MIRTH AND METRE.

MAUDE ALLINGHAME.—[p. 19].

Front.

MIRTH AND METRE—[p. 80.]

LONDON AND NEW YORK:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & CO.
1855.

MIRTH AND METRE.

BY
TWO MERRY MEN.

Frank E. Smedley,
AND
Edmund H. Yates.

“I’D RATHER HAVE A FOOL TO MAKE ME MERRY, THAN EXPERIENCE
TO MAKE ME SAD.”—SHAKSPEARE.

With Illustrations by M’Connell.

LONDON:
GEO. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.
1855.

PREFACE.

If any one of those mysterious autocrats who “do” the reviews “on” some newspaper or serial shall, in his condescension, deign to inform public opinion what he may think about Mirth and Metre, that autocrat, unless he be in an unhoped-for state of benignity, will, doubtless, commence with the agreeable remark that “the work before us consists of certain Lays and Legends, written in paltry imitation of the productions of the inimitable Thomas Ingoldsby.”

Admitting the imputation without cavil, (except at the word “paltry,” which really is too bad, don’t you think so, dear reader?) the authors would inquire whether such an admission legitimately exposes them to hostile criticism? When the late Mr. Barham produced the “Ingoldsby Legends,” he, as it were, founded a new school of comic versification. That this is not a mere ipse dixit of our own is evinced by the fact that, in common parlance, a man who adopts this style of composition is said to have written an “Ingoldsby,” as he might be said to have written an Epic, had he chosen that form instead.

To assert that only a very small shred of Mr. Barham’s mantle has fallen upon any of his imitators (a fact to which none will more readily assent than the present writers), is simply to state that the standard we have proposed to ourselves is a high one, and proportionately difficult to attain.

“Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona”

is a fact which does not appear to have checked the energies or paralysed the ambition of the “king of men;” nor was Waterloo the less a great victory because Julius Cæsar had a few centuries before successfully invaded Gaul.

To our thinking, however, the common sense of the matter lies (after the usual fashion of that inestimable quality) in a nutshell. A servile copy of any particular style—a hash of old ideas, or want of ideas, served up after the manner of some popular writer—is a bad thing, against which all true lovers of literature are bound to raise their voices whenever they meet with it; but if a young author, imbued with admiration of, and respect for, some man of genius who has lived before him, sees fit to embody his own thoughts and feelings in a form which experience has approved, rather than confuse himself and his readers, in his frantic strivings after originality, by torturing words out of their natural meaning, and marshalling them in a metre against which the ear rebels, we conceive no just canon of criticism can forbid his doing so. To which of these categories the Lays and Legends in this Volume are to be assigned, we leave it to our readers to determine.

Frank E. Smedley.
Edmund H. Yates.

CONTENTS.

MIRTH AND METRE.

MAUDE ALLINGHAME;
A LEGEND OF HERTFORDSHIRE.[1]

Part the First.

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.

Part the Second.

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!

L’ENVOI.

“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.”

MORAL.

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!

Frank E. S.

FOOTNOTES

[1] The following legend is founded on a story current in the part of Herts where the scene is laid; the house was actually burnt down about ten years ago, having just been rendered habitable.

[2] The name of a lonely common near Harpenden, formerly a favourite site for prize-fights.

“YE RIGHT ANCIENT BALLAD OF YE COMBAT OF KING TIDRICH WITH YE DRAGON.”

Ye Peroration.

Hey for the march of intellect,

The schoolmaster’s abroad,

And still the cry is raised on high,

Obey his mighty word!

Where’er we go, both high and low,

Bow down before his nod;

And the sceptre may hide its jewelled pride,

For our sceptre’s the birchen rod.

And all “enlightened citizens” and “learned brothers” say,

That the world was never

One half so clever

As it is in the present day.

Now I deny

This general cry;

And will proceed to tell you why

I’ve long since come to the conclusion,

’Tis all a popular delusion.

I have seen many a wild-beast show,

From the day when Messrs. Pidcock and Co.

Were what vulgar people call all-the-go,

To the time when society mourned for the loss

(All felt it, but no one like poor Mr. Cross)

Of the elephant “Chuney,” who went mad, ’tis said,

With the pressure and pain

He felt in his brain

From constantly bearing a trunk on his head.

And I have set eye on

That magnanimous lion,

Brave Wallace—oh, fye on

The brutes who could hie on

Fierce bull-dogs to fly on

His monarchical mane! I declare I could cry on

The bare thought, as one weeps when one goes to see “Ion.”

And lately I’ve been

Down to Astley’s, and seen

His wonderful elephants act; what they mean

By their actions, I’ve not the most distant idea,

Why they stand on their heads, why they wag their fat tails,

Are to me hidden mysteries, “very like whales,”

As Hamlet remarks of some cloud he is certain

He perceives up aloft, whence they let down the curtain,

And whither they draw up the fairies and goddesses,

With their pretty pink legs and inadequate bodices.

But of all the beasts I ever did see,

Whether of low or of high degree,

Despite the “schoolmaster,”

And “going a-head faster,”

The arts and the sciences,

And all their appliances,

Never an animal, chained or loose,

As yet have I heard

Utter one single word,

Or so much as attempt to say “Bo!” to a goose.

But you’ll see, if you read the next two or three pages,

That in what people now-a-days term the dark ages,

When the world was some thousand years younger or so,

Beasts could talk very well; and it wasn’t thought low

For a real live monarch his prowess to brag on,

And bandy high words with an insolent dragon.

Ye Right Ancient Ballad.

The good King Tidrich rode from Bern[3]

(And a funny name had he),

His charger was bay, and he took his way

Under the greenwood-tree;

And ever he sang, as he rode along,

“’Tis a very fine thing

To be a crowned king,

And to feel one’s right arm strong.”

King Tidrich was clad in armour of proof

(Whatever that may be)

And his helmet shone with many a stone,

Inserted cunningly;

While on his shield one might behold

A lion trying

To set off flying,

Emblazoned in burnished gold.

King Tidrich was counting his money o’er,

As he rode the greenwood through,

When he was aware of a “shocking affair,”

And a terrible “to-do;”

Then loudly he shouted with pure delight,

“A glorious row,

I make mine avow;

I’ll on, and view the fight.”

And a fearful sight it was, I ween,

As ever a king did see,

For a dragon old, and a lion bold,

Were striving wrathfully;

But the monarch perceived from the very first—

And it made him sad,

For “a reason he had,”—

That the lion would get the worst.

When the lion saw the royal Knight,

These were the words he said:

“O mighty King, assistance bring,

Or I am fairly sped;

For the battle has been both fierce and long;

Two days and a night

Have I urged the fight,

But the dragon’s unpleasantly strong.”

In a kind of Low Dutch did the lion speak,

Nor his stops did he neglect,

But e’en in his hurry, for Lindley Murray

Preserved a marked respect;

And he managed his H’s according to rule:

Full well I ween

Must the beast have been

Taught at some Public School.

Long paused the royal hero then,

Grave thoughts passed through his brain;

Of his queen thought he, and his fair countrie[4]

He never might see again;

He thought of his warriors, that princely band,

Of Eckhart true,

And Helmschrot too,

And Wolfort’s red right hand.[5]

But he thought of the lion he bore on his shield,

And he manned his noble breast,—

“’Twixt the lion and me there is sympathy,

And a dragon I detest;

I must not see the lion slain;

Both kings are we,

In our degree,

I of the city and he of the plain.”

The first stroke that the monarch made,

His weapon tasted blood;

From many a scale of the dragon’s mail

Poured forth the crimson flood.

But when the hero struck again,

The treacherous sword

Forsook its lord,

And brake in pieces twain.

The dragon laid him on her back

With a triumphant air,

And flung the horse her jaws across,

As a greyhound would seize a hare.

At a fearful pace to her rocky den,

To serve as food

For her young brood

Away she bore them then.

They were a charming family,

Eleven little frights,

With deep surprise in their light-green eyes,

And fearful appetites;

And they wagged their tails with extreme delight,

For to dine on King

Is a dainty thing

When one usually dines on Knight.

Before them then the steed she threw,

Saddle, and bridle, and crupper,

And bade them crunch its bones for lunch,

While they saved the king for supper;

Saying, she must sleep ere she could sup,

For after the fight

With the lion and knight,

She was thoroughly used up.

A lucky chance for Tidrich:

He sought the dark cave over,

And soon the King did Adelring,[6]

That famous sword, discover:

“And was it here that Siegfried died?[7]

That champion brave,

Was this his grave?”

In grief the monarch cried.

“I have ridden with him in princely hosts,

I have feasted with him in hall;

Sword, you and I will do or die,

But we’ll avenge his fall.”

Against the cavern’s rocky side

The king essayed

The trusty blade,

Till the flames gleamed far and wide.

Up rose a youthful dragon then,

Right pallid was his hue;

For with fear and ire he viewed the fire

From out the rock that flew.

These words he to the king did say:

“If the noise thou dost make

Should our mother awake,

It is thou wilt rue the day.”

“Be silent, thou young viper,”

’Twas thus the king replied,

“Thy mother slew Siegfried the true,

A hero brave and tried;

And vengeance have I vowed to take

Upon ye all,

Both great and small,

For that dear warrior’s sake.”

Then he aroused the dragon old,

Attacked her with his sword,

And a fearful fight, with strength and might

Fought he, that noble lord.

The dragon’s fiery breath, I ween,

Made his cuirass stout

Red hot throughout:

Such a sight was never seen.

Despair lent strength to the monarch then;

A mighty stroke he made,

Through the dragon’s neck, without a check,

He passed his trenchant blade.

At their mother’s fall, each little fright

Began to yell

Like an imp of hell,

And nearly stunned the knight.

He struck right and left with Adelring,

That trusty sword and good,

And in pieces small chopped each and all

Of the dragon’s hateful brood.

King Tidrich thus at honour’s call,

On German land,

With his strong right hand,

Avenged bold Siegfried’s fall.

Now ye whose spirits thrill to hear

The trumpet-voice of fame,

Or love to read of warrior deed,

Remember Tidrich’s name;

And mourn that the days of chivalry

Are past and o’er,

And live no more,

Save in their glorious memory.

Yet when Prince Albert rides abroad,

Our gracious Queen may feel

As well content, as if he went,

Encased in plates of steel;

Relying on the new Police,

Those bulwarks of the State,

That on their beat, no dragons eat

The Prince off his own plate!

Frank E. S.

[Should any reader wish to learn more of the various personages here mentioned, we refer him to the “Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, from the earlier Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances,” to which we are indebted for our information on the subject.]

FOOTNOTES

[3] King Tidrich, Dietrich, or Theoderic, the son of Thietmar, king of Bern, and the fair Odilia, daughter of Essung Jarl, was, as it were, the central hero of that well-known, popular, and interesting work the “Book of Heroes,” which relates the deeds of the champions who attached themselves to him, and the manner in which they joined his fellowship.

[4] Tidrich of Bern was also king of Aumlungaland (Italy); he espoused Herraud, daughter of King Drusiad, a relation of Attila.

[5] These three champions were among the eleven heroes who accompanied Tidrich in his memorable expedition to contend against the twelve guardians of the Garden of Roses at Worms.

[6] They had a weakness for naming swords in those days, just as in the nineteenth century we delight in bestowing euphonious titles on “villa residences,” puppy dogs, and men-of-war!

[7] Sigurd, or Siegfried, son of Sigmond, king of Netherland, is the chief hero of the Nibelungen Lay. There are various accounts of his death, one of the least improbable supposes him to have been destroyed by a dragon.

ST. MICHAEL’S EVE.

I will tell to you a story, for in winter time we bore ye

With many an ancient legend and tale of by-gone time;

And methinks that there is in it enough to pass a minute,

So, to add to my vain-glory, I have put it into rhyme.

As I heard it you shall hear it,—by one whom I revere, it

Was told me, as in childhood upon his knee I sat.

It treats of days long vanished,—of the times of James the Banished,

Of periwig and rapier, and quaint three-cornered hat.

Sir Walter Ralph de Guyon, of a noble house the scion,

Though his monarch was defeated, still held bravely to his cause,

And foremost in the slaughter by the Boyne’s ill-fated water

Was seen his knightly cognizance,—a bear with bloody paws.

But when the fight was over, escaping under cover

Of the darkness and confusion, to England he returned,

As well might be expected, dispirited, dejected,

But his rage within him smouldered, nor ever brightly burned.

Save when his daughter Alice would say in playful malice,

That she loved the gallant Orange much better than the Green;

And that as a maid she’d tarry, till she found a chance to marry

With one true to William, her bold king, and Mary, her good queen.

Then Sir Walter’s brow would darken, and he’d mutter, “Alice, hearken!

By my child no such treason shall be spoken e’en in jest;

And bethink you, oh, my daughter! there is one across the water

Who shall one day have his own again, though now he’s sore distressed.”

Little knew he that each even, ’twixt the hours of six and seven,

Just below his daughter’s casement a whistle low was blown;

And that soon as e’er it sounded through the wicket-gate she bounded,

And was clasped in the embrace of one of bold “King William’s Own.”