Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, The tempter saw his time; the work he plied, Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he called a blessing, now was wit, And God's good providence, a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His counting-house employed the Sunday morn; Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life) But duly sent his family and wife. There (so the devil ordained) one Christmas-tide My good old lady catched a cold and died. A nymph of quality admires our knight; He marries, bows at court, and grows polite: Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the pair) The well-bred coxcombs in St. James's air: First, for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks, swears, fights, and in a duel dies: His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; She bears a coronet and shames her life. In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; (162.) GABRIEL GRUB (ABRIDGED). [The idea of this story probably suggested it to be carried out in a more extended and poetic form in Dickens' famous story called A Christmas Carol.] In an old abbey town, a long while ago—so long, that the story must be a true one, because our great-grandfathers implicitly believed it-there officiated as sexton and grave-digger, one Gabriel Grub, an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly and lonely man, who consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle. A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning. As he went his way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the old casements, and heard the cheerful shouts of those who were assembled around them. All this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups of children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met, before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked upstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet-fever, and a good many other sources of consolation besides. In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel entered the churchyard: locking the gate behind him. He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getting into the unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so, with right goodwill, and looked down into the grave, when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction: murmuring as he gathered up his things; Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; "Ho! ho!" laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat down on a flat tombstone which was a favourite resting-place of his, and drew forth his bottle. "A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas Box. Ho! ho! ho!" "Ho! ho! ho!" repeated a voice which sounded close behind him. Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his lips: and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him was not more still and quiet, than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. "It was the echoes," said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again. 66 'It was not," said a deep voice. Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot. Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange unearthly figure. His long fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed; his sinewy arms were bare; and his hands rested on his knees. He was sitting perfectly still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up. “It was not the echoes," said the goblin. Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply. "What do you do here on Christmas Eve?" said the goblin sternly. I came to dig a grave, sir," stammered Gabriel Grub. 66 “What man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as this?" cried the goblin. "Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!" screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the churchyard. —nothing was to be seen. Gabriel looked fearfully round "What have you got in that bottle?" said the goblin. 66 'Hollands, sir,” replied the sexton, trembling more than ever. "Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as this?" said the goblin. "Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!" exclaimed the wild voices again. The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising his voice, exclaimed: "And who then is our fair and lawful prize?' To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, "Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!" "I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel," said the goblin, thrusting his tongue further into his cheek than ever. "Under favour, sir," replied the horror-stricken sexton, "I don't think they can, sir; they don't know me, sir; I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen me, sir." "Oh yes they have," replied the goblin; "we know the man with the sulky face and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing his evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying spade the tighter. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart, because the boy could be merry, and he could not. We know him, we know him.” "I—I—am afraid I must leave you, sir," said the sexton, making an effort to move. "Leave us!" said the goblin, "Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho! ho! ho!" As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a brilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at leap-frog with the tombstones with the utmost marvellous dexterity. The sexton's brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes when the goblin king, suddenly darting towards him, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him through the earth. Gabriel Grub found himself in what appeared to be a large cavern. A thick cloud which obscured the remoter end of the cavern, rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a great distance, a small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean apartment. A crowd of little children were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother's gown, and gamboling around her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the window-curtain, as if to look for some expected object; a frugal meal was ready spread upon the table; and an elbow-chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at the door: the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her,and clapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet and weary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded round him, and seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy zeal, ran with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat by his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort. But a change came upon the view almost imperceptibly. The scene was altered to a small bed-room, where the fairest and youngest child lay dying; the roses had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye; and even as the sexton looked upon him with an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his tiny hand, so cold and heavy; but they shrunk back from its touch, and looked with awe on his infant face; for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew that he was an Angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright and happy Heaven. Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel Grub. He saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable world after all. No sooner had he formed it, than the cloud which closed over the last picture, seemed to settle on his senses, and lull him to repose. One by one, the goblins faded from his sight; and as the last one disappeared, he sunk to sleep. The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying at full length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard. But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation disbelieved. He turned away to wander where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere.-Charles Dickens. (163.) THE INCHCAPE ROCK.1 Robert Southey, LL.D., poet, historian, biographer, and miscellaneous writer, born at Bristol, 12th August, 1774; died at Keswick, Cumberland, 21st March, 1843. For some time he was uncertain what profession to adopt: his friends advised the church; he flirted with law, and at length devoted himself to literature. In 1807 he received a pension of £144 a year for literary services; in 1813 he was appointed poet laureate; in 1835 he was placed on the civil list for £300 a year, and Sir Robert Peel offered him a baronetcy, which he declined. His poetic strength lay in description, in which he had few equals. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea; The ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion, 1 An old writer mentions a curious tradition which may be worth quoting. "By east the Isle of May," says he, " twelve miles from all land in the German seas, lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed everie tide. It is reported in old times, upon the saide rocke there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which rang continually, being moved by the sea, giving notice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or clocke was put there and maintained by the Abbot of Aberbrothok, and being taken down by a sea pirate, a yeare thereafter he perished upon the same rocke, with ship and goodes, in the righteous judgement of God."--STODDART'S Remarks on Scotland. |