The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels

THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.

A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.

In Kent, we are told, There was seated of old, A handsome young gentleman, courteous and bold, He'd an oaken strong-box, well replenish'd with gold, With broad lands, pasture, arable, woodland, and wold, Not an acre of which had been mortgaged or sold; He'd a Plesaunce and Hall passing fair to behold, He had beeves in the byre, he had flocks in the fold, And was somewhere about five-and-twenty years old. His figure and face, For beauty and grace, To the best in the county had scorn'd to give place. Small marvel, then, If, of women and men Whom he chanced to foregather with, nine out of ten Express'd themselves charm'd with Sir Alured Denne.

From my earliest youth, I've been taught, as a truth, A maxim which most will consider as sooth, Though a few, peradventure, may think it uncouth; There are three social duties, the whole of the swarm In this great human hive of ours, ought to perform, And that too as soon as conveniently may be; The first of the three— Is, the planting a Tree! The next, the producing a Book—then, a Baby! (For my part, dear Reader, without any jesting, I So far at least, have accomplished my destiny.)

From the foremost, i.e. The "planting the Tree," The Knight may, perchance, have conceiv'd himself free, Inasmuch as that, which way soever he looks, Over park, mead, or upland, by streamlets and brooks, His fine beeches and elms shelter thousands of rooks; In twelve eighty-two, There would also accrue Much latitude as to the article, Books; But, if those we've disposed of, and need not recall, Might, as duties, appear in comparison small, One remain'd, there was no getting over at all, —The providing a male Heir for Bonnington Hall; Which, doubtless, induced the good Knight to decide, As a matter of conscience, on taking a Bride.

It's a very fine thing, and delightful to see Inclination and duty unite and agree, Because it's a case That so rarely takes place; In the instance before us, then, Alured Denne Might well be esteem'd the most lucky of men, Inasmuch as hard by, Indeed so very nigh, That her chimneys, from his, you might almost descry, Dwelt a Lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye, One whose character scandal itself could defy, While her charms and accomplishments rank'd very high, And who would not deny A propitious reply, But reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh. (A line that's not mine, but Tom Moore's, by-the-bye.)

There was many a gay and trim bachelor near, Who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear, That fair Edith Ingoldsby, she whom they all The "Rosebud of Tappington" ceased not to call, Was going to say, "Honour, love, and obey" So Sir Alured Denne, Knight, of Bonnington Hall, That all other suitors were left in the lurch, And the parties had even been "out-asked" in church, For every one says, In those primitive days, And I must own I think it redounds to their praise, None dream'd of transferring a daughter or niece As a bride, by an "unstamp'd agreement," or lease, 'Fore a Register's Clerk, or a Justice of Peace, While young ladies had fain Single women remain, And unwedded maids to the last "crack of doom" stick, Ere marry, by taking a jump o'er a broomstick.

So our bride and bridegroom agreed to appear At holy St. Romwold's, a Priory near, Which a long while before, I can't say in what year, Their forebears had join'd with the neighbours to rear, And endow'd, some with bucks, some with beef, some with beer, To comfort the friars, and make them good cheer. Adorning the building, With carving and gilding, And stone altars, fix'd to the chantries and fill'd in; (Papistic in substance and form, and on this count With Judge Herbert Jenner Fust justly at discount. See Cambridge Societas Camdeniensis V. Faulkner, tert. prim. Januarii mensis, With "Judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses;") All raised to St. Romwold, with some reason, styled By Duke Humphrey's confessor,[70] "a Wonderful Child," For ne'er yet was Saint, except him, upon earth Who made "his profession of faith" at his birth, And when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth, Converted his "Ma," and contrived to amend a Sad hole in the creed of his grandsire, King Penda.

Of course to the shrine Of so young a divine Flow'd much holy water, and some little wine, And when any young folks did to marriage incline, The good friars were much in request, and not one Was more "sought unto" than the Sub-prior, Mess John; To him, there and then, Sir Alured Denne Wrote a three-corner'd note with a small crow-quill pen, To say what he wanted, and fix "the time when," And, as it's well known that your people of quality Pique themselves justly on strict punctuality, Just as the clock struck the hour he'd nam'd in it, The whole bridal party rode up to the minute.

Now whether it was that some rapturous dream, Comprehending "fat pullets and clouted cream," Had borne the good man, in his vision of bliss, Far off to some happier region than this— Or whether his beads, 'gainst the fingers rebelling, Took longer than usual that morning in telling; Or whether, his conscience with knotted cord purging, Mess John was indulging himself with a scourging, In penance for killing some score of the fleas, Which, infesting his hair-shirt, deprived him of ease, Or whether a barrel of Faversham oysters, Brought in, on the evening before, to the cloisters, Produced indigestion, Continues a question, The particular cause is not worth a debate; For my purpose it's clearly sufficient to state That whatever the reason, his rev'rence was late, And Sir Alured Denne, Not the meekest of men, Began banning away at a deuce of a rate.

Now here, though I do it with infinite pain, Gentle reader, I find I must pause to explain That there was—what, I own, I grieve to make known— On the worthy Knight's character one single stain, But for which, all his friends had borne witness, I'm sure, He had been sans reproche, as he still was sans peur. The fact is, that many distinguish'd commanders "Swore terribly (teste T. Shandy) in Flanders." Now into these parts our Knight chancing to go, countries Named from this sad, vulgar custom, "The Low Countries," Though on common occasions as courteous as daring, Had pick'd up this shocking bad habit of swearing. And if anything vex'd him, or matters went wrong, Was given to what low folks call "Coming it strong." Good, bad, or indifferent then, young or old, He'd consign them, when once in a humour to scold, To a place where they certainly would not take cold. —Now if there are those, and I've some in my eye, Who'd esteem this a crime of no very deep dye, Let them read on—they'll find their mistake by and bye.

Near or far, Few people there are But have heard, read, or sung about Young Lochinvar, How in Netherby Chapel, "at morning tide," The Priest and the Bridegroom stood waiting the Bride; How they waited, "but ne'er A Bride was there." Still I don't find, on reading the ballad with care, The bereaved Mr. Graham proceeded to swear, And yet to experience so serious a blight in One's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting. 'Tis manifest then That Sir Alured Denne Had far less excuse for such bad language, when It was only the Priest not the Bride who was missing— He had fill'd up the interval better with kissing. And 'twas really surprising, And not very wise in A Knight to go on so anathematising, When the head and the front of the Clergyman's crime Was but being a little behind as to time:— Be that as it may, He swore so that day At the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay, That not a bystander who heard what he said, But listen'd to all his expressions with dread, And felt all his hair stand on end on his head; Nay, many folks there Did not stick to declare The phenomenon was not confined to the hair, For the little stone Saint who sat perched o'er the door, St. Romwold himself, as I told you before, What will scarce be believed, Was plainly perceived To shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved, And look down with a frown So remarkably brown, That all saw he'd now quite a different face on From that he received at the hands of the mason; Nay, many averr'd he half rose in his niche, When Sir Alured, always in metaphor rich, Call'd his priest an "old son of—" some animal—which, Is not worth the inquiry—a hint's quite enough on The subject—for more I refer you to Buffon.

It's supposed that the Knight Himself saw the sight, And it's likely he did, as he easily might, For 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack, And, in nautical language, seem'd "taken aback." In so much that when now The "prime cause of the row," Father John, in the chapel at last made his bow, The Bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued, None could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude, Or made use of the language to which I allude; Fair Edith herself, while the knot was a tying, Her bridemaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing, Some smiling, some blushing, half-laughing, half-crying, Scarce made her responses in tones more complying Than he who'd been raging and storming so recently, All softness now, and behaving quite decently. Many folks thought too the cold stony frown Of the Saint up aloft from his niche looking down, Brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown, When, the rite being over, the fees were all paid, And the party remounting, the whole cavalcade Prepared to ride home with no little parade.

In a climate so very unsettled as ours It's as well to be cautious and guard against showers, For though, about One, You've a fine brilliant sun, When your walk or your ride is but barely begun, Yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the Two, There is not in the whole sky one atom of blue, But it "rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through Ere you know where to turn, what to say, or to do; For which reason I've bought, to protect myself well, a Good stout Taglioni and gingham umbrella. But in Edward the First's days I very much fear, Had a gay cavalier Thought fit to appear In any such "toggery"—then 'twas term'd "gear"— He'd have met with a highly significant sneer, Or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear On the features of every soul he came near; There was no taking refuge too then, as with us, On a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a 'bus; As they rode through the woods In their wimples and hoods, Their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain Was, as Spenser describes it, to "pryck o'er the plaine," That is to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter In search of some building or other for shelter.

Now it seems that the sky, Which had been of a dye As bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye, The season in fact being genial and dry, Began to assume An appearance of gloom From the moment the Knight began fidget and fume, Which deepen'd and deepen'd till all the horizon Grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on, And soon, from the far west the elements' rumbling Increased, and kept pace with Sir Alured's grumbling, Bright flashes between, Blue, red, and green, All livid and lurid began to be seen; At length down it came—a whole deluge of rain, A perfect Niagara, drenching the plain, And up came the reek, And down came the shriek Of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train; And the tempest began so to roar and to pour, That the Dennes and the Ingoldsbys, starting at score, As they did from the porch of St. Romwold's church door, Had scarce gain'd a mile, or a mere trifle more, Ere the whole of the crew Were completely wet through.

They dash'd o'er the downs, and they dash'd through the vales, They dash'd up the hills, and they dash'd down the dales, As if elderly Nick was himself at their tails; The Bridegroom in vain Attempts to restrain The Bride's frighten'd palfrey by seizing the rein, When a flash and a crash, Which produced such a splash That a Yankee had called it "an Almighty Smash," Came down so complete At his own courser's feet, That the rider, though famous for keeping his seat, From its kickings and plungings, now under now upper, Slipp'd out of his demi-pique over the crupper, And fell from the back of his terrified cob On what bards less refined than myself term his "Nob." (To obtain a genteel rhyme's sometimes a tough job).—

Just so—for the nonce to enliven my song With a classical simile cannot be wrong— Just so—in such roads and in similar weather, Tydides and Nestor were riding together, When, so says old Homer, the King of the Sky, The great "Cloud-compeller," his lightnings let fly, And their horses both made such a desperate shy At this freak of old Zeus, That at once they broke loose, Reins, traces, bits, breechings were all of no use; If the Pylian Sage, without any delay, Had not whipp'd them sharp round and away from the fray, They'd have certainly upset his cabriolet, And there'd been the—a name I won't mention—to pay.

Well, the Knight in a moment recover'd his seat, Mr. Widdicombe's mode of performing that feat At Astley's could not be more neat or complete, —It's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen Of our own days, that this our great Widdicombe, then In the heyday of life, had afforded some ten Or twelve lessons in riding to Alured Denne,— It is certain the Knight Was so agile and light That an instant sufficed him to set matters right, Yet the Bride was by this time almost out of sight; For her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace Her descent from the "pure old Caucasian race," Sleek, slim, and bony, as Mr. Sidonia's Fine "Arab Steed" Of the very same breed, Which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly —See "Coningsby" written by "B. Disraeli"— That palfrey, I say, From this trifling delay Had made what at sea's call'd "a great deal of way." "More fleet than the roe-buck," and free as the wind, She had left the good company rather behind; They whipp'd and they spurr'd, and they after her prest, Still Sir Alured's steed was "by long chalks" the best Of the party, and very soon distanced the rest; But long ere e'en he had the fugitive near'd, She dash'd into the wood and at once disappear'd! It's a "fashious" affair when you're out on a ride, —Ev'n supposing you're not in pursuit of a bride, If you are it's more fashious, which can't be denied,— And you come to a place where three cross-roads divide Without any way-post, stuck up by the side Of the road, to direct you and act as a guide, With a road leading here, and a road leading there, And a road leading no one exactly knows where. When Sir Alured came In pursuit of the dame To a fork of this kind,—a three-prong'd one—small blame To his scholarship if in selecting his way His respect for the Classics now led him astray; But the rule, in a work I won't stop to describe, is In medio semper tutissimus ibis, So the Knight being forced of the three paths to enter one, Dash'd, with these words on his lips, down the centre one.

Up and down hill, Up and down hill, Through brake and o'er briar he gallops on still Aye, banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill At his courser because he had given him a "spill;" Yet he did not gain ground On the palfrey, the sound, On the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast Grew fainter, and fainter,—and fainter,—and—ceased! Sir Alured burst through the dingle at last, To a sort of a clearing, and there—he stuck fast; For his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on, Stood fix'd as the Governor's nag in "Don Juan," Or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a Few yards south-east of the door of the Opera, Save that Alured's horse had not got such a big tail, While Alured wanted the cock'd hat and pig-tail.

Before him is seen A diminutive Green Scoop'd out from the covert—a thick leafy screen Of wild foliage, trunks with broad branches between Encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen, For the weather at once appear'd clear and serene, And the sky up above was a bright mazarine, Just as though no such thing as a tempest had been, In short it was one of those sweet little places In Egypt and Araby known as "oases." There, under the shade That was made by the glade, The astonish'd Sir Alured sat and survey'd A little low building of Bethersden stone, With ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown, A Sacellum, or cell, In which Chronicles tell Saints and anchorites erst were accustom'd to dwell; A little round arch, on which, deeply indented, The zig-zaggy pattern by Saxons invented Was cleverly chisell'd, and well represented, Surmounted a door, Some five feet by four, It might have been less or it might have been more, In the primitive ages they made these things lower Than we do in buildings that had but one floor. And these Chronicles say When an anchorite gray Wish'd to shut himself up and keep out of the way, He was commonly wont in such low cells to stay, And pray night and day on the rez de chaussÉe.

There, under the arch I've endeavoured to paint, With no little surprise, And scarce trusting his eyes, The Knight now saw standing that little Boy Saint! The one whom before He'd seen over the door Of the Priory shaking his head as he swore— With mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on, The very self-same—or at least his Eidolon! With a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak You'd expect, that small Saint now address'd him to speak: In a bold, manly tone, he Began, while his stony Cold lips breath'd an odour quite Eau-de-Cologne-y; In fact, from his christening, according to rumour, he Beat Mr. Brummell to sticks, in perfumery.[71]

"Sir Alured Denne!" Said the Saint, "be atten- —tive! Your ancestors, all most respectable men, Have for some generations been vot'ries of mine; They have bought me mould candles, and bow'd at my shrine, They have made my monks presents of ven'son and wine, With a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine. And, though you in this Have been rather remiss, Still I owe you a turn for the sake of 'Lang Syne.' And I now come to tell you, your cursing and swearing Have reach'd to a pitch that is really past bearing.

'Twere a positive scandal In even a Vandal, It ne'er should be done, save with bell, book, and candle: And though I've now learn'd, as I've always suspected, Your own education's been somewhat neglected; Still, you're not such an uninformed pagan, I hope, As not to know cursing belongs to the Pope! And his Holiness feels, very properly, jealous Of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows. Now, take my advice, Saints never speak twice, So take it at once, as I once for all give it; Go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet, But mind, and remember, if once you give way To that shocking bad habit, I'm sorry to say, I have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day, As sure as you're born, on the very first trip That you make—the first oath that proceeds from your lip, I'll soon make you rue it! —I've said it—I'll do it! 'Forewarned is forearmed,' you shan't say but you knew it; Whate'er you hold dearest or nearest your heart, I'll take it away, if I come in a cart! I will, on my honour! you know it's absurd To suppose that a Saint ever forfeits his word For a pitiful Knight, or to please any such man— I've said it! I'll do't—if I don't, I'm a Dutchman!"—

He ceased—he was gone as he closed his harangue, And some one inside shut the door with a bang! Sparkling with dew, Each green herb anew Its profusion of sweets round Sir Alured threw, As pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew, (For the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue,) And the cud of reflection continued to chew Till the gables of Bonnington Hall rose in view. Little reck'd he what he smelt, what he saw, Brilliance of scenery, Fragrance of greenery, Fail'd in impressing his mental machinery; Many an hour had elapsed, well I ween, ere he Fairly was able distinction to draw 'Twixt the odour of garlic and bouquet du Roi.

Merrily, merrily sounds the horn, And cheerily ring the bells; For the race is run, The goal is won, The little lost mutton is happily found, The Lady of Bonnington's safe and sound In the Hall where her new Lord dwells! Hard had they ridden, that company gay, After fair Edith, away and away: This had slipp'd back o'er his courser's rump, That had gone over his ears with a plump, But the Lady herself had stuck on like a trump, Till her panting steed Relax'd her speed, And feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels When he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels, Stopp'd of herself, as it's very well known Horses will do, when they're thoroughly blown, And thus the whole group had foregathered again, Just as the sunshine succeeded the rain.

Oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking Doings indulged in by one and by all! Gaiety seized on the most melancholic in All the broad lands around Bonnington Hall. All sorts of revelry, All sorts of devilry, All play at "High Jinks" and keep up the ball. Days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing When one's so happy, how Time flies away; Meanwhile the Bridegroom requires no admonishing As to what pass'd on his own wedding day; Never since then Had Sir Alured Denne Let a word fall from his lip or his pen That began with a D, or left off with an N!

Once, and once only, when put in a rage, By a careless young rascal he'd hired as a Page, All buttons and brass, Who in handling a glass Of spiced hippocras, throws It all over his clothes, And spoils his best pourpoint, and smartest trunk hose, While stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he 'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety), Then, and then only, came into his head A very sad word that began with a Z, But he check'd his complaint, He remember'd the Saint, In the nick—Lady Denne was beginning to faint— That sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung, Like Mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung Half-way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue.

Many a year Of mirth and good cheer Flew over their heads, to each other more dear Every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer As the rarest examples of love ever known, Since the days of Le Chivaler D'Arbie and Joanne, Who in Bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone.

Well—it happen'd at last, After certain years past, That an embassy came to our court from afar— From the Grand-duke of Muscovy—now call'd the Czar, And the Spindleshank'd Monarch, determined to do All the grace that he could to a Nobleman, who Had sail'd all that way from a country which few In our England had heard of, and nobody knew, With a hat like a muff, and a beard like a Jew, Our arsenals, buildings, and dock-yards to view, And to say how desirous His Prince Wladimirus Had long been with mutual regard to inspire us, And how he regretted he was not much nigher us, With other fine things, Such as Kings say to Kings When each tries to humbug his dear Royal Brother, in Hopes by such "gammon" to take one another in— King Longshanks, I say, Being now on his way Bound for France, where the rebels had kept him at bay Was living in clover At this time at Dover I' the castle there, waiting a tide to go over.

He had summon'd, I can't tell you how many men, Knights, nobles, and squires to the wars of Guienne, And among these of course was Sir Alured Denne, Who, acting like most Of the knights in the host, Whose residence was not too far from the coast, Had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting, Fond souls, till the very last moment of starting. Of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights, In their Saracenettes,[72] and their bright chain-mail tights, All accustom'd to galas, grand doings, and sights, A matter like this was at once put to rights; 'Twould have been a strange thing, If so polish'd a king, With his board of Green Cloth, and Lord Steward's department, Couldn't teach an Ambassador what the word "smart" meant. A banquet was order'd at once for a score, Or more, of the corps that had just come on shore, And the King, though he thought it "a bit of a bore," Ask'd all the elite Of his levÉe to meet The illustrious Strangers and share in the treat; For the Boyar himself, the Queen graciously made him her Beau for the day, from respect to Duke Wladimir. (Queer as this name may appear in the spelling, You won't find it trouble you, Sound but the W Like the first L in Llan, Lloyd, and Llewellyn!")

Fancy the fuss and the fidgetty looks Of Robert de Burghersh, the constables, cooks; For of course the cuisine Of the King and the Queen Was behind them at London, or Windsor, or Sheene, Or wherever the Court ere it started had been, And it's really no jest, When a troublesome guest Looks in at a time when you're busy and prest, Just going to fight, or to ride, or to rest, And expects a good lunch when you've none ready drest. The servants no doubt Were much put to the rout By this very extempore sort of set out, But they wisely fell back upon Poor Richard's plan, "When you can't what you would, you must do what you can!" So they ransack'd the country, folds, pig-styes, and pens, For the sheep and the porkers, the cocks and the hens; 'Twas said a Tom-cat of Sir Alured Denne's, A fine tabby-gray, Disappear'd on that day, And whatever became of him no one could say; They brought all the food That ever they cou'd, Fish, flesh, and fowl, with sea-coal and dry wood, To his Majesty's Dapifer, Eudo (or Ude), They lighted the town up, sat ringing the bells, And borrow'd the waiters from all the hotels. A bright thought, moreover, came into the head Of Dapifer Eudo, who'd some little dread, As he said, for the thorough success of his spread. So he said to himself, "What a thing it would be Could I have here with me Some one two or three Of their outlandish scullions from over the sea! It's a hundred to one if the Suite or their Chief Understand our plvum-puddings, and barons of beef; But with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets We'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!" With this happy conceit for improving the Mess, Pooh-poohing expense, he dispatch'd an express In a waggon and four on the instant to Deal, Who dash'd down the hill without locking the wheel, And, by means which I guess but decline to re

FOOTNOTES:

[70] Honest John Capgrave, the veracious biographer of "English Saints," author, or rather compiler of the "Nova Legenda AngliÆ," was chaplain to Humphrey, "the Good Duke" of Gloucester. A beautiful edition of his work was printed by Wynkyn de Worde.

[71] In eodem autem prato in quo baptizatus Sanctus Romualdus nunquam gratissimus odor deficit; neque ibi herbÆ pallescunt, sed semper in viriditate permanentes magna nectaris suavitate redolent.—Nov. Legend. Angl.

[72] This silk, of great repute among our ancestors, had been brought home, a few years before, by Edward, from the Holy Land.

A serious error, similar to that which forms the subject of the following legend, is said to have occurred in the case of one, or rather two gentlemen named Curina, who dwelt near Hippo in the days of St. Augustine. The matter was set right, and a friendly hint at the same time conveyed to the ill-used individual, that it would be advisable for him to apply to the above-mentioned Father, and be baptized with as little delay as possible. The story is quoted in "The Doctor," together with another of the same kind, which is given on no less authority than that of Gregory the Great.

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