Chapter VIII: Preface: To the Second Edition (7)

The Compline hour is past and gone,
Evening service is over and done;
The monks repair To their frugal fare,
A snug little supper of something light
And digestible, ere they retire for the night.
For, in Saxon times, in respect to their cheer,
St. Austin's Rule was by no means severe,
But allowed, from the Beverley Roll 'twould appear,
Bread and cheese, and spring onions, and sound table-beer,
And even green peas, when they were not too dear;
Not like the rule of La Trappe, whose chief merit is
Said to consist in its greater austerities;
And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws,
Ne'er are suffer'd to speak, Think only in Greek,
And subsist, as the Bears do, by sucking their paws.
Astonish'd I am The gay Baron Geramb,
With his head sav'ring more of the Lion than Lamb,
Could e'er be persuaded to join such a set--I
Extend the remark to Signor Ambrogetti.--
For a monk of La Trappe is as thin as a rat,
While an Austin Friar was jolly and fat;
Though, of course, the fare to which I allude,
With as good table-beer as ever was brew'd,
Was all "caviare to the multitude,"
Extending alone to the clergy, together in
Hall assembled,--and not to Lay-brethren.
St. Dunstan himself sits there at his post,
On what they say is Called a Dais,
O'erlooking the whole of his clerical host,
And eating poach'd eggs with spinach and toast;
Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair,
But where is the sixth?--Where's Peter!--Ay, WHERE?

'Tis an evening in June, And a little half moon,
A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on,
Gleaming and beaming, And dancing the stream in,
Has made her appearance above the horizon;
Just such a half moon as you see, in a play,
On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey,
Or the fair Turk who weds with the "Noble Lord Bateman;"
--_Vide_ plate in George Cruickshank's memoirs of that great man.

She shines on a turret remote and lone,
A turret with ivy and moss overgrown,
And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone;
Such a tower as a poet of no mean _calibre_
I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber,
Assigns to oblivion[10]--a den for a She bear;
Within it are found, Strew'd above and around,
On the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground,
All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools,
To name which, and their uses, would puzzle the Schools,
And make very wise people look very like fools;
Pincers and hooks, And black-letter books,
All sorts of pokers, and all sorts of tongs,
And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs
To Goldsmith's work, chemistry, alchymy,--all,
In short that a Sage, In that erudite age,
Could require, was at hand, or at least within call.
In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick!--and there
A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottom'd chair!

Abracadabra, that fearful word,
And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard,
Are utter'd.--'Tis done! Peter, full of his fun,
Cries, "Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun!
Bring ale!--bring a flagon--a hogshead--a tun!
'Tis the same thing to you; I have nothing to do;
And, 'fore George, I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all's blue!"

No doubt you've remark'd how uncommonly quick
A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick,
Brings it back to his master, and gives it him--Well,
So potent the spell,
The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel,
So ran off like that puppy;--some cellar was near,
For in less than ten seconds 'twas back with the beer!
Peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck
Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck,
The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck;
Continues to run At the rate it begun,
And, _au pied de lettre_, next brings in a tun!
A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another,
Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother;
Who, had he possess'd fifty pitchers or stoups,
They all had been too few; for, arranging in groups
The barrels, the Broomstick next _started the hoops_;
The ale deluged the floor, But, still, through the door,
Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more.
E'en Macbeth to Macduff _Would_ have cried "Hold! enough!"
If half as well drench'd with such "perilous stuff,"
And, Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit,
Cried lustily, "Stop!--That will do, Broomstick!--_Sufficit!_"

But ah, well-a-day! The Devil, they say,
'Tis easier at all times to raise than to lay.
Again and again Peter roar'd out in vain
His Abracadabra, and t'other words twain:--
As well might one try A pack in full cry
To check, and call off from their headlong career,
By bawling out, "Yoicks!" with one's hand at one's ear.
The longer he roar'd, and the louder and quicker,
The faster the Broomstick was bringing in liquor.

The poor Lay-brother knew Not on earth what to do--
He caught hold of the Broomstick and snapt it in two.--
Worse and worse!--Like a dart Each part made a start,
And he found he'd been adding more fuel to fire,
For _both_ now came loaded with Meux's entire;
Combe's, Delafield's, Hanbury's, Truman's--no stopping--
Goding's, Charenton's, Whitbread's continued to drop in,
With Hodson's pale ale, from the Sun Brewhouse, Wapping.
The firms differ'd then, but I can't put a tax on
My memory to say what their names were in Saxon.
To be sure the best beer Of all did not appear;
For I've said 'twas in June, and so late in the year
The "Trinity Audit Ale" is not come-at-able,
--As I've found to my great grief when dining at that table.

Now extremely alarm'd, Peter scream'd without ceasing,
For a flood of brown-stout he was up to his knees in,
Which, thanks to the Broomstick, continued increasing;
He fear'd he'd be drown'd, And he yell'd till the sound
Of his voice, wing'd by terror, at last reach'd the ear
Of St. Dunstan himself, who had finish'd _his_ beer,
And had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes,
And was just stepping into his bed for a snooze.

His Holiness paused when he heard such a clatter;
He could not conceive what on earth was the matter.
Slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum,
He issued forthwith from his _Sanctum sanctorum_.
And calling a few of the Lay-brothers near him,
Who were not yet in bed, and who happen'd to hear him,
At once led the way, Without further delay,
To the tower where he'd been in the course of the day.
Poor Peter!--alas!--though St. Dunstan was quick,
There were two there before him--Grim Death, and Old Nick!--
When they open'd the door out the malt-liquor flow'd,
Just as when the great Vat burst in Tot'n'am Court Road;
The Lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks
In an instant, and swimming in strong double X;
While Peter, who, spite of himself now had drank hard,
After floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard,
To the bottom had sunk, And was spied by a monk,
Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drown'd and half drunk.

In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, "_Vade retro_
_Strongbeerum!--discede a Lay-fratre Petro!_"--
Queer Latin, you'll say, That præfix of "_Lay_,"
And _Strongbeerum_!--I own they'd have call'd me a blockhead if
At school I had ventured to use such a Vocative;
'Tis a barbarous word, and to me it's a query
If you'll find it in Patrick, Morell, or Moreri;
But, the fact is, the Saint was uncommonly flurried,
And apt to be loose in his Latin when hurried;
The Brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter,
Quite as well as if talk'd to, in Latin much better,
By a grave Cambridge Johnian, Or graver Oxonian,
Whose language, we all know, is quite Ciceronian.
It retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry;
But, in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply,
And other means used by the faculty try.
When once a man's dead There's no more to be said;
Peter's "Beer with an _e_" was his "Bier with an _i_!!"

Moral.

By way of a moral, permit me to pop in
The following maxims:--Beware of eaves-dropping!--
Don't make use of language that isn't well scann'd!--
Don't meddle with matters you don't understand!--
Above all, what I'd wish to impress on both sexes
Is,--Keep clear of Broomsticks, Old Nick, and three XXXs.

L'Envoye.

In Goldsmith's Hall there's a handsome glass-case,
And in it a stone figure, found on the place,
When, thinking the old Hall no longer a pleasant one,
They pull'd it all down, and erected the present one.
If you look, you'll perceive that this stone figure twists
A thing like a broomstick in one of its fists.
It's so injured by time, you can't make out a feature;
But it is not St. Dunstan,--so doubtless it's Peter.

* * * * *

Gengulphus, or, as he is usually styled in this country, "Jingo," was perhaps more in the mouths of the "general" than any other Saint, on occasions of adjuration (see note, page 145). Mr. Simpkinson from Bath had kindly transmitted me a portion of a primitive ballad, which has escaped the researches of Ritson and Ellis, but is yet replete with beauties of no common order. I am happy to say that, since these Legends first appeared, I have recovered the whole of it.--_Vide infra._

"A Franklyn's dogge leped over a style,
And hys name was littel Byngo.
B wyth a Y--Y wyth an N,--
N wyth a G--G wyth an O,--
They call'd hym littel Byngo!

Thys Franklyn, Syrs, he brewed goode ayle,
And he called it Rare goode Styngo!
S, T, Y, N, G, O!
He call'd it Rare goode Styngo!

Nowe is notte thys a prettie song?
I thinke it is bye Jyngo!
J wythe a Y--N, G, O--
I sweare yt is by Jyngo!"

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[9] St. Jingo, or Gengo (Gengulphus), sometimes styled "The Living Jingo," from the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by his severed members. See his Legend, as recorded hereafter in the present volume.

[10]

And cold oblivion, midst the ruin laid,
Folds her dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
PALESTINE.

A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.

"Non multò post, Gengulphus, in domo suâ dormiens, occisus est à quodam clerico qui cum uxore suâ adulterare solebat. Cujus corpus dum, in fereto, in sepulturam portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati sunt."

* * * * *

"Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancillâ sua, scilicet dominum suum, quam martyrem sanctum, miracula facere, irridens illa, et subsurrans, ait, 'Ita Gengulphus miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum cantat,'" &c. &c. WOLFII MEMORAB.

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon,
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon

Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laugh'd, and they ate and they drank of the best,
And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people called _Ennui_.

* * * * *

Now the festive board with viands is stored,
Savoury dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, and a barbecued pig,
And oxtail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail--
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

"You must be pretty deep to catch weazels asleep,"
Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares;"
A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd!
She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast,
In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard.

Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing,
A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;[11]
She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad,
And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid,
And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;
On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
And she mixes a stiff glass of "Cold Without."

Then again she began at the "poor dear" man;
She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat,
And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.

"Nor night nor day since he'd been away,
Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared."
She "never could eat one morsel of meat,
For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."

She "really did think she had not slept a wink
Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long;"
He here shook his head,--right little he said,
But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."

Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles,
Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,
His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy,
Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,
And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
And his night-cap into his mouth they cram;
And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,
Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.

* * * * *

And now they tried the deed to hide;
For a little bird whisper'd, "Perchance you may swing;
Here's a corpse in the case with a sad swell'd face,
And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"

So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife,
And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea;
With the edges and points they sever'd the joints
At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.

Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him
So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists,
With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,"
As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

When they'd cut off his head, entertaining a dread
Lest folks should remember Gengulphus's face,
They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.

But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd,
And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,
With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.

They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack,
Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,
The Clerk bearing arms, legs and all on his back,
As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.

But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
And that in a manner the least expected!
Who could surmise a man ever could rise
Who'd been thus carbonado'd, cut up, and dissected?

No doubt 'twould surprise the pupils at Guy's;
I am no unbeliever--no man can say that o' me--
But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.

You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
Or a Mussulman making his heathen _salaam_, or
A Jew or a Turk, but it's other guess work
When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.

* * * * *

By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
Sends his cards round the neighbourhood next day, and urges his
Wish to receive a snug party to dine,
Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.

At a quarter past five they are all alive,
At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in;
And to every guest his card had express'd
"Half-past" as the hour for "a greasy chin."

Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
With the choicest Rhine wines in his Highness's stock;
When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
Requested some water to mix with his Hock.

The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said
In mild accents, "Do help us out, that's good girl!"

Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head
In her bucket;--with fright she was ready to drop:--
Conceive, if you can, how she roar'd and she ran,
With the head rolling after her, bawling out "Stop!"

She ran and she roar'd, till she came to the board
Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll
At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.

Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
The head smiles, and begs them to bring him his legs,
As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.

Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement,
Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,
And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
Behind,--for the left leg was troubled with corns.

Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
And arms on their bent elbows dance through the throng,
While two hands assist, though nipp'd off at the wrist,
The said shoulders in bearing a body along.

They march up to the head, not one syllable said,
For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,
Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.

I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene;
Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
With a dead body placed in the centre between.

Yes, they stared--well they might at so novel a sight:
No one utter'd whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.

The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent,
As he view'd the whole thirty, in jocular terms
Said, "They put him in mind of a Council of _Trente_
Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."

But what should they do?--Oh! nobody knew
What was best to be done, either stranger or resident;
The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through
In vain, for his books could not furnish a precedent.

The Prince Bishop mutter'd a curse, and a prayer,
Which his double capacity hit to a nicety:
His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
His Episcopal moiety said "_Benedicite!_"

The Coroner sat on the body that night,
And the jury agreed,--not a doubt could they harbour,--
"That the chin of the corpse--the sole thing brought to light--
Had been recently shaved by a very bad barber."

They sent out Von Taünsend, Von Bürnie, Von Roe,
Von Maine, and Von Rowantz--through châlets and châteaux,
Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.

"MURDER!!

"WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown,
Has been recently found at his Highness's banquet,
Rather shabbily dressed in an Amice, or gown
In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket;

"And WHEREAS, there's great reason indeed to suspect
That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice
Aforethought, have kill'd, and begun to dissect
The said Gentleman, not very far from the palace;

"THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE!--Whoever shall seize,
And such person, or persons, to justice surrender,
Shall receive--such REWARD--as his Highness shall please,
On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.

"And, in order the matter more clearly to trace
To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop, further,
Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace
To all such as have _not_ been concern'd in the murther.

"Done this day, at our palace,--July twenty-five,--
By Command,

(Signed)
Johann Von Rüssell,
N.B.

Deceased rather in years--had a squint when alive;
And smells slightly of gin--linen mark'd with a "G."

The Newspapers, too, made no little ado,
Though a different version each managed to dish up;
Some said "The Prince Bishop had run a man through,"
Others said "an assassin has kill'd the Prince Bishop."

The "Ghent Herald" fell foul of the "Bruxelles Gazette,"
The "Bruxelles Gazette," with much sneering ironical,
Scorned to remain in the "Ghent Herald's" debt,
And the "Amsterdam Times" quizz'd the "Nuremberg Chronicle."

In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed,
Spite of "politics," "bias," or "party collision;"
Viz.: to "give," when they'd "further accounts" of the deed,
"Full particulars" soon, in "a later Edition."

But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began
To think it high time to "astonish the natives."

First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland,
Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,
From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dollond.

By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose,
Megrims, headache, and vapours were put to the rout;
And one single touch of his precious Great Toes
Was a certain specific for chilblains and gout.

Rheumatics,--sciatica,--tic-doloureux!
Apply to his shin-bones--not one of them lingers;--
All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew,
If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.

Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs;
When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing,
Sea-sickness, and cholic; or, rubb'd on the gums,
Were "A blessing to Mothers," for infants in teething.

Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
Where the mark remain'd visible still of the knife,
Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check,
Was safe from sore-throat for the rest of his life.

Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint
Giving way, proved an influence clearly divine,
They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint,
So they lock'd him up, body and bones, in a shrine.

Through country and town his new Saintship's renown
As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing,
Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,
It seem'd as if "Wonders had never _done ceasing_."

The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
A sad falling off in their off'rings to find,
His feats were so many--still the greatest of any,--
In every sense of the word, was--behind;

For the German Police were beginning to cease
From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd,
When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
Unravell'd the whole by the help of--his beard!

If you look back you'll see the aforesaid _barbe gris_,
When divorced from the chin of its murder'd proprietor,
Had been stuff'd in the seat of a kind of settee,
Or double-arm'd chair, to keep the thing quieter.

It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange
Itself in its place when the limbs join'd together;
P'rhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
And constructed of good, strong, maroon-colour'd leather.

Or, what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose,
For Saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition,
It should rest there, to aid some particular views,
Produced by his very peculiar position.

Be that as it may, on the very first day
That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee,
What occurr'd almost frignten'd her senses away,
Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty.

They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds
Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons:
And especially how, as regards invalids,
His miraculous cures far outrivall'd Von Morison's.

"The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away,
And people born blind now can easily see us!"--
But she, (we presume, a disciple of Hume,)
Shook her head, and said angrily, "_Credat Judæus!_"

"Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,
To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on.--
He works miracles!--pooh!--I'd believe it of you
Just as soon, you great Geese,--or the Chair that I sit on!"

The Chair,--at that word--it seems really absurd,
But the truth must be told,--what contortions and grins
Distorted her face!--She sprang up from her place
Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins!

For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard
Which she uttered, of what was beneath her forgetful,
Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,
Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful.

That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether,
Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within,
And the maids cried "Good gracious! how very tenacious!"
--They as well might endeavour to pull off her skin!--

She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain;
In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,--
The cushion stuck fast!--From that hour to her last
She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle!"

And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death
Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;'
So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life
Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,--or thereabouts.

With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark
As to what his fate was; but I cannot imagine he
Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be
Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine:

For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure,
And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds,
As you'll see, if you look in a rather scarce book,
"_God's Revenge against Murder_," by one Mr. Reynolds.

MORAL.

Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away,
Like Ulysses of old,[12] (_vide_ Homer and Naso,)
Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
And when you _are_ coming home, just write and say so!

And you, learned Clerks, who're _not_ given to roam,
Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum;
Don't visit a house when the Master's from home!
Shun drinking,--and study the "_Vitæ Sanctorum!_"

Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect
In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail;
But remember Gengulphus's wife!--and reflect
On the moral enforced by her terrible tale!

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Ενι δαχρυσι γελασασα.--HOM.

* * * * *

Mr. Barney Maguire has laid claim to the next Saint as a country-woman; and "Why wouldn't he?" when all the world knows the O'Dells were a fine ould, ancient family, sated in Tipperary

"Ere the Lord Mayor stole his collar of gowld,
And sowld it away to a trader?"[13]

He is manifestly wrong; but, as he very rationally observes, "No matter for that,--she's a Saint any way!"

THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.

Odille was a maid of a dignified race;
Her father, Count Otto, was lord of Alsace;
Such an air, such a grace, Such a form, such a face,
All agreed, 'twere a fruitless endeavour to trace
In the Court, or within fifty miles of the place.
Many ladies in Strasburg were beautiful, still
They were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odille.

But Odille was devout, and, before she was nine,
Had "experienced a call" she consider'd divine,
To put on the veil at St. Ermengarde's shrine.--
Lords, Dukes, and Electors, and Counts Palatine
Came to seek her in marriage from both sides the Rhine;
But vain their design, They are all left to pine,
Their oglings and smiles are all useless; in fine,
Not one of these gentlefolks, try as they will,
Can draw "Ask my papa" from the cruel Odille.

At length one of her suitors, a certain Count Herman,
A highly respectable man as a German,
Who smoked like a chimney, and drank like a Merman,
Paid his court to her father, conceiving his firman
Would soon make her bend, And induce her to lend
An ear to a love-tale in lieu of a sermon.
He gain'd the old Count, who said, "Come, Mynheer, fill!
Here's luck to yourself and my daughter Odille!"

The Lady Odille was quite nervous with fear,
When a little bird whisper'd that toast in her ear;
She murmur'd "O, dear! My Papa has got queer,
I am sadly afraid, with that nasty strong beer!
He's so very austere, and severe, that it's clear,
If he gets in his 'tantrums,' I can't remain here;
But St. Ermengarde's convent is luckily near;
It were folly to stay _Pour prendre congé_,
I shall put on my bonnet, and e'en run away!"
--She unlock'd the back door and descended the hill,
On whose crest stood the towers of the sire of Odille.

--When he found she'd levanted, the Count of Alsace
At first turn'd remarkably red in the face;
He anathematised, with much unction and grace,
Every soul who came near, and consign'd the whole race
Of runaway girls to a very warm place;
With a frightful grimace He gave orders for chase;
His vassals set off at a deuce of a pace,
And of all whom they met, high or low, Jack or Jill,
Ask'd, "Pray have you seen anything of Odille?"--

Now I think I've been told,--for I'm no sporting man,--
That the "knowing-ones" call this by far the best plan,
"Take the lead and then keep it!"--that is if you can.--
Odille thought so too, so she set off and ran,
Put her best leg before, Starting at score,
As I said some lines since, from that little back door,
And not being miss'd until half after four,
Had what hunters call "law" for a good hour and more;
Doing her best, Without stopping to rest,
Like "young Lochinvar who came out of the West."
"'Tis done!--I am gone!--over briar, brook, and rill!
They'll be sharp lads who catch me!" said young Miss Odille.

But you've all read in Æsop, or Phædrus, or Gay,
How a tortoise and hare ran together one day;
How the hare, making play, "Progress'd right slick away,"
As "them tarnation chaps" the Americans say;
While the tortoise, whose figure is rather _outré_
For racing, crawl'd straight on, without let or stay,
Having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay,
Till, ere noon's ruddy ray Changed to eve's sober grey,
Though her form and obesity caused some delay,
Perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way,
And she chased her fleet-footed "praycursor" until
She o'ertook her at last;--so it fared with Odille!

For although, as I said, she ran gaily at first,
And showed no inclination to pause, if she durst;
She at length felt opprest with the heat, and with thirst,
Its usual attendant; nor was that the worst,
Her shoes went down at heel; at last one of them burst.
Now a gentleman smiles At a trot of ten miles;
But not so the Fair; then consider the stiles,
And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill
Round the ankle, these stiles sadly bother'd Odille.

Still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track,
She kept steadily on, though the terrible crack
In her shoe made of course her progression more slack,
Till she reach'd the Swartz Forest (in English the Black);
I cannot divine How the boundary line
Was pass'd which is somewhere there form'd by the Rhine--
Perhaps she'd the knack To float o'er on her back--
Or, perhaps, cross'd the old bridge of boats at Brisach,
(Which Vauban, some years after, secured from attack
By a bastion of stone which the Germans call "Wacke,")
All I know is, she took not so much as a snack,
Till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill,
On a mountain's brow sank down the weary Odille.

I said on its "brow," but I should have said "crown,"
For 'twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown,
And so high that 'twas frightful indeed to look down
Upon Friburg, a place of some little renown,
That lay at its foot; but imagine the frown
That contracted her brow, when full many a clown
She perceived coming up from that horrid post-town.
They had follow'd her trail,
And now thought without fail,
As little boys say, to "lay salt on her tail;"
While the Count, who knew no other law but his will,
Swore that Herman that evening should marry Odille.

Alas, for Odille! poor dear! what could she do?
Her father's retainers now had her in view,
As she found from their raising a joyous halloo;
While the Count, riding on at the head of his crew,
In their snuff-colour'd doublets and breeches of blue,
Was huzzaing and urging them on to pursue.--
What, indeed, _could_ she do? She very well knew
If they caught her how much she should have to go through;
But then--she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe!
And to go further on was impossible;--true,
She might jump o'er the precipice;--still there are few
In her place, who could manage their courage to screw
Up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu:--
Alack! how she envied the birds as they flew;
No Nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe,
Came to bear her from him she loath'd worse than a Jew;
So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew,
Crying "Holy St. Ermengarde!
Oh, from these vermin guard
Her whose last hope rests entirely on you;--
Don't let papa catch me, dear Saint!--rather kill
At once, _sur-le-champ_, your devoted Odille!"

It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress
Get baulk'd when they think themselves sure of success.
The Saint came to the rescue!--I fairly confess
I don't see, as a Saint, how she well could do less
Than to get such a votary out of her mess.
Odille had scarce closed her pathetic address,
When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness,
Closed again, and secured her within its recess,
In a natural grotto, Which puzzled Count Otto,
Who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to.
'Twas her voice!--but 'twas _Vox et præterea Nil_!
Nor could any one guess what was gone with Odille!

Then burst from the mountain a splendour that quite
Eclipsed, in its brilliance, the finest Bude light,
And there stood St. Ermengarde, drest all in white,
A palm-branch in her left hand, her beads in her right;
While, with faces fresh gilt, and with wings burnish'd bright,
A great many little boys' heads took their flight
Above and around to a very great height,
And seem'd pretty lively considering their plight,
Since every one saw, With amazement and awe,
They could never sit down, for they hadn't _de quoi_.--
All at the sight, From the knave to the knight,
Felt a very unpleasant sensation, call'd fright;
While the Saint, looking down, With a terrible frown,
Said, "My Lords, you are done most remarkably brown!--
I am really ashamed of you both;--my nerves thrill
At your scandalous conduct to poor, dear Odille!

"Come, make yourselves scarce!--it is useless to say,
You will gain nothing here by a longer delay.
'Quick! Presto! Begone!' as the conjurors say;
For as to the Lady, I've stow'd her away
In this hill, in a stratum of London blue clay;
And I shan't, I assure you, restore her to-day
Till you faithfully promise no more to say 'Nay,'
But declare, 'If she will be a nun, why she may.'
For this you've my word, and I never yet broke it,
So put that in your pipe, my Lord Otto, and smoke it!--
One hint to your vassals,--a month at 'the Mill'
Shall be nuts to what they'll get who worry Odille!"

The Saint disappear'd as she ended, and so
Did the little boys' heads, which, above and below,
As I told you a very few stanzas ago,
Had been flying about her, and jumping Jem Crow;
Though, without any body, or leg, foot, or toe,
How they managed such antics, I really don't know;
Be that as it may, they all "melted like snow
Off a dyke," as the Scotch say in sweet Edinbro'.
And there stood the Count, With his men on the mount,
Just like "twenty-four jackasses all on a row."
What was best to be done--'twas a sad bitter pill--
But gulp it he must, or else lose his Odille.

The lord of Alsace therefore alter'd his plan,
And said to himself, like a sensible man,
"I can't do as I would,--I must do as I can;
It will not do to lie under any Saint's ban,
For your hide, when you do, they all manage to tan,
So Count Herman must pick up some Betsy or Nan,
Instead of my girl,--some Sue, Polly, or Fan;--
If he can't get the corn he must do with the bran,
And make shift with the pot if he can't have the pan."
With such proverbs as these He went down on his knees,
And said, "Blessed St. Ermengarde, just as you please--
They shall build a new convent,--I'll pay the whole bill,
(Taking discount,) its Abbess shall be my Odille!"

There are some of my readers, I'll venture to say,
Who have never seen Friburg, though some of them may,
And others, 'tis likely may go there some day.
Now, if ever you happen to travel that way,
I do beg and pray, 'twill your pains well repay,--
That you'll take what the Cockney folks calls a "po-shay,"
(Though in Germany these things are more like a dray,)
You may reach this same hill with a single relay,--
And do look how the rock, Through the whole of its block,
Is split open, as though by some violent shock
From an earthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock
From the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock
Of a Germanised giant, Thor, Woden, or Lok:
And see how it rears Its two monstrous great ears,
For when once you're between them such each side appears;
And list to the sound of the water one hears
Drip, drip, from the fissures, like rain-drops or tears,
--Odille's, I believe,--which have flowed all these years;
--I think they account for them so;--but the rill
I am sure is connected some way with Odille.

MORAL.

_Now then, for a moral, which always arrives
At the end, like the honey bees take to their hives,
And the more one observes it the better one thrives,--
We have all heard it said in the course of our lives,
"Needs must when a certain old gentleman drives;"
'Tis the same with a lady,--if once she contrives
To get hold of the ribands, how vainly one strives
To escape from her lash, or to shake off her gyves!
Then let's act like Count Otto, and while one survives,
Succumb to _our_ She-Saints--videlicet wives!

(_Aside._)

That is if one has not a "good bunch of fives."--
(I can't think how that last line escaped from my quill,
For I am sure it has nothing to do with Odille.)
Now, young ladies, to you!-- Don't put on the shrew!
And don't be surprised if your father looks blue
When you're pert, and won't act as he wants you to do!
Be sure that you never elope;--there are few,--
Believe me, you'll find what I say to be true,--
Who run restive, but find as they bake they must brew,
And come off at last with "a hole in their shoe;"
Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville,
Can produce enough saints to save _every_ Odille.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.

[13] The "Inglorious Memory" of this ould ancient transaction is still, we understand, kept up in Dublin by an annual proclamation at one of the city gates. The jewel, which has replaced the abstracted ornament, is said to have been presented by King William, and worn by Daniel O'Connell, Esq.

* * * * *

"Nycolas, cytezyn of ye cyte[14] of Pancraes, was borne of ryche
and holye kynne,
And hys fader was named Epiphanus, and his moder Johane."

He was born on a cold frosty morning, on the 6th of December, (upon which day his feast is still observed,) but in what _anno Domini_ is not so clear; his baptismal register, together with that of his friend and colleague, St. Thomas at Hill, having been "lost in the great fire of London."

St. Nicholas was a great patron of Mariners, and, saving your presence--of Thieves also, which honourable fraternity have long rejoiced in the appellation of his "Clerks." Cervantes's story of Sancho's detecting a sum of money in a swindler's walking-stick, is merely the Spanish version of a "Lay of St. Nicholas," extant "in choice Italian" a century before honest Miguel was born.

A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.

"Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit." ROGER HOVEDEN.

"Lord Abbot! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!"

On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
"Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!"--
"Now naye, Fair Daughter," the Lord Abbot said,
"Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be;

"There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!
And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell,
Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey!"

"--Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John,
Though sage Penitauncers I trow they be;
Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone,
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.

"Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!
I am a Maiden royally born,
And I come of old Plantagenet's line.

"Though hither I stray, in lowly array,
I am a damsel of high degree;
And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee!

"Counts a many, and Dukes a few,
A suitoring came to my father's Hall;
But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleased my father beyond them all.

"Dukes a many, and Counts a few,
I would have wedded right cheerfullie;
But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain,
And I vow'd that he ne'er should my bridegroom be!

"So hither I fly, in lowly guise,
From their gilded domes and their princely halls;
Fain would I dwell in some holy cell,
Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!"

--Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot,
"Now rest thee, Fair Daughter, withouten fear;
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:

"Holy Church denieth all search
'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams;
And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock,
Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.

"Then lay, Fair Daughter, thy fears aside,
For here this day shalt thou dine with me!"--
"Now naye, now naye," the fair maiden cried;
"In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be!

"Friends would whisper, and foes would frown,
Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree,
And ill mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!

"There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
With beans and lettuces fair to see;
His lenten fare now let me share,
I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!"

--"Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
To our patron Saint foul shame it were
Should wayworn guest, with toil oppress'd,
Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.

"There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen;
They are a goodly companie!"

The Abbot hath donn'd his mitre and ring,
His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine;
And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring
To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.

The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety;
Liver, and gizzard, and all are there;
Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce _Benedicite_
Over more lucious or delicate fare.

But no pious stave he, no _Pater_ or _Ave_
Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face:
She ask'd him for stuffing, she ask'd him for gravy,
She ask'd him for gizzard:--but not for Grace!

Yet gaily the Lord Abbot smiled, and press'd,
And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup fill'd;
And he help'd his guest to a bit of the breast,
And he sent the drumsticks down to be grill'd.

There was no lack of old Sherris sack,
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, as he drain'd off his cup with a smack,
He grew less pious and more polite.

She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
And she drank as Lady ought not to drink;
And he press'd her hand 'neath the table thrice,
And he wink'd as Abbot ought not to wink.

And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed, and they tuck'd him in!

The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
As he peep'd through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real
The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing,--
He could not distinguish the words very plain,
But 'twas all about "Cole," and "jolly old Soul,"
And "Fiddlers," and "Punch," and things quite as profane.

Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such revelling,
With fervour himself began to bless;
For he thought he must somehow have let the devil in,--
And perhaps was not very much out in his guess.

The Accusing Buyers[15] "flew up to Heaven's Chancery,"
Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
Wept--(See the works of the late Mr. Sterne).

Indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in
When, after a lapse of a great many years,
They book'd Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing,
And blotted the fine out again with their tears!

But St. Nicholas' agony who may paint?
His senses at first were well-nigh gone;
The beatified saint was ready to faint
When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on!

For never, I ween, had such doings been seen
There before, from the time that most excellent Prince
Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders,
Had built and endowed it some centuries since.

--But hark!--'tis a sound from the outermost gate!
A startling sound from a powerful blow.--
Who knocks so late?--it is half after eight
By the clock,--and the clock's five minutes too slow.

Never, perhaps, had such loud double raps
Been heard in St. Nicholas' Abbey before;
All agreed "it was shocking to keep people knocking,"
But none seem'd inclined to "answer the door."

Now a louder bang through the cloisters rang,
And the gate on its hinges wide open flew;
And all were aware of a Palmer there,
With his cockle, hat, staff, and his sandal shoe.

Many a furrow, and many a frown
By toil and time on his brow were traced;
And his long loose gown was of ginger brown,
And his rosary dangled below his waist.

Now seldom, I ween, in such costume seen,
Except at a stage-play, or masquerade;
But who doth not know it was rather the go
With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade?

With noiseless stride did that Palmer glide
Across that oaken floor;
And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump
Against the Refectory door!

Wide open it flew, and plain to the view
The Lord Abbot they all mote see;
In his hand was a cup, and he lifted it up,
"Here's the Pope's good health with three!!"

Rang in their ears three deafening cheers,
"Huzza! huzza! huzza!"
And one of the party said, "Go it, my hearty!"--
When outspake that Pilgrim grey--

"A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon!
Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;
And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
Of food, Lord Abbot, hath pass'd my lip.

"And I am come from a far countree,
And have visited many a holy shrine;
And long have I trod the sacred sod
Where the Saints do rest in Palestine!"--

"An thou art come from a far countree,
And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,
Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Thou Palmer grey, that thine eyes have seen.

"Arede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Grey Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,
And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
And a cup o' the best shall thy guerdon be!"

"Oh! I have been east, and I have been west,
And I have seen many a wonderful sight;
But never to me did it happen to see
A wonder like that which I see this night!

"To see a Lord Abbot, in rochet and stole,
With Prior and Friar,--a strange mar-velle!--
O'er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl,
And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell!"

He felt in his gown of ginger-brown,
And he pull'd out a flask from beneath;
It was rather tough work to get out the cork,
But he drew it at last with his teeth.

O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water
He made the sacred sign;
And he dash'd the whole on the _soi-disant_ daughter
Of old Plantagenet's line!

Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek,
With a wild unearthly scream;
And fizzl'd, and hiss'd, and produced such a mist,
They were all half-choked by the steam.

Her dove-like eyes turn'd to coals of fire,
Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout,
Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws,
And her bosom went in, and her tail came out.

On her chin there appear'd a long Nanny-goat's beard,
And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;
And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
'Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost Hell!

The Palmer threw down his ginger gown,
His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight,
Stood St. Nicholas' self, and his shaven crown
Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light.

The Fiend made a grasp, the Abbot to clasp;
But St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe,
And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick
On his elderly Namesake, he made him let go.

And out of the window he flew like a shot,
For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
And caught the foul demon about the spot
Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.

And he bounded away, like a foot-ball at play,
Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,
Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor,
And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap.

Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip,
That saved the Lord Abbot,--though, breathless with fright,
In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip,
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!

* * * * *

On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine,
From a certain Inn-window the traveller is shown
Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
Some miles up the river, south-east of Cologne.

And, while "_sour-kraut_" she sells you, the Landlady tells you
That there, in those walls, now all roofless and bare,
One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one,
On filling a _ci-devant_ Abbot's state chair.

How a _ci-devant_ Abbot, all clothed in drab, but
Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt, and no shoes,
(His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing
Laid aside,) in yon Cave lived a pious recluse;

How he rose with the sun, limping "dot and go one,"
To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather,
Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher
Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together;

How a thirsty old codger, the neighbours called Roger,
With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine!
What its quality wanted he made up in quantity,
Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine!

And how, as their bodily strength fail'd, the mental man
Gain'd tenfold vigour and force in all four;
And how, to the day of their death, the "Old Gentleman"
Never attempted to kidnap them more.

And how, when at length, in the odour of sanctity,
All of them died without grief or complaint;
The Monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous
Not to suppose every one was a Saint.