Chapter XXIII: Canto II (6)

He rang for the maids--had them into the room,
With the butler, the footman, the coachman, the groom.
He examined them all very strictly--but no!
Notwithstanding he cross- and re-question'd them so,
'Twas in vain--it was clearly a case of "No Go!"
"Their Lady," they said, "Had gone early to bed,
Having rather complain'd of a cold in her head--
The stout little Friar, as round as an apple,
Had pass'd the whole night in a vigil in chapel,
While the Prior himself, as he'd usually done,
Had rung in the morning, at half-after one,
For his jug of cold water and twopenny bun,
And been visible, since they were brought him, to none.
But," the servants averr'd,
"From the sounds that were heard
To proceed now and then from the father's _sacellum_,
They thought he was purging His sins with a scourging,
And making good use of his knotted _flagellum_."
For Madame Rigmaree, They all testified, she
Had gone up to her bed-chamber soon after tea,
And they really supposed that there still she must be,
Which her spouse, the _Mar-quis_,
Found at once to agree
With the rest of their tale, when he ran up to see.

Alack for Count Raymond! he could not conceive
How the case really stood, or know _what_ to believe;
Nor could Rigmaree settle to laugh or to grieve.
There was clearly a hoax,
But which of the folks
Had managed to make them the butt of their jokes,
Wife or Wizard, they both knew no more than Jack Nokes;
That glass of the Wizard's
Stuck much in their gizzards,
His cap, and his queer cloak all X's and Izzards;
Then they found, when they came to examine again,
Some slight falling off in the stock of champagne,
Small, but more than the butler could fairly explain.
However, since nothing could make the truth known,
Why,--they thought it was best to let matters alone.
The Count in the garden Begg'd Isabel's pardon
Next morning for waking her up in a fright,
By the racket he'd kicked up at that time of night;
And gave her his word he had ne'er misbehaved so,
Had he not come home as tipsy as David's sow.
Still, to give no occasion for family snarls,
The Friar was pack'd back to his convent at Arles,
While as for the Prior, At Raymond's desire,
The Pope raised his rev'rence a step or two higher,
And made him a Bishop _in partibus_--where
His see was I cannot exactly declare,
Or describe his cathedral, not having been there,
But I dare say you'll all be prepared for the news,
When I say 'twas a good many miles from Thoulouse,
Where the prelate, in order to set a good precedent,
Was enjoined, as a _sine quâ non_, to be resident.
You will fancy with me,
That Count Raymond was free,
For the rest of his life, from his former _ennui_;
Still it somehow occurr'd that as often as he
Chanced to look in the face of my Lord Rigmaree,
There was something or other--a trifling degree
Of constraint--or embarrassment--easy to see,
And which seem'd to be shared by the noble _Mar-quis_,
While the ladies--the queerest of all things by half in
My tale, never met from that hour without laughing!

MORAL.

Good gentlemen all, who are subjects of Hymen,
Don't make new acquaintances rashly, but try men,
Avoid above all things your cunning (that's sly) men!
Don't go out o' nights To see conjuring sleights,
But shun all such people, delusion whose trade is;
Be wise!--stay at home and take tea with the ladies.

If you _chance_ to be out, At a "regular bout,"
And get too much of "Abbot's Pale Ale" or "Brown Stout,"
Don't be cross when you come home at night to your spouse,
Nor be noisy, nor kick up a dust in the house!

Be careful yourself, and admonish your sons,
To beware of all folks who love twopenny buns!
And don't introduce to your wife or your daughter
A sleek, meek, weak gent--who subsists on cold water!

* * * * *

The main incident recorded in the following _excerpta_ from our family papers has but too solid a foundation. The portrait of Roger Ingoldsby is not among those in the gallery, but I have some recollection of having seen, when a boy, a picture answering the description here given of him, much injured, and lying without a frame in one of the attics.

FOOTNOTES:

[65]
"The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad."

_Gilpin's Tour in Middlesex and Herts._

THE WEDDING-DAY;

OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE.

A FAMILY LEGEND.

It has a jocund sound,
That gleeful Marriage chime,
As from the old and ivied tower,
It peals, at the early Matin hour,
Its merry, merry round;
And the Spring is in its prime,
And the Song-bird, on the spray,
Trills from his throat, in varied note,
An emulative lay--
It has a joyous sound!!
And the Vicar is there with his wig and his book,
And the Clerk with his grave, _quasi_-sanctified look,
And there stand the Village maids all with their posies,
Their lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and roses,
Dight in white, A comely sight,
Fringing the path to the left and the right;
--From our nursery days we all of us know
Ne'er doth "Our Ladye's garden grow"
So fair for a "Grand Horticultural Show"
As when border'd with "pretty maids all on a row."
And the urchins are there, escap'd from the rule
Of that "Limbo of Infants," the National School,
Whooping, and bawling, And squalling, and calling,
And crawling, and creeping, And jumping, and leaping,
Bo-peeping 'midst "many a mouldering heap" in
Whose bosom their own "rude forefathers" are sleeping;
--Young rascals!--instead of lamenting and weeping,
Laughing and gay, _A gorge deployée_--
Only now and then pausing--and checking their play,
To "wonder what 'tis makes the gentlefolks stay,"
Ah, well-a-day! Little deem they,
Poor ignorant dears! the bells, ringing away,
Are anything else Than mere parish bells,
Or that each of them, should we go into its history,
Is but a "Symbol" of some deeper mystery--
That the clappers and ropes Are mere practical tropes
Of "trumpets" and "tongues," and of "preachers," and popes,
Unless Clement the fourth's worthy Chaplin, _Durand_, err,
See the "_Rationale_" of that goosey-gander.

Gently! gently, Miss Muse!
Mind your P's and your Q's!
Don't be malapert--laugh, Miss, but never abuse!
Calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism,
Is, Miss, believe me, a great piece of Jack-ass-ism,
And as, on the whole, You're a good-natured soul,
You must never enact such a pitiful _rôle_.
No, no, Miss, pull up, and go back to your boys
In the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise--
But hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming,
For voices are heard--here's the company coming!

And see!--the avenue gates unfold,
And forth they pace, that bridal train,
The grave, the gay, the young, the old,
They cross the green and grassy lane,
Bridesman, Bridesmaid, Bridegroom, Bride,
Two by two, and side by side,
Uncles, and aunts, friends tried and prov'd,
And cousins, a great many times removed.
A fairer or a gentler She,
A lovelier Maid, in her degree,
Man's eye might never hope to see,
Than darling, bonnie Maud Ingoldsby,
The flow'r of that goodly company;
While whispering low, with bated voice,
Close by her side, her heart's dear choice,
Walks Fredville's hope, young Valentine Boys.
--But where, oh where,-- Is Ingoldsby's heir?
Little Jack Ingoldsby?--where, oh where?
Why, he's here,--and he's there, And he's every where--
He's there, and he's here; In the front--in the rear,--
Now this side, now that side,--now far, and now near--
The Puck of the party, the darling "pet" boy,
Full of mischief, and fun, and good humour and joy;
With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose,
And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose;
In his tunic, and trousers, and cap--there he goes!
Now pinching the bridesmen,--now teasing his sister,
And telling the bridesmaids how "Valentine kiss'd her;"
The torment, the plague, the delight of them all,
See he's into the churchyard!--he's over the wall--
Gambolling, frolicking, capering away,
He's the first in the church, be the second who may!

* * * * *

'Tis o'er;--the holy rite is done,
The rite that "incorporates two in one,"
--And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun!
Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing,
The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying,
The "toot--toot--toot" Of the tabour and flute,
Of the white wigg'd Vicar's prolonged salute,
Or of how the blithe "College _Youths_"--rather old stagers,
Accustom'd, for years, to pull bell ropes for wagers--
Rang, faster than ever, their "triple-bob-MAJORS;"
(So loud as to charm ye, At once and alarm ye;
--"_Symbolic_," of course, of that rank in the army.)

Spare we to tell of the fees and the dues
To the "little old woman that open'd the pews,"
Of the largesse bestow'd on the Sexton and Clerk,
Of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park,
Of the laughing and joking, The quaffing and smoking,
And chaffing, and broaching--that is to say, poking
A hole in a mighty magnificent tub
Of what men, in our hemisphere, term "Humming Bub,"
But which Gods,--who, it seems, use a different lingo
From Mortals,--are wont to denominate "Stingo."

Spare we to tell of the Horse-collar grinning;
The Cheese! the reward of the ugly one winning;
Of the young ladies racing for Dutch body-linen,--
--The soapy-tailed Sow,--a rich prize when you've caught her,--
Of little boys bobbing for pippins in water;
The smacks and the whacks, And the jumpers in sacks,
These down on their noses and those on their backs;--
Nor skills it to speak of those darling old ditties,
Sung rarely in hamlets now--never in cities,
The "_King and the Miller_," the "_Bold Robin Hood_,"
"_Chevy Chase_," "_Gilderoy_," and the "_Babes in the Wood_!"
--You'll say that my taste Is sadly misplaced,
But I can't help confessing these simple old tunes
The "_Auld Robin Grays_," and the "_Aileen Aroons_,"
The "_Gramachree Mollys_," and "_Sweet Bonny Doons_,"
Are dearer to me, In a tenfold degree,
Than a fine _fantasia_ from over the sea;
And, for sweetness, compared with a Beethoven fugue, are
As "best-refined loaf" to the coarsest "brown sugar;"[66]
--Alack, for the Bard's want of science! to which he owes
All this misliking of foreign _capricios_!--
Not that he'd say One word, by the way,
To disparage our new Idol, Monsieur Duprez--
But he grudges, he owns, his departed half guinea,
Each Saturday night when, devoured by chagrin, he
Sits listening to singers whose names end in _ini_.

But enough of the rustics--let's leave them pursuing
Their out-of-door gambols, and just take a view in
The inside the Hall, and see what _they_ are doing;
And first there's the Squire, The hale, hearty Sire
Of the Bride,--with his coat-tails subducted and higher,
A thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire;
His back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;--
--Bright, bright are his buttons,--and bright is the hue
Of his squarely-cut coat of fine Saxony blue;
And bright the shalloon of his little quilled _queue_;
--White, white as "Young England's," the dimity vest
Which descends like an _avalanche_ o'er his broad breast,
Till its further progression is put in arrest
By the portly projection that springs from his chest,
Overhanging the garment--that can't be exprest;
--White, white are his locks,--which, had Nature fair play,
Had appeared a clear brown, slightly sprinkled with grey;
But they're white as the peaks of Plinlimmon to-day,
Or Ben Nevis, his pate is _si bien poudré_!
Bright, bright are the boots that envelope his heels,
--Bright, bright is the gold chain suspending his seals,
And still brighter yet may the gazer descry
The Tear-drop that spangles the fond Father's eye
As it lights on the Bride-- His belov'd One--the pride
And delight of his heart,--sever'd now from his side;--
But brighter than all, Arresting its fall,
Is the smile, that rebukes it for spangling at all,
--A clear case, in short, of what old Poets tell, as
Blind Homer for instance, εν δαχρυσι γελας.

Then, there are the Bride and the Bridegroom, withdrawn
To the deep Gothic window that looks on the lawn,
Ensconced on a squab of maroon-coloured leather,
And talking--and _thinking_, no doubt--of the weather.

But here comes the party--Room! room for the guests!
In their Pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests,
--First, Sir Charles Grandison, Baronet, and his Son,
Charles,--the Mamma does not venture to "show"--
--Miss Byron, you know, She was call'd long ago--
For that Lady, 'twas _said_, had been playing the d--l,
Last season, in town, with her old beau, Squire Greville,
Which very much shock'd, and chagrin'd, as may well be
Supposed, "Doctor Bartlett," and "Good Uncle Selby."
--Sir Charles, of course, could not give Greville his gruel, in
Order to prove his abhorrence of duelling,
Nor try for, deterr'd by the serious expense, a
Complete separation _a thoro et mensâ_,
So he "kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party,
A dance, or a dinner, or tea and _ecarté_,
He went with his son, and said, looking demurely,
He'd "left her at home, as she found herself poorly."

Two Foreigners near, "Of distinction," appear;
A pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw,
Count Ferdinand Fathom,--Count Thaddeus of Warsaw,
All cover'd with glitt'ring _bijouterie_ and hair--Poles,
Whom Lord Dudley Stuart calls "Patriot,"--Hook "Bare Poles;"
Such rings, and such brooches, such studs, and such pins.
'Twere hard to say which Were more gorgeous and rich,
Or more truly Mosaic, their chains or their chins!
Next Sir Roger de Coverley,--Mr. Will Ramble,
With Dame Lismahago, (_née_ Tabitha Bramble),--
Mr. Random and Spouse,--Mrs. Pamela Booby,
(Whose nose was acquiring a tinge of the ruby,
And "people _did say_"--but no matter for that, ...
Folks were not then enlighten'd by good Father Mat.)--
--Three friends from "the Colonies" near them were seen,
The great Massachusetts man, General Muff Green,--
Mr. Jonathan W. Doubikins,--men
"Influential _some_"--and their "smart" Uncle Ben;--
Rev. Abraham Adams (preferr'd to a stall),--
--Mr. Jones and his Lady, from Allworthy Hall;
--Our friend Tom, by the way, Had turn'd out rather gay
For a married man--certainly "people _did say_,"
He was shrewdly suspected of using his wife ill,
And being as sly as his half-brother Blifil.--
(Miss Seagrim, 'tis well known, was now in high feather,
And "people _did say_" they'd been seen out together,--
A fact, the "Boy Jones," who, in our days, with malice
Aforethought, so often got into the Palace,
Would seem to confirm, as, 'tis whispered he owns, he's
The son of a natural son of Tom Jones's.)
Lady Bellaston, (_mem._ she had not been invited!)
Sir Peregrine Pickle, now recently knighted,--
All joyous, all happy, all looking delighted!
--It would bore you to death should I pause to describe,
Or enumerate, half of the elegant tribe
Who filled the back ground, And among whom were found
The _elite_ of the old County families round,
Such as Honeywood, Oxenden, Knatchbull, and Norton,
Matthew Robinson,[67] too, with his beard from Monk's Horton,
The Faggs, and Finch-Hattons, Tokes, Derings, and Deedses,
And Fairfax, (who then called the castle of Leeds his;)
Esquires, Knights, and Lords, In bag-wigs and swords;
And the troops, and the groups Of fine Ladies in hoops;
The _pompoons_, the _toupées_, and the diamonds and feathers,
The flowered-silk _sacques_
Which they wore on their backs,--
--How?--_sacques_ and _pompoons_, with the Squire's boots and
leathers?--

Stay! stay!--I suspect, Here's a trifling neglect
On your part, Madame Muse--though you're commonly accurate
As to costume, as brown Quaker, or black Curate,
For once, I confess, Here you're out as to dress;--
You've been fairly caught napping, which gives me distress,
For I can't but acknowledge it is not the thing,
Sir Roger de Coverley's laced suit to bring
Into contact with square-cut coats,--such as George Byng,
And poor dear Sir Francis appeared in, last spring.--
So, having for once been compelled to acknowledge, I
've made a small hole in our mutual chronology,
Canter on, Miss, without further apology,--
Only don't make Such another mistake,
Or you'll get in a scrape, of which I shall partake;--
Enough!--you are sorry for what you have done,
So dry your eyes, Miss, blow your nose, and go on!

Well--the party are met, all radiant and gay,
And how ev'ry person is dress'd--we won't say;
Suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay
To our dear "bonnie Maud," on her own wedding-day,
To dance at her bridal, and help "throw the stocking,"
--A practice that's now discontinued as shocking.

There's a breakfast, they know-- There always is so
On occasions like these, wheresoever you go.
Of course there are "lots" of beef, potted and hung,
Prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue,
Hot tea, and hot coffee, hot rolls, and hot toast,
Cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boil'd and cold roast,
Scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, colder ices--
_Blancmange_, which young Ladies say, so very nice is,--
Rock-melons in thick, Pines in much thinner slices,--
Char, potted with clarified butter and spices,
Renewing an appetite long past its crisis--
Refined barley-sugar, in various devices,
Such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes--
And nasty French lucifer snappers with mottoes.
--In short, all those gimcracks together were met
Which people of fashion tell Gunter to get
When they give a _grand déjeûner à la fourchette_--
(A phrase which, though French, in our language still lingers,
Intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers.)
And see! what a mountainous bridecake!--a thing
By itself--with small pieces to pass through the ring!

Now as to the wines!--"Ay, the Wine?" cries the Squire,
Letting fall both his coat-tails,--which nearly take fire,--
Rubbing his hands, He calls out, as he stands,
To the serving-men waiting "his Honour's" commands,
"The wine!--to be sure--here you, Harry--Bob--Dick--
The wine, don't you hear?--bring us lights--come, be quick!--
And a crow-bar to knock down the mortar and brick--
Say what they may, 'Fore George, we'll make way
Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day;
And let loose his captives, imprison'd so long,
His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong!"--
--"Oh dear! oh dear! Squire Ingoldsby, bethink you what you do!"
Exclaims old Mrs. Botherby,[68]--she is in _such_ a stew!--
"Oh dear! oh dear! what do I hear?--full oft you've heard me tell
Of the curse 'Wild Roger' left upon whoe'er should break his cell!"

"Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away,
As I bethink me, too, it was upon this very day!
And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay,
Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play;
Your locks were nut-brown then, Squire--you grow a little grey!--

"Wild Roger,' so we call'd him then, your Grandsire's youngest son,
He was in truth A wayward youth, We fear'd him, every one.
In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be stayed by none,
And when he did a naughty thing, he laugh'd and call'd it fun!
--One day his father chid him sore--I know not what he'd done,
But he scorn'd reproof; And from this roof
Away that night he run!

"Seven years were gone and over--'Wild Roger' came again,
He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main;
And he had store of gold galore, and silks, and satins fine,
And flasks and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine!
Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave,
And came, in penitence and shame, now of his Sire to crave
Forgiveness and a welcome home--his Sire was in his grave!

"Your Father was a kindly man--he played a brother's part,
He press'd his brother to his breast--he had a kindly heart,
Fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to share,
But Roger was the same man still,--he scorn'd his brother's pray'r!
He call'd his crew,--away he flew, and on those foreign shores
Got kill'd in some outlandish place--they call it the Eyesores;[69]
But ere he went, And quitted Kent,
--I well recall the day,--
His flasks and casks of Gascon wine he safely 'stow'd away;'
Within the cellar's deepest nook, he safely stow'd them all,
And Mason Jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up the wall.

"Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear 'Wild Roger's' ban!
Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man;
'Here's that,' quoth he, 'shall serve me well when I return at last,
A batter'd hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past;
Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine,
Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon wine!'
And more he said, which filled with dread all those who listen'd there;
In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair
With very fear, to stand and hear 'Wild Roger' curse and swear!!
He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game,
He called me 'Mother Bounce-about,' my Gracious, what a name!
Nay more, 'an old'--some 'boat-woman,'--I may not say for shame!--
Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell,
Nor break, on such a day as this, 'Wild Roger's' secret cell!"

"Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire,
As he mov'd from the fire,
And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire,
"Pooh!--never tell me! Nonsense--fiddle-de-dee!
What?--wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea?--
Why he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too gay,
And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way;
But what's that to us, now, at this time of day?
What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell--
--I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,--

Sent him back in a huff to his old privateering,
Or what his unfriends chose to call Buccaneering,
It's twenty years since, as we very well know,
He was knock'd on the head in a skirmish, and so
Why rake up 'auld warld' tales of deeds long ago?--
--Foul befall him who would touch the deposit
Of living man, whether in cellar or closet!
But since, as I've said, Knock'd on the head,
Uncle Roger has now been some twenty years dead.
As for his wine, I'm his heir, and it's mine!
And I'd long ago work'd it well, but that I tarried
For this very day--
And I'm sure you'll all say
I was right--when my own darling Maud should get married!
So lights and a crow-bar!--the only thing lies
On my conscience, at all, with respect to this prize,
Is some little compunction anent the Excise--
Come--you, Master Jack,
Be the first, and bring back
Whate'er comes to hand--Claret, Burgundy, Sack--
Head the party, and mind that you're back in a crack!"

Away go the clan, With cup and with can,
Little Jack Ingoldsby leading the van;
Little reck they of the Buccaneer's ban:
Hope whispers, "Perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too here!"
Blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear!

Through cellar one, through cellars two,
Through cellars three they past!
And their way they took To the farthest nook
Of cellar four--the last!--
Blithe and gay, they batter away,
On this wedding-day of Maud's,
With all their might, to bring to light
"Wild Roger's" "Custom-house frauds!"
And though stone and brick Be never so thick,
When stoutly assailed, they are no bar
To the powerful charm Of a Yeoman's arm
When wielding a decentish crow-bar!
Down comes brick, and down comes stone,
One by one-- The job's half done!--
"Where is he?--now come--where's Master John?"--
--There's a breach in the wall three feet by two,
And little Jack Ingoldsby soon pops through!
Hark!--what sound's that?--a sob?--a sigh?--
The choking gasp of a stifled cry?--
"--What can it be?--
Let's see!--let's see!--
It _can't_ be little Jack Ingoldsby?
The candle--quick!"--
Through stone and through brick
They poke in the light on a long split stick;
But ere he who holds it can wave it about,
He gasps, and he sneezes--the LIGHT GOES OUT!

Yet were there those, in after days,
Who said that pale light's flickering blaze,
For a moment, gleam'd on a dark Form there,
Seem'd as bodied of foul black air!--
--In Mariner's dress,--with cutlass braced
By buckle and broad black belt, to its waist,--
--On a cock'd-hat, laced With gold, and placed
With a _degagée_, devil-may-care, kind of taste,
O'er a _balafré_ brow by a scar defaced!--
That Form, they said, so foul and so black,
Grinn'd as it pointed at poor little Jack.--
--I know not, I, how the truth may be,
But the pent-up vapour, at length set free,
Set them all sneezing, And coughing, and wheezing,
As, working its way To the regions of day,
It, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in!

Of their senses bereft, To the right and the left,
Those varlets so lately courageous and stout,
There they lay kicking and sprawling about,
Like Billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice,
Or those which, the newspapers give us advice,
Mr. Taylor, of Lombard-street, sells at half-price;
--Nearer the door, some half dozen, or more!
Scramble away To the _rez de chaussee_,
(As our Frenchified friend always calls his ground-floor,)
And they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar
For lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more.
At length, after no little clamour and din,
The foul air let out, and the fresh air let in,
They drag one and all Up into the hall,
Where a medical Quaker, the great Dr. Lettsom,
Who's one of the party, "bleeds, physicks, and sweats 'em."
All?--all--save One-- --"But He!--my Son?--
Merciful Heaven!--where--WHERE IS JOHN?"

Within that cell, so dark and deep,
Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep,
A sight to make the sternest weep!--
--That little heart is pulseless now,
And cold that fair and open brow,
And closed that eye that beam'd with joy
And hope--"Oh, God!--my Boy!--my Boy!"

Enough!--I may not,--dare not,--show
The wretched Father's frantic woe,
The Mother's tearless, speechless--No!
I may not such a theme essay--
Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay
My pen--sad memory will have way!
Enough!--at once I close the lay,
Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!

It has a mournful sound,
That single, solemn Bell!
As to the hills and woods around
It flings its deep-toned knell;
That measured toll!--alone--apart,
It strikes upon the human heart!
--It has a mournful sound!--

MORAL.

Come, come, Mrs. Muse, we can't part in this way,
Or you'll leave me as dull as ditch-water all day.
Try and squeeze out a Moral or two from your lay!
And let us part cheerful, at least, if not gay!

First and foremost then, Gentlefolks, learn from my song,
Not to lock up your wine, or malt-liquor, too long!
Though Port should have age, Yet I don't think it sage
To entomb it, as some of your _connoisseurs_ do,
Till it's losing in flavour, and body, and hue;
--I question if keeping it does it much good
After ten years in bottle and three in the wood.

If any young man, though a snubb'd younger brother,
When told of his faults by his father and mother,
Runs restive, and goes off to sea in a huff,
Depend on't, my friends, that young man is a Muff!

Next--ill-gotten gains Are not worth the pains!--
They prosper with no one!--so whether cheroots,
Or Havanna cigars,--or French gloves, or French boots,--
Whatever you want, pay the duty! nor when you
Buy any such articles, cheat the revenue!

And "now to conclude,"-- For it's high time I should,--
When you _do_ rejoice, mind,--whatsoever you do,
That the hearts of the lowly rejoice with you too!--
Don't grudge them their jigs, And their frolics and "rigs,"
And don't interfere with their soapy-tail'd pigs;
Nor "because thou art virtuous," rail, and exhale
An _anathema_, breathing of vengeance and wail,
Upon every complexion less pale than sea-kail!
Nor dismiss the poor man to his pump and his pail,
With "Drink _there_!--we'll have henceforth no more cakes and ale!!"

FOOTNOTES:

[66] _Ad Amicum, Servientem ad legem_--
This rhyme, if, when scann'd by your critical ear, it
Is not _quite_ legitimate, comes pretty near it.--T. I.

[67] A worthy and eccentric country gentleman, afterwards the second Lord Rokeby, being cousin ("a great many times removed") and successor in the barony to Richard, Archbishop of Armagh, who first bore that title.--His beard was truly patriarchal.--Mr. Muntz's--pooh!--

[68] Great grandmamma, by the father's side, to the excellent lady of the same name who yet "keeps the keys" at Tappington.

[69] Azores?--Mrs. Botherby's orthography, like that of her distinguished contemporary Baron Duberly, was "a little loose."

* * * * *

Mox Regina filium peperit a multis optatum et a Deo sanctificatum. Cumque Infans natus fuisset, statim clarâ voce, omnibus audientibus, clamavit "_Christianus sum! Christianus sum! Christianus sum!_" Ad hanc vocem Presbyteri duo, Widerinus et Edwoldus, dicentes _Deo Gratias_, et omnes qui aderant mirantes, cœperunt cantare _Te Deum laudamus_. Quo facto rogabat Infans cathecumenum a Widerino sacerdote fieri, et ab Edwoldo teneri ad præsignaculum fidei et Romwoldum vocari.--NOV. LEGEND. ANGL. IN VITA SCTI ROMUALDI.

THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.

A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.

In Kent, we are told, There was seated of old,
A handsome young gentleman, courteous and bold,
He'd an oaken strong-box, well replenish'd with gold,
With broad lands, pasture, arable, woodland, and wold,
Not an acre of which had been mortgaged or sold;
He'd a Plesaunce and Hall passing fair to behold,
He had beeves in the byre, he had flocks in the fold,
And was somewhere about five-and-twenty years old.
His figure and face, For beauty and grace,
To the best in the county had scorn'd to give place.
Small marvel, then, If, of women and men
Whom he chanced to foregather with, nine out of ten
Express'd themselves charm'd with Sir Alured Denne.

From my earliest youth, I've been taught, as a truth,
A maxim which most will consider as sooth,
Though a few, peradventure, may think it uncouth;
There are three social duties, the whole of the swarm
In this great human hive of ours, ought to perform,
And that too as soon as conveniently may be;
The first of the three-- Is, the planting a Tree!
The next, the producing a Book--then, a Baby!
(For my part, dear Reader, without any jesting, I
So far at least, have accomplished my destiny.)

From the foremost, _i.e._ The "planting the Tree,"
The Knight may, perchance, have conceiv'd himself free,
Inasmuch as that, which way soever he looks,
Over park, mead, or upland, by streamlets and brooks,
His fine beeches and elms shelter thousands of rooks;
In twelve eighty-two, There would also accrue
Much latitude as to the article, Books;
But, if those we've disposed of, and need not recall,
Might, as duties, appear in comparison small,
One remain'd, there was no getting over at all,
--The providing a male Heir for Bonnington Hall;
Which, doubtless, induced the good Knight to decide,
As a matter of conscience, on taking a Bride.

It's a very fine thing, and delightful to see
Inclination and duty unite and agree,
Because it's a case That so rarely takes place;
In the instance before us, then, Alured Denne
Might well be esteem'd the most lucky of men,
Inasmuch as hard by, Indeed so very nigh,
That her chimneys, from his, you might almost descry,
Dwelt a Lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye,
One whose character scandal itself could defy,
While her charms and accomplishments rank'd very high,
And who would not deny A propitious reply,
But reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh.
(A line that's not mine, but Tom Moore's, by-the-bye.)

There was many a gay and trim bachelor near,
Who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear,
That fair Edith Ingoldsby, she whom they all
The "Rosebud of Tappington" ceased not to call,
Was going to say, "Honour, love, and obey"
So Sir Alured Denne, Knight, of Bonnington Hall,
That all other suitors were left in the lurch,
And the parties had even been "out-asked" in church,
For every one says, In those primitive days,
And I must own I think it redounds to their praise,
None dream'd of transferring a daughter or niece
As a bride, by an "unstamp'd agreement," or lease,
'Fore a Register's Clerk, or a Justice of Peace,
While young ladies had fain Single women remain,
And unwedded maids to the last "crack of doom" stick,
Ere marry, by taking a jump o'er a broomstick.

So our bride and bridegroom agreed to appear
At holy St. Romwold's, a Priory near,
Which a long while before, I can't say in what year,
Their forebears had join'd with the neighbours to rear,
And endow'd, some with bucks, some with beef, some with beer,
To comfort the friars, and make them good cheer.
Adorning the building, With carving and gilding,
And stone altars, fix'd to the chantries and fill'd in;
(Papistic in substance and form, and on this count
With Judge Herbert Jenner Fust justly at discount.
See _Cambridge Societas Camdeniensis_
V. _Faulkner, tert. prim. Januarii mensis_,
With "Judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses;")
All raised to St. Romwold, with some reason, styled
By Duke Humphrey's confessor,[70] "a Wonderful Child,"
For ne'er yet was Saint, except him, upon earth
Who made "his profession of faith" at his birth,
And when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth,
Converted his "Ma," and contrived to amend a
Sad hole in the creed of his grandsire, King Penda.

Of course to the shrine Of so young a divine
Flow'd much holy water, and some little wine,
And when any young folks did to marriage incline,
The good friars were much in request, and not one
Was more "sought unto" than the Sub-prior, Mess John;
To him, there and then, Sir Alured Denne
Wrote a three-corner'd note with a small crow-quill pen,
To say what he wanted, and fix "the time when,"
And, as it's well known that your people of quality
Pique themselves justly on strict punctuality,
Just as the clock struck the hour he'd nam'd in it,
The whole bridal party rode up to the minute.

Now whether it was that some rapturous dream,
Comprehending "fat pullets and clouted cream,"
Had borne the good man, in his vision of bliss,
Far off to some happier region than this--
Or whether his beads, 'gainst the fingers rebelling,
Took longer than usual that morning in telling;
Or whether, his conscience with knotted cord purging,
Mess John was indulging himself with a scourging,
In penance for killing some score of the fleas,
Which, infesting his hair-shirt, deprived him of ease,
Or whether a barrel of Faversham oysters,
Brought in, on the evening before, to the cloisters,
Produced indigestion, Continues a question,
The particular cause is not worth a debate;
For my purpose it's clearly sufficient to state
That whatever the reason, his rev'rence _was_ late,
And Sir Alured Denne, Not the meekest of men,
Began banning away at a deuce of a rate.

Now here, though I do it with infinite pain,
Gentle reader, I find I must pause to explain
That there was--what, I own, I grieve to make known--
On the worthy Knight's character one single stain,
But for which, all his friends had borne witness, I'm sure,
He had been _sans reproche_, as he still was _sans peur_.
The fact is, that many distinguish'd commanders
"Swore terribly (_teste_ T. Shandy) in Flanders."
Now into these parts our Knight chancing to go, countries
Named from this sad, vulgar custom, "The _Low_ Countries,"
Though on common occasions as courteous as daring,
Had pick'd up this shocking bad habit of swearing.
And if anything vex'd him, or matters went wrong,
Was given to what low folks call "Coming it strong."
Good, bad, or indifferent then, young or old,
He'd consign them, when once in a humour to scold,
To a place where they certainly would not take cold.
--Now if there are those, and I've some in my eye,
Who'd esteem this a crime of no very deep dye,
Let them read on--they'll find their mistake by and bye.

Near or far, Few people there are
But have heard, read, or sung about Young Lochinvar,
How in Netherby Chapel, "at morning tide,"
The Priest and the Bridegroom stood waiting the Bride;
How they waited, "but ne'er A Bride was there."
Still I don't find, on reading the ballad with care,
The bereaved Mr. Graham proceeded to swear,
And yet to experience so serious a blight in
One's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting.
'Tis manifest then That Sir Alured Denne
Had far less excuse for such bad language, when
It was only the Priest not the Bride who was missing--
He had fill'd up the interval better with kissing.
And 'twas really surprising, And not very wise in
A Knight to go on so anathematising,
When the head and the front of the Clergyman's crime
Was but being a little behind as to time:--
Be that as it may, He swore so that day
At the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay,
That not a bystander who heard what he said,
But listen'd to all his expressions with dread,
And felt all his hair stand on end on his head;
Nay, many folks there Did not stick to declare
The phenomenon was not confined to the hair,
For the little stone Saint who sat perched o'er the door,
St. Romwold himself, as I told you before,
What will scarce be believed, Was plainly perceived
To shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved,
And look down with a frown So remarkably brown,
That all saw he'd now quite a different face on
From that he received at the hands of the mason;
Nay, many averr'd he half rose in his niche,
When Sir Alured, always in metaphor rich,
Call'd his priest an "old son of--" some animal--which,
Is not worth the inquiry--a hint's quite enough on
The subject--for more I refer you to Buffon.

It's supposed that the Knight Himself saw the sight,
And it's likely he did, as he easily might,
For 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack,
And, in nautical language, seem'd "taken aback."
In so much that when now The "prime cause of the row,"
Father John, in the chapel at last made his bow,
The Bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued,
None could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude,
Or made use of the language to which I allude;
Fair Edith herself, while the knot was a tying,
Her bridemaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing,
Some smiling, some blushing, half-laughing, half-crying,
Scarce made her responses in tones more complying
Than he who'd been raging and storming so recently,
All softness now, and behaving quite decently.
Many folks thought too the cold stony frown
Of the Saint up aloft from his niche looking down,
Brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown,
When, the rite being over, the fees were all paid,
And the party remounting, the whole cavalcade
Prepared to ride home with no little parade.

In a climate so very unsettled as ours
It's as well to be cautious and guard against showers,
For though, about One, You've a fine brilliant sun,
When your walk or your ride is but barely begun,
Yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the Two,
There is not in the whole sky one atom of blue,
But it "rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through
Ere you know where to turn, what to say, or to do;
For which reason I've bought, to protect myself well, a
Good stout _Taglioni_ and gingham umbrella.
But in Edward the First's days I very much fear,
Had a gay cavalier Thought fit to appear
In any such "toggery"--then 'twas term'd "gear"--
He'd have met with a highly significant sneer,
Or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear
On the features of every soul he came near;
There was no taking refuge too then, as with us,
On a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a _'bus_;
As they rode through the woods
In their wimples and hoods,
Their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain
Was, as Spenser describes it, to "pryck o'er the plaine,"
That is to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter
In search of some building or other for shelter.

Now it seems that the sky, Which had been of a dye
As bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye,
The season in fact being genial and dry,
Began to assume An appearance of gloom
From the moment the Knight began fidget and fume,
Which deepen'd and deepen'd till all the horizon
Grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on,
And soon, from the far west the elements' rumbling
Increased, and kept pace with Sir Alured's grumbling,
Bright flashes between, Blue, red, and green,
All livid and lurid began to be seen;
At length down it came--a whole deluge of rain,
A perfect Niagara, drenching the plain,
And up came the reek, And down came the shriek
Of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train;
And the tempest began so to roar and to pour,
That the Dennes and the Ingoldsbys, starting at score,
As they did from the porch of St. Romwold's church door,
Had scarce gain'd a mile, or a mere trifle more,
Ere the whole of the crew Were completely wet through.

They dash'd o'er the downs, and they dash'd through the vales,
They dash'd up the hills, and they dash'd down the dales,
As if elderly Nick was himself at their tails;
The Bridegroom in vain Attempts to restrain
The Bride's frighten'd palfrey by seizing the rein,
When a flash and a crash,
Which produced such a splash
That a Yankee had called it "an Almighty Smash,"
Came down so complete At his own courser's feet,
That the rider, though famous for keeping his seat,
From its kickings and plungings, now under now upper,
Slipp'd out of his demi-pique over the crupper,
And fell from the back of his terrified cob
On what bards less refined than myself term his "Nob."
(To obtain a _genteel_ rhyme's sometimes a tough job).--

Just so--for the nonce to enliven my song
With a classical simile cannot be wrong--
Just so--in such roads and in similar weather,
Tydides and Nestor were riding together,
When, so says old Homer, the King of the Sky,
The great "Cloud-compeller," his lightnings let fly,
And their horses both made such a desperate shy
At this freak of old Zeus, That at once they broke loose,
Reins, traces, bits, breechings were all of no use;
If the Pylian Sage, without any delay,
Had not whipp'd them sharp round and away from the fray,
They'd have certainly upset his _cabriolet_,
And there'd been the--a name I won't mention--to pay.

Well, the Knight in a moment recover'd his seat,
Mr. Widdicombe's mode of performing that feat
At Astley's could not be more neat or complete,
--It's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen
Of our own days, that this _our_ great Widdicombe, then
In the heyday of life, had afforded some ten
Or twelve lessons in riding to Alured Denne,--
It is certain the Knight Was so agile and light
That an instant sufficed him to set matters right,
Yet the Bride was by this time almost out of sight;
For her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace
Her descent from the "pure old Caucasian race,"
Sleek, slim, and bony, as Mr. Sidonia's
Fine "Arab Steed" Of the very same breed,
Which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly
--See "Coningsby" written by "B. Disraeli"--
That palfrey, I say, From this trifling delay
Had made what at sea's call'd "a great deal of way."
"More fleet than the roe-buck," and free as the wind,
She had left the good company rather behind;
They whipp'd and they spurr'd, and they after her prest,
Still Sir Alured's steed was "by long chalks" the best
Of the party, and very soon distanced the rest;
But long ere e'en he had the fugitive near'd,
She dash'd into the wood and at once disappear'd!
It's a "fashious" affair when you're out on a ride,
--Ev'n supposing you're _not_ in pursuit of a bride,
If you are it's more fashious, which can't be denied,--
And you come to a place where three cross-roads divide
Without any way-post, stuck up by the side
Of the road, to direct you and act as a guide,
With a road leading here, and a road leading there,
And a road leading no one exactly knows where.
When Sir Alured came In pursuit of the dame
To a fork of this kind,--a three-prong'd one--small blame
To his scholarship if in selecting his way
His respect for the Classics now led him astray;
But the rule, in a work I won't stop to describe, is
_In medio semper tutissimus ibis_,
So the Knight being forced of the three paths to enter one,
Dash'd, with these words on his lips, down the centre one.

Up and down hill, Up and down hill,
Through brake and o'er briar he gallops on still
Aye, banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill
At his courser because he had given him a "spill;"
Yet he did not gain ground On the palfrey, the sound,
On the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast
Grew fainter, and fainter,--and fainter,--and--ceased!
Sir Alured burst through the dingle at last,
To a sort of a clearing, and there--he stuck fast;
For his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on,
Stood fix'd as the Governor's nag in "Don Juan,"
Or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a
Few yards south-east of the door of the Opera,
Save that Alured's horse had not got such a big tail,
While Alured wanted the cock'd hat and pig-tail.

Before him is seen A diminutive Green
Scoop'd out from the covert--a thick leafy screen
Of wild foliage, trunks with broad branches between
Encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen,
For the weather at once appear'd clear and serene,
And the sky up above was a bright mazarine,
Just as though no such thing as a tempest had been,
In short it was one of those sweet little places
In Egypt and Araby known as "oases."
There, under the shade That was made by the glade,
The astonish'd Sir Alured sat and survey'd
A little low building of Bethersden stone,
With ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown,
A _Sacellum_, or cell, In which Chronicles tell
Saints and anchorites erst were accustom'd to dwell;
A little round arch, on which, deeply indented,
The zig-zaggy pattern by Saxons invented
Was cleverly chisell'd, and well represented,
Surmounted a door, Some five feet by four,
It might have been less or it might have been more,
In the primitive ages they made these things lower
Than we do in buildings that had but one floor.
And these Chronicles say When an anchorite gray
Wish'd to shut himself up and keep out of the way,
He was commonly wont in such low cells to stay,
And pray night and day on the _rez de chaussée_.

There, under the arch I've endeavoured to paint,
With no little surprise, And scarce trusting his eyes,
The Knight now saw standing that little Boy Saint!
The one whom before He'd seen over the door
Of the Priory shaking his head as he swore--
With mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on,
The very self-same--or at least his Eidolon!
With a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak
You'd expect, that small Saint now address'd him to speak:
In a bold, manly tone, he Began, while his stony
Cold lips breath'd an odour quite _Eau-de-Cologne-y_;
In fact, from his christening, according to rumour, he
Beat Mr. Brummell to sticks, in perfumery.[71]

"Sir Alured Denne!" Said the Saint, "be atten-
--tive! Your ancestors, all most respectable men,
Have for some generations been vot'ries of mine;
They have bought me mould candles, and bow'd at my shrine,
They have made my monks presents of ven'son and wine,
With a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine.
And, though you in this Have been rather remiss,
Still I owe you a turn for the sake of 'Lang Syne.'
And I now come to tell you, your cursing and swearing
Have reach'd to a pitch that is really past bearing.

'Twere a positive scandal In even a Vandal,
It ne'er should be done, save with bell, book, and candle:
And though I've now learn'd, as I've always suspected,
Your own education's been somewhat neglected;
Still, you're not such an uninformed pagan, I hope,
As not to know cursing belongs to the Pope!
And his Holiness feels, very properly, jealous
Of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows.
Now, take my advice, Saints never speak twice,
So take it at once, as I once for all give it;
Go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet,
But mind, and remember, if once you give way
To that shocking bad habit, I'm sorry to say,
I have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day,
As sure as you're born, on the very first trip
That you make--the first oath that proceeds from your lip,
I'll soon make you rue it! --I've said it--I'll do it!
'Forewarned is forearmed,' you shan't say but you knew it;
Whate'er you hold dearest or nearest your heart,
I'LL TAKE IT AWAY, if I come in a cart!
I will, on my honour! you know it's absurd
To suppose that a Saint ever forfeits his word
For a pitiful Knight, or to please any such man--
I've said it! I'll do't--if I don't, I'm a Dutchman!"--

He ceased--he was gone as he closed his harangue,
And some one inside shut the door with a bang!
Sparkling with dew, Each green herb anew
Its profusion of sweets round Sir Alured threw,
As pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew,
(For the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue,)
And the cud of reflection continued to chew
Till the gables of Bonnington Hall rose in view.
Little reck'd he what he smelt, what he saw,
Brilliance of scenery, Fragrance of greenery,
Fail'd in impressing his mental machinery;
Many an hour had elapsed, well I ween, ere he
Fairly was able distinction to draw
'Twixt the odour of garlic and _bouquet du Roi_.

Merrily, merrily sounds the horn,
And cheerily ring the bells;
For the race is run, The goal is won,
The little lost mutton is happily found,
The Lady of Bonnington's safe and sound
In the Hall where her new Lord dwells!
Hard had they ridden, that company gay,
After fair Edith, away and away:
This had slipp'd back o'er his courser's rump,
That had gone over his ears with a plump,
But the Lady herself had stuck on like a trump,
Till her panting steed Relax'd her speed,
And feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels
When he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels,
Stopp'd of herself, as it's very well known
Horses will do, when they're thoroughly blown,
And thus the whole group had foregathered again,
Just as the sunshine succeeded the rain.

Oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking
Doings indulged in by one and by all!
Gaiety seized on the most melancholic in
All the broad lands around Bonnington Hall.
All sorts of revelry, All sorts of devilry,
All play at "High Jinks" and keep up the ball.
Days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing
When one's so happy, how Time flies away;
Meanwhile the Bridegroom requires no admonishing
As to what pass'd on his own wedding day;
Never since then Had Sir Alured Denne
Let a word fall from his lip or his pen
That began with a D, or left off with an N!

Once, and once only, when put in a rage,
By a careless young rascal he'd hired as a Page,
All buttons and brass, Who in handling a glass
Of spiced hippocras, throws It all over his clothes,
And spoils his best pourpoint, and smartest trunk hose,
While stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he
'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety),
Then, and then only, came into his head
A very sad word that began with a Z,
But he check'd his complaint,
He remember'd the Saint,
In the nick--Lady Denne was beginning to faint--
That sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung,
Like Mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung
Half-way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue.

Many a year Of mirth and good cheer
Flew over their heads, to each other more dear
Every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer
As the rarest examples of love ever known,
Since the days of _Le Chivaler D'Arbie_ and _Joanne_,
Who in Bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone.