The next morning, Nicodemus was stripped of his Arroasian habit; and, attired in nothing but the linen in which he had first appeared among the brethren, he was conducted, with very little ceremony, to the vaults beneath the Abbey. Every member of the community advanced to give him a parting embrace, and the Superior pointed with his finger to a recess in the wall: Nicodemus was immediately ushered into it, the wall was built up behind him, and once more he found himself entombed alive.
“But that I am not so strong as I was of yore, after the lenten fare of my late brethren,” said Nicodemus, “I should not be content to die thus, in a coffin of stones and mortar. What luck hast thou here, Nicodemus?” continued the friar, as, poking about the floor of his narrow cell, he felt something like a garment, with his foot. “By rood and by rochet, mine own attire!—the cloak and cassock, or I am much mistaken, which I left behind me when I was last here;—for surely these are my old quarters! I did not think to be twice tenant of this hole; but man is weak, and I was born to be the bane of blackthorn. The lazy rogues found this niche ready-made to their hands, and, truth to say, they have walled me up like workmen. Ah, me! there is no soft place for me to bulge my back through now. Hope have I none: but I will betake me to my anthems; and perchance, in due season, I may light upon some means of making egress.”
Nicodemus had, by this time, contrived to put on his cassock and cloak, which somewhat comforted his shivering body, and he forthwith began to chant his favourite anthem in such a lusty tone, that it was faintly heard by the Fairoak Abbey cellarman, and one of the friars who was in the vaults with him, selecting the ripest wines. On the alarm being given, a score of the brethren betook themselves to the vaults; and, with torches in their hands, searched every corner for the anthem-singer, but without success. At length the cellarman ventured to observe, that, in his opinion, the sounds came from the wall; and the colour left the cheeks of all as the recollection of Nicodemus flashed upon them. They gathered round the place where they had enclosed him, and soon felt satisfied that the awful anthem was there more distinctly heard, than in any other part of the vault. The whole fraternity soon assembled, and endeavoured to come to some resolution as to how they ought to act. With fear and trembling, Father Hugo's brother moved that they should at once open the wall: this proposal was at first rejected with contempt, on account of the known stupidity of the person with whom it originated; but as no one ventured to suggest anything, either better or worse, it was at last unanimously agreed to. With much solemnity, they proceeded to make a large opening in the wall. In a few minutes, Father Nicodemus appeared before them, arrayed in his cloak and cassock, and not much leaner or less rosy than when they bade him, as they thought, an eternal adieu, nearly a year before. The friars shouted, “A miracle! a miracle!” and Nicodemus did not deem it by any means necessary to contradict them. “Ho, ho! brethren,” exclaimed he, “you are coming to do me justice at last, are you? By faith and troth, but you are tardy! Your consciences, methinks, might have urged you to enact this piece of good-fellowship some week or two ago. To dwell ten months and more in so dark and solitary a den, like a toad in a hole, is no child's-play. Let the man who doubts, assume my place, and judge for himself. I ask no one to believe me on my bare word. You have wronged me, brethren, much; but I forgive you freely.”
“A miracle! a miracle!” again shouted the amazed monks: they most respectfully declined the proffered familiarities of Nicodemus, and still gazed on him with profound awe, even after the most incredulous among them were convinced, by the celerity with which a venison pasty, flanked by a platter of brawn, and a capacious jack of Cyprus wine vanished before him, in the refectory, that he was truly their Brother Nicodemus, and still in the flesh. Ere long, the jolly friar became Abbot of Fairoak: he was dubbed a saint after his decease; but as no miracles were ever wrought at his shrine, his name has since been struck out of the calendar.
THE PAIR OF PUMPS.
“Where is the pumps?” cried Mrs. Jones,
“Where is the pumps, I say?
They can't be lost; and, by the bones!
I'll have them found to-day.
“There is but three beneath the roof,
That's master, you, and I;—
How they has walked I'll have good proof,
Or know the reason why.
“Your master wore them this day week;
You knows he did, you jade!
That you're a thief, albeit so meek,
In truth I'm half afraid.
“Don't answer me, you saucy minx!
You're lazy as you're long;
At thousands of your faults I winks,
Although I knows 'tis wrong.
“You looks the baker in the face,
When he comes with the bread;
You trims your cap with shilling lace,
And flirts with Butcher Ned.
“You acts as though you thought yourself
The fairest of the fair;
And seems to think that master's pelf
You're qualified to share.
“Now don't deny it—hussy, don't!
For I has watched you long;
But I can tell you, Miss, you won't
Win master with a song.
“In vain at him you sets your cap;
He's not the sort of man;
With all your ogles bait your trap,
And catch him if you can!
“Beneath his roof, for fifteen years,
Housekeeper I have been;
I cares not if my speech he hears—
No wrong in me he's seen.
“I slaves like any Trojan Turk;
I makes his bed and mine;
While you, you hussy! does no work,
And yet you dares repine!
“Why don't you take a pattern by
Your master, slut, and me?
We never thinks a thought awry,—
There is but few like we!
“The pumps was worn but this day week;
You knows they were, you jade!
That you're a thief, albeit so meek,
In truth I'm half afraid.
“You stands accused of stealing them—
A very naughty sin;
And if you're hoity-toity, Me'em,
I'll call the neighbours in!”
And hoity-toity Kitty was,
She didn't care a pin!
Says Mistress Jones, “I vow, that's poz!
I'll have the neighbours in!”
And in she call'd them one by one,
By two, and three, and four;
Such lots came in to see the fan,
The house could hold no more.
“Oh! what's the matter?” quoth they all,
“And what is here amiss?”
Says Mrs. Jones, “Pray don't you bawl;
My friends, the case is this:—
“I keeps my master's house; and he,
Good soul! is half afraid,
That spite of all precaution, we
Is robb'd by Kate, our maid.
“Of all the lazy, idle drones
That ever yet I knew,
Not one could match,” says Mrs. Jones,
“The girl you have in view.
“In all the house three beds we makes,
For master, she, and me;
Both master's and my own I takes,
She does but one of three.
“And though she grumbles,—yes, indeed,—
That she is worked too much;
Yet she can oft her novels read,
Ay, and the likes of such.
“She won't by me a pattern take,
Although full well she knows,
In books 'tis said, 'the wayward rake
Contemns the gather'd rose.'
“I've lost a pair of stockings, and
About a week ago,
I'd master's pumps in this here hand,
A-looking at'em so.
“I hung'em up upon the pegs,
I recollects it well;
How they has walked without their legs,
Miss Kate, perhaps, can tell.”
“False Mrs. Jones!” young Kate replies,
As forward now she jumps;
“She would not ask, were she but wise,
If I had stol'n the pumps.
“There is but three beds in the house,
And Mrs. Jones makes two;
We haven't room to stow a mouse;—
So far her story 's true.
“She brags about her virtue, but
She's got a silly head;
A week ago, the pumps
I put In Mrs, Jones's bed!”