VOLUME V. (continued 7)

The Conclusion to Part I. With open eyes (ah woe is me!) Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis, Dreaming that alone, which is— O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? And lo! the worker of these harms, That holds the maiden in her arms, Seems to slumber still and mild, As a mother with her child. A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine! since arms of thine— Have been the lovely lady’s prison. O Geraldine! one hour was thine— Thou’st had thy will! S. T. Coleridge.

Dr. Maginn’s Introduction to Part III. Listen! ye know that I am mad, And ye will listen!—wizard dreams Were with me!—all is true that seems!— From dreams alone can truth be had— In dreams divinest lore is taught, For the eye, no more distraught, Rests most calmly, and the ear, Of sound unconscious, may apply Its attributes unknown, to hear The music of philosophy! Thus am I wisest in my sleep, For thoughts and things, which day-light brings, Come to the spirit sad and single, But verse and prose, and, joys and woes Inextricably mingle, When the hushed frame is silent in repose! Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm, Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane, And crested lightning, and the snows That mock the sunbeams, and the rain Which bounds on earth with big drops warm, All are round me while I spell The legend of sweet Christabel! Christabel. Part III. Nine moons have waxed, and the tenth, in its wane, Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain! —For many moons was her eye less bright, For many moons was her vest more tight, And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start, The life blood came from the panting heart, And fluttering, o’er that thin fair face Past with a rapid nameless pace, And at moments a big tear filled the eye, And at moments a short and smothered sigh Swelled her breast with sudden strain, Breathed half in grief, and half in pain, For her’s are pangs, on the rack that wind The outward frame and the inward mind. —And when at night she did visit the oak, She wore the Baron’s scarlet cloak, (That cloak which happy to hear and to tell Was lined with the fur of the leopard well,) And as she wandered down the dell None said ’twas the Lady Christabel.— Some thought ’twas a weird and ugsome elf, Some deemed ’twas the old sick Baron himself, Who wandered beneath the snowy lift To count his beads in solemn shrift— (For his shape below was wide to see All bloated with the hydropsie.) Oh! had her old father the secret known, He had stood as stark as the statue of stone That stands so silent, and white, and tall, At the upper end of his banquet hall! Am I asleep or am I awake? In very truth I oft mistake, As the stories of old come over my brain, And I build in spirit the mystic strain;— Ah! would to the virgin that I were asleep! But I must wake, and I must weep! Sweet Christabel, it is not well That a lady, pure as the sunless snow That lies so soft on the mountain’s brow, That a maiden of sinless chastity In childbirth pangs should be doomed to die, Or live with a name of sorrow and shame, And hear the words of blemish and blame! —For the world that smiles at the guilt of man, Places woman beneath its ban; Alas, that scandal thus should wreak Its vengeance on the warm and weak, That the arrows of the cold and dull Should wound the breast of the beautiful! Of the things that be did we know but half, Many, and many would weep, who laugh! Tears would darken many an eye, Or that deeper grief, (when its orb is dry, When it cannot dare the eye of day), O’er the clouded heart would sway, ’Till it crumbled like desert dust away! But here we meet with grief and grudge, And they who cannot know us, judge! Thus, souls on whom good angels smile, Are scoffed at in our world of guile— Let this, Ladiè, thy comfort be; Man knows not us, good angels know The things that pass in the world below; And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust, That the world should view thee with mistrust, For who that saw that child of thine 130 Pale Christabel, who could divine That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine. But in I rush, with too swift a gale, Into the ocean of my tale! Not yet young Christabel, I ween, Of her babe hath lighter been. —’Tis the month of the snow and the blast, And the days of Christmas mirth are past, When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright, Casting a broad and dusky light On the shadowy forms of the warriors old, Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold— On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves, On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves, The few green glories that still remain To mock the storm and welcome the rain, Brighter and livelier mid tempest and shower, Like a hero in the battle hour!— Brave emblems o’er the winter hearth, They cheered our fathers’ hours of mirth!— Twelve solar months complete and clear The magic circle of the year! Each (the ancient riddle saith) Children, two times thirty, hath! Three times ten are fair and white, Three times ten are black as night, Three times ten hath Hecatè, Three times ten the God of day; Thus spoke the old hierophant (I saw her big breast swelling pant) What time, I dreamed, in ghostly wise Of Eleusinian mysteries, For I am the hierarch Of the mystical and dark— And now, if rightly I do spell Of the Lady Christabel, She hates the three times ten so white, And sickens in their searching light, And woe is hers—alas! alack! She hates the three times ten so black— As a mastiff bitch doth bark, I hear her moaning in the dark!— ’Tis the month of January. Why lovely maiden, light and airy, While the moon can scarcely glow, Thro the plumes of falling snow, While the moss upon the bark Is withered all, and damp, and dark, While cold above the stars in doubt Look dull, and scarcely will stay out, While the snow is heavy on beechen bower And hides its name-sake, the snow-drop flower, Why walk forth thus mysteriously! Dear girl, I ask thee seriously. Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild— Ah, think, how big thou art with child!— Tho’ the baron’s red cloak thro’ the land hath no fellow, Thou should’st not thus venture without an umbrella! Dost thou wander to the field of graves Where the elder its spectral branches waves? And will thy hurried footsteps halt Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault? Where the stranger pauses long to explore The emblems quaint of heraldic lore, Where tho’ the lines are tarnished and dim, Thy mother’s features stare gaunt and grim, And grinning skull, and transverse bone, And the names of warriors dead and gone Mark Sir Leoline’s burial stone; Thither go not, or I deem almost That thou wilt frighten thy mother’s ghost! Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree, And, kneeling down upon thy knee, Number the beads of thy rosary? Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl, And a prayer with each, my lovely girl, Nine and one, shalt thou record, Nine to the virgin and one to the Lord! The pearls are ten times one to behold, And ten times nine are the beads of gold, Methinks ’tis hard of the friar to ask On a night like this so weary a task! ’Tis pleasant—’tis pleasant, in summer time, In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme, When the light winds above ’mong the light leaves are singing, And the song of the birds thro’ your heart is ringing, ’Tis pleasant—’tis pleasant, when happily humming To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!— When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen, Is heard where it hides ’mong the grass-blades green, When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight, When the breeze o’er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful, ’Tis pleasant—with heart—ah, how happy!—tho’ fearful, With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles glisten To the lover’s low vows in the silence to listen! ’Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day (A month before the month of May) To pray for a lover that’s far away! But, Christabel, I cannot see The powerful cause that sways with thee Thus, with a face all waxen white, To wander forth on a winter night. The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek, But the night is chill and bleak!— And clouds are passing swift away Before the moon so cold and gray— The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl, That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;— Rapidly—rapidly With the blast, Clouds of ebony Wander fast, And one the maiden hath fixed her eyes on, Hath pass’d o’er the moon, and is near the horizon! Ah Christabel, I dread it, I dread it, That the clouds of shame Will darken and gather O’er the maiden’s name, Who chances unwedded To give birth to a child, and knows not its father! One—Two—Three—Four—Five—Six—Seven— Eight—Nine—Ten—Eleven!— Tempest or calm—moonshine or shower, The castle clock still tolls the hour, And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound, And is answered by the owls around— And at every measured tone You may hear the old baron grunt and groan; 131 ’Tis a thing of wonder, and fright, and fear, The mastiff-bitch’s moans to hear— And the aged cow in her stall that stands And is milked each morning by female hands (That the baron’s breakfast of milk and bread May be brought betimes to the old man’s bed Who often gives, while he is dressing, His Christabel a father’s blessing) That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow, Answers it with a plaintive low! And the baron old, who is ill at rest, Curses the favourite cat for a pest— For let him pray, or let him weep, She mews thro’ all the hours of sleep— Till morning comes with its pleasant beams, And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams! Let it rain, however fast, Rest from rain will come at last, And the blaze that strongest flashes Sinks at last, and ends in ashes! But sorrow from the human heart And mists of care will they depart? I know not, and cannot tell, Saith the Lady Christabel— But I feel my bosom swell In my spirit I behold A lady—call her firm, not bold— Standing lonely by the burn —Strange feelings thro’ her breast and brain Shoot with a sense of madness and pain. Ah, Christabel return, return, Let me not call on thee in vain! Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned That thy body will be found, What anguish will thy spirit feel, When it must to all reveal What the spell binds thee to conceal! How the baron’s heart will knock ’gainst his chest When the stake is driven into thy breast, When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung, And over the dead no dirge be sung, No friend in mourning vesture dight, No lykewake sad—no tapered rite!— Return, return thy home to bless, Daughter of good Sir Leoline; In that chamber a recess Known to no other eye than thine, Contains the powerful wild-flower wine That often cheer’d thy mother’s heart, Lady, lovely as thou art Return, and ere thou dost undress And lie down in thy nakedness Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt And drink the wine as thou art wont! Hard to uncork and bright to decant. My merry girl—she drinks—she drinks Faster she drinks and faster, My brain reels round as I see her whirl, She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl;— Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster, For when sorrow wets the eye Yet the heart within is dry, Sweet maid upon the bed she sinks— May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep! Good angels guard her in her sleep! William Maginn.

Ten minutes to ten by Saint Dunstan’s clock, And the owl has awakened the crowing cock: Cock-a-doodle-doo, Cock-a-doodle-doo. If he crows at this rate in so thrilling a note, Jesu Maria! he’ll catch a sore throat. Warren the manufacturer rich Hath a spectral mastiff bitch; To Saint Dunstan’s clock, tho’ silent enow, She barketh her chorus of bow wow, wow: Bow for the quarters, and wow for the hour; Nought cares she for the sun or the shower; But when, like a ghost all-arrayed in its shroud, The wheels of the thunder are muffled in cloud, When the moon, sole chandelier of night, Bathes the blessed earth in light, As wizard to wizard, or witch to witch, Howleth to heaven this mastiff bitch. Buried in thought O’Warren lay, Like a village queen on the birth of May; He listed the tones of Saint Dunstan’s clock, Of the mastiff bitch and the crowing cock; But louder, far louder, he listed a roar, Loud as the billow that booms on the shore; Bang, bang, with a pause between, Rung the weird sound at his door, I ween. Up from his couch he leaped in affright, Oped his grey lattice and looked on the night, Then put on his coat, and with harlequin hop Stood like a phantom in midst of the shop; In midst of his shop he stood like a sprite, Till peering to left and peering to right, Beside his counter, with tail in hand, He saw a spirit of darkness stand; 132 I guess ’twas frightful there to see A lady so scantily clad as she Ugly and old exceedingly. In height her figure was six feet two, In breadth exactly two feet six, One eye as summer skies was blue, The other black as the waves of Styx. Her bloodless lips did aught but pair, For one was brown and one was fair, And clattered like maid in hysteric fit, Or jack that turneth a kitchen spit; Jesu Maria! with awe, I trow, O’Warren beheld this worricow, For dreary and dun the death-hue came O’er her cheek, as she traced the words of flame; The words of flame that with mystic fuss Are hatched from a still-born incubus, And doom each wight who reads, to dwell Till the birth of day in the caves of hell. Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand, The spell that subjects thee to elfin command; Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour, And Warren hath read the words of power; Letter by letter he traced the spell, Till the sullen toll of Saint Dunstan’s bell, And the midnight howl of the mastiff bitch, Announced his doom to the Hallowmass witch. Still in her grandeur she stood by, Like an oak that uplooketh to sun and sky; Then shouted to Warren with fitful breath; “I’m old mother Nightmare-life-in-death; Halloo! halloo! we may not stay, Satan is waiting; away, away; Halloo! halloo! we’ve far to go, Then hey for the devil; jee-up! jee-hoe——” O’Warren requested a little delay, But the evil one muttered “too late, by my fay;” So he put on his breeches and scampered away. And here mote I tell how they rode on the wind, The witch before and the Warren behind; How they passed in a twinkling the haunts of man, And the proud pagodas of Kubla Khan; How they peeped at the planets like Allan-a-roon, And supped on green cheese with the man in the moon; Or listed the dulcimer’s tremulous notes, Or the voice of the wind through the azure that floats, Till pillar and palace and arching sky Rung to the mingled melody. * * * * * Away, away, through the thunder-cloud, Where tempest and ruin sit laughing aloud; Away, away, through the fields of air, Where the night-wind howls to the falling star; This amiable couple have past, and now They gain the swart regions of darkness and woe. O’Warren beheld them, and shrunk with awe, Like a client held fast in the grasp of law, Then hymned to the Virgin for aid and for pity, A highly correct and devotional ditty: “Miserere Maria,” he cried in despair, While the bullet-nosed bogle drew back at the prayer, For Mary, sweet Mary, hath power to fright, And palsy the souls of the dæmons of night; “Miserere Maria,” he bellowed again, And the worricow dropt her eye-tooth at the strain, But spite of her teeth, she eschewed complaint, Till troubled in spirit, and cowed and faint, She collared the tradesman with horrible yell, Then plunged with him head over heels into hell. Oh, how its wild waves bellowed and boomed!! Oh, how its vapors the air perfumed!! As Warren with timid and stifled breath, And followed by old Mrs. Life-in-death, Moved to where Satan Reclined alone, In the silence of thought on his ebon throne. * * * * * Proudly he strode to his palace gate, Which the witch and the Warren approached in state, But paused at the threshold as onward they came, And thus, with words of fever and flame, The tradesman addressed, “Your name, Sir, is known As a vendor of sables wide over the town; But in hell with proviso this praise we must mix, For though brilliant your blacking, the water of Styx Is blacker by far, and can throw, as it suits, A handsomer gloss o’er our shoes and our boots.”— Answered the Warren, with choleric eye, “Oh, king of the cock-tailed incubi! The sneer of a fiend to your puffs you may fix, But if, what is worse, you assert that your Styx Surpasses my blacking, (’twas clear he was vexed), By Jove! you will ne’er stick at any thing next. I have dandies who laud me at Paine’s and Almack’s, Despite Day and Martin, those emulous quacks, And they all in one spirit of concord agree, That my blacking is better than any black sea Which flows thro’ your paltry Avernus, I wis,”— “Pshaw,” Satan replied, “I’ll be damned if it is.” The tradesman he laughed at this pitiful sneer, And drew from his pocket, unmoved by the jeer Of the gathering dæmons, blue, yellow, and pink, A bottle of blacking more sable than ink;— With the waves of the Styx in a jiffey they tried it, But the waves of the Styx looked foolish beside it; “You mote as well liken the summer sky,” Quoth Warren the bold, “with an Irish stye; The nightingale’s note with the cockatoo’s whine, As your lily-white river with me or mine.” Round the brow of Abaddon fierce anger played At the Strand manufacturer’s gasconade; And lifting a fist that mote slaughter an ox, He wrathfully challenged his foeman to box; Then summoned each dæmon to form a ring, And witness his truculent triumphing.— The ring was formed and the twain set to, Like little Puss with Belasco the Jew. Satan was seconded in a crack, By Molineux, the American black, (Who sported an oath as a civil Salam), While Warren was backed by the ghost of Dutch Sam.— Gentles, who fondly peruse these lays, Wild as a colt o’er the moorland that strays, Who thrill at each wondrous rede I tell, As fancy roams o’er the floor of hell, Now list ye with kindness, the whiles I rehearse In shapely pugilistic verse, (Albeit my fancy preferreth still The quiet of nature,) this desperate Mill. 133 THE FIGHT. Both men on peeling showed nerve and bone. And weighed on an average fourteen stone; Doffed their silk fogle, for battle agog, Yellowman, castor and white upper tog; Then sparred for a second their ardor to cool, And rushed at each other like bull to bull. ROUNDS. 1. Was a smasher, for Brummagem Bob[89] Let fly a topper on Beelzebub’s nob; Then followed him over the ring with ease, And doubled him up by a blow in the squeeze. 2. Satan was cautious in making play, But stuck to his sparring and pummelled away; Till the ogles of Warren looked queer in their hue, (Here, bets upon Beelzebub; three to two.) 3. Fibbings, and facers, and toppers abound, But Satan, it seems, hath the worst of the round. 4. Satan was floored by a lunge in the hip, And the blood from his peepers, went drip, drip, drip, Like fat from a goose in the dripping pan, Or ale from the brim of a flowing can; His box of dominos chattered aloud, (Here, “Go it, Nick!” from an imp in the crowd,) And he dropped with a Lancashire purr on his back, While Bob with a clincher fell over him, whack. 5. Both men piping came up to the scratch, But Bob for Abaddon was more than a match; He tapped his claret, his mug he rent, And made him so groggy with punishment, That he gladly gave in at the close of the round, And Warren in triumph was led from the ground. Then trumpet, and timbrel, and deafening shout, Like wind through a ruin rang lustily out, High o’er the rocks that jut over the deep, Where the souls of the damned to eternity weep; Echo threw forward her answer of fear, Dull as the dust that clanks over a bier, Or death-watch that beats in a sick man’s ear. From the gulph where they howl to the lead colored night, The shadowless spectres leaped up with delight, And “Buy Warren’s Blacking” they shouted aloud, As the night-wind sighs through a coffinless shroud. The evil one frowned while they bellowed amain, But “Buy Warren’s Blacking” he chorussed again; For tho’ worsted in fight, yet, by order of fate, The vanquished must temper the pulse of his hate, And yield to the victor (his will’s despite) Unbridled sway o’er the fiends of night. ’Tis done, and sore with his recent thwacking, Abaddon hath purchased O’Warren’s Blacking; Fate stood by while the bargain was made, Signed a receipt when the money was paid, Then summoned her sprites, an exemplary band, To kneel in respect to the Lord of the Strand. But hark, ’tis the voice of the crowing cock! And hark, ’tis the toll of Saint Dunstan’s clock! The morn rides high in the Eastern sky, And the little birds carol it merrily: Already have waned at the gladsome sight, Each scene of darkness, each goblin sprite; Abaddon to whit, and the whole of his crew, Pink, yellow, or rosy, green, purple, or blue, For cheered by the rays thro’ his lattice that peep, The bard hath awoke from the “Pains of Sleep.”

A Parody of Christabelle. The Baron Rich. ’Tis a quarter to ten by the castle clock, And the ‘mastiff bitch’ has awakened the cock, And the cock has awakened the ‘Baron Rich,’ And he in return will thump the bitch; Say what can ail her, in her sleep, That thus she begins to ‘moan and leap,’ I know not, I know not the reason I swear, And e’en if I did, I’ll be hang’d if I care. * * * * * The Baron awoke at the usual hour, And the bell toll’d loud in his moss-covered tow’r, Slowly it swung to the gales of the west, Like a voice from the dead when the winds are at rest, And a grinning nightmare withheld his rest, And sat like a pound of cheese on his breast, And devils and imps danced over his head, And Satan grinn’d at the foot of his bed; And the crowing cock his shrill clarion blew, To whit! to whoo! And hark again the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew; As if it was loth from its pillow to creep, But determined at least to snore in its sleep. Again the cock crew, while the glance of his eye, Frightened the clouds as they sail’d thro’ the sky, And the consequence was, that they shook with wonder, And jostling each other created the thunder; The Baron awoke, and he holloed aloud, As one who had seen ‘my ladie’s shroud’: “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey, Come here, or I’ll lace ye, And tell me directly, or deeply you’ll rue, The cause of this terrible hulloboloo!” The bard came forth in his night-cap he, And he was as skinny as bard mote be, And his locks hung down o’er his shoulders flat, As my grandmother says like the tail of a rat; 134 And away he went with a hem and a haw! To make the old mastiff lie still in her straw— Without the kennel the mastiff old, Lay snoring fast in ‘moonshine cold.’ He kick’d her once, he kick’d her twice, But the old bitch snapp’d at his fingers thrice. Then Bracy kick’d her again, times four, But the old bitch snapped at his fingers the more. Is he hurt? or doth he squall? I think he’s hurt tho’ he doth not squall, But he curses much, like a naughty man, And swears as often as swear he can; And like a ‘little limber elf,’ Singeth and danceth to himself. He must be hurt, I’m sure he must,— Or he scarce would dare to kick up such a dust; And certain I am, by his look, ’ifegs, That the mastiff has bitten the calf of his legs, And ’tis a right wonder to raise a laugh!— For who ever heard of a bard with a calf? But lo! he kicks her again, and her cry, Split the kennel and rent the sky, And there she was, squatted upright on her tail, And oh! she look’d—she look’d like a whale. And spouted forthwith this dolorous strain, Which deserves an encore, again and again.

“There’s a cloud in the sky, And it’s wandering by, And in it I’ll lump, With a hop, skip, and jump, For I’m a warlock of evil, I trow.” (Here the bitch ended with bow-wow-wow.) The bardling was frightened, as well he mote be, And he looked around, but nought could he see; The lanky-legg’d bardling was frightened, odd rat it, And to tell you the truth, I don’t much wonder at it: For the mastiff had vanish’d, and he was alone, With nothing at hand, but the grey square stone; Thro’ which the wind oozed with a terrible crack, Like a shoulder of mutton spun round on the jack. * * * * * The Baron has put on his night-gown and cap, To know the reason of this mishap; The Baron has put on his cap and night-gown, And with club-stick in hand, has gone in a fright down; And there he discovered, oh! think how shocking, Bard Bracey alone without shoe or stocking; “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron exclaimed, “To remain in this manner, pray arn’t you ashamed?” “Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron he cried, “Go back, go back, to your own bedside, Or with this good cudgel of forest renown, As I hope to be saved, I will knock you down.” Bard Bracey hath girt up his loins and fled, And the Baron eftsoons has gone to bed; And a noise is heard, an inscrutable din, Of the mastiff without, and the kittens within. And the Baron has woke in a hell of a fright, And is close to the tinder-box striking a light; But in striking the flint with too numerous blows, He has missed the tinder, and struck his nose. * * * * * The proud-hearted Baron, o’ercome by the pain, Jump’d out of his bed, but finding it vain, Altered his mind and jump’d in again: And there he dreamt of the father of evil, ’Ycleft by sinners on earth, the devil; But before he could tell what his spirits were at, In popp’d father Satan in shape of a cat. And he skipp’d thro’ the key-hole with terrible pother, A match in one hand, and his tail in the other; And said to the Baron, with funeral glee, “Come, leap thro’ the window, and fly with me; For I’m the mastiff that kick’d up a rout, And my broomstick is waiting to carry you out.” The Baron requested a little delay; But the ill-tempered devil said “Nay, sir, nay;” So he put on his breeches and scampered away. And here might I tell how they rode on the wind, The Baron before, and the devil behind; How they rattled along, without food or pelf, On the high road to Hell, for I saw them myself. How they flew through the clouds like an air baloon. And quickly arrived at the hills of the moon. How the goddess herself was too late to meet them, But sent a committee of moon-calves to greet them; How, at five o’clock, just in time for dinner, The good-looking couple arrived at the inner Abode of hell, where their journey was o’er, And they dined off a chop in the Devil’s boudoir; All this I could tell, if I wasn’t afraid, That Satan would blush for the pranks I betrayed. * * * * * Years have fled since the fatal day, When the Baron’s spirit wing’d its way, Obsequious at Apollyon’s call, To the mansions of death, and the spectral hall; But still on that ill-omened hour, The death hymn peals and the tempests low’r, And knives and forks are laid across, And the salt is spill’d to the beldame’s loss; And thirteen old women get into the room, And the last who goes in—goes out to the tomb. And an ugly thief flies into the candle, And pops in your face if you dare it to handle; And horrid coffins bounce out of the flame, Enough the most desperate courage to tame; And demon’s torment the Baron’s soul, And sing out exultingly, “Old King Coal;” Which proves that the imps and their souls and so forth, Are as black as the coals that you buy in the north. And legends assert, since this terrible stroke, That Bracey still lives like a pig in a poke; And my grandmother like to the village chimes, Has rung out the subject a hundred times; I wist not what the truth may be, But I’ll take my oath she has told it to me. * * * * * And the worsted night-cap the Baron wore, And his flannel hose were seen no more, And instead of the pillow as soft as his head, A coffin was placed at the foot of the bed; And dead men’s bones go dancing about, And skeleton’s guzzle a bottle of stout, Drained from a toper that died of the gout. And lights are seen in the midst of the room, And none know why or whence they come; But most people think that from motives of spite, There Beelzebub places his hellish rush-light. But ere the clock tolls a quarter to four, 135 The Devils post back to the Stygian shore; And ere the clock points at a quarter to six, The Devils are safe on the banks of the Styx; And like the people that travel to Dover, Only wait for the packet to carry them over.

“Witch of the lake, I know thee now! Thrice three hundred years are gone Since beneath my cave, In the western wave, I doom’d thee to rue and weep alone, And writ thy shame on thy breast and brow.” “Thy hour is past, thy spells I sever,— Witch of the lake descend for ever!”

A Vision. (By the author of “Christabel.”) “Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could pray One hasty orison, whirl’d me away To a limbo, lying—I wist not where— Above or below, in earth or air; For it glimmered o’er with a doubtful light, One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night; And was crost by many a mazy track, One didn’t know how to get on or back; And I felt like a needle that’s going astray, (With its one eye out) through a bundle of hay: When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me “Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!” Around me flitted unnumbered swarms 136 Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; (Like bottled up babes, that grace the room Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)— All of them things half-kill’d in rearing; Some were lame—some wanted hearing; Some had through half a century run, Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon. Others, more merry, as just beginning, Around on a point of law were spinning; Or balanced aloft, ’twixt Bill and Answer, Lead at each hand, like a tight-rope dancer— Some were so cross, that nothing could please ’em; Some gulp’d down affidavits to ease ’em; All were in motion, yet never a one, Let it move as it might, could ever move on. “These,” said the spirit, “You plainly see, Are what they call suits in Chancery!” I heard a loud screaming of old and young, Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung; Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”) At an amateur concert scream’d in score;— So harsh on my ear that wailing fell Of the wretches who in this limbo dwell! It seemed like the dismal symphony Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see; Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook Cut off and left the frogs in the brook, To cry all night, till life’s last dregs, “Give us our legs!—give us our legs!” Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene, I ask’d what all this yell might mean, When the spirit replied with a grin of glee, “’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!” I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,[90] With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes. In his aged hand he held a wand, Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band, And they mov’d and mov’d, as he waved it o’er, But they never got on one inch the more, And still they kept limping to and fro, Like Ariels, ’round old Prospero— Saying “dear master, let us go,” But still old Prospero answered “No,” And I heard, the while, that wizard elf, Muttering, muttering spells to himself, While o’er as many old papers he turn’d, As Hume e’er moved for, or Omar burned. He talked of his virtue—’though some, less nice, (He owned with a sigh) preferr’d his Vice— And he said “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope”— Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope; With many more sleights of tongue and hand I couldn’t for the soul of me understand. Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just about To ask his name, when the screams without The merciless clack of the imps within, And that conjuror’s mutterings, made such a din, That startled, I woke—leap’d up in my bed— Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled, And blessed my stars, right pleased to see, That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery. Thomas Moore.

Fragment of a Vision. A Dandy on a velocipede I saw in a vision sweet, Along the highway making speed, With his alternate feet. Of a bright and celestial hue Gleamed beauteously his blue surtout; While ivory buttons, in a row, Showed like the winter’s caverned snow, Which the breezy north Drives sweeping forth To lodge in the cave below: Ontario’s beaver, without demur, To form his hat did lend its fur: His frill was of the cambric fine, And his neckcloth starched and aquiline; And oh, the eye with pleasure dwells On his white jean indescribables; And he throws the locks from his forehead fair, And he pants, and pants, and pants for air; What is the reason I cannot tell, There is a cause—I know it well; Too firmly bound, too tightly braced, The corsets grasp his spider waist, Till his coat tails are made to fly Even from the back they glorify. Look again, he is not there— Vanished into the misty air! Look again! do you see him yet? Ah no! the bailiff has seized him for debt, And to and fro, like a restless ghost, When peace within the grave is lost, He paces as far, as far he should, Within the bounds of Holyrood! William Maginn. 1821.

It is an ancient Judge-in-Chief, And he stoppeth one in three; “By thy horsehair wig and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?” He holds him with his skinny hand, “There was a Case” quoth he. “Hold off!—unhand me, greybeard loon!” But still the tale must be. “The case was called, the usher bawled, ’Regina v. Castro; The work began, upstood the man Whom all as Claimant know. “Day after day, day after day, Into the box came he, And answers gave, the smiling knave, That posed the keen Q.C. “And lies were here, and lies were there, And lies were all about, Whispered and growled, and roared and howled, And still the case spun out. 137 “Day after day, day after day, We stuck—no sense of motion, Until the speeches came, and words Flowed boundless as the ocean: “Till every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; The barristers were dry as if They had been choked with soot. “There passed a weary time; each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye; A weary time, a weary time— And then my speech had I. “I charged the jury with a will, The Claimant I defied, No Tichborne he, and if not—who? ‘Orton,’ the jury cried. “Ah, well-a-day! what evil looks, Had I from old and young! To the convict’s doom, to the living tomb, The pestilent man I flung! “And ever since a Shibboleth The world’s opinion rules; Fools and fanatics they who doubt— Fanatics all and fools! “And still this tongue of mine is moved, With a woful tendency, To cry this cry and tell this tale Where’er I chance to be. “In public and in private life, In Needlemakers’ Hall, Whosever guest, with my unrest I still his ears appal; And tell the tale, and cry the cry, Which public ardour cools, Fools and fanatics they who doubt— Fanatics all and fools!” Funny Folks.

“I’d give a world of sugar cane, That Mat. Lewis were alive again.”

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, Convers’d as they sat on the green; They gaz’d on each other with tender delight; Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight; The maid’s was the Fair Imogine. “And Oh!” said the youth, “since to morrow I go “To fight in a far distant land, “Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, “Some other will court you, and you will bestow “On a wealthier suitor your hand.” “Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said, “Offensive to love and to me! “For, if you be living, or if you be dead, “I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead “Shall husband of Imogine be.” “And if e’er for another my heart should decide, “Forgetting Alonzo the Brave, “God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride, “Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, “May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, “And bear me away to the grave.” To Palestine hasten’d the hero so bold! His love she lamented him sore; But scarce had a twelvemonth elaps’d, when, behold, A Baron all cover’d with jewels and gold, Arriv’d at Fair Imogine’s door, His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain, Soon made her untrue to her vows; He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder’d her brain, He caught her affections, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse. And now had the marriage been blest by the priest, The revelry now was begun; The tables they groan’d with the weight of the feast: Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceas’d When the bell of the castle toll’d “One!” Then first, with amazement Fair Imogine found That a stranger was plac’d by her side; His air was terrific, he utter’d no sound, He spoke not, he mov’d not, he look’d not around, But earnestly gaz’d on the bride. 138 His vizor was clos’d, and gigantic his height, His armour was sable to view! All pleasure and laughter were hush’d at his sight, The dogs as they eye’d him drew back in affright, The lights in the chamber burn’d blue! His presence all bosoms appear’d to dismay, The guests sat in silence and fear; At length spoke the bride, while she trembled, “I pray, “Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, “And deign to partake of our cheer.” The lady is silent; the stranger complies, His vizor he slowly unclos’d; Oh! then what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes! What words can express her dismay and surprise, When a skeleton’s head was expos’d! All present then utter’d a terrified shout; All turn’d with disgust from the scene: The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the spectre address’d Imogine:— “Behold me! thou false one! behold me!” he cried, “Remember Alonzo the Brave! “God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride, “My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, “Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, “And bear thee away to the grave!” Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While loudly she shriek’d in dismay; Then sank with his prey, through the wide yawning ground, Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found, Or the spectre who bore her away. Not long liv’d the Baron; and none since that time, To inhabit the castle presume; For chronicles tell, that by order sublime, There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom. At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite, When mortals in slumber are bound, Array’d in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around. While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them pale spectres are seen; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl,—“To the health of Alonzo the Brave, “And his consort, the false Imogine!” M. G. Lewis.

Giles Jollup the Grave and Brown Sally Green. A Doctor so prim, and a sempstress so tight, Hob-a-nobb’d in some right maresquin, They suck’d up the cordial with truest delight: Giles Jollup the Grave was just five feet in height, And four feet the Brown Sally Green. “And as,” said Giles Jollup, “to-morrow I go “To physic a feverish land, “At some sixpenny-hop, or perhaps the mayor’s show, “You’ll tumble in love with some smart city beau, “And with him share your shop in the Strand.” “Lord, how can you think so?” Brown Sally Green said, “You must know mighty little of me, “For if you be living, or if you be dead, “I swear, ’pon my honor, that none in your stead “Shall husband of Sally Green be. “And if e’er for another my heart should decide, “False to you and the faith which I gave, “God grant that at dinner too amply supply’d, “Over-eating may give me a pain in my side; “May your ghost then bring rhubarb to physic the bride, “And send her well dos’d to the grave.” Away went poor Giles, to what place is not told; Sally wept till she blew her nose sore! But scarce had a twelve-month elaps’d, when, behold, A Brewer, quite stylish, his gig that way roll’d, And stopp’d it at Sally Green’s door. His wealth, his pot-belly, and whisky of cane, Soon made her untrue to her vows; The steam of strong beer now bewilder’d her brain, He caught her while tipsy! denials were vain, So he carried her home as his spouse. And now the roast beef had been blest by the priest, To cram now the guests had begun; Tooth and nail, like a wolf, fell the bride on the feast, Nor yet had the clash of her knife and fork ceas’d, When a bell (’twas a dustman’s) toll’d “One!” Then first, with amazement Brown Sally Green found That a stranger was stuck by her side; His cravat and his ruffles with snuff were embrown’d; He ate not, he drank not, but turning him round, Sent some pudding away to be fried!!! His wig was turn’d forwards, and short was his height, His apron was dirty to view; The women (oh! wond’rous) were hush’d at his sight; The cats, as they ey’d him, drew back, (well they might) For his body was pea-green and blue! Now as all wish’d to speak, but none knew what to say, They look’d mighty foolish and queer; At length spoke the bride, while she trembled, “I pray, “Dear sir, your peruke that aside you wou’d lay, “And partake of some strong or small beer!” The sempstress is silent; the stranger complies, And his wig from his phiz deigns to pull; Adzooks! what a squall Sally gave thro’ surprize! Like a pig that is stuck, how she open’d her eyes, When she recogniz’d Jollup’s bare skull! 139 Each miss! then exclaim’d, while she turn’d up her snout, “Sir, your head isn’t fit to be seen!” The pot-boys ran in, and the pot-boys ran out, And could not conceive what the noise was about, While the doctor address’d Sally Green. “Behold me! thou jilt-flirt! behold me!” he cried, “You have broken the faith which you gave! “God grants, that to punish your falsehood and pride, “Over-eating should give you a pain in your side; “Come, swallow this rhubarb! I’ll physic the bride, “And send her well dosed to the grave!” Thus saying, the physic her throat he forc’d down, In spite of whate’er she could say, Then bore to his chariot the damsel so brown; Nor ever again was she seen in that town, Or the doctor who whisk’d her away. Not long liv’d the Brewer; and none since that time, To make use of the brewhouse presume; For ’tis firmly believ’d that, by order sublime, There Sally Green suffers the pain of her crime, And bawls to get out of the room. At midnight, four times in each year, does her sprite With shrieks make the chamber resound, “I won’t take the rhubarb!” she squalls in affright, While, a cup in his left hand, a draught in his right, Giles Jollup pursues her around! With wigs so well powder’d, their fees while they crave, Dancing round them, twelve doctors are seen; They drink chicken broth, while this horrible stave Is twang’d thro’ each nose,—“To Giles Jollup the Grave, “And his patient, the sick Sally Green!” M. G. Lewis.

(Written in October 1820.) A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright, Conversed as they sat o’er their wine; They gaz’d on each other with tender delight; St. George was the name of that pot-belly’d knight,[91] The maid’s was the Fair Caroline. And “Oh!” said in rapture, the amorous beau, As of Champagne he tipp’d off a quart, The passion’s so ardent with which I now glow, That ne’er on another a thought I’ll bestow, You shall share both my throne and my heart. “Then hush all suspicion,” the Cavalier said, “Believe me, this heart’s all your own; For whilst I am living, if you be not dead, I swear by these whiskers, that none in your stead, Shall sit by my side on the throne.”[92] But alas! by caprice or intrigue led aside, His recreant affections soon roam; He spurn’d the fair damsel who late was his pride, E’en access to her own belov’d infant deny’d, And the poor childless mother, the sad widow’d bride, An exile became from her home. * * * * * For the grand coronation, now see the Archbishop, Prepare; for at hand was the day. At a cabinet dinner, they’d just served the fish up, And a waiter had brought a spare rib, the top dish up, When a belle struck them all with dismay. Then, oh! with amazement, the courtiers found, ’Twas fair Caroline stood by their side; St. George was confounded, he utter’d no sound; He spoke not, he mov’d not, nor dar’d look around, Lest his eyes should encounter his bride. Her mien was majestic, her aspect so bright, That her enemies shrunk from the view; All their pleasure and laughter were hushed at the sight, Callous Canning and Castlereagh shrunk in affright, Pious Eldon and Sidmouth look’d blue! * * * * * “Begone!” to the base borough-faction she cry’d; “Your malice and hatred I brave; To deceive England’s monarch all arts you have try’d, He has sworn that none else but his own lawful bride At the grand coronation should sit by his side, Unless I should be in my grave.” (Here follow four more verses.) From The Melange, Liverpool, 1834.

Colenso the Brave. By our own Monk Lewis. A Bishop so wise, and a native so tame, Conversed in an African mead, Colenso the Brave was the Suffragan’s name, But the pensive Zulu’s is not given to fame, And they talked upon questions of creed. “O hush those suspicions,” the Suffragan said, “Offensive to Church and to me.” But something the native put into his head, He mused on at board, and he mused on in bed, And he talked of the same in his see. Then over to England the Suffragan flew, And published some tomes full of lore, Which brought on his Lordship each savage Review; Some called him a sceptic, some called him untrue, Some said he’d been answer’d before. A dreadful sensation, too dreadful to tell To the Bench of the Bishops he gave, As when Mr. Whitworth explodes a big shell; But they rallied, and all in a body they fell To demolish Colenso the Brave. 140 From the Cape, demon-haunted, a Spirit[93] arose, It was clad in a mantle of gray, And it stalked to Colenso, and said, “I depose A priest who can propagate volumes like those!” But a stern apparition cried “Nay!” In a voice full of sweetness, but cold as a stone, “I forbid you to touch him!” it said. “You are phantoms alike—if you want flesh and bone, Go pray Three Estates; for a Monarch alone Is nought to the Church but a Head. “He is free to return to his pensive Zulu, By whom it appears he was posed, He knows no allegiance to Longley or you: Behold me, and know what I tell you is true!” Then a Chancellor’s[94] face was disclosed. The sentence was final and left not a doubt, His smile of derision they saw; The lawyers ran in, and the lawyers ran out, They hooted and mooted the Temple about, But no one could challenge the law. And while all the Bishops look awfully grave, Dancing round them Dissenters are seen, Their liquor’s Cape-port, and as horrid the stave, They chant “To the health of Colenso the Brave[95] And his convert, the native so clean;” Shirley Brooks. 1865.

A Bishop there was at Natal A Zulu he had for his “Pal,” Said the Zulu, “Look here, This here Pentateuch’s queer,” Which converted his Grace of Natal.

“Between the Acts;” Or, Spain and the Spanish. A School-boy so stout, and a Maiden so mad— She a hag, he a youth in his teens— T’other day made a match, be ’t for good or for bad, Alfonso the Twelfth was the name of the lad, And L’Espana the maniac quean’s. * * * * * And this school-boy, with hands and with heart still so clean, Conscience clear of offence as a lamb— If ever the world, flesh, and devil were seen, In a foul female Cerberus, crown’d as a Queen, ’Twas in her he’d to blush for as dam! “But how,” said the Boy, “for as mad as you seemed, So much wits did you e’er come to show, As to hurl down the idols that gods you late deemed, Leave the fools that you followed, the dreams that you dreamed, And kick out Sagasta & Co.?” “She!” in scorn cried the keeper,—Armed Force,—who stood there, With his whip and strait-waistcoat, fair shown, “Don’t think her craze cured, or her turned head set square, Poor L’Espana’s still mad as was ever March hare. It is me you’ve to thank for your throne. “How bonds both a curse and a blessing may be Poor L’Espana is destined to know: In the bonds I put on her salvation you see, Through the bonds she got off bankrupt beggar is she, A world’s warning, a scoff, and a show!” The maniac looked fierce, but her wrath died away To dead calm, that strait-waistcoat displayed, And she crouched and she whined, “’Pon my honour I’ll pay— And get credit—who knows?—to run more ticks some day, When my ‘passives’ once ‘actives’ are made. “Then come to my arms—be Alfonso the Brave— And I’ll be thy fair Imogine.” Here the maniac looked wild, and the keeper looked grave, While Alfonso, poor boy, scarce knew how to behave,— When a third party stepped on the scene. ’Twas Le Lor Maire of London—that mythical Lord, Who had deigned upon Paris to shine, With herald and trumpeters, sword-bearer, sword, Mace, flags, running footmen—in friendly accord Come England and France to combine! * * * * * Did Alfonso to Stone—Yo El Rey to Lord Mayor— Give a pledge Spain’s bad debts in to call? And if a pledge—what pledge—and whence when and where Is the money to come, that, betwixt bull and bear, Like a bone of contention will fall? Punch. January 16, 1875.

A Terrible Tale. The night it was dark, not a star in the sky, As the Lord Mayor of London passed nervously by A charnel-house crammed with the bodies of those Who had died ’neath grim Radicals’ murderous blows. The wind howled a dirge and the moon hid its face, There were skulls and dry blade-bones all over the place; But the Lord Mayor of London, no tremor had he— Said his lordship, “It’s here that the thieves will put me.” So he crept past the tombs and the graves of the dead, In spite of grim spectres, with eye-sockets red; And he hid him away in a newly-made grave, Just to see how at midnight the ghosts would behave. Thought he, “I will watch these poor victims arise— They shall tell me their sorrows, I’ll gather their sighs; And I’ll hie me away at the crow of the cock To give the good people of England a shock. “I shall hear how these noble old corpses were killed— They’ll describe how their innocent claret was spilled; And I’ll never take breath through my burning harangue Till the world knows the crimes of the Radical gang.” Just then a wild tempest broke over the scene— The bells clanged out midnight, his lordship turned green; For, with clamour and cry, in their shrouds from their graves, There arose the dead victims of Radical knaves. 141 O, the language they used, and the pranks that they played; O, the terrible tricks that those spectres essayed; O, the sentiments shocking that came from their lips; O, the crimes that they had at their finger-bones’ tips! It was “Bedlam” and Newgate and Hanwell “broke loose,” And their language!—their mildest expression was “deuce!”— The Lord Mayor he shuddered and fell on his knees; He had never before seen such infamous sprees. But just as his lordship was checking a sob, Right into the place burst a horrible mob; The vilest of vile and the lowest of low, And these cuddled the corpses and snivelled their woe. They were folks who regretted the jolly old days When humbugs and robbers had all their own ways; They wept for the crew by the Radicals slain, And they wished back the old days of darkness again. He crept from the churchyard, and, wiser, more sad, He confessed that the City was hopelessly bad; He confessed that in feasting and pageant and show They squandered the wealth filched from want and from woe. That scene in the charnel-house burnt in his brain; He went to Sir William[96] at once by the train, And explained that his soul would be harassed until He had helped with his vote the Municipal Bill. The Referee. April 20, 1884.

Fire and Ale. My palate is parched with Pierian thirst, Away to Parnassus I’m beckoned; List, warriors and dames, while my lay is rehearsed, I sing of the singe of Miss Drury the first, And the birth of Miss Drury the second. The Fire King, one day, rather amorous felt; He mounted his hot copper filly; His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt Was made of cast iron, for fear it should melt With the heat of the copper colt’s belly. Sure never was skin half so scalding as his! When an infant ’twas equally horrid; For the water, when he was baptised, gave a fizz, And bubbled and simmer’d and started off, whizz! As soon as it sprinkled his forehead. O! then there was glitter and fire in each eye, For two living coals were the symbols; His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry, It rattled against them, as though you should try To play the piano in thimbles. From his nostrils a lava sulphureous flows, Which scorches wherever it lingers; A snivelling fellow he’s call’d by his foes, For he can’t raise his paw up to blow his red nose, For fear it should blister his fingers. His wig is of flames curling over his head, Well powder’d with white smoking ashes; He drinks gunpowder tea, melted sugar of lead, Cream of tartar, and dines on hot spice gingerbread, Which black from the oven he gnashes. Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields, ’Twould soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the Tenter-ground near Spital-fields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields, Make a capital lime-kiln for drying. When he open’d his mouth, out there issued a blast (Nota bene, I do not mean swearing), But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast, I’ve heard it from those who have seen it, surpassed A shot manufactory flaring. He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop’d to snatch His bride, little dreaming of danger; His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse’s left eye was a patch, To keep it from burning the manger. And who is the housemaid he means to enthral In his cinder-producing alliance? ’Tis Drury Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall, Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall, If she cannot set sparks at defiance. On his warming-pan knee-pan he clattering roll’d. And the housemaid his hand would have taken, But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold, And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon! Oh! then she look’d sour, and indeed well she might, For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas light, To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her. Look! look! ’tis the Ale King,[97] so stately and starch, Whose votaries scorn to be sober; He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October. His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung; He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding, upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis. Back, lurid in air, for a second regale, The Cinder King, hot with desire, 142 To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail, Thus chided the Monarch of Fire: “Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew; “I rule the roast here, dash the wig o’ me! “If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you “Come here with your tinderbox, courting the new, “I’ll have you indicted for bigamy!” Horace Smith. The Rejected Addresses. 1812.

Fire and Water.[98] (With Apologies to the Shades of the Authors of “Rejected Addresses.”) The Fire Fiend was curst with unquenchable thirst, And his gnomes to his aid having beckoned, From Cornhill to Clapham he flew at a burst, And furious flames soon arose from the first, And volumes of smoke from the second. The Fire Fiend was hungry as Moloch of old, And knew not the meaning of pity: The new Edax Rerum; voraciously bold, His maw a red gulf that was ready to hold The calcined remains of a City. That Phlegethon-gorge might have served as the grave Of man and his works altogether; But Shaw, the new Life-guardsman, swordless but brave, Was ever at hand to extinguish and save, And hold the Red Ogre in tether. The Fire Fiend as usual went at full pelt, But Shaw at his heels followed faster, Of leather well tanned were Shaw’s boots and his belt, And his helmet was brazen for fear it should melt, And the Fire Demon knew him as master. The Fire Fiend possessed a most hideous phiz, Polyphemus’s was not more horrid, Unkempt and unwashed was that visage of his, For water that touched it went off with a whiz! It was so tremendously torrid. But Shaw on his enemy kept a cool eye, Of vigilant valour the symbol, Affrighted no more by the Fire Demon’s cry Than the squeak of a rat; if the Fire Fiend was spry, His opponent was equally nimble. For Water, Fire’s foe, at his best freely flows, And the Fire Demon dares not to linger Whenever his enemy turns on the hose; He stands in much fear of this foeman, and those Who flock at the lift of his finger. The Fire Fiend has schemes, it is credibly said, For laying half London in ashes; But Water—and Shaw—are the things he must dread, And at sight of an engine he shakes his red head, And his teeth like a lunatic gnashes. But his fire-gnomes he multiplies lately so fast That the task of repressing them’s trying; The flare that they make and the heat that they cast, Are so great that the Fiend seems resolved in one blast To set the Metropolis frying. He blazes and blazes; Shaw gallops to snatch His prey from its desperate danger; But the Demon’s a deuce of a rider to catch, And it taxes brave Shaw to continue a match For the fiery noctivagant ranger. And if London is wise she assistance will call, For the Water King needs the alliance Of hands that are sturdy and limbs that are tall, To give the Fire Demon a rattling good fall, And set all his imps at defiance. (Eight verses omitted.) Punch. August 20, 1887.

The Old Hag in a Red Cloak. (Inscribed to Matthew G. Lewis, Esq., M.P.) Mat Lewis was little, Mat Lewis was young, The words they lisp’d prettily over his tongue; A spy-glass he us’d, for he could not well see, A spy-glass he us’d, for near sighted was he. With his spy-glass once spying in Parliament Street, He chanc’d an old Hag in a red cloak to meet; When the Hag in a red cloak thus awfully said, “Pray give me a sixpence to buy me some bread.” “No sixpence I’ll give thee to buy thee some bread,” To the Hag in a red cloak Mat feelingly said; Then down to the House in a huff strutted he, Sure all the world knows little Mat’s an M.P. But as onward he strutted, and push’d thro’ the crowd, The Hag in a red cloak still curst him aloud; Strange words of mysterious intent struck his ear, And could he be frighten’d he’d then have known fear. 143 “Though cold be thy heart, and thy feelings as cold, Though bold be thy mien, and thy language as bold, Ere the clock at St. Giles’s is heard to strike one, A deed to confound thee, a deed shall be done.” She spoke: and then vanish’d at once from his sight, In a cellar as dark as the darkness of night; But ev’ry five minutes this horrible strain Rush’d in fearful recurrence o’er Mat’s tortur’d brain. From the House about twelve to his house he repairs; To creak seem’d the doors, and to crack seem’d the stairs; He put out the candle, his clothes off he threw, When St. Giles’s struck one, and the door open flew. Then the Hag in a red cloak of Parliament Street, The Hag in a red cloak whom Mat chanc’d to meet, The Hag in a red cloak, who to him once said, Pray give me a sixpence to buy me some bread. By a sort of a blue and a glimmering light Rode quite round his bedstead and full in his sight; She rode in a carriage, that hight a birch broom, And her breath breath’d the whiffings of gin through the room. “I ask’d thee,” she cried, in a hoarse, hollow voice, “For sixpence, thou gav’st not while yet in thy choice; For punishment dread then, pretender, prepare, Which e’en to repentance I now cannot spare. “Know that she who so lately sustain’d your abuse, Is thy mother, oh shame! and my name Mother Goose; To a German Romancer thee dreaming I bore, And we both dipp’d thee deep in the tale telling lore. “Too soon thou outdidst all my wonders of old, And instead of my stories thy nonsense was told; With nurses and children I lost my high place, And from Newberry’s shop I was turn’d in disgrace. “Depriv’d of a corner to hide my old head, I wander’d about, begging e’en for my bread; When thou too, my child, to complete my despair, Refused my own spoils with thy mother to share. “But vain are thy hopes to supplant me on earth, For know that immortal I am in my birth, Can defeat all thy arts by a magical spell, And all thy productions in paper dispel. “Ye ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes, Ye lions, and wolves, and ye griffins and apes, Ye strange jumbled figures from river or den, Ye fire-born monsters, and fishified men. “Ye raw-heads and bloody-bones, spectres and shades, And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids, As your grandmother’s curses on each of you fall, To hell and the devil fly one and fly all!” Then the ghosts and hobgoblins, and horrible shapes, And lions and wolves, and the griffins and apes, And strange jumbled figures from river or den, And fire-born monsters, and fishified men, And raw-heads and bloody bones, spectres and shades, And water-sprite swains, and transmogrified maids, When they heard the goose curses on each of them fall, To hell and the devil fled one, and fled all. Fled in fire and in water, in smoke and in hail, Some green, and some red, some black and some pale, Fled in accents of horror, of spirit, of wit, Tralira, tralara, or fal-de-ral tit. While as fast as away Matty’s progeny flew, Mother Goose summon’d up her original crew, Who with loud peals of laughter and sallies of fun, Quizz’d, pinch’d, and tormented her reprobate son. A Knight led them on, who was first to assail, Who was arm’d cap-a-pie in a dear coat of mail. Sir Horn-Book hight he; at the very first glance Mat saw he was Lord o’er the Field of Romance. Then little Red Riding-Hood’s wolf howled amain, Fear shook all his limbs, and unsettled his brain; But the horrors he suffer’d can ne’er be surpass’d, When little Cock-Robin’s sad funeral pass’d. As Blue-Beard for blood loudly howl’d o’er his wife, And sister Anne pleaded so well for her life, Mat’s fav’rite spectre he saw dance in air, And he gave up his spirit a prey to despair. To his parent he bow’d, and now penitent groan, Cried “Thy strength and my empty pretences I own, “In vain were my hopes to supplant thee on earth, “And immortal, O mother, thou art in thy birth! “As now you behold me in penitence sunk, “Take all my Romances, nay, take too my Monk; “But leave me, since thus I acknowledge my crime, “My epilogues, sonnets, and lady-like rhyme.” Mother Goose, as her son was in penitence sunk, Took all his Romances, but took, too, his Monk; And left him in pity to trifle his time In epilogues, sonnets, and lady-like rhyme. If you wish me the moral, dear Mat, to rehearse, ’Tis that nonsense is nonsense in prose or in verse; That the man who to talent makes any pretence, Should write not at all, or should write common sense! Anonymous.

Champagne Goschen is my name! Champagne Goschen is my name! Good for any sort of tax, dear boys, Put it on to wheels and pleasure hacks, my boys, Champagne Goschen is my name! Beautiful to look on is my game! Good for any sort of tax, my boys! Oh, that’s the little game of Jokin’ G! Punch. 1888.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answer’d—“The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou; “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel.—Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.” The angel wrote, and vanish’d. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And show’d the names whom love of God had bless’d— And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest! Leigh Hunt.

Making up the Slate. Stratman Ben Jackey—may his tribe decrease— Awoke one night, quite sick and ill at ease, And saw within the lamplight in his room— Making it yellow with a sickly gloom— The devil, scratching on a brazen slate. Thinking to chaff him, Jacky reared his pate, And said, without the customary hail, “What writest thou?” The devil whisked his tail, And quite astonished at the fellow’s cheek, Answered, “The names of those who office seek.” “And is mine one?” said Jacky. “Yes you bet!” The devil said. Not hesitating yet, Quite unabashed, said Jack, “I beg—ahem! Write me Collector, or at least P.M.” The devil smiled and vanished. The next night He staggered into Jacky’s room, half tight, And showed the names upon his slate of brass, And lo! this Jack was written down an Ass. American Paper.

Ben Disraeli. Ben Disraeli (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, close by the night light in his room, Filling it with sulphureous perfume, An angel(?) writing in a book of gold: Exceeding cheek had made Ben Dizzy bold; And to the Presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, And, with a smile of diabolic beauty, Answered, “The names of those who do their duty.” “And is mine one?” said Dizzy. “Nay, not so,” Replied the Spirit. Dizzy spoke more low, But cheerly still, and said, “I pray thee then, Write me as one that does his fellow-men.” The angel wrote and vanished. The next night, It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom Patriotism had blest, And lo! Ben Dizzy’s name led all the rest. Echoes from the Clubs. December, 1867.

The Blue. Muggins of Sixes (may his ward increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the gaslight in the ward His Grecian, who was whacking one that snored. The while with pencil—aluminium gold— He something seemed to write. Muggins grew bold, And to the Grecian standing by his bed He cried, “What writest thou?” He raised his head, And answered, while a shoe at him he threw, “The names of those who’ve paid up for the Blue!” “And is mine one?” said Muggins. “Nay, not so,” Replied the Grecian. Muggins whistled low, And in his—night shirt—sleeve he chuckled, saying, “Write me as one that wants one without paying!” The Grecian smote and vanished. The next night He came with hockey-stick, not over light, Holding the names of the heroic few Who paid a year’s subscription to the Blue. Then, adding one, he showed the youth the list, And lo! young Muggins’ name led all the rest!

Abou Ben Folsom. Cousin Ben Folsom (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight of his room, Making it rich and like a lily bloom, A fat man writing with a pen of gold: Exceeding luck had made Ben Folsom bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The fat man raised his head, And in a voice made sweet by its accent, Answered: “The names of those who love the President.” “And is mine one?” asked Benny. “Nay, not so,” Replied the fat man. Benny spoke more low, But cheerily still; and said, “I pray, if not too late, Write me as one who’d love a consulate.” The fat man wrote and vanished. The next night He came again, with a great flickering light, And showed the names. Ben Folsom looked, And lo! for Sheffield, England, he was booked. Albany Express. U.S.A.

Adam Mac Adam. Adam Mac Adam (may his clan increase) Awoke at midnight with a hearty sneeze, And, as he raised himself in bed, he saw Something that struck Mac Adam’s soul with awe. For, bending in the moon’s uncertain light, An aged man, with locks all silvery white, Sat making entries in a ledger old. 145 The sight uncanny made his blood run cold, And scarce for terror could Mac Adam ask The nature of the scribe’s untimely task. “Behold, I write,” the vision answered then, “The names of those who love their fellow men.” “And pray,” said Adam, with a hopeful grin, “Your Honor’s honor, am I counted in?” “Nay,” spake the presence, with a look of grief, “My task is easy, for the roll is brief; Look through the M’s, but all in vain, I fear, You seek your ancient patronymic here.” Then meekly Adam said, “I am not one Who boasts to others of the good I’ve done; I seldom answer to the public call With wants so pressing and with means so small; I ply a woodsaw for my bread and pork, And half the time, you see, I’m out of work; So, from my purse no stream of largess flows; No loud subscription my sign-manual knows; But this I do,—now lend attentive ear— Each wintry morning when the dawn grows clear, I take my bucket to the ash-hole dim, And there I fill it to the very brim; Then in the sidewalk take my slippery stand, And scatter ashes with a liberal hand, So at my gate no broken heads I see; No cripple shakes his gory leg at me; In kind regard I’m held by rich and poor, Save by the surgeon who resides next door.” Thus Adam told his tale, the while The great scribe listened with a brightening smile, Then vanished. The next night he came again: “See here,” he cried, “the list of great souled men Who answer promptest to sweet mercy’s call;” Lo! A. Mac Adam’s name o’ertopped them all. P. American Paper.

Abou Ben Butler. Abou Ben Butler (who has just been fired) Awoke one night almighty cross and tired, He saw within the moonlight in his room The spirit of a Presidential boom, Who wrote on parchment tanned from human skin. Exceeding “cheek” caused Butler to begin, And to the presence in the room he said— “What writest thou?”—the Spectre raised his head, And answered with a gesture most uncouth, “The names of demagogues who love the truth.” “Is mine left out?” said Butler. “I should smile,” Replied the spirit. Butler thought awhile; And then he said, “Please put it in your note “I only lie to gain the coloured vote.” The spirit wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with evident delight, And showed the names of politicians dead, And lo! Ben Butler’s name was at the head. American Paper. 1886.

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,— A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!” * * * * * But when the dance was o’er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating ’gainst the elbow warm) We passed into the great refreshment hall, Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, And, with inquiring accents, whispered, “Ice, Water, or cream?” I could no more dissemble, But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o’er my brain, The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more.

Carlotta Grisi. By the Author of “Niminy-Piminy,” “A Pot of Treacle,” &c. She floated towards us from the wreathing crowd Of peachey nymphs, and swam a breathing cloud, Less with a regulated kind of motion, Than like a bird scarring the breast of ocean. I thought and said—“In roseate light she swims, Guided, not lifted, by those slopy limbs, And wants in air a sister sylph to meet, While Earth heaves upward, sick to kiss her feet.” 146 But when she ceased that sort of moveless gliding, Her gauzy garments round her form subsiding, And dashed through all that wonderful display Which poet ne’er described, and never may— The whirl—the twist—the turn—the start—the bound, The step—the spring—the leap—the fling—the round; The backward bending, and the bold gyration— The leg for ages in one situation. The sparkling, glittering, dazzling, flickering feats Which made us jump, delighted, in our seats, And then came down, and in child-dalliance pouted, While you, and I and everybody shouted, And hurled our flowers with vigour almost rude (One felt that flowers were such a creature’s food). I gave up simile—it wasn’t easy— All I could say was “That’s Carlotta Grisi!”

Song of October. (After Leigh Hunt.) October, month of bird and song, And ivy on old walls, Trailing some dreary pile along, From which hard mortar falls. Come hither, spider, you and I Have long been friends together; Approach, old brute, and tell me why You love October weather; Perchance, old spinster of the grove, You come in autumn days, To spin your yarn, as if to prove Life is a webby maze. Punch’s Almanac. 1846.

Manners and Civility. Let Laws and Commerce, Arts and Science die, But leave us still our old Nobility! Lord John Manners (now Duke of Rutland).

“The wreck of a beau, of a bard, of a spouter, The seed of a Duke, he was bound by all rule To furnish Disraeli, that scorner and flouter, Of noble-born failures, with friend, foil, and tool. “Had chances galore and some gifts; took to throw ’em Away to the winds 63 years or more; Two laughable lines in an imbecile poem Will probably furnish his posthumous store.”

“Let Boards and Benches, Lords and Squires die, But leave us still our old Debauchery.” The Star. March 21, 1888.