Oliver
Oliver plucks up a spirit.
"Open the door, will yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.
"I will directly, sir," replied Oliver, undoing the chain, and turning the key.
"I suppose yer the new boy, a'nt yer?" said the voice, through the key-hole.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver.
"How old are yer?" inquired the voice.
"Eleven, sir," replied Oliver.
"Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and, having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way, impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off to warm himself, for nobody did Oliver see but a big charity-boy sitting on the post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter, which he cut into wedges the size of his mouth with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver, at length, seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; "did you knock?"
"I kicked," replied the charity-boy.
"Did you want a coffin, sir?" inquired Oliver, innocently.
At this the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce, and said that Oliver would stand in need of one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.
"Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, work'us?" said the charity-boy, in continuation; descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity.
"No, sir," rejoined Oliver.
"I'm Mister Noah Claypole," said the charity-boy, "and you're under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!" With this Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit: it is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when, superadded to these personal attractions, are a red nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his efforts to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah, who, having consoled him with the assurance that "he'd catch it," condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after, and, shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared; and Oliver having "caught it," in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed that young gentleman down stairs to breakfast.
"Come near the fire, Noah," said Charlotte. "I saved a nice little piece of bacon for you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There's your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop. D'ye hear?"
"D'ye hear, work'us?" said Noah Claypole.
"Lor, Noah!" said Charlotte, "what a rum creature you are! Why don't you let the boy alone?"
"Let him alone!" said Noah. "Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor mother will ever interfere with him: all his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!"
"Oh, you queer soul!" said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering upon the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy back all the way to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets with ignominious epithets of "leathers," "charity," and the like; and Noah had borne them without reply. But now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature is, and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month, and Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry, the shop being shut up, were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said,
"My dear—" He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.
"Well!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
"Nothing, my dear, nothing," said Mr. Sowerberry.
"Ugh, you brute!" said Mrs. Sowerberry.
"Not at all, my dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, humbly. "I thought you didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say——"
"Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say," interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. "I am nobody; don't consult me, pray.Idon't want to intrude upon your secrets." And, as Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.
"But, my dear," said Sowerberry, "I want to ask your advice."
"No, no, don't ask mine," replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner; "ask somebody else's." Here there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging as a special favour to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear, and, after a short altercation of less than three quarters of an hour's duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.
"It's only about young Twist, my dear," said Mr. Sowerberry. "A very good-looking boy that, my dear."
"He need be, for he eats enough," observed the lady.
"There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear," resumed Mr. Sowerberry, "which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my dear."
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it, and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady's part, proceeded,
"I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it that it would have a superb effect."
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of the idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so under existing circumstances, she merely inquired with much sharpness why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband's mind before. Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this as an acquiescence in his proposition: it was speedily determined that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the profession, and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required.
The occasion was not long in coming; for, half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop, and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his largeleathern pocket-book, from which he selected a small scrap of paper which he handed over to Sowerberry.
"Aha!" said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; "an order for a coffin, eh?"
"For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards," replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book, which, like himself, was very corpulent.
"Bayton," said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble; "I never heard the name before."
Bumble shook his head as he replied, "Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry, very obstinate; proud, too, I'm afraid, sir."
"Proud, eh?" exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer.—"Come, that's too much."
"Oh, it's sickening," replied the beadle; "perfectly antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry."
"So it is," acquiesced the undertaker.
"We only heard of them the night before last," said the beadle; "and we shouldn't have known anything about them then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his 'prentice, which is a very clever lad, sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, off-hand."
"Ah, there's promptness," said the undertaker.
"Promptness, indeed!" replied the beadle. "But what's the consequence; what's the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't take it—says she shan't take it, sir. Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish labourers and a coalheaver only a week before—sent 'em for nothing, with a blacking-bottle in,—and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir."
As the flagrant atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.
"Well," said the undertaker, "I ne—ver—did——"
"Never did, sir!" ejaculated the beadle,—"no, nor nobody never did; but, now she's dead, we've got to bury her, and that's the direction, and the sooner it's done, the better."
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked-hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement, and flounced out of the shop.
"Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you," said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight during the interview, and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice. He needn't have taken the trouble to shrink from Mr.Bumble's glance, however; for that functionary on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial, the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome.
"Well," said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, "the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me." Oliver obeyed; and followed his master on his professional mission.
They walked on for some time through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town, and then striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old; and tenanted by people of the poorest class, as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked like shadows along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but they were fast closed, and mouldering away: only the upper rooms being inhabited. Others, which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street by huge beams of wood which were reared against the tottering walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy; the very rats that here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs, and, stumbling against a door on the landing, rapped at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in, and Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching mechanically over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess opposite the door there lay upon the ground something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as hecast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for, though it was covered up, the boyfeltthat it was a corpse.
The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly, and his eyes were blood-shot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man,—they seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.
"Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! d—n you, keep back, if you've a life to lose."
"Nonsense! my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes,—"nonsense!"
"I tell you," said the man, clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,—"I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry—not eat her,—she is so worn away."
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.
"Ah!" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down—kneel round her every one of you, and mark my words. I say she starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her, and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark—in the dark. She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it,—they starved her!"—He twined his hands in his hair, and with a loud scream rolled grovelling upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam gushing from his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence; and having unloosened the man's cravat, who still remained extended on the ground, tottered towards the undertaker.
"She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death itself.—"Lord, Lord!—well, it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there, so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it;—it's as good as a play—as good as a play!"
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away.
"Stop, stop!" said the old woman in a loud whisper. "Will she be buried to-morrow—or next day—or to-night? I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak—a good warm one, for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind: send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.
"Yes, yes," said the undertaker, "of course; anything, everything." He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, dragging Oliver after him, hurried away.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; the bare coffin having been screwed down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down stairs into the street.
"Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady," whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late, and it won't do to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you like."
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on, under their light burden, and the two mourners kept as near them as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not as long as his master's, ran by the side.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived, and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so before he came. So they set the bier down on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard, played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.
At length, after the lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave; and immediately afterwards the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr Bumble then threshed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of theburial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and ran away again.
"Now, Bill," said Sowerberry to the grave-digger, "fill up."
It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth, stamped it loosely down with his feet, shouldered his spade, and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.
"Come, my good fellow," said Bumble, tapping the man on the back, "they want to shut up the yard."
The man, who had never once moved since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces, and then fell down in a fit. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off) to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him, and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.
"Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?"
"Pretty well, thank you, sir," replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir."
"Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when youareused to it, my boy."
Oliver wondered in his own mind whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it; but he thought it better not to ask the question, and walked back to the shop, thinking over all he had seen and heard.
OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH,ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM.
It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver had acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which are so essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities ofobserving the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trial and losses.
For instance, when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be—quite cheerful and contented, conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness; and wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for some weeks he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole, who used him far worse than ever, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him badly because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend: so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up by mistake in the grain department of a brewery.
And now I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history, for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a most material change in all his future prospects and proceedings.
One day Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen, at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck; when, Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth, and pulled Oliver's hair, and twitched his ears, and expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak," and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hung wheneverthat desirable event should take place, and entered upon various other topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still, and in this attempt did what many small wits, with far greater reputations than Noah notwithstanding, do to this day when they want to be funny;—he got rather personal.
"Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?"
"She's dead," replied Oliver; "don't you say anything about her to me!"
Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly, and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.
"What did she die of, work'us?" said Noah.
"Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver, more as if he were talking to himself than answering Noah. "I think I know what it must be to die of that!"
"Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a snivelling now?"
"Notyou," replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. "Don't think it."
"Oh, not me, eh?" sneered Noah.
"No, not you," replied Oliver, sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!"
"Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! better not! work'us; don't be impudent.Yourmother, too! She was a nice 'un, she was. Oh, Lor!" And here Noah nodded his head expressively, and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together for the occasion.
"Yer know, work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity—of all tones the most annoying—"Yer know, work'us, it carn't be helped now, and of course yer couldn't help it then, and I'm very sorry for it, and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, work'us, your mother was a regular right-down bad 'un."
"What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
"A regular right-down bad 'un, work'us," replied Noah, coolly; "and it's a great deal better, work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung, which is more likely than either, isn't it?"
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, overthrew chair and table, seized Noah by the throat, shook him in the violence of his rage till his teeth chattered in his head, and, collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
A minute ago the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved, his attitude was erect, his eye bright and vivid, and his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor that lay crouching at his feet, and defied him with an energy he had never known before.
"He'll murder me!" blubbered Noah. "Charlotte! missis! here's the new boy a-murdering me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char—lotte!"
Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life to come further down.
"Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training,—"Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!" and between every syllable Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might, and accompanied it with a scream for the benefit of society.
Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other; and in this favourable position of affairs Noah rose from the ground, and pummeled him from behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long; so, when they were all three wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up; and this being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
"Bless her, she's going off!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste."
"Oh, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could through a deficiency of breath and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders,—"Oh, Charlotte, what a mercy we have not been all murdered in our beds!"
"Ah, mercy, indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures that are born to be murderers and robbers from theirvery cradle. Poor Noah! he was all but killed, ma'am, when I came in."
"Ah, poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some very audible tears and sniffs.
"What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home—there's not a man in the house,—and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question rendered this occurrence highly probable.
"Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the police-officers."
"Or the millingtary," suggested Mr. Claypole.
"No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend; "run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap,—make haste. You can hold a knife to that black eye as you run along, and it'll keep the swelling down."
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.
Bent upon extra thousands netting,Graspall's the oddest mortal living!His only object seemsfor-getting—How strange he should not befor-giving!H. H.
Bent upon extra thousands netting,Graspall's the oddest mortal living!His only object seemsfor-getting—How strange he should not befor-giving!H. H.
Abridged from the voluminous Epic Poem by Beg-beg (formerly a mendicant ballad-singer, afterwards Principal Lord Rector of the University of Samarcand, and subsequently Historiographer and Poet Laureate to the Court of Balk,) by C. J. Davids, Esq.
I.The great Tartar chief, on a festival day,Gave a spread to his court, and resolv'd to be gay;But, just in the midst of their music and glee,The mirth was upset by a humble-bee—A humble-bee—They were bored by a rascallyhumble-bee!II.This riotous bee was so wanting in senseAs to fly at the Cham with malice prepense:Said his highness, "My fate will befelo-de-se,If I'm thus to be teas'd by a humble-bee—A humble-bee—HowshallI get rid of the humble-bee!"III.The troops in attendance, with sabre and spear,Were order'd to harass the enemy's rear:But the brave body-guards were forced to flee—They were all so afraid of the humble-bee—The humble-bee—The soldiers were scar'd by the humble-bee.IV.The solicitor-general thought there was reasonFor indicting the scamp on a charge of high-treason;While the chancellordoubtedif any decreeFrom the woolsack would frighten the humble-bee—The humble-bee—So the lawyers fought shy of the humble-bee.V.The Cham from his throne in an agony rose,While the insect was buzzing right under his nose:—"Was ever a potentate plagued like me,Or worried to death by a humble-bee!A humble-bee—Don't let me be stung by the humble-bee!"VI.He said to a page, nearly choking with grief,"Bring hither my valiant commander-in-chief;And say that I'll give him a liberal fee,To cut the throat of this humble-bee—This humble-bee—This turbulent, Jacobin, humble-bee!"VII.His generalissimo came at the summons,And, cursing the courtiers for cowardlyrum-uns,"My liege," said he, "it's all fiddle-de-deeTo make such a fuss for a humble-bee—A humble-bee—I don't care a d—n for the humble-bee!"VIII.The veteran rush'd sword in hand on the foe,And cut him in two with a desperate blow.His master exclaim'd, "I'm delighted to seeHow neatly you've settled the humble-bee!"The humble-bee—So there was an end of the humble-bee.IX.By the doctor's advice (which was prudent and right)His highness retired very early that night:For they got him to bed soon after his tea,And he dream'd all night of the humble-bee—The humble-bee—He saw the grim ghost of the humble-bee.MORAL.Seditious disturbers, mind well what you'rearter—Lest, humming a prince, you by chance catch aTartar.Consider, when planning an impudent spree,You may get the same luck as the humble-bee—The humble-bee—Remember the doom of the humble-bee!
I.The great Tartar chief, on a festival day,Gave a spread to his court, and resolv'd to be gay;But, just in the midst of their music and glee,The mirth was upset by a humble-bee—A humble-bee—They were bored by a rascallyhumble-bee!
II.This riotous bee was so wanting in senseAs to fly at the Cham with malice prepense:Said his highness, "My fate will befelo-de-se,If I'm thus to be teas'd by a humble-bee—A humble-bee—HowshallI get rid of the humble-bee!"
III.The troops in attendance, with sabre and spear,Were order'd to harass the enemy's rear:But the brave body-guards were forced to flee—They were all so afraid of the humble-bee—The humble-bee—The soldiers were scar'd by the humble-bee.
IV.The solicitor-general thought there was reasonFor indicting the scamp on a charge of high-treason;While the chancellordoubtedif any decreeFrom the woolsack would frighten the humble-bee—The humble-bee—So the lawyers fought shy of the humble-bee.
V.The Cham from his throne in an agony rose,While the insect was buzzing right under his nose:—"Was ever a potentate plagued like me,Or worried to death by a humble-bee!A humble-bee—Don't let me be stung by the humble-bee!"
VI.He said to a page, nearly choking with grief,"Bring hither my valiant commander-in-chief;And say that I'll give him a liberal fee,To cut the throat of this humble-bee—This humble-bee—This turbulent, Jacobin, humble-bee!"
VII.His generalissimo came at the summons,And, cursing the courtiers for cowardlyrum-uns,"My liege," said he, "it's all fiddle-de-deeTo make such a fuss for a humble-bee—A humble-bee—I don't care a d—n for the humble-bee!"
VIII.The veteran rush'd sword in hand on the foe,And cut him in two with a desperate blow.His master exclaim'd, "I'm delighted to seeHow neatly you've settled the humble-bee!"The humble-bee—So there was an end of the humble-bee.
IX.By the doctor's advice (which was prudent and right)His highness retired very early that night:For they got him to bed soon after his tea,And he dream'd all night of the humble-bee—The humble-bee—He saw the grim ghost of the humble-bee.
MORAL.Seditious disturbers, mind well what you'rearter—Lest, humming a prince, you by chance catch aTartar.Consider, when planning an impudent spree,You may get the same luck as the humble-bee—The humble-bee—Remember the doom of the humble-bee!
I can not really understand,(Said Henry to his aunt,)Why a dumb waiter this is called,—Upon my word, I can't;For I have heard you often sayItanswersvery well.Why, then, the waiter is calleddumb,I cannot think, or tell.Between you, boy, this difference know,—For once attention lending,—While withoutspeakingthisattends,Youspeakwithoutattending.
I can not really understand,(Said Henry to his aunt,)Why a dumb waiter this is called,—Upon my word, I can't;For I have heard you often sayItanswersvery well.Why, then, the waiter is calleddumb,I cannot think, or tell.
Between you, boy, this difference know,—For once attention lending,—While withoutspeakingthisattends,Youspeakwithoutattending.
GREY DOLPHIN.
BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQ.
"He won't—won't he? Then bring me my boots!" said the Baron.
Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland—a caitiff had dared to disobey the Baron! and—the Baron had called for his boots!
A thunderbolt in the great hall had been abagatelleto it.
A few days before, a notable miracle had been wrought in the neighbourhood; and in those times miracles were not so common as they are now:—no Royal Balloons, no steam, no railroads,—while the few Saints who took the trouble to walk with their heads under their arms, or pull the Devil by the nose, scarcely appeared above once in a century:—so it made the greater sensation.
The clock had done striking twelve, and the Clerk of Chatham was untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his truckle-bed: a half-emptied tankard of mild ale stood at his elbow, the roasted crab yet floating on its surface. Midnight had surprised the worthy functionary while occupied in discussing it, and with the task yet unaccomplished. He meditated a mighty draught: one hand was fumbling with his tags, while the other was extended in the act of grasping the jorum, when a knock on the portal, solemn and sonorous, arrested his fingers. It was repeated thrice ere Emanuel Saddleton had presence of mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that untimeous hour.
"Open! open! good Clerk of St. Bridget's," said a female voice, small, yet distinct and sweet,—"an excellent thing in woman."
The clerk arose, crossed to the doorway, and undid the latchet.
On the threshold stood a lady of surpassing beauty: her robes were rich, and large, and full; and a diadem, sparkling with gems that shed a halo around, crowned her brow: she beckoned the clerk as he stood in astonishment before her.
"Emanuel!" said the lady; and her tones sounded like those of a silver flute. "Emanuel Saddleton, truss up your points, and follow me!"
The worthy clerk stared aghast at the vision; the purple robe, the cymar, the coronet,—above all, the smile;—no, there was no mistaking her; it was the blessed St. Bridget herself!
And what could have brought the sainted lady out of her warm shrine at such a time of night? and on such a night? for it was as dark as pitch, and, metaphorically speaking, "rained cats and dogs."
Emanuel could not speak, so he looked the question.
"No matter for that," said the Saint, answering to his thought. "No matter for that, Emanuel Saddleton; only follow me, and you'll see."
The clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner-cupboard.
"Oh, never mind the lantern, Emanuel; you'll not want it: but you may bring a mattock and shovel." As she spoke, the beautiful apparition held up her delicate hand. From the tip of each of her long taper fingers issued a lambent flame of such surpassing brilliancyas would have plunged a whole gas company into despair—it was a "Hand of Glory," such a one as tradition tells us yet burns in Rochester Castle every St. Mark's Eve. Many are the daring individuals who have watched in Gundulph's Tower, hoping to find it, and the treasure it guards;—but none of them ever did.
"This way, Emanuel!" and a flame of peculiar radiance streamed from her little finger as it pointed to the pathway leading to the churchyard.
Saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence.
The cemetery of St. Bridget's was some half-mile distant from the clerk's domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated to that illustrious lady, who, after leading but a so-so life, had died in the odour of sanctity. Emanuel Saddleton was fat and scant of breath, the mattock was heavy, and the saint walked too fast for him: he paused to take second wind at the end of the first furlong.
"Emanuel," said the holy lady good-humouredly, for she heard him puffing; "rest a while, Emanuel, and I'll tell you what I want with you."
Her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and looked all attention and obedience.
"Emanuel," continued she, "what did you and Father Fothergill, and the rest of you, mean yesterday by burying that drowned man so close to me? He died in mortal sin, Emanuel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution: why, he might as well have been excommunicated. He plagues me with his grinning, and I can't have any peace in my shrine. You must howk him up again, Emanuel!"
"To be sure, madam,—my lady,—that is, your holiness," stammered Saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task assigned him. "To be sure, your ladyship; only—that is—"
"Emanuel," said the Saint, "you'll do my bidding; or it would be better you had!" and her eye changed from a dove's eye to that of a hawk, and a flash came from it as bright as the one from her little finger. The Clerk shook in his shoes, and, again dashing the cold perspiration from his brow, followed the footsteps of his mysterious guide.
The next morning all Chatham was in an uproar. The Clerk of St. Bridget's had found himself at home at daybreak, seated in his own arm-chair, the fire out, and—the tankard of ale quite exhausted. Who had drunk it? Where had he been? How had he got home?—all was a mystery: he remembered "a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;" all was fog and fantasy. What he could clearly recollect was, that he had dug up the grinning sailor, and that the Saint had helped to throw him into the river again. All was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. Masses were sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled; the monks of St. Romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St. Thomas-à-Becket in the centre; Father Fothergill brewed a XXX puncheon of holy-water. The Rood of Gillingham was deserted; the chapel of Rainham forsaken; every one who had a soul to be saved flocked with his offering to St. Bridget's shrine, and Emanuel Saddleton gathered more fees from the promiscuous piety of that one week than he had pocketed during the twelve preceding months.
Meanwhile the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated like a pendulum between Sheerness and Gillingham Reach. Now borne by the Medway into the Western Swale, now carried by the refluent tide back to the vicinity of its old quarters, it seemed as though the River god and Neptune were amusing themselves with a game of subaqueous battledore, and had chosen this unfortunate carcass as a marine shuttlecock. For some time the alternation was kept up with great spirit, till Boreas, interfering in the shape of a stiffish "Nor'-wester," drifted the bone (and flesh) of contention ashore on the Shurland domain, where it lay in all the majesty of mud. It was soon discovered by the retainers, and dragged from its oozy bed, grinning worse than ever. Tidings of the god-send were of course carried instantly to the castle, for the Baron was a very great man; and if a dun crow had flown across his property unannounced by the warder, the Baron would have kicked him, the said warder, from the topmost battlement into the bottommost ditch,—a descent of peril, and one which "Ludwig the leaper," or the illustrious Trenk himself, might well have shrunk from encountering.
"An't please your lordship—" said Peter Periwinkle.
"No, villain! it does not please me!" roared the Baron.
His lordship was deeply engaged with a peck of Feversham oysters,—he doted on shellfish, hated interruption at meals, and had not yet despatched more than twenty dozen of the "natives."
"There's a body, my lord, washed ashore in the lower creek," said the seneschal.
The Baron was going to throw the shells at his head; but paused in the act, and said with much dignity,
"Turn out the fellow's pockets!"
But the defunct had before been subjected to the double scrutiny of Father Fothergill and the Clerk of St. Bridget's. It was ill gleaning after such hands; there was not a single marvedi.
We have already said that Sir Ralph de Shurland, Lord of the Isle of Sheppey, and of many a fair manor on the main-land, was a man of worship. He had rights of freewarren, saccage and sockage, cuisage and jambage, fosse and fork, infang theofe and outfang theofe; and all waifs and strays belonged to him in fee simple.
"Turn out his pockets!" said the Knight.
"Please you, my lord, I must say as how they was turned out afore, and the devil a rap's left."
"Then bury the blackguard!"
"Please your lordship, he has been buried once."
"Then bury him again, and be——!" The Baron bestowed a benediction.
The seneschal bowed low as he left the room, and the Baron went on with his oysters.
Scarce ten dozen more had vanished when Periwinkle reappeared.
"An't please you, my lord, Father Fothergill says as how that it's the Grinning Sailor, and he won't bury him anyhow."
"Oh! he won't—won't he?" said the Baron. Can it be wondered at that he called for his boots?
Sir Ralph de Shurland, Lord of Shurland and Minster, Baron of Sheppeyin comitatuKent, was, as has been before hinted, a very great man. He was also a very little man; that is, he was relativelygreat and relatively little,—or physically little and metaphorically great,—like Sir Sidney Smith and the late Mr. Bonaparte. To the frame of a dwarf he united the soul of a giant and the valour of a gamecock. Then, for so small a man, his strength was prodigious; his fist would fell an ox, and his kick—oh! his kick was tremendous, and, when he had his boots on, would,—to use an expression of his own, which he had picked up in the holy wars,—would send a man from Jericho to June. He was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest was broad and deep, his head large, and uncommonly thick, his eyes a little blood-shot, and his noseretrouséwith a remarkably red tip. Strictly speaking, the Baron could not be called handsome; but histout ensemblewas singularly impressive: and when he called for his boots, everybody trembled, and dreaded the worst.
"Periwinkle," said the Baron, as he encased his better leg, "let the grave be twenty feet deep!"
"Your lordship's command is law."
"And, Periwinkle,"—Sir Ralph stamped his left heel into its receptacle,—"and, Periwinkle, see that it be wide enough to hold not exceeding two!"
"Ye—ye—yes, my lord."
"And, Periwinkle,—tell Father Fothergill I would fain speak with his reverence."
"Ye—ye—yes, my lord."
The Baron's beard was picked, and his moustaches, stiff and stumpy, projected horizontally like those of a Tom-cat; he twirled the one, stroked the other, drew the buckle of his surcingle a thought tighter, and strode down the great staircase three steps at a stride.
The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland Castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute, expectation and perplexity were visible on every brow. What would his lordship do? Were the recusant anybody else, gyves to the heels and hemp to the throat were but too good for him: but it was Father Fothergill who had said "I won't;" and, though the Baron was a very great man, the Pope was a greater, and the Pope was Father Fothergill's great friend—some people said he was his uncle.
Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory trying conclusions with a venison pasty, when he received the summons of his patron to attend him in the chapel cemetery. Of course he lost no time in obeying it, for obedience was the general rule in Shurland Castle. If anybody ever said "I won't," it was the exception; and, like all other exceptions, only proved the rule the stronger. The Father was a friar of the Augustine persuasion; a brotherhood which, having been planted in Kent some few centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and overspread the county much as hops did some few centuries later. He was plump and portly, a little thick-winded, especially after dinner, stood five feet four in his sandals, and weighed hard upon eighteen stone. He was moreover a personage of singular piety; and the iron girdle, which, he said, he wore under his cassock to mortify withal, might have been well mistaken for the tire of a cart-wheel. When he arrived, Sir Ralph was pacing up and down by the side of a newly-opened grave.
"Benedicite!fair son,"—(the Baron was as brown as a cigar,) —"Benedicite!" said the chaplain.
The Baron was too angry to stand upon compliment.—"Bury me that grinning caitiff there!" quoth he, pointing to the defunct.
"It may not be, fair son," said the Friar; "he hath perished without absolution."
"Bury the body!" roared Sir Ralph.
"Water and earth alike reject him," returned the chaplain; "holy St. Bridget herself——"
"Bridget me no Bridgets! do me thine office quickly, Sir Shaveling; or, by the piper that played before Moses!——" The oath was a fearful one; and whenever the Baron swore to do mischief, he was never known to perjure himself. He was playing with the hilt of his sword.—"Do me thine office, I say. Give him his passport to heaven!"
"He is already gone to hell!" stammered the friar.
"Then do you go after him!" thundered the Lord of Shurland.
His sword half leaped from its scabbard. No!—the trenchant blade that had cut Suleiman Ben Malek Ben Buckskin from helmet to chine disdained to daub itself with the cerebellum of a miserable monk: it leaped back again; and as the chaplain, scared at its flash, turned him in terror, the Baron gave him a kick!—one kick!—it was but one!—but such a one! Despite its obesity, up flew his holy body in an angle of forty-five degrees; then, having reached its highest point of elevation, sunk headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it. If the reverend gentleman had possessed a neck, he had infallibly broken it; as he did not, he only dislocated his vertebræ,—but that did quite as well. He was as dead as ditch-water.
"In with the other rascal!" said the Baron, and he was obeyed; for there he stood in his boots. Mattock and shovel made short work of it; twenty feet of superincumbent mould pressed down alike the saint and the sinner. "Now sing a requiem who list!" said the Baron, and his lordship went back to his oysters.
The vassals at Castle Shurland were astounded, or, as the seneschal Hugh better expressed it, "perfectly conglomerated," by this event. What! murder a monk in the odour of sanctity,—and on consecrated ground too! They trembled for the health of the Baron's soul. To the unsophisticated many it seemed that matters could not have been much worse had he shot a bishop's coach-horse;—all looked for some signal judgment. The melancholy catastrophe of their neighbours at Canterbury was yet rife in their memories: not two centuries had elapsed since those miserable sinners had cut off the tail of St. Thomas's mule. The tail of the mule, it was well known, had been forthwith affixed to that of the mayor; and rumour said it had since been hereditary in the corporation. The least that could be expected was, that Sir Ralph should have a friar tacked on to his for the term of his natural life! Some bolder spirits there were, 'tis true, who viewed the matter in various lights, according to their different temperaments and dispositions; for perfect unanimity existed not even in the good old times. The verderer, roistering Hob Roebuck, swore roundly, "'Twere as good a deed as eat to kick down the chapel as well as the monk."—Hob had stood there in a white sheet for kissing Giles Miller's daughter.—On the other hand, Simpkin Agnew, the bell-ringer, doubted if the devil's cellar, which runs under the bottomless abyss, were quite deep enough for thedelinquent, and speculated on the probability of a hole being dug in it for his especial accommodation. The philosophers and economists thought with Saunders M'Bullock, the Baron's bagpiper, that "a feckless monk more or less was nae great subject for a clamjamphry," especially as "the supply considerably exceeded the demand;" while Malthouse, the tapster, was arguing to Dame Martin that a murder now and then was a seasonable check to population, without which the Isle of Sheppey would in time be devoured, like a mouldy cheese, by inhabitants of its own producing. Meanwhile, the Baron ate his oysters, and thought no more of the matter.
But this tranquillity of his lordship was not to last. A couple of Saints had been seriously offended; and we have all of us read at school that celestial minds are by no means insensible to the provocations of anger. There were those who expected that St. Bridget would come in person, and have the friar up again as she did the sailor; but perhaps her ladyship did not care to trust herself within the walls of Shurland Castle. To say the truth, it was scarcely a decent house for a female Saint to be seen in. The Baron's gallantries, since he became a widower, had been but too notorious; and her own reputation was a little blown upon in the earlier days of her earthly pilgrimage: then things were so apt to be misrepresented: in short, she would leave the whole affair to St. Austin, who, being a gentleman, could interfere with propriety, avenge her affront as well as his own, and leave no loop-hole for scandal. St. Austin himself seems to have had his scruples, though of their precise nature it were difficult to determine, for it were idle to suppose him at all afraid of the Baron's boots. Be this as it may, the mode which he adopted was at once prudent and efficacious. As an ecclesiastic, he could not well call the Baron out, had his boots been out of the question; so he resolved to have recourse to the law. Instead of Shurland Castle, therefore, he repaired forthwith to his own magnificent monastery, situate just without the walls of Canterbury, and presented himself in a vision to its abbot. No one who has ever visited that ancient city can fail to recollect the splendid gateway which terminates the vista of St. Paul's street, and stands there yet in all its pristine beauty. The tiny train of miniature artillery which now adorns its battlements is, it is true, an ornament of a later date; and is said to have been added some centuries after by some learned but jealous proprietor, for the purpose of shooting any wiser man than himself who might chance to come that way. Tradition is silent as to any discharge having taken place, nor can the oldest inhabitant of modern days recollect any such occurrence. Here it was, in a handsome chamber, immediately over the lofty archway, that the superior of the monastery lay buried in a brief slumber snatched from his accustomed vigils. His mitre—for he was a mitred abbot, and had a seat in parliament—rested on a table beside him; near it stood a silver flagon of Gascony wine, ready, no doubt, for the pious uses of the morrow. Fasting and watching had made him more than usually somnolent, than which nothing could have been better for the purpose of the Saint, who now appeared to him radiant in all the colours of the rainbow.
"Anselm!"—said the beatific vision,—"Anselm! are you not a pretty fellow to lie snoring there, when your brethren are being knocked at head, and Mother Church herself is menaced! It is a sin and a shame, Anselm!"
"What's the matter?—Who are you?" cried the Abbot, rubbing his eyes, which the celestial splendour of his visiter had set a-winking. "Ave Maria! St. Austin himself!—Speak,Beatissime! what would you with the humblest of your votaries?"
"Anselm!" said the Saint, "a brother of our order, whose soul Heaven assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. He hath been ignominiously kicked to the death, Anselm; and there he lieth cheek-by-jowl with a wretched carcass, which our sister Bridget has turned out of her cemetery for unseemly grinning. Arouse thee, Anselm!"
"Ay, so please you,Sanctissime!" said the Abbot: "I will order forthwith that thirty masses be said, thirtyPaters, and thirtyAves."
"Thirty fools' heads!" interrupted his patron, who was a little peppery.
"I will send for bell, book, and candle."
"Send for an inkhorn, Anselm. Write me now a letter to his Holiness the Pope in good round terms, and another to the coroner, and another to the sheriff and seize me the never-enough-to-be-anathematised villain who hath done this deed! Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm!—up with him!—down with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearth-stone and roof-tree,—down with it all, and sow the site with salt and sawdust!"
St. Austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer.
"Marry will I," quoth the Abbot, warming with the Saint's eloquence; "ay, marry will I, and thatinstanter. But there is one thing you have forgotten, most Beatified—the name of the culprit."
"Ralph de Shurland."
"The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!" said the Abbot, crossing himself, "won't that be rather inconvenient? Sir Ralph is a bold baron and a powerful; blows will come and go, and crowns will be cracked, and——"
"What is that to you, since yours will not be of the number?"
"Very true,Beatissime! I will don me with speed, and do your bidding."
"Do so, Anselm!—fail not to hang the baron, burn his castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax-candles for my own particular shrine out of your share of the property."
With this solemn injunction the vision began to fade.
"One thing more!" cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.
"What is that?" asked the Saint.
"O Beate Augustine, ora pro nobis!"
"Of course I shall," said St. Austin. "Pax vobiscum!"—and Abbot Anselm was left alone.
Within an hour all Canterbury was in commotion. A friar had been murdered,—two friars—ten—twenty; a whole convent had been assaulted,—sacked,—burnt,—all the monks had been killed, and all the nuns had been kissed! Murder!—fire!—sacrilege! Never was city in such an uproar. From St. George's gate to St. Dunstan's suburb, from the Donjon to the borough of Staplegate, all was noise and hubbub. "Where was it?"—"When was it?"—"How was it?" The Mayor caught up his chain, the Aldermen donned their furred gowns, the Town-clerk put on his spectacles. "Who was he?"—"What was he?"—"Where was he?"—he should be hanged,—he should be burned,—he should be broiled,—he should be fried,—heshould be scraped to death with red-hot oyster-shells! "Who was he?"—"What was his name?"
The abbot's Apparitor drew forth his roll and read aloud: "Sir Ralph de Shurland, Knight banneret, Baron of Shurland and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey."
The Mayor put his chain in his pocket, the Aldermen took off their gowns, the Town-clerk put his pen behind his ear,—It was a county business altogether: the Sheriff had better call out theposse comitatus.
While saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him, the Baron de Shurland was quietly eating his breakfast. He had passed a tranquil night, undisturbed by dreams of cowl or capuchin; nor was his appetite more affected than his conscience. On the contrary, he sat rather longer over his meal than usual; luncheon-time came, and he was ready as ever for his oysters; but scarcely had Dame Martin opened his first half-dozen when the warder's horn was heard from the barbican.
"Who the devil's that?" said Sir Ralph. "I'm not at home, Periwinkle. I hate to be disturbed at meals, and I won't be at home to anybody."
"An't please your lordship," answered the seneschal, "Paul Prior hath given notice that there is a body——"
"Another body!" roared the Baron. "Am I to be everlastingly plagued with bodies? No time allowed me to swallow a morsel. Throw it into the moat!"
"So please you, my lord, it is a body of horse,—and—and Paul says there is a still larger body of foot behind it; and he thinks, my lord,—that is, he does not know, but he thinks—and we all think, my lord, that they are coming to—to besiege the castle!"
"Besiege the castle! Who? What? What for?"
"Paul says, my lord, that he can see the banner of St. Austin, and the bleeding heart of Hamo de Crevecœur, the abbot's chief vassal; and there is John de Northwood, the sheriff, with his red-cross engrailed; and Hever, and Leybourne, and Heaven knows how many more; and they are all coming on as fast as ever they can."
"Periwinkle," said the Baron, "up with the drawbridge; down with the portcullis; bring me a cup of canary, and my night-cap. I won't be bothered with them. I shall go to bed."
"To bed, my lord!" cried Periwinkle, with a look that seemed to say, "He's crazy."
At this moment the shrill tones of a trumpet were heard to sound thrice from the champaign. It was the signal for parley: the Baron changed his mind; instead of going to bed, he went to the ramparts.
"Well, rapscallions! and what now?" said the Baron.
A herald, two pursuivants, and a trumpeter, occupied the foreground of the scene; behind them, some three hundred paces off, upon a rising ground, was drawn up in battle-array the main body of the ecclesiastical forces.
"Hear you, Ralph de Shurland, Knight, Baron of Shurland and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey, and know all men, by these presents, that I do hereby attach you, the said Ralph, of murder and sacrilege, now, or of late, done and committed by you, the said Ralph, contrary to the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown and dignity:and I do hereby require and charge you, the said Ralph, to forthwith surrender and give up your own proper person, together with the castle of Shurland aforesaid, in order that the same may be duly dealt with according to law. And here standeth John de Northwood, Esquire, good man and true, sheriff of this his majesty's most loyal county of Kent, to enforce the same, if need be, with hisposse comitatus."
"His what?" said the Baron.
"Hisposse comitatus, and——"
"Go to Bath!" said the Baron.
A defiance so contemptuous roused the ire of the adverse commanders. A volley of missiles rattled about the Baron's ears. Night-caps avail little against contusions. He left the walls, and returned to the great hall.
"Let them pelt away," quoth the Baron; "there are no windows to break, and they can't get in." So he took his afternoon nap, and the siege went on.
Towards evening his lordship awoke, and grew tired of the din. Guy Pearson, too, had got a black eye from a brick-bat, and the assailants were clambering over the outer wall. So the Baron called for his Sunday hauberk of Milan steel, and his great two-handed sword with the terrible name:—it was the fashion in feudal times to give names to swords; King Arthur's was christened Excalibar; the Baron called his Tickletoby, and whenever he took it in hand it was no joke.
"Up with the portcullis! down with the bridge!" said Sir Ralph; and out he sallied, followed by theéliteof his retainers. Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one way—arms and legs another; round went Tickletoby, and, wherever it alighted, down came horse and man: the Baron excelled himself that day. All that he had done in Palestine faded in the comparison; he had fought for fun there, but now it was for life and lands. Away went John de Northwood; away went William of Hever, and Roger of Leybourne. Hamo de Crevecœr, with the church vassals and the banner of St. Austin, had been gone some time. The siege was raised, and the Lord of Sheppey left alone in his glory.
But, brave as the Baron undoubtedly was, and total as had been the defeat of his enemies, it cannot be supposed thatLa Stoccatawould be allowed to carry it away thus. It has before been hinted that Abbot Anselm had written to the Pope, and Boniface the Eighth piqued himself on his punctuality as a correspondent in all matters connected with church discipline. He sent back an answer by return of post; and by it all Christian people were strictly enjoined to aid in exterminating the offender, on pain of the greater excommunication in this world, and a million of years of purgatory in the next. But then, again, Boniface the Eighth was rather at a discount in England just then. He had affronted Longshanks, as the loyal lieges had nicknamed their monarch; and Longshanks had been rather sharp upon the clergy in consequence. If the Baron de Shurland could but get the King's pardon for what in his cooler moments he admitted to be a peccadillo, he might sniff at the Pope, and bid him "do his devilmost."