CHAPTER VI.

I crossed over from France to England, mounted upon a species of

dragon spouting smoke and exhaling fire, to which the famous monster

of Mazanderan, slain by Rustam the Valiant, was a mere plaything.

But--shall I say it?--the awful sickness which seized me whilst

performing this feat, so overpowered me, that it was impossible for

me, the slave of the asylum of the universe, to put my instructions

into execution, and to write down in a book all the wonders which in

part came to my understanding on that auspicious day. I may confidently

assert that no follower of the blessed Ali ever suffered so much in so

short a time as I then did. I was first taken from my French bed before

the day began to dawn, and put upon this English monster. As soon as

its wings began to expand, and to move through the waters, an universal

tremor assailed it, which communicated itself to me and all with me; and

I continued to be well shaken until I reached the shores of England.

Then I felt so giddy that I thought my head had got into the infernal

regions, until I soon became certain that my stomach had followed it

there also. There I lay groaning, making noises,--oh, such noises!--that

if they could have been wafted to the ear of the king of kings,

his heart would have smote him for having placed his slave in this

predicament! When I was told that we were arrived, I soon was restored

to myself, and hastened from the bowels of the monster to the light

of heaven; and there, indeed, I saw a town, and a castle, and living

men and women, and, truly, nothing indicating a ruined country and a

desponding people. We landed at this place. It was called Dover; and

as I was told, is famous for a recent controversy whether it should be

spelt with an _o_ or an _e_ in the last syllable. From time immemorial

it had possessed the _e_; but such was the spirit of change that they

had now transformed it into the _o_, although the lovers of old customs

and good order kept to the old sacred _e_. "When that spirit seizes a

nation, who knows," thought I, "when changes begin, where they may end?"

If we were to hearken to all our enlightened sofis in Persia, they would

expunge many sayings in our blessed Koran; and, as we have not a second

prophet to direct us, one man's change would be as good as another's.

Bit by bit all would be upset; we should not have a law left for our

direction, and we should finish by cutting each other's throats in order

to settle which was the best way to live.

I thought, however, that I could discover some symptoms of beggary in

the state of the country, by what happened when I was first setting foot

on the infidel shore. Two scrutinising-looking Francs stood on each side

of a board over which I was to walk on stepping from the boat to land;

and when I ventured to do so, they stopped me, passed their hands over

the protuberances of my person, and were about to seize a cashmere shawl

which I wore round my waist, when I exclaimed, "The dogs are eating

dirt!" which brought some of my friends on board the packet to my help.

Explanations were made, and I was let pass. These were officers of

customs. "But," thought I, "is it possible that this great nation can be

brought to such a state of want that it permits its officers to rob a

poor stranger!" I was told of odd things. It was hinted to me, that the

burnt father's whelps looked mightily hard at my beard, and that they

had hinted that, by rights, I ought to pay duty for it, as foreign hair.

Having landed, with Mahboob close at my heels, we were almost crushed to

death by a mob of ruffians, who took violent possession of our persons,

one pulling us one way, the other the other, roaring the oddest words by

way of congratulations on first landing, which to this day I have not

made out. "The Ship!" bawled one; "York!" cried another; "Red Lion!"

said the next; "Blue Posts!" said the next. "_Be Jehanum!_" roared I;

and, at length, by dint of main force, I was rescued by my friend in the

packet, and taken safe into a caravanserai that stood by the sea-shore.

Here, indeed, the kindness shown me by many men and women,--the bows,

the dips, the smiles, the sugared words which were lavished upon me,

made up in part for the rude sort of reception which I had hitherto

experienced, and the sunshine of satisfaction dawned over my heart.

But still a doubt hung about my mind; and I asked myself how it was

possible that I should all at once have become such an object of tender

interest and affection to a set of infidels who had never seen me

before,--who probably did not know whether Iran was situated above the

surface of the heavens, or within the bowels of the earth,--who perhaps

had never heard of the name of our asylum of the universe, nor even of

our blessed prophet? I then reflected upon what had happened to us when

we had landed before, in England, and recollected that, at the end of

all things, there came a certain little odd-looking bit of paper which

the infidels called "bill," by virtue of which all their civilities, all

their kindness, all their apparent hospitality were condensed into two

or three crooked cyphers, and then converted into sums of gold, whether

the stranger was agreeable, or not agreeable, to the transformation.

I quite streamed from every pore as I thought upon that moment of my

retribution, for my wits were my principal stock in hand; money being

little, and, I feared, credit less. However, as long as the civility

lasted, I was delighted, and I made as free a use of the caravanserai as

if it had been the Shah's Gate.

I never lost sight of the object of my mission. I was delighted to have

landed without having excited a suspicion of the nature of my character;

and, as England is the head-quarters for curious men,--for, owing to

her vast foreign possessions, she imports them from all parts,--no

one thought it strange that two men with beards, with sheep-skin caps

on, and mounted on high-heeled green slippers, should arrive amongst

them to take a walk through their country. I was charmed, too, to have

created an interest in the breast of an infidel Englishman who had been

my fellow-passenger on board the packet. He was a low, rotund man, of

evident discretion in speech, the master of moderation, and the lord of

few words. There was no display in his dress, for he buttoned himself

up tight in his broadcloth coat, exhibited no chains, and contented

himself with a rough stick with a hook to it. I found that he had

been in India,--where many English have been; and, when I could not

understand all he said to me in his own language, I was glad to find he

could explain himself fully by the help of some score of indifferent

Persian words. He had helped me out of the dilemma with the custom-house

officers, had rescued me out of the fangs of the complimentary harpies,

had installed me in the caravanserai; and had thus gained a claim upon

my gratitude.

I had occasionally asked him about the state of his country, but I had

never been able to get more out of him than a shake of his head. From

what I could discover from the exterior of things, certainly there was

no indication of decay; and indeed, compared with what I had observed

in the other countries of Europe, there seemed here to be an increased

state of prosperity. It was evident that I had been everywhere hoaxed

upon the declining state of England, and that envy alone had excited

the report spread to her disadvantage. When we talk of ruin in Persia,

we see it at once: villages without inhabitants, dry water-courses,

abandoned caravanserais, ragged and wan-looking peasants, and tyrannical

governors. But here I saw a flourishing town, happy people, new

buildings, busy faces, and no appearance at all of governors. I remarked

this to my infidel friend: still he wagged his head, and talked of

things unknown to my understanding. The utmost I could draw from him

was, that he did not like _chopping and changing_. When I had discovered

the true meaning of these words I could not help saying to myself, "Our

Shah has long enough tried '_chopping_,' without gaining prosperity, I

wish he too would try _changing_; he might perhaps succeed better." I,

however, for the present determined to keep my own counsel, and apply

the opening draught of inquiry to the malady of ignorance as often as

such relief came within my power.

[Greek: Scholazontos ascholia.]

A LONDON FOG.

Who has not seen a London fog? I ween

All those who live there, often must have seen

This "darkness visible:"

For much I write not; but, for those who dwell

Where 'tis not known, an anecdote I'll tell

Both droll and risible.

'Twas on a day,--I'm not quite certain when,

For many such have been, and will again

Occur, I'll stake my life,--

A heavy fog took daylight out of sight;[91]

So thick it was, that I am sure you might

Have cut it with a knife.

You could not see your hand before your face.

E'en cabs and coaches knew not how to trace

Their way along the town;

But, on that day, through many a window flew,

To shopmen's horror! On the pavements, too,

Folks ran each other down.

Imagine, now, a pork-shop--I don't know

Quite _where_; but _there_, in many a tempting row,

Most pleasing to the sight,

Hung pork and hams, inside, and at the door

Outside; "'twas _grease_, but living _grease_ no more."

(Byron is my delight.)

Behind the counter, mute and anxious, sat

The owner of these goodly things; and at

Them first, and then the door,

He look'd alternate, for no one that day

Had call'd to buy; the fog kept folks away.

He thought the fog a bore!

Long had he sat in expectation vain;

"He sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd and look'd again,"

Yet no one came to buy!

The day was spent, he rose to shut his shop:

Just at that moment he was led to stop,--

A person caught his eye.

"A customer at last!" the porkman thought;

Fancied some pork or hams already bought,

And bow'd, "Your servant, ma'am!

"Bad walking out o' doors to-day," quoth he.

(This could not be gainsaid at all.) Said she,

"Do you see there here ham?"

Now, though the fog as dark enough _without_,

_Inside_ 'twas clear: the porkman had no doubt,

His ham he saw and knew:

He could not make the question out; no more

Could fancy why she kept so near the door,

But said, "Of _course_ I do."

She, with a grin facetious, said, "Well, then,

I'm blow'd if you will ever see't again;"

And ran away outright.

The porkman hurried quickly to the door,

Too late, alas! to see; for, long before,

His ham was out of sight!

T. G. G.

[91] "Eripiunt subito nubes coelumque diemque."--Virg. Æn. i. v. 88.

EPIGRAM.

You ask me, Roger, what I gain

By living on a barren plain:--

This credit to the spot is due,

I live there without seeing you.

SHAKSPEARE PAPERS.--No. I.

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

"For those who read aright are well aware

That Jaques, sighing in the forest green,

Oft on his heart felt less the load of care

Than Falstaff, revelling his rough mates between."

_MS. penes me._

"Jack Falstaff to my familiars!"--By that name, therefore, must he

be known by all persons, for all are now the familiars of Falstaff.

The title of "Sir John Falstaff to all Europe" is but secondary and

parochial. He has long since far exceeded the limit by which he bounded

the knowledge of his knighthood; and in wide-spreading territories,

which in the day of his creation were untrodden by human foot, and in

teeming realms where the very name of England was then unheard of,

Jack Falstaff is known as familiarly as he was to the wonderful court

of princes, beggars, judges, swindlers, heroes, bullies, gentlemen,

scoundrels, justices, thieves, knights, tapsters, and the rest whom he

drew about him.

It is indeed _his_ court. He is lord paramount, the _suzerain_ to

whom all pay homage. Prince Hal may delude himself into the notion

that he, the heir of England, with all the swelling emotions of soul

that rendered him afterwards the conqueror of France, makes a butt of

the ton of man that is his companion. The parts are exactly reversed.

In the peculiar circle in which they live, the prince is the butt of

the knight. He knows it not,--he would repel it with scorn if it were

asserted; but it is nevertheless the fact that he is subdued. He calls

the course of life which he leads, the unyoked humour of his idleness;

but he mistakes. In all the paths where his journey lies with Falstaff,

it is the hard-yoked servitude of his obedience. In the soliloquies put

into his mouth he continually pleads that his present conduct is but

that of the moment, that he is ashamed of his daily career, and that

the time is ere long to come which will show him different from what he

seems. As the dramatic character of Henry V. was conceived and executed

by a man who knew how genius in any department of human intellect would

work,--to say nothing of the fact that Shakspeare wrote with the whole

of the prince's career before him,--we may consider this subjugation

to Falstaff as intended to represent the transition state from spoiled

youth to energetic manhood. It is useless to look for minute traces of

the historical Henry in these dramas. Tradition and the chronicles had

handed him down to Shakspeare's time as a prince dissipated in youth,

and freely sharing in the rough debaucheries of the metropolis. The same

vigour "that did affright the air at Agincourt" must have marked his

conduct and bearing in any tumult in which he happened to be engaged.

I do not know on what credible authority the story of his having given

Gascoigne a box on the ear for committing one of his friends to prison

may rest, and shall not at present take the trouble of inquiring. It

is highly probable that the chief justice amply deserved the cuffing,

and I shall always assume the liberty of doubting that he committed

the prince. That, like a "sensible lord," he should have hastened to

accept any apology which should have relieved him from a collision

with the ruling powers at court, I have no doubt at all, from a long

consideration of the conduct and history of chief justices in general.

More diligent searchers into the facts of that obscure time have

seen reason to disbelieve the stories of any serious dissipations of

Henry. Engaged as he was from his earliest youth in affairs of great

importance, and with a mind trained to the prospect of powerfully

acting in the most serious questions that could agitate his time,--a

disputed succession, a rising hostility to the church, divided

nobility, turbulent commons, an internecine war with France impossible

of avoidance, a web of European diplomacy just then beginning to

develope itself, in consequence of the spreading use of the pen and

inkhorn so pathetically deplored by Jack Cade, and forerunning the

felonious invention, "contrary to the king's crown and dignity," of

the printing-press, denounced with no regard to chronology by that

illustrious agitator;--in these circumstances, the heir of the house of

Lancaster, the antagonist of the Lollards,--a matter of accident in his

case, though contrary to the general principles of his family,--and at

the same time suspected by the churchmen of dangerous designs against

their property,--the pretender on dubious title, but not at the period

appearing so decidedly defective as it seems in ours, to the throne of

France,--the aspirant to be arbiter or master of all that he knew of

Europe,--could not have wasted all his youth in riotous living. In fact,

his historical character is stern and severe; but with that we have

here nothing to do. It is not the Henry of battles, and treaties, and

charters, and commissions, and parliaments, we are now dealing with;--we

look to the Henry of Shakespeare.

That Henry, I repeat, is subject and vassal of Falstaff. He is bound

by the necromancy of genius to the "white-bearded Satan," who he feels

is leading him to perdition. It is in vain that he thinks it utterly

unfitting that he should engage in such an enterprise as the robbery

at Gadshill; for, in spite of all protestations to the contrary, he

joins the expedition merely to see how his master will get through his

difficulty. He struggles hard, but to no purpose. Go he must, and he

goes accordingly. A sense of decorum keeps him from participating in the

actual robbery; but he stand close by, that his resistless sword may aid

the dubious valour of his master's associates. Joining with Poins in the

jest of scattering them and seizing their booty, not only is no harm

done to Falstaff, but a sense of remorse seizes on the prince for the

almost treasonable deed--

"Falstaff sweats to death,

And lards the lean earth as he walks along;

Wer't not for laughing, _I should pity him_."

At their next meeting, after detecting and exposing the stories related

by the knight, how different is the result form what had been predicted

by Poins when laying the plot! "The virtue of this jest will be, the

incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet

at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows,

what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest."

Reproof indeed! All is detected and confessed. Does Poins _reprove_

him, interpret the word as we will? Poins indeed! That were _lèze

majesté_. Does the prince? Why, he tries a jest, but it breaks down;

and Falstaff victoriously orders sack and merriment with an accent of

command not to be disputed. In a moment after he is selected to meet Sir

John Bracy, sent special with the villainous news of the insurrection of

the Percies; and in another moment he is seated on his joint-stool, the

mimic King of England, lecturing with a mixture of jest and earnest the

real Prince of Wales.

Equally inevitable is the necessity of screening the master from

the consequence of his delinquencies, even at the expense of a very

close approximation to saying the thing that is not; and impossible

does Hal find it not to stand rebuked when the conclusion of his joke

of taking the tavern-bills from the sleeper behind the arras is the

enforced confession of being a pickpocket. Before the austere king his

father, John his sober-blooded brother, and other persons of gravity or

consideration, if Falstaff be in presence, the prince is constrained

by his star to act in defence and protection of the knight. Conscious

of the carelessness and corruption which mark all the acts of his

guide, philosopher, and friend, it is yet impossible that he should not

recommend him to a command in a civil war which jeopardied the very

existence of his dynasty. In the heat of the battle and the exultation

of victory he is obliged to yield to the fraud that represents Falstaff

as the actual slayer of Hotspur. Prince John quietly remarks, that the

tale of Falstaff is the strangest that he ever heard: his brother, who

has won the victory, is content with saying that he who has told it is

the strangest of fellows. Does he betray the cheat? Certainly not,--it

would have been an act of disobedience; but in privy council he suggests

to _his_ prince in a whisper,

"Come, bring your luggage [the body of Hotspur] _nobly_--"

nobly--as becomes your rank in _our_ court, so as to do the whole of

your followers, myself included, honour by the appearance of their

master--

"Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,

I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have."

Tribute, this, from the future Henry V.! Deeper tribute, however, is

paid in the scene in which state necessity induces the renunciation

of the fellow with the great belly who had misled him. Poins had

prepared us for the issue. The prince had been grossly abused in the

reputable hostelrie of the Boar's Head while he was thought to be out

of hearing. When he comes forward with the intention of rebuking the

impertinence, Poins, well knowing the command to which he was destined

to submit, exclaims, "My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge,

and turn all to merriment, if you take not the heat." Vain caution! The

scene, again, ends by the total forgetfulness of Falstaff's offence,

and his being sent for to court. When, therefore, the time had come

that considerations of the highest importance required that Henry

should assume a more dignified character, and shake off his dissolute

companions, his own experience and the caution of Poins instruct him

that if the thing be not done on the heat,--if the old master-spirit

be allowed one moment's ground of vantage,--the game is up, the good

resolutions dissipated into thin air, the grave rebuke turned all into

laughter, and thoughts of anger or prudence put to flight by the

restored supremacy of Falstaff. Unabashed and unterrified he has heard

the severe rebuke of the king--"I know thee not, old man," &c. until an

opportunity offers for a repartee:

"Know, the grave doth gape

For thee thrice wider than for other men."

Some joke on the oft-repeated theme of his unwieldy figure was twinkling

in Falstaff's eye, and ready to leap from his tongue. The king saw his

danger: had he allowed a word, he was undone. Hastily, therefore, does

he check that word;

"Reply not to me with a fool-born jest;"

forbidding, by an act of eager authority,--what he must also have felt

to be an act of self-control,--the outpouring of those magic sounds

which, if uttered, would, instead of a prison becoming the lot of

Falstaff, have conducted him to the coronation dinner, and established

him as chief depositary of what in after days was known by the name of

backstairs influence.

In this we find the real justification of what has generally been

stigmatized as the harshness of Henry. Dr. Johnson, with some

indignation, asks why should Falstaff be sent to the Fleet?--he had

done nothing since the king's accession to deserve it. I answer, he

was sent to the Fleet for the same reason that he was banished ten

miles from court, on pain of death. Henry thought it necessary that

the walls of a prison should separate him from the seducing influence

of one than whom he knew many a better man, but none whom it was so

hard to miss. He felt that he could not, in his speech of predetermined

severity, pursue to the end the tone of harshness towards his old

companion. He had the nerve to begin by rebuking him in angry terms as

a surfeit-swelled, profane old man,--as one who, instead of employing

in prayer the time which his hoary head indicated was not to be of long

duration in this world, disgraced his declining years by assuming the

unseemly occupations of fool and jester,--as one whom he had known in

a dream, but had awakened to despise,--as one who, on the verge of the

gaping grave, occupied himself in the pursuits of such low debauchery as

excluded him from the society of those who had respect for themselves

or their character. But he cannot so continue; and the last words he

addresses to him whom he had intended to have cursed altogether, hold

forth a promise of advancement, with an affectionate assurance that

it will be such as is suitable to his "strength and qualities." If in

public he could scarce master his speech, how could he hope in private

to master his feelings? No. His only safety was in utter separation: it

should be done, and he did it. He was emancipated by violent effort; did

he never regret the ancient thraldom? Shakspeare is silent: but may we

not imagine that he who sate crowned with the golden rigol of England,

cast, amid all his splendours, many a sorrowful thought upon that old

familiar face which he had sent to gaze upon the iron bars of the Fleet?

As for the chief justice, he never appears in Falstaff's presence, save

as a butt. His grave lordship has many solemn admonitions, nay, serious

threats to deliver; but he departs laughed at and baffled. Coming to

demand explanation of the affair at Gadshill, the conversation ends

with his being asked for the loan of a thousand pounds. Interposing

to procure payment of the debt to Dame Quickly, he is told that she

goes about the town saying that her eldest son resembles him. Fang and

Snare, his lordship's officers, are not treated with less respect,

or shaken off with less ceremony. As for the other followers of the

knight,--Pistol, Nym, Bardolph,--they are, by office, his obsequious

dependents. But it is impossible that they could long hang about him

without contracting, unknown even to themselves, other feelings than

those arising from the mere advantages they derived from his service.

Death is the test of all; and when that of Falstaff approaches, the

dogged Nym reproaches the king for having run bad humours on the knight;

and Pistol in swelling tone, breathing a sigh over his heart "fracted

and corroborate," hastens to condole with him. Bardolph wishes that he

was with him wheresoever he has gone, whether to heaven or hell: he has

followed him all his life,--why not follow him in death? The last jest

has been at his own expense; but what matters it now? In other times

Bardolph could resent the everlasting merriment at the expense of his

nose--he might wish it in the belly of the jester; but that's past. The

dying knight compares a flea upon his follower's nose to a black soul

burning in hell-fire; and no remonstrance is now made. "Let him joke

as he likes," says and thinks Bardolph with a sigh, "the fuel is gone

that maintained that fire. He never will supply it more; nor will it,

in return, supply fuel for his wit. I wish that it could." And Quickly,

whom he had for nine and twenty years robbed and cheated,--pardon

me, I must retract the words,--from whom he had, for the space of a

generation, levied tax and tribute as matter of right and due,--she

hovers anxiously over his dying bed, and, with a pathos and a piety well

befitting her calling, soothes his departing moments by the consolatory

assurance, when she hears him uttering the unaccustomed appeal to God,

that he had no necessity for yet troubling himself with thoughts to

which he had been unused during the whole length of their acquaintance.

Blame her not for leaving unperformed the duty of a chaplain: it was not

her vocation. She consoled him as she could,--and the kindest of us can

do no more.

Of himself, the centre of the circle, I have, perhaps, delayed too long

to speak; but the effect which he impresses upon all the visionary

characters around, marks Shakspeare's idea that he was to make a

similar impression on the real men to whom he was transmitting him.

The temptation to represent the gross fat man upon the stage as a mere

buffoon, and to turn the attention of the spectators to the corporal

qualities and the practical jests of which he is the object, could

hardly be resisted by the players; and the popular notion of the

Falstaff of the stage is, that he is no better than an upper-class

Scapin. A proper consideration, not merely of the character of his mind

as displayed in the lavish abundance of ever ready wit, and the sound

good sense of his searching observation, but of the position which he

always held in society, should have freed the Falstaff of the cabinet

from such an imputation. It has not generally done so. Nothing can be

more false, nor, _pace tanti viri_, more unphilosophical, than Dr.

Johnson's critique upon his character. According to him,

"Falstaff is a character loaded with faults, and with those faults

which naturally produce contempt. He is a thief and a glutton, a coward

and a boaster, always ready to cheat the weak, and prey upon the poor;

to terrify the timorous, and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious

and malignant, he satirizes in their absence those whom he lives by

flattering. He is familiar with the prince only as an agent of vice,

but of this familiarity he is so proud, as not only to be supercilious

and haughty with common men, but to think his interest of importance to

the Duke of Lancaster. Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes

himself necessary to the prince that despises him, by the most pleasing

of all qualities, perpetual gaiety; by an unfailing power of exciting

laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the

splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy scapes and sallies

of levity, which make sport, but raise no envy. It must be observed,

that he is stained with no enormous or sanguinary crimes, so that his

licentiousness is not so offensive but that it may be borne for his

mirth.

"The moral to be drawn from this representation is, that no man is

more dangerous than he that, with a will to corrupt, hath the power to

please; and that neither wit nor honesty ought to think themselves safe

with such a companion, when they see Henry seduced by Falstaff."

What can be cheaper than the venting of moral apophthegms such as that

which concludes the critique? Shakspeare, who had no notion of copybook

ethics, well knew that Falstaffs are not as plenty as blackberries, and

that the moral to be drawn from the representation is no more than that

great powers of wit will fascinate, whether they be joined or not to

qualities commanding grave esteem. In the commentary I have just quoted,

the Doctor was thinking of such companions as Savage; but the interval

is wide and deep.

How idle is the question as to the cowardice of Falstaff. Maurice

Morgann wrote an essay to free his character from the allegation; and

it became the subject of keen controversy. Deeply would the knight

have derided the discussion. His retreat from before Prince Henry and

Poins, and his imitating death when attacked by Douglas, are the points

mainly dwelt upon by those who make him a coward. I shall not minutely

go over what I conceive to be a silly dispute on both sides: but in the

former case Shakspeare saves his honour by making him offer at least

some resistance to two bold and vigorous men when abandoned by his

companions; and, in the latter, what fitting antagonist was the fat and

blown soldier of three-score for

"That furious Scot,

The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword

Had three times slain the appearance of the king?"

He did no more than what Douglas himself did in the conclusion of the

fight: overmatched, the renowned warrior

"'Gan vail his stomach, and did grace the shame

Of those that turned their backs; and, in his flight,

Stumbling in fear, was took."

Why press cowardice on Falstaff more than upon Douglas? In an age when

men of all ranks engaged in personal conflict, we find him chosen to a

command in a slaughterous battle; he leads his men to posts of imminent

peril; it is his sword which Henry wishes to borrow when about to engage

Percy, and he refuses to lend it from its necessity to himself; he can

jest coolly in the midst of danger; he is deemed worthy of employing

the arm of Douglas at the time that Hotspur engages the prince; Sir

John Coleville yields himself his prisoner; and, except in the jocular

conversations among his own circle, no word is breathed that he has

not performed, and is not ready to perform, the duties of a soldier.

Even the attendant of the chief justice, with the assent of his hostile

lordship, admits that he has done good service at Shrewsbury. All this,

and much more, is urged in his behalf by Maurice Morgann; but it is far

indeed from the root of the matter.

Of his being a thief and a glutton I shall say a few words anon; but

where does he cheat the weak or prey upon the poor,--where terrify the

timorous or insult the defenceless,--where is he obsequious; where

malignant,--where is he supercilious and haughty with common men,--where

does he think his interest of importance to the Duke of Lancaster?

Of this last charge I see nothing whatever in the play. The "Duke"

of Lancaster[92] is a slip of the Doctor's pen. But Falstaff nowhere

extends his patronage to Prince John; on the contrary, he asks from

the prince the favour of his good report to the king, adding, when he

is alone, that the sober-blooded boy did not love him. He is courteous

of manner; but, so far from being obsequious, he assumes the command

wherever he goes. He is jocularly satirical of speech; but he who has

attached to him so many jesting companions for such a series of years,

never could have been open to the reproach of malignity. If the sayings

of Johnson himself about Goldsmith and Garrick, for example, were

gathered, must he not have allowed them to be far more calculated to

hurt their feelings than anything Falstaff ever said of Poins or Hal?

and yet would he not recoil from the accusation of being actuated by

malignant feelings towards men whom, in spite of wayward conversations,

he honoured, admired, and loved?

"Health and fair greeting from our general, The prince Lord John and

Duke of Lancaster;"

but it occurs nowhere else, and we must not place much reliance on the

authenticity or the verbal accuracy of such verses. He was Prince John

of Lancaster, and afterwards Duke of Bedford. The king was then, as the

king is now, Duke of Lancaster.

Let us consider for a moment who and what Falstaff was. If you put

him back to the actual era in which his date is fixed, and judge him

by the manners of that time; a knight of the days perhaps of Edward

III.--at all events of Henry IV.--was a man not to be confounded with

the knights spawned in our times. A knight then was not far from the

rank of peer; and with peers, merely by the virtue of his knighthood,

he habitually associated as their equal. Even if we judge of him by

the repute of knights in the days when his character was written,--and

in dealing with Shakspeare it is always safe to consider him as giving

himself small trouble to depart from the manners which he saw around

him,--the knights of Elizabeth were men of the highest class. The queen

conferred the honour with much difficulty, and insisted that it should

not be disgraced. Sir John Falstaff, if his mirth and wit inclined

him to lead a reckless life, held no less rank in the society of the

day than the Earl of Rochester in the time of Charles II. Henry IV.

disapproves of his son's mixing with the loose revellers of the town;

but admits Falstaff unreproved to his presence. When he is anxious to

break the acquaintance, he makes no objection to the station of Sir

John, but sends him with Prince John of Lancaster against the archbishop

and the Earl of Northumberland. His objection is not that the knight,

by his rank, is no fitting companion for a son of his own, but that he

can better trust him with the steadier than the more mercurial of the

brothers.

We find by incidental notices that he was reared, when a boy, page to

Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, head of one of the greatest houses

that ever was in England, and the personal antagonist of him who was

afterwards Henry IV; that he was in his youth on familiar terms with

John of Gaunt, the first man of the land after the death of his father

and brother; and that, through all his life, he had been familiar with

the lofty and distinguished. We can, therefore, conjecture what had

been his youth and his manhood; we see what he actually is in declining

age. In this, if I mistake not, will be found the true solution of the

character; here is what the French call the _mot d'énigme_. Conscious

of powers and talents far surpassing those of the ordinary run of men,

he finds himself outstripped in the race. He must have seen many a man

whom he utterly despised rising over his head to honours and emoluments.

The very persons upon whom, it would appear to Doctor Johnson, he was

intruding, were many of them his early companions,--many more his

juniors at court. He might have attended his old patron, the duke, at

Coventry, upon St. Lambert's day, when Richard II. flung down the warder

amidst the greatest men of England. If he jested in the tilt-yard with

John of Gaunt, could he feel that any material obstacle prevented him

from mixing with those who composed the court of John of Gaunt's son?

In fact, he is a dissipated man of rank, with a thousand times more wit

than ever fell to the lot of all the men of rank in the world. But he

has ill played his cards in life. He grumbles not at the advancement of

men of his own order; but the bitter drop of his soul overflows when

he remembers how he and that cheeseparing Shallow began the world, and

reflects that the starveling justice has land and beeves, while he, the

wit and the gentleman, is penniless, and living from hand to mouth by

the casual shifts of the day. He looks at the goodly dwelling and the

riches of him whom he had once so thoroughly contemned, with an inward

pang that he has scarcely a roof under which he can lay his head. The

tragic Macbeth, in the agony of his last struggle, acknowledges with

a deep despair that the things that should accompany old age,--as

honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,--he must not look to have.

The comic Falstaff says nothing on the subject; but, by the choice of

such associates as Bardolph, Pistol, and the rest of that following,

he tacitly declares that he too has lost the advantages which should

be attendant on years. No curses loud or deep have accompanied his

festive career,--its conclusion is not the less sad on that account:

neglect, forgotten friendships, services overlooked, shared pleasures

unremembered, and fair occasions gone for ever by, haunt him, no doubt,

as sharply as the consciousness of deserving universal hatred galls the

soul of Macbeth.

And we may pursue the analogy farther without any undue straining.

All other hope lost, the confident tyrant shuts himself up in what he

deems an impregnable fortress, and relies for very safety upon his

interpretation of the dark sayings of riddling witches. Divested of the

picturesque and supernatural horror of the tragedy, Macbeth is here

represented as driven to his last resource, and dependent for life

only upon chances, the dubiousness of which he can hardly conceal from

himself. The Boar's Head in Eastcheap is not the castle of Dunsinane,

any more than the conversation of Dame Quickly and Doll Tearsheet is

that of the Weird Sisters; but in the comedy, too, we have the man,

powerful in his own way, driven to his last "frank," and looking to

the chance of the hour for the living of the hour. Hope after hope

has broken down, as prophecy after prophecy has been discovered to be

juggling and fallacious. He has trusted that _his_ Birnam Wood would not

come to Dunsinane, and yet it comes;--that no man not of woman born is

to cross his path, and lo! the man is here. What then remains for wit or

warrior when all is lost--when the last stake is gone--when no chance of

another can be dreamt of--when the gleaming visions that danced before

their eyes are found to be nothing but mist and mirage? What remains for

them but to die?--And so they do.

With such feelings, what can Falstaff, after having gone through a life

of adventure, care about the repute of courage or cowardice? To divert

the prince, he engages in a wild enterprise,--nothing more than what

would be called a "lark" now. When deer-stealing ranked as no higher

offence than robbing orchards,--not indeed so high as the taking a slice

off a loaf by a wandering beggar, which some weeks ago has sent the

vagrant who committed the "crime" to seven years' transportation,--such

robberies as those at Gadshill, especially as all parties well knew that

the money taken there was surely to be repaid, as we find it is in the

end,[93] were of a comparatively venial nature. Old father antic, the

Law, had not yet established his undoubted supremacy; and taking purses,

even in the days of Queen Elizabeth, was not absolutely incompatible

with gentility. The breaking up of the great households and families

by the wars of the Roses, the suppression of the monasteries and the

confiscation of church property by Henry VIII, added to are adventurous

spirit generated throughout all Europe by the discovery of America,

had thrown upon the world "men of action," as they called themselves,

without any resources but what lay in their right hands. Younger members

of broken houses, or aspirants for the newly lost honours or the ease of

the cloister, did not well know what to do with themselves. They were

too idle to dig; they were ashamed to beg;--and why not apply at home

the admirable maxim,

"That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can,"

which was acted upon with so much success beyond the sea. The same

causes which broke down the nobility, and crippled the resources of

the church, deprived the retainers of the great baron, and the sharers

of the dole of the monastery, of their accustomed mode of living; and

robbery in these classes was considered the most venial of offences.

To the system of poor laws,--a system worthy of being projected "in

great Eliza's golden time" by the greatest philosopher of that day,

or, with one exception, of any other day,--are we indebted for that

general respect for property which renders the profession of a thief

infamous, and consigns him to the hulks, or the tread-mill, without

compassion. But I must not wander into historical disquisitions; though

no subject would, in its proper place, be more interesting than a minute

speculation upon the gradual working of the poor-law system on English

society. It would form one of the most remarkable chapters in that great

work yet to be written, "The History of the _Lowest_ Order from the

earliest times,"--a work of far more importance, of deeper philosophy,

and more picturesque romance, than all the chronicles of what are called

the great events of the earth. Elsewhere let me talk of this. I must now

get back again to Falstaff.

"_Fal._ Now Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery, lad? How is that

answered?

_P. Hen._ My sweet beef, I must Still be good angel to thee. The money

is paid back.

_Fal._ I do not like That paying back; it is a double labour.

_P. Hen._ I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.

_Fal._ Rob me the exchequer, the first thing thou dost; And do't with

unwashed hands too.

_Bard._ Do, my lord."

The quiet and business-like manner in which Bardolph enforces on the

heir-apparent his master's reasonable proposition of robbing the

exchequer, is worthy of that plain and straightforward character. I

have always considered it a greater hardship that Bardolph should be

hanged "for pix of little price" by an old companion at Gadshill, than

that Falstaff should have been banished. But Shakspeare wanted to get

rid of the party; and as, in fact, a soldier was hanged in the army of

Henry V. for such a theft, the opportunity was afforded. The king is not

concerned in the order for his execution however, which is left with the

Duke of Exeter.

I have omitted a word or two from the ordinary editions in the above

quotation, which are useless to the sense and spoil the metre. A careful

consideration of Falstaff's speeches will show that, though they are

sometimes printed as prose, they are in almost all cases metrical.

Indeed, I do not think that there is much prose in any of Shakspeare's

plays.

His Gadshill adventure was a jest,--a jest, perhaps, repeated after too

many precedents; but still, according to the fashion and the humour of

the time, nothing more than a jest. His own view of such transactions is

recorded; he considers Shallow as a fund of jesting to amuse the prince,

remarking that it is easy to amuse "with a sad brow" (with a solemnity

of appearance) "a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders." What

was to be accomplished by turning the foolish justice into ridicule,

was also to be done by inducing the true prince to become for a moment

a false thief. The serious face of robbery was assumed "to keep Prince

Harry in perpetual laughter." That, in Falstaff's circumstances, the

money obtained by the night's exploit would be highly acceptable, cannot

be doubted; but the real object was to amuse the prince. He had no idea

of making an exhibition of bravery on such an occasion; Poins well knew

his man when he said beforehand, "As for the third, if he fight longer

than he see reason, I'll forswear arms:" his end was as much obtained

by the prince's jokes upon his cowardice. It was no matter whether

he invented what tended to laughter, or whether it was invented upon

him. The object was won so the laughter was in any manner excited. The

exaggerated tale of the misbegotten knaves in Kendal-green, and his

other lies, gross and mountainous, are told with no other purpose; and

one is almost tempted to believe him when he says that he knew who were

his assailants, and ran for their greater amusement. At all events, it

is evident that he cares nothing on the subject. He offers a jocular

defence; but immediately passes to matter of more importance then the

question of his standing or running:

But, lads, I'm glad you have the money. Hostess!

Clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.

Gallants, lads, boys, hearts-o'-gold! All the titles of

Good fellowship come to you!"[94]

The money is had; the means of enjoying it are at hand. Why waste our

time in inquiring how it has been brought here, or permit nonsensical

discussions on my valour or cowardice to delay for a moment the jovial

appearance of the bottle?

I see no traces of his being a glutton. His roundness of paunch is no

proof of gormandising propensities; in fact, the greatest eaters are

generally thin and spare. When Henry is running over the bead-roll of

his vices, we meet no charge of gluttony urged against him.

"There is a devil

Haunts thee i' the likeness of a fat old man;

A ton of man is thy companion.

Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours,

That bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of

Dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed

Cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox

With the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice,

That grey iniquity, that father ruffian,

That vanity in years? Wherein is he good

But to taste sack, and drink it? Wherein neat

And cleanly, but to carve a capon, and eat it?"[95]

The sack and sugar Falstaff admits readily; of addiction to the grosser

pleasures of the table neither he nor his accuser says a word. Capon

is light eating; and his neatness in carving gives an impression of

delicacy in the observances of the board. He appears to have been

fond of capon; for it figures in the tavern-bill found in his pockets

as the only eatable beside the stimulant anchovy for supper, and the

halfpenny-worth of bread. Nor does his conversation ever turn upon

gastronomical topics. The bottle supplies an endless succession of

jests; the dish scarcely contributes one.

We must observe that Falstaff is never represented as drunk, or even

affected by wine. The copious potations of sack do not cloud his

intellect, or embarrass his tongue. He is always self-possessed, and

ready to pour forth his floods of acute wit. In this he forms a contrast

to Sir Toby Belch. The discrimination between these two characters is

very masterly. Both are knights, both convivial, both fond of loose or

jocular society, both somewhat in advance of their youth--there are

many outward points of similitude, and yet they are as distinct as

Prospero and Polonius. The Illyrian knight is of a lower class of mind.

His jests are mischievous; Falstaff never commits a practical joke. Sir

Toby delights in brawling and tumult; Sir John prefers the ease of his

own inn. Sir Toby sings songs, joins in catches, and rejoices in making

a noise; Sir John knows too well his powers of wit and conversation

to think it necessary to make any display, and he hates disturbance.

Sir Toby is easily affected by liquor and roystering; Sir John rises

from the board as cool as when he sate down. The knight of Illyria

had nothing to cloud his mind; he never aspired to higher things than

he has attained; he lives a jolly life in the household of his niece,

feasting, drinking, singing, rioting, playing tricks from one end of

the year to the other: his wishes are gratified, his hopes unblighted.

I have endeavoured to show that Falstaff was the contrary of all this.

And we must remark that the tumultuous Toby has some dash of romance

in him, of which no trace can be found in the English knight. The wit

and grace, the good-humour and good looks of Maria, conquer Toby's

heart, and he is in love with her--love expressed in rough fashion, but

love sincere. Could we see him some dozen years after his marriage,

we should find him sobered down into a respectable, hospitable, and

domestic country gentleman, surrounded by a happy family of curly-headed

Illyrians, and much fonder of his wife than of his bottle. We can never

so consider of Falstaff; he must always be a dweller in clubs and

taverns, a perpetual diner-out at gentlemen's parties, or a frequenter

of haunts where he will not be disturbed by the presence of ladies of

condition or character. In the "Merry Wives of Windsor,"--I may remark,

in passing, that the Falstaff of that play is a different conception

from the Falstaff of Henry IV, and an inferior one,--his love is of a

very practical and unromantic nature. The ladies whom he addresses are

beyond a certain age; and his passion is inspired by his hopes of making

them his East and West Indies,--by their tables and their purses. No;

Falstaff never could have married,--he was better "accommodated than

with a wife." He might have paid his court to old Mistress Ursula, and

sworn to marry her weekly from the time when he perceived the first

white hair on his chin; but the oath was never kept, and we see what was

the motive of his love, when we find him sending her a letter by his

page after he has been refused credit by Master Dombledon, unless he can

offer something better than the rather unmarketable security of himself

and Bardolph.

We must also observe that he never laughs. Others laugh with him, or at

him; but no laughter from him who occasions or permits it. He jests with

a sad brow. The wit which he profusely scatters about is from the head,

not the heart. Its satire is slight, and never malignant or affronting;

but still it is satirical, and seldom joyous. It is anything but _fun_.

Original genius and long practice have rendered it easy and familiar to

him, and he uses it as a matter of business. He has too much philosophy

to show that he feels himself misplaced; we discover his feelings by

slight indications, which are, however, quite sufficient. I fear that

this conception of the character could never be rendered popular on

the stage; but I have heard in private the part of Falstaff read with

a perfectly grave, solemn, slow, deep, and sonorous voice, touched

occasionally somewhat with the broken tone of age, from beginning to

end, with admirable effect. But I can imagine him painted according to

my idea. He is always caricatured. Not to refer to ordinary drawings,

I remember one executed by the reverend and very clever author of the

"Miseries of Human Life," (an engraving of which, if I do not mistake,

used to hang in Ambrose's parlour in Edinburgh, in the actual room

which was the primary seat of the "Noctes Ambrosianæ,") and the painter

had exerted all his art in making the face seamed with the deep-drawn

wrinkles and lines of a hard drinker and a constant laugher. Now, had

jolly Bacchus

"Set the trace in his face that a toper will tell,"

should we not have it carefully noted by those who everlastingly joked

upon his appearance? should we not have found his Malmsey nose, his

whelks and bubukles, his exhalations and meteors, as duly described as

those of Bardolph? A laughing countenance he certainly had not. Jests

such as his are not, like Ralph's, "lost, unless you print the face."

The leering wink in the eye introduced into this portraiture is also

wrong, if intended to represent the habitual look of the man. The chief

justice assures us that his eyes were moist like those of other men

of his time of life; and, without his lordship's assurance, we may be

certain that Falstaff seldom played tricks with them. He rises before me

as an elderly and very corpulent gentleman, dressed like other military

men of the time, [of Elizabeth, observe, not Henry,] yellow-cheeked,

white-bearded, double-chinned, with a good-humoured but grave expression

of countenance, sensuality in the lower features of his face, high

intellect in the upper.

Such is the idea I have formed of Falstaff and perhaps some may think

I am right. It required no ordinary genius to carry such a character

through so great a variety of incidents with so perfect a consistency.

It is not a difficult thing to depict a man corroded by care within,

yet appearing gay and at ease without, if you every moment pull the

machinery to pieces, as children do their toys, to show what is inside.

But the true art is to let the attendant circumstances bespeak the

character, without being obliged to label him: "_Here you may see the

tyrant_;" or, "_Here is the man heavy of heart, light of manner_." Your

ever-melancholy and ostentatiously broken-hearted heroes are felt to be

bores, endurable only on account of the occasional beauty of the poetry

in which they figure. We grow tired of "the gloom the fabled Hebrew

wanderer wore," &c. and sympathise as little with perpetual lamentations

over mental sufferings endured, or said to be endured, by active youth

and manhood, as we should be with its ceaseless complaints of the

physical pain of corns or toothache. The death-bed of Falstaff, told in

the _patois_ of Dame Quickly to her debauched and profligate auditory,

is a thousand times more pathetic to those who have looked upon the

world with reflective eye, than all the morbid mournings of Childe

Harold and his poetical progeny.

At the table of Shallow, laid in his arbour, Falstaff is compelled by

the eager hospitality of his host to sit, much against his will. The wit

of the court endures the tipsy garrulity of the prattling justice, the

drunken harmonies of Silence, whose tongue is loosed by the sack to

chaunt but-ends of old-fashioned ballads, the bustling awkwardness of

Davy, and the long-known ale-house style of conversation of Bardolph,

without uttering a word except some few phrases of common-place

courtesy. He feels that he is in mind and thought far above his company.

Was that the only company in which the same accident had befallen him?

Certainly not; it had befallen him in many a mansion more honoured

than that of Shallow, and amid society loftier in name and prouder

in place. His talent, and the use to which he had turned it, had as

completely disjoined him in heart from those among whom he mixed, or

might have mixed, as it did from the pippin-and-caraway-eating party

in Gloucestershire. The members of his court are about him, but not of

him; they are all intended for use. From Shallow he borrows a thousand

pounds; and, as the justice cannot appreciate his wit, he wastes it not

upon him, but uses other methods of ingratiating himself. Henry delights

in his conversation and manner, and therefore all his fascinations are

exerted to win the favour of one from whom so many advantages might

be expected. He lives in the world alone and apart, so far as true

community of thought with others is concerned; and his main business in

life is to get through the day. That--the day--is his real enemy; he

rises to fight it in the morning; he gets through its various dangers

as well as he can; some difficulties he meets, some he avoids; he shuns

those who ask him for money, seeks those from whom he may obtain it;

lounges here, bustles there; talks, drinks, jokes, schemes; and at

last his foe is slain, when light and its troubles depart. "The day is

gone--the night's our own." Courageously has he put an end to one of the

three hundred and sixty-five tormentors which he has yearly to endure;

and to-morrow--why--as was to-day, so to-morrow shall be. At all events

I shall not leave the sweet of the night unpicked, to think anything

more about it. Bring me a cup of sack! Let us be merry! Does he ever

think of what were his hopes and prospects at the time, when was

"Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy,

And page to Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk?"

Perhaps!----but he chases away the intrusive reflection by another cup

of sack and a fresh sally of humour.

Dryden maintained that Shakspeare killed Mercutio, because, if he had

not, Mercutio would have killed him. In spite of the authority of

"All those prefaces of Dryden,

For these our critics much confide in,"

Glorious John is here mistaken. Mercutio is killed precisely in the part

of the drama where his death is requisite. Not an incident, scarcely a

sentence, in this most skilfully managed play of Romeo and Juliet, can

be omitted or misplaced. But I do think that Shakspeare was unwilling to

hazard the reputation of Falstaff by producing him again in connexion

with his old companion, Hal, on the stage. The dancer in the epilogue

of the Second Part of Henry IV. promises the audience, that "if you be

not too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will continue the

story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine of

France; where, for any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat,

unless already he be killed with your hard opinions."[96] The audience

was not cloyed with fat meat, Sir John was not killed with their hard

opinions; he was popular from the first hour of his appearance: but

Shakspeare never kept his word. It was the dramatist, not the public,

who killed his hero in the opening scenes of Henry V; for he knew not

how to interlace him with the story of Agincourt. There Henry was to be

lord of all; and it was matter of necessity that his old master should

disappear from the scene. He parted therefore even just between twelve

and one, e'en at turning of the tide, and we shall never see him again

until the waters of some Avon, here or elsewhere,--it is a good Celtic

name for rivers in general,--shall once more bathe the limbs of the

like of him who was laid for his last earthly sleep under a gravestone

bearing a disregarded inscription, on the north side of the chancel in

the great church at Stratford.

W. M.

[92] He is once called so by Westmoreland,

Second Part of Henry IV. Act iv. Sc. 1.

[93] Henry IV. Part 1. Act iii. Sc. 3.

[94] These passages also are printed as prose: I have not altered a

single letter, and the reader will see not only that they are

dramatical blank-verse, but dramatical blank-verse of a very

excellent kind. After all the editions of Shakspeare, another

is sadly wanted. The text throughout requires a searching

critical revision.

[95] See Footnote 94 above.

[96] I consider this epilogue to be in blank-verse,--

"First my fear, then my courtesy, then my speech," &c.

but some slight alterations should be made: the transposition of a

couple of words will make the passage here quoted metrical.

"One word more I beseech you. If you be not Too much cloyed with fat

meat, our humble author _The story will continue_ with Sir John in't,

And make you merry with fair _Kate_ of France. Where (For any thing I

know) Falstaff shall die of A sweat, unless already he be killed with

Your hard opinions; Oldcastle died a martyr, And this is not the man.

My tongue is weary, when my legs are too, I'll bid you good-night; and

kneel down before you, But indeed to pray for the queen."

EPIGRAM

'Twas thought that all who dined on hare,

For seven days after, grew most fair:

Fanny, it seems, this tale believed,

When I from her a hare received:

But if the tale be true, odsfish!

Fanny has never tried the dish.

A STEAM TRIP TO HAMBURG.

The world is about equally divided into two parts; viz. the first and

most unfortunate part, who have made trips by steam; and the other,

whose ill-luck is to come, and who have not yet been subject to the

"vapours." Both of these divisions of society will be equally interested

in my narration; one will see a faithful delineation of what they have

already suffered, and the other will be enabled clearly to apprehend

what, when their time comes, they will have to undergo. Not that I wish

to deter anybody from such undertakings, inasmuch as there will be a

degree of naval heroism in anybody who ventures his person after he has

become fully aware of his necessary calamities. I need not say that this

will give him a high station in society, and that, if he announces in a

tolerably loud voice at a dinner-table that he has made a long trip by

steam, more than one eye-glass will be devoted to a survey of him. This

is no mean advantage, and not to be lightly lost.

Before I state what happened to me in particular, I just wish to say

half-a-dozen words about the sea in general. The sea has been described

by a great natural historian as

"The sea! the sea!

The bright and open sea!"

Now, I differ from this description altogether. The sea is undoubtedly

"_the_ sea,"--there's no denying that; but that it at all comes up

to the jaunty _débonnaire_ character indicated by the rest of the

description, I absolutely traverse. In my mind it is a boisterous

"dissolute companion," whose bad example corrupts the most respectable

characters. Only see how our gentlemanlike, quiet old friend, Father

Thames, forgets himself when he falls into bad company. Gentlemen from

Shad Thames and the Barbican, who have been to Margate, know very well

what his conduct is. Instead of moving quietly along, as he has done all

the way from Lechlade in Gloucestershire, no sooner does he get within

hearing of the noise his bad acquaintance is making, than it seems as if

Old Nick possessed him. He begins splashing, and dashing, and foaming

about, just as if he had never seen a weeping willow or the Monument in

his life; and exchanges his white-bait for porpoises, and his stately

swans for cantankerous sea-gulls, whose pleasure seems to increase in

proportion to the tumult. And, not contented with his own misconduct, he

involves all the gentle company he has brought with him in the common

disorder: there is the Loddon tossing about as if it had been a cataract

all its life; the Mole seems to forget all about Mickleham Valley, and

how quietly it has been accustomed to behave there; and the Kennet

and Avon, which have come all the way from the Wiltshire Downs, where

they were born in stillness among the Druids, take just as much upon

them, and are as noisy, as if they had derived their parentage from a

well-frequented metropolitan pump. No more need be said to prove the

audacious character of this "agitator," whose inflammatory conduct makes

everybody that comes in contact with him, as bad as himself. I should

not have said so much about it, but I want to put down the sea, which,

owing to gross misstatements and vile flattery, has acquired a credit

and notoriety which it does not deserve; and this ought to be stopped,

as it misleads people.

Having made up my mind to go to Hamburg, I bade adieu to my fond

friends; and, having settled my London affairs, I prepared to go, and

went.

At twelve P.M. on the night of Tuesday, August 13, 1836, it was my

unhappy lot to emerge from hackney-coach No. 369, the number of which I

had taken, knowing the state of my mind, for the better preservation of

my valuables; fearing that, in my dread of approaching evils, I might

forget either my valued trunk or my respected hat-box. Having emerged,

my next act was, to ejaculate in as sonorous a voice as my flabby

energies permitted, "Boat a-hoy!"

This cry brought to me a waterman of an "ancient and fish-like"

appearance, who, for the filthy lucre of gain, agreed to transport my

person and packages on board the Steam Navigation Company's steam ship,

Britannia, carrying his majesty's mails, "warranted to perform the

journey in fifty hours;" with a steward on board, and numerous other

enticing particulars duly set forth in the bill of her performances. For

all these advantages, the Steam Navigation Company expected no greater

return than five pounds lawful money of Great Britain,--an expectation

which I satisfied to the proper extent, and considered myself very

fortunate.

Probably feeling much embarrassed by my gratitude on this occasion,

I must have betrayed some little passing emotion on ascending the

side of the vessel; as the naval person who offered me his hand as an

assistance, took occasion to observe, "Never mind, sir; you'll soon

be all right." Scarcely feeling entire confidence in this gentleman's

statement, I entered the "splendid saloon," on the tables of which

were the remains of certain spirituous liquors; faint and distant

traces of which, ascending from below, enabled me to attribute their

consumption to the various gentlemen there deposited, who were to be my

fellow-passengers. "Below" is a very nasty, unpleasant, underground word

of itself; but when it is coupled with the vile concomitants which a sea

"below" embraces, it is still more distasteful.

Diving down the stairs with the sad impression that I had taken my

last farewell of the upper world, I found my way to No. 14, which was

the number of the "berth" in which I was to bestow, and did bestow

accordingly, myself and luggage.

Before getting into bed, I thought I would see who and what the victims

were, who were to be offered up on a common altar with myself.

I could, however, see nobody, as the curtains were all closed; and,

therefore, trusting to the chance of finding somebody awake, I hazarded

the general inquiry of "I beg your pardon, sir; did you speak?" There

was, however, no reply; but certain of them snored lustily, and one,

more portly than his fellows, puffed withal as though he were a grampus.

Feeling I had made a vain attempt at opening a communication with my

neighbours, I was obliged to undress myself, and get into bed with the

unsatisfactory feeling that I might be drowned in company with twelve or

fourteen individuals without even knowing their names.

And here allow me to observe that different people appear to have taken

various views of the meaning of the term "bed," taken as a simple term.

One gentleman apprehends it to mean a four-posted, ample convenience,

provided with downy cushions and suitable appurtenances, wherein he may

roll himself about, at pleasure, and enjoy all recumbent attitudes with

freedom. Another, with less luxurious views, erects a dormitory with a

circular roof, of smaller size, and less accommodations and comforts;

and this, under the Christian name of "tent," is his "bed." There are

also other sorts of beds, each differing from the others in comfort and

appearance, in various degrees.

Most of these are extremely consistent with the personal comfort of

the individual adopting them; but the "bed-maker" of the crib which

I now occupied, had departed widely from all these well-approved and

convenient plans, and conceived the comforts of a bed to consist in

the following items:--one narrow, short trough of deal or oak plank,

as may be; one mattress of half the same size, stuffed tightly with an

unelastic, unyielding substance called "flock;" one oblong pillow of

the same material and consistency; two blankets rather shorter than the

mattress; two sheets rather shorter than the blankets; one counterpane

rather shorter than the sheets; each declining in a sort of gradual

progression, so that, if there had been fifty of them the last would

have ended in a piece of tape, or a penny riband.

Making myself into as small, and the clothes into as large a heap as I

could, just as one does with one's foot in a tight boot, I tranquilly

awaited our departure, which was announced as punctually at two A.M.

I must do them the justice to say that there never was an execution

conducted more punctually to the moment for which it had been promised.

As the clock struck two, a clanking of chains, which sounded just as if

they were knocking off my fetters in another prison for the last time,

and a continued shouting and tramping overhead, announced that they

were weighing "the anchor." If it were half as heavy as my heart, how

it must have fatigued them! We could hear--or rather I could hear (for

it did not seem to wake the snorers or him who puffed)--all the din and

hallooing above, just as well as if we had been on deck. Somebody kept

swearing at somebody else, which somebody else seemed to take in very

bad part, as I heard him say, "I arn't a going to put up with no gammon

from a feller like you, as doesn't know an umbreller from a spring

ini'n."

I didn't exactly believe that there could be anybody in these

march-of-intellect days, incapable of distinguishing an umbrella from a

spring onion, and therefore I felt this to be most unjustifiable abuse,

whomsoever it was addressed to; but it was no business of mine, and I

didn't care how much they abused each other, if they had only done it in

a lower tone of voice, so as not to disturb me.

When the "tumult dwindled to a calm," a splash and a hiss, accompanied

by the moving of the vessel, gave me intelligence that we were "off." As

we dropped down the river, memory recalled the peaceful recreation of

dining at Blackwall on white-bait; while certain matters which occurred

at a Greenwich fair, stared me accusingly in the face.

Amid these reflections I fell into an uneasy slumber, which lasted till

six, broken at intervals by various thumps on the deck, which seemed

directed immediately at my head below. In the morning "the pie was

opened, and the birds began to sing;" that is to say, my companions

began to draw their dingy little curtains back, and gradually to unfold

themselves. I found we consisted of fourteen souls and bodies,--ten

Germans, and four of the same free and enlightened nation of which I

have the honour to be a component part.

We chatted till about seven; and then one got up, and another got up,

and, lastly, I myself got up and dressed; not, however, without a

feeling that I had better have left well alone. When I got up on deck, I

asked a sailor, "How's the wind?"--"Dead agin yer," was the satisfactory

reply. I wasn't surprised.

While I dressed, I paid due attention to a request posted up over the

washing-stands, "That gentlemen should refrain from throwing their

shaving-paper into their basins, as it stopped up the pipes, and

_increased_ the smell of the cabins." This of itself seemed a tacit

acknowledgement of the existence of a very agreeable concomitant to our

comforts,--as you can hardly _increase_ a thing which did not previously

exist; indeed there was no doubt about that, without any notice.

When we had all got up stairs by different instalments, after pacing

the decks a little, we received a summons to breakfast. I endeavoured

to sham an appetite, but it was no go; so I ate sparingly, being most

distrustful of the future.

"Waiter!" cried one of the English,--a short, stout gentleman, in a

dressing-gown,--"bring up the parcel in front of my berth."

"Sart'nly, sir!" replied the smart handman.

Up came the parcel; and, as I had heard the demand, I had the curiosity

to see what came of it. The parcel turned out to be a nice brown-bread

loaf, off which the owner cut a small slice, and carefully put it on a

plate by his side. His neighbour on the other side then began talking to

him, which diverted his attention from the loaf. His other neighbour,

who had not seen where it came from, wanting some bread, and finding it

at his elbow, helped himself; and a man, a little lower down, said,

"May I trouble you for the bread?"

"With pleasure, sir;" and another slice went, and so on, till the last

remnant came round to the man who sat opposite the rightful owner, who

was talking away still, with his friend, as if they had been settling

the tithe question. He took the bit left, and began devouring it; and a

pause having taken place in the conversation opposite, he said to the

loaf-proprietor,

"For myself, I like brown bread just as well as white; what do you say?"

"Why, _I_ prefer it; and, not knowing that we should get it on board, I

took the precaution of bringing a loaf with me, big enough to last me

all the----"

As he spoke, he turned to illustrate his remark by showing the size of

his loaf, when, to his dismay, he found nothing but the empty plate.

I never shall forget his face. He first of all turned to the man who

had addressed him, and into whose capacious mouth the last morsel was

vanishing:

"Confound it, sir! that's my bread you're eating!"

Then to his next neighbour on his right:

"Was it you who took my loaf, sir?"

"Your loaf, sir? Who are you?"

"Yes, sir! I repeat, my loaf; my brown loaf."

"I certainly took a loaf, sir, and a brown loaf, which stood next to me;

but whether it was yours or not I can't say; and I believe everybody

else took it too!"

"Why, then it's gone!" It was.

Breakfast being over, we had but little to do, and nothing to divert our

thoughts from our mournful position. I went fidgeting about, asking how

the weather was. The answers were delightful. The wind was so violent

and adverse that the captain thought it useless to go out to sea, and

therefore intended to "bring up"--ominous term!--in Owesly Bay, near

Harwich. The rain drove me into the "splendid saloon," which I would

have bartered for a cellar in Fetterlane; and, after half an hour's

doubt and wonder whether I was going round the world, or the world round

me, I felt it not only prudent, but necessary, to seek greater privacy;

and, after much sorrow and tempest of spirit, I got into my comfortable

bed.

The captain was as good, or rather as bad, as his word. He "brought up"

in Owesly Bay, and I will say no more than that the force of example was

astonishing. How long we waited about in that sad bay, I cannot exactly

say, as I had become insensible to the nice distinction between tossing

up and down, and pitching and rolling at anchor, or going on. It was

enough, and too much for me, that we _did_ toss up and down, and pitch

and roll.

So ended Wednesday the 14th. We were intended to arrive at Hamburg at

two o'clock on Friday morning; but the adverse wind, and bringing up,

seemed to throw a doubt over this.

Still it was not impossible, if the wind abated. Thursday morning was

ushered in by numerous inquiries as to where we were. We were more than

gratified by being told "Much where we were last night." This was told

to me, who felt that I had signed a lease for my life, extending only to

Friday, at two A.M., as the longest possible time I could hold out; and

that after that time the lease would be up, and I should be ejected from

my mortal tenement.

The Germans who were on board ate and drank heartily, and wanted me

to get up and shave. I thought that the chance of being drowned was

enough, without the certainty of cutting my throat from ear to ear,

which I should inevitably have done if I had attempted to use a razor in

the state of the vessel's movements. They endeavoured to get me up, by

touching my national pride.

"What! an Englishman afraid?" said they.

"No," answered I; "but very sick."

Thursday heard many groans, and, if it had eyes, might have seen many

strange sights.

Friday morning, two A.M.--the promised period of our arrival at the

haven of our hopes--found us still wide at sea; and it was not till

Friday evening that we heard the news that we were off the mouth of the

Texel, one hundred miles from the Elbe, which was our destination. We

were then in that sort of reckless state that we regarded distance as

nothing,--one hundred miles seemed to me, much the same as one thousand;

and I opened and shut my mouth in the agonies of despair, and something

worse.

All this time I had continued in bed, eating what they brought me, not

from any relish or appetite, but on the principle that if you are in

a den with a roaring lion, and have a leg of mutton to give him, it is

prudent to do so; and there was in my den with me an intolerant and

savage spirit, which treated me exceedingly ill when I gave it nothing

to wreak its fury upon, and showed but little gratitude when I did,

either declining the proffered gifts, or only receiving them to render

me more dejected by a speedy and contemptuous return.

Saturday morning early, we heard, with as much joy, and with as much

interest as we could feel in anything, that we should soon be in the

Elbe, and in tolerably smooth water. What ideas these sailors have of

smooth water! I wonder if they ever look in a washing-basin?

As I lay waiting for the smooth water, I could not help anathematising

those deceitful vagabonds, the poets, who write very pretty and pleasing

lines about a tender affair they call a zephyr, and describe it as

"softly sighing on a summer's eve," "lightly dancing on the moonlit

lake," "mildly breaking over the bending corn," and a variety of

agreeable and amiable habits. But these worthy gentlemen, who write in

a comfortable arm-chair, little know the change which takes place in

their sighing friend when a dozen or two of them club together to make a

gale of wind for an afternoon's amusement. I wish I had had a score of

these same poets on board,--the world would never have heard anything

from them again about "bending corn!" A zephyr bears about the some

proportion to a gale of wind as a Vauxhall slice of ham does to the

"whole hog." However, all evils have an end, and ours began to conclude

a little; for certainly I seemed to get a little better, and was well

enough when we passed Heligoland--which is an island in the possession

of his most gracious majesty, whom Heaven long preserve!--to sing

lustily, and like a true Briton as I am,

"Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us,

God save the king!"

I then dressed myself, the water being still too rough to allow me to

do anything but cut my throat with my razor; and went on deck, where I

soon afterwards enjoyed the sight of green fields, and the villas which

ornament the banks of the Elbe, with a most satisfactory view of Hamburg

at no great distance.

And, now that I have brought myself to dry land, do I make a vow never

again to make a long sea-voyage,--always excepting "leaving my country

for my country's good," which may happen; but the Britannia, if she

chooses "to rule the waves," never shall have me as an accomplice again,

though

"The bark be stoutly timber'd, and the pilot

Of very perfect and approv'd allowance."

STRAY CHAPTERS.

BY "BOZ."

CHAPTER II.

SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION.

We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with

most other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their

bravery and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and

charming philanthropy, which prompts them never to eat people except

when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming

sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried

ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes

illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in

particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion of high moral

dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a

young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example

to the rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and indeed says a very

great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state, however,

that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with, have not

put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to

the chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never

saw a lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to

say, we have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in

his lair under a tropical sun waiting till his dinner should happen to

come by, hot from the baker's. But we have seen some under the influence

of captivity and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they

appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well;

he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us!

what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious,

and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion or

a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar

fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer

to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless

these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any

especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour

to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is

sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant characteristics,

whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion

and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish

quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except

at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions against

their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon

the subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and

interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our

acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal

of her invitation to an evening party; "for," said she, "I have got a

lion coming." We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and

became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early and posted ourself in an eligible part of the

drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the

interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began,

the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became

inconsolable,--for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions

to make solemn appointments and never keep them,--when all of a sudden

there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master

of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to

peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together

with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, "My dear,

Mr. ---- (naming the lion) has this moment arrived."

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed

several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously

with great gaiety and good-humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental;

while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in

the facetious and smalltalk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the

estimation of the company, and were looked upon with great coldness

and indifference. Even the young man who had been ordered from the

music-shop to play the pianoforte, was visibly affected, and struck

several false notes in the excess of his excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once

accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of "Oh, capital! excellent!"

from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these

exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our

host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we

overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several

gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands and every expression

of half-suppressed admiration, that ---- (naming the lion again) was in

_such_ cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one: of course there were a vast number of

people present, who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be

introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for

the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received

all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what

we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are

compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be

acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in

upon them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for

he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously.

To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble

animal had said in the very act of coming up stairs, which, of course,

rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he

murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the

day before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to

demand an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry

promises of interceding to procure the majestic brute's sign-manual

for their albums. Then, there were little private consultations in

different corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of

the lion; whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or

taller, or thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was

like his portrait or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his

eyes was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture.

At all these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the

lion was the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him

down to whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of

conversation--themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to

the announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under

particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all

others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe

a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret,

and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of

the house down stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female of our

acquaintance, who--dear old soul!--is the very best person that ever

lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small or the

party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the

eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best

dishes on the table;--we say we offered our arm to this elderly female,

and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough

to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at

precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent

pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key

as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and

immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the

lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such

flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all they began

to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl,

and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on

the lobster-salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most

vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities,

quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in

society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of

the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein

the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the

jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great

credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on,

however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this

instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole

body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl's breast, and the trifle, and the

lobster-salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for

another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous

feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in

one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal's

mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently

presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this

achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated

for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended

to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home

with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly

fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon

the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards,

and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former

impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by

what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and

compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear

flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal

themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these

court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short

of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their

acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears of undoubted

ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound

up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught

monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack-wire;

and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to

turn the barrel-organ: but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion,

literary or otherwise,--and we state it as a fact which is highly

creditable to the whole species,--who, occasion offering, did not seize

with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to

his heart's content on the first violin.

THE LEGEND OF BOHIS HEAD.

One of the most south-western points of Ireland is the promontory of

Bohis, which forms the northern shore of the bay of Balinskeligs. A

singular conformation of rock is observable upon the extremity of the

wild cape, it being worn by the incessant beating of the billows into a

grotesque resemblance of the human profile. The waves, however, are not

suffered to claim undisputed this rude sculpture as their own; a far

different origin being attributed to it by the legends of the country

around. The following is the legend, as told to us.

In times long, very long ago,--prior even to that early age when

Milesius came over from Spain, to plant in Ireland the prolific tribes

of the _O_'s and the _Mac_'s,--Bohis Head, instead of the abrupt, broken

cliffs that now terminate it, presented a lofty and uniform wall of

rock to the assaults of the Atlantic. Upon the topmost summit (much

about where now stand the unfinished walls of one of those desirable

winter-residences, the coast watch-towers, built at _the end_ of the

last war,) there stood, at the period of our tale, the castle of a very

celebrated personage, generally known in those parts as the Baon Ri

Dhuv,--in plain English, "The Black Lady,"--a title partly bestowed on

her, on account of her dark hair and face, and partly on account of the

cruelty and tyranny which she exercised upon all those who were subject

to her dominion. She must have been redoubtable in no small degree, as,

besides the possession of a large army, which she could at any time

collect from her numerous array of vassals, she was a deep proficient

in the art of magic, and was even said to have once, by the potency of

her spells, prevented a drop of rain from falling upon her territories

(which included the whole of Munster) for a week together. But as the

south of Ireland at least has never since been known to be so long

without showers, this feat is not so implicitly believed as other of the

traditions about her. However that may be, this at least is certain,

that she wanted for nothing that force or fraud, fair means or means the

most unholy, could give her; and she was deemed the happiest as well as

the most powerful being in the world.

Those who said this, did not judge truly. In the midst of all her

splendour and state, caressed, feared, flattered, obeyed as she was

by all, she was not happy; and it is strange that her tenants and

servants did not find this out, as her usual method of easing her

feelings was by ill-treating and abusing them. But they were, in all

probability, too much afraid of her to call even their thoughts their

own, for fear of being metamorphosed into goats, or cows, or some other

species of beasts; a change of life which, from the scanty grazing of

the neighbouring mountain pastures, they did not deem very inviting.

She was _not_ happy; and simply because, among her myriad of vassals,

flatterers, and slaves, she had not one _friend_. There was the whole

secret. In her inmost soul she--that proud, tyrannical, haughty,

hard-hearted woman--felt that, all feared and all potent as she was, she

still was no more than mortal; and that within her own breast there was

that which tyrannised over herself,--the innate longings of our nature

for sympathy, for companionship, for affection. The humblest hind that

served her, had a comrade,--a friend; while she, the queen and mistress

of all, was the object of detestation as universal as the slavish

obedience that met her at every step. At first she scoffed and spurned

at the dull internal aching; it was a weakness, she thought, that needed

but to be fought against, to be for ever quelled. She sought wars and

conflicts; she dived deeper than ever before into the unholy mysteries

of the "Black Art;" she revelled, she feasted, and she succeeded in

quelling the rebel feeling for a time,--but only for a time. There came

a reaction to her excitement; and, while her spirits and all else seemed

exhausted and worn out, this dull yearning was stronger and more aching

than ever. At length, one day, after a long and painful reverie, she

started up, striking her forehead violently, and vowed that she would

have a friend,--a companion,--nay, even (as her sentimentality increased

with indulgence) a _husband_,--or perish in the attempt! As the oath

passed her lips, a tremendous peal of thunder rolled over the castle

towers and passed off to seaward, dying away in the distance with a

sound not unlike a wild and prolonged shout of laughter.

She had not much time to lose, if she intended to marry. The little

servant-boy, who had been allowed to get drunk on the night of

rejoicings for her birth, was now a grave and sedate major-domo of

most venerable age. She herself, but some fifteen or sixteen years his

junior, was long past the time when the grossest flattery could make

her believe that she was young; and her years had not passed over her

head without leaving their traces behind. She had been in her best days

what is called by friends "rather plain," which generally means "very

ugly." Her forehead bowed out and overhung her nose, which endeavoured

to stretch out to some decent length, but was unfortunately foiled by

the want of a bridge. The mouth, as if it perceived this failure on

the part of the feature immediately above it, modestly declined the

contest, and retreated far inward. The chin, however, amply made up for

all intermediate deficiencies, and even surpassed the forehead in the

hugeness of its proportions, or _dis_proportions. Her hair was black,

as has been said, and hung in long, lanky clusters about her face. Time

seldom improves the human countenance, and certainly made no exception

in favour of the Baon Ri Dhuv. At the time of her vow many wrinkles had

made their appearance, and unequivocal grey hairs chequered the once

uniform sable that covered her head. Magic had not then arrived at the

pitch of perfection to which it afterwards attained in the times of

Virgilius and Apollonius Rhodius; and, among the inventions yet in the

womb of time, were the charms for restoring youth and imparting beauty.

The lady of the castle set off, one fine morning, on the back of a

cloud which she had hailed as it was drifting over her chimney-tops,

driven inland by the fresh breeze from the ocean. As she was borne

along, she looked anxiously right and left down upon the earth, to

spy out, if possible, the desired companion. But she found she had

grown very fastidious, now that the means of ridding herself of her

troublesome desires appeared open to her. She looked at no women; she

felt instinctively that none of her own sex could be the friend that

would satisfy her heart: but all the young men that she passed over,

she scrutinized, as if her life depended upon it. They in their turn

stared a good deal at her, as well they might; for it was no common

thing, even in those days, to see a woman perched up on a cloud, sailing

over your head before a rattling breeze of wind. Perhaps it was their

staring at her, so different from the downcast eyes and humble mien of

her slaves at home,--perhaps it was their rude remarks that displeased

her; whatever it was, on she went without making her choice, until

towards the close of the day she found she had nearly crossed Ireland

in a diagonal line from south-west to north-east, the wind blowing in

that direction. As it still blew merrily, and it was full-moon night,

she determined to go on to Scotland, and try whether Sawnie could

please her, better then Paddy. With this resolve she had not proceeded

more than half a league from the shore of Ireland, when she perceived

she was going over a mountain-islet some five or six miles in girth,

and apparently very fertile in its soil, for large herds of cattle

were grazing upon its sides. It is a trite and true saying, that those

who possess much, are often covetous of more; and in her case it was

especially true. With a word she stayed the cloud over the island; the

wind falling all at once, in obedience to her will. If there were any

of the old Vikingir, those daring privateersmen of ancient times, that

night upon the waters, how they and their fierce crews must have heaped

maledictions on the unseen power that quelled the merry breeze before

which they were late careering gaily with bended mast and bellying sail,

and summoned them to ply the labouring oar throughout the hours they had

vainly hoped to give to slumber! But the Black Lady was not a person to

care much for such trifles as curses. If she had been so, she would have

led an extremely uncomfortable life, for she had merited a good many of

them in her time. Over the island she hung, gazing down upon it, and

gloating on its richness and fertility, while she inwardly resolved to

strain her magical powers to the utmost, to transfer it from its present

position to the neighbourhood of her own coast. Her attention, however,

was soon withdrawn from all other objects, and concentrated on one that

had just caught her eye: it was a young man, the only one she had as yet

seen who did not stare up at her, rudely and impertinently. Indeed he

did not look up at all. He seemed to have no eyes, no soul, for any one

but a young girl who was by his side. The lady on the cloud could see by

the moonlight that the girl's face was exceedingly beautiful; that is

to say, as much as could be perceived of it when she occasionally, and

but for a moment, raised her eyes from the ground, on which they were

riveted.

"Speak! will you not speak to me?" were the words of the young man: "but

one word, Eva,--dearest Eva,--to tell me have I offended by my boldness?"

The girl blushed ten times deeper than before, and her lips quivered as

at length she slowly murmured out, "No, Conla!"

"Thanks! thanks!" was his rapturous exclamation; "a thousand times

thanks, my own, my ... Hallo! what is this? Whence come you?" These

latter words were addressed to the Black Lady, as, to his utter

astonishment, she alighted from the cloud right in his path. Eva

shrieked, and hid her face in his bosom.

"I am the Baon Ri Dhuv," said the enchantress, trying to look dignified,

and to smooth away the scowl that had darkened her visage since she

perceived his companion,--"the Queen of the South!"

"And what can the Baon Ri Dhuv, the Queen of the South, want with Conla,

a shepherd of the north?"

"Young man, mock me not," replied she, frowning most awfully: "you know

not, but you may be made to _feel_, my power. Listen to me," continued

she in a milder tone, and putting on what she intended to be a most

amiable and engaging look; but which gave her coarse lineaments a still

more grotesque hideousness, that almost made the young shepherd laugh in

her face, despite the secret dread he felt creeping on his heart. "I am

the ruler of a vast tract of country; I have a vast army to do my will;

nay, more, I have dominion over the elements in their fiercest rage,

and spirits obey my bidding. I am rich beyond counting. You smile, and

believe not. Look here!"

As she spoke, she struck the ground three times with her foot, muttering

rapidly to herself, when up sprang close to her, a tall tree of the

purest gold, the glittering branches laden with jewels beyond all price.

Seizing one of these, a magnificent emerald, and pulling it off the

branch, again she stamped her foot, and the tree disappeared, leaving

the jewel in her hands.

"Here," continued she, putting it into Conla's passive hand, "here is

earnest of my wealth; leave that weak girl, and come with me to wealth

and happiness!"

Conla had hitherto been kept dumb by the strange scene before him; but

now, rousing himself, he looked at his Eva, and meeting her gaze of

deep, whole-hearted, confiding affection, he dashed the glittering jewel

on the ground, and cried,

"Away, sorceress! I spurn your gifts, your accursed power, yourself!

With Eva will I live or die!"

The face of the Black Lady showed horrible in the pale moonlight, as,

with a withering scowl of hatred and vengeance, she again spoke:

"You shall not die, insolent wretch! You shall live in agonies to which

death were mercy; ay, and she, too,--that worthless thing you prefer to

me,--she, too, shall suffer!"

As she spoke, she described a circle in the air with her hand round the

island. At once the moon became obscured, and a terrible darkness fell

upon all, while a sudden storm swept over the island. Conla and his Eva

tried to fly to some cave for refuge, but were arrested by the sight

that met their eyes when the transitory darkness cleared away. The moon

again shone out brilliantly, and by its light the lovers perceived,

to their great horror, that the island itself was in motion! A little

ahead of its southernmost point their persecutor was scudding over the

waters in a bark, the traditional accounts of which, represent it as a

good deal resembling the steam-boats of modern days, for there was smoke

issuing out of it; and two or three respectable individuals, with black

faces, fiery eyes, horns on their heads, and tails twirled in graceful

folds, might be seen through an open hatchway, employed in much the

same manner as the hard-working, hard-drinking steam-packet engineers

of our own times, while a clacking and clanging of iron was continually

heard, similar to the sounds that annoy sea-sick passengers at present.

From the taffrail of this inviting-looking vessel, three or four strong

cables stretched to the island, and were rove through an immense hole

in a huge projecting rock, that seemed as if it had been bored for this

especial purpose. The steamer tugged gallantly, and the island plashed

and splashed heavily along, at the rate of twenty or thirty knots an

hour: the cows and sheep upon the latter, not having their sea-legs

aboard, tumbled and rolled about in fine style. Eva got exceedingly

sea-sick, and Conla exceedingly indignant: but there was no use in his

anger. On the island went.

On and on,--past Belfast, Drogheda, Dublin,--rattling and splashing

along, greatly to the astonishment of the fishes, who, besides being

then quite unaccustomed to public steaming, had never before seen an

island on the move. Between Dublin and Holyhead there was a little

difficulty; for the island, which was exceedingly unmanageable, fetched

away to starboard, and took the ground a little outside of Howth. This

was a cause of great delight to the lovers, who thought their voyage was

now at an end; but they were much mistaken; two of the amiable gentry

who manned the tug-boat jumped lightly on the island, and cut away with

a couple of strokes of an axe the part that was aground, it breaking

into two pieces, which remain to this day, proof of the truth of this

tale, under the names of Lambay and Ireland's Eye. On went the steamer

again, and on went the island merrily and clumsily as ever, and the

Black Lady looked back and laughed at the disappointed lovers.

Wicklow went by,--Wexford,--and now the shores of the county Waterford

hove in sight; and the vessel and island, rounding Point Carnsore in

gallant style, issued out from the Irish Channel into the waters of the

Atlantic.

Morning had broken by this time, and a bright and beautiful morning it

was. Eva, overpowered by fatigue, had sunk to sleep; Conla sate beside

her, deep anxiety lowering on his brow, and his soul rent with the most

agonizing emotions. Meantime his body was just as much disturbed, for

the island was now heaving and pitching worse than before, upon the

longer billows of the ocean; and he occasionally had to hold on with

both his hands to the stones and shrubs near him, to prevent himself

from being what sailors would call "hove overboard" by the violent

motion of the strange craft in, or rather _on_, which he was embarked.

Disliking his situation exceedingly, and greatly fearing that he would

have still more reason to do so, he saw that there was no chance of his

delivery from it, if he could not succeed in mollifying the enraged

enchantress. Espying her again seated upon the steamer's taffrail, he

therefore hailed her, and sought by humble prayers and entreaties to

induce her to release him and his Eva; or, if one should suffer, to set

her free, and vent the heaviest vengeance upon his head. But the Black

Lady let him talk on. He had a very sweet voice, and she liked to hear

that; and, when he had done, she contented herself with simply shaking

her head in token of refusal: then, as he again stooped his proud spirit

to still more vehement entreaties and supplications, and raved in the

intensity of his anguish, she mocked at him, and laughed loud and long

in scorn, till at length, wearied out and despairing, he sunk his head

upon his bosom, and was silent. Slowly the day wore on, but quickly the

headlands and bays of the southern shore of Ireland glided by; and great

was the wonder and amaze of those who looked to seaward from that shore.

Many were the noble fishes left that day in the depths of the ocean with

the barbed hook fast in their jaws, as the wild natives of the coast, in

terror at the sight of the demon vessel and her charge, hove overboard

their rude fishing-gear to lighten their frail coracles, and plied sail

and oar to seek refuge on the land. It has been even surmised that it

was some such sight as this, that scared that first great geographer,

Ptolemy, and made him fly the Irish coast ere he had completed his

survey. However, this is a point that has never been fully ascertained.

The sun was sinking gloriously into the bosom of the slow-heaving main

as the steamer, with the island in tow, rounded Dursey Head, and hove

in sight of their destination, the promontory of Bohis. With exultation

in her eyes, the Baon Ri Dhuv pointed out her lofty castle, shining in

the distance with the last rays of the departing orb of day. Eva was now

awake, and her and Conla's supplications were poured out for mercy and

for pity; but they might as well have been uttered to Bohis Head itself.

The leagues between the latter place and Dursey Head were rapidly

traversed, and now the island had been towed within a mile of its final

destination, which was the promontory on which the castle stood. At

this moment another sudden storm, such as that of the preceding night,

passed athwart the scene; and, when it cleared away, the steamer had

disappeared, and the Black Lady was to be seen, upon the headland

tugging at the island to bring it closer.

"Is there no help in Heaven!" cried Conla, as, after another appeal in

vain to their persecutor, he threw his eyes up with a reproachful glance.

"Hush, Conla! reproach not the powers above; they are most merciful, and

will protect us. Hark! they answer!"

At this moment a heavy peal of thunder crashed over head, and, rolling

towards the castle, seemed to expend itself over its summit.

"Dread lady," cried Eva, animated to unusual courage by the omen,

"hearken to that, and yield to the powers of Heaven!--they declare

against thy tyranny!"

"Never!" roared the tyrant, her eyes flashing baleful fire. "Sooner will

I become part of this mountain on which I stand mistress, than ye shall

escape me!"

As she spoke, she gave a pull with her utmost strength to the chains. At

the moment a vivid flash of lightning darted from the clouds, and the

chains snapped right asunder. With the force of the shock the Black Lady

was precipitated into the sea, the island at the same time rebounding

back and becoming fixed for ever about halfway between Dursey and Bohis

Head.

The Baon Ri Dhuv's tenants and servants spent the night in vainly

searching for her. The morning revealed to them a terrible sight.

Upon the extremity of the cape her well-known visage appeared, but

transformed to stone, and doomed for ages to remain there, lashed by the

raging billows of the ocean. Thus was her fatal wish accomplished!

The island so strangely brought round, remains where it recoiled to,

and is now known by the name of Scariff. It is still rich land, and

feeds many herds; a strong proof of the authenticity of this tale, and

which is farther borne out by the fact, that the hole through which

the towing-chains were rove remains to this hour. Conla and Eva lived

happily for the rest of their days where they were, and left a numerous

progeny. It is said that the little old man who, with his strapping

offspring, fourteen in number, now tenants the island, is their lineal

descendant. The emerald that Conla threw away was afterwards found,

and preserved as a memorial of the events narrated until the times of

Cromwell; when some of his soldiers, having visited the island for

the laudable purpose of killing a friar who lived there as a hermit,

indulged another of their virtuous propensities by carrying the jewel

away with them.

BOB BURNS AND BERANGER.

SAM LOVER AND OVIDIUS NASO.

BY FATHER PROUT.

TO THE EDITOR OF BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

SIR,--Under the above title I forward you two more scraps from

_Water-grass-hill_.

The first is a glee in praise of poverty, a subject on which poets of

every country have a common understanding. The Italian BERNI, indeed,

went a step farther when he sang the "comforts of being in debt,"--_La

laude del debito_; but your enthusiast never knows where to stop. This

MS. may suit in the present state of the money market,--a bill drawn

by Burns and endorsed by Beranger. You can rely on the Scotchman's

signature, _experto crede Roberto_; while there can be no doubt that

the French songster's financial condition fully entitles him to join

Burns in an attempt of this kind. Since, however, much spurious paper

appears to be afloat, you will use your own discretion as to the foreign

acceptance.

Of Scrap No. VI. I say nothing, Doctor Prout having left a note on the

subject prefixed to the same. Yours, &c.

RORY O'DRYSCULL.

_Water-grass-hill, April 20._

SCRAP NO. V.

I. 1.

Is there, Quoi! Pauvre honnête

For honest poverty, Baisser la tête?

That hangs his head Quoi! rougir de la sorte?

And a' that? Que l'âme basse

The coward slave S'éloigne et passe

We pass him by, Nous--soyons gueux! n'importe!

We dare be poor for a' that: Travail obscur--

For a' that, and a' that, N'importe!

Our toils obscure, Quand l'or est pur

And a' that; N'importe!

The rank is but Qu'il ne soit point

The guinea's stamp, Marqué au coin

The MAN's the gowd for a' that. D'un noble rang--qu'importe!

II. 2.

What! though Quoiqu'on dût faire

On homely fare we dine, Bien maigre chère

Wear hidden grey, Et vêtir pauvre vêtement;

And a' that; Aux sots leur soie,

Give fools their silks, Leur vin, leur joie;

And knaves their wine, Ça fait'il L'HOMME? eh, nullement!

A man's a MAN for a' that: 'Luxe et grandeur--

For a' that, for a' that, Qu'importe!

Their tinsel show, Train et splendeur--

And a' that; Qu'importe!

The honest man, Coeurs vils et creux!

Though e'er so poor, Un noble gueux

Is king o' men for a' that. Vaut toute la cohorte!

III. 3.

Ye see Voyez ce fat--

Yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Un vain éclat

Wha struts and stares, L'entoure, et on l'encense,

And a' that; Mais après tout

Though hundreds worship Ce n'est qu'un fou,--

At his word, Un sot, quoiqu'il en pense;

He's but a coof for a' that: Terre et maison,

For a' that, for a' that, Qu'il pense--

His riband, star, Titre et blazon,

And a' that; Qu'il pense--

The man of Or et ducats,

Independent mind Non! ne font pas

Can look and laugh at a' that. La vraie indépendence!

IV. 4.

A king Un roi peut faire

Can make a belted knight, Duc, dignitaire,

A marquis, duke, Comte et marquis, journellement;

And a' that; Mais ce qu'on nomme

But an HONEST MAN Un HONNÊTE HOMME,

's aboon his might, Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement!

Guid faith he manna fa' that. Tristes faveurs!

For a' that, for a' that, Réellement;

Their dignities, Pauvres honneurs!

And a' that; Réellement;

The pith o' sense Le fier maintien

And pride o' warth Des gens de bien

Are higher ranks than a' that. Leur manque essentiellement.

V. 5.

Then let us pray Or faisons voeu

That come it may-- Qu'à tous, sous peu,

As come it will Arrive un jour de jugement;--

For a' that-- Amis, ce jour

That sense and warth, Aura son tour,

O'er all the earth, J'en prends, j'en prends,

l'engagement.

May bear the gree, and a' that! Espoir et encouragement,

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, Aux pauvres gens

For a' that, Soulagement;

That man to man, 'Lors sure la terre

The warld a' o'er, Vivrons en frères,

Shall brothers be, for a' that. Et librement, et sagement!

SCRAP NO. VI.

Possevino, in his _History of the Gonzagas_, (fol. Mantua, 1620,) tells

us, at page 781, that a Polish army, having penetrated to the Euxine,

found the ashes, with many MSS. of Ovid under a marble monument, which

they transferred in pomp to Cracow, A.D. 1581. It is well known that the

exiled Roman had written sundry poems in barbaric metre to gratify the

Scythian and Getic literati with whom he was surrounded. We have his own

words for it:

"_Cæpique poetæ

Inter inhumanos nomen habere Getas._"

The following is a fair specimen, procured by the kindness of the late

erudite Quaff-y-punchovitz, Keeper of the Archives of the Cracovian

University. The rhythmic termination, called by the Greeks [Greek:

omoioteleuton] is here clearly traceable to a Northern origin. It would

appear that the Scandinavian poets took great pride in the nicety and

richness of these rhymes, by which they beguiled the tediousness of

their winter nights:

"_Accipiunt inimicam hyemem_ RIMIS_que, fatiscunt._"

Ovid first tried thus an experiment on his native tongue, which was duly

followed up by the CHURCH, not unwilling to indulge by any reasonable

concession her barbarous converts in the sixth century. Of Mr. Lover's

translation it were superfluous to point out the miraculous fidelity;

delicate gallantry and well-sustained humour distinguish every line of

his vernacular version, hardly to be surpassed by the _Ars amandi_ of

his Latin competitor.

TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY AD MOLLISSIMAM PUELLAM, È GETICÂ

CAREW, THE LAMENT OF HER CARUARUM FAMILIÂ OVIDIUS

IRISH LOVER. NASO LAMENTATUR.

1. I.

Och hone! Heu! heu!

Oh! what will I do? Me tædet, me piget o!

Sure my love is all crost, Cor mihi riget o!

Like a bud in the frost ... Ut flos sub frigido ...

And there's no use at all Et nox ipsa mî, tum

In my going to bed; Cum vado dormitùm,

For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, Infausta, insomnis,

That comes into my head ... Transcurritur omnis ...

And 'tis all about you, Hoc culpâ fit tuâ

My sweet Molly Carew, Mî, ollis Carùa,

And indeed 'tis a sin Sic mihi illudens,

And a shame.-- Nec pudens.--

You're complater than nature Prodigum tu, re

In every feature; Es, verâ, naturæ,

The snow can't compare Candidor lacte;--

To your forehead so fair: Plus fronte cum hâc te,

And I rather would spy Cum istis ocellis,

Just one blink of your eye Plus omnibus stellis

Than the purtiest star Mehercule vellem.--

That shines out of the sky; Sed heu, me imbellem!

Tho'--by this and by that! A me, qui sum fidus,

For the matter o' that-- Vel ultimum sidus

You're more distant by far Non distat te magis ...

Than that same. Quid agis!

Och hone, wierasthrew! Heu! heu! nisi tu

I am alone Me ames,

In this world without you! Pero! pillauleu!

2. II.

Och hone! Heu! heu!

But why should I speak Sed cur sequar laude

Of your forehead and eyes, Ocellos aut frontem

When your nose it defies Si NASI, cum fraude,

Paddy Blake the schoolmaster Prætereo pontem?...

To put it in rhyme?-- Ast hic ego minùs

Though there's one BURKE, Quàm ipse LONGINUS

He says, In verbis exprimem

Who would call it _Snub_lime ... Hunc nasum sublimem ...

And then for your cheek, De floridâ genâ

Throth 'twould take him a week Vulgaris camoena

Its beauties to tell Cantaret in vanum

As he'd rather:-- Per annum.--

Then your lips, O machree! Tum, tibi puella!

In their beautiful glow Sic tument labella

They a pattern might be Ut nil plus jucundum

For the cherries to grow.-- Sit, aut ribicundum;

'Twas an apple that tempted Si primitùs homo

Our mother, we know; Collapsus est pomo,

For apples were scarce Si dolor et luctus

I suppose long ago: Venerunt per fructus,

But at this time o' day, Proh! ætas nunc serior

'Pon my conscience I'll say, Ne cadat, vereor,

Such cherries might tempt Icta tam bello

A man's father! Labello:

Och hone, wierasthrew! Heu! heu! nisi tu

I'm alone Me ames,

In this world without you! Pereo! pillaleu!

3. III.

Och hone! Heu! heu!

By the man in the moon! Per cornua lunæ

You teaze me all ways Perpetuò tu ne

That a woman can plaze; Me vexes impunè?...

For you dance twice as high I nunc choro salta

With that thief Pat Macghee (Mac-ghìus nam tecùm)

As when you take share Plantâ magis altâ

Of a jig, dear, with me; Quàm sueveris mecùm!...

Though the piper I bate, Tibicinem quando

For fear the ould chate Cogo fustigando

Wouldn't play you your Ne falsum det melus,

Favourite tune. Anhelus.--

And when you're at Mass A te in sacello

My devotion you crass, Vix mentem revello,

For 'tis thinking of you Heu! miserè scissam

I am, Molly Carew; Te inter et Missam;

While you wear on purpose Tu latitas vero

A bonnet so deep, Tam stricto galero

That I can't at your sweet Ut cernere vultum

Pretty face get a peep. Desiderem multùm.

Oh! lave off that bonnet, Et dubites jam, nùm

Or else I'll lave on it (Ob animæ damnum)

The loss of my wandering Sit fas hunc deberi

Sowl! Auferri!

Och hone! like an owl, Heu! heu! nisi tu

Day is night, Coràm sis,

Dear, to me without you! Cæcus sim: eleleu!