Chapter IX: Preface: To the Second Edition (8)

And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby
As not to say yearly four masses a head,
On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper
Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!

How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories,
How the _ci-devant_ Abbot's obtain'd greater still,
When some cripples, on touching his fractured _os femoris_,
Threw down their crutches, and danced a quadrille!

And how Abbot Simon, (who turn'd out a prime one,)
These words, which grew into a proverb full soon,
O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto,
"~Who suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!!~"

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Parish.

[15] The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen when such things were. Alack! alack! the Railroads have ruined his "vested interest."

Rohesia, daughter of Ambrose, and sister to Sir Everard Ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the 16th century, and was married in 1526, at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in the City of London. The following narrative contains all else that is known of

THE LADY ROHESIA.

The Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed!

So said the doctor,--and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters;--besides, Doctor Butts was the Court Physician: he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of the blackest ebony,--_raison de plus!_

"Is there no hope, Doctor?" said Beatrice Grey.

"Is there no hope?" said Everard Ingoldsby.

"Is there no hope?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.--He was the Lady Rohesia's husband;--he spoke the last.

The doctor shook his head: he looked at the disconsolate widower _in posse_, then at the hour-glass;--its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butts was a very learned man. "_Ars longa, vita brevis!_" said Doctor Butts.

"I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but he was no scholar.

"Alas! my poor Sister!" sighed Ingoldsby.

"Alas! my poor Mistress!" sobbed Beatrice.

Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed;--his grief was too deep-seated for outward manifestation.

"And how long, Doctor--?" The afflicted husband could not finish the sentence.

Doctor Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady; he pointed to the horologe; scarcely a quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. Again he shook his head; the eye of the patient waxed dimmer, the rattling in the throat increased.

"What's become of Father Francis?" whimpered Beatrice.

"The last consolations of the church--" suggested Everard.

A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy.

"Where _is_ the Confessor?" continued his grieving brother-in-law.

"In the pantry," cried Marion Hacket pertly, as she tripped down stairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic;--"in the pantry, I warrant me."--The bower-woman was not wont to be in the wrong;--in the pantry was the holy man discovered,--at his devotions.

"_Pax vobiscum!_" said Father Francis, as he entered the chamber of death.

"_Vita brevis!_" retorted Doctor Butts:--he was not a man to be browbeat out of his Latin,--and by a paltry Friar Minim, too. Had it been a Bishop, indeed,--or even a mitred Abbot;--but a miserable Franciscan!

"_Benedicite!_" said the friar.

"_Ars longa!_" returned the Leech.

Doctor Butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band; drew his short sad-coloured cloak closer around him; and, grasping his cross-handled walking-staff, stalked majestically out of the apartment.--Father Francis had the field to himself.

The worthy chaplain hastened to administer the last rites of the church. To all appearance he had little time to lose; as he concluded, the dismal toll of the passing-bell sounded from the belfry tower; little Hubert, the bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with all his might.--It was a capital contrivance that same passing-bell:--which of the Urbans or Innocents invented it is a query; but, whoever he was, he deserved well of his country and of Christendom.

Ah! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we, their degenerate children, conceit them to have been. The passing bell! a most solemn warning to imps of every description, is not to be regarded with impunity: the most impudent _Succubus_ of them all dare as well dip his claws in holy water, as come within the verge of its sound. Old Nick himself, if he sets any value at all upon his tail, had best convey himself clean out of hearing, and leave the way open to Paradise. Little Hubert continued pulling with all his might, and St. Peter began to look out for a customer.

The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the Lady Rohesia: she raised her head slightly; inarticulate sounds issued from her lips,--inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. Those of Father Francis, indeed, were sharper; nothing, as he averred, could be more distinct than the words, "A thousand marks to the priory of St. Mary Rouncival."

Now the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsby had brought her husband broad lands and large possessions; much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own disposal; and nuncupative wills had not yet been abolished by Act of Parliament.

"Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis. "A thousand marks, she said--"

"If she did, I'll be shot!" said Guy de Montgomeri.

"--A thousand marks!" continued the Confessor, fixing his cold grey eye upon the knight, as he went on heedless of the interruption;--"a thousand marks! and as many _Aves_ and _Paters_ shall be duly said--as soon as the money is paid down."

Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the window, and muttered to himself something that sounded like "Don't you wish you may get it?"

* * * * *

The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the room, taking with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for Extreme Unction. Everard Ingoldsby waited on him down stairs.

"A thousand thanks!" said the latter.

"A thousand marks!" said the friar.

"A thousand devils!" growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri, from the top of the landing-place.

But his accents fell unheeded; his brother-in-law and the friar were gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and Beatrice Grey.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the bed: his arms were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his breast; his eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays of the fading watch-light gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top of his head,--for Sir Guy was a middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight bend in his shoulders, but that not much: his complexion was somewhat florid,--especially about the nose; but his lady was _in extremis_, and at this particular moment he was paler than usual.

"Bim! bome!" went the bell. The knight groaned audibly; Beatrice Grey wiped her eye with her little square apron of lace de Malines; there was a moment's pause,--a moment of intense affliction; she let it fall,--all but one corner, which remained between her finger and thumb.--She looked at Sir Guy; drew the thumb and forefinger of her other hand slowly along its border, till they reached the opposite extremity. She sobbed aloud: "So kind a lady!" said Beatrice Grey.--"So excellent a wife!" responded Sir Guy. "So good!" said the damsel.--"So dear!" said the knight.--"So pious!" said she.--"So humble!" said he.--"So good to the poor!"--"So capital a manager!"--"So punctual at matins!"--"Dinner dished to a moment!"--"So devout!" said Beatrice.--"So fond of me!" said Sir Guy.--"And of Father Francis!"--"What the devil do you mean by that?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

The knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic changes on the fine qualities of the departing Lady, like the _Strophe_ and _Antistrophe_ of a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once disposed of, her minor excellences came under review:--She would drown a witch, drink lambs'-wool at Christmas, beg Dominie Dumps's boys a holiday, and dine upon sprats on Good Friday!--A low moan from the subject of these eulogies seemed to intimate that the enumeration of her good deeds was not altogether lost on her,--that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in the testimony.

"She was too good for earth!" continued Sir Guy.

"Ye-ye-yes!" sobbed Beatrice.

"I did not deserve her!" said the knight.

"No-o-o-o!" cried the damsel.

"Not but that I made her an excellent husband, and a kind; but she is going, and--and--where, or when, or how--shall I get such another?"

"Not in broad England--not in the whole wide world!" responded Beatrice Grey; "that is, not _just_ such another!"--Her voice still faltered, but her accents on the whole were more articulate; she dropped the corner of her apron, and had recourse to her handkerchief; in fact, her eyes were getting red,--and so was the tip of her nose.

Sir Guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments stedfastly on the face of his lady. The single word "Another!" fell from his lips like a distant echo;--it is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more than is necessary.

"Bim! bome!" went the bell.--Bandy-legged Hubert had been tolling for half an hour;--he began to grow tired, and St. Peter fidgety.

"Beatrice Grey!" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, "what's to be done? What's to become of Montgomeri Hall?--and the buttery,--and the servants? And what--what's to become of _me_, Beatrice Grey?"--There was pathos in his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. "I'll turn monk myself!" said Sir Guy.

"Monk?" said Beatrice.

"I'll be a Carthusian!" repeated the knight, but in a tone less assured: he relapsed into a reverie.--Shave his head!--he did not so much mind that,--he was getting rather bald already;--but, beans for dinner,--and those without butter--and then a horse-hair shirt!

The knight seemed undecided: his eye roamed gloomily around the apartment; it paused upon different objects, but as if it saw them not; its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance: it rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathising damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief.

Her tears had ceased; but her eyes were cast down, and mournfully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the devil's tattoo.

There is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. Sir Guy turned round,--he seated himself on the edge of the bed; and, placing his hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees.

"I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but what's to become of me? Poor, miserable, old--that is, poor, miserable, middle-aged man that I am!--No one to comfort, no one to care for me!"--Beatrice's tears flowed afresh, but she opened not her lips.--"'Pon my life!" continued he, "I don't believe there is a creature now would care a button if I were hanged to-morrow!"

"Oh! don't say so, Sir Guy!" sighed Beatrice; "you know there's--there's Master Everard, and--and Father Francis--"

"Pish!" cried Sir Guy testily.

"And--there's your favourite old bitch."

"I am not thinking of old bitches!" quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

Another pause ensued: the knight had released her chin, and taken her hand;--it was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the palm said little for its owner's industry.

"Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the knight, thoughtfully; "you must be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat, my child."--Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand; but he sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his companion between himself and the bed-post.

Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the other:--in such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed a little in the rear of his companion.

"Another!" repeated Sir Guy, musing;--"if, indeed, I could find such another!"--He was talking to his thought, but Beatrice Grey answered him.

"There's Madam Fitzfoozle."

"A frump!" said Sir Guy.

"Or the Lady Bumbarton."

"With her hump!" muttered he.

"There's the Dowager--"

"Stop--stop!" said the knight, "stop one moment!"--He paused; he was all on the tremble; something seemed rising in his throat, but he gave a great gulp, and swallowed it. "Beatrice," said he, "what think you of--" his voice sank into a most seductive softness,--"what think you of--Beatrice Grey?"

The murder was out:--the knight felt infinitely relieved; the knuckles of his left hand unclosed spontaneously; and the arm he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of, found itself,--nobody knows how,--all at once, encircling the gimp waist of the pretty Beatrice. The young lady's reply was expressed in three syllables. They were,--"Oh, Sir Guy!" The words might be somewhat indefinite, but there was no mistaking the look. Their eyes met; Sir Guy's left arm contracted itself spasmodically: when the eyes meet,--at least, as theirs meet,--the lips are very apt to follow the example. The knight had taken one long, loving kiss--nectar and ambrosia! He thought on Doctor Butts and his _repetatur haustus_,--a prescription Father Francis had taken infinite pains to translate for him:--he was about to repeat it, but the dose was interrupted _in transitu_.--Doubtless the adage,

"There is many a slip
'Twixt the cup and the lip,"

hath reference to medicine. Sir Guy's lip was again all but in conjunction with that of his bride elect.

It has been hinted already that there was a little round polished patch on the summit of the knight's _pericranium_, from which his locks had gradually receded; a sort of _oasis_,--or rather a _Mont Blanc_ in miniature, rising above the highest point of vegetation. It was on this little spot, undefended alike by Art and Nature, that at this interesting moment a blow descended, such as we must borrow a term from the Sister Island adequately to describe,--it was a "Whack!"

Sir Guy started upon his feet; Beatrice Grey started upon hers; but a single glance to the rear reversed her position,--she fell upon her knees and screamed.

The knight, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight which might have turned a bolder man to stone.--It was She!--the all but defunct Rohesia--there she sat, bolt upright!--her eyes no longer glazed with the film of impending dissolution, but scintillating like flint and steel; while in her hand she grasped the bed-staff,--a weapon of mickle might, as her husband's bloody coxcomb could now well testify. Words were yet wanting, for the quinsy, which her rage had broken, still impeded her utterance; but the strength and rapidity of her guttural intonations augured well for her future eloquence.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood for a while like a man distraught; this resurrection--for such it seemed--had quite overpowered him. "A husband ofttimes makes the best physician," says the proverb; he was a living personification of its truth. Still it was whispered he had been content with Doctor Butts; but his lady was restored to bless him for many years.--Heavens, what a life he led!

The Lady Rohesia mended apace; her quinsy was cured; the bell was stopped; and little Hubert, the sacristan, kicked out of the chapelry. St. Peter opened his wicket, and looked out;--there was nobody there; so he flung-to the gate in a passion, and went back to his lodge, grumbling at being hoaxed by a runaway ring.

Years rolled on.--The improvement of Lady Rohesia's temper did not keep pace with that of her health; and one fine morning Sir Guy de Montgomeri was seen to enter the _porte-cochère_ of Durham House, at that time the town residence of Sir Walter Raleigh. Nothing more was ever heard of him; but a boat full of adventurers was known to have dropped down with the tide that evening to Deptford Hope, where lay the good ship the Darling, commanded by Captain Keymis, who sailed next morning on the Virginia voyage.

A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may yet be seen in Denton chancel, let into a broad slab of Bethersden marble; it represents a lady kneeling, in her wimple and hood; her hands are clasped in prayer, and beneath is an inscription in the characters of the age--

"Praie for ye sowle of ye Lady Royse,
And for alle Christen sowles!"

The date is illegible; but it appears that she survived King Henry the Eighth, and that the dissolution of monasteries had lost St. Mary Rouncival her thousand marks.--As for Beatrice Grey, it is well known that she was alive in 1559, and then had virginity enough left to be a maid of Honour to "good Queen Bess."

* * * * *

It was during the "Honey (or, as it is sometimes termed, the "Treacle,) Moon," that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth passed through London. A "good-natured friend," who dropped in to dinner, forced them in the evening to the theatre for the purpose of getting rid of him. I give Charles's account of the Tragedy, just as it was written, without altering even the last couplet--for there would be no making "Egerton" rhyme with "Story."

THE TRAGEDY.

Quæque ipse miserrima vidi.--VIRGIL.

Catherine of Cleves was a Lady of rank,
She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the Bank;
She had jewels and rings, And a thousand smart things;
Was lovely and young, With a _rather_ sharp tongue,
And she wedded a Noble of high degree
With the star of the order of _St. Esprit_;
But the Duke de Guise Was, by many degrees,
Her senior, and not very easy to please;
He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
And a frown on his brow,--and he look'd like a Guy,--
So she took to intriguing With Monsieur St. Megrin,
A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;
He would sing, fence, and dance
With the best man in France,
And took his rappee with genteel _nonchalance_;
He smiled, and he flatter'd, and flirted with ease,
And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.

Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to know
If the Lady approved of his passion or no;
So without more ado, He put on his _surtout_,
And went to a man with a beard like a Jew,
One Signor Ruggieri, A Cunning-man near, he
Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,
Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides,
Bring back a stray'd cow, silver ladle, or spoon,
And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon.
The Sage took his stand With his wand in his hand,
Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
Saying solemnly--"_Presto!--Hey, quick!--Cock-a-lorum!!_"
When the Duchess immediately popp'd up before 'em.

Just then a Conjunction of Venus and Mars,
Or something peculiar above in the stars,
Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,
Who "bolted," and left him alone with his deary.--
Monsieur St. Megrin went down on his knees,
And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas,
When,--fancy the shock,-- A loud double knock,
Made the Lady cry "Get up, you fool!--there's De Guise!"--
'Twas his Grace, sure enough; So Monsieur, looking bluff,
Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff,
While, unseen by either, away flew the Dame
Through the opposite key-hole, the same way she came;
But, alack! and alas! A mishap came to pass,
In her hurry she, some how or other, let fall
A new silk _Bandana_ she'd worn as a shawl;
She used it for drying Her bright eyes while crying,
And blowing her nose, as her Beau talk'd of dying!

Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,
And he knew the great C with the Crown in the corner,
The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss,
And said, with some energy, "D---- it! what's this?"
He went home in a fume, And bounced into her room,
Crying, "So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous!
Look here!--here's a proof you run after the fellows!
--Now take up that pen,--if it's bad choose a better,--
And write, as I dictate, this moment a letter
To Monsieur--you know who!" The Lady look'd blue;
But replied with much firmness--"Hang me if I do!"
De Guise grasped her wrist With his great bony fist,
And pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist,
That his hard, iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,--
She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching;
So she sat down and wrote This polite little note:--

"Dear Mister St. Megrin, The Chiefs of the League in
Our house mean to dine This evening at nine;
I shall, soon after ten, Slip away from the men,
And you'll find me upstairs in the drawing-room then;
Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves
Of Servants will see you; Yours
CATHERINE OF CLEVES."

She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,
And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.

St. Megrin had almost jumped out of his skin
For joy that day when the post came in;
He read the note through, Then began it anew,
And thought it almost too good news to be true.--
He clapp'd on his hat, And a hood over that,
With a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat;
So great his impatience, from half after Four
He was waiting till Ten at De Guise's back-door.
When he heard the great clock of St. Genevieve chime,
He ran up the back staircase six steps at a time.
He had scarce made his bow, He hardly knew how,
When alas! and alack! There was no getting back,
For the drawing-room door was bang'd to with a whack;--
In vain he applied To the handle and tried,
Somebody or other had locked it outside!
And the Duchess in agony mourn'd her mishap,
"We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap."

Now the Duchess's Page, About twelve years of age,
For so little a boy was remarkably sage;
And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
Popp'd the Gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement.
But all would not do,-- Though St. Megrin got through
The window,--below stood De Guise and his crew.
And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;
He thrust _carte_ and _tierce_ Uncommonly fierce,
But not Beelzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce:
While his doublet and hose, Being holiday clothes,
Were soon cut through and through from his knees to his nose.
Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjuror gave him
From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him,
But, when beat on his knees, That confounded De Guise
Came behind with the "fogle" that caused all this breeze,
Whipp'd it tight round his neck, and, when backward he'd jerk'd him,
The rest of the rascals jump'd on him and Burked him.
The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but
Was served the same way, And was found the next day
With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt;
Catherine of Cleves Roar'd "Murder!" and "Thieves!"
From the window above While they murder'd her love;
Till, finding the rogues had accomplish'd his slaughter,
She drank Prussic acid without any water,
And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess's daughter!

MORAL.

Take warning, ye Fair, from this tale of the Bard's,
And don't go where fortunes are told on the cards,
But steer clear of Conjurors,--never put query
To "Wise Mrs. Williams," or folks like Ruggieri.
When alone in your room, shut the door close, and lock it;
Above all,--KEEP YOUR HANDKERCHIEF SAFE IN YOUR POCKET!
Lest you too should stumble, and Lord Levenson Gower, he
Be call'd on,--sad poet!--to tell your sad story!

* * * * *

It was in the summer of 1838 that a party from Tappington reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the coronation of their youthful Queen, whom God long preserve!--This purpose they were fortunate enough to accomplish, by the purchase of a peer's ticket, from a stationer in the Strand, who was enabled so to dispose of some, greatly to the indignation of the hereditary Earl Marshal. How Mr. Barney managed to insinuate himself into the Abbey remains a mystery: his characteristic modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he unquestionably was. The result of his observations were thus communicated to his associates in the Servants' Hall upon his return, to the infinite delectation of _Mademoiselle Pauline_ over a _Cruiskeen_ of his own concocting.

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.

AIR--"_The Groves of Blarney._"

Och! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen
Making a skrimmage at half after four,
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.

Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning
Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And gould, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With Gineral Dullbeak.--Och! 'twas mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;
'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
All joo'ls from his jasey to his di'mond boots,
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
The famale heiress, Miss Anjā-ly Coutts.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,
(They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading
The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.

Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.
Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
All in the Gallery you might persave;
But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,
Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more,
Och! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd
To tell the half of 'em was to the fore;
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,
"I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!"

Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
In her purple garments and her goulden Crown;
Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown,
Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play'd a Consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
Saying, "Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!
Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!"
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating;
"Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,
Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!"

Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs appealing,
"Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!"
And Sir Cladius Hunter he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.
The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,
With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;
And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, "Ah! then thank ye all for me!"--
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
And sweet trombones with their silver tones;
But Lord Rolle was rolling;--'twas mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his bones!

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop;
With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,
And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!
There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,--
Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,
Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!"--
Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen!--
And now, I've ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry!

* * * * *

As a _pendant_ to the foregoing, I shall venture to insert Mr. Simpkinson's lucubrations on a subject to him, as a _Savant_ of the first class, scarcely less interesting. The aërial voyage to which it alludes took place about a year and a half previously to the august event already recorded, and the excitement manifested in the learned Antiquary's effusion may give some faint idea of that which prevailed generally among the Sons of Science at that memorable epoch.

THE "MONSTRE" BALLOON.

Oh! the balloon, the great balloon,
It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,
And every one said we should hear of it soon
With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.
But very soon after folks changed their tune:
"The netting had burst--the silk--the shalloon;--
It had met with a trade-wind--an awful monsoon--
It was blown out to sea--it was blown to the moon--
They ought to have put off their journey till June;
Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon
Would go up in November in any balloon!"

Then they talk'd about Green--"Oh! where's Mister Green?
And where's Mister Hollond who hired the machine?
And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been
Up so often before--twelve times or thirteen--
And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?
And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?
The press'd beef, with the fat cut off--nothing but lean,
And the portable soup in the patent tureen?
Have they got to Grand Cairo, or reach'd Aberdeen?
Or Jerusalem--Hamburgh--or Ballyporeen?
No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!"

Stay! here's Mister Gye--Mr. Frederick Gye--
"At Paris," says he, "I've been up very high,
A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,
A cockstride the Tuilleries' pantiles, to spy,
With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,
And my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry,
But I could see nothing at all but the sky;
So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to try
Any longer: and, feeling remarkably dry
From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,
I came down again, and--you see--here am I!"

But here's Mr. Hughes!--What says young Mr. Hughes?--
"Why, I'm sorry to say we've not got any news
Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,
Which gave the mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,
As he popp'd up his eye-glass to look at their cruise
Over Dover; and which the folks flock'd to peruse
At Squier's bazaar, the same evening, in crews--
Politicians, news-mongers, town-council, and blues,
Turks, Heretics, Infidels, Jumpers, and Jews,
Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews;
But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,
And my father and I are in terrible stews,
For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose!"--

Here's news come at last!--Here's news come at last!
A vessel's come in, which has sail'd very fast;
And a gentleman serving before the mast,--
Mister Nokes--has declared that "the party has past
Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast,
As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast
To see such a monster come borne on the blast,
And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast!"--
Oh! fie! Mister Nokes,--for shame, Mr. Nokes!
To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks--
Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,
And such jesting your malice but scurvily cloaks;
Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,
And we know very well your whole story's a hoax!--

"Oh! what shall we do?--Oh! where will it end?--
Can nobody go?--Can nobody send
To Calais--or Bergen-op-zoom--or Ostend?
Can't you go there yourself?--Can't you write to a friend,
For news upon which we may safely depend?"--

Huzza! huzza! one and eight-pence to pay
For a letter from Hamborough, just come to say
They descended at Weilburg, about break of day;
And they've lent them the palace there, during their stay,
And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,
And they're feasting the party, and soaking their clay
With Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay!
And the Landgraves, and Margraves, and Counts beg and pray
That they won't think, as yet, about going away;
Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,
But pack up the balloon in a waggon, or dray,
And pop themselves into a German "_po-shay_,"
And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;
Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay,
If the gas people there do not ask them to pay
Such a sum as must force them at once to say "Nay,"
They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs-Elysées,
And be back again here the beginning of May.--

Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile _fête_!
What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!
There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,
For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,
And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,
For this all preceding attraction must beat:
Since, they'll unfold, what we want to be told,
How they cough'd,--how they sneez'd,--how they shiver'd with cold,--
How they tippled the "cordial" as racy and old
As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,
And how they all then felt remarkably bold:
How they thought the boil'd beef worth its own weight in gold;
And how Mr. Green was beginning to scold
Because Mr. Mason would try to lay hold
Of the moon, and had very near overboard roll'd!

And there they'll be seen--they'll be all to be seen!
The great-coats, the coffee-pot, mugs, and tureen!
With the tight rope, and fire-works, and dancing between,
If the weather should only prove fair and serene,
And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,
In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,
Mr. Hollond on one side, who hired the machine,
Mr. Mason on t'other, describing the scene;
And Fame, on one leg, in the air, like a queen,
With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;
While Envy, in serpents and black bombazin,
Looks on from below with an air of chagrin!

Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,
And the people will dance by the light of the moon,
And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;
And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,
The haughty grandee, and the low picaroon,
The six-foot life-guardsman, and little gossoon,
Will all join in three cheers for the "Monstre" Balloon.

* * * * *

It is much to be regretted that I have not as yet been able to discover more than a single specimen of my friend "Sucklethumbkin's" Muse. The event it alludes to, probably the _euthanasia_ of the late Mr. Greenacre, will scarcely have yet faded from the recollection of an admiring public. Although, with the usual diffidence of a man of fashion, Augustus has "sunk" the fact of his own presence on that interesting occasion, I have every reason to believe, that, in describing the party at the _auberge_ hereafter mentioned, he might have said, with a brother Exquisite, "_Quorum pars magna fui_."

HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY.

THE EXECUTION.

A SPORTING ANECDOTE.

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two, He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim Was clean of limb,
His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing,
"Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
"Malibran's dead, Duvernay's fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,
What may a Nobleman find to do?"--

Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down,
He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,
And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head,
He let go the handle, and thus he said,
As the door, released, behind him bang'd:
"An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hang'd."

My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the news,
"Run to M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score I've seen before--
Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more;
But to see a man swing At the end of a string,
With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"

My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab--
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
Through street, and through square,
His high-trotting mare,
Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air.
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm, But did no great harm,
Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay Two urchins at play,
Knocking down--very much to the sweeper's dismay--
An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall Near Exeter Hall,
Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall.
But eastward afar, Through Temple Bar,
My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
Never heeding their squalls, Or their calls, or their bawls,
He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,
Where in front of the gaol, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?"

* * * * *

The clock strikes twelve--it is dark midnight--
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met; The tables are set;
There is "punch," "cold _without_," "hot _with_," "heavy wet,"
Ale-glasses and jugs, And rummers and mugs,
And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars,
Welsh rabbits and kidneys--rare work for the jaws!--
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,
All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"

The clock strikes One! Supper is done,
And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions every one!"
My Lord Tomnoddy Is drinking gin-toddy,
And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.--
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
--"Who so merry, so merry as we?"
Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze,
While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four!-- Round the debtors' door
Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more;
As many await At the press-yard gate,
Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks
A waggon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five! The Sheriffs arrive,
And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;
But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks, and winks,
A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze Is dreaming of Jews,
And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy Has drunk all his toddy,
And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.

Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
On all--save the wretch condemn'd to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a Sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery!--
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!

And hark!--a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes--Eight!--
List to that low funereal bell:
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!--
And see!--from forth that opening door
They come--HE steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more!
--God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale wan man's mute agony,--
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,--not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!--Enough--'tis done!
The bolt has fallen!--the spirit is gone--
For weal or for woe is known but to One!
--Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!--Ah me!
A deed to shudder at,--not to see.

Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past:--with its earliest chime
The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away:
Nine!--'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then--my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
"Hollo! Hollo! Here's a rum Go!
Why, Captain!--my Lord!--Here's the devil to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!--
What's to be done? We've miss'd all the fun!--
Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"

What _was_ to be done?--'twas perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again:
What _was_ to be done?--The man was dead!
Nought _could_ be done--nought could be said;
So--my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

* * * * *

The following communication will speak for itself:--

"On their own actions modest men are dumb!"

SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.

IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER-IN-LAW, LIEUT. SEAFORTH, H.P., LATE OF THE HON. E.I.C.'S 2ND REGT. OF BOMBAY FENCIBLES.

"The play's the thing!"--_Hamlet._

_Tavistock Hotel, Nov. 1839._

DEAR CHARLES,
--In reply to your letter, and Fanny's,
Lord Brougham, it appears, isn't dead,--though Queen Anne is;
'Twas a "plot" and a "farce"--you hate farces, you say--
Take another "plot," then, viz. the plot of the Play.

* * * * *

The Countess of Arundel, high in degree,
As a lady possess'd of an earldom in fee,
Was imprudent enough, at fifteen years of age,
--A period of life when we're not over sage,--
To form a _liaison_--in fact, to engage
Her hand to a Hop-o'-my-thumb of a Page.
This put her Papa-- She had no Mamma--
As may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage.

Mr. Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat,
In his budget of proverbs, "Stol'n kisses are sweet!"
But they have their alloy-- Fate assumed, to annoy
Miss Arundel's peace, and embitter her joy,
The equivocal shape of a fine little Boy.

When, through "the young Stranger," her secret took wind,
The old Lord was neither "to haud nor to bind."
He bounced up and down, And so fearful a frown
Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind.
The young lady, they say, Having fainted away,
Was confined to her room for the whole of that day;
While her beau--no rare thing in the old feudal system--
Disappear'd the next morning, and nobody miss'd him.

The fact is, his Lordship, who hadn't, it seems,
Form'd the slightest idea, not ev'n in his dreams,
That the pair had been wedded according to law,
Conceived that his daughter had made a _faux pas_;
So he bribed at a high rate A sort of a Pirate
To knock out the poor dear young Gentleman's brains,
And gave him a handsome _douceur_ for his pains.
The Page thus disposed of, his Lordship now turns
His attention at once to the Lady's concerns;
And, alarm'd for the future, Looks out for a suitor,
One not fond of raking, nor giv'n to "the pewter,"
But adapted to act both the husband and tutor--
Finds a highly respectable, middle-aged widower,
Marries her off, and thanks Heaven that he's rid of her.
Relieved from his cares, The old Peer now prepares
To arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs;
Has his will made anew by a Special Attorney,
Sickens,--takes to his bed,--and sets out on his journey.
Which way he travell'd Has not been unravell'd;
To speculate much on the point were too curious,
If the climate he reach'd were serene or sulphureous.
To be sure in his balance-sheet all must declare
One item--the Page--was an awkward affair;
But _per contra_, he'd lately endow'd a new Chantry
For Priests, with ten marks, and the run of the pantry.
Be that as it may, It's sufficient to say
That his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day,
Built of Bethersden marble--a dark bluish grey.
The figure, a fine one of pure alabaster,
Some cleanly churchwarden has cover'd with plaster;
While some Vandal or Jew, With a taste for _virtu_,
Has knock'd off his toes, to place, I suppose,
In some Pickwick Museum, with part of his nose;
From his belt and his sword And his _misericorde_
The enamel's been chipp'd out, and never restored;
His _ci-gît_ in old French is inscribed all around,
And his head's in his helm, and his heel's on his hound,
The palms of his hands, as if going to pray,
Are joined and upraised o'er his bosom--But stay!
I forgot that his tomb's not described in the Play!

* * * * *

Lady Arundel, now in her own right a Peeress,
Perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries,
But produces in time, to her husband's great joy,
Another remarkably "fine little boy."
As novel connections Oft change the affections,
And turn all one's love into different directions,
Now to young "Johnny Newcome" she seems to confine hers,
Neglecting the poor little dear out at dry-nurse;
Nay, far worse than that, She considers "the brat"
As a bore--fears her husband may smell out a rat.

For her legal adviser She takes an old Miser,
A sort of "poor cousin." She might have been wiser;
For this arrant deceiver, By name Maurice Beevor,
A shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail,
By the law of the land stands the next in entail;
So, as soon as she ask'd him to hit on some plan
To provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran
To that self-same unprincipled sea-faring man;
In his ear whisper'd low ... --"Bully Gaussen" said "Done!--
I Burked the papa, now I'll Bishop the son!"
'Twas agreed; and, with speed To accomplish the deed,
He adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed.
By long cock-and-bull stories Of Candish and Noreys,
Of Drake, and bold Raleigh, (then fresh in his glories,
Acquired 'mongst the Indians, and Rapparee Tories,)
He so work'd on the lad, That he left, which was bad,
The only true friend in the world that he had,
Father Onslow, a priest, though to quit him most loth,
Who in childhood had furnish'd his pap and his broth,
At no small risk of scandal, indeed, to his cloth.

The kidnapping crimp Took the foolish young imp
On board of his cutter so trim and so jimp,
Then, seizing him just as you'd handle a shrimp,
Twirl'd him thrice in the air with a whirligig motion,
And soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean;
This was off Plymouth Sound,
And he must have been drown'd,
For 'twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground,
If "A very great Warman, Call'd Billy the Norman,"
Had not just at that moment sail'd by, outward bound.
A shark of great size, With his great glassy eyes,
Sheer'd off as he came, and relinquish'd the prize;
So he pick'd up the lad,[16] swabb'd, and dry-rubb'd, and mopp'd him,
And, having no children, resolv'd to adopt him.

Full many a year Did he hand, reef, and steer,
And by no means consider'd himself as small beer,
When old Norman at length died and left him his frigate,
With lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it.
A sailor ne'er moans; So, consigning the bones
Of his friend to the locker of one Mr. Jones,
For England he steers.-- On the voyage it appears
That he rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers;
And at length reached the Sussex coast, where, in a bay,
Not a great way from Brighton, most cosey-ly lay
His vessel at anchor, the very same day
That the Poet begins,--thus commencing his play: