ACT V.

Now comes the catastrophe!--Ashdale, who's wrapt in The cloak, with the hat and the plume of the Captain, Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel Where Gaussen's conceal'd--he springs forward to grapple The man he's erroneously led to suppose Captain Norman himself by the cut of his clothes. In the midst of their strife, And just as the knife Of the Pirate is raised to deprive him of life, The Captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals Of the Lady, and, knocking Giles head over heels, Fractures his "nob," Saves the hangman a job, And executes justice most strictly, the rather, 'Twas the spot where that rascal had murder'd his father. Then in comes the mother, Who, finding one brother Had the instant before saved the life of the other, Explains the whole case. Ashdale puts a good face On the matter; and, since he's obliged to give place, Yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace; Norman vows he won't have it--the kinsmen embrace,-- And the Captain, the first in this generous race, To remove every handle For gossip and scandal, Sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle; An arrangement takes place--on the very same night, all Is settled and done, and the points the most vital Are, N. takes the personals;--A., in requital, Keeps the whole real property, Mansion, and Title.-- V. falls to the share of the Captain, and tries a Sea-voyage, as a Bride, in the "Royal Eliza."-- Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs, And old Maurice Beevor is bundled down stairs!

MORAL.

The public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel If deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral; This may serve for all three then:--

"Young Ladies of property, Let Lady A.'s history serve as a stopper t'ye; Don't wed with low people beneath your degree, And if you've a baby, don't send it to sea!

"Young Noblemen! shun every thing like a brawl; And be sure when you dine out, or go to a ball, Don't take the best hat that you find in the hall, And leave one in it's stead that's worth nothing at all! "Old Knights, don't give bribes!--above all, never urge a man To steal people's things, or to stick an old Clergyman!

"And you, ye Sea-Captains! who've nothing to do But to run round the world, fight, and drink till all's blue, And tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true, Reflect, notwithstanding your sea-faring life, That you can't get on well long, without you've a wife; So get one at once, treat her kindly and gently, Write a nautical novel,--and send it to Bentley!"

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[16]

An incident very like one in Jack Sheppard-- A work some have lauded, and others have pepper'd-- Where a Dutch pirate kidnaps, and tosses Thames Darrel Just so in the sea, and he's saved by a barrel,-- On the coast, if I recollect rightly, it's flung whole, And the hero, half-drown'd, scrambles out of the bung-hole.

[It aint no sich thing!--the hero aint bung'd in no barrel at all.--He's picked up by a Captain, just as Norman was arterwards.--PRINT. DEV.]

It has been already hinted that Mr. Peters had been a "traveller" in his day. The only story which his lady would ever allow "her P." to finish--he began as many as would furnish an additional volume to the "Thousand and One Nights"--is the last I shall offer. The subject, I fear me, is not over new, but will remind my friends

"Of something better they have seen before."

MR. PETERS'S STORY.

THE BAGMAN'S DOG.

Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL.

It was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drown'd, and one left alive, He was thought worthy alone to survive; And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up, To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup, He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick; He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, Could well understand The word of command, And appear to doze With a crust on his nose Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand: Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail. Never was puppy so _bien instruit_, Or possess'd of such natural talent as he; And as he grew older, Every beholder Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.-- Time, however his wheels we may clog, Wends steadily still with onward jog, And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog! When, just at the time He was reaching his prime, And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day, How, no one could say, Whether soft _liaison_ induced him to stray, Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away, He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;-- He had been, and was not--that's all that they knew! And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore As never a Bagman had sworn before; But storming or swearing but little avails To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.--

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps,--some half score,-- Then you reach the ground floor, With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door. It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the reign of Queen Anne; Which is odd, for, although, As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho.-- Be this as it may,--at the date I assign To my tale,--that's about Seventeen Sixty Nine,-- This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners,--belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne-- A respectable House in the Manchester line.

There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travell'd full oft for the firm before; But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend-- A trustworthy body, half agent, half friend-- On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg, A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog,-- The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog.

* * * * * "The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!-- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily!"-- So all sing and say By night and by day, In the _boudoir_, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;-- You may roam through the City, transversely or straight, From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate, And every young Lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustachio'd Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion, Of being a "Rover" and "child of the Ocean"-- Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!" But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!"

* * * * *

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise,"-- --That too's a stone one, this is made of iron-- And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear! Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar,--a Cheapside Buccaneer!"-- But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

* * * * *

"So now we'll go up, up, up, And now we'll go down, down down, And now we'll go backwards and forwards, And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."-- --I hope you've sufficient decernment to see, Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the _d_ Is a fault which you must not attribute to me; Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee," She sung, as she danced me about on her knee, In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three:-- All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters. Resuming her track, At once she goes back To our hero, the Bagman--Alas! and Alack! Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog, Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea, With the sands called the Goodwin's a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, And talking of "caulking," And "quarter-deck walking," "Fore and aft," And "abaft," "Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft," (At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laught,) Of binnacles,--bilboes,--the boom call'd the spanker, The best bower cable,--the jib,--and sheet anchor; Of lower-deck guns,--and of broadsides and chases, Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, And "Shiver my timbers!" and other odd phrases Employed by old pilots with hard-featured faces;-- Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use, The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;-- How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair, And what very long pigtails a great many wear.-- But, Reader, I scorn it--the fact is, I fear, To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier, Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year Eighteen thirty-nine--(how Time flies!--Oh dear!)-- With a well-written preface, to make it appear That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer; There!--"brought up the rear"--you see there's a mistake Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make, I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."-- So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher, The more my poor hero continued to suffer, Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!" Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew, And the thunder kick'd up such a halliballoo, That even the Skipper began to look blue; While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too, And seem'd not to know what exactly to do, And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, "Wind N.E.--blows a hurricane--rains cats and dogs." In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as That Shakspeare describes near the "still vext Bermudas,"[17] When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court, And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda, While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom. You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm, As so many have done, and in colours so warm; Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious, Mr. Ainsworth more gravely,--see also Lucretius, --A writer who gave me no trifling vexation When a youngster at school on Dean Colet's foundation.-- Suffice it to say That the whole of that day, And the next, and the next, they were scudding away Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, Driven quite at their mercy 'Twixt Guernsey and Jersey, Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows, In West longitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes; There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specifical gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, Midst the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, sworn by a shower, Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Reader,--that is, if you've ever been there,-- With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavour; Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,-- Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus. --Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here; 'Twas the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear; Faith, I can't recollect--and I haven't Lempriere.-- No matter,--poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

"O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!" And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize; When as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?--

No such thing, Reader:--most opportunely for Blogg, 'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog!

* * * * *

I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast, But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout Are a class that society doesn't much care about; Men who gain their subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing;" Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach; And they were so to Blogg, When the curly-tail'd dog At last dragg'd him out, high and dry on the beach. But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think "all that glitters is gold;" And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a _Maître de Danse_, To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)-- Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.-- Be this as it might, It embarrass'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced The _petites soins_, tendered with so much good taste, To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist, And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste. The group on the shore Consisted of four; You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term a "too dense population," Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle That led away inland direct from the shingle, Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz. an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he, The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.-- They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, _Mon-Dieu_-ing, Grimacing, and what sailors call _parley-vooing_.

* * * * *

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it? (Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one," An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, it's clear That, with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnish'd room; "Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes; Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when, seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!" In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon, Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the _bouilli_.

* * * * *

Meanwhile that old man standing by, Subducted his long coat-tails on high, With his back to the fire, as if to dry A part of his dress which the watery sky Had visited rather inclemently.-- Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly, And a something sinister lurk'd in his eye. Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing; He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy _sabots_ With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes, His nether man cased in a striped _quelque chose_, And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose, So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew; She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat, And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat. The little _garçons_ too strove to express Their sympathy towards the "Child of distress" With a great deal of juvenile French _politesse_; But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff" Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender and tough, Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!" And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like _peste!_ and _sacre!_ and _diable!_

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, That says, "~Good Eatynge Deserveth good Drynkynge~." You'll find it so printed by ~Caxton~ or ~Wynkyn~, And a very good proverb it is to my thinking. Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew, His ear caught the sound of the word "_Morbleu!_" Pronounced by the old woman under her breath. Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!" He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin." So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, _Vee_!" Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy; So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy, Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, An orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it; In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"-- --And here by the way, Allow me to say, Kind Reader, you sometimes permit me to stray-- 'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing, So inferior to us in the science of cursing: Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears! And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, Roar out, in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from this little digression:-- Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one; Too little he heeded How fast they succeeded. Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did; For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps, It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink! At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, There's not one that is half so seducing as _Schnaps_.

Mr. Blogg, besides being uncommonly dry, Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy, --"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply" Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t'other eye;" For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup. At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."-- His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast That garment 'twere rude to Do more than allude to, Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:" So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, With (as Blogg used to tell it) "_Mounseer, swivvy maw!_" And "marshall'd" him so "The way he should go," Upstairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, Without table or chair, Or a moveable there, Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair, That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.-- With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!" Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal _Salaam_, and is then seen no more; When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread, The great curly-tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!--

--It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night Through a Churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white, Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite, To find that the Ghost Is merely a post, Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in," And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze, Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head, Or a sever'd carotid, to find that instead Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"-- Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein; You're delighted with what just before gave you pain; You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg Now bestow'd on _his_ friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place On each side his neck in a canine embrace, And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face, And he waggled his tail as much as to say, "Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!" And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out Before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'Twas Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!-- The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair,-- The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there,-- The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!!

It's passing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet,-- With what warmth and affection each other they greet! Especially too, as we very well know, If there seems any chance of a little _cadeau_, A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po. If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest. But it was not so here; For, although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg, Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;" And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!" So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation, whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt,-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!-- 'Twas "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

* * * * *

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where,) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street;-- --I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and bruises, I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to," And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of, Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux' head off. But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!" Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;" And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the _garçons_, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's _jupon_; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.-- Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

* * * * *

It's a great many years ago--mine then were few-- Since I spent a short time in the old _Courageux_;-- I think that they say She had been, in her day, A First-rate,--but was then what they term a _Rasée_,-- And they took me on board in the Downs where she lay. (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtained, _inter alia_, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard--I think it's call'd "Cobbing." How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play-- That is, if I'm right:--it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"-- That's mere matter of taste: But the Frenchman was placed-- I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced-- In such a position, that, on this unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,--ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good day, Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!--

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers!--don't take too much grog!-- And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!-- Above all--carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing; But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye, INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

_L'Envoye._

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him, I never once thought to inquire what became of him; If _you_ want to know, Reader, the way, I opine, To achieve your design,-- --Mind, it's no wish of mine,-- Is,--(a penny will do't,)--by addressing a line To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] See Appendix.

APPENDIX.[18]

Since penning this stanza, a learn'd Antiquary Has put my poor Muse in no trifling quandary, By writing an essay to prove that he knows a Spot which, in truth, is The _real_ "Bermoothes," In the Mediterranean,--now called Lampedosa;

--For proofs, having made, as he farther alleges, stir, An entry was found in the old Parish Register, The which at his instance the excellent Vicar ex- tracted: viz. "Caliban, base son of Sycorax." --He had rather, by half, Have found Prospero's "Staff;" But 'twas useless to dig, for the want of a pick or axe.-- Colonel Pasley, however, 'tis everywhere said, Now he's blown up the old Royal George at Spithead, And the great cliff at Dover, of which we've all read, Takes his whole apparatus, and goes out to look And see if he can't try and blow up "the Book." --Gentle Reader, farewell!--If I add one more line, "He'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up _mine_!"

FOOTNOTES:

[18] See page 209.

The Ingoldsby Legends.

* * * * *

_SECOND SERIES_

The Ingoldsby Legends.

SECOND SERIES.

TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

You tell me that "a generous and enlightened Public" has given a favourable reception to those extracts from our family papers, which, at your suggestion, were laid before it some two years since;--and you hint, with all possible delicacy, that a second volume might not be altogether unacceptable at a period of the year when "auld warld stories" are more especially in request.--With all my heart,--the old oak chest is not yet empty; in addition to which, I have recently laid my hand upon a long MS. correspondence of my great-uncle, Sir Peregrine Ingoldsby, a cadet of the family, who somehow contrived to attract the notice of George the Second, and received from his "honour-giving hand" the _accolade_ of knighthood. To this last-named source I am indebted for several of the accompanying histories, while my inestimable friend Simpkinson has bent all the powers of his mighty mind to the task. From Father John's stores I have drawn largely. Our "Honourable" friend Sucklethumbkin--by the way, he has been beating our covers lately, when he shot a woodcock, and one of the Governor's pointers--gives a graphic account of the Operatic "row" in which he was heretofore so conspicuous; while even Mrs. Barney Maguire (_née Mademoiselle Pauline_), whose horror of Mrs. Botherby's cap has no jot diminished, furnishes me with the opening Legend of the series from the _historiettes_ of her own _belle France_.

Why will you not run down to Tappington this Christmas?--We have been rather busy of late in carrying into execution the enclosure of Swingfield Minnis under the auspices of my Lord Radnor, and Her Majesty's visit to the neighbourhood has kept us quite alive: the Prince in one of his rides pulled up at the end of the avenue, and, as A---- told Sucklethumbkin, was much taken with the picturesque appearance of our old gable-ends. Unluckily we were all at Canterbury that morning, or proud indeed should we have been to offer his Royal Highness the humble hospitalities of the Hall,--and then--fancy Mrs. Botherby's--"My Gracious!" By the way, the old lady tells me you left your night-cap here on your last visit; it is laid up in lavender for you;--come and reclaim it. The Yule log will burn bright as ever in the cedar room. Bin No. 6 is still one liquid ruby--the old October yet smiles like mantling amber, in utter disdain of that vile concoction of camomile which you so pseudonymously dignify with the title of "Bitter Ale."--Make a start, then:--pitch printers'-ink to old Harry,--and come and spend a fortnight with Yours, till the crack of doom, THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

Tappington Everard, Dec. 16th, 1842.

* * * * *

THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.

A LEGEND OF FRANCE.

François Xavier Auguste was a gay Mousquetaire, The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair: He'd a mien so _distingué_, and so _debonnaire_, And shrugg'd with a grace so _recherché_ and rare, And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an air, --His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,-- And, in short, shew'd so much of the true _sçavoir faire_, All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare, That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law, Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a "Fox Paw," It would be François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix.

Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day, The Court of Versailles was a little too gay; The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play, To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray, Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo), While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores, What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term'd his "Jane Shores," --They were call'd by a much coarser name out of doors.-- This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting! For such courses, when followed by persons of quality, Are apt to detract on the score of morality.

François Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them, Dress'd, drank, and fought, and _chassée'd_ with the best of them; Took his _œil de perdrix_ Till he scarcely could see, He would then sally out in the streets for a "spree;" His rapier he'd draw, Pink a _Bourgeois_, (A word which the English translate "Johnny Raw,") For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in, Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen; And, perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes, In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes, Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes," Should be merely considered as "Little Escapes." But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks, Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.

Be this as it will, In the general, still, Though blame him we must, It is really but just To our lively young friend, François Xavier Auguste, To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were, At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair, And, when gambling his worst, always play'd on the square, So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"), And continued to lose, And to give I O U's, Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews; And, a parallel if I may venture to draw Between François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix, And his namesake, a still more distinguished François, Who wrote to his "_sœur_"[19] From Pavia, "_Mon Cœur_, I have lost all I had in the world _fors l'honneur_."

So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note, "_Vive la bagatelle!--toujours gai--idem semper_-- I've lost all I had in the world but--my temper!" From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning, His air was so cheerful, his manners so winning, That once he prevailed--or his friends coin the tale for him-- On the bailiff who "nabbed" him, himself to "go bail" for him.

Well--we know in these cases Your "Crabs" and "Deuce Aces" Are wont to promote frequent changes of places; Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare That there's nothing so good as the pure "country air," Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing: A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging, François Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in. But what could be done? It's clear as the sun, That, though nothing's more easy than say "Cut and run!" Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun-- E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do, Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue. And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes, It won't, I am sure, create any surprise That reflections like these half reduced to despair François Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.

_Patience par force!_ He _considered_, of course, But in vain--he could hit on no sort of resource-- Love?--Liquor?--Law?--Loo? They would each of them do, There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he Could hope to get on _sans l'argent_--_i.e._ money. Love?--no;--ladies like little _cadeaux_ from a suitor. Liquor?--no,--that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter."-- Then Law?--'tis the same; It's a very fine game, But the fees and delays of "the Courts" are a shame, As Lord Brougham says himself--who's a very great name, Though the TIMES made it clear he was perfectly lost in his Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes, And don't know his "particles."--Who wrote the articles, Shewing his Greek up so, is not known very well; Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell,--some Merivale; But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw, Viz.: 'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix! Loo?--no;--that he had tried; 'Twas, in fact, his weak side, But required more than any a purse well supplied. "Love?--Liquor?--Law?--Loo? No! 'tis all the same story. Stay! I have it--_Ma foi!_ (that's 'Odd's Bob's!') there is GLORY! Away with dull care! _Vive le Roi! Vive la Guerre!_ _Peste!_ I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire! When a man is like me, _Sans six sous, sans souci_, A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse, With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at Zero, What on earth can he hope to become,--but a Hero? What a famous thought this is! I'll go as Ulysses Of old did--like him I'll see manners, and know countries;[20] Cut Paris,--and gaming,--and throats in the Low Countries."

So said, and so done--he arranged his affairs, And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.

Now it happen'd just then That Field-Marshal Turenne Was a good deal in want of "some active young men," To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps, Had been made in his ranks by a certain "Great Condé," A General unrivall'd--at least in his own day-- Whose valour was such, That he did not care much If he fought with the French,--or the Spaniards,--or Dutch,-- A fact which has stamped him a rather "Cool hand," Being nearly related to _Louis le Grand_. It had been all the same had that King been his brother; He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another; For war, so exciting, He took such delight in, He did not care whom he fought, so he _was_ fighting. And, as I've just said, had amused himself then By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne; Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern Was to tickle some other Chief's tail in his turn.

What a fine thing a battle is!--not one of those Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's, Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows, Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose, Taking great care their blows Did not injure their foes, And alike, save in colour and cut of their clothes, Which were varied, to give more effect to "_Tableaux_," While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to Fate, And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come On to encounter bold General Widdicombe-- But a real, good fight, like Pultowa, or Lützen, (Which Gustavus the great ended all his disputes in,) Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in, Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden, Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden, Where "the sun was low," The ground all over snow, And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow,-- Till its colour was alter'd by General Moreau; While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night, Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright, And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight. 'Twas in just such another one, (Names only bother one-- Dutch ones, indeed, are sufficient to smother one--) In the Netherlands somewhere--I cannot say where-- Suffice it that there _La Fortune de guerre_ Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire. One fine morning, in short, François Xavier Auguste, After making some scores of his foes "bite the dust," Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust; And though, as the Bard says, "No law is more just Than for _Necis artifices_"--so they call'd fiery Soldados at Rome,--"_arte suâ perire_," Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix. His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw, And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's Call'd by Professional men the "_os femoris_;" And the ball being one of those named from its shape, And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape, St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown, And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown.-- --Stagger'd a bit By this "palpable hit," He turn'd on his face, and went off in a fit!

Yes!--a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting, These same Ups-and-Downs are so very exciting.

But a sombre sight is a Battle-field To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye, Where those, who scorn'd to fly or yield, In one promiscuous carnage lie; When the cannon's roar Is heard no more, And the thick dun smoke has roll'd away, And the victor comes for a last survey Of the well-fought field of yesterday!

No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-- No proud exulting look is there,-- His eagle glance is humbled now, As, earth-ward bent, in anxious care It seeks the form whose stalwart pride But yester-morn was by his side!

And there it lies!--on yonder bank Of corses, which themselves had breath But yester-morn--now cold and dank With other dews than those of death! Powerless as it had ne'er been born The hand that clasp'd his--yester-morn!

And there are widows wand'ring there, That roam the blood-besprinkled plain, And listen in their dumb despair For sounds they ne'er may hear again! One word, however faint and low,-- Ay, e'en a groan,--were music now!

And this is Glory!--Fame!-- But, pshaw! Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental; Besides, such things _we_ never saw; In fact, they're merely Continental. And then your Ladyship forgets Some widows came for epaulettes.

So go back to your canter; for one, I declare, Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire, A beetle-brow'd hag, With a knife and a bag, And an old tatter'd bonnet which, thrown back, discloses The ginger complexion, and one of those noses Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses, Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way, shun, Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.

You remember, I trust, François Xavier Auguste, Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust. Now there's something--I cannot tell what it may be-- About good-looking gentlemen turn'd twenty-three, Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee, Which affects female hearts, in no common degree, With emotions in which many feelings combine, Very easy to fancy, though hard to define; Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty, Young or old, they experience, in country or city, What's clearly not Love--yet it's warmer than Pity-- And some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise, Arm'd with the blade, So oft used in her trade, The horrible calling e'en now she is plying, Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying! For these "nimble Conveyancers," after such battles, Regarding as _treasure trove_ all goods and chattels, Think nought, in "perusing and settling" the titles, So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.

Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of; For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,--whate'er It may be,--saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!-- The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat, Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coat, And from what, I suppose, I must call his _culotte_; And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out, That his _mouchoir_ and gloves may be put "up the spout," (For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do Fails to ferret out even a single _écu_;) As a muscular Giant would handle an elf, The virago at last lifts the soldier himself, And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring town! I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur; And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.