Chapter XXI: Canto II (4)

It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves in "a stew,"
And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do,
For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
And the fish is all spoil'd And the butter's all oil'd,
And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
And still fidgets, and looks More cross than the cooks,
And repeats that bad word, which we've soften'd to "Zooks!"

Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily on,
Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir,
That nice little boy who sits there in his chair,
Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair,
Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.

Again, Sir Guy the silence broke,
"It's hard upon Three!--it's just on the stroke!
Come, serve up the dinner!--A joke is a joke!"--
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,[47]
Who "his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes,"
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Stiles, and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all, Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there, and sup, and wind up with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie he
Cook'd up, that "the _fête_ was postponed _sine die_,
The dear little curly-wig'd heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!"

When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee
Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, _On a servi_!"
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near To partake of his cheer,
He stamp'd, and he storm'd--then his language!--Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-deck'd Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi_,"
"Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
--The Devil take _them_! and the Devil take _thee_!
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!!"

In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed Grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn, at the gate of the Barbican tower,
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,
And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!--such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the doors of the Scroope!

This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye--
And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye--
This has somewhat the favour of Marmaduke Grey--
But stay!--_Where on earth did he get those long nails?_
Why, they're _claws_!--then, Good Gracious!--they've all of
them _tails_!
That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say, a beak!--and he can't keep it still!--
Is that Poynings?--Oh Gemini!--look at his feet!!
Why, they're absolute _hoofs_!--is it gout or his corns
That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's _horns_!
Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--_they've all got them on!_
Then their great saucer eyes-- It's the Father of lies
And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connexions,
And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf--
Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!

And now what a din Without and within!
For the court-yard is full of them.--How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin!
Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking.
And then such a lot As together had got!
Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses,--I ween
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,--
Declared, when he'd made, By the said machine's aid,
Up, what's now called, the "tottle" of those he survey'd,
There were just--how he proved it I cannot divine,--
_Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine_,
Exclusive of Him, Who, giant in limb,
And black as the crow they denominate _Jim_,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window,--and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear?
Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare
It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wig'd Heir!
Whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear!

What words can express The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into?
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!--
He sobb'd, and he sigh'd, And he scream'd, and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,--he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary,"[48]
Stamped on the jasey, As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were "hazy,"
Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times,)
"To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs
To that window above there, _en ogive_, and painted,
And brings down my curly-wi'----" here Sir Guy fainted!

With many a moan And many a groan,
What with tweaks of the nose, and some _eau de Cologne_,
He revived,--Reason once more remounted her throne,
Or rather the instinct of Nature,--'twere treason
To Her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason,--
But what saw he then?--Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright!
In that broad banquet hall The fiends, one and all,
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small,
Pretty, curly-wig'd boy, as if playing at ball:
Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue, or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wig'd Heir!

Well a day! Well a day! All he can say
Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away;
Not a man can be tempted to join the _mélée_,
E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay
Fifty pounds on demand," have, for once, lost their sway,
And there the Knight stands, Wringing his hands
In his agony--when, on a sudden, one ray
Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!--Oh, it's funny,
And almost absurd, That it never occurr'd!--
"Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money!
Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame,--
On my word I'm afraid,--I confess it with shame,--
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,--
Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no!--CUTHBERT!--egad
St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad!
Oh! holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine--
Of myself I say little,--have knelt at your shrine,
And have lash'd their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine,
Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow!
Bring him back here in safety!--perform but this task,
And I'll give!--Oh!--I'll give you whatever you ask!--
There is not a shrine In the County shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!--
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,--hasten in pity!"--
--Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies,
"It's a bargain!--but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!"--

Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side,
That old, old grey man, with his beard long and wide,
In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?--
And, how did he come?--did he walk?--did he ride?--
Oh! none could determine,--oh! none could decide,--
The fact is, I don't believe any one tried,
For while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride,
And without a word more, He march'd on before,
Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door,
To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wig'd Heir.--
--I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepp'd in between,
With his resolute air, and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided, though mild,
"Come!--I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!"

The Demoniac crowd In an instant seem'd cowed;
Not one of the crew volunteer'd a reply,
All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye,
Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seem'd by his talk,
And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk,
He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,
And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"

My goodness!--the look that the old Palmer gave!
And his frown!--'twas quite dreadful to witness--"Why, slave!
You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to ME!!
--At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee,
And hand me that curly-wig'd boy!--I command it--
Come!--none of your nonsense!--you know I won't stand it."

Old Nicholas trembled,--he shook in his shoes,
And seem'd half inclined, but afraid, to refuse.
"Well, Cuthbert," said he, "If so it must be,
--For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;--
Take your curly-wig'd brat, and much good may he do ye!
But I'll have in exchange--"--here his eye flash'd with rage--
"That chap with the buttons--he _gave me_ the Page!"

"Come, come," the Saint answer'd, "you very well know
The young man's no more his than your own to bestow--
Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick--no! no!
Cut your stick, sir--come, mizzle!--be off with you!--go!"--
The Devil grew hot-- "If I do I'll be shot!
An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what;
He has _asked_ us to _dine here_, and go we will not!
Why, you Skinflint,--at least
You may leave us the feast!
Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode,
Ten million good leagues, Sir, as ever you strode,
And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road--
--'Go!'--'Mizzle!' indeed--Mr. Saint, who are you,
I should like to know?--'Go!'--I'll be hang'd if I do!
He invited us all--we've a right here--it's known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own--
Here, Asmodeus--a slice of that beef!--now the mustard!--
What have _you_ got?--oh, apple-pie--try it with custard!"

The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because
He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws,
And they _might_ be on _his_ side--and then, he'd such claws!
On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire
With the curly-wig'd boy he'd pick'd out of the fire,
And give up the victuals--to retrace his path,
And to compromise--(spite of the Member for Bath).
So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turn'd on his heel,
He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal.
And the soup _à la Reine_, and the sauce _Bechamel_.
As The Scroope _did_ invite you to dinner, I feel
I can't well turn you out--'twould be hardly genteel--
But be moderate, pray,--and remember thus much,
Since you're treated as Gentlemen, shew yourselves such,
And don't make it late, But mind and go straight
Home to bed when you've finish'd--and don't steal the plate!
Nor wrench off the knocker--or bell from the gate.
Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace,
And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!"

Having thus said his say, That Palmer grey
Took up little Le Scroope, and walk'd coolly away,
While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurray!"
Then fell, tooth and claw, on the victuals, as they
Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day,
All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em,
No care for precedence or common decorum.
Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte,
And Hecate,--considered the Belles of the party,
Between them was seated Leviathan, eager
To "do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor;
Here was _Morbleu_ (a French devil), supping soup-meagre,
And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar
(A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan,
To "follow the sea,"--and next him Demogorgon,--
Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ
To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers.
Who'd joined with Medusa to get up "the Lancers;"
--Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale,
While Beëlzebub's tying huge knots in his tail.
There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles
Gave him the lie, Said he'd "blacken his eye,"
And dash'd in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;--
Ramping, and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring,--
Never was seen such a riot before in
A gentleman's house, or such profligate revelling
At any _soirée_--where they don't let the Devil in.

Hark!--as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight!
(An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,")
When Nick, who by this time was rather elate,
Rose up and addressed them.
"'Tis full time," he said,
"For all elderly Devils to be in their bed;
For my own part I mean to be jogging, because
I don't find myself now quite so young as I was;
But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post,
I must call on you all for one bumper--the toast
Which I have to propose is,--OUR EXCELLENT HOST!
--Many thanks for his kind hospitality--may
_We_ also be able To see at _our_ table
Himself, and enjoy, in a family way,
His good company _down stairs_ at no distant day!
You'd, I'm sure, think me rude
If I did not include
In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wig'd Heir.
He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware
That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care;
Though I must not say 'bless,'--
--Why, you'll easily guess,--
May our Curly-wig'd Friend's shadow never be less!"
Nick took off his heel-taps--bow'd--smiled--with an air
Most graciously grim,--and vacated the chair,--
Of course the _elite_ Rose at once on their feet,
And followed their leader, and beat a retreat;
When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat,
And, requesting that each would replenish his cup,
Said, "Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!"--
--It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!

* * * * *

I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay
To fulfil his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay
For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day
The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay.
In fact, when the votaries came there to pray,
All said there was nought to compare with it--nay,
For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby,
Four Brethren thenceforward, two cleric, two lay,
He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry,
With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry;
In short, the whole County
Declared, through his bounty,
The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes
From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines,[49]
And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation
With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.

For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read
In some Chronicle--whose, has gone out of my head--
That, what with these candles, and other expenses,
Which no man would go to if quite in his senses,
He reduced, and brought low His property so,
That, at last, he'd not much of it left to bestow;
And that, many years after that terrible feast,
Sir Guy in the Abbey was living a Priest;
And there, in one thousand and--something,--deceased.
(It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick,
And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick"),
While, as to young Curly-wig,--dear little Soul,
Would you know more of him, you must look at "The Roll,"
Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit,
Commenced in "Thirteen sev'nty-five,"--which took root
In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore
That none but _his_ ancestors, ever before,
In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore,
To wit, "_On a Prussian-blue Field_, a _Bend Or_;"--
While the Grosvenor averred that _his_ ancestors bore
The same, and Scroope lied like a--somebody tore
Off the simile,--so I can tell you no more,
Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.[50]

MORAL.

This Legend sound maxims exemplifies--e. g.--
_1mo._
Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you,
Remember what Lilly says, "_Animum rege!_"[51]
And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing,--
In all good society voted past bearing,--
Eschew it!--and leave it to dust-men and mobs,
Nor commit yourself much beyond "Zooks!" or "Odsbobs!"

_2do._
When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality,
Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality!--
For should you come late, And make dinner wait,
And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate,
The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate--
And--though both may, perhaps, be too well bred to swear,
They'll heartily _wish_ you--I need not say _Where_.

_3tio._
Look well to your Maid-servants!--say you expect them
To see to the children, and not to neglect them!--
And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory
Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery!--
--Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums,
And from pears in the season,--and sucking their thumbs!

_4to._
To sum up the whole with a "Saw" of much use,
Be _just_, and be _generous_--don't be _profuse_!--
Pay the debts that you owe,--keep your word to your friends,
But--DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS!!--
For of this be assured, if you "go it" too fast,
You'll be "dish'd" like Sir Guy,
And like him, perhaps, die
A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last!

From a seal attached to an ancient deed _penes_ =Thomas Ingoldsby=, Esq., preserved in the archives at Tappington Everard.

FOOTNOTES:

[47] For a full account of this facetious "_Chivaler_," see the late (oh! that we should have to say "late"!) Theodore Hook's "History of the illustrious Commoners of Great Britain," as quoted in the Memoirs of John Bragg, Esq., page 344 of the 75th volume of the Standard Novels. In the third volume of Sir Harris Nicolas's elaborate account of the Scrope and Grosvenor controversy, commonly called the "Scrope Roll," a Stephen de Hoques, Ecuyer, is described as giving his testimony on the Grosvenor side.--_Vide_ page 247.

[48] A peruke so named from its inventor. Robert de Ros and Eudo Fitz-Vicari were celebrated _perruquiers_, who flourished in the eleventh century. The latter is noticed in the Battle-Abbey roll, and is said to have curled William the Conqueror's hair when dressing for the battle of Hastings. Dugdale makes no mention of him, but Camden says, that Humfrey, one of his descendants, was summoned to Parliament, 26 Jan. 25 Edw. I. (1297). It is doubtful, however, whether that writ can be deemed a regular writ of summons to Parliament, for reasons amply detailed in the "Synopsis of the British Peerage."--(Art. Fitz-John.) A writ was subsequently addressed to him as "_Humfry Fitz-Vicari, Chiv^{r.}_" 8 Jan. 6 Edw. II. (1313), and his descendants appear to have been regularly summoned as late as 5 and 6 of Philip and Mary, 1557-8. Soon after which Peter Fitz-Vicari dying, S. P. M. this Barony went into abeyance between his two daughters, Joan, married to Henry de Truefit, of Fullbottom, and Alice, wife of Roger Wigram, of Caxon Hall, in Wigton, co. Cumb. Esq., among whose representatives it is presumed to be still in abeyance.

[49] _Vide_ Dugdale's Monasticon, Art. _Prioratus de Bolton, in agro Eboracensi_.

[50] It is with the greatest satisfaction that I learn from Mr. Simpkinson this consummation, so devoutly to be wished, is about to be realized, and that the remainder of this most interesting document, containing the whole of the defendant's evidence, will appear in the course of the ensuing summer, under the same auspices as the former portion. We shall look with eagerness for the identification of "Curly-wig."

[51] Animum rege - qui nisi paret, imperat.--LILLY'S _Grammar_.]

* * * * *

For the Legend that follows Father John has, it will be seen, the grave authority of a Romish Prelate. The good Father, who, as I have before had occasion to remark, received his education at Douai, spent several years, in the earlier part of his life, upon the Continent. I have no doubt but that during this period he visited Blois, and there, in all probability, picked up, in the very scene of its locality, the history which he has thus recorded.

THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS.

A LEGEND OF BLOIS.

S. Heloïus in hâc urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus est a fidelibus. Nocte autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus lapidem, qui sarcophagum tegebat, revolvit, erectumque contra se corpus Sancti spoliare conatur. At ille, lacertis constrictum, ad se hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus, tanquam constipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat .... Judex loci sepulchri violatorem jubet abstrahi, et legali pœnæ sententiâ condemnari; sed non laxabatur a Sancto. Tunc intelligens voluntatem defuncti, Judex, factâ de vitâ promissione, absolvit, deinde laxatur, et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur demissus quin se vitam monastericam amplexurum spopondisset. _Greg: Turonens: de Gloriâ Confessorum._

Saint Aloys
Was the Bishop of Blois,
And a pitiful man was he,
He grieved and he pined
For the woes of mankind,
And of brutes in their degree.--
He would rescue the rat
From the claws of the cat,
And set the poor captive free;
Though his cassock was swarming
With all sorts of vermin,
He'd not take the life of a flea!--
Kind, tender, forgiving
To all things living,
From injury still he'd endeavour to screen 'em,
Fish, flesh, or fowl,--no difference between 'em--
NIHIL PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM.

The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,--
A holy man was he!
For Holy Church
He'd seek and he'd search
As a Bishop in his degree.
From foe and from friend
He'd "rap and he'd rend,"
To augment her treasurie.
Nought would he give, and little he'd lend,
That Holy Church might have more to spend.--
"Count Stephen"[52] (of Blois) "was a worthy Peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown,
He held them sixpence all too dear,
And so he call'd the Tailor lown."
Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count,
And he'd overcharged him to half the amount,
He had knock'd that Tailor down!--
Not for himself!-- He despised the pelf;
He dressed in sackcloth, he dined off delf;
And, when it was cold, in lieu of a _surtout_,
The good man would wrap himself up in his virtue.[53]
Alack! that a man so holy as he,
So frank and free in his degree,
And so good and so kind, should mortal be!

Yet so it is--for loud and clear
From St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear,
With solemn swell, The deep-toned bell
Flings to the gale a funeral knell;
And hark!--at its sound, As a cunning old hound,
When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps
Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps,
So--the little bells all, No matter how small,
From the steeples both inside and outside the wall,
With bell-metal throat Respond to the note,
And join the lament that a prelate so pious is
Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese,
Or, as Blois' Lord May'r Is heard to declare,
"Should leave this here world for to go to that there."

And see, the portals opening wide,
From the Abbey flows the living tide;--
Forth from the doors The torrent pours,
Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores,
This with his chasuble, that with his rosary,
This from his incense-pot turning his nose awry,
Holy Father, and Holy Mother,
Holy Sister, and Holy Brother,
Holy Son, and Holy Daughter,
Holy Wafer, and Holy Water;
Every one drest Like a guest in his best,
In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear,
Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair
As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair,
Or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair,
And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,--a
Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica.

Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone,
With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown,
Slowly the throng Come passing along,
With many a chaunt and solemn song,
Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,--
_Dies iræ_, and _De profundis_,
_Miserere_, and _Domine dirige nos_,--
Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all,
Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral,
To secure the defunct's repose,
And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news
Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise,
That he'd better be minding his P's and his Q's,
And not come too near,--since they can, if they choose,
Make him shake in his hoofs--as he does not wear shoes.

Still on they go, A goodly show,
With footsteps sure, though certainly slow,
Two by two, in a very long row;
With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits,
Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,--
Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold,
Borne by a lad about eighteen years old;
Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre,
Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter.
Eight Franciscans, sturdy and strong,
Bear, in the midst, the good Bishop along;
Eight Franciscans, stout and tall,
Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall;
Eight more hold a canopy high over all,
With eight Trumpeters tooting the Dead March in Saul.--
Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his
Monks coming after him, all with posies,
And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses,
Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his--
And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see
How Lords and Ladies, of high degree,
Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee,
While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights,
In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights.

Ay, 'tis a comely sight to behold,
As the company march
Through the rounded arch
Of that Cathedral old!--
Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em,
All of them ranging in due decorum,
Around the inside of the _Sanctum Sanctorum_,
While, brilliant and bright, An unwonted light
(I forgot to premise this was all done at night)
The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed
On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead,
That rest below, mostly buried in lead,
And above, recumbent in grim repose,
With their mailed hose,
And their dogs at their toes,
And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows,
Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes,
With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives,
As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives,
To ~Praie for the Sowles~ of themselves and their wives.--
--The effect of the music, too, really was fine,
When they let the good prelate down into his shrine,
And by old and young The "_Requiem_" was sung;
Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue,
That is--Latin--I don't think they meddled with Greek--
In short, the whole thing produced--so to speak--
What in Blois they would call a _Coup d'œil magnifique_!

Yet, surely, when the level ray
Of some mild eve's descending sun
Lights on the village pastor, grey
In years ere ours had well begun--

As there--in simplest vestment clad,
He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree,
In solemn tones,--but yet not sad,--
Of what Man is--what Man shall be!

And clustering round the grave, half hid
By that same quiet churchyard yew,
The rustic mourners bend, to bid
The dust they loved a last adieu--

--That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen
Upon each briar-bound hillock green,
So calm, so tranquil, so serene,
Gives to the eye a fairer scene,--
Speaks to the heart with holier breath
Than all this pageantry of Death.--

But _Chacun à son gout_--this is talking at random--
We all know "_De gustibus non disputandum!_"
So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story,
The Cathedral of Blois-- Where the Sainted Aloys
Is by this time, you'll find, "left alone in his glory,"
"In the dead of the night," though with labour opprest,
Some "mortals" disdain "the calm blessings of rest;"
Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best
To break open a door, or the lid of a chest;
And the gipsy who close round your premises prowls,
To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls,
Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls,
--So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls,
To say nothing at all of these troublesome "Swells"
Who come from the playhouses, "flash-kens," and "hells,"
To pull off people's knockers, and ring people's bells.

Well--'tis now the hour Ill things have power!
And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views,
Have long been in bed, and enjoying a snooze,--
Nought is waking Save Mischief, and "Faking,"[54]
And a few who are sitting up brewing or baking,
When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue,
Who stands in his slippers some six feet two
(A rather remarkable height for a Jew),
Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew,
Into which, during service, he'd managed to slide himself--
While all were intent on the anthem, and hide himself.

From his lurking place, With stealthy pace,
Through the "long-drawn" aisle he begins to crawl,
As you see a cat walk on the top of a wall,
When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall.
--He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel,
(An invention on which we've improved a great deal
Of late years--the substitute best to rely on
's what Jones of the Strand calls his _Pyrogeneion_,)
He strikes with despatch!--his Tinder catches!--
Now where is his candle?--and where are his matches?--
'Tis done!--they are found!--
He stands up, and looks round
By the light of a "dip" of sixteen to the pound!
--What is it that now makes his nerves to quiver?--
His hand to shake--and his limbs to shiver?--
Fear?--Pooh!--it is only a touch of the liver,--
All is silent--all is still--
It's "gammon"--it's "stuff!"--he may do what he will!
Carefully now he approaches the shrine,
In which, as I've mentioned before, about nine,
They had placed in such state the lamented Divine!
But not to worship--No!--No such thing!--
His aim is--TO "PRIG" THE PASTORAL RING!!

Fancy his fright, When, with all his might
Having forced up the lid, which they'd not fastened quite,
Of the marble sarcophagus--"All in white"
The dead Bishop started up, bolt upright
On his hinder end,--and grasped him so tight,
That the clutch of a kite, Or a bull-dog's bite
When he's most provoked and in bitterest spite,
May well be conceived in comparison slight,
And having thus "tackled" him--blew out his light!!

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The fright and the fear!--
No one to hear!--nobody near!
In the dead of the night!--at a bad time of year!--
A defunct Bishop squatting upright on his bier,
And shouting so loud, that the drum of his ear
He thought would have split as these awful words met it--
"AH, HA! MY GOOD FRIEND!--DON'T YOU WISH YOU MAY GET IT?"--
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! _'Twas_ a night of fear!
--I should just like to know, if the boldest man here,
In his situation, would not have felt queer?

The wretched man bawls, And he yells, and he squalls,
But there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls,
And the desk, and the pulpit, the pews, and the stalls.
Held firmly at bay, Kick and plunge as he may,
His struggles are fruitless--he can't get away,
He really, can't tell what to do or to say,
And being a Pagan, don't know how to pray;
Till, through the east window, a few streaks of grey
Announce the approach of the dawn of the day!

Oh, a welcome sight Is the rosy light,
Which lovelily heralds a morning bright,
Above all to a wretch kept in durance all night
By a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight,--
Of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap,
The most disagreeable kind of a man-trap!
--Oh! welcome that bell's Matin chime, which tells
To one caught in this worst of all possible snares,
That the hour is arrived to begin Morning Prayers,
And the monks and the friars are coming down stairs!

Conceive the surprise Of the Choir--how their eyes
Are distended to twice their original size,--
How some begin bless,--some anathematize,--
And all look on the thief as Old Nick in disguise.
While the mystified Abbot cries, "Well!--I declare!--
--This is really a very mysterious affair!--
Bid the bandy-legg'd Sexton go run for the May'r!"

The May'r and his _suite_ Are soon on their feet,--
(His worship kept house in the very same street,--)
At once he awakes, "His compliments" makes,
"He'll be up at the Church in a couple of shakes!"
Meanwhile the whole Convent is pulling and hauling,
And bawling and squalling, And terribly mauling
The thief whose endeavour to follow his calling
Had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling.--
Now high, now low, They drag "to and fro,"--
Now this way, now that way they twist him--but--No!--
The glazed eye of St. Aloys distinctly says "Poh!
You may pull as you please, I shall _not_ let him go!"
Nay, more;--when his Worship at length came to say
He was perfectly ready to take him away,
And fat him to grace the next _Auto-da-fé_,
Still closer he prest The poor wretch to his breast,
While a voice--though his jaws still together were jamm'd--
Was heard from his chest, "If you do, I'll----" here slamm'd
The great door of the Church,--with so awful a sound
That the close of the good Bishop's sentence was drown'd!
Out spake _Frère Jehan_, A pitiful man,
Oh! a pitiful man was he!
And he wept, and he pined For the sins of mankind,
As a Friar in his degree.
"Remember, good gentlefolks," so he began,
"Dear Aloys was always a pitiful man!--
That voice from his chest Has clearly exprest
He has pardoned the culprit--and as for the rest,
Before you shall burn him--he'll see you all blest!"

The Monks, and the Abbot, the Sexton, and Clerk
Were exceedingly struck with the Friar's remark,
And the Judge, who himself was by no means a shark
Of a Lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark,
But still leaned (having once been himself a gay spark,)
To the merciful side,--like the late Alan Park,--
Agreed that, indeed, The best way to succeed,
And by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed,
Would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon,
On a certain condition, and that not a hard one,
Viz.--"That he, the said Infidel, straightway should ope
His mind to conviction, and worship the Pope,
And 'ev'ry man Jack' in an amice or cope;--
And that, to do so, He should forthwith go
To Rome, and salute there his Holiness' toe;--
And never again Read Voltaire, or Tom Paine,
Or Percy Bysshe Shelley, or Lord Byron's Cain;--
His pilgrimage o'er, take St. Francis's habit;--
If anything lay about, never to 'nab' it;--
Or, at worst, if he _should_ light on articles gone astray,
To be sure and deposit them safe in the Monast'ry!"

The oath he took-- --As he kiss'd the book,
Nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook!
The Bishop sank down with a satisfied look,
And the Thief, releas'd By the Saint deceas'd,
Fell into the arms of a neighbouring Priest!

It skills not now To tell you how
The transmogrified Pagan perform'd his vow;
How he quitted his home, Travell'd to Rome,
And went to St. Peter's and look'd at the Dome,
And obtain'd from the Pope an assurance of bliss,
And kiss'd--whatever he gave him to kiss--
Toe, relic, embroidery, naught came amiss;
And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban
Hung up in the Sistine Chapel, by way
Of a relic--and how it hangs there to this day.--

Suffice it to tell, Which will do quite as well,
That the whole of the Convent the miracle saw,
And the Abbot's report was sufficient to draw
Ev'ry _bon Catholique_ in _la belle France_ to Blois,
Among others, the Monarch himself, François,
The Archbishop of Rheims, and his "Pious Jack-daw,"[55]
And there was not a man in Church, Chapel, or Meeting-house,
Still less in _Cabaret_, Hotel, or Eating-house,
But made an oration, And said, "In the nation
If ever a man deserved canonization,
It was the kind, pitiful, pious Aloys."--
So the Pope says,--says he, "Then a Saint he shall be!"
So he made him a Saint,--and remitted the fee.

What became of the Pagan I really can't say;
But I think I've been told, When he'd enter'd their fold,
And was now a Franciscan some twenty days old,
He got up one fine morning before break of day,
Put the _Pyx_ in his pocket--and then ran away.

MORAL.

I think we may coax out a moral or two
From the facts which have lately come under our view.
First--Don't meddle with Saints!--for you'll find if you do,
They're what Scotch people call, "kittle cattle to shoe!"
And when once they have managed to take you in tow,
It's a deuced hard matter to make them let go!

Now to you, wicked Pagans!--who wander about,
Up and down Regent Street every night, "on the scout,"--
Recollect the Police keep a sharpish look-out,
And, if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to,
Till they catch you at last _in flagrante delicto!_--
Don't the inference draw That because he of Blois
Suffer'd _one_ to bilk "Old father Antic the Law,"
That _our_ May'rs and _our_ Aldermen--and we've a City full--
Shew themselves, at _our_ Guildhall, quite so pitiful!

Lastly, as to the Pagan who play'd such a trick,
First assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick,
There is but one thing which occurs to me--that
Is,--Don't give too much credit to people who "rat!"
--Never forget Early habit's a net
Which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh;
And "What's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh!"

We must all be aware Nature's prone to rebel, as
Old Juvenal tells us, _Naturam expellas_,
_Tamen usque recurret_! There's no making Her rat
So that all that I have on this head to advance
Is,--whatever they think of these matters in France,
There's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here,
"YOU NEVER CAN MAKE A SILK PURSE OF A SOW'S EAR!"

* * * * *

In the succeeding Legend we come nearer home.--Father Ingoldsby is particular in describing its locality, situate some eight miles from the Hall--less, if you take the bridle-road by the Church-yard, and so along the valley by Mr. Fector's Abbey.--In the enumeration of the various attempts to appropriate the treasure (drawn from a later source), is omitted one, said to have been undertaken by the worthy ecclesiastic himself, who, as Mrs. Botherby insinuates, is reported to have started for Dover, one fine morning, duly furnished with all the means and appliances of Exorcism.--I cannot learn, however, that the family was ever enriched by his expedition.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] _Teste_ Messire Iago, a distinguished subaltern in the Venetian service, _circiter_ A.D. 1580. His Biographer, Mr. William Shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note, makes him say "_King_ Stephen," inasmuch as the "worthy peer" subsequently usurped the crown of England. The anachronism is a pardonable one.--_Mr. Simpkinson of Bath._

[53]
----Meâ
Virtute me involvo.--HOR.

[54] "Nix my dolly, pals, _Fake_ away!"--words of deep and mysterious import in the ancient language of Upper Egypt, and recently inscribed on the sacred standard of Mehemet Ali. They are supposed to intimate, to the initiated in the art of Abstraction, the absence of all human observation, and to suggest the propriety of making the best use of their time--and fingers.

[55] _Vide_ Ingoldsby Legends (First Series), page 139.

THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY.

A LEGEND OF DOVER.

Once there lived, as I've heard people say,
An "Old Woman clothed in grey,"
So furrow'd with care, So haggard her air,
In her eye such a wild supernatural stare,
That all who espied her Immediately shied her,
And strove to get out of her way.

This fearsome Old Woman was taken ill:
--She sent for the Doctor--he sent her a pill,
And by way of a trial, A two shilling phial
Of green-looking fluid, like lava diluted,
To which I've profess'd an abhorrence most rooted,[56]
One of those draughts they so commonly send us,
Labell'd "_Haustus catharticus, mane sumendus_;"--

She made a wry face, And, without saying Grace,
Toss'd it off like a dram--it improved not her case.
--The Leech came again; He now open'd a vein,
Still the little Old Woman continued in pain.
So her "Medical Man," although loth to distress her,
Conceived it high time that her Father Confessor
Should be sent for to shrive, and assoilzie, and bless her,
That she might not slip out of these troublesome scenes
"Unanneal'd and Unhouseled,"--whatever that means.[57]

Growing afraid, He calls to his aid
A bandy-legg'd neighbour, a "_Tailor by trade_,"[58]
Tells him his fears, Bids him lay by his shears,
His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie
With all possible speed to the Convent hard by,
Requests him to say That he begs they'll all pray,
Viz.: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay,
For the soul of an Old Woman clothed in grey,
Who was just at that time in a very bad way,
And he really believed couldn't last out the day;--
And to state his desire That some erudite Friar
Would run over at once, and examine, and try her;
For he thought he would find
There was "something behind,"
A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,--
"In fact he was sure, from what fell from her tongue,
That this little Old Woman had done something wrong."
--Then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man,
"Mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!"

Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe,
Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago;
I can't say exactly _how_ long, nor, I own,
What particular monarch was then on the throne,
But 'twas here in Old England: and all that one knows is,
It must have preceded the Wars of the Roses.[59]

Inasmuch as the times Described in these rhymes
Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes;
And if 'mongst the Laity Unseemly gaiety
Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two,
At once all the Clerics Went into hysterics,
While scarcely a convent but boasted its Saint or two;
So it must have been long ere the line of the Tudors,
As since then the breed Of Saints rarely indeed
With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors.
--Hence the late Mr. Froude, and the live Dr. Pusey
We moderns consider as each worth a Jew's eye;
Though Wiseman, and Dullman[60] combined against Newman,
With Doctors and Proctors, and say he's no true man.
--But this by the way.--The Convent I speak about
Had Saints in scores--they said Mass week and week about;
And the two now on duty were each, for their piety,
"Second to none" in that holy society,
And well might have borne
Those words which are worn
By our "_Nulli Secundus_" Club--poor dear lost muttons
Of Guardsmen--on Club days, inscribed on their buttons.--
They would read, write, and speak
Latin, Hebrew, and Greek,
A radish-bunch munch for a lunch,--or a leek;
Though scoffers and boobies Ascribe certain rubies
That garnished the nose of the good Father Hilary
To the overmuch use of Canary and Sillery,
--Some said spirituous compounds of viler distillery--
Ah! little reck'd they That with Friars, who say
Fifty _Paters_ a night, and a hundred a day,
A very slight sustenance goes a great way--
Thus the consequence was that his colleague, Basilius
Won golden opinions, by looking more bilious,
From all who conceived strict monastical duty
By no means conducive to personal beauty;
And being more meagre, and thinner, and paler,
He was snapt up at once by the bandy-legg'd Tailor.

The latter's concern For a speedy return
Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals,
Or go round to his shrines, and snuff all his Saint's candles;
Still less had he leisure to change the hair-shirt he
Had worn the last twenty years--probably thirty,--
Which, not being wash'd all that time, had grown dirty.
--It seems there's a sin in The wearing clean linen,
Which Friars must eschew at the very beginning,
Though it makes them look frowsy, and drowsy, and blowsy,
And--a rhyme modern etiquette never allows ye.--
As for the rest, E'en if time had not prest,
It didn't much matter how Basil was drest,
Nor could there be any great need for adorning,
The Night being almost at odds with the Morning.

Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is high,
And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the sky,
While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whispering down
the glen,
And one fond voice alone is heard--oh! Night is lovely then!
But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain,
But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,--
When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light,
Where all we love is fading fast--how terrible is Night!!

More terrible yet, If you happen to get
By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long,
Has been what the vulgar call, "coming it strong"
In all sorts of ways that are naughty and wrong.--
As Confessions are sacred, it's not very facile
To ascertain what the old hag said to Basil;
But whatever she said, It fill'd him with dread,
And made all his hair stand on end on his head,--
No great feat to perform, inasmuch as said hair
Being clipp'd by the tonsure, his crown was left bare,
So of course Father Basil had little to spare;
But the little he had
Seem'd as though't had gone mad,
Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears
In the two little tufts on the tops of his ears.--
_What_ the old woman said
That so "fill'd him with dread,"
We should never have known any more than the dead,
If the bandy-legg'd Tailor, his errand thus sped,
Had gone quietly back to his needle and thread,
As he ought; but instead, Curiosity led,--
A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred,--
He contrived to secrete himself under the bed!
--Not that he heard One half, or a third

Of what past as the Monk and the Patient conferred,
But he here and there managed to pick up a word,
Such as "Knife," And "Life,"
And he thought she said "Wife,"
And "Money," that source of all evil and strife;[61]
Then he plainly distinguished the words "Gore," and "Gash,"
Whence he deem'd--and I don't think his inference rash--
She had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash!

Intermix'd with her moans,
And her sighs, and her groans,
Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones,
Came at intervals Basil's sweet, soft silver tones,
For somehow it happened--I can't tell you why--
The good Friar's indignation,--at first rather high,--
To judge from the language he used in reply,
Ere the Old Woman ceased, had a good deal gone by;
And he gently addrest her in accents of honey,
"Daughter, don't you despair!--WHAT'S BECOME OF THE MONEY?"

In one just at Death's door it was really absurd
To see how her eye lighted up at that word--
Indeed there's not one in the language that I know,
(Save its synonyms "Spanish," "Blunt," "Stumpy," and "Rhino,")
Which acts so direct, And with so much effect
On the human _sensorium_, or makes one erect
One's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect--
It's a question with me Which of the three,
Father Basil himself, though a grave S. T. P.
(Such as he have, you see, the degree of D.D.)
Or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legg'd Tailor,--or She
Caught it quickest--however, traditions agree
That the Old Woman perked up as brisk as a bee,--

'Twas the last quivering flare of the taper,--the fire
It so often emits when about to expire!
Her excitement began the same instant to flag,
She sank back, and whisper'd, "Safe!--Safe! in the Bag!!"

Now I would not by any means have you suppose
That the good Father Basil was just one of those
Who entertain views We're so apt to abuse,
As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews,
Who haunt death-bed scenes, By underhand means
To toady or teaze people out of a legacy,--
For few folk, indeed, had such good right to beg as he,
Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty,
Not only permits, but enjoins, as a duty,
Her sons to take care That, let who will be heir,
The Pontiff shall not be chous'd out of his share,
Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods,
As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's;
Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods, in short, main
-tain principles adverse to statutes of _Mortmain_;
Besides, you'll discern It at once, when you learn
That Basil had something to give in return,
Since it rested with him to say how she should burn,
Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all
To uses he named, he could say, "You shan't burn at all,
Or nothing to signify, Not what you'd dignify
So much as even to call it a roast,
But a mere little singeing, or scorching at most,--
What many would think not unpleasantly warm,--
Just to keep up appearance--mere matter of form."
All this in her ear He declared, but I fear
That her senses were wand'ring--she seem'd not to hear,
Or, at least understand,--for mere unmeaning talk her
Parch'd lips babbled now,--such as "Hookey!"--and "Walker!"
--She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt
If "his Mother were fully aware he was out?"

Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry--so
I must write it, my verse not admitting the O--
But as for the _venue_, I vow I'm perplext
To say if it's in this world, or if in the next--
Or whether in both--for 'tis very well known
That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own,
In a "tight little Island" that stands in a Lake
Call'd "Lough-dearg"--that's "The Red Lake," unless I mistake,--
In Fermanagh--or Antrim--or Donegal--which
I declare I can't tell, But I know very well
It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch
(At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer,
But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here).
There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare
There's "no differ" at all 'twixt "this here" and "that there,"
That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry
For the separate use of the "finest of pisentry,"
And that his is no more Than a mere private door
From the _rez-de-chaussée_,--as some call the ground floor,--
To the one which the Pope had found out long before.
But no matter--lay The _locale_ where you may;
--And where it is no one exactly can say--
There's one thing, at least, which is known very well,
That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel.
"Entertainment" there's worse
Both for "Man and for Horse;"
For broiling the souls
They use Lord Mayor's coals;--
Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower
Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower,
It's by no means so strong-- Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong;
The "prokers" are not half so hot, or so long,
By an inch or two, either in handle or prong;
The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,
And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth;--
In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator,
Made for what's called by Cockneys a "Minor The-átre."
Better suited, of course, for a "minor performer,"
Than the "House," that's so much better lighted and warmer,
Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,--
--You understand where, I don't question--down there,
Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions,
The Paving Commissioners use "Good Intentions,"
Materials which here would be thought on by few men,
With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen
At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.