Nay more; don't suppose With such doings as those This account of her merits must come to a close; No;—examine her conduct more closely, you'll find She by no means neglected improving her mind; For there, all the while, with air quite bewitching, She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching, Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen, Close by her side, Sat her kinsman, MacBride, Her cousin, fourteen-times removed,—as you'll see If you look at the Ingoldsby family tree, In "Burke's Commoners," vol. xx. page 53. All the papers I've read agree, Too, with the pedigree, Where, among the collateral branches, appears "Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusileers;" And I doubt if you'd find in the whole of his clan A more highly-intelligent, worthy young man;— And there he'd be sitting, While she was a-knitting, Or hemming, or stitching, or darning and fitting, Or putting "a gore," or a "gusset," or "bit" in, Reading aloud, with a very grave look, Some very "wise saw" from some very good book,— Some such pious divine as St. Thomas Aquinas: Or, equally charming, The works of Bellarmine; Or else he unravels The "voyages and travels" Of Hackluytz—(how sadly these Dutch names do sully verse!)— Purchas's, Hawksworth's, or Lemuel Gulliver's,— Not to name others, 'mongst whom there are few so Admired as John Bunyan, and Robinson Crusoe.— No matter who came, It was always the same, The Captain was reading aloud to the Dame, Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf, They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.
Well,—it happened one day, —I really can't say The particular month;—but I think 'twas in May,— 'Twas, I know, in the Spring-time,—when "Nature looks gay," As the Poet observes,—and on tree-top and spray The dear little dickey-birds carol away; When the grass is so green, and the sun is so bright, And all things are teeming with life and with light,— That the whole of the house was thrown into affright, For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight!
It seems he had taken A light breakfast—bacon, An egg—with a little broiled haddock—at most A round and a half of some hot butter'd toast, With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast. And then—let me see!— He had two—perhaps three Cups (with sugar and cream) of strong Gunpowder tea, With a spoonful in each of some choice eau de vie, —Which with nine out of ten would perhaps disagree.— —In fact, I and my son Mix "black" with our "Hyson," Neither having the nerves of a bull, or a bison, And both hating brandy like what some call "pison," No matter for that— He had call'd for his hat, With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat, And his "specs" with the tortoiseshell rim, and his cane With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain His steps in his walks, and to poke in the shrubs And the grass, when unearthing his worms and his grubs— Thus arm'd, he set out on a ramble—alack! He set out, poor dear Soul!—but he never came back!
"First dinner-bell" rang Out its euphonous clang At five—folks kept early hours then—and the "Last" Ding-dong'd, as it ever was wont, at half-past, While Betsey, and Sally, And Thompson, the Valet, And every one else was beginning to bless himself, Wondering the Knight had not come in to dress himself.— —Quoth Betsey, "Dear me! why, the fish will be cold!"— Quoth Sally, "Good gracious! how 'Missis' will scold!"— Thompson, the Valet, Look'd gravely at Sally, As who should say "Truth must not always be told!" Then, expressing a fear lest the Knight might take cold, Thus exposed to the dews, Lambs'-wool stockings, and shoes, Of each a fresh pair, He put down to air, And hung a clean shirt to the fire on a chair.—
Still the Master was absent—the Cook came and said, "he Much fear'd, as the dinner had been so long ready, The roast and the boil'd Would be all of it spoil'd, And the puddings, her Ladyship thought such a treat, He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat!" This closed the debate— "'Twould be folly to wait," Said the Lady. "Dish up!—Let the meal be served straight; And let two or three slices be put on a plate, And keep hot for Sir Thomas.—He's lost, sure as fate! And, a hundred to one, won't be home till it's late!" —Captain Dugald MacBride then proceeded to face The Lady at table,—stood up, and said grace,— Then set himself down in Sir Thomas's place.
Wearily, wearily, all that night, That live-long night, did the hours go by; And the Lady Jane, In grief and in pain, She sat herself down to cry!— And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side, Though I really can't say that he actually cried, At least had a tear in his eye!— As much as can well be expected, perhaps, From very "young fellows," for very "old chaps;" And if he had said What he'd got in his head, 'Twould have been, "Poor old Buffer! he's certainly dead!"
The morning dawn'd,—and the next,—and the next And all in the mansion were still perplex'd; No watch-dog "bay'd a welcome home," as A watch-dog should, to the "Good Sir Thomas;" No knocker fell His approach to tell, Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell— The Hall was silent as Hermit's cell.
Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree, And the meads smiled green as green may be, And the dear little dickey-birds caroll'd with glee, And the lambs in the park skipp'd merry and free— —Without, all was joy and harmony! "And thus 'twill be,—nor long the day,— Ere we, like him, shall pass away! Yon Sun, that now our bosoms warms, Shall shine,—but shine on other forms;— Yon Grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers Us now, shall sound on other ears,— The joyous Lamb, as now, shall play, But other eyes its sports survey,— The Stream we loved shall roll as fair, The flowery sweets, the trim Parterre Shall scent, as now, the ambient air,— The Tree, whose bending branches bear The One loved name—shall yet be there;— But where the hand that carved it?—Where?"—
These were hinted to me as The very ideas Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane, Her thoughts having taken a sombre-ish train, As she walk'd on the esplanade, to and again, With Captain MacBride Of course, at her side, Who could not look quite so forlorn,—though he tried, —An "idea," in fact, had got into his head, That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead, It might be no bad "spec." to be there in his stead, And, by simply contriving, in due time, to wed A Lady who was young and fair, A Lady slim and tall, To set himself down in comfort there The Lord of Tapton[77] Hall.—
Thinks he, "We have sent Half over Kent, And nobody knows how much money's been spent, Yet no one's been found to say which way he went!—