The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 19

Quaked every limb,--the candle too no doubt, En regle, WOULD have burnt extremely blue, But Nick unluckily had put it out; And he, though naturally bold and stout, In short, was in a most tremendous stew;-- The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell, But where that came from Mason could not tell.

All motionless the Specter stood,--and now Its reverend form more clearly shone confest, From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow Descended o'er its venerable breast; The thin gray hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow, Told of years long gone by.--An awful guest It stood, and with an action of command, Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.

"Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?"

Nick MIGHT have cried, could he have found a tongue, But his distended jaws could only gape, And not a sound upon the welkin rung, His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung Forth from their sockets,--like a frightened Ape He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.

And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door; And many an ireful glance, and frown, between, The angry visage of the Phantom wore, As if quite vexed that Nick would do no more Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d' ye mean?"

Because, as we are told,--a sad old joke too,-- Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."

Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations, Derive a sort of courage from despair, And then perform, from downright desperation, Much more than many a bolder man would dare.

Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a pa.s.sion, And therefore, groping till he found the chair, Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed, And follow'd quaking where the Specter led.

And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread, The tenant of the tomb pa.s.s'd slowly on, Each mazy turning of the humble shed Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown, So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread As though the domicile had been his own, Though Nick himself, in pa.s.sing through the shop, Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound, The door upon its hinges open flew; And forth the Spirit issued,--yet around It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew, And once more beckoning, pointed to the mound, The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam, The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.

Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade, Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime, 'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid, Sole, sad memorials of the olden time, The Phantom held its way,--and though afraid Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime, Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending, And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

Within the moldering fabric's deep recess At length they reach a court obscure and lone; It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness, The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown; The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress, Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, As though indignant mortal step should dare, So led, at such an hour, should venture there!

--The Apparition paused, and would have spoke Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring, But then a neighboring chanticleer awoke, And loudly 'gan his early matins sing And then "it started like a guilty thing,"

As that shrill clarion the silence broke.

--We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew The appalling sound of "c.o.c.k-a-doodle-do!"

The vision was no more--and Nick alone-- "His streamer's waving" in the midnight wind, Which through the ruins ceased not to groan; --His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,-- And, worst of all, he knew not where to find The ring,--which made him most his fate bemoan-- The iron ring,--no doubt of some trap door, 'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.

"What's to be done?" he cried, "'t were vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clew-- Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray!

'Fore George, I'm sadly puzzled what to do."

(Then clapped his hand behind)--"'Tis chilly too-- I'll mark the spot, and come again by day.

What can I mark it by?--Oh, here's the wall-- The mortar's yielding--here I'll stick my awl!"

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, And o'er the side the masts in thunder go; While on the deck resistless billows break, And drag their victims to the gulfs below;-- Such was the scream when, for the want of candle, Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream-- For dream it was;--and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream-- And still he listens, with averted eye, When gibing neighbors make "the Ghost" their theme While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!

A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.

R. HARRIS BARHAM

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land, With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon; Full many a day hath he been away, Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day hath he been away, Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea, Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest, Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown; They laugh'd, and they ate, and they drank of the best And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk, With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free, Trying b.a.l.l.s and plays, and all manner of ways, To get rid of what French people call Ennui.

Now the festive board with viands is stored, Savory dishes be there, I ween, Rich puddings and big, and a barbacued pig, And ox-tail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail-- When, c.o.c.kle on hat, and staff in hand, While on naught they are thinking save eating and drinking, Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

"You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep,"

Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares."

A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep, Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group, With the flagon pop under the sofa in haste, And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet, As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest, When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd!

She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast, In spite of his "great, long, frizzly beard."

Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing, A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye; She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad, And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid, And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout; On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops, And she mixes a stiff gla.s.s of "Cold Without."

Then again she began at the "poor dear" man; She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat, And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran, To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.

"Nor night nor day since he'd been away, Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared."

She "never could eat one morsel of meat, For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."

She "really did think she had not slept a wink Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long,"

Here he shook his head,--right little he said, But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."

Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog, His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy, Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair; He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head, And, between them, this most reprehensible pair Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

Then the bolster they place athwart his face, And his night-cap into his mouth they cram; And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes, Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.

And now they tried the deed to hide; For a little bird whisper'd "Perchance you may swing; Here's a corpse in the case, with a sad swell'd face, And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"

So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife, And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea; With the edges and points they sever'd the joints At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.

Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists, With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,"

As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

When they cut off his head, entertaining a dread Lest the folks should remember Gengulphus's face, They determined to throw it where no one could know it, Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.

But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd, And managed to stuff that sanctified hair, With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.

They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack, Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town, The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back, As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.

But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out, And that in a manner the least expected!

Who could surmise a man ever could rise Who'd been thus carbonado'd, out up, and dissected?

No doubt 't would surprise the pupils at Guy's; I am no unbeliever--no man can say that o' me-- But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.