He invited us all — we've a right here – it's known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own -
Here, Asmodeus a slice of that beef;— now the mustard!
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own -
Here, Asmodeus a slice of that beef;— now the mustard!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v03 - Bag to Ber
This light frothy verse is only the vehicle of
a solid and laborious antiquarian scholarship, of an immense knowl-
edge of the world and society, books and men. He modestly dis-
claimed having any imagination, and said he must always have
facts to work upon. This was true; but the same may be said of
## p. 1508 (#306) ###########################################
1508
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
some great poets, who have lacked invention except around a skele-
ton ready furnished. What was true of Keats and Fitzgerald can-
not nullify the meritof Barham. His fancy erected a huge and
consistent superstructure on a very slender foundation.
The same
materials lay ready to the hands of thousands of others, who, how-
ever, saw only stupid monkish fables or dull country superstition.
His own explanation of his handling of the church legends tickles
a critic's sense of humor almost as much as the verses themselves.
It is true that while differing utterly in his tone of mind, and his
attitude toward the mediæval stories, from that of the mediæval
artists and sculptors,— whose gargoyles and other grotesques were
carved without a thought of travesty on anything religious,- he is at
one with them in combining extreme irreverence of form with a total
lack of irreverence of spirit toward the real spiritual mysteries of
religion. He burlesques saints and devils alike, mocks the swarm of
miracles of the mediæval Church, makes salient all the ludicrous
aspects of mediæval religious faith in its devout credulity and bar-
barous gropings; yet he never sneers at holiness or real aspiration,
and through all the riot of fun in his masques, one feels the sincere
Christian and the warm-hearted man. But he was evidently troubled
by the feeling that a clergyman ought not to ridicule any form in
which religious feeling had ever clothed itself; and he justified him-
self by professing that he wished to expose the absurdity of old
superstitions and mummeries, to help countervail the effect of the
Oxford movement. Ingoldsby as a soldier of Protestantism, turning
monkish stories into rollicking farces in order to show up what he
conceived to be the errors of his opponents, is as truly Ingoldsbian a
figure as any in his own Legends. Yet one need not accuse him
of hypocrisy or falsehood, hardly even of self-deception. He felt
that dead superstitions, and stories not reverenced even by the
Church that developed them, were legitimate material for
any use
he could make of them; he felt that in dressing them up with his
wit and fancy he was harming nothing that existed, nor making any
one look lightly on the religion of Christ or the Church of Christ:
and that they were the property of an opposing church body was a
happy thought to set his conscience at rest. He wrote them thence-
forth with greater peace of mind and added satisfaction, and no doubt
really believed that he was doing good in the way he alleged. And
if the excuse gave to the world even one more of the inimitable
"Legends,' it was worth feeling and making.
Barham's nature was not one which felt the problems and trage-
dies of the world deeply. He grieved for his friends, he helped the
distresses he saw, but his imagination rested closely in the concrete.
He was incapable of weltschmerz; even for things just beyond his
## p. 1509 (#307) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1509
personal ken he had little vision or fancy. His treatment of the
perpetual problem of sex-temptations and lapses is a good example:
he never seems to be conscious of the tragedy they envelop. To
him they are always good jokes, to wink over or smile at or be
indulgent to. No one would ever guess from Ingoldsby) the truth
he finds even in Don Juan,' that
“A heavy price must all pay who thus err,
In some shape. ”
But we cannot have everything: if Barham had been sensitive to
the tragic side of life, he could not have been the incomparable fun-
maker he was. We do not go to the (Ingoldsby Legends) to solace
our souls when hurt or remorseful, to brace ourselves for duty, or to
feel ourselves nobler by contact with the expression of nobility. But
there must be play and rest for the senses, as well as work and
aspiration; and there are worse services than relieving the strain of
serious endeavor by enabling us to become jolly pagans once again
for a little space, and care naught for the morrow.
AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE
THE LAST LINES OF BARHAM
A
s I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;
There came a noble Knighte,
With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,
Free and gaye;
As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge.
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seemed a crimson plain,
Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne,
And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;
A lovely mayde came bye,
And a gentil youth was nyghe,
And he breathed many a syghe,
And a vowe;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.
## p. 1510 (#308) ###########################################
1510
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne;
No more a youth was there,
But a Maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sad despaire,
cried that i de spioene »
As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;
There came a lovely childe,
And his face was meek and milde,
Yet joyously he smiled
On his sire;
As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.
But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier;
That joyous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan,
As the downe upon the Swan
Doth appear,
As I laye a-thynkynge,-oh! bitter flowed the tear!
As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
Oh, merrie sang that Birde, as it glittered on her breast
With a thousand gorgeous dyes;
While soaring to the skies,
'Mid the stars she seemed to rise,
As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:-
«Follow, follow me away,
It boots not to delay,”.
'Twas so she seemed to saye,
“HERE IS REST! »
## p. 1511 (#309) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1511
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT
OR
THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY
A
LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE
Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset
convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset,
excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba:
« Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest ! »
Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes,
forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferent, Dæmones incip-
iunt commessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum,
luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi
infans meus ? Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infan-
tem ad fenestram gestat, etc. - Chronicon de Bolton.
I
T's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes One,
And the roast meat's brown and the boiled meat's done,
And the barbecued sucking-pig's crisped to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried and beginning to burn;
The fat stubble-goose
Swims in gravy and juice,
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, Alesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating — they're all ready drest,
But where is the Host, and where is the Guest ?
Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks,
With fidgety looks,
Are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunned snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnished with stool and with chair,
And plate of orféverie costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place,
With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace,
Yet where is the Host ? — and his convives — where?
## p. 1512 (#310) ###########################################
1512
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
And he fidgets and looks
As cross as the cooks,
And he utters a word which we'll soften to “Zooks! »
And he cries, “What on earth has become of them all ? -
What can delay
De Vaux and De Saye ?
What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay?
What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye ?
Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away?
And De Nokes and De Styles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey ?
And De Roe ?
And De Doe ?
Poynings and Vavasour — where be they?
Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son);
Their cards said Dinner precisely at One!
There's nothing I hate, in
The world, like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals! »
It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves in a stew,
And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do,
For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
And the fish is all spoiled,
And the butter's all oiled,
And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
And still fidgets and looks
More cross than the cooks,
And repeats that bad word, which we've softened to “Zooks! »
Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily or,
Still nobody's there,
No De Roos, or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
## p. 1513 (#311) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1513
Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir,
That nice little boy who sits in his chair,
Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes and his long curly hair,
Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.
Again Sir Guy the silence broke,
“It's hard upon Three! — it's just on the stroke!
Come, serve up the dinner! - A joke is a joke! ” —
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,
Who “his fun,” as the Yankees say, everywhere “pokes,»
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Styles and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all,
Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there and sup, and wind up with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he
Cooked up, that the "fête was postponed sine die,
The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop! ”
When the clock struck Three,
And the Page on his knee
Said, “An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi! »
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near
To partake of his cheer,
He stamped, and he stormed — then his language! —Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "On a servi,"
«Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
- The Devil take them! and the Devil take thee!
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME! »
In a terrible fume
He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house — and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,
## p. 1514 (#312) ###########################################
1514
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
And in rush'd a troop
Of strange guests! - such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye — yet — it is not De Saye —
And this is no, 'tis not — Sir Reginald Braye,
This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey -
But stay! - Where on earth did he get those long nails?
Why, they're claws. :— then Good Gracious! — they've all of them tails !
That can't be De Vaux — why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say a beak! - and he can't keep it still! -
Is that Poynings ? — Oh, Gemini! look at his feet! !
Why, they're absolute hoofs! — is it gout or his corns,
That have crumpled them up so ? — by Jingo, he's horns !
Run! run! — There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et fils (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford - they've all got them on!
Then their great saucer eyes —
It's the Father of lies
And his Imps — run! run! run! - they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections,
And He — at the top there — that grim-looking elf -
Run! run! - that's the “muckle-horned Clootie” himself!
And now what a din
Without and within!
For the courtyard is full of them. — How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and to make faces, and grin!
Cock their tails up together,
Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking,
And then such a lot
As together had got!
Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses, --I ween
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,
Declared, when he'd made
By the said machine's aid,
Up, what's now called the “tottle of those he surveyed,
There were just — how he proved it I cannot divine —
Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety and nine.
Exclusive of Him
Who, giant in limb,
## p. 1515 (#313) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1515
And black as the crow they denominate Jim,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window — and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care,
And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear ?
Oh! grief and despair!
I vow and declare
It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wigged Heir!
Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear.
What words can express
The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into ?
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil's own “pal” his son! -
He sobbed and he sighed,
And he screamed, and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad or in liquor — he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his “Vicary,”
Stamped on the jasey
As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were “hazy,”
Exclaimed, «Fifty pounds! ” (a large sum in those times)
“To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs
To that window above there, en ogive, and painted,
And brings down my curly-wi' _» Here Sir Guy fainted!
With many a moan,
And many a groan,
What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de Cologne,
He revived, Reason once more remounted her throne,
Or rather the instinct of Nature - 'twere treason
To her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason --
But what saw he then — Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright! -
In that broad banquet-hall
The fiends one and all
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small
Pretty, curly-wigged boy, as if playing at ball;
## p. 1516 (#314) ###########################################
1516
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wigged Heir!
Well a day! Well a day!
All he can say
Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away;
Not a man can be tempted to join the mêlée :
E'en those words cabalistic, “I promise to pay
Fifty pounds on demand,” have for once lost their sway,
And there the Knight stands
Wringing his hands
In his agony — when on a sudden, one ray
Of hope darts through his midriff! - His Saint ! -
Oh, it's funny
And almost absurd,
That it never occurred ! -
«Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint ! - he's the man for my money!
Saint — who is it? — really I'm sadly to blame,-
On my word I'm afraid, -I confess it with shame,-
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,
Cut- let me see - Cutbeard? — no— CUTHBERT! -- egad!
St. Cuthbert of Bolton! -- I'm right — he's the lad!
O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine -
Of myself I say little — have knelt at your shrine,
And have lashed their bare backs, and — no matter — with twine,
Oh! list to the vow
Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow!
Bring him back here in safety! — perform but this task,
And I'll give — Oh! - I'll give you whatever you ask! -
There is not a shrine
In the county shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,- hasten in pity! — »
Conceive his surprise
When a strange voice replies,
«It's a bargain! -- but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI! ».
Say, whose that voice ? — whose that form by his side,
That old, old, gray man, with his beard long and wide.
## p. 1517 (#315) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1517
In his coarse Palmer's weeds,
And his cockle and beads ? —
And how did he come ? - did he walk ? - did he ride?
Oh! none could determine, -oh! none could decide, -
The fact is, I don't believe any one tried;
For while every one stared, with a dignified stride
And without a word more,
He inarched on before,
Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door,
To the banqueting-hall that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged Heir.
- I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepped in between,
With his resolute air, and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided though mild,
“Come! I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!
The Demoniac crowd
In an instant seemed cowed;
Not one of the crew volunteered a reply,
All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye,
Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk,
And the airs he assumed, to be cock of the walk.
He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,
And as saucily said, “Don't you wish you may get it? »
My goodness! — the look that the old Palmer gave!
And his frown! — 'twas quite dreadful to witness — "Why, slave!
You rascal! » quoth he,
“This language to ME!
At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee,
And hand me that curly-wigged boy! -- I command it-
Come! none of your nonsense! - you know I won't stand it. ”
Old Nicholas trembled, — he shook in his shoes,
And seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse.
« Well, Cuthbert,” said he,
“If so it must be,
For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;
Take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye!
But I'll have in exchange ” — here his eye flashed with rage -
« That chap with the buttons - he gave me the Page! ”
“Come, come,” the saint answered, you very well know
The young man's no his than your own to bestow.
## p. 1518 (#316) ###########################################
1518
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick — no! no!
Cut your stick, sir — come, mizzle! be off with you! go! ” —
The Devil grew hot —
“If I do I'll be shot!
An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what;
He has asked us to dine here, and go we will not!
Why, you Skinflint, - at least
You may leave us the feast !
Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode,
Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode,
And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road.
(Go! ' – Mizzle! indeed - Mr. Saint, who are you,
I should like to know ? -'Go! ' I'll be hanged if I do!
He invited us all — we've a right here – it's known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own -
Here, Asmodeus a slice of that beef;— now the mustard!
What have you got ? -oh, apple-pie - try it with custard. ”
The Saint made a pause
As uncertain, because
He knew Nick is pretty well “up” in the laws,
And they might be on his side — and then, he'd such claws!
On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire
With the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire,
And give up the victuals— to retrace his path,
And to compromise — (spite of the Member for Bath).
So to Old Nick's appeal,
As he turned on his heel,
He replied, “Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal,
And the soup à la Reine, and the sauce Bechamel;
As the Scroope did invite you to dinner, I feel
I can't well turn you out — 'twould be hardly genteel
But be moderate, pray,- and remember thus much,
Since you're treated as Gentlemen - show yourselves such,
And don't make it late,
But mind and go straight
Home to bed when you've finished - and don't steal the plate,
Nor wrench off the knocker, or bell from the gate.
Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace,
And don't Clark) with the watch, or annoy the police ! »
Having thus said his say,
That Palmer gray
Took up little La Scroope, and walked coolly away,
While the Demons all set up a “Hip! hip! hurrah! ”
## p. 1519 (#317) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1519
Then fell, tooth and nail, on the victuals, as they
Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day,
All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em,
No care for precedence or common decorum.
Few ate more hearty
Than Madame Astarte,
And Hecate, — considered the Belles of the party.
Between them was seated Leviathan, eager
To “do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor;
Here was Morbleu (a French devil), supping soup-meagre,
And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar
(A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap. Morgan
To follow the sea,” — and next him Demogorgon,-
Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ
To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers,
Who'd joined with Medusa to get up the Lancers”;
Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale,
While Beelzebub's tying huge knots in his tail.
There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles
Gave him the lie,
Said he'd «blacken his eye,”
And dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;
Ramping and roaring,
Hiccoughing, snoring,
Never was seen such a riot before in
A gentleman's house, or such profligate reveling
At any soirée — where they don't let the Devil in.
Hark! as sure as fate
The clock's striking Eight!
(An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,”)
When Nick, who by this time was rather elate,
Rose up and addressed them :-
« 'Tis full time,” he said,
“For all elderly Devils to be in their bed;
For my own part I mean to be jogging, because
I don't find myself now quite so young as I was;
But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post
I must call on you all for one bumper - the toast
Which I have to propose is, — OUR EXCELLENT Host!
Many thanks for his kind hospitality — may
We also be able
To see at our table
## p. 1520 (#318) ###########################################
1520
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
Himself, and enjoy, in a family way,
His good company down-stairs at no distant day!
You'd, I'm sure, think me rude
If I did not include,
In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged Heir!
He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware
That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care;
Though I must not say bless,' —
Why, you'll easily guess. -
May our curly-wigged Friend's shadow never be less ! »
Nick took off his heel-taps — bowed — smiled — with an air
Most graciously grim,- and vacated the chair.
Of course the élite
Rose at once on their feet,
And followed their leader, and beat a retreat;
When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat,
And requesting that each would replenish his cup,
Said, “Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup! »
It was three in the morning before they broke up! ! !
I scarcely need say
Sir Guy didn't delay
To fulfill his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay
For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day
The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay.
In fact, when the votaries came there to pray,
All said there was naught to compare with it — nay,
For fear that the Abbey
Might think he was shabby,
Four Brethren, thenceforward, two cleric, two lay,
He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry,
With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry;
In short, the whole county
Declared, through his bounty,
The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes
From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines
And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation
With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.
For the rest, it is said,
And I know I have read
In some Chronicle — whose, has gone out of my head -
## p. 1521 (#319) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1521
That what with these candles, and other expenses,
Which no man would go to if quite in his senses,
He reduced and brought low
His property so,
That at last he'd not much of it left to bestow;
And that many years after that terrible feast,
Sir Guy, in the Abbey, was living a priest;
And there, in one thousand and something — deceased.
(It's supposed by this trick
He bamboozled Old Nick,
And slipped through his fingers remarkably slick. ”)
While as to young Curly-wig, — dear little Soul,
Would you know more of him, you must look at «The Roll,
Which records the dispute,
And the subsequent suit,
Commenced in “Thirteen sev'nty-five,” — which took root
In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore
That none but his ancestors, ever before,
In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore,
To wit, «On a Prussian-blue Field, a Bend Or;)
While the Grosvenor averred that his ancestors bore
The same, and Scroope lied like a somebody tore
Off the simile,- so I can tell you no more,
Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.
MORAL
This Legend sound maxims exemplifies-e. g.
I MO.
Should anything tease you,
Annoy, or displease you,
Remember what Lilly says, “Animum rege! »
And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing, --
In all good society voted past bearing -
Eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs,
Nor commit yourself much beyond « Zooks! ) or Odsbobs! »
2do. When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality,
Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality!
For should you come late,
And make dinner wait,
And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate,
The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate.
And though both may perhaps be too well-bred to swear,
They'll heartily wish you — I will not say Where.
H-96
## p. 1522 (#320) ###########################################
1522
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
3tio. Look well to your Maid-servants!
-say you expect them
To see to the children, and not to neglect them!
And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory
Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery.
Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums,
And from pears in the season,- and sucking their thumbs!
4to. To sum up the whole with a “saw) of much use,
Be just and be generous,- don't be profuse ! -
Pay the debts that you owe,- keep your word to your friends,
But — DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS! ! -
For of this be assured, if you go it” too fast,
You'll be dished ”like Sir Guy,
And like him, perhaps, die
A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last!
((
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS
« Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ,
et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et
aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi
ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit. ” — ROGER
HOVEDEN.
'L
ORD ABBOT! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!
On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
“Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me! ».
“Now naye, fair daughter,” the Lord Abbot said,
“Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be.
“There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage penitauncers I ween 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,
Though sage penitauncers I trow they be;
Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone —
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.
“Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!
## p. 1523 (#321) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1523
I am a maiden royally born,
And I come of old Plantagenet's line.
« Though hither I stray in lowly array,
I am a damsel of high degree;
And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee!
“Counts a many, and Dukes a few,
A suitoring came to my father's Hall;
But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleased my father beyond them all.
“Dukes a many, and Counts a few,
I would have wedded right cheerfullie;
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, withouten fear.
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:
« Holy Church denieth all search
'Midst her sanctified ewes 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 shalt thou dine with me! ”
“Now naye, now naye,” 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 mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!
« There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
With beans and lettuces fair to see:
His lenten fare now let me share,
I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie ! »
## p. 1524 (#322) ###########################################
1524
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
_“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 fare.
« There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen:
They are a goodly companie!
The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring,
His rich dalmatic, and maniple 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;
Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.
But no pious stave he, no Pater 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 gayly 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 the old Sherris sack,
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, 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 'neath the table thrice,
And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink.
And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat 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 lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
## p. 1525 (#323) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1525
As he peeped through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real
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 'twas all about “Cole,” and “jolly old Soul,” [fane.
And “Fiddlers,” and “Punch, and things quite as pro-
Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such reveling,
With fervor 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 Byers * «few up to Heaven's Chancery,”
Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
Wept (see the works of the late Mr. Sterne).
Indeed, it is said, a less 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's 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 ween, 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 hark—'tis 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 double raps
Been heard in St. Nicholas's 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 cloisters rang,
And the gate on its hinges wide open flew;
* The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen,
when such things were.
## p. 1526 (#324) ###########################################
1526
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
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 ween, 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 Abbot they all mote 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,
«Huzza! huzza! huzza! )
And one of the party said, “Go it, my hearty! ” —
When outspake that Pilgrim gray —
"A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon!
Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;
And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
Of food, Lord Abbot, hath passed my lip.
“And I am come from a far countree,
And have visited many a holy shrine;
And long have I trod the sacred sod
Where the Saints do rest in Palestine ! » -
«An thou art come from a far countree,
And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,
Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Thou Palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen.
« Arede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Gray Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,
And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
And a cup o' the best shall thy guerdon be! ”
## p. 1527 (#325) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1527
“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 Abbot, in rochet and stole,
With Prior and Friar,-a strange mar-velle! -
O'er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl,
And hob-nobbing 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 drew it at last with his teeth.
O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water,
He made a sacred sign;
And he dashed the whole on the soi-disant 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 paws, with nasty great claws,
And her bosom went in and her tail came out.
On her chin there appeared a long Nanny-goat's beard,
And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;
And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
'Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost hell!
The Palmer threw down his ginger gown,
His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight,
Stood St. Nicholas' 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
On his elderly namesake, he made him let go.
And out of the window he flew like a shot,
For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
## p. 1528 (#326) ###########################################
1528
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
And caught the foul demon about the spot
Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.
And he bounded away like a foot-ball at play,
Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,
Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor,
And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap.
Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip,
That saved the Lord Abbot, - though breathless with
fright,
In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip.
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!
On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine,
From a certain inn-window the traveler is shown
Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
Some miles up the river south-east of Cologne.
And while “sauer-kraut” she sells you, the landlady tells
you
That there, in those walls all roofless and bare,
One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one
On filling a ci-devant Abbot's state chair.
How a ci-derant Abbot, all clothed in drab, but
Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes
(His mitre 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 Prior 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.
## p. 1529 (#327) ###########################################
SABINE BARING-GOULD
1529
And how, when at length, in the odor of sanctity,
All of them died without grief or complaint,
The monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas 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 crupper
Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!
How folks long held in reverence their reliques and mem-
ories,
How the ci-devant Abbot's obtained greater still,
When some cripples, on touching his fractured os femoris,
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,
O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto,
« Who Suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone ! »
SABINE BARING-GOULD
(1834–)
HE Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould was born in Exeter, England, in
1834 The addition of Gould to the name of Baring came
in the time of his great-grandfather, a brother of Sir
Francis Baring, who married an only daughter and heiress of W. D.
Gould of Devonshire. Much of the early life of Baring-Gould was
passed in Germany and France, and at Clare College, Cambridge,
where he graduated in 1854, taking orders ten years later, and in
1881 becoming rector of Lew Trenchard, Devonshire, where he holds
estates and privileges belonging to his family.
He has worked in many fields, and in all with so much accept-
ance that a list of his books would be the best exposition of the
range of his untiring pen. To a gift of ready words and ready
illustration, whether he concerns himself with diversities of early
Christian belief, the course of country-dances in England, or the
growth of mediæval legends, he adds the grace of telling a tale and
drawing a character. He has published nearly a hundred volumes,
not one of them unreadable. But no one man may write with equal
pen of German history, of comparative mythology and philology, of
## p. 1530 (#328) ###########################################
1530
SABINE BARING-GOULD
theological dissertations, and of the pleasures of English rural life,
while he adds to these a long list of novels.
His secret of popularity lies not in his treatment, which is neither
critical nor scientific, but rather in a clever, easy, diffuse, jovial,
amusing way of saying clearly what at the moment comes to him to
say. His books have a certain raciness and spirit that recall the
English squire of tradition. They rarely smell of the lamp. Now
and then appears a strain of sturdy scholarship, leading the reader
to wonder what his author might have accomplished had he not
enjoyed the comfortable ease of a country justice of the peace, and
a rector with large landed estates, to whom his poorer neighbors
appear a sort of dancing puppets.
Between 1857 and 1870, Baring-Gould had published nine volumes,
the best known of these being Curious Myths of the Middle Ages. '
From 1870 to 1890 his name appeared as author on the title-page
of forty-three books: sermons, lectures, essays, archæological treatises,
memoirs, curiosities of literature, histories, and fiction; sixteen novels,
tales, and romances being included. From 1890 to 1896 he published
seventeen more novels, and many of his books have passed through
several editions. His most successful novels are Mehalah; a Tale of
the Salt Marshes, (In the Roar of the Sea,' 'Red Spider,' Richard
Cable, and Noémi; a Story of Rock-Dwellers. '
In an essay upon his fiction, Mr. J. M. Barrie writes in The Con-
temporary Review (February, 1890):-
“Of our eight or ten living novelists who are popular by merit, few have
greater ability than Mr. Baring-Gould. His characters are bold and forcible
figures, his wit is as ready as his figures of speech are apt. He has a power-
ful imagination, and is quaintly fanciful. When he describes a storm, we can
see his trees breaking in the gale. So enormous and accurate is his general
information that there is no trade or profession with which he does not seem
familiar. So far as scientific knowledge is concerned, he is obviously better
equipped than any contemporary writer of fiction. Yet one rises from his
books with a feeling of repulsion, or at least with the glad conviction that
his ignoble views of life are as untrue as the characters who illustrate them.
Here is a melancholy case of a novelist, not only clever but sincere, undone
by want of sympathy.
The author's want of sympathy prevents
(Mehalah's) rising to the highest art; for though we shudder at the end,
there the effect of the story stops. It illustrates the futility of battling with
fate, but the theme is not allowable to writers with the modern notion of a
Supreme Power.
But Mehalah) is still one of the most powerful
romances of recent years. "
## p. 1531 (#329) ###########################################
SABINE BARING-GOULD
1531
ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY
From (Curious Myths of the Middle Ages)
I
N that charming mediæval romance Fortunatus and his Sons,'
which by the way is a treasury of popular mythology, is an
account of a visit paid by the favored youth to that cave of
mystery in Lough Derg, the Purgatory of St. Patrick.
Fortunatus, we are told, had heard in his travels of how two
days' journey from the town Valdric, in Ireland, was a town,
Vernic, where was the entrance to the Purgatory; so thither he
went with many servants. He found a great abbey, and behind
the altar of the church a door, which led into the dark cave
which is called the Purgatory of St. Patrick.
a solid and laborious antiquarian scholarship, of an immense knowl-
edge of the world and society, books and men. He modestly dis-
claimed having any imagination, and said he must always have
facts to work upon. This was true; but the same may be said of
## p. 1508 (#306) ###########################################
1508
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
some great poets, who have lacked invention except around a skele-
ton ready furnished. What was true of Keats and Fitzgerald can-
not nullify the meritof Barham. His fancy erected a huge and
consistent superstructure on a very slender foundation.
The same
materials lay ready to the hands of thousands of others, who, how-
ever, saw only stupid monkish fables or dull country superstition.
His own explanation of his handling of the church legends tickles
a critic's sense of humor almost as much as the verses themselves.
It is true that while differing utterly in his tone of mind, and his
attitude toward the mediæval stories, from that of the mediæval
artists and sculptors,— whose gargoyles and other grotesques were
carved without a thought of travesty on anything religious,- he is at
one with them in combining extreme irreverence of form with a total
lack of irreverence of spirit toward the real spiritual mysteries of
religion. He burlesques saints and devils alike, mocks the swarm of
miracles of the mediæval Church, makes salient all the ludicrous
aspects of mediæval religious faith in its devout credulity and bar-
barous gropings; yet he never sneers at holiness or real aspiration,
and through all the riot of fun in his masques, one feels the sincere
Christian and the warm-hearted man. But he was evidently troubled
by the feeling that a clergyman ought not to ridicule any form in
which religious feeling had ever clothed itself; and he justified him-
self by professing that he wished to expose the absurdity of old
superstitions and mummeries, to help countervail the effect of the
Oxford movement. Ingoldsby as a soldier of Protestantism, turning
monkish stories into rollicking farces in order to show up what he
conceived to be the errors of his opponents, is as truly Ingoldsbian a
figure as any in his own Legends. Yet one need not accuse him
of hypocrisy or falsehood, hardly even of self-deception. He felt
that dead superstitions, and stories not reverenced even by the
Church that developed them, were legitimate material for
any use
he could make of them; he felt that in dressing them up with his
wit and fancy he was harming nothing that existed, nor making any
one look lightly on the religion of Christ or the Church of Christ:
and that they were the property of an opposing church body was a
happy thought to set his conscience at rest. He wrote them thence-
forth with greater peace of mind and added satisfaction, and no doubt
really believed that he was doing good in the way he alleged. And
if the excuse gave to the world even one more of the inimitable
"Legends,' it was worth feeling and making.
Barham's nature was not one which felt the problems and trage-
dies of the world deeply. He grieved for his friends, he helped the
distresses he saw, but his imagination rested closely in the concrete.
He was incapable of weltschmerz; even for things just beyond his
## p. 1509 (#307) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1509
personal ken he had little vision or fancy. His treatment of the
perpetual problem of sex-temptations and lapses is a good example:
he never seems to be conscious of the tragedy they envelop. To
him they are always good jokes, to wink over or smile at or be
indulgent to. No one would ever guess from Ingoldsby) the truth
he finds even in Don Juan,' that
“A heavy price must all pay who thus err,
In some shape. ”
But we cannot have everything: if Barham had been sensitive to
the tragic side of life, he could not have been the incomparable fun-
maker he was. We do not go to the (Ingoldsby Legends) to solace
our souls when hurt or remorseful, to brace ourselves for duty, or to
feel ourselves nobler by contact with the expression of nobility. But
there must be play and rest for the senses, as well as work and
aspiration; and there are worse services than relieving the strain of
serious endeavor by enabling us to become jolly pagans once again
for a little space, and care naught for the morrow.
AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE
THE LAST LINES OF BARHAM
A
s I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye;
There came a noble Knighte,
With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,
Free and gaye;
As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge.
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seemed a crimson plain,
Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne,
And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;
A lovely mayde came bye,
And a gentil youth was nyghe,
And he breathed many a syghe,
And a vowe;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.
## p. 1510 (#308) ###########################################
1510
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne;
No more a youth was there,
But a Maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sad despaire,
cried that i de spioene »
As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;
There came a lovely childe,
And his face was meek and milde,
Yet joyously he smiled
On his sire;
As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.
But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier;
That joyous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan,
As the downe upon the Swan
Doth appear,
As I laye a-thynkynge,-oh! bitter flowed the tear!
As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
Oh, merrie sang that Birde, as it glittered on her breast
With a thousand gorgeous dyes;
While soaring to the skies,
'Mid the stars she seemed to rise,
As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:-
«Follow, follow me away,
It boots not to delay,”.
'Twas so she seemed to saye,
“HERE IS REST! »
## p. 1511 (#309) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1511
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT
OR
THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY
A
LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE
Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset
convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset,
excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba:
« Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest ! »
Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes,
forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferent, Dæmones incip-
iunt commessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum,
luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi
infans meus ? Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infan-
tem ad fenestram gestat, etc. - Chronicon de Bolton.
I
T's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes One,
And the roast meat's brown and the boiled meat's done,
And the barbecued sucking-pig's crisped to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried and beginning to burn;
The fat stubble-goose
Swims in gravy and juice,
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, Alesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating — they're all ready drest,
But where is the Host, and where is the Guest ?
Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks,
With fidgety looks,
Are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunned snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnished with stool and with chair,
And plate of orféverie costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place,
With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace,
Yet where is the Host ? — and his convives — where?
## p. 1512 (#310) ###########################################
1512
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
And he fidgets and looks
As cross as the cooks,
And he utters a word which we'll soften to “Zooks! »
And he cries, “What on earth has become of them all ? -
What can delay
De Vaux and De Saye ?
What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay?
What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye ?
Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away?
And De Nokes and De Styles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey ?
And De Roe ?
And De Doe ?
Poynings and Vavasour — where be they?
Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son);
Their cards said Dinner precisely at One!
There's nothing I hate, in
The world, like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals! »
It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves in a stew,
And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do,
For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
And the fish is all spoiled,
And the butter's all oiled,
And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
And still fidgets and looks
More cross than the cooks,
And repeats that bad word, which we've softened to “Zooks! »
Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily or,
Still nobody's there,
No De Roos, or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
## p. 1513 (#311) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1513
Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir,
That nice little boy who sits in his chair,
Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes and his long curly hair,
Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.
Again Sir Guy the silence broke,
“It's hard upon Three! — it's just on the stroke!
Come, serve up the dinner! - A joke is a joke! ” —
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,
Who “his fun,” as the Yankees say, everywhere “pokes,»
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Styles and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all,
Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there and sup, and wind up with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he
Cooked up, that the "fête was postponed sine die,
The dear little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croop! ”
When the clock struck Three,
And the Page on his knee
Said, “An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi! »
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near
To partake of his cheer,
He stamped, and he stormed — then his language! —Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "On a servi,"
«Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
- The Devil take them! and the Devil take thee!
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME! »
In a terrible fume
He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house — and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,
## p. 1514 (#312) ###########################################
1514
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
And in rush'd a troop
Of strange guests! - such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye — yet — it is not De Saye —
And this is no, 'tis not — Sir Reginald Braye,
This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey -
But stay! - Where on earth did he get those long nails?
Why, they're claws. :— then Good Gracious! — they've all of them tails !
That can't be De Vaux — why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say a beak! - and he can't keep it still! -
Is that Poynings ? — Oh, Gemini! look at his feet! !
Why, they're absolute hoofs! — is it gout or his corns,
That have crumpled them up so ? — by Jingo, he's horns !
Run! run! — There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et fils (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford - they've all got them on!
Then their great saucer eyes —
It's the Father of lies
And his Imps — run! run! run! - they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections,
And He — at the top there — that grim-looking elf -
Run! run! - that's the “muckle-horned Clootie” himself!
And now what a din
Without and within!
For the courtyard is full of them. — How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and to make faces, and grin!
Cock their tails up together,
Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking,
And then such a lot
As together had got!
Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses, --I ween
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,
Declared, when he'd made
By the said machine's aid,
Up, what's now called the “tottle of those he surveyed,
There were just — how he proved it I cannot divine —
Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety and nine.
Exclusive of Him
Who, giant in limb,
## p. 1515 (#313) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1515
And black as the crow they denominate Jim,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window — and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care,
And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear ?
Oh! grief and despair!
I vow and declare
It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wigged Heir!
Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear.
What words can express
The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into ?
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil's own “pal” his son! -
He sobbed and he sighed,
And he screamed, and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad or in liquor — he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his “Vicary,”
Stamped on the jasey
As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were “hazy,”
Exclaimed, «Fifty pounds! ” (a large sum in those times)
“To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs
To that window above there, en ogive, and painted,
And brings down my curly-wi' _» Here Sir Guy fainted!
With many a moan,
And many a groan,
What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de Cologne,
He revived, Reason once more remounted her throne,
Or rather the instinct of Nature - 'twere treason
To her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason --
But what saw he then — Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright! -
In that broad banquet-hall
The fiends one and all
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small
Pretty, curly-wigged boy, as if playing at ball;
## p. 1516 (#314) ###########################################
1516
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wigged Heir!
Well a day! Well a day!
All he can say
Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away;
Not a man can be tempted to join the mêlée :
E'en those words cabalistic, “I promise to pay
Fifty pounds on demand,” have for once lost their sway,
And there the Knight stands
Wringing his hands
In his agony — when on a sudden, one ray
Of hope darts through his midriff! - His Saint ! -
Oh, it's funny
And almost absurd,
That it never occurred ! -
«Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint ! - he's the man for my money!
Saint — who is it? — really I'm sadly to blame,-
On my word I'm afraid, -I confess it with shame,-
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,
Cut- let me see - Cutbeard? — no— CUTHBERT! -- egad!
St. Cuthbert of Bolton! -- I'm right — he's the lad!
O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine -
Of myself I say little — have knelt at your shrine,
And have lashed their bare backs, and — no matter — with twine,
Oh! list to the vow
Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow!
Bring him back here in safety! — perform but this task,
And I'll give — Oh! - I'll give you whatever you ask! -
There is not a shrine
In the county shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,- hasten in pity! — »
Conceive his surprise
When a strange voice replies,
«It's a bargain! -- but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI! ».
Say, whose that voice ? — whose that form by his side,
That old, old, gray man, with his beard long and wide.
## p. 1517 (#315) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1517
In his coarse Palmer's weeds,
And his cockle and beads ? —
And how did he come ? - did he walk ? - did he ride?
Oh! none could determine, -oh! none could decide, -
The fact is, I don't believe any one tried;
For while every one stared, with a dignified stride
And without a word more,
He inarched on before,
Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door,
To the banqueting-hall that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged Heir.
- I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepped in between,
With his resolute air, and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided though mild,
“Come! I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!
The Demoniac crowd
In an instant seemed cowed;
Not one of the crew volunteered a reply,
All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye,
Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk,
And the airs he assumed, to be cock of the walk.
He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,
And as saucily said, “Don't you wish you may get it? »
My goodness! — the look that the old Palmer gave!
And his frown! — 'twas quite dreadful to witness — "Why, slave!
You rascal! » quoth he,
“This language to ME!
At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee,
And hand me that curly-wigged boy! -- I command it-
Come! none of your nonsense! - you know I won't stand it. ”
Old Nicholas trembled, — he shook in his shoes,
And seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse.
« Well, Cuthbert,” said he,
“If so it must be,
For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;
Take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye!
But I'll have in exchange ” — here his eye flashed with rage -
« That chap with the buttons - he gave me the Page! ”
“Come, come,” the saint answered, you very well know
The young man's no his than your own to bestow.
## p. 1518 (#316) ###########################################
1518
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick — no! no!
Cut your stick, sir — come, mizzle! be off with you! go! ” —
The Devil grew hot —
“If I do I'll be shot!
An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what;
He has asked us to dine here, and go we will not!
Why, you Skinflint, - at least
You may leave us the feast !
Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode,
Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode,
And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road.
(Go! ' – Mizzle! indeed - Mr. Saint, who are you,
I should like to know ? -'Go! ' I'll be hanged if I do!
He invited us all — we've a right here – it's known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own -
Here, Asmodeus a slice of that beef;— now the mustard!
What have you got ? -oh, apple-pie - try it with custard. ”
The Saint made a pause
As uncertain, because
He knew Nick is pretty well “up” in the laws,
And they might be on his side — and then, he'd such claws!
On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire
With the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire,
And give up the victuals— to retrace his path,
And to compromise — (spite of the Member for Bath).
So to Old Nick's appeal,
As he turned on his heel,
He replied, “Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal,
And the soup à la Reine, and the sauce Bechamel;
As the Scroope did invite you to dinner, I feel
I can't well turn you out — 'twould be hardly genteel
But be moderate, pray,- and remember thus much,
Since you're treated as Gentlemen - show yourselves such,
And don't make it late,
But mind and go straight
Home to bed when you've finished - and don't steal the plate,
Nor wrench off the knocker, or bell from the gate.
Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace,
And don't Clark) with the watch, or annoy the police ! »
Having thus said his say,
That Palmer gray
Took up little La Scroope, and walked coolly away,
While the Demons all set up a “Hip! hip! hurrah! ”
## p. 1519 (#317) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1519
Then fell, tooth and nail, on the victuals, as they
Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day,
All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em,
No care for precedence or common decorum.
Few ate more hearty
Than Madame Astarte,
And Hecate, — considered the Belles of the party.
Between them was seated Leviathan, eager
To “do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor;
Here was Morbleu (a French devil), supping soup-meagre,
And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar
(A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap. Morgan
To follow the sea,” — and next him Demogorgon,-
Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ
To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers,
Who'd joined with Medusa to get up the Lancers”;
Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale,
While Beelzebub's tying huge knots in his tail.
There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles
Gave him the lie,
Said he'd «blacken his eye,”
And dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;
Ramping and roaring,
Hiccoughing, snoring,
Never was seen such a riot before in
A gentleman's house, or such profligate reveling
At any soirée — where they don't let the Devil in.
Hark! as sure as fate
The clock's striking Eight!
(An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,”)
When Nick, who by this time was rather elate,
Rose up and addressed them :-
« 'Tis full time,” he said,
“For all elderly Devils to be in their bed;
For my own part I mean to be jogging, because
I don't find myself now quite so young as I was;
But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post
I must call on you all for one bumper - the toast
Which I have to propose is, — OUR EXCELLENT Host!
Many thanks for his kind hospitality — may
We also be able
To see at our table
## p. 1520 (#318) ###########################################
1520
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
Himself, and enjoy, in a family way,
His good company down-stairs at no distant day!
You'd, I'm sure, think me rude
If I did not include,
In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged Heir!
He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware
That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care;
Though I must not say bless,' —
Why, you'll easily guess. -
May our curly-wigged Friend's shadow never be less ! »
Nick took off his heel-taps — bowed — smiled — with an air
Most graciously grim,- and vacated the chair.
Of course the élite
Rose at once on their feet,
And followed their leader, and beat a retreat;
When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat,
And requesting that each would replenish his cup,
Said, “Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup! »
It was three in the morning before they broke up! ! !
I scarcely need say
Sir Guy didn't delay
To fulfill his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay
For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day
The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay.
In fact, when the votaries came there to pray,
All said there was naught to compare with it — nay,
For fear that the Abbey
Might think he was shabby,
Four Brethren, thenceforward, two cleric, two lay,
He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry,
With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry;
In short, the whole county
Declared, through his bounty,
The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes
From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines
And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation
With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.
For the rest, it is said,
And I know I have read
In some Chronicle — whose, has gone out of my head -
## p. 1521 (#319) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1521
That what with these candles, and other expenses,
Which no man would go to if quite in his senses,
He reduced and brought low
His property so,
That at last he'd not much of it left to bestow;
And that many years after that terrible feast,
Sir Guy, in the Abbey, was living a priest;
And there, in one thousand and something — deceased.
(It's supposed by this trick
He bamboozled Old Nick,
And slipped through his fingers remarkably slick. ”)
While as to young Curly-wig, — dear little Soul,
Would you know more of him, you must look at «The Roll,
Which records the dispute,
And the subsequent suit,
Commenced in “Thirteen sev'nty-five,” — which took root
In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore
That none but his ancestors, ever before,
In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore,
To wit, «On a Prussian-blue Field, a Bend Or;)
While the Grosvenor averred that his ancestors bore
The same, and Scroope lied like a somebody tore
Off the simile,- so I can tell you no more,
Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.
MORAL
This Legend sound maxims exemplifies-e. g.
I MO.
Should anything tease you,
Annoy, or displease you,
Remember what Lilly says, “Animum rege! »
And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing, --
In all good society voted past bearing -
Eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs,
Nor commit yourself much beyond « Zooks! ) or Odsbobs! »
2do. When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality,
Mind, and observe the most strict punctuality!
For should you come late,
And make dinner wait,
And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate,
The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate.
And though both may perhaps be too well-bred to swear,
They'll heartily wish you — I will not say Where.
H-96
## p. 1522 (#320) ###########################################
1522
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
3tio. Look well to your Maid-servants!
-say you expect them
To see to the children, and not to neglect them!
And if you're a widower, just throw a cursory
Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery.
Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums,
And from pears in the season,- and sucking their thumbs!
4to. To sum up the whole with a “saw) of much use,
Be just and be generous,- don't be profuse ! -
Pay the debts that you owe,- keep your word to your friends,
But — DON'T SET YOUR CANDLES ALIGHT AT BOTH ENDS! ! -
For of this be assured, if you go it” too fast,
You'll be dished ”like Sir Guy,
And like him, perhaps, die
A poor, old, half-starved Country Parson at last!
((
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS
« Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ,
et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et
aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi
ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit. ” — ROGER
HOVEDEN.
'L
ORD ABBOT! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!
On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
“Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me! ».
“Now naye, fair daughter,” the Lord Abbot said,
“Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be.
“There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage penitauncers I ween 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,
Though sage penitauncers I trow they be;
Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone —
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.
“Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!
## p. 1523 (#321) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1523
I am a maiden royally born,
And I come of old Plantagenet's line.
« Though hither I stray in lowly array,
I am a damsel of high degree;
And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee!
“Counts a many, and Dukes a few,
A suitoring came to my father's Hall;
But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleased my father beyond them all.
“Dukes a many, and Counts a few,
I would have wedded right cheerfullie;
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, withouten fear.
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:
« Holy Church denieth all search
'Midst her sanctified ewes 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 shalt thou dine with me! ”
“Now naye, now naye,” 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 mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!
« There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
With beans and lettuces fair to see:
His lenten fare now let me share,
I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie ! »
## p. 1524 (#322) ###########################################
1524
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
_“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 fare.
« There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen:
They are a goodly companie!
The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring,
His rich dalmatic, and maniple 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;
Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.
But no pious stave he, no Pater 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 gayly 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 the old Sherris sack,
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, 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 'neath the table thrice,
And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink.
And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat 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 lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
## p. 1525 (#323) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1525
As he peeped through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real
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 'twas all about “Cole,” and “jolly old Soul,” [fane.
And “Fiddlers,” and “Punch, and things quite as pro-
Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such reveling,
With fervor 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 Byers * «few up to Heaven's Chancery,”
Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
Wept (see the works of the late Mr. Sterne).
Indeed, it is said, a less 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's 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 ween, 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 hark—'tis 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 double raps
Been heard in St. Nicholas's 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 cloisters rang,
And the gate on its hinges wide open flew;
* The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen,
when such things were.
## p. 1526 (#324) ###########################################
1526
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
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 ween, 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 Abbot they all mote 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,
«Huzza! huzza! huzza! )
And one of the party said, “Go it, my hearty! ” —
When outspake that Pilgrim gray —
"A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon!
Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;
And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
Of food, Lord Abbot, hath passed my lip.
“And I am come from a far countree,
And have visited many a holy shrine;
And long have I trod the sacred sod
Where the Saints do rest in Palestine ! » -
«An thou art come from a far countree,
And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,
Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Thou Palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen.
« Arede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Gray Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,
And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
And a cup o' the best shall thy guerdon be! ”
## p. 1527 (#325) ###########################################
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
1527
“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 Abbot, in rochet and stole,
With Prior and Friar,-a strange mar-velle! -
O'er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl,
And hob-nobbing 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 drew it at last with his teeth.
O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water,
He made a sacred sign;
And he dashed the whole on the soi-disant 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 paws, with nasty great claws,
And her bosom went in and her tail came out.
On her chin there appeared a long Nanny-goat's beard,
And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;
And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
'Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost hell!
The Palmer threw down his ginger gown,
His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight,
Stood St. Nicholas' 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
On his elderly namesake, he made him let go.
And out of the window he flew like a shot,
For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
## p. 1528 (#326) ###########################################
1528
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
And caught the foul demon about the spot
Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.
And he bounded away like a foot-ball at play,
Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,
Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor,
And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap.
Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip,
That saved the Lord Abbot, - though breathless with
fright,
In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip.
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!
On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine,
From a certain inn-window the traveler is shown
Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
Some miles up the river south-east of Cologne.
And while “sauer-kraut” she sells you, the landlady tells
you
That there, in those walls all roofless and bare,
One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one
On filling a ci-devant Abbot's state chair.
How a ci-derant Abbot, all clothed in drab, but
Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes
(His mitre 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 Prior 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.
## p. 1529 (#327) ###########################################
SABINE BARING-GOULD
1529
And how, when at length, in the odor of sanctity,
All of them died without grief or complaint,
The monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas 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 crupper
Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!
How folks long held in reverence their reliques and mem-
ories,
How the ci-devant Abbot's obtained greater still,
When some cripples, on touching his fractured os femoris,
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,
O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto,
« Who Suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone ! »
SABINE BARING-GOULD
(1834–)
HE Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould was born in Exeter, England, in
1834 The addition of Gould to the name of Baring came
in the time of his great-grandfather, a brother of Sir
Francis Baring, who married an only daughter and heiress of W. D.
Gould of Devonshire. Much of the early life of Baring-Gould was
passed in Germany and France, and at Clare College, Cambridge,
where he graduated in 1854, taking orders ten years later, and in
1881 becoming rector of Lew Trenchard, Devonshire, where he holds
estates and privileges belonging to his family.
He has worked in many fields, and in all with so much accept-
ance that a list of his books would be the best exposition of the
range of his untiring pen. To a gift of ready words and ready
illustration, whether he concerns himself with diversities of early
Christian belief, the course of country-dances in England, or the
growth of mediæval legends, he adds the grace of telling a tale and
drawing a character. He has published nearly a hundred volumes,
not one of them unreadable. But no one man may write with equal
pen of German history, of comparative mythology and philology, of
## p. 1530 (#328) ###########################################
1530
SABINE BARING-GOULD
theological dissertations, and of the pleasures of English rural life,
while he adds to these a long list of novels.
His secret of popularity lies not in his treatment, which is neither
critical nor scientific, but rather in a clever, easy, diffuse, jovial,
amusing way of saying clearly what at the moment comes to him to
say. His books have a certain raciness and spirit that recall the
English squire of tradition. They rarely smell of the lamp. Now
and then appears a strain of sturdy scholarship, leading the reader
to wonder what his author might have accomplished had he not
enjoyed the comfortable ease of a country justice of the peace, and
a rector with large landed estates, to whom his poorer neighbors
appear a sort of dancing puppets.
Between 1857 and 1870, Baring-Gould had published nine volumes,
the best known of these being Curious Myths of the Middle Ages. '
From 1870 to 1890 his name appeared as author on the title-page
of forty-three books: sermons, lectures, essays, archæological treatises,
memoirs, curiosities of literature, histories, and fiction; sixteen novels,
tales, and romances being included. From 1890 to 1896 he published
seventeen more novels, and many of his books have passed through
several editions. His most successful novels are Mehalah; a Tale of
the Salt Marshes, (In the Roar of the Sea,' 'Red Spider,' Richard
Cable, and Noémi; a Story of Rock-Dwellers. '
In an essay upon his fiction, Mr. J. M. Barrie writes in The Con-
temporary Review (February, 1890):-
“Of our eight or ten living novelists who are popular by merit, few have
greater ability than Mr. Baring-Gould. His characters are bold and forcible
figures, his wit is as ready as his figures of speech are apt. He has a power-
ful imagination, and is quaintly fanciful. When he describes a storm, we can
see his trees breaking in the gale. So enormous and accurate is his general
information that there is no trade or profession with which he does not seem
familiar. So far as scientific knowledge is concerned, he is obviously better
equipped than any contemporary writer of fiction. Yet one rises from his
books with a feeling of repulsion, or at least with the glad conviction that
his ignoble views of life are as untrue as the characters who illustrate them.
Here is a melancholy case of a novelist, not only clever but sincere, undone
by want of sympathy.
The author's want of sympathy prevents
(Mehalah's) rising to the highest art; for though we shudder at the end,
there the effect of the story stops. It illustrates the futility of battling with
fate, but the theme is not allowable to writers with the modern notion of a
Supreme Power.
But Mehalah) is still one of the most powerful
romances of recent years. "
## p. 1531 (#329) ###########################################
SABINE BARING-GOULD
1531
ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY
From (Curious Myths of the Middle Ages)
I
N that charming mediæval romance Fortunatus and his Sons,'
which by the way is a treasury of popular mythology, is an
account of a visit paid by the favored youth to that cave of
mystery in Lough Derg, the Purgatory of St. Patrick.
Fortunatus, we are told, had heard in his travels of how two
days' journey from the town Valdric, in Ireland, was a town,
Vernic, where was the entrance to the Purgatory; so thither he
went with many servants. He found a great abbey, and behind
the altar of the church a door, which led into the dark cave
which is called the Purgatory of St. Patrick.
