Chapter XXI: Part I (1)

’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu――whit!――Tu――whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
’Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that’s far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low.
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest mistletoe;
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree.
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is, she cannot tell.――
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady’s cheek――
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can.
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak
What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal’d were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair,
I guess, ’twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she――
Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?

The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:――
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear:
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:――

My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white!
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey’s back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell――
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),
And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand
And comforted fair Geraldine:
“O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father’s hall.”

She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
“All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.”

They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
So free from danger, free from fear
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well.

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And, jealous of the listening air,
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron’s room,
As still as death with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to und fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.

* * * * *

Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
Her fair large eyes ’gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright;
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrée.

And thus the lofty lady spake――
All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, so let it be
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose:
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly as one defied
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the maiden’s side
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah well-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look
These words did say:
In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard’st a low moaning,
And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.

――――

_The Conclusion to Part I._

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is――
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine――
Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine――
Thou’st had thy will!

S. T. COLERIDGE.

――――:o:――――

_Dr. Maginn’s Introduction to Part III._

Listen! ye know that I am mad,
And ye will listen!――wizard dreams
Were with me!――all is true that seems!――
From dreams alone can truth be had――
In dreams divinest lore is taught,
For the eye, no more distraught,
Rests most calmly, and the ear,
Of sound unconscious, may apply
Its attributes unknown, to hear
The music of philosophy!
Thus am I wisest in my sleep,
For thoughts and things, which day-light brings,
Come to the spirit sad and single,
But verse and prose, and, joys and woes
Inextricably mingle,
When the hushed frame is silent in repose!
Twilight and moonlight, mist and storm,
Black night, and fire-eyed hurricane,
And crested lightning, and the snows
That mock the sunbeams, and the rain
Which bounds on earth with big drops warm,
All are round me while I spell
The legend of sweet Christabel!

_Christabel. Part III._

Nine moons have waxed, and the tenth, in its wane,
Sees Christabel struggle in unknown pain!
――For many moons was her eye less bright,
For many moons was her vest more tight,
And her cheek was pale, save when, with a start,
The life blood came from the panting heart,
And fluttering, o’er that thin fair face
Past with a rapid nameless pace,
And at moments a big tear filled the eye,
And at moments a short and smothered sigh
Swelled her breast with sudden strain,
Breathed half in grief, and half in pain,
For her’s are pangs, on the rack that wind
The outward frame and the inward mind.
――And when at night she did visit the oak,
She wore the Baron’s scarlet cloak,
(That cloak which happy to hear and to tell
Was lined with the fur of the leopard well,)
And as she wandered down the dell
None said ’twas the Lady Christabel.――
Some thought ’twas a weird and ugsome elf,
Some deemed ’twas the old sick Baron himself,
Who wandered beneath the snowy lift
To count his beads in solemn shrift――
(For his shape below was wide to see
All bloated with the hydropsie.)
Oh! had her old father the secret known,
He had stood as stark as the statue of stone
That stands so silent, and white, and tall,
At the upper end of his banquet hall!

Am I asleep or am I awake?
In very truth I oft mistake,
As the stories of old come over my brain,
And I build in spirit the mystic strain;――
Ah! would to the virgin that I were asleep!
But I must wake, and I must weep!
Sweet Christabel, it is not well
That a lady, pure as the sunless snow
That lies so soft on the mountain’s brow,
That a maiden of sinless chastity
In childbirth pangs should be doomed to die,
Or live with a name of sorrow and shame,
And hear the words of blemish and blame!
――For the world that smiles at the guilt of man,
Places woman beneath its ban;
Alas, that scandal thus should wreak
Its vengeance on the warm and weak,
That the arrows of the cold and dull
Should wound the breast of the beautiful!

Of the things that be did we know but half,
Many, and many would weep, who laugh!
Tears would darken many an eye,
Or that deeper grief, (when its orb is dry,
When it cannot dare the eye of day),
O’er the clouded heart would sway,
’Till it crumbled like desert dust away!
But here we meet with grief and grudge,
And they who cannot know us, judge!
Thus, souls on whom good angels smile,
Are scoffed at in our world of guile――
Let this, Ladiè, thy comfort be;
Man knows not us, good angels know
The things that pass in the world below;
And scarce, methinks, it seems unjust,
That the world should view thee with mistrust,
For who that saw that child of thine
Pale Christabel, who could divine
That its sire was the Ladie Geraldine.

But in I rush, with too swift a gale,
Into the ocean of my tale!
Not yet young Christabel, I ween,
Of her babe hath lighter been.
――’Tis the month of the snow and the blast,
And the days of Christmas mirth are past,
When the oak-roots heaped on the hearth blazed bright,
Casting a broad and dusky light
On the shadowy forms of the warriors old,
Who stared from the wall, most grim to behold――
On shields where the spider his tapestry weaves,
On the holly boughs and the ivy leaves,
The few green glories that still remain
To mock the storm and welcome the rain,
Brighter and livelier mid tempest and shower,
Like a hero in the battle hour!――
Brave emblems o’er the winter hearth,
They cheered our fathers’ hours of mirth!――

Twelve solar months complete and clear
The magic circle of the year!
Each (the ancient riddle saith)
Children, two times thirty, hath!
Three times ten are fair and white,
Three times ten are black as night,
Three times ten hath Hecatè,
Three times ten the God of day;
Thus spoke the old hierophant
(I saw her big breast swelling pant)
What time, I dreamed, in ghostly wise
Of Eleusinian mysteries,
For I am the hierarch
Of the mystical and dark――
And now, if rightly I do spell
Of the Lady Christabel,
She hates the three times ten so white,
And sickens in their searching light,
And woe is hers――alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black――
As a mastiff bitch doth bark,
I hear her moaning in the dark!――

’Tis the month of January.
Why lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow,
Thro the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark
Is withered all, and damp, and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower
And hides its name-sake, the snow-drop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously!
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild――
Ah, think, how big thou art with child!――
Tho’ the baron’s red cloak thro’ the land hath no fellow,
Thou should’st not thus venture without an umbrella!

Dost thou wander to the field of graves
Where the elder its spectral branches waves?
And will thy hurried footsteps halt
Where thy mother sleeps in the silent vault?
Where the stranger pauses long to explore
The emblems quaint of heraldic lore,
Where tho’ the lines are tarnished and dim,
Thy mother’s features stare gaunt and grim,
And grinning skull, and transverse bone,
And the names of warriors dead and gone
Mark Sir Leoline’s burial stone;
Thither go not, or I deem almost
That thou wilt frighten thy mother’s ghost!
Or wilt thou wend to the huge oak-tree,
And, kneeling down upon thy knee,
Number the beads of thy rosary?
Nine beads of gold and a tenth of pearl,
And a prayer with each, my lovely girl,
Nine and one, shalt thou record,
Nine to the virgin and one to the Lord!
The pearls are ten times one to behold,
And ten times nine are the beads of gold,
Methinks ’tis hard of the friar to ask
On a night like this so weary a task!

’Tis pleasant――’tis pleasant, in summer time,
In the green wood to spell the storied rhyme,
When the light winds above ’mong the light leaves are singing,
And the song of the birds thro’ your heart is ringing,
’Tis pleasant――’tis pleasant, when happily humming
To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!――
When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides ’mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o’er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
’Tis pleasant――with heart――ah, how happy!――tho’ fearful,
With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles glisten
To the lover’s low vows in the silence to listen!

’Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day
(A month before the month of May)
To pray for a lover that’s far away!
But, Christabel, I cannot see
The powerful cause that sways with thee
Thus, with a face all waxen white,
To wander forth on a winter night.

The snow hath ceased, dear lady meek,
But the night is chill and bleak!――
And clouds are passing swift away
Before the moon so cold and gray――
The crescent moon, like a bark of pearl,
That lies so calm on the billowy whirl;――
Rapidly――rapidly
With the blast,
Clouds of ebony
Wander fast,
And one the maiden hath fixed her eyes on,
Hath pass’d o’er the moon, and is near the horizon!
Ah Christabel, I dread it, I dread it,
That the clouds of shame
Will darken and gather
O’er the maiden’s name,
Who chances unwedded
To give birth to a child, and knows not its father!

One――Two――Three――Four――Five――Six――Seven――Eight――Nine――Ten――Eleven!――

Tempest or calm――moonshine or shower,
The castle clock still tolls the hour,
And the cock awakens, and echoes the sound,
And is answered by the owls around――
And at every measured tone
You may hear the old baron grunt and groan;
’Tis a thing of wonder, and fright, and fear,
The mastiff-bitch’s moans to hear――
And the aged cow in her stall that stands
And is milked each morning by female hands
(That the baron’s breakfast of milk and bread
May be brought betimes to the old man’s bed
Who often gives, while he is dressing,
His Christabel a father’s blessing)
That aged cow, as each stroke sounds slow,
Answers it with a plaintive low!
And the baron old, who is ill at rest,
Curses the favourite cat for a pest――
For let him pray, or let him weep,
She mews thro’ all the hours of sleep――
Till morning comes with its pleasant beams,
And the cat is at rest, and the baron dreams!

Let it rain, however fast,
Rest from rain will come at last,
And the blaze that strongest flashes
Sinks at last, and ends in ashes!
But sorrow from the human heart
And mists of care will they depart?
I know not, and cannot tell,
Saith the Lady Christabel――
But I feel my bosom swell

In my spirit I behold
A lady――call her firm, not bold――
Standing lonely by the burn
――Strange feelings thro’ her breast and brain
Shoot with a sense of madness and pain.
Ah, Christabel return, return,
Let me not call on thee in vain!
Think, lady dear, if thou art drowned
That thy body will be found,
What anguish will thy spirit feel,
When it must to all reveal
What the spell binds thee to conceal!
How the baron’s heart will knock ’gainst his chest
When the stake is driven into thy breast,
When thy body to dust shall be carelessly flung,
And over the dead no dirge be sung,
No friend in mourning vesture dight,
No lykewake sad――no tapered rite!――

Return, return thy home to bless,
Daughter of good Sir Leoline;
In that chamber a recess
Known to no other eye than thine,
Contains the powerful wild-flower wine
That often cheer’d thy mother’s heart,
Lady, lovely as thou art
Return, and ere thou dost undress
And lie down in thy nakedness
Repair to thy secret and favourite haunt
And drink the wine as thou art wont!
Hard to uncork and bright to decant.

My merry girl――she drinks――she drinks
Faster she drinks and faster,
My brain reels round as I see her whirl,
She hath turned on her heel with a sudden twirl;――
Wine, wine is a cure for every disaster,
For when sorrow wets the eye
Yet the heart within is dry,
Sweet maid upon the bed she sinks――
May her dreams be light, and her rest be deep!
Good angels guard her in her sleep!

WILLIAM MAGINN.

――――

THE DREAM,
_A Psychological Curiosity_.
BY S. T. C.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.

The following “wild and singularly original and beautiful poem” was written at the instigation of Mr. Robert Warren, who was desirous of enrolling me among the number of his panegyrists. The circumstances that lead to its original composition are as follows: I had been considering in what way I might best introduce the subject, when suddenly falling asleep over a provincial newspaper which detailed the battle between Cribb and Molineux, the thoughts of my waking hours assumed the aspect of the present poetical reverie. This to an unidead “reading public” may appear incredible, but minds of imaginative temperament are ever most active during the intervals of repose, as my late poem, entitled “The Pains of Sleep,” will sufficiently attest.

Dreams in fact are to be estimated solely in proportion to their wildness; and hence a friend of mine, who is a most magnificent dreamer, imagined but the other night that he invited a flock of sheep to a musical party. Such a _flocci_, nauci, nihili absurdity will, I am afraid, puzzle even our transcendental philosophers to explain, although Kant, in his treatise on the Phænomena of Dreams, is of opinion that the lens or focus of intestinal light ascending the æsophagus at right angles, a juxtaposition of properties takes place, so that the nucleus of the diaphragm reflecting on the cerebellum the prismatic visions of the pilorus, is made to produce that marvellous operation of mind upon matter better known by the name of dreaming.――To such _simple_ and _satisfactory_ reasoning what answer can be made?

Ten minutes to ten by Saint Dunstan’s clock,
And the owl has awakened the crowing cock:
Cock-a-doodle-doo,
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
If he crows at this rate in so thrilling a note,
Jesu Maria! he’ll catch a sore throat.

Warren the manufacturer rich
Hath a spectral mastiff bitch;
To Saint Dunstan’s clock, tho’ silent enow,
She barketh her chorus of bow wow, wow:
_Bow_ for the quarters, and _wow_ for the hour;
Nought cares she for the sun or the shower;
But when, like a ghost all-arrayed in its shroud,
The wheels of the thunder are muffled in cloud,
When the moon, sole chandelier of night,
Bathes the blessed earth in light,
As wizard to wizard, or witch to witch,
Howleth to heaven this mastiff bitch.

Buried in thought O’Warren lay,
Like a village queen on the birth of May;
He listed the tones of Saint Dunstan’s clock,
Of the mastiff bitch and the crowing cock;
But louder, far louder, he listed a roar,
Loud as the billow that booms on the shore;
Bang, bang, with a pause between,
Rung the weird sound at his door, I ween.
Up from his couch he leaped in affright,
Oped his grey lattice and looked on the night,
Then put on his coat, and with harlequin hop
Stood like a phantom in midst of the shop;
In midst of his shop he stood like a sprite,
Till peering to left and peering to right,
Beside his counter, with tail in hand,
He saw a spirit of darkness stand;
I guess ’twas frightful there to see
A lady so scantily clad as she
Ugly and old exceedingly.

In height her figure was six feet two,
In breadth exactly two feet six,
One eye as summer skies was blue,
The other black as the waves of Styx.
Her bloodless lips did aught but pair,
For one was brown and one was fair,
And clattered like maid in hysteric fit,
Or jack that turneth a kitchen spit;
Jesu Maria! with awe, I trow,
O’Warren beheld this worricow,
For dreary and dun the death-hue came
O’er her cheek, as she traced the words of flame;
The words of flame that with mystic fuss
Are hatched from a still-born incubus,
And doom each wight who reads, to dwell
Till the birth of day in the caves of hell.

Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand,
The spell that subjects thee to elfin command;
Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour,
And Warren hath read the words of power;
Letter by letter he traced the spell,
Till the sullen toll of Saint Dunstan’s bell,
And the midnight howl of the mastiff bitch,
Announced his doom to the Hallowmass witch.
Still in her grandeur she stood by,
Like an oak that uplooketh to sun and sky;
Then shouted to Warren with fitful breath;
“I’m old mother Nightmare-life-in-death;
Halloo! halloo! we may not stay,
Satan is waiting; away, away;
Halloo! halloo! we’ve far to go,
Then hey for the devil; jee-up! jee-hoe――――”
O’Warren requested a little delay,
But the evil one muttered “too late, by my fay;”
So he put on his breeches and scampered away.

And here mote I tell how they rode on the wind,
The witch before and the Warren behind;
How they passed in a twinkling the haunts of man,
And the proud pagodas of Kubla Khan;
How they peeped at the planets like Allan-a-roon,
And supped on green cheese with the man in the moon;
Or listed the dulcimer’s tremulous notes,
Or the voice of the wind through the azure that floats,
Till pillar and palace and arching sky
Rung to the mingled melody.

* * * * *

Away, away, through the thunder-cloud,
Where tempest and ruin sit laughing aloud;
Away, away, through the fields of air,
Where the night-wind howls to the falling star;
This amiable couple have past, and now
They gain the swart regions of darkness and woe.
O’Warren beheld them, and shrunk with awe,
Like a client held fast in the grasp of law,
Then hymned to the Virgin for aid and for pity,
A highly correct and devotional ditty:
“Miserere Maria,” he cried in despair,
While the bullet-nosed bogle drew back at the prayer,
For Mary, sweet Mary, hath power to fright,
And palsy the souls of the dæmons of night;
“Miserere Maria,” he bellowed again,
And the worricow dropt her eye-tooth at the strain,
But spite of her teeth, she eschewed complaint,
Till troubled in spirit, and cowed and faint,
She collared the tradesman with horrible yell,
Then plunged with him head over heels into hell.
Oh, how its wild waves bellowed and boomed!!
Oh, how its vapors the air perfumed!!
As Warren with timid and stifled breath,
And followed by old Mrs. Life-in-death,
Moved to where Satan Reclined alone,
In the silence of thought on his ebon throne.

* * * * *

Proudly he strode to his palace gate,
Which the witch and the Warren approached in state,
But paused at the threshold as onward they came,
And thus, with words of fever and flame,
The tradesman addressed, “Your name, Sir, is known
As a vendor of _sables_ wide over the town;
But in hell with proviso this praise we must mix,
For though brilliant your blacking, the water of Styx
Is blacker by far, and can throw, as it suits,
A handsomer gloss o’er our shoes and our boots.”――

Answered the Warren, with choleric eye,
“Oh, king of the cock-tailed incubi!
The sneer of a fiend to your puffs you may fix,
But if, what is worse, you assert that your Styx
Surpasses my blacking, (’twas clear he was vexed),
By Jove! you will ne’er stick at any thing next.
I have dandies who laud me at Paine’s and Almack’s,
Despite Day and Martin, those emulous quacks,
And they all in one spirit of concord agree,
That my blacking is better than any black sea
Which flows thro’ your paltry Avernus, I wis,”――
“Pshaw,” Satan replied, “I’ll be damned if it is.”

The tradesman he laughed at this pitiful sneer,
And drew from his pocket, unmoved by the jeer
Of the gathering dæmons, blue, yellow, and pink,
A bottle of blacking more sable than ink;――
With the waves of the Styx in a jiffey they tried it,
But the waves of the Styx looked foolish beside it;
“You mote as well liken the summer sky,”
Quoth Warren the bold, “with an Irish stye;
The nightingale’s note with the cockatoo’s whine,
As your lily-white river with me or mine.”

Round the brow of Abaddon fierce anger played
At the Strand manufacturer’s gasconade;
And lifting a fist that mote slaughter an ox,
He wrathfully challenged his foeman to box;
Then summoned each dæmon to form a ring,
And witness his truculent triumphing.――
The ring was formed and the twain set to,
Like little Puss with Belasco the Jew.

Satan was seconded in a crack,
By Molineux, the American black,
(Who sported an oath as a civil Salam),
While Warren was backed by the ghost of Dutch Sam.――
Gentles, who fondly peruse these lays,
Wild as a colt o’er the moorland that strays,
Who thrill at each wondrous rede I tell,
As fancy roams o’er the floor of hell,
Now list ye with kindness, the whiles I rehearse
In shapely pugilistic verse,
(Albeit my fancy preferreth still
The quiet of nature,) this desperate _Mill_.

THE FIGHT.

Both men on _peeling_ showed nerve and bone.
And weighed on an average _fourteen stone_;
Doffed their silk _fogle_, for battle agog,
_Yellowman_, _castor_ and white upper _tog_;
Then sparred for a second their ardor to cool,
And rushed at each other like bull to bull.

ROUNDS.

1. Was a _smasher_, for Brummagem Bob[89]
Let fly a _topper_ on Beelzebub’s _nob_;
Then followed him over the ring with ease,
And _doubled him up_ by a blow in the _squeeze_.

2. Satan was cautious in making play,
But stuck to his sparring and pummelled away;
Till the _ogles_ of Warren looked _queer_ in their hue,
(Here, bets upon Beelzebub; three to two.)

3. _Fibbings_, and _facers_, and _toppers_ abound,
But Satan, it seems, hath the worst of the round.

4. Satan was floored by a _lunge_ in the hip,
And the blood from his peepers, went drip, drip, drip,
Like fat from a goose in the dripping pan,
Or ale from the brim of a flowing can;
His _box of dominos_ chattered aloud,
(Here, “Go it, Nick!” from an imp in the crowd,)
And he dropped with a _Lancashire purr_ on his back,
While Bob with a _clincher_ fell over him, whack.

5. Both men _piping_ came up to the _scratch_,
But Bob for Abaddon was more than a match;
He _tapped_ his _claret_, his mug he rent,
And made him so _groggy_ with _punishment_,
That he gladly gave in at the close of the round,
And Warren in triumph was led from the ground.

Then trumpet, and timbrel, and deafening shout,
Like wind through a ruin rang lustily out,
High o’er the rocks that jut over the deep,
Where the souls of the damned to eternity weep;
Echo threw forward her answer of fear,
Dull as the dust that clanks over a bier,
Or death-watch that beats in a sick man’s ear.
From the gulph where they howl to the lead colored night,
The shadowless spectres leaped up with delight,
And “Buy Warren’s Blacking” they shouted aloud,
As the night-wind sighs through a coffinless shroud.
The evil one frowned while they bellowed amain,
But “Buy Warren’s Blacking” he chorussed again;
For tho’ worsted in fight, yet, by order of fate,
The vanquished must temper the pulse of his hate,
And yield to the victor (his will’s despite)
Unbridled sway o’er the fiends of night.
’Tis done, and sore with his recent thwacking,
Abaddon hath purchased O’Warren’s Blacking;
Fate stood by while the bargain was made,
Signed a receipt when the money was paid,
Then summoned her sprites, an exemplary band,
To kneel in respect to the Lord of the Strand.

But hark, ’tis the voice of the crowing cock!
And hark, ’tis the toll of Saint Dunstan’s clock!
The morn rides high in the Eastern sky,
And the little birds carol it merrily:
Already have waned at the gladsome sight,
Each scene of darkness, each goblin sprite;
Abaddon to whit, and the whole of his crew,
Pink, yellow, or rosy, green, purple, or blue,
For cheered by the rays thro’ his lattice that peep,
The bard hath awoke from the “Pains of Sleep.”

This is probably the most amusing parody of _Christabel_ that has ever been written. It appeared originally in “_Warreniana_,” a small anonymous volume of imitations published by Longmans & Co., in 1824. It is now known that the author was Mr. W. F. Deacon, who died about 1845.

Between 60 and 70 years ago Robert Warren’s Blacking was the best advertised article of the day, and even Lord Byron was accused of writing puffs for it. Hence this collection of squibs, in which all the leading poets of the day were represented as singing its praises.

Some few redundant passages have been cut out, but nothing which is necessary to the plot of the poem has been omitted. _Warreniana_ may still be met with occasionally as a second-hand book, and is well worth the few shillings it will cost.

――――

A PARODY OF CHRISTABELLE.
_The Baron Rich._

’Tis a quarter to ten by the castle clock,
And the ‘mastiff bitch’ has awakened the cock,
And the cock has awakened the ‘Baron Rich,’
And he in return will thump the bitch;
Say what can ail her, in her sleep,
That thus she begins to ‘moan and leap,’
I know not, I know not the reason I swear,
And e’en if I did, I’ll be hang’d if I care.

* * * * *

The Baron awoke at the usual hour,
And the bell toll’d loud in his moss-covered tow’r,
Slowly it swung to the gales of the west,
Like a voice from the dead when the winds are at rest,
And a grinning nightmare withheld his rest,
And sat like a pound of cheese on his breast,
And devils and imps danced over his head,
And Satan grinn’d at the foot of his bed;
And the crowing cock his shrill clarion blew,
To whit! to whoo!
And hark again the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew;
As if it was loth from its pillow to creep,
But determined at least to snore in its sleep.
Again the cock crew, while the glance of his eye,
Frightened the clouds as they sail’d thro’ the sky,
And the consequence was, that they shook with wonder,
And jostling each other created the thunder;
The Baron awoke, and he holloed aloud,
As one who had seen ‘my ladie’s shroud’:
“Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,
Come here, or I’ll lace ye,
And tell me directly, or deeply you’ll rue,
The cause of this terrible hulloboloo!”
The bard came forth in his night-cap he,
And he was as skinny as bard mote be,
And his locks hung down o’er his shoulders flat,
As my grandmother says like the tail of a rat;
And away he went with a hem and a haw!
To make the old mastiff lie still in her straw――
Without the kennel the mastiff old,
Lay snoring fast in ‘moonshine cold.’
He kick’d her once, he kick’d her twice,
But the old bitch snapp’d at his fingers thrice.
Then Bracy kick’d her again, times four,
But the old bitch snapped at his fingers the more.

Is he hurt? or doth he squall?
I think he’s hurt tho’ he doth not squall,
But he curses much, like a naughty man,
And swears as often as swear he can;
And like a ‘little limber elf,’
Singeth and danceth to himself.
He must be hurt, I’m sure he must,――
Or he scarce would dare to kick up such a dust;
And certain I am, by his look, ’ifegs,
That the mastiff has bitten the calf of his legs,
And ’tis a right wonder to raise a laugh!――
For who ever heard of a bard with a calf?
But lo! he kicks her again, and her cry,
Split the kennel and rent the sky,
And there she was, squatted upright on her tail,
And oh! she look’d――she look’d like a whale.
And spouted forthwith this dolorous strain,
Which deserves an encore, again and again.

Song of the old Bitch.

“There’s a cloud in the sky,
And it’s wandering by,
And in it I’ll lump,
With a hop, skip, and jump,
For I’m a warlock of evil, I trow.”

(Here the bitch ended with _bow-wow-wow_.)

The bardling was frightened, as well he mote be,
And he looked around, but nought could he see;
The lanky-legg’d bardling was frightened, odd rat it,
And to tell you the truth, I don’t much wonder at it:
For the mastiff had vanish’d, and he was alone,
With nothing at hand, but the grey square stone;
Thro’ which the wind oozed with a terrible crack,
Like a shoulder of mutton spun round on the jack.

* * * * *

The Baron has put on his night-gown and cap,
To know the reason of this mishap;
The Baron has put on his cap and night-gown,
And with club-stick in hand, has gone in a fright down;
And there he discovered, oh! think how shocking,
Bard Bracey alone without shoe or stocking;
“Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron exclaimed,
“To remain in this manner, pray arn’t you ashamed?”
“Bard Bracey, Bard Bracey,” the Baron he cried,
“Go back, go back, to your own bedside,
Or with this good cudgel of forest renown,
As I hope to be saved, I will knock you down.”
Bard Bracey hath girt up his loins and fled,
And the Baron eftsoons has gone to bed;
And a noise is heard, an inscrutable din,
Of the mastiff without, and the kittens within.
And the Baron has woke in a hell of a fright,
And is close to the tinder-box striking a light;
But in striking the flint with too numerous blows,
He has missed the tinder, and struck his nose.

* * * * *

The proud-hearted Baron, o’ercome by the pain,
Jump’d out of his bed, but finding it vain,
Altered his mind and jump’d in again:
And there he dreamt of the father of evil,
’Ycleft by sinners on earth, the devil;
But before he could tell what his spirits were at,
In popp’d father Satan in shape of a cat.
And he skipp’d thro’ the key-hole with terrible pother,
A match in one hand, and his tail in the other;
And said to the Baron, with funeral glee,
“Come, leap thro’ the window, and fly with me;
For I’m the mastiff that kick’d up a rout,
And my broomstick is waiting to carry you out.”
The Baron requested a little delay;
But the ill-tempered devil said “Nay, sir, nay;”
So he put on his breeches and scampered away.
And here might I tell how they rode on the wind,
The Baron before, and the devil behind;
How they rattled along, without food or pelf,
On the high road to Hell, for I saw them myself.
How they flew through the clouds like an air baloon.
And quickly arrived at the hills of the moon.
How the goddess herself was too late to meet them,
But sent a committee of moon-calves to greet them;
How, at five o’clock, just in time for dinner,
The good-looking couple arrived at the inner
Abode of hell, where their journey was o’er,
And they dined off a chop in the Devil’s boudoir;
All this I could tell, if I wasn’t afraid,
That Satan would blush for the pranks I betrayed.

* * * * *

Years have fled since the fatal day,
When the Baron’s spirit wing’d its way,
Obsequious at Apollyon’s call,
To the mansions of death, and the spectral hall;
But still on that ill-omened hour,
The death hymn peals and the tempests low’r,
And knives and forks are laid across,
And the salt is spill’d to the beldame’s loss;
And thirteen old women get into the room,
And the last who goes in――goes out to the tomb.
And an ugly thief flies into the candle,
And pops in your face if you dare it to handle;
And horrid coffins bounce out of the flame,
Enough the most desperate courage to tame;
And demon’s torment the Baron’s soul,
And sing out exultingly, “Old King Coal;”
Which proves that the imps and their souls and so forth,
Are as black as the coals that you buy in the north.
And legends assert, since this terrible stroke,
That Bracey still lives like a pig in a poke;
And my grandmother like to the village chimes,
Has rung out the subject a hundred times;
I wist not what the truth may be,
But I’ll take my oath she has told it to me.

* * * * *

And the worsted night-cap the Baron wore,
And his flannel hose were seen no more,
And instead of the pillow as soft as his head,
A coffin was placed at the foot of the bed;
And dead men’s bones go dancing about,
And skeleton’s guzzle a bottle of stout,
Drained from a toper that died of the gout.
And lights are seen in the midst of the room,
And none know why or whence they come;
But most people think that from motives of spite,
There Beelzebub places his hellish rush-light.
But ere the clock tolls a quarter to four,
The Devils post back to the Stygian shore;
And ere the clock points at a quarter to six,
The Devils are safe on the banks of the Styx;
And like the people that travel to Dover,
Only wait for the packet to carry them over.

This parody, which has more relation to the second part of _Christabel_ than to the first, is taken from “_The Dejeuné_, or Companion for the Breakfast Table.” Monday, November 6, 1820. _The Dejeuné_ was a small paper issued daily at the price of twopence, by Gold & Northhouse, London, and afterwards gathered into a volume, which is now very scarce. After long and patient searching in the British Museum Library no copy of it could be found, nor was its name, even, known to the authorities there. But the parody it contained had been mentioned by authorities on Coleridge, and this collection would have been incomplete without it, hence further searching. At last, after all hopes of obtaining it had departed, the volume was found, in the original boards, clean, and uncut, amongst waste books and pamphlets outside a second-hand bookshop.

That the parody is no better is to be regretted, its insertion here is excusable simply because of its scarcity, for although the editor of _The Dejeuné_ admits that it had already been printed, he does not mention where, nor has any other copy of it ever come under our notice.

――――

_The European Magazine and London Review_ for April, 1815, contained a poem entitled “_Christobell_, a Gothic tale,” which was simply a conclusion to Coleridge’s _Christabel_, although that fact was somewhat artfully veiled in a foot note, which stated “Written as a sequel to a beautiful legend of a fair lady and her father, deceived by a witch in the guise of a noble knight’s daughter.”

It was somewhat ungenerous to steal Coleridge’s metre and plot upon which to found a poem, without mentioning the name of the originator. This sequel is anonymous, in it _Geraldine_ is finally discovered to be a witch of the Lake, and _Merlin_ thus addresses her:――

“Witch of the lake, I know thee now!
Thrice three hundred years are gone
Since beneath my cave,
In the western wave,
I doom’d thee to rue and weep alone,
And writ thy shame on thy breast and brow.”
“Thy hour is past, thy spells I sever,――
Witch of the lake descend for ever!”

――――

The most important continuation of Coleridge’s poem was written by the author of _Proverbial Philosophy_. It was entitled “_Geraldine_, a sequel to Coleridge’s Christabel,” by _Martin Farquhar Tupper_. London. Joseph Rickerby. 1838.

In his Preface, Mr. Tupper gives a short prose sketch of Coleridge’s beautiful but incomplete poem, and remarks that his excuse for continuing the fragment is to be found in Coleridge’s own words, “I trust that I shall be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come, in the course of the present year” (1816), a half promise which he never redeemed.

Mr. Tupper’s poem is in three parts, and is written in serious imitation of _Christabel_, although he fully admits the temerity of his attempt to complete Coleridge’s masterpiece.

――――

Another, but very inferior continuation appeared in _Smallwood’s Magazine_, June 1841 (London. E. Smallwood, Old Bond Street,) entitled “_Christabel_, continued from Coleridge,” by Eliza Stewart. There is a total absence of plot or interest in this poem, and some of the lines descend to the lowest depths of bathos.

Singularly enough, this poem is immediately followed, in the magazine, by an Italian ode “To a foggy day in England,” written by Gabriele Rossetti, father of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and William Michael Rossetti.

This brings to mind Mr. T. Hall Caine’s interesting “_Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti_ (London, Elliott Stock, 1882), in which a chapter is devoted to Rossetti’s opinions on the Lake poets, and particular prominence is given to his criticisms on Coleridge, and _Christabel_. First, the origin of the name is discussed, next the design of the poem, and whether Coleridge had intended (as some critics asserted) to show in the sequel that _Geraldine_ was not a disconsolate maiden, but a man bent on the seduction of _Christabel_.

After these speculations there is an enumeration of various continuations and parodies of the poem, some mentioned by Rossetti, others by Mr. Hall Caine.

Unfortunately these references are so vague that it is impossible to trace some of the articles mentioned.

Thus, it is said the Morning Post _about_ 1820 contained a continuation of _Christabel_, also that there were parodies in _The Quarterly_, _The Examiner_, and _The Monthly Magazine_, but no indication is given of the dates, or volumes, in which they appeared.

――――

In 1816 a clever parody was printed in London entitled “_Christabess, by S. T. Colebritche, Esq., a right woeful Poem, translated from the doggerel by Sir Vinegar Sponge_.” 8vo. Unfortunately no copy of this scarce pamphlet is to be found in the British Museum Library; it is said to be very funny, even Coleridge himself quoted it as an admirable parody. The name of the author of _Christabess_ was never divulged.

It is difficult to parody _Christabel_ successfully. Even the attempt contained in _The Poetic Mirror_, although written by one who was himself a poet, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was an interesting imitation, without invention, or suitable application of style. It was entitled _Isabelle_, the same volume contained another imitation of Coleridge’s style _The Cherub_, which was somewhat more successful, but neither poem is of sufficient interest to reprint. _The Poetic Mirror_ was published in London in 1816.

_Christabel_ has also been parodied in German.

“_Chrystabelle; or, the Rose without a Thorn_” is the title of an extravaganza written by the late Edmund Falconer, and produced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, December 26, 1860, it does not, however, bear any resemblance to Coleridge’s poem.

――――:o:――――

A VISION.
(_By the author of “Christabel.”_)

“Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could pray
One hasty orison, whirl’d me away
To a limbo, lying――I wist not where――
Above or below, in earth or air;
For it glimmered o’er with a _doubtful_ light,
One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night;
And was crost by many a mazy track,
One didn’t know how to get on or back;
And I felt like a needle that’s going astray,
(With its _one_ eye out) through a bundle of hay:
When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me
“Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms
Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;
(Like bottled up babes, that grace the room
Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)――
All of them things half-kill’d in rearing;
Some were lame――some wanted _hearing_;
Some had through half a century run,
Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon.
Others, more merry, as just beginning,
Around on a _point of law_ were spinning;
Or balanced aloft, ’twixt _Bill_ and _Answer_,
Lead at each hand, like a tight-rope dancer――
Some were so _cross_, that nothing could please ’em;
Some gulp’d down _affidavits_ to ease ’em;
All were in motion, yet never a one,
Let it _move_ as it might, could ever move _on_.
“These,” said the spirit, “You plainly see,
Are what they call suits in Chancery!”

I heard a loud screaming of old and young,
Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung;
Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”)
At an amateur concert scream’d in score;――
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this limbo dwell!
It seemed like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see;
Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,
“Give us our legs!――give us our legs!”
Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I ask’d what all this yell might mean,
When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,
“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”

I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,[90]
With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,
And they mov’d and mov’d, as he waved it o’er,
But they never got on one inch the more,
And still they kept limping to and fro,
Like Ariels, ’round old Prospero――
Saying “dear master, let us go,”
But still old Prospero answered “No,”
And I heard, the while, that wizard elf,
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While o’er as many old papers he turn’d,
As Hume e’er moved for, or Omar burned.
He talked of his virtue――’though some, less nice,
(He owned with a sigh) preferr’d his _Vice_――
And he said “I think”――“I doubt”――“I hope”――
Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn’t for the soul of me understand.

Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just about
To ask his name, when the screams without
The merciless clack of the imps within,
And that conjuror’s mutterings, made such a din,
That startled, I woke――leap’d up in my bed――
Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled,
And blessed my stars, right pleased to see,
That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.

THOMAS MOORE.

(This poem originally appeared in _The Times_, 1826.)

FRAGMENT OF A VISION.

A Dandy on a velocipede
I saw in a vision sweet,
Along the highway making speed,
With his alternate feet.
Of a bright and celestial hue
Gleamed beauteously his blue surtout;
While ivory buttons, in a row,
Showed like the winter’s caverned snow,
Which the breezy north
Drives sweeping forth
To lodge in the cave below:
Ontario’s beaver, without demur,
To form his hat did lend its fur:
His frill was of the cambric fine,
And his neckcloth starched and aquiline;
And oh, the eye with pleasure dwells
On his white jean indescribables;
And he throws the locks from his forehead fair,
And he pants, and pants, and pants for air;
What is the reason I cannot tell,
There is a cause――I know it well;
Too firmly bound, too tightly braced,
The corsets grasp his spider waist,
Till his coat tails are made to fly
Even from the back they glorify.
Look again, he is not there――
Vanished into the misty air!
Look again! do you see him yet?
Ah no! the bailiff has seized him for debt,
And to and fro, like a restless ghost,
When peace within the grave is lost,
He paces as far, as far he should,
Within the bounds of Holyrood!

WILLIAM MAGINN. 1821.

――――:o:――――

THE ANCIENT STORY.

[The Lord Chief Justice seems to have “Tichborne on the brain,” and cannot permit even his convivial moments to pass without talking of him, and going in for his own justification. He has become the veritable Ancient Mariner of the judicial bench, who, whenever he gets an audience, is compelled to begin anew the ancient story.――“‘There was a case,’ quoth he.”――_South London Press._]

It is an ancient Judge-in-Chief,
And he stoppeth one in three;
“By thy horsehair wig and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

He holds him with his skinny hand,
“There was a Case” quoth he.
“Hold off!――unhand me, greybeard loon!”
But still the tale must be.

“The case was called, the usher bawled,
’Regina _v._ Cas_tro_;
The work began, upstood the man
Whom all as Claimant know.

“Day after day, day after day,
Into the box came he,
And answers gave, the smiling knave,
That posed the keen Q.C.

“And lies were here, and lies were there,
And lies were all about,
Whispered and growled, and roared and howled,
And still the case spun out.

“Day after day, day after day,
We stuck――no sense of motion,
Until the speeches came, and words
Flowed boundless as the ocean:

“Till every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
The barristers were dry as if
They had been choked with soot.

“There passed a weary time; each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye;
A weary time, a weary time――
And then my speech had I.