Part 2

Pious Æneas no more pleasure knew Than did our Knight--who could he pious too-- In telling his exploits, and martial brawls: But pious _Thomas_ had no Dido near him-- No Queen--King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him-- So he was force'd to tell them to the walls:

And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise, The knight, full often, did soliloquize:--

For "Walls have ears," Sir Thomas had been told; Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter, If, now and then, a tale he could unfold To ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.

At length, his old _Castellum_ grew so dull, That legions of Blue Devils seize'd the Knight; Megrim invested his belaurell'd skull; Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;

Till, thro' the day-time, he was haunted, wholly, By all the imps of "loathed Melancholy!"-- Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!-- An Incubus,[5] whene'er he went to bed, Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead, Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.

Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear; Sir Thomas being but a Layman, Swore, very roundly, _à la militaire_, Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:

Damning his Walls, out of all line and level; Sinking his drawbridges and moats; Wishing that he were cutting throats-- And they were at the devil.

"What's to be done," Sir Thomas said one day, "To drive _Ennui_ away? How is the evil to be parried? What can remind me of my former life?-- Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!" The last word struck him;--"Zounds!" says he, "a Wife!"-- And so he married.

Muse! regulate your pace;-- Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling! Here is a stately Lady in the case: We mustn't, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.

O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play! Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen's quarters; His torch bedimming, as thou runn'st away, Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!

Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows pass Thro' hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys; Who mark'st with Milkmaids' forms, the tell-tale grass, And make'st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!

Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing, Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight; And let thy Poet catch it, now, to sing The beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!

Her beauty!--but Sir Thomas's own Sonnet Beats all that I can say upon it.

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's[6] SONNET _ON HIS LADY_.

1

SUCH _star-like_ lustre lights her _Eyes_, They must have darted from a _Sphere_, Our duller _System_ to surprise, Outshining all the _Planets_ here; And, having wander'd from their wonted place, Fix in the wond'rous _Heaven_ of her _Face_.

2

The modest _Rose_, whose blushes speak The ardent kisses of the Sun, Off'ring a tribute to her _Cheek_, Droops, to perceive its _Tint_ outdone; Then withering with envy and despair, Dies on her _Lips_, and leaves its _Fragrance_ there.

3

Ringlets, that to her _Breast_ descend, _Increase_ the beauties they _invade_; Thus branches in luxuriance bend, To grace the _lovely Hills_ they shade; And thus the glowing _Climate_ did entice Tendrils to curl, unprune'd, o'er _Paradise_.

* * * * *

Sir Thomas having close'd his love-sick strain, Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!

Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates, Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil's skirts; Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates, And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.

Their House's sole Endowment was our Knight's:-- Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating, Conquer'd (sage, pious men!) their appetites With that infallible specifick--eating.

'Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars, That Peace and Harmony reign'd here eternally;-- Whoever told you so were cursed liars;-- The holy Friars quarrell'd most infernally.

Not a day past Without some schism among these heavenly lodgers; But none of their dissensions seem'd to last So long as Friar John's and Friar Roger's.

I have been very accurate in my researches, And find this Convent (truce with _whys_ and _hows_) Kept in a constant ferment with the _rows_ Of these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.

But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions, Proceeding thro' their Cloister with his Bride, You never could have dream'd of their commotions, The stiff-rump'd rascals look'd so sanctified:

And it became the custom of the Knight To go to matins every day; He jogg'd his Bride, as soon as it was light, Crying, "my dear, 'tis time for us to pray."--

This custom he establish'd, very soon, After his honey-moon.

Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising; But much his pious lady did it please, To see her Husband, every morning, rising, And going, instantly, upon his knees.

Never, I ween, In any person's recollection, Was such a couple seen, For genuflection!

Making as great a drudgery of prayer As humble Curates are oblige'd to do,-- Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks; And, every morning, whether foul or fair, Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew, Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.

It could not otherwise befall (Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,) But that the Lady, affable to all, Should greet the Friars, on her way To matins, as she met them, every day, _Good morninging_, and _how d'ye doing_:

Now nodding to this Friar, now to that, As thro' the Cloister she was wont to trip; Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat, On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;-- So condescending was her Ladyship, To Roger, John, and all the others.

All this was natural enough To any female of urbanity;-- But holy men are made of as frail stuff As all the lighter sons of Vanity!--

And these her Ladyship's chaste condescensions, In Friar John bred damnable desire; Heterodox, unclean intentions;-- Abominable in a Friar!

Whene'er she greeted him, his gills grew red, While she was quite unconscious of the matter;-- But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her, Out of his bullock-head.

That coxcombs _were_ and _are_, I need not give, Nor take the trouble, now, to prove; Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live, Have thought a Lady's condescension, love.

This happen'd with fat Friar John!-- Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy; Fill'd with conceit up to his very brim!-- He thought his guts and garbage doated on, By a fair Dame, whose Husband was to _him_ Hyperion to a mummy.

Burning with flames the Lady never knew, Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese, He sent her a much warmer _billet-doux_ Than Abelard e'er writ to Eloïse.

But whether Friar John's fat shape and face, Tho' pleading both together, Were sorry advocates, in such a case;-- Or, whether He marr'd his hopes, by suffering his pen With too much fervour to display 'em;-- As very tender Nurses, now and then, Cuddle their Children, till they overlay 'em;--

'Twas plain, his pray'r to decorate the brows Of good Sir Thomas was so far from granted, That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse, And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.

Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta'en, for life, A partner to thy bed, for worse or better, Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wife Brandish'd, before his eyes, the Friar's letter!

He felt, Sir,--Zounds!-- Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,--for it makes me swear-- More torture than he suffer'd from the wounds He got among the French, in France;-- Not that I take upon me to advance The knight was ever wounded there.

Think gravely, Sir, I pray:--fancy the Knight-- ('Tis quite a Picture)--with his heart's delight! Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand, Holding the Friar's foulness in her hand!--

How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave? Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:-- You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave, A frouzy Friar, meddle'd with your Rib.

His bosom almost burst with ire Against the Friar;

Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue; His cheeks turn'd purple, and his nose turn'd blue; He swore with this mock Saint he'd soon be even;-- He'd have him flay'd, like Saint Bartholomew;-- And, now again, he'd have him stone'd, like Stephen.

But, "_Ira furor brevis est_," As Horace, quaintly, has express'd;--

Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth Work thro' the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer, Pull'd out the vent-peg of his wrath, To let the stream of his revenge run clear:

Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him, To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.

First, an attack against his Foe he plann'd, Learn'd in the Field, where late he fought so felly; That is--to march up, bravely, sword in hand, And run the Friar thro' his holy belly.

At last, his better judgment did declare-- Seeing his honour would as little shine By sticking Friars, as by killing swine-- To circumvent him, by a _ruse de guerre_:

And, as the project ripen'd in his head, Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:

"Now sit thee down, my Lady bright! And list thy Lord's desire; An assignation thou shalt write, Beshrew me! to the Friar.

"Aread him, at the midnight hour, In silent sort to go, And bide thy coming, in the Bower-- For there do Crabsticks grow.

"He shall not tarry long;--for why? When _Twelve_ have striking done, Then, by the God of Gardens![7] I Will cudgel him till _One_."

The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her; For, it is no less strange than true, That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;-- Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!

She name'd the midnight hour;-- Telling the Friar to repair To the sweet, secret Bower;-- But not a word of any crabsticks there.

Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat, Lure'd by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon; And, when he's eager for a bit of fat, Down goes a trap upon him, and he's taken.

A tiny Page,--for, formerly, a boy Was a mere dunce who did not understand The doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,-- Slipp'd the Dame's note into the Friar's hand, As he was walking in the cloister; And, then, slipp'd off,--as silent as an oyster.

The Friar read;--the Friar chuckle'd:-- For, now the Farce's unities were right: _Videlicet_--The Argument, a Cuckold; The Scene, a Bow'r; Time, Twelve o'clock, at night.

Blithe was fat John!--and, dreading no mishap, Stole, at the hour appointed, to the _trap_; But, so perfume'd, so musk'd, for the occasion,-- His _tribute_ to the nose so like _invasion_,-- You would have sworn, to smell him, 'twas no rat, But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.

He reach'd the spot, anticipating blisses, Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses, Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls; When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.

Now, on his head it came, now on his face, His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back; In short, on almost every place We read of in the Almanack.

Blows rattle'd on him thick as hail; Making him rue the day that he was born;-- Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail, And thrash'd as if he had been thrashing corn.

At length, a thump,--(painful the facts, alas! Truth urges us Historians to relate!)-- Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate, It acted like a perfect _coup de grace_.

Whether it was a random shot, Or aim'd maliciously,--tho' Fame says _not_-- Certain his soul (the Knight so crack'd his crown) Fled from his body; but which way it went, Or whether Friars' souls fly up, or down, Remains a matter of nice argument.

Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon; Enough, for me, his body is not gone;

For I have business, still, in my narration, With the fat carcass of this holy porpus; And Death, tho' sharp in his Administration, Never suspended such an _Habeas Corpus_.

END OF PART I.

THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.

PART THE SECOND.

READER! if you have Genius, you'll discover, Do what you will to keep it cool, It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over, Upon a fool.

Haven't you (lucky man if _not_) been vex'd, Worn, fretted, and perplex'd, By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave, A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?

And haven't you, all christian patience gone, At last, put down the puppy with your wit;-- On whom it seem'd, tho' you had Mines of it, Extravagance to spend a jest upon?--

And haven't you, (I'm sure you have, my friend!) When you have laid the puppy low,-- All little pique, and malice, at an end,-- Been sorry for the blow? And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,) "Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?"

Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;-- Whose Genius didn't much disturb his pate: It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,-- Like many other men's of good estate:

Thus did Sir Thomas say;--and well he might, When pity to resentment did succeed; For, certainly, (tho' not with _wit_) the Knight Had hit the Friar very hard, indeed! And heads, nineteen in twenty, 'tis confest, Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.

There was, in the Knight's family, a man Cast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts; With shoulders wider than a dripping pan, And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.

All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk, So large a specimen of Nature's whims, With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk, Had christen'd him the Duke of Limbs.

Thro'out the Castle, every whipper-snapper Was canvassing the merits of this strapper: Most of the Men voted his size alarming; But all the Maids, _nem. con._ declare'd it charming!

This wight possess'd a quality most rare;-- I tremble when I mention it, I swear! Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity: 'Twas--when he had a secret in his care, To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.

Pour but a secret in him, and 'twould glue him Like rosin, on a well-cork'd bottle's snout; Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him, They never could have screw'd the secret out.

Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone, Had kill'd a Friar, weighing twenty stone, Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn, Judging he might as hopelessly desire To move a Convent as the Friar, He thought on this man's secresy, and brawn;-- And, like a swallow, o'er the lawn he skims, Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:

Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copy Of his own daughter Mors,[8] had made assault On the Duke's eye-lids,--not with juice of poppy, But potent draughts, distill'd from hops and malt.

Certainly, nothing operates much quicker Against two persons' secret dialogues, Than one of them being asleep, in liquor, Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.

Yet circumstance did, presently, require The Knight to tell his tale; And to instruct his Man, knock'd down with ale, That he (Sir Thomas) had knock'd down a Friar.

How wake a man, in such a case? Sir, the best method--I have tried a score-- Is, when his nose is playing thoro' bass, To pull it, till you make him roar.

A Sleeper's nose is made on the same plan As the small wire 'twixt a Doll's wooden thighs; For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man, Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.

This mode Sir Thomas took,--and, in a trice, Grasp'd, with his thumb and finger, like a vice, That feature which the human face embosses, And pull'd the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.

The Man awoke, and goggle'd on his master;-- He saw his Master goggling upon him;-- Fresh from concluding, on a Friar's nob, What Coroners would call an awkward job, He glare'd, all horror-struck and grim,-- Paler than Paris-plaister!

His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;-- So Garrick look'd, when he perform'd Macbeth; Who, ere he entered, after Duncan's death, Rumple'd his wig.

The Knight cried, "Follow me!"--with strange grimaces; The Man arose,-- And began "sacrificing to the Graces,"[9] By putting on his clothes;

But he reverse'd, in making himself smart, A Scotchman's toilet, altogether: And merely clapp'd a cover on that part The Highlanders expose to wind and weather.

They reach'd the bower where the Friar lay; When, to his Man, The Knight began, In doleful accents, thus to say:

"Here a fat Friar lies, kill'd with a mauling, For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling; Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!" Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh'd;-- To whom the Duke of Limbs replied-- "Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don't say so!"

Then, taking the huge Friar _per_ the hocks, He whirl'd the ton of blubber three times round, And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground, With strength that yields, in any age, to no man's,-- Tho' Milo's ghost should rise, bearing the Ox He carried at the games of the old Romans.

Nay, I opine--let Fame say what it can-- Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar) That Milo was a pigmy to this Man, And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.

Besides,--I hold it in much doubt If Roman graziers (should the truth come out) Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;-- --I wouldn't breed my beast _more Romano_;-- For, I suspect, in fatt'ning they were dull, And when they made an ox out of a bull, They fed him ill,--and, then, he got no fatter Than a fat opera _Soprano_.[10]

[10] I am aware that much has been said, of old, relative to the "_cura boum_," and the "_optuma torvæ forma bovis_;"--but, for a show of cattle, I would back Smithfield, or most of our English market Towns, against any _forum boarium_ of the Romans.

Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down) Gallantly stalk'd the brawny Duke of Limbs, Bearing _Johannes_, of the shaven crown, Fame'd, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns; For mangling _Pater-Nosters_, and goose-pies, And telling sundry beads,--and sundry lies.

Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gait Than Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall, And perch'd himself, with his monastick weight, Upon the Convent-garden's wall;--

Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze'd, To find a spot where he might leave his load, He 'spied a _House_ so _little_, it seem'd raise'd More for Man's visits, than his fix'd abode;-- And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill, For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.

Arise, Tarquinius![11] shew thy lofty face! While I describe, with dignity, the place.

[11] _Tarquinius Superbus_, the last King of Rome;--he was a haughty Monarch, and built the _Cloaca maxima_.

Snug in an English garden's shadiest spot, A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze; Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman's cot, Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.

There sit Philosophers; and sitting read; And to some end apply the dullest pages; And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed, Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.

Sure, for an Edifice in estimation, Never was any less presuming seen! It shrinks, so modestly, from observation! And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;-- Like a coy Maid, design'd for filthy Man, Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.

Into this place, unnotice'd by beholders, The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole, And shot the Friar off his shoulders, Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:

Not taking any pains, Nor caring, in the least, How he deposited the Friar's remains, No more than if a Friar were a beast.

No funeral, of which you ever heard, Was mark'd with ceremonies half so slight; For John was left, not like the dead interr'd, But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!

Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t'other, Recurring to the facts already stated, Thought on a certain Roger?--that same brother Who hated John, and whom John hated?

'Tis, now, a necessary thing to say That, at this juncture, Roger wasn't well; Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day, His stomach with coarse towels: And clapping trenchers, hot as hell, Upon his bowels; Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick, Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.

He also had imbibe'd, to sooth his pains, Of _pulvis rhei_ very many grains; And to the garden's deepest shade was bent, To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:

When, _there_,--alive and merry to appearance-- He 'spied his ancient foe, by the moon's light!-- Who sat erect, with so much perseverance, It look'd as if he kept his post in spite.

A case it is of piteous distress, If, carrying a secret grief about, We wish to bury it in a recess, And find another there, who keeps us out.

Expecting, soon, his enemy to go, Roger, at first, walk'd to and fro, With tolerably tranquil paces; But finding John determine'd to remain, Roger, each time he pass'd, thro' spite or pain, Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.

How misery will lower human pride! And make us buckle!-- Roger, who, all his life, had John defied, Was now oblige'd to speak him fair,--and truckle.

"Behold me," Roger cried, "behold me, John! Entreating as a _favour_ you'll be gone; Me! your sworn foe, tho' fellow-lodger; Me!--who, in agony, tho' suing now to you, Would, once, have seen you damn'd ere make a bow to you. Me,--Roger!"[12]

[12] This is a palpable plagiarism. _Rolla_ thus addresses _Pizarro_: "_Behold me_, at thy feet--_Me_,--_Rolla!_--Me, that never yet have bent or _bow'd_--in humble _agony_ I _sue_ to you."--The theft is more glaring, as the Apostrophe, both here, and in the original, occurs in the midst of a strong incident, and is address'd to an Enemy by a proud spirit, in very moving circumstances.

To this address, so fraught with the pathetick, John remain'd dumb, as a Pythagorean; Seeming to hint, "Roger, you're a plebeian Peripatetick."

When such choice oratory has not hit, When it is, e'en, unanswer'd by a grunt, 'Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit, And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.

Cholerick Roger could not brook it;-- So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it; And aiming, like a marksman at a crow, Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe; Who fell, like Pedants' periods, to the ground,-- Very inanimate, and very round.

Here is another Picture, reader mine! I gave you one in the first Canto;[13]-- This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,-- Like something in the Castle of Otranto.

[13] _Vide_ Part 1st, page 61, lines 4-7.

Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work, Who on the subject will, with furor, rush! Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork, To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!

Come, Limners, come! who choke your house's entry With dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels; Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry; Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!

Come, Limners, hither come! and draw A finer incident than e'er ye saw!