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-NRLF 




SB EbO 73E 



THE JAMES D. PHELAN 
CELTIC COLLECTION 










THE 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN 



THE REVELATIONS 



PETER BROWN 

anfc Peripatetic 



FOUND IN HIS BLACK BOX 



JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY 

(JOHN FRANCIS WALLER"} 



LONDON 
CASSELL, FETTER, AND GALPIN 

LUDGATE HILL, AND 596 BROADWAY, NEW YORK 

DUBLIN: 
McGLASHAN & GILL, 50 UP. SACKVILLE ST. 



DUBLIN STEAM PRINTING COMPANY. 



PREFACE. 



THE following pieces, with one exception, are 
part of a series of papers which appeared 
originally in a leading periodical. 

Though I had no reason to be dissatisfied with 
their reception by the public at the time, I did 
not then entertain the idea of republishing them. 
Like other fugitive literature, they had served 
their purpose by affording amusement to the 
reader, and I was content. Recently, however, 
some of these pieces have been selected for 
public reading by the Rev. Charles Tisdall, D.D., 
and Mr. Bellew ; and I am very conscious that 
the great favour with which they have been 
received is largely due to the ability of those 

784377 . 



vi PREFACE. 

accomplished gentlemen whom I now heartily 
thank. 

Of Mr. Bellew, admittedly the finest reader of 
our times, it would be almost an impertinence to 
speak ; yet I cannot refrain from expressing my 
admiration of the power and pathos with which 
he rendered ' Isabel Clare.' Dr. Tisdall's recita- 
tion of ' Magdalena ' was the performance of a 
master. With a voice of rare compass and 
variety of intonation, with great dramatic power 
and thorough appreciation of every sentiment, 
he was alike happy in humour, tenderness, 
sprightliness, and vigour. 

A very general inquiry for these pieces em- 
boldens me to republish them. 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 
June, 1870. 




CONTENTS. 



I. MAGDALEN A .... 

II. ISABEL CLARE .... 

III. WIN AND WEAR .... 

IV. THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER . 

v. ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE . 



PAGE 
I 



47 

. 98 

117 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN, 



POET AND PERIPATETIC. 



I READ the other morning, in the Times, amongst the 
deaths, ' Suddenly, at Gibraltar, on the 3rd instant, Peter 
Brown, Esq.' There are not half a dozen in the world 
that would care a rush for the announcement : it came on 
me like an electric shock. Not quite a month before, I 
had parted with Peter on the deck of the packet for Holy- 
head. Peter was counting his traps. * Confound it/ said 
he, ' the little black box is left behind. No matter, keep 
it till my return; here's the key; open it if I die, Jona- 
than/ 1 1 will, Peter, as sure as you live Good-bye. ' 

Peter was a vagabond in the proper, not the improper, 
sense of the word a wanderer, like Cain, without the 
brand, except it might be the brand you would put on 
wine of the choicest vintage. A little stiff in the left 
shoulder and in his manner to strangers ; but he thawed 
before the warmth of friendship till his whole heart 
melted and flowed out on you. A celibate, a smoker, a 
shy man, and a humorist, few cared about him, and he 
returned the compliment. 



2 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

I went, into my study and opened the little black box. 
It was 'fuM of paptrs ? and other articles that I may yet 
have tq .refer to letters tied up in packets and posted 
and some manuscript^ labelled l To be published 
(quere)? Here is one of them. 

JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. 

CARRIGBAWN, August 20, 1861. 



No, I. 
MAGDALENA. 

NEAR the city of Sevilla, 
Years and years ago 

Dwelt a lady in a villa 

Years and years ago ; 
And her hair was black as night, 
And her eyes were starry-bright ; 
Olives on her brow were blooming, 
Roses red her lips perfuming, 
And her step was light and airy, 
As the tripping of a fairy : 
When she spoke, you thought, each minute, 
'Twas the thrilling of a linnet; 
When she sang, you heard a gush 



MAGDALENA. 

Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush ; 
And she -struck from the guitar 
Ringing music, sweeter far 
Than the morning breezes make 
Through the lime trees when they shake 
Than the ocean murmuring o'er 
Pebbles on the foamy shore. 
Orphaned both of sire and mother 

Dwelt she in that lonely villa, 
Absent now her guardian brother 

On a mission from Sevilla. 
Skills it little now the telling 

How I wooed that maiden fair, 
Tracked her to her lonely dwelling 

And obtained an entrance there. 
Ah ! that lady of the villa ! 

And I loved her so, 
Near the city of Sevilla, 

Years and years ago. 
Ay de mi ! Like echoes falling 

Sweet and sad and low, 
Voices come at night, recalling 

Years and years ago. 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Once again I'm sitting near thee, 

Beautiful and bright ; 
Once again I see and hear thee 

In the autumn night : 
Once again I J m whispering to thee 

Faltering words of love ; 
Once again with song I woo thee 

In the orange grove 
Growing near that lonely villa 

Where the waters flow 
Dcfwn to the city of Sevilla 

Years and years ago. 

'Twas an autumn eve ; the splendour 

Of the day was gone, 
And the twilight, soft and tender, 

Stole so gently on 
That the eye could scarce discover 
How the shadows, spreading over, 

.Like a veil of silver gray, 
Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted, 
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted 

From the face of heaven away ; 



MAGDALENA. 5 

And a dim light rising slowly 

O'er the welkin spread, 
Till the blue sky, calm and holy, 

Gleamed above our head : 
And the thin moon, newly nascent, 

Shone in glory meek and sweet, 
As Murillo paints her crescent 

Underneath Madonna's feet. 
And we sat outside the villa, 

Where the waters flow 
Down to the city of Sevilla 

Years and years ago. 

There we sate the mighty river 

Wound its serpent course along 
Silent, dreamy Guadalquiver, 

Famed in many a song. 
Silver gleaming 'mid the plain 
Yellow with the golden grain, 
Gliding down through deep, rich meadows, 

Where the sated cattle rove, 
Stealing underneath the shadows 

Of the verdant olive grove ; 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

With its plenitude of waters 

Ever flowing calm and slow, 
Loved by Andalusia's daughters 
Sung by poets long ago. 
Yet, O River 
Guadalquiver, 
Loved and lauded so of old, 

When thou leav'st Sevilla's city- 
'Tis a truth, tho' 'tis a pity 
That the truth must thus be told 
Spite of many a Bcetian distich 
Of thy beauties eulogistic, 
Devious, dingy, dull and dreary, 
Seaward thou dost wander weary, 
Worthier prose apologetic 
Than such native strains poetic. 



Seated half within a bower 

Where the languid evening breeze 
Shook out odours in a shower 

From oranges and citron trees, 



MAGDALENA. 7 

Sang she from a romancero 

How a Moorish chieftain bold 

Fought a Spanish caballero 
By Sevilla's walls of old. 

How they battled for a lady, 

Fairest of the maids of Spain 

How the Christian's lance, so steady, 

Pierced the Moslem through the brain. 

Then she ceased her black eyes moving, 
Flashed, as asked she with a smile, 

' Say, are maids as fair and loving 
Men as faithful, in your isle ?' 

' British maids/ I said, ' are ever 

Counted fairest of the fair ; 
Like the swans on yonder river 

Moving with a stately air. 

' Wooed not quickly, won not lightly 
But, when won, for ever true ; 

Trial draws the bond more tightly, 
Time can ne'er the knot undo. 



8 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

' And the men ?' 'Ah ! dearest lady, 

Are quien sabe ? who can say ? 
To make love they're ever ready, 

When they can and where they may : 
' Fixed as waves, as breezes steady 

In a changeful April day 
Como brisas, como rios, 

No se sabe, sabe Dios.' 

' Are they faithful ? ' < Ah ! quien sabe ? 

Who can answer that they are ? 
While we may we should be happy/ 

Then I took up her guitar 
[Twas the very best that made is 
By Juan Padez, famed in Cadiz] 
And I sang, in sportive strain, 
This song to an old air of Spain. 

' QUIEN SABE ? ' 

I. 

' The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air, 
That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair, 



MAGDALENA. 9 

Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its 

perfume 
That you know not the region from which it 

is come ? 

Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes, 
Hither and thither and whither who knows? 

Who knows ? 
Hither and thither but whither who knows? 

II. 

1 The river for ever glides singing -along, 
The rose on the bank bends a-down to its 

song; 

And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips, 
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips. 
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose, 
And why the rose stoops for those kisses who 

knows ? 

Who knows ? 

And away flows the river but whither who 
knows ? 

III. 

* Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along, 
The river that ever rejoices in song; 



io RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom, 
The rose by the river that gives its perfume. 
Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the 

rose, 
If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? 

Who knows ? 

Who knows ? 

If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? 
Who knows?' 

As I sang, the lady listened, 

Silent save one gentle sigh ; 
When I ceased, a tear-drop glistened 

On the dark fringe of her eye. 

Then my heart reproved the feeling 
Of that false and heartless strain 

Which I sang, in words concealing 

What my heart would hide in vain. 

Up I sprang. What words were uttered 
Bootless now to think or tell 

Tongues speak wild when hearts are fluttered 
By the mighty master-spell. 



MAGDALENA. u 

Love, avowed with sudden boldness, 
Heard with flushings that reveal, 

Spite of woman's studied coldness, 

Thoughts the heart cannot conceal. 

Words half-vague and passion-broken, 

Meaningless, yet meaning all 
That the lips have left unspoken, 

That we never may recall. 

' Magdalena, dearest, hear me/ 

Sighed I, as I seized her hand 

' Hola ! Senor/ very near me, 

Cries a voice of stern command. 

And a stalwart caballero 

Comes upon me with a stride, 
On his head a slouched sombrero, 

A toledo by his side. 

From his breast he flung his capa 

With a stately Spanish air 
[On the whole, he looked the chap a 

Man to slight would scarcely dare.] 



12 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BROWN. 

' Will your worship have the goodness 
To release that lady's hand.' 

' Senor,' I replied, ' this rudeness 
I am not prepared to stand. 



' Magdal^na, say ' the maiden, 

With a cry of wild surprise, 

As with secret sorrow laden, 

Fainting sank before my eyes. 

Then the Spanish Caballero 

Bowed with haughty courtesy, 

Solemn as a tragic hero, 

And announced himself to me. 

' Senor, I am Don Camillo 
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo 
De Ximenes y Ribera 
Y Santallos y Herrera 
Y de Rivas y Mendoza 
Y Quintana y de Rosa 
Y Zorilla y ' ' No more, Sir, 



MAGDALENA. 13 

Tis as good as twenty score, Sir,' 

Said I to him, with a frown : 
' Mucha bulla para nada, 

No palabras, draw your 'spada ; 

If you're up for a duelo 

You will find I'm just your fellow 
Senor, I am PETER BROWN !' 

By the river's bank that night, 

Foot to foot in strife, 
Fought we in the dubious light 

A fight of death or life. 
Don Camillo slashed my shoulder, 
With the pain I grew the bolder, 

Close and closer still I pressed ; 
Fortune favoured me at last, 
I broke his guard, my weapon passed 

Through the Caballero's breast 
Down to the earth went Don Camillo 
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo 
De Ximenes y Ribera 
Y Santallos y Herrera 
Y de Rivas y Mendoza 



I 4 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

Y Quintana y de Rosa 

Y Zorilla y- One groan, 

And he lay motionless as stone. 
The man of many names went down, 
Pierced by the sword of PETER BROWN ! 

Kneeling down, I raised his head ; 
The Caballero faintly said, 
' Signor Ingles, fly from Spain 
With all speed, for you have slain 
A Spanish noble, Don Camillo 
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo 
De Ximenes y Ribera 
Y Santallos y Herrera 
Y de Rivas y Mendoza 
Y Quintana y de Rosa 

Y Zorilla y ' He swooned 

With the bleeding from his wound. 
If he be living still or dead 

I never knew, I ne'er shall know ; 
That night from Spain in haste I fled, 

Years and years ago. 



MAGDALENA. 15 

Oft when Autumn eve is closing, 

Pensive, puffing a cigar, 
In my chamber lone reposing, 
Musing half and half a-dozing, 

Comes a vision from afar 
Of that lady of the villa 
In her satin, fringed mantilla, 
And that haughty Caballero 
With his capa and sombrero, 
Vainly in my mind revolving 

That long, jointed, endless name ; 
Tis a riddle past my solving 

Who he was, or whence he came. 
Was he that brother home returned ? 
Was he some former lover spurned ? 
Or some family fianct 
That the lady did not fancy ? 
Was he any one of those ? 
Sabe Dios. Ah ! God knows. 

Sadly smoking my manilla, 

Much I long to know 
How fares the lady of the villa 

That once charmed me so, 



16 RE VELA T10NS OF PETER BRO WN. 

When I visited Sevilla 

Years and years ago. 
Has she married a Hidalgo ? 
Gone the way that ladies all go 
In those drowsy Spanish cities, 
Wasting life a thousand pities 
Waking up for a fiesta 
From an afternoon siesta, 
To ' Giralda ' now repairing 
Or the Plaza for an airing ; 
At the shaded reja flirting, 
At a bull-fight now disporting ; 
Does she walk at evenings ever 
Through the gardens by the river ? 
Guarded by an old duena 
Fierce and sharp as a hyena, 
With her goggles and her fan 
Warning off each rakish man ? 
Is she dead, or is she living ? 
Is she for my absence grieving ? 
Is she wretched, is she happy ? 
Widow, wife, or maid ? Quien sabe .' 



NO. II. 

ISABEL CLARE. 

I HAVE had some hesitation in sending the following 
lucubration of Peter's to the press. By reference to the 
date, I find it was written shortly after his recovery from 
brain fever. This may account in part for a certain cloudy 
mysticism in the introductory stanzas, smacking of the beer 
and tobacco school of German Philosophy, and an occa- 
sional fitfulness throughout. Besides, the facts of the story, 
though the real names are not given, will be recognised 
by many as having created what they call ' a great sen- 
sation ' some dozen years ago. I have finally determined 
to give Peter the benefit of the doubt, and to publish. 
He is gone, poor fellow, to answer for his metaphysics 
before a Judge ' who knoweth whereof we are made ;' and 
most of those whom the narrative might offend are now 
beyond the reach of this world's praise or censure. 

JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. 
CARRIGBAWN, October 18, 1861. 



1 8 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BR WN. 

A WAKING DREAM. 

Bottom. ' I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. . . . 
I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it 
was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. ' 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 

DREAMING in the twilight, 
When the shades creep o'er the hill 
Watching, when the sun is gone, 
How the grey, cold night comes on- 
Awake, yet dreaming still. 

Then I dream of dead ones, 
Of my life the joy and light, 
And I see them round me rise, 
And I feel their cold, calm eyes 

Gaze on me through the night. 

Dreaming by the fire-light, 
When the wintry night is chill 
Watching fire-sparks upward fly, 
While the embers sink and die 

Awake, yet dreaming still. 



ISABEL CLARE. 19 

Then I dream of fair souls 
From dead ashes issuing bright, 
And I see my dead arise, 
Soaring heavenward through the skies, 

In the death-dark night. 

Dreaming in the sunlight, 
When the Summer noon is still 
Watching in the deep blue sky 
Clouds of white, gold-cinctured lie 
Awake, yet dreaming still. 

Then I dream of heaven, 
Far beyond those tranquil skies, 
And I see, 'mid angels bright, 
My dead, in robes of gold and white, 
Alive before my eyes. 



Dreams, dreams and what is life but still a 
dream ? 

Waking in death death waking into life, 
When all that to the sleeper's brain did seem 

The true and real are but visions rife 



20 REVELA TIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Of a sick soul, while what we visions deem 

Are gleams of God's own verity the strife 
Waged between light and darkness, good and ill, 
Reason and faith, necessity and will. 

And I have had my dreams like other men, 
My soul a-sleeping, but my sense awake ; 

I knew not that I dreamed until again 

My senses slept, and then my soul did break 

Her chain of spirit-sleep, and soon did ken 
Man dreams when waking, and that God doth 
take 

The things of his own Spirit, and reveal, 

In visions of deep sleep, to us the true and real. 

Sooth says Avona's bard, ' We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep.' There is enough 
Of sin and sorrow, misery and strife, 

To make life's paradox a problem tough 
For wisest moralist. Twill need a knife 

To cut the knot no fingers may untie, 

Too clumsy mine at least I will not try. 



ISABEL CLARE. 21 

So give me my cigar, and I will puff 
My nicotine, and dream I am awake, 

And so jog onward still. The smooth and rough, 
As Heaven shall send them, patiently I '11 
take, 

Nor, like a petted child when chid, take huff, 
Reject my lollypops, my playthings break 

And, as the vapour rises, I '11 rehearse 

A waking dream of other days in verse. 



The merry bells were all a-ringing, 
Ringing, swinging to-and-fro, 

Torrents of sweet music flinging 
O'er the sunny scene below. 
Oh ! the music of sweet bells, 
With its sinkings and its swells 
Like the waves upon a river, 
Rising, falling, flowing ever ! 
With the spreading radiations 
Of each wave-sound's intonations, 
Like the ever-widening rings 
When some playful urchin flings 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

A pebble in a tranquil lake 

To make its breast in ripples break. 

Circling all the ether round, 

Trembling spreads each dulcet sound, 

Till the fainting tone is caught 

Far away in grove or grot, 

Where it dies the sweetest death, 

Murmuring its latest breath 

On the ever-tranquil heart 

Of Silence, sitting there apart 

As hushed upon a mother's breast 

The wailing infant sobs itself to rest. 



Why are they ringing the bells from the 

steeple 

This sunny-bright autumn day ? 
Why is the churchyard a-thronging with 

people 

Drest in their Sabbath array ? 
The harvest is lying in sheaves on the stubble, 
But there is not a hand that will take any 
trouble 



ISABEL CLARE. 23 

To make up the shocks or to bring in the grain, 
Or harness old Dobbin or Meg to the wain. 
The smithy is closed, and the fire is gone out, 
The joiner has flung by his hammer and clout, 
The cobbler no longer is mending old shoes, 
And the soul of the tailor has spurned at his goose, 
And all the good people have turned out o' doors, 
The men by the dozen, the women by scores, 
And are mounting the hill to the old village 

church, 
Where a band of young maids at the front of the 

porch, 

With chaplets of flowers, apparelled in white, 
Are awaiting the cortege just coming in sight. 
There 's a shout from the rustics, as four spank- 
ing bays 
Sweep down through the town with a Long-acre 

chaise : 

They strain up the hill and they scatter the gravel 
With a dash and a splash till they 're up on the 

level, 

They rush through the gate, reach the porch at 
a gallop, 



24 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BROWN. 

And are thrown on their haunches, so sudden 

the pull up. 
Then out jumps the Squire, and his ' best man ' 

jumps after, 

And are welcomed with cheers and with true- 
hearted laughter, 

Now chariot, and britzka, and landau ascend, 
With cousins by dozens and many a friend ; 
And they meet and they greet, and they laugh, 

and they chat, 
Shake hands with the Squire, wish him joy, and 

all that. 

A few minutes more, and a family coach 
Drawn by four iron-greys makes a stately 

approach : 
There's rustling and bustling, as the maidens in 

white 
Are ranged in the front of the porch, left and 

right, 
Forth trip from the coach the two bridesmaids 

so fair, 

And, fairest of all, the young Isabel Clare. 
There is not an eye but is turned to admire 



ISABEL CLARE. 25 

That lady so gentle that leans on her sire 

As she walks up the chancel, ah, who can 

compare 

With my beautiful cousin, sweet Isabel Clare! 
She walks up the chancel, and now by her side 
Sir Arthur is standing to make her his bride. 
Then Archdeacon Ambergills, pompous and 

prosy, 

With surplice so white and with visage so rosy, 
Steps forward to meet them, most courteous and 

bland, 

With a smile on his lips and a book in his hand ; 
While Rowlings, the clerk, stiff and lean as a 

poker, 

In a rusty black suit and a yellow-white choker, 
Stands ready and steady, with voice antiphonial, 
To aid in the tying the knot matrimonial ; 
Behind stand the bridesmaids, a sweet little pair, 
But still fairest of all is young Isabel Clare ! 



Fairest of all but all too fair 
The pallor of that marble brow ; 



26 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

The marble's coldness still is there 

But not its polish now 
As when, but two short years gone by, 
I saw thee 'neath a foreign sky 
With blooming^ cheek and eye so bright, 
And spirit gay and footstep light, 
More fair than words of mine can tell, 
My own dear cousin, Isabel. 

Ah me ! it asks not wasting years 

To mar the brightness of the brow, 
Though Time alone its smoothness sears, 

Yet sorrow dims it even now. 
The burnished mirror that may bear 
The touch of each corroding year 

Undimmed its brightest ray, 
If, but to view within the sphere 
Her blushing face, some maid draw near 
And breathe upon the surface clear, 

Its brightness fades away. 

There, before the altar kneeling, 
With Sir Arthur by thy side, 



ISABEL CLARE. 27 

Where the golden sunbeams stealing 

Through the rich stained window glide, 
Till they settle in a glory 

Round that meekly bending head, 
As aureoles in sacred story 

Brows of saintly maids o'erspread. 
Gaze I on thee till the welling 

Of great tears is in my eyes, 
And I feel my bosom swelling 

With the tumult of my sighs. 
Gaze I till the scene before me 

Fades upon my dizzy sight, 
And the waking dream comes o'er me 

Dreaming in the broad daylight 
A vision of departed times, 
A vision of far-distant climes. 



'Tis a bright Italian morning, 
Sunshine all the ether fills, 

Streaks of rosy light adorning 
Peaks of snow-clad Alpine hills. 



28 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN, 

At their feet the vine is pendent 
Trailing over roof and tree, 

And a blue lake lies resplendent 
Framed in verdure lovingly. 

Theme of many a song and story, 
In the sunlight now it smiles, 

'Tis the Lago Maggiore 
With its Borromean Isles. 

Wood and forest, plain and meadow, 
Girdle in those waters bright, 

Every hue, and light, and shadow 
Deck the scene and charm the sight. 

Midway on the waters shining 

See a tiny vessel glide, 
In the stern a maid's reclining 

And a youth sits by her side. 

And a third is there who rows them, 
With an oar in either hand, 

Pausing ever as he shows them 
Glories of his native land. 



ISABEL CLARE. 29 

Eye of eagle, heart of lion, 

Soul as gentle as the dove's, 
Of that princely stock a scion 

That of old Milano loves. 

Of that race a form gigantic 
Stands for aye on yonder hill, 

Stretching o'er the scene romantic 
Outspread arms in blessing still. 

In the Duomo, shrined in splendour, 
Great San Carlo's ashes lie 

Great in grace, austere, yet tender, 
Greatest in humility. 

Twas the day of great awaking 
To the bondsmen of the world ; 

Ancient dynasties were shaking ; 

Tyrants from their thrones were hurled. 

And Italia, crushed and broken 
'Neath the Austrian's iron heel, 

Heard the cry of Freedom spoken, 

Broke her chain and grasped the steej. 



30 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

From Genoa to sea-born Venice, 
From Alps' snow to Etna's fire, 

Italia, spite of Austrian menace, 
Rises in her holy ire. 

All are up no pause, no falter 
Every man in arms arrayed, 

Priests are preaching at the altar 
Freedom's holiest, best crusade. 

And the painter leaves his easel, 
And the poet dreams no more, 

And the sculptor flings his chisel 
Down upon the studio floor. 

Sage and scholar, servant, master, 
Serf and noble through the land, 

Lo, they're thronging faster, faster 
Than the billows on the strand. 

And those ancient, classic regions 
Vibrate to the martial tread 

Of Italia's mustering legions 
Carl' Alberto at their head. 



ISABEL CLARE. 31 

This the tale the youth's recounting, 
Hot words gushing from his heart, 

Lists the maid, the color mounting 
To her brow, her lips apart. 

Then he said, ' My widowed mother 
Yields at length to set me free, 

And I go to join my brother 
In the plains of Lombardy.' 

Carlo ceased and sighed I wonder 
Sighed he for his mother lone 

There are ties more hard to sunder 

Than those wrought of blood and bone. 

Then the lady blushed, but fainter 
Than the faintest hue of eve ; 

'Twould defy the brush of painter 
To express it, I believe. 

And the silence grew oppressive 
Silence neither dared to break 

Ten to one you'll make a mess, if 

While your heart is moved, you speak. 



32 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

But the cousin most discreetly 
Intervened, the spell to break 

* Carlo mio, very sweetly 
Music sounds upon the lake. 

' Sing us, like a worthy fellow, 
That canzone that you sing, 

Called " La Rosa e 1' Anello," 
About the lady and the ring/ 

Carlo then the oars uplifting, 
Lifted up his voice in song, 

While the boat went slowly drifting 
At her own sweet will along. 

LA ROSA E L'ANELLO. 

THE ROSE AND THE RING. 
I. 

It was a Paladin of old, 

And he loved a maiden bright, 

Her hair was like the burnished gold, 
Her eyes like stars at night. 



ISABEL CLARE. 33 

II. 
Twin rubies rich her lips they were, 

Her brow the drifted snows, 
And on her bosom white she bare 

Ever a dark red rose. 

III. 
On bended knee the Paladin 

Takes from the maid the rose, 
Going to fight 'gainst Saladin 

And all the Paynim foes. 

IV. 
He gave the maid a golden ring 

And kissed it as he gave, 
' The rose to thee again I '11 bring, 

Or bear it to my grave. 

v. 

' And when to thee the rose I bring, 

Again on bended knee 
I '11 claim once more my golden ring, 

And with the ring, claim thee.' 

c 



34 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

VI. 
Where rages still the fiercest fight, 

A red rose aye is seen, 
High in the helmet of a knight, 

The noble Paladin. 

VII. 
The day is won the fight is o'er, 

They find amid the slain, 
A knight with a red rose steeped in gore, 

In his helmet cleft in twain. 

VIII. 

The nuns they chant the midnight prayer 

For a dying sister dear, 
A gold ring lies on her bosom fair 

When they place her in the bier. 

It was evening when we parted 
At the inn hard by the shore, 

Carlo mio, noble-hearted, 
Never to behold thee more ! 



ISABEL CLARE. 35 

Ahime ! the morning glory 

Of thy struggle, Italy ! 
Soon the clouds are gathering o'er thee, 

Overcasting all thy sky. 

Vain Goito's triumph glorious ; 

Soon, o'er lost Novara's plain, 
Austrian eagles swoop victorious ; 

Night and slavery come again. 

Eve was past, no thought of sleeping 
Had the cousins as they sate. 

The lady said (has she been weeping), 
' Cousin, it is growing late.' 

And that cousin, stupid fellow, 
Meaning nothing, I suppose, 

Cried ' Why, bless me, Isabella, 
But you've lost your pretty rose ! ' 



What can Archdeacon Ambergills be saying ? 
Dear me ! while I Ve been dreaming they've been 
praying. 



36 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

They Ve been and done it Cousin Isabel 
Is Lady Greenacre. So far so well. 
' Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder,' 
So says the Archdeacon. Howling says, 

'Amen ;' 
And yet, despite ecclesiastic thunder, 

The knot has oft been broke, and will again. 
Whom God hath joined let no man put 

asunder 
Sir Cresswell Cresswell, what can you say, I 

wonder 

To all the ruptured matrimonial bands, 
Priest-knit, you rend with uncanonic hands 
In pieces, as if made of ropes of sands ? 



Autumn sunlight pours its lustre 
On an English sylvan scene, 

Where deep woods umbrageous cluster 
In a wavy sea of green. 

And a stream with tortuous bending, 
Rippling, dimpling, winds its way ; 

Now through greenest pastures wending, 
Now by wild rocks steep and grey. 



ISABEL CLARE. 

Here a reach as bright as argent, 
There a stretch as dark as night ; 

Cliff and tree hang o'er the margent, 
Till its course is lost to sight. 

Lost a moment while you ponder 
Where the water exit finds ; 

Lo ! behind that green hill yonder 
Out it breaks and backward winds. 

Upward from the river swelling, 
Stretches out a broad demesne ; 

In the midst a lordly dwelling, 

Marked with many a weather-stain. 

Walls embattled, grey and hoary, 
Turret round, and castle square, 

Not without historic glory, 
For a king was cradled there. 

Modern skill had joined more lately 
To the ancient pile two wings ; 

So a matron aged and stately 
To her graceful daughters clings. 



37 



38 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

And the sunny radiance glinting, 
On the painted window plays ; 

Sash and sill and mullion tinting 
With its soft prismatic rays. 

Trim and green along the basement 
Spreads an esplanade of grass, 

So that from the opening casement 
Out upon the lawn you pass. 

There's a throng of hind and vassal 
On that sunny lawn to-day ; 

There's a sound of mirth and wassail, 
Voice of lads and lasses gay. 

And the juicy joint is steaming, 
White with ale the tankards foam ; 

Every eye with joy is beaming, 

For his bride the Squire brings home. 

At the portal now descending, 
From that same Long-acre chaise 

Step the pair, 'mid voices blending, 
Old in blessings, young in praise. 



ISABEL CLARE. 39 

In the hall there's jubilation, 

Guests sit round the plenteous board ; 
Words of kind felicitation 

From each friendly lip are poured. 

Twas a feast of lordly splendour 

Ambergills declared in fine 
He ne'er tasted haunch more tender, 

Never drank of choicer wine. 

Now the western sun is beaming 

Through the windows, warm and bright, 

Over glass and silver streaming, 
Till they sparkle in the light. 

Close to where the bride is sitting 
There's a casement opened wide, 

Fresh and odorous air admitting 
From that sunny lawn outside. 

And the sound of happy voices 

Faintly comes upon the ear, 
Telling that each heart rejoices 

In the good old English cheer. 



40 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Up rose a man of rank and station, 
Nearest kinsman of the host, 

And said to prelude his oration 
' Fill your glasses for a toast/ 

Then the kinsman, in neat phrases, 
Makes a speech with courtly smile, 

And ' the happy pair ' he praises 
In the after-dinner style. 

Till his peroration closing, 
With applause on every side, 

Glass in hand, the health proposing 
Of Sir Arthur and his bride. 

Cheer the cousins then by dozens, 
Swelling with Greenacre pride ; 

To the ceiling rises pealing 

' Health to Sir Arthur and his bride. 5 

Rises to the friendly calling 

Young Sir Arthur mute are all, 

You could hear a feather falling 
Through that vast ancestral hall. 



ISABEL CLARE. 41 

Hark ! a strain of music stealing, 
Thro' the open window floats, 

And a voice of tenderest feeling 
Chanting to the organ notes, 

Sings, in accents wild and thrilling, 
Words whose import makes me start, 

And drives back the hot blood chilling 
Icily upon my heart. 

' Ah ! sfiorita e la rosa 

Che sul mio cor riposa. 
Promessa tua, sposa, sposa, 
Non te ne scordaresti mai! 

A wild, sharp cry of grief and terror 
Rings along that chamber wide ; 

Every tongue is mute with horror, 
Every eye seeks out the bride. 

As the marble pale and frigid, 

Lips apart, and eyes aglare, 
Sits she stupefied and rigid, 

Like a statue of despair. 



42 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Anxious women round her gather, 

Lavishing their tenderest care, 
' And that loving, white-haired father 
Kneels beside his daughter's chair. 

And her husband. Ah ! what feelings 
Rend and shake his soul by turns ? 

Closed, cold lips make no revealings 
Of the fire within that burns. 

Vain all efforts to restore her 
Bear her gently hence : the spell 

Of those strange words shall hang o'er her 
Evermore, sweet Isabel ! 

Mute and dark that hall so festal 
In the deep'ning shades of night, 

Till the moon, in radiance vestal, 
Lights it with a ghostly light. 

Flask and flagon dimly shimmer, 
Flowers their odours vainly shed ; 

Glass, and gold, and silver glimmer, 
Like a banquet for the dead. 



ISABEL CLARE. 43 

And through that long night of sorrow 
There be watchers bowed in grief, 

Waiting prayerful for the morrow 
That shall bring them no relief. 

Toll toll toll ! 
Slowly peals the passing bell, 
With long pause between each knell. 

Toll toll toll ! 
Now passeth a human soul 
From its tenement of clay, 
From the night into the day 

Passing away. 

As the sound floats through the air 
Bow the knee, the forehead bare, 
Utter low the solemn prayer 

Kyrie eleison. 

Christe eleison. 

Kyrie eleison. 

Toll toll toll ! 
All through that dreary night. 

Toll toll toll ! 
Till the first cold gleam of light. 



44 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

But when the night passed into day, 

Then ceased the passing bell : 
And we knew that from earth had passed away 
The soul of Isabel. 



I've smoked at least two boxes of cheroots 
At various seasons, seeking to make out 

That riddle, but my smoking bore no fruit 
Save smoke and ashes, and I find my doubt 

Will not be cleared by clouds alas ! it boots 
But little now, since those who cared about 

The mystery have passed away from here 

Into that place where mysteries are clear. 

What hidden meaning had the minstrel's words, 
And who was he that sang them ? Did the grave 

Give back the dead one, slain by Austrian swords ? 
Or was the tale untrue ? Did fortune save 

His life for sorrow such as Fate accords 
But once in man's existence? Did he brave 

Chains, dungeons, death, to stake upon one cast 

More than his life to throw and lose at last ? 



ISABEL CLARE. 45 

Was there some plighted vow between the two, 
A marriage of God's making, not of man's 

A knot of love that laws can ne'er undo, 
Potent, howe'er the priest forbid the bans 

That gave him right to claim, as lover true, 
His spouse, although her form another spans 

With arms of church and law-permitting love ? 

Alas ! none know, save they and God above. 

No traces of the minstrel could be found, 
Except that Farmer Dibble's daughter said 

She saw that evening, seated on the ground, 
A strange, outlandish man ; and on his head 

He wore a steeple hat, with ribbons bound, 
And a black velvet jacket trimmed with braid ; 

And by his side she saw, upon the grass, 

A box of polished wood, inlaid with brass. 

And when he saw the little girl he sprung 
Upon his feet in haste, and like a sack 

The heavy box upon his back he swung ; 
Then striking quick into a forest track, 

He soon was lost to sight the woods among, 
And never more was seen. The girl came back 



46 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

And told her father ; and I heard the tale 
One evening from him o'er a pot of ale. 

And Farmer Dibble said that he'd be dang'd, 
If he'd a ketched that Frencher with his box, 

He'd send un to th' assizes to be hanged, 
Or lay un by the heels in parish stocks. 

And then, with free-born British fist, he banged 
The ale-house table with emphatic knocks, 

And swore he'd do it, so he would, by George ! 

A statement lauded by his friends at large. 

Sir Arthur left the country let The Chase 
And lives in Paris, where I saw him lately ; 

Grown rather fat and ruddy in the face, 
(He'd lost that English air so grand and 
stately.) 

I rather think he lives at a fast pace, 
Gambles and drinks. In fine, he's altered 
greatly 

From what he was when first I knew him well, 

Ere his wife died. I have no more to tell. 



NO. III. 

WIN AND WEAR. 

HERE is the third draw from the Black Box : 

I remember my friend, Peter, used to talk of one of his 
innumerable cousins of the interminable family of Brown, 
a wild fellow, full of talent and adventure, who, accord- 
ingly, did no good in this world at all events a rolling 
stone that gathered no moss. After wandering over 
half the world, he settled finally in Leghorn, where he 
married the daughter of a Russian merchant. 

It happened on one occasion when Peter returned from 
a tour in Germany, some fifteen years ago, he told me of a 
relative that he discovered there, who wa^ married to a 
German lady, and lived in a German castle, quite like a 
little prince . Putting all these together, I strongly suspect 
that the hero of the following tale was no other than the 
son of his cousin of Leghorn, who had, I suppose, on his 
domestication in Italy, taken the name of Brunello. As 
to the O'Higginses, I know nothing about them, but I 
have no doubt that the Browns were related to them, and 
to every other family with a prefix, affix, or suffix to their 



48 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BR WN. 

name, since the creation of the world, including the 
prophet O'Badiah and General Judas MacCabeus. I 
cannot find the name of the Irish patrimony of Brunello 
either in ' Lewis's Topographical Dictionary/ or 
' O'Flaherty's Ogygia' more shame for them. The tale 
I give as I found it in the Black Box, premising only that 
while the German manners, as described, are those of a 
quarter of a century ago, there are evident marks of more 
recent retouching in the verses. 

JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. 
CARRIGBAWN, December 28, 1861. 



THE COSMOPOLITE. 

Alexis O'Higgins Brunello, 

Is the name of the hero I sing, 
A slashing and dashing young fellow 

As any you'd meet in the king- 
dom of England, or France ay, or Ireland- 

And that's a bold statement I know, 
Yet I dare you to search the entire land, 

And show me his match, high or low. 



WIN AND WEAR. 49 

The Russian he chopped like the Slavi, 
The German he'd grunt like a boar ; 

He could ' Parley vous' French a vous ravir, 
Talk Spanish just like a Sen6r. 

Italian he lisped like a Roman, 

His English the purest in vogue, 
With a something quite soft, and yet no man 

Could venture to call it a brogue. 

And once I surprised him love-making, 

At Spa, to a County Cork lass, 
In accents so tender and taking, 

Whispering sweet in her ear, ' Colleen dhas ! ' 

And I thought to myself, ' Friend Brunello, 
That soft sawder, and blarney, and smile 

That bother the girls, my good fellow, 
Were learned in the Emerald Isle/ 

Alexis O'Higgins Brunello 

Was the pink of an exquisite beau : 

As he passed, women sighed, ' Come bello ! ' 
Men owned he was quite ' comme il faut.' 

D 



50 REVELA TIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

He could fight, he could drink, he could revel, 
Dance, sing, and make love 'a la mode ;' 

With men he was fierce as a devil, 

Women did with him just as they would. 

Wherever he went he was courted, 

As Milor, or Senor, or Hertzog ; 
And I heard him once gravely reported 

A prince that was travelling incog. 

From city to city Brunello 

Could be traced by his deeds, as a chart ; 
By men's broken bones in duello, 

And many a maid's broken heart. 

Whence he came 'twould have puzzled a Rabbi 

To tell somehow nobody knew. 
' Non so ' ' Ich kenn nicht' ' No se sabe,' 

' He's Faust, or the Wandering Jew.' 

And so in his wanderings one autumn, 
When the season was on the decline, 

The course of his destiny brought him 
To stop by the banks of the Rhine. 



WIN AND WEAR. 51 

II. 
THE BARON. 

The Baron Rudolf Von Hockswiller 
Was a noble both brave and renowned, 

Of boars a redoubtable killer, 

Which he hunted with horse and with hound. 

He lived midst a forest most gloomy, 

Not far from the waters of Rhine, 
In a castle, less pleasant than roomy, 

'Twas called, I believe, Schwarzenstein. 

The Baron had revenues ample, 

God knows how many thalers a-year 

So rich, he might vie, for example, 
With an esquire of Somersetshire. 

He had highlands, and lowlands, and woodlands, 
Well furnished with game of all kinds, 

Some bad lands, some worse lands, some good 

lands, 
Which were tilled by his vassals and hinds. 



52 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BROWN. 

The Baron loved beer with devotion, 
More devotedly still he loved wine, 

Yet of water he'd drink a whole ocean 
Kirscherwasser not water of Rhine. 

But dearer than drink or boar-slaughter 
He loved with the tenderest care 

The beautiful Fraulein, his daughter, 
Who was called Kunigunda the Fair. 

He loved her beyond all conception, 
More than castle, or forest, or pelf, 

Man or woman, with just one exception, 
And that was Hockswiller himself. 

In a word, to prevent all confusion 
As to what I have stated above, 

I '11 show, by a classic allusion, 

The strength and degrees of his love, 

' Hie, h<zc y hoc', absorbed all his affection. 
First hie ; fuze, the next ; hoc, in fine: 

Which you '11 see, on a moment's reflection, 
Mean himself, and his child, and his wine. 



WIN AND WEAR. 53 

The Baron had many retainers, 

Stout henchmen at feasting and fun, 

All efficient as good flagon-drainers, 
Trenchant trencher-men every one. 

They were valiant in brawls over liquor ; 

Quick to charge when the enemy fled ; 
In retreat they were even still quicker, 

And ne'er to their foes gave the lead. 

The Baron had kinsfolk full twenty, 
Who stuck to him closer than wax, 

While Schweinsfleisch and Rheinwein were plenty, 
Shot his forests and hunted his hacks. 

And so, like a family party, 

From the first to the last of the year, 

They feasted right joyous and hearty 
On the best of Hockswiller's good cheer. 

And the Baron, when following the chase or 

Presiding o'er revel or mirth, 
Did not envy Grossherzog or Kaiser, 

Or mightiest monarch on earth. 



54 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BROWN. 

III. 
THE FRAULEIN. 

The fair Kunigunda Hockswiller 

Was a marvel of learning and art, 
Knew Gothe, and Wieland, and Schiller, 

And Klopstock, and Gesner by heart. 

All the songs of the old Minnesingers 

That ever were written or sung 
She had prompt on the ends of her fingers 

And pat on the tip of her tongue. 

Of Schenkendorf, Ruckert, and Korner, 
And the bards of the famed 'Sturm und Drang/ 

And of Lessing, and Herder, and Werner, 
She could quote every verse and ' gesang.' 

In belles-lettres she studied von Schlegel ; 

In philosophy, Kant was her guide ; 
Metaphysics she learned from Hegel, 

And dipped into Fichte beside. 



WIN AND WEAR. 55 

And there was not a matron or maiden 

Surpassed her in musical art ; 
At sight she played Handel and Haydn, 

Beethoven, and Bach, and Mozart. 

Her voice was mellifluous, very 

You'd fancy, whenever she sang, 
You heard a lark warble, so merry 

And trilling her notes as they rang. 

Her eyes would remind you of heaven, 

Their orbits so blue and serene, 
And mild as the starlight at even 

Their glance through the lashes were seen. 

Like the hue of the leaves on the beeches, 
When Autumn is crisping them brown, 

Was the flow of her hair ; and like peaches 
Her cheeks in their richness and down. 

Her forehead was broad, but not very, 
Her nose, rather massive than thin, 

Her lips full and ripe as a cherry, 
And oh ! such a love of a chin ! 



56 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BROWN. 

With one charm far beyond every other 
Most charming, the maiden was blest 

The money and lands of her mother 
The fair Kunigunda possessed. 

And suitors in multitudes sought her 

From every region and part, 
They sighed, and they knelt, but none caught her, 

Or touched Kunigunda's young heart. 

One was learned and wise, but he squinted ; 

One was handsome and brave, but a boor ; 
One was quite to her taste till he hinted 

He wanted her lands to secure. 

And the kinsmen they sighed too, poor fellows, 
But they dared not approach her to kneel, 

So they guarded her, loyal and jealous, 
And swore to be true as the steel. 

So the blue-stockinged, blue-eyed young lady 

Kept safely within her command, 
Till 'the hour and the man' should be ready, 

Her hand, and her heart, and her land. 






WIN AND WEAR. 57 

IV 
THE BOAR HUNT. 

The morning is gloriously breaking 
With chanting of many a bird, 

The Baron, from slumber awaking, 
Is risen, and booted, and spurred. 

And after a breakfast most hearty 
Of meat and strong waters beside, 

Hockswiller and each of his party 
The backs of their hunters bestride. 

The jagers with pistols and rifles, 

The stout knaves with boar-spears on foot, 
With daggers, and knives, and such trifles, 

The wild boar to stab or to shoot. 

Away to the forest they're taking 

Their course thro' a wide verdant plain, 

The horn of the huntsman awaking 
The echoes again and again. 



58 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

And now at the forest arriving 

The jagers are posted around, 
The hounds through the thickets are driving 

With noses laid close to the ground. 

Hark ! hark ! there's a crashing of branches, 
The staunch hounds are now giving tongue, 

And the boar, with the pack at his haunches, 
Breaks cover and rushes along. 

Then joyously shouts every hunter, 
With a view-hollo rending the sky, 

As away goes the grisly old grunter, 
And the dogs at his heels in full cry. 

And the rifle of many a jager 

Discharges its bullet in vain, 
The huntsmen, excited and eager, 

Give their horses the spur and the rein. 

Hal-lo ! juch-heisasa ! hal-lo ! 

They sweep over hill and thro' vale, 
O'er greensward, and stubble, and fallow, 

Through jungle, and dingle, and dale. 



WIN AND WEAR. 59 

At last there's the crack of a rifle, 

The ball strikes the brute in the breast ; 

And the Baron roars out ' Ach, der Teufel ! 
That's a jagerlich shot, I protest.' 

Up canters the Baron, the laggers 
Come after, their steeds out of breath, 

And lustily lug out their daggers, 
Prepared to be in at the death. 

To their wonder, they see a strange hunter 

Quite leisurely taking his stand, 
Astride o'er the dying old grunter, 

With a couteau de chassc in his hand. 

And as soon as the Baron approaches, 
The stranger, with true hunter-craft, 

While his hat he most courteously touches, 
Presents to Hockswiller the haft. 

'Pray who may you be, my fine fellow ?' 

Hockswiller politely demands. 
' Alexis O'Higgins Brunello, 

Herr Baron, and at your commands.' 



60 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

'I take/ says the Baron, 'Herr Jager, 

With thanks, sir, your couteau de chasse? 

Then he slit the boar's throat with the dagger, 
And gave him a sure coup de grace ! 

Next, he asks, like a jolly old Baron, 
Brunello to come home and dine ; 

The boar is transported a car on, 

And they all jog to Schloss Schwarzenstein. 



V. 

THE REVEL. 

Where'er I may look for my breakfast, 
Or supper, or lunch, be it mine 

(To this faith till my death I will stick fast,) 
In Germany always to dine. 

You've good eating, substantial and various, 
Good drinking in kind and degree, 

Good company, frank and hilarious, 
Good singing, both solo and glee. 



WIN AND WEAR. 61 

Only don't go too fast at the smoking ; 

Drink sparingly, too, of their beer ; 
Be prudent in banter and joking, 

For they'll quarrel when filled with good cheer. 

There's a hall that's both lofty and spacious 
The pride of the Schloss Schwarzenstein, 

With fire-place and chimney capacious, 
And a table of oak where they dine. 

The roof-beams and panels are oaken ; 

All around hang the antlers of deer, 
Boars' heads, and each trophy and token 

Of the chase, and the rifle, and spear. 

Now seated around the oak table 

Are the kinsmen, the guest, and the host ; 

All ready, and willing, and able 
To fall on the boiled and the roast. 

At the head sits the Baron most stately, 
Raised high in his carved oaken chair ; 

On his right, for he loved his child greatly, 
Is placed Kunigunda the Fair. 



62 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

On the left, as the guest, sits Brunello, 
And he chats with the lady so gay, 

That she thinks him the charmingest fellow 
She has met with for many a day. 

Ach Gott ! with what ardour they fall foul 
Of Baron -Hockswiller's good fare : 

Of all fish, and all flesh, and all fowl, 
In water, in earth, and in air. 

Der Teufel ! such eating and quaffing ! 

Such clattering of knives and of forks, 
Hobnobbing, and chaffing, and laughing ; 

And oh ! such a drawing of corks ! 

German beer but no Guinness or Bass, or 
Your trash of East India pale ale ; 

Prime brandtwein and strong kirscherwasser, 
In flagon and flask without fail. 

And wines of all vineyards Hockheimer, 
Asmanhauser, and sparkling Moselle ; 

Brauneberger, Erlach, Rudesheimer, 
And others whose names I can't tell. 



WIN AND WEAR. 63 

The courses are finished the lady 
Is risen to retire, quick as light 

The hand of Brunello is ready 
To open the door most polite. 

And just as the maiden advances, 

He tenderly gazes and sighs ; 
Till, confused by the power of his glances, 

She blushes and casts down her eyes. 

And Brunello, perhaps, had pursued her, 

And managed a sly tete-a-tete ; 
But the Baron cries, * Lustiger Bruder, 

Come back, for all skulkers I hate.' 

Then, following the lead of the master, 

They drink, and they laugh, and they joke ; 

Each meerschaum is filled with kanaster, 
Each mouth puffs a volume of smoke. 

Now the Baron calls out ' Fiillt den Becher 
Bis zum Rand. To the brim fill your glass 

With wine of the Rhine or the Neckar, 
And pledge me the toast that I pass ! 



64 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

* Let love have its raptures for others, 
The pleasures of friendship be mine, 

The chase and the chalice, my brothers 
Die Freundschaft, die Jagd, und der Wein!' 

The toast was received with a thunder 

Of plaudits that rolled through the hall, 

' Huzza ! Juch ! Juchei !' 'twas a wonder 
The rafters and roof didn't fall. 



When the thunder was past, cries Hockswiller, 
' Max Klangermann, give us a song.' 

' Ja, von ganzem mein Herzen, Ich will, Herr/ 
Says Max, and sings out clear and strong : 

TRINKLIED. 

1 Briider das ist deutscher Wein ! 
Darum ist er klar und stille, 
Darum hat er Kraft und Fiille, 

Darum Schenkt ihn frohlich ein, 

Briider das ist deutscher Wein ! 



WIN AND WEAR. 65 

' Brothers, this is German wi|e, 

So 'tis mellow, clear, and bright ; 
Strong of body, full and fine, 

And it flows out free and light. 
Briider das ist deutscher Wein ! 

' Ancient customs love we still ; 
Honour to the hands divine 
That on native German hill 
Planted first the foreign vine ! 
Briider das ist deutscher Wein ! 

' Fill the goblet high to those 

Who tilled our heights with free-born hands, 
Who from those heights defied their foes, 
Free, in their free fatherland ! 
Fiillt den Becher bis zum Rand ! 

' Olden times are new again 

Glaives we've wielded manfully, 
We have burst the tyrant's chain 
Dutchland still is Dutch and free ! 
Deutsche bleiben deutsch und frei ! 



66 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

' German ways and German wine, 

From the cottage to the throne ; 
German tongue and German Rhine, 
Fatherland is all our own ! 
Von dem Hiitte bis zur Throne !' 

Glasses clink, and cheers sonorous 
Shake the walls of Schwarzenstein > 

Every voice is loud in chorus 
' Briider, das ist deutscher Wein !' 

Then a jager of the party, 
Lifting up his manly voice, 

Breaks into a song so hearty 

That 'twould make the dead rejoice. 

JAGERLIED. 

' Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
Brays out the cheery horn ; 
In ringing notes 
The music floats 
On the ear of drowsy morn. 



WIN AND WEAR. 67 

On the greensward steeds are neighing, 
In the leash the hounds are baying, 
And the jager bold and gay 
Mounts his horse to ride away. 
Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
Hallo ! hallo ! Juchheisa sa ! 

' Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
The merry men are up ! 
From saddle-bow 
Each man bends low 
To the maid that hands the cup. 
He takes, the cup from the maiden laughing, 
And steals a kiss before the quaffing ; 
And so the jager bold and gay 
Spurs his horse and rides away. 
Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
Hallo ! hallo ! Juchheisa sa ! 

' Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
A merry life is ours 

In wood and wold, 

In heat and cold, 
In sunshine and in showers. 



68 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Fearless every peril braving, 
Where the flood or storm is raving, 
There the jager bold and gay 
Hunts his game the live-long day. 
Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
Hallo ! hallo ! Juchheisa sa ! 

' Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
We love fair nature's face ; 
The mountain breeze, 
The forest trees, 
The wild and headlong chase. 
We love to hear the sweet birds singing, 
We love to hear the bugle ringing ; 
And thus the jager bold and gay 
Spends a merry life alway, 
Tra lira la ! Tra lira la ! 
Hallo ! hallo ! Juchheisa sa !' 

Then follow Liebeslieder, Bundslieder, 
Volkslieder, and songs of Tabak ; 

To name them would weary the reader, 
And space to recite them I lack. 



WIN AND WEAR. 69 

Now the bottles go round fast and furious, 
The drinking is growing profound, 

Strong waters are proving injurious 
To the brains of the kinsmen around. 

And the speech of the host becomes thicker, 
A muddiness steals o'er his eye ; 

And, vanquished by smoking and liquor, 
He falls fast asleep with a sigh. 

And now, while the Baron is snoring, 
Reclined in his carved oaken chair, 

Brunello the Schloss is exploring 
To find Kunigunda the fair. 



IV. 

THE TETE-A-TETE. 

In the Schloss Schwarzenstein there's a tower 
That flanks the west side of the square, 

With windows due south ; 'tis the bower 
Where sits Kunigunda the Fair. 



70 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

The roses and vines from the basement, 
Like lovers, climb up the wall's height, 

And stealthily peep through the casement 
At beauty more rich and more bright. 

And there, in the sheen of the star-light, 
That gleams through the chamber within, 

She sighs, as she looks on each far light, 
' Ach, Himmel ! wie einsam ich bin !' 

As if in response to the feeling 

That stirred the maid's bosom within, 

A tap came, so gently appealing, 

To the door, that she answered, ' Come in/ 

Next moment, within her apartment, 
Revealed in the tender star-light, 

Stands the man whom the throb of her heart 

meant 
To tell her she loves at first sight. 

' Pray pardon,' he said, ' this intrusion : 
If my presence offends I will go : 

May I stay?' Somehow, in her confusion, 
The lady forgot to say ' No/ 



WIN AND WEAR. 71 

Then in accents so soft and respectful, 

He contrives on some theme to commence 

That she loves, all the while not neglectful 
To praise both her wit and her sense. 

He discourses of arts and of science, 

Of physics and ethics likewise, 
And throws out strange views, in defiance, 

To draw out the maiden's replies. 

By arguments learned, tho' archaic, 

And reasoning very profound, 
He maintains, on the plan Ptolomaic, 

Tis the sun, not the earth, that moves round. 

He proves it from Scripture and reason, 
From Moses, and Joshua, and Job, 

From changes of light and of season, 

From the measure and weight of the globe. 

Then the lady asserts with great learning, 

That Kopernik's system is right ; 
Till, the force of her reasons discerning, 

He admits she has vanquished him quite. 



72 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

1 Fix'd fate and free will and foreknowledge/ 
They discourse of, and still ' find no end ;' 

Lost in mazes : like fellows of college, 
Metaphysics with logics they blend. 

They indulge in some deep speculation, 
On clairvoyance, extasis, trance, 

Thought-reading and ' Od ' emanation, 
Reichenbach and Alexis of France. 

They discuss magic crystals and glasses, 

The fluid mesmeric beside ; 
And, in fine, a few magnetic passes, 

As a test of the doctrine, are tried. 

And then, by an easy transition, 

As romance, verse, and fiction are passed, 
Absorbed in a transport Elysian, 

They fall upon music at last. 

Then the maid with the skill of a master, 
Shakes sound from the ivory notes, 

And her fair hands move faster and faster, 
As round her the melody floats. 



WIN AND WEAR. 73 

She goes to the casement, together 
They stand and look out on the skies ; 

How long I can't tell you, for neither 
Takes count of old Time as he flies. 

And the stars as they burn in their splendor, 
Fill each soul with a speechless delight, 

Till a feeling delicious and tender, 
Steals over those watchers of night. 

A lute on the table is lying, 

The youth takes it up, and the strings 
Awake to his touch, like the sighing 

Of zephyrs, as sweetly he sings. 

SONG. 

' IN DER STILLEN NACHT.' 

Still ist die Nacht, 

In sanfter Pracht 
Entglimmt das Heer der Sterne ; 

Ich steh' allein 

Im tiefsten Hain 
Vor euch, ihr lieben Sterne ! 

In der stillen Nacht. 



74 RE VELA 7 IONS OF PE 7ER BROWN. 

Still is the night, 

With gentle light 
The starry host is shining : 

Lone in the grove, 

Loved stars above ! 
Ye look upon me pining. 

In der stillen Nacht. 

Ah ! for one heart, 

To take a part 
In all my pain and pleasure ; 

And still be near 

In darkness -here, 
And be my own heart's treasure. 

In der stillen Nacht. 

In vain, in vain, 

Do I complain ; 
The echo mocks my mourning : 

No voice I hear, 

My heart to cheer, 
No song my song returning. 

In der stillen Nacht. 



WIN AND WEAR. 75 

The music has ceased, but the thrilling 
Of the lute-notes still trouble the air ; 

Love so troubles with tremulous feeling 
Thy heart, Kunigunda the Fair. 

He sighs, as the lute he replaces, 
And tenderly looks in her eyes ; 

A tear-star in each orb he traces, 

Like the stars in the soft azure skies. 

What they say, what they do, I can't tell O, 
Love has language and acts of his own 

But I know that ere long young Brunello 
Sits beside Kunigunda alone. 

And there while the star-light from heaven 
Is pouring pale light on their brows, 

His vows to the maiden are given, 

And he wins from the maiden her vows. 

Next his birth and his lineage the lover 
Reveals and they are not amiss ; 

Then lest lips should the secret discover 
He seals hers quite close with a kiss. 



76 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BR WN. 

But the maid when she hears that revealing, 
A sorrow comes over her heart 

A sorrow that's fraught with the feeling, 
That she and her lover must part. 

But what is that secret, you wonder : 

I cannot disclose it, I vow ; 
For, like Kunigunda, I 'm under 

A pledge not to tell it just now. 



Well, they canvassed it over and over, 
They viewed it from far and from near, 

Till at last a bright thought struck the lover, 
And he whispered it soft in her ear. 

When she heard it she blushed and looked 

frightened, 

And turned her face coyly away ; 
Then she mused till at length her eyes 

brightened, 
And she had not the heart to say nay. 



WIN AND WEAR. 77 

Now the Baron's bluff voice is heard, bawling 
' Ach ! Bruder, come back to your wine ;' 

So he kisses the hand of the Fraulein, 
And sighs ' Gute Nacht, Liebchen mem/ 



VII. 
THE SERENADE. 

An hour before morning is breaking, 
Soft music is heard on the air, 

Beneath the west tower, awaking 
From sleep Kunigunda the Fair. 

To the window she steals to discover 
The minstrel who breaks her repose, 

And the form and the voice of her lover, 
As he sings in the dim light, she knows. 

Near a linden tree over against her 
He stands and he gazes above ; 

1 Komm fein Liebchen, O ! komm du an's 

Fenster.' 
'Tis thus that he sings to his love. 



78 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

1 KOMM LIEBCHEN AN J S FENSTER.' 

Oh ! come to the window, my dearest, 

For silent and dark is the night ; 
No voice, save thy lover's, thou hearest, 
No tread, save his footfall so light ; 
The birds are all dumb, 
And there is not a hum, 

Komm Liebchen an's Fenster, komm fein 
Liebchen, komm. 

There's none that go out after nightfall 
But lovers and robbers and sprites : 
Ah ! open your eyes, let their light fall 
On him whom their lustre delights, 
And I swear by that light 
I 'm thief, lover, and sprite, 
For I '11 steal, love, and haunt you, by day and 
by night. 

The stars in the heavens are hidden, 
Young Luna is wrapt in her shroud, 

The planets to stroll are forbidden, 
And Venus is under a cloud. 



WIN AND WEAR. 79 

But come out and shine 
With those bright eyes of thine, 
And they'll soon turn night into day, Liebchen 
mein. 



Mein Liebchen, then open thy casement, 

The heart of thy lover rejoice ; 
I 'm standing here close to the basement, 
To woo thee with string and with voice, 
Though my fingers are numb, 
And I hardly can thrum 

My guitar, while I sing to thee, ' Komm 
Liebchen, komm.' 



But the frost that my fingers is numbing, 

And creeping along up my arm, 
Is turned into fire, as 'tis coming 

Near my heart with love throbbing and warm ; 
For a spirit like mine 
Is like spirit of wine, 

'Twill blaze in the light of thy love, Liebchen 
mein. 



8o RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BR WN. 

The song of the minstrel is over ; 
But whether the maid sought repose, 

Or came at the call of her lover, 
My verse shall hereafter disclose. 



VIII. 

1 STOLE AWAY.' 

How fresh is the dawn of the morning 

When silvery mists roll away ; 
When dew-pearls the lawn are adorning, 

In bright expectation of day. 

When the trees, as the light breezes toss 'em, 
Shake out from their green leafy hair 

The odours of fruit and of blossom, 
With fragrancy filling the air. 

When the throstle pipes out from the cover, 
And the lark soars aloft with a song, 

And the bee, like a gallant young rover, 
Hums from flower to flower along. 



WIN AND WEAR. 81 

But the charms of the morning are courting 

The Baron Hockswiller in vain ; 
For yesterday's drinking and sporting 

Have wearied his bones and his brain. 

He feels on the whole rather crazy, 

And so, when 'tis time to arise, 
He turns on his side like a lazy 

Old baron, and closes his eyes. 

But he scarcely had fallen a-dozing, 

When a clamour, quite close to his door, 

Breaks rudely upon his reposing, 
And makes him spring out on the floor. 

And the Kammerfrau rushes in, shrieking, 
And wringing her hands in despair, 

While she cries, as the sobs choke her speaking, 
' Ach Gott ! Kunigunda the Fair !' 

1 Potztausend ! child, what is the matter?' 

Roars the Baron, and stamps on the ground : 

The maid cries, and all her teeth chatter, 
' My lady is not to be found ! 



82 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BR WN. 

1 We have ransacked the castle all over, 

Searched the moat and the court-yard around ; 

But no tidings as yet can discover 
My lady is not to be found ! 

' But I found this sealed note on her table ' 

The Baron tore open the scroll, 
And read, though he scarcely was able, 

' Mein Vater geliebt, lebe wohl !' 

Then the Baron broke into a passion, 
And thundered out many an oath, 

And swore in a horrible fashion 
To repeat all he said I am loth. 

' Tausend Teufel und Kreuzdonnerwetter ! 

Ach, liebe Herr Gott ! but I swear, 
Wherever she 's gone, I will get her, 

If she 's hid in the earth, sea, or air. 

' Ho! Adolph, and Gottfried, and Johann, 
And Heinrich, and Ludwig, and all : 

Ach, Himmel und Erde ! will no one, 
Ye varlets, attend when I call ?' 



WIN AND WEAR. 83 

The servants, affrighted and eager, 
Rush in at the summons in haste ; 

And henchmen, and kinsmen, and jager 
Follow close at the heels of the rest. 



* To horse, with all speed,' cries Hockswiller, 
' And saddle my gray Blitzenbein ; 

I '11 hunt down the truant I will, or 
I'll never break bread or drink wine !' 

Then out speaks Hans Stallknecht 'Good 
master, 

The gray steed is gone from the stall ' 
Says Fritz, ' There's another disaster, 

Your guest can't be found, Sir, at all.' 

So after much puzzling and potter, 

The Baron did sagely declare, 
That his guest and his steed and his daughter, 

Had gone off together somewhere. 



84 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

IX. 
ON THE TRAIL. 

The horsemen are mounted and ready ; 

The Baron's command they await ; 
And, placing himself at their head, he 

Gives the word, and they dash through the 
gate. 

A jager lets slip from the leashes 

A deep-chested, shaggy sleuth-hound, 

With a bay to the greensward he dashes, 
And takes up the scent on the ground. 

Away, far away from the highways, 

Through forest and greenwood they ride ; 

Through valleys, and alleys, and bye-ways, 
'Cross the river, and round the hill-side. 

They gallop through hamlet and village, 

They sweep on for many a mile, 
Through moor, and through mead, and through 
tillage, 

The hound leading on all the while. 



WIN AND WEAR. 85 

The sun is now high in the heaven, 
But none draws the rein on his steed ; 

Be their course over rough ways or even, 
They press on with desperate speed. 

By Osterspey, through Kamperhausen, 
By Liebenstein also they passed ; 

By Wilmech the Thurnberg der Mausen, 
And reach ' The Cat's Elbow ' at last. 

As the sun to the westward is verging, 
And glows on the hills of the vine, 

From the maze of the forest emerging 
They see the great waters of Rhine. 

But those waters are placid no longer, 
Or smooth as a lake in its sleep ; 

But faster, and wilder, and stronger, 
They speed along tortuous and deep. 

And chafing, and fuming, and dashing, 
They rush 'gainst the high beetling rocks, 

That sullenly fling them back, smashing 
The waves into spray with the shocks. 



i REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

And sheer, from the edge of the river, 
A cliff rises naked and black ; 

Weird voices breathe round it for ever, 
To lure fated barks from their track. 

There the beautiful witch of the Lurlei, 
With spell of her sweet voice beguiles ; 

Ah, woe to the seaman ! for surely 
Who hears her escapes not her wiles. 

He listens, and lingers in wonder ; 

His bark drifts unheeded along, 
Till the Gewirr at last sucks him under 

The waves, as he hangs on the song. 

But the Baron Hockswiller, I reckon, 
Of syren or spell takes small heed, 

Riding furiously still, with no check on 
The rein of his galloping steed. 

And, now, as the Lurleiberg nearing, 
A voice from its summit is borne, 

That makes his ears tingle at hearing, 
1 Alles ist auf immer verloren !' 



WIN AND WEAR. 87 

The words come so sad and so thrilling, 
Like wailings of spirits that mourn, 

And echo repeats them, still pealing, 
Verloren ! Verloren ! ! Verloren ! ! ! 

Now the Baron pulls up in amazement, 
So sharp that his steed feels a shock, 

And, led by the sound, up his gaze went 
To the top of the Lurleiberg rock, 

And there, where the cliff topples sheerly, 
Right over the flood, he descries 

Two motionless forms, sharp and clearly 
Thrown out by the bright evening skies. 

In terror each jager and ritter, 

Makes the sign of the cross on his face, 

And cries, * 'Tis the witch !' in a twitter, 
'Erbarme dich unser, Herr JesT 

But the Baron Hockswiller knows better, 
And swears out both loudly and fast : 

1 Blitz, Donner, Hagel, und Wetter ! 

Tausend Teufel ! They 're so-hod at last 1 



88 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

And the Lurleiberg echo, in mocking, 

Quintuples the curses again ; 
Five thousand of devils invoking, 

From rock, and from river, and glen. 1 

' Ihr Kalber ! Ye calves ! 'tis that fellow/ 

The Baron impatiently roared, 
1 Alexis O'Higgins Brunello, 

That we feasted last night at our board. 

' And that other, I swear, is my daughter, 
Ach Gott ! how she clings to his neck ; 

Potztausend ! as soon as I Ve caught her, 
I '11 keep my young lady in check. 

* But where is my horse ?' While he 's speaking, 

He hears a most pitiful neigh, 
Where tied to a tree, hot and reeking 

With sweat, stands his favourite gray. 



1 I must bear testimony to the modesty of Peter's statement of 
this marvellous echo of the Lurlei. I have met travellers who 
alleged that, many years ago, they heard sounds repeated seven 
times distinctly. For myself, I confess, I have never been able 
to catch more than five reverberations. But the rock is growing 
old and, I suppose, hard-of-hearing. J. F. S. 



WIN AND WEAR. 89 

' Ho ! Rauber verflucht ! now surrender 
My child, or you die by the knife ;' 

Brunello replies, ' I '11 defend her, 
And keep her in death and in life/ 

Hockswiller cries out, 'Scale the Lurlei, 
Hans, Ludwig, and Heinrich, with speed : 

Arrest them and bind them securely ; 
They shall ride back again on the steed/ 

Then out speaks Brunello, unslinging 

A rifle that hung at his back ; 
Quite plainly they heard the steel ringing, 

As he drew back the cock with a clack. 

' The man that sets foot on the Lurlei, 
Shall never break bread any more ; 

I '11 tumble him over as surely 
As I yesterday tumbled the boar/ 

Then Hans signs to Ludwig to lead on, 
And Ludwig on Heinrich attends, 

And Heinrich bids Hans bravely speed on, 
But not one of the jagers ascends. 



90 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

The Baron, their courage to rally, 
Exhorts them with curses and jeers ; 

But no jager will lead on the sally, 
For the ball of Brunello each fears. 

And the Baron himself is too burly 
To climb up the face of the rock, 

Or he 'd doubtless have mounted the Lurlei, 
Though the rifle was still at full cock. 

' Guard the cliff all around/ cries Hockswiller, 
' And set on their traces the dog : 

My daughter I '11 have, should I kill her ; 
Brunello I '11 slay like a hog/ 

But the lovers declare they would rather 
Plunge down in the Rhine-flood beneath, 

Than yield themselves up to a father, 
That threatens so cruel a death. 

Kunigunda, in accents most grievous, 

Filled the air with her cries as she wept : 

* Oh, Father beloved, forgive us ! 
Vergieb uns, mein Vater geleibt !' 



WIN AND WEAR. 91 

And those accents, so piteous and wailing, 

The echo repeats long and wild ; 
While the wrath of Hockswiller is failing, 

As he lists to the cries of his child. 



And many a fond recollection 

Is thronging his heart and his brain ; 

Ah ! strong is a father's affection ; 
Pride, anger, oppose it in vain. 

He cries, ' Oh ! my child, I forgive thee, 
Return, O my daughter, return ; 

Thy father's fond arms shall receive thee, 
No longer to grieve or to mourn. 

' And he that can wake in thy bosom 

A passion so ardent, I swear, 
You shall marry forthwith, if you choose him : 

Your heart, as he won, let him wear,' 



92 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

X. 

THE WIND-UP. 

From the roof of the Schloss the old banner, 
('Twas furled up there time out of mind), 

Waves to-day in a wild, flighty manner, 
As if asking, ' What 's now in the wind ?' 

And the wind might reply : ' I 'm just blowing 

Your blazoned old rag on the air, 
To tell all the world that we're going 

To wed Kunigunda the Fair.' 

And the wind might have turned round the tower, 
That flanked the south-west, did it list, 

And breathe on a face in that bower, 
As lovely as wind ever kist. 

For there Kunigunda is sitting, 

As happy as heart can desire : 
Her handmaidens round her are flitting, 

And donning her bridal attire. 



WIN AND WEAR. 93 

O'er a flask of prime Rheinwein, the Baron 
Had a talk with Brunello one night. 

And the wine and the chat brought them far on 
Towards morning, so pleasant time's flight. 

Brunello the secret discloses, 

That before to his love he made known ; 
The Baron his lineage he shows is 

As ancient and high as his own. 

He traced back that lineage for ages, 
From noblest and purest of blood, 

Through princes, and heroes, and sages, 
Till the traces were lost in the flood. 

O'Briens, O'Neills, and O'Regans ; 

O'Conors, O'Donnells, O'Blakes ; 
MacMurroughs, MacCarthys, MacEgans ; 

And O'Donoghue, Prince of the Lakes. 

And then, through his mother, by Jove, he 
Had thick Russian blood in his veins, 

The dukes of Ukraine and Muscovy, 
Esthonians, Livonians, and Fins. 



94 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

The Vladimirs, Vasilis, Peters ; 

The Godonovs, Romanovs, too ; 
The Ivans, and Michels, and Fedors, 

Dolgorouskis, and heaven knows who. 

While the Baron, unversed in the science 

Of genealogical lore, 
Received, with implicit reliance, 

The names that Brunello ran o'er. 

But one thing remained to get over, 

Though his lineage was ancient and good, 

There was not to be found in the lover, 
One veinful of true German blood. 

And the Baron had sworn that no other, 
Should be lord of his child or domains, 

But one, who by father or mother, 
Had true German blood in his veins. 

'Twas this put the maiden in terror, 

When her lover declared who he was ; * 

'Twas this made him furtively bear her 
Away on the steed from the Schloss. 



WIN AND WEAR. 95 

But Hockswiller had sworn, still more lately, 
The man of her choice she should take ; 

Thus the question now puzzled him greatly 
Which oath he should keep, and which break. 

At length, every scruple to smother, 
He did just the thing that was best ; 

He set off one oath 'gainst the other, 
And so set his conscience at rest. 

Next morning, to close the transaction, 
To their marriage he gives his assent, 

To Brunello's supreme satisfaction, 
And the fair Kunigunda's content. 

How swiftly the moments fly over 

(Ah ! happiest time of their lives) 
The heads of the maid and her lover, 

Till the day of the bridal arrives. 

Oh, then, what a gathering and muster 

Of all the great Hockswiller kin ! 
Like bees in a hive, how they cluster, 

And fill the old castle within. 



96 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

What a clanging of merry bells pealing 
From minster, and tower, and dome, 

When the priest blest the young couple kneeling, 
And oh ! what a grand ' hauling home !' 

And then what a feast ! It surpasses 
My skill to tell all that was done ; 

Such drinking, and clinking of glasses ; 
Such joking, and poking of fun. 

Hockswiller himself, waxing mellow, 
Drank cups of Hockheimer so fast, 

To the health of the bride and Brunello, 
That the hoc-cups brought hic-czips at last. 

So jovial and right bacchanalian 

A wedding there never was seen 
In the world, from the nuptials Thessalian 

To the 4 wedding of BaLlyporeen.' 



'Tis past ! like the visions that hover 
From the sleeper at breaking of day. 

The good Baron's sports are all over ; 
His bones in the churchyard are clay. 



WIN AND WEAR. 97 

But when last, with a knapsack on shoulder, 
I strolled by the banks of the Rhine 

(Alas ! I'm now stiffer and older), 

I stopped at the Schloss Schwarzenstein. 

And I met there a family party, 
As jolly as well could be found 

A Frau, fat and buxom and hearty, 
With rosy-faced children around. 

And her husband, as worthy a fellow 
As the Baron that lived there before 

Alexis O'Higgins Brunello 

Hockswiller von Knockinfoylemore. 




No. IV. 
THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 

WHEN I first took upon me the office of literary executor 
to my friend Peter, and opened his Black Box I found, as 
I mentioned, other articles besides papers, that I said I 
might yet have to refer to. One of these articles was a 
small packet, tied up and sealed, with these words inscribed 
upon it in his own handwriting ' Perfida Dolores! 
Aranjuez, June 2O//;, 18 ' (no, Peter, I shall not disclose 
the year). 

On opening the packet I found it contained a pair of 
Spanish garters, such as are made at Santa Cruz de 
Mudela, and are sold at all the fairs in Spain. They are 
made of galloon, about an inch and a-half wide, with a 
band of red silk running all along the centre, forming the 
ground, upon which is embroidered in white letters the 

motto 

* Tan ermosa eres 

Como la Diosa Ceres.' 

Along either edge a border of silk thread is woven through 
the fabric. These ligas, or ligagambas, as they are 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 99 

popularly called, are too pretty for concealment, and 
usually adorn the legs of professional dancers. 

A further rummage in the Black Box brought to light 
the subjoined verses, which solved the mystery of the 
packet. I strongly suspect that Peter, when he was 
'Callidus juventa Consule Planco,' was green enough to 
fall in love with one of those ladies of the Baile who 
probably attended the Court at Aranjuez during the 
Jornada^ or season of its annual sojourn there, from 
spring till June ; and the accidental discovery of a rival 
brought him to his senses and cured him of his passion. 
This was very fortunate. Peter was the soul of honour, 
and it would have been a thousand pities had he married 
a dancer. The lesson, however, was not lost on him. He 
remembered the Spanish proverb ' El gato escaldado del 

agua fria huye.' 

JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. 

CARRIGBAWN, March \yh, 1862. 

4 HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE.' 

I lingered once in Aranjuez 

In the month of June, 
When the sky serene and blue is 

Thro' the sultry noon. 
The Jornada just was over, 

And the courtiers all were gone ; 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

In the gardens scarce a lover 
Could my wandering eyes discover ; 
All the rakes and all the roues 
Had gone off from Aranjuez 
Gone and left me all alone. 

All alone in Aranjuez, 

Still I lingered on 
What my reason so to do is 

Nought to any one. 
It might be I loved to wander 
Through the gardens, and to ponder, 
All alone and at my leisure, 
On the vanity of pleasure. 
It might be, too, that I had a 
1 Little bill ' at \hzposada 
Which I had not cash to pay 
That I waited, day by day, 
For that sweetest of all billet doux 

After which the spirit hankers 
More than topers for a booze 
More than lovers for a lonely walk 
More than old maids for tea and talk- 

A billet from one's bankers. 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 101 

It might be, too Aye de mi ! Dolores, 
Why did I e'er believe those foolish stories ? 

Well, whatever was the reason, 

1 The last man on town/ 
At the closing of the season, 

Was I PETER BROWN. 
And the Plaza, late so full, 
Now was drowsy, hot, and dull ; 
Every palace window closed 
Every palace porter dozcc, 
As, wearied with the lastyfos'&fc, .,.,,, - J - 
He went to take a year's' siesta-- 
And silence reigned through every calle 
Of this famed ' Sitio reale.' 

Lovely vale of Aranjuez ! 

Jewel of Castile ! 
Bright thy waters green the hue is 

Of thy meadows still ; 
And thy regal gardens who is 

He that ever there has been 
May withhold the praise that due is 

To so sweet a scene ? 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Often, when the sun was shining 
Hottest at the hour of noon, 

I have sought thy shelter, pining 

For relief, till day's declining 
In that weary month of June. 

Charming gardens ! in thy bowers 

Oft I've lain in calm repose 
On the greensward decked with flowers, 
With a book to cheat the hours 

No'w a -smoke and now a doze. 
Green -the fojiage, in its fulness 

Hanging o'er my sheltered head ; 
Through the drowsy air a coolness, 

Like an unseen dew, is spread ; 
And a sound of waters tinkling 

Falls in music on the ear, 
And the glittering drops are sprinkling 

Freshness from a fountain near ; 
While the groves shut out the skylight 

With their leafy arms, 
Throwing a delicious twilight 
Over Nature's charms ; 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 

And the silence deep is broken 

Only by the melody 
Sweetest of all ' songs unspoken ' 

From the sprays on every tree 
The song of birds that flit and rove 
Through the dense umbrageous grove, 
Singing through the daylight long, 

Till, at the evening hour, 
The nightingale takes up the song 

From out her lonely bower. 
Yet, sweet vale of Aranjuez 
Pity 'tis, but still it true is 
There is not a place all Spain in 
Stands in greater need of draining ; 
For the vapours from the river 
Bring the ague and the fever. 
So, when summer once commences, 
Everybody in his senses 
Flees away, or else he'll rue his 
Longer stay in Aranjeuz. 

It was night a night of splendour, 
As in Iberian skies is seen ; 



104 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BROWN. 

The moon at full one star to tend her- 

Hung in the azure hyaline : 
Glorious in her silver brightness, 
Holy in her vestal whiteness, 
Looked she down in solemn sheen, 
Luminous and all serene, 
Reigning in the heaven a queen. 

It was night I sat reclining, 
Pensive, 'neath a citron tree, 

And its branches broke the shining 
Of the moonbeams fitfully, 

As the gentlest breath of air, 
Wafted upwards from the river, 

Moved the green leaves here and there, 

Shaking out the odour rare 
From the golden fruit, as ever 
To and fro they sway and quiver. 

There in the huerta sitting, 

Nigh ' the fountain of the swan/ 

Listlessly I watched the flitting 
Of the waters as they shone, 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 105 

Dancing in the sweet moonlight, 

In their jets of pearly brightness, 
Like fair angels of the night 

Clothed in robes of glistening whiteness ; 
While the rich, soft melody 

Of the nightingale came trilling 
On the ear entrancingly, 

All the air with music filling ; 
Till, at last, the sight and sound 

Of the water and the bird 
Made my brain swim strangely round, 
And my senses did confound 

'Twixt what I saw and what I heard, 
That I thought I saw the song 

Jets of liquid brightness flinging 
In the fountain heard the tongue 

Of the nightingale a-singing. 



Thus I sat, my thoughts a-straying, 

Sweet Dolores ! ah, how far ; 
Couldst thou with my love be playing ? 
Couldst thou meditate betraying ? 



io6 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

' Never ! by this light !' I cried, 

As from my breast I took, and sighed, 

And to my longing lips applied, 

Another fresh cigar ! 
So I sighed and smoked, Dolores, 

As I sadly thought on thee, 
And those half-forgotten stories 

Rose again to memory 
In my jealous heart. No bore is 

Half so great as jealousy. 
But the smoking and the sighing 

Calmed my heart and soothed my pain, 
Till I felt there's no denying 

All my love return again. 
So I lost my grief and anger 
In a most delicious languor, 
And I turned my loving gaze 
Towards the palace, as the rays 
Gleamed on that little barred ventana 
Where first I saw my heart's sultana ; 
Where so oft at eventide, 

At the reja, love, I wooed thee, 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 107 

Through the grating as I sighed 
All my ardent passion to thee. 
Sweet al frescos a flirtation 
Known but to the Spanish nation 
Where, at either side the grating, 
Lovers by the hour stay prating 
Breathing words as hot as lava, 
As they say ' Pelar la pava! 

At that moment, as my gaze bent 
Lovingly upon that casement, 

Came a sound upon the night 
A sound that made my nerves to jar 
The thrumming of a * light guitar ' 

And then I saw a sight : 
A muffled form, to my amazement, 
Stood beneath that window's basement, 

Clear in the moonbeam's light. 
Slouched he wore his peaked sombrero, 

With his capa embozada ; 
Ah ! 'twas plain the Caballero 
Underneath the window had a 

Love affair on hands to-night. 



io8 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

Noiselessly I watched him, then 

Breathlessly I listened, when 

He swept the strings, and, with a clang, 

His serenata thus he sang. 

Ah ! I never shall forget 

The Caballero's verse 
The memory of it haunts me yet 

The words I can rehearse. 



THE CABALLERO S SERENATA. 
<VEN A LA REJA.' 

'Come to me, lady-love, come to the grating, 
Here in the garden my vigil I keep, 

Come to the reja thy lover is waiting 
Sweet, let his melody wake thee from sleep. 

' Bright Aranjuez is rich in her flowers, 
The rose and the pink and the lily so fair ; 

The citron and orange bloom fresh in her bowers, 
And load with their odorous breathings the air. 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GAETEE. 109 

' But richer than pinks, than the roses still 

brighter, 

More fragrant than citron and orange thou art, 
And the hue of thy bosom is purer and whiter 
Than the down on the lily oh, flower of my 
heart. 

' To see is to love thee to love thee brings 
sadness, 

Mirarte es amarte y amarte sufrir ; 
But come still, and turn all my sorrow to gladness, 

Tornarase gozo mi triste gemir. 

' Then come to the reja one word to thy lover 
From thy ruby-red lips to his heart will be bliss ; 

One word, and his fears and despair are all over, 
When he asks thee to love, let that one word 
be" Yes !" 

1 ven d esa reja, ven ya mi Sefiora, 

Y dulce tu labio de fino carmin 
Vertiendo en mi pecho caudales de gozo 

Le de la esperanza de un placido " Si."' 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

When the serenade was over 

Of the cloaked, mysterious lover, 

I perceived a figure stealing 

To the reja, and concealing 

Cautiously her form and face 

In a mantilla fringed with lace. 

Then she spoke low words she uttered- 

Ah ! that voice I knew too well ; 
Fast and wild the pulses fluttered 

At my heart beneath its spell. 

' Car/da ! tan hermosa eres,' 

Cried the lover, tenderly ; 
' Como la Diosa Ceres 

Take this pledge, beloved, from me.' 

' Wear it,' said the Caballero, 

' When thou dancest, round thy knee, 
In the Baile or Bolero 

Wear it then, and think of me. 

' Emblem of Love's silken fetter 

De tu querar esclavo soy 
Than my life I love thee better 

El corazon yo te doy.' 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 

As he spoke, the Caballero 

On his heart his hand did place, 

Then he lifted his sombrero 
With a solemn, stately grace. 

Then he placed within the grating 
Something that I could not see, 

Where the lady's hand was waiting 
To receive it graciously. 

And then he murmured, quite piano 

' Beso a usted la mano.' 

Now my anger growing stronger 
Than my prudence, I no longer 

Could control it forth I rushed 
Wildly from my citron bower, 
Many a rare and precious flower 

Trampling recklessly, I crushed. 

And I cried ' Perfidious woman ! 
Heartless ! treacherous ! inhuman ! 
Aqui estoy yo ! ' 



REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

I stumbled, 

Something tripped me and I tumbled 
Falling headlong, hands and face on 
Into a fountain's marble basin. 

When a man is in a passion 
There is nothing half so good 

As a plunge-bath of this fashion 
Just to cool his heated blood. 

Up I rose, with water dripping 

Like the river gods around, 
Shambling, scrambling, tripping, slipping, 

Till I reached the level ground ; 
A wiser and a sadder man 
Than when my headlong race began. 
When I looked up to the grating 
Where the lovers had been prating, 

All was still and lonely there : 
And my eyes could not discover 
False Dolores or her lover 
Anywhere 

Both had vanished from my sight, 
As ghosts before the morning light 
Dissolve into the air. 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 113 

There I stood in deep amazement, 
Underneath that lonely casement, 

In the moon's pale beam. 
Was it all some strange illusion ? 
A phantom of my brain's confusion, 

Or a horrid dream 

From the stomach ? was my question 
Truffles and an indigestion ? 

While the matter thus debating 

With myself, I chanced to see 
Something hanging from the grating 

In the moonlight flutteringly. 
Quick, I pulled it down ' Confusion ! 
'Tis no dream 'tis no delusion. 1 

I felt savage as a Tartar 
As I scanned it 'Ah, Caramba!' 
I exclaimed, 'A ligagamba! 

Mil demonios ! 'Tis A GARTER !' 

I scanned the garters ! By the light 
Of the moon I read that night 
A legend on them, all in white : 



1 14 RE VELA TIONS OF PETER BRO ff IV. 

It was ' Tan hermosa eres 

Como la Diosa Ceres j 
Then I saw it all ' Dolores, 
I can now believe those stories.' 

Through the ' Calle de la Reyna' 

To my inn I took my way, 
Cured completely of the mania 

That had led my heart astray. 
O'er a glass of Manzanilla, 

Calmly smoking a cigar, 
I forgave that stately fellow 

With his garters and guitar. 

And Dolores, I forgave her, 

Though I could not quite approve 

Of her rather strange behaviour, 
So to trifle with my love. 

Many a day is past and over, 
Waned is many a moon, 

Since I saw that capad lover 
In the month of June ; 



THE KNIGHT OF THE GARTER. 115 

Since I heard him sing and play a 
Serenata at the reja, 
In thy gardens, Aranjuez ; 
And my blood less hot, Eheu ! is, 
My heart less soft, my eye less bright, 
My form less slim, my step less light, 
And I've got the slightest dash 
Of grey in whisker and moustache 
And, if the truth must just be told, 
I, PETER BROWN, am growing old. 
But still 'tis pleasant to rehearse 
The scenes of youth in prose or verse, 
To live again my young days over, 
To be once more the youthful lover. 
A pensive pleasure mixed with pain, 
When I 'went gypsying' in Spain. 

Oft at night, a lonely fellow 
O'er a glass of vino scco 
(I never drink your weedy Pekoe) 

Does my heart again grow mellow. 

As I smoke a mild cigar, 

My thoughts go wandering afar ; 



1 1 6 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

And, when I call up many a scene 
In distant lands where I have been, 
My memory faithful still and true is 
To the sweet vale of Aranjuez. 
Then, too, I think of bright Dolores, 

And long to know her fate ; 
If, in spite of all those stories, 

She has found a mate. 
Did she ever give her heart or 

Hand to that tall Spanish hero 
Of 'the light guitar' and garter, 

The serenading Caballero ? 
Was he a ' hombre muy honrado 

Y de bien ?' or a scamp, 
Such as one sees in square or prado, 

One of those rakehelly fellows 
That at night beneath a lamp 

In the lonely callejuelas 

Serenade the gitanillas ? 

One of those wild calaveras 

That pay court to cigarrerasf 
Vain these subjects to explore is 
' Quede con Diosj sweet Dolores ! 



No. V. 
ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE. 

I FOUND a memorandum in Peter's handwriting, pinned 
to the poem which follows. All his life he was fond 
of walking, and would stroll, from morning till evening, 
through green lanes and over mountains, and by the 
banks of rivers, making believe to shoot or fish. I don't 
think any one was ever much the better of these excursions 
in the way of eatables. Bag and basket generally came 
home rather empty to the friend's house, or the village inn 
where he stopped. The paper contained jottings of some 
rambles in Berkshire and the adjoining counties. I 
give all that appertains to the present subject. ' July i8th. 

Spent a pleasant day or two with C . Man of many 

gifts mathematician, artist, novelist, poet a Grecian in 
soul and brain, a Bohemian to the backbone, inimitable 
lyrist, indefatigable tramper, inveterate smoker, incessant 
swiper. Rambled with him all day long through lovely 
scenes ; went to Shottesbrooke what a pretty old church, 
and graceful steeple a chantry founded in 1387, by Sir 
William Trussell. The sexton showed us an old tomb- 



ii8 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

stone with two ' O's ' cut rudely on it, and told us the story 
connected with it ; how the blacksmith who fixed the 
weather-cock on the top of the spire, called for a pot of 
beer to drink the health of the king, and after emptying 
the vessel lost his balance, fell down and was killed. Old 
Elias Ashmole says it was the architect who met this sad 
fate, but I incline to the sexton's version. Swiping smacks 
more of your blacksmith than your architect, and so I give 
the former the benefit of the doubt.' 

JONATHAN FREKE SLINGSBY. 

CARRIGBAWN, July 1862. 

A BERKSHIRE LEGEND. 

SHOTTESBROOKE Church is near Shottesbrooke 

Hall, 
The house rather great and the church rather 

small, 

But a gem of a church in its way all the while ; 
A cathedral in miniature, Gothic in style ; 
With choir and with transept, with nave and 

with aisle, 

And tower and steeple built in the diagonal 
The former is square, and the latter octagonal, 
And tapering and graceful and wondrously tall, 
With a weathercock perched on the top of a ball. 



ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE. 119 

This Church of the Baptist is built in the cruci- 
form, 

And I'm free to confess that if I were to choose 
a form 

For my own delectation 
And edification, 
Severe, and yet graceful, expanded, not loose of 

form, 

To rear up a church to some saint, I would use 
a form 

Just the same in its style 
As the quaint little pile, 
With its calm, holy look, 
In that elm-sheltered nook, 

The Church of the Baptist Saint John's, Shot- 
tesbrooke. 

Sir William de Trussell was a worthy old knight 
As ever pricked steed or couched lance in a fight ; 

No man could be stauncher 

At sirloin, or haunch, or 
Chalice or flagon of sack or of ale ; 

No wight could be found 

Through the country all round, 



120 REVELA TIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

In Wiltshire, or Oxford, or Berks, I'll be 
bound, 

Who could fight more, or kill more ; 
Who could eat more, or swill more; 
More could tipple and guzzle 
Till filled to the muzzle, 
Than this jolly old fellow, Sir William de 
Trussell. 

We all have our crosses, I guess, in life ; 
Sir William had two, so goes the story 
One was armorial, to wit, a ' cross flory,' 
The other corporeal, to wit, a cross wife : 
The first he bore on his arms in fight, 
The second he bore in his arms at night ; 
But, if truth must be told, 
This warrior bold 
Felt the weight of his arms, 
Less than that of her charms, 
For my Lady de Trussell was given to scold. 
The dame had the fame of the rigidest piety, 
The knight was a wight of most doubtful sobriety; 
And whenever he chanced to take too much drink 
(About seven times in the week, I should think), 



ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE. 121 

And his eyes grew red and his speech grew thicker, 
My lady perceived that her lord was in liquor, 
And was justly shocked at his breach of 
propriety. 

Then she took him to task 
For his love of the flask ; 
With sermons and sneers 
She belaboured his ears, 
Till a storm at last of hysterical tears 
Put an end to the daily connubial bicker. 

.Now it chanced one day, 
When the dame was away, 
Some of his boon companions gay 
Turned in for pot-luck to Sir William deTrussell 
Swash- bucklers and gallants with swagger and 

bustle, 

Rakehelly fellows, omnipotent trencher-men ; 
For drinking, or fighting, or larking, no stauncher 
men. 

Down they sat at the jolly knight's table, 
And they ate and they drank hard 
From platter and tankard, 



122 RE VELA 7 IONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

Till each merry fellow 
With drink grew so mellow, 
That to sit or to drink he no longer was able. 
So when no one could sit 
Or drink any more, 
They fell down on the floor, 
And Sir William was taken off to bed in a fit ! 
They put him to bed, 
A deplorable sight, 

Poor fellow ! 

For he looked like one dead, 
His lips were so white, 
And his face so yellow. 

The sight of the knight in this doleful plight 
Softened the heart of his lady quite 
When she came up to her chamber at night : 
Then a happy thought, or 
An instinct, taught her 
To drive out the Devil of Wine by water. 
So water cold and water hot, 
They poured on the head of the senseless sot, 
And water hot and water cold, 
In gallons and pails-full not to be told ; 



ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE. 123 

Water inside and water out, 
Above, below, and all about, 
Till at last with a sigh he opened his eye, 
And said to a groom that was standing by, 

* Giles, do you hear, 
Bring me a pot of the smallest beer.' 
But no beer would they give him no, not a drop ; 
But they gave him plenty of aqueous slop 
Water drenches and water stupes, 
Water gruel and water soups, 
Till my lady saw his recovery sure ; 
And in two or three days, 
To all people's amaze, 
The knight was a ' perfect (water) cure.' 

All the time the knight lay a-bed, 
His lady preached and his lady prayed 
On the sin of the pottle-pot and bowl, 
Till she troubled his conscience and tortured his 
soul. 

Then an oath he sware 
To his lady fair 
' By the cross on my shield, 
A church I '11 build, 



124 REVELATIONS OF PETER BROWN. 

And therefore the deuce a form 

Is so fit as the cruciform ; 
And the patron saint that I find the aptest 
Is that holiest water-saint John the Baptist/ 

Out of his bed the knight arose, 
He put on his doublet, he put on his hose, 
And, fierce as a Tartar, 
Soon in stone and in mortar 
He was up to his eyes, and gave nobody 

quarter 
Till Shottesbrooke Church, with its nave and its 

choir, 

Its transept and arches, its tower and its spire- 
Save the vane on the summit was finished entire. 

' Who will fix the vane on the steeple ?' 

Sir William de Trussell cried 
And he looked around among his people, 
But none of his people replied. 
Painter and glazier, 
Tinker and brazier, 
Carver and gilder and hewer of stone, 
Joiner and mason, one by one, 



ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE. 125 

Shook his head and skulked aside, 
Till Sir William de Trussell 
Was quite in a puzzle, 

And swore at his men in a way most profane 
1 Will none of you, rascals, go put up the vane? 1 

Then forth stepped a fellow, swarthy and strong, 

His chest was broad and his arms were long 

' Marry, Sir William, I and my fellows 

With hammer and tongs, and fire and bellows, 

Fashioned the vane. I '11 do your desire, 

And place it myself on the top of the spire. 

I only ask, when I Ve put it up, 

That you will send me a brimming cup 

Of ale to drink to our good king ' 

' Dickon Smith, I ''11 do that thing, 

And, more than that, when thou com'st down, 

I '11 line thy pouch with a dozen crown.' 

They lifted the smith by pulley and rope 
Along the steeple's dizzy slope, 
And when the smith was safely up 
They hoisted a tankard of ale and a cup. 



126 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

% 

The smith he fixed the vane in its place, 
And he made it fast with an iron brace ; 
Then out of the tankard he filled the cup 
With foaming ale. Then standing up, 
He waved it over his head with a swing, 
And cried, as he drained it, ' Long live the king!' 
A moment he stands, to the people he calls- 
He wavers, he falters oh heaven ! he falls ! 
Smashing and dashing and whirling around 
From steeple and tower with crashing rebound, 
Limb-crushed and quivering, 
Gore-stained and shivering, 
Moaning and groaning he falls to the ground. 
Up they took him, 
And shook him, 
But all was in vain ; 
His bones were all broken : 
He never gave token 

Of feeling again, 
Except one word spoken 

To tell of his pain, 
On a stretcher when lifting him, 
Shaking and shifting him : 



ST. JOHN'S OF SHOTTESBROOKE. 127 

'Twas only one syllable, 

For I guess he was ill able 

Even to utter it, 

Or rather to mutter it 
A sound interjectional, something like *O,' 
Then a spasm and a shudder from head to toe, 

And Dick Smith became rigid, 

And lifeless and frigid. 
Sir William de Trussell, with doleful surprise, 

Heard the poor fellow's cries, 

And profoundly replies 

To his <O's' with 'My eyes !' 

They buried the smith on the spot where he fell, 

With prayer of priest and toll of bell ; 

Over his body they placed a stone, 

And carved, in memory of his moan, 

Upon the slab two large round 'O's,' 

Which the bald-headed sexton shows 

To any stray peripatetic that's willing 

To look at the church and to give him a shilling. 

Dickon Smith's fate has an excellent moral 
For folks that drink beer from the pot or the 
barrel. 



128 RE VELA TIONS OF PE TER BRO WN. 

Never stand at your tipple, nor vapour, nor 

swagger ; 
Never drink out o' doors, or perhaps you may 

stagger. 

At home or abroad, drink within doors and sitting, 
And you'll carry your liquor discreetly and fitting. 
Above all, this advice I would give all good 

people 
Never drink beer on the top of a steeple ! 




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