Читать книгу The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - Various - Страница 84

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There stands a City—neither large nor small,

Its air and situation sweet and pretty;

It matters very little—if at all—

Whether its denizens are dull or witty,

Whether the ladies there are short or tall,

Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!—

Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute

That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,

And kings and heroes lie entombed within her;

There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose,

Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner;

There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose

Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner;

And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,

—Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound,

Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver,

Ere those abominable guns were found,

To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver

It stands upon a gently rising ground,

Sloping down gradually to the river,

Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)

A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese—but taller.

The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately,

And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous,

In martial panoply so grand and stately,

Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows,

And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly,

With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows

In short, so great a change has come to pass,

Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

But to my tale.—Before this profanation,

And ere its ancient glories were out short all,

A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station

In a small house, just opposite the portal;

His birth, his parentage, and education,

I know but little of—a strange, odd mortal;

His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;

His name was Mason—he'd been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,

And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion;

But, spite of all her piety, her arm

She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion;

And, being of a temper somewhat warm,

Would now and then seize, upon small occasion,

A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie,

And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter;—'tis a thing that's not uncommon,

'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of—

I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman,

Such as I own I entertain a dread of,

—And so did Nick—whom sometimes there would come on

A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off,

Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,

She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

"There's time and place for all things," said a sage

(King Solomon, I think), and this I can say,

Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,

Boxing may be a very pretty FANCY,

When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage;

—'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:—

To get well mill'd by any one's an evil,

But by a lady—'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble

(At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity;

For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble,

His senses lost in a sublime immensity

Of cogitation—then he couldn't cobble—

And then his wife would often try the density

Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might,

As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,

Of this same striking had a morbid dread,

He hated it like poison—or his wife—

A vast antipathy!—but so he said—

And very often, for a quiet life,

On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed,

Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door

He heard his lady—he'd pretend to snore.

One night, then, ever partial to society,

Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow),

Went to a Club—I should have said Society—

At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello"

A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I

Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow;

There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather,

And change of ministers and change of weather.

In short, it was a kind of British Forum,

Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly,

Only they managed things with more decorum,

And the Orations were not QUITE so silly;

Far different questions, too, would come before 'em

Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye,

Their London prototypes were always willing,

To give one QUANTUM SUFF. of—for a shilling.

It more resembled one of later date,

And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street,

Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate,

And, though there are who deem that same a low street

Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate

And genuine humor it's surpassed by no street,

When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes

To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."

Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults,

And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper,

Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz,

How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor.

Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts,

And what the Romans wrote on ere obey'd paper—

This night the subject of their disquisitions

Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprues, and Apparitions.

One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man,"

Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"—

His well-read friend, who next to speak began,

Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;"

A third, of more extensive learning, ran

To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal;

Of sheeted Specters spoke with shorten'd breath,

And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."

Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard

The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it,

How frequently some murder'd man appear'd,

To tell his wife and children who had done it;

Or how a Miser's Ghost, with grisly beard,

And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet,

Wander'd about to watch his buried money!

When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One—he

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture

Impended from his fond and faithful She;

Nor could he well to pardon him expect her,

For he had promised to "be home to tea;"

But having luckily the key o' the back door,

He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he

Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze,

And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

Vain fruitless hope!—The wearied sentinel

At eve may overlook the crouching foe,

Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell,

He sinks beneath the unexpected blow;

Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell,

When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go—

But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary,

—Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread;

She heard the key slow creaking in the door,

Spied through the gloom obscure, toward the bed

Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before;

When, bang, she threw a something at his head,

And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor;

While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on—

"How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"

Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated,

Especially the length of her oration—

Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated,

Roused by the bump into a good set passion,

So great, that more than once he execrated,

Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion;

—The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say,

He duck'd below the clothes—and there he lay:

'Twas now the very witching time of night,

When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead,

And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite

Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,

And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,

To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed,

Sleeping, perhaps, serenely as a porpoise,

Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations

Still to the same tremendous theme recurred,

The same dread subject of the dark narrations,

Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard;

Lost in his own horrific contemplations,

He pondered o'er each well-remembered word;

When at the bed's foot, close beside the post,

He verily believed he saw—a Ghost!

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite

To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew;

Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height,

Of more than mortal seeming to the view,

And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew

A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course ALL WHITE;—

The moon that moment peeping through a cloud,

Nick very plainly saw it THROUGH THE SHROUD!

And now those matted locks, which never yet

Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce,

Their long-contracted amity forget,

And spring asunder with elastic force;

Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse,

Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet,

Uprose in agony—the Gorgon's head

Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.

From every pore distill'd a clammy dew.

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 passion,

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 pass'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 passing 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 "Cock-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!