Now just at the time when our story commences, It seems that a case Past the common took place, To entail on her ladyship further expenses, In greeting with honour befitting his station The Prior of Arles, with a Temperance Legation, Despatched by Pope Urban, who seized this occasion To aid in diluting that part of the nation, An excellent man, One who stuck to his can Of cold water "without"—and he'd take such a lot of it; None of your sips That just moisten the lips; At one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it, No such bad thing By the way, if they bring It you iced, as at Verrey's, or fresh from the spring, When the Dog Star compels folks in town to take wing, Though I own even then I should see no great sin in it, Were there three drops of Sir Felix's gin in it.
Well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure, And finish the pump with the Prior at leisure, Let's go back to Raymond, still bored beyond measure, And harping away On the same dismal lay, "On dear! what will become of us? Oh dear! what can we do? We shall die of blue devils if some of us Can't find out something that's new!" At length in despair of obtaining his ends By his own mother wit, he takes courage, and sends, Like a sensible man as he is, for his friends, Not his Lyndhursts or Eldons, or any such high sirs, But only a few of his "backstairs" advisers; "Come hither," says he, "My gallants so free, My bold Rigmarole, and my brave Rigmaree, And my grave Baron Proser, now listen to me! You three can't but see I'm half dead with ennui. What's to be done? I must have some fun, And I will too, that's flat—ay, as sure as a gun. So find me out 'something new under the sun,' Or I'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one;— You three Agree! Come, what shall it be? Resolve me—propound in three skips of a flea!" Rigmarole gave a "Ha!" Rigmaree gave a "Hem!" They look'd at Count Raymond—Count Raymond at them, As much as to say, "Have you nihil ad rem?" At length Baron Proser Responded, "You know, sir, That question's some time been a regular poser; Dear me!—Let me see,— In the way of a 'spree' Something new?—Eh!—No!—Yes!—--No!—'tis really no go, sir." Says the Count, "Rigmarole, You're as jolly a soul, On the whole, as King Cole, with his pipe and his bowl; Come, I'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll."— In vain—Rigmarole with a look most profound, With his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground, Shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found. "I can only remark, That as touching a 'lark' I'm as much as your Highness can be, in the dark; I can hit on no novelty—none, on my life, Unless, peradventure you'd 'tea' with your wife!" Quoth Raymond, "Enough! Nonsense!—humbug!—fudge!—stuff! Rigmarole, you're an ass,—you're a regular Muff! Drink tea with her ladyship?—I?—not a bit of it! Call you that fun?—faith I can't see the wit of it; Mort de ma vie! My dear Rigmaree, You're the man, after all,—come, by way of a fee, If you will but be bright, from the simple degree Of a knight I'll create you at once a Mar-quis! Put your conjuring cap on—consider and see, If you can't beat that stupid old 'Sumph' with his 'tea!'"
"That's the thing! that will do! Ay, marry, that's new!" Cries Rigmaree, rubbing his hands, "that will please— My 'Conjuring cap'—it's the thing;—it's 'the cheese!' It was only this morning I picked up the news; Please your Highness a Conjuror's come to Thoulouse; I'll defy you to name us A man half so famous For devildoms,—Sir, it's the great Nostradamus! Cornelius Agrippa 'tis said went to school to him, Gyngell's an ass, and old Faustus a fool to him, Talk of Lilly, Albertus, Jack Dee!—pooh! all six He'd soon put in a pretty particular fix; Why, he'd beat at digesting a sword, or 'Gun tricks' The great Northern Wizard himself all to sticks! I should like to see you, Try to sauter le coup With this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo, By the Pope you'd soon find it a regular 'Do:' Why, he does as he likes with the cards,—when he's got 'em, There's always an Ace or a King at the bottom; Then for casting Nativities!—only you look At the volume he's published,—that wonderful book! In all France not another, to swear I dare venture, is Like, by long chalks, his 'Prophetical Centuries'— Don't you remember how, early last summer, he Warned the late King 'gainst the Tournament mummery? Didn't his Majesty call it all flummery, Scorning The warning, And get the next morning His poke in the eye from that clumsy Montgomery? Why, he'll tell you, before You're well inside his door, All you're Highness may wish to be up to, and more!"
"Bravo!—capital!—come, let's disguise ourselves—quick! —Fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick; We'll see if old Hocus will smell out the trick; Let's start off at once—Rigmaree, you're a Brick!" The moon in gentle radiance shone O'er lowly roof and lordly bower, O'er holy pile and armed tower, And danced upon the blue Garonne: Through all that silver'd city fair, No sound disturbed the calm, cool air, Save the lover's sigh alone! Or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose Proclaim'd the depth of his repose, Provoking from connubial toes A hint—or elbow bone; It might, with such trifling exceptions, be said, That Thoulouse was as still as if Thoulouse were dead, And her "oldest inhabitant" buried in lead.
But hark! a sound invades the ear, Of horses' hoofs advancing near! They gain the bridge—they pass—they're here! Side by side Two strangers ride, For the streets in Thoulouse are sufficiently wide, That is I'm assured they are—not having tried. —See, now they stop Near an odd-looking shop, And they knock, and they ring, and they won't be denied. At length the command Of some unseen hand Chains, and bolts, and bars obey, And the thick-ribbed oaken door, old and grey, In the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way.
They leave their steeds to a page's care, Who comes mounted behind on a Flanders mare, And they enter the house, that resolute pair, With a blundering step but a dare-devil air, And ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair; While, armed with a lamp that just helps you to see How uncommonly dark a place can be, The grimmest of lads with the grimmest of grins, Says, "Gentlemen, please to take care of your shins! Who ventures this road need be firm on his pins! Now turn to the left—now turn to the right— Now a step—now stoop—now again upright— Now turn once again, and directly before ye 's the door of the great Doctor's Labora-tory."
A word! a blow! And in they go! No time to prepare, or to get up a show, Yet everything there they find quite comme il faut: Such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row, Retorts, crucibles, such as all Conjurors stow In the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow The fire burning blue with its sulphur and tow; From the roof a huge crocodile hangs rather low, With a tail such as that which, we all of us know, Mr. Waterton managed to tie in a bow; Pickled snakes, potted lizards, in bottles and basins Like those at Morel's, or at Fortnum and Mason's, All articles found, you're aware without telling, In every respectable Conjuror's dwelling.
Looking solemn and wise, Without turning his eyes, Or betraying the slightest degree of surprise, In the midst sits the Doctor—his hair is white, And his cheek is wan—but his glance is bright, And his long black roquelaure, not over-tight, Is marked with strange characters much, if not quite, Like those on the bottles of green and blue light Which you see in a chymist's shop-window at night. His figure is tall and erect—rather spare about Ribs,—and no wonder—such folks never care about Eating or drinking, While reading and thinking, Don't fatten—his age might be sixty or thereabout.
Raising his eye so grave and so sage, From some manuscript work of a bygone age, The seer very composedly turns down the page, Then shading his sight, With his hand from the light, Says, "Well, Sirs, what would you at this time of night? What brings you abroad these lone chambers to tread, When all sober folks are at home and abed?" "Trav'lers we, In our degree, All strange sights we fain would see, And hither we come in company; We have far to go, and we come from far, Through Spain and Portingale, France and Navarre; We have heard of your name, And your fame, and our aim, Great Sir, is to witness, ere yet we depart From Thoulouse,—and to-morrow at cock-crow we start— Your skill—we would fain crave a touch of your art!"
"Now naye, now naye—no trav'lers ye! Nobles ye be Of high degree! With half an eye that one may easily see,— Count Raymond, your servant!—Yours, Lord Rigmaree! I must call you so now since you're made a Mar-quis; Faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me! No matter for that! I see what you'd be at— Well—pray no delay, For it's late, and ere day I myself must be hundreds of miles on my way; So tell me at once what you want with me—say! Shall I call up the dead From their mouldering bed?— Shall I send you yourselves down to Hades instead?— Shall I summon old Harry himself to this spot?" —"Ten thousand thanks, No! we had much rather not. We really can't say That we're curious that way; But, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving, We'd much rather take a sly peep at the living? Rigmaree, what say you, in This case, as to viewing Our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing?" "Just what pleases your Highness—I don't care a sous in The matter—but don't let old Nick and his crew in!" —"Agreed!—pray proceed then, most sage Nostradamus, And show us our Wives—I dare swear they won't shame us!"