From time to time she published a poem or an essay; not many, for in spite of her brother's continual admonition to write, hers was a somewhat indolent talent. In 1790 she wrote a capable essay upon the repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts; a year later, a poetical epistle to Mr. Wilberforce on the Slave Trade; in 1792, a defense of Public Worship; and in 1793, a discourse as to a Fast Day upon the Sins of Government.

In 1808 her husband's violent death, the result of a long insanity, prostrated her for a time. Then as a diversion from morbid thought she undertook an edition of the best English novels in fifty volumes, for which she wrote an admirable introductory essay. She also made a compilation from the Spectator, Tatler, Guardian, and Free-holder, with a preliminary discourse, which she published in 1811. It was called 'The Female Speaker,' and intended for young women. The same year her 'Eighteen Hundred and Eleven,' a patriotic didactic poem, wounded national self-love and drew upon her much unfriendly criticism, which so pained her that she would publish no more. But the stirring lines were widely read, and in them Macaulay found the original of his famous traveler from New Zealand, who meditates on the ruined arches of London Bridge. Her prose style, in its light philosophy, its humorously sympathetic dealing with every-day affairs, has been often compared with Addison's.

Her old age was serene and happy, rich in intellectual companionships and in the love and respect of many friends. Somewhere she speaks of "that state of middling life to which I have been accustomed and which I love." She disliked extremes, in emotion as in all things, and took what came with cheerful courage. The poem 'Life,' which the self-satisfied Wordsworth wished that he had written, expresses her serene and philosophic spirit.

AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS

As most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from disappointed desires than from positive evil, it is of the utmost consequence to attain just notions of the laws and order of the universe, that we may not vex ourselves with fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless and unreasonable discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, are tolerably understood and attended to; and though we may suffer inconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in consequence of them. No man expects to preserve orange-trees in the open air through an English winter; or when he has planted an acorn, to see it become a large oak in a few months. The mind of man naturally yields to necessity; and our wishes soon subside when we see the impossibility of their being gratified.

Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall find in the moral government of the world, and the order of the intellectual system, laws as determinate, fixed, and invariable as any in Newton's 'Principia.' The progress of vegetation is not more certain than the growth of habit; nor is the power of attraction more clearly proved than the force of affection or the influence of example. The man, therefore, who has well studied the operations of nature in mind as well as matter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity in his claims upon Providence. He never will be disappointed either in himself or others. He will act with precision; and expect that effect and that alone, from his efforts, which they are naturally adapted to produce.

For want of this, men of merit and integrity often censure the dispositions of Providence for suffering characters they despise to run away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased by such means as a high and noble spirit could never submit to. If you refuse to pay the price, why expect the purchase? We should consider this world as a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view various commodities,—riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Everything is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is so much ready money which we are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to your own judgment: and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure success.

Would you, for instance, be rich: Do you think that single point worth the sacrificing everything else to? You may then be rich. Thousands have become so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest article of expense and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from the schools must be considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You must learn to do hard if not unjust things; and for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain, household truths. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in one beaten track, without turning aside either to the right hand or to the left. "But I cannot submit to drudgery like this: I feel a spirit above it." 'Tis well: be above it then; only do not repine that you are not rich.

Is knowledge the pearl of price? That too may be purchased—by steady application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be wise. "But" (says the man of letters) "what a hardship is it that many an illiterate fellow who cannot construe the motto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life." Et tibi magni satis!—Was it in order to raise a fortune that you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken your path, and ill employed your industry. "What reward have I then for all my labors?" What reward! A large, comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears and perturbations and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret the works of man—of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas; and the conscious dignity of superior intelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you ask besides?

"But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Providence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty, for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your head and blush in his presence because he outshines you in equipage and show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, I have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought, because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something better. I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied.

You are a modest man—you love quiet and independence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be content then with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate, ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to those who can better scramble for them.

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict regard to the rules of morality makes him scrupulous and fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disadvantages he lies under in every path of honor and profit. "Could I but get over some nice points, and conform to the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why can you not? What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity of yours which stands so grievously in your way? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the keenest inspection; inward freedom from remorse and perturbation; unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners; a genuine integrity,

"Pure in the last recesses of the mind;"

if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a slave-merchant, a parasite, or—what you please.

"If these be motives weak, break off betimes;"

and as you have not spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wise enough not to forego the emoluments of vice.

I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in that they never attempted, as our moralists often do, to lower the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent with all the indulgences of indolence and sensuality. They never thought of having the bulk of mankind for their disciples; but kept themselves as distinct as possible from a worldly life. They plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and what advantages they were which might be expected.

"Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis Hoc age deliciis ..."

If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You must do thus and thus; there is no other way. If not, go and be one of the vulgar.

There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a character as consistency of conduct. Even if a man's pursuits be wrong and unjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with steadiness and vigor, we cannot withhold our admiration. The most characteristic mark of a great mind is to choose some one important object, and pursue it through life. It was this made Caesar a great man. His object was ambition: he pursued it steadily; and was always ready to sacrifice to it every interfering passion or inclination.

There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dialogues, where Jupiter complains to Cupid that though he has had so many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved. In order to be loved, says Cupid, you must lay aside your aegis and your thunderbolts, and you must curl and perfume your hair, and place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume a winning, obsequious deportment. But, replied Jupiter, I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity. Then, returns Cupid, leave off desiring to be loved. He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time.

It must be confessed that men of genius are of all others most inclined to make these unreasonable claims. As their relish for enjoyment is strong, their views large and comprehensive, and they feel themselves lifted above the common bulk of mankind, they are apt to slight that natural reward of praise and admiration which is ever largely paid to distinguished abilities; and to expect to be called forth to public notice and favor: without considering that their talents are commonly very unfit for active life; that their eccentricity and turn for speculation disqualifies them for the business of the world, which is best carried on by men of moderate genius; and that society is not obliged to reward any one who is not useful to it. The poets have been a very unreasonable race, and have often complained loudly of the neglect of genius and the ingratitude of the age. The tender and pensive Cowley, and the elegant Shenstone, had their minds tinctured by this discontent; and even the sublime melancholy of Young was too much owing to the stings of disappointed ambition.

The moderation we have been endeavoring to inculcate will likewise prevent much mortification and disgust in our commerce with mankind. As we ought not to wish in ourselves, so neither should we expect in our friends, contrary qualifications. Young and sanguine, when we enter the world, and feel our affections drawn forth by any particular excellence in a character, we immediately give it credit for all others; and are beyond measure disgusted when we come to discover, as we soon must discover, the defects in the other side of the balance. But nature is much more frugal than to heap together all manner of shining qualities in one glaring mass. Like a judicious painter, she endeavors to preserve a certain unity of style and coloring in her pieces. Models of absolute perfection are only to be met with in romance; where exquisite beauty, and brilliant wit, and profound judgment, and immaculate virtue, are all blended together to adorn some favorite character. As an anatomist knows that the racer cannot have the strength and muscles of the draught-horse; and that winged men, griffins, and mermaids must be mere creatures of the imagination: so the philosopher is sensible that there are combinations of moral qualities which never can take place but in idea. There is a different air and complexion in characters as well as in faces, though perhaps each equally beautiful; and the excellences of one cannot be transferred to the other. Thus if one man possesses a stoical apathy of soul, acts independent of the opinion of the world, and fulfills every duty with mathematical exactness, you must not expect that man to be greatly influenced by the weakness of pity, or the partialities of friendship; you must not be offended that he does not fly to meet you after a short absence, or require from him the convivial spirit and honest effusions of a warm, open, susceptible heart. If another is remarkable for a lively, active zeal, inflexible integrity, a strong indignation against vice, and freedom in reproving it, he will probably have some little bluntness in his address not altogether suitable to polished life; he will want the winning arts of conversation; he will disgust by a kind of haughtiness and negligence in his manner, and often hurt the delicacy of his acquaintance with harsh and disagreeable truths.

We usually say—That man is a genius, but he has some whims and oddities—Such a one has a very general knowledge, but he is superficial, etc. Now in all such cases we should speak more rationally, did we substitute "therefore" for "but": "He is a genius, therefore he is whimsical" and the like.

It is the fault of the present age, owing to the freer commerce that different ranks and professions now enjoy with each other, that characters are not marked with sufficient strength; the several classes run too much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is true, but we have fewer striking originals. Every one is expected to have such a tincture of general knowledge as is incompatible with going deep into any science; and such a conformity to fashionable manners as checks the free workings of the ruling passion, and gives an insipid sameness to the face of society, under the idea of polish and regularity.

There is a cast of manners peculiar and becoming to each age, sex, and profession; one, therefore, should not throw out illiberal and commonplace censures against another. Each is perfect in its kind: a woman as a woman; a tradesman as a tradesman. We are often hurt by the brutality and sluggish conceptions of the vulgar; not considering that some there must be to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and that cultivated genius, or even any great refinement and delicacy in their moral feelings, would be a real misfortune to them.

Let us then study the philosophy of the human mind. The man who is master of this science will know what to expect from every one. From this man, wise advice; from that, cordial sympathy; from another, casual entertainment. The passions and inclinations of others are his tools, which he can use with as much precision as he would the mechanical powers; and he can as readily make allowance for the workings of vanity, or the bias of self-interest in his friends, as for the power of friction, or the irregularities of the needle.

A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD

BETWEEN HELEN AND MADAME MAINTENON

Helen—Whence comes it, my dear Madame Maintenon, that beauty, which in the age I lived in produced such extraordinary effects, has now lost almost all its power?

Maintenon—I should wish first to be convinced of the fact, before I offer to give you a reason for it.

Helen—That will be very easy; for there is no occasion to go any further than our own histories and experience to prove what I advance. You were beautiful, accomplished, and fortunate; endowed with every talent and every grace to bend the heart of man and mold it to your wish; and your schemes were successful; for you raised yourself from obscurity and dependence to be the wife of a great monarch.—But what is this to the influence my beauty had over sovereigns and nations! I occasioned a long ten-years' war between the most celebrated heroes of antiquity; contending kingdoms disputed the honor of placing me on their respective thrones; my story is recorded by the father of verse; and my charms make a figure even in the annals of mankind. You were, it is true, the wife of Louis XIV., and respected in his court, but you occasioned no wars; you are not spoken of in the history of France, though you furnished materials for the memoirs of a court. Are the love and admiration that were paid you merely as an amiable woman to be compared with the enthusiasm I inspired, and the boundless empire I obtained over all that was celebrated, great, or powerful in the age I lived in?

Maintenon—All this, my dear Helen, has a splendid appearance, and sounds well in a heroic poem; but you greatly deceive yourself if you impute it all to your personal merit. Do you imagine that half the chiefs concerned in the war of Troy were at all influenced by your beauty, or troubled their heads what became of you, provided they came off with honor? Believe me, love had very little to do in the affair: Menelaus sought to revenge the affront he had received; Agamemnon was flattered with the supreme command; some came to share the glory, others the plunder; some because they had bad wives at home, some in hopes of getting Trojan mistresses abroad; and Homer thought the story extremely proper for the subject of the best poem in the world. Thus you became famous; your elopement was made a national quarrel; the animosities of both nations were kindled by frequent battles; and the object was not the restoring of Helen to Menelaus, but the destruction of Troy by the Greeks.—My triumphs, on the other hand, were all owing to myself, and to the influence of personal merit and charms over the heart of man. My birth was obscure; my fortunes low; I had past the bloom of youth, and was advancing to that period at which the generality of our sex lose all importance with the other; I had to do with a man of gallantry and intrigue, a monarch who had been long familiarized with beauty, and accustomed to every refinement of pleasure which the most splendid court in Europe could afford: Love and Beauty seemed to have exhausted all their powers of pleasing for him in vain. Yet this man I captivated, I fixed; and far from being content, as other beauties had been, with the honor of possessing his heart, I brought him to make me his wife, and gained an honorable title to his tenderest affection.—The infatuation of Paris reflected little honor upon you. A thoughtless youth, gay, tender, and impressible, struck with your beauty, in violation of all the most sacred laws of hospitality carries you off, and obstinately refuses to restore you to your husband. You seduced Paris from his duty, I recovered Louis from vice; you were the mistress of the Trojan prince, I was the companion of the French monarch.

Helen—I grant you were the wife of Louis, but not the Queen of France. Your great object was ambition, and in that you met with a partial success;—my ruling star was love, and I gave up everything for it. But tell me, did not I show my influence over Menelaus in his taking me again after the destruction of Troy?

Maintenon—That circumstance alone is sufficient to show that he did not love you with any delicacy. He took you as a possession that was restored to him, as a booty that he had recovered; and he had not sentiment enough to care whether he had your heart or not. The heroes of your age were capable of admiring beauty, and often fought for the possession of it; but they had not refinement enough to be capable of any pure, sentimental attachment or delicate passion. Was that period the triumph of love and gallantry, when a fine woman and a tripod were placed together for prizes at a wrestling-bout, and the tripod esteemed the most valuable reward of the two? No; it is our Clelia, our Cassandra and Princess of Cleves, that have polished mankind and taught them how to love.

Helen—Rather say you have lost sight of nature and passion, between bombast on one hand and conceit on the other. Shall one of the cold temperament of France teach a Grecian how to love? Greece, the parent of fair forms and soft desires, the nurse of poetry, whose soft climate and tempered skies disposed to every gentler feeling, and tuned the heart to harmony and love!—was Greece a land of barbarians? But recollect, if you can, an incident which showed the power of beauty in stronger colors—that when the grave old counselors of Priam on my appearance were struck with fond admiration, and could not bring themselves to blame the cause of a war that had almost ruined their country;—you see I charmed the old as well as seduced the young.

Maintenon—But I, after I was grown old, charmed the young; I was idolized in a capital where taste, luxury, and magnificence were at the height; I was celebrated by the greatest wits of my time, and my letters have been carefully handed down to posterity.

Helen—Tell me now sincerely, were you happy in your elevated fortune?

Maintenon—- Alas! Heaven knows I was far otherwise: a thousand times did I wish for my dear Scarron again. He was a very ugly fellow, it is true, and had but little money: but the most easy, entertaining companion in the world: we danced, laughed, and sung; I spoke without fear or anxiety, and was sure to please. With Louis all was gloom, constraint, and a painful solicitude to please—which seldom produces its effect; the king's temper had been soured in the latter part of life by frequent disappointments; and I was forced continually to endeavor to procure him that cheerfulness which I had not myself. Louis was accustomed to the most delicate flatteries; and though I had a good share of wit, my faculties were continually on the stretch to entertain him,—a state of mind little consistent with happiness or ease; I was afraid to advance my friends or punish my enemies. My pupils at St. Cyr were not more secluded from the world in a cloister than I was in the bosom of the court; a secret disgust and weariness consumed me. I had no relief but in my work and books of devotion; with these alone I had a gleam of happiness.

Helen—Alas! one need not have married a great monarch for that.

Maintenon—But deign to inform me, Helen, if you were really as beautiful as fame reports? for to say truth, I cannot in your shade see the beauty which for nine long years had set the world in arms.

Helen—Honestly, no: I was rather low, and something sunburnt; but I had the good fortune to please; that was all. I was greatly obliged to Homer.

Maintenon—And did you live tolerably with Menelaus after all your adventures?

Helen—As well as possible. Menelaus was a good-natured domestic man, and was glad to sit down and end his days in quiet. I persuaded him that Venus and the Fates were the cause of all my irregularities, which he complaisantly believed. Besides, I was not sorry to return home: for to tell you a secret, Paris had been unfaithful to me long before his death, and was fond of a little Trojan brunette whose office it was to hold up my train; but it was thought dishonorable to give me up. I began to think love a very foolish thing: I became a great housekeeper, worked the battles of Troy in tapestry, and spun with my maids by the side of Menelaus, who was so satisfied with my conduct, and behaved, good man, with so much fondness, that I verily think this was the happiest period of my life.

Maintenon—Nothing more likely; but the most obscure wife in Greece could rival you there.—Adieu! you have convinced me how little fame and greatness conduce to happiness.

LIFE

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when or how or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be, As all that then remains of me. O whither, whither dost thou fly, Where bend unseen thy trackless course, And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, From whence thy essence came, Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter's base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivion's years th' appointed hour, To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me good-morning.

PRAISE TO GOD

Praise to God, immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days— Bounteous source of every joy, Let Thy praise our tongues employ!

For the blessings of the field, For the stores the gardens yield, For the vine's exalted juice, For the generous olive's use;

Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain, Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse—

All that Spring, with bounteous hand, Scatters o'er the smiling land; All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing stores:

These to Thee, my God, we owe— Source whence all our blessings flow! And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear— Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit—

Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her store— Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall—

Should Thine altered hand restrain The early and the latter rain, Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy:

Yet to Thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise, And, when every blessing's flown, Love Thee—for Thyself alone.



ALEXANDER BARCLAY

(1475-1552)

Barclay's reputation rests upon his translation of the famous 'Ship of Fools' and his original 'Eclogues.' A controversy as to the land of his birth—an event which happened about the year 1475—has lasted from his century to our own. The decision in favor of Scotland rests upon the testimony of two witnesses: first, Dr. William Bullim, a younger contemporary of Barclay, who mentions him in 'A Dialogue Both Pleasaunt and Pietifull Wherein is a Godlie Regement Against the Fever Pestilence with a Consolation and Comforte Against Death,' which was published in 1564; and secondly, Barclay himself.

Bullim groups the Muses at the foot of Parnassus, and gathers about them Greek and Latin poets, and such Englishmen as Chaucer, Gower, Skelton, and Barclay, the latter "with an hoopyng russet long coate, with a pretie hood in his necke, and five knottes upon his girdle, after Francis's tricks. He was borne beyond the cold river of Twede. He lodged upon a sweetebed of chamomill under the sinamone-tree: about him many shepherdes and shepe, with pleasaunte pipes; greatly abhorring the life of Courtiers, Citizens, Usurers, and Banckruptes, etc., whose daies are miserable. And the estate of shepherdes and countrie people he accompted moste happie and sure." Deprived of its poetic fancy, this passage means that Barclay was a monk of the order of St. Francis, that he was born north of the Tweed, that his verse was infused with such bitterness and tonic qualities as camomile possesses, and that he advocated the cause of the country people in his independent and admirable 'Eclogues,' another title for the first three of which is 'Miseryes of Courtiers and Courtes of all Princes in General.'

Barclay was educated at Oxford and Cambridge, and upon his return to England after several years of residence abroad, he was made one of the priests of Saint Mary Ottery, an institution of devout practice and learning in Devonshire. Here in 1508 was finished 'The Shyp of Folys of the Worlde translated out of Laten, Frenche, and Doche into Englysshe tonge by Alexander Barclay, Preste, and at that time chaplen in the sayd College.'

After his work was completed Barclay went to London, where his poem was "imprentyd ... in Fleet Street at the signe of Saynt George by Rycharde Pyreson to hys Coste and charge: ended the yere of our Saviour MDIX. the XIII. day of December." That he became a Benedictine and lived at the monastery of the order at Ely is evident from his 'Eclogues.' Here he translated at the instance of Sir Giles Arlington, Knight, 'The Myrrour of Good Maners,' from a Latin elegiac poem which Dominic Mancini published in the year 1516.

"It was about this period of his life," says Mr. Jamieson in his admirable edition of the 'Ship of Fools,' "probably the period of the full bloom of his popularity, that the quiet life of the poet and priest was interrupted by the recognition of his eminence in the highest quarters, and by a request for his aid in maintaining the honor of the country on an occasion to which the eyes of all Europe were then directed. In a letter to Wolsey dated 10th April, 1520, Sir Nicholas Vaux—busied with the preparation for that meeting of Henry VIII and Francis I called the Field of the Cloth of Gold—begs the Cardinal to send them ... Maistre Barkleye, the Black Monke and Poete, to devise histoires and convenient raisons to florisshe the buildings and banquet house withal."

He became a Franciscan, the habit of which order Bullim refers to; and "sure 'tis," says Wood, "that living to see his monastery dissolv'd, in 1539, at the general dissolution by act of Henry VIII, he became vicar of Much Badew in Essex, and in 1546, the same year, of the Church of St. Matthew the Apostle at Wokey, in Somersetshire, and finally in 1552, the year in which he died, of that of All Saints, Lombard Street, London. In his younger days he was esteemed a good poet and orator, but when years came on, he spent his time mostly in pious matters, and in reading the histories of Saints."

'The Ship of Fools' is the most important work associated with Barclay's name. It was a translation of Sebastian Brandt's 'Stultifera Navis,' a book which had attracted universal attention on the Continent when it appeared in 1494. In his preface, Barclay admits that "it is not translated word by word according to the verses of my actor. For I have but only drawn into our mother tongue in rude language the sentences of the verses as near as the paucity of my wit will suffer me, sometime adding, sometime detracting and taking away such things as seemeth me necessary." The classes and conditions of society that Barclay knew were as deserving of satire as those of Germany. He tells us that his work was undertaken "to cleanse the vanity and madness of foolish people, of whom over great number is in the Realm of England."

The diction of Barclay's version is exceptionally fine. Jamieson calls it "a rich and unique exhibition of early art," and says:—"Page after page, even in the antique spelling of Pynson's edition, may be read by the ordinary reader of to-day without reference to a dictionary; and when reference is required, it will be found in nine cases out of ten that the archaism is Saxon, not Latin. This is all the more remarkable that it occurs in the case of a priest translating mainly from the Latin and French, and can only be explained with reference to his standpoint as a social reformer of the broadest type, and to his evident intention that his book should be an appeal to all classes, but especially to the mass of people for amendment of their follies."

As the original work belonged to the German satirist, the extract from the 'Ship of Fools' is placed under the essay entitled 'Sebastian Brandt.' His 'Eclogues' show Barclay at his best. They portray the manners and customs of the period, and are full of local proverbs and wise sayings. According to Warton, Barclay's are the first 'Eclogues' that appeared in the English language. "They are like Petrarch's," he says, "and Mantuans of the moral and satirical kind; and contain but few touches of moral description and bucolic imagery." Two shepherds meet to talk about the pleasures and crosses of rustic life and life at court. The hoary locks of the one show that he is old. His suit of Kendal green is threadbare, his rough boots are patched, and the torn side of his coat reveals a bottle never full and never empty. His wallet contains bread and cheese; he has a crook, and an oaten pipe. His name is Cornix, and he boasts that he has had worldly experience. The other shepherd, Coridon, having seen nothing, complains of country life. He grumbles at the summer's heat and the winter's cold; at beds on the flinty ground, and the dangers of sleeping where the wolves may creep in to devour the sheep; of his stiff rough hands, and his parched, wrinkled, and weather-beaten skin. He asks whether all men are so unhappy. Cornix, refreshing himself at intervals with his bottle and crusts, shows him the small amount of liberty at court, discourses upon the folly of ambition, lays bare the rapine, avarice, and covetousness of the worldly-minded, and demonstrates that the court is "painted fair without, but within it is ugly and vile." He then gives the picture of a courtier's life, which is cited below. He tells how the minstrels and singers, philosophers, poets, and orators are but the slaves of patronizing princes; how beautiful women deceive; describes to him, who has known nothing but a diet of bread and cheese, the delights of the table; dilates on the cups of silver and gold, and the crystal glass shining with red and yellow wine; the sewers bearing in roasted crane, gorgeous peacocks, and savory joints of beef and mutton; the carver wielding his dexterous knife; the puddings, the pasties, the fish fried in sweet oils and garnished with herbs; the costumes of the men and women in cloth of gold and silver and gay damask; the din of music, voices, laughter, and jests; and then paints a picture of the lords and ladies who plunge their knives into the meats and their hands into platters, spilling wine and gravy upon their equally gluttonous neighbors. He finishes by saying:—

"Shepherds have not so wretched lives as they: Though they live poorely on cruddes, chese, and whey, On apples, plummes, and drinke cleree water deepe, As it were lordes reigning among their sheepe. The wretched lazar with clinking of his bell, Hath life which doth the courtiers excell; The caytif begger hath meate and libertie, When courtiers hunger in harde captivitie. The poore man beggeth nothing hurting his name, As touching courters they dare not beg for shame. And an olde proverb is sayde by men moste sage, That oft yonge courters be beggars in their age."

The third 'Eclogue' begins with Coridon relating a dream that he went to court and saw the scullions standing

"about me thicke With knives ready for to flay me quicke."

This is a text for Cornix, who continues his tirade, and convinces Coridon of the misery of the court and his happier life, ending as follows:—

"Than let all shepheardes, from hence to Salisbury With easie riches, live well, laugh and be mery, Pipe under shadowes, small riches hath most rest, In greatest seas moste sorest is tempest, The court is nought els but a tempesteous sea; Avoyde the rockes. He ruled after me."

The fourth 'Eclogue' is a dialogue on the rich man's treatment of poets, by two shepherds, Codrus and Menalcas, musing in "shadowe on the green," while their snowy flocks graze on the sweet meadow. This contains a fine allegorical description of 'Labour.'

The fifth 'Eclogue' is the 'Cytezen and the Uplondyshman.' Here the scene changes, and two shepherds, Faustus and Amyntas, discourse in a cottage while the snows of January whirl without. Amyntas has learned in London "to go so manerly." Not a wrinkle may be found in his clothes, not a hair on his cloak, and he wears a brooch of tin high on his bonnet. He has been hostler, costermonger, and taverner, and sings the delights of the city. Faustus, the rustic, is contented with his lot. The 'Cytezen and the Uplondyshman' was printed from the original edition of Wynkyn de Worde, with a preface by F. W. Fairholt, Percy Society (Vol. xxii.).

Other works ascribed to Barclay are:—'The Figure of Our Holy Mother Church, Oppressed by the French King'; 'The Lyfe of the Glorious Martyr Saynt George,' translated (from Mantuan) by Alexander Barclay; 'The Lyfe of the Blessed Martyr, Saynte Thomas'; 'Contra Skeltonum,' in which the quarrel he had with his contemporary poet, John Skelton, was doubtless continued.

Estimates of Barclay may be found in 'The Ship of Fools,' edited by T. H. Jamieson (1874); 'Sibbald's Chronicle of Scottish Poetry,' from the thirteenth century to the union of the crowns (1802); 'The History of English Poetry,' by Thomas Warton (1824); 'The History of Scottish Poetry,' by David Irving (1861); and 'Chips from a German Workshop,' by F. Max Mueller (1870).

THE COURTIER'S LIFE

Second Eclogue

CORNIX

Some men deliteth beholding men to fight, Or goodly knights in pleasaunt apparayle, Or sturdie soldiers in bright harnes and male, Or an army arrayde ready to the warre, Or to see them fight, so that he stand afarre. Some glad is to see those ladies beauteous Goodly appoynted in clothing sumpteous: A number of people appoynted in like wise In costly clothing after the newest gise, Sportes, disgising, fayre coursers mount and praunce, Or goodly ladies and knightes sing and daunce, To see fayre houses and curious picture, Or pleasaunt hanging or sumpteous vesture Of silke, of purpure or golde moste oriente, And other clothing divers and excellent, Hye curious buildinges or palaces royall, Or chapels, temples fayre and substantial, Images graven or vaultes curious, Gardeyns and medowes, or place delicious, Forestes and parkes well furnished with dere, Cold pleasaunt streams or welles fayre and clere, Curious cundites or shadowie mountaynes, Swete pleasaunt valleys, laundes or playnes, Houndes, and such other things manyfolde Some men take pleasour and solace to beholde.

But all these pleasoures be much more jocounde, To private persons which not to court be bounde, Than to such other whiche of necessitie Are bounde to the court as in captivitie; For they which be bounde to princes without fayle When they must nedes be present in battayle, When shall they not be at large to see the sight, But as souldiours in the middest of the fight, To runne here and there sometime his foe to smite, And oftetimes wounded, herein is small delite, And more muste he think his body to defende, Than for any pleasour about him to intende, And oft is he faynt and beaten to the grounde, I trowe in suche sight small pleasour may be founde. As for fayre ladies, clothed in silke and golde, In court at thy pleasour thou canst not beholde. At thy princes pleasour thou shalt them only see, Then suche shalt thou see which little set by thee, Whose shape and beautie may so inflame thine heart, That thought and languor may cause thee for to smart. For a small sparcle may kindle love certayne, But skantly Severne may quench it clene againe; And beautie blindeth and causeth man to set His hearte on the thing which he shall never get. To see men clothed in silkes pleasauntly It is small pleasour, and ofte causeth envy. While thy lean jade halteth by thy side, To see another upon a, courser ride, Though he be neyther gentleman nor knight, Nothing is thy fortune, thy hart cannot be light. As touching sportes and games of pleasaunce. To sing, to revell, and other daliaunce: Who that will truely upon his lord attende, Unto suche sportes he seldome may entende. Palaces, pictures, and temples sumptuous, And other buildings both gay and curious, These may marchauntes more at their pleasour see, Men suche as in court be bounde alway to bee. Sith kinges for moste part passe not their regions, Thou seest nowe cities of foreyn nations. Suche outwarde pleasoures may the people see, So may not courtiers for lacke of libertie. As for these pleasours of thinges vanable Whiche in the fieldes appeareth delectable,

But seldome season mayest thou obtayne respite. The same to beholde with pleasour and delite, Sometime the courtier remayneth halfe the yere Close within walls muche like a prisonere, To make escapes some seldome times are wont, Save when the powers have pleasour for to hunt, Or its otherwise themselfe to recreate, And then this pleasour shall they not love but hate; For then shall they foorth most chiefely to their payne, When they in mindes would at home remayne. Other in the frost, hayle, or els snowe, Or when some tempest or mightie wind doth blowe, Or else in great heat and fervour excessife, But close in houses the moste parte waste their life, Of colour faded, and choked were with duste: This is of courtiers the joy and all the lust.

CORIDON

What! yet may they sing and with fayre ladies daunce, Both commen and laugh; herein is some pleasaunce.

CORNIX

Nay, nay, Coridon, that pleasour is but small, Some to contente what man will pleasour call, For some in the daunce his pincheth by the hande, Which gladly would see him stretched in a bande. Some galand seketh his favour to purchase Which playne abhorreth for to beholde his face. And still in dauncing moste parte inclineth she To one muche viler and more abject then he. No day over passeth but that in court men finde A thousande thinges to vexe and greve their minde; Alway thy foes are present in thy sight, And often so great is their degree and might That nedes must thou kisse the hand which did thee harm, Though thou would see it cut gladly from the arme. And briefly to speake, if thou to courte resorte, If thou see one thing of pleasour or comfort, Thou shalt see many, before or thou depart, To thy displeasour and pensiveness of heart: So findeth thy sight there more of bitternes And of displeasour, than pleasour and gladnes.



RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

(1788-1845)

The author of the 'Ingoldsby Legends' belonged to a well-defined and delightful class of men, chiefly found in modern England, and indeed mostly bred and made possible by the conditions of English society and the Anglican Church. It is that of clergymen who in the public eye are chiefly wits and diners-out, jokers and literary humorists, yet are conscientious and devoted ministers of their religion and curators of their religious charges, honoring their profession and humanity by true and useful lives and lovable characters. They are men of the sort loathed by Lewis Carroll's heroine in the 'Two Voices,'

"a kind of folk Who have no horror of a joke,"

and indeed love it dearly, but are as firm in principle and unostentatiously dutiful in conduct as if they were leaden Puritans or narrow devotees.



By far the best remembered of this class, for themselves or their work, are Sydney Smith and Richard Harris Barham; but their relative repute is one of the oddest paradoxes in literary history. Roughly speaking, the one is remembered and unread, the other read and unremembered. Sydney Smith's name is almost as familiar to the masses as Scott's, and few could tell a line that he wrote; Barham's writing is almost as familiar as Scott's, and few would recognize his name. Yet he is in the foremost rank of humorists; his place is wholly unique, and is likely to remain so. It will be an age before a similar combination of tastes and abilities is found once more. Macaulay said truly of Sir Walter Scott that he "combined the minute learning of an antiquary with the fire of a great poet." Barham combined a like learning in different fields, and joined to a different outlook and temper of mind, with the quick perceptions of a great wit, the brimming zest and high spirits of a great joker, the genial nature and lightness of a born man of the world, and the gifts of a wonderful improvisatore in verse. Withal, he had just enough of serious purpose to give much of his work a certain measure of cohesive unity, and thus impress it on the mind as no collection of random skits could do. That purpose is the feathering which steadies the arrows and sends them home.

It is pleasant to know that one who has given so good a time to others had a very good time himself; that we are not, as so often happens, relishing a farce that stood for tragedy with the maker, and substituting our laughter for his tears. Barham had the cruel sorrows of personal bereavement so few escape; but in material things his career was wholly among pleasant ways. He was well born and with means, well educated, well nurtured. He was free from the sordid squabbles or anxious watching and privation which fall to the lot of so many of the best. He was happy in his marriage and its attendant home and family, and most fortunate in his friendships and the superb society he enjoyed. His birth and position as a gentleman of good landed family, combined with his profession, opened all doors to him.

But it was the qualities personal to himself, after all, which made these things available for enjoyment. His desires were moderate; he counted success what more eager and covetous natures might have esteemed comparative failure. His really strong intellect and wide knowledge and cultivation enabled him to meet the foremost men of letters on equal terms. His kind heart, generous nature, exuberant fun, and entertaining conversation endeared him to every one and made his company sought by every one; they saved much trouble from coming upon him and lightened what did come. And no blight could have withered that perennial fountain of jollity, drollery, and light-heartedness. But these were only the ornaments of a stanchly loyal and honorable nature, and a lovable and unselfish soul. One of his friends writes of him thus:—

"The profits of agitating pettifoggers would have materially lessened in a district where he acted as a magistrate; and duels would have been nipped in the bud at his regimental mess. It is not always an easy task to do as you would be done by; but to think as you would be thought of and thought for, and to feel as you would be felt for, is perhaps still more difficult, as superior powers of tact and intellect are here required in order to second good intentions. These faculties, backed by an uncompromising love of truth and fair dealing, indefatigable good nature, and a nice sense of what was due to every one in the several relations of life, both gentle and simple, rendered our late friend invaluable, either as an adviser or a peacemaker, in matters of delicate and difficult handling."

Barham was born in Canterbury, England, December 6th, 1788, and died in London, June 17th, 1845. His ancestry was superior, the family having derived its name from possessions in Kent in Norman days. He lost his father—a genial bon vivant of literary tastes who seems like a reduced copy of his son—when but five years old; and became heir to a fair estate, including Tappington Hall, the picturesque old gabled mansion so often imaginatively misdescribed in the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' but really having the famous blood-stained stairway. He had an expensive private education, which was nearly ended with his life at the age of fourteen by a carriage accident which shattered and mangled his right arm, crippling it permanently. As so often happens, the disaster was really a piece of good fortune: it turned him to or confirmed him in quiet antiquarian scholarship, and established connections which ultimately led to the 'Legends'; he may owe immortality to it.

After passing through St. Paul's (London) and Brasenose (Oxford), he studied law, but finally entered the church. After a couple of small curacies in Kent, he was made rector of Snargate and curate of Warehorn, near Romney Marsh; all four in a district where smuggling was a chief industry, and the Marsh in especial a noted haunt of desperadoes (for smugglers then took their lives in their hands), of which the 'Legends' are rich in reminiscences. In 1819, during this incumbency, he wrote a novel, 'Baldwin,' which was a failure; and part of another, 'My Cousin Nicholas,' which, finished fifteen years later, had fair success as a serial in Blackwood's Magazine.

An opportunity offering in 1821, he stood for a minor canonry in St. Paul's Cathedral, London, and obtained it; his income was less than before, but he had entered the metropolitan field, which brought him rich enjoyment and permanent fame. He paid a terrible price for them: his unhealthy London house cost him the lives of three of his children. To make up for his shortened means he became editor of the London Chronicle and a contributor to various other periodicals, including the notorious weekly John Bull, sometime edited by Theodore Hook. In 1824 he became a priest in the Chapel Royal at St. James's Palace, and soon after gained a couple of excellent livings in Essex, which put him at ease financially.

He was inflexible in principle, a firm Tory, though without rancor. He was very High Church, but had no sympathy with the Oxford movement or Catholicism. He preached careful and sober sermons, without oratorical display and with rigid avoidance of levity. He would not make the church a field either for fireworks or jokes, or even for displays of scholarship or intellectual gymnastics. In his opinion, religious establishments were kept up to advance religion and morals. And both he and his wife wrought zealously in the humble but exacting field of parochial good works.

He was, however, fast becoming one of the chief ornaments of that brilliant group of London wits whose repute still vibrates from the early part of the century. Many of them—actors, authors, artists, musicians, and others met at the Garrick Club, and Barham joined it. The names of Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook are enough to show what it was; but there were others equally delightful,—not the least so, or least useful, a few who could not see a joke at all, and whose simplicity and good nature made them butts for the hoaxes and solemn chaff of the rest. Barbara's diary, quoted in his son's (Life,) gives an exquisite instance.

In 1834 his old schoolmaster Bentley established Bentley's Miscellany; and Barham was asked for contributions. The first he sent was the amusing but quite "conceivable" (Spectre of Tappington); but there soon began the immortal series of versified local stories, legendary church miracles, antiquarian curios, witty summaries of popular plays, skits on London life, and so on, under the pseudonym of 'Thomas Ingoldsby,' which sprang instantly into wide popularity, and have never fallen from public favor since—nor can they till appreciation of humor is dead in the world. They were collected and illustrated by Leech, Cruikshank, and others, who were inspired by them to some of their best designs: perhaps the most perfect realization in art of the Devil in his moments of jocose triumph is Leech's figure in 'The House-Warming.' A later series appeared in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine in 1843.

He wrote some excellent pieces (of their kind) in prose, besides the one already mentioned: the weird and well-constructed 'Leech of Folkestone' and the 'Passage in the Life of Henry Harris,' both half-serious tales of mediaeval magic; the thoroughly Ingoldsbian 'Legend of Sheppey,' with its irreverent farce, high animal spirits, and antiquarianism; the equally characteristic 'Lady Rohesia,' which would be vulgar but for his sly wit and drollery. But none of these are as familiar as the versified 'Legends,' nor have they the astonishing variety of entertainment found in the latter.

The 'Ingoldsby Legends' have been called an English naturalization of the French metrical contes; but Barham owes nothing to his French models save the suggestion of method and form. Not only is his matter all his own, but he has Anglified the whole being of the metrical form itself. His facility of versification, the way in which the whole language seems to be liquid in his hands and ready to pour into any channel of verse, was one of the marvelous things of literature. It did not need the free random movement of the majority of the tales, where the lines may be anything from one foot to six, from spondaic to dactylic: in some of them he tied himself down to the most rigid and inflexible metrical forms, and moved as lightly and freely in those fetters as if they were non-existent. As to the astonishing rhymes which meet us at every step, they form in themselves a poignant kind of wit; often double and even treble, one word rhyming with an entire phrase or one phrase with another,—not only of the oddest kind, but as nicely adapted to the necessities of expression and meaning as if intended or invented for that purpose alone,—they produce on us the effect of the richest humor.

One of his most diverting "properties" is the set of "morals" he draws to everything, of nonsensical literalness and infantile gravity, the perfection of solemn fooling. Thus in the 'Lay of St. Cuthbert,' where the Devil has captured the heir of the house,

"Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear,"

the moral is drawn, among others,—

"Perhaps it's as well to keep children from plums, And pears in their season—and sucking their thumbs."

And part of the moral to the 'Lay of St. Medard' is—

"Don't give people nicknames! don't, even in fun, Call any one 'snuff-colored son of a gun'!"

And they generally wind up with some slyly shrewd piece of worldly wisdom and wit. Thus, the closing moral to 'The Blasphemer's Warning' is:—

"To married men this—For the rest of your lives, Think how your misconduct may act on your wives! Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint, Or—what sometimes occurs—run away with a Saint!"

Often they are broader yet, and intended for the club rather than the family. Indeed, the tales as a whole are club tales, with an audience of club-men always in mind; not, be it remembered, bestialities like their French counterparts, or the later English and American improvements on the French, not even objectionable for general reading, but full of exclusively masculine joking, allusions, and winks, unintelligible to the other sex, and not welcome if they were intelligible.

He has plenty of melody, but it is hardly recognized because of the doggerel meaning, which swamps the music in the farce. And this applies to more important things than the melody. The average reader floats on the surface of this rapid and foamy stream, covered with sticks and straws and flowers and bonbons, and never realizes its depth and volume. This light frothy verse is only the vehicle of a solid and laborious antiquarian scholarship, of an immense knowledge of the world and society, books and men. He modestly disclaimed having any imagination, and said he must always have facts to work upon. This was true; but the same may be said of some great poets, who have lacked invention except around a skeleton ready furnished. What was true of Keats and Fitzgerald cannot nullify the merit of 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, however, 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 mediaeval stories, from that of the mediaeval 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 mediaeval Church, makes salient all the ludicrous aspects of mediaeval religious faith in its devout credulity and barbarous 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 himself 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 thenceforth 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 tragedies 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 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

As 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.

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, "That I was borne!" 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 me away, It boots not to delay,"— 'Twas so she seemed to saye, "HERE IS REST!"

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 haec verba: "Veniant igitur omnes daemones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest!"

Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillae, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferent, Daemones incipiunt commessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi infans meus? Vix cum haec dixisset, unus ex Daemonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, etc.—Chronicon de Bolton.

It'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, flesh, 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 orfeverie 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?

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, pere 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 on, Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare, To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,

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 "fete 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,

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, pere et filz (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,

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;

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 melee: 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,

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 marched 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 more his than your own to bestow. 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 a 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 'lark' 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!"

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 soiree—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 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 elite 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—

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.

1mo. 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.

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 puellae pulchritudinis mirae, et ecce Divus, fide catholica, et cruce, et aqua benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctae et Individuae Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit."—ROGER HOVEDEN.

"Lord 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! 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!"

—"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. 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," And "Fiddlers," and "Punch," and things quite as profane.

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[1] "flew 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; 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!"

"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!