  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 entomb'd within her; There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose, 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, mouldy Stilton cheese,—but taller. The keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately, And, 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honour jealous, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are filled with money-making fellows, And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, 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 cut 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 anything 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 bruizing, 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, "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, Jane, or 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 alehouse 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's, 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. Here they would oft forget their Ruler's faults, And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapour, Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper;— This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, 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 Spectres spoke with shorten'd breath, And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death." Nick smoked, and smoked, and trembled tb THE GHOST. 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 Spectre 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 sombre 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 mouldering fabric's deep recess At length they reach a court obscure and lone;— It seem'd a drear and desolate wilderness, The blacken'd walls with ivy all o'ergrown; The night-bird shriek'd her note of wild distress, Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, As though indignant mortal step should dare, So led, at such an hour, to venture there! The vision was no more—and Nick alone— "His streamers 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, "'Twere vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clue— Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray! 'Fore George, I'm vastly 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 neighbours make "the Ghost" their theme; While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair! tb Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the following monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of "Yow-Yow"-ing memory. Tray was an attached favourite of many years' standing. Most people worth loving have had a friend of this kind; Lord Byron says he "never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman,) lies!" |
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