The Ingoldsby Legends, by Thomas Ingoldsby

A Lay of St. Dunstan.

‘This holy childe Dunstan was borne in ye yere of our Lorde ix hondred & xxv. that tyme regnynge in this londe Kinge Athelston . . . .

‘Whan it so was that Saynt Dunstan was wery of prayer than used he to werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for to eschewe ydelnes.’

Golden Legend.

St. Dunstan stood in his ivy’d tower,

Alembic, crucible, all were there;

When in came Nick to play him a trick,

In guise of a damsel passing fair.

Every one knows

How the story goes:

He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose.

But I beg that you won’t for a moment suppose

That I mean to go through, in detail, to you

A story at least as trite as it’s true;

Nor do I intend

An instant to spend

On the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend,

When, bolting away to a chamber remote,

Inconceivably bored by his Witen-gemote,

Edwy left them all joking,

And drinking, and smoking,

So tipsily grand, they’d stand nonsense from no King,

But sent the Archbishop

Their Sovereign to fish up,

With a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel taps,

Unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps.

You don’t want to be plagued with the same story twice,

And may have seen this one, by W. DYCE,

In last year’s Exhibition — ’twas very well done,

And stood mark’d in the catalogue Four, seven, one.

You might there view the Saint, who in sable array’d is,

Coercing the Monarch away from the Ladies;

His right hand has hold of his Majesty’s jerkin,

The left points to the door, and he seems to say, ‘Sir King,

Your most faithful Commons won’t hear of your shirking;

Quit your tea, and return to your Barclai and Perkyn,

Or, by Jingo, 1 ere morning, no longer alive, a

Sad victim you’ll lie to your love for Elgiva!’

No farther to treat

Of this ungallant feat,

What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint

A particular fact in the life of the Saint,

Which somehow, for want of due care, I presume,

Has escaped the researches of Rapin and Hume,

In recounting a miracle, both of them men who a

Great deal fall short of Jaques Bishop of Genoa,

An Historian who likes deeds like these to record —

See his Aurea Legenda, by Wynkyn de Worde

St. Dunstan stood again in his tower,

Alembic, crucible, all complete;

He had been standing a good half hour,

And now he utter’d the words of power,

And call’d to his Broomstick to bring him a seat.

The words of power! — and what be they

To which e’en Broomsticks bow and obey?

Why, ’twere uncommonly hard to say,

As the prelate I named has recorded none of them,

What they may be,

But I know they are three,

And ABRACADABRA, I take it, is one of them:

For I’m told that most Cabalists use that identical

Word, written thus, in what they call ‘a Pentacle:’

However that be,

You’ll doubtless agree

It signifies little to you or to me,

As not being dabblers in Grammarye;

Still, it must be confess’d, for a Saint to repeat

Such language aloud is scarcely discreet;

For, as Solomon hints to folks given to chatter,

‘A bird of the air may carry the matter;’

And, in sooth,

From my youth

I remember a truth

Insisted on much in my earlier years,

To wit, ‘Little Pitchers have very long ears!’

Now, just such a ‘Pitcher’ as those I allude to

Was outside the door, which his ‘ears’ appear’d glued to.

Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,

Five feet one in his sandal-shoon,

While the Saint thought him sleeping,

Was listening and peeping,

And watching his master the whole afternoon.

This Peter the Saint had pick’d out from his fellows,

To look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows,

To put on the Wall’s-Ends and Lambton’s whenever he

Chose to indulge in a little orfeverie;

For, of course, you have read

That St. Dunstan was bred

A Goldsmith, and never quite gave up the trade;

The Company — richest in London, ’tis said —

Acknowledge him still as their Patron and Head;

Nor is it so long

Since a capital song

In his praise — now recorded their archives among —

Delighted the noble and dignified throng

Of their guests, who, the newspapers told the whole town,

With cheers ‘pledged the wine-cup to Dunstan’s renown,’

When Lord Lyndhurst, The Duke, and Sir Robert, were dining,

At the Hall some time since with the Prime Warden Twining.

I am sadly digressing — a fault which sometimes

One can hardly avoid in these gossiping rhymes —

A slight deviation’s forgiven; but then this is

Too long, I fear, for a decent parenthesis,

So I’ll rein up my Pegasus sharp, and retreat, or

You’ll think I’ve forgotten the Lay-brother Peter,

Whom the Saint, as I said,

Kept to turn down his bed,

Dress his palfreys and cobs,

And do other odd jobs, —

As reducing to writing

Whatever he might, in

The course of the day or the night, be inditing,

And cleaning the plate of his mitre with whiting;

Performing, in short, all those duties and offices

Abbots exact from Lay-brothers and Novices.

It occurs to me here

You’ll perhaps think it queer

That St. Dunstan should have such a personage near,

When he’d only to say

Those words, — be what they may, —

And his Broomstick at once his commands would obey. —

That’s true — but the fact is

’Twas rarely his practice

Such aid to resort to, or such means apply,

Unless he’d some ‘dignified knot’ to untie,

Adopting, though sometimes, as now, he’d reverse it,

Old Horace’s maxim, ‘Nec Broomstick intersit.’

Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,

Heard all the Saint was saying within;

Peter, the Lay-brother, sallow and spare,

Peep’d through the key-hole, and — what saw he there? —

Why, — A Broomstick BRINGING A RUSH-BOTTOM’D CHAIR!

What Shakspeare observes, in his play of King John,

Is undoubtedly right,

That ‘ofttimes the sight

Of means to do ill deeds will make ill deeds done.’

Here’s Peter, the Lay-brother, pale-faced and meagre,

A good sort of man, only rather too eager

To listen to what other people are saying,

When he ought to be minding his business, or praying,

Gets into a scrape, — and an awkward one too,

As you’ll find, if you’ve patience enough to go through

The whole of the story

I’m laying before ye,

Entirely from having ‘the means’ in his view

Of doing a thing which he ought not to do!

Still rings in his ear

Distinct and clear

Abracadabra! that word of fear!

And the two which I never yet happen’d to hear.

Still doth he spy

With Fancy’s eye

The Broomstick at work, and the Saint standing by;

And he chuckles, and says to himself with glee,

‘Aha! that Broomstick shall work for me!’

Hark! — that swell

O’er flood and o’er fell,

Mountain, and dingle, and moss-cover’d dell!

List! — ’tis the sound of the Compline bell,

And St. Dunstan is quitting his ivy’d cell;

Peter, I wot,

Is off like a shot,

Or a little dog scalded by something that’s hot,

For he hears his Master approaching the spot

Where he’d listen’d so long, though he knew he ought not:

Peter remember’d his Master’s frown —

He trembled — he’d not have been caught for a crown;

Howe’er you may laugh,

He had rather, by half,

Have run up to the top of the tower and jump’d down.

. . .

The Compline hour is past and gone,

Evening service is over and done;

The monks repair

To their frugal fare,

A sung little supper of something light

And digestible, ere they retire for the night.

For, in Saxon times, in respect to their cheer,

St. Austin’s Rule was by no means severe,

But allow’d, from the Beverley Roll ‘twould appear,

Bread and cheese, and spring onions, and sound table-beer,

And even green peas, when they were not too dear;

Not like the rule of La Trappe, whose chief merit is

Said to consist in its greater austerities;

And whose monks, if I rightly remember their laws,

Ne’er are suffer’d to speak,

Think only in Greek,

And subsist as the Bears do, by sucking their paws.

Astonish’d I am

The gay Baron Geramb,

With his head sav’ring more of the Lion than Lamb,

Could e’er be persuaded to join such a set — I

Extend the remark to Signor Ambrogetti. —

For a monk of La Trappe is as thin as a rat,

While an Austin Friar was jolly and fat;

Though, of course, the fare to which I allude.

With as good table-beer as ever was brew’d,

Was all ‘caviare to the multitude,’

Extending alone to the clergy, together in

Hall assembled, and not to Lay-brethren.

St. Dunstan himself sits there at his post,

On what they say is

Called a Dais,

O’erlooking the whole of his clerical host,

And eating poach’d eggs with spinach and toast;

Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair,

But where is the sixth? Where’s Peter? — Ay, WHERE?

’Tis an evening in June,

And a little half moon,

A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on,

Gleaming, and beaming,

And dancing the stream in,

Has made her appearance above the horizon;

Just such a half moon as you see, in a play,

On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey,

Or the fair Turk who weds with the ‘Noble Lord Bateman;’

— Vide plate in George Cruikshank’s memoirs of that great man.

She shines on a turret remote and lone,

A turret with ivy and moss overgrown,

And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone;

Such a tower as a Poet of no mean calibre

I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber,

Assigns to Oblivion — a den for a she-bear;

Within it are found,

Strew’d above and around,

On the hearth, on the table, the shelves and the ground,

All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools,

To name which and their uses would puzzle the Schools,

And make very wise people look very like fools;

Pincers, and hooks,

And black-letter books,

All sorts of pokers, and all sorts of tongs,

And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs

To Goldsmiths’ work, chemistry, alchymy, all,

In short, that a Sage

In that erudite age

Could require, was at hand, or at least within call.

In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick! — and there

A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottom’d chair!

Abracadabra, that fearful word,

And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard,

Are utter’d. — ’Tis done!

Peter, full of his fun,

Cries ‘Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun!

Bring ale! bring a flagon — a hogshead — a tun!

’Tis the same thing to you;

I have nothing to do;

And, ‘fore George, I’ll sit here, and I’ll drink till all’s blue!’

No doubt you’ve remark’d how uncommonly quick

A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick,

Brings it back to his master, and gives it him — Well,

So potent the spell,

The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel,

So ran off like that puppy; — some cellar was near,

For in less than ten seconds ’twas back with the beer.

Peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck

Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck,

The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck;

Continues to run

At the rate it begun,

And, au pied de lettre, next brings in a tun!

A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another,

Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother;

Who, had he possess’d fifty pitchers or stoups,

They had all been too few; for, arranging in groups

The barrels, the Broomstick next started the hoops;

The ale deluged the floor,

But, still, through the door,

Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more.

E’en Macbeth to Macduff

Would have cried ‘Hold! enough!’

If half as well drench’d with such ‘perilous stuff,’

And Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit,

Cried lustily, ‘Stop! That will do, Broomstick! — Sufficit!’

But ah, well-a-day!

The devil, they say,

’Tis easier at all times to raise than to lay.

Again and again

Peter roar’d out in vain

His Abracadabra, and t’ other words twain:

As well might one try

A pack in full cry

To check, and call off from their headlong career,

By bawling out ‘Yoicks!’ with one’s hand at one’s ear.

The longer he roar’d, and the louder and quicker,

The faster the Broomstick was bringing in liquor.

The poor Lay-brother knew

Not on earth what to do —

He caught hold of the Broomstick and snapt it in two. —

Worse and worse! — Like a dart

Each part made a start,

And he found he’d been adding more fuel to fire,

For both now came loaded with Meux’s entire;

Combe’s, Delafield’s, Hanbury’s, Truman’s — no stopping —

Golding’s, Charenton’s, Whitbread’s continued to drop in,

With Hodson’s pale ale, from the Sun Brewhouse, Wapping.

The firms differ’d then, but I can’t put a tax on

My memory to say what their names were in Saxon.

To be sure the best beer

Of all did not appear;

For I’ve said ’twas in June, and so late in the year

The ‘Trinity Audit Ale’ is not come-at-able,

As I’ve found to my great grief when dining at that table.

plate8
A flood of brown-stout he was up to his knees in

Now extremely alarm’d, Peter scream’d without ceasing,

For a flood of Brown-stout he was up to his knees in,

Which, thanks to the Broomstick, continued increasing;

He fear’d he’d be drown’d,

And he yell’d till the sound

Of his voice, wing’d by terror, at last reach’d the ear

Of St. Dunstan himself, who had finish’d his beer,

And had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes,

And was just stepping into his bed for a snooze.

His Holiness paused when he heard such a clatter;

He could not conceive what on earth was the matter.

Slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum,

He issued forthwith from his sanctum sanctorum,

And calling a few of the lay-brothers near him,

Who were not yet in bed, and who happen’d to hear him,

At once led the way,

Without farther delay,

To the tower where he’d been in the course of the day.

Poor Peter! — alas! though St.Dunstan was quick,

There were two there before him — Grim Death and Old Nick! —

When they open’d the door out the malt-liquor flow’d,

Just as when the great Vat burst in Tot’nam Court Road;

The Lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks

In an instant, and swimming in strong double X;

While Peter, who, spite of himself, now had drank hard,

After floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard,

To the bottom had sunk,

And was spied by a monk,

Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drown’d and half drunk.

In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, ‘Vade retro

Strongbeerum! discede a Lay-frate Petro!’ —

Queer Latin, you’ll say

That præfix of ‘Lay,’

And Strongbeerum! — I own they’d have call’d me a blockhead if

At school I had ventured to use such a Vocative,

’Tis a barbarous word, and to me it’s a query

If you’ll find it in Patrick, Morell, or Moreri;

But, the fact is, the Saint was uncommonly flurried,

And apt to be loose in his Latin when hurried;

The Brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter,

Quite as well as if talk’d to, in Latin much better,

By a grave Cambridge Johnian,

Or graver Oxonian,

Whose language, we all know, is quite Ciceronian.

It retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry;

But, in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply,

And other means used by the faculty try.

When once a man’s dead

There’s no more to be said:

Peter’s ‘Beer with an e’ was his ‘Bier with an i!!’

Moral.

By way of a moral, permit me to pop in

The following maxims:— Beware of eaves-dropping! —

Don’t make use of language that isn’t well scann’d! —

Don’t meddle with matters you don’t understand! —

Above all, what I’d wish to impress on both sexes

Is, — Keep clear of Broomsticks, Old Nick, and three XXXs.

L’Envoye.

In Goldsmith’s Hall there’s a handsome glass case,

And in it a stone figure found on the place,

When, thinking the old Hall no longer a pleasant one,

They pull’d it all down, and erected the present one.

If you look, you’ll perceive that this stone figure twists

A thing like a broomstick in one of its fists.

It’s so injured by time, you can’t make out a feature;

But it is not St. Dunstan, — so doubtless it’s Peter.

1 St. Jingo, or Gengo (Gengulphus), sometimes styled ‘The Living Jingo’form the great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by his severed members. See his legend, as recorded in the next.

Gengulphus, or as he is usually styled in this country, ‘Jingo’, was perhaps more in the mouths of the ‘general’ than any other saint, on occasions of adjuration (see note to previous legend). Mr. Simpkinson from Bath had kindly transmitted to me a portion of a primitive ballad, which has escaped the researches of Ritson and Ellis, but is yet replete with beauties of no common order. I am happy to say that, since these Legends first appeared, I have recovered the whole of it.

‘A franklyn’s dogge leped over a style,

And his name was littel Byngo!

B wyth a Y— Y wyth an N,

N wyth a G— G wyth an O —

They call’d him little Byngo!

This Franklyn, Syrs, he brewed goode ayle

And he called it Rare goode Styngo!

S, T, Y, N, G, O!

He called it Rare goode Styngo!

Nowe is not this a prettie song?

I think it is bye Jyngo!

J with a Y— N, G, O—!

I swear it is by Jyngo!

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Last updated Monday, March 17, 2014 at 16:47