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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  ? — 0  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.     0  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. 

0  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  ? 

0 !  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. — 0  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 

0  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 

0  build  a  Brookes's  Theatre  for  horses ! 
0  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 

0  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 — 

0  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, — 
0  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. 


0  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 

0  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 

0  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,  0  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. 


0  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" 

0  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  ? 

0  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 

0  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 

^  0 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. 

"  0  Sally  Brown,  0  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, 

0  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 ! — 

0  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. 
**  0  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. 

**  0  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,  0  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. 
0  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 : — 
0  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  0  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,* — 
0  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. 

^  0  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    0  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.' 


•  •        »  ••     ,\   ,■■"••      ..-.•■ 


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,     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  niftn, — 
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    0  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 

''  0  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. 

0  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. 
0  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  0  sad  marvel !  0  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. 

"  0  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. 

0  too  dear  knowledge  !     0  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 ! 

"  0  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 ! 

**  0  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^ 

0  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, — 0  happy  nighty 
That  lets  me  company  his  banisVd  spright ! 

"  0  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  ; 

0  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 ; 
0  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. 
0  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  0  sad  marvel !  0  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. 

"  0  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. 

0  too  dear  knowledge  1    0  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 ! 

*<  0  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 ! 

"  0  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^ 

0  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, — 0  happy  nighty 
That  lets  me  company  his  banish*d  spright  I 

"  0  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  ; 

0  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 ; 
0  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  eonfttmta  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,— 
0  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,  0  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. 

0  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. 

0  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 
0  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 

0 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  ! 

0  !  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. 

0 !  well  may  poets  make  a  fuss 

In  summer  time,  and  sigh  "  0  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  ! 
0  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 . 
0  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 


0  this  is  he  that  palpably  dedded. 

With  grave  and  mathematical  preoHcnt 

How  often  atoms  may  be  snbdivided 
By  long  division ; 

0  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. 

''  0  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 

0  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  prowcM  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  MaAened  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  mftlring  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  ■"•iiiftd  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^^tYiftn^ 
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   ■■MHT.-        '"■ 

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^fjjfj^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.  <^ui»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*.  "^ . 


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