Part 4 — DAME FREDEGONDE. WILLIAM AYTOUS.

When folks with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavor to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,— A jovial coaxing way she had; And,—what was more her fate than blame,— A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man. None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice. Of Father Raulin's good advice."

Frankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well, What do you think?" When thus he met her "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" "But help I must have, there's the curse. I may go further and fare worse." "Why, take him then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good,— In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,—hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest— If 'No,' why—do as you think best."

The bells rung out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, And thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,—and they rang for her bridal But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek. She lost her beauties plump and sleek, For Guillot oftener kick'd than kiss'd, And back'd his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words, That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,— "I fear you've read the bells amiss, If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought, Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough the chime went so,— "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about!" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The noble king of Brentford Was old and very sick; He summoned his physicians To wait upon him quick; They stepped into their coaches, And brought their best physic.

They crammed their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drenched him and they bled him; They could not cure his ill. "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer; I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. "What is't," says he, "your majesty Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabored me With potion and with pill; My hours of life are counted O man of tape and quill! Sit down and mend a pen or two, I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord and eke of Kew: I've three per cents and five per cents; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son, A sober prince is he; And from the day we breeched him, Till now he's twenty-three, He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogged him; At college, though not fast, Yet his little go and great go He creditably passed, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling, Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head; In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse; While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a DULLARD, And Ned a GENIUS?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits."

"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come, take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will, as Brentford spoke it, Was writ, and signed, and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turned him round, and dozed; And next week in the church-yard The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief; Tom hid his fat, white countenance In his pocket handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He faltered in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onward he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford— That gentle king and just— With bell, and book, and candle, Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him, (I mean to tax your bill;) And, as you signed and wrote it, I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas "What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning, This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing Steps gayly o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound; But dullness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onward go your beat, While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet.

"And ever, as he wanders, Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning, Or loitering to dine, Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him Your flashing genius throws, Are excellently suited To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are weakest, The witty are not wise; O, bless your good stupidity, It is your dearest prize! "And though my lands are wide, And plenty is my gold, Still better gifts from Nature, My Thomas, do you hold— A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold;

"Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cool to yield to passion, Or silly tenderness. March on—your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("I' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I can not trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards, My houses and my rents, My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents;

"I leave to you, my Thomas—" ("What, all?" poor Edward said; "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.") "I leave to you, my Thomas,— To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, "'Tis even as I said; 'T was thus his gracious majesty Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witnessed, And here's his autograph." "In truth, our father's writing," Said Edward, with a laugh; "But thou shalt not be loser, Tom, We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing can not be; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me, 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a half-penny.

"'He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it; He never helped his brother; The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property He knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord; And as the honest laborer Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer.'"

Such was old Brentford's honest testament; He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed, To say his young son Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured, O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew; But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'T was commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.

TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means— In troth, I was a happy chiel! I passed the gate of Valenciennes. I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gayly passed the Belgic bounds At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hastened post, And as I took my evening meal I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost, O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a load of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel), But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come, To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home; How could I pawn it, then, at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say, I turn as white as cold boiled veal: I turn and look another way, I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say, "Good sir, I can not pay your bill:" He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochincal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone. How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise; How can I, without cash, at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot By cafes where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot, A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille? O, gracious gods, it makes me sick, It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

O cursed prison strong and barred, It does my very blood congeal! I tremble as I pass the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal: Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways! You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel? O do not leave me in the lurch,— I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real) It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!— It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'T was five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay, my meal; I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

What see I on my table stand,— A letter with a well-known seal? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,— "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is—it is—a ten pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]

SHADOWS Lantern

DEEP! I own I start at shadows, Listen, I will tell you why; (Life itself is but a taper, Casting shadows till we die.)

Once, in Italy, at Florence, I a radiant girl adored: When she came, she saw, she conquered, And by Cupid I was floored.

Round my heart her glossy ringlets Were mysteriously entwined— And her soft voluptuous glances All my inmost thoughts divined.

"Mia cara Mandolina! Are we not, indeed," I cried, "All the world to one another?" Mandolina, smiled and sighed.

Earth was Eden, she an angel, I a Jupiter enshrined— Till one night I saw a damning DOUBLE SHADOW ON HER BLIND!

"Fire and fury! double shadows On their bed-room windows ne'er, To my knowledge, have been cast by Ladies virtuous and fair.

"False, abandoned, Mandolina! Fare thee well, for evermore! Vengeance!" shrieked I, "vengeance! vengeance!" And I thundered through the door.

This event occurred next morning; Mandolina staring sat, Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled, Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter, On its road six weeks delayed— With a dozen re-directions From the lost one, and it said:

"Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert! Base suspicion's doubts resign; DOUBLE LIGHTS THROW DOUBLE SHADOWS! Mandolina—ever thine."

"Heavens, what an ass!" I muttered, "Not before to think of that!"— And again I rushed excited To the rail, without a hat.

"Mandolina! Mandolina!" When her house I reached, I cried: "Pardon, dearest love!" she answered— "I'm the Russian Consul's bride!"

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian, And by Fate, my life was crossed; Wonder ye I start at shadows? Types of Mandolina lost.

THE RETORT GEORGE P. MORRIS

Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was stubborn as a mule, She was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!—and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"—Jane sighed and said "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"