Chapter XXIV: Canto II (7)

Well--it happen'd at last, After certain years past,
That an embassy came to our court from afar--
From the Grand-duke of Muscovy--now call'd the Czar,
And the Spindleshank'd Monarch, determined to do
All the grace that he could to a Nobleman, who
Had sail'd all that way from a country which few
In our England had heard of, and nobody knew,
With a hat like a muff, and a beard like a Jew,
Our arsenals, buildings, and dock-yards to view,
And to say how desirous His Prince Wladimirus
Had long been with mutual regard to inspire us,
And how he regretted he was not much nigher us,
With other fine things, Such as Kings say to Kings
When each tries to humbug his dear Royal Brother, in
Hopes by such "gammon" to take one another in--
King Longshanks, I say, Being now on his way
Bound for France, where the rebels had kept him at bay
Was living in clover At this time at Dover
I' the castle there, waiting a tide to go over.

He had summon'd, I can't tell you how many men,
Knights, nobles, and squires to the wars of Guienne,
And among these of course was Sir Alured Denne,
Who, acting like most Of the knights in the host,
Whose residence was not too far from the coast,
Had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting,
Fond souls, till the very last moment of starting.
Of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights,
In their _Saracenettes_,[72] and their bright chain-mail tights,
All accustom'd to galas, grand doings, and sights,
A matter like this was at once put to rights;
'Twould have been a strange thing, If so polish'd a king,
With his board of Green Cloth, and Lord Steward's department,
Couldn't teach an Ambassador what the word "smart" meant.
A banquet was order'd at once for a score,
Or more, of the _corps_ that had just come on shore,
And the King, though he thought it "a bit of a bore,"
Ask'd all the _elite_ Of his _levée_ to meet
The illustrious Strangers and share in the treat;
For the Boyar himself, the Queen graciously made him her
Beau for the day, from respect to Duke Wladimir.
(Queer as this name may appear in the spelling,
You won't find it trouble you, Sound but the W
Like the first L in Llan, Lloyd, and Llewellyn!")

Fancy the fuss and the fidgetty looks
Of Robert de Burghersh, the constables, cooks;
For of course the _cuisine_ Of the King and the Queen
Was behind them at London, or Windsor, or Sheene,
Or wherever the Court ere it started had been,
And it's really no jest, When a troublesome guest
Looks in at a time when you're busy and prest,
Just going to fight, or to ride, or to rest,
And expects a good lunch when you've none ready drest.
The servants no doubt Were much put to the rout
By this very _extempore_ sort of set out,
But they wisely fell back upon Poor Richard's plan,
"When you can't what you would, you must do what you can!"
So they ransack'd the country, folds, pig-styes, and pens,
For the sheep and the porkers, the cocks and the hens;
'Twas said a Tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne's,
A fine tabby-gray, Disappear'd on that day,
And whatever became of him no one could say;
They brought all the food That ever they cou'd,
Fish, flesh, and fowl, with sea-coal and dry wood,
To his Majesty's _Dapifer_, Eudo (or Ude),
They lighted the town up, sat ringing the bells,
And borrow'd the waiters from all the hotels.
A bright thought, moreover, came into the head
Of _Dapifer_ Eudo, who'd some little dread,
As he said, for the thorough success of his spread.
So he said to himself, "What a thing it would be
Could I have here with me Some one two or three
Of their outlandish scullions from over the sea!
It's a hundred to one if the _Suite_ or their Chief
Understand our plum-puddings, and barons of beef;
But with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets
We'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!"
With this happy conceit for improving the Mess,
Pooh-poohing expense, he dispatch'd an express
In a waggon and four on the instant to Deal,
Who dash'd down the hill without locking the wheel,
And, by means which I guess but decline to reveal,
Seduced from the Downs, where at anchor their vessel rode,
Lumpoff Icywitz, serf to a former Count Nesselrode,
A cook of some fame, Who invented the same
Cold pudding that still bears the family name.
This accomplish'd, the _Chef's_ peace of mind was restor'd
And in due time a banquet was placed on the board
"In the very best style," which implies in a word
"All the dainties the season" (and king) "could afford."
There were snipes, there were rails,
There were woodcocks and quails,
There were peacocks served up in their pride (that is tails),
Fricandeau, fricassees, Ducks and green peas,
_Cotelettes à l'Indienne_, and chops _à la Soubise_
(Which last you may call "onion sauce" if you please),
There were barbecu'd pigs Stuff'd with raisins and figs,
_Omelettes_ and _haricots_, stews and _ragouts_,
And pork griskins, which Jews still refuse and abuse.
Then the wines,--round the circle how swiftly they went!
Canary, Sack, Malaga, Malvoisie, Tent;
Old Hock from the Rhine, wine remarkably fine,
Of the Charlemagne vintage of seven ninety-nine,--
Five cent'ries in bottle had made it divine!
The rich juice of Rousillon, Gascoygne, Bourdeaux,
Marasquin, Curaçoa, Kirchen Wasser, Noyeau,
And Gin which the company voted "No Go;"
The guests all hob-nobbing, And bowing and bobbing;
Some prefer white wine, while others more value red,
Few, a choice few, Of more orthodox _goût_,
Stick to "old crusted port," among whom was Sir Alured;
Never indeed at a banquet before
Had that gallant commander enjoy'd himself more.

Then came "sweets"--served in silver were tartlets and pies--in glass
Jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass,
Creams, and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool,
_Blancmange_, and quince-custards, and gooseberry fool.
And now from the good taste which reigns it's confest
In a gentleman's, that is an Englishman's, breast,
And makes him polite to a stranger and guest,
They soon play'd the deuce
With a large _Charlotte Russe_;
More than one of the party dispatched his plate twice
With "I'm really ashamed, but--another small slice!
Your dishes from Russia are really _so_ nice!"
Then the prime dish of all! "There was nothing so good in
The whole of the Feed" One and all were agreed,
"As the great Lumpoff Icywitz' Nesselrode pudding!"
Sir Alured Denne, who'd all day, to say sooth,
Like Iago, been "plagued with a sad raging tooth,"
Which had nevertheless interfered very little
With his--what for my rhyme I'm obliged to spell--vittle,
Requested a friend Who sat near him to send
Him a spoonful of what he heard all so commend,
And begg'd to take wine with him afterwards, grateful
Because for a spoonful he'd sent him a plateful.
Having emptied his glass--he ne'er balk'd it or spill'd it--
The gallant Knight open'd his mouth--and then fill'd it!

You must really excuse me--there's nothing could bribe
Me at all to go on and attempt to describe
The fearsome look then Of Sir Alured Denne!
--Astonishment, horror, distraction of mind,
Rage, misery, fear, and iced pudding--combined!
Lip, forehead, and cheek--how these mingle and meet
All colours, all hues, now advance, now retreat,
Now pale as a turnip, now crimson as beet!
How he grasps his arm-chair in attempting to rise,
See his veins how they swell! mark the roll of his eyes!
Now east and now west, now north and now south,
Till at once he contrives to eject from his mouth
That vile "spoonful"--what He has got he knows not,
He isn't quite sure if it's cold or it's hot;
At last he exclaims, as he starts from his seat,
"A SNOWBALL by ----!" what I decline to repeat,--
'Twas the name of a bad place, for mention unmeet.

Then oh what a volley!--a great many heard
What flow'd from his lips, and 'twere really absurd
To suppose that each man was not shock'd by each word;
A great many heard too, with mix'd fear and wonder,
The terrible crash of the terrible thunder,
That broke as if bursting the building asunder;
But very few heard, although every one might,
The short, half-stifled shriek from the chair on the right,
Where the Lady of Bonnington sat by her Knight;
And very few saw--some--the number was small,
In the large ogive window that lighted the hall,
A small stony Saint in a small stony pall,
With a small stony mitre, and small stony crosier,
And small stony toes that owed nought to the hosier,
Beckon stonily downward to _some one_ below,
As Merryman says, "for to come for to go!"
While every one smelt a delicious perfume
That seem'd to pervade every part of the room!

Fair Edith Denne, The _bonne et belle_ then,
Never again was beheld among men!
But there was the _fauteuil_ on which she was placed,
And there was the girdle that graced her small waist,
And there was her stomacher brilliant with gems,
And the mantle she wore, edged with lace at the hems,
Her rich brocade gown sat upright in its place,
And her wimple was there--but where--WHERE WAS HER FACE?
'Twas gone with her body--and nobody knows,
Nor could any one present so much as suppose
How that Lady contrived to slip out of her clothes!

But 'twas done--she was quite gone--the how and the where,
No mortal was ever yet found to declare;
Though inquiries were made, and some writers record
That Sir Alured offered a handsome reward.

* * * * *

King Edward went o'er to his wars in Guienne,
Taking with him his barons, his knights, and his men.
You may look through the whole
Of that King's muster-roll,
And you won't find the name of Sir Alured Denne;
But Chronicles tell that there formerly stood
A little old chapel in Bilsington wood;
The remains to this day, Archæologists say,
May be seen, and I'd go there and look if I could.
There long dwelt a hermit remarkably good,
Who lived all alone, And never was known
To use bed or bolster, except the cold stone;
But would groan and would moan in so piteous a tone,
A wild Irishman's heart had responded "Och hone!"
As the fashion with hermits of old was to keep skins
To wear with the wool on--most commonly sheep-skins-.
He, too, like the rest was accustom'd to do so;
His beard, as no barber came near him, too, grew so,
He bore some resemblance to Robinson Crusoe,
In Houndsditch, I'm told, you'll sometimes see a Jew so.

He lived on the roots, And the cob-nuts and fruits,
Which the kind-hearted rustics, who rarely are churls
In such matters, would send by their boys and their girls;
They'd not get him to speak, If they'd tried for a week,
But the colour would always mount up in his cheek,
And he'd look like a dragon if ever he heard
His young friends use a naughty expression or word.
How long he lived, or at what time he died,
'Twere hard, after so many years, to decide,
But there's one point on which all traditions agree.
That he _did_ die at last, leaving no legatee,
And his linen was marked with an A and a D.

Alas! for the glories of Bonnington Hall!
Alas, for its splendour! alas for its fall!
Long years have gone by Since the trav'ler might spy
Any decentish house in the parish at all.
For very soon after the awful event
I've related, 'twas said through all that part of Kent
That the maids of a morning, when putting the chairs
And the tables to rights, would oft pop unawares
In one of the parlours, or galleries, or stairs.

On a tall female figure, or find her, far horrider,
Slowly o' nights promenading the corridor;
But whatever the hour, or wherever the place,
_No one could ever get sight of her face!_
Nor could they perceive Any arm in her sleeve,
While her legs and her feet too, seem'd mere "make-believe,"
For she glided along with that shadow-like motion
Which gives one the notion
Of clouds on a zephyr, or ships on the ocean;
And though of her gown they could _hear_ the silk rustle,
They saw but that side on't _ornée_ with the bustle.
The servants, of course, though the house they were born in,
Soon "wanted to better themselves," and gave warning,
While even the new Knight grew tired of a guest
Who would not let himself or his family rest;
So he pack'd up his all, And made a bare wall
Of each well-furnished room in his ancestors' Hall,
Then left the old Mansion to stand or to fall,
Having previously barr'd up the windows and gates,
To avoid paying sesses and taxes and rates,
And settled on one of his other estates,
Where he built a new mansion, and called it Denne Hill,
And there his descendants reside, I think, still.

Poor Bonnington, empty, or left, at the most,
To the joint occupation of rooks and a Ghost,
Soon went to decay, And moulder'd away,
But whether it dropp'd down at last I can't say,
Or whether the jackdaws produced, by degrees, a
Spontaneous combustion like that one at Pisa
Some cent'ries ago, I'm sure I don't know,
But you can't find a vestige now ever so tiny,
"_Perierunt_," as some one says, "_etiam ruinæ_."

MORAL.

The first maxim a couple of lines may be said in,
If you _are_ in a passion, don't swear at a wedding!

Whenever you chance to be ask'd out to dine,
Be exceedingly cautious--don't take too much wine!
In your eating remember one principal point,
Whatever you do, have your eye on the joint!
Keep clear of side dishes, don't meddle with those
Which the servants in livery, or those in plain clothes,
Poke over your shoulders and under your nose;
Or, if you _must_ live on the fat of the land,
And feed on fine dishes you don't understand,
Buy a good book of cookery! I've a compact one,
First rate of the kind, just brought out by Miss Acton,
This will teach you their names, the ingredients they're made of,
And which to indulge in, and which be afraid of,
Or else, ten to one, between ice and cayenne,
You'll commit yourself some day, like Alured Denne.

"To persons about to be married," I'd say,
Don't exhibit ill-humour, at least on The Day!
And should there perchance be a trifling delay
On the part of officials, extend them your pardon,
And don't snub the parson, the clerk, or churchwarden!

To married men this--For the rest of your lives,
Think how your misconduct may act on your wives!
Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint,
Or what sometimes occurs--run away with a Saint!

* * * * *

A serious error, similar to that which forms the subject of the following legend, is said to have occurred in the case of one, or rather two gentlemen named Curina, who dwelt near Hippo in the days of St. Augustine. The matter was set right, and a friendly hint at the same time conveyed to the ill-used individual, that it would be advisable for him to apply to the above-mentioned Father, and be baptized with as little delay as possible. The story is quoted in "The Doctor," together with another of the same kind, which is given on no less authority than that of Gregory the Great.

FOOTNOTES:

[70] Honest John Capgrave, the veracious biographer of "English Saints," author, or rather compiler of the "Nova Legenda Angliæ," was chaplain to Humphrey, "the Good Duke" of Gloucester. A beautiful edition of his work was printed by Wynkyn de Worde.

[71] In eodem autem prato in quo baptizatus Sanctus Romualdus nunquam gratissimus odor deficit; neque ibi herbæ pallescunt, sed semper in viriditate permanentes magna nectaris suavitate redolent.--_Nov. Legend. Angl._

[72] This silk, of great repute among our ancestors, had been brought home, a few years before, by Edward, from the Holy Land.

THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.

A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.

You are all aware that On our throne there once sat
A very great King who'd an Angevin hat,
With a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it,
Named from this circumstance, Henry Plantagenet.

Pray don't suppose That I'm going to prose
O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes,
With the dagger and bowl, and all that sort of thing,
Not much to the credit of Miss, Queen, or King.

The tale may be true, But between me and you,
With the King's _escapade_ I'll have nothing to do;
But shall merely select, as a theme for my rhymes,
A fact, which occurr'd to some folks in his times.

If for health, or a "lark," You should ever embark
In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark,
The steam-vessel call'd the "Red Rover," the barge
Of an excellent officer, named Captain Large,

You may see, some half way 'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay
And Margate, the place where you're going to stay,
A village called Birchington, fam'd for its "Rolls,"
As the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for Soles.

Well,--there stood a fane In this Harry Broom's reign,
On the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main,
Renown'd for its sanctity all through the nation,
And orthodox friars of the Austin persuasion.

Among them there was one, Whom if once I begun
To describe as I ought I should never have done,
Father Richard of Birchington, so was the Friar
Yclept, whom the rest had elected their Prior.

He was tall and upright, About six feet in height,
His complexion was what you'd denominate light,
And the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown,
A little bald patch on the top of his crown.

His bright sparkling eye Was of hazel, and nigh
Rose a finely arch'd eyebrow of similar dye,
He'd a small, well-formed mouth with the _Cupidon_ lip
And an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip.

In doors and out He was very devout,
With his _Aves_ and _Paters_--and oh, such a knout!!
For his self-flagellations! the Monks used to say
He would wear out two penn'orth of whip-cord a day!

Then how his piety Shows in his diet, he
Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety,
Sand-eels or dabs; or his appetite mocks
With those small periwinkles that crawl on the rocks.

In brief, I don't stick To declare Father Dick--
So they call'd him, "for short"--was a "Regular Brick,"
A metaphor taken--I have not the page aright--
Out of an ethical work by the Stagyrite.

Now Nature, 'tis said, Is a comical jade,
And among the fantastical tricks she has play'd,
Was the making our good Father Richard a Brother,
As like him in form as one pea's like another;

He was tall and upright, About six feet in height,
His complexion was what you'd denominate light,
And, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown,
He'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown.

He'd a bright sparkling eye Of the hazel, hard by
Rose a finely-arch'd sourcil of similar dye;
He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a _Cupidon_ lip,
And a good Roman nose, rather red at the tip.

But here, it's pretended, The parallel ended;
In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended,
And people who spoke of the Prior with delight,
Shook their heads if you mention'd his brother, the Knight.

If you'd credit report, There was nothing but sport,
And High Jinks going on night and day at "the Court,"
Where Sir Robert, instead of devotion and charity,
Spent all his time in unseemly hilarity.

He drinks and he eats Of choice liquors and meats,
And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats,
Gets tipsy whenever he dines or he sups,
And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his cups.

No _Paters_, no _Aves_; An absolute slave he's
To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies;
While as to his beads--what a shame in a Knight!--
He really don't know the wrong end from the right!

So, though 'twas own'd then By nine people in ten,
That "Robert and Richard were two pretty men,"
Yet there the praise ceased, or, at least the good Priest
Was consider'd the "Beauty," Sir Robert the "Beast."

Indeed, I'm afraid More might have been laid
To the charge of the Knight than was openly said,
For then we'd no "Phiz's," no "H. B.'s," nor "Leeches,"
To call Roberts "Bobs," and illustrate their speeches.

'Twas whisper'd he'd rob, Nay murder! a job
Which would stamp him no "Brick," but a "Regular Snob,"
(An obsolete term, which, at this time of day,
We should probably render by _Mauvais Sujet_.)

Now if _here_ such affairs Get wind unawares,
They are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs,"
Where Old Nick has a register-office, they say,
With Commissioners quite of such matters _au fait_.

Of course, when he heard What his people averr'd
Of Sir Robert's proceedings in deed and in word,
He asked for the ledger, and hastened to look
At the leaves on the Creditor side of this book.

'Twas with more than surprise That he now ran his eyes
O'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies,
_Et cetera_, set down in Sir Robert's account,
He was quite "flabbergasted" to see the amount.

"Dear me! this is wrong! It's a great deal too strong,
I'd no notion this bill had been standing so long--
Send Levybub here!" and he filled up a writ
Of "_Ca sa_," duly prefaced with "Limbo to wit."

"Here Levybub, quick!" To his bailiff, said Nick,
"I'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,' 'Go a-head slick'
Up to Kent--not Kentuck--and at once fetch away
A snob there--I guess that's a _Mauvais Sujet_.

"One De Birchington, knight-- 'Tis not clear quite
What his t'other name is--they've not enter'd it right
Ralph, Robert, or Richard? they've not gone so far,
Our critturs have put it down merely as 'R.'

"But he's tall and upright, About six feet in height,
His complexion, I reckon, you'd calculate light,
And he's farther 'set down' having ringlets of brown,
With a little bald patch oh the top of his crown.

"Then his eye and his lip, Hook-nose, red at tip
Are marks your attention can't easily slip;
Take Slomanoch with you, he's got a good knack
Of soon grabbing his man, and be back in a crack!"

That same afternoon, Father Dick, who as soon
Would "knock in" or "cut chapel" as jump o'er the moon,
Was missing at vespers--at compline--all night!
And his monks were, of course, in a deuce of a fright.

Morning dawn'd--'twas broad day,
Still no Prior! the tray
With his muffins and eggs went untasted away;--
He came not to luncheon--all said, "it was rum of him!"
--None could conceive what on earth had become of him.

They examined his cell, They peep'd down the well;
They went up the tow'r, and looked into the bell,
They dragg'd the great fish-pond, the little one tried,
But found nothing at all, save some carp--which they fried.

"Dear me! Dear me! Why, where can he be?
He's fall'n over the cliff?--tumbled into the sea?"
"Stay--he talk'd," exclaimed one, "if I recollect right,
Of making a call on his brother, the Knight!"

He turns as he speaks, The "Court Lodge," he seeks,
Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes
But scarce half a mile on his way had he sped,
When he spied the good Prior in the paddock--stone dead!

Alas! 'twas too true! And I need not tell you
In the convent his news made a pretty to do;
Through all its wide precincts so roomy and spacious,
Nothing was heard but "Bless _me_!" and "Good Gracious!!"

They sent for the May'r And the Doctor, a pair
Of grave men, who began to discuss the affair,
When in bounced the Coroner, foaming with fury,
"Because," as he said, "'twas pooh! pooh! ing his jury."

Then commenced a dispute, And so hot they went to't,
That things seem'd to threaten a serious _émeute_,
When, just in the midst of the uproar and racket,
Who should walk in but St. Thomas à Becket.

Quoth his saintship, "How now?
Here's a fine coil, I trow!
I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row?
Mr. Wickliffe--or Wackliffe--whatever your name is--
And you, Mr. May'r, don't you know, Sirs, what shame is?

"Pray what's all this clatter
About?--what's the matter?"
Here a monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter,
Sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor,
"'Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick--he's no more!"

"How!--what?" says the saint,
"Yes he is--no he ain't[73]
He can't be deceased--pooh! it's merely a faint,
Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter,
'He _should_ have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'

"His time is not out; Some blunder, no doubt,
It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about--
I sha'n't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's
Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks."

When a crafty old hound Claps his nose to the ground,
Then throws it up boldly, and bays out, "I've found!"
And the Pack catch the note, I'd as soon think to check it,
As dream of bamboozling St. Thomas à Becket.

Once on the scent, To business he went,
"You Scoundrel, come here, Sir," ('twas Nick that he meant,)
"Bring your books here this instant--bestir yourself--do,
I've no time to waste on such fellows as you."

Every corner and nook In all Erebus shook,
As he struck on the pavement his pastoral crook,
All its tenements trembled from basement to roofs,
And their _nigger_ inhabitants shook in their hoofs.

Hanging his ears, Yet dissembling his fears,
Ledger in hand, straight "Auld Hornie" appears,
With that sort of half-sneaking, half-impudent look,
Bankrupts sport when cross-question'd by Cresswell or Cooke.

"So Sir-r-r! you are here," Said the Saint with a sneer,
"My summons, I trust, did not much interfere
With your morning engagements--I merely desire,
At your leisure, to know what you've done with my Prior?

"Now, none of your lies, Mr. Nick! I'd advise
You to tell me the truth without any disguise,
Or-r-r!" The Saint, while his rosy gills seem'd to grow rosier,
Here gave another great thump with his Crosier.

Like a small boy at Eton, Who's not quite a Crichton,
And don't know his task but expects to be beaten,
Nick stammer'd, scarce knowing what answer to make,
"Sir, I'm sadly afraid here has been a mistake.

"These things will occur, We are all apt to err,
The most cautious sometimes as you know, holy Sir;
For my own part--I'm sure I do all that I can--
But--the fact is--I fear--we have got the wrong man."

"Wrong man!" roar'd the Saint--
But the scene I can't paint,
The best colours I have are a vast deal too faint--
Nick afterwards own'd that he ne'er knew what fright meant,
Before he saw Saint under so much excitement.

"Wrong man! don't tell me-- Pooh!--fiddle-de-dee!
What's your right, Scamp, to _any_ man!--come, let me see;
I'll teach you, you thorough-paced rascal, to meddle
With church matters, come, Sirrah, out with your schedule!"

In support of his claim The Fiend turns to the name
Of "De Birchington" written in letters of flame,
Below which long items stand, column on column,
Enough to have eked out a decent-sized volume!

Sins of all sorts and shapes, From small practical japes,
Up to dicings, and drinkings, and murders, and rapes,
And then of such standing!--a merciless tick,
From an Oxford tobacconist,--let alone Nick.

The Saint in surprise Scarce believed his own eyes,
Still he knew he'd to deal with the father of lies,
And "So _this_!--you call _this_!" he exclaimed in a searching tone,
"This!!! the account of my friend Dick de Birchington!"

"Why," said Nick, with an air
Of great candour, "it's there
Lies the awkwardest part of this awkward affair--
I thought all was right--see the height tallies quite,
The complexion's what all must consider as light;
There's the nose, and the lip, and the ringlets of brown,
And the little bald patch on the top of the crown.

"And then the surname, So exactly the same--
I don't know--I can't tell how the accident came,
But _some_ how--I own it's a very sad job,
But--my bailiff grabb'd Dick when he _should_ have nabb'd Bob.

"I am vex'd beyond bounds
You should have such good grounds
For complaint; I would rather have given five pounds,
And any apology, Sir, you may choose,
I'll make with much pleasure, and put in the news."

"An apology!--pooh! Much good that will do!
An '_apology_' quoth a!--and that too from you!--
Before any proposal is made of the sort,
Bring back your stol'n goods, thief!--produce them in Court!"

In a moment, so small It seem'd no time at all,
Father Richard sat up on his what-do-ye-call--
_Sur son séant_--and, what was as wondrous as pleasing,
At once began coughing, and snifting, and sneezing.

While, strange to relate, The Knight, whom the fate
Of his brother had reach'd, and who'd knocked at the gate,
To make farther enquiries, had scarce made his bow
To the Saint, ere he vanish'd and no one knew how!

_Erupit_--_evasit_, As Tully would phrase it,
And none could have known where to find his _Hic jacet_--
That sentence which man his mortality teaches--
Sir Robert had disappeared, body and breeches!

"Heyday! Sir, heyday! What's the matter now--eh?"
Quoth A'Becket, observing the gen'ral dismay,
"How, again!--'pon my word this is really too bad!
It would drive _any_ Saint in the calendar mad.

"What, still at your tricking? You _will_ have a kicking?
I see you won't rest till you've got a good licking--
Your claim, friend?--what claim?--why you show'd me before
That your _old_ claim was cancell'd--you've crossed out the score!

"Is it that way you'd Jew one?
You've settled the true one?
Do you mean to tell me he has run up a new one?
Of the thousands you've cheated And scurvily treated,
Name one you've dared charge with a bill once receipted!
In the Bankruptcy Court should you dare to presume
To attempt it, they'd soon kick you out of the room,
--Ask Commissioner Fonblanque, or ask my Lord Brougham.

"And then to make under So barefaced a blunder,
Your caption!--why, what's the world come to, I wonder?
My patience! it's just like his impudence, drat him!
--Stand out of the way there, and let me get at him!"

The Saint raised his arm, But Old Nick, in alarm,
Dash'd up through the skylight, not doing much harm,
While, _quitte pour la peur_, the Knight, sound on the whole,
Down the chimney came tumbling as black as a coal!

Spare we to tell Of what after befell!
How the Saint lectured Robert de Birchington well,
Bade him alter his life, and held out as a warning
The narrow escape he'd made on't that morning.

Nor need we declare How, then and there,
The Jury and Coroner blew up the May'r
For his breach of decorum as one of the _Quorum_,
In not having Levybub brought up before 'em.

Nor will you require Me to state how the Prior
Could never thenceforth bear the sight of a fire,
Nor ever was heard to express a desire
In cold weather to see the thermometer higher.

Nor shall I relate The subsequent fate
Of St. Thomas à Becket, whose reverend pate
Fitzurse and De Morville, and Brito and Tracy
Shaved off, as his crown had been merely a jasey.[74]

Suffice it to say, From that notable day
The "Twin Birchington Brothers" together grew gray:
In the same holy convent continued to dwell,
Same food and same fastings, same habit, same cell.

No more the Knight rattles In broils and in battles,
But sells, by De Robins, his goods and his chattels,
And counting all wealth a mere Will-o'-the-wisp,
Disposes of Quekes to Sir Nicholas Crispe.

One spot alone Of all he had known
Of his spacious domain he retain'd as his own,
In a neighbouring parish, whose name, I may say,
Scarce any two people pronounce the same way.

Re-_cul_-ver some style it, While others revile it
As bad, and say _Re_-culver--'tisn't worth while, it
Would seem, to dispute, when we know the result immat-
erial--I accent, myself, the penultimate.

Sages, with brains Full of "Saxon remains,"
May call me a booby, perhaps, for my pains,
Still I hold, at the hazard of being thought dull by 'em,
Fast by the quantity mark'd for _Regulbium_.

Call't as you will, The Traveller still,
In the voyage that we talk'd about, marks on the hill
Overhanging the sea, the "twin towers" raised then
By "Robert and Richard, those two pretty men."

Both tall and upright, And just equal in height;
The Trinity House talked of painting them white,
And the thing was much spoken of some time ago,
When the Duke, I believe--but I really don't know.

Well--there the "Twins" stand On the verge of the land,
To warn mariners off from the Columbine sand,
And many a poor man have Robert and Dick
By their vow caused to 'scape, like themselves, from Old Nick.

So, whether you're sailors Or Tooley-street Tailors,
Broke loose from your masters, those sternest of jailers,
And, bent upon pleasure, are taking your trip
In a craft which you fondly conceive is a ship,
When you've passed by the Nore,
And you hear the winds roar
In a manner you scarce could have fancied before,
When the cordage and tackling
Are flapping and crackling,
And the boy with the bell Thinks it useless to tell
You that "dinner's on table," because you're unwell;

When above you all's "scud," And below you the flood
Looks a horrible mixture of soap-suds and mud,
When the timbers are straining,
And folks are complaining,
The dead-lights are letting the spray and the rain in,
When the helm's-man looks blue, And Captain Large too,
And you really don't know what on earth you shall do.

In this hubbub and row, Think where you'd be now
Except for the Birchington boys and their vow!
And while o'er the wide wave you feel the craft pitch hard,
~Praie for ye sowles of Robertte and Rychard~.

MORAL.

It's a subject of serious complaint in some houses,
With young married men who have elderly spouses,
That persons are seen in their figures and faces,
With very queer people in very queer places,
_So_ like them that one for the other's oft taken,
And conjugal confidence thereby much shaken:
Explanations too often are thought mere pretences,
And Richard gets scolded for Robert's offences.

In a matter so nice, If I'm ask'd my advice,
I say copy King Henry to obviate that,
And stick something remarkable up in your hat!

Next, observe, in this world where we've so many cheats,
How useful it is to preserve your receipts!
If you deal with a person whose truth you don't doubt,
Be particular, still, that your bill is cross'd out;
But, with any inducement to think him a scamp,
Have a formal receipt on a regular stamp!

Let every gay gallant my story who notes,
Take warning, and not go on "sowing wild oats!"
Nor depend that some friend Will always attend,
And by "making all right" bring him off in the end;
He may be mistaken, so let him beware,
St. Thomas à Beckets are now rather rare.

Last of all, may'rs and magistrates, never be rude
To juries! they are people who _won't_ be pooh-pooh'd!
Especially Sandwich ones--no one can say
But himself may come under their clutches one day;
They then may pay off In kind any scoff,
And, turning their late verdict quite "_wisey wersey_"
"_Acquit_ you," and _not_ "recommend you to mercy."[75]

FOOTNOTES:

[73] _Cantise_ for "is not;" St. Thomas, it seems, had lived long enough in the country to pick up a few of its provincialisms.

[74] Nec satis fuit eis sanguine sacerdotis et nece ecclesiam prophanare, nisi, coronâ capitis amputatâ, funestis gladiis jam defuncti ejicerent cerebrum.--_Matt, Paris._

[75] At a Quarter Sessions held at Sandwich, (some six miles from Birchington,) on Tuesday the 8th of April last, before W. F. Boteler, Esq., the recorder, Thomas Jones, mariner, aged 17, was tried for stealing a jacket, value ten shillings. The jury, after a patient hearing, found him "not guilty," and "recommended him to mercy."--See the whole case reported in the "Kentish Observer," April 10, 1845.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

A DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.

"Hail, wedded love! mysterious tie!"
_Thomson--or Somebody_.

The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
And Sir Thomas, her Lord, was stout of limb,
But his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,
And he wore green "specs," with a tortoiseshell rim,
And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,
And she was uncommonly fond of him,--
And they were a loving pair!--
And the name and the fame Of the Knight and his Dame
Were ev'rywhere hail'd with the loudest acclaim;
And wherever they went, or wherever they came,
Far and wide, The people cried,
Huzza! for the Lord of this noble domain,--
Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!--once again!--
Encore!--Encore!-- One cheer more!--
--All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain
To Sir Thomas the Good, and the Fair Lady Jane!!

Now Sir Thomas the Good, Be it well understood,
Was a man of a very contemplative mood,--
He would pore by the hour, O'er a weed, or a flower,
Or the slugs that come crawling out after a shower;
Black-beetles, and Bumble-bees,--Blue-bottle flies,
And Moths were of no small account in his eyes;
An "Industrious Flea" he'd by no means despise,
While an "Old Daddy-long-legs," whose "long legs" and thighs
Pass'd the common in shape, or in colour, or size,
He was wont to consider an absolute prize.
Nay, a hornet or wasp he could scarce "keep his paws off"--he
Gave up, in short, Both business and sport,
And abandon'd himself, _tout entier_, to Philosophy.

Now, as Lady Jane was tall and slim,
And Lady Jane was fair,
And a good many years the junior of him,--
And as he, All agree,
Look'd less like her _Mari_,
As he walk'd by her side, than her _Père_,[76]
There are some might be found entertaining a notion
That such an entire and exclusive devotion
To that part of science, folks style Entomology,
Was a positive shame, And, to such a fair Dame,
Really demanded some sort of apology;
--No doubt, it _would_ vex One half of the sex
To see their own husband, in horrid green "specs,"
Instead of enjoying a sociable chat,
Still poking his nose into this and to that,
At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat,
Or great ugly things, All legs and wings,
With nasty long tails arm'd with nasty longs stings;
And they'd join such a log of a spouse to condemn,
--One eternally thinking, And blinking, and winking
At grubs,--when he ought to be winking at them.--
But no!--oh no! 'Twas by no means so
With the Lady Jane Ingoldsby--she, far discreeter,
And, having a temper more even and sweeter,
Would never object to _Her_ spouse, in respect to
His poking and peeping After "things creeping;"
Much less be still keeping lamenting, and weeping,
Or scolding at what she perceived him so deep in.

_Tout au contraire_, No lady so fair
Was e'er known to wear more contented an air;
And,--let who would call,--every day she was there,
Propounding receipts for some delicate fare,
Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple, or pear,
Or distilling strong waters,--or potting a hare,--
Or counting her spoons and her crockery-ware;--
Or else, her tambour-frame before her, with care
Embroidering a stool or a back for a chair,
With needle-work roses, most cunning and rare,
Enough to make less-gifted visitors stare,
And declare, where'er They had been, that, "they ne'er
In their lives had seen aught that at all could compare
With dear Lady Jane's housewifery--that they would swear."

Nay more; don't suppose With such doings as those
This account of her merits must come to a close;
No;--examine her conduct more closely, you'll find
She by no means neglected improving her mind;
For there, all the while, with air quite bewitching,
She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching,
Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen,
Close by her side, Sat her kinsman, MacBride,
Her cousin, fourteen-times removed,--as you'll see
If you look at the Ingoldsby family tree,
In "Burke's Commoners," vol. xx. page 53.
All the papers I've read agree, Too, with the pedigree,
Where, among the collateral branches, appears
"Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusileers;"
And I doubt if you'd find in the whole of his clan
A more highly-intelligent, worthy young man;--
And there he'd be sitting, While she was a-knitting,
Or hemming, or stitching, or darning and fitting,
Or putting "a gore," or a "gusset," or "bit" in,
Reading aloud, with a very grave look,
Some very "wise saw" from some very good book,--
Some such pious divine as St. Thomas Aquinas:
Or, equally charming, The works of Bellarmine;
Or else he unravels The "voyages and travels"
Of Hackluytz--(how sadly these Dutch names _do_ sully verse!)--
Purchas's, Hawksworth's, or Lemuel Gulliver's,--
Not to name others, 'mongst whom there are few so
Admired as John Bunyan, and Robinson Crusoe.--
No matter who came, It was always the same,
The Captain was reading aloud to the Dame,
Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf,
They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.

Well,--it happened one day, --I really can't say
The particular month;--but I _think_ 'twas in May,--
'Twas, I _know_, in the Spring-time,--when "Nature looks gay,"
As the Poet observes,--and on tree-top and spray
The dear little dickey-birds carol away;
When the grass is so green, and the sun is so bright,
And all things are teeming with life and with light,--
That the whole of the house was thrown into affright,
For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight!

It seems he had taken A light breakfast--bacon,
An egg--with a little broiled haddock--at most
A round and a half of some hot butter'd toast,
With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast.
And then--let me see!-- He had two--perhaps three
Cups (with sugar and cream) of strong Gunpowder tea,
With a spoonful in each of some choice _eau de vie_,
--Which with nine out of ten would perhaps disagree.--
--In fact, I and my son Mix "black" with our "Hyson,"
Neither having the nerves of a bull, or a bison,
And both hating brandy like what some call "pison,"
No matter for that-- He had call'd for his hat,
With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat,
And his "specs" with the tortoiseshell rim, and his cane
With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain
His steps in his walks, and to poke in the shrubs
And the grass, when unearthing his worms and his grubs--
Thus arm'd, he set out on a ramble--alack!
He _set out_, poor dear Soul!--but he never came back!

"First dinner-bell" rang Out its euphonous clang
At five--folks keptearly hours then--and the "Last"
Ding-dong'd, as it ever was wont, at half-past,
While Betsey, and Sally, And Thompson, the _Valet_,
And every one else was beginning to bless himself,
Wondering the Knight had not come in to dress himself.--
--Quoth Betsey, "Dear me! why, the fish will be cold!"--
Quoth Sally, "Good gracious! how 'Missis' _will_ scold!"--
Thompson, the _Valet_, Look'd gravely at Sally,
As who should say "Truth must not always be told!"
Then, expressing a fear lest the Knight might take cold,
Thus exposed to the dews,
Lambs'-wool stockings, and shoes,
Of each a fresh pair, He put down to air,
And hung a clean shirt to the fire on a chair.--

Still the Master was absent--the Cook came and said, "he
Much fear'd, as the dinner had been so long ready,
The roast and the boil'd Would be all of it spoil'd,
And the puddings, her Ladyship thought such a treat,
He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat!"
This closed the debate-- "'Twould be folly to wait,"
Said the Lady. "Dish up!--Let the meal be served straight;
And let two or three slices be put on a plate,
And keep hot for Sir Thomas.--He's lost, sure as fate!
And, a hundred to one, won't be home till it's late!"
--Captain Dugald MacBride then proceeded to face
The Lady at table,--stood up, and said grace,--
Then set himself down in Sir Thomas's place.

Wearily, wearily, all that night,
That live-long night, did the hours go by;
And the Lady Jane, In grief and in pain,
She sat herself down to cry!--
And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side,
Though I really can't say that he actually cried,
At least had a tear in his eye!--
As much as can well be expected, perhaps,
From very "young fellows," for very "old chaps;"
And if he had said What he'd got in his head,
'Twould have been, "Poor old Buffer! he's certainly dead!"

The morning dawn'd,--and the next,--and the next
And all in the mansion were still perplex'd;
No watch-dog "bay'd a welcome home," as
A watch-dog should, to the "Good Sir Thomas;"
No knocker fell His approach to tell,
Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell--
The Hall was silent as Hermit's cell.

Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree,
And the meads smiled green as green may be,
And the dear little dickey-birds caroll'd with glee,
And the lambs in the park skipp'd merry and free--
--Without, all was joy and harmony!
"And thus 'twill be,--nor long the day,--
Ere we, like him, shall pass away!
Yon Sun, that now _our_ bosoms warms,
Shall shine,--but shine on other forms;--
Yon Grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers
Us now, shall sound on other ears,--
The joyous Lamb, as now, shall play,
But other eyes its sports survey,--
The Stream we loved shall roll as fair,
The flowery sweets, the trim Parterre
Shall scent, as now, the ambient air,--
The Tree, whose bending branches bear
The One loved name--shall yet be there;--
But where the hand that carved it?--Where?"--

These were hinted to me as The very ideas
Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane,
Her thoughts having taken a sombre-ish train,
As she walk'd on the esplanade, to and again,
With Captain MacBride Of course, at her side,
Who could not look quite so forlorn,--though he tried,
--An "idea," in fact, had got into _his_ head,
That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead,
It might be no bad "spec." to be there in his stead,
And, by simply contriving, in due time, to wed
A Lady who was young and fair,
A Lady slim and tall,
To set himself down in comfort there
The Lord of Tapton[77] Hall.--

Thinks he, "We have sent Half over Kent,
And nobody knows how much money's been spent,
Yet no one's been found to say which way he went!--

The groom, who's been over To Folkestone and Dover,
Can't get any tidings at all of the rover!
--Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried
Every plan we could hit on--the whole country-side,
Upon all its dead walls, with placards we've supplied,--
And we've sent out the Crier, and had him well cried--
'MISSING!! Stolen, or stray'd, Lost, or mislaid,
A GENTLEMAN;--middle-aged, sober, and staid;--
Stoops slightly;--and when he left home was array'd
In a sad-coloured suit, somewhat dingy and fray'd;--
Had spectacles on with a tortoiseshell rim,
And a hat rather low-crowned, and broad in the brim.--
Whoe'er Shall bear, Or shall send him with care,
(Right side uppermost) home;--or shall give notice where
The said middle-aged GENTLEMAN is; or shall state
Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate,
To the man at the turnpike, called TAPPINGTON GATE,
Shall receive a REWARD of FIVE POUNDS for his trouble,--
([Fist] N.B.--If defunct the REWARD will be double!! [Fist])'

"Had he been above ground He _must_ have been found.
No; doubtless he's shot,--or he's hang'd,--or he's drown'd!--
Then his Widow--ay! ay!-- But, what will folk say!--
To address her at once--at so early a day!
Well--what then?--who cares?--let 'em say what they may--
A fig for their nonsense and chatter!--suffice it, her
Charms will excuse one for casting sheep's eyes at her!"

When a man has decided As Captain MacBride did,
And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he
Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery.
He began on the instant, and vow'd that "her eyes
Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies,--
That her lips were like roses--her cheeks were like lilies--
Her breath had the odour of daffy-down-dillies!"--
With a thousand more compliments equally true,
And expressed in similitudes equally new!
--Then his left arm he placed
Round her jimp, taper waist--
--Ere she'd fix'd to repulse, or return, his embrace,
Up came running a man, at a deuce of a pace,
With that very peculiar expression of face
Which always betokens dismay or disaster,
Crying out,--'twas the Gardener,--"Oh, Ma'am! we've found Master!"--
--"Where? where?" scream'd the lady; and Echo scream'd--"Where?"--
--The man couldn't say "There!" He had no breath to spare,
But, gasping for air, he could only respond,
By pointing--he pointed, alas!--TO THE POND!!

--'Twas e'en so--poor dear Knight!--with his "specs" and his hat
He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that;
When, close to the side Of the bank, he espied
An "uncommon fine" Tadpole, remarkably fat!
He stooped;--and he thought her
His own;--he had caught her!
Got hold of her tail,--and to land almost brought her,
When--he plump'd head and heels into fifteen feet water!

The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
Alas, for Sir Thomas!--she grieved for him,
As she saw two serving-men, sturdy of limb,
His body between them bear.
She sobb'd, and she sigh'd; she lamented, and cried,
For of sorrow brimful was her cup;
She swoon'd, and I think she'd have fall'n down and died,
If Captain MacBride Had not been by her side,
With the Gardener; they both their assistance supplied,
And managed to hold her up.--
But, when she "comes to," Oh! 'tis shocking to view
The sight which the corpse reveals!
Sir Thomas's body, It look'd so odd--he
Was half eaten up by the eels!
His waistcoat and hose, and the rest of his clothes
Were all gnawed through and through;
And out of each shoe An eel they drew;
And from each of his pockets they pull'd out two!
And the Gardener himself had secreted a few,
As well we may suppose;
For, when he came running to give the alarm,
He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.

Good Father John[78] Was summon'd anon;
Holy water was sprinkled, And little bells tinkled,
And tapers were lighted, And incense ignited,
And masses were sung, and masses were said,
All day, for the quiet repose of the dead,
And all night no one thought about going to bed.

But Lady Jane was tall and slim,
And Lady Jane was fair,--

And, ere morning came, that winsome dame
Had made up her mind---or, what's much the same,
Had _thought about_--once more "changing her name,"
And she said, with a pensive air,
To Thompson, the valet, while taking away,
When supper was over, the cloth and the tray,--
"Eels a many I've ate; but any
So good ne'er tasted before!--
They're a fish, too, of which I'm remarkably fond.--
Go--pop Sir Thomas again in the Pond--
Poor dear!--HE'LL CATCH US SOME MORE!!"

MORAL.

All middle-aged Gentlemen let me advise,
If you're married, and have not got very good eyes,
Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies!--
If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoiseshell rim,
And don't go near the water,--unless you can swim!

Married Ladies, especially such as are fair,
Tall, and slim, I would next recommend to beware
How, on losing _one_ spouse, they give way to despair;
But let them reflect, "There are fish, and no doubt on't--
As good _in_ the river as ever came _out_ on't!"

Should they light on a spouse who is given to roaming
In solitude--_raison de plus_, in the "gloaming,"--
Let them have a fix'd time for said spouse to come home in!
And if, when "last dinner-bell"'s rung, he is late,
To insure better manners in future--Don't wait!--

If of husband or children they chance to be fond,
Have a stout iron-wire fence put all round the pond!

One more piece of advice, and I close my appeals--
That is--if you chance to be partial to eels,
Then--_Crede experto_--trust one who has tried--
Have them spitch-cock'd,--or stew'd--they're too oily when fried!
FOOTNOTES:

[76]
My friend, Mr. Hood,
In his comical mood,
Would have probably styled the good Knight and his Lady--
Him--"Stern-old and Hopkins," and her "Tête and Braidy."