Читать книгу Urith: A Tale of Dartmoor - S. (Sabine) Baring-Gould - Страница 11
ОглавлениеO the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,
How earnestly I do desire thee!
Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,
But only to thee to inspire me.
The singer was interrupted by a groan from all in the room, and a shout from Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "Calvinist Géneva and Hollands for me! Catholic French Claret is thin—deuced thin liquor!"
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,
Which in England will be a new wonder!
Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal things
Shall submit, and shall truckle under!
The miners jumped to their feet, and began to swear that they'd rather be crushed in their adits, than live to see that day.
"Things are coming fair on towards it, sure as the clouds have been rolling up, and portending a thunderstorm," said the host.
"Ah!" growled Solomon; "give the Devil his due. Old Noll, who didn't sit by right Divine, knew how to make Britain free and honoured."
"No Dutch in the Medway, then! No burning of Spithead and His Majesty's fleet under His Majesty's nose," said the old singer.
"'Tis a pity," said one of the men present, "that there were not a few more drowned on the Lemon and Ore than those who did. Nay, rather, that certain who escaped should not have sunk, and such as drowned should not have escaped."
This had reference to a sandbank near Yarmouth, on which the frigate bearing the Duke of York had struck, when about a hundred and thirty persons were drowned.
"Here!" called Sol Gibbs. "Here's bad luck to Lemon and Ore for doing the work so foully!" and he put his jug of ale to his lips.
"Lemon and Ore," said each who drank, "better luck next time."
"Folks do say," put in the landlord, "that the King, God bless him, was really married to Lucy Walters. If that be so, why then the Duke of Monmouth should be King after him." Then he shook his head, and added, "But, Lord! I know nought about such matters."
"Here's a health to the Protestant Duke!" said the miners, and looked about them. "Now, my masters! Won'ty all drink to the Protestant Duke?"
"To be sure I will—drink to any one," said Solomon Gibbs.
"Why should he not have married her?" asked the singer. "Didn't the Duke of York marry Mistress Ann Hyde? And Lucy Walters was a gentlewoman every whit as much. When the Duke of Monmouth was born, then His Majesty was Prince Charles, in France, with small chance of coming to his own again; for Old Noll was then in full flower, and making the earth quake at the name of England."
"When the Duke of Savoy was persecuting the Protestants, did not Old Noll hold up his finger, and at the sight of his nail the Duke stayed his hands?" said Anthony Cleverdon. "By the Lord! If it had been in my time, I would have drawn the sword for them."
"When all the giants are dead, every Tom Thumb boasts he would have been a Jack of Cornwall," sneered Fox Crymes.
"What is that you say?" asked Anthony, hotly.
"I was merely saying that it ill becomes a man of spirit to boast of what he would have done had things been other than they are."
"Do you mean to hint that I am a coward?"
"I hinted nothing of the sort. I made a general observation. If the time should come when your sword would be wanted to sustain the Protestant cause, I make no doubt that you will be ready to prop it up—on the point."
"No quarrels here," shouted Solomon Gibbs; then he sang:—
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,
Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.
We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,
Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Then he called to the united assembly, "What say you all—shall we have a punch-bowl? Nem. con. Carried. That is it which lacked to establish sweetest concord. Landlord! Bring us the needful, and we'll brew."
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,
Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.
Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,
Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
The host called to his wife to produce the requisite ingredients, and went in quest of the ladle, which he kept upstairs, as it had a silver piece of Charles I. let into it.
"I ax," said one of the miners, throwing out his arm as if proclaiming defiance, "how it came about that London was burnt? Warn't them Poperies seen a doing of it—a firing it in several places?"
"And Sir Edmondbury Godfrey—weren't he cruelly and bloodily murdered by 'em?" asked the second.
"Ay! and whose doing is it that that worthy gentleman, my Lord Russell, has been done to death? That every one knows. 'Tis said the Earl of Bedford offered a hundred thousand pounds to save his life; but the Catholic Duke would not hear of his being spared. And the Duke of York will be King after his present Gracious Majesty. By heavens! I would draw sword for the Protestant Duke and swear to his legitimacy."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Fox Crymes, "if this sort of talk is going on here, I'm off and away. If you are not speaking treason, you go pretty nigh to it, too nigh it for safety, and I'll be off."
"There are no informers and spies here," said the yeoman.
"I reckon us be all true Protestants and loyal to the Crown and Constitution. The Constitution! God bless it!"
"You can't go, Fox," said Anthony, "for here comes the storm we have been expecting." He spoke as a flash illuminated the room, and was followed by a boom of near thunder, then down came the rain like the fall of a water-spout on the roof.
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,
Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Mr. Solomon Gibbs was erect, supporting himself on the table by his left hand, whilst he mixed the bowl of punch and stirred it, and sang in snatches:
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"Now, then, landlord! Where's the lemons? Bless my soul, you're not going to make us drink unlemoned punch? As well give us a King without a Crown, or a parson without a gown."
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—
Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—
Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.
In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"—So! the lemons at last? Where's a silver knife to cut them with? Bless my soul! How it rains! I thank Providence the water is without, and the spirit is within."
"This rain will dowse the fires on the moor," said the yeoman.
"And would have washed your Tory zeal out of you," laughed Anthony, "had you gone out in it just now, shocked at our Whiggery."
"Oh! you," sneered Fox, "you took good care to say nothing. You were wise not to come within seeing distance with a pair of perspective glasses of Tyburn gallows, where men have been hung, disembowelled, and drawn for less offence than some of the words let drop to-night."
"Now—no more of this," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "I am president here. Where the punch-bowl is, there is a president, and I waive my sceptre, this ladle, and enforce abstention from politics, and all such scurvy subjects. You began it, Taverner, with your damnable ballad of the Catholic cause, and you shall be served last. Comrades! 'To the King, God bless him!'"
"And the Protestant cause!" shouted Taverner.
"Ay, ay, which His Majesty swore to maintain," said the miners.
"Bar politics!" cried Mr. Gibbs, "or, curse it, I'll throw the punch out of the door. I will, I swear I will. Taverner, give us something cheerful—something with no politics in it to set us all by the ears."
"Shall I give you something suitable to the evening, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Certainly—tune up. I wish I had my viol with me to give a few chords; but I set out to look for my niece who had strayed, and I forgot to take my viol with me."
The grey-haired ballad-singer stood up, cleared his throat, and with the utmost gravity sang, throwing marvellous twirls and accidentals into the tune, the following song:
My Lady hath a sable coach
And horses, two and four,
My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhound
That runneth on before.
My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,
The coachman has no head.
My Lady's face is ashen white,
As one that long is dead.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in and ride!"
"I thank thee, I had rather walk,
Than gather to thy side."
The wheels go round without a sound
Of tramp or turn of wheels,
As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,
Onward the carriage steals.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, prithee, come to me."
She takes the baby from the crib,
She sets it on her knee.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in, and ride,"
Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,
She takes to her the bride.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"There's room I wot for you."
She waved her hand, the coach did stand,
The Squire within she drew.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"
She took the gaffer in by her,
His crutches in the boot.
The wheels go round, etc.
I'd rather walk a hundred miles,
And run by night and day,
Than have that carriage halt for me,
And hear my Lady say:
"Now, pray step in, and make no din,
I prithee come and ride.
There's room, I trow, by me for you,
And all the world beside."[3]
