19 Mr. Barney Maguire has laid claim to the next saint as a countrywoman. And why wouldn't he? When all the world knows the Odells were a fine old ancient family, sated in Tipperary, where the Lord Mayor stole his collar of Goud, and sold it away to a trader. He is manifestly wrong, but as he very rationally observes, no matter for that, she's a saint anyway. The lay of Saint Odil. Odil was a maid of a dignified race. Her father Count Otto was Lord of Alsace. Such an heir, such a grace, such a form, such a face, all agreed, to were a fruitless endeavor to trace in the court, or within fifty miles of the place. Many ladies in Strasburg were beautiful. Still they were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odil. But Odil was devout, and before she was nine, had experienced a call she considered divine, to put on the veil at St. Ermingard's shrine. Lord's dukes and electors and Count's palatine came to seek her in marriage, from both sides the Rhine. But vain their design, they are all left to pine. Their oglings and smiles are all useless. In fine not one of these gentle folks try as they will, can draw Ask My Papa from the cruel Odil, at length one of her suitors a certain Count Hermann, a highly respectable man as a German, who smoked like a chimney and drank like a merman, paid his court to her father, conceiving his ferman would soon make her bend and induce her to lend an ear to a love-tail in lieu of a sermon. He gained the old Count who said, Come, mine hair, fill. Here's luck to yourself and my daughter, Odil. The Lady Odil was quite nervous with fear. When a little bird whispered that toast in her ear, she murmured, O dear, my papa has got queer. I am sadly afraid with that nasty strong beer. He's so very austere and severe that it's clear. If he gets in his tantrums I can't remain here. But St. Ermingard's convent is luckily near. It were folly to stay, poor frowned conge, I shall put on my bonnet and ene run away. She unlocked the back door and descended the hill, on whose crest stood the towers of the sire of Odil. When he found she'd levanted, the Count of Elsace, at first turned remarkably red in the face, he anathomized with much unction and grace. Every soul who came near and consigned the whole race of runaway girls to a very warm place. With a frightful grimace he gave orders for chase, his vassals set off at a deuce of a pace, and of all whom they met, high or low Jack or Jill, asked, Prey have you seen anything of Odil? Now I think I've been told, for I'm no sporting man, that the knowing ones call this by far the best plan. Take the lead and then keep it, that is if you can. Odil thought so too so she set off and ran, put her best leg before, starting at score, as I said some lines since from that little back door, and not being missed until half after four, had what hunters call law, for a good hour and more, doing her best without stopping to rest, like young Locke and Var who came out of the west. Tis done, I am gone, for brier brook and rill, they'll be sharp lads who catch me, said young Miss Odil. But you've all read in Esop or Fedris or Gay how a tortoise and hare ran together one day, how the hare making play progressed right slick away, as them tarnation chaps the Americans say, while the tortoise whose figure is rather Utre, for racing crawled straight on, without let or stay, having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay, till Air Noon's ruddy ray changed to Eve's sober gray, though her form and obesity caused some delay, perseverance and patience brought up her leeway, and she chased her fleet-footed precursor until she or took her at last, so it fared with Odil, for although as I said she ran gaily at first, and showed no inclination to pause if she durst. She at length felt oppressed with the heat and with thirst, its usual attendant, nor was that the worst. Her shoes went down at heel, at last one of them burst, now a gentleman smiles at a trot of ten miles, but not so the fair, then consider the styles, and as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill round the ankle, these styles sadly bothered Odil. Still despite all the obstacles placed in her track, she kept steadily on, though the terrible crack in her shoe made of course her progression more slack, till she reached the Schwartz Forest in English the Black. I cannot divine how the boundary line was passed which is somewhere there formed by the Rhine, perhaps she'd the knack to float oar on her back, or perhaps cross the old bridge of boats at Bressac, which Boban some years after secured from attack by a bastion of stone which the Germans call whack. All I know is she took not so much as a snack, till hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill, on a mountain's brow sank down the weary Odil. I said on its brow but I should have said crown, for it was quite on the summit, bleak barren and brown, and so high that was rightful indeed to look down, upon Freiburg a place of some little renown, that lay at its foot, but imagine the frown that contracted her brow. When full many a clown she perceived coming up from that horrid post-town, they had followed her trail and now pot without fail, as little boys say, to lay salt on her tail, while the Count who knew no other law but his will swore that Hermon that evening should marry Odil. Alas for Odil, poor dear, what could she do? Her father's retainers now had her in view, as she found from their raising a joyous hallou, while the Count riding on at the head of his crew in their snuff-colored doublets and breeches of blue, was huzzying and urging them on to pursue. What indeed could she do? She very well knew if they caught her how much she should have to go through. But then she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe, and to go further on was impossible. True, she might jump o'er the precipice. Still there are few in her place who could manage their courage to screw, up to bidding the world such a sudden, Adieu. Alack how she envied the birds as they flew. No Nassau balloon with its wicker canoe came to bear her from him, she loathed worse than Adieu. So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew, crying holy Saint Irmengarde. O, from these Irmengarde, her whose last hope rests entirely on you. Don't let Papa catch me, dear Saint Rutherkill, at once or Lechamp, you're devoted, Odil. It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress get balked when they think themselves sure of success. The Saint came to the rescue, I fairly confess. I don't see as a Saint how she well could do less than to get such a votary out of her mess.  When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness, closed again and secured her within its recess, in a natural grotto which puzzled Count Otto, who could not conceive where the deuce she had goto, twas her voice but twas Vox at Pryteria nil, nor could anyone guess what was gone with Odil. Then burst from the mountain a splendor that quite eclipsed in its brilliance the finest bootlight, and there stood Saint Irmengarde dressed all in white, a palm branch in her left hand her beads in her right, while with faces fresh gilt and with wings burnished bright, a great many little boys' heads took their flight, above and around to a very great height, and seemed pretty lively considering their plight. Since everyone saw with amazement and awe, they could never sit down, for they hadn't de quoi. All at the sight from the nave to the night felt a very unpleasant sensation called fright, while the saint looking down with a terrible frown. Said my lords, you are done most remarkably brown. I am really ashamed of you both. My nerves thrill at your scandalous conduct to poor dear Odil. Come make yourself scarce. It is useless to stay. You will gain nothing here by a longer delay. Quick presto be gone, as the conjurers say, for as to the lady I've stowed her away. In this hill in a stratum of London blue clay, and I shan't I assure you restore her to-day, till you faithfully promise no more to say nay, but declare if she will be a nun, why she may, for this you've my word and I never yet broke it. So put that in your pipe, my lord Otto, and smoke it. One hint to your vassals, a month at the mill, shall be nuts to what they'll get who worry Odil. The saint disappeared as she ended, and so did the little boy's heads which above and below, as I told you a very few stances ago, had been flying about her and jumping Jim Crow, though without any body or leg, foot or toe, how they managed such antics I really don't know. Be that as it may, they all melted like snow off a dyke as the scotch say in sweet Edinburgh, and there stood the count with his men on the mount, just like twenty-four jackasses all on a row. What was best to be done was a sad bitter pill, but gulp it he must, or else lose his Odil. The Lord of Elsace therefore altered his plan and said to himself like a sensible man, I can't do as I would, I must do as I can. It will not do to lie under any saint's ban. For your hide when you do, they all managed to tan. So Count Herman must pick up some Betsy or Nan, instead of my girl, some Sioux Polly or Fan, if he can't get the corn he must do with the bran, and make shift with the pot if he can't have the pan. With such proverbs as these he went down on his knees and said, Blessed Saint Ermengard, just as you please, they shall build a new convent, I'll pay the whole bill, taking discount, its abyss shall be my Odil. There are some of my readers I'll venture to say who have never seen Freiburg though some of them may, and others tis likely may go there some day. Now, if ever you happen to travel that way, I do beg and pray, twill your pains well repay, that you'll take what the cockney folks call a pocher, though in Germany these things are more like a drae. You may reach the same hill with a single relay, and do look how the rock, though the whole of its block, is split open as though by some violent shock, from an earthquake or lightning or horrid hard knock, from the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock, of a Germanized giant, Thor, Wotan, or Locke, and see how it rears its two monstrous great ears, for when once you're between them such each side appears, and list to the sound of the water one hears, drip-drip from the fissures like raindrops or tears, Odils, I believe, which have flowed all these years. I think they account for them so, but the rill I am sure is connected some way with Odil. Moral, now then for a moral which always arrives at the end like the honeybees take to their hives, and the more one observes it, the better one thrives. We have all heard it said in the course of our lives. Needs must when a certain old gentleman drives. Tis the same with a lady, if once she contrives to get hold of the ribbons, how vainly one strives. To escape from her lash or to shake off her jives. Then let's act like Count Otto, and while one survives, succumb to our she-saints, the delicit wives. Aside, that is if one has not a good bunch of fives. I can't think how that last line escaped from my quill, for I am sure it has nothing to do with Odil.  Be sure that you never elope, there are few, believe me you'll find what I say to be true.  Since not even Clapham, that sanctified vill, can produce enough saints to save every Odil. CHAPTER XXX Nicholas, citizen of Eucity of Pancras, was born of rich and holy kin, and his father was named Epiphanous, and his mother, Johanna. He was born on a cold frosty morning on the 6th of December, upon which day his feast is still observed. But in what Anno Domini is not so clear, his baptismal register, together with that of his friend and colleague, St. Thomas at Hill, have been lost in the great fire of London. St. Nicholas was a great patron of mariners, and saving your presence, of thieves also, which honorable fraternity have long rejoiced in the appellation of his clerks. Cervantes' story of Sanchos detecting a sum of money in a swindler's walking stick, is merely the Spanish version of Allae of St. Nicholas, extant in choice Italian, a century before honest Miguel was born. Allae of St. Nicholas, statum sacerdoti apparu diabolus in spakey appuellae, folkratudinus mirai, et eccedivus, fide catolica, et cruche et attqua benedicta armitas venit, et aspercit acquam in nomine sancti et individui trinitatis, quam quasi ardentum diabolus nequacquam sustenere valens, ugitibus ugit, roger hovedin. Lord Abbott, Lord Abbott, I d'fain confess I am a weary and worn with woe. Many a grief doth my heart oppress and haunt me whither soever I go. On bended knees spake the beautiful maid. Now lith and listen, Lord Abbott, to me. Now nay, fair daughter, the Lord Abbott said, now nay ensuth it may hardly be. There is mess Michael and holy mess John. Sage penitoncers, I wean be they, and hard by doth dwell in St. Catherine's cell. Ambrose, the anchorite, old and gray. Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John. Those sage penitoncers, I trove they be. Shrive me, may none save the Abbott alone. Now listen, Lord Abbott, I speak to thee, nor think foul scorn, though miter adorn thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine. I am a maiden royally born, and I come of old Plantachanate's line. Though hither I stray in lowly array, I am a damsel of high degree. And the compt of U and the Lord upon two, they serve my father on bended knee. Count so many and dukes a few a suturing came to my father's hall. But the duke of Lorraine, with his large domain, he pleased my father beyond them all. Count so many and counts a few, I would have wedded right cheerfully. But the duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain, and I vowed that he ne'er should my bridegroom be. So hither I fly in lowly guise, from their gilded domes and their princely halls. Fain would I dwell in some holy cell, or within some convent's peaceful walls. Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot. Now rest thee, fair daughter, without in fear. Nor count nor duke, but shall meet the rebuke of Holy Church, and he seek thee here. Holy Church denyeth all search, amidst her sanctified ews and her saintly rams. And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock, or especially worry her little pet lambs. Then lay, fair daughter, thy fears aside, for here this day shall thou dine with me. Now nay, now nay, the fair maiden cried. In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be. Friends would whisper and foes would frown, sith thou art a churchman of high degree. And ill-motid match with thy fair renown, that a wandering damsel dine with thee. There is Simon the deacon, have pulse in store with beans and lettuces fair to see. His Lenten fair now let me share, I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charity. Though Simon the deacon hath pulse in store, to our patron saint foul shame it were, should wayworn guest with toil oppressed meet in his abbey such churlish fair. There is Peter the prior, and Francis the friar, and Roger the monk shall our convives be. Small scandal I wean shall then be seen. They are a goodly company. The Abbot hath donned his miter and ring, his rich dalmatic and matzable fine. And the choristers sing, as the lay brothers bring to the board a magnificent turkey and chine. The turkey and chine they are done to a nicety. Liver and gizzard and all are there. Nermote, Lord Abbot, is benedicity, over more luscious or delicate fairer. But no pious dave, no potter or ave, pronounced as he gazed on that maiden's face. She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, she asked him for gizzard, but not for grace. Yet gaily the Lord Abbot smiled and pressed, and the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled. And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast. And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled. There was no lack of old Sherry's sack, of Hippocris fine or of Momsy bright. And I, as he drained off his cup with a smack, he grew less pious and more polite. She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice. And she drank as lady ought not to drink. And he pressed her hand beneath the table, thrice, and he winked as Abbot ought not to wink. And Peter the prior and Francis the friar, said each with a napkin under his chin. But Roger the monk got excessively drunk, so they put him to bed, and they tucked him in. The laybrothers gazed on each other, amazed, and Simon the deacon, with grief and surprise. As he peeped through the keyhole, could scarce fancy reel the scene he beheld or believe his own eyes? In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing. He could not distinguish the words very plain. But it was all about coal and jolly old soul, and fiddlers in punch and things quite as profane. Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such revelin, with Berver himself began to bless, for he thought he must somehow have let the devil in, and perhaps was not very much out in his guess. The accusing buyers flew up to heaven's chancery, blushing like scarlet with shame and concern. The archangel took down his tail, and in answer he, wept, see the works of the late Mr. Stern. Indeed it is said, alas, taking both were in, when after a lapse of a great many years, they booked Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing, and blotted the fine out again with their tears. But St. Nicholas Agony, who may paint, his senses at first were well nigh gone. The beatified saint was ready to faint, when he saw in his abbey such sad goings on. For never, I wean, had such doings been seen, there before from the time that most excellent Prince, Earl Baldwin of Flanders and other commanders, had built and endowed it some centuries since. But Harkt is a sound from the outermost gate, a startling sound from a powerful blow. Who knocks so late it is half after eight by the clock, and the clock's five minutes too slow. Never perhaps had such loud devil-wraps been heard in St. Nicholas' abbey before. All agreed it was shocking to keep people knocking, but none seemed inclined to answer the door. Now a louder bang through the cloister's rang, and the gate on its hinge's wide open flew, and all were aware of a palmer there, with his cockle hat staff and his sandal shoe. Many a furrow and many a frown, by toil and time on his brow were traced, and his long loose gown was of ginger-brown, and his rosary dangled below his waist. Now seldom I wean is such costume seen, except at a stage play or masquerade. But who doth not know it was rather the go, with pilgrims and saints in the second crusade? With noiseless stride did that palmer glide across that oaken floor, and he made them all jump, he gave such a thump, against the refectory door. Wide open it flew, and plain to the view, the Lord Abbott they all moat see. In his hand was a cup, and he lifted it up. Here's the pope's good health, with three. Rang in their ears three deafening cheers, Hose, Hose, Hose. And one of the parties said, Go at my hearty, when out spake that pilgrim gray. A boon, Lord Abbott, a boon, a boon, warn is my foot and empty my script, and nothing to speak of since yesterday noon of food, Lord Abbott, hath passed my lip. And I am come from a far country, and have visited many a holy shrine. And long have I trod the sacred sod, for the saints do rest in Palestine, and thou art come from a far country, and if thou in panem lands hast been, now read me a right, the most wonderful sight, thou palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen. Read me a right, the most wonderful sight, gray palmer, that ever thine eyes did see, and a mansion of bread, and a good warm bed, and a cup of the best shall thy girdon be. Oh, I have been east, and I have been west, and I have seen many a wonderful sight, but never to me did it happen to see a wonder like that which I see this night. To see a Lord Abbott in rochette and stole, with prior and friar, a strange marvell, or a jolly full bowl sitting cheek by Joel and hobnobbing away with a devil from hell. He felt in his gown of ginger-brown, and he pulled out a flask from beneath. It was rather tough work to get out the cork, but he did it at last with his teeth, or a pint and a quarter of holy water. He made a sacred sign, and he dashed the whole on the Suadhisant daughter of old Plantagenet's line. Oh, then did she reek and squeak and shriek with a wild unearthly scream, and fizzled and hissed and produced such a mist. They were all half choked by the steam. Her dove-like eyes turned to coals of fire, her beautiful nose to a horrible snout, her hands to pause with nasty great claws, and her bosom went in and her tail came out.  The Palmer threw down his ginger gown, his hat and his cockle, and plain to sight. Stud St. Nicholas's self and his shaven crown had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light. The fiend made a grasp, the abbot to clasp, but St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe, and just in the nick let fly such a kick.  And he bounded away like a football at play, till into the bottomless pit he fell slap, knocking Mammon the meager, or Percy Belfieger and Lucifer into Beelzebub's lap. Oh, happy the slip from his succubine grip, that saved the Lord Abbott, though breathless with fright, in escaping he tumbled and fractured his hip, and his left leg was shorter than sporth, than his right. On the banks of the Rhine as he's stopping to dine, from a certain in-window the traveller is shown, most picturesque ruins the scene of these doons, some miles up the river southeast of Cologne, and while sauerkraut she sells you the landlady tells you, that there in those walls, now all roofless and bare, when Simon a deacon from a lean grew a sleek one, on filling a C. Devont Abbott's state chair. How a C. Devont Abbott, all clothed in drab butt, of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes, his miter and ring and all that sort of thing, laid aside in yon cave lived a pious recluse, how he rose with the sun, limping dot and go one, to yon rill of the mountain in all sorts of weather, where a prier and a friar, who lived somewhat higher up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together, how a thirsty old codger the neighbors called Roger, with them drank cold water in lieu of old wine, what its quality wanted he made up in quantity, swigging as though he would empty the Rhine, and how as their bodily strength failed the mental man, gained tenfold vigor and force in all four, and how to the day of their death the old gentleman never attempted to kidnap them more, and how when it length in the odor of sanctity, all of them died without grief or complaint, the monks of St. Nicholas said to us ridiculous, not to suppose every one was a saint, and how in the abbey no one was so shabby as not to say yearly four masses ahead, on the eve of that supper, and kick on the cropper, which Satan received, for the souls of the dead, how folks long held in reverence their relics and memories, how the citevant abets obtained greater still, when some cripples on touching his fractured osphemeris threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille, and how Abbot Simon, who turned out a prime one, these words which grew into a proverb full soon, or the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto, whose ups with the devil should have a long spoon. Section XXI Rohesia, daughter of Ambrose and sister to Sir Everard Ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the sixteenth century, and was married in fifteen twenty-six at St. Giles' Cripplegate in the City of London. The following narrative contains all else that is known of, the Lady Rohesia. The Lady Rohesia lay on her deathbed. So said the doctor, and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters. Besides, Dr. Butz was the court physician. He carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of the blackest ebony, raison de plu. Is there no hope, doctor? said Beatrice Gray. Is there no hope? said Everard Ingoldsby. Is there no hope? said Sir Guy de Montgomerie. He was the Lady Rohesia's husband. He spoke the last. The doctor shook his head. He looked at the disconsolate widower, in posse. Then at the hourglass, its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butz was a very learned man. Ars Longa, vita braevis, said Dr. Butz. I am very sorry to hear it, quote Sir Guy de Montgomerie. Sir Guy was a brave knight and a tall, but he was no scholar. Alas, my poor sister, sighed Ingoldsby. Alas, my poor mistress, sobbed Beatrice. Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed. His grief was too deep-seated for outward manifestation. And how long, doctor? The afflicted husband could not finish the sentence. Dr. Butz withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady. He pointed to the horrelage. Scarcely a quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. Again he shook his head. The eye of the patient waxed dimmer. The rattling in the throat increased. What's become of Fr. Francis, whimpered Beatrice? The last consolations of the church suggested Eberard. A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy. Where is the confessor? continued his grieving brother-in-law. In the pantry cried Marion Hackett, pertly, as she tripped downstairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic. In the pantry, I warrant me, the bower woman was not want to be in the wrong. In the pantry was the holy man discovered at his devotions. Pax Wobiscum said Fr. Francis as he entered the chamber of death. Vita Brevis retorted Dr. Butz. He was not a man to be browbeat out of his Latin, and by a paltry friar minum, too. Had it been a bishop, indeed, or even a mitered abbot, but a miserable Franciscan, Benedictity said the friar. Ours longa returned the leech. Dr. Butz adjusted the tassels of his falling band, drew his short, sad-colored cloak closer around him, and grasping his crosshandled walking-stick, stopped majestically out of the apartment. Fr. Francis had the field to himself, the worthy chaplain hastened to administer the last rites of the church. To all appearance he had little time to lose. As he concluded, the dismal toll of the passing-bell sounded from the bell-free tower. Little Hubert, the bandy-legged sacristan, was pulling with all his might. It was a capital contrivance, that same passing-bell. Which of the urbans or innocents invented it is a query, but whoever he was, he deserved well of his country and of Christendom. Ah, our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we, their degenerate children, concede them to have been. The passing-bell, a most solemn warning to imps of every description, is not to be regarded with impunity. The most impudent succubus of them all dare as well dip his claws in holy water, as come within the verge of its sound. Old Nick himself, if he sets any value at all upon his tail, had best convey himself clean out of hearing, and leave the way open to paradise. Little Hubert continued pulling with all his might, and St. Peter began to look out for a customer. The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the lady Roheja. She raised her head slightly, in articulate sounds issued from her lips, in articulate, that is, to the profane ears of the laity. Those of Father Francis, indeed, were sharper. Everything, as he averred, could be more distinct than the words a thousand marks to the priory of St. Mary Ronseval. Now the lady Roheja Inglesby had brought her husband broad lands and large possessions. Much of her ample dowry, too, was at her own disposal, and non-cupidive wills had not yet been abolished by active parliament. High as soul, ejaculated Father Francis, a thousand marks she said. If she did I'll be shot, said Sir Guy to Montgomery. A thousand marks continued the confessor, fixing his cold gray eye upon the night, as he went on heedless of the interruption. A thousand marks, and as many avais and potters shall be duly set, as soon as the money is paid down, Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze. He turned to the window, and muttered to himself, something that sounded like, Don't you wish you may get it? The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the room. Taking with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for extreme unction, Everard Inglesby waited on him downstairs. A thousand thanks, said the latter. A thousand marks, said the friar. A thousand devils groused Sir Guy to Montgomery from the top of the landing-place. But his accents fell unheeded. His brother-in-law and the friar were gone. He was left alone with his departing lady and Beatrice Gray. Sir Guy to Montgomery stood pensively at the foot of the bed. His arms were crossed upon his bosom. His chin was sunk upon his breast. His eyes were filled with tears. The dim rays of the fading watch-light gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top of his head. For Sir Guy was a middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly with all, with a slight bend in his shoulders. But that not much. His complexion was somewhat florid, especially about the nose. But his lady was in extremis. And at this particular moment he was paler than usual. Thumb, bone, went the bell. The night groaned audibly. Beatrice Gray wiped her eye with her little square apron of lace de Maline. There was a moment's pause, a moment of intense affliction. She let it fall, all but one corner which remained between her finger and thumb. She looked at Sir Guy, drew the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, slowly along its border, till they reached the opposite extremity. She sobbed aloud. So kind a lady, said Beatrice Gray. So excellent a wife responded Sir Guy. So good, said the damsel. So dear, said the night. So pious, said she. So humble, said he. So good to the poor. So capital a manager. So punctual at matins. Dinner dished to a moment. So devout, said Beatrice. So fond of me, said Sir Guy. End of Father Francis. What the devil do you mean by that? said Sir Guy de Montgomery. The night and the maiden had wrung their antiphonic changes on the fine qualities of the departing lady, like the strophy and antistrophe of a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once disposed of, her minor excellences came under review. She would drown a witch, drink lamb's wool at Christmas, beg Domini dumps, boys a holiday, and dine upon sprouts on Good Friday. A low moan from the subject of these eulogies seemed to intimate that the enumeration of her good deeds was not altogether lost on her, that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in the testimony. She was too good for earth, continued Sir Guy. Yet, yet, yes, sobbed Beatrice. I did not deserve her, said the knight. No, cried the damsel. Not but that I made her an excellent husband, and a kind, but she is going, and, and, where, or when, or how, shall I get such another? Not in broad England, not in the whole wide world, responded Beatrice Gray. That is not just such another. Her voice still faltered, but her accents on the whole were more articulate. She dropped the corner of her apron, and had recourse to her handkerchief. In fact, her eyes were getting red, and so was the tip of her nose. Sir Guy was silent. He gazed for a few moments, steadfastly on the face of his lady. The single word, another, fell from his lips like a distant echo. It is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more than is necessary. Bim, boom, went the bell. Bandy-legged Hubert had been tolling for half an hour. He began to grow tired, and St. Peter, fidgety, Beatrice Gray said Sir Guy to Montgomery. What's to be done? What's to become of Montgomery Hall, and the buttery, and the servants? And what, what's to become of me, Beatrice Gray? There was pathos in his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. I'll turn Monk myself, said Sir Guy. Monk, said Beatrice, I'll be a Carthusian, repeated the night, but in a tone less assured, he relapsed into a reverie. Shave his head? He did not so much mind that. He was getting rather bald already. But beans were dinner, and those without butter, and then a horse-hair shirt. The night seemed undecided. His eye roamed gloomily around the apartment. It paused upon different objects. But as if it saw them not, its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance. It rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathizing damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief.  There is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. Sir Guy turned round. He seated himself on the edge of the bed, and placing his hand beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees. I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice. But what's to become of me? Poor, miserable old. That is, poor, miserable, middle-aged man that I am. No one to comfort, no one to care for me. Beatrice's tears flowed afresh. But she opened not her lips. Upon my life continued he. I don't believe there is a creature now would care a button if I were hanged to-morrow. Oh, don't say so, Sir Guy, sighed Beatrice. You know there's Master Everard and Father Francis. Pish cried Sir Guy, testily.  I am not thinking of old bitches, quote Sir Guy de Montgomery. Another pause ensued. The night had released her chin and taken her hand. It was a pretty little hand, with long taper fingers and filbert form nails. And the softness of the palm said little for its owner's industry. Sit down, my dear Beatrice, said the night thoughtfully. You must be fatigued with your long watching.  Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand. But he sidled along the counterpane and made room for his companion between himself and the bed-post. Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the right hand of the other. In such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed, a little in the rear of his companion. Another repeated Sir Guy musing. If indeed I could find such another. He was talking to his thought. But Beatrice Gray answered him. There's Madame Fitzboozle. A frump, said Sir Guy. Or the Lady Bombarton, with her hump, muttered he. There's the Dowager. Stop, stop, said the night. Stop one moment. He paused. He was all on a tremble. Something seemed rising in his throat. But he gave a great gulp and swallowed it. Beatrice said he. What think you of? His voice sank into a most seductive softness. What think you of? Beatrice Gray. The murder was out. The night felt infinitely relieved. The knuckles of his left hand unclosed spontaneously. And the arm he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of. Found itself. Nobody knows how. All at once encircling the jimp waste of the pretty Beatrice. The young lady's reply was expressed in three syllables. They were, Oh, Sir Guy. The words might be somewhat indefinite. But there was no mistaking a look. Their eyes met. Sir Guy's left arm contracted itself spasmodically. When the eyes meet, at least as theirs met, the lips are very apt to follow the example. The night had taken one long, loving kiss. Nectar and Ambrosia. He thought on Dr. Butz and his repatitor Halstas. A prescription father Francis had taken infinite pains to translate for him. He was about to repeat it. But the dose was interrupted in trancitue. Doubtless the adage, there's many a slip, twix the cup and the lip. Hath reference to medicine. Sir Guy's lip was again all but in conjunction with that of his bride-elect. It has been hinted already that there was a little round polished patch on the summit of the night's paracranium, from which his locks had gradually receded. A sort of oasis. Or rather a Mont Blanc in miniature, rising above the highest point of vegetation. It was on this little spot, undefended alike, by art and nature, that at this interesting moment a blow descended, such as we must borrow a term from the sister island adequately to describe. It was a whack. Sir Guy started upon his feet. Beatrice Gray started upon hers. But a single glance to the rear, reversed her position. She fell upon her knees and screamed. The night, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight, which might have turned a bolder man to stone. It was she, the all but defunct Rojicia. There she sat, bold upright, her eyes no longer glazed with a film of impending dissolution, scintillating like flint and steel. While in her hand she grasped the bedstaff, a weapon of nickel might, as her husband's bloody coxcomb could now well testify. Words were yet wanting, for the Quincy, which her rage had broken, still impeded her utterance, but the strengthened rapidity of her guttural intonations augured well for her future eloquence. Sir Guy de Montgomerie stood for a while like a man distraught. This resurrection, for such it seemed, had quite overpowered him. A husband oft times makes the best physician, says the proverb. He was a living personification of its truth. Still it was whispered he had been content with Dr. Butts. But his lady was restored to bless him for many years. Heaven's what a life he led! The Lady Rojizha mended apace. Her Quincy was cured. The bell was stopped, and little Hubert, the sacristan, kicked out of the chapelry. St. Peter opened his wicket and looked out. There was nobody there. So he flung to the gate in a passion, and went back to his lodge, grumbling at being hoaxed by a runaway ring. Years rolled on. The improvement of Lady Rojizha's temper did not keep pace with that of her health, and one fine morning, Sir Guy de Montgomerie was seen to enter the Port Cochère of Durham House, at that time the town residence of Sir Walter Raleigh. Nothing more was ever heard of him, but a boat full of adventurers was known to have dropped down with the tide that evening, to Detford Hope, where lay the good ship, the Darling, extended by Captain Chimas, who sailed next morning on the Virginia voyage. A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may yet be seen in Denton Chancell, let into a broad slab of Beatherston Marble. It represents a lady kneeling in her wimple and hood. Her hands are clasped in prayer, and beneath is an inscription in the characters of the age. Pray for your soul, of ye Lady Royce, and for all Christian souls. The date is illegible, but it appears that she survived King Henry VIII, and that the dissolution of monasteries had lost St. Mary Ronseval, her Thousand Marks. As for Beatrice Gray, it is well known that she was alive in 1559, and then had virginity enough left to be a maid of honor to good Queen Bess. END OF SECTION XXI It was during the honey, or as it is sometimes termed, the treacle moon, that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth passed through London, a good natured friend who dropped into dinner, forced them in the evening to the theatre, for the purpose of getting rid of him. I give Charles account of the tragedy, just as it was written, without altering even the last couplet, for there would be no making Edgerton rhyme with story. The Tragedy Catherine of Cleves was a lady of rank. She had lands and fine houses and cash in the bank. She had jewels and rings and a thousand smart things, was lovely and young, with a rather sharp tongue, and she wedded a noble of high degree, with the star of the order of Saint Esprit. But the duke de Guise was by many degrees her senior, and not very easy to please. He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye, and a frown on his brow, and he looked like a guy. So she took to intriguing, with Mr. St. Meagran, a young man of fashion and figure and worth, but with no great pretensions to fortune or birth. He would sing, fence, and dance with the best men in France, and took his rapier with gentile nonchalance. He smiled and he flattered and flirted with ease, and was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise. Now Mr. St. Meagran was curious to know if the lady approved of his passion or no. So without more ado he put on his ser-two, and went to a man with a beard like a Jew. One senior Ruggieri, a cunning man, near he could conjure tell fortunes and calculate tides, perform tricks on the cards, and heaven knows what besides. Bring back a straight cow, silver ladle, or spoon, and was thought to be thick with the man in the moon. The sage took his stand with his wand in his hand, drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command, saying solemnly, presto, hey, quick, cacolorum, when the duchess immediately popped up before him. Just then a conjunction of Venus and Mars, or something peculiar above in the stars, attracted the notice of senior Ruggieri, who bolted and left him alone with his dearie. Mr. St. Meagran went down on his knees, and the duchess shed tears large as marrow fat peas. When fancy the shock, a loud double knock, made the lady cry, Get up, you fool, there's deguise. Twas his grace sure enough. So Monsieur looking bluff, strutted by with his hat on and fingering his rough. While unseen by either, away flew the dame, through the opposite keyhole, the same way she came, but a lack and a glass, a mishap came to pass. In her hurry she somehow or other let fall, a new silk bandana she'd worn as a shawl.  Now the duke who had seen it so lately adorn her, and knew the great sea with the crown in the corner, the instant he spied it, smoked something amiss, and said with some energy, Damn it, what's this? He went home in a fume and bounced into her room, crying, So ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous.  Now take up that pen, if it's bad, choose a better, and write as I dictate this moment a letter to Monsieur you know who. The lady looked blue, but replied with much firmness, hang me, if I do. De Guise grasped her wrist with his great bony fist, and pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist, that his hard iron gauntlet, the flesh, went an inch in. She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching. So she sat down and wrote this polite little note. Dear Mr. St. Migran, the chiefs of the league in our house mean to dine this evening at nine. I shall soon after ten slip away from the men, and you'll find me upstairs in the drawing room then.  She directed and sealed it all pale as a ghost, and De Guise put it into the topony post. When Migran had almost jumped out of his skin for joy that day when the post came in, he read the note through, then began it anew, and thought it almost too good news to be true. He clapped on his hat and a hood over that, with a cloak to disguise him and make him look fat. So great his impatience, from half after four he was waiting till ten at De Guise's back door. When he heard the great clock of St. John Viev Chime he ran up the back staircase six steps at a time. He had scarce made his bow. He hardly knew how. When alas and a lack, there was no getting back, for the drawing-room door was banged too with a whack. In vain he applied to the handle and tried. Somebody or other had locked it outside, and the Duchess in agony mourned her mishap. We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap. Now the Duchess page, about twelve years of age, for so little a boy was remarkably sage, and just in the nick to their joy and amazement, popped the gaslighter's ladder close under the casement. But all would not do. Though St. Migran got through, the window below stood De Guise and his crew. And though never man was more brave than St. Migran, yet fighting a score is extremely fatigued. He thrust cart and tears, uncommonly fierce.  Still an old crooked sixpence the conjurer gave him. From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him. But when beat on his knees that confounded De Guise came behind with the fogal that caused all this breeze, whipped it tight round his neck, and when backward he'd jerked him. The rest of the rastles jumped on him and burnt him.  Catherine of Cleves roared murder and thieves from the window above, while they murdered her love, till finding the rogues had accomplished his slaughter.  Moral. Take warning, ye fair, from this tale of the Bards, and don't go where fortunes are told on the cards. But steer clear of conjurers never put query to wise Mrs. Williams, or folks like Ruggieri, when alone in your room shut the door close and lock it. Above all, keep your handkerchief safe in your pocket, lest you too should stumble, and Lord Levis and Gar he'd be called on sad poet, to tell your sad story. the view of witnessing the coronation of their youthful queen, whom God long preserved. This purpose they were fortunate enough to accomplish by the purchase of a pier's tickets from a stationer in the Strand, who was enabled so to dispose of some, greatly to the indignation of the hereditary Earl Marshall. How Mr. Barney managed to insinuate himself into the Abbey remains a mystery. His characteristic modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he unquestionably was. The result of his observations was thus communicated to his associates in the Servants' Hall upon his return, to the infinite delectation of Matt Moselle Pauline, over a cruise keen of his own concocting. Mr. Barney McGuire's account of the coronation, air, the groves of Blarney. Ock the coronation, what celebration, for emulation, can with it compare, when to Westminster, the Royal Spinster, and the Duke of Lentster, all in order did repair. Twas there you'd see the new policeman making a scrimmage, at half after four, and the lords and ladies, and the miso-gradies, all standing round before the Abbey door. Their pillows scorning, that self-same mourning, themselves adorning, all by the candlelight, with roses and glillies, and daffy-down dillies, and gold and jewels, and rich diamonds bright, and then approaches five hundred coaches, with General Dullbeak Ock Twas mighty fine, to see how easy, old corporal Casey, with his sword-drawn prancing, made them cape the line. Then the guns the larums, and the king of arums, all in his garters and his Clarence shoes, opening the massy doors to the bold ambassadors, the Prince of Potboys, and Great Haven Jews. Twid have made you crazy, to see Esther Hazy, all jewels from his jazzy, to his diamond boots, with Alderman Harmer, and that sweet Charmer, the female heiress, Miss Angelly Coots, and Wellington walking, with his sword-drawn talking, to Hill and Harding, heroes of great fame, and Sir Delacy, and the Duke Del Macy, they called him Salt, before he changed his name, themselves presiding, Lord Melbourne lading, the Queen the Darling, to her royal chair, and that final fellow, the Duke of Palmello, the Queen of Portangolles, Chargy de Faire. The Minoble Prussians, likewise the Russians, in fine-laced jackets, with their golden cuffs, and the Bavarians, and the Proud Hungarians, and everything Garians, all in furs and muffs, then missed their spaker, with missed their pays the Quaker, all in the gallery, you might perceive, but Lord Broome was missing, and gone a-fishing, only Crass Lord Essex would not give him lave. There was Baron Alton, himself Exalton, and Prince Von Schwarzenberg, and many more, Ock I'd be bothered, and entirely smothered, to tell the half of him, was to the four, with the white puresses, in their crowns and dresses, and Alderman Nesses, and the Board of Works, but Muhammad Ali, said quite gentilly, I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks. Then the Queen Heaven bless her, Ock they did dress her, in her purple garments, and her golden crown, like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Shebe, with eight young ladies, holding up her crown, sure to his grand to see her, also to hear, the big drums baiting, and the trumpets blow, and Sir George Smart, O he played a Concerto, with his four and twenty fiddlers all on a row. Then the Lord Archbishop held a golden dish up, for to resave her bounty, and great wealth, saying, Place your glory, like Queen Victoria, you'll give the clergy, lay to drink your health, then his reverence retreating, disgusts at the mating, boys here's your Queen, deny it if you can, and if any bold traitor, or in farrier craithor, sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man. Then the nobles kneeling, to the powers appealing, Heaven send your majesty, a glorious reign, and Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her, all in his scarlet gown, and golden chain, the great Lord Mair too, set in his chair too, but mighty Sarius, looking fit to cry, for the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry, throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye. Then there was preaching and good store of speeching, with dukes and marquesses, on bended knee, and they did splasher, with rail-maccashor, and the Queen said, Ah, then thank ye all for me, then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing, and sweet trombones, with their silver tones, but Lord Roll was rolling, it was mighty consoling, to think his lordship did not break his bones. Then the crames encustered, and the beef and mustered, all on the tombstones, like a polforer's shop, with lobsters and white bait, and other sweet meats, and wine and negus, and imperial pop. There was cakes and apples in all the chapels, with fine polonies, and rich mellow pears, ock the Count von Straganoff, sure he got his progenoff, the sly old divil, underneath the stairs. And the cannons thundered, and the people wondered, crying, God save Victoria, our royal queen. Ah, if myself should live to be a hundred, sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen, and now I've ended what I pretended. This narration splendid in suede poet's rye, ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, faith it's myself that's getting mighty thry. End of Section XXIII Section XXIV of the Ingaldsby Legends, first series. This lever-box recording is in the public domain. The Ingaldsby Legends, first series, by Richard Harris Barham, Section XXIV. As a pendant to the foregoing, I shall venture to insert Mr. Simpkins' lucky abrasions on a subject to him as a savant of the first class, scarcely less interesting. The aerial voyage to which it alludes took place about a year and a half previously to the august event already recorded, and the excitement manifested in the learned antiquary's effusion may give some faint idea of that which prevailed generally among the sons of science at that memorable epoch. The Monster Balloon Oh, the balloon, the great balloon! It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon, and everyone said we should hear of it soon, with news from Aleppo or Scandaroon. But very soon after folks changed their tune. The netting had burst, the silk, the chaloon. It had met with a trade wind, a deucid monsoon. It was blown out to sea. It was blown to the moon. They ought to have put off their journey till June. For none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon, would go up in November in any balloon. Then they talked about Green, oh, where's Mr. Green? And where's Mr. Holland, who hired the machine? And where is Monk Mason, the man that has been up so often before, twelve times or thirteen, and who writes such nice letters describing the scene? And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen, the pressed beef with the fat cut off, nothing but lean, and the portable soup in the patent terrine? Have they got to Grand Cairo, or reached Aberdeen, or Jerusalem, Hamburg, or Valley-Poreen? No, they have not been seen. Oh, they haven't been seen. Stay here's Mr. Guy, Mr. Frederick Guy. At Paris, says he, I've been up very high, a couple of hundred of toise, or nigh, a cock stride the duelleries' panteels to spy, with Dahlin's best telescope stuck at my eye, and my umbrella under my arm like Paul Pry. But I could see nothing at all but the sky, so I thought with myself twas of no use to try, any longer, and feeling remarkably dry. From sitting all day stuck up there like a guy, I came down again, and you see, here am I. But here's Mr. Hughes, what says young Mr. Hughes, why I'm sorry to say we've not got any news, since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes, which gave the mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise, as he popped up his eyeglass to look at their crews, over Dover, and which the folks flocked to Peru's, at Squire's Bazaar the same evening in Cruz, Politician's Newsmonger's Town Council and Blues, Turk's Heretic's Infidel's Jumpers and Jews, Scorning Bachelors' Papers and Warren's Reviews. But the wind was then blowing towards Helvet's Slews, and my father and I are in terrible stews, for so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose. Here's news come at last. A vessel's come in, which has sailed very fast. And a gentleman serving before the mast, Mr. Noakes, has declared that the party has passed, safe across to the Hague, where their drapnel they cast, as a fat burgo-master was staring aghast, to see such a monster come born on the blast. And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast. Go, fi, Mr. Noakes, for shame, Mr. Noakes, to be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks. Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes, and such jesting your malice but scurvelly cloaks. Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes, and we know very well your whole story's a hoax. Oh, what shall we do? Oh, where will it end? Can nobody go? Can nobody send? To Calais, or Bergen-Op-Zoom, or Ostend?  Can't you write to a friend? For news upon which we may safely depend? Huzzah! Huzzah! One-and-eight pence to pay for a letter from Hamburg just come to say, they descended at Weilburg about break of day, and they've lent them the palace there during their stay. And the town is becoming uncommonly gay, and they're feasting the party and soaking their clay. With Johannesburg, Rudsche, Moselle, and Toquet, and the landgraves and margraves and counts beg and pray, that they won't think as yet about going away. Notwithstanding they don't mean to make much delay, but pack up the balloon in a wagon or drae, and pop themselves into a German poche, and get on to Paris by Lille or Tournay, where they'll boldly declare any wager they'll lay. If the gas-people there do not ask them to pay, such as some as must force them at once to say nay, they'll inflate the balloon in the Champs Elysees, and be back again here the beginning of May. Dear me, what a treat for a juvenile feat! What thousands will flock their arrival to Grete? They'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street, for at Boxall the whole population will meet, and you'll scarcely get standing-room much less a seat. For this all-proceeding attraction must beat. Since they'll unfold what we want to be told, how they coughed, how they sneezed, how they shivered with cold, how they tippled the cordial as racy and old as Hodges or Didi or Smith ever sold, and how they all then felt remarkably bold. How they thought the boiled beef worth its own weight in gold, and how Mr. Green was beginning to scold, because Mr. Mason would try to lay hold of the moon and had very near overboard rolled. And there they'll be seen, they'll be all to be seen, the great coats the coffee-pot mugs and terrine, with the tightrope and fireworks and dancing between. The weather should only prove fair and serene, and there on a beautiful transparent screen, in the middle you'll see a large picture of Green. Mr. Holland on one side who hired the machine, Mr. Mason on Tother, describing the scene, and fame on one leg in the air like a queen, with three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean. They'll envy in serpents and black bombazine, looks on from below, with an air of chagrin. Then they'll play up a tune in the royal saloon, and the people will dance by the light of the moon, and keep up the ball till the next day at noon, and the pier and the peasant, the lord and the loon, the haughty grandee and the low pickaroon. The six-foot life-guardsmen, and little Gassoun, will all join in three cheers for the monster balloon. END OF SECTION XXIV It is much to be regretted that I have not as yet been able to discover more than a single specimen of my friend Suckl Thumbkin's Muse. The event it alludes to, probably the euthanasia of the late Mr. Greenacre, will scarcely have yet faded from the recollection of an admiring public. Although with the usual diffidence of a man of fashion, Augustus has sunk the fact of his own presence on that interesting occasion. I have every reason to believe that, in describing the party at the auberge hereafter mentioned, he might have said, with a brother exquisite, Quarampars Magnafui. Honourable Mr. Suckl Thumbkin's story, The Execution, A Sporting Anecdote. My lord Tom Naughty got up one day. It was half after two he had nothing to do, so his lordship rang for his cabriolet. Tiger Tim was clean of limb, his boots were polished, his jacket was trim, with a very smart tie in his smart cravat, and a smart cockade on the top of his hat, tallest of boys or shortest of men. He stood in his stockings just four-foot-ten, and he asked as he held the door on the swing. Pray, did your lordship please to ring? My lord Tom Naughty he raised his head, and thus to Tiger Tim he said, Malabran's dead. Duverne's fled. Alione has not yet arrived in her stead. Tiger Tim, come tell me true, what may a nobleman find to do? Tim looked up, and Tim looked down. He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown. And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown. He bit his lip, and he scratched his head. He let go the handle, and thus he said, as the door released behind him banged. And please you, my lord, there's a man to be hanged. My lord Tom Naughty jumped up at the news, run to Mothuz and Lieutenant Traguse, and run to Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues. Rope dancers a score I've seen before, Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Blackmore. But to see a man swing at the end of a string, with his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing. My lord Tom Naughty stepped into his cab, dark rifle green with a lining of drab, through street and through square his high trotting mare, like one of Ducrose goes pawing the air. A down Piccadilly and Waterloo place went the high trotting mare at a very quick pace. She produced some alarm, but did no great harm, save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, spattering with clay to urchins at play, knocking down very much to the sweeper's dismay, an old woman who wouldn't get out of the way, and upsetting a stall near Exeter Hall, which made all the pious church mission folks squall. But eastward afar, through Temple Bar, my lord Tom Naughty directs his car, never heeding their squalls or their calls or their balls. He passes by Weithman's Emporium for shawls, and merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's, turns down the old Bailey, where in front of the jail he pulls up at the door of the gin shop and gaily, cries what must I fork out to-night, my trump, for the whole first floor of the Magpie and Stump. The clock strikes twelve, it is dark midnight, yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light. The parties are met, the tables are set, there is punch cold without, hot with, heavy wet, ale-glasses and jugs, and rumours and mugs, and sand on the floor without carpets or rugs. Cold foul and cigars, pickled onions in jars, Welsh rabbits and kidneys rare work for the jaws, and very large lobsters with very large claws, and there is Maffoose and Lieutenant Traguse, and there is Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues, all come to see a man die in his shoes.  My Lord Tom Naughty is drinking gin toddy, and laughing at everything and every body. The clock strikes two, and the clock strikes three. Who so marry, so marry as we?  The clock strikes four, round the debtor's door. Our gathered a couple of vows and or more. As many await at the press-yard gate, till slowly its folding doors open and straight. The mob divides and between their ranks, a wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks. The clock strikes five, the sheriffs arrive, and the crowd is so great that the street seems alive. But Sir Carnaby Jenks blinks and winks. A candle burns down in the socket and stinks. Lieutenant Tragoose is dreaming of Jews, and acceptance is all the billbrokers refuse. My Lord Tom Naughty has drunk all his toddy, and just as the dawn is beginning to peep, the whole of the party are fast asleep. Sweetly oh sweetly the morning breaks, with rosy at streaks, like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks. And as that mild and clear blue sky, smiled upon all things far and nigh, on all save the wretch condemned to die, a lack that ever so fair a sun as that which its course has now begun, should rise on such a scene of misery, should gild with rays so light and free, that dismal dark frowning gallows tree. And hark a sound comes big with fate. The clock from St. Sepulcher's tower strikes eight. List to that low funereal bell, it is tolling alas, a living man's knell, and see from forth that opening door, they come, he steps that threshold o'er, who never shall tread upon threshold more. That is a fearsome thing to see, that pale one man's mute agony. The glare of that wild, despairing eye, now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky, as low tors scanning in doubt and in fear, the path of the spirit's unknown career. Those pinioned arms, those hands that nare, shall be lifted again, not even in prayer. That heaving chest, enough, tis done, the bolt has fallen, the spirit is gone, for wheel or for woe is known but to one, oh, twas a fearsome sight, ah, me, a deed to shudder at, not to see. Again that clock, tis time, tis time, the hour is past with its earliest chime, the cord is severed, the lifeless clay, by dungeon villains is borne away, nine, twas the last concluding stroke, and then my lord Tom Naughty awoke, and Traguse and Sir Carnaby janks arose, and Captain Mafuse, with the black on his nose, and they stared at each other, as much as to say, Hello, hello, here's a rum go. Why, Captain, my lord, here's the devil to pay. The fellow's been cut down and taken away. What's to be done? We've missed all the fun. Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town. We are all of us done so uncommonly brown. What was to be done? It was perfectly plain, that they could not well hang the man over again. What was to be done? The man was dead. Not could be done. Not could be said. So my lord Tom Naughty went home to bed. What's to be done, my lord Tom Naughty awoke, and Traguse and Sir Carnaby janked the man over again. What's to be done? The fellow's been cut down and taken away, nine, twas the last concluding stroke, and then they're all gone. What's to be done? The fellow's been cut down and taken away, nine, twas the last concluding stroke, and then they're all gone. Charles, in reply to your letter and fannies, Lord Brome, it appears isn't dead, though Queen Anne is. Twas a plot and a farce.  Take another plot, then. Viz, the plot of the play. The countess of a rundle, high in degree, as a lady possessed of an earldom in fee, was imprudent enough at fifteen years of age, a period of life when we're not over sage. To form a liaison, in fact, to engage. Her hand to a hop of my thumb of a page. This put her papa. She had no mama, as may well be supposed in a deuce of a rage. Mr. Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat in his budget of proverbs, stone kisses are sweet. But they have their alloy. It assumed to annoy, Miss Arundle's peace and embitter her joy. The equivocal shape of a fine little boy. When through the young stranger her secret took wind, the old lord was neither to hod nor to bind. He bounced up and down and so fearful a frown, contracted his brow you'd have thought he'd been blind. The young lady, they say, having fainted away, was confined to her room for the whole of that day, while her bow, no rare thing in the old feudal system, disappeared the next morning, and nobody missed him. The fact is his lordship who hadn't, it seems, formed the slightest idea, not in in his dreams, that the pair had been wedded according to law, conceived that his daughter had made a faux pas, so he bribed at a high rate, a sort of a pirate, to knock out the poor dear young gentleman's brains, and gave him a handsome do-serve for his pains. The page thus disposed of his lordship now turns, his attention at once to the lady's concerns, and alarmed for the future, looks out for a suitor, one not fond of raking nor given to the pewter, but adapted to act both the husband and toot her, finds a highly respectable middle-aged widower, marries her off, and thanks heaven that he's rid of her. Relieved from his cares the old peer now prepares to arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs. Has his will made anew by a special attorney? Sickens takes to his bed and sets out on his journey. Which way he traveled has not been unraveled. To speculate much on the point were too curious. If the climate he reached were serene or so furious. To be sure in his balance sheet all must declare one item, the page was an awkward affair. But per contra he'd lately endowed a new chantry, for priests with ten marks and the run of the pantry. Be that as it may it's sufficient to say that his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day, built of Beathersden marble, a dark bluish gray, the figure a fine one of pure alabaster. Some cleanly church warden has covered with plaster, while some vandal or Jew, with a taste for queer too, has knocked off his toes to place, I suppose, in some pickwick museum with part of his nose. From his belt and his sword and his misericord the enamel's been chipped out and never restored. His CG in old French is inscribed all around, and his heads in his helm and his heels on his hound. The palms of his hands, as if going to pray, are joined and upraised or his bosom, but stay. I forgot that his tomb's not described in the play. She Arundel, now in her own right, appears, perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries, but produces in time to her husband's great joy, another remarkably fine little boy. As novel connections off change the affections and turn all one's love into different directions. Now to young Johnny Newcomb. She seems to confine hers, neglecting the poor little deer out at dry nurse. Nay far worse than that, she considers the brat, as a bore, fears her husband may smell out a rat. For her legal advisor she takes an old miser, a sort of poor cousin. She might have been wiser, for this errant deceiver, by name Morris Beaver, a shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail. By the law of the land stands the next in entail. So as soon as she asked him to hit on some plan to provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran, to that self-same unprincipled seafaring man. In his ear whispered low, fully gawson, and done, I berked the papa, now I'll bishop the son, twas agreed and with speed to accomplish the deed. He adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed. By long cock-and-bolt stories of Candish and Norris, of Drake and Bold Raleigh, then fresh in his glories, acquired amongst the Indians and Rappary Tories, he so worked on the lad, that he left which was bad. The only true friend in the world that he had, bother on slow a priest, though to quit him most loft, who in childhood had furnished his pap and his broth, at no small risk of scandal indeed to his cloth. The kidnapping crimp took the foolish young imp, on board of his cutter so trim and so jimp, then seizing him just as you'd handle a shrimp, twirled him thrice in the air with a whirly gig motion, and soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean. This was off-plemouthed sound, and he must have been drowned, or it was nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground, if a very great warman, called Billy the Norman, had not just at that moment sailed by outward bound, a shark of great size with his great glassy eyes, sheared off as he came and relinquished the prize. So he picked up the lad, swabbed and dry-rubbed and mopped him, and having no children, resolved to adopt him. So many a year did he hand wreath and steer, and by no means considered himself as small beer, when old Norman at length died and left him his frigate, with lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it. A sailor ne'er moans, so consigning the bones of his friend to the locker of one Mr. Jones. For England he steers, on the voyage it appears, that he rescued a maid from the day of Algiers, and at length reached the Sussex coast where, in a bay, not a great way from Brighton, most cosily lay his vessel at anchor the very same day, that the poet begins, thus commencing his play. Act 1 Giles Goss in a cost sold Sir Morris to beaver, and puts the poor knight in a deuce of a fever, by saying the boy whom he took out to please him, is come back a captain on purpose to tease him. Sir Morris, who gladly would see Mr. Gosson, breaking stones on the highway or sweeping across him, dissembles, observes its of no use to fret, and hints he may find some more work for him yet, then calls at the castle and tells Lady A, that the boy they had ten years ago sent away, is returned a grown man, and to come to the point, will put her son Percy's nose clean out of joint, but adds that herself she no longer need Vex. If she'll buy him Sir Morris, a farm near the X, oh take it, she cries, but secure every document. A bargain says Morris, including this document. The captain, meanwhile, with a lover-like smile, and a fine cambrick handkerchief wipes off the tears from this violet's eyelash and hushes her fears. That's the lady he saved from the day of Algiers. Now arises a delicate point, and this is it. The young lady herself is but down on a visit. She's perplexed and in fact does not know how to act, it's her very first visit, and then to begin, by asking a stranger, a gentleman in, one with mustaches too and a tuft on his chin. She really don't know, he had much better go. Here the Countess steps in from behind and says no. Fair Sir you are welcome, do pray, stop and dine. You will take our pot luck, and weave decentish wine. He bows, looks at Miss, and he does not decline. Act two. After dinner the captain recounts with much glee. All he's heard, seen and done, since he first went to sea. All his perils and scrapes, and his hair-breadth escapes. Talks of boa constrictors and lions and apes. And fierce Bengal tigers, like that which you know. If you've ever seen any respectable show, carried off the unfortunate Mr. Monroe, then diverging a while he adverts to the mystery which hangs like a cloud or his own private history. How he ran off to sea, how they set him afloat, not a word though, of barrel or bung-hole. See note, how he happened to meet with the Algerine fleet, and forced them by sheer dint of arms to retreat. Thus saving his violet. One of his feet, here just touched her toe, and she moved on her seat. How his vessel was battered, in short, he so chattered. Now lively, now serious, so ogled and flattered. That the ladies much marveled, a person should be able, to make himself both said so very agreeable. Even Norman's adventures were scarcely half done, when Percy Lord Ashtale, her ladyship's son, in a terrible fume, bounces into the room, and talks to his guest as you'd talk to your groom. Claps his hand on his rapier and swears he'll be through him. The captain does nothing at all but poo-poo him, unable to smother, his hate of his brother. He rails at his cousin and blows up his mother. High-fie, says the first, says the latter, in sooth, this is sharper by far than a keen serpent's tooth. A remark by the way which King Lear had made years ago, when he asked for his knights and his daughters said, Here's a go. This made Ashtale ashamed, but he must not be blamed, too much for his warmth, for like many young fellows he was apt to lose temper when tortured by jealousy. Still speaking quite gruff, he goes off in a huff. Lady A, who is now what some call up to snuff, straight determines to patch up a clandestine match. Between the sea-captains she dreads like old scratch, and miss whom she does not think any great catch. For Ashtale, besides he won't kick up such shindies, where she wants fairly married and off to the indies. 3 Miss Violet takes from the Countess her tone. She agrees to meet Norman by moonlight alone, and slip off to his bark, the night being dark, though the moon the sea-captain says rises in heaven one hour before midnight, i.e. at eleven, from which speech I infer, though perhaps I may err, that the weather-wise doubtless midst surges and surfy when capering on shore was by no means a murphy. He starts off again at sunset to reach an old chapel in ruins that stands on the beach, where the priest is to bring, as he's promised by lettera, paper to prove his name, birthright, etc. Being rather too late, Gosson lying in wait gives poor father Anslow a knock on the pate, but bolts seeing Norman before he has rested, from the hand of the priest, as Sir Morris requested. The marriage certificate duly attested.  The father complies, reopens his eyes, and tells him all how and about it, and dies. Act four, Norman now called Lemony, instructed of all, goes back though it's getting quite late for a call, hangs his hat and his cloak on a peg in the hall, and tells the proud Countess it's useless to smother the fact any longer. He knows she's his mother, his paws wedded spouse. She questions his naus and threatens to have him turned out of the house. He still perseveres, till in spite of her fears, she admits he's the son she had cast off for years, and he gives her the papers all blistered with tears. When Ashtale, who chances his nose into poke, takes his hat and his cloak, just as if in a joke, determined to put in his wheel a new spoke, and slips off thus disguised when he sees by the dialet, stym for the rendezvous fixed with Miss Violet, Captain Norman, who after all feels rather sore, at his mother's reserve, vows to see her no more, brings the bell for the servant to open the door, and leaves his mama in a fit on the floor. 5 Now comes the catastrophe. Ashtale, who's wrapped in the cloak with the hat and the plume of the Captain, leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel, where Gossons concealed. 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 knob, saves the hangman a job, and executes justice most strictly, but rather, twas the spot where that rascal had murdered 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. Ashtale 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, and 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 Trisa, Seavoyage as a bride in the Royal Eliza. Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs, and old Morris Beaver is bundled downstairs. Moral, the public perhaps with the drama might quarrel, if deprived of all epilogue, prologue and moral, this may serve for all three then. Ladies of property, let Lady A's history serve as a stopper to ye. Don't wed with low people beneath your degree, and if you've a baby, don't send it to sea. Young nobleman, shun everything 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 its stead that's worth nothing at all. Night's, 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 hoop 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 not withstanding your seafaring 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. Note on Billy the Norman. An incident very like one in Jack Shepherd, a work some have lauded, and others have peppered, where a Dutch pirate kidnaps then tosses Thames Darrow, just so in the sea, and he's saved by a barrel. On the coast if I recollect rightly it's flung-hole, and the hero half-drowned scrambles out of the bung-hole. It ain't no sitch thing, the hero ain't bunged in no barrel at all. He's picked up by a captain, just as Norman was art-a-words. End of note, end of section 26.