trench beneath him to an object

not unworthy the contemplation of a natural philosopher. This was an

apple-tree.

Fairer fruit never tempted Eve, or any of her daughters; the bending

branches groaned beneath their luxuriant freight, and, drooping to

earth, seemed to ask the protecting aid of man either to support or

to relieve them. The fine, rich glow of their sun-streaked clusters

derived additional loveliness from the level beams of the descending

day-star. An anchorite's mouth had watered at the pippins.

On the precise graft of the espalier of Eden, "Sanchoniathon, Manetho,

and Berosus" are undecided; the best-informed Talmudists, however,

have, if we are to believe Dr. Pinner's German Version, pronounced

it a Ribstone pippin, and a Ribstone pippin-tree it was that now

attracted the optics, and discomposed the inner man of the thirsty,

patient, but perspiring gardener. The heat was still oppressive; no

beer had moistened his lip, though its very name, uttered as it was

in the ungracious tones of a Witherspoon, had left behind a longing

as intense as fruitless. His thirst seemed supernatural, when at this

moment his left ear experienced "a slight and tickling sensation," such

as we are assured is occasionally produced by an infinitesimal dose in

homœopathy; a still, small _voice_--it was as though a daddy-long-legs

were whispering in his _tympanum_--a small _voice_ seemed to say,

"Joe!--take an apple, Joe!!"

Honest Joseph started at the suggestion; the rich crimson of his

jolly nose deepened to a purple tint in the beams of the setting sun;

his very forehead was incarnadine. He raised his hand to scratch his

ear,--the little tortuous tail had worked its way into it,--he pulled

it out by the bit of shalloon, and allayed the itching, then cast his

eye wistfully towards the mansion where his master was sitting by the

open window. Joe pursed up his parched lips into an arid whistle, and

with a desperate energy struck his spade once more into the celery-bed.

Alack! alack! what a piece of work is man!--how short his

triumphs!--how frail his resolutions!

From this fine and very original moral reflection we turn reluctantly

to record the sequel. The celery-bed, alluded to as the main scene

of Mr. Washford's operations, was drawn in a rectilinear direction,

nearly across the whole breadth of the parallelogram that comprised

the "kitchen garden." Its northern extremity abutted to the hedge

before mentioned, its southern one--woe is me that it should have

been so!--was in fearful vicinity to the Ribstone pippin-tree. One

branch, low bowed to earth, seemed ready to discharge its precious

burden into the very trench. As Joseph stooped to insert the last plant

with his dibble, an apple of more than ordinary beauty bobbed against

his knuckles.--"He's taking snuff, Joe," whispered the same small

_voice_;--the tail had twisted itself into its old position. "He is

sneezing!--now, Joe!--now!" And, ere the agitated horticulturist could

recover from his surprise and alarm, the fruit was severed, and--in his

hand!

"He! he! he!" shrilly laughed, or seemed to laugh, that accursed little

pigtail.--Washford started at once to the perpendicular;--with an

enfrenzied grasp he tore the jasey from his head, and, with that in one

hand, and his ill-acquired spoil in the other, he rushed distractedly

from the garden!

* * * * *

All that night was the humble couch of the once happy gardener haunted

with the most fearful visions. He was stealing apples,--he was robbing

hen-roosts,--he was altering the chalks upon the milk-score,--he had

purloined three _chemises_ from a hedge, and he awoke in the very

act of cutting the throat of one of Squire Hodge's sheep! A clammy

dew stood upon his temples,--the cold perspiration burst from every

pore,--he sprang in terror from the bed.

"Why, Joe, what ails thee, man?" cried the usually incurious Mrs.

Washford; "what be the matter with thee? Thee hast done nothing but

grunt and growl all t' night long, and now thee dost stare as if thee

saw summut. What bees it, Joe?"

A long-drawn sigh was her husband's only answer; his eye fell upon the

bed. "How the devil came _that_ here?" quoth Joseph, with a sudden

recoil: "who put that thing on my pillow?"

"Why, I did, Joseph. Th' ould night-cap is in the wash, and thee didst

toss and tumble so, and kick the clothes off, I thought thee mightest

catch cowld, so I clapt t' wig atop o' thee head."

And there it lay,--the little sinister-looking tail impudently perked

up, like an infernal gnomon on a Satanic dial-plate--Larceny and

Ovicide shone in every hair of it!

"The dawn was overcast, the morning lower'd,

And heavily in clouds brought on the day,"

when Joseph Washford once more repaired to the scene of his daily

labours; a sort of unpleasant consciousness flushed his countenance,

and gave him an uneasy feeling as he opened the garden gate; for Joe,

generally speaking, was honest as the skin between his eyebrows;--his

hand faltered as it pressed the latch. "Pooh, pooh! 'twas but an apple,

after all!" said Joseph. He pushed open the wicket, and found himself

beneath the tempting tree.

But vain now were all its fascinations; like fairy gold seen by the

morning light, its charms had faded into very nothingness. Worlds, to

say nothing of apples, which in shape resemble them, would not have

bought him to stretch forth an unhallowed hand again. He went steadily

to his work.

The day continued cloudy, huge drops of rain fell at intervals,

stamping his bald pate with spots as big as halfpence; but Joseph

worked on. As the day advanced, showers fell thick and frequent; the

fresh-turned earth was itself fragrant as a _bouquet_.--Joseph worked

on--and when at last _Jupiter Pluvius_ descended in all his majesty,

soaking the ground into the consistency of a dingy pudding, he put

on his party-coloured jacket, and strode towards his humble home,

rejoicing in his renewed integrity. "'Twas but an apple, after all! Had

it been an apple-pie, indeed!"--

"An apple-pie!"--the thought was a dangerous one--too dangerous to

dwell on. But Joseph's better Genius was at this time lord of the

ascendant;--he dismissed it, and passed on.

On arriving at his cottage, an air of bustle and confusion prevailed

within, much at variance with the peaceful serenity usually observable

in its economy. Mrs. Washford was in high dudgeon; her heels

clattered on the red-tiled floor, and she whisked about the house

like a parched pea upon a drum-head; her voice, generally small and

low,--"an excellent thing in woman,"--was pitched at least an octave

above its ordinary level; she was talking fast and furious. Something

had evidently gone wrong. The mystery was soon explained. The "_cussed

ould twoad_ of a cat" had got into the dairy, and licked off the cream

from the only pan their single cow had filled that morning! And there

she now lay,--purring as in scorn,--Tib, heretofore the meekest of

mousers, the honestest, the least "_scaddle_" of the feline race,--a

cat that one would have sworn might have been trusted with untold

fish,--yes,--there was no denying it,--proofs were too strong against

her,--yet there she lay, hardened in her iniquity, coolly licking her

whiskers, and reposing quietly upon--what?--Jerry Jarvis's old wig!!

The patience of a Stoic must have yielded;--it had been too much for

the temperament of the Man of Uz--Joseph Washford lifted his hand--that

hand which had never yet been raised on Tibby, save to fondle and

caress--it now descended on her devoted head in one tremendous "dowse."

Never was cat so astonished,--so enraged--all the tiger portion

of her nature rose in her soul. Instead of galloping off, hissing

and sputtering, with arched back and tail erected, as any ordinary

Grimalkin would unquestionably have done under similar circumstances,

she paused a moment,--drew back on her haunches,--all her energies

seemed concentrated for one prodigious spring; a demoniac fire gleamed

in her green and yellow eyeballs, as, bounding upwards, she fixed her

talons firmly in each of her assailant's cheeks!--many and many a day

after were sadly visible the marks of those envenomed claws,--then,

dashing over his shoulder with an unearthly mew, she leaped through the

open casement, and--was seen no more.

"The Devil's in the cat!" was the apostrophe of Mrs. Margaret Washford.

Her husband said nothing, but thrust the old wig into his pocket, and

went to bathe his scratches at the pump.

Day after day, night after night, 'twas all the same--Joe Washford's

life became a burden to him; his natural upright and honest mind

struggled hard against the frailty of human nature. He was ever

restless and uneasy; his frank, open, manly look, that blenched not

from the gaze of the spectator, was no more; a sly and sinister

expression had usurped the place of it.

Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis had little of what the world calls "Taste," still

less of Science--Ackerman would have called him a "Snob," and Buckland

a "Nincompoop." Of the Horticultural Society, its _fêtes_, its fruits,

and its fiddlings, he knew nothing. Little reeked he of flowers--save

cauliflowers--in these, indeed, he was a _connoisseur_--to their

cultivation and cookery the respective talents of Joe and Madame

Witherspoon had long been dedicated; but as for a _bouquet_!--Hardham's

37 was "the only one fit for a gentleman's nose." And yet, after all,

Jerry Jarvis had a good-looking tulip-bed. A female friend of his had

married a Dutch merchant; Jerry drew the settlements; the lady paid

him by a cheque on "Child's," the gentleman by a present of a "box of

roots." Jerry put the latter in his garden--he had rather they had been

schalots.

Not so his neighbour, Jenkinson; he _was_ a man of "Taste" and of

"Science;" he was an F.R.C.E.B.S., which, as he told the vicar, implied

"Fellow of the Royal Cathartico-Emetico-Botanical Society," and his

autograph in Sir John Frostyface's album stood next to that of the

Emperor of all the Russias. Neighbour Jenkinson fell in love with the

pips and petals of "neighbour Jarvis's" tulips. There were one or two

among them of such brilliant, such surpassing beauty,--the "cups" so

well formed,--the colours so defined. To be sure, Mr. Jenkinson had

enough in his own garden; but then "Enough," says the philosopher,

"always means a little more than a man has got."--Alas! alas! Jerry

Jarvis was never known to _bestow_,--his neighbour dared not offer to

_purchase_ from so wealthy a man; and, worse than all, Joe the gardener

was incorruptible--ay, but the Wig?

Joseph Washford was working away again in the blaze of the mid-day sun;

his head looked like a copper saucepan fresh from the brazier's.

"Why, where's your wig, Joseph?" said the voice of his master from the

well-known window; "what have you done with your wig?" The question was

embarrassing,--its tail had tickled his ear till it had made it sore;

Joseph had put the wig in his pocket.

Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis was indignant; he liked not that his benefits

should be ill appreciated by the recipient.--"Hark ye, Joseph

Washford," said he, "either wear my wig, or let me have it again!"

There was no mistaking the meaning of his tones; they were resonant of

indignation and disgust, of mingled grief and anger, the amalgamation

of sentiment naturally produced by

"Friendship unreturn'd

And unrequited Love."

Washford's heart smote him: he felt all that was implied in his

master's appeal. "It's here, your Honour," said he; "I had only

taken it off because we have had a smartish shower; but the sky is

brightening now." The wig was replaced, and the little tortuous pigtail

wriggled itself into its accustomed position.

At this moment neighbour Jenkinson peeped over the hedge.

"Joe Washford!" said neighbour Jenkinson.

"Sir, to you," was the reply.

"How beautiful your tulips look after the rain!"

"Ah! sir, master sets no great store by them flowers," returned the

gardener.

"Indeed!--Then perhaps he would have no objection to part with a few?"

"Why, no!--I don't think master would like to _give_ them,--or anything

else,--away, sir;"--and Washford scratched his ear.

"Joe!!"--said Mr. Jenkinson--"Joe!!"

The Sublime, observes Longinus, is often embodied in a

monosyllable--"Joe!!!"--Mr. Jenkinson said no more; but a half-crown

shone from between his upraised fingers, and its "poor, poor dumb

mouth" spoke for him.

How Joseph Washford's left ear _did_ itch!--He looked to the

ground-floor back--Mr. Jarvis had left the window.

Mr. Jenkinson's ground-plot boasted, at daybreak next morning,

a splendid _Semper Augustus_, "which was not so before," and

Joseph Washford was led home, much about the same time, in a most

extraordinary state of "civilation," from "The Three Jolly Pot-boys."

From that hour he was the Fiend's!!

* * * * *

"_Facilis descensus Averni!_" says Virgil.--"It is only the first step

that is attended with any difficulty," says--somebody else,--when

speaking of the decollated martyr, St. Dennis's walk with his

head under his arm. "The First Step!"--Joseph Washford had taken

that step!--he had taken two--three--four steps;--and now, from a

hesitating, creeping, cat-like mode of progression, he had got into a

firmer tread--an amble--a positive trot!--He took the family linen "to

the wash:"--one of Madame Witherspoon's best Holland _chemises_ was

never seen after.

"Lost?--impossible! How _could_ it be lost?--where _could_ it be gone

to?--who _could_ have got it? It was her best--her _very_ best!--she

should know it among a hundred--among a thousand!--it was marked with

a great W in the corner!--Lost?--impossible?--She would _see_!"--Alas!

she never _did_ see--the _chemise_--_abiit_, _erupit_, _evasit_!--it was

"Like the lost Pleiad, seen on earth no more!"

--but Joseph Washford's Sunday shirt _was_ seen, finer and fairer than

ever, the pride and _dulce decus_ of the Meeting.

The Meeting?--ay, the Meeting. Joe Washford never missed the Appledore

Independent Meeting House, whether the service were in the morning or

afternoon,--whether the Rev. Mr. Slyandry exhorted or made way for

the Rev. Mr. Tearbrain. Let who would officiate, there was Joe. As

I have said before, he never missed;--but other people missed--one

missed an umbrella,--one a pair of clogs. Farmer Johnson missed his

tobacco-box,--Farmer Jackson his greatcoat;--Miss Jackson missed her

hymn-book,--a diamond edition, bound in maroon-coloured velvet, with

gilt corners and clasps. Everything, in short, was missed--but Joe

Washford; there _he_ sat, grave, sedate, and motionless--all save

that restless, troublesome, fidgety little Pigtail attached to his

wig, which nothing _could_ keep quiet, or prevent from tickling and

interfering with Miss Thompson's curls, as she sat, back to back with

Joe, in the adjoining pew. After the third Sunday, Nancy Thompson

eloped with the tall recruiting sergeant of the Connaught Rangers.

The summer passed away,--autumn came and went,--and Christmas, jolly

Christmas, that period of which we are accustomed to utter the mournful

truism, it "comes but _once_ a-year," was at hand. It was a fine

bracing morning; the sun was just beginning to throw a brighter tint

upon the Quaker-coloured ravine of Orlestone-hill, when a medical

gentleman, returning to the quiet little village of Ham Street, that

lies at its foot, from a farm-house at Kingsnorth, rode briskly down

the declivity.

After several hours of patient attention, Mr. Moneypenny had succeeded

in introducing to the notice of seven little expectant brothers and

sisters a "remarkably fine child," and was now hurrying home in the

sweet hope of a comfortable "snooze" for a couple of hours before the

announcement of tea and muffins should arouse him to fresh exertion.

The road at this particular spot had, even then, been cut deep below

the surface of the soil, for the purpose of diminishing the abruptness

of the descent, and, as either side of the superincumbent banks was

clothed with a thick mantle of tangled copsewood, the passage, even

by day, was sufficiently obscure, the level beams of the rising or

setting sun, as they happened to enfilade the gorge, alone illuminating

its recesses. A long stream of rosy light was just beginning to make

its way through the vista, and Mr. Moneypenny's nose had scarcely

caught and reflected its kindred ray, when the sturdiest and most

active cob that ever rejoiced in the appellation of a "Suffolk punch,"

brought herself up in mid career upon her haunches, and that with

a suddenness which had almost induced her rider to describe that

beautiful mathematical figure, the _parabola_, between her ears.

Peggy--her name was Peggy--stood stock-still, snorting like a stranded

grampus, and alike insensible to the gentle hints afforded her by hand

and heel.

"Tch!--tch!--get along, Peggy!" half exclaimed, half whistled the

equestrian. If ever steed said in its heart, "I'll be shot if I do!"

it was Peggy at that moment. She planted her forelegs deep in the

sandy soil, raised her stump of a tail to an elevation approaching the

horizontal, protruded her nose like a pointer at a covey, and with

expanded nostril continued to snuffle most egregiously.

Mr. Geoffrey Gambado, the illustrious "Master of the Horse to the Doge

of Venice," tells us, in his far-famed treatise on the Art Equestrian,

that the most embarrassing position in which a rider can be placed

is, when _he_ wishes to go one way, and his horse is determined to

go another. There is, to be sure, a _tertium quid_, which, though it

"splits the difference," scarcely obviates the inconvenience; this is

when the parties compromise the matter by not going any way at all--to

this compromise Peggy, and her (_soi-disant_) master were now reduced;

they had fairly joined issue. "Budge!" quoth the doctor.--"Budge not!"

quoth the fiend,--for nothing short of a fiend could, of a surety,

inspire Peggy at such a time with such unwonted obstinacy.--Moneypenny

whipped and spurred--Peggy plunged, and reared, and kicked, and for

several minutes to a superficial observer the termination of the

contest might have appeared uncertain; but your profound thinker sees

at a glance that, however the scales may appear to vibrate, when the

question between the sexes is one of perseverance, it is quite a lost

case for the masculine gender. Peggy beat the doctor "all to sticks,"

and when he was fairly tired of goading and thumping, maintained her

position as firmly as ever.

It is of no great use, and not particularly agreeable, to sit still,

on a cold frosty morning in January, upon the outside of a brute that

will neither go forwards nor backwards--so Mr. Moneypenny got off, and

muttering curses _both_ "loud" _and_ "deep" between his chattering

teeth, "progressed," as near as the utmost extremity of the extended

bridle would allow him, to peep among the weeds and brushwood that

flanked the road, in order to discover, if possible, what it was that

so exclusively attracted the instinctive attention of his Bucephalus.

His curiosity was not long at fault; the sunbeam glanced partially upon

some object ruddier even than itself--it was a scarlet waistcoat, the

wearer of which, overcome perchance by Christmas compotation, seemed to

have selected for his "thrice driven bed of down," the thickest clump

of the tallest and most-imposing nettles, thereon to doze away the

narcotic effects of superabundant juniper.

This, at least, was Mr. Moneypenny's belief, or he would scarcely have

uttered, at the highest pitch of his _contralto_, "What are you doing

there, you drunken rascal? frightening my horse!"--We have already

hinted, if not absolutely asserted, that Peggy was a mare; but this was

no time for verbal criticism.--"Get up, I say,--get up, and go home,

you scoundrel!"--But the "scoundrel" and "drunken rascal" answered

not; he moved not, nor could the prolonged shouting of the appellant,

aided by significant explosions from a double-thonged whip, succeed in

eliciting a reply. No motion indicated that the recumbent figure, whose

outline alone was visible, was a living and a breathing man!

The clear, shrill tones of a ploughboy's whistle sounded at this

moment from the bottom of the hill, where the broad and green expanse

of Romney Marsh stretches away from its foot for many a mile, and now

gleamed through the mists of morning, dotted and enamelled with its

thousand flocks. In a few minutes his tiny figure was seen "slouching"

up the ascent, casting a most disproportionate and ogre-like shadow

before him.

"Come here, Jack," quoth the doctor,--"come here, boy, lay hold of this

bridle, and mind that my horse does not run away."

Peggy threw up her head, and snorted disdain of the insinuation,--she

had not the slightest intention of doing any such thing.

Mr. Moneypenny meanwhile, disencumbered of his restive nag, proceeded

by manual application to arouse the sleeper. Alas! the Seven of Ephesus

might sooner have been awakened from their century of somnolency.

His was that "dreamless sleep that knows no walking;" his cares in

this world were over. Vainly did Moneypenny practise his own constant

precept, "To be well shaken!"--there lay before him the lifeless body

of a MURDERED MAN!

The corpse lay stretched upon its back, partially concealed, as we

have before said, by the nettles which had sprung up among the stumps

of the half-grubbed underwood; the throat was fearfully lacerated, and

the dark, deep, arterial dye of the coagulated blood shewed that the

carotid had been severed. There was little to denote the existence of

any struggle; but as the day brightened, the sandy soil of the road

exhibited an impression as of a body that had fallen on its plastic

surface, and had been dragged to its present position, while fresh

horse-shoe prints seemed to intimate that either the assassin or his

victim had been mounted. The pockets of the deceased were turned out,

and empty; a hat and heavy-loaded whip lay at no great distance from

the body.

"But what have we here?" quoth Doctor Moneypenny; "what is it that the

poor fellow holds so tightly in his hand?"

That hand had manifestly clutched some article with all the spasmodic

energy of a dying grasp--IT WAS AN OLD WIG!!

* * * * *

Those who are fortunate enough to have seen a Cinque Port court-house

may possibly divine what that useful and most necessary edifice was

some eighty years ago. Many of them seem to have undergone little

alteration, and are in general of a composite order of architecture, a

fanciful arrangement of brick and timber, with what Johnson would have

styled "interstices, reticulated, and decussated between intersections"

of lath and plaster. Its less euphonious designation in the "Weald"

is a "noggin." One half the basement story is usually of the more

solid material, the other, open to the street,--from which it is

separated only by a row of dingy columns, supporting a portion of the

superstructure,--is paved with tiles, and sometimes does duty as a

market-place, while, in its centre, flanking the broad staircase that

leads to the sessions-house above, stands an ominous-looking machine,

of heavy perforated wood, clasped within whose stern embrace "the

rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep" off occasionally the drowsiness

produced by convivial excess, in a most undignified position, an

inconvenience much increased at times by some mischievous urchin, who,

after abstracting the shoes of the helpless _detenu_, amuses himself by

tickling the soles of his feet.

It was in such a place, or rather in the Court-room above, that in the

year 1761 a hale, robust man, somewhat past the middle age, with a very

bald pate, save where a continued tuft of coarse, wiry hair, stretching

from above each ear, swelled out into a greyish-looking bush upon

the occiput, held up his hand before a grave and enlightened assemblage

of Dymchurch jurymen. He stood arraigned for that offence most heinous

in the sight of God and man, the deliberate and cold-blooded butchery

of an unoffending, unprepared fellow-creature,--_homicidium quod nullo

vidente, nullo auscultante, clam perpetratur_.

[Illustration: JERRY JARVIS'S WIG]

The victim was one Humphry Bourne, a reputable grazier of Ivychurch,

worthy and well to do, though, perchance, a thought too apt to indulge

on a market-day, when "a score of ewes" had brought in a reasonable

profit. Some such cause had detained him longer than usual at an

Ashford cattle-show; he had left the town late and alone; early in the

following morning his horse was found standing at his own stable-door,

the saddle turned round beneath its belly, and much about the time that

the corpse of its unfortunate master was discovered some four miles

off, by our friend the pharmacopolist.

That poor Bourne had been robbed and murdered there could be no

question.

Who, then, was the perpetrator of the atrocious deed?--The unwilling

hand almost refuses to trace the name of--Joseph Washford.

Yet so it was. Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis was himself the coroner for that

division of the county of Kent known by the name of "The Lath of

Scraye." He had not sat two minutes on the body before he recognised

his _quondam_ property, and started at beholding in the grasp of the

victim, as torn in the death-struggle from the murderer's head, his

own OLD WIG,--his own perky little pigtail, tied up with a piece of

shabby shalloon, now wriggling and quivering, as in salutation of its

ancient master. The silver buckles of the murdered man were found

in Joe Washford's shoes,--broad pieces were found in Joe Washford's

pockets,--Joe Washford had himself been found, when the hue-and-cry was

up, hid in a corn-rig at no great distance from the scene of slaughter,

his pruning-knife red with the evidence of his crime--"the grey hairs

yet stuck to the heft!"

For their humane administration of the laws, the lieges of this portion

of the realm have long been celebrated. Here it was that merciful

verdict was recorded in the case of the old lady accused of larceny,

"We find her Not Guilty, and hope she will never do so any more!"

Here it was that the more experienced culprit, when called upon to

plead with the customary, though somewhat superfluous, inquiry, as

to "how he would be tried?" substituted for the usual reply, "By

God and my country," that of "By your worship and a Dymchurch Jury."

Here it was--but enough!--not even a Dymchurch jury could resist such

evidence, even though the gallows (_i.e._ the expense of erecting

one) stared them, as well as the criminal, in the face. The very

pig-tail alone!--ever at his ear!--a clearer case of _suadente Diabolo_

never was made out. Had there been a doubt, its very conduct in the

Court-house would have settled the question. The Rev. Joel Ingoldsby,

umquhile chaplain to the Romney Bench, has left upon record that, when

exhibited in evidence, together with the blood-stained knife, its

twistings, its caperings, its gleeful evolutions quite "flabbergasted"

the jury, and threw all beholders into a consternation. It was

remarked, too, by many in the Court, that the Forensic Wig of the

Recorder himself was, on that trying occasion, palpably agitated, and

that its three depending, learned-looking tails lost curl at once, and

slunk beneath the obscurity of the powdered collar, just as the boldest

dog recoils from a rabid animal of its own species, however small and

insignificant.

Why prolong the painful scene?--Joe Washford was tried--Joe Washford

was convicted--Joe Washford was hanged!!

The fearful black gibbet, on which his body clanked in its chains to

the midnight winds, frowns no more upon Orlestone Hill; it has sunk

beneath the encroaching hand of civilization; but there it might be

seen late in the last century, an awful warning to all bald-pated

gentlemen how they wear, or accept, the old wig of a Special Attorney,

_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!_

Such gifts, as we have seen, may lead to a "Morbid Delusion, the climax

of which is Murder!"

The fate of the Wig itself is somewhat doubtful: nobody seems to

have recollected, with any degree of precision, what became of it.

Mr. Ingoldsby "had heard" that, when thrown into the fire by the

Court-keeper, after whizzing, and fizzling, and performing all sorts

of supernatural antics and contortions, it at length whirled up the

chimney with a bang that was taken for the explosion of one of the

Feversham powder-mills, twenty miles off; while others insinuate that

in the "Great Storm" which took place on the night when Mr. Jeremiah

Jarvis went to his "long home,"--wherever that may happen to be,--and

the whole of "The Marsh" appeared as one broad sheet of flame,

something that looked very like a Fiery Wig--perhaps a miniature

Comet--it had unquestionably a tail--was seen careering in the

blaze,--and seeming to "ride on the whirlwind and direct the storm."

UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES.

BY MISS JEMIMA INGOLDSBY, AGED 15.

(_Communicated by her Cousin Tom._)

Oh! how I should like in a Coach to ride,

Like the Sheriffs I saw upon Lord Mayor's day,

With a Coachman and little Postilion astride

On the back of the leader, a prancing bay.

And then behind it, oh! I should glory

To see the tall serving men standing upright,

Like the two who attend Mister Montefiore,

(Sir Moses I should say) for now he's a Knight.

And then the liveries, I know it is rude to

Find fault--but I'll hint as he can't see me blush,

That I'd not have the things I can only allude to

Either orange in hue or constructed of plush;

But their coats and their waistcoats and hats are delightful,

Their charming silk stockings--I vow and declare

Our John's ginger gaiters so wrinkled and frightful,

I never again shall be able to bear.

Oh! how I should like to have diamonds and rubies,

And large plume of feathers and flowers in my hair,

My gracious! to think how our Tom and those boobies,

Jack Smith and his friend Mister Thompson, would stare.

Then how I should like to drive to Guildhall,

And to see the nobility flocking in shoals,

With their two guinea tickets to dance at the ball

Which the Lord Mayor gives for relief of the Poles.

And to look at the gas so uncommonly pretty,

And the stars and the armour all just as they were,

The day that the Queen came in state to the city

To dine with the whole Corporation and Mayor.

Oh! how I should like to see Jane and Letitia,

Miss Jones and the two Misses Frump sitting still,

While dear Ensign Brown, of the West Kent Militia,

Solicits my hand for the "Supper" Quadrille.

With his fine white teeth and his cheek like a rose,

And his black cravat and his diamond pin,

And the nice little mustache under his nose,

And the dear _little_ tuft on the tip of his chin.

And how I should like some fine morning to ride

In my coach, and my white satin shoes and gown,

To St. James's Church, with a Beau by my side,

And I shouldn't much care if his name was Brown.

Miscellaneous Poems.

HERMANN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR.

An Emperor famous in council and camp,

Has a son who turns out a remarkable scamp;

Takes to dicing and drinking And d--mning and sinking,

And carries off maids, wives, and widows, like winking!

Since the days of Arminius, his namesake, than Hermann

There never was seen a more profligate German.

He escapes from the City; And joins some banditti

Insensible quite to remorse, fear, and pity;

Joins in all their carousals, and revels, and robberies,

And in kicking up all sorts of shindies and bobberies.

Well, hearing one day His associates say

That a bridal procession was coming their way,

Inflamed with desire, he Breaks into a priory,

And kicking out every man Jack of a friar, he

Upsets in a twinkling the mass-books and hassocks,

And dresses his rogues in the clergymen's cassocks.

The new married folks Taken in by this hoax,

Mister Hermann grows frisky and full of his jokes:

To the serious chagrin of her late happy suitor,

Catching hold of the Bride, he attempts to salute her.

Now Heaven knows what Had become of the lot,

It's Turtle to Tripe they'd have all gone to pot--

If a dumb Lady, one Of her friends, had not run

To her aid, and, quite scandalized, stopp'd all his fun!

Just conceive what a caper He cut, when her taper

Long fingers scrawled this upon whitey-brown paper,

(At the instant he seized, and before he had kissed her)--

"Ha' done, Mister Hermann! for shame! it's your sister!"

His hair stands on end,--he desists from his tricks,

And remains in "a pretty particular fix."

As he knows Sir John Nicholl Still keeps rods in pickle,

Offences of this kind severely to tickle,

At so near an escape from his court and its sentence

His eyes fill with tears, and his breast with repentance:

So, picking and stealing, And unrighteous dealing,

Of all sorts, he cuts, from this laudable feeling:

Of wickedness weary, With many a tear, he

Now takes a French leave of the vile _Condottieri_:

And the next thing we hear of this penitent villain,

He is begging in rags in the suburbs of Milan.

Half starv'd, meagre, and pale, His energies fail,

When his sister comes in with a pot of mild ale;

But though tatter'd his jerkins,

His heart is whole,--workings

Of conscience debar him from "Barclay and Perkins."

"I'll drink," exclaims he, "Nothing stronger than tea,

And that but the worst and the weakest Bohea,

Till I've done--from my past scenes of folly a far actor--

Some feat shall redeem both my wardrobe and character."

At signs of remorse so decided and visible

Nought can equal the joy of his fair sister Isabel,

And the Dumb Lady too, Who runs off to a Jew,

And buys him a coat of mail spick and span new,

In the hope that his prowess and deeds as a Knight

Will keep his late larcenies quite out of sight.

By the greatest good luck, his old friends the banditti

Choose this moment to make an attack on the city!

Now you all know the way Heroes hack, hew, and slay,

When once they get fairly mixed up in a fray:

Hermann joins in the _mêlée_, Pounds this to a jelly,

Runs that through the back, and a third through the belly.

Till many a broken bone, bruised rib, and flat head,

Make his _ci-devant_ friends curse the hour that he ratted.

Amid so many blows, Of course you'll suppose

He must get a black eye, or, at least, bloody nose:

"Take that!" cried a bandit, and struck, while he spoke it,

His spear in his breast, and, in pulling out, broke it.

Hermann fainted away When, as breathless he lay,

A rascal claimed all the renown of the day;

A recreant, cowardly, white-livered knight,

Who had skulked in a furze-bush the whole of the fight.

But the Dumb Lady soon Put some gin in a spoon,

And half strangles poor Hermann, who wakes from his swoon,

And exhibits his wound, when the head of the spear

Fits its handle, and makes its identity clear.

The murder thus out, Hermann's _fêted_ and thanked,

While his rascally rival gets tossed in a blanket:

And to finish the play-- As reformed rakes, they say,

Make the best of all husbands--the very same day

Hermann sends for a priest, as he must wed with some--lady,

Buys a ring and a licence, and marries the Dumb Lady.

MORAL.

Take warning, young people of every degree,

From Hermann's example, and don't live too free!

If you get in bad company, fly from it soon!

If you chance to get thrash'd, take some gin in a spoon;

And remember, since wedlock's not _all_ sugar-candy,

If you wish to 'scape "wigging," a dumb wife's the dandy!

HINTS FOR AN HISTORICAL PLAY;

TO BE CALLED

WILLIAM RUFUS; OR, THE RED ROVER.

ACT 1.

Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman Papa,

Has, somehow or other, a Saxon Mama:

Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons,

He's a sort of a sub in the Rufus dragoons;

Has travelled, but comes home abruptly, the rather

That some unknown rascal has murder'd his father;

And scarce has he picked out, and stuck in his quiver,

The arrow that pierced the old gentleman's liver,

When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone,

That his sweetheart has bolted,--with whom is not known.

But, as murder will out, he at last finds the lady

At court with her character grown rather shady:

This gives him the "blues," and impairs the delight

He'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a Knight,

For giving a runaway stallion a check,

And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.

ACT 2.

Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost,

And frightens a soldier away from his post;

Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher,

Draws it over his ears and pretends he's a Friar.

This gains him access to his sweetheart, Miss Faucit;

But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet;

Where oddly enough, among some of her things,

He discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's,

Of the very same pattern with that which he found

Sticking into his father when dead on the ground!

Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door,

Bounces into the Drawing-room, stamps on the floor,

With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye,

And blows up King William the Second, sky-high;

Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs,

That his Majesty bids his men kick him down stairs.

ACT 3.

King Rufus is cross when he comes to reflect,

That as King, he's been treated with gross disrespect;

So he pens a short note to a holy physician,

And gives him a rather unholy commission,

Viz., to mix up some arsenic and ale in a cup,

Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up.

Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter

Perceives, in his walks, this same cup on the altar.

As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking,

When Miss Faucit in tears, comes in running like winking;

He pauses of course, and as she's thirsty too,

Says, very politely, "Miss, I after you!"

The young lady curtsies, and being so dry,

Raises somehow her fair little finger so high,

That there's not a drop left him to "wet t'other eye;"

While the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise,

She merely says, "Thankee, Sir Walter," and dies.

At that moment the King, who is riding to cover,

Pops in _en passant_ on the desperate lover,

Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him,

--So he does,--he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him.

From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows,

The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose;

And Sir Walter, thus having concluded his quarrel,

Walks down to the footlights, and draws this fine moral:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

Lead sober lives:--

Don't meddle with other folks' Sweethearts or Wives!--

When you go out a sporting, take care of your gun,

And--never shoot elderly people in fun!"

MARIE MIGNOT.

Miss Marie Mignot was a nice little Maid,

Her Uncle a Cook, and a Laundress her trade,

And she loved as dearly as any one can

Mister Lagardie, a nice little man.

But Oh! But Oh! Story of woe!

A sad interloper, one Monsieur Modeau,

Ugly and old, With plenty of gold,

Made his approach In an elegant coach,

Her fancy was charmed with the splendour and show

And he bore off the false-hearted Molly Mignot.

Monsieur Modeau was crazy and old,

And Monsieur Modeau caught a terrible cold,

His nose was stuffed, and his throat was sore,

He had physic by the quart and Doctors by the score.

They sent squills And pills, And very long bills

And all they could do did not make him get well,

He sounded his M's and his N's like an L.

A shocking bad cough At last took him off,

And Mister Lagardie her former young beau,

Came a courting again to the Widow Modeau.

Mister Lagardie, to gain him _éclat_,

Had cut the Cook's shop and followed the law;

And when Monsieur Modeau set out on his journey,

Was an Articled Clerk to a Special Attorney.

He gave her a call On the day of a ball,

To which she'd invited the court, camp and all;

But "poor dear Lagardie" Again was too tardy,

For a Marshal of France Had just asked her to dance;

In a twinkling, the _ci-devant_ Madame Modeau

Was wife of the Marshal Lord Marquis Dinot.

Mister Lagardie was shocked at the news,

And went and enlisted at once in the Blues.

The Marquis Dinot Felt a little so so--

Took physic, grew worse, and had _notice to go_--

He died, and was shelved, and his Lady so gay

Smiled again on Lagardie now placed on full pay,

A Swedish Field-Marshal with a guinea a day;

When an old ex-King Just showed her the ring:

To be Queen, she conceived was a very fine thing;

But the King turned a Monk,

And Lagardie got drunk,

And said to the Lady with a deal of ill-breeding,

"You may go to the d--l and I'll go to Sweden."

Thus between the two stools, Like some other fools,

Her Ladyship found Herself plump on the ground;

So she cried, and she stamped, and she sent for a hack,

And she drove to a convent and never came back.

MORAL.

Wives, Maidens, and Widows, attend to my lay

If a fine moral lesson you'd draw from a play,

To the Haymarket go And see _Marie Mignot_,

Miss Kelly plays Marie, and Williams Modeau;

Mrs. Glover and Vining Are really quite shining,

And though Thompson for a Marquis

Has almost too much carcass,

Yet it's not fair to pass him or

John Cooper's Cassimir,

And the piece would be barren

Without Mr. Farren;

No matter, go there, and they'll teach you the guilt

Of coquetting and ogling, and playing the jilt.

Such folks gallop awhile, but at last they get spilt;

Had Molly Mignot Behaved _comme il faut_,

Nor married the Lawyer nor Marquis Dinot,

She had ne'er been a nun, whose fare very hard is,

But the mother of half-a-score little Lagardies.

THE TRUANTS.

Three little Demons have broken loose

From the National School below!

They are resolved to play truant to-day,

Their primer and slate they have cast away,

And away, away they go!

"Hey boys! hey boys! up go we!

Who so merry as we three?"

The reek of that most infernal pit,

Where sinful souls are stewing,

Rises so black, that in viewing it,

A thousand to one but you'd ask with surprise

As its murky columns meet your eyes,

"Pray is Old Nick a-brewing?"

Thither these three little Devils repair,

And mount by steam to the uppermost air.

They have got hold of a wandering star,

That happened to come within hail.

O swiftly they glide! As they merrily ride

All a cock-stride Of that Comet's tail.

Oh the pranks! Oh the pranks,

The merry pranks, the mad pranks,

These wicked urchins play!

They kissed the _Virgin_ and filled her with dread,

They popped the _Scorpion_ into her bed;

They broke the pitcher of poor _Aquarius_,

They stole the arrows of _Sagittarius_,

And they skimmed the _Milky Way_.

They filled the _Scales_ with sulphur full,

They halloed the _Dog-star_ on at the _Bull_,

And pleased themselves with the noise.

They set the _Lion_ On poor _Orion_;

They shaved all the hair Off the _Lesser Bear_!

They kicked the shins Of the _Gemini Twins_--

Those heavenly Siamese Boys!--

Never was such confusion and wrack,

As they produced in the Zodiac!--

"Huzza! Huzza! Away! Away!

Let us go down to the earth and play!

Now we go up, up, up, Now we go down, down, down,

Now we go backwards, and forwards,

Now we go round, round, round!"

Thus they gambol, and scramble, and tear,

Till at last they arrive at the nethermost air.

And pray now what were these Devilets called?

These three little Fiends so gay?

One was _Cob_! Another was _Mob_!

The last and the least was young _Chittabob_!

Queer little Devils were they!

_Cob_ was the strongest, _Mob_ was the wrongest,

_Chittabob's_ tail was the finest and longest!

Three more frolicsome Imps, I ween,

Beelzebub's self hath seldom seen.

Over Mountain, over Fell, Glassy Fountain, mossy Dell,

Rocky Island, barren Strand, Over Ocean, over Land;

With frisk and bound, and squeaks and squalls,

Heels over head, and head over heels;

With curlings and twistings, and twirls and wheeleries,

Down they drop at the gate of the _Tuilleries_.

Courtiers were bowing and making legs,

While Charley _le Roi_ was bolting eggs;

"_Mob_," says _Cob_, "_Chittabob_," says _Mob_,

"Come here, you young Devil, _we're in for a job_!"

Up jumps _Cob_ to the Monarch's ear,

"Charley, my jolly boy, never fear;

If you mind all their jaw About Charter and Law,

You might just as well still be the _Count d'Artois_!

No such thing, Show 'em you're King,

Tip 'em an Ordinance, that's the thing!"

Charley dined, Took his pen and signed;

Then _Mob_ kicked over his throne from behind!

"Huzza! Huzza! we may scamper now!

For here we have kicked up a jolly good row!"

"Over the water, and over the Sea,

And over the water with Charlie;"

Now they came skipping and grinning with glee,

Not pausing to _chaff_ or to parley.

Over, over, On to Dover;

On fun intent, All through Kent

These mischievous devils so merrily went.

Over hill and over dale,

Sunken hollow, lofty ridge,

Frowning cliff, and smiling vale,

Down to the foot of Westminster-bridge.

"Hollo," says _Cob_, "There's the Duke and Sir Bob!

After 'em Chittabob, after 'em Mob."

_Mob_ flung gravel, and Chittabob pebbles,

His Grace c----'d them both for a couple of rebels;

His feelings were hurt By the stones and the dirt--

In went he, In an ecstasy,

And _blew up_ the nobles of high degree.

"Mr. Brougham, Mr. Hume, May fret and may fume--

And so may all you whom I see in this room;

Come weal, come woe, come calm, come storm--

I'll see you all--_blessed_--ere I give you reform;"

"Bravo," says Chittabob, "That's your sort,

Come along, schoolfellows, here's more sport.

Look there! look there! There's the great Lord May'r!

With the gravest of Deputies close to his chair;

With Hobbler, his Clerk! Just the thing for _a lark_;

Huzza! huzza! boys, follow me now;

Here we may _kick_ up another good row."

Here they are, Swift as a star,

They shoot in mid air, over Temple Bar!

Tom Macaulay beheld the flight

Of these three little dusky sons of night,

And his heart swell'd with joy and elation--

"Oh, see!" quoth he, "Those _Niggerlings_ three,

Who have just got _emancipation_!"

Lord Key took fright: At the very first sight,

The whole Court of Aldermen wheel'd to the right;

Some ran from _Chittabob_--more from _Mob_,

The great _locum tenens_ jump'd up upon _Cob_,

Who roar'd and ran, With the Alderman

To the Home Office, pick-a-back--catch 'em who can!

"Stay at home--here's a plot, And I can't tell you what,

If you don't I'll be shot, But you'll all go to pot."

Ah, little he weened while the ground he thus ran over,

'Twas a _Cob_ he bestrode--not his white horse from Hanover.

Back they came galloping through the Strand,

When Joseph Lancaster, stick in hand,

Popped up his head before 'em.

Well we know That honest old Joe

Is a sort of High Master down below,

And teaches the Imps decorum.

Satan had started him off in a crack,

To flog those three little runaways back.

Fear each assails; Every one quails;

"Oh dear! how he'll tickle our little black tails!

Have done, have done, Here's that son of a gun,

Old Joe, come after us,--run, boys, run."

Off ran _Cob_, Off ran _Mob_,

And off in a fright ran young Chittabob.

Joe caught Chittabob just by the tail,

And Cob by his crumpled horn;

Bitterly then did these Imps bewail

That ever they were born!

_Mob_ got away, But none to this day

Know exactly whither he went;

Some say he's been seen about Blackfriars-bridge,

And some say he's down in Kent.

But where'er he may roam,

He has not ventured home

Since the day the three took wing,

And many suppose He has chang'd his clothes,

And now goes by the name of "_Swing_."

THE POPLAR.

Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,

On whose tender rind--'twas a little one then--

We carved _her_ initials; though not very lately--

We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.

Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;

Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;

And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a

Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.

This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,

Her lov'd patronymic--ah! can it be so?

Its once fair proportions, time too has been robbing;

A D?--we'll be _Deed_ if it isn't an O!

Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,

That thus on our labours stern _Chronos_ should frown;

Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X es,

And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!

MY LETTERS.

"_Litera scripta manet._"--OLD SAW.

Another mizzling, drizzling day!

Of clearing up there's no appearance;

So I'll sit down without delay,

And here, at least, I'll make a clearance.

Oh, ne'er "on such a day as this"

Would Dido, with her woes oppressèd,

Have wooed Æneas back to bliss,

Or Troilus gone to hunt for Cressid!

No, they'd have stayed at home, like me,

And popped their toes upon the fender,

And drank a quiet cup of tea:--

On days like this one can't be tender.

So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,

And put my desk upon the table--

Bring that Portfolio--stir the fire--

Now off as fast as you are able!

First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,

"A Ball!"--she knows that I'm no dancer--

That woman's asked me fifty times,

And yet I never send an answer.

"DEAR JACK,--

Just lend me twenty pounds,

Till Monday next, when I'll return it.

Yours truly,

HENRY GIBBS,"

Why, Z--ds!

I've seen the man but twice--here, burn it.

One from my Cousin Sophy Daw--

Full of Aunt Margery's distresses;

"The Cat has kittened in 'the _draw_,'

And ruined two bran-new silk dresses."

From Sam, "The Chancellor's motto,"--nay,

Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em;

"Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,"--Ay,

"For King read Mob!" Brougham's old _erratum_.

From Seraphina Price--"At two"--

"Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir;"

Two more because I did not go,

Beginning "Wretch" and "Faithless Monster!"

"DEAR SIR,--

"This morning Mrs. P----

Who's doing quite as well as may be,

Presented me, at half-past three

Precisely, with another baby.

"We'll name it John, and know with pleasure

You'll stand"--Five guineas more, confound it!--

I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,

Or thrown it in the Thames and drowned it.

What have we next? A civil Dun:

"John Brown would take it as a favour"--

Another, and a surlier one,

"I can't put up with _sich_ behaviour."

"Bill so long standing,"--"quite tired out,"--

"Must sit down to insist on payment,"

"Called ten times,"--Here's a fuss about

A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment!

For once I'll send an answer, and inform

Mr. Snip he needn't "call" so;

But when his bill's as "tired of standing"

As he is, beg 'twill "sit down also."

This from my rich old Uncle Ned,

Thanking me for my annual present;

And saying he last Tuesday wed

His cook-maid, Molly--vastly pleasant!

An ill-spelt note from Tom at school,

Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle;

Another from that precious fool,

Miss Pyefinch, with a stupid riddle.

"D'ye give it up?" indeed I do!

Confound these antiquated minxes;

I won't play "_Billy Black_" to a "_Blue_,"

Or Œdipus to such old sphinxes.

A note sent up from Kent to show me,

Left with my bailiff, Peter King:

"I'll burn them precious stacks down, blow me!

"Your's most sincerely,

"CAPTAIN SWING."

Four begging letters with petitions,

One from my sister Jane, to pray

I'll "execute a few commissions"

In Bond Street, "when I go that way;"

"And buy at Pearsal's in the City

Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses:

Colour no matter, so it's pretty;--

Two hundred pens--" two hundred curses!

From Mistress Jones: "My little Billy

Goes up his schooling to begin,

Will you just step to Piccadilly,

And meet him when the coach comes in?

"And then, perhaps, you will as well, see

The poor dear fellow safe to school

At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea!"

Heaven send he flog the little fool!

From Lady Snooks: "Dear Sir, you know

You promised me last week a Rebus;

A something smart and _apropos_,

For my new Album?"--Aid me, Phœbus!

"My first is followed by my second;

Yet should my first my second see,

A dire mishap it would be reckon'd,

And sadly shocked my first would be,

"Were I but what my whole implies,

And passed by chance across your portal;

You'd cry, 'Can I believe my eyes?

I never saw so queer a mortal!'

"For then my head would not be on,

My arms their shoulders must abandon;

My very body would be gone,

I should not have a leg to stand on."

Come, that's dispatched--what follows?--Stay,

"Reform demanded by the nation;

Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!" Ay,

By Jove, a blessed _Reformation_!

Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose--

Or no!--the filly--she's the fleeter

The devil take the rain--here goes,

I'm off--a plumper for Sir Peter!

NEW-MADE HONOUR.

(IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.)

A friend I met, some half hour since--

"_Good-morrow, Jack!_" quoth I;

The new-made Knight, like any Prince,

Frowned, nodded, and passed by;

When up came Jem--"_Sir John, your Slave!_"

"Ah, James; we dine at eight--

Fail not--(low bows the supple knave)

Don't make my lady wait."

The King can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner,

He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.

THE CONFESSION.

There's somewhat on my breast, father,

There's somewhat on my breast!

The livelong day I sigh, father,

And at night I cannot rest.

I cannot take my rest, father,

Though I would fain do so;

A weary weight oppresseth me--

This weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father,

Nor want of worldly gear;

My lands are broad, and fair to see,

My friends are kind and dear.

My kin are leal and true, father,

They mourn to see my grief;

But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand

Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,

'Tis not that she's unkind;

Tho' busy flatterers swarm around--

I know her constant mind.

'Tis not _her_ coldness, father,

That chills my labouring breast,

It's that confounded cucumber

I've eat and can't digest.

EPIGRAM.

BRAVE L----, so says a knight of the pen,

"Has exposed himself much at the head of his men,"

As his men ran away without waiting to fight,

To expose himself there's to be first in the flight.

Had it not been as well, when he saw his men quail,

To have stayed and exposed himself more at their tail?

Or say, is it fair, in this noblest of quarrels,

To suffer the chief to engross all the laurels?

No! his men, so the muse to all Europe shall sing,

Have exposed themselves fully as much as their king.

SONG.

I.

There sits a bird on yonder tree,

More fond than Cushat Dove;

There sits a bird on yonder tree,

And sings to me of love.

Oh! stoop thee from thine eyrie down!

And nestle thee near my heart,

For the moments fly, And the hour is nigh,

When thou and I must part,

My love!

When thou and I must part.

II.

In yonder covert lurks a Fawn,

The pride of the sylvan scene;

In yonder covert lurks a Fawn,

And I am his only queen;

Oh! bound from thy secret lair,

For the sun is below the west;

No mortal eye May our meeting spy,

For all are clos'd in rest,

My love!

Each eye is closed in rest.

III.

Oh, sweet is the breath of morn!

When the sun's first beams appear;

Oh! sweet is the shepherd's strain,

When it dies on the listening ear;

And sweet the soft voice which speaks

The Wanderer's welcome home;

But sweeter far By yon pale mild star,

With our true Love thus to roam,

My dear!

With our own true Love to roam!

EPIGRAM.

EHEU FUGACES.

What Horace says is, _Eheu fugaces

Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume!_

Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me!

_Now_, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes,

Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos,

Sighing I murmur, "_O mihi præteritos!_"

SONG.

'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being,

Whose mortal form reposes with the dead,

Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing,

Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!

She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness

I hear her voice, in still small accents tell

Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness,

Where those who lov'd on earth, together dwell.

Ah! yet a while, blest shade, thy flight delaying,

The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer;

To her rapt gaze, in visions bland displaying

The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!

Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted,

She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay;

Then as on earth, in tenderest love united,

Together seek the realms of endless day!

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;

There came a noble Knyghte,

With his hauberke shynynge brighte,

And his gallant heart was lyghte,

Free and gaye;

As I lay a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!

There seem'd a crimson plain,

Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,

And a steed with broken rein

Ran free,

As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;

A lovely Mayde came bye,

And a gentil youth was nyghe,

And he breathed many a syghe

And a vowe;

As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne;

No more a youth was there,

But a Maiden rent her haire,

And cried in sad despaire,

"That I was borne!"

As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;

There came a lovely childe,

And his face was meek and mild,

Yet joyously he smiled

On his sire;

As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,

And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd upon a bier;

That joyous smile was gone,

And the face was white and wan,

As the downe upon the Swan

Doth appear,

As I laye a-thynkynge--oh! bitter flow'd the tear!

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,

O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on her breast

With a thousand gorgeous dyes,

While soaring to the skies,

'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise,

As to her nest;

As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:--

"Follow, follow me away,

It boots not to delay,"--

'Twas so she seem'd to saye,

"HERE IS REST!"

T. I.

THE END.

MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY

OFFICE.

Z67051188668.

Transcriber's Notes

Italics text marked as _..._

Fraktur text marked as ~...~

Spaced text marked as =...=

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, but other

variations in spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.