Part 8

The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws, And they _might_ be on _his_ side--and then, he'd such claws! On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire With the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire, And give up the victuals--to retrace his path, And to compromise--(spite of the Member for Bath). So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turned on his heel, He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal, And the soup _à la Reine_, and the sauce _Bechamel;_ As the Scroope _did_ invite you to dinner, I feel I can't well turn you out--'twould be hardly genteel--- But be moderate, pray,--and remember thus much, Since you're treated as Gentlemen--show yourselves such, And don't make it late, But mind and go straight Home to bed when you've finished--and don't steal the plate, Nor wrench off the knocker, or bell from the gate. Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace, And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!"

Having thus said his say, That Palmer gray Took up little La Scroope, and walked coolly away, While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurrah!"

Then fell, tooth and nail, on the victuals, as they Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day, All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em, No care for precedence or common decorum. Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte, And Hecate,--considered the Belles of the party. Between them was seated Leviathan, eager To "do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor; Here was _Morbleu_ (a French devil), supping soup-meagre, And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar (A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan To "follow the sea,"--and next him Demogorgon,-- Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers, Who'd joined with Medusa to get up 'the Lancers'; Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale, While Beelzebub's tying huge knots in his tail. There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles Gave him the lie, Said he'd "blacken his eye," And dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;-- Ramping and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring, Never was seen such a riot before in A gentleman's house, or such profligate reveling At any _soirée_--where they don't let the Devil in.

Hark! as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight! (An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,") When Nick, who by this time was rather elate, Rose up and addressed them:-- "'Tis full time," he said, "For all elderly Devils to be in their bed; For my own part I mean to be jogging, because I don't find myself now quite so young as I was; But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post I must call on you all for one bumper--the toast Which I have to propose is,--OUR EXCELLENT HOST! Many thanks for his kind hospitality--may _We_ also be able To see at _our_ table Himself, and enjoy, in a family way, His good company _down-stairs_ at no distant day! You'd, I'm sure, think me rude If I did not include, In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged Heir! He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care; Though I must not say 'bless,'-- Why, you'll easily guess,-- May our curly-wigged Friend's shadow never be less!" Nick took off his heel-taps--bowed--smiled---with an air Most graciously grim,--and vacated the chair.

Of course the _élite_ Rose at once on their feet, And followed their leader, and beat a retreat: When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat, And requesting that each would replenish his cup, Said, "Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!"-- It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!

* * * * *

I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay To fulfill his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay. In fact, when the votaries came there to pray, All said there was naught to compare with it--nay, For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby, Four Brethren, thenceforward, two cleric, two lay, He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry, With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry; In short, the whole county Declared, through his bounty, The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.

For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read In some Chronicle--whose, has gone out of my head--

That what with these candles, and other expenses, Which no man would go to if quite in his senses, He reduced and brought low His property so, That at last he'd not much of it left to bestow; And that many years after that terrible feast, Sir Guy, in the Abbey, was living a priest; And there, in one thousand and---something--deceased. (It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick, And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick.") While as to young Curly-wig,--dear little Soul, Would you know more of him, you must look at "The Roll," Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit, Commenced in "Thirteen sev'nty-five,"--which took root In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore That none but _his_ ancestors, ever before, In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, To wit, "_On a Prussian-blue Field_, a _Bend Or_;" While the Grosvenor averred that _his_ ancestors bore The same, and Scroope lied like a--somebody tore Off the simile,--so I can tell you no more, Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.

MORAL

This Legend sound maxims exemplifies--_e.g._

1_mo._ Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you, Remember what Lilly says, "_Animum rege!_" And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing,-- In all good society voted past bearing,-- Eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs, Nor commit yourself much beyond "Zooks!" or "Odsbobs!"

2_do._ When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality, Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality! For should you come late, And make dinner wait, And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate. And though both may perhaps be too well-bred to swear, They'll heartily _wish_ you--I will not say _Where_.

3_tio._ Look well to your Maid-servants!--say you expect them To see to the children, and not to neglect them! And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery. Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And from pears in the season,--and sucking their thumbs!

4_to._ To sum up the whole with a "saw" of much use, Be _just_ and be _generous_,--don't be _profuse!_-- Pay the debts that you owe, keep your word to your friends, But--DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS!!-- For of this be assured, if you "go it" too fast, You'll be "dished" like Sir Guy, And like him, perhaps, die A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last!

A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS

"Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit."--ROGER HOVEDEN.

"Lord Abbot! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess; I am a-weary, and worn with woe; Many a grief doth my heart oppress, And haunt me whithersoever I go!"

On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid; "Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!"-- "Now naye, fair daughter," the Lord Abbot said, "Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be.

"There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John, Sage penitauncers I ween be they! And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell, Ambrose, the anchorite old and gray!"

--"Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John, Though sage penitauncers I trow they be; Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone-- Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.

"Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine! I am a maiden royally born, And I come of old Plantagenet's line.

"Though hither I stray in lowly array, I am a damsel of high degree; And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu, They serve my father on bended knee!

"Counts a many, and Dukes a few, A suitoring came to my father's Hall; But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain, He pleased my father beyond them all.

"Dukes a many, and Counts a few, I would have wedded right cheerfullie; But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain, And I vowed that he ne'er should my bridegroom be!

"So hither I fly, in lowly guise, From their gilded domes and their princely halls; Fain would I dwell in some holy cell, Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!"

--Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot, "Now rest thee, fair daughter, withouten fear. Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:

"Holy Church denieth all search 'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams, And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock, Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.

"Then lay, fair daughter, thy fears aside, For here this day shalt thou dine with me!"-- "Now naye, now naye," the fair maiden cried; "In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be!

"Friends would whisper, and foes would frown, Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree, And ill mote it match with thy fair renown That a wandering damsel dine with thee!

"There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, With beans and lettuces fair to see: His lenten fare now let me share, I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!"

--"Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, To our patron Saint foul shame it were Should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed, Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.

"There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, And Roger the Monk shall our convives be; Small scandal I ween shall then be seen: They are a goodly companie!"

The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring, His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine; And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.

The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety; Liver, and gizzard, and all are there; Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce _Benedicite_ Over more luscious or delicate fare.

But no pious stave he, no _Pater_ or _Ave_ Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face; She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, She asked him for gizzard;--but not for grace!

Yet gayly the Lord Abbot smiled, and pressed, And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled; And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast, And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled.

There was no lack of the old Sherris sack, Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright; And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack, He grew less pious and more polite.

She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice, And she drank as Lady ought not to drink; And he pressed her hand 'neath the table thrice, And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink.

And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, Sat each with a napkin under his chin; But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk, So they put him to bed, and they tucked him in!

The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed; And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise. As he peeped through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing-- He could not distinguish the words very plain, But 'twas all about "Cole," and "jolly old Soul," And "Fiddlers," and "Punch," and things quite as profane.

Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such reveling, With fervor himself began to bless; For he thought he must somehow have let the Devil in-- And perhaps was not very much out in his guess.

The Accusing Byers[1] "flew up to Heaven's Chancery," Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern; The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he Wept (see the works of the late Mr. Sterne).

Indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in When, after a lapse of a great many years, They booked Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing, And blotted the fine out again with their tears!

But St. Nicholas's agony who may paint? His senses at first were well-nigh gone; The beatified saint was ready to faint When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on!

For never, I ween, had such doings been seen There before, from the time that most excellent Prince, Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders, Had built and endowed it some centuries since.

--But hark--'tis a sound from the outermost gate: A startling sound from a powerful blow.-- Who knocks so late?--it is half after eight By the clock,--and the clock's five minutes too slow.

Never, perhaps, had such loud double raps Been heard in St. Nicholas's Abbey before; All agreed "it was shocking to keep people knocking," But none seemed inclined to "answer the door."

Now a louder bang through the cloisters rang, And the gate on its hinges wide open flew; And all were aware of a Palmer there, With his cockle, hat, staff, and his sandal shoe.

Many a furrow, and many a frown, By toil and time on his brow were traced; And his long loose gown was of ginger brown, And his rosary dangled below his waist.

Now seldom, I ween, is such costume seen, Except at a stage-play or masquerade; But who doth not know it was rather the go With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade?

With noiseless stride did that Palmer glide Across that oaken floor; And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump Against the Refectory door!

Wide open it flew, and plain to the view The Lord Abbot they all mote see; In his hand was a cup and he lifted it up, "Here's the Pope's good health with three!"

Rang in their ears three deafening cheers, "Huzza! huzza! huzza!" And one of the party said, "Go it, my hearty!"-- When outspake that Pilgrim gray--

"A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon! Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip; And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon Of food, Lord Abbot, hath passed my lip.

"And I am come from a far countree, And have visited many a holy shrine; And long have I trod the sacred sod Where the Saints do rest in Palestine!"--

"An thou art come from a far countree, And if thou in Paynim lands hast been, Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight, Thou Palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen.

"Arede me aright the most wonderful sight, Gray Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see, And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed, And a cup o' the best shall thy guerdon be!"

"Oh! I have been east, and I have been west, And I have seen many a wonderful sight; But never to me did it happen to see A wonder like that which I see this night!

"To see a Lord Abbot, in rochet and stole, With Prior and Friar,--a strange mar-velle!-- O'er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl, And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell!"

He felt in his gown of ginger brown, And he pulled out a flask from beneath; It was rather tough work to get out the cork, But he drew it at last with his teeth.

O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water, He made a sacred sign; And he dashed the whole on the _soi-disant_ daughter Of old Plantagenet's line!

Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek, With a wild unearthly scream; And fizzled, and hissed, and produced such a mist, They were all half-choked by the steam.

Her dove-like eyes turned to coals of fire, Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout, Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws, And her bosom went in and her tail came out.

On her chin there appeared a long Nanny-goat's beard, And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell; And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs 'Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost hell!

The Palmer threw down his ginger gown, His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight, Stood St. Nicholas' self, and his shaven crown Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light.

The fiend made a grasp the Abbot to clasp; But St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe, And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick On his elderly namesake, he made him let go.

And out of the window he flew like a shot, For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack, And caught the foul demon about the spot Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.

And he bounded away like a foot-ball at play, Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap, Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor, And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap.

Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip, That saved the Lord Abbot,--though breathless with fright, In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip, And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!

* * * * *

On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine, From a certain inn-window the traveler is shown Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings, Some miles up the river south-east of Cologne.

And while "_sauer-kraut_" she sells you, the landlady tells you That there, in those walls all roofless and bare, One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one On filling a _ci-devant_ Abbot's state chair.

How a _ci-devant_ Abbot, all clothed in drab, but Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes (His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing Laid aside), in yon cave lived a pious recluse;

How he rose with the sun, limping "dot and go one," To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather, Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together;

How a thirsty old codger the neighbors called Roger, With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine! What its quality wanted he made up in quantity, Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine!

And how, as their bodily strength failed, the mental man Gained tenfold vigor and force in all four; And how, to the day of their death, the "Old Gentleman" Never attempted to kidnap them more.

And how, when at length, in the odor of sanctity, All of them died without grief or complaint, The monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous Not to suppose every one was a Saint.

And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby As not to say yearly four masses ahead, On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!

How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories, How the _ci-devant_ Abbot's obtained greater still, When some cripples, on touching his fractured _os femoris_, Threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille!

And how Abbot Simon (who turned out a prime one) These words, which grew into a proverb full soon, O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto, "Who Suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!"

[Footnote 1: The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen, when such things were.]

SABINE BARING-GOULD

(1834-)

The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould was born in Exeter, England, in 1834. The addition of Gould to the name of Baring came in the time of his great-grandfather, a brother of Sir Francis Baring, who married an only daughter and heiress of W.D. Gould of Devonshire. Much of the early life of Baring-Gould was passed in Germany and France, and at Clare College, Cambridge, where he graduated in 1854, taking orders ten years later, and in 1881 becoming rector of Lew Trenchard, Devonshire, where he holds estates and privileges belonging to his family.

He has worked in many fields, and in all with so much acceptance that a list of his books would be the best exposition of the range of his untiring pen. To a gift of ready words and ready illustration, whether he concerns himself with diversities of early Christian belief, the course of country-dances in England, or the growth of mediaeval legends, he adds the grace of telling a tale and drawing a character. He has published nearly a hundred volumes, not one of them unreadable. But no one man may write with equal pen of German history, of comparative mythology and philology, of theological dissertations, and of the pleasures of English rural life, while he adds to these a long list of novels.

His secret of popularity lies not in his treatment, which is neither critical nor scientific, but rather in a clever, easy, diffuse, jovial, amusing way of saying clearly what at the moment comes to him to say. His books have a certain raciness and spirit that recall the English squire of tradition. They rarely smell of the lamp. Now and then appears a strain of sturdy scholarship, leading the reader to wonder what his author might have accomplished had he not enjoyed the comfortable ease of a country justice of the peace, and a rector with large landed estates, to whom his poorer neighbors appear a sort of dancing puppets.