human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  doubling, and rolling out their peals in every way connected with
For three or four days Mrs Cripps had been in a state of great
"Now, Mr Thornypath, about this here rent?"
table-spoons.  There was a real oak Christmas log upon the fire,
I could suffer the bodily pain if it were not for the mental
accompaniment, and the total want of pity and compassion shown by
"I say, old 'uns, here's Peter Pindar a-coming."
"Who?" shouted another.
"You scoundrel," I cried, "it's my corn,--it's not peas."
"Do you see that slight eminence, you dog?"
"Wot that knobble, sir," said the boy.
"That eminence, boy," I said, fiercely.  "That covers a corn."
In Portsmouth harbour the good ship lay,
Her cruising ended for many a day,
And gathered on deck while receiving their pay,
The sailors most thickly were mustered.
On supplying poor Jack, while most likely by scent,
There were sharks by the score
On all parts of the shore.
Both he sharks and she sharks enough, ay and more,
To devour poor Jack,
When they made their attack,
And there on the land they all clustered.
Only think; from a cruise of four years returned,
And paid in clean money!  No wonder it burned,
And Jack's canvass pockets were ready to give.
But, there: not so ready as Jack who would live
To the top of his income--the very main truck,
And when to the bottom of pocket, why luck,
Would never turn back
On poor happy-faced Jack,
Who never said die
In his life.  And would try
To face any storm if his officers spoke,
Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke.
Tight and bold in a gale or
A storm.  He would cheer in a fight,
'Mid the bullets' flight,
And sooner than hear any praise or flattery,
Would have run his head in a "Rooshun" battery.
His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped;
He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time,
The long shore days 'mid the frosty rime.
He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well,
The night was cold and the way was dark,
And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist,
His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist,
He started off for his six miles' tramp
To his native spot, spite of snow or damp.
And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick,
For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or spar
Is heartily welcome to every tar.
The night was cold and the way was dark,
And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,
Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.
But what was that when with four years' pay,
And a leave of absence for many a day,
With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,
Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,
Hurried along o'er the crunching snow,
As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  Some three miles past, and the sailor now
Paused by a hedge where the holly bough
Grew thick and dense, and though dim the night
There were memories many within that sight,
For the days of old came hurrying by,
And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;
While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,
Of the distant climes and the blood he'd shed,
Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,
Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.
But now once more he was nearing home
After his four years' tiring roam;
And with bounding heart how the night he blest,
And thought of the coming days of rest.
Some three miles past, when his blood was chilled
By a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;
He stood for a moment, and then could hear
The sounds of a struggle and trampling near;
Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,
While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.
His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,
Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,
With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,
When hard by a cottage a lanthorn's light
Cast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:
With gory features and blade in hand
Two ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;
As over the struggling form they leant,
Cut one--cut two on each villain's head,
Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,
And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,
But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,
And breathlessly muttered, "'Twas really too bad.
Be blest if he ever did see such a rig
As to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!"
Though our sailor lad here had no "pig in a poke;"
But though courage should merit the best of our praise,
There's a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes' rays
Should be shed on our mind when we think to engage,
And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;
Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,
God bless it!  I love a Christmas-night; and, when I say a
thoughtfully--"Poor Polly!"
shutters were up."
"Ter-r-r-r-rattle," and part of the big China punchbowl covered.
Mrs Pratt nodded.
"And forget the past if she should come?"
"Ah, me! ah, me! my poor girl!" cried the mother, thoroughly
"Well, what's for you?"  I says, precious gruff.
"It's a deal too bad," I says.
"Have you brought the money, my man?" he says.
"Don't mind it, dear."
thoughts, they seemed now quite to have left me to myself.
They had us up, though, in a moment, blackened, scorched, half
"Hold back, man!" said one of 'em; "it's madness to try it."
"Certain death," says another.
frightful one it was.
"Wish I could buy it and take it away," I said.
"I wish you could, indeed," cried Ned, cordially.
"Plee', sir, I dussent," said the maid.
"Stop a bit; they don't walk every night."
In the cupboard I found plenty of traces of rats in the shape of
dressing-table, and then looked round the room.
_There were six candles burning_.
"Well, really," I said, "I think so too."
"Do you?" said Ned.
stone-setting of the railings of one of the West End churches.
When I got there the people were beginning to come out of the big
"Stand back, my good fellow," he says, and then, just as the lady
couldn't speak for a minute, when I says, with a sort of gulp:--
"There they goes again, `bang, bang,' I wonder what it's cost the
Just then time was up, and all hot and hissing, I runs out to the
"Get up," I says to Ben, as we run into the station; "it warn't a
"Well say away," I said very drowsily.
"Well, dear," said Mrs Scribe, "You see mamma's coming."
"Sorry to hear it," I said in an undertone.
"Too long ago to recollect," I said.
"No it is not, sir.  You said--"
"Go on then."
"Now don't be a cross old goose, and--"
"Gander," I suggested.
"Dear me, how exceedingly witty," said Mrs S.  "Have you quite
finished, sir?"
Now, it so happened that when I married I thought I had properly
"Going to the sale, Retort?"  I said the next day to a friend.
"Well, no," was the stammered reply; "I never buy at sales."
"Porter, sir?" said a man, touching his carpet-cap to Retort.
"No, sir, I mean to carry home what you buy," said the man.
"Oh, dear me, no," said Retort, "I never purchase at sales."
insinuatingly offered me a catalogue.
"Thank you," I said: "I have one."
"Thanks," I said, "but don't let me detain you."
Couldn't secure a thing yourself, I assure you, sir."
"Isn't this a public auction?"  I said, in what was meant to be a
"Just so," said Retort, "a capital plan, no doubt."
"Five pun'," said one of the brokers, after the auctioneer's
introductory remarks.
I nodded.
confederate.
"Sixteen," I formed with my mouth.
"Seventeen bid," cried the hammer-man.
I nodded.
I nodded again.
accidentally causing articles of furniture to fall against their
"Hem!" said Retort, as soon as we were alone.
"Hum," said Retort very superciliously--"Gilbey's, eh?"
"Wasn't it scandalous," said Retort.
"The most iniquitous affair I ever saw!"  I exclaimed.
"You," I said; "why, what for?  Bachelor in lodgings?"
"Why, you don't mean to say--" I burst out.
"Hush, my dear fellow! don't speak so loud."
"That you've proposed to Miss Visite?"
"Well--er--yes, my dear sir, I have," simpered the great booby.
"No, no, no--don't, don't, there's a good fellow," cried Retort,
"Yes, it was too bad," I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my
"No," said Retort.  "Did you?"
"Things went dear, though, didn't they?"
"Well, yes, on the whole, they did.  But what did you bid for?"
I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn't speak.
"Did you bid for any of the plate?"  I gasped in husky tones.
"Stop a minute, Tom," I said.  "Don't say a word about the sale
upstairs."
"And I say, dear."
"Well!"  (from under the counterpane).
"All right," (very muffled in tone).
"Now, how much was it, sir?"
"Another slice of turkey, Mrs Cubus?"
"Very good--that's it exact."
"_Plus seventeen_," I whispered into my waistcoat.
"Merry Christmas to you," I said, bowing over my glass of sherry.
And that was my last bargain-hunt.
Down by the woods in the rocky valley,
Where the babbling waves of the river sally,
Where the pure source gushes
And the wild fount rushes,
There's the sound of the roar
That is heard on the shore,
Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;
For down from each hill
With resistless will,
The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,
And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,
Dash'd at the North to the Ice-king's rout;
Then off and away,
For the livelong day
Has rush'd through the woodlands--no longer gay,
Splitting the branches;
While avalanches
Of melting snow
Bend the pine-boughs low,
And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.
And now once again
Comes the pitiless rain,
Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;
Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,
And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous sounds
On the wintry breeze,
Louder and louder by rising degrees.
The Ice-king is routed--his reign is past,
And the frost-bound river is rending fast;
And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,
And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.
Splitting and rending,
The ice unbending,
As with mighty burrow,
It carves out a furrow
Of churning wreck;
While, as if at its beck,
The foam-capped streams
Loose the Ice-king's beams,
And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,
Now sinks--now rises,
As each stream still prises,
Till the loosen'd river in fury rolls
Away through the valley; while icy scrolls
Are swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,
And snow-drift and ice joins the West's rude levy;
Which at barrier scouts,
At each rock mound shouts;
Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,
Tingeing the waters with many a stain;
Foaming along in an eddying sweep,
And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,
Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,
And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.
Away tears the river
With an earthquake's speed,
Over the snow-cover'd lowland mead,
Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,
As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,
Whirling along on its bosom the reed
And the sharp, jagg'd ice and the harmless bead,
With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,
Till the hills where it passes quiver.
Away and away, and still onward away,
And there's ruin and havoc in lowland this day;
For the waters brown
In their rage tear down,
Menacing shipping and threatening the town;
They've beat down the weir,
And dash'd at each pier,
And swept o'er the bank to the widespread mere,
Whose icy sheet,
As though torn by heat,
Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;
While now for the bridge,
There's an icy ridge
On the river's breast,
Swept along by the West,
Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,
Till the bridge goes down,
By the flooded town,
Where the lowing kine and the penn'd flocks drown.
But the damm'd stream rages,
For naught assuages
Its thirst for ruin;
And again undoing
The toil of years,
It hurries along till the rocks it wears.
And now there's a crash and a mighty rattle
As a stalwart mound gives the river battle;
And soon engaging,
The waves leap raging,
Where the mound is gash'd,
By the churn'd ice dash'd,
While from out of the dam,
With the force of a ram,
Comes each huge, strong beam,
On the breast of the stream,
With the speed of an arrow,
Where the banks are narrow;
But the rocky face
Stays the furied race,
As round it the waters in madness enlace;
Lashing and tearing
With rage unsparing,
To beat down the stay
In the deadly fray;
And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;
But the hill stouthearted
The water has parted,
And away in a sever'd stream they tear
Like famish'd lions fresh from their lair,
Devouring, destroying, and bearing away
Each barrier, bank, or each timber'd stay;
Till they slacken their race by the sandy verge
Of the parent sea, whose wild, restless surge
Lashes the shore.
Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,
Lost in the billows that hurrying rise
To welcome the treasures they pour.
"Very, very glad to see you, my boy," said my friend Broxby, as I
I was just feeling somewhat confused from the fact of Mrs Major
therefore, my lad, for two nights only I have to go down on my
We soon after joined the party in the drawing-room; and, feeling
somewhat refreshed, I tried to make myself agreeable, as it was
"Did you have my portmanteau taken up?"  I said to the maid.
"And carpet-bag?"
"And writing-case?"
"Don't, don't; pray don't scream, ma'am," I implored.
"Oh! oh! oh! help, help, help! murder!" shrieked Mrs Major.
"Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked Mrs Major.
"Sir, sir," I cried, "it's a mistake."
"Madam, oh! madam," I cried, in agony, "have pity, and hear me."
shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a
consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on
Boxing-day.
I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my
"Yours affectionately,
"Your fare, my man," he says, werry mildly.
"Hayten-pence more," I says.
But I was going to tell you about my wife.  Now, nex' Monday's a
You may howl away, my beauties, to-night, for I can sleep through
I stood it for ten minutes good, turning first one side, and then
"Me-ow-ow-ow," says my friend on the tiles.
"Hear that, Polly?"  I says.
No answer.
"Me-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow," says my friend outside.
"Hear that?"  I says.
"Why, you were asleep," I says.
"That I'm sure I warn't," she says.
"Well, then, did you hear that?"  I says.
"Yes; what was it?" she says.
"Meyow--meyow--wow--wow-w-w-w," goes the music again.
Next morning over my breakfast, I got thinking, and come to the
coaxing.
"Bad job; ain't it, my gal; but it warn't me; _it was the cats_!"
We did all we could for the shepherd, and then, following Abel's
four-footed allies.
"Don't be a woman, Fred; come on, or we shall be too late."
Just as we got up to the rough fence Abel stumbled and fell over
In another instant they were running up to us, and a tall fellow,
"Mine no fire," said the leader.  "No black fellow kill."
"No, no," I said; "but who was it?"
"You give me tickpence, mine shar," cried the fellow.
trembling as I took aim, I fired, and he lay motionless.
But a change had now come over the scene; the wind tore furiously
All at once the rain ceased, as if in obedience to an omnipotent
The hard battle for breath past, fear came again, and I looked
All at once thought came again with a flash, and I shuddered as I
"Poor things! they must have been swept away," said one of the
Kind, well-meant words, but what medicine would ease my
"Go, ungrateful!"  I exclaimed aloud.
"No where;" I exclaimed, "stay here."
"Certainly sir, only I thought you shouted."
My driver was already well tutored, but he was asleep.
"Fiend," Nemesis-like I launched myself upon him.
In a moment, with a cry of dread, he wrenched himself round and
"Pore chap, it must ha' been a scrauntch."
Sing, poet divine
Of your sparkling wine
Of Catawba, the luscious nectar;
While my humbler lays
Shall rise in praise
Of a king on whose fame I'll hector.
But your lips don't shoot,
For my king's but fruit,
And your brows don't frown with scorning;
For if to an end
Came my noble friend,
The nation would go into mourning.
'Tis that fruit of earth
That the West gave birth,
Introduced to our good Queen Bessy;
For its glorious savour
Has a sweeter flavour
Than an epicure's _entree_ messy.
Potato, potato,
My heart's elate, oh!
When you smile on my table brightly;
With an epidermis
That, so far from firm is
That it cracks when I grasp you tightly.
For a roast, bake, boil,
Stew or fry in oil,
No fruit can be called thy equal;
For carrot or turnip
Might him or her nip,
And cause an unpleasant sequel.
But thou, free from guile,
Indigestion--bile--
Brought home to thy charge were never;
For thy soft white meal
Is the dinner leal
Of Great Britain's sons for ever.
To say the least,
For a Christmas feast,
'Twould be quite an act of folly,
And far less shirky
To leave goose or turkey,
Than a bowl of potatoes jolly.
Why, the old king's friend
Sir Loin to attend,
Would surely ne'er brown if he knew it;
And the very ale
Turn beadless--pale,
While the beef turn'd cold in its suet.
The firmest friend
Mother earth could send
To her children when pots were minus;
Of a pan not the ghost,
But they still could roast
The old king whereon still we dine us.
By disease tried sore--
May it come no more!
For what should we do without him?
Is a sorry flam,
And an artichoke--There, pray scout him!
Or who'd think nice
Soppy plain-boil'd rice,
Or parsnips or chestnuts toasted?
Earth has no fruit
As a substitute
For the 'tater plain-boil'd or roasted.
So waxy and prime
In the summer-time,
When new, with your lamb and gravy,
And your young sweet peas,
Devour'd with ease--
Of that you may make "affidavy."
Or in autumn glowing
To crown the sowing,
I love to gaze on the furrows
And ridges tumid
Where moistly humid
The jolly old nubbly burrows.
O vegetable!
Long as we're able
Our gardens shall smile with your flower;
As in long straight rows
This old friend grows
So humbly where others tower.
A cabbage to cut
Is all right, but
Where is its strength and stamina?
Though right with ham on
Your table, or gammon,
At best 'tis a watery gammoner,
You may go if you list,
Where you like 'tis miss'd
Before any _entree_ or other
Grand preparation
Of a French cook's nation,
And naught can the great want smother.
Feast on, grandee!
From your board I'll flee
To my honest old friend in his jacket;
For 'twill sit but light,
Though you may feel tight
If you too indiscreetly attack it.
And, glorious thought!
It can be bought--
This gem of whose wealth I've boasted--
For a bronze to be got,
In our streets "all hot,"
Half cooked by steam and half roasted.
Who wouldn't be poor
To enjoy such a feast for a copper?
Split open--butter'd--
Oh, joy ne'er utter'd!
And pepper'd--and--"what a whopper?"
Just look at the steam,
At the can's bright gleam,
And look at the vendor cheery;
And hark to his cry,
Now low, now high,
Speaking feasts for the traveller weary.
Go pick yourself,
And spend your pelf,
With eyes full winking;
And while you're thinking,
The scale's tipp'd into your basket.
And you who'd wive,
Pray, just look alive,
And before you declare each feeling,
Watch your little mouse
On her way through the house,
And catch her potato peeling.
You know of the cheese,
And Pimlico's ease,
When he pick'd out a wife by the paring;
But a better plan
For an every-day man--
Though an innovation most daring--
Is to watch the play
Of the knife, and the way
That the coat of potato's falling;
Just look out for waste,
And beware of haste,
For thrift's not the meanest calling.
Kidney, regent, fluke,
Fit for earl or duke,
Or a banquet for Queen Victoria;
Own'd I but lyre,
I'd never tire,
Of singing to thy praise a "Gloria."
May you mealy wax,
Never tried by tax,
Ever free from _Aphis vastator_.
Of fruits the king,
Its praise we'll sing,
Potent, pot-boy, "potater!"
My uncle smoked on, apparently thinking with great disgust of the
"But 'taint cold," he all at once burst out.
"Three or four degrees of frost, at all events," said my father.
"The captain used to do all he could to cheer us up, and keep the
"`Foolish fellow,' cried the captain, stamping about the deck.
My father took the hint, and replenished the old sailor's glass.
cottage, to moan over their bitter fate.
rheumatics than he had before.
It did seem too bad to go worrying a poor widow for rent on a
It was a rough job though upon such a night, just as he was so
Couldn't he leave it till the morning?
Couldn't he forget all about it?
Couldn't he wait half an hour?
"No, they wouldn't, Asher!" said a small voice close at his ear.
"Eh?" said Asher, starting.
"How much longer?" cried the little spirit upon the lanthorn.
"`One hour,'" cried Asher, at length; "what's `one hour'?"
"But who are you?" cried Asher, excitedly.
"Me?" said the little thing.  "Oh, I'm only a second, like those
"No I'm not," cried Asher furiously, "I've no end to do."
"What a horrible dream," cried Asher in agony.
"Don't feel like a dream, does it?" said the spirit.
"You don't mean that?" said Asher in a pitiful voice.
Asher groaned again, and then gave a furious struggle, which only
"How are you going to do it?" he cried at last.
"Going to do what?" said the spirit.
"Going to--to--to--make an end of me?" said Asher.
"Oh! what for? what for?"
Asher struggled and tried to scream, but he felt himself impelled
"Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee."
neighbourly sneers, he set heartily to work to repair his soul's
"But, my dear, sir," I said, "I don't keep turkeys or peafowl."
"Or cocks or hens, or pigeons, or ducks," continued my uncle, not
"Wouldn't shoot them; would you, sir?" said Jenny, roguishly.
"But do you watch well?"  I said.
"`Nothin' to what there is here,' says another.
"`Why not,' says one on 'em.
"`What d'yer think o' that, ole man,' says one.
"`Bet you a gallon on it,' says my chap.
"Here's Browsem, uncle," I said.
gentleman being prime minister to his pleasures.
stammer.  "Now Browsem, whom have you caught?"
"Well, sir," said Browsem, "they've been a-dodgin' of me."
"Well?" cried my uncle.
"Well?" shouted my uncle.
"And I've come to know what's right to be done."
"But you won't go?" pleaded Jenny.  "For _my_ sake Richard?"
Browsem led the way at a half-trot, and grasping my arm, the old
"That is right."
"Munday's Ghost?"  I said.
"Conditions," I said in the same voice.
"What? the white feather," growled the old gentleman.
"Siege? what the deuce?  Why don't you speak plain, sir?"
"Well," I said, "I mean about--about--a certain young lady at the
"Bang, bang!" from the wood.
something to hit.
"And if I don't?"  I whispered.
"Hold your tongue, you dog, and don't talk nonsense."
"What's that?"  I whispered to Browsem.
"Bang, bang!" again a hundred yards off.
regularly puzzled.
"Why?"  I said, mopping my brow.
"Browsem," puffed my uncle.
"Yes, sir," said Browsem.
"You're a fool, Browsem," puffed my uncle.
"Thanky, sir," said Browsem.
"What do you mean by that, sir?" cried my uncle, fiercely.
"Nothing, sir," said the keeper, mildly.
The next morning, at breakfast, the parlour-maid again announced
"Now, then," sputtered my uncle, "have you caught them?"
"They cleared Sandy Plants last night, sir," growled the man.
"Who? what?" cried my uncle, upsetting his coffee.
"Some on 'em--Ruddles's, I s'pose," said Browsem.  "Don't b'leeve
"They didn't get many here, at all events," muttered my uncle.
The keeper screwed up his face, and said nothing.
Browsem only screwed up his phiz a little tighter.
powder-flask.
"That's Ruddles's, I'd swear," growled Browsem.
Heart-sore and spirit-weary,
Life blank, and future dreary,
Mournfully I gazed upon my fire's golden glow,
Pondering on idle errors,
Writhing under conscience terrors,
Gloomily I murmured, with my spirits faint and low.
I had drained the golden measure,
Sipped the sweets of so-called pleasure,
Seeing in the future but a time for newer joy;
Now I found their luscious cloying,
Ev'ry hope and peace destroying,
Golden visions, brightest fancies--bitter, base alloy.
Riches, comfort spoke then vainly,
Wildly throbbing, aching, teeming,
Fancy-filled with hideous dreaming,
Speaking of an aimless life, a life without a goal:
While as if to chide my murmur,
Came a voice which cried, "Be firmer,
Starting from my chair and trembling,
Vainly to my heart dissembling,
'Twas an idle fancy that had seemed to strike my ear;
Still the words came stealing round me,
Horror in its chains had bound me;
Dripping from my aching brow, were beads of deepest fear.
Hurrying to my moonlit casement,
Throwing up the sash,
Highest roof to lowest basement
Seemed to brightly flash,
Glitt'ring white, with Winter's dressing;
While each crystal was caressing
Purest rays that glanced around it from the moon's pale light.
Nature slept in sweetest beauty,
Gleaming stars spoke hope and duty:
Calmer grew my aching brow, beneath the heavenly sight.
Christmas-Eve! the Christian's morrow
Soon would dawn on joy and sorrow,
Spreading cheer and holy pleasure brightly through the land;
Whilst I, lonely, stricken-hearted,
Under bitter mem'ries smarted,
Standing like an outcast, or as one the world had banned.
Sadly to my chair returning,
By my fire still brightly burning,
Battling with the purer rays that through the window gleamed;
Like two spirits floating o'er me,
Vividly rays played before me,
Each to wrap me in its light that on my forehead streamed.
The glowing fire with warm embracing
Told of earthly, sinful racing:
Warmth and pleasure in its looks, but in its touch sharp pain;
While the moonbeams, paler, purer,
Spoke of pleasures, sweeter, surer,
Oft rejected by Earth's sons for joys that bear a stain.
Suddenly with dread I shivered,
As the air around me quivered,
Laden with the burden of a mighty spirit-tone,
Rolling through the midnight stilly,
Borne upon the night-wind chilly,
Rushing through my chamber, where I sat in dread alone.
"Soul!" it cried, in power pealing,
"Soul!" the cry was through me stealing,
Vibrating through each fibre with a wonder-breeding might.
"Soul!" the voice was deeply roaring;
"Soul!" rang back from roof and flooring,
Booming thro' the silence of the piercing winter night.
Now came crashing, wildly dashing,
Waves of sound in power splashing,
Ringing, swinging, tearing, scaring,
Shrieking out in words unsparing,
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
Roaring through my chamber portal,
Borne thro' window, borne thro' ceiling
Ever to my sense revealing,
Still the bells these words were pealing,
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
Mightily the first tone pouring,
Boomed out "Soul!" in mighty pow'r, and linked in with the chain.
Then an unseen presence o'er me
Leant, and from my chamber tore me:
Out upon the night-wind I was swept among the sounds,
Whirling on amid the pealing,
Warning to the city dealing
Of the coming morrow, in reverberating rounds.
Still they cried, as from doom's portal,
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
Shrieking all around me as I floated with the wind,
Ever borne away and crying,
Every bell-tone swiftly flying
O'er the silent city, to its slumber now consigned.
Hurried round each airy tower,
Writhing with the unseen power
Vainly, for a spirit-chain each struggling limb would bind;
Doomed to hear those words repelling,
Ever on my senses knelling,
Still--a booming hurricane--we wrestled with the wind.
Sweeping o'er the sluggish river,
Where dark piles the waves dissever,
'Neath the bridges, by the shipping,
Sluice-gates, with the waters dripping,
By the rustling, moaning rushes,
Where the tribute-water gushes;
Forced to gaze on ghastly faces,
Where the dread one left his traces,
Faces of the suicide, the murdered floated on,
Whose blue, leaden lips, unclosing,
Shrieked out words, my brain that froze in,
Crying I had stayed my help in hours long passed and gone.
"Hopeless, hopeless!" ever crying,
"Hopeless we are round you dying,
Asking vainly for the aid withheld in selfish grasp;
Hopeless, from the crime that's breeding,
Ever to new horrors leading,
Horrors, growing, flow'ring, seeding,
Soon to spread a poison round more deadly than the asp."
Still an unseen presence bound me;
Still the bells were shrieking round me,
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
Rising, falling, ever calling,
Thought and mem'ry, soul appalling,
Borne away and louder crying,
In the distance softly dying;
Here in gentle murmurs sighing,
Then again far higher flying,
Swiftly o'er the houses hieing;
While around these fear-begetters
Bound me in their brazen fetters.
On I sped with brain on fire,
'Mid the bell-tones, higher, higher,
List'ning to their words upbraiding,
Each with dread my soul new lading.
Now away, the mighty chorus
Swept around a church before us,
In whose yard were paupers lying.
From their graves I heard them crying,
Joining in the words upbraiding,
Loudly piercing, softly fading:
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
"Cease your murmurs, cease your sorrow,
From our fate a lesson borrow:
Never heeded, lost to pity,
Dying round you through the city.
Leave us to our peaceful sleeping,
Freed from hunger, care, and weeping."
O'er and o'er the hillocks grassy,
Now away o'er buildings massy:
Ever cries, as from doom's portal,
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
Thro' the wards where pain was shrieking,
Where disease was vengeance wreaking,
Still the sounds were hurrying, crying,
As in emulation trying;
Many a fev'rish slumber breaking;
O'er the lips that knew no slaking.
All were crying, help imploring;
While the bells from roof to flooring,
Still, as from the first beginning,
Still the self-same burden dinning,
Spite of all my writhing, tearing,
Onward still my spirit bearing
Far away in booming sallies,
Rushing thro' the crowded alleys,
Where grim Want his wings was quiv'ring
O'er the pinched forms, half clad, shiv'ring;
Where disease and death were hov'ring;
Where deep sorrow earth was cov'ring.
Away, again, where life was failing;
Away, again, by orphans wailing;
Thro' the prison bars now darting,
Where the fettered wretch lay smarting,
Wakened from his sleep, and starting,
He too shrieked in bitter parting
Curses on my aid withholden,
In the glorious hours golden,
Wasted, thrown away in madness--
Hours that might deep sorrow, sadness.
Misery, have chased from numbers,--
Chased the want the earth that cumbers.
Away, away, and faster speeding,
Away, the tones seemed round me pleading
Lessons to my madness reading,
From the scenes I'd lived unheeding.
Still the unseen fetters bound me;
Still the burden floated round me:
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
But the words came softer, lower,
Calmer still, and sweeter, slower,
Till they murmured off in silence on the wintry air;
Save returning, booming, rolling,
Came that one vast warning, tolling
"Soul!" as when at first it called me, sitting in my chair.
Now again from earth rebounding,
Quick and fast, the bells were sounding,
And I sprang from out my seat, with wild and startled look.
'Twas the blest Redeemer's morning!--
Sunshine brightly Earth adorning,--
And the Christmas jocund peal my brightened casement shook.
Hope has risen clearer, purer,
O'er my life-course firmer, surer,
Since that eve, when gloomily I pondered on my life;
When I heard, as from doom's portal,
"Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!"
Booming on my aching brain, with murmurs thickly rife.
"Who wants him?" said a voice.
"Where do you live?" said the same voice.
"Help, help," I cried hoarsely, with my hands clasped together.
"Who, who?" he said, taking hold of my arm.
"My poor husband," I said, "he's dying."
"Come in here," he said, opening a door with a key, when feeling
Then I waited to hear the next sigh, for all was still and quiet;
I am foolish enough to think for the better--but then I am only a
"Are you awake?"
"What shall we do?" gasped Mrs Scribe in a smothered voice, from
beneath the clothes.
exclaimed--
"Do pray get up, dear, or I shall faint."
sometimes from low down; and at last, as I sat there in a regular
"Then get up and light the candle, dear," exclaimed Mrs S; but
"I'm sure I need not ask if you both slept comfortably," said our
"Surely the bed was not damp," exclaimed our hostess.
telegraphing for me to speak.
"Oh, yes," said my wife, excitedly; "but pray ask Mr S--he will
Mrs S looked daggers.
"You don't believe in ghostsh?"
"No, I don't believe in ghostsh."
"Nor yet in goblinsh?"
"No, nor yet in goblinsh, nor witches, nor nothing of the kind, I
"The hand that made us is Divine."
brilliant moonlight.
"Bah!" cried Sandy, "I don't believe--"
"Yes, you do, Sandy Brown," said the same voice, "and so don't
contradict.  Bring him along."
"How dare you?" cried the spirit angrily.
"Dare I what?"  Sandy said with his eyes.
spirits--Forbearance.
Away with a shout and a shriek from the North,
The host of the Storm King in rage hurries forth;
With the monarch to lead them away o'er the main,
Sweep with whistle and wild shriek the winterly train.
O'er the sea, o'er the waves that spring tossing in wrath,
To fly after the host in a storm of white froth,
Till they dash in their anger on sand-hill and rock,
Or make some ship shiver, and groan with their shock.
Away rush the train with a howl 'mid each cloud,
That no longer moon-silvered floats massive and proud;
But torn by the Storm King, and rent by his crew,
Wild and ragged scuds onward in murkiest hue.
'Mid the rocks, through the caves that o'er ocean's waves scowl,
Away speeds the King, and his followers howl
As they toss the dark sea-weed, and tear up the sand,
Which flies frightened in drifts at the touch of their hand.
And away, and away, where the forest trees wave,
Where the willow and silver birch drooping boughs lave
In the silver-like stream, in the mossy green vale,
That ere yet the storm cometh breaks forth in a wail.
Now crashing 'mid beech-tops, now rending the oak,
Then laying the larch low with mightiest stroke;
While through the frail willow the storm spirits tear,
And the boughs stream aloft like a maniac's hair.
Rejoicing and shrieking anew at each feat,
Away o'er the moorlands, away sharp and fleet;
By the cotter's low hovel, the steep-cresting mill,
To the town by the hill-slope, as yet calm and still.
Bursting now o'er the roofs with a brain-piercing yell,
Round the old abbey towers they mock at each bell
As the past hour's chimed, when they sweep off the tone,
And away o'er the woodlands the summons has flown.
Again with a shriek, and again with a cry,
The King and his crew keep their revel on high;
They bear the cold snow-drift aloft in their train,
The sleet-darting arrow, and icy North chain.
They bind up the streamlet, they fetter the lake,
The huge rocky mountain they shivering break;
They rage through the forest, they strew the sea-shore,
While the echoing hill-sides resound with their roar.
King Boreas passes, his revel is o'er,
But the waves still in anger toss down by the shore;
The trees lie half broken and torn by the gale,
While the streamlets are fettered and bound in the vale.
Now I'm going to tell you of a little affair that happened one
"How long are you on for, my man?" he says.
"Six o'clock to-morrow morning, sir."
As I told you, in places I went along as quiet as a mouse, when I
"Hallo!"  I said quietly, for I had taken my gentleman quite by
regularly caged, and looking at me through the bars.
"My turn now," I said; and then, going down on hands and knees, I
"Wrong," I said; "you were in before me."
"Well, but," he said, "I'm a married man, and you ain't."
"Wrong again," I said; "I'm married, and have two little ones."
"How are you, my lad?" said the sergeant.
"Come down, and bring a light.  We are the police."
"Keep back," the old gentleman cried; "it's loaded again."
But the old gentleman seemed so scared, that he could hardly tell
"And you, sergeant," I said feebly.
Just then three of our men came in, and they walked off our two
But then about the murder once committed in the far chamber--the
Who killed and murdered most wilfully all those poor unfortunate
chuckle-headed drones this summer, eh?
reputation was forgotten.
possible.
"Not much fear," laughed one.
"Then let's have a little smoke and a song," said another.
"But really," said Mr Hemson, "I think we ought to do something,
"Did you bring any holy water, Hemson?" said one of the party.
Twelve struck by the old church-clock, and the wind lulled.
"Ah," said another, "now's the ghostly time."
"Don't you wish you were at home, Hemson?" said another.
"Not I," said the agent.  "I'm perfectly cool, so far."
"Pass the kettle this way," said my friend, "and--"
"Well, what is it?" said my friend, holding his glass to the
kettle-spout.
"I fancied I heard a noise," said Mr Hemson, while all listened
attentively.
"Well, what now?" said Mr Hemson.
"Didn't you hear that?" exclaimed my friend.
"No, what?" said Mr Hemson.
"Now then," whispered Mr Hemson, "are you all ready?"
"Yes," was the whispered response.
"But the table cover," whispered my friend, pointing to the large
"Has every man signed his name?" asked my friend.
"Precisely what I have stated," exclaimed Mr Hemson.
informant worthy of credence, and though it was singular that the
Mr Dodd was in person slightly stout, slightly asthmatical, and
coal-scuttle of Mr Dodd's own designing was certainly a noble
"Did you turn the little knob by the pipe?"
But Boxing-day seemed to have set in badly; while Mr Dodd felt
containing tar; but Mr D soon found that the material of his new
"Plee, sir, I didn't laugh."
"Then turn up that carpet, remove the loose boards, and ease the
"That girl" was Mr Dodd's housemaid, Mary, who gave her head a
"Carpenter dropped one of his tools on master's toe, and sent him
expression.
That very night something happened.
"Go in a fly," said Cook, approvingly.
"No! no! go off with him," said Mary.
"Ah!  I see," said Cook, "go on."
"It's the biler busted, Mary!" shivered and sobbed the cook.
"Oh no, it's master being murdered," gasped Mary; "I know it is.
"Ah!  I dessay," said Buttons, recalling the morning's treatment.
"Cook!" cried a faint voice.
"Here, help! come down!" came up again faintly.
"Oh! we dussen't, sir!" chorused Mr Dodd's servants.
himself, and ponder upon the advisability of having mechanical
Next morning Mr Dodd was too ill to rise, and many of his
pleasant to be caught in your own trap.