Chapter 7

Often they are broader yet, and intended for the club rather than the family. Indeed, the tales as a whole are club tales, with an audience of club-men always in mind; not, be it remembered, bestialities like their French counterparts, or the later English and American improvements on the French, not even objectionable for general reading, but full of exclusively masculine joking, allusions, and winks, unintelligible to the other sex, and not welcome if they were intelligible.

He has plenty of melody, but it is hardly recognized because of the doggerel meaning, which swamps the music in the farce. And this applies to more important things than the melody. The average reader floats on the surface of this rapid and foamy stream, covered with sticks and straws and flowers and bonbons, and never realizes its depth and volume. This light frothy verse is only the vehicle of a solid and laborious antiquarian scholarship, of an immense knowledge of the world and society, books and men. He modestly disclaimed having any imagination, and said he must always have facts to work upon. This was true; but the same may be said of some great poets, who have lacked invention except around a skeleton ready furnished. What was true of Keats and Fitzgerald cannot nullify the merit of Barham. His fancy erected a huge and consistent superstructure on a very slender foundation. The same materials lay ready to the hands of thousands of others, who, however, saw only stupid monkish fables or dull country superstition.

His own explanation of his handling of the church legends tickles a critic's sense of humor almost as much as the verses themselves. It is true that while differing utterly in his tone of mind, and his attitude toward the mediaeval stories, from that of the mediaeval artists and sculptors,--whose gargoyles and other grotesques were carved without a thought of travesty on anything religious,--he is at one with them in combining extreme irreverence of form with a total lack of irreverence of spirit toward the real spiritual mysteries of religion. He burlesques saints and devils alike, mocks the swarm of miracles of the mediaeval Church, makes salient all the ludicrous aspects of mediaeval religious faith in its devout credulity and barbarous gropings; yet he never sneers at holiness or real aspiration, and through all the riot of fun in his masques, one feels the sincere Christian and the warm-hearted man. But he was evidently troubled by the feeling that a clergyman ought not to ridicule any form in which religious feeling had ever clothed itself; and he justified himself by professing that he wished to expose the absurdity of old superstitions and mummeries to help countervail the effect of the Oxford movement. Ingoldsby as a soldier of Protestantism, turning monkish stories into rollicking farces in order to show up what he conceived to be the errors of his opponents, is as truly Ingoldsbian a figure as any in his own 'Legends.' Yet one need not accuse him of hypocrisy or falsehood, hardly even of self-deception. He felt that dead superstitions, and stories not reverenced even by the Church that developed them, were legitimate material for any use he could make of them; he felt that in dressing them up with his wit and fancy he was harming nothing that existed, nor making any one look lightly on the religion of Christ or the Church of Christ: and that they were the property of an opposing church body was a happy thought to set his conscience at rest. He wrote them thenceforth with greater peace of mind and added satisfaction, and no doubt really believed that he was doing good in the way he alleged. And if the excuse gave to the world even one more of the inimitable 'Legends,' it was worth feeling and making.

Barham's nature was not one which felt the problems and tragedies of the world deeply. He grieved for his friends, he helped the distresses he saw, but his imagination rested closely in the concrete. He was incapable of _weltschmerz_; even for things just beyond his personal ken he had little vision or fancy. His treatment of the perpetual problem of sex-temptations and lapses is a good example: he never seems to be conscious of the tragedy they envelop. To him they are always good jokes, to wink over or smile at or be indulgent to. No one would ever guess from 'Ingoldsby' the truth he finds even in 'Don Juan,' that

"A heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape."

But we cannot have everything: if Barham had been sensitive to the tragic side of life, he could not have been the incomparable fun-maker he was. We do not go to the 'Ingoldsby Legends' to solace our souls when hurt or remorseful, to brace ourselves for duty, or to feel ourselves nobler by contact with the expression of nobility. But there must be play and rest for the senses, as well as work and aspiration; and there are worse services than relieving the strain of serious endeavor by enabling us to become jolly pagans once again for a little space, and care naught for the morrow.

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE

THE LAST LINES OF BARHAM

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye; There came a noble Knighte, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, And his gallant heart was lyghte, Free and gaye; As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree! There seemed a crimson plain, Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe; A lovely mayde came bye, And a gentil youth was nyghe, And he breathed many a syghe, And a vowe; As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne; No more a youth was there, But a Maiden rent her haire, And cried in sad despaire, "That I was borne!" As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar; There came a lovely childe, And his face was meek and milde, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire; As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.

But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier; That joyous smile was gone, And the face was white and wan, As the downe upon the Swan Doth appear, As I laye a-thynkynge,--oh! bitter flowed the tear!

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, Oh, merrie sang that Birde, as it glittered on her breast With a thousand gorgeous dyes; While soaring to the skies, 'Mid the stars she seemed to rise, As to her nest; As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:-- "Follow me away, It boots not to delay,"-- 'Twas so she seemed to saye, "HERE IS REST!"

THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT

OR

THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE

Nobilis quidam, cui nomen _Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler_, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in haec verba: "_Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest_!"

Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferent, Dæmones incipiunt commessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. _Ah_, inquit pater, _ubi infans meus?_ Vix cum haec dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, etc.--_Chronicon de Bolton_.

It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes One, And the roast meat's brown and the boiled meat's done, And the barbecued sucking-pig's crisped to a turn, And the pancakes are fried and beginning to burn; The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice, With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use; Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best, Want nothing but eating--they're all ready drest, But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?

Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage), And the scullions and cooks, With fidgety looks, Are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black As cooks always do when the dinner's put back; For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair As the unsunned snow-flake, is spread out with care, And the Dais is furnished with stool and with chair, And plate of _orféverie_ costly and rare, Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there, And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face, And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace, Yet where is the Host?--and his convives--where?

The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall, And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall, He watches the large hand, he watches the small, And he fidgets and looks As cross as the cooks, And he utters--a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!" And he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?-- What can delay De Vaux and De Saye? What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye? Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away? And De Nokes and De Styles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey? And De Roe? And De Doe? Poynings and Vavasour--where be they? Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son); Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!' There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting! It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"

It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two! And the scullions and cooks are themselves "in a stew," And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do, For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags, And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags, And the fish is all spoiled, And the butter's all oiled, And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen, And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen! While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume, And to fret by himself in the tapestried room, And still fidgets and looks More cross than the cooks, And repeats that bad word, which we've softened to "Zooks!"

Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone, And the large and the small hands move steadily on, Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare, To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,

Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir, That nice little boy who sits in his chair, Some four years old, and a few months to spare, With his laughing blue eyes and his long curly hair, Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.

Again Sir Guy the silence broke, "It's hard upon Three!--it's just on the stroke! Come, serve up the dinner!--A joke is a joke"-- Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques, Who "his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere "pokes," And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes, Has written a circular note to De Nokes, And De Styles and De Roe, and the rest of the folks, One and all, Great and small, Who were asked to the Hall To dine there and sup, and wind up with a ball, And had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he Cooked up, that the "_fête_ was postponed _sine die_, The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop!"

When the clock struck Three, And the Page on his knee Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, _On a servi_!" And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear, With nobody near To partake of his cheer, He stamped, and he stormed--then his language!--Oh dear! 'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear! And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee, Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi,"_ "Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be! --The Devil take _them_! and the Devil take _thee!_ And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!"

In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room, He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word, Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,

And in rush'd a troop Of strange guests!--such a group As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope! This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye-- And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye, This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey-- But stay!--_Where on earth did he get those long nails?_ Why, they're _claws_!--then Good Gracious!--they've all of them _tails!_ That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill, Or, I would say a beak!--and he can't keep it still!-- Is that Poynings?--Oh, Gemini! look at his feet!! Why, they're absolute _hoofs_!--is it gout or his corns, That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's _horns!_ Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John, And the Mandevilles, _père et filz_ (father and son), And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--_they've all got them on!_ Then their great saucer eyes-- It's the Father of lies And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise, Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions, The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections, And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf-- Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!

And now what a din Without and within! For the courtyard is full of them.--How they begin To mop, and to mowe, and to make faces, and grin! Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather, And butt at each other, all eating and drinking, The viands and wine disappearing like winking, And then such a lot As together had got! Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine To calculate with, and count noses,--I ween The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,-- Declared, when he'd made By the said machine's aid, Up, what's now called the "tottle" of those he surveyed, There were just--how he proved it I cannot divine-- _Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety and nine._ Exclusive of Him Who, giant in limb,

And black as the crow they denominate _Jim_, With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear, Stands forth at the window--and what holds he there, Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air, And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear? Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wigged Heir! Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear.

What words can express The dismay and distress Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess His cursing and banning had now got him into? That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too, Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!-- He sobbed and he sighed, And he screamed, and he cried, And behaved like a man that is mad or in liquor--he Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary," Stamped on the jasey As though he were crazy, And staggering about just as if he were "hazy," Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times) "To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs To that window above there, _en ogive_, and painted, And brings down my curly-wi'--" Here Sir Guy fainted!

With many a moan, And many a groan, What with tweaks of the nose, and some _eau de Cologne_, He revived,--Reason once more remounted her throne, Or rather the instinct of Nature--'twere treason To her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason-- But what saw he then--Oh! my goodness! a sight Enough to have banished his reason outright!-- In that broad banquet-hall The fiends one and all Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall, From one to another were tossing that small Pretty, curly-wigged boy, as if playing at ball;

Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare To fly to the rescue or rush up the stair, And bring down in safety his curly-wigged Heir!

Well a day! Well a day! All he can say Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away; Not a man can be tempted to join the _mêlée:_ E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay Fifty pounds on demand," have for once lost their sway, And there the Knight stands Wringing his hands In his agony--when on a sudden, one ray Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!-- Oh, it's funny And almost absurd, That it never occurred!-- "Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money! Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame,-- On my word I'm afraid,--I confess it with shame,-- That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,-- Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no--CUTHBERT!--egad! St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad! O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine-- Of myself I say little--have knelt at your shrine, And have lashed their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine, Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now, Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow, And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! Bring him back here in safety!--perform but this task, And I'll give--Oh!--I'll give you whatever you ask!-- There is not a shrine In the county shall shine With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine, Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!-- Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,--hasten in pity!--"

Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies, "It's a bargain!--but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!"-- Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side, That old, old, gray man, with his beard long and wide,

In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?-- And how did he come?--did he walk?--did he ride? Oh! none could determine,--oh! none could decide,-- The fact is, I don't believe any one tried; For while every one stared, with a dignified stride And without a word more, He marched on before, Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door, To the banqueting-hall that was on the first floor, While the fiendish assembly were making a rare Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged Heir. --I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen The pause that ensued when he stepped in between, With his resolute air, and his dignified mien, And said, in a tone most decided though mild, "Come! I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!"

The Demoniac crowd In an instant seemed cowed; Not one of the crew volunteered a reply, All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk, And the airs he assumed, to be cock of the walk. He quailed not before it, but saucily met it, And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"

My goodness!--the look that the old Palmer gave! And his frown!--'twas quite dreadful to witness--"Why, slave! You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to ME! At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee, And hand me that curly-wigged boy!--I command it-- Come!--none of your nonsense!--you know I won't stand it."

Old Nicholas trembled,--he shook in his shoes, And seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse. "Well, Cuthbert," said he, "If so it must be, For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;-- Take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye! But I'll have in exchange"--here his eye flashed with rage-- "That chap with the buttons--he _gave me_ the Page!"

"Come, come," the saint answered, "you very well know The young man's no more his than your own to bestow. Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick---no! no! Cut your stick, sir--come, mizzle! be off with you! go!"-- The Devil grew hot-- "If I do I'll be shot! An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what; He has _asked_ us to _dine here_, and go we will not! Why, you Skinflint,--at least You may leave us the feast! Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode, Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode, And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road-- 'Go!'--'Mizzle!' indeed--Mr. Saint, who are you, I should like to know?--'Go!' I'll be hanged if I do! He invited us all--we've a right here--it's known That a Baron may do what he likes with his own-- Here, Asmodeus--a slice of that beef;--now the mustard!-- What have _you_ got?--oh, apple-pie--try it with custard."