THE DEAD DRUMMER.

A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.

Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,—At least so I've heard many people declare,For I fairly confess I never was there;—Not a shrub nor a tree, Nor a bush can you see;No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles,Much less a house, or a cottage for miles;——It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rainWhen night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.Now, I'd have you to know That, a great while ago,The best part of a century, may be, or so,Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,A couple of Travellers, wayworn and weary,Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say,At a single glance did not admit of a query;The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers, worn then,With scarce an exception by seafaring men,The jacket,—the loose trousers "bows'd up together"—allGuiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall,—The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,And shew'd in a moment their real charácters,(The accent's so placed on this word by our Jack Tars.)The one in advance was sturdy and strong,With arms uncommonly bony and long,And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt,Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong.He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested;His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did,Except as to height, for he could not be moreAt the most, you would say, than some five feet four,And if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower.Dame Nature, in fact,—whom some person or other,—A Poet,—has call'd a "capricious step-mother,"—You saw, when beside him, Had somehow denied himIn longitude what she had granted in latitude,A trifling defect You'd the sooner detectFrom his having contracted a stoop in his attitude.Square-built and broad-shoulder'd, good-humoured and gay,With his collar and countenance open as day,The latter—'twas mark'd with small-pox, by the way,—Had a sort of expression good will to bespeak;He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek!And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height,He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight,You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight!The other, his friend and companion, was tallerBy five or six inches, at least, than the smaller;—From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen,That he was, or had been, A something betweenThe real "Jack Tar" and the "Jolly Marine."For, though he would give an occasional hitch,Sailor-like to his "slops," there was something, the which,On the whole savoured more of the pipe-clay than pitch.—Such were now the two men who appeared on the hill,Harry Waters the tall one, the short "Spanking Bill."To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again,Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain;And when with a good soaking shower there are blendedBlue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended;Such was the case In this wild dreary place,On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the braceOf trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace,Till a good steady walk became more like a race,To get quit of the tempest which held them in chase.Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder,The heav'nly artill'ry kept crashing and roaring,The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring,While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelterFrom, what I have heard term'd, "a regular pelter;"But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen,Or an object except that on one of the rises,An old way-post show'd Where the Lavington roadBranch'd off to the left from the one to Devizes;And thither the footsteps of Waters seem'd tending,Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending,To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes,Is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;—While Harry kept "backingAnd filling,"—and "tacking,"—Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, areMeant to imply What you, Reader, and IWould call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuseAll mistakes I may make in the words sailors use'Mongst themselves, on a cruise, Or ashore with the Jews,Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues,Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat—womenKnown in our navy as oddly-named boat-women.The fact is, I can't say I'm vers'd in the schoolSo ably conducted by Marryat and Poole;(See the last-mentioned gentleman's "Admiral's Daughter,")The grandvade mecumFor all who to sea come,And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water;Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonderIf I now and then should fall into some blunder,For which Captain Chamier, or Mr. T. P. CookeWould call me a "Lubber," and "Son of a Sea-cook."To return to our muttons—This mode of progressionAt length upon Spanking Bill made some impression.—"Hillo, messmate, what cheer?How queer youdosteer!"Cried Bill, whose short legs kept him still in the rear."Why, what's in the wind, Bo?—what is it you fear?"For he saw in a moment that something was frighteningHis shipmate much more than the thunder and lightning.—"Fear?" stammer'd out Waters, "why,Him!—don't you seeWhat faces that Drummer-boy's making at me!——How he dodges me so Wherever I go?—What is it he wants with me, Bill,—do you know?"—"What Drummer-boy, Harry?" cries Bill, in surprise,(With a brief explanation, that ended in "eyes,")"What Drummer-boy, Waters?—the coast is all clear,We haven't got never no Drummer-boy here!"—"Why, there!—don't you see How he's following me?Now this way, now that way, and won't let me be!Keep him off, Bill—look here— Don't let him come near!Only see how the blood-drops his features besmear!What, the dead come to life again!—Bless me!—Oh dear!"Bill remarked in reply, "This is all very queer—What, a Drummer-boy—bloody, too—eh!—well, I never—I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!""Not see him!—why there;—look!—he's close by the post—Hark!—hark!—how he drums at me now!—he's a Ghost!""A what?" return'd Bill,—at that moment a flashMore than commonly awful preceded a crashLike what's call'd in Kentucky "an Almighty Smash."—And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees,While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees;In its last sinking echoes, however, were someWhich, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!"Hollo! Waters!—I says," Quoth he in amaze,"Why, I never see'dnuffinin all my born daysHalf so queer As this here, And I'm not very clearBut that one of us two has good reason for fear—You to jaw about drummers, with nobody near us!—I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus.""Oh, mercy!" roared Waters, "do keep him off, Bill,And, Andrew, forgive!—I'll confess all!—I will!

Now, I'd have you to know That, a great while ago,The best part of a century, may be, or so,Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,A couple of Travellers, wayworn and weary,Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say,At a single glance did not admit of a query;The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers, worn then,With scarce an exception by seafaring men,The jacket,—the loose trousers "bows'd up together"—allGuiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall,—The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,And shew'd in a moment their real charácters,(The accent's so placed on this word by our Jack Tars.)

The one in advance was sturdy and strong,With arms uncommonly bony and long,And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt,Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong.He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested;His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did,Except as to height, for he could not be moreAt the most, you would say, than some five feet four,And if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower.Dame Nature, in fact,—whom some person or other,—A Poet,—has call'd a "capricious step-mother,"—You saw, when beside him, Had somehow denied himIn longitude what she had granted in latitude,A trifling defect You'd the sooner detectFrom his having contracted a stoop in his attitude.Square-built and broad-shoulder'd, good-humoured and gay,With his collar and countenance open as day,The latter—'twas mark'd with small-pox, by the way,—Had a sort of expression good will to bespeak;He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek!And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height,He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight,You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight!

The other, his friend and companion, was tallerBy five or six inches, at least, than the smaller;—From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen,That he was, or had been, A something betweenThe real "Jack Tar" and the "Jolly Marine."For, though he would give an occasional hitch,Sailor-like to his "slops," there was something, the which,On the whole savoured more of the pipe-clay than pitch.—Such were now the two men who appeared on the hill,Harry Waters the tall one, the short "Spanking Bill."To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again,Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain;And when with a good soaking shower there are blendedBlue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended;Such was the case In this wild dreary place,On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the braceOf trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace,Till a good steady walk became more like a race,To get quit of the tempest which held them in chase.

Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder,The heav'nly artill'ry kept crashing and roaring,The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring,While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelterFrom, what I have heard term'd, "a regular pelter;"But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen,Or an object except that on one of the rises,An old way-post show'd Where the Lavington roadBranch'd off to the left from the one to Devizes;And thither the footsteps of Waters seem'd tending,Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending,To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes,Is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;—While Harry kept "backingAnd filling,"—and "tacking,"—Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, areMeant to imply What you, Reader, and IWould call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.

But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuseAll mistakes I may make in the words sailors use'Mongst themselves, on a cruise, Or ashore with the Jews,Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues,Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat—womenKnown in our navy as oddly-named boat-women.The fact is, I can't say I'm vers'd in the schoolSo ably conducted by Marryat and Poole;(See the last-mentioned gentleman's "Admiral's Daughter,")The grandvade mecumFor all who to sea come,And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water;Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonderIf I now and then should fall into some blunder,For which Captain Chamier, or Mr. T. P. CookeWould call me a "Lubber," and "Son of a Sea-cook."

To return to our muttons—This mode of progressionAt length upon Spanking Bill made some impression.—"Hillo, messmate, what cheer?How queer youdosteer!"Cried Bill, whose short legs kept him still in the rear."Why, what's in the wind, Bo?—what is it you fear?"For he saw in a moment that something was frighteningHis shipmate much more than the thunder and lightning.

—"Fear?" stammer'd out Waters, "why,Him!—don't you seeWhat faces that Drummer-boy's making at me!——How he dodges me so Wherever I go?—What is it he wants with me, Bill,—do you know?"

—"What Drummer-boy, Harry?" cries Bill, in surprise,(With a brief explanation, that ended in "eyes,")"What Drummer-boy, Waters?—the coast is all clear,We haven't got never no Drummer-boy here!"

—"Why, there!—don't you see How he's following me?Now this way, now that way, and won't let me be!Keep him off, Bill—look here— Don't let him come near!Only see how the blood-drops his features besmear!What, the dead come to life again!—Bless me!—Oh dear!"

Bill remarked in reply, "This is all very queer—What, a Drummer-boy—bloody, too—eh!—well, I never—I can't see no Drummer-boy here whatsumdever!""Not see him!—why there;—look!—he's close by the post—Hark!—hark!—how he drums at me now!—he's a Ghost!"

"A what?" return'd Bill,—at that moment a flashMore than commonly awful preceded a crashLike what's call'd in Kentucky "an Almighty Smash."—And down Harry Waters went plump on his knees,While the sound, though prolong'd, died away by degrees;In its last sinking echoes, however, were someWhich, Bill could not help thinking, resembled a drum!

"Hollo! Waters!—I says," Quoth he in amaze,"Why, I never see'dnuffinin all my born daysHalf so queer As this here, And I'm not very clearBut that one of us two has good reason for fear—You to jaw about drummers, with nobody near us!—I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus."

"Oh, mercy!" roared Waters, "do keep him off, Bill,And, Andrew, forgive!—I'll confess all!—I will!

tbTHE DEAD DRUMMER.

I'll make a clean breast, And as for the rest,You may do with me just what the lawyers think best;But haunt me not thus!—let these visitings cease,And, your vengeance accomplish'd, Boy, leave me in peace!"—Harry paused for a moment,—then turning to Bill,Who stood with his mouth open, steady and still,Began "spinning" what nauticals term "a tough yarn,"Viz.: his tale of what Bill call'd "this preciousconsarn.""It was in such an hour as this,On such a wild and wint'ry day,The forked lightning seemed to hiss,As now, athwart our lonely way,When first these dubious paths I tried—Yon livid formwas by my side!—"Not livid then—the ruddy glowOf life, and youth, and health it bore!And bloodless was that gory brow,And cheerful was the smile it wore,And mildly then those eyes did shine——Those eyes which now are blasting mine!!"They beamed with confidence and loveUpon my face,—and Andrew BrandHad sooner fear'd yon frighten'd doveThan harm from Gervase Matcham's hand!—I am no Harry Waters—menDid call me Gervase Matcham then."And Matcham, though a humble name,Was stainless as the feathery flakeFrom Heaven, whose virgin whiteness cameUpon the newly-frozen lake;Commander, comrade, all beganTo laud the Soldier,—like the Man."Nay, muse not, William,—I have saidI was a soldier—staunch and trueAs any he above whose headOld England's lion banner flew;And, duty done,—her claims apart,-'Twas said I had a kindly heart."And years roll'd on,—and with them camePromotion—Corporal—Sergeant—allIn turn—I kept mine honest fame—Our Colonel's self,—whom men did callThe veriest Martinet—ev'n he,Though cold to most, was kind to me!—"One morn—oh! may that morning standAccursed in the rolls of fateTill latest time!—there came commandTo carry forth a charge of weightTo a detachment far away,——It was their regimental pay!—"And who so fit for such a taskAs trusty Matcham, true and tried,Who spurn'd the inebriating flask,With honour for his constant guide?—On Matcham fell their choice—andHe,—'Young Drum,'—should bear him company!"And grateful was that sound to hear,For he was full of life and joy,The mess-room pet—to each one dearWas that kind, gay, light-hearted boy.—The veriest churl in all our bandHad aye a smile for Andrew Brand.—"—Nay, glare not as I name thy name!That threat'ning hand, that fearful browRelax—avert that glance of flame!Thou seest I do thy bidding now!Vex'd Spirit, rest!—'twill soon be o'er,—Thy blood shall cry to Heaven no more!"Enough—we journey'd on—the walkWas long,—and dull and dark the day,—And still young Andrew's cheerful talkAnd merry laugh beguiled the way;Noon came—a sheltering bank was there,—We paused our frugal meal to share."Then 'twas, with cautious hand, I soughtTo prove my charge secure,—and drewThe packet from my vest, and broughtThe glittering mischief forth to view,And Andrew cried,—No!—'twas not He!—It wasThe Tempterspoke to me!"But it was Andrew's laughing voiceThat sounded in my tingling ear,'Now, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice,'It seem'd to say, 'are gawds and gear,And all that wealth can buy or bring,Ease,—wassail,—worship,—every thing!"'No tedious drill, no long parade,No bugle call at early dawn;—For guard-room bench, or barrack bed,The downy couch, the sheets of lawnAnd I thy Page,—thy steps to tend,Thy sworn companion,—servant,—friend!—"He ceased—that is, I heard no more,Though other words pass'd idly by,And Andrew chatter'd as before,And laugh'd—I mark'd him not—not I.'Tis at thy choice!' that sound aloneRang in mine ear—voice else was none."I could not eat,—the untasted flaskMocked my parch'd lip,—I passed it by.'What ails thee, man?' he seem'd to ask.—Ifelt, but could notmeethis eye.—'Tis at thy choice!'—it sounded yet,—A sound I never may forget.—"'Haste! haste! the day draws on,' I cried,'And, Andrew, thou hast far to go!'—'Hast far to go!' the Fiend repliedWithin me,—'twasnotAndrew—no!'Twas Andrew's voice no more—'twasHeWhosethen I was, and aye must be!—"On, on we went;—the dreary plainWas all around us—we wereHere!Then came the storm,—the lightning,—rain,—No earthly living thing was near,Save one wild Raven on the wing,—If that, indeed, were earthly thing!"I heard its hoarse and screaming voiceHigh hovering o'er my frenzied head,''Tis, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice!But he—the Boy!' methought it said.—Nay, Andrew, check that vengeful frown,—I lov'd thee when I struck thee down!"'Twas done!—the deed that damns me—doneI know not how—I never knew;—AndHereI stood—but not alone,—The prostrate Boy my madness slew,Was by my side—limb, feature, name,'TwasHe!!—another—yet the same!"Away! away! in frantic hasteThroughout that live-long night I flew—Away! away!—across the waste,—I know not how—I never knew,—My mind was one wild blank—and IHad but one thought,—one hope—to fly!"And still the lightning ploughed the ground,The thunder roared—and there would comeAmidst its loudest bursts a sound,Familiar once—it was—A Drum!—Then came the morn,—and light,—and thenStreets,—houses,—spires,—the hum of men."And Ocean roll'd before me—fainWould I have whelm'd me in its tide,At once beneath the billowy mainMy shame, my guilt, my crime to hide;ButHewas there!—Hecross'd my track,—I dared not pass—Hewaved me back!"And then rude hands detained me—sureJustice had grasp'd her victim—no!Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure,A captive thrall, it was not so;They cry 'The Frenchman's on the wave!'The press was hot—and I a slave."They dragg'd me o'er the vessel's side;The world of waters roll'd below;The gallant ship, in all her prideOf dreadful beauty, sought her foe;—Thou saw'st me, William, in the strife—Alack! I bore a charmed life;"In vain the bullets round me fly,In vain mine eager breast I bare;Death shuns the wretch who longs to die,And every sword falls edgeless there!StillHeis near!—and seems to cry,'Nothere, northus, may Matcham die!'—"Thou saw'st me, on that fearful day,When, fruitless all attempts to save,Our pinnace foundering in the bay,The boat's-crew met a watery grave,—All, all—saveOne—the ravenous seaThat swallow'd all—rejectedMe!And now, when fifteen suns have eachFulfilled in turn its circling year,Thrown back again on England's beach,Our bark paid off—Hedrives meHere!I could not die in flood or fight—Hedrives meHere!!"—"And sarve you right!"What! bilk your Commander!—desart—and then rob!And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boy's nob!Why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab!—There's old Davy Jones, Who cracks Sailors' bonesFor his jaw-work would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob,Have come for to go for to do sich a job!Hark ye, Waters,—or Matcham,—whichever's your purser-name,—T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,—Twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother!—Now—your course lays one way, and mine lays another!""No, William, it may not be so;Blood calls for blood!—'tis Heaven's decree!And thou with me this night must go,And give me to the gallows-tree!Ha!—see—Hesmiles—Hepoints the way!On, William, on! no more delay!"Now Bill,—so the story, as told to me, goes,And who, as his last speech sufficiently shows,Was a "regular trump,"—did not like to "turn Nose;"But then came a thunder-clap louder than anyOf those that preceded, though they were so many;And hark!—as its rumblings subside in a hum,What sound mingles too?—"By the hokey—ADrum!!"I remember I once heard my Grandfather say,That some sixty years since he was going that way,When they shew'd him the spotWhere the gibbet—was not—On which Matcham's corse had been hung up to rot;It had fall'n down—but how long before, he'd forgot;And they told him, I think, at the Bear in Devizes,The town where the Sessions are held,—or the 'Sizes,That Matcham confess'd, And made a clean breastTo the May'r; but that, after he'd had a night's rest,And the storm had subsided, he "pooh-pooh'd" his friend,Swearing all was a lie from beginning to end;Said "he'd only been drunk— That his spirits had sunkAt the thunder—the storm put him into a funk,—That, in fact, he had nothing at all on his conscience,And found out, in short, he'd been talking great nonsense."—But now one Mr. Jones Comes forth and deponesThat, fifteen years since, he had heard certain groansOn his way to Stone Henge (to examine the stonesDescribed in a work of the late Sir John Soane's,)That he'd followed the moans, And, led by their tones,Found a Raven a-picking a Drummer-boy's bones!——Then the Colonel wrote wordFrom the King's Forty-third,That the story was certainly true which they'd heard,For, that one of their drummers, and one Sergeant Matcham,Had "brushed with the dibs," and they never could catch 'em.So Justice was sure, though a long time she'd lagg'd,And the Sergeant, in spite of his "Gammon," got "scragg'd;"And people averred That an ugly black bird,The Raven, 'twas hinted, of whom we have heard,Though the story, I own, appears rather absurd,Was seen (Gervase Matcham not being interr'd),To roost all that night on the murderer's gibbet;An odd thing, if so, and it may be a fib—it,However, 's a thing Nature's laws don't prohibit.—Next morning, they add, that "black gentleman" flies out,Having picked Matcham's nose off, and gobbled his eyes out!Moral.Avis au Voyageur.Imprimis.If you contemplate walking o'er Salisbury Plain,Consult Mr. Murphy, or Moore, and refrainFrom selecting a day when it's likely to rain!2o.When trav'lling, don't "flash" Your notes or your cashBefore other people—it's foolish and rash!3o.At dinner be cautious, and note well your party;—There's little to dread where the appetite's hearty,—But mind and look well to your purse and your throttleWhen you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle!4o.If you chance to be needy, Your coat and hat seedy,In war-time especially, never go outWhen you've reason to think there's a press-gang about!5o.Don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think,Nor blab secrets,—especially when you're in drink,—But keep your own counsel in all that you do!—Or a Counsel may, some day or other, keep you.6o.Discard superstition!—and don't take a post,If you happen to see one at night, for a Ghost!—Last of all, if by choice, or convenience, you're led,To cut a man's throat, or demolish his head,Don't do it in a thunderstorm—wait for the summer!And mind, above all things, theMan's not a Drummer!!

"It was in such an hour as this,On such a wild and wint'ry day,The forked lightning seemed to hiss,As now, athwart our lonely way,When first these dubious paths I tried—Yon livid formwas by my side!—

"Not livid then—the ruddy glowOf life, and youth, and health it bore!And bloodless was that gory brow,And cheerful was the smile it wore,And mildly then those eyes did shine——Those eyes which now are blasting mine!!

"They beamed with confidence and loveUpon my face,—and Andrew BrandHad sooner fear'd yon frighten'd doveThan harm from Gervase Matcham's hand!—I am no Harry Waters—menDid call me Gervase Matcham then.

"And Matcham, though a humble name,Was stainless as the feathery flakeFrom Heaven, whose virgin whiteness cameUpon the newly-frozen lake;Commander, comrade, all beganTo laud the Soldier,—like the Man.

"Nay, muse not, William,—I have saidI was a soldier—staunch and trueAs any he above whose headOld England's lion banner flew;And, duty done,—her claims apart,-'Twas said I had a kindly heart.

"And years roll'd on,—and with them camePromotion—Corporal—Sergeant—allIn turn—I kept mine honest fame—Our Colonel's self,—whom men did callThe veriest Martinet—ev'n he,Though cold to most, was kind to me!—

"One morn—oh! may that morning standAccursed in the rolls of fateTill latest time!—there came commandTo carry forth a charge of weightTo a detachment far away,——It was their regimental pay!—

"And who so fit for such a taskAs trusty Matcham, true and tried,Who spurn'd the inebriating flask,With honour for his constant guide?—On Matcham fell their choice—andHe,—'Young Drum,'—should bear him company!

"And grateful was that sound to hear,For he was full of life and joy,The mess-room pet—to each one dearWas that kind, gay, light-hearted boy.—The veriest churl in all our bandHad aye a smile for Andrew Brand.—

"—Nay, glare not as I name thy name!That threat'ning hand, that fearful browRelax—avert that glance of flame!Thou seest I do thy bidding now!Vex'd Spirit, rest!—'twill soon be o'er,—Thy blood shall cry to Heaven no more!

"Enough—we journey'd on—the walkWas long,—and dull and dark the day,—And still young Andrew's cheerful talkAnd merry laugh beguiled the way;Noon came—a sheltering bank was there,—We paused our frugal meal to share.

"Then 'twas, with cautious hand, I soughtTo prove my charge secure,—and drewThe packet from my vest, and broughtThe glittering mischief forth to view,And Andrew cried,—No!—'twas not He!—It wasThe Tempterspoke to me!

"But it was Andrew's laughing voiceThat sounded in my tingling ear,'Now, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice,'It seem'd to say, 'are gawds and gear,And all that wealth can buy or bring,Ease,—wassail,—worship,—every thing!

"'No tedious drill, no long parade,No bugle call at early dawn;—For guard-room bench, or barrack bed,The downy couch, the sheets of lawnAnd I thy Page,—thy steps to tend,Thy sworn companion,—servant,—friend!

—"He ceased—that is, I heard no more,Though other words pass'd idly by,And Andrew chatter'd as before,And laugh'd—I mark'd him not—not I.'Tis at thy choice!' that sound aloneRang in mine ear—voice else was none.

"I could not eat,—the untasted flaskMocked my parch'd lip,—I passed it by.'What ails thee, man?' he seem'd to ask.—Ifelt, but could notmeethis eye.—'Tis at thy choice!'—it sounded yet,—A sound I never may forget.

—"'Haste! haste! the day draws on,' I cried,'And, Andrew, thou hast far to go!'—'Hast far to go!' the Fiend repliedWithin me,—'twasnotAndrew—no!'Twas Andrew's voice no more—'twasHeWhosethen I was, and aye must be!

—"On, on we went;—the dreary plainWas all around us—we wereHere!Then came the storm,—the lightning,—rain,—No earthly living thing was near,Save one wild Raven on the wing,—If that, indeed, were earthly thing!

"I heard its hoarse and screaming voiceHigh hovering o'er my frenzied head,''Tis, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice!But he—the Boy!' methought it said.—Nay, Andrew, check that vengeful frown,—I lov'd thee when I struck thee down!

"'Twas done!—the deed that damns me—doneI know not how—I never knew;—AndHereI stood—but not alone,—The prostrate Boy my madness slew,Was by my side—limb, feature, name,'TwasHe!!—another—yet the same!

"Away! away! in frantic hasteThroughout that live-long night I flew—Away! away!—across the waste,—I know not how—I never knew,—My mind was one wild blank—and IHad but one thought,—one hope—to fly!

"And still the lightning ploughed the ground,The thunder roared—and there would comeAmidst its loudest bursts a sound,Familiar once—it was—A Drum!—Then came the morn,—and light,—and thenStreets,—houses,—spires,—the hum of men.

"And Ocean roll'd before me—fainWould I have whelm'd me in its tide,At once beneath the billowy mainMy shame, my guilt, my crime to hide;ButHewas there!—Hecross'd my track,—I dared not pass—Hewaved me back!

"And then rude hands detained me—sureJustice had grasp'd her victim—no!Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure,A captive thrall, it was not so;They cry 'The Frenchman's on the wave!'The press was hot—and I a slave.

"They dragg'd me o'er the vessel's side;The world of waters roll'd below;The gallant ship, in all her prideOf dreadful beauty, sought her foe;—Thou saw'st me, William, in the strife—Alack! I bore a charmed life;

"In vain the bullets round me fly,In vain mine eager breast I bare;Death shuns the wretch who longs to die,And every sword falls edgeless there!StillHeis near!—and seems to cry,'Nothere, northus, may Matcham die!'—

"Thou saw'st me, on that fearful day,When, fruitless all attempts to save,Our pinnace foundering in the bay,The boat's-crew met a watery grave,—All, all—saveOne—the ravenous seaThat swallow'd all—rejectedMe!

And now, when fifteen suns have eachFulfilled in turn its circling year,Thrown back again on England's beach,Our bark paid off—Hedrives meHere!I could not die in flood or fight—Hedrives meHere!!"—"And sarve you right!

"What! bilk your Commander!—desart—and then rob!And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boy's nob!Why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab!—There's old Davy Jones, Who cracks Sailors' bonesFor his jaw-work would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob,Have come for to go for to do sich a job!Hark ye, Waters,—or Matcham,—whichever's your purser-name,—T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,—Twelve years have we lived on like brother and brother!—Now—your course lays one way, and mine lays another!"

"No, William, it may not be so;Blood calls for blood!—'tis Heaven's decree!And thou with me this night must go,And give me to the gallows-tree!Ha!—see—Hesmiles—Hepoints the way!On, William, on! no more delay!"

Now Bill,—so the story, as told to me, goes,And who, as his last speech sufficiently shows,Was a "regular trump,"—did not like to "turn Nose;"But then came a thunder-clap louder than anyOf those that preceded, though they were so many;And hark!—as its rumblings subside in a hum,What sound mingles too?—"By the hokey—ADrum!!"

I remember I once heard my Grandfather say,That some sixty years since he was going that way,When they shew'd him the spotWhere the gibbet—was not—On which Matcham's corse had been hung up to rot;It had fall'n down—but how long before, he'd forgot;And they told him, I think, at the Bear in Devizes,The town where the Sessions are held,—or the 'Sizes,That Matcham confess'd, And made a clean breastTo the May'r; but that, after he'd had a night's rest,And the storm had subsided, he "pooh-pooh'd" his friend,Swearing all was a lie from beginning to end;Said "he'd only been drunk— That his spirits had sunkAt the thunder—the storm put him into a funk,—That, in fact, he had nothing at all on his conscience,And found out, in short, he'd been talking great nonsense."—

But now one Mr. Jones Comes forth and deponesThat, fifteen years since, he had heard certain groansOn his way to Stone Henge (to examine the stonesDescribed in a work of the late Sir John Soane's,)That he'd followed the moans, And, led by their tones,Found a Raven a-picking a Drummer-boy's bones!——Then the Colonel wrote wordFrom the King's Forty-third,That the story was certainly true which they'd heard,For, that one of their drummers, and one Sergeant Matcham,Had "brushed with the dibs," and they never could catch 'em.

So Justice was sure, though a long time she'd lagg'd,And the Sergeant, in spite of his "Gammon," got "scragg'd;"And people averred That an ugly black bird,The Raven, 'twas hinted, of whom we have heard,Though the story, I own, appears rather absurd,Was seen (Gervase Matcham not being interr'd),To roost all that night on the murderer's gibbet;An odd thing, if so, and it may be a fib—it,However, 's a thing Nature's laws don't prohibit.—Next morning, they add, that "black gentleman" flies out,Having picked Matcham's nose off, and gobbled his eyes out!

Moral.

Avis au Voyageur.

Imprimis.If you contemplate walking o'er Salisbury Plain,Consult Mr. Murphy, or Moore, and refrainFrom selecting a day when it's likely to rain!2o.When trav'lling, don't "flash" Your notes or your cashBefore other people—it's foolish and rash!3o.At dinner be cautious, and note well your party;—There's little to dread where the appetite's hearty,—But mind and look well to your purse and your throttleWhen you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle!4o.If you chance to be needy, Your coat and hat seedy,In war-time especially, never go outWhen you've reason to think there's a press-gang about!5o.Don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think,Nor blab secrets,—especially when you're in drink,—But keep your own counsel in all that you do!—Or a Counsel may, some day or other, keep you.6o.Discard superstition!—and don't take a post,If you happen to see one at night, for a Ghost!—Last of all, if by choice, or convenience, you're led,To cut a man's throat, or demolish his head,Don't do it in a thunderstorm—wait for the summer!And mind, above all things, theMan's not a Drummer!!

Among a bundle of letters I find one from Sucklethumbkin, dated from London, and containing his version of perhaps the greatest theatrical Civil War since the celebrated "O. P. row." As the circumstances are now become matter of history, and poor Doldrum himself has been, alas! for some time the denizen of a far different "House," I have ventured to preserve it. Perhaps it may be unnecessary to add, that my Honourable friend has of late taken to Poetry, and goes without his cravat.

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