Chapter 4

To the jagged edge where the cliffs lean over, Climb as you best may climb; Lie there and listen where mysteries hover, Haunting the tides of Time.

* * * * *

The crumbling surf on the shingle rattles, The great waves topple and pour, Full of the fury of ancient battles, Clamant with cries of war.

The gale has summoned, the night has beckoned-- Lo, from the east and west, Stately shadows arise unreckoned Out of their deeps of rest!

Wild on the wind are voices ringing, Echoes that throng the air, Valiant voices, of victory singing, Or dark with sublime despair.

To the distant drums with their rumbling hollow, The answering trumpets blow: War-horn and fife and cymbals follow, From galleys of long ago.

The crested breaker on reef and boulder That swirls in cavernous black, Carries a challenge from decks that moulder To ships that never came back.

The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles Are one in their wrath and might With the crash and clashing of arméd vessels, Grinding across the night.

Out of the dark the broadsides thunder, Clattering to and fro: The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder, Are manning their wrecks below.

You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle, Shall mark on the surly blast Rush and tear of the rending tackle, Thud of the falling mast.

With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters, Scourging the strand again, A terrible outcry leaps and shatters-- Tumult of drowning men.

The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles-- Was never such fear as this! A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles Out of the sea's abyss.

It quails and quivers, its grassy verges Vibrant with uttermost dread: It knows the groan of the laden surges, The shout of the deathless Dead.

In a rolling march of reverberations, Marching with wind and tide, Heroes of unremembered nations Vaunt their immortal pride.

Briton, Spaniard, Phoenician, Roman, Gallant implacable hosts-- Locked in fight with phantom foeman, Gather the grim sea-ghosts.

FOG WRAITHS: MILDRED HOWELLS

In from the ocean the white fog creeps, Blotting out ship, and rock, and tree, While wrapped in its shroud, from the soundless deeps, Back to the land come the lost at sea.

Over the weeping grass they drift By well-known paths to their homes again, To finger the latch they may not lift And peer through the glistering window-pane.

Then in the churchyard each seeks the stone To its memory raised among the rest, And they watch by their empty graves alone Till the fog rolls back to the ocean's breast.

CHEERFUL SPIRITS

CAPE HORN GOSPEL: JOHN MASEFIELD

"I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen, "And Bill, as was a seaman, died, So we lashed him in an old tarpaulin And tumbled him across the side; And the fun of it was that all his gear was Divided up among the crew Before that blushing human error Our crawling little captain, knew.

"On the passage home one morning (As certain as I prays for grace) There was old Bill's shadder a-hauling At the mizzen weather topsail brace. He was all grown green with seaweed He was all lashed up and shored; So I says to him, I says, 'Why, Billy! What's a-bringin' of you back aboard?'

"'I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,' Says old Bill's ghost to me; 'It ain't no place for a Christian Below there--under sea. For it's all blown sand and shipwrecks And old bones eaten bare, And them cold fishy females With long green weeds for hair.

"'And there ain't no dances shuffled, And no old yarns is spun, And there ain't no stars but starfish, And never any moon or sun. I heard your keel a-passing And the running rattle of the brace, And I says, "Stand by,"' says William, '"For a shift towards a better place."'

"Well, he sogered about decks till sunrise, When a rooster in the hen-coop crowed, And as so much smoke he faded, And as so much smoke he goed; And I've often wondered since, Jan, How his old ghost stands to fare Long o' them cold fishy females With long green weeds for hair."

LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

The Captain is walking his quarter-deck, With a troubled brow and a bended neck; One eye is down through the hatchway cast, The other turns up to the truck on the mast; Yet none of the crew may venture to hint "Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"

The Captain again the letter hath read Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead-- Still, since the good ship sail'd away, He reads that letter three times a-day; Yet the writing is broad and fair to see As a Skipper may read in his degree, And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat, As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat: He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro, "Curse the old woman--she bothers me so!"

He pauses now, for the topmen hail-- "On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!" That grim old Captain he turns him quick, And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick. "The breeze is blowing--huzza! huzza! The breeze is blowing--away! away! The breeze is blowing--a race! a race! The breeze is blowing--we near the chase! Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,-- Oh, where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"

--"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee. Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try, But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"

* * * * *

Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue, Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew, And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick, Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick. Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade; He stand by the breech of a long carronade, The linstock glows in his bony hand, Waiting that grim old Skipper's command.

"The bullets are flying--huzza! huzza! The bullets are flying--away! away!"-- The brawny boarders mount by the chains, And are over their buckles in blood and in brains. On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, Young Hamilton Tighe waves his cutlass high, And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee.

Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand, Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:-- A wink comes sly from that sinister eye-- Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly, And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!

There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, Her pages and handmaidens come at her call: "Now look ye, my handmaidens, haste now and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee! The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy; And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother, dear, Now Hamilton's dead, I've ten thousand a-year!"

The lady has donned her mantle and hood, She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:-- "Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll, And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul, And the tablet fair shall be hung on high, Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!"

Her coach and four Draws up to the door With her groom, and her footman, and a half score more The lady steps into her coach alone, And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan; They close the door, and they turn the pin, But there's One rides with her that never stept in!

All the way there, and all the way back, The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack, The horses snort, and plunge, and kick, Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick; And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say, "What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?" But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees A man sitting there with his head on his knees!

'Tis ever the same--in hall or in bower, Wherever the place, whatever the hour, That Lady mutters, and talks to the air, And her eye is fix'd on an empty chair; But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread, "She talks to a man with never a head!"

* * * * *

There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath, As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath; And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, They seem to be trying to peep at his ears; That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms, And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes, For all his knaves stand upside down, And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown; And the Kings and the Aces, and all the best trumps Get into the hands of the other old frumps; While, close to his partner, a man he sees Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.

In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store, And a great black doll hangs out of the door; There are rusty locks, and dusty bags, And musty phials, and fusty rags, And a lusty old woman, call'd Thirsty Nan, And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man!

That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan, And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone; And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chap That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!" And the neighbors say, as they see him look sick, "What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"

That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man May say what they please, and may do what they can; But one things seems remarkably clear,-- They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,-- But wherever they live, or whenever they die, They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION: THOMAS HOOD

_A Pathetic Ballad_

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--_Mercutio._

'Twas twelve o'clock by the Chelsea chimes, When all in a hungry trim, Good Mr. Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate and Jim.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup"-- When, whiter than the tablecloth, A ghost came rising up!

"O father dear, O mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim-- You know when some one went to sea-- Don't cry--but I am him!

"You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your lonesome Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I'm never coming back!

"From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs!

"The ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops.

"Just give a look in Norey's Chart, The very place it tells: I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,' We have at last a call, The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot, too, and all."

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest In Davy Jones's sod, Till I've appeared to you and said, 'Don't sup on that there Cod!

"You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M., That Cod was picking me!

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters, then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave They sucked my blood like imps!

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They'll know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!"

The spirit fled, they wept his fate, And cried Alas, Alack! At last up started brother Jim-- "Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

They called the Dog, they called the Cat, The little Kitten, too, And down they put the Cod and sauce To see what brutes would do.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munched the Cod--and little Kit Quite feasted on the Shrimps!

The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts; Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts!

THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

_A Legend of Palestine and West Kent_

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, A stalwart knight, I ween, was he, "Come east, come west, Come lance in rest, Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best Of the Soldan's Chivalrie!"

Oh, they came west, and they came east, Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least, And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,-- But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint; Twenty and three, Of high degree, Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea, All--all save one--and he ran up a tree! "Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!" "Twenty and three! Twenty and three!-- All of them nobles of high degree: There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "What news? What news? Come tell to me! What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?-- I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free! What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall? Come tell me now, thou page so small!"

"O, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound, Beast in byre and Steed in stall; And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"

--"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound For Steed in stall or for Watch-dog's bay. Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear; How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"-- Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage, "What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page."

The little Foot-page full low crouch'd he, And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee, "Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me: Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall, Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall. She sits alone, And she makes her moan; Dance and song, She considers quite wrong; Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil; She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"

"Thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty Foot-page, Full loud doth thou lie, false Page, to me! There in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest, What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near, That little Foot-page, he blanch'd with fear;

"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie? King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he, And tidings rare To him do I bear, And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"

"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page! No learned clerk I trow am I, But well I ween May there be seen Dame Alice's hand with half an eye; Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page, From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news; Although no clerk, Well may I mark The particular turn of her P's and Q's!"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage, By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page; The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes, And buffets--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;-- Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's heads.

When the contents of the scroll met his view, Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew, Backward he drew His mailéd shoe, And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, I may not say whither--I never knew. "Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain-- Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"

"Twenty and three! There they be, Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!-- Twenty and three?--Stay--let me see! Stretched in his gore There lieth one more! By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and _four_! Twenty-four trunks I ween are there But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where! Ay, twenty-four corpses, I rede there be, Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"

"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!" "One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he, "Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave, A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee; A year and a day Have I been away, King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free; Dame Alice she sits there in lonely guise, And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs, And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes, And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?' A boon, a boon, my liege," quoth he, "Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray," King Richard said right graciously, "Of all in my host That I love the most, I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee! Rise up, rise up, thou hast my boon; But mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"

FYTTE II

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair, Pontiff proud, I ween, is he, And a belted Knight, In armour dight, Is begging a boon on his bended knee, With sighs of grief and sounds of woe, Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe. "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! In my fury and rage A little Foot-page I have left, I fear me, in evil case: A scroll of shame From a faithless dame Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear: I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick, That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where! Had he as many necks as hairs, He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Rise up, rise up, I say to thee; A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou; Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee! Ill it seems that soldier true Of Holy Church should vainly sue:-- --Foot-pages they are by no means rare, A thriftless crew, I ween, be they; Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair, For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray, But stout and true Soldiers like you, Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!-- Be prayers for the dead Duly read, Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said: So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave. O Holy Father, pardon and grace! Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life, I have left, I fear me, in evil case! A scroll of shame in my rage I tore, Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore; 'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore; Alack! and alack! too surely I knew The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q, And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew! Dame Alice I found,--She sank on the ground,-- I twisted her neck till I twisted it round! With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff, I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!-- All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Why really--I hardly know what to say:-- Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay, Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.-- --Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray; For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say, For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray A fair rose-noble must duly pay! So may his qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! No power could save That paramour knave; I left him, I wot, in evil case! There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain, Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain His legs lie here and his arms lie there, And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"

"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of holy Church in such pitiful plight! Foul sin her warriors so to slay, When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!-- A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair, To pray for his soul for ever and aye, Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights-- None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound, Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;-- And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!-- So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"

"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay! Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray. "No champion free of the Cross was he; No belted Baron of high degree; No Knight nor Squire Did there expire; He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar! And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait, With his monks around him, and early and late, May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"

"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said, And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head-- "Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas! A horrible thing has come to pass! What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior, And say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'-- 'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire Is half so good as a holy Friar?' _O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!_ _Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_ Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_ Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum, Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_, And won't have again _sæcula sæculorum_!-- Come hither to me, My Cardinals three, My Bishops in _partibus_, Masters in _Artibus_, Hither to me, A.B. and D.D., Doctors and Proctors of every degree! Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well-- I'll send him where--good manners won't let me tell!"

--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!" --Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face-- "_Mea culpa!_--in sooth I'm in pitiful case. Peccavi! peccavi!--I've done every wrong! But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong, And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where, And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!" Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.

"Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong, And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong, And you really will fight like a trump all day long;-- If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, And Holy Church shall come in for her share,-- Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me, That it gives a new turn to the whole affair, And I think that the Penitent need not despair! --If it be so, as you seem to say, Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray! An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground; And there in that Abbey, all the year round, A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns, And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain; And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights-- None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!

And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe-- But shall dine upon tripe And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, And forever abhor, renounce and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and _liqueur_!"

(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a Mere repetition of _O meâ culpâ_!)

"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day, Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar, With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire, And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear, Any more from this day, The surname of Bray, As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_! So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease, And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"