MAUDE ALLINGHAME; A LEGEND OF HERTFORDSHIRE.[1]

There is weeping and wailing in Allinghame Hall, From many an eye does the tear-drop fall, Swollen with sorrow is many a lip, Many a nose is red at the tip; All the shutters are shut very tight, To keep out the wind and to keep out the light; While a couple of mutes, With very black suits, And extremely long faces, Have taken their places With an air of professional esprit de corps, One on each side of the great hall door. On the gravel beyond, in a wonderful state Of black velvet and feathers, a grand hearse, and eight Magnificent horses, the orders await Of a spruce undertaker, Who’s come from Long Acre, To furnish a coffin, and do the polite To the corpse of Sir Reginald Allinghame, Knight. The lamented deceased whose funeral arrangement I’ve just been describing, resembled that strange gent Who ventured to falsely imprison a great man, Viz. the Ottoman captor of noble Lord Bateman; For we’re told in that ballad, which makes our eyes water, That this terrible Turk had got one only daughter; And although our good knight had twice seen twins arrive, a Young lady named Maude was the only survivor. So there being no entail On some horrid heir-male, And no far-away cousin or distant relation To lay claim to the lands and commence litigation, ’Tis well known through the county, by each one and all, That fair Maude is the heiress of Allinghame Hall. Yes! she was very fair to view; Mark well that forehead’s ivory hue, That speaking eye, whose glance of pride The silken lashes scarce can hide, E’en when, as now, its wonted fire Is paled with weeping o’er her sire; Those scornful lips that part to show The pearl-like teeth in even row, That dimpled chin, so round and fair, The clusters of her raven hair, Whose glossy curls their shadow throw O’er her smooth brow and neck of snow; The faultless hand, the ankle small, The figure more than woman tall, And yet so graceful, sculptor’s art Such symmetry could ne’er impart. Observe her well, and then confess The power of female loveliness, And say, “Except a touch of vice One may descry About the eye, Rousing a Caudle-ish recollection, Which might perchance upon reflection Turn out a serious objection, That gal would make “a heavenly splice.” From far and wide On every side The county did many a suitor ride, Who, wishing to marry, determined to call And propose for the heiress of Allinghame Hall. Knights who’d gathered great fame in Stabbing, cutting, and maiming The French and their families At Blenheim and Ramilies, In promiscuous manslaughter T’other side of the water, Very eagerly sought her; Yet, though presents they brought her, And fain would have taught her To fancy they loved her, not one of them caught her. Maude received them all civilly, asked them to dine, Gave them capital venison, and excellent wine, But declared, when they popp’d, that she’d really no notion They’d had serious intentions—she owned their devotion Was excessively flattering—quite touching—in fact She was grieved at the part duty forced her to act; Still her recent bereavement—her excellent father— (Here she took out her handkerchief) yes, she had rather— Rather not (here she sobbed) say a thing so unpleasant, But she’d made up her mind not to marry at present. Might she venture to hope that she still should retain Their friendship?—to lose that would cause her such pain. Would they like to take supper?—she feared etiquette, A thing not to be set At defiance by one in her sad situation, Having no “Maiden Aunt,” or old moral relation Of orthodox station, Whose high reputation, And prim notoriety, Should inspire society With a very deep sense of the strictest propriety; Such a relative wanting, she feared, so she said, Etiquette must prevent her from offering a bed; But the night was so fine—just the thing for a ride— Must they go? Well, good-bye,—and here once more she sighed; Then a last parting smile on the suitor she threw, And thus, having “let him down easy,” withdrew, While the lover rode home with an indistinct notion That somehow he’d not taken much by his motion. Young Lord Dandelion, An illustrious scion, A green sprig of nobility, Whose excessive gentility I fain would describe if I had but ability,— This amiable lordling, being much in the state I’ve described, i. e. going home at night rather late, Having got his congé (As a Frenchman would say) From the heiress, with whom he’d been anxious to mate, Is jogging along, in a low state of mind, When a horseman comes rapidly up from behind, And a voice in his ear Shouts in tones round and clear, “Ho, there! stand and deliver! your money or life!” While some murderous weapon, a pistol or knife, Held close to his head, As these words are being said, Glitters cold in the moonlight, and fills him with dread. Now I think you will own, That when riding alone On the back of a horse, be it black, white, or roan, Or chestnut, or bay, Or piebald, or grey, Or dun-brown (though a notion my memory crosses That ’tis asses are usually done brown, not horses), When on horseback, I say, in the dead of the night, Nearly dark, if not quite, In despite of the light Of the moon shining bright- ish—yes, not more than -ish, for the planet’s cold rays I ’ve been told on this night were unusually hazy— With no one in sight, To the left or the right, Save a well-mounted highwayman fully intent On obtaining your money, as Dan did his rent, By bullying, an odd sort of annual pleasantry That “Repaler” played off on the finest of peasantry; In so awkward a fix I should certainly say, By far the best way Is to take matters easy, and quietly pay; The alternative being that the robber may treat us To a couple of bullets by way of quietus; Thus applying our brains, if perchance we have got any, In this summary mode to the study of botany, By besprinkling the leaves, and the grass, and the flowers, With the source of our best intellectual powers, And, regardless of habeas corpus, creating A feast for the worms, which are greedily waiting Till such time as any gent Quits this frail tenement, And adopting a shroud as his sole outer garment, Becomes food for worms, slugs, and all such-like varmint. My Lord Dandelion, That illustrious scion, Not possessing the pluck of the bold hero Brian, (Of whom Irishmen rave till one murmurs “how true Is the brute’s patronymic of Brian Bore you”), Neither feeling inclined, Nor having a mind To be shot by a highwayman, merely said “Eh? Aw—extwemely unpleasant—aw—take it, sir, pway;” And without further parley his money resigned. Away! away! With a joyous neigh, Bounds the highwayman’s steed, like a colt at play; And a merry laugh rings loud and clear, On the terrified drum of his trembling ear, While the following words doth his lordship hear:— “Unlucky, my lord; unlucky, I know, For the money to go And the heiress say ‘No,’ On the self-same day, is a terrible blow. When next you visit her, good my lord, Give the highwayman’s love to fair Mistress Maude!” Away! away! On his gallant grey My Lord Dandelion, That unfortunate scion, Gallops as best he may; And as he rides he mutters low, “Insolent fellar, how did he know?” In the stable department of Allinghame Hall There’s the devil to pay, As a body may say, And no assets forthcoming to answer the call; For the head groom, Roger, A knowing old codger, In a thundering rage, Which nought can assuage, Most excessively cross is With the whole stud of horses, While he viciously swears At the fillies and mares; He bullies the helpers, he kicks all the boys, Upsets innocent pails with superfluous noise; Very loudly doth fret and incessantly fume, And behaves, in a word, In a way most absurd, More befitting a madman, by far, than a groom, Till at length he finds vent For his deep discontent In the following soliloquy:—“I’m blest if this is To be stood any longer; I’ll go and tell Missis; If she don’t know some dodge as’ll stop this here rig, Vy then, dash my vig, This here werry morning I jest gives her warning, If I don’t I’m a Dutchman, or summut as worse is.” Then, after a short obligato of curses, Just to let off the steam, Roger dons his best clothes, And seeks his young mistress his griefs to disclose. “Please your Ladyship’s Honour, I’ve come here upon a Purtiklar rum business going on in the stable, Vich, avake as I am, I ain’t no how been able To get at the truth on:—the last thing each night I goes round all the ’orses to see as they’re right,— And they alvays is right too, as far as I see, Cool, k’viet, and clean, just as ’orses should be,— Then, furst thing ev’ry morning agen I goes round, To see as the cattle is all safe and sound. ’Twas nigh three veeks ago, or perhaps rather more, Ven vun morning, as usual, I unlocks the door,— (Tho’ I ought to ha’ mentioned I alvays does lock it, And buttons the key in my right breeches pocket)— I opens the door, Marm, and there vas Brown Bess, Your ladyship’s mare, in a horribul mess; Reg’lar kivered all over vith sveat, foam, and lather, Laying down in her stall—sich a sight for a father! Vhile a saddle and bridle, as hung there kvite clean Over night, was all mud and not fit to be seen; And, to dock a long tale, since that day thrice a-week, Or four times, perhaps, more or less, so to speak, I’ve diskivered that thare, Identical mare, Or else the black Barb, vich, perhaps you’ll remember Vas brought here from over the seas last September, In the state I describes, as if fairies or vitches Had rode ’em all night over hedges and ditches; If this here’s to go on (and I’m sure I don’t know How to stop it), I tells you at vunce, I must go; Yes, although I’ve lived here A good twenty-five year, I am sorry to say (for I knows what your loss is) You must get some vun else to look arter your ’orses.” Roger’s wonderful tale Seemed of little avail, For Maude neither fainted, nor screamed, nor turned pale, But she signed with her finger to bid him draw near; And cried, “Roger, come here, I’ve a word for your ear;” Then she whispered so low That I really don’t know What it was that she said, but it seemed apropos And germane to the matter; For though Roger stared at her, With mouth wide asunder, Extended by wonder, Ere she ended, his rage appeared wholly brought under, Insomuch that the groom, When he quitted the room, Louted low, and exclaimed, with a grin of delight, “Your Ladyship’s Honour’s a gentleman quite!” ’Tis reported, that night, at the sign of “The Goat,” Roger the groom changed a £20 note.

There’s a stir and confusion in Redburn town, And all the way up and all the way down The principal street, When the neighbours meet, They do nothing but chafe, and grumble, and frown, And sputter and mutter, And sentences utter, Such as these—“Have you heard, The thing that’s occurred? His worship the Mayor? Shocking affair! Much too bad, I declare! Fifty pounds, I’ve been told! And as much more in gold. Well, the villain is bold! Two horse pistols!—No more? I thought they said four. And so close to the town! I say, Gaffer Brown, Do tell us about it.” “Thus the matter fell out—it Was only last night that his worship the Mayor, Master Zachary Blair, Having been at St. Alban’s and sold in the fair Some fifteen head of cattle, a horse and a mare, Jogging home on his nag With the cash in a bag, Was met by a highwayman armed to the teeth, With a belt full of pistols and sword in its sheath, A murderous villain, six feet high, With spur on heel and boot on thigh, And a great black beard and a wicked eye; And he said to his Worship, ‘My fat little friend, I will thank you to lend Me that nice bag of gold, which no doubt you intend Before long to expend In some awfully slow way, Or possibly low way, Which I should not approve. Come, old fellow, be quick!’ And then Master Blair heard an ominous click, Betokening the cocking Of a pistol, a shocking Sound, which caused him to quake, And shiver and shake, From the crown of his head to the sole of his stocking. So yielding himself with a touching submission To what he considered a vile imposition, He handed the bag with the tin to the highwayman, who took it, and saying, in rather a dry way, ‘Many thanks, gallant sir,’ galloped off down a bye way.” The town council has met, and his worship the Mayor, Master Zachary Blair, Having taken the chair, And sat in it too, which was nothing but fair, Did at once, then and there, Relate and declare, With a dignified air, And a presence most rare, The tale we’ve just heard, which made all men to stare, And indignantly swear, It was too bad to bear. Then after they’d fully discussed the affair, To find out the best method of setting things square, They agreed one and all the next night to repair, Upon horseback, or mare, To the highwayman’s lair, And, if he appeared, hunt him down like a hare. Over No-Man’s-Land[2] the moon shines bright, And the furze and the fern in its liquid light Glitter and gleam of a silvery white; The lengthened track which the cart-wheels make, Winds o’er the heath like a mighty snake, And silence o’er that lonely wold Doth undisputed empire hold, Save where the night-breeze fitfully Mourns like some troubled spirit’s cry; At the cross roads the old sign-post Shows dimly forth, like sheeted ghost, As with weird arm, extended still, It points the road to Leamsford Mill; In fact it is not At all a sweet spot, A nice situation, Or charming location; The late Robins himself, in despite his vocation, Would have deemed this a station Unworthy laudation, And have probably termed it “a blot on the nation.” In a lane hard by, Where the hedge-rows high, Veil with their leafy boughs the sky, Biding their time, sits his worship the Mayor, Master Zachary Blair, And my Lord Dandelion, That illustrious scion, And Oxley the butcher, and Doughy the baker, And Chisel the joiner and cabinet-maker, And good farmer Dacre, Who holds many an acre, And, insuper omnes, bold Jonathan Blaker, The famous thief-taker, Who’s been sent for from town as being more wide awaker, (Excuse that comparative, sure ’tis no crime To sacrifice grammar to such a nice rhyme,) And up to the dodges of fellows who take a Delight in being born in “stone jugs,” and then fake a- way all their lives long in a manner would make a Live Archbishop to swear, let alone any Quaker, Wet or dry, you can name, or a Jumper or Shaker; And, to add to this list, Hobbs was there, so was Dobbs, With several others, all more or less snobs, Low partys, quite willing to peril their nobs In highwayman catching, and such-like odd jobs, To obtain a few shillings, which they would term bobs. ’Tisn’t pleasant to wait In a fidgety state Of mind, at an hour we deem very late, When our fancies have fled Home to supper and bed, And we feel we are catching a cold in the head; (By the way, if this ailment should ever make you ill, Drop some neat sal-volatile into your gruel, You’ll be all right next day, And will probably say, This, by way of receipt, is a regular jewel;) To wait, I repeat, For a robber or cheat, On a spot he’s supposed to select for his beat, When said robber wont come’s the reverse of a treat. So thought the butcher, and so thought the baker, And so thought the joiner and cabinet-maker, And so thought all the rest except Jonathan Blaker; To him catching a thief in the dead of the night Presented a source of unfailing delight; And now as he sat Peering under his hat, He looked much like a terrier watching a rat. Hark! he hears a muffled sound; He slips from the saddle, his ear’s to the ground. Louder and clearer, Nearer and nearer, ’Tis a horse’s tramp on the soft green sward! He is mounted again: “Now, good my Lord, Now, master Mayor, mark well, if you can, A rider approaches, is this your man?” Ay, mark that coal-black barb that skims, With flowing mane and graceful limbs, As lightly onward o’er the lea As greyhound from the leash set free; Observe the rider’s flashing eye, His gallant front and bearing high; His slender form, which scarce appears Fitted to manhood’s riper years; The easy grace with which at need He checks or urges on his steed; Can this be one whose fame is spread For deeds of rapine and of dread? My Lord Dandelion Placed his spy-glass his eye on, Stared hard at the rider, and then exclaimed, “Well—ar— ’Tis weally so dark! but I think ’tis the fellar.” While his worship the Mayor Whispered, “O, look ye there! That purse in his girdle, d’ye see it?—I twigged it; ’Tis my purse as was prigged, and the willin what prigged it!” Hurrah! hurrah! He’s off and away, Follow who can, follow who may. There’s hunting and chasing And going the pace in Despite of the light, which is not good for racing. “Hold hard! hold hard! there’s somebody spilt, And entirely kilt!” “Well, never mind, Leave him behind,”— The pace is a great deal too good to be kind. Follow, follow, O’er hill and hollow,— Faster, faster, Another disaster! His worship the Mayor has got stuck in a bog. And there let us leave him to spur and to flog, He’ll know better the next time,—a stupid old dog! “Where’s Hobbs?” “I don’t know.” “And Dobbs and the snobs?” “All used-up long ago.” “My nag’s almost blown!” “And mine’s got a stone In his shoe—I’m afraid it’s no go. Why, I say! That rascally highwayman’s getting away!” ’Tis true. Swift as the trackless wind, The gallant barb leaves all behind; Hackney and hunter still in vain Exert each nerve, each sinew strain; And all in vain that motley-crew Of horsemen still the chase pursue. Two by two, and one by one, They lag behind—’tis nearly done, That desperate game, that eager strife, That fearful race for death or life. Those dark trees gained that skirt the moor, All danger of pursuit is o’er; Screened by their shade from every eye, Escape becomes a certainty. Haste! for with stern, relentless will One rider’s on thy traces still! ’Tis bold Jonathan Blaker who sticks to his prey In this somewhat unfeeling, though business-like way. But even he, too, is beginning to find That the pace is so good he’ll be soon left behind. He presses his horse on with hand and with heel, He rams in the persuaders too hard a great deal; ’Tis but labour in vain, Though he starts from the pain, Nought can give that stout roadster his wind back again. Now Jonathan Blaker had formerly been A soldier, and fought for his country and queen, Over seas, the Low Countries to wit, and while there, in Despite of good teaching, And praying and preaching, Had acquired a shocking bad habit of swearing; Thus, whenever, as now, The red spot on his brow Proved him “wrathy and riled,” He would not draw it mild, But would, sans apology, let out on such Occasions a torrent of very low Dutch. One can scarce feel surprise, then, considering the urgency Of the case, that he cried in the present emergency, “Ach donner und blitzen” (a taste of his lingo), “He’ll escape, by—” (I don’t know the German for “jingo”). “Tausend teufel! sturmwetter! To think I should let a Scamp like that get away; don’t I wish now that I’d ha’ Drove a brace of lead pills through the horse or the rider; Pr’aps there’s time for it still—Mein auge (my eye), ’Tis the only chance left, so here goes for a try.” Oh, faster spur thy flagging steed, Still faster,—fearful is thy need. Oh, heed not now his failing breath, Life lies before, behind thee death! Warning all vainly given! too late To shield thee from the stroke of fate. One glance the fierce pursuer threw, A pistol from his holster drew, Levelled and fired, the echoes still Prolong the sound from wood to hill; But ere the last vibrations die, A WOMAN’S shriek of agony Rings out beneath that midnight sky! The household sleep soundly in Allinghame Hall, Groom, butler, and coachman, cook, footboy, and all; The fat old housekeeper (Never was such a sleeper), After giving a snore, Which was almost a roar, Has just turned in her bed and begun a fresh score; The butler (a shocking old wine-bibbing sinner), Having made some mistake after yesterday’s dinner, As to where he should put a decanter of sherry, Went to bed rather merry, But perplexed in his mind, Not being able to find A legitimate reason Why at that time and season His eight-post bed chooses, whichever way he stirs, To present to his vision a couple of testers! Since which, still more completely his spirits to damp, He’s been roused twice by nightmare and three times by cramp! And now he dreams some old church-bell Is mournfully tolling a dead man’s knell, And he starts in his sleep, and mutters, “Alas! Man’s life’s brittle as glass! There’s another cork flown, and the spirit escaped; Heigh ho!” (here he gaped), Then, scratching his head, He sat up in bed, For that bell goes on ringing more loud than before, And he knows ’tis the bell of the great hall door. Footman tall, Footboy small, Housekeeper, butler, coachman, and all, In a singular state of extreme dishabille, Which they each of them feel Disinclined to reveal, And yet know not very well how to conceal, With one accord rush to the old oak hall; To unfasten the door Takes a minute or more; It opens at length and discloses a sight Which fills them with wonder, and sorrow, and fright. The ruddy light of early dawn Gilds with its rays that velvet lawn; From every shrub and painted flower Dew-drops distill in silvery shower; Sweet perfumes load the air; the song Of waking birds is borne along Upon the bosom of the breeze That murmurs through the waving trees; The crystal brook that dances by Gleams in the sunlight merrily; All tells of joy, and love, and life— All?—Said I everything was rife With happiness?—Behold that form, Like lily broken by the storm, Fall’n prostrate on the steps before The marble threshold of the door! The well-turned limbs, the noble mien, The riding-coat of Lincoln green; The hat, whose plume of sable hue Its shadow o’er his features threw; Yon coal-black barb, too, panting near, All show some youthful cavalier; While, fatal evidence of strife, From a deep hurt the flood of life Proves, as its current stains the sod, How man defiles the work of God. With eager haste the servants raise The head, and on the features gaze, Then backward start in sad surprise As that pale face they recognise. Good reason theirs, although, in sooth, They knew but half the fatal truth; For, strange as doth the tale appear, One startling fact is all too clear, The robber, who on No-Man’s-Land Was shot by Blaker’s ruthless hand,— That highwayman of evil fame Is beauteous Maude of Allinghame!

“Well, but that’s not the end?” “Yes it is, my good friend.” “Oh, I say! That wont pay; ’Tis a shocking bad way To leave off so abruptly. I wanted to hear A great many particulars: first, I’m not clear, Is the young woman killed?” “Be at rest on that head, She’s completely defunct, most excessively dead. Blaker’s shot did the business; she’d just strength to fly, Reached her home, rang the bell, and then sank down to die.” “Poor girl! really it’s horrid! However I knew it Could come to no good—I felt certain she’d rue it— But pray, why in the world did the jade go to do it?” “’Tis not easy to say; but at first, I suppose, Just by way of a freak she rode out in man’s clothes.” “Then her taking the money?” “A mere idiosyncrasy, As when, some years since, a young gent, being with drink crazy, Set off straight on end to the British Museum, And, having arrived there, transgressed all the laws Of good breeding, by smashing the famed Portland Vase; Or the shop-lifting ladies, by dozens you see ’em, For despising the diff’rence ’twixt tuum and meum, Brought before the Lord Mayor every week, in the papers. Why, the chief linen-drapers Have a man in their shops solely paid for revealing When they can’t keep their fair hands from picking and stealing. ’Twas a mere woman’s fancy, a female caprice, And you know at that time they’d no rural police.” “Hum! it may have been so. Well, is that all about it?” “No; there’s more to be told, though I dare say you’ll doubt it- s being true; but the story goes on to relate, That, after Maude’s death, the old Hall and estate Were put up to auction, and Master Blair thought it Seemed a famous investment, bid for it and bought it, And fitted it up in extremely bad taste; But scarce had he placed His foot o’er the threshold,—the very first night, He woke up in a fright, Being roused from his sleep by a terrible cry Of ‘Fire!’—had only a minute to fly In his shirt, Mrs. Blair in her⸺Well, never mind, In the dress she had on at the time; while behind Followed ten little blessings, who looked very winning In ten little nightgowns of Irish linen; They’d just time to escape, when the flames, with a roar Like thunder, burst forth from each window and door; And there, with affright, They perceive by the light Maude Allinghame’s sprite— Her real positive ghost—no fantastic illusion Conceived by their brains from the smoke and confusion— With a hot flaming brand In each shadowy hand, Flaring up, like a fiend, in the midst of the fire, And exciting the flames to burn fiercer and higher. From what follows we learn that ghosts, spirits, and elves, Are the creatures of habit as well as ourselves; For Maude (that is, ghost Maude), when once she had done The trick, seemed to think it was capital fun; And whenever the house is rebuilt, and prepared For a tenant, the rooms being all well scrubbed and aired, The very first night the new owner arrives Maude’s implacable spirit still ever contrives Many various ways in To set it a blazing; In this way she’s done Both the Phœnix and Sun So especially brown by the fires she’s lighted, That now, being invited To grant an insurance, they always say when a nice Offer is made them, ’Tis no use to persuade them, If a ghost’s in the case, they wont do it at any price.”

And now for the moral! Imprimis, young heiresses, Don’t go riding o’ nights, and don’t rob mayors or mayoresses; As to robbing your suitors, allow me to say, On the face of the thing ’tis a scheme that won’t pay; Though they sigh and protest, and are dabs at love-making, You’ll not find one in ten Of these charming young men Can produce on occasion a purse worth your taking. Don’t refuse a good offer, but think ere you let a Chance like that slip away, that you mayn’t get a better. One more hint and I’ve done— If by pistol or gun It should e’er be your lot (Which I hope it may not), In a row to get shot, And the doctor’s assistance should all prove in vain, “When you give up the ghost, don’t resume it again.” If you do choose to “walk” and revisit this earth To play tricks, let some method be mixed with your mirth. As to burning down houses and ruining folks, And flaring about like a Fire-king’s daughter,— Allow me to say there’s no fun in such jokes, ’Twould far better have been To have copied Undine,— There’s no harm in a mixture of spirits and water!