Chapter XVI: Canto II (1)

I abominate physic--I care not who knows
That there's nothing on earth I detest like "a dose"--
That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue
I consider extremely unpleasant to view,
With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near
On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear;
Χλωρον δεος, I mean, A nasty pale green,
Though for want of some word that may better avail,
I presume, our translators have rendered it "pale;"
For consider the cheeks Of those "well-booted Greeks,"
Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks;
Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's;
And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it,
A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it.
I repeat, I abominate physic; but then,
If folks _will_ go campaigning about with such men
As the Great Prince de Condé, and Marshal Turenne,
They may fairly expect To be now and then check'd
By a bullet, or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is
Found, I admit, in green potions, and boluses;
So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix, wounded and lame,
If he swallowed a decent _quant. suff._ of the same;
Though I'm told, in such cases, it's not the French plan
To pour in their drastics as fast as they can,
The practice of many an English _Savan_,
But to let off a man With a little _ptisanne_.
And gently to chafe the _patella_ (knee-pan).

"Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow
's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!"
Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree,
I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee;
And medical friction Is, past contradiction,
Much better performed by a She than a He.
A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge,
For I well recollect, when a youngster at College,
And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note,
Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote
On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his
Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises
Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs,
And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.--
Now, they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay
On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses
Attend, without any demand on their purses;
And these females, some old, others still in their teens,
Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines."
They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay,
Attend you; and when you've got better, they say,
"You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay.
Our task is now done. You are able to run.
We never take money; we cure you for fun!"
Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day,
And go off to cure somebody else the same way.
--A great many of these, at the date of my tale,
In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.

Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun.
Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,--
Not carroty--no; though you'd fancy you saw burn
Such locks as the Greeks lov'd, which moderns call auburn.
These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all;
Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral;
Her eyelashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones,
Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones;
But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning
To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).--
Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity
To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm
In the fusty stuff gown of a _Sœur de la Charité_;
And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw
One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw,
Than her's who now sits by the couch of St. Foix,
Chafing there, With such care, And so dove-like an air,
His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd
With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard;
--Their Dutch appellations are really too hard
To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.--

Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me,
When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee:
And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair,
To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare,
And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square;
Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair,
And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire,
It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair,
And may lead on to mischief before they're aware.

I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his
"_Penchant_ for _liaisons_," and graver men "follies,"
(For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows,
And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows,
Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,)
His "_faults_," I should say--I don't think François Xavier
Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour
Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant
While superintending his draughts and his liniment.
But, as he grew stout, And was getting about,
Thoughts came into his head that had better been out;
While Cupid's an urchin We know deserves birching,
He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in.
'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin
Was the end of all poor dear Therèse's shampooing.--
'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on: but such
Things will happen--ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch.

"When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly,
And finds out too late that false man can betray,"
She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly,"
And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.

He goes on to remark that "to punish her lover,
Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,
There is but one method" which he can discover
That's likely to answer--that one is "to die!"

He's wrong--the wan and withering cheek;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart;

The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear;
Th' imploring glances heaven-ward thrown,
As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;

These wring the false one's heart enough,
If "made of penetrable stuff."
And poor Therèse Thus pines and decays,
Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise,
With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders," two greys,
And soon reaches France, by the help of relays,
Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim,
And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him.

She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner,
Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner,
Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.--
One evening--'twas just as the clock struck eleven--
They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,--
She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven,
And all was o'er!-- Poor Therèse was no more--
She was gone!--the last breath that she managed to draw
Escaped in one half-utter'd word--'twas "St. Foix!"

* * * * *

Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you feel 'em,
Are not cured by travel--as Horace says, "_Cœlum
Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!_"
It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary--
Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is
A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his;
It haunts you for ever--in bed and at board,--
Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems,
Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored!
It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few,
--François Xavier Auguste was an instance--can do.
Indeed, from the time He committed the crime
Which cut off poor Sister Therèse in her prime,
He was not the same man that he had been--his plan
Was quite changed--in wild freaks he no more led the van;
He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking,
From company shrinking-- He quite gave up drinking.
At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came,
Fish, _fricassee_, _fricandeau_, _potage_, or game,
_Dindon aux truffes_, or _turbot à la crême_,
No!--he still shook his head,--it was always the same,
Still he never complained that the cook was to blame!
'Twas his appetite fail'd him--no matter how rare
And _recherché_ the dish, how delicious the fare,--
What he used to like best he no longer could bear;
But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair:
Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair;
Such a shirt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare.
He omitted to shave;--he neglected his hair,
And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.

One thing, above all, most excited remark:
In the evening he seldom sat long after dark.
Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark"
With his friends; but when they, After taking _cafe_,
Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray,
--Which I own I consider a very good way,
If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day--
No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay;
But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head
By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed.
Yet even when there he seem'd no better off,
For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he cough;
And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright,
While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep,
Declared that "his master was never asleep!
But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep;
That about ten o'clock His door he would lock,
And then never would open it, let who would knock!--
He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed,
And talk as if speaking to one who was dead!
He'd groan and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone,
Begging some one or other to let him alone,
That it really would soften the heart of a stone
To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven;
Then--The bother began always _just at eleven_!"

François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before,
I believe, was a popular man in his _corps_,
And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun,
Now began to consult what was best to be done.
Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue
Confess'd they did _not_ know at all what to do:
But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville
Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel
For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal.
"The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter
That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter--
_Mort de ma vie!_" --Here he took some rapee--
"Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!"--
He was right, sure enough--in a couple of days
He worms out the whole story of Sister Therèse,
Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch _Père la Chaise_.
--"But the worst thing of all," François Xavier declares,
"Is, whenever I've taken my candle up-stairs,
There's Therèse sitting there--upon one of those chairs!
Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares,
That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs,
While an odour,--the very reverse of perfume,--
More like rhubarb or senna,--pervades the whole room!

Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile,
When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel;
Not that _he_ cared for Ghosts--he was far too genteel;
Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw
Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun
On his person and principles, nick-named _Sans Foi_,
--A man whom they had, you see, Mark'd as a Sadducee,--
In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw,
And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe!--
It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise;
He shrugg'd up his shoulders, he turn'd up his eyes,
And he thought with himself that he could not do less
Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess.

Repetition's detestable;-- So, as you're best able,
Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table--
How the bold Brigadiers Prick'd up their ears,
And received the account, some with fears, some with sneers;
How the Sieur de la Roue Said to Count Cordon Bleu,
"_Ma foi--c'est bien drôle_--Monseigneur, what say you?"--
How Count Cordon Bleu Declared he "thought so too;"--
How the Colonel affirm'd that "the case was quite new;"--
How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers
How far the Ghost part of the story was true;--
How, at last, when asked, "What was the best thing to do?"
Everybody was silent,--for nobody knew!--
And how, in the end, they said, "No one could deal
With the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal,
As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal
This strange story--viz. Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville!"

I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great,
Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate
To rescue his friend from his terrible foes,
Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose,
From extravagant notions respecting their hue
Has strangely agreed to denominate "Blue,"
Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail
Than those he had, early in life, found to fail,
When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail.
In vain did he try With strong waters to ply
His friend, on the ground that he never could spy
Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye;
St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry;
Besides, what the vulgar call "sucking the monkey"
Has much less effect on a man when he's funky.
In vain did he strive to detain him at table
Till his "dark hour" was over--he never was able,
Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address
Which the British call "Humbug," and Frenchmen "_Finesse_,"
(It's "Blarney" in Irish--I don't know the Scotch,)
He fell to admiring his friend's English watch.[21]
He examined the face, And the back of the case,
And the young Lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he
"Saw by the likeness was one of the family;"
Cried "_Superbe!_--_Magnifique!_"
(With his tongue in his cheek)--
Then he open'd the case, just to take a peep in it, and
Seized the occasion to pop back the minute-hand.
With a demi-_congé_, and a shrug, and grin, he
Returns the _bijou_ and--_c'est une affaire finie_--
"I've done him," thinks he, "now I'll wager a guinea!"

It happen'd that day They were all very gay,
'Twas the _Grand Monarque's_ birthday--that is, 'twas St. Louis's,
Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view as his--
So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw,
He cried, "Come--that won't do, my fine fellow, St. Foix,--
Give us five minutes longer and drink _Vive le Roi_."

François Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust
Of the trick that was play'd, drew his watch from his fob,
Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to "hob-nob,"
Fill'd a bumper, and rose With "_Messieurs_, I propose"--
He paused--his blanch'd lips fail'd to utter the toast!
'Twas _eleven_!--he thought it half-past ten at most--
Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post,--
His jaw dropp'd--his eyes
Swell'd to twice their own size--
And he stood as a pointer would stand--at a Ghost!
--Then shriek'd, as he fell on the floor like a stone.
"Ah! Sister Therèse! now--do let me alone!"

* * * * *

It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,--
As waters wear stone by the "_Sæpe cadendo_,"
If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto, "_Agendo!_"
Was it not Robert Bruce?--I declare I've forgot,
But I think it was Robert--you'll find it in Scott--
Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a Spider,
"She's sure to come round, if you will but abide her."
Then another great Rob, Called "White-headed Bob,"
Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the "nob"
From a fist which might almost an elephant brain,
That I really believed, at the first, he was slain,
For he lay like a log on his back, on the plain,
Till a gentleman present, accustomed to _train_,
Drew out a small lancet, and open'd a vein
Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain,
He stood up, like a trump, with an air of disdain,
While his "backer" was fain,
--For he could not refrain--
(He was dress'd in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain,
And I think I heard somebody call him "Squire Hayne,")
To whisper _ten words_ one should always retain,
--"TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON, AND AT HIM AGAIN!!!"--
A hint ne'er surpassed, though thus spoken at random,
Since Teucer's apostrophe--_Nil desperandum!_--
--Grandville acted on it, and order'd his Tandem.
He had heard St Foix say, That no very great way
From Namur was a snug little town call'd Grandpré,
Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese,
Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therèse,
Of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother,
And as like to Therèse as one pea to another;
She liv'd with her Mamma, Having lost her Papa,
Late of contraband _schnaps_ an unlicensed distiller,
And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).

Now, though Hippolyte Hector Could hardly expect her
To feel much regard for her sister's "protector,"
When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her;
Still, he very well knew In this world there are few
But are ready much Christian forgiveness to shew,
For other folk's wrongs--if well paid so to do--
And he'd seen to what acts "_Res angustæ_" compel _beaux_
And _belles_, whose affairs have once got out at elbows,
With the magic effect of a handful of crowns
Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but "browns;"
A few _francs_ well applied He'd no doubt would decide
Miss Agnes des Moulins to jump up and ride
As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side;
For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison,
To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrison;
Then he thought, by the aid Of a veil, and gown made
Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray'd,
They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade,
Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid,
Come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid;
That if once introduced to his room, thus array'd,
And then unmask'd as soon as she'd long enough stay'd,
'Twould be no very difficult task to persuade
Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly play'd,
Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade!

With respect to the scheme--though I do not call that a gem--
Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem,
And that, too, among the decided approvers
Of General Sir David Dundas's "Manœuvres."
There's a proverb, however, I've always thought clever,
Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeating,
"The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating!"
We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille
Had mix'd up the suet and plums for _his_ meal.

The night had set in;--'twas a dark and a gloomy one;--
Off went St. Foix to his chamber; a roomy one,
Five stories high, The first floor from the sky,
And lofty enough to afford great facility
For playing a game, with the youthful nobility
Of "crack _corps_" a deal in Request, when they're feeling,
In dull country quarters, _ennui_ on them stealing;
A wet wafer's applied To a sixpence's side,
Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling;
Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops,--
I've seen it here practised at home by our Household troops.
He'd a table, and bed, And three chairs; and all's said.--
A bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're
Sure to find not overburthen'd with furniture.

François Xavier Auguste lock'd and bolted his door
With just the same caution he'd practised before;
Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu,
With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue,
Had been up there before him, and drawn ev'ry screw!

And now comes the moment--the watches and clocks
All point to _eleven_!--the bolts and the locks
Give way--and the party turn out their bag-fox!--
With step noiseless and light, Though half in a fright,
"A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right,"
In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white,
Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a Sprite!--
She approaches the bed With the same silent tread
Just as though she had been at least half a year dead!
Then seating herself on the "rush-bottom'd chair,"
Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire.

If you're one of the "play-going public," kind reader,
And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder,
You've seen Mr. Kean, I mean in that scene
Of Macbeth,--by some thought the crack one of the piece,
Which has been so well painted by Mr. M'Clise,--
When he wants, after having stood up to say grace,[22]
To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place;
You remember his stare At the high-back'd arm-chair,
Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there,
And how, after saying "What man dares I dare!"
He proceeds to declare He should not so much care
If it came in the shape of a "tiger" or "bear,"
But he don't like its shaking its long gory hair!

While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him,
With a horrible grin, Sits, and cocks up his chin,
Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him.
And Lenox and Rosse Seem quite at a loss
If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce;
And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross,
And says in a huff It's all "Proper stuff!"--
All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough;
So, perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion
Of what must have been François Xavier's emotion,
If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be _doubled_,
And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face
Without "speculation," suppose he'd _a brace_!

I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel-
ieve was succeeded in painting the terrible,
Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a-
droit in depicting it--_vide_ his piece
Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease,
Where that prelate is lying Decidedly dying,
With the King and his _suite_, Standing just at his feet,
And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet;
While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner,
"Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner.
But painting's an art I confess I am raw in,
The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing:
Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read,
I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dread;
François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed,
His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead,
Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head,
As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view,
Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw,
Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo,
_Mon Dieu! v'la deux!!_
BY THE POPE THERE ARE TWO!!!"

He fell back--one long aspiration he drew.
In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu,
Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew.
He stirr'd not,--he spoke not,--he none of them knew!
And Achille cried "Odzooks! I fear, by his looks,
Our friend, François Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks!"

'Twas too true! _Malheureux!!_
It was done!--he had ended his earthly career,--
He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear;
--The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!!

L'Envoye.

A moral more in point I scarce could hope
Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope.

If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay,
And pious Maid,--as, possibly, it may,--
From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene
Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green;
O'er some pale marble when they join their heads
To kiss the falling tears each other sheds;
Oh! may they pause!--and think, in silent awe,
He, that he reads the words, "_Ci gît St. Foix!_"--
She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys
Bears this sad line,--"_Hic jacet Sœur Therèse!_"--
Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say,
"Oh! may we never play such tricks as they!"--
And if at such a time some Bard there be,
Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea
And sentimental song--like Ingoldsby--
If such there be--who sings and sips so well,
Let him this sad, this tender story tell!
Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast,
"I've 'scaped the Broken Heart!"--"and I the Ghost!!"

* * * * *

The next in order of these "lays of many lands" refers to a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the banks of what our Teutonic friends are won't to call their "own imperial River!" The incidents which it records afford sufficient proof (and these are days of demonstration), that a propensity to flirtation is not confined to age or country, and that its consequences were not less disastrous to the mail-clad _Ritter_ of the dark ages than to the silken courtier of the seventeenth century. The whole narrative bears about it the stamp of truth, and from the papers among which it was discovered I am inclined to think it must have been picked up by Sir Peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits to "The German Spa."

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Mrs. Ingoldsby, who is deeply read in Robertson, informs me that this is a mistake; that the lady to whom this memorable _billet_ was delivered by the hands of Pennalosa, was the unfortunate monarch's mamma, and not his sister. I would gladly rectify the error, but, then,--what am I to do for a rhyme?--On the whole, I fear I must content myself, like Talleyrand, with admitting that "it is worse than a fault--it's a blunder!" for which enormity,--as honest old Pepys says when he records having kissed his cookmaid,--"I humbly beg pardon of Heaven, and Mrs. Ingoldsby!"

[20]
Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.
Who viewed men's manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys.

[21] "Tompion's, I presume?"--FARQUHAR.

[22]
May good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both.--_Macbeth._

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.

A LEGEND OF GERMANY.

Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight,
Was equally ready to tipple or fight,
Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle;
In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle,"
Unstain'd by dishonour, unsullied by fear,
All his neighbours pronounced him a _preux chevalier_.

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,
He had one slight defect, viz. a rather lean rental;
Besides, as 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun,
So it must be confessed that Sir Rupert had one;
Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in
A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking,
And, what moralists say Is as naughty--to play,
To _Rouge et Noir_, Hazard, Short Whist, _Ecarté_;
Till these, and a few less defensible fancies
Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

When at length through his boozing, And tenants refusing
Their rents, swearing "times were so bad they were losing,"
His steward said, "O, sir, It's some time ago, sir,
Since ought through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer,
And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers."
Sir Rupert the brave thus addressed his retainers:

"My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock
Is out, with the Kürchwasser, Barsac, Moselle,
And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well,
I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best
For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes,
Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose;
As to me, I opine, Left _sans_ money or wine,
My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine,
Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over,
'Though he lived a _roué_, yet he died a philosopher.'"

The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely,
Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly,
By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream
A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream;
Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes,
In other respects she was scanty of clothes;
For, so says tradition, both written and oral,
Her _one_ garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral.

Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar,
With silver cords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar,
And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight,
Soon found his astonishment merged in delight;
But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees,
Till at length it invaded her very chemise,
While the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to swallow her,
And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower;
--Jumping up in his boat, And discarding his coat,
"Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!"
Then into the water he plunged with a souse
That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.

Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink,
Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink,
And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows
Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose,
Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch
Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch;
Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood,
Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud.

But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight,
When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!--
A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal,
Rose above and about him;--great fishes and small
Came thronging around him, regardless of danger,
And seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger.

Their figures and forms to describe, language fails--
They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails;
Of their genus or species a sample to gain,
You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain;
E'en the famed Mr. Myers Would scarcely find buyers,
Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop
To stare, were such monsters expos'd in his shop.

But little reck'd Rupert these queer-looking brutes,
Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots,
For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention,
In a moment completely absorb'd his attention.
A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer
Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer),
Have ever distill'd, To the summit was fill'd,
Lay stretch'd out before him,--and every nerve thrill'd
As scores of young women Were diving and swimming,
Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in;--
All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns,
They came floating about him like so many prawns.

Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes
Alluded to,) ere he lept into the billows
Possess'd irreproachable morals, began
To feel rather queer, as a modest young man;
When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognised soon
As the one he had seen by the light of the moon,
And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence,
"Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance;
My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen,
All do me the honour to call me their Queen;
I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here,
And hope you can make it convenient to dine here."

The Knight blush'd, and bowed, As he ogled the crowd
Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud:
"Ma'am, you do me much honour,--I cannot express
The delight I shall feel--if you'll pardon my dress--
May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps
In the river at midnight for want of 'the dumps,'
He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps;
If I could but have guess'd--what I sensibly feel--
Your politeness--I'd not have come _en dishabille_,
But have put on my _silk_ tights in lieu of my _steel_."
Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray,
You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way;
We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish,
And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine,
I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine."

The Knight made a bow more profound than before,
When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door,
And said, bending his knee, "_Madame, on a servi!_"
Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place,
And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace.

What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she
Apologiz'd much for their plain water-souchy,
Want of Harvey's, and Cross's, And Burgess's sauces?
Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he
Preferred his fish plain, without soy or anchovy.
Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel,
Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel.
The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes
Than of what they were served on, the massive gold dishes;
While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls,
Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls,
And a thought came across him and caused him to muse,
"If I could but get hold Of some of that gold,
I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!"

When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses,
The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses;
Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest
Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas,
"Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?"--

Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender,
Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender,
And told her outright How that he, a young Knight,
Had never been last at a feast or a fight;
But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year,
And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer,
Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent,
How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent.;
How they follow'd--and then, The once civillest of men,
Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he
'd ever raised money by way of annuity;
And, his mortgages being about to foreclose,
How he jump'd in the river to finish his woes!

Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear,
That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear;
Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly,
And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I
A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles,
Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain,
A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign,
With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride,
(For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied;)
No couple so happy on earth should be seen
As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline;
Not that money's my object--No, hang it! I scorn it--
And as for my rank--but that _you'd_ so adorn it--
I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall,
And, instead of 'the _Great_,' be call'd 'Rupert the _Small_;'
--To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus,
I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse."[23]

Lurline hung her head, Turned pale, and then red,
Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed,
As though his abruptness, in "popping the question"
So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion.

Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh,
"You are welcome," she murmur'd, in tones most bewitching,
"To every utensil I have in my kitchen!"
Upstarted the Knight, Half mad with delight,
Round her finely-form'd waist He immediately placed
One arm, which the lady most closely embraced,
Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture,
And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture.
"And, oh!" he exclaim'd, "let them go catch my skiff, I
'll be home in a twinkling, and back in a jiffy,
Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey
Than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney."

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand,
And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land,
For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten
Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one,
Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny,
Which some others already had half-fill'd with money;
In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore
And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore;
But Sir Rupert was strong, And, while pulling along,
Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

"Away! away! to the mountain's brow,
Where the castle is darkly frowning;
And the vassals, all in goodly row,
Weep for their lord a-drowning!
Away! away! to the steward's room,
Where law with its wig and robe is;
Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe,
And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies!"

The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling,
When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling.

What rejoicing was there! How the vassals did stare!
The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air,
For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp,
And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago and cramp;
But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded
Wet jacket or trowsers, nor thought of repining,
Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining.
But oh! what dismay Fill'd the tribe of _Ca Sa_,
When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay!
Away went "_cognovits_," "bills," "bonds," and escheats,"--
Rupert clear'd off all scores, and took proper receipts.

Now no more he sends out For pots of brown stout
Or _schnaps_, but resolves to do henceforth without,
Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety,
Enrol himself one of a Temp'rance Society,
All riot eschew, Begin life anew,
And new-cushion and hassock the family pew!
Nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life,
He boldly determines to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense
Of honour, should put Lurline's name in the licence,
And that, for a man of his breeding and quality,
To break faith and troth, Confirm'd by an oath,
Is not quite consistent with rigid morality;
But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her
From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water,
And declined as unsuited A bride so diluted--
Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say,
(For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing,)
Made proposals in form to Miss _Una Von_--something,
(Her name has escaped me,) sole heiress, and niece
To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

"Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!"
So much time is saved in the billing and cooing--
The ring is now bought, the white favours, and gloves,
And all the _et cetera_ which crown people's loves;
A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker,
And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre,
That shaft which the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is,
A plum-colour'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries.

'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight,
With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white,
And the bridemaids fair with their long lace veils,
As they all walk'd up to the altar rails,
While nice little boys, the incense dispensers,
March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers.

With a gracious air, and a smiling look,
Mess John had open'd his awful book,
And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant?
And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?"
When from base to turret the castle shook!!!
Then came a sound of a mighty rain
Dashing against each storied pane,
The wind blew loud, And a coal-black cloud
O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd;
How it could happen they could not divine,
The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pass
That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas;
But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd,
As if heaven and earth were coming together;
None ever had witness'd such terrible weather.
Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd,
Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears
In the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers;
The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon,
When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected,
Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected,
And endeavoured to cheer His bride, in her ear
Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear;
Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're
Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture."
But now, from without A trustworthy scout
Rush'd hurriedly in, Wet through to the skin,
Informing his master "the river was rising,
And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising."

He'd no time to say more, For already the roar
Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door,
While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen,
Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline;
And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,
She was stung by the _spretæ injuriâ formæ_.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,
What she said to the ladies who stood by her side,
What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes,
Oh, nobody mentions,--for nobody knows;
For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,
And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout,
The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring,
The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in;
Ere the close of the day All was clean washed away--
One only survived who could hand down the news,
A little old woman that open'd the pews;
She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck.
In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming,
And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in;
In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek
For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek;
In vain was their search After ought in the church,
They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch;
The Humane Society Tried a variety
Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles,
But they only fish'd up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware
Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!
Shun playing at _shorts_--avoid quarrels and jars--
And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars!
--Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed
Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide!
Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!--
Be up in the morning by half after seven!
Keep from flirting--nor risk, warned by Rupert's miscarriage,
An action for breach of a promise of marriage;--
Don't fancy old fishes! Don't prig silver dishes!
And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,
BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

* * * * *

And now for "Sunny Italy,"--the "Land of the unforgotten brave,"--the land of blue skies and black-eyed Signoras.--I cannot discover from any recorded memoranda that "Uncle Perry" was ever in Venice, even in Carnival time--that he ever saw Garrick in Shylock I do not believe, and am satisfied that he knew nothing of Shakspeare, a circumstance that would by no means disqualify him from publishing an edition of that Poet's works. I can only conclude that, in the course of his Continental wanderings, Sir Peregrine had either read, or heard of the following history, especially as he furnishes us with some particulars of the eventual destination of his _dramatis personæ_ which the Bard of Avon has omitted. If this solution be not accepted, I can only say, with Mr. Puff, that probably "two men hit upon the same idea, and Shakspeare made use of it first."

FOOTNOTES:

[23] "Sardanapalus" and "Boots," the _Zenith_ and _Nadir_ of human society.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

A LEGEND OF ITALY.

... Of the Merchant of Venice there are two 4to. editions in 1600, one by Heyes and the other by Roberts. The Duke of Devonshire and Lord Francis Egerton have copies of the edition by Heyes, and _they vary importantly_.

... It must be acknowledged that _this_ is a very easy and happy emendation, which does not admit of a moment's doubt or dispute.

... Readers in general are not all aware of the _nonsense_ they have in many cases been accustomed to receive as the genuine text of Shakspeare!

_Reasons for a new edition of Shakspeare's Works, by J. Payne Collier_.

I believe there are few But have heard of a Jew,
Named Shylock, of Venice, as errant a "Screw"
In money transactions, as ever you knew;
An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent
A ducat at less than three hundred per cent.,
Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice,
Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies,
When press'd for a loan, at the very first sight
Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in _Flight_.
It is not my purpose to pause and inquire
If he might not, in managing thus to retire,
Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire;
Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do,
Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew.

But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives,
We've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives,
That "Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives!"
In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool,
Bassanio, a Lord of the Tom-noddy school,
Who, by shewing at Operas, Balls, Plays, and Court,
A "swelling" (Payne Collier would read "swilling") "port,"
And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup,
Had shrunk his "weak means," and was "stump'd" and "hard up,"
Took occasion to send To his very good friend
Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end,
And who'd often before had the kindness to lend
Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend.

"Antonio," said he, "Now listen to me:
I've just hit on a scheme which, I think, you'll agree,
All matters considered, is no bad design,
And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine.
"In the first place, you know all the money I've got,
Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot,
And in making those loans you have made a bad shot;
Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows
And tom-tits, they chance to lose one of their arrows,
--Shoot another the same way--I'll watch well its track,
And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back!--
So list to my plan, And do what you can
To attend to and second it, that's a good man!

"There's a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at
A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at
The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat
Was giving last season, we all used to stare at.
Then, as to her wealth, her Solicitor told mine,
Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine,
Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks,
It's stuffed so with shares in 'Grand Junctions' and 'Docks',
Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks,
French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Columbian, and Chilian,
In English Exchequer-bills full half a million,
Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle,
But the right sort of 'flimsy,' all sign'd by Monteagle.
Then I know not how much in Canal-shares and Railways,
And more speculations I need not detail, ways
Of vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em,
Contribute a deal to improving one's income;
In short, she's a Mint! --Now I say, deuce is in't
If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint,
And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print
At the time that I told you of, know from a squint.
In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony,
Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan--I
Am sure of my game--though, of course, there are brutes,
Of all sorts and sizes, preferring their suits
To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts,
Yet Portia--she's named from that daughter of Cato's--
Is not to be snapp'd up like little potatoes,
And I have not a doubt I shall rout every lout
Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson--cut them all out--
Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her!
--Then hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed,
For her Three-and-a-half per Cents--New and Reduced!

With a wink of his eye His friend made reply
In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry,
"Still the same boy, Bassanio--never say 'die'!
--Well--I hardly know how I shall do't, but I'll try,--
Don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash,
But the fact is, at present I'm quite out of cash;
The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is
Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies,
Tending, of course, my resources to cripple,--I
've one bound to England,--another to Tripoli--
Cyprus--Masulipatam--and Bombay;
A sixth, by the way, I consigned t'other day,
To Sir Gregor M'Gregor, Cacique of Poyais,
A country where silver's as common as clay.
Meantime, till they tack, And come, some of them, back,
What with Custom-house duties, and bills falling due,
My account with Jones Loyd and Co. looks rather blue;
While, as for the 'ready,' I'm like a Church-mouse,--
I really don't think there's five pounds in the house.
But, no matter for that, Let me just get my hat,
And my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat,
And we'll go forth at once to the market--we two,--
And try what my credit in Venice can do;
I stand well on 'Change, and, when all's said and done, I
Don't doubt I shall get it for love or for money."

They were going to go, When, lo! down below,
In the street, they heard somebody crying, "Old Clo'!"
--"By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose!--I knew
We should not have to search long. Solanio, run you,
--Salarino,--quick!--haste! ere he get out of view,
And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!"

With a pack, Like a sack
Of old clothes, at his back,
And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack,
Saying, "Rest you fair, Signior Antonio!--vat, pray,
Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?"

--"Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know,
I am what they call 'warm,'--pay my way as I go,
And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend,
I can break through a rule, to oblige an old friend;
And that's the case now--Lord Bassanio would raise
Some three thousand ducats--well,--knowing your ways,
And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will,
Unless you've a couple of names to the bill,
Why, for once, I'll put mine to it,
Yea, seal and sign to it--
Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say
As to 'doing' a bill at three months from to-day?
Three thousand gold ducats, mind--all in good bags
Of hard money--no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags?"

"--Vell, ma tear," says the Jew, "I'll see vat I can do!
But Mishter Antonio, hark you, 'tish funny
You say to me, 'Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money!'
Ven you very vell knows How you shpit on ma clothes,
And use naughty vords--call me Dog--and avouch
Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch,
And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch,
You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch.
--Vell!--no matters, ma tear,-- Von vord in your ear!
I'd be friends mit you bote--and to make dat appear,
Vy, I'll find you de monies as soon as you vill,
Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill;--
Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day
Such sum, or such sums, you shall fail to repay,
I shall cut vere I like, as de pargain is proke,
A fair pound of your flesh--chest by vay of a joke."