Chapter II: Preface (2)

And bitter blows the wind without, and fiercely drifts the rain,
And beats, as though it entrance sought, against the window pane;
’Twas such a night as witches love, when on the blasted heath,
Beneath the tree where swings the corpse, they lead the dance of death;
’Twas such a night as women dread, and kneeling ere they sleep,
Implore God’s grace for husbands, sons, and brothers on the deep;
’Twas such a night as trav’llers hate, and seek the nearest roof,
Distrusting Cording’s overcoats and capes of waterproof.
And one of this last-mentioned class now gains the castle door,
And rings the bell more loudly than it e’er was rung before,
And passing by the warder grim, the wond’ring vassals all,
Pursues his course with staggering step across the noble hall;
He climbs the winding turret-stair, he reaches Adolf’s room,
And pale as any ghost or ghoule that ever left the tomb,
He sinks into a chair,
With a vacant stare,
Examines by turns all the furniture there;
He gasps and he groans,
And he bellows and moans,
And he mutters of devils, Old Nick, Davey Jones,
Till his host, who of flying begins to think,
Is relieved by his asking for “something to drink.”

“The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright,”
The guest to sense at length restored,
Declares himself “all right.”
The red blood paints his cheek again, his breast no longer heaves,
And he and Adolf o’er their wine are soon as thick as thieves.
Together they’re laughing,
And talking, and chaffing,
And after each shout comes a fresh bout of quaffing,
Till Adolf asks Kraus, so the stranger is hight,
To give an account of the terrible fright
From which he with him had sought refuge that night.

Oh, Mr. Tennyson!
Grant me your benison,
You, who are fed on sack, turtle, and venison!
Pity a rhymer,
Child of a mimer,
Who, of Parnassus, can scarce be called any son!
Help me! inspire me!
With fine thoughts fire me!
Let me please those who so graciously hire me!
As I try to describe the funeral rite
Which was witnessed by Kraus on that stormy night,
And mainly occasioned his terrible fright!
Thus spake he, in metre sometimes used by you,
Which is always successful, let me try it, too!

“Many a morning have I wandered, strolling o’er the barren plain
Which surrounds this noble castle, and is part of your domain;
Many an evening have I staggered homeward o’er the blasted heath,
Singing, ‘wont go home till morning,’ with a spirit-tainted breath;
Many a time I’ve passed the ruined abbey hidden in the trees,
Covered with a mouldy mantle like an ancient Schweitzer cheese,
Joyous thoughts I always nourished! now what misery lurks beneath!
Oh, the horrid, horrid abbey, oh, the blasted, blasted heath!
Listen, comrade, and believe me, as I passed the spot this night,
Suddenly the ruined abbey shone revealed one blaze of light;
And before each sep’rate entrance stood, in either hand a torch,
Two huge cats in mourning garments, placed as sentries in the porch!
As I halted, half entrancéd, senses going, eye-balls dim,
Sudden o’er my ear came wafted echoes of a mournful hymn!
Nearer pressed I, to a window, climbed, and looking down below,
Saw a funeral procession, marching solemnly and slow.
Eight great cats a bier supported, on the which a dead cat lay,
Scores of others followed after, tabbies, brindles, black, and grey;
On the breast of the departed was there placed a regal crown,
And his features were all placid, undisturbed by smile or frown.
Thrice around the aisle they bore him, thrice arose a caterwaul,
Then they covered o’er the body with a gilt-edged ratskin pall;
Thrice arose the mournful requiem, by the echoes borne afar,
_Ci-git notre roi Grimalkin, brave et noble roi des châts_.
From the abbey then I hastened, flying off in dread and fear,
Not an instant stopped or stayed I, till I found a refuge here,
Ne’er again to cross that heather after nightfall have I vowed—
Heavens! look! with superhuman sense another cat endowed!”

’Twas so, for scarcely had he spoke
Than a cry of grief from the Tom cat broke,
He wept and shrieked aloud—
“Oh, Grimalkin, my father! my own loved sire!
To think I should leave thee alone to expire,
Surrounded by a hireling crowd,
While I was slumb’ring here!
From strangers I learn thy lamented death,
To strangers thou yieldedst thy latest breath,
And strangers watched thy bier!
If repentance yet serves, behold me now
In grief and affliction—mol row! mol row!”

Thus mourned Tom his sire, when nearer and nigher
A tramp on the stairs resounded,
And into the room through the deep’ning gloom
A mourning-clad tabby bounded.
And after him there comes a train of pussies black and grey,
From Lady Tab who acts the prude to Misses Kit at play,
And down before great Tom they kneel,
With many a caterwaul and squeal
They greet him Lord and King,
They hail him King of Tabby Land,
They deck him with a ratskin grand,
And a golden crown they bring—
At once a procession is started,
Through the great castle gate it departed,
Not so much as a tail
Was e’er seen, I’ll go bail,
By Adolf, who after it darted—

Such was the tale that last winter I heard
From a beery old German, who stoutly averred
Each word of it was veracious;
For myself, I believe it strictly true,
The blame of discredit I leave to you,
If your faith be less capacious.

E. H. D.

THE LAPWING.

“Far from her nest the lapwing cries away.”—SHAKESPEARE.

“Come, write me some lines,” said my own darling Annie,
“You say that you love me, my beauty you praise;
And you make them by dozens for Laura or Fanny,
While I’m deemed unworthy to shine in your lays.

“From the land of the grape, to the hill of the heather,
Each troubadour poured forth his verses of yore,
While you, with the power to string rhyme together,
Have ne’er penned a stanza to her you adore.”

So spoke mine own Annie, and hurriedly hiding
Her head in my bosom, the tears ’gan to flow:
So I hastened to soothe her, her anger deriding,
And pressed with my lips her fair forehead of snow.

But no peace could be made, e’en by dint of embraces,
Till I owned my sad error again and again;
And when I’d dispelled sorrow’s lingering traces,
I made my defence in the following strain:—

“The lapwing, my love, is a sweet little bird,
Well known for the care that it takes of its young;
And if where the voice of this lapwing is heard
You seek for its nest, you are sure to be wrong.

“For by twitt’ring and screaming it seeks to beguile
The pursuer from where its heart’s treasure is laid;
And, were you a sage, you would see with a smile
How the smallest of creatures call guile to their aid!

“So I, full courageously, pour forth the praises
Of Laura or Fanny, those moths of an hour,
But you, my heart’s darling, I hide amidst mazes
More subtle than those of Fair Rosamond’s bower.

“For I own that I fear lest, by praising your charms,
I should e’er to the smallest suspicion give rise,
And some daring pursuer should tear from my arms
My own darling Annie, the light of my eyes!”

E. H. D.

THE ENCHANTED NET.

Could we only give credit to half we are told,
There were sundry strange monsters existing of old;
As evinced (on the _ex pede_ Herculean plan,
Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man)
By our _Savans_ disturbing those very large bones,
Which have turned (for the rhyme’s sake, perhaps) into stones,
And have chosen to wait a
Long while hid in _strata_,
While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones.
Old bones and dry bones,
Leg-bones and thigh-bones,
Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,—
Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale;
Bones that were very long, bones that were very short
(They have never as yet found a real fossil merry-thought;
Perchance because mastodons, burly and big,
Considered all funny-bones quite _infra dig_.)
Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded,
Which, at least, prove their owners were very long-headed;
And other queer things,—which ’tis not my intention,
Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,—
As I think I can prove, without further apology,
What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology,
That there lived in the good old days gone by
Things unknown to our modern philosophy,
And a giant was then no more out of the way
Than a dwarf is now in the present day.
Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair;
Dark were the curls of his clustering hair,
Dark the moustache that o’ershadowed his lip,
And his glance was as keen as the sword at his hip;
Though the enemy’s charge was like lightning’s fierce shock,
His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock;
And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischance
Opposed to the stroke of his conquering lance.
He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall,
And the ladies admired him, each one and all.
In a word, I should say, he appears to have been
As nice a young “ritter” as ever was seen.

He could not read nor write,
He could not spell his name,
Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,
Was as near as he ever came.
He had felt no vexation
From multiplication;
Never puzzled was he
By the rule of three;
The practice he’d had
Did not drive him mad,
Because it all lay
Quite a different way.
The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs,
Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes.
In a very few words he expressed his intention
Once for all to decline every Latin declension,
When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman,
That most classical tongue to his own native German.
And no doubt he was right in
Point of fact, for a knight in
Those days was supposed to like nothing but fighting;
And one who had learned any language that is hard
Would have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.
Education being then never pushed to the verge ye
Now see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

’Twas a southerly wind and a cloudy sky,
For aught that I know to the contrary;
If it wasn’t, it ought to have been proper_ly_,
As it’s certain Sir Eppo, his feather bed scorning,
Thought that _something_ proclaimed it a fine hunting morning;
So, pronouncing his benison
O’er a cold haunch of venison,
He floored the best half, drank a gallon of beer,
And set out on the Taurus to chase the wild deer.

Sir Eppo he rode through the good greenwood,
And his bolts flew fast and free;
He knocked over a hare, and he passed the lair
(The tenant was out) of a grisly bear;
He started a wolf, and he got a snap shot
At a bounding roe, but he touched it not,
Which caused him to mutter a naughty word
In German, which luckily nobody heard,
For he said it right viciously;
And he struck his steed with his armèd heel,
As though horse-flesh were tougher than iron or steel,
Or anything else that’s unable to feel.

What is the sound that meets his ear?
Is it the plaint of some wounded deer?
Is it the wild-fowl’s mournful cry,
Or the scream of yon eagle soaring high?
Or is it only the southern breeze
As it sighs through the boughs of the dark pine trees?
No Sir Eppo, be sure ’tis not any of these:
And hark, again!
It comes more plain—
’Tis a woman’s voice in grief or pain.

Like an arrow from the string,
Like a stone that leaves the sling,
Like a railroad-train with a queen inside,
With directors to poke and directors to guide,
Like the rush upon deck when a vessel is sinking,
Like (I vow I’m hard up for a simile) winking!
In less time than by name you Jack Robinson can call,
Sir Eppo dashed forward o’er hedge, ditch, and hollow,
In a steeple-chase style I’d be sorry to follow,
And found a young lady chained up by the ankle—
Yes, chained up in a cool and business-like way,
As if she’d been only the little dog Tray;
While, the more to secure any knight-errant’s pity,
She was really and truly excessively pretty.

Here was a terrible state of things!
Down from his saddle Sir Eppo springs,
As lightly as if he were furnished with wings,
While every plate in his armour rings.
The words that he uttered were short and few,
But pretty much to the purpose too,
As sternly he asked, with lowering brow,
“Who’s been and done it, and where is he now?”

’Twere long to tell
Each word that fell
From the coral lips of that demoiselle;
However, as far as I’m able to see,
The pith of the matter appeared to be
That a horrible giant, twelve feet high,
Having gazed on her charms with a covetous eye,
Had stormed their castle, murdered papa,
Behaved very rudely to poor dear mamma,
Walked off with the family jewels and plate,
And the tin and herself at a terrible rate;
Then by way of conclusion
To all this confusion,
Tied her up like a dog
To a nasty great log,
To induce her (the brute) to become Mrs. Gog;
That ’twas not the least use for Sir Eppo to try
To chop off his head, or to poke out his eye,
As he’d early in life done a bit of Achilles
(Which, far better than taking an “Old Parr’s life-pill” is,)
Had been dipped in the Styx, or some equally old stream,
And might now face unharmed a battalion of Coldstream.

But she’d thought of a scheme
Which did certainly seem
Very likely to pay—no mere vision or dream:—
It appears that the giant each day took a nap
For an hour (the wretch!) with his head in her lap:
Oh, she hated it so! but then what could she do?
Here she paused, and Sir Eppo remarked, “Very true;”
And that during this time one might pinch, punch, or shake him,
Or do just what one pleased, but that nothing could wake him,
While each horse and each man in the emperor’s pay
Would not be sufficient to move him away,
Without magical aid, from the spot where he lay.
In an old oak chest, in an up-stairs room
Of poor papa’s castle, was kept an heir-loom,
An enchanted net, made of iron links,
Which was brought from Palestine, she thinks,
By her great grandpapa, who had been a Crusader;
If she had but got that, she was sure it would aid her.
Sir Eppo, kind man,
Approves of the plan;
Says he’ll do all she wishes as quick as he can;
Begs she wont fret if the time should seem long;
Snatches a kiss, which was “pleasant but wrong;”
Mounts, and taking a fence in good fox-hunting style,
Sets off for her family-seat on the Weil.
The sun went down,
The bright stars burned,
The morning came,
And the knight returned;
The net he spread
O’er the giant’s bed,
While Eglantine, and Hare-bell blue,
And some nice green moss on the spot he threw;
Lest perchance the monster alarm should take,
And not choose to sleep from being too _wide awake_.
Hark to that sound!
The rocks around
Tremble—it shakes the very ground;
While Irmengard cries,
As tears stream from her eyes,—
A lady-like weakness we must not despise
(And here, let me add, I have been much to blame,
As I long ago ought to have mentioned her name):
“Here he comes! now do hide yourself, dear Eppo, pray;
For _my_ sake, I entreat you, keep out of his way.”
Scarce had the knight
Time to get out of sight
Among some thick bushes, which covered him quite,
Ere the giant appeared. Oh! he was such a fright!
He was very square built, a good twelve feet in height,
And his waistcoat (three yards round the waist) seemed too tight;
While, to add even yet to all this singularity,
He had but one eye, and his whiskers were carroty.

What an anxious moment! Will he lie down?
Ah, how their hearts beat! he seems to frown,—
No, ’tis only an impudent fly that’s been teasing
His _snub_lime proboscis, and set him a sneezing.
Attish hu! attish hu!
You brute, how I wish you
Were but as genteel as the Irish lady,
Dear Mrs. O’Grady,
Who, chancing to sneeze in a noble duke’s face,
Hoped she hadn’t been guilty of splashing his Grace.
Now, look out. Yes, he will! No, he wont! By the powers!
I thought he was taking alarm at the flowers;
But it luckily seems, his gigantic invention
Has at once set them down as a little attention
On Irmengard’s part,—done by way of suggestion
That she means to say “Yes,” when he next pops the question.

There! he’s down! now he yawns, and in one minute more—
I thought so, he’s safe—he’s beginning to snore;
He is wrapped in that sleep he shall wake from no more.
From his girdle the knight take a ponderous key;
It fits—and once more is fair Irmengard free.

From heel to head, and from head to heel,
They wrap their prey in that net of steel,
And they _croché_ the edges together with care,
As you finish a purse for a fancy-fair,
Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair.
At length they have ended their business laborious,
And Eppo shouts “Bagged him, by all that is glorious!”
No billing and cooing,
You must up and be doing.
Depend on’t, Sir Knight, this is no time for wooing;
You’ll discover, unless you progress rather smarter,
That catching a giant’s like catching a Tartar:
He still has some thirty-five minutes to sleep.
Close to this spot hangs a precipice steep,
Like Shakspeare’s tall cliff which they show one at Dover;
Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll over;
As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide,
There can’t be any harm in a little giganticide.

“Pull him, and haul him! take care of his head!
Oh, how my arms ache—he’s as heavy as lead!
That’ll do, love—I’m sure I can move him alone,
Though I’m certain the brute weighs a good forty stone.
Yo! heave ho! roll him along
(It’s exceedingly lucky the net’s pretty strong);
Once more—that’s it—there, now, I think
He’s done to a turn, he rests on the brink;
At it again, and over he goes
To furnish a feast for the hooded crows;
Each vulture that makes the Taurus his home
May dine upon giant for months to come.”

Lives there a man so thick of head
To whom it must in words be said,
How Eppo did the lady wed,
And built upon the giant’s bed
A castle, walled and turreted?
We will hope not; or, if there be,
Defend us from his company!

Frank E. S.

A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.

(_Air_—“THE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.”)

Of Woman’s rights and Woman’s wrongs we’ve heard much talk of late,
The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great;
And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate,
For ’neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate
Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child of Time!

The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools,
That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules;
But this idea’s exploded quite, as to your cost you’ll find
If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind,
In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.

If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace,
You’ll observe a very “powerful” expression in her face;
The lady’s stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand,
And her head quite full of something hard she doesn’t understand,
Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

And her dress will be peculiar, both in fabric and in make,
An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake;
Which is what she calls “effective,” though I’d rather not express
The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress,
When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She’ll talk about statistics, and ask if you’re inclined
To join the progress movement for development of mind.
If you inquire what that means, she’ll frown and say ’tis best
Such matter should be understood, but never be expressed,
By a stern suggestive Bluestocking, in this mystic modern time.

She’ll converse upon æsthetics, and then refer to figures,
And turn from Angels bright and fair, to sympathise with Niggers,
Whom she’ll style “our sable brethren,” and pretend are martyrs quite;
And, with Mrs. H—t B—r St—e, she’ll swear that black is white,
Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt,
And if she’s got some little Blues, they’re black and blue with dirt;
When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he may be,
She’ll regenerate society, instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking, the plague of the modern time.

MORAL.

The moral of my song is this, just leave all “ics” and “ologies”
For men to exercise their brains, on platforms and in colleges;
Let woman’s proud and honoured place be still the fireside,
And still man’s household deities, his mother and his bride,
In this our nineteenth century, the favoured child of Time.

Frank E. S.

THE FORFEIT HAND; A LEGEND OF BRABANT.[8]

Fytte ye First.

Geraldus the Abbot sat bolt upright,
Bolt upright, in his great arm-chair,
He ground his teeth, and his beard beneath
Seemed _crêpé_ with anger every hair;
And every hair, whether grizzled or white,
On his head stood erect (as so often the case is,
Whene’er fury or fear better feeling effaces).
Thus encircling his tonsure, which same a smooth space is,
In the desert of scalp a monastic oasis!

Geraldus the Abbot his temper had lost,
Insult had fall’n on the Prelate proud—
Heretic hands in a blanket had tost
Lay Brother Ludwig, one of the crowd
Of the Abbot’s dependents, a useful and able man,
Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, half a friar, half stable-man.
But this shaking his brain so completely had addled,
That the next time Geraldus’s palfrey he saddled,
He forgot both the girths, an important omission,
Which occasioned a sudden and rude imposition
On our general Mamma: (we allude to the Earth,
Who most kindly supports us, who gave our race birth,
And will give, when breath fails, and we cannot replace it,
Furnished lodgings, a stone, and the motto, “_Hic jacet_.”)
“_Hic_” did “_jacet_” Geraldus, when rashly he tried,
Foot in stirrup, to climb to his saddle and ride;
For the saddle turned round,
And he came to the ground,
With a hollow and pectoral “_woughf_” kind of sound.
(Printing cannot express it,
But ’twill help you to guess it,
If you’ve ever remarked the peculiar behaviour,
When he rams a large stone, of an Irish pavier.)
Well, he wasn’t much hurt,
But appeared from the dirt,
Which adhered to his mitre and robes, to be rather
A ghastly and horrible sight for a Father
Confessor, who ere he thus rudely was tost
In the mire, was got up regardless of cost.
For this fall he vowed vengeance, and straightway on that theme a
Writ was prepared which wound up with “Anathema!”

Yolenta of Corteryke sat in her bower,
Which was not an arbour
Where earwigs might harbour,
And availing themselves of some _al fresco_ tea-table,
Lie and kick on their backs amidst everything eatable,
But the very best room in the very best tower.
Yolenta was young and Yolenta was fair,
She’d extremely pink cheeks and extremely smooth hair,
And a pair of bright eyes with so roguish a glance in ’em,
That the spirit of mischief and fun seemed to dance in ’em;
And a sweet little foot and a dear little hand,
And a thorough-bred air, and a look of command,
As noble a lady as one in the land.

Yet Yolenta had “suffered;”—her little affairs
Of the heart had gone roughly, a custom of theirs
From time immemorial, since Helen lost Troy,
And pious Æneas made Dido a toy
Of the moment, then left her, a striking variety,
In the uniform course of his orthodox piety.
A young gent was her first love, of birth and condition,
Whose very name, Loridon, seemed an admission
He was formed to adore, but then what’s in a name?
Had they christened him Jack, she’d have “loved him the same,”
Because—mark the reason—her Pa had been rude
To his Guv’nor, which led to a family feud.
So the Lord Lettelhausen called up his son Loridon,
And exclaimed, “Of all girls, to have fixed on that horrid one!
The daughter, you scamp, of the man I detest!
But I’ll never consent! if I do, I’ll be—blest!
Miss Yolenta, indeed! why, my garters and stars!
This is worse than your tricks with latch-keys and cigars!
Now, be off to the wars, nor on any pretences,
Show your face here again till you’ve come to your senses.”
So _Malbrook se va-t-en guerre_,
In a state of deep despair.

Then Yolenta’s papa thought he’d best take a part in it,
By performing the _rôle_ of the tyrant and Martinet,
And proposed as a suitor,
An old co-adjutor
In many a dark deed, which no one but a brute or
Barbarian would perpetrate, one Baron Corteryke,
Whom he coolly informed her she certainly ought to like,
But, whether or no, in a week’s time must marry—
And his will being the law,
This medieval Bashaw
Pooh-pooh’d Ma’mselle’s suggestion of wishing to tarry,
And so, sending to Gunter, got up, like John Parry,
A first-rate entertainment, and vast charivari;
But yet, after all, was unable to carry
Out his cruel intentions, for ’twixt cup and lip
There occurred in this case a most notable slip;
To describe it, our metre we’ve stol’n, ’twill be seen,
From the song of one “Jock,” who’s sirnamed Hazeldean.

“The kirk was deckt at even-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair,
The Baron Cort’ryke sought his bride,
And this time she _was_ there!
She said, ‘I will,’ as if a pill
Had stuck within her throat,
But fortune kind was still inclined
To grant an antidote;

“For scarce beside the altar stone,
The nuptial knot was tied,
When some vile party, name unknown,
Stabbed Cort’ryke in the side!
His anguish sore, not long he bore,
Physicians wor in vain,
Death did consider, him and his widder,
And eased him of his pain.”

So the lovely Yolenta was “quit for the fright”
Took the name, tin, and castle (a rare widow’s mite)
And wondered how Loridon fared in the fight.

“It was Geraldus’ serving man,
Ludwigus he was hight,
For fair Bettye, that damsel free,
He sighed both day and night;
Fair Bettye at the tapestry wrought,
In Dame Yolenta’s bower;
To ease the pain of this her swain,
She lacked both will and power.

“Dan Cupid, that misch_ie_vous boy,
Ludwig to sorrow brought;
For ogling of the fair Bettye,
Him, Dame Yolenta caught;
And as in true love men are still
(As well as oysters) crossed,
Ludwig, to cure his fantasy,
Was in a blanket tossed.”

“_Hinc illæ lachrymæ_,” thence all these woes!
From this pitching and tossing the shindy arose!

’Tis the voice of a Herald! I heard him proclaim,
That he carries a summons for Corteryke’s dame,
Which sets forth how that same
Fair lady’s to blame,
For the high misdemeanour, the sin, and the shame,
Of tossing a lay brother, Ludwig by name,
In a blanket, whereby she did cut, wound, and maim,
And maliciously injure, and wilfully lame,
And despitefully maltreat, deride, and make game,
And confuse, and abuse, and misuse, and defame!
A monk of Saint Benedict,
Which by a then edict
Was a legal offence; so Yolenta was cited
To appear, and show cause
Why she’d broken the laws,
At the next petty sessions, where she was invited
To plead in her own proper person, and wait a
Decree from my Lord Lettelhausen, the pater
Of poor banished Loridon, likewise the frater
Of the plaintiff Geraldus, an excellent hater
Of all who opposed him, a reg’lar first-rater,
Full of envy and malice, a real aggravator,
Who’d have charmed Doctor Johnson, that learn’d commentator,
Had he chanced but to live a few centuries later.

The Herald he stood in the castle hall,
Seneschal, warder, and page, were there;
And he read his citation fair and free,
In a baritone voice that went up to G,
As loudly as he could bawl.
And he cleared his throat, and he pushed back his hair
With a negligent, nonchalant, jaunty air;
As though he would ask of the bystanding “parties,”—
“Pri’thee what do ye think of _me_, my hearties?”

Yolenta she smiled, and Yolenta she frowned,
And her delicate foot in a pet tapped the ground;
And when she turned to the herald to greet him,
The flash of her eye seemed to say she could eat him;
Though their points curled up to the knees of his trews,
I’d have been sorry to stand in his shoes.
Then she answered him shortly and sweetly,—
“Ye’re a bold man, Sir Herald, I trow—
A bold and an insolent man, I ween;
A scurrilous knave, I make mine avow;
But perhaps you may find that I’m not quite so green
As your masters imagine. You’ve done it most featly
This time I’ll allow;
But it struck me just now,
When you entered my castle to kick up this row,
You’d have fared quite as well if you’d journey’d on farther;
I’m afraid you’ve, young man, put your foot in it—_rather!_”
Then she signed with her hand, and six mutes in black armour,
As by magic appeared, laid their lances in rest,
And directed their points to the herald’s bare breast,—
A sight which it must be confessed might alarm a
Brave man in those very unscrupulous days,
When a life more or less, was a mere bagatelle;
And when sticking a porker, or stabbing a swell,
Were alike household duties—a singular phase
In those “sweet” Middle Ages, on which such dependence is
Placed by young ladies with “Puseyite” tendencies.
Howe’er this may be,
Our herald felt he
Had no “call” to assist in this _felo de se_;
So straight fell on his knee,
And exclaimed, “Don’t you see,
Noble Countess Yolenta, this good jest at present
Is a great deal too pointed and sharp to be pleasant?
I humbly beg pardon,
So pray don’t be hard on
A penitent cove, whose name’s printed this card on.”
Then he handed his pasteboard, gilt type, and a border,
Stamped,

+-----------------------------------+
| DE RODON. |
| Heraldic work furnished to order. |
+-----------------------------------+

Yolenta she smiled, and Yolenta she frowned,
Then light rang her laugh with its silvery sound.
“Rise, valiant De Rodon,” she mockingly cried,
“And behold by what foemen your mettle’s been tried.”
Then each sable spearsman his vizor unclasps,
And six laughing girls with bright mischievous eyes,
Poke their fun at De Rodon, who’s mute with surprise
And disgust, while Yolenta her riding wand grasps,
Sharply switches the recreant kneeling before her,
And turns to depart,—
When up with a start
Springs De Rodon, and pallid with anger leans o’er her.
Then hisses these words in her ear,—“Ere you smile
Or rejoice in your stratagem, listen awhile,
And learn that a herald discharging his duty
Is sacred; despite of your wealth, rank, and beauty,
For the stroke you have dealt me YOUR FAIR HAND IS FORFEIT;
By the axe of the headsman, ere many days, off it
Shall be hewn, and when next men to fury you goad on,
Bear in mind the revenge of the herald De Rodon!”

Fytte ye Second

When the weather is hazy, and not the least sign in
The clouds of their showing a silvery lining;
When a bill’s coming due, and you’ve no chance of meeting it;
When old Harry’s to pay, and the pitch has no heat in it;
When you’re thinking of popping, and suddenly find
That your inamorata’s not that way inclined;
When you’ve published a novel, and find it don’t sell;
When you rise from the wine cup, and don’t feel quite well;
When some six-feet-six monster, by jealousy led,
Suggests “satisfaction” or “punching your head;”
When your wife’s taken cross, or the “olive-branch” sick;
When your wardrobe’s worn out, and your tailor wont “tick;”
When your money’s all gone, and your creditors dun for it;
I think you’ll agree,
That the best plan will be
To (I speak in the language of slang) “cut and run for it.”

Thus, then, reason’d Yolenta of Corteryke, but
With this difference, she “ran” to avoid the “cut”
Of all cuts “most unkindest” (bad grammar, you know,
When it’s written by Shakespeare no longer is so),
Which De Rodon had promised her, _axe_-ing her hand,
In a manner no woman of feeling could stand
With composure; so straightway Yolenta resolved
To make herself scarce, which manœuvre involved
Much domestic confusion; each man and each maid
Requiring their wages, and board-wages, paid
For a month in advance; while the butler grew crusty
As his oldest port wine; and fair Bettye cried “Must I
Be the cause of this woe—from my dear mistress sever—
Lose my place and my perquisites! which my endeavour
Has still been to draw mild. Well, I never did—never!”
(Then addressing the public at large) “Did _you_ ever?”
These arrangements concluded, Yolenta began
Packing up—the last duty of travelling man—
But the business of life
To maid, widow, or wife,
Except Ida Pfeiffer, that wonder, who can
With umbrella and tooth-brush, reach far Yucatan,
And, like Ariel, span
The earth with a girdle, which some commentator
On Shakespeare imagines must mean the Equator.
Well, she packed up her traps in a leathern valise,
Which contained sundry stockings, a nice new ⸺, but he’s
No gentleman, clearly, who’d Hobbs-like, the locks
Endeavour to pick of _so_ private a box.
Then, by way of disguise, Dame Yolenta decided
(Don’t be horrified, dear lady-readers, though I did
Myself think it strange that my heroine chose
To set out on her rambles attired in _such_ clothes),
For convenience of trav’lling, perhaps, to assume a
Man’s dress—not the epicene compromise, Bloomer,
But the regular masculine _propria quæ maribus_,
A male coat, a male waistcoat, _et ceteris paribus_,
A gay cap and feather,
Unfit for bad weather,—
A sword by her side, and a fine prancing horse,
Which she sat, I’m afraid, not “aside” but “across;”
With one groom to attend her—
Nought else to defend her—
Like a “Young Lochinvar” of the feminine gender,
The ill-fated Yolenta rode off at a canter,
And became what the stockbrokers term “a levanter.”

Now you’ll please to suppose,
That she follow’d her nose,
A fine aquiline organ that proudly arose,
Filling just the right space
On her bright sparkling face,
Excelling, as butterfly’s better than grub,
Those unlucky _“retroussés_” in _plain_ English, “snub,”
Which men always pretend to, and often desire,
But never can really and truly admire;
She followed her nose
To (I blush to disclose
For it does seem so forward; but then no one knows
The whys and the wherefores, the _cons_ and the _pros_,
Which decide other folks; in the fair sex our trust is
Extreme; so we’ll strive not to do her injustice.)
For some reason unknown, then, she followed her nose
To the camp of King Charles, in which Loridon chose
To wear out his exile, and solace his woes,
By assisting that monarch to conquer his foes.

It were long to relate
All the evils that Fate
Seemed resolved to pour down on our heroine’s pate;
How, on reaching the camp,
She was told that a scamp
Of a _Do_uanier, at the last town she quitted,
Had, as usual, omitted
To see that her passport was legally _visé’d_;
Although, when she handed his fees to him, he said
It was all right and proper,
And no one would stop her;
Which was false, for it quickly appeared by the law
Of the strong, she was somebody’s prisoner of war;
Next, for fear in her wrath she a breach of the peace
Should commit, or attempt to assault the police,
They disarmed her—laid hands on her watch, chain, and seal
(All the very best gold, and the watch not much thicker
Than a mod’rate sized turnip—no end of a ticker,)
And hurried her off to the then Pentonville
Model Prison, to wait, all forlorn and alone,
And to “carve her name on the Newgate stone,”
Till this terrible somebody’s pleasure was known.

The unpleasant unknown was one Giles de Laval,
A marshal of France, and a very great “pal”
(Or paladin rather), of King Charles _le Beau_,
(Or “_le Gros_,” or “_le Sot_,”
Which, I really don’t know;
But ’twas one of the three, for there’s no nation showers
Such peculiar nicknames on its “governing powers”
As our trusty ally Monsieur Johnny Crapaud,)
This same Giles de Laval, then, who ruled the French host,
And the roast, and the coast, made the most of his post;
Dealt just as he chose
With his friends and his foes,
And was as autocratic, and nearly as fickle as,
That bugbear of Europe, a certain Czar Nicholas—
This identical Giles, for some reason he had,
Seemed resolved that Yolenta should “go to the bad:”
(He possessed such sharp eyes
They pierced through her disguise
At first sight, to her terror, and shame, and surprise),
So he scolded her well, wouldn’t hear her confessions,
But returned her, to answer for all her transgressions,
To Geraldus, in time for the next quarter sessions.

Unhappy Yolenta! Geraldus confined her
In a dungeon, deep, damp, and unpleasant; behind her
Was a ring in the wall, and some rusty old chains,
And there lay in one corner a skull void of brains,
And a horrid leg-bone stood upright in another,
Which must once have belonged to “a man and a brother;”
Then a sturdy support, now a most “unreal mockery,”
A relic suggestively placed there to shock her eye,
And bid her prepare for the doom that awaited her,—
For her dinner they brought her,
Dry bread and cold water,
Wretched food, and by no means enlivening drink,
(Whatever hydraulic George Cruikshank may think
To the contrary,) then, lest they’d not aggravated her
By this treatment, enough, the brutes next dissipated her
Last agreeable illusion, a letter was given her,
Signed and sealed by some friendly (?) anonymous scrivener,
Short, not sweet, for the missive consisted of one
Line, “_The Lord Lettelhausen’s no longer a son_,”—
From which pleasant allusion,
She reached the conclusion,
That, by some vicious dodge, which she could not discover,
De Laval had “used up” and expended her lover.

Unhappy Yolenta! forsaken, heart-broken,
She drew from her bosom a cherished love-token;
A dark curling lock of her Loridon’s hair,
Fix’d her eyes on it, shed o’er it tears of despair,
Then devoured it with kisses, and dropp’d on her knees,
To implore with deep fervour that Heaven would please
Pardon Loridon’s sins, forgive hers, and so let her
Rejoin, and remain with, one whom she loved better
Far than life; then o’ercome by conflicting emotions,
A fainting fit ended her tears and devotions.

Alas! it is a cruel thing to die,
To leave these hopes and fears, these loves and hates,
For other, though it may be happier, fates;
To go we know not where, we know not why!

To cease to be the thing that we have been,
To be perchance a higher, but a new,
To leave the few we love, the chosen few,
To quit for ever each familiar scene.

To be perchance a lower, to be curst,
For God, who’s great and merciful, is just,
And we, alas! what are we, that we must
By right partake the best, escape the worst?

It _is_ a very bitter thing to die!
To some it is a bitter thing to live!
Patience and faith alone can comfort give,
Patience and faith—the rainbows in the sky.

Ye Last Scene of All.

Gaping and yawning,
Their feather-beds scorning,
All the burghers of Ghent rose betimes in the morning,
For a “shocking event”
Was to take place in Ghent,
And the public delighted in hangings and quarterings,
Mutilations and tortures, and such kind of slaughterings,
Just as much as an Anglican crowd in the present day,
Think attending the “Manning” _finale_ a pleasant day;
So extremely they bustled,
Pushed, jostled, and hustled,
Climbed up lamp-posts, (there were none!) on each rising ground
Stood to view the procession, as slowly it wound
Its way to the cathedral, where, at the high altar
The condemned was “_pro se_”
To appear, or else be
Declared recusant, most contumacious, defaulter,
Et cetera, et cetera, in fact, all the “bosh”
That the law could devise, horrid stuff which wont wash,
And yet seems to last pretty well through all ages,
Keeps solicitors going, and provides their clerks wages.
’Twas a splendid and beautiful pageant, that same;
First a body of archers and shield-bearers came;
Then some dear little choristers, dressed all in white,
Who each carried a _chandelle bénie_, or “child’s light,”
Which, being blessed by the Pope, it appears to my thick head,
Must, in spite of its wick, have no longer been _wick_ed;
Next came Abbot Geraldus, profusely ornate
With mitre, and crosier, and garments of state;
Then the Herald de Rodon, in great exultation,
Highly pleased with himself, and the whole “situation;”
Then a servitor, bearing
A big candle, flaring
Up like mad, and creating a vast cloud of vapour,
Or smoke, (which affair was a “penitent taper,”)
On a silver “_Lavabo_,” a word which they say,
In middle-age Latin, means simply a tray;
And after this penitent candle there came
Our penitent heroine, looking the same,
And feeling—however, I’ll leave you to guess
How the poor thing would feel in so cruel a mess.
Then came something of which the description we’d best give
Is, like Tennyson’s rhymes, it was “sweetly suggestive”—
A large shield, in the centre whereof was depicted
A hand lately severed,—the artist, addicted
(’Twas De Rodon himself) to pre-Raphaelite rules,
Had made the wrist “_sanglant_” with drops from it “_gules_.”
Then directly behind this agreeable affair
Came the city “Jack Ketch” with his horrid axe bare!
Then more spearmen; and then rushed the crowd out of breath,
With their eagerness all to be in at the death.

Her eyes dim with despair,
All dishevelled her hair,
And the fair “FORFEIT HAND” with its rounded arm bare,
With brow madly throbbing, and footsteps that falter,—
The wretched Yolenta is led to the altar;
While De Rodon proclaims,
By his titles and names,
That the Lord Lettelhausen, Grand Seigneur, and Knight
Of some half-dozen orders, demands as his right
The forfeited hand of the culprit Yolenta.
Then Geraldus replies, “By the general consent, a
Demand thus in accordance with justice and law
Is granted. Let Lord Lettelhausen now draw
Near the altar, and take, by the Church’s command,
As his right and possession, the FORFEITED HAND!”

A stalwart arm is round her thrown,
Fondly the forfeit hand is pressed;
No more forsaken and alone,
She sinks upon a manly breast.

At length the evil days are past—
Her griefs, her trials, all are over,
Long wept, long sought, regained at last,
’Tis Loridon, her own true lover.
Whose Papa having very obligingly done
The genteel thing, in dying exactly when one
Would have wished him, by that means enabled his son
To step into his shoes, just in time to disk_i_ver a
Mode of enacting the gallant deliverer;
As we’ve tried to rehearse
For your pleasure in verse,
If we’ve happened to fail,—and too clearly you know it,—
Bear in mind that we never set up for a Poet.

Frank E. S.

FOOTNOTES

[8] The facts (?) of this Legend are taken, by poetical licence, from “Legends of the Rhine,” by the author of “Highways and Byways.”

SIR RUPERT THE RED.

Sir Rupert the Red was as gallant a knight
As ever did battle for wrong or for right,
As ever resented the slightest slight,
Or broke an antagonist’s head.
Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,
Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,
Mustachios and whiskers—whence his name,
His name of Sir Rupert the Red.

Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,
Residence meet for a baron bold:
Thick were its walls, and dark and cold
The swift Rhine ran below them.
Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine:
Rich travellers passing were asked to dine,
And when he’d sufficiently hocussed their wine,
Why—into its waters he’d throw them!

But stories will spread, howe’er you may try
To stifle Dame Rumour—and so, by-and-bye,
He found himself shunned by all far and nigh;
And when asked to dinner, each neighbour fought shy.
The bell ne’er was rung, and no stranger implored
The porter to run up, and question his lord
If he kindly would grant a night’s shelter and board?
No priest on Sir Rupert’s head called down a benison,
No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and venison.
While his former bad temper began to grow worse,
He would mutter and fidget—nay, stamp, foam, and curse;
But his feelings I’ll try to describe in the verse
Most used by our Alfred—not Bunn though, but Tennyson.

Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,
Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;
Then he’d curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep—
Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep—
Saying, “Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more,
Whither’s fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,
Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—
Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?
Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o’er my beard,
And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;
Many an evening have I drawn thee ’cross the throats of wretched Jews,
When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their
shoes.
But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I’m disgraced!
Curses on thy maker’s projects, curses on his ‘magic paste.’”

Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till night—
No person could please him, no conduct was right—
Till his very retainers grew furious quite,
And determined to quit his service.
For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans;
While the groom from York told the cook from France
“He warn’t going to be led such a precious dance
In a house turned topsy-turvies.”

Oh, “the castled crag of Drachenfels,”
With its slippery sides and flowery dells,
Is a very romantic sight for “swells”
Who leave the squares of Belgravia,
And during the autumn visit the Rhine,
With courier hirsute and footman fine,
Who are both eternally drinking wine,
Though the last “don’t like the flaviour.”

But Drachenfels was a different sight
On a dark, tempestuous winter’s night;
Then below it the river was foaming white,
And above it the storm-fiend strode:
On such a night, from his own red room,
Sir Rupert looked out athwart the gloom
To see what might “in the future loom,”
Or be coming up the road.

He strained his weary eye-balls, but well was he repaid
To see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade.
Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy host they seemed,
And Sir Rupert’s heart grew lighter, and his eye more brightly beamed;
For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won,
And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.

“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw open the gate,
And let the drawbridge fall;”
Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,
Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,
Ran off to the warden tall.

The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,
In number say fifty, _i. e._, man and horse.
First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,
And then men in armour, who ride two and two;
Not such Guys as are seen on the ninth of November,
But your regular middle-age troopers, remember.
By the way, this last rhyme
Appertains to a time
Much thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called “prime,”
When young Hopeful’s small pockets
Are emptied for rockets,
And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of sockets—
When you’re begged (and the tyrants take care you do not)
Ne’er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.
The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow—
If you’ve seen Mr. Payne
At old Drury Lane,
In the opening part of a grand Christmas pantomime,
Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o’ rhyme—
Please to fancy my herald does just the same now;
And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he clears,
And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears,
Looks, as usual with speakers, in dreadful distress,
And thus to Sir Rupert begins his address.

“Sir Rupert the Red,
To you I have sped
From a dame with whose brother you’ve conquered and bled,
Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality,
Has ventured to ask for a night’s hospitality.
No refusal I fear
When her name you once hear;
Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter I crave,
Is Margaret, the sister of Blutwurst the Brave!”

Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,
“’Tis well known that my castle is never denied
To pilgrims of all countries, nations, and hues,
From swaggering English to gold-lending Jews;
How great, then, my joy ’neath my roof to receive
The sister of one
Whom I loved as a son,
For whose tragical end I have ne’er ceased to grieve.”

Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said,
“Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread;
Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshausers.
Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,
Tell Gretchen to hasten and clear out the bedroom
The lady will sleep in—let’s see—_not_ the red room.
To put her in there
Is more than I dare;
So where shall she go, in the purple or blue?
Oh, give her the next room to mine, number two—
Tell Eugéne to serve his best sauces and stews,
And take care that, as soon as the cloth is removed,
Old Max, of whose singing I oft have approved,
Comes up with his harp—he will serve to amuse.”

The banquet is spread—
At his table’s head,
Decked out in gay garments, sits Rupert the Red;
And close on his right
Is the queen of the night,
Fair Marg’ret, whose beauty’s completely a sight
For a father,—aye, even for “Pater-familias,”—
“Who of all slow papas is the veriest silly ass;
Blue are her eyes as the clear vault of heaven,
Pale her smooth brow, though some rose-bud has given
Its loveliest tint to that soft cheek and lip,
Which ’twere worth a king’s ransom once only to sip;
While the net-work of curls in her bonny brown hair
Has entangled a sun-beam and prisoned it there.
And Sir Rupert admired her, and flattered, and laughed,
And his ardour grew warmer the deeper he quaffed;
He touched her fair fingers whene’er he was able,
And in error pressed warmly the leg of the table;
Till Rudolf von Gansen, a merry young spark
(Who was given to hoaxing and “having a lark,”
Addicted to laughing,
And humour called “chaffing,”
And dining, and wine-ing, and e’en half-and-half-ing,
And gambling, and vices called “having your fling”),
Exclaimed to Hans König (in English, Jack King),
“By Jove, Hans, the gov’nor’s hit under the wing!”

“Now come hither, old Max,” Sir Rupert cried,
“And sing us a merry song,
Or tell us of Siegfried’s blooming bride,
Or the priest who was plunged in the Rhine’s cold tide
For indulging his wishes wrong.”

The old man sung a sentimental strain,
A song of love, its wishes, hopes, and fears;
And while he sung his colour came again,
His eye blazed brightly as in former years,
When it was quickly kindled by disdain,
Nor dimmed, as often now, by bitter tears.
These very words, with true poetic fire,
He once for glory sung, but now for hire!

And, while he sings, they vanish from his sight,
The knights, the ladies gay, the very room!
Once more a youth, with eyes and prospects bright,
He sings to her, now mould’ring in the tomb,
Ere Age and Poverty’s overwhelming blight
From Life’s first blushing flowers had robbed the bloom.
Sweet season, long expected, quickly past,
In youth Love’s fire too fiercely burns to last!