Chapter XVI: The "bon Gaultier Ballads."

I will here leave the sporting novels for a time and introduce my reader to the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," and if he make his first acquaintance with that work through this introduction, I respectfully advise him to improve it by a more intimate knowledge, for he will not only find excellent reading, but illustrations by Richard Doyle and others, scarcely inferior to those by Leech.

It will be remembered that at the time of the Papal aggression Lord John Russell, according to Leech, chalked "No Popery" on Cardinal Wiseman's door and then ran away. In the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" we find his lordship face to face with Cardinal Wiseman, disguised as a friar, in Sherwood Forest, where Little John is supposed to reign in place of Robin Hood, deceased. The ballad is entitled "Little John and the Red Friar," and begins:

"The deer may leap within the glade,
The fawns may follow free--
For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid
Beneath the greenwood tree.

* * * * *

"Now, Little John was an outlaw proud,
A prouder ye never saw;
Through Nottingham and Leicestershires
He thought his word was law,
And he strutted through the greenwood wide
Like a pestilent jackdaw.

* * * * *

"Now, word had come to Little John,
As he lay upon the grass,
That a friar red was in merry Sherwood
Without his leave to pass."

Little John inquires from his little foot-page what manner of man is this burly friar who intrudes into his domain.

"'My master good,' the little page said,
'His name I wot not well;
But he wears on his head a hat so red,
With a monstrous scallop-shell.

"'He says he is Prior of Copmanhurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And he comes with a rope from our Father the Pope
To put the outlaws down.'"

Little John searches the forest for his scarlet enemy--

"O'er holt and hill, through brake and breere,
He took his way alone.

* * * * *

"Then Little John, he strutted on,
Till he came to an open bound,
And he was aware of a Red Friar
Was sitting upon the ground.

"His shoulders they were broad and strong,
And large was he of limb;
Few yeomen in the north countrie
Would care to mell with him.

* * * * *

"'What dost thou here, thou strong friar,
In Sherwood's merry round,
Without the leave of Little John
To range with hawk and hound?'

"'Small thought have I,' quoth the Red Friar,
'Of any leave, I trow;
But Little John is an outlawed thief,
And so, I ween, art thou!

"'Know I am, I am Prior of Copmanhurst,
And Bishop of London town,
And I bring a rope from our Father the Pope
To put the outlaws down.'

"Then out spoke Little John in wrath,
'I tell thee, burly frere,
The Pope may do as he likes at home,
But he sends no Bishops here!'"

"'Up and away, Red Friar,' he said,
'Up and away right speedilie;
And were it not for that cowl of thine,
Avenged on thy body I would be!'

"'Nay, heed not that,' said the Red Friar,
'And let my cowl no hindrance be;
I warrant I can give as good
As ever I take from thee!'

"Little John he raised his quarter-staff,
And so did the burly priest;
And they fought beneath the greenwood tree
A stricken hour at least."

Little John gets much the worst of the fight, and endeavours to come to terms with the Red Friar:

"'There's some mistake, good friar,' he said;
'There's some mistake 'twixt thee and me;
I know thou art Prior of Copmanhurst,
But not beneath the greenwood tree.

"'And if you will take some other name,
You shall have ample time to bide;
With pasture also for your Bulls,
And power to range the forest wide.'

"'There's no mistake!' the friar said;
'I'll call myself just what I please:
My doctrine is that chalk is chalk,
And cheese is nothing else but cheese.'

"'So be it then!' quoth Little John"

from his refuge in the tree, to which, according to Leech, he has been tossed by the Popish Bull.

Cardinal Wiseman, as I remember him, was a huge burly figure, not unlike Leech's drawing; a stronger resemblance to Lord John can be traced in the swaggering little figure in the first illustration and also in the second.

Most of the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" are illustrated by Doyle and other hands. Leech's contributions are confined to four of them. The next from which I select drawings is called "The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle." It appears that "this valiant knight, most terrible in fight," had married the sister of another valiant knight named George of Gorbals, and with his bride he had retired to his castle near Glasgow. For some reason or other this marriage was very distasteful to the brother of the bride--so distasteful, indeed, that nothing but the blood of Sir Launcelot would wipe out the disgrace. In pursuit of his revenge, George of Gorbals armed his followers and approached the castle, where

"A donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes,
With its men-at-arms in rows
On the towers.

"And the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear,
Which the Bogles always wear for their crest.
And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall,
'Wake ye up! my comrades all,
From your rest!

"'For, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good
In the deep Cowcaddens Wood, o'er the stream;
And I hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come,
Though they have not beat the drum,
It would seem!

"'Go tell it to my lord, lest he wish to man the ford
With partisan and sword just beneath;
Ho, Gilkison and Nares! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs!
We'll back the bonny bears
To the death.'

"To the towers above the moat, like one who heedeth not,
Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed;
On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood,
With his arms across him glued
On his breast.

"And he muttered, 'Foe accurst, thou hast dared to seek me first?
George of Gorbals, do thy worst; for I swear
O'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride
From my undissevered side
Thou shalt tear!'"

* * * * *

Sir Launcelot, not being sure that Cowcaddens Wood really hides his mortal enemy, despatches a "herald stout," accompanied by

"Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and his foster-brother Neish,
With his bloodhounds in the leash,"

to see whether the party in the wood are friends or foes. All doubt on the subject is put to rest by a shower of arrows which

"Sped their force, and a pale and bleeding corse
He (the herald) sank from off his horse
On the plain!

"Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish,
With his bloodhounds in the leash from Brownlee.
'Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord,
Thou caitiff thrice abhorred,
Shame on thee!'"

After this burst of not unnatural rage at the unhandsome treatment of a herald, whose office should have made his person sacred, Sir Launcelot gives orders that there must be

"'Forthwith no end of those heavy bolts;
Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave,
And a gallows for the slave
Who revolts!'

"Ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted,
While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host;
You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbaliers,
As at night they dressed the steers
For the roast.

"And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin
Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath;
In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief,
Nor did Neish the spell-word 'beef'
Dare to breathe."

Then Edith, the bride, made her appearance upon the ramparts.

"And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword,
'One short and little word may I speak?
I cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue,
Or mark the sallow hue
Of thy cheek.

"'I know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath
Is less against us both than at me.
Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe
An arrow from the bow,
Like Broomlee!'"

To this noble offer of self-sacrifice Sir Launcelot will not listen for a moment. He replies:

"'All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host
Shall discover to their cost rather hard!
Ho, Provan! take this key; hoist up the malvoisie,
And heap it, d'ye see,
In the yard.

"'Of usquebaugh and rum you will find, I reckon, some,
Beside the beer and mum, extra stout;
Go straightway to your task, and roll me all the casks,
And also range the flasks
Just without.

"'If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears
In the very inmost tiers of the drink.
Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport,
Since their time is rather short,
I should think!'

"With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell,
Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids;
Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore,
Till they stumbled on the floor
O'er the fluids.

"Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew
From his belt an iron screw in his fist;
George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain,
And, indeed, was rather fain
To assist.

"With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,
And silence did command all below;
'Ho, Launcelot the bold! ere thy lips are icy cold,
In the centre of thy hold
Pledge me now!'

* * * * *

"Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not;
But his bosom Provan smote and he swore,
And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,
'Never, sure, did thirsty fish
Swallow more!

"'Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun;
It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!'
'Nay, tarry till they come,' quoth Neish, 'unto the rum--
They are working at the mum
And the gin!'

"Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier
Twenty castles dancing near, all around;
The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake,
And sinuous as a snake
Moved the ground.

"Why and wherefore had they come seemed intricate unto some,
But all agreed the rum was divine;
And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born,
Who preferred to fill his horn
Up with wine."

Like the fateful moment at Waterloo, the time had now come to strike, and Sir Launcelot and his friends took full advantage of it.

"'Now make the trumpets blast, and comrades follow fast,
Smite them down unto the last,'
Cried the knight.

* * * * *

"Saint Mungo be my guide! it was goodly in that tide
To see the Bogle ride in his haste;
He accompanied each blow with a cry of 'ah!' or 'oh!'
As he always cleft the foe
To the waist.

"'George of Gorbals, craven lord! thou didst threat me with the
cord;
Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!'
But he met with no reply, and never could descry
The glitter of his eye
Anywhere."

The Gorbaliers were destroyed to a man, and in obedience to an order from Sir Launcelot the casks and empty flasks were removed by the "cellar master," but not without a shock--

"For he swore he heard a shriek
Through the door.

"When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame
To the face of squire and dame in the hall,
The cellarer went down to tap October brown,
Which was rather of renown
'Mongst them all.

"He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,
But his liquor would not flow through the pin;
'Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!' so he rapped it with his
knuckles,
But a sound as if of buckles
Clashed within.

"'Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!' and they cleft the cask of beer--
What a spectacle of fear met their sight!
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and gray,
In the arms he bore the day
Of the fight!"

From Leech's contributions to the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" my third selection consists of an illustration of "The Lay of the Lover's Friend." The "Lay" is a capital skit on the propensity of certain lovers to inflict the sorrows caused by the loss of their hearts upon friends to whom the loss is a matter of indifference. Says the friend:

"'I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me.
It is not that I am touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face has shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

"'Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,
Or feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill
To catch a breath of air--
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.'"

Judging from the angry face of "the lover's friend" as he stretches out his hand towards the claret, it will require even more than the consolation to be derived from the finest brand to enable him to endure his friend's moaning with common patience. One studies with wonder and admiration the few touches with which the story is told in this little drawing. See the handsome frowning face of "the lover's friend," so perfectly in contrast with that of the absorbed lover, whose voice can almost be heard expatiating on the beauty of the lost one, and the hardness of her heart!