Of what past as the Monk and the Patient conferred, But he here and there managed to pick up a word, Such as "Knife," And "Life," And he thought she said "Wife," And "Money," that source of all evil and strife;[61] Then he plainly distinguished the words "Gore," and "Gash," Whence he deem'd—and I don't think his inference rash— She had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash!
Intermix'd with her moans, And her sighs, and her groans, Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones, Came at intervals Basil's sweet, soft silver tones, For somehow it happened—I can't tell you why— The good Friar's indignation,—at first rather high,— To judge from the language he used in reply, Ere the Old Woman ceased, had a good deal gone by; And he gently addrest her in accents of honey, "Daughter, don't you despair!—WHAT'S BECOME OF THE MONEY?"
In one just at Death's door it was really absurd To see how her eye lighted up at that word— Indeed there's not one in the language that I know, (Save its synonyms "Spanish," "Blunt," "Stumpy," and "Rhino,") Which acts so direct, And with so much effect On the human svensorium, or makes one erect One's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect— It's a question with me Which of the three, Father Basil himself, though a grave S. T. P. (Such as he have, you see, the degree of D.D.) Or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legg'd Tailor,—or She Caught it quickest—however, traditions agree That the Old Woman perked up as brisk as a bee,—
'Twas the last quivering flare of the taper,—the fire It so often emits when about to expire! Her excitement began the same instant to flag, She sank back, and whisper'd, "Safe!—Safe! in the Bag!!"
Now I would not by any means have you suppose That the good Father Basil was just one of those Who entertain views We're so apt to abuse, As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews, Who haunt death-bed scenes, By underhand means To toady or teaze people out of a legacy,— For few folk, indeed, had such good right to beg as he, Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty, Not only permits, but enjoins, as a duty, Her sons to take care That, let who will be heir, The Pontiff shall not be chous'd out of his share, Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods, As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's; Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods, in short, main- tain principles adverse to statutes of Mortmain; Besides, you'll discern It at once, when you learn That Basil had something to give in return, Since it rested with him to say how she should burn, Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all To uses he named, he could say, "You shan't burn at all, Or nothing to signify, Not what you'd dignify So much as even to call it a roast, But a mere little singeing, or scorching at most,— What many would think not unpleasantly warm,— Just to keep up appearance—mere matter of form." All this in her ear He declared, but I fear That her senses were wand'ring—she seem'd not to hear, Or, at least understand,—for mere unmeaning talk her Parch'd lips babbled now,—such as "Hookey!"—and "Walker!" —She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt If "his Mother were fully aware he was out?"
Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry—so I must write it, my verse not admitting the O— But as for the venue, I vow I'm perplext To say if it's in this world, or if in the next— Or whether in both—for 'tis very well known That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own, In a "tight little Island" that stands in a Lake Call'd "Lough-dearg"—that's "The Red Lake," unless I mistake,— In Fermanagh—or Antrim—or Donegal—which I declare I can't tell, But I know very well It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch (At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer, But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here). There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare There's "no differ" at all 'twixt "this here" and "that there," That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry For the separate use of the "finest of pisentry," And that his is no more Than a mere private door From the rez-de-chaussée,—as some call the ground floor,— To the one which the Pope had found out long before. But no matter—lay The locale where you may; —And where it is no one exactly can say— There's one thing, at least, which is known very well, That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel. "Entertainment" there's worse Both for "Man and for Horse;" For broiling the souls They use Lord Mayor's coals;— Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower, It's by no means so strong— Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong; The "prokers" are not half so hot, or so long, By an inch or two, either in handle or prong; The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth, And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth;— In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator, Made for what's called by Cockneys a "Minor The-átre." Better suited, of course, for a "minor performer," Than the "House," that's so much better lighted and warmer, Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,— —You understand where, I don't question—down there, Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions, The Paving Commissioners use "Good Intentions," Materials which here would be thought on by few men, With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.
To go on with my story, This same Purga-tory, (There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory), Is close lock'd, and the Pope keeps the keys of it—that I can Boldly affirm—in his desk in the Vatican; —Not those of St. Peter— Those of which I now treat, are A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater— And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a Key better contrived for its purpose—nor Bramah. Now it seems that by these Most miraculous keys Not only the Pope, but his "clargy," with ease Can let people in and out, just as they please; And—provided you "make it all right" about fees, There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them, But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them; And Basil, no doubt, Had brought matters about, If the little old woman would but have "spoke out," So far as to get for her one of those tickets, Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets; So that after a grill, Or short turn on the Mill, And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity, Than a Freemason gets in the "Lodge of Antiquity," She'd have rubb'd off old scores, Popped out of doors, And sheer'd off at once for a happier port, Like a white-wash'd Insolvent that's "gone through the Court."
But Basil was one Who was not to be done By any one, either in earnest or fun;— The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun, In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo, Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it "No Go." So, unless you're a dunce, You'll see clearly, at once, When you come to consider the facts of the case, he Of course never gave her his Vade in pace; And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe, The little Old Woman had no where to go!
For, what could she do? She very well knew If she went to the gates I have mention'd to you, Without Basil's, or some other passport to shew, The Cheque-takers never would let her go through; While, as to the other place, e'en had she tried it, And really had wished it, as much as she shied it, (For no one who knows what it is can abide it,) Had she knock'd at the portal with ne'er so much din, Though she died in, what folks at Rome call, "Mortal sin," Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in, As she'd not been turn'd formally out of "the pale;"— So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail, In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail. Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail; Though, now he's grown older, They say he's much bolder, And his Holiness not only gets the "cold shoulder," But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a Dump—that's the word—for his triple tiara.