Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 48

Come list to me, and you shall have, without a hem or haw, sirs,

A Canterbury pilgrimage, much better than old Chaucer’s.

’Tis of a hoax I once played off upon that city clever,

The memory of which, I hope, will stick to it for ever.

With my coal-black beard, and purple cloak, jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor, Hey-ho! for the knight of Malta!

To execute my purpose, in the first place, you must know, sirs,

My locks I let hang down my neck — my beard and whiskers grow, sirs;

A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword lagged to my side, sirs,

And mounted on a charger black, I to the town did ride, sirs.

With my coal-black beard, &c.

Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies,

Decked out in scarlet uniform, as spruce as macaronies;

Caparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master,

And o’er my long and curly locks, I wore a broad-brimmed castor.

With my coal-black beard, &c.

The people all flocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy,

Oh I such a sight had ne’er before been seen in Canterbury!

My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs!

They stared — the days of chivalry, they thought, were come again, sirs!

With my coal-black beard, &c.

I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a

Jot, that they beheld in me a real knight of Malta!

Tom à Becket had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed,

I doubt not just as readily the bait they would have swallowed.

With my coal-black beard, &c.

I rode about, and speechified, and everybody gullied,

The tavern-keepers diddled, and the magistracy bullied;

Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a raree;

The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury.

With my coal-black beard, &c.

The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs,

And on retrenchment and reform I spouted long and loud, sirs;

On tithes and on taxation I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs,

Who so able as a Malta knight, the malt tax to repeal, sirs.

With my coal-black beard, &c.

As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city,

And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity;

For surely I the fittest was, and very proper, very,

To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury.

With my coal-black beard, &c.

At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did,

And the justices upon the bench I literally bearded; For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as day, sirs, That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs. With my coal-black beard, &c.

This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder,

And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under;

To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs,

And thus crossed, the knight of Malta was at length obliged to hop, sirs. With his coal-black beard, and purple cloak, jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor, Good-by to the knight of Malta.

The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the company.

The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry, refused to comply with his grandsire’s solicitation to enter, and remained sullenly at the door, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he commanded through the canvas aperture. The sexton walked up to Dick, who was seated at the post of honor, and, clapping him upon the shoulder, congratulated him upon the comfortable position in which he found him.

“Ha, ha! Are you there, my old death’s-head on a mop-stick?” said Turpin, with a laugh. “Ain’t we merry mumpers, eh? Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah — make yourself comfortable, Methusalem.”

“What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in your life, old cove?” said Zoroaster.

“I have no sort of objection to it,” returned Peter, “provided you will all pledge my toast.”

“That I will, were it old Ruffin himself,” shouted Turpin.

“Here’s to the three-legged mare,” cried Peter. “To the tree that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor branch. You won’t refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?”

“Not I,” answered Dick; “I owe the gallows no grudge. If, as Jerry’s song says, I must have a ‘hearty choke and caper sauce’ for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here’s Peter Bradley’s toast: ‘The scragging post — the three-legged mare,’ with three times three.”

Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts soon died away.

“They like not the thoughts of the gallows,” said Turpin to Peter. “More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children, believe me; and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, pshaw! One can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope’s end for it! So let us be merry, and make the most of our time, and that’s true philosophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant,” added he, turning to Peter. “I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us a stave, my antediluvian file, and, in the meantime, tip me a gage of fogus,75 Jerry; and if that’s a bowl of huckle-my-butt76 you are brewing, Sir William,” added he, addressing the knight of Malta, “you may send me a jorum at your convenience.”

Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler of the beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pronounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed round to the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready to break into song.

Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key so high, that the utmost exertions of the shawm-blower failed to approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was