Chapter XVIII: Canto II (1)

There is not a nation in Europe but labours
To toady itself, and to humbug its neighbours--
"Earth has no such folks--no folks such a city,
So great, or so grand, or so fine, or so pretty,"
Said Louis Quatorze, "As this Paris of ours!"
--Mr. Daniel O'Connell exclaims, "By the Pow'rs,
_Ould_ Ireland's on all hands admitted to be
The first flow'r of the earth, and first _Gim_ of the sea!"--
--Mr. Bull will inform you that Neptune,--a lad he,
With more of affection than rev'rence, styles "Daddy,"--
Did not scruple to "say To Freedom, one day,"
That if ever he changed his aquatics for dry land,
His home should be Mr. B.'s "Tight little Island."--
He adds, too, that he, The said Mr. B.,
Of all possible Frenchmen can fight any three;
That, with no greater odds, he knows well how to treat them,
To meet them, defeat them, and beat them, and eat them.--
--In Italy, too, 'tis the same to the letter;
There each Lazzarone Will cry to his crony,
"See Naples, then die![25] and the sooner the better!"

The Portuguese say, as a well understood thing,
"Who has not seen Lisbon[26] has not seen a good thing!"--
While an old Spanish proverb runs glibly as under,
"QUIEN NO HA VISTO SEVILLA
NO HA VISTO MARAVILLA!"
"He who ne'er has viewed Seville has ne'er view'd a Wonder!"
And from all I can learn this is no such great blunder.
In fact, from the river, The fam'd Guadalquiver,
Where many a knight's had cold steel through his liver,[27]
The prospect _is_ grand. The _Iglesia Mayor_
Has a splendid effect on the opposite shore,
With its lofty _Giralda_, while two or three score
Of magnificent structures around, perhaps more,
As our Irish friends have it, are there "to the fore;"
Then the old Alcazar, More ancient by far,
As some say, while some call it one of the palaces
Built in twelve hundred and odd by Abdalasis,
With its horse-shoe shaped arches of Arabesque tracery,
Which the architect seems to have studied to place awry,
Saracenic and rich; And more buildings, "the which,"
As old Lilly, in whom I've been looking a bit o' late,
Says, "You'd be bored should I now recapitulate;"[28]
In brief, then, the view Is so fine and so new,
It would make you exclaim, 'twould so forcibly strike ye,
If a Frenchman, "_Superbe!_"--if an Englishman, "Crikey!!"

Yes! thou _art_ "WONDERFUL!"--but oh,
'Tis sad to think, 'mid scenes so bright
As thine, fair Seville, sounds of woe,
And shrieks of pain, and wild affright,
And soul-wrung groans of deep despair,
And blood, and death should mingle there!

Yes! thou art "WONDERFUL!"--the flames
That on thy towers reflected shine,
While earth's proud Lords and high-born Dames,
Descendants of a mighty line,
With cold unalter'd looks are by
To gaze, with an unpitying eye,
On wretches in their agony.

All speak thee "WONDERFUL"--the phrase
Befits thee well--the fearful blaze
Of yon piled faggots' lurid light,
Where writhing victims mock the sight,--
The scorch'd limb shrivelling in its chains,--
The hot blood parch'd in _living_ veins,--
The crackling nerve--the fearful knell
Rung out by that remorseless bell,--
Those shouts from human fiends that swell,--
That withering scream,--that frantic yell,--
All Seville,--all too truly tell
Thou _art_ a "MARVEL"--and a Hell!
God!--that the worm whom thou hast made
Should thus his brother worm invade!
Count deeds like these good service done,
And deem THINE eye looks smiling on!!

Yet there at his ease, with his whole Court around him,
King Ferdinand sits "in his GLORY"--confound him!--
Leaning back in his chair, With a satisfied air,
And enjoying the bother, the smoke, and the smother,
With one knee cocked carelessly over the other;
His pouncet-box goes To and fro at his nose,
As somewhat misliking the smell of old clothes,
And seeming to hint, by this action emphatic,
That Jews, e'en when roasted, are not aromatic;
There, too, fair Ladies From Xeres, and Cadiz,
Catalinas, and Julias, and fair Iñesillas,
In splendid lace-veils and becoming mantillas;
Elviras, Antonias, and Claras, and Floras,
And dark-eyed Jacinthas, and soft Isidoras,
Are crowding the "boxes," and looking on coolly as
Though 'twas but one of their common _tertulias_,
Partaking, as usual, of wafers and ices,
Snow-water, and melons cut out into slices,
And chocolate,--furnished at coffee-house prices;
While many a suitor, And gay coadjutor
In the eating-and-drinking line, scorns to be neuter;
One, being perhaps just return'd with his tutor
From travel in England, is tempting his "_future_"
With a luxury neat as imported, "The Pewter,"
And charming the dear Violantes and Iñeses
With a three-corner'd Sandwich, and _soupçon_ of "Guinness's;"
While another, from Paris but newly come back,
Hints "the least taste in life" of the best cogniac.
Such ogling and eyeing, In short, and such sighing,
And such complimenting (one must not say l--g),
Of smart Cavaliers with each other still vying,
Mix'd up with the crying, And groans, of the dying,
All hissing, and spitting, and broiling and frying,
Form a scene, which, although there can be no denying
To a _bon Catholique_ it may prove edifying,
I doubt if a Protestant, smart Beau, or merry Belle
Might not shrink from it as somewhat too terrible.
It's a question with me if you ever survey'd a
More stern-looking mortal than old Torquemada,
Renown'd Father Dominic, famous for twisting dom-
-estic and foreign necks all over Christendom;
Morescoes or Jews, Not a penny to choose,
If a dog of a heretic dared to refuse
A glass of old port, or a slice from a griskin,
The good Padre soon would so set him a frisking,
That I would not, for--more than I'll say--be in his skin.

'Twas just the same thing with his own race and nation,
And Christian Dissenters of every persuasion,
Muggletonian, or Quaker, Or Jumper, or Shaker,
No matter with whom in opinion partaker,
George Whitfield, John Bunyan, or Thomas Gat-acre,
They'd no better chance than a Bonze or a Fakir;
If a woman, it skill'd not--if she did not deem as he
Bade her to deem touching Papal supremacy,
By the Pope, but he'd make her!
From error awake her,
Or else--pop her into an oven and bake her!
No one, in short, ever came half so near as he
Did, to the full extirpation of heresy;
And if, in the times of which now I am treating,
There had been such a thing as a "Manchester Meeting,"
"Pretty pork" he'd have made "Moderator" and "Minister,"
Had he but caught them on his side Cape Finisterre;--
Pye Smith, and the rest of them once in his bonfire, hence-
-forth you'd have heard little more of the "CONFERENCE."
And--there on the opposite side of the ring,
He, too, sits "in his GLORY," confronting the King,
With his cast-iron countenance frowning austerely,
That matched with his _en bon point_ body but queerly,
For, though grim his visage, his person was pursy,
Belying the rumour Of fat folks' good-humour;
Above waves his banner of "Justice and Mercy,"
Below and around stand a terrible band ad-
-ding much to the scene,--_viz._ The "Holy _Hermandad_,"
That's "Brotherhood,"--each looking grave as a Grand-dad.
Within the arena Before them is seen a
Strange, odd-looking group, each one dress'd in a garment
Not "dandified" clearly, as certainly "varment,"
Being all over vipers and snakes, and stuck thick
With multiplied _silhouette_ profiles of NICK;
And a cap of the same, All devils and flame,
Extinguisher-shaped, much like Salisbury Spire,
Except that the latter's of course somewhat higher;
A long yellow pin-a-fore Hangs down, each chin afore,
On which, ere the wearer had donn'd it, a man drew
The Scotch badge, a _Saltire_, or Cross of St. Andrew;
Though I fairly confess I am quite at a loss
To guess why they should choose that particular cross,
Or to make clear to you What the Scotch had to do
At all with the business in hand,--though it's true
That the vestment aforesaid, perhaps, from its hue,
_Viz. yellow_, in juxta-position with _blue_,
(A tinge of which latter tint could but accrue
On the faces of wretches, of course, in a stew
As to what their tormentors were going to do,)
Might make people fancy, who no better knew,
They were somehow connected with Jeffrey's Review;
Especially too As it's certain that few
Things would make Father Dominic blither or happier
Than to catch hold of _it_, or its _Chef_, Macvey Napier.--
No matter for that--my description to crown,
All the flames and the devils were turn'd upside down
On this habit, facetiously term'd _San Benito_,
Much like the dress suit Of some nondescript brute
From the show-van of Wombwell, (not George,) or Polito.

And thrice happy they,[29] Dress'd out in this way
To appear with _éclat_ at the _Auto-da-Fé_,
Thrice happy indeed whom the good luck might fall to
Of devils tail upward, and "_Fuego revolto_,"
For, only see there, In the midst of the Square,
Where, perch'd up on poles six feet high in the air,
Sit, chained to the stake, some two, three, or four pair
Of wretches, whose eyes, nose, complexion, and hair
Their Jewish descent but too plainly declare,
Each clothed in a garment more frightful by far, a
Smock-frock sort of gaberdine, call'd a _Samarra_,
With three times the number of devils upon it,--
A proportion observed on the sugar-loaf'd bonnet,
With this farther distinction--of mischief a proof--
That every fiend Jack stands upright on his hoof!
While the pictured flames, spread Over body and head,
Are three times as crooked, and three times as red!
All, too, pointing upwards, as much as to say,
"Here's the real _bonne bouche_ of the Auto-da-fé!"

Torquemada, meanwhile, With his cold, cruel smile,
Sits looking on calmly, and watching the pile,
As his hooded "Familiars" (their names, as some tell, come
From their being so much more "familiar" than "welcome,")
Have, by this time, begun To be "poking their fun,"
And their firebrands, as if they were so many posies
Of lilies and roses, Up to the noses
Of Lazarus Levi, and Money Ben Moses;
While similar treatment is forcing out hollow moans
From Aby Ben Lasco, and Ikey Ben Solomons,
Whose beards--this a black, that inclining to grizzle--
Are smoking, and curling, and all in a fizzle;
The King, at the same time, his Dons and his visitors,
Sit, sporting smiles, like the Holy Inquisitors,----

Enough!--no more!--Thank Heaven, 'tis o'er!
The tragedy's done! and we now draw a veil
O'er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail;
The last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket,
The last wretched Hebrew's burnt down in his socket!
The Barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners,
King, Court, Lords, and Commons, gone home to their dinners,
With a pleasing emotion Produced by the notion
Of having exhibited so much devotion,
All chuckling to think how the Saints are delighted
At having seen so many "_Smouches_" ignited:--
All, save Privy-purse Humez, Who sconced in his room is,
And, Cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair,
Is puzzling to find out how much the "affair"
(By deep calculations, the which I can't follow,) cost,--
The _tottle_, in short, _of the whole_ of the Holocaust.

Perhaps you may think it a rather odd thing,
That, while talking so much of the Court and the King,
In describing the scene Through which we've just been,
I've not said one syllable as to the Queen;
Especially, too, as her Majesty's "Whereabouts,"
All things considered, might well be thought thereabouts;
The fact was, however, although little known,
_Sa Magestad_ had hit on a plan of her own,
And suspecting, perhaps, that an _Auto_ alone
Might fail in securing this "Heir to the throne,"

Had made up her mind, Although well inclined
Towards _galas_ and shows of no matter what kind,
For once to retire, And bribe the Saints higher
Than merely by sitting and seeing a fire,--
A sight, after all, she did not much admire;
So she locked herself up, Without platter or cup,
In her Oriel, resolved not to take bite or sup,
Not so much as her matin-draught (our "early purl"),
Nor put on her jewels, nor e'en let the girl,
Who help'd her to dress, take her hair out of curl,
But to pass the whole morning in telling her beads,
And in reading the lives of the Saints, and their deeds,
And in vowing to visit, without shoes or sandals,
Their shrines, with unlimited orders for candles,
Holy water, and Masses of Mozart's, and Handel's.[30]

And many a _Pater_, and _Ave_, and _Credo_
Did She, and her Father Confessor, Quevedo,
(The clever Archbishop, you know, of Toledo,)
Who came, as before, at a very short warning,
Get through, without doubt, in the course of that morning;
Shut up, as they were, With nobody there
To at all interfere with so pious a pair;
And the Saints must have been stony-hearted indeed,
If they had not allow'd all these pains to succeed.
Nay, it's not clear to me but their very ability
Might, Spain throughout, Have been brought into doubt,
Had the Royal bed still remain'd curs'd with sterility;
St. Jago, however, who always is jealous
In Spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us,
And who, if he saw Anything like a flaw
In Spain's welfare, would soon sing "Old Rose, burn the bellows!"
Set matters to rights like a King of good fellows;
By his interference, Three-fourths of a year hence,
There was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing,
Cachucas, Boleros, and bells set a ringing,
In both the Castilles, Triple-bob-major peals,
Rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging,
Seguidillas, Fandangos, While ev'ry gun bang goes;
And all the way through, from Gibraltar to Biscay,
Figueras and Sherry make all the Dons frisky,
(Save Moore's "Blakes and O'Donnells," who stick to the whisky;)
All the day long The dance and the song
Continue the general joy to prolong;
And even long after the close of the day
You can hear little else but "Hip! hip! hip! hurray!"
The Escurial, however, is not quite so gay,
For, whether the Saint had not perfectly heard
The petition the Queen and Archbishop preferr'd,--
Or whether his head, from his not being used
To an _Auto-da-fé_, was a little confused,--
Or whether the King, in the smoke and the smother,
Got bother'd, and so made some blunder or other,
I am sure I can't say; All I know is, that day
There must have been _some_ mistake!--that, I'm afraid, is
Only too clear, Inasmuch as the dear
Royal Twins--though fine babies,--proved both little LADIES!!

MORAL.

Reader!--Not knowing what your "persuasion" may be,
Mahometan, Jewish, or even Parsee,
Take a little advice which may serve for all three!

First--"When you're at _Rome_, do as Rome does!" and note all her
Ways--drink what She drinks! and don't turn Tea-totaler!
In Spain, _raison de plus_, You must do as they do,
Inasmuch as they're all there "at sixes and sevens,"
Just, as you know, They were, some years ago,
In the days of Don Carlos and Brigadier Evans;
Don't be nice, then--but take what they've got in their shops,
Whether griskins, or sausages, ham, or pork-chops!

Next--Avoid Fancy-trousers!--their colours and shapes
Sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes!
For myself, I confess I've but small taste in dress,
My opinion is, therefore, worth nothing--or less--
But some friends I've consulted,--much given to watch one's
Apparel--do say It's by far the best way,
And the safest, to do as Lord Brougham does--buy Scotch ones!

I might now volunteer some advice to a King,--
Let Whigs say what they will, I shall do no such thing,
But copy my betters, and never begin
Until, like Sir Robert, "I'm duly CALLED IN!"

* * * * *

In the windows of the great Hall, as well as in those of the long Gallery, and the Library at Tappington, are, and have been many of them from a very early period, various "storied panes" of stained glass, which, as Blue Dick's[31] exploits did not extend beyond the neighbouring city, have remained unfractured down to the present time. Among the numerous escutcheons there displayed, charged with armorial bearings of the family and its connexions, is one in which a _chevron between three eagles' cuisses, sable_, is blazoned quarterly with the _engrailed saltire_ of the Ingoldsbys. Mr. Simpkinson from Bath,--whose merits as an antiquary as so well known and appreciated as to make eulogy superfluous, not to say impertinent,--has been for some time bringing his heraldic lore to bear on those _monumenta vetusta_. He pronounces the coat in question to be that of a certain Sir Ingoldsby Bray who flourished _temp. Ric. I._, and founded the Abbey of Ingoldsby, in the county of Kent and diocese of Rochester, early in the reign of that monarch's successor. The history of the origin of that pious establishment has been rescued from the dirt and mildew in which its chartularies have been slumbering for centuries, and is here given. The link of connexion between the two families is shown by the accompanying extract from our genealogical tree.

Peter de Ingoldsby, Lord of Tappington
temp: Stephen, killed at the battle of Lincoln
_ex parte regis_. =
|
|
+------+----+
| |
| |
Vitalis de = Alice de Geoffrey = Joan Richard Ingoldsby, of
Engaine. | Lizures, de Brai. | only Tappington aforesaid. _A_
| 2d wife. | dau. _quo_ HODIERNUS INGOLDSBY.
| | |
+-------+ +------------------+----------+ /|\
| | |
Alicia = Ingoldsby de Bray, Chiv'ler, Reginald de Bray, 2d son,
dau. & afterwards assumed his mother's heir to his brother, from whom
heir, name, founder of Ingoldsby descended Edmund Lord Bray,
sus: Abbey, A.D. 1202, summoned to parliament 21
per ob. S. P. _circiter_ 1214. 28 Hen. 8.
coll |
/|\

In this document it will be perceived that the death of Lady Alice Ingoldsby is attributed to strangulation superinduced by suspension, whereas in the veritable legend annexed no allusion is made to the intervention of a halter. Unluckily Sir Ingoldsby left no issue, or we might now be "calling Cousins" with (_ci devant_) Mrs. Otway Cave, in whose favour the abeyance of the old Barony of Bray has recently been determined by the Crown. To this same Barony we ourselves were not without our pretensions, and, _teste Simpkinson_, had "as good a right to it as any body else." The "Collective wisdom of the Country" has, however, decided the point, and placed us among that very numerous class of claimants who are "wrongfully kept out of their property and dignities--by the right owners."

I seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a malicious report that Mr. Simpkinson has, in a late publication, confounded King Henry the Fifth with the _Duke_ of Monmouth, and positively deny that he has ever represented Walter Lord Clifford, (father to Fair Rosamond,) as the leader of the O. P. row.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] "Vedi Napoli e poi mori!"

[26]
"Quem naõ tem visto Lisboa
Naõ tem visto cousa boa."

[27]
"Rio verde, Rio verde, etc."
"Glassy water, glassy water,
Down whose current clear and strong,
Chiefs, confused in mutual slaughter,
Moor and Christian, roll along."--_Old Spanish Romance._

[28] Cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est.
_Propria quæ maribus._

[29] O fortunati nimium sua si bona nôrint!

[30]
"That is, She _would_ have order'd them--but none are known,
I fear, as his,
For Handel never wrote a Mass--and so She'd David Perez's--
Bow! wow! wow! Fol, lol, &c. &c."

(_Posthumous Note by the Ghost of James Smith, Esq._)

[31] Richard Culmer, parson of Chartham, commonly so called, distinguished himself, while Laud was in the Tower, by breaking the beautiful windows in Canterbury Cathedral, "standing on the top of the city ladder, near sixty steps high, with a whole pike in his hand, when others would not venture so high." This feat of Vandalism the cærulean worthy called "rattling down proud Becket's glassie bones."

THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE!

A LEGEND OF PALESTINE--AND WEST KENT.

I'll devise thee brave punishments for him!
SHAKSPERE.

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,
"Come east, come west, Come lance in rest,
Come faulchion in hand, I'll tickle the best
Of all the Soldan's Chivalrie!"

Oh, they came west, and they came east,
Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,--
But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;
Twenty and three, Of high degree,
Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,
All--all save one--and he ran up a tree!
"Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!"
"Twenty and three! Twenty and three!--
All of them Nobles of high degree:
There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"What news? what news? come, tell to me!
What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?--
I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age
Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
Come tell me now, thou Page so small!"

"Oh, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound,
Beast in byre, and Steed in stall;
And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark,
Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"

--"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound,
For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay:
Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear;
How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"--
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,
"What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page!"--

That little Foot-page full low crouch'd he,
And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee,
"Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me:
Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,
Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall:
She sits alone, And she makes her moan;
Dance and song She considers quite wrong;
Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil;
She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!
When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"

"Thou liest! thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page,
Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me!
There, in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest,
What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,
That little Foot-page he blench'd with fear;

"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he,
And tidings rare To him do I bear,
And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"

"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
No learned clerk, I trow, am I,
But well, I ween, May there be seen
Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;
Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;
Although no clerk, Well may I mark
The particular turn of her P's and her Q's!"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage,
By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;
The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes,
And buffets,--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;--
Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads
Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's-heads.

When the contents of the scroll met his view,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew,
Backward he drew His mailed shoe,
And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew
Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,
I may not say whither--I never knew.

"Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain,--
Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"

"Twenty and three! There they be,
Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!--
Twenty and three?-- --Stay--let me see!
Stretched in his gore There lieth one more!
By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and _four_!
Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there,
But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where!
Ay, twenty-four corses, I rede, there be,
Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"

"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!"--
"One is the corse of a barefooted Friar!!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he,
"Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave,
A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;
A year and a day Have I been away,
King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free;
Dame Alice, she sits there in lonely guise,
And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,
And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,
And she darneth her hose, and she crieth, 'Alack!
Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'
A boon, a boon, my Liege," quoth he,
"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,"
King Richard said right graciously,
"Of all in my host That I love the most,
I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!
Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon;
But--mind you make haste, and come back again soon!

FYTTE II.

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,
Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,
And a belted Knight In armour dight,
Is begging a boon on his bended knee,
With signs of grief and sounds of woe,
Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.
"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
In my fury and rage A little Foot-page
I have left, I fear me, in evil case:
A scroll of shame From a faithless dame
Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear;
I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick,
That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where!
Had he as many necks as hairs,
He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou;
Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee!
Ill it beseems that a soldier true
Of holy Church should vainly sue:--
--Foot-pages, they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they,
Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair,
For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
But stout and true Soldiers, like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!--
Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said;
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"--Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,
I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
Alack! alack! too surely I knew
The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,
And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
Dame Alice I found,-- She sank on the ground,--
I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
With jibe and jeer, and mock, and scoff,
I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!--
All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Why really--I hardly know what to say:--
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.--
--Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray;
For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,
For a year, and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
No power could save That paramour knave;
I left him, I wot, in evil case!
There, 'midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,
Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain,
His legs lie here, and his arms lie there,
And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"

"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Foul sin it were, though doughty Knight,
To hack and to hew A champion true
Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!--
--A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair,
To pray for his soul for ever and aye,
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year must thou pay
For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights--
None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound,
Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;--
And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!--
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"

"Now nay, Holy Father, now nay, now nay!
Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
"No champion free of the Cross was he;
No belted Baron of high degree;
No Knight nor Squire Did there expire;
He was, I trow, but a bare-footed Friar!
And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait
With his monks around him, and early and late
May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,
--He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"

"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said,
And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head--
"Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!
A horrible thing has come to pass!
What! cut off the head of a reverend Prior,
And say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'--
'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire
Is half so good as a holy Friar?'
_O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!
Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_
Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_
Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum,
Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_,
And won't have again _sæcula sæculorum_!--
Come hither to me, My Cardinals three,
My Bishops _in partibus_, Masters _in Artibus_,
Hither to me, A.B. and D.D.
Doctors and Proctors of every degree!
Go fetch me a book!--go fetch me a bell
As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well--
I'll send him--_where_ good manners won't let me tell!"

--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!"
--Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face--
"_Meâ culpâ!_--in sooth I'm in pitiful case.
_Peccavi! peccavi!_--I've done very wrong!
But my heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong.
And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long;
And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,
And they're here, and they're there, and I can't tell you where,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share!"

Pope Gregory paused, and he sat himself down,
And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,
And his Cardinals three they pick'd up his crown.

"Now, if it be so that you own you've been wrong,
And your heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong,
And you really will fight like a trump all day long;--
If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share,--
Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me,
That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,
And I think that the Penitent need not despair!
--If it be so, as you seem to say,
Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!

An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
Whose innermost wall's encircling bound
Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
And there in that Abbey all the year round,
A full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns,
Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross-buns;
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay,
Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain,
And gather the bones of the foully slain:
And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;
And plenty of lights Shall be there o' nights;
None of your rascally '_dips_,' but sound,
Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one,
For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave,
Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy,
Nor indulge in a pipe,-- But shall dine upon tripe,
And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,
And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure
Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and _liqueur_!"

(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way
To a feeling which prompted a word profane,
But he swallow'd it down, by an effort, again,
And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
More repetition of _O, meâ culpâ!_)

"Thrice three times upon Candlemas-day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,
Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,
Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,
With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire;
And nor he, nor his heir[32] Shall take, use, or bear
Any more, from this day, The surname of Bray,
As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_!

So his qualms of conscience at length may cease,
And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace!"

Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)
Is off like a shot away and away,
Over the brine To far Palestine,
To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain
For the unburied bones of his victim slain.

"Look out, my Squire, Look higher and nigher,
Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!
And pick up the arms, and the legs, of the dead,
And pick up his body, and pick up his head!"

FYTTE III.

Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three,
With right of free-warren (whatever that be);
Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,
All in full leaf at the right time of year;
About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear,
And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear:
But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near
The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear.
Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore
Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more;
Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind,--and before
You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.[33]
So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot
To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.

Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,
And there they all stand each in their degree,
Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,
Two by two, in their regular mode,
While a funeral comes down the Rochester road.

Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand,
Cockle in hat, and staff in hand,
Come marching in pairs, a holy band!
Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,
Each with his brazen censer bright,
And singing away with all their might,
Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight;
Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear
On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care,
A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd,
Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd),
And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.
Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied
With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide,
While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear--Men-
-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men.

It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well,
How some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell;
Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day
The procession I speak about reached the _Sacellum_;
And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper
Received the first taste of the Father's _flagellum_;--
That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell
All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded,
By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns;
--That year after year, having run round the _Quad_
With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod,
Having not only kiss'd it, but bless'd it, and thank'd it, he
Died, as all thought, in the odour of sanctity,
When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe
What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve
The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright,
Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls, and the squalls
Of some one who seem'd running all round the walls!

Looking out, soon By the light of the moon
There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,
And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,
As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless!" of Hunt's,
And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes
A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes;
While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders
Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS,
But is holding his pate In his left hand, out straight,
As if by a closer inspection to find
Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
With the aid of a small "bull's-eye lantern,"--as placed
By our own New Police,--in a belt round his waist.
All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes,
When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies
From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,--
In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
"Running after him,"--so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!"

Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight
Course round the Abbey as best he might,
Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite,
While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,--
Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
And at this time of day One can hardly survey
Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey
With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
But still there are many folks living who say
That on every Candlemas eve, the Knight,
Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright,
With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite,
With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood;
More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,
You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy
And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail,
They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest
Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd,
Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd
That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain
Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest,
Caulk'd, and made water-tight,
By command of the Knight,
Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,
And the body itself in a decentish plight,
Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight;
So, to save themselves trouble, they'd pick'd up instead,
And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head!
Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd,
And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd.

Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree
With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,--
I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine
Containing the bones brought from far Palestine
Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine
This _fact_ with the reason these people assign,
Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine
Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-_ine_."
'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may,
The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ Bray),
It is boldly affirm'd, by the folks great and small
About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall,
Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall.
And that many have seem him, and more heard him squall.
So I think, when the facts of the case you recall,
My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,
Viz.: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d--d after all!

MORAL.

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,
In livery or out of it, listen to me!
See what comes of lying!--don't join in a league
To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue!

Ladies!--married and single, from this understand
How foolish it is to send letters by hand!
Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you
've a _billet_ to send To a lover or friend,
Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen!--you who are given to roam,
Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!
But while you're abroad lead respectable lives;
Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives!
And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads
When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS!"

Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong,
Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!
If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,
Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them down stairs!
To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend,
"If you want matters well managed, _Go!_--if not, _Send!_"
A servant's too often a negligent elf;
--If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires
People now to bring home with them unburied Friars,
But they sometimes _do_ bring home an inmate for life;
Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife!
For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed,
To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead
Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!

FOOTNOTES:

[32] His brother Reginald, it would seem by the pedigree, disregarded this prohibition.

[33] Alas! one might almost say that of this sacred, and once splendid, edifice, _periêrunt etiam ruinæ_. An elderly gentleman, however, of ecclesiastical cut, who oscillates between the Garrick Club and the Falcon in Gravesend, and is said by the host to be a "foreigneering Bishop," does not scruple to identify the ruins still to be seen by the side of the high Dover road, about a mile and a half below the town, with those of the haunted _Sacellum_. The general features of the landscape certainly correspond, and tradition, as certainly, countenances his conjecture.

* * * * *

Alas, for Ingoldsby Abbey!--Alas that one _should_ have to say

Periêrunt etiam Ruinæ!
Its very Ruins now are tiny.

There is a something in the very sight of an old Abbey--family associations apart--as Ossian says (or Macpherson for him), "pleasing yet mournful to the soul!" nor could I ever yet gaze on the roofless walls and ivy-clad towers of one of these venerable monuments of the piety of bygone days, without something very like an unbidden tear rising to dim the prospect. Something of this, I think, I have already hinted in recording our pic-nic with the Seaforths at Bolsover. Since then I have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once was Netley, and never experienced the sensation to which I have alluded in a stronger degree;--if its character was somewhat changed before we parted--it is not my fault. Still, be the drawbacks what they may, I shall ever mark with a white stone the day on which I for the first time beheld the time-worn cloisters of

NETLEY ABBEY.

A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
Was sinking slow, And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green,
That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovelily bright In that glorious light,
And I felt 'twas holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time--
The days of thy Monks of old,--
When to Matin, and Vesper, and Compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,
And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,
Swell'd the full tide of sacred song;

And then a Vision pass'd
Across my mental eye;[34]
And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white veils, went by,
Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,--
--But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-Lad!

Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,
And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell,
And "dear little souls," In clean linen stoles,
Swinging their censers, and making a smell.--
And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear,
With front severe, And brow austere,
Now and then pinching a little boy's ear
When he chaunts the responses too late, or too soon,
Or his _Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La_'s not quite in tune.
(Then, you know, They'd a "moveable _Do_,"
Not a fixed one as now--and of course never knew
How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)
It was, in sooth, a comely sight,
And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er"
My spirit--a change of fear--
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall--
For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks All ready to fix,
And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!--
That horrible hole!--it seems to say,
'I'm a Grave that gapes for a living prey!'"

And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad--
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think
That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink,
Or be closed for aye In this kind of way,
Shut out for ever from wholesome day,
Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!--
And that Maiden's lip, Which was made to sip,
Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
--That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this!--
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The poor lone victim's stifled cry,[35]
"Well! I can't understand How any man's hand
_Could_ wall up that hole in a Christian land!--
Why, a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work,
And though, when his Ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
'When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back, And sewn up in a sack,
To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!'
--Oh! a Saint 'twould vex To think that the sex
Should be treated no better than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls
Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls,--
If e'er its justice wraps in flame
The black abodes of sin and shame,
That justice, in its own good time,
Shall visit for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!--the tempest lours,--
It bursts on thy devoted towers;

Ruthless Tudor's bloated form
Rides on the blast, and guides the storm;
I hear the sacrilegious cry,
"Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come--a fearful fall--
Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
Stained pane, and sculptured stone,
There they lie on the greensward strown--
Mouldering walls remain alone!
Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown,
Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
Upon that grey and mouldering wall,
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall!--
They "come like shadows, so depart"--
I see thee as thou wert--and art--

Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe!
Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
No voice awakes thine echoes now!
No sound--Good Gracious!--what was that?
Was it the moan, The parting groan
Of her who died forlorn and alone,
Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?--
--Full and clear On my listening ear
It comes--again--near, and more near--
Why 'zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer!
--I rush to the door-- I tread the floor,
By Abbots and Abbesses trodden before,
In the good old chivalric days of yore,
And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair
A hag, surrounded by crockery-ware,
Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng,
A nasty decoction miscall'd "Souchong,"--
And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"
Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life!--
Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."
Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there,
Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!--
Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns,
Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns,"
Two or three damsels, frank and free,
Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.
Parties below, and parties above,
Some making tea, and some making love.
Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,--
The detestable din Of that cracked violin,
And the odours of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin!
"--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!"
And I said to the person who drove my "shay,"
(A very intelligent man, by the way,)
"This, all things considered, is rather too gay!
It don't suit my humour,--so take me away!
Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song!
If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,'
And I really consider it all very wrong.--
--Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"--
--He paused, and said, Scratching his head,
"Why, I really _do_ think he's a little to blame,
But I can't say I knows the Gentleman's name!"

"Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh,
And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye,
"My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt
That some day or other you'll find it out,
Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay,'
(As perhaps he may,) Be so good as to say
That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day,
Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,
Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,
And thus of their owner to speak began,
As he ordered you home in haste,
"NO DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN,
But--_I can't say much for his taste_."[36]

FOOTNOTES:

[34] In my mind's eye, Horatio!--HAMLET.

[35] About the middle of the last century a human skeleton was discovered in a recess in the wall among the ruins of Netley. On examination the bones were pronounced to be those of a female. _Teste_ James Harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver of Southampton, who "well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that 'Somebody told her so.'"

* * * * *

My very excellent brother-in-law, Seaforth, late of the Bombay Fencibles (lucky dog to have quitted the service before this shocking Afghan business!), seems to have been even more forcibly affected on the evening when he so narrowly escaped being locked in at Westminster Abbey, and when--but let him describe his own feelings, as he has done, indeed, in the subjoined

FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

A feeling sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground
Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around:
I stepp'd with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal tread
Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the mighty
dead!

The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those cloisters
pale,
With fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured mail;
As from the stained and storied pane it danced with quivering
gleam,
Each cold and prostrate form below seem'd quickening in the beam.

Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell,
And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell:
It died--and not a breath did stir;--above each knightly stall,
Unmoved, the banner'd blazonry hung waveless as a pall.

I stood alone!--a living thing 'midst those that were no more--
I thought on ages past and gone--the glorious deeds of yore--
On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain,
The fatal roses twined at length--on great Eliza's reign.

I thought on Naseby--Marston Moor--on Worc'ster's "crowning
fight;"
When on mine ear a sound there fell--it chill'd me with affright,
As thus in low, unearthly tones I heard a voice begin,
"--This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!--Sir! please put summut
in!"

* * * * *

_Cætera desiderantur._

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un peu plus de goût!--_Gil Blas._

* * * * *