(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Children's Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "The works of Thomas Hood : comic and serious, in prose and verse with all the original illustrations : with memorial prefixed"

Google 



This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 



k 



HOOD'S OWN. 



THE WORKS 



THOMAS HOOD. 



COMIC AND SERIOUS, IN PROSE AND VERSE, WITH ALL 
THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS. 



BY HIS SON AND DAUGHTER. 






LONDON : 

E. MOXON, SON, & CO., DOVER STREET. 

1871. 



MVft. 



V.5 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



1824. 

Guido and MariTia. — A Dramatic 8ketoh • 

The Two Swans.— A Fairy Tale 

Ode on a Diatant Prospect of Clapham Academy 






1 

6 

15 



1 



1825. 

Odes and Addresses to Great People :-* 

Address . • • • 20 

Advertisement to the Second Edition • •21 

Preface to the Third Edition . • .23 

Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut . • .24 

Ode to Mr. M* Adam . . . .81 

A Friendly Epistle to Mrs. Fry, in Newgate • 36 

Ode to Richard Martin, Esq., M.P. for Gidway • 41 

Ode to the Great Unknown . . . .44 

Address to Mr. Dymoke, the Champion of England 53 
Ode to Joseph Grimaldi, Senior ' . . .56 

To Sylvanus Urban, Esq., Editor of the *' Gentle- 
man's Magazine " .... 60 
An Address to the Steam Washing Company . 63 
Letter of Remonstrance from Bridget Jones to the 
Noblemen and Grentlemen forming the Washing 
Committee • • • « • ^ 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



PAO« 

Odes and Addresses to Great People — eonUnu/td^^ 

Ode to Captain Parry . . . , ,71 

Ode to K. W. EllUton, Esq., the great Lessee . 78 

Address to Maria Darlington on her return to the 

St^e ...... 82 

Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D. . . . . 85 

An Address to the very Reverend John Ireland, D.D. 92 
Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq., Secretary to the Society for 

the Suppression of Mendicity • • .96 

Playing at Soldiers • . . • , ,98 

The Death Bed • . . . . .102 

To My Wife 103 

Song.— "There is dew for the floVret*' . . .104 

Verses in an Album . . • • • 105 






1826. 

Whims and Oddities : — 

Preface . . • 

Address to the Second Edition 

A Recipe — for Civilisation . • • • 

Jjove •••.••• 

"The Last Man" 

The Ballad of Sally Brown, and Ben the Carpenter • 
A Fairy Tale ...... 

" Love Me, Love my Dog " . • • • 

A Dream ...••• 

The Irish Schoolmaster . . • • 

Faithless Nelly Gray.— A Pathetic Ballad . 

The Water Lady ....•• 

Autumn .....•• 

I Remember, I Remember ..... 

Death's Ramble ...... 

Address to Mr. Cross, of Exeter Change, on the Death of 
the Elephant ...... 

The Poet's Portion ...... 

Ode to the late Lord Mayor, on the Publication of his 
"Visit to Oxford" 



106 
107 
110 
115 
116 
124 
127 
132 
135 
142 
151 
154 
155 
156 
157 

159 
163 

165 



1827. 

Whims and Oddities : — 

Preface to the Second Series 
Address to the Third Edition 






170 
171 



GONTENT& 






Whims and Oddities — continued^ 

Preface . • . . • 

Bianca*8 Dream. — ^A Yenetian Stozy • 

A True Story • • • • 

A Parthian Glance . • • 

A Sailor's Apology for Bow-Legs 
Elegy on David Laing, Esq., Blacksmith and Joiner ^with 

out Licence) at Grretna Green . 
Sonnet. — ^Written in a Volume of Shakspeare 
A Retrospective B^view 
Ballad.—* * It was not in the Winter " 
Stanzas to Tom Woodgate, of Hastings • 
Time, Hope, and Memory • • • 

Flowers • • • • • 

Ballad. — ''She's up and gone, the graceless girl" 
Buth •••••• 

The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies • 

Hero and Leander . . • • 

Ballad. — '* Spring it is cheery" • • 

Song. — ^For Music • • • • 

Autumn • • . • • 

Ballad.—" Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's edipse" 
Ode to the Moon • • • • 

The Exile 

To Jane • • • • • 

Ode to Melancholy • • • • 

Extract of Letter from L. E. L. • • 

Sonnet. — On Mistress Nicely, a Pattern for Housekeepers. 

Written after seeing Mis. Davenport in her Character 

at Govent Grarden ..... 

Sonnet. — '* By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts " 

To my Wife . • • • • 

On receiving a Gift .... 

„ '* Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak*' . 
Letter from L. E. L. . . . . • 

Odes and Addresses to Great People. — ^To Thomas Bish, 

Esq. •...••• 
Ode. — ''Jordan, farewell ! farewell to all" • • 



99 
99 



172 
173 
183 
190 
193 

196 
198 
199 
202 
203 
208 
209 
210 
211 
212 
262 
279 
279 
280 
281 
283 
286 
287 
288 
292 



293 
293 
294 
295 
295 
296 

297 
800 



1828. 

Town and Country. — An Ode . 

Lament for the Decline of Chivalry 
Ex Post-Facto Epigrams : — 
On the Death of the Giraffe 
On the Removal of a Menagerie 









802 
306 

309 
309 



Tiii 



OONTENTSL 



The Logicians. — ^An Illuitratioii • • 4 


FAOB 

» . 810 


Death in the Kitchen . • • « 


. 813 


ReflectionB on a New Tear's Day • • , 


. 816 


Grimaldi's Benefit . . . • , 


. 817 


Ode to Edward Gibbon Wakefiekl, Esq. . 


. 318 


National Tales : — 




Preface .••••« 


. 820 


The Spanish Tragedy . . • . 
The Miracle of the H0I7 Hermit 


• 822 
. 860 


The Widow of Oalida . . . . 


. 866 


The Golden Cup and the Dish of Silver 


. sro 


The Tragedy of Seville . . • . 


. 876 


The Lady in Love with Bomanoe • 


. 381 


The Eighth Sleeper of Ephesns • , 


. 887 


Madeline . . • • < 


. 890 


Masetto and hii Mare . 




. 898 


The Story of Michel Argentt , 




. 404 


The Three Jewels 




. 409 


Geronimo and Ghisola • 




. 415 


The Fall of the Leaf • 




. 420 


Baranga • 




. 426 


The Exile 




. 481 


The Owl . • i 




. 489 


The German Ejught . , 
The Florentine ninsmen , 




. 448 
. 449 



GUIDO AND MARINA. 

A DSAHATIO SKETCH. 

[Ghiido, haying given Hmself np to the pemicions stndy of mtgio ftnd 
Mtrology, casts his nativity, and resolves that at a certain hoar of a certain 
day he is to die. Mariva, to wean him from this fatal delnsion, which 
hath gradually wasted him away, even to the verge of death, advances the 
honr-hand of the clock. He is supposed to be seated beside her in the 
garden of his palace at Venice.] 

Guido. Clasp me again ! My soul is very sad ; 
And hold thy lips in readiness near mine, 
Lest I die suddenly. Clasp me again ! 
'Tis such a gloomy day ! 

Mar. Nay, sweet, it shines. 

Guido, Nay, then, these mortal clouds are in mine eye& 
Clasp me again ! — ay, with thy fondest force, 
Giye me one last embrace. 

Mar, LoTe, I do clasp thee 1 

Guido. Then closer — closer — ^for I feel thee not ; 
Unless thou art this pain aroimd my heart 
Thy lips at such a time should never leave me. 

Mar. What pain — ^what time, love ? Art thou ill 1 Alas ! 
I see it in thy cheek. Come, let me nurse thee. 
Here, rest upon my heart. 

Guido. Stay, stay, Marina. 

Look ! — when I raise my hand against the sun, 
Is it red with blood 1 

Mar. Alas ! my love, what wilt thou t 

Thy hand is red — and so is mine— all hands 
Show thus against the sun. 

Guido, All living men'fl^ 

VOL, V. 



a GCJIDO AND MARINA. 

Marina^ but not mine. Hast never heard 
How death first seizes on the feet and hands, 
And thence goes fireezing to the very heart ? 

Mar, Tea, love, I know it ; but what then ? — the hand 
I hold is glowing. 

0vid4), But my eyes ! — my eyes ! — 

Look iherey Marina — ^there is death's own sign. 
I have seen a corpse, 

E*en when its clay was cold, would still have seem'd 
Alive, but for the eyes — such deadly eyes ! 
So dull and dim ! Marina, look in mine ! 

Mar, Ay, they are dulL No, no— not dull, but bright : 
I see myself within them. Now, dear love. 
Discard these horrid fears that make me weep. 

Outdo, Marina, Marina — ^where thy image lies. 
There must be brightness— or perchance they glance 
And glimmer like the lamp before it dies. 
Oh, do not vex my soul with hopes impossible ! 
My hours are ending. [Clock ttriku. 

Mar, Nay, they shall not ! Hark ! 

The hour — four — five— hark ! — six ! — the very time ! 
And, lo ! thou ai*t alive ! My love— dear love — 
Now cast this cruel phantasm from thy brain — 
This wilful, wild delusion — cast it off I 
The hour is come — and ^orie / What I not a word I 
What, not a smile, even, that thou livest for me ! 
Gome, laugh and clap your hands as I do— <x)me. 
Or kneel with me, and thank th' eternal God 
For this blest passover ! Still sad ! still mute !^ 
Oh, why art thou not glad, as I am glad, 
That death forbears thee ? Nay, hath all my love 
Been spent in vain, that thou art sick of life 1 

Outdo, Marina, I am no more attach'd to death 



GUIDO AND MARINA. 8 

Than Fate hath doomed me. I am his electa 

That even now forestalls thy little light, 

And steals with cold infringement on my breath : 

Already he bedims my spiritual lamp, 

Not yet his due— not yet— quite yet, though Time^ 

Perchance, to warn me, speaks before his wont : 

Some minutes' space my blood has still to flow — 

Some scanty breath is left me still to spend 

In very bitter sighs. 

But there's a point, true measured by my pulse, 

Beyond or short of which it may not live 

By one poor throb. Marina, it is near. 

Mar, Oh, God of heaven ! 

Guido. Ay, it is very near. 

Therefore, cling now to me, and say farewell 
While I can answer it. Marina, speak ! 
Why tear thine helpless hairl it will not save 
Thy heart from breaking, nor pluck out the thought 
That stings thy brain. Oh, surely thou hast known 
This truth too long to look so like Despair ? 

Mar. 0, no, no, no ! — a hope — a little hope — 
I had erewhile^but I have heard its knelL 
Oh, would my life were measured out with thine — 
All my years numbered — all my days, my hours. 
My utmost minutes, all summ*d up with thine ! 

Guido, Marina — 

Mar, Let me weep — ^no, let me kneel 

To God — ^but rather thee— to spare this end 
That is so wilfuL Oh, for pity's sake ! 
Pluck back thy precious spirit from these clouds 
That smother it with death. Oh ! turn from death, 
And do not woo it with such dark resolve. 
To make me widow'd. 



4 GUIDO AND MARINA. 

Guido. I have lived my term. 

Mar, No— not thy term — ^no ! not the natural term 
Of one so yoimg. Oh ! thou hast spent thy years 
In smful waste upon unholy — 

Guido, Hush ! 

Marina. 

Mar. Nay, I must. Oh I cursed lore, 
That hath supplied this spell against thy lifk 
Unholy learning — devilish and dark — 
Study ! 0, God ! 0, God ! — how can thy stars 
Be bright with such black knowledge ? Oh, that men 
Should ask more light of them than guides their steps 
At evening to love ! 

Guido, Hush, hush, oh hush 1 

Thy words have pain*d me in the midst of pain* 
True, if I had not read, I should not die ; 
For, if I had not read, I bad not bean. 

All our acts of life are pre-ordain'd, 

« 

And each pre-acted, in our several spheres, 
By ghostly duplicates. They sway our deeds 
By their performofice. What if mine hath been 
To be a prophet and foreknow my doom I 
If I had closed my eyes, the thunder then 
Had roar'd it in my ears ; my own mute brain 
Had told it with a tongue. What must be, must 
Therefore I knew when my full time would fall ; 
And now — ^to save thy widowhood of tears — 
To spare the very breaking of thy heart, 
I may not gain even a brief hour's reprieve ! 
What seest thou yonder 1 

Mar. Where ? — a tree — the sun 

Sinking behind a tree. 

Outdo. It is no tree, 



THE TWO SWANS. 5 

Marina, but a shape— the awful shape 

That comes to claim me. Seest thou not his shade 

Darken before his steps 1 Ah me ! how cold 

It comes against my feet 1 Cold, icj cold ! 

And blacker than a palL 
Mar, My love I 

Ouido, Oh heaven 

And earth, where are ye ? Marina — [Quido die9. 

Mar, I am here ! 

What wilt thou 7 dost thou speak? — Methought I heard thee 

Just whispering. He is dead ? — God 1 he*s dead ! 

[This and the foUowiog poem (the ''Ode to Clspham Academy'*) 
appeared during this year in the " New Monthly " — ^which my father 
subsequently edited, but which at this time had only reached its tenth 
Tolume.] 

THE TWO SWAN9. 

A FAIBY TALE. 

— ♦— 

Ikkortai^ Imogen, crown'd queen above 
The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear 
A fairy dream in honour of true love — 
True above ills, and frailty, and all fear — 
Perchance a shadow of his own career 
Whose youth was darkly prison*d and long-twined 
By serpent-sorrow, till white Love drew near, 
And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind 
A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind. 

I saw a tower builded on a lake, 
Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep- 
That seem'd a still intenser night to make^ 
Wherein the quiet waters Bank, lo Aae^^ — 



THE TWO SWANS. 

Andy whatsoe'er was prisonM in that keep, 
A monstrous Snake was warden : — round and round 
In sable ringlets I beheld him creep, 
Blackest amid black shadows, to the ground, 
Whilst his enormous head the topmost tmret crown*d. 

From whence he shot fierce hght against the stars, 
Making the pale moon paler with affright ; 
And with his ruby eye out-threaten'd Mars — 
That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and bright — 
Nor slept, nor wink*d, but with a steadfast spite 
Watch*d their wan looks and tremblings in the skies ; 
And that he might not slumber in the night. 
The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his large eyes. 
So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize. 

Prince or princess in dismal durance pent. 
Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate. 
Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent, 
Watching the lonely waters soon and late. 
And clouds that pass and leave them to their fate, 
Or company their grief with heavy tears : — 
Meanwhile that Hope can spy no golden gate 
For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears 
They weep and pine away as if immortal years. 

No gentle bird with gold upon its wing 
Will perch upon the grate — the gentle bird 
Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring 
Freedom's sweet key-note and commission-word 
Leam'd of a fairy's lips, for pity stirred — 
Lest while he trembling sings, imtimely guest ! 
Watch'd by that cruel Snake and dai'kly heard. 



THE TWO SWANS. 

He leave a widow on her lonely nest, 
To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast. 

No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, 
Will seek the fruitful perils of the place. 
To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark 
That bear that seipent-image on their face. 
And Love, brave Love ! though he attempt the base, 
Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win 
His captive lady from the strict embrace 
Of that foul Serpent, dasping her within 
His sable fblds — ^like Eve enthraU*d by the old Sin. 

But there is none— no knight in panoply^ 
Nor Love, intrench*d in his strong steely coat : 
No little speck — no sail — ^no helper nigh, 
No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat : — 
The distant shores show dimly and remote. 
Made of a deeper mist, — serene and grey, — 
And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float 
Over the gloomy wave, and pass away. 
Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play. 

And bright and silvery the willows sleep 
Over the shady vei^e— no mad winds tease 
Their hoaiy heads ; but quietly they weep 
Their sprinkling leaves — ^half fountains and half trees 
There lilies be — and fairer than all these, 
A solitaiy Swan her breast of snow 
Launches against the wave that seems to freeze 
Into a chaste reflection, still below 
TwinHBhadow of herself wherover BkQ toscj ^ 



8 THE TWO SWANS. 

And forth she paddles in the very noon 
Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing, 
Charm*d into being by the argent moon — 
Whose silver light for love of her fair wing 
Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping 
Her dainty plumage : — all around her grew 
A radiant cirdet, like a fairy ring ; 
And all behind, a tiny little due 
Of light, to guide her back across the waters blu& 

And sure she is no meaner than a fay, 
Redeem*d from deepy death, for beauty's sake, 
By old ordainment : — silent as she lay, 
Touch*d by a moonlight wand I saw her wake. 
And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake 
The verdant prison of her lily peers, 
That slept amidst the stars upon the lake — 
A breathing shape — ^restored to human fears, 
And new-bom love and grief — self-conscious of her tears. 

And now she clasps her wings around her heart, 
And near that lonely isle begins to glide. 
Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start 
Turns her impatient head from side to side 
In universal terrors — all too wide 
To watch ; and often to that marble keep 
Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied 
Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep 
That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep. 

And well she may, to spy that fearful thing 
All down the dusky walls in circlets wound ; 



THE TWO SWANS. 9 

Alas ! for what rare prize, with man j a ring 
Girding the marble casket round and round f 
EUs folded tail, lost in the gloom profound. 
Terribly darkeneth the rockj baae ; 
But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd 
With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face 
Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place. 

Alas ! of the hot fires that nightly fall, 
No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite. 
So he may never see beneath the wall 
That timid little creature, all too bright, 
That stretches her fair neck, slender and white. 
Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries 
Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night 
With song — ^but, hush — it perishes in sighs. 
And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies ! 

She droops — she sinks — she leans upon the lake. 
Fainting again into a lifeless fiower ; 
But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake 
Her spirit from its death, and with new power 
She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower 
Of tender song, timed to her falling tears — 
That wins the shady summit of that tower, 
Andy trembling all the sweeter for its fears, 
Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears. 

Andy lo 1 the scaly beast is all deprest. 
Subdued like Argus by the might of sound — 
What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest 
To magic converse with the air, and bound 
The many monster eyes, aU AMEDSa^t-dii^NsnKi^\— 



10 THE TWO SWANS. 

• So on the turret-top that watchful Snake 
Pillows his giant head, and lists profound. 
As if his wrathful spite would never wake, 
Charm*d into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake ! 

His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, 
And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies, 
To drink that dainty flood of music down — 
His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs — 
And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies, 
His looks for envy of the charmed sense 
Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes, 
Stung into pain by their own impotence, 
Distil enormous tears into the lake immense. 

Oh, tuneful Swan ! oh, melancholy bird ! 
Sweet was that midnight miracle of song, 
Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word 
To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong — 
Hinting a piteous tale — perchance how long 
Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake. 
What time disguised thy leafy mates among — 
And no eye knew what human love and ache 
Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break. 

Therefore no poet will ungently touch 

The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew 

Trembles like tears ; but ever hold it such 

As human pain may wander through and through. 

Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue — 

Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb' d. 

By magic spella Alas ! who ever knew 



THE TWO SWANS. H 

Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed^ 
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed f 

And now the winged song has scaled the height 
Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, 
And soon a little casement flashing bright 
Widens self-open'd into the cool air — 
That music like a bird may enter there 
And soothe the captive in his stony cage ; 
For there is nought of grief, or painful care. 
But plaintive song may happily engage 
From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuaga 

And forth into the light, small and remote, 
A creature, like the fisdr son of a king. 
Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat 
Against the silver moonlight glistening. 
And leans upon his white hand listening 
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone 
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing 
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan. 
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone 

And while he listens, the mysterious song, 
Woven with timid particles of speech. 
Twines into passionate words that grieve along 
The melancholy notes, and softly teach 
The secrets of true loVe, — that trembling reach 
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun 
He missions like replies, and each to each 
Their silver voices mingle into one. 
Like blended streams that make one mw&v^ \)j& \}ck6^ xv^xu 



12 THE TWO SWANS. 

"Ah ! Love, my hope is swoonmg in my hearty — ** 
" Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high — ^ 
'' Alas ! our lips are held so far apart, 
Thy words come faint, — ^they have so far to fly ! — ** 
" If I may only shun that serpent-eye, — ** 
" Ah me ! that serpent-eye doth never sleep ; — " 
" Then, nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die ! — ** 
" Alas, alas ! that word has made me weep ! 
For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep 1 *' 

" My marble keep 1 it is my marble tomb — ^" 
" Nay, sweet 1 but thou hast there thy hving breath—" 
" Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom ; — ** 
" But I will come to thee and sing beneath, 
And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath ; — " 
** Nay, I will find a path from these despairs.*' 
'' Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death, 
Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs. — 
Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares ! " 

Full sudden at these words, the princely youth 
Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still 
Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth. 
But numb'd to dulness by the hirj skill 
Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill 
For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay — 
Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, 
Held some short throbs by natural dismay. 
Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way. 

Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight. 
Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall * 



THE TWO SWANS. 

Now fair and spangled in the sudden lights 
And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall ; 
Now dark and sheltered by a kindly pall 
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe ; 
Slowly he winds adown^-dimly and small, 
Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below, 
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow. 

But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace 
The marble walls about — ^which he must tread 
Before his anxious foot may touch the base : 
Long is the dreary path, and must be sped ! 
But Love, that holds the masteiy of dread. 
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil 
He wins his way, ^d pow, with arms outspread 
Impatient plunges from the last long coil : 
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil 1 

The song is hush'd, the charm is all complete. 
And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake : 
But scarce their tender biUs have time to meet. 
When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake-^ 
His steely scales a fearful rustling make, 
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell 
The sable storm ; — ^the plumy lovers quake — 
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, 
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer felL 

His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, 

Hiss horrible pursuit — ^his red eyes glare 

The waters into blood — his eager breath 

Grows hot upon their plumea ; — ^noN?, xxnx^sXx^^xX 



18 



14 THE TWO SWANS. 

She drops her ring into the waves, and there 
It widens all around, a fairy ring 
Wrought of the silver light — the fearful pair 
Swim in the veiy midst, and pant and ding 
The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing. 



Bending their course over the pale grej lake. 
Against the pallid East, wherein light play'd 
In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake 
Circled them round continiiallj, and bay'd 
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade 
The sanctuary ring — his sable mail 
Boll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made 
A shining track over the waters pale, 
Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous tail 

And so they sail*d into the distance dim. 
Into the very distance — small and white, 
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim 
Over the brooklets — ^follow'd by the spite 
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright 
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy. 
Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light, 
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy, 
Look*d in embrace of sweet imutterable joy I 

Then came the Mom, and with her pearly showers 
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes 
Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers 
The Oriental sim began to rise, 
Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies ; 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 15 

Wherewith that sable Serpent far away 
Fled, like a part of night— delicious sighs 
From waking blossoms purified the day, 
And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
CLAPHAM ACADEMY.* 



Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! 
That classic house, those classic grounds 

My pensive thought recaUs ! 
What tender urchins now confine, 
What little captives now repine. 

Within yon irksome walls 1 

Ay, that*s the very house ! I know 
Its ugly windows, ten arrow ! 

Its chimneys in the rear ! 
And there's the iron rod so high, 
That drew the thunder from the sky 

And tum'd our table-beer ! 

There I was birch* d ! there I was bred ! 
There like a little Adam fed 

From Learning's woeful tree 1 
The weary tasks I used to con ! — 
The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! — 

Most fruitless leaves to me ! — 

* No connexion with any oikkci 0^ 



OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 

The siunmon*d class ! — the awful bow ! — 
I wonder who is master now 

And wholesome anguish sheds 1 
How many ushers now employs, 
How many maids to see the boys 

Have nothing in their heads ! 

And Mrs. S ♦ ♦ ♦]— Doth she abet 
(like Pallas in the parlour) yet 

Some fevour'd two or three, — 
The little Crichtons of the hour, 
Her muffin-medals that deyour, 

And swill her prize — bohea ? 

• 

Ay, there's the playground ! there's the lime, 
Beneath whose shade in summer^s prime 

So wildly I have read ! — 
Who sits there now, and skims the cream 
Of young Bomance, and weaves a dream 

Of Love and Cottage-bread f 

Who struts the Randall of the walk f 
Who models tiny heads in chalk f 

Who scoops the light canoe % 
What early genius buds apace f 
Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase t 

Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? 

Alack ! they're gone — a thousand ways ! 
And some are serving in '' the Greys,'* 
And some have perish'd young ! — 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 17 

Jack Harrifl weds bis second wi^s ; 
Hal Baylis driyes the toane of life ; 
And blithe Carew — is bung 1 

Grave Bowers teaches ABO 
To savages at Owhyee 

Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
All, all are gone— ^the olden breed ! — 
New crops of mushroom bojs succeed, 

"And push us from owe forms/" 

Lo 1 where thej scramble forth, and shout^ 
And leap, and skip, and mob about, 

At play where we have play'd 1 
Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine 
Their crony arms ; some in the Bhine,^- 

And some are in the shade 1 

Lo there what mix'd conditions run t 

The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; ^ 

And Fortune's favour'd care— 
The wealthy-bom, for whom she hath 
Mac-Adamised the future path — 

The Nabob's pamper'd heir I 

Some brightly starr'd — some evil bom, — 
For honour some, and some for scom, — 

For Mr or foul renown 1 
Good, bad, indiffrent — none may lack 1 
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black I 

And there's a Creole browiil 



18 OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep. 
And wish their * frugal sires would keep 

Their only sons at home ; * — 
Some tease the future tense, and plan 
The full-grown doings of the man. 

And pant for years to come I 

A foolish wish 1 There's one at hoop ; 
And four si Jives 1 and five who stoop 

The marble taw to speed 1 
And one that curvets in and out^ 
Beining his fellow Cob about^ — 

Would I were in his ttead I 

Tet he would gladly halt and drop 
That boyish harness o% to swop 

With this world's heavy van — 
To toil, to tug. little fool I 
While thou canst be a horse at school. 

To wish to be a man 1 

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
To wear a crown, — ^to be a king 1 

And sleep on regal down 1 ' 
Alas 1 thou knoVst not kingly cares ; 
Far happier is thy head that wears 

That hat without a crown I 



And dost thou think that years acquire 
New added joys % Dost think thy sire 
More happy than his son % 



ODE ON A PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 19 

That manhood's mirth 1 — Oh, go thy ways 

To Drury-lane when * plays, 

And see how forced our fan I 

Thy taws are brave ! — ^thy tops are rare I — 
Our tops are spun with coils of care, 

Our dumps are no delight ! — 
The Elgin marbles are but tame, 
And 'tis at best a sorry game 

To Sy the Muse's kite I 

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead 

Like balls with no reboimd 1 
And often with a faded eye 
We look behind, and send a sigh 

Towards that merry ground 1 

Then be contented. Thou hast got 
The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 

There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast — 
Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 

A sorry breaking-np 1 

* TUs blank exists in the originaL 



1825. 



ODES AND ADDRESSES, AND ANNUALS. 

PTms year, in co^j unction with John Hamilton Reynolds, my father 
published anonymously a yolome of "Odes and Addresses to Great 
People." It would, I think, be impossible to sejmrate the respectiye 
Odes — I am nearly sure that "Maria Darlington," "Dymoke, 
** EUiston," and perhaps "Dr. Ireland,'* were addressed by Reynolds. 
The little volume reached a second, and shortly after a third edition — 
each being ushered in by a few words in the shape of a prefisu^e.] 



ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 



** 



<< Catching all the oddities, the whimsies, the absurdities, and the 
littleness of oonsdoos greatness by the way."— (^ttisen of tke World. 

ADDRESS. 

The present being the first appearance of this little Work, 
some sort of Address seems to be called for from the Author, 
Editor, and Compiler, — and we come forward in prose, totally 
overcome, like a flurried manager in his every-daj clothes, 
to solicit public indulgence — protest an indelible feeling of 
reverence — bow, beseech, promise, — and " all that." 

To the persons addressed in the Poems nothing need be 
said, as it would be only swelling the book, (a custom which 
we detest,) to recapitulate in prose what we have said in 
vBTse, To those imaddressed an apology is due; — and to 



ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 21 

them it is very respectfully offered Mr. Hunt^ for his 
Permanent Ink, deserves to have his name recorded in his 
own composition — Mr. Colman, the amiable King's Jester, 
and Oath-blaster of the modem Stage, merits a line — Mr. 
Accum, whose fame is potted — Mr. Bridgman, the maker of 
Patent Safety Coffins — Mr. Kean, the great Lustre of the 
Boxes — Sir Humphiy Dayy, the great Lamplighter of the 
Pits — Sir William Congreve, one of the proprietors of the 
Portsmouth Rocket — yea, several others call for the Muse*s 
approbation ; — ^but our little Volume, like the Adelphi 
House, is easily filled, and those who are disappointed of 
places are requested to wait until the next performance. 

Having said these few words to the uninitiated, we leave 
our Odes and Addresses, like Gentlemen of the Green Lsle, to 
hunt their own fortunes ; — and, by a modest assurance, to 
make their way to the hearts of those to whom they have 
addressed themselves. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

A Second Edition being called for, the Author takes the 
opportunity of expressing his gratefid thanks to his Readers 
and Reviewers, for the kind way in which they have gene- 
rally received his little Book. Many of those who have been 
be-Oded in the following pages have taken the verse-offerings 
in good part ; and the Author has been given to understand 
that certain "Great People," who have been kept "out of 
situations,*' have, like Bob Acres, looked upon themselves as 
Tery ill-used Gentlemen. It is rather hard that there should 
not be room for all the Great ; — ^but this little conveyance,— 
a sort of light coach to Fame, — like other conveyances, wlule 
it has only four in, labours under the lAieaAx^JciV^ic^ qH >mktols^ 



22 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 

twelve oiU. The Proprietor apprehends he must meet the 
wants of the Public by steuling an extra coach : in which 
case Mr. Cohn(*n (an anxious Licenser) and Mr. Hunt (the 
best maker of speeches and blacking in the City and Liberty 
of Westminster) shall certainly be booked for places. To the 
latter Gentleman, the Author gratefully acknowledges the 
compliment of a bottle of his permanent ink : it will be, 
indeed, pleasant to write an Address to Mr. Wilberforce in 
the liquid of a beautiful jet Black, which the Author now 
meditates doing. Odes, written in permanent ink, will 
doubtless stand a chance of running a good race with 
Gray's! 

A few objections have been made to the present Volume, 
which the Author regrets he cannot attend to, without 
serious damage to the whole production. The Address to 
Maria Darlington is said by several ingenious and judicious 
persons to be namhy-pamhy. — ^This is a sad disappointment to 
the Writer, as he was in hopes he had accomplished a bit of 
the right Shenstonian, The verses to the Champion of 
England are declared irreverent, — and those to Dr. L'eland^ 
and his Partners in the Stone Trade, are held out as an 
improper interference with sacred things ; these Addresses 
are certainly calumniated : the one was really written as an 
affectionate inquiry after a great and reverend Warrior, now 
in rural retirement ; and the other was intended as a kindly 
advertisement of an exhibition, which, although cheaper than 
the Tower, and nearly as cheap as Mr& Salmon's Wax-work, 
the modesty of the Proprietors will not permit them suffi- 
ciently to puff. 

To the imiversal objection, — ^that the Book is overrun with 
puns, — ^the Author can only say, he has searched every page 
without being able to detect a thing of the kind. He can 
^2iJ7 jDromise^ therefore, that if any respectable Beviewer will 



ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLK 28 

point the vermin out^ thej shall be carefully trapped and 
thankfully destroyed. 



PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 

From the kindness with which this little volume has been 
received, the Authors have determined upon presenting to 
the Public " more last Baxterish words ; " and the Reader 
will be pleased therefore to consider this rather as a Preface 
or Advertisement to the volume to come, than a third Address 
in prose, explanatoiy or recommendatory of the present 
portion of the Work. It is against etiquette to introduce 
one gentleman to another thrice ; and it must be confessed, 
that if these few sentences were to be billeted upon the first 
volume, the Public might overlook the Odes, but would have 
great reason to complain of the Addresses. 

So many Great Men stand over, like the correspondents to 
a periodical, that they must be "continued in our next." 
These are certainly bad times for paying debts; but all 
persons having any claims upon the Authors, may rest 
assured that they will ultimately be paid in full. 

No material alterations have been made in this third 
Edition, — ^with the exception of the introduction of a few new 
commas, which the lovers of punctuation will immediately 
detect and duly appreciate ; — and the omission of the three 
puns,* whichf in the opinion of all friends and reviewers, were 
detrimental to the correct humour of the publication. 

* I have reftd, and had the two editions read repeatedly, but hare fiEdled 
to detect any of these omissions, unless one of them is the elision of the 
word *' washing ** in Bridget Jones*s letter, as pointed out in a note there. 



24 



ODE TO MR GRAHAM, 

TBI AKRONAUT. 
♦ 

** Up irith me I— «p with me into the sky 1 ** 

Wordsworth— <m a Lark/ 

Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, 
The yain, the wealthy, and the proud, 

Their meaner flights pursue. 
Let us oast ofif the foolish ties 
That bind us to the earth, and rise 

And take a bird's-eye view ! — 

A few more whifis of my cigar 
And then, in Fancy's airy car. 

Have with thee for the skies : — 
How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd 
Hath borne me £rom this little world. 

And all that in it lies ! — 

Away ! — away ! — ^the bubble fills — 
Farewell to earth and all its hills !— 

We seem to out the wind ! — 
So high we mount, so swift we go. 
The chimney tops are far below, 

The Eagle's left behmd \^ 

Ah me I my brain begins to swim !— 
The world is growing rather dim ; 

The steeples and the trees — 
My wife is getting veiy small I 
I cannot see my babe at all ! — 

The Dollond, if you please 



ODE TO MB. GRAHAM. 25 

Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, 
Lord 1 what a Lilliput it is, 

That little world of Mogg's I— 
Are those the London Docks ? — ^that channel, 
The mighty Thames ? — ^a proper kennel 

For that small Isle of Dogs ! — 

What is that seeming tea-urn there f 
That fairy dome, St Paul's ! — I swear, 

Wren must have been a Wren ! — 
And that small stripe ? — it cannot be 
The City Road !— Good lack ! to see 

The little ways of men ! 

Little, indeed ! — ^my eyeballs ache 
To find a turnpike. — I must take 

Their tolls upon my trust 1 — 
And where is mortal labour gone ? 
Look, Graham, for a little stone 

Mac Adamized to dust 1 



Look at the horses ! — ^less than flies 
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs 

To wish to be a Mayor ! 
What is the honour ? — none at all, 
One's honour must be very small 

For such a civic chair ! — 



And there's Guildhall ! — ^"tis far aloof-* 
Methinks, I fancy through the roof 

Its little guardian Gogs 
Like penny dolls — a tiny show ! — 
Well, — I must say they're ruled below 

By veiy little logs !— 



26 ODE TO MB. GRAHAM. 

Oh 1 Graham, how the upper air 
Alters the standardfi of compare ; 

One of our silken flags 
Would cover London all about— 
Na-y then — let's even empty out 

Another brace of bags ! 

Now for a glass of bright champagne 
Above the clouds ! — Come, let us drain 

A bumper as we go ! — 
But hold ! — for God*s sake do not cant 
The cork away — unless you want 

To brain your Mends below. 

Think 1 what a mob of little men 
Are crawling just within our ken, 

Like mites upon a cheese 1 — 
Pshaw ! — how the foolish sight rebukes 
Ambitious thoughts !— can there be Duke$ 

Of Gloster such as these ! — 

Oh ! what is glory % — ^what is fame 1 
Hark to the little mob's acdaim, 

'Tis nothing but a hum 1 — 
A few near gnats would trump as loud 
Ab all the shouting of a crowd 

That has so far to come 1 — 

Well — they are wise that choose the near, 
A few small buzzards in the ear, 

To organs ages hence ! — 
Ah me, how distance touches all ; 
It makes the true look rather small, 

But murders poor pretence. 



ODE TO ME. GRAHAM. 27 

" The world recedes ! — it disappears 1 
Heav'n opens on my eyes — my ears 

With buzzing noises ring ! " — 
A fig for Southey's Lanreat lore ! — 
What's Rogers here ? — ^Who cares for Moora 

That hears the Angels sing ! — 

A fig for earth, and all its minions ! — 
We are above the world's opinions, 

Graham ! we'll have our own ! — 
Look what a vantage height we've got 1 — 
Now do you think Sir Walter Soott 

Is such a Great Unknown % 

Speak up, — or hath he hid his name 
To crawl through " subways" unto fame^ 

Like Williams of ComhiU ]— 
Speak up, my lad ! — when men run small 
We'll show what's little in them all, 

Receive it how they wiU ! — 

Think now of Irving I — shall he preach 
The princes down, — shall he impeach 

The potent and the rich. 
Merely on ethic stilts, — and I 
Not moralize at two miles high 

The true didactic pitch 1 

Come : — ^what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir ? 
Is Gifford such a Gulliver 

In Lilliput's Review, 
That like Colossus he should stride 
Certain small brazen inches wide 

For poets to pass throught 



i 



28 ODE TO MB. GRAHAM. 

Look down I the world is but a spot. 
Now say — Is Blackwood's low or not> 

For all the Scottish tone 1 
It shall not weigh ns here — ^not where 
The sandy burden's lost in air — 

Our lading — ^where is't flown 1 

Now, — ^like you Croly*s verse indeed — 
In heaven — ^where one cannot read 

The "Warren" on a wall 1 
What think you here of that man's feune 9 
Though Jerdan magnified his name. 

To me 'tis very small 1 

And, truly, is there such a spell 
In those three letters, L. £. L., 

To witch a world with song f 
On cbuds the Byron did not sit, 
Yet dared on Shakspeare's head to spit, 

And say the world was wrong 1 

And shall not we f Let's think aloud 1 
Thus being couch'd upon a cloud, 

Graham, we'll have our eyes ! 
We felt the great when we were less. 
But we'll retort on littleness 

Now we are in the skies. 

Graham, Graham, how I blame 
The bastard blush, — ^the petty shame^ 

That used to fret me quite, — 
The little sores I cover'd then. 
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when 

The world is out of sight I 



ODE TO MB. GRAHAM. 29 

My name is Tima — I am the man 
That North's unseen duninlsh'd dan 

So scurvily abused ! 
I am the very P. A. Z. 
The London's Lion's small pin's head 

So often hath refused 1 

Campbell — (you cannot sae him here)— 
Hath scom'd my lay% :— do his appear 

Such great eggs from the sky ? — 
And Longman, and his lengthy Co. 
Long only in a little Bow, 

Have thrust my poems by ! 

What else % — Fm poor, and much beset 
With danm'd small duns — ^that is — ^in debt 

Some grains of golden dust 1 
But only worth above, is worth. — 
What's all the credit of the earth f 

An inch of cloth on trust ! 

What's Bothschild here, that wealthy man ! 
Nay, worlds of wealth ? — Oh, if you can 

Spy out, — the Golden Ball 1 
Sure as we rose, all money sank : 
What's gold or silver now 1 — ^the Bank 

Is gone— the 'Change and all ! 

What's all the ground-rent of the globe 
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job 

To hear its landlords prate 1 
But after this survey, I think 
I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink 

From men of large estate \ 



80 ODE TO MB. GRAHAM. 

And less, still less, will I submit 
To poor mean acres' worth of wit — 

I that have heaven's span — 
I that like Shakspeare's self may dream 
Beyond the very clouds, and seem 

An Universal Man I 

Mark, Graham, mark those goi^geous crowds 1 
like Birds of Paradise the clouds 

Are winging on the wind ! 
But what is grander than their range 1 
More lovely than their sun-set change 1 — 

The free creative mind I 

Well ! the Adults' School 's in the aiv 1 
The greatest men are lesson'd there 

As well as the Lessee I 
Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small 
Behold the greatest stage of all, 

How humbled they would be ! 

'' Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em 
To see themselves as others see 'em," 

'Twould much abate their fuss I 
If they could think that from the skies 
They are as little in our eyes 

As they can think of us 1 

Of us 1 are uv gone out of sight 1 
Lessen'd ! diminish'd ! vanish'd quite ! 

Lost to the tiny town ! 
Beyond the Eagle's ken — the grope 
Of Dollond's longest telescope I 

Graham 1 we're going down ^ 



ODE TO MR M'ADAM. 8i 

Ah me ! Tve touch'd a string that opes 
The airy valve ! — the gas elopes — 

Down goes our bright Balloon ! — 
Farewell the skies 1 the clouds 1 I smell 
The lower world 1 Graham, fiEirewell, 

Man of the silken moon I 

The earth is dose 1 the City nears — 
like a burnt paper it appears, 

Studded with tiny sparks ! 
Methinks I hear the distant rout 
Of coaches rumbling all about — 

We're close above the Parks 1 

I hear the watchmen on their beats. 
Hawking the hour about the streeta 

Lord t what a cruel jar 
It is upon the earth to light ! 
Well — there's the finish of our flight ! 

I've smoked my last cigar ! 



ODE TO MR M'ADAM. 

♦ 
'< Let VB take to the road I ^^Seggoi'i Opera, 

WAdam, hail 1 
Hail, Boadian 1 hail, Colossus I who dost stand 
Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land 1 

Oh universal Leveller 1 all hail 1 
To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, 

The kindest one, and yet the flintiest fg(^\n^<-^ 



82 



ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 

To thee, — ^how much for thy commodious plan, 
Lanark Beformer of the Ruts, is Owing ! 
The Bristol mail 
Gliding o*er ways, hitherto doem*d inyincible. 

When oanying Patriots, now shall never &il 
Those of the most " unshaken public principle.'* 
Hail to thee, Scot of Scots 1 
Thou northern light, amid those heavy men ! 
Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside. 
Thou scatter*st flints and favours far and wide, 
From p^daces to cots ; — 
Dispenser of coagulated good ! 
Distributor of granite and of food ! 
Long may thy fame its even path march on, 

E*en when thy sons are dead ! 
Best benefactor ! though thou giv'st a stone 
To those who ask for bread 1 

Tbj first great trial in this mighty town 
Was, if I rightly recollect, upon 
That gentle hill which goeth 
Down from " the County" to the Palace gate, 

And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth 
Past the Old Horticultural Society, — 
The chemist Cobb*s, the house of Howell and Jamee, 
Where ladies play high shawl and satin games— 

A little ffeU of lace ! 
And past the Athenaeum, made of late. 

Severs a sweet variety 
Of milliners and booksellers who grace 

Waterloo Place, 
Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 
*Twixt Mr. Bivington's and Mr. Hessey'a 



ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 3S 

Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac ! and shaved the road 
From Barber Beaumont's to the Eling^s abode 
So well, that paviors threw their rammers by, 
Let down their tuck'd shirt sleeves, and with a sigh 
Prepared themselves, poor souls, to chip or die ! 

Next, from the palace to the prison, thou 

Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat^ — 
Preventing though the rattling in the street. 
Yet kicking up a row. 
Upon the stones — ^ah ! truly watchman-like, 
Encouraging thy victims all to strike. 

To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ; — 
Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey I 
And to the stony bowers 
Of Newgate, to encourage the approach. 
By caravan or coach, — 
Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers. 

Who shall dispute thy name ! 
Insculpt in stone in every street, 

We soon shall greet 
Thy trodden down, yet all imconquer'd fame ! 
Where'er we take, even at this time, our way. 
Nought see we, but mankind in open air, 
Hanmiering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare ;— 

And with a patient care 
Chipping thy immortality all day ! 
Demosthenes, of old, — that rare old man,— 
Prophetically /o^few'c?, Mac ! thy plan : — 
For he, we know, 
(History says so,) 
Put pebbles in his mouth when lie vrovAA. ^.'^xik. 



14 ODE TO MR. M'ADAIC. 

The smoothest Greek ! 

It is ^impossible, and cannot be,*' 
But that thy genius hath, 
Besides the turnpike, many another path 

Trod, to arrive at popularity. 
0*er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, 
Nor ridden a roadster only ; — ^mighty Mac ! 
And 'faith I*d swear, when on that winged hack, 
Thou hast observed the highways in the sky ! 
Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep, 

And " hai-d to climb," as Dr. B. would say ? 
Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keep 

The noiseless tenor of their way ? (see Gray.) 
What line of road should poets take to bring 

ITieraselves unto those waters, loved the first ! — 
Those waters which can wet a man to sing ! 

Which, like thy fame, " from granite basins burst, 

Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst ? " 

That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might 
Vouchsafe ; — and Mr. Cadell may^ God wot. 
Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot, — 
CadelFs a wayward wight ! 
Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, 
And I can throw, I think, a little light 
Upon some works thou hast written for the town, — 
And published, like a Lilliput Ui^known ! 

" Highways and Byeways " is thy book, no doubt, 
(One whole editio^'8 out,) 
A^d pext, for it is fair 
That Famp, 
Seeing her children, should confess she had *em ; — 
"Som^ Passages from the life of Adam Blair," — 



ODE TO MB. M'ADAM. 35 

(Blair is a Scottish name,) 
What are they, but thj own good roads, M'Adam ? 

! indefatigable labourer 
In the paths of men ! when thou shalt die, 'twill be 
A mark of thy surpassing industry, 

That of the monument, which men shall rear 
Orer thy most inestimable bone, 
Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone ! — 
Of a right ancient line thou comest, — through 
Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken due, 
Until we see thy sire before our eyes, — 
Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise 1 
But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, and ne'er 

Have our walks since been fair 1 
Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, 
For ever varying, through his varying range, 

Time maketh all things even 1 
In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven, 
He hath redeem'd the Adams, and contrived, — 

(How are Time's wonders hived !) 
In pity to mankind, and to befriend *em, — 

(Time is above all praise,) 
That he, who first did make our evil ways. 
Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em ! 



86 



A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY, 

IN NEWGATE, 

'< SermonB in stones.*' — At jfOM Uhe It. 
** Oat ! out ! damned spot ! "—Maebetk. 

I LIKE you, Mrs. Fry ! . I like your name ! 

It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing 

In daily act round Charity's great flame — 

I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing. 

Good Mrs. Fry 1 I like the placid daim 

You make to Christianity, — ^professing 

Love, and good tiwA»— of course you buy of Barton, 

Beside the joimgfn/a bookseUer, Friend Darton ! 

I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute — 
Those serious^ solemn gentlemen that sport — 
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit 
Shaped like a court dress — ^but for heaven's court. 
I like your sisters too, — sweet Rachel's fruit — 
Protestant nims ! I like their stiff support 
Of virtue — and I like to see them clad 
With such a difference — just like good from bad ! 

I like the sober colours — ^not the wet ; 

Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow — 

Green, orange, crimson, piuple, violet — 

In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go— 

The others are a chaste, severer set, 

In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go— 

They're moral standard^ to know Christians by— 

In short, they arc your colours, Mrs. Fry ! 



A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FEY. 87 

As for the naughty tinges of the prism — 

Crimson's the cruel uniform of war — 

Blue — ^hue of brimstone ! minds no catechism ; 

And green is young and gay — not noted for 

Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, 

TiU it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or 

Olive — and puiple*s giv'n to wine, I guess ; 

And yellow is a convict by its dress ! 

They're all the devil's liveries, that men 

And women wear in servitude to sin — 

But how will they come off, poor motleys, when 

Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in 

The £vil presence ? You and I know, then 

How all the party colours will begin 

To part — the Pittite hues will sadden there. 

Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair 1 



Witness their goodly labours one by one 1 
RuMei makes garments for the needy poor — 
Dom-oolour preaches love to all — and dun 
Calls every day at Charity's street-door — 
Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun 
All gaudy furnishing — olive doth pour 
Oil into wounds : and drab and date supply 
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 

Well ! Heaven forbid that I should discommend 
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour ! 
When all persuasions in your praises blend — 
The Methodist's creed and cry are, Fru tex «s^"t\ 



88 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MBS. FEY. 

No— I will be your friend — and, like a friend. 
Point out your very worst defect — Nay, never 
Start at that word ! — But I mutt ask you why 
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry % 



Too well I know the price our mother Eve 

Paid for her schooling : but must all her daughters 

Commit a petty larceny, and thieve^ 

Pay down a crime for " entrance " to your " quarten f *' 

Your classes may increase, but I must grieve 

Over your pupils at their bread-and-waters I 

Oh, tho' it cost you rent— (and rooms run high !) 

Keep your school out of Newgate, Mra Fry ! 

O save the vulgar soul before it*s spoil'd ! 
Set up your mounted sign without the gate— 
And there inform the mind before *tis soil'd 1 
'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate ! 
Nay, if you would not have your labours foil'd, 
Take it inclining tow'rds a virtuous state. 
Not prostrate and laid flat — else, woman meek 1 
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek I 

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain 

The evil spirit from the heart it preys in, — 

To bring sobriety to life again, 

Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin, — 

To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,— 

To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, 

Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her ; 

To tame the iriid-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver I 



A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 89 

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach 
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw — 
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach 
She made in manners — ^to write heaven's own law 
On hearts of granite. — Nay, how hard to preach. 
In cells, that are not memory's — to draw 
The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye 
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry ! 

In vain you teach them baby-work within : 

'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime ; 

'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin — 

Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time — 

It is too late for scouriDg to begin 

When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime 

Is worn away, and nothing sound remains ; 

You'll fret the fabric out before the stains I 



I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry ! 

I like your cookery in every way ; 

I like your shrove-tide service and supply j 

I like to hear your sweet Fandeans play ; 

I like the pity in your full-brimm'd eye ; 

I like your carriage, and your silken grey. 

Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching ; 

But I don't like your Newgatory teaching. 

Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! Repair 
Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets. 
0, come abroad into the wholesome air. 
And take your moral place, betore ^m ^&i^\^ 



40 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 

Her wicked self iu the Professor's chair. 
Suppose some morals raw 1 the true receipt's 
To dress them in the pan, but do not try 
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry ! 



Put on your decent bonnet, and come out ! 
Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools 
In jail — but at the Porch I hinting, no doubt, 
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules 
Before 'twas whipt by law. — come about, 
Good Mrs. Fry ! and set up forms and stools 
All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street, 
But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat ! 

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you 
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour ; 
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue 
Ruin of blue, or any other colour ; 
Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue. 
Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar j 
Teach her that " flooring Charleys " is a game 
Unworthy one that bears a Christian nama 

come and teach our children — ^that ar'n't ours — 
That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way, 
Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours 
Children, like Time — or rather they both prey 
On youth together — meanwhile Newgate low'rs 
Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day, 
To shut them out from any more blue sky : 
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry ! 



ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.P. H 

You are not nice — ^go into their retreats, 
And make them Quakers, if you will. — Twere best 
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans pleats; 
That they had hats with brims, — that they were drest 
In garbs without lappeh — than shame the streets 
With so much raggedness. — You may invest 
Much cash this way — ^but it will cost its price, 
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice ! 

In brief, — Oh teach the child its moral rote, 
Not in the way from which 'twill not depart, — 
But out — out — out ! Oh, bid it walk remote ! 
And if the skies are closed against the smart, 
Ey'n let him wear the single-breasted coat. 
For that cnsureth singleness of heart — 
Do what you will, his every want supply. 
Keep him — ^but otU of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 



ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., 



M.P. FOB GALWAY. 
> 



'Martin in this has prored himself a yery good man ! ** — Boxiana, 

How many sing of wars, 

Of Greek and Trojan jars — 

The butcheries of men ! 
The Muse hath a " Perpetual Ruby Pen I " 
Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill ; 

But no one sings the man 

That, like a pelican, 
Noxu'ishes Pity with his tender BUI 1 



4S ODE TO BICHARD MABTIN, ESQ., M.P. 

Thou Wilberforce of hacks ! 

Of whites as well as blacks, 

Piebald and dapple gray, 
Chesnut and bay — 
No poet's eulogy thy name adorns ! 

But oxen, from the fens, 

Sheep— m their pens, 
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns ! 
Thou art simg on brutal pipes ! 

Drovers may curse thee, 

Elnackers asperse thee, 
And sly M.P.*s bestow their cruel wipes ; 

But the old horse neighs thee. 

And zebras praise thee, — 
Asses, I mean — ^that have as many stripes ! 

Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear. 
In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environs- 
Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air 1 

Bullocks don*t wear 

Oxide of iron ! 
The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon*d oft. 
Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, 
That thought his horse the courser of the two— 

Whilst Swift smiled down aloft ! — 
O worthy pair 1 for this, when he inhabit 
Bodies of birds — (if so the spirit shifts 
From flesh to feather) — when the clown uplifts 
His hand against the sparrow's nest, to grab it,— 
Ho shall not harm the Mabtins and the Sm/U ! 

Ah ! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanced 
The horse ! — and humbled biped man like Plato I 



ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.P. 43 

But now he*s dead, the chai^ger is mischanoed — 
Gone backward in the world — and not advanced,— 

Kemember Cato I 
Swift was the horse's champion — ^not the Eing^fl^ 

Whom Southe J sings. 
Mounted on Pegasus — ^would he were thrown 1 
Hell wear that ancient hackney to the bone, 
Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things 1 
Ah well-a-day ! the ancients did not use 
Their steeds so cruelly ! — let it debar men 
From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse — 
Look at the ancients' Mute ! 
Look at their Carmen ! 

0, Martin ! how thine eye^ 
That one would think hod put aside its lashes,— 
That can't bear gashes 
Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy 
That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane, — 
For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual. 
Or some man painted in a bloody vein — 
Gods 1 is there no JTorBe-tpitcU / 
That such raw shows must sicken the humane ! 
Sure Mr. Whittle 
Loves thee but little, 
To let that poor horse linger in his pane t 

build a Brookes's Theatre for horses ! 
wipe away the national reproach— 

And find a decent Vulture for their corses ! 
And in thy funeral track 
Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach I 

Stcoda that confess '* the luxury oi 100 T 



it% 



4i ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

True mourning steeds, in no extempore blacky 

And many a wretched hack 
Shall sorrow for thee, — sore with kick and blow 
And bloody gash — ^it is the Indian knack — 
(Save that the savage is his own tormentor) — 
Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf — 
The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, 

And Man and Horse go half and half, 
As if their griefs met in a common Centaur ! 



ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

♦ ■ 

'<0 breathe not hii name 1 ^*— Moore, 

Thou Great Unknown I 
I do not mean Eternity nor Death, 

That vast incog 1 
For I suppose thou hast a living breath, 
Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown. 

Thou man of fog ! 
Parent of many children— child of none ! 

Nobody's son ! 
Nobody's daughter — ^but a parent still ! 
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch 
Of orphan eggs, — ^left to the world to hatcL 

Superlative Nil ! 
A vox and nothing more, — ^yet not Vauxhall ; 
A head in papers, yet without a curl ! 

Not the Invisible Girl 1 
JVb hand — but a hand-writing on a wall — 



ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 45 

A popular nonentity. 
Still called the same^ — ^without identity ! 

A lark, beard out of sight, — 
A nothing shined upon, — ^invisibly bright^ 

*^ Dark with excess of light ! " 
Constable's literary John-a-Nokes — 
The real Scottish wizard — and not which. 

Nobody — ^in a niche ; 

Every one*s hoax ! 

Maybe Sir Walter Scott— 
Perhaps not ! 
Why dost thou so conceal, and puzzle curious folks ? 

Thou, — ^whom the second-sighted never saw, 
The Master Fiction of fictitious history ! 

Chief Nong-tong-paw 1 
No mister in the world — and yet all mystery ! 
The " tricksy spirit " of a Scotch Cock Lane^ 
A nofel Junius puzzling the world*s brain — 
A man of magic — yet no talisman ! 
A man of dair obscure — not he o' the moon ! 

A star — at noon. 
A non-descriptus in a caravan, 
A private— of no corps — a northern light 

In a dark lantern, — Bogie in a crape — 
A figure — but no shape ; 
A vizor — and no knight ; 

The real abstract hero of the age ; 

The staple Stranger of the stage ; 
A Some One made in every man's presiunption, 
Frankenstein's monster — ^but instinct with gumption 
Another strange state captive in the norths 

Constable-guarded in an iron mask. — 



46 ODE TO THE GBEAT UNKKOWK. 

Still let me ask, 
Hast thou no silver platter, 
No door-plate, or no card— or some such matter 
To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth ? 

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger 
Of Curiosity with airy gammon ! 
Thou mystery- monger. 
Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, 
That people huy, and can*t make head or tail of it ; 
(Howbcit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it ;) 
Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, 
That lay their proper bodies on the shelf-^ 
Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, 

Thou Zimmerman made practical ! 
Thou secret foimtain of a Scottish style. 

That, like the NUe, 
Hideth its source wherever it is bred, 

But still keeps disemboguing 

(Not disembroguing) 
Thro* such broad sandy mouths without a head 
Thou disembodied author — ^not yet dead, — 
The whole world's literary Absentee ! 

Ah 1 wherefore hast thou fled, 
rhou learned Nemo— ^wise to a degree, 

Anonymous L. L» D, 1 

Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang 
That do — and inquests cannot say who did it 1 

Wert thou at Mrs. Donatt/s death-pang ? 
Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch— or hid it f 
Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber ? Heaven forbid it 1 

J should he very loth to see thee hang ! 



ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 17 

I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd, 
An innocent, altho* an ink-black hand. 

Tho' thou hast newly tum'd thy private bolt on 

The curiosity of all invaders — 
I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, 
Who knows a little of the Holy Land, 

Writing thy next new novel — ^The Crusaders I 

Perhaps thou wert even bom 
To be Unknown. — Perhaps hung, some foggy mom, 
At Captain Coram*s charitable wicket, 

Pinn*d to a ticket 
That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing 
The future great unmentionable being. — 

Perhaps thou hast ridden 
A scholar poor on St Augustine's Back, 
Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack 

Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden ; 
A little hoard of clever simulation. 

That took the town — and Constable has bidden 
Some hundred pounds for a continuation — 
To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation. 

I liked thy Waverly — first of thy breedii^g ; 

I like its modest " sixty years ago," 
As if it was not meant for ages* reading. 

I don't like Ivanhoe, 
Tho' Dymoke does — it makes him think of clattering 

In iron overalls before the king, 
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, 

Tuning his challenge to the gauntlets* riog— - 
Oh better far than all that anvil clang 

It was to hear tJiee touch the famous «\x\tvv; 



is ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang. 
Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, 
Like Sagittarian Pan 1 

I like Guy Mannering — ^but not that sham son 
Of Brown. — I like that literary Sampson, 
Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. 
I like Dick Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson 

That slew the Ganger ; 
And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major ; 
And Merrilies, yoimg Bertram's old defender, 

That Scottish Witch of Endor, 
That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, 
To tell a great man's fortime — or to make it ! 

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, 
Ho makes me think of Mr. Britton, 
Who has — or had — within his garden wall, 
A miniature Stone ffenge, so very small 

The sparrows find it difl&cult to sit on ; 
And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' McGregor ; 
And Edie Ochiltree, that old Bltie Beggar, 

Painted so cleverly, 
I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly ! 
I like thy Barber — ^him that fired the Beacon — 
But that's a tender subject now to speak on I 

I like long-ami'd Rob Roy. — His very charms 
Fashion'd him for renown ! — In sad sincerity, 

The man that robs or writes must have long arms, 
If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity ! 
Witness Miss Biflfin's posthumous prosperity, 
Hor poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) 



ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 49 

Bearing the name she bore, 
A thmg Time's tooth is tempted to destroy I 
But Roys can never die— why else, in yerity. 
Is Paris echoing with " Viye le Roy / " 

Aye, Rob shall lire agun, and deathless Di— 
(Yemon, of course) shall often lire again — 
Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, 

Who can pass by 
Nor feel the Thiefs in prison and at hand 1 
There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand ! 

I like thy Landlord's Tales !— I like that Idol 
Of love and Lammermoor — ^the blue-eyed maid 
That led to church the mounted cavalcade, 

And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal t 
Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunchea^ 
I like the family — (not silver) branches 

That hold the tapers 

To light the serious legend of Montrose.-^ 
I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours. 
As if he could not walk or talk alone. 
Without the devil — or the Great Unknown, — 

Dalgetty is the nearest of Ducrows 1 

I like St. Leonard's Lily—- drenoh'd with dow 1 
I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, 
That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew 

I like the battle lost and won. 

The hurly burly's bravely done. 
The warlike gallops and the warlike canters ! 
I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, 
Ready to preach down heathens, or to grax>ii«<^ 

VOL r. K 



50 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

With one eye on his sword, 
And one upon the Word,— 
How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel I 
I like stem Claverhouse, though he doth dapple 
His raven steed with blood of many a corse — 
I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that imravels 

Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse — 
She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels ! 

I like thy Eenilworth — ^but I'm not going 

To take a Eetrospective Re-Review 
Of all thy dainty novels — ^merely showing 

The old familiar faces of a few, 
The question to renew, 
How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, 
Forego the unclaimed dividends of fame, 
Forego the smiles of literary houris — 
Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, 

And all the Carse of Cowrie's, 
When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty — 

Or see thy image on Italian trays, 
Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparte, 

Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'8, 
Or vie in sign-boards with the Royal Cuelph 

Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer s 
Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself 

To other Englands with Australian reamers — 
Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee 
Displace the native wooden gods, or be 
The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf ! 



It is not modesty that bids thee hid< 
She never wastes her blushes out of sight : 



ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. . 61 

It is not to invite 

Tho world's decision, for thy fame is tried, — 

And thy fair deeds are scatter*d far and wide. 
Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon*d, — 

From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars 
In crimson collars, 
And learned Serjeants in the forty-second ! 
Whither by land or sea art thou not bcckon'd ? 
Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, 
Defying distance and its dim control ; 

Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckoned worth 
A brace of Miltons for capacious soul — 

Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north, 
And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole ! 

Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp. 
With such a giant genius at command. 

For ever at thy stamp, 
To fill thy treasuiy from Fairy Land, 
AVhen haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand 
Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, 

Tho' princes sought her. 
And lead her in procession hymeneal. 
Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal ! 
Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Whar^ 
Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs f 
Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, 
Some hopeless Imp, like Riquet with the Tuft, 
Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuflTd, 
Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs ? 

What in this masquing age 
Maketh Unknowns so many and 80 di^^ 



52 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

What but the critic's page t 
One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye ; 
Another hath a wen, — ^he won't show where ; 

A third has sandy hair, 
A hunch upon his back, or legs awiy. 
Things for a vile reyiewer to espy ! 
Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose, — 

Finally, this is dimpled, 
Like a pale crumpet hce, or that is pimpled, 
Things for a monthly critic to expose — 
Nay, what is thy own case — ^that being small. 
Thou choosest to be nobody at all ! 

Well, thou art prudenti with such puny bones^ 
E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf. 
That shadowy revelation of thyself — 
To build thee a small hut of haunted stones — 
For certainly the first pernicious man 
That ever saw thee, wotdd quickly draw thee 
In some vile literary caravan — 
Shown for a shilling 
Woidd be thy killing, 
Think of Crochami's miserable span I 
No tinier frame the tiny spark coidd dwell in 

Than there it fell in — 
But when she felt herself a show — she tried 
To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf I and died f 

since it was thy fortune to be bom 
A dwarf on some Scotch Inchy and then to flinch 
From all the Gog-like jostle of great men, 
StDl with thy small crow pen 



ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. W 

Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn — 
Still Scottish story daintily adorn, 

Be still a shade — ^and when this age is fled. 
When we poor sons and daughters of reality 

Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead. 
And Time destroys our mottoes of morality— 
The lithographic hand of Old Mortality 
Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, 

A featureless death's head, 
And rob Oblivion ev*n of the Unknown ! 



ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE, 

THB CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. 



«. 



Anna Yimrnqve eano !** — VirgtL 



Mr. Dthoke ! Sir Knight ! if I may be so bold — 
(Fm a poor simple gentleman just come to town^) 

Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold 1 — 

Is your gauntlet ta*en up, which you lately flung down t 

Are you — ^who that day rode so mailed and admired. 

Now sitting at ease in a library chair 1 
Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired. 

With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare 1 

What's become of the cup I Great tin-plate worker I say ! 

Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun ! 
Oh ; three golden balls haven't lured you to play 

Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges \)ut o\ie^ 



5i ADDRESS TO MB. DYMOKE. 

How defunct is the show that was chiyaby^s mimic ! 

The breastplate — ^the feathers — ^the gallant array 1 
So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Djmoke I 

The day of brass breeches ! as Wordsworth would say i 

Perchance in some village remote, with a cot| 
And a cow, and a pig, and a barndoor, and all ; — 

Tou show to the parish that peace is your lot, 
And plenty, — though absent from Westminster Hall ! 

And of course you turn every accoutrement now 

To its separate use, that your wants may be well-met ; — 

You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and grow 
A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet. 

And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright 
Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task ; — 

And you bake your own bread in your tin ; and. Sir Elnight, 
Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque 1 

How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas, 
With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly dutch' d, 

And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas, 
And drench'd the King's Bench, — if the glove had been 
touch'd ! 

If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions. 

Had snatch'd your "best doe," — he'd have flooded the 
floor; — 

Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions, 
^^Ule Preservers," have floated him out of his gore ! 



ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. 65 

Oh, you and jour horso ! what a couple was there I 
The Toan and his backer, — to win a great fight ! 

Though the trumpet was loud, — ^you*d an undisturb'd air I 
And the nag snuff *d the feast and the £ray sans affright ! 

Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore 
When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall ; — 

For though his departure was at the front door. 
Still he went the back way out of Westminster HalL 

He went, — and 'twould puzzle historians to say, 

When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your mail, — 

Whether caution or courage inspired him that day, 
For though he retreated, he never tum'd tail 

By my life, he's a wonderful charger ! — The best ! 

Though not for a Parthian corps ! — yet for you I — 
Distinguish'd alike at a fray and a feast. 

What a horse for a grand Retrospective Review ! 

What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool 

When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far aloof!-— * 
What a tailpiece for Bewick ! — or piebald for Poole, 

To bear him in safety from Elliston's hoof I 

Well I hail to Old Cato ! the hero of scenes 
May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge ;- 

Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans. 
Well "pent up in Utica" over the Bridge ! 

And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb's rival, I keep 

Wishing all coimtry pleasures, the bravest and best I 

And oh I when you come to the Hummiuns to sleQ^, 
May you lie " like a warrior taking Vila Tca\ V* 



ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 



-♦■ 



'*Thii fellow*! wise enough to play the fool. 
And to do that well erayet a kind of wit.'* 

TfDtlfih Nigki. 

Joseph ! they say thoa*st left the stage, 

To toddle down the hill of life, 

And taste the flannell*d ease of age, 

Apart from pantomimio strife—- 

** Retired —[for Yonng would call it so] — 

The world shut out" — in feasant Row ! 

And hast thou really washed at last 
From eaoh white cheek the red half-moon 
And all thy public Clownship cast, 
To play the private Pantaloon ) 
All youth — all ages yet to be 
Shall have a heavy miss of thee ! 

Thou didst not preach to make us wise- 



Thou hadst no finger in our schooling — 
Thou didst not ^* lure us to the skies*' — 
Thy simple, simple trade was — Fooling ! 
And yet, IIoav*n knows ! we could — ^we can 
Much '* bettor spare a better man ! ** 

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take 
The reverend Croly fVom the stage, 
Or Southoy, fi^r our quiet's sake, 
Or Mr. Fletdior, Cupid's sage, 



ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOE. 57 

Or, damme I namby pamby Pool,-— 
Or any other clown or fool I 

Go, Dibdin — all that bear the name, 
Go Byeway Highway man ! go ! go ! 
Go, Skeffy — man of painted fame, 
But leave thy partner, painted Joe ! 
I could bear Kirby on the wane. 
Or Signer Paulo with a sprain I 

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made 
His grey hairs scarce in private peace— 
Had Waithman sought a rural shade — 
Or Cobbett ta*en a turnpike lease — 
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill — 
I think I could be cheerful still I 

Had Medwin left off, to his praise, 
Dead lion kicking, like-~a friend ! — 
Had long, long Irving gone his ways 
To muse on death at Fonder^s End — 
Or Lady Morgan taken leave 
Of Letters — still I might not grieve ! 

But, Joseph— everybody's Jo I— 

Is gone — and grieve I will and must 1 

As Hamlet did for Yorick, so 

Will I for thee (though not yet dust), 

And talk as he did when he miss'd 

The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd I 

Ah, where is now thy rolling head ! 
Thy winking, reeling, drunhtn eje^. 



r>'^ <'i>i: To .Tn>r.rii ckimalI'I, si:ximi:. 

(As old Catullus would have said,) 
Thy oyen-mouth, that swallowed pies — 
Enormous hunger — ^monstrous drowth ! — 
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth ! 

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuflfd ! — 
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands ! — 
Thy partridge body, always stuflTd 
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands !— • 
Thy foot — ^like Berkeley's Foote — for why ? 
'Twas often made to wipe an eye ! 

Ah, where thy legs — ^that witty pair ! 
For "great wits jump" — and so did they ! 
Lord ! how they leap'd in lamplight air 1 
Capered — and bounced — and strode away ! — 
That years should tame the legs — alack 1 
Tve seen spring through an Almanack ! 

But bounds will have their bound — ^the shocks 
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes ; 
And those that frisk*d in silken clocks 
May look to limp in fleecy hose — 
One only — (Champion of the ring) 
Could ever make his Winter, — Spring ! 

And gout, that owns no odds between 
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, 
Will visit — ^but I did not mean 
To moralize, though I am grown 
Thus sad, — ^Thy going seem'd to beat 
A muffled drum for Fun's retreat ! 



ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 50 

And, may be — ^'tis no time to smother 
A sigh, when two prime wags of London 
Are gone— thou, Joseph, one, — ^the other, 
A Joe ! — '* sic transit gloria Munden / " 
A third departure som^ insist on, — 
Stage-apoplexy threatens Listen ! — 

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep 
With ancient "2>oztfy" to the dregs — 
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep. 
And put a hatchment o'er her eggs ! 
Let Farley weep — ^for Magic's man 
Is gone — ^his Christmas Caliban ! 

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain, 
As though they walk'd behind thy bier, — 
For since thou wilt not play again. 
What matters, — if in heaVn or here ! 
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed ! — 
There's Quick* might just as well be dead ! 

Oh, how will thy departure cloud 

The lamplight of the little breast ! 

The Christmas child will grieve aloud 

To miss his broadest friend and best, — 

Poor urchin ! what avails to him 

The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm f 

For who like thee could ever stride 1 
Some dozen paces to the mile ! — 
The motley, medley coach provide — 
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile 

* One of the old acton— still a perforxner (bnt in prirate) of Old Rapid. 
'Note to original edition. 



«a TO 8YLVANUS URBAN, ESQ. 

The vegetable man complete I-^ 
A proper Covent Garden feat ! 

Oh, who like thee could ever drmk, 

Or eat, — swill — swallow — ^bolt — and choke ! 

Nod, weep, aud hiccup— sneeze and wink 

Thy very yawn was quite a joke I 

Though Joseph, Junior, acts not HI, 

" There's no Fool like the old Fool " still ! 

Joseph, farewell ! dear funny Joe ! 
We met with mirth, — we part in pain ! 
For many a long, long year must go 
Ere Fun can see thy like again — 
For Nature does not keep great stores 
Of perfect Clowns — that are not Boon I 



TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ., 

XDITOB OF THE " GXNTLEMAN's MAaAZIKB." 

— f— 

" Dost thou not siupect my yean t** 

Mvdi Ado odoul Nothing, 

Oh ! Mr. Urban I never must thou lurch 
A sober age made serious drunk by thee ; 

Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church, 
And nurse thy little bald Biography. 

Oh, my Sylvanus ! what a heart is thine ! 

And what a page attends thee I Long may I 
Hang in demure confusion o*er each line 

That aeika thy little questions with a sigh I 



TO SYLVANUS UBBAN, ESQ. «1 

Old tottering years have nodded to their falla^ 
Like pensioners that creep about and die ; — 

But thou, Old Parr of periodicals, 
Liyest in monthly immortality 1 

How sweet ! — as Byron of hit infant said, — 
'' Knowledge of objects '* in thine eye to trace ; 

To see the mild no-meanings of thy head, 
Taking a quiet nap upon thy face 1 

How dear through thy Obituary to roam. 
And not a name of any name to catch I 

To meet thy Criticism walking home 

Ayerse from rows, and never calling " Watch I " 

Rich is thy page in soporific things, — 
Composing compositions, — ^lulling men, — 

Faded old posies of unburied rings, — 
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen : — 

Lives of Right Reverends that have never lived,— 
Deaths of good people that have really died, — 

Parishioners, — hatch'd, — husbanded, — and wived, — 
Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side ! 

The sacred query, — the remote response, — 
The march of serious mind, extremely slow,— 

The gravcr*s cut at some right agM sconce. 
Famous for nothing many years ago I 

B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write 

*' Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid ; — 
And C, next month, an answer doth indite. 

Informing B. that Mr. Milton di4 \ 



C-2 70 SYLVAXrS UKHAX, l<o. 

X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea» 

Caught upon Martin Luther years agone ; — 

And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee, 
Long dead, that gathered honey for King John. 

There is no end of thee, — ^there is no end, 

Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits I 
Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend. 

And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets. 

Go on, Sylvanus I — Bear a wary eye. 

The churches cannot yet be quite run out 1 

Some parishes must yet have been passed by, — 
There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt ! 

Go on — and close the eyes of distant ages I 
Nourish the names of the undoubted dead ! 

So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages, 
Heavy and lively, though but seldom red. 

Go on ! and thrive ! Demiirest of odd fellows I 
Bottling up dulneus in an ancient binn ! 

Still live ! still prose ! — continue still to tell us 
Old truths ! no strangers, though we take them m ! 



63 



AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING 

COMPANY. 



** Ahchkb. Uow many are there, Scrub t 
Sc&UB. FlTe-and-forty, &Ir." — Beaux Stratagem, 

" For sbame — ^let tbe linen alone V* — Merry Wivet of Windior, 

Ma Scrub — Mr. Slop— or whoever you bo ! 

The Ck)ck of Steam Laundries, — the head Patentee 

Of Associate Cleansers, — Chief founder and prime 

Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime — 

Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety — 

That make washing public — and wash in society — 

lend me your ear ! if that ear can forego 

For a moment the music that bubbles below, — 

From your new Surrey Geysers* all foaming and hot, — 

That soft " simmers sang " so endear'd to the Scot — 

If your hands may stand still, or your steam without 

danger — 
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger, 
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub, — 
wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub, — 
And lend me your ear, — Let me modestly plead 
For a race that your labours may soon supersede— 
For a race that, now washing no living afifords — 
Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards, 
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, 
Not with bread in the funds — or investments of cheese, 

* Qeyscrs :— the buillng springis in lc«;Vui^ 



C4 ADDKi::^^ TO Tiih SILAM WAiJriiiXG C'jMrANV. 

But to droop like sad willows that lived by a Btream, 
Which the sun has sudk*d up into Yapoor and steam. 
Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge 
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge — 
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matinSy 
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, 
And beginneth her toil while the mom is still grey, 
As if she was washing the night into day — 
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora 
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her ; 
Not Venus that rose from the biUow so early, 
Look*d down on the foam with a forehead more ^peor/jr *«- 
Her head is involved in an aiSrial mist. 
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist ; 
Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty ; 
She's Industry's moral — she's all moral beauty 1 
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub- 
Would any man ruin her I — No, Mr. Scrub I 
No man that is manly would work her mishaps- 
No man that is manly would covet her cap — 
Nor her apron — her hose — nor her gown made of stuflf — 
Nor her gin — nor her tea — nor her wet pinch of snuff! 
Alas I so J\A thought — ^but that slippery hope 
Has betray*d hor — as though she had trod on her soap ! 
And she, — ^whose support, — ^like the fishes that fly. 
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky- 
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare. 
To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear. 
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop- 
Quito a living absorbent that revell'd in slop- 
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, 
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land 1 

• Query, jJurZy /— Priuter's I>eviL 



ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 65 

Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands, 

Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands ! 

All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale, 

With no faggot for huming, like Allan-a-Dale ! 

No smoke from her flue — and no steam from her pane. 

Where once she watch*d heaven, fearing God and the rain — 

Or gazed o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross' d. 

Till the lines wandered idle from pillar to post ! 

Ah, where are the playful yoimg pinners — ah, where 

The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air — 

The brisk waltzing stockings — the white and the black. 

That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack — 

The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd. 

That blew into shape, and embodied the wind ! 

There was white on the grass — there was white on the spray — 

Her garden — it look'd like a garden of May ! 

But now all is dark — not a shirt's on a shrub — 

You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub ! 

You've ruin'd her custom — now families dix)p her — 

From her silver reduced — nay, reduced from her copper / 

The last of her washing is done at her eye. 

One poor little kerchief that never gets dry ! 

From mere lack oflinen she can't lay a cloth, 

And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth, — 

But her children come round her as victuals grow scant, 

And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want — 

When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, 

And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, 

And even its pearlashes laid in the grave — 

Whilst her tub is a-dry-rotting, stave after stave, 

And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub 

Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub, — 

Need you wonder she curses your bones, "Mr. Sct>3X>\ 
VOL, r, ^ 



66 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 

Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread, 
If she prays that the evil may visit your head — 
Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee, — 
If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the City — 
In short, not to mention all plagues without number. 
If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humber I 

Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair. 
When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare— 
When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl, 
And the rusty cold iron quite entered her soul — 
When, perhaps, the lost glance of her wandering eye 
Had caught " the Cock Laundresses' Coach " going by. 
Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather. 
And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, 
In a lather of passion that froth' d as it rose. 
Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose, 
On her sheet — if a sheet were still left her — to write. 
Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light — 



LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE 

FROM BEIDGET JONES TO THE KOBLEMEN ANT) GENTLEMEN FORMING 

THE WASHING COMMITTEE. 

— ♦ — 

It's a shame, so it is — men can't Let alone 
Jobs as is Woman's right to do — and go about there Own— 
Theh^ Reforms enuflf Alreddy without your new schools 
For washing to sit Up,— and push the Old Tubs from their 

stools! 
But your just like the Raddicals, — for upsetting of the Sudds 
When the world wogg'd well enuff~and Wommen i;\iish'd 

jm^x old dirty duds. 



ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPAinr. 67 

Fm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam 

Indins, that's Flat, — 
Bat I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentle* 

manny for all that — 
I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle 
I see on Clapham Commim, some times a veiy considerable 

period back when I were little, 
And they Said it went with Steem, — But that was a joke I 
For I never see none come of it, — that's out of it — but only 

sum Smoak — 
And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you 

never had but Two 
In my tune to draw you About to Fairs— and hang you, you 

know that's true ! 
And for All your fine Perspcctuscs, — ^howsomever you be- 

whidi 'em. 
Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at 

Mitchum, 
Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one 

another to Do — 
It ant as if a Bird'seye Hankichcr can take a Birds-high view ! 
But Thats your look-out — I've not much to do with that — 

But picas God to hold up fine, 
Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit 

as Ever crosst the Lino 
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, 
And Thats more than you Can— and 111 say it behind yout 

face — 
But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speaky^^ 
As kept Dockter Pattywn out of his Shirtr for a Weak I 
Thinks I, when I heard it — Well thear's a Pretty go ! 
That comes o' not marking of things or wasKlu^ <i>xt \fcA 

roarkf^ and Huddling 'cm up so \ 



68 ADDBESS TO THE STEAM WASHINO COMPANY. 

Tm Their freuds comes and owns tbem, like drownded 

corpeses in a Vault, 
But may Hap you bavint Lam'd to spel — and That ant your 

Fault, 
Only you ought to leafs the Linnius to them as has Lam'd, — 
For if it wamt for Washing, — and whare Bills is conearnd, 
Wbat'fl the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Hoadi- 

catioD, 
And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays—fit for any 

Cityfttion 1 



Well, what I says is tliis— when every Kittle has its 

spout, 
Theirs no ncad for Compnnjs to puff ateom about ! 
To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuflf Wind 
For blowing up Boats with, — but not to hurt human Icind, 
Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with 

hot water, 
Thof a xSherrif might know Better, than make things for 

slaugbtter. 
As if War wamt Cruel cnuff— whereTcr it befalls. 
Without shooting poor st^ei-s, with sich scrJding 1 irpi n iiab'uig • 

bolla,— 
But thats net so Bad as a Sott of Bear Fiiced Sort 
As joins their Sopea together, and sits up £ 

aubs, 
ForwaahingDirt Cheap,— and eating otli r ;■ ; l' ■„ 
Which is ail verry Fine for you and your ' .''...lL ' 
But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to |,;-.t C,^^ 
They must drink Hunt waah (the only w 

will boll ~ 




• Ti'a word b 



ADDRESS TO THE STEAU WASHISG COMPANY. 69 

And their Little drop of Sum u tilings aa tUcy takes for their 

Goods, 
'Whea you and your Steam has ruined (G — d forgive mee) 

their lively Hoods, 
Poor Women aa was bom to Washing in their youth I 
And now must go aiid Lara other BuiaueascB Four Sooth t 
But if BO bo They leave tlicir Lines what are they to go at — 
They won't do for AngcH's — nor any Trade like That, 
Nor wo cant Sow Uabliy Work, — for that's all Bespoke, — 
For the QueakeN in Bridle ! and a vast of the confind Folk 
Do their own of Tliomaclves— e*en the betteimost of em 

aye, and evu them of middling degrees — 
^Vhy — Lauk help you — Ikbby Linen ant Bread and Cheese ! 
Nor we can't go a hammering tho roads into Dust, 
But wo must all go aud bo Itaakers, Like Mr. Uaishss and 

Mr. Chaml>er, and that's what we must I 
God nose you oght to hovo moro Coneein for our Sect^ 
\Vhen you nose you have suck'd na and banged mmd our 

Muthcrly necks. 
And romemliera what you Owes to Fouudoi Lmda 

washing — 
11 au^U^e you, like Men to got slating and thabing 
' — "^- * ^ ofFemtiti labtn 

it Beat Goi-aenl xiuaai, ut 
iaamjhbinn— 




r 



^ 



70 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASUIKQ COMPANY. 

For man warut maid for Wommens starvatiou, 

Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation — 

And cant be dun without in any Countiy But a naked Hot- 

tinpot Nation. 
Ah, I wish our Mimster would take one of your Tubba 
And preaoh a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs — 
But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther 

Bybills or Good Tracks, 
Or youd no better than Taking the Close off one's Backs — 
And let your neighbours Oxin an Asses alone, — 
And every Thing thats hem, — and give every one their 

Hone ! 

Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for 

herself. 
And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf. 
But if you wamt Noddis youd Let wommen a-be 
And pull off your Pattins, — and leave the washing to wo 
That nose what's what — Or mark what I say, 
Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day — 
When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun 

at all, 
And Crismass cum— and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, 
Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare 
Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good 

in his Harm Chare — 
Besides Miss-Matching Lamed Ladys Hose, as is sent for you 

not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew 
And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, 
With a vast more like That, — and all along of Stcem 
Which wamt meand by Nater for any sich skeam — 
But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, 
And. J cant saj I'm sorry, afore God, if you shoud, 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 71 

For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways 
Without taking onm, — aye, and Moor to your Prays,* 
If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt, 
But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt! 

Youm with Auymocity, 

Bridget Jones. 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 

*' Bj the North Pole I do challenge thee ! ** 

Love's Labour's Lott, 

Parbt, my man ! has thy bravo log 
Yet struck its foot against the peg 

On which the world is spim ] 
Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare 
Writ by the hand of Nature there 

Where man has never run ? 

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown 
Of channels in the Frozen Zone 

* The followmg additional lines were inaeited in the third edition :-^ 

" Yoa might go and skim the creme o£f Mr. Mack- Adam' a milky ways 

— that*s what you might, 
Or bete Carpets— or get into Farleamint, — or drive crahrolay« from 

morning to night, 
Or, if you most be of our sects, be Watchemen, and slepe upon a 

poste ! 
(Which is an od way of sleping I mnst say,— and a very hard pillow 

at most,) 
Or yon might be any trade, as we are not on that Tm awares. 
Or be Watermen now, (not Water wommen) and roe people np and 

down Hongerford stares.*' 



ODB TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 

Or held at Icy Bay, 
Hast thou still miss'd the proper track 
For homeward Indian men that lack 

A bracing by the way ? 

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble 
On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble 

Of geographic scholar ? 
Or found new ways for ships to shape, 
Instead of winding round the Cape, 

A short cut through the collar I 

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to * 

The Pole — ^though God knows whom they went to 1 

That track reveal'd to Pope — 
Or if the Arctic waters sally, 
Or terminate in some blind alley, 

A chilly path to grope ? 

Alas ! though Ross, in love with snows, 
Has painted them ootdeur de rose. 

It is a dismal doom. 
As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice, 
" In regions of thick-ribbM ice " — 

All bright, — and yet all gloom I 

'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit 
Before the fire and worship it 

With pecks of WaUsend coals. 
With feet upon the fender's front, 
Roasting their corns — like Mr. Hunt — 

To speculate on poles. 

<* And vaft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.**— JSZoita io AMard, 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 73 

Tis easy for our Naval Board — 
'Tis easy for our Civic Lord 

Of London and of case. 
That lies in ninety feet of down. 
With fur on his nocturnal gown, 

To talk of Frozen Seas ! 

'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, 
And prate about the mimdano spit. 

And babble of CooJcs track — 
He*d roast the leather off his toes. 
Ere he would trudge through polar snows. 

To plant a British Jack ! 

Oh, not the proud licentious great, 
That travel on a carpet skate. 

Can value oils like thine ! 
What 'tis to take a Hecla range, 
Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange, 

And alpine lumps of brine ! 

But we, that mount the Hill o* Rhyme, 
Can tell how hard it is to climb 

The lofty slippery steep. 
Ah ! there are more Snow Hills than that 
Which doth black Newgate, like a hat. 

Upon its forehead, keep. 

Perchance thou rt now — while I am writing — 
Feeling a bear*s wet grinder biting 

About thy frozen spine ! 
Or thou thyself art eating whale, 
Oily, and underdone, and stale. 

That, haply, cross'd thy line I 



64 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPAKT. 

But to droop like sad willows that liTod by a stream, 
Whioh the sun has suck*d up into yapour and steam. 
Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge 
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge — 
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, 
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, 
And beginneth her toil while the mom is still grey, 
As if she was washing the night into day — 
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora 
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her ; 
Not Venus that rose from the billow so early, 
Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more ^peor/jr *«- 
Her head is involved in an atrial mist. 
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist ; 
Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty ; 
She's Industry's moral — she's all moral beauty 1 
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub- 
Would any man ruin her I — No, Mr. Scrub I 
No man that is manly would work her mishap — 
No man that is manly would covet her cap — 
Nor her apron — ^her hose — nor her gown made of stuff — 
Nor her gin — ^nor her tea — ^nor her wet pinch of snuff I 
Alas I so alie thought — ^but that slippery hope 
Has betray'd her — as though she had trod on her soap ! 
And she, — whose support, — like the fishes that fly. 
Was to have her fins wet^ must now drop from her sky«-— 
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare. 
To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear. 
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop- 
Quito a living absorbent that revell*d in slop- 
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, 
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land ! 

• Query, jJurZy / — Priuter'a DeviL 



ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 65 

Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands, 
Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands ! 
All haggard and pinch' d, going down in life's vale. 
With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-Dale ! 
No smoke from her flue — and no steam from her pane. 
Where once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain — 
Or gazed o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross' d, 
Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post ! 
Ah, where are the playful yoimg pinners — ah, where 
The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air — 
The brisk waltzing stockings — ^the white and the black. 
That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack — 
The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd. 
That blew into shape, and embodied the wind ! 
There was white on the grass — there was white on the spray — 
Her garden — it look'd like a garden of May ! 
But now all is dark — not a shirt's on a shrub — 
You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub ! 
You've ruin'd her custom — now families dix)p her — 
From her silver reduced — nay, reduced from her copper! 
The last of her washing is done at her eye. 
One poor little kerchief that never gets dry ! 
From mere lack oflinen she can't lay a cloth, 
And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth, — 
But her children come round her as victuals grow scant, 
And recal, with foul faces, the source of their want — 
When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, 
And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, 
And even its pearlashes laid in the grave — 
Whilst her tub is a-dry-rotting, stave after stave, 
And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub 
Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub, — 
Need you wonder she curses your bones, "MLt. ScTviX>\ 

VOL, V, ^ 



6fi ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 

Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread, 
If she prays that the evil may visit your head — 
Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee, — 
If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the City — 
In short, not to mention all plagues without number, 
If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humbor 1 

Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair, 
When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare— 
When the sum of her suds might be summ*d in a bowl, 
And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul — 
When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye 
Had caught " the Cock Laundresses' Coach " going by. 
Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather, 
And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, 
In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose. 
Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose, 
On her sheet — if a sheet were still left her — to write, 
Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light — 



LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE 

FROM BEIDGET JONES TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING 

THE WASHING COMMITTEE. 

It's a shame, so it is— men can't Let alone 
Jobs as is Woman's right to do — and go about there Own— 
Theirs Reforms enuflf Alreddy without your new schools 
For washing to sit Up,— and push the Old Tubs from their 

stools ! 
But your just like the Raddicals, — for upsetting of the Sudds 
When the world wagg'd well enuff-ai>d Wommen wash'd 

jx>\^x old dirty duds, 



ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 67 

Fm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam 

Indins, that's Flat, — 
But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentle* 

manny for all that — 
I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle 
I see on Clapham Commun, some times a veiy considerable 

period back when I were little, 
And they Said it went with Steem, — But that was a joke ! 
For I never see none come of it, — that's out of it — but only 

sum Smoak — 
And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you 

never had but Two 
In my time to draw you About to Fairs — and hang you, you 

know that's true ! 
And for All your fine Perspectuses, — ^howsomever you be- 

which 'em, 
Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at 

Mitchum, 
Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one 

another to Do — 
It ant as if a Bird'seye Hankichcr can take a Birds-high view ! 
But Thats your look-out — IVe not much to do with that — 

But pleas God to hold up fine. 
Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit 

as Ever crosat the Line 
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, 
And Thats more than you Can — and 111 say it behind yout 

face — 
But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak,— 
As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shiiir for a Weak I 
Thinks I, when I heard it — Well thcar's a Pretty go ! 
That comes o' not marking of things or waalVvw^ wjA. ^'^ 

mark/^ Rnd If uddling 'cm up so \ 



68 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 

Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded 

corpeses in a Vault, 
But may Hap you havint Lam'd to spel — and That ant your 

Fault, 
Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Lam*d, — 
For if it wamt for Washing, — and whare Bills is concamd, 
What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Womraans Head!- 

cation, 
And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays— fit for any 

Cityation ? 

Well, what I says is this— when every Kittle has its 

spout, 
Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about ! 
To be sure its veiy Well, when Their ant enuff Wind 
For blowing up Boats with, — but not to hurt human kind. 
Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with 

hot water, 
Thof a zSherrif might know Better, than make things for 

slaughtter. 
As if War warut Cruel enuff— wherever it befalls. 
Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing * 

balls, — 
But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs 
As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steam rubbing 

Qubs, 
For washing Dirt Cheap, — and eating other Peple's grubs ! 
Which is ail verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, 
But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He ! 
They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there 

will bo !) 

* This word ij omiitcd in the later editiou. 



ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 69 

And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their 

Goods, 
When you and your Steam has ruined (G— d forgive mee) 

their lively Hoods, 
Poor Women as was bom to Wiushing in their youth ! 
And now must go and Lam other Buisnesses Four Sooth ! 
But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at — 
They won't do for Angell's — nor any Trade like That, 
Nor we cant Sow Babby Work, — for that's all Bespoke, — 
For the Queakers in Bridle ! and a vast of the confind Folk 
Do their own of Themselves— even the bettermost of em — 

aye, and evn them of middling degrees — 
Why — Lauk help you — Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese ! 
Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, 
But we must all go and be Bankers, Like Mr. Marshes and 

Mr. Chamber, and that's what we must ! 
God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, 
When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our 

Mutherly necks. 
And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides 

washing— 
You ant, blame you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing 
In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers 
And prettily jear'd At, you great Horse God-meril things, ant 

you now by your next door nayhbours — 
Lawk, I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up 
No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp — 
And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round 
They'll scmntch your Bones some day — I'll be bound 
And no more nor be a gudgement, — for it cant come to 

good 
To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing, — nor not fit 

It should. 



70 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 

For man warut maid for Wommens stanratiou, 

Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation — 

And oant be dun without in any CJountry But a naked Hot- 

tinpot Nation. 
Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs 
And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs — 
But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther 

Bybills or Qood Tracks, 
Or youd no better than Taking the Close ofif one's Backs — 
And let your neighbours Oxin an Asses alone, — 
And every Thing thats hem, — and give every one their 

Hone ! 

Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommcn for 

herself, 
And so you might, without shoving any on us o£f the shelf. 
But if you wamt Noddis youd Let wommen a-be 
And pull ofif yoiu* Pattins, — and leave the washing to we 
That nose what's what — Or mark what I say, 
Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day — 
When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun 

at aU, 
And Crismass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, 
Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare 
Till hcs rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good 

in his Harm Chare — 
Besides Miss-Matching Lamed Ladys Hose, as is sent for you 

not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew 
And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, 
With a vast more like That, — and all along of Steem 
Which wamt meand by Nater for any sich skeam — 
But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, 
And^ I cant say I'm sorry, afore God, if you shoud, 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 71 

For men mougbt Qet their Bread a great many ways 
Without taking oum, — aye, and Moor to your Prays,* 
If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt, 
But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt! 

Youm with Anymocity, 

Bridget Joxe& 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 



*< Bj the North Pole I do challenge tlee ! " 

Lovt^i Labour' i Lost, 

Parbt, my man ! has thy bravo leg 
Yet struck its foot against the peg 

On which the world is spun ] 
Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare 
Writ by the hand of Nature there 

Where man haa never run ? 

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown 
Of channels in the Frozen Zone 

* The following additional linos were inserted in the third edition v^ 

*' Yon might go and skim the creme o£f Mr. Mack-Adam's milky ways 

— that*8 what you might, 
Or bete Carpets—or get into Farleamint, — or diive crabrolays from 

morning to night, 
Or, if you most be of oar sects, be Watchemen, and slepe upon a 

poste ! 
(Which is an od way of sleping I mnst say, — and a Tery hard pillow 

at most,) 
Or yon might be any trade, as we are not on that Tm awares, 
Or be Watermen now, (not Water wommen) and roe people np and 

down Hungerfjrd stares." 



72 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARBY. 

Or held at Icy Bay, 
Hast thou still miss*d the proper track 
For homeward Indian men that lack 

A bracing by the way ? 

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble 
On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble 

Of geographic scholar 7 
Or found new ways for ships to shape, 
Instead of winding round the Cape, 

A short cut through the collar I 

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to * 

The Pole — ^though God knows whom they went to 1 

Tliat track reveal'd to Pope — 
Or if the Arctic waters sally. 
Or terminate in some blind aUey, 

A chilly path to grope ? 

Alas ! though Ross, in love with snows, 
Has painted them cotUeur de rose, 

It is a dismal doom, 
As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice, 
" In regions of thick-ribbed ice " — 

All bright, — and yet all gloom I 

'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit 

Before the fire and worship it 
With pecks of Wallsend coals, 

With feet upon the fender's front. 

Roasting their corns — ^like Mr. Hunt- 
To speculate on poles. 

* ** And waft a sigh from Indus to the Vole,**— Ehita to Ahelard, 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARBY. 73 

'Ti8 easy for our Naval Board — 
'Tis easy for our Civic Lord 

Of London and of ease. 
That lies in ninety feet of down, 
With fur on his nocturnal gown. 

To talk of Frozen Seas ! 

'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, 
And prate about the mimdane spit, 

And babble of CooJcs track — 
He*d roast the leather off his toes, 
Ere he would trudge through polar snows. 

To plant a British Jack I 

Oh, not the proud licentious great, 
That travel on a carpet skate. 

Can value oils like thine ! 
What 'tis to take a Hecla range. 
Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange, 

And alpine lumps of brine 1 

But we, that mount the Hill o* Rhyme, 
Can tell how hard it is to climb 

The lofty slippery steep. 
Ah ! there are more Snow Hills than that 
Which doth black Newgate, like a hat. 

Upon its forehead, keep. 

Perchance thou'rt now — while I am writing- 
Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting 

About thy frozen spine I 
Or thou thyself art eating whale. 
Oily, and underdone, and stale, 

That, haply, cross'd thy lino I 



n ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 

But m not dream such dreams of ill — 
Rather will I believe thee still 

Safe cellar* d in the snow, — 
Reciting many a gallant story 
Of British kings and British gloiy, 

To crony Esquimaux — 

Cheering that dismal game where Night 
Makes one slow move from black to white 

Through all the tedious year, — 
Or smitten by some fond frost fair, 
That comb*d out crystals from her hair, 

Wooing a seal-skin dear ! 

So much a long communion tends, 
As Byron says, to make us friends 

With what we daily view — 
God knows the daintiest taste may come 
To love a nose that's like a plum 

In marble, cold and blue ! 

To dote on hair, an oily fleece I 

As though it hung from Helen o* Greece^ 

They say that love prevails 
Ev'n in the veriest polar land — 
And surely she may steal thy hand 

That used to steal thy nails ! 

But ah, ere thou art fixt to many, 
And take a polar Mrs. Parry, 

Think of a six months* gloom — 
Think of the wintiy waste, and hers, 
Each fumish'd with a dozen /z^r^ 

Think of thine icy dome I 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 75 

Think of the children bom to blubber I 
Ah me ! host thou an Indian rubber 

Inside ! — ^to hold a meal 
For months^ — about a stone and half 
Of whale, and part of a sea calf — 

A fillet of salt veal ! — 

Some walrus ham — ^no trifle but 
A decent steak — a solid cut 

Of seal — ^no wafer slice ! 
A reindeer's tongue and drink beside ! 
Gallons of sperm — ^not rectified 1 

And pails of water-ice ! 

Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus f 
Still come away, and teach to us 

Those blessed alternations — 
To-day, to run our dinners fine. 
To feed on air and then to dine 

With Civic Corporations — 

To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling. 
And then to take a half-year's filling 

In P. N.'s pious Row — 
When ask'd to hock and haunch o* von'son. 
Through something we have worn our pens on 

For Longman and his Co. 



come and tell us what the Pole i 
Whether it singular and sole is, — 

Or straight, or crooked bent,— 
If very thick or very thin, — 
Made of what wood — and if akin 

To those there be in Kcutt 



76 ODE TO I. iPTAlN PARRY. 

There*B Combe, theru*8 Spurzheim, and there's Gall, 
Have talk'd of poles — ^yet, after all, 

What has the public leam'd f 
And Hunt*s account roust still defer,— 
He sought the poll at Westminster — 

And is not yet returtCd I 

Alyanly asks if whist, dear soul, 

Is play'd in snow towns near the Pole, 

And how the fur-man deals ? 
And Eldon doubts if it be true, 
Tbit icy Chancellors reaUy do 
Dxist upou the koU ? 

R*rrow, by well-fed office-grates, 
Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, 

And longs that he were there ; 
And Croker, in his cabriolet, ^ 

Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, 

And pants to cross the mer I 

come away, and set us right. 
And, haply, throw a northern light 

On questions such as these : — 
Whether, when this drown'd world was lost, 
The surflux waves were lock'd in firost. 

And turu'd to Icy Seas 1 

Is Ursa Major white or black ] 
Or do the Polar tribes attack 

Their neighbours — and what for % 
Whether they ever play at cuffs, 
And then, if they take off their muffs 

In pugilistic war 1 



ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 77 

Tell U8y is Winter champion there, 
As in onr milder fighting air 1 

Say, what are Chilly loans ? 
What cures they have for rheums beside. 
And if their hearts got ossified 

From eating bread of bones ? 

Whether they are such dwarfs — ^the quicker 
To drculate the vital liquor, — * 

And then, from head to heel — 
How short the Methodists must choose 
Their dumpy envoys not to lose 

Their toes in spite of zeal ? 

Whether 'twill soften or sublime it 
To preach of Hell in such a climate — 

Whether may Wesley hope 
To win their souls— or that old function 
Of seals — ^with the extreme of unction — 

Bespeaks them for the Pope 7 

Whether the lamps will e'er be "leam'd " 
Where six months' " midnight oil " is bmu'd, 

Or letters must defer 
With people that have never conn'd 
An A. B. C, but live beyond 

The Sound of Lancaster 1 

oome away at any rate — 
Well hast thou eam'd a downier stato, 
With all thy hardy peers — 

'« BaffoAi 



ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 

Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock. 
And rub thy feet with opodeldoc. 
After such frosty years. 

Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, 
Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd, 

However coy before, 
Shall bid thee now set up thy rest 
In that Brest ffarbour, woman's breast, 

And tempt the Fates no more ! 



ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ., 

THE GREAT LESSEE ! 

— •— 

'* RoTiR. I>o yon know, you TiUain, that I am this moment tbo groateit 
man U?ing V'—WUd OaU, 

Oh ! Great Lessee I Great Manager ! Greai Man 1 
Oh, Lord High EUiston ! Immortal Pan 
Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane ! 
Macreadj's master I Westminster s high Dans 
(As Galway Martin, in the House's walls, 
Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls) 
Fiiend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring ! 
Magici;»n of the )amp and prompter's ring ! 
Prury's Aladdin ! Whipper-in of actors ! 
Eu^er of rebel preface-malefactors ! 
Glass-blowers' corrector I King of the cheque-taker 1 
At oijLce Great Leamington and Winston- Maker I 
Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes ! 
Ja silken Jkose the most reform'd of Bales / 



ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 79 

Oh, Lord High Elliston ! lend me au ear ! 
(Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear) 
While I, in little slips of prose, not rerse, 
Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse I 

Bright was thy youth — ^thy manhood brighter still-— 

The greatest Romeo upon Holbom Hill — 

Lightest comedian of the pleasant day. 

When Jordan threw her sunshine o'er a play 1 * 

But these, though happy, were but subject times, 

And no man cares for bottom-steps, that climbs — 

Far from my wish it is to stifle down 

The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown ! 

Though now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields. 

Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George's Fields. 

Dibdin was Premier — and a Golden Age 

For a short time enrich'd the subject stage. 

Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty ; 

Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou liadst twenty ; 

But the times changed — and Booth-acting no more 

Drew Rulers* shillings to the gallery door. 

Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence, 

Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens ! 

Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat 
Practised the most bewitching in Wych Street 
Charles had his royal ribaldry restored, 
And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whored ; 

* Additional lines in third edition : — 

•* When fair Thalia held a merry reign, 
And Wit Tas at her Court in Dmry Lane, 
Before the day when Authors wrote, of course, 
The Entertainment not for Man V>nt Honia?^ 



80 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 

Rochester there in dirtj ways again 

Revell'd — and lived once more in Druiy Lane : 

But thou, R W. ! kept thy moral ways, 

Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays, 

A lamplight Irving to the butcher-boys 

That soil*d the benches and that made a noise : — ^ 

" You, — in the back ! — can scarcely hear a line ! 

Down from those benches — butchers — ^they are mink I' 

Lastly — aad thou wert built for it by nature l-^ 
Crown'd waa thy head in Drury Lane Theatre I 
Gentle Geoi^o Robins saw that it was good, 
And renters cluck' d around thee in a brood 
King thou wert made of Druiy and of Kean ! 
Of many a lady and of many a Quean ! 
With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun — 
But now thou tumest from the Dead and Dun, 
Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt, 
Aad Colman lives to cut the damnlcts out ! 

Oh, worthy of the house 1 the King's commission ! 
Isn't thy condition '' a most bless'd condition 1" 
Thou reignest over Winston, Eean, and all 
The veiy lofty and the veiy smaU — 
Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick — 
Eeepest a Williams for thy veriest stick — 

* Additional lines iu third edition : — 

*'Bebuking — half a Robert, half a Charles, — 
The vell-biird man that caU*d for promised Carles. 
' Sir— have you yet to know ! Hash — hear me out ! 
A man — pray silence —may be down with gout. 
Or want — or, sir — aw I — listen I — may be fated, 
Being in debt, to be incarcerated V " 



ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 81 

Seest a Yestris in her sweetest moments, 

Without the danger of newspaper comments^- 

Tellest Macreadj, as none dared before, 

Thine open mind from the half-open door ! — 

(Alas ! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown. 

To be a Boniface in Buxton town ])-^ 

Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know, 

And callest to them, to a moment, — " Go 1" 

Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing — 

Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing — * 

Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot — and kiss'd 

The pearly whiteness of a Stephen's wrist — 

Kissing and pitying — tender and humane ! 

" By heaven she loves me ! Oh, it is too plain !" 

A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips. 

Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips ! 

Go on. Lessee ! Go on, and prosper well ! 
Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel — • 
Show them how thou hast long befriended them. 
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn 1 
Go on ! addressing pits in prose and worse ! 
Be long, be slow, be anything but terse — 
Kiss to the gallery the hand that's gloved — 
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved,t 

* Additional lines in third edition : — 

*' (To proTe, no doubt, the endless free-list ended, 
And all, except the pnblic press, suspended.)** 

f Additional lines in third edition : — 

** Ask the two-shilling gods for leare to dnn 
With words the cheaper deities in the One I 
Kick Mr. Poole unseen from scene to scene, 
Oane WillLams still, and stick to Mr. KesA^ 



82 ADDRESS TO MARTA DARLINGTOK. 

Go on — and but in thifi reyerse the thing. 
Walk backward with wax lights before the King- 
Go on i Spring ever in thine eye ! Go on I 
Hope's favourite child ! ethereal Elliston ! 



ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON 

ON H£B UETUBN TO THE STAOB. 

— ♦ — 

'*It was Maria ! — 

And better fate did Maria deeerre than to hart her banna forbid— 
She had, since that, she told me, strayed aa far as Rome, and walked 
round St. Peter*s once— and returned back — ." 

See the vhole story in Sterne and the newtpaptn. 

Thou art come back again to the stage 

Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it ; 
And 'tis well for this fortunate age 

That thou didst not, by going oflf, grieve it ! 
It is pleasant to see thee again — 

Right pleasant to see thee, by Herein, 
Unmolested by pea-colour'd Hayne ! 

And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley ! 

Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light 
(Not my Foote^I speak by correction) 

As the snow on some mountain at night, 

Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. 



Warn from the benches all the rabble ront ; 
Say ' those are mine — in parliament or out 1 * — 
Swing cats, for in this house there*s surely space, 
Oh, Beasley for such pastime planned the place ! 
Do anything l—Thy frame, thy fortune, nourish t 
Lau^h and grow fat ! be eloquent and flourish 1** 



ADDRESS TO MARU DARLmOTON. 83 

The Pit is in raptures to free thee, 

The Boxes impatient to greet thee. 
The Galleries quite clam*rous to see thee, 

And thy scenic relations to meet thee ! 

Ah, where was thy sacred retreat 1 

Maria ! ah, where hast thou been. 
With thy two little wandering Feet, 

Far away fh)m all peace and pea-green ! 
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold, 

Far away from himself and his lot ! 
I envy the place thou hast stroll'd. 

If a stroller thou art — which thou'rt not ! 

Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing, 
Methinks, at the dose of the day — 

When thy Billy had just slipp'd his string. 
And thy little dog quite gone astray — 

He bade thee to sorrow no more- 
He wish'd thee to lull thy distress 

In his bosom — he couldn't do more, 
And a Christian could hardly do loss I 

Ah, me ! for thy small plaintive pipe, 

I fear we must look at thine eye — 
That eye — forced so often to wipe 

That the handkerchief never got dry !* 
Oh smre *tis a barbarous deed 

To give pain to the feminine mind — 
But the wooer that left thee to bleed 

Was a creatiure more killing than kind t 

* In the third edition :-^ 

" I would it were my Inck to wipe 
That hazel orb thoronj^hly dry l" 



84 ODE TO MABIA DARLIKOTOlf. 

The man that could tread on a worm 

Is a brute — and inhuman to boot ; 
But he merits a much harsher term 

That can wantonly tread on a Foote I 
Soft mercy and gentleness blend 

To make up a Quaker— but he 
That Bpum*d thee could scarce be a Frvtnd^ 

Though he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee I 

They that loyed thee, Maria, have flown ! 

The friends of the midsummer hour ! 
But those friends now in anguish atone. 

And mourn o'er thy desolate bow'r. 
Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out. 

Yea, utterly out of his bias ; 
And the fiuthful Fitzhardinge, no doubt. 

Is counting his Atc Marias ! 



Ah, where wast thou driyen away, 

To feast on thy desolate woe 1 
We haye witness'd thy weeping in play. 

But none saw the earnest tears flow- 
Perchance thou wert truly forlorn, — 

Though none but the fairies could mark 
Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn. 

Or the thistles in Burderop Park ! 

Ah, perhaps, when old age's white snow 
Has silver'd the crown of Hayne's nob— 

For even the greenest will grow 
As hoary as " White-headed Bob—-" 



ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. «5 

HeUl wish, in the days of his prime. 

He had been rather kinder to one 
He hath left to the malice of Time— 

A woman — so weak and imdone ! 



ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D., 

AUTHOR OF ** THE COOK's ORACLE," ** OBRERYATIOKS ON VOCAL 
KT78IC," "the art OF INVIGORATINO AND PROLONGING LIFE,*' 
" PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND 
SPECTACLES," '* THE HOUSEKEEPER'S LEDGER," AND ''THE PLEA- 
SURE OF MAKING A WILL." 



** I rnle the roast, as Milton says V*^Caleh Quotem. 

Hail ! multifarious man ! 
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton ! 

Bom to enlighten 
The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking — 
Master of the Piano — and the Pan — 
As busy with the kitchen as the skies ! 

Now looking 
At some rich stew through Galileo's eyes, — 
Or boiling eggs — ^timed to a metronome — 

As much at home 
In spectacles as in mere isinglass — 
In the art of frying brown— as a digression 
On music and poetical expression, — 
Whereas, how few, of all our cooks, alas 1 
Could tell Calliope from " Calipee ! *' 

How few there be 
Could cleave ^the lowest for the highest stories, 

(Observatories,) 



80 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 

And turn, like thee, Diana*s calculator, 
However cooJ^s synonymous with KaJter* I 

Alas ! still let me say. 

How few could lay 
The carving knife beside the tuning fork. 
Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work ! 

Oh, to behold thy features in thy book ! 
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, 

How it would look ! 
With one raised eye watching the dial's date. 
And one upon the roast, gently cast down — 

Thy chops — done nicely brown — 
The garnished brow — with " a few leaves of bay " — 

The hair — " done Wiggy's way ! " 
And still one studious finger near thy brains, 

As if thou wert just come 

From editing of some 
New soup— or hashing Dibdin*s cold remains ! 
Or, Orpheus-like, — fresh from thy dying strains 
Of music,— Epping luxuries of sound. 

As Milton says, " in many a bout 

Of linked sweetness long drawn out,'* 
While all thy tame stuflTd leopards listen*d round ! 

Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, 
Standing like Fortune, — on the jack — ^thy wheel. 
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, 
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye !) 
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, 
As though it were the same to sing or fiy — 

' Cbptain Kater, the moon*8 snireyor. 



ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 87 

Nay, BO it is — ^hear how Miss Paton's throat 

Makes " fritters " of a note !* 
And is not reading near akin to feeding, 
Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit 

Receptacles for wit ? 
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, 
Minced brains into a Tart ? 
Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, 

Book-treats, 
Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her — 
Receipts to be devoured, as well as read^ 
The Culinary Art in gingerbread — 
The Kitchen's £aten Grammar ! 

Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page — 

Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein — 

So — in a kitchen — would have talked Montaigne. 
That merry Cxascon — humourist, and sage ! 
Let slender minds with single themes engage. 

Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,t — 
Or Lovelass upon Wills, — Thou goest on 
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson ! 

Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, 
StufiTd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, 

And erer shifting on from change to change^ 

* Additional lines in third edition : — 

** And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born 

By name and nature) oh ! how night and mom 
He for the nicest public taste doth dish up 
The good things from that Pan of mnsio— Biahop ! ** 

f Additional lines in third edition : — 

** Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon, — or 
Home on—' Twice three make ioxa.' "* 



88 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 

Saucepans — old Songs — Pills — Spectacles — and Spits f 

Thy range is wider than a Hamford range ! 
Thy grasp a miracle ! — till I recall 
Th' indubitable cause of thy variety — 
Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all 
That spying — ^fiying — singing — mix'd Society 
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet 
Welsh Rabbits — and thyself — ^in Warren Street » 



Oh, hast thou still those Convjlsazioni, 
Where learned visitors discoursed — and fed 1 

There came Belzoni, 
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead — 

AlJ gentle Poki — and that Royal Pair, 
Of whom thou didst declare — 
'* Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever lead — 
They were — what Sandwiches should be — ^half bred I " 
There famed M^Adam from his manual toil 
Relaxed — and freely own'd he took thy hints 

On " makmg Broth with FlinU "— 
There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil 
For melted butter — Combe with his medullary 

Notions about the Shullery, 
And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil — 
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf ! 
Who used to swear thy book 
Would really look 
A Delphic « Oracle," if laid on Del/— 
There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss*d 
His own — and thy own — " Magazine of Taste " — 

There Wilberforce the Just 
Came, in his old black suit, till once he traced 



ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.U. 83 

Thy dy advice to Poachers of Black Folks, — 
That " do not break their yolh,'^ — 
Which hufiTd him home, in grave disgust and haste ! 

There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore 
Thy Fatties — thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, 
Who caird thee « EitcJien Addison "—for why ? 
Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, 
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, 
*' Teaching us how to live and how to die ! " 
There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry — 
There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on 

His sine Qxiay non, — 
There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, 
Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 

'Gainst cattle days and death, — 
Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, 

Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager 
For fighting on soup meagre — 
" And yet (as thou wouldst add) the French have seen 
A Marshal Tureen 1 " 

Great was thy Evening Cluster ! — often graced 

With Dollond — Burgess — and Sir Humphry Davy ! 

Twas there M*Dcrmot first inclined to Taste, — 

There Colbum learn' d the art of making paste 

For puffs — and Accum analysed a gravy. 

Colman — the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said 

Came there, — and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, 

(His claim to letters) — Kater, too, the Moon's 

Crony, — and Graham, lofty on balloons, — 

There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated, 

(Who wrot^ a light-horse play, wVudi X«A«& c«tK^'e\i^i>j — 



90 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 

And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, 
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, — 
Madame Yalbr^ue thrice honoured thee, and came 
With great Bossini, his own bow and fiddle, — ^ 
And even Irving spared a night from fame. 
And talk*d — till thou didst stop him in the middle, 
To serve round Tewahrdvddle ! t 



Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye ! 

So let them : — thou thyself art still a Host t 
Dibdin — Comaro— Newton — Mrs. Fry ! 
Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec ! — ^Lovelass and Weber, 
Mathews in Quot'em — Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber- 
Thrice-worthy Worthy ! seem by thee engross*d ! 
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, 
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling, — 
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion ! 

Thou art, sans question. 
The Corporation's love — its Doctor Darling I 
Look at the Civic Palate — nay, the Bed 

Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying 
" Illustrations of Lying 1 " 
Ninety square feet of down from heel to head 

It measured, and I dread 
Was haunted by a terrible night Mare, 
A monstrous burthen on the corporation ! — 
Look at the Bill of Fare for one day's share, 

* Additional lines in third edition : — 

'' The Dibdins, — Tom, Charles, Frognall, came with tons 
Of poor old books, old pans ! " 

i" The Doctor*B composition for a nightcap. 



ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 

Sea-turtles by the score— oxen by droves. 
Geese, turkeys, by the flock — ^fishes and loayes 

Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation 
Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration ! 



91 



Oh ! worthy Doctor ! surely thou hast driven 

The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast— 

(Hie honour seems to rest ! — ) 
And what is thy reward 1 — Hath London given 
Thee public thanks for thy important service ? 

Alas ! not even 
The tokens it bestow'd on Howe and Jervis ! — 
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak 
Before the Worshipful the Common Council 
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) 
Thou shouldst not miss thy Freedom for a week. 
Richly engrossed on vellum : — ^Reason urges 
That ho who rules our cookery — ^that he 
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be 
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgeu f 



92 



AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND 
JOHN IRELAND, D.D., 



Chaelis Ftvss Clintoit, LL.D. 
Thomas Caustoit, D.D. 
HowiL HoLLAiTD Bdwari>s, H.A. 
JosiFH Allut, H.A. 
Lord Hihbt Fitzbot, M.A. 
Thi Bishop of Bzrkr. 



Wx. Harrt Ed. Brrtihok, 1C.A. 
Jaxks Wbbbbr, B.D. 
WiLLiAX Short, D.D. 
Jambs Tovrvat, D.D. 
Andrrw Bbll, D.D. 



GbOROB HoLOOXBBy D.D. 

Thb Dbah abd Chaptbb of Wsstxibstbr. 



" Sare the GoardUns of the Temple can never think they get enough.*' 

CUiaenofthe World. 

Oh, very reverend Dean and Chapter, 

Exhibitors of giant men, 
Hail to each gurplice-back'd adapter 

Of England's dead, in her stone den ! 
Ye teach us properly to prize 

Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handols, 
And, to throw light upon our eyes, 

Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles. 

Ob, reverend showmen, rank and file, 

Call in your shiliings, two and two ; 
March with them up the middle aisle. 

And cloister them from public view. 
Yoiu^ surely are the dusty dead. 

Gladly ye look from bust to bust. 
And set a price on each great head. 

And make it come down with the dust. 



Oh, as I see you walk along 
Jn ample sleeves and ample back« 



ADDRESS TO THE DEAN AND 93 

A pursy and well-order'd throng, 

Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black I 
In vain I striye me to be dumb, — 

You keep each bard like fatted kid, 
Grind bones for bread like Fee-faw-fum ! 

And drink from skulls as Byron did ! 

The profitable Abbey is 

A sacred 'Change for stony stock, 
Not that a speculation 'tis — 

The profit's founded on a rock. 
Death and the Doctors in each nave 

Bony investments have inum'd, 
And hard 'twould be to find a grave 

From which ** no money is rcturn'd ! " 

Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought 

By reverence for those learned bones. 
Shall often come and walk your short 

Two-shilling fare upon the stones. — * 
Ye have that talisman of Wealth 

Which puddling chemists sought of old 
Till ruin'd out of hope and health — 

The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold 1 

Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat 

Your dinners from your own dead race, 

Think Gray, preserved — a " funeral meat," 
And Dryden, devil' d — after grace, 

* ''Since ihiB poem was writteo, Doctor Ireland and thote in anthority 
under him have rednced the fares. It is gratifying to the English peoplj 
to know that while batcher's meat is rising tombs are falling." — Note in 
Oiird EdUum. 



94 CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. 

A relish ; — and you take jour meal 
From Rare Beu Jonson underdone^ 

Or, whet your holy knives on Steele, 
To cut away at Addison ! 



Oh say, of all this famous age, 

Whose learned bones your hopes expect. 
Oh have ye nimiber'd Rydal*s sage, 

Or Moore among your Ghosts elect 1 
Lord Byron was not doom*d to make 

You richer by his final sleep- 
Why don't ye warn the Great to take 

Their ashes to no other heap ! 

Southey's reversion have ye got ] 

With Coleridge, for his body, made 
A bargain 1 — ^has Sir Walter Scott, 

Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade ? 
Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold 

His features for your marble shows, 
Or Campbell barter'd, ere he's cold, 

AU interest in his " bone repose 1 " 



Rare is your show, ye righteous men ! 

Priestly Politos,— rare, I weon; 
But should ye not outside the Den 

Paint up what in it may be seen ? 
A long green Shakspeare, with a deer 

Grasp'd in the many folds it died in,— 
A Butler stufifd from ear to ear. 

Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dryden 1 



ADDRESS TO THE DEAN AND CHAPTEB. 95 

Paint Garrick ap like Mr. Paap, 

A Giant of some inches high ; 
Paint Handel up, that oi^gan chap, 

With you, as grinders, in his eye ; 
Depict some plaintive antique thing, 

And say th' original may be seen ; — 
Blind Milton with a dog and string 

May be the Beggar o* Bethnal Green ! 



Put up in Poet's Comer, near 

The little door, a platform small ; 
Get there a monkey — ^never fear. 

You'll catch the gapers, one and all ! 
Stand each of ye a Body Guard, 

A Trumpet under either fin. 
And yell away in Palace Yard 

"AUdeadI AUdead! Walk in I Walk in!" 



(But when the people are inside. 

Their money paid — I pray you, bid 
The keepers not to mount and ride 

A race around each coffin lid. — 
Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought, last year. 

That it was hard — ^the woman clacks — 
^0 have so little in her ear — 

And be so hurried through the Wax !•— ) 

*' Walk in ! two shillings only 1 come 1 
Be not by country grumblers funk'd !^ 

Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb. 
The Cheapest House for the defunct l" 



Oa ODE TO H. BODEIK, ESQ. 

Write up, 'twill breed some just reflection. 
And every rude Burmise 'twill stop^ 

Write up, that you have no connection 
(In liurge) — ^with any other shop ! 

And still, to catch the Clowns the more. 

With samples of your shows in Wax, 
Set some old Harry near the door 

To answer queries with his axe. — 
Put up some general begging-trunk — 

Since the last broke by some mishap. 
You've all a bit of General Monk, 

From the respect you bore his Cap ! 



ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ., 

raOBETABT 10 THE SOCIETY F0& THE SUPPRESSION OF KEKDICITy. 

— •— 

** This IB your charge — yon shall comprehend all yagrom men.** 

Much Ado about Nothing, 

Hail, King of Shreds and Patches, hail, 
Disperser of the Poor ! « 

Thou Dog in office, set to bark 
All beggars from the door 1 

Great overseer of overseers, 

And Dealer in old rags ! 
Thy public duty never fails, 

Thy ardour never flags ! 



ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. »7 

^ Oh, when I take fty walks abroad, 

How many Poor " — ^I miu t 
Had Doctor Watts walk'd now-a-days 

He would have written this I 

So well th J Yagrant-catchers prowl, 

So clear thy caution keeps 
The path — 0, Bodkin, sure thou hast 

The eye that never sleeps 1 

No Belisarius pleads for alms, 

No Benbow, lacking legs ; 
The pious man in black is now 

The only man that begs ! 

Street-Handels are disorganized, 

Disbanded eveiy band 1-^ 
The silent scraper at the door 

Is scarce allowed to stand 1 

The Sweeper brushes with his broom. 

The Carstairs with his chalk 
Retires, — ^the Cripple leaves his stand. 

But cannot sell his walk. 

The old Wall-blind resigns the wall, 

The Camels hide their humps, 
The Witherington without a leg 

MaynH beg upon his stumps t 

Poor Jack is gone, that used to doff 

His battered tatter*d hat^ 
And show his dangling sleeve, alas I 

There seem'd no 'arm in that I 



98 PLATIKG AT SOLDIESa 

Oh 1 was it such a sin Co ur 

His true blue nayal rags, 
Glor/s own trophy, like St Paul, 

Hung round with holy flags 1 

Thou knowest best I meditate, 

My Bodkin, no offence ! 
Let US, henceforth, but nurse our pounds^ 

Thou dost protect our pence 1 

Well art thou pointed 'gainst the Poor, 

For, when the Beggar Crew 
Bring their petitions, thou art paid, 

Of course, to ''run them through" 

Of course thou art^ what Hamlet meant^- 

To wretches the last friend ; 
What ills can mortals have, they can't 

With a bare Bodkin end 1 

[I have been unable to trace the first appearance of the following, but 
fiuicy it belongs to this period.] 

PLAYING AT SOLDIERa 

"WHOTiL BEBVB THB Emraf 
▲K ILLVSTSATIOV, 



What little urchin is there never 
Hath had that early scarlet fever, 

Of martial trappings caught 9 
Trappings well call'd — ^because they trap 
And catch full many a countiy chap 

To go where fields are fought 1 



PIAYING AT SOLDIEKS. 90 

What little urchin with a rag 
Hath never made a little flag, 

(Our plate will show the manner,) 
And wooed each tiny neighbour still, 
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will, 

To come beneath the banner ! 

Just like that ancient shape of mist 
In Hamlet, crying, « 'List, list ! " 

Come, who will serve the king. 
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead 
And cut off Boneyparty's head ? — 

And all that sort of thing. 

So used I, when I was a boy, 
To march with military toy. 

And ape the soldier-life ; — 
And with a whistle or a hum, 
I thought myself a Duke of Drum 

At least, or Earl of Fife. 

With gun of tin and sword of lath. 
Lord ! how I walk'd in glory's path 

With regimental mates, 
By sound of trump and rub-ardubs. 
To 'siege the washhouse — charge the tubs— 

Or storm the garden-gates 1 

Ah me ! my retrospective soul ! 
As over memoiys muster-roll 

I cast my eyes anew, 
My former comrades all the whOa 
Bise up before me, rank and file^ 

And form in dim review. 



100 FLAYISQ AT S0LDIEB8. 

Ay, there thej stand, and dress in line, 
Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine, 

And dark ^^Jamakej Forde !" 
And limping Wood, and '' Cocky Hawes,** 
Our captain always made, because 

He had a real sword t 

Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, 
Who said he had a gun at home, 

But that was all a brag ; 
Ned Byder, too, that used to sham 
A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb 

That fffould hold up the flag 1 

Tom Anderson, and "Dunny White," 
Who neyer right-abouted right, 

For he was deaf and dumb ; 
Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray, 
And Dicky Bird, that wouldn't play 

Unless he had the drum. 

And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp, 
A chap that never kept the step-^ 

No more did " Surly Hugh ; " 
Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim**— 
We often had to halt for him. 

To let him tie his shoe. 

^ Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, 
That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick 

The plumes within his hat ; 
Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout 
That got so thumped for calling out 
" Eyes right ! '' to " Squinting Matt" 



PLAYING AT SOLDIEBS. joi 

Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd, 
Was always in the awkward squad. 

And those two greedy Blakes^ 
That took oar money to the fair 
To buy the corps a trumpet there^ 

And laid it out in cakes. 

Where are they now 1 — an open war 
With open mouth declaring for 1 — 

Or fall'n in bloody fray 1 
Gompell*d to tell the truth I am, 
Their fights all ended with the sham,— 

Their soldiership in play. 

Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks, 
And Martin sells the cock he pludos, 

And Jepp now deals in wine ; 
Harrington bears a lawyer^s bag. 
And warlike Lamb retains his flag; 

But on a tayem sign. 

They tell me Cocky Hawes*s sword 
Is seen upon a broker^s board ; 

And as for ** Fighting Jim," 
Li Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide, 
His unresisting cheek I spied 

Beneath a quaker brim ! 

Quarrelsome Soott is in the church, 
For Byder now your eye must search 

The marts of sOk and lace-» 
Bird's drums are fill'd with figs, and muta^ 
And I — Fve got a substitute 

To Aoldidr in my place \ 



102 THS DEATH BED. 

[In thU year (jok which my lather wis married) I haTe placed one or 
two poema, which oertainl j were not written before this tbne— nor yet 
ean I think Teiy much after. The first among these is "The Death 
Bed." I remember rery well that my iather had no oopy of fhii, and 
had lost sight of it ontil when, after his return to England, he foimd it 
as a newspaper catting in a scrap-book of Miss LamVs the sister of 
his old friend Elia.] 

THE DEATH BED.* 



Wb watoh'd her breathing throuj^ the nighty 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the ware of life 

Kept heaving to and fira 

So silently we seem'd to speaki 

So slowly moved about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out 

* I cannot refrain from quoting entire the elegant Latin translation of 
these lines which appeared in the "Times" shortly aftar my &ther*s 
death. I hare since learned they are from the pen of the Eer. EL Kynaston, 
Master of St. FaaTs School 

Nocte nos toti gemitos dentem 
Yidimns lenes, nbieonqne TiTSZ 
Saivm hnc illnc tremnloi agebat 
Pectore flootoa. 

Yodbna sic nos inhiare raris. 
Sic pedem lisi tennisse, tanqnam 
nia sic posset refid, noTsmqae 
Docere litam. 

Spemqne nos inter dnbii metnmqne 
Imdimar— jam tone obiisse mortem 
Visa dormitans, moriens obire est 
Yin soporem. 

Nam simnl tristem reparftrat ortnm 
Lux, quiescentes ocnloi resignans 
nia jam soles alios, snnmqne 

Lomen habebat. 



TO MY WIPE. 108 



Our yeiy hopes belied our fean. 
Our feaiB our hopes belied-— 

We thought her dying when she dept. 
And sleeping when she died. 

For when the mom came dim and sad. 
And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
Another mom than our&* 



TO Mr WIFE. 



Still glides the gentle streamlet on. 
With shifting current new and strange 
The water, that was here, is gone, 
But those green shadows never change. 

Serene or ruffled by the storm, 
On present waves, as on the past^ 
The mirrored grove retains its form. 
The self-same trees their semblance cast 

The hue each fleeting globule wears, 
That drop bequeaths it to the next ; 
One picture still the surface bears, 
To illustrate the murmured text. 

* This poem, besides being loit mgbt of m mentioned abore^ has 
mdergone mach that is strange. The editor of a collection of Bnglish 
poetry calmly dropt ont the two middle rerses as ** ingenions ;** and Mrs, 
Stowe inserted it in ''Dred*' with so mneh American assimilatiTenesi 
that it might hare passed for her own, and was indeed set to music as one 
of the "Songs from Dred, by Mrs. Beecher Stowt,** 



104 



soKa. 

So^ loTe^ howerer time may flow, 
Freah hours pursuing those that flee^ 
One ooDStant image still shall show 
My tide of life is true to thee. 



SONGJ 



Thbrb is dew for the floweret 
And honey for the bee, 

And bowers for the wild bird. 
And loYe for you and me. 



There are tears for the many 

And pleasures for the few ; 
But let the world pass on, dear, 

There's love for me and you. 

There is care that will not leave us^ 

And pain that will not flee ; 
But on our hearth unalter'd 

Sits LoTe— -'tween you and me. 

Our love it ne'er was reckon'd, 

Yet good it is and true. 
It's hal/ihe world to me, dear, 

It's all the world to you. 

* The fixit two Tenei of this poem were written by my &ther, the two 
last were added by Barry Cornwall, at my mothei'a reqoeiti with a liew to 
ita being pnbliahed with mnaie. 



105 



VEBSES IN AN ALBUM. 

Fab aboye the hollow 
Tempest^ and its moan, 
Singeth bright Apollo 
In his golden zone,— • 
Ooud doth never shade him« 
Nor a storm inyade him^ 
On his joyous throne. 



So when I behold me 
In an orb as bright. 
How thy soul doth fold me 
In its throne of light ! 
Sorrow never paineth. 
Nor a care attaineth, 
to that blessed height 



1826. 



[In thia year appeared the first Series of "Whims and Oddities**^ 
** By one of the Authors of Odes and Addresses to Great People, and 
the Designer of the Progress of Cant" It was thus inscribed — 

«' DEDICATIOK, TO THE BEVIEWERS. 

" What is a modem Poet's fate t 
To write his thoughts upon a slate, — 
The critic spits on what is done, — 
Gives it a wipe, — and all is gone." 

There were two editions of the First Series— prefixed respectiyely by 
the "Addresses," here given. 

The volume was to a great extent made np of reprints from the 
*' London " and other books, to which my father had contributed.] 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 



FKEFACE. 

In presenting his Whims and Oddities to the Public, the 
Author desires to say a few words, which he hopes will not 
swell into a Memoir. 

It happens to most persons, in occasional lively moments, 
to haye their little chirping fancies and brain-crotchets, that 
skip out of the ordinaiy meadow-land of the mind. The 
Author has caught his, and clapped them up in paper and 
print, like grasshoppers in a cage. The judicious reader will 
look upon the trifling creatures accordingly, and not expect 
from them the flights of poetical winged horses. 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 107 

At a future time, the Press may be troubled with some 
things of a more serious tone and purpose, — ^which the 
Author has resolved upon publishing, in despite of the 
adyice of certain critical friends. His forte, they are pleased 
to say, is decidedly humorous : but a gentleman cannot 
always be breathing his comic vein. 

It will be seen, from the illustrations of the present work,* 
that the Inyentor is no artist ; — in hct, he was neyer ^'meant 
to draw" — any more than the tape-tied curtains mentioned 
by Mr. Pope. Those who look at his designs, with Ovid^s 
Loye of Art, will therefore be disappointed; — his sketches 
are as rude and artless to other sketches, as Ingram's rustic 
manufacture to the polished chair. The designer is quite 
aware of their defects : but when Raphael has bestowed 
seven odd legs upon four Apostles, and FuseU has stuck in a 
gi*eat goggle head without an owner ; — ^when Michael Angelo 
has set on a foot the wrong way, and Hogarth has painted in 
defiance of all the laws of nature and perspective, he does 
hope that his own little enormities may be forgiven — ^that 
his sketches may look interesting, like Lord Byron*s Sleeper, 
"with all their errors." 

Such as they are, the Author resigns his pen-and-ink 
fruicies to the public eye. He has more designs in the wood; 
and if the present sample should be rehshed, he will out 
more, and come again, according to the proverb, with a New 
Series. 



ADDRESS TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

Thb first edition of Whims and Oddities being exhausted, 
I am called forward by an importtmate publisher to make 

• To b« found at the conduaon of the aecoiA ^tv» ^1 ^^"awj^^ ^irw^ 



lOS WHIMS AND ODDITIEa 

my beet bow, and a new address to a discerning and indul- 
gent publia Unaffectedly flattered by those who have 
bought this little work, and still more bound to those who 
have bound it, I adopt the usual attitude of a Thanksgiyer, 
but with more than the usual sincerity. Though my head is 
in Comhill, my hand is not on my Cheapside in making these 
professions. There is a lasting impression on my heart, 
though there is none on the shelyes of the publisher. 

To the Reviewers in general, my gratitude is eminently 
due for their very impartial fiiendlines& It would have 
sufficed to reconcile me to a fiir greater portion than I have 
met with, of critical viper-tuperation. The candid journalists, 
who have condescended to point out my little errors, deserve 
my particular thanks. It is comely to submit to the hand 
of taste and the arm of discrimination, and with the head of 
deference I shall endeavour to amend (with one exception) in 
a New Series. 

I am informed that certain mcmthly, weekly, and very 
evexy-day critics, have taken great offence at my puns : — and 
I can conceive how some Qentlemen with one idea must be 
perplexed by a double meaning. To my own notion a pun is 
an accommodating word, like afarmex^shorse, — ^with a pillion 
for an extra sense to ride behind ; — it will carry single, how- 
ever, if required. The Dennises are merely a sect, and I had 
no design to please, exduaively, those verbal Unitarians. 

Having made this brief explanation and acknowledgment, 
I beg leave, like the ghost of the royal Dane, to say ** Fare- 
well at once," and commend my remembrance and my book 
togethcTi to the kindness of the courteous reader. 



LETTER FROM ALLAN CUNNmGHAM. 109 

[This letter from Allan Cmminghain was written in acknowledgment 
of thifl firat series of " Whims and Oddities.*'] 

DsAB Hood, 

Had I behaved honestly to my own heart, this note 
would have been with you long ago; for much haye I laughed 
over your little book, and often have I silently yowed to 
compel my sluggish nature to tell you how much I liked it. 
There was enough of wit visible at first reading to ensure a 
second, and at the second so many new points appeared that 
I ventured on a third, and with the fourth I suppose I shall 
go on discovering and laughing. I was an early admirer of 
your verses. I admired them for oth^ and higher qualities 
than what you have displayed in your odes ; but I believe a 
smile carries a higher market price than a sigh, and that a 
laugh brings more money than deeper emotion. Even on 
your own terms I am glad to see you publicly. I think you 
might mingle those higher qualities with your wit, your 
learning, and your humour, and give us still more pleasing 
odes than them that you have done. But, '* Ilka man wean 
his aln belt his ain gait." 

Give my respects to Mrs. Hood. I shall have the honour 
of personally assuring her that I esteem her for her own sake, 
as well as for that of her facetious husband, when I can make 
my escape from the bondage of a Bomance which at present 
employs all my leisure hours. I remain, dear Hood, 

jour faithful friend, 

AlJiAK CUNNINOHAIC 



110 



A RECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION. 

— • — 

Thi following Poem is from the pen of DOCTOR EITCHBNBB f— the 
moft heterogeneooB of anthon, but at the same time— in the Sporting Latin 
of Mr. Egaa — a real RouKhgeniuSt or a Qenins of a Man 1 In the Poem, 
hia CULINAEY BNTHUSIASM, as xiwaal—hoOt aver/ and makes H seem 
written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle)— with the Spit in 
one hand — and the Frying Pan in the other, — while in the style of the 
rhymes it is Hndibrastio, — as if in the ingredients of Yersiflcation, he had 
been assisted by his BUTLER I 

' As a Head Cook, Optician — Phyuoian, Mosio-Master — Domestic Boono- 
mist^ and Death-bed Attorney 1 — I have celebrated the Author elsewhere 
with approbation ; and cannot now place him upon the table at a Poet^ 
— without still being his LAUDBR ; a phrase, which those persons whote 
Course of dassical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FOEGBRY on (A« 
ImmorUd Bard o/^ von /—will find eaqr to understand. 

Surely, those sages err who teach 

That man is known from brutes by speech, 

Which hardly severs man from woman, 

But not th' inhuman from the human-^ 

Or else might parrots daim affinity, 

And dogs be doctors by Latinity, — 

Not t' insist, (as might be shown,) 

That beasts have gibberish of their own, 

Which once was no dead tongue, tho' we 

Since Esop's days have lost the key ; 

Nor yet to hint dumb men, — and, still, not 

Beajsts that could gossip though they will not, 

But play at dummy like the monkeys. 

For fear mankind should make them flunkieSi 

Neither can man be known by feature 

Or form, because so like a creature. 

That some grave men could never shape 

Which is the aped and which the ape. 



A KECIPE-FOR CIVILISATION. IH 

Nor by his gait, nor by his height, 

Nor yet because he's black or whiter 

But rational, — ^for so we call 

The only Cooking Animal ! 

The only one who brings his bit 

Of dinner to the pot or spit, 

For Where's the Hon e'er was hasty, 

To put his Ten'son in a pasty 

Eigo, by logic, we repute. 

That he who cooks is not a brute, — 

But Equus brutum est, which means, 

If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans, 

Nay, no one but a horse would forage 

On naked oats instead of porridge. 

Which proyes, if brutes and Scotchmen vary, 

The difference is culinaiy. 

Further, as man is known by feeding 

From brutes, — so men from men, in breeding 

Are still distinguish'd as they eat, 

And raw in manners, raw in meat, — 

Look at the polish'd nations, hight 

The civilised — the most polite 

Is that which bears the praise of nations 

For dressing eggs two hundred fashions^ 

Whereas, at savage feeders look, — 

The less refined the less they cook ; 

From Tartar grooms that merely straddle 

Across a steak and warm their saddle^ 

Down to the Abyssinian squaw, 

That bolts her chops and oollops raw. 

And, like a wild beast, cares as little 

To dress her person as her victual,-— 

For gowns, and gloves, and capB, tta<i ^^jpQfi^a^ 



112 A EECIPE-FOR CIVILISATION. 

Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets. 

And not by shamble bodies put on. 

But those who roast and boU their mutton ; 

So Eve and Adam wore no dresses 

Because they lived on water-cresses, 

And till they leam*d to cook their crudities^ 

Went blind as beetles to their nudities. 

For niceness comes from th' inner side, 

(As an ox is drest before his hide,) 

And when the entrail loathes vulgarity 

The outward man will soon cull rarity, 

For *tis ih' effect of what we eat 

To make a man look like his meat, 

As insects show their food's complexions ; 

Thus fopling clothes are like confections. 

But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb, 

Would have an Abyssinian ox come 1 

Or serve a dish of fricassees. 

To dodpoles in a coat of frieze ? 

Whereas a black would call for buffalo 

Alive — and, no doubt, eat the offal toa 

Now, (this premised) it follows then 

That certain culinary m^i 

Should first go forth with pans and spits 

To bring the heathens to their wits, 

(For all wise Scotchmen of our century 

Elnow that first steps are alimentaiy ; 

And, as we have proved, flesh pots and saucepans 

Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans) ; 

But Bunyan err^d to think the near gate 

To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate. 

When reason should have work'd her course 

Ab men of war do — when their force 



A EECIPB-FOR CIVILISATION. 118 

Can't take a town by open courage, 
They steal an entiy with its forage. 
What reverend bishop, for example, 
Could preach hom*d Apis from his temple ? 
Whereas a cook would soon unseat him. 
And make his own churchwardens eat him. 
Not Irving could convert those vermin 
Th' Anthropophages, by a sermon j 
Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice, 
Would " take a shin of beef and spice," — 
And raise them sach a savouiy smother, 
No negro would devour his brother. 
But turn his stomach round as loth 
As Persians, to the old < black ' broth, — 
For knowledge ofbenest makes an entry. 
As well as true love, thro* the pantry. 
Where beaux that came at first for feeding 
Grow gallant men and get good breeding ; — 
Exempli gratia — in the West, 
Ship-traders say there swims a nest 
Lined with black natives, like a rookeiy, 
But coarse as carrion crows at cookery. — 
This race, though now caU*d 0. Y. E. men, 
(To show they are more than A. R C. men,) 
Was once so ignorant of our knacks 
They laid their mats upon their backs, 
And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon 
On trees that baked them in the sunshine. 
As for their bodies, they were coated, 
(For painted things are so denoted ;) 
But — ^the naked truth is — stark primeval^ 
That said their prayers to timber devils, 

« Cook to the late fo John BiLTkk%. 



114 A RECIPE-FOR CIVILISATION. 

Allow'd polygamy— dwelt in wigwams — 
And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.— 
And why ? — ^because their savage nook 
Had ne'er been visited by Cook, — 
And so they fared till our great chief, 
Brought them, not Methodists, but beef 
In tubs, — and taught them how to live, 
Knowing it was too soon to give. 
Just then, a homily on their sins^ 
(For cooking ends ere grace begins,) 
Or hand his tracts to the untractable 
Till they could keep a more exact table— 
For nature has her proper courses, 
And wild men must be back*d like horses^ 
Which, jockeys know, are never fit 
For riding till they've had a bit 
r the mouth ; but then, with proper tackle, 
Tou may trot them to a tabernacle. 
Ergo (I say) he first made changes 
In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges, 
And taught the king's cook, by convincing 
Process, that chewing was not mincing. 
And in her black fist thrust a bundle 
Of tracts abridged from Glasse and Rundell, 
Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits^ 
She saw the spareness of her habits, 
And round her loins put on a striped 
Towel, where fingers might be wiped. 
And then her breast clothed like her ribfl^ 
(For aprons lead of course to bibs,) 
And, by the time she had got a meat- 
Screen, veil'd her back, too, from the heat-* 
Ab for her gravies and her sauces^ 



LOVE. 135 

(Tho' they refonn'd the royal fauces,) 
Her forcemeats and ragouts, — I praise not» 
Because the legend further says not, 
Except, she kept each Christian high-day, 
And once upon a &t good Fry-^lay 
Ban short of logs, and told the Pagan, 
That tum'd the spit, to chop up Dagon ! — 



LOVE. 



LoYB ! what art thou, Love 1 the ace of hearts, 
Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits; 

A player, masquerading many parts 

In life's odd camival ; — a boy that shoots. 

From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ; 
A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots : 

The Puck of Passion — ^partly false — ^part real — 

A marriageable maiden's '* beau ideal" 

Love ! what art thou, Love 1 a wicked thing. 
Making green misses spoil their work at school ) 

A melancholy man, cross-gartering ? 

Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool? 

A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring ? 
A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool 9 

A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel. 

Helping Matilda Bose to make a novel ? 

Love ! what art thou, Love 1 one that is bad 
With palpitations of the heart— like miPQ— 



116 "THB LAST MAN." 

A poor bewildered maid^ making so sad 
A neddaoe of her garters — ^fell design I 

A poet) gone nnreasonablj mad, 

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line f 

Love ! — but whither, now ? foigire me, pray ; 

Fm not the first that Loto hath led astray. 



"THE LAST MAN/ 

'TwAB in the year two thousand and one^ 

A pleasant morning of May, 

I sat on the gallows-tree all alone, 

A-chanting a merry lay, — 

To think how the pest had spared my life. 

To sing with the larks that day ! — 

When up the heath came a jolly knare, 
Like a scarecrow, all in rags : 
It made me crow to see his old duds 
All abroad in the wind, like flags : — 
So up he came to the timbers* foot 
And pitch'd down his greasy bags. — 



Good Lord 1 how blythe the old beggar was ! 
At pulling out his scraps, — 
The very sight of his broken orts 
Made a work in his wrinkled chaps : 
"Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird, 
And have a taste of my snaps I" 



"THE LAST MAK." 11/ 

Then down the rope, like a tar from the mBsb, 

I elided, and bj him stood ; 

But I wish'd myself on the gallows again 

When I smelt that beggar's food^ — 

A. foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust ;— 

" Oh 1 " quoth he, ''the heavens are good 1'* 

Then after this graoe he cast him down : 

Says I, ** You'll get sweeter air 

A pace or two off, on the windward side," — 

For the felons' bones lay there-— 

But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls^ 

And offer'd them part of his fare. 

'' I never harm'd them, and they won't harm me ; 

Let the proud and the rich be cravens 1" 

I did not like that strange beggar maoi 

He look'd so up at the heavens. 

Anon he shook out his empty old poke ; 

" There's the crumbs," saith he, ''for the ravens I 

It made me angry to see his &oe. 

It had such a jesting look ; 

But while I made up my mind to speak, 

A small case-bottle he took : 

Quoth he, "Though I gather the green water-cress^ 

My drink is not of the brook 1" 

Full manners-like he tendered the dram ; 

Oh, it came of a dainty cask ! 

But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, 

"Tour leave, good Sir, I must ask ; 

But I always wipe the brim with my sleere^ 

When 8 iuu^gman sapa at my &BdL\^ 



118 "THE LAST MAK." 

And then he laugh'd so loudly and long; 

The churl was quite out of breath ; 

I thought the T617 Old One was come 

To mock me before m j death, 

And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones 

That were lying about the heath 1 

But the beggar gave me a jolly dap-— 
** Come, let us pledge each other, 
For all the wide w<»rld is dead beside, 
And we are brother and brother — 
I've a yearning for thee in my heart, 
As if we had come of one mother. 

*' Fve a yearning for thee in my heart 
That almost makes me weep, 
For as I pass'd from town to town 
The folks were all stone-asleep, — 
But when I saw thee sitting aloft. 
It made me both laugh and leap !" 

Now a curse (I thought) be on his lore, 

And a curse upon his mirth, — 

An it were not for that beggar man 

rd be the King of the earth, — 

But I promised myself, an hour should come 

To make him rue his birth ! — 

So down we sat and boused again 

Till the sun was in mid-sky. 

When, just as the gentle west-wind came, 

We hearken'd a dismal ciy ; 

" Up, up, on the tree,*' quoth the beggar man, 

** Till these horrible dogs go by ! " 



"THE LAST MAN.** 119 

Andy lo ! from the forest's &rK)ff skirti^ 

They came all yelling for gore, 

A hundred hounds pursuing at onoe. 

And a panting hart before, 

TiU he sunk adown at the gallows' foot 

And there his haunches they tore ! 

His haunches they tore, without a horn 
To tell when the chase was done ; 
And there was not a single scarlet coat 
To flaunt it in the sun ! — 
I tum'dy and look'd at the beggar man. 
And his tears dropt one by one ! 

And with curses sore he chid at the houndfly 

Till the last dropt out of sight, 

Anon, saith he, ** let's down again, 

And ramble for our delight, 

For the world's all free, and we may chocNW 

A right oozie bam for to-night 1 " 

With that, he set up his staff on end. 
And it fell with the point due West ; 
So we feured that way to a city great, 
Where the folks had died of the pest— 
It was fine to enter in house and hal]. 
Wherever it liked me best ;— 

For the porters all were stiff and cold. 

And could not lift their heads ; 

And when we came where their masters lay, 

The rats leapt out of the beds : — 

The grandest palaces in the land 

Were as free as workhouse sheda. 



120 "THE LAST MAlf. 

But the beggar man made a mumping fooe, 

And knocked at eveiy gate : 

It made me curse to hear how he whined. 

So our fellowship tum*d to hate, 

And I bade him walk the world by himself 

For I 8Com*d so humble a mate ! 

So he tum*d right and / tum*d left, 

As if we had never met ; 

And I chose a fair stone house for myself 

For the city was all to let ; 

And for three brave holidays drank my fill 

Of the choicest that I could get 

And because my jerkin was coarse and worn, 

I got me a properer vest ; 

It was purple velvety stitch'd o*er with gold. 

And a shining star at the breast,— « 

'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave 

To see me so purely drest ! — 

But Joan was dead and under the mould. 

And every buxom lass ; 

In vain I watoh'd, at the window pane. 

For a Christian soul to pass ; — 

But sheep and kine wandered up the street, 

And browsed on the new-come grass. — 

When lo I I spied the old beggar man. 
And lustily he did sing I— • 
His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet doak. 
And a crown he had like a King ; 
So he stept right up before my gate 
And danced me a saucy fling ! 



"THE LAST MAK." 

HeaTen mend us all ! — but, within my mind, 
I had killed him then and there ; 
To see him lording so braggart-like 
That was bom to his beggar*8 fare, 
And how he had stolen the royal crown 
His betters were meant to wear. 

But God forbid that a thief should die 

Without his share of the laws 1 

So I nimbly whipt my tackle out. 

And soon tied up his daws, — 

I was judge myself and jury, and all, 

And solemnly tried the cause. 

But the beggar man would not plead, but cried 

Like a babe without its corals, 

For he knew how hard it is apt to go 

When the law and a thief have quarrels, — 

There was not a Christian soul alive 

To speak a word for his morals. 

Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear. 

And put on my work-day clothes ; 

I was tired of such a long Sunday life,— 

And never was one of the sloths ; 

But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, 

And made many crooked mouths. 

So I haul*d him off to the gallows' foot» 

And blinded him in his bags ; 

'Twas a weary job to heave him up^ 

For a doom'd man always lags j 

But by ten of the dock he was off his 1^ 

In the wind and airing his rag&l 



IM "THE LAST MAK.'* 

So there he hung and there I stood, 

The LAST MA.N left alive, 

To haye my own will of all the earth : 

Quoth I, now I shall thrive ! 

But when was ever honey made 

With one bee in a hive 1 

My conscience began to gnaw my hearty 

Before the day was done, 

For the other men's lives had all gone out^ 

Like candles in the sun ! — 

But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, 

A thousand necks in one 1 

So I went and cut his body down, 

To bury it decentlie ; — 

God send there were any good soul alive 

To do the like by me ! 

But the wild dogs came with terrible speed. 

And ba/d me up the tree ! 

My sight was like a drunkard's sights 
And my head began to swim, 
To see their jaws all white with foam, 
Like the ravenous ocean-brim ;— 
But when the wild dogs trotted away 
Their jaws were bloody and grim ! 

Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord 1 

But the beggar man, where was he 1 — 

There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags 

Below the gallows' tree !— 

I know the Devil, when I am dead. 

Will send his hounds for me !— > 



"THE LAST MAN." 128 

Fve buried my babies one by one, 
And dug the deep hole for Joan, 
And cover'd the fietces of kith and In'n^ 
And felt the old churchyard stone 
Go cold to my hearty full many a time, 
But I never felt so lone I 

For the lion and Adam were company, 
And the tiger him beguiled ; 
But the simple kine are foes to my life. 
And the household brutes are wild. 
If the veriest cur would lick my hand, 
I could love it like a child I 

And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream. 

At night, to make me madder,— 

And my wretched conscience, within my breast, 

Is like a stinging adder ; — 

I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, 

And look at the rope and ladder 1 

For hanging looks sweety — ^but» alas I in vain, 

My desperate fancy begs, — 

I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up. 

And drink it to the dregs, — 

For there is not another man alive^ 

In the world, to pull my legs 1 



124 



THE BALLAD OF SALLY BROWN, AND BEN 

THE CARPENTER .♦ 



I HAYB never been vainer of any verses than of my part 
in the following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical 
nurses, has an enviable renown, and Campbell's Ballads 
enjoy a snug genteel popularity. '' Sally Brown " has been 
fiivoured, perhaps, with as wide a patronage as the Moral 
Songs, though its oirde may not have been of so select a 
class as the Mends of " Hohenlinden.*' But I do not desire 
to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The 
lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it at his last 
jaortal benefit at Covent Garden ; and, ever since, it has 
been a great £a.vourite with the watermen of Thames, who 
time their oars to it, as the wheny-men of Venice tmke 
theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the watermen, it 
went naturally to Yauxhall; and, overland, to Sadler's 
Wells. The Guards — ^not the mail coach, but the Life 
Guards — picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others — 
all going to one air — against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. 
Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane and Cow-cross (all pirates !) 
disputed about the copyright, and published their own 
editions ; and in the mean time, the Author, to have made 
bread of his song, (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient 
case !) must have sung it about the street Such is the lot 
of Literature ! the profits of '' Sally Brown " were divided 
by the Balladmongers : it has cost, but has never brought 
me, a half-penny. 

• Thii baUad origiiuJlj appeared in a *< laon'sHead*' in the '* London," 
bat I have allowed it to remain with *< Whima and Odditiea,** for the lake 
o^iie iattvduetozj remaika. 



FAITHLESS SALL7 BBOWN. 



125 



FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 

AS OLD BALLAD 

TouNQ Ben he was a mce young man, 

A carpenter by trade ; 
And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 

That was a lady*B maid. 

But as they fetched a walk one day, 
They met a press-gang crew ; 

And Sally she did faint away. 
Whilst Ben he was brought to. 

The Boatswain swore with wicked words, 

Enough to shock a saint. 
That though she did seem in a fit, 

'Twas nothing but a feint 



** Come, girV* said he, ** hold up your head. 

He'll be as good as me ; 
For when your swain is in our boat^ 

A boatswain he will be." 

So when they'd made their game of her. 

And taken off her el^ 
She roused, and found she only was 

A-coming to herselE 

^< And is he gone, and is he goneT' 

She cried, and wept outright : 
^ Then I will to the water side^ 

And see him out of sight.'* 



126 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 

A waterman came up to her, 
" Now, young woman," said be, 

"K you weep on 8o, you will make 
Eye-water in the sea.*' 

*' Alas 1 they've taken my beau Ben 
To sail with old Benbow ; ** 

And her woe began to run afireah, 
As if she'd said Gee woe 1 

Says he, *^ They've only taken him 
To the Tender ship, you see ; " 

« The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown, 
"What a hard-ship that must be 1 

^ 1 would I were a mermaid now 
For then I'd follow him ; 

But Oh ! — Fm not a fish-woman, 
And so I cannot swim. 

*' Alas ! I was not bom beneath 
The Virgin and the Scales, 

So I must curse my cruel stan^ 
And walk about in Walea" 

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place 
That's underneath the world ; 

But in two years the ship came home, 
And all her sails were furl'd. 

But when he caU'd on Sally Brown, 

To see how she got on, 
He found she'd got another Ben, 

Whose Christian name was John. 



A FAIRY TALE. 

" Sally Brown, Sally Brown, 
How could you serve me so ? 

Fve met with many a breeze before^ 
But never such a blow." 

Then reading on his ^bacco-boz. 

He heaved a bitter sigh, 
And then began to eye his pipe, 

And then to pipe his eye. 

And then he tried to sing "All's WeD,** 
But could not though he tried ; 

His head was tum'd, and so he chew'd 
His pigtail till he died. 

His death, which happened in his berth. 

At forty-odd befell : 
They went and told the sexton, and 

The sexton toll'd the belL 



127 



A FAIRY TALE. 

— f— 

Oh Hounslow heath — and dose beside the road. 
As western travellers may ofb have seen, — 
A little house some years ago there stood, 

A minikin abode ; 
And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood ; 
The walls of white, the window-shutters green ; — 
Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West, 
(Tho' now at rest) 



128 A FAIRY TALE. 

On which it used to wander to and fro, 
Because its master ne'er maintained a rider. 
Like those who trade in Paternoster Row ; 
But made his business travel for itself 

Till he had made his pelf^ 
And then retired — if one may call it so, 

Of a roadsider. 
Perchance, the yery race and constant riot 
Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran. 
Made him more relish the repose and quiet 

Of his now sedentaiy carayan ; 
Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, 
And so he might impale a strip of soil. 

That fumish'd, by his toil. 
Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ; — 
And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower. 
Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil 
His peace, — unless, in some unlucky hour, 
A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow'r ! 

But, tired of always looking at the coaches^ 

The same to come, — when they had seen them one day ! 

And, used to brisker life, both man and wife 
Began to suffer N — U — E's approaches. 
And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday, — 
So, having had some quarters of school-breeding. 
They tum'd themselves, like other folks, to reading ; 
But setting out where others nigh have done. 
And being ripen'd in the seventh stage. 

The childhood of old age. 
Began, as other children have begun,— 
Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, 

Or Bard of Hope, 



A FAIRY TALK 129 

Or Paley ethical^ or learned Porsoiiy — 

But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, 

And then relax'd themselves with Whittington, 

Or Valentine and Orson — 
But chiefly fidry tales they loved to con. 
And being easily melted, in their dotage, 

Slobber'd, — and kept 

Reading, — and wept 
Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage. 

Thus reading on — ^the longer 
They read, of course, their childish fiEuth grew stronger 
In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim, — 
If talking Trees and Birds reveaVd to him. 
She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-waggons, 

And magic-flshes swim 
In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragoncf, — 
Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons ; 
When, as it fell upon a summer^s day. 
As the old man sat a feeding 
On the old babe-reading. 
Beside his open street-and-parlour door, 

A hideous roar 
Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way. 

Long-hom'd, and short, of many a different breed, 
Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels, 

Or Durham feed. 
With some of those imquiet black dwarf devils 

From nether side of Tweed, 

Or Firth of Forth ; 
Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,— 
With dusty hides, all mobbing on together^ — 
voL.y. ^ 



180 A FAIRY TALE. 

When, — ^whether from a ftfn malidouB oomment 
Upon his tender flank, frt>m which he ahrank; 

Or whether 
Only in some enthuaiastio moment, — 
However, one brown monster, in a friak. 
Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, 
Kick*d out a passage thro' the beastly rabble : 
And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a 
Horn-pipe before the Basket-makei^s yilla^ 

Leapt o*er the tiny pale, — 
Back*d his beef-steaks against the wooden gaUe^ 
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail 

Right o'er the page, 

Wherein the sage 
Just then was spelling some romantic fable. 



• > 



The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, 

Could not peruse, — ^who could f — two tales at oncei 

And being hufiTd 
At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, 

Bang'd-to the door. 
But most unluckily enclosed a morsel 
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : — 

The monster gave a roar, 
And bolting off with speed, increased by ptdn, 
The little house became a coach once more, 
And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again ! 

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree. 
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper 
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, 
Was getting up some household herbs for supper : 
Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, 



A FAIBY TALE. 131 

And quaintly wondering if magio shifts 
Could o*er a common pumpkin so prevail. 
To turn it to a coach, — ^what pretty gifts 
Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; 
Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, 
Nor tum'd, till home had tum*d a comer, quite 
Gone out of sight 1 

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, 
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing ; 
And looking round 
Where rest was to be found. 
There was no house— no villa there — ^no nothing I 
No house 1 

The change was quite amazing ; 
It made her senses stagger for a minute, 
The riddle's explication seem'd to harden ; 
But soon her superannuated nous 
Explain'd the horrid mystery ; — and reusing 
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, 

On which she meant to sup, — 
"Well ! this is Fairy Work ! I'll bet a forden, 
Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up^ 
And set me down in some one else's garden ! ** 



132 



"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG," 

Seems, at first sight, an unreasonable demand. M&j I 
profess no tenderness for Belinda without vowing an at- 
tachment to Shock ? Must I feel an equal warmth towards 
my bosom Mend and his greyhound ? Some oountiy gentle- 
men keep a pack of dogs. Am I expected to divide my 
personal regard for my Lord D. amongst all his celebrated 
fox-hounds ? 

I may bo constitutionally averse to the whole canine 
species; I have been bitten, perhaps, in my infancy by a 
mastiff, or pinned by a bull-dog. There are harrowing tales 
on record of hydrophobia, of himian barkings, and inhuman 
smotherings. A dog may be my bugbear. Again, there are 
differences in tasta One man may like to have his hand 
licked all over by a grateful spaniel ; but I would not have 
my extremity served so — even by the human tongue. 

But the proverb, so arrogant and absolute in spirit, be- 
comes harmless in its common application. The terms are 
seldom enforced, except by persons that a gentleman is not 
likely to embrace in his affection — ^rat-catchers, butchers and 
bull-baiters, tinkers and blind mendicants, beldames and 
witches. A slaughterman's tulip-eared puppy is as likely to 
engage one's liking as his chuckle-headed master. When a 
courtier makes friends with a drover, he will not be likely to 
object to a sheep-dog as a third party in the alliance. 

"Lore me," Bays Mother Sawyer, "lore my dog." 

Who careth to dote on either a witch or her familiar) 
The proverb thus loses half of its oppression ; in other cases, 
it may become a pleasant fiction, an agreeable confession. I 
forget what pretty Countess it was, who made confession of 



"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 133 

her tenderness for a certain sea-captain, by her abundant 
caresses of his Esquimaux wolf-dog. The shame of the 
avowal became milder (as the virulence of the small-pox is 
abated after passing through the constitution of a cow) by 
its transmission through the animal 

In like manner, a formal young Quaker and Quakeress — 
perfect strangers to each other, and who might otherwise have 
sat mum-chance together for many hours — fell suddenly to 
romping, merely through the maiden's playfulness with 
Obadiah's terrier. The dog broke the ice of formality, — and, 
as a third party, took off the painful awkwardness of self- 
introduction. 

Sir Ulic Mackilligut^ when he wished to break handsomely 
with Mistress Tabitha Bramble, kicked her cur. The dog 
broke the force of the affront, and the knight's gallantry was 
spared the reproach of a direct confession of disgust towards 
the spinster ; as the lady took the aversion to herself only 
as the brute's ally. 

My stepmother Hubbard and myself were not on visiting 
terms for many years. Not, we flattered ourselves, through 
any hatred or uncharitableness, disgraceful between relations, 
but from a constitutional antipathy on the one side, and a 
doting affection on the other — to a dog. My breach of duty 
and decent respect was softened down into my dread of 
hydrophobia : my second-hand parent even persuaded herself 
that I was jealous of her regard for Bijou. It was a com- 
fortable self-delusion on both sides, — but the scapegoat died, 
and then, having no reasonable reason to excuse my visits, 
we came to an open rupture. There was no hope of another 
favourite. My stepmother had no general affection for the 
race, but only for that particular our. It was one of those 
incongruous attachments, not accountable to reason, but 
seemingly predestined by fate. The dog ^«a ti<c^ V^'^rs^^ 



i^i .:::,.'>% *• .l^ jtucuricc'. 






•• "5 r T~ 



!ttT8 oil hoxhi 



T\' I n- L» r, 



ji ^infc b^ 




"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 183 

her tenderaeaa for a certaiD sea-captain, hj her abundant 
oaresses of bis Esquimaux nolf-d<^. The shame of the 
avowal became milder (as the virulence of the smaU-pox ia 
abated after passing through the conatitaticn of a cow) bj 
its trauSDiission through the animH.! , 

In like manner, a funnal young Quaker and QnaleresB — 
perfect strangers to each other, and who might otherwise have 
eat mum-cbanoe together for manj hours — fell suddenly to 
romping, merely through the nuudea's play^uess with 
Obadiob's terrier. The dog broke the ice of formahty, — and, 
as a third party, took off the painful awkwardness of self- 
introduction. 

Sir Ulic Mackilligut, when be wished to break handsomely 
with Mistress Tabitha Bramble, kicked her cur. The dog 
broke the force of the affront, and the knight's gallantry was 
spared the reproach of a direct confession of disgust towards 
the spinster ; as the lady took the averwon to herself only 
aa the brute's ally. 

iSj stepmother Hubbard and myself were not on visiting 
terms for many years. Not, we flattered ourselves, through 
Kny hatred or uncharitableness, disgraceful between relations, 
Imt &om a constitutional antipathy on the one aide, and a 
doting affection on the other — to a dog. My breach of duly 
and decent respect was softened down into my dread of 
.hydrophobia ; my second-hand parent even persuaded herself 
that I was jealous of her regard for Bijou. It was a com- 
fiirtable self^elusion on both sides, — but the scapegoat died, 
Kxd then, having no reasonable reason to excuse my visits, 
we same to an open rupture. There was no hope of another 
ite. My stepmother had no general affection for the 
iL but only for that particular cur. It was one of those 
AbruouB attachments, not accountable to reason, but 
-^"~'" fredeitined by fate. The do% w«a tio Vaa^i*.^ 




184 "LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 

-^no fayouiite of a dear deceased friend ; — nglj as the bmte 
was, she loved him for his own sake, — not for any fondness 
and fidelity, for he was the most imgrateful dog, under kind- 
ness, that I ever knew, — not for his yigilance, for he was 
never wakefuL He was not useful, like a turnspit; nor 
accomplished, for he could not dance. He had not personal 
beauty even, to make him a welcome object ; and yet^ if my 
relation had been requested to display her jewels^ she would 
have pointed to the dog; and have answered, in the very 
spirit of Cornelia, — ^" There is my Bijou." 

Conceive, Header, under this endearing title, a hideous 
dwarf-mongrel, half pug and half terrier, with a face like a 
frx)g*8 — his goggle-eyes squeezing out of his head : — a body 
like a barrel-chum, on four short bandy legs,-*as if, in his 
puppyhood, he had been ill-nursed, — ^terminating in a tail like 
a rabbit's. There is only one sound in nature similar to his 
barking : — ^to hear his voice, you would have looked, not for 
a dog, but for a duck. He was fat, and scant of breath. It 
might have been said, that he was stuffed alive ; — but his 
loving mistress, in mournful anticipation of his death, kept 
a handsome glass case to hold his mummy. She intended, 
like Queen Constance, to '' stuff out his vacant garment with 
his form ; " — ^to have him ever before her, '' in his habit as 
he lived ; "^but that hope was never realized. 

In those days there were dog-stealers, as well as slave- 
dealers, — the kidnapping of the canine, as of the Negro victim, 
being attributable to his skia 

One evening, Bijou disappeared. A fruitless search was 
made for him at all his accustomed haunts, — ^but at daybreak 
the next morning, — stripped naked of his skin, — ^with a mock 
paper frill, — and the stump of a tobacco-pipe, stuck in his 
nether jaw, — ^he was discovered, set upright against a post I 

My stepmother^s grief was ungovernable. Tears, which 



A DREAM. 185 

she had not wasted on her deceased Btep-children, were shed 
then. In her first transport, a reward of £100 was offered 
fbr the apprehension of the murderers, but m vain. 

The remains of Bijou, such as they were, she caused to be 
deposited under the lawn. 

I forget what popular poet was gratified with ten guineas 
for writing his epitaph ; but it was in the measure of the 
** Pleasures of Hope." 



A DREAM. 



In the figure above,*— (a medley of human faces, wherein 
certain features belong in common to different visages, the 
eyebrow of one, for instance, forming the mouth of another,) 
—I have tried to typify a conmion characteristic of dreams, 
namely, the entanglement of divers ideas, to the waking mind 
distinct or incongruous, but, by the confusion of sleep, insepa- 
rably ravelled up, and knotted into Gordian intricacies. For, 
as the equivocal feature in the emblem belongs indifferently 
to either countenance, but is appropriated by the head that 
happens to be presently the object of contemplation; so, in a 
dream, two separate notions will naturally involve some con- 
vertible incident, that becomes, by turns, a symptom of both 
in general, or of either in particular. Thus are begotten the 
most extravagant associations of thoughts and images^ — 
unnatural connexions, like those marriages of forbidden 
relationships, where mothers become cousin to their own sons 
or daughters, and quite as bewildering as such genealogical 
embarrassments. 

I had a dismal dream once, of this nature, that will serve 

« Sm " Hood'i Own,'* Second Series, p. 42^. 



136 A DREAM. 

woll for an iUiistration, and which originated in the fiulore of 
ray first, and last, attempt as a dramatic writer. Manj of 
my readers, if I were to name the piece in question, would 
remember its signal condemnation. As soon as the Tni^;edjr 
of mj Tragedy was completed, I got into a coach, and rode 
home. My nerves were quiyering with shame and mortifi* 
cation. I tried to compose myself oyer " Paradise Lost," bat 
it failed to soothe me. I flung myself into bed, and at 
length slept — but the disaster of the night still haunted mj 
dreams ; I was again in the accursed theatre, but with a 
di£ference. It was a compound of the Drury-Lane Building 
and Pandemonium. There were the old shining green pillars, 
on either side of the stage, but above, a sublimer dome than 
ever overhung mortal playhouse. The wonted finmilies were 
in keeping of the forespoken scats, but the first companies 
they admitted were new and strange to the place. The first 
and second tiers, 

" With dreadful faces thronged, and fieiy anna," 

showed like those purgatorial circles sung of by the ancient 
Florentine. Satan was in the stage-box. The pit, dismally 
associated with its bottomless namesake, was peopled with 
fiends. Mehu scowled from the critic's seat. Belial, flushed 
with wine, led on with shout and cat-call the uproar of the 
one-shilling infemals. My hair stood upright with dread and 
horror ; I had an appalling sense, that more than my dramatic 
welfare was at stake — ^that it was to be not a purely literary 
ordeaL An alarming figure, sometimes a ixewspaper reporter, 
sometimes a devil, so prevaricating are the communications of 
sleep, was sitting, with his note-book, at my side. My play 
began. As it proceeded, sounds indescribable arose from the 
infernal auditory, increasing till the end of the first act. The 
familiar cry of ** Choose any oranges I " waa then intermingled 



A DREAM. 137 

with the munnurings of demons. The tumult grew with the 
progress of the play. The last act passed in dumb show, the 
homed monsters bellowing, throughout, like the wild bulls of 
Basan. Prongs and flesh-hooks showered upon the stage. 
MrsL Siddons — ^the human nature thus jumbling with the 
diabolical — was struck bj a brimstone balL Her lofty 
brother, robed in imperial purple, came forward towards the 
orchestra to remonstrate, and was received like the Arch- 
devil in the Poem : 

"heheara 
On aII ndei^ from innamenble tongnesy 
A difmal aniTeml bisa^ the Bound 
Of pnblic soorn." 

He bowed to the sense of the house, and withdrew. My 
doom was sealed ; the recording devil noted down my 
sentence. A suffocating vapour, now smelling of sulphur, 
and now of gas, issued from the imquenchable stage-lamps. 
The flames of the Catalonian Castle, burning in the back 
scene, in compliance with the catastrophe of the piece, blazed 
up with horrible import My flesh crept all over me. I 
thought of the everlasting torments, and at the next moment, 
of the morrow's paragrapha I shnmk from the comments of 
the Morning Post, and the hot marl of -Malebolge. The sins 
of authorship had confounded themselves, inextricably, with 
the mortal sins of the law. I could not disentangle my own 
from my play*s perdition. I was damned : but whether 
spiritually or dramatically, the twilight intelligence of a 
dream was not clear enough to determine. 

Another sample, wherein the preliminaries of the dream 
involved one portion, and implicitly forbade the other half of 
the conclusion, was more whimsical It occurred when I was 
on the eve of marriage — a season, when, if lovers sleep 
sparingly, they dream profusely. A very bnai ^S^o^cxst 



183 A DREAH. 

sufficed to cany me in the night-coach to Bognor. It had 
been concerted, between Honoria and myself, that we should 
pass the honeymoon at some such place upon the coast The 
purpose of my solitary journey was to procure an appropriate 
dwelling, and which, we had agreed, should be a little pleasant 
house, with an indispensable look-out upon the sea. I chose 
one accordingly; a pretty yiUa, with bow-windowfl^ and a 
prospect delightfully marine. The ocean murmur sounded 
incessantly from the beach. A decent elderly body, in 
decayed sables, undertook, on her part, to promote the 
comforts of the occupants by every suitable attention, and, 
as she assured me, at a very reasonable rate. So far, the 
nocturnal finculty had served me truly. A day-dream could 
not have proceeded more orderly ; but, alas 1 just here, when 
the dwelling was selected, the sea view secured, the rent 
agreed upon, — ^when every thing was plausible, consistent, and 
rational, — ^the incoherent fancy crept in and confounded all, — 
by marrying me to the old woman of the house ! 

A large proportion of my dreams have, like the preceding, 
an origin more or less remote in some actual occurrence. 
But, from all my observation and experience, the popular 
notion is a mistaken one, that our dreams take their subject 
and colour from the business or meditations of the day. It 
is true that sleep frequently gives back real images and 
actions, like a mirror ; but the reflection returns at a longer 
interval It extracts frt>m pages of some standing, like the 
^ Retrospective Review." The mind, released from its con- 
nexion with external associations, flies ofl^, gladly, to novel 
speculations. The soul does not carry its tasks out of school 
The novel, read upon the pillow, is of no more influence than 
the bride-cake laid beneath it. The charms of Di Vernon 
have faded, with me, into a vision of Dr. Faustus ; the bridal 
dance and festivities, into a chace by a mad bullock. 



A DREAM. 139 

The sleeper, like the felon, at the puttuig on of the night- 
cap, is about to be turned off from the afiairs of this world. 
The material scaffold sinks under him ; he drops — as it is 
expressiTely called — asleep ; and the spirit is transported, we 
know not whither I 

I should like to know that, by any earnest application of 
thought, we could impress its subject upon the midnight 
blank It would be worth a day's devotion to Milton, — 
" from mom till noon, frt>m noon till dewy eve,** — ^to obtain 
but one glorious vision frt>m the '' Paradise Lost;*' to Spenser, 
to purchase but one magical reflection — a Fata Morgana— of 
the '' Faery Queen ! " I have heard it affirmed, indeed, by a 
gentleman, an especial advocate of Early Rising, that he could 
procure whatever dream he wished ; but I disbelieve it, or he 
would pass fEur more hours than he does in bed. If it were 
possible, by any process, to bespeak the night's entertain- 
ment, the theatres, for me, might dose their uninviting doors. 
Who would care to sit at the miserable parodies of '' Lear," 
"Hamlet," and « Othello,"— to say nothing of the "Tempest," 
or the " Midsummer Night's Phantasy," — ^that could com- 
mand the representation of either of those noble dramas, 
with all the sublime personations, the magnificent scenery, 
and awful reality of a dream ? 

For horrible fancies, merely, nightmares and incubi, there 
is a recipe extant, that is ciirrently attributed to the late 
Mr. Fuseli. I mean a supper of raw pork ; but, as I never 
slept after it, I cannot speak as to the effect 

Opium I have never tried, and, therefore, have never ex- 
perienced such magnificent visions as are described by its 
eloquent historian. I have never been buried for ages under 
pyramids ; and yet, methinks, have suffered agonies as intense 
as hit could be, from the commonplace inflictions. For ex- 
ample, a night spent in the counting of intATTim!AX\^T£Q2a^Q«c<^, 



180 A FAIRT TALE. 

When, — ^whether from a fl/s malidoos oomment 
Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank ; 

Or whether 
Only in some enthusiastic moment, — 
However, one brown monster, in a frisk. 
Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, 
Kick*d out a passage thro* the beastly rabble : 
And after a pas seul,— or, if you will, a 
Horn-pipe before the Basket-makef s villa, 

Leapt o*er the tiny pale, — 
Back*d his beef-steaks against the wooden gable, 
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail 

Right o'er the page. 

Wherein the sage 
Just then was spelling some romantic fable. 



c •». 



The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, 

Could not peruse, — ^who could I — two tales at once, 

And being hufiTd 
At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, 

Bang*d-to the door, 
But most imluckily enclosed a morsel 
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : — 

The monster gave a roar. 
And bolting off with speed, increased by p^n, 
The little house became a coach once more, 
And, like Macheath, " took to the road*' again I 

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, 
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper 
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, 
Was getting up some household herbs for supper : 
Thoaghtful of Cinderella, in the tale, 



A FAIBT TAIX 131 

And quaintly wondering if magio shifts 
Gould o'er a common pumpkin so prevail. 
To turn it to a coach, — ^what pretty gifts 
Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; 
Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, 
Nor tum'd, till home had tum'd a comer, quite 
Gone out of sight ! 

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, 
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing ; 
And lookmg round 
Where rest was to be found, 
There was no house — ^no villa there — ^no nothing I 
No house 1 

The change was quite amazing ; 
It made her senses stagger for a minute, 
The riddle's explication seem'd to harden ; 
But soon her superannuated notu 
Explain'd the horrid mystery ; — and raising 
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, 

On which she meant to sup, — 
"Well ! this u Fairy Work ! Fll bet a farden, 
Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, 
And set me down in some one else's garden ! ** 



132 



"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG,** 

Seems, at first sight, an tmreasonable demand. M&j I 
profess no tenderness for Belinda without vowing an at- 
tachment to Shock ? Must I feel an equal warmth towards 
my bosom friend and his greyhound ? Some country gentle- 
men keep a pack of dogs. Am I expected to divide my 
personal regard for my Lord D. amongst all his celebrated 
fox-hounds ? 

I may bo constitutionally averse to the whole canine 
species; I have been bitten, perhaps, in my infancy by a 
mastiff, or pinned by a buU-dog. There are harrowing tales 
on record of hydrophobia, of himian barkings, and inhuman 
smotherings. A dog may be my bugbear. Again, there are 
differences in taste. One man may like to have his hand 
licked all over by a grateful spaniel ; but I would not have 
my extremity served so — even by the human tongue. 

But the proverb, so arrogant and absolute in spirit, be- 
comes harmless in its common application. The terms are 
seldom enforced, except by persons that a gentleman is not 
likely to embrace in his affection — ^rat-catchers, butchers and 
bull-baiters, tinkers and blind mendicants, beldames and 
witches. A slaughterman's tulip-eared puppy is as likely to 
engage one's liking as his chuckle-headed master. When a 
courtier makes friends with a drover, he will not be likely to 
object to a sheep-dog as a third party in the alliance. 

**LoYe me," says Mother Sawyer, " lore my dog." 

Who careth to dote on either a witch or her familiar? 
The proverb thus loses half of its oppression ; in other cases, 
it may become a pleasant fiction, an agreeable confession. I 
foi^t what pretty Countess it was, who made confession of 



"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 183 

her tenderness for a certain sea-captain, by her abundant 
caresses of his Esquimaux wolf-dog. The shame of the 
avowal became milder (as the virulence of the small-pox is 
abated after passing through the constitution of a cow) by 
its transmission through the animal 

In like manner, a formal young Quaker and Quakeress — 
perfect strangers to each other, and who might otherwise have 
sat mimi-chance together for many hours — fell suddenly to 
romping, merely through the maiden's playfulness with 
Obadiah*s terrier. The dog broke the ice of formality, — and, 
as a third party, took off the painful awkwardness of self- 
introduction. 

Sir Ulic Mackilligut, when he wished to break handsomely 
with Mistress Tabitha Bramble, kicked her cur. The dog 
broke the force of the affront, and the knight's gallantry was 
spared the reproach of a direct confession of disgust towards 
the spinster ; as the lady took the aversion to herself only 
as the brute's ally. 

My stepmother Hubbard and myself were not on visiting 
terms for many years. Not, we flattered ourselves, through 
any hatred or uncharitableness, disgraceful between relations, 
but from a constitutional antipathy on the one side, and a 
doting affection on the other — to a dog. My breach of duty 
and decent respect was softened down into my dread of 
hydrophobia : my second-hand parent even persuaded herself 
that I was jealous of her regard for Bijou. It was a com- 
fortable self-delusion on both sides, — but the scapegoat died, 
and then, having no reasonable reason to excuse my visits, 
we came to an open rupture. There was no hope of another 
favourite. My stepmother had no general affection for the 
race, but only for that particular cur. It was one of those 
incongruous attachments, not accountable to reason, but 
seemingly predestined by fate. The do^ ^«a Tk!^ \5^^^s^^ 



m "LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 

—no favourite of a dear deceased friend ; — ^ugly as the bnite 
was, she loved him for his own sake, — ^not for any fondness 
and fidelity, for he was the most ungrateful dog, under kind- 
ness, that I ever knew, — not for his vigilance, for he was 
never wakefuL He was not useful, like a turnspit; nor 
accomplished, for he could not dance. He had not personal 
beauty even, to make him a welcome object ; and yet» if my 
relation had been requested to display her jewels^ she would 
have pointed to the dog; and have answered| in the very 
spirit of Cornelia, — ** There is my Bgou." 

Conceive, Reader, under this endearing title, a hideous 
dwarf-mongrel, half pug and half tenrier, with a face like a 
frog's — his goggle-eyes squeezing out of his head : — a body 
like a barrel-chum, on four short bandy legs, — as if, in his 
puppyhood, he had been ill-nursed, — ^terminating in a tail like 
a rabbit's. There is only one sound in nature similar to his 
barking : — ^to hear his voice, you would have looked, not for 
a dog, but for a duck. He was fat, and scant of breath. It 
might have been said, that he was stuffed alive ; — but his 
loving mistress, in mournful anticipation of his death, kept 
a handsome glass case to hold his mummy. She intended, 
like Queen Constance, to *' stuff out his vacant garment with 
his form ; " — ^to have him ever before her, '' in his habit as 
he lived ; " — ^but that hope was never realized. 

In those days there were dog-stealers, as well as slave- 
dealers, — ^the kidnapping of the canine, as of the Negro victim, 
being attributable to his skin. 

One evening. Bijou disappeared. A fruitless search was 
made for him at all his accustomed haunts, — ^but at daybreak 
the next morning, — stripped naked of his skin, — ^with a mock 
paper frill, — and the stiunp of a tobacco-pipe, stuck in his 
nether jaw, — he was discovered, set upright against a post ! 

My stepmother^s grief was ungovernable. Tears, which 



A DREAM. 185 

ahe had not wasted on her deceased step-children, were shed 
then. In her first transport, a reward of £100 was offered 
fbr the apprehension of the murderers, but in vain. 

The remains of Bgou, such as they were, she caused to be 
deposited imder the lawn. 

I forget what popular poet was gratified with ten guineas 
for writing lus epitaph ; but it was in the measure of the 
** Pleasures of Hope." 



A DREAM. 



In the figure above,* — (a medley of human faces, wherein 
certain features belong in common to different visages, the 
eyebrow of one, for instance, forming the mouth of another,) 
-»I have tried to typify a common diaracteristio of dreams, 
namely, the entanglement of divers ideas, to the waking mind 
distinct or incongruous, but, by the confusion of sleep, insepa- 
rably ravelled up, and knotted into Gordian intricacies. For, 
as the equivocal feature in the emblem belongs indifferently 
to either countenance, but is appropriated by the head that 
happens to be presently the object of contemplation; so, in a 
dream, two separate notions will naturally involve some con- 
vertible incident, that becomes, by turns, a symptom of both 
in general, or of either in particular. Thus are begotten the 
most extravagant associations of thoughts and images, — 
unnatural connexions, like those marriages of forbidden 
relationships, where mothers become cousin to their own sous 
or daughters, and quite as bewildering as such genealogical 
embarrassments. 

I had a dismal dream once, of this nature, that will servo 

* Sm « Hood's Own," Second Series, p. 42!L 



136 A DREAM. 

well for an illustration, and which originated in the failure of 
ray first, and last, attempt as a dramatic writer. Many of 
my readers, if I were to name the piece in question, woold 
remember its signal condemnation. As soon as the Tragedy 
of my Tragedy was completed, I got into a coach, and rode 
home. My nerves were quivering with shame and mortifi- 
cation. I tried to compose myself over ^ Paradise Lost,*' but 
it failed to soothe me. I flung myself into bed, and at 
length slept — but the disaster of the night still haunted my 
dreams; I was again in the accursed theatre, but with a 
difference. It was a compound of the Drury-Lane Building 
and Pandemonium. There were the old shining green pillarSy 
on either side of the stage, but above, a sublimer dome than 
ever overhung mortal playhouse. The wonted families were 
in keeping of the forespoken seats, but the first companies 
they admitted were new and strange to the place. The first 
and second tiers, 

*' With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery anna,*' 

showed like those pui^atorial circles sung of by the ancient 
Florentine. Satan was in the stage-box. The pit, dismally 
associated with its bottomless namesake, was peopled with 
fiends. Mchu scowled from the critic's seat. Belial, flushed 
with wine, led on with shout and cat-call the uproar of the 
one-shilling infemals. My hair stood upright with dread and 
horror ; I had an appalling sense, that more than my dramatic 
welfare was at stake — that it was to be not a purely literary 
ordeaL An alarming figure, sometimes a Acwspaper reporter, 
sometimes a devil, so prevaricating are the communications of 
sleep, was sitting, with his note-book, at my side. My play 
began. As it proceeded, soimds indescribable arose from the 
infernal auditory, increasing till the end of the first act. The 
familiar cry of " Choose any oranges ! *' waa then intermingled 



A DREAM. 137 

with the murmurings of demons. The tumolt grew with the 
progress of the play. The last act paased in dumb show, the 
homed monsters bellowing, throughout, like the wild bulls of 
Basan. Prongs and flesh-hooks showered upon the stage. 
Mtbl Siddons — ^the human nature thus jumbling with the 
diabolical — was struck bj a brimstone balL Her lofty 
brother, robed in imperial purple, came forward towards the 
orchestra to remonstrate, and was received like the Arch- 
devil in the Poem : 

"he hears 
On all rides, from innamerable toDgnes, 
A dismal universal biss^ the sound 
Of pnblic BOom.** 

He bowed to the sense of the house, and withdrew. My 
doom was sealed ; the recording devil noted down my 
sentence. A suffocating vapour, now smelling of sulphur, 
and now of gas, issued from the unquenchable stage-lamp& 
The flames of the Catalonian Castle, burning in the back 
scene, in compliance with the catastrophe of the piece, blazed 
up with horrible import. My flesh crept all over me. I 
thought of the everlasting torments, and at the next moment, 
of the morrow's paragraphs. I shnmk frx>m the comments of 
the Morning Post, and the hot marl of -Malebolge. The sins 
of authorship had confounded themselves, inextricably, with 
the mortal sins of the law. I ooidd not disentangle my own 
from my play*s perdition. I was damned : but whether 
spiritually or dramatically, the twilight intelligence of a 
dream was not clear enough to determine. 

Another sample, wherein the preliminaries of the dream 
involved one portion, and implicitly forbade the other half of 
the conclusion, was more whimsical It occurred when I was 
on the eve of marriage — a season, when, if lovers sleep 
sparingly, they dream profusely. A verf bnsi ^coss^c^^ 



183 A DREAM. 

sufficed to oaiTj me in the night-coach to Bognor. It had 
been concerted, between Honoria and myself, that we should 
pass the honeymoon at some such place upon the coast. The 
purpose of my solitary journey was to procure an appropriate 
dwelling, and which, we had agreed, should be a little pleasant 
house, with an indispensable look-out upon the sea. I ohoso 
one accordingly; a pretty villa, with bow-windows, and a 
prospect delightfully marine. The ocean murmur sounded 
incessantly from the beach. A decent elderly body, in 
decayed sables, undertook, on her part, to promote the 
comforts of the occupants by every suitable attention, and, 
as she assured me, at a very reasonable rate. So fiur, the 
nocturnal fiiculty had served me truly. A day-dream could 
not have proceeded more orderly ; but, alas ! just here, when 
the dwelling was selected, the sea view secured, the rent 
agreed upon, — ^when every thing was plausible, consistent, and 
rational, — ^the incoherent fimcy crept in and confoimded all, — 
by marrying me to the old woman of the house ! 

A large proportion of my dreams have, like the preceding, 
an origin more or less remote in some actual occurrence. 
But, from all my observation and experience, the popular 
notion is a mistaken one, that our dreams take their subject 
and coloiur from the business or meditations of the day. It 
is true that sleep frequently gives back real images and 
actions, like a mirror ; but the reflection returns at a longer 
interval It extracts from pages of some standing, like the 
" Retrospective Review." The mind, released from its con- 
nexion with external associations, flies ofi*, gladly, to novel 
speculations. The soul does not carry its tasks out of school 
The novel, read upon the pillow, is of no more influence than 
the bride-cake laid beneath it The charms of Di Vernon 
have faded, with me, into a vision of Dr. Fatistus ; the bridal 
dance and festivities, into a chace by a mad bullock. 



A DREAM. 139 

The Bleeper, like the felon, at the putting on of the night- 
cap, is about to be turned off from the affairs of this world. 
The material scaffold sinks under him ; he drops — ^as it is 
expressively called — asleep ; and the spirit is transported, we 
know not whither 1 

I should like to know that, by any earnest application of 
thought, we coidd impress its subject upon the midnight 
blank It would be worth a day's devotion to Milton, — 
** from mom till noon, frx)m noon till dewy eve,** — ^to obtain 
but one glorious vision from the " Paradise Lost;" to Spenser, 
to purchase but one magical reflection — a Fata Morgana— of 
the '' Faery Queen ! " I have heard it affirmed, indeed, by a 
gentleman, an especial advocate of Early Rising, that he could 
procure whatever dream he wished ; but I disbelieve it, or he 
would pass flEu: more hours than he does in bed. If it were 
possible, by any process, to bespeak the night's entertain- 
ment, the theatres^ for me, might close their iminviting doors. 
Who would care to sit at the miserable parodies of *' Lear," 
"Hamlet," and " Othello,"— to say nothing of the "Tempest," 
or the " Midsummer Night's Phantasy," — ^that could oom« 
mand the representation of either of those noble dramas, 
with all the sublime personations, the magnificent scenery, 
and awful reality of a dream ? 

For horrible fancies, merely, nightmares and incubi, there 
is a recipe extant, that is currently attributed to the late 
Mr. Fuseli. I mean a supper of raw pork ; but, as I never 
slept afler it, I cannot speak as to the effect 

Opium I have never tried, and, therefore, have never ex- 
perienced such magnificent visions as are described by its 
eloquent historian. I have never been buried for ages under 
pyramids ; and yet, methinks, have suffered agonies as intense 
as hi$ could be, from the commonplace inflictions. For ex- 
ample, a night spent in the counting of iQtArnm^V^Tixas^Qnc^ 



140 A DREAM. 

^-an Inquisitorial penance — everlasting tedium — ^the Mind's 
treadmill ! 

Another writer, in recording his horrible dreams, describes 
himself to have been sometimes an animal pursued by hounds; 
sometimes a bird, torn in pieces by eagles. They are flat 
contradictions of my Theory of Dreams. Such Oridian Meta- 
morphoses never yet entered into my experience. I never 
translate myself. I must know the taste of rape and hemp- 
seed, and have cleansed my gizzard with small gravel, before 
even fancy can turn me into a bird. I must have another 
nowl upon my shoulders, ere I can feel a longing for ''a bottle 
of chopt hay, or your good dried oats." My own habits and 
prejudices, all the symptoms of my identity, cling to me in 
my dreams. It never happened to me to fancy myself a 
child or a woman, dwarf or giant, stone-blind, or deprived of 
any sense. 

And here, the latter part of the sentence reminds me of 
an intereresting question, on this subject, that has greatly 
puzzled me, and of which I should be glad to obtain a satis- 
factory solution, viz. : — How does a blind man dream f I 
mean a person with the opaque crystal from his birth. He 
is defective in that very faculty, which, of all others, is most 
active in those night passages, thence emphatically called 
Visions. He has had no acquaintance with external images, 
and has, therefore, none of those transparent pictures, that, 
like the slides of a magic lantern, pass before the mind's eye, 
and are projected by the inward spiritual light upon the utter 
blank. His imagination must be like an imperfect kaleido- 
scope, totally unfurnished with those parti-coloured fragments, 
whereof the complete instrument makes such interminable 
combinations. It is difficult to conceive such a man*s dream. 

Is ft a still benighted wandering — a pitch-dark night progress 
— ^made known to him by the consciousness of the remainin^^ 



A DREAM. 1*1 

senses ? Is he still pulled through the universal blank, by 
an invisible power, as it were, at the nether end of the string? 
— ^regaled, sometimes, with celestial voluntaries and imknown 
mysterious fragrances, answering to our romantic flights ; at 
other times, with homely voices and more familiar odours ; 
here, of rank-smelling cheeses ; there, of pungent pickles or 
aromatic drugs, hinting his progress through a metropolitan 
street. Does he over again enjoy the grateful roundness of 
those substantial droppings from the invisible passenger, — 
palpable deposits of an abstract benevolence, — or, in his 
nightmares, suffer anew those painful concussions and 
corporeal buffetings, from that (to him) obscure evil prin- 
ciple, the Parish Beadle ? 

This question I am happily enabled to resolve, through the 
information of the oldest of those blind Tobits that stand in 
fresco against Bunhill Wall; the same who made that notable 
comparison, of scarlet, to the sound of a trumpet As I un- 
derstood him, harmony, with the gravel-blind, is prismatic as 
well as chromatic. To use his own illustration, a wall-eyed 
man has a palette in his ear, as well as in his mouth. Some 
stone-blinds, indeed, — dull dogs, — ^without any ear for colour, 
prof^ to distinguish the different hues and shades by the 
touch ; but that, he said, ^as a slovenly, uncertain method, and 
in the chief article of Paintings not allowed to be exercised. 

On my expressing some natural surprise at the aptitude of 
his celebrated comparison, — a miraculously close likening, to 
my mind, of the known to the unknown, — ^he told me, the 
instance was nothing, for the least discriminative among 
them could distinguish the scarlet colour of the mail guards' 
liveries, by the sound of their horns : but there were others, 
so acute their facility ! that they could tell the very features 
and complexion of their relatives and familiars, by the mere 
tone of their voices. I was much gratified mtlx t\i\& ^x^vsat 



141 TilE IKISII SCllUULMASTEll. 

Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowlfl. 
Whereof, above his head, some two or three 
Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva^ owls. 
But on the branches of no living tree, 
And overlook the learned family ; 
While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch. 
Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, 
Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research 
In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge-— now a birch. 

No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, 
Such as would magisterial hams imbed, 
But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, 
Secure in high authority and dread : 
Large, as a dome for learning, seems his head, 
And like Apollo's, all beset with rays. 
Because his locks are so unkempt and red. 
And stand abroad in many several ways : 
No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize, 

And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows 
O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue. 
That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows 
A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue ; 
His nose, — it is a coral to the view ; 
Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen, — 
For much he loves his native moimtain dew ; — 
But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, 
A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. 

• 

As for his coat, *tis such a jerkin short 

As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales ; 



THE IBISH SCHOOLICASTES. 145 

But underneath he hath no vest^ nor anght^ 
So that the wind hk aiiy breast assails ; 
Below, he wears the nether garb of males^ 
Of crimson plash, but non-plushed at the knee ; 
Thence further down the native red prevails, 
Of his own naked fleecy hosierie : — 
Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie. 

Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap 
His function in a magisterial gown, 
That shows more ooimtries in it than a map, — 
Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet-brown, 
Besides some blots, standing for country-town ; 
And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide ; 
But, sometimes^ bashful when he looks adown. 
He turns the garment of the other side, 
Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied f 

And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, 
That look for shady or for sunny noon. 
Within his visage, like an almanack — 
His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon ; 
But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, 
VTiih. horrid chill each little heart imwarms. 
Knowing, that infknt shoVrs will follow soon, 
And with forebodings of near wrath and storms 
They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forma. 

Ah ! luckless wight^ who cannot then repeat 
« Corduroy Colloquy,"— or " Ki, Kab, Kod,"— 
Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat 
More sodden, tho* already made of sod. 
For Dan shall whip him with the word of God, — 

VOL, V. "^ 



146 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER: 

Severe by rule, and not by nature mild. 
He never spoils the child and spares the rod. 
But spoils the rod and never spares the ohild. 
And soe with holy rule deems ho is reoonoiled. 

But surely the just sky will never wink 
At men who take delight in childish throe. 
And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink 
Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe ; 
Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, 
By useless birches, that forlorn recess, 
Which is no holiday, in Pit below. 
Will hell not seem design'd for their distress — 
A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse t 

Tet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use 
Of needful discipline, in due degree. 
Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce^ 
Whene'er the twig untrain'd grows up a tree. 
This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, 
Ferocious leaders of atrociotis bands, 
And Learning's help be used for infamie. 
By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, 
In murder'd English write Rock's murderous oommanda. 

But ah ! what shrUly cry doth now alarm 
The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam, 
All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm. 
And cackling chorus with the human scream ; 
Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam 
In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, 
I^ike traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, 



THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTEB. 147 

That falsely lets the fieroe besieger in, 
Kor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win. 

No parent dear he hath to heed his cries ; — < 
Alas ! his parent dear is far aloof, 
And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies. 
Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, 
Or dimbeth, catwise, on some London roof. 
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, 
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy- woof. 
Dreaming he sees his home — ^his Phelim*s smile ; 
Ah me 1 that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while f 

Ah ! who can paint that hard and heavy time. 
When first the scholar 'lists in leaming^s train, 
And moimts her rugged steep, enforced to climb. 
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain. 
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, 
Wherein, alas I no sugar*d juices dwell 1 
For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain. 
Another weepeth over chilblains fell, 
Always upon the heel, yet never to be well ! 

Anon a third, — for his delicious root, 
Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit, 
So soon is human violence afoot, 
So hardly is the harmless biter bit ! 
Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit 
And mouthing tace, derides the small one's moan. 
Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit. 
Alack, — ^mischance comes seldomtimes alone, 
But aye the worried dog must rue more c\mc^ \Jq3kcl ^tssi. 



148 THE IRISH SCHOOLICASTEB. 

For lo ! the Pedagogae, with sadden dmb, 
Smites his scald head, that is ahreadj sore,— 
(Superfluous wound,^«uch is Misfortune's rub) 
Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, 
And sheds salt tears twice finster than before, 
That stOl with backward fist he strives to dxy ; 
Washing with brackish moisturey o*er and o'er, 
His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, 
Till all his rainy fiAoe looks grim as rainy tkj. 

So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, 
And with his natural untender knack, 
By new distress, bids former grieranoe cease^ 
Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback. 
That sets the mournful visage all awrack ; 
Yet soon the childish countenance will shine 
Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, 
For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, 
This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brineu 

Now all is hush'd, and, with a look profound, 
The Dominie lays ope the learned page ; 
(So be it called, although he doth expound 
Without a book) both Greek and Latin sage ; 
Now telleth he of Rome's rude in&nt age, 
How Romulus was bred in savage wood. 
By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage ; 
And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, 
But watered it, alas 1 with wann fraternal blood. 

Anon he turns to that Homeric war, 

How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town ; 



TH£ IRISH SCHOOLllASTER. 149 

And stout AohilleSy at his jauntmg-oar. 
Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown : 
And eke the bard, that sung of their renown. 
In garb of Greece most beggar-like and torn. 
He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down : 
Because, at once, in seven cities bom ; 
And so, of parish rights, was, all his days^ forlorn. 

Anon, through old Mythology he goes, 
Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees, 
But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows 
How Plato wise, and dear-eyed Socrates, 
Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes ; 
But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope 
Beheld St Peter, with his holy keys, 
And own'd their love was naught, and boVd to Pope^ 
Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope. 

From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, 
To new philosophies, that still are green. 
And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guide 
The wheels of great political machine ; 
If English com should grow abroad, I ween, 
And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet ; 
How many pigs be bom to each spalpeen ; 
And ah 1 how man shall thrive beyond his meat, — 
With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat 1 

Here, he makes end ; and all the fry of youth. 
That stood around with serious look intense, 
Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth. 
Which they had opened to his eloquence. 
As if their hearing were a threefold eei>jaA« 



150 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 

But now the current of his words is done. 
And whether any fruits shall spring from thenoe^ 
In future time, with any mother's son !— 
It is a thing, God wot ! that can be told by nona 

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon, 
The hour is come to lay aside their lore ; 
The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon, 
And cries, " Begone ! " imto the imps, — and four 
Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door,-« 
Like ardent spirits vented from a cask. 
All blithe and boisterous, — ^but leave two more, 
With Reading made Uneasy for a task, 
To weep, whilst all their mates in meny sunshine bask. 

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod. 
With tender moss so sleekly overgrown. 
That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod. 
So soothly kind is Erin to her own ! 
And one, at Hare-and-Hoimd, plays all alone, — 
For Phelim*s gone to tend his step-dame's cow ; 
Ah ! Phelim's step-dame is a cankered crone I 
Whilst other twain play at an Irish row. 
And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow ! 

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift. 

Now changeth ferula for rural hoe ; 

But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift 

His college gown, because of solar glow. 

And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow : 

Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean, 

Or trains the yoimg potatoes all a-row. 



FAITHLESS KELLY GRAY. 151 

Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, 
With that crisp curly herb, call*d Kale in Aberdeen. 

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, 
Link*d each to each by labour, like a bee ; 
Or rules in Learnings hall, or trims her boVrs ;<— 
Would there were many more such wights as he, 
To sway each capital academic 
Of Cam and Isis ; for, alack ! at each 
There dwells, I wot, some dromsh Dominie, 
That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach. 
But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'iy speech ! 



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 

▲ FATHETIO BALLAD. 



BsN Battlb was a soldier bold, 
And used to war's alarms : 

But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
So he laid down his arms ! 

Now as they bore him off the field, 
Said he, ** Let others shoot^ 

For here I leave my second leg. 
And the Forty-second Foot ! ** 

The army-surgeons made him limbs : 
Said he,^** They're only pegs : 

But there's as wooden Members quite. 
As represent my legs 1 " 



162 FAITHLESS NELL7 ORAT. 

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 

Her name was Nelly Gray ; 
So he went to pay her hia devours, 

When he*d devoured his pay I 

But when he called on Nelly Gray, 

She made him quite a scoff; 
And when she saw his wooden legs. 

Began to take them off 1 

" Oh, Nelly Gray I Oh, Nelly Gray ! 

Is this your love so warm I 
The love that loves a s<sarlet coat 

Should be more uniform I " 

Said she, '' 1 loved a soldier once, 
For he was blythe and brave ; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the grave I 

'' Before you had those timber toes^ 

Tour love I did allow. 
But then, you know, you stand upon 

Another footing now ! " 

« Oh, NeUy Gray ! Oh, Nelly Gray 1 
For all your jeering speeches, 

At duty's call, I left my legs, 
In Badajos's breaches I " 

" Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet 

Of legs in war's alarms, 
And now you cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feats of arms ! " 



FAITHLESS NEI.LY ORAY. 158 

** Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray I 

I know why you refuse : — 
Though Fve no feet — some other mau 

Is standing in my shoes ! 

" I wish I ne*er had seen your face ; 

But, now, a long farewell ! 
For you will be my death ; — alas ! 

You will not be my Nell I" 

Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got — 
And life was such a burthen grown, 

It made him take a knot I 

So round his melancholy neck^ 

A rope he did entwine. 
And, for his second time in life. 

Enlisted in the Line I 

One end he tied around a beam. 

And then removed his pegs. 
And, as his legs were off, — of course. 

He soon was off his legs ! 

And there he hung, till he was dead 

As any nail in town,^- 
For, though distress had cut him up. 

It could not cut him down I 

A dozen men sat on his corpse. 

To find out why he died — 
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 

With a stake in his inside 1 



154 THE WATER LADY. 

[The following poems appeared in azmuala and aliewliexe as ipaeifiad 
in the notes.] 



THE WATER LADY/ 
— ♦ 

Alas, the moon should ever beam 
To show what man should never see 
I saw a maiden on a stream. 
And fair was she ! 

I staid awhile, to see her throw 
Her tresses back, that all beset 
The flEdr horizon of her brow 
With douds of jet 

I staid a little while to view 
Her cheek, that wore in place of red 
The bloom of water, tender blue,t 
Daintily spread 

I staid to watch, a little space, 
Her parted lips if she would sing ; 
The waters closed above her £Etce 
With many a ring. 

And still I staid a little more, 
Alas ! she never comes again ! 
I throw my flowers from the shore. 
And watch in vain. 



• From the " Forget-me-Not " for 1826. 

f A little water-oolonr gketoh by Serem (given to my mother by Keats) 
probably Bnggested these lines. The nymph's complexion is of s pale blue 
(instead of ordinary flesh tint), as here described. 



\ 



AUTUMN. 155 



I know my life will fade away, 
I know that I must vainly pine. 
For I am made of mortal clay. 
But Bhe*s diyine ! 



AUTUMN/ 



Thb Autumn is old. 
The sere leaves are flying ; 
He hath gathered up gold^ 
And now he is dying ; — 
Old Age, begin sighing ! 

The vintage is ripe, 
The harvest is heaping ; — 
But some that have soVd 
Have no riches for reaping ; — 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! 

The yearns in the wane. 
There is nothing adorning. 
The night has no eve. 
And the day has no morning ;— 
Cold winter gives warning. 

The rivers run chill, 
The red sun is sinking, 
And I am grown old, 

And life is fast Rhrinlring '-^ 

Here's enow for sad thinking I 
* From ''Friendihip's Offering,'* 1826. 



169 



I REMEMBER, I RE] 



1 1 Jit J I ii k)i I 



I REKEXBSR, I remember. 
The house where I was bom. 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at mom ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 
Nor brought too long a day, 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away I 

I remember, I remember. 
The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups, 
Those flowdrs made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day,-— 
The tree is living yet 1 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swings 

And thought the air must rush as fipesh 

To swallows on the wing ; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And sunmier pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow 1 



• From << FneiiiUhip*s Offering,** 182«. 



DEATH'S RAMBLE. 

1 remember, I remember 

The fir trees dark and high ; 

I tised to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know Fm farther off from HeaVn 

Than when I was a boy. 



167 



DEATH'S RAMBLK* 



Onb day the dreaiy old ELing of Death 
Inclined for some sport with the carnal, 

So he tied a pack of darts on his back. 
And quietly stole from his chamel. 

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, 

His body was lean and lank, 
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur 

Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. 

And what did he do with his deadly darts. 

This goblin of grisly bone ? 
He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kiU*d 

Like a butcher that kills his own. 



• Thii originally appeared in tbe "Literary Gaxette.'* Hr. Jerdan, to 
wbom I am maoh indebted for belp in thia edition, teUa me tbat it waa 
■oggeated by an aignment relatiTe to tbe antbonbip of tbe "Deril^s Walk,*' 
mentioned aoddentally in oonneetion witb Holbein'a ''Danoe of Beatb." 

Tbe poem waa inbieqnently pnbliabad aeparately, witb eokmred ilinatra- 
UoDM, by HnllmandeL 



158 DEATH'S RAMBLE. 

The first he slaughtei'd it made him laugh 

(For the man waa a coffin-maker) 
To think how the mutes, and men in black auita^ 

Would mourn for an imdertaker. 

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church : 

Quoth he, '' We shall not differ." 
And he let them alone, like figures of stone, 

For he could not make them stiffen 

He saw two duellists going to fight^ 

In fear they could not smother ; 
And he shot one through at once — ^for he knew 

They never would shoot each other. 

He saw a watchman fast in his box, 

And he gave a snore infernal ; 
Said Death, *^ He may keep his breath, for his sleep 

Can never be more eternal*' 

He met a coachman driving his coach 

So slow, that his fare grew sick ; 
But he let him stray on his tedious way. 

For Death only wars on the quick. 

Death saw a toll-man taking a toll. 

In the spirit of his fraternity ; 
But he knew that sort of man would extort, 

Though summoned to all eternity. 

He found an author writing his life. 

But he let him write no further ; 
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, 

Is jealous of all self-murther 1 



ADDBESS TO MB. CBOSS, OF EXETEB CHAKOE. 15^ 

Death saw a patient that ptdl'd out his purse, 

And a doctor that took the sum ; 
But he let them be — ^for he knew that the ^ fee" 

Was a prelude to " faw " and **fum.** 

He met a dustman ringing a ^U, 

And he gave him a mortal thrust ; 
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, 

Is contractor for all our dust. 

He saw a sailor mixing his grog. 
And he mark'd him out for slaughter ; 

For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, 
And never on rum-and-water. 

Death saw two players playing at cards, 

But the game wasn't worth a dump. 
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade. 

To wait for the final trump ! 

[The next poem is from the ''New Monthly Magazine," then edited 
by CampbelL The friendship spoken of between my father and the 
beast is no &ble. I hare often heard him speak of it.] 

ADDRESS TO MR CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE, 

ON THB DEATH OF THB ELEPHANT. 

♦ 

** 'Tis Greece, bnt liTiDg Greece no more,** 

Oh, Mr. Cross, 
Permit a sorry stranger to draw near, 

And shed a tear 
(Fve shed my shilling) for thy recent Ion ! 

I've been a visitor 
Of old — a sort of a Buffon inquisitor 



190 ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHAKGISL 

Of thy menagerie, and knew the beast^ 

That is deceased. 
I was the Damon of the gentle giant^ 

And oft have been, 
Like Mr. Eean, 
Tenderiy fondled by his trunk compliant. 
Whenever I approached, the kindly brute 
Flapped his prodigious ears, and bent his knees- 
It makes me freeie 
To think of it No chums could better suit. 
Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruity — 
For so our former deamess was begun, — 
I bribed him with an apple, and beguiled 
The beast of his affection like a child ; 
And well he loved me till his life was done 

(Except when he was wild). 
It makes me blush for human friends — but none 
I have so truly kept or cheaply woa 

Here is his pen ! 

The casket — ^but the jewel is away ; 

The den is rifled of its denizen, — 

Ah, well a day ! 
This fr'esh free air breathes nothing of his grossnesa^ 
And sets me sighing even for its closeness. 

This light one-story, 
Where like a doud I used to feast my eyes on 
The grandeur of bis Titan-like horizon, 
Tells a dark tale of its departed glory;— 
The veiy beasts lament the change like me. 

The shaggy Bison 
Leaneth his head dejected on his knee ; 
The Hy8Bna*s laugh is hushed ; the Monkeys pout ; 



ADDBESS TO KB. CBOSS, OF EXETER CHANGE. ICl 

The Wild Cat frets in a oomplaining whine ; 
The Panther paces restlesalj about, 

To walk her sorrow out ; 
The Lions in a deeper bass repine ; 
The Kangaroo wrings its sorry short forepaws ; 

Shrieks come frx>m the Macaws ; 
The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head. 

And pineth fbr the dead ; 
The Boa writhes into a double knot ; 

The Keeper groans, 

Whilst sawing bones, 
And looks askance at the deserted spot ; 
Brutal and rational lament his loss, 
The flower of the beastly family ; — 

Poor Mrs. Cross 
Sheds frequent tears into her daily tea, 

And weakens her Bohea. 

Oh, Mr. Cross, how little it gives birth 

To grief when human greatness goes to earth ; 

How few lament for Czars,—* 
But^ oh, the universal heart o*erflowed 

At his ''high mass," 

Lighted by gas, 
When like Mark Antony the keeper showed 

The Elephantine scar& 

Reporters* eyes 

Were of an egg-like size ; 
Men that had never wept for murdered Marn%* 
Hard-hearted editors with iron faces, 

• The Marr family murdered by Williams. See De Qaincy'i ** Muder 
as a nne Art" 
VOL. V. "VX 



1^2 Ar)hi;KSS TO mi:. (Knss, (»F EXKTKU CHANGE. 

Their sluioes all undoeedy^- 

And discomposed 
Compositors went fretting to their cases, 

That grief has left its traoeB ; 
The poor old Beef-eater has gone much greyer. 

With sheer regret ; 

And the Gazette 
Seems the least trouble of the beasts* Purveyor. 

And I too weep ! a dozen of great men 
I could have spared without a single tear ; 

But, then, 
They are renewable from year to year. 
Fresh gents would rise though Qent resigned the pen ; 

I should not wholly 
Despair for six months of another C * * * * t 
Nor, though F********* lay on his small bier, 

Be melancholy. 
But when will such an elepliant appear 1 
Though Penlcy wore destroyed at Drury-lane, 

His like might come again ; 

Fate might supply, 
A second Powell if the first should die ; 
Another Beunet if the sire were snatched ; 

Barnes — ^might be matched ; 

And Time fill up the gap 
Were Parsloe laid upon the green earth's lap ; 
Even Claremont might be equalled, — I could hope 
(All human greatness is, alas, so puny !) 
For other Egertons — another Pope, 

But not another Chunee ! 

t Probably ** Croly "— Uic ** F.*' I am at a loss to discoTcr. 



THE POET'S PORTION. 168 

Well ! he is dead I 

And there's a gap m Nature of eleven 

Feet high by seven- 
Five living tons ! — and I remain nine stone 

Of skin and bone ! 
It is enough to make me shake my head 

And dream of the grave*s brink—- 

'Tis worse to think 
How like the Beast's the sorry life Tve led ! — 

A sort of show 
Of my poor public self and my sagacity. 

To profit the rapacity 
Of certain folks in Paternoster Row^ 
A slavish toil to win an upper story — 

And a hard glory 
Of wooden beams about my weary brow ! 

Oh, Mr. C. ! 
If ever you behold me twirl my pen 
To earn a pubHc supper, that is, eat 

In the bare street, — 
Or turn about their Hterary den — 

Shoot me / 



[I snspect from its internal evidence that the following poem wu 
written Bomewhere abont this time.] 

THE POET'S PORTION. 

What is a mine-^a treasuiy — a dowei^^ 
A magic talisman of mighty power f 

A poet's wide possession of the earth. 
He has th' enjoyment of a flower's blith 



164 THB POETS PORTION. 

Before its budding— ere the first red stoealn^ 
And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. 

Look — if his dawn be not as other men's 1 
Twenty bright flushes— ere another kens 
The first of sunlight is abroad — he sees 
Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees^ 
And opes the splendid fissures of the mom. 

When do his fruits delay, when doth his com 
Linger for harvesting f Before the leaf 
Is commonly abroad, in his pil*d sheaf 
The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. 

No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, 
But he will sip it first — ^before the lees. 
'Tis his to taste rich honey, — ere the bees 
Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall 
June's rosy advent for his coronal ; 
Before th' expectant buds upon the bough, 
Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow. 

Oh ! blest to see the flower in its seed. 

Before its leafy presence; for indeed 

Leaves are but wings on which the siunmer flies. 

And each thing perishable fades and dies, 

Escap'd in thought ; but his rich thinkings be 

Like overflows of immortality : 

So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, 

But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever. 



ODE TO THE LATE LOBD MAYOR lOff 

[I cannot trace the first appearance of this Ode^ but I think then 
can be little doubt of its being my &ther*8.] 

ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR^ 

OK THE PUBUOATION OF BIB ''VIBIT TO OZFOBD."* 

♦ 

'* Now, Night descending^ the proud scene is o'er. 
But liTes in Settle's numbers one day more.** 

PoFS— Oi» the Lord Mayof'i Shoio, 

Worthy Mayor ! — I mean to say Ex-Major I 
Chief Luddite of the ancient town of Lud 1 
Incumbent of the City*B easy chair ! — 
Conservator of Thames from mud to mud ! 

Great riyer-bank director ! 

And dam-iuspector ! 
Great guardian of small sprats that swim the flood 1 
Lord of the scarlet gown and funy cap ! 

King of Mogg*s map I 
Keeper of Gates that long have " gone their gait I " 
Warder of London stone and London Log 1 
Thou first and greatest of the oivio great^ 

Magog or Gog ! — 

Honorable Yen 
(Forgive this little liberty between us), 
Augusta's first Augustus I — Friend of men 

Who wield the pen I 

Dillon's MsDcenas ! 

See the published work of the Her. Mr. DiUoD, the Lord lIsTor't 
Glu^lain, who, in his xealons endearour to stamp immortality upon the 
CiTie expedition to Oxford, has outrun erery prodaetion in the annals of 
burlesque, eren the long renowned " Yojage from Paris to St. Cloud." It 
was entitled **The Lord Major's Visit to Oxford in the month of July^ 
I82O9 written by the desire of the party by thft Cjhak'^\ia^ Vk^ioAtta^sm^? 



166 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 

Patron of learning where she ne'er did dwell. 
Where literature seldom finds abettors. 
Where few — except the postman and his bell- 
Encourage the heUrlettres t — 
Well hast thou done, Right Honorable Sir — 
Seeing that years are such devouring ogresses^ 
And thou hast made some little journeying stir,— 
To get a Nichols to record thy Progresses 1 

Wordsworth once wrote a trifle of the sort ; 

But for diversion, 
For truth — ^for natiu-e— everything in short — 
I own I do prefer thy own " ExcursioOi" 

The stately story 

Of Oxford glory — 
The Thames romance — ^yet nothing of a fiction^* 
Like thine own stream it flows along the page-~ 

" Strong, without rage," 
In diction worthy of thy jurisdiction I 
To future ages thou wilt seem to be 

A second Parry ; 

For thou didst cany 
Thy navigation to a fellow crisis. 
He penetrated to a Frozen Sea, 
And thou — to where the Thames is turned to ItU / • 

I like thy setting out ! 
Thy coachman and thy coachmaid boxed together ! f 

* The Chaplain doubts the correctness of the Thames being twmtd inUo 
the Isis at Oxford : of coarse he is right—according to the course of the 
river, it must be the Isis that is turned into the Thames. 

t *' As soon as the female attendant of the Ladj Mayoress had taken 
her seat, dressed with becoming neatness, at the side of the well-locking 
ooaohman, the carriage drore awaj." — VitU, 



ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 167 

I like thy Jarvey's serious face — in doubt 
Of " four fine animals " — ^no Cobbetts either ! * 
I like the slow state pace — the pace allowed 
The best for dignity f — ^and for a crowd. 

And very July weather. 
So hot that it let off the Hounslow powder ! X 
I like the She-Mayor*s proffer of a seat 
To poor Miss Magnay, fried to a white heat ; § 
'Tis well it didn't chance to be Miss Crowder I 

I like the steeples with their weathercocks on, 

Discerned about the hour of three, P. M. ; 

I like thy party's entrance into Oxon, 

For oxen soon to enter into them I 

I like the ensuing banquet better £eu*. 

Although an act of cruelty began it ; — 

For why — ^before the dinner at the Star — 

Why was the poor Town-clerk sent off to plan it f 

I like your learned rambles not amiss, 
Especially at Bodley's, where ye tarried 
The longest— doubtless because Atkins carried 
Letters (of course from Ignorance) to Bliss ! || 

* '* The eoachman*8 oonnienanoe was reaerFed and thonghtfal, indicating 
foil oonsdonmess of the test by which hiB eqaeitrian skill would this day 
he tried."— Fifif. 

f ** The carriage droTO away ; not» however, with that Tiolent and ex- 
treme rapidity which rather astounds than gratifies the beholders ; bat at that 
steady and majestic pace, which is always an indication of real greatness." 

41 ''On approaching Hounslow, there was seen at some distance a huge 
Tolume of dark smoke.'* The Chaplain thought it was only a blowing up for 
run, but it turned out to be the spontaneous combustion of a powder-mill. 

§ ' ' The L^y Mayoress, obsening that they (the Iffagnays) must be some- 
what crowded in the chaise, inyited Miss Magnay to take the fourth seat*' 

H <*The Bev. Dr. Bliss, of St. John's College, the Registrar of the UtuL^^t- 
sity, to whom Mr. Alderman Atkins had lei^ben of ViL\ara^^Q«^Ai(s&.^--^v^^^ 



168 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 

The other Halls were scramhled through more hattilj ; 

But I like this — 
I like the Aldermen who stopped to diiok 
Of Maadlin*B ^ olassic water " very tastily, * 
Although I think^-what I am loth to think—- 
Except to DiUon, it has proved no Castaly 1 

I like to find thee finally afloat ; 

I like thy being bai^d and Water-Baili^rdy 

Who gaye thee a lift 
To thy state-galley in his own state-boat 
I like thy small sixpennyworths of largess 
Thrown to the urchins at the City*s dhaiges ; 
I like the sim upon thy breezy fanners^ 
Ten splendid scarlet silken stately banners 1 
Thy gilded bark shines out quite transcendental 1 

I like dear Dillon still. 

Who quotes from " Cooper's HiU," 
And Birch, the cookly Birch, grown sentimental ; t 
I like to note his civic mind expanding 
And quoting Denham, in the wateiy dock 

Of Iffley lock- 
Plainly no Locke upon the Understanding I 

I like thy civic deed 

At Runnymede, 
Where ancient Britons came in arms to barter 
Their lives for right — Ah, did not Waithman grow 

Half mad to show 

* ** The battery was next yiaited, in which lome of the party tasted the 
claasic water." — Page 57. 

t *^ Mr. Alderman Birch here called to the reooUeetion of the partj the 
beantifnl lines of Sir John Denham on the rirer Thamee : — ' The' deep yel 
aear/ kc**—Tage 90. 



ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 169 

Where his renowned forefathers came to bleed — 
And freebom Magnay triumph at his Charter f 
I like full well thy ceremonious settmg 
The justice-sword (no doubt it wanted whetting 1) 
On London Stone ; but I don*t like the waving 
Thy banner over it,* for I must own 

Flag over stone 
Heads like a most superfluous piece of paving I 

I like thy Cliefden treat ; but Fm not going 
To run the civic story through and through, 
But leave thy barge to Pater Noster Row-ing, 

My plaudit to renew.— 
Well hast thou done, Right Honorable rover, 
To leave this lasting record of thy reign, 
A reign, alas ! that very soon is " over 
And gone," according to the Rydal strain ! 

'Tis piteous how a mayor 

Slips through his chair. 
I say it with a meaning reverential, 
But let him be rich, lordly, wise, sentential. 
Still he must seem a thing inconsequential-^ 
A melancholy truth one cannot smother ; 

For why ? 'tis very dear 

He comes in at one year, 

To go out by the other ! 
This is their Lordships* universal order I — 
But thou shalt teach them to preserve a name^- 
Make future Chaplains chroniclers of &me 1 
And every Lord Mayor his own Recorder I 

* " It WM also a part of the oeremonx, whieh, though important^ U 
iimple^ thai the Ci\j banner ahoold wa^e cn«c \^ ito&i^^ — ^:%:|^^.K.^ 



1827. 

[Ik this year appeared the Second Series of "Whims and Oddities,** 
dedicated to Sir Walter Scott It ran to a third edition — as will bo 
seen by the following Prefaces.] 

WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 

• ■ 

PREFACE TO THE SECOND SERIEa 

In tho absence of hotter fiddles, I baye yentured to oome 
fbrword again with my little kit of fancie& I trust it will 
not be found an unworthy sequel to my first performance ; 
indeed, I have done my best, in the New Series, innocently 
to imitate a practice that prevails abroad in duelling — I 
mean, that of the Seconds giving Satisfaction. 

The kind indulgence that welcomed my Volume hereto- 
fore, prevents me from reiterating the same apologie& The 
Public have learned, by this time, from my rude designs, 
that I am no great artist, and from my text, that I am no 
great author, but humbly equivocating, bat-like, between 
the two kinds; — ^though proud to partake in any charac- 
teristic of either. As for the first particular,, my hope 
persuades me that my illustrations cannot have degenerated, 
so ably as I have been seconded by Mr. Edward Willis, who, 
like the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in the 
Wood. 

In the literary part I have to plead guilty, as usual, to 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 171 

some yerbal misdemeanors; for which, I must leave my 
defence to Dean Swift, and the other great European and 
Oriental Pundits. Let me suggest, however, that a pnn is 
somewhat like a cherry : though there may be a slight 
outward indication of partition— of duplicity of meaning- 
yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own 
pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, 
I have refrained from putting the majority in italics. It is 
not every one, I am aware, that can Toler-ate a pun like 
my Lord Norbuiy. 



ADDRESS TO THE THIRD EDITION. 

It is not usual to have more than one grace before meat, 
one prologue before a play — one address before a work, — 
Cerberus and myself are perhaps the only persons who have 
had three prefaces. I thought, indeed, that I had said my 
last in the last impression, but a new Edition being called 
for, I came forward for a new exit, after the fashion of Mr. 
Romeo Coates — a Gentleman, notorious, like Autumn, for 
taking a great many leaves at his departure. 

As a literary parent, I am highly gratified to find that the 
elder volume of Whims and Oddities does not get snubbed, 
as happens with a first child, at the birth of a second ; but 
that the Old and New Series obtain fresh favour and friends 
for each other, and are likely to walk hand in hand like 
smiling brothers, towards posterity. 

Whether a third volume will transpire is a secret still 
** warranted undrawn" even to myself; — ^there is, I am aware, 
a kind of nonsense indispensable, — or sine qua non-sense — 
that always comes in welcomely to relieve the serious discus- 
sions of graver authors, and I flatter my«fi\i WiS&X xk^ ^^- 



172 WHIMS AXD ODDITIES. 

formanoes may be of this nature ; but haying parted with 
BO many of my vagarieay I am doubtful whether the next 
NoYcmbcr may not find me sobered down into a politioal 
economist 



[In 1832 the two Series were wpnMiihad, together with a ftoth 

Address.] 

PREFACE. 

Whek I last made my best bow in this book, I imagined 
that tho public, to use a nautical phraae, had '^parted 6x>m 
their best bower;*' but it was an agreeable miatake. The 
First and Second Series, being now, like Golman*B ''Two 
Single Gentlemen rolled into one," a request is humIo to me 
to furnish the two-act piece with a new prologue. Poonbly, 
as 1 have declared the near relationship of this work to the 
CoMio Annual, the publisher wishes, by thiaimusoal number 
of Prefaces, to connect it also with the Odea and uicUrenea 
At all events, I accede to his humour, in spite of a reasonable 
fear that, at this rate, my Sayings will soon exceed my 
Doings. 

To tell the truth, an Author does not much disrelish the 
call for these '^ more last words ; *' and I confess at once that 
I affix this preliminary postscript^ with some pride and 
pleasure. A modem book, like a modem raoe-horse, is apt 
to be reckoned aged at six years old; and an Olympiad 
and half have nearly elapsed since the birth of my first 
editions. It is pleasant, therefore, to find, that what was 
done in black and white has not become quite grey in the 

interval • ^to say nothing of the comfort^ at such an advanced 

age, of still finding friends in pubHc, as well as in private, 
to put up with one's Whims and Oddities. 
Seriously, I feel very grateful for the kindness which haa 



BIAKCA'S DREAM. 173 

exhausted three impressions of this work, and now invites 

another. Come what may, this, little book will now leave 

four imprints behind it, — and a horse could do no more. 

T. HooR 
Wdtobhobi Hili^ Jamuury, 1882. 



BIANCA'S DREAM. 

▲ VENETIAN 8T0BT. 



BiANCA ! — ^fair Bianca ! — ^who could dwell 
With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, 

Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, 
Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days 1 

The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, 
She tum*d to gas, and set it in a blaze ; 

Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it, 

That he could light his link at in a minute. 

So thaty wherever in her charms she shone, 
A thousand breasts were kindled into flame ; 

Maidens who cursed her looks foi^t their own. 
And beaux were tum*d to flambtaux where she oame ; 

All hearts indeed were conquered but her own. 
Which none could ever temper down or tame : 

In short, to take our haberdasher^s hints. 

She might have written over it, — ** From Flints.** 

She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex. 

At least in Venice— where with eyes of brown 

Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex 

An amorous gentle with a needless fto^im^ 



n4 BUNCA*S DRSAM. 

Wliere gondolas oonyey giiitan by pecks. 

And Loye at casements cllmbeth up and down. 
Whom for his tricks and custom in that 
Some have considered a Venetian blind. 



Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught. 
Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailor. 

To hapless Julio — all in vain he sought 
With each new moon his hatter and his tailor ; 

In vain the richest padusoy he bought, 
And went in bran new beaver to assail her — 

As if to show that Love had made him tmari 

All over — and not merely round his heart 

In vain he labour*d thro* the sylvan paik 
Bianca haunted in — ^that where she came, 

Her learned eyes in wandering might mark 
The twisted cypher of her maiden name. 

Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark : 
No one was touched or troubled by his flame. 

Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow 

In trees, — like wooden dolls in embiyo. 

In vain complaining elegies he writ, 
And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, 

And sang in quavers how his heart was split, 
Constant beneath her lattice with each eve ; 

She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit, 

And slashed his suit so that it match*d his sleeve. 

Till he grew silent at the vesper star. 

And quite despairing, hamstnng'd his guitar. 



BIANCA'S DREAM. 175 

Bianca*s heart was coldly frosted o'er 
With snows immelting — an eternal sheet, 

But his was red within him, like the core 
Of old Yesuyius, with perpetual heat ; 

And oft he long*d internally to pour 
His flames and glowing lava at her feet, 

But when his burnings he began to spout, 

She stopp*d his mouth, — and put the crater out. 



Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men, 
So thin, he seem*d a sort of skeleton-key 

Suspended at death's door — so pale — and then 
He tum*d as nervous as an aspen tree ; 

The life of man is three-score years and ten, 
But he was perishing at twenty-three. 

For people truly said, as grief grew stronger, 

" It could not shorten his poor life— much longer.' 

For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed. 
Nor relish'd any kind of mirth below ; 

Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head. 
Love had become his universal foe. 

Salt in his sugar — ^nightmare in his bed. 
At last, no wonder wretched Julio, 

A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth 

Of Hope, — made up his mind to cut her girth I 

For hapless lovers always died of old, 
Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud ; 

So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told. 
The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood ; 



176 BIANCA'S DREAM. 

And so poor Sappho, when her boy was oold, 

Drown'd her salt tear-drops in a Salter flood. 
Their fame still breathing; tho* their death be pMt| 
For those old miton lived beyond their last 



So Julio went to drown, — when life was dull. 
But took his corks, and merely had a bath ; 

And once, he puU'd a trigger at his skull, 
But merely broke a window in his wrath ; 

And oucc, his hopeless being to annul. 
Ho tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath— 

A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 

'Twos meant to be a halter or a tether. 



Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust 
His sorrows through — ^"tis horrible to die I 

And come down with our little all of dust^ 
That Dun of all the duns to satisfy ; 

To leave life's pleasant city as we must. 

In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie, 

Where even all our personals must go 

To pay the debt of Nature that we owe ! 

So Julio lived : — 'twas nothing but a pet 
He took at life— a momentaiy spite ; 

Besides, he hoped that Time would some day get 
The better of Love's flame, however bright ; 

A thing that Time has never compass'd yet, 
For Love, we know, is an immortal light ; 

Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt, 

Was always in, — ^for none have found it out. 



BIANCA*S DREAM. 177 

Meanwhile, Bianca dream*d — ^'twas once when Night 
Along the darken'd plain began to creep, 

Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, 
Altho' in skin aa sooty as a sweep : 

The flow'rs had shut their eyes — the zephyr light 
Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep, 

And all the little birds had laid their heads 

Under their wings — sleeping in feather beds. 



Lone in her chamber sate the dark-eyed maid. 
By easy stages jaunting through her prayers, 

But list*ning side-long to a serenade. 
That robb'd the saints a little of their shares ; 

For Julio imdemeath the lattice play'd 
His Deh Yieni, and such amorous airs. 

Bom only underneath Italian skies, 

Where eveiy fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs. 

Sweet was the tune — ^the words were even sweeter- 
Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair. 

With all the common tropes wherewith in metre 
The hackney poets *' overcharge their fair.*' 

Her shape was like Diana's, but completer ; 
Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare : 

Cupid, alas I was cruel Sa^ttarius, 

Julio— the weeping water-man Aquarius. 



Now, after listing to such landings rare, 
"Twas very natural indeed to g<>— 
nat if she did postpone one little pray' 
To ask her mirror '' if it waa not bo V^ 

VOL. V, ^^ 



178 BIANCA*S DREAIL 



'Twos a largo mirror^ none the worse for wear, 

Keflccting her at once from top to toe : 
And there she gazed upon that glonj tntck. 
That Bhow*d her front face though it ''gave her back.* 



And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall. 
By that dear page where first the woman reads : 

That Julio was no flatt*rer, none at all. 

She told herself — and then she told her beads ; 

Meanwhiki the nerres insensibly let fidl 
Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds ; 

For Sleep had crept and kiss*d her unawares^ 

Just at the half-way milestone of her pra/rs. 

Then like a drooping rose so bended she. 
Till her bow*d head upon her hand reposed ; 

But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, 
That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were dosed, 

A beauty bright as it was wont to be, 

A ]K)rtrait Fancy painted while she dosed : 

Tis very natural, some people say, 

To dream of what we dwell on in the day. 

Still shone her face — ^yet not, alas ! the same^ 

But *gan some dreary touches to assume, 
And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came-^ 

Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom. 
Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same, 

Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rhemn: 
There was a throbbing at her heart within, 
For, oh ! there was a sliooting in her chin. 



BIANCA*S DREAM. 179 

And lo 1 upon her sad desponding brow. 

The cruel trenches of besi^mg age. 
With seams, but most imseemly, 'gan to show 

Her place was booking for the seventh stage ; 
And where her raven tresses used to flow. 

Some locks that Time had left her in his rage, 
And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shadj, 
A compound (like our Psalms) of Tete and Braid j. 

Then for her shape — alas 1 how Saturn wrecks, 
And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about. 

Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks. 
Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout^ 

Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex : 
Witness those pensioners call'd In and Out, 

Who all day watching first and second rater, ' 

Quaintly unbend themselves — ^but grow no straightoR 

So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made 

Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow ; 

His iron hand upon her spine he laid, 

And twisted all awry her " winsome marrow.** 

In truth it was a change ! — she had obey'd 
The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow. 

But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her 

Something between a Qlassite and a Quaker. 

Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite eztrema^ 
And she had ample reason for her trouble ; 

For what sad maiden can endure to seem 

Set in for singleness, though growing d.o^Q\A<^\ 



IS) BIA5CA3 DKEAX. 

The £iDCT madden d her ; but now the dream, 
Groim thin bj getting bigger, like a babble^ 
Burst, — but still left some fragments of its siie. 
That, like the soapsuds^ smarted in her eyeik 



And here — just here — as she began to heed 
The real world, her dock chimed out its score ; 

A clock it was of the Venetian breed, 

That cried the hour from one to twenty-four ; 

The works moreoTcr standing in some need 
Of workmanship, it struck some down more ; 

A warning voice that cleuch*d Bianca's fears^ 

Such strokes referring doubtless to her jeank 

At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, 
By twenty she had quite renounced the veil ; 

She thought of Julio just at twenty^ne. 
And thirty made her rery sad and pale. 

To paint that ruin where her charms would nm ; 
At forty all the maid began to fail, 

And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her. 

Of single blessedness, than single Gloeter. 

And so Bianca changed ; — ^the next sweet even, 

With Julio in a black Venetian baik, 
Row'd slow and stealthily —the hour, eleren, 

Just sv^unding from the tower of old St Maik ; 
She sate with eyes tuniM quietly to heaT*n, 

Pcrclianoo ivjoioing in the grateful dark 
That voiVd her blusliing check, — ^for Julio brought her, 
CV^Mirso, to break the ice v\y»ou the water. 



BIAKCA'S DREAM. 181 

But what a puzzle is one's serious mind 
To open ; — oysters, when the ioe is thick. 

Are not so difficult and disinclined ; 
And Julio felt the declaration stick 

About his throat in a most awful kind ; 
However, he contrived by bits to pick 

His trouble forth, — much like a rotten cork 

Groped from a long-neck*d bottle with a fork. 



But love is still the quickest of all readers ; 

And Julio spent besides those signs profuse, 
That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders^ 

In help of language, are so apt to use : — 
Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders, 

Nods, shrugs, and bends, — ^Bianca could not choose 
But soften to his suit with more facility. 
He told his story with so much agility. 

"Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear," 
(So he began at last to speak or quote ;) 

" Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier,** 
(For passion takes this figurative note ;) 

" Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier ; 
Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote ; 

My lily be, and I will be thy river ; 

Be thou my life— and I will be thy liver." 

This, with more tender logic of the kind. 
He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear. 

That timidly against his lips inclined ; 

Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the &\Wet ^e*^^x^ 



182 BIANCA*S DREAIC. 

That even now began to steal behind 

A dewy Tapour, which was lingering near. 
Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale^ 
Just like a vii^n putting on the veil ^— 



Bidding adieu to all her sparks — ^the starSy 

That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, 

Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars-^ 
Never to flirt with heayenly eyes again. 

Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, 
Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, 

But tum'd to Julio at the dark eclipse. 

With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips. 

Ho took the hint full speedily, and backed 
By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, 

Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd 
(Though quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness ; 

That made her think all other kisses lack'd 
Till then, but what she knew not, of completem 

Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, 

Insipid things — like sandwiches of veaL 

He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring 
The pretty fingers all instead of one ; 

Anon his stealthy arm began to ding 

About her waist that had been dasp'd by none ; 

Their dear confessions I forbear to sing, 

Since cold description would but be outran ; 

For bliss and Irish watches have the power. 

In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour 1 



183 



A TRUE STORY. 



Of all our pains, since man was cursty 
I mean of body, not the mental, 
To name the worst, among the worst, 
The dental sure is transcendental 3 
Some bit of masticating bone. 
That ought to help to clear a shel^ 
But lets its proper work alone, 
And only Beems to gnaw itself ; 
In fact, of any grave attack 
On Tictuals there is little danger, 
'Tis so like coming to the rack^ 
As well as going to the manger. 

Old Hunks — ^it seem'd a fit retort 

Of justice on his grinding wa3rs — 

Po6ses8*d a grinder of the sort. 

That troubled all his latter days. 

The best of friends fa}l out, and so 

His teeth had done some years ago. 

Save some old stumps with ragged root. 

And they took turn about to shoot ; 

If he drank any chilly liquor, 

They made it quite a point to throb ; 

But if he warm'd it on the hob, 

Why then they only twitch'd the quicker. 

One tooth — I wonder such a tooth 
Had never kill'd him in his youth — 
One tooth he had with many fangs, 
That shot at onco as many panga, 



184 A TUU£ STOBT. 

It had an universal sting ; 

One touch of that ecstatic stump 

Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump 

Just like a puppet on a string ; 

And what was worse than all, it had 

A waj of making others bad. 

There is, as many know, a knacky 

With certain farming undertakers^ 

And this same tooth pursued their track, 

By adding achert still to ad^en t 

One way there is, that has been judged 

A certain cure, but Hunks was loth 

To pay the fee, and quite begnidged 

To lose his tooth and money both ; 

In fact, a dentist and the wheel 

Of Fortune are a kindred cast, 

For after all is drawn, you feel 

It's paying for a blank at last : 

So Hunks went on from week to week. 

And kept his torment in his cheek. 

Oh ! how it sometimes set him rocking^ 

With that perpetual gnaw — gnaw — gnaw, 

His moans and groans were truly shocking 

And loud — although he held his jaw. 

Many a tug he gave his gum, 

And tooth, but still it would not come ; 

Though tied by string to some firm things 

He could not draw it, do his best 

By drawers, although he tried a chest. 

At last, but after much debating, 
He join'd a score of mouths in waitings 



A TRUE STORY. IW 

Like his, to have their troubles out. 

Sad sight it was to look about 

At twenty faces making faces, 

With many a rampant trick and antio^ 

For all were very horrid cases, 

And made their owners nearly fi:antio. 

A little wicket now and then 

Took one of these unhappy men, 

And out again the victim rush'd. 

While eyes and mouth together gush*d ; 

At last arrived our hero's turn. 

Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, 

And down he sat prepared to learn 

How teeth are charm'd to quit their 80cket& 

Those who have felt such operations 
Alone can guess the sort of ache 
When his old tooth began to break 
The thread of old associations ; 
It touch'd a string in every part, 
It had so many tender ties ; 
One chord seem'd wrenching at his heart, 
And two were tugging at his eyes : 
**Bone of his bone," he felt of course, 
As husbands do in such divorce. 
At last the fangs gave way a little. 
Hunks gave his head a backward jerk^ 
And lo I the cause of all this work 
Went — where it used to send his victual I 

The monstrous pain of this proceeding 
Had not so numb*d his miser-wit^ 



IM A TRUE STORY. 

But in this slix^ ho saw a hit 

To savo, at least, his purse from bleeding ; 

So when tho dentist sought his fees, 

Quoth Hunks, ** Let's finish, if jou please.**— 

" How, finish ! why it's out ! "— « Oh 1 no— 

I'm none of jour beforehand tippers^ 

'Tis you are out, to argue so ; 

My tooth is in my head no doubt^ 

But as you say you pull'd it out, 

Of course it's there— between your nippers.** 

" Zounds 1 sir, d ye think I'd sell the truth 

To get a fee 1 no, wretch, I scorn it" 

But Hunks still ask'd to see the tooth, 

And swore by gum ! he had not drawn it 

His end obtain'd, he took his leave, 

A secret chuckle in his sleeve ; 

The joke was worthy to produce one. 

To think, by favour of his wit. 

How well a dentist had been bit 

By one old stump, and that a loose one ! 

The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth 
Is still the frailest thing on earth : 
Alas ! how often when a joke 
Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, 
There comes some unexpected stroke. 
And hangs a weeper on the cuff I 
Hunks had not whistled half a mile 
When, planted right against the stile, 
There stood his foeman, Mike Maloney, 
A vagrant reaper, Irish-bom, 
That help'd to reap our miser's com, 
But had not help'd to reap his money. 



A TRUE STORY. 187 

A fact that Hunks remembered quickly ; 
His whistle all at once was quell'd. 
And when he saw how Michael held 
His sickle^ he felt rather sickly. 

Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, 
Would soon have paid the bill at sight. 
But misers (let observers watch it) 
Will never part with their delight 
Till well demanded by a hatchet — 
They live hard — ^and they die to match it 
Thus Hunks, prepared for Mike's attacking. 
Resolved not yet to pay the debt. 
But let him take it out in hacking. 
However, Mike began to stickle 
In word before he used the sickle ; 
But mercy was not long attendant : 
From words at last he took to blows 
And aim'd a cut at Hunks's nose. 
That made it what some fblks are not — • 
A Member very independent 

Heaven knows how far this cruel trick 

Might still have led, but for a tramper 

That came in danger's veiy nick. 

To put Maloney to the scamper. 

But still compassion met a damper ; 

There lay the severed nose, alas I 

Beside the daisies on the grass, 

" Wee, crimson-tipt " as well as they. 

According to the poet's lay : 

And there stood Himks, no sight for laughter I 

Away ran Hodge to get aasistanoQ^ 



188 A TRUE STORY. 

With noflM3 in hand, which Hunks ran after. 
But somewhat at unusual distance. 



In many a little country place 

It is a very common case 

To have but one residing doctor, 

Whose practice rather seems to be 

No practice, but a rule of three, 

Physician — sui^eon — drug-deoocter ; 

Thus Hunks was forced to go onoe more 

Where he had ta'en his tooth before. 

His mere name made the learned man hot^ — 

" What ! Hunks again within my door I 

ril pull his nose ; " quoth Hunkcf, " You cannot** 

The doctor looked and saw the case 
Plain as the nose not on his face. 
** I hum — ha — ^yes — I imderstand.'* 
But then arose a long demur, 
For not a finger would he stir 
Till he was paid his fee in hand ; 
That matter settled, there they were, 
With Hunks well strapped upon his chair. 

The opening of a surgeon's job, 
His tools, a chestful, or a drawerful, 
Are always something very awful, 
And give the heart the strangest throb ; 
But never patient in his funks 
Look'd half so like a ghost as Hunka^ 
Or surgeon half so like a devil 
Prepared for some infernal revel : 



A TRUE STOEY. 189 

His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, 

Just like a bolus in a box, 

His fury seem*d above controlling, 

He bellow'd like a hunted ox : 

" Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how 

We treat such cheating knaves as thou ; 

Oh ! sweet is this revenge to sup ; 

I have thee by the nose— it's now 

My turn — and I will turn it up." 

Guess how the miser liked the scurvy 

And cruel way of venting passion ; 

The snubbing folks in this new fashion 

Seem'd quite to turn him topsy turvy ; 

He utter'd prayers, and groans, and curses, 

For things had often gone amiss 

And wrong with him before, but this 

Would be the worst of all reverses ! 

In fancy he beheld his snout 

Tum'd upward like a pitcher^s spout ; 

There was another grievance yet, 

And fancy did not fail to show it. 

That he must throw a simimerset^ 

Or stand upon his head to blow it. 

And was there then no argument 

To change the doctoi's vile intent, 

And move his pity 1 — yes, in truth. 

And that was — ^paying for the tooth. 

" Zounds ! pay for such a stump ! I'd rather — ^ 

But here the menace went no fieu-ther. 

For with his other ways of pinching^ 

Hunks had a miser's love of snuff, 

A recollection strong enough 



190 A PARTHIAN OIJLKCK 

To cause a very serious flinching ; 
In short, he paid and had the feature 
Replaced as it was meant by nature ; 
For though by this *twas cold to handle, 
(No corpse's could have felt more honidi) 
And white just like an end of candle, 
The doctor dcem*d and proved it too, 
That noses from the nose will do 
As well as noses from the forehead ; 
So, fiz*d by dint of rag and lint. 
The part was bandaged up and muffled. 
The chair unfasten*d, Himks arose, 
And shuffled out, for once xmshuffled ; 
And as he went these words he snuffled — 
" Well, this « * paying through the nosa 



9 M 



A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 

— f — 

** Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of time I turn my Bail.** — Boaiis. 

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, 

And lift up a little Oblivion's veil ; 
Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, 

Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail 

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind. 

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, 

That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, 
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear. 



A PAETHIAK GLANCE. 191 

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, 
Oh| what ages and pages there are to revise 1 

And as farther our back-searching glances prevail. 
Like the emmets, '^ how little we are in our eyes ! ** 

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, 

On a dimity lap of true niu^eiy make 1 
I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song 

That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake. 

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throeef. 

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin — 

Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes. 

Oh 1 how little they dreamt they were driving them in ! 

Infant sorrows are strong — ^infant pleasures as weak — 
But no grief was allow*d to indulge in its note ; 

Did you ever attempt a small " bubble and squeak," 
Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat ? 

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce 1 

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? 

Oh ! I can't but agree with both ends, and pronounce 
*' Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game ! 

Then an urchin — I see myself urchin indeed — 
With a smooth Sunday fkce for a mother's delight ; 

Why should weeks have an end? — I am sure there was need 
Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday-night. 

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub ) 
Have you ever felt huckaback sofben'd with sand 1 

Had you ever your nose toweU'd up to a snub. 

And your eyes knuckled out with the back of t3\<^ \2AsA\ 



192 A PABTHIAN OLAKCS. 

Then a school-boy — ^my tailor was nothing in faulty 
For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees^ — 

But how well I remember that " pepper-and-salt ** 
That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees ! 

What a figure it cut when as Noryal I spoke ! 

With a lanky right leg duly planted before ; 
Whikt I told of the chief that was kill*d by my stroke^ 

And extended my arms as '' the arms that he wore I * 

Next a Lover — Oh ! say, were yon oyer in love t 
With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot t 

Have you bow*d to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove. 
Like a heau that desired to be tied in a knot t 

With the Bride all in white, and your body in bloe, 
Did you walk up the aisle— the geuteelest of men t 

When I think of that beautiful vision anew. 
Oh ! I seem but the lijjin of what I was then 1 

I am withered and worn by a premature care. 
And wi'iuklcs confess the decline of my days ; 

Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, 
And I*m seeking to hide it — ^by writing for bays I 



108 



A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 



There's some is bom with their straight legs by natur — 

And some is bom with bow-legs from the first — 

And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter. 

But they were badly nursed. 
And set^ you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs 

Astride of casks and kegs : 
Fye got myself a sort of bow to larboard, 

And starboard. 
And this is what it was that warp'd my legs. — 
'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say. 
That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip ; 
But on the tenth of May, 
When I gets under weigh, 
Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship, 
I sees the mail 
Get under sail. 
The only one there was to make the trip. 
Well — I gives chase, 
But as she run 
Two knots to one. 
There wam't no use in keeping on the race I 

Well— casting round about, what next to try (m. 

And how to spin, 
I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, 
And bears away to leeward for the inn, 

Beats round the gable. 
And fetches up before the coach-horse stable : 
Well — ^there they stand, four kickers in a row. 

And so 



X94 A 8AIL0B*S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEOa 

I just mokes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. 
But riding isn't in a seaman's natur — 
So I whips out a toughish end of janiy 
And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter 

To splice me, heel to heel, 

Under the she-mare's keel. 
And off I goes, and leayes the inn a-stam I 

Mj eyes ! how she did pitch ! 
And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line^ 
Though I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-lixM^ 
But always making lee- way to the ditdi, 
And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. 

The devil sink the craft ! 
And wasn't she trimendous slack in stays 1 
We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft I 

Well — I suppose 
We hadn't run a knot — or much beyond — 
(What will you have on it ?) — ^but off she goes. 
Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond I 

There I am ! — ^all a-back ! 
So I looks forward for her bridle-gearSy 
To heave her head round on the t'other taok ; 
But when I starts^ 
The leather parts, 
And goes away right over by the ears ! 

What could a fellow do 
Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes^ 
But trim myself upright for bringing-to. 
And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows^ 

In rig all snug and clever, 
Just while his craft was taking in her water 1 
I didn t like my burth though hovvsomdever, 



A SAILOffS APOLOGY FOB BOW-LEGS. 195 

Because the yaniy you see, kept getting tauter, — 
Says I — I wish this job was rather shorter I 

The chase had gain'd a mile 
A-heady and still the she-mare stood a-drinking : 

Now, all the while 
Her body didn't take of course to shrinking. 
Says 1, she*s letting out her reefs, I'm thinking— 

And so she swell'd, and swell'd, 

And yet the tackle held, 
Till both my legs b^an to bend like winkin. 
My eyes 1 but she took in enough to founder 1 
And there's my timbers straining eveiy bit. 

Beady to split, 
And her tarnation hull a-growing roimder t 

Well, there — off Hartford Ness, 
We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together. 

And can't contrive a signal of distress ; 
Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, 
Though sick of riding out — and nothing less ; 
When, looking round, I sees a man arstam : — 
" Hollo ! " says I, ** come underneath her quarter 1 **— • 
A^d hands him out my knife to cut the yam. 
So I gets off, and lands upon the road. 
And leares the she-mare to her own oonsam, 

A-standing by the water. 
If I get on another. Til be blow'd ! — 
And that's the way, you see, my 1^ got bow*d I 



IM ELEGY OK DAVID LAIKG, ESQ. 

[The following tppetred in the " Litanzy Guatte.**] 

ELEGY ON DAVID LAINO, ESQ .♦ 

BLA.CKBMITH AKD JOINEB (WITHOUT LICXNS^ AT aUIVA. 

Ah me ! what causea si^ch oomplaining fareath. 

Such female moans, and flooding tean to flow t 
It is to chide with stem, remorseless Deatb, 
For laying Laing low 1 
From Prospect House there comes a sound of 
A shrill and persevering loud lament, 
Echoed by Mrs. J.*s Establishment 
" For Six Young Ladies, 
In a retired and healthy part of Kent" 

All weeping, Mr. L gone down to Hades I 

Thoughtful of grates^ and convents, and the yeU ! 
Surrey takes up the tale, 
And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones 
With the two parlour-boarders and th* apprentice—* 
So universal this mis-timed event is — 
Are joining sobs and groans 1 
The shock confounds all hymeneal planners 

And drives the sweetest from their sweet bebaviouzs : 
The girls at Manor House forgot their manners, 

And utter sighs like paviours 1 
Down — down through Devon and the distant shires 

Travels the news of Death's remorseless crime ; 
And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires 
Of matches against time ! 

• On the 3rd inat., died in Springfield, near Gretna Green, DaTidLidng^ 
aged Berenty-two, who had for thirty-fiye years officiated as high-priest aft 
Gretna Green. Ho canght cold on his way to Lancaster, to gire erideneo 
on the trial of the Wakeficlda, from the effects of which he nerer reeovfred. 
—Newspapert, July, 1827. See « Ode to Gibbon Wakefield,** \\ 413. 



ELEGY OK DAVID LAINO, ESQ. 197 

Along the northern route 
The road is water'd by postilions* eyes ; 

The topboot paces pensively about, 
And yellow jackets are all strained with sigbtf; 
There is a sound of grieving at the Ship, 
And Sony hands are wringing at the BeU, 

In aid of David's knelL 
The postboy's heart is cracking — ^not his whip^- 

To gaze upon those useless empty collars 
His way-worn horses seem so glad to slip-^ 

And think upon the dollars 
That used to ui^e his gallop— quicker ! quicker 1 

All hope is fled. 

For Laing is dead-^ 
Vicar of Wakefield — Edward Gibbon's vicar ! 

The barristers shed tears 
Enough to feed a snipe (snipes lite on suction), 

To think in after years 
No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction, 

Nor knaves inveigle 
Young heiresses in mairiage scrapes or legaL 

The dull reporters 
Look truly sad and seriously solemn 

To lose the future column 
On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters I 

But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood 
Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau— 

That never real beau of flesh and blood 
Will henceforth lure young ladies from their ChambtnA 



Sleep— -David Laing — sleep 
In peace, though angry governesses spxuu \k<^\ 



198 80NKST. 

Over thy graye a thousand maidens weep^ 

And honest postboys mourn thee 1 
Sleep, Darid !— safely and serenely deep, 

Be-wept of many a leamlSd l^gal eye 1 
To see the mould above thee in a heap 

Drowns many a lid that heretoAm was ixj 
Especially of those that, plunging deep 

In love, would " ride and tie I** — 
Had I command, thou shouldst have gone thy ways 
In chaise and pair — and lain in Pire^a-Chaise I 



(Tho noxt, a Sonnet, appeared in the " Litanzy Sourenir'* in 1827. 
My fathcr'a high estimate of " Immortal Will's " writing will be aaeii 
from an Essay in the <* New Monthly" for 1842, and '*The Flea of the 

Fairies.**] 

SONNET. 

WRITTEN IN A yOLrME OT BHAKBPBAIB. 

How bravolj Autunm paints upon the sky 

The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled 1 

Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie^ 

Trophiod in that fair light whereon they fed, — 

Tulip, and hyacinth^ and sweet rose red^ — 

Like exhalations from tho leafy mould, 

Look here how honour glorifies the dead, 

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold I— 

Such is the memory of poets old, 

Who on PamaBsus-hill have bloom'd elate ; 

Now they are laid under their marbles cold, 

And tiuTi'd to clay, whereof they were create ; 

But god Apollo hath them all enroU'd, 

And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate I 



A SETEOBFECnVS REYISW. IM 

(The following Poem also appeared in the " litenzy SoniBBnir " for 
thie year, together with the Ballad which comes after it] 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 



Oh, when I was a tiny boj, 

My days and nights were Ml of joy. 

My mates were blithe and kind 1-^ 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the tear-drop from my 9j% 

To oast a look behind ! 

A hoop was an eternal round 

Of pleasure. In those days I found 

A top a joyous thing ; — 
But now those past delights I drop^ 
My head, alas ! is all my top, 

And careful thoughts the string ! 

My marbles— onoe my bag was stored, — 
Now I must play with Elgin's lord, 

With Theseus for a taw ! 
My playful horse has slipt his strings 
Forgotten all his capering^ 

And hamefls'd to the law I 

My kite— how fkst and fiur it flew 1 
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew 

My pleasure from the sky 1 
*Twas papered o*er with studious themes^ 
The tasks I wrote — ^my present dreams 

Will nerer soar so high! 



90a A BETROSPECnYE REVIEW. 

Mj jojs are wingletn all and dead ; 
My dumps are made of more than lead ; 

Mj flights soon find a fall ; 
Mj foars preyail, my fimGieB droops 
Joy never cometh with a hoop^ 

And seldom with a call 1 

My football's laid upon the shelf; 
I am a Bhuttleoock myself 

The world knooks to and ho ;^ 
My archery is all unleam'd, 
And grief against myself has tum'd 

My arrows and my bow ! 

No more in noontide sun I bask ; 
My authorship 's an endless task, 

My head 's ne'er out of school : 
My heart is pain'd with seom and slight^ 
I have too many foes to fight^ 

And friends grown strangely cool ! 

The very chum that shared my cake 
Holds out so cold a hand to shake. 

It makes me shrink and sigh : — 
On this I will not dwell and hang;— 
The changeling would not feel a pang 

Though these should meet his eye ! 

No skies so blue or so serene 

As then ; — no leaves look half so green 

As clothed the playground tree ! 
All thiugs I loved are altered so. 
Nor does it ease my heart to know 

That change resides in me I 



A KETBOSPECTIVE REVIEW. 201 

Oh for the garb that marked the boy. 
The trousers made of corduroy, 

Well ink*d with blaok and red ; 
The crownless hat, ne*er deem'd an ill— - 
It only let the sunshine still 

Bepose upon my head 1 

Oh for the riband round the neck I 
The careless dogs*-ears apt to deck 

My book and collar both I 
How can this formal man be styled 
Merely an Alexandrine child, 

A boy of larger growth 1 

Oh for that small, small beer anew 1 

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-bluA 

That washed iny sweet meals down ; 
The master even ! — and that small Turk 
That fagg'd me ! — ^worse is now my work— 

A fag for all the town 1 

Oh for the lessons leam*d by heart ! 
Ay, though the very birch's smart 

Should mark those hours again ; 
rd ** kiss the rod," and be resign'd 
Beneath the stroke, and eren find 

Some siigar in the cane ! 

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed ! 
The Fairy Tales in school-time read. 

By stealth, 'twizt rerb and noun I 
The angel form that always walk'd 
In all my dreams, and look'd and talk*d 

Exactly like Miss Brown I 



203 BALLAD. 

The tmne hens — Cbristxnat oome ! 
The priie of merit) won for hoin»— 

Merit had prizes then I 
But now I write for dajB and dajM, 
For fame — a deal of emply pimiaa, 

Without the silver pen 1 

Then '^ home, sweet home 1 " the orowded 
The joyous shout — the loud approMh— 

The winding horns like rams' 1 
The meeting sweet that made ma thrill^ 
The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still. 

No ' satis ' to the 'jams ! ' — 

When that I was a tiny boy 

My days and nights were fiill of joy. 

My mates were blithe and kind I 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye^ 

To cast a look behind I 



BALLAD. 



It was not in the Winter 

Our loving lot was cast ; 
It was the Time of Roses, — 

We pluck'd ^em as we passed ! 

That churlish season never frown'd 

On early lovers yet :— 
Oh, no— the world was newly crowrfd 

With flowers when first we met I 



STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 

'Twas twilight^ and I bade you go, 

But still jou held me fast ; 
It was the Time of Boses,-^ 

We pluck'd them as we pas^d. — 

What else could peer thy glowing cheek. 

That tears began to stud ? 
And when I ask*d the like of Lore^ 

Tou snatch*d a damaak bud ; 

And oped it to the dainty core, 

Still glowing to the last. — 
It was the Time of Roses, 

We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 



203 



[This Poem is also from the " Literaiy Sonvenir.'* Tom Woodgate, 
of HastLDgs, was no ideal personage, bat a regular old salt, with whom 
my father, ever passionately fond of the sea, had spent many a plea- 
sant honr on the waters.] 



STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, 



or HASTINGS. 



Tom ; — are you still within this land 
Of livers — still on Hastings* sand, 

Or roaming on the wares t 
Or has some billow o*er you rolled^ 
Jealous that earth should lap so bold 

A seaman in her graves ? 

On land the rushlight lives of men 
€ro out but slowly ; nine in ten^ 



204 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATB. 



By tedious long declin< 
Not so the jolly sailor sinks. 
Who founders in the wavey and drinki 

The apoplectio brine I 

Ay, while I write, mayhap your head 
Is sleeping on an oyster-bed — 

I hope 'tis far from truth ! — 
With periwinkle eyes ; — your bone 
Beset with mussels, not your own, 

And corals at your tooth I 

Still does the Chance pursue the chance 
The main affords — ^the Aidant dance 

In safety on the tide ? 
Still flies that sign of my good-will* 
A little bunting thing — ^but still 

To thee a flag of pride ? 

Does that hard, honest hand now dai^ 
The tiller in its careful grasp— 

With ereiy summer breeze 
When ladies sail, in lady-fear — ^ 

Or, tug the oar, a gondolier 

On smooth Macadam seas 1 

Or are you where the flounders keep^ 
Some dozen briny fathoms deep. 

Where sand and shells abound — 
With some old Triton on your chest. 
And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest, 

To find that you are — drown'd 1 

* Mj £ftther made Woodgate a present, in the shape of t small flag. 



STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 205 

Swift is the wave, and apt to bring 
A Buddon doom — ^perchance I sing 

A mere funereal strain ; 
Tou hare endured the utter strife— 
And are — ^the same in death or life — 

A good man ' in the main' I 

Oh, no— I hope the old brown eye 
Still watches ebb, and flood, and sky ; 

That still the brown old shoes 
Are sucking brine up— pumps indeed 1— 
Tour tooth still full of ocean weed, 

Or Indian — ^which you choose. 

I like you, Tom ! and in these lays 
Give honest worth its honest praise, 

No puff at honoui's cost ; 
For though you met these words of mine, 
All letter-learning was a line 

Ton, somehow, neyer cross'd ! 

Mayhap we ne'er shall meet agaio^ 
Except on that Pacific main, 

Beyond this planet's brink ; 
Yet^ as we erst have braved the weather, 
Still may we float awhile together, 

As comrades on this ink I 

Many a scudding gale we've had 
Together, and, my gallant lad. 

Some perils we have pass'd ; 
When huge and black the wave career'd, 
And oft the giant surge appear'd 

The master of our mast | — 



SM STAlfZAB TO TOM WOODGATl. 

'Twas thy example taught me how 
To climb the billow's hoaiy brow. 

Or deave the raging heap- 
To boimd along the ocean wild. 
With danger«-only as a child 

The waters rock*d to sleep. 

Oh^ who can tell that braye delight^ 
To see the hissing wave in mig^t 

Come rampant like a snake ! 
To leap his horrid Grest, and faast 
One's eyes upon the briny beasts 

Left couchant in the wake ! 

The simple shepherd's love is still 
To bask upon a sux^ly hill, 

The herdsman roams the Tale— 
With both their fancies I agree ; 
Be mine the swelling, scooping 8ea» 

That is both hill and dale I 

I yearn for that brisl^ sprayr— I yeam 
To feci the wave from stem to stem 

Uplift ihe plun^ng keel ; 
That merry step we used to dance 
On board the Aidant or the Chanofl^ 

The ocean '' toe and hecL" 

I long to feel the steady gale 

That fills the broad distended sail^ 

The seas on either hand 1 
My thought, like any hollow shell, 
^eeps mocking at my ear the swell 

Of waves against the land. 



STANZAS TO TOM WOODOATE. S07 

It is no fable — ^that old strain 
Of syrens ! — so the witching main 

Is singing — and I sigh 1 
My heart is all at once inclined 
To seaward — and I seem to find 

The waters in my eye ! 

Methinks I see the shining beach ; 
The merry wayes, each after each, 

Bebounding o*er the flints ; 
I spy the grim preventive spy ! 
The joUy boatmen standing nigh ! 

The maids in morning chintz ! 

And there they float — ^the sailing craft I 
The sail is up— -the wind abaft— 

The ballast trim and neat 
Alas ! 'tis aU a dream*— a lie I 
A printer^s imp is standing by, 

To hatd my mizen sheet ! 

My tiller dwindles to a pen^ 
My craft is that of bookish men — 

My sail — ^let Longman tell ! 
Adieu, the wave, the wind, the spray I 
Men — maidens-^'-chintzes— fade away 1 

Tom Woodgate, fare thee well 1 



208 TIME, HOPE, A^^D MEMORY. 

[This appears in ** Friendship's Offering" for 1827, ts also do thia 
poem entitled '' Flowers," and the Ballad which follows it] 



TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. 



I HEABD a gentle maiden, in the spring, 
Set her sweet sighs to musio, and thus sing : 
" Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, 
Only for looks that may turn back on me ; 

'' Only for roses that your chance may throw — 
Though wither'd — I will wear them on my brow, 
To be a thoughtful firagrance to my brain, — 
Warm*d with such love, that th|9y will bloom again. 

'' Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, 
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind ; 
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, 
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream* 

" Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet ; 
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit ; 
And words speak false ; — ^yet, if they welcome prove, 
I '11 be their echo, and repeat their lova 

'' Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last, 
The bitterness to come, and sweetness past ; 
When thou art vext, then turn again, and see 
Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee." 



200 



FLOWEBa 



I WILL not have the mad dyth 
Whose head is tum'd by the Bun ; 
The tulip is a courtly quean, 
Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
The cowalip is a country wench, 
The violet is a nun ;— 
But I will woo the dainfy roae^ 
The queen of eyexy one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch. 
In too much haste to wed. 
And claspe her rings on every hand ; 
The wolfsbane I should dread ; 
Nor will I dreary rosemaiye^ 
That always mourns the dead ;— • 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 
With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint. 

And so IS no mate for me— 

And the daiety's cheek is tipp'd with a blush, 

She is of such low degree ; 

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 

And the broom's betroth'd to the bee 

But I will plight with the dainty rose^ 

For fairest of all is she. 



VOL, V, \^ 



SIO 



BALLAD. 

She's up and gone, the gracdev gh^ 

And lobVd my fiiiling yean ! 
Mj blood before was thin and oold 

But now *tis tum*d to tears ;— « 
My shadow Mis upon my graye^ 

So near the brink I stand. 
She might haye sta/d a little yet^ 

And led me by the hand ! 

Aye, call her on the barren moor. 

And call her on the hill : 
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry. 

And ployer's answer shrill ; 
My child is flown on wilder wings 

Than they haye eyer spread, 
And I may eyen walk a waste 

That widen'd when she fled. 



Full many a thankless chUd has bera. 

But neyer one like mine ; 
Her meat was seryed on plates of goldy 

Her drink was rosy wine ; 
But now she'll share the robin's food^ 

And sup the common rill, 
Before her feet will turn again 

To meet her father^s will I 



BOTH. 21X 

[This Poem appean in the " Foiget-Me-Not"] 



RUTH. 
♦ 

Shs stood breast high amid the oom 
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn. 
Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn fiushy 
Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was bom. 
Like red poppies grown with com. 

Boimd her eyes her tresses fell. 
Which were blackest none could tell. 
But long lashes yeil*d a light. 
That had else been aU too bright, 

And her hat, with shady brim. 
Made her tressy fbrehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stocks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks :— 

Sure, I said, HeaVn did not mean. 
Where I reap thou shouldst but gleai^ 
Lay thy sheaf adown and oome^ 
Share my harvest and my home^ 



212 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FA/RIE8. 

[In this year my father published tho " Plem of the Midnimmer 
Fairies,** not a very successful venture at the time. Moft of the minor 
pieces contained in it had appeared before. It was ushered in by tho 
following dedication.] 

TO CHARLES LAMB 

Mt deab Friend, 

I THANK my litcTBry fortune that I am not rednoed, liko 
many better wits, to barter dedications, for the hope or promiae of 
patronage, with some nominally great man ; but that where true affee* 
tion points, and honest respect, I am free to gratify my head and heart 
by a sincere inscription. An intimacy and deametSp worthy of a 
much earlier date than our acquaintance can refer to^ direct me at once 
to your name : and with this acknowledgment of your ever kind 
feeling towards me, I desire to record a respect and admiration for yon 
as a writer, which no one acquainted with our literature, saye Elia 
himself, will think disproportionate or misplaced. If I had not these 
better reasons to govern mo, I should be guided to the same aclection 
by your intense yet critical relish for the works of our great Dramatist^ 
and for that favourite play in particular which has furnished the 
subject of my verses. 

It is my design, in the follovring Poem, to celebrate by an allegory, 
that immortality which Shokspcore has conferred on the Fairy mytho- 
logy by his ** Midsummer Night*s Dream.** But for him, those pretty 
children of our childhood would leave barely their names to our nuitnrer 
years ; they belong, as tho mites upon the plum, to the bloom of fuicy, 
a thing generally too frail and beautiful to withstand the rude handling 
of Time : but tho Poet has made this most perishable part of the 
mind*s creation equal to tho most enduring ; he has so intertwined the 
Elfins with human sympathies, and linked them by so many delightful 
associations with tho productions of nature, that they are as real to the 
mind*s eye, as their green magical circles to the outer sense. 

It would have been a pity for ffuch a tact to go extinct^ even though 
they wero but as tho butterflies that hover about tho leaves and 
blossoms of the visible world. 

I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours most truly, 

T. Hood. 



THE PLKA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 213 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIEa 

'TwAS in that mellow season of the year 

When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves 

Till they be gold, — aud with a broader sphere 

The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheayes ; 

When more abimdantly the spider weayes. 

And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime ; — 

That forth I fared, op ow of those still eves, 

Toach*d with the dewy sadness of the time, 

To think how the bright months had spent their prime, 

So that, whereyer I addressed my way, 

I S6em*d to track the melancholy feet 

Of him that is the Father of Decay, 

And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet ; — 

Wherefore regretfully I made retreat 

To some unwasted regions of my brain, 

Charm*d with the light of summer and the heat, 

And bade that bounteous season bloom again, 

And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain. 

It was a shady and sequester*d scene. 
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, 
Planted with his own laurels eyer green, 
And roses that for endless summer blow ; 
And there were fountain springs to overflow 
Their marble basins, — and cool green arcades 
Of tall o'crarching sycamores, to throw 



S14 TH£ PLEA OF THE MIMUMMEB FAIRIEa 

Athwart the dappled path their dancizig Bhade%-* 
With timid coneys croppmg the green Undea. 

And there were Grystal pools, peopled with fish, 
Aigent and gold ; and some of Tynan skin, 
Some orimson-ban^d ; — and ever at a wish 
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin 
As glass upon their backs, and then diyed iui 
Quenching their ardent scales in wateiy gloom ; 
Whilst others with fresh hues roVd forth to win 
My changeable regard,—- for so we doom 
Things bom of thought to yanish'Or to bloom. 

And there were many birds of many dyes^ 
From tree to tree still faring to and fro, 
And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes^ 
And goigeous pheasants with their golden glow. 
Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow. 
Besides some Tocalists without a name, 
That oft on fairy errands come and go, 
With accents magical ; — and all were tame. 
And pecked at my hand where'er I came. 

And for my sylvan company, in lieu 

Of Pampinoa with her lively peers, 

Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew. 

All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears^ 

For she was gracious to my childish years, 

And made me free of her enchanted roimd ; 

Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears^ 

And plants her court upon a verdant mound, 

Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIBIEa 215 

** Ah me/* she cries, '' was ever moonlight seen 
So clear and tender for our midnight trips ? 
Go some one forth, and with a trump conyene 
My lieges all 1 '* — Away the goblin skips 
A pace or two apart, and deftly strips 
The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek, 
Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips^ 
Making it utter forth' a shrill small shriek. 
Like a &ay*d bird in the grey owlet's beak. 

And lo ! upon my fix'd delighted ken 
Appealed the loyal Fays. — Some by degrees 
Crept from the primrose buds that open'd then. 
And some froia bell-shaped blossoms like the beea^ 
Some from the dewy meads, and rushy leas. 
Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass ; 
Some frt)m the rivers, others from tall trees 
Dropp*d, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass, 
Spirits and elfins small, of eyery class. 

Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic^ 
Brought Robin Goodfellow, that meny swain ; 
And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic, 
Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain, 
Fresh dripping fix)m a cloud — some bloomy rain, 
Then circling the bright Moon, had wash'd her car« 
And still bodew'd it with a yarious stain : 
Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star. 
Who bears aU fairy embassies afieur. 

But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled, 
Was absent, whether some distemper'd spleen 



916 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIBIEB. 

Kept him nnd his £Eur mate mireconoiledy 

Or warftiro with the Gnome (whose race bad been 

Sometime obnoxious), kept him from hia queeOy 

And made her now peruse the starry skiea 

Prophetical, with such an absent mien ; 

Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eye^ 

And oft the Moon was incensed with her 8igh^-> 

Which made the ehes sport drearily, and aoon 
Their hiishing dances languish'd to a stand. 
Like midnight leaves, when, as the ZepbijTB bwood^ 
All on their drooping stems they sink un£um*d,<^- 
So into silence droop'd the fairy band. 
To see their empress dear so pale and still 
Crowding her softly round on either hand. 
As pale as frosty snowdrops, foid as chill. 
To whom the sceptred dome reveals her ilL 

** Alas," quoth she, " ye know om* fiury lives 
Are leased upon the fickle faith of men ; 
Not measured out against Fate*s mortal knives^ 
Like human gossamers, — ^we perish when 
We fade and are forgot in worldly ken,?— 
Though poesy has thus prolonged our date. 
Thanks be to the sweet Bard*s auspicious pen 
That rescued us so long ! — ^howbeit of late 
I feel some dark misgivings of our fate. 

" And this dull day my melancholy sleep 
Hath been so thronged with images of woe^ 
That even now I cannot choose but weep 
To think this was some sad prophetic show 
f^{ future horror to be&ll us so^ — 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES 817 

Of mortal wreck and uttermost distr^sg,-* 
Yea, our poor empire's faU and oyerthrow^Ts* 
For this was my long yision's dreadful stress. 
And when I waked my trouble was not less. 

'' Wheneyer to the clouds I tried to seek. 
Such leaden weight dragged these Icarian wings, 
My fSedthless wand was wayering and weak, 
And slimy toads had trespass'd in our rings^ 
The birds, refused to sing for me — all things 
Disowned their old allegiance to our spells ; 
The rude bees prick'd me with their rebel stings ; 
And, when I pass'd, the yalley-lily*s bells 
Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells. 

^ And eyer on the faint and flagging air 

A doleful spirit with a dreary note 

Cried in my fearful ear, ' Prepare 1 prepare ! * 

Which soon I knew came from a rayen*s throat, 

Perch'd on a cypress-bough not far remote, — 

A cursed bird, too crafty to be shot. 

That alway oometh with his soot-black coat 

To make hearts dreary : — ^for he is a blot 

Upon the book of life, as well ye wot 



^ Wherefore some while I bribed him to be mute, 

With bitter acorns stuffing his foul maw. 

Which barely I appeased, when some firesh bruit 

Startled me aU aheap ! — and soon I saw 

The horridest shape that eyer raised my aw%s- 

A monstrous giant, yery huge and tall. 

Such as in elder times, deyoid of law, 



218 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMBIEB FAIBISS. 

With wicked might grieved the primeYal baD, 
And this was sure the deadliest of them all 1 



** Gaunt was he as a wolf of Langaedoo^ 
With bloody jaws, and frost upon his crown ; 
So from his barren poll one hoary lock 
Over his wrinkled front fell hr adown. 
Well nigh to where his frosty brows did frown 
Like jagg^ icicles at cottage eares ; 
And for his coronal he wore some brown 
And bristled ears gathered frt)m Ceres' sheaTe^ 
Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves. 

" And lo 1 upon a mast reared far aloft. 
Ho boro a ycry bright and crescent blade, 
The which ho waved so dreadfully, and oft^ 
In meditative spito, that, sore dismay'd, 
I crept into an aoom-cup for shade ; 
Meanwhile the horrid effigy went by : 
I trow his look was dreadful, for it made 
The trembling birds betake them to the sky. 
For every leaf was lifted by bis sigh. 

'* And ever, as ho sigh'd, his foggy breath 
Blurr'd out tho landscape like a flight of smoke : 
Thence knew I this was either dreary Death 
Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroka 
Ah wretched me ! *' — Here, even as she spoke, 
The melancholy Shape came gliding in, 
And lean'd his back against an antique oak, 
Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin, 
Thoy scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 219 

Then what a fear seized all the little rout ! 
Look how a flock of panic'd sheep will stare— 
And huddle close — and start — and wheel about, 
Watching the roaming mongrel here and there,-— 
So did that sudden Apparition scare 
All close aheap those small afi&ighted things ; 
Nor sought they now the safety of the air, 
As if some leaden spell withheld their wings ; 
But who can fly that anoientest of Kings t 

Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear 
And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat, 
Bidding him spare, for loye, her lieges dear : 
'' Alas ! *' quoth she, " is there no nodding wheat 
Eipe for thy crooked weapon, and more meet, — 
Or withered leaves to ravish from the tree, — 
Or crumbling battlements for thy defeat ? 
Think but what vaunting monuments there be 
Builded in spite and mockery of thee. 

** fret away the fabric walls of Fame, 
And grind down marble Csesars with the dust : 
Make tombs inscriptionless — ^raze each high name, 
And waste old armours of renown with rust : 
Do 'all of this, and thy revenge is just : 
Make such decays the trophies of thy prune, 
And check Ambition's overweening lust, 
That dares exterminating war with Time, — 
But we are guiltless of that lofty crime. 

^ Frail feeble sprites ! — ^the children of a dream I 
Leased on the sufferance of fickle men. 



S20 TU£ PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBIESL 

Like motes dependent on the Bunny beaniy 

living but in the sun's indulgent ken. 

And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then 

So do we flutter in the glance of youth 

And fervid fancy, — and so perish when 

The eye of faith grows aged ; — ^in sad truth. 

Feeling thy sway, Time ! though not thj tooth ! 

'* Where be those old divinities forlorn. 
That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream t 
Alas ! their memories are dimm*d and torn. 
Like the remainder tatters of a dreain : 
So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem ; — 
. For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves, 
That holds the wastes of every human scheme. 
spare us then, — and these our pretty elves, — 
We soon, alas ! shall perish of ourselves ! ** 

Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name 
Those old Olympians, scattered by the whirl 
Of Fortune's giddy wheel and brought to shame^ 
Methought a scornful and malignant curl 
Show'd on the lips of that malicious diurl, 
To think what noble havocs he had made ; 
So that I fear*d he all at once would hurl 
The harmless fairies into endless shade, — 
Howbeit he stopp'd awhile to whet his blade. 

Pity it was to hear the elfins* wail 
Hise up in concert from their mingled dread 
Pity it was to see them, all so pale. 
Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed ;- — 
But Puck was seated on a spider's thread. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEK FAIKIES. 221 

That hung between two branches of a briar, 
And *gan to swing and gambol, heels o*6r head. 
Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire, 
For him no present grief could long inspira 

Meanwhile the Queen with many piteous drops. 
Falling like tiny sparks full fieuit and free. 
Bedews a pathway from her throne ; — and stops 
Before the foot of her arch enemy. 
And with her little arms enfolds his knee, 
That shows more grisly from that fair embrace ; 
But she will ne'er depart '' Alas ! " quoth she, 
" My painfull fingers I will here enlace 
Till I have gain'd your pity for our race. 

** What haye we erer done to earn this grudge. 
And hate — (if not too humble for thy hating 1)— 
Look o*er our labours and our liyes, and judge 
If there be any ills of our creating ; 
For we are very kindly creatures, dating 
With nature's charities still sweet and bland : — 
think this murder worthy of debating 1 " 
Herewith she makes a signal with her hand, 
To beckon some one from the Faiiy band« 

Anon I saw one of those elfin things^ 
Clad all in white like any chorister, 
Gome fluttering forth on his melodious wings» 
That made soft music at each little stir. 
But something louder than a bee's demur 
Before he lights upon a bunch of broom^ 
And thus 'gan he with Saturn to confer^^ 



S23 THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUkMEB FAIBDSB. 

And his Yoioe was sweet, touoh*d with the fjioom 
Of that sad theme that argued of his doom 1 

Quoth he, ** We make all melodies our oan^ 
That no false discords may offend the Sun, 
Music's great master — tuning eyeiywhera 
All pastoral sounds and melodies^ each ona 
Duly to place and season, so that none 
May harshly interfere. We rouse at mom 
The shrill sweet lark ; and when the day is dons^ 
Hush silent pauses for the bird foiloniy 
That singoth with her breast against a thont. 

^ Wo gather in loud choirs the twittering raoe^ 
That make a chorus with their single note ; 
And tend on new-fledged birds in eveiy plaoe^ 
That duly they may get their tunes by rote ; 
And oft, like echoes, answering remote, 
We hide in thickets from the feathered throngs 
And strain in rivalship each throbbing throaty 
Singing in shrill responses all day long. 
Whilst the glad truant listens to our song^ 

'^ Wherefore, great Kmg of Tears, as thou dott hnm 

The raining music from a morning doud. 
When yanish'd larks are carolling aboye. 
To wake Apollo with their pipings loud y-^ 
If oyer thou hast heard in leafy shroud 
The sweet and pkintiye Sappho of the dell. 
Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd, 
And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell 
Whene'er thou listenest to PhilomeL" 



THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBIES. 27$ 

Then Saturn thus : — ''Sweet is the merry lark. 

That carols in man's ear so dear and strong ; 

And youth must love to listen in the dark 

That tuneful elegy of Tereus* wrong ; 

But I have heard that ancient strain too long^ 

For sweet is sweet but when a little strange. 

And I grow weary for some newer song ; 

For wherefore had I wings, unless to range 

Through all things mutable, from change to change t 

" But wouldst thou hear the melodies of Time, 
Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll 
Over hush'd cities, and the midnight chime 
Sounds from their hundred docks, and deep bells toll 
Xike a last knell over the dead world's soul, 
Saying, ' Time shall be final of all things, 
Whose late, last voice must elegise the whole,* — 
then*I dap aloft my brave broad wings, 
And make the wide air tremble while it rings ! *' 

Then next a fair Eve-Fay made meek address, 
Saying, " We be the handmaids of the Spring; 
In sign whereof. May, the quaint broideress. 
Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing. 
We tend upon buds' birth and blossoming. 
And count the leafy tributes that they owe-— 
As, so much to the earth — so much to fling 
In showers to the brook — so much to go 
In whirlwinds to the douds that made them grow. 

" The pastoral cowslips are our little pets. 
And daisy stars, whose firmament is green ; 



S24 THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIROa 

Pansies, and those veiTd nuns, meek violets^ 
Sighing to that warm world from which they Boreen ; 
And golden daffodils, pluck'd for Ma/s Queen ; 
And lonely harebeUs, quaking on the heath ; 
And Hyacinth, long since a fiiir youth seen. 
Whose tuneful Voice, tum*d fragrance in his breatl^ 
Kifi8*d by sad 2iephyr, guilty of his deatL 

*' The widow'd primrose weeping to the moon 
And safi&on crocus in whose chalice bright 
A cool libation hoarded for the noon 
Is kept — and she that purifies the lights 
The virgin lily, faithful to her white, 
Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame ; 
And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright. 
Our every godchild, by whatever name — 
Spare us our lives, for wo did nurse the same ! ** 

• 

Then that old Mower stamp'd his heel, and struck 
His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground. 
Saying, " Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck 
With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crown'd 
With flow'ry chaplets, save when they are found 
Withered ? — Whenever have I pluck*d a rose, 
Except to scatter its vain leaves around t 
For so all gloss of beauty I oppose, 
And bring decay on every flow'r that blows. 

" Or when am 1 so wroth as when 1 view 

The wanton pride of Summer ; — ^how she decks 

The birthday world with blossoms ever-new. 

As if Time had not lived, and heap'd great wrecks 

Of years on years ?-^0 then T bravely vex 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIBIE& 225 

And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight, 
And slay them with the wreaths about their necks^ 
Like foolish heifers in the holy rite, 
And raise great trophies to my ancient might." 

Then saith another, *' We are kindly things. 
And like her offspring nestle with the dove,— > 
Witness these hearts embroider*d on our wings. 
To show our constant patronage of love : — 
We sit at even, in sweet bow'rs above 
Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air. 
To mingle with their sighs ; and still remove 
The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear 
Their privacy, and haunt some other where. 

'' And we are near the mother when she sits 
Beside her infant in its wicker bed ; 
And we are in the fairy scene that flits 
Across its tender brain: sweet dreams we shed. 
And whilst the little merry soid is fled 
Away, to sport with our yotmg elves, the while 
We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, 
And tickle the soft lips imtil they smile. 
So that their careful parents they beguile. 

^ then, if ever thou hast breathed a vow 
At Love*s dear portal, or at pale moon-rise 
Crush'd the dear curl on a regardful brow. 
That did not frown thee from thy honey prize— 
If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs, 
And wooed thee from thy careful thoughts within 
To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes, 

VOL. V. \^ 



i^ THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIKIEa 

Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin. 
For Love's dear sake, let us thj pity win 1** 

Then Saturn fiercely thus : — " What joy haye I 
In tender babes, that have devoured mine own, 
Whenever to the light I heard them 017, 
Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone t 
Whereon, till now, is my great hunger shown, 
In monstrous dint of my enormous tooth ; 
And — ^but the peopled world is too ftill grown 
For hunger^s edge— I would oonsume all youth 
At one great meal, without delay or ruth 1 

*' For I am well nigh crazed and wild to hear 
How boastful fathers taunt me with their breed, 
Saying, 'Wo shall not die nor disappear, 
But, in these other selves, ourselves succeed 
Ev*n as ripe flowers pass into their seed 
Only to be renewed from prime to prime,* 
All of which boastings I am forced to read, 
Besides a thousand challenges to Time, 
Which bragging lovers have compiled in rhyma 

" Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o' nights^ 
There will I steal and with my hurried hand 
Startle them suddenly from their delights 
Before the next encounter hath been plann*d. 
Ravishing hours in little minutes spann'd ; 
But when they say fareweU, and grieve apart, 
Then like a leaden statue I will stand, 
Meanwhile their many tears encrust my dart. 
And with a ragged edge cut heart from heart'* 



THE FLEA Of THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIEa 227 

Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green, 
Stept Yanward from his mates, that idly stood 
Each at his proper ease, as they had been 
Nursed in the liberty of old Sherwood, 
And wore the liveiy of Robin Hood, 
Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup, — 
So came this chief right frankly, and made good 
His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up, 
Doffing his cap^ which was an acorn's cup : — 

" We be small foresters and gay, who tend 
On trees, and all their furniture of green. 
Training the young boughs airily to bend. 
And show blue snatches of the sky between ; — 
Or knit more dose intricacies, to screen 
Birds* crafty dwellings, as may hide them best, 
But most the timid blackbird's — she that, seen, 
Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest, 
Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast. 

'' We bend each tree in proper attitude, 
And founting willows train in silveiy fiUls ; 
We frame all shady roofs and arches rude. 
And verdant aisles leading to Dryads' halls, . 
Or deep recesses where the Echo calls ;— ^ 
We shape all plumy trees against the sky. 
And carve tall elms' Corinthian capitals, — 
When sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply. 
Men say, the tapping woodpecker is nigh. 

^ Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow oell. 
And sometimes carve quaint letters oa Vk«& t>3A^ 



228 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUKMEB FAISISaL 

That haply some lone muaiug wight may spell 

Daiutj Aminta, — Gentle Rosalind, — 

Or chastest Lau^^ — sweetly call*d to mind 

In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down ; — 

And sometimes we enrich grey stems with twined 

And vagrant ivy, — or rich moss, whose brown 

Bums into gold as the warm sun goes down. 

" And, lastly, for mirth's sake and ChristmM dbo&t. 
Wo bear the seedling berries, for increase^ 
To graft the Druid oaks, from year to year. 
Careful that mistletoe may never cease ; — 
Wherefore, if thou dost prize the shady peace 
Of sombre forests, or to see light break 
Through sylvan cloisters, and in spring release 
Thy spirit amongst leaves from careful ake. 
Spore us our lives for the Green Dryad*s sake.** 

Then Saturn, with a frown : — " Gk) forth, and fell 

Oak for your coflSns, and thenceforth lay by 

Your axes for the rust, and bid farewell 

To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky 

Through tangled branches, for ye shall not spy 

The next green generation of the tree ; 

But hence with the dead leaves, whene'er they fly,^ 

Which in the bleak air I would rather see, 

Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be. 

" For I dislike all prime, and verdant pets, 
Ivy except, that on the aged wall 
Preys with its worm-like roots, and daily frets 
The crumbled tower it seems to league withal. 
King-like, worn down by its own coronal :— 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 220 

Neither in forest haunts loye I to won, 

Before the golden plumage 'gins to fall. 

And leaves the brown bleak limbs with few leases ODf 

Or bare— like Nature in her skeleton. 



*' For then sit I amongst the crooked boughsi 
Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs ; 
And there in rustling nuptials we espouse, 
Smit by the sadness in each other^s eyes ; — 
But Hope must have green bowers and blue 
And must be courted with the gauds of Spring ; 
Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries, 
'What shall we always do, but love and sing 1 *— -> 
And Time is reckon*d a discarded thing/ 



i» 



Here in my dream it made me firet to sea 
How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while 
Had blithely jested with calamity, 
With mis-timed mirth mocking the doleful style 
Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile 
To see him so reflect their grief aside. 
Turning their solemn looks to half a smile — 
Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide ;— 
But soon a novel advocate I spied 

Quoth he — ** We teach all natures to fulfil 
Their fore-appointed crafts, and instincts meet^-* 
The bee's sweet alchemy, — the spider's skilly — 
The pismire's care to gamer up his wheat,—- 
And rustic masonry to swallows fleet, — 
The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest^-** 
But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet 



S30 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

And Bhrillj ruddock, with its bleeding Inreasti 
Its tender pity of poor babes distrest. 

*' Sometimes we cast our shapes^ and in deek skina 
Delve with the timid mole, that aptlj delyee 
From our example ; so the spider spins. 
And eke the silk-worm, pattem*d by ounelyee : 
Sometimes we travail on the summer shelTes 
Of early bees, and busy toils commence^ 
Watch*d of wise men, that know not we are elves^ 
But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense. 
And praise our human-like intelligence. 

'< Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale. 
And plaintive diiges the late robins sing; 
What time the leaves are scattei'd by the gale^ 
Mindful of that old forest buiying ;if«- 
As thou dost love to watch each tiny thing, 
For whom our craft most curiously contrives^ 
1£ thou hast caught a bee upon the wing; 
To take his honey-bag, — spare us our lives, 
And we will pay the ransom in full hives.** 

" Now by my glass,*' quoth Time, "ye do offend 
In teaching the brown bees that careful lore, 
And frugal ants, whose millions would have end. 
But they lay up for need a timely store, 
And travail with the seasons evermore ; 
Whereas Great Mammoth long bath pass*d away. 
And none but I can tell what hid^ he wore ; 
Whilst purblind men, the creatures of a day. 
In riddling wonder his great bones survey.** 



THE FL£A OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBIES. 2IU 

Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold. 
Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun 
Hath all embroidered with its crooked gold, 
It was so quaintly wrought and OYemm 
With spangled traceries, — ^most meet for one 
That was a warden of the pearly streams ; — 
And as he stept out of the shadows dim, 
His jewels sparkled in the pale moon's gleams, 
And shot into the air their pointed beams. 

Quoth he, — ^ We bear the gold and silver keys 
Of bubbling springs and fountains, that below 
Course thro' the veiny earth, — ^which when they freeze 
Into hard crysolites, we bid to flow. 
Creeping like subtle snakes, when, as they go. 
We guide their windings to melodious falls. 
At whose soft murmurings, so sweet and low, 
Poets have tuned their smoothest madrigals, 
To sing to ladies in their banquet-halls. 

^ And when the hot sun with his steadfast heat 

Parches the river god, — ^whose dusty urn 

Drips miserly, till soon his crystal feet 

Against his pebbly floor wax faint and bum. 

And languid fish, unpoised, grow sick and yearn,— 

Then scoop we hollows in some sandy nook, 

And little channels dig, wherein we turn 

The thread-worn rivulet, that all forsook 

The Naiad-lily, pining for her brook. 

'' Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads. 
With living sapphires daintily inlaid, — 



232 THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRI1ESL 

In all soft songs of waters and their reoda,^ 
And all reflections in a streamlet made. 
Haply of thy own love, that, disarray'd. 
Kills the fair lily with a livelier white,^- 
By silver trouts upspringing from green ahada^ 
And winking stars reduplicate at nighty 
Spare us, poor ministers to such delight.** 

Ilowbcit his pleading and his gentle looka 

Moved not the spiteful Shade : — Quoth he,'^ Tour taate 

Shoots wido of mine, for I despise the brooka 

And slavish rivulets that run to waate 

In noontide sweats, or, like poor vossalsy haate 

To swell the voist dominion of the sea^ 

In whose great presence I am held disgraced. 

And neighboured with a king that rivals me 

In ancient might and hoary majesty. 

'* 'Whereas I ruled in Chaos, and still keep 

The awful secrets of that ancient dearth. 

Before the briny fountains of the deep 

Brimm'd up the hollow cavities of earth ; — 

I saw each trickling Sea-God at his birth, 

Each pearly Naiad with her oozy locks, 

And mfant Titans of enormous girth, 

Whose huge young feet yet stumbled on the rocks, 

Stunning the early world with frequent shocks. 

" Where now is Titan, with his cumbrous brood, 

That scared the world ? — By this sharp scythe they feU, 

And half the sky was curdled with their blood : 

So have all primal giants sigh'd farewell 

No wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell. 



THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIRIE& 238 

Nor pearly Naiads. All their days are done 
That strove with Time, untimely, to excel ; 
Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none 
But my great shadow intercepts the sim 1 " 

Then saith the timid Fay—" Oh, mighty Time 1 
Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans* fall. 
For they were stain'd with many a bloody crime : 
Great giants work great wrongs^ — ^but we are small, 
For love goes lowly ; — ^but Oppression 's tall, 
And with surpassing strides goes foremost still 
Where love indeed can hardly reach at all ; 
Like a poor dwarf o*erburthen*d with good will. 
That labours to efface the tracks of ilL — 

** Man even strives with Man, but we eschew 
The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor ; 
Nay, we are gentle as the sweet heaven's dew 
Beside the red and horrid drops of war, 
Weeping the cruel hates men battle for. 
Which worldly bosoms nourish in our spite : 
For in the gentle breast we ne'er withdraw, 
But only when all love hath taken flight, 
And youth's warm gracious heart is harden'd quite. 



*'So are our gentle natures intertwined 
With sweet humanities, and closely knit 
In kindly Gfympathy with human kind. 
Witness how we befiiend, with elfin wit. 
All hopeless maids and lover^ — ^nor omit 
Magical succours unto hearts forlorn : — 
We charm man's life, and do not perish it 



2U THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMBB FAIBIBa 

So judge UB by tho helps we ahowed this mom. 
To one who held his wretched days in ncom. 

"*Twa8 nigh sweet Amwell ; — ^for the Queen had taak*d 
Our skill to-day amidst the silver Lea^ 
Whereon the noontide son had not yet baak'd ; 
Wherefore some patient man we thought to leo^ 
Planted in moss-grown rushes to the knee^ 
Beside the cloudy margin cold and dim ;— 
Howbeit no patient fisherman was he 
That cast his sudden shadow from the brim. 
Making us loavo our toils to gase on h\m, 

*' His face was ashy pale, and leaden care 
Had sunk the levelled arches of his brow, 
Once bridges, for his joyous thoughts to &ro 
Over those melancholy springs and slow. 
That from his piteous eyes began to flow, 
And fell anon into the chilly stream ; 
Which, as his mimick'd image show'd below, 
Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam, 
Making grief sadder in its own esteem. 

^ And lo ! upon the air we saw him stretch 
His passionate arms ; and, in a wayward strain. 
He 'gan to elegize that fellow wretch 
That with mute gestures answer*d him again, 
Saying, ' Poor slave, how long wilt thou remain 
Life's sad weak captive in a prison strong. 
Hoping with tears to rust away thy chain, 
In bitter servitude to worldly wrong 1 — 
Thou wear'st that mortal liveiy too long ! ' 



THE PLEA OF THE HIDSdMMEB FAIRIEa 235 

** This, with more spleenful speeches and some teara^ 
When he had spent upon the imaged wave. 
Speedily I conyened my elfin peers 
Under the lily-cups, that ire might save 
This woeful mortal from a wilful grave 
By shrewd diversions of his mind's regret. 
Seeing he was mere Melancholy's slave, 
That sank wherever a dark cloud he met, 
And straight was tangled in her secret net 

** Therefore, as still he watch'd the water^s flow, 
Daintily we transformed, and with bright fins 
Game glancing through the gloom ; some from below 
Bose like dim fancies when a dream begins. 
Snatching the light upon their purple skins ; 
Then under the broad leaves made slow retire : 
One like a golden galley bravely wins 
Its radiant course, — another glows like fire, — 
Making that wayward man our pranks admire. 

** And so he banish'd thought, and quite foigot 

All contemplation of that wretched face ; 

And so we wiled him from that lonely spot 

Along the river's brink ; till, by heaven's grace, 

He met a gentle haunter of the place, 

Full of sweet wisdom gathei'd from the brooks, 

Who there discuss*d his melancholy case 

With wholesome texts leam'd from kind nature's books^ 

Meanwhile he newly trimm'd his lines and hooks." 

Herewith the Fairy ceaaed. Quoth Ariel now — 
^ Let me remember how I saved a man« 



233 THE PLKA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBIEEL 

Whose fatal noose was fastcn*d on a bougliy 
Intended to abridge his sad hfe*8 span ; 
For hapl J I was by when he began 
His stem soliloquy in life's dispraise, 
And overheard his melancholy plan. 
How he had made a vow to end his dayai 
And therefore followed him in all his way% 

" Through brake and tangled copse^ for much he loathed 

All populous haunts, and roam*d in forests rude. 

To hide himself from man. But I had clothed 

My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued. 

Where only foxes and wild cats intrude, 

Till wo were come beside an ancient tree 

Late blasted by a storm. Here he renew*d 

His loud complaints, — choosing that spot to be 

The scene of his last horrid tragedy. 

'* It was a wild and melancholy glen, 
Made gloomy by tall firs and cypress dark, 
Whose roots, like any bones of buried men, 
Push'd through the rotten sod for fear^s remark ; 
A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark. 
Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray, 
Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark, 
Like crafty serpents climbing for a prey. 
With many blasted oaks moss-grown and grey. 

" But here upon his final desperate clause 
Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain, 
Like a pang'd nightingale, it made him pause^ 
Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain« 
The sad remainder oosing from his brain 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEE FAIRIES. 237 

In timely ecstasies of healing tears, 
Which through his ardent eyes began to drain ; — 
Meanwhile the deadly Fates unclosed their shears :— 
So pity me and all my fated peers ! " 

Thus Ariel ended, and was some time hush*d : 

When with the hoaiy shape a fresh tongue pleadsy 

And red as rose the gentle Fairy blush'd 

To read the records of her own good deeds :^- 

" It chanced/' quoth she, " in seeking through the meads 

For honied cowslips, sweetest in the mom, 

Whilst yet the buds were hung with dewy beads. 

And Echo answer'd to the huntsman's horn. 

We found a babe left in the swarths forlorn. 

*' A little, sorrowful, deserted thing. 
Begot of loye, and yet no love begetting ; 
Guiltless of shame, and yet for shame to wring ; 
And too soon banish'd from a mother's petting. 
To churlish nurture and the wide world's fretting. 
For alien pity and unnatural care ; — 
Alas ! to see how the cold dew kept wetting 
His childish coats, and dabbled all his hair. 
Like gossamers across his forehead fair. 

^ His pretty pouting mouth, witless of speech, 
Lay half-way open like a rose-lipp'd shell ; 
And his young cheek was softer than a peach, 
Whereon his tears, for roundness, could not dwell. 
But quickly roll'd themselyes to pearls, and fell, 
Some on the grass, and some against his hand, 
Or haply wandered to the dimpled well, 



238 TH£ PLEA OF THE HIDSUHHEB FAIBIK 

Which loYO beside his mouth had sweetly plaim*^ 
Yet not for tears, but mirth and smilings bland. 

** Pity it was to see those frequent tean 
Falling regardless from his friendless eyes ; 
There was such beauty in those twin blue s^Aeres^ 
As any mother*s heart might leap to priie ; 
Blue were they, like the zenith of the skies 
Soften'd betwixt two douds^ both dear and mild 
Just touch*d with thought^ and yet not over wiae^ 
They show'd the gentle spirit of a ohild. 
Not yet by care or any craft defiled. 

'* Pity it was to see the ardent sUn 
Scorching his helpless limbs — ^it shone so warm ; 
For kindly shade or shelter he had none, 
Nor mothcr*8 gentle breast, come fiedr or storm. 
Meanwhile I bade my pitying mates transform 
Like grasshoppers, and then, with shrilly cries^ 
All round the infant noisily we swarm, 
Haply some passing rustic to advise— 
Whilst providential Heaven our care espiei^ 

^ And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind, 
Who, wond'ring at our loud unusual note, 
Strays curiously aside, and so doth find 
The orphan child laid in the grass remote. 
And laps the foundling in his russet coat, 
Who thence was nurtured in his kindly cot :— 
But how he prospered let proud London quote, 
How wise, how rich, and how renown'd he got^ 
And chief of all her citizens, I wot. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIBIEa 289 

"Witness his goodly yessels on the Thames, 

Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandise,— 

Jewels firom Ind, and pearls for courtly dames, 

And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies : 

Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise, 

The mart of merchants from the East and West ; 

Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies, 

StiU bears, in token of his grateful breast^ 

The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest — 

^ The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest. 

That all the simimer, with a tuneful wing^ 

Makes meny chirpings in its grassy nest, 

Inspirited with dew to leap and sing : — 

So let us also liye, eternal King I 

Partakers of the green and pleasant earth : — 

Pity it is to slay the meanest thing; 

That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth :— 

Enough there is of joy's decrease and dearth I 

'' Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty. 

Perished and gone, and hasting to decay ; — 

Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty 

Or spite it is to hayoc and to slay : 

Too many a lovely race razed quite away, 

Hath left large gaps in life and human loving : — 

Here then begin thy cruel war to stay, 

And spare fresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving 

Thy desolating hand for our removing." 

Now here I heard a shrill and sudden ciy, 
Andy looking up. I saw the antic Pnck 



240 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEK FAIBIVL 

Grappling with Time, who olatch*d him like a Bj, 
Victim of his own Bport, — ^the jestei's luok I 
He, whibt his follows grieved, poor w]|^t» had atiiok 
His freakish gauds upon the Ancient*! brow. 
And now his car, and now his beard, would pluck ; 
'NVhcrcas the angiy churl had snatch'd him now, 
Cr}'ing, ''Thou impish mischief who art thout** 

" Alas ! '* quoth Puck, '< a little random dt, 
Bom in the sport of nature, like a weed, 
For simple sweet ei\jo7ment of myself. 
But for no other purpose, worth, or need ; 
And jet witlial of a most happy breed ; 
And there is Robin Goodfellow besides, 
My partner dear in many a prankish deed 
To make dame Laughter hold her joUy sidei^ 
Like merry mummers twain on holy tidea 

** 'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork. 

Till e'en the patient man breathes half a cune; 

We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork, 

And curdling looks with secret straws disperse^ 

Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid Terse ; 

And when an infant's beauty prospers HI, 

We change, some mothers say, the child at nnrae i 

But any graver purpose to fulfil. 

We have not wit enough, and scarce the wilL 

*« We never let the canker melancholy 

To gather on our faces like a rust, 

But gloss our featiu*es with some change of folly; 

Taking life's fabled miseries on trust, 

But only sorrowing when sorrow must : 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 241 

We raminate no sage's solemn cud. 
But own ourselves a pinch of livelj dust 
To frisk upon a wind, — ^whereas the flood 
Of tears would turn us into heavy mud. 

<<Beshrew those sad interpreters of natuie. 

Who gloze her lively universal law. 

As if she had not form'd our cheerful feature 

To be so tickled with the slightest straw ! 

So let them vex their mumping mouths, and draw 

The comers downward, like a wat*iy moon, 

And deal in gusty sighs and rainy flaw — 

We wiU not woo foul weather all too soon, 

Or nurse November on the lap of June. 

** For ours are winging sprites, like any bird, 
That shun all stagnant settlements of grief; 
And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd, 
Like insects settled on a dancing leaf : — 
This is our small philosophy in briei^ 
Which thus to teach hath set me all agape : 
But dost thou relish it t hoaiy chief ! 
Undasp thy crooked fingers from my nape, 
And I wiU show thee many a pleasant scrape.'* 



Then Saturn thus : — shaking his erooked blade 
Overhead, which made aloft a lightning flash 
In all the fitiries' eyes, dismaUy fray'd I 
His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash — 
Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash — 
*^ Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing ! 
Whom nought can fiighten, sadden, or tkV>Qc^ — 

VOL. V. ^^ 



ii) wanton I'il'ii^::"^ ,; — ^'Ut I pli, 
And r. '!)(.•. 1 (ho May Quccu iu a 
Turuing bcr buds to roeemaxy a 
And all their merry minatrelijr i 
And laid each lust j leaper in tlu 
So thou sholt fiare-— and ereiy j<y 



l! 



Here he lets go the struggling im] 
His mortal engine with each grid) 
Which frights the elfin prpgenj so 
They huddle in a heap, and trrjobl 
All round Titania^ like the quoen b 
With sighs and tears and yeiy wbaA 
Meanwhile, some moYing aigomenl 
To make the stem Shade meroifii],- 
He drops his fatal scathe without i 



For, just at need, a timely Apparii 
Steps in hp**^— 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. (43 

Who, turning to the small assembled fays, 
Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap, 
And holds her beauty for a while in gaze, 
With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap ; 
And thence upon the fair moon's silver map, 
As if in question of this magic chance. 
Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap ; 
And then upon old Saturn turns askance. 
Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance :— 

** Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night ! 
Stealthy companions of the downy moth — 
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light, 
Shunners of simbeams in diurnal sloth ; — 
These be the feasters on night's silver cloth ; — 
The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener, 
Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth. 
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, 
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. 

'* These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs, 

Daintily fed with honey and pure dew — 

Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours, 

King Oberon, and all his merry crew. 

The darling puppets of Romance's view ; 

Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them. 

Famous for patronage of lovers true ; — 

No harm thaj act, neither shall harm be&ll them. 

So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them." 

O what a cry was Saturn's then ! — it made 

The fairies quake. " What caro I for tVievx yv«x&ul» 



\ • • I I 

( ) •* • 



I.' 



• • » •• ,\ ,■■"•• ..-.•■ 



\' 



I 

I! 

r • 

1 . 



!• •!• • 



:i 



• « 



. . V i: 

^ " * • I 
1 » 



It % > . k 

\' •• 

ft • % 



. r.i: .'. 



\\ ; . . • 1 . . . » • . > 1 1 • . . 

!■ k .'. . .. . > I.tltlll.j' '•. • 

, t • • 1 • • 






Vs i\A.< ti.t.- lIiiI iriKiiit I'.M 



** \Vii, r..f;.ri\ pv:it Kin..: - : 
Til'' r;i::i'.r_r iiiusic fr.-ni :; :. 
Wli:. :i v:Uii:«liM lurks iiro <■•• 
To v,:ik«.' Aj'mII ) with the::' " 
If ever th'.u JKu-t liour'l ir. . 
TIj'.' ;>v.-. I t aiil [ Hiiiitivij S . 

Sli-r.V ll.v :V.('-.t lii'.T. 7 ••:: :' 

All.! \\;> 'I'll] ii|i ♦i",. I ti '■ 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMHEB FAIRIES. 2U 

rr (Jl his boastful mockery o'er men. 

IT thou wast bom I know for thia renown, 
T ray most magical EUid inward ken, 
Btt roadeth ev'n at Fate's (breBtalling pen. 

r, by the golden lustre of thine eye, 
f thy brow's most fair and ample span, 
^t'B glorious palace, framed for fancies high, 
B ^ thy cheek thus passionateiy wan, 
w the signs of an imioortal n ift n, — 
re's chief darling, and illustrioua mate, 
1 to foil old Death's oblivioua plan, 
l^ahine untaraish'd by the fogs of Fate, 
n'a fiunouB rival till the final date ! 



8 then from this nsurping Time, 
A ire will visit thee in moonlight dreams ; 
a teach thoe tunes, to wed unto thy rhyme, 
d dance about thee in all midnight gleams, 
g thee glimpses of our magic schemes, 
o mortal's eye hath ever seen ; 
\, for thy love to us in our extremes, 
T keep thy chaplet fr'esh and green, 
IS no poet's vreath hath ever been I 

d we'll distill tboc aromatio dews, 

a thy sense, when there shall be no fiow'ni ; 
1 davour'd syrups in thy drinks infuse, 
% teach the nightingale to haunt thy bow'ra, 
9 with our games divert thy weariest hours, 
b oil that elfin wits can e'er doviae. 
I, this churl dead, there'll bo no hasting hours 



213 THS PLEA OF THK MIDSUMMER FAIBIBL 

To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy flies :" — 
Here she was Btopp^d by Saturn's furious 



Whom, therefore, the kind Shade rebukes anew. 
Spying, " Thou haggard Sin, go forth, and sooop 
Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew. 
Or make th* autumnal flowers turn pale, and droop ; 
Or fell the bearded com, till gleaners stoop 
Under fat alicaves,— -or blast the piny grove ;^ 
But hero thou shalt not harm this pretty groups 
Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove. 
But leased on Nature's loveliness and love. 

** 'Tis these that frco the small entangled fly, 
Caught in the venom'd spider's crafty snare ;— 
These be the petty surgeons that apply 
The healing balsams to the wounded hare, 
Bedded in bloody fern, no creature's care ! — 
These be providers for the orphan brood, 
Whose tender mother hath been slain in ur. 
Quitting with gaping bill her darlings' food, ^ 
Hard by the verge of her domestic wood. 

'^ 'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag^ 
When, with a bursting heart beset with fears^ 
He feels his saving speed begin to flag ; 
For then they quench the fatal taint with tears, 
And prompt fresh sliifls in his oJarum'd ears, 
So pitcoiisly tliey view all bloody morts ; 
Or if the gimucr, with his arm, appeal's. 
Like noisy pycs and jays, with harsh reports^ 
They warn the wild fowl of his deadly sports. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBIE^L 247 

'' For these are kindly ministers of nature, 
To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress ; 
Pretty they be, and very small of stature, — 
For mercy still consorts with littleness ; — 
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less, 
And mischief grossest in this world of wrong ;— « 
So do these charitable dwarfs redress 
The tenfold ravages of giants strong, 
To whom great malice and great might belong. 

<< Likewise to them are Poets much beholden 
For secret favours in the midnight glooms ; 
Bravo Spenser quafiTd out of their goblets golden. 
And saw their tables spread of prompt mushrooms, 
And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms 
Sounding upon the air most soothing soft, 
Like humming bees busy about the brooms, — 
And glanced this fair queen's witchery full oft^ 
And in her magic wain soar'd far aloft. 

** Nay I myself, though mortal, once was nursed 

By fairy gossips, fiiendly at my birth, 

And in my childish ear gUb Mab rehearsed 

Her breezy travels round our planet's girth. 

Telling me wonders of the moon and earth ; 

My gramarye at her grave lap I conn'd. 

Where Puck hath been convened to make me mirth ; 

I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond. 

And toy'd with Oberon*s permitted wand. 

** With figs and plimis and Persian dates they fed me, 
And delicate cates after my sunset meal. 



248 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEB FAIRIES. 

And took me by my childwh hand, and led me 
By craggy rocks created with keepa of atee]. 
Whose awful bases deep dark woods oonceal. 
Staining some dead lake with their verdant djes : 
And when the West i^Mtfkled at Phoebus* wheel. 
With fairy euphrasy they purged mine eyei^ 
To let me see their cities in the skies. 

*' *Twas they first schoord my young imagination 
To take its flights like any new-fledged bird. 
And show*d the span of winged meditation 
Stretched wider than things grossly seen or heaixL 
With sweet swift Ariel how I soared and stin'd 
The fragrant blooms of spiritual boVrs ! 
'Twas they cndear'd what I have still preferred, 
' Nature*s blest attributes and balmy poVrs, 
Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and floVn I 

" Wherefore with all true loyalty and duty 

Will I regard them in my honouring rhyme. 

With love for love, and homages to beauty. 

And magic thoughts gather*d in night's cool clime^ 

With studious verse trancing the dragon Time, 

Strong as old Merlin's necromantic spells ; 

So these dear monarchs of the summer's prime 

ShaU live imstartled by his dreadful yells, 

TiU shrill larks warn them to their flowery oell&** 

Look how a poison'd man turns livid black, 
Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore^ 
That sets his horrid features all at rack, — 
So seem'd these words into the ear to pour 
Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRlBa 24l 

Of mortal pain and spite and atmost rage. 
Wherewith his grisly arm he raised once more^ 
And bade the clustered sinews all engage. 
As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age. 

Whereas the blade flash'd on the dinted groand, 
Down through his steadfast foe, jet made no soar 
On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound ; 
But Time was long benumb'd, and stood arjar. 
And then with baffled rage took flight afar, 
To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom, 
Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar. 
Or sharp his scythe fbr royal strokes of doom, 
Whetting its edge on some old Csesar's tomb. 

Howbeit he yanish'd in the forest shade, 
Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard. 
And, like Nymph Echo, to a sound decayed ; — 
Meanwhile the fays clustered the gracious Bard, 
The darling centre of their dear regard : 
Besides of sxmdry dances on the green, 
Neyer was mortal man so brightly starred, 
Or won such pretty homages, I ween. 
'' Nod to him, Elves ! *' cries the melodious queen. 

^ Nod to him, Elyes, and flutter round about him. 
And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd. 
And touch him loTingly, for that, without him, 
The silk-worm now had spun our dreaiy shroud ;— ^ 
But he hath all dispersed Death's tearlful doud. 
And Time's dread effigy scared quite away : 
Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd, 



240 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEK FAIRIXjaL 

Grappling with Time, who clutched him like a fly. 
Victim of his own sport, — ^tho jestei^s luck ! 
He, whilst his follows grieved, poor wight^ bad itiiok 
His freakish gauds upon the Ancient's brow. 
And now his car, and now his beard, would pluck ; 
Whereas the angiy churl had Bnatch*d him now. 
Crying, <*Thou impish mischief who art thout*' 

" Alas ! ** quoth Puck, " a little random d^ 
Bom in the sport of nature, like a weed, 
For simple sweet ei\joyment of myself, 
But for no other purpose, worth, or need ; 
And yet withal of a most happy breed ; 
And there is Robin GoodfcUow besides, 
My partner dear in many a prankish deed 
To make dame Laughter hold her jolly sidei% 
Like merry mummers twain on holy tidea 

"'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork, 

Till e'en tlic ])atient man breathes half a com; 

We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork, 

And curdling looks with secret straws disperse. 

Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid Terse : 

And when an infant's beauty prospers ill, 

We change, some mothers say, the child at nnne i 

But any graver purpose to fulfil, 

We have not wit enough, and scarce the wilL 

" We never let the canker melancholy 

To gather on our faces like a rust, 

But gloss our features with some change of folly, 

Taking life's fabled miseries on trust, 

But only sorrowing when sorrow must 2 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 241 

We raminate no sage's solemn cud. 
But own ourselves a pinch of lively dust 
To frisk upon a wind, — ^whereas the flood 
Of tears would turn us into heavy mud. 

^'Beshrew those sad interpreters of natuie. 

Who gloze her lively universal law, 

As if she had not formed our cheerful feature 

To be so tickled with the slightest straw ! 

So let them vex their mumping mouths, and draw 

The comers downward, like a wat*iy moon, 

And deal in gusty sighs and rainy flaw — 

We will not woo foul weather all too soon. 

Or nurse November on the lap of June. 

** For ours are winging sprites, like any bird, 
That shun all stagnant settlements of grief ; 
And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd, 
Like insects settled on a dancing leaf : — 
This is our small philosophy in briei^ 
Which thus to teach hath set me all agape : 
But dost thou relish it t hoaiy chief ! 
Undasp thy crooked fingers from my nape, 
And I wiU show thee many a pleasant scrape.'* 

Then Saturn thus : — shaking his erooked blade 
O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash 
In all the fitiries' eyes, dismally fra/d ! 
His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash- 
Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash — 
''Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing ! 
Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or tkV>Qc^ — 

VOL. V. "^^ 



212 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUIUIER FAIRIES. 

To hope my solemn countcnonoo to wring 
To idiot Binilos ! — ^but I will prune thy wing ! 

^ Lo ! this most awful bandlo of my scythe 
Stood once a May-pole, with a flowoiy crown. 
Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe^ 
To wanton pipings ; — ^but I pluck*d it down, 
And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown. 
Turning her buds to rosemary and rue ; 
And all their merry minstrelsy did drown, 
And laid each lusty loaper in the dew ; — 
So thou shalt fiut) — and every jovial crew ! " 

Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch 
His mortal cngiue with each grisly hand, 
Which frights the elfin progeny so much. 
They huddle in a heap, and tre'ubling stand 
All round Titania, like the quoen bee*a band. 
With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe I^- 
MeanwhilC; some moving aigument I planned. 
To make the stem Shade merciful, — ^when lo 1 
He di'ops his fatal scythe without a blow 1 



For, just at need, a timely Apparition 
Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt; 
Making him change his horrible position, 
To marvel at this comer, bravo and blunt, 
That dares Time's irresistible afiront, 
Whose strokes have scarred even the gods of old 
Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt 
For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold, 
Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. 



THE rL£A OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. ^13 

Who, turning to the small assembled fays, 
Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap, 
And holds her beauty for a while in gaze. 
With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap ; 
And thence upon the fair moon's silver map, 
As if in question of this magic chance. 
Laid like a dream upon the green earth*s lap ; 
And then upon old Saturn turns askance. 
Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance :— 

** Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night ! 
Stealthy companions of the downy moth — 
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light, 
Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth ; — 
These be the feasters on night's silver doth ; — 
The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener, 
Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth, 
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, 
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. 

** These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs, 

Daintily fed with honey and pure dew — 

Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming houn. 

King Oberon, and all his merry crew, 

The darling puppets of Romance's view ; 

Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them, 

Famous for patronage of lovers true ; — 

No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them, 

So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them." 

O what a cry was Saturn's then ! — it made 

The fairies quake. '' What care I Cot tViovc yc^xSb&^ 



844 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUXKEB FAIBISBL 

However they may loven choooe to aid. 

Or dance their roundelays on flow'ry banks t— 

Long must they danoe before they earn my tliaiik%- 

So step aside, to some far safer spot^ 

VThilst with my hungry scythe I mow their nuik% 

And leave them in the sun, like weed% to rot^ 

And with the next day's sun to be foEgot*" 

Anon, he raised afresh his weapon keen ; 
But still the gracious Shade disarm'd lus aim. 
Stepping with brave alacrity between. 
And made his sero arm powerless and tame. 
His bo perpetual glory, for the shame 
Of hoary Saturn in that grand defeat ! — 
But I must tell how here Titania came 
With all her kneeling lieges, to entreat 
His kindly succour, in sad tonesi, but sweet 

Saying, ** Thou scest a wretched queen before thee^ 

The fading power of a failing land. 

Who for a kingdom knceleth to implore thee, 

Now menaced by this tyrant's spoiling hand ; 

No one but thee can hopefully withstand 

That crooked blade, he longeth so to lift 

I pray thee blind him with his own vile sand, 

Which only times all ruins by its drift, 

Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. 

" Or take him by that sole and grizzled tuft, 
That hangs upon his bald and barren crown ; 
And we will sing to see him so rebufiTd, 
And lend our little mights to pull him down. 
And make brave sport of his malicious frown, 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBIIS. 215 

For all his boastful mockery o*er men. 
For thou wast bom I know for this renown. 
By my most magical and inward ken. 
That readeth eVn at Fate's forestalling pen. 

'* Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye. 
And by thy brow's most foir and ample span, 
Thought's glorious palace, framed for fancies high. 
And by thy cheek thus passionately wan, 
I know the signs of an immortal man, — 
Nature's chief darling, and illustrious mate. 
Destined to foil old Death's obliyious plan, 
And shine untamish'd by the fogs of Fate, 
Time's famous rival till the final date I 

'' shield us then from this usurping Time, 
And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams ; 
And teach thee tunes, to wed imto thy rhyme, 
And dance about thee in all midnight gleams, 
Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes. 
Such as no mortal's eye hath ever seen ; 
And, for thy love to us in our extremes, 
Will ever keep thy chaplet fr^sh and green, 
Such as no poet's wreath hath ever been 1 

''And we'll distill thee aromatic dews, 

To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flowers ; 

And flavour'd syrups in thy drinks infrue, 

And teach the nightingale to haunt thy boVrs^ 

And with our games divert thy weariest hours, 

With all that elfin wits can e'er devise. 

And, this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hours 



2<3 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIEIXB. 

To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy flies : " — 
Hero she was stopped by Saturn's furiouB criea. 

Whom, therefore, the kiud Shade rebukes anew, 
&Lying, ** Thou haggard Sin, go forth, and scoop 
Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew. 
Or make th* autumnal flowers turn pale, and droop ; 
Or fell the bearded com, till gleaners stoop 
Under fat slicaves, — or blast the piny grove ; — 
But hero thou shalt not harm this pretty groups 
Whoso lives are not so frail and feebly wove. 
But leased on Naturo*s loveliness and love. 

'< *Tis these that free the small entangled fly, 
Caught in the vcnom'd spider's crafty snare ; — 
These be the petty surgeons that apply 
Tlie healing balsams to the wounded hare, 
Bedded in bloody fcni, no creature's care ! — 
These be providers for the orphan brood, 
Wiiose tender mother hath been slain in air. 
Quitting with gaping bill her darlings' food, 
Hard by the verge of her domestic wood. 

" 'Tis these befriend the timid trembling slag; 
When, with a bursting heart beset with fears. 
He feels his saving speed begin to flag ; 
For then they quench the fatal taint with tears. 
And prompt fresh si lifts in his alarum'd ears, 
So piteoiisly they view all bloody morts ; 
Or if the gunner, with his arm, a])peai'S, 
Like noisy pyes and jays, with harsh reports, 
They warn the wild fowl of liis deadly sports. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRlEd. 2i7 

** For these are kindly ministers of nature, 
To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress ; 
Pretty they be, and very small of stature, — 
For mercy still consorts with littleness ; — 
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less, 
And mischief grossest in this world of wrong ;— 
So do these charitable dwarfe redress 
The tenfold ravages of giants strong, 
To whom great malice and great might belong. 

^ Likewise to them are Poets much beholden 
For secret favours in the midnight glooms ; 
Brave Spenser quaff*d out of their goblets golden. 
And saw their tables spread of prompt mushrooms, 
And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms 
Sounding upon the air most soothing soft, 
Like humming bees busy about the brooms, — 
And glanced this fair queen's witchery full oft, 
And in her magic wain soared far aloft. 

''Nay I myself, though mortal, once was nursed 

By fairy gossips, friendly at my birth. 

And in my childish ear glib Mab rehearsed 

Her breezy travels round our planet's girth. 

Telling me wonders of the moon and earth ; 

My gramarye at her grave lap I oonn'd, 

Whei'e Puck hath been convened to make me mirth ; 

I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond. 

And toy*d with Oberon*s permitted wand. 

^ With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me. 
And delicate cates after my sunset meal, 



24S THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIBISBL 

And took me by my childiah hand, and led me 
By craggy rocks crested with keeps of steel. 
Whoso awful bases deep dark woods oonoeal. 
Staining some dead lake with their Terdant dyes : 
And when the West ^)arided at PhoBbos' wheel. 
With fairy euphrasy they piuqged mine oyes^ 
To let mo see their cities in the skies. 

" 'Twas they first schooVd my yotmg imagiiution 

To take its flights like any new-fledged bird. 

And show*d the span of winged meditation 

Strctch'd wider than things grossly seen or heard. 

With sweet swift Ariel how I soared and stin^d 

The fragrant blooms of spiritual bowers 1 

*Twas they endeared what I have still preferr*d. 

Nature's blest attributes and balmy pow^rs^ 

Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and floVn t 

" Wherefore with all true loyalty and duty 

Will I regard them in my honouring rhyme, 

With love for love, and homages to beauty, 

And magic thoughts gathered in night's oool clim% 

With studious verse trancing the dragon Time, 

Strong as old Merlin's necromantic spells ; 

So these dear monarchs of the summer^s prime 

Shall live unstartled by his dreadful yells, 

Till shrill larks warn them to their floweiy celk." 

Look how a poison'd man turns livid black, 
Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore. 
That sets his horrid features all at rack, — 
So seem'd these words into the ear to pour 
Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRlfil 24# 

Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage^ 
Wherewith his grisly arm he raised once more^ 
And bade the duster'd sinews all engage. 
As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age. 

Whereas the blade flash'd on the dinted gronndy 
Down through his steadfast foe, jet made no scar 
On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound ; 
But Time was long benumb'd, and stood arjar, 
And then with baffled rage took flight afar. 
To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom, 
Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar, 
Or sharp his scythe fbr royal strokes of doom, 
Whetting its edge on some old Csesai^s tomb. 

Howbeit he Tanish*d in the forest shade^ 
Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard, 
And, like Nymph Echo, to a sound deca/d ; — 
Meanwhile the fays dustez^d the gracious Bard, 
The darling centre of their dear regard : 
Besides of sundry dances on the green, 
Never was mortal man so brightly stan^d, 
Or won such pretty homages, I ween. 
'' Nod to him, Elves 1 " cries the melodious queen. 

*' Nod to him. Elves, and flutter round about him. 
And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd, 
And touch him lovingly, for that, without him, 
The silk-worm now had spun our dreary shroud ; — • 
But he hath all dispersed Death's tearful doud, 
And Time's dread effigy scared quite away : 
Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd. 



250 THE PLEA OF THE ICIDSUMHEa FAIRIBS. 

And bis dear wishes prosper and obey 
Wbercvcr luve and wit can find a way 1 

*^ *Noint bim with fairy dews of magio savoun^ 
Shaken from orient buds still pearly wet, 
Roses and spicy pinks, — and, of all faTOun, 
riant in his walks the purple violet. 
And meadowHswcet under the hedges sety 
To mingle breaths with dainty eglantine 
And honeysuckles sweet, — nor yet foiget 
Some ]>astoral flowery ohaplets to entwine^ 
To vie the thoughts about his brow benign 1 

** Let no wild things astonish him or fear him. 
But toll them all how mild ho is of hearty 
Till e*on the timid hares go frankly near him, 
And eke the dappled does, yet never start ; 
Nor shall their fawns into the thickets dart^ 
Nor wrens forsake their nests among the loaves^ 
Nor speckled thrushes flutter far apart ; — 
But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves. 
To guard his roof from lighting and fix)m thievc& 

^ Or when he goes the nimble squirrers visitor^ 
Let the bro^ni hermit bring his hoarded nuts. 
For, tell him, this is Nature's kind Inquisitor,— 
Though man keeps cautious doors that conscience ahutSy 
For conscious wrong all curious quest rebut^ — 
Nor yet shall bees uncage their jealous stings, 
However he may watch their straw-built huts ;— 
So let him learn the crafts of all small things. 
Which ho will hint most aptly when he sings.** 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 251 

Here she leaves off, and with a graceful hand 
Waves thrice three splendid circles ronnd his head ; 
Which, though deserted by the radiant wand, 
Wears still the glory which her waving shed. 
Such as erst crown*d the old Apostle's head, 
To show the thoughts, there harbour'd, were divine, 
And on immortal contemplations fed : — 
Goodly it was to see that glory shine ' 
Around a brow so lofty and benign ! — 

Goodly it was to see the elfin brood 
Contend for kisses of his gentle hand. 
That had their mortal enemy withstood, 
And stay'd their lives, fast ebbing with the sand. 
Long while this strife engaged the pretty band ; 
But now bold Chantidecr, from farm to farm, 
Challenged the dawn creeping o*er eastern land. 
And well the fairies knew that shrill alarm. 
Which sounds the knell of eveiy elfish charm. 

And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise 
From plashy mead and undiscover'd stream. 
Earth's morning incense to the early skies. 
Crept o*er the failing landscape of my dream* 
Soon faded then the Phantom of my theme— 
A shapeless shade, that fkacy disavow'd, 
And shrank to nothing in the mist extreme. 
Then flew Titania, — and her little crowd. 
Like flocking linnets, vanished in a cloud. 



252 



HERO AND LEANDES. 

TO & T. OOLSRIDOI. 

It is not with a hope my feeble imiie 

Can add one moment*a honour to thy ovn, 

That with thy mi^ty name I gnoe theee lays ; 

I seek to glorify myself alone : 

For that some precious CftYoor thoa hait ahown 

To my endearoor in a by-gone time^ 

And by this token I would hare it known 

Thoa art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme I 

It is my dear ambition now to dimb 

Still higher in thy thought, — if my bold pen 

May thrust on contemplations more sublime.— 

But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when 

We gain applauses from the gxeat in name. 

Wo seem to be partakers of thnr fame. 



Oh Bards of old I what sorrows have ye sung^ 
And tragic stories, chronicled in stone,— > 
Sad Philomol restored her ravished tongne. 
And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown ; 
Sweet Sappho on her love for ever oalls, 
And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls ! 

Was it that spectacles of sadder plights 
Should make our blisses relish the more high t 
Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knight^ 
Whose flourish'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye, 
Weep hero, unto a tale of ancient grie^ 
Traced from the course of an old bas-reliefl 



HEBO AND LEANDEB. 253 

There stands Abydos ! — ^here is Sestos' steep. 
Hard by the gusty margin of the sea^ 
Where sprinkling waves continually do leap ; 
And that is where those fisunous lovers be, 
A buHded gloom shot up into the grey, 
As if the first tall watoh-tow'r of the day. 

Lo ! how the lark soars upward and is gone ; 
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky, 
His voice is heard, though body there is none, 
And rain-like music scatters from on high ; 
But Love would follow with a falcon spite, 
To pluck the minstrel from his dewy height. 

For Love hath framed a ditty of regrets, 
Tuned to the hollow sobbings on the shore, 
A vexing sense, that with like music frets, 
And chimes this dismal burthen o'er and o*er, 
Saying; Leander^s joys are past and spent, 
Like stars extinguished in the firmament. 

For ere the golden crevices of mom 

Let in those regal luxuries of light, 

Which all the variable east adorn, 

And hang rich fringes on the skirts of night, 

Leander, weaning from sweet Hero's side. 

Must leave a widow where he found a bride. 

Hark ! how the billows beat upon the sand I 
Like pawing steeds impatient of delay ; 
Meanwhile their rider, lingering on the land, 
Dallies with love, and holds farewell at bay 
A too short ^pan. — ^How tedious slow is grief 1 
But parting renders time both sad and brie£ 



251 HKRO AND LEAXDER. 

"^ Aloa ! " he 8igh*d, " that this first gUmpBing 
AVhich makes tho wide world tenderly appeari 
Sliould be tho bnruing signal for my flighty 
From all tho world*s best imagc^ which is here ; 
AVhoso very shadow, in my fond compare, 
Sliines far more bright than Beauty*8 self elsewhera.' 

Their cheeks are white as blossoms of the dark, 
Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale. 
And tlioso fair mirrors where their joys did spai^ 
All dim and tamish*d with a dreaiy yeili 
No more to kindle till the night*8 retunii 
Like stars re]>lcuish*d at Joy's golden urn. 

Ev'u thus they creep into the spectral grey, 
That cramps tho landscape in its naxrow brim, 
As when two shadows by old Lethe stray, 
He cliisping her, and sho entwining him ; 
Like trees, wind-parted, that embrace anon,^ 
True love so often goes before 'tis gone. 

For what rich merchant but will pause in fear, 
To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss I 
So Hero dotes upon her treasure here, 
And sums tho loss with many an anxious kiai. 
Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head. 
Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread. 

Sho thinks how many have been sunk and drowned. 
And spies their snow-white bones below the deep^ 
Then calls huge congregated monsters round, 
And plants a rock wherever he would leap ; 
Anon sho dwells on a fantastic dream, 
Which sho interprets of that fatal stream. 



HERO AND LKANDER. 255 

Saying, " That honied fly I saw was thee. 
Which lighted on a water-lily's cup, 
When, lo ! the flower, enamoured of mj hee, 
Closed on him suddenly and lock*d him up, 
And he was smothered in her drenching dew ; 
Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue.** 

But next, remembering her virgin fame, 

She dips him in her arms and bids him go^ 

But seeing him break loose, repents her shame^ 

And plucks him back upon her bosom's snow ; 

And tears unfix her iced resolve again. 

As steadfast frosts are thaVd by shoVrs of rain. 

for a type of parting ! — ^Love to love 
Is like the fond attraction of two spheres. 
Which needs a godlike effort to remove. 
And then sink down their sunny atmospheres, 
In rain and darkness on each ruin'd hearty 
Nor yet their melodies will sound apart 

So brave Leander sunders from his bride ; 

The wrenching pang disparts his soul in twain ; 

Half stays with her, half goes towards the tide,— 

And life must ache, until they join again. 

Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound 

Mete every step he takes upon the ground* 

And for the agony and bosom-throe. 

Let it be measured by the wide vast air, 

For that is infinite, and so is woe^ 

Since parted lovers breathe it eveiywhere. 

Look how it heaves Leander's labouring dbett, 

Panting, at poise, upon a rocky crest I 



253 HERO AND LEANDER. 

By this, tho climbing Sun, with rest repur'dp 
Looked through the gold embrasures of the d^. 
And ask'd the drowsy world how she had ftnd ;- 
The drowsy world shone brightened in nptj ; 
And smiling off her fbgs, his slanting beam 
Spied young Lcander in the middle stzeam. 

His face was pallid, but the beetle mom 
Had hung a lying crimson on his eheek% 
And slanderous sparkles in his eyes foriom ; 
So death lies ambushed in oonsumptiye streaks ; 
But inward grief was writhing o*er its task. 
As heart-sick jesters weep behind the masL 

He thought of Hero and the lost delight^ 
Her lost ombracings, and the space between ; 
He thought of Hero and the future night, 
Her speechless rapture and enamoured mien, 
When, lo ! before him, scarce two gaUeys* spaoe^ 
His thoughts confronted with another face I 

Her aspect 's like a moon, diyinely fair, 
But makes the midnight darker that it lies on ; 
*Tis so beclouded with her coal-black hair 
That densely skirts her luminous horison. 
Making her doubly fair, thus darkly set, 
As marble lies advantaged upon jet. 

She 's all too bright, too argent, and too pale, 

To be a woman ; — ^bui a woman's double, 

Heflccted on the wave so faint and frail, 

She tops the billows like an air-blown bubble ; 

Or dim creation of a morning dream, 

Fair as the waye-blcach'd lily of the stream. 



HERO AND LEAKDER. 259 

The very rumour strikes his seeing dead : 

Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense : 

He knows not if her lips be blue or red^ 

Nor of her eyes can give true evidence : 

Like murder's witness swooning in the courts 

His sight falls senseless by its own report. 

Anon resuming, it dedat^s her eyes 
Are tint with azure, like two crystal wells 
That drink the blue complexion of the skies^ 
Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells : 
Her polish'd brow, it is an ample plain, 
To lodge vast contemplations of the main. 

Her lips might corals seem, but corals near, 
Stray through her hair like blossoms on a bower ; 
And o*er the weaker red still domineer. 
And make it pale by tribute to more power ; 
Her rounded cheeks are of still paler hue, 
Touch'd by the bloom of water, tender blue. 

Thus he beholds her rocking on the water, 
Under the glossy umbrage of her hair. 
Like pearly Amphitrite*s fairest daughter, 
Naiad, or Nereid, or Syren fidr, 
Mislodging music in her pitiless breast, 
A nightingale within a falcon's nest 

They say there be such maidens in the deep, 
Charming poor mariners, that all too near 
By mortal lullabies fall dead asleep. 
As drowsy men are poison'd throu^ the ear ; 
Therefore Leand.er*s fears b^gin to uige. 
Tins snowy swan is come to sing his dir^ 



260 HERO AND LEANDER. 

At which he foils into a deadly chill, 
And strains his eyes upon her lips apart ; 
Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrilly 
Pierce through his marrow, like a breath-blown dart 
Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane, 
With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain. 

Here then, poor wretch, how he b^fins to crowd 
A thousand thoughts within a pulse's space ; 
There scem'd so brief a pause of Ufe allowed. 
His mind stretch'd uniyersal, to embrace 
The whole wide world, in an extreme fiurewell,-^ 
A moment's musing — ^but an age to telL 

For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance, 
The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact, 
Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and withered countenance^ 
A wasted ruin that no wasting lack'd ; 
Time's tragic consequents ere time began, 
A world of sorrow in a tew-drop's span. 

A moment's thinking is an hour in words, — 
An hour of words is little for some woos ; 
Too little breathing a long life affords 
For love to paint itself by perfect shows ; 
Then let his love and grief un wronged lie dumb^ 
Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come. 

As when the crew, hard by some jutty cape, 
Struck pole and panick'd by the billows' roar, 
Lay by all timely measures of escape. 
And let their bark go driving on the shore ; 
So fra/d Lcandcr, drifting to his wreck, 
Gazing on Scylla^ falls upon her neck. 



HERO AND LEAKDER. 261 

For he hath all forgot the 8wimmer*8 art. 
The rower*s cunning, and the pilot's skill, 
Letting his arms fall down in languid part, 
Swa^d by the waves, and nothing by his will. 
Till soon he jars against that glosEfj skin. 
Solid like glass, though se^ninglj as thin. 

Lo 1 how she startles at the wsu-ning shock, 
And straightway girds him to her radiant breast, 
More like his safe smooth harbour than his rock ; 
Poor wretch, he is so faint and toil-opprest, 
He cannot loose him from his grappling foe, 
Whether for love or hate, she lets not go. 

His eyes are blinded with the sleety brine. 

His ears are deafen*d with the wildering noise ; 

He asks the purpose of her fell design. 

But foamy waves choke up his struggling voice ; 

Under the ponderous sea his body dips, 

And Hero's name dies bubbling on his lips. 

Look how a man is lowered to his grave, — 
A yearning hollow in the green earth's lap ; 
So he is sunk into the yawning wa^e, — 
The plunging sea fills up the watery gap ; 
Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen 
But likeness of green turf and hillocks green. 

And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping^ 
Over the verdant plain that makes his bed ; 
And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping. 
Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead ; 
The light in vain keeps looking for his face : — 
Now screaming sea-fowl settle in hia ^Iaaa, 



262 HERO AKO LEANDEB. 

Tct weep and watch for him, though all in rwbk I 
To moaning billows, seek hiro aa ye wander 1 
Ye gazing sunbeazns, look for him again I 
Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for T^firfw I 
Ye did but spore him for iQore cmel rape^ 
Sea-storm and ruin in a female fbafe ! 

She says *tiB love hath bribed her to thia deed. 
The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her. 
bootless theft 1 unprofitable meed I 
LoTe*s treasury is sack*d, but she no richer ; 
The sparkles of his eyes are cold and depd. 
And all his golden looks are tum'd to lead 1 

She holds the casket, but her simple hand 
Hath spill*d its dearest jewel by the way ; 
She hath life*s empty garment at command. 
But licr own death lies covert in the prey ; 
As if a thief should steal a tainted vest, 
Some dead man's spoil, and aicken of his pest 

Now she compels him to her deeps below, 
Hiding hia face beneath her plenteous hair. 
Which jealously she shakes all round her brow, 
For dread of onyy, .though no eyes are there 
But seals*, and all brute tenants' of the deep^ 
Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep. 

Down and still downward through the dusky green 

She bore him, murmuring with joyous haste 

In too rash ignorance, as he had been 

Bom to the texture of that watery waste ; 

That which she breathed and sighed, the emerald wnvo I 

How could her pleasant home become his grave t 



HERO AKD LEANDER. 268 

Down and still downward through the dusky green 
She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh 
To mark how life was alter'd in its mien. 
Or how the light grew torpid in his eye. 
Or how his pearly breath, unprisonM there, 
Flew up to join the universal ur. 

She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, 
Whilst her own pulse so wanton'd in its joy ; 
She could not guess he struggled to depart, 
And when he strove no more, the hapless boy 1 
She read his mortal stillness for content, 
Feeling no fear where only love was meant 

Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor. 

And straight unyokes her arms from her fiedr prize ; 

Then on his lovely face begins to pore. 

As if to glut her soul ; — her hungry eyes 

Have grown so jealous of her arms' delight ; 

It seems she hath no other sense but sight. 

But sad marvel ! most bitter strange ! 
What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale ? 
Why will he not embrace, — why not exchange 
Her kindly kisses ; — ^wherefore not exhale 
Some odorous message from life's ruby gates, 
Where she his first sweet embassy awaits f 

Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks, 
Are grappled with a wonder near to grie^ 
As one, who pores on undecipher'd books. 
Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief; 
So she keeps gazing with a mazy thought, 
Framing a thousand doubts that end in nought 



SS4 UERO AND LEANDER. 

Too stern inscription for a page so youngs 
The dork translation of his look was death 1 
But death was written in an alien tongue. 
And learning was not by to give it breath ; 
So one deep woe sleeps bxiried m its seal. 
Which Time, untimely, hastoth to reveal 

Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap^ 
Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there 
With hcayy head lies pillowed in her lap^ 
And elbows all unhinged ; — his sleeking hair 
Creeps o*er her knees, and settles where his hand 
Leans with lax fingers crook'd against the sand ; 

And there lies spread in many an oozy trail. 
Like glossy weeds hung from a chalky base, 
That shows no whiter than his brow is pale ; 
So soon the wintry death had bleach*d his face 
Into cold marble, — with blue chilly shades^ 
Showing wherein the frcezy blood pervades. 

And o*or his steadfast cheek a furrow'd pain 
Hath set, and stiffen' d, like a storm in ioe, 
Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain 
Of mortal anguish ; — ^yet you might gaie twice 
Ere Death it seem'd, and not his cousin, Sleeps 
That through those creviced lids did underpeep^ 

But all that tender bloom about his eyes, 

Is Death's own violets, which his utmost rite 

It is to scatter when the red rose dies ; 

For blue is chilly, and akin to white : 

Also he leaves some tinges on his lips, 

Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nip& 



HERO AND T.EANDER. 265 

" Surely/' quoth she, " he sleepe, the senseless thmg, 
Oppre8s*d and funt with toiling in the stream 1 " 
Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing 
So low, her tune shall mingle with his dream ; 
Meanwhile, her lily fingers tasks to twine 
His uncrispt locks imourling in the brine. 

" lovely boy ! " — thus she attuned h« voice, — 
" Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid*s home, 
My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice ; 
How have I long'd such a twin-self should come, — 
A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befel. 
My heart kept sighing like a hollow shelL 

'' Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome. 

An ocean-bow*r ; defended by the shade 

Of quiet waters, a cool emerald gloom 

To lap thee all about Nay, be not firay'd, 

Those are but shady fishes that sail by 

Like antic clouds across my liquid sky ! 

'^ Look how the sunbeam bums upon their scales, 
And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins ; 
They flash small lightnings from their vigorous tails^ 
And winking stars are kindled at their fins ; 
These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood. 
And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food. 

** Lo I those green pretty leaves with tassel beU% 
My flow*rets those, that never pine for drowth ; 
Myself did plant them in the dappled shells. 
That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth, — 
Pearls wouldst thou have beside f crystals to shine I 
I had such treasures once, — ^now they are thine. 






•I'' 



^ • •.:>.' J \\ :.•::; i^ -!.;i;l ] ■< ;i>o thy choice, 

: :•- 4::.e ^ •!": :ii:.'..s thr.'Ujjrh a riicloJious shell, 
* Though heretofore I have but set my voice 

'' I To some loug sighs, grief-hannonised, to tell 

'■ I How desolate I fared ; — but this sweet change 

Will add new notes of gladness to my range ! 

'^ Or bid mc speak, and I will tell thee tales^ 
Wiich I have framed out of the noise of waves ; 
Ere now I have communed with senseless gales. 
And held vain colloquies with barren caves ; 
But I could talk to thee whole dajs and days, 
Only to word my love a thousand way& 

" But if thy lips will bless me with their speech. 
Then ope, sweet oracles ! and I *11 be mate ; 
I was bom ignorant for thee to teach, 
Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute ; 
Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light 

I saw f.n cr\ve> nrfarr wt-rp k^/««^ «^^Ui. I** 



HERO AND LEAKDJ&R. 267 

Surely he sleeps, — so her £eJse wits infer ! 
Alas ! poor sluggard, ne'er to wake again ! 
Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir 
That might denote a vision in his brain ; 
Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long, 
Twice she hath reach'd the ending of her song. 

Therefore 'tis time she tells him to uncover 
Those radiant jesters, t^nd disperse her fears, 
Whereby her April face is shaded over, 
Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears ; 
Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets. 
Herself must rob those locfjc'd-up cabinets. 

With that she stoops above his brow, and bids 
Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair. 
And tenderly lift up those oqffor-lids, 
That she may gaze upon the jewels there, 
like babes that pluck an early bud apart. 
To know the dainty colour of its heart 

Now, picture one, soft Qrqeping to a bed, 
Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies, 
And then starts back to find the sleeper dead ; 
So she looks in on his \mcover'd eyes, 
And seeing all within so drear and dark, 
Her own bright soul dies joa her like a spark. 

Backward she falls, like ft pale prophetess, 
Under the swoon of holy divination : 
And what had all surpass'd her simple guess, 
She now resolves in this dark revelation ; 
Death's very mystery, — oblivious death ; — 
Long sleep,— deep night, and an entronoiid breath. 



2:3 HERO AND LEANDER. 

Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly daiiiy 
Merely obscured, and not extinguiah'dy lies ; 
Her breath that stood at ebb, soon flows again, 
Heaving her hollow breast with heavy ugha^ 
And light comes in and kindles up the gloom. 
To light her spirit from its transient tomh. 

Then like the sun, awaken*d at new dawn. 
With pale bewildered face she peers about, 
And spies blurr'd images obscurely drawn, 
Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt ; 
But her true grief grows shapely by d^^rees^ — 
A porish'd creature lying on her knees. 

And now she knows how that old Muriher proys^ 
Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain : 
How he roams all abroad and grimly slays, 
Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain ; 
Parting fond mates, — and oft in flowery lawns 
Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns. 

too dear knowledge ! pernicious earning ! 
Foul curse engraven upon beauty*s page ! 
Ev'n now the sorrow of that deadly learning 
Ploughs up her brow, like an untimely age 
And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's truth 
By canker blights upon the bud of youth 1 

For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf, 
So her cheeks' rose is perish' d by her sighs^ 
And withers in the sickly breath of grief ; 
Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes, 
Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt 
From those young lids, now plentifully wept. 



H£BO AND LEANDER. 269 

Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline 
Drops straightway down, refusing to partake 
In gross admixture with the baser brine, 
But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque, 
Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears ; 
So one maid*s trophy is another's tears ! 

" foul Arch-Shadow, thou old cloud of Night," 
(Thus in her frenzy she began to wail,) 
" Thou blank Oblivion— Blotter-out of light, 
Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale ! 
Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete/ 
Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet % 

** Lo ! what a lovely ruin thou hast made 1 
Alas 1 alas I thou hast no eye to see, 
And blindly slew'st him in misguided shade. 
Would I had lent my doting sense to thee ! 
But now I turn to thee, a willing mark, 
Thine arrows miss mer in the aimless dark ! 

** doubly cruel ! — twice mkdoing spite 

But I will guide thee with my helping eyes. 

Or — walk the wide world through, devoid of sight,— 

Tet thou shalt know me by my many sigh& 

Nay, then thou should'st have spared my rose, false Death, 

And known Love's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath ; 

** Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing, 
Love should have grown from touching of his skin ; 
But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling. 
And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within. 
And being but a shape of freezing bone. 
Thy touching only tum'd my love to stone I 



270 UERO AND LEAKDEB. 

*' And here, alas ! he lies acroea mj kneefl^ 
With chocks still colder than the stilly vaTe. 
The light bcucath his eyelids seems to freeie ; 
Hero then, since Love is dead and laoka a graTO^ 

come and dig it in my sad heart's ooze-~ 
That wound will hring a balsam for its sore I 

** For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill 
Lies stinglcBS, like a sense benumb*d with oold. 
Healing all hurts only with sleep's good-will t 
So shall I slumber, and perchance behold 
My living love in dreams, — happy nighty 
That lets me company his banisVd spright ! 

" poppy Death ! — sweet poisoner of sleep ; 
AVhcre shall I seek for thee, obliyious drug, 
That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep 
Out of life's coil 1 Look, Idol ! how I hug 
Thy dainty imago in this strict embrace. 
And kiss this clay* cold model of thy fieuse I 

" Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, 

1 do but read my sorrows by their shine ; 

come and quench them with thy oozy damps^ 
And let my darkness intermix with thine ; 
Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see f 
Now love is death, — death will be love to me ! 

'' Away, away, this vain complaining breath. 
It does but stir the troubles that I weep ; 
Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death ; 
The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,— 
Since love is silent, I would fain be mute ; 
Death, bo gracious to my dying suit 1 "* 



HERO AND LEANDER. 271 

Thus far she pleads^ but pleading nought avails her. 
For Death, her sullen burthen, deigns no heed ; 
Then with dumb Graving arms^ since darkness fails her. 
She prays to heaven's fair light, as if her need 
Inspired her there were Gods to pity pain. 
Or end it, — ^but she lifts her arms in vain ! 

'Poor gilded Grief ! the subtle light by this 
With mazy gold creeps through her watery mine. 
And, diving downward through the green abyss, 
Lights up her palace with an amber shine ; 
There, falling on her arms,— rthe crystal skin 
Beveals the ruby tide that fares within. 

Look how the fulsome beam would hang a glory 
On her dark hair, but the dark hairs repel it ; 
Look how the perjured glow suborns a story 
On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it ; 
Grief will not swerve from grief, however told 
On coral lips, or charactered in gold ; 

Or else, thou maid ! safe anchor*d on Love*s riedk, 
listing the hapless doom of young Leander, 
Thou would'st not shed a tear for that old wreck. 
Sitting secure where no wild surges wander ; 
Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace, 
And shows its sad reflection in thy face. 

Thus having travell*d on, and track'd the Uie, 
Like the due course of an old bas-relief 
Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale, 
Brood here awhile upon that sea-maid's grie^ 
And take a deeper imprint from the frieze 
Of that young Fate, with Death upon her ksL^^n^ 



262 H£BO Ji^D LEANDEB. 

Tet weep and watcb for him, though all in Tain ! 
Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander 1 
Ye gazing sunbeaofis, look for him again 1 
Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander I 
Ye did bu,t spare him for XQore cruel rape, 
SeaHstorm and ruin in a female ^hape I 

She says 'tis lo^ve hath bribed her to thia deed, 
The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her. 
bootless theft ! unprofitable meed 1 
LoYe*s treasury is sack'd, but she no richer ; 
The sparkles of his eyes are cold and de#d, 
And all his golden looks are tum'd to lead 1 

She holds the casket, but her simple hand 
Hath spill*d its dearest jewel by the way ; 
She hath life's empty garme9t at command. 
But her own death lies covert in the prey ; 
As if a thief should steal a tainted yest, 
Some dead man*s spoil, and sicken of his peat 

Now she compels him to her deeps below. 
Hiding Im face beneath her plenteous hair. 
Which jealously she shakes all round her brow, 
For dread of enyy, though no eyes are there 
But seals', and all brute tenants' of the deep^ 
Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep. 

Down and still downward through the dnaky green 
She bore him, murmuring with joyous haste 
In too rash ignorance, as he had been 
Bom to the texture of that watery waste ; 
That which she breatlied and %\^d, >i^<^ «iaffiTOi\ '^rw^ I 
How could her pleasant \iom^\)ec«m^\5^ ^w:s^\ 



HERO AND LEAKDER. 268 

Down and still downward through the dusky green 
She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh 
To mark how life was alter*d in its mien, 
Or how the light grew torpid in his eye, 
Or how his pearly breath, imprisoned there, 
Flew up to join the imiyersal ur. 

She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, 
Whilst her own pulse so wantoned in its joy ; 
She could not guess he struggled to depart, 
And when he stroye no more, the hapless boy 1 
She read his mortal stillness for content. 
Feeling no fear where only loTe was meant 

Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor, 

And straight unyokes her arms from her fisdr prize ; 

Then on his lovely face begins to pore. 

As if to glut her soul ; — ^her hungry eyes 

Have grown so jealous of her arms* delight ; 

It seems she hath no other sense but sight. 

But sad marvel ! most bitter strange ! 
What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale ? 
Why will he not embrace, — ^why not exchange 
Her kindly kisses ; — ^wherefore not exhale 
Some odorous message from life's ruby gates, 
Where she his first sweet embassy awaits f 

Her eyes, poor watchers, fix*d upon his looks, 
Are grappled with a wonder near to grie^ 
As one, who pores on undecipher*d books. 
Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief; 
So she keeps gazing with a ms^ Mkox^go^i^ 
Framing a thousand doiibtB t)a2t\. eu^ vclxvw\:^P^ 



201 U£UO AND LEANDKIR. 

Too stem inscription for a page so youn^ 
Tho diirk translation of Lis look was death I 
But death was written in an alien tongue. 
And learning was not hy to give it hreath ; 
So one deep woo sleeps buried in its seal. 
Which Time, untimely, hasteth to royeaL 

Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap^ 
Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there 
With heavy head lies pillow*d in her lap, 
And elbows all unhinged ; — his sleeking hair 
Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand 
Lcaus with lax fingers crook*d against tlie sand ; 

And there lies spread in many an oozy trail, 
Like glos.sy weeds hung from a chalky base, 
That shows no whiter than his brow is pale ; 
So 8(^on the wintry death had bleach*d his face 
Into cold marble, — with blue chilly shades^ 
Showing wherein the fi-cesy blood pervades. 

And o'er his steadfiist cheek a furrow*d pain 
Hath set, and stLfTen'd, like a storm in ice, 
Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain 
Of mortal anguish ; — ^yet you might gaie twice 
Ere Death it soem*d, and not his cousin, Sleeps 
That tlux>ugh those creviced lids did underx>eepi 

But all that tender bloom about his eyes, 

Is Deatli's own violets, which his utmost rite 

It is to scatter when the red rose dies ; 

For blue is chilly, and akin to white : 

Also he leaves some tinges on his lips, 

Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nipa 



HERO AND LEANDER. 265 

" Surely/* quoth she, " be sleeps, the senseless things 
Oppress'd and faint with toiling in the stream 1 " 
Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing 
So low, her time shall mingle with his dream ; 
Meanwhile, her lily fingers tasks to twine 
His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine. 

" lovely boy ! " — ^thus she attuned her voioe,-^ 
<< Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid*s home, 
My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice ; 
How have I longed such a twin-self should come,— • 
A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befel. 
My heart kept sighing like a hollow shelL 

" Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome. 

An ocean-bow'r ; defended by the shade 

Of quiet waters, a cool emerald gloom 

To lap thee all about. Nay, be not firay'd. 

Those are but shady fishes that sail by 

Like antic clouds across my liquid sky ! 

** Look how the sunbeam bums upon their scales, 
And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins ; 
They flash small lightnings from their vigorous tails^ 
And winking stars are kindled at their fins ; 
These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood. 
And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food. 

^' Lo ! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells^ 
My flow*rets those, that never pine for drowth ; 
Myself did plant them in the dappled shells. 
That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth,—* 
Pearls wouldst thou have beside t crystals to shine t 
I had such treasures once, — ^now they are thine. 



2C6 HERO AND LEAKDEB. 

*' Now, lay thine ear agunst this golden nnd. 
And thou shalt hear the music of the Bea, 
Those hollow tunes it plays against the land,— 
Is *t not a rich and wondrous melody t 
I have lain hours, and fancied in its tooA 
I heard the languages of ages gone I 

'^ I too can sing when it shall please thy dioioe^ 
And breathe soft tunes through a melodioua shelly 
Though heretofore I haye but set my Toioe 
To some long sighs, grief-harmonised, to tdl 
How desolate I fared ; — but this sweet change 
Will add new notes of gladness to my range ! 

'< Or bid me speak, and I will tell thee tales^ 
^yhich I have framed out of the noise of waves ; 
Ere now I have cox^muned with senseless gales, 
And held vain colloquies with barren caves ; 
But I could talk to thee whole days and days, 
Only to word my love a thousand ways. 

'' But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, 
Then ope, sweet oracles I and 1 11 be mute ; 
I was bom ignorant tor thee to teach, 
Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute ; 
Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light 
I saw to give away my heart aright 1 " 

But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies 
Over her knees, and with concealing day. 
Like hoarding Avarice, locks up his eyes. 
And leaves her world impoverish'd of day ; 
Then at his cruel lips she beinda \a -^leaid^ 
But there the door is cloaeiSL agoMQBX.Viw v««A- 



HERO AND LEAKDifiR. 267 

Surely be sleeps, — so her false wits infer ! 
Alas I poor sluggard, ne*er to wake again ! 
Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir 
That might denote a vision in his bnun ; 
Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long, 
Twice she hath reaoh*d the ending of her song. 

Therefore 'tis time she tells him to imcover 
Those radiant jesters, s^d disperse her fears, 
Whereby her April &ce is shaded over, 
Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears ; 
Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets. 
Herself must rob those lop|^*d-up cabinets. 

With that she stoops above his brow, and bids 
Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair, 
And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids, 
That she may gaze upon the jewels there. 
Like babes that pluck an early bud apart, 
To know the dainty colour of its heart 

Now, picture one, soft (^eping to a bed. 
Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies, 
And then starts back to find the sleeper dead ; 
So she looks in on his \mcover*d eyes, 
And seeing all within so drear and dark. 
Her own bright soul dies jbi her like a spark. 

Backward she falls, like ft pale prophetess, 
Under the swoon of holy divination : 
And what had all surpass*d her simple gnessi 
She now resolves in this dark revelation ; 
Death's very mystery,— 6b\mo\» ^•eA.>i^i\ — 
Long Bleep, — deep night, and a-a eTi\xaxkriA\sK»5^ 



2:3 HERO AND LEANDER. 

Yet life, thougli wounded sorsy not wholly aUin, 
Merely obscured, and not extinguiah'd, lies ; 
Her breath that stood at ebb, soon flows again. 
Heaving her hoUow breast with heayy sigfas^ 
And light comes in and kindles up the gloom. 
To light her spirit from its transient tomb. 

Then like the sun, awoken'd at new dawn. 
With pale bewilder*d face she peers about| 
And spies blurr*d images obscurely drawn, 
Uncertain shadow's in a haze of doubt ; 
But her true grief grows shapely by degrees, — 
A perished creatiuro lying on her knees. 

And now she knows how that old Murther preys^ 
Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain : 
How he roams all abroad and grimly slays^ 
Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain ; 
Parting fond mates, — and oft in flowery iawna 
Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns. 

too dear knowledge 1 pernicious earning I 
Foul curse engraven upon beauty^s page I 
Ev*n now the sorrow of that deadly learning 
Ploughs up her brow, like an imtimely age 
And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's tmth 
By canker blights upon the bud of youth 1 

For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf. 
So her cheeks* rose is perish*d by her sighs^ 
And withers in the sickly breath of grief ; 
Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes^ 
Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt 
From those young lids, now plentifully wept. 



HEBO AND L£AND£R. 269 

Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline 
Drops straightway down, refusing to partake 
In gross admixture with the baser brine. 
But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque, 
Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears ; 
So one maid's trophy is another's tears ! 

*< foul Arch-Shadow, thou old doud of Night * 
(Thus in her frenzy she began to wail,) 
" Thou blank Oblivion— Blotter-out of light, 
Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale ! 
Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete,' 
Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet 1 

** Lo ! what a lovely ruin thou hast made ! 
Alas 1 alas ! thou hast no eye to see. 
And blindly slew'st him in misguided shada 
Would I had lent my doting sense to thee ! 
But now I turn to thee, a willing mark, 
Thine arrows miss mer in the aimless dark ! 

" doubly cruel ! — ^twice misdoing spite 

But I will guide thee with my helping eyes, 

Or — walk the wide world through, devoid of sight,— 

Yet thou shalt know me by my many sigha 

Nay, then thou should'st have spared my rose, false Death, 

And known Love's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath ; 

^ Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing. 
Love should have grown from touching of his skin ; 
But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling. 
And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within. 
And being but a shape of freezing bone, 
Thy touching only tum'd my love to stone I 



270 HERO AND LEANDER. 

" And here, alas ! be lies across my knees^ 
With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave. 
The light beneath his eyelids seems to fneae ; 
Here then, since Lore is dead and lacks a gntTS^ 

come and dig it in my sad heart's core- 
That wound will bring a balsam for its mjon 1 

" For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill 
Lies Btingless, like a sense benumb'd with oM, 
Healing all hurts only with sleep's good-will t 
So shall I slumber, and perchance behold 
My living love in dreams, — happy nighty 
That lets me company his banish*d spright I 

" poppy Death ! — sweet poisoner of sleep ; 
Where shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug^ 
That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep 
Out of life's coil ? Look, Idol 1 how I hug 
Thy dainty image in this strict embrace, 
And kiss this clay- cold model of thy face I 

" Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, 

1 do but read my sorrows by their shine ; 

come and quench them with thy oozy damps^ 
And let my darkness intermix with thine ; 
Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see 1 
Now love is death, — death will be love to mo ! 

'* Away, away, this vain complaining breath, 
It does but stir the troubles that I weep ; 
Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death ; 
The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,-* 
Since love is silent, I would fain be mute ; 
Death, bo gracious to my dying suit ! *" 



HERO AUD LEANDEB. 271 

Thus far she pleads^ but pleading nought avails her. 
For Death, her sullen burthen, deigns no heed ; 
Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness faik her. 
She prays to heaven's fair light, as if her need 
Inspired her there were Grods to pity pain. 
Or end it, — ^but she lifts her arms in vain ! 

'Poor gilded Grief ! the subtle light by this 
With massy gold creeps through her watery mine. 
And, diving downward through the green abyss, 
Lights up her palace with an amber shine ; 
There, falling on her arms,-^the ciystal skin 
Beveals the ruby tide that fares within. 

liOok how the fulsome beam would hang a glory 
On her dark hair, but the dark hairs repel it ; 
Look how the perjured glow suborns a story 
On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it ; 
Grief will not swerve from grief, however told 
On coral lips, or character*d in gold ; 

Or else, thou maid I safe anchor'd on Love's neck, 
Listing the hapless doom of young Leander, 
Thou wotdd*st not shed a tear for that old wrecks 
Sitting secure where no wild surges wander ; 
Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace, 
And shows its sad reflection in thy face. 

Thus having travelled on, and tracked the ta2e^ 
Like the due course of an old bas-relief, 
Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale» 
Brood here awhile upon that sea-maid*s gtiet, 
And take a deeper imprint from the frieze 
Of that young Fate, with Death upon her kxk»e5^ 



272 HERO AND LEANDEB. 

Then whilst the melancholy Muse withal 
Kesumcs her music in a sadder tone, 
Meanwhile the sunbeam strikes upon the wall, 
Conceive that lovely siren to live on, 
£v*n as Hope whispei'd the Promethean light 
Would kindle up the dead Leander^s sprigfat. 

*^*Ti8 light," she says, **that feeds the glittering stan. 
And those were stars set in his heavenly brow ; 
But this salt cloud, this cold sea-vapoor, man 
Their radiant breathing, and obscnres them now ; 
Therefore I'll lay him in the dear blue air, 
And sec how these dull orbs will kindle there.** 

Swiftly as dolphins glide, or swifter yet, 
With dead Leander in her fond arms' fold, 
She cleaves the meshes of that radiant net 
The sun hath twined above of liquid gold, 
Nor slacks till on the margin of the land 
She lays his body on the glowing sand. 

There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach 
Of foamy billows ho lies cast. Just then. 
Some listless fishers, straying down the beach. 
Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men. 
Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake. 
And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache. 

First slie begins to chafe him till she ftdnts, 
Then falls upon his mouth with kisses many, 
And sometimes pauses in her own complaints 
To list his breathing, but there is not any, — 
Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells ; 
Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells. 



HERO AND LEANDEB. 273 

The hot Bun parches his disooyei^d eyes. 

The hot son beats on his discoloured limbs, 

The sand is oozy whereupon he lies, 

Soiling his fairness ; — ^then away she swims, 

Meaning to gather him a daintier bed, 

Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red* 

But, simple-witted thie^ while she dives imder, 
Another robs her of her amorous theft ; 
The ambush*d fishermen creep forth to plunder^ 
And steal the unwatchd treasure she has left ; 
Only his void impression dints the sands ; 
Leander is purloin*d by stealthy hands 1 

Lo ! how she shudders ofif the beaded wave, 
Like Grief all over tears, and senseless fiEdls, — 
His void imprint seems hollowed for her graye ; 
Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls 
On " Hero ! Hero ! " haying loam'd this name 
Of his last breath, she calls him by the same. 

Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs. 
And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wiad, 
As if in plucking those she pluck*d her car^ ; 
But grief lies deeper, and remains behind 
Like a barb*d arrow, rankling in her brain. 
Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain. 

Anon her tangled locks are left alone. 
And down upon the sand she meekly sits^ 
Hard by the foam, as humble as a stone, 
Like an enchanted maid beside her wits, 
That ponders with a look serene and tragic, 
Stunn*d by the mighty mystery of ma^^ 



274 HERO AND LEAKDSR. 

Or think of Ariadne*8 utter tranoey 

Crazed bj the flight of that disloyal traitor. 

Who left her gazing on the green ezpanae 

That swallowed up his track, — yet this would mate herp 

£v*n in the cloudy summit of her woe, 

When o*cr the far sea-brim she saw him ga 

For even so she bows, and bends her gaie 

0*er the eternal waste, as if to sum 

Its waves by weaiy thousands all her days. 

Dismally doom'd ! meanwhile the billows oome^ 

And coldly dabble with her quiet feet. 

Like any bleacliing stones they wont to greet. 

And thence into her lap have boldly sprung^ 

Washing her weedy tresses to and fino, 

That round her crouching knees have darkly hung 

But she sits careless of waves* ebb and flow. 

Like a lone beacon on a desert coast, 

Showing where all her hope was wreck*d and lost 

Yet whether in the sea or vaulted sky, 

She knoweth not her love's abrupt resort, 

So like a shape of dreams ho left her eye, 

Winking with doubt Meanwhile, the churls' report 

Has throng*d the beach with many a curious &ce^ 

That peeps upon her from its hiding place. 

And here a head, and there a brow half seen, 
Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands 
A mariner his crumpled checks doth lean 
Over a rugged crest. Another stands, 
Holding his harmful airow at the head, 
Still chcckM by human caution and strange dreadL 



HERO AND LEAKDER. 275 

One stops his ears, — another close beholder 

Whispers unto the next his grave surmise ; 

This crouches down, — and just above his shoulder 

A woman's pitj saddens in her eyes. 

And prompts her to befriend that lonely grie^ 

With all sweet helps of sisterly reliefl 

And down the sunny beach she paces slowly, 
With many doubtful pauses by the way ; 
Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy, — 
Making her twice attempt, ere she can lay 
Her hand upon that sea-maid*s shoulder white. 
Which makes her startle up in wild affright. 

And, like a seal, she leaps into the wave 
That drowns the shrill remainder of her scream ; 
Anon the sea fills up the watery cave, 
And seals her exit with a foamy seam, — 
Leaving those baffled gazers on the beach. 
Turning in uncouth wonder each to each. 

Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge^ 
Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam ; 
Some point to white eruptions of the surge : — 
But she is vanish'd to her shady home. 
Under the deep, inscrutable, — and there 
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair. 

Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard. 
Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow 
Till all the surface of the deep is stirr'd. 
Like to the panting grief it hides below ; 
And heaven is cover'd with a stormy rack^ 
Soiling the waters with its inky blAA\L. 



276 U£RO AND LEANDER. 

The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey. 
And labours shoreward with a bending wing^ 
Rowing against the wind her toilsome way ; 
Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe^ and fliog 
Their dewy frost still further on the stonei^ 
That answer to the wind with hollow groaiUL 

And here and there a fisher*B far-o£f bark 
Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail. 
Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, 
Watch*d with the hope and fear of maidens palo ; 
And anxious mothers that upturn their browsi 
Freighting the gusty wind with frequent yowb^ 

For that the horrid deep has no sure path 
To guide Love safe into his homely haven. 
And lo ! the storm grows blacker in its wrath. 
O'er the dark billow brooding like a raven. 
That bodes of death and widow's sorrowing, 
Under the dusky covert of his wing. 

And 80 day ended. But no vesper spark 
Hung forth its heavenly sign ; but sheeta of flame 
PlayM round the savage features of the dark. 
Making night horrible. That night, there came 
A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep, 
And tore her hair and gazed upon the deep. 

And waved aloft her bright and ruddy torch. 
Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fannM, 
That oft it would recoil, and basely scorch 
The tender covert of her sheltering hand ; 
Which yet, for Love's dear sake, disdain d retire. 
And, like a glorying martyr, braved the fira 



HERO AND LEANDSR. 877 

For that was Love's own sign and beacon guide 
Across the Hellespont's wide weaiy space. 
Wherein he nightly struggled with the tide :•— 
Look what a red it forges on her &oe, 
As if she blush'd at holding such a light, 
£v'n in the unseen presence of the night ! 

Whereas her tragic cheek is truly pal6y 

And colder than the rude asatd ruffian air 

That howls into her eai^ a horrid tale 

Of storm and wreck, and uttermost despair. 

Saying, ** Leander floats amid the sui^ 

And those are disnad wates that sing hdB difge." 

And hark ! — a grieving voic6, trembnng and Mai, 
Blends with the ht>llow sobbings of the sea ; 
Like the sad music of a siren's plaint^- 
But shriller than Leander^s voice shoi!dd be, 
Unless the wintry death had changed its tone^— 
Wherefore she thinks she hears his spirit moan. 

For now, upon ea;ch brief and breathless pause, 
Made by the riatging winds, it plain!!^ <»lls 
On ** Hero 1 Hero ! " — ^whereupon she draws 
Close to the diz2|y brink, that ne'er appals 
Her brave and constant spii^ to recoil, 
However the wild billows toss and toil 

*' Oh ! dost thou live under the deep deep sea t 
I thought such love as thine could never die ; 
If thou hast gain'd an imniortalii^ 
From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I ; 
And this false cruel tide that used to sever 
Our heartJk shall be our common home &k «^«c\ 



One moment then, uj)on the dizzy vergo 
Sho stands ; — with face upturned against the sky ; 
A moment morSy upon the foamy iiifge 
Shegaieiy withaodmdeipairingeyo; 
Feeling that awM pauie of blood and tanathy 
Which life endnres when it eo n fttmta with dealh 



Then from the giddy steep aha madfy ipriPn 
Grasping her maiden robei^ that ywhUj kapt 
Panting abroad, like onavailing wiqg^ 
To save her from her death.^The ssamakl 
And in a eiTstal caye her cone enshrined; 
No meaner sepulchre should Hero findl 



BALLAD. 

Sfbiko it ia bbeery, 

Winter 18 dreaiy, 
Qnea leaTes bang, but the broim mufit flf ; 

Wben he's forsaken, 

'VTither'd and ahaken, 
What can an old nian do bnt die t 

Lore will not dip him, 

Moida will not lip him. 
Hand and Marian pass him by ; 

Youth it is Bunny, 

A^ haa no honej, — 
What can an old man do but die t 

June it ia joUf, 

Oh for ita foil; 1 
A dancing leg and a langbing eye ; 

Touth nuLj be ailly, 

Wiadom ia obillj, — 
What can aa old man do but die 1 



SONO. 
roB Kcno. 



A LAKE and a fiuiy boat 

To soil in the moonlight clear, — 

And menit J we wonid float 

From the dragons that watch ua hem t 



280 AUTUMy. 

Thy gown should be snow-white Bilk, 
And strings of orient pearls^ 
Like gossamers dipt in milk. 
Should twine with thy rayen coxis ! 

Rod rubies should deck thy handi^ 
And diamonds should be thy do 
But Fairies have broke their wands 
And wishing has lost its power. 



AUTUMN. 

— ♦— 

The Autumn skies are fluah'd with gcid, 
Aud fair and bright the rivers nm ; 
These are but streams of winter cold, 
Aud painted mists that quench the ■on. 

lu secret boughs no sweet birda sing^ 
lu secret boughs no bird can shroud ; 
These are but leaves that take to wing^ 
Aud wintry winds that pipe so loud. 

'Tis not trees* shade, but cloudy glooms 
That on the cheerless valleys fall, 
The flowers are in their grassy tombci^ 
And tears of dew are on them alL 



281 



BALLAD. 
♦ 

SiOH on, sad hearty for Loye*B edipae 

And Beauty's fairest queen, 
Though 'tis not for mj peasant lips 

To soil her name between : 
A king might lay his sceptre down^ 

But I am poor and nought. 
The brow should wear a golden crown 

That wears her in its thought. 

The diamonds glancing in her hair^ 

Whose sudden beams surprise. 
Might bid such humble hopes beware 

The glandng of her eyes ; 
Yet looking once, I look'd too long, 

And if my love is sin, 
Death follows on the heels of wrongs 

And kills the crime within. 

Her dress Beem*d wore of lily leavefl^ 

It was so pure and fine,— 
lofty wears, and lowly weayes^^- 

But hodden-grey is mine ; 
And homely hose must step apart, 

Where garter'd princes stand. 
But may he wear mj \o^^ %X.\i<«tts\> 

That wins her \j\y \iasA\ 



232 



BALLAD. 

Alas ! there*8 far from ronet firieae 

To silks and satin gowns, 
But I doubt if God made like degreei^ 

In courtly hearts and clowns. 
My father wronged a maiden*s mirth. 

And brought her cheeks to blame. 
And all that's lordly of my birth 

Is my reproach and shame ! 

'Tia vain to weep, — ^tis vain to Bigh, 

'Tis vain, this idle speech, 
For where her happy pearls do lie, 

My tears may never reach ; 
Yot when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride 

May say, of what has been. 
His love was nobly bom and died, 

Though all the rest was mean ! 



My speech is rude, — but speech is weak 

Such love as mine to tell. 
Yet had I words, I dare not speak, 

So, Lady, faro thee well ; 
I will not wish thy better state 

Was one of low degree, 
But I must weep that partial fate 

Mado such a churl of luo. 



288 



ODE TO THE MOON. 



MoTHSB of light I how &irlj dost thou go 
Over those hoary crests, divinely led !— 
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow. 
Fabled of old ? Or rather dost thou tread 
Those cloudy summits thence to gazse below, 
like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow, 
Where hunter never dimb'd, — secure from dread 1 
How many antique fancies have I read 
Of that mild presence ! and how many wrought 1 

Wondrous and bright, 

Upon the silver light. 
Chasing &ir figures with the artist. Thought ! 

What art thou like ? — Sometimes I see thee ride 

A far-bound galley on its perilous way, 

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray ;— 

Sometimes behold thee glide, 
Clustered by all thy family of stars. 
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide. 
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars ; — 
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to c«teep, 
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, 
Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creeps 
To catch the young Endymion asleep, — 
Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch ! — 

Oh, thou art beautiful, lioi?«?ct \\.\»\ 
HuDtreBR, or Dian, or iw\ia\jOT«t tmmsi^\ 



2S4 ODE TO THE MOON. 

And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed 
A silver idol, and ne*or worshipp'd thee ! — 
It is too late— or thou should'st have mj 
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows, 
And not divine the crescent on thy brows 
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild MooDy 

Behind those chestnut boughs^ 
Casting* their dappled shadows at mj feet ; 
I will bo grateful for that simple boon. 
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet. 
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet. 



In nights far gone, — ay, &r away and dead, — 

Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye, — f 

I was thy wooer on my little bed, 

Letting the early hours of rest go hj^X 

To see thee flood the heaven with milky light, 

And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept ; 

For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams^— 

Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept 

Their bumish'd helms, and crowns, and oorslets bri^t^ 

Their spears,, and glittering mails ; 
And ever thou didst spill in winding streams 

Sparkles and midnight gleams. 
For fishes to new gloss their argent scales 



Why sighs ? — ^why creeping tears 9 — ^why daspM hands I- 
Is it to count the boy's expended dow'r f 
That fairies since have broke their gifted wands I 
That young Delight, like any o'erblown flow'r, 

• <<Spriiikllng'*iiiiheMS. 

f « Before Care fretted with his lidless eye—" in the MEL 

i "And watch*d thy sllYer odyent in the sky,** in the MEL 



Oim TO THE MOON. 285 



Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground 
Why then^ fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour, 
Thou art a sadder dial to old Time 

Than ever I have found 
On sunny garden-plot, or mosa-grown tow'r, 
Motto'd with stem and melancholy rhyme. 

Why should I grieve for this 1 — Oh I must yearn 

Wlulst Time, conspirator with Memory, 

Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, 

Richly emboBs'd with childhood's revelry, 

With leaves and duster'd fruits, and flow'rs eteme,— 

(Eternal to the world, though not to me). 

Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, 

The deathless wreath, and undecayd festoon. 

When I am hearsed within, — 
Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, 
That now she watches through a vapour thin. 

So let it be : — ^Before I lived to sigh, 
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills, 
Beautiful Orb ! and so, whene'er I lie 
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hill& 
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills, 
And blessed thy fair face, Mother mild 1 
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, 
Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond. 
And blend their plighted shadows into one :* — 
Still smile at even on the bedded child. 
And dose his eyelids with thy silver wand I 

* I find thiB thought lomewhat differentiy worded in a fragment wriitea 
probably aboai 1824. 

"I lore thee, dearest, more than worlds can hold; 
daipi hand% and parted lips, and upiaiioi «J«^ 



239 



THE EXILK 

The swallow with summff 

Will wing o*er the nesM, 
The wind that I sigh to 

Will vihit thy trees. 
The ship that it hastens 

Thy ports will oontaio. 
But me ! — I must never 

See England again 1 

There's many that weep theneu 

But one weeps alone. 
For the tears that are falling 

So far from her own ; 
So far from thy own, love, 

Wo know not our pain ; 
If death is between us, 

Or only the main. 

When the white cloud reoliiiet 
On the verge of the sea, 

I fancy the white chfis. 
And dream upon thee ; 



And throbbing heart— all soUtiuy bonti 
Of widow'd passion when it sighs alone 
Beneath no eye bnt the * * moon*p— 
Under whose light so often and so oft 
Oar plighted ahadea haxe imxi^«\\ii\A oaib^ 
More than the paa»ioi\a.Va a\\«ti<» ol ^^i»^"^R«i 
That made na out for ULemoti a»ABw8%\* 



TO JAN£. 287 

But the doud spreads its wings 

To the blue heay'n and flies. 
We never shall meet, love. 

Except in the skies 1 



TO JANK 



Welcomb, dear Hearty and a most kind good-morrow ; 
The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine : — 
Flowers I have none to give thee/ but I borrow 
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine. 

Here are red Boses, gather'd at thy cheeks. 
The white were all too happy to look white : 
For love the Bose, for faith the Lily speaks ; 
It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright ! 

Dost love sweet Hyacinth 1 Its scented leaf 
Curls manifold, — all love's delights blow double : 
'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief, — 
But let that hint of a foi^otten trouble. 

I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon ; 
Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night ;— 
'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon I 
And here are Sun-flowers^ amorous of light 1 

These golden Buttercups are April's seal, — 
The Daisy-stars her constellations be : 
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, 
Therefore I pluck no Daisies W\» lot \}^<^\ 

♦ WriUen on my moUie^t \AX^:kkdM, \Xa ^"Odl ^^c-wBi^aist. 



2S8 ODE TO K£LAKCHOLY. 

Here 's Daisies for the mom^ Primrose for j^oom, 
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours :*- 
A wight once made a dial of their bloom,— 
So may thy life be measured out by flowers I 



ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 



Come, let us set our careful breasta^ 
Like Philomel, against the thorn, 
To aggravate the inward grie^ 
That makes her accents so forlorn ; 
The world has many cruel points^ 
Whereby our bosoms have been torn, 
And there are dainty themes of grie^ 
In sadness to outlast the mom, — 
True honour^s dearth, affection's death. 
Neglectful pride, and cankering soom. 
With all the piteous tales that tears 
Have water d since the world was bom. 

The world ! — ^it is a wilderness, 
Where tears are himg on every tree ; 
For thus my gloomy phantasy 
Makes all things weep with me 1 
Come lot us sit and watch tho sky, 
And fancy clouds, where no douds be ; 
Grief is enough to blot the eye. 
And moke heaven black with misery. 
Why shcoild birds smg em^^ mctrj xisAw^ 
Unlc83 they were more \Ae«»t \>a»xi -v^X 



ODS TO MELANCHOLY. 280 

No sorrow ever chokes their throats. 
Except sweet nightingale ; for she 
Was bom to pain our hearts the more 
With her sad melody. 
Why shines the Sun, except that he 
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide. 
And pensive shades for Melancholy, 
When all the earth is bright beside f 
Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave. 
Mirth shall not win us back again. 
Whilst man is made of his own grave. 
And fiedrest clouds but gilded rain 1 

I saw my mother in her shroud. 

Her cheek was cold and very pale ; 

And ever since Fve look'd on all 

As creatures doom'd to fail ! 

Why do buds ope except to die t 

Ay, let us watch the roses wither. 

And think of our loves' cheeks ; 

And oh ! how quickly time doth fly 

To bring death's winter hither I 

Minutes, hours, days, and weeks^ 

Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought ; 

An age past is but a thought 1 

Ay, let us think of him awhile 

That, with a coffin for a boat, 

Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat, 

And for our table choose a tomb : 

There's dark enougli m ^xi'^ ^xiSL 

To charge with bWk a TW«ii^Ts:caft\ ^^ 

VOL, V. 



290 ODE TO ICELANCHOLT. 

And for the saddest funeral thongfats 

A wluding-sheot hath ample room. 

Where Death, with hia keen-pointed sfyli^ 

Hath writ the common doom. 

How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom^ 

And o*er the dead lets fall its dew. 

As if in tears it wept for them. 

The many human families 

That sleep around its stem ! 

How cold the dead have made these stones, 

Witli natural drops kept ever wet 1 

Lo ! hero the best — the worst — ^the world 

Doth now remember or forget^ 

Are in one common ruin hurl'd. 

And love and hate are calmly met ; 

Tho loveliest eyes that ever shone, 

The fiiircst hands, and locks of jet. 

Is *t not enough to vex our souls^ 

And fill our eyes, that we hare set 

Our love upon a rose's leaf. 

Our hearts upon a violet 1 

Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet ; 

And sometimes at their swift decay 

Befurehand we must fret. 

The roses bud and bloom again ; 

But Love may haunt the grave of Love^ 

And watch the mould in vain. 

clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine^ 
And do not take my tears amiss ; 
For tears must i\ow lo -wvjj^ vk^-^ 
A thought that 5^\\o\?a so ^.t^Tvi ^ >i^vv^ "• 



ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 891 

Forgiye, if somewhile I forget^ 

In woe to come, the present bliss; 

As frighted Proserpine let &11 

Her flowers at the sight of Dis : 

£y*n so the dark and bright will kiss— 

The sunniest things throw sternest shade, 

And there is eVn a happiness 

That makes the heart afraid I 

Now let us with a spell invoke 

The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes ; 

Not bright, not bdght, but, with a doud 

Lapp*d all about her, let her rise 

All pale and dim, as if from rest 

The ghost of the late-buried sun 

Had crept into the skies. 

The Moon ! she is the source of sigfas^ 

The yeiy face to make us sad ; 

If but to think in other times 

The same calm quiet look she had^ 

As if the world held nothing basOi 

Of yile and mean, of fierce and bad ; 

The same fair light that shone in streams^ 

The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad ; 

For 80 it is, with spent delights 

She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad. 

All things are touch'd with Melancholy, 

Bom of the secret soul's mistrust^ 

To feel her fair ethereal wings 

Weigh'd down with yile degraded dust*; 

Even the bright extremes of joy 

Bring on concluuoiia oi SiBf^QflX., 

Like the sweet \)lo6aoxiia ot ^i^<^ "^vi <i 



292 EXTRACT. 

Whose fragrance ends in must. 

give her, then, her trihute just^ 

Her sighs and tears, and musings holj ; 

There is no music in the life 

That sounds with idiot laughter solely ; 

There's not a string attuned to mirthy 

But has its chord in Melancholy. 

[Tho following extract is from a letter of L. £. L.'i to my frtiiM^s 
voiy old and tried friend Mr. Jerdan, and ipeaks of tiio *'Floa of the 
Midsummer Fairies." Any memorial of the gifted poeteit hat a chann 

of its own, apart from its valae as a commentaiy on my lather*! 
writings.] 

I DO not know when I have been so delighted as I hare 
with Mr. Hood, full of deep and natiural thoughts^ expressed 
under tho most poetical images ; similes as new as they 
are exquisite; and as for the little pieces, never were any 
so beautiful Tho fault of the book is, that it is too fan- 
tastic for general readers; and after all, these make the 
popularity of the poet. He is touched with the same mania 
for the dainty simplenesses which are the mania of Uoyd 
and Lamb — an affectation of imitating the older poets^ which 
no modem will now do. They half hold '' with the strange 
tale devoutly true," while your modem one knows he is 
only " dallying, silly sooth." And as for classics, are they 

not tho gate over which B C— hangs gibbeted, 

and through which no bard of our times can hope to pass ; 
There is a want of human interest, of those strong and 
passionate feelings, which appeal to the heart more than 
the fancy. Still Mr. Hood is a darling, and his book a 
treasure. I quite agree in the selections you have made; 
the "Ode to Melancholy" is as fine philosophy as it ia 
jpoetiT. L. R Li 



293 



SONNET. 

ON MLBTBISS NIOELT,* A PATTERN FOB H0178KKXIFBBS. 

w&imv Ajxu uinra xna. dayihpobx nr hie obaeaczib at 

OOTBKT OABDKir. 



Shb was a woman peerless in her station. 

With household virtues wedded to her name ; 

Spotless in linen, grass-bleached in her tame, 
And pure and clear-starched in her reputation ;'-^ 
Thence in mj Castle of Imagination 
She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame, 
To keep all airy draperies from shame, 
And all dream-furniture in preservation ; 
There walketh she with keys quite silver-bright, 
In perfect hose, and shoes of seemly black. 

Apron and stomacher of lily-white. 
And decent order follows in her track : 

The burnished plate grows lustrous in her sight, 
And polished floors and tables shine her back. 



SONNET. 



Bt ev*iy sweet tradition of true hearts^ 
Graven by Time, in love with his own lore ; 
By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts, 
Wherein Love died to be alive the more ; 
Tea, by the sad impression on the shore. 
Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear 

• In <' The School of Beform,*' by T. Morton. 



S9I BONIfET. 

That ooaat for erer, where the billow^s roar 
Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear ; 
By Hero's faith, and the foreboding tear 
That quenoh'd her brand's last twinkle in its lUl ; 
By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear 
That sigh'd around her flight ; I swear by al]. 
The world shall find suoh pattern in my aot. 
As if Love's great examples still were lack'd. 



SONNET. 
TO icT win. 



Thb curse of Adam, the old curse of all. 
Though I inherit in this feverish life 
Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strifb. 
And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall. 
Yet moro sweet honey than of bitter gall 
I taste, through thee, my Eva, my sweet wife. 
Then what was Man's lost Paradise I — how rife 
Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall ! 
Such as our own pure passion still might frames 
Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow'ni^ 
If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came 
To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flowers ;— 
But oh ! as many and such tears are oura^ 
As only should be shed for guilt and shame 1 



295 



SONNET. 

ON BECXXYINO A GIFT. 



Look how the golden ocean shines above 
Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth ; 
So does the bright and blessed light of Love 
Its own things glorify, and raise their wortL 
Ab weeds seem flowers beneath the flattering brine, 
And stones like gems, and gems as gems indeed, 
EVn so our tokens shine ; nay, they outshine 
Pebbles and pearls, and gems and coral weed ; 
For where be ocean waves but half so clear. 
So calmly constant, and so kindly warm, 
Ab Love*s most mild and glowing atmosphere, 
That hath no dregs to be uptum*d by storm ? 
Thus, sweety thy gracious gifts are gifts of price. 
And m(M:ie than gold to doting Avarice. 



SONNET. 



Lov^ dearest Lady, such as I would speak, 
Lives not within the humour of the eye ; — 
Not being but an outward phantasy. 
That skims the sur&ce of a tinted cheek, — 
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak, 
As if the rose made summer, — and so lie 
Amongst the perishable t\nii^ \)[VdX ^^^ 
Unlike the love which 1 'woxjMl ^"s^i ^xA ^^r^ •• 



20$ LETTER FROM L. E. L. 

Whose health is of no hue — ^to feel deaij 
With check;}* decay, that have a rosy primeL 
LoTC is itfl own great loveliness alwaj. 
And takes new lustre finom the touch of time ; 
Its bough owns no December and no May, 
But bears its blossom into Winter's dima 



[A copy of "Tho Flea** wms sent to L £. L, whose letter of 
evknowlcdgmnit to mj father, 1 giro on eooonnt of the ooinddenoe 
of her mention of '* Fair Incs," carried sway ecrass the sea from 
friends upon the shore—a late so like her own.] 

Mt very best thanks, dear Sir : I scanelj know 
whether to be most grateful for your kind gift^ or delighted 
with the gift itself. The fairies must indeed haye broke 
their wand if you do not wake some morning and find your- 
self in a starry' palace built by music, and filled with spirits 
o* the air, waiting on your wish. Or at least they ought 
to turn a sunflower into a chariot of gold, and cany you 
in triumphal procession. 

I do not venture to tell you of my praise ; I shall only 
speak of my pleasure. I have read and re-read till I believe 
I know half the booL As for ^ Fair Inesy" she is Indeed 
the "dearest of the dear ! " and I do so like the "Departure 
of Summer;*' — but I am enumerating, so with my best thanka 
and wishes believe me, 

Very sincerely, 
Lbtitia Elixabsth Landov. 



ODES AND ADDBESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 297 
[The next poem ia from the " New Monthly" for thiB year.] 

ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 

TO THOMAS filSH, ESQ. 

"The oyster- woman locked her fish up. 
And tmdged away to cry < no Biah— .' "-— Huniuui. 

Mt Biah, sinoe fickle Fortune's dead, 
Where throbs thy speculating head 

That hatch'd such matchless stories 
Of gainings like Napoleon, all 
Success on eveiy capital. 

And thirty thousand glories ) 

Dost thou now sit when evening comes, 
Wrapt in its cold and wintry glooms, 

And dream o*er faded pleasures 1 
See numbers rise and numbers fall, 
Hear Lotteiys last funereal call 
0*er all her vanish'd treasures ? 

Thy head, distract 'twizt weal and wo^ 

Feels the kut Lottery like a blon 
From malice — aimed at thee ; 
No prizes pass in decent rank, 
Nothing is left thee but a blank. 

And worthy Mrs. B. 

Perchance at times tbj m\A xda:^ ^iXx«^ 
With cards to keep tiie gj^xcA ^^^> 



S»a ODES AND ADDBESSES TO OBKAT FIOFLI. 

Aad mock the old btbiu, 
By fighting Fortune at Ecart^ 
Thoa Chahag Ctobb'b BonapAzU 

In little St Heleiu. 

Thou'rt OQt of luck — for to ibj ihar^ 
Not as of old, fiUls blank dcspiur ; 

The thought oft givee the npoun. 
In some ' cureed cottAga of oonteot ' 
Thy bofQod hopelen hours are ipant 

Spelling the duly papen, 

No moro thy name in column itares 
On the lured reader unftwaree ; 

The Toioe of Fame ii o'er I 
No more it breathes thee into print ; 
What ia Fame'a breatli t There*! nothing in't— 

The merest puff — no more ! 



The puff to others now belongs, 

The Wrights have risen upon thy wrongs 

Rowlands to Hunts recoil 1 
The wheel of Fortune, now foiiom, 



ODES Am) ADDRESSES ro GfiEAT FEOPLR. 

At Droiy, too, the chance waa thine ; 
But thou ahalt in past gloiy shine, 

Not aa the uncertain actor ; 
Not aa the man that opens wide 
The floodgate for the public tide. 

But as the Great Contractor. 

And when — ^but Heaven protract the day*- 
The time is come for Life's decay. 

Prolonged shall be thy joys. 
A fjEiYourite wheel shall carry thee, 
And like thy darling Lottery, 

Be drawn by Blue-coat boys. 



299 



A tumulus shall coyer thee 
And thin& A barrow it will be. 

Sacred to thy one wheeL 
And genuine tears, my Bisb, from eyei 
Of those who never got a prize, 

At mom and eve shall steal. 




"ru 



Soever 
Tour 






poef. 



y weekjj,_j 



oot 



■And I 



tat(« 



aj 






ODE. 

But midges still go free 1 
The peace that shuns my board aud bed 
May settle on a lowlier head, 

And dwell, "St. John, with thee ! " 

I aim'd at higher growth ; and now 
My leaves are withered on the bough, 

Fm choked by bitter shrubs 1 
Mr. F. C. W. ! 
What can I christen thy review 

But one of " Wormwood Scrubs 1 " 



801 



The very man that sought me once^ 
(Can I so soon be grown a dunce )) 

Et now derides my verse ; 
But who, save me, will fret to find 
The editor has changed his mind,*- 

He can*t have got a worse. 









Thia 



<»i»««ii»J„ 






TOWN AND COUNTRY. 803 

1 but to hear iho milkmaid blithe^ 
Or early mower wet his scythe 

The dewy meads among ! — 
My grass is of that sort^ alas ! 
That makes no hay — called sparrow-grasi 

By folks of vulgar tongue ! 

! but to smell the woodbines sweet I 

1 think of cowslip cups— but meet 

With very vile rebufib I 
For meadow-buds I get a whiff 
Of Cheshire cheese, — or only sniff 

The turtle made at Guff's. 

How tenderly Bousseau reviewed 
His periwinkles I — ^mine are stewed ! 

My rose blooms on a gown I— 
I hunt in vain for eglantme, 
And find my blue-bell on the sign 

That marks the Bell and Crown : 

Where are ye, birds I that blithely wing 
From tree to tree, and gaily sing 

Or mourn in thickets deep t 
My cuckoo has some ware to sell. 
The watchman is my Philomel, 

My blackbird is a sweep ! 

Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush 1 
That perch on leafy bough and bush, 

And tune the various song 1 
Two hurdygurdists, and a poor 
Street-Handel grinding at mj ds^icit^ 

Are all my ** tuneM \\itos^|,r 



804 TOWK AND COUBTBY. 

Where are ye, early-purling rtraam^ 
Whoso waves reflect the morning 

And ooloors of the akiea t 
My rills are only puddle-draina 
From shambles, or reflect the 

Of calimanoo-dyes I 



Sweet are the little brooka that 
O'er pebbles glancing in the mm, 

Singing in soothing tones :«- 
Not thus the city streamlets flow ; 
They make no music as they go^ 

Though never " off the stoneSi** 

Where are ye, pastoral in:etty sheep^ 
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap 

Beside your woolly dams t 
Alas I instead of harmless crooks^ 
My Goiydons use iron hooks. 

And skin — not shear — ^the lamb& 

The pipe whereon, in olden day. 
The Arcadian herdsman used to play 

Sweetly, here soundeth not ; 
But merely breathes unwholesome fumes^ 
Meanwhile the city boor consumes 

The rank weed — "piping hot" 

All rural things arc vilely mocked, 
On every hand the sense is shocked, 

With objects hard to bear : 
Shades — ^vernal shades I — ^where wine is sold I 
And, for a turfy bank, behold 

An Ingram's rvustio <3Mat\ 



TOWN AND COUNTBY. 

Where are ye, London meads and boweiB, 
And gardens redolent of flowers 

Wherein the zephyr wons ? 
Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more. 
See Hatton's Garden bricked all o'er, 

And that bare wood — St. John's. 

No pastoral scenes procure mo peace ; 
I hold no Leasowes in my lease, 

No cot set round with trees : 
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks ; 
And omnium furnishes my banks 

With brokers — ^not with bees. 

! well may poets make a fuss 

In summer time, and sigh " rus ! ** 

Of city pleasures sick : 
My heart is all at pant to rest 
In greenwood shades — ^my eyes detert 

That endless meal of brick 



805 



VOL. F. 



^^ 



I 



'1 



a 

I 



!(: 



LAMEST FOE THE DECLINE OF CHIVj 

WcLt haat thou cried, deputed Botfco^ 
All cbiralroiu roaumtic work 

Is ended now ftnd put ^— 
That iron >ge — which some htTS thongfat 
Of meUl rather overwioogfa^— 

Is DOW b11 oreiCMt I 

A J : where are thoee heriHO kni^to 
Of old — thooe arm&dillo wi^ts 

Who wore the pUted Twt I-^ 
Great Cb^u-lemagne and kll his peen 
Arc cold — enjojing with their opem 

An everlasting rest ! 

The bold King Arthur sleepeth Bound 

So sleep his kiiigljts who gave that Bound 

Old Table such &lat 1 
0, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow ! 
And none engage at tourneys now 

Sut those that go to law ! 



LAMENT FOB THE DEGLUSTE OF CHIYALBT. M 

The name is now a lie 1-^ 
Soi^geonB, alone^ bj any chance, 
Are aH that erer couch a lance 

To couch a bod/s eye ! 

Alas for Lion-Hearted Didc, 

That cut the Moslems to the quicki 

His weapon lies in peace : 
0, it would warm them in a trice, 
If they could only have a spice 

Of his old mace in Greece 1 

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold. 
And Tancred too, and Qodfirey bold, 

That scaled the holy wall ! 
No Saracen meets Paladin, 
We hear of no great Saladm^ 

But only grow the small ! 

Our Crei9^, too, have dwindled since 
To penny things — at our Black Prince 

Historic pens would sco£f : 
The only one we modems had 
Was nothing but a Sandwich lad. 

And measles took him off I 

Where are thoie old and feudal dana^ 
Their pikes, and bills, and partisans^ 

Their haubeiks, jerkins, bu£bt 
A battle was a battle then, 
A breathing piece of work -, W\. TXi«a 

Fight now — ^mlYi '5aw^«t^^iS&^. 



808 LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF GHIYALRT. 

The curtal-axo is out of date ; 

The good old crossbow bends — ^to Fate j 

'Tis gone, the aroher*B oraft I 
No tough arm bends the springing jew. 
And jolly draymen ride, in Ilea 

Of Death, upon the shaft 1 

The spear, the gallant tilter^s pride^ 
The rusty spear, is laid aside, — 

0, spits now domineer t 
The coat of mail is left alone^-i- 
And where is all chain armour gone t 

Go ask a Brighton Pier. 

We fight in ropes, and not in lists^ 
Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fista^ 

A low and vulgar art 1 
No mounted man is overthrown : 
A tilt ! it is a thing unknown — 

Except upon a cart ! 

Methlnks I see the boimding barb. 
Clad like his chief in steely garb. 

For warding steel's appliance I 
Methinks I hear the trumpet stir 
*Tis but the guard to Exeter, 

That bugles the '' Defiance." 

In cavils when will cavaliers 
Set ringing helmets by the ears, 

And scatter plumes about t 
Or blood — if they are in the vein ? 
That tap will never tmu o^i^gatm. — 

A\aa \ \\ie Cowjuc Sa wl\.\ 



£X POST-FACTO EPIOBAKS. S09 

No iron-craokling now is scored 
By dint of battle-axe or sword. 

To find a yital plaoe— 
Though certain doctom still pretend. 
Awhile, before they kill a friend, 

To labour through his case I 

Farewell, then, ancient men of might ! 
Crusader, errant squii^e, and knight ! 

Our coats and custom soften ; 
To rise would only make you weep— ^ 
Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep. 

As in a safety coffin ! 



[The following were printed in the " liteiaiy Gazette.**] 

EX POST-FACTO EPIGRAMS. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE GIRAFFE. 

They say, God wot ! 

She died upon the spot : 

But then in spots she was so rich,— 

I wonder which 1 

ON THE REMOVAL OF A MENAGERIlEl 

Let Exeter Change lament its change, 
Its beasts and other losses— 
Another place thrives by its case. 
Now Charing has two Crosses. 



810 THE LOGICIANS. 

["The Forget-me-not** for this year centred two immni "Tin 
Logiciana" and "Death in the Kitchen" — ^writteoa xwpeetiTdy to 
illustrationa by Stothard and Richter. With tfao former poenii tho 
following note was sent to Mr. Ackermann : — 

"BobertStTCci. 
'<Mt niAm Sib, 

" I haTe the plaamire of aen^nj^ 70s "The Tiogiriani.** li belnf 
rathur a crabbed labject^ and myielf not awm well, I have been loBgar 
about it than I promiaed. The other labject ia in inngitm, and joa ahall 
haTe it in proper trim, I hope, in two daya. 

** Tonn Ttry truly, 
'<B. Ackermann, Eaq. <<T. Hood."] 



THE LOGICIANa 

▲N ILLUSTBilTION. 

** Metaphjiiea were a large field in which to exaraiae the veaponi 
had pat into their hands." — ScRinuEauB. 

See here two cavillers, 

Would-be unravellers 
Of abstruse theory and questions mystioal. 

In tete-il-tete, 

And deep debate, 
Wrangling according to forms syllogisticaL 

Glowing and ruddy 
The light streams in upon their deep brown study. 
And settles on our bald logician's skull : 
But still his meditative eye looks dull 

And muddy, 
For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato ; 
But to the world without 
And thinga B^wt) 
Hifl eye is blind aa tiiaA, oi «^ v>^a^ * 



THE LOOICUNB. 

In fact, logiwun 
Seo but by s]rll<^[:iaiiu — taste and amell 

By propoBitiona ; 
And never let Uie common dray-hoiw Bennet 

Draw inferencee. 
How wise hie brow t how eloquent his nrao 1 
The feature of itself is a negation I 
How gravely double is his chin, that sbowi 

Double deliberation; 
His scornful lip foreetalls the confutation ! 
this is he that wisely with a nuy*or 
And minor proree a greengage is ho ganger 1 — 

By help of ergo, 
That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager. 
And Taums is no bull to toes up Virgo ! — 
O this is he that logically tore his 
Dog into dogmas— following Aristotle — 
Cut up his cat into ten categories 
And oork'd an abstract ooiyuror in a bottle . 
this is be that disembodied matttf. 
And proTcd that incorporeal corporations 

Put nothing in no platter, 
And fbr mock turtle only aupp'd sensations 1 



this is he that palpably dedded. 

With grave and mathematical preoHcnt 

How often atoms may be snbdivided 
By long division ; 

this is he that show'd I is not I, 

Ahd made a ghost of personal identic ; 

Prov6d " Ipse " absent by an sUh^ 
And &iaking in Bome othex 'g«nRKi% «iA^ i 



312 THE LOGICIANS. 

lie soundc<l all philosophies in truth, 
Wliethcr old schemes or only supplemental :^ 
And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth, 
A dental knowledge of the tronsoeDdental I 

Tlio other is a shrewd sererer wight, 

Sharp argument hath worn him nigfa the bone : 

For why ? he never let dispute alone^ 

A logical knight-errant. 
That wrangled ever — morning, noon, and night. 
From night to mom : he hod nb wife i^yparent 

But IJarbara Celdrent ! 
Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma, 
For on the point of his two fingers full 
He took the luckless wight, and gave with them 
Most deadly toss, like any baited bulL 
Woe unto liim that ever dared to breathe 
A sophism in liis angry cor 1 for that 
lie took feixK'iously between his teeth, 
And shook it — ^like a terrier with a rat ! — 
In fact old Controversy ne'er begat 

One half so cruel 
And dangerous as he, in verbal dael I 
No one had ever so complete a £Eune 

As a debater ; 
And for art logical his name was greater 

Than Dr. Watts's name ! — 

Look how they bit together ! 
Two bitter desperate antagonists, 
Licking each otlicr w\tb. l\i(^\t \fiivi^<^ like fiats. 

Merely to settle -wlieOaEt 



DEATH IN THE KITCHEN. 818 

This world of ours had ever a beginning— 

Whether created^ 

Vaguely undated^ 
Or Time had any finger in its spinning : 
When, lo ! — ^for they are sitting at the basement^ 
A hand, like that upon Belshazzar^s wall, 

Lets fall 
A written paper through the open casement. 

'' foolish wits ! (thus runs the document) 
To twist your brains into a double knot 
On such a barren question ! Be content 
That there is such a fair and pleasant spot 
For your enjoyment as this yerdant earth. 
Go eat and drink, and give your hearU to mirth, 

For vainly ye contend ; 
Before you can decide about its birth. 

The world will have an end 1 " 



DEATH IN THE KITCHEN. 

'< Are we not here now t*' ooniinned the corponi (itoiking the end of hif 
■tick perpendicnlarlj on the floor, so as to gire an idea of health and 
stability) — " and are we not '* (dropping his hat npon the gronnd) " gone I 
— In a moment !** — TndfXM Shandjf, 

Tbim, thou art right ! — *T\b sure that I, 
And all who hear thee, are to die. 

The stoutest lad and wench 
Must lose their places at the will 
Of Death, and go at Ib£\> lo ^^ 

The sexton'B ^botxiy ix^itf^ 



914 DEATH IN THE KITCHEN. 

Tho dreary grave ! — 0, when I think 
How doso wc stand upon its brink. 

My inward spirit groans ! 
My eyes are filled with dismal dreams 
Of coffins, and this kitchen seems 

A chaniel full of bones ! 

Yes, jovial butler, thou must fail, 
As sinks tho froth on thine own ale ; 

Thy days will soon be done ! 
Alas ! tho common hours that striki% 
Arc knells, for life keeps wasting, like 

A cask upon the run. 

Ay, hapless scullion ! 'tis thy case^ 
Life travels at a scouring pace, 

Far swifter than thy hand. 
The fast-ddcaying fnimo of mail 
Is but a kettle or a pirn 

Time wears away with — sand ! 

Thou uecdst not, mistress cook ! be told, 
Tho meat to-morrow will be cold 

That now is fresh and hot : 
E'en thus our flesh will, by and by, 
Be cold OS stone : — Cook, thou must die ; 

There's death within the pot. 

Susannah, too, my lady's maid, 
Thy pretty person once milst aid 

To swell tho buried Swdrm ! 
The "glass of fashion" thou wilt hold 
No more, but grove\ in t\i^ xoxwl^ 

That's not the " mould of /onrm P 



DEATH IK THE KITOHEIT. tlB 

Yes, Jonathan, that driyes the ooaoh, 
He too will feel the fiend's approach^ 

The grave will pluck him down : 
He must in dust and ashes lie, 
And wear the churchyard liveiy, 

Grass green, tum'd up with brown. 

How frail is our uncertain breath I 

The laimdress seems full hale, but Death 

Shall her '' last linen " bring. 
The groom will die, like all his kind ; 
And e'en the stidble boy will find 

This life no ttahle thing. 

Nay, see the household dog— even that 
The earth shall take ; — ^the yezy cat 

Will share the common &11 ; 
Although she hold (the proverb saith) 
A ninefold life, one single death 

Suffices for them all 1 

Cook, butler, Stisan, Jonathan, 

The girl that scours the pot and pan. 

And those that tend the steeds- 
All, all shall have another sort 
Of tennee after this; — ^in short-— 

The one the parBon redds I 

The dreary grave ! — 0, when I think 
How dose we stand upon its brink, 

My inward spirit groans ! 
My eyes are filled with dismal dreams 
Of coffins, and this ^tcYiem \&i^tca 

A cbamel fall of \>oiijeA\ 




!'•>■ "i'y iif ciiinplliiiont and i 
It's V017 well to wish me a 1 
But viah me & new httt 1 

Although not spent in Iniarj 
In course a longer life I wom'i 
But while jou'ra wishing wial 
A newer pair of ahoea 1 

N&7, while new thingB and wu 
I own to one that I should not 
Instead of this idd rent^ to han 
With more of the Hew Cut 1 

yes, 'tia very plesaaat, thong 
To hear the steeple make that : 
Except I wish one bell was at t 
To ring new trousera in. 



QEIMALDrS BSNEHT. 2tl7 

[Oa the 27th of June, 1828, Grimaldi, an especial iayonrite * — of 
whom I have heard my father speak in the most affectionate terms, and 
the recollection of whom prompted, no doubt, many of the sketches of 
Clowns, stnick off at odd moments, that were among my treasures as a 
boy— returned to the stage for one night, after a retirement of some 
three months or so. I belieye my father wrote his retiring address, 
either for this occasion, or his farewell in the previous April— perhaps 
for both. The following paragraph appeared in the " Literary 
Gazette."] 



GRIMALDrS BENEFIT. 



OuB immense £Etyourite, Grimaldi — imder the severe pres- 
sure of years and infirmities — ^is enabled, through the good 
feeling and prompt liberality of Mr. Price, to take a benefit 
at Druiy Lane on Friday next ; — ^the last of Joseph Grimaldi ! 
— Dnuys, Covent Garden's, Sadler's, everybod/s Joe : the 
friend of Harlequin and Farley-kin — ^the town down — greatest 
of fools— daintiest of motleys — ^the true ami des enfaru t 

The tricks and changes of life-Hsadder, alas ! than those of 
pantomime — have made a dismal difference between the former 
flapping, filching, laughing, bounding antic, and the present 
Grimaldi He has no spring in his foot — no mirth in his eye; 
the comers of his mouth droop mournfully earthward ; and 
he stoops in the back like the weariest of Time's porters. 
L' Allegro has done with him, and II Pensero claims him for 

* In all his wanderings and changes there were two pctures which went 
with my father ererywhere, and hang in his study for the time being — the 
one of Charles Lamb (for whom he entertained a brotherly affection), the 
other of Joe Qrimaldi — " Brerybody's Joe,** as he calls him— but his Joe 
in particular. 

I cannot even say that I hare ''just seen *' this ** Yirgil of Pantomime^** 
but BO often ha?e I heard of him as a child, so early was I set to read his 
life, that I can hardly i)er8aade myself at timea \&ttiti \ '««<««( ^V^b^sy^^stk. 
thatlai^ter-pioToking fa«ie— those |;»ru!b^'^a!i\»— ^3ftK\.*«D^«tN»»^^^ 
Bhow, wlneh those who ha^e wen QttVm«JL3iikV«« >aa» ^^ \a:V»%Nft ^»kcv 



818 ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEHELD, ESQ. 



its own ! It is said, besides, that his pockets are neither to 
largo nor so well stuffed as they used to be on the stage ; and 
it is hard to suppose fun without funds, or broad grina in 
narrow circumstances. 

[Our recommendation of this benefit has also been proMod 
upon our willing mind by the following characteristic note.] 

Pray publish in your ' Gasette,' that on Friday the 27tli 
instant, this inimitable clown will take his leare of the 
boards, at Drury Lane Theatre, in chancter. After that 
night, the red and white features of Joe Grimaldi will belong 
only to tradition I Thenceforth ho will be de^ to his vocation, 
— but the pleasant recollection of his admirable fooling will 
still live, with childhood, with manhood, and with 

T. Hoon. 

[The *' Ode to Edward Gibbon Wakefield,'* who in this year was tried 
and convicted for the abduction of Miss Turner, probably appeared in a 
newspaper. The copy I possess, at all events, is a newspaper catting.] 

ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEFIELP, ESQ. 



On, Mr. Gibbon !— 
I do not mean the Chronicler of Rome ; 
He would have told thoo loftily, that no man 
In modem times may play the antique Roman, 
And tear a Sabine virgin from her home : — 

But Mr. Gibbon, 
Thou, — with the surreptitious rib on. 
What shall I say to thee, thou Jason, — ^nay, 
Wliat will our Wilberforce and Stephen say, 
Tbou cruel kidnapper of yoimg white woman I 
Were there no misseB, — ixoxi.ft 
All on tlie start and ready tot ^twx 



ODE TO EDWABD GIBBON WAEEFISLD, ESQ. tl9 

To Gretna Smith j—eren by the maily 

That thou muBt go befooling 
A quiet maiden at her ooimtrj schooling 
And stop her lesBons with an idle tale, — 

Sully the happy hue 
Of her calm thoughts, and trouble her sky-blue- 
Spoil her embroideries, and falsely wheedle 
Her pretty hand from the delightful needle, 

Merely to mar her piece^ 
Planting those stitches in l^er maiden heart. 
That only should have made Rebecca smart, 
Or robed young Isaac in a silken fleece Y 
Was there no willing Loyei 
With roving eyes. 
More gay than wise, 
To bend with thy removal to remove f 
Could'st thou not calm the doubt 
Of Foote twice asked in vain, and ask her out f 
There's Madame Yestris — ^but she has a mate, 

And Paton hath as bad — 

But thou might*st add 
A single Chibitt to thy single state. 
Take such, and welcome to more wives than Bunde^ 
Or gentle Olive, that Princess of No-Land, 
She owns some great expectancies in Poland^ 
And has no follower — I mean no uncle I 



1828. 

[Chntinued.1 

[At tho end of 1827 or licginning of 1828, vncUiinted by tha not 
overwarm receptiun of '*Tliu Plea," my father, toward the end of 
tlio year, brought out two volumes of "National Tales,'* pahliahed 
by ^Ir. Ains worth, who has himself since gained distinction as a 
novelist, llic * * National Talcs " were hardly more popular tlian " The 
Pica," chiefly sulfuring, I imagine, in common with that poem, either 
from a reluctance on thu iiarl of the public to believe that one writer 
could produce both serious and comic works, or from a desire to extort 
the latter from liim.] 

NATIONAL TALES. 

— ♦ — 

PREFACR 

It has been decided, by the Icarued MalthuBiana of onr 
century, that thci'O is too great an influx of new books into 
this reading world. An apology scenis therefore to be 
required of me, for increasing my family in this kind ; and 
by twin volumes, instead of the single octavos which have 
hitherto been my issue. But I concede not to that modem 
doctrine, which supposes a world on short allowance, or a 
generation without a ration. There is no mcntionablo over- 
growth likely to happen in life or literature. Wholesome 
checks arc api)ointcd against oxcvCecundlty in any species. 



NATIONAL TALES. 821 

Thus tbe wbale thins the mjriads of herrings, the teeming 
rabbit makes Thyestean family dinners on her own offspring, 
and tbe hyenas devour themselves. Death is never back- 
ward when the human race wants hoeing ; nor the Critic to 
thin the propagation of the press. I'he surplus children 
that would encumber the earth, ai*e thrown back in the 
grave — the superfluous works, into the coffins prepared for 
them by the trunk-maker. Nature provides thus equally 
against scarcity or repletion. There are a thousand blossoms 
for the one fruit that ripens^ and numberless buds for every 
prosperous flower. Those for which there is no space or 
sustenance drop early from the bough ; and even so these 
leaves of mine will pass away^ if there be not patronage 
extant and to spare, that maj endow them with a longer date. 
I make, therefore, no excuses for this production, since it 
is a venture at my own peril. The serious character of the 
generality of the stories, is a deviation from my former 
attempts, and I have received advice enough, on that account, 
to make me present them with some misgiving. But because 
I have jested elsewhere, it does not foUow that I am incom- 
petent for gravity, pf which any owl is capable ; or proof 
against melancholy, which besets even the ass. Those who 
can be touched by neither of these moods, rank lower indeed 
than both of these creatiufes. It is from none of the player^s 
ambition, which has led the buffoon by a rash step into the 
tragic buskin, that I assume the sadder humour, but because 
I know from certain passages that such affections are not 
foreign to my nature. During my short lifetime, I have 
often been as " sad as night,'* and not like the young gentle- 
men of France, " merely from wantonness.*' It is the contrast 
of such leaden and golden fits that lends a double relish to 
our days. A life of mere laugVitet \a\^'^ \xi\3&vi ^xKisij^^sN.^^ 
basa ; or a picture (conceive \t) ot ^«Lgaa \>sflfi^\:vs!^^^^^^^ 

VOL, F. 



S22 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

whereas tho occasional melancholy, like those grand rich 
glooms of old Rcmbrandty produces an incomparable eflbot 
and a very grateful relief. 

It will flatter me, to find that these my Tales can give a 
hint to tho dramatist — or a few hours* entertainment to anj 
one. I confess, I have thought well enough of them to make 
mo compose some others, which I keep at home^ like the 
younger Benjamin, till I know the treatment of their elder 
brethren, whom I have sent forth (to buy com for me) into 
Egypt 

'* To be too confident ii as nnjnst 
In any work, as too much to distrust ; 
Who, from the rules of study haTe not swerredy 
Know begg'd applauses never were deserved. 
We most submit to oensurOi so doth he 
Whose hours begot this issue ; yet, being firM| 
For his part, if he hare not pleased you, thmi, 
In this kind he* 11 not trouble yon again.** 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

"Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars eztincC» the 
winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croakiag^ 
the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve.** — Old Plaff, 

Instead of speaking of occiurences which accidentally 
came under my observation, or were related to me by others^ 
I purpose to speak of certain tragical adventures which per- 
sonally concerned me ; and to judge from the agitation and 
horror which the remembrance, at this distance of time, 
excites m me, the narrative shall not concede in mterest 
to any creation of fiction and romance. My hair has changed 
from black to grey since tYio^e e\<i\A.^ wiQKirwA\— ^txM^g^ 
and wild, and terrible eiiou-\v tox t. ^t^^mA ^'>^']^ ^^^^ 



TH£ SPANISH TBA0ED7. 823 

believe that they had passed only on my pillow ; but when 
I look around me, too many sad tokens are present to 
convince me that they were real, — for I still behold the 
ruins of an old calamity ! 

To commence, I must refer back to my youth, when 
having no brothers, it was my happy fortune to meet with 
one who, by his rare qualities and surpassing affection, made 
amends to me for that denial of nature. Antonio de Linares 
was, like mpelf, an orphan, and that circumstance con* 
tributed to endear him to my heart; we were both bom 
too, on the same day ; and it was one of our childish 
superstitions to believe, that thereby our fates were so 
intimately blended that on the same day we also should each 
descend to the grave. He was my schoolmate, my play- 
fellow, my partner in all my little possessions ; and as we 
grew up, he became my counsellor, my bosom friend, and 
adopted brother. I gave to his keeping the very keys of 
my heart ; and with a like sweet confidence he entrusted 
me even with his ardent passion for my beautiful and 
accomplished cousin, Isabelle de * * * * ; and many earnest 
deliberations we held over the certain opposition to be 
dreaded from her father, who was one of the proudest, as 
well as poorest nobles of Andalusia. Antonio had embraced 
the profession of arms, and his whole fortune lay at the point 
of his sword ; yet with that he hoped to clear himself a 
path to glory, to wealth, and to IsabeUe. The ancestors of 
the Cond6 himself had been originally ennobled and enriched 
by the gratitude of their sovereign, for their signal services 
in the field ; and when I considered the splendid and warlike 
talents which had been evinced by my friend, I did not think 
that his aspirations were too lofty or too sanguine. H.^ 
seemed made for war ; hia cV^ei ^'fe\\^\.^^V*^ -cwb^ ^'^'^ 
exploits of our old Spamsh d^^xsXrj ^j^jgwaaX.ViD.^'^^ 



821 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

ho lomcuted bitterly that an interval of profound peaoa 
allowed him no opportunity of ugnalizing hit p r owcM and 
his Talour against the infidels and enemiea of Spain. All 
his exercises were martial ; the chase and the bull-fight wen 
his amusement, and more than once he engaged as a Tolnn* 
teer iu ex|>editions against the mountiin banditti, a race 
of men dangerous and destructive to our enemiea in war, 
but the Bcoui^ and terror of their own conntiy in timea 
of peace. Often his bold and adventuroua spirit led him 
into imminent jeopardy ; but the same contempt of danger, 
united with his generous and humane nature^ made him as 
often the instrument of safety to othera. An oocaaion upon 
which ho rescued me from drowning; confirmed in ua both 
the opinion that our lives were mutually dependent^ and at 
the same time put a stop to the frequent raillcriea I uaod 
to address to him on his wanton and unfair expoaurea of 
our joint existences. This service procured him a gracioua 
introduction and reception at my imcle*8^ and gave him 
opportunities of enjoying the society of his beloved laabelle : 
but the stem disposition of the Cond6 was too well known 
on both sides to allow of any more than the secret avowal 
of their passion for each other. Many tears were aocrotlj 
shed by my excellent cousin over this cruel consideration, 
which deterred her from sharing her confidence with her 
parent ; but at length, on his preparing for a joiumey to 
Madrid, in those days an undertaking of some peril, she 
resolved, by tho assistance of filial duty, to overcome thia 
fear, and to open her bosom to her father, before ho deported 
from her, perhaps for over. 

I was present at tho parting of tho Cond6 with hia 
daughter, which the subsequent event impressed too strongly 
on my memory to be c\ct iov^o^Xca. \v. \k»& \ifc«Q. \s£Q£^ 
disputed wliethcr persona \ia\e tVioa^ %\j^\A ^wk»^bs\pj 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 325 

dreams or omens, which some affirm they have experienced 
before sudden or great calamity ; but it is certain that before 
the departure of my uncle, he was oppressed with the most 
gloomy forebodings. These depressions he attributed to the 
difficulties of the momentous lawsuit whiish called him to 
Madrid, and which, in fact, inyolyed his title to the whole 
possessions of his ancestors ; but Isabella's mind interpreted 
this despondence as the whisper of some guardi^ spirit or 
angel ; and this belief, united with the di^culty phe found 
in making the confession that lay at her l^e^rt, made her 
earnestly convert these glooms into an argnmeut against his 
journey. 

** Suvely,'* she said, " this melancholy whjd^ besets you is 
some warning from above, which it would be impious to 
despise; and therefore. Sir, let me entreal; yo^ po remain 
here, lest you sin by tempting your own fate, bj^ make me 
wretched for ever." 

" Nay, Isabelle," he replied gnprely, '' I should rather sin 
by mistrusting the good providence of God, whioh is with us 
in all places ; with the tr^vellpr in the desert, as with the 
mariner on the wild ocean ; notwithstanding, let mo embrace 
you, my dear child, as though we never should meet again ; " 
and he held her for some minutes closely pressed against his 
bosom. 

I saw that Isabelle*s heart was yainly swelling with the 
secret it had to deliver, and would fain ha¥9 spoken for her, 
but she had strictly forbidden m^ or Antonio to utter a word 
on the subject, from a feeling that such an avowal should 
only come from her own lips. Twice, as her father prepared 
to mount his horse, she caught the skirts of his mantle and 
drew him back to the threshold ; but as often. «& ^^ 
attempted to speak the blood on^tSlwA^ \ket -^^^wssS**. 
And boeom, her throat choked, wid ^V. ^»A^. ^^ \nskv^ 



326 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

away with a despairing gestupe, which was meant to saj, 
that the avowal was impossible. The Cond6 was not unr 
moved, but ho mistook the cause of her agitation, and re- 
ferred it to a vaguo presentiment of evil, by which he waa 
not uninfluenced himself. Twice, after solemnly blessing 
his daughter, he turned back; once, mdeed, to repeat 
some trifling direction, but the second time he lingered, 
abstracted and thoughtful, as if internally taking a last 
farewell of his house and child. I had before eamestty 
entreated to be allowed to accompany him, and now renewed 
my request ; but the proposal seemed only to offend him, aa 
an imputation on the courage of an old soldier, and he 
deigned no other reply than by immediately setting spurs to 
his horse. I then turned to Isabelle ; she was deadly pale, 
and with clasped hands and streaming eyes was leaning 
against the pillars of the porch for support Neither of us 
spoko ; but wo kept our eyes earnestly fixed on the lessening 
figure, that with a slackened pace was now ascending the 
opposite hill. The road was winding, and sometimes hid and 
sometimes gave him back to our gaze, till at last he attained 
a point near the summit, where wo knew a sudden turn of 
the road would soon cover him entirely from our sight. My 
cousin, I saw, was overwhelmed with fear and self-reproach, 
and pointing to the figure, now no bigger than a raven, I said 
I would still overtake him, and, if she pleased, induce him to 
return ; but she would not listen to the suggestion. Her 
avowal, she said, should never come to her father from any 
lips but her own ; but she still hoped, she added with a faint 
smile, that ho would return safely from Madrid ; and then, 
if the law -suit should be won, he would be in such a mood, 
that she should not be afraid to unlock her heart to him. 
This answer satisfied me. The Cond^ was now passing 
behind the extreme point of the road, and it was destined to 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 827 

be the last glimpse we should eyer have of him. The old 
man never returned. 

As soon as a considerable time had elapsed more than was 
necessary to inform us of his arrival in the capital, we began 
to grow very anxious, and a letter was despatched to his 
Advocate with the necessary inquiries. The answer brought 
affliction and dismay. The Cond^ had never made his 
appearance, and the greatest anxiety prevailed amongst the 
lawyers engaged on his behalf for the success of their cause. 
Isabelle was in despair : all her tears and self-reproaches were 
renewed with increased bitterness, and the tenderest argu- 
ments of Antonio and myself were insufficient to subdue her 
alarm, or console her for what was now aggravated in her 
eyes to a most heinous breach of filial piety and affection. 
She was naturally of a religious turn, and the reproofs of her 
confessor not only tended to increase her despondency, but 
induced her to impose upon herself a volimtary and rash act 
of penance, that caused us the greatest affliction. It had 
been concerted between Antonio and myself, that we should 
immediately proceed by different routes in search of my 
uncle ; and at day-break, after the receipt of the Advocate's 
letter, we were mounted and armed, and ready to set forth 
upon oiu* anxious expedition. It only remained for us to 
take leave of my cousin ; and as we were conscious that some 
considerable degree of peril was attached to our pursuit, it 
was on mine, and must have been to Antonio's feeling, a 
parting of anxious interest and importance. But the farewell 
was forbidden — ^the confessor himself informed us of a resolu- 
tion which he strenuously commended, but which to us, for 
this once, seemed to rob his words of either reverence or 
authority. Isabelle, to mark her penitence for her imaginary 
sin, had abjured the company, and even the sight of her 
lover, until her father's return, and she should have reposed 



I ^I n ' I.i^ iLuniiuriii-* ; Init llic case ail 

and «c set forward with ud and 
not at all lightened as we Approoi 
where we were to diverge from t» 
paniod hy tnjr man-Mmtnt Joaa ; In 
persisted iu hta intention of traTd 
rapidity and adTcnturous ooniu of 
would hare mode a companioa an 
innsted that the impenetrability asd 
his plana had been always most um 
in their execution. There was same i 
Antonio's apirita Momed to raUyai hi 
hold of the daogen and difficulties hi 
encounter ; and after ardently wring 
jestingly reminding me of the oo-di 
he dashed the span into his hone, ai 
of sight 

The road assigned to myself wa« 
tho n-- '•>•—' ■ ■ 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 8» 

point I directed mj course. But hero all clue was lost ; and 
no alternative was left me, but to return to the line of the 
high road to Madrid. I must here pass over a part of mj 
progress, which would consist only of tedious repetitions. 
Traces, imagined to be discovered, but ending in constant 
disappointment — hopes and fears — exertion and fatigue, 
make up all the history of tl^e second day, till finally a 
mistaken and unknown road brought us in time to take 
refuge from a tempestuous night at a lonely inn on the 
mountains. I have called it an inn, but the portion thus 
occupied was only a fraction of an old d0serted mansion, one 
wing of which had been rudely repaired and made habitable, 
whilst the greater part was left untenanted to its slow and 
picturesque decay. The contrast was striking : whilst in the 
windows of one end, the lights moving to and fro, the 
passing and repassing of shadows, and various intermitting 
noises and voices, denoted the occupancy ; in fiie centre and 
the other extreme of the pile, silence and darkness held 
their desolate and absolute reign. I thought I recognised in 
this building the description of an ancient residence of my 
uncle's ancestry, but long since alienated and surrendered 
to the wardenship of Tima It frowned, methought, with 
the gloomy pride and defiance which had been recorded as 
the hereditaiy characteristics of its founders ; and, but for 
the timely shelter it afforded, I should perhaps have bitterly 
denounced the appropriation of the innkeeper, which inter- 
fered so injuriously with these hallowed associations. At 
present, when the sky lowered, and large falling raindrops 
heralded a tempest, I turned without reluctance from the 
old quaintly-wrought portal, to the more humble porch, 
which held out its invitation of comfort and hospitaUt^- 

My knocking brought tti© \ic»\. Yivxnai^^ \j5i 'Ockft ^^5Rst^^!ss^^^'^ 
speedily introduced mo to bh 'mxkCt tooav^ Vst VisiA ^sosaiaa^w* 




"^•"^ Hrc^.rr';"** 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 831 

commenced those inquiries concerning my uncle, which my 
curiosity had in the first instance delayed. Perhaps he 
could not, or would not, reply to my questions ; but they 
seemed to precipitate his retreat. Was it possible that he 
possessed any secret knowledge of the fate of the Cond6? 
His absence had been succeeded by a momentary silence 
amongst the reyeUers without, as if he were relating to them 
the particulars of my inquiries. A slight glance at that 
boisterous company during my hasty passage through their 
banquet-room, had given me no very favourable opinion of 
their habits or character ; and it was possible that the war- 
like defences and fastenings which I observed eveiywhere about 
me, might be as much intended for the home security of a 
banditti, as for a precaution against their probable vicinity. 
It was now too late for me to retrace my steps. Flight was 
impracticable : the same precautions which were used against 
any hostile entrance, were equally opposed to my egress ; 
unless, indeed, I had recourse to the way by which I had 
entered, and which led through the common room imme- 
diately occupied by the objects of my suspicion : this would 
have been to draw upon myself the very consequence I 
dreaded. My safety for the present seemed to be most 
assiu^d by a careful suppression of all tokens of distrust, till 
these suspicions should be more explicitly confirmed ; and I 
should not readily forgive myself if, after incurring all the 
dangers of darkness and tempest and an unknown country, 
it should prove that my apprehensions had been acted upon 
without any just foundation. 

These thoughts, however, were soon diverted by a new 
object The innkeeper's daughter entered with refreshments, 
— bread merely, with a few olives ; and I could not restrmn 
Juan from addressing to her some familiarities, which were 
so strangely and incoherently answered, as quickly t/c^ V^rk^^^s^ 




''"""' "J ti.o L ' ''^ ' >»»'. 

'""«». We«i rr °* ""'^ m 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 888 

arouao her firom that mental trance in which she had been 
absorbed ? I wished, with the most intense anxiety, to gain 
some information from her looks ; and, yet at the same time, 
I could not confront her gaze even for an instant Her 
father, who had entered, siurprised at so extraordinaiy an 
emotion, hastened abruptly out; and the immediate entrance 
of the mother, evidently upon some feigned pretext of 
business, only tended to increase my inquietude. 

How had 1 become an object of interest to these people, 
whom till that hour I had never seen ; and with whose 
affairs, by any possibility, I could not have the most remote 
connection, unless by their implication in the fate of my 
uncle 1 This conjecture filled me with an alarm and agita- 
tion I could ill have concealed, if my remorseless observer 
had not been too much absorbed in her own ondivined 
emotions, to take any notice of mine. A sensation of shame 
flushed over me, at being thus quelled and daunted by the 
mere gaze of a woman : but then it was such a look and 
from such a being as I can never behold again ! It seemed 
to realise all that I had read of Circean enchantment, or of 
the snake-hke gaze, neither to be endured nor shunned ; and 
under this dismal spell I t^mained till the timely entrance of 
Juan. The charm, whatever it might be, was then broken ; 
with a long shuddering sigh she turned away her eyes from 
me, and then left the room. What a load, at that moment, 
seemed removed from my heart! Her presence had oppressed 
mo, like that of one of the mortal Fates ; but now, at her 
going, my ebbing breath returned again, and the blood 
thrilled joyfully through my veins. 

Juan crossed himself in amaze ! he had noticed mo shrinking 
and shuddering beneath her glance, and doubtless framed 
the most horrible notions of an influence which could work 
upon me so potently. He, too, had met with hia o^ox 



w 



"''■"I', (if »),: 1 '"■'"■" ttriiis 

">»■• 00,11. „' """"l i" 
'"on.t.ith.il"" *"'"»■./ 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 885 

reality to deprive me of even the chances of defence ? All 
these considerations shaped themselves so reasonably, and 
agreed together so naturallyi as to induce conviction ; and 
looking upon myself as a victim already marked for destruc- 
tion, it only remained for me to exercise all my sagacity and 
mental energy to extricate myself from the toils. Flight, 
I had resolved, was impracticable, — and if I should demand 
my arms, the result of such an application was obviously 
certain ; I dared not even hint a suspicion : but why do I 
speak of suspicions ? they were immediately to be ripened 
into an appalling certainty. 

I had not communicated my thoughts to Juan, knowing 
too well his impetuous and indiscreet character ; but in the 
meantime his own fears had been busy with him, and his 
depression was aggravated by the circumstance that ho had 
not been able to procure any wine from the innkeeper, who 
swore that he had not so much as a flask left in his house. 
It would have been difficult to believe that one of his pro- 
fession should be so indifferently provided ; but this asser- 
tion, made in the face of all the flasks and flagons of his 
revellers, convinced me that he felt his own mastery over us, 
and was resolved to let us cost him as little as possible. 

Juan was in despair ; his courage was always proportioned 
to the wine he had taken, and feeling at this moment an 
urgent necessity for its assistance, he resolved to supply him- 
self by a stolen visit to the cellar. He had shrewdly taken 
note of its situation during a temporary assistance rendered 
to the innkeeper, and made sure that by watching his oppor- 
tunity he could reach it unperceived. It seemed to require 
no small degree of courage to venture in the dark upon such 
a course ; but the excitement was stronger than fear could 
overbalance; and plucking off his boots, to prevent any 
noise, ho set forth on his expedition. No sooner was ha 



3;j6 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

gone, than I began to perceire the danger to which such aa 
imprudent step might subject us ; but it wu too late to be 
recalled, and I was obliged to wait in no toij enTiable 

nnxiety for his return. 

The interval was tediouslj long^ or seemed eo^ before he 
made his appearance. He bore a small can : and, from hia 
looks, had mot with no serious obstacle ; but whether the 
theft had been observed, or it happened simply by <^K4>"i?f>^ 
the Innkeeper entered close upon his heda There ia some- 
times an instinctive presence of mind inspired by the aspect 
of danger; and guided by this impulse, in an instant I 
extinguished the light as if by accident For a time^ at 
least, we were sheltered from discovery. The Innkeeper 
tui*ued back — it was a critical moment for us, — but even in 
that moment the unruly spirit of drink prompted my unlucky 
servant to take a draught of his stolen beverage, and im- 
mediately afterwards I heard him spitting it forth again, in 
evident disgust with its flavour. In a few momenta the 
Innkeeper returned with a lamp, and as soon as he was gone 
the liquor was eagerly inspected^ and to our unspeakable 
horror, it had every ap{>earance of blood ! It was impossible 
to suppress the effect of the natural disgust which affected 
Juan at tliis loathsome discovery — he groaned aloud, he 
vomited violently, the Innkeeper again came in upon us, and 
though I attributed the illness of my servant to an internal 
rupture which occasioned him at times to spit up blood, it 
was evident that he gave no credit to the explanation. He 
seemed to comprehend the whole scene at a glance. In fact, 
the vessel, with its homd contents, stood there to confront 
me, and I gave up my vain attempt in silent and absolute 
despair. 

If wo were not before devoted to death, this deadly cir- 
cumstance had decided our fate. His own safety, indeed. 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 337 

would enforce upon the Innkeeper the necessity of our being 
sacrificed. The fellow, meanwhile, departed without uttering 
a syllable : but I saw in his look that his determination was 
sealed, and that my own must be as promptly resolved. I 
had before thought of one measure as a last desperate re- 
source. This was to avail myself of the favourable interest 
I had excited in the daughter — to appeal to her pity — to 
awaken her, if possible, to a sympathy with my danger, and 
invoke her interference to assist my escape. Yet how could 
I obtain even an interview for my purpose ? Strange that I 
should now wish so ardently for that very being whose 
presence had so lately seemed to mo a curse. Now I listened 
for her voice, her step, with an impatience never equalled, 
perhaps, but by him for whom she had crazed. My whole 
hope rested on that resemblance which might attract her 
again to gaze on a shadow, as it were, of his image, and I 
was not deceived. She came again, and quietly seating 
herself before me, began to watch me with the same ear- 
nestness. 

Poor wretch ! now that I knew her history, I regarded 
her with nothing but tenderness and pity. Her love might 
have burned as bright and pure as ever was kindled in a 
maiden's bosom ; and was she necessarily aware of the un- 
hallowed profession of its object? He might have been 
brave, generous — in love, at least honoured and honourable, 
and compared with the wretches with whom her home asso- 
ciated her, even as an angel of light. Would his fate else 
have crushed her with that eternal sorrow 1 Such were my 
reflections on the melancholy ruin of the woman before me ; 
and if my pity could obtain its recompence in hers I was 
saved ! 

Hope catches at straws. I saw, or fancied in her looks, 
an affectionate expression of sympathy and anxiety, that I 

VOL. v. "i^ 



833 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

eagerly interpreted in my own behalf; but the result 
this anticipation. It was ovident that my most impaaMoned 
words produced no corresponding impression on her mind* 
l^Iy voice even seemed to disjiel the illusion that was raised 
by my features, and rising up, she was going to withdraw, 
but tliat I detained her by seizing her hand. 

'' Xo, no ; ** she said, and made a slight effiart to firee 
herself ; " you are not Andreas." 

'* No, my poor maiden,** I said, *' I am not Andreas ; bat 
am I not his image ? Do I not remind you of his look, of 
his features ] ** 

" Yes, yes," she replied quickly, "you are like my Andreas 
— you are like him here,** and she stroked back the hiur from 
my forehead ; " but his hair was darker than this," and the 
mournful remembrance for the first time filled her dull eyes 
with tears. 

This was an ausj)icious omen. Whilst I saw only her hot 
glazed eyes, as if the fever within had parched up every tear, 
I despaired of exciting her sympathy with an external interest; 
but now that her grief and her malady even seemed to relent 
in this effusion, it was a favourable moment for renewing my 
appeal. I addressed her in the most touching voice I oould 
assume. 

" You loved Andreas, and you say I resemble him; for his 
sake, will you not save me from perishing 1 *' 

Her only answer was an unconscious and wondering look. 

" I know too well,** I continued, " that I am to perish, and 
you kuow it likewise. Am I not to be murdered this very 
night ] " 

She made no reply ; but it seemed as if she had compre- 
hended my words. Could it be, that with that strange 
cunning not uncommon to insanity, she thus dissembled in 
order to cover her own knowledge of the murderous designs 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 839 

of her &ther1 I resolved, at least, to proceed on this suppo- 
sition, and repeated my words in a tone of certainty. This 
decision had its effect ; or else, her reason had before been 
incompetent to my question. 

*' Yes ! yes ! yes 1 ** she said, in a low hurried tone, and 
with a suspicious glance at the door, '^ it is so ; he will come 
to you about midnight. You are the son of the old man we 
strangled." 

Conceive how I started at these words! They literally 
Bttmg my ears. It was not merely that my worst fears were 
verified, as regarded the fate of my unde ; for, doubtless, he 
was the victim — or, that I was looked upon and devoted to a 
bloody death as his avenger ; for these announcements I was 
already prepared ; but there was yet another and a deeper 
cause of horror : — ** The old man that we strangled ! " Had 
that wild maniac then lent her own hands to the horrid deed, 
— had she, perhaps, helped to bind, — to pluck down and hold 
the struggling victim,— to stifle his feeble cries, — ^nay, joined 
her strength even to tighten the fatal cord ; or wa3 it that 
she only implicated herself in the act, by the use of an equi- 
vocal expression 1 It might merely signify, that it was the 
act of some of those of the house ; with whom, by habit, she 
included herself as a part At the same time, I could not 
but remember^ that even the female heart has been known 
to become so hardened by desperation and habitudes of 
crime, as to be capable of the most ferocious and remorseless 
cruelties. She had too, those some black eyes and locks, 
which I have always been accustomed to think of in con- 
nection with Jael and Judith, and all those stem-hearted 
women, who dipped their unfaltering hands in blood. Her 
brain was dizzy, her bosom was chilled, her sympathies were 
dead and torpid, and she might gaze on murder and all its 
horrors, with her wonted apathy and iadiS<&T«CkS^« ^^^s?tos^» 



MO THR SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

a being then was I going to commit my safety 1 To one^ who 
frum the cradle had been nursed amid scenes of bloodshed 
and violence ; whose associates had ever been the fierce and 
the lawless ; whose lover even had been a leader of banditti ; 
and hy his influence and example, might make even murder 
and cruelty lose some portion of their natural blackneaa and 
hori-or. 

It niiglit happen, that in these thoughts I wronged that 
unhappy creature ; but my dismal situation predisposed me to 
regard everything in the most unfavourable light I had cause 
fur a])prchension in every sound that was raised, — ^in everj 
foot that stirred, — in whatever face I met, — ^that belonged to 
that hurrible ])lace. Still, my present experiment was the 
last, short of mere force, which I could hope would avail me ; 
and I resumed the attempt It seemed prudent, in order to 
quiet the suspicion I had excited, that I should first disclaim 
all connection or interest in the unfortunate victim ; and I 
thought it not criminal, in such an extremity, to have 
recourse to a falsehood. 

** Wliat you say,'* I replied to her, "of an old man being 
murdered, is to me a mystery. If such an occurrence has 
happened, it is no doubt lamentable to some one ; but as for 
my father, I trust, that for these many years he has been 
with the blessed in the presence of God. For myself, I am 
a traveller, and the purposes of my journey are purely mer- 
cantile. My birth-place is England, — but, alas ! I shall never 
see it again ! You tell me I am to die to-night, — that I am 
to perish by violence ; — and have you the heart to rcsigu me 
to such a horrible fate ? You have power or interest to save 
me ; let me not perish by I know not what cruelties. I have 
a home far away — let it not bo made desolate. Lot me return 
to Diy nife, and to my yo\mg cV\\^T<iTi, twcA \>me^ ^\^ ^sixVj 
bloss thcc at the foot of out eltw»\" 



TH£ SPANISH TRAGEDY. 841 

I believe the necessity of tbo occasion inspired me with a 
suitable eloquence of voice and manner ; for these words, un- 
true as thej were, made a visible impression on the wild being 
to whom thej were addressed. As I spoke of violence and 
cruelty she shuddered, as if moved bj her own terrible asso- 
ciations with these words ; but when I came to the mention 
of my wife and children, it evidently awakened her com- 
passion ; and all at once, her womanly nature burst through 
the sullen clouds that had held it in eclipse. 

" Oh, no— no — ^no ! " she replied, hurriedly ; " You must 
not die — ^your babes will weep else, and your wife will craze. 
Andreas would have said thus too, but he met with no pity 
for all the eyes that wept for him." 

She clasped her forehead for a moment with her hands, 
and continued : — ^* But I must find a way to save you. I 
thought, when he died, I could never pity any one again ; 
but he will be glad in Heaven, that I have spared one for his 
sake.** 

A momentary p^g shot through me at these touching 
words, when I remembered how much I had wronged her by 
my injurious suspicions; but the consideration of my personal 
Aafety quickly engrossed my thoughts, and I demanded 
eagerly to know by what means she proposed to effect my 
escape. She soon satisfied me that it would be a trial of my 
utmost fortitude. There was a secret door in the paneling 
of my allotted bed-chamber, which communicated with her 
own, and by this, an hour before midnight, she would guide 
me and provide for my egress from the house ; but she could 
neither promise to prociu-e me my horse, nor to provide for 
the safety of the unlucky Juan, who was destined to be 
lodged in a loft hr distant from my apartment. It \&2s:^V:3p^ 
im^ned that I listened w\i\i a -^^rj \3ccw^^^% ««^ "^ ]^^^^^^ 
amuig'ement ; by which, clone^ xmarcftfi^^'V^^^ ^w^ ««^»2^ 



;i!i' 



i^iCiv t'> tlie 



(ijipusilioii to any arrangements whicl 
etlQe carefully the slighteat indications i 
my lipa for ever in eilenoe on theM ere 
avoid any expresuoa or mOTement whid 
to her father ; with theM cantiona, uic 
ia token of her Bincerity, she left me. 

I was alone ; Juan, on soma oocaaion 
I was left to the companionahip of refle 
a feTeriah inteiral could not be anything 
one time, I calculated the many chance 
the continuance of tbii Tational iat«in 
maniac ; then I doubted her poirer of sav 
the means she had propoaed as existing i 
be her ovn delusion as well as mine. 1 
myself whether it was not an act of m 
I should accept of delivemice without 
safety of my poor aerrant. 

These thoughts utterly unnerred me. 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 843 

One of these subjects of my anxiety I might have spared 
myself. The Innkeeper abruptly entered, and with a look 
and tone of seeming dissatisfaction, informed me that Juan 
had decamped, taking with him my arms, and whatever of 
my portable property he had been able to lay his hands 
upon. So far then, if the tale was true, he was safe ; but it 
seemed wonderful by what means he could have eluded a 
vigilance which, doubtless, included him in its keeping ; and 
still more, that at such a moment he should have choseix to 
rob me. A minute ago I would have staked my fortune on 
his honesty, and my life on his fidelity. The story was too 
improbable ; but, on the other hand, it was but too likely 
that he had either been actually despatched, or else in some 
way removed from me, that I might not claim his company 
or assistance in my chamber. 

There was only one person who was likely to solve these 
doubts, and she was absent ; and I began to consider that in 
order to give time and scope for her promised assistance, it 
was necessary that I should retire. To ask in a few words 
to be shown to my room seemed an easy task : but when I 
glanced on the dark scowling features of my chamberlain, 
harshly and vividly marked by the strong light and shade, 
as he bent over the lamp, even those few words were beyond 
my utterance. To meet such a visage, in the dead of night, 
thrusting apart one*s curtains, would be a sufficient warning 
for death I The ruffian seemed to understand and anticipate 
my unexpressed desire, and taking up the lamp, proposed to 
conduct me to my chamber. I nodded assent, and he began 
to lead tlie way in the same deep silence. A mutual and 
conscious antipathy seemed to keep us from speaking. 

Our way led through several dark, narrow passa^a^^a&d. 
through one or two smaOi Tooma, '^\iv3!CL \ VjrX. ^^ •'ots^ 
iwonnoitring. The accam\ia.te^ cft\i^<3t» ^\steix\sss»%^««« 



3U THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

all the angles of tho ceilings, the old dingy famitimi^ and 
the yisiblo neglect of cleanliness, gave them an aspect of 
dreariness that chilled mo to the very souL Aa I pasaed 
through them, I fancied that on the dostj floors I oould 
tnice tho stains of blood ; the walls seemed spotted and 
splashed with the same hue ; the rude hands of my heat- 
guide even seemed tinged with it As though I had gaaed 
on the sun, a crimson blot hovered before me whererer I 
looked, and imbued all objects with this horrible ooloun 
Every moving shadow, projected by the lamp on the walls^ 
seemed to be the passing spectre of some one who had here 
been munlored, sometimes confronting me at a door, some- 
times looking down upon me from the ceiling, or echoing me, 
stop by step, up the old, crazy stairs ; still following me, 
indeed, whithersoever I went, as if conscious of our approach- 
ing fellowship ! 

At last I was informed that I stood in my allotted diam- 
ber. I instantly and mechanically cost my eyes towards the 
window, and a moment's glance sufficed to show me that it 
was strongly grated. This movement did not escape the 
vigilant eye of my companion. 

"Well, Scnor," he said, "what dost think, have I not 
bravely barricaded my chateau 1 " 

I could make no answer. There was a look and tone of 
triumph and malicious irony, accompanying the question, 
that would not have suffered me to speak calmly. The 
ruffian had secured his victim, and looked upon me, no 
doubt, as a spider docs upon its prey, which it has in-meshed, 
and leaves to be destroyed at its leisure. Fortunately, I 
recollected his daughter s caution, and subdued my emotion 
in his presence ; but my heart sank within me at his exit, as 
I heard tlio door lock \>cbm^ \\vd\, wA l^\. txx^^iS&\s». 
prisoner. All the horriWe xiam.\:vNe^ \V^ t^ ^-t V««^ 



THE SPAliaSH TRAGEDY. 845 

related of midnight assassinations, of travellers murdered in 
such very abodes as this, thronged into mj memory with a 
vivid and hideous fidelity to their wild and horrible details. 
A fearful curiosity led me towards the bed ; a presentiment 
that it would afford me some unequivocal confirmation of 
these fears ; and I turned over the pillow, with a shuddering 
conviction that on the under side I should be startled with 
stains of blood. It was, however, fair, snow-white indeed ; 
and the sheets and coverlet were of the same innocent colour. 

I then recollected the secret panel. It was natural that 
I should be eager to verify its existence, but with the strictest 
inspection I could make, I was unable to discover any trace 
of it Panels indeed opened upon me from every side ; but 
it was only to usher forth hideous phantoms of armed ruffians, 
with brandished daggers, that vanished again on a moment's 
scrutiny : and as these panels were only creations of my 
imagination, so that one for which I sought had no existence, 
I doubted not, but in the bewildered brain of a maniac 

Thus then, my- last avenue to escape was utterly anni- 
hilated, and I had no hope left but in such a despairing 
resistance as I might make by help of the mere bones and 
sinews with which God had provided me. The whole furni- 
ture of the chamber would not afford me an effective weapon, 
and a thousand times I cursed myself that I had not sooner 
adopted this desperate resolution, while such rude arms as a 
fire-place could supply me with were within my reach. There 
was now nothing left for me but to die ; and Antonio would 
have another victim to avenge. Alas ! would he ever know 
how or where I had perished ; or that I had even passed the 
boundaries of death ! I should fall unheard, unseen, unwept, 
and my unsoothed spirit would walk unavenged^ with th$v»^ 
shadows I had fancied wandeim^. 'YVi'^T^'^'^fcNlv^^xLTsa^SvsB^ 
me. My brain whirled dixiAVy to\x\A\ ^1 ^^^ '^rsso^R^ 



346 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

parched hj the fever of my thoughts, and hastening to the 
window, I tiirew open a little wicket for air : a gratefbl guah 
of wiud ira mediately entered ; but the lamp with which I 
had been making my fi-uitless search, was still in my hand 
and that gust extinguished it 

Darkness was now added to all mj other evilL Then 
was no moon or a single star ; the night was intensely 
obscure, and groping mj way back to the bed, I cast mjaelf 
upon it in an agony of despair. I cannot describe the dread> 
ful storm of passions that shook me : fear, anguish, horror, 
self-reproach, made up the terrible chaos; and then came 
rage, and I vowed, if ever I survived, to visit my tonnentorB. 
with a bloody and fierce retribution. I have said that the 
room was utterly dark, but imagination peopled it with 
terrific images ; and kept my eyes straining upon the gloom, 
with an attention painfully intense. Shadows blocker even 
than the night, seemed to pass and repass before me ; the 
curtains were grasped and withdrawn ; visionaiy armSy fur- 
nished with glancing steel, were uplifted and descended again 
into obscurity. Every sense was assailed; the silence was 
interrupted by audible breathings — slow, cautious footsteps 
stirred across the floor — imagined hands travelled stealthily 
over the bedclothes, as if in feeling for my hce. Then I 
heard distant shrieks, and recognised the voice of Juan in 
piteous and gradually stifled intercession ; sometimes the bed 
seemed descending under me, as if into some yawning vault 
or cellar ; and at others, faint fumes of sulphur would seem 
to issue from the floor, as if designed to suffocate me, 
without afTording mo even the poor chance of resistance. 

At length a sound came, which my ear readily distinguished, 
bj its distinctness, from tho mere suggestions of fear : it 
was the cautious unlocking and o^mTi^ ol ^^ \wst. \t^ 
eyea turning instantly in tWt dVwiXAoxi, >k«^ ^»««\i ^^ 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 847 

tended, but there was not a glimmer of light even accom- 
panied the entrance of m j imknown visitor : but it was a 
man*s foot. A boiling noise rushed through my ears, and 
my tongue and throat were parched with a sudden and 
stifling thirst. The power of utterance and of motion seemed 
at once to desert me ; my heart panted as though it were 
grown too large for my body, and the weight of twenty 
mountains lay piled upon my breast. To lie still, however, 
was to be lost. By a violent exertion of the will, T flung 
myself out of the bed, fiurthest from the door ; and scarcely 
had I set foot upon the ground, when I heard something 
strike against the opposite side. Immediately afterwards a 
heavy blow was given — a second — a third ; the stabs them- 
selves, as well as the sound, seemed to fkU upon my very 
heart A cold sweat rushed out upon my forehead. I felt 
sick, my limbs bowed, and I could barely keep myself from 
falling. It was certain that my absence would be promptly 
discovered : that a search would instantly commence, and 
my only chance was, by listening intensely for his footsteps^ 
to discern the course and elude the approaches of my foe. 

I could hear him grasp the pillows, and the rustling of the 
bed-clothes as he turned them over in his search. For a 
minute all was then deeply, painfully silent. I could fancy 
him stealing towards me, and almost supposed the warmth 
of his breath against my face. I expected every instant to 
feel myself seized, I knew not where, in his grasp, and my 
flesh was ready to shrink all over from his touch. Such an 
interval had now elapsed as I judged would suffice for him to 
traverse the bed ; and in fietct the next moment his foot 
struck against the wainscot close beside me, followed by a 
long hasty sweep of his arm along the wall — it seemed to 
pass over my head. Then aH 'wtJA ^iSl ^Jg^^ «!^M\v^ T^woaR^ 
to listen ; meanwhile I strode ovoy, iActL^i ^ ^^aJi^o.^ \»^ "^^ 



n hri-hl spot or crevice in the ivall 
to keep 1IIJ- oyca steadiiy fixed, juc 
should be warned of the appittw 
iU intercepting the light. On « 
but I have reason to beUere tt ' 
movement of my own, for jiut M J 
the approach, as I oonoeived, of ay 
leiEcd from behind. The crisis wa 
were consummated ; I was hi the ii 
A fierce and desperate atmggli 
which, from its nature, oonld be bi 
was defenceless, bnt m^ advenai; wi 
he might aim his dagger, I was diaal 
ness, firom warding off the blow. 1 
depended only on the strength and p 
bring to the conflict. A momentar] 
indicated that my foe was about to n 
and my immediate impulse was U 
round the body, as to (l(m»<-" *-" 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 819 

From a dogged shame, perhaps, or whatever cause, the 
ruffian did not deign to summon any other to his aid, but 
endeavoured, singly and silently, to accomplish his bloody 
task. Not a word, in fact, was uttered on either part — not 
a breathing space even was allowed by our brief and des- 
perate struggle. Many violent efforts were made by the 
wretch to disengage himself, in the course of which we were 
often forced against the wall, or hung balanced on straining 
sinews, ready to full headlong on the floor. At last, by one 
of these furious exertions, we were dashed against the wall, 
and the paneling giving way to our weight, we were precipi- 
tated with a fearfill cnush, but still clinging to each other, 
down a considerable descent. On touching the ground, 
however, the violence of the shock separated us. The 
ruffian, fortunately, had fallen undermost, which stunned 
him, and gave me time to spring upon my feet. 

A moment's glance round told me that we had fallen 
through the secret panel, spoken of by the maniac, into her 
own chamber ; but my eyes were too soon riveted by one 
object, to take any further note of the place. It was her — 
that wild, strange being herself, just risen from her chair at 
this thundering intrusion, drowsy and bewildered, as if from 
a calm and profound sleep. She that was to watch, to snatch 
me from the dagger itself had forgotten and slept over the 
appointment that involved my very existence ! 

But this was no time for wonder or reproach. My late 
assailant was lying prostrate before me, and his masterless 
weapon was readily to be seized and appropriated to my own 
defence. I might have killed him, but a moment's reflection 
showed me that his single death, whilst it might exasperate 
his fellows, could tend but little to my safety. This was yet 
but a present and temporary Recvmte;j \ ^ T«s^>Xfc^ \sl^\. ^ 
reprieve, from the fate that imYvciiieA. o^ct TSift. ^X^^^^Nsa*- 



a;,Miii fiiiiii liiT memory, like irord; 
c\:LUJLtuiti<jii uiily lasted for a mon 
viDce me of this unwdoome res 
could hare bocn expected from the i 
intclligcnoea of a maniaot I wot 
built up a single hope on bo ilippet^ 

It troa now too latfi to anaign 
cousequence ; a few minat«8 would i 
BL-iousnesB, and thoM were all that i 
or arail mjBclf of aojr panage for 
other entrance woa immediatelj appai 
this chamber must hare wme other i 
which I had so usespectedlj aniTe 
proved to be ooirect 

There waa a trap-door, in one cor 
with beneath. To eep^ it — to graa] 
up — ^were the tranBac*!"'— -' 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 351 

Belves, and proceeded to blows f The disorder and distraction 
incident to such a tumult could not but be highly &yourable 
to mj purpose ; and I was just on the point of stepping 
through the aperture, when the ruffian behind me, as if 
aroused bj the uproar, sprang upon his feet, rushed past me 
with a speed that seemed to be ux*ged by alarm, and bounded 
through the trap-door. The room beneath was in darkness^ 
so that I was unable to distinguish his course, which his inti- 
mate knowledge of the place, neyertheless, enabled him to 
pursue with ease and certainty. 

As soon as his footsteps were unheard, I followed, with 
less speed and celerity. I might, indeed, haye possessed my- 
self of the lamp which stood upon the table, but a light 
would infallibly haye betrayed me, and I continued to grope 
my way in darkness and ignorance to the lower chamber. 
An influx of sound, to the left, denoted an open door, and 
directing my course to that quarter, I found that it led into 
a narrow passage. As yet I had seen no light ; but now a 
cool gush of air seemed to promise that a few steps onward 
I should meet with a window. It proyed to be only a loop- 
hole. The noise as I adyanced had meanwhile become more 
and more yiolent, and was now eyen accompanied by ir- 
regular discharges of pistols. My yicinity to the scene of 
contest made me hesitate. I could eyen distinguish yoices, 
and partially understood the blasphemies and imprecations 
that were most loudly uttered. I had before attributed this 
tumult to a brawling contention amongst the inmates them- 
selyes, but now the indications seemed to be those of a more 
serious strife. The dischai^s of fire-arms were almost in- 
cessant, and the shouts and cries were like the cheers of 
onset and battle, of fiuy and anguish. The banditti had 
doubtless been tracked and assaulted m \Xi€vx ^<qs*dl \ «s^^ >N> 
bocame necessary to consider "what co>xn» m «vs53«5v. ^ ^»»^^ 



»2 THE SVASlsB TBAGEDY. 

vu tL« i.v>.t j'Ti'i'rz.t for QM: Xo tdopL Slioqld I seek fijr 
wjt:.': \^as'm *A c^^r^oc'Suzcexsl, aiid there await tlw nne of a 
<yyrjr'.%*, vh^'.h voT^H t&vvt pr^bablj terminate in fitvoiir of 
jrift*..v: ? — -'.r '**ijLU*. I iiot nah«r U/ ha&ten and lend all mj 
eri':r;r.':r. v^ *hc- caay.- 1 I ttill LeM in mj hand the dagger, 
of iiih.',}i 1 }.a/i \fM^r^z*\ rnjself ; but could it be hoped that, 
tbiiA iij*iMiri*.'.'*.]y aruiC'i, if anued it might be *^ll*»*<^ mj 
fc^.'bl': aid cy'ild c-bv/iitiiillj a^utribute to such a Tictury I 

TU*: 'h.-^j.-'siou %'i»M tM Muddculj as unexpectedlj reaolTcd. 
A f.Aiii.].:ir y/i'x, nkhlch I could not rn\m^m\»^ though loud and 
nivii«;( fur ti}yj\i: iu natural pitch, amidst a clamour of fiftj 
othon^— htrii'-k on ruy ear; and no othtf call was neceaBary 
*o prodjiituti; iny htcj/H tovardis the socne of action. I bad 
jct to lr:tvci>/; it/jme [lUJiKagcs, which the increase of light 
enabled uui to ^lo njore rcadilj. The smoke, the din, the 
fLunh'iu'f^ n. licet ioiiH along the walls, now told me that I was 
cloisfj u\t<tu tho Htrife ; and in a few moments, on turning an 
abrupt iiU'^k'f I had it in all its confusion before me. 

Tlic fjrht and nearest o)iject that struck me was the Bgore 
of the innkeeper himself, aj)parcntlj in the act of reloading 
h'lH \i'u:cfi. iliti back was towards mc, but I could not mistake 
his tall and nnuicuLir fraino. On hearing a step behind him, 
he turned huHtily round, discharged a pistol at mj head, and 
then diMip])eured in the thickest of the tumult. The ball, 
h<iwev('r, only whizzed \)tvit my ear ; but not harmless, for 
iniined lately afterwards I felt some one reel against me from 
behind, cIiihj) nio for an instant by the shoulders, and tlien 
rt)ll downwards to the floor. The noise, and the exciting in- 
tercHt which hurried nie hither hud hindered mc from pcr- 
ctiivin;; that 1 was followed, and I turned eagerly round to 
ONcertuiu who liad become the victim of the mis-directed 
Bluft, It was lUo rv\VYva\\*\& ov;\\ dvxM^Uter \ the unhappy 



THE SPANISH TRAQEDT. 85]> 

his hand iho last pang it was destined to endure ; a angle 
groan was all that the poor wretch had uttered. I felt an 
inexpressible shock at this horrid catastrophe. I was stained 
with her blood, particles of her brain even adhered to mj 
clothes ; and I was glad to escape from the horror excited 
bj the harrowing spectacle, bj plunging into the chaos before 
ma Further than of a few moments, during which, how- 
ever, I had exchanged and parried a number of blows and 
thrusts, I have no recollection. A spent ball on the rebound 
struck me directly on the forehead, and laid me insensible 
under foot, amidst the dying and the dead. 

When I recovered, I found myself lying on a bed — the 
same, by a strange coincidence, that I had already occupied ; 
but the fkjoea around me, though warlike, were friendly. 
My first eager inquiries, as soon as I could speak, were for 
my friend Antonio, for it was indeed his voice that I had 
recognised amidst the conflict, but I could obtain no direct 
answer. Sad and silent looks, sighs and tears, only made up 
the terrible response. He was then slain ! Nothing but 
death indeed would have kept him at such a moment from 
my pillow. It availed nothing to me that the victory had 
been won, that their wretched adversaries were all prisoners 
or destroyed ; at such a price, a thotuiand of such victories 
would have been dearly purchased. If I could have felt any 
consolation in his death, it would have been to learn that his 
arm had first amply avenged in blood the murder of the 
Cond4— that the Ipnkeeper had been cleft by him to the 
heart — ^that numbers of the robbers had perish^ by his 
heroic hand : but I only replied to the tidingii with tears for 
my friend, and regrets that I had not died with him. How 
cruelly, by his going before me, had the sweet belief of oui 
youth been falsified ! Was it ^po»\Aft >i3Q».\. \ \a^«Qrra^ 
perhape to Bee the grass gro^ o^^ 'tj^a '^e^?*^ % ^*^^^ 

VOL, V. 



h% 



Tcni}thitiiiL: tlio loss of my beloved f 
in(li>peiis:il)lt' duties recalled the ener 
diverted me from a grief which wotilc 
me. The last sacred rites remidned to 
dead ; aud although the fate of the Og 
divined, it was necessary to establiah 
discovery of his remains. The prisonen 
on this point maintained an obetina' 
researches of the military had hither 
except to one poor wretch, whcmi they r 
Buffering and probable death. 

I have related the disappearance of n 
my suspicions as to the cause of hJB afc 
have verged nearly on the truth. He I 
appeared, from inunediate danger, by a 
with the invitations of the banditti to ei 
numbers; but as a precaution or a dfo 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. S55 

I resolved to lead this new inquisition mjselE Juan's 
sickening and disgustful recollections, which now pointed his 
suspicions, would not let him be present at the examination ; 
but he directed us by such minute particulars, that we had 
no difficulty in finding our way to the spot There were 
other traces, had they been necessary for our guidance : stains 
of blood were seen on descending the stairs and across the 
floor, till they terminated at a large barrel or tun, which 
stood first of a range of several others, on the opposite side of 
the cellar. Here then stood the vessel that contained the 
object of our searcL My firm conviction that it was so made 
me see, as through the wood itself, the mutilated appearance 
which I had conceived of my ill-fi&ted imcle. The horrible 
picture overcame me; — and whilst I involuntarily turned 
aside, the mangled quarters of a human body, and finaUy the 
dissevered head, were drawn forth from the infernal re- 
ceptacle ! As soon as I dared turn my eyes, they fell upon 
the fearful spectacle ; but I looked in vain for the lineaments 
I had expected to meet. The remains were those of a 
middle-aged man ; the features were quite imknown to me ; 
but a profusion of long black hair told me at a glance, that 
this was not the head of the aged Condi Neither could this 
belong to the old man who had been alluded to by the 
maniac as having been strangled Our search must, therefore, 
be extended. 

The neighbouring barrel, frt)m its sound, was empty, and 
the next likewise; but the third, and last one, on being 
struck, gave indicatiops of being occupied ; perhaps, by con- 
tents as horrible as those of the first. It was, however, only 
half filled with water. There was still a smaller cellar, 
communicating with the outer one by a narrow arched 
passage ; but, on examination, it ^f^^^^^^*^^^^^^'^^''^'^^'^ 
to its original and legitimalo -gvnngaftfe, Vst SX ^OT5^»ss«^ '^ 



S56 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

oonsidcrablo quAntity of wine. Evciy reoeai^ ereiy nook 
was carefully inspected; the floors in particular were mi- 
nutely cxamiucd, but they supplied no appeannoe of faaTing 
been recently disturbed 

This unsuccessful result almost begat a doubt in me 
whether, indeed, this place had been the theatre of the 
imputed tragedy ; my strongest belief had been founded on 
the \v'ords of the maniac, in allusion to the old man who had 
been strangled; but her story pointed to no deteiminate 
period of time, and might refer to an occurrence of many 
years back. Surely the police and the military, Antonio 
certainly, had been led hither by some more perfect informa- 
tion. I had neglected, hitherto, to possess myself of the 
particulars which led to their attack on the house ; but the 
answers to my inquiries tended in no way to throw any light 
upon the fate of the Cond6. Antonio, in his progress through 
the mountains, had fallon in with a party of the proTincial 
militia, who were scouring tho country in pursuit of the 
predatory bands that infested it; and the capture of a 
wounded robber had furnished them with the particulan 
which led to their attack upon the inn. The dying wretch 
had been eagerly interrogated by Antonio, as to his know- 
ledge of tho transactions of his fellows ; but though he could 
obtain no intelligence of the Cond^, his impetuous spirit 
made him readily unite himself with an expedition against 
a class of men, to whom ho confidently attributed the old 
nobleman's mysterious disapx>earance. The mournful sequel 
I have related. His vengeance was amply but dearly sated 
on the Innkeeper and his bloodthirsty associates ; — ^but tho 
fate of my uncle remained as doubtful as ever. 

The discovery was reser\'ed for chance. One of tho 
troopers, in shifting somo \\ttet Va V>aft ^\a^:^^!^ x^xs^&xkfid that 
tbo earth and etones bcnealYi «Li^v^^TG^\.o\^x^\««o.T««ii.^^ 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 857 

turned up : the fact ¥ras immediately commimicated to his 
officer, and I "was summoned to be present at this new 
investigation. The men had already begxm to dig when I 
arriyed, and some soiled fragments of clothes which they 
turned up, cdready assured them of the natiure and the near- 
ness of the deposit A few moments' more labom: sufficed 
to lay it bare; and then, by the torchlight, I instantly 
recognised the grey hairs and the features of him of whom 
we were in search. All that remained of my imcle lay before 
me ! The starting and blood-distended eyes, the gaping 
mouth, the blackness of the face, and a livid mark roimd the 
neck, confirmed the tale of the maniac as to the cruel mode 
of his death. May I never gaze on such an object again ! 

Hitherto, the excitement, the labour, the uncertainty of 
the search had sustained me ; but now a violent re-action 
took place, a reflux of all the horrors I had jiritnessed and 
endured rushed over me like a flood ; and for some time I 
raved in a state of high delirium. I was again laid in bed, 
and in the interval of my repose, preparations were made for 
our departiure. The bodies of the slain robbers and militiar 
men were promptly interred, and after securing all the 
portable efiects of any value, which the soldiers were allowed 
to appropriate as a spoil, the house was ordered to be fired, 
as afibrding too eligible a refuge and rendezvous for such 
desperate associations. At my earnest request, a separate 
grave had been provided for the remains of the unfortunate 
maniac, which were committed to the earth with all the 
decencies that our limited time and means could afibrd. 
The spot had been chosen at the foot of a tall pine, in the 
rear of the house, and a small cross carved in the bark of the 
tree was the only memorial of this ill-starred girL 

These cares, speedily executed, oocvsc^v^^ 'C^ ^ss:^>cst5!sSK-k 
sndJuBt at siimise we commencedi o\mc TDSMcOsi. K^Ktfs«^> 



8&3 THE SPANISH TRAQEDr. 

maatcrlcss by the death of one of the troopen^ 
to me; two othen were more nioumfullj occupied by tlM 
bodied of Antonio and the Cond^ cadi ooTered with a ooum 
sliect ; and tho captiTe robbers followed, bound, with their 
faces l>ackward, upon the luukeepei^B mulci^ The Inn- 
keoper*8 wife was amongst the pruBonen^ and her loud 
lameutatiuns, breaking out afresh at eveiy few peoei^ 
prevailed even orer tho boisterous meniment of the tioopen 
and the luw-muttcred imprecations of the banditti When, 
from the rciir, I looked upon this wild prooenion, in the cold 
grey light of tlie morning winding down the monntaini^ ♦ii^* 
warlike escort, those two horseSy with their funereal burthens^ 
tho fierce, scowling faces of the prisoners^ confronting me * 
and then turned back, and distinguished the tall pine-tree, 
and saw the dense column of smoke soaring npwaid from 
those ancient ruins, as from some altar dedicated to Yengeance, 
the whole ])ast appeared to me like a dream ! My mind, 
stunned by the msignitude and mmibor of events which h %j 
been crowded into a single night's space, refused to believe 
that so bounded a period had sufficed for such dispropor- 
tionate cflccts ; but recalled again and again evoiy scene and 
evoiy f;ict, — as if to bo convinced by the vividness of the 
repetitious, and tlio fidelity of the details— of a foregone 
reality. I could not banish or divert these thoughts : all the 
former horrors wero freshly dramatised before me; the 
images of the Innkeeper, of the maniac, of Juan, of Antonio^ 
were successively conjured up, and acted their parts anew, 
till all was finally w^ound up in tho consummation that 
riveted my eyes on thoso two melancholy burthens before 
me. 

But I will not dwell hero on those objects as I did then. 
An hour or two after Bumise '^^ evAfit^^Wsx^^VRst^ '^^ 
delivered up to justice i\iowi imwx^\^ ^t^\&V«^^v^ ^^^ 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 869 

afterwards to be seen impaled and blackening in the sun 

throughout the province. And here also my own progress, 

for three long months, was destined to be impeded. Other 

lips than mine conveyed to Isabelle the dismal tidings with 

which I was charged ; other hands than mine assisted in 

paying to the dead their last pious dues. Excessive fatigue, 

grief, horror, and a neglected wound, generated a raging 

fever, from which, with difficulty, and by slow degrees, I 

recovered, — alas ! only to find myself an alien on the earth, 

without one tie to attach me to the life I had so unwillingly 

regained 1 

• • • • 

I have only to speak of the fate of one more person con- 
nected with this history. In the Convent of St. *•*, at 
Madrid, there is one, who, by the peculiar sweetness of her 
disposition, and the superior sanctity of her life, has obtained 
the love and veneration of all her pure sisterhood. She is 
called sister Isabelle. The lines of an early and acute sorrow 
are deeply engraven on her brow, but her life is placid and 
serene, as it is holy and saint-like ; and her eyes will neither 
weep, nor her bosom heave a sigh, but when she recurs to 
the memorials of this melancholy story. She is now nearly 
ripe for heaven ; and may her bliss there be as endless and 
perfect, as here it was troubled and fearfully hurried to its 
close! 



THE MIRACLE OF THE HOLT HERMIT. 



*< Ther«*i oold meat in Um «»?«.** 



In my younger days, there was much talk of an old Hermit 
of great sauctity, who liTod in a rockj caye near Naplea. He 
had a vcr}* reverend grey beard, which reached down to hii 
middle, where liis body, looking like a piamire'a^ waa almoet 
cut in two by the tightness of a stout leathern girdle^ which 
he wore prokibly to restrain his hunger during hia long and 
frequent abstinences. His nails, besides^ had grown long and 
crooked Jikc the talons of a bird ; his arms and legs were 
bare, and \m brown garments very coarse and ragged. He 
never tasted flefc>li, but fed upon herbs and roota^ and drank 
notliing but water; nor ever lodged anywhere, winter or 
summer, but in his bleak rocky cavern ; above all, it was his 
painful custom to stand for hours together with his arms 
extended in imitation of the holy cross, by way of penance 
and mortification for the sins of his body. 

After many years spent in these austerities, he fell ill, 
towards the autumn, of a mortal disease, whereupon he was 
constantly visited by certain Benedictines and Cordeliers, who 
had convents in the neiglibourhood ; not so much as a work 
of charity and mercy, as that they were anxious to obtain his 
body, for they made sure that many notable miracles might 
bo wrought at his tomb. Accordingly, they hovered about 
his death-bed of leaves, like so many ravens when they scent 
a prey, but more jealous of each other, till the pious Hennit's 
last breath at length took flight towards the skies. 

As soon as ho was dead, the two friars who were watching 
hiin, ran each to their several coxt^eviXA \a> t«^«t\. VJs^a «^«:c^ 
Tho CordeUer, being Bwiiteat oi ioot, ^«%a VX^'e. tox \i^ «r«^ 



THE MIRACLE OF THE HOLY HEBMTT. 8«1 

<with his tidings, when he found his brethren jnst sitting 
down to their noontide meal ; whereas, when the Benedictines 
heard the news, thej were at prayers, which gave them the 
advantage. Cutting the service short, therefore, with an 
abrupt amen, they ran instantly in a body to the cave ; but 
before they could well fetch their breath again, the Cordeliers 
also came up, finishing their dinner as they ran, and both 
parties ranged themselves about the dead Hermit. Father 
Gometa, a Cordelier, and a very portly man, then stepping in 
front of his fraternity, addressed them as follows : 

" My dear brethren, we are too late, as you see, to receive 
the passing breath of the holy man ; he is quite dead and 
cold. Put your victuals out of your hands, therefore, and 
with all due reverence assist me to carry these saintly relics 
to our convent, that they may repose amongst his fellow 
Cordeliers." 

The Benedictines murmuring at this expression ; " Yea," 
added he, " I may truly call him a Cordelier, and a rigid one ; 
witness his leathern girdle, which, for want of a rope, he hath 
belted round his middle, almost to the cutting asunder of his 
holy body. Take up, I say these precious relics;" where- 
upon his followers, obeying his commands, and the Bene- 
dictines resisting them, there arose a lively struggle, as if 
between so many Greeks and Trojans, over the dead body. 
The two fraternities, however, being equally matched in 
strength, they seemed more likely to dismember the Hermit, 
than to carry him off on either side, wherefore Father 
Gometa, by dint of entreaties and struggling, procured a 
truce. ^* It was a shameful thing," he told them, ^* for ser- 
vants of the Prince of Peace, as they were, to mingle in such 
an affray ; and besides, that the country people bein^ likely 
to witness it, the scandal oi s\x(^ «^ \st«^ -v^-^^ ^^ \assi^ 
harm to them, jointly, than t\ie "poBaeeavwi ^1 ^^^^Q^^"^ ^^ 



362 THE MIR.\CLE OF THE HOLY HE&kxi. 

be a bcnofit to cither of their orders. The religioiu men of 
both ^i(lo^^ concurring in tho prudence of thla adyioe, thej 
left a friar, on either port, to toko charge of the dead body, 
and then adjourned, by common consent, to the house of the 
IJencdictinca. 

Tho chajK)! being very largo and conYenient for the pnr- 
lx)KO, they went thither to carry on the debate; and, aarelj, 
such a strange kind of service had never been performed 
before witliin its walls. Fatlicr Gometa, standing beside a 
I tainted window which made Lis face of all nftfttiw^ Qf hues^ 
Ix^gau in a j)om[)oii8 discourse to assert the daima of his 
convent ; but Friar Jolm quickly interrupted him ; ' and 
anutlicr brother contradicting Friar John^ all the xnonki^ 
]k;nedictincs as well as CordeUcrS) were soon talking furioualj 
together, at tho samo moment. Their Babel-aigument^ 
tlicrcforc, were balanced against each other. At last^ 
brother Gerouinio, who had a shrill voice like a parrot's, 
leaped upon a bench, and called out for a hearing; and, 
uioreovcr, clapping two largo missals together, in the 
niaini(>r of a pair of castanets, he dinned the other noise- 
mongers into a tem|X)rary silence. As soon as they were 
quiet — ^ This squabble/* said he, " may easily be adjusted. 
As for the hermit^s body, let thoso have it, of whatever order, 
who have ministered to the good man's soul, and given him 
the extreme unction.** 

At tliiu proposal there was a general silence throughout the 
chapel; till Father Gometii, feeling what a scandal it would be 
if such a man had died without the last sacrament, afiQrmed 
tiiat he had given to him tho wafer ; and Father Philippe^ on 
1)e]ialf of the Benedictines, declared that he had performed 
the same oiHce. Thus, that seemed to have been superflu- 
ouifly I'opcatod, which, iu tT\il\\,\itjA\i^\i^\j^^^^iNMst ^TSLvlt^d* 
WLoivfoiv Gerouimo, at \i\a V.\:% e^xA, ^x^v^\ v>^\. Siw. 



THE MIRACLE OF THE HOLT HERMIT. 813 

superiors should draw lots, and had actually cut a slip or two 
out of the margin of his psalter for the purpose ; but Father 
Gometa relied too much on his own subtlety, to refer the 
issue to mere chance. In this extremity, a certain Capuchin 
happening to be present, they besought him, as a neutral 
man and impartial, to lead them to some decision : and after 
a little thinking, he was so fortunate as to bring them to an 
acceptable method of arbitration. 

The matter being thus arranged, the CordeUers returned 
to their own conyent, where, as soon as they arrived, Father 
Gometa assembled them all in the refectory, and spoke to 
them in these words : 

^' You have heard it settled, my brethren, that the claims 
of our seyeral convents are to be determined by propinquity 
to the cave. Now I know that our crafty rivals will omit 
no artifice that may show their house to be the nearest; 
wherefore, not to be wilfully duped, I am resolved to make 
a proper subtraction from our own measurements. I 
foresee, notwithstanding, that this measuring bout will lead 
to no accommodation ; for the reckonings on both sides being 
false, will certainly beget a fresh caviL Go, therefore, some 
of you, very warily, and bring hither the blessed body of 
the hermit, which, by God's grace, will save a great deal of 
indecent dissension, and then the Benedictines may measure 
as unfairly as they please." 

The brethren approving of this design, chose out four of 
the stoutest, amongst whom was Friar Francis, to proceed 
on this expedition; and in the meantime, the event fell 
out as the superior had predicted. The adverse measurers, 
encountering on their task, began to wrangle; and after 
belabouring each other with their rods, returned witk ca.\s^- 
plaints to their separate ooiiveii\A \ \i\i\. ^Tv«:t^T«aR\^"«>i^ 
hiB oomradeB, proceeded pT0«peTO\is^^ \j^ ^^ ^:»2^^^"^^^st«k «^ 



364 THE MIRACLE OF THE HOLT HEBMIT. 

found tlic dead Ixxlj of tho hermit^ but neither of the tnuut 
friars wlio had l>ccn ap])ointed to keep watch. 

Taking tho cnrcafio, therefore, without any obBtractioOy 
on their shuuldors, they licgan to wend homewards rexj 
merrily, till coming to a bjc-phico in the middle of a wood, 
they u'rreed to set down their burthen awhile^ and refresh 
themselves after their labours. One of the friars^ however, 
of weaker ner\'e8 than tho rest, objected to the campanionship 
of the dead hemiit, who with his long white beard and his 
ragi^ed gsirments, which stirred now and then in the wind, 
w«is in tnith a very awful object. Dragging him aside^ 
therefore, into a dark solitary thicket, they returned to sit 
down on the grass; and pulling out their flasks, which 
contiiincd some very passable wine, they began to e^joy 
themselves without stint or hindrance. 

The last level rays of the setting sun were beginning to 
shoot through tho horizontal boughs, tinging the trunks^ 
which at noon aro all shady and obscure, with a flaming 
gold ; but the merry friars thought it prudent to wait till 
nightfall, before they ventiux?d with their chaige beyond the 
friendly shelter of the wood. As soon, therefore, as it was 
so &i\fely dark that they could barely distinguish each other, 
they retiu-ncd to tho thicket for the body; but to their 
honiblo dismay, the dead hermit had vanished, nobody 
knew whither, leaving them only a handful of his grey beard 
as a legacy, with a remnant or two of his tattered garments. 
At this discovery, the friars wero in despair, and some of 
them began to weep, dreading to go back to the convent; 
but Friar Francis, being in a jolly mood, put them in better 
heart. 

"Wliy, what a whimpering is this," said he, "about a 
dead body 1 The good ioAAier, tsj& ^q>3l Vwyw, ^^» t^^ ^^^ 
and did not smell over p>rce\y •, iox ^\iY^VT^^T..eL^>to^^«-s 



THE MIRACLE OP THE HOLY HERMIl. 8«5 

Bome hungry deyil of a wolf has relieyed us from the labour 
of bearing him any farther. There is no such heretic as 
your wolf is, who would not be likely to boggle at his great 
piety, though I marvel he did not object to his meagreness. 
I tell you, take courage, then, and trust to me to clear you, 
who have brought you out of fifty such scrapes." 

The friars knowing that he spoke reasonably, soon com- 
forted themselves ; and running back to the convent, they 
repaired, all trembling, into the presence of the superior. 

Father Gometa, inquiring eagerly if they had brought the 
body. Friar Francis answered boldly, that they had not; 
" But here," said he, " is a part of his most reverend beard, 
and also his mantle, which, like Elisha, he dropped upon us 
as he ascended into heaven; tor as the pious Elisha was 
translated into the skies, even so was the holy hermit, 
excepting these precious relics — being torn out of our arms, as 
it were by a whirlwind." Anon, appealing to his comrades, 
to confirm his fabrication, they declared that it happened 
with them even as he related ; and moreover, that a bright 
and glorious light shining upon them, as it did upon Saul 
and his company, when they journeyed to Damascus, had so 
bewildered them, that they had not yet recovered their 
perfect senses. 

In this plausible manner, the friars got themselves dis- 
missed without any penance ; but Father Gometa discredited 
the story at the bottom of his heart, and went to bed in 
great trouble of mind, not doubting that they had loat the 
Ixxly by some negligence, and that on the morrow it would 
be foimd in the possession of his rivals, the Benedictines. 
The latter, however, proving as disconcerted as he was, he took 
comfort, and causing the story to be set down at lar^e in. tV\& 
records of the convent, and Bu\>sct\\wi^ m>i>£i \\\a \iaxssssik <:R.*OKiS^ 
/our&ian, he had it read pu\A\c\j on VJiva xi^xX.'^vca.^^^^s^'^ 



3G« THE WIDOW OF GALICIA. 

the puli»it, with an cxbibition of the beard and the mantle 
whicli pnK.'iirod a great deal of wonder and reverence amongst 
the coni^ojration. 

The Benedictines at first were vexed at the credit whidi 
was thns K>st to their own convent; but being afterwaids 
paeitied witli a portion of the grey hairs and a ahred or two 
of the brown doth, tliev joined in the propagation of the 
Btorj ; and the country people believe to thia day in the 
miracle of tlie holy hermit. 



THE WIDOW OF GALICIA. 



"Sirs, behold in me 
A wretched fRiclion of dirided lore, 
A widow mneli deject ; 
Whose life is but a sorry ell of crape, 
Ev'n cut it when yon lift." — Old Play» 

There lived in the ProYlncc of Gfldicia a lady so perfectly 
beautiful, that Bho was called bj travellers, and by all indeed 
who behold her, the Flower of Spain, It too firequently 
happens that such handsome women are but as beautiful 
weeds, useless or even noxious ; whereas with her excelling 
charms, she possessed all those virtues which should 
properly inhabit in so lovely a person. She had therefore 
many wooera, but esixicially a certain old Knight of Castille 
(bulky in person, and with hideously coarse features), who^ 
as he was exceedingly wealthy, made the most tempting 
offers to induce her to become Iiis mistress, and fi^Upg in 
that object by reason of her strict virtue, he proposed to 
espouse her. But she, despising him as a bad and brutal 
znau, wliich was liia c\iar;vclcT, \cV. ^aJ\ NiX\^ >^«a58«>5j, ^1 V^sa 
affection on a young genWemm ol «i^\ «KaJ^ >^^^^ ^S^ 



THE WIDOW OF GALICIA. 867 

reputation in the proidnco, and being speedily married, they 
lived together for three years very happily, . Notwith- 
standing this; the abominable K^night did not cease to 
persecute her, till being rudely checked by her husband, 
and threatened with his vengeance, he desisted for a season. 

It happened at the end of the third year of their marriage, 
that her husband being unhappily murdered on bis return 
from Madrid, whither he had been called by a lawsuit, she 
was left without protection, and from the failure of the cause 
much straitened, besides, in her means of living. This time, 
therefore, the Knight thought favourable to renew his 
importunities, and neither respecting the sacredness of her 
grief, nor her forlorn state, he molested her so continually, 
that if it had not been for the love of her ^therless child, 
she would have been content to die. For if the Knight was 
odious before, he was now thrice hateful from his undisguised 
brutality, and above all execrable in her eyes from a suspicion 
that he had procured the assassination of her dear husband. 
She was obliged, however, to confine this belief to her own 
bosom, for her persecutor was rich and powerful, and wanted 
not the means, and scarcely the will, to crush her. Many 
families had thus suffered by his malignity, and therefore 
gh^ only awaited the arrangement of certain private affairs, 
to withdraw secretly, with her scanty maintenance, into 
some remote village. There she hoped to be free from her 
inhuman suitor ; but she was deUvered from this trouble in 
the meantime by his death, yet in so terrible a manner, as 
made it more grievous to her than his life had ever been. 

It wanted, at this event, but a few days of the time when 
the lady proposed to remove to her country-lodging, taking 
with her a maid who was called Maria ; for since the reduc- 
tion of her fortune, she had r^tam^d. \sv3l\. ^^Jkna wj^r ^kt^'ks^ 
Now, it happened, that ttua ^omaa ^<i\xi% ^^^ ^^ '^ ^"^ 



868 THE WIDOW OF OAUCIA. 

ladj 8 closet, wbich was in her bed-chamber, — ao woaa as aba 
hod opened the door, there tumbled forward tbo dead body 
of a man ; and the police being summoned hj htr ahriek% 
they soon recognised the corpse to be that of the old Gaatilian 
Kniglit, though the countenance was so M aAened and dis- 
figured as to seem scarcely human. It mm aufficiently 
CTidcnt, that ho had perished by poison; whereupon the 
unhappy lady, being interrogated, was unable to give any 
account of tlio matter ; and in spite of her fair reputation, 
and although she appealed to God in behalf of her innocence^ 
sho ^-as thrown into the common gaol along with other 
reputed murderers. 

The criminal addresses of the deceased Knight being 
generally known, many persons who believed in her guilt, 
still pitied her, and excused the cruelty of the deed on 
account of tlic persecution sho had suffered from that wicked 
man : — but these were the most charitable of her judges. 
The violent death of her husband, which before had been 
only attributed to robbers, was now assigned by scandaloua 
persons to her own act ; and the whole province was shocked 
that a lady of her fair seeming, and of such unblemished 
character, sliould liayo brought so heavy a disgrace upon her 
sex and upon human nature. 

At her trial, tlicreforo, the court was crowded to excess ; 
and some few generous persons were not without a hope of 
her acquittal ; but tlic samo facts, as before, being proved 
upon oath, and the lady still producing no justification, but 
only assorting her innocence, there remained no reasonable 
cause for doubting of her guilt. The Public Advocate then 
began to plead, as his painful duty commanded him, for her 
condemnation ; — he ui-ged the facts of her acquaintance and 
bad terms with the luuvdetcd Vm^^ \ wid TCLoroQ^cr^ certain 
expressions of hatred ^bici\i f^e >a»A, \««^ Vwa^ \» ^^»Jw: 



THE WIDOW OF GALICIA. 109 

against him. The very scene and manner of his destruction, 
he said, spoke to her undoubted prejudice, — ^the first a 
private closet in her own bed-chamber, — and the last by 
poison, which was likely to be employed by a woman, rather 
than any weapon of violence. Afterwards, he interpreted to 
the same conclusion, the abrupt flight of the waiting-maid, 
who, like a guilty and fearful accomplice, had disappeared 
when her mistress was arrested ; and, finally, he recalled 
the still mysterious fate of her late husband ; so that all 
who heard him began to bend their brows solenmly, and 
some reproachfully, on the unhappy object of his discourse. 
Still she upheld herself, firmly and calmly, only from time to 
time lifting her eyes towards Heaven ; but when she heard 
the death of her dear husband touched upon, and in a 
manner that laid his blood to her charge, she stood for- 
ward, and placing her right hand on the head of her son, 
cried : — 

" So witness God, if ever I shed his father's blood, so may 
this, his dear child, shed mine in vengeance.*' 

Then sinking down from exhaustion, and the child weeping 
bitterly over her, the beholders were again touched with 
compassion, almost to the doubting of her guilt ; but the 
evidence being so strong against her, she was immediately 
condemned by the Court. 

It was the custom in those days for a woman who had 
committed murder, to be first strangled by the hangman, 
and then burnt to ashes in the midst of the market-place ; 
but before this horrible sentence could be pronounced on the 
lady, a fresh witness was moved by the grace of God to come 
forward in her behalf This was the waiting-woman, Maria, 
who hitherto had remained disguised in the body of the 
Court; but now, being touched V\\\i T^xasywfc ^\!lsst^a^^ 
aumerited distresses, she stood ^v^ on ox^a ol 'Oaft ^^^^^^^^ 

VOL, V. 



870 TIIE GOLDEN CUP AND THE DISH OF SILTES. 

and called out Garneeilj to be allowed to make her 
fcssion. She then related, that she hendf had been 
prevailed upon, by several great soma of monej, and stiD 
more by the artful and seducing promisee of the deed 
Knight, to Bccrctc bim in a doeet in her ladj^a diamber; 
but that of the cause of bis death she knew nothlDg; except 
that upon a shelf she bad placed some sweet oekee^ mixed 
with arsenic, to poison the rats, and that the Knight being 
rather gluttonous, might have eaten of them in the daik, 
and so died. 

At this probable explanation, the people all shonted one 
shout^ antl the lady*s innocence being acknowledged, the 
sentence was ordered to be reversed; but she reriving a 
little at the noise, and being told of this providence, onlj 
cla8])ed her hands ; and then, in a few words, commending 
her son to the guardianship of good men, and saying that 
she couM never survive the shame of her unworthy reproach, 
she ended with a deep sigh, and expired upon the spot. 



THE GOLDEN CUP AND THE DISH OF SILVER. 

**B<U8, If it please jon to dine irith us f 
Shy, Tes, to Bmell pork ; to eat of the habitation which year propliet^ 
tho Nazaritc, conjured the Devil into." — Merchant of Venice. 

Evert one knows what a dog*s life the miserable Jews 
lead all over the world, but especially amongst the Tnrks^ 
who plunder them of their riches, and slay them on the 
most ffivolous pretences. Thus, if they acquire any wealth, 
they are obliged to hide it in holes and comers, and to snatch 
their scanty cnjoymcivtB \xy eVjwCl^ Vh T^wsro^TkCft of the 
buffets and contumely oi iVvra VmAowi^A ov^wwot^ 



THE QOLDEK CUP AKD THE DISH OF SIL^mB. 871 

In this manner lived Tussuf, a Hebrew of great wealth 
and wisdom, but, outwardly, a poor beggarly druggist^ inha- 
biting, with his wife, Anna, one of the meanest houses in Con- 
stantinople. The curse of his nation had often fiJlen bitterl/ 
upon his head ; his great skill in medicine procuring him 
some imcertain favour from the Turks, but, on the failure of 
his remedies, a tenfold proportion of ill-usage and contempt. 
In such cases, a hundred blows on the soles of his feet were 
his common payment ; whereas on the happiest cures, he 
was often dismissed with empty hands and some epithet of 
disgrace. 

As he was sitting one day at his humble door, thinking 
over these miseries, a Janizary came up to him, and com- 
manded Yussuf to go with him to his Aga, or captain, whose 
palace was close at hand. Yussufs gold immediately weighed 
heavy at his heart, as the cause of this summons ; how- 
ever, he arose obediently, and followed the soldier to the Aga, 
who was sitting cross-legged on a handsome carpet, with his 
long pipe in his mouth. The Jew, casting himself on his 
knees, with his face to the floor, began, like his brethren, to 
plead poverty in excuse for the shabbiness of his appearance ; 
but the Aga, interrupting him, proceeded to compliment him 
in a flattering strain on his reputation for wisdom, which he 
said had mode him desirous of his conversation. He then 
ordered the banquet to be brought in ; whereupon the slaves 
put down before them some wine, in a golden cup, and some 
pork, in a dish of silver; both of which were forbidden 
things, and therefore made the Jew wonder very much at 
sue an entertainment. The Aga then pointing to the re- 
freshments addressed him as follows : — 

" Yussuf, they say you are a very wise and learned man, 
and have studied deeper than aaj ou^ VJc^a xn^^XssrkRs^ ^ 
Dature. I have sent for you, tlieTeioTe, \x> t«w^'^^ "Oife ^"^ 'JK*" 



372 THE GOLDEN CUP AND THE DISH OJT 8ILTX1L 



tain doubts concerning thiB fleah and tliis liqncr before vi; 
tho pork being as abominable to your religion, as tlio wine m 
unto oun. But I am eapeciallj curioia to know ihm raaaoni 
why your prophet ahould haye forbidden a meat, vhich bj 
rt*^>ort of the CluriBtians it both saTouiy and wlftoleaome; 
wherefore I will have jou to proceed fint with that aigu- 
mcnt ; and, in order that you may not diionaa it negligently^ 
I oiu resolved, in case you fail to justify the prohihition, that 
you Bluill empty the silver dish before yon stir fiom the 
place. NeverthelesSy to show you that I am equoUj eandid, 
I i>romisOy if you shall thereafter prove to me the unreeaon- 
aMcnoss of the injunction against wine, I will drink off tKia 
goMcu goblet as frankly before we part" 

Tho tcrrificil Jew understood very readily the pnipoee of 
this trial ; however, after a secret prayer to Moses^ he began 
lu tho best way ho could to plead against the abominable 
dish that was steaming under his nostrikb He fiuledy not- 
withstiuidingy to convince the sceptical Ag% who, therefore^ 
commanded him to eat up the pork, and then begin his dia- 
courso in favour of the wine. 

The sad Jew, at this order, endeavoured to move the 
obdurate Turk by his tears ; but the Aga was resolute^ and 
drawing his crooked cimetar, declared^ ** that if Yussuf did 
not instantly fall to, he would smite his head from his 
sliouldei's.** 

It was time, at this threat, for Yussuf to oonmiend his 
soul unto Heaven, for in Turkey the Jews wear their heads 
very loosely ; however, by dint of fresh tears and suppli- 
cations he obtained a respite of three days^ to consider if he 
could not bring forward any further aiguments. 

As soon as the audience was over, Yussuf returned disoon* 
solately to liia liouae, tm^i ViAorai^ Vi^ V^<k^ knxyi. of what 
Lad passed bet^^eeu Vum w\Oi l\i^ K^^ '^^^ \««t -«k«ms^ 



THE QOLDElir CUP JlSJ) THE DISH OF SILVER. 873 

foresaw dearly how the matter would end ; for it was aimed 
only at the confiscation of their richea She advised Yussu^ 
therefore, instead of racking his wits for fresh alignments, to 
carry a bag of gold to the Aga, who condescended to receive 
his reasons ; and after another brief discourse, to grant him 
a respite of three days longer. In the same manner, Yussuf 
procured a further interval, but somewhat dearer ; so that in 
despair at losing his money at this rate, he returned for the 
foiu-th time to the palace. 

The Aga and Yussuf being seated as before, with the mesa 
of pork and the wine between them, the Turk asked if he 
had brought any fresh arguments. The doctor replied^ 
*' Alas ! he had already discussed the subject so often, that 
his reasons were quite exhausted ; '* whereupon the flashing 
cimetar leaping quickly out of its scabbard, the trembling 
Hebrew plucked the loathsome dish towards him, and with 
many struggles began to eat 

It cost him a thousand wry fiioes to swallow the first 
morsel ; and from the laughter that came from behind a 
silken screen, they were observed by more mockers beside 
the Aga, who took such a cruel pleasure in the amusement 
of his women, that Yussuf was compelled to proceed even to 
the licking of the disk He was then suffered to depart, 
without wasting any logic upon the cup of wine, which after 
his loathsome meal he would have been quite happy to 
discuss. 

I guess not how the Jew consoled himself besides for his 
involuntary sin, but he bitterly cursed the cruel Aga and all 
his wives, who could not amuse their indolent lives with their 
dancing-girls and tale-tellers, but made merry at the expense 
of his souL His wif^ joined heartily in his imprecatlona \ 
and both putting ashes on tlievr Yioa^ ^;^aK^ TfiLOxxroR^ «s^ 
cuned together till the Bunaet. T!Viex^ cash^ xtf> "i%saa«r| 



874 THE GOLDEN CUP AND THS DISH OF SILTKR. 

however, on tho morrow, as they expected ; but on tlie eighth 
day, Yussuf was summoned again to the Aga. 

Tho Jew at this message began to weep^ "^'^^'"g siire, in 
his mind, that a fresh dish of pork was prepared for him; 
however, he repaired obedicntlj to the pftlaee, where he was 
told, that the favourite hidj of the harem was indiapoaedy 
and the Aga commanded him to preecribe for her. NoVy 
tho Turks are very jealous of their mistresBea^ and disdain 
especially to expose them to the eyes of infidels^ of whom 
tho Jews are held the most vile ; — ^wherefore^ when Tnasof 
begged to see his patient, she was allowed to be brou^t 
forth only iu a long white Ycil, that reached down to her 
feet. Tho Ago, notwithstanding the foUy of such a pro- 
ceeding, forbado her veil to be lifted ; neither would he 
permit the Jew to converse with her, but conunandod him 
on pain of death to return home and prepare his medi- 
cines. 

The wretched doctor, groaning aU the way, went back to 
his house, without wasting a thought on what drugs he 
should administer on so hopeless a case; but considering, 
instead, tho surgiciil practice of the Aga^ which separated so 
many necks. However, ho told his wife of the new jeopardy 
he was placed in for the Moorish JezebcL 

'* A curse take her ! " said Anna ; '' ^ve her a dose of 
poison, and let her perish before his eyeSi" 

"Nay," answered the Jew, "that will be to pluck the 
sword down upon our own heads ; nevertheless, I will cheat 
tho infiders concubine with some wine, which is equally 
damnable to their souls ; and may Gkxl visit upon their 
conscience the misery they have enforced upon mine ! " 

In this bitter mood, going to a filthy hole in the floor, he 
drew out a flask of Bcb-vraz *, wi^ >ae»\«wvsi^ «]l\&»sd^^sScsc«« 
curses on the liquor, as tYie TAxxaaviVTMin* «*» ^'sox. \o ^iN«x di 



THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE. 875 

blessings OTor their medicines, be filled up some physio 
bottles, and repaired with them to the palace. 

And now let the generous virtues of good wine be duly 
lauded for the happy sequel I 

The illness of the favourite, being merely a languor and 
melancholy, proceeding from the voluptuous indolence of her 
life, the draughts of Yussuf soon dissipated her chagrin, in 
such a miraculous manner, that she sang and danced more 
gaily than any of her slaves. The Aga, therefore, instead of 
beheading Yussuf, returned to him all the purses of gold he 
had taken; to which the grateful lady, besides, added a 
valuable ruby ; and, thenceforward, when she was ill, would 
have none but the Jewish physician. 

Thus, Yussuf saved both his head and his money ; and, 
besides, convinced the Aga of the virtues of good wine ; so 
;hat the golden cup was finally emptied, as well as the 
diflh of silver. 



THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLK 

♦ ■ 

"When I awoke 
Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard 
My Mill (for they were with me) weep and ask 
For bread.'*— Gabt's JkuUe, 

EvEBT one, in Seville^ has heard of the fiunous robber 
Bazardo ; but, as some may be ignorant of one of the most 
interesting incidents of his career, I propose to relate a part 
of his history as it is attested in the criminal records of that 
city. 

This wicked man was bom in the fair city of Gadiz, and of 
very obscure parentage ; but the tvni<a '?iV^Oa.\ Taft«5>.\ft "^s^rs^ 
of is, when he returned to SeviWe, «^£<jet \»\n% ^^sa ^««»^ 



376 THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE. 

alisciit in tlic Western Indies, and viith a fortune vhicl^ 
whetlitr justly ur uiijiistlj acquired, sufficed to afibrd him 
the rank anil tiiipurcl of a gentleman. 

It was then, its ho btrulled up ouo of the bje-streetfl^ a lew 
days after his arrival, that he was attracted by a yery poor 
woukan, <razing mobt auxiuuslj and eagerly at a shop window. 
She was lean and faniished, and clad in veiy rogs, and mtkA^ 
altogether so miserable an appearance^ that eyen a xobber, 
\^-ith the loiist gr.icc of charity in his heart, would hare 
instantly relieved her with an alma The robber, howeTer, 
contented hiinself with observing her motiouB at a distance, 
till at last, casting a fearful glance behind her, the poor 
faniislied wreteh suddenly dashed her withered arm through 
a pane of the window, and made o£f with a small coarse loa£ 
But whether, fix).n the feebleness of hunger or affiight, she 
nm so slowly, it cost Bazardo but a moment*8 pursuit to 
overtake her, and seizing her by the arm, he began, thief as 
ho was, to upbraid her, for making so free with another's 
property. 

The jwor woman made no rei)ly, but uttered a short shrill 
scream, and threw the loaf, unperceived, through a little 
casement, and then tiiniing a face full of hunger and fear, 
besought Rizanlo, for cliarity's sake and the love of €rod, to 
let her go free. She was no daily pilferer, she told him, but 
a distressed woman who could relate to him a story, which 
if it did not break her own heart in the utterance, must 
needs command his pity. But ho was no way moved by her 
appeal ; and the baker coming up and insisting on the resto- 
ration of the loaf, to which she made no answer but by her 
tears, they began to dmg her away between them, and with 
as much violence as if she had been no such skeleton as she 
appeared. 
Bj this time a cro^^ ^^ oa3afc1cdSA^^,^xA^^^^^s^'^G^ 



THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLK 877 

iuhumanity, and learning besides the trifling amount of the 
thefb, they bestowed a thousand curses, and some blows too^ 
on Bazardo and the baker. These hard-hearted men, how- 
ever, maintained their hold ; and the office of police being 
close by, the poor wretched creature was delivered to the 
guard, and as the magistrates were then sitting, the cause 
was presently examined. 

During the accusation of Bazardo the poor woman stood 
utterly silent, till coming to speak of her abusive speech, and 
of the resistance which she had made to her capture, she 
suddenly interrupted him, and lifting up her shrivelled 
hands and arms towards Heaven, inquired if those poor 
bones, which had not strength enough to work for her 
livelihood, were likely weapons for the injury of any human 
creature. 

At this pathetic appeal, there was a general murmur of 
indignation against the accuser, and the chaise being ended, 
she was advised that as only one witness had deposed against 
her, she could not be convicted, except upon her own con- 
fession. But she scorning to shame the truth, or to wrong 
even her accuser, for the people were ready to believe that 
he had impeached her falsely, freely admitted the theft, 
adding, that under the like necessity she must needs sin 
again ; and with that, hiding her face in her hands, she 
sobbed out, "My children ! — Alas ! for my poor children ! " 

At this exclamation the judge even could not contain his 
tears, but told her with a broken voice that he would hear 
nothing further to her own prejudice ; expressing, moreover, 
his regret, that the world possessed so little charity, as not 
to have prevented the mournful crime which she had com- 
mitted. Then, desiring to know more particulars of her 
condition, she gratefully thwaked \mii, wA \sss:^^t«s% '^sRk 
blessing of God upon all ttioao 7?\i0 \iaA ^wm. ^ \$s»!^ ^s^^»^ 




"""'wZ''?'' 
"""»«Jd "■"■noffu,, 

"""MW.!, """pool 



THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE. 879 

but the poor rags she at present wore, besides her wedding- 
ring; and that she would sooner die than part with. For 
I still live/' she added, " in the hope of my husband's return 
to me, — and then, may God fbrgive thee, Bazardo, as I will 
forgive thee, for all this cruel misery.*' 

At the mention of this name, her accuser turned instantly 
to the complexion of marble, and he would &in have made 
his escape from the court ; but the crowd pressing upon him, 
as if wiUing that he should hear the utmost of a misery for 
which he had shown so little compassion, he was compelled 
to remain in his place. He flattered himself, notwithstand- 
ing, that by reason of the alteration in his features, from his 
living in the Indies, he should still be unrecognised by the 
object of his cruelty ; whereas the captain of the vessel which 
had brought him over, was at that moment present ; and, 
wondering that his ship had come safely with so wicked a 
wretch on board, he instantly denounced Bazardo by name, 
and pointed him out to the indignation of the people. 

At this discovery there was a sudden movement amongst 
the crowd ; and in spite of the presence of the judge, and of 
the entreaties of the wretched lady heraelf, the robber would 
have been torn into as many pieces as there were persons in 
the court, except for the timely interposition of the guard. 

In the meantime, the officers who had been sent for the 
children, had entered by the opposite side of the hall, and 
making way towards the judge, and depositing somewhat 
upon the table, before it could be perceived what it was, they 
covered it over with a coarse linen cloth. Afterwards, being 
interrogated, they declared, that having proceeded whither 
they had been directed, they heard sounds of moaning and 
sobbing, and lamentations, in a child's voice. That entering 
upon this, and beholding one c\i\\^\>eiXi<^\i"s?>^'^^'^^'^^'^^ 
weeping bitterly, they Bupipoee^ l\i^ ^a^^ASt \» >mk^^ ^^ "^""^ 




UtuiiU:iliiti-.l, l.llt tliiit tlu 

(jr Kii Mirigken with grie^ t 
occurronce. Hie criea, im 
from tho adjoining oonidor 
nrouiid her, and beholding 
suddenly anatobcd amy tha 
of the dead child. It WM 
gaping wound on iU left b 
tnckled even to tho derk'i d 
contained the record of the U 
this new sad evidence of her n 
The people at this dreadAil 
of horror, and the mother mad 
her Bbrieks; ineomuch, that 
out of the hall, whilst others 
hands, her cries were so long 
sheconld scream -- 



THE LADY IN LOVE WITH ROMANCE. B81 

began to relate what had happened His mother, earlj in 
the morning, had promised them some bread ; but being a 
long time absent, and he and his little brother growing more 
and more hungry, they lay down upon the floor and wept. 
That whilst they cried, a small loaf — ^very small indeed, was 
thrown in at the window ; and both being almost famished, 
and both struggling together to obtain it, he had unwarily 
stabbed his little brother with a knife which he held in his 
hand. And with that, bursting afresh into tears, he besought 
the judge not to hang him. 

All this time, the cruel Bazardo remained unmoved ; and 
the judge reproaching him in the sternest language^ ordered 
him to be imprisoned. He then lamented afresh, that the 
dearth of Christian charity and benevolence was accountable 
for such horrors as they had witnessed; and immediately 
the people, as if by consent, began to ofier money, and some 
their purses, to the unfortunate lady. But she, heedless of 
them all, and exclaiming that she would sell her dead child 
for no money, rushed out into the street ; and there re- 
peating the same words, and at last sitting down, she 
expired, a martyr to hunger and grief, on the steps of her 
own dwelling. 



THE LADY IN LOVE WITH ROMANCR 



'* Go, go thy wAji, as ehaogeable a baggage 
Aa erer cosen d Knight.*' — Witch ofJEdtMnion. 

Many persons in Castillo remember the old Knight Pedro 
de Peubia — sumamed The Gross. In his person he was 
eminently large and vulgar, with «^ isis»\.\srQXA 55r?qsjNk»wm»% 
and in his disposition bo coaree ^xA ^\iV\«t^cw3s^sa.^^'^^^ 



3S2 THE LADY IN LOVE WITH BOICAKCE. 



great a drunkard, that if one oould beliere in a 

tion of boasts, the spirit of a swino had passed into this 

mairs body, for the discredit of human nature. 

Now, truly, this was a proper suitor for the Ladj Blandu^ 
who, l)c&ides the comeliness of her person, was adorned with all 
those accomplishments which become a gentlewoman : she was 
moreover gifted with a most excellent wit ; so that she not 
only ])layed on the guitar and variouB musical instnunents to 
adminition, but also she enriched the melody with most 
beautiful verses of her own composition. Her father, a great 
man, and very proud besides of the nobility of his blood, was 
not insensible of these her rare merits, but declaring that so 
precious a jewel deserved to be richly set in gold, and that 
rather tban marry her below her estate he would dcTote her 
to a life of ])crpetual celibacy, be watched her with the 
vigilance of an Argus. To do them justice, the joung 
gentlemen of the province omitted no stratagem to gain 
access to her presence, but all their attempts were as vain 
as the grasping at water ; and at length, her parent beooming 
more and more jealous of her admirers, she was confined to 
the solitude of licr own chamber. 

It was in this irksome sedusion that, reading constantly in 
novels and such works which refer to the ages of chivalry, 
she became suddenly smitten with such a new passion for 
the romantic, talking continually of knights and squires, and 
stratagems of love and war, that her father, doubting whither 
such a madness might tend, gave orders that all books 
should be removed from her chamber. 

It was a grievous thing to think of that young lady, 

cheerful and beautiful as the day, confined thus, like a wild 

bird, to an \innatui*al cage, and deprived of the common 

delights of liberty and naluie. k\. \et^'y^Vi, VW\. old Knight 

of CastiUo coming, not mi\i to^AsA^^t^ ^^^ e^j«©»«^Vs^ 



THE LADY IN LOVE WITH ROMAKCE. 88S 

woman's apparel, like some adventurerSy but with a costly 
equipage, and a most golden reputation, he was permitted to 
lay his large person at her feet, and, contrary to all expecta- 
tion, was regarded with an eye of favour. 

At the first report of his reception, no one could sufficiently 
marvel how, in a man of such a countenance, she could 
behold any similarity with those brave and comely young 
cavaliers who, it was thought, must have risen out of their 
graves in Palestine to behold such a wooer ; but when they 
called to mind her grievous captivity, and how hopeless it 
was that she could be freed by any artifice from the vigilance 
of her father, they almost forgave her that she was ready to 
obtain her freedom by bestowing her hand on a first cousin 
to the DeviL A certain gallant gentleman, however, who was 
named Castello, was so offended by the news, that he would 
have slain the Knight, without any concern for the con- 
sequences to himself; but the Lady Blanche, hearing of his 
design, made shift to send him a message, that by the same 
blow he would woimd her quiet for ever. 

In the meantime her father was overjoyed at the prospect 
of so rich a son-in-law as the Knight; for he was one of 
those parents that would bestow their children upon Midas 
himself, notwithstanding that they should be turned into 
sordid gold at the first embrace. In a transport of joy, 
therefore, he made an unusual present of valuable jewels to 
his daughter, and told her withal that in any reasonable 
request he would instantly indulge her. This liberal 
promise astonished Blanche not a little ; but after a moment's 
musing she made answer. 

" You know. Sir," she said, " my passion for romance, and 
how heartily I despise the fashion of these degenerate days 
when everything is performed in a dM\L ioxTs^ \s!isM5jcas:t^«sa^ 
the occurrence of to-day is but a ^IXjeni ^<3t ^^ \sissc««« 



33i THE L.VDY IN LOVE WITH BOHAKCE. 

There is nothiug douc now so romanticallj aa in those deligfat- 
ful times, Tihcii you could not divine, in one houTy the &te th&t 
filiouUl l>cf;U you in the next, as you may read of in thoee 
dolicious workd of which you have so cruelly depriTed ma 
I l>€<?f therefore, as I have so dutifully oonsolted your satis- 
ftictioii iu the choice of a husband, tliat you will so htr indulge 
me, as io leave the manner of our mairiage to my own 
discretion, which is, that it may be on the model of that in 
the history of Donna Elcanoro, in which novel, if yon 
remember, the lady being confined by her father as I am, 
contrives to conceal a lover in her closet, and mftlr ing their 
escape t(^getlier by a rope-ladder, they are happily united tn 
mamage." 

"Now, by the Holy Virgin !" replied her father, "this 
thing shall never bo ; " and foreseeing a thousand difficultiei^ 
and above all that the Knight would be exceeding adverse 
to his }>art iu the drama, he repented a thousand times over 
of the books which had filled her with such preposterous 
fancies. The lady, notwithstanding, was resolute; and 
declaring that otherwise she would kUl herself rather tlian 
be crossed in her will, the old miser reluctantly acceded to 
her scheme. Accordingly it was concerted that the next 
evening, at dusk, tlio Knight should come and play his 
serenade under her lattice, whereupon, hearing his most 
ravishing music, she was to let fall a ladder of ropes, and so 
a<lmit him to her chamber; her father, moreover, making 
his nightly rounds, she was to conceal her lover in her closet, 
and then, both descending by the ladder together, they were 
to take flight on a pair of fleet horacs, which should be ready 
at the garden gate. 

*'And now," sixid she, "if you fail me in the smallest of 
these particulars, tbo 1L\\\\^\\\> ^^ xve^iw V-a^j^i o.^ me so 
much as a ring may cmXix^eor xwa^ ^VO^ >iN2^^ \%vt^ 



THE LADT IN LOTS WITH BOICAKCE. 386 

tion they Beverally awaited the completion of thdr 
dranuL 

The next night, the Ladj Blanche watched at her window, 
and in due seaaon the Knight came with his twangling 
guitar; but, as if to make her sport of him for the last time, 
she affected to mistake his mniria 

''Ah I" she cried, "here is a goodly serenade to sing one 
awake with; I px^ythee go away a mile hence, with thy 
execrable Toice, or I will haye thee answered with an 
arquebu8&" 

All this time the Knight fretted himself into a violent 
rage, stamping and blaspheming all the blessed saints ; but 
when he heard mention of the arquebuss, he made a motion 
to run away, which constrained the lady to recal him, and to 
cast him down the ladder without any further ado. It was 
a perilous and painful journey for him, you may be sure, to 
climb up to a single story ; but at length with great labour 
he clambered into the balcony, and in a humour that went 
nigh to mar the most charming romance that was ever 
invented. In short, he vowed not to stir a step further in 
the plot ; but Blanche, telling him that for this first and 
last time he must needs fulfil her will, which would so 
speedily be resolved into his own ; and seducing him besides 
with some little tokens of endearment, he allowed himself to 
be locked up in her closet 

The lady then laid herself down in bed, and her &ther 
knocking at the door soon after, she called out that he was at 
liberty to enter. He came in then, very gravely, with a 
dark lantern, asking if his daughter was asleep, she replied 
that she was just on the skirts of a doze. 

'' Ah," quoth he, after bidding her a good night, '' am I ^<^^ 
a good father to humour thee tbua, m «3[\. >i>K5 ^3ksX»»r»A ^s^ 
veritjr,! bare foi^gotten the speeda. ^\^ca\ \ ov^gP^^* "^^^ "^ 

VOL. F. *^ 



Sae THE LADT IN LOTS WITH BOMASCK 

deliver ; but pray look well to thy fbotiog; VksathB^modlmf 

a firm hold of the ladder, for elae thoa wilt Iikw m dmB/ 
ftilly and I would not have thee to damage mj eatnatioHL* 

ncrcupon ho departed; and going baek to hii owi 
chamber, he could not help praiaing God tliat this tRwbfe 
some folly was so nearly at aa end. It onij rmuuned for 
him now to receive the letter, whioh waa to bo sent to him^ 
ns if to procure his iatheriy pardon and benediotioa; aai 
this, after a space, being brought to him bj a domortic^ Im 
read as follows : — 

" Sib, 

" If you had treated me with hmng-luiidneai aa 
your daughter, I should most joyfblly have rereraioed joa 
as my father : but, as you have always canied m pmwe when 
instead you ought to have worn a human hearty I haTO made 
free to bestow myself where that seat of love will not be 
wanting to my happiness. Aa for the huge Knigfat^ whom 
you have thought fit to select for my husband, yon will find 
him locked up in my doset. For the manner of my 
departure, I would not willingly have made you a party to 
your own disappointment; but that^ finom your ezoeasive 
vigilance, it was hopeless for me to escape except by a ladder 
of your own planting. Necessity waa the mother of my inven- 
tion, and its father was Love. Excepting this perfbnnanoe^ 
I was never romantic, and am not now; and, therefoTB^ 
neither scorning your foi^veness, nor yet despairing at ita 
denial, I am going to settle into that sober diaoietion whicb 
I hope is not foreign to my nature. FarewolL — Before you 
read this I am in the arms of my dear Josef CSastello^ a 
gentleman of such merit, that you will regain more honour 
with such a sou, t\iswii -jow caai \^^^ Vswk. *\a. ^^^wot -o^Aoofitafial 

daughter, 



THE KIQHTH 8L££P£B OF EFHESUS. S87 

On reading thts letter, the old man fell into the meet 
ungotemable rage, and releasing the Knight from the doeet, 
they reproached each other so bitterly, and qoarrelled so 
long, as to make it hopeless that they could overtake the 
fugitives, even had they known the direction of their flight. 

In this pleasant manner, the Lady Blanche of Castille 
made her escape from an almost hopeless captivity and an 
odious suitor ; and the letter which she wrote is preserved 
unto this day, as an evidence of her wit. But her &ther never 
forgave her elopement ; and when he was stretched even at 
the point of death, being importuned on this subject, be 
made answer that, '' he could never forgive her, when he had 
never foigiven himself for her evasion." And with these 
words on his lips he expired. 



THE EIGHTH SLEEPER OF EPHESU& 

**Vhl th» fellow would deep oat a Upbndni^tl** 

It happened one day, in a certain merry party of Genoese, 
that their conversation fell at last on the noted miracle of 
Ephesus. Most of the company treated the story of the 
Seven Sleepers as a pleasant &ble, and many shrewd conceits 
and witty jests were passed on the occasion. Some of the 
gentlemen, inventing dreams for those drowsy personages, pro- 
voked much mirth by their allusions ; whilst others speculated 
satirically on the changes in manners, which they must have 
remarked after their century of slumber — all of the listeners 
beiug highly diverted, excepting one sober gentleman, who 
made a thousand wry &ces at the disc^vo^^. 

At length, taking an oppottxu^tj V> %ftAx«» '^vso^^k^ 



888 THE EIGHTH SLEEPER OF SPHSBUa 

lectured them Terj Baxioudy in defence of the T»i>fl^ etDing 
them so many heretics and infidels ; and njing that he ssw 
no reason why the history should not be believed as weil u 
any other legend of the holy fathers. Then, after many 
other curious arguments^ he brought the ^^f^wiplff of the 
dormouse, which sleeps throughout a whola wintcTj affizming 
that the Ephesian Christians^ being laid in m cold plaee^ like 
a rocky cavern or a sepulchre, mig^t reaaonaUy bate 
remained torpid fbr a hundred years. 

His companions, feigning themselves to be conrerted, 
flattered liim on to proceed in a disoonzse whloh iras so 
diverting, some of them replenishing his g^aas continually 
with wiuc — of which, through talking till he became thinty, 
ho partook very freely. At last after uttering a volame of 
follies and extravagances, he dropped his head upon the table 
and fell into a profound doze; during which interval his 
Sicrry companions plotted a scheme against hinii which thej 
promised themselves would afford some excellent sport 
Carrying him softly therefore to an upper chamber, thej 
laid him upon an old bed of state, very quaintly furnished 
and decorated in the style of the Gothic ages. Thence 
repairing to a private theatre in the house, which belonged 
to thoir entertainer, they arrayed themselves in some Bohe- 
mian habits, very grotesque and fanciful, and disguised their 
faces with paint ; and then sending one of their number to 
keep watch in the bed-chamber, they awaited in this masque- 
rade the awaking of the credulous sleeper. 

In an hour or thereabouts, the watcher, perceiving that 
the other began to yawn, ran instantly to his coiorades, who^ 
hurrying up to the chamber, found their Ephesian sitting 
upright in bed, and wonderhig about him at its uncouth 
mouldering furniture. One oi ^i3tle^i >i2!aftTL ^s^raSux^ €ok the 
test, hogm to congraluVale \jMii qxi\^ wrv,^^ .s^^ir 



THE EIGHTH SLEEPER OF EPHESUa 839 

tedious a slumber, persuading him, by help of the others and 
a legion of lies, that he had slept out a hundred years. He 
thereupon asking them who they were, they apswered they 
were his dutiful great-grandchildren, who had kept watch 
over him by turns ever since they were juveniles. In proof 
of this, they showed him how dilapidated the bed had become 
since he had slept in it, nobody daring to remove him against 
the advice of the ph3rsicians. 

" 1 perceive it well,*' said he, '' the golden embroideries are 
indeed very much tarnished — and the hangings in truth, as 
tattered as any of our old Genoese standards that were carried 
against the Turk& These &ded heraldries too, upon the 
head-cloth, have been thoroughly fretted by the moths. I 
notice also, my dear great-grandchildren, by your garments, 
how much the fashions have altered since my time, though 
you have kept our ancient language very purely, which is 
owing of course to the invention of printing. The trees, 
likewise, and the park, I observe, have much the same 
appearance that I remember a centuiy since— but the serene 
aspect of nature does not alter so constantly like our frivolous 
human customs." 

Then recollecting himself he began to make inquiries con- 
cerning his former acquaintance, and in particular about one 
Giaooppo Rossi — ^the same wag that in his mummery was 
then standing before him. They told him he had been dead 
and buried, fourscore years aga 

** Now, God be praised ! " he answered ; '* for that same 
fellow was a most pestilent coxcomb, who, pretending to be a 
wit, thought himself licensed to ridicule men of worth and 
gravity with the most shameful buffoonerie& The world 
must have been much comforted by his deaths and «i?^^^&^ 
if be took with him his feUo^ Tiio\3ii\i5^»x^^x2ii^<;3^J^^ 
waa aa labonom a jester, but &o£LeTr 



890 MADELINK. 

In this strain, going through the names of all those thtt 
wcro with liim in tho room, he praised God heartilj that hs 
was rid of such a generation of knaves and fools and profiutt 
heretics ; aud then recollecting himself afresh, 

**0f course, my great-grandduldreny** said he^ ''I sm • 
widower 1 " 

His wife, who was amongst the maskers^ at this qnestioii 
l>egan to prick up her ears, and answering for herael^ she 
said, 

*< Alas ! tho good woman that was thy partner hsa heen 
dead these sevcuty-three years, and has left thee desolate." 

At this uews tho sleeper hcgan to rub his hands together 
very briskly, saying, " Then there was a cursed shrew gone ;* 
whereupon his wife striking him in a fuiy on tb0 chedc, she 
let fall her mask through this indiscretion ; and so awaked 
him out of his marvellous dream. 



MADELINR 



** One face, one Toice, one habit, and two penonn^ 
A natural perspective, that ii, and ii not** 

Tw^th Nigja. 

There lived in Toledo a young gentleman, so passionatelj 
loved by a young lady of the same city, that on his sudden 
decease she made a vow to think of no other ; and having 
neither relations nor friends, except her dear brother Juan, 
who was then abroad, she hired a small house, and lived 
almost the life of a hermit Being young and handsome, 
however, and possessed besides of a plentiful fortune, she was 
iwuch annoyed by tbc "yo\m^ ^\^ca\» ^^ \>ftft-(jvaRR.^^Vvi>gr«^ 
Used BO many Btratagems to %et ^^ecV ..t V«,^^^^x«^ 



MADELIKE. 801 

her 80 oontinually, that to free herself from their impor- 
tunitiefl^ both now and for the future, she exchanged her 
dress for a man's apparel, and privately withdrew to another 
city. By favour of her complexion, which was a brunette's, 
and the solitaiy manner of her life, she was enabled to pre- 
serve this disguise ; and it might have been expected that 
she would have met with few adventures ; but on the con 
trary, she had barely sojourned a month in this now dwelling, 
and in this unwonted garb, when she was visited with still 
sterner inquietudes than in those she had so lately resigned. 

Aa the beginning of her troubles^ it happened one evening 
in going out a little distance, that she was delayed in the 
street by seeing a young woman, who, sitting on some stone 
steps, and with scanty rags to cover her, was nursing a beau- 
tiful infant at her breast and weeping bitterly. At this 
painful spectacle, the charitable Madehne immediately cast 
her purse into the poor mother's lap, and the woman, eagerly 
seizing the gift, and clasping it to her bosom, began to im- 
plore the blessing of God upon so charitable and Christiau- 
like a gentleman. But an instant had scarcely been gODe, 
when on looking up, and more completely discerning the 
countenance of her benefactor, she suddenly desisted 

^ Ah, wretch 1 " she cried, ^ do you come hither to insult 
me I Go again to your &lse dice ; and the curse of a wife 
and of a mother be upon you ! " Then casting away the purse, 
and bending herself down over her child, and crying, " Alas ! 
my poor babe, shall we eat from the hand that has ruined 
thy father ; '* — she resumed her weeping. 

The tender Madeline was greatly afflicted at being so paiu- 
folly mistaken ; and hastening home, she deliberated with her- 
self whether she should any longer retain an apparel which 
had subjected her to so painful an ocicraxtcsGL^;!/^ \ \sv^^c»(s&!^s^&% 
i^rjformerpeniecutioDB, andtTUB\isi^>iXi^\.Wi^ta»si^^s^^^'^^^ 



392 MADELINE. 

ture could scarcely bcM her a second time, she oootinued in 
her masculine disguise. And now, thinking of the ccnnfort 
and protection which her dear brother Juan might be to her 
in such troubles, she became vehemently anxious for his 
return ; and the more so, because she could obtain no tidings 
of him whatever. On the morrow, therefore, she went forth 
to make inquiry ; and forsaking her usual road, and espedaDj 
the quarter where she had encountered with that unfortunate 
woman, she trusted reasonably to meet with no other such 
misery. 

Now it chanced that the road which she had chosen on 
this day led close l>eside a cemetery ; and just at the moment 
when she arrived by the gates, there came also a funeral, so 
that she was obliged to stand aside during the procession. 
Madeline was much struck by the splendour of the escutch- 
eons ; but still more by the general expression of sorrow 
amongst the people ; and inquiring of a bystander the name 
of the deceased : — " What ! " said the man, " have ye not 
heard of the villanous murder of our good lord, the Don Felix 
de Castro ? — the hot curse of God fall on the wicked Cain that 
slew him ! " and with that, he uttered so many more dreadful 
imprecations as made her blood run cold to hear him. 

In the meantime, the mourners one by one had almost 
entered ; and the last one was just steppmg by with her 
hands clasped and a countenance of the deepest sorrow, when 
casting her eyes on Madeline, she uttered a piercing shriek, 
and pointing with her finger, cried, " That is he, that is he 
who murdered my poor brother ! " 

At this exclamation, the people eagerly pressed towards 

the quarter whither she pointed ; but Madeline, shrinking 

back from the piercing glance of the lady, was so hidden by 

the gate as to be unnolicevi *, «iw^ W^ \i^TX.T£ssiSi.Vk^>5iS^«A\!wd 

oa suspiciou, and a great U^m^i^.t ^^Ssm^, ^^ ^v>s. .«^\*s. \^ 



MADEUNE. 899 

make her escape. '' Alas ! " she sighed inwardly, ** what 
sin have I committed, that this cruel fortune pursues me 
whithersoever I turn. Alas! what have I done)" and 
walking sorrowfully in these meditations, she was suddenly 
accosted by a strange domestia 

*' Senor,*' he said, " my lady desires most earnestly to see 
you ; nay, you must needs come ; " and thereupon leading 
the way into an ancient, noble-looking mansion, the bewil- 
dered Madeline, silent and wondering, was introduced to a 
lai^ge apartment. At the further end a lady, attired in deep 
mourning, like a widow, was reclining on a black velvet sofa; 
the curtains were black, the pictures were framed also in 
black, and the whole room was so furnished in that dismal 
colour, that it looked like a very palace of grie£ 

At sight of Madeline, the lady rose hastily and ran a few 
steps forward ; but her limbs failing, she stopped short, and 
rested with both hands on a little table which stood in the 
centre of the room. Her figure was tall and graceful, but 
so wasted that it seemed as if it must needs bend to that 
attitude ; and her countenance was so thin and pale, and yet 
withal so beautiful, that Madeline could not behold it with- 
out tears of pity. After a pause, the lady cried in a low 
voice, *' Ah, cruel, how could you desert me ! See how I 
have grieved for you I " and therewith unbinding her hair, so 
that it fell about her face, it was as grey as in a woman of 
four-score ! 

" Alas ! " she said, " it was black once, when I gave thee a 
lock for a keepsake ; but it was fitting it should change when 
thou hast changed ; " and leaning her face on her hands she 
sobbed heavily. 

At these words, the tender Madeline approached to console 
her; but the lady pu&hmg \i«t ^\i^^ ^\\^ ^i^^ssaas^ 
mournfully, «It ia too lale\ \t^aVi0^a^Ws^^^^''^ «Dgi.*^««^ 



S84 UADEUNE. 

casting herself on the »>(% gave vay to mieli m pMninn of 
grief, and trembled so exoceding^jy that it ■ "• ii i ftd as if life 
and sorrow would part asunder on the ^xyL if^Atiinii 
kneeling do^n, and swearing that ahe had never i^jond her, 
besought her to moderate a transport which faroke licr heart 
only to gaxo upon ; and the lady moving her lip^ bat »i«*M^ 
to make any reply, then drew from her boaom m mnaJl minia- 
ture, and sobbing out^ ^ Ohiy Juan, Juan I ** hid her £u)e • ^n 
upon the cushion. 

At sight of the picture, the miaersUe Iff^ii^iHe mwm in her 
own turn speechleH ; and remembering inataatly the beggar 
and the mourner, whose mistakes were thus illustrated by the 
unhappy lady — she comprehended at once the full measave 
of her TVTctchodness. ''Oh, Juan, Juan 1** she groaned^ ''is 
it thus horribly that I must bear of thee I ** and stretching 
herself upon the carpet, she uttered such pieicing eriee^ *^»X 
the lady, alarmed by a grief which suipassed even her own, 
endeavoured to raise her, and happening to tear open the 
bosom of her dress, the sex of Madeline waa disoovered. 
'< Alas, poor wretch ! hast thou too been deoeived,** cried the 
lady — " and by the some false Juan 1 '* and enfolding Made- 
line in her arms, the two imfortunates wept together for the 
space of many minutes. 

In the meantime, a domestic abruptly entered; and ex 
claiming that the murderer of Don Felix was condemned, and 
that he had seen him conducted to prison, he delivered into 
the hands of his mistress a fragment of a letter, which she 
read as follows :— 

"Most dear and injured Ladt, 

"Before this shocks your eyes, your ears will be 
Btung with the news tYiaV, it \a \ '^Vo^mk^^ \3^^ ^^soct Vsoa^ 
man ; and knowing that by t\ie B»m«» >aV^^ ^^^^^ ^S«^^ ^^^ 



MADELINE. 895 

peace, I am not less stained by your tears than by his blood 
which is shed. My wretched life will speedily make atone- 
ment for this last offence ; but that I should have requited 
your admirable constancy and affection by so unworthy a 
return of cruelty and falsehood, is a crime that scorches up 
my tears before I can shed them ; and makes me so despair, 
that I cannot pray even on the threshold of death. And yet, 
I am not quite the wretch you may account me, except in 
miseiy ; but desiring only to die as the most unhappy man 
in this unhappy world, I have withheld many particulars 
which might otherwise intercede for me with my judges. 
But I desire to die, and to pass away from both hatred and 
pity, if any such be&l me ; but above all, to perish from a 
remembrance whereof I am most unworthy ; and when I am 
but a clod, and a poor remnant of dust, you may happily 
foi^ve, for mortality's sake, the many faults and human sins 
which did once inhabit it. 

'' I am only a few brief hours short of this Gonsummation ; 
and the life which was bestowed for your misery and mine 
will be extinguished for ever. My blood is running its last 
course through its veins«-'and the light and air of which all 
others so laigely partake, is scantily measured out to me. 
Do not curse me— do not foiget that which you once were to 
me, though unrelated to my crimes ; but if my name may 
still live where my lips have been, put your pardon into a 
prayer for my soul against its last sunrise. Only one more 
request. I have a sister in Toledo who tenderly loves me, 
and believes that I am still abroad. If it be a thing possible, 
confirm her still in that happy delusion— or tell her that I 
am dead, but not how. As I have oonoealed my true name, 
I hope that this deadly reproach may be spared to her, and 
now from the very confines ot \]be ^gcvi^— ^^ 



£M UADELIVE. 

It was a pmnful thing to bear the afflicted lady readiqg 
thus far betwixt her groans— but the remainder waa written 
in so wavering a liand, and withal ao atained and blotted| 
that, like the meaning of death itself, it anxpaaaed diaooreiy. 
At length, ''Let me go/' cried Madeline^ ''let ma go and 
liberate him ! If they mistake me thus ibr xny brother Juai^ 
the gaoler will not be able to distingoiah him ftom me^ and 
in this manner he may escape and ao baye more yean for 
repentance, and make his peace with God.** Hereupon^ 
wildly clapping her hand% aa if for joy at thia fintimate 
thought) slio entreated so earnestly for a womanly dreaa that 
it was given to her, and throwing it over her man*a apparel^ 
she made the best of her way to the prison. But, alaa I the 
countenance of the miserable Jnan was so changed by aickneas 
and sharp anguish of mind, that for want of a more happy 
token she was constrained to recognise him by hia bonda 
Her fond stratagem, therefore, would have been bopeleaa^ if 
Juan besides had not been so resolute, as he was^ in hia 
opposition to her entreaties. She waa obliged, therefore^ 
to content herself with mingling tears with him till nigh^ 
in his dungeon, — and then struggling, and tearing her fine 
hair, as though it had been guilty of her grief, she waa 
removed from him by main force, and in that manner con- 
veyed back to the lady's residence. 

For some hours she expended her breath only in raying 
and the most passionate ailments of distress^ — but after- 
wards she became as fearfully calm, neither speaking; nor 
weeping, nor listening to what was addressed to her, merely 
remarking about midnight, that she heard the din of the 
workmen upon the scaffold — and which, though heard by no 
other person at so great a distance, was confirmed after- 
warda to have been a trutYi. lii>iX5c» B\».\A^^wS&L\tfst «^^ ^s»^ 
and hor Lps moving, but mtVout wd.^ xj.\X«tM^ .S^^«««B«ft. 



ICADEUNE 807 

till morning in a kind of lethai^ — and therein so mnch 
more happy than her unfortunate companion, who at every 
sound of the great hell which is always tolled against the 
death of a convict, started, and sohbed, and shook, as if each 
stroke was made against her own heart. But of Madeline, 
on the contraiy, it was noted that even when the doleful 
procession was passing immediately under the window at 
which she was present, she only shivered a Uttle, as if at a 
cool breath of air, and then turning slowly away, and desiring 
to be laid in bed, she fell into a slumber, as profound nearly 
as death itself But it was not her blessed fate to die so 
quickly, although on the next morning the unhappy partner 
of her grief was found dead upon her pillow, still and cold, 
and with so sorrowful an expression about her countenance, 
as might well rejoice the beholder that she was divorced from 
a life of so deep a trouble. 

As for Madeline, she took no visible note of this occur- 
rence, nor seemed to have any return of reason till the third 
day, when growing more and more restless, and at length 
wandering out into the city, she was observed to tear down 
one of the proclamations for the execution, which were still 
attached to the walls. After this, she was no more seen in 
the neighbourhood, and it was feared she had violently made 
away with her life ; but by later accounts from Toledo, it was 
ascertained that she had wandered back, bare-footed and 
quite a maniac, to that city. 

She was for some years the wonder and the pity of its 
inhabitants, and when I have been in Toledo with my undo 
Francis, I have seen this poor crazed Madeline, as they called 
her, with her long loose hair and her fine face, so pale and 
thin, and so calm-looking, that it seemed to be only held 
alive by her large black eyes, SYi'^ ^sk^e iJ^nrvj^ ts^^^ «saS^ 
gentie, and if you provoked % ^oxvifli te<^l ^-^^^skr. ^^^sio. 




ICASETTO AND : 



It is temarkablfl^ and haidty to 
have not studied the hiatorf o 
trsTaguit tMea may be impoead e 
people ; espeoiall; when euch hUb 
which of itself hu passed before m 
or magical art, ^^H ^i still inflnff 
mind^ to make them baliare^ lilM 



This Masetto, like meet other nu 
man ; but more simpte otherwise 
mouly appear, who hare a great d 
their own, which oomea to them i 



MASETTO AISTD mS KABI. 999 

as dishonest as the most capital of his tiada This fellow, 
observing that Masetto had a veiy good mare, which he kept 
to conrej his wares to Florence, resolved to obtain her at 
the cheapest rate, which was by stratagem, and knowing 
well the simple and credulous character of the farmer, he 
soon devised a plan« Now Masetto was' very tender to all 
dumb animals, and especially to his mare, who was not in- 
sensible to his kindly usage, but pricked up her ears at the 
sound of his voice, and followed him here and there, with 
the sagacity and afifection of a fiedthful dog^ together with 
many other such tokens of an intelligence that has rarely 
belonged to her race. The crafty Corvette, therefore, con- 
ceived great hopes of his scheme : accordingly, having 
planted himself in the road by which Masetto used to return 
home, he managed to fall into discourse with him about the 
mare, which he regarded very earnestly, and this he repeated 
for several days. At last Masetto observing that he seemed 
vciy much afifected when he talked of her, became very 
curious about the cause, and inq[uired if it had ever been his 
good fortune to have such another good mare as his own ; to 
this Corvette made no reply, but throwing his arms about 
the mare*s neck, began to hug her so lovingly, and with so 
many deep drawn sighs, that Masetto began to stare 
amazingly, and to cross himself as fast as he could. The 
hypocritical Corvette then turning away fix>m the animal, — 
** Alas ! " said he, ** this beloved creature that you see before 
you is no mare, but an unhappy woman, disguised in this 
horrible brutal shi^ by an accursed magician. Heaven 
only knows in what manner my beloved wife provoked this 
infernal malice, but doubtless it was by her unconquerable 
virtue, which was rivalled only by the loveliness of her 
person. I have been seeking her intJb^&^baa^^^S^vs^^sc^'^^ 
wearisome earth, and now Wia'^^ dca«cw««ft^\!«tX\sK:^^^«»*J^ 



400 HASETIO AND HIS HARK. 

wherewithal to redeem her of you, my monej being all 
expended in the chai^ges of travellings othenriae I would 
take her instantly to the moat famoua wiaid, Ifirfia^*! 
Scott, who is presently sojourning at Florence, and by belp 
of his ma^cal books might disoover some charm to reatore 
her to her natural shape." Then clasping the docile man 
about the neck agtun, he affected to weep over her yerj 
bitterly. 

The simple Masctto was very much distuibed at thi« 
stoiy, but know not whether to believe it, till at last he 
bethought himself of the vUlage priest, and propoaed to 
consult him upon the case ; and whether the lady, if there 
was one, might not be exorcised out of the body of hia maie. 
The knavish Corvctto, knowing well that this would ruin hia 
whole plot, was prepared to dissuade him. ''You know,** 
said he, 'Hhe vile curiosity of our country people, who 
would not fiiil at such a rumour to pester us out of our 
Bcnscs ; and, especially, they would torment my unhappy 
wife, upon whom they would omit no experiment, however 
cruel, for their satisfaction. Bcmdes, it would certainly kill 
her with grief, to have her disgrace so published to the 
world, which she caimot but feel very bitterly ; for it muat 
be a shocking thing for a young lady who has been aocos- 
tomed to listen to the loftiest praises of her womanly 
beauty, to know herself thus horribly degraded in the foul 
body of a brute. Alas ! who could think that her beautiful 
locks, which used to shine like golden wires, are now turned 
by damnable magic into this coarse slovenly mane ;— or her 
delicate white hands — oh ! how pure and lily-like they were 
— into these hard and iron-shod hoofs ! " The tender-hearted 
Masetto beginning to look very doleful at these exclamations^ 
the knave saw that bis peiiormfiL\i<(^\^\gai\i^ \»kj& «€kGt« and 
BO begged no more for tbe pi^^n^n ^L\tfflx\\isA.>&safe\^ft-*^^iA^ 



llASXrrO AFD HIS lUSB. 401 

treat bis maiB Teiy kindly, and rab her teeth duly vith a 
■prig of magical hombeBm, vhich the simple-witted rustic 
[o-omiBod very readily to peifonn. He had, notwiUifitanding, 
eome buulDg doubte in his head upon the matter, which 
Corvetto found means to remore by d^^rees, taking care, 
■bore all, to oareaa the unocmsdons mars whenever they met, 
and Bometimea going half-priTately to couTerse with her in 
the Btabla 

At last, Masetto being very much distreased by these pro- 
oeedingB, he addressed Corrotto as follows : — " I am at my 
wits' end about this matter. I cannot find in my heart, 
from respect, to make my lady do any kind of rude work, so 
that my cart stands idle in the stable, and my wares are thus 
nnsold, which is a state of things that I cannot very well 
afford. But, above all, your anguish whenever you meet 
with your poor wife is more than I can bear ; it asems such 
a shocking and nncbristian-like sin in me, for the sake of a 
little money, to keep you both asunder. Take her, therefor^ 
freely of me as a gift ; or if you will not receive her thus, 
out of oonuderation for my poverty, it shall be paid me 
when your lady is restored to her estates, and by your 
&vonr, with her own lily-white hand. Nay, pray accept of 
her without a word ; you must be longing, I know, to take 
her to the great wiiard, Michael Scott ; and in the mean- 
time I will pray, myself, to the blesed aainte and martyrs, 
that his abarms may have the proper effect" The rogue, at 
these words, with undissembled joy fell about the marc's 
neok ; and, taking her by the halter, after a formal parting 
with Uaaetto, began to lead her geuUy away. Her old 
master, with brimful eyes, continued watching her deportiure 
till her tail was quite out of sight; whereupon, Conretta 
leapt instantly on her back, ut.<^ V\&tiM.\. i^Cvcy. <« ^&»m) 
begin groping towarda ¥\or«DG», -wteift '^ *^*- "^^'^ ^ 



40a lUSETTO AKD HIS lUBX. 

oertun Saxons are recorded to have dispoied of thair wmi^ 

in the market-place. 

Some time afterwardfl^ Maaetto reiNdring to Floraooe on a 
holiday, to purchase another horse for hia hnainfw^ he tw^H 
a carrier in one of the streets, who was ^^^t'ng liia jade jerj 
cruelly. Tlie kind Maaetto directly inteifbred in behalf of 
the ill-used brute, — which indeed, was his own mara^ thoii^ 
much altered by hard labour and sony difit^ and now got 
into a fresh scrape, with redoubled blows, throng oaperis^ 
up to her old master. Masetto was much ahocked, you may 
be sure, to discover the enchanted lady in Bach a wretched 
plight. But not doubting that she had been stolen fiom 
her af&ictcd husband, he taxed the carrier Tery zonndlj with 
the theft, who laughed at him in his tum for a nn^^tYift n^ 
and proved by throe witnesses^ that he had purchaaed the 
more of Corvette. Masetto*s eyes were thus opened, but 
by a very painful ojioration. However, he purchaaed his 
more again, without bargaining for either golden hair or 
lily-white hands, and with a heavy heart rode back again to 
his village. The inhabitants when he arrived, were met 
together on some public business ; after which Maaetto, like 
an imprudent man as he was, complained bitterly amongst 
his neighboui-s of his disaster. They made themselyes^ 
therefore, very merry at bis expense, and the schoolmaster 
especially, who was reckoned the chiefest wit of the placa 
Masetto bore all their railleries with great patience^ de- 
fending himself with many reasoi^ble arguments — and at 
last ho told thf m ho would bring them in proof qnite as 
wonderful a case. Accordingly, stepping back to his own 
house, ho returned with an old tattered volume, which 
Corvetto had bestowed on him, of the " Arabian Nights^** 
and began to road io ^eta >iXi^ %X.ots ^"^ ^^^^ "K^nman, whose 
wife WOfl turned, aa well as eoT\^i\.\»s voJwi ^\s«w^>&s^TSfl«^ 



HASETTO AND HIS MABE. 408 

His neighbours laughing more lustily than ever at this 
illustration, and the schoolmaster crowing above them al^ 
Masetto interrupted him with great indignation. ^ How is 
this. Sir," said he, " that you mock me so, whereas, I re- 
member, that when I was your serving-man and swept out 
the schoolroom, I hare overheaid you teaching the little 
children concerning people in the old ages, that were half 
men and the other half tinned into horses ; yea, and showing 
them the effigies in a print, and what was there more im- 
possible in this matter of my own mare?" The priest 
interposing at this passage, in defence of the schoolmaster, 
Masetto answered him as he had answered the pedagogue, 
excepting that instead of the Centaurs, he alleged a miracle 
out of the Holy Fathers, in proof of the powers of magic. 
There was some fresh laughing at this rub of the bowls 
against the pastor, who being a Jesuit and a very subtle man, 
began to consider within himself whether it was not better 
for their souls, that his flock should believe by wholesale^ 
than have too scrupulous a fidth, and accordingly, after a 
little deliberation, he sided with Masetto. He engaged, 
moreover, to write for the opinion of his C!ollege, who 
replied, that as soroeiy was a devilish and infernal art^ its 
existence was as certain as the devil*s. 

Thus a belief in enchantment took root in the village, 
which in the end flourished so vigorously, that although the 
rustics could not be juggled out of any of their mares, 
they binned nevertheless a number of unprofitable old 
women. 



404 



THE STORY OF MICHEL ARGENTL 



" Tiew 'em welL 

Qo round mboat 'em, And still 

View their faces ; roand about yt% 

See how death waits open *em, for 

Then shalt nerer yiew *em more.** — Elder BrtAtr. 

Michel Argenti was a learned physiciaa of Fadaa, but 
lately sottlod at Florence, a few yean only before its 
momorablo yisitation, when the Destroying Angel brooded 
over that unliappj city, shaking out deadly Tapoure from its 

wings. 

It must have been a savage heart indeed, that oonld not 
be moved by the shocking scenes that ensued fit>ni that 
horrible calamity, and which were fearful enough to overoome 
even the dearest pieties and prejudices of humanity ; causing 
the holy aishes of the dead to bo no longer venerated, and 
the living to be disregarded by their nearest ties; the 
tenderest mothers forsaking their infants ; wives flying from 
the sick couches of their husbands ; and children neglecting 
their dying parents ; when love closed the door against love, 
and particular selfishness took place of all mutual sympathiea 
There were some brave, humane spirits, nevertheless, that 
with a divine courage ventured into the veiy chambers of the 
sick, and contended over their prostrate bodies with the 
common enemy ; and amongst these was Argenti, who led 
the way in such works of mercy, till at last the pestilenco 
stepped over his own threshold, and he was beckoned home 
by the ghastly finger of Death, to struggle with him for ♦ho 
wife of his own bosom. 



THE STORY OF MICHEL AEGENTI, 40ff 

hopelessly to her that had been dearer to him than health or 
life ; but now, instead of an object of loveliness, a livid and 
ghastly spectacle, almost too loathsome to look upon ; her 
pure flesh being covered with blue and mortiferous blotches, 
her sweet breath changed into a fetid vapour, and her accents 
expressive only of anguish and despair. These doleful sounds 
were aggravated by the songs and festivities of the giddy 
populace, which, now the pestilence had abated, ascended into 
the desolate chamber of its last mar^, and mingled with 
her dying groans. 

These ending on the third day with her li^ Aigenti was 
left to his solitary grief, the only living person in his desolate 
house ; his servants having fled duxing the pestilence, and 
left him to peform every office with his own hands. Hitherto 
the dead had gone without their rites; but he had the 
melancholy satisfaction of those sacred and decent services 
for his wife*8 remains, which during the height of the plague 
had been direfully suspended; the dead bodies being so 
awfully numerous, that they defied a careful sepulture, but 
were thrown, by random and slovenly heapS| into great holes 
and ditches. 

As soon as was prudent after this catastrophei his friends 
repaired to him with his two little children, who had 
fortunately been absent in the country, and now returned 
with brave ruddy cheeks and vigorous spirits to his arms ; 
but) alas ! not to cheer their miserable parent^ who thence- 
forward was never known to smile, nor scarcely to speak^ 
excepting of the pestilence. As a person that goes forth frx>m 
a dark sick chamber is still haunted by its glooms, in spite 
of the sunshine; so, though the plague had ceased, its 
horrors still clxmg about the mind of Aigenti, and with such 
a deadly influence in his thoughts, aa v\> \)^\sd.V>cA V^ *^^ 
iafected gannentB of the dead. TYie dxeaA&A dt^vs^^A V^^a^ 



406 THE STORT OF iOCHEL ABOBTTL 

witnessed still walked with their ghostly imiigrw in his 
— liis mind, in short, being but a doleful lataretto deroted 
to |>estilenco and death. The sanio Lorrible Bpectra 
pi>ssesscd his dreams; which he Bometimes described ti 
tilled up from the same black souroCy and thronging with the 
living sick he had tisited, or the multitudinoos dead cotki^ 
with the unmentionable and unaightlj rites of their 
inhumation. 

Tlicso dreary visions entering into all his thoughts^ it 
ha])pcncd often, that when he was summoned to the sick, be 
pronounced that their malady was the plague, disooTering 
its awful symptoms in bodies where it had no existence ; but 
above all, his terrors were busy with his children, whom he 
\\atchcd with a vigilant and despairing eye ; discerning 
constantly some deadly taint in their wholesome breath, or 
declaring that ho saw the plague-spot in their tender fiicea. 
Thus, watching them sometimes upon their pillows, he would 
burst into tears and exclaim that they were smitten with 
death ; in sliort, he regarded then: blue eyes and ruddy 
cheeks but as the frail roses and violets that are to perish in 
a (lay, and their silken hair like the most brittle gossamers. 
Thus their existence, which should have been a blessing to his 
hoi)es, became a very curse to him through his despair. 

His friends, judging rightly from these tokens that his 
mind was impaired, persuaded him to remove fix>m a place 
which had been the theatre of his calamities, and sqrved but 
too frequently to remind him of his fears. He repaired, 
therefore, with his children to the house of a kinswoman at 
(Jenoa ; but his melancholy was not at all relieved by the 
change, his mind being now like a black Stygian pool that 
reflects not, except one dismal hue, whatever shifting colours 
are presented \>y t\\e ^\e^ \xi >\v\& xa-wAV^ ^:Rk\^vi;\ULed there 
five or six weeks, w\veu \\io «»xr^^T\i ^v\.i -*^^ ^Okks^tq. \s^\i^ s>m. 



THE STORY OF MICHEL ABQENTI. 407 

greatest alarm and confusioa The popular rumour reported 
that the plague had been brought into the port by a Moorish 
felucca, whereupon the magistrates ordered that the usual 
precautions should be obsenred ; so that although there was 
no real pestilence, the city presented the usual appearances 
of such a visitation. 

These tokens were sufficient to aggravate the malady of 
Argenti, whose illusions became instantly more finequent and 
desperate, and his afiliction almost a frenzy ; so that going at 
night to his children, he looked upon them in an agony of 
despair, as though they were already in their shrouds. And 
when he gazed on their delicate round cheeks, like ripening 
fruits, and their fair arms, like sculpttu^ marble, entwining 
each other, 'tis no marvel that he begrudged to pestilence 
the horrible and loathsome disfigurements and changes which 
it would bring upon their beautiful bodies ; neither that he 
contemplated with horror the painful stages by which they 
must travel to their premature gravea Some meditations 
AS dismal I doubt not occupied his incoherent thoughts, and 
whilst they lay before him, so lovely and calm-looking, made 
him wish that instead of a temporal sleep, they were laid in 
eternal rest. Their odorous breath, as he kissed them, was as 
sweet as flowers ; and their pure skin without spot or blemish : 
nevertheless, to his gloomy fanc^ the corrupted touches of 
Death were on them both, and devoted their short-lived 
frames to his most hateful inflictions. 

Imagine him gazing full of these dismal thoughts on their 
faces, sometimes smiting himself upon his forehead, that 
entertained such horrible fancies, and sometimes pacing to 
and fro in the chamber with an emphatic step, which must 
needs have wakened his little ones if they had not been 
lapped in the profound slumber of ixmKy^Ty;:^ %sA ^Sc^^S^ciisaf^^ 
Id the meantime the nnld lig\it ol \o^^ Vsi.\iM^\Q^3fcss ^MSBse*. 



408 THE STORT OF MICHEL ARGENTL 

into a fierce and dreary fire ; his sparkling ejeB, and his lips 
us pallid 113 a^ihes, betraying the desperate aooeai of firensy, 
wliioh like a howling demon passes into his feyeriah soul, sod 
])rovokcs liiin to unnatural action : and first of all he plucks 
away the pillows, those downy ministers to haixnless sleeps 
but now unto death, with which crushing the tender fiues of 
his little oncR, ho thus dams up their gentle respirations 
Ufore tlioj can utter a crj; then casting litmaftlf inth 
horrid fervour upon their bodies^ with this w«fWi:li«Tinr^ 
tiiilmiee he enfolds them till they are quite breathless. 
Alter which he lifts up the pillow% and, lol there lie the 
two uHinlcrcd babes, utterly quiet and still,— «nd with the 
gh:i.st1y M\d of death imprinted on their waxen cheeks. 

In this dreadful manner Argenti destroyed his innocent 
children, — nut in hatred, but ignorantly, and wrought upon 
by the constant apprehension of their death; eren aa a 
terrified wretch njK)u a precipice, who swerves towards the 
very side that presents the danger. Let this deed, therefore, 
be viewc d with compassion, as the fault of his unhappy fate, 
wliieh forced \\\Hm him such a cruel crisis, and finally ended 
his sorrow by as tragical a deatL On the morrow his dead 
l>ody was found at sea, by some fishermen, and being 
recognised as Argenti's, it was interred in one graTe with 
those of his two children. 



iO0 



THE THBEE JEWELS. 



« How many iliApei hatb Lore ? 
yUrrjf M many as your molten WU*^ 

Thebe are many examples in andent and modem stoiy, of 
lovers who have worn Tarious disgalfles to obtain their mis- 
tresses ; the great Jupiter himself setting the pattern by his 
notable transformations. Since those heroic days. Lore has 
often diverted himself in Italy as a shepherd with his pastoral 
crook ; and I propose to tell you how, in more recent times^ 
he has gone amongst us in various other shapes. But in the 
first place I must introduce to you a handsome youth, named 
Torrello, of Bergamo, who was enamoured of Fiorenza^ the 
daughter of gentlefolks in the same neighbourhood. His 
enemies never objected any thing against Torrello, but his 
want of means to support his gentlemanly pretensions and 
some extravagances and follies, which belong generally to 
youth, and are often the mere foils of a generous nature. 
However, the parents of Fiotenza being somewhat austerOi 
perceived graver offences in his flights^ and forbade him^ 
under grievous penalties^ to keep company with his mis- 
tress. 

Love, notwithstanding, is the parent of more inventioni 
than Necessity, and Torrello, being a lively-witted fellow, 
and withal deeply inspired by love, soon found out a way to 
be as often as he would in the presence of his lady. Seeing 
that he could not transform himself like Jupiter, into a 
shower of gold for her sake, he put on the more humUa 
seeming of a gardener, and so got employed in. thA "^^s^msos^- 
ground of her parents. 1 \ea\o "jou \jJi ^gMaw^^^^'^siss^ "^j^ 



410 THE THREE JEWELS. 

flowers prospered under his care, ainoe they were to fonn 
lK>iiquctJ3 for Fiorenza, who was seldom afterwards to be seen 
without somo pretty blossom in her bosom. She took many 
lessons besides of the gardener, in his gentle catft, t^4 her 
fondness growing for the employment^ her time was almost 
all spent naturally amongst her plants, and to the infinite 
cultivation of her hcart*s-ease, which had never before pcos- 
percd to such a growth. She learned also of Toirello a pretty 
language of hieroglyphics, which he had gathered from the 
girls of the Greek Islands, so that they could hold secret 
colloquies together by exchanges of flowers ; and Fiorena 
became more eloquent by this kind of speech than in her own 
language, which she had never foimd competent to her 
dearest confessions. 

Conceive how abundantly happy they were in such employ- 
ments, surrounded by the lovely gifts of Nature, their pleasant 
occupation of itself being the primeval recreation of human- 
kind before the fiill, and love especially being with them, that 
can convert a wilderness into a garden of sweets. 

The mother of Fiorenza, chiding her sometimes for the 
neglect of her embroideries, she would answer in this 
manner : — 

** Oh, my dear mother ! what is there in labours of art at 
all comparable with those? Why should I task myself with 
a tedious needle to stitch out poor tame formal emblems of 
these beautiful flowers and plants, when thus the living 
blooms spring up naturally under my hands. I confess I 
never could account for the fondness of young women for 
that unwholesome chamber-work, for the sake of a piece of 
inanimate tapestry, which hath neither freshness nor fra- 
grance ; whereas, this breezy air, with the odour of the 
J^lants and shrubs, map\r*\\,^ tk^j ^ctj V^aax^^ 1 ^ee^ire you, 
'tia like a work of magvc to wio \io^ >^«^ ^«^ ^^MovawJ^ v^ 



THE THBEE JEWELS. 411 

spring up by the hands of our skilful gardener, who is so 
ciyil and kind as to teach me all the secrets of lus art** 

By such expressions her mother was quieted ; but her 
father was not so easily pacified; for it happened, that 
whilst the roses flourished ereiywhere, the household herbs^ 
by the neglect of Torrello and his assistants, went entirely 
to decay, so that at last, though there was a nosegay in 
every chamber, there was seldom a salad for the table. The 
master taking notice of the neglect^ and the foolish Torrello 
in reply showing a beautiful flowery arbour, which he had 
busied himself in erecting, he was abruptly discharged on 
the spot, and driven out, like Adam, from his Paradise of 
flowers. 

The mother being informed afterwards of this transaction — 

" In truth," said she, ^it was well done of you, for the 
fellow was very forward, and I think Fiorenza did herself 
some disparagement in making so much of him, as I have 
observed. For example^ a small fee of a crown or two would 
have paid him handsomely for his lessons to her, without 
giving him one of her jewels, which I fear the knave will be 
insolent enough to wear and make a boast of" 

And truly Torrello never parted with the gift, which, as 
though it had been some magical talisman, transformed him 
quickly into a master falconer, on the estate of the parent of 
Fiorenza ; and thus he rode side by side with her whenever 
she went a-fowling. That healthful exercise soon restored 
her cheerfulness, which, towards autunm, on the withering 
of her flowers, had been touched with melancholy ; and she 
pursued her new pastime with as much eagerness as before. 
She rode always beside the falconer, as constant as a tassel- 
gentle to his lure ; whilst Torrello often foi^t to recal his 
birds from their flight& His gLddinesa «sl<1 v[A&?\^si\Rsc^sjik ^^ 
iBst procuring hia ^laWAM^A^ \5aft ttlvsa ^^ws^ \aiwsa. \s5sak\sa 



412 THE THREE JEWEIJEI 

finger, whicli Fiorcnza rccompenaed with a fresh jewel, to 
console him fur his dii^grace. 

After this ovent, there being neither geidening nor fowling 
to aninsc her, the languid girl fell into a wone melaiiohdiy 
than l)efore, that quite diaooncertad her paranta After a 
consultation, therefore, between themaelyeSy thetj sent for a 
noted physician from Turin, in spite of the oppoaitioii of 
Fiorcnza, who understood her own ailment giiffiojently to 
know that it was desperate to his remediea In the mean- 
time his visits raised the anxiety of Torrello to Buoh a pitch, 
that after languisliing some days about the manaiony he oon- 
trived to waylay the doctor on his return, and learned from 
him the niystcrioua nature of the patient's diaeaaa The 
doctor confesshig his despair of her cure. 

" Be of good cheer," replied TorreUo j " I know well her 
oomplaiut, and without smy miracle will enable you to restore 
her so as to redound very greatly to your credit. Tou tell 
mo that she will neither eat nor drink, and cannot sleep if 
she would, but pines miserably away, with a despondency 
which must end in either madness or her dissolution; 
whereas, I j)romiso you she shall not only feed heartily, and 
sleep soundly, but dance and sing as merrily as you can 
desire." 

He then related confidentially, the history of their mutual 
love, and begged earnestly that the physician would deyiae 
some means of getting him admitted to the presence of his 
mistress. The doctor being a good-hearted man, was much 
moved by the entreaties of Torrello, and consented to use his 
abihty. 

" However," said he, " I can think of no way but one^ 
which would displease you — and that is, that you should 
pcraoimte my pupil, and attend \r^Tv.\iKt V\\3cw\£s^ xskfi^^^mes." 
TbejojM Torrello assured l\i^ dw:toc/^^^\. V^ ^^^«^ 



'%*SH 



THE THKXB JSWELa 413 

mnch mistaken in supposing that anj falsely-imagined pride 
oould oTermaster the vehemence of his love ; " and accord- 
ingly putting on an apron, with the requisite habits^ he 
repaired on lus errand to the langiiishing Fiorenza. She 
recovered very speedily, at his presence — ^but was altogether 
well again, to leam that thus a new mode was provided for 
their interviews. The physician thereupon was gratified with 
a handsome present by her parents, who allowed the assistant 
likewise to continue his visits till he had earned another 
jewel of Fiorenza. Prudence at last telling them that they 
must abandon this stratagem, they prepared for a fresh 
separation, but taking leave of each other upon a time too 
tenderly, they were observed by the fiekiher, and whilst 
Torrello was indignantly thrust out at the door, Fiorensa 
was commanded, with a stem rebuke to her own chamber. 

The old lady thereupon asking her angry husband concern- 
ing the cause of the uproar, he told her that he had caught 
the doctor^s man on his knees to Fiorenza. 

** A plague take him ! " said he ; <''tis the trick of all his 
tribe, with a pretence of feeling women's pulses to steal away 
their handsL I marvel how meanly the jade will bestow her 
favour next : but it will be a baser variet, I doubt^ than a 
gardener, or a fieJconer." 

''The falconer !" said the mother, ^'you spoke just now of 
the doctor's man." 

''Ay," quoth he, "but I saw her exchange looks, too, with 
the falconer ; my heart misgives me, that we shall undeigo 
much disgrace and trouble on acocount of such a self-willed 
and froward child." 

"Alas!" quoth the mother, "it is the way of young 
women, when they are crossed in the man of their liking ; 
they grow desperate and oaxdom ol >i!stf«t\s^M»rtwa* ^^a.^ 
prtf, methinks, we did not \e\. Yict \mw^ ^Qct5S^o>^^^-^^®s^ 



414 THE THREE JEWELS. 

all his faults, was a youth of gentle birth, and not likely to 
disgrace us by his mannen ; but it would bring me down to 
mj grave, to have the girl debase henelf with any of theee 

common and low-bred people." 

Her husband, agreeing in these sentiments^ they ooncerted 
how to have Torrcllo recalled, which the lady undertook to 
manage, so as to make the most of their parental indulgence 
to Fiorcnza. Accordingly, after a proper lecture on her 
indiscretions, she dictated a dutiful letter to her lover, who 
came very joyfully in his own character as & gentleman, and 
a time was appointed for the wedding. When the day 
arrived, and the company were all assembled, the mother, 
who was very lynx-sighted, espied the three trinkets, namely, 
a ring, a clasp, and a buckle, on the person of Torrello^ that 
had belonged to her daughter : however, before she oould put 
any questions, he took Fiorenza by the hand, and spoke as 
follows : — 

" I know what a history you are goiqg to tell ma of the 
indiscretions of Fiorenza ; and that the several jewels you 
regard so suspiciously, were bestowed by her on a gardener, 
a falconer, and a doctor s man. Those three knave^ being 
all as careless and improvident ^ myself, the gifts are oome^ 
as you perceive, into my own possession ; notwithstanding, 
lest any should impeach, therefore, the constancy of this 
excellent lady, let them know that I will maintain her 
honour in behalf of myself, as well as of those other three, 
in token of which I have put on their several jewejs." 

The parents being enlightened by this discourse, and 
explaining it to their friends, the young people were married, 
to the general satisfaction ; and Fiorenza confessed herself 
thrice happy with the gardener, the falconer, and the 
doctor's maa 



415 



OERONIMO AND GHISOUL 

*'Tlui tmall, fmaU thing, yoa lay ii Tenomoii^ 
Its bite deadly, tho* bat a Texy pin*e prick. 
Now, odght IMath to be called a Fairy — 
For he might creep in, look yoo^ through a keyhole. * 

OldPUf. 

Thebb are many tragical instanoeB on record, of cmeil 
parents who have tried to control the affectiong of their 
children ; but as well plight they endeayour to force back- 
wards the pure mountain current into base and tumatural 
channels. Such attempts^ whether of sordid parents or 
ungenerous rivals, redound only to the disgrace of the con- 
trivers ; for Love is a jealous deity, and commonly avenges 
himself by some memorable catastrophe. 

Thus it befel to the ambitious Marquis of Ciampolo, when 
he aimed at matching his only daughter, Ghisola, with the 
unfortimate Alfieri ; whereas her young heart was already 
devoted to her fedthfid (^eronimo, a person of gentle birth 
and much merit, though of slender estate. For this reason, 
his yirtues were slighted by all but Ohisola, who had much 
cause to grieye at her fiither^s blindness ; for Alfieri was a 
proud and jealous man, and did not scorn to disparage his 
rival by the most unworthy reports. He had, indeed, so 
little generosity, that although she pleaded the prepossession 
of her heart by another, ho did not cease to pursue her ; and 
finally, the Marquis, discovering the reason of her rejection, 
the unhappy Geronimo was imperatively banished firom her 
presence. 

In this extremity, the diBOonso\&\A \q^«i% t&smV^ \ssssqSa. 
with a venerable oak, in ihe 1«.wvximJ% ^^w^^Xs^'^c.^^^ 



416 GEROXIMO AND GUISOLA. 

ft ctmvoniont cavity for the roccpti-Mi of their scix^lls ; au.l in 
thi^ wav, this a.:«'i tree hecanio the imite and fuithful con- 
fiiliiit «'f thi ir scent corrcsi>on«lonce. Its mossy and knotted 
trunk was iiihahitcd hy several 8<iuirrels, and its branches by 
various hinls ; and in its gnarled roots a family of red auJs 
hu«l niuilo their fortress, which afforded a sutficicnt excuse for 
Ohisohi to bt'»j> often before the tree, as if to observe their 
curi.'us and instructive hibours. In this manner thev ex- 

m 

chaii^i'd tliuir fauK'st llrofe^^^iuns, and conveyed the dearest 
aspirations t>f their hearts to each other. 

Iiut lovo is :i imrblind and imprudent pattlon, which, like 
t lie t "St rich, conceals itself from its proper sense, and then 
foi.lishly inia^'ines that it is slxroudcd from all other eyes. 
Thus, whenever (Jhisola walked abroad, her steps wandered 
by attractit'U to tlto self-samo spot, her very existence 
Bceniing linko«l, like the life of a dryad, to her favourite tree. 
At last, these repeated visits attracting the curiosity of the 
vij^ilant Altieri, liis ingenuity soon divined the cause ; and 
warily takini: care to examine all the scrolls that iKis^^ed 
between them, it ha])pcned that several schemes, which 
tiny pl(»ttc<l for a secret intcn'icw, were vcxatiously dis- 
concerted. Tiie unsuspicious lovers, however, attributed 
these sjiiteful dis;\i)pointmcnts to the malice of chance ; and 
thus their i oiTCspondenco continued till towards the end of 
autumn, when the oak-tree began to shed its last withered 
leaves ; but (Iliisola heeded not, so long as it afforded those 
other ones, which were more golden in her eyes than any 
ui)ou the l.>oughs. 

One evil day, however, repairing as usual to the cavity, it 
was empty and trcasureless, although her own deposit had 
been remwved as heretofore ; and tho dews beneath, it 
api)earc(l, had been lately brushed away by tlic foot of her 
dear Geronimo. She knew, notwithstanding, that at any 



G^EEONIMO AND GHISOLA. 417 

tiflk he would not so have grieved her ; wherefore, retummg 
homewards with a heavy heart, she dreaded, not unreasonably, 
that she should diaoover what she pined for in the hands of 
her incensed father ; but being deceived in this expectation, 
she spent the rest of the day in tears and despondence ; for, 
rather than believe any negligence of Geronimo, she resolved 
that he must have met with some tragical adventure ; where- 
fore his bleeding ghost, with many more such horrible 
phantasies, did not fail to visit her in her thoughts and 
dream& 

In the meantime, Geronimo was in equal despair at not 
having received any writings from Ghisola ; but his doubts 
took another turn than hers, and justly alighted on the 
treacherous AlfierL At the first hints of his suspicion, 
therefore, ho ran to the house of his rival, where the domestics 
refused positively to admit him, declaring that their master, 
if not already deceased, was upon the very threshold of 
death. Geronimo naturally supposing this story to be a 
mere subterfuge, drew his sword, and with much ado forced 
his way up to the sick man's chamber, where he found him 
stretched out upon a couch, and covered &om head to heel 
with a long doak. The noise of the door disturbing him, 
Alfieri uncovered his face, and looked out with a counte- 
nance so horribly puckered by anguish and distorted, that 
Geronimo for an instant foigot his purpose, but recovering 
himself from the shock, he asked fiercely for the letters. 

The dying wretch answered to this demand with a deep 

groan, and removing the doak, he showed Geronimo his bare 

arm, which was swelled as large round nearly as a man*s 

body, and quite black and livid to the shoulder ; but the 

hand was redder in colour, and merely a lump of unshapely 

flesh, though without any perceptible wound* 

'' This," said he, pointing to the livid member, ^ ia m^s 
vou V. 'Ki 



GERONIMO Ain) GHISOLA. 419 

supplanted you, whereas I am myself removed from mj 
place on the earth. Let me then depart with your for- 
giveuess for the peace of my soul ; whilst, on my part, I 
make you amends as far as I may. And first of all, take 
this box with its fSatal contents to the Marquis, and bid him 
know by this token that God was adverse to our will And 
because I did love, though vainly, let all my possession be 
laid at the same feet where I used to kneel; and beseech 
her, for charity's sake, to bestow her prayers on my departed 
souL Tell her my pangs were bitter, and my fate cruel, 
except in preserving her from as horrible a calamity.'* 
He then fell backwards again upon the couch, and died. 

As soon as he was laid out, Geronimo went and delivered 
the message to the Marquis, whom he found chiding with 
Ghisola for her melancholy. As he was much impressed 
with the dreadful scene he had witnessed, he described it 
very eloquently, so that both of his hearers were much 
affected, and especially at sight of the box with the dead 
scorpion. It cost Ghisola some fresh tears, which her lover 
did not reprove, to be told of the expressions which related 
to herself; but the Marquis was still more shocked at the 
relation, and confessing that it was the judgment of heaven, 
he no longer opposed himself to the union of Ghisola with 
Geronimo. He then caused the remains of Alfieri to be 
honourably buried ; and it was observed that Geronimo shed 
the most tears of any one that wept over his tomb. 



4M 



THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 

Qold, yeUow gmtcring predoM gold 1 ** 

Timum tf Atkema. 

Therb is no yIoo that causes more calamities in knmsn 
lifo than the intemperate passion for gaming: How msnj 
noblo and ingenious persons it hath reduced from wealth 
unto poverty ; naj, from honesty to diahonour, and by still 
descending steps into the gulf of perdition. And yet how 
prevalent it is in all capital citiesi where many of the 
chiefest nicrcliants, and courtiers especially, are mere pitiful 
slaves of fortune, toiling like so many abject turnspits in 
her ignoble ^vheel. Such a man is worse ofif than a poor 
borrower, for idl he has is at the momentary call of im- 
perative chance; or rather he is more wretched than a veiy 
beggar, being mocked with on appearance of wealth, but as 
deceitful as if it turned, like the moneys in the old Arabian 
storv, into decaying leaves. 

In our j)arent city of Rome, to aggravate her modem 
disgraces, this pestilent vice has lately fixed her abode, and 
has iutlicted many deep wounds on the fame and fortunes of 
her proudest families. A number of noble youths have been 
sucked into the ruinous vortex, some of them being degraded 
at la.st into humble retainers upon rich men, but the most 
j)art j)eribhing by an unuatiurd catastrophe ; and if the same 
fate did not bcfal the young Marquis de Malaspini, it was 
only by favour of a circumstance which is not likely to 
ha])pen a second time for any gamester. 

This gCUt\ctUO.Il CtXXVAO \yv\.0 \5k \v"WDAs«W\ft ^NJ^^SQSiSk ^^ \!&A 

death of hb^ parcuU, ^\vcrcxxx?oxv, Vi ecv^x^te^ v>^ ^'^^^^^Ne.^ 



THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 421 

travelled abroad, and his graceful maimers procured him a 
distinguished reception at several courts. After two years 
spent in this manner he returned to Rome, where he had a 
magnificent palace on the banks of the Tiber, and which he 
further enriched with some valuable paintings and sculptures 
from abroad. His taste in these works was much admired ; 
and his friends remarked, with still greater satisfaction, that 
he was untainted by the courtly vices which he must have 
witnessed in his travels. It only remained to complete their 
wishes, that he should form a matrimonial alliance that 
should be worthy of himself, aud he seemed likely to fulfil 
this hope in attaching himself to the beautiful Countess of 
Maraviglia. She was herself the heiress of an ancient and 
honourable house; so that the match was regarded with 
satisfaction by the relations on both sides, and especially as 
the yoimg pair were most tenderly in love with each other. 

For certain reasons, however, the nuptials were deferred 
for a time, thus affording leisure for the crafty machinations 
of the Devil, who delights, above all things, to cross a 
virtuous and happy marriaga Accordingly, he did not fail 
to make use of this judicious opportunity, but chose for his 
instrument the lady's own brother, a very profligate and a 
gamester, who soon listened, like an evil genius, on the 
unlucky MalaspinL 

It was a dismal shock to the lady when she learned the 
nature of this oonnection, which Malaspini himself discovered 
to her, by incautiously dropping a die from his pocket in 
her presence. She immediately endeavoured, with all her 
influence, to reclaim him from the dreadful passion for play, 
which had now crept over him like a moral cancer, and 
already disputed the sovereignty of love; neither was it 
without some dreadful struggles of tenxiOTW^ QiQL\£& ^^'^n^'^KsN.^ 
oDd some useless victories, that Ve «A.\mX. \gK^^\^aaa^^o2^*^ 



422 TIIE FALL OF THE LEAF. 

Biich dosporate habits ; but the power of his Mephistopbilef 
prevailed, and tho visits of Malaspini to the lady of hii 
a£fc\'tioQ8 l)Ocame still less frequent^ he repairiiig instead to 
those ni<;ht1v resorts where the greater portion of his estates 
was alrca<.lj forfeited. 

At lougth, when the lady had not seen him for some days, 
and in the very last week before that which had been 
ft[>pointed for her marriage, she received a desperate lettw 
from Malaspiui, declaring that he was a ruined Tn^n^ in 
fortune and hope ; and that at the cost of his life even, be 
nmst renounce her hand for ever. He added, that if his 
})ri(le would lot him even propose himself a beggar as he waa^ 
for her acceptance, ho should yet despair too much of her 
pardon to make such an offer; whereas, if he could have 
read in tho heart of tho unhappy lady, he would have seen 
that slie still preferred the beggar Malaspini to the richest 
nobleman in tho Popedom. With abundance of tears and 
Bighs i>onising his letter, her first impulse was to assure him 
of that loving truth ; and to offer herself with her estates to 
him, in compensation of the spites of Fortime : but the 
wretched Aralas{)ini had withdrawn himself no one kue\v 
whither, and she was constrained to content herself with 
grieving over his misfortunes, and purchasing such parts of 
his property as were exposed for sale by his plunderers. 
And now it became apparent what a villanous part his 
betrayer had taken ; for, having thus stripped the imfortu- 
natc gentleman, he now aimed to rob him of his life also, that 
his treacheries might remain undiscovered. To this end he 
feigned a most vehement indignation at Malaspini's neglect 
and had faith, as ho termed it, towards his sister, jirotesting 
that it was an insult to bo only washed out with his blood : 
and with these expressions, he sought to kill him at any 
advantage. And no doubt he woidd have become a murderer. 



THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 428 

as well as a dishonest gamester, if Malaspini^s shame and 
anguish had not drawn him out of the way ; for he had hired 
a mean lodging in the suburbs, from which he never issued 
but at dusk, and then only to wander in the most unfre* 
quented places. 

It was now in the wane of autumn, when some of the days 
are fine, and gorgeously decorated at mom and eve by the 
rich sun's embroideries; but others are dewy and dull 
with cold nipping winds, inspiring comfortless fancies and 
thoughts of melancholy in eyery bosom. In such a dreary 
hour, Malaspini happened to walk abroad, and ayoiding his 
own squandered estates, which it was not easy to do by reason 
of their extent, he wandered into a bye-place in the neigh- 
bourhood. The place was very lonely and desolate, and 
without any near habitation; its main feature especially 
being a large tree, now stripped bare of its vernal honours, 
excepting one dry yellow leaf, which was shaking on a top- 
most bough to the cold evening wind, and threatening at every 
moment to fall to the damp, dewy earth. Before this dreary 
object Malaspini stopped some time in contemplation, 
commenting to himself on the desolate tree, and drawing 
many apt comparisons between its nakedness and his own 
beggarly condition. 

" Alas ! poor bankrupt," says he, " thou hast been plucked 
too, like me ; but yet not so basely. Thou hast but showered 
thy green leaves on the grateful earth, which in another 
season will repay thee with sap and sustenance ; but those 
whom I have fattened will not so much as lend again to my 
living. Thou wilt thus regain all thy green sunmier wealth, 
which I shall never do ; and besides, thou art still better off 
than I am, with that one golden leaf to cheer thee, whereas 
I have been stripped even of my last ducat ! '* 

With these and many more similar fancies he continued 



424 fHK FALL OF THE LEAF. 

to (ig'H'ieTC hlmBclf, till at last^ being more sad than nsnsl, 
his thoii^lits tcudod unto death, and he resolved, still 
watching that yellow leaf, to take its flight as the signal fur 
Lis own dej»artiirc. 

** C'hanci'/' siu<l he, "hath been xnj tempoial rainy and so 
let it now determine for me, in mj last cast between life aod 
death, which is all that its malice hath left me." 

Thus, in his extremity he still risked somewhat npon 
fortune ; and very bhortly the leaf being torn away by a 
Budden blat^t, it made two or three fluttarings to and fro, 
and at hxst settled on the earth, at aboat a hundred paces 
from the tree. Malaspim instantly interpreted this as an 
omen that he ought to die ; and following the leaf till it 
alij^dited, he fell to work on the same spot with his sword, 
intending to scoop himself a sort of rade hollow for a grave. 
IJo found a strange gloomy pleasure in this fhnciful design, 
that made him labour very earnestly ; and the soil besides 
being loose and sandy, he had soon cleared away about afoot 
holow the surface. The earth then became suddenly more 
obstinate, and tning it here and there with his sword, it 
struck against some very hard substance ; whereupon, 
digging a little further down, he discovered a considerablo 
treasure. 

There were coins of various nations, but all golden, in this 
petty mine ; and iu such quantity as made Malaspini doubt 
for a moment if it were not the mere mintage of his fancy. 
Assuring himself, however, that it was no dream, ho gave 
many thanks to God for this timely providence; notwith- 
standing, he hesitated for a moment, to deliberate whether 
it was honest to avail himself of the money ; but believing, 
as was most probable, that it was the plunder of some 
banditti, he was reconciled to the appropriation of it to his 
own necessities. 



THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 426 

LoadiDg himself, therefore, with as much gold as he could 
couyeniently carry, he hastened with it to his humhle 
quarters; and by making two or three more trips in the 
course of the night, he made himself master of the whole 
treasure. It was sufficient, on being reckoned, to maintain 
him in comfort for the rest of his life ; but not being able to 
enjoy it in the scene of his humiliations, he resolved to reside 
abroad ; and embarking in an English vessel at Naples, he 
was carried over safely to London. 

It is held a deep disgrace amongst our Italian nobility for 
a gentleman to meddle with either trade or commerce ; and 
yet, as we behold, they will condescend to retail their own 
produce, and wine especially, — ^yea, marry, and with an 
empty barrel, like any vintner's sign, hung out at their stately 
palaces. Malaspini perhaps disdained from the first these 
illiberal prejudices ; or else he was taught to renounce them 
by the example of the London merchants, whom he saw in 
that great mart of the world, engrossing the universal seas, 
and enjoying the power and importance of princes, merely 
from the fruits of their traffic. At any rate, he embarked 
what money he possessed in various mercantile adventures, 
which ended so profitably, that in three years he had regained 
almost as large a fortune as he had formerly inherited. He 
then speedily returned to his native country, and redeeming 
his paternal estates, he was soon in a worthy condition to 
present himself to his beloved Countess, who was still 
single, and cherished him with all a woman's devotedness 
in her constant affection. They were therefore before long 
united, to the contentment of all Rome ; her wicked relation 
having been slain some time before, in a brawl with his 
associates. 

As for the fortunate wind-fall which had so befriended him, 
Malaspini founded with it a noble hospital for orphans ; and 



456 RARANGA. 

fur this reason, that it belonged formerly to some fiitberkss 
cluUlron, from whom it had been withheld by their niutttunl 
giuirduui. Tliis wicked man it waa who had boried the 
money iu the stuid : but when he found that his treasure was 
stolou, he went and hanged himaelf oa the Teiy tree that 
had caused its discovery. 



BARANGA. 



'* Miserable creature ! 
If tboQ persist in this, *tii danmaljla 
Dost thoa imagine ihon canct slide in blood. 
And not be tainted with a shameful ikll f 
Or, like tbc block and melancholio yew-tree, 
Dost think to root thyself in dead men*s gra^ 
And yet to prosper ? ''—The WMU DeviL 

It has been well said, that if there be no marriages made 
up ill heaven, there are a great many contrived in a worse 
place ; the Devil having a visible hand in some matches, 
which turn out as mischievous and miserable as he could 
desire. Not that I mean here to rail against wedlock, the 
generality of such mockers falling into its worst scrapes ; 
but my mind is just now set upon such contracts as that of 
the Marquis Manfredi with Baranga, who before the year was 
out began to devise his death. 

This woman, it has been supposed by those who remember 
her features, was a Jewess, — which, in a Catholic country, 
the Marquis would be unwilling to acknowledge, — ^however, 
he affirmed that he had brought her from the kingdom of 
Sp.'iin. She was of the smallest figure that was ever known. 
aiul very beautiful, but of as impatient and fiery a temper as 
the cat-a-mountains of her own country ; never hesitating. 



BARANGA. 427 

in her anger, at any extremes, — ^neither sparing her own 
beautiful hair nor her richest dresses, which she sometimes 
tore into shreds with her passionate hand& At such times 
she confirmed but too plausibly her imputed sisterhood with 
Jael and Deborah, and those traditional Hebrew women who 
fiedtered not even at acts of blood ; and who could not have 
looked more wildly at their tragedies than she, when she 
stood in her splendid rags, with her eyes flashing as darkly 
and as dangerously as theirs. 

As soon as she arrived in Italy, her fatal beauty captivated 
a number of unhappy youths, who were led by her wayward- 
ness into the most painful adventures ; some of them suffer- 
ing by encounters amongst themselves, and others by the 
conversion of her fickle favour into hatred and scorn. Man- 
fredi suspected little of these mischiefs, till at last the season 
of .the Carnival drew nigh, when fearing the influence of that 
long revel of pleasiu^e and dissipation upon her mind, he 
withdrew with her to his country seat, which was about nine 
leagues distant from Rome. Thither she was followed by 
one of her gallants, named Yitelli, a ferocious and dissolute 
man, and whom it is believed she engaged to pursue her, not 
so much from personal liking, as in the hope of his assistance 
to relieve her from this irksome retirement. Iler temper, in 
the meantime, being irritated by such restraint, grew every 
day more fierce and desperate — ^her cries often resounding 
through the house, which was strewed with fresh tokens of 
her fuiy. With whatever grief the Marquis beheld these 
paroxysms, he comforted himself by a fond reliance on her 
affection, and endeavoured by the most tender assiduities to 
console her for the disappointment he had inflicted. The 
moment of her arrival in the country, therefore, he presented 
her, as a peace-offering, with a pair of superb earrings ; but 
he quickly beheld her with her ears dropping bloody and t.V^^ 



BARANGA. 420 

himBelf ; and the secret studies of Baranga were guided by 
his direction. Whilst the Marquis was hoping in the whole- 
some results of a temporaiy melancholy and seclusion, which 
have made some minds so nobly philosophise, her guilty, 
lovely hands were tampering with horrid chemistry ; and her 
meditations busy with the most black and deadly syrups. 
There is a traditional picture of her thus occupied in her 
chamber, with the apparition of Death at her elbow, whilst 
with her black and piercing eyes she is watching the mar* 
tyrdom of a httle bird, that is perishing from her Circean 
compounds. 

And now we may suppose Manfr^ to be doomed as the 
next victim of her pernicious craft — ^who, on his part, was 
too imsuspiciouB to reject anything which she might tender 
to him with her infinitely small and delicate white hand. 
And assuredly the appointment of his death was not &r 
distant, when the jealousy of the disappointed suitors of 
Baranga prevented her design. They had not omitted to 
place some spies over her movements : wherefore, on the eve 
of the Carnival, Manfredi was advised by a letter in an 
unknown hand, that she had concerted with Yitelli her 
elopement to Rome, and in a nun's habit, as he might 
convince himself with Httle pains, by an inspection of her 
wardrobe. 

Manfredi was not a person to shut his eyes wilfully against 
the light, — ^but recalled with some uneasiness her mysterious 
seclusion. He chose a time, therefore, when Baranga was 
absent, to visit her wardrobe, where, if he did not discover 
the nun*s habit, he found a complete suit of new sables, 
which had been prepared by her in anticipation of her widow- 
hood. It is easy to conceive with what horror he shrunk 
aghast at this dreary evidence of her malignity, which yet 
was not fully confirmed, till he had biokea Vs^^a Vl^ >ssS&^ 



THE EXILE. 4:1 

a horrible ghastly countenance awaited the same dreadful 
pangs which she had so lately witnessed on the poisoned 
bird. And now, doubtless, it came bitterly over her, what 
fearful flutterings she had seen it make, and throbs, and 
miserable gaspings of its dying beak ; and even as the bird 
had perished, so did sha 

There was no one bold enough to look upon her last 
agonies ; but when she was silent and still, the Marquis 
came in and wept over her ill-starred body — ^which had been 
brought by its ungovernable spirit to so frightful a dia- 
Bolution. 



THE EXILK 



** r£uth there*! a warp in his brain ! 
A itxaight thought growi as crooked in his reflectioD, 
As the shadow of a stick in a pond.'* — Lovit Madness. 

In the reign of King Charles the Fifth of Spain, there 
lived in Madrid a gentleman, who being of a fair reputation 
and an ample fortune, obtained in marriage the daughter of 
one of the counsellors of state. He had not Hved long thus 
happily, when one day his father-in-law returned from the 
council, with a countenance full of dismay, and informed 
him that a secret accusation of treason had been prefeired 
against Him. 

"Now, I know,*' said he, "that you are incapable of so 
great a wickedness, not merely from the loyalty of your 
nature, but because you cannot be so cruel as to have joined 
in a plot which was directed against my own life as well as 
others : yet, not knowing how feir the malice of your enemies 
might prevail, for your marriage has made foes of many 
who were before your rivals^ I would adviaA ^cra^ \i^ ^ 




'-ma, ^°»» 



THE EXILE. 4SS 

quitted Spain, and reBolved to repair to his wife without any 
fiirther delay. 

Now it ohanced in the village where he was resting, that 
he had a very dear friend, named Rodrigo, who had been his 
Bchool-mate, and was as dear to him as a brother ; and 
going to his house at sunset, he discovered himself to the 
other, and besought him to go before to Madrid, and prepare 
his dear wife for his arrivaL " And now, remember,*' said 
he, '^ that my liib, and not only mine, but my dear lady*s 
also, depends upon your breath ; and if you frame it into 
any speech so imprudently as to betray me, I vow, by our 
Holy Lady of Loretto, that I will eat your heart ; *' and 
with this and still stranger expressions, he conducted himself 
so wildly, as to show that his misfortunes, and perhaps some 
sickness, had impaired the healthiness of his brain. His friend, 
however, like a prudent man, concealed this observation ; 
but unlocking his library, and saying that there was store of 
Mitertainment in his absence, he departed on his mission. 

On Rodrigo's arrival at the lady*s house, she was seated on 
a sofa, and, as if to divert her cares, was busied in some 
embroidery ; but every now and then she stayed her needle 
to wipe off a tear that gathered on her long dark eye-lashes, 
and sometimes to gaze for minutes together on a small 
portrait which lay before her on a table. '^ Alas ! " she said 
to the picture, " we two that should have lived together sa 
happily, to be thus asunder ; but absence has made room 
for sorrow to come between us, and it slays both our 
hearts:" and as she complained thus, Rodrigo joyfully 
entered and began to unfold to her his welcome tidings. 

At first, the sorrowful lady paid scarcely any attention to 

his words, but so soon as she comprehended that it 

concerned her dear husband's arrival «hft woiSL^ Xsass^c^ 

bnatbe for joy, ^ 

VOL, r, ^^ 



THE EXILE. 435 

friend, and that the vision itself was but the type of some 
impending calamity ; nevertheless, he subdued his own fears 
before the lady, and endeavoured' to divert her thoughts till 
the arrival of her husband. 

After a tedious interval, at length the door was suddenly 
flung open, and he leaped in ; and rushing to his wife they 
embraced in silence for several sweet minutes, till separating 
a little, that they might gaze on each other, the lady 
remarked that his arm was bound up in a bloody 
handkerchief. 

"Nay,*' said he, perceiving her alarm; it is no very 
grievous hurt, though I have been assailed by robbers in my 
way hither : but, alas ! what greater iiyuiy hath grief 
wrought upon thee ! " for with her maidenly figure, she had 
all the careful countenance of a matron in years. 

Indeed, it was easy to conceive how their hearts had 
Buffered and hungered for each other by their present 
passionate endearments, for they soon crowded into a few 
short minutes all the hoarded affection of years. But such 
joy as theirs is often but the brief wonder of unhappy lives j 
and so, in the veiy summit of delight^ they were interrupted 
by Don Rodrigo, who, with looks full of terror, declared that 
the house was beset 1^ the police, and presently a loud 
knocking was heard at t|ip outer gates. At this alarm, the 
two uufortimates started asunder, and listened till they heard 
even the throbbings of their own fearful hearts. But at the 
second knocking, the gentleman, quitting his wife, and 
drawing his sword, stared wildly about him with eyes that 
seemed to flash out sparkles of i^ipatural fire. 

" Ha ! *' said he, casting a terrible glance upon Rodrigo ; 
** have I sold my life to such a devil 9 '* and suddenly springing 
upon him and tearing hini down to tl^e ground, he thrust his 
sword fiercely into his bosom. 



/ 



I: / 



THiL EXILE. 487 

At this disoourse the gentleman fell into a fresh fremy, 
but less of madness than of bitter grief and remorse : every 
word avenging upon him the stab which he had inflicted on 
his dear friend Rodrigo. He cast himself, therefore, on the 
hard floor, and would have dashed his tortured brains against 
the stones, but for the struggles of the robber, who, hard- 
hearted and savage as he had been by profession, was yet 
touched with strange pity at the sight of so passionate a 
grief. It settled upon him afterwards to a deep dejection, 
and in this condition, after some weeks* confinement, the 
wretched gentleman was finally released without any trial, 
by an order of the council This change, however, which 
should have been a blessing to any other, produced no 
alleviation of his malady. It was nothing in the world to 
him that he was free to revisit its sunshine, and partake of 
all its natural delights — and above all, enjoy the consolations 
and the sweets of domestic affection. Though there was one 
ever gazing upon him with an almost breaking hearty he 
neither felt his own misery nor hers, but looked upon all 
things with an eye bright and fiery indeed at times ; but not, 
like the stars, illuminate with knowledge. 

In this mood he would sit for hours with his arms folded, 
and gazing upon the vacant air, sighing sometimes — ^but 
never conscious of the presence of his once beloved wife, who 
sat before him, and watched his steadfast countenance, till 
she wept at his want of sympathy. Day passed after day, 
and night after night, but there was no change in the dark- 
ness of his mind, till one morning, as he sat, his reason as it 
were returned upon him like the dawn of day, when the sky 
is first streaked with light, and the world gains a weak 
intelligence of the things that are in it. He had been 
looking for some minutes on. \i\a '^^ V\\}CiWs^.>KCi^''iwxx%V«t^ 
bat tenn glistened, for tbe fiwt t\m^ VcL^jcva «^«^ ^k^^^ 5b^.>a»su 




! 



43S 
'"■« evcIi,U jr. .. ^'^ *'»o*» ilia d^u^ 

'"'^'^•' l".t «,„„ ,,^ ""^ '"s friend ij^ •"'* »atcJ,ed the 

'^"'^^u, for the ,voi,n,? , '^""^ covered %itT\ "'^^ 
.''"'i'i'o.I fron, ,, J7,'^ ^»'' been deZj?^ ^^-^ and 

^"^•--o- to ^0 To r?'*'^ ^^^'^ too C^^« been C 
^'"iod aa oJd a<m „r • '*"'°»'bood to O^wJ ""^ *oIy 



489 



THE OWL. 

** What great eyes you have got I ** — Red Riding Rood, 

** An indiscreet friend,*' says the proverb, " is more dan- 
gerous than the naked sword of an enemy ; *' and truly, there 
is nothing more &tal than the act of a misjudging ally, which, 
like a mistake in medicine, is apt to kill the unhi^py patient 
whom it was intended to cure. 

This lesson was taught in a remarkable manner to the 
innocent Zerlina, a peasant ; to conceive which, you must 
suppose her to have gone by permission into the garden of 
the Countess of Marezzo, near the Amo, one beautiful morn- 
ing of June. It was a spacious pleasure-ground, excellently 
disposed and adorned with the choicest specimens of shrubs 
and trees, being bounded on all sides by hedge-rows of laurels 
and myrtles, and such sombre evei^greens, and in the midst 
was a pretty verdant lawn with a sun-diaL 

The numberless plants that belong to that beautiful season 
were then in full flower, and the dehcate fragrance of the 
orange blossoms perfumed the universal air. The thrushes 
were singing merrily in the copses, and the bees, that cannot 
stir without music, made a joyous humming with their wings. 
All things were vigorous and cheerful except one, a poor owl, 
that had been hurt by a bolt from a cross-bow, and so had 
been unable by daylight to regain his accustomed hermitage, 
but sheltered himself un^er a row of laurel-trees and hollies, 
that afforded a delicious shadow in the noontide sun. There, 
shunning and shunned by all, as is the lot of the unfortunate, 
he languished over his wound ; till a flight of i^rt ctqasc^^'ic^ 
espying him, he was soon foxoed. lo exAvcc^ ^ ^wsa^ssi.^ *««>&«- 
tings aa well as buflfets firoia tbait HxAO^cxiX* t^c^ 



■'• ■ /. 



i I 



I' 



} . 



••■ /• 



■/,../. 



' U 



< 1 



.•>s 



•'/'■ /, ■'■'" A;,.. 






THE OWL. 441 

perversely, but who would look for such oxmatiiral humoors 
in a simple bird." 

Therewith) taJdog the monkish fowl from his dull leafy 
cloisters, she disposed him once more on the sunny lawn, 
where he made still fresh attempts to get away from the over 
painful radiance — but was now become too feeble and ill to 
remove. Zerlina, therefore, began to believe that he was 
reconciled to his situation ; but she had hardly cherished this 
fancy, when a dismal film came suddenly over his large roimd 
eyes ; and then falling over upon his back, after one or two 
slow gasps of his beak, and a few twitches of his aged daws, 
the poor martyr of kindness expired before her sight It 
cost her a few tears to witness the tragical issue of her endea- 
vours ; but she was still more grieved afterwards, when she 
was told of the cruelty of her unskilful treatment ; and the 
poor owl, with its melancholy death, was the frequent subject 
of her meditations. 

In the year after this occurrence, it happened that the 
Countess of Marezzo was in want of a young female attendant, 
and being much struck with the modesty and lively temper of 
Zerlina, she requested of her parents to let her live with her. 
The poor people, having a numerous fiEimily to provide for^ 
agreed very cheerfully to the proposal, and Zerlina was carried 
by her benefactress to Rome. Her good conduct confirming 
the prepossessions of the Countess, the latter showed her 
many marks of her favour and regard, not only furnishing her 
handsomely with apparel, but taking her as a companion, on 
her visits to the most rich and noble families, so that Zerlina 
was thus introduced to much gaiety and splendour. Her 
heart, notwithstanding, ached oftentimes under her silken 
dresses, for in spite of the favour of the Countess, she met 
with many slights from the proud and wealthy, on aocoimt of 
her humble origin, as well as much enr^ «sA t^sS^^nkr^ Hx^sb^ 



'It 

'I' 



I 



i 

t 



• •/ 



'.: 



443 



THE GERMAN KNIGHT. 



** Of breaking ipean, of ziogiog helm and shield, 
A dreadful romonr roai^d on every side : 
There lay a horse ; another through the field 
Ran masterless,— dismounted was his guide." 

Godfrey of BuUoigne, 

Thebe is an old proverb that some jokes are cut-throats ; 
meauiDg that certain unlucky jests are apt to bring a 
tragical ending.-a truth which ha« been confirmed by 
many instances, besides that one which I am about to relata 

At the memorable siege of Vienna by the French, in the 

year ^ the inhabitants enrolled themselves in great 

numbers for the defence of the city, and amongst these was 
one Lodowic, a man of dull intellect and a hasty temper, but 
withal of a slow courage. He was not one of the last, 
however, to volunteer; for there was a lady in the back- 
ground who excited him, with an extraordinary eagerness, to 
take up arms against the common enemy. 

It is notorious that the Germans, though phlegmatic, are 
a romantic people in their notions ; the tales of chivalry, the 
mysteries of Odin, and diabolical legends, being their most 
favourite studies. In affairs of business they are plodding, 
indefatigable, and of an extraordinary patience, their 
naturalists having counted cod*s eggs, by millions, beyond 
any other people ; and in their extravagant flights they 
equally surpass the rest of mankind, even as it has been 
observed of the most sedate drudge-horses, that they kick up 
highest of any when turned out free into the meadow. 

Dorothea, for so the lady was called, partook lai^gely of 
the national bias ; and in tnxtlb) tox \kfit q^tcl ^^r»rr^ «a^ 



THE GERMAK KNIGHT. US 

found it convenient to cast it amongst certain gossiping 
housewives in the street ; so that, in extremity, he could 
fulfil neither of the Spartan conditions. 

The common people, who have hawk's eyes for any 
grotesque figure, shouted lustily after him as he rode, which 
attracted the general notice of his troop to that quarter, and 
as soon as they perceived his uncouth habiliments, set off as 
they were by his impertm'bable German gravity, there was a 
tumult of laughter and derision along the whole line. 

Now it happened that there belonged to this troop an 
ac\jutant, a special friend of Lodowio, but, on this occasion, 
the most bitter of his mockers. A hundred merry jests 
he passed upon the unlucky man-at-arms, till at last the 
incensed Paladin beckoned him a pace or two apart, and 
after a short but angry conference, returned with his face at 
a white heat to his mistress, and informed her of the event. 

"Now this adventure,'* said the cruel one, '^Mls out 
better than I hoped. Thou shalt cast down thy gauntlet in 
defiance of this uncoiurteous knight ; and though there be no 
royal lists appointed in these days, ye may have, notwith- 
standing, a very honourable and chivahv)U8 encounter." 

" As for that, Madam," returned Lodowic, " the matter is 
settled, and without throwing about any gloves at alL I 
have dared him to meet me to-morrow at simrise, by the 
Linden Wood ; and one way or another I dare say something 
desperate will be done between us." 

The hard-hearted one, highly in love with this news, 
embraced Lodowic very tenderly, and to mark her grace 
towards him still farther, gave him her glove to wear as a 
favoiu* during the impending combat. She selected for him, 
moreover, a new suit of armour, and gave him a finesh shield 
against any disaster, — a provision which the knight acknow- 
ledged with equal gratitude %nd gravity. And now she ha^ 



411 THX amCAH ■ ■ MH T.- '"■ 

nothing left bnt to draua, waldiy or riia^K if lb ^m 
of battle of tba raonow -, ■Iiiiumw. Tiwluwlt ^kmi Ifa ■■ 
tin mora through the ni^t, Umu if Ub kaA kaia ^^^al^ 
krma in » church. 

Ab aoou u the oocka begui to orow, «3riA te kivl nft 
u much plotkSDjv M St tvtm, h» pot «■ lite »— ^ — ^ §« 
forth whikt the monuog wm j«t at • gi^ B^ht Iftmk 
bo chill so dnthlika ftud tobtlt^ ■■ t^t wtuoh ■«» « 
vitli tiio vKpoiuiih dampa beftra navfa^ ^^ Tf^ fj jfj^ jm 
fijiuud himself all owr ia ft ecdd svesl^ *Ma«<BU» to tel<f 
thecarth. Thnnthti nf iVwth hwiil^ h^a aa» la to >^ 
within bim ; U>e Yvy crinuon nota and ^mam of fli 
otutcm sky suggcoting to him tl» 94111^ of tha fotr wbwA 
which might soon be inflicted on hit miimlilM hoiti tag b 
knew that even the iron detmoM of tha oUon fcwigii«» hrf 
uot exempted them fratn nuh crad dMbeft Ih tfae men 
time, be studied a padfio disomuw^ vludt be teiMtad rnmld 
heal up the qnonel better than eithar iwvjnl or i-~»- - ud 
in this ChriBtian temper he arrived at tha aftpointed phm 
There was no one yet ™iUe witbin the nanor otaean 
horizon ; wherefore be pacpd hii hme dowlj ap and dom 
in front of tho Linden Wood, between vhioh and himnff 
there flowed a small murmuiing atraain. 

After about twenty tuma to and bo, ItOdowio faebdd "^^ 
one emerging from the trees, whom the puat of tha moming 
would not let him perfectly i^iftingfiiii^. Howvrar, tha pala 
liglit of the Bun began presently to glawa npcn the figoi^ 
turning it from a dark olyeot to a bri^t en^ m that it 
gloomed out like the rivulet, which stood at neaHr tha saoM 
distance. Thp figure leaped bis heme over the brgok ipth a 
alight noise that sounded like {he jinking of fjt*fi <nyi 
coming gently mU» \ka &ne^[ira.'a&,\ji&(i«w. <^ u i»b»A ibut 
it was tho /idjutaot, m fc sviit cS conc^ato wmtroi^ «»,-«^ 



THE GERMAN KNIGHT. 447 

sight, he was yery much puzzled whether to take it as a new 
affront or as an apology, that the other came thus, in a suit 
of the kind that had begotten their difference; but how 
monstrous was his rage to discover that it was only a 
burlesque armoiu* — the helmet being merely a pewter bason, 
and the shield the cover of a laige iron pot. The mocker, 
pursuing his original jest in this indiscreet way, had pre- 
pared a set speech for the encounter. 

" You see. Cousin," said he, " that I meet you at your own 
arms. Here \s my helmet to match with yomrs, and this 
my buckler is made after the model of your own ; here is 
my corslet too'* — but before he could achieve the compari- 
son, his horse was staggering from the rush of the cholenc 
liodowic, whose spear, whether by accident or design, was 
biuied deep in the other's bosom. The woundod man gave 
but one groan, and fell backward, and the horse of Jjodowic, 
taking fright at the clatter of the armour, started of at full 
gallop, throwing his rider side by side with the bleeding 
wretch upon the grass. 

As soon as he recovered from the shock, Lodowio got up 
and gazed with fixed eyes on the wounded man. He was 
lying on his back, staring dreadfully against the sky ; one of 
his b(^i;d9 was clenched about the handle of the cruel spear — 
the other he kept striking with mere anguish against the 
ground, where it soon became dabbled in a pool of blood that 
had flowed from his wound. Anon, drawing it in a fresh 
agony across his brow, his face Hkcwise was smeared over with 
the gore, making altogether so shocking a picture that 
Lodowic was ready to swoon away upon the spot 

"In the name of God," he cried, "tell me, my dearest 
friend, that you are not mortally hurt ! " — but the wounded 
man made answer only by a horrible loVL Q»i Viis^ ^'^^^'«a.^''»i 
expired. 



^1 •■ 



I 



f 



//. .. ■ 



A- . 

A' .. . 






••'/ 



»' .-. 



/ 

■■'•- 1,.. 



THS FLOHENTINE KINSMEN. i4» 

Btrtmg the heads of a score of Turks at my saddle-bow. 
Tin then, I remain, in all loyalty, your true knight, 

LoDOwia 

The hard-hearted one perused this letter with an equal 
mixture of delight and doubt, for the style of the German, 
hitherto, had been neither quaint nor heroicaL She waited 
many long years, you may believe, for the heads of the 
Infidels. In the meantime, Lodowic had passed oyer into 
England, where he married the widow of a refiner, and soon 
became an opulent sugar-baker; for though he still had 
some German romantic flights on an occasion, he was as 
steady and plodding as a blind mill-horse in his business. 



THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. 



It is a true proyerb, that we are hawks in discerning the 
£Eiults of others, but buzzards in spying out our own : and so 
18 the other, that no man will act wickedly before a mirror ; 
both of which sayings I hope to illustrate in the following 
story. 

The hereditary domains of the Malatesti, formerly a 
Yerj ancient and noble family of Florence, were large and 
princely, though now they are alienated and parcelled out 
amongst numerous possessors; and the race which then 
owned them is extinct After many generations, the greater 
portion of the estates descended to a distant relation of the 
house, and the remainder to his kinsman, who had already 
some yeiy large possessions of his own. 

This man, notwithstanding he was so rich, and able to 

liye, if he chose, in the greatest luxury and profusion^ wa& 
T01» T. '^'^ 



450 THE 7L0BSNTIKS KXHSMEBT. 

still 80 oovetous m to oast an enTioui and gnidgiiig bjb oq 
the property of his noble kinsmaii^ and he did *"**^™g but 
devise secretly how he should get the rest of the estates of 
the Malatesti in his own hands. His kinsman, howeirer 
though generous and hospitable^ was no prodigal or gamUer 
likely to stand in need of usurious loans; neitliar a diaK>- 
lute liver that might die prematurdj, nor a soldier; bat 
addicted to peaceful literazy studies^ and veqr tempemte in 
his habits. 

The miserly man, therefore, saw no hope of obtaining his 
wishes, except at the price of blood and he did not aoruplo 
at last to admit this horrible altematiyo into hia nightly 
meditations. He resolved, therefore^ to bribe the notorioos 
PazA), a famous robber of that time^ to his puipoee : but 
ashamed, perhaps, to avow his inordinate longings^ even to a 
robber, or else grudging the high wages of such a servant of 
iniquity, he afterwards revoked this dengu, and took upon 
his own hands the office of an assassin. 

Accordingly he invited his unsuspecting kinsman, inth 
much specious kindness, to his own house^ under a pretence 
of consulting him on some rare old manuscripts^ whidi he 
had lately purchased, a temptation which the other was not 
likely to resist. He repaired, therefore, very readily to the 
miser's country seat, where they spent a few days together 
very amicably, though not sumptuously; but the learned 
gentleman was contented with the entertainment which he 
hoped to meet with in the antique papyri. At last^ growing 
more impatient than was strictly polite to behold the manu* 
scripts, he inquired for them so coutinually, that his crafty 
host thought it was full time to show him an improvement 
which ho had designed upon his estate, and which intended, 
as may bo gviea&ed, \)b& ^<^\a»cl q1 vcks^Oofist VnroXnr) \i;^ V^in 

own. 



THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. 451 

The gentleman, who, along with alchemy and the other 
sciences, had studied landscape-gardening, made no diffi- 
culties; so mounting their horses, thej rode towards the 
middle of the estate into a deep forest, the gentleman 
discoursing by the way, for the last time in his lifb possibly, 
on the cultivation of the cedar. The miser with a dagger in 
his sleeve, rode closely by his side, commenting from time to 
time on the growth of his trees, and at length bade his 
companion look towards the right, through a certain little 
yistOy which opened towards the setting sun, now shining 
very gorgeously in the west. The unwary gentleman 
accordingly turned his head oo that side — but he had 
scarcely glanced on that golden light of heaven, when the 
miser suddenly smote him a savage blow on the left breast, 
which tumbled him off his horse. 

The stroke, however, though so well directed, alighted 
luckily on a small volume of a favourite author, which the 
gentleman wore constantly in his bosom. So that learning, 
which has brought so many to poverty and a miserable end, 
was for this once the salvation of a life. 

At first the victim was stunned awhile by the fall, and 
especially by the shocking treachery of his relation, who 
seeing how matters went, leapt quickly down to dispatch 
him ; but the gentleman, though a scholar, made a vigorous 
defence, and catching hold of the miser's arm with the 
dagger, he began to plead in veiy natural terms (for at other 
times he was a little pedantical) for his life. 

" Oh, my kinsman," said he, " why will you kill me, who 
have never wished you any harm in my days, but on the 
contrary have always loved you faithfully,, and concerned 
myself at every opportunity about your heaith and welfare 1 
Consider, besides, I beg of you, how nearly we ojc^i ^V\55i^\sjL 
blood; though it is a foul cnm^ lot «xv^ \xi"w\' \i5k\SX. ^ss^ 



453 THE FLORENl'INE KINSMEir. 

unbrotberlj hand agaiDBt another, yet in our CM6 it ia 
unnatural. IlGmcmber the awful cuzse of CSain ; whidi for 
this very act will piunuo you ; and for your own aake aa well 
as mine, do not incur so terrible a penalty. Think how 
presumptuous it is to take a life of God*B owm grmcioQa 
creation, and to quench a spark whichy in after remone^ 
you cannot by any means rekindle ; nay, how much men 
horrible it must be still to slay an immortal soul, aa yoa 
thus hazard, by sending me to my aodit with all my crimei 
still unrepontcd upon my head. Look here at this Teiy 
blood, which you have drawn from my hand in our atrug^e^ 
how naturally it reproaches and stains you; for which 
reason, God doubtless made it of that blushing hue, that it 
might not bo shed thus wantonly. This little wjund alone 
wrings mo with more pain than I have ever cauaed to any 
living creature, but you cannot destroy mo without still 
keener anguish and the utmost agonies. And why, indeed, 
should you slay me ? not for my riches, of which we have 
both of us more than enough, or if you wanted, Heavon 
knows how freely I would share my means with you. I 
cannot believe you so base as to murder me for such 
nni)rofi table lucre, but doubtless I have offended you, in 
some innocent way, to provoke this malice. If I Jiave, I will 
beseech your pardon a thousand times over, from the simple 
love that I bear you ; but do not requite me for an imaginary 
wrong so barbaroiuily. Pray, my dear kinsman, spare me ! 
Do not cut me off thus untimely in the happy prime of m j 
days, — from the pleasant simshino, and firom the blessed 
delights of nature, and from my harmless books (for he dii 
not forget those), and all the common joys of existence. It ia 
tnie, I have no dear wife or children to weep for me, but 1 
have many VmdVy itVotida W^s*. ^\\L ^xa^e for my death, 
besides all the i^oor ^^eaaswiXa oii mi va\a.\«s^v<. ^^ vjs. 



THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. U9 

I fear, under a harder lordship. Pray, mj kinsman, spare 
me!" 

But the cruel miser, in reply, only struggled to release 
himself, and at last prevailing, he smote the other onoe or 
twice again with his dagger, but not dangerously. 

Now it happened that the noted robber Pazzo, whom I 
have already mentioned, was making a roimd in the forest at 
the same time with the two kinsmen, and thanking ProYi- 
dence that had thrown into his path so rich a prize (for the 
rogue was very deyout in his own way), he watched them 
along the road for a favourable opportunity of assaulting 
them, and so became a witness of this murderous transaction. 

Pazzo himself was a brave man, and not espedally cruel ; 
thus he was not sorry to see that a part of his office was 
about to be performed by another, and probably, too, he was 
secretly gratified to observe that a rich and reputable man 
could behave himself so like a despised robber : howbeit, he 
no ways interfered, but warily ambushed himself behind a 
large cork-tree to behold the sequel 

He was near enough to hear all the speeches that passed 
between them, so that, having still some human kindliness at 
the bottom of his heart, it was soon awakened by the gentle- 
man's eloquent pleadings for his life ; but when the assassin 
began to attack him afresh, the cruelty of the act struck on . 
him so forcibly, that he instantly leaped out upon the blood- 
thirsty miser, and tore him down to the groimd. He was 
then going to dispatch him without further delay ; but the 
generous kinsman, entreating most earnestly for the wretch's 
life, and promising any sum for his ransom, Pazzo with 
great reluctance, allowed him to remain unhurt He boimd 
his hands together, notwithstanding, and detained him as 
his prisoner; but he would accept of no ixiQXifirj^TL^x ^ vsc^ 
tHvour from the grateful gentlerci^Ji, eiLCC^X ^b'^xoo^'®^'^^^^^^ 



454 THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. 

would use his interest with goyemment in behalf of any of 
the banditti who should &U into the hands of the police. 

They then parted with mutual courtesy; the g^itleman 
returning home, and Pazzo repairing with his captive to the 
mountains, where he bestowed him as a legacy to his com- 
rades, desiring them to hberate him only for an enormous 
ransom. This sum was soon sent to their lendeirooB^ as 
agreed upon by his kinsman; whereapon the miser was 
suffered to depart; and thenoeforwards he cherished a 
gentleness of hearty which he had been taught to Talue by 
some sufferings amongst the mountains. 

As for the gentleman, he resumed his hannless and 
beloved studies, till being over persuaded to publish a 
metaphysical work, on which he had been engaged for some 
years, the critics did for him what his kinsman had been 
unable to effect^ and he died of chagrin. The miser thus 
attained in the end to his object, of inheriting the whole of 
the estates ; but he enjoyed them very briefly, and on his 
death the family of Malatesti became extinct 

The ransom-money Pozzo distributed amongst his com- 
rades, and then renoimced for ever his former course of 
life ; confessing that what had passed between the two 
kinsmen had held up to him such an odious pattern of his 
own wicked pmctiecs, that he repented bitterly of the acts 
of violence and injustice he had committed in his profession. 
In this manner he justified the sayings with which I set out 
in my story; and afterwords, entering into the Venetian 
navy, ho served with great credit against the Turks and 
infidels, and died at lost bravely fighting with those enemies 
of our religion. 

TBt 'KSCD Ql NOV*. "^ . 




Stanford University Libraries 
Stanford, California 



Rclnrn this book on or twfore iMtt due.