Title: The Ingoldsby Legends
Author: Rev Richard H. Barham
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Language:  English
Date first posted: December 2007
Date most recently updated: December 2007

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Title: The Ingoldsby Legends
Author: Rev Richard H. Barham





CONTENTS

Bibliographic Note
MEMOIR OF THE REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

PREFACE TO THE FIRST SERIES
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON
THE HAND OF GLORY: THE NURSE'S STORY
'LOOK AT THE CLOCK!': PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY
GREY DOLPHIN: A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY
THE GHOST
THE CYNOTAPH
THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE: MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY
THE LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE
THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
A 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
MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.
THE 'MONSTRE' BALLOON.
THE EXECUTION: A SPORTING ANECDOTE
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY
THE BAGMAN'S DOG: MR.PETERS'S STORY

INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND SERIES

THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE: A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS: A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE: A LEGEND OF ITALY.
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ: A LEGEND OF SPAIN
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE: A LEGEND OF PALESTINE--AND WEST KENT.
NETLEY ABBEY: A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.
FRAGMENT.
NELL COOK: A LEGEND OF THE 'DARK ENTRY.--THE KING'S SCHOLAR'S STORY
NURSERY REMINISCENCES.
AUNT FANNY: A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE: A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.
THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP: A LEGEND OF THANET.
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE: A LEGEND OF SHROPSHIRE
THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY.
THE DEAD DRUMMER: A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX): A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT; OR THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY: A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
THE LAY OF ST ALOYS: A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY: A LEGEND OF DOVER.
RAISING THE DEVIL: A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.
SAINT MEDARD: A LEGEND OF AFRIC.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD SERIES

THE LORD OF THOULOUSE: A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
THE WEDDING-DAY; OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE: A FAMILY LEGEND
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING: A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON: A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY: A DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.
THE HOUSE-WARMING!!: A LEGEND OF BLEEDING-HEART YARD.
THE FORLORN ONE.
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG: A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT
UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS


* * * * *


BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTE

MEMOIR OF THE REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

(Abridged from the memoir by his son)

Richard Harris Barham was born on December 6, 1788, in
Canterbury, were his family had for many generations resided.
His father, dying in 1795, bequeathed a moderate estate to his
only son, then about five or six years of age. A portion of
this property consisted of the manor known as Tappington, or
Tapton Wood, so often alluded to in The Ingoldsby Legends. The
boy was sent to St. Paul's School, of which he was for two
years 'captain.' He then entered at nineteen as a gentleman
commoner at Brazenose College, and was speedily elected a
member of the well-known Phoenix Common Room, at that time one
of the 'crack' university clubs. Here he found a kindred spirit
in the gay and gifted Lord George Grenville (afterwards Lord
Nugent). Here, too, be was again thrown into contact with one
whom he had known in earlier days, Cecil Tattersall, the friend
of Shelley and Lord Byron, and, like most of that misguided
party, but too well known by his abused talents and melancholy
end. And here also his intimacy with Theodore Hook took rise.

College life, more especially at that day, was likely to
present numerous and sore temptations to one who was
overflowing with good-nature and high spirits, and whose early
loss had not only placed a perilous abundance of funds at his
disposal, but also left him utterly unchecked by parental
counsel and authority. His reply to Mr. Hodson, his tutor,
afterwards principal of Brazenose, will convey some notion of
the hours he was wont to keep. This gentleman, on one occasion,
demanded an explanation of his continued absence from morning
chapel.

'The fact is, sir,' urged his pupil, 'you are too late for me,'

'Too late!' repeated the tutor, in astonishment.

'Yes, sir. I cannot sit up till seven o'clock in the
morning: I am a man of regular habits; and unless I get to bed
by four or five at latest, I am really fit for nothing next
day.'

The habit was one for 'time to strengthen, not efface.' No
one might have quoted the old Scotch ballad with greater
feeling and sincerity:

'Up in the morning's nae for me,
Up in the morning airly:
I'd rather watch a winter's night
Than up in the morning airly.'

With him a strong natural bent supplied the place of
caprice or love of singularity, and he sat up because he found,
as the morning advanced, his ideas flowed more freely, and his
mental energies became in every way more active than at any
other period of the twenty-four hours. It could hardly fail of
exciting a considerable degree of astonishment, to mark how,
after a day spent without one moment's rest or relaxation, in
the intricacies of business, often of a harassing and momentous
nature, his eye would light up and his spirits overflow as the
chimes of midnight were approaching; an entirely new set of
faculties seemed to come into play, and if there was no one at
hand to benefit by his conversation--to listen to his
inexhaustible fund of anecdote and observation, he would devote
himself to the investigation of some obscure genealogical
point, or the perusal of some treasured volume in black letter,
with a freshness and vigour not to be surpassed by the most
orderly of mortals. At these times, too, his powers of
composition reached their culminating point, and he wrote with
a facility which not only surprised himself, but which he
actually viewed with distrust; and he would not unfrequently
lay down his pen, from an apprehension that what was so fluent
must of necessity be feeble also. Indeed, he was no adept in
the art of cudgelling the brain, and, in respect of poetry at
all events, he wrote easily or not at all. The slightest check
would often delay the publication of an article of this kind
for months, and numbers of manuscripts remained at his death,
whose unfinished state could be attributed only to some
trifling stumbling-block, which a little labour might have
levelled or avoided.

It was during the course of a short but severe illness,
that Mr. Barham first entertained the notion of becoming a
candidate for holy orders; and, though he so far prosecuted his
original design of preparing for the bar as to become a pupil
of an eminent conveyancer, he soon relinquished the profession
of law. Having passed his examination with sufficient credit to
entitle him to a place in the 'second class,' Mr. Barham was in
due time admitted to the curacy of Ashford, in Kent. Thence he
proceeded to Westwell, a small parish some few miles distant.
In 1814 he married Caroline, third daughter of Captain Smart,
of the Royal Engineers, and shortly afterwards, on being
presented to the living of Snargate, he removed to Warehorn,
the curacy of which was at the same time offered him. These
parishes were about two miles apart, and situated, the former
in, the latter on the verge of Romney Marsh; and, as may be
expected, they abounded in desperadoes, engaged in what by
technical euphemism was termed the 'Free Trade.' But,
notwithstanding the reckless character of these men, the new 
rector met with nothing of outrage or incivility at their
hands. Many a time and oft indeed, on returning homewards late
at night, he was challenged by some half-seen horseman; but on
making known his name and office, he was invariably allowed to
pass on with a 'Good night--it's only parson!' while a long
and shadowy line of mounted smugglers, each with his led horse
laden with tubs, filed silently by. Nay, they even extended
their familiarity so far as to make the church itself a dépôt
for contraband goods; and on one occasion a large seizure of
tobacco had been made in the Snargate belfry--calumny
contended for the discovery of a keg of hollands under the
vestry-table.

It was scarcely to be expected that the pursuit of
literature should flourish in so uncongenial an atmosphere,
however favourable it might prove for the development of that
'holy vegetation' of which Mr. Peter Plymley pleasantly
discourses. It was reserved for an accident, no other than the
breaking of one leg, and the spraining of its fellow,
occasioned by the overturn of a gig, to bring a taste into play
which might otherwise have lain dormant for years, or died for
lack of exercise. A novel, entitled Baldwin,<1> rapidly thrown
off in a few weeks, was the result; a work which fell stillborn
from the Minerva Press, under the management of the matrons of
that establishment.

Scarcely was his restoration to health complete, than he
went to London to consult Abernethy about the illness of one of
his children. He chanced to encounter an old friend, at whose
suggestion he became candidate for a minor canonry then vacant
at St. Paul's, to which in 1821 he was duly elected. It has
been said that literature is 'an excellent walking-stick,
although a bad crutch;' doubtless at this period of his life it
proved a serviceable auxiliary to Mr. Barham, who found his
income diminished at a time when an increasing family and a
residence in London would admit of no curtailment of 
expenditure. Accordingly, while articles of the lighter sort,
mostly bearing on the events of the day, were struck off in
rapid succession, he devoted considerable time and industry
towards the completion of a book then in progress, called
Gorton's Biographical Dictionary, and about one-third of which
was contributed by him. His professional duties, however, soon
precluded his continuing any regular literary engagement, or
undertaking any work of importance. Poetical trifles, indeed,
fell as usual from his pen, and together with an occasional
review, &c., made their appearance in Blackwood, the John Bull,
the Globe, and sundry other periodicals. We find, for example,
the following passage in his diary, entered about this time:--
'My wife goes to bed at ten to rise at eight, and look after
the children, and other matrimonial duties; I sit up till three
in the morning working at rubbish for Blackwood--she is the
slave of the ring, and I of the lamp.'

In 1824 he received the appointment of a priest in
ordinary of His Majesty's Chapel Royal, and was shortly
afterwards presented to the incumbency of St. Mary Magdalene
and St. Gregory by St. Paul. In the pulpit he was not
remarkable, less, perhaps, from the want of power, than from a
rooted disapproval of anything like oratorical display in such
a place,--anything, in short, that might seem calculated to
convert the house of prayer into a mere theatre for
intellectual exhibition. It was not, then, as a popular
preacher, 'pleasant to sit under,' that he was beloved, still
less as a party one; he published no pamphlets, got up no
petitions, nor was his voice to be heard at Exeter Hall; but he
was ever watchful over the welfare of his people, temporal and
eternal.

His appointment in the Chapel Royal led to an acquaintance
which quickly ripened into a warm friendship with the Rev.
Edward Cannon, also one of the priests of the household, and
who for many years had been on intimate terms with the family
of Mrs. Barham--the singular being introduced to the world
under the name of Godfrey Moss, in Theodore Hook's novel,
Maxwell.

About 1826 Mr. Barham commenced a diary, which for some
time he continued with considerable spirit and regularity, and
from this some excerpts may be made.

'August l6th.--Received a letter from Blackwood, with a
copy of numbers 115 and 116 of his Magazine, thanking me for
"The Ghost, a Canterbury Tale," which appeared in the first of
the two numbers, and which Mr. John Hughes (son of our
Residentiary) had transmitted to him from me, informing him, at
the same time, of the fact of their having appeared in
sections, in three successive numbers of the London Chronicle
just before that paper was merged in the St. James's Chronicle.
Of this journal Dr. Johnson was the first editor, and I the
last. The causes of its decline may be inferred.'

'November 26th.--Dined at Doctor Hughes's. Sir Walter
Scott had been there the day before: and the Dr. told me the
following anecdote, which he had just heard from the "Great
Unknown."--A Scottish clergy man, whose name was not
mentioned, had some years since been cited before the
Ecclesiastical Assembly at Edinburgh, to answer to a charge
brought against him of great irreverence in religious matters,
and Sir Walter was employed by him to arrange his defence. The
principal fact alleged against him was his having asserted, in
a letter which was produced, that "he considered Pontius Pilate
to be a very ill-used man, as he had done more for Christianity
than all the other nine apostles put together." The fact was
proved, and suspension followed.'

'October 6th, 1827.--Mr. Attwood, who had set to music
my lines entitled "Too Late," and published them in the
Harmonicon last year, gave me to-day some verses, written, on
perusing them, by a lady, a friend of his.'

The song in question was elicited by an expression in a
letter, from a dear and near relative. He was in the army, and
had struggled on, many a weary year, unnoticed and a subaltern,
happy, however, in the cheering companionship of an
affectionate wife; at length the partner of his toils and hopes
sank by the way, and was taken from him; then, in quick
succession, came wealth, honours, promotion; but they had been
'delayed till be was indifferent, and did not care for them,
till he was solitary, and could not impart them '--in his own
words, it was--

TOO LATE.

Too late! though flowerets round me blow,
And clearing skies shine bright and fair;
Their genial warmth avails not now--
Thou art not here the beam to share.

Through many a dark and dreary day,
We journeyed on 'midst grief and gloom;
And now at length the cheering ray
Breaks forth, it only gilds thy tomb.

Our days of hope and youth are past,
Our short-lived joys for ever flown;
And now when Fortune smiles at last,
She finds me cheerless, chilled--alone!

Ah! no; too late the boon is given,
Alike the frowns and smiles of Fate;
The broken heart by sorrow riv'n,
But murmurs now, 'Too late! Too late!'

About this time Mr. Barham found opportunities of renewing
his acquaintance with Theodore Hook. To say nothing of this
gentleman's unequalled happiness in impromptu versification, to
pass by that particular province of practical humour <2> with
which his name is so commonly associated, and in which be was
facile princeps, Hook yet possessed depth and originality of
mind, little dreamed of, probably, by those who were content to
bask in the sunshine of his wit. It is noted in the diary that
Hook 'spoke one evening of his two eldest daughters, of whom
Mary, the senior, bad just turned twenty-one; the name of the
second was Louisa, and he designated them accordingly as
"Vingt-un" and "Loo!" He gave me on this occasion the proofs of
all be ever wrote of his last novel, Peregrine Bunce, which I
brought away with me.'

As was not unfrequently the case with Mr. Hook's writings,
the earlier portions of this novel were forwarded to his friend
for inspection, previous to publication; the following note
accompanied the proofs of the second volume:-

'DEAR CARDINAL,--When you have run through Peregrine, 
will you send him in pacquet to me at the Athenaeum. I have no
other "document" wherewith to refresh my memory as to his
progress. If you like it, put on it (G.); if you don't, put
(B.); if mediocre (T.). If none of these should express your
opinion, I shall expect to see (D. B.) or (D.B.) as the case
may be.
'Yours most truly,
T.E.H.'

The address here refers to the senior cardinal's stall, a
relic of the ancien régime, which Mr. Barham had for some time
held in St. Paul's Cathedral.

'November 6th.--Passed one of the pleasantest evenings I
ever spent at Lord--'s. The company, beside the host and
hostess, consisted of Mr. Cannon, Mr. C. Walpole, Mr. Hill,
generally known as "Tom Hill,"<3> Theodore Hook, and myself.
While at dinner, Hook began to be excessively amusing. He took
occasion to repeat part of a prologue which he once spoke as an
amateur, before a country audience, without one word being
intelligible from the beginning to the end. He afterwards
preached part of a sermon in the style of the Rev.--, of
Norwich, of whom he gave a very humorous account; not one
sentence of the harangue could be understood, and yet you could
not help, all through, straining your attention to catch the
meaning. He then gave us many absurd particulars of the
Berriers Street hoax, which he admitted was contrived by
himself and Henry H--, who was formerly contemporary with me
at Brazenose, and whom I knew there, now a popular preacher. He
also mentioned another of a similar character, but previous in
point of time, of which he had been the sole originator. The
object of it was a Quaker who lived in Henrietta Street, Covent
Garden. Among other things brought to his house were the
dresses of a punch and nine blue devils, and the body of a man
from Lambeth bonehouse, who had the day before been found
drowned in the Thames.

'In the evening, after Lady--had sung "I've been
roaming," Hook placed himself at the pianoforte, and gave a
most extraordinary display of his powers, both as a musician
and an improvisatore. His assumed object was to give a specimen
of the burlettas formerly produced at Sadler's Wells, and he
went through the whole of one which he composed upon the spot.'

'March 13, 1828.--Lord--, Sir A. B--, Theodore Hook,
Stephen Price, and Cannon dined here. Cannon told a story of a
manager at a country theatre, who, having given out the play of
"Douglas," found the whole entertainment nearly put to a stop,
by the arrest of "Young Norval" as he was entering the theatre.
In this dilemma, no other performer of the company being able
to take the part, he dressed up a tall, gawkey lad who snuffed
the candles, in a plaid and philabeg, and pushing him on the
stage, advanced himself to the footlights, with the book in his
hand, and addressed the audience with, "Ladies and Gentlemen--

"This young gentleman's name is Norval. On the Grampian hills
His father feeds his flock, a frugal swain,
Whose constant care was to increase his store,
And keep his only son (this young gentleman) at home.
For this young gentleman had heard," &c.

And so on through the whole of the play, much to the
delectation of the audience.'

'March 23.--Dined at Sir A. B--'s. An unpleasant
altercation took place between Cannon and Hook, owing to an
allusion, somewhat ill-timed, made by the former to "treasury
defaulters." This circumstance interrupted the harmony of the
evening, and threw a damp upon the party. Hook made but one
pun: on Walpole's remarking that, of two paintings mentioned,
one was "a shade above the other in point of merit," he
replied, "I presume you mean to say it was a shade over (chef
d'oeuvre)."

'May 14.--Acted as one of the stewards to the Literary
Fund dinner. Fitzgerald, the poet, spouted as usual, and broke
down. Cannon observed "Poeta nascitur non Fitz."'

With his vivid imagination, and strong passion for the
marvellous, it is not to be altogether wondered at if Mr.
Barham appeared a little disposed to give credence to the
existence of things undreamed of in our philosophy. He seemed
at times to endeavour to persuade himself into credulity, much
in the way that some people strive to convict themselves of a
bodily ailment. Unlike poor Lady Cork, whose enjoyment of 'her
murders' sensibly declined, he never lost his relish for a
'good ghost story;' nothing delighted him more than to listen
to one of those 'true histories,' properly fitted with the
regular complement of names, dates, and locale, attested by
'living witnesses of unblemished reputation,' and hedged in on
all sides by circumstantial evidence of the most
incontrovertible nature; one, in short, of those logical culs
de sac, which afford no exit, but by unceremoniously kicking
down the opposing barrier. It was Sir Walter Scott, we believe,
who was thus driven to extricate himself from a similar
dilemma, when, on being asked 'how he accounted' for some
strange tale he had related, on no less authority than that of
his own grandmother, he was forced to reply, after some
deliberation, 'Aiblins my grandmither was an awfu' leear.'

It was Mr. Barham's happiness to form an intimate
friendship with the Hughes family. His duties at St. Paul's
were necessarily the means of bringing him under the frequent
observation of Dr. Hughes, who was canon residentiary of that
cathedral. To Mrs. Hughes, more especially, the correspondent
of Sir Walter Scott, Southey, and other ornaments of the age,
Mr. Barham was indebted, not only for a large proportion of the
legendary lore which forms the groundwork of the Ingoldsby
effusions, but also for the application of a stimulus that
induced him to complete many papers, which diffidence, or that
aptitude, previously spoken of, to turn aside at the faintest
suspicion of 'a lion in the way,' would have left unattempted
or unfinished. The distich, inscribed in a copy of The
Ingoldsby Legends, presented to the lady in question, implies
no more than the actual fact

'To Mrs. Hughes who made me do 'em,
Quod placeo est--si placeo--tuum.'

To her activity, indeed, it may be said, the publication
of My Cousin Nicholas <4> was mainly owing. The MS., which had 
been laid aside in an imperfect state for some years, being
placed in her hands, so favourable was her opinion of its
merits, that, acting 'with a friendly vigour beyond the law,'
she submitted it forthwith to the inspection of Mr. Blackwood;
the first intimation the author received of the circumstance
being the appearance of the introductory chapters in the pages
of that gentleman's magazine. Retreat was of course impossible;
the difficulties, if difficulties there were, were speedily
surmounted, and the catastrophe worked up in a manner which
certainly brought no discredit on the earlier portions of the
work.

His letters to Mrs. Hughes well illustrate that happy
temperament with which he was endowed, and that almost
involuntary flow of humour which distin guished his
conversation and correspondence, not lest than his more
elaborate efforts.

'April 15, 1828.

'My DEAR MADAM,--...I have little news to tell you,
except that Mrs.--, the auctioneeress, if there be such a word,
is likely to die, and that the sorrowing widower, in posse, is
said to have already made arrange ments to take the beautiful
(Oh! that I could add prudent) Miss Foote, as her successor.
He, at least, says green-room scandal, wears a watch riband she
has given him, as the decoration of a military order; while
others add, that though the gentleman is unquestionably anxious
to become a "Knight Companion," the lady is still "Grand
Cross."

'I enclose a set of rhymes, as yet in a chrysalis state;
should John Bull get hold of them, after they have thrown off
the grab, I am afraid they are too well adapted for his purpose
for him to refrain from appropriating what is now a mere
embryo.

THE LONDON UNIVERSITY
or,
STINKOMALEE TRIUMPHANS

AN ODE TO BE PERFORMED ON THE OPENING IF THE NEW COLLEGE OF
GRAFTONSTREET EAST

WHENE'ER with pitying eye I view
Each operative sot in town.
I smile to think how wondrous few
Get drunk who study at the University we've
Got in town, University we've Got in town.

What precious fools 'The People' grew,
Their alma mater not in town;
The 'useful classes' hardly knew
Four was composed of two and two,
Until they learned it at the University we've
Got in town.

But now they're taught by JOSEPH HUME,
by far the cleverest Scot in town,
Their items and their tottles too
Each may dissect his sister Sue,
From his instructions at the University we've
Got in town.

Then L--E comes, like him how few
Can caper and can trot in town,
In pirouette or pas de deux--
He beats the famed Monsieur Giroux,
And teaches dancing at the University we've
Got in town.

And GILCHRIST, see, that great Gentoo
Professor, has a lot in town
of Cockney boys, who fag Hindoo,
And larn Jem-nasties at the University we've
Got in town.

SAM R--corpse of vampire hue,
Comes from its grave, to rot in town;
For Bays the dead bard's crowned with Yew,
And chaunts the Pleasures of the University we've
Got in town.

FRANK JEFFREY, of the Scotch Review,--
Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,--
Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue
And yellow, d--ns the other two,
But lauds the ever-glorious University we've
Got in town.

Great BIRKBECK, king of chips and glue,
Who paper oft does blot in town,
From the Mechanics' Institu-
tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw,
Lever and axle, at the University we've
Got in town.

LORD WAITHMAN, who long since withdrew
From Mansion House to cot in town;
Adorn'd with chair of ormolu.
All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo,
Lectures on Free Trade at the University we've
Got in town.

Fat F--, with his coat of blue,
Who speeches makes so hot in town,
In rhetoric, spells his lectures through,
And sounds the V for W,
The vay they speaks it at the University we've
Got in town.

Then H--e comes, who late at New-
gate-market--sweetest spot in town!
Instead of one clerk popped in two,
To make a place for his nephew,
Seeking another at the University we've
Got in town.

There's Captain Ross, a traveller true,
Has just presented. what in town
's an article of great virtu,
(The telescope he once peep'd through,
And 'spied an Esquimaux canoe
On Croker Mountains), to the University we've
Got in town.

Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew,
Where Whigs might eat and plot in town,
And swill his port, and mischief brew--
Poor CREEVY sips his water gruel as the beadle of the
University we've Got in town.

There's JERRY BENTHAM and his crew,
Names ne'er to be forgot in town,
In swarms like Banquo's long is-sue--
Turk, Papist, Infidel, and Jew,
Come trooping on to join the University we've
Got in town.

To crown the whole with triple queue
Another such there's not in town,
twitching his restless nose askew,
Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGHAM!
Law Professor at the University we've
Got in town. University we've
Got in town.

GRAND CHORUS:

Huzza! Huzza! for HARRY BROUGHAM!
Law Professor at the University we've
Got in town.

'I have room for no more than to say that I am most
sincerely and truly yours,
'R.H.B.'

As a pendant to the above may be subjoined the following hint
to a rival establishment:--

ON THE WINDOWS OF KING'S COLLEGE REMAINING BOARDED

Loquitur Discipulus Esuriens.

PROFFESORS, in your plan there seems
A something not quite right
'Tis queer to cherish learning's beams,
By shutting out the light.

While thus we see your windows block'd,
If nobody complains;
Yet everybody must be shock'd,
To see you don't take pains.

And tell me why should bodily
Succumb to mental meat?
Or why should eta, beta, pi
Be all the pie we eat?

No helluo librorum I,
No literary glutton,
Would veal with Virgil like to try,
With metaphysics, mutton.

Leave us no longer in the lurch,
With Romans, Greeks, and Hindoos:
But give us beef as well as birch,
And board us--not your windows.

The following note to Mrs. Hughes contains an acknowledgement
of one of those beguiling Berkshire delicacies so fraught with
peril to the inexperienced or unwary:--

'St. Paul's Churchyard, Jan. 5, 1830.

'My DEAR MADAM,--I know not how to thank you; "rude I am
in speech and manner; "never till this hour tasted I such a
dainty!

'But young Norval never had such a "pig's head" to be thankful
for: it is truly delicious, almost too much so, indeed, for it
tempted me last night to do what I very seldom do, and never
ought to do--viz., eat a hearty supper: the consequence was,
that I "dreamt of the d--l, and awoke in a fright:"--

Methought I was seated at church,
With Wellington acting as clerk,
And there in a pew,
Was Rothschild the Jew
Dancing a jig with Judge Park:

Lady Morgan sat playing the organ;
While behind the vestry door,
Horace Twiss was snatching a kiss
From the lips of Hannah More.

'In short, I cannot tell you half the vagaries I was
carried through, at least within any moderate compass in a
letter, but I mean to put as much of it down as I can call to
remembrance, and, following the example of Mr. Bottom, the
weaver, get some good-natured Peter Quince to "make a ballad of
it," and "it shall be called Barham's dream," not because "it
hath no bottom," but because it proceeded from a pig's head, a
metaphor in which Mrs. B. sometimes speaks of mine, when, more
than usually persevering, I resist unto the death some measure
which I consider wrong, and she right, or vice versa, as the
case may be. Let me not forget to add, however, that in the
present instance she is to the full as much inclined to be pig-
headed as myself, and begs me to join her thanks to my own...'

In the autumn of 1831, the appointment of Mr. Sidney Smith
to one of the canonries of St. Paul's proved the means of
introducing Mr. Barham to the society of this distinguished
individual. Differing, as they did, in political opinion, not
less than in the character and subject-matter of their wit,
there was, nevertheless, a sufficient appreciation of each
other to induce a greater degree of intimacy than their
relative positions might have called for. The first appearance
of Mr. Smith at the cathedral, for the purpose of taking
possession of his stall, is thus briefly noted:--

'Oct. 2, 1831.--Rev. Sidney Smith read himself in as
Residentiary at St. Paul's; dined with him afterwards at Dr.
Hughes's. He mentioned having once half offended Sam Rogers by
recommending him, when he sat for his picture, to be drawn
saying his prayers, with his face in his hat.'

No one at all familiar with the writings of this
extraordinary person can fail to have remarked the professional
turn his wit is apt to take. In his bon mots this peculiarity
is noticeable, most of those on record bearing some reference,
more or less, to clerical matters. Perhaps no better
illustration of this uniform flow of ideas can be adduced, than
a description of an interview, furnished by himself, with a
well-known fashionable publisher.

He said that the gentleman in question called upon him
with an introduction from a certain literary baronet, and after
hinting a condolence on his recent losses in the American
funds, proposed, probably by way of repairing them, the
production of a novel in three volumes.

'Well, Sir,' said Mr. Smith, after some seeming
consideration, 'if I do so I can't travel out of my own line,
ne sutor ultra crepidam; I must have an archdeacon for my hero,
to fall in love with the pew-opener, with the clerk for a
confidant--tyrannical interference of the churchwardens--
clandestine correspondence concealed under the hassocks--
appeal to the parishioners, &c., &c.'

'All that, Sir,' said Mr.--, 'I would not presume to
interfere with; I would leave it entirely to your own inventive
genius.'

'Well, Sir,' returned the canon with urbanity, 'I am not
prepared to come to terms at present, but if ever I do
undertake such a work, you shall certainly have the
refusal'.<5>

'Oct., 1831.--Sir Walter Scott came to town and visited
Dr. Hughes, is much sunk in spirits, but still retains gleams
of his former humour, and he told, with almost his usual glee,
the story of a placed minister, near Dundee, who, in preaching
on Jonah, said:--"Ken ye, brethren, what fish it was that
swallowed him? Aiblins ye may think it was a shark; nae, nae,
my brethren, it was nae shark: or aiblins ye may think it was a
saumon; nae, nae, my brethren, it was nae saumon: or aiblins ye
may think it was a dolphin; nae, nae, my brethren, it was nae
dolphin."

'Here an old woman, thinking to help her pastor out of a
dead lift, cried out, "Aiblins, Sir, it was a dunter." (The
vulgar name of a species of whale common to the Scotch coast.)

'"Aiblins, Madam, ye're an auld witch for taking the word
o' God out of my mouth," was the reply of the disappointed
rhetorician.

'Mr. L--, late chaplain to the archbishop, dined there,
and, in a conversation which ensued, mentioned his having, in a
late tour, fallen in with the original Dominie Sampson. This
gentleman was a Mr. Thompson, the son of the placed minister of
Melrose, and himself in orders, though without a manse. He had
lived for many years a chaplain in Sir Walter's family, and was
tutor to his children, who used to take advantage of his
absence of mind, to open the window while he was lecturing, get
quietly out of it, and go to play, a circumstance he would
rarely perceive. Sir Walter had many opportunities of procuring
him a benefice, but never dared avail himself of them,
satisfied that his absence of mind would only bring him into
scrapes, if placed in a responsible situation. Mr. T. was once
very nearly summoned before the Synod for reading the
"visitation of the sick" service from our Liturgy, to a poor
man confined to his bed by illness.'

'Feb. 11.--Dined with Sir George W--r. John Murray, the
publisher, who was present, told me that Sir Walter Scott, on
being taxed by him as the author of Old Mortality, not only
denied having written it, but added, "In order to convince you
that I am  not the author, I will review the book for you in
the Quarterly,--which he actually did, and Murray still has
the MS. in his handwriting.'

From the publication of My Cousin Nicholas in Blackwood,
to the establishment of Bentley's Miscellany in 1837, nothing
worthy of note in the way of literature engaged Mr. Barham's
attention. During this period his leisure was mainly directed
to the prosecution of genealogical and archaeological
inquiries, and more especially to the acquiring a knowledge of
the various early editions of the Bible, in whole and in parts.
He subsequently conceived the design, in which, by the liberal
aid of the Chapter, he was enabled to make considerable
progress, of restoring and re-arranging the valuable library of
St. Paul's. Meanwhile, he was not altogether unmindful of the
Muse, but occasionally enlivened his friends and the public
with 'pieces didactic, descriptive,' &c., as circumstances
might call forth. Of these the 'rough copy' was usually
forwarded to his kind friend, Mrs. Hughes, at Kingston Lisle.

'St. Paul's Churchyard, July 27, 1833.
'MY DEAR MADAM,--Here we are at last, once more returned
to the immediate vicinity of the "Wren's Nest."...I own I
should not have been grieved at being able to run about a
little longer among the groves of Summer Hill, which I think I
described to you as the seat of Charles the Second, and since
of Mr. James Alexander, the East India Director, and
immediately adjoining our grounds. As you encourage me to
bestow all my tediousness on your worship, I shall make no
apology for enclosing a copy of "an effusion" which burst from
a heart overflowing with nonsense when I quitted it, for the
last time, on my return to the "Wells;" will it do for another
number of Family Poetry?

ODE ON A NEARER PROSPECT OF SUMMER HILL

O Summer Hill! if thou wert mine,
I'd order in a pipe of wine,
And ask a dozen friends to dine.
In faith, I would not spare the guineas,
But send for Pag and other ninies,
Flutes, hautboys, fiddles, pipes, and tabors,
Hussars with moustaches and sabres,
Quadrilles, and that grand waltz of Weber's,
And give a dance to all my neighbours;
And here I'd sit and quaff my fill
Among the trees of Summer Hill.
Then with bland eye careering slowly,
O'er bush-crowned ridge end valley lowly;
I'd drain the cup to thee, old Rowley!
To thee, and to thy courtly train,
Once tenants of thy fair domain;
Soft Stewart, haughtiest Castlemaine,
Pert Nelly Gwynne, and Lucy Waters,
Old England's fairest, frailest daughters.
E'en now, 'midst yonder leafy glade,
Methinks I see thy Royal shade
In amplitude of wig arrayed;
Near thee thy rival in peruke,
Stands Buckingham, uproarious Duke,
With Tony Hamilton and Killegrew;
And Wilmot, that sad rake till ill he grew,
When to amend his life and turn it
He promised pious Doctor Burnet;
In time let's hope to make old Nicholas
Lose all his pains, and look ridiculous!

Alexander! loftier far
Now culminates thy happier star
Than his of old, my ancient crony,
Thy namesake erst of Macedony,
Unrivalled, save, perhaps, by Boney.
Oh! happier far in thy degree
Art thou, although a conqueror he,
While thou art but an ex-M.P.
Yea, far more blessed my Alexander,
Art thou than that deceas'd commander;
Much though his name be honour'd, Fate,
Making thee Lord of this estate,
Dubbed thee in verity 'The Great.'
Thou ne'er wert led through wanton revelling,
These sylvan scenes to play the devil in;
In these sweet shades so praised by Grammont,
Thou didst not call thyself 'Young Ammon.'
And I, for one, wouldst thou invite us,
Would never fear the fate of Clytus.

No lady of too easy virtue
E'er made you think enough to hurt you,
And then with recklessness amazing,
Bade you set house and all a-blazing.
('Tis hard to say which works the quicker,
To make folks blockheads, love or liquor.
But oh! it is an awful thing,
When both combine to make a king
Descend to play the part of Swing!)
Another world, thou dost not sigh
To conquer, much less pipe thine eye,
I dare be sworn--no! Alexander,
Thou art not half as great a gander:
This is thy globe--here toujours gai
Thy motto still, though, well-a-day,
Sarum be popp'd in schedule A.

O Summer, Summer, Summer Hill,
Fain would I gaze and linger still;
But see the moon her silver lamp
Uprears, the grass is getting damp.
And hark! the curfew's parting knell
Is toll'd by Doctor Knox's bell!
I go to join my wife and daughters,
Drinking these nasty-flavoured waters.
O Summer Hill! I must repine,
Thou art not, never will be mine
--I have not even got the wine.

'And now having surfeited you with rubbish enough for one
dose, let me conclude with my best acknowledgements, &c.
'Your much obliged,
'R. H. BARHAM.'

'Nov. 1834.--You have, of course, heard of Tom D--'s
absurd challenge to F--, for quizzing his liaison with Madame
--; if not, the enclosed doggerel will make you au fait of the
facts.'

THE TWO M.P.'S

(MAGAZINE PUBLISHER AND MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT)

BEING A TRUE AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE GRAND MILLING MATCH
THAT DIDN'T TAKE PLACE

SAYS Tom D--to F--r
T'other morning, 'I say, Sir,
You've call'd me a Roué, a Dicer, and Racer,
Now I'd have you to know, Sir,
Such names are "No Go," Sir;
By Jove, Sir, I never knew anything grosser.

'And then Madame--
Extremely distrest is
At your calling her Lais--she's more like Thalestris,
As you'll find, my fine joker,
If once you provoke her,
She's a d--l if once she gets hold of a poker.

'For myself, to be candid,
And not underhanded,
I write thus to say I'll be hang'd if I stand it.
So give up the name
Of the man or the dame
Who has made this infernal attack on my fame,
And recall what you've said of
A man you're afraid of,
Or turn out, my Trump, and let's see what you're made of.

'I have "barkers" by Nock, Sir,
With percussion locks, Sir,
Will give you your gruel--hang me if I box, Sir,
And I've sent my old Pal in,
My "noble friend Allen,"
To give you this here, and to stop your caballing!'

Then says F--r, says he,
'What a spoon you must be,
Tommy D--, to send this here message to me:
Why if I was to fight about
What my friends write about,
My life I should be in continual fright about!

'As to telling you, who
Wrote that thing about you,
One word's worth a thousand--Blow me if I do!
If you will be so gay, Sir,
The people will say, Sir,
That you are a Roué, and I'm

Yours,
JEMMY F--R.'

Taking no active part in polities himself, saving as
regards the occasional sallies before alluded to, and
scrupulously forbearing the exercise of any direct influence he
might have held over others, Mr. Barham, nevertheless, remained
a stanch and true Conservative, invariably recording his vote
spite of any inconvenience to which it might subject him. He
was wont to dwell with great gout upon the following amusing
incident, as bearing so directly upon the general
characteristics of the opposing parties:

--'I told you that we had been busy with the West Kent
election...What amused me very much was, that on landing
from the steamboat at Gravesend, where my vote was to be taken,
the rain was falling pretty steadily, and every one of the
passengers who boasted an umbrella, of course, had it in play.
A strong detachment of the friends of all the candidates lined
the pier, to see us come on shore, and loud cheers from either
party arose as any one mounted the steps bearing their
respective colours: with that modesty which is one of my
distinguishing characteristics, I had endeavoured to decline
the honour of a dead cat at my head, with which I was favoured
on a previous occasion, by mounting no colours at all; but
something distingué in my appearance, as self-complacency
fondly whispered in my ear, made the Tory party roar out as I
mounted the platform--

'"Here comes von o' hour side!"

'"You be blowed!" said a broad-faced gentleman in sky-blue
ribbons, "I say he's our'n."

'"Be blowed yourself," quoth one of my discriminating
friends opposite, "Why, don't you see the gemman's got a silk
umbrella?"

'The conclusion was irresistible--Tory I must be, and
the "I know'd it" which responded to my "Geary for ever" was
truly delicious.'

'Nov. 17, 1832.--Dined with Mr. Smith, He told me of the
motto he had proposed for Bishop B--'s arms, in allusion to his
brother, the well-known fish-sauce projector,

'Gravi jampridem saucia cura.'

In a few days afterwards, Mr. Barham received the following
invaluable recipe; it was forwarded by post without signature
or comment of any kind.

A RECEIPT FOR SALAD
(LAST EDITION)

Two large potatoes passed through kitchen sieve,
Unwonted softness to the salad give;
Of ardent mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment which bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Three times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And once with vinegar, procured from town,
True flavour needs it, and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole;
And, lastly, on the flavoured compound toss
A magic teaspoon of anchovy sauce.
Then, though green turtle fail, though venison's tough,
And ham and turkey are not boiled enough,
Serenely full, the epicure may say,--
'Fate cannot harm me,--I have dined to-day.'

N.B.--As this salad is the result of great experience and
reflection, it is to be hoped young salad-makers will not
attempt any improvements upon it.

The following letter refers principally to a change of
abode, which, by the kindness of Mr. Smith, who placed a
residentiary house in Amen Corner at his disposal, Mr. Barham
was enabled to make. The building, coeval with the cathedral
itself, having remained for a considerable time unoccupied, or
tenanted only by rats and cats, 'and such small deer,' its
condition will readily be understood by those conversant in
such matters; to the uninitiated, the description here given
will suffice:--

Sept. 17, 1889.
'MY DEAR MADAM,--Delightful as it always is to hear from
you, I do not hesitate to say that your last is the most
agreeable letter I have yet been favoured with from Kingston
Lisle, and that from its announcing your determination to quit
those delicious "green fields" which Falstaff babbled of, and
like his antitype Morris, to take up again with "the sweet
shady side of Pall Mall." Not that I have any objection to the
country, in summer, or even in autumn--quite the reverse--
but then I manage my enjoyment of it, as Lady Grace says,
"soberly." "When through the hawthorn blows the cold wind" I
confess I like London as well as Lady Townley herself.

'As to ourselves we are literally "moving," and moving we
shall be for this month to come. Never before did I fully
comprehend the bitterness of David's curse, "Make them like
unto a wheel;" he had certainly a "flitting" in his eye at the
time he uttered it. By the way, the Scotch, who are usually
very happy in their terms, are singularly infelicitous in this.
To flit gives one the idea of light and airy locomotion, such
as befits a ghost or a gossamer, it speaks of light clouds,
thistledown, and shadows by moonlight; not chests of drawers,
warming-pans, and crockery, with all the ten thousand
nondescripts of domestic economy--flit? A bat may flit, or
perhaps a bachelor, but not a middle-aged gentleman of fourteen
stone six; his "desert is too heavy to mount." Then as to the 
invasion and its consequences, I protest I can scarcely think
of it at times without compunction; it almost seems like Cortez
and his ruffians "wading through slaughter to a throne," and
shutting the gates of mercy on ten thousand unoffending
aborigines, who have grown old in the peace and tranquillity of
half a century. Do not suppose that the S--s are the only
animals who will bewail our avatar. "What millions died that
Caesar may be great!" My heart sickens at the thought of this
wholesale massacre--this sacrifice to Moloch, for I grieve to
say, that, denied the tender mercies of the thumb and finger,
wives, husbands, fathers, and "all, all their pretty ones"
perished, like so many Suttees, in the flames. As I heard the
one exterminating crackle, I could not help feeling for the
moment that a Thug was a respectable member of society in
comparison with myself. That their progeny, if not their
ghosts, will "murder sleep" hereafter I cannot but fear.

'To turn from so painful a subject, as extremes always
meet, I jump at once from the lowest to the highest in the
scale of created beings, from the meanest retainer of the crown
to the crown itself. What think you of a visit from, and
confabulation with, the Queen of the Belgians! On Saturday, I
was in the library at St. Paul's, my "custom always of an
afternoon," with a bookbinder's 'prentice and a printer's
devil, looking out fifty dilapidated folios for rebinding; I
had on a coat which, from a foolish prejudice in the multitude
against patched elbows, I wear nowhere else, my hands and face
encrusted with the dust of years, and wanting only the shovel--I
had the brush--to sit for the portrait of a respectable
master chimney-sweeper, when the door opened, and in walked the
Cap of Maintenance bearing the sword of, and followed by, the
Lord Mayor in full fig, with the prettiest and liveliest little
Frenchwoman leaning upon his arm. Nobody could get at the
"Lions" but myself; I was fairly in for it; and was thus
presented in the most recherché, if not the most expensive
court dress that I will venture to say the eyes of royalty were
ever greeted withal. Heureusement pour moi, she spoke excellent
English, and rattled on with a succession of questions, which I
answered as best I might--they were sensible, however, showed
some acquaintance with literature, and a very good knowledge of
dates.

'My gaucherie afforded her one opportunity of displaying
her acquaintance with chronology which she did not miss. The
date of a MS. was the question; I unthinkingly referred to that
of the Battle of Agincourt, an allusion which a courtier would
have shunned as a rock ahead, considering the figure an Orleans
cut in that fight. It was not quite so bad certainly as the
gentleman telling Prince Eugene that "a certain event took
place in the year the Countess of Soissons (his mother)
poisoned her husband," but it was enough to have made poor
Colonel Dalton faint. She relieved me, however, in an instant 
by saying, "Ah! 1415," while George C--, who was with her,
coolly asked, "when it was printed?" She turned to him briskly
and said at once, "You see it is a manuscript," which satisfied
the gentleman of the bedchamber, and saved my reply. More of
this when we meet, but my paper, like Macheath's courage, "is
out," so for the present, believe me as ever,
'Yours, most faithfully,
'R. H. B.'

By way of postscript, another anecdote anent royalty may
be added:--

'I must tell you one of his (Moore's) stories, because, as
Sir Walter Scott is the hero of it, I know it will not be
unacceptable to you. When George IV went to Ireland, one of the
"pisintry," delighted with his affability to the crowd on
landing, said to the toll-keeper as the king passed through,

'"Och, now! an' his Majesty, God bless him, never paid the
turnpike, an' how's that?"

'"Oh! kings never does, we let's 'em go free:" was the
answer.

'"Then there's the dirty money for ye," says Pat. "It
shall never be said that the king came here, and found nobody
to pay the turnpike for him."

'Moore, on his visit to Abbotsford, told this story to Sir
Walter, when they were comparing notes as to the two royal
visits.

'"Now, Mr. Moore," replied Scott, "there ye have just the
advantage of us; there was no want of enthusiasm here; the
Scotch folk would have done anything in the world for his
Majesty, but--pay the turnpike."'

In 1837, Mr. Bentley published the first number of his
Miscellany; having engaged the services of Mr. Charles Dickens,
then rising rapidly in public estimation, and an ample staff of
regular collaborateurs, he sought to secure any occasional
auxiliaries whose assist ance might be of value; among others
he applied to Mr. Barham, who entered at once and very warmly
into the design, promising such aid as more important
avocations might allow.

Up to this time he had been an anonymous and comparatively
unknown writer. The popularity, however, of The Ingoldsby
Legends, which now appeared in rapid succession in the pages of
the new periodical, rendered the pseudonym he had, for obvious
reasons, assumed, a very insufficient disguise, and though he
never entirely abandoned it, he was soon pretty generally known
to be their author. Hamilton Tighe was the first subject
derived from the inexhaustible stores of Mrs. Hughes and her
son. 'The Original Ghost Story,' writes Mr. Hughes, 'was said
to have occurred in the family of the late Mr. Pye, the Poet
Laureate, a neighbour and brother magistrate of my maternal
grandfather, and the date of it was supposed to be connected
with the taking of Vigo.' Patty Morgan, the Milk-maid's Story,
and The Dead Drummer, were transmitted also through the same
medium; the former having been recounted by Lady Eleanor
Butler<6> as a whimsical Welsh Legend, the latter by Sir Walter
Scott, who, having better means than most men of ascertaining
facts and names, believed in their authenticity.

As regards the latter story, the main incidents are fully
attested by a contemporary pamphlet, purporting to be a
narrative of the 'Life, Confession, and Dying Speech of Jarvis
Matchan,' and signed by the Rev, J. Nicholson, who attended him
as minister, and another witness. The murder, however, was
committed not on Salisbury Plain, but in the neighbourhood of
Alconbury, in Huntingdonshire, and the culprit was accordingly,
'on Wednesday the 2nd of August, 1786, executed at Huntingdon,
and hung in chains in the parish of Alconbury, for the wilful
murder of Benjamin Jones, a drummer boy in the 48th Regiment of
Foot, on the 19th of August, 1780.' Matchan's escape to sea,
and the subsequent vision on Salisbury Plain, which wrung from
him his confession, and proved unquestionably the grounds of
his conviction, are given with great minuteness, and though
differing a little in detail, are to the full as marvellous as
anything recorded in the poem.

The Hand of Glory also owes its origin to the same source.
Nell Cook, Grey Dolphin, The Ghost, and The Smuggler's Leap,
are veritable Kentish Legends, a little renovated, perhaps, as
regards 'dresses and decorations,' but, without doubt,
sufficiently authentic for the purpose. Greater liberties have
been taken with The Old Woman Clothed in Grey, who, for
anything that appeared to the contrary, was a well-disposed
ghost enough, haunting an old rectory within a few miles of
Cambridge. it is represented to have been her custom to stroll
about the house at dead of night, with a bag of money in her
hand, of which she appeared exceedingly anxious to be relieved,
offering it to whomsoever she happened to meet in the course of
her peregrinations; no one, however, seems to have been bold
enough to accept the gift. The principal improbability of the
tale manifestly consists in the fact, that no one was found
sufficiently enterprising to meet her wishes.

So strong was the belief that treasure was concealed about
the building in question, that when it was taken down and the
materials sold, on the erection of the present parsonage-house,
the incumbent expressly stipulated for the right and title to
all valuables that might be discovered, and he actually
received, we believe, three battered half-pence in fulfilment
of the agreement. As for the old lady, as she has never
appeared since the destruction of her favourite 'walk,' it is
conjectured, either that she has taken refuge in an old cellar
which has been bricked over, and is likely to remain
undisturbed for years, or that she has adopted an effectual
method of disencumbering herself of all superfluous cash, by
investing it in the scrip of some 'great fen railroad company,'
and may even now be wandering an unhappy shade around the
precincts of Capel Court.

The materials of most of the tales referring to Popish
superstition were derived from a variety of monkish chronicles
and writings, the Aurea Legenda among the rest, with which the
library of Sion College abounds, and with most of which Mr.
Barham was tolerably familiar. Of The Jackdaw of Rheims, he
gives the following account:--

'I have no time to do more for this number than scratch
off a doggerel version of an old Catholic legend that I picked
up out of a High Dutch author. I am afraid the poor "Jackdaw"
will be sadly pecked at. Had I more time, I meant to have
engrafted on it a story I have heard Cannon tell of a magpie of
his acquaintance.

'A certain notable housewife, he used to say, had observed
that her stock of pickled cockles were running remarkably low,
and she spoke to the cook in consequence, who alone had access
to them. The cook had noticed the same serious deficiency,--
"she couldn't tell how, but they certainly disappeared much too
fast!" A degree of coolness, approaching to estrangement,
ensued between these worthy individuals, which the rapid
consumption of the pickled cockles by no means contributed to
remove. The lady became more distant than ever, spoke pointedly
and before company, of "some people's unaccountable partiality
to pickled cockles," &c. The cook's character was at stake;
unwilling to give warning, with such an imputation upon her
self-denial, not to say honesty, she, nevertheless, felt that
all confidence between her mistress and herself was at an end.

'One day the jar containing the evanescent condiment being
placed as usual on the dresser, while she was busily engaged in
basting a joint before the fire, she happened to turn suddenly
round, and beheld, to her great indignation, a favourite
magpie, remarkable for his conversational powers and general
intelligence, perched by its side, and dipping his beak down
the open neck with every symptom of gratification. The mystery
was explained--the thief detected! Grasping the ladle of
scalding grease which she held in her hand, the exasperated
lady dashed the whole contents over the hapless pet,
accompanied by the exclamation--'"Oh, d--me, you've been at
the pickled cockles, have ye?"

'Poor Mag, of course, was dreadfully burnt; most of his
feathers came off, leaving his little round pate, which had
caught the principal part of the volley, entirely bare. The
poor bird moped about, lost all his spirit, and never spoke for
a year.

'At length when he had pretty well recovered, and was
beginning to chatter again, a gentleman called at the house,
who, on taking off his hat, discovered a very bald head! The
magpie, who happened to be in the room, appeared evidently
struck by the circumstance; his reminiscences were at once
powerfully excited by the naked appearance of the gentleman's
skull. Hopping upon the back of his chair, and looking him
hastily over, he suddenly exclaimed, in the ear of the
astounded visitor--'"Oh, d--me, you've been at the pickled
cockles, have ye?"'

In the same letter be goes on to say:--'I cannot
sufficiently thank you for your story of the Virgin Unmasked;
it is a most amusing one, and highly characteristic of the
standard of morality too commonly found in "Sweet Auburn,
loveliest village of the plain." As to the communication of the
gallivanting propensities of her husband to the dying woman, it
is only to be paralleled by what Mr.--, the conchologist, once
told me, and which I think carries friendly consolation and
good offices in extremis to even a higher pitch.

'He was once a surgeon at W--, in Kent, and said that in
the course of his practice, he had to pay what he considered
would be his last visit to au elderly labouring man on Adisham
Downs. He had left him in the last stage of illness the day
before, and was not surprised on calling again to find him
dead, but did experience a little astonishment at seeing the
bed on which he bad been lying now withdrawn from under the
body, and placed in the middle of the floor. To his remarks,
the answer given by her who had officiated as nurse(?) was--
'"Dearee me, Sir, you see there was partridge feathers in the
bed, and folks can't die upon geame feathers no how, and we
thought as how he never would go, so we pulled bed away, and
then I just pinched his poor nose tight with one hand, and shut
his mouth close with t'other, and, poor dear! he went off like
a lamb!"'

The Singular Passage in the Life of the late Doctor
Harris, though drawing not a little on the reader's faith,
certainly so far originated in fact that the strange details
were communicated to Mr. Barham by a young lady on her sick-
bed, and who herself was so impressed with their truth, as to
urge most strongly the apprehension of the young man of whose
horrible arts she believed herself to be the victim. The
delusion only terminated with her life. It is worthy of remark
that the very gentleman to whom she referred, and who was also
well known to Mr. Barham, was shortly afterwards taken into
custody on the charge of perpetrating a robbery at one of the
theatres. His identity was sworn to most positively by the
prosecutrix, but an alibi was so irrefragably established as to
place his innocence beyond suspicion. This story, though
printed in the first series of The Ingoldsby Legends, appeared
originally in Blackwood, and has, indeed, little in common with
the productions with which it is at present associated.         
As respects the poems, remarkable as they have been pronounced
for the wit and humour which they display, their distinguishing
attraction lies in the almost unparalleled flow and facility of
the versification. Popular phrases, sentences the most prosaic,
even the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches
from well-nigh every language, are wrought in with an apparent
absence of all art and effort that surprises, pleases, and
convulses the reader at every turn; the author triumphs with a
master's hand over every variety of stanza, however complicated
or exacting; not a word seems out of place, not an expression
forced; syllables the most intractable find the only partners
fitted for them throughout the range of language, and couple
together as naturally as those kindred spirits which poets tell
us were created pairs, and dispersed in space to seek out their
particular mates. A harmony pervades the whole, a perfect
modulation of numbers never, perhaps, surpassed, and rarely
equalled in compositions of this class. This was the forte of
Thomas Ingoldsby; a harsh line or untrue rhyme grated like the
Shandaean hinge upon his ear; no inviting point or alluring pun
would induce him to entertain either for an instant; sacrifice
or circumlocution were the only alternatives. At the same time,
scarcely any vehicle could he better adapted for the
development of his peculiar powers than that unshackled metre
which admits of no laws save those of rhyme and melody; but
which also, from the very want of definite regulations,
presents no landmark to guide the poet, and demands a thorough
knowledge of rhythm to prevent his becoming lost among a
succession of confused and unconnected stanzas.

Of the unflagging spirit of fun which animates these
productions there can be but one opinion; Mr. Barham was,
unquestionably an adept in the mysteries of mirth, happy in his
use of anachronism, and all the means and appliances of
burlesque; he was skilled, moreover, to relieve his humour,
however broad, from any imputation of vulgarity, by a judicious
admixture of pathos and antiquarian lore. There are, indeed,
passages in his writings, The Execution, for example, and the
battle-field in The Black Mousquetaire, standing out in strong
contrast from the ludicrous imagery which surrounds them, and
affording evidence of powers of a very opposite and far higher
order. That he had his faults is, of course, not to be denied;
the digressions may sometimes appear too long or too frequent;
the moral a little forced, and here and there an occasional
objectionable expression might be discovered; but some
indulgence may be claimed on the score of hurried composition
and the very slight opportunity of correction afforded by the
mode of publication. It would be improper, perhaps, to dismiss
this subject without touching briefly upon a charge of
coarseness and want of reverence which has been brought against
the work in question, albeit few authors, upon the whole, have
been more tenderly dealt with by the press than Thomas
Ingoldsby.<7> As regards the first moiety of this alleged
offence against good taste, little need be said; it could only
have been detected by one deeply imbued with that transatlantic
spirit of delicacy, such singular instances of which have, from
time to time, made their appearance in the papers; he must be
sensitive overmuch, constituted

tremblingly alive all o'er,
To smart and agonize at every pore,

who fears to rub against the plain language of The Legends. No
one who knew Mr. Barham would for a moment suspect him to be
guilty of any intentional irreverence. Firmly and
conscientiously opposed to avowed Popery, and not less so to
that anomalous system which means Romanism if it means
anything, he could not view the rapid propagation of these
opinions with indifference. 'Non ex quovis ligno fit
Mercurius;' he, perhaps, was not of the wood out of which
schoolmen and controversialists are framed; but furnished with
goodly weapons of the lighter sort, he did not hesitate to
direct them against the errors in question. An occasional
appeal to the nonsense of the public has its effect.

To return to the diary:--

'August 21, 1839.--Hook drove me down to Thames Ditton,
from his house at Fulham. Fished all day, and dined téte-a-téte
at the "Swan." Though not in health, his spirits were as good
as ever. We caught eight dozen and a half of gudgeons, and he
repeated to me almost as many anecdotes. Among the rest, one of
a trick he played when a boy behind the scenes of the
Haymarket. He was there one evening, during the heat of the
Westminster election, at the representation of "The Wood
Demon," and observing the prompter with the large speaking-
trumpet in his hand used to produce the supernatural voices
incidental to the piece, he watched him for some time, and saw
him go through the business more than once. As the effect was
to be repeated, he requested of the man to be allowed to make
the noise for him; the prompter incautiously trusted him with
the instrument, when, just at the moment, the "Fiend" rose from
the trap, and the usual roar was to accompany his appearance,
"SHERIDAN FOR EVER!!!" was bawled out in the deepest tones that
could be produced--not more to the astonishment of the
audience than to the confusion of the involuntary partisan
himself, from whom they seemed to proceed.

'He mentioned also a reply that he made to the Duke of
Rutland, who, observing him looking about the hall, as they
were leaving the Marquis of Hertford's, asked him what he had
lost?

'"My hat. If I had as good a beaver (Belvoir) as your
Grace, I should have taken better care of it."'

Whether Theodore Hook and his great rival, Mr. Sidney
Smith, ever met in society, we do not know. An arrangement was
made for the purpose of bringing them together at the table of
a common friend, but, alas! a tailor--

What dire mishaps from trivial causes spring!

one to whom Hook owed a considerable sum, having failed in the
interval, the latter was unable or indisposed to keep the
appointment. The circumstance served to elicit one of those
happy strokes of sarcasm which the Canon dealt so adroitly.

Mr. H--, the host, not aware of the cause of his
detention, delayed dinner for some time, observing that 'he was
sure Hook would come, as he had seen him, in the course of the
afternoon, at the Athenaeum, evidently winding himself up for
the encounter with tumblers of cold brandy and water.'

'That's hardly fair,' said Smith, 'I can't be expected to
be a match for him unless wound up too, so when your servant
ushers in Mr. Hook, let Mr. H--'s Punch be announced at the
same time.'

'Dec. 5.--Met my old friend Charles D--, who appears
to have become quite a convert to phrenology; went with him to
De Ville to have his head felt; scribbled the following lines
during the "manipulation":

Oh, my head! my head! my head!
Lack! for my poor unfortunate head!
Mister de Ville
Has been to feel,
And what do you think he said?
He felt it up, and he felt it down,
Behind the ears, and across the crown,
Sinciput, occiput, great and small,
Bumps and organs, he tickled 'em all;
And he shook his own, as he gravely said,
'Sir, you really have got a most singular head!

'Why here's a bump,
Only feel what a lump;
Why the organ of "Sound" is an absolute hump;
And only feel here,
Why, behind each ear,
There's a bump for a butcher or a bombardier;
Such organs of slaughter
Would spill blood like water;
Such "lopping and topping" of heads and of tails,
Why, you'll cut up a jackass with Alderman S--.'
[Caetera desunt.]

Among the various departments of literature in which Mr.
Barham sought relaxation, the drama occupied a considerable
portion of his attention; from the Greek tragedians to
Shakespeare and the more modern playwrights, there was scarcely
an author possessed of any pretensions to merit, with whose
writings he was not familiar. His acquaintances indeed, with
the works of the Swan of Avon was such as to enable him, at one
time, when his memory was in its full vigour, to supply the
context to any quotation that could be made from them, and to
mention the play, the act, and generally the very scene from
which it had been taken. Warmly attached to the cause of the
drama, he looked with con siderable interest on the formation
of 'the Garrick Club <8>,' which was established with some
design of being made instrumental in bringing back the
neglected Muse 'to glory again.'

The death of Theodore Hook, which occurred on August 24,
1841, deeply affected Mr. Barham; a warm attachment had sprung
up between them during an intimacy of twenty years, and be
heard of the event that had dissolved it with the most
heartfelt grief, not unmixed with something of a sinister
foreboding as regarded himself. One of the last parties at
which Hook was present was at Amen Corner; he was unusually
late, and dinner was served before he made his appearance; Mr.
Barham apologized for having sat down without him, observing
that he had quite given him up, and had supposed 'that the
weather had deterred him.'

'Oh!' replied the former, 'I had determined to come,
weather or no.'

Like most men resident in London, however much its
occupations may be in accordance with their taste, there was
nothing Mr. Barham so thoroughly enjoyed as to snatch a hasty
run into the country, more especially if, in addition to fresh
breezes, green fields, and odorous flowers, there could be
obtained what poor Cannon used to denominate a 'sniff of the
briny.' He had started, about the middle of August, 1841, for
Margate, full of spirits at the prospect of a longer holiday
than usual, which was to embrace a week's shooting among the
Kentish hills, little dreaming of the evil tidings that were to
follow him; immediately on his arrival he addressed the
following amusing 'log' to his old schoollellow and valued
friend Dr. Roberts:--

'DEAR ROBERTS,--'August 16.--Nine A.M.--Two cabs,
three trunks, one band-box, a wife, three girls, two carpet-
bags, portfolio, and a Dick on the dickey.

'Half-past Nine.--On board the Royal George; luggage
safe stowed, all but the Dick, who quitted.

'Three-quarters-past Nine.--Rum and milk, eggs, and cold
beef.

'Ten.--Off she goes; Times and Morning Herald.

'Eleven.--Blackwall Railroad Company, all well.

'Hall-past Twelve.--Off Gravesend.

'Half-past One.--Off Sheppey, bell rings, dinner; "more
mutton for the lady."

'Three.--Off Herne Bay, beautiful weather, sea like a
duck-pond; gin-and-water.

'Twenty minutes past Four.--Landed on Margate jetty,
went to old lodgings, landlady moved and gone to America.--
N.B. Husband has another wife there.

Forced to seek for quarters, old ones being laid into the
hotel.

'Hall-past Four.--Three bed-rooms and first-floor
sitting-room at a hatter's on Marine Parade. Don't know whether
engaged or not, depends on next post, which comes in at half-
past six; old woman, former lodger, to send her answer by it;
have tea there upon speculation.

'Five.--Very good tea, ditto bread, ditto butter; hurdy-
gurdy under window, "Nix my Dolly."

'Five minutes past Five.--Another cup. Bagpipes under
window, "Jim Crow."

'Ten minutes past Five.--Conjuror under window, lots of
tricks, three eggs out of a handkerchief.

'Six.--Post in, old woman don't come, take the lodgings,
three guineas a week, seem very comfortable, children at window
looking at conjuror, hurdy-gurdy, "I'd be a butterfly;"
fiddler, "College Hornpipe'; bagpipes, "Within a mile of
Edinburgh Town;" wish they were! Post going off, God bless you,
all well, and in screaming spirits.

'R. H. B.'

In 1840, Mr. Barham succeeded, in course of rotation, to
the presidency of Sion College; and in 1842, his long services
at St. Paul's were rewarded with the divinity readership in
that Cathedral, and by his being permitted to exchange his
living for the more valuable one of St. Faith, the duties of
which were far less onerous than those he had fulfilled during
well-nigh twenty years. He still continued under the bishop's
licence in his old abode in Amen Corner. This, indeed, be was
enabled to do till his decease, although shortly after his
induction, the death of Mr. Sidney Smith placed the
residentiary house in other bands. The last communication he
received from this gentleman runs as follows:--

'Green Street, Monday.
'Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your kind present of game.
If there is a pure and elevated pleasure in this world, it is
that of roast pheasant and bread sauce;--barn-door fowls for
dissenters, but for the real church man, the thirty-nine times
articled clerk, the pheasant, the pheasant!
'Ever yours,
'SIDNEY SMITH.'

A more laconic note, in acknowledgement of a similar
arrival, was penned by Mr. Barham himself, but whether it ever
reached the hands of the eminent individual to whom it appears
to have been addressed, is doubtful:--

'Many thanks, my dear Lord, for the birds of your giving,
Though I wish with the dead, you had sent me the living.'

The first indications of Mr. Barham's fatal disease
exhibited themselves on October 28, 1844, the day of the
Queen's visit to the City, for the purpose of opening the Royal
Exchange. He had accompanied his wife and daughters to a
friend's house to witness the procession, and had even
remarked, as a cutting east wind whistled through the open
windows, that, in all probability, that day's sight-seeing
would cost many of the imprudent gazers their lives. In the
course of the evening he was attacked with a violent fit of
coughing, the result of sudden and severe inflammation in the
throat. It was found in the following June that recovery was
impossible. To say that be received the intimation with
fortitude, would afford but a very inadequate notion of the
calmness and contentment with which he regarded his approaching
end. Having arranged, with his usual perspicuity, all the
details of his temporal affairs, be partook for the last time
of the holy communion, in company with all his household, and
set himself, in perfect sell-possession, to make final
preparation for the awful change at hand.

His last lines, entitled As I laye a-thynkynge, were
written but a few days before be quitted Clifton, where be had
been for a change, and are of a more sombre hue, referring
chiefly to the death of his youngest son, to whom his latest
thoughts were constantly recurring. They were placed, at his
express desire, in the bands of Mr. Bentley for publication.

On the morning of June 17, 1845, he expired in the fifty-
seventh year of his age, without a struggle, in faith, and
hope, and in charity with all men.

Independent of any admiration that Mr. Barham's wit and
talent might excite, there was a warmth of heart about him, and
an amiability of disposition, which rendered him justly dear to
many even beyond the pale of intimacy. His spirits were fresh
and buoyant, his constitution vigorous, and his temperament
sanguine. His humour never ranged 'beyond the limits of becom
ing mirth,' and was in its essence free from gall. Where irony
was his object, it was commonly just, and always gentle. On his
writings might, in fairness, be inscribed:--

Non ego mordaci distrinxi carmine quenquam,
Nulla venenato est litera mixta joco.

Perhaps his virtues were of a kind especially adapted to win
their own reward; certain it is, he had ever cause to view
humanity under its fairest aspect. He never lost a friend: he
never met with coldness or neglect. His family were devotedly
attached to him; those upon whom he was instrumental in
conferring benefits were rarely, if ever, wanting in gratitude:
and his own claims to consideration were readily and liberally
allowed. All these things pass away. But as an author, he can
scarcely be forgotten. His productions, whatever may be their
defects or blemishes, must occupy that niche in the literature
of the country, which his originality has carved out.

NOTES.

1. The price he received for this work was twenty pounds, with
additional advantages dependent on certain of those book-
selling 'contingencies,' which Theodore Hook used to describe
as things that never happen. The definition was not violated in
the present instance.

2. Much as Mr. Barham, with all reasonable and right-thinking
people, condemned this practice of playing practical jokes,
there was something so original and irresistibly ludicrous in
the positions brought about by Theodore Hook's humour, as to
draw a smile from the most unbending. The only thing of the
kind in which Mr B. was ever personally engaged was as a boy at
Canterbury, when, with a schoolfellow, later a gallant major,
'famed for deeds of arms,' he entered a Quakers' meeting-house;
looking round at the grave assembly, the latter held up a penny
tart, and said solemnly, 'Whoever speaks first shall have this
pie.'--'Go thy way,' commenced a drab-coloured gentleman,
rising,--'go thy way, and--'The pie's yours, sir,' exclaimed
D--, placing it before the astounded speaker, and hastily
effecting his escape.

3. The Mr. Hill of Gilbert Gurney, who also furnished the idea
of Mr. Poole's Paul Pry.

4. In one of his letters to this lady, he observes of Nicholas,
'Whatever his demerits may be, they must in fairness rest at
your door, since you certainly, if you did not absolutely call
him into life, prevented his being overlaid in his premiere
jeunesse; but for your fostering care he had expired long since
of laziness and indigestion.'

5. To this may be added the advice he is said to have given to
the Bishop of New Zealand, previous to his departure,
recommending him to have regard to the minor as well as to the
more grave duties of his station--to be given to hospitality
--and, in order to meet the tastes of his native guests, never
to be without a smoked little boy in the bacon-rack, and a cold
clergyman on the sideboard. 'And as for myself, my Lord,' he
concluded, 'all I can say is, that when your new parishioners
do eat you, I sincerely hope you will disagree with them.' Of
Dean C--he said, his only adequate punishment would be, to be
preached to death by wild curates.

6. The story, as told by Lady Eleanor Butler, one of the
celebrated 'Ladies of Llangollen,' ran, that a young carpenter,
residing in the valley, had married a girl to whom he was much
attached, and they lived together for several years very
happily, till the wife's mother dying, bequeathed to her
daughter some household furniture, and among other articles a
clock. They had previously possessed a clock of their own, and
the husband now proposed to sell the new one, which the wife
objected to, as it had belonged to her mother, wishing on the
other hand to dispose of their own. From this the husband was
averse, from a similar reason. A dispute, the first they had
ever known, followed, and, as he persisted in selling the
legacy, was frequently renewed. From this moment they became as
remarkable for living unhappily together, as they had
previously been for the contrary. The husband occasionally even
used blows, and either from the ill-treatment which she
received, or from natural causes, the wife soon fell into a
languishing, low way. At length she died; but whether any very
recent injuries had been inflicted to hasten her decay does not
appear. The carpenter, however, seems to have anticipated it,
as a fortnight after her funeral he had engaged himself to a
second wife.

Her betrothed was on his way along the mountain path which
led to her cottage, the evening before the day fixed for the
celebration of his second nuptials, when one of the fogs so
common among the hills came suddenly on. Well acquainted with
his road he felt no alarm, but some surprise at a singular
sound which he heard behind him, as of some heavy body
following. The fog for some time prevented his discovering what
it was; but at length a gust of wind partially removing the
mist, be distinctly perceived, at a distance of only a few
yards, the clock which had been the cause of all his
matrimonial strife. It came on apparently self-moved, and as he
looked again, he beheld not the usual face, hut that of his
deceased wife, which occupied the place generally allotted to
the hours, minutes, and hands.

He uttered a loud scream and rushed forward, the clock
still following him, and it was, as he fancied, on the point of
overtaking him, when be fell exhausted against the cottage
door. The sound of his fall attracted the attention of the
inmates, who found him lying at the threshold in a swoon. After
some time he recovered his senses, when he repeated this story
with the strongest assertions of its truth in every particular.
A fever was the consequence of the great mental excitement
occasioned by the delusion, and he did not survive his
adventure many days.

7. One of these attacks, not the wisest, and exhibiting, on the
part of the writer, a most amusing imperviousness to the force
of humour, was fairly met by the following retort from the
assailed:--

For turning grave things to farce, Prior asserts,
A ladle once stuck in an old woman's skirts;
My muse then may surely esteem it a boon,
if in hers there sticks only a bit of a spoon.--T. I

8. The following lines, composed by Mr. B., and set as a glee
by Mr. Hawes, were sung at the opening dinner:

Let Poets of superior parts
Consign to deathless fame
The larceny of the Knave of Hearts
Who spoiled his Royal Dame.

Alack! my timid muse would quail
Before such thievish cubs,
But plumes a joyous wing to hail
Thy birth, fair Queen of Clubs!



PREFACE TO THE FIRST SERIES

TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

YOU wish me to collect into a 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 distinguish an
antiquated Manorhouse 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 Dollond's patent spectacles the better.

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
Shakespeare, one who 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 further 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, without remorse, your superfluous i s, and now and then
eviscerating your colon.

My duty to your 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 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 is a person in esse and scarcely to admit
that one may be a person in posse, Is tenfold cruelty; 'it is
pressing to death, whipping, and hanging!'--let me entreat all
such likewise to remember, that as Shakespeare beautifully
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 else's!
But he who runs away with my Good NAME,
Robs me of what does not do him any good,
And makes me deuced poor!!'

(A reading which seems most unaccountably to have escaped the
researches of all modern Shakespearians, including the rival
editors of the new and illustrated versions.)

In order utterly to squash and demolish every gainsayer 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 of
my own, while the undisguised amusement which my
'Mephistopheles 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 any
body rather than to the real owner. I have therefore sent you,
instead thereof, a 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 woodcut of it. And now, if any
miscreant (I use the word only in its primary and 'Pickwickian'
sense of 'unbeliever') 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.

THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON

'It 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--l are you?'

No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant,
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 extempore 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?'

'Is it the breeches!' asked the valet, casting an
inquiring 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, I'll be bail;' and Barney 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 waist coat; 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.

'It 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 be did not quite subscribe to
the sequitur.

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 midnight, put on my
pantaloons, and walk away with them.'

'Maybe so,' was the cautious reply.

'I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then--where
the d--l 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 all, 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?'

'I hardly know what to think of 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 private staircase; how could I
be such a fool?' and he crossed the chamber to where a low
oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. He paused
before it. Nothing now interfered to screen it from
observation; but it bore tokens of having been at some earlier
period concealed by tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the
walls on either side the portal.

'This way they must have come,' said Seaforth; 'I 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
bivouac 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 licentiousness of his llfe, 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 ball. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach the
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 produced 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 Odes 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 uncontrolled
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 preceding 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 mildewed 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 declared she beard
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 unknown heir; and the story was rarely alluded to, save
by one or two miracle-mongers, who had hard 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 housekeeper, 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,
as 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 be 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 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
'mon-Dieu'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 'Mademoiselle,' 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
militaire 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
rooks before breakfast?'

'Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise 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. Shnpkinson 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 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 unapproachable.

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 than 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,' apostrophized Mr. Barney Maguire, as be 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 depurating 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 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 a handsome green riding-frock, but no 'breeches and
boots to match' were there: loose jean trousers, surmounting a
pair of diminutive Wellingtons, embraced, somewhat
incongruously, his nether man, vice 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 bold 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 be
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.
'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, & Ghrimes.

'Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins,' said Charles,
with as much nonchalance as he could assume--and he did so;
Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs. Peters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his
eldest daughter with her album, 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 séjour in the still-room with Mrs.
Botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand
arcanum, the transmutation 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 Gwiliim'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 of a 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 seat at the board of that leaned
body, since which happy epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a more
indefatigable correspondent. 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 himself; 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 cicisbeo'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 of a
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 be gave his own name of Bowlsover, or Bee-owls-over,
(by corruption Bolsover)--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
interrupted his lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to
the bottled stout.

'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, whenever
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 the rats once
came under the forest laws--a minor species of venison? 'Rats
and mice, and such small deer,' eh?--Shakespeare, you know.
Our ancestors ate rats; ('The nasty fellows!' shuddered Miss
Julia in a parenthesis;) and owls, you know, are capital
mousers--' I've 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.'

'You 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--'

'I've 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--'

'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 sçavant, 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 afflattus 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 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 cosy
chat they had; and what do you think it was all about, my dear
miss?

'O, 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 do not 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 you?'

'Aye, dreams,--or dream, perhaps, I should say; for,
though repeated, it was still the same. And what do you imagine
was its subject?'

'It is impossible for me to divine,' said the tongue;--'I
have not the least difficulty in guessing,' said the eye, as
plainly as ever eye spoke.

'I dreamt--of your great grandfather!'

There was a change in the glance--' My great
grandfather?'

'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 represents him;
but with one exception.'

'And what was that?'

'Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were--
those of a skeleton.

'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 bead you can well imagine, and with an
indescribable grin strutted out of the room.'

'Absurd! Charles. How can you talk such nonsense?'

'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, be 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 considered 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.

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 ignotum 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 is the matter?' cried the sympathizing
lady, with a scrutinizing 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 fitter, caused him to turn abruptly and address his
neighbour. It was Miss Simpkinson, 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
preparatory 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--'

--Yew!--yeough!--yeough!--yow!--yow! yelled a hapless
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 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 auspiciously;--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 incontestable,--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 inconveniences, till
called upon to supply them. Tom composed 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 summoned, 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. Maguire's
ears, and Mr. Maguire had pulled Mademoiselle upon his knee,
and the lady had not 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.
Magaire had got bold 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 'cantankerous,'
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
anyhow,--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 rorybory-
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 because 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 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 incredulity
by both gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with
unflinching pertinacity. A reference to Mademoiselle was
suggested, but abandoned, as neither party had a taste for
delicate investigations.

'I'll 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 acquaintance. Meanwhile your finger on
your lip!'

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

''Twas now the very witching time of night.
When churchyards yawn, and graves 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 succedanea 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
which 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 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, &c., was of far later (late, 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 sup
ported them. A bunch of abomination, 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 that unmerciful 'Junking' 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
occupied, when the 'iron tongue of midnight had tolled twelve.'

'Ghost-time's come! said Ingoldsby, taking from his waist
coat pocket a watch like a gold half-crown, and consulting 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 housemaids
with an approved julep from the Countess of Kent's 'Choice
Manual.'

'Good night, sir!' ' said Mrs. Botherby.

'Go to the d--l!' 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,
Ingoldsby, 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, I'll insure them for the next twenty-four hours at
least, at the price of the buckram.'

'Certainly.--Oh I thank'ee;--to be sure!' stammered
Charles, rousing himself from a reverie, which had degenerated
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
morning 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 in
rerum natura, 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 too
good!' shouted Tom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable
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 in 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 Torn, 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 have you seen?--Barney, I
don't want to inquire 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 Pauline was to the fore as well
as meself, and--'

'Get along with your nonsense,--leave the room, sir!'

'But the master?' said Barney, imploringly; 'and without 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 treadmill, 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 perpendicular as a
Quaker.

'Ingoldsby,' said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, 'this
is now past a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for,
notwithstanding 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 propensity 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.'

'If there be 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
after wards.'

Tom's diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies
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. I 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 Linnaean 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 beard 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, probably 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 apartment. 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 himself. 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 subducted, 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, be 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. For a 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 proceeded
softly down stairs, followed at a due distance by his friend;
opened the door which led out upon the gardens; and stood at
once among the thickest of the shrubs, 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 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, shouldering which
he proceeded with greater rapidity into the midst of the
shrubbery. Arrived at a certain point where the earth seemed to
have been recently disturbed, be set himself 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 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 Simpkinsons laughed;--Barney Maguire cried
'Botheration!' and Mam'selle Pauline, 'Mon Dieu!'

Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which
awaited him on all sides, started off two hours earlier than he
had proposed:--he soon returned, however; and having at his
father-in-law's request, given up the occupation of Rajali-
hunting and shooting Nabobs, led his blushing bride to the
altar.

Mr. Simpkinson from Bath did not attend the ceremony,
being engaged at the Grand Junction Meeting of Sçavans, 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 epithalamium, and the 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 off-shoots 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 confidence 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 HAND OF GLORY: THE NURSE'S STORY

Malefica quaedam auguriatrix in Anglia fuit, quam demones
horribiliter extraxerunt, et imponentes super equum terribilem,
per aera rapuerunt; Clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per
quatuor ferme 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,
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 be
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 did 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 prayer mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer!
(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when
A witch says her prayers, she begins with 'Amen.')--
--' Tis awful to see
On that Old Woman's knee
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 fix.--
(For another receipt the same charm to prepare,
Consult Mr Ainsworth and Petit Albert.)

'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 bedizen'd with tulip and rose,
Flowers of remarkable size and hue,
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 careworn 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 beyond 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 voice in the air,
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.
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 HAND,
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 pass'd!
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 be try
To open the eye
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 cheek the fast-falling tears
Are coursing each other round and big,
And he 's staunching the blood with a full-bottom'd 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:
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 'a 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 dragg'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,
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 story 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, with
due reverence for such authority, I shall call--

'LOOK AT THE CLOCK!': PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY

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?
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,
With a couple more soakers,
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!'
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' show'd 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!
This 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,
Pryce would drop a cool hint,
With an ominous squint
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 willain,
I know you'd be killing
Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling!
You may do what you please,
You may sell my chemise,
(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,)
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 stretch'd 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 this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!

The fearful catastrophe
Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
Soon 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!'

Then he called Mr. Jones,
Who deposed 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 swore they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
The allusions 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;
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 paused, 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
Of 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.

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffth 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 pass'd, 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;
'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was alter'd at all--but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turn'd 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 whirl'd by a vehement puff,
David turn'd 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, read of) good running in Spain;
But I never did read
Of, or witness, such speed
As David exerted that evening.--Indeed
All I ever have 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 gain'd 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,
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 begg'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 meat for his Master!'
Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes,
She turn'd on her heel and she turned 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 could find 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 Rara 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!'
That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyndar ap Tudor,
Was right in proclaiming 'Ariston men Udor!'
Which means 'The pure Element
Is for the 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 quondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the landlady's daughter,
'Patty! bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!'
The dial he constantly watches; and when
The long hand's at the 'XII,' and the short at the 'X,'
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 redoubted
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 tbe 'old coat' of
Shallow.

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 the Baron! and--the Baron
had called for his boots!

A thunderbolt in the great hall had been a bagatelle to
it.

A few days before, a notable miracle had been wrought in
the neighbourhood; and in those times 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 beads 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 bad done striking twelve, and the Clerk of
Chatham was untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his
truckle bed; a half-emptied 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 unaccomplished. 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 thrice ere Emmanuel Saddleton had
presence of mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at
that untimeous 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 be 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.

'Oh! never mind the lantern, Emmanuel: you'll not want it:

hut 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. One of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was
pot, was the detection of secreted treasure. Blow out all the
fingers at one puff and you had the money. Many are tho 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
assigned 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 daybreak, 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 be
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
bead, 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 seamed as though the River god and Neptune were amusing
themselves with a game of subaqueous battledore, 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 contention 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 cozy bed,
grinning worse than ever. Tidings of the godsend 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 unannounced
by the warder, the Baron would have kicked him, the said
warder, from the topmost battlement into the bottom-most
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 Feversham oysters,--he doted
on shellfish, bated interruption at meals, and had not yet
dispatched 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 not a 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 freewarren, saccage and
sockage, cuisage and jambage, fosse and fork, infang theofe and
outfang theofe; aad 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.

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 I 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 in comitatu 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. Buonaparte. 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 retroussé with
a remarkably 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!'

'Ye--ye--yes, my lord.'

'And, Periwinkle,--tell Father Fothergill I would fain
speak with his Reverence.'

'Ye--ye--yes, my lord.'

The Baron s beard was peaked; and his moustaches, stiff
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 ball 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.'

'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 as a 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 superincumbent 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 conglomerated,'
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-horse,--all looked for some signal judgment. The
melancholy 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 band, 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 probability of a hole being
dug in it for his especial accommodation. 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 clamjamphry,' 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 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, therefore, he repaired forthwith to
his own magnificent monastery, situate just without 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 battlements 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. (Note: '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.)

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
Gasoony wine, 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 em 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,
Beatissimus! 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 unseemly grinning. Arouse
thee, Anselm!'

'Ay, so please you! Sanctiseime!' 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.

I 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
neverenough-to-be-anathematized villain who hath done this
deed! Hang him as high as Haman, Anseim!--up with him!--down
with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearthstone and
rooftree,--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 instanter. But there is
one thing you have forgotten, most Beatified--the name of the
culprit.'

'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, Beatissime!--I will don me with speed, and do
your bidding.'

'Do so, Anselm!--fail not to bang 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 vobiscum!'--
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,--all 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 his ear. It
was a county business altogether:--the Sheriff had better call
out the posse comittatus.

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--'

'An't 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
everlastingly 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 Crevecœur, the
Abbot's chief vassal; and there is John de Northwood, the
sheriff, with his red cross engrailed; and Hever, and
Leybourne, 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 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 ecclesiastical 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 aforesaid, in order that the same may be duly dealt
with according to law. 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 brickbat, and
the assailants were clambering over the outer wall. So the
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 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 élite 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 Northwood; away went William
of Hever, and Roger of Leybourne. Hamo de Crevecœur, 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.
He sent 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, Boniface 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 peccadillo, 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; 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 Crevecœur 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 steersman.

'What have we got here?' said the King. 'It's a mermaid,'
said one. 'It's a grampus,' said another. 'It's the devil,'
said a third. But they were all wrong; it was only Robert de
Shurland. 'Grrammercy,' said 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 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 indictment drawn up by the
Canterbury town clerk, viz., 'That he, the said Robert de
Shurland, &c., 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 archbishop to
boot, was making out, albeit with great reluctance, 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 Shurland had pledged himself to be forthwith
in readiness, cum 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 showed 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.

'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 ricketty 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 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 bands, and the quarrel, as usual, was patched
up by a royal 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 quietness, the monarch
lost no time in marching his long legs across the border, and
the short ones of the Baron followed him of course. At Falkirk,
Tickletoby was in great request; and in the year following, we
find a contemporary poet hinting at his master's prowess under
the walls of Caerlaverock--

Obec eus fu achiminez
Li beau Robert de Shurland
Ki cant seoit sur le cheval
Ne sembloit home ki 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--

Si ie estoie une pucelette
Je li donrie ceur et cors
Tant est de lu bons li recors.

'If 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 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 remained but the seat it had appeared to
occupy. This, on examination, 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 back 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 I 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 care 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
increased. 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 aqua
vitae 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 had deepened to
beetroot; 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
deadthraw to recognize either. He died as he lived, unconquered
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
confessor'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 temperament; but we never could learn
that she actually kicked her husband. She brought him a very
pretty fortune in chains, owches, and Saracen earrings; the
barony, being a male fief, reverted to the Crown.

In the abbey-church at Minster may yet be seen the tomb of
a recumbent warrior, clad in the chain-mail of the thirteenth
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 sympathizing
tear to the memory of poor 'Grey Dolphin'!

NOTES

 1. Subsequent to the first appearance of the foregoing
narrative, the tomb alluded to has been opened during the
course of certain repair, 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.

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,
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 fill'd with money-making fellows,
And stuff'd, 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;
His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
His name was Mason--he'd been christen'd 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 have all 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.

 Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,
Of this same striking had the utmost 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 called 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.

 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 quite 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 quantum 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 surpaass'd by no street,
When the 'Chief Baron' enters, and assumes
To 'rule' o'er mimic 'Thesigers' and 'Broughams.'

 Here they would oft forget their Rulers' 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;
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 weary 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 whiskers 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!

 'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead,
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 recurr'd,
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 all 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 règle, would have burnt extremely blue,
But Nick unluckily had put it out;
And he, though naturally bold and stout,
In short, was in a most tremendous stew;--
The room was filled 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, Execrable 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 rung;
His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung
Forth from their sockets,--like a frighten'd 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,
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 to.

 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 chime,
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

 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 chaunticleer awoke,
And loudly 'gan his early matins sing;
And then 'it started like a guilty thing,'
As his 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 clapp'd his hand behind)--' 'Tis chilly too--
I'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;
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,
Vanish'd 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 'the Ghost' their theme;
While ever from that hour they all declare
That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!


Confound not, I beseech you, 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 charmant!
Poor Tray de mon Ami!
--Dog-bury, and Vergers.



THE CYNOTAPH


Oh! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray,
Now his fleeting breath has pass'd away?
Seventeen years, I can venture to say,
Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play,
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, and true;
Qualities, Tray, that were found in you.
But it may not be--you sacred ground,
By holiest feelings fenced around,
May ne'er within its hallow'd bound
Receive the dust of a soul-less hound.

I 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.
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 not 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 sort 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 last year went on
To the Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintonne.
Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle,
'Sir Craven,' 'Sir Gael,' and 'Sir Campbell of Saddell,'
(Who, as Mr. 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 Lamb,'
And the 'Knight of the Ram,'
The 'Knight of the Rose,' and the 'Knight of the Dragon,'
Who, save at the flagon,
And prog in the waggon,
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.''
And I own it is clear
A fastidious ear
Will be, more or less, always annoy'd with you when you
Insert 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, si Monumentum requiris;'
Which an erudite Verger translated to me,
'If you ask for his Monument, Sir-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 Ponsonby;--
Or those ugly minxes
The sister Sphynxes,
Mix'd creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo
(Denon says) the emblems of Leo and Virgo;
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 that 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, <1>
And are quietly letting him down through the floor,
Near 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;
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
In the very best 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;
Little rest, poor knave!
Would he have in 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, alarmed 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 always 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 interr'd
By Penelope Bird,
No dog would be e'er so be-'whelp''d and be-'cur'r'd.
All the night long her cantankerous Sprite
Would be running about in the pale moon-light,
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 gnarl'd and time-worn tree,
Where Tray and I
Would often lie,
And watch the light 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 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!

NOTES

1. Sir John Moore--In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin
having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of
this gallant officer might have been the production of Lord
Byron's Muse, Mr. Sydney Taylor, somewhat 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 soi-disant 'Dr. Marshall,' who turned out to be a
Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that
a certain 'Doctor Peppercorn' put forth his 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 flurry'd,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurry'd.

We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the club returning;
We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamps 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 Marshall 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.

THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE: MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY

READER, were you ever bewitched?--I do not mean by a
'white wench's black eye,' or by love-potions imbibed from a
ruby lip;--but, were you ever really and bond 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,
and fifth, quarter of the globe, a Witch may still be
occasionally discovered in favourable, i. e. stormy, seasons,
weathering Dungeness Point in an eggshell, 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 Conjurer has of late
been detected in the district.

Not many miles removed from the verge of this recondite
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; Folkestone 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
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 encroachments 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 comparative
opulence, a compounder of medicines, one Master Erasmus
Buckthorne; the eflluvia 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 pharmacopolist 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 the least,
two pounds troy weight of chemicals and galenicals. As the town
clock struck the quarter, Master Buckthorne emerged from his
laboratory, and, putting the key carefully into his pocket,
mounted the sure-footed 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 bind; '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 be 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 hand-maiden
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. 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 bad already formed a tender connexion 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 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 Bus says it is something between wind and
water.'

'They are all of them wrong,' said Erasmus Buckthorne.

'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. But a 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 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 a' 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 astonishment 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?--
'

'I 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, betake
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 doublet sits
loosely on me,--these racking pains. My wife, too, when I meet
her gaze, the cold sweat stands on my forehead, and I could
almost think--' Marsh 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 Marsh. You are well, an you would but
think so. Ride, I say, hunt, shoot, do anything,--disperse
these melancholic humours, and become yourself again.'

'Well, I will do your bidding,' said Mash, thoughtfully.
'It

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 mistress of Marston, muttering as
be 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 threadbare, employed
his time in teaching her the mode of administering certain
noxious compounds, the unconscious partaker whereof would pine
end die so slowly and gradually as to defy suspicion. Others
there were who affirmed that Lucifer himself was then and there
raised in propria persona, with all his terrible attributes of
horn and hoof. In support of this assertion, they adduce the
testimony of the aforesaid buxom housemaid, who protested that
the Hall smelt that evening like a manufactory of matches. All,
however, seemed to agree that the confabulation, whether human
or infernal, was conducted with 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, moreover, 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 livestock 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
stripe 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 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 billet 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. José, however, kept his place,
perhaps because be 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 courtyard, 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-checked 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
coaxing 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, 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 Buckthorne quitted the boudoir together. But the
cabinet!--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 in a chair;
the drawer so recently closed yielded at once to her band, 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 bad 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 kirtlee, 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 I 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 fore-mothers 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 scrutinizing 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 I wish I may die if it
doesn't look like master!--But come to your dinner, Miss!
Hark! the bell is 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 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 listlessness;
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 approximating 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.

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 lithe, 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 rode 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, something 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, bad formerly been a Chase, with
rights of Free-warren, &c., appertaining to the Archbishops 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 greensward exhibited a
lively scene, sufficiently explanatory 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
paraphernalia 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-croupers, pig-
merchants, itinerant venders of crockery and cutlery, wandered
promiscuously 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 net 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 his captor. 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, junketting, 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 Morris-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 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 unequal
portions; the smaller of which, surrounded by curtains of a
coarse canvas, 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 eased 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 impudence, 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
especially 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 informed
his gaping auditors that the latter was the seventh son of a
seventh son, and of course, as they very well knew, an Unborn
Doctor; that to this happy accident of birth be 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 be is as melting wax; he asks not your disorders, he
sees them himself at a glance--nay, without a glance; be
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!'

'Hath your master ever a charm for the tooth-ache, 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 bad 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 awhile 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 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
country man; but the roar of merriment around bespoke the by-
standers 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 evil under the sun, moral, physical, natural, and
super natural! 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 infection no man ventured to plead guilty,
though 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 themselves, among the
softer sex especially, as they gazed on the fumes 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
machina,--the illustrious Aldrovando himself.

Short in stature and spare in form, the sage had somewhat
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 afire 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 his screen while the attention of
the multitude was absorbed by the pyrotechnics of Mr. Merryman,
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 sensibly begun to
derive had not succeeded in removing all traces of bodily pain.

For a while the latter was unobservant of the
inquisitorial survey with which be 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 elevation giving him an
unobstructed view over the heads of the pedestrians, be 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?'

'It skills not to declare,' was the answer; 'suffice it we
have met--in other climes perchance--a nd now meet happily
again--happily at least for thee.'

'Why truly the trick of thy countenance reminds the of
some what. 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 nearer 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 be 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 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, bath 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 not: 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 weedy 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 born had attracted, and in prescribing
for their real or fancied ailments. Vain were all Marsh's
efforts again to attract his notice; it was evident 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 canvas screen, he rode slowly and
thoughtfully off the field.

What should be 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--that
practices were in operation against his life! It was enough! he
would keep tryst with the Conjurer, if conjurer he were; and,
at least, ascertain who and what he was, and bow be had become
acquainted with his own person and secret afflictions.

When the late Mr. Pitt was determined to keep out
Buonaparte, 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 dawn 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, proceeding to his rendezvous on
foot and alone.

'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 surrounding 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,
insufficiently lighted by an iron lamp that hung from the roof
and scarcely illumined 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 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 I 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 born.

'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 is 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 saw and recognized 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 himself! 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 be had no
difficulty in recognizing 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 Conjurer: '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
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 overhead; 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, how ever, at once removed, when, casting his
eyes on the glass, ho 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 Conjurer 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, sad perceived that the. shadowy triumvirate were
in deep and eager consultation; the fragments of the shattered
weapon appeared to undergo a close 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 band 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
oysterknife, 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 unluckily been resting on the edge of the bath:
be 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
Conjurer: '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
bow 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 inspecting
the figure's wounded band, 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,
be planted himself with a firm foot in front of the image,
waved his unoccupied hand with a cautionary gesture to his
companions, 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 bead 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: be 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 bead 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-o'-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 bad been last seen
riding furiously towards Folkestone early in the preceding
afternoon; to a question from Hodge Gardener he had 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 be 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
indefeasible. 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
uninhabited; 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, bad 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, wham her profligate mother had abandoned,
grew up to be a fine girl, and a handsome. She became, more
over, 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,
bad received considerable 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
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, teste 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 'Ætatis suae 26.' On the opposite side is the following
mark, which Mr. Simpkinson declares to be that of a Merchant 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.

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.
<1> 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.

THE 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!'

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:
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-faced Dick, linstock in hand,
Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:--
A wink comes sly
From that sinister eye--
Hairy-faced 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 up on high,
Orate pro animâ 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 rides 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?'
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 fixed on an empty chair;
But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,
'She talks to a man with never a head!'

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 trying to peep at his ears.
That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms,
And he plays long whist, but he frets and 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 at the door;
There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,
And musty phials, and fusty rags,
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!

NOTES

1. Pack o' nonsense!--Everybody as belongs to him is dead and
gone--and everybody knows that the poor young gentleman's
real name wasn't Sobriquet 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 bluecoat and
little gold-laced cocked hat, that hangs on the stairs over the
door of the passage that leads to the blue room.--Sobriquet!--
but there!--The Squire wrote it after dinner!--
ELIZABETH BOTHERBY

The When,--the Where,--and the How,--of the succeeding
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.

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 Loquitur. ]

Come 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, proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophizeth
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,
Threaten'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;
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 an 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?

--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 friars 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
You see 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,
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 this same grey Ruin.

But Gertrude Slade became 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!'

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 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?'

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 throbbing--
'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 frolicsome bound,
Such sailing and gilding,
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:
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.
''Tis 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; <1>
Mine host of the Dragon
Hath many a flaggon
Of double ale, lamb's-wool, and eau de vie,
But Sir Thopas, the Vicar,
Hath costlier liquor,--
A butt of the choicest Malvoisie.
He doth not lack
Canary or Sack;
And a good pint stoup of Clary wine
Smacks merrily off with a Turkey and Chine!'

'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,
And be cautious of getting 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.
No; there's nothing so good
As a 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
I am 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 nail'd 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 not a 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;)
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,
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 unfasten'd, 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, had 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;
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, never a slip
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 bin,
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, occasion'd some scandal,
By appearing together with only one candle,
Which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle;)
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 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 Pontificalibus,
Half what scholars denominate Pure Naturalibus;
Nay, the truth to express,
As you'll easily guess,
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 come 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 posse 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!'--
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 civilization
Precludes all idea of aërostation,
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 of his seat a
Huge volume, called Fleta,
And Bracton, both tomes of an old-fashion'd look,
And Coke upon Lyttleton, 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:
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 déjeûner à 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;
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;
All in 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.
--No glance, did I 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 line which 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 delicti,
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 whoop,
Madge on the pommel, and Robin en croupe,
The pair through the air ride as if in a chair,
While the party below stand mouth open and stare!
'Clean bumbaized' and amazed, and fix'd, all the room stick,
'Oh! what's gone with Robin,--and Madge,--and the
broomstick?'
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 complain'd much of thirst,
And a shocking bad headach, of all ills the worst,
And close by his knee
A flask you might 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 kneebreeches;-
-
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, banquettings, 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,--
Old Nick, some fine morning, will 'hey after you!'

NOTES

1. The Squire: 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.'

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.

A SINGULAR PASSAGE 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 circumstance 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
unimpeached morals,--by no means of a nervous temperament, or
one likely to attach undue weight to any occurrence out of the
common course of events, merely because his reflections might
not, at the moment, afford him a ready solution of its
difficulties.

On the truth of his 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 connection of our own family.
The sudden death of her husband, occasioned by a fall from his
horse, only three days after her confinement, 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 sank 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 be a fine lad; his person and features were
decidedly handsome; still there was, as I remember, 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 consequence, 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 experiments 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 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 grandchild, was only
anxious that he should follow such a path as would secure him
that moderate and respectable competency which is, perhaps,
more conducive to real happiness than a more elevated 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 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 situations, 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
from which he had scarcely recovered, at length yielded a
reluctant consent, and Frederick quitted England.

It was not till some months had elapsed after his
departure, 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 enticements 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
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, sometimes 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 bedside--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, 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 circumstances
which they detail, or even as to the connection 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 15th, 18--, about three weeks after my own
departure for 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 hypothesis.
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
connection 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 conspire 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 tempestuous
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 frequently 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 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
without 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
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 clergyman than a magistrate; that the disorder
with which her sister had, during the night, been so suddenly
and unaccountably 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 intended
to intimate the partaking of some deleterious substance 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 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 presence 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 discussion upon the absurdity of her
opinion, but applied myself to the tranquillizing of 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,
induced the whole family to sit up far beyond their usual hour,
till, wearied out at length, and, as their mother observed,
'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 her 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, 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 forehead, and in an instant after,
exclaiming in a piercing tone, 'Hark! they are calling me
again! it is--it is 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
dispatched at once for medical help; but, from the appearance
of the sufferer, it was much to be feared that she would soon
be beyond the reach of art. Her agonized parent and sister
succeeded in bearing her between them and placing her on a bed:
a faint and intermittent pulsation 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 dissolution 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 overwhelmed 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 calming her transports; they had succeeded, how
ever, to a certain extent, and Mr. I--had taken his leave,
when Elizabeth, re-entering the bed-chamber 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 down
the side of the counterpane to the floor. Her exclamation
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 manifesting 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
exhaustion, 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 restoration 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 intermittent, and the general
debility of her frame was such that I would fain have persuaded
her to defer any conversation which, in her present state, she
might not be equal to support. Her positive assurance that,
until she had disburdened 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
acquiescence, and in a low and faltering voice, with frequent
interruptions, 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, sirs' 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 compare
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.

''This is no time for concealment of any kind. It 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
acquaintance. 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 understand that he was
himself studying surgery with 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 acquaintance 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
introducing 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.

''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
uneasiness in a quarter dear to it. 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 have,
perhaps, on the whole, no fair reason to be dissatisfied with
his reply.

''The completion of my studies, and my settlement in the
world, must, my uncle told me, be the first consideration; 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, be 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 understanding
that on my return, a twelvemonth hence, no obstacle shall be
thrown in the way of what are, I trust, our mutual wishes.'

''I will not attempt to describe the feelings with which I
received this communication, nor will it he 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
suddenness and energy which surprised, and rather startled me;
'promise that you will be with me in spirit, 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 be,
'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.

I had letters from him repeatedly during the first 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
characterized his communications.

''One night I had retired to rest rather later than usual,
having sat by the bedside, 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 restlessness 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 unpleasant a sensation, but in vain; a vague
apprehension of I knew not what occupied my mind, and vainly
did I endeavour 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 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 effulgence, 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, with a 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 moustaches, one band resting upon a table, the other
supporting a sort of baton, 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 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 flame.
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 abominations 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 excruciating
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 conviction 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 consider 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 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
disconcerted, 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 apprehended,--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 committed
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 bad 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 hopeless attempt. I
did, how ever, 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 commonly 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 those
occasions; 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 persuade myself that I had
not visited him, during the interval, in his rooms at
Brazenose, and even conversed 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 subsequent 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 agitation 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 a thread. His papers go on to say:

'I 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 termination 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 flippancies 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, probably 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 account? And whether I thought
they would be safe, in another world, from the influence of
wicked persons employing 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,
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 melancholy 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
till about the middle of September, when a break ensues,
occasioned, no doubt, by the unwelcome news of his grandson's
dangerous state, which induced him to set out forthwith 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 land lord'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
bad occupied, there to indulge the first ebullitions of his
sorrows, before he retired to his own. Madame Muller
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 prevailing upon
him to return with her, and partake of that refreshment 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, 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 shook from which, during the few weeks he survived,
it never entirely recovered. His thoughts wandered perpetually:
and though, from the very slight acquaintance which his hosts
had with the English language, 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
Millers 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 expired. 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 18--. 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 I had seen the worthy Doctor's remains
quietly 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 recognized
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 rose 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 harmonized well with the state of my feelings. I threw
open the casement 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
remarkable 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 d'œil 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 mantel-piece, heavily
carved in the Dutch style with fruits and flowers; above it
frowned a portrait, in a Vandyke dress, with a peaked beard and
moustaches; one hand of the figure rested on a table, while the
other bore a marshal's staff, surmounted 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,
rose, 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 have 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 inquiries, 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!!'

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 superintendent
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 modernize it a little: this will
account for certain anachronisms that have unavoidably crept
in; the substance 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.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS


'Tunc miser Corvus adeo conscientiae stimulis compunctus
fuit, et execratio eum tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde
tabescere inciperet, maciem contraheret, omnem cibum
aversaretur, nec amplius crocitaret: pennae praeterea ei
defluebant, et alis pendulis omnes facetias intermisit, et tam
macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miserescent.'...

'Tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem
absolverent; quo facto, Corvus, omnibus mirantibus, propediem
convaluit, et pristinam sanitatem recuperavit.'
De Illust. Ord. Cisterc.

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 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;
 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 fill'd 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;
 And a 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!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

There's a cry and a shout,
 And a 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,
--They turn up the rugs,
 They examine the mugs:--
 But, no!--no such thing;--
 They can't find THE RING!
 And the Abbott declared that, 'when nobody twigg'd it,
 Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'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 in 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;--
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'S 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!'
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 canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!

A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.

'This holy childe Dunstan was borne in ye yere of our Lorde ix
hondred & xxv. that tyme regnynge in this londe Kinge
Athelston...
 'Whan it so was that Saynt Dunstan was wery of prayer than
used he to werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for
to eschewe ydelnes.'
Golden Legend.

St. Dunstan stood in his ivy'd 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.
You don't want to be plagued with the same story twice,
And may have seen this one, by W. DYCE,
In last year's Exhibition--'twas very well done,
And stood 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,
The left points to 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, <1> ere morning, no longer alive, a
Sad victim you'll lie to your love for Elgiva!'

No farther to treat
Of this ungallant feat,
What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint
A 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 Wynkyn 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 named has recorded none of them,
What they may be,
But I know they are three,
And ABRACADABRA, I take it, is one of them:
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 I allude to
Was outside the door, which his 'ears' appear'd 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.

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 Lambton's whenever he
Chose to indulge in a little orfeverie;
For, 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 so long
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 the wine-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,
And do 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
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, 'Nec Broomstick intersit.'
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 observes, in his play of King John,
Is undoubtedly right,
That 'ofttimes the sight
Of means to 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!
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 ivy'd 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 listen'd so long, though he knew he ought not:
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 sung 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 allow'd, 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.--
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 poach'd 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 Bateman;'
--Vide plate in George Cruikshank'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,
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 Goldsmiths' 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 had all 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.
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 in vain
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 the louder and 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!--Like a dart
Each part made a start,
And he found he'd been adding more fuel to fire,
For both now came loaded with Meux's entire;
Combe's, Delafield's, Hanbury's, Truman's--no stopping--
Golding'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
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 his 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 farther 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'nam 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 by a monk,
Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drown'd and half drunk.

In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, 'Vade retro
Strongbeerum! discede a Lay-frate Petro!'--
Queer Latin, you'll say
That præfix of 'Lay,'
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 a grave 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 once a man's dead
There's no more to be said:
Peter's 'Beer with an e' was his 'Bier with an i!!'

Moral.

By way of a moral, permit me to pop in
The following maxims:--Beware of eaves-dropping!--
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.

L'Envoye.

In Goldsmith's 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.

NOTES.

1. St. Jingo, or Gengo (Gengulphus), sometimes styled 'The
Living Jingo'form the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited
by his severed members. See his legend, as recorded in the
next.

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 to
previous legend). Mr. Simpkinson from Bath had kindly
transmitted to 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.

'A franklyn's dogge leped over a style,
And his name was littel Byngo!
B wyth a Y--Y wyth an N,
N wyth a G--G wyth an O--
They call'd him little Byngo!

This Franklyn, Syrs, he brewed goode ayle
And he called it Rare goode Styngo!
S, T, Y, N, G, O!
He called it Rare goode Styngo!

Nowe is not this a prettie song?
I think it is bye Jyngo!
J with a Y--N, G, O--!
I swear it is by Jyngo!

A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.

'Non multo post, Gengulphus, in domo sua dormiens, occisus est
a quodam clerico qui cum uxore sua adulterare solebat. Cujus
corpus dum in fereto in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de
tactu sanati sunt.'

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

'Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancilla sua, scilicet
dominum suum quam martyrem sanctum miracula facere, irridens
illa, et subsurrans, ait, 'Ita Gengulphus miracula facitat ut
pulvinarium meum cantat,' &c. &c.--Wolfii Memorab.

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day has he been away,
Yet his Lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day has 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 call Ennui.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

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 weazels 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 upstairs.'

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.

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'd half 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 the chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
He lifts up the legs, and she raises 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' went off like a lamb.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

And now they try'd the deed to hide;
For a little bird whisper'd, 'Perchance you may swing;
Here's a corpse in the case with a sad swell'd face,
And a 'Crowner's Quest' is a queer sort of thing!'

So the Clerk and the 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 nipp'd off his 'flippers,'
As the Clerk, very flippantly, term'd 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.

They contrived 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 the late 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 or 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 expressed
'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!'

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 nipped 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 as a 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 uttered a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.

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 muttered 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 Taünsend, Von Bürnie, Von Roe,
Von Maine, and Von Rowantz--through châlets and châteaux,
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 drest 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;

'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 not been concern'd in the murther.

'Done this day, at our palace,--July twenty-five,--
By Command,
(Signed)      Johann Von Rüssell.     N.B.
Deceased rather in years--had a squint when alive;
And smells slightly of gin--linen mark'd with a G.'

The Newspapers, too, made no 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,
Scorn'd to remain in the 'Ghent Herald's' debt,
And the 'Amsterdam Times' quizzed the 'Nuremberg Chronicle.'

In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed,
Spite 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.'

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 surprize,
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 for chilblains and gout.

Rheumatics,--sciatica,--tic-douloureux!
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 colick; or, rubbed on the gums,
Were remarkably soothing to infants in teething.

Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
Where the mark remained 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 seemed 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;

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 barbe gris,
When divorced from the chin of its murder'd proprietor,
Had been stuffed 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, 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 Judæus!'

'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 the 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 clenched 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:

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 are coming home, just write and say so!

And you, learned Clerks, who're not 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 'Vitæ 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!

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 sold 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!'

*Note: 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.

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 gained 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 'Oh, 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,
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 anathematized, 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 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 missed 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 Æsop, or Phædrus, 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, crawled 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 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 ancle, 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 reached the Swartz Forest (in English The Black);
I cannot divine
How the boundary line
Was passed which is somewhere there formed by the Rhine.
Perhaps she'd the knack
To float o'er on her back.
Or perhaps crossed 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 followed 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.

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-coloured doublets and breeches of blue,
Was huzzaing and urging them on to pursue.--
What, indeed, could 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 loathed 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!'

Its 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 præterea 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,
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 quoi.
All at the sight,
From the knave to the knight,
Felt a very unpleasant sensation called 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 stay,
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'.
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,
'I 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 Betsey 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.
After words such 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 earthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock
From the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock
Of a Germanized giant, Thor, Woden, or Lok;
And see how it rears
Its two monstrous great ears,
For when once you're between them such each side appears;
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 flow'd all these years;
--I think they account for them so;--but the rill
I'm 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.
(Aside.)
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 the shrew!
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 the last with 'a hole in their shoe;'
Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville,
Can produce enough Saints to save every Odille.

'Nycolas, cytezyn of ye cyte of Pancraes, was borne of ryche
and holye kynne.
And hys father was named Epiphanus, and hys moder Johane.'

He was born on a cold frosty morning, on the 6th of December,
(upon which day his feast is still observed,) but in what anno
Domini 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'
story of Sancho's detecting a sum of money in a swindler's
walking-stick, is merely a Spanish version of 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 puellæ
pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholica et cruce et
aqua benedicta armatus, venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine
Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus,
nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit.'
--Roger Hoveden.

LORD 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;

'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:

'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;
'In 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.

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 ask'd 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 drained 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 a Lady ought not to drink;
And he press'd her hand 'neath the table thrice,
And he wink'd as an 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!

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 began himself 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 Byers <1> '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 at last with their tears!

But St. Nicholas' agony who may paint?
His senses at first were well-nigh gone;
The beatified 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 endow'd it some centuries since.

--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, is 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 hand 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 out spake that Pilgrim grey--

'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 dash'd the whole on the soi-disante daughter
Of old Plantagenet's line!

Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek,
With a wild unearthly scream;
And fizzled 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 Beelzebub's lap.

Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip,
That saved the Lord Abbot,--though, breathless with fright,
In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip,
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

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 ci-devant Abbot's state chair.

How a ci-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 you 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 call'd 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.

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 femoris,
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 Devylle sholde have a long spoone!!'

NOTES

1. The Accusing Byers: The prince of Peripatetic Informers, and
terror of Stage Coach-men, when such things were. Alack! Alack!
the Railroads have ruined his 'vested interest.'

Rohesia, daughter of Ambrose, and sister to Sir Everard
Ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the 16th century,
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 Doctor Butts was the Court
Physician: he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of
the blackest ebony,--raison de plus.

'Is there no hope, Doctor? said Beatrice Grey.

'Is 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.

The doctor shook his head. He looked at the disconsolate
widower in posse, then at the hour-glass; its waning sand
seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient.
Doctor Butts was a very learned man. 'Ars longa, vita brevis!'
said Doctor Butts.

'I am very sorry to hear it,' quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but be 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 is the Confessor?' continued his grieving brother
in-law.

'In the pantry,' cried Marion Racket pertly, as she
tripped down stairs 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.

'Ars longa!' returned the 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 apartment. 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 Succubus 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, 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 nuncupative wills had not yet
been abolished by Act of Parliament.

'Pious soul!' ejaculated Father Francis. 'A thousand
marks, she said----'

'If she did, I'll be shot!' said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

'--A thousand marks!' continued the Confessor, fixing his
cold grey eye upon the knight, as be 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 watchlight 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 complexion was somewhat florid,--
especially about the nose; but his lady was in extremis, and at
this particular moment be 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.

'I 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!'
responded Beatrice Grey; 'that is, not just 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; be gazed for a few moments stedfastly
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 bel!--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
me, Beatrice Grey?'--There was pathos in his tones, and a
solemn pause succeeded. 'I'll turn monk myself!' said Sir Guy.

'Monk?' said Beatrice.

'I'll be a Carthusian!' repeated the knight, but in a tone
less assured: be 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 sympathizing 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.

'I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but what's
to become of me? Poor, miserable, old--that is poor,
miserable, middle-aged man that I am!--No one to comfort, no
one to 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.'

'I am not thinking of old bitches!' quoth Sir Guy de
Montgomeri.

Another pause ensued: the knight bad 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,
thoughtfully; 'you must be fatigued with your long watching.
Take a seat, my child.'--Sir Guy did not relinquish her band;
but be 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 band 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 be gave a great gulp, and swallowed 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 jimp
waist of the pretty Beatrice. The young lady's reply was
expressed in three syllables. They were,--' Oh, 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 met,--
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:
be was about to repeat it, but the dose was interrupted in
transitu.--Doubtless the adage,

'There 's 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 pericranium, from
which his locks had gradually receded; a sort of oasis,--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!--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 bad 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 oft-times makes the best
physician,' says the proverb; he was a living personification
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 be 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 Rope, 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 ye sowle of ye Lady Royse,
And for alle Christen sowles!'

The date is illegible; but it appears that she survived
King Henry the Eighth, and that the dissolution of monasteries
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.'

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 rid of 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.

Quæque ipse miserrima vidi.--V IRGIL.

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 to intriguing
With Monsieur St. Megrin,
A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;
He would sing, fence, and dance
With the best man in France,
And took his rappee with genteel nonchalance;
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-alorum!!'
When the Duchess immediately popped 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,
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, somehow or other, let fall
A new silk Bandana she'd worn as a shawl;
She had used it for drying
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 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 in a 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!'
De Guise grasped her wrist
With his great bony fist,
And pinch'd 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 down and 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 up stairs in the drawing-room then;
Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves
Of Servants will see you; Yours,
Catherine of Cleves.'
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 clapped 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 scare made his bow,
He hardly knew how,
When alas! and alack!
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 casement.
But all would not do,--
Though St. Megrin got through
The window,--below stood De Guise and his crew,
And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;
He thrust carte and tierce
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,
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 Burk'd 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!

 MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.

     It was in the summer of 1838 that a party from
Tappington reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the
coronation of their youthful Queen, whom God long preserve!--
This purpose they were fortunate enough to accomplish by the
purchase of a peer's tickets, 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
was thus communicated to his associates in the Servants' Hall
upon his return, to the infinite delectation of Mademoiselle
Pauline over a Cruiskeen of his own concocting.

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.

(Air: The Groves of Blarney)

Och! 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!
'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 Giniral Dullbeak.--Och! 'twas mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
With his swoord 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 jew'ls from 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.

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,
'I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!'

Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
In her purple garaments, 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 fidlers 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 Vict-ory!
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;
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 the custards, 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, underneath 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 meself that's getting mighty dhry!

As a 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 aerial
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.

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--a deuced 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--Hamburgh--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!'

But here's Mr. Hughes!--What says 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 Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews,
Politicians, newsmongers, 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 grapnal 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, Mister 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?'--

Huzzah: huzzah! 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,
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 'po-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 here, the beginning of May.--


Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile fête!
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, there they'll unfold, what we want to be told,
How they cough'd,--how they sneezed,--how they shiver'd with
cold,--
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 Mister Green was beginning to scold
Because Mister 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,
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 bombazine,
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.


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 fui.'

THE EXECUTION: A SPORTING ANECDOTE
 HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY

MY Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

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 Blackmore;
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,
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 Magpie 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 without,' 'hot with,' '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,
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!--
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--' tis 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 could be done--nought could be said;
So--my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

The following communication will speak for itself:--

'On their own actions modest men are dumb!'

SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY

'The play's the thing!'--Hamlet.

Tavistock Hotel, Nov. 1839.
Dear Charles,
--In reply to your letter, and Fanny's,
Lord Brougham, it appears, isn't dead,--though Queen Anne is;
'Twas a 'plot' and a 'farce'--you hate farces, you say--
Take another 'plot,' then, viz. the plot of a Play.

The Countess of Arundel, 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 liaison--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, 'Stolen 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
Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind.
The young lady, they say,
Having fainted away,
Was confined 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.
The Page thus disposed of, his Lordship now turns
His attention at once to the Lday'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 o' her.

Relieved from his cares,
The old Peer now prepares
To arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs;
Has his will made new 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.
To be sure in his balance-sheet all must declare
One item--The Page--was an awkward affair;
But, per 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,
A cleanly churchwarden has cover'd with plaster;
While some Vandal or Jew,
With a taste for virtu,
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 misericorde
The enamel's been chipp'd out, and never restored;
His ci-gît 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 join'd 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.
As 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.
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 on the 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,
Twirl'd 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, resolved to adopt him. <1>

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 coffers 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.
She's perplex'd; 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 mustaches 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 Violet,--and 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 Note)
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 touched 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,
And talks to his guest as you'd talk to a 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 tortured 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,'--i.e. 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.

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,' et cetera.
Being rather too late,
Gaussen, lying in wait,
Has just given 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!

ACT 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 nous,
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 fix'd 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,
Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel,
Where Gaussen's concealed--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 the 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!

'Young Noblemen! shun every thing like a brawl;
And be sure when you dine out, or go to 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!'

NOTES

1.

An incident very like one in Jack Sheppard--
A work 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-bole.
[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
arterwards.--PRINT. DEV.]


It has been already hinted that Mr. Peters had been a
'traveller' in his day. The only story whioh 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.'

THE BAGMAN'S DOG: MR. PETERS'S STORY.

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;
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 bien instruit,
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 some soft liaison 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.--

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion old, but in thorough repair,
The only strange thing, 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 boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play,
In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;
You may roam through the City, transversely or straight,
From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate,
And every young Lady who thrums a guitar,
Ev'ry 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 set 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 half made 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,
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 Goodwin's 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 called 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 seafaring 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
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 last year,
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 not one 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 Shakspeare describes near the 'still vext Bermudas,' [see
appendix]
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 youngster at school on Dean Colet's foundation.--
Suffice it to say
That the whole of that day,
And the next, and the next, they were scudding away
Quite out of their course,
Propelled 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 surprized
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 all the qualms he
Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

'O 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,
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 dragg'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, in fact, some advance
That most people in France
Join the manners and air of a Maître 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 petites soins, tender'd 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