Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you feel 'em, Are not cured by travel—as Horace says, "Cœlum Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!" It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary— Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his; It haunts you for ever—in bed and at board,— Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems, Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored! It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few, —François Xavier Auguste was an instance—can do. Indeed, from the time He committed the crime Which cut off poor Sister Therèse in her prime, He was not the same man that he had been—his plan Was quite changed—in wild freaks he no more led the van; He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking, From company shrinking— He quite gave up drinking. At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came, Fish, fricassee, fricandeau, potage, or game, Dindon aux truffes, or turbot à la crême, No!—he still shook his head,—it was always the same, Still he never complained that the cook was to blame! 'Twas his appetite fail'd him—no matter how rare And recherché the dish, how delicious the fare,— What he used to like best he no longer could bear; But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair: Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair; Such a shirt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare. He omitted to shave;—he neglected his hair, And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.
One thing, above all, most excited remark: In the evening he seldom sat long after dark. Not that then, as of yore, he'd go out for "a lark" With his friends; but when they, After taking cafe, Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray, —Which I own I consider a very good way, If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day— No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay; But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head By way of "Good evening!" and walk off to bed. Yet even when there he seem'd no better off, For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem! and he cough; And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes, sobbing outright, While his valet, who often endeavour'd to peep, Declared that "his master was never asleep! But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep; That about ten o'clock His door he would lock, And then never would open it, let who would knock!— He had heard him," he said, "Sometimes jump out of bed, And talk as if speaking to one who was dead! He'd groan and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone, Begging some one or other to let him alone, That it really would soften the heart of a stone To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven; Then—The bother began always just at eleven!"
François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before, I believe, was a popular man in his corps, And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun, Now began to consult what was best to be done. Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue Confess'd they did not know at all what to do: But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonso Stanislaus Emile de Grandville Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal. "The first thing," he said, "was to find out the matter That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter— Mort de ma vie!" —Here he took some rapee— "Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!"— He was right, sure enough—in a couple of days He worms out the whole story of Sister Therèse, Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch Père la Chaise. —"But the worst thing of all," François Xavier declares, "Is, whenever I've taken my candle up-stairs, There's Therèse sitting there—upon one of those chairs! Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares, That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rs, While an odour,—the very reverse of perfume,— More like rhubarb or senna,—pervades the whole room!
Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile, When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel; Not that he cared for Ghosts—he was far too genteel; Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw Him, whom, for fun, They'd, by way of a pun On his person and principles, nick-named Sans Foi, —A man whom they had, you see, Mark'd as a Sadducee,— In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw, And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest awe!— It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise; He shrugg'd up his shoulders, he turn'd up his eyes, And he thought with himself that he could not do less Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess.
Repetition's detestable;— So, as you're best able, Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table— How the bold Brigadiers Prick'd up their ears, And received the account, some with fears, some with sneers; How the Sieur de la Roue Said to Count Cordon Bleu, "Ma foi—c'est bien drôle—Monseigneur, what say you?"— How Count Cordon Bleu Declared he "thought so too;"— How the Colonel affirm'd that "the case was quite new;"— How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers How far the Ghost part of the story was true;— How, at last, when asked, "What was the best thing to do?" Everybody was silent,—for nobody knew!— And how, in the end, they said, "No one could deal With the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal, As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal This strange story—viz. Hippolyte Hector Achille Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville!"
I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great, Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate To rescue his friend from his terrible foes, Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose, From extravagant notions respecting their hue Has strangely agreed to denominate "Blue," Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail Than those he had, early in life, found to fail, When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail. In vain did he try With strong waters to ply His friend, on the ground that he never could spy Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye; St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry; Besides, what the vulgar call "sucking the monkey" Has much less effect on a man when he's funky. In vain did he strive to detain him at table Till his "dark hour" was over—he never was able, Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address Which the British call "Humbug," and Frenchmen "_Finesse_," (It's "Blarney" in Irish—I don't know the Scotch,) He fell to admiring his friend's English watch.[21] He examined the face, And the back of the case, And the young Lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he "Saw by the likeness was one of the family;" Cried "Superbe!—Magnifique!" (With his tongue in his cheek)— Then he open'd the case, just to take a peep in it, and Seized the occasion to pop back the minute-hand. With a demi-congé, and a shrug, and grin, he Returns the bijou and—c'est une affaire finie— "I've done him," thinks he, "now I'll wager a guinea!" It happen'd that day They were all very gay, 'Twas the Grand Monarque's birthday—that is, 'twas St. Louis's, Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view as his— So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw, He cried, "Come—that won't do, my fine fellow, St. Foix,— Give us five minutes longer and drink Vive le Roi."
François Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust Of the trick that was play'd, drew his watch from his fob, Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to "hob-nob," Fill'd a bumper, and rose With "Messieurs, I propose"— He paused—his blanch'd lips fail'd to utter the toast! 'Twas eleven!—he thought it half-past ten at most— Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post,— His jaw dropp'd—his eyes Swell'd to twice their own size— And he stood as a pointer would stand—at a Ghost! —Then shriek'd, as he fell on the floor like a stone. "Ah! Sister Therèse! now—do let me alone!"
It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,— As waters wear stone by the "Sæpe cadendo," If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto, "Agendo!" Was it not Robert Bruce?—I declare I've forgot, But I think it was Robert—you'll find it in Scott— Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a Spider, "She's sure to come round, if you will but abide her." Then another great Rob, Called "White-headed Bob," Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the "nob" From a fist which might almost an elephant brain, That I really believed, at the first, he was slain, For he lay like a log on his back, on the plain, Till a gentleman present, accustomed to train, Drew out a small lancet, and open'd a vein Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain, He stood up, like a trump, with an air of disdain, While his "backer" was fain, —For he could not refrain— (He was dress'd in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain, And I think I heard somebody call him "Squire Hayne,") To whisper ten words one should always retain, —"Take a suck at the lemon, and at him again!!!"— A hint ne'er surpassed, though thus spoken at random, Since Teucer's apostrophe—Nil desperandum!— —Grandville acted on it, and order'd his Tandem. He had heard St Foix say, That no very great way From Namur was a snug little town call'd Grandpré, Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese, Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therèse, Of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother, And as like to Therèse as one pea to another; She liv'd with her Mamma, Having lost her Papa, Late of contraband schnaps an unlicensed distiller, And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).