Well—what shall she do?— What's the course to pursue?— "Try St. Peter?—the step is a bold one to take; For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt, 'wide awake;' But then there's a quaint Old Proverb says, 'Faint Heart ne'er won fair Lady,' then how win a Saint?— I've a great mind to try— One can but apply; If things come to the worst, why he can but deny— The sky 's rather high To be sure—but, now I That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by, I am just in the 'order' which some folks—though why I am sure I can't tell you—would call 'Apple-pie.' Then 'never say die!' It won't do to be shy, So I'll tuck up my shroud, and—here goes for a fly!"— —So said and so done—she was off like a shot, And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.
When she drew so near That the Saint could see her, In a moment he frown'd, and began to look queer, And scarce would allow her to make her case clear, Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer, With "It's all very well,—but you do not lodge here!"— Then, calling her everything but "My dear!" He applied his great toe with some force au derrière, And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear.
"Alas! poor Ghost!" It's a doubt which is most To be pitied—one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,— Or one bandied about thus from pillar to post,— To be "all abroad"—to be "stump'd" not to know where To go—so disgraced As not to be "placed," Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, "To be Nowhere."— However that be, The affaire was finie, And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see!
Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes—not the Jew— That the "Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue," Having no other sort of asylum in view, "Returns back again to the place whence she flew,"— A fact which experience has proved to be true.— Mr. Gray,—in opinion with whom Johnson clashes,— Declares that our "wonted fires live in our ashes."[62]— These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag, The first to her mansion, the last to her bag, When only conceive her dismay and surprise, As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes, When there,—on the spot where she'd hid her "supplies,"— In an underground cellar of very small size, Working hard with a spade, All at once she survey'd That confounded old bandy-legged "Tailor by trade."
Fancy the tone Of the half moan, half groan, Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone! As she stood there,—a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,— Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone! Although, as Macbeth says, "they'd no speculation," While she uttered that word, Which American Bird Or James Fenimore Cooper, would render "Tarnation!!" At the noise which she made Down went the spade!— And up jump'd the bandy-legg'd "Tailor by trade," (Who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell, her Deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar;) Turning round at a sound So extremely profound, The moment her shadowy form met his view He gave vent to a sort of a lengthen'd "Bo-o—ho-o!"— With a countenance Keeley alone could put on, Made one grasshopper spring to the door—and was gone! Erupit! Evasit! As at Rome they would phrase it— His flight was so swift, the eye scarcely could trace it, Though elderly, bandy-legg'd, meagre, and sickly, I doubt if the Ghost could have vanish'd more quickly;— He reach'd his own shop, and then fell into fits, And it's said never rightly recover'd his wits, While the chuckling old Hag takes his place, and there sits.
I'll venture to say, She'd sat there to this day, Brooding over what Cobbett calls "vile yellow clay," Like a Vulture, or other obscene bird of prey, O'er the nest-full of eggs she has managed to lay, If, as legends relate, and I think we may trust 'em, her Stars had not brought her another guess customer— 'Twas Basil himself!— Come to look for her pelf: But not, like the tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel, And grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel; Full well he knew Such tools would not do,— Far other the weapons he brought into play, Viz. a Wax-taper "hallow'd on Candlemas-day," To light to her ducats,— Holy Water, two buckets, (Made with salt—half a peck to four gallons—which brews a Strong triple X "strike,"—see Jacobus de Chusa.) With these, too, he took His bell and his book— Not a nerve ever trembled,—his hand never shook As he boldly march'd up where she sat in her nook, Glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look, Which Some may have read of, perchance, in "Nell Cook,"[63] All. in "Martha the Gipsy" by Theodore Hook.
And now, for the reason I gave you before, Of what passed then and there I can tell you no more, As no Tailor was near with his ear at the door; But I've always been told, With respect to the gold, For which she her "jewel eternal" had sold, That the old Harridan, Who, no doubt, knew her man, Made some compromise—hit upon some sort of plan, By which Friar and Ghost were both equally pinn'd— Heaven only knows how the "Agreement" got wind;— But its purport was this, That the things done amiss By the Hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss; Provided—"Imprimis, The cash from this time is The Church's—impounded for good pious uses— —Father B. shall dispose of it just as he chooses, And act as trustee— In the meantime, that She, The said Ghostess,—or Ghost,—as the matter may be,— From 'impediment,' 'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free, To sleep in her grave, or wander, as he, The said Friar, with said Ghost may hereafter agree.— Moreover—The whole Of the said cash, or 'cole,' Shall be spent for the good of said Old Woman's soul!
"It is farther agreed—while said cash is so spending, Said Ghost shall be fully absolv'd from attending, And shall quiet remain In the grave, her domain, To have, and enjoy, and uphold, and maintain, Without molestation, or trouble, or pain, Hindrance, let, or impediment, (over again) From Old Nick, or from any one else of his train, Whether Pow'r,—Domination,—or Princedom,—or Throne,[64] Or by what name soever the same may be known, Howsoe'er called by Poets, or styled by Divines,— Himself,—his executors, heirs, and assigns.
"Provided that,—nevertheless,—notwithstanding All herein contained,—if whoever's a hand in Dispensing said cash,—or said 'cole,'—shall dare venture To misapply money, note, bill, or debenture To uses not named in this present Indenture, Then that such sum, or sums, shall revert, and come home again Back to said Ghost,—who thenceforward shall roam again Until such time, or times, as the said Ghost produces Some good man and true, who no longer refuses To put sum, or sums, aforesaid, to said uses; Which duly performed, the said Ghost shall have rest, The full term of her natural death, of the best, In full consideration of this, her bequest, In manner and form aforesaid,—as exprest:— In witness whereof, we, the parties aforesaid, Hereunto set our hands and our seals—and no more said, Being all that these presents intend to express, Whereas—notwithstanding—and nevertheless.— "Sign'd, sealed, and delivered, this 20th of May, Anno Domini, blank, (though I've mentioned the day,) (Signed) Basil. Old Woman (late) clothed in grey."
Basil now, I am told, Walking off with the gold, Went and straight got the document duly enroll'd, And left the testatrix to mildew and mould In her sepulchre, cosey, cool,—not to say cold. But somehow—though how I can hardly divine,— A runlet of fine Rich Malvoisie wine Found its way to the Convent that night before nine, With custards, and "flawns," and a "fayre florentine," Peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine;— And some half a score Nuns of the rule Bridgetine, Abbess and all, were invited to dine At a very late hour,—that is after Compline.— —Father Hilary's rubies began soon to shine With fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine; Through all the next year, Indeed, 'twould appear That the Convent was much better off, as to cheer, Even Basil himself, as I very much fear, No longer addicted himself to small beer; His complexion grew clear, While in front and in rear He enlarged so, his shape seem'd approaching a sphere.