Growing afraid, He calls to his aid A bandy-legg'd neighbour, a "Tailor by trade,"[58] Tells him his fears, Bids him lay by his shears, His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie With all possible speed to the Convent hard by, Requests him to say That he begs they'll all pray, Viz.: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay, For the soul of an Old Woman clothed in grey, Who was just at that time in a very bad way, And he really believed couldn't last out the day;— And to state his desire That some erudite Friar Would run over at once, and examine, and try her; For he thought he would find There was "something behind," A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,— "In fact he was sure, from what fell from her tongue, That this little Old Woman had done something wrong." —Then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man, "Mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!"
Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe, Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago; I can't say exactly how long, nor, I own, What particular monarch was then on the throne, But 'twas here in Old England: and all that one knows is, It must have preceded the Wars of the Roses.[59]
Inasmuch as the times Described in these rhymes Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes; And if 'mongst the Laity Unseemly gaiety Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two, At once all the Clerics Went into hysterics, While scarcely a convent but boasted its Saint or two; So it must have been long ere the line of the Tudors, As since then the breed Of Saints rarely indeed With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors. —Hence the late Mr. Froude, and the live Dr. Pusey We moderns consider as each worth a Jew's eye; Though Wiseman, and Dullman[60] combined against Newman, With Doctors and Proctors, and say he's no true man. —But this by the way.—The Convent I speak about Had Saints in scores—they said Mass week and week about; And the two now on duty were each, for their piety, "Second to none" in that holy society, And well might have borne Those words which are worn By our "Nulli Secundus" Club—poor dear lost muttons Of Guardsmen—on Club days, inscribed on their buttons.— They would read, write, and speak Latin, Hebrew, and Greek, A radish-bunch munch for a lunch,—or a leek; Though scoffers and boobies Ascribe certain rubies That garnished the nose of the good Father Hilary To the overmuch use of Canary and Sillery, —Some said spirituous compounds of viler distillery— Ah! little reck'd they That with Friars, who say Fifty Paters a night, and a hundred a day, A very slight sustenance goes a great way— Thus the consequence was that his colleague, Basilius Won golden opinions, by looking more bilious, From all who conceived strict monastical duty By no means conducive to personal beauty; And being more meagre, and thinner, and paler, He was snapt up at once by the bandy-legg'd Tailor.
The latter's concern For a speedy return Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals, Or go round to his shrines, and snuff all his Saint's candles; Still less had he leisure to change the hair-shirt he Had worn the last twenty years—probably thirty,— Which, not being wash'd all that time, had grown dirty. —It seems there's a sin in The wearing clean linen, Which Friars must eschew at the very beginning, Though it makes them look frowsy, and drowsy, and blowsy, And—a rhyme modern etiquette never allows ye.— As for the rest, E'en if time had not prest, It didn't much matter how Basil was drest, Nor could there be any great need for adorning, The Night being almost at odds with the Morning.
Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is high, And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling in the sky, While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whispering down the glen, And one fond voice alone is heard—oh! Night is lovely then! But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of pain, But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds in vain,— When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering light, Where all we love is fading fast—how terrible is Night!!
More terrible yet, If you happen to get By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long, Has been what the vulgar call, "coming it strong" In all sorts of ways that are naughty and wrong.—
As Confessions are sacred, it's not very facile To ascertain what the old hag said to Basil; But whatever she said, It fill'd him with dread, And made all his hair stand on end on his head,— No great feat to perform, inasmuch as said hair Being clipp'd by the tonsure, his crown was left bare, So of course Father Basil had little to spare; But the little he had Seem'd as though't had gone mad, Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears In the two little tufts on the tops of his ears.— What the old woman said That so "fill'd him with dread," We should never have known any more than the dead, If the bandy-legg'd Tailor, his errand thus sped, Had gone quietly back to his needle and thread, As he ought; but instead, Curiosity led,— A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred,— He contrived to secrete himself under the bed! —Not that he heard One half, or a third
A LEGEND OF DOVER.