Part 3

The widow's fourth child was a delicate boy, Whose life seemed to hang by a thread; His ailings and wants both his sisters employ, Whose love even health seemed to shed. For as his weak limbs were unable to walk, They'd carry him up to the top of the hill; And so would amuse with their innocent talk, That he'd almost forget what it was to be ill. And when the sun rose with his hot scorching rays, They'd seek a cool spot in the forest shade, where They would sing him to sleep with their sweet native lays, And watch o'er his slumbers with sisterly care. Then one would roam forth for his favourite flower, And twine a fair wreath for his delicate brow; Or weave round him sleeping a fairy-like bower, By drooping and tangling the hazel's green bough.

But now to return to our friar, who still Is trying his utmost to catch and to kill A few members more of the slippery tribe, With fine red worms dangling by way of a bribe.

The sun long had risen, whose powerful ray Has scattered the dew-drops in vapour away; And though our good friar had chose a snug spot, O'ershadow'd by trees, yet they sheltered him not In the midst of the day; For the sun then that way Came over the water and stared in his face. But, a fisherman true, Though he's roasted quite through, To give o'er the sport he would think a disgrace; So he sits down again, Although fearing 'tis vain, And for the dead worm puts a fresh in its place. Then he looks at his fish, which are covered with grass, (Lest any one rambling should happen to pass), But he finds there's but two, and those small ones, alas! So he said, "But one half-hour I'll stay here, and then If I don't catch another I'll go to my den. For I might just as well be performing my duty, As being here roasted and spoiling my beauty. But let's see, by the bye, They might rise at a fly-- There's lots on the wing, so I'll catch one and try." But this bait they refuse, For they none of them choose By his kind endeavours existence to lose. For when he threw fly they would all run away, Or round it would gambol and sportively play, But never allowed it to lead them astray.

"Oh, the half-hour has past And this throw is my last!" The old friar exclaimed, when his hook was caught fast By the bough of a tree, And he could not get free, Though he tugg'd and used words you shall not hear from me. But finding his hand must the line disengage, He turned, much excited (but not in a rage), When a ghastly hue over his countenance spread, Before which the colour so instantly fled That it whitened his nose, which was mostly bright red, And made him look just like a calf over-bled, Or a hot piece of pork from a pig too well-fed; For, suddenly shook by a terrible fright, Like a gander when seized by a fox late at night, He discovered his wits had deserted him quite. For the Abbot he spied, Who with slow solemn stride Was approaching, and soon would be close at his side. How he trembled all o'er, and would gladly have died, As he thought of escape, but could see no way how; While the cold perspiration spread over his brow. Oh, how he then wished that the earth would quake too, And split a small crack which would just let him through To shield him from evil he feared would betide, From which he's unable to run or to hide. But as to his wishes the earth's disinclined. He shook himself well, and then struggled to find What he'd lost in the panic--his presence of mind. His line then he snaps from its perch with a crack And throws his rod into the stream with a smack, Although with the fear of not getting it back His heart's pit-a-pat, and is quite on the rack. But he stopped not to think--'twas the work of a minute, He snatches his book up to see what is in it. When, as if spiteful Fate had resolved his disgrace, He finds out 'tis another popped into its place By young Patrick O'Neal, who had thought it fine fun; When the friar, not noticing what he had done, Placed the book in his bosom and bore it away, After dining, self-asked, at the cottage one day. But it now is too late, If unlucky his fate, There is no time the book now to hide; For the Abbot's so near, There would surely appear Something wrong if to hide it he tried. So he shut it up gently and seemed wrapt in mystery, Though all his thoughts dwelt on the marvellous history Of George and the Dragon, who, Saint though he be, He heartily wished in the depths of the sea. Then spake he aloud as the Abbot drew near (In tones like the crow, as melodious and clear), As it much was his wish that it plain might appear That of his good presence he had no idea, Though he did very well know He was close at his elbow. So he moralized thus: "Oh, that men were like us, From pleasure abstaining, From treasure refraining Their hands and their hearts! but, alas! it is vain in This earth for perfection to seek. For all men are for gaining; Gold by some means obtaining; Their covetous wishes not once e'er restraining. Frail mortals, alas, are so weak!"---- Much more he had said, but a touch on the shoulder Made the blood through each vein run more sluggish and colder. But starting and turning with well-feigned surprise, Saw reflected his face in the Abbot's dark eyes. Then a bow, long and low, to his rev'rence he made-- A rev'rence his rev'rence would always have paid; For deep in his bosom he cherished the hope, That, some day or other, they would make him the Pope. Now the Abbot was tall, and so terribly thin, That victuals scarce ever, you'd think, were asked in To fill up the gap 'twixt the bones and the skin. The little of hair he had left on his crown Was a dingy short circle of snuff-colour'd brown, Which straight as the ribs of umbrella hung down. His teeth good as new were, for, little in use, They could not well plead that old-fashioned excuse Of aching, because they're decayed or grown loose. But his eye was his pride--'twas a regular piercer, Than even a Cyclops it made him look fiercer; For it stared every way At the same time of day, Nor yet from yourself for a moment would stray. Now of his left optic I've heard, and don't doubt it, He really had seen, and looked better without it; For, besides being not half so big as the other, It would squint, blink, and wink at its handsome twin brother.

But the mind, after all, is the part of the man Which beauty should live in--deny it who can. While the face serves alone for an index to tell The force of the passions which inwardly dwell. When all's fair within, it will turn to a smile; When vexed, it will change to a frown. If angry, most like 'twill be stormy awhile; When sad, fast the rain will come down. But to rambling a truce, I the reins have let loose, But my spirited muse I to back must induce. For all I would say is, an ugly exterior Is often the fate of a mind that's superior. Now the Abbot was one whose mind was his forte; he Could never remember a thing he'd done naughty. His life would, he said, bear the strictest inspection-- It never could yield an unpleasant reflection, Because he had brought it so near to perfection. In languages dead he was learned and skilful; His head with quotations, in fact, seemed so filled full That when condescending he happened to speak, You would nearly be smothered with Latin and Greek. But as my fair readers may chance to know neither, I will not here tax their sweet patience with either. Not because when I was a young one at school I neglected declension, and grammar, and rule; But just for this reason, I would not perplex A specimen fair of the feminine sex, Who, not fond of skipping, might feel rather vexed If forced to leap over some old defunct text.

"What dost thou here, Peter?" the Abbot exclaimed; "Explain, let me see if there's aught to be blamed: For as What's-his-name says, in his Justice with Jury, You ne'er at the culprit should fly in a fury, But hear of the question--both sides ere convicting-- Although you're quite certain which way you'll verdict him." Then the friar his courage plucked up in a minute, A mess was before him and he was near in it. A stroke swift and bold was the only plan waiting By which he might hope for a safe extricating. But while thus he was thinking the sage Abbot spoke, He was three-fourths in earnest but one-fourth in joke-- "What, speechless! then guilty you are I'm quite sure; For not proving innocent's guilty by law. As the same author says, who lately I quoted, Whose works for their truth and great clearness are noted."

"O, help me, dear Fiction!" soliloquised Peter, (A-muse-meant t'invoke when Miss Truth we would cheat her), "For without a few fibs I must really confess, I shall never get out of this terrible mess. Then aid me, fair maiden, to frame some fine story To puzzle this old chap who now stands before me."

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_CHAPTER THE SECOND._

The muse was propitious; how could she decline A man so determined through her smiles to shine? So, gulping his fear down, and banishing fuss, Began his defence with a steady voice, thus,-- "No, I'm not, as your highness might justly suppose, In error entrapped, as my tale shall disclose; For my life is as pure as this clear crystal stream, And reflects yon bright light as it does the sun's beam. Last night, after hours of watching and fasting, To slumber unconscious my wearied eyes passed in; When a vision I saw Coming in at the door, Which beckoned me thrice with her hand. So I quickly arose And slipt into my clothes, To fulfil this said spectre's command. Then she marched on before Through a small secret door, And hurried away at such double-quick pace, That I forced was to run, Till I almost begun To think I was in for a long wild-goose chase. But at length she stood still On the top of the hill Where old farmer Jonas has set up his mill; And pointing below, Said, 'There you must go, To hear and see things which concern you to know.' Then turning my head I beheld a faint, dim light, Which told me that some one was robbing old grim Night, And making my mind up to see what was doing, I asked the young lady if she would go too in. But she spoke not a word, So I thought she'd not heard, And called out again in a much louder key; When I found she had flown, And had left me alone, To go by myself this said mystery to see. So I quickly descended, And towards the light wended My steps, though it seemed to be far, far away. Though I walked for an hour Fast as legs have the power, Yet far in the distance appeared the faint ray. Then I weary became, For I thought that the flame Must be but a will-o'-the-wisp after all. When like magic appear'd, On an eminence rear'd, A hut, whence the light seemed in streams forth to play. But as I was gazing the light was extinguished, And nothing but darkness could well be distinguished. Still I groped on, determined the goal now to win. But the hut, though soon found, I had yet to walk round, Ere the door I perceived, when I tapped to begin; But a growl and a groan Were the answers alone That I got, so I lifted the latch and walked in. When, oh! what a sight to my eyes was portrayed! It made my flesh crawl--I was almost afraid, And nearly had run out again. But, quick plucking up courage, I stirred up the fire, Which, though nearly extinguished, soon shot up much higher And showed ev'ry thing plain. On a pallet, which seemed almost touching the fire, Made of rushes and heather embedded with mire, In a hollow scooped out of the floor, The skeleton form of a female was lying, Who, terribly groaning, appeared to be dying; I twice thought the struggle was o'er. When she lifted her arm that was shrivelled and bare, And raised up her head with a wild piercing stare, To demand who I was? what I wanted? and why I'd intruded where lonely she'd lived, and would die? Then begging her pardon, I told her I bore The order of monkhood, and grieved that I saw One who soon must be leaving this earth far behind So uneasy, and sorely perplexed in her mind. But confession, I said, is the readiest way To purchase relief; O then, wherefore delay, When I'm ready to hear all you're willing to say? Then flushes, like fire, o'er her visage of stone Flew swift, as she threw herself down with a groan; And seemed quite determined that nothing she'd own. For a minute or two there was silent suspense, When, as past hope of pardon I deemed my offence, I decided 'twas best I should hasten far hence. So gently on tiptoe I walked to the door. But suddenly turning, my movement she saw, And fixing upon me her keen piercing eye She bid me remain, as she meant to comply With what I'd requested, and make her confession, In hopes that her anguish of mind it might lessen. 'You must know then,' she said, 'That I formerly led The life of a gipsy, till seized with the gout; When as I no more with my race could roam out, Each one of my tribe Agreed to subscribe To build me a cottage, or shed of some kind, Where shelter and rest in my pain I might find. 'Twas a beautiful glen Where these generous men Erected my dwelling in less than a week, For they had not far for materials to seek, For a forest hard by Did the timber supply, Which they axed to support roof and ceiling. But though, after all, 'twas a rough-looking shed, I thought as I lay on my soft heather bed That a monarch might envy my feelings. But, alas! the next day, The young Baron that way Chanced to pass as out hunting he rode, Who stopp'd to inquire, In tones full of ire, Who had dared to erect that abode In his favorite glen, Which he occupied when He gave a grand fete out in open air? Then very soon after some servants appear'd, Who quickly began, as I sadly had fear'd, To put my poor cottage quite out of repair. How I moaned! how I groaned! Their compassion to raise. Though all proved, alas! of no use. They cared not. They dared not, Against what their lord says, To act if they that way should choose. So they dragged off the thatch, And tore down each rafter; While I underneath catch The dust, and their laughter; And would not remove till all was destroyed, As if 'twas my anguish the ruffians enjoyed. 'Again in a hurry you'll not build,' said they, As lifting they bore me with speed far away, Though roaring and screaming with pain. They saw I was fainting yet checked not their pace; And left me at last in a lone barren place, Where shelter I looked for in vain. For the sun seemed to scorch with his terrible might, And I feared that the damp chills descending at night Would double my aches and my pain. But soon o'er the sky such a black cloud spread That quickly the rays of the bright sun fled; As it darker and darker grew. Then the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared, The hail and the rain down in torrents poured, And the wind tempestuous blew. I was soon soaked through, while each drop of rain And the dart-like hail caused a shoot of pain, Till I raved with torture wild; And swore, in the darkness of fell despair, As I tore in my fury my whit'ning hair-- Though weak as a puny child. (For I wished to move, but in vain I tried,) I had slain myself, and had willingly died, Though sworn to be revenged. For I swore that nothing should cool my rage, No kindness hereafter my hate assuage, Till I'd myself avenged.' The gipsy here stopped short and breathed, And much that rest she needed; But soon as she had strength received Thus on the tale proceeded:--

'My tribe,' said she, 'the next day found The cottage levelled with the ground, And searching, found me lying Some distance from the ruined heap, From numbing pain sunk deep in sleep, Worn out with rage and crying. They raised this hut above my head, Spread under me this heather bed. And tended me with care. When, strange to say, I soon revived, Pains sharper e'en than death survived, And had of health my share. But still I lived here, lest a fresh attack Might trip up my heels if I turned my back, And stretch me again on the painful rack. And I nursed revenge, till with rage imprest. I dreamed of revenge when I sank to rest. My thoughts were revenge from the dawn of day, Till the darkness scattered the light away. Oh, I pined for revenge as a maiden pines For her lover returning from distant climes; Who expects every day till remorseless eve Makes her hope for next morn--for the present, grieve. All hope worse than hopeless appeared to be When fate, fiends, or fortune befriended me. 'Twas a gala day, and the loathsome glen Resounded with laughter from joyful men. I could see the grand tents where the flags waved high, And I gathered the news from a passer-by. 'Twas the christ'ning-day of the son and heir Of the Baron's estates and castles fair; And guests without end were invited there, To a sumptuous feast in the open air. But, oh! 'twas a dreadful day for me; 'Must ever my rage then fruitless be?' I said, and felt I could have willing died, Had the means of revenge then been supplied. But again the sun sank swift away, And twilight attended expiring day. All nature appears preparing for sleep, While wakeful alone mine eyelids keep. But, hark, what's that?--the tramp of horse! Who hitherward can bend his course? There's no highroad this way. 'Tis some one who, by yonder light, Where revels turn to day the night, Has here been led astray. But, lo! he knocks, and straight walks in, A gloomy figure tall and thin, A bundle on his arm! Who quickly gazed around to see If any one abode with me. His eye bespoke alarm. 'Your pleasure, Sir?' I rising said. 'I live alone in this poor shed; If you the bridle-path would seek, 'Tis hidden by yon dark hill's peak. If 'tis the Baron's stately hall, Yon lights will guide, where rout and ball--' 'Stop, dame, 'tis none of these, but you I seek, and what I'd have you do I quick must tell, for time away Flies fast, and long I dare not stay. This babe,' he said, 'so young and fair, I leave a nursling to your care For five short hours; when three times told Their number--I will pay you gold-- The child myself I'll fetch, till then Preserve it from all earthly ken.'

He left; the babe was softly sleeping, Its little eyes were red with weeping, As if from recent pain. I kissed its little tiny hand, And tried its tale to understand, When o'er each limb a trembling spread, A giddiness attacked my head, My brain was growing wild. Oh, could it be the Baron's heir, That had been left my couch to share? Yes, it must be his child! In haste the snowy robes I tore; A coronet each garment bore-- The infant woke and smiled. I groaned, and turned my head away, When crowing it began to play; Nor showed the least alarm. I neared, it raised its head at this, As if it sought a mother's kiss-- I could not do it harm. I gave it food; and soon to rest, Like some young bird in leafy nest, It slumb'ring fell, without a fear For morrow's care, or danger near. I sat me down the bed beside, And tried to sleep, but vainly tried. The terrors of the dreadful past Were crowding through my mem'ry fast. The months and months of fruitless hate Which mocked my eager rage of late; The hope of morn, despair of eve, The night, when blasted hopes I'd grieve, All stood before me; and with smother'd cries Bid me revenge while Fate the chance supplies; Then stole away, when that most dreadful night With shiv'ring anguish passed before my sight. Once more, methought, I lay upon the plain; Once more was rack'd with that tormenting pain; Again I felt that flood of piercing hail, And screamed for succour, but without avail. Then suddenly another phantom near'd, And lo! the dreadful oath I'd sworn appear'd. 'Revenge, revenge!' its pale lips seemed to say, As pointing where the slumb'ring infant lay; 'Seize thy sole chance, nor lose it by delay.' I started, rose, and paced the hut across; When from a distance came the tramp of horse, While louder still the spectre madly cries, 'Revenge, revenge, ere chance for ever flies!' 'Twas dark, I groped until the babe I found, Then scrunched its neck, until without a sound It died--then flung it lifeless to the ground. A knock, a call, the door wide open flew, With hurried step the stranger hastens through. "The child! be quick, I'm 'fore the hour I told, But there you'll find the promised sum of gold.' His purse he flung into my lap, but still I did not stir his orders to fulfil. He cast his eyes around, then gazed on me, The object sought for he could nowhere see. 'Woman!' he cried, 'hast thou thy trust betrayed? Thy treach'ry base shall swiftly be repaid.' He seized my hand, nigh crushed it in his own, Yet still I uttered not the slightest groan, But flung his gaze back with a fearless eye, And said, 'Revenged, I care not if I die! The babe no more will cross thy path below, Nephew of Baron Reginald, I know Thy pale face now, and guess the reason why Thou fear'st to lose thy stolen property.' Just then 'twixt clouds a straggling beam revealed The corner where the infant lay concealed. He raised it up, then raved with anger wild, To see 'twas dead, whilst I with pleasure smiled, And said that I, yes I, had slain the child. 'O wretch!' he cried, 'the gallows is too good (But yet I dare not harm her if I would. My heart grows faint, is overpowered with dread, The falling blow would also cleave my head: I ne'er intended it should go thus far, Yet still the guilt and recompense mine are). Speak, wretched woman! say, what tempted thee? Thou ne'er couldst think this crime would pleasure me. Thy witch-like spells, by which ye think to know My secret plans, are false--yea, doubly so.' 'Doubt as you like, but hear what I would tell, Then say if I have learnt my story well. Yon babe you stole to rob him of his lands, And as afraid with blood to stain your hands, You meant to bear him to some distant shore, Where parents' smiles would bless the child no more. But not for thee I crushed the viper's brood, Far other thoughts and impulse I pursued. It was revenge, deep rankling in my breast, That sent the infant to its last long rest. With hate I'd sworn, if chance should e'er incline, To cause him pangs unbearable as mine, On that dark night when, deluged with the rain, I called on death to terminate my pain, My hut from o'er my head was torn, and I Was left in dreadful agony to die By his commands: then am I much to blame, When greatest heroes boast of such-like shame?'

"No, woman, I can blame thine act no more; Thy tale, methinks, I've somewhere heard before. The guilt's more mine--thy life I'll therefore save, And bear this infant to some distant grave, Where dark oblivion shall his tombstone be, In secret 'graved, unknown to all but me.'