Part 19

“Ye shall not need,” answered Adams, “hearken only to what I say, and you shall have free passage; but I give you fair warning, though I be but a single man, and without weapon, and sick even unto death, yet shall your coming in cost you as many lives as ye bear amongst you, for within these walls there is a dismal giant that hath slain his thousands, even the plague.” At these dreary words the courage of the robbers was taken somewhat aback, but Blackface spirited them on, saying it was no doubt an invention to deter them from the spoil.

“Alas,” answered Adams, who overheard their argument, “what I say is the solemn and sorrowful truth, and which I am speaking for the last time, for I shall never see to-morrow’s blessed sun. As for the door, I will open it to you with my own hands, beseeching you for your own sakes to stand a little apart, and out of the taint of my breath, which is sure destruction. There is one child herein a dead corpse, as you shall behold if you have so much courage, for it lieth unburied in the hall.” So saying he descended, and presently flung open the hall door, the villains withdrawing a little backward, and they saw verily by the light of a rush wick which he carried, that he was lapt only in a white sheet, and looking very pale and ghost-like, with a most dismal black circle round each of his eyes.

“If ye disbelieve me still,” he said, “look inwards when I draw back from the door, and ye shall see what was a living child this day, but is now a corpse hastening to corruption. Alas! in the midst of life we are in death: she was seized at play.” With these words he drew aside, and the robbers looking through the door, perceived it was even as he said, for the dead body of the child was lying on the hall table, with the same black ring round its eyes, and dressed in brocade and riband as though death had carried it off, even as he said, in its holiday clothes. “Now,” said Adams, after they had gazed awhile, “here be the keys,” therewithal casting towards them a huge bunch; but the villains would now no more meddle with them than with so many aspics or scorpions, looking on them in truth as the very keys of death’s door. Accordingly, after venting a few curses on their ill luck, they began to depart in very ill humour, when Adams again called to them to hear his last words.

“Now,” said he, “though ye came hither with robbery, and perchance murder in your hearts, against me, yet as a true Christian will I not only forgive your wicked intents, but advise you how to shun that miserable end which my own life is coming to so very suddenly. Although your souls have been saved from sin, yet, doubtless ye have not stood so long in this infected air without peril to the health of your bodies, wherefore, by the advice of a dying man, go straightway from this over to Laytonstone, where there be tan pits, and sit there for a good hour amidst the strong smell of the tan, and which hath more virtue as a remedy against the infection of the plague, than even tobacco or the odour of drugs. Do this and live, for the poison is strong and subtle, and seizeth, ere one can be aware, on the springs of life.” Thereupon he uttered a dismal groan, and began yelling so fearfully that the robbers with one accord took to flight, and never stopped till they were come to Laytonstone, and into the tanner’s very yard, where they sat down and stooped over the pit, snuffing up the odours with all the relish of men in whose nostrils it was as the breath of life. In which posture they had been sitting half an hour, when there entered several persons with a lantern, and which they took to be the tanner and his men, and to whom, therefore, they addressed themselves, begging pardon for their boldness, and entreating leave to continue awhile in the tan-yard to disinfect themselves of the plague; but they had hardly uttered these words, when lo! each man was suddenly seized upon, and bound in a twinkling, the constables, for such they were, jeering them withal, and saying the plague had been too busy to come itself, but had sent them a gallows and a halter instead, which would serve their turn. Whereupon, most of the rogues became very chop-fallen, but Blackface swore he could die easy but for one thing upon his mind, and that was, what had become of the dead child and the man dying of the plague, both of which he had seen with his own eyes. Hereupon, the man with a lantern turned the light upon his own face, which the rogues knew directly to be the countenance of Adams himself, but without any of those black rings round the eyes, and for which he explained he had been indebted to a little charcoal. “As for the dead child,” he said, “you must enquire, my masters, of the worshipful company of Barber Surgeons, and they will tell you of a certain waxen puppet of Hygeia, the Goddess of Health, which used to be carried at their pageants, and when it fell into disuse was purchased of them by my Lady Dame Ellinor Wood, for a plaything to her own children. So one head you see is worth four pair of hands, and your whole gang, tall, and strong knaves though you be, have been overmatched by one old man and a doll.”

ODE TO MADAME HENGLER,

FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL.

Oh, Mrs. Hengler! Madame,--I beg pardon, Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden! Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff-- The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz, Whose squibs are far more popular than his; Whose works are much more certain to go off.

Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame; With many a bang the public ear it courts; And yet thy arrogance we never blame, But take thy merits from thy own reports. Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers, We make no doubting, misbelieving comments, Even in thy most bounceable of moments; But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers!-- Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing, Thy Rockets raise thee, And Serpents praise thee, As none beside are ever praised--by hissing!

Mistress of Hydropyrics, Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics, Professor of a Fiery Necromancy, Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts With midnight sports, Partaking very much of _flash_ and _fancy_! What thoughts had shaken all In olden time at thy nocturnal revels,-- Each brimstone ball, They would have deem’d an eyeball of the Devil’s, But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright; A modern Hubert to the royal ear, Might whisper without fear, “My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night!” Nor would it raise one superstitious notion To hear the whole description fairly out:-- “One fixed--which t’other four whirl’d round about With wond’rous motion.”

Such are the very sights Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven, Between the hours of midnight and eleven, Turning our English to Arabian Nights, With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons, Blue stars and white, And blood-red light, And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters’ waggons. Thrice lucky woman! doing things that be With other folks past benefit of parson; For burning, no Burn’s Justice falls on thee, Altho’ night after night the public see Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson! Sure thou wast never born Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head, Nor lectur’d night and morn Of sparks and flames to have an awful dread, Allowed by a prophetic dam and sire To play with fire. O didst thou never, in those days gone by Go carrying about--no schoolboy prouder-- Instead of waxen doll a little Guy; Or in thy pretty pyrotechnic vein, Up the parental pigtail lay a train, To let off all his powder?

Full of the wildfire of thy youth, Did’st never in plain truth, Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother’s pots, Turning the garden into powder plots? Or give the cook, to fright her, Thy paper sausages well stuffed with nitre? Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping A lighted cracker by thy sister’s Dear, So that she could not hear The question he was popping?

Go on, Madame! Go on--be bright and busy While hoax’d Astronomers look up and stare From tall observatories, dumb and dizzy, To see a Squib in Cassiopeia’s Chair! A serpent wriggling into Charles’ Wain! A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear! A rocket tangled in Diana’s train, And Cracker’s stuck in Berenice’s Hair!

There is a King of Fire--Thou shouldst be Queen! Methinks a good connexion might come from it; Could’st thou not make him, in the garden scene, Set out per Rocket and return per comet; Then give him a hot treat Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup, Lord! how the world would throng to see him eat. He swallowing fire, while thou dost throw it up.

One solitary night--true is the story, Watching those forms that Fancy will create Within the bright confusion of the grate, I saw a dazzling countenance of glory! Oh Dei gratias! That fiery facias ’Twas thine, Enchantress of the Surrey Grove; And ever since that night, In dark and bright, Thy face is _registered_ within my _stove_!

Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays; May no untimely _blow_ its doom forestall; But when old age prepares the friendly pall, When the last spark of all thy sparks decays, Then die lamented by good people all, Like Goldsmith’s _Madam Blaize_!

RHYME AND REASON.

_To the Editor of the Comic Annual._

SIR,

In one of your Annuals you have given insertion to “A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme;” but as I have seen no regular long poem constructed on its principles, I suppose the scheme did not take with the literary world. Under these circumstances I feel encouraged to bring forward a novelty of my own, and I can only regret that such poets as Chaucer and Cottle, Spenser and Hayley, Milton and Pratt, Pope and Pye, Byron and Batterbee, should have died before it was invented.

The great difficulty in verse is avowedly the rhyme. Dean Swift says somewhere in his letters, “that a rhyme is as hard to find with him as a guinea,”--and we all know that guineas are proverbially scarce among poets. The merest versifier that ever attempted a Valentine must have met with this Orson, some untameable savage syllable that refused to chime in with society. For instance, what poetical Foxhunter--a contributor to the Sporting Magazine--has not drawn all the covers of Beynard Ceynard, Deynard, Feynard, Geynard, Heynard, Keynard, Leynard, Meynard, Neynard, Peynard, Queynard, to find a rhyme for Reynard? The spirit of the times is decidedly against Tithe; and I know of no tithe more oppressive than that poetical one, in heroic measure, which requires that every tenth syllable shall pay a sound in kind. How often the Poet goes up a line, only to be stopped at the end by an impracticable rhyme, like a bull in a blind alley! I have an ingenious medical friend, who might have been an eminent poet by this time, but the first line he wrote ended in ipecacuanha, and with all his physical and mental power, he has never yet been able to find a rhyme for it.

The plan I propose aims to obviate this hardship. My system is, to take the bull by the horns; in short, to try at first what words will chime, before you go farther, and fare worse. To say nothing of other advantages, it will at least have one good effect,--and that is, to correct the erroneous notion of the would-be poets and poetesses of the present day, that the great _end_ of poetry is rhyme. I beg leave to present a specimen of worse, which proves quite the reverse, and am, Sir,

Your most obedient servant, JOHN DRYDEN GRUBB.

THE DOUBLE KNOCK.

Rat-tat it went upon the lion’s chin “That hat, I know it!” cried the joyful girl: “Summer’s it is, I know him by his knock, Comers like him are welcome as the day! Lizzy! go down and open the street-door, Busy I am to anyone but _him_ Know him you must--he has been often here; Show him up stairs, and tell him I’m alone.”

Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair; Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat; “Sure he has brought me tickets for the play-- Drury or Covent Garden--darling man!-- Kemble will play--or Kean who makes the soul Tremble; in Richard or the frienzied Moor-- Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce Barren beside--or Liston, Laughter’s Child-- Kelly the natural, to witness whom Jelly is nothing to the public’s jam-- Cooper, the sensible--and Walter Knowles Super, in William Tell--now rightly told. Better--perchance, from Andrews, brings a box, Letter of boxes for the Italian stage-- Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul! No card--thank Heaven--engages me to-night! Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque-- Weather’s against it, but I’ll go in curls. Dearly I dote on white--my satin dress, Merely one night--it won’t be much the worse-- Cupid the New Ballet I long to see-- Stupid! why don’t she go and ope the door!” Glisten’d her eye as the impatient girl Listen’d, low bending o’er the topmost stair. Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends, Plainly she hears this question and reply: “Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d’ye want?” “Taxes,” says he, “and shall not call again!”

A FOXHUNTER

Is a jumble of paradoxes. He sets forth clean though he comes out of a kennel, and returns home dirty. He cares not for cards, yet strives to be always with the pack. He loves fencing, but without carte or tierce, and delights in a steeplechase, though he does not follow the Church. He is anything but litigious, yet is fond of a certain suit, and retains Scarlet. He keeps a running account with Horse, Dog, Fox, and Co., but objects to a check. As to cards, in choosing a pack he prefers Hunt’s. In Theatricals, he favours Miss Somerville, because her namesake wrote the Chase, though he never read it. He is no great dancer, though he is fond of casting off twenty couple; and no great Painter, though he draws covers, and seeks for a brush. He is no Musician, and yet is fond of five bars. He despises Doctors, yet follows a course of bark. He professes to love his country, but is perpetually crossing it. He is fond of strong ale and beer, yet dislikes any purl. He is good-tempered, yet so far a Tartar as to prefer a saddle of Horse to a saddle of Mutton. He is somewhat rough and bearish himself, but insists on good breeding in horses and dogs. He professes the Church Catechism, and countenances heathen dogmas, by naming his hounds after Jupiter and Juno, Mars and Diana. He cares not for violets, but he doats on a good scent. He says his wife is a shrew, but objects to destroying a Vixen. In Politics he inclines to Pitt, and runs after Fox. He is no milksop, but he loves to Tally. He protects Poultry, and preserves Foxes. He follows but one business, and yet has many pursuits. He pretends to be knowing, but a dog leads him by the nose. He is as honest a fellow as need be, yet his neck is oftener in danger than a thief’s. He swears he can clear anything, but is beaten by a fog. He is no landlord of houses, but is particular about fixtures. He studies “Summering the Hunter,” but goes Huntering in the Winter. He esteems himself prosperous, and is always going to the dogs. He delights in the Hunter’s Stakes, but takes care not to stake his hunter. He praises discretion, but would rather let the cat out of the bag than a fox. He does not shine at a human conversazione, but is great among dogs giving tongue. To conclude, he runs as long as he can, and then goes to earth, and his Heir is in at his death. But his Heir does not stand in his shoes, for he never wore anything but boots.

BAILEY BALLADS.

To anticipate mistake, the above title refers not to Thomas Haynes--or F. W. N.--or even any Publishers--but the original old Bailey. It belongs to a set of Songs composed during the courtly leisure of what is technically called a Juryman in Waiting--that is, one of a _corps de reserve_, held in readiness to fill up the gaps which extraordinary mental exertion--or sedentary habits--or starvation, may make in the Council of Twelve. This wrong box it was once my fortune to get into. On the 5th of November, at the 6th hour, leaving my bed, and the luxurious perusal of Taylor on Early Rising--I walked from a yellow fog into a black one, in my unwilling way to the New Court, which sweet herbs even could not sweeten, for the sole purpose of making criminals uncomfortable. A neighbour, a retired sea Captain with a wooden leg, now literally a jury-mast, limped with me from Highbury Terrace on the same hanging errand--a personified Halter. Our legal drill Corporal was Serjeant Arabin, and when our muster roll without butter was over, before breakfast, the uninitiated can form no idea of the ludicrousness of the excuses of the would-be Nonjurors,--aggravated by the solemnity of a previous oath, the delivery from a witness-box like a pulpit, and the professional gravity of the Court. One weakly old gentleman had been ordered by his physician to eat little, but often, and apprehended even fatal consequences from being locked up with an obstinate eleven; another conscientious demurrer desired time to make himself master of his duties, by consulting Jonathan Wild, Vidocq, Hardy Vaux, and Lazarillo de Tormes. But the number of deaf men who objected the hardness of their hearing criminal cases was beyond belief. The Publishers of “Curtis on the Ear” and “Wright on the Ear”--(two popular surgical works, though rather suggestive of Pugilism)--ought to have stentorian agents in that Court. Defective on one side myself, I was literally ashamed to strike up singly in such a chorus of muffled double drums, and tacitly suffered my ears to be boxed with a common Jury. I heard, on the right hand, a Judge’s charge--an arraignment and evidence to match, with great dexterity, but failing to catch the defence from the left hand, refused naturally to concur in any sinister verdict. The learned Serjeant, I presume, as I was only half deaf, only half discharged me,--committing me to the relay-box, as a juror in Waiting,--and from which I was relieved only by his successor, Sir Thomas Denman, and to justify my dulness, I made even his stupendous voice to repeat my dismissal twice over!

It was during this compelled attendance that the project struck me of a Series of Lays of Larceny, combining Sin and Sentiment in that melo-dramatic mixture which is so congenial to the cholera morbid sensibility of the present age and stage. The following are merely specimens, but a hint from the Powers that be--in the Strand,--will promptly produce a handsome volume of the remainder, with a grateful Dedication to the learned Serjeant.

LINES TO MARY.

(AT NO. 1, NEWGATE, FAVOURED BY MR. WONTNER.)

O Mary, I believ’d you true, And I was blest in so believing; But till this hour I never knew-- That you were taken up for thieving!

Oh! When I snatch’d a tender kiss Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported!

But then to gaze on that fair face-- It would have been an unfair feeling, To dream that you had pilfered lace-- And Flints had suffered from your stealing!

Or when my suit I first preferr’d, To bring your coldness to repentance, Before I hammered out a word, How could I dream you’d heard a sentence,

Or when with all the warmth of youth I strove to prove my love no fiction, How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction!

How could I dream that ivory part, Your hand--where I have look’d and linger’d, Altho’ it stole away my heart, Had been held up as one light-finger’d!

In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my muse delighted-- Alas! the lay I thought was new, Spoke only what had been _indicted_!

Oh! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too.

You said you pick’d me from the world, My vanity it now must shock it-- And down at once my pride is hurl’d, You’ve pick’d me--and you’ve pick’d a pocket.

Oh! when our love had got so far, The bans were read by Dr. Daly, Who asked if there was any _bar_-- Why did not some one shout “Old Bailey?”

But when you rob’d your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, Among the Joans that link with _Darbies_?

And when the parson came to say, My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honour and obey, Who could have thought--“O Bay of Botany.”

But, oh,--the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover-- That down in Deptford’s prison ships, Oh, Mary! you’ve a hulking lover!

No. II.

“Love, with a witness.”

He has shav’d off his whiskers and blacken’d his brows, Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,-- But it’s him--Oh it’s him!--we exchanged lovers’ vows, When I lived up in Cavendish Square.

He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same, And his voice was as soft as a flute-- Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came To make love in his master’s best suit.

If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth, I shall never forget what he told; How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth, With their jewels and silver and gold!

When he kissed me and bade me adieu with a sigh, By the light of the sweetest of moons, Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons!

No. III.

“I’d be a Parody.”--BAILEY.

We met--’twas in a mob--and I thought he had done me-- I felt--I could not feel--for no watch was upon me; He ran--the night was cold--and his pace was unalter’d, I too longed much to pelt--but my small-boned legs falter’d. I wore my bran new boots--and unrivall’d their brightness, They fit me to a hair--how I hated their tightness! I call’d, but no one came, and my stride had a tether; Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!

And once again we met--and an old pal was near him, He swore a something low--but ’twas no use to fear him; I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept--as he deserv’d--to cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried--but I shall ne’er receive her, The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay--heart and feet ache together, Oh _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather.

LETTER

FROM A PARISH CLERK IN BARBADOES TO ONE IN HAMPSHIRE, WITH AN ENCLOSURE.

“Thou mayest conceive, O reader, with what concern I perceived the eyes of the congregation fixed upon me.”--MEMOIRS OF P. P.

MY DEAR JEDIDIAH,