The Haunted Hour Part 12

With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff, I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!-- All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Why really--I hardly know what to say:-- Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay, Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.-- --Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray; For each ma.s.s they sing, and each pray'r they say, For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray A fair rose-n.o.ble must duly pay!

So may his qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace!

No power could save That paramour knave; I left him, I wot, in evil case!

There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain, Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain His legs lie here and his arms lie there, And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"

"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!

Foul sin her warriors so to slay, When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!-- A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair, To pray for his soul for ever and aye, Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights-- None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound, Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;-- And a s.h.i.+rt of the roughest and coa.r.s.est hair For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!-- So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"

"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay!

Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.

"No champion free of the Cross was he; No belted Baron of high degree; No Knight nor Squire Did there expire; He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar!

And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait, With his monks around him, and early and late, May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"

"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said, And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head-- "Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!

A horrible thing has come to pa.s.s!

What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior, And say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'-- 'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the s.h.i.+re Is half so good as a holy Friar?'

_O, turp.i.s.sime! Vir nequissime!_ _Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_ Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_ Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum, Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_, And won't have again _saecula saeculorum_!-- Come hither to me, My Cardinals three, My Bishops in _partibus_, Masters in _Artibus_, Hither to me, A.B. and D.D., Doctors and Proctors of every degree!

Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well-- I'll send him where--good manners won't let me tell!"

--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!"

--Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face-- "_Mea culpa!_--in sooth I'm in pitiful case.

Peccavi! peccavi!--I've done every wrong!

But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong, And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where, And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!"

Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.

"Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong, And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong, And you really will fight like a trump all day long;-- If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, And Holy Church shall come in for her share,-- Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me, That it gives a new turn to the whole affair, And I think that the Penitent need not despair!

--If it be so, as you seem to say, Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!

An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground; And there in that Abbey, all the year round, A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns, And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain; And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights-- None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!

And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe-- But shall dine upon tripe And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, And forever abhor, renounce and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and _liqueur_!"

(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a Mere repet.i.tion of _O mea culpa_!)

"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day, Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar, With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire, And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear, Any more from this day, The surname of Bray, As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_!

So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease, And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"

Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain.

"Look out, my Squire, Look nigher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!

And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, And pick up his body and pick up his head!"

FYTTE III

Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, With right of free-warren (whatever that be); Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, All in full leaf at the right time of year; About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear, And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear; But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear.

Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite sh.o.r.e Landon Hill in the distance, ten miles off or more; Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind--and before You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.-- So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.

Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three, And there they all stand each in their degree, Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, Two by two in their regular mode, While a funeral comes down the Rochester road, Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, c.o.c.kle in hat and staff in hand, Come marching in pairs, a holy band!

Little boys twelve, dressed all in white, Each with his brazen censer bright, And singing away with all his might, Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight; Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear On their st.u.r.dy backs, with a good deal of care, A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.

Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide, While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear--Men-at-arms, n.i.g.g.e.r captives, and Bow-men and Spear-men.

It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well, How some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell; Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day The procession I speak of reached the _Sacellum_: And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper Received the first taste of the Father's _flagellum_;-- That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded, By the pious of both s.e.xes ever surrounded, And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns, Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns; --That year after year, having run round the _Quad_ With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, Having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he Died, as all thought in the odour of sanct.i.ty, When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright, Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls and the squalls Of some one who seemed running all round the walls!

Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"--as placed By our own new police,--in a belt round his waist.

All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,-- In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him," so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!"

Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,-- Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has pa.s.sed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild s.h.i.+ndy; And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head!

Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd.

Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,-- I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This _fact_ with the reason these people a.s.sign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-_ine_."

'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ Bray), It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall.

So I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d----d after all!

MORAL

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me!

See what comes of lying!--don't join in the league To humbug your master or aid an intrigue!

Ladies! married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand!

Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!

But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives!

And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS"!

Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!

If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them downstairs!

To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend, "If you want matters well managed, Go!--if not, Send!"

A servant's too often a negligent elf!

--If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife!

For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!

POMPEY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o'clock at noon; Because the sun was s.h.i.+ning bright And not the silver moon.

A proper time for friends to call, Or pots, or penny-post; When lo! as Phoebe sat at work, She saw her Pompey's ghost!

Now when a female has a call From people that are dead, Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visitors in bed.

But Pompey's spirit would not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And wouldn't show at night!

But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear.