What dost thou here, Peter? the Abbot exclaimed.
"What dost thou here, Peter?" the Abbot exclaimed;
"Explain, let me see if there's aught to be blamed:
For as What's-his-name says, in his Justice with Jury,
You ne'er at the culprit should fly in a fury,
But hear of the question—both sides ere convicting—
Although you're quite certain which way you'll verdict him."
Then the friar his courage plucked up in a minute,
A mess was before him and he was near in it.
A stroke swift and bold was the only plan waiting
By which he might hope for a safe extricating.
But while thus he was thinking the sage Abbot spoke,
He was three-fourths in earnest but one-fourth in joke—
"What, speechless! then guilty you are I'm quite sure;
For not proving innocent's guilty by law.
As the same author says, who lately I quoted,
Whose works for their truth and great clearness are noted."
"O, help me, dear Fiction!" soliloquised Peter,
(A-muse-meant t'invoke when Miss Truth we would cheat her),
"For without a few fibs I must really confess,
I shall never get out of this terrible mess.
Then aid me, fair maiden, to frame some fine story
To puzzle this old chap who now stands before me."
The muse was propitious; how could she decline
A man so determined through her smiles to shine?
So, gulping his fear down, and banishing fuss,
Began his defence with a steady voice, thus,—
"No, I'm not, as your highness might justly suppose,
In error entrapped, as my tale shall disclose;
For my life is as pure as this clear crystal stream,
And reflects yon bright light as it does the sun's beam.
Last night, after hours of watching and fasting,
To slumber unconscious my wearied eyes passed in;
When a vision I saw
Coming in at the door,
Which beckoned me thrice with her hand.
So I quickly arose
And slipt into my clothes,
To fulfil this said spectre's command.
Then she marched on before
Through a small secret door,
And hurried away at such double-quick pace,
That I forced was to run,
Till I almost begun
To think I was in for a long wild-goose chase.
But at length she stood still
On the top of the hill
Where old farmer Jonas has set up his mill;
And pointing below,
Said, 'There you must go,
To hear and see things which concern you to know.'
Then turning my head I beheld a faint, dim light,
Which told me that some one was robbing old grim Night,
And making my mind up to see what was doing,
I asked the young lady if she would go too in.
But she spoke not a word,
So I thought she'd not heard,
And called out again in a much louder key;
When I found she had flown,
And had left me alone,
To go by myself this said mystery to see.
So I quickly descended,
And towards the light wended
My steps, though it seemed to be far, far away.
Though I walked for an hour
Fast as legs have the power,
Yet far in the distance appeared the faint ray.
Then I weary became,
For I thought that the flame
Must be but a will-o'-the-wisp after all.
When like magic appear'd,
On an eminence rear'd,
A hut, whence the light seemed in streams forth to play.
But as I was gazing the light was extinguished,
And nothing but darkness could well be distinguished.
Still I groped on, determined the goal now to win.
But the hut, though soon found,
I had yet to walk round,
Ere the door I perceived, when I tapped to begin;
But a growl and a groan
Were the answers alone
That I got, so I lifted the latch and walked in.
When, oh! what a sight to my eyes was portrayed!
It made my flesh crawl—I was almost afraid,
And nearly had run out again.
But, quick plucking up courage, I stirred up the fire,
Which, though nearly extinguished, soon shot up much higher
And showed ev'ry thing plain.
On a pallet, which seemed almost touching the fire,
Made of rushes and heather embedded with mire,
In a hollow scooped out of the floor,
The skeleton form of a female was lying,
Who, terribly groaning, appeared to be dying;
I twice thought the struggle was o'er.
When she lifted her arm that was shrivelled and bare,
And raised up her head with a wild piercing stare,
To demand who I was? what I wanted? and why
I'd intruded where lonely she'd lived, and would die?
Then begging her pardon, I told her I bore
The order of monkhood, and grieved that I saw
One who soon must be leaving this earth far behind
So uneasy, and sorely perplexed in her mind.
But confession, I said, is the readiest way
To purchase relief; O then, wherefore delay,
When I'm ready to hear all you're willing to say?
Then flushes, like fire, o'er her visage of stone
Flew swift, as she threw herself down with a groan;
And seemed quite determined that nothing she'd own.
For a minute or two there was silent suspense,
When, as past hope of pardon I deemed my offence,
I decided 'twas best I should hasten far hence.
So gently on tiptoe I walked to the door.
But suddenly turning, my movement she saw,
And fixing upon me her keen piercing eye
She bid me remain, as she meant to comply
With what I'd requested, and make her confession,
In hopes that her anguish of mind it might lessen.
'You must know then,' she said,
'That I formerly led
The life of a gipsy, till seized with the gout;
When as I no more with my race could roam out,
Each one of my tribe
Agreed to subscribe
To build me a cottage, or shed of some kind,
Where shelter and rest in my pain I might find.
'Twas a beautiful glen
Where these generous men
Erected my dwelling in less than a week,
For they had not far for materials to seek,
For a forest hard by
Did the timber supply,
Which they axed to support roof and ceiling.
But though, after all, 'twas a rough-looking shed,
I thought as I lay on my soft heather bed
That a monarch might envy my feelings.
But, alas! the next day,
The young Baron that way
Chanced to pass as out hunting he rode,
In tones full of ire,
Who had dared to erect that abode
In his favorite glen,
Which he occupied when
He gave a grand fête out in open air?
Then very soon after some servants appear'd,
Who quickly began, as I sadly had fear'd,
To put my poor cottage quite out of repair.
How I moaned! how I groaned!
Their compassion to raise.
Though all proved, alas! of no use.
They cared not. They dared not,
Against what their lord says,
To act if they that way should choose.
So they dragged off the thatch,
And tore down each rafter;
While I underneath catch
The dust, and their laughter;
And would not remove till all was destroyed,
As if 'twas my anguish the ruffians enjoyed.
'Again in a hurry you'll not build,' said they,
As lifting they bore me with speed far away,
Though roaring and screaming with pain.
They saw I was fainting yet checked not their pace;
And left me at last in a lone barren place,
Where shelter I looked for in vain.
For the sun seemed to scorch with his terrible might,
And I feared that the damp chills descending at night
Would double my aches and my pain.
But soon o'er the sky such a black cloud spread
That quickly the rays of the bright sun fled;
Then the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared,
The hail and the rain down in torrents poured,
And the wind tempestuous blew.
I was soon soaked through, while each drop of rain
And the dart-like hail caused a shoot of pain,
Till I raved with torture wild;
And swore, in the darkness of fell despair,
As I tore in my fury my whit'ning hair—
Though weak as a puny child.
(For I wished to move, but in vain I tried,)
I had slain myself, and had willingly died,
Though sworn to be revenged.
For I swore that nothing should cool my rage,
No kindness hereafter my hate assuage,
Till I'd myself avenged.'
The gipsy here stopped short and breathed,
And much that rest she needed;
But soon as she had strength received
Thus on the tale proceeded:—
'My tribe,' said she, 'the next day found
The cottage levelled with the ground,
And searching, found me lying
Some distance from the ruined heap,
From numbing pain sunk deep in sleep,
Worn out with rage and crying.
They raised this hut above my head,
Spread under me this heather bed.
And tended me with care.
When, strange to say, I soon revived,
Pains sharper e'en than death survived,
But still I lived here, lest a fresh attack
Might trip up my heels if I turned my back,
And stretch me again on the painful rack.
And I nursed revenge, till with rage imprest.
I dreamed of revenge when I sank to rest.
My thoughts were revenge from the dawn of day,
Till the darkness scattered the light away.
Oh, I pined for revenge as a maiden pines
For her lover returning from distant climes;
Who expects every day till remorseless eve
Makes her hope for next morn—for the present, grieve.
All hope worse than hopeless appeared to be
When fate, fiends, or fortune befriended me.
'Twas a gala day, and the loathsome glen
Resounded with laughter from joyful men.
I could see the grand tents where the flags waved high,
And I gathered the news from a passer-by.
'Twas the christ'ning-day of the son and heir
Of the Baron's estates and castles fair;
And guests without end were invited there,
To a sumptuous feast in the open air.
But, oh! 'twas a dreadful day for me;
'Must ever my rage then fruitless be?'
I said, and felt I could have willing died,
Had the means of revenge then been supplied.
But again the sun sank swift away,
And twilight attended expiring day.
All nature appears preparing for sleep,
While wakeful alone mine eyelids keep.
But, hark, what's that?—the tramp of horse!
Who hitherward can bend his course?
'Tis some one who, by yonder light,
Where revels turn to day the night,
Has here been led astray.
But, lo! he knocks, and straight walks in,
A gloomy figure tall and thin,
A bundle on his arm!
Who quickly gazed around to see
If any one abode with me.
His eye bespoke alarm.
'Your pleasure, Sir?' I rising said.
'I live alone in this poor shed;
If you the bridle-path would seek,
'Tis hidden by yon dark hill's peak.
If 'tis the Baron's stately hall,
Yon lights will guide, where rout and ball—'
'Stop, dame, 'tis none of these, but you
I seek, and what I'd have you do
I quick must tell, for time away
Flies fast, and long I dare not stay.
This babe,' he said, 'so young and fair,
I leave a nursling to your care
For five short hours; when three times told
Their number—I will pay you gold—
The child myself I'll fetch, till then
Preserve it from all earthly ken.'
He left; the babe was softly sleeping,
Its little eyes were red with weeping,
As if from recent pain.
I kissed its little tiny hand,
And tried its tale to understand,
When o'er each limb a trembling spread,
A giddiness attacked my head,
My brain was growing wild.
Oh, could it be the Baron's heir,
That had been left my couch to share?
Yes, it must be his child!
In haste the snowy robes I tore;
A coronet each garment bore—
The infant woke and smiled.
I groaned, and turned my head away,
When crowing it began to play;
Nor showed the least alarm.
I neared, it raised its head at this,
As if it sought a mother's kiss—
I could not do it harm.
I gave it food; and soon to rest,
Like some young bird in leafy nest,
It slumb'ring fell, without a fear
For morrow's care, or danger near.
I sat me down the bed beside,
And tried to sleep, but vainly tried.
The terrors of the dreadful past
Were crowding through my mem'ry fast.
The months and months of fruitless hate
Which mocked my eager rage of late;
The hope of morn, despair of eve,
The night, when blasted hopes I'd grieve,
All stood before me; and with smother'd cries
Bid me revenge while Fate the chance supplies;
Then stole away, when that most dreadful night
With shiv'ring anguish passed before my sight.
Once more, methought, I lay upon the plain;
Once more was rack'd with that tormenting pain;
Again I felt that flood of piercing hail,
And screamed for succour, but without avail.
Then suddenly another phantom near'd,
And lo! the dreadful oath I'd sworn appear'd.
'Revenge, revenge!' its pale lips seemed to say,
As pointing where the slumb'ring infant lay;
'Seize thy sole chance, nor lose it by delay.'
I started, rose, and paced the hut across;
When from a distance came the tramp of horse,
While louder still the spectre madly cries,
'Revenge, revenge, ere chance for ever flies!'
'Twas dark, I groped until the babe I found,
Then scrunched its neck, until without a sound
It died—then flung it lifeless to the ground.
A knock, a call, the door wide open flew,
With hurried step the stranger hastens through.
"The child! be quick, I'm 'fore the hour I told,
But there you'll find the promised sum of gold.'
His purse he flung into my lap, but still
I did not stir his orders to fulfil.
He cast his eyes around, then gazed on me,
The object sought for he could nowhere see.
'Woman!' he cried, 'hast thou thy trust betrayed?
Thy treach'ry base shall swiftly be repaid.'
He seized my hand, nigh crushed it in his own,
Yet still I uttered not the slightest groan,
But flung his gaze back with a fearless eye,
And said, 'Revenged, I care not if I die!
The babe no more will cross thy path below,
Nephew of Baron Reginald, I know
Thy pale face now, and guess the reason why
Thou fear'st to lose thy stolen property.'
Just then 'twixt clouds a straggling beam revealed
The corner where the infant lay concealed.
He raised it up, then raved with anger wild,
To see 'twas dead, whilst I with pleasure smiled,
And said that I, yes I, had slain the child.
'O wretch!' he cried, 'the gallows is too good
(But yet I dare not harm her if I would.
My heart grows faint, is overpowered with dread,
The falling blow would also cleave my head:
I ne'er intended it should go thus far,
Yet still the guilt and recompense mine are).
Speak, wretched woman! say, what tempted thee?
Thou ne'er couldst think this crime would pleasure me.
Thy witch-like spells, by which ye think to know
My secret plans, are false—yea, doubly so.'
'Doubt as you like, but hear what I would tell,
Then say if I have learnt my story well.
Yon babe you stole to rob him of his lands,
And as afraid with blood to stain your hands,
You meant to bear him to some distant shore,
Where parents' smiles would bless the child no more.
But not for thee I crushed the viper's brood,
Far other thoughts and impulse I pursued.
It was revenge, deep rankling in my breast,
That sent the infant to its last long rest.
With hate I'd sworn, if chance should e'er incline,
To cause him pangs unbearable as mine,
On that dark night when, deluged with the rain,
I called on death to terminate my pain,
My hut from o'er my head was torn, and I
Was left in dreadful agony to die
By his commands: then am I much to blame,
When greatest heroes boast of such-like shame?'
"No, woman, I can blame thine act no more;
Thy tale, methinks, I've somewhere heard before.
The guilt's more mine—thy life I'll therefore save,
And bear this infant to some distant grave,
Where dark oblivion shall his tombstone be,
In secret 'graved, unknown to all but me.'
"Not whilst I live'!—I seized the babe, and cried.
"The corse is mine—the fun'ral I'll provide—
Beneath my bed its resting-place shall be:
'Twill bring me sleep when slumber fain would flee.
Thou ne'er hast felt that heart-consuming power,
That rage increasing each successive hour,
That desp'rate longing to annihilate
The wretch who dares augment our cruel fate;
But think not I to foes would thee betray:
No, hidden there the infant safe shall lay
Till coming years shall rot each bone away.'
"Swear this to me,' he said, 'and I depart;
But let no temptings of thy magic art
Lead thee astray, for death must be thy lot
If e'er the oath of silence be forgot.
But as I'd keep thee now from further sin,
Whene'er I pass this way I'll just look in;
Or send you gold, which ne'er fails to impart
The balm of comfort to a broken heart.'
"I willing swear, but not through threats,' said I,
"For life's a burden; but I'll tell you why:
Uncertain fears shall wear away his heart,
And even wealth shall fail to soothe his smart.'
"He left—the babe beneath my couch was laid,
Beside the gold which seemed for murder paid,
With larger sums at diff'rent seasons brought,
For though half starved I yet would handle naught.
"But in the morn you it shall all exhume
If you will swear my body to entomb
Within this spot, and faithfully incline
To grant my dying wishes—then 'tis thine.
I would the haughty Baron soon should know
What hand it is has laid his glory low,
That she it is whose hut he once destroyed
Who now of heirs has made his house thus void.''
"She more had said, but sense appeared to stray,
Yea, even life was ebbing fast away.
'Begone! begone!' was all she'd strength to say.
I left, persuaded morn would see her clay.
This morning early rising there I went,
—To seek the money, p'rhaps, my chief intent—
When neither the hut could anywhere be found,
Nor yet the old lady, or trace on the ground;
So that really I thought, ere from slumber I woke,
She had vanished away like a cigar, in smoke.
"This then is, your rev'rence, the whole of my tale—
That I'm disappointed I greatly bewail,
For I meant to enrich with this wealth given me
(As a proof of my zeal) this great monastery."
"And this," said the Abbot, "you plead in defence?
I'm almost persuaded 'tis but a pretence;
Yet, in justice, I cannot my credence refuse
Until I discover my trust you abuse.
But if ever in falsehood you once are found out,
My anger would heavily fall there's no doubt.
Then it was, after all, but a slumb'ring delusion,—
Just a slight indigestion, which caused this illusion?
Still tell me, how is it I find you out here?"
"To meditate, sir, on these doings so queer,
I meant to devote a few moments to thought,
To see if by chance I could recollect aught
Of the hut's situation, as likely I might
P'rhaps have lost the right track through the darkness of night,
For the scenes of each action so plain to me seem,
I can never believe 'twas a shadowy dream."
"May I ask," said the Abbot, "what book you're perusing?
I am sure 'tis instructive, I hope 'tis amusing."
"Well really, your rev'rence, I can't say it aint,
For 'tis an account of a very great saint,
Who all kinds of evil with boldness defied,
And ever was victor when battle he tried."
Oh how heartily now the poor friar did wish
He would go, for his foot was nigh crushing his fish;
But suppose he had seen them, I have little doubt
He'd have said that, unaided, the stream they crept out,
For he ne'er could be trapped for the want of excuse;
Yet was still his companion most anxious to lose,
For the turn of a rush would have cost him his dinner.
But kind Fate had determined he should not get thinner,
For the Abbot departed without a word more,
And so neither the fish nor the little hook saw,
Which was dangling about—quite in sight you'll suppose,
As he nearly was caught once or twice by the nose.
"Ah, ah, ah!" said the friar, "now isn't it good?
But I'd better not crow till he's out of the wood.
I'm certain he's left me to look for the money,
The greedy old fellow: now isn't it funny,
To know that I have done him who thinks he's so 'cute
He ne'er can be baffled in any dispute?
O bravo, dear Fiction! you clever old girl,
Your banner with pleasure I'll ever unfurl,
And rejoice as a slave at your feet low to lie,
Till old Fate shall determine that Peter must die.
But just wait, let me see
Where my rod and line be.
Oh, there down midst the rushes they lie snug concealed.
But those ill-fated fish
Won't get cooked as I wish,
For I'm sure by this time that the taties are peeled.
But I know what I'll do:
While they're boiling—there's two,
But remarkably small—more's the pity!
I will just take a nap
In old Somnus's lap,
And will dream of that angel, Miss Kitty."
We must now leave the monk for a moment or two,
And quick after the steps of the Abbot pursue,
Who can very fast walk when he thinks he's not seen,
And is scamp'ring now o'er the meadows (so green),
For he really believed that the friar said true,
That he'd lost the right path which would lead the hut to,
But he felt quite determined to find it.
And although the sun's rays were so scorchingly hot
That he red in the face as a furnace had got,
Yet he seemed not a moment to mind it;
But clambered each hill's side and ran down each hollow,
Oft looking to see if the friar would follow,
Not thinking howe'er he'd be found thus.
But when we do actions of which we're ashamed,
And conscience informs us we ought to be blamed,
We're sure to look anxious around us.
"But had not old Peter abandoned the chase,"
The Abbot exclaimed, "ere I popp'd in his place,
As executor to the old lady?
Then, besides, but a moment or two back he told
That he meant to devote to our use all the gold.
Oh, how conscience soon quieted may be!"
Now the Abbot remembered that somewhere he'd seen
An old tumble-down hut when out rambling he'd been,
Which he thought might be it,—and 'twas, by the bye,
The same Peter had all the while in his eye;
For he had not erected, as Truth must declare,
The castle on clouds up aloft in the air.
But the gold and old lady were really a joke,
And had both been dug out of and buried in smoke.
Then he happened to know,
About eight years ago,
A child had been lost by the Baron—and oh!
He never should think
Old Peter could link
Such strange facts together as well deserved ink.
So his story was true,
For he very well knew
The friar possessed not a grain of romance.
'Tis not book study that
Has made him grow so fat,
'Tis earth's lower pleasures, he fears, does entrance.
Now a distant rise
Presents to the eyes
Of the Abbot the hut, and with joy on he flies;
It is rugged indeed,
But he takes little heed,
Though the walls are of mud, and each flower is a weed.
Not a sound then was heard,
Not a chirp from a bird,
Nor yet from a little grasshopper;
Should he knock at the shed,
Or straight walk in instead?
He wish'd to know which was most proper.
For there spread o'er his heart such a feeling of awe,
He felt nervous whenever he ugly sights saw;
And now p'rhaps the bed must be moved from the hovel,
Before at the gold he can get—then the shovel:
O dear, he's forgot it—oh, what shall he do
If there's none within when he penetrates through?
Then without much dispatch
He uplifted the latch,
When he felt 'gainst his legs such a terrible poke,
That he staggered with fear,
And had swooned away near,
Ere he saw 'twas a pig who inflicted the stroke;
While a rough Irish laugh on his reverie broke,
Whose possessor appeared to enjoy much the joke,
And cried, "Och, the pig has got out of the door!
Why couldn't you make a slight shindy before
You poked in your carcase?—We'd held then his tail—it
Must now be 'gen cotched, or some feller will stale it."
But a terrible frown
From the Abbot proceeded,
And he rustled his gown,
Which at once Loony heeded;
For the priests then were held by the whole of the nation
In the highest respect, and in great veneration.
"Your pardon, your rev'rence, I knew not 'twas you,"
He humbly exclaimed, whilst his head he was scratching.
"Pray do me the honour to step just into
This bit of a dwelling—it p'rhaps may want thatching;
Still the holes in the roof make the fire burn better,
Though rain, than is pleasant oft makes us much wetter."
"No, what I would say I will speak here outside,—
'Tis of the old lady who yesternight died."
"She dead! Oh no, no! Though I oft wished she were,
Still yonder she sits in the corner down there,
On the edge of a tub, for want of a chair."
"Quite true," said the Abbot, "for Socrates tells us,
Old ladies in breath are as lasting as bellows;
But is she not troubled with gout or rheumatic?
Or is she, from rain oft descending, aquatic?
"Rheumatics! yes, sure, there's much truth in that question.
But what is far worse is her pow'rful digestion;
For would ye believe it—within bounds I speak—
A sack of best praties would last but a week,
If she was supplied whene'er victuals she'd seek.
But she gave us last night such a terrible fright,
When we chanced late to come from the wake of old Wright.
For her pains were so bad
That she raved just like mad,
And called for a priest, though no priest could be had.
Still up in the morn she rose better than ever.
Pain never will kill her, I'm certain,—no, never!
She's my mother-in-law, sir, and not my own mother,
Or as welcome she'd be in this world as another."
("Oh, oh!" thought the Abbot, "the way's growing clearer!
I feared I had strayed—but I find the game nearer.")
"She would see then a priest? with her wish I'll comply;
But alone it must be, for should you remain by,
Any facts I would prove she would surely deny,
Though of Mary's great abbey the Primate am I."
"Well, if ever!" said Looney, with a wild kind of stare,
As he bolted inside, crying, "Meg! quick—a chair!
There's the Abbot of Mary's a-standing out there!"
Now that Meg was not well might be very well seen,
She'd been waking too late where she'd yesternight been,
For her eyes were as red as a lobster fresh boiled,
And her nose looked like beetroot in cooking when spoiled;
So she ran in a corner, where safe she might hide
From the flood of reproofs which she feared might betide.
Then enter'd the Abbot, his eyes cast around,
And snug in a corner the old lady found,
While away on an errand had Looney been sent,
To prevent his eaves-dropping—if such his intent.
("That shows skill," thought Ted, "but I yet shall defeat it,
For Meg will hear all, and is sure to repeat it.")
"She sleeps," said the priest, "and I don't like to wake her,
But fear she won't rouse if I try not to make her;
So as time flies fast I will make bold to shake her."
"Fire! thieves!" cried the dame. "O, Meg, what are you arter?
You wicked, ungrateful, neglectful, young darter!
I was dreaming of dinner—oh, such a fine treat!
Not of biled praties only, but roast and biled meat."
"Hush, hush!" said the Abbot, "I've heard your sad story,
And much I was grieved at, but felt sorry for ye."
"Ay, ay," she exclaimed, "did yer spake of the child?
It's nigh broke my heart, and will soon drive me wild.
Though I don't wish to die, yet the dochters can't save,
When there's grief and rheumatics a-digging my grave."
"But the gold," said the Abbot, "I hope it's secure?"
"Did yer spake? Just spake out, for I'm deaf, certain sure."
"Down there?" said he louder, and pointed close by,
"Yes, there, there," she answered, "the creature will lie,
Dead drunk as a baste, while I'm forced to attend
To the cooking and washing, or else a hand lend
For to keep the house tidy, or else the clothes mend:
Yet I get but half-fed,
Whilst she's snoring in bed.
I often have thought I had better be dead."
"Just so," said the priest; "sure the woman's quite mad.
Or else forgot all—oh, a spade that I had!
I'd soon have a look if the gold were there still,
And then set to work just to make out her will."
While speaking, he spied 'neath the bed a small leg
Without shoe or stocking, which proved to be Meg.
"Oh, she's heard every word, then!" the Abbot exclaimed;
"For the want of more caution I'm much to be blamed;
They will search every spot, and the wealth I shall lose it.
But the old dame can help it, and she may not choose it."
