The Ingoldsby Legends, 1st Series by Richard Harris Barham

1 01 - Prefaces to 1st & 2nd Editions 9:46

The Ingallsby Legends, First Series by Richard Harris Barham. To Richard Bentley, Esquire. 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 neighborhood 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 manor-house of Elizabethan architecture, with its gable ends, stone stanchions, and tortuous chimneys rising above the surrounding trees. Why, the sooner they procure a pair of Dolan'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 Ingallsby escutcheon, ermine, a psalter, and Grail jewels. 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, testy Shakespeare, one which seems to become more fashionable every day. The devil take all order, I'll to the throng. Believe me to be, my dear sir, yours, most indubitably and immeasurably. Thomas Inglesby. Tappington Everard. January 20th. 1840 Preface to the Second Edition to Richard Bentley Esquire. 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 amour, supplying occasionally on my own part a deficient note, or elucidatory stanza, And on yours, knocking out without remorse your superfluous eyes, 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 essay, 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 Shakespeareans, including the rival editors of the new and illustrated versions.

In order utterly to squabash 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 anybody 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 Jilkes 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-weened 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 Inglesby, Tappington Everard, February 2nd, 1843.

2 02 - The Spectre of Tappington - Part 1 39:14

II.

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 devil 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. McGuire into his dormitory. Barney, where are my pantaloons? Is it the breeches? asked the valet, casting an enquiring eye round the apartment. Is it the breeches, sir? Yes, what have you done with them? Sure, then, your honour hath 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 armchair, proceeding in his examination. But the search was vain. There was the tunic aforesaid. There was a smart-looking curzy mere waistcoat, but the most important article of all in a gentleman's wardrobe.

was still wanting. Where can they be? asked the master, with a strong accent on the auxiliary verb. Sorrow a no 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. McGuire was not devoid of the superstition of his countrymen. Still, he looked as if he 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 armchair 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 devil 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. McGuire. Though the observation was not addressed to him. And will it be Miss Caroline or Miss Fanny that 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 certain, and—but there must be some other entrance to the room.

Poo, I remember. The private staircase. How could I be such a fool? And he crossed the chamber to where a low oaken door-case 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. Ach, 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 man 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 life, and the enormity of his offenses. 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 blood-stain 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 the master's brow told the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one. The banquet, however, was not spared. The wine-cup circulated freely, too freely, perhaps, For sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even the excluded serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate their betters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach the 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 corrals was meditated. Fresh stoops, and from the choicest bins, were produced, nor was it Till at a late or rather early hour that the revellers sought their chambers.

The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the eastern angle of the building, and had once been the favourite apartment of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this preference to the facility which a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had afforded him in the old night'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 sawed 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' 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 heard her grandfather say that when the stranger guest was poisoned, though all the rest of his clothes were there, his breeches, the supposed repository of the supposed documents, could never be found. The master of Tapton Everard smiled when he heard Dame Joan'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 heard that others had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles in his nightcap 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 Inglesby detailed to her equally mercurial cousin, Charles Seaforth, Lieutenant in the Honourable East India Company's 2nd Regiment of Bombay Fenceables. 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 hath 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 Hindustan. Whence he was now returned on a three years furlough. He had gone out a boy. He returned a man. But the impression made upon his youthful fancy by his favourite cousin remained unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even before he sought the home of his widowed mother, comforting himself in this breach of filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manner 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 a 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 Baff had come to pass a month with the family, and Tom Inglesby had brought down his college friend, the Honorable Augustus Suckle Thumpkin, 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 m'en dieu'd everything and everybody, and cried quelle horreur at Mrs. Botherby's cap. In short, to use the last-named and much-respected lady's own expression, the house was choked 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. McGuire, 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 laced 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 Inglesby 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 rocks 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. Simpkinson, from Bath.

"'Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was—let me see, I was—' Do pray hold your tongue, P, and eat your breakfast, interrupted his better half, who had a mortal horror of chronological references. It's very rude to tease people with your family affairs. The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence. A good-humoured nod, and a glance half-smiling, half-inquisitive, being the extent of his salutation. Smitten as he was, and in the immediate presence of her who had made so large a hole in his heart, his manner was evidently distrait, which the fair Caroline in her secret soul attributed to his being solely occupied by her agrmement. 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 Fensibles 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 claining of ye, apostrophised Mr. Barney Maguire, as he deposited in front of his master's toilet a pair of bran-new jockey-boots, one of Hobie'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. McGuire'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 claining 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 netherman. Vicey the patent cords returned, like yesterday's pantaloons, absent without leave. The top-boots had a holiday. A fine morning after the rain, said Mr. Simpkinson from Bath. Just the thing for the ops, said Mr. Peters. I remember when I was a boy. Do hold your tongue, P., said Mrs. Peters. Advice which that exemplary matron was in the constant habit of administering to her P., as she called him, whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences.

Her precise reason for this it would be difficult to determine, unless, indeed, The story be true, which a little bird had whispered into Mrs. Botherby's ear. Mr. Peters, though now a wealthy man, had received a liberal education at a charity school, and was apt to recur to the days of his muffin-cap and leathers. As usual, he took his wife's hint in good part, and paused in his reply. "'A glorious day for the ruins,' said young Inglesby. But, Charles, what the deuce are you about? You don't mean to ride through our lanes in such toggery as that. Lassie me, said Miss Julia Simpkinson. Won't you be very wet? You had better take Tom's cab, quoth the squire. But this proposition was at once overruled.

Mrs. Ogleton had already nailed the cab. A vehicle of all others the best adapted for a snug flirtation. Or drive Miss Julia in the Phaeton. No, that was the post of Mr. Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had acquired some fame as a whip while travelling through the Midland counties for the firm of Bagshaw, Snivelby, and Grimes. Thank you. I shall ride with my cousins, said Charles. with as much nonchalance as he could assume. And he did so. Mr. Inglesby, Mrs. Peters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his eldest daughter with her album, following in the family coach. The gentleman commoner voted the affair damned 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 sejour 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 parlez-vous. 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 Gwillam's heraldry, and Mills'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 Bagnick Wells he had been a liberal subscriber, procured him a seat at the board of that learned body, since which Happy Epoch, Silvanus 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 eyeglass turned from her Cheechus Beow's whiskers to the mantling ivy. Mrs. Peters wiped her spectacles, and her pea 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 VI. About the beginning of the 11th 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 enfiefed with the lands and manor, to which he gave his own name of Bolsover, 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 sargentry by the presentation of three white owls and a pot of honey. Lassie 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 in 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 Blunt's jocular tenures, Mr. Inglesby, pursued Simpkinson. A learned man was Blunt. Why, sir, His Royal Highness the Duke of York once paid a silver horseshoe to Lord Ferrer's.

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 knowledge of the interruption. But taking a pinch of snuff continued his harangue. A silver horseshoe, 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 County Norfolk was held by one Baldwin per saltum soufflatum et 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 Inglesby hastily. Not any, thank you, sir.

This Baldwin, surnamed Leigh—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 savant, 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. Everyone 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 Aflatus was come.

Her father rose and stole silently towards her. What an old bore! muttered young Inglesby, 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. Horsley Curtice, 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 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. Lassie 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? Oh, lassie 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 Breaches. 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? Ay, 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 I 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 murray-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-head 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.

3 03 - The Spectre of Tappington - Part 2 37:09

On the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, Seaforth was the first person in the breakfast parlour. As no one else was present, he did precisely what nine young men out of ten so situated would have done. He walked up to the mantelpiece, 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, a 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 Fenceables.

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. Lassie me! Flo, what is the matter? cried the sympathising lady. With a scrutinising glance levelled at the gentleman, it might as well have lighted on a feather-bed.

His air of imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination, and as he would not, and flora could not expound. That injured individual was compelled to pocket up her wrongs. Others of the household soon dropped in, and clustered round the board dedicated to the most sociable of meals. The urn was paraded hissing hot, and the cups which cheer but not inebriate steamed redolent of hyson and pico, Muffins and marmalade, newspapers and Finnen Hatties, left little room for observation on the character of Charles's warlike turn-out. At length a look from Caroline, followed by a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly and address his neighbour. It was Miss Simpkinson, who deeply engaged in sipping her tea, and turning over her album, like a female chrono notum phologus immersed in cojubundity 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 hymn, 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, chastened grief, delicious woe! Oh, how sweet at eve regaining, yon lone tower's sequestered shade, sadly mute and uncomplaining. Yow, yow, yow, 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 Inglesby, 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 tremache 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 Inglesby'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 Inglesby. 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 breaches are gone. Look here, I am reduced to my regimentals, and if these go, tomorrow I must borrow a view. 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 produce his attendance. Mr. McGuire 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 gentlemen from Munster, And the lady from the rue Saint-Honor, Mademoiselle had boxed Mr. McGuire's ears, and Mr. McGuire 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. McGuire had got hold of the Honorable Augustus Succlefumkins 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. McGuire 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 Inglesby. Sure, then, and it's meself will tell, Your Honor, the rights of it, said the ghost-seer. Meself and Miss Pauline, sir, or Miss Pauline and meself, or the ladies come first anyhow. We got tired of the hopstropolis scrimmaging among the old servants that didn't know a joke when they seen one, and we went out to look at the comet. That's the Rory Bory Alehouse, they calls him in this country, and we walked upon the lawn, and divil if any alehouse there was there at all, and Miss Pauline said it was becase of the shrubbery maybe, And why wouldn't we see it better, fianced 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? Ach, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honour. A tall ool 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 in 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? Div'l 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 anyway.

So I dispersed at once, and the ghost vanished in a flame of fire. Mr. McGuire'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 Inglesby, 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 succidania 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 wainscoting. 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 Lion's 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 Seddon's was, and when a good four-post article was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest, the bed itself, with all the appurtenances of pallias, mattresses, etc., was a far later date, and looked most incongruously comfortable.

The casements, too, with their little diamond-shaped panes and iron binding, had given way to the modern heterodoxy of the sash-window. Nor was this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render the room a meet haunt for such mixed spirits, Only as could condescend to don at the same time an Elizabethan doublet and Bond Street inexpressibles. With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in front of a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen, clad in shawl-patterned dressing-gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance with the high cane-backed chairs which supported 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 funking 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 told twelve, Ghost-time's come, said Inglesby, taking from his waistcoat 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 devil, 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, thank ye, 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 grays 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-gradulation before we are quite out of the wood. Seaforth was yet within its verge. A rap at Tom Inglesby's door the following morning startled him as he was shaving. He cut his chin. "'Come in, and be damned 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 lonest of a breeches, please 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. McGuire 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'perth of breeches is there to the fore at all. I'm bothered entirely. Hark ye, Mr. Barney, said Tom, incautiously removing his thumb and letting a crimson stream incarnadine the multitudinous lather that plastered his throat. This may be all very well with your master, but you don't humbug me, sir. Tell me instantly. What have you done with the clothes? This abrupt transition from lively to severe certainly took Maguire by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as much disconcerted as it is possible to disconcert an Irish gentleman's gentleman.

"'Me! Is it meself, then, that's the ghost to your honour's thinking?' said he, after a moment's pause. and with a slight shade of indignation in his tones. Is it I would stale the master's things? And what would I do with them? That you best know. What your purpose is I can't guess, for I don't think you mean to stale them, as you call it. But that you are concerned in their disappearance, I am satisfied. Confound this blood! Give me a towel, Barney. McGuire acquitted himself of the commission. "'As I've a sowl, your honor,' 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 cowled. Take that, rascal, replied Inglesby, 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.

Today 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. "'See forth,' said Ingoldsby after a short pause. "'I will—'but hush! Here are the girls and my father. I will carry off the females, and leave you a clear field with the governor. Carry your point with him, and we will talk about your breeches afterwards.' Tom's diversion was successful. He carried off the ladies en masse to look at a remarkable specimen of the class dodocandria monogynia, which they could not find, while Seaforth marched boldly up to the encounter, and carried the governor's outworks by a coup de man.

I do 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 heard of, and personal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property.

Not so Tom Inglesby. 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. Tonight 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 tomorrow 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 Ingallsby 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. Ingallsby was on the point of discovering himself when, the light flashing full upon his friend's countenance, He perceived that, though his eyes were open, their sense was shut, that he was yet under the influence of sleep. Seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood on it, then, going back to the bed's foot, appeared to search eagerly for something which he could not find.

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 Ingallsby emerged from his hiding-place, but the sleep-walker heard him not. He proceeded softly downstairs, 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 Inglesby 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 the 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 thick-set lorostinus 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.

He 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 Ingallsby came close behind him, and with a 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 grays 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 Mlle 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 rajah-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 Savannes, then aggregating 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 Lassie me at the clergyman's wig. Some years have since rolled on. The union has been crowned with two or three tidy little offshoots from the family tree. of whom Master Nettie is Grandpapa's darling, and Marianne, Mama'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 a-night's, 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.

4 04 - The Hand of Glory - The Nurse's Story 15:32

This is the book of the Ingoldsby legends first series by Richard Harris Barham. Section four. 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 ladies, 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, wizen-faced portrait in an oval frame, generally known by the name of Uncle Stephen, though from the style of his cut velvet it is evident that some generations must have passed away, since any living being could have stood towards him in that degree of consanguinity.

The nurse's story, The Hand of Glory, Malefica quidam auguriatrix in Anglia fuit, quam demonis horribiliter extractserunt, et imponente super equam terribilum per aere repuerunt. clamoresque terribilis ut ferunt per quatur ferme miliaria audibantur. Nuremberg Chronicle. 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 Moore. She hath years on her back, at the least fourscore, and some people fancy a great many more. Her nose it is hooked, her back it is crooked, her eyes blear and red on the top of her head, is a much, and on that a shocking bad hat, extinguisher shaped, The brim narrow and flat. Then, my gracious, her beard, it would sadly perplex a spectator at first to distinguish her sex. Nor I'll venture to say without scrutiny could he. Pronounce her off-handed, a punch or a judy. Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within, with her knees to her nose and her nose to her chin, leering up with that queer indescribable grin?

You'd lift up your hands in amazement and cry. Well, I never did see such a regular guy. And now before that old woman's door, where naught 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 muttered 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 shrivelled 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 Petty 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 tapers 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-bottomed wig hangs bushy and big on the top of his old-fashioned high-backed chair. Unbraced are his clothes, ungartered his hose, his gown is bedizened 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 ayunt 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 his corner set 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-backed 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 fix-studded with nails. Heavy and harsh the hinges creak, though they had been oiled 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 had passed through the porch, they had passed through the hall, where the porter sat snoring against the wall. The very snore froze in his very snub nose. You'd have verily deemed he had snored his last when the glorious hand by the side of him passed. 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 a fright, paused in its flight, and the cat that was chasing that little wee thing lay crouched as a statue in act to spring, and now they are there on the head of the stair, and the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare. I really don't think any money would bribe me the horrible scene that ensued to describe, or the wild wild glare of that old man's eye, his dumb despair, and deep agony.

The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold, unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold. They dream not, ah happier they, that the knife, though uplifted, can menace their innocent life. It falls, the frail thread of their being is riven. They dread not, suspect not, the blow till tis given. But oh, what a thing tis to see and to know! That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe, without hope to repel or to ward off the blow. Enough, let's pass over as fast as we can the fate of that grey, that unhappy old man. But fancy poor Hugh, aghast at the view, powerless alike to speak or to do. In vain doth he try to open the eye that is shut, or close that which is clapped 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 use. Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall he has peeped 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, I weep and lament for a deed of blood. Tis early dawn, the morn is grey, and the clouds and the tempest have passed 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, drenched 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-bottomed wig. Alas and alack for his staunching, tis plain, as anatomists tell us, that never again shall life revisit the foully slain, when once they've been cut through the jugular vein. There's a hue and a cry through the county of Kent, And in chase of the cut-throats a constable sent. But no one can tell the man which way they went. There's a little foot-page where 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 moindors. 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! Gentlemen, one and all, for that ere precious lark at Tappington Hall. There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor, where a former black gibbet has frowned 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-crowned hat, Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat, a dead man's hand, and a dead tomcat. 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 dragged her to land. And everyone's hand is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand. When a queer-looking horseman, dressed 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 Ducro. And she screamed 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 hue and a cry.

5 05 - 'Look at the Clock!' - Patty Morgan the Milkmaid's Story 17:24

V.

One marvel follows another as naturally as one shoulder of mutton is said to drive another down. A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from the kitchen into the nursery, After listening with intense interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, I shall call— Pattie Morgan, The Milkmaid's Story, Look at the Clock. Fit One. Look at the clock, quoth Winifred Price, as she opened the door to her husband's knock, then paused to give him a piece of advice— You nasty warment, look at the clock. Is this the way you wretch, every day you treat her who vowed 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 Price was tidy and clean. Her gown was a flowered 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 turned up and tucked through the pocket holes. A face like a ferret betokened her spirit, To conclude, Mrs. Price was not over young, had very short legs, and a very long tongue. Now David Price 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 R's, and a W. That particular day, as I've heard people say, Mr. David Price had been soaking his clay, and amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, the whole afternoon at the Goat in Boots. With a couple of 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 wrapped in repose, they were roaring out Schenken and our Hiddy Nose, while David himself to a Sassanick tune sang, We've drunk down the sun, boys, let's drink down the moon. What have we with Day to do? Mrs. Winifred Price, Twas made for you.

At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old goat in boots showed them the door. And then came that knock, and the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, Look at the clock! For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the twelve, and the short at the three. That selfsame 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, Price 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 Price would turn her about, and with scorn on her lip and a hand on each hip, Spout herself till her nose grew red at the tip.

You thundering willin, I know you'd be killing your wife, I, 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. Price's tongue ran long and ran fast, but patience is apt to wear out at last. And David Price in temper was quick, so he stretched out his hand and caught hold of a stick. Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient. But walking, just then, wasn't very convenient. So he threw it instead direct at her head. It knocked 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 of vein, or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain, but this I can.

When sobered by fright to assist her he ran. Mrs. Winifred Price 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, made a great noise and the shocking fatality, ran over like wildfire the whole principality. And then came Mr. App Thomas, the coroner, with his jury to sit some dozen or more on her. Mr. Price, to commence his ingenious defense, 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 calls Mr. Jones, who depones to her tones, and her gestures and hints about breaking his bones, while Mr. Ap Morgan and Mr. Ap Rees declared the deceased had styled him a beast, and swear they had witnessed with grief and surprise the allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes. The jury, in fine, having sat on the body, the whole day discussing the case and Jintadi, Returned about half-past eleven at night, the following verdict we find, sarve her right. Mr. Price, Mrs. Winifred Price 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, Rosa Mountain, its 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 Ls and two Hs, two 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 Penn. While the moon shone bright upon Penn that night, when Price, being quit of his bus 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 oppressed by a pain in his chest, he paused and turned round to take breath and to rest.

A walk all uphill is apt, we know, to make one however robust puff and blow. So he stopp'd and look'd down on the valley below, Orfell and Orfen, over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine his eye roved, and then, All the patriot rose in his soul, and he thought, upon Wales and her glories, and all he'd been taught, Of her heroes of old, so brave and so bold, Of her bards with long beards and harps mounted in gold, Of King Edward I, of memory accursed, 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 Catherine's lap, and how Mr.

Tudor successfully wooed 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 Griffith Apkonen and Owen Glendore, 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. Price, 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, and 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 wagoner, drive one up pen? Price usually brimful of valor when drunk. now experienced what schoolboys denominate funk. In vain he looked back on the whole of the track. He had traversed. A thick cloud, uncommonly black, at this moment obscured the broad disk of the moon, and did not seem likely to pass away soon. While clearer and clearer, T'was plain to the hearer. Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer. And sounded, as Price to this moment declares, very much like a coffin a-walking upstairs. Mr. Price had begun to make up for a run, as in such a companion he saw no great fun.

When a single bright ray shone out on the way, he had passed and he saw, with no little dismay, coming after him bounding o'er crag and o'er rock. The deceased, Mrs. Winifred's grandmother's clock. Twas so, it had certainly moved from its place, and come lumbering on thus to hold him in chase. Twas the very same head, and the very same case, and nothing was altered at all but the face. In that he perceived with no little surprise the two little winder-holes turned into eyes. Blazing with ire like two coals of fire, and the name of the maker was changed to a lip, and the hands to a nose with a very red tip. No, he could not mistake it. Twas she to the life, the identical face of his poor defunct wife.

One glance was enough, completely quant suff, as the doctors write down when they send you their stuff. Like a weathercock whirled by a vehement puff, David turned himself round, ten feet of ground. He cleared 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 football 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 have ever heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short a price as he ran over Penn. He reaches its brow, he is past it, and now, having once gained the summit and managed to cross it, he rolls down the side with uncommon velocity. But run as he will, or roll down the hill. That bugbear behind him is after him still, and close at his heels not at all to his liking. The terrible clock Keeps on ticking and striking, Till exhausted and sore he can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis' door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock. Oh, look at the clock! Do, look at the clock! Miss Davis looked up. Miss Davis looked 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 begged he'd not think of repeating his call. His late wife's disaster by no means had passed her. She'd have him to know she was meet for his master, then regardless alike of his love and his woes, she turned 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 price found to creep into that night was the coal hole.

In that shady retreat, with nothing to eat, And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, all night close he kept, I can't say he slept, but he sighed, and he sobbed, and he groaned, 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 Pindar Aptudur, was right in proclaiming Ariston Men Udur, Which means the pure element is for man's belliment, 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.

Price, 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 hands at the twelve and the short at the ten. He gets on his legs, drains his glass to the dregs, takes his hat and greatcoat off their several pegs, with his president's hammer, bestows his last knock, and says solemnly, Gentlemen, look at the clock.

6 06 - Grey Dolphin - Part 1 29:54

The Ingoldsby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Section six, 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, it is owing that the lion cells 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 louses in the 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 Sherland. 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 heads under their arms, or to pull the devil by the nose, scarcely appeared above once in a century. So the affair made the greater sensation. The clock had done striking twelve, and the clerk of Chatham was untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his truckle-bed. A half-emptied tankard of mild ale stood at his elbow. The roasted crab was 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 draught. 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 Emanuel Saddleton had presence of mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that untimous hour. Open, open, good clerk of St. Bridget's, said a female voice, small yet distinct and sweet, an excellent thing in woman. The clerk arose, Crossed to the doorway, and undid the latchet. On the threshold stood a lady of surpassing beauty. Her robes were rich and large and full, and a diadem, sparkling with gems that shed a halo around, crowned her brow. She beckoned the clerk as he stood in astonishment before her.

Emmanuel, said the lady, and her tones sounded like those of a silver flute. Emmanuel Sadleton, truss up your points and follow me. The worthy clerk stared aghast at the vision. The purple robe, the sumar, 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. Emanuel could not speak, so he looked the question. "'No matter for that,' said the Saint, answering to his thought. "'No matter for that, Emanuel Sadleton. 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. But you may bring a mattock and a shovel. As she spoke, the beautiful apparition held up her delicate hand. From the tip of each of her long taper fingers issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancy as would have plunged a whole gas company into despair. It was a hand of glory. Footnote One of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was put was the protection of secreted treasure. Blow out all the fingers at one puff, and you had the money.

Such a one as tradition tells us yet burns in Rochester Castle, every St. Mark's Eve. Many are the daring individuals who have watched in Gundolf'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 odor of sanctity. Emanuel 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. Emanuel, said the holy lady, good-humoredly, for she heard him puffing. Rest a while, Emanuel, 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 halk 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 armchair, the fire out, and the tankard of ale out too. Who had drunk it? Where had he been? How had he got home? All was a mystery. He remembered a mass of things, but nothing distinctly.

All was fog and fantasy. What he could clearly recollect was that he had dug up the grinning sailor, and that the saint had helped to throw him into the river again. All was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. Masses were sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled. The monks of St. Rommel had a solemn procession, the abbot at their head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St. Thomas of Becket in the centre. Father Fothergill, Brewed a triple-ex puncheon of holy water. The rood of Gillingham was deserted, the chapel of Raynham forsaken. Every one who had a soul to be saved flocked with his offering to St. Bridget's Shrine, and Emanuel Sadleton gathered more fees from the promiscuous piety of that one week than he had pocketed during the twelve preceding months.

Meanwhile, the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated like a pendulum between Sheerness and Gillingham Reach. Now borne by the medway into the western swale, now carried by the refluent tide back to the vicinity of its old quarters, it seemed as though the river-god and Neptune were amusing themselves with a game of subaqueous 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 oozy 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 bottommost ditch, a descent of peril, and one which Ludwig the Leaper, or the illustrious Trenk himself, might well have shrunk from encountering. "'And 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, hated interruption at meals, and had not yet dispatched more than twenty dozen of the natives.

Here'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 fellows' pockets. But the defunct had before been subjected to the double scrutiny of Father Fothergill and the clerk of St. Brigid's. It was ill-gleaning after such hands. There was not a single mauravadi. We have already said that Sir Robert de Sherland, Lord of the Isle of Sheppey, and of many a fair manner on the mainland, was a man of worship. He had rights of Free Warren, Sackage and sockage, queasage and jambage, foss and fork, infang thief and outfang thief, and all waifs and strays belong to him in fee simple.

Turn out his pockets, said the knight, and please you, my lord. I must say as how they was turned out afore, and the devil a-wraps 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. "'And please you, my lord, Father Fothergill says as how that it's the grinning sailor, and he won't bury him anyhow. Oh, he won't, won't he? said the baron. Can it be wondered at that he called for his boots? Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of Shurland, and minister, 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. Bonaparte. To the frame of a dwarf he united the soul of a giant and the valour of a game-cock. 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—he 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, and his chest was broad and deep, his head large and uncommonly thick, his eyes a little bloodshot, and his nose retrousse with a remarkably red tip.

Strictly speaking, the baron could not be called handsome. But his Teuton Somme 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. Y-Y-Y-Y-S, my lord. And Periwinkle, tell Father Fothergill I would fain speak with his reverence. Y-Y-Y-Y-S, my lord. The Baron's beard was peeked, 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 hall of Shurland Castle. Every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute. Expectation and perplexity were visible on every brow. What would his lordship do? Were the recusant anybody else? Gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but too good for him, but it was Father Fothergill who had said, "'I won't,' and though the Baron was a very great man, the Pope was a greater, and the Pope was Father Fothergill's great friend. Some people said he was his uncle. Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory, trying conclusions with a venison pasty, when he received the summons of his patron to attend him in the chapel cemetery.

Of course, he lost no time in obeying it, for obedience was the general rule in Sherland 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 Augustan 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 Hopps 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 cartwheel.

When he arrived, Sir Robert was pacing up and down by the side of a newly-opened grave. "'Benedicity, fair son!' The baron was brown as a cigar. "'Benedicity,' 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 Bridget's. 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 Malik 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 at 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 mold 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 Sherland were astounded, or, as the seneschal hue better expressed it, perfectly conglomerated by this event. What, murder a monk in the odor 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 neighbors 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 Mule. The tail of the mule, it was well known, had been forthwith affixed to that of the mayor, and rumours 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 Werderer, Roystering Hob Roebuck, swore roundly, "'Twer as good a deed as eat, to kick down the chapel as well as a monk. Hob had stood there in a white sheet for kissing Giles Miller's daughter. On the other hand, Simpkin Agnew, the bell-ringer, doubted if the devil's cellar, which runs under the bottomless abyss, were quite deep enough for the delinquent, and speculated on the probability of a hole being dug in it for his especial accommodation. The philosophers and economists thought, with Saunders MacBullock, the Baron's bagpiper, that a feckless monk, more or less, was ney great subject for a clamjamfrey, 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 Sherland 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 loophole 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 Sherland 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.

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 Gascony 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 sin and a shame, Anselm. What's the matter? Who are you? cried the abbot, rubbing his eyes, which the celestial splendour of his visitor had set a-winking. Ave Maria, Saint Austin himself. Speak, Beatissime, what would you with the humblest of your votaries? Anselm, said the saint, a brother of our order, whose sole heaven assoilie 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 the Anselm. Ay, so please you, Sanctissime, said the abbot. I will order forthwith that thirty masses be said, thirty potters 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 ink-horn, Anselm. Write me now a letter to His Holiness the Pope, in good round terms, and another to the coroner, and another to the sheriff, and seize me the never-enough-to-be-anathematised villain who hath done this deed. Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm. Up with him, down with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearthstone and roof-tree, down with it all, and sow the sight 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, in Stantor. But there is one thing you have forgotten, most beatified, the name of the culprit, Robert de Sherland.

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 hang the baron, burn his castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax candles for my own particular shrine out of your share of the property. With this solemn injunction, the vision began to fade. One more thing, cried the abbot, grasping his rosary. What is that? asked the saint. Obeate Augustina, Ora pro nobis. Of course I shall, said St.

Austin. Pax vobiscum. And abbot Anselm was left alone.

7 07 - Grey Dolphin - Part 2 27:18

The Ingoldsby Legends. 1st series by Richard Harris Barham. Section 7 within In 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 Don John 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 apparator drew forth his roll, and read aloud, Sir Robert de Sherland, Knight Banneret. Barron of Sherland 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 comitatus. While saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him, the baron de Sherland 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 home to anybody.' "'And 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 Crabacour, the abbot's chief vassal, and there is John de Northwood, the sheriff, with his red cross engrailed, and Haver and Leibourne, 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 champagne. 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 perceivants, 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 of Sherland, Knight, Baron of Sherland 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 Shoreland, 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 against 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 Excalibur. The baron called his Tickle Toby, 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 elite of his retainers. Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one way, arms and legs another. Round went Tickle-Toby, 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 Haver, and Roger of Leybourne. Hamo de Crepecourt, with the church vassals and the banner of St. Austin, had been gone some time. The siege was raised, and the Lord of Sheppi 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 Staccata 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 Sherland 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 Crevecourt 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-gray 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 barren 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 Knorr. 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 Sherland. Gramercy, 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 Nicholas in his list of crusaders. He had been present at Accra when Amaranth of Jaffa stabbed the prince with a poisoned dagger, and had lent Princess Elinor his own toothbrush 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 honor 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 Shoreland, etc., had then and there, with several, to wit, one thousand pairs of boots, given sundry, to wit, two thousand kicks, and therewith, and thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand austen friars, Been true to the letter.

Thrice did the gallant grey circumnavigate the barge, while Robert de Winchelsea, 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 a wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take them out of his mouth, all was settled. And the baron de Sherland 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 metal and bone had long since sunk in the effort. As it was, the baron's boots were full of water, and grey dolphins, chamfron, 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-peak 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, groomed 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 scrutinising eye of a veterinary surgeon. "'I'll be shot if he is not groggy,' said the Baron. With his lordship, like another great commander, wants to be in doubt was wants to be resolved. It would never do to go to the wars on a rickety Prad. He dropped the rein, drew forth Tickle-Toby, and, as the enfranchised Dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his yew-neck to the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. There, you lying old beldom, said the Baron.

Now take him away to the Knackers. Three years were come and gone. King Edward's French wars were over. Both parties, having fought till they came to a standstill, shook hands, and the quarrel, as usual, was patched up by 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, Tickle Tovey was in great request, and in the year following we find a contemporary poet hinting at his master's prowess under the walls of Kurlaverock.

Où faut acheminer le bon robert de Shorland, qui quand ses voix sur le cheval ne semble homme que sommeil. A quatrain which Mr. Simpkinson translates, With them was marching the good Robert de Shorland, 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 je es toi m'pousselette, je lis donnerie, cœur et corps, tant est de loup, bon l'irrecoeur. 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, sent 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 forever. At that moment, a loud, ha, ha, ha, was distinctly heard by the whole train to issue from its bleached and toothless jaws. It sank beneath the flood in a hoarse laugh. Meanwhile, Sir Robert de Sherland felt an odd sort of sensation in his right foot. His boots had suffered in the wars. Great pains had been taken for their preservation. They had been sold and healed more than once. Had they been galoshed, 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 Shirland. His walk increased the inflammation. A flagon of aquavite 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 Margret, 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 Inglesby, her cousin German, by the mother's side. But the Baron was too far gone in the dead thrall 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? Aye, 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 ink-horn about his neck, for setting boys' copies. In support of this he adduces his name, Emmanuel, and refers to the historian, Shakspeare, 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 Sherland, in due course, became Margaret Inglesby. 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, outches, and Saracen earrings. The barony, being a male thief, 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.

Subsequent to the first appearance of the foregoing narrative, the tomb alluded to has been opened during the course of certain repairs which the church has undergone. Mr. Simpkinson, who was present at the exhumation of the body within, and has enriched his collection with three of its grinders, says the bones of one of the great toes were wanting. He speaks in terms of great admiration at the thickness of the skull, and is of opinion that the skeleton is that of a great patriot much addicted to Lundyfoot.

His hands are clasped in prayer. His legs crossed in that position so prized by Templars in ancient, and tailors in modern days, bespeak him a soldier of the faith in Palestine. Close behind his dexter calf lies sculptured in bold relief a horse's head, and a respectable elderly lady, as she shows the monument, fails not to read her auditors, a fine moral lesson on the sin of ingratitude, or to claim a sympathising tear to the memory of poor grey dolphin.

8 08 - The Ghost 18:43

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 entombed 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 knows, 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 mouly stilton cheese, but taller.

The keep I find's been sadly altered lately, and stead of mail-clad knights of honour jealous, in martial panoply so grand and stately, its walls are filled with money-making fellows, and stuffed unless I misinform it greatly. With leaden pipes and coke and coals and bellows, in short so many 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 christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, and of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion, but spite of all her piety, her arm, she'd sometimes exercise when in a passion, and being of a temper somewhat warm, Would now and then seize upon small occasion a stick or stool or anything that round it lay, and baste her lord and master most confoundedly. No matter, tis a thing that's not uncommon, tis what we all have heard and most have read of. I mean a bruising, pugilistic woman, such as I own I entertain a dread of. And so did Nick, whom sometimes there would come on, The sort of fear his spouse might knock his head off, demolish half his teeth, or drive a ribbon. She shone so much in facers and in fibbin.

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 that his rib's propensity. For sometimes from the alehouse he would hobble. His sense is 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 a morbid dread.

He hated it like poison, or his wife. A vast antipathy, but so he said. And very often, for a quiet life, on these occasions he'd sneak up To bed. Groped 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 Portobello. A spouting party which, though some decry it, I, consider no bad lounge when one is mellow. There they discussed 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 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 willy-nilly, 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 humor it surpassed by no street, When the chief baron enters and assumes to rule or mimic vestigers and brooms, here they would oft forget their rulers' faults, and waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, inquire if Orpheus first produced the waltz, how gaslights 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, talked of the ghost in Hamlet sheathed 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's ghost and Mrs. Veal, Of sheeted spectres spoke with shortened breath, and thrice he quoted Drelincourt on death. Nick smoked and smoked and trembled as he heard, the point discussed and all they said upon it, how frequently some murdered man appeared, 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 Wandered 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 of the back door, he fondly hoped that unperceived he might creep upstairs again Pretend to doze, and hoax his spouse with music from his nose. Vain fruitless hope the wearied sentinel at eve may overlook the crouching foe, till ere his hand can sound the alarum bell, he sinks beneath the unexpected blow. Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, when slumbering on her post the mouse may go, but woman, wakeful woman's never weary. Above all, when she waits to thump her dearie. 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 exclaimed 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, rous'd 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 ducked below the clothes, and there he lay. Twas now the very witching time of night, When churchyards grown, 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 are Nicolaus his meditations. Still to the same tremendous theme recurred, the same dread subject of the dark narrations, which back with such authority he'd heard. Lost in his own horrific contemplations, he pondered o'er each well-remembered word. When at the beds'foot close beside the post, He verily believed he saw a ghost. Plain and more plain the unsubstantial sprite, to his astonished 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 combs 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 distilled a clammy dew, quaked every limb, the candle too, no doubt. En rgle 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, And where that came from Mason could not tell. All motionless the spectre stood, and now, Its reverend form more clearly shone confess'd, 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, Beckoned 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 seemed as they would have sprung, forth from their sockets like a frightened ape, He sat upon his haunches bolt upright, and shook and grinned and chattered with affright, and still the shadowy finger long and lean, now beckoned Nick, now pointed to the door, and many an ireful glance and frown between, the angry visage and the phantom war, as if quite vexed 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, Seiz'd 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 turned as if its followers 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 seemed melting in her beam.

Beneath a ponderous 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 moldering fabric's deep recess, at length they reach'd 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 when a neighbouring Chanticleer awoke, And loudly gan his early matins sing, And then it started like a guilty thing, as that shrill clarion the silence broke. We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew the appalling sound of cock-a-doodle-doo. 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, For 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 all. 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 all in up to the handle. Scared by his lady's heart appealing cry, vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream.

For dream it was, and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur fled before that scream, and still he listens with averted eye, when gibing neighbours make the ghost their theme, while ever from that hour they all declare that Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair.

9 09 - The Cynotaph 12:44

Cupid, of yow-yowing memory. Trey 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. The Cynetaph. Portrait Charmant, Portrait de Mon Amie, Dogberry and Vergers. Oh, where shall I bury my poor dog, Trey? Now his fleeting breath has passed away. Seventeen years, I can venture to say, Have I seen him gamble 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, or 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, yon sacred ground by holiest feelings fenced around, may ne'er within its hallowed bound receive the dust of a soulless hound. I would not place him in yonder fane, where the midday sun through the storied pane throws on the pavement a crimson stain, where the banners of chivalry heavily swing, or the pinnacled tomb of the warrior king, with helmet and shield and all that sort of thing. No, come what may, my gentle tray, Sha'n'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 axe for what Mr. Hume calls a scandalous tax, while the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks.

No, Trey'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 interred there, bolt upright. In just such a posture beneath his bust as Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust. The epitaph, too, would scarcely do, for what could it say but here lies Tray? A very good kind of a dog in his day, and satirical folks might be apt to imagine it, meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet. No, no, the abbey may do very well for a feudal knob or poetical swell. Crusaders or poets or knights of St. John, or knights of St. John's Wood, who once went on to the castle of good Lord Eglinton.

Count Fiddlefumpkin and Lord Fiddlefaddle, Sir Craven, Sir Gale, and Sir Campbell of Saddle, who, as poor Hook said when he heard of the feat, was somehow knocked out of his family seat. The esquires of the body to my lord Tomnoddy, Sir Fairley, 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 Prague in the wagon, The newspapers tell us did little to brag on, and more, though the muse knows but little concerning em. Sir Hopkins, Sir Popkins, Sir Gage, and Sir Jerningham, all prou chevalier in friendly rivalry, who should best bring back the glory of chivalry? Pray be so good for the sake of my song to pronounce here the anti-penultimate long, or some hypercritic 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 annoyed with you when you insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine. As to pleasing the eye, tisn't worthwhile 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, Trae. I would not place him beneath thy walls, and proud o'ershadowing dome St. Paul's, though I've always considered Sir Christopher Wren as an architect, one of the greatest of men, and talking of epitaphs much I admire his, circumspicis e monumentum requiris, which an erudite verger translated to me, if you ask for his monument, circumspice.

No, I should not know where to place him there. I would not have him buy Surly Johnsonby, or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Ponsonby. Or those ugly minxes, the sister sphinxes, mixed creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo, Dinnan 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 dispatch him, if the Scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him. No, I'd not have him there, nor nearer the door. Where the man and the angel have got Sir John More, and are quietly letting him down through the floor, by Gillespie, the one who escaped at Valore. 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 afield. To lay you by Nelson were downright effrontery. We'll be off from the city, and look at the country. It shall not be there in that sepulchred square, where folks are interred for the sake of the air. Though pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse to tray what they grant to thugs and Hindus, 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 tray have in his grave. Some 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 would be barking at Jones's. Nor shall he be laid by that cross old maid, Miss Penelope Bird, of whom it is said, All the dogs in the parish were ever afraid. He must not be placed by one so strait-laced in her temper, her taste, her morals, and waste. 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 declined to repeat her. No, if Trae were interred, by Penelope Byrd. No dog would be e'er so behelped and becurred. All the night long her cantankerous sprite would be running about in the pale moonlight, chasing him round, and attempting to lick the ghost of poor Tray with the ghost of a stick. Stay, let me see. Ah, here it shall be, at the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree, where Tray and I would often lie. And watched the bright clouds as they floated by, in the broad expanse of the clear blue sky, when the sun was bidding the world good-bye, and the plaintive nightingale warbling nigh, poured forth her mournful melodie, 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!

I here it shall be Far, far from the view Of the noisy world and its maddening crew. Simple and few, tender and true, The lines o'er his grave, They have, some of them too, The advantage of being remarkably new. Epitaph, Affliction sore, long time he bore, Physicians were in vain. Grown blind, alas, he'd some prussic acid, And that put him out of his pain. Note on 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, the late Mr. Sidney Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late Reverend 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 Dr. Peppercorn put forth his pretensions. To what he averred was the only true and original version. Viz. Not a sou had he got, not a guinea or note, and he looked confoundedly flurried. As he bolted away without paying his shot, and the landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night, when home from the club returning. We twigged the doctor beneath the light of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. All bare and exposed to the midnight dews, reclined in the gutter we found him, and he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze with his martial cloak. around him. The doctor's as drunk as the devil, we said, and we managed a shutter to borrow.

We raised him inside 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 talked of his money that's gone, and his lady began to upbraid him. But little he recked, so they let him snore on neath the counterpane just as we laid him. We tucked 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 walked down from his room in the uppermost story. A rushlight we placed on the cold hearthstone, And we left him alone in his glory.

End of note.

10 10 - The Leech of Folkestone - Mrs. Botherby's Story - Part 1 37:31

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham.

Versiculus feci. Tulit alter honoris. Virgil. I wrote the lines. Owned them. He told stories. Thomas Inglesby. Mrs. Botherby's story. The leech of Folkestone. 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 bona 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 suitorific exudation, like a cold thaw, with the thermometer at zero. Were your eyes ever turned upside down, exhibiting nothing but their whites? Did you ever vomit a paper of crooked pins, or expectorate Whitechapel needles?

These are genuine and undoubted marks of possession, and if you never experienced any of them, why? Happy man be his dole. Yet such things have been. Yea, we are assured, and that, on no mean authority, still are. The world, according to the best geographers, is divided into Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Romney Marsh, in this last-named and fifth quarter of the globe, a which may still be occasionally discovered, Infavorable, i e stormy, seasons, weathering Dungeness Point in an eggshell, or careering on her broomstick over Dimchurch 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 sink 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 at all Felt by such of its inhabitants as are not asthmatic, is when some heedless urchin tumbles down a chimney, or an impertinent pedestrian peeps into a garret window.

At the eastern extremity of the town, on the sea-beach, and scarcely above high-water mark, stood, in the good old times, a row of houses then denominated Frog Hole, Modern refinement subsequently euphemised 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 Buckthorn, The effluvia of whose drugs from within, mingling agreeably with the ancient and fish-like smells from without, wafted a delicious perfume throughout the neighbourhood. At seven of the clock, on the morning when Mrs.

Botherby's narrative commences, a stout Suffolk punch, about thirteen hands and a half in height, was slowly led up and down before the door of the pharmacopolisist, by a lean and withered lad, whose appearance warranted an opinion, pretty generally expressed, that his master found him as useful in experimentalising as in household drudgery, and that for every pound, avoir du poids, of solid meat, he swallowed at the least two pounds troy weight of chemicals and galenicals. As the town clock struck the quarter, Master Buckthorn 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 hind. His honour is up and stirring, but he hath rested none.

and complaineth, that the same gnawing pain devoureth, as it were, his very vitals. In sooth he is ill at ease. Morrow, doctor, interrupted a voice from a casement opening on the lawn. Good morrow! I have looked for, longed for, thy coming this hour and more. Enter at once. The pasty and tankard are impatient for thine attack. Mary, heaven forbid that I should balk their fancy, quoth the leech sotto voce. As abandoning the bridle to Honest Hodge, he dismounted, and followed a buxom-looking handmaiden into the breakfast-parlour. There, at the head of his well-furnished board, sat Master Thomas Marsh of Marston Hall, a yeoman well respected in his degree, One of that sturdy and sterling class which, taking rank immediately below the Esquire, a title in its origin purely military, occupied in the wealthier counties, the position in society now filled by the country gentlemen.

He was one of those of whom the proverb ran, a knight of Cael's, a gentleman of Wales, and a laird of the North Country, 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 passed 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 Haunstowns, and had already formed a tender connection with the orphan offspring of one of old Alva's officers, when the unexpected deaths of one immediate And two presumptive heirs placed him next in succession to the family acres.

He married and brought home his bride, who, by the decease of the venerable possessor, heartbroken 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.

"'For George, Master Buckthorn,' exclaimed the latter, as the leech drew near, "'I will know 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? Dr. Fiz says it is wind. Dr. Fuzz says it is water, and Dr. Buzz says it is something between wind and water. They are all of them wrong, said Erasmus Buckthorn. 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 Potokerry. "'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 heartstrings?' Whence this pain in the region of the liver? Why is it that I sleep not a-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 naught 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 a while, then added, looking steadily at his visitor, these things are not right. They pass the common, master Erasmus Buckthorn. 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, and 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 Marsh thoughtfully. It may be so, and yet—but I will do your bidding. Master Cobb of Brancet 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 he went a quotation from a then newly-published play, Not Poppy, nor Mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou own'st 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 and 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 adduced 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 Buckthorn, 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 Jose, 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 hobbledyhoys, 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 precise duties of this employment have never, as far as we have heard, been accurately defined. The perfuming a handkerchief, the combing a lapdog, and the occasional presentation of a sippet-shaped billet-deux 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. Jose, however, Kept his place, perhaps because he was not fit for any other. To the conference between his mistress and the physician he had not been admitted. His post was to keep watch in 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 ladder, 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 also have 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 to the whole proceedings between her mamma and master Erasmus Buckthorn. This was Miss Marion Marsh, a rosy-cheeked, laughter-loving imp of some six years old, but one who could be mute as a mouse when the fit was on her. A handsome and highly-polished cabinet of the darkest ebony occupied a recess at one end of the apartment. This had long been a great subject of speculation to Little Miss.

Her curiosity, however, had always been repelled. Nor had all her 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 Marion was about to rush forward in eager anticipation of a peep at its interior, When child as she was, the reflection struck her that she would stand a better chance of carrying her point by remaining perdue. Fortune for once favoured her. She crouched closer than before, and saw her mother take something from one of the drawers, which she handed over to the leech. Strange mutterings followed, and words whose sound was foreign to her youthful ears Had she been older, their import, perhaps, might have been equally unknown.

After a while there was a pause, and then the lady, as in answer to a requisition from the gentleman, placed in his hand a something which she took from her toilet. The transaction, whatever its nature, seemed now to be complete, and the article was carefully replaced in the drawer from which it had been taken. A long and apparently interesting conversation then took place between the parties, carried on in a low tone. At its termination, Mistress Marsh and Master Erasmus Buckthorn 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 hand, and her hurried researches were rewarded by the prettiest little waxen doll imaginable. It was a first-rate prize, and Miss lost no time in appropriating it to herself. Long before Madame Marsh had returned to her sanctum, Marion was seated under a Laura Stinus in the garden, nursing her new baby with the most affectionate solicitude. "'Susan, look here! See what a nasty scratch I've 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 Madame's Farthingales and Kirtles, a poor bower maiden has a fine time of it. But I have not torn my clothes, Susan. And it was not the bushes, it was the doll. Only see what a great ugly pin I have pulled out of it. And look, here is another. As she spoke, Marion drew forth one of those extended pieces of black-pointed wire, with which, in the days of toupees and pompoons, our foremothers were wont to secure their flycaps and headgear from the impertinent assaults of Zephyrus and the Little Breezes. And pray, miss, where did you get this pretty doll, as you call it, asked Susan, turning over the puppet, and viewing it with a scrutinising eye. Mama gave it me, said the child.

This was a fib. Indeed, quoth the girl thoughtfully, and then, in half soliloquy, and a lower key, well, I wish I may die if it doesn't look like master. But come to your dinner, miss. Hark, the bell is striking one. Meanwhile, master Thomas Marsh and his man Ralph were threading the devious paths, then, as now, Most pseudonymously dignified by the name of Rhodes, 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 Acras, and they were about to descend one of those green and leafy lanes, rendered by matted and overarching 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 roadside.

Here he remained for a full half-hour in great apparent agony. A cold sweat rolled in large round drops adown his clammy forehead. A universal shivering palsied every limb. His eyeballs 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 Hife 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 Limpney 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, 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 favorite rendezvous, and that to an extent which eventually attracted the notice of no less a personage than the sagacious Matthew Hopkins himself, Witchfinder General to the British government. A great portion of the Frith, or Fright, as the name was then, and is still pronounced, had formerly been a chase, with rights of Free Warren, etc., 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 silven screen which concealed their origin. It was fair day. Booth's 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. Peddlers with their packs, horse-groupers, pig-merchants, itinerant vendors 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 lolly-pop compounded after the most approved receipt in the true gentlewoman's garland, and raising the waters in the mouth of many an expectant urchin.

Nor were rural sports wanting to those whom pleasure, rather than business, had drawn from their humble homes. Here was the tall and slippery pole, glittering in its grease, and crowned with the ample cheese that mocked the hopes of the discomfited climber. There, the fugitive Pippin, swimming in water, not of the purest, and bobbing from the expanded lips of the juvenile Tantalus. In this quarter the ear was pierced by squeaks from some beleaguered porker, Whisking his well-soaked 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-caller. All was fun, frolic, courtship, junketing, and jollity.

Maid Marian, indeed, with her lieges, Robin Hood, Scarlet, and Little John, was wanting. Friar Tuck was absent. Even the hobby-horse had disappeared, but the agile 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 movable temple of Aesculapius, for such it was, within its interior, and secure from vulgar curiosity. The quacksalver 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 rough, then fast falling into disuse, and was secured from the throat downwards by a single row of broad white metal buttons, and his legs were cased in loose wide trousers of the same material, while his sleeves, prolonged to a most disproportionate extent, descended far below the fingers, and acted as flappers in the somersets and caracals with which he diversified and enlightened 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.

11 11 - The Leech of Folkestone - Mrs. Botherby's Story - Part 2 39:17

The Ingallsby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham.

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 he added the advantage of most extensive travel, that in his search after science he had not only perambulated the whole of this world, but had trespassed on the boundaries of the next, that the depths of the ocean and the bowels of the earth were alike familiar to him, That, besides salves and cataplasms of sovereign virtue, by combining sundry mosses gathered many thousand fathoms below the surface of the sea, with certain unknown drugs found in an undiscovered island, and boiling the whole in the lava of Vesuvius.

He had succeeded in producing his celebrated balsam of Cracopanico, the never-failing remedy for all human disorders, and which, a proper trial allowed, would go near to reanimate the dead. "'Draw near,' continued the worthy. "'Draw near, my masters. And you, my good mistresses, draw near, every one of you. Fear not high and haughty carriage, though greater than king or kaiser, yet is the mighty Aldrovando milder than mother's milk.' Flint to the proud, to the humble, he is as melting wax. He asks not your disorders, he sees them himself at a glance. Nay, without a glance. He tells your ailments with his eyes shut. Draw near, draw near, the more incurable, the better. List to the illustrious doctor Aldrovando, first physician to Prester John, leech to the grand llama, and Hakim in ordinary to Mustafa Muleh Bey.

Hath your master ever a charm for the toothache and please you? asked an elderly countryman, whose swollen cheek bespoke his interest in the question. A charm, a thousand, and every one of them infallible. Toothache, quotha, I had hoped you had come with every bone in your body, fractured or out of joint. A toothache, Propound a tester, master of mine. We ask not more for such trifles. Do my bidding, and thy jaws, even with the word, shall cease to trouble thee. The clown, fumbling a while in a deep leathern purse, at length produced a sixpence which he tendered to the jester. Now to thy master, and bring me the charm forthwith. Nay, honest man, to disturb the mighty Aldrabando, On such slight occasion were pity of my life.

Areede 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 countryman. But the roar of merriment around bespoke the bystanders, well pleased that 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 supernatural.

Hath any man a termagant wife? Here is that will tame her presently. Hath any one a smoky chimney? Here is an incontinent cure. To the first infliction no man ventured to plead guilty. Though there were those standing by who thought their neighbours might have profited withal, for the last-named recipe started forth at least a dozen candidates with the greatest gravity imaginable. Pirro, 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 unalive to alarm were beginning to manifest themselves. Among the softer sex especially, as they gazed on the flames that issued from the mouth of the living volcano, all eyes indeed were fixed upon the fire-eater with an intentness that left no room for observing another worthy.

who had now emerged upon the scene. This was, however, no less a personage than the deus ex 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 a fire sparkled in his keen grey eye. Much at variance with the wrinkles that ran their irregular furrows above his prominent and bushy brows. He had advanced slowly from behind his screen, while the attention of the multitude was absorbed by the pyrotechnics of Mr. Merriman, and, stationing himself at the extreme corner of the stage, stood quietly, leaning on a crutch-handle walking-staff of blackest ebony. His glance steadily fixed on the face of Marsh, from whose countenance the amusement he had insensibly begun to derive, had not succeeded in removing all traces of bodily pain.

For a while the latter was unobservant of the inquisitorial survey with which he was regarded. The eyes of the parties, however, at length met. The brown mare had a fine shoulder, She stood pretty nearly sixteen hands. Marsh himself, though slightly bowed by ill-health and the coming autumn of life, was full six feet in height. His elevation giving him an unobstructed view over the heads of the pedestrians. He had naturally fallen into the rear of the assembly, which brought him close to the diminutive doctor. with whose face, despite the red heels, his own was about upon a level. And what makes master Marsh hear? 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, and now meet happily again, happily at least for thee. Why, truly the trick of thy countenance reminds me of somewhat I have seen before. Where or when I know not. But what wouldst thou with me? Nay, rather, what wouldst thou here, Thomas Marsh? What wouldst thou on the frith of Aldington? Is it a score or two of paltry sheep? Or is it something 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. Gramercy quoth Marsh, after a long-drawn breath, What knowest thou of me, fellow, or of my concerns? What knowest thou? This know I, master Thomas Marsh, said the stranger gravely, that thy life is even now perilled. Evil practices are against thee. But no matter. Thou art quit for the nonce. Other hands than mine have saved thee. Thy pains are over. Hark! The clock strikes one. As he spoke, a single toll from the bell-tower of Bilsington came, wafted by the western breeze over the thick-set and lofty oaks which intervened between the frith and what had once been a priory.

Dr. 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 ribbon. Stay, nay, prithee, stay, cried Marsh eagerly. I was wrong, in faith I was. A change, and that a sudden and most marvellous, hath indeed come over me. I am free, I breathe again, I feel as though a load of years had been removed. And is it possible? Hast thou done this? Thomas Marsh, said the doctor, pausing and turning for the moment on his heel, I have 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 woody knoll what time the rising moon throws her first beam upon the bare and blighted summit that towers above its trees. He crossed abruptly to the opposite quarter of the scaffolding, and was in an instant deeply engaged in listening to those whom the cow's horn had attracted, and in prescribing for their real or fancied ailments. Vain were all Marsh's efforts again to attract his notice. It was 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 he do? Was the man a mere quack? An impostor? His name thus obtained? That might be easily done. But then his secret griefs, the doctor's knowledge of them, their cure. For he felt that his pains were gone. His healthful feelings restored. True Aldrovando, if that were his name, had disclaimed all co-operation in his recovery. But he knew, or he at least announced it. Nay, more! He had hinted that he was yet in jeopardy, that practices, and the chord sounded strangely in unison with one that had before vibrated within him, 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 how he had become acquainted with his own person and secret afflictions.

When the late Mr. Pitt was determined to keep out Bonaparte, and prevent his gaining a settlement in the county of Kent, among other ingenious devices adopted for that purpose, He caused to be constructed what was then, and has ever since been conventionally termed a military canal. This is a not very practicable ditch, some thirty feet wide and nearly nine feet deep in the middle, extending from the town and port of Haif to within a mile of the town and port of Rai, a distance of about twenty miles, and forming, as it were, the cord of a bow. The Ark 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 cavilers, and an old gentleman of the neighbourhood who proposed as a cheap substitute to put down his own cocked hat upon a pole was deservedly pooh-poohed 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 Rhine, 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 Cobb 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 lips.' 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 crossbones. In the very centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing size and thickness, as would have filled the soul of Spurzheim or Deville with wonderment. A large book, a naked sword, an hourglass, a chafing-dish, and a black cat completed the list of moveables, with the exception of a couple of tapers which stood on each side of the mirror, and which the strange gentleman now proceeded to light from the one in his hand.

As they flared up with what Marsh thought a most unnatural brilliancy, he perceived, reflected in the glass behind, a dial suspended over the coffin-like article already mentioned. The hand was fast verging towards the hour of nine. The eyes of the little doctor seemed riveted on the horologe. Now strip thee, Master Marsh, and that quickly. Untruss, I say. Discard thy boots. Doff doublet and hose, and place thyself incontinent in yonder bath. The visitor cast his eyes again upon the formidable-looking article, and perceived that it was nearly filled with water. A cold bath at such an hour, and under such auspices, was anything but inviting. He hesitated, and turned his eyes alternately on the doctor and the black cat.

Trifle not the time, man, and you be wise, said the former. Passion of my heart, let but yon minute-hand reach the hour, and thou not immersed, thy life were not worth a pin's fee. The black cat gave vent to a single mew, a most unnatural sound for a mouser. It seemed as it were mewed through a cow's horn. Quick, master Marsh, uncase, or you perish. repeated his strange host, throwing as he spoke a handful of some dingy-looking powders into the brazier. Behold, the attack 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 Jose. In the middle, with his back towards him, was a figure which he had no difficulty in recognising as that of the leech of Folkestone. The latter had just succeeded in fastening the dexter hand of the image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and keen-edged sabre from its sheath.

The black cat mewed again. "'Haste, or you die,' said the doctor. Marsh looked at the dial. It wanted but four minutes of nine. He felt that the crisis of his fate was come. Off went his heavy boots. Doublet to the right, Gallagascons to the left. Never was man more swiftly disrobed. In two minutes, to use an Indian expression, he was all face. In another he was on his back and up to his chin, in a bath which smelt strongly as of brimstone and garlic. Heed well the clock, cried the conjuror. With the first stroke of nine, plunge thy head beneath the water. Suffer not a hair above the surface. Plunge deeply, or thou art lost. The little man had seated himself in the centre of the circle upon the large skull.

Elevating his legs at an angle of forty-five degrees. In this position he spun round with a velocity to be equalled only by that of the teetotum. 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, however, at once removed. When casting his eyes on the glass, he saw the consternation of the party whose persons it exhibited.

Erasmus had evidently made his blow and failed. The figure was unmutilated. The hilt remained in the hand of the striker, while the shivered blade lay in shining fragments on the floor. The 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, and 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 hand of the dial had nearly reached the quarter. At once the parties separated, and Buckthorn stood again before the figure. His hand armed with a long and sharp-pointed misericorde, a dagger little in use of late, but such as a century before often performed the part of a modern oyster-knife, in tickling the osteology of a dismounted cavalier through the shelly defences of his plate armour. Again he raised his arm. Duck roared the doctor, spinning away upon his cephalic pivot. The black cat cocked his tail and seemed to mew the word duck.

Down went Master Marsh's head. One of his hands had unluckily been resting on the edge of the bath. He drew it hastily in, but not altogether scatheless. The stump of a rusty nail projecting from the margin of the bath had caught and slightly grazed it. The pain was more acute than is usually produced by such trivial accidents. And Marsh, on once more raising his head, beheld the dagger of the leech sticking in the little finger of the wax figure, which it had seemingly nailed to the cabinet door. By my truly, escape of 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! Be but heedful, and they miss again.

Let them bide the issue. He drew his hand athwart his brow as he spoke, and dashed off the perspiration, which the violence of his exercise had drawn from every pore. Black Tom sprang upon the edge of the bath, and stared full in the face of the bather. His sea-green eyes were lambent with unholy fire, but their marvellous obliquity of vision was not to be mistaken. The very countenance, too. Could it be? The features were feline, but their expression was that of the jack-pudding. Was the mountebank a cat? Or the cat a mountebank? It was all a mystery, and heaven knows how long Marsh might have continued staring at Grimalkin. Had not his attention been again called by Aldrovando to the magic mirror?

Great dissatisfaction, not to say dismay, seemed now to pervade the conspirators. Dame Isabel was closely inspecting the figure's wounded hand, while Jose was aiding the pharmacopolis to charge a huge petronel with powder and bullets. The load was a heavy one, but Erasmus seemed determined this time to make sure of his object. Somewhat of trepidation might be observed in his manner as he rammed down the balls, And his withered cheek appeared to have acquired an increase of paleness. But amazement rather than fear was the prevailing symptom, and his countenance betrayed no jot of irresolution. As the clock was about to chime half-past nine, he planted himself with a firm foot in front of the image, waved his 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 head beneath the surface, and the sound of an explosion, as of firearms, mingled with the rush of water that poured into his ears. His immersion was but momentary. Yet did he feel as though half-suffocated. He sprang from the bath, and as his eye fell on the mirror, he saw, or thought he saw, the leech of Folkestone lying dead on the floor of his wife's boudoir, his head shattered to pieces, and his hand still grasping the stock of a burst in Petronelle. He saw no more. His head swam, his senses reeled, the whole room was turning round, And as he fell to the ground, the last impressions to which he was conscious were the chucklings of a hoarse laughter, and the mewings of a tom-cat.

Master Marsh was found the next morning by his bewildered serving-man, stretched before the door of the humble hostel at which he sojourned. His clothes were somewhat torn and much bemired, and deeply did honest Ralph marvel That one so staid and grave as master Marsh of Marston should thus have played the roisterer, missing perchance a profitable bargain for the drunken orgies of Midnight Wassil, or the endearments of some rustic light alove. 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. Jose, too, had disappeared. The latter had been last seen riding furiously towards Folkestone early in the preceding afternoon. To a question from Hodge Gardiner he had hastily answered that he bore a missive of moment from his mistress. The lean apprentice of Erasmus Buckthorn declared that the page had summoned his master in haste, About six of the clock, and that they had rowed forth together, as he verily believed, on their way back to the hall, where he had supposed master Buckthorn's services to be suddenly required on some pressing emergency.

Since that time he had seen naught 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 Buckthorn 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 Jose and his faithless mistress. The latter had carried off with her the strong box, Diverse 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, or any cottage nearer, 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 countryside. Of the runaways nothing was ever certainly known. A boat, the property of an old fisherman, who plied his trade on the outskirts of the town, had been seen to quit the bay that night, and there were those who declared that she had more hands on board than Carden and his son, her usual complement.

But as the gale came on, and the frail bark was eventually found keel upwards on the Goodwin Sands, it was presumed that she had struck on that fatal quicksand in the dark, and that all on board had perished. Little Marion, whom her profligate mother had abandoned, grew up to be a fine girl and a handsome. She became, moreover, heiress to Marston Hall, and brought the estate into the Ingoldsby family by her marriage with one of its scions. Thus far, Mrs. Botherby, It is a little singular that on pulling down the old hall in my grandfather's time, a human skeleton was discovered among the rubbish, under what particular part of the building I could never with any accuracy ascertain. But it was found enveloped in a tattered cloth that seemed to have been once a carpet, and which fell to pieces almost immediately on being exposed to the air.

The bones were perfect, but those of one hand were wanting, and the skull, perhaps from the labourer's pickaxe, had 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 Marion 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 a 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 complement to the tradition which, test de 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 jewels and argent in the first quarter, a horse's head of the second. Beneath it are the words, Aetatus Suoi, Twenty-six, 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.

12 12 - Legend of Hamilton Tighe 8:14

Respect for the feelings of an honourable family, nearly connected with the Inglesbys, has induced me to veil the real, sponsorial and patronymic appellations of my next hero, Under a sobriquet interfering neither with rhyme nor rhythm. 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 Hampton Pye Esquire, and that one of his uncles or cousins used to make verses about the king and the queen, and had a sack of money for doing it every year. And that's his picture in the blue coat and little gold-laced cocked hat that hangs on the stairs over the door of the passage that leads to the blue room.

Sobriquet! But there! The squire wrote it after dinner. Elizabeth Botherby.

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 Burkes who well recollected Sir George Rook's expedition against Gibraltar, would, if they were now alive, gladly bear testimony to the truth of every syllable. Legend of Hamilton Tye 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 spit head. 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 cocked 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 topman hail. On the larboard quarter, a sail, a sail. That grim old captain he turns him quick, and balls 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 Ty? On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee, Coxon or bosun or reefer may try, But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tye. 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 breach of a long cannonade. 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 Tye waves his cutlass high, and Capitain Crapeau bends low at his knee. Hairy-faced Dick, Lindstock 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 Ty. 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 glowers with his head on his knee. The maidens smile, and her thought to destroy. They bring her a pale little mealy-faced boy, and the mealy-faced boy says, Mother, dear, now Hamilton's dead. I've a thousand a year. The lady has donned 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 stepson's soul, and the tablet fair shall be hung on high. Orate pro anima, Hamilton tie. 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.

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 stepped 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 laugh, 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 he fumes. For all his knaves stand upside down, and the jack of clubs does nothing but frown, and the kings and the aces, and all the best trumps. Get into the hands of the other old Frumps, while close to his partner, a man he sees, counting the tricks with his head on his knees. In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store, and a great black doll hangs out of the door. There are rusty locks and dusty bags, and musty files and fusty rags, and a lusty old woman called 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 withered and gone. And he cries, Take away that lubberly chap, that sits there and grins with his head in his lap. And the neighbors 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 tomorrow, or live till next year, but wherever they live, or whenever they die, they'll never get quit of young Hamilton Ty.

13 13 - The Witches' Frolic 31:13

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 Templar, situate near Swinfield, Swinkfield, or, as it is now generally spelt and pronounced, Swingfield, Minis, 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 southeastern windows of which the time-worn walls in question, as seen over the intervening coppices, present a picturesque and striking object.

The Witch's Frollick. Scene. The Snuggery at Tavington. 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 twittling. 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 St.

Bartlemy, then list to such awful minstrelsy. Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by, and I'll read ye a lay of Grammarie. Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano. proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophiseth the abbey in the distance. I love thy tower, grey ruin, I joy thy form to see, Though reft of all, sell 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 trousers laced, the latter uncommonly short in the waist. Thou art dearer to me, thou ruin gray, than the squire's veranda 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 gray, and I the readiest ear would lend, and stare like frightened pig, while my grandfather's hair would have stood on end, had he not worn a wig. One tale I remember of Mickle Dred, now lith and listen, my little boy Ned, thou may'st have read, my little boy Ned, Though thy mother thine idless blames. In Dr. 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-poet sung, and the court-gallant 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 people a-packing.

Though joists and floors and windows and doors had all disappeared, yet pillars by scores remained and still propped up a ceiling or two. While the belfry was almost as good as new, you are not to suppose matters looked just so in the ruins some two hundred years ago. Just in that farthermost angle where there are still the remains of a winding stair. One turret especially high in the air upreared 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 strewed the ground. Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strewed, 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 Theta's lap beneath the seas, he must have scalded the goddess Knes. He left behind him a lurid track, a blood-red light upon clouds so black, that Warren and Hunt and 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, had been locked 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 flashed and the thunder growled, and louder and louder the tempest howled, and the rain came down in such sheets as would Stagera, barred with a simile short of Niagara. Rob Gilpin was a citizen, Bad though of some renown, of no great credit in his own or any other town. He was a wild and roving lad, forever in the alehouse boozing, or romping, which is quite as bad, with female friends of his own choosing. And Robb this very day had made, not dreaming such a storm was ruin, and assignation with Miss Slade, their trysting-place that 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 wrecks of the fears of the sex, or that maiden false to her tryst could be. He had stood there a good half-hour, ere yet had commenced that perilous shower. Alone by the trysting tree. Robin looks east, Robin looks west, but he sees not her whom he loves the best. Robin looks up, and Robin looks down, but no one comes from the neighboring town. The storm came at last, loud roared 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. Robb 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.

Robb stands within that postern gate, and there were gossips sitting there, by one, by two, by three. Two were an old ill-favoured pair, but the third was young and passing fair, with laughing eyes and with coal-black hair. A dainty queen 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-crowned 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 unhallowed wends this way? Goody price, goody price, now a-read me right, Who roams the old ruins this drearysome night?

Then up and spake that sauncey queen, 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 haul, a haul. Now tread we a measure, quoth she. The heart of robin beat thick and throbbing. Roving Bob, 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 gliding, Such sinking and sliding, such lofty curvetting and grand pirouetting. Ned, you would swear that M. Gilbert and Miss Tavioni were capering there, and oh, such awful music ne'er, fell sound so uncanny on mortal ear.

There were the tones of a dying man's groans, mixed with the rattling of dead men's bones. Had ye 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, comers 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 Topas hath daintier cheer, a pasty made of the good red deer, a huge grouse-pie and a fine florentine, a fat roast goose and a turkey and chine.

Madge gray, madge gray, now tell me, I pray, where's the best wassail bowl to our roundelay? There is ale in the cellars of Tappington Hall, but the squire is a churl, and his drink is small. Mine host of the dragon hath many a flagon of double ale-lamb's-wool and eau de vie, but Sir Topaz the vicar hath costlier liquor, a butt of the choicest malvoisie. He doth not lack, canary or sack, and a good pint stoop of clary wine smacks merrily off with a turkey and chine. Now away and away without delay. Hey, coccalorum, 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 de crows. Latest and last, the damsel past. One glance of her coal-black eye she cast. She laughed with glee loud laughter's three. Dost fear, Rob Gilpin, to ride with me? Oh, never might man unscathed 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 halfway 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 reached twenty miles, your balloon would collapse, or pass by such action the sphere of attraction, getting into the track of some comet. Good lack! Tis a thousand to one that you'd never come back, and the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear, rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere. No, no, when I try a trip to the sky, I shan't go in that thing of yours, Mr. Guy, though Messrs Moncmason and Spenser and Beazley 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 tail, 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 barred, 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 horseshoe is nailed on the threshold sill to keep out aught that savours of ill. But alack, the chimney-pots open still. That great big dog begins to quail. Between his hind-legs he drops his tail.

Crouched 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 watchdog'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 watchdog'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 Topas the vicar is fast asleep, and his respirations are heavy and deep. He snores, tis true, but he snores no more, as he's I've been accustomed to snore before, and as men of his kidney are wont to snore. Sir Topas's weight is sixteen stone four.

He draws his breath like a man distressed by pain or grief, or like one oppress'd by some ugly old incubus perched on his breast. A something seems to disturb his dreams, and thrice on his ear, distinct and clear, falls a voice as of somebody whispering near, in still small accents, faint and few. Hey, down the chimney-pot, hey, after you! Throughout the vicarage near and far, there is no lack of bolt or of bar. There are plenty of locks to closet and box. Yet the pantry wicket is standing ajar, and the little low door through which you must go, down some half-dozen steps to the cellar below, is also unfastened, though no one may know, by so much as a guess how it comes to be so. For wicket and door the evening before were both of them locked 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-polt larded with bacon and spice. Old Goody Jones would touch nought that had bones, She might just as well mumble a parcel of stones. Goody Jones in sooth hath got never a tooth, And a new college pudding of marrow and plums, Is the dish of all others that suiteth her gums. Madge Gray was picking, The breast of a chicken. Her coal-black eye, with its glance so sly, was fixed on Rob Gilpin himself sitting by, with his heart full of love and his mouth full of pie. Grouse-pie with hair, in the middle is fair, which duly concocted with science and care, Dr. Kitchener says is beyond all compare, and a tenderer leveret Robin had neveret, so in after-times oft was he 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 I 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 here's 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.

Goodie Price, Goodie Jones, and the pretty Madge Gray, all seemed as their liquor had gone the wrong way. But the best of the joke was the moment he spoke, those words which the party seemed 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 jumped the cook, and caught hold of her spit. Up jumped the groom, and took bridle, and bit. Up jumped the gardener, and shouldered his spade. Up jumped the scullion, the footman, the maid. The two last, by the way, occasions some scandal by appearing together with only one candle, which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle.

Up jumped the swineherd, and up jumped the big boy. Anon, descript under him, acting as pig-boy. Butler, housekeeper, coachman from bottom to top. Everybody jumped up without parley or stop, with a 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 Top is in person to bring up the rear. In a mixed 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, Trunkhosen 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, shortened breath, Like the folks in the gallery seen in Macbeth, When Macduff is announcing their sovereign's death, And hark what accents, clear and strong, To the listening throng came floating along.

Tis Robin encoring himself in a song. Very good song, very well sung, Jolly companions, every one. On, on, to the cellar, away, away. On, on, to the cellar without more delay. The whole posse rush onwards in battle array. Conceived the dismay of the party so gay. Old Goody Jones, Goody Price, and Madge Gray. When the door bursting open, they descried the allied. Troops prepared for the onslaught roll in like a tide, and the spits and the tongs and the pokers beside. Boots and saddles, the word, mount comers, and ride. Alarm was ne'er caused more strong an indigenouse, 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 holla-balloo.

Hey, up the chimney, hey, after you! The Volscians themselves made an exit less speedy, from Corioli flutter'd like doves by MacCready. They are gone save one, Robin alone. Robin, whose high state of civilisation precludes all idea of aorostation, 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 mauled him and kicked him and licked him and pricked him, as they bore him away, scarce aware what was done, and believing it all but a part of the fun, Hick hiccuping out the same strain he'd begun. Joll-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 armchair, leaning back with a grave magisterial air, in the front of a seat a huge volume called Fleta, and Brackton a tomb of an old-fashioned 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 Hao Quay, nor as yet would you see Souchong or Bo He 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 déjeuner a la fourchette. Instead of our slops, they had cutlets and chops, and sack-possets and ale, and stooks, tankards, and pots, and they wound up the meal with rump-steaks and shallots. 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 huntsmen 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 hooked noses and chins, who'd been playing the deuce with his reverence's bins. The face of his worship grows graver and graver as the parties detail Robin's shameful behaviour. Mr. 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 diverse, that is to say, two thousand people, In two thousand hats each hat peaked like a steeple.

With force and with arms and with sorcery and charms, upon two thousand brooms entered four thousand rooms, to wit two thousand pantries and two thousand cellars, put in bodily fear twenty thousand indwellers, 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 is the corpus delicti, Ere his fingers can clasp, it is snatch'd from his grasp. The end pok'd 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 coccalorum. Mount, mount for your life, Rob. Sir Justice, adieu. Hey, up the chimney-pot, hey, after you. Through the mystified group, with a halloo and a whoop, Madge on the pommel, and Robin on croup. The pair through the air ride as if in a chair, while the party below stand mouth open and stare.

Clean bum-bazed and amazed, and fixed, 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 gray ruin again, safe and sound, except that at first he complained much of thirst, and a shocking bad headache, of all ills the worst, and close by his knee a flask you might see, but an empty one smelling of eau de vie. Robb from this hour is an altered man. He runs home to his lodgings as fast as he can. Sticks to his trade, marries Miss Slade. Becomes a teetotaller. That is the same as teetotallers 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 nightcap 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 practice soft speeches. Avoid waltzes, quadrilles, pumps, silk hose, and knee-breeches. Frequent not grey ruins. Shun riot and revelry. Hocus-pocus and conjuring, and all sorts of devilry.

Don't meddle with broomsticks. They're Beelzebub's switches. Of cellars keep clear. They're the devil's own ditches. And beware of balls banquetings, brandy, and witches. Above all, don't run after black-eyes if you do. Depend on't you'll find what I say will come true. Old Nick some fine morning will hay after you. Note on the Squire of Tappington. Stephen Englesby, 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 Doddsley's Remarkable Trials, etc. London, 1776, Volume Two, Page Two, Sixty Four, Ex the Present Volume, Article Hand of Glory. End of note.

14 14 - Singular Passage in the Life of the Late Henry Harris, D.D. - Part 1 36:18

The Ingallsby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham.

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 averve. was neither light nor transient. Singular passage in the life of the late Henry Harris, Doctor in Divinity, as related by the Reverend Jasper Inglesby, 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 occurrences out of the common course of events, merely because his reflections might not, at the moment, afford him a ready solution to 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 a view of studying the higher branches of medicine. A few months after his friend, John W., had proceeded to Leiden 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 anyone 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 Leiden. 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 letter 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, e.g. 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 chords 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 postmark 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 Leiden. 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 his 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 had 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 vast 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 fifteenth, eighteen, blank, about three weeks after my own departure for Preston. It begins thus, Tuesday, August, Fifteen. 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 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 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 tranquilising 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 armchair.

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 gotten to 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 agonised 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 advisor. Nearly an hour had elapsed during the endeavour at calming her transports. They had succeeded, however, to a certain extent, and Mr. I had taken his leave, when Elizabeth, re-entering the bedchamber in which her sister lay, in order to pay the last sad duties to her corpse, was horror-struck at seeing a crimson stream of blood running 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, sir, she began, is not the first time that the cruelty of others has for what purpose I am unable to conjecture. put me to a degree of torture which I can 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 convinced 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 effective 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 Summers, 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, he says, have a tendency to divert my attention from those pursuits, on the due prosecution of which my future situation in life must depend. A compromise between love and duty, was eventually wrung from me, though reluctantly. I have pledged myself to proceed immediately to my destination abroad, with a full 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 be necessary to say anything of what passed at the few interviews which took place before Francis quitted X. The evening immediately previous to that of his departure, he passed in this house, and before we separated, renewed his protestations of an unchangeable affection, requiring a similar assurance from me in return. I did not hesitate to make it. Be satisfied, my dear Francis, said I, that no diminution in the regard I have avowed can ever take place, and though absent in body, my heart and soul will still be with you. Swear this, he cried, with a 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 he, as a pledge that you will not forget your vow. I suffered him to take the scissors from my workbox, 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 characterised 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 tremor 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 if 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 latticework 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 Oedipus, 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-lands and tops of houses told me I was in the midst of a populous but unknown city.

15 15 - Singular Passage in the Life of the Late Henry Harris, D.D. - Part 2 27:47

The 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 hand 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 chapanned cabinets with clawed feet, reflecting from their polished surfaces the effulgence of the flame. where 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 laboring 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 trembled 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 had a different enemy to combat, an ineradicable prejudice to encounter, evidently backed by no common share of superstition, and confirmed by the mental weakness attendant upon severe bodily pain. To argue the sufferer out of an opinion, so rooted, was a hopeless attempt. I did, however, essay it. I spoke to her of the strong and mysterious connection maintained between our waking images and those which haunt us in our dreams, and more especially during that morbid oppression 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 Bray's Nose, and even conversed with himself and his friend W. Seated in his armchair, and gazing through the window full upon the statue of Kane 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 a 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 Twenty Fourth, 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 Twenty Sixth 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 Twenty-seventh. 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 Summers, 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 Summers, in the Hoguebert at Leiden, 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 France'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 M.S. 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 Leiden was, as I have already said, too late. Frederick S. had expired after thirty hours intense suffering from a wound received in a duel with a brother student. The cause of quarrel was variously related, but according to his landlord's version, it had originated in some silly dispute about a dream of his antagonists. 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 Leiden, He insisted on being conducted immediately to the apartments which Frederick had occupied, there to indulge the first abolitions of his sorrows, before he retired to his own. Madame Miller 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 shock 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, 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 water of the principal canal shone like a broad mirror in the moonlight. To the left, Rose the Bercht, 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 Leiden rose in all their majesty, presenting a coup d'oeil 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 fireplace opposite to me, with its polished andirons, was surmounted by a large, old-fashioned mantelpiece, heavily carved in the Dutch style, with fruits and flowers. Above it frowned a portrait in a vandyke dress, with a peaked beard and 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 bookshelves, 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 Leiden by the name of Francis Summers.

There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

16 16 - The Jackdaw of Rheims 9:52

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham.

Fr. John Inglesby, 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 Douay 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 accepted 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, at the mature age of ninety-six.

He was an ecclesiastic of great learning and piety, but from the stiff and antiquated phraseology which he adopted. I have thought it necessary to modernise it a little. This will account for certain anachronisms that have unavoidably crept in. The 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 stimulus compunctus fit, et execratio eum tanto perae ex carnaficauit, ut exinde tavascere inciperet, macium contraheret, omnem cibam adverseratur, nec amplius croqueteret, penae praetariae defluobant, et alis pendulus omnis facetias intermissit, et tam macer apparuit, ut omnis eius miseriscent, tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit, ut rursus furum absolverent, co facto corvus omnibus mirantibus.

Propadium canvaluit, et pristine sanitatem recuperuit. De illustri ordo Cisterciani. 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 scene, 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 ratchet and pall, Mitre and crozier he hopped upon all.

With saucy air he perched 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 too 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 cleared, the flanns and the custards had all disappeared, 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, Embossed and filled 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, marked in permanent ink. The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight of these nice little boys, dressed 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 turned inside out. The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling, the carpet, the floors, and the walls, and the ceiling. The cardinal drew off each plum-coloured 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 abbot declared that, when nobody twigged it, some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it. The cardinal rose with a dignified look. He called 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 feet 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 seemed one penny the worse. The day was gone, the night came on, the monks and the friars they searched. 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 seemed to be turned the wrong way. His pinions drooped, 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 turned his bald head as much as to say, Pray be so good as to walk this way. Slower and slower he limped 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 called 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 wagged with an impudent air. No longer he perched on the cardinal's chair. He hopped now about with a gait devout. At matins, at vespers, he never was out, and so far from any more pilfering deeds he always seemed telling the confessor's beads.

If anyone lied, or if anyone swore, or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, that good jackdaw would give a great caw, as much as to say, Don't do so any maw. While many remarked as his manners they saw, that they never had known such a pious jackdaw, he long lived the pride of that countryside, 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.

17 17 - A Lay of St. Dunstan 20:09

Dunstan. This holy child Dunstan was born in ye year of our Lord nine hundred and twenty-five, that time reigning in this land, King Athelstan. When it so was that St. Dunstan, Was weary of prayer, then used he to work in goldsmith's work with his own hands, for to eschew idleness. Golden Legend. St. Dunstan stood in his ivied tower. Alembic crucible all were there, when in came Nick to play him a trick, in guise of a damsel passing fair. Every one knows how the story goes. He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose. But I beg that you won't for a moment suppose that I mean to go through in detail, to you, a story at least as trite as it's true. Nor do I intend an instant to spend on the tale how he treated his monarch and friend, when bolting away to a chamber remote, inconceivably bored by his witten gamote, yet we 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 must not be plagued with the same story twice, and perhaps have seen this one by W. Dice at the Royal Academy, very well done, and marked in the catalogue Four seven one. You might there view the saint who in sable arrayed is, coercing the monarch away from the ladies. His right hand was hold of his majesty's jerkin. His left shows the door, and he seems to say, Sir King, your most faithful commons won't hear of your shirking. Quit your tea and return to your Barclay and Perkin, or by jingo ere morning no longer alivea.

Sad victim, you'll lie. Do your love for Elgyva. No farther to treat of this ungallant feat. What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint one particular fact in the life of the saint, which somehow, for want of due care, I presume, has escaped the researches of Rappan and Hume. In recounting a miracle, both of them men who a great deal fall short of Jacques, Bishop of Genoa, An historian who likes deeds like these to record, See his Aurea Legenda by Wincen de Ward. St. Dunstan stood again in his tower, Alembic crucible, all complete. He had been standing a good half-hour, and now he uttered the words of power, and called 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 Grammarie. Still it must be confessed, for a saint to repeat, such language loud 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 appeared glued to. Peter the lay brother, meagre and thin, five feet one in his sandal-shoon, while the saint thought him sleeping, was listening and peeping, and watching his master the whole afternoon. This Peter the saint had picked out from his fellows, To look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows, to put on the Wall's End and Lambton's whenever he chose to indulge in a little orfevery. 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 not to untie. Adopting, though sometimes as now he'd reverse it, old Horace's maxim, neck broomstick in terset, Peter, the lay-brother, meagre and thin, Heard all the saint was saying within. Peter, the lay-brother, sallow and spare, Peeped through the keyhole, and what saw he there? Why, a broomstick bringing a rush-bottomed chair? What Shakespeare 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 happened 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-covered dell. List, tis the sound of the Cumblin bell, and St. Dunstan is quitting his ivied cell. Peter, I wot, is off like a shot, or a little dog scalded by something that's hot. For he hears his master approaching the spot, where he'd listened so long, though he knew he ought not. Peter remembered his master's frown. He trembled. He'd not have been caught for a crown. Howe'er you may laugh, he'd rather by half have run up to the top of the tower and jump down. The Compline hour is past and gone. Evening service is over and done. The monks repair to their frugal fare. A snug little supper of something light and digestible ere they retire for the night.

For in saxon times, in respect to their cheer, St. Austin's rule was by no means severe, but allowed from the Beverly 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 Latrap, whose chief marities said to consist in its greater austerities. And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws, ne'er are suffered to speak, think only in Greek, and subsist as the bears do by sucking their paws. Astonished I am, the gay barren Garam, with his head savouring more of the lion than lamb. Could e'er be persuaded to join such a set I, extend the remark to Signior Ambrogeti. For a monk of Latrape is as thin as a rat, while an Austin friar was jolly and fat.

Though of course the fair 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, all assembled, and not to lay brethren. St. Dunstan himself sits there at his post on what they say is Called a dais, or looking the whole of his clerical host, and eating poached eggs with spinach and toast. Five lay brothers stand behind his chair, but where's 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'll see in a play, On the turban of Mustapha Mouli Bay, Or the fair Turk who weds with the noble Lord Bateman, Fide Plait and 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 caliber, I once knew and loved, poor dear Reginald Hebert, assigns to oblivion a den for a she-bear.

Within it are found, strewed 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 Goldsmith's work, chemistry, alchemy, 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-bottomed chair. Abracadabra, that fearful word, and the two which, I said, I have never yet heard, are uttered, "'Tis done!

Peter, full of his fun, cries Broomstick, you lubberly son of a gun! Bring ale, bring a flagon, a hogshead, a ton! Tis the same thing to you! I have nothing to do, and Fort George I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all's blue. No doubt you've remarked how uncommonly quick a Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick, brings it back to its 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 seller 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 is 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 ton.

A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another, discomfiting much the astounded lay brother. Who had he possessed fifty pitchers or stoops? They all had been too few for arranging in groups. The barrels, the broomstick next started the hoops. The ale deluged the floor, but still through the door said broomstick kept bolting and bringing in more. E'en Macbeth to Macduff would have cried hold enough if half as well drenched with such perilous stuff. And Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit, cried lustily, Stop! That will do, broomstick, suffice it! 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 yoiks with one's hand at one's ear. The longer he roared 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 snapped 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 mose entire. Combs Delafields, Hanbury's, Truman's, no stopping. Goding's Clarenton's Whitbreads continued to drop in, with Hodson's Pale Ale, from the Sun Brewhouse Wapping. The firms differed 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 atable, as I 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 feared he'd be drowned, and he yelled till the sound of his voice winged by terror at last reached the ear of St. Dunstan himself, who had finished 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 happened 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 opened the door, out the malt liquor flowed, just as when the great vat burst in Tottenham 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, while floating a while like a toast in a tankard, to the bottom had sunk and was spied by a monk.

Stone dead like poor Clarence, half-drowned and half-drunk. In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, Wadde retro strong birum discade a lay fra trepetro, Queer Latin, you'll say, that prefix of lay, and strong birum. I own they'd have called me a blockative. 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 Mereri. 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 talked 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 beer with an I. Moral, by way of a moral permit me to pop in, the following maxims. Beware of eavesdropping, 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 X's. L'envoix, 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 pulled 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.

St. Jingo or Django, Jengolfus, sometimes styled the living Jingo from the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by his severed members. See his legend as recorded hereafter in the present volume. End of note.

18 18 - A Lay of St. Gengulphus 21:34

Jengolfus, 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. Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, had kindly transmitted 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. V de Infra. A Franklin's dog leaped over a stile, and his name was Little Bingo. B with a Y, Y with an N, N with a G, G with an O. They called him Little Bingo. The Spranklins, sirs, he brewed good ale, and he called it Rare Good Stingo. S T Y N G O.

He called it Rare Good Stingo. Now is this not a pretty song? I think it is, by Jingo. J with a Y N G O. I swear it is, by Jingo. A lay of St. Non multo post jingolfus in domo sua dormiens, acissus est a quodum clerico, qui cum uxero sua adulterare solebat, coios corpum dum inferato, in sopulturum portaratur, multi infermi de tactu sanati sunt, cum hoc ilius uxori referatur ab ansila sua, scilicet dominum suam. Quam martyrem sanctum miracula facari iridens illa, et subsurans et, eta, gengulfus miracula facitat, ut pulvinarium meum cantat, etc., etc., vulfi memorabilia. Cengulfus comes from the Holy Land, with his scrip and his bottle and sandal shewn, full many a day hath he been away. Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day hath he been away, yet scarce had he cross'd ayunt the sea, ere a spruce young spark of a learned clerk had call'd on his lady and stopp'd to tea. This spruce young guest, so trimly dress'd, stay'd with that lady her revels to crown. They laugh'd and they ate and they drank of the best, and they turn'd the old castle, Quite upside down. They would walk in the park, that spruce young clerk, with that frolicsome lady so frank and free, trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways, to get rid of what French people called ennui. Now the festive board with viands is stored, savoury dishes, be there I ween, rich puddings and big, a barbecued pig, and ox-tail 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 naught they are thinking save eating and drinking, Gengolphus walks in from the Holy Land.

You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep, says the proverb, that is, take the fair unawares, a maid of the banisters chancing to peep. Whispers, Ma'am, here's Gengolfus a-coming upstairs. Pie, 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 Gengolfus taste. Then, oh, what rapture, what joy was express'd when poor dear Gengolfus 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 seemed half mad, and did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she called up the maid and the tablecloth slayed, 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 pressed him to drink, and she pressed 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 vowed and declared. She never could eat one morsel of meat, for thinking how poor dear Gengolfus 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 weakened 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 lifts up the head, and between them this most reprehensible pair, undress poor Gengalthus, and put him to bed. Then the bolster they place athwart his face, and his nightcap into his mouth they cram. And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes, till the poor dear soul goes off like a lamb. And now they tried the deed to hide, for a little bird whispered, Perchance you may swing. Here's a corpse in the case with a sad, swelled face, and a medical crowner's a queer sort of thing.

So the clerk and the wife, they each took a knife, and the nippers that nipped the sugar-loaf for tea. With the edges and points they severed the joints, at the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee. Thus, limb from limb, they dismembered him, so entirely that e'en when they came to his wrists, with those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his flippers, as the clerk very flippantly termed his fists. When they'd cut off his head, Entertaining a dread, lest folks should remember Gengolfa'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 sheared, 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 armchair.

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 that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown. But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out, and that, in a manner the least expected, who could surmise a man ever could rise, who'd been thus carbonadoed, cut up and dissected. No doubt twould surprise the pupils at guys. I am no unbeliever. No man could 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 Hindus and Chinese, or a mussulman making his heathen salamor, a Jew or a Turk, but its other guesswork, 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, which to receive a snug party to dine, of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses. At a quarter past five, they are all alive at the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in. And to every guest his card had express'd, half-past as the hour for a greasy chin. Some thirty are seated and handsomely treated, with the choicest rhine wines in his highness's stock. When a count of the empire, who felt himself heated, requested some water to mix with his hock, the butler who saw it sent a maid out to draw it, but scarce had she given the windlass a twirl. Ere Gengolfa'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 roared and she ran, with the head rolling after her, bawling out. Stop! She ran and she roared till she came to the board, where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around. When Gengolfa's pole, which continued to roll, at her feet 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 fellow's 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 Gengolphus, 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 to 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 viewed the whole thirty in jocular terms, said they put him in mind of a council of Trent, 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 orley hath induced him to swear. His episcopal moiety said benedicity. 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 Townsend, von Birney, von Rowe, von Mennes and von Rowens, through Chalet and Chateau, Townsvillages, Hamlets, they told them to go. And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stad Ho. Murder! Whereas a dead gentleman, surname unknown, has been recently found at His Highness's banquet, rather shabbily dressed in an amos or gown, in appearance resembling a second-hand blanket, and whereas there's reason indeed to suspect that some ill-disposed person or persons with malice before thought have killed 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 concerned in the murder.

Done this day at our palace, July Twenty Five, by command, signed, Johann von Rissell, N. B. Deceased rather in years had a squint when alive, and smells slightly of gin, linen marked 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 killed the Prince Bishop. The Ghent Herald fell foul of the Brussels Gazette. The Brussels Gazette with much sneering ironical. Scorned 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, biz'd 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 Tengulfus 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 great relief to her joy and surprise, from one glimpse of his squint, then from glasses by Dalland, but the slightest approach to the tip of his nose, Megrim's 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. Rheumatic sciatica tic-dularoo. 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 colic, or rubbed on the gums. Were a blessing to mothers, for infants in teething. Whoever saluted the nape of his neck, where the mark remained visible still of the knife, notwithstanding East Wind's 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 locked him up body and bones in a shrine. Through country and town his new saintships 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 offerings 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 appeared, when Gengolfus himself, his fame still to increase, unraveled the whole by the help of his beard. If you look back, you'll see the aforesaid Barbgris, when divorced from the chin of its murdered proprietor. had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee, or double-armed chair, to keep the thing quieter. It may seem rather strange that it did not arrange itself in its place when the limbs joined together.

Perhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout, and constructed of good strong maroon-coloured leather. Or what is more likely, Gengolfus might choose For saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition, it should rest there to aid some particular views produced by his very peculiar position. Be that as it may, on the very first day that the widow Gengolfus set down on that settee, what occurred almost frightened her senses away, besides scaring her handmaidens, Gertrude and Betty. They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds. Of the new saint to whom all the towns said their orisons, and especially how, as regards Invalides, his miraculous cures far outrivalled von Morisons.

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, Craydot, Judaeus, Those rascally liars, the monks and the friars, to bring grist to their mill. These devices have hit on. He works miracles. Pooh! I'd believe it of you, just as soon, you great geese, or the chair that I sit on. The chair, at that word, it seems really absurd. But the truth must be told, what contortions and grins distorted her face. She sprang up from her place just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins, for as if the saint's beard the rash challenge had heard, which she uttered 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 all together, like tenterhooks 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 shrieked 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, God of scot-free, though unnoticed it be, both by Riba D'anera and Jacques de Voragny, For cut-throats were 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, V de Homer and Neso, 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 are 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 Vitae Sanctorum. Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect in your spouses, allow not your patience to fail. But remember Gengolfa's wife, and reflect on the moral enforced by her terrible tale.

19 19 - The Lay of St. Odille 14:24

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham.

Mr. Barney Maguire has laid claim to the next saint as a countrywoman, and why wouldn't he, when all the world knows the Odells were a fine old ancient family, sated in Tipperary, Ere the Lord Mare stole his collar of Gowld, and souled it away to a traitor. He is manifestly wrong, but as he very rationally observes, no matter for that, she's a saint anyway. The lay of Saint Odile. Odile 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 Strasbourg were beautiful. Still they were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odile.

But Odile was devout, and before she was nine, had experienced a call she considered 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 Odile. At length one of her suitors, a certain Count Hermann, 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, mein Herr Phil, here's luck to yourself and my daughter Odile. The lady Odile was quite nervous with fear when a little bird whispered that toast in her ear. She murmured, 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 cong, I shall put on my bonnet and e'en run away. She unlocked the back door and descended the hill. On whose crest stood the towers of the sire of Odile. When he found she'd levanted, the Count of Elsace, at first turned remarkably red in the face, he anathomised with much unction and grace.

Every soul who came near and consigned 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, asked, Pray, have you seen anything of Odile? 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. Odile 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 Locke and Var who came out of the West.

"'Tis done. I am gone over Briarbrook and Rill. They'll be sharp lads who catch me," said young Miss Odile. But you've all read in Aesop, or Phaedrus, or Gay, How a tortoise and hare ran together one day, How the hare making play progressed right slick away, As them tarnation chaps the Americans say, While the tortoise whose figure is rather outr, 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 gray, Though her form and obesity caused some delay, perseverance and patience brought up her leeway, and she chased her fleet-footed precursor until she o'ertook her at last, so it fared with Odile. For although, as I said, she ran gaily at first, and showed no inclination to pause if she durst, she at length felt oppressed 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 styles. And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill round the ankle, these styles sadly bothered Odile. 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 Schwarz forest, in English, the black. I cannot divine how the boundary line was past which is somewhere there formed by the Rhine. Perhaps she'd the knack to float o'er on her back, or perhaps cross the old bridge of boats at Brissac, which Vauban some years after secured from attack by a bastion of stone, which the Germans call whack.

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 Odile. I said on its brow, but I should have said crown, for t'was quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown, and so high that t'was rightful indeed to look down, upon Fribourg 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 Hermon that evening should marry Odile. Alas, for Odile, 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 huzzahing 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 vermingard, her whose last hope rests entirely on you. Don't let papa catch me, dear Saint, rather kill, at once, sur lechamp, your devoted Odile. It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress get baulked 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. Odile 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 goto.

Twas her voice, but twas Vox et Praetaria nil, nor could anyone guess what was gone with Odile. Then burst from the mountain a splendour that quite eclipsed in its brilliance the finest boot-light, and there stood St. Ermengarde, dress'd 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 everyone saw with amazement and awe, they could never sit down, for they hadn't de croix. All at the sight from the nave to the night 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 Odile. 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 stowed 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, O Dill. The saint disappeared 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 Jim 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 Edinburgh. 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 odile. The lord of Elsace therefore altered 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 Hermon must pick up some Betsy or Nan, instead of my girl, some Sioux-Polly or Fan.

If he can't get the corn, he must do with the bran. And make shift with the pot, if he can't have the pan. With such proverbs as these he went down on his knees, and said, Blessed St. Ermengarde, just as you please, they shall build a new convent, I'll pay the whole bill, taking discount, its abbess shall be my Odile. There are some of my readers, I'll venture to say, who have never seen Fribourg, 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 poche, 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, though 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 germanised giant, Thor, Woden, or Locke, 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. O dills, I believe, which have flowed all these years. I think they account for them so. But the rill, I am sure, is connected some way with Odile. 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 jives. Then let's act like Count Otto, and while one survives, succumb to our she saints, the delicit 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 Odile. 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 last with a hole in their shoe.

Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville, can produce enough saints to save every Odile.

20 20 - A Lay of St. Nicholas 16:17

citizen of the city of Pancras, was born of rich and holy kin, and his father was named Epiphanes, and his mother, Johanna. He was born on a cold, frosty morning on the sixth of December. Upon which day his feast is still observed. But in what anno domine is not so clear, his baptismal register, together with that of his friend and colleague, St. Thomas at Hill, have been lost in the great fire of London. St. Nicholas was a great patron of mariners, and, saving your presents, of thieves also, which Honorable 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 the spanish version of a lay of st.

Nicholas extant in choice italian a century before honest Miguel was born. A lay of st. Nicholas statum sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specia pollae folcretudinus mirae et ecce divus fide et cruce et atqua benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine sanctae et individuae trinitatus, quam quasi ardentum diabolus ne quaquam sustenere valens, mugitibus fugit. Roger Halveden. Lord abbot, lord abbot, I'd fain confess I am aweary 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 lith and listen, Lord abbot, to me. Now, nay, fair daughter, the Lord abbot said. Now, nay, in sooth it may hardly be. There is mess Michael, and holy mess John.

Sage penitoncers, I ween be they, and hard by doth dwell in St. Catharine's cell. Ambrose, the anchorite, old and grey. Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John, though sage penitoncers 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 Comte of Oud and the Lord of Pontou, 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 cheerfully. But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain, and I vowed 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 youths 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, nay, now, nay, 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-moted match with thy fair renown, That a wandering damsel dine with thee. There is Simon the deacon, half pulse in store, With beans and lettuces fair to see. His Lenten fare now let me share, I pray thee, Lord Abbott, in charity. Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, to our patron saint foul shame it were, should way-worn 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 company. The abbot hath donned his mitre and ring, his rich dalmatic and mansible 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. Nermote Lord Abbott pronounce benedicity over more luscious or delicate fare. But no pious stave, no potter, or ave, pronounced as he gazed on that maiden's face. She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, she asked him for gizzard, but not for grace. Yet gaily the lord abbot smiled and pressed, and the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled. And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast, and he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled.

There was no lack of old sherry's sack, of hypocris fine or of malmsie bright, and aye, as he drain'd off his cup with a smack, he grew less pious and more polite. She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice, and she drank as lady ought not to drink, and he press'd her hand neath the table thrice, and he wink'd as abbot ought not to wink. And Peter the prior and Francis the friar, sat each with a napkin under his chin. But Roger the monk got excessively drunk, so they put him to bed, and they tucked him in. The lay brothers gazed on each other amazed, and Simon the deacon with grief and surprise. As he peeped through the keyhole could scarce fancy reel the scene he beheld or believe his own eyes.

In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot's singing, he could not distinguish the words very plain. But Twas all about coal, and jolly old soul, and fiddlers in punch, and things quite as profane. Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such revelling, with fervour himself began to bless, for he thought he must somehow have let the devil in, and perhaps was not very much out in his guess. The accusing buyers flew up to heaven's chancery, blushing like scarlet with shame and concern. The archangel took down his tale, and in answer he wept, see the works of the late Mr. Stern. Indeed, it is said, a less taking both wherein, when after a lapse of a great many years, they booked Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing, and blotted the fine out again with their tears.

But St. Nicholas's 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 endowed 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 seemed 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, Jose, Jose, Jose. And one of the party said, Go it, my hearty, when out spake that pilgrim gray. A boon, Lord Abbot, a boon, a boon. Worn is my foot, and empty my script. And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon, of food, Lord abbot, hath passed my lip. And I am come from a far country, and have visited many a holy shrine, and long have I trod the sacred sod, where the saints do rest in Palestine. And thou art come from a far country, and if thou in Panemlands hast been, now read me aright the most wonderful sight, Thou palmer grey, that thine eyes have seen. Aread me aright the most wonderful sight, grey palmer, that ever thine eyes did see, and a manchet of bread, and a good warm bed, and a cup of 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 ratchet and stole with prior and friar a strange marvell, or a jolly full bowl sitting cheek by joel and hobnobbing away with a devil from hell. He felt in his gown of ginger-brown, and he pulled out a flask from beneath. It was rather tough work to get out the cork. But he did it at last with his teeth. O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water, he made a sacred sign, and he dashed the hole on the soi-disant daughter of old Plantagenet's line. Oh, then did she reek and squeak and shriek with a wild unearthly scream, and fizzled and hissed and produced such a mist.

They were all half choked by the steam. Her dove-like eyes turned 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 appeared 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's 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 football at play, till into the bottomless pit he fell slap, knocking Mammon the meagre, or Percy Belpheger, and Lucifer into Beelzebub's lap. Oh, happy the slip-tongue! 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 doins, some miles up the river, south-east of Cologne.

And while sauerkraut 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 Cidevant abbot's state chair. How a Cidevant abbot, all clothed in drab-but, of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes, his mitre and ring and all that sort of thing, laid aside in yon cave, Lived a pious recluse. How he rose with the sun, limping dot and go one, to yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather, where a prior and a friar, who lived somewhat higher up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together. How a thirsty old codger, the neighbors called Roger, with them drank cold water in lieu of old wine.

What its quality wanted he, made up in quantity, Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine, and how as their bodily strength failed, the mental man gained tenfold vigor 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 odor 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 ahead 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 relics and memories, how the seat of aunt Abbot's obtained greater still When some cripples on touching his fractured osphemeris threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille.

And how Abbot Simon, who turned out a prime one, these words which grew into a proverb full soon, or the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto, Who sups with the devil should have a long spoon.

21 21 - The Lady Rohesia 19:46

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham.

Rohege, daughter of Ambrose and sister to Sir Everard Inglesby, was born about the beginning of the 16th century, and was married in 1526 at St. Giles' Cripplegate, in the City of London. The following narrative contains all else that is known of, the Lady Roheja. The Lady Roheja lay on her death-bed. So said the doctor, and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters. Besides, Dr. Butz 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 Gray. Is there no hope? said Everard Inglesby. Is there no hope? said Sir Guy de Montgomery. He was the Lady Rohegea'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. Dr. Butz was a very learned man. Ars longa, vita brevis. said Dr. Butz. I am very sorry to hear it, quothed Sir Guy de Montgomery. Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall, but he was no scholar. Alas, my poor sister, sighed Inglesby. 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. Dr. Butz withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady. He pointed to the horrelage.

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 Marian Hackett pertly, as she tripped downstairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic. In the pantry, I warrant me, the bower-woman was not wont to be in the wrong. In the pantry was the holy man discovered, at his devotions. Pax vobiscum, said Father Francis, as he entered the chamber of death, Vita brevis, Retorted Dr.

Butz. He was not a man to be browbeat out of his latin, and by a paltry friar Minham, too. Had it been a bishop, indeed, or even a mitred abbot, but a miserable Franciscan, Benedicti, said the friar. Ars lange, returned the leech. Dr. Butz adjusted the tassels of his falling band, drew his short, sad-coloured cloak closer around him, and grasping his cross-handled walking-stick, stopped 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 Irvins 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 tale, 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 Rohege. 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 Roncesvalles. Now the lady Roesia Inglesby had brought her husband broad lands and large possessions. Much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own disposal, and non-cupidive 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 to Montgomery.

A thousand marks, continued the confessor. Fixing his cold grey eye upon the night, as he went on heedless of the interruption, a thousand marks, and as many aves and potters 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 Inglesby waited on him downstairs. A thousand thanks, said the latter. A thousand marks, said the friar. A thousand devils, growled Sir Guy de Montgomery 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 Montgomery stood pensively at the foot of the bed. His arms were crossed upon his bosom. His chin was sunk upon his breast. His eyes were filled with tears. The dim rays of the fading watch-light gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top of his head. For Sir Guy was a middle-aged gentleman, Tall and portly withal, with a slight bend in his shoulders, but that not much. His complexion was somewhat florid, especially about the nose. But his lady was in extremis, and at this particular moment he was paler than usual.

Bim, boom, went the bell. The night groaned audibly. Beatrice Gray wiped her eye with her little square apron of lace de maline. 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 Gray. "'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 Montgomery? 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 lamb's wool at Christmas, beg Dominey Dump's boys a holiday, and dine upon Sprat's 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. Yet, yet, yes, sobbed Beatrice.

I did not deserve her, said the knight. No, 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 Gray. 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. He gazed for a few moments steadfastly 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, boom, went the bell. Bandy-legged Hubert had been tolling for half an hour. He began to grow tired, and St. Peter, fidgety. Beatrice Gray, said Sir Guy de Montgomery. What's to be done? What's to become of Montgomery Hall, and the buttery, and the servants, and what—what's to become of me, Beatrice Gray? 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. He relapsed into a reverie. Shave his head? He did not so much mind that. He was getting rather bald already. But beans for dinner, and those without butter, and then a horsehair shirt. The knight seemed undecided.

His eye roamed gloomily around the apartment. It paused upon different objects. But as if it saw them not, its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance. It rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathising damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief. Her tears had ceased, but her eyes were cast down, and mournfully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the devil's tattoo. There is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. Sir Guy turned round, he seated himself on the edge of the bed, and placing his hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees. 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 Montgomery. Another pause ensued. The knight had released her chin and taken her hand. It was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the palm, said Little, for its owner's industry.

Sit down, my dear Beatrice, said the knight thoughtfully. You must be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat, my child. Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand, but he sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his companion between himself and the bed-post. Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the other. In such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist. And his knuckles rested on the bed, a little in the rear of his companion. "'Another,' repeated Sir Guy, musing. "'If indeed I could find such another!' He was talking to his thought.

But Beatrice Gray answered him. "'There's Madame Fitzfusel.' "'A frump,' said Sir Guy. "'Or the lady Bombarton, with her hump?' muttered he. "'There's the Dowager.' "'Stop, stop,' said the knight. "'Stop one moment.' He paused. He was all on a tremble. Something seemed rising in his throat, but he 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 Gray? 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 Dr. Butts, and his Repetitor Housness, a prescription Father Francis had taken infinite pains to translate for him. He was about to repeat it, but the dose was interrupted, in transito, 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 Gray started upon hers, but a single glance to the rear, reversed her position. She fell upon her knees and screamed. The night, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight which might have turned a bolder man to stone.

It was she, the all but defunct Rohege. There she sat, bolt upright, her eyes no longer glazed with a film of impending dissolution, but scintillating like flint and steel. While in her hand she grasped the bedstaff, a weapon of mickle might, as her husband's bloody coxcomb could now well testify. Words were yet wanting, for the quincy, which her rage had broken, still impeded her utterance, but the strength and rapidity of her guttural intonations augured well for her future eloquence. Sir Guy de Montgomery stood for a while like a man distraught, This resurrection, for such it seemed, had quite overpowered him. A husband ofttimes makes the best physician, says the proverb. He was a living personification of its truth.

Still it was whispered he had been content with Dr. Butts, but his lady was restored to bless him for many years. Heavens, what a life he led! The lady rohesia mended apace. Her quincy was cured. The bell was stopped, and little Hubert, the sacristan, kicked out of the chapelry. St. Peter opened his wicket and looked out. There was nobody there, so he flung to the gate in a passion, and went back to his lodge, grumbling at being hoaxed by a runaway ring. Years rolled on. The improvement of Lady Rohege's temper did not keep pace with that of her health, and one fine morning Sir Guy de Montgomery 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 Detford Hope, where lay the good ship, the Darling, commanded by Captain Keymas, 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 Bethesden 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. Pray for ye soul of ye lady Royce, and for all Christian souls. The date is illegible. But it appears that she survived King Henry VIII, and that the dissolution of monasteries had lost St.

Mary Roncival her thousand marks. As for Beatrice Gray, 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.

22 22 - The Tragedy 8:29

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham. 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' account of the tragedy, just as it was written, without altering even the last couplet, for there would be no making Edgerton rhyme with story. The Tragedy, Quae Que Ipsi Miserrima Vidi, Virgil. Catherine of Cleves was a lady of rank. She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the bank. She had jewels and rings and a thousand smart things, was lovely and young, with a rather sharp tongue, and she wedded a noble of high degree, with the star of the order of Saint-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 looked like a guy. So she took to intriguing with Monsieur St. Migran, 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 men in France, and took his rapide with genteel nonchalance. He smiled and he flattered and flirted with ease, and was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise. Now, M. St. Migrin 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 Signior 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 strayed 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, Cacolorum, when the Duchess immediately popped up before him. 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 dearie. Monsieur St. Migran 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 keyhole, 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 bandanna she'd worn as a shawl. She had used it for drying her bright eyes while crying, and blowing her nose as her beau talked of dying. Now the duke who had seen it so lately adorn her, and knew the great sea with the crown in the corner. The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss, and said with some energy, Damn 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 looked blue, but replied with much firmness, Hang me if I do. De Guise grasped her wrist with his great bony fist, and pinched it and gave it so painful a twist that his hard iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in. She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinchin'. So she sat down and wrote this polite little note, Dear Mr. St. The chiefs of the league in our house mean to dine this evening at nine. I shall soon after ten slip away from the men, and you'll find me upstairs in the drawing-room then. Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves of servants will see you, yours, Katharine of Cleves. She directed and sealed it all pale as a ghost, and de Guise put it into the topenny post.

Saint-migrin 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 scarce made his bow. He hardly knew how. When, alas and alack, there was no getting back, or the drawing-room door was banged 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 mourned her mishap.

We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap. Now the Duchess Page, about twelve years of age, for so little a boy, was remarkably sage, and just in the nick to their joy and amazement, hopped the gaslighter's ladder close under the casement. But all would not do, though Sanmigren got through. The window below stood de Guise and his crew, and though never man was more brave than Sanmigren, Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguen. He thrust cart and tirse, 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 fogel that caused all this breeze, whipped it tight round his neck, and when backward he'd jerked him. The rest of the rascals jumped on him and burked him. The poor little Page to himself got no quarterbutt, was served the same way, and was found the next day, with his heels in the air and his head in the waterbutt. Katharine of Cleves roared murder and thieves from the window above, while they murdered her love. Till finding the rogues had accomplished his slaughter, she drank prussic acid without any water, and died like a duke and a duchess daughter. Moral. Take warning, ye fair, from this tale of the bards, 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 Levison Garheed be called on, sad poet, to tell your sad story.

23 23 - Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation 7:22

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham. 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 cruse keen of his own concocting.

Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Coronation, Aire, the groves of Blarney. Ock 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 policemen making a scrimmage at half after four, and the lords and ladies, and the Miss O'Grady's, all standing round before the abbey door. Their pillows scorning that selfsame morning, themselves adorning all by the candlelight. With roses and lilies, and daffy-down dillies, and gold and jewels, and rich diamonds bright, and then approaches five hundred coaches, with general Dahlbeek, ach, twas mighty fine, to see how aisy, old corporal Kasey, with his sword-drawn prancing, made them cape the line.

Then the guns of larums, and the king of arums, all in his garters, and his Clarence shoes, opening the massy doors to the bold ambassadors, the prince of potboys and great heathen Jews. Twould have made you crazy to see Esther Hazy, all jewels from his jay-z to his diamond boots, with alderman harmer, and that sweet charmer, the female heiress, Miss Angelly Coutts. And Wellington walking, With his sword-drawn talking, to Hilland Harding, Harrows of great fame, and Sir de Lacey, and the Duke Dalmacy, they call'd him Salt, afore he chang'd his name, themselves presading, Lord Melbourne Lading, the Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, and that final'd fellow, the Duke of Pelmello, the Queen of Portengulls, Chargy de Fair.

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, in fine laced jackets, with their golden cuffs, and the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians, and everything Garians, all in furs and muffs. Then Mr. Spaker, with Mr. Pays the Quaker, all in the gallery, you might per save, but Lord Broome was missing, and gone a-fishing. Only Kras Lord Essex would not give him lave. There was Baron Alton, himself Exalton, and Prince von Schwarzenburg, and many more. Ach, 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 aldermenesses, and the board of works. But Mehamed Ali, Said quite gentally, I be proud to see the likes among the turks.

Then the queen heaven bless her, Ach they did dress her, in her purple garments and her golden crown, like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Shebe, with eight young ladies holding up her gown. Sure twas grand to see her, also to hear, the big drums baiting, and the trumpet's blow, And Sir George Smart, oh, he played a concerto, with his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row. Then the Lord Archbishop held a golden dish up, for to resave her bounty and great wealth, saying, Plaise your glory, great Queen Victoria, you'll give the clergy lave to drink your health. Then his reverence retreating, discused the mating. Boys, here's your queen, Deny it if you can, and if any bold traitor or inferior crather sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man.

Then the noble's kneeling, to the powers appealing, heaven send your majesty, a glorious reign. And Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her, all in his scarlet gown and golden chain. The great Lord Mare too, set in his chair too, but mighty Sarrius, 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 rail macasher, 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 Roll was rolling, Twas mighty consoling, to think his lordship did not break his bones.

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard, all on the tombstones, like a polferer's shop, with lobsters and whitebait, and other swate meats, and wine and negus, and imperial pop. There was cakes and apples in all the chapels, With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears. Ach, the Count von Strogonoff, sure he got his proganoff, the sly old divil undernaith the stairs. Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, crying, God save Victoria, our royal queen. Ach, 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 poet rye. Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, faith it's myself that's getting mighty thry.

24 24 - The 'Monstre' Balloon 8:13

As a pendant to the foregoing, I shall venture to insert Mr. Simpkins'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 Monster Balloon! Oh, the balloon, the great balloon! It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon, and everyone 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, a 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 talked about Green. Oh, where's Mr. Green? And where's Mr. Holland, 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 pressed beef with the fat cut off, nothing but lean, and the portable soup in the patent tureen. Have they got to Grand Cairo, or reached Aberdeen, or Jerusalem, Hamburg, or Valley Pourine?

No, they have not been seen. Oh, they haven't been seen. Stay, here's Mr. Guy, Mr. Frederick Guy. At Paris, says he, I've been up very high. A couple of hundred of toises or nigh, a cock stride the Tuileries Pantiles to spy, with Dahlin's best telescope stuck at my eye, and my umbrella under my arm like Paul Prye. 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 mare's nose such a deuce of a bruise, as he popped up his eye-glass to look at their crews over Dover, and which the folks flocked to peruse.

At Squire's Bazaar, the same evening in Crewe's, politicians, newsmongers, town council, and blues, turks, heretics, infidels, jumpers, and Jews, scorning bachelors, papers, and Warren's reviews. But the wind was then blowing towards Helvet Slews, 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 sailed very fast, And a gentleman serving before the mast. Mr. Noakes has declared that the party has passed, Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast, As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast, To see such a monster come born on the blast. And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast.

Oh, fie, Mr. Noakes, for shame, Mr. Noakes, 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-Opsum, 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 eightpence to pay for a letter from Hamboro just come to say They descended at Weilberg 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 Johannesburg, Roodsheim, Moselle, and Toquay, 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 wagon or dray, And pop themselves into a German pocher, and get on to Paris by Lille or Tournay, where they'll 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 Elysees, and be back again here the beginning of May. Dear me, what a treat for a juvenile feat! What thousands will flock their arrival to greet? There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street, for at Vauxhall the whole population will meet, and you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat, for this all preceding attraction must beat.

Since they'll unfold what we want to be told, how they coughed, how they sneezed, how they shivered with cold. How they tippled the cordial as racy and old as Hodges or Dee Dee or Smith ever sold, and how they all then felt remarkably bold. How they thought the boiled beef worth its own weight in gold, and how Mr. Green was beginning to scold, because Mr. Mason would try to lay hold of the moon and had very near overboard rolled. And there they'll be seen There'll be all to be seen, the greatcoats, the coffee-pot mugs, and tureen, with the tightrope and fireworks, 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. Holland 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 lifeguardsman and little gossoon, will all join in three cheers for the monster balloon.

25 25 - The Execution - Hon. Mr. Sucklethumbkin's Story 9:31

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham. It is much to be regretted that I have not as yet been able to discover more than a single specimen of my friend Suckelthumbkins' 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. Honourable Mr. Suckle Thumbkins' Story, The Execution, A Sporting Anecdote.

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day. It was half after two, he had nothing to do. So his Lordship rang for his Cabriolet. Tiger Tim was clean of limb, his boots were polished, 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 asked, 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, Taglione has not yet arrived in her stead. Tiger Tim, come tell me true. What may a nobleman find to do? Tim looked up, and Tim looked down. He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown.

And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown. He bit his lip, and he scratched his head. He let go the handle, and thus he said, as the door released, behind him banged. And please you, my lord, there's a man to be hanged. My lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news, Run to Mephoos and Lieutenant Tregoose, And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues. Rope dancers a score I've seen before, Madame Sochi 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 stepped into his cab. Dark rifle green with a lining of drab. Through street and through square, his high-trotting mare, like one of Ducro's, goes pawing the air.

Adound 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 to 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 balls. 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'fooze, and Lieutenant Tregoose, 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 everything and everybody.

The clock strikes two, And the clock strikes three. Who so merry, so merry as we, save Captain Mufuse, 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 debtor's door, are gathered 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 wagon 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 Tregoose is dreaming of Jews, and acceptances all the billbrokers 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 turned 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 Tom Noddy awoke, and Tregoose and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose, and Captain Mephoose with the black on his nose, and they stared at each other as much as to say, Hullo, hullo, 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 missed 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 Tom Noddy went home to bed.

26 26 - Some Account of a New Play 19:44

The following communication will speak for itself. On their own actions, modest men are dumb. Some account of a new play. In a familiar epistle to my brother-in-law, Lieutenant Seaforth, H. P., late of the Honorable E. I. C.'s Second Regiment, of Bombay Fencibles. The play's the thing. Hamlet, Tavistock Hotel, November, 1839, dear Charles, in reply to your letter and Fanny's, Lord Broome, 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 the play. The Countess of Arundel, high in degree, as a lady possessed 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 of 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, Stone 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, disappeared the next morning, and nobody missed him.

The fact is his lordship, who hadn't, it seems, formed the slightest idea not e'en 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 lady's concerns, and, alarm'd for the future, looks out for a suitor, one not fond of raking nor given to the pewter, but adapted to act both the husband and tutor, finds a highly respectable middle-aged widower, marries her off, and thanks heaven that he's rid of her. Relieved from his cares, the old peer now prepares to arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs.

Has his will made anew by a special attorney? Sickens takes to his bed and sets out on his journey. Which way he travelled has not been unravelled? To speculate much on the point were too curious, if the climate he reached 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 endowed 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 beathersden marble, a dark bluish grey, the figure a fine one of pure alabaster, Some cleanly churchwarden has covered with plaster, while some vandal or Jew, with a taste for virtu, has knocked off his toes to place, I suppose, in some pickwick museum with part of his nose.

From his belt and his sword and his misericord, the enamel's been chipped out and never restored. His sigi in old French is inscribed all around, and his head's in his helm, and his heels on his hound. The palms of his hands, as if going to pray, are joined and upraised o'er his bosom, but stay. I forgot that his tomb's not described in the play. Lady Arundel, now in her own right, a pires, 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 Newcomb, she seems to confine hers, neglecting the poor little dear out at Dry Nurse.

Nay, far worse than that, she considers the brat as a bore, Fears her husband may smell out a rat. For her legal adviser, she takes an old miser, a sort of poor cousin. She might have been wiser, for this arrant deceiver, by name Morris Beaver, 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 asked 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 whispered low, Bully gawson, and 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 Norries, of Drake and Bold Raleigh.

Then fresh in his glories, Acquired amongst the Indians and Rapparee Tories, He so worked 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 furnished 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, twirled 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 drowned, for Twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground.

If a very great warman, called Billy the Norman, Had not just at that moment sailed by outward bound, a shark of great size with his great glassy eyes, sheered off as he came and relinquished the prize. So he picked up the lad, swabbed and dry-rubbed, and mopped him, and having no children, resolved to adopt him. Full many a year did he hand-reef and steer, and by no means considered himself as small beer. When old norman at length died and left him his frigate, with lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it. A sailor ne'er moans, so consigning the bones of his friend to the locker of one Mr. Jones. For England he steers, on the voyage it appears, that he rescued a maid from the day of Algiers, and at length reached the Sussex coast where, in a bay, not a great way from Brighton, Most cosily lay, his vessel at anchor, the very same day, that the poet begins, thus commencing his play.

Act I. Giles Gawson accosts old Sir Morris to Beaver, 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 Morris, who gladly would see Mr. Gawson, Breaking stones on the highway, or sweeping acrossen, 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 Morris, a farm near the X. Oh, take it, she cries, but secure every document.

A bargain, says Morris, 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 day of Algiers. Now arises a delicate point, and this is it. The young lady herself is but down on a visit. She's perplexed, and in fact does not know how to act. It's her very first visit, and then to begin by asking a stranger, a gentleman in, one with moustaches too, and a tuft on his chin. She really don't know. He had much better go. Here the countess steps in from behind and says no. Fair sir, you are welcome. Do pray stop and dine. You will take our pot luck, and we've decentish wine.

He bows, looks at miss, and he does not decline. Act II. After dinner the captain recounts with much glee All he's heard, seen, and done since he first went to sea, All his perils and scrapes, and his hair-breadth Escapes, talks of boa-constrictors and lions and apes, and fierce Bengal tigers, like that which, you know, if you've ever seen any respectable show, carried off the unfortunate Mr. Monroe. Then, diverging a while, he adverts to the mystery, which hangs like a cloud, or his own private history, how he ran off to see how they set him afloat, Not a word, though, of barrel or bunghole. See note, how he happened to meet with the Algerine fleet, and forced them by sheer dint of arms to retreat, thus saving his violet.

One of his feet here just touch'd her toe, and she moved on her seat. How his vessel was battered, in short, he so chatter'd, now lively, now serious, so ogled and flattered. That the ladies much marvelled, 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 your groom, claps his hand on his rapier and swears he'll be through him, The captain does nothing at all but poo-poo 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 asked for his knights and his daughter said, here's ago. 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-captains 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 weather-wise doubtless midst surges and surf he, when capering on shore was by no means a murphy.

He starts off again 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 lettera, Paper to prove his name birthright, etc. Being rather too late, Gawson lying in wait gives poor father Onslow a knock on the pate, but bolts seeing Norman before he has rested. From the hand of the priest, as Sir Morris 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, reopens his eyes, and tells him all how and about it, and dies. Act for Norma now called Lamennie, 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 turned 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 blistered 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 dialet, Stime for the rendezvous fixed with Miss Violet. Captain Norman, who after all feels rather sore, At his mother's reserve, vows to see her no more, Rings the bell for the servant to open the door. And leaves his mamma in a fit on the floor.

Act V. Now comes the catastrophe, Ashdale, who's wrapped in, the cloak with the hat and the plume of the captain, leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel. Where Gosson'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 knob, saves the hangman a job, and executes justice most strictly. But rather, twas the spot where that rascal had murdered 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. R. 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 Morris Beaver 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, Tye. Don't wed with low people beneath your degree. And if you've a baby, don't send it to sea. Young noblemen, shun everything like a brawl, and be sure when you dine out or go to a ball, don't take the best hat that you find in the hall, and leave one in its stead that's worth nothing at all. Old knights, don't give bribes, above all never urge a man to steal people's things or to stick an old clergyman. And you, ye sea-captains, who've nothing to do but to run round the world, fight and drink till all's blue, and tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true.

Reflect, notwithstanding, your seafaring 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. Note on Billy the Norman. An incident very like one in Jack Shepherd, a work some have lauded, and others have peppered, where a Dutch pirate kidnaps, then 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 hole, and the hero half drowned scrambles out of the bung hole. It ain't no sich thing. The hero ain't bunged in no barrel at all. He's picked up by a captain, just as Norman was arterwards. Printer's Devil. End of note.

27 27 - The Bagman's Dog - Mr. Peters's Story 35:46

The Inglesby Legends, First Series, by Richard Harris Barham. It has been already hinted that Mr. Peters had been a traveller in his day, the only story which his lady would ever allow her p to finish. He began as many as would furnish an additional volume. To the Thousand and One Nights, is the last I shall offer. The subject, I fear me, is not over new, but will remind my friends of something better they have seen before. Mr. Peters' Story, The Bagman's Dog, Stant Littori Puppies, Virgil. It was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drowned, 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 drink of his cup. He was such a dear little cock-tailed 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 appeared 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 upon end on his little cock-tail, never was puppy so bien instrui, or possessed 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, when's steadily still with onward jog, and the cock-tailed puppy's a curly-tailed dog. When just at the time he was reaching his prime, and all thought he'd be turning out something sublime.

One unlucky day, how no one could say whether soft liaison induced him to stray, or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed 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 stormed, 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 Billeter Square stands a mansion old but in thorough repair. The only thing strange from the general air of its size and appearance is how it got there. In front is a short semicircular stair, of stone steps some half-score, then you reach the ground floor, with a shell-patterned 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 tutors and stewards the city could show many noblemen's seats above bridge and below. Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go, from St. Michael Corn Hill and St. Mary Le Beaux, 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 1769, this mansion now rather upon the decline, had less dignified owners belonging in fine, To Turner, Drywiperside, Rodgers, and Pine, a respectable house in the Manchester Line. There were a score of bagmen and more who had travelled full off 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 pitched 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 coxcomical rondelay, you may roam through the city transversely or straight, from Whitechapel Turnpike to Cumberland Gate, and every young lady who thrums a guitar, every mustachioed 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 Knorr, and you'll see that before, the wessel they voyage in has made half her way between Chellness 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 prisons 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. Bunting is excellence, and should you hire one. For sixpence will he urge with frequent flack the much-enduring beast to Thornus Aris and back, and there on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood and turned my gaze upon the pier, and seen the crews that did embark so gay, that selfsame morn, now disembark so queer. Then to myself I've sighed and said, O dear!

Who would believe yon sickly-looking manza, London Jacktar, 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 round, round, round. 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, 18103. 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 barely at sea, with the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee. And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity to obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, and talking of calking and quarter-deck walking, fore and aft and abaft, hookers, barkies, and craft, at which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laughed. 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, employed by old pilots with hard-featured faces, of the expletives seafaring gentlemen use.

The illusions 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 Marriott or Cooper or Captain Shamir, or Sir E. Lytton Boer, who brought up the rear. of the nauticals just at the end of the year. How time flies, oh dear, with a well-written preface to make it appear, that his play the Sea Captain's by no means small beer. There, brought up the rear, you see there's a mistake, which none of the authors I've mentioned would make. I ought to have said that he sailed 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 kicked up such a haliballoo that even the skipper began to look blue, while the crew, who were few, looked very queer too, and seemed 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 Shakespeare describes near the still-vexed Bermudas.

When the winds in their sport drove aside from its port, the king's ship with the whole Neapolitan court, and swamped it to give the king's son, Ferdinanda, soft moment or two with the lady, Miranda. While her pa met the rest and severely rebuked him 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 Collett'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 Storias, Aquilo, Libsnotus, 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.

Mallow's, There you'd not be surprised that the vessel capsized, Or that blog who had made from intestine commotions his specifical gravity less than the oceans, 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 dippin, eyes, nose, chin, and lippin, their faces and hair with the water all drippin. 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 non-parais play at Bob with portan tell us. Stay, I'm not clear, but I'm rather out here. Twas the water itself that slipped from him, I fear. Faith I can't recollect, and I haven't Lempreer. 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 drowned him in Malmsey. Oh, 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 blog. Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tailed dog. I'm not much of a traveller, 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. Mallows, and thereabout, are a class that society doesn't much care about, men who gain a 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 blog when the curly-tailed dog at last dragged 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 maitre de dance.

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 embarrassed blog quite, To find those about him so very polite. A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced, The petit swan tendered with so much good taste, To the sight of an old-fashioned 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 guessed they were paste. The group on the shore consisted of four. You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more. But the fact is they've not in that part of the nation what Malthus would term a too dense population.

Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation, Was merely a single rude hut in a dingle, that led away inland, direct from the shingle. It sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, some two hundred yards above high-water mark, and thither the party, so cordial and hardy, viz an old man his wife and two lads made a starty, the bagman proceeding, with equal good breeding. To express in indifferent French all he feels, the great curly-tailed dog keeping close to his heels. They soon reached the hut, which seemed partly in ruin, all the way-bowing, chattering, shrugging, mondewing, grimacing, and what sailors call parlevewing. Is it Paris or Kitchener, reader, exhorts, you, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts?

To try if you find richer viands won't stop in it. A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it. Such a basin in chop as I once heard a witty one call at the garrick a cursed committee one. An expression I own I do not think a pretty one. However, it's clear that with sound table beer such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer. Especially, too, when a person's wet through. and is hungry and tired and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage was smoking away when they entered the cottage, and casting a truly delicious perfume through the whole of an ugly old ill-furnished room. Hot smoking hot, on the fire was a pot, well replenished, but really I can't say with what, for famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, whether bullfrogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes.

Notwithstanding, when offered, I rarely refuse, any more than poor Blogg did, when seeing the reiki repast placed before him, scarce able to speake, in ecstasy muttered, By jove, cocky-leakey, in an instant, as soon as they gave him a spoon. Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel he, no more blamed fortune for treating him cruelly, but felled tooth and nail on the soup and the bully. Meanwhile, that old man standing by, subducted his long coat-tails on high, with his back to the fire as if to dry, a part of his dress which the watery sky had visited rather inclemently. Blandly he smiled, but still he looked sly, and a something sinister lurked in his eye. Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, you'd have owned his appearance was not prepossessin.

He'd a dreadnought coat, and heavy sabots, with thick wooden soles turned up at the toes, his netherman cased in a striped kelk o shows, and a hump on his back, and a great hooked nose. So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose that the person before them was punch in plain clothes. Yet still as I told you he smiled on all present, and did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. The old woman, too, made a mighty adieu, helping her guest to a deal of the stew. She fished up the meat, and she helped him to that. She helped him to lean, and she helped him to fat. And it looked like hair, but it might have been cat. The little garcon too strove to express their sympathy towards the child of distress with a great deal of juvenile French politesse.

But the bagman bluff continued to stuff, of the fat and the lean and the tender and tough, till they thought he would never cry, hold enough, and the old woman's tones became far less agriable. Sounding like Pest and Sacre and Diable. I've seen an old saw which is well worth repeating. That says, Good eating, deserveth good drinking. You'll find it so printed by Carton, or Winken, and a very good proverb it is to my thinking. Blague thought so, too, as he finished his stew. His ear caught the sound of the word, More Blue, pronounced by the old woman under her breath. Now not knowing what she could mean by blue death, he conceived she referred to a delicate bruin, which is almost synonymous, namely, blue ruin.

So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, in his cognified accent, responded, O V, which made her understand he was asking for brandy. So she turned to the cupboard, and having some handy, Produced rightly deeming he would not object to it, an orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it. In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, each of them reasoning right from wrong premises. And here, by the way, allow me to say, kind reader, you sometimes permit me to stray. Tis strange the French prove when they take to aspersing, so inferior to us in the science of cursing. Kick a Frenchman downstairs, how absurdly he swears, and how odd tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, roar out in a passion, blue death and blue belly.

To return to our sheep, from this little digression, Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression, as he emptied his glass, and she gave him a freshen. Too little he heeded, how fast they succeeded, perhaps you or I might have done. though as he did, for when once Madame Fortune deals out her hard wraps, it's amazing to think how one cottons to drink. At such times of all things in nature, perhaps, there's not one that is half so seducing as snaps. Mr. blog, beside being uncommonly dry, was like most other bagmen, remarkably shy, did not like to deny, felt obliged to comply, every time that she asked him to wet t'other eye, for twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoop, though before she had seemed so to grudge him the soup.

At length the fumes rose to his brain and his nose, gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, and a yearning to seek horizontal repose. His queer-looking host, who firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast. That garment twere rude to, do more than allude to, perceived from his breathing and nodding the views of his guest were directed to taking a snooze. So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, with, as blogg used to tell it, Monsieur Swivvy Ma, and marshalled him so, the way he should go. Upstairs to an attic, large, gloomy and low, Without table or chair, or a movable there, Save an old-fashioned bedstead much out of repair, That stood at the end most removed from the stair.

With a grin and a shrug, The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, There, I think you'll be snug, Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal salaam, and is then seen no more, when, just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, to the bagman's surprise, and at first to his dread, the great curly-tailed dog crept from under the bed. It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, and thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right, as for instance when going home latish at night, Through a churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white, which of course one is led to consider a sprite, to find that the ghost is merely a post, or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most, or when taking a walk, as the evenings begin, to close, or as some people call it, draw in, and some undefined form, looming large through the haze, presents itself right in your path.

To your gaze, inducing a dread of a knock on the head, or a severed carotid, to find that instead of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, it's your uncle, or one of the rural policemen. Then the blood flows again through artery and vein. You're delighted with what just before gave you pain. You laugh at your fears, and your friend in the fog. Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg, now bestowed on his friend, the great curly-tailed Dog. For the dog leaped up, and his paws found a place on each side his neck in a canine embrace, and he licked Blogg's hands, and he licked his face, and he waggled his tail as much as to say, Mr. Blogg, we've foregathered before to-day, and the bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What beyond all doubt he might have found out before had he not been so eager to sup.

Twas Sancho, the dog he had reared from a pup, the dog who when sinking had seized his hair, the dog who had saved and conducted him there, the dog he had lost out of Billeter Square. It's passing sweet, an absolute treat, when friends long severed by distance meet. With what warmth and affection each other they greet. Especially, too, as we very well know, if there seems any chance of a little cadeau, a present from Brighton or Tocan, to show, in the shape of a work-box ring-bracelet or so, that our friends don't forget us, although they may go, to Ramsgate or Rome or Fernando Poe. If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a twopenny tart, it's surprising to see how it softens the heart, and you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest use in common endearments the thickest and longest.

But it was not so here, for although it is clear, when abroad and we have not a single friend near, in a cur that will love us becomes very dear, and the balance of interest twixt him and the dog, of course was inclining to Anthony blogg, yet he first of all ceased to encourage the beast, perhaps thinking enough is as good as a feast, and besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, he grew tired of patting and crying, poor fellow. So his smile by degrees hardened into a frown, and his that's a good dog, into down, Sancho, down. But nothing could stop his mute favourite's caressing. Who in fact seemed resolved to prevent his undressing, using paws, tail, and head, as if he had said, Most beloved of masters, pray don't go to bed.

You had much better sit up and pat me instead. Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes. Spite of all he could do, the dog jumped up too. and kept him awake with his very cold nose, scratching and whining and moaning and pining, till blog really believed he must have some design in, thus breaking his rest above all when at length the dog scratched him off from the bed by sheer strength, extremely annoyed by the tarnation wapasit, scald in cantuck on his head and its opposite. Blog showed fight, when he saw by the light of the flickering candle that had not yet quite burnt down in the socket, though not over-bright, certain dark-coloured stains as of blood newly spilt, revealed by the dog's having scratched off the quilt, which hinted a story of horror and guilt.

Twas no mistake, he was wide awake, in an instant, for when only decently drunk, nothing sobers a man so completely as funk. And hark, what's that? They have got into chat, in the kitchen below. What the deuce are they at? There's the ugly old fisherman scolding his wife, and she by the Pope. She's wetting a knife at each twist of her wrist, and her great mutton fist. The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder. The fierce kitchen fire had not made blog perspire. Half so much, or a dose of the best James powder, It ceases, all's silent, and now, I declare, there somebody crawls up that rickety stair. The horrid old ruffian comes cat-like creeping. He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, and sees, as he fancies, the bagman, sleeping.

For blog, when he'd once ascertained that there was some, precious mischief on foot had resolved to play possum. Down he went, legs and head, flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead, while though none who looked at him would think such a thing, every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then just as the villain crept stealthily still in, and you'd not have ensured his guest's life for a shilling. As the knife gleamed on high, bright and sharp as a razor, blog starting upright, tipped the fellow a facer. Down went man and weapon, of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose, there are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose. Now had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, and say the first person was called James Macpherson, while as to the second they stoutly declare, he was no one knows who, and born no one knows where.

Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer, acknowledged the best theoretical fighter for the last twenty years by the lively young peers who doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine treat, boxers to macks at the one-ton in German Street, I say could I borrow these gentlemen's muses, more skilled than my meek one in fibbings and bruises. I'd describe now to you as prime a set-to, and regular turn-up As ever you knew, not inferior in bottom to aught you have read off, since crib years ago, half knocked Molinow's head off. But my dainty Urania says such things are shocking. Lace mittens she loves, detesting, the gloves, and turning with air most disdainfully mocking, from Malpomene's buskin adopts the silk stocking.

So as far as I can see, I must leave you to fancy. The thumps and the bumps and the ups and the downs, and the taps and the slaps and the raps on the crowns, that passed twixt the husband, wife, bagman, and dog. As blog rolled over them, and they rolled over blog, while what's called the claret flew over the garret, merely stating the fact, as each other they whacked, the dog his old master most gallantly backed, making both the garcon who came running in sheer off, With Ippolit's thumb and Alphonse's left ear off, next making a stoop on, the buffeting group on, the floor rent in tatters the old woman's jupon. Then the old man turned up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancos.

Really, which way this desperate fray might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, the dog keeping thus the assassins at bay. But a few fresh arrivals decided the day, for bounce went the door. In came half a score of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more, who had aided the party in gaining the shore. It's a great many years ago, mine then were few, since I spent a short time in old Courageux. I think that they say she had been in her day, a first-rate, but was then What they termed a rase, and they took me on board in the downs where she lay. Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way. In her I picked up on that single occasion the little I know that concerns navigation, and obtained inter Alia some vague information of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, is adopted on shipboard.

I think it's called Cobbing. How it's managed exactly, I really can't say, but I think that a boot-jack is brought into play. That is, if I'm right, it exceeds my ability. To tell how tis done, but the system is one of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility, and from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robbed of the little I have in my purse than be cobbed. That's mere matter of taste, but the Frenchman was placed. I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced, in such a position that on this unmasking his consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. The old woman, too, was obliged to go through with her boys the rough discipline used by the crew, who before they let one of the set see the back of them, cobbed the whole party, aye, every man jack of them.

Moral. And now, gentle reader, Before that I say, Farewell for the present, and wish you good-day. Attend to the moral I draw from my lay. If ever you travel like Anthony Blogg, be wary of strangers, don't take too much grog. And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog. Above all, carry with you a curly-tailed dog. Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who I say it with blushing. Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing, but still on these words of the bard keep a fixed eye In gratum si dicceris omnia dicstai. L'onvoix I felt so disgusted with blog from sheer shame of him. I never once thought to inquire what became of him. If you want to know, reader, the way I opine, to achieve your design, mind it's no wish of mine, is a penny will doot, By addressing a line to Turner Dry Wiperside, Rogers, and Pine.

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