Chapter 5

Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain. "Look out, my Squire, Look nigher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar! And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, And pick up his body and pick up his head!"

FYTTE III

Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, With right of free-warren (whatever that be); Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, All in full leaf at the right time of year; About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear, And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear; But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear. Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore Landon Hill in the distance, ten miles off or more; Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind--and before You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.-- So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.

Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three, And there they all stand each in their degree, Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, Two by two in their regular mode, While a funeral comes down the Rochester road, Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, Cockle in hat and staff in hand, Come marching in pairs, a holy band! Little boys twelve, dressed all in white, Each with his brazen censer bright, And singing away with all his might, Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight; Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear On their sturdy backs, with a good deal of care, A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard. Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide, While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear--Men-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men and Spear-men.

It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well, How some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell; Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day The procession I speak of reached the _Sacellum_: And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper Received the first taste of the Father's _flagellum_;-- That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded, By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns, Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns; --That year after year, having run round the _Quad_ With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, Having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he Died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity, When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright, Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls and the squalls Of some one who seemed running all round the walls!

Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"--as placed By our own new police,--in a belt round his waist. All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,-- In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him," so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!" Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,-- Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy; And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd.

Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,-- I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This _fact_ with the reason these people assign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-_ine_." 'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ Bray), It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall. So I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d----d after all!

MORAL

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me! See what comes of lying!--don't join in the league To humbug your master or aid an intrigue!

Ladies! married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand! Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives! And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS"!

Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them downstairs! To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend, "If you want matters well managed, Go!--if not, Send!" A servant's too often a negligent elf! --If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife! For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!

POMPEY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o'clock at noon; Because the sun was shining bright And not the silver moon. A proper time for friends to call, Or pots, or penny-post; When lo! as Phoebe sat at work, She saw her Pompey's ghost!

Now when a female has a call From people that are dead, Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visitors in bed. But Pompey's spirit would not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And wouldn't show at night!

But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear. So Phoebe screamed an awful scream To prove the seaman's text, That after black appearances, White squalls will follow next.

"O Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear! Don't go and scream or faint; You think because I'm black, I am The Devil, but I ain't! Behind the heels of Lady Lambe I walked while I had breath, But that is past, and I am now A-walking after death!

"No murder, though, I come to tell, By base and bloody crime; So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits To some more fitting time. No coroner, like a boatswain's mate, My body need attack, With his round dozen to find out Why I have died so black.

"One Sunday, shortly after tea, My skin began to burn, As if I had in my inside A heater like a urn. Delirious in the night I grew, And as I lay in bed, They say I gathered all the wool You see upon my head.

"His lordship for his doctor sent, My treatment to begin; I wish that he had called him out Before he called him in! For though to physic he was bred, And passed at Surgeons' Hall, To make his post a sinecure, He never cured at all!

"The Doctor looked about my breast And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said, 'Your case looks very black.' At first he sent me hot cayenne, And then gamboge to swallow. But still my fever would not turn To scarlet or to yellow!

"With madder and with turmeric, He made his next attack; But neither he nor all his drugs Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life, And sick of being dosed, One Monday morning I gave up My physic and the ghost!

"Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was To sever every tie! You know black beetles feel as much As giants when they die. And if there is a bridal bed, Or bride of little worth, It's lying in a bed of mould, Along with Mother Earth.

"Alas! Some happy, happy day, In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match, My fate untimely clashes; For now, like Pompey-double-i, I'm sleeping in my ashes!

"And now farewell! a last farewell! I'm wanted down below, And have but time enough to add One word before I go-- In mourning crêpe and bombazine Ne'er spend your precious pelf; Don't go in black for me--for I Can do it for myself.

"Henceforth within my grave I rest, But Death, who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come, You seemed so near your spirits: But do not sigh, and do not cry, By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color turn The color of a ghost!

"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear! Once more a last adieu! For I must make myself as scarce As swans of sable hue." From black to gray, from gray to nought The shape began to fade-- And like an egg, though not so white, The ghost was newly laid!"

THE GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

_A Very Serious Ballad_

In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out-- One Friday he died hard, And left a widow'd wife to mourn At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To _manumit_ her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing came thus about: She asked him in at home, and then At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view; It came a little after one, But she was after two!

"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B., Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My memory--like Rogers's-- Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace I almost have a doubt-- I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger-joint Another pledge should cling; O Bess! upon my very soul It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'

"A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in its urn!

"Remember, oh, remember how The marriage rite did run,-- If ever we one flesh should be 'Tis now--when I have none!

"And you, Sir--once a bosom friend-- Of perjured faith convict, As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider yourself kicked.

"A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up! you marry, ma'am, And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow--and off he went Like fowling piece at cock!

MARY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

_A Pathetic Ballad_

'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside.

"O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces.

"I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home I didn't stay long in it.

"The body-snatchers they have come And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be!

"You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave, in Mary-Bone, They've come and boned your Mary.

"The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Doctor Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's.

"I vowed that you should have my hand, But Fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's, In spirits and a phial.

"As for my feet, the little feet You used to find so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The T'other's in the City.

"I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van.

"I wish you'd go to Mr. P., And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place They've took for my inside.

"The cock it crows--I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart.

"Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie."

THE SUPERSTITIOUS GHOST: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

I'm such a quiet little ghost, Demure and inoffensive, The other spirits say I'm most Absurdly apprehensive.

Through all the merry hours of night I'm uniformly cheerful; I love the dark; but in the light, I own I'm rather fearful.

Each dawn I cower down in bed, In every brightness seeing That weird uncanny form of dread-- An awful Human Being!

Of course I'm told they can't exist, That Nature would not let them: But Willy Spook, the Humanist, Declares that he has met them!

He says they do not glide like us, But walk in eerie paces; They're solid, not diaphanous, With arms! and legs!! and faces!!!

And some are beggars, some are kings, Some have and some are wanting, They squander time in doing things, Instead of simply haunting.

They talk of "art," the horrid crew, And things they call "ambitions."-- Oh, yes, I know as well as you They're only superstitions.

But should the dreadful day arrive When, starting up, I see one, I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive; And then--Oh, then I'll be one!

DAVE LILLY: JOYCE KILMER

There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.

There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think. And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.

Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such, But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish, He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.

The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down. I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white, And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.

And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.

I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.

It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.

I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it--but this will be better for Dave.

MARTIN: JOYCE KILMER

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen, Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland, Beyond the trackless purple sea, Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.

Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!

HAUNTED PLACES

THE LISTENERS: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again the second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only the host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call: And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky. For he suddenly smote upon the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

HAUNTED HOUSES: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires: The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star, An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night--

So from the world of spirits there descends, A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I have read in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral band was seen, And with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum nor sentry's pace, The mist-like banners clasped the air As clouds with clouds embrace.