Chapter XXII: Canto II (5)

To go on with my story, This same Purga-tory,
(There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory),
Is close lock'd, and the Pope keeps the keys of it--that I can
Boldly affirm--in his desk in the Vatican;
--Not those of St. Peter-- Those of which I now treat, are
A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater--
And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a
Key better contrived for its purpose--nor Bramah.
Now it seems that by these Most miraculous keys
Not only the Pope, but his "clargy," with ease
Can let people in and out, just as they please;
And--provided you "make it all right" about fees,
There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them,
But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them;
And Basil, no doubt, Had brought matters about,
If the little old woman would but have "spoke out,"
So far as to get for her one of those tickets,
Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets;
So that after a grill, Or short turn on the Mill,
And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Than a Freemason gets in the "Lodge of Antiquity,"
She'd have rubb'd off old scores, Popped out of doors,
And sheer'd off at once for a happier port,
Like a white-wash'd Insolvent that's "gone through the Court."

But Basil was one Who was not to be _done_
By any one, either in earnest or fun;--
The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun,
In all bargains, unless he'd his _quid_ for his _quo_,
Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it "No Go."
So, unless you're a dunce, You'll see clearly, at once,
When you come to consider the facts of the case, he
Of course never gave her his _Vade in pace_;
And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe
Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe,
The little Old Woman had no where to go!

For, what could she do? She very well knew
If she went to the gates I have mention'd to you,
Without Basil's, or some other passport to shew,
The Cheque-takers never would let her go through;
While, as to _the other place_, e'en had she tried it,
And really had wished it, as much as she shied it,
(For no one who knows what it is can abide it,)
Had she knock'd at the portal with ne'er so much din,
Though she died in, what folks at Rome call, "Mortal sin,"
Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in,
As she'd not been turn'd formally out of "the pale;"--
So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail,
In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail
Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail.
Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail;
Though, now he's grown older, They say he's much bolder,
And his Holiness not only gets the "cold shoulder,"
But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a
_Dump_--that's the word--for his triple tiara.

Well--what shall she do?-- What's the course to pursue?--
"Try St. Peter?--the step is a bold one to take;
For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt, 'wide awake;'
But then there's a quaint Old Proverb says, 'Faint
Heart ne'er won fair Lady,' then how win a Saint?--
I've a great mind to try-- One can but apply;
If things come to the worst, why he can but deny--
The sky 's rather high To be sure--but, now I
That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by,
I am just in the 'order' which some folks--though why
I am sure I can't tell you--would call 'Apple-pie.'
Then 'never say die!' It won't do to be shy,
So I'll tuck up my shroud, and--here goes for a fly!"----So
said and so done--she was off like a shot,
And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.

When she drew so near That the Saint could see her,
In a moment he frown'd, and began to look queer,
And scarce would allow her to make her case clear,
Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer,
With "It's all very well,--but you do not lodge here!"--
Then, calling her everything but "My dear!"
He applied his great toe with some force _au derrière_,
And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear.

"Alas! poor Ghost!" It's a doubt which is most
To be pitied--one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,--
Or one bandied about thus from pillar to post,--
To be "all abroad"--to be "stump'd" not to know where
To go--so disgraced As not to be "placed,"
Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, "To be Nowhere."--
However that be, The _affaire_ was _finie_,
And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see!

Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes--not the Jew--
That the "Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,"
Having no other sort of asylum in view,
"Returns back again to the place whence she flew,"--
A fact which experience has proved to be true.--
Mr. Gray,--in opinion with whom Johnson clashes,--
Declares that our "wonted fires live in our ashes."[62]--
These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag,
The first to her mansion, the last to her bag,
When only conceive her dismay and surprise,
As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes,
When there,--on the spot where she'd hid her "supplies,"--
In an underground cellar of very small size,
Working hard with a spade, All at once she survey'd
That confounded old bandy-legged "Tailor by trade."

Fancy the tone Of the half moan, half groan,
Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone!
As she stood there,--a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,--
Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone!
Although, as Macbeth says, "they'd no speculation,"
While she uttered that word, Which American Bird
Or James Fenimore Cooper, would render "Tarnation!!"

At the noise which she made Down went the spade!--
And up jump'd the bandy-legg'd "Tailor by trade,"
(Who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell, her
Deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar;)
Turning round at a sound So extremely profound,
The moment her shadowy form met his view
He gave vent to a sort of a lengthen'd "Bo-o--ho-o!"--
With a countenance Keeley alone could put on,
Made one grasshopper spring to the door--and was gone!
_Erupit! Evasit!_ As at Rome they would phrase it--
His flight was so swift, the eye scarcely could trace it,
Though elderly, bandy-legg'd, meagre, and sickly,
I doubt if the Ghost could have vanish'd more quickly;--
He reach'd his own shop, and then fell into fits,
And it's said never rightly recover'd his wits,
While the chuckling old Hag takes his place, and there sits.

I'll venture to say, She'd sat there to this day,
Brooding over what Cobbett calls "vile yellow clay,"
Like a Vulture, or other obscene bird of prey,
O'er the nest-full of eggs she has managed to lay,
If, as legends relate, and I think we may trust 'em, her
Stars had not brought her another guess customer--
'Twas Basil himself!-- Come to look for her pelf:
But not, like the tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel,
And grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel;
Full well he knew Such tools would not do,--
Far other the weapons he brought into play,
_Viz._ a Wax-taper "hallow'd on Candlemas-day,"
To light to her ducats,-- Holy Water, two buckets,
(Made with salt--half a peck to four gallons--which brews a
Strong triple X "strike,"--see Jacobus de Chusa.)
With these, too, he took His bell and his book--
Not a nerve ever trembled,--his hand never shook
As he boldly march'd up where she sat in her nook,
Glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look,
Which _Some_ may have read of, perchance, in "Nell Cook,"[63]
_All._ in "Martha the Gipsy" by Theodore Hook.

And now, for the reason I gave you before,
Of what passed then and there I can tell you no more,
As no Tailor was near with his ear at the door;
But I've always been told, With respect to the gold,
For which she her "jewel eternal" had sold,
That the old Harridan, Who, no doubt, knew her man,
Made some compromise--hit upon some sort of plan,
By which Friar and Ghost were both equally pinn'd--
Heaven only knows how the "Agreement" got wind;--
But its purport was this, That the things done amiss
By the Hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss;
Provided--"_Imprimis_, The cash from this time is
The Church's--impounded for good pious uses--
--Father B. shall dispose of it just as he chooses,
And act as trustee-- In the meantime, that She,
The said Ghostess,--or Ghost,--as the matter may be,--
From 'impediment,' 'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free,
To sleep in her grave, or wander, as he,
The said Friar, with said Ghost may hereafter agree.--
Moreover--The whole Of the said cash, or 'cole,'
Shall be spent for the good of said Old Woman's soul!

"It is farther agreed--while said cash is so spending,
Said Ghost shall be fully absolv'd from attending,
And shall quiet remain In the grave, her domain,
To have, and enjoy, and uphold, and maintain,
Without molestation, or trouble, or pain,
Hindrance, let, or impediment, (over again)
From Old Nick, or from any one else of his train,
Whether Pow'r,--Domination,--or Princedom,--or Throne,[64]
Or by what name soever the same may be known,
Howsoe'er called by Poets, or styled by Divines,--
Himself,--his executors, heirs, and assigns.

"Provided that,--nevertheless,--notwithstanding
All herein contained,--if whoever's a hand in
Dispensing said cash,--or said 'cole,'--shall dare venture
To misapply money, note, bill, or debenture
To uses not named in this present Indenture,
Then that such sum, or sums, shall revert, and come home again
Back to said Ghost,--who thenceforward shall roam again
Until such time, or times, as the said Ghost produces
Some good man and true, who no longer refuses
To put sum, or sums, aforesaid, to said uses;
Which duly performed, the said Ghost shall have rest,
The full term of her natural death, of the best,
In full consideration of this, her bequest,
In manner and form aforesaid,--as exprest:--
In witness whereof, we, the parties aforesaid,
Hereunto set our hands and our seals--and no more said,
Being all that these presents intend to express,
Whereas--notwithstanding--and nevertheless.--

"Sign'd, sealed, and delivered, this 20th of May,
_Anno Domini_, blank, (though I've mentioned the day,)
(Signed)
BASIL.
OLD WOMAN (late) CLOTHED IN GREY."

Basil now, I am told, Walking off with the gold,
Went and straight got the document duly enroll'd,
And left the testatrix to mildew and mould
In her sepulchre, cosey, cool,--not to say cold.
But somehow--though how I can hardly divine,--
A runlet of fine Rich Malvoisie wine
Found its way to the Convent that night before nine,
With custards, and "flawns," and a "fayre florentine,"
Peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine;--
And some half a score Nuns of the rule Bridgetine,
Abbess and all, were invited to dine
At a very late hour,--that is after Compline.--
--Father Hilary's rubies began soon to shine
With fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine;
Through all the next year, Indeed, 'twould appear
That the Convent was much better off, as to cheer,
Even Basil himself, as I very much fear,
No longer addicted himself to small beer;
His complexion grew clear, While in front and in rear
He enlarged so, his shape seem'd approaching a sphere.

No wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night,
That a servant girl going down stairs with a light
To the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright,
An Old Woman, astride on a barrel, invite
Her to take, in a manner extremely polite,
With her left hand, a bag, she had got in her right;--
For tradition asserts that the Old Woman's purse
Had come back to her _scarcely one penny the worse_!

The girl, as they say, Ran screaming away,
Quite scared by the Old Woman clothed in grey;
But there came down a Knight, at no distant a day,
Sprightly and gay As the bird on the spray,
One Sir Rufus Mountfardington, Lord of Foot's-cray,
Whose estate, not unlike those of most of our "Swell" beaux,
Was, what's, by a metaphor, term'd "out at elbows;"
And the fact was, said knight was now merely delay'd
From crossing the water to join the Crusade
For converting the Pagans with bill, bow, and blade,
By the want of a little pecuniary aid
To buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade,
And enable his troop to appear on parade;--
The unquiet Shade Thought Sir Rufus, 'tis said,
Just the man for her money,--she readily paid
For the articles named, and with pleasure convey'd
To his hands every farthing she ever had made;
But alas! I'm afraid Most unwisely she laid
Out her cash--the _beaux yeux_ of a Saracen maid
(Truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade)
Converted the gallant converter--betray'd
Him to do everything which a Knight could degrade,
--E'en to worship Mahound!--She required--He obey'd,--
The consequence was, all the money was wasted
On Infidel pleasures he should not have tasted;
So that, after a very short respite, the Hag
Was seen down in her cellar again with her bag.

Don't fancy, dear Reader, I mean to go on
_Seriatim_ through so many ages by-gone,
And to bore you with names
Of the Squires, and the Dames,
Who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack,
But spent the cash so that it always came back;
The list is too long To be giv'n in my song,--
There are reasons beside would perhaps make it wrong;
I shall merely observe, in those orthodox days,
When Mary set Smithfield all o'er in a blaze,
And shew'd herself very se- -vere against heresy,
While many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as he
Burnt for denying the Papal supremacy,
Bishop Bonner the bag got, And all thought the Hag got
Releas'd, as he spent all in fuel and faggot.--
But somehow--though how I can't tell you, I vow--
I suppose by mismanagement--ere the next reign
The Spectre had got all her money again.

The last time, I'm told, That the Old Woman's gold
Was obtained,--as before,--for the asking,--'twas had
By a Mr. O--Something--from Ballinafad;
And the whole of it, so 'tis reported, was sent
To John Wright's, in account for the Catholic Rent,
And thus--like a great deal more money--"it went!"
So 'tis said at Maynooth, But I can't think it's truth;
Though I know it was boldly asserted last season,
Still I can _not_ believe it; and that for this reason,
It's certain _the cash has got back to its owner_!--
--Now no part of the Rent to do _so_ e'er was known,--or,
In any shape, ever come home to the donor.

GENTLE READER!--you must know the proverb, I think--
"To a blind horse a Nod is as good as a Wink!"
Which some learned Chap, In a square College cap,
Perhaps would translate by the words "_Verbum Sap_!"

--Now, should it so chance That you're going to France
In the course of next Spring, as you probably may,
Do pull up, and stay, Pray, If but for a day,
At Dover, through which you must pass on your way,
At the York,--or the Ship,--where, as all people say,
You'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay,
Perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will _pay_,
And you cannot lose much by so short a delay.

First DINE!--you can do That on joint or _ragoût_--
Then say to the waiter,--"I'm just passing through,--
Pray,--where can I find out the old _Maison Dieu_?--
He'll shew you the street--(the French call it a _Rue_,
But you won't have to give here a _petit écu_).

Well,--when you've got there,--never mind how you're taunted,--
Ask boldly, "Pray, which is the house here that's haunted?"
--I'd tell you myself, but I can't recollect
The proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect
Who call themselves "Friends," and whom others call "Quakers,"--
You'll be sure to find out if you ask at the Baker's.--
Then go down, with a light, To the cellar at night!
And as soon as you see her don't be in a fright!
But ask the old Hag, At once, for the bag!--
If you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle,
Nay, "Ma'am, I insist!--in the name of St. Basil!"
If she gives it you, seize It, and--do as you please--
But there is not a person I've ask'd but agrees,
You should spend--part at least--for the Old Woman's ease!
--For the rest--if it _must_ go back some day--why--let it!--
Meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it
May do you some good, and--
I WISH YOU MAY GET IT!!!

* * * * *

To whom is the name of Cornelius Agrippa otherwise than familiar, since "a Magician," of renown not inferior to his own, has brought him and his terrible "Black Book" again before the World?--That he was celebrated, among other exploits, for raising the Devil, we are all well aware;--how he performed this feat,--at least one, and that, perhaps, the most certain method, by which he did it,--is thus described.

FOOTNOTES:

[56] _Vide_ page 230.

[57] Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His elucidation of Macbeth's "Hurlyburly" casts a halo around his memory. In him the world lost one of its kindliest Spirits, and the Garrick Club its acutest commentator.

[58] All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other Records of our Courts of Justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the Bricklayer, whom he probably presumes to be indigenous, and to the Shoemaker, _born_ a Snob.

[59] "An antient and most pugnacious family," says our Bath Friend. "One of their descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M.P. for Christchurch (an elderly gentleman now defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities and his wanton destruction of furniture when in a state of excitement."--"Sing, old Rose, and burn the bellows!" has grown into a proverb.

[60] The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.--I am not quite sure as to the orthography;--it's _idem sonans_, at all events.

[61] Effodiuntur Opes Irritamenta Malorum.

LILLY'S _Grammar_.

[62] "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!"--GRAY.

"A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy stares!"--JOHNSON.

[63] See page 299.]

[64] Thrones! Dominations! Princedoms! Virtues! Powers!

RAISING THE DEVIL.

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.

And hast thou nerve enough?" he said,
That grey Old Man, above whose head
Unnumber'd years had roll'd,--
"And hast thou nerve to view," he cried,
"The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied?--
--Art thou indeed so bold?

"Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze,
Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze
Of that unearthly eye,
That blasts where'er it lights,--the breath
That, like the Simoom, scatters death
On all that yet _can_ die!

--"Darest thou confront that fearful form,
That rides the whirlwind, and the storm,
In wild unholy revel?--
The terrors of that blasted brow,
Archangel's once,--though ruin'd now--
--Ay,--dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"--

"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied,
And placed him by that Old Man's side,
In fierce and frantic glee,
Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb;
--"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM!
--THE DEVIL!--I fain would see!--

"In all his Gorgon terrors clad,
His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad
Rejoined in reckless tone.--
--"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said,
And sigh'd, and shook his hoary head,
With many a bitter groan.

He drew the mystic circle's bound,
With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around;
He traced full many a sigil there;
He mutter'd many a backward pray'r,
That sounded like a curse--
"He comes!"--he cried, with wild grimace,
"The fellest of Apollyon's race!"--
--Then in his startled pupil's face
He dash'd an EMPTY PURSE!!

* * * * *

One more legend, and then, gentle Reader, "A merry Christmas to you and a happy New Year!"--We have travelled over many lands together, and had many a good-humoured laugh by the way;--if we have, occasionally, been "more merry than wise," at least we have not jostled our neighbours on the road,--much less have we kicked any one into a ditch.

So wishing you heartily all the compliments of the season,--and thanking you cordially for your good company, I, Thomas Ingoldsby, bid you heartily farewell, and leave you in that of

SAINT MEDARD.

A LEGEND OF AFRIC.

"Heus tu! inquit Diabolus, hei mihi! fessis insuper humeris reponenda est sarcina; fer opem quæso!"

"Le Diable a des vices;--c'est là ce qui le perd.--Il est gourmand. Il eut dans cette minute-là l'idée de joindre l'âme de Medard aux autres âmes qu'il allait emporter.--Se rejeter en arrière, saisir de sa main droite son poignard, et en percer l'outre avec une violence, et une rapidité formidable,--c'est ce que fit Medard.--Le Diable poussa un grand cri. Les âmes délivrés s'enfuirent par l'issue que le poignard venait de leur ouvrir, laissant dans l'outre leurs noirceurs, leurs crimes, et leurs méchancetés," &c. &c.

In good king Dagobert's palmy days,
When Saints were many, and sins were few,
Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested
One evening,--and could not tell what to do.--

He had been East, and he had been West,
And far had he journeyed o'er land and sea;
For women and men Were warier then,
And he could not catch one where he'd now catch three.

He had been North, and he had been South,
From Zembla's shores unto far Peru,
Ere he fill'd the sack Which he bore on his back--
Saints were so many, and sins so few!

The way was long, and the day was hot;
His wings were weary; his hoofs were sore;
And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail,
As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore!

The day had been hot, and the way was long;
--Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint was he;
He lower'd his sack, And the _heat of his back
As he leaned on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree_!

He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade,
And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight,
As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide
He had sewn for a sack, and had cramm'd so tight.

For, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground,"
And game had been scarce, he might well report
That still he had got A decentish lot,
And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.

He had pick'd up in France a _Maître de Danse_,--
_A Maîtresse en titre_,--two smart _Grisettes_,
A Courtier at play,-- And an English _Roué_--
Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.--

--He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk,
A Quaker,--a Baker,--a Doctor of Laws,--
And a Jockey of York-- But Paddy from Cork
"Desaved the ould divil," and slipp'd through his claws!

In Moscow, a Boyar knouting his wife
--A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece--
And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome,
He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.--

He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain--
A mendicant Friar--of Monks a score;
A grave Don or two, And a Portuguese Jew,
Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore.

And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips,
"Those nice little Dears!--what a delicate roast!--
--Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire,
Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!"

--At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice
Never did mouth water more than Nick's;
But,--alas! and alack!-- He had stuff'd his sack
So full that he found himself quite "in a fix:"

For, all he could do, or all he could say,
When, a little recruited, he rose to go,
Alas! and alack! He could _not_ get the sack
Up again on his shoulders "whether or no!"

Old Nick look'd East, old Nick look'd West,
With many a stretch, and with many a strain,
He bent till his back Was ready to crack,
And he pull'd and he tugg'd,--but he tugg'd in vain.

Old Nick look'd North, old Nick look'd South;
--Weary was Nicholas, weak, and faint,--
And he was aware Of an old man there,
In Palmer's weeds, who look'd much like a Saint.

Nick eyed the Saint,--then he eyed the Sack--
The greedy old glutton!--and thought, with a grin,
--"Dear heart alive! If I could but contrive
To pop that elderly gentleman in!--

"For, were I to choose among all the _ragoûts_
The _cuisine_ can exhibit--flesh, fowl, or fish,--
To myself I can paint, That a barbecued Saint
Would be for my palate the best side-dish!"--

Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile,
--In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea.
(We call it "Semiramis," Why not say Pyramis?--
Why should we change the S into a D?)

St. Medard, he was a holy man,
A holy man I ween was he,
And even by day, When he went to pray,
He would light up a candle, that all might see!

He _salaam'd_ to the East,--He _salaam'd_ to the West;--
--Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown
Were his Palmer's weeds,-- And he finger'd his beads
With the right side up, and the wrong side down.--

* * * * *

(_Hiatus in MSS. valde deflendus._)

St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile;--
He had been living there years fourscore,--
And now, "taking the air, And saying a pray'r,"
He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore.

Little he deem'd--that Holy man!--
Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,--
When he was aware Of a Stranger there,
Who seem'd to have got himself into a fix.

Deeply that Stranger groan'd and sigh'd,
That wayfaring Stranger, grisly and grey:--
"I can't raise my sack On my poor old back!--
Oh! lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray!--

"For I have been East, and I have been West,
Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I,
And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew bome,
Here in this desert I well may die!"

"Now Heav'n thee save!"--Nick winced at the words,
As ever he winces at words divine--
"Now Heav'n thee save!-- What strength I have,--
It's little, I wis,--shall be freely thine!

"For foul befall that Christian man
Who shall fail, in a fix,--woe worth the while!--
His hand to lend To foe, or to friend,
Or to help a lame dog over a stile!"--

--St. Medard hath boon'd himself for the task:
To hoist up the sack he doth well begin;
But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels,
For the folks are all curling, and kicking within.--

St. Medard paused--he began to "smoke"--
For a Saint,--if he isn't exactly a cat,--
Has a very good nose, As this world goes,
And not worse than his neighbour's for "smelling a rat."

The Saint look'd up, and the Saint look'd down;
He "_smelt_ the rat," and he "_smoked_" the trick;
--When he came to view His comical shoe,
He saw in a moment his friend was Nick!

He whipp'd out his oyster-knife, broad and keen--
A Brummagem blade which he always bore,
To aid him to eat, By way of a treat,
The "natives" he found on the Red Sea shore;--

He whipp'd out his Brummagem blade so keen,
And he made three slits in the Buffalo's hide,
And all its contents, Through the rents, and the vents,
Came tumbling out,--and away they all hied!

Away went the Quaker,--away went the Baker,
Away went the Friar--that fine fat Ghost,
Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick,
Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!

--Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece,--
And the pretty _Grisettes_--and the Dons from Spain,--
And the Corsair's Crew, And the coin-clipping Jew,--
And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain!--

Old Nick is a black-looking fellow at best,
Ay, e'en when he's pleased; but never before
Had he look'd so black As on seeing his sack
Thus cut into slits on the Red Sea shore.

You may fancy his rage, and his deep despair,
When he saw himself thus befool'd by one
Whom, in anger wild, He profanely styled
"A stupid old snuff-colour'd Son of a gun!"

Then his supper--so nice!--that had cost him such pains--
--Such a hard day's work--now "all on the go!"
--'Twas beyond a joke, And enough to provoke
The mildest and best-temper'd Fiend below!

Nick snatch'd up one of those great big stones,
Found in such numbers on Egypt's plains,
And he hurl'd it straight At the Saint's bald pate,
To knock out "the gruel he call'd his brains."

Straight at his pate he hurl'd the weight,
The crushing weight of that great big stone;--
But Saint Medard Was remarkably hard
And solid about the parietal bone.

And though the whole weight of that great big stone
Came straight on his pate, with a great big thump,
It fail'd to graze The skin,--or to raise
On the tough epidermis a lump, or bump!--

As the hail bounds off from the pent-house slope,--
As the cannon recoils when it sends its shot,--
As the finger and thumb Of an old woman come
From the kettle she handles, and finds too hot;--

--Or, as you may see, in the Fleet, or the Bench,--
--Many folks do in the course of their lives,--
The well-struck ball Rebound from the wall,
When the Gentlemen jail-birds are playing at "fives:"

All these,--and a thousand fine similes more,--
Such as all have heard of, or seen, or read
Recorded in print, May give you a hint
How the stone bounced off from St. Medard's head!

--And it curl'd, and it twirl'd, and it whirl'd in air,
As this great big stone at a tangent flew!--
--Just missing his crown, It at last came down
Plump upon Nick's Orthopedical shoe!

Oh! what a yell and a screech were there!--
How did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar!
--"Oh dear! oh dear!"-- You might hear him here,
Though we're such a way off from the Red-Sea shore!

It smash'd his shin, and it smash'd his hoof,
Notwithstanding his stout Orthopedical shoe;
And this is the way That, from that same day,
Old Nick became what the French call _Boiteux_!

Quakers, and Bakers, _Grisettes_, and Friars,
And Cardinal's Nieces,--wherever ye be,
St. Medard bless; You can scarcely do less
If you of your _corps_ possess any _esprit_.--

And, mind and take care, yourselves,--and beware
How you get in Nick's buffalo bag!--if you do,
I very much doubt If you'll ever get out,
Now sins are so many, and Saints so few!!

MORAL.

Gentle Reader, attend To the voice of a friend!
And if ever you go to Herne Bay or Southend,
Or any gay Wat'ring-place outside the Nore,
Don't walk out at eve on the lone sea-shore!
--Unless you're too Saintly to care about Nick,
And are sure that your head is sufficiently thick!--

Learn not to be greedy!--and, when you've enough,
Don't be anxious your bags any tighter to stuff--
Recollect that good fortune too far you may push,
And, "A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH!"
Then turn not each thought to increasing your store,
Nor look always like "Oliver asking for more!"

_Gourmandise_ is a vice--a sad failing, at least;--
So remember "Enough is as good as a feast!"
And don't set your heart on "stew'd," "fried," "boil'd," or "roast,"
Nor on delicate "Woodcocks served up upon toast!"

Don't give people nick-names!--don't, even in fun,
Call any one "snuff-coloured son of a gun!"
Nor fancy, because a man _nous_ seems to lack,
That, whenever you please, you can "give him the sack!"

Last of all, as you'd thrive, and still sleep in whole bones,
IF YOU'VE ANY GLASS WINDOWS, NEVER THROW STONES!!!

The Ingoldsby Legends.

_THIRD SERIES._

The Ingoldsby Legends.

THIRD SERIES.

THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.

A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.

Veluti in speculum.
_Theatre Royal Cov. Gard._

Count Raymond rules in Languedoc,
O'er the champaign fair and wide,
With town and stronghold many a one,
Wash'd by the wave of the blue Garonne,
And from far Auvergne to Rousillon,
And away to Narbonne,
And the mouths of the Rhone;
And his Lyonnois silks and his Narbonne honey,
Bring in his lordship a great deal of money.

A thousand lances, stout and true,
Attend Count Raymond's call;
And Knights and Nobles, of high degree,
From Guienne, Provence, and Burgundy,
Before Count Raymond bend the knee,
And vail to him one and all.

And Isabel of Arragon
He weds, the Pride of Spain,
You might not find so rich a prize,
A Dame so "healthy, wealthy, and wise;"
So pious withal--with such beautiful eyes--
So exactly the Venus de Medicis' size--
In all that wide domain.

Then his cellar is stored As well as his board,
With the choicest of all _La Belle France_ can afford;
Chambertin, Chateau Margaux, La Rose, and Lafitte,
With Moet's Champagne, "of the Comet year," "neat
As imported,"--"fine sparkling,"--and not over sweet;
While his Chaplain, good man, when call'd in to say Grace,
Would groan, and put on an elongated face
At such turtle, such turbot, John Dory, and plaice;
Not without blushing, pronouncing a benison,
Worthy old soul! on such _very_ fat venison,
Sighing to think Such victuals and drink
Are precisely the traps by which Satan makes men his own,
And grieving o'er scores Of huge barbecued Boars,
Which he thinks should not darken a Christian man's doors,
Though 'twas all very well Pagan Poets should rate 'em
As "_Animal propter convivia natum_."

He was right, I must say, For at this time of day,
When we're not so precise, whether cleric or lay,
With respect to our food, as in time so _passé_,
We still find our Boars, whether grave ones or gay,
_After_ dinner, at least, very much in the way,
(We spell the word now with an E, not an A;)
And as honest _Père Jacques_ was inclined to spare diet, he
Gave this advice to all grades of society,
"Think less of pudding--and think more of piety."

As to his clothes, Oh! nobody knows
What lots the Count had of cloaks, doublets, and hose,
_Pantoufles_, with bows Each as big as a rose,
And such shirts with lace ruffles, such waistcoats, and those
Indescribable garments it is not thought right
To do more than whisper to _oreilles_ polite.

Still in spite of his power, and in spite of his riches,
In spite of his dinners, his dress, and his----which is
The strangest of all things--in spite of his Wife,
The Count led a rather hum-drum sort of life.
He grew tired, in fact, of mere eating and drinking,
Grew tired of flirting, and ogling, and winking
At nursery maids As they walk'd the Parades,
The Crescents, the Squares, and the fine Colonnades,
And the other gay places, which young ladies use
As their _promenade_ through the good town of Thoulouse.

He was tired of hawking, and fishing, and hunting,
Of billiards, short-whist, chicken-hazard, and punting;
Of popping at pheasants, Quails, woodcocks, and--peasants:
Of smoking, and joking, And soaking, provoking
Such headaches next day As his fine St. Peray,
Though the best of all Rhone wines can never repay,
Till weary of war, women, roast-goose, and glory,
With no great desire to be "famous in story,"
All the day long, This was his song,
"Oh, dear! what will become of us?
Oh, dear! what shall we do?
We shall die of blue devils if some of us
Can't hit on something that's new!"

Meanwhile his sweet Countess, so pious and good,
Such pomps and such vanities stoutly eschew'd,
With all fermented liquors and high-seasoned food,
Deviled kidneys, and sweetbreads, and ducks and green peas;
Baked sucking-pig, goose, and all viands like these,
Hash'd calf's-head included, no longer could please,
A curry was sure to elicit a breeze,
So was ale, or a glass of Port wine after cheese,
Indeed, anything strong, As to tipple, was wrong;
She stuck to "fine Hyson," "Bohea," and "Souchong,"
And similar imports direct from Hong Kong.
In vain does the family doctor exhort her
To take with her chop one poor half-pint of porter;
No!--she alleges She's taken the pledges!
Determined to aid In a gen'ral Crusade
Against publicans, vintners, and all of that trade,
And to bring in sherbet, ginger-pop, lemonade,
_Eau sucrée_, and drinkables mild and home made;
So she claims her friends' efforts, and vows to devote all hers
Solely to found "The Thoulousian Teetotallers."
Large sums she employs In dressing small boys
In long duffle jackets, and short corduroys,
And she boxes their ears when they make too much noise;
In short, she turns out a complete Lady Bountiful,
Filling with drugs and brown Holland the county full.

Now just at the time when our story commences,
It seems that a case Past the common took place,
To entail on her ladyship further expenses,
In greeting with honour befitting his station
The Prior of Arles, with a Temperance Legation,
Despatched by Pope Urban, who seized this occasion
To aid in diluting that part of the nation,
An excellent man, One who stuck to his can
Of cold water "without"--and he'd take such a lot of it;
None of your sips That just moisten the lips;
At one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it,
No such bad thing By the way, if they bring
It you iced, as at Verrey's, or fresh from the spring,
When the Dog Star compels folks in town to take wing,
Though I own even then I should see no great sin in it,
Were there three drops of Sir Felix's gin in it.

Well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure,
And finish the pump with the Prior at leisure,
Let's go back to Raymond, still bored beyond measure,
And harping away On the same dismal lay,
"On dear! what will become of us?
Oh dear! what can we do?
We shall die of blue devils if some of us
Can't find out something that's new!"
At length in despair of obtaining his ends
By his own mother wit, he takes courage, and sends,
Like a sensible man as he is, for his friends,
Not his Lyndhursts or Eldons, or any such high sirs,
But only a few of his "backstairs" advisers;
"Come hither," says he, "My gallants so free,
My bold Rigmarole, and my brave Rigmaree,
And my grave Baron Proser, now listen to me!
You three can't but see I'm half dead with _ennui_.
What's to be done? I _must_ have some fun,
And I will too, that's flat--ay, as sure as a gun.
So find me out 'something new under the sun,'
Or I'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one;--
You three Agree! Come, what shall it be?
Resolve me--propound in three skips of a flea!"
Rigmarole gave a "Ha!" Rigmaree gave a "Hem!"
They look'd at Count Raymond--Count Raymond at them,
As much as to say, "Have you _nihil ad rem_?"
At length Baron Proser Responded, "You know, sir,
That question's some time been a regular poser;
Dear me!--Let me see,-- In the way of a 'spree'
Something new?--Eh!--No!--Yes!----_No!_--'tis really no go, sir."
Says the Count, "Rigmarole, You're as jolly a soul,
On the whole, as King Cole, with his pipe and his bowl;
Come, I'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll."--
In vain--Rigmarole with a look most profound,
With his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground,
Shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found.
"I can only remark, That as touching a 'lark'
I'm as much as your Highness can be, in the dark;
I can hit on no novelty--none, on my life,
Unless, peradventure you'd 'tea' with your wife!"
Quoth Raymond, "Enough!
Nonsense!--humbug!--fudge!--stuff!
Rigmarole, you're an ass,--you're a regular Muff!
Drink tea with her ladyship?--I?--not a bit of it!
Call you that fun?--faith I can't see the wit of it;
_Mort de ma vie!_ My dear Rigmaree,
You're the man, after all,--come, by way of a fee,
If you will but be bright, from the simple degree
Of a knight I'll create you at once a _Mar-quis_!
Put your conjuring cap on--consider and see,
If you can't beat that stupid old 'Sumph' with his 'tea!'"

"That's the thing! that will do! Ay, marry, that's new!"
Cries Rigmaree, rubbing his hands, "that will please--
My '_Conjuring cap_'--it's the thing;--it's 'the cheese!'
It was only this morning I picked up the news;
Please your Highness a _Conjuror's_ come to Thoulouse;
I'll defy you to name us A man half so famous
For devildoms,--Sir, it's the great Nostradamus!
Cornelius Agrippa 'tis said went to school to him,
Gyngell's an ass, and old Faustus a fool to him,
Talk of Lilly, Albertus, Jack Dee!--pooh! all six
He'd soon put in a pretty particular fix;
Why, he'd beat at digesting a sword, or 'Gun tricks'
The great Northern Wizard himself all to sticks!
I should like to see you, Try to _sauter le coup_
With this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo,
By the Pope you'd soon find it a regular 'Do:'
Why, he does as he likes with the cards,--when he's got 'em,
There's always an Ace or a King at the bottom;
Then for casting Nativities!--only you look
At the volume he's published,--that wonderful book!
In all France not another, to swear I dare venture, is
Like, by long chalks, his 'Prophetical Centuries'--
Don't you remember how, early last summer, he
Warned the late King 'gainst the Tournament mummery?
Didn't his Majesty call it all flummery,
Scorning The warning, And get the next morning
His poke in the eye from that clumsy Montgomery?
Why, he'll tell you, before You're well inside his door,
All you're Highness may wish to be up to, and more!"

"Bravo!--capital!--come, let's disguise ourselves--quick!
--Fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick;
We'll see if old Hocus will smell out the trick;
Let's start off at once--Rigmaree, you're a Brick!"
The moon in gentle radiance shone
O'er lowly roof and lordly bower,
O'er holy pile and armed tower,
And danced upon the blue Garonne:
Through all that silver'd city fair,
No sound disturbed the calm, cool air,
Save the lover's sigh alone!
Or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose
Proclaim'd the depth of his repose,
Provoking from connubial toes
A hint--or elbow bone;
It might, with such trifling exceptions, be said,
That Thoulouse was as still as if Thoulouse were dead,
And her "oldest inhabitant" buried in lead.

But hark! a sound invades the ear,
Of horses' hoofs advancing near!
They gain the bridge--they pass--they're here!
Side by side Two strangers ride,
For the streets in Thoulouse are sufficiently wide,
That is I'm assured they are--not having tried.
--See, now they stop Near an odd-looking shop,
And they knock, and they ring, and they won't be denied.
At length the command Of some unseen hand
Chains, and bolts, and bars obey,
And the thick-ribbed oaken door, old and grey,
In the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way.

They leave their steeds to a page's care,
Who comes mounted behind on a Flanders mare,
And they enter the house, that resolute pair,
With a blundering step but a dare-devil air,
And ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair;
While, armed with a lamp that just helps you to see
How uncommonly dark a place can be,
The grimmest of lads with the grimmest of grins,
Says, "Gentlemen, please to take care of your shins!
Who ventures this road need be firm on his pins!
Now turn to the left--now turn to the right--
Now a step--now stoop--now again upright--
Now turn once again, and directly before ye
's the door of the great Doctor's Labora-tory."

A word! a blow! And in they go!
No time to prepare, or to get up a show,
Yet everything there they find quite _comme il faut_:
Such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row,
Retorts, crucibles, such as all Conjurors stow
In the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow
The fire burning blue with its sulphur and tow;
From the roof a huge crocodile hangs rather low,
With a tail such as that which, we all of us know,
Mr. Waterton managed to tie in a bow;
Pickled snakes, potted lizards, in bottles and basins
Like those at Morel's, or at Fortnum and Mason's,
All articles found, you're aware without telling,
In every respectable Conjuror's dwelling.

Looking solemn and wise, Without turning his eyes,
Or betraying the slightest degree of surprise,
In the midst sits the Doctor--his hair is white,
And his cheek is wan--but his glance is bright,
And his long black roquelaure, not over-tight,
Is marked with strange characters much, if not quite,
Like those on the bottles of green and blue light
Which you see in a chymist's shop-window at night.
His figure is tall and erect--rather spare about
Ribs,--and no wonder--such folks never care about
Eating or drinking, While reading and thinking,
Don't fatten--his age might be sixty or thereabout.

Raising his eye so grave and so sage,
From some manuscript work of a bygone age,
The seer very composedly turns down the page,
Then shading his sight, With his hand from the light,
Says, "Well, Sirs, what would you at this time of night?
What brings you abroad these lone chambers to tread,
When all sober folks are at home and abed?"
"Trav'lers we, In our degree,
All strange sights we fain would see,
And hither we come in company;
We have far to go, and we come from far,
Through Spain and Portingale, France and Navarre;
We have heard of your name,
And your fame, and our aim,
Great Sir, is to witness, ere yet we depart
From Thoulouse,--and to-morrow at cock-crow we start--
Your skill--we would fain crave a touch of your art!"

"Now naye, now naye--no trav'lers ye!
Nobles ye be Of high degree!
With half an eye that one may easily see,--
Count Raymond, your servant!--Yours, Lord Rigmaree!
I must call you so now since you're made a _Mar-quis_;
Faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me!
No matter for that! I see what you'd be at--
Well--pray no delay, For it's late, and ere day
I myself must be hundreds of miles on my way;
So tell me at once what you want with me--say!
Shall I call up the dead From their mouldering bed?--
Shall I send you yourselves down to Hades instead?--
Shall I summon old Harry himself to this spot?"
--"Ten thousand thanks, No! we had much rather not.
We really can't say That we're curious that way;
But, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving,
We'd much rather take a sly peep at the living?
Rigmaree, what say you, in This case, as to viewing
Our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing?"
"Just what pleases your Highness--I don't care a _sous_ in
The matter--but don't let old Nick and his crew in!"
--"Agreed!--pray proceed then, most sage Nostradamus,
And show us our _Wives_--I dare swear they won't shame us!"

A change comes o'er the Wizard's face,
And his solemn look by degrees gives place
To a half grave, half comical, kind of grimace.
"For good or for ill, I work your will!
Yours be the risk and mine the skill;
Blame not my art if unpleasant the pill!"

He takes from a shelf, and he pops on his head,
A square sort of cap, black, and turned up with red,
And desires not a syllable more may be said;
He goes on to mutter, And stutter, and sputter
Hard words, such as no men but Wizards dare utter.
"Dies mies!--Hocus pocus--
Adsis Demon! non est jokus!
Hi Cocolorum--don't provoke us!--
Adesto! Presto! Put forth your best toe!"
And many more words, to repeat which would choke us,--
Such a sniff then of brimstone!--it did not last long,
Or they could not have borne it, the smell was so strong.

A mirror is near, So large and so clear,
If you priced such a one in a drawing-room here,
And was ask'd fifty pounds, you'd not say it was dear;
But a mist gather'd round at the words of the Seer,
Till at length, as the gloom Was subsiding, a room
On its broad polish'd surface began to appear,
And the Count and his comrade saw plainly before 'em
The room Lady Isabel called her "_Sanctorum_."
They start, well they might, With surprise at the sight,
Methinks I hear some lady say, "Serve 'em right!"

For on one side the fire Is seated the Prior,
At the opposite corner a fat little Friar;
By the side of each gentleman, easy and free,
Sits a lady, as close as close well may be,
She might almost as well have been perch'd on his knee.
Dear me! dear me! Why, one's Isabel--she
On the opposite side's _La Marquise Rigmaree_!--
To judge from the spread On the board, you'd have said
That the _partie quarrée_ had like aldermen fed,
And now from long flasks, with necks covered with lead,
They were helping themselves to champagne, white and red
Hobbing and nobbing, And nodding and bobbing,
With many a sip Both from cup and from lip,
And with many a toast followed up by a "Hip!--
Hip!--hip!--huzzay!" --The Count, by the way,
Though he sees all they're doing, can't hear what they say,
Notwithstanding both he And _Mar-quis Rigmaree_
Are so vex'd and excited at what they can _see_,
That each utters a sad word beginning with D.

That word once spoke, The silence broke,
In an instant the vision is cover'd with smoke!
But enough has been seen. "Horse! horse! and away!"
They have, neither, the least inclination to stay,
E'en to thank Nostradamus, or ask what's to pay.--
They rush down the stair, How, they know not, nor care,
The next moment the Count is astride on his bay,
And my Lord Rigmaree on his mettlesome grey;
They dash through the town, Now up, and now down,
And the stones rattle under their hoofs as they ride,
As if poor Thoulouse were as mad as Cheapside;[65]
Through lane, alley, and street,
Over all that they meet;
The Count leads the way on his courser so fleet,
My Lord Rigmaree close pursuing his beat,
With the Page in the rear to protect the retreat.
Where the bridge spans the river, so wide and so deep,
Their headlong career o'er the causeway they keep,
Upsetting the Watchman, two dogs, and a Sweep,
All the town population that was not asleep.
They at length reach the castle, just outside the town,
Where--in peace it was usual with Knights of renown--
The portcullis was up, and the drawbridge was down.
They dash by the sentinels--"_France et Thoulouse!_"
Ev'ry soldier (--they then wore cock'd hats and long _queues_,
Appendages banish'd from modern reviews),
His arquebus lower'd, and bow'd to his shoes;
While Count Raymond pushed on to his lady's _boudoir_--he
Had made up his mind to make one at her _soirée_.
He rush'd to that door, Where ever before
He had rapped with his knuckles, and "tirled at the pin,"
Till he heard the soft sound of his Lady's "Come in!"
But now, with a kick from his iron-heel'd boot,
Which, applied to a brick wall, at once had gone through't,
He dash'd open the lock; It gave way at the shock!
(--Dear ladies, don't think, in recording the fact,
That your bard's for one moment defending the act,
No--it is not a gentleman's--none but a low body
_Now_--could perform it)--and there he saw--NOBODY!!
Nobody?--No!! Oh, ho!--Oh, ho!
There was not a table--there was not a chair
Of all that Count Raymond had ever seen there
(They'd maroon-leather bottoms well stuff'd with horse-hair),
That was out of its place!-- There was not a trace
Of a party--there was not a dish or a plate--
No sign of a tablecloth--nothing to prate
Of a supper, _symposium_, or sitting up late;
There was not a spark of fire left in the grate,
It had all been poked out, and remained in that state.
If there was not a fire, Still less was there Friar,
_Marquise_, or long glasses, or Countess, or Prior,
And the Count, who rush'd in open mouth'd, was struck dumb,
And could only ejaculate, "Well, this _is_ rum!"