Citation
The Ingoldsby legends, or, Mirth & marvels

Material Information

Title:
The Ingoldsby legends, or, Mirth & marvels
Added title page title:
The Ingoldsby legends, or, Mirth and marvels
Translated Title:
Mirth and marvels. ( English )
Mirth & marvels. ( English )
Creator:
Ingoldsby, Thomas, 1788-1845
Rackham, Arthur, 1867-1939
J. M. Dent & Co.
Place of Publication:
London
Publisher:
J.M. Dent and Co.
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
xxiii, 638 p., 12 leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 21 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
English wit and humor -- Juvenile literature
Baldwin -- 1898.
Genre:
Children's literature ( fast )

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
021241292 ( ALEPH )
05084991 ( OCLC )
AHD7246 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text












ILLUSTRATED
ROMANCES, ETC.

THE

INGOLDSBY LEGENDS







~ : oe
Mile A te sbelee



Snel a)

|
(go



ONE-KICKHT= WAS* BUT: ONE sBUT: SUCH +A: ONE!



ey ON



















(oss





INGOLDSBY
LEGENDS

OR
MIRTH & MARVELS







A iv

AY =~]
LF, eH Ss
a

eS
aa,



a
m

7h
ce






ax








4



eT te
ey











Wg

THOMAS INGOLDSBY
ESQUIRE

ILLUSTRATED

4\ 7 Z
g Oo
Ke oan

ees



ARTHUR RACKHAM







LONDON
J.M.DENT 6C?' ALDINE HOUSE
1898






List of Contents

FIRST SERIES

The Spectre of Tappington : : : .
The Nurse’s Story . : : .
Patty Morgan, the Milkmaid’ s Story,

Grey Dolphin : 7

The Ghost ; : ; . : 7
The Cynotaph : 2 A : : :
Mrs Botherby’s Story

Legend of Hamilton Tighe

The Witches’ Frolic

Singular Passage in the Life of the late Henry Harris, D. D.
The Jackdaw of Rheims . . . . .
A Lay of St Dunstan

A Lay of St Gengulphus

The Lay of St Odille

A Lay of St Nicholas

The Lady Rohesia

The Tragedy 5

Mr Barney Maguire’s Account of the Corenation 5

The ‘‘Monstre” Balloon . .

Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story

Some Account of a New Play

Mr Peters’s Story .

SECOND SERIES

The Black Mousquetaire
Sir Rupert the Fearless
The Merchant of Venice
The Auto-da-Fé

The Ingoldsby Penance
Netley Abbey

Fragment .

Nell Cook

iii

250

270
293
306
318
340
358
363
365



iv List of Contents

Nursery Reminiscences. -
Aunt Fanny

Misadventures at erence

The Smuggler’s Leap

Bloudie Jacke of Shrewsberrie
The Babes in the Wood

The Dead Drummer

A Row in an Omnibus (Box)

The Lay of St Cuthbert

The Lay of St Aloys :

The Lay of the Old Woman Clothed i in Grey
Raising the Devil . :
Saint Medard

THIRD SERIES

The Lord of Thoulouse

The Wedding-Day :
The Blasphemer’s Warning
The Brothers of Birchington
The Knight and the Lady
The House-Warming ! !
The Forlorn One .

Jerry Jarvis’s Wig .
Unsophisticated Wishes

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

Hermann ; or, the Broken Spear .
Hints for an Historical Play
Marie Mignot

The Truants

The Poplar

New-Made Honour

My Letters

The Confession

Epigram

Song

Epigram

Song :

As I Laye A- thynkynge

PAGE

376
378
388
394
403
417
425
439
444
458
47t
489
49t

499
514
530
553
566
577
592
593
613

615
618
620
622
626
628
628
632
633
633
634
635
635





List of Illustrations in Colours



One kick! it was but one: but such a one! (Zage 55) . Frontispiece

To Tappington mill-dam . . : : . face page 36
Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland !

Make much of your steed ! : : ; : os 66
If Orpheus first produced the Waltz ; : ” 74
If anyone lied, or if anyone swore 5 : . i 170
Whack! . 7 7 ' : . : 7 220
The poor little page, too, himself got no quarter . : Ps 227
He would then sally out in the streets for a spree : 270
They’d such very odd heads and such very odd tails : oo 294.

They dragg’d the great fishpond the little one tried ;

But found nothing at all, save some carp which they fried p 558
Sir Thomas her lord was stout of limb. : : 0 566
When a score of ewes had brought in a reasonable profit . 610










List of Illustrations in Black

The fair Caroline .

Whipped his long bony legs into them in a eanine

Came close behind him, and with the flat side of the spade—
Head-piece—‘‘ The Nurse’s Story”

Gentlemen, look at the clock

He meditated a mighty draught

“¢ Emmanuel Saddleton, truss up your points, and follow me!” .

Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one way—arms and
legs another ; round went Tickletoby

His wife would often try the density of his poor skull
Beckon’d the Cobbler with its wan right hand
Head-piece—The Cynotaph

“A Babby” :

A cow may yet be sometimes seen galloping like mad
Never was man more swiftly disrobed

But he spun on—the cat mewed, bats and obscene birds fluttered
overhead

Monogram

The Coachman thinks he is dees Old Nick

A man sitting there with his head on his knees! .
Now tread we a measure .

Head- Leen passage in the Life of the late 2 Henry
Harris, D.D. : 7 :

Head-piece—The Jackdaw of Rheims
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring

PAGE

16
29
31
46
48
49

63
73
77
80
81
87
109

III
116
117
120

127

138
164
165



vill List of Illustrations

They can’t find the ring.

Heedless of grammar they all cried, ‘‘ That him!”

“A Pentacle” . .

Peep’d through the key-hole

For a flood of brown-stout he was up to his kmees in

Limb from limb, they dismember’d him .

And the maids cried, ‘* Good gracious, how very tenacious !”

And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill

Round the ankle, the style sadly bother’d Odille .

They had followed her trail

Gaily the Lord Abbot smiled __

Into the bottomless pit he fell slap

In the pantry was the holy man discovered, —at his devotions

The Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas .

She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching

Head-piece—Mr Barney Maguire’s account of the Coronation

Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall

He bounced up and down : .

He rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers

A litter of five : : :

““O Lord,” he thought, ‘‘ what pain it was to drown!” . :

Grandville acted on it, and order’d his tandem

They came floating about him like so many prawns

Miss Una von—something

In an oak tree . . . she hung, crying and screaming

They heard somebody crying, ‘‘ Old Clo’ !”

“* My Lord,” said the King, ‘‘ here’s a rather tough job”

Tail-piece—The Auto-da-fé

Head-piece—The Ingoldsby Penance i

Subjecting his back to thump and to thwack, well and truly laid
on by a bare-footed Friar

The monks and the nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright .

PAGE
167
169
172
174
178
184
IgI

196
199
206
211
215
223
225
228
237
241
245
251
257
288
297
302
305
309
327
340
342

351

355



List of Illustrations

He puts his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his fingers out !

Tail-piece—Nell Cook

Gave me—several flaps behind

Cornet Jones of Tenth Hussars

« Ads cuss it ! I’ve spoiled myself now by that ’ere nasty gusset !”

I took him home to number 2

A Custom-house officer by his side, on a high trotting-horse with
a dun-coloured hide

Smuggler Bill, he looks behind

With iron it’s plated and machecollated, to pour boiling oil and
lead down; how you'd frown should a ladle-full fall on your
crown . :

Till ‘‘ Battle-Field” swarms like a Fair

The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise !

Wandering about and ‘‘ Boo-hoo ”-ing

Head-piece—The dead drummer

Or making their court to their Polls and their Sues

Tail-piece—The dead drummer

The horn at the gate of the barbican tower

Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power .

Tail-piece—The lay of St Cuthbert

Witches and warlocks, ghosts, goblins and ghouls

Bid the bandy-legged: sexton go run for the May’r !

An ‘Old Woman clothed in grey”

Made one grasshopper spring to the door—and was gone!

He enlarged so, his shape seem’d approaching a sphere

St Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile

In the midst sits the Doctor

The soapy-tailed Sow

The Squire ; ! : : ; 3

They dash’d up the hills, and they dash’d down the dales

There were peacocks served up in their pride

A tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne’s .

397
400

405
412
419

425
429
438

447
458
465
467
472
483
486
494.
507
517
518
537
546
547



x List of Illustrations

PAGE
Richard of Birchington. D : : : 5 554
Robert of Birchington : ; : : . 555
Ledger in hand, straight ‘‘ Auld Hornie ” appears : : 560
Tail-piece—The Knight and the Lady. a : : 576
Sir Christopher Hatton he danced with grace. . : 577
A grand pas de deux performed in the very first style by these two —§89
His first thought was to throw it in the pig-stye . 5 : 597
We carved “ez initials : : : : : 5 627

As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his way 5 : : 637





Introduction

THE first appearance in collected form of The Ingoldsby
Legends ; or, Mirth and Marvels, by Thomas Ingoldsby,
Esquire, was in three separate series, the first in 1840,
the second in 1842, and the third, posthumously, in
1847 ; and it was in his son’s preface to this third series
that the name of the Rev. Richard Harris Barham was
first attached to the book, although it had long been
pretty generally known that he was the author.

The Legends had been appearing in various periodi-
cals for some years before they were thus collected in
volume form; the Lozdon Chronicle, of which he was
the last editor before its change of name to the S#
James Chronicle, containing some of the earliest. Some
also appeared in Blackwooad’s Edinburgh Magazine, but
the larger number first saw light in Bentley's Miscellany,
some of the latest appearing in Colburn’s New Monthly
Magazine.

It was at Bentley’s suggestion, however, that the
Legends were published in collected form, and the
prefaces here reprinted to the first and second series
are characteristic letters from Barham addressed to
Richard Bentley, Esq. whose judgment is amply
evidenced by the large sale and continued popularity
of the volumes. ©

Richard Harris Barham, who came of an old Kentish
family, was the only son of his father, who bore the
same name. He was born at Canterbury, the 6th of
December 1788, and considered that he could trace
his descent through that Sir Randal or Reginald
Fitzurse, who was one of the murderers of Thomas
a Becket, back to one Ursus, who came over with the

xi



Xu Introduction

Conqueror. His father owned a farm known as
Tappington or Tapton Wood, the Tappington Everard
of the Legends, and it was here that, in 1798, he died,
leaving young Barham, whose mother was in very
delicate health, to the care of guardians.

At the age of nine he was sent to St Paul’s School,
and on one occasion when he was about fourteen, on
his way back to the school by the Dover coach, he met
with an alarming and painful accident through the bolt-
ing of the horses at Bricklayers’ Arms. The driver and
guard had both jumped off, and he imprudently put his
hand out to open the door when, the coach overturning,
his right arm was caught beneath it, and in this position
he was dragged along for some distance, his hand being
fearfully crushed and nearly torn off. On his arrival at
the school Mrs Roberts, the wife of the High-Master,
who regarded him with unusual interest, gave him the
most motherly attention, and although the doctors
feared the worst, nursed him to convalescence.

At St Paul’s School, amongst others who were life-
long friends, he met Richard Bentley, whose name
must always be associated with the /ugoldsby Legends ;
and it was whilst he was here that his first verses were
published, and received favourable notice from “ Mr
Sylvanus Urban” in the Gentleman's Magazine. He
was often a guest at the house of Dr and Mrs Roberts,
where he was encouraged to read or recite some of his
own compositions, and here he met Miss Smith (after-
wards Mrs Bartley) the actress, and was by her in-
structed in the art of elocution.

On leaving St Paul’s School he entered Brasenose
College, Oxford, where amongst his friends he num-
bered Lord George Grenville, afterwards Lord Nugent,
and Theodore Hook. Whilst at Oxford, although he
studied hard, chiefly at night, his days were spent as
far as possible mixing in society; this seems to have
led him at one period into rather high play ; in fact, on
one occasion he lost so heavily that he was unable to
pay. His application to one of his guardians for an





Introduction Xlil

advance was met with a decided refusal, but a refusal
accompanied by the most sensible advice, and what was
equally to the point the free gift of the sum required.
This had ‘its effect, for from that time he never gambled,
nor would he. even embark in any investment of the
least speculative character.

At this period, and in fact throughout his life, the
theatre had great attractions for him. When at home
in Kent for the vacations he was a constant attendant
at the theatre at Canterbury, both before and behind the
scenes, on one occasion at least writing an epilogue to
be spoken at an amateur performance given by the
officers quartered in that city.

He had been originally intended for the bar, and had,
in fact, for a short time read with Mr Chitty, but after a
severe illness, and perhaps influenced by the death of a
college friend under somewhat painful circumstances, he
decided to devote himself to the church. He was a
man of unfeigned but unostentatious piety, as every
reader of his life, written by his son and interspersed
with his own letters, will know. In 1813, after taking
his B.A. degree, he was appointed to the curacy of Ash-
ford in Kent, being transferred the following year to that
of Westwell, also in Kent, and worth £70 per annum,
in which he was succeeded in 1820 by the Rev. G. R.
Gleig, author of Ze Sudaltern and other military novels
and biographies, and afterwards chaplain-general of the
forces.

In 1814 he married Caroline, third daughter of
Captain Smart of the Royal Engineers, who, taken ill
at the same time as he was, only outlived him a few
years. At Westwell two boys were born to him, one
of whom died in infancy. In 1817 he was appointed
rector of Snargate and curate of Warehorn, one in
Romney Marsh and the other on the borders, a district
mentioned and described in more than one of the
Legends. His first novel, Baldwin, and the earliest
chapters of JZy Cousin Nicholas, were written about
this time, during an enforced rest through a broken leg



XIV Introduction

and sprained ankle, the results of an accident whilst he
was out driving

In 1821 he met in London one day a friend who was
on his way to post a letter to another clergyman, recom-
mending him to apply for a Minor Canonry at St Paul’s,
then vacant; his friend, instead of posting the letter,
mentioned the matter to Barham, who applied and re-
ceived the appointment. At this time Dr Hughes
(grandfather of the author of Tom Brown’s School-days)
was Canon-residentiary, and to this fact lovers of the
Ingoldsby Legends are much indebted, for it was from
Mrs Hughes and Mr John Hughes, the Canon’s wife
and son, that Barham derived the traditionary materials
upon which many of them are founded; readers of his
life, before referred to, will also remember the many

charming letters to this lady there printed.

' His first permanent residence in London was some
distance from the cathedral, being in Great Queen
Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and here, in addition to
the two sons and two daughters he already had, another
daughter was born.

In 1824, in addition to his Minor Canonry at St
Paul’s, he received the appointments as priest in
ordinary to His Majesty’s Chapels Royal, and incum-
bent of the joint parishes of St Mary Magdalen and
St Gregory by St Paul’s. His parochial work now
made it necessary for him to remove, and we find him
occupying a house on the south side of St Paul’s
Churchyard, at the entrance to Doctors’ Commons
and the Deanery; here, in 1825, he lost his eldest
daughter.

In August 1825, through the introduction of his
friend John Hughes, his poem The Ghost, a Canterbury
Tale appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, although
it had previously been published in three instalments
in the London Chronicle. It was about the end of this
year that he renewed his acquaintance with his old
college friend Theodore Hook, so celebrated at that
time amongst other things for his facility of im-





Introduction XV

provisation, a faculty in which Barham was very
nearly his equal: his biographer mentions the fact
that Mr Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation
was composed in this way and published with but
slight alteration. He says of himself that he never
to his knowledge wrote anything pretending to origin-
ality either in conception or execution; there is no
doubt, however, that, whether in writing or conversa-
tion, he was both ready and fluent.

In May 1828 he acted as one of the stewards of the
Literary Fund Dinner, an institution with which he
was connected for many years. And when in 1831
the Garrick Club was founded he was one of the
original members, and at the inaugural dinner some
lines which he had written for the occasion were sung,
set as a glee.

During the cholera epidemic in 1832, he had a very
sudden bereavement in the loss of his second son, who,
from perfect health was taken ill, died, and was buried
within twenty-four hours.

Some time in the early part of 1834, knowing of
the existence of some portion of his novel, JZy Cousin
Nicholas, Mrs Hughes borrowed the MS., and liking
the story herself, sent it to Blackwood for his approval,
and the first intimation that Barham had of the trans-
action was his receipt of the magazine containing all
that had been written, with a request for more copy
for the next month’s number. In March of this year he
became Chaplain to the Vintners’ Company, in which
capacity, besides saying grace at their dinners, he paid
weekly visits to the Alms-houses in the Mile End Road,
conducting divine service, and visiting and patching up
disagreements amongst the alms-women, whom, in one
of his playful letters to Mrs Hughes, he describes as
“my seraglio of twelve elderly odalisques.”

Bentley's Miscellany was started in January 1837,
with Charles Dickens as its editor, and it was only to
be expected that Bentley should invite his old friend to
become one of the regular contributors, and here the



Xvi Introduction

title “Ingoldsby Legends” and the signature Thomas
Ingoldsby were first used, his previous writings having
all appeared anonymously.

Though, as before mentioned, many of the Legends
were founded on materials supplied by Mrs Hughes,
yet many others were derived from his personal ex-
perience or from his reading. Thus the prose story
entitled, Szzgular Passage in the Life of Dr Harris,
was founded upon a similar delusion to that in the
story, which existed in the mind of a lady whom he
visited on her sick-bed.

In 1839 the Rev. Sydney Smith offered him the use
of the Canon’s Residence in Amen Corner, and here he
removed in the autumn of that year. He was now to
experience a more bitter bereavement than any previous
one, in the loss of his youngest son, a bright and pro-
mising lad of thirteen, a loss to which neither he nor his
wife seems ever to have become thoroughly reconciled.
Now he found literary work his greatest solace, though
it must be confessed, and it is not unnatural, that some
of his work at this period was not amongst his best
or favourite productions. loudie Jack of Shrewsbury
was written at this time, and he states that he had less
liking for this than for any of the Legends.

In 1842 he became President of Sion College, a post
tenable only for one year, and was made Divinity Lec-
turer at St Paul’s, and during this year exchanged the
living of St Mary Magdalen and St Gregory for that
of St Faith, the mother parish of St Paul’s Cathedral,
chiefly consisting of warehouses, thus having but a very
small number of parishioners.

With Bentley his friendship had been, and continued
to the end to be, a close one, but so far as the periodical
issue of the Jugoldsby Legends was concerned, their
connection concluded in 1843, after which date the re-
mainder appeared in Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine.

At the Queen’s procession to the opening of the
Royal Exchange, Oct. 28, 1844, he caught a chill,
which he hardly seemed to take any notice of at the





Introduction Xvi

time, but complained of his throat, attributing the pain
he experienced to the swallowing of the core of a pear.
He was ordered away to Bath, but coming back to be
present at a yestry meeting, caught a severe cold.
After this he returned to Clifton, and though he was
writing cheerfully from there so late as the 27th May,
and was well enough to be brought back to Amen
Corner in the beginning of June, it was only to die
there on the 17th of that month. He was buried on
the 21st of June beneath the altar of St Gregory's
Church.
F, J. SIMMONS.








Preface to First Series

To Richard Bentley, Esq.

My DEAR SIR,—

You wish me. to collect into one single volume
certain rambling extracts from our family memoranda,
many of which have already appeared in the pages of
your Miscellany. At the same time you tell me that
doubts are entertained in certain quarters as to the
authenticity of their details.

Now with respect to their genuineness, the old oak
chest, in which the originals are deposited, is not more
familiar to my eyes than it is to your own; and if its
contents have any value at all, it consists in the strict
veracity of the facts they record.

To convince the most incredulous, I can only add,
that should business—pleasure is out of the question—
ever call them into the neighbourhood of Folkestone,
let them take the high road from Canterbury to Dover
till they reach the eastern extremity of Barham Downs.
Here a beautiful green lane diverging abruptly to the
right will carry them through the Oxenden plantations
and the unpretending village of Denton, to the foot of
a very respectable hill—as hills go in this part of
Europe. On reaching its summit let them look straight
before them—and if among the hanging woods which
crown the opposite side of the valley, they cannot dis-
tinguish an antiquated Manor-house of Elizabethan
architecture, with its gable ends, stone stanchions, and
tortuous chimneys rising above the surrounding trees,
why—the sooner they procure a pair of Dollard’s patent
spectacles the better.

xix



xx Preface to First Series

If, on the contrary, they can manage to descry it,
and, proceeding some five or six furlongs through the
avenue, will ring at the Lodge-gate—they cannot
mistake the stone lion with the Ingoldsby escutcheon
(Ermine, a saltire engrailed Gules) in his paws—they
will be received with a hearty old English welcome.

The papers in question having been written by
different parties, and at various periods, I have thought
it advisable to reduce the more ancient of them into a
comparatively modern phraseology, and to make my
collateral ancestor, Father John, especially, “deliver
himself like a man of this world”; Mr Maguire, indeed,
is the only Gentleman who, in his account of the. late
Coronation, retains his own rich vernacular.

As to arrangement, I shall adopt the sentiment
expressed by the Constable of Bourbon four centuries
ago, teste Shakspeare, one which seems to become more
fashionable every day,

“The Devil take all order! !—I’ll to the throng !”
Believe me to be,
My dear Sir,
Yours, most indubitably and immeasurably,

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

TAPPINGTON EVERARD,
Jan. 20th, 1840.



Preface to the Second Edition

To Richard Bentley, Esq.

MY DEAR SIR,—



I SHOULD have replied sooner to your letter, but
that the last three days in January are, as you are
aware, always dedicated, at the Hall, to an especial
battue, and the old house is full of shooting-jackets,
shot-belts, and “double Joes.” Even the women wear
/ percussion caps, and your favourite (?) Rover, who, you
may remember, examined the calves of your legs with
such suspicious curiosity at Christmas, is as pheasant-
mad as if he were a biped, instead of being a genuine
four-legged scion of the Blenheim breed. I have
managed, however, to avail myself of a lucid interval
in the general hallucination, (how the rain did come
/ down on Monday!) and as you tell me the excellent
friend whom you are in the habit of styling “a Generous
and Enlightened Public” has emptied your shelves of
the first edition, and “asks for more,” why, I agree with
you, it would be a want of respect to that very respectable
personification, when furnishing him with a farther
supply, not to endeavour at least to amend my faults,
which are few, and your own, which are more numerous.
I have, therefore, gone to work con amore, supplying
occasionally on my own part a deficient note, or

elucidatory stanza, and on yours knocking out, with-
out remorse, your superfluous 2’s, and now and then

eviscerating your colon.

My duty to our illustrious friend thus performed, I
have a crow to pluck with him,—Why will he persist—
as you tell me he does persist—in calling me by all sorts
of names but those to which I am entitled by birth and

xxi



Xxil Preface to the Second Edition

baptism—my “Sponsorial and Patronymic appellations,”
as Dr Pangloss has it?>—Mrs Malaprop complains, and
with justice, of an “assault upon her parts of speech:” but
to attack one’s very existence—to deny that one zs a
person zz esse, and scarcely to admit that one may be a
person zz posse, is tenfold. cruelty ;—“it is pressing to
death, whipping, and hanging!”—let me entreat all



such likewise to remember that, as Shakespeare beauti-
fully expresses himself elsewhere—I give his words as
quoted by a very worthy Baronet in a neighbouring
county, when protesting against a defamatory placard
at a general election—
“Who steals my purse steals stuff !—
*Twas mine—'tisn’t his—nor nobody elses !
But he who runs away with my GOOD NaAmgE,

Robs me of what does not do him any good,
And makes me deuced poor !!”1



1A reading which seems most unaccountably to have escaped the re-
searches of all modern Shakespearians, including the rival editors of the
new and illustrated versions.



Preface to the Second Edition XXlii

In order utterly to squabash and demolish every gain-
sayer, I had thought, at one time, of asking my old and
esteemed friend, Richard Lane, to crush them at once
with his magic pencil, and to transmit my features to -
posterity, where all his works are sure to be “ delivered
according to the direction ;” but somehow the noble-
looking profiles which he has recently executed of the
Kemble family put me a little out of conceit with my own,
while the undisguised amusement which my “ Mephis-
topheles Eyebrow,” as he termed it, afforded him, in the
“ full face,” induced me to lay aside the design. Besides,
my dear Sir, since, as has well been observed, “there
never was a married man yet who had not somebody
remarkably like him walking about town,” it is a
thousand to one but my lineaments might, after all,
out of sheer perverseness be ascribed to anybody rather
than to the real owner. I have therefore sent you,
instead thereof, a very fair sketch of Tappington, taken
from the Folkestone road (I tore it last night out of
Julia Simpkinson’s album) ; get Gilks to make a wood-
cut of it. And now, if any miscreant (I use the word
only in its primary and “ Pickwickian” sense of “ Un-
believer,”) ventures to throw any further doubt upon
the matter, why, as Jack Cade’s friend says in the play,
“ There are the chimneys in my father’s house, and the
bricks are alive at this day to testify it!”

“Why, very well then—we hope here be truths !”

Heaven be with you, my dear Sir !—I was getting a
little excited ; but you, who are mild as the milk that
dews the soft whisker of the new-weaned kitten, will
forgive me when, wiping away the nascent moisture
from my brow, I “ pull in,” and subscribe myself,

Yours quite as much as his own,

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

TAPPINGTON EVERARD,
feb. 2nd, 1843.





GFirst Series

The Spectre of Tappington

“JT is very odd, though; what can have become of them?”
said Charles Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an
old-fashioned bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a
still more’ old-fashioned manor-house; “’tis confoundedly
odd, and I can’t make it out at all. Why, Barney, where
are they >—and where the d—1 are you?”

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieu-
tenant, who was, in the main, a reasonable person,—at least
as reasonable a person as any young gentleman of twenty-
_ two in “the service” can fairly be expected to be,—cooled
_when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply ex-
_ tempore to a summons which it was impossible he should
hear.

. An application to the bell was the considerate result ;
- and the footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to
belt sounded along the gallery.

“Come in!” said his master.—An ineffectual attempt
upon the door reminded Mr Seaforth that he had locked
himself in—* By Heaven! this is the oddest thing of all,”
said he, as he turned the key and admitted Mr Maguire
into his dormitory.

_ “Barney, where are my pantaloons?”

“Ts it the breeches?” asked the valet, casting an inquir-
ing eye round the apartment ;—“‘is it the breeches, sir?”

“Yes; what have you done with them?”

“Sure then your honour had them on when you went to
bed, and it’s hereabout they'll be, Pll be bail;” and Barney
4 A







GFirst Series

The Spectre of Tappington

“JT is very odd, though; what can have become of them?”
said Charles Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an
old-fashioned bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a
still more’ old-fashioned manor-house; “’tis confoundedly
odd, and I can’t make it out at all. Why, Barney, where
are they >—and where the d—1 are you?”

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieu-
tenant, who was, in the main, a reasonable person,—at least
as reasonable a person as any young gentleman of twenty-
_ two in “the service” can fairly be expected to be,—cooled
_when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply ex-
_ tempore to a summons which it was impossible he should
hear.

. An application to the bell was the considerate result ;
- and the footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to
belt sounded along the gallery.

“Come in!” said his master.—An ineffectual attempt
upon the door reminded Mr Seaforth that he had locked
himself in—* By Heaven! this is the oddest thing of all,”
said he, as he turned the key and admitted Mr Maguire
into his dormitory.

_ “Barney, where are my pantaloons?”

“Ts it the breeches?” asked the valet, casting an inquir-
ing eye round the apartment ;—“‘is it the breeches, sir?”

“Yes; what have you done with them?”

“Sure then your honour had them on when you went to
bed, and it’s hereabout they'll be, Pll be bail;” and Barney
4 A





2 The Spectre of Tappington

lifted a fashionable tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair,
proceeding in his examination. But the search was vain:
there was the tunic aforesaid,—there was a smart-looking
kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article of
all in a gentleman’s wardrobe was still wanting.

“Where can they be?” asked the master, with a strong
accent on the auxiliary verb.

“ Sorrow a know I knows,” said the man.

“Tt must have been the devil, then, after all, who has
been here and carried them off!” cried Seaforth, staring
full into Barney’s face.

Mr Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his
countrymen, still he looked as if he did not quite subscribe
to the sequztur.

His master read incredulity in his countenance. “ Why,
I tell you, Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair,
when I got into bed; and, by Heaven! I distinctly saw the
ghost of the old fellow they told me of, come in at mid-
night, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them.”

“ May be so,” was the cautious reply.

“T thought, of course, it was a dream ; but then,—where
the d—1 are the breeches?”

The question was more easily asked than answered.
Barney renewed his search, while the lieutenant folded his
arms, and, leaning against the toilet, sunk into a reverie.

« After ali, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving
cousins,” said Seaforth.

“ Ah! then, the ladies!” chimed in Mr Maguire, though
the observation was not addressed to him; “and will it be
Miss Caroline, or Miss Fanny, that’s stole your honour’s
things?”

“T hardly know what to think otf it,” pursued the
bereaved lieutenant, still speaking in soliloquy, with his
eye resting dubiously on the chamber-door. “I locked
myself in, that’s certain; and—but there must be some |
other entrance to the room—pooh |! I remember—the i
private staircase; how could I° be such a fool?” and he f
crossed the chamber to where a low oaken doorcase va]
dimly visible in a distant corner. He paused before it.







Sarr





The Spectre of Tappington 2

Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation; but
it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period con-
cealed by tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls
on either side the portal.

“This way they must have come,” said Seaforth ; “1 wish
with all my heart I had caught them !”

“Och! the kittens!” sighed Mr Barney Maguire.

But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as
before. True, there was the “other door;” but then that,
too, on examination, was even more firmly secured than
the one which opened on the gallery,—two heavy bolts on
the inside effectually prevented any coup de main on the
lieutenant’s d¢vowac from that quarter. He was more
puzzled than ever; nor did the minutest inspection of
the walls and floor throw any light upon the subject! one
thing only was clear,—the breeches were gone! “It is
very singular,” said the lieutenant.

Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an
antiquated but commodious manor-house in the eastern
division of the county of Kent. A former proprietor had
been High-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, and many a
dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentious-
ness of his life, and the enormity of his offences. The
Glen, which the keeper’s daughter was seen to enter, but
/ never known to quit, still frowns darkly as of yore; while
' an ineradicable bloodstain on the oaken stair yet bids
'_ defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it is
' with one particular apartment that a deed of more especial
) atrocity is said to be connected. A stranger guest—so runs
the legend—arrived unexpectedly at the mansion of the
“Bad Sir Giles.’ They met in apparent friendship; but
the ill-concealed scowl on their master’s brow told the

domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the
» banquet, however, was not spared ; the wine-cup circulated
freely,—too freely, perhaps,—for sounds of discord at length
reached the ears of even the excluded serving-men as they
were doing their best to imitate their betters in the lower
hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach the





4 The Spectre of Tappington

parlour; one, an old and favoured retainer of the house,
went so far as to break in upon his master’s privacy. Sir
Giles, already high in oath, fiercely enjoined his absence,
and he retired; not, however, before he had distinctly heard
from the stranger’s lips a menace that “There was that
within his pocket which could disprove the knight’s right
to issue that or any other command within the walls of
Tapton.”

_ The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have pro-
duced a beneficial effect ; the voices of the disputants fell,
and the conversation was carried on thenceforth in a more
subdued tone, till, as evening closed in, the domestics, when
summoned to attend with lights, found not only cordiality
restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated.
Fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced ;
nor was it till at a late, or rather early hour, that the
revellers sought their chambers.

The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of
the eastern angle of the building, and had once been the
favourite apartment of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed
this preference to the facility which a private staircase,
communicating with the grounds, had afforded him, in the
old knight’s time, of following his wicked courses unchecked
by parental observation ; a consideration which ceased to
be of weight when the death of his father left him uncon-
trolled master of his estate and actions. From that period
Sir Giles had established himself in what were called the
“state apartments ;” and the “oaken chamber” was rarely
tenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity, or
when the yule log drew an unusually large accession of
guests around the Christmas hearth.

On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown
visitor, who sought his couch heated and inflamed from his
midnight orgies, and in the morning was found in his bed a
swollen and blackened corpse. No marks of violence
appeared upon the body ; but the livid hue of the lips, and
certain dark-coloured spots visible on the skin, aroused
suspicions which those who entertained them were too timid
to express. Apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the pre-



The Spectre of ‘Tappington iS

ceding night, Sir Giles’s confidential leech pronounced to
be the cause of his sudden dissolution ; the body was buried
in peace; and though some shook their heads as they
witnessed the haste with which the funeral rites were
hurried on, none ventured to murmur. Other events arose
to distract the attention of the retainers; men’s minds
became occupied by the stirring politics of the day, while
the near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly
arrogating to itself a title which the very elements joined
with human valour to disprove, soon interfered to weaken,
if not obliterate, all remembrance of the nameless stranger
who had died within the walls of Tapton Everard.

Years rolled on: the “Bad Sir Giles” had himself long
since gone to his account, the last, as it was believed, of
his immediate line; though a few of the older tenants were
sometimes heard to speak of an elder brother, who had
disappeared in early life, and never inherited the estate.
Rumours, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands were
at one time rife: but they died away, nothing occurring to
support them: the property passed unchallenged to a
collateral branch of the family, and the secret, if secret
there were, was buried in Denton churchyard, in the lonely
grave of the mysterious stranger. One circumstance alone
occurred, after a long-intervening period, to revive the
memory of these transactions. Some workmen employed
in grubbing an old plantation, for the purpose of raising on
its site a modern shrubbery, dug up, in the execution of
their task, the mill-dewed remnants of what seemed to
have been once a garment. On more minute inspection,
enough remained of silken slashes and a coarse embroidery
to identify the relics as having once formed part of a pair
of trunk hose; while a few papers which fell from them,
altogether illegible from damp and age, were by the
unlearned rustics conveyed to the then owner of the
estate.

Whether the squire was more successful in deciphering
them was never known; he certainly never alluded to their
contents; and little would have been thought of the matter
but for the inconvenient memory of one old woman, who



6 The Spectre of ‘Tappington

declared she heard her grandfather say that when the
“stranger guest” was poisoned, though all the rest of his
clothes were there, his breeches, the supposed repository of
the supposed documents, could never be found. The master
of Tapton Everard smiled when he heard Dame Jones’s
hint of deeds which might impeach the validity of his own
title in favour of some unknown descendant of some un-
known heir; and the story was rarely alluded to, save by
one or two miracle-mongers, who had heard that others
had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles, in his night-cap, issue
from the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his
shadowy hands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly
for something hidden among the evergreens. The stranger’s
death-room had, of course, been occasionally haunted from
the time of his decease; but the periods of visitation had
latterly become very rare,—even Mrs Botherby, the house-
keeper, being forced to admit that, during her long sojourn
at the manor, she had never “met with anything worse
than herself;” though, as the old lady afterwards added
upon more mature reflection, “I must say I think I saw the
devil once.”

Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and
such the story which the lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed
to her equally mercurial cousin Charles Seaforth, lieutenant
in the Hon. East India Company’s second regiment of
Bombay Fencibles, ay arm-in-arm~ they promenaded a
gallery decked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral
portraits, and, among others, with that of the redoubted
Sir Giles himself. The gallant commander had that very
morning paid his first visit to the house of his maternal
uncle, after an absence of several years passed with his
regiment on the arid plains of Hindostan, whence he was
now returned on a three years’ furlough. He had gone
out a boy,—he returned a man; but the impression made
upon his youthful fancy by his favourite cousin remained
unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even
before he sought the home of his widowed mother,—
comforting himself in this breach of filial decorum by the
reflection that, as the manor was so little out of his way, it



The Spectre of Tappington — 7

would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door of his relatives
without just looking in for a few hours.

But he found his uncle as hospitable and his cousin more
charming than ever; and the looks of one, and the requests
of the other, soon precluded the possibility of refusing to
lengthen the “few hours” into a few days, though the house
was at the moment full of visitors.

The Peterses were there from Ramsgate; and Mr, Mrs,
and the two Miss Simpkinsons, from Bath, had come to
pass a month with the family; and Tom Ingoldsby had
brought down his college friend the Honourable Augustus
Sucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a
fortnight’s shooting. And then there was Mrs Ogleton,
the rich young widow, with her large black eyes, who,
people did say, was setting her cap at the young squire,
though Mrs Botherby did not believe it; and, above all,
there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her femme de chambre,
who “smon-Diew'd” everything and everybody, and cried,
“ Quel horreur !” at Mrs Botherby’s cap. In short, to use
the last-named and much-respected lady’s own expression,
the house was “choke-full” to the very attics,—all, save
the “oaken chamber,” which, as the lieutenant expressed
a most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith
appropriated to his particular accommodation. Mr Maguire
meanwhile was fain to share the apartment of Oliver
Dobbs, the squire’s own man: a jocular proposal of joint
occupancy having been first indignantly rejected by “ Made-
moiselle,” though preferred with the “laste taste in life” of
Mr Barney’s most insinuating brogue.

“Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your
breakfast will be quite spoiled: what can have made you
so idle?” Such was the morning salutation of Miss
Ingoldsby to the mzlitaire as he entered the breakfast-
room half an hour after the latest of the party.

“A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment
with,” chimed in Miss Frances. “What is become of our
ramble to the rocks before breakfast ?”

“Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise



8 ' The Spectre of Tappington

now,” said Mrs Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with
underdone eyes.

“When I was a young man,” said Mr Peters, I “ remember
I always made a point of —”

“Pray how long ago was that?” asked Mr Simpkinson
from Bath.

“Why, sir, when I married Mrs Peters, I was—let me see
—I was—”





“Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your breakfast!”
interrupted his better half, who had a mortal horror of
chronological references ; it’s very rude to tease people with
your family affairs.”

The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence,
—a good-humoured nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-
inquisitive, being the extent of his salutation. Smitten as
he was, and in the immediate presence of her who had
made so large a hole in his heart, his manner was evidently
distrait, which the fair Caroline in her secret soul attributed







The Spectre of Tappington 9

to his being solely occupied by her agrémens,—how would
she have bridled had she known that they only shared his
meditations with a pair of breeches!

Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen
eggs, darting occasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies,
in hope of detecting the supposed waggery by the evidence
of some furtive smile or conscious look. But in vain; not
a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did the slightest
elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions.
Hints and insinuations passed unheeded,—more particular
“inquiries were out of the question :—the subject was un-
approachable.

In the meantime, “ patent cords” were just the thing for
a morning’s ride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the
party over the downs, till, every faculty absorbed by the
beauties, animate and inanimate, which surrounded him,
Lieutenant Seaforth of the Bombay Fencibles bestowed no
more thought upon his breeches that if he had been born
on the top of Ben Lomond.

Another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly,
forming with his level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-
off west, whither the heavy cloud, which for the last two
hours had been pouring its waters on the earth, was now
flying before him.

“Ah! then, and it’s little good it’ll be the claning of ye,”
apostrophised Mr Barney Maguire, as he deposited, in front
of his master’s toilet, a pair of “bran-new” jockey boots,
one of Hoby’s primest fits, which the lieutenant had
purchased in his way through town. On that very morning
had they come for the first time under the valet’s depuriat-
ing hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride of the
preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might,
perhaps, have considered the application of “Warren’s
| Matchless,” or oxalic acid, altogether superfluous. Not so
' Barney: with the nicest care had he removed the slightest
impurity from each polished surface, and there they stood,
» rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder a pang shot
» across Mr Maguire’s breast, as he thought on the work now



10 The Spectre of Tappington

cut out for them, so different from the light labours of the
day before; no wonder he murmured with a sigh, as the
scarce-dried window-panes disclosed a road now inch-deep
in mud, “ Ah! then, it’s little good the claning of ye!”—
for well had he learned in the hall below that eight miles
of a stiff clay soil lay between the Manor and Bolsover
Abbey, whose picturesque ruins,

“Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay,”

the party had determined to explore. The master had
already commenced dressing, and the man was fitting
straps upon a light pair of crane-necked spurs, when his
hand was arrested by the old question, “ Barney, where are
the breeches?”

They were nowhere to be found !:

Mr Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and
equipped in ahandsome green riding-frock, but no “ breeches
and boots to match” were there: loose jean trowsers, sur-
mounting a pair of diminutive Wellingtons, embraced,
somewhat incongruously, his nether man, vzce the “ patent
cords,” returned, like yesterday’s pantaloons, absent without
leave. The “top-boots” had a holiday.

“A fine morning after the rain,” said Mr Simpkinson
from Bath.

“Just the thing for the ’ops,” said Mr Peters. “I
remember when I was a boy—”

“Do hold your tongue, P.,” said Mrs Peters,—advice
which that exemplary matron was in the constant habit of
administering to “her P.,” as she called him, whenever he
prepared to vent his reminiscences. Her precise reason
for this it would be difficult to determine, unless, indeed,
the story be true which a little bird had whispered into
Mrs Botherby’s ear,—Mr Peters, though now a wealthy
man, had received a liberal education at a charity-school,
and was apt to recur to the days of his muffin-cap and
leathers. As usual, he took his wife’s hint in good part,
and “ paused in his reply.”

“A glorious day for the ruins!” said young Ingoldsby.





The Spectre of Tappington EL

“But, Charles, what the deuce are you about ?—you don’t
mean to ride through our lanes in such toggery as that ?”

“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “won't you be
very wet?”

“You had better take Tom’s cab,” quoth the squire.

But this proposition was at once overruled ; Mrs Ogleton
had already nailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best
adapted for a snug flirtation.

“Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?” No; that was
the post of Mr Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had
acquired some fame as a whip while travelling through the
midland counties for the firm of Bagshaw, Snivelby, and
Ghrimes.

“Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins,” said Charles,
with as much zonxchalance as he could assume,—and he did
so; Mr Ingoldsby, Mrs Peters, Mr Simpkinson from Bath,
and his eldest daughter with her a/bum, following in the
family coach. The gentleman-commoner “ voted the affair
d—d slow,” and declined the party altogether in favour of
the gamekeeper and a cigar. “There was ‘no fun’ in
looking at old houses!” Mrs Simpkinson preferred a
short sour in the still-room with Mrs Botherby, who had
promised to initiate her in that grand arcanum, the trans-
mutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly.

“ Did you ever see an old abbey before, Mr Peters?”

“Yes, miss, a French one; we have got one at Ramsgate;
he teaches the Miss Joneses to parley-voo, and is turned of
sixty.”

Miss Simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable
disdain.

Mr Simpkinson from Bath was a professed antiquary, and
one of the first water ; he was master of Gwillim’s Heraldry,
and Milles’s History of the Crusades; knew every plate
in the Monasticon ; had written an essay on the origin
and dignity of the office of overseer, and settled the date
ofa Queen Anne’s farthing. An influential member of the
Antiquarian Society, to whose “Beauties of Bagnigge
Wells” he had been a liberal subscriber, procured him a



12 The Spectre of Tappington

seat at the board of that learned body, since which happy
epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a more indefatigable corre-
spondent. His inaugural essay on the President’s cocked
hat was considered a miracle of erudition: and his account
of the earliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a
masterpiece of antiquarian research. His eldest daughter
was of a kindred spirit: if her father’s mantle had not fallen
upon her, it was only because he had not thrown it off him-
self; she had caught hold of its tail, however, while it yet
hung upon his honoured shoulders. To souls so congenial,
what a sight was the magnificent ruin of Bolsover! its
broken arches, its mouldering pinnacles, and the airy tracery
of its half-demolished windows. The party were in
‘ raptures; Mr Simpkinson began to meditate an essay, and
his daughter an ode: even Seaforth, as he gazed on these
lonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a
momentary forgetfulness of his love and losses; the
widow’s eye-glass turned from her czcésbeo’s whiskers to the
mantling ivy: Mrs Peters wiped her spectacles; and “her
P.” supposed the central tower “had once been the county
jail.” The squire was a philosopher, and had been there
often before, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens,

“ Bolsover Priory,” said Mr Simpkinson, with the air ofa
connoisseur,—“ Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of
Henry the Sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh
century. Hugh de Bolsover had accompanied that monarch
to the Holy Land, in the expedition undertaken by way of
penance for the murder of his young nephews in the Tower.
Upon the dissolution of the monasteries, the veteran was
enfeoffed in the lands and manor, to which he gave his own
name of Bowlsover, or Bee-owls-over (by corruption Bol-
sover),—a Bee in chief, over three Owls, all proper, being
the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguished crusader -
at the siege of Acre.”

“Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith,” said Mr Peters; “I’ve
heard tell of him, and all about Mrs Partington, and—”

“P., be quiet, and don’t expose yourself!” sharply inter-
rupted his lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to the
bottled stout.



The Spectre of Tappington i

“These lands,” continued the antiquary, “were held in
grand serjeantry by the presentation of three white owls
and a pot of honey—”

“Lassy me! how nice!” said Miss Julia. Mr Peters
licked his lips.

“Pray give me leave, my dear—owls and honey, when-
ever the king should come a rat-catching into this part of
the country.”

“Rat-catching!” ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly
in the mastication of a drumstick.

“To be sure, my dear sir: don’t you remember that rats
once came under the forest laws—a minor species of
venison? ‘Rats and mice, and such small deer, eh?—
Shakspear, you know. Our ancestors ate rats (“ The nasty
fellows!” shuddered Miss Julia in a parenthesis) ; and owls,
you know, are capital mousers—”

“Tye seen a howl,” said Mr Peters; “there’s one in the
Sohological Gardens,—a little hook-nosed chap in a wig,—
only its feathers and—”

Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech.

“Do be quiet!” cried the authoritative voice, and the
would-be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the
“ Sohological Gardens.”

“Vou should read Blount’s ‘Jocular Tenures,’ Mr
Ingoldsby,” pursued Simpkinson. “A learned man was
Blount! Why, sir, his Royal Highness the Duke of York
once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers—”

“T’ye heard of him,” broke in the incorrigible Peters ;
“he was hanged at the old Bailey in a silk rope for
shooting Dr Johnson.”

The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption ;
but, taking a pinch of snuff, continued his harangue.

“ A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion
of royalty who rides across one of his manors ; and if you
look into the penny county histories, now publishing by
an eminent friend of mine,. you will find that Langhale in
Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin per saltum sufflatum, et
pettum ; that is, he was to come every Christmas into
Westminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and—’”



14 The Spectre of Tappington

“Mr Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?” cried Tom
Ingoldsby, hastily.

“Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed Le—”

“Mrs Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it,”
said Tom, still more rapidly ; at the same time filling a
glass, and forcing it on the sgavant, who, thus arrested in
the very crisis of his narrative, received and swallowed the
potation as if it had been physic.

“What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered
there?” continued Tom; “something of interest. See
how fast she is writing.”

The diversion was effectual: every one looked towards
Miss Simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for “creature
comforts,” was seated apart on the dilapidated remains of
an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to paper something
that had strongly impressed her: the air,—the eye “in a
fine frenzy rolling,’—all betokened that the divine affatus
was come. Her father rose, and stole silently towards her.

“What an old boar!” muttered young Ingoldsby ;
alluding, perhaps, to a slice of brawn which he had just
begun to operate upon, but which, from the celerity with
which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficult of
mastication.

But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline
all this while? Why, it so happened that they had been
simultaneously stricken with the picturesque appearance
of one of those high and pointed arches, which that
eminent antiquary, Mr Horseley Curties, has described ~in
his “Ancient Records” as “a Gothic window of the Saxon
order ;”—and then the ivy clustered so thickly and so
beautifully on the other side, that they went round to look
at that ;—and then their proximity deprived it of half its
effect, and so they walked across to a little knoll, a
hundred yards off, and in crossing a small ravine, they
came to what in Ireland they call a “bad step,” and
Charles had to carry his cousin over it ;—and then, when
they had to come back, she would not give him the
trouble again for the world, so they followed a better but
more circuitous route, and there were hedges and ditches







The Spectre of Tappington 15

in the way, and stiles to get over, and gates to get through;
so that an hour or more had elapsed before they were able
to rejoin the party.

“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “how long
you have been gone!”

And so they had. The remark was a very just as well
as a very natural one. They were gone a long while, and
a nice cosey chat they had; and what do you think it was
all about, my dear miss ?

“QO, lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes,
and nightingales, and—”

Stay, stay, my sweet young lady ; do not let the fervour
of your feelings run away with you! I donot pretend to
say, indeed, that one or more of these pretty subjects
might not have been introduced; but the most important
and leading topic of the conference was—Lieutenant
Seaforth’s breeches.

“Caroline,” said Charles, “I have had some very odd
dreams since I have been at Tappington.”

“Dreams, have you?” smiled the young lady, arching
her taper neck like a swan in pluming.. “ Dreams, have

ou?”
“ Ay, dreams,—or dream, perhaps, | should say; for,
though repeated, it was still the same. And what do you
imagine was its subject?”

“Tt is impossible for me to divine,” said the tongue ;—
“T have not the least difficulty in guessing,” said the eye,
as plainly as ever eye spoke.

“T dreamt—of your great grandfather!”

There was a change in the glance—“ My great grand-
father?”

“Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about
the other day: he walked into my bedroom in his short
cloak of murrey-coloured velvet, his long rapier, and his
Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as the picture repre-
sents him: but with one exception.”

“ And what was that ?”

“Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were—
those of a skeleton.”



16 The Spectre of Tappington

“ Well.”

“Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and
looking round him with a wistful air, he came to the bed’s
foot, stared at me in a manner impossible to describe,—and
then he—he laid hold of my pantaloons ; whipped his long
bony legs into them in a twinkling ; and strutting up to the
glass, seemed to view himself
in it with great complacency.
I tried to speak, but in vain.
The effort, however, seemed
to excite his attention; for,
wheeling about, he showed me
the grimmest-looking death’s
head you can well imagine,
and with an indescribable grin
strutted out of the room.”

“Absurd! Charles. How
can you talk such non-
sense ?”

“But, Caroline, — the
breeches are really gone.”

On the following morning,
contrary to his usual custom,
Seaforth was the first person
in the breakfast parlour. As
no one else was present, he
did precisely what nine young
men out of ten so situated would have done; he walked up
to the mantel-piece, established himself upon the rug, and
subducting his coat-tails one under each arm, turned towards
the fire that portion of the human frame which it is con-
sidered equally indecorous to present to a friend or an
enemy. A serious, not to say anxious, expression was
visible upon his good-humoured countenance, and _ his
mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle,
when little Flo, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed,—the
pet object of Miss Julia Simpkinson’s affections, bounced out
from beneath a sofa, and began to bark at—his pantaloons.





The Spectre of Tappington 17











They were cleverly “ built,” of a light grey mixture, a
broad stripe of the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam
in a perpendicular direction from hip to ankle,—in short,
the regimental costume of the Royal Bombay Fencibles.
The animal, educated in the country, had never seen such.
a pair of breeches in her life—Omne tgnotum pro magnifico !
' The scarlet streak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of
the fire, seemed to act on Flora’s nerves as the same colour
does on those of bulls and turkeys ; she advanced at the
pas de charge, and her vociferation, like her amazement,
was unbounded. A sound kick from the disgusted officer
' changed its character, and induced a retreat at the very
| moment when the mistress of the pugnacious quadruped

entered to the rescue.

“Lassy me! Flo! what zs the matter? * ered: “the
sympathising lady, with a scrutinising glance levelled at
the gentleman.
| It might as well have lighted on a feather bed.—His air
" of imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination ; and
\ as he would not, and Flora could not expound, that injured
) individual was compelled to pocket up her wrongs. Others
) of the household soon dropped in, and clustered round the
‘ board dedicated to the most sociable of meals; the urn was
» paraded “ hissing hot,” and the cups which “ cheer, but not
‘ inebriate,” steamed redolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins
» and marmalade, newspapers and Finnon haddies, left little
+ room for observation on the character of Charles’s warlike
> “turn-out.” At length a look from Caroline, followed by a
‘smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn
abruptly and address his neighbour. It was Miss Simp-
kinson, who, deeply engaged in sipping her tea and turning
> over her album, seemed, like a female Chrononotonthologos,
> “immersed in cogibundity of cogitation.” An interrogatory
on the subject of her studies drew from her the confession
that she was at that moment employed in putting the
finishing touches to a poem inspired by the romantic shades
of Bolsover. The entreaties of the company were of course
urgent. Mr Peters, “who liked verses,” was especially
persevering, and Sappho at length compliant. After a pre-

B



18 The Spectre of Tappington

paratory hem! and a glance at the mirror to ascertain that
her look was sufficiently sentimental, the poetess began :—

“ There is a calm, a holy feeling,
Vulgar minds can never know,
O’er the bosom softly stealing—
Chasten’d grief, delicious woe !
Oh! how sweet at eve regaining
Yon lone tower’s sequester’d shade—
Sadly mute and uncomplaining—”

—Yow !—yeough !—yeough !—yow !—yow! yelled a hap-
less sufferer from beneath the table—It was an unlucky
hour for quadrupeds; and if “every dog will have his day,”
he could not have selected a more unpropitious one than
this. Mrs Ogleton, too, had a pet,—a favourite pug,—
whose squab figure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail,
that curled like-a head of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke
his Dutch extraction. Yow! yow! yow! continued the
brute,—a chorus in which Flo instantly joined. Sooth to
say, pug had more reason to express his dissatisfaction
than was given him by the muse of Simpkinson; the
other only barked for company. Scarcely had the poetess
got through her first stanza, when Tom Ingoldsby, in the
enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in the material
world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid his hand on
the cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it
such an unlucky twist, that the full stream of its scalding
contents descended on the gingerbread hide of the unlucky
Cupid.—The confusion was complete ;—the whole economy
of the table disarranged ;—the company broke up in
most admired disorder ;—and “ Vulgar minds will never
know” anything more of Miss Simpkinson’s ode till they
peruse it in some forthcoming Annual.

Seaforth profited by the confusion to take the delinquent
who had caused this “stramash” by the arm, and to lead
him to the lawn, where he had a word or two for his private
ear. The conference between the young gentlemen was
neither brief in its duration nor unimportant in its result.
The subject was what the lawyers call tripartite, embracing
the information that Charles Seaforth was over head and



The Spectre of Tappington 19

ears in love with Tom Ingoldsby’s sister ; secondly, that
the lady had referred him to “papa” for his sanction;
thirdly and lastly, his nightly visitations, and consequent
bereavement. At the two first items Tom smiled auspici-
ously ; at the last he burst out into an absolute “ guffaw.”

“Steal your breeches !—Miss Bailey over again, by
Jove,” shouted Ingoldsby. “But a gentleman, you say,—
and Sir Giles too.—I am not sure, Charles, whether I ought
not to call you out for aspersing the honour of the family.”

“Laugh as you will, Tom,—be as incredulous as you
please. One fact is incontestible,—the breeches are gone!
Look here—I am reduced to my regimentals ; and if these
go, to-morrow I must borrow of you!”

Rochefoucault says, there is something in the misfortunes
of our very best friends that does not displease us ;—
assuredly we can, most of us, laugh at their petty incon-
veniences, till called upon to supply them. Tom com-
posed his features on the instant, and replied with more
gravity, as well as with an expletive, which, if my Lord
Mayor had been within hearing, might have cost him five
shillings.

“There is something very queer in this, after all. The
clothes, you say, have positively disappeared. Somebody
is playing you a trick ; and, ten to one, your servant has a
hand in it. By the way, I heard something yesterday of
his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and seeing a
ghost, or something of that kind, himself. Depend upon
it, Barney is in the plot.”

It now struck the lieutenant at once, that the usually
buoyant spirits of his attendant had of late been materially
sobered down, his loquacity obviously circumscribed, and
that he, the said lieutenant, had actually rung his bell
three several times that very morning before he could
procure his attendance. Mr Maguire was forthwith sum-
moned, and underwent a close examination. The
“bobbery” was easily explained. Mr Oliver Dobbs

‘had hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying

on between the gentleman from Munster and the lady
from the Rue St Honoré. Mademoiselle had boxed Mr



20 The Spectre of Tappington

Maguire’s ears, and Mr Maguire had pulled Mademoiselle
upon his knee, and the lady had zo¢ cried Mon Dieu !
And Mr Oliver Dobbs said it was very wrong ; and Mrs
Botherby said it was “scandalous,” and what ought not to
be done in any moral kitchen ; and Mr Maguire had got
hold of the Honourable Augustus Sucklethumbkin’s
powder-flask, and had put large pinches of the best double
Dartford into Mr Dobbs’s tobacco-box ;—and Mr Dobbs’s
pipe had exploded, and set fire to Mrs Botherby’s Sunday
cap ;—and Mr Maguire had put it out with the slop-basin,
“barring the wig”;—and then they were all so “can-
tankerous,” that Barney had gone to take a walk in the
garden ; and then—then Mr Barney had seen a ghost! !

“ A what? you blockhead !” asked Tom Ingoldsby.

“ Sure then, and it’s meself will tell your honour the rights
of it,’ said the ghost-seer. “ Meself and Miss Pauline, sir,—
or Miss Pauline and meself, for the ladies comes first any-
how,—we got tired of the hobstroppylous skrimmaging
among the ould servants, that didn’t know a joke when
they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet,—
that’s the rory-bory-alehouse, they calls him in this country,
—and we walked upon the lawn—and divil of any alehouse
there was there at all; and Miss Pauline said it was be-
cause of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn't we see it
better beyonst the trees?—and so we went to the trees,
but sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big
ghost instead of it.”

“A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?”

“ Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honour. A tall ould
gentleman he was, all in white, with a shovel on the
shoulder of him, and a big torch in his fist,—though what
he wanted with that it’s meself can’t tell, for his eyes were
like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet, which
wasn't there at all;—and ‘Barney,’ says he to me,—’cause
why he knew me,—‘ Barney,’ says he, ‘what is it you're
doing with the colleen there, Barney ?’—Divil a word did I
say. Miss Pauline screeched, and cried murther in French,
and ran off with herself; and of course meself was in a
mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop





The Spectre of Tappington - 21

palavering with him any way; so I dispersed at once, and
the ghost vanished in a flame of fire!”

Mr Maguire’s account was. received with avowed in-
credulity by both gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his
text with unflinching pertinacity. A reference to Made-
moiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither party
had a taste for delicate investigations.

“Tl tell you what, Seaforth,” said Ingoldsby, after
Barney had received his dismissal, “that there is a trick
here, is evident; and Barney’s vision may possibly be a
part of it. Whether he is most knave or fool, you best
know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night and
see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaint-
ance. Meanwhile your finger on your lip!”

“Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and grayes give up their dead.”

Gladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and
therefore I do beseech the “ gentle reader” to believe, that
if all the swccedanea to this mysterious narrative are not in
strict keeping, he will ascribe it only to the disgraceful
innovations of modern degeneracy upon the sober and
dignified habits of our ancestors. I can introduce him, it
is true, into an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls
covered on three sides with black oak wainscotting, adorned
with carvings of fruit and flowers long anterior to those of
Grinling Gibbons ; the fourth side is clothed with a curious
remnant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of some
Scriptural history, but of whzch not even Mrs Botherby
could determine. Mr Simpkinson, who had examined it
carefully, inclined to believe the principal figure to be either
Bathsheba, or Daniel in the lions’ den ; while Tom Ingoldsby
decided in favour of the King of Bashan. All, however,
was conjecture, tradition being silent on the subject.—A
lofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal led
out of, this apartment ; they were opposite each other, and
each possessed the security of massy bolts on its interior.
The bedstead, too, was not one of yesterday, but manifestly



22 The Spectre of Tappington

coeval with days ere Seddons was, and when a good four-
post “article” was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest.
The bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse,
mattresses, etc, was of far later date, and looked most
incongruously comfortable; the casements, too, with their
little diamond-shaped panes and iron binding, had given
way to the modern heterodoxy of the sash-window. Nor
was this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render
the room a meet haunt for such “mixed spirits” only as
could condescend to don at the same time an Elizabethan
doublet and Bond Street inexpressibles.

With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender,
in front of a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young
gentlemen, clad in “shawl pattern” dressing gowns and
black silk stocks, much at variance with the high cane-
backed chairs which supported them. A bunch of abomina-
tion, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the
mouth of one, and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of
the other ;—an arrangement happily adapted for the escape
of the noxious fumes up the chimney, without thatunmerciful
“funking” each other, which a less scientific disposition of
the weed would have induced. A small pembroke table
filled up the intervening space between them, sustaining
at each extremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy ;—thus in
“lonely pensive contemplation ” were the two worthies occu-
pied, when the “iron tongue of midnight had tolled twelve.”

“Ghost-time’s come!” said Ingoldsby, taking from his
waistcoat pocket a watch like a gold half-crown, and con-
sulting it as though he suspected the turret-clock over the
stables of mendacity.

“Hush!” said Charles; “did I not hear a footstep ?”

There was a pause:—there was a footstep—it sounded
distinctly—it reached the door—it hesitated, stopped, and
—passed on.

Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and
became aware of Mrs Botherby toddling to her chamber, at
the other end of the gallery, after dosing one of the house-
maids with an approved julep from the Countess of Kent’s
“ Choice Manual.”





The Spectre of Tappington 23

“Good night, sir!” said Mrs Botherby.

“Go to the d—1!” said the disappointed ghost-hunter.

- An hour—two—rolled on, and still no spectral visitation ;
nor did aught intervene to make night hideous; and when
the turret-clock sounded at length the hour of three, In-
goldsby, whose patience and grog were alike exhausted,
sprang from his chair, saying,—

“This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce
of any ghost shall we see to-night; it’s long past the
canonical hour. I’m off to bed; and as to your breeches,
Vl insure them for the next twenty-four hours at least, at
the price of the buckram.”

“Certainly—Oh! thankee ;—to be sure!” stammered
Charles, rousing himself from a reverie, which had de-
generated into an absolute snooze.

“Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and
defy the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender !—”

Seaforth followed his friend’s advice, and the next morn-
ing came down to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of
the preceding day. The charm was broken, the demon
defeated ; the light greys with the red stripe down the seams
were yet 7 verunt naturd, and adorned the person of their
lawful proprietor.

Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on
the result of their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage,
which warns us against self-gratulation before we are quite
“out of the wood.”’—Seaforth was yet within its verge.

A-rap at Tom Ingoldsby’s door the following morning
startled him as he was shaving ;—he cut his chin.

“Come in, and be d—d to you!” said the martyr, pressing
his thumb on the scarified epidermis.—The door opened,
and exhibited Mr Barney Maguire.

‘Well, Barney, what is it?” quoth the sufferer, adopting
the vernacular of his visitant.

“The master, sir—”

“Well, what does he want?”

“The loanst of a breeches, plase your honour.”

“Why, you don’t mean to tell me—By Heaven, this is



24 The Spectre of T'appington

too good!” shouted Tom, bursting into a fit of uncon-
trollable laughter. “Why, Barney, you don’t mean to say
the ghost has got them again!”

Mr Maguire did not respond to the young squire’s
risibility ; the cast of his countenance was decidedly serious.

“Faith, then, it’s gone they are, sure enough! Hasn't
meself been looking over the bed, and under the bed, and
zn the bed, for the matter of that, and divil a ha’p’orth of
breeches is there to the fore at all :—I’m bothered entirely !”

“Hark’ee! Mr Barney,” said Tom, incautiously removing
his thumb, and letting a crimson stream “ incarnadine the
multitudinous” lather that plastered his throat,—‘ this may
be all very well with your master, but you don’t humbug
me, sir :—tell me instantly what have you done with the
clothes?”

This abrupt transition from “lively to severe” certainly
took Maguire by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as
much disconcerted as it is possible to disconcert an Irish
gentleman’s gentleman.

“Me? is it meself, then, that’s the ghost to your honour’s
thinking?” said he, after a moment’s pause, and with a slight
shade of indignation in his tones: “is it I would stale the
master’s things,—and what would I do with them?”

“That you best know:—what your purpose is I can’t
guess, for I don’t think you mean to ‘stale’ them, as you
call it; but that you are concerned in their disappearance,
I am satisfied. Confound this blood !—give me a towel,
Barney.”

Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. “ As I’ve
a sowl, your honour,” said he solemnly, “little it is meself
knows of the matter: and after what I seen—”

“What you've seen! Why, what save you seen?—
Barney, I don’t want to enquire into your flirtations ; but
don’t suppose you can palm off your saucer eyes and gig-
lamps upon me!”

“Then, as sure as your honour’s standing there I saw
him: and why wouldn’t I, when Miss Paulzue was to the
fore as well as meself, and—”

“Get along with your nonsense,—leave the room, sir

1»



The Spectre of Tappington _ 2s

“But the master?” said Barney imploringly ; “and with-
out a breeches ?>—sure he’ll be catching cowld !—”

“Take that, rascal!” replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair
of pantaloons at, rather than to, him: “but don’t suppose,
sir, you shall carry on your tricks here with impunity ;
recollect there is such a thing as a tread-mill, and that my
father is a county magistrate.”

Barney’s eye flashed fire——he stood erect, and was
about to speak; but, mastering himself, not without an
effort, he took up the garment, and left the room as per-
pendicular as a Quaker.

“Ingoldsby,” said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, “ this
is now past a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, not-
withstanding the ties which detain me, common decency
obliges me to visit home after so long an absence. I shall
come to an immediate explanation with your father on the
subject nearest my heart, and depart while I have a change
of dress left. On his answer will my return depend! In
the meantime tell me candidly,—I ask it in all seriousness
and as a friend,—am I not a dupe to your well-known pro-
pensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand in—”

“No, by heaven! Seaforth; I see what you mean: on
my honour, I am as much mystified as yourself: and if
your servant—”

“Not he :—if there be a trick, he at least is not privy to
it.”

“Tf there de a trick? Why, Charles, do you think—”

“I know not what to think, Tom. As surely as you
are a living man, so surely did that spectral anatomy visit
my room again last night, grin in my face, and walk away
with my trousers ; nor was I able to spring from my bed,
or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow.”

“Seaforth!” said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, “I
will— But hush! here are the girls and my father.—
I will carry off the females, and leave you a clear field
with the governor: carry your point with him, and we
will talk about your breeches afterwards.”

Tom’s diversion was successful ; he carried off the ladies



26 The Spectre of Tappington

en masse to look at a remarkable specimen of the class
Dodecandria Monogynia,—which they could not find :—while
Seaforth marched boldly up to the encounter, and carried
“the governor’s” outworks by a coup de main. 1 shall
not stop to describe the progress of the attack: suffice it
that it was as successful as could have been wished, and
that Seaforth was referred back again to the lady. The
happy lover was off at a tangent; the botanical party was
soon overtaken; and the arm of Caroline, whom a vain
endeavour to spell out the Linnzean name of a daffy-down-
dilly had detained a little in the rear of the others, was
soon firmly locked in his own.

“What was the world to them,
Its noise, its nonsense, and its ‘breeches’ all?”

Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his
room that night as happy as if no such thing as a goblin
had ever been heard of, and personal chattels were as well
fenced in by law as real property, Not so Tom Ingoldsby :
the mystery,—for mystery there evidently was,—had not
only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The
watch of the previous night had been unsuccessful, pro-
bably because it was undisguised. To-night he would
“ensconce himself,’—not indeed ‘behind the arras,”—for
the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to the
wall,—but in a small closet which opened from one corner
of the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give to
its occupant a view of all that might pass in the apart-
ment. Here did the young ghost-hunter take up a position,
with a good stout sapling under his arm, a full half-hour
before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his friend
did he let into his confidence, fully determined that if his
plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to
himself alone.

At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw,
from his concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and,
after taking a few turns in it, with an expression so joyous
as to betoken that his thoughts were mainly occupied by
his approaching happiness, proceed slowly to disrobe him-



The Spectre of Tappington 24

self. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk stock, were
gradually discarded; the green morocco slippers were
kicked off, and then—ay, and then—his countenance grew
grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once that this was
his last stake,—nay, that the very breeches he had on were
not his own,—that to-morrow morning was his last, and
that if he lost them— A glance showed that his mind was
made up: he replaced the single button he had just sub-
ducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state of
transition—half chrysalis, half grub.

Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the
flickering light of the night-lamp, till the clock, striking one,
induced him to increase the narrow opening which he had
left for the purpose of observation. The motion, slight as
it was, seemed to attract Charles’s attention ; for he raised
himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment,
and then stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on
the point of discovering himself, when, the light, flashing
full upon his friend’s countenance, he perceived that, though
his eyes were open, “their sense was shut,’—that he was
yet under the influence of sleep. Seaforth advanced slowly
to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood on it,
then, going back to the bed’s foot, appeared to search
eagerly for something which he could not find. Fora few
moments he seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the
apartment and examining the chairs, till, coming fully ‘in
front of a large swing-glass that flanked the dressing-table,
he paused, as if contemplating his figure in it. He now
returned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and, with
cautious and stealthy steps, proceeded towards the little
arched doorway that opened on the private staircase.

As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his
hiding-place ; but the sleep-walker heard him not; he pro-
ceeded softly down stairs, followed at a due distance by
his friend ; opened the door which led ont upon the gardens;
and stood at once among the thickest of the scrubs, which
there clustered round the base of a corner turret, and
screened the postern from common observation. At this
moment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all by making a



28 The Spectre of Tappington

false step: the sound attracted Seaforth’s attention,—he
paused and turned: and as the full moon shed her light
directly upon his pale and troubled features, Tom marked,
almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of
his eyes :—
“There was no speculation in those orbs
That he did glare withal.”

The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to
reassure him; he turned aside; and from the midst of a
thickset laurustinus, drew forth a gardener’s spade, shoulder-
ing which he proceeded with great rapidity into the midst
of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain point where the
earth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he set him-
self heartily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up
several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his tool.
and very composedly began to disencumber himself of his
pantaloons.

Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary
eye: he now advanced cautiously, and, as his friend was
busily engaged in disentangling himself from his garment,
made himself master of the spade. Seaforth, meanwhile,
had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with

“ His streamers waving in the wind,”

occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as
compact a form as possible, and all heedless of the breath
of heaven, which might certainly be supposed, at such a
moment, and in such a plight, to “visit his frame too
roughly.”

He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the
pantaloons in the grave which he had been digging for
them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close behind him, and
with the flat side of the spade—

The shock was effectual ;—never again was Lieutenant
Seaforth known to act the part of a somnambulist. One
by one, his breeches,—his trousers,—his pantaloons,—his
silk-net tights,—his patent cords,—his showy greys with



The Spectre of Tappington 29

the broad red stripe of the Bombay Fencibles were brought
to light,—rescued from the grave in which they had been
buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie ; and, after having
been well aired by Mrs Botherby, became once again
effective.

The family, the ladies especially, laughed ;—the Peterses
laughed ;—the Simp-
kinsons laughed ;—
Barney Maguire cried







“Botheration!” and
Mamselle Pauline,
“ Mon Dieu!”

Charles Seaforth, un-
able to face the quizz-
ing which awaited him
on all sides, started off
two hours earlier than
he had proposed :—he
soon returned, how-
ever; and having,at his
father-in-law’s request,
given up the occupa-
tion of Rajah-hunting
and shooting Nabobs,
led his blushing bride
to the altar.

Mr Simpkinson from
Bath did not attend the
ceremony, being en-
gaged at the Grand Junction Meeting of S¢avans, then
congregating from all parts of the known world in the city
of Dublin. His essay, demonstrating that the globe is
a great custard, whipped into coagulation by whirlwinds,
and cooked by electricity,—a little too much baked in the
Isle of Portland, and a thought underdone about the Bog
of Allen—was highly spoken of, and narrowly escaped
obtaining a Bridgewater prize.

Miss Simpkinson and her sister acted as bridesmaids on
the occasion; the former wrote an epzthalamzum, and the











30 The Spectre of Tappington

latter cried “ Lassy me!” at the clergyman’s wig—Some
years have since rolled on; the union has been crowned
with two or three tidy little offshoots from the family tree,
of whom Master Neddy is “ grandpapa’s darling,” and Mary-
Anne mamma’s particular “Sock.” I shall only add, that
Mr and Mrs Seaforth are living together quite as happily
as two good-hearted, good-tempered bodies, very fond of
each other, can possibly do: and, that since the day of his
marriage Charles has shown no disposition to jump out of
bed, or ramble out of doors o’ nights,—though, from his
entire devotion to every wish and whim of his young wife,
Tom insinuates that the fair Caroline does still occasionally
take advantage of it so far as to “slip on the breeches.”





It was not till some years after the events just recorded,
that Miss Mary-Anne, the “pet Sock” before alluded to,
was made acquainted with the following piece of family
biography. It was communicated to her in strict con-
fidence by Nurse Botherby, a maiden niece of the old
lady’s, then recently promoted from the ranks in the
still-room, to be second in command in the nursery
department.

The story is connected with a dingy wizzen-faced
portrait, in an oval frame, generally known by the name
of “Uncle Stephen,” though from the style of his cut-
velvet, it is evident that some generations must have
passed away since any living being could have stood
towards him in that degree of consanguinity.





The Nurse’s Story
The Hand of Glory

“Malefica quedam auguriatrix in
Anglia fuit, quam demones horribiliter
extraxerunt, et imponentes super
equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt ;
Clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per
quatuor fermé miliaria audiebantur.”

—Nuremb. Chron.

ON the lone bleak moor, At the midnight hour,
Beneath the Gallows Tree,

Hand in hand The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!

And the Moon that night With a grey, cold light
Each baleful object tips ;

One half of her form Is seen through the storm,
The other half’s hid in Eclipse!

And the cold Wind howls, And the Thunder growls,



B2 The Nurse's Story

And the Lightning is broad and bright ;
And altogether It’s very bad weather,
And an unpleasant sort of a night!
“Now mount who list, And close by the wrist
Sever me quickly the Dead Man’s fist !—
Now climb who dare Where he swings in air,
And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man’s hair!”

There’s an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor,
She hath years on her back at the least fourscore,
And some people fancy a great many more ;
Her nose it is hook’d, Her back it is crook’d,
Her eyes blear and red: On the top of her head
Is a mutch, and on that A shocking bad hat,
Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat!
Then,—My Gracious !—her beard !—it would sadly
perplex
A spectator at first to distinguish her sex ;
Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he
Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy.
Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within,
With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin,
Leering up with that queer indescribable grin,
You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry,
“__Well !__I never dd see such a regular Guy!”

And now before That old Woman’s door,
Where nought that’s good may be,
Hand in hand The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!
Oh! ’tis a horrible sight to view,
In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew,
By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame,
Doing the deed that hath never a name!
’Tis awful to hear Those words of fear!
The pray’r mutter’d backwards, and said with a sneer !
(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when
A witch says her pray’rs, she begins with “ Amen.”)—
—’Tis awful to see On that Old Woman’s knee



The Hand of Glory 33

The dead, shrivell’d hand, as she clasps it with glee !—
And now, with care, The five locks of hair

From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there,
With the grease and the fat Of a black Tom Cat
She hastens to mix, And to twist into wicks,

And one on the thumb, and each finger to ix.—

(For another receipt the same charm to prepare,

Consult Mr Ainsworth and Pedzt A éert.)

“Now open lock To the Dead Man’s knock!
Fly bolt, and bar, and band !—
Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man’s hand!
Sleep all who sleep !—Wake all who wake !—
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man’s sake!!”

All is silent! all is still,

Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill

As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill;
And in Tappington Hall Great and Small,

Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom,

Each one hath sought his separate room,

And sleep her dark mantle hath o’er them cast,

For the midnight hour hath long been past !

All is darksome in earth and sky,

Save, from yon casement, narrow and high,
A quivering beam On the tiny stream

Plays, like some taper’s fitful gleam

By one that is watching wearily.

Within that casement, narrow and high,
In his secret lair, where none may spy,
Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care,
And the thin grey locks of his failing hair
Have left his little bald pate all bare ;
For his full-bottom’d wig Hangs bushy and big,
On the top of his old-fashion’d, high-back’d chair.
Unbraced are his clothes, Ungarter’d his hose,
His gown is bedizened with tulip and rose,
Flowers of remarkable size and hue,
Cc



34 The Nurse’s Story

Flowers such as Eden never knew ;
—And there, by many a sparkling heap
Of the good red gold, The tale is told
What powerful spell avails to keep
That care-worn man from his needful sleep!

Haply, he deems no eye can see
As he gloats on his treasure greedily,—
The shining store Of glittering ore,
The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore,
And the broad Double-Joe from ayont the sea,—
But there’s one that watches as well as he;
For, wakeful and sly, In a closet hard by,
On his truckle-bed lieth a little Foot-page,
A boy who’s uncommonly sharp of his age,
Like young Master Horner, Who erst in a corner
Sat eating a Christmas pie:
And while that Old Gentleman’s counting his hoards,
Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards!

There’s a voiceintheair, There’s a step on the stair,
The old man starts in his cane-back’d chair ;

At the first faint sound He gazes around,
And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound.

Then half arose From beside his toes
His little pug-dog with his little pug nose,

But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff,
That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff,

For low, yet clear, Now fall on the ear,
—Where once pronounced for ever they dwell,—
The unholy words of the Dead Man’s spell !

“Open lock To the Dead Man’s knock !

Fly bolt, and bar, and band!

Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man’s hand!

Sleep all who sleep !—Wake all who wake !—
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man’s sake!”

Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails,
Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails.



The Hand of Glory 35

Heavy and harsh the hinges creak,
Though they had been oil’d in the course of the week ;
The door opens wide as wide may be,
And there they stand, That murderous band,
Lit by the light of the GLoRIous Hanp,
By one !—by two !—by three !

They have pass’d through the porch, they have pass’d
through the hall,

Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall ;
The very snore froze In his very snub nose,

You'd have verily deem’d he had snored his last

When the°GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him past !

E’en the little wee mouse, as it ran o’er the mat

At the top of its speed to escape from the cat,

Though half dead with affright, Paused in its flight ;
And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing
Lay crouch’d as a statue in act to spring!

And now they are there, On the head of the stair,
And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare!
—I really don’t think any money would bribe
Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe,

Or the wild, wild glare Of that old man’s eye,

His dumb despair, And deep agony.

The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold,
Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold ;
They dream not—ah, happier they !—that the knife,
Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life ;

It falls ;—the frail thread of their being is riven,
They dread not, suspect not, the blow till ’tis given.—
But, oh! what a thing ’tis to see and to know

That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe,
Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow !—
—Enough !—let’s pass over as fast as we can

The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man!

But fancy poor Hugh, Aghast at the view
Powerless alike to speak or to do!
In vain doth he try To open the eye



36 The Nurse's Story

That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink,
Though he’d give all the world to be able to wink !—
No !—for all that this world can give or refuse,
I would not be now in that little boy’s shoes,
Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh’s!
—’Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall
He has peep’d through so long, is so narrow and small!
Wailing voices, sounds of woe
Such as follow departing friends,
That fatal night round Tappington go,
Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends:
Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good,
Aye weep and lament o’er a deed of blood.

’Tis early dawn—the morn is grey,
And the clouds and the tempest have pass’d away,
And all things betoken a very fine day ;
But, while the lark her carol is singing,
Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing!
Upstarting all Great and small,
Each one who’s found within Tappington Hall,
Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom,
All seek at once that old Gentleman’s room ;
And there on the floor, Drench’d in its gore,
A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view,
Carotid and jugular both cut through !
And there, by its side, ’Mid the crimson tide,
Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years ;
Adown his pale cheeks the fast-falling tears
Are coursing each other round and big,
And he’s staunching the blood with a full-bottomed wig!
Alas! and alack for his staunching !—'tis plain,
As anatomists tell us, that never again
Shall life revisit the foully slain,
When once they’ve been cut through the jugular vein.

There’s a hue and a cry through the County of Kent,
And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable’s sent,
But no one can tell the man which way they went,





ge.

Resthoe

AM

TAPPING TON -MILED.

°

TO



The Hand of Glory 2g,

There’s a little Foot-page with that Constable goes,
And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.

In Rochester town, At the sign of the Crown,
Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down
To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown ;

When a little Foot-page Rushes in, in a rage,
Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage.

That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat,

And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat,

And a Constable seizes the one more remote ;

And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores,

The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores,

And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare ;
And the Constable says, with a dignified air,

“You're wanted, Gen’lemen, one and all,

For that ere precious lark at Tappington Hall!”

There’s a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor,
Where a former black gibbet has frown’d before :
It is as black as black may be,
And murderers there Are dangling in air,
By one !—by two! by three!

-There’s a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown’d hat,
Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat
A Dead Man’s hand and a dead Tom Cat!
They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes,
They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her
limbs !
Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes,
With a whoop and a halloo—“ She swims !—She
swims !”
They have drage’d her to land,
And every one’s hand,
Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand,
When a queer looking horseman, drest all in black,
Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack
To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack,



38 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack !—
No one can tell, Though they guess pretty well,
Which way that grim rider and old woman go,
For all see he’s a sort of infernal Ducrow ;
And she scream’d so, and cried, We may-fairly decide
That the old woman did not much relish her ride!

MORAL.

This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt
That truest of adages—* Murder will out !”

‘In vain may the blood-spiller “ double ” and fly,
In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try :
Although for a time he may ’scape, by-and-by
He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry!

One marvel follows another as naturally as one
“shoulder of mutton” is said “to drive another down.”
A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from
the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense
interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with
the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such
authority, I shall call—

Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story
“ Took at the Clock”

FYTTE I

“ Look at the Clock!” quoth Winifred Pryce,
As she open’d the door to her husband’s knock,
Then paus’d to give him a piece of advice,
“You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock !
Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow’d to love and obey you ?—



“Took at the Clock” 39

Out all night! Me in a fright ;
Staggering home as it’s just getting light !
You intoxified brute !—you insensible block !—
Look at the Clock !—Do !—Look at the Clock !”

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower’d one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man’s ;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn’d up, and tuck’d through the
pocket-holes ;
A face like a ferret Betoken’d her spirit :
To conclude, Mrs Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce Had one darling vice ;
Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss !
Especially ale— _ If it was not too stale
I really believe he’d have emptied a pail ;
Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales ;
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble

you,
Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

That particular day, As I’ve heard people say,
Mr David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,
Withacouple moresoakers, Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers ;
And long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp’d in repose,
They were roaring out “Shenkin!” and “Ar hydd y nos;”
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, “We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let’s drink
down the Moon!



40 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

What have we with day to do?

Mrs Winifred Pryce, twas made for you.”

At length, when they couldn’t well drink any more,
Old “ Goat-in-Boots” showed them the door:

And then came that knock, And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, “ Look at the Clock!”
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan,
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Prycewould dropacoolhint, Withan ominoussquint
At its case, of an “Uncle” of his, who'd a “ Spout.”
That horrid word “Spout” No sooner came out
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip,
“Spout” herself till her nose grew red at the tip.
“You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing
Your wife—ay, a dozen of wives—for a shilling !
You may dowhatyou please, You may sell mychemise,
(Mrs P. was too well-bred to mention her smock)
But I never will part with my Grandmother’s Clock !”

Mrs Pryce’s tongue ran long and ran fast ;

But patience is apt to wear out at last,

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretched out his hand, and caught hold of a stick ;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,

But walking just then wasn’t very convenient,

So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head;

It knock’d off her hat; Down she fell flat ;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that :
But whatever it was,—whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,

Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,

I can’t say for certain,—but ¢hzs I can,

When, sober’d by fright, to assist her he ran,

Mrs Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne !



“ Look at the Clock” 41

The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death’s exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, -

Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality,
And then came Mr Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.

Mr Pryce to commence His “ ingenious defence,”
Made a “ powerful appeal” to the jury’s “good sense :

“The world he must defy Ever to justify
Any presumption of ‘Malice Prepense ;’”—

The unlucky lick From the end of his stick
He “deplored,’—he was “apt to be rather too quick ;”-—

But, really, her prating Was so aggravating :

‘ Some trifling correction was just what he meant ;—all
The rest, he assured them, was “ quite accidental ! ¥s

Then he calls Mr Jones, Who depones to her tones,
And her gestures, and hints about “ breaking his bones.”
While Mr Ap Morgan, and Mr Ap Rhys

Declared the Deceased Had styled him “a Beast,”
And swear they had witness’d, with grief and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
Return’d about half-past eleven at night
The following verdict, “We find, Sarve her right !”

Mr Pryce, Mrs Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped ; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling,
From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain; it’s name you'll excuse me from
telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;



42 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far,
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.

Its first syllable “PEN,” Is pronounceable ;—then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,

Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan’t have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to “ PEN.”

Well—the moon shone bright
Upon “Pen” that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
Was scaling its side With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest,
He paus’d, and turn’d round to take breath, and to rest ;
A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
So he stopp’d and look’d down on the valley below.

O’er fell, and o’er fen, Over mountain and glen,
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he’d been taught

Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,—
Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in

gold ;

Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst ;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,

Killing Poets by dozens,

With their uncles and cousins,

Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved—
Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine’s lap ;

And how Mr. Tudor Successfully woo’d her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King,



“ Look at the Clock” 43

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour ;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce ;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat
As he cried out “ What’s that ?”—
That very queer sound ?—
Does it come from the ground?
Or the air,—from above,—or below,—or around ?—
It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking,
It’s not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse,—or the tread of a man,—
Or the hum of a crowd,—or the shouting of boys,—
It’s really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a cart’s,—but that can’t be; for when
Could “all the King’s horses, and all the King’s men,”
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up “Pen?”

Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate “ funk.”
In vain he look’d back On the whole of the track
He had traversed ; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon ;
While clearer and clearer, ’Twas plain to the hearer,
Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much “like a Coffin a-walking up stairs.”

Mr Pryce had begun To “make up” for a run,
As in such a companion he saw no great fun,

When a single bright ray Shone out on the way
He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o’er crag and o’er rock,
The deceased Mrs Winifred’s “Grandmother's Clock !!”
Twas so !—it had certainly moved from its place,

And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase ;



44 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

’Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all—but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turned into eyes

Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire ;
And the “ Name of the Maker” was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
No !—he could not mistake it,—’twas SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough Completely “Quant. suff”
As the doctors write down when they send you their
“ stuff,’—
Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff,
David turned himself round ; Ten feet of ground
He clear’d, in his start, at the very first bound !

I’ve seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses—

I’ve seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises—

At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,

And one from a Bailiff much faster than that—

At foot-ball I’ve seen lads run after the bladder—

I’ve seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder—

I’ve seen little boys run away from a cane—

And I’ve seen (that is, vead of) good running in Spain ;1
But I never did read Of, or witness, such speed

As David exerted that evening.— Indeed

All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,

Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over “ PEN !”

He reaches its brow,— He has past it,—and now
Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross
it, he

Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity ;
But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill,
That bugbear behind him is after him still!
And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking,

1 [-run, is a town said to have been so named from something of this sort.



“ Look at the Clock ” 45

Till, exhausted and sore, He can’t run any more,
But falls as he reaches Miss Davis’s door,
And screams when they rush out, alarm’d at his knock,
“Oh! Look at the Clock !—Do!—Look at the Clock !!

Miss Davis look’d up, Miss Davis look’d down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her ;--a frown
Came o’er her white forehead, She said, “It was
horrid
A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright ;—

To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!”
She bege’d “he'd not think of repeating his call:

His late wife’s disaster By no means had past her,”
She’d “have him to know she was meant for his Master!”
Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,

She turn’d on her heel and she turn’d up her nose.

Poor David in vain Implored to remain,

He “ dared not,” he said, “ cross the mountain again.”
Why the fair was obdurate
None knows,—to be sure, it

Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate ;—

Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole

Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
In that shady retreat With nothing to eat,

And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
All night close he kept; I can’t say he slept;

But he sigh’d, and he sobb’d, and he groan’d, and he wept;

-Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins,

Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,

And her he once thought a complete Rava Avis,

Consigning to Satan,—viz., cruel Miss Davis!

Mr David has since had a “serious call,”
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech, And to preach and to teach
People that “they can’t brew their malt liquor too small!”








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‘“GENTLEMEN! LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!”



“ Look at the Clock ” 47

That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,
Was right in proclaiming “ ARISTON MEN UDOR ia
Which means “ The pure Element
Is for Man’s belly meant !”
And that Gin’s but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder !

And “still on each evening when pleasure fills up,”
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr Pryce, if he’s there, Will get into “ The Chair,”
And make all his guondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady’s daughter,
“Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water ley
The dial he constantly watches ; and when
The long hand’s at the “ XII.,” and the short at hie: a0
He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs,
Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
With his President’s hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly—* Gentlemen !
“LOOK ‘AT THE CLock! ! !”





The succeeding Legend has long been an established
favourite with all of us, as containing much of the personal
history of one of the greatest ornaments of the family
tree.

To the wedding between the sole heiress of this re-
doubted hero and a direct ancestor is it owing that the
Lioncels of Shurland hang so lovingly parallel with the
Saltire of the Ingoldsbys, and now form as cherished a
quartering in their escutcheon as the “dozen white lowses”
in the “old coat” of Shallow.



48 Grey Dolphin

Grey Dolphin
A Legend of Sheppey

“ HE won’t—won’t he? Then bring me my boots!” said
the Baron.

Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland

—a caitiff had dared to disobey
eo the Baron! and—the Baron had
SS called for his boots !
fi A thunderbolt in the great hall
had been a Jdagatelle to it.

A few days before, a notable
miracle had been wrought in the
neighbourhood ; and in those times
a=\ miracles were not so common as
they are now ;—no royal balloons,
no steam, no railroads,—while the
few Saints who took the trouble
to walk with their heads under
their arms, or to pull the Devil by
the nose, scarcely appeared above
once in a century; so the affair
made the greater sensation.

The clock had done striking
twelve, and the Clerk of Chatham
was untrussing his points pre-
paratory to seeking his truckle-
bed; a Par eden tankard of mild ale stood at his
elbow, the roasted crab yet floating on its surface.
Midnight had surprised the worthy functionary while
occupied in discussing it, and with his task yet unaccom-
plished. He meditated a mighty draft: one hand was
fumbling with his tags, while the other was extended in
the act of grasping the jorum, when a knock on the portal,
solemn and sonorous, arrested his fingers. It was repeated





Grey Dolphin 49

thrice ere Emmanuel Saddleton had presence of mind
sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that un-
timeous hour.

“Open! open! good Clerk of St Bridget’s,” said a
female voice, small, yet distinct
and sweet,—an excellent thing in |
woman.

The Clerk arose, crossed to the
doorway, and undid the latchet.

On the threshold stood a Lady
of surpassing beauty: her robes
were rich, and large, and full; and
a diadem, sparkling with gems
that shed a halo around, crowned
her brow: she beckoned the Clerk
as he stood in astonishment before
her.

“Emmanuel!” said the Lady ;
and her tones sounded like those
of a silver flute. “ Emmanuel
Saddleton, truss up your points,
and follow me!”

The worthy Clerk stared aghast
at the vision ; the purple robe, the
cymar, the coronet,—above all, the
smile; no, there was no mistaking
her; it was the blessed St Bridget
herself !

And what could have brought
the sainted lady out of her warm
shrine at such a time of night? and
on such a night? for it was as
dark as pitch, and, metaphorically
speaking, “rained cats and dogs.”

Emmanuel could not speak, so he looked the question.

“No matter for that,” said the Saint, answering to his
thought. “No matter for that, Emmanuel Saddleton ;
only follow me, and you'll see!”

The Clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner-cupboard.

D

Y |

|

OTIS





co Grey Dolphin

“Oh! never mind the lantern, Emmanuel: you'll not
want it: but you may bring a mattock and a shovel.”
As she spoke, the beautiful apparition held up her delicate
hand. From the tip of each of her long taper fingers
issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancy as
would have plunged a whole gas company into despair—
it was a “ Hand of Glory,’! such a one as tradition tells
us yet burns in Rochester Castle every St Mark’s Eve.
Many are the daring individuals who have watched in
Gundulph’s Tower, hoping to find it, and the treasure it
guards ;—but none of them ever did.

“This way, Emmanuel!” and a flame of peculiar
radiance streamed from her little finger as it pointed
to the pathway leading to the churchyard.

Saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence.

The cemetery of St Bridget’s was some half-mile distant
from the Clerk’s domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated
to that illustrious lady, who, after leading but a so-so life,
had died in the odour of sanctity. Emmanuel Saddleton
was fat and scant of breath, the mattock was heavy, and the
Saint walked too fast for him: he paused to take second
wind at the end of the first furlong.

“Emmanuel,” said the holy lady good-humouredly, for
she heard him puffing; “rest awhile, Emmanuel, and I’ll
tell you what I want with you.”

Her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand,
and looked all attention and obedience.

“Emmanuel,” continued she, “ what did you and Father
Fothergill, and the rest of you, mean yesterday by burying
that drowned man so close to me? He died in mortal sin,
Emmanuel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution: why, he
might as well have been excommunicated. He plagues me
with his grinning, and I can’t have any peace in my shrine.
You must howk him up again, Emmanuel!”

“ To be sure, madam,—my lady,—that is, your holiness,”
stammered Saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task

1 One of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was put, was the pro-

tection of secreted treasure. Blow out all the fingers at one puff and you had
the money.



Grey Dolphin ye

assigned to him. “To be sure, your ladyship ; only—that
is—”

“Emmanuel,” said the Saint, “ you’ll do my bidding ; or
it would be better you had!” and her eye changed from a
dove’s eye to that of a hawk, and a flash came from it as
bright as the one from her little finger. The Clerk shook
in his shoes ; and, again dashing the cold perspiration from
his brow, followed the footsteps of his mysterious guide.

The next morning all Chatham was in an uproar. The
Clerk of St Bridget’s had found himself at home at day-
break, seated in his own arm-chair, the fire out, and—
the tankard of ale out too! Who had drunk it ?—where
had he been ?—how had he got home ?—all was a mystery !
—he remembered “a mass of things, but nothing distinctly ;”
all was fog and fantasy. What he could clearly recollect
was, that he had dug up the Grinning Sailor, and that the
Saint had helped to throw him into the river again. All
was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. Masses were
sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled ; the monks of
St Romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their
head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St
Thomas a Becket in the centre ;—Father Fothergill brewed
a XXX puncheon of holy water. The Rood of Gillingham
was deserted; the chapel of Rainham forsaken ; every one
who had a soul to be saved, flocked with his offering to
St Bridget’s shrine, and Emmanuel Saddleton gathered
more fees from the promiscuous piety of that one week than
he had pocketed during the twelve preceding months.

Meanwhile the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated
like a pendulum between Sheerness and Gillingham Reach.
Now borne by the Medway into the Western Swale,—now
carried by the refluent tide back to the vicinity of its old
quarters,—it seemed as though the River god and Neptune
were amusing themselves with a game of subaqueous battle-
dore, and had chosen this unfortunate carcass as a marine
shuttlecock. For some time the alternation was kept up
with great spirit, till Boreas, interfering in the shape of a
stiffish “ Nor’-wester,” drifted the bone (and flesh) of con-



Lye Grey Dolphin

tention ashore on the Shurland domain, where it lay in all
the majesty of mud. It was soon discovered by the
retainers, and dragged from its oozy bed, grinning worse
than ever. Tidings of the god-send were of course carried
instantly to the castle; for the Baron was a very great
man; and if a dun cow had flown across his property un-
announced by the warder, the Baron would have kicked
him, the said warder, from the topmost battlement into
the bottommost ditch,—a descent of peril, and one which
“Ludwig the leaper,” or the illustrious Trenck himself
might well have shrunk from encountering.

“ An’t please your lordship—” said Peter Periwinkle.

“No, villain! it does not please me!” roared the Baron.

His lordship was deeply engaged with a peck of Fevers-
ham oysters,—he doted on shellfish, hated interruption at
meals, and had not yet despatched more than twenty dozen
of the “ natives.”

“ There’s a body, my lord, washed ashore in the lower
creek,” said the Seneschal.

The Baron was going to throw the shells at his head;
but paused in the act, and said with much dignity,—

“ Turn out the fellow’s pockets !”

But the defunct had before been subjected to the double
scrutiny of Father Fothergill, and the Clerk of St Bridget’s.
It was ill gleaning after such hands ; there was nota single
maravedi.

We have already said that Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord
of the Isle of Sheppey, and of many a fair manor on the
mainland, was a man of worship. He had rights of free-
warren, saccage and sockage, cuisage and jambage, fosse
and fork, infang theofe and outfang theofe; and all waifs
and strays belonged to him in fee simple.

“Turn out his pockets!” said the Knight.

“ An’t please you, my lord, I must say as how they was
turned out afore, and the devil a rap’s left.”

“Then bury the blackguard !”

“Please your lordship, he has been buried once.”

“Then bury him again, and be !* The Baron
bestowed a benediction.





Grey Dolphin 53

The Seneschal bowed low as he left the room, and the
Baron went on with his oysters.

“ Scarcely ten dozen more had vanished when Periwinkle
reappeared.

“An’t please you, my lord, Father Fothergill says as
how that it’s the Grinning Sailor, and he won’t bury him
anyhow.”

“Oh! he won’t—won’t he?” said the Baron. Can it be
wondered at that he called for his boots?

Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of Shurland and Minster,
Baron of Sheppey zz comdtatu Kent, was, as has been before
hinted, a very great man. He was also a very little man;
that is, he was relatively great, and relatively little,—or
physically little, and metaphorically great.—like Sir Sidney
Smith and the late Mr Bonaparte. To the frame of a
dwarf he united the soul of a giant, and the valour of a
gamecock. Then, for so small a man, his strength was
prodigious ; his fist would fell an ox, and his kick—oh! his
kick was tremendous, and, when he had his boots on, would,
to use an expression of his own, which he had picked up in
the holy wars,—would “send a man from Jericho to June.”
—He was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest was
broad and deep, his head large, and uncommonly thick, his
eyes a little bloodshot, and his nose vetyvoussé with a re-
markably red tip. Strictly speaking the Baron could not
be called handsome, but his tout ensemble was singularly
impressive: and when he called for his boots, everybody
trembled and dreaded the worst.

“Periwinkle,” said the Baron, as he encased his better
leg, “let the grave be twenty feet deep!”

“Your lordship’s command is law.”

“And, Periwinkle,’—Sir Robert stamped his left heel
into its receptacle,—“and, Periwinkle, see that it be wide
enough to hold not exceeding two!”

“YVe—ye—yes, my lord.”

“And, Periwinkle,—tell Father Fothergill I would fain
speak with his Reverence.”

“VYe—ye—yes my lord.”

The Baron’s beard was peaked; and his mustaches, stiff



54 Grey Dolphin

and stumpy, projected horizontally like those of a Tom
Cat ; he twirled the one, he stroked the other, he drew the
buckle of his surcingle a thought tighter, and strode down
the great staircase three steps at a stride.”

The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland
Castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute;
expectation and perplexity were visible on every brow.
What would his lordship do ?—Were the recusant anybody
else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but
too good for him :—but it was Father Fothergill who had
said “I won’t;” and though the Baron was a very great
man, the Pope was a greater, and the Pope was Father
Fothergill’s great friend—some people said he was his uncle.

Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory trying
conclusions with a venison pasty, when he received the
summons of his patron to attend him in the chapel
cemetery. Of course he lost no time in obeying it, for
obedience was the general rule in Shurland Castle. If
anybody ever said “I won't,” it was the exception; and,
like all other exceptions, only proved the rule the stronger.
The Father was a friar of the Augustine persuasion; a
brotherhood which, having been planted in Kent some few
centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and
overspread the county much as hops did some few centuries
later. He was plump and portly, a little thick-winded,
especially after dinner,—stood five feet four in his sandals,
and weighed hard upon eighteen stone. He was moreover
a personage of singular piety; and the iron girdle, which,
he said, he wore under his cassock to mortify withal, might
have been well mistaken for the tire of a cart-wheel.—
When he arrived, Sir Robert was pacing up and down by
the side of a newly opened grave.

“ Benedicite! fair son,’—(the Baron was as brown as a
cigar,)— Benedicite !” said the Chaplain.

The Baron was too angry to stand upon compliment.
“Bury me that grinning caitiff there!” quoth he, pointing
to the defunct.

“It may not be, fair son,” said the Friar; “he hath
perished without absolution.”



eT

Grey Dolphin 55

“Bury the body !” roared Sir Robert.

“Water and earth alike reject him,’ returned the
Chaplain; “holy St Bridget herself—— ”

“Bridget me no Bridgets!—do me thine office quickly,
Sir Shaveling; or, by the Piper that played before
Moses—” The oath was a fearful one; and whenever the
Baron swore to do mischief, he was never known to perjure
himself. He was playing with the hilt of his sword.—“Do
me thine office, I say. Give him his passport to Heaven!”

“He is already gone to Hell!” stammered the Friar.

“Then do you go after him!” thundered the Lord of
Shurland.

His sword half leaped from its scabbard. No!—the
trenchant blade, that had cut Suleiman Ben Malek Ben
Buckskin from helmet to chine, disdained to daub itself
with the cerebellum of a miserable monk ;—it leaped back
again ;—and as the Chaplain, scared at its flash, turned
him in terror, the Baron gave him a kick!—one kick!
—it was but one!—but such a one! Despite its obesity,
up flew his holy body in an angle of forty-five degrees ;
then, having reached its highest point of elevation, sunk
headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it. If
the reverend gentleman had possessed such a thing asa
neck, he had infallibly broken it; as he did not, he only
dislocated his vertebrae,—but that did quite as well. He
was as dead as ditch-water !

“In with the other rascal!” said the Baron,—and he was
obeyed; for there he stood in his boots. Mattock and
shovel made short work of it; twenty feet of super-
incumbent mould pressed down alike the saint and the
sinner. “Now sing a requiem who list!” said the Baron,
and his lordship went back to his oysters.

The vassals at Castle Shurland were astounded, or, as
the Seneschal Hugh better expressed it, “perfectly con-
glomerated,” by this event. What! murder a monk in the
odour of sanctity,—and on consecrated ground too!—
They trembled for the health of the Baron’s soul. To the
unsophisticated many it seemed that matters could not
have been much worse had he shot a bishop’s coach-



56 Grey Dolphin

horse ;——all looked for some signal judgment. The melan-
choly catastrophe of their neighbours at Canterbury was
yet rife in their memories: not two centuries had elapsed
since those miserable sinners had cut off the tail of the
blessed St Thomas’s mule. The tail of the mule, it was
well known, had been forthwith affixed to that of the
Mayor; and rumour said it had since been hereditary in the
corporation. The least that could be expected was, that
Sir Robert should have a friar tacked on to his for the
term of his natural life! Some bolder spirits there were,
tis true, who viewed the matter in various lights, according
to their different temperaments and dispositions; for
perfect unanimity existed not even in the good old times.
The verderer, roistering Hob Roebuck, swore roundly,
“*Twere as good a deed as eat to kick down the chapel as
well as the monk.’—Hob had stood there in a white sheet
for kissing Giles Miller’s daughter—On the other hand,
Simpkin Agnew, the bell-ringer, doubted if the devil’s
cellar, which runs under the bottomless abyss, were quite
deep enough for the delinquent, and speculated on the pro-
bability of a hole being dug in it for his especial accommoda-
tion. The philosophers and economists thought, with
Saunders McBullock, the Baron’s bagpiper, that “a feckless
monk more or less was nae great subject for a clam-
jamphry,” especially as “the supply considerably exceeded
the demand ;” while Malthouse, the tapster, was arguing
to Dame Martin that a murder now and then was a
seasonable check to population, without which the Isle of
Sheppey would in time be devoured, like a mouldy cheese,
by inhabitants of its own producing.—Meanwhile, the
Baron ate his oysters and thought no more of the
matter.

But this tranquillity of his lordship was not to last. A
couple of Saints had been seriously offended ; and we have
all of us read at school that celestial minds are by no
means insensible to the provocations of anger. There
were those who expected that St Bridget would come in
person, and have the friar up again, as she did the sailor;
but perhaps her ladyship did not care to trust herself





Grey Dolphin $4

within the walls of Shurland Castle. To say the truth, it
was scarcely a decent house for a female Saint to be seen
in. The Baron’s gallantries, since he became a widower,
had been but too notorious; and her own reputation was a
little blown upon in the earlier days of her earthly
pilgrimage: then things were so apt to be misrepresented :
in short, she would leave the whole affair to St Austin,
who, being a gentleman, could interfere with propriety,
avenge her affront as well as his own, and leave no loop-
hole for scandal. St Austin himself seems to have had his
scruples, though of their precise nature it would be difficult
to determine, for it were idle to suppose him at all afraid
of the Baron’s boots. Be this as it may, the mode which
he adopted was at once prudent and efficacious. As an
ecclesiastic, he could not well call the Baron out,—had his
boots been out of the question ;—so he resolved to have
recourse to the law. Instead of Shurland Castle, there-
fore, he repaired forthwith to his own magnificent
monastery, situate just within the walls of Canterbury, and
presented himself in a vision to its abbot. No one who
has ever visited that ancient city, can fail to recollect the
splendid gateway which terminates the vista of St Paul’s-
street, and stands there yet in all its pristine beauty. The
tiny train of miniature artillery which now adorns its battle-
ments is, it is true, an ornament of a later date; and is said
to have been added some centuries after by a learned but
. jealous proprietor, for the purpose of shooting any wiser
man than himself who might chance to come that way.
Tradition is silent as to any discharge having taken place,
nor can the oldest inhabitant ‘of modern days recollect any
such occurrence: Here it was, in a handsome chamber,
immediately over the lofty archway, that the Superior of
the monastery lay buried in a brief slumber snatched from
his accustomed vigils. His mitre—for he was a Mitred
Abbot, and had a seat in parliament—rested on a table
beside him ; near it stood a silver flagon of Gascony wine,

1 Since the appearance of the first edition of this Legend ‘‘ the guns”’ have
been dismounted. Rumour hints at some alarm on the part of the Town
Council.



58 Grey Dolphin

ready, no doubt, for the pious uses of the morrow. Fasting
and watching had made him more than usually somnolent,
than which nothing could have been better for the purpose
of the Saint, who now appeared to him radiant in all the
colours of the rainbow.

“Anselm !”—said the beatific vision,—“ Anselm! are
you not a pretty fellow to lie snoring there, when your
brethren are being knocked at head, and Mother Church
herself is menaced ?—It is a sin and a shame. Anselm ?”

“What's the matter ?>—Who are you?” cried the Abbot,
rubbing his eyes, which the celestial splendour of his visitor
had set a-winking. “Ave Maria! St Austin himself!—
Speak, Beatissime ! what would you with the humblest of
your votaries ?”

“Anselm !” said the saint, “a brother of our order, whose
soul Heaven assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. He
hath been ignominiously kicked to the death, Anselm ; and
there he lieth cheek-by-jowl with a wretched carcass, which
our sister Bridget has turned out of her cemetery for un-
seemly grinning.—Arouse thee, Anselm!”

“Ay, so please you, Sanctissime!” said the Abbot. “I
will order forthwith that thirty masses be said, thirty Paters,
and thirty Aves.”

“Thirty fools’ heads!” interrupted his patron, who was
a little peppery.

“TI will send for bell, book, and candle—”

“Send for an inkhorn, Anselm.—Write me now a letter
to his Holiness the Pope in good round terms, and another
to the Coroner, and another to the Sheriff, and seize me
the never-enough-to-be-anathematised villain who hath done
this deed! Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm !—up
with him !—down with his dwelling-place, root and branch,
hearthstone and roof-tree,—down with it all, and sow the
site with salt and sawdust ! ”

St Austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer,

“Marry will I,’ quoth the Abbot, warming with the
Saint’s eloquence: “ay, marry will I, and that zzstanter.
But there is one thing you have forgotten, most Beatified—
the name of the culprit.”





y
i
af

_——— a Sn Ta oe

Grey Dolphin 59

“Robert de Shurland.”

“The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!” said the Abbot,
crossing himself, “won't that be rather inconvenient? Sir
Robert is a bold baron, and a powerful ;—blows will come
and go, and crowns will be cracked and—”

“What is that to you, since yours will not be of the
number ?”

“Very true, Beatisseme /—I will don me with speed, and
do your bidding.”

“Do so, Anselm !—fail not to hang the baron, burn his
castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax
candles for my own particular shrine out of your share of
the property.”

With this solemn injunction the vision began to fade.

“One thing more!” cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.

“What is that?” asked the saint.

“O Beate Augustine, ora pro nobis !”

“ Of course I shall,” said St Austin. “ Pax vobtscuim !
--and Abbot Anselm was left alone.

Within an hour all Canterbury was in commotion. A
friar had been murdered,—two friars—ten—twenty; a
whole convent had been assaulted,—sacked,—burnt,—ail
the monks had been killed, and all the nuns had been
kissed !—Murder !—fire !—sacrilege! Never was city in
such an uproar. From St George’s gate to St Dunstan’s
suburb, from the Donjon to the borough of Staplegate, all
was noise and hubbub. “Where was it?”—“ When was
it ?”—“ How was it?” The Mayor caught up his chain,
the Aldermen donned their furred gowns, the Town-clerk
put on his spectacles. “ Who was he ?”—“ What was he?”
—‘‘ Where was he?” —he should be hanged,—he should be
burned,—he should be broiled,—he should be fried,—he
should be scraped to death with red-hot oyster-shells!
“Who was he?”—“ What was his name?”

The Abbot’s Apparitor drew forth his roll and read
aloud :—“ Sir Robert de Shurland, Knight banneret, Baron
of Shurland and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey.”

The Mayor put his chain in his pocket, the Aldermen
took off their gowns, the Town Clerk put his pen behind



60 Grey Dolphin

his ear.—It was a county business altogether :—the Sheriff
had better call out the posse comitatus.

While saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him,
the Baron de Shurland was quietly eating his breakfast.
He had passed a tranquil night, undisturbed by dreams of
cowl or capuchin ; nor was his appetite more affected than
his conscience. On the contrary, he sat rather longer over
his meal than usual: luncheon-time came, and he was ready
as ever for his oysters: but scarcely had Dame Martin
opened his first half-dozen when the warder’s horn was
heard from the barbican.

“Who the devil’s that ?” said Sir Robert. “ I’m not at
home, Periwinkle. I hate to be disturbed at meals, and I
won’t be at home to anybody.”

“Ant please your lordship,” answered the Seneschal,
“Paul Prior hath given notice that there is a body—”

“ Another body !” roared the Baron. “Am I to be ever-
lastingly plagued with bodies? No time allowed me to
swallow a morsel. Throw it into the moat!”

“So please you, my lord, it is a body. of horse,—and—
and Paul says there is a still larger body of foot behind it ;
and he thinks, my lord,—that is, he does not know, but he
thinks—and we all think, my lord, that they are coming to
—to besiege the castle!”

“ Besiege the castle! Who? What? What for?”

“Paul says, my lord, that he can see the banner of St
Austin, and the bleeding heart of Hamo de Crevecceur, the
Abbot’s chief vassal ; and there is John de Northwood, the
sheriff, with his red-cross engrailed ; and Hever, and Ley-
bourne, and Heaven knows how many more; and they are
all coming on as fast as ever they can.”

“ Periwinkle,” said the Baron, “up with the drawbridge ;
down with the portcullis; bring me a cup of canary, and
my nightcap. I won’t be bothered with them. I shall go
to bed.”

“To bed, my lord?” cried Periwinkle, with a look that
seemed to say, “ He’s crazy!”

At this moment the shrill tones of a trumpet were heard
to sound thrice from the champaign, It was the signal for





Grey Dolphin 61

parley: the Baron changed his mind ; instead of going to
bed, he went to the ramparts.

“Well, rapscallions ! and what now!” said the Baron.

A herald, two pursuivants, and a trumpeter, occupied
the foreground of the scene; behind them, some
three hundred paces off, upon a rising ground, was
drawn up in battle array the main body of the ecclesi-
astical forces.

“Hear you, Robert de Shurland, Knight, Baron of
Shurland and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey, and know
all men, by these presents, that I do hereby attach you,
the said Robert, of murder and sacrilege, now, or of late,
done and committed by you, the said Robert, contrary
to the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown
and dignity: and I do hereby require and charge you, the
said Robert, to forthwith surrender and give up your own
proper person, together with the castle of Shurland afore-
said, in order that the same may be duly dealt with accord-
ing tolaw. And here standeth John de Northwood, Esquire,
good man and true, sheriff of this his Majesty’s most loyal
county of Kent, to enforce the same, if need be, with his
posse comitatus—”

“ His what?” said the Baron.

“His posse comitatus, and—”

“Go to Bath !” said the Baron.

A defiance so contemptuous roused the ire of the adverse
commanders, A volley of missiles rattled about the Baron’s
ears. Nightcaps avail little against contusions. He left
the walls, and returned to the great hall.

“Let them pelt away,” quoth the Baron; “there are no
windows to break, and they can’t get in.”—So he took his
afternoon nap, and the siege went on.

Towards evening his lordship awoke, and grew tired of
the din. Guy Pearson, too, had got a black eye from a
brick-bat, and the assailants were clambering over the outer
wall. Sothe Baron called for his Sunday hauberk of Milan
steel, and his great two-handed sword with the terrible
name ;—it was the fashion in feudal times to give names
to swords: King Arthur’s was christened Excalibar; the



62 Grey Dolphin

Baron called his Tickletoby, and whenever he took it in
hand it was no joke.

“Up with the portcullis! down with the bridge!” said
Sir Robert; and out he sallied, followed by the &z¢e of his
retainers. Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one
way—arms and legs another; round went Tickletoby ; and,
wherever it alighted, down came horse and man: the Baron
excelled himself that day. All that he had done in Palestine
faded in the comparison; he had fought for fun there, but
now it was for life and lands. Away went John de North-
wood ; away went William of Hever, and Roger of Ley-
bourne.—Hamo de Crevecceur, with the church vassals and
the banner of St Austin, had been gone some time.—The
siege was raised, and the Lord of Sheppey was left alone
in his glory.

But brave as the Baron undoubtedly was, and total as
had been the defeat of his enemies, it cannot be supposed
that La Stoccata would be allowed to carry it away thus.
It has before been hinted that Abbot Anselm had written
to the Pope, and Boniface the Eighth piqued himself on his
punctuality as a correspondent in all matters connected
with church discipline. Hesent back an answer by return
of post; and by it all Christian people were strictly
enjoined to aid in exterminating the offender, on pain of
the greater excommunication in this world, and a million
of years of purgatory in the next. But then, again, Boni-
face the Eighth was rather at a discount in England just
then. He had affronted Longshanks, as the loyal lieges
had nicknamed their monarch ; and Longshanks had been
rather sharp upon the clergy in consequence. If the
Baron de Shurland could but get the King’s pardon for
what, in his cooler moments, he admitted to be a pecca-
dillo, he might sniff at the Pope, and bid him “do his
devilmost.”

Fortune, who, as the poet says, delights to favour the
bold, stood his friend.on this occasion. Edward had been,
for some time, collecting a large force “on the coast of
Kent, to carry on his French wars for the recovery of
Guienne ; he was expected shortly to review it in person ;







THEN THERE WAS A PRETTY TO-DO, HEADS FLEW ONE WAY—ARMS
AND LEGS ANOTHER; ROUND WENT TICKLETOBY



64 Grey Dolphin

but, then, the troops lay principally in cantonments about
the mouth of the Thames, and his Majesty was. to come
down by water. What was to be done ?—the royal barge
was in sight, and John de Northwood and Hamo de
Crevecceur had broken up all the boats to boil their camp-
kettles.—A truly great mind is never without resources.

“Bring me my boots!” said the Baron.

They brought him his boots, and his dapple-grey steed
along with them. Such a courser! all blood and bone,
short-backed, broad-chested, and,—but that he was a little
ewe-necked,—faultless in form and figure. The Baron
sprang upon his back, and dashed at once into the river.

The barge which carried Edward Longshanks and his
fortunes had by this time nearly reached the Nore: the
stream was broad and the current strong, but Sir Robert
and his steed were almost as broad, and a great deal
stronger. After breasting the tide gallantly for a couple
of miles, the Knight was near enough to hail the steers-
man.

“What have we got here?” said the King.—‘“It’s a
mermaid,” said one—‘“It’s a grampus,” said another.—
“Tt’s the devil,” said a third—But they were all wrong;
it was only Robert de Shurland. “Grammercy,” quoth
the King, “that fellow was never born to be drowned !”

It has been said before that the Baron had fought in the
Holy wars; in fact, he had accompanied Longshanks,
when only heir apparent, in his expedition twenty-five
years before, although his name is unaccountably omitted
by Sir Harris Nicolas in his list of crusaders. He had
been present at Acre when Amirand of Joppa stabbed the
prince with a poisoned dagger, and had lent Princess
Eleanor his own tooth-brush after she had sucked out the
venom from the wound.—He had slain certain Saracens,
contented himself with his own plunder, and never dunned
the commissariat for arrears of pay.—Of course he ranked
high in Edward’s good graces, and had received the honour
of knighthood at his hands on the field of battle.

In one so circumstanced it cannot be supposed that such
a trifle as the killing of a frowzy friar would be much



Grey Dolphin 65°

‘resented, even had he not taken so bold a measure to

obtain his pardon. His petition was granted, of course, as
soon as asked ; and so it would have been had the indict-
ment drawn up by the Canterbury town-clerk, viz., “ That
he the said Robert de Shurland, etc. had then and there,
with several, to wit, one thousand, pairs of boots, given
sundry, to wit, two thousand, kicks, and therewith and
thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand, Austin friars,”
been true to the letter.

Thrice did the gallant grey circumnavigate the barge,
while Robert de Winchelsey, the chancellor, and arch-
bishop to boot, was making out, albeit with great reluct-
ance, the royal pardon. The interval was sufficiently long to
enable His Majesty, who, gracious as he was, had always
an eye to business, just to hint that the gratitude he felt
towards the Baron was not unmixed with a lively sense of
services, to come; and that, if life were now spared him,
common decency must oblige him to make himself useful.
Before the archbishop, who had scalded his fingers with
the wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take them
out of his mouth, all was settled, and the Baron de Shur-
land had pledged himself to be forthwith in readiness, cam
suis to accompany his liege lord to Guienne.

With the royal pardon secured in his vest, boldly did his
lordship turn again to the shore; and as boldly did his
courser oppose his breadth of chest to the stream. It was
a work of no common difficulty or danger; a steed of less
“mettle and bone” had long since sunk in the effort: as it
was, the Baron’s boots were full of water, and Grey
Dolphin’s chamfrain more than once dipped beneath the
wave. The convulsive snorts of the noble animal shewed
his distress; each instant they became more loud and
frequent; when his hoof touched the strand, and “the
horse and his rider” stood once again in safety on the
shore.

Rapidly dismounting, the Baron was loosening the girths
of his demi-pique, to give the panting animal breath, when
he was aware of as ugly an old woman as he had ever
clapped eyes upon, peeping at him under the horse’s} belly.

E



66 Grey Dolphin

“Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland! Make
much of your steed!” cried the hag, shaking at him her
long and bony finger. “Groom to the hide, and corn to the.
manger! He has saved your life, Robert Shurland, for the
nonce; but he shall yet be the means of your losing it, for
all that!”

The Baron started: “What's that you say, you old
faggot ?”—He ran round by his horse’s tail ;—the woman
was gone!

The Baron paused ; his great soul was not to be shaken
by trifles; he looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated
the word “ Humbug!”—then slinging the bridle across his
arm, walked slowly on in the direction of the castle.

The appearance, and still more the disappearance, of the
crone, had however made an impression; every step he
took he became more thoughtful. “’Twould be deuced
provoking, though, if he should break my neck after all.” —
He turned and gazed at Dolphin with the scrutinizing eye
of a veterinary surgeon.—“I’ll be shot if he is not groggy!”
said the Baron.

With his lordship, like another great Commander, “ Once
to be in, doubt, was once to be resolved:” it would never
do to go to the wars on a rickety prad. He dropped the
rein, drew forth Tickletoby, and, as the enfranchised
Dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his ewe-neck to
the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. “There,
you lying old beldame!” said the Baron; “now take him

eye MY:

away to the knacker’s.

Three years were come and gone, King Edward’s French
wars were over ; both parties, having fought till they came
to a standstill, shook hands; and the quarrel, as usual, was
patched up by aroyal marriage. This happy event gave
his Majesty leisure to turn his attention to Scotland, where
things, through the intervention of William Wallace, were
looking rather queerish. As his reconciliation with Philip
now allowed of his fighting the Scotch in peace and quiet-
ness, the monarch lost no time in marching his long legs
across the border, and the short ones of the Baron followed





“MAKE*MUCH-OF-YOUR:STEED, ROBERT: SHURLAND!
MAKE-MUCH OF: YOUR: STEEDS!”



Grey Dolphin 67
him of course. At Falkirk, Tickletoby was in great re-
quest; and in the year following, we find a contemporary
poet hinting at his master’s prowess under the walls of
Caerlaverock,

Obec ens fu achimines

Li bean Robert de Shurland
Hi kant seott sur le chebal
He sembloit home ke someille.

@

A quatrain which Mr Simpkinson translates,

“ With them was marching
The good Robert de Shurland,
Who, when seated on horseback,
Does not resemble a man asleep !”

So thoroughly awake, indeed, does he seem to have
proved himself, that the bard subsequently exclaims, in an
ecstasy of admiration,

St ie estote une pucelette
He li Donroie cenr et cors
Tant est de lu bons li recors.

“Tf I were a young maiden,
I would give my heart and person,
So great is his fame!”

Fortunately the poet was a tough old monk of Exeter ;
since such a present to a nobleman, now in his grand
climacteric, would hardly have been worth the carriage.
With the reduction of this stronghold of the Maxwells
seem to have concluded the Baron’s military services; as
on the very first day of the fourteenth century we find him
once more landed on his native shore, and marching, with
such of his retainers as the wars had left him, towards the
hospitable shelter of Shurland Castle. It was then, upon
that very beach, some hundred yards distant from high
water mark, that his eye fell upon something like an ugly
old woman in a red cloak! She was seated on what seemed
to be a large stone, in an interesting attitude, with her
elbows resting upon her knees, and her chin upon her



68 Grey Dolphin

thumbs. The Baron started: the remembrance of his
interview with a similar personage in the same place some
three years since, flashed upon his recollection. He rushed
towards the spot, but the form was gone ;—nothing re-
mained but the seat it had appeared to occupy. This, on ex-
amination, turned out to be no stone, but the whitened skull
of a dead horse !—A tender remembrance of the deceased
Grey Dolphin shot a momentary pang into the Baron’s
bosom ; he drew the baek of his hand across his face ; the
thought of the hag’s prediction in an instant rose, and
banished all softer emotions. In utter contempt of his own
weakness, yet with a tremor that deprived his redoubtable
kick of half its wonted force, he spurned the relic with his
foot. One word alone issued from his lips, elucidatory of
what was passing in his mind,—it long remained imprinted
on the memory of his faithful followers,—that word was
“Gammon!” The skull bounded across the beach till it
reached the very margin of the stream ;—one instant more,
and it would be engulfed for ever. At that moment a loud
“Ha! ha! ha!” was distinctly heard by the whole train to
issue from its bleached and toothless jaws ; it sank beneath
the flood in a horse laugh!

Meanwhile Sir Robert de Shurland felt an odd sort of
sensation in his right foot. His boots had suffered in the
wars. Great pains had been taken for their preservation.
They had been “soled” and “ heeled” more than once ;—
had they been “ goloshed,” their owner might have defied
Fate! Well has it been said that “there is no such thing
as a trifle.” A nobleman’s life depended upon a question
of ninepence.

The Baron marched on; the uneasiness in his foot in-
creased. He plucked off his boot ;—a horse’s tooth was
sticking in his great toe!

The result may be anticipated. Lame as he was, his
lordship, with characteristic decision, would hobble on to
Shurland ; his walk increased the inflammation ; a flagon
of agua vite did not mend matters. ‘He was in a high
fever; he took to his bed. Next morning the toe presented
the appearance of a Bedfordshire carrot ; by dinner-time it





Full Text



ILLUSTRATED
ROMANCES, ETC.

THE

INGOLDSBY LEGENDS




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THOMAS INGOLDSBY
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LONDON
J.M.DENT 6C?' ALDINE HOUSE
1898
List of Contents

FIRST SERIES

The Spectre of Tappington : : : .
The Nurse’s Story . : : .
Patty Morgan, the Milkmaid’ s Story,

Grey Dolphin : 7

The Ghost ; : ; . : 7
The Cynotaph : 2 A : : :
Mrs Botherby’s Story

Legend of Hamilton Tighe

The Witches’ Frolic

Singular Passage in the Life of the late Henry Harris, D. D.
The Jackdaw of Rheims . . . . .
A Lay of St Dunstan

A Lay of St Gengulphus

The Lay of St Odille

A Lay of St Nicholas

The Lady Rohesia

The Tragedy 5

Mr Barney Maguire’s Account of the Corenation 5

The ‘‘Monstre” Balloon . .

Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story

Some Account of a New Play

Mr Peters’s Story .

SECOND SERIES

The Black Mousquetaire
Sir Rupert the Fearless
The Merchant of Venice
The Auto-da-Fé

The Ingoldsby Penance
Netley Abbey

Fragment .

Nell Cook

iii

250

270
293
306
318
340
358
363
365
iv List of Contents

Nursery Reminiscences. -
Aunt Fanny

Misadventures at erence

The Smuggler’s Leap

Bloudie Jacke of Shrewsberrie
The Babes in the Wood

The Dead Drummer

A Row in an Omnibus (Box)

The Lay of St Cuthbert

The Lay of St Aloys :

The Lay of the Old Woman Clothed i in Grey
Raising the Devil . :
Saint Medard

THIRD SERIES

The Lord of Thoulouse

The Wedding-Day :
The Blasphemer’s Warning
The Brothers of Birchington
The Knight and the Lady
The House-Warming ! !
The Forlorn One .

Jerry Jarvis’s Wig .
Unsophisticated Wishes

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

Hermann ; or, the Broken Spear .
Hints for an Historical Play
Marie Mignot

The Truants

The Poplar

New-Made Honour

My Letters

The Confession

Epigram

Song

Epigram

Song :

As I Laye A- thynkynge

PAGE

376
378
388
394
403
417
425
439
444
458
47t
489
49t

499
514
530
553
566
577
592
593
613

615
618
620
622
626
628
628
632
633
633
634
635
635


List of Illustrations in Colours



One kick! it was but one: but such a one! (Zage 55) . Frontispiece

To Tappington mill-dam . . : : . face page 36
Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland !

Make much of your steed ! : : ; : os 66
If Orpheus first produced the Waltz ; : ” 74
If anyone lied, or if anyone swore 5 : . i 170
Whack! . 7 7 ' : . : 7 220
The poor little page, too, himself got no quarter . : Ps 227
He would then sally out in the streets for a spree : 270
They’d such very odd heads and such very odd tails : oo 294.

They dragg’d the great fishpond the little one tried ;

But found nothing at all, save some carp which they fried p 558
Sir Thomas her lord was stout of limb. : : 0 566
When a score of ewes had brought in a reasonable profit . 610




List of Illustrations in Black

The fair Caroline .

Whipped his long bony legs into them in a eanine

Came close behind him, and with the flat side of the spade—
Head-piece—‘‘ The Nurse’s Story”

Gentlemen, look at the clock

He meditated a mighty draught

“¢ Emmanuel Saddleton, truss up your points, and follow me!” .

Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one way—arms and
legs another ; round went Tickletoby

His wife would often try the density of his poor skull
Beckon’d the Cobbler with its wan right hand
Head-piece—The Cynotaph

“A Babby” :

A cow may yet be sometimes seen galloping like mad
Never was man more swiftly disrobed

But he spun on—the cat mewed, bats and obscene birds fluttered
overhead

Monogram

The Coachman thinks he is dees Old Nick

A man sitting there with his head on his knees! .
Now tread we a measure .

Head- Leen passage in the Life of the late 2 Henry
Harris, D.D. : 7 :

Head-piece—The Jackdaw of Rheims
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring

PAGE

16
29
31
46
48
49

63
73
77
80
81
87
109

III
116
117
120

127

138
164
165
vill List of Illustrations

They can’t find the ring.

Heedless of grammar they all cried, ‘‘ That him!”

“A Pentacle” . .

Peep’d through the key-hole

For a flood of brown-stout he was up to his kmees in

Limb from limb, they dismember’d him .

And the maids cried, ‘* Good gracious, how very tenacious !”

And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill

Round the ankle, the style sadly bother’d Odille .

They had followed her trail

Gaily the Lord Abbot smiled __

Into the bottomless pit he fell slap

In the pantry was the holy man discovered, —at his devotions

The Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas .

She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching

Head-piece—Mr Barney Maguire’s account of the Coronation

Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall

He bounced up and down : .

He rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers

A litter of five : : :

““O Lord,” he thought, ‘‘ what pain it was to drown!” . :

Grandville acted on it, and order’d his tandem

They came floating about him like so many prawns

Miss Una von—something

In an oak tree . . . she hung, crying and screaming

They heard somebody crying, ‘‘ Old Clo’ !”

“* My Lord,” said the King, ‘‘ here’s a rather tough job”

Tail-piece—The Auto-da-fé

Head-piece—The Ingoldsby Penance i

Subjecting his back to thump and to thwack, well and truly laid
on by a bare-footed Friar

The monks and the nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright .

PAGE
167
169
172
174
178
184
IgI

196
199
206
211
215
223
225
228
237
241
245
251
257
288
297
302
305
309
327
340
342

351

355
List of Illustrations

He puts his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his fingers out !

Tail-piece—Nell Cook

Gave me—several flaps behind

Cornet Jones of Tenth Hussars

« Ads cuss it ! I’ve spoiled myself now by that ’ere nasty gusset !”

I took him home to number 2

A Custom-house officer by his side, on a high trotting-horse with
a dun-coloured hide

Smuggler Bill, he looks behind

With iron it’s plated and machecollated, to pour boiling oil and
lead down; how you'd frown should a ladle-full fall on your
crown . :

Till ‘‘ Battle-Field” swarms like a Fair

The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise !

Wandering about and ‘‘ Boo-hoo ”-ing

Head-piece—The dead drummer

Or making their court to their Polls and their Sues

Tail-piece—The dead drummer

The horn at the gate of the barbican tower

Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power .

Tail-piece—The lay of St Cuthbert

Witches and warlocks, ghosts, goblins and ghouls

Bid the bandy-legged: sexton go run for the May’r !

An ‘Old Woman clothed in grey”

Made one grasshopper spring to the door—and was gone!

He enlarged so, his shape seem’d approaching a sphere

St Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile

In the midst sits the Doctor

The soapy-tailed Sow

The Squire ; ! : : ; 3

They dash’d up the hills, and they dash’d down the dales

There were peacocks served up in their pride

A tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne’s .

397
400

405
412
419

425
429
438

447
458
465
467
472
483
486
494.
507
517
518
537
546
547
x List of Illustrations

PAGE
Richard of Birchington. D : : : 5 554
Robert of Birchington : ; : : . 555
Ledger in hand, straight ‘‘ Auld Hornie ” appears : : 560
Tail-piece—The Knight and the Lady. a : : 576
Sir Christopher Hatton he danced with grace. . : 577
A grand pas de deux performed in the very first style by these two —§89
His first thought was to throw it in the pig-stye . 5 : 597
We carved “ez initials : : : : : 5 627

As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his way 5 : : 637


Introduction

THE first appearance in collected form of The Ingoldsby
Legends ; or, Mirth and Marvels, by Thomas Ingoldsby,
Esquire, was in three separate series, the first in 1840,
the second in 1842, and the third, posthumously, in
1847 ; and it was in his son’s preface to this third series
that the name of the Rev. Richard Harris Barham was
first attached to the book, although it had long been
pretty generally known that he was the author.

The Legends had been appearing in various periodi-
cals for some years before they were thus collected in
volume form; the Lozdon Chronicle, of which he was
the last editor before its change of name to the S#
James Chronicle, containing some of the earliest. Some
also appeared in Blackwooad’s Edinburgh Magazine, but
the larger number first saw light in Bentley's Miscellany,
some of the latest appearing in Colburn’s New Monthly
Magazine.

It was at Bentley’s suggestion, however, that the
Legends were published in collected form, and the
prefaces here reprinted to the first and second series
are characteristic letters from Barham addressed to
Richard Bentley, Esq. whose judgment is amply
evidenced by the large sale and continued popularity
of the volumes. ©

Richard Harris Barham, who came of an old Kentish
family, was the only son of his father, who bore the
same name. He was born at Canterbury, the 6th of
December 1788, and considered that he could trace
his descent through that Sir Randal or Reginald
Fitzurse, who was one of the murderers of Thomas
a Becket, back to one Ursus, who came over with the

xi
Xu Introduction

Conqueror. His father owned a farm known as
Tappington or Tapton Wood, the Tappington Everard
of the Legends, and it was here that, in 1798, he died,
leaving young Barham, whose mother was in very
delicate health, to the care of guardians.

At the age of nine he was sent to St Paul’s School,
and on one occasion when he was about fourteen, on
his way back to the school by the Dover coach, he met
with an alarming and painful accident through the bolt-
ing of the horses at Bricklayers’ Arms. The driver and
guard had both jumped off, and he imprudently put his
hand out to open the door when, the coach overturning,
his right arm was caught beneath it, and in this position
he was dragged along for some distance, his hand being
fearfully crushed and nearly torn off. On his arrival at
the school Mrs Roberts, the wife of the High-Master,
who regarded him with unusual interest, gave him the
most motherly attention, and although the doctors
feared the worst, nursed him to convalescence.

At St Paul’s School, amongst others who were life-
long friends, he met Richard Bentley, whose name
must always be associated with the /ugoldsby Legends ;
and it was whilst he was here that his first verses were
published, and received favourable notice from “ Mr
Sylvanus Urban” in the Gentleman's Magazine. He
was often a guest at the house of Dr and Mrs Roberts,
where he was encouraged to read or recite some of his
own compositions, and here he met Miss Smith (after-
wards Mrs Bartley) the actress, and was by her in-
structed in the art of elocution.

On leaving St Paul’s School he entered Brasenose
College, Oxford, where amongst his friends he num-
bered Lord George Grenville, afterwards Lord Nugent,
and Theodore Hook. Whilst at Oxford, although he
studied hard, chiefly at night, his days were spent as
far as possible mixing in society; this seems to have
led him at one period into rather high play ; in fact, on
one occasion he lost so heavily that he was unable to
pay. His application to one of his guardians for an


Introduction Xlil

advance was met with a decided refusal, but a refusal
accompanied by the most sensible advice, and what was
equally to the point the free gift of the sum required.
This had ‘its effect, for from that time he never gambled,
nor would he. even embark in any investment of the
least speculative character.

At this period, and in fact throughout his life, the
theatre had great attractions for him. When at home
in Kent for the vacations he was a constant attendant
at the theatre at Canterbury, both before and behind the
scenes, on one occasion at least writing an epilogue to
be spoken at an amateur performance given by the
officers quartered in that city.

He had been originally intended for the bar, and had,
in fact, for a short time read with Mr Chitty, but after a
severe illness, and perhaps influenced by the death of a
college friend under somewhat painful circumstances, he
decided to devote himself to the church. He was a
man of unfeigned but unostentatious piety, as every
reader of his life, written by his son and interspersed
with his own letters, will know. In 1813, after taking
his B.A. degree, he was appointed to the curacy of Ash-
ford in Kent, being transferred the following year to that
of Westwell, also in Kent, and worth £70 per annum,
in which he was succeeded in 1820 by the Rev. G. R.
Gleig, author of Ze Sudaltern and other military novels
and biographies, and afterwards chaplain-general of the
forces.

In 1814 he married Caroline, third daughter of
Captain Smart of the Royal Engineers, who, taken ill
at the same time as he was, only outlived him a few
years. At Westwell two boys were born to him, one
of whom died in infancy. In 1817 he was appointed
rector of Snargate and curate of Warehorn, one in
Romney Marsh and the other on the borders, a district
mentioned and described in more than one of the
Legends. His first novel, Baldwin, and the earliest
chapters of JZy Cousin Nicholas, were written about
this time, during an enforced rest through a broken leg
XIV Introduction

and sprained ankle, the results of an accident whilst he
was out driving

In 1821 he met in London one day a friend who was
on his way to post a letter to another clergyman, recom-
mending him to apply for a Minor Canonry at St Paul’s,
then vacant; his friend, instead of posting the letter,
mentioned the matter to Barham, who applied and re-
ceived the appointment. At this time Dr Hughes
(grandfather of the author of Tom Brown’s School-days)
was Canon-residentiary, and to this fact lovers of the
Ingoldsby Legends are much indebted, for it was from
Mrs Hughes and Mr John Hughes, the Canon’s wife
and son, that Barham derived the traditionary materials
upon which many of them are founded; readers of his
life, before referred to, will also remember the many

charming letters to this lady there printed.

' His first permanent residence in London was some
distance from the cathedral, being in Great Queen
Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and here, in addition to
the two sons and two daughters he already had, another
daughter was born.

In 1824, in addition to his Minor Canonry at St
Paul’s, he received the appointments as priest in
ordinary to His Majesty’s Chapels Royal, and incum-
bent of the joint parishes of St Mary Magdalen and
St Gregory by St Paul’s. His parochial work now
made it necessary for him to remove, and we find him
occupying a house on the south side of St Paul’s
Churchyard, at the entrance to Doctors’ Commons
and the Deanery; here, in 1825, he lost his eldest
daughter.

In August 1825, through the introduction of his
friend John Hughes, his poem The Ghost, a Canterbury
Tale appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, although
it had previously been published in three instalments
in the London Chronicle. It was about the end of this
year that he renewed his acquaintance with his old
college friend Theodore Hook, so celebrated at that
time amongst other things for his facility of im-


Introduction XV

provisation, a faculty in which Barham was very
nearly his equal: his biographer mentions the fact
that Mr Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation
was composed in this way and published with but
slight alteration. He says of himself that he never
to his knowledge wrote anything pretending to origin-
ality either in conception or execution; there is no
doubt, however, that, whether in writing or conversa-
tion, he was both ready and fluent.

In May 1828 he acted as one of the stewards of the
Literary Fund Dinner, an institution with which he
was connected for many years. And when in 1831
the Garrick Club was founded he was one of the
original members, and at the inaugural dinner some
lines which he had written for the occasion were sung,
set as a glee.

During the cholera epidemic in 1832, he had a very
sudden bereavement in the loss of his second son, who,
from perfect health was taken ill, died, and was buried
within twenty-four hours.

Some time in the early part of 1834, knowing of
the existence of some portion of his novel, JZy Cousin
Nicholas, Mrs Hughes borrowed the MS., and liking
the story herself, sent it to Blackwood for his approval,
and the first intimation that Barham had of the trans-
action was his receipt of the magazine containing all
that had been written, with a request for more copy
for the next month’s number. In March of this year he
became Chaplain to the Vintners’ Company, in which
capacity, besides saying grace at their dinners, he paid
weekly visits to the Alms-houses in the Mile End Road,
conducting divine service, and visiting and patching up
disagreements amongst the alms-women, whom, in one
of his playful letters to Mrs Hughes, he describes as
“my seraglio of twelve elderly odalisques.”

Bentley's Miscellany was started in January 1837,
with Charles Dickens as its editor, and it was only to
be expected that Bentley should invite his old friend to
become one of the regular contributors, and here the
Xvi Introduction

title “Ingoldsby Legends” and the signature Thomas
Ingoldsby were first used, his previous writings having
all appeared anonymously.

Though, as before mentioned, many of the Legends
were founded on materials supplied by Mrs Hughes,
yet many others were derived from his personal ex-
perience or from his reading. Thus the prose story
entitled, Szzgular Passage in the Life of Dr Harris,
was founded upon a similar delusion to that in the
story, which existed in the mind of a lady whom he
visited on her sick-bed.

In 1839 the Rev. Sydney Smith offered him the use
of the Canon’s Residence in Amen Corner, and here he
removed in the autumn of that year. He was now to
experience a more bitter bereavement than any previous
one, in the loss of his youngest son, a bright and pro-
mising lad of thirteen, a loss to which neither he nor his
wife seems ever to have become thoroughly reconciled.
Now he found literary work his greatest solace, though
it must be confessed, and it is not unnatural, that some
of his work at this period was not amongst his best
or favourite productions. loudie Jack of Shrewsbury
was written at this time, and he states that he had less
liking for this than for any of the Legends.

In 1842 he became President of Sion College, a post
tenable only for one year, and was made Divinity Lec-
turer at St Paul’s, and during this year exchanged the
living of St Mary Magdalen and St Gregory for that
of St Faith, the mother parish of St Paul’s Cathedral,
chiefly consisting of warehouses, thus having but a very
small number of parishioners.

With Bentley his friendship had been, and continued
to the end to be, a close one, but so far as the periodical
issue of the Jugoldsby Legends was concerned, their
connection concluded in 1843, after which date the re-
mainder appeared in Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine.

At the Queen’s procession to the opening of the
Royal Exchange, Oct. 28, 1844, he caught a chill,
which he hardly seemed to take any notice of at the


Introduction Xvi

time, but complained of his throat, attributing the pain
he experienced to the swallowing of the core of a pear.
He was ordered away to Bath, but coming back to be
present at a yestry meeting, caught a severe cold.
After this he returned to Clifton, and though he was
writing cheerfully from there so late as the 27th May,
and was well enough to be brought back to Amen
Corner in the beginning of June, it was only to die
there on the 17th of that month. He was buried on
the 21st of June beneath the altar of St Gregory's
Church.
F, J. SIMMONS.


Preface to First Series

To Richard Bentley, Esq.

My DEAR SIR,—

You wish me. to collect into one single volume
certain rambling extracts from our family memoranda,
many of which have already appeared in the pages of
your Miscellany. At the same time you tell me that
doubts are entertained in certain quarters as to the
authenticity of their details.

Now with respect to their genuineness, the old oak
chest, in which the originals are deposited, is not more
familiar to my eyes than it is to your own; and if its
contents have any value at all, it consists in the strict
veracity of the facts they record.

To convince the most incredulous, I can only add,
that should business—pleasure is out of the question—
ever call them into the neighbourhood of Folkestone,
let them take the high road from Canterbury to Dover
till they reach the eastern extremity of Barham Downs.
Here a beautiful green lane diverging abruptly to the
right will carry them through the Oxenden plantations
and the unpretending village of Denton, to the foot of
a very respectable hill—as hills go in this part of
Europe. On reaching its summit let them look straight
before them—and if among the hanging woods which
crown the opposite side of the valley, they cannot dis-
tinguish an antiquated Manor-house of Elizabethan
architecture, with its gable ends, stone stanchions, and
tortuous chimneys rising above the surrounding trees,
why—the sooner they procure a pair of Dollard’s patent
spectacles the better.

xix
xx Preface to First Series

If, on the contrary, they can manage to descry it,
and, proceeding some five or six furlongs through the
avenue, will ring at the Lodge-gate—they cannot
mistake the stone lion with the Ingoldsby escutcheon
(Ermine, a saltire engrailed Gules) in his paws—they
will be received with a hearty old English welcome.

The papers in question having been written by
different parties, and at various periods, I have thought
it advisable to reduce the more ancient of them into a
comparatively modern phraseology, and to make my
collateral ancestor, Father John, especially, “deliver
himself like a man of this world”; Mr Maguire, indeed,
is the only Gentleman who, in his account of the. late
Coronation, retains his own rich vernacular.

As to arrangement, I shall adopt the sentiment
expressed by the Constable of Bourbon four centuries
ago, teste Shakspeare, one which seems to become more
fashionable every day,

“The Devil take all order! !—I’ll to the throng !”
Believe me to be,
My dear Sir,
Yours, most indubitably and immeasurably,

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

TAPPINGTON EVERARD,
Jan. 20th, 1840.
Preface to the Second Edition

To Richard Bentley, Esq.

MY DEAR SIR,—



I SHOULD have replied sooner to your letter, but
that the last three days in January are, as you are
aware, always dedicated, at the Hall, to an especial
battue, and the old house is full of shooting-jackets,
shot-belts, and “double Joes.” Even the women wear
/ percussion caps, and your favourite (?) Rover, who, you
may remember, examined the calves of your legs with
such suspicious curiosity at Christmas, is as pheasant-
mad as if he were a biped, instead of being a genuine
four-legged scion of the Blenheim breed. I have
managed, however, to avail myself of a lucid interval
in the general hallucination, (how the rain did come
/ down on Monday!) and as you tell me the excellent
friend whom you are in the habit of styling “a Generous
and Enlightened Public” has emptied your shelves of
the first edition, and “asks for more,” why, I agree with
you, it would be a want of respect to that very respectable
personification, when furnishing him with a farther
supply, not to endeavour at least to amend my faults,
which are few, and your own, which are more numerous.
I have, therefore, gone to work con amore, supplying
occasionally on my own part a deficient note, or

elucidatory stanza, and on yours knocking out, with-
out remorse, your superfluous 2’s, and now and then

eviscerating your colon.

My duty to our illustrious friend thus performed, I
have a crow to pluck with him,—Why will he persist—
as you tell me he does persist—in calling me by all sorts
of names but those to which I am entitled by birth and

xxi
Xxil Preface to the Second Edition

baptism—my “Sponsorial and Patronymic appellations,”
as Dr Pangloss has it?>—Mrs Malaprop complains, and
with justice, of an “assault upon her parts of speech:” but
to attack one’s very existence—to deny that one zs a
person zz esse, and scarcely to admit that one may be a
person zz posse, is tenfold. cruelty ;—“it is pressing to
death, whipping, and hanging!”—let me entreat all



such likewise to remember that, as Shakespeare beauti-
fully expresses himself elsewhere—I give his words as
quoted by a very worthy Baronet in a neighbouring
county, when protesting against a defamatory placard
at a general election—
“Who steals my purse steals stuff !—
*Twas mine—'tisn’t his—nor nobody elses !
But he who runs away with my GOOD NaAmgE,

Robs me of what does not do him any good,
And makes me deuced poor !!”1



1A reading which seems most unaccountably to have escaped the re-
searches of all modern Shakespearians, including the rival editors of the
new and illustrated versions.
Preface to the Second Edition XXlii

In order utterly to squabash and demolish every gain-
sayer, I had thought, at one time, of asking my old and
esteemed friend, Richard Lane, to crush them at once
with his magic pencil, and to transmit my features to -
posterity, where all his works are sure to be “ delivered
according to the direction ;” but somehow the noble-
looking profiles which he has recently executed of the
Kemble family put me a little out of conceit with my own,
while the undisguised amusement which my “ Mephis-
topheles Eyebrow,” as he termed it, afforded him, in the
“ full face,” induced me to lay aside the design. Besides,
my dear Sir, since, as has well been observed, “there
never was a married man yet who had not somebody
remarkably like him walking about town,” it is a
thousand to one but my lineaments might, after all,
out of sheer perverseness be ascribed to anybody rather
than to the real owner. I have therefore sent you,
instead thereof, a very fair sketch of Tappington, taken
from the Folkestone road (I tore it last night out of
Julia Simpkinson’s album) ; get Gilks to make a wood-
cut of it. And now, if any miscreant (I use the word
only in its primary and “ Pickwickian” sense of “ Un-
believer,”) ventures to throw any further doubt upon
the matter, why, as Jack Cade’s friend says in the play,
“ There are the chimneys in my father’s house, and the
bricks are alive at this day to testify it!”

“Why, very well then—we hope here be truths !”

Heaven be with you, my dear Sir !—I was getting a
little excited ; but you, who are mild as the milk that
dews the soft whisker of the new-weaned kitten, will
forgive me when, wiping away the nascent moisture
from my brow, I “ pull in,” and subscribe myself,

Yours quite as much as his own,

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

TAPPINGTON EVERARD,
feb. 2nd, 1843.


GFirst Series

The Spectre of Tappington

“JT is very odd, though; what can have become of them?”
said Charles Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an
old-fashioned bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of a
still more’ old-fashioned manor-house; “’tis confoundedly
odd, and I can’t make it out at all. Why, Barney, where
are they >—and where the d—1 are you?”

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieu-
tenant, who was, in the main, a reasonable person,—at least
as reasonable a person as any young gentleman of twenty-
_ two in “the service” can fairly be expected to be,—cooled
_when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply ex-
_ tempore to a summons which it was impossible he should
hear.

. An application to the bell was the considerate result ;
- and the footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to
belt sounded along the gallery.

“Come in!” said his master.—An ineffectual attempt
upon the door reminded Mr Seaforth that he had locked
himself in—* By Heaven! this is the oddest thing of all,”
said he, as he turned the key and admitted Mr Maguire
into his dormitory.

_ “Barney, where are my pantaloons?”

“Ts it the breeches?” asked the valet, casting an inquir-
ing eye round the apartment ;—“‘is it the breeches, sir?”

“Yes; what have you done with them?”

“Sure then your honour had them on when you went to
bed, and it’s hereabout they'll be, Pll be bail;” and Barney
4 A


2 The Spectre of Tappington

lifted a fashionable tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair,
proceeding in his examination. But the search was vain:
there was the tunic aforesaid,—there was a smart-looking
kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article of
all in a gentleman’s wardrobe was still wanting.

“Where can they be?” asked the master, with a strong
accent on the auxiliary verb.

“ Sorrow a know I knows,” said the man.

“Tt must have been the devil, then, after all, who has
been here and carried them off!” cried Seaforth, staring
full into Barney’s face.

Mr Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his
countrymen, still he looked as if he did not quite subscribe
to the sequztur.

His master read incredulity in his countenance. “ Why,
I tell you, Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair,
when I got into bed; and, by Heaven! I distinctly saw the
ghost of the old fellow they told me of, come in at mid-
night, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them.”

“ May be so,” was the cautious reply.

“T thought, of course, it was a dream ; but then,—where
the d—1 are the breeches?”

The question was more easily asked than answered.
Barney renewed his search, while the lieutenant folded his
arms, and, leaning against the toilet, sunk into a reverie.

« After ali, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving
cousins,” said Seaforth.

“ Ah! then, the ladies!” chimed in Mr Maguire, though
the observation was not addressed to him; “and will it be
Miss Caroline, or Miss Fanny, that’s stole your honour’s
things?”

“T hardly know what to think otf it,” pursued the
bereaved lieutenant, still speaking in soliloquy, with his
eye resting dubiously on the chamber-door. “I locked
myself in, that’s certain; and—but there must be some |
other entrance to the room—pooh |! I remember—the i
private staircase; how could I° be such a fool?” and he f
crossed the chamber to where a low oaken doorcase va]
dimly visible in a distant corner. He paused before it.







Sarr


The Spectre of Tappington 2

Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation; but
it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period con-
cealed by tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls
on either side the portal.

“This way they must have come,” said Seaforth ; “1 wish
with all my heart I had caught them !”

“Och! the kittens!” sighed Mr Barney Maguire.

But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as
before. True, there was the “other door;” but then that,
too, on examination, was even more firmly secured than
the one which opened on the gallery,—two heavy bolts on
the inside effectually prevented any coup de main on the
lieutenant’s d¢vowac from that quarter. He was more
puzzled than ever; nor did the minutest inspection of
the walls and floor throw any light upon the subject! one
thing only was clear,—the breeches were gone! “It is
very singular,” said the lieutenant.

Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an
antiquated but commodious manor-house in the eastern
division of the county of Kent. A former proprietor had
been High-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, and many a
dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentious-
ness of his life, and the enormity of his offences. The
Glen, which the keeper’s daughter was seen to enter, but
/ never known to quit, still frowns darkly as of yore; while
' an ineradicable bloodstain on the oaken stair yet bids
'_ defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it is
' with one particular apartment that a deed of more especial
) atrocity is said to be connected. A stranger guest—so runs
the legend—arrived unexpectedly at the mansion of the
“Bad Sir Giles.’ They met in apparent friendship; but
the ill-concealed scowl on their master’s brow told the

domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the
» banquet, however, was not spared ; the wine-cup circulated
freely,—too freely, perhaps,—for sounds of discord at length
reached the ears of even the excluded serving-men as they
were doing their best to imitate their betters in the lower
hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach the


4 The Spectre of Tappington

parlour; one, an old and favoured retainer of the house,
went so far as to break in upon his master’s privacy. Sir
Giles, already high in oath, fiercely enjoined his absence,
and he retired; not, however, before he had distinctly heard
from the stranger’s lips a menace that “There was that
within his pocket which could disprove the knight’s right
to issue that or any other command within the walls of
Tapton.”

_ The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have pro-
duced a beneficial effect ; the voices of the disputants fell,
and the conversation was carried on thenceforth in a more
subdued tone, till, as evening closed in, the domestics, when
summoned to attend with lights, found not only cordiality
restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated.
Fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced ;
nor was it till at a late, or rather early hour, that the
revellers sought their chambers.

The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of
the eastern angle of the building, and had once been the
favourite apartment of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed
this preference to the facility which a private staircase,
communicating with the grounds, had afforded him, in the
old knight’s time, of following his wicked courses unchecked
by parental observation ; a consideration which ceased to
be of weight when the death of his father left him uncon-
trolled master of his estate and actions. From that period
Sir Giles had established himself in what were called the
“state apartments ;” and the “oaken chamber” was rarely
tenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity, or
when the yule log drew an unusually large accession of
guests around the Christmas hearth.

On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown
visitor, who sought his couch heated and inflamed from his
midnight orgies, and in the morning was found in his bed a
swollen and blackened corpse. No marks of violence
appeared upon the body ; but the livid hue of the lips, and
certain dark-coloured spots visible on the skin, aroused
suspicions which those who entertained them were too timid
to express. Apoplexy, induced by the excesses of the pre-
The Spectre of ‘Tappington iS

ceding night, Sir Giles’s confidential leech pronounced to
be the cause of his sudden dissolution ; the body was buried
in peace; and though some shook their heads as they
witnessed the haste with which the funeral rites were
hurried on, none ventured to murmur. Other events arose
to distract the attention of the retainers; men’s minds
became occupied by the stirring politics of the day, while
the near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly
arrogating to itself a title which the very elements joined
with human valour to disprove, soon interfered to weaken,
if not obliterate, all remembrance of the nameless stranger
who had died within the walls of Tapton Everard.

Years rolled on: the “Bad Sir Giles” had himself long
since gone to his account, the last, as it was believed, of
his immediate line; though a few of the older tenants were
sometimes heard to speak of an elder brother, who had
disappeared in early life, and never inherited the estate.
Rumours, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands were
at one time rife: but they died away, nothing occurring to
support them: the property passed unchallenged to a
collateral branch of the family, and the secret, if secret
there were, was buried in Denton churchyard, in the lonely
grave of the mysterious stranger. One circumstance alone
occurred, after a long-intervening period, to revive the
memory of these transactions. Some workmen employed
in grubbing an old plantation, for the purpose of raising on
its site a modern shrubbery, dug up, in the execution of
their task, the mill-dewed remnants of what seemed to
have been once a garment. On more minute inspection,
enough remained of silken slashes and a coarse embroidery
to identify the relics as having once formed part of a pair
of trunk hose; while a few papers which fell from them,
altogether illegible from damp and age, were by the
unlearned rustics conveyed to the then owner of the
estate.

Whether the squire was more successful in deciphering
them was never known; he certainly never alluded to their
contents; and little would have been thought of the matter
but for the inconvenient memory of one old woman, who
6 The Spectre of ‘Tappington

declared she heard her grandfather say that when the
“stranger guest” was poisoned, though all the rest of his
clothes were there, his breeches, the supposed repository of
the supposed documents, could never be found. The master
of Tapton Everard smiled when he heard Dame Jones’s
hint of deeds which might impeach the validity of his own
title in favour of some unknown descendant of some un-
known heir; and the story was rarely alluded to, save by
one or two miracle-mongers, who had heard that others
had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles, in his night-cap, issue
from the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his
shadowy hands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly
for something hidden among the evergreens. The stranger’s
death-room had, of course, been occasionally haunted from
the time of his decease; but the periods of visitation had
latterly become very rare,—even Mrs Botherby, the house-
keeper, being forced to admit that, during her long sojourn
at the manor, she had never “met with anything worse
than herself;” though, as the old lady afterwards added
upon more mature reflection, “I must say I think I saw the
devil once.”

Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and
such the story which the lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed
to her equally mercurial cousin Charles Seaforth, lieutenant
in the Hon. East India Company’s second regiment of
Bombay Fencibles, ay arm-in-arm~ they promenaded a
gallery decked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral
portraits, and, among others, with that of the redoubted
Sir Giles himself. The gallant commander had that very
morning paid his first visit to the house of his maternal
uncle, after an absence of several years passed with his
regiment on the arid plains of Hindostan, whence he was
now returned on a three years’ furlough. He had gone
out a boy,—he returned a man; but the impression made
upon his youthful fancy by his favourite cousin remained
unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even
before he sought the home of his widowed mother,—
comforting himself in this breach of filial decorum by the
reflection that, as the manor was so little out of his way, it
The Spectre of Tappington — 7

would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door of his relatives
without just looking in for a few hours.

But he found his uncle as hospitable and his cousin more
charming than ever; and the looks of one, and the requests
of the other, soon precluded the possibility of refusing to
lengthen the “few hours” into a few days, though the house
was at the moment full of visitors.

The Peterses were there from Ramsgate; and Mr, Mrs,
and the two Miss Simpkinsons, from Bath, had come to
pass a month with the family; and Tom Ingoldsby had
brought down his college friend the Honourable Augustus
Sucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a
fortnight’s shooting. And then there was Mrs Ogleton,
the rich young widow, with her large black eyes, who,
people did say, was setting her cap at the young squire,
though Mrs Botherby did not believe it; and, above all,
there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her femme de chambre,
who “smon-Diew'd” everything and everybody, and cried,
“ Quel horreur !” at Mrs Botherby’s cap. In short, to use
the last-named and much-respected lady’s own expression,
the house was “choke-full” to the very attics,—all, save
the “oaken chamber,” which, as the lieutenant expressed
a most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith
appropriated to his particular accommodation. Mr Maguire
meanwhile was fain to share the apartment of Oliver
Dobbs, the squire’s own man: a jocular proposal of joint
occupancy having been first indignantly rejected by “ Made-
moiselle,” though preferred with the “laste taste in life” of
Mr Barney’s most insinuating brogue.

“Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your
breakfast will be quite spoiled: what can have made you
so idle?” Such was the morning salutation of Miss
Ingoldsby to the mzlitaire as he entered the breakfast-
room half an hour after the latest of the party.

“A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment
with,” chimed in Miss Frances. “What is become of our
ramble to the rocks before breakfast ?”

“Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise
8 ' The Spectre of Tappington

now,” said Mrs Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with
underdone eyes.

“When I was a young man,” said Mr Peters, I “ remember
I always made a point of —”

“Pray how long ago was that?” asked Mr Simpkinson
from Bath.

“Why, sir, when I married Mrs Peters, I was—let me see
—I was—”





“Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your breakfast!”
interrupted his better half, who had a mortal horror of
chronological references ; it’s very rude to tease people with
your family affairs.”

The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence,
—a good-humoured nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-
inquisitive, being the extent of his salutation. Smitten as
he was, and in the immediate presence of her who had
made so large a hole in his heart, his manner was evidently
distrait, which the fair Caroline in her secret soul attributed




The Spectre of Tappington 9

to his being solely occupied by her agrémens,—how would
she have bridled had she known that they only shared his
meditations with a pair of breeches!

Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen
eggs, darting occasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies,
in hope of detecting the supposed waggery by the evidence
of some furtive smile or conscious look. But in vain; not
a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did the slightest
elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions.
Hints and insinuations passed unheeded,—more particular
“inquiries were out of the question :—the subject was un-
approachable.

In the meantime, “ patent cords” were just the thing for
a morning’s ride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the
party over the downs, till, every faculty absorbed by the
beauties, animate and inanimate, which surrounded him,
Lieutenant Seaforth of the Bombay Fencibles bestowed no
more thought upon his breeches that if he had been born
on the top of Ben Lomond.

Another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly,
forming with his level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-
off west, whither the heavy cloud, which for the last two
hours had been pouring its waters on the earth, was now
flying before him.

“Ah! then, and it’s little good it’ll be the claning of ye,”
apostrophised Mr Barney Maguire, as he deposited, in front
of his master’s toilet, a pair of “bran-new” jockey boots,
one of Hoby’s primest fits, which the lieutenant had
purchased in his way through town. On that very morning
had they come for the first time under the valet’s depuriat-
ing hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride of the
preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might,
perhaps, have considered the application of “Warren’s
| Matchless,” or oxalic acid, altogether superfluous. Not so
' Barney: with the nicest care had he removed the slightest
impurity from each polished surface, and there they stood,
» rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder a pang shot
» across Mr Maguire’s breast, as he thought on the work now
10 The Spectre of Tappington

cut out for them, so different from the light labours of the
day before; no wonder he murmured with a sigh, as the
scarce-dried window-panes disclosed a road now inch-deep
in mud, “ Ah! then, it’s little good the claning of ye!”—
for well had he learned in the hall below that eight miles
of a stiff clay soil lay between the Manor and Bolsover
Abbey, whose picturesque ruins,

“Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay,”

the party had determined to explore. The master had
already commenced dressing, and the man was fitting
straps upon a light pair of crane-necked spurs, when his
hand was arrested by the old question, “ Barney, where are
the breeches?”

They were nowhere to be found !:

Mr Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and
equipped in ahandsome green riding-frock, but no “ breeches
and boots to match” were there: loose jean trowsers, sur-
mounting a pair of diminutive Wellingtons, embraced,
somewhat incongruously, his nether man, vzce the “ patent
cords,” returned, like yesterday’s pantaloons, absent without
leave. The “top-boots” had a holiday.

“A fine morning after the rain,” said Mr Simpkinson
from Bath.

“Just the thing for the ’ops,” said Mr Peters. “I
remember when I was a boy—”

“Do hold your tongue, P.,” said Mrs Peters,—advice
which that exemplary matron was in the constant habit of
administering to “her P.,” as she called him, whenever he
prepared to vent his reminiscences. Her precise reason
for this it would be difficult to determine, unless, indeed,
the story be true which a little bird had whispered into
Mrs Botherby’s ear,—Mr Peters, though now a wealthy
man, had received a liberal education at a charity-school,
and was apt to recur to the days of his muffin-cap and
leathers. As usual, he took his wife’s hint in good part,
and “ paused in his reply.”

“A glorious day for the ruins!” said young Ingoldsby.


The Spectre of Tappington EL

“But, Charles, what the deuce are you about ?—you don’t
mean to ride through our lanes in such toggery as that ?”

“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “won't you be
very wet?”

“You had better take Tom’s cab,” quoth the squire.

But this proposition was at once overruled ; Mrs Ogleton
had already nailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best
adapted for a snug flirtation.

“Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?” No; that was
the post of Mr Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had
acquired some fame as a whip while travelling through the
midland counties for the firm of Bagshaw, Snivelby, and
Ghrimes.

“Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins,” said Charles,
with as much zonxchalance as he could assume,—and he did
so; Mr Ingoldsby, Mrs Peters, Mr Simpkinson from Bath,
and his eldest daughter with her a/bum, following in the
family coach. The gentleman-commoner “ voted the affair
d—d slow,” and declined the party altogether in favour of
the gamekeeper and a cigar. “There was ‘no fun’ in
looking at old houses!” Mrs Simpkinson preferred a
short sour in the still-room with Mrs Botherby, who had
promised to initiate her in that grand arcanum, the trans-
mutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly.

“ Did you ever see an old abbey before, Mr Peters?”

“Yes, miss, a French one; we have got one at Ramsgate;
he teaches the Miss Joneses to parley-voo, and is turned of
sixty.”

Miss Simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable
disdain.

Mr Simpkinson from Bath was a professed antiquary, and
one of the first water ; he was master of Gwillim’s Heraldry,
and Milles’s History of the Crusades; knew every plate
in the Monasticon ; had written an essay on the origin
and dignity of the office of overseer, and settled the date
ofa Queen Anne’s farthing. An influential member of the
Antiquarian Society, to whose “Beauties of Bagnigge
Wells” he had been a liberal subscriber, procured him a
12 The Spectre of Tappington

seat at the board of that learned body, since which happy
epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a more indefatigable corre-
spondent. His inaugural essay on the President’s cocked
hat was considered a miracle of erudition: and his account
of the earliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a
masterpiece of antiquarian research. His eldest daughter
was of a kindred spirit: if her father’s mantle had not fallen
upon her, it was only because he had not thrown it off him-
self; she had caught hold of its tail, however, while it yet
hung upon his honoured shoulders. To souls so congenial,
what a sight was the magnificent ruin of Bolsover! its
broken arches, its mouldering pinnacles, and the airy tracery
of its half-demolished windows. The party were in
‘ raptures; Mr Simpkinson began to meditate an essay, and
his daughter an ode: even Seaforth, as he gazed on these
lonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a
momentary forgetfulness of his love and losses; the
widow’s eye-glass turned from her czcésbeo’s whiskers to the
mantling ivy: Mrs Peters wiped her spectacles; and “her
P.” supposed the central tower “had once been the county
jail.” The squire was a philosopher, and had been there
often before, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens,

“ Bolsover Priory,” said Mr Simpkinson, with the air ofa
connoisseur,—“ Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of
Henry the Sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh
century. Hugh de Bolsover had accompanied that monarch
to the Holy Land, in the expedition undertaken by way of
penance for the murder of his young nephews in the Tower.
Upon the dissolution of the monasteries, the veteran was
enfeoffed in the lands and manor, to which he gave his own
name of Bowlsover, or Bee-owls-over (by corruption Bol-
sover),—a Bee in chief, over three Owls, all proper, being
the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguished crusader -
at the siege of Acre.”

“Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith,” said Mr Peters; “I’ve
heard tell of him, and all about Mrs Partington, and—”

“P., be quiet, and don’t expose yourself!” sharply inter-
rupted his lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to the
bottled stout.
The Spectre of Tappington i

“These lands,” continued the antiquary, “were held in
grand serjeantry by the presentation of three white owls
and a pot of honey—”

“Lassy me! how nice!” said Miss Julia. Mr Peters
licked his lips.

“Pray give me leave, my dear—owls and honey, when-
ever the king should come a rat-catching into this part of
the country.”

“Rat-catching!” ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly
in the mastication of a drumstick.

“To be sure, my dear sir: don’t you remember that rats
once came under the forest laws—a minor species of
venison? ‘Rats and mice, and such small deer, eh?—
Shakspear, you know. Our ancestors ate rats (“ The nasty
fellows!” shuddered Miss Julia in a parenthesis) ; and owls,
you know, are capital mousers—”

“Tye seen a howl,” said Mr Peters; “there’s one in the
Sohological Gardens,—a little hook-nosed chap in a wig,—
only its feathers and—”

Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech.

“Do be quiet!” cried the authoritative voice, and the
would-be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the
“ Sohological Gardens.”

“Vou should read Blount’s ‘Jocular Tenures,’ Mr
Ingoldsby,” pursued Simpkinson. “A learned man was
Blount! Why, sir, his Royal Highness the Duke of York
once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers—”

“T’ye heard of him,” broke in the incorrigible Peters ;
“he was hanged at the old Bailey in a silk rope for
shooting Dr Johnson.”

The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption ;
but, taking a pinch of snuff, continued his harangue.

“ A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion
of royalty who rides across one of his manors ; and if you
look into the penny county histories, now publishing by
an eminent friend of mine,. you will find that Langhale in
Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin per saltum sufflatum, et
pettum ; that is, he was to come every Christmas into
Westminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and—’”
14 The Spectre of Tappington

“Mr Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?” cried Tom
Ingoldsby, hastily.

“Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed Le—”

“Mrs Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it,”
said Tom, still more rapidly ; at the same time filling a
glass, and forcing it on the sgavant, who, thus arrested in
the very crisis of his narrative, received and swallowed the
potation as if it had been physic.

“What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered
there?” continued Tom; “something of interest. See
how fast she is writing.”

The diversion was effectual: every one looked towards
Miss Simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for “creature
comforts,” was seated apart on the dilapidated remains of
an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to paper something
that had strongly impressed her: the air,—the eye “in a
fine frenzy rolling,’—all betokened that the divine affatus
was come. Her father rose, and stole silently towards her.

“What an old boar!” muttered young Ingoldsby ;
alluding, perhaps, to a slice of brawn which he had just
begun to operate upon, but which, from the celerity with
which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficult of
mastication.

But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline
all this while? Why, it so happened that they had been
simultaneously stricken with the picturesque appearance
of one of those high and pointed arches, which that
eminent antiquary, Mr Horseley Curties, has described ~in
his “Ancient Records” as “a Gothic window of the Saxon
order ;”—and then the ivy clustered so thickly and so
beautifully on the other side, that they went round to look
at that ;—and then their proximity deprived it of half its
effect, and so they walked across to a little knoll, a
hundred yards off, and in crossing a small ravine, they
came to what in Ireland they call a “bad step,” and
Charles had to carry his cousin over it ;—and then, when
they had to come back, she would not give him the
trouble again for the world, so they followed a better but
more circuitous route, and there were hedges and ditches




The Spectre of Tappington 15

in the way, and stiles to get over, and gates to get through;
so that an hour or more had elapsed before they were able
to rejoin the party.

“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “how long
you have been gone!”

And so they had. The remark was a very just as well
as a very natural one. They were gone a long while, and
a nice cosey chat they had; and what do you think it was
all about, my dear miss ?

“QO, lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes,
and nightingales, and—”

Stay, stay, my sweet young lady ; do not let the fervour
of your feelings run away with you! I donot pretend to
say, indeed, that one or more of these pretty subjects
might not have been introduced; but the most important
and leading topic of the conference was—Lieutenant
Seaforth’s breeches.

“Caroline,” said Charles, “I have had some very odd
dreams since I have been at Tappington.”

“Dreams, have you?” smiled the young lady, arching
her taper neck like a swan in pluming.. “ Dreams, have

ou?”
“ Ay, dreams,—or dream, perhaps, | should say; for,
though repeated, it was still the same. And what do you
imagine was its subject?”

“Tt is impossible for me to divine,” said the tongue ;—
“T have not the least difficulty in guessing,” said the eye,
as plainly as ever eye spoke.

“T dreamt—of your great grandfather!”

There was a change in the glance—“ My great grand-
father?”

“Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about
the other day: he walked into my bedroom in his short
cloak of murrey-coloured velvet, his long rapier, and his
Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as the picture repre-
sents him: but with one exception.”

“ And what was that ?”

“Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were—
those of a skeleton.”
16 The Spectre of Tappington

“ Well.”

“Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and
looking round him with a wistful air, he came to the bed’s
foot, stared at me in a manner impossible to describe,—and
then he—he laid hold of my pantaloons ; whipped his long
bony legs into them in a twinkling ; and strutting up to the
glass, seemed to view himself
in it with great complacency.
I tried to speak, but in vain.
The effort, however, seemed
to excite his attention; for,
wheeling about, he showed me
the grimmest-looking death’s
head you can well imagine,
and with an indescribable grin
strutted out of the room.”

“Absurd! Charles. How
can you talk such non-
sense ?”

“But, Caroline, — the
breeches are really gone.”

On the following morning,
contrary to his usual custom,
Seaforth was the first person
in the breakfast parlour. As
no one else was present, he
did precisely what nine young
men out of ten so situated would have done; he walked up
to the mantel-piece, established himself upon the rug, and
subducting his coat-tails one under each arm, turned towards
the fire that portion of the human frame which it is con-
sidered equally indecorous to present to a friend or an
enemy. A serious, not to say anxious, expression was
visible upon his good-humoured countenance, and _ his
mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle,
when little Flo, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed,—the
pet object of Miss Julia Simpkinson’s affections, bounced out
from beneath a sofa, and began to bark at—his pantaloons.


The Spectre of Tappington 17











They were cleverly “ built,” of a light grey mixture, a
broad stripe of the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam
in a perpendicular direction from hip to ankle,—in short,
the regimental costume of the Royal Bombay Fencibles.
The animal, educated in the country, had never seen such.
a pair of breeches in her life—Omne tgnotum pro magnifico !
' The scarlet streak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of
the fire, seemed to act on Flora’s nerves as the same colour
does on those of bulls and turkeys ; she advanced at the
pas de charge, and her vociferation, like her amazement,
was unbounded. A sound kick from the disgusted officer
' changed its character, and induced a retreat at the very
| moment when the mistress of the pugnacious quadruped

entered to the rescue.

“Lassy me! Flo! what zs the matter? * ered: “the
sympathising lady, with a scrutinising glance levelled at
the gentleman.
| It might as well have lighted on a feather bed.—His air
" of imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination ; and
\ as he would not, and Flora could not expound, that injured
) individual was compelled to pocket up her wrongs. Others
) of the household soon dropped in, and clustered round the
‘ board dedicated to the most sociable of meals; the urn was
» paraded “ hissing hot,” and the cups which “ cheer, but not
‘ inebriate,” steamed redolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins
» and marmalade, newspapers and Finnon haddies, left little
+ room for observation on the character of Charles’s warlike
> “turn-out.” At length a look from Caroline, followed by a
‘smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn
abruptly and address his neighbour. It was Miss Simp-
kinson, who, deeply engaged in sipping her tea and turning
> over her album, seemed, like a female Chrononotonthologos,
> “immersed in cogibundity of cogitation.” An interrogatory
on the subject of her studies drew from her the confession
that she was at that moment employed in putting the
finishing touches to a poem inspired by the romantic shades
of Bolsover. The entreaties of the company were of course
urgent. Mr Peters, “who liked verses,” was especially
persevering, and Sappho at length compliant. After a pre-

B
18 The Spectre of Tappington

paratory hem! and a glance at the mirror to ascertain that
her look was sufficiently sentimental, the poetess began :—

“ There is a calm, a holy feeling,
Vulgar minds can never know,
O’er the bosom softly stealing—
Chasten’d grief, delicious woe !
Oh! how sweet at eve regaining
Yon lone tower’s sequester’d shade—
Sadly mute and uncomplaining—”

—Yow !—yeough !—yeough !—yow !—yow! yelled a hap-
less sufferer from beneath the table—It was an unlucky
hour for quadrupeds; and if “every dog will have his day,”
he could not have selected a more unpropitious one than
this. Mrs Ogleton, too, had a pet,—a favourite pug,—
whose squab figure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail,
that curled like-a head of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke
his Dutch extraction. Yow! yow! yow! continued the
brute,—a chorus in which Flo instantly joined. Sooth to
say, pug had more reason to express his dissatisfaction
than was given him by the muse of Simpkinson; the
other only barked for company. Scarcely had the poetess
got through her first stanza, when Tom Ingoldsby, in the
enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in the material
world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid his hand on
the cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it
such an unlucky twist, that the full stream of its scalding
contents descended on the gingerbread hide of the unlucky
Cupid.—The confusion was complete ;—the whole economy
of the table disarranged ;—the company broke up in
most admired disorder ;—and “ Vulgar minds will never
know” anything more of Miss Simpkinson’s ode till they
peruse it in some forthcoming Annual.

Seaforth profited by the confusion to take the delinquent
who had caused this “stramash” by the arm, and to lead
him to the lawn, where he had a word or two for his private
ear. The conference between the young gentlemen was
neither brief in its duration nor unimportant in its result.
The subject was what the lawyers call tripartite, embracing
the information that Charles Seaforth was over head and
The Spectre of Tappington 19

ears in love with Tom Ingoldsby’s sister ; secondly, that
the lady had referred him to “papa” for his sanction;
thirdly and lastly, his nightly visitations, and consequent
bereavement. At the two first items Tom smiled auspici-
ously ; at the last he burst out into an absolute “ guffaw.”

“Steal your breeches !—Miss Bailey over again, by
Jove,” shouted Ingoldsby. “But a gentleman, you say,—
and Sir Giles too.—I am not sure, Charles, whether I ought
not to call you out for aspersing the honour of the family.”

“Laugh as you will, Tom,—be as incredulous as you
please. One fact is incontestible,—the breeches are gone!
Look here—I am reduced to my regimentals ; and if these
go, to-morrow I must borrow of you!”

Rochefoucault says, there is something in the misfortunes
of our very best friends that does not displease us ;—
assuredly we can, most of us, laugh at their petty incon-
veniences, till called upon to supply them. Tom com-
posed his features on the instant, and replied with more
gravity, as well as with an expletive, which, if my Lord
Mayor had been within hearing, might have cost him five
shillings.

“There is something very queer in this, after all. The
clothes, you say, have positively disappeared. Somebody
is playing you a trick ; and, ten to one, your servant has a
hand in it. By the way, I heard something yesterday of
his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and seeing a
ghost, or something of that kind, himself. Depend upon
it, Barney is in the plot.”

It now struck the lieutenant at once, that the usually
buoyant spirits of his attendant had of late been materially
sobered down, his loquacity obviously circumscribed, and
that he, the said lieutenant, had actually rung his bell
three several times that very morning before he could
procure his attendance. Mr Maguire was forthwith sum-
moned, and underwent a close examination. The
“bobbery” was easily explained. Mr Oliver Dobbs

‘had hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying

on between the gentleman from Munster and the lady
from the Rue St Honoré. Mademoiselle had boxed Mr
20 The Spectre of Tappington

Maguire’s ears, and Mr Maguire had pulled Mademoiselle
upon his knee, and the lady had zo¢ cried Mon Dieu !
And Mr Oliver Dobbs said it was very wrong ; and Mrs
Botherby said it was “scandalous,” and what ought not to
be done in any moral kitchen ; and Mr Maguire had got
hold of the Honourable Augustus Sucklethumbkin’s
powder-flask, and had put large pinches of the best double
Dartford into Mr Dobbs’s tobacco-box ;—and Mr Dobbs’s
pipe had exploded, and set fire to Mrs Botherby’s Sunday
cap ;—and Mr Maguire had put it out with the slop-basin,
“barring the wig”;—and then they were all so “can-
tankerous,” that Barney had gone to take a walk in the
garden ; and then—then Mr Barney had seen a ghost! !

“ A what? you blockhead !” asked Tom Ingoldsby.

“ Sure then, and it’s meself will tell your honour the rights
of it,’ said the ghost-seer. “ Meself and Miss Pauline, sir,—
or Miss Pauline and meself, for the ladies comes first any-
how,—we got tired of the hobstroppylous skrimmaging
among the ould servants, that didn’t know a joke when
they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet,—
that’s the rory-bory-alehouse, they calls him in this country,
—and we walked upon the lawn—and divil of any alehouse
there was there at all; and Miss Pauline said it was be-
cause of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn't we see it
better beyonst the trees?—and so we went to the trees,
but sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big
ghost instead of it.”

“A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?”

“ Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honour. A tall ould
gentleman he was, all in white, with a shovel on the
shoulder of him, and a big torch in his fist,—though what
he wanted with that it’s meself can’t tell, for his eyes were
like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet, which
wasn't there at all;—and ‘Barney,’ says he to me,—’cause
why he knew me,—‘ Barney,’ says he, ‘what is it you're
doing with the colleen there, Barney ?’—Divil a word did I
say. Miss Pauline screeched, and cried murther in French,
and ran off with herself; and of course meself was in a
mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop


The Spectre of Tappington - 21

palavering with him any way; so I dispersed at once, and
the ghost vanished in a flame of fire!”

Mr Maguire’s account was. received with avowed in-
credulity by both gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his
text with unflinching pertinacity. A reference to Made-
moiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither party
had a taste for delicate investigations.

“Tl tell you what, Seaforth,” said Ingoldsby, after
Barney had received his dismissal, “that there is a trick
here, is evident; and Barney’s vision may possibly be a
part of it. Whether he is most knave or fool, you best
know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night and
see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaint-
ance. Meanwhile your finger on your lip!”

“Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and grayes give up their dead.”

Gladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and
therefore I do beseech the “ gentle reader” to believe, that
if all the swccedanea to this mysterious narrative are not in
strict keeping, he will ascribe it only to the disgraceful
innovations of modern degeneracy upon the sober and
dignified habits of our ancestors. I can introduce him, it
is true, into an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls
covered on three sides with black oak wainscotting, adorned
with carvings of fruit and flowers long anterior to those of
Grinling Gibbons ; the fourth side is clothed with a curious
remnant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of some
Scriptural history, but of whzch not even Mrs Botherby
could determine. Mr Simpkinson, who had examined it
carefully, inclined to believe the principal figure to be either
Bathsheba, or Daniel in the lions’ den ; while Tom Ingoldsby
decided in favour of the King of Bashan. All, however,
was conjecture, tradition being silent on the subject.—A
lofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal led
out of, this apartment ; they were opposite each other, and
each possessed the security of massy bolts on its interior.
The bedstead, too, was not one of yesterday, but manifestly
22 The Spectre of Tappington

coeval with days ere Seddons was, and when a good four-
post “article” was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest.
The bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse,
mattresses, etc, was of far later date, and looked most
incongruously comfortable; the casements, too, with their
little diamond-shaped panes and iron binding, had given
way to the modern heterodoxy of the sash-window. Nor
was this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render
the room a meet haunt for such “mixed spirits” only as
could condescend to don at the same time an Elizabethan
doublet and Bond Street inexpressibles.

With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender,
in front of a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young
gentlemen, clad in “shawl pattern” dressing gowns and
black silk stocks, much at variance with the high cane-
backed chairs which supported them. A bunch of abomina-
tion, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the
mouth of one, and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of
the other ;—an arrangement happily adapted for the escape
of the noxious fumes up the chimney, without thatunmerciful
“funking” each other, which a less scientific disposition of
the weed would have induced. A small pembroke table
filled up the intervening space between them, sustaining
at each extremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy ;—thus in
“lonely pensive contemplation ” were the two worthies occu-
pied, when the “iron tongue of midnight had tolled twelve.”

“Ghost-time’s come!” said Ingoldsby, taking from his
waistcoat pocket a watch like a gold half-crown, and con-
sulting it as though he suspected the turret-clock over the
stables of mendacity.

“Hush!” said Charles; “did I not hear a footstep ?”

There was a pause:—there was a footstep—it sounded
distinctly—it reached the door—it hesitated, stopped, and
—passed on.

Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and
became aware of Mrs Botherby toddling to her chamber, at
the other end of the gallery, after dosing one of the house-
maids with an approved julep from the Countess of Kent’s
“ Choice Manual.”


The Spectre of Tappington 23

“Good night, sir!” said Mrs Botherby.

“Go to the d—1!” said the disappointed ghost-hunter.

- An hour—two—rolled on, and still no spectral visitation ;
nor did aught intervene to make night hideous; and when
the turret-clock sounded at length the hour of three, In-
goldsby, whose patience and grog were alike exhausted,
sprang from his chair, saying,—

“This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce
of any ghost shall we see to-night; it’s long past the
canonical hour. I’m off to bed; and as to your breeches,
Vl insure them for the next twenty-four hours at least, at
the price of the buckram.”

“Certainly—Oh! thankee ;—to be sure!” stammered
Charles, rousing himself from a reverie, which had de-
generated into an absolute snooze.

“Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and
defy the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender !—”

Seaforth followed his friend’s advice, and the next morn-
ing came down to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of
the preceding day. The charm was broken, the demon
defeated ; the light greys with the red stripe down the seams
were yet 7 verunt naturd, and adorned the person of their
lawful proprietor.

Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on
the result of their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage,
which warns us against self-gratulation before we are quite
“out of the wood.”’—Seaforth was yet within its verge.

A-rap at Tom Ingoldsby’s door the following morning
startled him as he was shaving ;—he cut his chin.

“Come in, and be d—d to you!” said the martyr, pressing
his thumb on the scarified epidermis.—The door opened,
and exhibited Mr Barney Maguire.

‘Well, Barney, what is it?” quoth the sufferer, adopting
the vernacular of his visitant.

“The master, sir—”

“Well, what does he want?”

“The loanst of a breeches, plase your honour.”

“Why, you don’t mean to tell me—By Heaven, this is
24 The Spectre of T'appington

too good!” shouted Tom, bursting into a fit of uncon-
trollable laughter. “Why, Barney, you don’t mean to say
the ghost has got them again!”

Mr Maguire did not respond to the young squire’s
risibility ; the cast of his countenance was decidedly serious.

“Faith, then, it’s gone they are, sure enough! Hasn't
meself been looking over the bed, and under the bed, and
zn the bed, for the matter of that, and divil a ha’p’orth of
breeches is there to the fore at all :—I’m bothered entirely !”

“Hark’ee! Mr Barney,” said Tom, incautiously removing
his thumb, and letting a crimson stream “ incarnadine the
multitudinous” lather that plastered his throat,—‘ this may
be all very well with your master, but you don’t humbug
me, sir :—tell me instantly what have you done with the
clothes?”

This abrupt transition from “lively to severe” certainly
took Maguire by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as
much disconcerted as it is possible to disconcert an Irish
gentleman’s gentleman.

“Me? is it meself, then, that’s the ghost to your honour’s
thinking?” said he, after a moment’s pause, and with a slight
shade of indignation in his tones: “is it I would stale the
master’s things,—and what would I do with them?”

“That you best know:—what your purpose is I can’t
guess, for I don’t think you mean to ‘stale’ them, as you
call it; but that you are concerned in their disappearance,
I am satisfied. Confound this blood !—give me a towel,
Barney.”

Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. “ As I’ve
a sowl, your honour,” said he solemnly, “little it is meself
knows of the matter: and after what I seen—”

“What you've seen! Why, what save you seen?—
Barney, I don’t want to enquire into your flirtations ; but
don’t suppose you can palm off your saucer eyes and gig-
lamps upon me!”

“Then, as sure as your honour’s standing there I saw
him: and why wouldn’t I, when Miss Paulzue was to the
fore as well as meself, and—”

“Get along with your nonsense,—leave the room, sir

1»
The Spectre of Tappington _ 2s

“But the master?” said Barney imploringly ; “and with-
out a breeches ?>—sure he’ll be catching cowld !—”

“Take that, rascal!” replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair
of pantaloons at, rather than to, him: “but don’t suppose,
sir, you shall carry on your tricks here with impunity ;
recollect there is such a thing as a tread-mill, and that my
father is a county magistrate.”

Barney’s eye flashed fire——he stood erect, and was
about to speak; but, mastering himself, not without an
effort, he took up the garment, and left the room as per-
pendicular as a Quaker.

“Ingoldsby,” said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, “ this
is now past a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, not-
withstanding the ties which detain me, common decency
obliges me to visit home after so long an absence. I shall
come to an immediate explanation with your father on the
subject nearest my heart, and depart while I have a change
of dress left. On his answer will my return depend! In
the meantime tell me candidly,—I ask it in all seriousness
and as a friend,—am I not a dupe to your well-known pro-
pensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand in—”

“No, by heaven! Seaforth; I see what you mean: on
my honour, I am as much mystified as yourself: and if
your servant—”

“Not he :—if there be a trick, he at least is not privy to
it.”

“Tf there de a trick? Why, Charles, do you think—”

“I know not what to think, Tom. As surely as you
are a living man, so surely did that spectral anatomy visit
my room again last night, grin in my face, and walk away
with my trousers ; nor was I able to spring from my bed,
or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow.”

“Seaforth!” said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, “I
will— But hush! here are the girls and my father.—
I will carry off the females, and leave you a clear field
with the governor: carry your point with him, and we
will talk about your breeches afterwards.”

Tom’s diversion was successful ; he carried off the ladies
26 The Spectre of Tappington

en masse to look at a remarkable specimen of the class
Dodecandria Monogynia,—which they could not find :—while
Seaforth marched boldly up to the encounter, and carried
“the governor’s” outworks by a coup de main. 1 shall
not stop to describe the progress of the attack: suffice it
that it was as successful as could have been wished, and
that Seaforth was referred back again to the lady. The
happy lover was off at a tangent; the botanical party was
soon overtaken; and the arm of Caroline, whom a vain
endeavour to spell out the Linnzean name of a daffy-down-
dilly had detained a little in the rear of the others, was
soon firmly locked in his own.

“What was the world to them,
Its noise, its nonsense, and its ‘breeches’ all?”

Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his
room that night as happy as if no such thing as a goblin
had ever been heard of, and personal chattels were as well
fenced in by law as real property, Not so Tom Ingoldsby :
the mystery,—for mystery there evidently was,—had not
only piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The
watch of the previous night had been unsuccessful, pro-
bably because it was undisguised. To-night he would
“ensconce himself,’—not indeed ‘behind the arras,”—for
the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to the
wall,—but in a small closet which opened from one corner
of the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give to
its occupant a view of all that might pass in the apart-
ment. Here did the young ghost-hunter take up a position,
with a good stout sapling under his arm, a full half-hour
before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his friend
did he let into his confidence, fully determined that if his
plan did not succeed, the failure should be attributed to
himself alone.

At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw,
from his concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and,
after taking a few turns in it, with an expression so joyous
as to betoken that his thoughts were mainly occupied by
his approaching happiness, proceed slowly to disrobe him-
The Spectre of Tappington 24

self. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk stock, were
gradually discarded; the green morocco slippers were
kicked off, and then—ay, and then—his countenance grew
grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once that this was
his last stake,—nay, that the very breeches he had on were
not his own,—that to-morrow morning was his last, and
that if he lost them— A glance showed that his mind was
made up: he replaced the single button he had just sub-
ducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a state of
transition—half chrysalis, half grub.

Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the
flickering light of the night-lamp, till the clock, striking one,
induced him to increase the narrow opening which he had
left for the purpose of observation. The motion, slight as
it was, seemed to attract Charles’s attention ; for he raised
himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment,
and then stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on
the point of discovering himself, when, the light, flashing
full upon his friend’s countenance, he perceived that, though
his eyes were open, “their sense was shut,’—that he was
yet under the influence of sleep. Seaforth advanced slowly
to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood on it,
then, going back to the bed’s foot, appeared to search
eagerly for something which he could not find. Fora few
moments he seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the
apartment and examining the chairs, till, coming fully ‘in
front of a large swing-glass that flanked the dressing-table,
he paused, as if contemplating his figure in it. He now
returned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and, with
cautious and stealthy steps, proceeded towards the little
arched doorway that opened on the private staircase.

As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his
hiding-place ; but the sleep-walker heard him not; he pro-
ceeded softly down stairs, followed at a due distance by
his friend ; opened the door which led ont upon the gardens;
and stood at once among the thickest of the scrubs, which
there clustered round the base of a corner turret, and
screened the postern from common observation. At this
moment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all by making a
28 The Spectre of Tappington

false step: the sound attracted Seaforth’s attention,—he
paused and turned: and as the full moon shed her light
directly upon his pale and troubled features, Tom marked,
almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of
his eyes :—
“There was no speculation in those orbs
That he did glare withal.”

The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to
reassure him; he turned aside; and from the midst of a
thickset laurustinus, drew forth a gardener’s spade, shoulder-
ing which he proceeded with great rapidity into the midst
of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain point where the
earth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he set him-
self heartily to the task of digging, till, having thrown up
several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped, flung down his tool.
and very composedly began to disencumber himself of his
pantaloons.

Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary
eye: he now advanced cautiously, and, as his friend was
busily engaged in disentangling himself from his garment,
made himself master of the spade. Seaforth, meanwhile,
had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with

“ His streamers waving in the wind,”

occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as
compact a form as possible, and all heedless of the breath
of heaven, which might certainly be supposed, at such a
moment, and in such a plight, to “visit his frame too
roughly.”

He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the
pantaloons in the grave which he had been digging for
them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close behind him, and
with the flat side of the spade—

The shock was effectual ;—never again was Lieutenant
Seaforth known to act the part of a somnambulist. One
by one, his breeches,—his trousers,—his pantaloons,—his
silk-net tights,—his patent cords,—his showy greys with
The Spectre of Tappington 29

the broad red stripe of the Bombay Fencibles were brought
to light,—rescued from the grave in which they had been
buried, like the strata of a Christmas pie ; and, after having
been well aired by Mrs Botherby, became once again
effective.

The family, the ladies especially, laughed ;—the Peterses
laughed ;—the Simp-
kinsons laughed ;—
Barney Maguire cried







“Botheration!” and
Mamselle Pauline,
“ Mon Dieu!”

Charles Seaforth, un-
able to face the quizz-
ing which awaited him
on all sides, started off
two hours earlier than
he had proposed :—he
soon returned, how-
ever; and having,at his
father-in-law’s request,
given up the occupa-
tion of Rajah-hunting
and shooting Nabobs,
led his blushing bride
to the altar.

Mr Simpkinson from
Bath did not attend the
ceremony, being en-
gaged at the Grand Junction Meeting of S¢avans, then
congregating from all parts of the known world in the city
of Dublin. His essay, demonstrating that the globe is
a great custard, whipped into coagulation by whirlwinds,
and cooked by electricity,—a little too much baked in the
Isle of Portland, and a thought underdone about the Bog
of Allen—was highly spoken of, and narrowly escaped
obtaining a Bridgewater prize.

Miss Simpkinson and her sister acted as bridesmaids on
the occasion; the former wrote an epzthalamzum, and the








30 The Spectre of Tappington

latter cried “ Lassy me!” at the clergyman’s wig—Some
years have since rolled on; the union has been crowned
with two or three tidy little offshoots from the family tree,
of whom Master Neddy is “ grandpapa’s darling,” and Mary-
Anne mamma’s particular “Sock.” I shall only add, that
Mr and Mrs Seaforth are living together quite as happily
as two good-hearted, good-tempered bodies, very fond of
each other, can possibly do: and, that since the day of his
marriage Charles has shown no disposition to jump out of
bed, or ramble out of doors o’ nights,—though, from his
entire devotion to every wish and whim of his young wife,
Tom insinuates that the fair Caroline does still occasionally
take advantage of it so far as to “slip on the breeches.”





It was not till some years after the events just recorded,
that Miss Mary-Anne, the “pet Sock” before alluded to,
was made acquainted with the following piece of family
biography. It was communicated to her in strict con-
fidence by Nurse Botherby, a maiden niece of the old
lady’s, then recently promoted from the ranks in the
still-room, to be second in command in the nursery
department.

The story is connected with a dingy wizzen-faced
portrait, in an oval frame, generally known by the name
of “Uncle Stephen,” though from the style of his cut-
velvet, it is evident that some generations must have
passed away since any living being could have stood
towards him in that degree of consanguinity.


The Nurse’s Story
The Hand of Glory

“Malefica quedam auguriatrix in
Anglia fuit, quam demones horribiliter
extraxerunt, et imponentes super
equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt ;
Clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per
quatuor fermé miliaria audiebantur.”

—Nuremb. Chron.

ON the lone bleak moor, At the midnight hour,
Beneath the Gallows Tree,

Hand in hand The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!

And the Moon that night With a grey, cold light
Each baleful object tips ;

One half of her form Is seen through the storm,
The other half’s hid in Eclipse!

And the cold Wind howls, And the Thunder growls,
B2 The Nurse's Story

And the Lightning is broad and bright ;
And altogether It’s very bad weather,
And an unpleasant sort of a night!
“Now mount who list, And close by the wrist
Sever me quickly the Dead Man’s fist !—
Now climb who dare Where he swings in air,
And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man’s hair!”

There’s an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor,
She hath years on her back at the least fourscore,
And some people fancy a great many more ;
Her nose it is hook’d, Her back it is crook’d,
Her eyes blear and red: On the top of her head
Is a mutch, and on that A shocking bad hat,
Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat!
Then,—My Gracious !—her beard !—it would sadly
perplex
A spectator at first to distinguish her sex ;
Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he
Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy.
Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within,
With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin,
Leering up with that queer indescribable grin,
You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry,
“__Well !__I never dd see such a regular Guy!”

And now before That old Woman’s door,
Where nought that’s good may be,
Hand in hand The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!
Oh! ’tis a horrible sight to view,
In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew,
By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame,
Doing the deed that hath never a name!
’Tis awful to hear Those words of fear!
The pray’r mutter’d backwards, and said with a sneer !
(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when
A witch says her pray’rs, she begins with “ Amen.”)—
—’Tis awful to see On that Old Woman’s knee
The Hand of Glory 33

The dead, shrivell’d hand, as she clasps it with glee !—
And now, with care, The five locks of hair

From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there,
With the grease and the fat Of a black Tom Cat
She hastens to mix, And to twist into wicks,

And one on the thumb, and each finger to ix.—

(For another receipt the same charm to prepare,

Consult Mr Ainsworth and Pedzt A éert.)

“Now open lock To the Dead Man’s knock!
Fly bolt, and bar, and band !—
Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man’s hand!
Sleep all who sleep !—Wake all who wake !—
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man’s sake!!”

All is silent! all is still,

Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill

As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill;
And in Tappington Hall Great and Small,

Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom,

Each one hath sought his separate room,

And sleep her dark mantle hath o’er them cast,

For the midnight hour hath long been past !

All is darksome in earth and sky,

Save, from yon casement, narrow and high,
A quivering beam On the tiny stream

Plays, like some taper’s fitful gleam

By one that is watching wearily.

Within that casement, narrow and high,
In his secret lair, where none may spy,
Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care,
And the thin grey locks of his failing hair
Have left his little bald pate all bare ;
For his full-bottom’d wig Hangs bushy and big,
On the top of his old-fashion’d, high-back’d chair.
Unbraced are his clothes, Ungarter’d his hose,
His gown is bedizened with tulip and rose,
Flowers of remarkable size and hue,
Cc
34 The Nurse’s Story

Flowers such as Eden never knew ;
—And there, by many a sparkling heap
Of the good red gold, The tale is told
What powerful spell avails to keep
That care-worn man from his needful sleep!

Haply, he deems no eye can see
As he gloats on his treasure greedily,—
The shining store Of glittering ore,
The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore,
And the broad Double-Joe from ayont the sea,—
But there’s one that watches as well as he;
For, wakeful and sly, In a closet hard by,
On his truckle-bed lieth a little Foot-page,
A boy who’s uncommonly sharp of his age,
Like young Master Horner, Who erst in a corner
Sat eating a Christmas pie:
And while that Old Gentleman’s counting his hoards,
Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards!

There’s a voiceintheair, There’s a step on the stair,
The old man starts in his cane-back’d chair ;

At the first faint sound He gazes around,
And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound.

Then half arose From beside his toes
His little pug-dog with his little pug nose,

But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff,
That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff,

For low, yet clear, Now fall on the ear,
—Where once pronounced for ever they dwell,—
The unholy words of the Dead Man’s spell !

“Open lock To the Dead Man’s knock !

Fly bolt, and bar, and band!

Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man’s hand!

Sleep all who sleep !—Wake all who wake !—
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man’s sake!”

Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails,
Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails.
The Hand of Glory 35

Heavy and harsh the hinges creak,
Though they had been oil’d in the course of the week ;
The door opens wide as wide may be,
And there they stand, That murderous band,
Lit by the light of the GLoRIous Hanp,
By one !—by two !—by three !

They have pass’d through the porch, they have pass’d
through the hall,

Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall ;
The very snore froze In his very snub nose,

You'd have verily deem’d he had snored his last

When the°GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him past !

E’en the little wee mouse, as it ran o’er the mat

At the top of its speed to escape from the cat,

Though half dead with affright, Paused in its flight ;
And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing
Lay crouch’d as a statue in act to spring!

And now they are there, On the head of the stair,
And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare!
—I really don’t think any money would bribe
Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe,

Or the wild, wild glare Of that old man’s eye,

His dumb despair, And deep agony.

The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold,
Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold ;
They dream not—ah, happier they !—that the knife,
Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life ;

It falls ;—the frail thread of their being is riven,
They dread not, suspect not, the blow till ’tis given.—
But, oh! what a thing ’tis to see and to know

That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe,
Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow !—
—Enough !—let’s pass over as fast as we can

The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man!

But fancy poor Hugh, Aghast at the view
Powerless alike to speak or to do!
In vain doth he try To open the eye
36 The Nurse's Story

That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink,
Though he’d give all the world to be able to wink !—
No !—for all that this world can give or refuse,
I would not be now in that little boy’s shoes,
Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh’s!
—’Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall
He has peep’d through so long, is so narrow and small!
Wailing voices, sounds of woe
Such as follow departing friends,
That fatal night round Tappington go,
Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends:
Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good,
Aye weep and lament o’er a deed of blood.

’Tis early dawn—the morn is grey,
And the clouds and the tempest have pass’d away,
And all things betoken a very fine day ;
But, while the lark her carol is singing,
Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing!
Upstarting all Great and small,
Each one who’s found within Tappington Hall,
Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom,
All seek at once that old Gentleman’s room ;
And there on the floor, Drench’d in its gore,
A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view,
Carotid and jugular both cut through !
And there, by its side, ’Mid the crimson tide,
Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years ;
Adown his pale cheeks the fast-falling tears
Are coursing each other round and big,
And he’s staunching the blood with a full-bottomed wig!
Alas! and alack for his staunching !—'tis plain,
As anatomists tell us, that never again
Shall life revisit the foully slain,
When once they’ve been cut through the jugular vein.

There’s a hue and a cry through the County of Kent,
And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable’s sent,
But no one can tell the man which way they went,


ge.

Resthoe

AM

TAPPING TON -MILED.

°

TO
The Hand of Glory 2g,

There’s a little Foot-page with that Constable goes,
And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.

In Rochester town, At the sign of the Crown,
Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down
To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown ;

When a little Foot-page Rushes in, in a rage,
Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage.

That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat,

And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat,

And a Constable seizes the one more remote ;

And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores,

The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores,

And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare ;
And the Constable says, with a dignified air,

“You're wanted, Gen’lemen, one and all,

For that ere precious lark at Tappington Hall!”

There’s a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor,
Where a former black gibbet has frown’d before :
It is as black as black may be,
And murderers there Are dangling in air,
By one !—by two! by three!

-There’s a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown’d hat,
Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat
A Dead Man’s hand and a dead Tom Cat!
They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes,
They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her
limbs !
Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes,
With a whoop and a halloo—“ She swims !—She
swims !”
They have drage’d her to land,
And every one’s hand,
Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand,
When a queer looking horseman, drest all in black,
Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack
To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack,
38 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack !—
No one can tell, Though they guess pretty well,
Which way that grim rider and old woman go,
For all see he’s a sort of infernal Ducrow ;
And she scream’d so, and cried, We may-fairly decide
That the old woman did not much relish her ride!

MORAL.

This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt
That truest of adages—* Murder will out !”

‘In vain may the blood-spiller “ double ” and fly,
In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try :
Although for a time he may ’scape, by-and-by
He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry!

One marvel follows another as naturally as one
“shoulder of mutton” is said “to drive another down.”
A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from
the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense
interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with
the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such
authority, I shall call—

Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story
“ Took at the Clock”

FYTTE I

“ Look at the Clock!” quoth Winifred Pryce,
As she open’d the door to her husband’s knock,
Then paus’d to give him a piece of advice,
“You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock !
Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow’d to love and obey you ?—
“Took at the Clock” 39

Out all night! Me in a fright ;
Staggering home as it’s just getting light !
You intoxified brute !—you insensible block !—
Look at the Clock !—Do !—Look at the Clock !”

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower’d one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man’s ;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn’d up, and tuck’d through the
pocket-holes ;
A face like a ferret Betoken’d her spirit :
To conclude, Mrs Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce Had one darling vice ;
Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss !
Especially ale— _ If it was not too stale
I really believe he’d have emptied a pail ;
Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales ;
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble

you,
Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.

That particular day, As I’ve heard people say,
Mr David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,
Withacouple moresoakers, Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers ;
And long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp’d in repose,
They were roaring out “Shenkin!” and “Ar hydd y nos;”
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, “We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let’s drink
down the Moon!
40 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

What have we with day to do?

Mrs Winifred Pryce, twas made for you.”

At length, when they couldn’t well drink any more,
Old “ Goat-in-Boots” showed them the door:

And then came that knock, And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, “ Look at the Clock!”
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan,
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Prycewould dropacoolhint, Withan ominoussquint
At its case, of an “Uncle” of his, who'd a “ Spout.”
That horrid word “Spout” No sooner came out
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip,
“Spout” herself till her nose grew red at the tip.
“You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing
Your wife—ay, a dozen of wives—for a shilling !
You may dowhatyou please, You may sell mychemise,
(Mrs P. was too well-bred to mention her smock)
But I never will part with my Grandmother’s Clock !”

Mrs Pryce’s tongue ran long and ran fast ;

But patience is apt to wear out at last,

And David Pryce in temper was quick,

So he stretched out his hand, and caught hold of a stick ;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,

But walking just then wasn’t very convenient,

So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head;

It knock’d off her hat; Down she fell flat ;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that :
But whatever it was,—whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,

Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,

I can’t say for certain,—but ¢hzs I can,

When, sober’d by fright, to assist her he ran,

Mrs Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne !
“ Look at the Clock” 41

The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death’s exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, -

Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality,
And then came Mr Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.

Mr Pryce to commence His “ ingenious defence,”
Made a “ powerful appeal” to the jury’s “good sense :

“The world he must defy Ever to justify
Any presumption of ‘Malice Prepense ;’”—

The unlucky lick From the end of his stick
He “deplored,’—he was “apt to be rather too quick ;”-—

But, really, her prating Was so aggravating :

‘ Some trifling correction was just what he meant ;—all
The rest, he assured them, was “ quite accidental ! ¥s

Then he calls Mr Jones, Who depones to her tones,
And her gestures, and hints about “ breaking his bones.”
While Mr Ap Morgan, and Mr Ap Rhys

Declared the Deceased Had styled him “a Beast,”
And swear they had witness’d, with grief and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
Return’d about half-past eleven at night
The following verdict, “We find, Sarve her right !”

Mr Pryce, Mrs Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped ; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling,
From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain; it’s name you'll excuse me from
telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;
42 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far,
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.

Its first syllable “PEN,” Is pronounceable ;—then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,

Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan’t have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to “ PEN.”

Well—the moon shone bright
Upon “Pen” that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
Was scaling its side With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest,
He paus’d, and turn’d round to take breath, and to rest ;
A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
So he stopp’d and look’d down on the valley below.

O’er fell, and o’er fen, Over mountain and glen,
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he’d been taught

Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,—
Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in

gold ;

Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst ;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,

Killing Poets by dozens,

With their uncles and cousins,

Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved—
Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine’s lap ;

And how Mr. Tudor Successfully woo’d her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King,
“ Look at the Clock” 43

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour ;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce ;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat
As he cried out “ What’s that ?”—
That very queer sound ?—
Does it come from the ground?
Or the air,—from above,—or below,—or around ?—
It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking,
It’s not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse,—or the tread of a man,—
Or the hum of a crowd,—or the shouting of boys,—
It’s really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a cart’s,—but that can’t be; for when
Could “all the King’s horses, and all the King’s men,”
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up “Pen?”

Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate “ funk.”
In vain he look’d back On the whole of the track
He had traversed ; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon ;
While clearer and clearer, ’Twas plain to the hearer,
Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much “like a Coffin a-walking up stairs.”

Mr Pryce had begun To “make up” for a run,
As in such a companion he saw no great fun,

When a single bright ray Shone out on the way
He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o’er crag and o’er rock,
The deceased Mrs Winifred’s “Grandmother's Clock !!”
Twas so !—it had certainly moved from its place,

And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase ;
44 Patty Morgan the Milkmaid’s Story

’Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all—but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turned into eyes

Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire ;
And the “ Name of the Maker” was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
No !—he could not mistake it,—’twas SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough Completely “Quant. suff”
As the doctors write down when they send you their
“ stuff,’—
Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff,
David turned himself round ; Ten feet of ground
He clear’d, in his start, at the very first bound !

I’ve seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses—

I’ve seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises—

At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,

And one from a Bailiff much faster than that—

At foot-ball I’ve seen lads run after the bladder—

I’ve seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder—

I’ve seen little boys run away from a cane—

And I’ve seen (that is, vead of) good running in Spain ;1
But I never did read Of, or witness, such speed

As David exerted that evening.— Indeed

All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,

Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over “ PEN !”

He reaches its brow,— He has past it,—and now
Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross
it, he

Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity ;
But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill,
That bugbear behind him is after him still!
And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking,

1 [-run, is a town said to have been so named from something of this sort.
“ Look at the Clock ” 45

Till, exhausted and sore, He can’t run any more,
But falls as he reaches Miss Davis’s door,
And screams when they rush out, alarm’d at his knock,
“Oh! Look at the Clock !—Do!—Look at the Clock !!

Miss Davis look’d up, Miss Davis look’d down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her ;--a frown
Came o’er her white forehead, She said, “It was
horrid
A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright ;—

To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!”
She bege’d “he'd not think of repeating his call:

His late wife’s disaster By no means had past her,”
She’d “have him to know she was meant for his Master!”
Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,

She turn’d on her heel and she turn’d up her nose.

Poor David in vain Implored to remain,

He “ dared not,” he said, “ cross the mountain again.”
Why the fair was obdurate
None knows,—to be sure, it

Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate ;—

Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole

Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
In that shady retreat With nothing to eat,

And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
All night close he kept; I can’t say he slept;

But he sigh’d, and he sobb’d, and he groan’d, and he wept;

-Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins,

Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,

And her he once thought a complete Rava Avis,

Consigning to Satan,—viz., cruel Miss Davis!

Mr David has since had a “serious call,”
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech, And to preach and to teach
People that “they can’t brew their malt liquor too small!”





\

(
\
(2 pe



> | 7. : a » 7
a WW { ASM
wy ! Dex
u he Zale = sy ~_ .
a A







‘“GENTLEMEN! LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!”
“ Look at the Clock ” 47

That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,
Was right in proclaiming “ ARISTON MEN UDOR ia
Which means “ The pure Element
Is for Man’s belly meant !”
And that Gin’s but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder !

And “still on each evening when pleasure fills up,”
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr Pryce, if he’s there, Will get into “ The Chair,”
And make all his guondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady’s daughter,
“Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water ley
The dial he constantly watches ; and when
The long hand’s at the “ XII.,” and the short at hie: a0
He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs,
Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
With his President’s hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly—* Gentlemen !
“LOOK ‘AT THE CLock! ! !”





The succeeding Legend has long been an established
favourite with all of us, as containing much of the personal
history of one of the greatest ornaments of the family
tree.

To the wedding between the sole heiress of this re-
doubted hero and a direct ancestor is it owing that the
Lioncels of Shurland hang so lovingly parallel with the
Saltire of the Ingoldsbys, and now form as cherished a
quartering in their escutcheon as the “dozen white lowses”
in the “old coat” of Shallow.
48 Grey Dolphin

Grey Dolphin
A Legend of Sheppey

“ HE won’t—won’t he? Then bring me my boots!” said
the Baron.

Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland

—a caitiff had dared to disobey
eo the Baron! and—the Baron had
SS called for his boots !
fi A thunderbolt in the great hall
had been a Jdagatelle to it.

A few days before, a notable
miracle had been wrought in the
neighbourhood ; and in those times
a=\ miracles were not so common as
they are now ;—no royal balloons,
no steam, no railroads,—while the
few Saints who took the trouble
to walk with their heads under
their arms, or to pull the Devil by
the nose, scarcely appeared above
once in a century; so the affair
made the greater sensation.

The clock had done striking
twelve, and the Clerk of Chatham
was untrussing his points pre-
paratory to seeking his truckle-
bed; a Par eden tankard of mild ale stood at his
elbow, the roasted crab yet floating on its surface.
Midnight had surprised the worthy functionary while
occupied in discussing it, and with his task yet unaccom-
plished. He meditated a mighty draft: one hand was
fumbling with his tags, while the other was extended in
the act of grasping the jorum, when a knock on the portal,
solemn and sonorous, arrested his fingers. It was repeated


Grey Dolphin 49

thrice ere Emmanuel Saddleton had presence of mind
sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that un-
timeous hour.

“Open! open! good Clerk of St Bridget’s,” said a
female voice, small, yet distinct
and sweet,—an excellent thing in |
woman.

The Clerk arose, crossed to the
doorway, and undid the latchet.

On the threshold stood a Lady
of surpassing beauty: her robes
were rich, and large, and full; and
a diadem, sparkling with gems
that shed a halo around, crowned
her brow: she beckoned the Clerk
as he stood in astonishment before
her.

“Emmanuel!” said the Lady ;
and her tones sounded like those
of a silver flute. “ Emmanuel
Saddleton, truss up your points,
and follow me!”

The worthy Clerk stared aghast
at the vision ; the purple robe, the
cymar, the coronet,—above all, the
smile; no, there was no mistaking
her; it was the blessed St Bridget
herself !

And what could have brought
the sainted lady out of her warm
shrine at such a time of night? and
on such a night? for it was as
dark as pitch, and, metaphorically
speaking, “rained cats and dogs.”

Emmanuel could not speak, so he looked the question.

“No matter for that,” said the Saint, answering to his
thought. “No matter for that, Emmanuel Saddleton ;
only follow me, and you'll see!”

The Clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner-cupboard.

D

Y |

|

OTIS


co Grey Dolphin

“Oh! never mind the lantern, Emmanuel: you'll not
want it: but you may bring a mattock and a shovel.”
As she spoke, the beautiful apparition held up her delicate
hand. From the tip of each of her long taper fingers
issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancy as
would have plunged a whole gas company into despair—
it was a “ Hand of Glory,’! such a one as tradition tells
us yet burns in Rochester Castle every St Mark’s Eve.
Many are the daring individuals who have watched in
Gundulph’s Tower, hoping to find it, and the treasure it
guards ;—but none of them ever did.

“This way, Emmanuel!” and a flame of peculiar
radiance streamed from her little finger as it pointed
to the pathway leading to the churchyard.

Saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence.

The cemetery of St Bridget’s was some half-mile distant
from the Clerk’s domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated
to that illustrious lady, who, after leading but a so-so life,
had died in the odour of sanctity. Emmanuel Saddleton
was fat and scant of breath, the mattock was heavy, and the
Saint walked too fast for him: he paused to take second
wind at the end of the first furlong.

“Emmanuel,” said the holy lady good-humouredly, for
she heard him puffing; “rest awhile, Emmanuel, and I’ll
tell you what I want with you.”

Her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand,
and looked all attention and obedience.

“Emmanuel,” continued she, “ what did you and Father
Fothergill, and the rest of you, mean yesterday by burying
that drowned man so close to me? He died in mortal sin,
Emmanuel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution: why, he
might as well have been excommunicated. He plagues me
with his grinning, and I can’t have any peace in my shrine.
You must howk him up again, Emmanuel!”

“ To be sure, madam,—my lady,—that is, your holiness,”
stammered Saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task

1 One of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was put, was the pro-

tection of secreted treasure. Blow out all the fingers at one puff and you had
the money.
Grey Dolphin ye

assigned to him. “To be sure, your ladyship ; only—that
is—”

“Emmanuel,” said the Saint, “ you’ll do my bidding ; or
it would be better you had!” and her eye changed from a
dove’s eye to that of a hawk, and a flash came from it as
bright as the one from her little finger. The Clerk shook
in his shoes ; and, again dashing the cold perspiration from
his brow, followed the footsteps of his mysterious guide.

The next morning all Chatham was in an uproar. The
Clerk of St Bridget’s had found himself at home at day-
break, seated in his own arm-chair, the fire out, and—
the tankard of ale out too! Who had drunk it ?—where
had he been ?—how had he got home ?—all was a mystery !
—he remembered “a mass of things, but nothing distinctly ;”
all was fog and fantasy. What he could clearly recollect
was, that he had dug up the Grinning Sailor, and that the
Saint had helped to throw him into the river again. All
was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. Masses were
sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled ; the monks of
St Romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their
head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St
Thomas a Becket in the centre ;—Father Fothergill brewed
a XXX puncheon of holy water. The Rood of Gillingham
was deserted; the chapel of Rainham forsaken ; every one
who had a soul to be saved, flocked with his offering to
St Bridget’s shrine, and Emmanuel Saddleton gathered
more fees from the promiscuous piety of that one week than
he had pocketed during the twelve preceding months.

Meanwhile the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated
like a pendulum between Sheerness and Gillingham Reach.
Now borne by the Medway into the Western Swale,—now
carried by the refluent tide back to the vicinity of its old
quarters,—it seemed as though the River god and Neptune
were amusing themselves with a game of subaqueous battle-
dore, and had chosen this unfortunate carcass as a marine
shuttlecock. For some time the alternation was kept up
with great spirit, till Boreas, interfering in the shape of a
stiffish “ Nor’-wester,” drifted the bone (and flesh) of con-
Lye Grey Dolphin

tention ashore on the Shurland domain, where it lay in all
the majesty of mud. It was soon discovered by the
retainers, and dragged from its oozy bed, grinning worse
than ever. Tidings of the god-send were of course carried
instantly to the castle; for the Baron was a very great
man; and if a dun cow had flown across his property un-
announced by the warder, the Baron would have kicked
him, the said warder, from the topmost battlement into
the bottommost ditch,—a descent of peril, and one which
“Ludwig the leaper,” or the illustrious Trenck himself
might well have shrunk from encountering.

“ An’t please your lordship—” said Peter Periwinkle.

“No, villain! it does not please me!” roared the Baron.

His lordship was deeply engaged with a peck of Fevers-
ham oysters,—he doted on shellfish, hated interruption at
meals, and had not yet despatched more than twenty dozen
of the “ natives.”

“ There’s a body, my lord, washed ashore in the lower
creek,” said the Seneschal.

The Baron was going to throw the shells at his head;
but paused in the act, and said with much dignity,—

“ Turn out the fellow’s pockets !”

But the defunct had before been subjected to the double
scrutiny of Father Fothergill, and the Clerk of St Bridget’s.
It was ill gleaning after such hands ; there was nota single
maravedi.

We have already said that Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord
of the Isle of Sheppey, and of many a fair manor on the
mainland, was a man of worship. He had rights of free-
warren, saccage and sockage, cuisage and jambage, fosse
and fork, infang theofe and outfang theofe; and all waifs
and strays belonged to him in fee simple.

“Turn out his pockets!” said the Knight.

“ An’t please you, my lord, I must say as how they was
turned out afore, and the devil a rap’s left.”

“Then bury the blackguard !”

“Please your lordship, he has been buried once.”

“Then bury him again, and be !* The Baron
bestowed a benediction.


Grey Dolphin 53

The Seneschal bowed low as he left the room, and the
Baron went on with his oysters.

“ Scarcely ten dozen more had vanished when Periwinkle
reappeared.

“An’t please you, my lord, Father Fothergill says as
how that it’s the Grinning Sailor, and he won’t bury him
anyhow.”

“Oh! he won’t—won’t he?” said the Baron. Can it be
wondered at that he called for his boots?

Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of Shurland and Minster,
Baron of Sheppey zz comdtatu Kent, was, as has been before
hinted, a very great man. He was also a very little man;
that is, he was relatively great, and relatively little,—or
physically little, and metaphorically great.—like Sir Sidney
Smith and the late Mr Bonaparte. To the frame of a
dwarf he united the soul of a giant, and the valour of a
gamecock. Then, for so small a man, his strength was
prodigious ; his fist would fell an ox, and his kick—oh! his
kick was tremendous, and, when he had his boots on, would,
to use an expression of his own, which he had picked up in
the holy wars,—would “send a man from Jericho to June.”
—He was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest was
broad and deep, his head large, and uncommonly thick, his
eyes a little bloodshot, and his nose vetyvoussé with a re-
markably red tip. Strictly speaking the Baron could not
be called handsome, but his tout ensemble was singularly
impressive: and when he called for his boots, everybody
trembled and dreaded the worst.

“Periwinkle,” said the Baron, as he encased his better
leg, “let the grave be twenty feet deep!”

“Your lordship’s command is law.”

“And, Periwinkle,’—Sir Robert stamped his left heel
into its receptacle,—“and, Periwinkle, see that it be wide
enough to hold not exceeding two!”

“YVe—ye—yes, my lord.”

“And, Periwinkle,—tell Father Fothergill I would fain
speak with his Reverence.”

“VYe—ye—yes my lord.”

The Baron’s beard was peaked; and his mustaches, stiff
54 Grey Dolphin

and stumpy, projected horizontally like those of a Tom
Cat ; he twirled the one, he stroked the other, he drew the
buckle of his surcingle a thought tighter, and strode down
the great staircase three steps at a stride.”

The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland
Castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute;
expectation and perplexity were visible on every brow.
What would his lordship do ?—Were the recusant anybody
else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but
too good for him :—but it was Father Fothergill who had
said “I won’t;” and though the Baron was a very great
man, the Pope was a greater, and the Pope was Father
Fothergill’s great friend—some people said he was his uncle.

Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory trying
conclusions with a venison pasty, when he received the
summons of his patron to attend him in the chapel
cemetery. Of course he lost no time in obeying it, for
obedience was the general rule in Shurland Castle. If
anybody ever said “I won't,” it was the exception; and,
like all other exceptions, only proved the rule the stronger.
The Father was a friar of the Augustine persuasion; a
brotherhood which, having been planted in Kent some few
centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and
overspread the county much as hops did some few centuries
later. He was plump and portly, a little thick-winded,
especially after dinner,—stood five feet four in his sandals,
and weighed hard upon eighteen stone. He was moreover
a personage of singular piety; and the iron girdle, which,
he said, he wore under his cassock to mortify withal, might
have been well mistaken for the tire of a cart-wheel.—
When he arrived, Sir Robert was pacing up and down by
the side of a newly opened grave.

“ Benedicite! fair son,’—(the Baron was as brown as a
cigar,)— Benedicite !” said the Chaplain.

The Baron was too angry to stand upon compliment.
“Bury me that grinning caitiff there!” quoth he, pointing
to the defunct.

“It may not be, fair son,” said the Friar; “he hath
perished without absolution.”
eT

Grey Dolphin 55

“Bury the body !” roared Sir Robert.

“Water and earth alike reject him,’ returned the
Chaplain; “holy St Bridget herself—— ”

“Bridget me no Bridgets!—do me thine office quickly,
Sir Shaveling; or, by the Piper that played before
Moses—” The oath was a fearful one; and whenever the
Baron swore to do mischief, he was never known to perjure
himself. He was playing with the hilt of his sword.—“Do
me thine office, I say. Give him his passport to Heaven!”

“He is already gone to Hell!” stammered the Friar.

“Then do you go after him!” thundered the Lord of
Shurland.

His sword half leaped from its scabbard. No!—the
trenchant blade, that had cut Suleiman Ben Malek Ben
Buckskin from helmet to chine, disdained to daub itself
with the cerebellum of a miserable monk ;—it leaped back
again ;—and as the Chaplain, scared at its flash, turned
him in terror, the Baron gave him a kick!—one kick!
—it was but one!—but such a one! Despite its obesity,
up flew his holy body in an angle of forty-five degrees ;
then, having reached its highest point of elevation, sunk
headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it. If
the reverend gentleman had possessed such a thing asa
neck, he had infallibly broken it; as he did not, he only
dislocated his vertebrae,—but that did quite as well. He
was as dead as ditch-water !

“In with the other rascal!” said the Baron,—and he was
obeyed; for there he stood in his boots. Mattock and
shovel made short work of it; twenty feet of super-
incumbent mould pressed down alike the saint and the
sinner. “Now sing a requiem who list!” said the Baron,
and his lordship went back to his oysters.

The vassals at Castle Shurland were astounded, or, as
the Seneschal Hugh better expressed it, “perfectly con-
glomerated,” by this event. What! murder a monk in the
odour of sanctity,—and on consecrated ground too!—
They trembled for the health of the Baron’s soul. To the
unsophisticated many it seemed that matters could not
have been much worse had he shot a bishop’s coach-
56 Grey Dolphin

horse ;——all looked for some signal judgment. The melan-
choly catastrophe of their neighbours at Canterbury was
yet rife in their memories: not two centuries had elapsed
since those miserable sinners had cut off the tail of the
blessed St Thomas’s mule. The tail of the mule, it was
well known, had been forthwith affixed to that of the
Mayor; and rumour said it had since been hereditary in the
corporation. The least that could be expected was, that
Sir Robert should have a friar tacked on to his for the
term of his natural life! Some bolder spirits there were,
tis true, who viewed the matter in various lights, according
to their different temperaments and dispositions; for
perfect unanimity existed not even in the good old times.
The verderer, roistering Hob Roebuck, swore roundly,
“*Twere as good a deed as eat to kick down the chapel as
well as the monk.’—Hob had stood there in a white sheet
for kissing Giles Miller’s daughter—On the other hand,
Simpkin Agnew, the bell-ringer, doubted if the devil’s
cellar, which runs under the bottomless abyss, were quite
deep enough for the delinquent, and speculated on the pro-
bability of a hole being dug in it for his especial accommoda-
tion. The philosophers and economists thought, with
Saunders McBullock, the Baron’s bagpiper, that “a feckless
monk more or less was nae great subject for a clam-
jamphry,” especially as “the supply considerably exceeded
the demand ;” while Malthouse, the tapster, was arguing
to Dame Martin that a murder now and then was a
seasonable check to population, without which the Isle of
Sheppey would in time be devoured, like a mouldy cheese,
by inhabitants of its own producing.—Meanwhile, the
Baron ate his oysters and thought no more of the
matter.

But this tranquillity of his lordship was not to last. A
couple of Saints had been seriously offended ; and we have
all of us read at school that celestial minds are by no
means insensible to the provocations of anger. There
were those who expected that St Bridget would come in
person, and have the friar up again, as she did the sailor;
but perhaps her ladyship did not care to trust herself


Grey Dolphin $4

within the walls of Shurland Castle. To say the truth, it
was scarcely a decent house for a female Saint to be seen
in. The Baron’s gallantries, since he became a widower,
had been but too notorious; and her own reputation was a
little blown upon in the earlier days of her earthly
pilgrimage: then things were so apt to be misrepresented :
in short, she would leave the whole affair to St Austin,
who, being a gentleman, could interfere with propriety,
avenge her affront as well as his own, and leave no loop-
hole for scandal. St Austin himself seems to have had his
scruples, though of their precise nature it would be difficult
to determine, for it were idle to suppose him at all afraid
of the Baron’s boots. Be this as it may, the mode which
he adopted was at once prudent and efficacious. As an
ecclesiastic, he could not well call the Baron out,—had his
boots been out of the question ;—so he resolved to have
recourse to the law. Instead of Shurland Castle, there-
fore, he repaired forthwith to his own magnificent
monastery, situate just within the walls of Canterbury, and
presented himself in a vision to its abbot. No one who
has ever visited that ancient city, can fail to recollect the
splendid gateway which terminates the vista of St Paul’s-
street, and stands there yet in all its pristine beauty. The
tiny train of miniature artillery which now adorns its battle-
ments is, it is true, an ornament of a later date; and is said
to have been added some centuries after by a learned but
. jealous proprietor, for the purpose of shooting any wiser
man than himself who might chance to come that way.
Tradition is silent as to any discharge having taken place,
nor can the oldest inhabitant ‘of modern days recollect any
such occurrence: Here it was, in a handsome chamber,
immediately over the lofty archway, that the Superior of
the monastery lay buried in a brief slumber snatched from
his accustomed vigils. His mitre—for he was a Mitred
Abbot, and had a seat in parliament—rested on a table
beside him ; near it stood a silver flagon of Gascony wine,

1 Since the appearance of the first edition of this Legend ‘‘ the guns”’ have
been dismounted. Rumour hints at some alarm on the part of the Town
Council.
58 Grey Dolphin

ready, no doubt, for the pious uses of the morrow. Fasting
and watching had made him more than usually somnolent,
than which nothing could have been better for the purpose
of the Saint, who now appeared to him radiant in all the
colours of the rainbow.

“Anselm !”—said the beatific vision,—“ Anselm! are
you not a pretty fellow to lie snoring there, when your
brethren are being knocked at head, and Mother Church
herself is menaced ?—It is a sin and a shame. Anselm ?”

“What's the matter ?>—Who are you?” cried the Abbot,
rubbing his eyes, which the celestial splendour of his visitor
had set a-winking. “Ave Maria! St Austin himself!—
Speak, Beatissime ! what would you with the humblest of
your votaries ?”

“Anselm !” said the saint, “a brother of our order, whose
soul Heaven assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. He
hath been ignominiously kicked to the death, Anselm ; and
there he lieth cheek-by-jowl with a wretched carcass, which
our sister Bridget has turned out of her cemetery for un-
seemly grinning.—Arouse thee, Anselm!”

“Ay, so please you, Sanctissime!” said the Abbot. “I
will order forthwith that thirty masses be said, thirty Paters,
and thirty Aves.”

“Thirty fools’ heads!” interrupted his patron, who was
a little peppery.

“TI will send for bell, book, and candle—”

“Send for an inkhorn, Anselm.—Write me now a letter
to his Holiness the Pope in good round terms, and another
to the Coroner, and another to the Sheriff, and seize me
the never-enough-to-be-anathematised villain who hath done
this deed! Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm !—up
with him !—down with his dwelling-place, root and branch,
hearthstone and roof-tree,—down with it all, and sow the
site with salt and sawdust ! ”

St Austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer,

“Marry will I,’ quoth the Abbot, warming with the
Saint’s eloquence: “ay, marry will I, and that zzstanter.
But there is one thing you have forgotten, most Beatified—
the name of the culprit.”


y
i
af

_——— a Sn Ta oe

Grey Dolphin 59

“Robert de Shurland.”

“The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!” said the Abbot,
crossing himself, “won't that be rather inconvenient? Sir
Robert is a bold baron, and a powerful ;—blows will come
and go, and crowns will be cracked and—”

“What is that to you, since yours will not be of the
number ?”

“Very true, Beatisseme /—I will don me with speed, and
do your bidding.”

“Do so, Anselm !—fail not to hang the baron, burn his
castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax
candles for my own particular shrine out of your share of
the property.”

With this solemn injunction the vision began to fade.

“One thing more!” cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.

“What is that?” asked the saint.

“O Beate Augustine, ora pro nobis !”

“ Of course I shall,” said St Austin. “ Pax vobtscuim !
--and Abbot Anselm was left alone.

Within an hour all Canterbury was in commotion. A
friar had been murdered,—two friars—ten—twenty; a
whole convent had been assaulted,—sacked,—burnt,—ail
the monks had been killed, and all the nuns had been
kissed !—Murder !—fire !—sacrilege! Never was city in
such an uproar. From St George’s gate to St Dunstan’s
suburb, from the Donjon to the borough of Staplegate, all
was noise and hubbub. “Where was it?”—“ When was
it ?”—“ How was it?” The Mayor caught up his chain,
the Aldermen donned their furred gowns, the Town-clerk
put on his spectacles. “ Who was he ?”—“ What was he?”
—‘‘ Where was he?” —he should be hanged,—he should be
burned,—he should be broiled,—he should be fried,—he
should be scraped to death with red-hot oyster-shells!
“Who was he?”—“ What was his name?”

The Abbot’s Apparitor drew forth his roll and read
aloud :—“ Sir Robert de Shurland, Knight banneret, Baron
of Shurland and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey.”

The Mayor put his chain in his pocket, the Aldermen
took off their gowns, the Town Clerk put his pen behind
60 Grey Dolphin

his ear.—It was a county business altogether :—the Sheriff
had better call out the posse comitatus.

While saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him,
the Baron de Shurland was quietly eating his breakfast.
He had passed a tranquil night, undisturbed by dreams of
cowl or capuchin ; nor was his appetite more affected than
his conscience. On the contrary, he sat rather longer over
his meal than usual: luncheon-time came, and he was ready
as ever for his oysters: but scarcely had Dame Martin
opened his first half-dozen when the warder’s horn was
heard from the barbican.

“Who the devil’s that ?” said Sir Robert. “ I’m not at
home, Periwinkle. I hate to be disturbed at meals, and I
won’t be at home to anybody.”

“Ant please your lordship,” answered the Seneschal,
“Paul Prior hath given notice that there is a body—”

“ Another body !” roared the Baron. “Am I to be ever-
lastingly plagued with bodies? No time allowed me to
swallow a morsel. Throw it into the moat!”

“So please you, my lord, it is a body. of horse,—and—
and Paul says there is a still larger body of foot behind it ;
and he thinks, my lord,—that is, he does not know, but he
thinks—and we all think, my lord, that they are coming to
—to besiege the castle!”

“ Besiege the castle! Who? What? What for?”

“Paul says, my lord, that he can see the banner of St
Austin, and the bleeding heart of Hamo de Crevecceur, the
Abbot’s chief vassal ; and there is John de Northwood, the
sheriff, with his red-cross engrailed ; and Hever, and Ley-
bourne, and Heaven knows how many more; and they are
all coming on as fast as ever they can.”

“ Periwinkle,” said the Baron, “up with the drawbridge ;
down with the portcullis; bring me a cup of canary, and
my nightcap. I won’t be bothered with them. I shall go
to bed.”

“To bed, my lord?” cried Periwinkle, with a look that
seemed to say, “ He’s crazy!”

At this moment the shrill tones of a trumpet were heard
to sound thrice from the champaign, It was the signal for


Grey Dolphin 61

parley: the Baron changed his mind ; instead of going to
bed, he went to the ramparts.

“Well, rapscallions ! and what now!” said the Baron.

A herald, two pursuivants, and a trumpeter, occupied
the foreground of the scene; behind them, some
three hundred paces off, upon a rising ground, was
drawn up in battle array the main body of the ecclesi-
astical forces.

“Hear you, Robert de Shurland, Knight, Baron of
Shurland and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey, and know
all men, by these presents, that I do hereby attach you,
the said Robert, of murder and sacrilege, now, or of late,
done and committed by you, the said Robert, contrary
to the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown
and dignity: and I do hereby require and charge you, the
said Robert, to forthwith surrender and give up your own
proper person, together with the castle of Shurland afore-
said, in order that the same may be duly dealt with accord-
ing tolaw. And here standeth John de Northwood, Esquire,
good man and true, sheriff of this his Majesty’s most loyal
county of Kent, to enforce the same, if need be, with his
posse comitatus—”

“ His what?” said the Baron.

“His posse comitatus, and—”

“Go to Bath !” said the Baron.

A defiance so contemptuous roused the ire of the adverse
commanders, A volley of missiles rattled about the Baron’s
ears. Nightcaps avail little against contusions. He left
the walls, and returned to the great hall.

“Let them pelt away,” quoth the Baron; “there are no
windows to break, and they can’t get in.”—So he took his
afternoon nap, and the siege went on.

Towards evening his lordship awoke, and grew tired of
the din. Guy Pearson, too, had got a black eye from a
brick-bat, and the assailants were clambering over the outer
wall. Sothe Baron called for his Sunday hauberk of Milan
steel, and his great two-handed sword with the terrible
name ;—it was the fashion in feudal times to give names
to swords: King Arthur’s was christened Excalibar; the
62 Grey Dolphin

Baron called his Tickletoby, and whenever he took it in
hand it was no joke.

“Up with the portcullis! down with the bridge!” said
Sir Robert; and out he sallied, followed by the &z¢e of his
retainers. Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one
way—arms and legs another; round went Tickletoby ; and,
wherever it alighted, down came horse and man: the Baron
excelled himself that day. All that he had done in Palestine
faded in the comparison; he had fought for fun there, but
now it was for life and lands. Away went John de North-
wood ; away went William of Hever, and Roger of Ley-
bourne.—Hamo de Crevecceur, with the church vassals and
the banner of St Austin, had been gone some time.—The
siege was raised, and the Lord of Sheppey was left alone
in his glory.

But brave as the Baron undoubtedly was, and total as
had been the defeat of his enemies, it cannot be supposed
that La Stoccata would be allowed to carry it away thus.
It has before been hinted that Abbot Anselm had written
to the Pope, and Boniface the Eighth piqued himself on his
punctuality as a correspondent in all matters connected
with church discipline. Hesent back an answer by return
of post; and by it all Christian people were strictly
enjoined to aid in exterminating the offender, on pain of
the greater excommunication in this world, and a million
of years of purgatory in the next. But then, again, Boni-
face the Eighth was rather at a discount in England just
then. He had affronted Longshanks, as the loyal lieges
had nicknamed their monarch ; and Longshanks had been
rather sharp upon the clergy in consequence. If the
Baron de Shurland could but get the King’s pardon for
what, in his cooler moments, he admitted to be a pecca-
dillo, he might sniff at the Pope, and bid him “do his
devilmost.”

Fortune, who, as the poet says, delights to favour the
bold, stood his friend.on this occasion. Edward had been,
for some time, collecting a large force “on the coast of
Kent, to carry on his French wars for the recovery of
Guienne ; he was expected shortly to review it in person ;




THEN THERE WAS A PRETTY TO-DO, HEADS FLEW ONE WAY—ARMS
AND LEGS ANOTHER; ROUND WENT TICKLETOBY
64 Grey Dolphin

but, then, the troops lay principally in cantonments about
the mouth of the Thames, and his Majesty was. to come
down by water. What was to be done ?—the royal barge
was in sight, and John de Northwood and Hamo de
Crevecceur had broken up all the boats to boil their camp-
kettles.—A truly great mind is never without resources.

“Bring me my boots!” said the Baron.

They brought him his boots, and his dapple-grey steed
along with them. Such a courser! all blood and bone,
short-backed, broad-chested, and,—but that he was a little
ewe-necked,—faultless in form and figure. The Baron
sprang upon his back, and dashed at once into the river.

The barge which carried Edward Longshanks and his
fortunes had by this time nearly reached the Nore: the
stream was broad and the current strong, but Sir Robert
and his steed were almost as broad, and a great deal
stronger. After breasting the tide gallantly for a couple
of miles, the Knight was near enough to hail the steers-
man.

“What have we got here?” said the King.—‘“It’s a
mermaid,” said one—‘“It’s a grampus,” said another.—
“Tt’s the devil,” said a third—But they were all wrong;
it was only Robert de Shurland. “Grammercy,” quoth
the King, “that fellow was never born to be drowned !”

It has been said before that the Baron had fought in the
Holy wars; in fact, he had accompanied Longshanks,
when only heir apparent, in his expedition twenty-five
years before, although his name is unaccountably omitted
by Sir Harris Nicolas in his list of crusaders. He had
been present at Acre when Amirand of Joppa stabbed the
prince with a poisoned dagger, and had lent Princess
Eleanor his own tooth-brush after she had sucked out the
venom from the wound.—He had slain certain Saracens,
contented himself with his own plunder, and never dunned
the commissariat for arrears of pay.—Of course he ranked
high in Edward’s good graces, and had received the honour
of knighthood at his hands on the field of battle.

In one so circumstanced it cannot be supposed that such
a trifle as the killing of a frowzy friar would be much
Grey Dolphin 65°

‘resented, even had he not taken so bold a measure to

obtain his pardon. His petition was granted, of course, as
soon as asked ; and so it would have been had the indict-
ment drawn up by the Canterbury town-clerk, viz., “ That
he the said Robert de Shurland, etc. had then and there,
with several, to wit, one thousand, pairs of boots, given
sundry, to wit, two thousand, kicks, and therewith and
thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand, Austin friars,”
been true to the letter.

Thrice did the gallant grey circumnavigate the barge,
while Robert de Winchelsey, the chancellor, and arch-
bishop to boot, was making out, albeit with great reluct-
ance, the royal pardon. The interval was sufficiently long to
enable His Majesty, who, gracious as he was, had always
an eye to business, just to hint that the gratitude he felt
towards the Baron was not unmixed with a lively sense of
services, to come; and that, if life were now spared him,
common decency must oblige him to make himself useful.
Before the archbishop, who had scalded his fingers with
the wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take them
out of his mouth, all was settled, and the Baron de Shur-
land had pledged himself to be forthwith in readiness, cam
suis to accompany his liege lord to Guienne.

With the royal pardon secured in his vest, boldly did his
lordship turn again to the shore; and as boldly did his
courser oppose his breadth of chest to the stream. It was
a work of no common difficulty or danger; a steed of less
“mettle and bone” had long since sunk in the effort: as it
was, the Baron’s boots were full of water, and Grey
Dolphin’s chamfrain more than once dipped beneath the
wave. The convulsive snorts of the noble animal shewed
his distress; each instant they became more loud and
frequent; when his hoof touched the strand, and “the
horse and his rider” stood once again in safety on the
shore.

Rapidly dismounting, the Baron was loosening the girths
of his demi-pique, to give the panting animal breath, when
he was aware of as ugly an old woman as he had ever
clapped eyes upon, peeping at him under the horse’s} belly.

E
66 Grey Dolphin

“Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland! Make
much of your steed!” cried the hag, shaking at him her
long and bony finger. “Groom to the hide, and corn to the.
manger! He has saved your life, Robert Shurland, for the
nonce; but he shall yet be the means of your losing it, for
all that!”

The Baron started: “What's that you say, you old
faggot ?”—He ran round by his horse’s tail ;—the woman
was gone!

The Baron paused ; his great soul was not to be shaken
by trifles; he looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated
the word “ Humbug!”—then slinging the bridle across his
arm, walked slowly on in the direction of the castle.

The appearance, and still more the disappearance, of the
crone, had however made an impression; every step he
took he became more thoughtful. “’Twould be deuced
provoking, though, if he should break my neck after all.” —
He turned and gazed at Dolphin with the scrutinizing eye
of a veterinary surgeon.—“I’ll be shot if he is not groggy!”
said the Baron.

With his lordship, like another great Commander, “ Once
to be in, doubt, was once to be resolved:” it would never
do to go to the wars on a rickety prad. He dropped the
rein, drew forth Tickletoby, and, as the enfranchised
Dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his ewe-neck to
the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. “There,
you lying old beldame!” said the Baron; “now take him

eye MY:

away to the knacker’s.

Three years were come and gone, King Edward’s French
wars were over ; both parties, having fought till they came
to a standstill, shook hands; and the quarrel, as usual, was
patched up by aroyal marriage. This happy event gave
his Majesty leisure to turn his attention to Scotland, where
things, through the intervention of William Wallace, were
looking rather queerish. As his reconciliation with Philip
now allowed of his fighting the Scotch in peace and quiet-
ness, the monarch lost no time in marching his long legs
across the border, and the short ones of the Baron followed


“MAKE*MUCH-OF-YOUR:STEED, ROBERT: SHURLAND!
MAKE-MUCH OF: YOUR: STEEDS!”
Grey Dolphin 67
him of course. At Falkirk, Tickletoby was in great re-
quest; and in the year following, we find a contemporary
poet hinting at his master’s prowess under the walls of
Caerlaverock,

Obec ens fu achimines

Li bean Robert de Shurland
Hi kant seott sur le chebal
He sembloit home ke someille.

@

A quatrain which Mr Simpkinson translates,

“ With them was marching
The good Robert de Shurland,
Who, when seated on horseback,
Does not resemble a man asleep !”

So thoroughly awake, indeed, does he seem to have
proved himself, that the bard subsequently exclaims, in an
ecstasy of admiration,

St ie estote une pucelette
He li Donroie cenr et cors
Tant est de lu bons li recors.

“Tf I were a young maiden,
I would give my heart and person,
So great is his fame!”

Fortunately the poet was a tough old monk of Exeter ;
since such a present to a nobleman, now in his grand
climacteric, would hardly have been worth the carriage.
With the reduction of this stronghold of the Maxwells
seem to have concluded the Baron’s military services; as
on the very first day of the fourteenth century we find him
once more landed on his native shore, and marching, with
such of his retainers as the wars had left him, towards the
hospitable shelter of Shurland Castle. It was then, upon
that very beach, some hundred yards distant from high
water mark, that his eye fell upon something like an ugly
old woman in a red cloak! She was seated on what seemed
to be a large stone, in an interesting attitude, with her
elbows resting upon her knees, and her chin upon her
68 Grey Dolphin

thumbs. The Baron started: the remembrance of his
interview with a similar personage in the same place some
three years since, flashed upon his recollection. He rushed
towards the spot, but the form was gone ;—nothing re-
mained but the seat it had appeared to occupy. This, on ex-
amination, turned out to be no stone, but the whitened skull
of a dead horse !—A tender remembrance of the deceased
Grey Dolphin shot a momentary pang into the Baron’s
bosom ; he drew the baek of his hand across his face ; the
thought of the hag’s prediction in an instant rose, and
banished all softer emotions. In utter contempt of his own
weakness, yet with a tremor that deprived his redoubtable
kick of half its wonted force, he spurned the relic with his
foot. One word alone issued from his lips, elucidatory of
what was passing in his mind,—it long remained imprinted
on the memory of his faithful followers,—that word was
“Gammon!” The skull bounded across the beach till it
reached the very margin of the stream ;—one instant more,
and it would be engulfed for ever. At that moment a loud
“Ha! ha! ha!” was distinctly heard by the whole train to
issue from its bleached and toothless jaws ; it sank beneath
the flood in a horse laugh!

Meanwhile Sir Robert de Shurland felt an odd sort of
sensation in his right foot. His boots had suffered in the
wars. Great pains had been taken for their preservation.
They had been “soled” and “ heeled” more than once ;—
had they been “ goloshed,” their owner might have defied
Fate! Well has it been said that “there is no such thing
as a trifle.” A nobleman’s life depended upon a question
of ninepence.

The Baron marched on; the uneasiness in his foot in-
creased. He plucked off his boot ;—a horse’s tooth was
sticking in his great toe!

The result may be anticipated. Lame as he was, his
lordship, with characteristic decision, would hobble on to
Shurland ; his walk increased the inflammation ; a flagon
of agua vite did not mend matters. ‘He was in a high
fever; he took to his bed. Next morning the toe presented
the appearance of a Bedfordshire carrot ; by dinner-time it


Grey Dolphin 69

had deepened to beet-root ; and when Bargrave, the leech,
at last sliced it off, the gangrene was too confirmed to
admit of remedy. Dame Martin thought it high time to
send for Miss Margaret, who, ever since her mother’s death,
had been living with her maternal aunt, the abbess, in the
Ursuline convent at Greenwich. The young lady came,
and with her came one Master Ingoldsby, her cousin-german
by the mother’s side; but the Baron was too far gone in the
dead-thraw to recognise either. He died as he lived, un-
conquered and unconquerable. His last words were—
“ Tell the old hag she may go to ” Whither remains
a secret. He expired without fully articulating the place
of her destination.

But who and what was the crone who prophesied the
catastrophe? Ay, “that is the mystery of this wonderful
history.”—Some say it was Dame Fothergill, the late con-
fessor’s mamma; others, St Bridget herself; others thought
it was nobody at all, but only a phantom conjured up by
conscience. As we do not know, we decline giving an
opinion.

And what became of the Clerk of Chatham ?—Mr
Simpkinson avers that he lived to a good old age, and
was at last hanged by Jack Cade, with his inkhorn about
his neck, for “setting boys copies.” In support of this he
adduces his name “ Emmanuel,’ and refers to the historian
Shakspear. Mr Peters, on the contrary, considers this to
be what he calls one of Mr Simpkinson’s “ Anacreonisms,”
inasmuch as, at the introduction of Mr Cade’s reform
measure, the Clerk, if alive, would have been hard upon
two hundred years old. The probability is, that the
unfortunate alluded to was his great-grandson.

Margaret Shurland in due course became Margaret
Ingoldsby, her portrait still hangs in the gallery at
Tappington. The features are handsome, but shrewish,
betraying, as it were, a touch of the old Baron’s temper-
ament ; but we never could learn that she actually kicked
her husband. She brought him a very pretty fortune in
chains, owches, and Saracen ear-rings ; the barony, being a
male fief, reverted to the Crown.


76 ~ The Ghost

In the abbey-church at Minster may yet be seen the
tomb of a recumbent warrior, clad in the chain-mail of the
13th century.1 His hands are clasped in prayer ; his legs,
crossed in that position so prized by Templars in ancient,
and tailors in modern days, bespeak him a soldier of the
faith in Palestine. Close behind his dexter calf lies
sculptured in bold relief a horse’s head ; and a respectable
elderly lady, as she shows the monument, fails not to read
her auditors a fine moral lesson on the sin of ingratitude,

or to claim a sympathising tear to the memory of poor
“Grey Dolphin!”

It is on my own personal reminiscences that I draw for
the following story; the scene of its leading event was
most familiar to me in early life. If the principal actor in
it be yet living, he must have reached a very advanced age.
He was often at the Hall, in my infancy, on professional
visits. It is, however, only from those who “ prated of his
whereabouts” that I learned the history of his adventure
with

The Ghost

THERE stands a City,—neither large nor small,
Its air and situation sweet and pretty ;

It matters very little—if at all—
Whether its denizens are dull or witty,

1 Subsequent to the first appearance of the foregoing narrative, the tomb
alluded to has been opened during the course of certain repairs which the
church has undergone. Mr Simpkinson, who was present at the exhumation
of the body within, and has enriched his collection with three of its grinders,
says the bones of one of the great toes were wanting. He speaks in terms of
great admiration at the thickness of the skull, and is of opinion that the skeleton
is that of a great patriot much addicted to Lundy-foot.
The Ghost gA

Whether the ladies there are short or tall,
Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city !—

Perhaps ’tis also requisite to minute

That there’s a Castle and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,

And kings and heroes lie entomb’d within her ;
There pious saints, in marble pomp repose,

Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner ;
There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose

Roll’d its loud diapason after dinner ;
And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,
—Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound,

Proof against all th’ artillery of the quiver,
Ere those abominable guns were found,

To send cold lead through gallant warrior’s liver.
It stands upon a gently rising ground,

Sloping down gradually to the river,
Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)
A well-scooped, mouldy Stilton cheese,—but taller.

The keep, I find, ’s been sadly alter’d lately,

And, ’stead of mail-clad knights, of honour jealous,
In martial panoply so grand and stately,

Its walls are filled with money-making fellows,
And stuffd, unless I’m misinformed greatly,

With leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, and bellows ;
In short, so great a change has come to pass,
’Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

But to my tale.—Before this profanation,

And ere its ancient glories were cut short all,
A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station

In a small house, just opposite the portal ;
His birth, his parentage, and education,

I know but little of—a strange, odd mortal ;
72 The Ghost

His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
His name was Mason—he’d been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,

And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion ;
But, spite of all her piety, her arm

She’d sometimes exercise when in a passion;
And, being of a temper somewhat warm,

Would now and then seize, upon small occasion,
A stick, or stool, or anything that round did lie,
And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter !—'tis a thing that’s not uncommon,

*Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,—
I mean, a bruizing, pugilistic woman,

Such as I own I entertain a dread of,
—And so did Nick,—whom sometimes there would

come on

A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off,
Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,
She shone so much in “ facers” and in “ fibbing.”

“There's time and place for all things,” said a sage,
(King Solomon, I think,) and this I can say,
Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,
Boxing may be a very pretty Fancy,
When Messrs Burke or Bendigo engage ;
— Tis not so well in Susan, Jane, or Nancy :—
To get well mill’d by any one’s an evil,
But by a lady—'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble,
(At least his worst,) was this his rib’s propensity,
For sometimes from the alehouse he would hobble,
His senses lost in a sublime immensity
Of cogitation—then he couldn’t cobble—
And then his wife would often try the density
Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might,
As fast as kitchen-wenches strike a light.
The Ghost 73

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,

Of this same striking had a morbid dread,
He hated it like poison—-or his wife—

A vast antipathy !—but so he said—
And very often, for a quiet life,

On these occasions he’d sneak up to bed,
Grope darkling in, and, soon as at the door
He heard his lady—he’d pretend to snore.





One night, then, ever partial to society,
Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow,)
Went to a Club—I should have said Society—
At the “City Arms,” once call’d the Porto Bello;
A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I
Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow -
There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather.
And change of ministers and change of weather,
m4 The Ghost

In short, it was a kind of British Forum,
Like John Gale Jones’s, erst in Piccadilly,

Only they managed things with more decorum,
And the Orations were not guzte so silly ;

Far different questions, too, would come before ’em,
Not always Politics, which, will ye nill ye,

Their London prototypes were always willing,

To give one guantum suff. of—for a shilling.

It more resembled one of later date,

And tenfold talent, as I’m told in Bow Street,
Where kindlier natured souls do congregate,

And, though there are who deem that same a low street,
Yet, I’m assured, for frolicsome debate

And genuine humour it’s surpassed by no street,
When the “Chief Baron” enters, and assumes
To “rule” o’er mimic “ Thesigers” and “ Broughams.”

Here they would oft forget their Ruler’s faults,

And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper,
Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz,

How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapour,
Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber’s Salts,

And what the Romans wrote on ere they’d paper ;—
This night the subject of their disquisitions
Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions.

One learned gentleman, a “sage grave man,”
Talk’d of the Ghost in Hamlet, “sheath’d in steel ;”—
His well-read friend, who next to speak began,
Said, “ That was Poetry, and nothing real ;”
A third, of more extensive learning, ran
To Sir George Villiers’ Ghost, and Mrs Veal ;
Of sheeted Spectres spoke with shorten’d breath,
And thrice he quoted “ Drelincourt on Death.”

Nick smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard
The point discuss’d, and all they said upon it,
How, frequently, some murder’d man appear’d,
To tell his wife and children who had done it ;
5B
oP

CAR
Or SS ew

AL OS
Fc ae

ax
ek



Recmoan 98 >

IF-ORPHEUS- FIRST:-PRODUCED ‘THE WALTZ
The Ghost 75

Or how a Miser’s ghost, with grisly beard,

And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet,
Wander’d about to watch his buried money !
When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One,—he

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture
Impended from his fond and faithful She ;
Nor could he well to pardon him expect her,
For he had promised to “be home to tea ;”
But having luckily the key o’ the back door,
He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he
Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze,
And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

Vain, fruitless hope !—The wearied sentinel
At eve may overlook the crouching foe,
Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell
He sinks beneath the unexpected blow ;
Before the whispers of Grimalkin fell,
When slumb’ring on her post, the mouse may go ;—
But woman, wakeful woman, ’s never weary,
—Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

Soon Mrs Mason heard the well-known tread ;

She heard the key slow creaking in the door,
Spied, through the gloom obscure, towards the bed
Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before ;

When, bang, she threw a something at his head,
And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor ;
While she exclaim’d with her indignant face on,—

“‘ How dare you use your wife so, Mr Mason?”

Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated,
Especially the length of her oration,—
Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated,
Roused by the bump into a good set passion,
So great, that more than once he execrated,
Ere he crawl’d into bed in his usual fashion ;
—The Muses hate brawls ; suffice it then to say,
He duck’d below the clothes—and there he lay!
76 The Ghost

’Twas now the very witching time of night, [dead,
When churchyards groan, and graves give up their
And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite
Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,
And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,
To play his pranks near some poor wretch’s bed,
Sleeping perhaps serenely as a porpoise,
Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations
Still to the same tremendous theme recurred,
The same dread subject of the dark narrations,
Which, back’d with such authority, he’d heard ;
Lost in his own horrific contemplations,
He ponder’d o’er each well-remember’d word ;
When at the bed’s foot, close beside the post,
He verily believed he saw—a Ghost !

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite
To his astonish’d gaze each moment grew;
Ghastly and gaunt, it rear’d its shadowy height,
Of more than mortal seeming to the view,
And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew
A tatter’d winding sheet,-of course a// white ;—
The moon that moment peeping through a cloud,
Nick very plainly saw it through the shroud !

And now those matted locks, which never yet
Had yielded to the comb’s unkind divorce,
Their long-contracted amity forget,
And spring asunder with elastic force ;
Nay, e’en the very cap, of texture coarse,
Whose ruby cincture crown’d that brow of jet,
Uprose in agony—the Gorgon’s head
Was but a type of Nick’s up-squatting in the bed.

From every pore distill’d a clammy dew,
Quaked every limb,—the candle too no doubt,
En régle, would have burnt extremely blue,
But Nick unluckily had put it out;
The Ghose TG

And he, though naturally bold and stout,

In short, was in'a most tremendous stew ;—-
The room was fill’d with a sulphureous smell,
But where that came from Mason could not tell.

All motionless the Spectre stood,—and now
Its rev’rend form more clearly shone confest ;
From the pale cheek a beard of
purest snow
Descended o’er its venerable
breast ;
The thin grey hairs, that crown’d
its furrow’d brow,
Told of years long gone by.—An
awful guest
It stood, and with an action of
command,
Beckon’d the Cobbler with its wan
right hand.









“Whence, and what art thou, Exe-
crable Shape?”
Nick might have cried, could he
have found a tongue,
But his distended jaws could only
gape,
And. not a sound upon the welkin 4
rung :
His gooseberry orbs seem’d as they
* would have sprung
Forth from their sockets,—like a frightened Ape
He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright,
And shook, and grinn’d, and chatter’d with affright.

And still the shadowy finger, long and lean,
Now beckon’d Nick, now pointed to the door ;

And many an ireful glance, and, frown, between,
The.angry visage of the Phantom wore,
78 The Ghost

As if quite vex’d that Nick would do no more

Than stare, without e’en asking, “What d’ye mean?”
Because, as we are told,—a sad old joke too,—
Ghosts, like the ladies, “ never speak till spoke too.”

Cowards, ’tis said, in certain situations,
Derive a sort of courage from despair,
And then perform, from downright desperation,
Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
and therefore, groping till he found the chair,
Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
And follow’d quaking where the Spectre led.

And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread,
The tenant of the tomb pass’d slowly on,
Each mazy turning of the humble shed
Seem’d to his step at once familiar grown,
So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread
As though the domicile had been his own,
Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop,
Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound,
The door upon its hinges open flew;
And forth the Spirit issued,—yet around
It turn’d as if its follower’s fears it knew,
And, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,
The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw
With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
The visionary form seem’d melting in her beam. ,

Beneath a pond’rous archway’s sombre shade,
Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
’Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,
Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,
The Phantom held its way,—and though afraid
Even of the owls that sung their vesper rae
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in,
The Ghost 79

Within the mouldering fabric’s deep recess
At length they reach a court obscure and lone ;—
It seem’d a drear and desolate wilderness,
The blacken’d walls with ivy all o’ergrown ;
The night-bird shriek’d her note of wild distress,
Disturb’d upon her solitary throne,
As though indignant mortal step should dare,
So led, at such an hour, to venture there!

—The Apparition paused, and would have spoke,
Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring,
But then a neighbouring chanticleer awoke,
And loudly ’gan his early matins sing ;
And then “ it started like a guilty thing,”
’ As that shrill clarion the silence broke.
—We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew
The appalling sound of “ Cock-a-doodle-do!”

The vision was no more—and Nick alone—

“ His streamers waving ” in the midnight wind,
Which through the ruins ceased not to groan ;

—His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,—
And, worst of all, he knew not where to find

The ring,— which made him most his fate bemoan ;—
The iron ring,—no doubt of some trap door,
*’Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.

“ What’s to be done?” he cried, “’Twere vain to stay
Here in the dark without a single clue—

Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray !
’Fore George, I’m vastly puzzled what to do,”

(Then clapped his hand behind)—“’Tis chilly too—
T’ll mark the spot, and come again by day.

What can I mark it by ?—Oh, here’s the wall—

The mortar’s yielding—here I'll stick my awl!”

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek,
A loud, a long protracted note of woe,

Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak,
And o’er the side the masts in thunder go ;
80 The Cynotaph

While on the deck resistless billows break,

And drag their victims to the gulfs below ;—
Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,
Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

Scared by his Lady’s heart-appalling cry,
Vanished at once poor Mason’s golden dream—
For dream it was ;—and all his visions high,
Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream—
And still he listens with averted eye,
When gibing neighbours make “theGhost” theirtheme;
While ever from that hour they all declare
‘ That Mrs Mason used a cushion in her chair!





—O

Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the
following monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn,
Cupid, of “ Yow-Yow”-ing memory. Tray was an attached
favourite of many years’ standing. Most people worth
loving have had a friend of this kind; Lord Byron says
he “never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the
nobleman,) lies!”




Poor Tray charmantj
Poor Tray de mon Ami!
Dog-bury and Vergers

Ou! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray,
Now his fleeting breath has passed away ?>—
Seventeen years, I can venture to say,

Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play,
The Cynotaph 81

Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay,

As though every one of his months was May,
And the whole of his life one long holiday—
Now he’s a lifeless lump of clay,

Oh! where shall I bury my faithful Tray?

I am almost tempted to think it hard
That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard,
Where the green willows wave
O’er the peaceful grave,
Which holds all that once was
honest and brave,
Kind, and courteous, and faithful,

cand true;

Qualities, Tray, that were found
in you.

But it may not be—yon sacred
ground,

By holiest feelings fenced around,

May neer within its hallowd
bound

Receive the dust of a soul-less
hound.

1 would not place him in yonder
fane,

Where the mid-day sun through the storied pane

Throws on the pavement a crimson stain ;

Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing

O’er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King,

With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing.



No!—come what may. My gentle Tray
Shan’t be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor,
Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder,

Whom you see on their backs, In stone or in wax,
Though the Sacristans now are “forbidden to ax”
For what Mister Hume calls “a scandalous tax ;”
While the Chartists insist they’ve a right to go snacks.—

7
82 The Cynotaph

No!—Tray’s humble tomb would look but shabby
’Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey.
Besides, in the place They say there’s no space
To bury what wet-nurses call “a Babby.”
Even “Rare Ben Jonson,” that famous wight,
I am told, is interr’d there bolt upright,
In just such a posture, beneath his bust,
As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust.
The epitaph, too, Would scarcely do:
For what could it say, but, “ Here lies Tray,
A very good kind of a dog in his day?”
And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it
Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet.

No! no!--The Abbey may do very well
For a feudal “ Nob,” or poetical “ Swell,”
“ Crusaders,” or “ Poets,” or “ Knights of St John,”
Or Knights of St John’s Wood, who once went on
To the Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintomne.
Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle,
“Sir Craven,” “Sir Gael,” and “Sir Campbell of Saddell,”
(Who, as poor Hook said, when he heard of the feat,
“Was somehow knock’d out of his family-seat :”)
The Esquires of the body To my Lord Tomnoddy;
“ Sir Fairlie,” “Sir Lambe,”
And the “ Knight of the Ram,” [Dragon,”
The “Knight of the Rose,” and the “Knight of the
Who, save at the flagon, And prog in the wagon,
The newspapers tell us did little “to brag on ;”

And more, though the Muse knows but little concerning

~ em,

“Sir Hopkins,” “Sir Popkins,” “Sir Gage,” and “ Sir
Jerningham,”

All Preux Chevaliers, in friendly rivalry

Who should best bring back the glory of Chi-valry.—

—(Pray be so good, for the sake of my song,

To pronounce here the ante-penultimate long ;

Or some hyper-critic will certainly cry,

“The word “ Chivalry’ is but a ‘rhyme to the eye.”
The Cynotaph 83

And J own it is clear A fastidious ear [in-
Will be, more or less, always annoy’d with you when you
sert any rhyme that’s not perfectly genuine.

As to pleasing the “eye,” ’Tisn’t worth while to try,
Since Moore and Tom Campbell themselves admit

“ Spinach ”
Is perfectly antiphonetic to “ Greenwich.”)—
But stay !—I say! Let me pause while I may—
_ This digression is leading me sadly astray
From my object—A grave for my poor dog Tray !

I would not place him beneath thy walls,
And proud o’ershadowing dome, St Paul’s!
Though I’ve always consider’d Sir Christopher Wren,
As an architect, one of the greatest of men;
And,—talking of Epitaphs,—much I admire his,
“ Circumspice, st Monumentum requiris ;”
Which an erudite Verger translated to me,
“Tf you ask for his monument, S7z7-come-spy-see !”—
No!—I should not know where To place him there ;
I would not have him by surly Johnson be ;—
Or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Pon.
sonby ;—
Or those ugly minxes The sister Sphynxes,
Mix’d creatures, half lady, half lioness, evga,
(Denon says), the emblems of Leo and Vzrgo ;
On one of the backs of which singular jumble,
Sir Ralph Abercrombie-is going to tumble,
With a thump which alone were enough to despatch him,
If the Scotchman in front shouldn’t happen to catch him,

No! I’d not have him there,—nor nearer the door,
Where the man and the Angel have got Sir John Moore!
And are quietly letting him down through the floor,
By Gillespie, the one who escaped, at Vellore,

Alone from the row ;— Neither he, nor Lord Howe
Would like to be plagued with a little Bow-wow.

No, Tray, we must yield, And go further a-field ;

1 See note at end of ‘‘ The Cynotaph.”
84 The Cynotaph

To lay you by Nelson were downright effront’ry ;—
—We'll be off from the City, and look at the country.

It shall not be there, In that sepulchred square,
Where folks are interr’d for the sake of the air,
(Though, pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse
To Tray what they grant to Thuggs, and Hindoos,
Turks, Infidels, Heretics, Jumpers, and Jews,)

Where the tombstones are placed Inthevery dest taste

At the feet and the head Of the elegant Dead,
And no one’s received who’s not “ buried in lead: ”
For, there lie the bones Of Deputy Jones,

Whom the Widow’s tears, and the orphan’s groans
Affected as much as they do the stones
His executors laid on the Deputy’s bones ;

Littlerest, poorknave! Would Tray havein his grave;

Since Spirits, tis plain, Are sent back again,

To roam round their bodies,—the bad ones in pain,—
Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain ;
Whenever they met, alarm’d by its groans, his

Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones’s.

Nor shall he be laid By that cross Old Maid,
Miss Penelope Bird,—of whom it is said
All the dogs in the Parish were ever afraid.
He must not be placed By one so strait-laced
In her temper, her taste, And her morals, and waist.
For, tis said, when she went up to Heaven, and St Peter,
Who happened to meet her, Came forward to greet her,
She pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature,
And bade him “ Get out for a horrid Male Creature!”
So, the Saint, after looking as if he could eat her,
Not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her,
And not being willing,—or able,—to beat her,
Sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter,
With an epithet—which I decline to repeat here.
No,—if Tray were interred By Penelope Bird,
No dog would be e’er so be-“whelp” ’d and be-“ cur’r’d—
The Cynotaph 85

All the night long her cantankerous Sprite
Would be running about in the pale moonlight,
Chasing him round, and attempting to lick

The ghost of poor Tray with the ghost of a stick.

Stay !let me see!— Ay—here it shall be
At the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree,
Where Tray and I Would often lie,
And watch the bright clouds as they floated by
In the broad expanse of the clear blue sky,
When the sun was bidding the world good b’ye;
And the plaintive Nightingale, warbling nigh,
Pour’d forth her mournful melody ;
While the tender Wood-pigeon’s cooing cry
Has made me to say to myself, with a sigh,
“ How nice you would eat with a steak in a pie!”
Ay, here it shall be !_far, far from the view
Of the noisy world and its maddening crew.
Simple and few, Tender and true
The lines o’er his grave.—They have, some of them, too,
The advantage of being remarkably new.

Epitaph.

Affliction sore Long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain !—

Grown blind, alas! he’d Some Prussic Acid,
And that put him out of his pain !

NOTE, PAGE 83.

In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain
eautiful lines on the burial of that gallant officer might have been the
production of Lord Byron’s Muse, the late Mr Sydney Taylor, some-
what indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late Rev.
Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up
in the person of a soz-disant “Doctor Marshall,” who turned out to
be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then
86 The Cynotaph

that a certain “ Doctor Peppercorn ” put forth As pretensions, to what .
he averred was the only “true and original” version, viz. :—

Not a sous had he got,—not-a guinea or note,
And he look’d confoundedly flurried,

As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning ;

We twige’d the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him ;

And he look’d like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his AZarshall cloak around him.

“The Doctor’s as drunk as the d——,” we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow ;

We raised him, and sigh’d at the thought that his head
Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red

Herrings, with soda-water.—

Loudly they talk’d of his money that’s gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him ;

But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on
’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him,

We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,

We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman “ One o’clock !” bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down
From his room in the uppermost story ;

A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory! !

Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.— VIRGIL.
I wrote the lines—-* * owned them—he told stories !
THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
Mrs Botherby’s Story 87

Mrs Botherby’s Story



The Leech of Folkestone

READER, were you ever be-
witched ?—I do not mean bya
“white wench’s black eye,” or
by love potions imbibed from
a ruby lip ;—but, were you ever
really and dond fide bewitched,
in the true Matthew Hopkins sense
of the word? Did you ever, for instance,

find yourself from head to heel one vast complication
of cramps ?—or burst out into sudorific exudation like
a cold thaw, with the thermometer at zero ?—Were your
eyes ever turned upside down, exhibiting nothing but
their whites?—Did you ever vomit a paper of crooked
pins? or expectorate Whitechapel needles ?—These are
genuine and undoubted marks of possession; and if you
never experienced any of them,—why, “happy man be his
dole!”

Yet such things have been: yea, we are assured, and
that on no mean authority, still are.

The World, according to the best geographers, is divided
into Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Romney Marsh.
In this last-named, and fifth quarter of the globe, a Witch
may still be occasionally discovered in favourable, 2.2,
stormy, seasons, weathering Dungeness Point in an egg-
shell, or careering on her broomstick over Dymchurch wall.
A cow may yet be sometimes seen galloping like mad,
with tail erect, and an old pair of breeches on her horns, an
unerring guide to the door of the crone whose magic arts
have drained her udder.—I do not, however, remember to
have heard that any Conjuror has of late been detected in
the district.
88 Mrs Botherby’s Story

Not many miles removed from the verge of this re-
condite region, stands a collection of houses, which its
maligners call a fishing-town, and its well-wishers a
Watering-place. A limb of one of the Cinque Ports,
it has (or lately had) a corporation of its own, and has
been thought considerable enough to give a second title
to a noble family. Rome stood on seven hills; Folke-
stone seems to have been built upon seventy. Its streets,
lanes, and alleys, — fanciful distinctions without much
real difference,—are agreeable enough to persons who
do not mind running up and down stairs; and the only
inconvenience, at all felt by such of its inhabitants’ as
are not asthmatic, is when some heedless urchin tumbles
down a chimney, or an impertinent pedestrian peeps into
a garret window.

At the eastern extremity of the town, on the sea-beach,
and scarcely above high-water mark, stood in the good old
times, a row of houses then denominated “ Frog-hole.”
Modern refinement subsequently euphonized the name
into “ East-street ;” but “what’s in a name ?”—the encroach-
ments of Ocean have long since levelled all in one common
ruin.

Here, in the early part of the seventeenth century,
flourished in somewhat doubtful reputation, but com-
parative opulence, a compounder of medicines, one Master
Erasmus Buckthorne; the effluvia of whose drugs from
within mingling agreeably with the “ancient and fish-
like smells” from without, wafted a delicious perfume
throughout the neighbourhood.

At seven of the clock, on the morning when Mrs
Botherby’s narrative commences, a stout Suffolk “punch,”
about thirteen hands and a half in height, was slowly
led up and down before the door of the pharmaco-
polist by a lean and withered lad, whose appearance
warranted an opinion, pretty generally expressed, that
his master found him as useful in experimentalizing
as in household drudgery; and that, for every pound
avoirdupois of solid meat, he swallowed, at least, two
pounds troy-weight of chemicals and galenicals. As
The Leech of Folkestone 89

the town clock struck the quarter, Master Buckthorne
‘emerged from his laboratory, and, putting the key
carefully into his pocket, mounted the surefooted cob
aforesaid, and proceeded up and down the acclivities and
declivities of the town with the gravity due to his station
and profession. When he reached the open country, his
pace was increased to a sedate canter, which, in somewhat
more than half an hour, brought “the horse and _ his
rider” in front of a handsome and substantial mansion,
the numerous gable-ends and bayed windows of which
bespoke the owner a man of worship, and one well to do
in the world. .

“How now, Hodge Gardener? ” quoth the Leech,
scarcely drawing bit; for Punch seemed to be aware
that he had reached his destination, and paused of
his own accord; “How now, man? How fares thine
employer, worthy Master Marsh? How hath he done?
How hath he slept?—My potion hath done its office?
Ha!”

“Alack! ill at ease, worthy sir—ill at ease,” returned the
hind; “his honour is up and stirring; but he hath rested
none, and complaineth that the same gnawing pain
devoureth, as it were, his very vitals: in sooth he is ill at
ease.”

“Morrow, doctor!” interrupted a voice from a casement
opening on the lawn. “Good morrow! I have looked
for, longed for, thy coming this hour and more; enter at
once; the pasty and tankard are impatient for thine
attack !”

“Marry, Heaven forbid that I should baulk their fancy!”
quoth the Leech sotto voce, as, abandoning the bridle to
honest Hodge, he dismounted, and followed a buxom-looking
handmaiden into the breakfast parlour.

_ There, at the head of his well-furnished board, sat Master
Thomas Marsh, of Marston-hall, a yeoman well respected
in his degree: one of that sturdy and sterling class which,
taking rank immediately below the Esquire (a title in its
origin purely military,) occupied, in the wealthier counties,
the position in society now filled by the Country Gentleman.
go Mrs Botherby’s Story

He was one of those of whom the proverb ran:

“A Knight of Cales,
A Gentleman of Wales,
And a Laird of the North Countree ;
A Yeoman of Kent,
With his yearly rent,
Will buy them out all three !”

A cold sirloin, big enough to frighten a Frenchman,
filled the place of honour, counter-checked by a game-
pie of no stinted dimensions; while a silver flagon of
“ humming-bub,”—viz. ale strong enough to blow a man’s
beaver off,—smiled opposite in treacherous amenity. The
sideboard groaned beneath sundry massive cups and
waiters of the purest silver; while the huge skull of a
fallow deer, with its branching horns, frowned majestically
above. All spoke of affluence, of comfort,—all save the
master, whose restless eye and feverish look hinted but too
plainly the severest mental or bodily disorder. By the side
of the proprietor of the mansion sat his consort, a lady now
past the bloom of youth, yet still retaining many of its
charms. The clear olive of her complexion, and “the
darkness of her Andalusian eye,” at once betrayed her
foreign origin; in fact, her “lord and master,” as husbands
were even then, by a legal fiction, denominated, had taken
her to his bosom in a foreign country. The cadet of his
family, Master Thomas Marsh, had early in life been
engaged in commerce. In the pursuit of his vocation he
had visited Antwerp, Hamburg, and most of the Hanse
Towns; and had already formed a tender connection with
the orphan offspring of one of old Alva’s officers, when the
unexpected deaths of one immediate, and two presumptive,
heirs placed him next in succession to the family acres.
He married, and brought home his bride: who, by the
decease of the venerable possessor, heart-broken at the loss
of his elder children, became eventually lady of Marston-
Hall. It has been said that she was beautiful, yet was her
beauty of a character that operates on the fancy more than
the affections; she was one to be admired rather than
loved. The proud curl of her lip, the firmness of her
The Leech of Folkestone gI

tread, her arched brow and stately carriage, showed the
decision, not to say haughtiness, of her soul; while her
glances, whether lightening with anger, or melting in
extreme softness, betrayed the existence of passions as
intense in kind as opposite in quality. She rose as
Erasmus entered the parlour, and, bestowing on him a
look fraught with meaning, quitted the room, leaving him
in unrestrained communication with his patient.

“’Fore George, Master Buckthorne!” exclaimed the
latter, as the Leech drew near, “I will no more of your
pharmacy ;—burn, burn,—gnaw, gnaw,—I had as lief the
foul fiend were in my gizzard as one of your drugs. Tell
me in the devil’s name, what is the matter with me!”

Thus conjured, the practitioner paused, and even turned
somewhat pale. There was a perceptible faltering in his
voice, as, evading the question, he asked, “ What say your
other physicians ? ”

“Doctor Phiz says it is wind,—Doctor Fuz says it is
water,—and Doctor Buz says it is something between wind
and water.”

“They are all of them wrong,” said Erasmus Buck-
thorne. :

“Truly, I think so,” returned the patient. “They are
manifest asses; but you, good Leech, you are a horse of
another colour. The world talks loudly of your learning,
your skill, and cunning in arts the most abstruse; nay,
sooth to say, some look coldly on you therefore, and stickle
not to aver.that you are cater-cousin with Beelzebub
himself.”

“It is ever the fate of science,” murmured the professor,
“to be maligned by the ignorant and superstitious. Buta
truce with such folly ; let me examine your palate.”

Master Marsh thrust out a tongue long, clear, and red as
beetroot. “There is nothing wrong there,” said the Leech.
“Your wrist :—no ;—the pulse is firm and regular, the skin
cool and temperate. Sir, there is nothing the matter with
you!”

“Nothing the matter with me, Sir ’Potecary >—But I
tell you there is the matter with me,—much the matter
g2 Mrs Botherby’s Story

with me. Why is it that something seems ever gnawing
at my heart-strings?—Whence this pain in the region of
the liver ?—Why is it that I sleep not o’ nights,—rest not
o’ days? Why?”

“You are fidgety, Master Marsh,” said the doctor.

Master Marsh’s brow grew dark; he half rose from his
seat, supported himself by both hands on the arms of his
elbow-chair, and in accents of mingled anger and astonish-
ment repeated the word “ Fidgety !”

“ Ay, fidgety,” returned the doctor calmly. “Tut, man,
there is nought ails thee save thine own overweening
fancies. Take less of food, more air, put aside thy flagon,
call for thy horse ; be boot and saddle the word ! Why,—
hast thou not youth ?”—

“T have,” said the patient.

“Wealth and a fair domain ?”

“Granted,” quoth Marsh cheerily.

“ And a fair wife?”

“Yea,” was the response, but in a tone something less
satisfied.

“Then arouse thee, man, shake off this fantasy, be-
take thyself to thy lawful occasions,—use thy good hap,—
follow thy pleasures, and think no more of these fancied
ailments.”

“But I tell you, master mine, these ailments are not
fancied. I lose my rest, I loathe my food, my doubtlet
sits loosely on me,—these racking pains. My wife, too,—
when I meet her gaze, the cold sweat stands on my fore-
head, and I could almost think—” March paused abruptly,
mused awhile, then added, looking steadily at his visitor,
“These things are not right; they pass the common,
Master Erasmus Buckthorne.”

A slight shade crossed the brow of the Leech, but its
passage was momentary ; his features softened to a smile,
in which pity seemed slightly blended with contempt.
“Have done with such follies, Master March. You are
well, an you would but think so. Ride, I say, hunt, shoot,
do anything,—disperse these melancholic humours, and
become yourself again.”
The Leech of Folkestone 93

“Well, I will do your bidding,” said Marsh thoughtfully.
“Tt may be so; and yet,—but I will do your bidding.
Master Cobbe of Brenzet writes me that he hath a score or
two of fat ewes to be sold a pennyworth; I had thought to
have sent Ralph Looker, but I will essay to go myself.
Ho, there !—saddle me the brown mare, and bid Ralph be
ready to attend me on the gelding.”

An expression of pain contracted the features of Master
Marsh as he rose and slowly quitted the apartment to
prepare for his journey; while the Leech, having bidden
him farewell, vanished through an opposite door, and
betook himself to the private boudoir of the fair Mrs
Marston, muttering as he went a quotation from a then
newly published play,

“ Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou own’dst yesterday.”

Of what passed at this interview between the Folkestone
doctor and the fair Spaniard, Mrs Botherby declares she
could never obtain any satisfactory elucidation. Not that
tradition is silent on the subject,—quite the contrary ; it is
the abundance, not paucity, of the materials she supplies,
and the consequent embarrassment of selection, that makes
the difficulty. Some have averred that the Leech, whose
character, as has been before hinted, was more than thread-
bare, employed his time in teaching her the mode of ad-
ministering certain noxious compounds, the unconscious
partaker whereof would pine and die so slowly and
gradually as to defy suspicion. Others there were who
affirmed that Lucifer himself was then and there raised zz
proprid persond, with all his terrible attributes of horn
and hoof. In support of this assertion, they adduce the
testimony of the aforesaid buxom housemaid, who pro-
tested that the hall smelt that evening like a manufactory
of matches. All, however, seemed to agree that the con-
fabulation, whether human or infernal, was conducted with

s
94 Mrs Botherby’s Story

profound secrecy, and protracted to a considerable length ;
that its object, as far as could be divined, meant anything
but good to the head of the family: that the lady, more-
over, was heartily tired of her husband ; and that, in the
event of his removal by disease or casualty, Master
Erasmus Buckthorne, albeit a great philosophist, would
have no violent objection to “throw physic to the dogs,”
and exchange his laboratory for the estate of Marston, its
live stock included. Some, too, have inferred that to him
did Madame Isabel seriously incline ; while others have
thought, induced perhaps by subsequent events, that she
was merely using him for her purposes ; that one José, a
tall, bright-eyed, hook-nosed stripling from her native land,
was a personage not unlikely to put a spoke in the doctor's
wheel ; and that, should such a chance arise, the Sage, wise
as he was, would, after all, run no slight risk of being
“ bamboozled.”

Master José was a youth well-favoured, and comely to
look upon. His office was that of page to the dame; an
office which, after long remaining in abeyance, has been of
late years revived, as may well be seen in the persons of
sundry smart hobbledehoys, now constantly to be met with
on staircases and in boudoirs, clad, for the most part, in
garments fitted tightly to the shape, the lower moiety
adorned with a broad strip of crimson or silver lace, and
the upper with what the first Wit of our times has described
as “a favourable eruption of buttons.” The precise duties of
this employment have never, as far as we have heard, been
accurately defined. The perfuming a handkerchief, the
combing a lap-dog, and the occasional presentation of a
sippet-shaped dzl/et doux, are, and always have been, among
them ; but these a young gentleman standing five foot ten,
and aged nineteen “last grass,” might well be supposed to
have outgrown. Jos¢, however, kept his place, perhaps
because he was not fit for any other. To the conference
between his mistress and the physician he had not been
admitted; his post was to keep watch and ward in the
ante-room; and, when the interview was concluded, he
attended the lady and her visitor as far as the court-yard,
The Leech of Folkestone 95

where he held, with all due respect, the stirrup for the
latter, as he once more resumed his position on the back
of Punch.

Who is it that says “little pitchers have large ears?”
Some deep metaphysician of the potteries, who might have
added that they have also quick eyes, and sometimes silent
tongues. There was a little metaphorical piece of crockery
of this class, who, screened by a huge elbow-chair, had sat
a quiet and unobserved spectator of the whole proceedings
between her mamma and Master Erasmus Buckthorne.
This was Miss Marian Marsh, a rosy-cheeked laughter-
loving imp of some six years old; but one who could be
mute as a mouse when the fit was on her. A handsome
and highly. polished cabinet of the darkest ebony occupied
a recess at one end of the apartment; this had long been a
great subject of speculation to little Miss. Her curiosity,
however, had always been repelled; nor had all her coax-
ing ever won her an inspection of the thousand and one
pretty things which its recesses no doubt contained. On
this occasion it was unlocked, and Marian was about to
rush forward in eager anticipation of a peep at its interior,
when, child as she was, the reflection struck her that she
would stand a better chance of carrying her point by
remaining perdue. Fortune for once favoured her: she
crouched closer than before, and saw her mother take
something from one of the drawers, which she handed over
to the Leech. Strange mutterings followed, and words
whose sound was foreign to her youthful ears. Had she
been older, their import, perhaps, might have been equally
unknown.—After a while there was a pause; and then the
lady, as in answer to a requisition from the gentleman,
placed in his hand a something which she took from her
toilet. The transaction, whatever its nature, seemed now
to be complete, and the article was carefully replaced in
the drawer from which it had been taken. A long, and
apparently interesting, conversation then took place
between the parties, carried on in a low tone. At its
termination, Mistress Marsh and Master Erasmus Buck-
thorne quitted the boudoir together. But the cabinet !—
96 Mrs Botherby’s Story

ay, that was left unfastened; the folding-doors still
remained invitingly expanded, the bunch of keys dangling
from the lock. In an instant the spoiled child was ina
chair; the drawer, so recently closed, yielded at once to
her hand, and her hurried researches were rewarded by
the prettiest little waxen doll imaginable. It was a first-
rate prize, and Miss lost no time in appropriating it to
herself. Long before Madame Marsh had returned to her
Sanctum, Marian was seated under a laurestinus in the
garden, nursing her new baby with the most affectionate
solicitude.

“Susan, look here ; see what a nasty scratch I have got
upon my hand,” said the young lady, when routed out at
length from her hiding-place to her noontide meal.

“Yes, Miss, this is always the way with you! mend,
mend, mend,—nothing but mend! Scrambling about
among the bushes, and tearing your clothes to rags.
What with you, and with madam’s farthingales and kirtles,
a poor bower-maiden has a fine time of it!”

“But I have not torn my clothes, Susan, and it was not
the bushes ; it was the doll: only see what a great ugly pin
I have pulled out of it! and look, here is another!” As
she spoke, Marian drew forth one of those extended pieces
of black pointed wire, with which, in the days of toupees
and pompoons, our foremothers were wont to secure their
fly-caps and head-gear from the impertinent assaults of
“Zephyrus and the Little Breezes.”

“And pray, Miss, where did you get this pretty doll as
you call it?” asked Susan, turning over the puppet, and
viewing it with a scrutinising eye.

“Mamma gave it me,” said the child.—This was a fib!

“Indeed!” quoth the girl thoughtfully ; and then, in half
soliloquy, and a lower key, “Well! I wish I may die if it
doesn’t look like master !—But come to your dinner, Miss!
Hark! the dell zs striking One!”

Meanwhile Master Thomas Marsh, and his man Ralph,
were threading the devious paths, then, as now, most
pseudonymously dignified with the name of roads, that
The Leech of Folkestone 97

wound between Marston-Hall and the frontier of Romney

‘Marsh. Their progress was comparatively slow; for
though the brown mare was as good a roadster as man
might back, and the gelding no mean nag of his hands, yet
the tracts, rarely traversed save by the rude wains of the
day, miry in the “bottoms,” and covered with loose and
rolling stones on the higher grounds, rendered barely
passable the perpetual alternation of hill and valley.

The master rode on in pain, and the man in listless-
ness; although the intercourse between two individuals so
situated was much less restrained in those days than might
suit the refinement of a later age, little passed approximat-
ing to conversation beyond an occasional and half-stifled
groan from the one, or a vacant whistle from the other. An
hour’s riding had brought them among the woods of Acryse ;
and they were about to descend one of those green and leafy
lanes, rendered by matted and over-arching branches alike
impervious to shower or sunbeam, when a sudden and violent
spasm seized on Master Marsh, and nearly caused him to
fall from his horse. With some difficulty he succeeded in
dismounting, and seating himself by the road side. Here
he remained for a full half-hour in great apparent agony ;
the cold sweat rolled in large round drops adown his clammy
forehead, a universal shivering palsied every limb, his eye-
balls appeared to be starting from their sockets, and to his
attached, though dull and heavy serving-man, he seemed as
one struggling in the pangs of impending dissolution. His
groans rose thick and frequent ; and the alarmed Ralph was
hesitating between his disinclination to leave him, and his
desire to procure such assistance as one of the few cottages,
rarely sprinkled in that wild country, might afford, when,
after a long-drawn sigh, his master’s features as suddenly
relaxed ; he declared himself better, the pang had passed
away, and, to use his own expression, he “felt as if a knife
had been drawn from out his very heart.” With Ralph’s
assistance, after a while, he again reached his saddle; and
though still ill at ease, from a deep-seated and gnawing pain,
which ceased not, as he averred, to torment him, the violence
of the paroxysm was spent, and it returned no more,

G
98 Mrs Botherby’s Story

Master and man pursued their way with increased speed,
as, emerging from the wooded defiles, they at length neared
the coast ; then, leaving the romantic castle of Saltwood,
with its neighbouring town of Hithe, a little on their left,
they proceeded along the ancient paved causeway, and,
crossing the old Roman road, or Watling, plunged again
into the woods that stretched between Lympne and
Ostenhanger. |

The sun rose high in the heavens, and its meridian blaze
was powerfully felt by man and horse, when, again quitting
their leafy covert, the travellers debouched on the open
plain of Aldington Frith, a wide tract of unenclosed country
stretching down to the very borders of “the Marsh” itself.

Here it was, in the neighbouring chapelry, the site of
which may yet be traced by the curious antiquary, that
Elizabeth Barton, the “Holy Maid of Kent,” had, some-
thing less than a hundred years previous to the period of
our narrative, commenced that series of supernatural
pranks which eventually procured for her head an unenvied
elevation upon London Bridge; and though the parish had
since enjoyed the benefit of the incumbency of Master
Erasmus’s illustrious and enlightened Namesake, still, truth
to tell, some of the old leaven was even yet supposed to be
at work. The place had, in fact, an ill name; and, though
Popish miracles had ceased to electrify its denizens, spells
and charms, operating by a no less wondrous agency, were
said to have taken their place. Warlocks, and other unholy
subjects of Satan, were reported to make its wild recesses
their favourite rendezvous, and that to an extent which
eventually attracted the notice of no less a personage than
the sagacious Matthew Hopkins himself, Witchfinder-
General to the British government.

A great portion of the Frith, or Fright, as the name was
then, and is still pronounced, had formerly been a Chase,
with rights of Freewarren, etc., appertaining to the Arch-
bishops of the province. Since the Reformation, however,
it had been disparked; and when Master Thomas Marsh,
and his man Ralph, entered upon its confines, the open
ereensward exhibited a lively scene, sufficiently explanatory
The Leech of Folkestone 99

of certain sounds that had already reached their ears while
yet within the sylvan screen which concealed their origin.

It was Fair-day: booths, stalls, and all the rude parapher-
nalta of an assembly that then met as much for the purposes
of traffic as festivity, were scattered irregularly over the
turf ; pedlars, with their packs, horse-coupers, pig-merchants,
itinerant vendors of crockery and cutlery, wandered pro-
miscuously among the mingled groups, exposing their
several wares and commodities, and soliciting custom. On
one side was the gaudy riband, making its mute appeal to
rustic gallantry ; on the other, the delicious brandy-ball and
alluring lollipop, compounded after the most approved
receipt in the “ True Gentlewoman’s Garland,” and “ raising
the waters” in the mouth of many an expectant urchin.

Nor were rural sports wanting to those whom pleasure,
rather than business, had drawn from their humble homes.
Here was the tall and slippery pole, glittering in its grease,
and crowned with the ample cheese, that mocked the hopes
of the discomfited climber. There the fugitive pippin,
swimming in water not of the purest, and bobbing from the
expanded lips of the juvenile Tantalus. In this quarter the
ear was pierced by squeaks from some beleaguered porker,
whisking his well-soaped tail from the grasp of one already
in fancy hiscaptor. In that, the eye rested, with undisguised
delight, upon the grimaces of grinning candidates for the
honours of the horse-collar. All was fun, frolic, courtship,
junketing, and jollity.

Maid Marian, indeed, with her lieges, Robin Hood,
Scarlet, and little John, was wanting; Friar Tuck was
absent ; even the Hobby-horse had disappeared: but the
agile Maurice-dancers yet were there, and jingled their
bells merrily among stalls well stored with gingerbread,
tops, whips, whistles, and all those noisy instruments of
domestic torture in which scenes like these are even now
so fertile—Had I a foe whom I held at deadliest feud, I
would entice his favourite child to a Fair, and buy him a
Whistle and a Penny-trumpet.

In one corner of the green, a little apart from the thickest
of the throng, stood a small square stage, nearly level with
100 Mrs Botherby’s Story

the chins of the spectators, whose repeated bursts of laughter
seemed to intimate the presence of something more than
usually amusing. The platform was divided into two un-
equal portions; the smaller of which, surrounded by curtains
of a coarse canvass, veiled from the eyes of the profane the
penetralia of this moveable temple of Esculapius, for such
it was. Within its interior, and secure from vulgar curiosity,
the Quack-salver had hitherto kept himself ensconced ;
occupied, no doubt, in the preparation and arrangement of
that wonderful panacea which was hereafter to shed the
blessings of health among the admiring crowd. Meanwhile
his attendant Jack-pudding was busily employed on the
proscenium, doing his best to attract attention by a practical
facetiousness which took wonderfully with the spectators,
interspersing it with the melodious notes of a huge cow’s
horn. The fellow’s costume varied but little in character
from that in which the late (alas! that we should have to
write the word—late! ) Mr Joseph Grimaldi was accustomed
to present himself before “a generous and enlightened
public :” the principal difference consisted in this, that the
upper garment was a long white tunic of a coarse linen,
surmounted by a caricature of the ruff then fast falling
into disuse, and was secured from the throat downwards
by a single row of broad white metal buttons; and his legs
were cased in loose wide trousers of the same material ;
while his sleeves, prolonged to a most disproportionate
extent, descended far below the fingers, and acted as
flappers in the somersets and caracoles, with which he
diversified and enlivened his antics. Consummate impu-
dence, not altogether unmixed with a certain sly humour,
sparkled in his eye through the chalk and ochre with
which his features were plentifully bedaubed ; and especi-
ally displayed itself in a succession of jokes, the coarseness
of which did not seem to detract from their merit in the
eyes of his applauding audience.

He was in the midst of a long and animated harangue
explanatory of his master’s high pretensions ; he had in-
formed his gaping auditors that the latter was the seventh
son of a seventh son, and of course, as they very well knew,
The Leech of Folkestone IOI

an Unborn Doctor; that to this happy accident of birth
he added the advantage of most extensive travel; that in
his search after science he had not only perambulated the
whole of this world, but had trespassed on the boundaries
of the next: that the depths of the Ocean and the bowels of
the Earth were alike familiar to him; that besides salves and
cataplasms of sovereign virtue, by combining sundry mosses,
gathered many thousand fathoms below the surface of the
sea, with certain unknown drugs found in an undiscovered
island, and boiling the whole in the lava of Vesuvius, he
had succeeded in producing his celebrated balsam of
Crackapanoko, the never-failing remedy for all human
disorders, and which, a proper trial allowed, would go
near to reanimate the dead. “Draw near!” continued the
worthy, “draw near, my masters! and you, my good
mistresses, draw near, every one of you. Fear not high
and haughty carriage: though greater than King or Kaiser,
yet is the mighty Aldrovando milder than mother’s milk ;
flint to the proud, to the humble he is as melting wax;
he asks not your disorders, he sees them himself at a
glance—nay, without a glance; he tells your ailments with
his eyes shut!—Draw near! draw near! the more incurable
the better! List to the illustrious Doctor Aldrovando,
first physician to Prester John, Leech to the Grand Llama,
and Hakim in Ordinary to Mustapha Muley Bey!”

“Fath your master ever a charm for the toothache, an’t
please you?” asked an elderly countryman, whose swollen
cheek bespoke his interest in the question.

“ A charm !—a thousand, and every one of them infallible.
Toothache, quotha! I had hoped you had come with every
bone in your body fractured or out of joint. A toothache!
propound a tester, master o’ mine—we ask not more for
such trifles: do my bidding, and thy jaws, even with the
word, shall cease to trouble thee !.”

The clown, fumbling a while in a deep leathern purse, at
length produced a sixpence, which he tendered to the jester.
“ Now to thy master, and bring me the charm forthwith.”

“Nay, honest man; to disturb the mighty Aldrovando
on such slight occasion were pity of my life: areed my
102 Mrs Botherby’s Story

counsel aright, and I will warrant thee for the nonce. Hie
thee home, friend ; infuse this powder in cold spring-water,
fill thy mouth with the mixture, and sit upon thy fire till
it boils!”

“Out on thee for a pestilent knave!” cried the cozened
countryman; but the roar of merriment around bespoke
the bystanders well-pleased with the jape put upon him.
He retired, venting his spleen in audible murmurs; and
the mountebank, finding the feelings of the mob enlisted
on his side, waxed more impudent every instant, filling up
the intervals between his fooleries with sundry capers and
contortions, and discordant notes from the cow’s horn.

“Draw near, draw near, my masters! Here have ye a
remedy for every evilunder the sun, moral, physical, natural,
and supernatural! Hath any man a termagant wife ?—
here is that will tame her presently! Hath any one a
smoky chimney ?—here is an incontinent cure!”

To the first infliction no man ventured to plead guilty,
though there were those standing by who thought their
neighbours might have profited withal. For the last-named
recipe started forth at least a dozen candidates. With the
greatest gravity imaginable, Pierrot, having pocketed their
groats, delivered to “each a small packet “curiously folded
and closely sealed, containing, as he averred, directions
which, if truly observed, would preclude any chimney from
smoking for a whole year. They whose curiosity led them
to dive into the mystery, found that a sprig of mountain
ash culled by moonlight was the charm recommended,
coupled, however, with the proviso that no fire should be
lighted on the hearth during its exercise.

The frequent bursts of merriment proceeding from this
quarter at length attracted the attention of Master Marsh,
whose line of road necessarily brought him near this end of
the fair; he drew bit in front of the stage just as its noisy
occupant, having laid aside his formidable horn, was
drawing still more largely on the amazement of “the
public” by a feat of especial wonder,—he was eating fire!
Curiosity mingled with astonishment was at its height ; and
feelings not unallied to alarm were beginning to manifest
The Leech of Folkestone 103

themselves, among the softer sex especially, as they gazed
on the flames that issued from the mouth of the living
volcano. All eyes, indeed, were fixed upon the fire-eater
with an intentness that left no room for observing another
worthy who had now emerged upon the scene. This was,
however, no less a personage than the Deus ex machind,—
the illustrious Aldrovando himself.

Short in stature and spare in form, the sage had some-—
what increased the former by a steeple-crowned hat adorned
with a cock’s feather; while the thick shoulder-padding of
a quilted doublet, surmounted by a falling band, added a
little to his personal importance in point of breadth. His
habit was composed throughout of black serge, relieved
with scarlet slashes in the sleeves and trunks ; red was the
feather in his hat, red were the roses in his shoes, which
rejoiced moreover in a pair of red heels. The lining of a
short cloak of faded velvet, that hung transversely over his
left shoulder, was also red. Indeed, from all that we could
ever see or hear, this agreeable alternation of red and black
appears to be the mixture of colours most approved at the
court of Beelzebub, and the one most generally adopted by
his friends and favourites. His features were sharp and
shrewd, and a fire sparkled in his keen grey eye, much at
variance with the wrinkles that ran their irregular furrows
above his prominent and bushy brows. He had advanced
slowly from behind the screen while the attention of the
multitude was absorbed by the pyrotechnics of Mr Merry-
man, and, stationing himself at the extreme corner of the
stage, stood quietly leaning on a crutch-handle walking-
staff of blackest ebony, his glance steadily fixed on the
face of Marsh, from whose countenance the amusement he
had insensibly begun to derive had not succeeded in re-
moving all traces of bodily pain.

For a while the latter was unobservant of the inquisitorial
survey with which he was regarded ; the eyes of the parties,
however, at length met. The brown mare had a fine
shoulder; she stood pretty nearly sixteen hands. Marsh
himself, though slightly bowed by ill health, and the
“coming autumn ” of life, was full six feet in height. His
104 Mrs Botherby’s Story

elevation giving him an unobstructed view over the heads
of the pedestrians, he had naturally fallen into the rear of
the assembly, which brought him close to the diminutive
Doctor, with whose face, despite the red heels, his own was
about upon a level.

“ And what makes Master Marsh here ?—what sees he in
the mummeries of a miserable buffoon to divert him when
his life is in jeopardy?” said a shrill cracked voice that
sounded as in his very ear. It was the Doctor who spoke.

“Knowest thou me, friend?” said Marsh, scanning with
awakened interest the figure of his questioner: “I call thee
not to mind; and yet—stay, where have we met?”

“Tt skills not to declare,” was the answer; “suffice it we
have met,—in other climes perchance,—and now meet
happily again—happily at least for thee.”

“ Why truly the trick of thy countenance reminds me of
somewhat I have seen before ; where or when I know not:
but what wouldst thou with me?”

“Nay, rather what wouldst thou here, Thomas Marsh ?
What wouldst thou on the Frith of Aldington ?—is it a score
or two of paltry sheep? or is it something xearer to thy
heart ?”

Marsh started as the last words were pronounced with
more than common significance: a pang shot through him
at the moment, and the vinegar aspect of the charlatan
seemed to relax into a smile half compassionate, half
sardonic.

“Grammercy,” quoth Marsh, after a long-drawn breath,
“what knowest thou of me, fellow, or of my concerns?
What knowest thou—”

“This know I, Master Thomas Marsh,” said the stranger
gravely, “that thy life is even now perilled, evil practices
are against thee ; but no matter, thou art quit for the nonce
—other hands than mine have saved thee! Thy pains are
over. Hark! the clock strikes One!” As he spoke a single
toll from the bell-tower of Bilsington came, wafted by the
western breeze, over the thick-set and lofty oaks which
intervened between the Frith and what had been once a
priory. Doctor Aldrovando turned as the sound came
The Leech of Folkestone Los

floating on the wind, and was moving, as if half in anger,
towards the other side of the stage, where the mountebank,
his fires extinct, was now disgorging to the admiring crowd
yard after yard of gaudy-coloured riband.

“Stay! Nay, prithee stay!” cried Marsh eagerly, “I
was wrong; in faith I was. A change, and that a sudden
and most marvellous, hath indeed come over me; I am
free; I breathe again; I feel as though a load of years
had been removed ; and—is it possible ?—hast thou done
this?”

“Thomas Marsh!” said the doctor, pausing, and turning
for the moment on his heel, “I have zot: I repeat that
other and more innocent hands than mine have done this
deed. Nevertheless, heed my counsel well! Thou art
parlously encompassed ; I, and I only, have the means of
relieving thee. Follow thy courses; pursue thy journey ;
but as thou valuest life and more than life, be at the foot
of yonder woody knoll what time the rising moon throws
her first beam upon the bare and blighted summit that
towers above its trees.”

_He crossed abruptly to the opposite quarter of the
scaffolding, and was in an instant deeply engaged in
listening to those whom the cow’s horn had attracted, and
in prescribing for their real or fancied ailments. Vain were
all Marsh’s efforts again to attract his notice; it was evi-
dent that he studiously avoided him ; and when, after an
hour or more spent in useless endeavour, he saw the object
of his anxiety seclude himself once more within his canvass
screen, he rode slowly and thoughtfully off the field.

What should he do? Was the man a mere quack? an
impostor ?—His name thus obtained ?—that might be easily
done. But then, his secret griefs; the doctor’s knowledge
of them; their cure; for he felt that his pains were gone,
his healthful feelings restored !

True, Aldrovando, if that were his name, had disclaimed
all co-operation in his recovery; but he knew, or he at least
announced it. Nay, more, he had hinted that he was yet in
jeopardy ; that practices—and the chord sounded strangely
in unison with one that had before vibrated within him
106 Mrs Botherby’s Story

—that practices were in operation against his life! It was
enough! He would keep tryst with the Conjuror, if con-
juror he were; and, at least, ascertain who and what he
was, and how he had become acquainted with his own
person and secret afflictions.

When the late Mr Pitt was determined to keep out
Bonaparte, and prevent his gaining a settlement in the
county of Kent, among other ingenious devices adopted for
that purpose, he caused to be constructed what was then,
and has ever since been conventionally termed a “ Military
Canal.” This is a not very practicable ditch, some thirty
feet wide, and nearly nine feet deep—in the middle,—
extending from the town and port of Hithe to within a
mile of the town and port of Rye, a distance of about
twenty miles, and forming, as it were, the cord of a bow,
the arc of which constitutes that remote fifth quarter of the
globe spoken of by travellers. Trivial objections to the
plan were made at the time by cavillers; and an old
gentleman of the neighbourhood, who proposed as a cheap
substitute, to put down his own cocked-hat upon a pole, was
deservedly pooh-pooh’d down ; in fact, the job, though
rather an expensive one, was found to answer remarkably
well. The French managed indeed to scramble over the
Rhine and the Rhone, and other insignificant currents, but
they never did, or could, pass Mr Pitt’s “ Military Canal.”
At no great distance from the centre of this cord rises
abruptly a sort of woody promontory, in shape almost
conical; its sides covered with thick underwood, above
which is seen a bare and brown summit rising like an Alp
in miniature. The “defence of the nation” not being then in
existence, Master Marsh met with no obstruction in reaching
this place of appointment long before the time prescribed.

So much, indeed, was his mind occupied by his adventure
and extraordinary cure, that his original design had been
abandoned, and Master Cobbe remained unvisited. A
rude hostel in the neighbourhood furnished entertainment
for man and horse; and here, a full hour before the rising
of the moon, he left Ralph and the other beasts, proceed-
ing to his rendezvous on foot and alone.

.
The Leech of Folkestone 107

“You are punctual, Master Marsh,” squeaked the shrill
voice of the Doctor, issuing from the thicket as the first
silvery gleam trembled on the aspens above. “’Tis well:
now follow me and in silence.”

The first part of the command Marsh hesitated not to
obey, the second was more difficult of observance.
_ “Who and what are you? Whither are you leading

me?” burst not unnaturally from his lips; but all question
was at once cut short by the peremptory tones of his
guide.

“Hush! I say; your finger on your lip, there be hawks
abroad : follow me, and that silently and quickly.” The
little man turned as he spoke, and led the way through a
scarcely perceptible path or track, which wound among
the underwood. The lapse of a few minutes brought them
to the door of a low building, so hidden by the surround-
ing trees that few would have suspected its existence.
It was a cottage of rather extraordinary dimensions, but
consisting of only one floor. No smoke rose from its
solitary chimney ; no cheering ray streamed from its single
window, which was, however, secured by a shutter of such
thickness as to preclude the possibility of any stray beam
issuing from within. The exact size of the building it
was, in that uncertain light, difficult to distinguish, a
portion of it seeming buried in the wood behind. The
door gave way on the application of a key, and Marsh
followed his conductor resolutely but cautiously along a
narrow passage, feebly lighted by a small taper that
winked and twinkled at its farther extremity. The Doctor,
as he approached, raised it from the ground, and, opening
an adjoining door, ushered his guest into the room
beyond.

It was a large and oddly furnished apartment, in-
sufficiently lighted by an iron lamp that hung from the
roof, and scarcely illuminated the walls and angles, which
seemed to be composed of some dark-coloured wood.
On one side, however, Master Marsh could discover an
article bearing strong resemblance to a coffin; on the
other was a large oval mirror in an ebony frame, and in
108 Mrs Botherby’s Story

the midst of the floor was described in red chalk a double
circle about six feet in diameter, its inner verge inscribed
with sundry hieroglyphics, agreeably relieved at intervals
with an alternation of skulls and cross bones. In the
very centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing
size and thickness as would have filled the soul of a
Spurzheim or De Ville with wonderment. A large book,
a naked sword, an hour glass, a chafing dish, and a black
cat, completed the list of moveables; with the exception
of a couple of tapers which stood on each side of the
mirror, and which the strange gentleman now proceeded
to light from the one in his hand. As they flared up with
what Marsh thought a most unnatural brilliancy, he
perceived reflected in the glass behind a dial suspended
over the coffin-like article already mentioned: the hand
was fast verging towards the hour of nine. The eyes of
the little Doctor seemed riveted on the horologe.

“Now strip thee, Master Marsh, and that quickly:
untruss, I say! discard thy boots, doff doublet and hose,
and place thyself incontinent in yonder bath.”

The visitor cast his eyes again upon the formidable-
looking article, and perceived that it was nearly filled
with water. A cold bath, at such an hour and under such
auspices, was anything but inviting : he hesitated, and turned
his eyes alternately on the Doctor and the Black Cat.

“Trifle not the time, man, an you be wise,” said the
former: “Passion of my heart! let but yon minute-hand
reach the hour, and thou not immersed, thy life were not
worth a pin’s fee!”

The Black Cat gave vent to a single Mew,—a most
unnatural sound for a mouser,—it seemed as it were
mewed through a cow’s horn.

“Quick, Master Marsh! uncase, or you perish!”
repeated his strange host, throwing as he spoke a handful
of some dingy-looking powders into the brazier. “ Behold
the attack has begun!” A thick cloud rose from the
embers ; a cold shivering shook the astonished Yeoman ;
sharp pricking pains penetrated his ankles and the palms
of his hands, and, as the smoke cleared away, he distinctly
The Leech of Folkestone 109g

saw and recognised in the mirror the boudoir of Marston
Hall.

The doors of the well-known ebony cabinet were closed ;
but fixed against them, and standing out in strong relief
from the contrast afforded by the sable background, was
a waxen image—of himselfi It appeared
to be secured, and sustained in an
upright posture, by
large black pins
driven through
the feet and
palms,the
latter of
which
were extended in a cruciform
position. To the right and left
stood his wife and José; in the middle,
with his back towards him, was a figure
which he had no difficulty in recognising as
that of the Leech of Folkestone. The latter had
just succeeded in fastening the dexter hand of the
image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and
keen-edged sabre from its sheath. The Black Cat mewed
again. “Haste or you die!” said the Doctor,—Marsh
looked at the dial; it wanted but four-minutes of nine:
he felt that the crisis of his fate was come. Off went his
heavy boots ; doublet to the right, galligaskins to the left ;
never was man more swiftly disrobed: in two minutes, to
use an Indian expression, “ he was all face!” in another he
was on his back, and up to his chin, in a bath which smelt
strongly as of brimstone and garlic.

“Heed well the clock!” cried the Conjuror: “with the
first stroke of Nine plunge thy head beneath the water,
suffer not a hair above the surface: plunge deeply, or thou
art lost!”

The little man had seated himself in the centre of the
circle upon the large skull, elevating his legs at an angle of
forty-five degrees, In this position he spun round with a
velocity to be equalled only by that of a tee-totum, the red











110 Mrs Botherby’s Story ’
roses on his insteps seeming to describe a circle of fire.
The best buckskins that ever mounted at Melton had soon
yielded to such rotatory friction—but he spun on—the
Cat mewed, bats and obscene birds fluttered over-head ;
Erasmus was seen to raise his weapon, the clock struck !—
and Marsh, who had “ducked” at the instant, popped up
his head again, spitting and sputtering, half-choked with
the infernal solution, which had insinuated itself into his
mouth, and ears, and nose. All disgust at his nauseous
dip, was, however, at once removed, when, casting his eyes
on the glass, he saw the consternation of the party whose
persons it exhibited. Erasmus had evidently made his
blow and failed; the figure was unmutilated; the hilt
remained in the hand of the striker, while the shivered
blade lay in shining fragments on the floor.

The Conjuror ceased his spinning, and brought himself
to an anchor; the Black Cat purred,—its purring seemed
strangely mixed with the self-satisfied chuckle of a human
being.—Where had Marsh heard something like it before ?

He was rising from his unsavoury couch, when a motion
from the little man checked him. “Rest where you are,
Thomas Marsh; so far all goes well, but the danger is
not yet over!” He looked again, and perceived that the
shadowy triumvirate were in deep and eager consultation ;
the fragments of the shattered weapon appeared to undergo
aclose scrutiny. The result was clearly unsatisfactory ; the
lips of the parties moved rapidly, and much gesticulation
might be observed, but no sound fell upon the ear. The
hand of the dial had nearly reached the quarter; at once
the parties separated: and Buckthorne stood again before
the figure, his hand armed with a long and sharp-pointed
misericorde, a dagger little in use of late, but such as, a
century before, often performed the part of a modern
oyster-knife, in tickling the osteology of a dismounted
cavalier through the shelly defences of his plate armour.
Again he raised his arm. “Duck!” roared the Doctor,
spinning away upon his cephalic pivot:—the Black Cat
cocked his tail, and seemed to mew the word “ Duck!”
Down went Master Marsh’s head ;—one of his hands had




































= = 2 = =
5 SSE Sea senyam 23

BUT HE SPUN ON—THE CAT MEWED, BATS AND OBSCENE BIRDS
FLUTTERED OVERHEAD
112 Mrs Botherby’s Story

unluckily been resting on the edge of the bath: he drew

it hastily in, but not altogether scatheless ; the stump of a
rusty nail, projecting from the margin of the bath, had
caught and slightly grazed it. The pain was more acute
than is usually produced by such trivial. accidents; and
Marsh, on once more raising his head, beheld the dagger
of the Leech sticking in the little finger of the wax figure,
which it had seemingly nailed to the cabinet door.

__ “By my truly, a scape o’ the narrowest!” quoth the
Conjuror : “the next course, dive you not the readier, there
is no more life in you than in a pickled herring —What !
courage, Master Marsh; but be heedful; an they miss
again, let them bide the issue!”

He drew his hand athwart his brow as he spoke, and
dashed off the perspiration, which the violence of his
exercise had drawn from every pore. Black Tom sprang
upon the edge of the bath, and stared full in the face of
the bather: his sea-green eyes were lambent with unholy
fire, but their marvellous obliquity of vision was not to be
mistaken ;—the very countenance, too!—Could it be ?—
the features were feline, but their expression was that of
the Jack Pudding! Was the Mountebank a Cat ?—or the
Cat a Mountebank ?—it was all a mystery ;—and Heaven
knows how long Marsh might have continued staring at
Grimalkin, had not his attention been again called by
Aldrovando to the magic mirror.

Great dissatisfaction, not to say dismay, seemed now to
pervade the conspirators; Dame Isabel was closely in-
specting the figure’s wounded hand, while José was aiding
the pharmacopolist to charge a huge petronel with powder
and bullets. The load was a heavy one; but Erasmus
seemed determined this time to make sure of his object.
Somewhat of trepidation might be observed in his manner
as he rammed down the balls, and his withered cheek
appeared to have acquired an increase of paleness; but
amazement rather than fear was the prevailing symptom,
and his countenance betrayed no jot of irresolution. As
the clock was about to chime half-past nine, he planted
himself with a firm foot in front of the image, waved his
The Leech of Folkestone 113

unoccupied hand with a cautionary gesture to his com-
panions, and, as they hastily retired on either side, brought
the muzzle of his weapon within half a foot of his mark.
As the shadowy form was about to draw the trigger, Marsh
again plunged his head beneath the surface ; and the sound
of an explosion, as of fire-arms, mingled with the rush of
water that poured into his ears. His immersion was but
momentary, yet did he feel as though half suffocated: he
sprang from the bath, and, as his eye fell on the mirror, he
saw,—or thought he saw,—the Leech of Folkestone lying
dead on the floor of his wife’s boudoir, his head shattered
to pieces, and his hand still grasping the stock of a bursten
petronel.

He saw no more; his head swam ; his senses reeled, the
whole room was turning round, and, as he fell to the
ground, the last impressions to which he was conscious
were the chucklings of a hoarse laughter, and the mewings
of a Tom Cat!

Master Marsh was found the next morning by his
bewildered serving-man, stretched before the door of the
humble hostel at which he sojourned. His clothes were
somewhat torn and much bemired! and deeply did honest
Ralph marvel that one so staid and grave as Master Marsh
of Marston should thus have played the roisterer, missing,
perchance, a profitable bargain for the drunken orgies of
midnight wassail, or the endearments of some rustic light-
@-love. Tenfold was his astonishment increased when,
after retracing in silence their journey of the preceding day,
the Hall, on their arrival about noon, was found in a state
of uttermost confusion.—No wife stood there to greet with
the smile of bland affection her returning spouse; no page
to hold his stirrup, or receive his gloves, his hat, and riding-
rod.—The doors were open, the rooms in most admired
disorder; men and maidens peeping, hurrying hither and
thither, and popping in and out, like rabbits in a warren—
The lady of the mansion was nowhere to be found.

José, too, had disappeared ; the latter had been last seen
riding furiously towards Folkestone early in the preceding
afternoon; to a question from Hodge Gardener he had

H
114 Mrs Botherby’s Story

hastily answered, that he bore a missive of moment from
his mistress. The lean apprentice of Erasmus Buckthorne
declared that the page had summoned his master, in haste,
about six of the clock, and that they had rode forth
together, as he verily believed, on their way back to the
Hall, where he had supposed Master Buckthorne’s services
to be suddenly required on some pressing emergency.
Since that time he had seen nought of either of them: the
grey cob, however, had returned late at night, masterless,
with his girths loose, and the saddle turned upside down.

Nor was Master Erasmus Buckthorne ever seen again.
Strict search was made through the neighbourhood, but
without success; and it was at length presumed that he
must, for reasons which nobody could divine, have
absconded, together with José and his faithless mistress.
The latter had carried off with her the strong box, divers
articles of valuable plate, and jewels of price. Her boudoir
appeared to have been completely ransacked ; the cabinet
and drawers stood open and empty; the very carpet, a
luxury then newly introduced into England, was gone.
Marsh, however, could trace no vestige of the visionary
scene which he affirmed to have been last night presented
to his eyes.

Much did the neighbours marvel at his story :—some
thought him mad ; others, that he was merely indulging in
that privilege to which, as a traveller, he had a right inde-
feasible. Trusty Ralph said nothing, but shrugged his
shoulders ; and, falling into the rear, imitated the action of
raising a wine-cup to his lips. An opinion, indeed, soon
prevailed, that Master Thomas Marsh had gotten, in
common parlance, exceedingly drunk on the preceding
evening, and had dreamt all that he so circumstantially
related. This belief acquired additional credit when they,
whom curiosity induced to visit the woody knoll of
Aldington Mount, declared that they could find no
building such as that described, nor any cottage near ;
save one, indeed, a low-roofed hovel, once a house of public
entertainment, but now half in ruins. The “Old Cat and
Fiddle”—so was the tenement called—had been long un-


The Leech of Folkestone Ty

inhabited ; yet still exhibited the remains of a broken sign,
on which the keen observer might decipher something like
a rude portrait of the animal from which it derived its
name. It was also supposed still to afford an occasional
asylum to the smugglers of the coast, but no trace of any
visit from sage or mountebank could be detected ; nor was
the wise Aldrovando, whom many remembered to have
seen at the fair, ever found again on all that country-side.

Of the runaways nothing was ever certainly known. A
boat, the property of an old fisherman who plied his trade
on the outskirts of the town, had been seen to quit the bay
that night ; and there were those who declared that she had
more hands on board than Carden and his son, her usual
complement; but, as the gale came on, and the frail bark
was eventually found keel upwards on the Goodwin Sands,
it was presumed that she had struck on that fatal quicksand
in the dark, and that all on board had perished.

Little Marian, whom her profligate mother had abandoned,
grew up to be a fine girl, and a handsome. She became,
moreover, heiress to Marston Hall, and brought the estate
into the Ingoldsby family by her marriage with one of its
scions.

Thus far Mrs Botherby.

It is a little singular that, on pulling down the old Hall
in my Grandfather's time, a human skeleton was discovered
among the rubbish; under what particular part of the
building I could never with any accuracy ascertain ; but it
was found enveloped in a tattered cloth that seemed to
have been once a carpet, and which fell to pieces almost
immediately on being exposed to the air. The bones were
perfect, but those of one hand were wanting ; and the skull,
perhaps from the labourer’s pick-axe, had received con-
siderable injury ; the worm-eaten stock of an old-fashioned
pistol lay near, together with a rusty piece of iron which
a workman, more sagacious than his fellows, pronounced
a portion of the lock, but nothing was found which the
utmost stretch of human ingenuity could twist into a barrel.

The portrait of the fair Marian hangs yet in the Gallery of
Tappington; and near it is another, of a young man in the
116 Mrs Botherby’s Story

prime of life, whom Mrs Botherby affirms to be that of
her father. It exhibits a mild and rather melancholy
countenance, with a high forehead, and the peaked beard
and moustaches of the seventeenth century. The signet-
finger of the left hand is gone, and appears, on close
inspection, to have been painted out by some later artist -
possibly in compliment to the tradition, which, ¢este
Botherby, records that of Mr Marsh to have gangrened, and
to have undergone amputation at the knuckle-joint. If
really the resemblance of the gentleman alluded to, it must
have been taken at some period antecedent to his marriage.
There is neither date nor painter’s name; but, a little above
the head, on the dexter side of the picture, is an escutcheon,
bearing “ Quarterly, Gules and Argent, in the first quarter a
horse’s head of the second;” beneath it are the words
. “ #tatis sue 26.” On the opposite side is the following
mark, which MrSimpkinson declares to be that of aMerchant
of the Staple, and pretends to discover, in the monogram
comprised in it, all the characters which compose the name
of THOMAS MARSH, of MARSTON.


Legend of Hamilton Tighe 117

Respect for the feelings of an honourable family,—nearly
connected with the Ingoldsbys,—has induced me to veil
the real “sponsorial and patronymic appellations” of my
next hero under a sobriquet interfering neither with rhyme
nor rhythm. I shall merely add that every incident in the
story bears, on the face of it, the stamp of veracity, and that
many “ persons of honour” in the county of Berks, who well
recollected Sir George Rooke’s expedition against Gibraltar,
would, if they were now alive, gladly bear testimony to the
truth of every syllable.

Legend of Hamilton Tighe









THE Captain is walking his quarter-deck,
With a troubled brow and a bended neck ;
One eye is down through the hatchway cast,
The other turns up to the truck on the mast ;
Yet none of the crew may venture to hint
“Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!” ’

1 Pack o’ nonsense !—Every body as belongs to him is dead and gone—and
every body knows that the poor young gentleman’s real name wasn’t Sobrigzet
at all, but Hampden Pye, Esq., and that one of his uncles—or cousins—used
to make verses about the king and the queen, and had a sack of money for
doing it every year ;—and that’s his picture in the blue coat and little gold-
laced cocked hat, that hangs on the stairs over the door of the passage that
leads to the blue room.—Sodriguet /—but there !—The Squire wrote it after
dinner ! ELIZABETH BOTHERBY.
118 Legend of Hamilton Tighe

The Captain again the letter hath read

Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead—
Still, since the good ship sail’d away,

He reads that letter three times a-day ;

Yet the writing is broad and fair to see

As a Skipper may read in his degree,

And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,

As his own cockade in his own cock’d hat:

He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,

Curse the old woman—she bothers me so!”

He pauses now, for the topmen hail—

“On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!”

That grim old Captain he turns him quick,

And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick.
“ The breeze is blowing—huzza! huzza!

The breeze is blowing—away ! away!

The breeze is blowing—a race! a race!

The breeze is blowing—we near the chase!

Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,—

Oh where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?”

— On the foeman’s deck, where a man should be,
With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.
Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,

But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!”

Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,

Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew,

And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,
Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.
Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade ;

He stands by the breech of a long carronade,
The linstock glows in his bony hand,

Waiting that grim old Skipper’s command.

“The bullets are flying—huzza! huzza!

The bullets are flying—away! away !”—

The brawny boarders mount by the chains,

And are over their buckles in blood and in brains.
Legend of Hamilton Tighe iQ

On the foeman’s deck, where a man should be,
Young Hamilton Tighe Waves his cutlass high,
And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee.

Hairy-face Dick, linstock in hand,

Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper’s command :—
A wink comes sly From that sinister eye—

Hairy-face Dick at once lets fly,

And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!

There’s a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,

Her pages and handmaidens come at her call:

“Now, haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see

How he sits there and glow’rs with his head on his knee!”
The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,

They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy ;

And the mealy-faced boy says, “ Mother dear,

Now Hamilton’s dead, I’ve a thousand a-year!”

The lady has donn’d her mantle and hood,

She is bound for shrift at St Mary’s Rood :—
“Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,
And the mass shall be said for my step-son’s soul,
And the tablet fair shall be hung on high,

Orate pro animé Hamilton Tighe?”

Her coach and four Draws up to the door,
With her groom, and her footman, and half a score more;
The lady steps into her coach alone,

And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan ;
They close the door, and they turn the pin,

But there's One vides with her that never stept in!
All the way there, and all the way back,

The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack,
The horses snort, and plunge, and kick,

Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick ;
And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say
“What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?”
120 Legend of Hamilton Tighe

But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees
A man sitting there with his head on his knees !

Tis ever the same,—in hall or in bower,

Wherever the place, whatever the hour,

That Lady mutters, and talks to the air,

And her eye is fix’d on an
empty chair ;

But the mealy-faced boy still
whispers with dread,
“She talks to a man with

never ahead!”







There’s an old Yellow Admiral
living at Bath,

As grey as a badger, as thin
as a lath;

And his very queer
eyes have such
very queer leers,

They seem to be try-
ing to peep at his
ears ;

That old Yellow Ad-
miral goes to the
Rooms,

And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes,

For all his Knaves stand upside down,

And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown ;

And the Kings, and the Aces, and all the best trumps

Get into the hands of the other old frumps ;

While, close to his partner, a man he sees

Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.

In Ratcliffe Highway there’s an old marine store,
And a great black doll hangs out of the door ;
There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,

And musty phials, and fusty rags,
The Witches’ Frolic 121

And a lusty old woman, call’d Thirsty Nan,
And her crusty old husband’s a Hairy-faced man!

That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,

And his great thick pigtail is wither’d and gone;
And he cries, “ Take away that lubberly chap

That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!”
And the neighbours say, as they see him look sick,
“What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!”

That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man

May say what they please, and may do what they can ;
But one thing seems remarkably clear,—

They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,—

But wherever they live, or whenever they die,

They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!



0



The When,—the Where,—and the How,—of the suc-
ceeding narrative speak for themselves. It may be proper,
however, to observe, that the ruins here alluded to, and
improperly termed “the Abbey,” are not those of Bolsover,
described in a preceding page, but the remains of a
Preceptory once belonging to the Knights Templars,
situate near Swynfield, Swinkefield, or, as it is now generally
spelt and pronounced, Swingfield Minnis, a rough ‘tract
of common land now undergoing the process of enclosure,
and adjoining the woods and arable lands of Tappington,
at the distance of some two miles from the Hall, to the
South-eastern windows of which the time-worn walls in
question, as seen over the intervening coppices, present a
picturesque and striking object.
122 The Witches’ Frolic

The Witches’ Frolic

[Scene, the “Snuggery” at Tappington.—Grandpapa in a high-backed
cane-bottomed elbow-chair of carved walnut tree, dozing ; his
nose at an angle of forty-five degrees,—his thumbs slowly
perform the rotatory motion described by lexicographers as
“‘twiddling."—The “ Hope of the family” astride on a walking-
stick, with burnt-cork mustachios, and a pheasant’s tail pinned
in his cap, solaceth himself with martial music.—Roused by
a strain of surpassing dissonance, Grandpapa loguztur.]

CoE hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
Come hither unto my knee—

I cannot away with that horrible din,

That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.

Oh, better to wander frank and free

Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy,

Than list to such awful minstrelsie.

Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,

And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.

[Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, pro-
ceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophiseth the Abbey in
the distance. ]

I love thy tower, Grey Ruin,
I joy thy form to see,

Though reft of all, Cell, cloister, and hall,
Nothing is left save a tottering wall
That, awfully grand and darkly dull,
Theaten’d to fall and demolish my skull,
As, ages ago, I wander’d along
Careless thy grass-grown courts among,
In sky-blue jacket, and trowsers laced,
The latter uncommonly short in the waist.

Thou art dearer to me, thou Ruin grey,
Than the Squire’s verandah over the way ;
The Witches’ Frolic 123

And fairer, I ween, The ivy sheen
That thy mouldering turret binds,
Than the Alderman’s house about half a mile off,
With the green Venetian blinds.

Full many a tale would my Grandam tell,
In many a bygone day,
Of darksome deeds, which of old befell
In thee, thou Ruin grey!
And I the readiest ear would lend,
And stare like frighten’d pig!
While my Grandfather’s hair would have stood up on
end,
Had he not worn a wig.

One tale I remember of mickle dread—
Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned!

Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned,
Though thy mother thine idlesse blames,
In Doctor Goldsmith’s history book,
Of a gentleman called King James,
In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches,
Who held in abhorrence Tobacco and Witches.

Well,—in King James’s golden days,—

For the days were golden then,—
They could not be less, for good Queen Bess

Had died, aged threescore and ten,

And her days we know, Were all of them so;
While the Court poets sung, and the Court gallants
swore

That the days were as golden still as before.

Some people, ’tis true, a troublesome few,
Who historical points would unsettle,
Have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt

Of the genuine ring of the metal ;
But who can believe to a monarch so wise
People would dare tell a parcel of lies !
124 The Witches’ Frolic

—Well, then, in good King James’s days,—

Golden or not does not matter a jot,—

Yon Ruin a sort of a roof had got;

For though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking

Since Harry the Eighth sent its people a-packing,
Though joists, and floors, And windows, and doors

Had all disappear’d, yet pillars by scores

Remain’d, and still propp’d up a ceiling or two,

While the belfry was almost as good as new;

You are not to suppose matters look’d just so

In the Ruin some two hundred years ago.

Just in that farthermost angle, where
There are still the remains of a winding-stair,
One turret especially high in air
Uprear’d its tall gaunt form ;
As if defying the power of Fate, or
The hand of “Time the Innovator ;”
And though to the pitiless storm
Its weaker brethren all around
Bowing, in ruin had strew’d the ground,
Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strew’d,
Like a four-bottle man in a company “screw’d,”
Not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued.

One night—’twas in Sixteen hundred and six,—
I like when I can, Ned, the date to fix,—
' The month was May, Though I can’t well say
At this distance of time the particular day—
But oh! that night, that horrible night !
—Folks ever afterwards said with affright
That they never had seen such a terrible sight.

The Sun had gone down fiery red ;

And if, that evening, he laid his head

In Thetis’s lap beneath the seas,

He must have scalded the goddess’s knees. .
He left behind him a lurid track

Of blood-red light upon clouds so black,
The Witches’ Frolic 125

That Warren and Hunt, with the whole of their crew,
Could scarcely have given them a darker hue.

There came a shrill and a whistling sound,
Above, beneath, beside, and around,
Yet leaf ne’er moved on tree!
So that some people thought old Beelzebub must
Have been lock’d out of doors, and was blowing the dust
From the pipe of his street-door key.
And then a hollow moaning blast
Came, sounding more dismally still than the last,
And the lightning flash’d, and the thunder growl’d,
And louder and louder the tempest howl’d,
And the rain came down in such sheets as would stagger a
Bard for a simile short of Niagara.

Rob Gilpin “ was a citizen ;”
But, though of some “ renown,”

Of no great “credit” in his own,
Or any other town.

He was a wild and roving lad,
For ever in the alehouse boozing ;

Or romping,—which is quite as bad,—
With female friends of his own choosing.

And Rob this very day had made,

Not dreaming such a storm was brewing,
An assignation with Miss Slade

Their trysting-place that same grey Ruin.

But Gertrude Slade become afraid,
And to keep her appointment unwilling,
When she spied the rain on her window-pane
In drops as big as a shilling ;
She put off her hat and her mantle again,—
“ He'll never expect me in all this rain!”
126 The Witches’ Frolic

But little he recks of the fears of the sex,
Or that maiden false to her tryst could be,
He had stood there a good half hour
Ere yet had commenced that perilous shower,
Alone by the trysting-tree !

Robin looks east, Robin looks west,

But he sees not her whom he loves the best ;
Robin looks up, and Robin looks down,

But no one comes from the neighbouring town.

The storm came at last,—loud roar’d the blast,
And the shades of evening fell thick and fast ;
The tempest grew ; and the straggling yew,

His leafy umbrella,-was wet through and through ;
Rob was half dead with cold and with fright,
When he spies in the Ruins a twinkling light—

A hop, two skips, and a jump, and straight

Rob stands within that postern gate.

And there were gossips sitting there,
By one, by two, by three:
Two were an old ill-favour’d pair ;
But the third was young, and passing fair,
With laughing eyes, and with coal-black hair ;
A daintie quean was she!
Rob would have given his ears to sip
But a single salute from her cherry lip.

As they sat in that old and haunted room,

In each one’s hand was a huge birch broom,
On each one’s head was a steeple-crown’d hat,
On each one’s knee was a coal-black cat ;
Each had a kirtle of Lincoln green—

It was, I trow, a fearsome scene.

“ Now riddle me, riddle me right, Madge Gray,
What foot unhallow‘d wends this way ?

Goody Price, Goody Price, now areed me aright,
Who roams the old Ruins this drearysome night ?”
The Witches’ Frolic ey)

Then up and spake that sonsie quean,
And she spake both loud and clear :
“Oh, be it for weal, or be it for woe,
Enter friend, or enter foe,
Rob Gilpin is welcome here !”—

‘Now tread we a measure! a hall! a hall!
Now tread we a measure,” quoth she—
The heart of Robin
Beat thick and throb-
bing—
“Roving Rob, tread a
measure with me!”
“Ay, lassie!” quoth
Rob, as her hand
he gripes,
“Though Satan himself
were blowing the

pipes!”

Now around they go,
and around, and
around,

With hop-skip -and-
jump, and frolic-
some bound,

Such sailing and glid-
ing,

Such sinking and
sliding, _

Such lofty curvetting, And grand pirouetting ;

Ned, you would swear that Monsieur Gilbert

And Miss Taglioni were capering there !



And oh! such awful music! ne’er

Fell sounds so uncanny on mortal ear,

There were the tones of a dying man’s groans
Mix’d with the rattling of dead men’s bones:
128 The Witches’ Frolic

Had you heard the shrieks, and the squeals, and the
squeaks,
You'd not have forgotten the sound for weeks.

And around, and around, and around they go,
Heel to heel, and toe to toe,

Prance and caper, curvet and wheel,

Toe to toe, and heel to heel.

‘CTis merry, ‘tis merry, Cummers, I trow,

To dance thus beneath the nightshade bough ! ”—

“Goody Price, Goody Price, now riddle me right,
Where may we sup this frolicsome night ?”

“Mine host of the Dragon hath mutton and veal!
The Squire hath partridge, and widgeon, and teal ;
But old Sir Thopas hath daintier cheer,

A pasty made of the good red deer,

A huge grouse pie, and a fine Florentine,

A fat roast goose, and a turkey and chine.”

— Madge Gray, Madge Gray,
Now tell me, I pray,
Where’s the best wassail bowl to our roundelay ?”

—‘“There is ale in the cellars of Tappington Hall,
But the Squire?! is a churl, and his drink is small ;
Mine host of the Dragon Hath many a flagon
Of double ale, lamb’s wool, and eau de vze,
But Sir Thopas, the Vicar, Hath costlier liquor,—
A butt of the choicest Malvoztsze.
He doth not lack Canary or sack ;
And a good pint stoup of Clary wine
Smacks merrily off with a Turkey and Chine!”
1 Stephen Ingoldsby, surnamed ‘*The Niggard,” second cousin and
successor to ‘‘The Bad Sir Giles.” (Visitation of Kent, 1666.) For an
account of his murder by burglars, and their subsequent execution, see

Dodsley’s ‘‘ Remarkable Trials,” &c. Lond., 1776, vol. ii. p. 264, ex
the present volume, Art. ‘‘ Hand of Glory.”
The Witches’ Frolic 129

“Now away! and away! without delay,
Hey Cockalorum! my Broomstick gay !
We must be back ere the dawn of the day:
Hey up the chimney! away! away ! ”—
Old Goody Price Mounts in a trice,
In showing her legs she is not over nice ;
_ Old Goody Jones, All skin and bones,
Follows “like winking.” Away go the crones,
Knees and nose in a line with the toes,
Sitting their brooms like so many Ducrows ;
Latest and last The damsel pass’d,
One glance of her coal-black eye she cast ;
She laugh’d with glee loud laughters three,
“Dost fear, Rob Gilpin, to ride with me?” —
Oh, never might man unscath’d espy
One single glance from that coal-black eye.
—Away she flew!— Without more ado
Rob seizes and mounts on a broomstick too,
“Hey! up the chimney, lass! Hey after you!”

It’s a very fine thing, on a fine day in June,
To ride through the air in a Nassau Balloon ;
But you'll find very soon, if you aim at the Moon
In a carriage like that, you're a bit of a “ Spoon,”
For the largest can’t fly Above twenty miles high,
And you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh ;
While no man alive Could ever contrive,
Mr Green has declared, to get higher than five.
And the soundest Philosophers hold that, perhaps,
If you reach’d twenty miles your balloon would collapse,
Or pass by such action The sphere of attraction,
Getting into the track Of some comet—Good-lack !
’Tis a thousand to one that you’d never come back ;
And the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear,
Rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere.
No, no; when I try A trip to the sky,
I shan’t go in that thing of yours, Mr Gye,
Though Messieurs Monk Mason, and Spencer, and Beazly,
All join in saying it travels so easily.
E
130 The Witches’ Frolic

No; there’s nothing so good Asa pony of wood—
Not like that which, of late, They stuck up on the gate
At the end of the Park, which caused so much debate,
And gave so much trouble to make it stand straight,—
But a regular Broomstick—you'll find that the favourite—
Above all, when, like Robin, you haven’t to pay for it.

—Stay—really I dread— Iam losing the thread
Of my tale; and it’s time you should be in your bed,
So lithe now, and listen, my little boy Ned!

The Vicarage walls are lofty and thick,
And the copings are stone, and the sides are brick,
The casements are narrow, and bolted and barr’d,
And the stout oak door is heavy and -hard ;
Moreover, by way of additional guard,
A great big dog runs loose in the yard,
And a horse-shoe is nailed on the threshold sill,—
To keep out aught that savours of ill,—
But, alack! the chimney-pot’s open still !
—That great big dog begins to quail,
Between his hind-legs he drops his tail,
Crouch’d on the ground, the terrified hound
Gives vent to a very odd sort of a sound ;
It is not a bark, loud, open, and free,
As an honest old watch-dog’s bark should be ;
It is not a yelp, it is not a growl,
But a something between a whine and a howl;
And, hark !—a sound from the window high
Responds to the watch-dog’s pitiful cry :

It is nota moan, It is not a groan;
It comes from a nose,—but is not what a nose
Produces in healthy and sound repose.
Yet Sir Thopas the Vicar is fast asleep,
And his respirations are heavy and deep!

He snores, ’tis true, but he snores no more

As he’s aye been accustom’d to snore before,
And as men of his kidney are wont to snore ;—
(Sir Thopas’s weight is sixteen stone four ;)
The Witches’ Frolic 131

He draws his breath like a man distress’d

By pain or grief, or like one oppress’d

By some ugly old Incubus perch’d on his breast.
A something seems To disturb his dreams,

And thrice on his ear, distinct and clear,

Falls a voice as of somebody whispering near

In still small accents, faint and few,

“ Hey down the chimney-pot !—Hey after you!”

Throughout the Vicarage, near and far,
There is no lack of bolt or of bar ;

There are plenty of locks To closet and box,
Yet the pantry wicket is standing ajar!

And the little low door, through which you must go,
Down some half-dozen steps, to the cellar below,

Is also unfastened, though no one may know

By so much as a guess, how it comes to be so;

For wicket and door, The evening before,
Were both of them lock’d, and the key safely placed
On the bunch that hangs down from the Housekeeper’s

waist.

Oh! ’twas a jovial sight to view
In that snug little cellar that frolicsome crew !—
Old Goody Price Had got something nice,
A turkey-poult larded with bacon and spice ;—
Old Goody Jones
Would touch nought that had bones,—
She might just as well mumble a parcel of stones.
Goody Jones, in sooth, hath got never a tooth,
And a New-College pudding of marrow and plums
Is the dish of all others that suiteth her gums.

Madge Gray was picking The breast of a chicken,
Her coal-black eye, with its glance so sly,
Was fixed on Rob Gilpin himself, sitting by
With his heart full of love, and his mouth full of pie;
Grouse pie, with hare In the middle, is fare
Which, duly concocted with science and care,
Doctor Kitchener says, is beyond all compare ;
£99 The Witches’ Frolic

And a tenderer leveret Robin had never ate ;
So, in after times, oft he was wont to asseverate.

“Now pledge we the wine-cup !—a health! a health!
Sweet are the pleasures obtain’d by stealth !

Fill up! fill up !—the brim of the cup

Is the part that aye holdeth the toothsomest sup!
Here’s to thee, Goody Price !—Goody Jones, to thee !—
To thee, Roving Rob! and again to me!

Many a sip, neveraslip.

Come to us four ’twixt the cup and the lip!”

The cups pass quick, The toasts fly thick,
Rob tries in vain out their meaning to pick,
But hears the words “ Scratch,” and “Old Bogey,” and
“ Nick.”
More familiar grown, Now he stands up alone,
Volunteering to give them a toast of his own.
“A bumper of wine! Fill thine! Fill mine!
Here’s a health to old Noah who planted the Vine!”
Oh then what sneezing,
What coughing and wheezing,
Ensued in a way that was not over pleasing !
Goody Price, Goody Jones, and the pretty Madge Gray,
All seem’d as their liquor had gone the wrong way.

But the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke
Those words which the party seem’d almost to choke,
As by mentioning Noah some spell had been broke,
Every soul in the house at that instant awoke !
And, hearing the din from barrel and binn,

Drew at once the conclusion that thieves had got in.
Up jump’d the Cook and caught hold of her spit ;
Up jump’d the Groom and took bridle and bit ;

Up jump’d the Gardener and shoulder’d his spade ;
Up jump’d the Scullion,—-the Footman,—the Maid ;
(The two last, by the way, occasioned some scandal,
By appearing together with only one candle,

Which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle ;)
The Witches’ Frolic E33

Up jump’d the Swineherd,—and up jump’d the big boy,

A nondescript under him, acting as Pig-boy ;

Butler, Housekeeper, Coachman—from bottom to top

Everybody j jump’d up without parley or stop,

With the weapon which first in their way chanced to
drop—

Whip, warming-pan, wig-block, mug, musket, and mop.

Last of all doth appear,
With some symptoms of fear,
Sir Thopas in person to bring up the rear,
In a mix’d kind of costume half Pondtificalibus,
Half what scholars denominate pure Naturalibus ;
Nay, the truth to express, As you'll easily cues,
They have none of them time to attend much to dress ;
But He, or She, As the case may be,
He or She seizes what He or She pleases,
Trunk-hosen or kirtles, and shirts or chemises,
And thus one and all, great and small, short and tall,
Muster at once in the Vicarage-hall,
With upstanding locks, starting eyes, shorten’d breath,
Like the folks in the Gallery Scene in Macbeth,
When Macduff is announcing their Sovereign’s death.
And hark !—what accents clear and strong,
To the listening throng came floating along!
’Tis Robin encoring himself in a song—
“Very good song! very well sung!
Jolly companions every one!”

On, on to the cellar! away! away!

On, on to the cellar without more delay!

The whole gosse rush onwards in battle array—

Conceive the dismay of the party so gay,

Old Goody Jones, Goody Price, and Madge Gray,

When the door bursting wide, they descried the allied

Troops, prepared for the onslaught, roll in like a tide,

And the spits, and the tongs, and the pokers beside !—

“Boot and saddle’s the word! mount, Cummers, and
ride ! »—
134 The Witches’ Frolic

Alarm was ne’er caused more strong and indigenous

By cats among rats, or a hawk in a pigeon-house ;
Quick from the view Away they all flew,

With a yell, and a screech, and a halliballoo,

“Hey up the chimney! Hey after you !”—

The Volscians themselves made an exit less speedy

From Corioli, “flutter’d like doves” by Macready.

They are gone,—save one, Robin alone!
Robin whose high state of civilisation
Precludes all idea of aérostation,

And who now has no notion Of more locomotion
Than suffices to kick, with much zeal and devotion,
Right and left at the party, who pounced on their victim,
And maul’d him, and kick’d him, And lick’d him, and

prick’d him,
As they bore him away scarce aware what was done,
And believing it all but a part of the fun,
Hic—hiccoughing out the same strain he’d begun,
“ Jol—jolly companions every one!”

Morning grey Scarce bursts into day
Ere at Tappington Hall there’s the deuce to pay;
The tables and chairs are all placed in array
In the old oak-parlour, and in and out
Domestics and neighbours, a motley rout,

Are walking, and whispering, and standing about ;

And the Squire is there. In his large arm-chair,
Leaning back with a grave magisterial air ;

In the front ofa seat a Huge volume, called Fleta,
And Bracton, a tome of an old-fashion’d look,

And Coke upon Lyttelton, then a new book;

And he moistens his lips With occasional sips
From a luscious sack-posset that smiles in a tankard
Close by on a side-table—not that he drank hard,

But because at that day, I hardly need say,

The Hong Merchants had not yet invented How Qua,
Nor as yet would you see Souchong or Bohea
At the tables of persons of any degree :
The Witches’ Frolic Les

How our ancestors managed to do without tea
I must fairly confess is a mystery to me ;

Yet your Lydgates and Chaucers

Had no cups and saucers ;

Their breakfast, in fact, and the best they could get,
Was a sort of a déjetiner a la fourchette ;

Instead of our slops They had cutlets and chops,
And sack-possets, and ale in stoups, tankards, and pots ;
And they wound up the meal with rumpsteaks and

’schalots.

Now the Squire lifts his hand

With an air of command,
And gives them a sign, which they all understand,
To bring in the culprit; and straightway the carter
And huntsman drag in that unfortunate martyr,
Still kicking, and crying, “ Come,—what are you arter ?”
The charge is prepared, and the evidence clear,
“ He was caught in the cellar a-drinking the beer !
And came there, there’s very great reason to fear,
With companions,—to say but the least of them,—queer ;

Such as Witches, and creatures

With horrible features,

And horrible grins, And hook’d noses and chins,
Who’d been playing the deuce with his Reverence’s

binns.”

The face of his worship grows graver and graver,
As the parties detail Robin’s shameful behaviour ;
Mister Buzzard, the clerk, while the tale is reciting,
Sits. down to reduce the affair into writing,

With all proper diction, And due “legal fiction ;”
Viz.: “That he, the said prisoner, as clearly was shown,
Conspiring with folks to deponents unknown,

With divers, that is to say, two thousand people,
In two thousand hats, each hat peak’d like a steeple,

With force and with arms,

And with sorcery and charms,

Upon two thousand brooms ;

Enter’d four thousand rooms,
136 The Witches’ Frolic

To wit, two thousand pantries, and two thousand cellars,
Put in bodily fear twenty thousand in-dwellers,
And with sundry,—that is to say, two thousand,—forks,
Drew divers,—that is to say, ten thousand—corks,
And, with malice prepense, down their two thousand
throttles,
Emptied various,—that is to say, ten thousand—bottles ;
Allin breach of the peace,—moved by Satan’s malignity—
And in spite of King James, and his Crown, and his
Dignity.”
At words so profound Rob gazes around,
But no glance sympathetic to cheer him is found.
—Noglance,didI say? Yes, one!—Madge Gray !—
She is there in the midst of the crowd standing by,
And she gives him one glance from her coal-black eye,
‘One touch to his hand, and one word to his ear,—
(That’s a linewhich I’ve stolen from Sir Walter, I fear,)—
While nobody near Seems to see her or hear;
As his worship takes up, and surveys, with a strict eye,
The broom now produced as the corpus delictz,
Ere his fingers can clasp, It is snatch’d from his
grasp,
The end poked in his chest with a force makes him gasp,
And, despite the decorum so due to the Quorum,
His worship’s upset, and so too is his jorum,
And Madge is astride on the broomstick before ’em.
“ Hocus Pocus! Quick, Presto! and Hey Cockalorum
Mount, mount for your life, Rob !—Sir Justice, adieu !—
—Hey up the chimney-pot! hey after you!”

Through the mystified group,
With a halloo and a whoop,
Madge on the pommel, and Robin ez crouge,
The pair through the air ride as if in a chair,
While the party below stand mouth open and stare!
“ Clean pated ” and amazed, and fix’d, all the room
stick,
“Oh! what’s gone with Robin,—and Madge,—and the
broomstick ?”
The Witches’ Frolic 137

Ay, “what’s gone” indeed, Ned ?—of what befell

Madge Gray, and the broomstick, I never heard tell:

But Robin was found, that morn, on the ground,

In yon old grey Ruin again, safe and sound,

Except that at first he complained much of thirst,

And a shocking bad headache, of all ills the worst,
And close by his knee A ‘flask you ee see,

But an empty one, smelling of eau-de-vie.

Rob from this hour is an alter’d man;
He runs home to his lodgings as fast as he can,
Sticks to his trade, Marries Miss Slade,
Becomes a Te-totaller—that is the same
As Te-totallers now, one in all but the name;
Grows fond of Small-beer, which is always a steady sign,
Never drinks spirits except as a medicine;
Learns to despise Coal-black eyes,
Minds pretty girls no more than so many Guys;
Has a family, ‘lives to be sixty, and dies!

Now, my little boy Ned | Brush off to your bed,
Tie your night-cap on safe, or a napkin instead,
Or these terrible nights you'll catch cold in your head ;
And remember my tale, and the moral it teaches,
Which you'll find much the same as what Solomon
preaches :
Don’t flirt with young ladies; don’t practise soft speeches ;
Avoid waltzes, quadrilles, pumps, silk hose, and knee-
breeches ;—
Frequent not grey Ruins,—shun riot and revelry,
Hocus Pocus, and Conjuring, and all sorts of devilry ;-—
Don’t meddle with broomsticks,—they’re Beelzebub’s
switches ;
Of cellars keep clear,—they’re the devil’s own ditches ;
And beware of balls, banquetings, brandy, and—witches!
Above all! don’t run after black eyes !—if you do,—
Depend on’t you'll find what I say will come true,—

1»

Old Nick, some fine morning, will “hey after you!

_—_ OO
138 Singular Passage in the Life of

Strange as the events detailed in the succeeding narrative
may appear, they are, I have not the slightest doubt, true
to the letter. Whatever impression they may make upon
the Reader, that produced by them on the narrator, I can
aver, was neither light nor transient.



IN THE LIFE
OF

THE LATE HENRY HARRIS
DOCTOR IN DIVINITY

AS RELATED BY THE REV. JASPER INGOLDSBY,
M.A., HIS FRIEND AND EXECUTOR.

In order that the extraordinary cir-
cumstance which I am about to relate,
may meet with the credit it deserves, I
think it necessary to premise, that my
reverend friend, among whose papers
I find it recorded, was, in his lifetime, ever esteemed as a
man of good plain understanding, strict veracity, and un-
impeached morals,—by no means of anervous temperament,
or one likely to attach undue weight to any occurrence out
of the common course of events, merely because his reflec-
tions might not, at that moment, afford him a ready solution
of its difficulties.

On the truth of this narrative, as far as he was personally
concerned, no one who knew him would hesitate to place
the most implicit reliance. His history is briefly this :-—
He had married early in life, and was a widower at the age
of thirty-nine, with an only daughter, who had then arrived
at puberty, and was just married to a near connexion of our
own family. The sudden death of her husband, occasioned
by a fall from his horse, only three days after her confine-
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 139



ment, was abruptly communicated to Mrs S by a
thoughtless girl, who saw her master brought lifeless into
the house, and, with all that inexplicable anxiety to be the
first to tell bad news, so common among the lower orders,
rushed at once into the sick-room with her intelligence.
The shock was too severe; and though the young widow
survived the fatal event several months, yet she gradually
sunk under the blow, and expired, leaving a boy, not a
twelvemonth old, to the care of his maternal grandfather.

My poor friend was sadly shaken by this melancholy
catastrophe ; time, however, and a strong religious feeling,
succeeded at length in moderating the poignancy of his
grief—a consummation much advanced by his infant charge,
who now succeeded, as it were by inheritance, to the place
in his affections left vacant by his daughter’s decease.
Frederick S grew up to bea fine lad; his person and
features were decidedly handsome ; still there was, as I re-
member, an unpleasant expression in his countenance, and
an air of reserve, attributed, by the few persons who called
occasionally at the vicarage, to the retired life led by his
grandfather, and the little opportunity he had, in con-
sequence, of mixing in the society of his equals in age and
intellect. Brought up entirely at home, his progress in
the common branches of education was, without any great
display of precocity, rather in advance of the generality of
boys of his own standing; partly owing, perhaps, to the
turn which even his amusements took from the first. His
sole associate was the son of the village apothecary, a boy
about two years older than himself, whose father, being
really clever in his profession, and a good operative chemist,
had constructed for himself ‘a small laboratory, in which, as
he was fond of children, the two boys spent a great portion
of their leisure time, witnessing many of those little experi-
ments so attractive to youth, and in time aspiring to imitate
what they admired.

In such society, it is not surprising that Frederick S
should imbibe a strong taste for the sciences which formed
his principal amusement ; or that, when, in process of time,
it became necessary to choose his walk in life, a profession




140 Singular Passage in the Life of

so intimately connected with his favourite pursuit, as that
of medicine, should be eagerly selected. No opposition was
offered by my friend, who, knowing that the greater part of
his own income would expire with his life, and that the
remainder would prove an insufficient resource to his grand-
child, was only anxious that he should follow such a path
as would secure him that moderate and respectable com-
petency which is, perhaps, more conducive to real happiness
than a more élevated or wealthy station. Frederick was,
accordingly, at the proper age, matriculated at Oxford, with
the view of studying the higher branches of medicine, a few
months after his friend, John W , had proceeded to
Leyden, for the purpose of making himself acquainted with
the practice of surgery in the hospitals and lecture-rooms
attached to that university. The boyish intimacy of their
younger days did not, as is frequently the case, yield to
separation ; on the contrary, a close correspondence was
kept up between them. Dr Harris was even prevailed upon
to allow Frederick to take a trip to Holland to see his
friend; and John returned the visit to Frederick at
Oxford.

Satisfactory as, for some time, were the accounts of the
general course of Frederick S ’s studies, by degrees
rumours of a less pleasant nature reached the ears of some
of his friends; to the vicarage, however, I have reason to
believe they never penetrated. The good old Doctor was
too well beloved in his parish for any one voluntarily to
give him pain ; and, after all, nothing beyond whispers and
surmises had reached X , when the worthy Vicar was
surprised on a sudden by a request from his grandchild,
that he might be permitted to take his name off the books
of the university, and proceed to finish his education in
conjunction with his friend W at Leyden. Such a
proposal, made, too, at a time when the period for his
graduating could not be far distant, both surprised and
grieved the Doctor; he combated the design with more
perseverance than he had ever been known to exert in
opposition to any declared wish of his darling boy before,
but, as usual, gave way, when more strongly pressed, from








The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 141

sheer inability to persist in a refusal which seemed to give
so much pain to Frederick, especially when the latter, with
more energy than was quite becoming their relative situa-
tions, expressed his positive determination of not returning
to Oxford, whatever might be the result of his grandfather’s
decision. My friend, his mind, perhaps, a little weakened
by a short but severe nervous attack which he had scarcely
recovered from, at length yielded a reluctant consent, and
Frederick quitted England.

It was not till some months had elapsed after his de-
parture, that I had reason to suspect, that the eager desire
of availing himself of opportunities for study abroad, not
afforded him at home, was not the sole, or even the principal,
reason which had drawn Frederick so abruptly from his
Alma Mater. A chance visit to the university, and a
conversation with a senior fellow belonging to his late
college, convinced me of this; still I found it impossible to
extract from the latter the precise nature of his offence.
That he had given way to most culpable indulgences, I
had before heard hinted; and when I recollected how he
had been at once launched, from a state of what might be
well called seclusion, into a world where so many entice-
ments were lying in wait to allure,—with liberty, example,
everything to tempt him from the straight road,—regret, I
frankly own, was more the predominant feeling in my
mind than either surprise or condemnation. But here was
evidently something more than mere ordinary excess—
some act of profligacy, perhaps, of a deeper stain, which
had induced his superiors, who, at first, had been loud in
his praises, to desire him to withdraw himself quietly, but
for ever ; and such an intimation, I found, had in fact been
conveyed to him from an authority which it was impossible
to resist. Seeing that my informant was determined not
to be explicit, I did not press for a disclosure, which, if
made, would, in all probability, only have given me pain,
and that the rather, as my old friend the Doctor had
recently obtained a valuable living from Lord M——, only
a few miles distant from the market town in which I
resided, where he now was, amusing himself in putting his


142 Singular Passage in the Life of

grounds into order, ornamenting his house, and getting
everything ready against his grandson’s expected visit in
the following autumn. October came, and with it came
Frederick: he rode over more than once to see me, some-
times accompanied by the Doctor, between whom and
myself the recent loss of my poor daughter Louisa had
drawn the cords of sympathy still closer.

More than two years had flown on in this way, in which
Frederick S had as many times made temporary visits
to his native country. The time was fast approaching
when he was expected to return and finally take up his
residence in England, when the sudden illness of my wife’s
father obliged us to take a journey into Lancashire, my old
friend, who had himself a curate, kindly offering to fix his
quarters at my parsonage, and superintend the concerns of
my parish till my return.—Alas! when I saw him next he
was on the bed of death!

My absence was necessarily prolonged much beyond
what I had anticipated. A letter, with a foreign post-
mark, had, as I afterwards found, been brought over from
his own house to my venerable substitute in the interval,
and barely giving himself time to transfer the charge he
had undertaken to a neighbouring clergyman, he had
hurried off at once to Leyden. His arrival there was,
however, too late. Frederick was dead /—killed in a duel,
occasioned, it was said, by no ordinary provocation on his
part, although the flight of his antagonist had added to the
mystery which enveloped its origin. The long journey, its
melancholy termination, and the complete overthrow of all
my poor friend’s earthly hopes, were too much for him.
He appeared too,—as I was informed by the proprietor of
the house in which I found him, when his summons at
length had brought me to his bed-side,—to have received
some sudden and unaccountable shock, which even the
death of his grandson ‘was inadequate to explain. There
was, indeed, a wildness in his fast-glazing eye, which
mingled strangely with the glance of satisfaction thrown
upon me as he pressed my hand ;—he endeavoured to raise
himself, and would have spoken, but fell back in the effort,


The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 143

and closed his eyes for ever.—I buried him there, by the
side of the object of his more than parental affection,—in a
foreign land.

It is from the papers that I discovered in his travelling-
case that I submit the following extracts, without, however,
presuming to advance an opinion on the strange circum-
stances which they detail, or even as to the connexion
which some may fancy they discover between different
parts of them.

The first was evidently written at my own house, and
bears date August the 15, 18—, about three weeks after
my own departure from Preston.

It begins thus :—

“Tuesday, August 15.—Poor girl!—I forget who it is
that says, ‘the real ills of life are light in comparison with
fancied evils ;’ and certainly the scene I have just witnessed
goes some way towards establishing the truth of the hypo-
thesis. Among the afflictions which flesh is heir to, a
diseased imagination is far from being the lightest, even
when considered separately, and without taking into the
account those bodily pains and sufferings which,—so close
is the connexion between mind and matter,—are but
too frequently attendant upon any disorder of the fancy.
Seldom has my interest been more powerfully excited than
by poor Mary Graham. Her age, her appearance, her pale,
melancholy features, the very contour of her countenance,
all conspired to remind me, but too forcibly, of one who,
waking or sleeping, is never long absent from my thoughts ;
—but enough of this.

“A fine morning had succeeded one of the most tem-
pestuous nights I ever remember, and I'was just sitting
down to a substantial breakfast, which the care of my
friend Ingoldsby’s housekeeper, kind-hearted Mrs Wilson,
had prepared for me, when I was interrupted by a summons,
to the sick-bed of a young parishioner whom I had fre-
quently seen in my walks, and had remarked for the
regularity of her attendance at Divine worship.— Mary
Graham is the elder of two daughters, residing with their
mother, the widow of an attorney, who, dying suddenly in
144 Singular Passage in the Life of

the prime of life, left his family but slenderly provided for.
A strict though not parsimonious economy has, however,
enabled them to live with an appearance of respectability
and comfort; and from the personal attractions which
both the girls possess, their mother is evidently not with-
out hopes of seeing one, at least, of them advantageously
settled in life. As far as poor Mary is concerned, I fear
she is doomed to inevitable disappointment, as I am much
mistaken if consumption has not laid its wasting finger
upon her; while this last recurrence, of what I cannot but
believe to be a most formidable epileptic attack, threatens
to shake out with even added velocity, the little sand that
may yet remain within the hour-glass of time. Her very
delusion, too, is of such a nature as, by adding to bodily
illness the agitation of superstitious terror, can scarcely fail
to accelerate the catastrophe, which I think I see fast
approaching.

“Before I was introduced into the sick-room, her sister,
who had been watching my arrival from the window, took
me into their little parlour, and, after the usual civilities,
began to prepare me for the visit I was about to pay. Her
countenance was marked at once with trouble and alarm,
and in a low tone of voice, which some internal emotion,
rather than the fear of disturbing the invalid in a distant
room, had subdued almost to a whisper, informed me that
my presence was become necessary, not more as a clergy-
man than a magistrate ;—that the disorder with which her
sister had, during the night, been so suddenly and unac-
countably seized, was one of no common kind, but attended
with circumstances which, coupled with the declarations of
the sufferer, took it out of all ordinary calculations, and, to
use her own expression, that ‘malice was at the bottom
of it.

“Naturally supposing that these insinuations were in-
tended to intimate the partaking of some deleterious sub-
stance on the part of the invalid, I inquired what reason
she had for imagining, in the first place, that anything of
a poisonous nature had been administered at all; and,
secondly, what possible incitement any human being could
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 145

have for the perpetration of so foul a deed towards so
innocent and unoffending an individual? Her answer
considerably relieved the apprehensions I had begun to
entertain lest the poor girl should, from some unknown
cause, have herself been attempting to rush uncalled into
the présence of her Creator; at the same time, it surprised
me not a little by its apparent want of rationality and
common sense. She had no reason to believe, she said
that her sister had taken poison, or that any attempt upon
her life had been made, or was, perhaps, contemplated, but
that ‘still malice was at work,—the malice of villains or
fiends, or of both combined; that no causes purely natural
would suffice to account for the state in which her sister
had been now twice placed, or for the dreadful sufferings
she had undergone while in that state;’ and that she was
determined the whole affair should undergo a thorough
investigation. Seeing that the poor girl was now herself
labouring under a great degree of excitement, I did not
think it necessary to enter at that moment into a discus-
sion upon the absurdity of her opinion, but applied myself
to the tranquillising her mind by assurances of a proper
inquiry, and then drew her attention to the symptoms of
the indisposition, and the way in which it had first made
its appearance.

“The violence of the storm last night had, I found, in-
duced the whole family to sit up far beyond their usual
hour, till, wearied out at length, and, as their mother ob-
served, ‘tired of burning fire and candle to no purpose,’
they repaired to their several chambers.

“The sisters occupied the same room; Elizabeth was
already at their humble toilet, and had commenced the
arrangement of her hair for the night, when her attention
was at once drawn from her employment by a half-
smothered shriek and exclamation from her sister, who, in
her delicate state of health, had found walking up two
flights of stairs, perhaps a little more quickly than usual,
an exertion, to recover from which she had seated herself
in a large arm-chair.

“Turning hastily at the sound, she perceived Mary

K
146 Singular .Passage in the Life of

deadly pale, grasping, as it were convulsively, each arm
of the chair which supported her, and bending forward in
the attitude of listening ; her lips were trembling and
bloodless, cold drops of perspiration stood upon her fore-
head, and in an instant after exclaiming in a piercing tone,
‘Hark! they are calling me again! it is—zt zs the same
voice ;—Oh no! no!—Oh my God! save me, Betsy,—
hold me—save me!’ she fell forward upon the floor.
Elizabeth flew to her assistance, raised her, and by her
cries brought both her mother, who had not yet got into
bed, and their only servant girl to her aid. The latter was
despatched at once for medical help ; but from the appear-
ance of the sufferer it was much to be feared that she
would soon be beyond the reach of art. Her agonised
parent and sister succeeded in bearing her between them
and placing her on a bed: a faint and intermittent pulsa-
tion was for a while perceptible; but in a few moments a
general shudder shook the whole body; the pulse ceased,
the eyes became fixed and glassy, the jaw dropped, a cold
clamminess usurped the place of the genial warmth of life.
Before Mr I arrived everything announced that dis-
solution had taken place, and that the freed spirit had
quitted its mortal tenement.

“The appearance of the surgeon confirmed their worst
apprehensions ; a vein was opened, but the blood refused
to flow, and Mr I pronounced that the vital spark
was indeed extinguished.

“The poor mother, whose attachment to her children
was perhaps the more powerful as they were the sole
relatives or connections she had in the world, was over-
whelmed with a grief amounting almost to frenzy ; it was
with difficulty that she was removed to her own room by
the united strength of her daughter and medical adviser.
Nearly an hour had elapsed during the endeavour at calm-
‘ing her transports; they had succeeded, however, to a
-certain extent, and Mr I had taken his leave, when
-Elizabeth, re-entering the bedchamber in which her sister
lay, in order to pay the last sad duties to her corpse, was
“horror-struck at seeing a crimson stream of blood running






The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 14.7

down the side of the counterpane to the floor. Her ex-
clamation brought the girl again to her side, when it was
perceived, to their astonishment, that the sanguine stream
proceeded from the arm of the body, which was now mani-
festing signs of returning life. The half-frantic mother
flew to the room, and it was with difficulty that they could
prevent her in her agitation from so acting as to extinguish
for ever the hope which had begun to rise in their bosoms.
A long-drawn sigh, amounting almost to a groan, followed
by several convulsive gaspings, was the prelude to the
restoration of the animal functions in poor Mary: a shriek,
almost preternaturally loud, considering her state of ex-
haustion, succeeded ; but she did recover, and with the
help of restoratives was well enough towards morning to
express a strong desire that I should be sent for,—a desire
the more readily complied with, inasmuch as the strange
expressions and declarations she had made since her restor-
ation to consciousness had filled her sister with the most
horrible suspicions. The nature of these suspicions was
such as would at any other time, perhaps, have raised a
smile upon my lips ; but the distress, and even agony of
the poor girl, as she half hinted and half expressed them,
were such as entirely to preclude every sensation at all
approaching to mirth. Without endeavouring, therefore,
to combat ideas, evidently too strongly impressed upon
her mind at the moment to admit of present refutation, I
merely used a few encouraging words, and requested her
to precede me to the sick-chamber.

“ The invalid was lying on the outside of the bed partly
dressed, and wearing a white dimity wrapping-gown, the
colour of which corresponded but too well with the deadly
paleness of her complexion. Her cheek was wan and
sunken, giving an extraordinary prominence to her eye,
which gleamed with a lustrous brilliancy not unfrequently
characteristic of the aberration of intellect. I took her
hand ; it was chill and clammy, the pulse feeble and inter-
mittent, and the general debility of her frame was such
that I would fain have persuaded her to defer any conver-
sation which, in her present state, she might not be able to
148 Singular Passage in the Life of

support. Her positive assurance that until she had dis-
burdened herself of what she called her ‘ dreadful secret,’
she could know no rest either of mind or body, at length
induced me to comply with her wish, opposition to which
in her then frame of mind might perhaps be attended with
even worse effects than its indulgence. I bowed acquies-
cence, and in a low and faltering voice, with frequent inter-
ruptions occasioned by her weakness, she gave me the
following singular account of the sensations which, she
averred, had been experienced by her during her
trance :—

“* This, sir, she began, ‘is not the first time that the
cruelty of others has, for what purpose I am unable to
conjecture, put me to a degree of torture which I can com-
pare to no suffering, either of body or mind, which I have
ever before experienced. On a former occasion I was
willing to believe it the mere effect of a hideous dream,
or what is vulgarly termed the nightmare; but this
repetition, and the circumstances under which I was last
summoned, at a time, too, when I had not even composed
myself to rest, fatally convince me of the reality of what
I have seen and suffered.

“ is now more than a twelvemonth since I was in the habit
of occasionally encountering in my walks a young man
of prepossessing appearance and gentlemanly deportment.
He was always alone, and generally reading: but I could
not be long in doubt that these rencounters, which became
every week more frequent, were not the effect of accident,
or that his attention, when we did meet, was less directed
to his book than to my sister and myself. He even
seemed to wish to address us, and I have no doubt would
have taken some other opportunity of doing so, had not
one been afforded him by a strange dog attacking us one
Sunday morning in our way to church, which he beat off,
and made use of this little service to promote an acquaint-
ance. His name, he said, was Francis Somers, and added
that he was on a visit to a relation of the same name,
resident a few miles from X He gave us to under-


The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 149

stand that he was himself studying surgery wlth the view
to a medical appointment in one of the colonies. You are
not to suppose, sir, that he had entered thus into his
concerns at the first interview ; it was not till our acquaint-
ance had ripened, and he had visited our house more than
once with my mother’s sanction, that these particulars
were elicited. He never disguised from the first that an
attachment to myself was his object originally in intro-
ducing himself to our notice; as his prospects were
comparatively flattering, my mother did not raise any
impediment to his attentions, and I own I received them
with pleasure.

“é Days and weeks elapsed ; and although the distance
at which his relation resided prevented the possibility of
an uninterrupted intercourse, yet neither was it so great
as to preclude his frequent visits. The interval of a day,
or at most of two, was all that intervened, and these
temporary absences certainly did not decrease the pleasure
of the meetings with which they terminated. At length
a pensive expression began to exhibit itself upon his
countenance, and I could not but remark that at every
visit he became more abstracted and reserved. The eye
of affection is not slow to detect any symptom of un-
easiness in a quarter dear toit. I spoke to him, questioned
him on the subject ; his answer was evasive, and I said no
more. My mother too, however, had marked the same
appearance of melancholy, and pressed him more strongly.
He at length admitted that his spirits were depressed,
and that their depression was caused by the necessity of
an early, though but a temporary, separation. His uncle
and only friend, he said, had long insisted on his spending
some months on the Continent with the view of completing
his professional education, and that the time was now fast
approaching when it would be necessary for him to
commence his journey. A look made the inquiry which
my tongue refused to utter, ‘Yes, dearest Mary,’ was his
reply, ‘I have communicated our attachment to him,
partially at least; and though I dare not say that the
intimation was received as I could have wished, yet I
150 Singular Passage in the Life of

have, perhaps, on the‘whole, no fair reason to be dissatisfied
with his reply.

“ in the world, must, my uncle told me, be the first con-
sideration; when these material points were achieved, he
should not interfere with any arrangement that might be
found essential to my happiness; at the same time he has
positively refused to sanction any engagement at present,
which may, he says, have a tendency to divert my attention
from those pursuits, on the due prosecution of which my
future situation in life must depend. A compromise
between love and duty was eventually wrung from me,
though reluctantly; I have pledged myself to proceed
immediately to my destination abroad, with a full under-
standing that on my return, a twelvemonth hence, no
obstacle shall be thrown in the way of what are, I trust,
our mutual wishes.’

“ I received this communication, nor will it be necessary to
say anything of what passed at the few interviews which
took place before Francis quitted X——. The evening
immediately previous to that of his departure he passed
in this house, and, before we separated, renewed his
protestations of an unchangeable affection, requiring a
similar assurance from me in return. I did not hesitate
to make it. ‘Be satisfied, my dear Francis,’ said I, ‘that
no diminution in the regard I have avowed can ever take
place, and though absent in body, my heart and soul will
still be with you.’—‘ Swear this,’ he cried, with a sudden-
ness and energy which surprised, and rather startled me;
‘promise that you will be with me zw sfzriz, at least, when
I am far away.’ I gave him my hand, but that was not
sufficient. ‘One of these dark shining ringlets, my dear
Mary,’ said he, ‘as a pledge that you will not forget your
vow!’ I suffered him to take the scissors from my work-
box and to sever a lock of my hair, which he placed in
his bosom.—The next day he was pursuing his journey,
and the waves were already bearing him from England,

““T had letters from him repeatedly during the first
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. ECT

three months of his absence; they spoke of his health, his
prospects, and of his love, but by degrees the intervals
between each arrival became longer, and I fancied I
perceived some falling off from that warmth of expression
which had at first characterised his communications.
“«One night I had retired to rest rather later than usual,
having sat by the bed-side, comparing his last brief note
with some of his earlier letters, and was endeavouring to
convince myself that my apprehensions of his fickleness
were unfounded, when an undefinable sensation of restless-
ness and anxiety seized upon me. I cannot compare it
to anything I had ever experienced before; my pulse
fluttered, my heart beat with a quickness and violence which
alarmed me, and a strange tremour shook my whole frame.
I retired hastily to bed, in hopes of getting rid of so un-
pleasant a sensation, but in vain; a vague apprehension of
I knew not what occupied my mind, and vainly did I en-
deavour to shake it off. I can compare my feelings to
nothing but those which we sometimes experience when
about to undertake a long and unpleasant journey, leaving
those we love behind us. More than once did I raise
myself in my bed and listen, fancying that I heard myself
called, and on each of those occasions the fluttering of my
heart increased. Twice I was on the point of calling to my
sister, who then slept in an adjoining room, but she had
gone to bed indisposed, and an unwillingness to disturb
either her or my mother checked me; the large clock in
the room below at this moment began to strike the hour of
twelve. I distinctly heard its vibrations, but ere its sounds
had ceased, a burning heat, as if a hot iron had been applied
to my temple, was succeeded by a dizziness,—a swoon,—
a total loss of consciousness as to where or in what situation
I was. :
“A pain, violent, sharp, and piercing, as though my
whole frame were lacerated by some keen-edged weapon,
roused me from this stupor,—but where was I? Everything
was strange around me—a shadowy dimness rendered every
object indistinct and uncertain; methought, however, that
I was seated in a large, antique, high-backed chair, several
152 Singular Passage in the Life of

of which were near, their tall black carved frames and seats
interwoven with a lattice-work of cane. The apartment
in which I sat was one of moderate dimensions, and from
its sloping roof, seemed to be the upper story of the edifice,
a fact confirmed by the moon shining without, in full efful-
gence, on a huge round tower, which its light rendered plainly
visible through the open casement, and the summit of which
appeared but little superior in elevation to the room I
occupied. Rather to the right, and in the distance, the
spire of some cathedral or lofty church was visible, while
sundry gable-ends, and tops of houses, told me I was in the
midst of a populous but unknown city.

““The apartment itself had something strange in its
appearance; and, in the character of its furniture and
appurtenances, bore little or no resemblance to any I had
ever seen before. The fireplace was large and wide, witha
pair of what are sometimes called andirons, betokening that
wood was the principal, if not the only fuel consumed within
its recess ; a fierce fire was now blazing in it, the light from
which rendered visible the remotest parts of the chamber.
Over a lofty old-fashioned mantelpiece, carved heavily in
imitation of fruits and flowers, hung the half-length portrait
of a gentleman in a dark-coloured foreign habit, with a
peaked beard and mustaches, one hand resting upon a table,
the other supporting a sort of a Jaton, or short military staff,
the summit of which was surmounted by a silver falcon.
Several antique chairs, similar in appearance to those already
mentioned, surrounded a massive oaken table, the length
of which much exceeded its width. At the lower end of
this piece of furniture stood the chair I occupied ; on the
upper, was placed a small chafing-dish filled with burning
coals, and darting forth occasionally long flashes of various-
coloured fire, the brilliance of which made itself visible, even
above the strong illumination emitted from the chimney.
Two huge, black, japanned cabinets, with clawed feet,
reflecting from their polished surfaces the effulgence of the
flame, were placed one on each side the casement-window
to which I have alluded, and with a few shelves loaded with
books, many of which were also strewed in disorder on the
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 153

floor, completed the list of the furniture in the apartment.
Some strange-looking instruments, of unknown form and
purpose, lay on the table near the chafing-dish, on the
other side of which a miniature portrait of myself hung,
reflected by a small oval mirror in a dark-coloured frame,
while a large open volume, traced with strange characters
of the colour of blood, lay in front; a goblet, containing a
few drops of liquid of the same ensanguined hue, was by
its side.

“But of the objects which I have endeavoured to describe,
none arrested my attention so forcibly as two others. These
were the figures of two young men, in the prime of life, only
separated from me by the table. They were dressed alike,
each in a long flowing gown, made of some sad-coloured
stuff, and confined at the waist by a crimson girdle; one of
them, the shorter of the two, was occupied in feeding the
embers of the chafing-dish with a resinous powder, which
produced and maintained a brilliant but flickering blaze, to
the action of which his companion was exposing a long
lock of dark chestnut hair, that shrank and shrivelled as it
approached the fame. But, O God !—that hair !—and the
form of him who held it! that face! those features !—not for
one instant could I entertain a doubt—it was He! Francis!
—the lock he grasped was mine, the very pledge of affection
I had given him, and still, as it partially encountered the fire,
a burning heat seemed to scorch the temple from which it
had been taken, conveying a torturing sensation that
affected my very brain.

“« How shall I proceed ?—but no, it is impossible,—not
even to you, sir, can I—dare I—recount the proceedings of
that unhallowed night of horror and of shame. Were my
life extended to a term commensurate with that of the
Patriarchs of old, never could its detestable, its damning
pollutions be effaced from my remembrance; and oh!
above all, never could I forget the diabolical glee which
sparkled in the eyes of my fiendish tormentors, as they
witnessed the worse than useless struggles of their miserable
victim. Oh! why was it not permitted me to take refuge
in unconsciousness—nay, in death itself, from the abomina-
154 Singular Passage in the Life of

tions of which I was compelled to be, not only a witness—
but a partaker! But it is enough, sir; I will not further
shock your nature by dwelling longer on a scene, the full
horrors of which, words, if I even dared employ any, would
be inadequate to express ; suffice it to say, that after being
subjected to it, how long I knew not, but certainly for more
than an hour, a noise from below seemed to alarm my
persecutors ; a pause ensued,—the lights were extinguished,
—and, as the sound of a footstep ascending a staircase
became more distinct, my forehead felt again the excruci-
ating sensation of heat, while the embers, kindling into a
momentary flame, betrayed another portion of the ringlet
consuming in the blaze. Fresh agonies succeeded, not less
severe, and of a similar description to those which had
seized upon me at first; oblivion again followed, and on
being at length restored to consciousness, I found myself
as you see me now, faint and exhausted, weakened in
every limb, and every fibre quivering with agitation —My
groans soon brought my sister to my aid; it was long
before I could summon resolution to confide, even to her,
the dreadful secret, and when I had done so, her strongest
efforts were not wanting to persuade me that I had been
labouring under a severe attack of nightmare. I ceased to
argue, but I was not convinced: the whole scene was then
too present, too awfully real, to permit me to doubt the
character of the transaction ; and if, when a few days had
elapsed, the hopelessness of imparting to others the con-
viction I entertained myself, produced in me an apparent
acquiescence with their opinion, I have never been the less
satisfied that no cause reducible to the known laws of
nature occasioned my sufferings on that hellish evening.
Whether that firm belief might have eventually yielded to
time, whether I might at length have been brought to con-
sider all that had passed, and the circumstances which I
could never cease to remember, as a mere phantasm, the
offspring of a heated imagination, acting upon an enfeebled
body, I know not—last night, however, would in any case
have dispelled the flattering illusion—last night—last night
was the whole horrible scene acted over again. The place—
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. Le

the actors—the whole infernal apparatus were the same ;—
the same insults, the same torments, the same brutalities—
all were renewed, save that the period of my agony was not
so prolonged. I became sensible to an incision in my arm,
though the hand that made it was not visible ; at the same
moment my persecutors paused ; they were manifestly dis-
concerted, and the companion of him, whose name shall
never more pass my lips, muttered something to his abettor
in evident agitation; the formula of an oath of horrible
import was dictated to me in terms fearfully distinct. I
refused it unhesitatingly ; again and again was it proposed,
with menaces I tremble to think on—but I refused; the
same sound was heard—interruption was evidently appre-
hended,—the same ceremony was hastily repeated, and I
again found myself released, lying on my own bed, with my
mother and my sister weeping over me.—O God! O God!
when and how is this to end !—When will my spirit be left
in peace ?—Where, or with whom shall I find refuge ?’

“It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the
emotions with which this unhappy girl’s narrative affected
me. It must not be supposed that her story was delivered
in the same continuous and uninterrupted strain in which
I have transcribed its substance. On the contrary, it was
not without frequent intervals, of longer or shorter duration,
that her account was brought to a conclusion: indeed,
many passages of her strange dream were not without the
greatest difficulty and reluctance communicated at all.—
My task was no easy one; never, in the course of a long
life spent in the active duties of my Christian calling,—
never had I been summoned to such a conference before !

“To the half-avowed, and palliated, confession of com-
mitted guilt, I had often listened, and pointed out the only
road to secure its forgiveness. I had succeeded in cheering
the spirit of despondency, and sometimes even in calming
the ravings of despair; but here I had a different enemy to
combat, an ineradicable prejudice to encounter, evidently
backed by no common share of superstition, and confirmed
by the mental weakness attendant upon severe bodily pain.
To argue the sufferer out of an opinion so rooted was a hope-
156 Singular Passage in the Life of

less attempt. I did, however, essay it; I spoke to her of
the strong and mysterious connection maintained between
our waking images and those which haunt us in our dreams,
and more especially during that morbid oppression com-
monly called nightmare. I was even enabled to adduce
myself .as a strong, and living, instance of the excess to
which fancy sometimes carries her freaks on these occa-
sions ; while by an odd coincidence, the impression made
upon my own mind, which I adduced as an example, bore
no slight resemblance to her own. I stated to her, that on
my recovery from the fit of epilepsy, which had attacked
me about two years since, just before my grandson Frederick
left Oxford, it was with the greatest difficulty I could per-
suade myself that I had not visited him, during the interval,
in his rooms at Brazenose, and even conversed both with
himself and his friend W. , seated in his arm-chair, and
gazing through the window full upon the statue of Cain, as
it stands in the centre of the quadrangle. I told her of
the pain I underwent both at the commencement and
termination of my attack,—of the extreme lassitude that
succeeded ; but my efforts were all in vain; she listened to
me, indeed, with an interest almost breathless, especially
when I informed her of my having actually experienced
the very burning sensation in the brain alluded to, no
doubt a strong attendant symptom of this peculiar affection,
and a proof of the identity of the complaint; but I could
plainly perceive that I failed entirely in shaking the rooted
opinion which possessed her, that her spirit had, by some
nefarious and unhallowed means, been actually subtracted
for a time from its earthly tenement.”



The next extract which I shall give from my old friend’s
memoranda is dated August 24th, more than a week sub-
sequent to his first visit at Mrs Graham’s. He appears, .
from his papers, to have visited the poor young woman
more than once during the interval, and to have afforded her
those spiritual consolations which no one was more capable
of communicating. His patient, for so in a religious sense
she may well be termed, had been sinking under the agita-
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. Vege

tion she had experienced ; and the constant dread she was
under, of similar sufferings, operated so strongly on a frame
already enervated, that life at length seemed to hang only
by athread. His papers go on to say,

“JT have just seen poor Mary Graham,—I fear for the
last time. Nature is evidently quite worn out; she is
aware that she is dying, and looks forward to the termina-
tion of her existence here, not only with resignation but
with joy. It is clear that her dream, or what she persists
in calling her ‘subtraction, has much to do with this. For
the last three days her behaviour has been altered; she
has avoided conversing on the subject of her delusion, and
seems to wish that I should consider her as a convert to
my view of her case. This may, perhaps, be partly owing
to the flippances of her medical attendant upon the subject,
for Mr I has, somehow or other, got an inkling that
she has been much agitated by a dream, and thinks to
laugh off the impression—in my opinion injudiciously ;
but though a skilful, and a kind-hearted, he is a young
man, and of a disposition, perhaps, rather too mercurial for
the chamber of a nervous invalid. Her manner has since
been much more reserved to both of us: in my case, prob-
ably because she suspects me of betraying her secret.”



“ August 26th.—Mary Graham is yet alive, but sinking
fast; her cordiality towards me has returned since her
sister confessed yesterday, that she had herself told Mr
I that his patient’s mind ‘had been affected by a
terrible vision.’ I am evidently restored to her confidence.
—She asked me this morning, with much earnestness,
‘What I believed to be the state of departed spirits during
the interval between dissolution and the final day of ac-
count ?—And whether I thought they would be safe, in
another world, from the influence of wicked persons employ-
ing an agency more than human?’—Poor child !—One
cannot mistake the prevailing bias of her mind.—Poor
child !”



“ August 27th,—It is nearly over; she is sinking rapidly,
158 Singular Passage in the Life of

but quietly and without pain. I have just administered to
her the sacred elements, of which her mother partook.
Elizabeth declined doing the same; she cannot, she says,
yet bring herself to forgive the villain who has destroyed
her sister. It is singular that she, a young woman of good
plain sense in ordinary matters, should so easily adopt,
and so pertinaciously retain a superstition so puerile and
ridiculous. This must be matter of a future conversation
between us; at present, with the form of the dying girl
before her eyes, it were vain to argue with her. The
mother, I find, has written to young Somers, stating the
dangerous situation of his affianced wife ; indignant, as she
justly is, at his long silence, it is fortunate that she has no
knowledge of the suspicions entertained by her daughter.
I have seen her letter, it is addressed to Mr Francis Somers,
in the Hogewoert, at Leyden,—a fellow-student then of
Frederick’s. I must remember to inquire if he is acquainted
with this young man.”

Mary Graham, it appears, died the same night. Before
her departure she repeated to my friend the singular story
she had before told him, without any material variation
from the detail she had formerly given. To the last she
persisted in believing that her unworthy lover had practised
upon her by forbidden arts. . She once more described the
apartment with great minuteness, and even the person of
Francis’s alleged companion, who was, she said, about the
middle height, hard-featured, with a rather remarkable scar
upon his left cheek, extending in a transverse direction from
below the eye to the nose. Several pages of my reverend
friend’s manuscript are filled with reflections upon this
extraordinary confession, which, joined with its melan-
choly termination, seems to have produced no common
effect upon him. He alludes to more than one subsequent
discussion with the surviving sister, and piques himself on
having made some progress in convincing her of the folly
of her theory respecting the origin and nature of the illness
itself.

His memoranda on this and other subjects are continued
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 159

till about the middle of September, when a break ensues,
occasioned, no doubt, by the unwelcome news of his grand-
son’s dangerous state, which induced him to set out forth-
with for Holland. His arrival at Leyden was, as I have
already said, too late. . Frederick S had expired, after
thirty hours’ intense suffering, from a wound received in a
duel with a brother student. The cause of quarrel was
variously related ; but according to his landlord’s version
it had originated in some silly dispute about a dream of his
antagonist’s, who had been the challenger. Such, at least,
was the account given to him, as he said, by Frederick’s
friend and fellow-lodger, W , who had acted as second
on the occasion, thus acquitting himself of an obligation of
the same kind due to the deceased, whose services he had
put in requisition about a year before on a similar occasion,
when he had himself been severely wounded in the face.
From the same authority I learned that my poor friend
was much affected on finding that his arrival had been
deferred too long. Every attention was shown him by
the proprietor of the house, a respectable tradesman, and
a chamber was prepared for his accommodation ; the books
and few effects of his deceased grandson were delivered over
to him duly inventoried, and, late as it was in the evening
when he reached Leyden, he insisted on being conducted
immediately to the apartments which Frederick had occu-
pied, there to indulge the first ebullitions of his sorrow
before he retired to his own. Madame Miiller accordingly
led the way to an upper room, which, being situated at the
top of the house, had been, from its privacy and distance
from the street, selected by Frederick as his study. The
Doctor entered, and taking the lamp from his conductress
motioned to be left alone. His implied wish was of course
complied with ; and nearly two hours had elapsed before
his kind-hearted hostess reascended, in the hope of prevail-
ing upon him to return with her and partake of that refresh-
ment which he had in the first instance peremptorily
declined. Her application for admission was unnoticed ;
she repeated it more than once without success ; then,
becoming somewhat alarmed at the continued silence




160 Singular Passage in the Life of

opened the door and perceived her new inmate stretched
on the floor in a fainting fit. Restoratives were instantly
administered, and prompt medical aid succeeded at length
in restoring him to consciousness. But his mind had
received a shock from which, during the few weeks he
survived, it mever entirely recovered. His thoughts
wandered perpetually ; and though, from the very slight
acquaintance which his hosts had with the English lan-
guage, the greater part of what fell from him remained
unknown, yet enough was understood to induce them to
believe that something more than the mere death of his
grandson had contributed thus to paralyse his faculties.
When his situation was first discovered, a small miniature
was found tightly grasped in his right hand. It had been
the property of Frederick, and had more than once been
seen by the Miillers in his possession. To this the patient
made continued reference, and would not suffer it one
moment from his sight. It was in his hand when he ex-
pired. At my request it was produced to me. The portrait
was that of a young woman in an English morning dress,
whose pleasing and regular features, with their mild and
somewhat pensive expression were not, I thought, altogether
unknown to me. Her age was apparently about twenty.
A profusion of dark chestnut hair was arranged in the
Madonna style above a brow of unsullied whiteness, a single
ringlet depending on the left side. A glossy lock of the
same colour, and evidently belonging to the original,
appeared beneath a small crystal, inlaid in the back of the
picture, which was plainly set in gold, and bore in a cipher
the letters M. G. with the date 13—. From the inspection
of this portrait I could at the time collect nothing, nor
from that of the Doctor himself, which also I found the
next morning in Frederick’s desk, accompanied by two
separate portions of hair. One of them was a lock, short,
and deeply tinged with grey, and had been taken, I have
little doubt, from the head of my old friend himself; the
other corresponded in colour and appearance with that at
the back of the miniature. It was not till a few days had
elapsed, and J had seen the worthy Doctor’s remains quietly
The Late Henry Harris, D.D. 161

consigned to the narrow house, that while arranging his
papers previous to my intended return upon the morrow, I
encountered the narrative I have already transcribed. The
name of the unfortunate young woman connected with it
forcibly arrested my attention. I recollected it immediately
as one belonging to a parishioner of my own, and at once
recognised the original of the female portrait as its owner.
I rose not from the perusal of his very singular statement
till I had gone through the whole of it. It was late, and
the rays of the single lamp by which I was reading did but
very faintly illumine the remoter parts of the room in which
I sat. . The brilliancy of an. unclouded November moon,
then some twelve nights old, and shining full into the
apartment, did much towards remedying the defect. My
thoughts filled with the melancholy details I had read, I
rose and walked to the window. The beautiful planet rode
high in the firmament, and gave to the snowy roofs of
the houses and pendant icicles, all the sparkling radiance
of clustering gems. The stillness of the scene harmonised
well with the state of my feelings. I threw open the case-
ment and looked abroad. Far below me the waters of the
principal canal shone like a broad mirror in the moonlight.
To the left rose the Burght, a huge round tower of re-
markable appearance, pierced with embrasures at its
summit; while a little to the right and in the distance,
the spire and pinnacles of the Cathedral of Leyden rose in
all their majesty, presenting a coup a’eil of surpassing
though simple beauty. To a spectator of calm, unoccupied
mind the scene would have been delightful. On me it
acted with an electric effect. I turned hastily to survey the
apartment in which I had been sitting. It was the one
designated as the study of the late Frederick S The
sides of the room were covered with dark wainscot; the
spacious fire-place opposite to me, with its polished andirons,
was surmounted by a large old-fashioned mantelpiece,
heavily carved in the Dutch style with fruits and flowers ;
above it frowned a portrait, in a Vandyke dress, with a
peaked beard and mustaches ; one hand of the figure rested
on a table, whilst the other bore a marshal’s staff, sur-
L


162 The Late Henry Harris, D.D.

mounted with a silver falcon ; and—either my imagination,
already heated by the scene, deceived me,—or a smile as
of malicious triumph curled the lip and glared in the cold
leaden eye that seemed fixed upon my own. The heavy,
antique, cane-backed chairs,—the large oaken table,—the
book-shelves, the scattered volumes—all, all were there;
while, to complete the picture, to my right and left, as
half-breathless I. leaned my back against the casement,
tose on each side a tall, dark, ebony cabinet, in whose
polished sides the single lamp upon the table shone reflected
as in a mirror.

What am I to think? Can it be that the story I’ve been
reading was written by my poor friend here, and under the
influence of delirium? Impossible! Besides they all assure
me that from the fatal night of his arrival he never left his
bed—never put pen to paper. His very directions to
have me summoned from England were verbally given
during one of those few and brief intervals in which reason
seemed partially to resume her sway. Can it then be
possible that ? W——? where is he who alone may be
able to throw light on this horrible mystery?—No one
knows. He absconded, it seems, immediately after the duel.
No trace of him exists, nor, after repeated and anxious
enquiries, can I find that any student has ever been known in
the University of Leyden by the name of Francis Somers.



“There are more things in heaven and earth
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy ! !”




The Jackdaw of Rheims 163

Father John Ingoldsby, to whose papers I am largely
indebted for the Saintly records which follow, was brought
up by his father, a cadet of the family, in the Romish faith,
and was educated at Douai for the church. Besides the
manuscripts now at Tappington, he was the author of two
controversial treatises on the connection between the Papal
Hierarchy, and the Nine of Diamonds.

From his well-known loyalty, evinced by secret services
to the Royal cause during the Protectorate, he was excepted
by name out of the acts against the Papists, became super-
intendent of the Queen Dowager’s chapel at Somerset
House, and enjoyed a small pension until his death, which
took place in the third year of Queen Anne (1704), at the
mature age of ninety-six. He was an ecclesiastic of great
learning and piety, but from the stiff and antiquated
phraseology which he adopted, I have thought it necessary
to modernise it a little: this will account for certain
anachronisms that have unavoidably crept in; the sub-
stance of his narratives has, however, throughout been
strictly adhered to. .

His hair-shirt, almost as good as new, is still preserved at

Tappington,—but nobody ever wears it.


“ Tunc miser Corvus adeo conscientiz stimulis compunctus -fuit, et
execratio eum tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde tabescere inciperet,
maciem contraheret, omnem cibum aversaretur, nec amplits crocitaret :
penne preeterea ei defluebant, et alis pendulis omnes facetias inter-
misit, et tam macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miserescent.”

“Tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem absolverent ;
quo facto, Corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pris-
tinam sanitatem recuperavit.” De Tilust. Ord. Crsterc.

THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair !

Bishop and abbot, and prior were there ;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,

With a great many more.of lesser degree,—

In sooth a goodly company ;

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,

Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out Through the motley rout
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ;

Here and there, Like a dog in a fair,

Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all!

With a saucy air, He perch’d on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat ;

’
The Jackdaw of Rheims 165

And he peer’d in the face Of his Lordship’s Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
“ We Two are the greatest folks here to-day!”
And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw,
Said, “The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw !!”

The feast was over, the board was clear’d,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear’d,
And six little Singing-boys,—dear little souls !
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,

Came, in order due. Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through !
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss’d and filld with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne ;
Anda nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.

One little boy more A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal’s Hat mark’d in “ permanent ink.”

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress’d all in white :
From his finger he draws His costly turquoise :
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait ;
Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!


166 The -Jackdaw of ‘Rheims

There’s a cry and ashout, Anda deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they’re about,

But the monks have their pockets all turn’d inside out ;

The friars are kneeling, And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.

The Cardinal drew Off each plum-colour’d shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view ;

He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels ;
They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,—
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

—Theyturnupthe rugs, They examine the mugs:—

But, no!—no such thing ;— They can’t find THE

RING!
And the Abbot declared that, “ when nobody twige’d it,
Some rascal or other had popp’d in, and prige’d it!”

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book !
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief !
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright ;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him dying !—
Never was heard such a terrible curse ! !
But what gave rise To no little surprise,
Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

The day was gone, The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search’d till dawn ;
When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay, As on yesterday ;
His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way ;—


THEY CAN’T FIND THE RING
168 The Jackdaw of Rheims

His pinions droop’d—he could hardly stand,—
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ;
His eye so dim, So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, “THAT HIM !—
That’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s Ring!”
. The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn’d his bald head, as much as to say,
“Pray, be so good as to walk this way!”
Slower and slower He limp’d on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw !

Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took ;
The mute expression Served in lieu of confession
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !
—When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, ’twas really absurd,
He grew sleek, and fat; In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat !
His tail waggled more Even than before ;
But no longer it wagg’d with an impudent air,
No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s chair.
He hopp’d now about With a gait devout ;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out ;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s beads.
If any one lied,—or if any one swore,—
Or slumber’d in pray’r-time and happen’d to snore,
That good Jackdaw Would give a great “Caw!”
As much as to say, “ Don’t do so any more!”
While many remark’d, as his manners they saw,
That they “never had known such a pious Jackdaw !”


mM
——

ya

. Rossi»

‘THAT HIM!”

?

GRAMMAR THEY ALL CRIED

HEEDLESS OF
170 A Lay of St Dunstan

He long lived the-pride Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died ;

When, as words were too faint His merits to paint
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint ;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonised him by the name of Jem Crow !



0.

A Lay of St Dunstan

“This holy childe Dunstan was borne in y° pete of our
Worde ix. hondred & xxb. that tyme regrpnge in this londe
Ringe Athelston. * * *

“ @han it so was that Saynt Bunstan was wery of prayer
than used he to werke in goldsmpthes werke with his owne
handes for to eschewe pdelnes.” Golden Legend.



St DUNSTAN stood in his ivied tower,
Alembic, crucible, all were there ;
When in came Nick to play him a trick,
In guise of a damsel passing fair.
Every one knows How the story goes:

He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose.
But I beg that you won’t for a moment suppose
That I mean to go through, in detail, to you
A story at least as trite as it’s true ;

Nor do I intend An instant to spend
On the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend,
When, bolting away to a chamber remote,
Inconceivably bored by his Witen-gemote,

Edwy left them all joking, And drinking, and

smoking,

So tipsily grand, they'd stand nonsense from no King,

But sent the Archbishop Their Sovereign to fish up,
With a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel

taps,

Unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps.
A sshin 98



Fe ANYONE?LIED: ORSIF- ANYONE -SWORE
A Lay of St Dunstan 191

You must.not be plagued with the same story twice;
And perhaps have seen this one, by W. DYCE,

At the Royal Academy, very well done,

And mark’d in the catalogue, Four, seven, one.

You might there view the Saint, who in sable array’d is,
Coercing the Monarch away from the ladies ;

His right hand has hold of his Majesty’s jerkin,

His left shows the door, and he seems to say, “ Sir King,
Your most faithful Commons won't hear of your shirking!
Quit your tea, and return to your Barclai and Perkyn,
Or, by Jingo,! ere morning, no longer alive, a

Sad victim you'll lie to your love for Elgiva!”

No farther to treat Of his ungallant feat,
What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint
One particular fact in the life of the Saint,
Which somehow, for want of due care, I presume,
Has escaped the researches of Rapin and Hume,
In recounting a miracle, both of them men, who a
Great deal fall short of Jaques Bishop of Genoa,
An Historian who likes deeds like these to record—
See his Aurea Legenda, by @ynkyn de Worde.

St Dunstan stood again in his tower,
Alembic, crucible, all complete ;
He had been standing a good half hour,
And now he utter’d the words of power,
And call’d to his Broomstick to bring him a seat.

The words of power |—and what be they

To which e’en Broomsticks bow and obey ?

Why,—’twere uncommonly hard to say,

As the prelate I name has recorded none of them,
What they may be, But I know they are three,

And ABRACADABRA, I take it, is one of them :

1 St Jingo, or Gengo (Gengulphus), sometimes styled “‘ The Living Jingo,”
from the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by his severed members.
See his Legend, as recorded hereafter in the present volume.
192 A Lay of St Dunstan

For I’m told that most Cabalists use that identical
Word, written thus in what they call “a Pentacle.”



However that be, You'll doubtless agree
It signifies little to you or to me,
As not being dabblers in Grammarye ;
Still, it must be confess’d, for a Saint to repeat
Such language aloud is scarcely discreet ;
For, as Solomon hints to folks given to chatter,
“A bird of the air may carry the matter ;”
And in sooth, From my youth I remember a truth
Insisted on much in my earlier years,
To wit, “ Little Pitchers have very long ears!”
Now, just such a “ Pitcher” as those IJ allude to
Was outside the door, which his “ears” appeared glued to.

Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,
Five feet one in his sandal-shoon,
While the saint thought him sleeping,
Was listening and peeping,
And watching his master the whole afternoon.
A Lay of St Dunstan 173

This Peter the Saint had pick’d out from his fellows,
To look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows,
To put on the Wall’s-Ends and Lambtons whenever he
Chose to indulge in a little orfevrerte ;
—Of course you have read,
That St Dunstan was bred
A Goldsmith, and never quite gave up the trade!
The Company—richest in London, ’tis said—
Acknowledge him still as their Patron and Head ;
Nor is it solong Since a capital song
In his praise—now recorded their archives among—
Delighted the noble and dignified throng
Of their guests, who, the newspapers told the whole town,
With cheers “pledged thewine-cup to Dunstan’s renown,”
When Lord Lyndhurst, THE DUKE, and Sir Robert,
were dining
At the Hall some time since with the Prime Warden
Twining.—
—I am sadly digressing——a fault which sometimes
One can hardly avoid in these gossiping rhymes—
A slight deviation’s forgiven! but then this is
Too long, I fear, for a decent parenthesis,
So I'll rein up my Pegasus sharp, and retreat, or
You'll think I’ve forgotten the Lay-brother Peter,
Whom the Saint, as I said, Kept to turn down his
bed,
Dress his palfreys and cobs, Anddo other odd jobs,—
As reducing to writing Whatever he might, in
The course of the day or the night, be inditing,
And cleaning the plate of his mitre with whiting ;
Performing, in short, all those duties and offices
Abbots exact from Lay-brothers and Novices.

It occurs to me here You'll perhaps think it queer
That St Dunstan should have such a personage near,
When he'd only to say Those words,—be what
they may,—
And his Broomstick at once his commands would obey.—
That’s true—but the fact is ’Twas rarely his practice
174 A Lay of St Dunstan

Such aid to resort to, or such means apply,

Unless he’d some “ dignified knot” to untie,

Adopting, though sometimes, as now, he’d reverse it,

Old Horace’s Maxim “ec Broomstick interstt.” —

—Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin;

Heard all the Saint was saying within ;

Peter, the Lay-brother, sallow and spare,

Peep’d through the key-
hole, and — what
saw he there ?—

Why,—A BROOMSTICK
BRINGING A RUSH-
BOTTOM’D CHAIR.

What Shakspeare ob-
serves, in his play

:

|
Hi
Vl

i xf
mL

yt
4

rat
ree

of King John, Weer

Is undoubtedly ah he
right, ie Ah i]

That “ofttimes the [args
sight 7B ;

Of meansto do ill deeds
will make ill deeds
done.”

Here’s Peter, the Lay-
brother, pale-faced
and meagre,

A good sort of man,
only rather too
eager

To listen to what other people are saying,

When he ought to be minding his business or praying,

Gets into a scrape,—and an awkward one too,—

As you'll find, if you’ve patience enough to go through

The whole of the story I’m laying before ye,—

Entirely from having “the means” in his view

Of doing a thing which he ought not to do!





Still rings in his ear, Distinct and clear,
Abracadabra! that word of fear !
A Lay of St Dunstan L7§

And the two which I never yet happen’d to hear.
Still doth he spy, With Fancy’s eye,

The Broomstick at work, and the Saint standing by ;

And he chuckles, and says to himself with glee,

“ Aha! that Broomstick shall work for me /”

Hark! that swell O’er flood and o’er fell,
Mountain, and dingle, and moss-cover’d dell !
List !—’tis the sound of the Compline bell,
And St Dunstan is quitting his ivied cell ;
Peter, I wot, Is off like a shot,
Or a little dog scalded by something that’s hot,
For he hears his Master approaching the spot
Where he’d listened so long, though he knew he ought net:
Peter remember’d his Master’s frown—
He trembled—he’d not have been caught for a crown;
Howe’er you may laugh, He had rather by half,
Have run up to the top of the tower and jump’d down.

The Compline hour is past and gone,
Evening service is over and done ;
The monks repair To their frugal fare,
A snug little supper of something light
And digestible, ere they retire for the night.
For, in Saxon times, in respect to their cheer,
St Austin’s Rule was by no means severe,
But allowed from the Beverley Roll ’twould appear,
Bread and cheese, and spring onions, and sound table
beer,
And even green peas, when they were not too dear ;
Not like the rule of La Trappe, whose chief merit is
Said to consist in its greater austerities ;
And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws,
Ne’er are suffer’d to speak, Think only in Greek,
And subsist, as the Bears do, by sucking their paws.
Astonish’d I am The gay Baron Geramb, =
With his head sav’ring more of the Lion than Lamb,
Could e’er be persuaded to join such a set—I
Extend the remark to Signor Ambrogetti—
176 A Lay of St Dunstan

For a monk of La Trappe is as thin as a rat,
While an Austin Friar was jolly and fat;
Though, of course, the fare to which I allude,
_ With as good table-beer as ever was brew’d,
Was all “caviare to the multitude,”
Extending alone to the clergy, together in
Hall assembled,—and not to Lay-brethren.
St Dunstan himself sits there at his post,
On what they say is Called a Dais,
O’erlooking the whole of his clerical host,
And eating poached eggs with spinach and toast ;
Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair,
But where is the sixth? — Where’s Peter! — Ay,
WHERE?

Tis an evening in June, And a little half moon,
A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on,
Gleaming and beaming, And dancing the stream in,
Has made her appearance above the horizon ;
Just such a half moon as you see, in a play,
On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey,
Or the fair Turk who weds with the “ Noble Lord Bate-
man ;”
— Vide plate in George Cruickshank’s memoirs of that
great man.

She shines on a turret remote and lone,

A turret with ivy and moss overgrown,

And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone ;
Such a tower as a poet of no mean calibre

I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber,
Assigns to oblivion !—a den for a She bear ;

Within it are found, Strew’d above and around,
On the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground,
All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools,

To name which, and their uses, would puzzle the Schools,

1 And cold oblivion, midst the ruin laid,
Folds her dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
5 PALESTINE.
A Lay of St Dunstan 177

And make very wise people look very like fools ;
Pincers and hooks, And black-letter books,

All sorts of pokers, and all sorts of tongs,

And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs

To Goldsmith’s work, chemistry, alchymy,—all,
In short that a Sage, In that erudite age,

Could require, was at hand, or at least within call.

In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick !—and there

A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottom’d chair !

Abracadabra, that fearful word,
And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard,
Are utter’'d— Tis done! Peter, full of his fun,
Cries, “ Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun!
Bring ale ?—bring a flagon—a hogshead—a tun!
’Tis the same thing to you; I have nothing to do;
And, ’fore George, I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all’s
blue!”

No doubt you’ve remark’d how uncommonly quick
A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick,
Brings it back to his master, and gives it him—Well,
So potent the spell,
The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel,
So ran off like that puppy ;—Some cellar was near,
For in less than ten seconds ’twas back with the beer !
Peter seizes the flagon ; but ere he can suck
Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck,
The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck ;
Continues to run At the rate it begun,
And, au pied de lettre, next brings in a tun!
A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another,
Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother ;
Who, had he possess’d fifty pitchers or stoups,
They all had been too few : for, arranging in groups
The barrels, the Broomstick next started the hoops ;
The ale deluged the floor,
But, still, through the door,
Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more.
M
178 A Lay of St Dunstan

E’en Macbeth to Macduff -
Would have cried “ Hold! enough!”
If half as well drench’d with such “ perilous stuff,”
And, Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit,
Cried lustily, “Stop!—That will do, Broomstick !—
Sufficit |”





But ah, well-a-day!
The Devil, they say,

Tis easier at all times to

raise than to lay.
Again and again
Peter roar’d out invain

His Abracadabra, and t’

other words twain :—
As well might one try
A pack in full cry

To check, and call off
from their headlong
career,

By bawling out,“ Yoicks!”
with one’s hand at
one’s ear.

The longer he roar’d, and
thelouderand quicker,

The faster the Broomstick
was bringing in liquor.





The poor Lay-Brother knew Not on earth what to do—

He caught hold of the Broomstick and snapt it in two.—

Worse and Worse !—Likeadart Each part madea start,

And he found he’d been adding more fuel to fire,

For doth now came loaded with Meux’s entire ;

Combe’s, Delafield’s, Hanbury’s, Truman’s—no stop-
ping—

Goding’s, Charenton’s, Whitbread’s continued to drop in,

With Hodson’s pale ale, from the Sun Brewhouse,
Wapping.

The firms differ’d then, but I can’t put a tax on
A Lay of St Dunstan 179

My memory to say what their names were in Saxon.
To be sure the best beer Of all did not appear ;
For I’ve said ’twas in June, and so late in the year
The “ Trinity Audit Ale” is not come-at-able,
—As I’ve found to my great grief when dining at that
table.

Now extremely alarm’d, Peter scream’d without ceasing,
For a flood of brown-stout he was up to his knees in,
Which, thanks to the Broomstick, continued increasing ;
He fear’d he’d be drown’d,
And he yell'd till the sound
Of his voice, wing’d by terror, at last reach’d the ear
Of St Dunstan himself, who had finish’d Azs beer,
And had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes,
And was just stepping into his bed for a snooze.

His Holiness paused when he heard such a clatter ;
He could not conceive what on earth was the matter.
Slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum,
He issued forthwith from his Sanctum sanctorum,
And calling a few of the Lay-brothers near him,
Who were not yet in bed, and who happen’d to hear him,
At once led the way Without further delay,
To the tower where he’d been in the course of the day.
Poor Peter !—alas !—though St Dunstan was quick, ©
There were two there before him—Grim Death, and
Old Nick !—
When they open’d the door out the malt-liquor flow’d,
Just as when the great Vat burst in Tot’n’am Court Road;
The Lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks
In an instant, and swimming in strong double X ;
While Peter, who, spite of himself now had drank hard,
After floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard,
To the bottom had sunk, And was spied bya monk,
Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drown’d and half
drunk.
In vain did St Dunstan exclaim, “ Vade retro
Strongbeerum !—discede a Lay-fratre Petro !”—
Queer Latin, you'll say, That prefix of “ Zay,”
180 A Lay of St Dunstan

And Strongbeerum /!—I own they'd have call’d- me a
blockhead if
At school I had ventured to use such a Vocative ;
‘Tis a barbarous word, and to me it’s a query
If you'll find it in Patrick, Morell, or Moreri ;
But, the fact is, the Saint was uncommonly flurried,
And apt to be loose in his Latin when hurried ;
The Brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter,
Quite as well as if talk’d to, in Latin much better,
By agrave Cambridge Johnian, Or graver Oxonian
Whose language, we all know, is quite Ciceronian.
It retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry ;
But, in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply,
And other means used by the faculty try.
When onceaman’sdead There’s no more to be said;
Peter's “ Beer with an e” was his “ Bier with an z/ /”

Moral.

By way of a moral, permit me to pop in

The following maxims :—Beware of eaves-dropping 1—

Don't make use of language that isn’t well scann’d !—

Don’t meddle with matters you don’t understand !—

Above all, what I’d wish to impress on both sexes

Is,—Keep clear of Broomsticks, Old Nick, and three
XXXs.

DL Envope.

In Goldsmiths’ Hall there’s a handsome glass case,
And in it a stone figure, found on the place,

When, thinking the old Hall no longer a pleasant one,
They pull’d it all down, and erected the present one.
If you look, you'll perceive that this stone figure twists
A thing like a broomstick in one of its fists.

It’s so injured by time, you can’t make out a feature ;
But it is not St Dunstan,—so doubtless it’s Peter.





Z
A Lay of St Gengulphus 181

Gengulphus, or, as he is usually styled in this country,
‘‘ Jingo,” was perhaps more in the mouths of the “general ”
than any other Saint, on occasions of adjuration (see note,
page 171). Mr Simpkinson from Bath had kindly trans-
mitted me a portion of a primitive ballad, which has escaped
the researches of Ritson and Ellis, but is yet replete with
beauties of no common order. I am happy to say that,
since these Legends first appeared, I have recovered the
whole of it— Vide infra.
“A HFranelpw's dogge leped over a style,
nd hys name was littel Bongo.

B wyth a H—-D wyth an A,—

A with a 6B—G with an O,—

Chey call’dD hym littel Borgo!

Chps Franklyn, Sprs, he brewed goode avle,

Aw he called it Rare goode Styngo!

S, €. DB, Hh, 6.0!

He call’d it Rare goode Stvngs!

owe is notte thys a prettie song ?

E thiwke tt is bye Jonge!

I wothe a P—A, 6, O—

E sweare pt is, by Ipngo!”



0

A Lay of St Gengulphus

“Non multd post, Gengulphus, in domo sua dormiens, occisus est i
quodam clerico qui cum uxore sud adulterare solebat. Cujus corpus dum,
in fereto, in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati sunt.”



“Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancillé sua, scilicet dominum
suum, quam martyrem sanctum, miracula facere, irridens illa, et sub-
surrans, ait, ‘Ita Gengulphus miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum
cantat,” &c. &c. WOLFI! MEMORAB.

GENGULPHUS comes from the Holy Land,

With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon,
Full many a day hath he been away,

Yet his lady deems him return’d full soon,
182 A Lay of St Gengulphus

-Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady, and stopp’d to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stay’d with that Lady, her revels to crown ;

They laugh’d, and they ate and they drank of the best,
And they turn’d the old castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,

Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people called Ennwz.

Now the festive board with viands is stored,
Savoury dishes be there, I ween,

Rich puddings and big, and a barbecued pig,
And oxtail soup in a China tureen.

There’s a flagon of ale as large as a pail—
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on nought they are thinking save eating and
drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

“You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep,”
Says the proverb: that is “take the Fair unawares ;”
A maid o’er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, “ Ma’am, here’s Gengulphus a-coming up-
stairs.”

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste,

And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus’s taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When “poor dear Gengulphus” at last appear’d!
She kiss’d and she press’d “the dear man” to her breast,
In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard,
A Lay of St Gengulphus 183

Such hugging and squeezing! ’twas almost unpleasing,
A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye ;?

She was so very glad, that she seem’dhalf mad,
And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth’s laid,
And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;

On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
And she mixes a stiff glass of “ Cold Without.”

Then again she began at the “ poor dear” man ;
She press’d him to drink, and she press’d him to eat,
And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
To comfort his “poor dear” travel-worn feet.

“Nor night nor day since he’d been away,

Had she had any rest,” she “vow’d and declared.”
She “never could eat one morsel of meat,

For thinking how ‘poor dear’ Gengulphus fared.”

She “really did think she had not slept a wink
Since he left her, although he’d been absent so long ;”
He here shook his head,—right little he said,
But he thought she was “ coming it rather too strong.”

Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles,
Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,

His weaken’d body, subdued by the toddy,
Falls out of his chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair ;
He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,

And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
And his night-cap into his mouth they cram ;
And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,

Till the “ poor dear soul” goes off like a lamb.

1 Eve daxpuoe yehacaca.—Hom,
184 A Lay of St Gengulphus

And now they tried the deed to hide ;
Fora little bird whisper’d, “Perchance you may swing;
Here’s a corpse in the case with a sad swell’d face,
And a Medical Crowner’s a queer sort of thing!”

So the Clerk and his wife, they each took a knife,
And the nippers that nipp’d the loaf-sugar for tea ;
With the edges and points they sever’d the joints
At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.





Thus, limb from limb, they dismember’d him
So entirely, that e’en when they came to his wrists,
With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his
“ flippers,”
As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

When they’d cut off his head, entertaining a dread
Lest folks should remember Gengulphus’s face,

They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
Down the well,—and the limbs in some different place.

But first the long beard from the chin they shear’d,
And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,

With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair,
A Lay of St Gengulphus 185

They contriv’d to pack up the trunk in a sack,
Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,

The Clerk bearing arms, legs and all on his back,
As that vile Mr Greenacre served Mrs Brown.

But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
And that in a manner the least expected !

Who could surmise a man ever could rise
Who'd been thus carbonado’d, cut up, and dissected ?

No doubt ’twould surprise the pupils at Guy’s ;
I am no unbeliever—no man can say that o’ me—
But St Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.

You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
Or a Mussulman making his heathen salaam, or

A Jew or a Turk; but it’s other guess work
When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.

By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
Sends his cards round the neighbourhood next day,
and urges his
Wish to receive a snug party to dine,
Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.

At a quarter past five they are all alive,

At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in ;
And to every guest his card had express’d

“ Half-past” as the hour for “a greasy chin.”

Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
With the choicest Rhine wines in his Highness’s stock ;
When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
Requested some water to mix with his Hock.

The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
Ere Gengulphus’s head, from the well’s bottom, said
In mild accents, “ Do help us out, that’s a good girl!”
186 A Lay of St Gengulphus

Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head

In her bucket ;—with fright she was ready to drop :—
Conceive, if you can, how she roar’d and she ran,

With the head rolling after her, bawling out “Stop!”

She ran and she roar’d, till she came to the board
Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
When Gengulphus’s poll, which continued to roll
At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.

Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
The head smiles, and begs them to bring him his legs,
As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.

Kicking open the casement, to each one’s amazement,
Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,

And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
Behind,—for the left leg was troubled with corns.

Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
And arms on their bent elbows dance through the
throng,
While two hands assist, though nipp’d off at the wrist,
The said shoulders in bearing a body along.

They march up to the head, not one syllable said,

For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,

Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound asa trout.

I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
Ne’er did such an assembly behold such a scene ;
Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
With a dead body placed in the centre between.

Yes, they stared—well they might, at so novel a sight:
No one utter’d a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,

But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright ;
And they gazed at the dead man, thedead man at them,
A Lay of St Gengulphus 187

The Prince Bishop’s Jester, on punning intent,
As he view’d the whole thirty, in jocular terms
Said, “They put him in mind of a Council of Trente
Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms.”

But what should they do?—Oh! nobody knew

What was best to be done, either stranger or resident ;
The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through

In vain, for his books could not furnish a precedent.

The Prince Bishop mutter’d a curse, and a prayer,
Which his double capacity hit to a nicety :

His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
His Episcopal moiety said “ Benedicite!”

The Coroner sat on the body that night,
And the jury agreed,—not a doubt could they
harbour,—
“That the chin of the corpse—the sole thing brought
to light— .
Had been recently shaved by a very bad barber.”

They sent out Von Taiinsend, Von Biirnie, Von Roe,
Von Maine, and Von Rowantz—through chalets and
chateaux,
Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
And they stuck up placards on the walls of the
Stadthaus.

“ Murder ! !

“ WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown,
Has been recently found at his Highness’s banquet,
Rather shabbily dressed in an Amice, or gown
In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket ;

‘AND WHEREAS, there’s great reason indeed to suspect
That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice
Aforethought, have kill’d, and begun to dissect
The said Gentleman, not very far from the palace ;
188 A Lay of St Gengulphus

“THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE !—Whoever shall seize,
And such person or persons, to justice surrender,
Shall receive—such REWARD—as his Highness shall
please,
On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.

And, in order the matter more clearly to trace
To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop,
further,
Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace
To all such as have zo¢ been concern’d in the murther.

“Done this day, at our palace,—July twenty- ae
By Command,

(Signed)
Johann Von Riissell,

Deceased rather in years—had a squint when alive:
And smells slightly of gin—linen mark’d with a “ G.”

The Newspapers, too, madejno little ado,
Though a different version each managed to dish up;
Some said “The Prince Bishop had run a man through,”
Others said “an assassin had kill’d the Prince Bishop.”

The “Ghent Herald” fell foul of the “ Bruxelles Gazette,”
The “Bruxelles Gazette” with much sneering ironical,
Scorned to remain in the “ Ghent Herald’s ” debt,
And the “Amsterdam Times” quizz’d the “Nurem-
berg Chronicle.”

In one thing, indeed, all the jeunes agreed,

pee of “ politics,” “bias,” or “ party collision ;’
Viz. : to “ give,” when they'd “further accounts ” of the
deed,

“Full particulars ” soon, in “a later Edition.”

But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began
To think it high time to “ astonish the natives,”_
A Lay of St Gengulphus 189

First, a Rittmeister’s Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
And supposed the most short-sighted woman in
Holland,
Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,
From one glimpse of his “squint” than from glasses
by Dollond.

By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose,
Megrims, headache, and vapours were put to the rout ;
And one single touch of his precious Great Toes
Was a certain specific of chilblains and gout.

Rheumatics,—sciatica,—tic-doloureux !

Apply to his shin-bones—not one of them lingers ;—
All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew,

If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.

Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs ;
When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of
breathing, :
Sea-sickness, and cholic; or, rubb’d on the gums,
Were “ A blessing to Mothers,” for infants in teething.

Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
Where the mark remain’d visible still of the knife,
Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check,
Was safe from sore throat for the rest of his life.

Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint
Giving way, proved an influence clearly divine,

They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint,
So they lock’d him up, body and bones, in a shrine. |

Through country and town his new Saintship’s renown
As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing,

Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,
It seem’d as if “ Wonders had never done ceasing.”

The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
A sad falling off in their off’rings to find,

His feats were so many—still the greatest of any,—
In every sense of the word, was—behind ;
190 A Lay of St Gengulphus

For the German Police were beginning to cease
From exertions which each day more fruitless appear’d,
When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
Unravell’d the whole by the help of—his beard !

If you look back you'll see the aforesaid darbe gris,
When divorced from the chin of its murder’d pro-
prietor,
Had been stuff’d in the seat of a kind of settee,
Or double-arm’d chair, to keep the thing quieter.

It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange
Itself in its place when the limbs join’d together ;
P’rhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
And constructed of good, strong, maroon-colour’d

leather.

Or, what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose,
For Saints, e’en when dead, still retain their volition,

It should rest there, to aid some particular views,
Produced by his very peculiar position.

Be that as it may, on the very first day
That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee,
What occurr’d almost frighten’d her senses away,
Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty.

They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds
Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their
orisons :
And especially how as regards invalids,
His miraculous cures far outrivall’d Von Morison’s.

“ The cripples,” said they, “ fling their crutches away,
And people born blind now can easily see us! ”—
But she, (we presume, a disciple of Hume,)
Shook her head, and said angrily, “ Credat /udaus !”










Poe w ty suc Sgsec
peas





AND THE MAIDS CRIED ‘‘GOOD GRACIOUS, HOW VERY TENACIOUS !”
192 A Lay of St Gengulphus

“ Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,
To bring grist to their mill, these devices have
hit on.—
He works miracles !—pooh !— I'd believe it of you
Just as soon, you great Geese,—or the Chair that I
sit on!”

The Chair !—at that word—it seems really absurd,
But the truth must be told,—what contortions and
grins
Distorted her face !—She sprang up from her place
Just as though she’d been sitting on needles and pins!

For, as if the Saint’s beard the rash challenge had heard
Which she utter’d, of what was beneath her forgetful,
Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,
Like a porcupine’s quills when the animal’s fretful.

That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether, ;
Like tenter-hooks holding when clench’d from within,
And the maids cried “Good gracious! how very
tenacious!”
—They as well might endeavour to pull off her skin !—

She shriek’d with the pain, but all efforts were vain ;
In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,—

The cushion stuck fast !—From that hour to her last
She could never get rid of that comfortless “ Bustle!”

And e’en as Macbeth, when devising the death
Of his King, heard “the very stones prate of his
whereabouts ;”
So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life
Crying “Murder!” resound from the cushion,—or
thereabouts.

With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark

As to what his fate was; but I cannot imagine he
Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be

Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine :
aa eaten mms

A Lay of St Gengulphus 193

For cut-throats, we’re sure, can be never secure,

And “ History’s Muse ” still to prove it her pen holds,
As you'll see, if you look in a rather scarce book,

“ God's Revenge against Murder,” by one Mr Reynolds.

MORAL.

Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away,
Like Ulysses of old,! (vide Homer and Naso,)

Don’t lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
And when you ave coming home, just write and say so!

And you, learned Clerks, who’re zo¢ given to roam,
Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum ;

Don’t visit a house when the Master’s from home!
Shun drinking,—and study the “ Vzte Sanctorum !”

Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect
In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail ;
But remember Gengulphus’s wife !—and reflect
On the moral enforced by her terrible tale!

0.

Mr Barney Maguire has laid claim to the next Saint as a
countrywoman ; and “Why wouldn’t he?” when all the
world knows the O’Dells were a fine ould, ancient family,
sated in Tipperary

“Ere the Lord Mayor stole his collar of gowld,
And sowld it away to a trader?” ?

He is manifestly wrong; but, as he very rationally
observes, “No matter for that,—she’s a Saint any way!”

1 Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.

2 The ‘Inglorious Memory” of this ould ancient transaction is still, we
understand, kept up in Dublin by an annual proclamation at one of the city

gates. The jewel, which has replaced the abstracted ornament, is said to have
been presented by King William, and worn by Daniel O’Connell, Esq.

N
194 The Lay of St Odille

The Lay of St Odille

ODILLE was a maid of a dignified race ;
Her father, Count Otto, was lord of Alsace ;
Such an air, such a grace, Such a form, such a face,
All agreed,.’twere a fruitless endeavour to trace
In the Court, or within fifty miles of the place.
Many ladies in Strasburg were beautiful, still
They were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odille.

But Odille was devout, and, before she was nine,
Had “ experienced a call” she consider’d divine,
To put on the veil at St Ermengarde’s shrine.—

Lords, Dukes, and Electors, and Counts Palatine
Came to seek her in marriage from both sides the Rhine ;
But vain their design, They are all left to pine,
Their oglings and smiles are all useless ; in fine,

Not one of these gentlefolks, try as they will,
Can draw “ Ask my papa” from the cruel Odille.

At length one of her suitors, a certain Count Herman,

A highly respectable man as a German,

Who smoked like a chimney, and drank like a Merman,

Paid his court to her father, conceiving his firman
Would soon make her bend, And induce her to lend

An ear to a love-tale in lieu of a sermon,

He gain’d the old Count, who said, “Come, Mynheer,

fill !—
Here’s luck to yourself and my daughter Odille !”

The Lady Odille was quite nervous with fear,
When a little bird whisper’d that toast in her ear;
She murmur’d “O, dear: My Papa has got queer,
I am sadly afraid, with that nasty strong beer!
He’s so very austere, and severe, that it’s clear,
If he gets in his ‘tantrums,’ I can’t remain here;
But St Ermengarde’s convent is luckily near ;
It were folly to stay Pour prendre congé,
MOBI ae it an an et Pn

The Lay of St Odille LOG

I shall put on my bonnet, and e’en run away!”
—She unlock’d the back door and descended the hill,
On whose crest stood the towers of the sire of Odille.

—When he found she’d levanted, the Count of Alsace
At first turn’d remarkably red in the face ;
He anathematised, with much unction and grace,
Every soul who came near, and consign’d the whole race
Of runaway girls to a very warm place ;

With a frightful grimace He gave orders for chase ;
His vassals set off at a deuce of a pace,
And of all whom they met, high or low, Jack or Jill,
Ask’d, “ Pray have you seen anything of Lady Odille ?”

Now I think I’ve been told,—for I’m no sporting man,—
That the “ Knowing ones” call this by far the best plan,
“ Take the lead and then keep it ! ’— that is, if you can.—
Odille thought so too, so she set off and ran,
Put her best leg before, Starting at score,

As I said some lines since, from that little back door,
And not being miss’d until half after four,
Had what hunters call “law” for a good hour and more ;

“Doing her best, Without stopping to rest,
Like “young Lochinvar who came out of the West.”
“?*Tis done !—I am gone !—over briar, brook, and rill !
They'll be sharp lads who catch me!” said young Miss

Odille.

But you've all read in AEsop, or Phzedrus, or Gay,
How a tortoise and hare ran together one day ;
How the hare, making play,
“ Progress’d right slick away,”
As “them tarnation chaps” the Americans say ;
While the tortoise, whose figure is rather outré
For racing, crawl’d straight on, without let or stay,
Having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay,
Till, ere noon’s ruddy ray
Changed to eve’s sober grey,

‘Though her form and obesity.caused some delay,

Perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way,








AND AS THEN LADIES SELDOM WORE THINGS WITH A FRILL ROUND THE
ANKLE, THE STILES SADLY BOTHERED ODILLE,
The Lay of St Odille 197

And she chased her fleet-footed “ praycursor ” until
She o’ertook her at last ;—so it fared with Odille!

For although, as I said, she ran gaily at first,

And show’d no inclination to pause, if she durst ;

She at length felt opprest with the heat and with thirst,

Its usual attendant; nor was that the worst,

Her shoes went down at heel ; at last one of them burst.
Now a gentleman smiles At a trot of ten miles ;

But not so the Fair ; then consider the stiles,

And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill

Round the ankle, these stiles sadly bother’d Odille.

Still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track,

She kept steadily on, though the terrible crack

In her shoe made of course her progression more slack,
Till she reach’d the Swartz Forest (in English the Black);

I cannot divine How the boundary line
Was pass’d which is somewhere there form’d by the

Rhine— ‘

Perhaps she’d the knack To float o’er on her back—
Or, perhaps, cross’d the old bridge of boats at Brisach,
(Which Vauban, some years after, secured from attack
By a bastion of stone which the Germans call “ Wacke,”)
All I know is, she took not so much as a snack,

Till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill,
On a mountain’s brow sank down the weary Odille.

I said on its “ brow,” but I should have said “ crown,”
For ’twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown,
And so high that ’twas frightful indeed to look down
Upon Friburg, a place of some little renown,
That lay at its foot ; but imagine the frown
That contracted her brow, when full many a clown
She perceived coming up from that horrid post-town.
They had follow’d her trail,
And now thought without fail,
As little boys say, to “lay salt on her tail;”
While the Count, who knew no other law but his will,
Swore that Herman that evening should marry Odille.
198 The Lay of St Odille

Alas, for Odille! poor dear! what could she do?
Her father’s retainers now had her in. view,
As she found from their raising a joyous halloo ;
While the Count, riding on at the head of his crew,
In their snuff-colour’d doublets and breeches of blue,
Was huzzaing and urging them on to pursue.—
What, indeed, cou/dd she do? She very well knew
If they caught her how much she should have to go
through ;
But then—she’d so shocking a hole in her shoe!
And to go further on was impossible ;—true,
She might jump o’er the precipice ;—still there are few
In her place, who could manage their courage to screw
Up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu :—
Alack! how she envied the birds as they flew ;
No Nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe,
Came to bear her from him she loath’d worse than a Jew;
So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew,
Crying “ Holy St Ermengarde!
Oh, from these vermin guard
Her whose last hope rests entirely on you ;—
Don’t let papa catch me, dear Saint !—rather kill
At once, sur-le-champ, your devoted Odille!”

It’s delightful to see those who strive to oppress

Get baulk’d when they think themselves sure of success.
The Saint came to the rescue !_I fairly confess

I don’t see, as a Saint, how she well could do less

Than to get such a votary out of her mess.

Odille had scarce closed her pathetic address,

When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness,
Closed again, and secured her within its recess,

In.a natural grotto, Which puzzled Count Otto,
Who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to.
’Twas her voice !—but ’twas Vox et preterea Nil!

Nor could any one guess what was gone with Odille !

Then burst from the mountain a splendour that quite
Eclipsed, in its brilliance, the finest Bude light,





~~

we

ule ®
Loot

ma &
yyy
FR

THEY HAD FOLLOWED HER TRAIL.


200 The Lay of St Odille

And there stood St Ermengarde, drest all in white,
A palm-branch in her left hand, her beads in her right ;
While, with faces fresh gilt, and with wings burnish’d
bright,
A great many little boys’ heads took their flight
Above and around to a very great height,
And seem’d pretty lively considering their plight,
Since every one saw, With amazement and awe,
They could never sit down, for they hadn’t de guoz.—
All at the sight, From the knave to the knight,
Felt a very unpleasant sensation, call’d fright ;
While the Saint, looking down,
With a terrible frown,
Said, “My Lords, you are done most remarkably
brown !|—
I am really ashamed of you both ;—my nerves thrill
At your scandalous conduct to poor, dear Odille!

“Come, make yourselves scarce !—it is useless to say,
You will gain nothing here by a longer delay.
‘Quick! Presto! Begone!’ as the conjurors say ;
For as to the Lady, I’ve stow'd her away

In this hill, in a stratum of London blue clay ;

And I shan’t, I assure you, restore her to-day

Till you faithfully promise no more to say ‘ Nay,’
But declare, ‘If she will be a nun, why, she may.’
For this you’ve my word, and I never yet broke it,
So put that in your pipe, my Lord Otto, and smoke it !—
One hint to your vassals,—a month at the ‘ Mill’
Shall be nuts to what they’ll get who worry Odille!”

The Saint disappear’d as she ended, and so

Did the little boys’ heads, which, above and below,
As I told you a very few stanzas ago,

Had been flying about her, and jumping Jem Crow;
Though, without any body, or leg, foot, or toe,

How they managed such antics, I really don’t know;
Be that as it may, they all “ melted like snow

Off a dyke,” as the Scotch say in sweet Edinbro’.
The Lay of St Odille 201

And there stood the Count,

With his men on the mount,
Just like “ twenty-four jackasses all on a row.”
What was best to be done—’twas a sad bitter pill—
But gulp it he must, or else lose his Odille.

The lord of Alsace therefore alter’d his plan,
And said to himself, like a sensible man,
“T can’t do as I would,—I must do as I can ;
It will not do to lie under any Saint’s ban,
For your hide, when you do, they all manage to tan ;
So Count Herman must pick up some Betsy or Nan,
Instead of my girl,—some Sue, Polly, or Fan ;—
If he can’t get the corn he must do with the bran,
And make shift with the pot if he can’t have the pan.’
With such proverbs as these
He went down on his knees,
And said, “ Blessed St Ermengarde, just as you please—
They shall build a new, convent,—I’ll pay the whole bill,
(Taking discount,) its Abbess shall be my Odille !”

There are some of my readers, I’ll venture to say,
Who have never seen Friburg, though some of them
may,
And others, ’tis likely may go there some day.
Now, if ever you happen to travel that way,
I do beg and pray, twill your pains well repay,—
That you'll take what the Cockney folks call a “po-
shay,”
(Though in Germany these things are more like a dray,)
You may reach this same hill with a single relay,—
And do look how the rock,
Through the whole of its block,
Is split open, as though by some violent shock
From an é€arthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock
From the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock
Of a germanised giant, Thor, Woden, or Lok:
And see howit rears Itstwo monstrous great ears,
For when once you’re between them such each side
appears ;
202 The Lay of St Odille

And list to the sound of the water one hears

Drip, drip, from the fissures, like rain-drops or tears,
—Odille’s, I believe,—which have flowed all these years ;
—I think they account for them so ;—but the rill

I am sure is connected some way with Odille.

MORAL.

Now then, for a moral, which always arrives
At the end, like the honey bees take to their hives,
And the more one observes it the better one thrives,—
We have all heard it said in the course of our lives,
“Needs must when a certain old gentleman ‘drives ;”
’Tis the same with a lady,—if once she contrives
To get hold of the ribands, how vainly one strives
To escape from her lash, or to shake off her gyves !
Then let’s act like Count Otto, and while one survives,
Succumb to our She-Saints—videlicet wives !
(Aszde.) ,

That is if one has not a “good bunch of fives.” —
(I can’t think how that last line escaped from my quill,
For I am sure it has nothing to do with Odille.)

Now, young ladies, to you !—

Don’t put on theshrew!
And don’t be surprised if your father looks blue
When you're pert, and won’t act as he wants you to do!
Be sure that you never elope ;—there are few,—
Believe me, you'll find what I say to be true,—
Who run restive, but find as they bake they must brew,
And come off at last with “a hole in their shoe ;”
Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville,
Can produce enough saints to save every Odille.






CT





A Lay of St Nicholas 203

“ Hycolas, cytezpr of ve cyte! of Pancracs, was borne of rpche
and holpe kynne,
And hyps fader was named Epiphanus, and his moder FJohane.”

He was born on a cold frosty morning, on the 6th of
December, (upon which day his feast is still observed,) but
in what axxo Domiiné is not so clear; his baptismal register,
together with that of his friend and colleague, St Thomas
at Hill, having been “lost in the great fire of London.”

St Nicholas was a great patron of Mariners, and, saving
your presence—of Thieves also, which honourable fraternity

‘ have long rejoiced in the appellation of his “Clerks.”

Cervantes’s story of Sancho’s detecting a sum of money in
a swindler’s walking-stick, is merely the Spanish version of

d

a “Lay of St Nicholas,’ extant “in choice Italian” a
century before honest Miguel was born.

A Lay of St Nicholas

“ Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellee pulchritudinis
miree, et ecce Divus, fide catholic, et cruce, et aqua benedicta
armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sancte et Individuz
Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinerevalens,
mugitibus fugit.” ROGER HOVEDEN.

“Lorp ABBOT! Lord Abbot! I’d fain confess ;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe ;

Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!”

On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid ;
“ Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me !’—
“Now naye, Fair Daughter,” the Lord Abbot said,
“Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be ;

1 Parish.
204 A Lay of St Nicholas

“ There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!

And hard by doth dwell, in St Catherine’s cell,
Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey !”

“__Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John,
Though sage Penitauncers I trow they be;

Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone,
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.

“Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!

I am a Maiden royally born,
And I come of old Plantagenet’s line.

“ Though hither I stray, in lowly array,
I am a damsel of high degree;

And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee !

“Counts a many, and Dukes a few,
A suitoring came to my father’s Hall;

But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleased my father beyond them all.

“Dukes a many, and Counts a few,
I would have wedded right cheerfullie ;
But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain,
And I vow’d that he ne’er should my bridegroom be!

“So hither I fly, in lowly guise,

From their gilded domes and their princely halls;
Fain would I dwell in some holy cell,

Or within some Convent’s peaceful walls!”
—Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot,

“ Now rest thee, Fair Daughter, withouten fear ;
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke

Of Holy Church an he seek thee here :
A Lay of St Nicholas 205

“ Holy Church denieth all search
*Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams ;
And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock,
Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.

“Then lay, Fair Daughter, thy fears aside,
For here this day shalt thou dine with me! ”—
“ Now naye, now naye,” the fair maiden cried ;
“Tn sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be

“Friends would whisper, and foes would frown,
Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree,

And ill mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!

“There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
With beans and lettuces fair to see;

His lenten fare now let me share,
I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie! ”

—“Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
To our patron Saint foul shame it were

Should wayworn guest, with toil oppress’d,
Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.

“There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be ;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen;
They are a goodly companie!”

The Abbot hath donn’d his mitre and ring,
His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine ;

And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring
To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.

The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety ;
Liver, and gizzard, and all are there ;

Ne’er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.
206 A Lay of St Nicholas

But no pious stave he, no Pater or Ave
Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden’s face:
She ask’d him for stuffing, she ask’d him for gravy,

She asked him for gizzard :—but not for Grace !



Yet gaily the Lord Abbot smiled, and press’d,
And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup fill’d ;

And he help’d his guest to a bit of the breast,
And he sent the drumsticks down to be grill’d.

There was no lack of old Sherris sack,
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright ;
And aye, as he drain’d off his cup with a smack,
He grew less pious and more polite.

She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
And she drank as Lady ought not to drink ;

And he press’d her hand ‘neath the table thrice,
And he wink’d as Abbot ought not to wink.

And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed, and they tuck’d him in!
A Lay of St Nicholas 207

The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed ;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
As he peep’d through the key-hole, could scarce fancy
real
The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing,—
He could not distinguish the words very plain,
But ’twas all about “Cole,” and “jolly old Soul,”
And “Fiddlers,” and “ Punch,” and things quite as
profane.

Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such revelling,
With fervour himself began to bless ;

For he thought he must somehow have let the devil in,—
And perhaps was not very much out in his guess,

The Accusing Buyers? “flew up to Heaven’s Chancery,”
Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern ;

The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
Wept—(See the works of the late Mr Sterne).

Indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in
When, after a lapse of a great many years,

They book’d Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing,
And blotted the fine out again with their tears!

But St Nicholas’ agony who may paint?
His senses at first were well-nigh gone;
The beautiful saint was ready to faint
When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on!

For never, I ween, had such doings been seen
There before, from the time that most excellent Prince
Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders,
Had built and endowed it some centuries since.

1 The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen when
such things were. Alack! alack! the Railroads have ruined his “ vested
interest.”
208 A Lay of St Nicholas

—But hark !—’tis a sound from the outermost gate !
A startling sound from a powerful blow.—
Who knocks so late ?—it is half after eight
By the clock,—and the clock’s five minutes too slow.

Never, perhaps, had such loud double raps
Been heard in St Nicholas’ Abbey before ;

All agreed “it was shocking to keep people knocking,”
But none seem’d inclined to “answer the door.”

Now a louder bang through the cloisters rang,
And the gate on its hinges wide open flew ;
And all were aware of a Palmer there,
With his cockle, hat, staff, and his sandal shoe.

Many a furrow, and many a frown,
By toil and time on his brow were traced ;
And his long loose gown was of ginger brown,
And his rosary dangled below his waist.

Now seldom, I ween, in such costume seen,
Except at a stage-play or masquerade ;
But who doth not know it was rather the go
With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade ?

With noiseless stride did that Palmer glide
Across that oaken floor ;

And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump
Against the Refectory door!

Wide open it flew, and plain to the view
The Lord Abbot they all mote see; -
In his hands was a cup, and he lifted it up,
“ Here’s the Pope’s good health with three!!”

Rang in their ears three deafening cheers,
“Huzza! huzza! huzza!”

And one of the party said, “Go it, my hearty !”—
When outspake that Pilgrim grey—


A Lay of St Nicholas 209

“A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon!
Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;

And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
Of food, Lord Abbot, hath pass’d my lip.

“And I am come from a far countree,

And have visited many a holy shrine ;
And long have I trod the sacred sod

Where the Saints do rest in Palestine | ”—

“ An thou art come from a far countree,
And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,

Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight
Thou Palmer grey, that thine eyes have seen.

“ Arede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Grey Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,

And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
And a cup o’ the best shall thy guerdon be !”

“Oh! I have been east, and I have been west,
And I have seen many a wonderful sight ;
But never to me did it happen to see
A wonder like that which I see this night !

“To see a Lord Abbot, in rochet and stole,

With Prior and Friar,—a strange mar-velle !—
O’er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl,

And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell!”
He felt in his gown of ginger-brown,

And he pull’d out a flask from beneath ;
It was rather tough work to get out the cork,

But he drew it at last with his teeth.

O’er a pint and a quarter of holy water
He made the sacred sign ;
And he dashed the whole on the soz-dzsan¢ daughter
Of old Plantagenet’s line !
oO
210 A Lay of St Nicholas

Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek,
With a wild, unearthly scream ;

And fizzl’d, and hiss’d, and produced such a mist,
They were all half-choked by the steam.

Her dove-like eyes turn’d to coals of fire,
Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout,
Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws,
And her bosom went in, and her tail came out.

On her chin there appear’d a long Nanny-goat’s beard,
And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;

And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost Hell !

The Palmer threw down his ginger gown,
His hat and his cockle ; and, plain to sight,

Stood St Nicholas’ self, and his shaven crown
Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light.

The Fiend made a grasp, the Abbot to clasp;
But St Nicholas lifted his holy toe,

And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick
On his elderly Namesake, he made him let go.

And out of the window he flew like a shot,
For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
And caught the foul demon about the spot
Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.

And he bounded away, like a foot-ball at play,
Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,

Knocking Mammon the meagre o’er pursy Belphegor,
And Lucifer into Beélzebub’s lap.

Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip,
That saved the Lord Abbot,—though breathless with
fright


INTO THE BOTTOMLESS PIT HE FELL SLAP,





tees RP EER LTE NTE LIPPER EE LL AIA PALLETS


212 A Lay of St Nicholas

In escaping he tumbled and fractured his hip,
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his
right !

e

On the banks of the Rhine, as he’s stopping to dine,
From a certain Inn-window the traveller is shown

Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
Some miles up the river, south-east of Cologne.

And, while “sour-kraut” she sells you, the Landlady
tells you
That there, in those walls, now all roofless and bare,
One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one,
On filling a cz-devant Abbot’s state chair.

How a cz-devant Abbot, all clothed in drab, but
Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt, and no shoes,

(His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing
Laid aside,) in yon Cave lived a pious recluse ;

How he rose with the sun, limping “dot and go one,”
To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather,
Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher

Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together ;

How a thirsty old codger, the neighbours called Roger,
With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine!

What its quality wanted he made up in quantity,
Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine!

And how, as their bodily strength fail’d, the mental man
Gain’d tenfold vigour and force in all four ;

And how, to the day of their death, the “Old Gentleman”
Never attempted to kidnap them more.

And how, when at length, in the odour of sanctity,
All of them died without grief or complaint ;

The Monks of St Nicholas said ’twas ridiculous
Not to suppose every one was a Saint.


The Lady Rohesia 213

And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby
As not to say yearly four masses a head,

On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper
Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!

How folks long held in reverence their reliques and
memories,
How the ci-devant Abbot’s obtain’d greater still,
When some cripples, on touching his fractured os femor‘s,
Threw down their crutches, and danced a quadrille!

And how Abbot Simon, (who turn’d out a prime one,)
These words, which grew into a proverb full soon,
O’er the late Abbot’s grotto, stuck up as a motto,
“Who suppes with the Beville sholde have a long
spoone! 1"





Rohesia, daughter of Ambrose, and sister to Sir Everard
Ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the 16th cen-
tury, and was married in 1526, at St Giles’s, Cripplegate,
in the City of London. The following narrative contains
all. else that is known of

The Lady Rohesia

THE Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed !

So said the doctor,—and doctors are generally allowed
to be judges in these matters ;—besides, Dr Butts was the
Court Physician : he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its
cross of the blackest ebony,—vazson de plus !

“Is there no hope, Doctor?” said Beatrice Grey.

“Ts there no hope?” said Everard Ingoldsby. ©

“Is there no hope?” said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.—He
was the Lady Rohesia’s husband ;—he spoke the last.
214 The Lady Rohesia

The doctor shook his head: he looked at the discon-
solate widower zz osse, then at the hour-glass ;—its waning
sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his
patient. Dr Butts was a very learned man. “Ars longa,
vita brevis !” said Doctor Butts.

“T am very sorry to hear it,’ quoth Sir Guy de Mont-
gomeri.

Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but he was no
scholar.

“Alas! my poor Sister!” sighed Ingoldsby.

“ Alas! my poor Mistress!” sobbed Beatrice.

Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed ;—his grief was too
deep-seated for outward manifestation.

“And how long, Doctor—?” The afflicted husband
could not finish the sentence.

Doctor Butts withdrew his hand: from the wrist of the
dying lady; he pointed to the horologe; scarcely a
quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. Again
he shook his head ; the eye of the patient waxed dimmer,
the rattling in the throat increased.

“What’s become of Father Francis?” whimpered
Beatrice.

“The last consolations of the church—” suggested
Everard.

A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy.

“Where zs the Confessor?” continued his grieving
brother-in-law.

“In the pantry,” cried Marion Hacket pertly, as she
tripped downstairs in. search of that venerable ecclesiastic ;
—“in the pantry, I warrant me.”—The bower-woman was
not wont to be in the wrong ;—in the pantry was the holy
man discovered,—at his devotions.

“ Pax vobiscum!” said Father Francis, as he entered the
chamber of death.

“ Vita brevis!” retorted Doctor Butts:—he was not a
man to be browbeat out of his Latin,—and by a paltry
Friar Minim, too. Had it been a Bishop, indeed, or even
a mitred Abbot ;—but a miserable Franciscan !

“ Benedicite!” said the friar.
The Lady Rohesia ars

Eid

“ Ars longa!” returned the a.
1
t

Leech.

Doctor Butts adjusted the
tassels of his falling band;
drew his short sad-coloured
cloak closer around him ;
and, grasping his cross-
handled walking-staff, stalked
majestically out of the apart-
ment.— Father Francis had
the field to himself.

The worthy chaplain
hastened to administer the
last rites of the church. To
all appearance he had little
time to lose; as he concluded,
the dismal toll of the passing-
bell sounded from the belfry
tower; little Hubert, the
bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with all his might—
It was a capital contrivance that same passing-bell :—
which of the Urbans or Innocents invented it is a query ;
but, whoever he was, he deserved well of his country and
of Christendom.

Ah! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we,
their degenerate children, conceit them to have been.
The passing bell! a most solemn warning to imps of
every description, is not to be regarded with impunity :
the most impudent Swccubus of them all dare as well dip
his claws in holy water, as come within the verge of its
sound. Old Nick himself, if he sets any value at all upon
his tail, had best convey himself clean out of hearing, and
leave the way open to Paradise. Little Hubert continued
pulling with all his might, and St Peter began to look out
for a customer.

The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the
Lady Rohesia: she raised her head slightly ; inarticulate
sounds issued from her lips,—inarticulate, that is, to the
profane ears of the laity. Those of Father Francis, indeed,

e

i oe


216 The Lady Rohesia

were sharper; nothing, as he averred, could be more |

distinct than the words, “ A thousand marks to the priory
of St Mary Rouncival.”

Now the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsby had brought her
husband broad lands and large possessions ; much of her
ample dowry, too, was, at her own disposal; and nun-
cupative wills had not yet been abolished by Act of
Parliament.

“Pious soul!” ejaculated Father Francis. “ A thousand
marks, she said—-”

“Tf she did, I'll be shot!” said Guy de Montgomeri.

“A thousand marks!” continued: the Confessor, fixing
his cold grey eye upon the knight, as he went on heedless
of the interruption ;—“a thousand marks! and as many
Aves and Paters shall be duly said—as soon as the money
is paid down.”

Sir Guy shrank from the monk’s gaze; he turned to the
window, and muttered to himself something that sounded
like “ Don’t you wish you may get it?”

The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted
the room, taking with him the remains of the holy oil he
had been using for Extreme Unction. Everard Ingoldsby
waited on him down stairs.

“ A thousand thanks!” said the latter.

“A thousand marks!” said the friar.

“ A thousand devils!” growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri,
from the top of the landing-place.

But his accents fell unheeded; his brother-in-law and
the friar were gone ; he was left alone with his departing
lady and Beatrice Grey.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of
the bed: his arms were crossed upon his bosom, his chin
was sunk upon his breast ; his eyes were filled with tears ;
the dim rays of the fading watch-light gave a darker shade
to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little
bald patch on the top of his head,—for Sir Guy was a
middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a
slight bend in his shoulders, but that not much: his
if
i



The Lady Rohesia 217

complexion was somewhat florid,—especially about the
nose; but his lady was zz extremis, and at this particular
moment he was paler than usual.

“Bim! bome!” went the bell. The knight groaned
audibly ; Beatrice Grey wiped her eye with her little
square apron of lace de Malines; there was a moment’s
pause,—a moment of intense affliction ; she let it fall,—all
but one corner, which remained between her finger and
thumb.—She looked at Sir Guy; drew the thumb and
forefinger of her other hand slowly along its border,
till they reached the opposite extremity, She sobbed
aloud: “So kind a lady!” said Beatrice Grey.—“ So
excellent a wife!” responded Sir Guy. “So good!” said
the damsel.‘ So dear!” said the knight—* So pious!”
said she-—‘“So humble!” said he—‘“So good to the
poor!”--“So capital a manager!”—“So punctual at
matins !”—“ Dinner dished to a moment ! ”—“ So devout!”
said Beatrice.—“ So fond of me!” said Sir Guy.—“ And of
Father Francis !”—“ What the devil do you mean by
that?” said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

The knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic
changes on the fine qualities of the departing Lady, like
the Strophe and Antistrophe of a Greek play. The cardinal
virtues once disposed of, her minor excellences came under
review :—She would drown a witch, drink lambs’-wool at
Christmas, beg Dominie Dumps’s boys a holiday, and dine
upon sprats on Good Friday!—A low moan from the
subject of these eulogies seemed to intimate that the
enumeration of her good deeds was not altogether lost
on her,—that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in the
testimony.

“ She was too good for earth!” continued Sir Guy.

“Ye-ye-yes!” sobbed Beatrice.

“T did not deserve her!” said the knight.

‘“ No-o-o-o!” cried the damsel.

“Not, but that I made her an excellent husband, and a
kind; but she is going, and—and—where, or when, or
how—shall I get such another?”

“Not in broad England—not in the whole wide world !”
218 The Lady Rohesia

responded Beatrice Grey; “that is, not yws¢t such another!”
—Her voice still faltered, but her accents on the whole
were more articulate; she dropped the corner of her apron,
and had recourse to her handkerchief; in fact, her eyes
were getting red,—and so was the tip of her nose.

Sir Guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments stead-
fastly on the face of his lady. The single word “ Another!”
fell from his lips like a distant echo ;—it is not often that
the viewless nymph repeats more than is necessary.

“Bim! bome!” went the bell.—Bandy-legged Hubert
had been tolling for half an hour;—he began to grow
tired, and St Peter fidgety. ;

“Beatrice Grey!” said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, “ what’s
to be done? What’s to become of Montgomeri Hall ?>—
and the buttery,—and the servants? And what—what’s
to become of we, Beatrice Grey ?”—There was pathos in
his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. “I'll turn monk
myself!” said Sir Guy.

“Monk?” said Beatrice.

“Tl be a Carthusian!” repeated the knight, but in a
tone less assured: he relapsed into a reverie-—Shave his
head !—he did not so much mind that,—he was getting
rather bald already ;—but, beans for dinner,—and those
without butter—and then a horse-hair shirt !

The knight seemed undecided: his eye roamed gloomily
around the apartment; it paused upon different objects,
but as if it saw them not; its sense was shut, and there
was no speculation in its glance: it rested at last upon the
fair face of the sympathising damsel at his side, beautiful
in her grief.

Her tears had ceased ; but her eyes were cast down, and
mournfully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was
beating the devil’s tattoo.

There is no talking to a female when she does not look
at you. Sir Guy turned round,—he seated himself on the
edge of the bed ; and, placing his hand beneath the chin of
the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees.

“T don’t think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but
what’s to become of me? Poor, miserable, old—that is,


The Lady Rohesia 219

poor, miserable, middle-aged man that I am!—No one to
comfort, no one to take care for me!”—Beatrice’s tears
flowed afresh, but she opened not her lips——‘“’Pon my
life!” continued he, “I don’t believe there is a creature
now would care a button if I were hanged to-morrow!”

“Oh! don’t say so, Sir Guy!” sighed Beatrice; “you
know there’s—there’s Master Everard, and—and Father
Francis—”

“Pish!” cried Sir Guy testily.

“ And—there’s your favourite old bitch.”

“T am not thinking of old bitches!” quoth Sir Guy de
Montgomeri.

Another pause ensued: the knight had released her
chin, and taken her hand ;—it was a pretty little hand,
with long taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the
softness of the palm said little for its owner’s industry.

“Sit down, my dear Beatrice,” said the knight, thought-
fully ; “you must be fatigued with your long watching.
Take a seat, my child.”’—Sir Guy did not relinquish her
hand; but he sidled along the counterpane, and made
room for his companion between himself and the bed-post.

Now this is a very awkward position for two people to
be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one
holds the right hand of the other:—in such an attitude,
what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir
Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his
knuckles rested on the bed a little in the rear of his
companion.

“ Another!” repeated Sir Guy, musing ;—“if, indeed, I
could find such another! ”»—He was talking to his thought,
but Beatrice Grey answered him.

“ There’s Madam Fitzfoozle.”

“A frump!” said Sir Guy.

“Or the Lady Bumbarton.”

“With her hump!” muttered he.

“There’s the Dowager—”

“ Stop—stop !” said the knight, “stop one moment !”—
He paused ; he was all on the tremble ; something seemed
rising in his throat, but he gave a great gulp, and swallowed
220 The Lady Rohesia

it. “Beatrice,” said he, “what think you of—” his voice
sank into a most seductive softness,—“ what think you of
—Beatrice Grey?”

The murder was out :—the knight felt infinitely relieved ;
the knuckles of his left hand unclosed spontaneously ; and
the arm he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of, found
itself—nobody knows how,—all at once, encircling the
gimp waist of the pretty Beatrice. The young lady’s reply
was expressed in three syllables. They were,—“ O, Sir
Guy!” The words might be somewhat indefinite, but
there was no mistaking the look. Their eyes met; Sir
Guy’s left arm contracted itself spasmodically : when the
eyes meet,—at least, as theirs meet,—the lips are very apt
to follow the example. The knight had taken one long,
loving kiss—nectar and ambrosia! He thought on Doctor
Butts and his repetatur haustus,—a prescription Father
Francis had taken infinite pains to translate for him :—he
was about to repeat it, but the dose was interrupted 7
transitu.—Doubtless the adage,

“There is many a slip
’Twixt the cup and the lip,”

hath reference to medicine. Sir Guy’s lip was again all
but in conjunction with that of his bride elect.

It has been hinted already that there was a little round
polished patch on the summit of the knight’s pericrantum,
from which his locks had gradually receded ; a sort of oasvs,
—or rather a Mont Blanc in miniature, rising above the
highest point of vegetation. It was on this little spot,
undefended alike by Art and Nature, that at this interesting
moment a blow descended, such as we must borrow a term
from the Sister Island adequately to describe,—it was a
“Whack !”

Sir Guy started upon his feet; Beatrice Grey started
upon hers; but a single glance to the rear reversed her
position,—she fell upon her knees and screamed.

The knight, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight which
might have turned a bolder man to stone.—It was She !—
the all but defunct Rohesia—there she sat, bolt upright!
z

1S)

a

4
|
x
2
7”
t



WHACK!

Aen,
The Lady Rohesia 221

—her eyes no longer glazed with the film of impending
dissolution, but scintillating like flint and steel; while in
her hand she grasped the bed-staff—a weapon of mickle
might, as her husband’s bloody coxcomb could now well
testify. Words were yet wanting, for the quinsy, which
her rage had broken, still impeded her utterance; but the
strength and rapidity of her guttural intonations augured
well for her future eloquence.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood for a while like a man
distraught ; this resurrection—for such it seemed—had
quite overpowered him. “A husband ofttimes makes the
best physician,” says the proverb ; he was a living personifi-
cation of its truth. Still it was whispered he had been
content with Doctor Butts; but his lady was restored to
bless him for many years.—Heavens, what a life he led!

The lady Rohesia mended apace; her quinsy was cured ;
the bell was stopped; and little Hubert, the sacristan,
kicked out of the chapelry. St. Peter opened his wicket,
and looked out ;—there was nobody there; so he flung-to
the gate in a passion, and went back to his lodge, grumbling
at being hoaxed by a runaway ring.

Years rolled on.—The improvement of Lady Rohesia’s
temper did not keep pace with that of her health; and one
fine morning Sir Guy de Montgomeri was seen to enter
the porte-cochere of Durham House, at that time the town
-residence of Sir Walter Raleigh. Nothing more was ever
heard of him ; but a boat full of adventurers was known to
have dropped down with the tide that evening to Deptford
Hope, where lay the good ship the Darling, commanded by
Captain Keymis, who sailed next morning on the Virginia
voyage.

A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may yet be
seen in Denton chancel, let into a broad slab of Bethersden
marble ; it represents a lady kneeling, in her wimple and
hood ; her hands are clasped in prayer, and beneath is an
inscription in the characters of the age—



‘“Praie for ve sole of ve Lady Ronse,
And for alle Christen sowles!”
222 The Tragedy

The date is illegible; but it appears that she survived
King Henry the Eighth, and that the dissolution of monas-
teries had lost St. Mary Rouncival her thousand marks.—
As for Beatrice Grey, it is well known that she was alive
in 1559, and then had virginity enough left to be a maid
of Honour to “good Queen Bess.”



O



It was during the “ Honey (or, as it is sometimes termed,
the “Treacle,) Moon,” that Mr and Mrs Seaforth passed
through London. A “good-natured friend,” who dropped
in to dinner, forced them in the evening to the theatre for
the purpose of getting ridof him. I give Charles’s account
of the Tragedy, just as it was written, without altering even
the last couplet—for there would be no making “ Egerton ‘
rhyme with “ Story.”

The Tragedy

Queeque ipse miserrima vidi.—VIRGIL.

CATHERINE of Cleves was a Lady of rank,
She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the Bank ;
She had jewels and rings,
And a thousand smart things ;
Was lovely and young, With a rather sharp tongue,
And she wedded a Noble of high degree
With the star of the order of St Esprit ;
But the Duke de Guise Was, by many degrees,
Her senior, and not very easy to please ;
He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
And a frown on his brow,—and he look’d like a Guy,—
So she took tointriguing With Monsieur St Megrin,
A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth ;
The Tragedy 223

He would sing, fence, and dance

With the best man in France,
And took his rappee with genteel zonuchalance ;
He smiled, and he flatter’d, and flirted with ease,
And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.

Now Monsieur St Megrin
was curious to know

If the Lady approved of his
passion or no;

So without more ado,
He put on his surtout,
And went to a man with a

beard like a Jew,
One Signor Ruggieri,
A Cunning-man near,
he
Could conjure, tell fortunes,
and calculate tides,
Perform tricks on the cards,
and Heaven knows
what besides, _
Bring back a stray’d cow,
silver ladle, or-spoon,
And was thought to be thick
with the Man in the
Moon.
The Sage took his stand
With his wand in his hand,
Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
Saying solemnly — “ Presto /— Hey, quick ! — Cock-a-
lorum !!”
When the Duchess immediately popp’d up before ’em.





Just then a Conjunction of Venus and Mars,

Or something peculiar above in the stars,

Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,

Who “ bolted,” and left him alone with his deary.—
Monsieur St Megrin went down on his knees,

And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas,
224 The Tragedy

When,—fancy the shock,— A loud double knock,
Made the Lady cry “Get up, you fool!—there’s De
Guise !”—
’Twas his Grace, sure enough ;
So Monsieur, looking bluff,
Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff,
While, unseen by either, away flew the Dame
Through the opposite key-hole, the same way she came ;
But, alack! and alas! A mishap came to pass,
In her hurry she, some how or other, let fall
A new silk Bandana she’d worn.as a shawl ;
She used it fordrying Her bright eyes while crying,
And blowing her nose, as her Beau talk’d of dying !

Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,
And he knew the great C with the Crown in the corner,
The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss,
And said, with some energy, “ D it! what’s this?”
He went home ina fume, And bounced into her room,
Crying, “So, Ma’am, I find I’ve some cause to be
jealous!
Look here !—here’s a proof you run after the fellows!
—Now take up that pen,—if it’s bad choose a better,—
And write, as I dictate, this moment a letter
To Monsieur —you know who!”
The Lady look’d blue ;
But replied with much firmness—* Hang me if I do! 7
De Guise grasped her wrist With his great bony fist,
And pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist,
That his hard, iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,—
She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching ;
So she sat downand wrote This polite little note :—

“Dear Mister St Megrin, The Chiefs of the League in

Our house mean to dine This evening at nine ;

I shall, soon after ten, Slip away from the men,
And you'll find me upstairs in the drawing-room then ;
Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves
Of Servants will see you; Yours

CATHERINE OF CLEVES.”






yy



\\

‘Rack hanr

3

SHE DID NOT MIND DEATH, BUT SHE COULD NOT STAND PINCHING,

Y
226 The Tragedy

She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,
And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.

St. Megrin had almost jumped out of his skin
For joy that day when the post came in;

He read the note through, Then began it anew,
And thought it almost too good news to be true.-—

He clapp’d on his hat, And a hood over that,
With a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat ;
So great his impatience, from half after. Four
He was waiting till Ten at De Guise’s back-door.
When he heard the great clock of St. Genevieve chime,
He ran up the back staircase six steps at a time.

He had scarce made his bow, He hardly knew how,

Whenalas! andalack! There was no getting back,
For the drawing-room door was bang’d to with a

whack ;—

In vain he applied To the handle and tried,
Somebody or other had locked it outside!

And the Duchess in agony mourn’d her mishap,
“We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap.”

Now the Duchess’s Page, About twelve years of age,
For so little a boy was remarkably sage ;
And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
Popp’d the Gas-lighter’s ladder close under the case-
ment.
But all would not do,—
Though St. Megrin got through
The window,—below stood De Guise and his crew.
And though never a man was more brave than St.
Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing ;
He thrust carte and ééerce Uncommonly fierce,
But not Beelzebub’s self could their cuirasses pierce ;
While his doublet and hose, Being holiday clothes,
Were soon cut through and through from his knees to
his nose.
Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjuror gave him
From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him,


sHIMSELF-COT

E;TOO

EsPAG

ER.

THE:POOR- LIT TL
QUART

NO-Qe
The Tragedy 22.7

But, when beat on his knees,
That confounded De Guise
Came behind with the “fogle” that caused all this
breeze,
Whipp’d it tight round his neck, and, when backward
he’d jerk’d him,
The rest of the rascals jump’d on him and Burked him.
The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but
Was served the same way,
And was found the next day
With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-
butt ;
Catherine of Cleves
Roar’d “ Murder !” and “ Thieves!”
From the window above
While they murder’d her love;
Till, finding the rogues had accomplish’d his slaughter,
She drank Prussic acid without any water,
And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess’s daughter !

MORAL.

Take warning, ye Fair, from this tale of the Bard’s,
And don’t go where fortunes are told on the cards,

But steer clear of Conjurors,—never put query

To “Wise Mrs Williams,” or folks like Ruggieri.
When alone in your room, shut the door close, and

lock it ;

Above all,—KEEP YOUR HANDKERCHIEF SAFE IN YOUR
POCKET!

Lest you too should stumble, and Lord Leveson
Gower, he

Be call’d on,—sad poet !—to tell your sad story !





0

It was in the summer of 1838 that a party from Tapping-
ton reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the
coronation of their youthful Queen, whom God long pre-
228 Mr Barney Macguire’s

serve!—This purpose they were fortunate enough to
accomplish, by the purchase of a peer’s ticket, from a
stationer in the Strand, who was enabled so to dispose of
some, greatly to the indignation of the hereditary Earl
Marshal. How Mr Barney managed to insinuate himself
into the Abbey remains a mystery: his characteristic
modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he
unquestionably was. The result of his observations were
thus communicated to his associates in the Servants’ Hall
upon his return, to the infinite delectation of Mademozselle
Pauline over a Crudskeen of his own concocting.



AIR—“ The Groves of Blarney.”

Ocu! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare ?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair !


Account of the Coronation 229

’Twas there you’d see the new Polishemen.
Making a skrimmage at half after four,
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.

Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning
Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And gould, and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With Gineral Dullbeak.—Och! ’twas mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the
line,

Then the Guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews ;
’Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
All joo’ls from his jasey to his di’mond boots,
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame ;
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,
(They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading
The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.

Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,

And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.

Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
All in the Gallery you might persave ;

But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,
Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.
230 Mr Barney Macguire’s

There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more,
Och! I'd be bother’d, and entirely smother’d
To tell the half of ’em was to the fore ;
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works ;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,
“Td be proud to see the likes among the Turks!”

Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did
dress her
In her purple garments and her goulden Crown;
Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown,
Sure ’twas grand to see her also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play’d a Consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,

Saying, “ Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory !
Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health !”
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating ;
“Boys! Here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,
Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!”

Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow’rs appealing,
“Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!”
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.
The great Lord May’r, too, sat in his chair, too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,
With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee:
Account of the Coronation 231

And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for
me !—”
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
And sweet trombones with their silver tones ;
But Lord Rolle was rolling ;—’twas mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his bones!

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop ;

With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,
And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!

There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,—

Och ! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,
Crying, “ God save Victoria, our Royal Queen! ”—
Och! if myself should live to be a hundred
Sure it’s the proudest day that I'll have seen!

And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,

This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,

Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it’s myself that’s getting mighty dhry!



0



Asa pendant to the foregoing, I shall venture to insert
Mr Simpkinson’s lucubrations on a subject to him, as a
Savant of the first class, scarcely less interesting. The
aérial voyage to which it alludes took place about a year
and a half previously to the august event already recorded,
and the excitement manifested in the learned Antiquary’s
effusion may give some faint idea of that which prevailed
generally among the Sons of Science at that memorable
epoch.
232 The ‘“ Monstre” Balloon

The “Monstre” Balloon

OH! the balloon, the great balloon,

It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,

And every one said we should hear of it soon

With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.

But very soon after folks changed their tune:

“ The netting had burst—the silk—the shalloon ;—
It had met with a trade-wind—an awful monsoon—
It was blown out to sea—it was blown to the moon—
They ought to have put off their journey till June;
Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon

Would go up in November in any balloon!”

Then they talk’d about Green—“ Oh! where’s Mister
Green ?

And where’s Mister Hollond who hired the machine ?

And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been

Up so often before—twelve times or thirteen—

And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?

And where’s the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?

The press’d beef, with the fat cut off—nothing: but lean,

And the portable soup in the patent tureen?

Have they got to Grand Cairo, or reach’d Aberdeen ?

Or Jerusalem—Hamburg—or Ballyporeen ?

No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven’t been
seen !”

Stay! here’s Mister Gye—Mr Frederick Gye—
“At Paris,” says he, “I’ve been up very high,
A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,

A cockstride the Tuilleries’ pantiles, to spy,
With Dollond’s best telescope stuck at my eye,
And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,
But I could see nothing at all but the sky ;

So I thought with myself ’twas of no use to try
Any longer: and, feeling remarkably dry
From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,
I came down again, and—you see—here am I!”
The “Monstre” Balloon 233

But here’s Mr Hughes!—Whatsays young Mr Hughes?—
“Why, I’m sorry to say we’ve not got any news

Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,
Which gave the mayor’s nose such a deuce of a bruise,
As he popp’d up his eye-glass to look at their cruise
Over Dover ; and which the folks flock’d to peruse
At Squiers’s bazaar, the same evening, in crews—
Politicians, news-mongers, town-council, and blues,
Turks, Heretics, Infidels, Jumpers, and Jews,

Scorning Bachelor’s papers, and Warren’s reviews ;
But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,
And my father and I are in terrible stews,

For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose !”—

Here’s news come at last !—Here’s news come at last!
A vessel’s come in, which has sail’d very fast ;

And a gentleman serving before the mast—

Mister Nokes—has declared that “the party has past
Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast,
As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast

To see such a monster come borne on the blast,

And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast?” —
Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,—for shame, Mr Nokes !

To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks—

Sir, this isn’t a time to be cracking your jokes,

And such jesting your malice but scurvily cloaks ;
Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,

And we know very well your whole story’s a hoax !—

“Oh! what shall we do?—Oh! where will it end ?—
Can nobody go ?—Can nobody send

To Calais—or Bergen-op-zoom—or Ostend ?

Can’t you go there yourself ?—Can’t you write to a friend,
For news upon which we may safely depend ?’”—
Huzza! huzza! one and eight-pence to pay

For a letter from Hamborough, just come to say

They descended at Weilburg, about break of day ;
And they've lent them the palace there, during their stay,
And the town is becoming uncommonly gay
2:32 The “ Monstre” Balloon

And they’re feasting the party, and soaking their clay

With Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay!

And the Landgraves, and Margraves, and Counts beg
and pray

That they won’t think, as yet, about going away ;

Notwithstanding, they don’t mean to make much delay,

But pack up the balloon in a waggon, or dray,

And pop themselves into a German “o-shay,”

And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay ;

Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay,

If the gas people there do not ask them to pay

Such a sum as must force them at once to say “ Nay,”

They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs-Elysées,

And be back again heré the beginning of May.—

Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile /éze

What thousands will flock their arrival to greet !

There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,

For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,

And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,

For this all preceding attraction must beat :

Since, they’ll unfold, what we want to be told,

How they cough’d,—how they sneez’d,—how they
shiver’d with cold,— 4

How they tippled the “cordial” as racy and old

As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,

And how they all then felt remarkably bold:

How they thought the boil’d beef worth its own weight
in gold ;

And how Mr Green was beginning to scold

Because Mr Mason would try to lay hold

Of the moon, and had very near overboard roll’d!

And there they’ll be seen—they’ll be all to be seen!
The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!
With the tight rope, and fire-works,and dancing between,
If the weather should only prove fair and serene,

And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,

In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,
Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story 235 .

Mr Hollond on one side, who hired the machine,

Mr Mason on t’other, describing the scene ;

And Fame, on one leg, in the air, like a queen,

With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean ;
While Envy, in serpents and black bombazin,

Looks on from below with an air of chagrin !

Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,

And the people will dance by the light of the moon,
And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;

And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,
The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,

The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,

Will all join in three cheers for the “ Monstre” Balloon.





0

It is much to be regretted that I have not as yet been
able to discover more than a single specimen of my friend
“Sucklethumbkin’s” Muse. The event it alludes to,
probably the euthanasia of the late Mr Greenacre, will
scarcely have yet faded from the recollection of an
admiring public. Although, with the usual diffidence of a
man of fashion, Augustus has “sunk” the fact of his own
presence on that interesting occasion, I have every reason
to believe, that, in describing the party at the auberge
hereafter mentioned, he might have said, with a brother
Exquisite, “ Quorum pars magna fut.”

Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story



The Execution
A SPORTING ANECDOTE

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two, He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.
236 Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story

Tiger Tim Was clean of limb,
His boots were polish’d, his jacket was trim ;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat ;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten ;
And he ask’d, as he held the door on the swing,
“Pray, did your Lordship please to ring ?”

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,

“ Malibran’s dead, - Duvernay’s fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead ;
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,

What may a Nobleman find to do?”—

Tim look’d up, and Tim look’d down,

He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,

And he held up his hat, and he peep’d in the crown ;
He bit his lip, and he scratch’d his head,

He let go the handle, and thus he said,

As the door, released, behind him bang’d:

“ An’t please you, my Lord, there’s a man to be hang’d.

”

My Lord Tomnoddy jump’d up at the news,
“Run to M‘Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score I’ve seen before—
Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more ;
But to see a man swing At the end of a string,
With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!”

My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab—
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
Through street, and through square,
His high-trotting mare,
Like one of Ducrow’s, goes pawing the air.
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace ;
She produced some alarm, But did no great harm,
Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story 237

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay Two urchins at play,
Knocking down—very much to the sweeper’s dismay—
An old woman who wouldn’t get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall Near Exeter Hall,
Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall.
But eastward afar, Through Temple Bar,
My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car ;
Never heeding their squalls,
Or their calls, or their bawls,
He passes by Waithman’s Emporium
for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse
of St Paul’s,
Turns down the Old Bailey,
Where in front of the gaol, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop,
and gaily

Cries, “What must I fork out to-
night, my trump,

For the whole first-floor of the Mag-
pie and Stump?”



The clock strikes twelve—it is dark
midnight—
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.

The parties are met; The tables are set ;

There is “punch,” “cold w2thout,” “hot wth,” “heavy wet,”

Ale-glasses and jugs, And rummers and mugs,
And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,

Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars,
Welsh rabbits and kidneys—rare work for the jaws !—
And very large lobsters, with very large claws ;

And there is M‘Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,

All come to see a man “die in his shoes !”

The clock strikes One! Supper is done,
And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
238 Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story

Singing “Jolly companions every one!”

My Lord Tomnoddy Is drinking gin-toddy,
And laughing at ev’ry thing, and ev’ry body,—
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
—‘Who so merry, so merry as we?”

Save Captain M‘Fuze, Who is taking a snooze,
While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four !— Round the debtors’ door
Are gather’d a couple of thousand or more;
As many await At the press-yard gate,
Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks
A waggon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five! The Sheriffs arrive,
And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive ;
But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks, and winks,
A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze Is dreaming of Jews,
And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse ;
My Lord Tomnoddy Has drunk all his toddy,
And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.

Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden’s cheeks ;

Seem’d as that mild and clear blue sky

Smiled upon all things far and nigh,

On all—save the wretch condemn’d to die! .

Alack! that ever so fair a Sun

As that which its course has now begun,

Should rise on such a scene of misery !—

Should gild with rays so light and free

That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree !

And hark !—a sound comes, big with fate ;
The clock from St Sepulchre’s tower strikes—Eight !|—
Hon. Mr Sucklethumbkin’s Story 239

List to that low funereal bell :

It is tolling, alas! a living man’s knell !—
And see !—from forth that opening door

They come—HE steps that threshold o’er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more!
—God ! ’tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale wan man’s mute agony,—

The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turn’d to the sky,
As though ’twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit’s unknown career ;
Those pinion’d arms, those hands that ne’er
Shall be lifted again—not even in prayer ;
That heaving chest !~Enough—'ttis done!
The bolt has fallen !—the spirit is gone—

For weal or for woe is known but to One!
—Oh! ’twas a fearsome sight |—Ah me!

A deed to shudder at,—not to see.

Again that clock! ’tis time, ’tis time !

The hour is past :—with its earliest chime

The cord is severed, the lifeless clay

By “ dungeon villains” is borne away:

Nine !—’twas the last concluding stroke!

And then—my Lord Tomnoddy awoke !

And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,

And Captain M‘Fuze, with the black on his nose:

And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
“Hollo! Hollo! Here’s a rum Go!

Why, Captain |—my Lord !—Here’s the devil to pay!

The fellow’s been cut down and taken away !—
What’s to be done? ~ We've miss’d all the fun !—

Why, they’ll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,

We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!”

What was to be done ?—’twas perfectly plain

That they could not well hang the man over again:
What was to be done?—The man was dead!
Nought cou/d be done—nought could be said ;
So—my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed !
240 Some Account of a New Play

The following communication will speak for itself :—

“ On their own actions modest men are dumb!”

Some Account of a New Play

In a Familiar Epistle to my brother-in-law, Lieut.
Seaforth, H.P., late of the Hon. E.I.C.’s and
Regt. of Bombay Fencibles

“The play’s the thing ! "— amet.

Tavistock Hotel, Nov. 1839.
DEAR CHARLES,
—In reply to your letter, and Fanny’s,
Lord Brougham, it appears, isn’t dead, ,—though Queen
Anne i is ;
*Twas a“ plot” anda “ farce” —you hate farces,you say—
Take another “ he then, viz., the Boe of the eee

The Countess of Arundel, 1 high in degree,

As a lady possess’d of an ‘earldom in fee,

Was imprudent enough, at fifteen years of age,

—A period of life when we’re not over sage,—

To form a azson—in fact, to engage

Her hand to a Hop-o’-my-thumb of a Page.
This put her Papa— She had no Mamma—

As may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage.

Mr Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat,

In his budget of proverbs, “ Stol’n kisses are sweet ! ”
But they have their alloy— Fate assumed, to annoy

Miss Arundel’s peace, and embitter her joy,

The equivocal shape of a fine little Boy.

When, through “the young Stranger,” her secret took
wind,
The old Lord was neither “to haud nor to bind.”
He bounced up and down, And so fearful a frown
Some Account of a New Play 241

Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he’d been blind.
The young lady, they say, Having fainted away
Was confin’d to her room for the whole of that day ;
While her beau—no rare thing in the old feudal system—
Disappear’d the next morning, and nobody miss’d him.

The fact is, his Lordship, who
hadn’t, it seems,
Form’d the slightest idea, not
ev’n in his dreams,
That the pair had been wedded
according to law,
Conceived that his daughter
had made a faux pas ;
So he bribed at a high rate
A sort of a Pirate
To knock out the poor dear
young Gentleman’s brains,
And gave him a handsome
douceur for his pains. a
The Page thus disposed of, his
Lordship now turns
His attention at once to the
Lady’s concerns ;

And, alarm’d for the future,
Looks out for a suitor,
One not fond of raking, nor
giv’n to “ the pewter,”

But adapted to act both the

husband and tutor—

Finds a highly respectable, middle-aged widower,

Marries her off, and thanks Heaven that he’s rid of her.
Relieved from his cares, The old Peer now prepares

To arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs ;

Has his will made anew by a Special Attorney,

Sickens,—takes to his bed,—and sets out on his journey.
Which way he travell’d Has not been unravell’d ;

To speculate much on the point were too curious,

If the climate he reach’d were serene or sulphureous.

Q



&
242 Some Account of a New Play

To be sure in his balance-sheet all must declare

One item—the Page—was an awkward affair ;

But fer contra, he'd lately endow’d a new Chantry

For Priests, with ten marks, and the run of the pantry.
Be that as it may, It’s sufficient to say

That his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day,

Built of Bethersden marble—a dark bluish grey.

The figure, a fine one of pure alabaster,

Some cleanly churchwarden has covered with plaster ;
While some Vandal or Jew, With a taste for vertu,

Has knock’d off his toes, to place, I suppose,

In some Pickwick Museum, with part of his nose ;
From his belt and his sword And his zsericorde

The enamel’s been chipp’d out, and never restored ;

His cé-gé¢ in old French is inscribed all around,

And his head’s in his helm, and his heel’s on his

hound,

The palms of his hands, as if going to pray,

Are joined and upraised o’er his bosom—But stay !

I forgot that his tomb’s not described in the Play!

Lady Arundel, now in her own right a Peeress,
Perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries,
But produces in time, to her husband’s great joy,
Another remarkably “ fine little boy.”
As novel connections Oft change the affections,
And turn all one’s love into different directions,
Now to young “ Johnny Newcome” she seems to confine
hers,
Neglecting the poor little dear out at dry-nurse ;
Nay, far worse than that,
She considers “the brat ”
As a bore—fears her husband may smell out a rat.
For her legal adviser She takes an old Miser,
A sort of “poor cousin.” She might have been wiser ;
For this arrant deceiver, By name Maurice Beevor,
A shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail,
By the law of the land stands the next in entail ;
Some Account of a New Play 243

So, as soon as she ask’d him to hit on some plan
To provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran
To that self-same unprincipled sea-faring man ;
In his ear whisper’d low . . “Bully Gaussen ” said
“ Done !—
I Burked the papa, now I'll Bishop the son! ”
’Twas agreed; and, with speed
To accomplish the deed,
He adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed.
By long cock-and-bull stories Of Candish and Noreys,
Of Drake, and bold Raleigh, (then fresh in his glories,
Acquired ’mongst the Indians, and Rapparee Tories,)
He so work’d onthe lad, That he left, which was bad,
The only true friend in the world that he had,
Father Onslow, a priest, though to quit him most loth,
Who in childhood had furnish’d his pap and his broth,
At no small risk of scandal, indeed, to his cloth.

The kidnapping crimp Took the foolish young imp
On board of his cutter so trim and so jimp,
Then, seizing him just as you’d handle a shrimp,
Twirld him thrice in the air with a whirligig motion,
And soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean ;
This was off Plymouth Sound,
And he must have been drown’d,
For ’twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground,
If “A very great Warman, Call’d Billy the Norman,”
Had not just at that moment sail’d by, outward bound.
A shark of great size, With his great glassy eyes,
Sheer’d off as he came, and relinquish’d the prize ;
So he pick’d up the lad,‘ swabb’d, and dry-rubb’d, and
mopp’d him,
And, having no children, resolv’d to adopt him.
1 An incident very like one in Jack Sheppard—
Awork some have lauded, and others have pepper’d—
Where a Dutch pirate kidnaps, and tosses Thames Darrel
Just so in the sea, and he’s saved by a barrel, —
On the coast, if I recollect rightly, it’s flung whole,
And the hero, half-drown’d, scrambles out of the bung-hole.

[It aint no sich thing !—the hero aint bung’d in no barrel at all.—He’s
picked up by a Captain, just as Norman was afterwards.—PRrINT. DEv.]
244 Some Account of a New Play

Full many a year Did he hand, reef, and steer,
And by no means consider’d himself as small beer,
When old Norman at length died and left him his

frigate,
With lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it.

A sailor ne’er moans; So, consigning the bones
Of his friend to the locker of one Mr Jones,

For England he steers.—On the voyage it appears
That he rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers ;

And at length reached the Sussex coast, where, in a bay,
Not a great way from Brighton, most cosey-ly lay

His vessel at anchor, the very same day

That the Poet begins,—thus commencing his play:

Act I.

Giles Gaussen accosts old Sir Maurice de Beevor,

And puts the poor Knight in a deuce of a fever,

By saying the boy, whom he took out to please him,

Is come back a Captain on purpose to tease him.—

Sir Maurice, who gladly would see Mr Gaussen

Breaking stones on the highway, or sweeping a crossing,

Dissembles—observes, “ It’s of no use to fret,’—

And hints he may find some more work for him yet ;

Then calls at the castle, and tells Lady A.

That the boy they had ten years ago sent away

Is return’d a grown man, and, to come to the point,

Will put her son Percy’s nose clean out of joint ;

But adds, that herself she no longer need vex,

If she'll buy him (Sir Maurice) a farm near the Ex.

“Oh ! take it,” she cries ; “ but secure every document.” —

“A bargain,” says Maurice,—“ including the stock you
meant ?”—

The Captain, meanwhile, With a lover-like smile,
And a fine cambric handkerchief, wipes off the tears
From Miss Violet’s eyelash, and hushes her fears.
(That’s the Lady he saved from the Dey of Algiers.)
Now arises a delicate point, and this is it—

The young Lady herself is but down on a visit.


HE RESCUED A MAID FROM THE DEY OF ALGIERS
246 Some Account of a New Play

She’s perplexed ; and, in fact,
Does not know how to act.
It’s her very first visit—and then to begin
By asking a stranger—a gentleman, in—
One with moustaches too—and a tuft on his chin—
She “really don’t know— He had much better go,”—
Here the Countess steps in from behind, and says “ No !—
Fair sir, you are welcome. Do, pray, stop and dine—
You will take our pot-luck—and we've decentish wine.”
He bows, looks at Miss,—and he does not decline.

Act II.

After dinner, the Captain recounts, with much glee,
All he’s heard, seen, and done since he first went to sea,
All his perils and scrapes,
And his hair-breadth escapes,
Talks of boa-constrictors, and lions, and apes,
And fierce “ Bengal Tigers,” like that which, you know,
If you’ve ever seen any respectable “ Show,”
“ Carried off the unfortunate Mr Munro.”
Then, diverging a while, he adverts to the mystery
Which hangs, like a cloud, o’er his own private history—
How he ran off to sea—how they set him afloat
(Not a word, though, of barrel or bung-hole—See Vote)
—How he happen’d to meet
With the Algerine fleet,
And forced them, by sheer dint of arms to retreat,
Thus saving his Violet-—(One of his feet
Here just touch’d her toe,and she moved on her seat,)—
How his vessel was batter’d—
In short, he so chatter’d,
Now lively, now serious, so ogled and flatter’d,
That the ladies much marvell’d a person should be able
To “make himself,” both said, “so very agreeable.”

Captain Norman’s adventures were scarcely half done,
When Percy Lord Ashdale, her ladyship’s son,
In a terrible fume, Bounces into the room,
Some Account of a New Play 2A7

And talks to his guest as you’d talk to your groom,
Claps his hand on his rapier, and swears he'll be through
him—
The Captain does nothing at all but “ pooh! pooh!” him.
Unable to smother His hate of his brother,
He rails at his cousin, and blows up his mother. —
“Fie! fie!” says the first.—Says the latter, “In sooth,
This is sharper by far than a keen serpent’s tooth!”
(A remark, by the way, which King Lear had made
years ago,
When he ask’d for his Knights, and his Daughter said
“ Here’s a go! ”)—
This made Ashdale ashamed ;
But he must not be blamed
Too much for his warmth, for, like many young
fellows, he
Was apt to lose temper when tortur’d by jealousy.
Still speaking quite gruff, He goes off in a huff;
Lady A., who is now what some call “up to snuff,”
Straight determines to patch
Up a clandestine match
Between the Sea-Captain she dreads like Old Scratch,
And Miss,—whom she does not think any great catch
For Ashdale; besides, he won’t kick up such shindies
Were she once fairly married and off to the Indies.

Act III.

Miss Violet takes from the Countess her tone ;
She agrees to meet Norman “ by moonlight alone,”
And slip off to his bark, “The night being dark,”
Though “the moon,” the Sea-Captain says, rises in
Heaven
“One hour before midnight,” ze. at eleven.
From which speech I infer,—
Though perhaps I may err—
That, though weatherwise, doubtless, ’midst surges and
surf, he
When “capering on shore” was by no means a Murphy.
248 | Some Account of a New Play

He starts off, however, at sunset, to reach
An old chapel in ruins, that stands on the beach,
Where the Priest is to bring, as he’s promised by letter, a
Paper to prove his name, “ birthright,” &c.
Being rather too late, Gaussen, lying in wait,
Gives poor Father Onslow a knock on the pate,
But bolts, seeing Norman, before he has wrested
From the hand of the Priest, as Sir Maurice requested,
The marriage certificate duly attested.—
Norman kneels by the clergyman fainting and gory,
And begs he won’t die till he’s told him his story ;
The Father complies, Re-opens his eyes,
And tells him all how and about it—and dies!

ActT IV.

Norman, now call’d Le Mesnil, instructed of all,
Goes back, though it’s getting quite late for a call,
Hangs his hat and his cloak on a peg in the hall,
And tells the proud Countess it’s useless to smother
The fact any longer—he knows she’s his Mother !
His Pa’s wedded Spouse,— She questions his vous,
And threatens to have him turn’d out of the house—
He still perseveres, Till, in spite of her fears,
She admits he’s the son she had cast off for years,
And he gives her the papers “all blister’d with tears,”
When Ashdale, who chances his nose in to poke,
Takes his hat and his cloak, Just as if in a joke,
Determined to put in his wheel a new spoke,
And slips off thus disguised, when he sees by the dial it
’s time for the rendezvous fixed with Miss Violet.—
—Captain Norman, who, after all, feels rather sore
At his mother’s reserve, vows to see her no more,
Rings the bell for the servant to open the door,
And leaves his Mamma in a fit on the floor.

Act V.

Now comes the catastrophe !—Ashdale, who’s wrapt in
The cloak with the hat and the plume of the Captain,
Some Account of a New Play 249

Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel

Where Gaussen’s conceal’d — he springs forward to
grapple

The man he’s erroneously led to suppose

Captain Norman himself by the cut of his clothes.

In the midst of their strife, And just as the knife
Of the Pirate is raised to deprive him of life,

The Captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals
Of the Lady, and, knocking Giles head over heels,

Fractures his “nob,” Saves the hangman a job,
And executes justice most strictly, the rather,

*Twas the spot where that rascal had murder’d his father.

Then in comes the mother, Who, finding one brother
Had the instant before saved the life of the other,

Explains the whole case. Ashdale puts a good face
On the matter; and, since he’s obliged to give place,
Yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace;
Norman vows he won’t have it—the kinsmen embrace,—
And the Captain, the first in this generous race,

To remove every handle. For gossip and scandal,
Sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle;
An arrangement takes place—on the very same night, all
Is settled and done, and the points the most vital
Are, N. takes the personals ;—A., in requital,

Keeps the whole real property, Mansion, and Title.—
V. falls to the share of the Captain, and tries a
Sea-voyage, as a Bride, in the “ Royal Eliza.”—

Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs,
And old Maurice Beevor is bundled down stairs !

MORAL.

The public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel
If deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral ;
This may serve for all three then :-—

“Young Ladies of property,
Let Lady A.’s history serve as a stopper t’ye;
Don’t wed with low people beneath your degree,
And if you’ve a baby, don’t send it to sea!
250 Mr Peters’s Story

“Young Noblemen! shun every thing like a brawl ;
And be sure when you dine out, or go to a ball,

Don’t take the best hat that you find in the hall,

And leave one in its stead that’s worth nothing at all!

“Old Knights, don’t give bribes !—above all, never urge
a man
To steal people’s things, or to stick an old Clergyman !

“ And you, ye Sea-Captains ! who’ve nothing to do
But to run round the world, fight, and drink till all’s blue,
And tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true,
Reflect, notwithstanding your sea-faring life,

That you can’t get on well long, without you've a wife;
So get one at once, treat her kindly and gently,

Write a nautical novel,—and send it to Bentley!”



0



It has been already hinted that Mr Peters had been a
“traveller” in his day. The only story which his lady
would ever allow “her P.” to finish—he began as many
as would furnish an additional volume to the “ Thousand
and One Nights ”—is the last I shall offer. The subject,
I fear me, is not over new, but will remind my friends

“ Of something better they have seen before.”

Mr Peters’s Story
The Bagman’s Dog

Stant littore Puppies !—VIRGIL.

IT was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown’d, and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive ;
The Bagman’s Dog 251



And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail’d pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick ;
He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick,

Could well understand The word of command,

And appear to doze With a crust on-his nose
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand :

Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.

Never was puppy so dzen zustruzt,

Or possess’d of such natural talent as he ;

And as he grew older, Every beholder
Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.—
Time, however his wheels we may clog,

Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tail’d puppy’s a curly-tail’d dog! |

When, just at the time He was reaching his prime,
And all thought he’d be turning out something sublime

One unlucky day, How, no one could say,
Whether soft 4azsonz induced him to stray,

Or some kidnapping vagabond coax’d him away,

He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew ;—
He had been, and was not—that’s all that they knew!
And the Bagman storm’d, and the Bagman swore
As never a Bagman had sworn before ;

But storming or swearing but little avails
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails—

d
252 Mr Peters’s Story

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair,
The only thing strange, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is how it got there ;
In front is a short semicircular stair
Of stone steps,—some half score,—
Then you reach the ground floor, .
With a shell-pattern’d architrave over the door.
It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan
Of a Gentleman’s house in the reign of Queen Anne;
Which is odd, for, although, As we very well know,
Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show
Many Noblemen’s seats above Bridge and below,
Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go
From St Michael, Cornhill, and St Mary-le-Bow,
To St James, and St George, and St Anne in Soho.—
Be this as it may,—at the date I assign
To my tale,—that’s about Seventeen Sixty Nine—
This mansion, now rather upon the decline,
Had less dignified owners,—belonging, in fine,
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne—
A respectable House in the Manchester line.

There were a score Of Bagmen, and more,
Who had travell’d full oft for the firm before :
But just at this period they wanted to send
Some person on whom they could safely depend—
A trustworthy body, half agent, half friend—
On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend ;
And the person they pitch’d on was Anthony Blogg,
A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog,—
The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog.

“The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!
That is the place where we all wish to be, -
Rolling about on it merrily !”—

So all sing and say By night and by day,
In the doudozr, the street, at the concert, and play,
In a sort of coxcombical roundelay ;—
The Bagman’s Dog 263

You may roam through the City, transversely or straight,
From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate,
And every young Lady who thrums a guitar,
Evry mustachio’d Shopman who smokes a cigar,

With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion,
Of being a “ Rover” and “child of the Ocean ”—
Whate’er their age, sex, or condition may be,
They all of them long for the “ Wide, Wide Sea!”

But, however they dote, Only send them afloat
In any craft bigger at all than a boat,

Take them down to the Nore,

And you'll see that before
The “ Wessel ” they ‘‘ Woyage” in has made half her way
Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay,
Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree,
They’ll be all of them heartily sick of “the Sea!”

I’ve stood in Margate, on a bridge of size
Inferior far to that described by Byron,

Where “ palaces and pris’ns on each hand rise,”—
—That too’s a stone one, this is made of iron—
And little donkey-boys your steps environ,

Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,
Vaunting its excellence ; and, should you hire one,

For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,

The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day,
I’ve stood, and turn’d my gaze upon the pier,
And seen the crews, that did embark so gay
That self-same morn, now disembark so queer ;
Then to myself I’ve sigh’d and said, “Oh dear!
Who would believe yon sickly-looking man’s a
London Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer ! "—
But hold, my Muse !—for this terrific stanza
Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

“So now we'll go up, up, up,
And now we'll go down, down, down,
aca Mr Peters’s Story

And now we'll go backwards and forwards,
And now we'll go roun’, roun,’ roun’.”—
—I hope you've sufficient discernment to see,
Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the d
Is a fault which you must not attribute to me;
Thus my Nurse cut it off when, “with counterfeit glee,”
She sung, as she danced me about on her knee,
In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three :—
All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free
From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters,
And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors
At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters.
Resuming her track, At once she goes back
To our hero, the Bagman—Alas! and Alack!
Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog,
Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog,
By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea,
With the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I’ve a fine opportunity
To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity,
And talking of “caulking,” And “quarter deck
walking,”
“Fore and aft,” And “abaft,”
“ Hookers,” “barkeys,” and “craft,”
(At which Mr Poole has so wickedly laught),
Of binnacles,—bilboes,—the boom call’d the spanker,
The best bower cable,—the jib,—and sheet anchor ;
Of lower-deck guns,—and of broadsides and chases,
Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces,
And “Shiver my timbers!” and other odd phrases
Employ’d by old pilots with hard-featured faces ;
Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use,
The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews ;—
How the Sailors, too, swear,
How they cherish their hair,
And what very long pigtails a great many wear.—
But, Reader, I scorn it—the fact is, I fear,
To be candid, I can’t make these matters so clear
The Bagman’s Dog Be

As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier,
Or Sir-E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear
Of the “ Nauticals,” just at the end of the year
Eighteen thirty-nine—(how Time flies !—Oh dear !)—
With a well-written preface, to make it appear
That his play, the “Sea Captain,” ’s by no means small
beer ;
There !—“brought up the rear”—you see there’s a
mistake
Which none of the authors I’ve mentioned would make,
I ought to have said, that he “sail’d in their wake.” —
So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher,
The more my poor hero continued to suffer,
Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, “ Poor Buffer!”
Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew,
And the thunder kick’d up such a halliballoo,
That even the Skipper began to look blue ;
While the crew, who were few, Look’d very queer, too,
And seem’d not to know what exactly to do,
And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs,
“Wind N.E.—blows a hurricane—rains cats and dogs.”
In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as
That Shakspearedescribesnearthe “still vext Bermudas,”!
When the winds, in their sport,
Drove aside from its port
The King’s ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court,
And swamp’d it to give “the King’s Son, Ferdinand,” a
Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda,
While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked ’em
For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom.
You don’t want me, however, to paint you a Storm,
As so many have done, and in colours so warm ;
Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious,
Mr Ainsworth more gravely,—see also Lucretius,
—A writer who gave me no trifling vexation
When a youngsterat schoolon Dean Colet’s foundation.—
Suffice it to say That the whole of that day,
And the next, and the next, they were scudding away
1 See Appendix, page 268.
256 Mr Peters’s Story

Quite out of their course, Propell’d by the force
Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as
Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, ©

Driven quite at their mercy

’Twixt Guernsey and Jersey,

Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the
shallows,
In West longitude, One, fifty-seven, near St Maloes :

There you'll not be surprised

That the vessel capsized,

Or that Blogg,who had made, from intestine commotions,
His specifical gravity less than the Ocean’s,

Should go floating away, Midst the surges and spray,
Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoln by a shower,
Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You’ve seen, I’ve no doubt, at Bartholomew fair,
Gentle Reader,—that is, if you’ve ever been there,—
With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair
Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair,
Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in,
Their faces and hair with the water all dripping,
In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin,
That bobs up and down in the water whenever
They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavour ;
Exactly as Poets say,—how, though, they can’t tell us,—
Old Nick’s Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus.
Stay !—I’m not clear, But I’m rather out here;
’Twas the water itself that slipp’d from him, I fear ;
Faith, I can’t recollect—and I haven’t Lempriere.—
No matter,—poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing,
Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing,
Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes allthe quamshe
Experienced while dreaming they’d drown’d him in
Malmsey.

“© Lord,” he thought, “what pain it was to drown
And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes,
Glaring as he was bobbing up and down,
And looking as they thought him quite a prize ;

1»


IT WAS TO DROWN!”

“WHAT PAIN

2

HE THOUGHT.

"Oo: LORD,”
258 Mr Peters’s Story

When as he sank, and all was growing dark,
A something seized him with its jaws |—A shark ?—

No such thing, Reader :—most opportunely for Blogg,
’T was a very large, web-footed, curly-tail’d Dog!

I’m not much of a trav’ler, and really can’t boast
That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast,

But I’ve often heard say That e’en to this day,
The people of Granville, St Maloes, and thereabout
Are a class that society doesn’t much care about ;

Men who gain their subsistence by contraband dealing,
And a mode of abstraction strict people call “ stealing ;”
Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech,
Above all to a stranger who comes within reach ;

And they were so to Blogg, When the curly-tail’d dog
At last drage’d him out, high and dry on the beach.

But we all have been told, By the proverb of old,
By no means to think “all that glitters is gold ;”

And,infact,someadvance That most peoplein France
Join the manners and airs of a Maitre de Danse
To the morals—(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)—

Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred,
Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.—

Be this as it might, It embarrass’d Blogg quite
To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced
The petetes sorns, tendered with so much good taste,
To the sight of an old-fashion’d pocket-book, placed
In a black leather belt well secured round his waist,
And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced,
So brilliant, no one could have guess’d they were paste.
The group on the shore Consisted of four ;
You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more;
But the fact is they’ve not, in that part of the nation,
What Malthus would term a “too dense population,”
Indeed the sole sign there of man’s habitation
The Bagman’s Dog 259

Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle
That led away inland direct from the shingle,
Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark,
Some two hundred yards above high-water mark ;
And thither the party, So cordial and hearty,

Viz. an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he,

The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding,
To express, in indifferent French, all he feels,
The great curly-tail’d Dog keeping close to his heels. —
They soon reach’d the hut, which seem’d partly in ruin,
All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon-

Dueu-ing,

Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing.

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts

You, whenever your stomach’s at all out of sorts,

To try, if you find richer viands won’t stop in it,

A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it?

(Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one

Call, at the Garrick, “a c—d Committee one,”

An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.)
However, it’s clear That, with sound table beer,

Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer ;
Especially too When a person’s wet through,

And is hungry, and tired, and don’t know what to do.

Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage

Was smoking away when they enter’d the cottage,

And casting a truly delicious perfume

Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnish’d room ;
“ Hot, smoking hot,” On the fire was a pot

Well replenish’d, but really I can’t say with what ;

For, famed as the French always are for ragouts,

No creature can tell what they put in their stews,

Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes;

Notwithstanding, when offer’d I rarely refuse,

Any more than poor Blogg did, when, seeing the reeky

Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he

In ecstasy mutter’d “ By Jove, Cockey-leeky ! ”
260 Mr Peters’s Story

In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon,
Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he
No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly,
But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the douzdlz.

Meanwhile that old man standing by,

Subducted his long coat-tails on high,

With his back to the fire, as if to dry

A part of his dress which the watery sky

Had visited rather inclemently.—

Blandly he smil’d, but still he look’d sly,

And a something sinister lurk’d in his eye.

Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in,

You'd have own’d his appearance was not prepossessing ;
He'd a “ dreadnought ” coat, and heavy sadots

With thick wooden soles turn’d up at the toes,

His nether man cased in a striped guelgue chose,

And a hump on his back, and a great hook’d nose,

So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose

That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present,
And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant.
The old woman, too, Madea mighty ado,
Helping her guest to a deal of the stew;
She fish’d up the meat, and she help’d him to that,
She help’d him to lean, and she help’d him to fat,
And it look’d like Hare—but it might have been Cat.
The little garcons too strove to express
Their sympathy towards the “ Child of distress ”
With a great deal of juvenile French polztesse ;
But the Bagman bluff Continued to “stuff”
Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender and tough,
Till they thought he would never cry “ Hold, enough!”
And the old woman’s tones became far less agreeable,
Sounding like peste / and sacre/ and diable/

I’ve seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating,
The Bagman’s Dog 261

That says,
“ Good Eatynge

Deserbeth good Brynkpnge.”

You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Gynkpn,
And a very good proverb it is to my thinking.

Blogg thought so too ;— As he finish’d his stew,
His ear caught the sound of the word “ Aforbleu |”
Pronounced by the old woman under her breath.

Now, not knowing what she could mean by “ Blue
Death!”

He conceiv’d she referr’d to a delicate brewing

Which is almost synonymous,—namely, “ Blue Ruin.”

So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee,

In his cockneyfy’d accent, responded “Oh, Vee/”

Which made her understand he

Was asking for brandy ;

So she turn’d to the cupboard, and having some handy,

Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it,

An orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it;

In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his,

Each of them “ reasoning right from wrong premises ; ”—
—And here by the way, Allow me to say,

Kind Reader, you sometimes permit me to stray—

Tis strange the French prove, when they take to
aspersing,

So inferior to us in the science of cursing:

Kick a Frenchman down stairs,

How absurdly he swears!

And how,odd ’tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly,
Roar out, in a passion, “ Blue Death!” and “Blue Belly!”

“To return to our sheep ” from this little digression :—
Blogg’s features assumed a complacent expression
As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one ;
Too little he heeded How fast they succeeded.
Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did ;
For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard
raps,
It’s amazing to think How one “cottons” to Drink!
262 Mr Peters’s Story

At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps,
There’s not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.

Mr Blogg, besides being uncommonly dry,
Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy,
—Did not like to deny ”—
“Felt obliged to comply”
Every time that she ask’d him to “wet t’other eye;”
For ’twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup,
Though before she had seem’d so to grudge him the soup.
At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose
Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze,
And a yearning to seek “horizontal repose.” —
His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post,
During all the long meal had continued to toast
That garment’twererudeto Domore thanallude to,
Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views
Of his guest were directed to “taking a snooze:”
So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw,
With (as Blogg used to tell it) “ Wounseer, swivvy maw!”
And “marshall’d” him so “The way he should go,”
Upstairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low,
Without table or chair, Or a moveable there,
Save an old-fashion’d bedstead, much out of repair,
That stood at the end most remov’d from the stair.—
With 4 grin and a shrug The host points to the rug,
Just as much as to say “ There !—I think you'll be snug!”
Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door,
Makes a formal Sa/aam, and is then seen no more ;
When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread,
To the Bagman’s surprise, and, at first, to his dread,
The great curly-tail’d Dog crept from under the bed !—

—It’s a very nice thing when a man’s in a fright,
And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right ;
As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night
Through a Churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white,
Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite,

To find that the Ghost Is merely a post,
Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most;
The Bagman’s Dog 263

Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin

To close, or, as some people call it, “draw in,”

And some undefined form, “looming large” through the
haze,

Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze,
Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head,

Or a sever’d carotid, to find that instead

Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men,

It’s your uncle, or one of the “ Rural Policemen ; ”—
Then the blood flowsagain Through arteryand vein;

You're delighted with what just before gave you pain ;

You laugh at your fears—and your friend in the fog

Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg

Now bestow’d on zs friend—the great curly-tail’d Dog.

For the Dog leap’d up, and his paws found a place
On each side his neck in a canine embrace,
And he lick’d Blogg’s hands, and he lick’d his face,
And he waggled his tail as much as to say,
“Mr Blogg, we've foregather’d before to-day !”
And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up,

What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out
Before, had he not been so eager to sup,
’Twas Sancho !—the Dog he had rear’d from a pup !—
The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair,—
The Dog who had saved and conducted him there,—
The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!!

It’s passing sweet, An absolute treat
When friends, long sever’d by distance, meet,—
With what warmth and affection each other they greet!
Especially too, as we very well know,
If there seems any chance of a little cadeau,
A “Present from Brighton,” or “Token” to show,
In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so,
That our friends don’t forget us, although they may go
To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.
If some little advantage seems likely to start,
From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart,
It’s surprising to see how it softens the heart,
264 Mr Peters’s Story

And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are
strongest,
Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest.
But it was not so here; For, although it is clear,
When abroad, and we have not a single friend near,
F’en a cur that will love us becomes very dear,
And the balance of interest ’twixt him and the Dog
Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg,
Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast,
Perhaps thinking “Enough is as good as a feast ;”
And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow,
He grew tired of patting, and crying “ Poor fellow!”
So his smile by degrees harden’d into a frown,
And his “That’s a good dog!” into “Down, Sancho!
down!”

But nothing could stop his mute fav’rite’s caressing,

Who, in fact, seem’d resolved to prevent his undressing,

Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said,

“Most beloved of masters, pray, don’t go to bed;

You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!”

Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose,

Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes,
Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump’d up too,

And kept him awake with his very cold nose;

Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining,

Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in

Thus breaking his rest ; above all, when at length

The Dog scratch’d him off from the bed by sheer

strength.

Extremely annoy’d by the “tarnation whop,” as it

’s call’d in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite,
Blogg show’d fight; When he saw, by the light

Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite

Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright,

Certain dark-colour’d stains, as of blood newly spilt,

Reveal’d by the dog’s having scratch’d off the quilt,—

Which hinted a story of horror and guilt |—
The Bagman’s Dog 265

*Twas “no mistake,’"— He was “ wide awake”
In an instant ; for, when only decently drunk,
Nothing sobers a man so completely as “ funk.”

And hark !—what’s that?— They have got into chat
In the kitchen below—what the deuce are they at ?—
There’s the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife—
And she !—by the Pope! she’s whetting a knife !—

At each twist Of her wrist,
And her great mutton fist,
The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder !—
The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire
Half so much, or a dose of the best James’s powder.—
It ceases—all’s silent !—and now, I declare
There’s somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping ;—
He opens the door just sufficient to peep in,
And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping !
For Blogg, when he’d once ascertain’d that there was
some
“Precious mischief” on foot, had resolv’d to play
“? Possum ;”—
Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed,
Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead ;
While, though none who look’d at him would think such
a thing,
Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.
Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in,
And you’d not have insur’d his guest’s life for a shilling,
As the knife gleam’d on high, bright and sharp as a razor,
Blogg, starting upright, “tipped” the fellow “a facer;”—
—Down went man and weapon.—Of all sorts of blows,
From what Mr Jackson reports, I suppose
There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer,
(Though each of these names some pronounce a mis-
nomer,
266 Mr Peters’s Story

And say the first person
Was call’d James M‘Pherson,
While, as to the second, they stoutly declare
He was no one knows who, and born no one knows
where,)
Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer
Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter

For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers,
Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat
Boxers to “ Max,” at the One Tun in Jermyn Street ;—
—I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen’s Muses,
More skill’d than my meek one in “ fibbings ” and bruises,

I’d describe now to you As “prime a Set-to,”
And “regular turn-up,” as ever you knew;

Not inferior in “bottom” to aught you have read of,
Since Cribb, years ago, half knock’d Molyneux’ head off.
But my dainty Urania says, “ Such things are shocking !”

Lace mittens she loves, Detesting “The Gloves ;”
And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking,

From Melpomene’s buskin, adopts the silk stocking.

So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to“ fancy ”
The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs,
And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns,
That pass’d ’twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog,
As Blogg roll’d over them, and they roll’d over Blogg ;

While what’s called “The Claret ”

Flew over the garret :

Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack’d,
The Dog his old master most gallantly back’d ;
Making both the gargons, who came running in, sheer off,
With “Hippolyte’s” thumb, and “ Alphonse’s” left ear off

Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on
The floor, rent in tatters the old woman’s jupon ;

Then the old man turn’d up, and a fresh bite of Sancho’s
Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.—

Really, which way ‘This desperate fray
Might have ended at last, I’m not able to say,

The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay:
But a few fresh arrivals decided the day ;
The Bagman’s Dog 267

For bounce went the door, In came half a score
Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more
Who had aided the party in gaining the shore !

It’s a great many years ago—mine then were few—
Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux ;

I think that they say She had been, in her day,
A First-rate,—but was then what they term a Rasée,—
And they took me on board in the Downs where she lay.
(Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.)
In her I pick’d up, on that single occasion,
The little I know that concerns Navigation,
And obtained, zzter alia, some vague information
Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing,
Is adopted on shipboard—I think it’s called “ Cobbing.”
How it’s managed exactly I really can’t say,
But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play—
That is, if I’m right :—it exceeds my ability

To tell how ’tis done; But the system is one
Of which Sancho’s exploit would increase the facility.
And, from all I can learn, I’d much rather be robb’d
Of the little I have in my purse, than be “ cobb’d ;”—

That’s mere matter of taste:

But the Frenchman was placed—
I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we’ve traced—
In such a position, that, on this unmasking,
His consent was the last thing the men thoughtof asking.

The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through,
With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew,
Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them,
“Cobb’d” the whole party,—ay, “every man Jack of

them.”
MORAL

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say
Farewell for the present, and wish you good day,
Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg,
Be wary of strangers !—don’t take too much grog !—
268 Mr Peters’s Story

And don’t fall asleep, if you should, like a hog !—
Above all—carry with you a curly-tail’d Dog!

Lastly, don’t act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing,

Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing ;

But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix’d eye,
INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI! !!

L Envoye

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him,
I never once thought to inquire what became of him ;
If you want to know, Reader, the way, I opine,

To achieve your design,—

Mind, it’s no wish of mine,—
Is,—(a penny will do’t,—by addressing a line
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.



APPENDIX.

SINCE penning this stanza, a learn’d Antiquary
Has put my poor Muse in no trifling quandary,
By writing an essay to prove that he knows a

Spot which, in truth, is The veal “ Bermoothes,”
In the Mediterranean,—now called Lampedosa ;
—For proofs, having made, as he farther alleges, stir,
An entry was found in the old Parish Register,
The which at his instance the excellent Vicar ex-
tracted: viz. “Caliban, base son of Sycorax.”

—He had rather, by half,

Have found Prospero’s “ Staff ;”
But ’twas useless to dig, for the want of a pick or axe.—-
Colonel Pasley, however, ‘tis everywhere said,
Now he’s blown up the old Royal George at Spithead,
And the great cliff at Dover, of which we've all read,
Takes his whole apparatus, and goes out to look
And see if he can’t try and blow up “the Book.”
—Gentle Reader, farewell !—If I add one more line,
“ He'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up mne/”

1See page 255.
Second Series

To Richard Bentley, Esq.

MY DEAR SIR,

You tell me that a “generous and enlightened Public”
has given a favourable reception to those extracts from our
family papers, which, at your suggestion, were laid before
it some two years since ;—and you hint, with all possible
delicacy, that a second volume might not be altogether
unacceptable at a period of the year when “auld warld
stories” are more especially in request—With all my
heart,—the old oak chest is not yet empty; in addition
to which, I have recently laid my hand upon a long MS.
correspondence of my great-uncle, Sir Peregrine Ingoldsby,
a cadet of the family, who somehow contrived to attract
the notice of George the Second, and received from his
“honour-giving hand” the accolade of knighthood. To this
last-named source I am indebted for several of the accom-
panying histories, while my inestimable friend Simpkinson
has bent all the powers of his mighty mind to the task.
From Father John’s stores I have drawn largely. Our
“Honourable” friend Sucklethumbkin—by the way, he has
been beating our covers lately, when he shot a woodcock,
and one of the Governor’s pointers—gives a graphic account
of the Operatic “row” in which he was heretofore so con-
spicuous ; while even Mrs Barney Maguire (née Mademoiselle
Pauline), whose horror of Mrs Botherby’s cap has no jot
diminished, furnishes me with the opening Legend of the
series from the /zstoriettes of her own delle France.

269
270 _ The Black Mousquetaire

Why will you not run down to Tappington this
Christmas ?—We have been rather busy of late in carrying
into execution the enclosure of Swingfield Minnis under
the auspices of my Lord Radnor, and Her Majesty’s visit
to the neighbourhood has kept us quite alive: the Prince
in one of his rides pulled up at the end of the avenue, and,
as A told Sucklethumbkin, was much taken, with the
picturesque appearance of our old gable-ends. Unluckily
we were all at Canterbury that morning, or proud indeed
should we have been to offer his Royal Highness the
humble hospitalities of the Hall—and then—fancy Mrs
Botherby’s—* My Gracious!” By the way, the old lady
tells me you left your night-cap here on your last visit; it
is laid up in lavender for you ;—come and reclaim it. The
Yule log will burn bright as ever in the cedar room. Bin
No. 6 is still one liquid ruby—the old October yet smiles
like mantling amber, in utter disdain of that vile concoction
of camomile which you so pseudonymously dignify with
the title of “Bitter Ale.” Make a start, then :—pitch
printers’-ink to old Harry,—and come and spend a fortnight
with



Yours, till the crack of doom,

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
Tappington Everard,
Dec. 16th, 1842.



0.



The Black Mousquetaire
A Legend of France

FRANCOIS XAVIER AUGUSTE was a gay Mousquetaire
The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair :

He’d a mien so a@zstingué, and so debonnaire,

And shrugg’d with a grace so recherché and rare,

And he twirl’d his moustache with so charming an air,
—His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,—
And, in short, shew’d so much of the true s¢avozr faire,

d


HE: WOULD + THEN : SALLY*OUT*INSTHE* STREETS
FOR*A:SPREE,
The Black Mousquetaire 271

All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare,

That could any one draw

Them from Dian’s strict law,
Into what Mrs Ramsbottom calls a “ Fox Paw,”
It would be Frangois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix.

Now, I’m sorry to say, At that time of day,
The Court of Versailles was a little too gay ;
The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play,
To Bordeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St Peray,
Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo
On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo),
While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores,
What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term’d his “Jane Shores”
—They were call’d by a much coarser name out of
doors—
This, we all must admit, in A King’s not befitting !
For such courses, when followed by persons of quality,
Are apt to detract on the score of morality.

Frangois Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of
them,
Dress’d, drank, and fought, and chassée’d with the best
of them ;
Took his wl de perdrix ‘Till he scarcely could see,
He would then sally out in the streets for “a spree ;”
His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeozs,
(A word which the English translate “Johnny Raw,”)
For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit
he’s in, ;
Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen ;
And, perhaps it’s no wonder that this kind of scrapes,
In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes,
Defines “an amalgam of Tigers and Apes,”
Should be merely considered as “ Little Escapes.”
But I’m sorry to add, Things are almost as bad
A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks
-Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks,
Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.
272: The Black Mousquetaire

Be this as it will, In the general, still,
Though blame him we must, It is really but just
To our lively young friend, Francois Xavier Auguste,
To say, that howe’er Well known his faults were,
At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair,
And, when gambling his worst, always play’d on the
square,
So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he
Lost large sums at faro (a game like “ Blind Hookey”),
And continued to lose, And to give I O U’s,
Till he lost e’en the credit he had with the Jews ;
And, a parallel if I may venture to draw
Between Francois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix,
And his namesake, a still more distinguished Francois,
Who wrote to his “ seur”! From Pavia, “ Won Ceur,
I have lost all I had in the world fors /’honneur.”
So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note,
“ Vive la bagatelle |—toujours gai—idem semper—
I’ve lost all I had in the world but—my temper!”
From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning,
His air was so cheerful, his manner so winning,
That once he prevailed—or his friends coin the tale for
him—
On the bailiff who “nabbed ” him, himself to “go bail ”
for him.

Well—we know in these cases
Your “ Crabs ” and “ Deuce Aces ”

Are wont to promote frequent changes of places ;

Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare

That there’s nothing so good as the pure “ country air,”

Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in

An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing :

1 Mrs Ingoldsby, who is deeply read in Robertson, informs me that this is a
mistake ; that the lady to whom this memorable dz//e¢ was delivered by the
hands of Pennalosa, was the unfortunate monarch’s mamma, and not his
sister. I would gladly rectify the error, but, then,—what am I to do for a
rhyme ?—On the whole, I fear I must content myself, like Talleyrand, with
admitting that ‘‘it is worse than a fault—it’s a blunder !” for which enormity,

—as honest old Pepys says when he records having kissed his cookmaid,—“ ]
humbly beg pardon of Heaven, and Mrs Ingoldsby |”
The Black Mousquetaire 273

A habit, I’m very much grieved at divulging,
Francois Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in.
But what could be done? It’s clear as the sun,
That, though nothing’s more easy than say “Cut and
run!”

Yet a Guardsman can’t live without some sort of fun—
E’en I or you, If we’d nothing to do,

Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue.
And, since no one denies What’s so plain to all eyes,

It won’t, I am sure, create any surprise

That reflections like these half reduced to despair

Francois Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.

Patience par force! He considered, of course,

But in vain—he could hit on no sort of resource—

Love ?—Liquor ?>—Law ?—Loo ?

They would each of them do,

There’s excitement enough in all four, but in none he

Could hope to get on sans l’argent—t.e. money.

Love ?—no ;—ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor.

Liquor ?—no,—that won’t do, when reduced to “the
Pewter.” —
Then Law ?—'tis the same; It’s a very fine game,
But the fees and delays of “the Courts” are a shame,
As Lord Brougham says himself—who’s a very great
name,

Though the TIMES made it clear he was perfectly lost
in his

Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes,

And don’t know his “ particles.” —

Who wrote the articles,

Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very well ;
Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell,—some Merivale ;

But it’s scarce worth debate, Because from the date
Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw,

Viz.: ’twas not Francois Xavier Auguste de St. Foix!

Loo ?—no ;—that he had tried ;
’Twas, in fact, his weak side,
But required more than any a purse well supplied.
S
274. The Black Mousquetaire

“ Love ?—Liquor ?—Law?—Loo? No! ’tisall the same
story.
Stay! I have it—J/a foi! (that’s ‘Odd’s Bobs!’) there
is GLORY!
Away with dullcare! Vive le Rot! Vive la Guerre!
Peste/ \’'d almost forgot ’m a Black Mousquetaire!
When a man is like me, Sans six sous, sans souct,
A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse,
With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at Zero,
What on earth can he hope to become,—but a Hero?
What a famous thought this is! I'll go as Ulysses
Of old did—like him Ill see manners, and know
countries ;1
Cut Paris——and gaming,—and throats in the Low
Countries.”

So said, and so done—he arranged his affairs,
And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.

Now it happen’d just then That Field-Marshal
Turenne
Was a good deal in want of “some active young men,”
Tofillup the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps,
Had been made in his ranks by a certain “ Great Condé,”
. A General unrivall’d—at least in his own day—
Whose valour was such, That he did not care much
If he fought with the French,—or the Spaniards,—or
Dutch,—
A fact which has stamped him a rather “ Cool hand,”
Being nearly related to Louis le Grand.
It had been all the same had that King been his brother ;
He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with
another ;
For war, so exciting, He took such delight in,
He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting.
And, as I’ve just said, had amused himself then
By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne ;

1 Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.
Who viewed men’s manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys.
The Black Mousquetaire 275

Since which, the Field-Marshal’s most pressing concern
Was to tickle some other Chief’s tail in his turn.

What a fine thing a battle is !—not one of those
Which one saw at the late Mr Andrew Ducrow’s,
Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows,
Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose,
Taking great care their blows
Did not injure their foes,
And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes,
Which were varied, to give more effect to “ Tadleauzx,”
While Stickney the Great
Flung the gauntlet to Fate,
And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come
On to encounter bold General Widdicombe—
But a real, good fight, like Pultowa, or Liitzen,
(Which Gustavus the great ended all his disputes in,)
Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in,
Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden,
Or the one Mr Campbell describes, Hohenlinden,
Where “the sun was low,”
The ground all over snow,
And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser’s flow,—
Till its colour was alter’d by General Moreau ;
While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night,
Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright,
And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight.
*T was in just such another one,
(Names only bother one—
Dutch ones, indeed, are sufficient to smother one—)
In the Netherlands somewhere—I cannot say where—
Suffice it that there La Fortune de guerre
Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire.
One fine morning, in short, Francois Xavier Auguste,
After making some scores of his foes “bite the dust,”
Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust ;
And though, as the Bard says, “No law is more just
Than for ects artifices,’—so they call’d fiery
Soldados at Rome,—“ arte sud perire,”
276 The Black Mousquetaire

Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law
To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix.
His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw,
And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot
To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, ’s
Call’d by Professional men the “os femoris ,”
And the ball being one of those named from its shape,
And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape,
St Foix went down, With a groan and a frown,
And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown.—
—Stagger’d a bit By this “palpable hit,”
He turn’d on his face, and went off in a fit!

Yes !—a Battle’s a very fine thing while you're fighting,
These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting.

But a sombre sight is a Battle-field

To the sad survivor’s sorrowing eye,
Where those, who scorn’d to fly or yield

In one promiscuous carnage lie ;

When the cannon’s roar Is heard no more,

And the thick dun smoke has roll’d away,
And the victor comes for a last survey
Of the well-fought field of yesterday !

No triumphs flush that haughty brow,—
No proud exulting look is there,—
His eagle glance is humbled now,
As, earth-ward bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester-morn was by his side!

And there it lies !—on yonder bank
Of corses, which themselves had breath
But yester-morn—now cold and dank,
With other dews than those of death!
Powerless as it had ne’er been born
The hand that clasp’d his—yester-morn !
The Black Mousquetaire 277

And there are widows wand’ring there,
That roam the blood-besprinkled plain,
And listen in their dumb despair
For sounds they ne’er may hear again!
One word, however faint and low,—
Ay, e’en a groan,—were music now!

And this is Glory !—Fame !|—
But, pshaw!
Miss Muse, you’re growing sentimental ;
Besides, such things we never saw ;
In fact, they’re merely Continental.
And then your Ladyship forgets
Some widows came for epaulettes.

So go back to your canter ; for one, I declare,
Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire,

A beetle-brow’d hag, With a knife and a bag,
And an old tatter’d bonnet which, thrown back, discloses
The ginger complexion, and one of those noses
Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses,

Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their
way, shun,
Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.

You remember, I trust, Francois Xavier Auguste,
Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust.
Now there’s something—TI cannot tell what it may be—
About good-looking gentlemen turn’d twenty-three,
Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee,
Which affects female hearts, in no common degree,
With emotions in which many feelings combine,
Very easy to fancy, though hard to define;

Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty,
Young or old, they experience, in country or city,
What's clearly not Love—yet it’s warmer than Pity—
And some such a feeling, no doubt, ’tis that stays
The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise,

Arm’d with the blade, So oft used in her trade,"
278 The Black Mousquetaire

The horrible calling e’en now she is plying,
Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying!
For these “nimble Conveyancers,” after such battles,
Regarding as ¢reasure trove all goods and chattels,
Think nought, in “ perusing and settling” the titles,
So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.

Now don’t make a joke of That feeling I spoke of;
For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,—whate’er
It may be,—saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!—
The knife, that was levell’d erewhile at his throat,

Is employ’d now in ripping the lace from his coat,
And from what, I suppose, I must call his cudoéte ;

And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out,
That his mouchoir and gloves may be put “up the spout,”
(For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do
Fails to ferret out even a single éz ; )

Asa muscular Giant would handle an elf,

The virago at last lifts the soldier himself,

And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down
In a hospital form’d in the neighbouring town!

I am not very sure, But I think twas Namur ;
And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.

CanTo II
I ABOMINATE physic—I care not who knows
That there’s nothing on earth I detest like “a dose”—
That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue
I consider extremely unpleasant to view,
With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near
On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear ;
XAwpor deos, 1 mean, A nasty pale green,
Though for want of some word that may better avail,
I presume, our translators have rendered it “pale ;”
For consider the cheeks
Of those “ well-booted Greeks,”
Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks ;
Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek’s ;
And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it,
A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it.
The Black Mousquetaire 279

I repeat, I abominate physic; but then,
If folks wz go compaigning about with such men
As the Great Prince de Condé, and Marshal Turenne,
They may fairlyexpect To be now and then check’d
By a bullet, or sabre cut. Then their best solace is
Found, I admit, in green potions, and boluses ;
So, of course, I don’t blame
St. Foix, wounded and lame,
If he swallowed a decent guant. suff. of the same;
Though I’m told, in such cases, it’s not the French plan
To pour in their drastics as fast as they can,
The practice of many an English Savan,
But to let offa man With a little ptdsanne,
And gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan).

“Oh, woman!” Sir Walter observes, “when the brow
’s wrung with pain, what a minist’ring Angel art thou!”
Thouw’rt a “minist’ring Angel” in no less degree,
I can boldly assert, when the pain’s in the knee;

And medical friction Is, past contradiction,
Much better performed by a She than a He.
A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge,
For I well recollect, when a youngster at College,

And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note,
Mr Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote
Ou the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his
Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises
Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs,
And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of

cracks.—

Now, they say, To this day,

When sick people can’t pay
On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses
Attend, without any demand on their purses ;
And these females, some old, others still in their teens,
Some call “Sisters of Charity,” others “ Beguines.”
They don’t take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay,
Attend you; and when you've got better, they say,
“You're exceedingly welcome! There’s nothing to pay.
280 The Black Mousquetaire

Our task is now done. You are able to run.
We never take money ; we cure you for fun!”
Then they drop you a curt’sy, and wish you good day,
And go off to cure somebody else the same way.
—A great many of these, at the date of my tale,
In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.

Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun.
Her cheek pensive and pale ; tresses bright as the Sun,—
Not carroty—no ; though you’d fancy you saw burn
Such locks as the Greeks lov’d, which moderns call

auburn.
These were partially seen through the veil which they
wore all;
Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral ;
Her eyelashes silken ; her eyes, fine large blue ones,
Were sapphires (I don’t call these similes new ones ;
But, in metaphors, freely confess I’ve a leaning
To such, new or old, as convey best one’s meaning),—
Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity

To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm
In the fusty stuff gown of a Swur de la Charité;

And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw
One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw,
Than her’s who now sits by the couch of St Foix,

Chafing there, With such care,

And so dove-like an air,

His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr’d

With the Steer’s opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard ;
—Their Dutch appellations are really too hard

To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.—

Now you'llsee, Andagree, Iam certain, with me,
When a young man’s laid up with a wound in his knee:
And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom’d chair,
To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare,
And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square ;
Above all, when the Lady’s remarkably fair,
And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire,
The Black Mousquetaire 281

It’s a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair,
And may lead on to mischief before they’re aware.

I really don’t think, spite of what friends would call his

“ Penchant for Hazsons,” and graver men “ follies,”

(For my own part, I think planting thorns on their
pillows,

And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows,

Is not to be classed among mere peccadilloes),

His “faults,” I should say—I don’t think Frangois Xavier

Entertain’d any thoughts of improper behaviour

Tow’rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he
meant

While superintending his draughts and his liniment.

But, as he grew stout, And was getting about

Thoughts came into his head that had better been out ;

While Cupid’s an urchin We know deserves birching,

He’s so prone to delude folks, and leave them the
lurch in.

‘Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin

Was the end of all poor dear Therése’s shampooing.—

’Tis a subject I don’t like to dwell on: but such

Things will happen—ay, e’en ’mongst the phlegmatic
Dutch.

“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to
folly,
And finds out too late that false man can betray,”
She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,”
And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover,
Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,

There is but one method” which he can discover
That’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!”

He’s wrong—the wan and withering cheek ;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart ;
282 The Black Mousquetaire

The wasted form, th’ enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear ;
Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown,
As heedless, helpless, hopeless here ;

These wring the false one’s heart enough,
If “made of penetrable stuff.”
And poor Therese Thus pines and decays,
Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise,
With, for “wheelers,” two bays,
And, for “leaders,” two greys,
And soon reaches France, by the help of relays,
Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim,
And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick’d him.

She, poor sinner Grows thinner and thinner,
Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner,
Till you’d really suppose she could have nothing in her.—
One evening—'twas just as the clock struck eleven—
They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,—
She breath’d one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven,

And all was o’er!— Poor Therése was no more—
She was gone!—the last breath that she managed to draw
Escaped in one half-utter’d word—’twas “St. Foix!”

Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you
feel ’em,
Are not cured by travel—as Horace says, “ Celum
Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!”
It’s climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary—
Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is
A shadow you can’t sell as Peter Schlemil did his ;
It haunts you for ever—in bed and at board,—
Ay, e’en in your dreams.
And you can’t find, it seems,
Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored !
It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few,
—Frangois Xavier Auguste was an instance—can de.
Indeed, from the time He committed the crime
Which cut off poor Sister Therése in her prime,
The Black Mousquetaire 283

He was not the same man that he had been—his plan
Was quite changed—in wild freaks he no more led the
van ;
He'd scarce sleep a wink in
A week; but sit thinking,
From company shrinking—
He quite gave up drinking.

At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came,

Fish, frzcassée, fricandeau, potage, or game,

Dindon aux truffes, or turbot a la créme,

No!—he still shook his head,—it was always the same,

Still he never complained that the cook was to blame!

’Twas his appetite fail’d him—no matter how rare

And recherché the dish, how delicious the fare,—

What he used to like best he no longer could bear ;
But he’d there sit and stare With an air of despair:
Took no care, but would wear
Boots that wanted repair

Such a shirt too! you’d think he’d no linen to spare.

He omitted to shave ;—he neglected his hair,

And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.

One thing, above all, most excited remark:
In the evening he seldom sat long after dark.
Not that then, as of yore, he’d go out for “a lark”
With his friends ; but when they,
After taking café
Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a
tray,
—Which I own I consider a very good way,
If a man’s not dyspeptic, to wind up the day—
No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay ;
But he’d take up his candlestick, just nod his head
By way of “Good evening!” and walk off to bed.
Yet even when there he seem’d no better off,
For he’d wheeze, and he’d sneeze, and he’d hem! and
he'd cough ;
And they’d hear him all night,
Sometimes, sobbing outright,
284 The Black Mousquetaire

While his valet, who often endeavour’d to peep,
Declared that “his master was never asleep!
But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and
weep ;
That about ten o’clock His door he would lock,
And then never would open it, let who would knock !—
He had heard him,” he said,
“ Sometimes jump out of bed,
And talk as if speaking to one who was dead !
He'd groan and he’d moan, In so piteous a tone,
Begging some one or other to let him alone,
That it really would soften the heart of astone
To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven ;
Then—The bother began always just at eleven !”

Francois Xavier Auguste, as I’ve told you before,
I believe, was a popular man in his corps,
And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun
Now began to consult what was best to be done.
Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue
Confess’d they did zo¢ know at all what to do:
But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville
Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel
For their friend, so distinguished an officer, ’s weal.
“The first thing,” he said, “ was to find out the matter
That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this
clatter—
Mort de ma vie!” —Here he took some rapee—
“‘ Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me! ’—
He was right, sure enough—in a couple of days
He worms out the whole story of Sister Therése,
Now entomb’d, poor dear soul! in some Dutch Péve Ja
Chaise.
— But the worst thing of all,” F rancois Xavier declares,
“Is, whenever I’ve taken my candle up-stairs,
There’s Therése sitting there—upon one of those chairs!
Sucha frown, too, shewears, Andsofrightfully glares
That I’m really prevented from saying my pray’rs,
The Black Mousquetaire 285

While an odour,—the very reverse of perfume,—
More like rhubard or senna,—pervades the whole room.

Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile,
When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel ;
Not that e cared for Ghosts—he was far too genteel ;
Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw
Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun
On his person and principles, nick-named Sans Foz,
—A man whom they had, you see,
Mark’d as a Sadducee,—
In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw,
And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe !—
It excited the Chevalier Grandville’s surprise ;
He shrugg’d up his shoulders, he turn’d up his eyes,
And he thought with himself that he could not do less
Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess.

Repetition’s detestable ;— So, as you're best able,
Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table—

How the bold Brigadiers Prick’d up their ears,
And received the account, some with fears, some with

sneers :

HowtheSieurdelaRoue Said to Count Cordon Bleu,
“Ma foi—e est bien drdle—Monseigneur, what say you?”—

How Count Cordon Bleu

Declared he “ thought so too ;”—
How the Colonel affirmed that “the case was quite

new ;”—

How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers
How far the Ghost part of the story was true ;—
How, at last, whenasked, “ What wasthe best thing todo?”
Everybody was silent,—for nobody knew !—
And how, in the end, they said, “ No one could deal
With the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal,
As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal
This strange story—viz. Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville !”
286 The Black Mousquetaire

I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great,
Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte’s pate
To rescue his friend from his terrible foes,
Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose,
From extravagant notions respecting their hue
Has strangely agreed to denominate “ Blue,”
Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail
Than those he had, early in life, found to fail,
When he strove to lay salt on some little bird’s tail.

‘In vain did he try With strong waters to ply
His friend, on the ground that he never could spy
Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye ;
St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry ;
Besides, what the vulgar call “sucking the monkey”
Has much less effect on a man when he’s funky.
In vain did he strive to detain him at table
Till his “ dark hour” was over—he never was able,

“ Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address
Which the British call “Humbug,” and Frenchmen
“ Finesse,”

(Its “ Blarney” in Irish—I don’t know the Scotch,)
He fell to admiring his friend’s English watch.1

He examined the face, And the back of the case,
And the young Lady’s portrait there, done on enamel, he
“ Saw by the likeness was one of the family ;”

Cried “ Superbe /—Magnifique !”

(With his tongue in his cheek)—
Then he open’d the case, just to take a peep in it, and
Seized the occasion to pop back the minute-hand.
With a demi-congé, and a shrug, and grin, he -
Returns the dz7ou and—c’est une affatre finte—
“T’ve done him,” thinks he, “ now I’ll wager a guinea!”

It happen’d that day They were all very gay,
’Twas the Grand Monarque’s birthday—that is, twas
St. Louis’s,
_ Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view
as his—

1 « Tompion’s, I presume ?”—FARQUHAR.
The Black Mousquetaire 287

So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw,
He cried, “Come—that won’t do, my fine fellow, St.
Foix,—
Give us five minutes longer and drink Vive le Roz.”

Frangois Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust
Of the trick that was play’d, drew his watch from his fob,
Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to “hob-nob,”

Fill'd a bumper, and rose

With “ Messzeurs, 1 propose ”—
He paused—his blanch’d lips fail’d to utter the toast !
*Twas eleven /—he thought it half-past ten at most—
Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post,—

His jaw dropp’d—his eyes

Swell’d to twice their own size—
And he stood as a pointer would stand—at a Ghost!
—Then shriek’d, as he fell on the floor like a stone.
“Ah! Sister Therese! now—do let me alone!”

It’s amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,—
As waters wear stone by the “ S@pe cadendo,”
If they stick to Lord Somebody’s motto, Agendo !”
Was it not Robert Bruce ?—I declare I’ve forgot,
But I think it was Robert—you’ll find it in Scott—
Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a
- Spider,
“ She’s sure to come round, if you will but abide her.”
Then another great Rob,
Called “ White-headed Bob,”
Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the “nob”
From a fist which might almost an elephant brain,
That I really believed, at the first, he was slain,
For he lay like a log on his back on the plain,
Till a gentleman present, accustomed to ¢vazn,
Drew out a small lancet, and open’d a vein
Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain,
He stood up, like a trump, with an air of disdain,
While his “ backer” was fain,
—For he could not refrain— ©
288 The Black Mousquetaire

(He was dress’d in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain,
And I think I heard somebody call him “Squire Hayne,”)
To whisper zex words one should always retain,
—TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON, AND AT HIM
AGAIN !!!”—
A hint ne’er surpassed, though thus spoken at random,
Since Teucer’s apostrophe—WVil desperandum |
—Grandville acted on it, and order’d his Tandem.



Hehad heard St. Foix say, That no very great way
From Namur was a snug little town call’d Grandpré,
Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese,
Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therese,

Ofthe same age, of course, the same father, same mother,
And as like to Therese as one pea to another ;

She liv’d with her Mamma, MHaving lost her Papa,
Late of contraband schnaps an unlicensed distiller,
And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).

Now, though Hippolyte Hector

Could hardly expect her
To feel much regard for her sister’s “ protector,”
When she’d seen him so shamefully leave and neglect

her ;

Still, he very well knew In this world there are few
But are ready much Christian forgiveness to shew,
For other folk’s wrongs—if well paid so to do—
And he’d seen to what acts “ Res anguste” compel beaux
And delles, whose affairs have once got out at elbows,


The Black Mousquetaire 289

With the magic effect of a handful of crowns
Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but “browns;”
A few francs well applied
He'd no doubt would decide
Miss Agnes Des Moulins to jump up and ride
As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side;
For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison,
To the town where the Mousquetaires nowlay in garrison;
Then he thought, by the aid
Of a veil, and gown made
Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray’d,
They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade,
Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid,
Come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid ;
That if once introduced to his room thus array’d,
And then unmask’d as soon as she’d long enough stay’d,
*Twould be no very difficult task to persuade
Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly play’d,
Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade!

With respect to the scheme—though I do not call that
a gem—
Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem,
And that, too, among the decided approvers
Of General Sir David Dundas’s “ Manceuvres.”
There’s a proverb, however,
I’ve always thought clever,
Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeating,
“ The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating!”
We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille
Had mix’d up the suet and plums for 4zs meal.

The night had set in ;—’twas a dark and a gloomy one ;-—
Off went St. Foix to his chamber ; a roomy one,

Five stories high, The first floor from the sky,
And lofty enough to afford great facility
For playing a game, with the youthful nobility

Of “crack corps” a deal in

Request, when they’re feeling,
In dull country quarters, eu on them stealing ;

T
290 The Black Mousquetaire

A wet wafer’s applied To a sixpence’s side,
Then it’s spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling ;
Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old
troops,—
I’ve seen it here practised at home by our Household
troops.
He’d a table, and bed,
And three chairs; and all’s said.—
A bachelor’s barrack, where’er you discern it, you’re
Sure to find not overburthen’d with furniture.

Frangois Xavier Auguste lock’d and bolted his door

With just the same caution he’d practised before ;
Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu,

With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue,

Had been up there before him, and drawn ev’ry screw!

And now comes the moment—the watches and clocks

All point to eleven/—the bolts and the locks

Give way—and the party turn out their bag-fox !|—
With step noiseless and light, Though half ina fright,

“ A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right,”

In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white,

Ma’amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a Sprite !—
She approaches the bed With the same silent tread

Just as though she had been at least half a year dead!

Then seating herself on the “rush-bottom’d chair,”

Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire.

If you’re one of the “ play-going public,” kind reader,
And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder,

You’ve seen Mr Kean, I mean in that scene
Of Macbeth,—by some thought the crack one of the piece,
Which has been so well painted by Mr M‘Clise,—
When he wants, after having, stood up to say grace,}
To sit down to his haggis, and can’t find a place;

1 May good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both.—AZacbeth.
The Black Mousquetaire razon

~- You remember his stare
At the high-back’d arm-chair,
Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there,
And how, after saying “ What man dares I dare!”
He proceeds to declare He should not so much care
If it came in the shape of a “tiger” or “ bear,”
But he don’t like its shaking its long gory hair!
While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him,
With a horrible grin, Sits, and cocks up his chin,
Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him,
And Lenox and Rosse Seem quite at a loss
If they ought to go on with their sheep’s head and
Sauce ;
And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross,
And says in a huff It’s all “ Proper stuff! ”—
All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough ;
So, perhaps ’twill assist you in forming some notion
Of what must have been Frangois Xavier’s emotion,
If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be doubled
And, instead of oe Banquo to stare in his face
Without “ speculation,” suppose he’d @ brace /

I wish I’d poor Fuseli’s pencil, who ne’er I bel-
ieve was exceeded in painting the terrible,
Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a-
droit in depicting it—vzde his piece
Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort’s decease,
Where that prelate is lying Decidedly dying,
With the King and his szzze,
Standing just at his feet,
And his hands,as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet ;
While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner,
“Busy, meddling,” Old Nick’s grinning up in the corner.
But painting’s an art I confess I am raw in,
The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing :
Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read,
I'd have giv’n you a sketch should have fill’'d you with
dread ;
Francois Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed,
292 The Black Mousquetaire

His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead,
Ev’ry hair that he has standing up on his head,
As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view,
Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw,
Then shriek’d with a wild and unearthly halloo,
Mon Dieu! v'la deux! !
By THE POPE THERE ARE Two! ! !”

He fell back—one long aspiration he drew.

In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu,
Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew.
He stirr’d not,—he spoke not,—he none of them knew!

And Achille cried “Odzooks! I fear by his looks,
Our friend, Francois Xavier, has popp’d off the hooks!”

*Twas too true! Matheureux!
It was done !—he had ended his earthly career,—
He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear ;
—The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer! !

L Enbove.

A moral more in point I scarce could hope
Than this, from Mr Alexander Pope.

If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay,

And pious Maid,—as, possibly, it may,—

From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene
Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green ;

O’er some pale marble when they join their heads
To kiss the falling tears each other sheds ;

Oh! may they pause !—and think, in silent awe,
He, that he reads the words, “ Cz g#t St Fotx /”—
She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys
Bears this sad line,—“ Ac jacet Seur Therése |”—
Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say,
“Oh! may we never play such tricks as they !”—
And if at such a time some Bard there be,

Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea

And sentimental song—like Ingoldsby—
Sir Rupert the Fearless 293

If such there be—who sings and sips so well,

Let him this sad, this tender story tell !

Warn’d by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast,

“D’ve ’scaped the Broken Heart !”»—“and I the Ghost!”





0:

The next in order of these “lays of many lands” refers
to a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene
the banks of what our Teutonic friends are won’t to call
their “own imperial River!” The incidents which it
records afford sufficient proof (and these are days of
demonstration), that a propensity to flirtation is not con-
fined to age or country, and that its consequences were
not less disastrous to the mail-clad Rztter of the dark
ages than to the silken courtier of the seventeenth century.
The whole narrative bears about it the stamp of truth,
and from the papers among which it was discovered I
am inclined to think it must have been picked up by Sir
Peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits to
“The German Spa.”

| Sir Rupert the Fearless

A Legend of Germany

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS, a gallant young knight,
Was equally ready to tipple or fight,

Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle ;
In brief, or as Hume says, “to sum up the tottle,”
Unstain’d by dishonour, unsullied by fear,
All his neighbours pronounced him a preux chevalier.
294 Sir. Rupert. the Fearless

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,
He had one slight defect, viz. a rather lean rental ;
Besides, as ’tis own’d there are spots in the sun,
So it must be confessed that Sir Rupert had one;
Being rather unthinking, He’d scarce sleep a wink in
A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking,
And, what moralists say Is as naughty—to play,
To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecaréé ;
Till these and a few less defensible fancies -
Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

When at length through his boozing,
And tenants refusing
Their rents, swearing “times were so bad. they were
losing,”
His steward said, “O, sir, It’s some time ago, sir,
Since aught through my hands reach’d the baker or -
grocer,
And the tradesmen in general are grown great com-
plainers.”
Sir Rupert the brave thus addressed his retainers :

“ My friends, since the stock Of my father’s old hock
Is out, with the Kiirchwasser, Barsac, Moselle,
And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well,
I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best
For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes,
Mount his horse, if he has one, and—follow his nose ;
As to me, I opine, Left sazs money or wine,
My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine,
Where pitying travellers may sigh, as they cross over,
‘Though he lived a voudé, yet he died a philosopher.’”

The Knight, having bow’d out his friends thus politely,
Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly,
By the light of whose beam,
He soon spied on the stream
A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream;
Pretty pink silken hose . Cover’d ankles and. toes, .
In other respects she was scanty of clothes ;
4

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>AND *SUICH

D-SUCH *VERY*ODD:HEADS

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VERY:ODD:TAILS

Blitalieayg
Sir Rupert the Fearless 295

For, so says tradition, both written and oral,
Her ove garment was loop’d up with bunches of coral.
Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar,
With silver cords stretch’d over Derbyshire spar,
And she smiled on the Knight,
Who, amazed at the sight,
Soon found his astonishment merged in delight ;
But the stream by degrees
Now rose up to her knees,
Till at length it invaded her very chemise,
While the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to
swallow her,
And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower ;
—Jumping up in his boat, And discarding his coat,
“Here goes,” cried Sir Rupert, “by jingo I'll follow her!”
Then into the water he plunged with a souse
That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.

Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink,
Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink,

And, as downward he goes,

Still the cold water flows
Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his

nose,

Till the rum and the brandy he’d swallow’d since lunch
Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch ;
Some minutes elapsed since he enter’d the flood,
Ere his heels touch’d the bottom, and stuck in the mud

But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight,
When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright !—
A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal,
Rose above and about him ;—¢reat fishes and small

Came thronging around him, regardless of danger,
And seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger.

Their figures and forms to describe, language fails—
They’d such very odd heads, and such very odd tails ;
Of their genus or species a sample to gain,

You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain ;
296 Sir Rupert the Fearless

E’en the famed Mr Myers

Would scarcely find buyers,
Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop
To stare, were such monsters expos’d in his shop.

But little reck’d Rupert these queer-looking brutes,

Or the efts and thenewts That crawled up his boots,
For a sight, beyond any of which ’ve made mention,
In a moment completely absorb’d his attention.

A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer
Than George Robins’ filters, or Thorpe’s (which are
dearer),

Have ever distill’d, To the summit was fill’d,

Lay stretch’d out before him,—and every nerve thrill’d

As scores of young women

Were diving and swimming,

Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in ;—
All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns,
They came floating about him like so many prawns.

Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes

Alluded to,) ere he lept into the billows

Possess’d irreproachable morals, began

To feel rather queer, as a modest young man ;

When forth stepp’d a dame, whom he recognised soon

As the one he had seen by the light of the moon,

And lisp’d, while a soft smile attended each sentence, _

“Sir Rupert, ’m happy to make your acquaintance ;
My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen,

All do me the honour to call me their Queen ;

I’m delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here,

And hope you can make it convenient to dine here.”

The Knight blush’d, and bowed,

As he ogled the crowd
Of subaqueous beauties, then answer’d aloud :
“Ma’am, you do me much honour,—I cannot express
The delight I shall feel—if you'll pardon my dress—







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THEY CAME FLOATING ABOUT HIM LIKE SO MANY PRAWNS
298 Sir Rupert the Fearless

May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps
In the river at midnight for want of ‘the dumps,’
He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps;
If I could but have guess’d—what I sensibly feel—
Your politeness—I’d not have come ex dishabille,
But have put on my sz/é tights in lieu of my s¢ee/.”
Quoth the lady, “Dear sir, no apologies, pray,
You will take our ‘ pot-luck’ in the family way ;

We can give you a dish Of.some decentish fish,
And our water’s thought fairish ; but here in the Rhine,
I can’t say we pique ourselves much on our wine.”

The Knight made a bow more profound than before,

When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door,
And said, bending his knee, “Madame, on a servi!”

Rupert tender’d his arm, led Lurline to her place,

And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace.

What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she
Apologiz’d much for their plain water-souchy,
Want of Harvey’s, and Cross’s,
And Burgess’s sauces?
Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he
Preferr'd his fish plain, without soy or anchovy.
Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel,
Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel.
The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes
Than of what they were served on, the massive gold
dishes ; ;
While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls,
Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls,
And a thought came across him and caused him to muse,
“Tf I could but get hold Of some of that gold,
I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!”

When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses, __

The table was clear’d, and they put on fresh glasses ;
Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest

Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas,

“Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?” —
Sir Rupert the Fearless 299

Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender,
Loll’d back in his chair, put his toes on the fender,
And told her outright How that he, a young Knight,
Had never been last at a feast or a fight ;
But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year,
And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer,
Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent,
How he borrow’d large sums at two hundred per cent. ;
How they follow’d—and then,
The once civillest of men,
Messrs Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he
*d ever raised money by way of annuity ;
And, his mortgages being about to foreclose,
How he jump’d in the river to finish his woes!

Lurline was affected, and own’d, with a tear,
That a story so mournful had ne’er met her ear ;

Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look’d uncommonly sly,
And said, with some emphasis, “Ah! miss, had I

A few pounds of those metals

You waste here on kettles,

Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain,
A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign,

With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride,

(For the parson should come, and the knot should be
tied ;)

No couple so happy on earth should be seen

As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline ;

Not that money’s my object—No, hang it! I scorn it—

And as for my rank—but that you'd so adorn it—

I’d abandon it all To remain your true thrall,
And, instead of ‘the Great, be call’d ‘Rupert the Siall;’
—To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus,

I’d descend from my throne, and be boots at an ale-
house.” +

Lurline hung her head, Turned pale, and then red,
Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed,
1 « Sardanapalus ” and ‘‘Boots,” the Zesth and Nadir of human society.
300 Sir Rupert the Fearless

As though his abruptness, in “ popping the question” —
So soon after dinner, disturb’d her digestion.
Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh,
“You are welcome,” she murmur’d, in tones most
bewitching, ,
“To every utensil I have in my kitchen!”
Upstarted the Knight, Half mad with delight,
Round her finely-form’d waist
He immediately placed
One arm, which the lady most closely embraced,
Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture,
And he press’d his adored to his bosom with rapture.
“And, oh!” he exclaim’d, “let them go catch my skiff, I
ll be home in a twinkling, and back in a jiffy,
Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey
Than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney.”

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand,
And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land,

For a sour-visaged Triton,

With features would frighten
Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, thoughno light one,
Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny,
Which some others already had half-fill’d with money ;
In fact, twas so heavily laden with ore
And pearls, ’twas a mercy he got it to shore ;

But Sir Rupert was strong, And, while pulling along,
Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs’ song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

“ Away! away! to the mountain’s brow,
Where the castle is darkly frowning ;
And the vassals, all in goodly row,
Weep for their lord a-drowning !
Away ! away! to the steward’s room,
Where law with its wig and robe is ;
Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe,
And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies !”
Sir Rupert the Fearless 301

The unearthly. voices scarce had ceased their yelling,
When Rupert reach’d his old baronial dwelling.

What rejoicing was there !
How the vassals did stare !
The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air,
For she saw by her lamp
That her master’s was damp,
And she fear’d he’d catch cold, and lumbago and cramp ;
But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded
Wet jacket or trowsers, nor thought of repining,
Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining.
But oh! what dismay Fill’d the tribe of Ca Sa,
When they found he'd the cash, and intended to
pay !
Away went “cognovits,? “bills,” “bonds,” and
“escheats,’—
Rupert clear’d off all scores, and took proper receipts.

Now no more he sends out

For pots of brown stout
Or schnaps, but resolves to do henceforth without,
Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety,
Enrol himself one of a Temp’rance Society,

All riot eschew, Begin life anew,
And new-cushion and hassock the family pew!
Nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life,
He boldly determines to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice
sense
Of honour, should put Lurline’s name in the licence,
And that, for a man of his breeding and quality,
To break faith and troth, Confirm’d by an oath,
Is not quite consistent with rigid morality ;
But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her
From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-
water,
And declined as unsuited, A bride so diluted—
302 Sir Rupert the Fearless

Be this as it may, He, I’m sorry to say,
(For, all things considered, I own ’twas a rum thing,)
Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von—something,
(Her name has escaped me,) sole heiress, and niece
To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

“Thrice happy’s the woo-
ing That’s not long a-
doing !”

So much time is saved in the
billing and cooing—

The ring is now bought, the
white favours, and gloves,

And all the e¢ cetera which
crown people’s loves ;

A magnificent bride - cake
comes home from the
baker,

And lastly appears, from the
German Long Acre,
That shaft which the sharpest

in all Cupid’s quiver is,

A plum colour’d coach, and
rich Pompadour liveries.

’Twas a comely sight
To behold the Knight,
With his beautiful . bride,
dress’d all in white, :
And the bridesmaids fair with :
their long lace veils,
As they all walk’d up to the altar rails,
While nice little boys, the incense dispensers,
March’d in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt
censers.



With a gracious air, and a smiling look,

Mess John had open’d his awful book, :
And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant?
And if “he knew any just cause or impediment?”
Sir Rupert the Fearless 303

When from base to turret the castle shook! ! !

Then came a sound of a mighty rain

Dashing against each storied pane,

The wind blew loud, And a coal-black cloud
O’ershadowed the church, and the party, and crowd ;
How it could happen they could not divine

The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach’d such a pass
That the sextoness hasten’d to turn on the gas;
But harder it pour’d, And the thunder roar’d,
As if heaven and earth were coming together ;
None ever had witness’d such terrible weather.
Now louder it crash’d, And the lightning flash’d,
Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears
In the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers ;
The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon,
When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected,
Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected,

And endeavoured to cheer His bride, in her ear
Whisp’ring tenderly, “ Pray don’t be frighten’d, my dear ;
Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you’re
Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture.”

But now, from without A trustworthy scout

Rush’d hurriedly in, Wet through to the skin,
Informing his master “the river was rising,
And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising,”

He’d no time to say more, For already the roar

Of the waters was heard as they reach’d the church-door,
While, high on the first wave that roll’d in, was seen,
Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline ;

And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,
She was stung by the sprete injurid forme.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,
What she said to the ladies who stood by her side,
304 Sir Rupert the Fearless

What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes,
Oh, nobody mentions,—for nobody knows ;
For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,
And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout,
The rain kept on pouring,
The flood kept on roaring,
The billows and water-rnymphs roll’ more and more
ing:
Ere the close of the day
All was clean washed away—
One only survived who could hand down the news,
A little old woman that open’d the pews ;
She was borne off, but stuck,
By the greatest good luck.
In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming,
And saw all the rest swallow’d up the wild stream in;
In vain all the week, Did the fishermen seek
For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek ;
In vain was their search
After ought in the church,
They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few
perch ;
The Humane Society - Tried a variety
Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck,
tackles,
But they only fish’d up the clerk’s tortoise-shell
spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware

Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!

Shun playing at sorts—avoid quarrels and jars—

And don’t take to smoking those nasty cigars !

—Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-
eyed ;

Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide !

Don’t sit up much later than ten or eleven !—

Be up in the morning by half after seven !
Sir Rupert the Fearless 305

Keep from flirting—nor risk, warned by Rupert’s mis-
carriage,

An action for breach of a promise of marriage ;—
Don’t fancy old fishes! Don’t prig silver dishes !
And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,
BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE

RHINO!







And now for “Sunny Italy,’"—the “Land of the un-
forgotten brave,’—the land of blue skies and black-eyed
Signoras.—I cannot discover from any recorded memoranda
that “Uncle Perry” was ever in Venice, even in Carnival
time—that he ever saw Garrick in Shylock I do not
believe, and am satisfied that he knew nothing of Shaks-
peare, a circumstance that would by no means disqualify

U
306 The Merchant of Venice

him from publishing an edition of that Poet’s works. I
can only conclude that, in the course of his Continental
wanderings, Sir Peregrine had either read, or heard of the
following history, especially as he furnishes us with some
particulars of the eventual destination of his dramatis
persone which the Bard of Avon has omitted. If this solu-
tion be not’ accepted, I can only say, with Mr Puff, that
probably “two men hit upon the same idea, and Shaks-
peare made use of it first.”

The Merchant of Venice

A Legend of Italy

. .. Of the Merchant of Venice there are two 4to. editions in 1600,
one by Heyes and the other by Roberts. The Duke of Devonshire
and Lord Francis Egerton have copies of the edition by Heyes, and
they vary tmportanily.

... It must be acknowledged that ¢hzs is a very easy and happy
emendation, which does not admit of a moment’s doubt or dispute.

. . . Readers in general are not all aware of the momsense they have

in many cases been accustomed to receive as the genuine text of
Shakspeare!

Reasons for a new edition of Shakspeare’s Works, by J. Payne Collier.

I BELIEVE there are few But have heard of a Jew,
Named Shylock, of Venice, as errant a “Screw”
In money transactions, as ever you knew;
An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent
A ducat at less than three hundred per cent.,
Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice,
Who’d take no more care of his pounds than his pennies,
When press’d for a loan, at the very first sight
Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in Flight.
The Merchant of Venice 307

It is not my purpose to pause and inquire

If he might not, in managing thus to retire,

Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire ;

Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do,
Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew.

But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives,

We've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives,
That “Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives!”
In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool,

Bassanio, a Lord of the Tomnoddy school,

Who, by shewing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court,

A “swelling” (Payne Collier would read “swilling”)
“port,”

And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup,

Had shrunk his “weak means,” and was “stump’d” and
“hard up,”

Took occasion to send To his very good friend

Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end,

And who'd often before had the kindness to lend

Him large sums, on his note, which he’d managed to
spend.

“ Antonio,” said he, “Now listen to me:
I’ve just hit on a scheme which, I think, you'll agree,
All matters considered, is no bad design,
And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine.
In the first place, you know all the money I’ve got,
Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot,
And in making those loans you have made a bad shot;
Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows
And tom-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows,
—Shoot another the same way—lI’1] watch well its track,
And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back !—

So list to my plan, And do what you can
To attend to and second it, that’s a good man!

[at

“ There’s a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare,
A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at
The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat
308 The Merchant of Venice

Was giving last season, we all used to stare at.
Then, as to her wealth, her Solicitor told mine,
Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine,

Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks,

It’s stuffed so with shares in ‘Grand Junctions’ and
‘Docks,
Not to speak of the money she’s got in the Stocks,

French, Dutch, and Brazilian,

Columbian, and Chilian,

In English Exchequer-bills full half a million,

Not ‘kites, manufactured to cheat and inveigle,

But the right sort of ‘flimsy,’ all sign’d by Monteagle.
Then I know nothowmuchin Canal-shares and Railways,
And more speculations I need not detail, ways

Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think ’em,
Contribute a deal to improving one’s income ;

In short, she’s a Mint!— Now I say, deuce is in’t

If, with all my experience, I can’t take a hint,

And her ‘eye’s speechless messages,’ plainer than print
At the time that I told you of, know from a squint.

In short, my dear Tony, My crusty old crony,

Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan—I
Am sure of my game—though, of course, there are brutes,
Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits

To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts,

Yet Portia—she’s named from that daughter of Cato’s—
Is not to be snapp’d up like little potatoes,

And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout
Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson—cut them all out—
Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her!
—Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed,
For her Three-and-a-half per Cents—New and Reduced !

With a wink of his eye His friend made reply

In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry,

‘Still the same boy, Bassanio—never say ‘die’!
—Well—I hardly know how I shall do’t, but I’ll try,—
Don’t suppose my affairs are at all in a hash, .

But the fact is, at present I’m quite out of cash;
The Merchant of Venice 309

The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is
Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies,
Tending, of course, my resources to cripple,—I
‘ve one bound to England,—another to Tripoli—
Cyprus—Masulipatam—and Bombay ;
A sixth, by the way, I consign’d t’other day,
To Sir Richard M‘Gregor, Cacique of Poyais,
A country where silver’s as com-
mon as clay.
Meanwhile, till they tack,
Andcome,someof them, back,
What with Custom-house duties,
and bills falling due,
My account with Jones Loyd and
Co. looks rather blue:
While, as for the ‘ready, I’m
like a Church mouse,—
I really don’t think there’s five
pounds in the house.
But, no matter for that,

Let me just get my hat,
And my new silk umbrella that
stands on the mat,

And we'll go forth at once to the
market—we two,—

And try what my credit in Venice
can do;

I stand well on ’Change, and,
when all’s said and done, I

Don’t doubt I shall get it for love or for money.”



They were going to go, When, lo! down below,

In the street, they heard somebody crying, “Old
Clo’ !”

—‘“By the Pope, there’s the man for our purpose!—I
knew

We should not have to search long. Salanio, run you,

—Salarino,—quick !—haste! ere he get out of view,

And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!”
2a10 The Merchant of Venice

With a pack, Like a sack

Of old clothes, at his back,
And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack,
Saying, “Rest you fair, Signior Antonio! vat, pray,
Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?”

—“Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know,
I am what they call ‘warm,—pay my way as I go,
And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend,
I can break through a rule, to oblige an old friend ;
And that’s the case now—Lord Bassanio would raise
Some three thousand ducats—well,—knowing your ways,
And that nought’s to be got from you, say what one will,
Unless you’ve a couple of names to the bill,

Why, for once, I'll put mine to it,

Yea, seal and sign to it—
Now, then, old Sinner, let’s hear what you'll say
As to ‘doing’ a bill at three months from to-day ?
Three thousand gold ducats, mind—all in good bags
Of hard money—no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags?”

“— Vell, ma tear,” says the Jew,
“Tl see vat I can do!
But Mishter Antonio, hark you, ’tish funny
You say to me, ‘Shylock, ma tear, ve’d have money!’
Ven you very vell knows
How you shpit on ma clothes,
And use naughty vords—call me Dog—and avouch
Dat I put too much int’resht py half in ma pouch,
And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch,
You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I’m a Smouch.
—Vell!—no matters,ma tear,— Vonvord in your ear!
I'd be friends mit you bote—and to make dat appear,
Vy, I'll find you de monies as soon as you vill,
Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill ;—
Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day
Such sum, or such sums, you shall fail to repay,
I shall cut vere I like, as de pargain is proke,
A fair pound of your flesh—chest by vay of a joke.”
The Merchant of Venice 311

So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause ;
But Antonio, like most of those sage “ Johnny Raws”
Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws,
And think cheaply of “Old Father Antic,” because
They have never experienced a gripe from his claws,
“Pooh pooh’d” the whole thing.—‘Let the Smouch
have his way—
Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty >—Nay,
It’s a forfeit he’d never expect me to pay;
And, come what come may, I hardly need say
My ships will be back a full month ere the day.”
So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey,
And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he
Affixed with all speed His name to a deed,
Duly stamp’d and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney.
Thus again furnished forth, Lord Bassanio, instead
Of squandering the cash, after giving one spread,
With fiddling and masques at the Saracen’s Head,
In the morning “made play,”
And, without more delay,
Started off in the steam-boat for Belmont next day.
But scarcely had he From the harbour got free,
And left the Lagunes for the broad open sea,
Ere the ’Change and Rialto both rung with the news
That he’d carried off more than mere cash from the Jew’s.

Though Shylock was old, And, if rolling in gold,
Was as ugly a dog as you’d wish to behold,
For few in his tribe ’mongst their Levis and Moseses,
Sported so Jewish an eye, beard, and nose as his,
Still, whate’er the opinions of Horace and some be,
Your aguzle generate sometimes Columbe.*
Like Jephthah, as Hamlet says, he’d “one fair daughter,”
And every gallant, who caught sight of her, thought her
A jewel—a gem of the very first water ;

A great many sought her, Till one at last caught her,
And, upsetting all that the Rabbis had taught her,
To feelings so truly reciprocal brought her,

1 Nec imbellem feroces
Progenerant aquilze columbam.— Hor.
Caw The Merchant of Venice

That the very same night Bassanio thought right
To give all his old friends that farewell “ invite,”
And while Shylock was gone there to feed out of spite,
On “wings made by a tailor” the damsel took flight.

By these “wings” ’d express A grey duffle dress,
With brass badge and muffin cap, made, as by rule,
For an upper class boy in the National School.

Jessy ransack’d the house, popped her breeks on, and
when so

Disguised, bolted off with her beau—one Lorenzo,

An “ Unthrift,” who lost not a moment in whisking

Her into the boat, And was fairly afloat
Ere her Pa had got rid of the smell of the griskin.

Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket,
And threatening how well he’d dust every man’s jacket
Who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet,
Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing,
And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing,
Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best
To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest ;
And, if left to herself, he, no doubt, had succeeded,
For none of them waltz’d so genteelly as he did;
But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way,
The defunct Mr P., who was now turned to clay,
Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he
meant, :
Left but a queer sort of “ Last will and testament,’”—
Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land,
&c., from motives one don’t understand,
As she rev’renced his memory, and valued his blessing,
To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing!

Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid ;
In one of three caskets her picture she hid,
And clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid.
A couple of Princes, a black and a white one,
Tried first, but they both failed in choosing the right one
The Merchant of Venice 313

Another from Naples, who shoed his own horses ;
A French Lord, whose graces might vie with Count
D’Orsay’s ;—

A young English Baron ;—a Scotch Peer his neighbour :—

A dull drunken Saxon, all mustache and sabre ;—

As followed, and all had their pains for their labour.

Bassanio came last—happy man be his dole!

Put his conjuring cap on,—considered the whole,—
The gold put asideas Mere “hard food for Midas,”
The silver bade trudge Asa “pale commondrudge;”

Then choosing the little lead box in the middle,

Came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle.

Now you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say,
Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day,
Any more than the dome Of St Peter’s at Rome
Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact,
Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing,
Three months had gone by ere he reach’d the fifth act;
Meanwhile, that unfortunate bill became due,
Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew,
And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew,
For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do;
(The bitter old Israelite would not renew),
What with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and
embargoes, his
Funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies,
None of the set having come into port,
And Shylock’s attorney was moving the Court
For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport.

The serious news Of this step of the Jew’s,
And his fix’d resolution all terms to refuse,
Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of “the Blues,”
Especially, too, as it came from the pen
Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,—then,
When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and when
The Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen.
314 The Merchant of Venice

“ Dear Friend,” it continued, “all’s up with me—I

Have nothing on earth now to do but to die!

And, as death clears all scores, you’re no longer my
debtor ;

I should take it as kind

Could you come—never mind—

If your love don’t persuade you, why—don’t let this
letter!”
I hardly need say this was scarcely read o’er

Ere a post-chaise and four

Was brought round to the door,

And Bassanio, though, doubtless, he thought it a bore,
Gave his Lady one kiss, and then started at score.

But scarce in his flight Had he got out of sight,
Ere Portia, addressing a groom, said, “My lad, you a
Journey must take on the instant to Padua ;

Find out there Bellario, a doctor of Laws,
Who, like Follett, is never left out of a cause,

And give him this note, Which I’ve hastily wrote,
Take the papers he'll give you—then push for the ferry
Below, where I’ll meet you—you’ll do’t in a wherry,

If you can’t find a boat on the Brenta with sails to it—
—Stay !—bring his gown too, and wig with three tails
to it.”

Giovanni (that’s Jack) Brought out his hack,
Made a bow to his mistress, then jump’d on its back,
Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack.

The Signora soon follow’d herself, taking as her
Own escort Nerissa her maid, and Balthazar.

“The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met,
The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!”

As Captain Macheath says,—and when one’s in debt,
The sight’s as unpleasant a one as I know,

Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose,

As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes,

They should bid people cut off one’s toes or one’s

nose ;
The Merchant of Venice 315

Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late
A merchant, might vie e’en with Princes in state,
With his waistcoat unbutton’d, prepared for the knife,
Which, in taking a pound of flesh must take his life ;
—On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor,
And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before,
Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands,
With his scales and his great szzker-snee in his hands;
—Between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands,
With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer,
Whose air, ne’ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer,
Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his possible
To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline,
And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine,
Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine,
Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line.
But vain are all efforts to soften him—still
He points to the bond He so often has conn’d,
And says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will.

So the dandified Lawyer, with talking grown hoarse,
Says, “I can say no more—let the law take its course.”

Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew,
As he sharpen’d his knife on the sole of his shoe
From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel,
With a business-like air was beginning to feel
Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal,
When the dandified Judge puts a spoke in his wheel.
“ Stay, Shylock,” says he,
“ Here’s one thing—you see
This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood!
—The words are ‘A pound of flesh,—that’s clear as
mud—
Slice away, then, old fellow—but mind !—if you spill
One drop of his claret that’s not in your bill,
Til hang you like Haman !—by Jingo I will!”

When apprized of this flaw, You never yet saw
Such an awfully marked elongation of jaw
316 The Merchant of Venice

As in Shylock, who cried, “Plesh ma heart! ish that
law ??—
—Off went his three hats,
And he look’d as the cats
Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw.
“_Tsh’t the law ?”—why the thing won’t admit of a
query—
“No doubt of the fact, Only look at the act ;
Acto quinto, cap: tertio, Dogi Falieri—
Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt,
The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet.
See Foscari’s ‘ Statutes at large’—‘ If a Stranger
A Citizen’s life shall, with malice, endanger,
The whole of his property, little or great,
Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State,
And one to the person pursued by his hate ;
And notto create Any further debate,
The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.’
So down. on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy !
Defendant and Plaintiff are now wzsy wersy.”

What need to declare How pleased they all were
At so joyful an end to so sad an affair?
Or Bassanio’s delight at the turn things had taken,
His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon ?
How Shylock got shaved, and turn’d Christian, though
late,
To save a life-int’rest in half his estate ?—
How the dandified Lawyer, who’d managed the thing,
Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring
Which Mrs Bassanio had giv’n to her spouse,
With injunctions to keep it, on leaving the house ?—
How when he, and the spark
Who appeared as his clerk,
Had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their
jetty coats,
There stood Nerissa and Portia in petticoats >—
How they pouted and flouted, and acted the cruel,
Because Lord Bassanio had not kept his jewel ?—
The Merchant of Venice 217

How they scolded and broke out,
Till, having their joke out,
They kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and
blessed,
Drove home by the light Of a moonshiny night,
Like the one in which Troilus, the brave Trojan knight,
Sat astride on a wall, and sigh’d after his Cressid 2—

All this, if twere meet, I’d go on to repeat,
But a story spun out so’s by no means a treat,
So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains .
I have taken to rummage among his remains,
No edition of Shakspeare, I’ve met with, contains ;
But; if the account which I’ve heard be the true one,
We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one.

In an MS.,then, sold For its full weight in gold,
And knock’d down to my friend, Lord Tomnoddy, I’m
told
It’s recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain,
Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain ;
Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again,
Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main,
Became known by the name of the “Flower of Dum-
blane.”

That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen,
Him to spit upon every old Jew’s gaberdine,

And whose goodness to paint All colours were faint,
Acquired the well-merited prefix of “Saint,”
And the Doge, his admirer, of honour the fount,
Having given him a patent, and made him a Count,
He went over to England, got nat’ralis’d there,
And espous’d a rich heiress in Hanover Square.
That Shylock came with him, no longer a Jew,
But converted, I think may be possibly true,
But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver,
By changing the y in his name into ev,
Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up,
And in Seventeen-twenty-eight made him a Bishop,
318 The Merchant of Venice

I cannot believe—but shall still think them two men
Till some Sage proves the fact “ with his usual acumen.”

MORAL.

From this tale of the Bard It’s uncommonly hard ~
If an Editor can’t draw a moral.—’Tis clear,
Then,—In ev'ry young wife-seeking Bachelor’s ear
A maxim, ’bove all other stories, this one drums,
“PITCH GREEK TO OLD HARRY, AND STICK TO
CONUNDRUMs! !”

To new-married Ladies this lesson it teaches,
“ ’ ‘ da: : 1»
You're ‘no that far wrong’ in assuming the breeches!

Monied men upon ’Change, and rich Merchants in schools
To look well to assets—nor play with edge-tools !

Last of all, this remarkable History shews men,
What caution they need when they deal with old-
clothesmen !
So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary,
And never let one of them come down the are’!





From St Mark to St Lawrence—from the Rialto to the
Escurial—from one Peninsula to another !—it is but a hop,
step, and jump—your toe at Genoa, your heel at Mar-
seilles, and a good hearty spring pops you down at once
in the very heart of Old Castille. That Sir Peregrine
Ingoldsby, then a young man, was at Madrid soon after
the peace of Ryswick, there is extant a long correspond-
ence of his to prove. Various passages in it countenance
the supposition that his tour was partly undertaken for
political purposes ; and this opinion is much strengthened
The Auto-da-Fe 319

by certain allusions in several of his letters, addressed, in
after life, to his friend Sir Horace Mann, then acting in the
capacity of Envoy to the Court of Tuscany. Although
the Knight spent several months in Spain, and visited
many of her principal cities, there is no proof of his having
actually “seen Seville,” beyond the internal evidence in-
cidentally supplied by the following legend. The events
to which it alludes were, of course, of a much earlier date,
though the genealogical records of the “ Kings of both the
Indies” have been in vain consulted for the purpose of
fixing their precise date, and even Mr Simpkinson’s re-
search has failed to determine which of the royal stock
rejoicing in the name of Ferdinand is the hero of the
legend. The conglomeration of Christian names usual
in the families of the haute noblesse of Spain adds to the
difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of
prefixes is peculiar to the country in question, witness my
excellent friend Field- Marshal Count Herman Karl
Heinrich Socrates von der Nodgerrie zii Pfefferkorn,
whose appellations puzzled the recording clerk of one
of our Courts lately,—and that not a little.

That a splendid specimen of the genus Homo, species
Monk, flourished in the earlier moiety of the 15th century,
under the appellation of Torquemada, is notorious,—and
this fact might seem to establish the era of the story ;
but then 42s name was John—not Dominic—though he
was a Dominican, and hence the mistake, if any, may
perhaps have originated—but then again the Spanish
Queen to whom he was Confessor was called Isabella,
and’ not Blanche—it is a puzzling affair altogether.
320 The Auto-da-Fe

From his own silence on the subject, it may well be
doubted whether the worthy transcriber knew, himself,
the date of the transactions he has recorded ; the authen-
ticity of the details, however, cannot be well called in
question.—Be this as it may, I shall make no further
question, but at once introduce my “pensive public” to

The Auto-da-fé
A Legend of Spain

WITH a moody air, from morn till noon,
King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon ;

From morn till eve He does nothing but grieve ;
Sighings and sobbings his midriff heave,

And he wipes his eyes with his ermined sleeve,
And he presses his feverish hand to his brow,
And he frowns, and he looks I can’t tell you how:

And the Spanish Grandees_ In their degrees,

Are whispering about in twos and in threes,

And there is not a man of them seems at his ease,
But they gaze on the monarch, as watching what he does,
With their very long whiskers, and longer Toledos.
Don Gaspar, Don Gusman, Don Juan, Don Diego,
Don Gomez, Don Pedro, Don Blas, Don Rodrigo,

Don Jerome, Don Giacomo join Don Alphonso

In making inquiries Of grave Don Ramirez,
The Chamberlain, what it is makes him take on so;
A Monarch so great that the soundest opinions
Maintain the sun can’t set throughout his dominions ;

But grave Don Ramirez In guessing no nigher is
Than the other grave Dons who propound these inquiries;
When, pausing at length, as beginning to tire, his
Majesty beckons, with stately civility,

To Sefior Don Lewis Condé d’Aranjuez,

Who in birth, wealth, and consequence second to few is,
The Auto-da-Fe 321

And Sefior Don Manuel, Count de Pacheco,

A lineal descendant from King Pharaoh Neco,

Both Knights of the Golden Freece, highborn Hidalgos,
With whom e’en the King himself quite as a “ pal” goes.

“Don Lewis,” says he, “Just listen to me:
And you, Count Pacheco,—I think that we three
On matters of state, for the most part agree,—

Now you both of you know That some six years ago,
Being then, for a King, no indifferent Beau,

At the altar I took, like my forbears of.old,

The Peninsula’s paragon, - Fair Blanche of Aragon
For better, for worse, and to have and to hold—

And your're fully aware, When the matter took air,
How they shouted, and fired the great guns in the Square,
Cried ‘ Vzva/’ and rung all the bells in the steeple,

And all that sort of thing The mob do when a King
Brings a Queen-Consort home for the good of his people.

“ Well !—six years anda day Have flitted away
Since that blessed event, yet I’m sorry to say—
In fact it’s the principal cause of my pain—
I don’t see any signs of an Infant of Spain !—
Now I want to ask you, Cavaliers true,
And Counsellors sage—what the deuce shall I do ?>—
The State—don’t you see?—hey ?—an heir to the
throne—
Every monarch—you know—should have one of his
own—
Disputed succession—hey ?—terrible Go !—
Hum !—hey ?— Old fellows—you see!—don’t you
know ?”—

Now, Reader, dear, If you’ve ever been near
Enough to a Court to encounter a Peer
When his principal tenant’s gone off in arrear,
And his brewer has sent in a long bill for beer,
And his butcher and baker, with faces austere,
Ask him to clear Off, for furnish’d good cheer,
x
322 The Auto-da-Fe

Bills, they say, “have been standing for more than a
”
>
And the tailor and shoemaker also appear
With their “little account” Of “trifling amount,”
For Wellingtons, waistcoats, pea-jackets, and—gear
Which to name in society’s thought rather queer,—
While Drummond’s chief clerk, with his pen in his ear,
And a kind of a sneer, says, “We've no effects here!”
—Or if ever you’ve seen An Alderman, keen
After turtle, peep into a silver tureen,
In search of the fat call’d par excellence “ green,”
When there’s none of the meat left—not even the lean !—
—Or if ever you've witness’d the face of a sailor
Return’d from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or
Poeticé “ Boreas,” that “ blustering railer,”
To find that his wife, when he hastens to “ hail” her,
Has just run away with his cash—and a tailor— -
If one of these cases you’ve ever survey’d,
You'll, without my aid, To yourself have pourtray'd
The beautiful mystification display’d,
And the puzzled expression of manner and air
Exhibited now by the dignified pair,
When thus unexpectedly ask’d to declare
Their opinions as Counsellors, several and joint,
On so delicate, grave, and important a point.

Sefior Don Lewis Condé d’Aranjuez
At length forced a smile ’twixt the prim and the grim,
And look’d at Pacheco—Pacheco at him—
Then, making a rev’rence, and dropping his eyes,
Cough’d, hemm’d, and deliver’d himself in this wise :

“My Liege !—unaccustom’d as I am to speaking

In public—an art I’m remarkably weak in—

I feel I should be—quite unworthy the name

Of a man and a Spaniard—and highly to blame,
Were there not in my ‘breast
What—can’t be exprest,—

And can therefore,—your Males ey =2only be guess sees
The Auto-da-Fe ao

—What I mean to say is—since your Majesty deigns
To ask my advice on your welfare—and Spain’s,—
And on that of your Majesty’s Bride—that is, Wife—
It’s the—as I may say—proudest day of my life!
But-as to the point—on a subject so nice
It’s a delicate matter to give one’s advice,
Especially too, When one don’t clearly view

The best mode of proceeding,—or know what to do;
My decided opinion, however, is this,

And I fearlessly say that you can’t do amiss,

. If with all that fine tact Both to think and to act,
In which all. know your Majesty so much excels—
You are graciously pleased to—ask somebody else!”

Here the noble Grandee Made that sort of congée,
Which, as Hill used to say, “I once happen’d to see”
The great Indian conjuror, Ramo Samee, ;
Make, while swallowing what all thought a regularchoker,
Vzz. a small sword as long and as stiff as a poker.

Then the Count de Pacheco,

Whose turn ’twas to speak, o-

-mitting all preface, exclaim’d with devotion,
“Sire, I beg leave to second Don Lewis’s motion!”

Nowa Monarch of Spain Of course could not deign
To expostulate, argue, or, much less, complain
Of an answer thus giv’n, or to ask them again ;
So he merely observ’d, with an air of disdain,
“Well, Gentlemen,—since you both shrink from the task
Of advising your Sovereign—pray, whom shall I ask ?”

Each felt the rub, And in Spain not a Sub,
Much less an Hidalgo, can stomach a snub,
So the noses of these Castilian Grandees
Rise at once in an angle of several degrees,
Till the under-lip’s almost becoming the upper,
Each perceptibly grows, too, more stiff in the crupper,
Their right hands rest On the left side the breast,
While the hilts of their swords, by their left hands deprest,
324 The Auto-da-Feé

Make the ends of their scabbards to cock up behind,
Till they’re quite horizontal instead of inclined,
And Don Lewis, with scarce an attempt to disguise
The disgust he experiences, gravely replies,
“ Sire, ask the Archbishop—his Grace of Toledo !—
He understands these things much better than we do!”
—Pauca Verba \|—enough,
Each turns off in a huff,
This twirling his mustache, that fingering his ruff,
Like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale,
With a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail.

King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon,

With a moody brow, and he looks like a “ Spoon,”

And all the Court Nobles who form the ring,

Have a spoony appearance, of course, like the King,

All of them eyeing King Ferdinand

As he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand,

Which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro,—

“ What is it can make the Archbishop so slow ? ”

Hark !—at last there’s a sound in the courtyard below,

Where the Beefeaters all are drawn up in a row,—

I would say the “ Guards,” for in Spain they’re in chief

eaters

Of omelettes and garlick, and can’t be called Beefeaters ;
In fact, of the few Individuals I knew

Who ever had happened to travel in Spain

There has scarce been a person who did not complain

Of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain,

And no one I’m sure will deny it who’s tried a

Vile compound they have that’s called Ola podrida.

(This, by the bye, ’s a mere rhyme to the eye,
For in Spanish the z is pronounced like an e,
And they’ve not quite our mode of pronouncing the d.
In Castille, for instance, it’s giv’n through the teeth,
And whatwe call Madréd theysound more like Madveeth,)
Of course you will see in a moment they’ve no men
That at all corresponds with our Beefeating Yeomen ;
The Auto-da-Fe a5

So call them “ Walloons,” or whatever you please,

By their rattles and slaps they’re not “standing at ease,”
But, beyond all disputing, Engaged in saluting

Some very great person among the Grandees ;—

Here a Gentleman Usher walks in and declares,

“ His Grace the Archbishop’s a-coming up-stairs ! ”

The Most Reverend Don Garcilasso Quevedo
Was just at this time,as he Now held the Primacy,
(Always attached to the See of Toledo,)
A man of great worship Officdd virtute
Versed in all that pertains to a Counsellor’s duty,
Well skill’d to combine Civil law with divine ;
As a statesman, inferior to none in that line ;
As an orator, too, He was equalled by few ;
Uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen,
The very great powers of three very great men,
Talleyrand,—who will never drive down Piccadilly more
To the Traveller's Club-House !— Charles Phillips—
and Phillimore.
Not only at home But even at Rome
There was not a Prelate among them could cope
With the Primate of Spain in the eyes of the Pope.
(The Conclave was full, and they'd not a spare hat, or he
*d long since been Cardinal, Legate @ datere,
A dignity fairly his due, without flattery,
So much he excited among all beholders
Their marvel to see At his age—thirty-three
Such a very old head on such very young shoulders,)
No wonder the King, then, in this his distress,
Should send for so sage an adviser express,
Who, you'll readily guess Could not do less
Than start off at once, without stopping to dress,
In his haste to get Majesty out of a mess.

His grace the Archbishop comes up the back way,
Set apart for such Nobles as have the entrée,
Vig. Grandees of the first class, both cleric and lay;
326 The Auto-da-Fe

Walks up to the monarch, and makes him a bow,
As a dignified clergyman always knows how,
Then replaces the mitre at once on his brow;
For, in Spain, recollect, As a mark of respect
To the Crown, if a Grandee uncovers, it’s quite
As a matter of option, and not one of right ;
A thing not conceded by our royal Masters,
Who always make Noblemen take off their “castors,”
Except the heirs male Of John Lord Kinsale,
A stalwart old Baron, who, acting as Henchman
To one of our early Kings, kill’d a big Frenchman ;
A feat which his Majesty deigning to smile on,
Allow’d him thenceforward to stand with his “tile” on;
And all his successors have kept the same privilege
Down from those barbarous times to our civil age.

Returning his bow with a slight demi-bob,
And replacing the watch in his hand in his fob,
“My Lord,” said the King, “here’s a rather tough job,

Which it seems, of a sort is To puzzle our Cortes.
And since it has quite flabbergasted that Diet, I
Look to your Grace with no little anxiety

Concerning a point Which has quite out of joint
Put us all with respect to the good of society :—

Your Grace is aware That we've not got an Heir;
Now, it seems, one and all, they don’t stick to declare
That of all our advisers there is not in Spain one
Can tell, like your Grace, the best way to obtain one;
So put your considering cap on—we’re curious
To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias.”

One without the nice tact

Of his Grace would have backt
Out at once, as the Noblemen did,—and, in fact,

He was, at the first, rather pozed how to act—

One moment—no more!— Bowing then, as before,
He said, “ Sire, ’twere superfluous for me to acquaint
The ‘Most Catholic King’ in the world, that a Saint

Is the usual resourcé In these cases,—of course
Of their influence your Majesty well knows the force; .

328 The Auto-da-Fe

If I may be, therefore, allow’d to suggest
The plan which occurs to my mind as the best,
Your Majesty may go At once to St Jago,
Whom, as Spain’s patron Saint, I pick out from the rest ;
If your Majesty looks Into Guthrie, or Brooks,
In all the approved Geographical books,
You will find Compostella laid down in the maps
Some two hundred and sev’nty miles off; and, perhaps,
In a case so important, you may not decline
A pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine;

And, Sire, should you choose

To put peas in your shoes, .
The Saint, as a Gentleman, can’t well refuse
So distinguish’d a Pilgrim,—especially when he
Considers the boon will not cost him one penny!”

His speech ended, his Grace bow’d, and put on his mitre
As tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter.
“Pooh! pooh!” says the King,
“T shall do no such thing!
It’s nonsense,—Old fellow—you see—no use talking—
The peas set apart, I abominate walking—
Such a deuced way off, too—hey ?—walk there—what
me?
Pooh !—it’s no Go, Old fellow !—you know—don’t you
see?”

“Well, Sire,” with much sweetness the Prelate replied,

“If your Majesty don’t like to walk—you can ride!
And then, if you please, In lieu of the peas,

A small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert,

As a substitute, under your Majesty’s shirt ;

Then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,—

A few nettles tuck’d into your Majesty’s waistband,—

Asafcetida mix’d with your Jouguet and civet,

Pll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!”

Pooh! pooh! I tell you,”
Quoth the King, “It won’t do!”
The Auto-da-Fe 329

A cold perspiration began to bedew

His Majesty’s cheek, and he grew in a stew,

When Jozé de Humez, the King’s priv