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 HUMOROUS 
 
 AND OTHKK 
 
 OETIC fjglCTURES, 
 
 anfc Stories of Debon. 
 
 FREDERICK THOMAS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 W. KENT AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 PLYMOUTH: W. BRENDON AND SON. 
 EXETER: HENRY S. ELAND.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 " To their own merits modest men are dumb ;" 
 They ask a friend to blow and beat the drum ! 
 
 Y Lords and Ladies, generous patrons all, 
 Thanks for your quick responses to my call. 
 When with this project to the post I started, 
 I own I felt a little chicken-hearted : 
 A thousand envelopes, stamped and directed ; 
 But, ah ! how many answers were expected ! 
 
 Yet scarcely had a thousand minutes passed, 
 
 Ere my subscription list was falling fast : 
 
 A thousand kind replies ! Doubt dropped her fetters, 
 
 And I at once became " a man of letters ! " 
 
 Now, my Pegasus, up ! and let this be 
 
 A Preface worthy of my modesty. 
 
 'Tis usual, as every reader knows, 
 To write the preface of a book in prose ; 
 But prefaces are dull things at the best, 
 Putting one's patience to a frightful test,
 
 r. PREFACE. 
 
 And oft, instead of sharpening our desire 
 
 To read the book, intended to inspire, 
 
 The prosy spice becomes insipid, flat, 
 
 Enough to make a fellow smash his hat ! 
 
 (Although to smash one's hat would be insane, 
 
 'Tis the last thing of which / should complain.) 
 
 'Tis in the preface authors try to show 
 
 They 've no conceit ; whilst all the time they blow 
 
 Their humble trumpets with that mighty flow, 
 
 Enough to crack the walls of Jericho. 
 
 Though on that head I should be " mum," indeed 
 
 I think it quite impossible to read 
 
 A more instructive, pleasant book than this. 
 
 " For mild conceit," you '11 say, " that 's not amiss." 
 
 My modesty is such, that were I asked to say 
 
 Who I considered greatest in his day, 
 
 I could not say myself conceit 'twould be, 
 
 So I '11 pronounce for Shakespeare after me ! 
 
 What ! egotistic am I ? Oh, dear, no ! 
 
 I hate that vice, and am prepared to show 
 
 His writings prove, in fifty different ways, 
 
 He was a hatter, with the " poet craze." 
 
 There 's much in common 'twixt great Will and I 
 
 Othello proves he made a good black dye (die) ; 
 
 His power was felt, mine 's felt in what I do ; 
 
 His was a fertile brain, mine 's fur-tile too ; 
 
 Of course, when Shakespeare his crude works compiled. 
 
 He 'd not the priceless aid of Oscar Wilde,
 
 PREFACE. v 
 
 Kuskin's opinion, and he 'd never seen 
 
 living's black agony, nor Whistler's green : 
 
 I claim no merit for my great advances 
 
 On Shakespeare Shakespeare never had my chances. 
 
 By some few friends, if friends they might be called, 
 
 For doing this I 'm sadly overhauled : 
 
 With upraised hands, in horror they exclaim, 
 
 " Oh, Thomas, Thomas, thou art much to blame ! 
 Write not for profit, do as poets do, 
 Live for a name, and die not worth a sou. 
 'Tis glorious, 'tis grand, health, wealth to lose ; 
 Let earthly comforts pass, and hug the Muse. 
 Think of the Spartan boy, smile on and hide 
 The vicious beast that 's gnawing your inside. 
 ' Three cities did contend for Homer dead, 
 Through which the living Homer begged his bread! 
 Aim at posterity; the rhymes you utter 
 May some day wrap up cheese and butter ! " 
 
 Thanks, my good friends, for the advice you give ; 
 If all the same to you, I 'd rather live 
 To reap the profit which my pen may earn, 
 And leave Posterity's pale lamp to burn. 
 A poet is not very much to blame 
 Who writes for profit sure, and chances fame, 
 And thinks that man almost a mortal sinner 
 Who courts the Muse and ;oes without his dinner.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Besides, Posterity may p'rhaps forget 
 They owed the poet any kind of debt, 
 Racking his brains by day and night to find 
 Food for a somewhat fickle public mind. 
 A hydra-headed power perplexing men 
 Whose daily bread depends upon their pen. 
 And oh ! how oft I thank my lucky fate 
 That I like some am not compelled to wait 
 A critic's verdict, but can choose my measure, 
 To write for profit and my patrons' pleasure. 
 Twas Byron told us poets all were mad, 
 And says of proof there's plenty to be had. 
 But of all madness one type takes the lead- 
 " Mad as a hatter," and you 're mad indeed. 
 Poetic madness takes such varied forms : 
 Conceit in some hath most peculiar charms, 
 They think there 's little wisdom in the head 
 Which, praising other bards, leaves them unread. 
 My head 's not gone, I think, so far as that : 
 My great conceit lies chiefly in the hat. 
 There 's one thing / believe this book will do. 
 Make you laugh heartily. Just look it through. 
 Because to make you laugh is my great aim, 
 With me or at me 'twill be all the same. 
 Thus, should I help you some dull hours to wile. 
 And in those hours incline your hearts to smile. 
 You will not, I contend, have lost your time, 
 And may admit there 's reason in my rhyme.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 ST. DAVID'S STATION TO STARCROSS . i 
 
 STARCROSS TO DAWLISH . . ... 7 
 
 DAWLISH . . . . . . 12 
 
 DAWLISH AND TEIGNMOUTH . . 20 
 
 TEIGNMOUTH . . . ... 25 
 
 TEIGNMOUTH TO SHALDON . . ... 29 
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD . . . . 34 
 
 SHALDO.X TO BISHOPSTEIGNTON, AND ON TO NEWTON . . 48 
 
 NEWTON AND NEIGHBOURHOOD . . 53 
 
 To TORQUAY, BY WAY OF BABUICOMBE, ANSTEY'S COVE, 
 
 MARYCHURCH, AND BISHOPSTOWE . 59 
 
 BlSHOPSTOWE AND KENT'S CAVERN . . . . 63 
 
 IN AND AROUND TORQUAY . . ... 67 
 
 ROUND THE BAY TO PAIGNTON . . Si 
 
 IN AND AROUND BRIXHAM . . ... 86 
 
 BERRY HEAD . . . 93
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAG* 
 
 DARTMOUTH . 108 
 
 A TRIP UP THE DART . . . 113 
 
 TOTNES AND NEIGHBOURHOOD . . 125 
 
 FROM TOTNES . . . 130 
 
 FATHER PETER'S SOIRKE . . 145 
 
 Miss JEFFERSON'S BABY . . . . 155 
 
 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUULE-HASS . . . 169 
 
 A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER . . . 179 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA AND THE GOOD FAIRY OF Ho.MTON's Cl.YS'1 : ' 
 
 OR, THE DEMON OGRE OK DrxcuiDEot K . . 186 
 
 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, THF. FIRST OF THE BARE-UMS . . 223 
 
 "A THUNDERBOLT" . . . . 254 
 
 TIVERTON JUNCTION . . . 257 
 
 WRECKED, BUT NOT LOST . . . . 265 
 
 THE POET'S FIRST BABY . . . 269 
 
 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY . . . . 271 
 
 THE CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING . . . 273 
 
 "BORN, BUT NOT BURIED" . ... 274 
 
 DICKENS AND THACKERAY . . 275 
 
 GARFIELD . ... 278 
 
 FREDDY'S BIRTHDAY . . 280 
 
 "On, PLAY THAT AIR AGAIN!" . ... 282 
 
 DEVONIA . . . . . . 284 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN BOWRIM. . . 285
 
 JOETIC ^PICTURES 
 
 OK 
 
 SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 *- 
 
 ST. D&YID'S STATION TO ST&RGROSS. 
 
 -O wonder poets all delight to sing 
 In sweetest notes their praise of gushing Spring ! 
 When verdant Nature dons her gayest dress, 
 And, virgin-like, steps forth in loveliness, 
 How pleasant 'tis to rise at dawn of day, 
 And watch the ever-varying sunbeams play 
 On hill and vale, and by their magic power 
 Bedeck, with sparkling gems, each fern and flower ! 
 Oh, where, I ask, does bounteous Spring display 
 Her peerless beauty, in this month of May. 
 In rich profusion, with more lavish hand 
 Than on Devonia's coast, where sea and land 
 
 B
 
 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVOK. 
 
 Blend gracefully ; where seaboard hill and dell 
 Create a spot where painters love to dwell ? 
 Come, citizen, with me the morn is bright, 
 And let us from " Old Exon " take our flight ; 
 There 's not a cloudlet in the bright blue heaven 
 
 St. David's Station fifteen after seven. 
 A splendid structure ; really 'tis a pity 
 They didn't build it closer to the city, 
 For one can almost fancy on the spot 
 He 's in the Midlands, where of course he 's not. 
 But hark ! the bell has gone, the whistle sounds, 
 The engine creaks, and from the station bounds. 
 And here a gleam of sunshine, warm and bright, 
 Bursts on St David's Vale, as comes in sight 
 The ancient city, with its many spires, 
 Whose bells have spoken out of curfew fires ; 
 And, towering o'er the whole, with aspect bold, 
 The grand Cathedral frowning as of old, 
 When shorn St. Peter's Monks, in David's Vale, 
 With Friars of St. Thomas quaffed nut-brown ale. 
 Yet while we speak the scene has passed away, 
 And we seem running through a huge bouquet 
 Of apple blossom, shrubs, and fragrant flowers ; 
 Past Salmonpool and its historic bowers, 
 As quaint and rustic as when Edward, bent 
 On mischief, a most generous invite sent,
 
 ST. DAVID'S STATION TO STAKCROSS. 
 
 With artful greeting, to the Friars White, 
 
 And bade them come and taste his court's delight. 
 
 They lived like lords, and then returned elated, 
 
 To find meanwhile their all he 'd confiscated. 
 
 Still stands the gabled lodge, though, like a dream, 
 
 All 's passed, except the " strawberries and cream." 
 
 And now the charming landscape, bright and fair, 
 
 Each moment stretches out, whilst here and there 
 
 The cosy mansions of the worldly blest 
 
 Peep out like timid birds from sheltered nest. 
 
 Charming the view is now on either side, 
 
 As 'twixt its banks the silvery Exe doth glide. 
 
 A glance of Millbrook, with its ancient leat, 
 
 We catch in passing ; then the snug Retreat, 
 
 Its mossy banks which kiss the silvery stream, 
 
 With sunlit breast, where countless diamonds gleam. 
 
 Look this way now, and Haldon Hills appear, 
 
 Crowned by the ivy-mantled Belvedere ; 
 
 And wooded slopes of varied tinted hues, 
 
 Gazing on which in ecstasy we lose 
 
 All thoughts of worldly struggles, fears, and care, 
 
 To feast upon the scene, surpassing fair ; 
 
 But oh ! reminded by the engine's roar, 
 
 'Tis earthly all, and we ourselves once more. 
 
 See Woodbury heights, the clump of plume-like trees 
 
 Nodding their heads to every passing breeze ; 
 
 The sheltered Harefield, Topsham, Nutwell Court, 
 
 Where p'rhaps the youthful Drake in childish sport
 
 [ POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Reviewed his baby ships, nor dreamt that he 
 
 Should sweep the Spanish navy from the sea. 
 
 Then for a moment, 'twixt ourselves and Kxe, 
 
 As if our vision sadly to perplex, 
 
 The well-known "Turf" stands out, oft said to be 
 
 A paradise of whitebait, shrimps, and tea. 
 
 Next 'fore our eyes a noble park is spread, 
 
 In which an ancient castle lifts its head 
 
 Amongst ancestral oaks, whose sturdy forms 
 
 Have stood full many a hundred winters' storms. 
 
 The little church, 'neath which the noble race 
 
 Of Devon's earls has found a resting-place, 
 
 The hassock, worn by Courtenays passed away, 
 
 Finds England's daughter kneeling there to-day ; * 
 
 K'en as she kneels associations rise, 
 
 And old traditions marshal Tore our eyes 
 
 The banner from the turret seems to say, 
 
 Prince William landed here but yesterday, 
 
 .\rjd honours my Lord Devon, who, you see, 
 
 Is famed around for " hospitalite." 
 
 The Park is passed, and I awake once more 
 
 To hear the waters rippling on the shore. 
 
 But yonder swan and cygnet plainly tells 
 
 We 're at Starcross, where Captain Peacock dwells. 
 
 Visit of Princess Louise.
 
 ST. DAVID'S STATION TO STARCROSS. 
 
 If pleased with this first effort of my pen, 
 'Twill cheer my heart, and we'll go on again. 
 But, ere we leave the spot, a word I 'd say 
 About an Institution which to-day 
 Stands as a monument of grand success, 
 Conceived and reared by love and tenderness. 
 
 <Tf)f (iiGJrstrrn Counties 3THiot 3si>ltuu, >tavrros6. 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 Amid the many ills of human life 
 
 Which move our pity, and command our tears, 
 
 Awakening sympathies we would not stife, 
 
 That of the helpless idiot appears 
 
 Greater than all : the blind, lame, dumb have each 
 
 Some compensating rays their souls to light, 
 
 No beam of which can the poor idiot reach, 
 
 Whose life is one unbroken, changeless night. 
 
 For him there are no precious golden hours, 
 
 No sparkling ocean 'neath a bright blue sky; 
 
 The blessed Spring, with all her fragrant flowers, 
 
 Glads not his heart, nor lights his vacant eye. 
 
 A sister's tender kiss, a mother's worth, 
 
 Love, playmates, friends, and all we hold most dear, 
 
 To him a blank ; the children's shout of mirth 
 
 And laughter falls unheeded on his ear ; 
 
 The thousand lavish blessings we enjoy 
 
 Are none of his ; but if 't is in our power
 
 POETIC PICTURES Of- SOUTH DEVOK. 
 
 To light that life with one faint spark of joy, 
 T will gild our own with many a sunny hour. 
 Then, where 't has pleased th' Almighty to bestow 
 That priceless blessing of a healthful mind, 
 Come ! let your sympathies abundant flow, 
 And "bread cast on the waters" may you find.
 
 ST&RCRGS3 TO D&WLJSH, 
 
 'AST week, my dear reader, I think you and I 
 Ended up at Starcross; and its name, by-the-bye, 
 Is derived from a very old stone cross, which once 
 R* Stood near to the spot where resides Sir John 
 
 Duntze. 
 But changed are the times since when, covered 
 
 with moss 
 
 And some Latin inscription, stood out the old cross ; 
 When the monks of Torre Abbey would stop on their way 
 To Cowick or Exon, and kneel there to pray ; 
 And the " sisters " of Mamhead in passing would rest, 
 For 't was looked on as one of the shrines of the blest ; 
 And a spot in those days could, with blessing or curse, 
 Be "endowed" (just as now) on the strength of the purse. 
 But ages have gone since the matins were said, 
 And prayers for the soul of the beautiful dead ;
 
 8 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 For the cross marked the spot where the ill-fated bride 
 Of the chivalrous Gilbert de Kenton had died. 
 
 Cljf LtfftnlJ of 
 
 The story runs thus in a legend Twas when 
 
 A feud 'twixt the houses of Chudleigh and Kenn 
 
 Existed, and when, with fanatical hate, 
 
 Religion (?) impelled the worst strife of the State : 
 
 When kings, for the sake of some bigoted scheme, 
 
 With dire persecution would draw forth a stream 
 
 Of Britons' best life-blood, and feel they had done 
 
 Good service to God, and salvation had won. 
 
 When the heads of these houses were teeming with hate, 
 
 There existed a love which no feud could abate. 
 
 For young Gilbert de Kenton loved fondly and well 
 
 Lord Chudleigh's sweet daughter, the fair Isabel, 
 
 And many a night, when 't was stormy and bleak, 
 
 Would young Gilbert cross Haldon to kiss her fair cheek. 
 
 But the old Lord of Chudleigh was haughty and proud, 
 
 And exclaimed, " I would rather a nunnery shroud 
 
 Enveloped my daughter, than that her fate 
 
 Should be linked with a house I've sworn ever to hate.' 
 
 And the stern Lord of Kenton called Gilbert and said, 
 
 " My son, though I love thee, I 'd rather thee dead 
 
 Than e'er it should happen that scion of mine 
 
 Had marred our escutcheon with Chudleigh's base line."
 
 STAXCKOSS TO DAWL1SH. 9 
 
 Young Gilbert rode sadly o'er Haldon that night, 
 And looked on the nunnery of Mamhead. A light 
 Gleamed forth from the old chapel windows a bell 
 Seemed tolling as like to some funeral knell. 
 A funeral indeed, for the fair Isabel 
 Had " taken the veil," so this legend doth tell. 
 But Gilbert contrived, with the aid of a priest, 
 A dangerous scheme, and his love was released. 
 Assisted by Sister Helena at night, 
 And by the old priest (who had covered their flight), 
 Were the lovers made one in a chapel which stood 
 Near the classical region now known as Cock-wood. 
 From the time they left Mamhead an hour had scarce passed 
 When through Easton five horsemen rode furious and fast, 
 And the boatman, who waited where now stands the pier, 
 Beheld their approach with misgivings and fear. 
 They eyed him a moment, then each took a stand 
 In the shade, and old Jarvis saw danger at hand. 
 And now the faint clatter of hoofs from afar 
 Seemed mingled with waves breaking over the Bar, 
 And clearer each moment the trampling became 
 As the old Marley Beacon shot up a bright flame. 
 The fugitive riders ne'er dreaming that they 
 So soon with their lives for devotion should pay 
 Came rapidly on : then a terrible shriek, 
 Of which the old fishermen often would speak, 
 Was heard o'er the water on that fatal night 
 When, the newly-made nun with her lover took flight.
 
 io POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEl'ON. 
 
 And on the next morn, at the dawning of day, 
 Some boatmen discovered, when passing that way, 
 The beautiful Isabel dead on the ground. 
 While, floating near Lympstone, a small boat was found 
 Capsized, showing marks that a struggle had been : 
 And Gilbert de Kenton was never more seen. 
 
 Now, whether this story be fiction or true, 
 Is of very small moment to me or to you ; 
 For myself, I 've misgivings, yet still do my best 
 So you must imagine, and fill up the rest. 
 What became of the priest, or the boatmen, or nun. 
 There 's no record to show, if there ei'cr was one. 
 So we '11 leave the stone cross, priest, lovers, and cloisters, 
 To whom it concerns in this village of oysters. 
 And now the broad estuary opens out bold, 
 And we come to the spot where (as tourists are told) 
 There 's a fortune for all speculators who might 
 Be induced to take shares in the great "oyster Bight." 
 How suggestive the title, an attempt p'rhaps at wit, 
 For where there 's a bite, some one has to be bit. 
 We next see the Warren, whose ultimate fate 
 Has caused some important discussions of late : 
 For when the tide rises it oft seems to say, 
 " Friend Warren, you 'd better get out of my way.'' 
 And, 'tis said, the Town Council, whose wisdom 's profound, 
 Intend with a chain to encircle it round,
 
 STARCROSS TO DAWLISH. 
 
 Then fasten it up to Mount Pleasant, behind it, 
 
 So that, should the sea drown, they '11 be able to find it. 
 
 One member proposes of whom it is said 
 
 There 's more to admire in his heart than his head 
 
 That the use of the new city roller should be 
 
 To flatten the Warren, and roll back the sea ! 
 
 And now the broad ocean, all sparkling and bright, 
 
 Seems dancing before us, as rise to our sight 
 
 The cliffs around Budleigh, and Sidmouth, and Beer 
 
 But the sound of the whistle tells Dawlish is near, 
 
 Of which in our next we '11 have something to say, 
 
 And till then, my dear reader, I '11 wish you good-day.
 
 DAWLISH. 
 
 NDULGENT, generous reader, not to say, 
 "Thomas, give o'er, or go another way.'' 
 I know the journey is insipid, flat, 
 With many other faults to grumble at, 
 And yet to make it readable I try ; 
 But there are "doggerel bards" as well as I, 
 Who, but for some kind noble patron's aid, 
 Would cut a sorry figure I 'm afraid. 
 And there are "noble authors" too, who write 
 With guided pens and by a " borrowed light," 
 And there are critics ever standing by, 
 To write them up, and look with crooked eye 
 On some poor devil who, with merit real, 
 Dims life and soul to find his bairns a meal. 
 But as I write for pleasure more than pay, 
 Until my readers tire I '11 scratch away.
 
 DAWLISH. 13 
 
 You '11 find I promised, when we parted last, 
 And breaches in " the line " we passed, 
 That pretty Dawlish my next theme should be. 
 Yes, Dawlish, there are those who think of thee, 
 And more to " briny tears " than sea incline 
 I mean, of course, shareholders in the line 
 Where " Father Neptune," as if filled with spite, 
 Banged at " the rail " just here with all his might. 
 I wonder if the old chap saw the sign 
 Which says, "All trespassers upon this line 
 Will prosecuted be," and hurt his pride, 
 Remembering p'rhaps, when on the " other side," 
 Ere Brunei came, the mermaids from the rocks 
 Would sally forth and kiss his sea-weed locks. 
 I fancy I can hear the old man say, 
 " 'T is you who trespass on my freehold way. 
 Ask friend Pengelly if I Ve not a right 
 To raise my voice and demonstrate my might ! 
 I, who for ages more than man can tell, 
 Have played beneath those rocks I love so well ! 
 You cut me off, my right by none disputed : 
 Threaten if I come near I 'm prosecuted ; 
 And grumble if I dare look o'er the wall. 
 ' Shiver my timbers ! ' try it on, that's all." 
 
 Tis easy to imagine when the sea 
 Danced round the rocks in wild and foamy glee.
 
 14 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Before the iron road came rudely by 
 
 To mar the beauty and offend the eye. 
 
 And yet withal there is a pleasant grace 
 
 Of art and nature round about the place. 
 
 And here are those well-known fantastic rocks, 
 
 Whose strange tradition often sadly shocks 
 
 The nerves of those with no desire to rub 
 
 Their shoulders 'gainst the side of Belzebub ; 
 
 And here 's a " native salt," and, like the rest 
 
 Of his fraternity, he '11 do his best 
 
 To "spin a yarn ;" so, reader, rest awhile, 
 
 And, though 't may not instruct, 'twill make you smile. 
 
 Lrtjcni of the [Maroon anU Clrrfc. 
 
 Old Jack sat out on the Langstone Point, 
 And nodding as if he'd his neck out of joint, 
 Said, " Perhaps your honours would like me to tell 
 The tale of these rocks, and the fate that befel 
 The Parson and Clerk for the dreadful crime 
 Of smuggling brandy in chapel-time ; 
 Sit down and I '11 tell it. 
 
 Well, you must know, 
 It relates to a precious long time ago, 
 When of smugglers we 'd a numerous host, 
 On and around Devonia's coast ; 
 When smuggling was .1 splendid trade, 
 And many a fellow his fortune made;
 
 DAWLISH. 15 
 
 And even the squires, I 've heard them say, 
 
 Would do a little in that way. 
 
 'Twas when our village here was small, 
 
 And Parson Grab was loved by all, 
 
 By fishermen and farmers too ; 
 
 All the excisemen well he knew, 
 
 And many a keg was stowed away, 
 
 Whilst good old Parson Grab and they 
 
 Were making merry up the town ; 
 
 So when the customsmen came down, 
 
 No signs of a keg could they descry ; 
 
 And Parson Grab would wink his eye. 
 
 A Clerk had Parson Grab, one who, 
 
 Whatever his chief would say or do, 
 
 Would say and do it o'er again 
 
 In fact he was a real ' Amen.' 
 
 If Parson Grab commenced to swear, 
 
 The Clerk looked on it as a prayer ; 
 
 To serve the priest was his delight ; 
 
 He viewed him as a ' shining light.' 
 
 One night old Captain Tubby came, 
 With pallid cheek and eyes of flame, 
 To ask at once the Parson's aid ; 
 ' For,' said the Captain, ' I 'm afraid 
 The cargo, part of which you know 
 Is yours, will very shortly go
 
 16 rOET/C PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 To Davy Jones ; so come and say 
 
 What 's best to do, without delay ! 
 
 The storm 's washed up some dreadful stone*, 
 
 On which our little vessel groans.' 
 
 Then Parson Grab began to swear, 
 
 ' Infernal fools to get her there ; 
 
 Why not keep farther off the land ? ' 
 
 And saying this, he raised his hand, 
 
 And caught the Captain on the nose. 
 
 'Take that, you lubber !' down he goes. 
 
 ' You pretty set of coward elves, 
 
 To lose the ship and save yourselves : 
 
 By finest cognac I swear, 
 
 In spite of rocks or breakers there, 
 
 To get each blessed keg ashore 
 
 This very night, or never more 
 
 Will I a sermon preach again.' 
 
 ' Or I respond the loud Amen,' 
 
 The Clerk replied, and off they set ; 
 
 But, ere they reached the cove, were met 
 
 By the half-drowned, affrighted crew, 
 
 Who swore a light unearthly blue 
 
 Seemed dancing all around the wreck, 
 
 Whilst skipping up and down the deck, 
 
 Old Nick himself - But Parson G. 
 
 Exclaimed, ' That tale won't do for me, 
 
 For forty devils I 'm a match ! 
 
 Come, trusty Clerk, we '11 meet " Old Scratch." '
 
 DAWLISH. 17 
 
 The crew were seized with greater fright, 
 Took to their heels, and out of sight 
 Were quickly; but a mighty roar 
 Was heard that night the county o'er. 
 The fishermen in wild alarm 
 Fled from the fury of the storm, 
 As if the tempests of the world 
 Were on the coast of Dawlish hurled. 
 
 When from the cliff next morn was seen 
 The spot near which the wreck had been ; 
 No vestige of it could they trace, 
 But, standing strangely in the place, 
 Two massive rocks, in which 'tis said 
 Are seen the Clerk's and Parson's head. 
 And fishermen, when out at night, 
 Declare strange phosphorescent light 
 Gleams from those rocks, where now we trace 
 The semblance of a human face." 
 
 Thus ends the legend j but pray don't enquire 
 
 How I obtained it, as 'tis my desire, 
 
 For my own sake, to keep the secret well ; 
 
 And those who know me best perhaps can tell. 
 
 And as I 've many others to relate 
 
 I can't stop now ; besides, the train won't wait. 
 
 There's something snug and cosy in the place : 
 It always has a bright and cheerful face ; 
 c
 
 1 8 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 The pretty town, its lovely, park-like green, 
 
 Flowing through which a rivulet clear is seen, 
 
 Spanned by new bridges, scattered here and there 
 
 Inviting seats, and easy garden-chair, 
 
 On which some convalescents idly lean, 
 
 Recruiting strength as they admire the scene. 
 
 On every hand the tourist can descry 
 
 Such scenes as cheer his heart and please his eye. 
 
 Backed by the graceful slopes of Luscombe Park, 
 
 Whilst in the foreground, say "the bounding barque 
 
 (Just for poetic fancy) in full sail 
 
 Spreads out her snow-white sheets to kiss the gale. 
 
 The graceful sweep of coast, the pebbly shore, 
 
 The sandy promenade all dotted o'er 
 
 With happy children, who in merry glee 
 
 Watch their sand-castles melt in th' advancing sea, 
 
 And, ere the prattling host can make retreat 
 
 The saucy wave has dared to wet their feet ; 
 
 The joyous voices ringing loud and clear 
 
 As each succeeding billow washes near 
 
 Some wished-for trifle, the triumphant cry 
 
 When the last wave safe lands it high and dry. 
 
 On yonder seat, a little in the shade, 
 Is one who long ago perhaps has laid 
 His loved and cherished treasures in the grave, 
 And in his reverie, as wave on wave
 
 DAWL1SH. 19 
 
 Comes rippling to his feet, fancies that he 
 
 Is gliding with them o'er the jasper sea. 
 
 Then cheerful voices, and the scene has passed 
 
 To times long ere a cruel and mighty blast 
 
 Had crushed his brightest hopes, and on the shore 
 
 The prattling voices are his own once more. 
 
 And yonder, an old sailor deep in thought, 
 
 Perhaps on what he might have been, or ought. 
 
 I '11 ask him gently, " Tell me, veteran, please, 
 
 Why dost thou look so sad and ill at ease ? 
 
 Hath cruel Time dealt harshly with you ? say, 
 
 Why are those eyes so fixed upon the bay ? " 
 
 The wrinkled son of Neptune raised his head, 
 
 And pointing o'er the waste of waters said, 
 
 " / see a splendid catch of mackerel there, 
 
 But that darned boat will frighten 'em, I swear" 
 
 " Oh, unpoetic mariner ! " I said, 
 
 Gave him a lump of cavendish, and fled, 
 
 And quickly reached a more romantic place, 
 
 As an arch grin passed o'er that sailor's face. 
 
 See, " lovers' walks " beneath and o'er the cliff, 
 
 And caves fantastic, hollowed out as if 
 
 The artful god of love, in looking round 
 
 For " well-adapted premises," had found 
 
 The very spot with which he hoped to meet 
 
 In and around this snug marine retreat. 
 
 And, all in all, methinks we cannot boast 
 
 A brighter spot upon Devonia's coast.
 
 D&WLJSH AND TEIGNMOUTH. 
 
 K, my reader ; take your staff in hand ; 
 
 I '11 show you lovely peeps of sea and land. 
 
 From Dawlish on to Teignmouth now we go. 
 
 And if you 're not enchanted, tell me so. 
 
 What a delightful time o' year is June ! 
 
 T has one fault only, that 'tis gone too soon, 
 And, like its predecessor, " charming May," 
 Inspires our love, and, laughing, runs away. 
 Then let us, whilst the roses are in bloom, 
 Enjoy the time, and breathe their sweet perfume. 
 In valleys, hedgerows, every sheltered nook. 
 Upon the hills and by the pebbly brook. 
 In the sweet flowerets that bedeck the land, 
 We see all-bounteous Nature's lavish hand ; 
 The very wildflowers seem to nod and say, 
 " Though some more fragrant, we 're as bright as they."
 
 DAWLISH AND TE1GNMOUTH. 21 
 
 All Nature seems to greet the genial sun, 
 Whose radiant glances beam, neglecting none. 
 
 I think we '11 go a little way by " rail," 
 Then cross the line and mount the Smugglers' Vale, 
 Of which the county records plainly show 
 That, not so very many years ago, 
 The old red sandstone cave that 's still in sight 
 Was the wild scene of many a smuggler fight. 
 Twas here " Will Rattenbury," then of Beer, 
 When closely chased, and night was drawing near, 
 Put in, and poured his " stuff" in " Johnstone's " vats, 
 And brought his boat to Seaton filled with sprats ! 
 So, when the excisemen pounced upon " the boat," 
 The people grinned, and Will sung " I 'm afloat." 
 
 Just here along the coast the sight is grand 
 One that has oft engaged our Danby's hand. 
 The broad blue ocean and the verdant hills, 
 From which a hundred clear and rippling rills, 
 With pleasant music dance on to the sea, 
 O'er which the graceful gull soars bright and free. 
 But scarcely have we time to catch a sight, 
 When all around becomes as black as night ; 
 Then sunshine gleams again, and to the sea 
 We look, then dark again ; what can it be ?
 
 22 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Thank Heaven we 're in the light once more, and then 
 We view the bounding hang it, dark again. 
 " Tunnels," you say, and are there any more ? 
 Then 'tis indeed a most tremendous bore. 
 Not half so pleasant, this nocturnal crawl, 
 As o'er the cliffs or by the broad sea wall, 
 On which the tourist may proceed with ease, 
 Fanned by the fresh invigorating breeze ; 
 Or we may follow by the Dawlish road, 
 Where many a favoured Briton's snug abode 
 We catch a glimpse of through the waving trees. 
 Then through a tiny loop the tourist sees 
 The rippling ocean sparkling in the sun, 
 And the whole scene indeed a pleasant one. 
 Then, standing out, like to some castle old, 
 Near to the sea, a building ; but we 're told 
 " It looks not half so picturesque when near," 
 Remarks our rustic friend, " as 't does from here. 
 T is one of those ' brick monuments ' you see, 
 When first the line they made, which was to be 
 ' An atmospheric,' and the building there 
 Was one of six for pumping in the air. 
 But very soon they knocked it on the head, 
 And the shareholders ' raised the wind 1 instead." 
 I looked again, and thought 'twas very true, 
 That "distance lends enchantment to the view."
 
 DAWLISH AND TE1GNMOUTH. 23 
 
 What pretty rustic pictures on our way 
 We see, and the sweet scent of new-mown hay- 
 In all its fragrant freshness fills the air : 
 And busy mowers toiling here and there ; 
 The warbling lark, of which the poets sing. 
 Whilst in some hayfield merry voices ring : 
 The butterfly in wild and happy glee 
 Seems dancing to the music of the bee. 
 But, reader, I will not presume to touch 
 A theme which poets whom we love so much 
 Have made their own, in language pure and sweet, 
 As makes all modern musings counterfeit. 
 Oh, shades of Bloomfield, Goldsmith, Cowper, White, 
 Direct my thoughts, and give me power to write 
 With something of that ring, so pure and true, 
 And which, alas ! has almost died with you. 
 But modern bards, perhaps, are not to blame ; 
 To meet the great demand of course they aim ; 
 And if we will have plenty for the money, 
 We must expect some treacle with the honey. 
 Some reader p'rhaps will say, with mind jocose. 
 " Brimstone and treacle " this, and strong the dose. 
 
 Yet who can help, where so much beauty reigns. 
 Musing, although in unpoetic strains ; 
 Around, about, there 's so much to admire, 
 As would almost a misanthrope inspire.
 
 24 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 All men ambitious are, and so am I, 
 But my ambition is to live and die 
 Mid scenes like these, removed from worldly strife, 
 Yet lead no less a useful, active life. 
 Ambitious " cits," who snarl, and bite, and vie, 
 And hate each other well, and know not why, 
 Who fume and fret your brightest hours away, 
 Pursuing phantom honours, that you may 
 Tack to your names some very pretty handle, 
 Only to find the "game not worth the candle!" 
 There yet are honours which, there 's no denying, 
 That when attained are really worth the trying. 
 And there are men, and you and I have met them, 
 Who 'd risk their health and happiness to get them, 
 And have gone far too early to their rest 
 With honours on the brain not on the breast. 
 No wonder men who could in one short hour 
 Strike for themselves the road to place and power, 
 And thrust a hundred aspirants aside, 
 Prefer to 'scape the hollow din, and glide 
 Down to their graves in calm and peaceful ease, 
 And do their missions mid such scenes as these. 
 
 But see, the town of Teignmouth comes in view, 
 And here again, my friend, I '11 say " Adieu " 
 Till this day week, when I again will ask 
 Your presence to assist me in my task.
 
 TEIGITMOUTH. 
 
 ERHAPS I should have thought, ere I 'd begun, 
 That such a task was sooner said than done. 
 'Tis one thing to feel equal to the task, 
 Another to succeed. But where, I ask, 
 In what retreat, in what elysian bower, 
 That poet lives who underrates his power? 
 "Twas ever thus" with those who "jumble rhyme;" 
 We often think our "murdered themes" sublime. 
 And thus it is we blow our trumpets loud, 
 To get a hearing mid the doggerel crowd. 
 Methinks the God of Poesy 's a wag, 
 And often lends his power to some " tag-rag," 
 Who uses it in sickening, fulsome praise 
 Of some conceited noodle, or in " lays " 
 Of soap and slaver, or in " halting strains " 
 To some rich patron with more cash than brains.
 
 26 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVOK. 
 
 However poor or weak my verse may be, 
 That gift at least shall not be found in me. 
 My theme is not of men yet there are those 
 To whom no mortal poetry nor prose 
 Could do full justice, nor assay their worth ; 
 Men who have laboured hard to make this earth 
 A fairer spot, whose deeds " return again," 
 And should be sung by angels, not by men. 
 But from my subject I have bolted quite ; 
 We didn't bargain for a serious flight. 
 Your pardon, pray ; I know digression 's vile, 
 But I 've been looking round the place the while. 
 
 Who can on Teignmouth look, and not exclaim, 
 " Why, is it possible that 'tis the same ! " 
 And yet the strange old church looks just as when 
 I saw it last. But, bless me, where 's " the Den " ? 
 Where is that ragged, bare, unsightly spot ? 
 I look around, but I can find it not 
 Surely this promenade, this lovely green, 
 This handsome place which I to-day have seen, 
 Marks not the spot where one could scarcely stand 
 Without both eyes and boots being filled with sand. 
 And yet it is ; so I take off my hat 
 To all who laboured to accomplish that. 
 Go on, my friends (and be your efforts blest), 
 To make your town the Brighton of the West.
 
 TEIGNMOUTH. 27 
 
 The ugly spots have all but disappeared, 
 
 And in their places handsome mansions reared ; 
 
 The town itself is greatly beautified, 
 
 Its narrow turnings opened clear and wide 
 
 In fact, so much have they improved the place 
 
 That, though a friend, we scarcely know his face. 
 
 And yonder pier, too, helps to beautify 
 
 This charming watering-place though, by-the-bye, 
 
 I scarcely can believe what I am told, 
 
 That soon 'twill be removed in fact, " is sold." 
 
 If this be so, 'tis matter for regret. 
 
 It may not as a speculation pay, and yet 
 
 The pier could not but benefit the town, 
 
 And 'tis a sin, I think, to take it down. 
 
 " What ! " says the lady, who with lightning eye 
 
 Looks out for those who would " the gate " pass by 
 
 Without a contribution to the cost, 
 
 And thus a mite be to the owners lost : 
 
 " Why, bless yer 'art, I sit sometimes all day 
 
 And see a hundred come and walk away. 
 
 They come and peer across the gate, and go 
 
 They don't appear inclined to pay, you know ; 
 
 And thinks the noble peer who owns the land 
 
 Should say, 'that noble pier we've raised must stand.' 
 
 This//<?r has got no peer, and we can boast 
 
 That there appears nought like it round our coast. 
 
 Then why should we appear to be so mean 
 
 As charge a penny ere our pier is seen ?
 
 28 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVOX. 
 
 I^et it be free, we 'd have no need to fear 
 
 That pier or public would soon dis-a-//<r." 
 
 "Woman," I said, "these horrid puns give o'er." 
 
 She smiled and said, " I 've got a hundred more.' 
 
 Then to my heels I quickly took, and fled, 
 
 Calling down (let 's say) blessings on her head ; 
 
 For there was wisdom in her speech withal, 
 
 And I believe to charge, however small 
 
 The toll for access to the pier may be, 
 
 Is clearly a short-sighted policy; 
 
 For, looking round about, who can deny, 
 
 As all that 's truly charming meets the eye, 
 
 That old Dame Nature has with lavish grace 
 
 Been generous to this lovely watering-place ? 
 
 A splendid space of sea we here behold, 
 
 On either hand the coast stands clear and bold, 
 
 Whilst in the background, sheltered and serene, 
 
 Are cosy villas looking o'er the scene. 
 
 It only needs judicious enterprise 
 
 To make this pretty town of Teignmouth rise 
 
 Into importance, and to take its stand 
 
 Amongst the favoured places of our land. 
 
 Of Shaldon, too, 'tis my intent to speak, 
 
 But that we '11 leave, dear reader, till next week ; 
 
 When, if 'tis your desire, and all is well, 
 
 A most affecting legend I shall tell.
 
 TEIGITMOUTH 
 
 SH&LDGN, 
 
 OME, my Pegasus, jaded though them art, 
 The time is up, and we at once must start ; 
 Shake up thy feathers, spread thy weary wings 
 Show signs of vigour whilst thy rider sings ; 
 Come now, be frisky, kick, prance, caper, neigh, 
 Show thy undoubted youth in any way ! 
 Cupid may tire of throwing fatal darts, 
 Or fail, through age, to hit or injure hearts ; 
 Venus may lose her charms, and weep and sigh 
 For what the " gold of Ophir " cannot buy ; 
 Yet thou must show no signs of failing strength. 
 But bear my fancy flight to any length ; 
 And, goodness knows ! the poet 's much in need 
 Of boundless licence ere he can proceed 
 A word sometimes won't fit, but we must make it, 
 Tis thefe the licence comes, and don't we take it.
 
 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Poor, dull, insipid reading oft 'twould be, 
 But for the romance which the poets see ; 
 Why e'en Macaulay said, 'Twas useless quite, 
 A history or biography to write, 
 Without a savoury spice was well diffused, 
 Which, by-the-bye, he very freely used ; 
 And surely, most indulgent reader, when 
 Such a tremendous giant of the pen 
 Makes this confession, how can you deny 
 "The poet's haven" to us smaller fry? 
 
 ' The season " now at Teignmouth has begun. 
 And all who take but just a run 
 Down from Old Exon, to inhale the sweet, 
 Invigorating air, enjoy the treat. 
 How pleasant is a stroll along the sands, 
 To watch the children with their tiny hands 
 Build up a fortress or a sandy mound, 
 And hear the shout as waves come washing round, 
 Or see on older faces the bright smile, 
 
 When business cares are shunted for awhile. 
 
 A glance around, 'tis easy to behold 
 
 What some men risk in the pursuit of gold. 
 O Mammon, Mammon, what a power is thine ! 
 How many thousands at thy yellow shrine 
 Are sacrificed, in little man's desire 
 Some splendid passing nothing to acquire*
 
 TEIGNMOUTH TO SHALDON. 31 
 
 The careworn faces, and the faded looks, 
 Too clearly tell the tale of office books ; 
 " They only need a little rest," and then 
 They 're off to town, and at the books again ; 
 But to return next year with shattered health, 
 The oft exacted tribute paid to wealth. 
 Ah ! ye whom a kind Providence hath blest 
 With ample means of ease and quiet rest, 
 Who have no need to rack your blessed brains 
 To keep a home, or swell another's gains 
 Who, when ye need a change, no power debars, 
 " Down on your knees," and thank your lucky stars. 
 
 Tis easy to observe, in many a face, 
 What brings it often to a watering-place. 
 Some are so well conditioned and well dressed, 
 'Tis very clear they come to quiz the rest 
 See yonder lady with a pretty face, 
 Her step, her style, all elegance and grace ; 
 With gloves too tight, and boots by far too small, 
 And less expression than a waxen doll. 
 Yonder we see the aimless, brainless swell, 
 Who through his eye-glass sees a " dem fine gell," 
 And fancies every woman in the place 
 Delights to look upon his pasty face. 
 But, ere we pass on to the Shaldon side, 
 Let 's sit and watch the swiftly-ebbing tide,
 
 J2 POETIC PICTURES O/-~ SOUTH /t/il'OA'. 
 
 Or view the lighthouse, standing firm and clear. 
 To warn the mariner that danger 's near. 
 Or let us for a moment stop and see 
 That noble effort of philanthropy 
 The Teignmouth lifeboat, trim and all compact. 
 And ready at a moment's call to act ; 
 "With lightened heart," obedient to the crew, 
 Who know no fear with dangerous work to do. 
 
 " God speed the boat, 1 ' our prayer shall ever be, 
 " May she glide swiftly o'er the angry sea : 
 And bless the men who risk their lives to save 
 A fellow-mortal from an ocean grave. " 
 
 And here we cross the noble Teign, the same 
 From which the pretty town receives its name, 
 A lovely river from its very source 
 Throughout to where we stand ; but then, of course, 
 I must not from my subject run away, 
 As we can mount the Teign another day. 
 And yet, in fancy, up the Teign I stroll. 
 And hear it o'er the granite pebbles roll, 
 Broad at its base, till Newton's town appears ; 
 Then graceful sheltered windings, till it nears 
 Romantic Dunsford, splashing, dancing o'er 
 A hundred cascades, till we reach the Moor,
 
 TEIGNMOUTH TO SHALDON. 33 
 
 When one might place his foot and stop the rise 
 Of this wide river stretched before our eyes. 
 The Shaldon Bridge, which spans the river here, 
 Has (but with one exception) no compeer 
 Throughout the whole of Europe for its length (?) 
 But nothing shall I say about its strength, 
 Which I suppose is quite enough to bear 
 What little traffic daily passes there. 
 Now, safely landed on the Shaldon shore, 
 We '11 start at once the region to explore ; 
 For it is said that traces can be found 
 To show 'tis sacred and romantic around.
 
 SH&LDOH &ITD ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD, 
 
 ^.HALL I feel vexed or pleased ? I think the latter, 
 * And yet am half inclined to bellow, " What 's the 
 
 matter?" 
 Why nearly twenty letters I 've received, 
 
 From which, 'tis plain, the writers all believed 
 Twos want of matter, more than want of space. 
 
 Which gave my pen another week of grace, 
 
 And clearly indicate a sort of doubt 
 
 As to my being fairly " crowded out." 
 
 Associations Scientific were the cause 
 
 To give them space I was compelled to pause ; 
 
 To Art and Science we must all give way, 
 
 And you can read my doggerel any day. 
 
 So when the savans of our merrie shire 
 
 To flights of learning would our minds inspire, 
 
 It 's only right and proper then that I 
 
 Should stand aside whilst Science marches by.
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 35 
 
 Britannia's " Arkies," who this week have met, 
 In search, no doubt, of useful knowledge let 
 Me raise my hat in wishing that ye may 
 Increase* in strength and number every day. 
 And to the founder of these useful clubs 
 I pay respect profound to thee, "Bill Stubbs !" 
 
 And now our journey we'll at once resume, 
 Because 'tis only mortal to presume 
 You 're very anxious, after this delay, 
 To hear what I of Shaldon have to say. 
 In many a spot round Shaldon we may trace 
 The haunts and relics of a bygone race. 
 Time was when the hyaena's mocking roar 
 Resounded o'er the waters from that shore ; 
 Time was when ancient Briton, bare and brave, 
 Here speared the howling wolf, or o'er the wave, 
 In search of food, in his canoe would glide, 
 Or visit chieftains on the other side. 
 The towering cliff still frowning as of old, 
 When painted natives, dauntless, grim, and bold, 
 Watched eager from its heights, ere Caesar came 
 To add another laurel to his fame. 
 And later, Shaldon has beheld such scenes 
 Of which the modern Briton little dreams. 
 And later still, when by the cruel decree 
 Of the invader, brightly gleamed the sea,
 
 36 POETIC PICTURES Of SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 And Teignmouth was a mass of glowing fire, 
 
 To gratify man's doubly cursed desire. 
 
 How changed since then, when mothers, children, wives, 
 
 In terror madly rushed to save their lives, 
 
 And in the exodus to Shaldon shore 
 
 Sank many a " mother's joy," to rise no more. 
 
 But now there 's such an air of calm repose, 
 
 And as we look its varied beauty grows ; 
 
 The verdant slopes all rich with ferns and flowers 
 
 Here botanists may spend some pleasant hours. 
 
 Lord Clifford's snug retreat, too, seems to grace 
 
 The sweet poetic quiet of the place. 
 
 But there 's a story of an ancient date, 
 
 For which you 've had some little time to wait. 
 
 'Twill doubtless move your sympathy and mirth, 
 
 But here it is take it for what 'tis worth. 
 
 amorous .friar of &r. LafaraHor. 
 
 'Twas just at the time when, as old stories say, 
 The Father Confessors had much their own way ; 
 And when, as we're told, neither " knight nor squire- 
 Could live half so well as a holy friar ;" 
 When in spite of the cowl and the well shaven pate, 
 The life of a friar was no horrible fate ; 
 For their round, sleek, and jolly fat faces at least 
 Spoke less of the fastings and more of the feast.
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 37 
 
 When they never neglected, mid duties, to dine, 
 
 And were excellent judges of "women and wine," 
 
 And 'tis said, but perhaps 'tis said only in fun, 
 
 That to see a " sweet girl " was to wish her a nun. 
 
 Well, 'twas when a snug abbey, all sheltered by trees, 
 
 Stood near to the spot where the tourist now sees 
 
 A cluster of houses, Coombe Cellajrs by name, 
 
 And I see by the chart 'twas called always the same. 
 
 The monks of this abbey would often stroll out, 
 
 And one day Brother Francis was looking about, 
 
 When by accident surely 'twas never design 
 
 He met in the valley a creature divine. 
 
 He gazed on her face, and her beautiful form : 
 
 Though the spot was sequestered, she felt no alarm ; 
 
 For she knew that protection she couldn't require, 
 
 As she was a woman, and he was a friar. 
 
 Yet she fancied she saw, though she couldn't tell why, 
 
 An expression by no means unkind in his eye. 
 
 And Francis was handsome, young, courteous ; so when 
 
 He smiled on her kindly, she smiled back again. 
 
 And oh, it is not in my province to tell 
 
 How often by chance (?) did they meet in that dell. 
 
 But Francis was son of a chivalrous sire, 
 
 And there burned in his bosom no treacherous desire ; 
 
 Still, affection for woman 's a horrible taint 
 
 Though indulged in by sinners, 'twas wrong in a saint 
 
 That they 'd made him a soldier, 'twere better by far 
 
 Than a monk of the order of St. Labrador.
 
 38 POETIC PICTURES Of SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 I Ve no wish to defend him ('twas wrong of them both), 
 
 He thought more of the maid than he did of his oath ; 
 
 Yet at parting, sometimes, when he 'd kiss her fair brow, 
 
 Like a culprit he felt, as he thought of his vow. 
 
 But Love, mighty engine of Nature's decree, 
 
 The will of mankind is a puppet to thee ; 
 
 And Francis resolved th^it his celibate life 
 
 Should end he had sworn to make Lilian his wife. 
 
 And why should the vow so much joy intercept? 
 
 A bad oath is by far better broken than kept. 
 
 But Francis was not here the only good friar 
 
 Whom Lilian's rare loveliness seemed to inspire, 
 
 For there wasn't a brother about the old place 
 
 But would walk any distance to look on her face. 
 
 There was one brother, Joseph, whose sapient smile 
 
 Told plainly his heart was unsullied by guile ; 
 
 For his prayers were the loudest, his fastings were great, 
 
 Yet there burned in his breast a volcano of hate. 
 
 His keen eyes had detected who stood in his way, 
 
 And he mused in his mind on the game he should play; 
 
 For he had in his heart an unholy desire, 
 
 \Vhich he 'd risk both his body and soul to acquire ; 
 
 Not quite the first monk who 's been willing to play 
 
 A dangerous game when there 's aught in his way.
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 39 
 
 Twas the feast of St. Peter, and friars are men, 
 So they drank the saint's mem'ry again and again ; 
 And brother Barabbas felt just at his best 
 For making them roar at his orthodox jest. 
 And Thomas of Newton, and Esau of Torre, 
 Were always invited to Labrador. 
 For Esau was witty, and Thomas could sing, 
 And with shouts of delight the old abbey would ring, 
 Whilst their jolly bright faces all beamed round the board, 
 Which groaned 'neath the choicest the world could afford ; 
 And Brother " Pugnacious," who 'd taken his share 
 Of wine, then proposed, in a jocular air, 
 As he fastened the window and lowered his voice, 
 And each drank, in a whisper, " The girl of his choice." 
 Then Brother Elias, to keep up the game, 
 Proposed the first letter of each lady's name 
 Should be written, and under a punch bowl be placed, 
 With, of course, no desire the whole name should be traced. 
 But on lifting the bowl, Father John gave a yell, 
 When he found each had written a capital L. 
 The shout of loud laughter quite shook the old place, 
 And Joseph scowled strangely in Francis's face, 
 For he thought but for Francis his way would be clear, 
 And a smile crossed his features on thinking that near 
 The spot where his rival " appointment " would keep 
 With Lilian, the river flowed silent and deep. 
 But Lilian had told Brother Francis that when 
 They parted one night she was met in the glen
 
 40 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 By the sanctified Joseph, whose evident aim 
 Showed his life was a libel, at least on his name. 
 But she spurned his advances, as Francis well knew ; 
 And they planned for the future unconscious of who 
 Was eagerly watching them, like a wild beast 
 In hunger preparing to spring on its feast. 
 
 The bell of the abbey Tor vespers had rung, 
 The prayers had been said, and the hymns had been sung, 
 And yet Brother Francis was not in his place, 
 Though he never was known to ask ten minutes' grace ; 
 Yet they felt at his absence but little alarm 
 Till there broke o'er the abbey a terrible storm ; 
 And when it abated, at once 'twas resolved, 
 That a search should be made, and the mystery solved. 
 The torches were lit, and they searched all around, 
 But, alas ! Brother Francis could nowhere be found ; 
 And Joseph turned pale, when a yeoman next day 
 Related last night he was passing that way, 
 And heard near the river a cry of distress, 
 And there hurriedly passed him a man in the dress 
 Which he knew to be that of a Labrador Friar, 
 And who answered him not when he stopped to enquire 
 If " the father " that shout from the water had heard, 
 He looked not, nor spoke, but flew on like a bird. 
 And a boatman, who 'd left Bishopsteignton that night, 
 Declared, whilst in crossing the Teign, a strange sight
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 41 
 
 Passed rapidly seawards, quite close to his boat, 
 Like the corpse of a monk, with a gash in his throat. 
 
 But as of all friends he loved Francis the best, 
 No wonder that Joseph was sorely distressed ! 
 And e'en when they gave up the search in despair, 
 Alone to the valley went Joseph for prayer ! 
 But Lilian, who waited for Francis* next night, 
 Found Joseph there waiting, and flew from his sight, 
 And though oft to that valley the monk would repair, 
 It was never his lot to meet Lilian there j 
 For the maid knew the story the boatman had told, 
 Yet she could not her secret suspicion unfold ; 
 But to look on the maiden 'twas easy to trace 
 The grief of her heart in her sorrowful face. 
 
 But woman, O woman, the poets have said 
 That thy love seldom lives when thy lover is dead ! 
 'Tis not my desire so unkindly to speak, 
 For maidens are mortal, and woman is weak ; 
 And I grieve to confess that in less than a year 
 No maiden round Shaldon was brighter than her ; 
 For a handsome young yeoman had come to this part, 
 And she 'd made an impression not slight on his heart. 
 He heard that she mourned for a lover now dead, 
 But pressing his suit perseveringly, said,
 
 42 POETIC PICTURES Of SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 "Let the past be forgotten, much better 'twill be 
 
 Than to mourn a dead lover, and gaze on the sea." 
 
 Oh, sentiment ! sentiment ! come to my aid, 
 
 For, in spite of romance, I feel like the maid. 
 
 She couldn't his love and his logic withstand. 
 
 And she blushed like the rose as she gave him her hand. 
 
 And there was not in Devon a homestead more bright, 
 
 For as years flitted on 'twas a beautiful sight 
 
 To behold, as the shadows of evening fell, 
 
 A group of sweet faces in Labrador dell. 
 
 But life is as fleeting as shadows of eve, 
 We do but prepare in the coming to leave, 
 Though his days had been happy, his pathway been fair, 
 It had wrinkled the forehead and silvered the hair. 
 And Time had dealt roughly with monast'ries too, 
 For Cranmer had counselled what Harry should do. 
 So Harry had stamped on the Pope's "just decree," 
 Recanted his faith and his pledges, that he 
 Might take a fresh wife, without trouble or fear. 
 " My dear Cranmer has got the right sow by the ear ! " 
 " Bluff Harry " exclaimed, and licence was given 
 To plunder the Abbeys, and Fathers were driven 
 From off their possessions and lands, which to-day 
 Are held by successors in much the same way 
 A kind of dog-rob-dog " high prigs " of the hour, 
 Who fiddled and danced to the creatures in power,
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 43 
 
 And plundered the weak as they loaded their maws, 
 
 For the glory and good (as they said) of " the cause ;" 
 
 But when, in their turn, they're called on to "stand," 
 
 " And deliver " a part of the plunder in hand, 
 
 They turn up the whites of their eyes in dismay 
 
 In fact, to be coarse, there 's the devil to pay ; 
 
 And well paid he '11 be, with good interest to it, 
 
 Though it take all the priests and the bishops to do it. k 
 
 Religion, to man's everlasting disgrace, 
 
 What deeds 'neath thy cloak and thy name can we trace ! 
 
 Fanatics have waded through rivers of gore, 
 
 In the vain hope of reaching, all blood-stained, that shore 
 
 Where none but the spotless and cleansed can stand, 
 
 But sealed to the creature with blood on his hand. 
 
 The Abbeys of Buckfastleigh, Totnes, and Torre, 
 With Bovey, and Newton, and Labrador, 
 Were silent ; the night birds were screeching around, 
 Where once nought but comfort and plenty were found, 
 But, though the Pope's voice in Great Britain was hushed, 
 And the monasteries rifled, " the faith " was not crushed, 
 For Shaldon had many inhabitants who 
 To the creed of their fathers were loyal and true ; 
 And old Father Robert, whose genial face 
 Was his guard and his password all over the place, 
 He loved the old spot, and determined to stay 
 When the monks from the abbey were driven away.
 
 44 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON 
 
 Beloved by the children, respected by all, 
 He was heartily greeted wherever he 'd call ; 
 But no one so welcome as he to a seat 
 In the house of the yeoman ; and oft at his feet 
 Had the children of Lilian sat with delight, 
 To hear the old stories he 'd tell them at night. 
 But the children had grown into manhood's estate, 
 And Lilian had answered the summons of fate, 
 And oft was the yeoman seen kneeling to pray, 
 Where the wreath of dead lilies lay rotting away. 
 Ah ! where is that being who has not a tear 
 Ever ready to start at some memory dear? 
 How often a sweet recollection imparts 
 A softening tone to the sternest of hearts. 
 But the yeoman comes not to the grave as before, 
 Nor is seen in the old rustic seat at his door. 
 
 The sun in its radiance westward had rolled, 
 Illuming the heavens with crimson and gold ; 
 The sweet zephyr breeze, as it floated along, 
 Seemed to silence the birds in their evening song. 
 The sea round the coast came not in with a roar, 
 But murmured and sighed as it broke on the shore ; 
 So calm and serene was the close of that day, 
 When the old yeoman's life was fast ebbing away. 
 And as Father Robert knelt down by the bed, 
 The dying man turned on his pillow, and said,
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 45 
 
 " Holy Father, a secret I wish to impart, 
 
 Which for fifty long years has been locked in my heart ; 
 
 Take this key, and in yonder old closet you '11 find 
 
 What may bring something vividly back to your mind. 
 
 How oft to my children have I heard thee tell 
 
 Of the monk who was murdered in Labrador dell." 
 
 To obey, Father Robert felt strangely impelled. 
 
 He opened the closet, and there he beheld 
 
 The dress of a friar, with a cross and a star, 
 
 Worn often by Francis of Labrador. 
 
 "Great heavens !" cried Robert, "how didst thou possess 
 
 Brother Francis's emblems that girdle ! that dress ! 
 
 Wert thou his assassin ? Speak quickly, I say, 
 
 For, wouldst thou be absolved, there's no time for delay.' 
 
 " Be calm, holy Father, thou needest not fear 
 
 There is blood on my soul, but the truth thou shalt hear : 
 
 When Francis was missing, they mourned him as dead, 
 
 For they knew the next day what the boatman had said. 
 
 That boatman, whom oft thou hast seen at my door, 
 
 Kept his secret right well ; but he, too, is no more. 
 
 He took Brother Francis to Teignmouth that night 
 
 In the garb of a sailor. Aware of his flight 
 
 Was a beautiful girl, whom, dear Robert, we knew ; 
 
 But she loved Brother Francis, and Francis was true ; 
 
 And oft the old boatman had news to impart 
 
 (On return from a cruise) which would gladden her heart. 
 
 About a year after, at dawn of the day, 
 
 A yeoman from Salterton journeyed that way.
 
 46 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEl'OX. 
 
 He settled near Shaldon, and took for a wife 
 The girl for whom Francis had risked more than life. 
 That maiden was Lilian ! and now, ere I die, 
 Dear Father, absolve me that Francis am I !" 
 
 And thus, dear gentle reader, ends my tale, 
 Which has become by this time precious stale ; 
 For like enough the sequel 's been so clear 
 That you beheld the end before 'twas near. 
 'Tis well indeed for me, I ne'er can tell 
 What names you call me; and 'tis quite as well 
 I do not hear them, or 'twould grieve me sore, 
 And likely stop my pen for evermore : 
 A merciful arrangement in this life. 
 I only fancy what a world of strife 
 This earth would be, if every loving brother 
 Knew what was said and thought of one another. 
 I often fancy, if some magic power 
 Could make us crystal, just for half an hour ; 
 Show all the thoughts and motives of mankind ; 
 Oh, what a pretty picture we should find ! 
 Perhaps the highest person in the state 
 Conferring honour with regret and hate ; 
 A laurelled hero, accident of war, 
 Grinning to think what precious fools we are ; 
 And leaders too, with patriotic cry, 
 And something more than glory in their eye.
 
 SHALDON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. 47 
 
 Then some we 'd see, in Charity's good name, 
 For self and friends play quite another game, 
 Resort to every kind of artful shift, 
 To give themselves and hobby-horse a lift ; 
 But these need not be made of crystal stuff, 
 Their objects are transparent quite enough. 
 And in "society" what fun 'twould be, 
 When Mrs. A. invites " dear " Mrs. B. ; 
 Admire each other's carriage, laud their " place," 
 And long to smack each other's pretty face. 
 The burning hate in Miss Debeavor's breast, 
 Because she finds that vile Miss Linsey dressed 
 Just like herself, and she resolves to scout 
 The milliner who let her secret out 
 I 've no desire just now to lift the veil ; 
 Besides, this gossip 's foreign to my tale ; 
 And that being ended, we '11 at once take flight 
 To subjects livelier and scenes more bright.
 
 SHALDOU TO BISHOPSTEIGNTON, 
 
 AND ON TO NEWTON. 
 
 UST here I feel I 'm in an awkward plight, 
 Two roads are open now but which is right ? 
 Shall I take Newton first, and Torquay next, 
 Or Torquay first ? I really am perplexed ; 
 And yet 1 think the proper course would be, 
 Take Newton first, at route for famed Torquay. 
 So come, my brother tourist, take thy staff, 
 And on our road I '11 try to make thee laugh, 
 If only at the weakness I '11 display 
 In my descriptive efforts on our way. 
 Recross the bridge from Shaldon, and we find 
 The town of Teignmouth has been left behind ; 
 Some charming villas, nestling as it were 
 To 'scape the bleak, but kiss the balmy air.
 
 SHALDON TO BISHOPSTEIGNTON. 49 
 
 But ere we on to Newton speed our way, 
 
 Just for a moment, brother tourist, stay 
 
 A little grave on yonder slope I see, 
 
 And yet in such a spot it cannot be. 
 
 " It is a grave," said some one standing by, 
 
 And as he spoke I fancied in his eye 
 
 A tear had started. Surely 'twas not so, 
 
 For, as I read, the inscription went to show 
 
 A faithful dog, beloved by all around, 
 
 Within this charming spot a grave had found. 
 
 No wonder man will sometimes mark the place 
 
 Where rests a friend, whose faithful, honest face 
 
 Knew no deception, and in weal or woe 
 
 Would ever true and fond affection show. 
 
 To call a man "a dog," you hurt him sore, 
 
 Sometimes methinks 'twould hurt the dog much more : 
 
 Let 's read the lines a son of Mars has writ, 
 
 Who loved his dog, but can't restrain his wit : 
 
 " Here lies my Leo ; he a lie ne'er told, 
 But loved his master more than men love gold. 
 Faithful through life, he ne'er betrayed a trust, 
 How strange that he should here lie in the dust; 
 His mission now fulfilled, he 's nought to dread, 
 And kings might envy him his peaceful bed." 
 
 A very graceful compliment, I say, 
 And not so badly written, Colonel K- 
 E
 
 50 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Were I a toady I might shout "sublime !" 
 Yet I can say with truth 'tis dog-gerel rhyme. 
 And surely, you '11 admit, he ought to know 
 Who keeps in hand himself a doggerel flow. 
 
 But we must on, for every step we take 
 To minds poetic fresh suggestions make. 
 Now in a lovely valley we descry 
 Some targets, where Devonia's daughters vie 
 In peaceful prowess, with the bow and dart, 
 Striking at once, perhaps, bull's eye and heart. 
 Oh, skilful matrons, who so well contrive 
 To keep flirtation's pleasures all alive ! 
 Oh, blessed croquet, garden parties too, 
 And flower shows ! Whatever should we do 
 Without these means to spend some pleasant hours, 
 Where Devon's daughters are the sweetest flowers ; 
 And where, if I 'd my way, I 'd give the prize 
 Unto the choicest rose with brightest eyes. 
 And so in archery, dear girls, aim true ; 
 Shoot for the prize, and win a husband too. 
 'Tis most suggestive; archery, you know, 
 Teaches the lady how to hold her beau ; 
 But is it fair in me, whilst passing by, 
 To be so hard, or for a moment try, 
 By words of mine, or by my halting pen, 
 To check the only chance for bashful men ?
 
 SHALDON TO BISHOPSTEIGNTON. 
 
 Methinks I hear the ladies say, " You dunce, 
 
 Take up your pen, and leave the place at once, 
 
 Or, in the absence of a pond or river, 
 
 Our well-shot arrows, sir, shall make you quiver." 
 
 I take the hint in fancy, and retire 
 
 Before these fair Dianas open fire. 
 
 We mount the hill, and here the lovely Teign 
 Is in its most imposing aspect seen, 
 Stretching out grandly, flowing free and wide, 
 With wooded outlines on the other side. 
 And from this spot, Shaldon, as we look down, 
 Seems like some little continental town, 
 So quaint and straggling, beautiful withal. 
 The whole locality here seems to recall 
 What Danby's graphic pencil has portrayed, 
 And by his truthful master-hand has made 
 The British tourist long to see the place 
 Where spots so lovely are on Nature's face. 
 A pleasant road we follow on our way 
 To Bishopsteignton ; and here let us pay 
 A well-deserved compliment to those 
 Who tend the sacred spot, where thickly grows 
 The lily o'er the graves so neatly kept, 
 And where the ivy, like some friend, has crept 
 Around the pretty church with mantle green, 
 Lending the charm of romance to the scene.
 
 52 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH VEl'ON. 
 
 No wonder painters, poets, love the spot ! 
 But who, I ask, could look around, and not ? 
 As we proceed the Dartmoor hills appear 
 Crowned by old Haytor rock, whilst in the rear 
 The cliffs of Shaldon and the ocean bright, 
 In all a picturesque and pleasant sight. 
 The groups of reapers mid the golden grain, 
 The team of horses passing up the lane. 
 The happy faces and the rustic song 
 Of youthful gleaners, as they pass along, 
 Proud of the load they bear, the mother's smile 
 As on the cottage floor their sheaves they pile. 
 The thrifty housewife, careful of each ear- 
 
 But cease these musings, Newton Abbot 's near ' 
 And as this town has taken some small part 
 In England's history, let 's arrange to start 
 Our ramble o'er the very many spots 
 Of interest in Newton there are lots ; 
 So, by your leave, I '11 lay my pencil down, 
 And take it up, next week, in Newton town
 
 ITEWTON AITD NEIGHBOURHOOD, 
 
 > ACAULAY tells us, in his graphic way, 
 The part our "Merrie Shire" was wont to play, 
 When feudal lords, despotic, proud, and grand, 
 With kings and princes took an equal stand ; 
 When chivalry ran high, and blood ran blue, 
 And the broad lands belonged to but a few. 
 The word " belonged " is p'rhaps not to the letter, 
 But, there, the least we say of that the better. 
 They held the lands, that 's certain, wrong or right, 
 And those who would contest it had to fight, 
 Somewhat the same as now in that respect ; 
 The weaker side had better far reflect, 
 Than rashly enter on a hopeless fray 
 Where might is pretty sure to gain the day. 
 
 Time was when this fair county was accursed 
 By powerful fiends, with vile insatiate thirst
 
 54 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVOK. 
 
 For cruel vengeance on defenceless heads, 
 
 And yeomen's blameless lives but hung on threads , 
 
 When bloody Jeffreys and the vampire Kirk 
 
 Gloried and gloated o'er their fiendish work ; 
 
 When loving wives were ordered out to see 
 
 Their husbands hanging on the village tree ; 
 
 And Newton town, 'tis said, in days gone by, 
 
 Has been the scene of many a feudal shy. 
 
 Here rival barons cracked each other's pate. 
 
 Or sent the falcon up at Stover (late. 
 
 But though the days of chivalry are past, 
 
 And feudal bile has settled down at last, 
 
 Around old Newton everywhere we see 
 
 Some grand old spot of ancient chivalry ; 
 
 The lines of Courtenay, and of Ogwell too, 
 
 The ancient seats of Seymour and Carew ; 
 
 And many legends can each house relate, 
 
 In fact or fiction, prowess, love, or hate. 
 
 And where 's the ancient home without a story 
 
 Of daring sacrifice, of blood and glory, 
 
 Of firm devotion to some royal cad, 
 
 Or " how the lady Annibal " was sad, 
 
 And pined away in yonder crumbling tower, 
 
 Where sighs are often heard at "witching hour ''? 
 
 Methinks in feudal days the local bard 
 
 Oft found his lot in life by no means hard : 
 
 And I have wished I 'd flourished in those times, 
 
 And turned the local legends into rhymes.
 
 NEWTON AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. 55 
 
 'Tis not too late; if any "Ancient Head," 
 
 In this fair county, should desire a thread 
 
 Of gushing romance round the name entwine, 
 
 I '11 do the thing at two-and-six per line. 
 
 I 'd tell how, on a dark and stormy night, 
 
 The watchman said a dim and yellow light 
 
 Beneath the Lady Judy's window danced, 
 
 Whilst near the gates a red-hot charger pranced. 
 
 The morning came, and bitter grief profound 
 
 Reigned round that house. Judy could not be found ; 
 
 They searched the grounds, pulled up the kitchen floor, 
 
 " But the sweet Judy was beheld no more." 
 
 'Twas thought a sorceress, who lived hard by, 
 
 Had on the lady cast an evil eye. 
 
 So she was burned, her husband too was drowned, 
 
 And yet the Lady Judy was not found. 
 
 Long years rolled by, when rumour came at length, 
 
 Which, on enquiry, seemed to gain in strength, 
 
 That Lady Judy had oh, sad to tell ! 
 
 Married a baker, and was doing well. 
 
 There 's romance for you ! and I do contend 
 
 The story has a very floury end; 
 
 And up to standard too, as legends go ; 
 
 So, should you want my aid, pray let me know. 
 
 But there are county legends quite enough, 
 
 And far more readable than this mad stuff,
 
 56 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 And spots of interest of substantial sort, 
 Thus there 's no need to fiction to resort. 
 
 From Newton Abbot, strike out any way, 
 And there are spots which richly will repay 
 The tourist for the trouble he may take 
 To keep his eye for beauty, wide awake. 
 To Coombeinteignhead, on a sunny day, 
 And pretty Highweek too, with verdure gay ; 
 Or stroll to Wolborough, where sweet flowers grace 
 The graves about this pretty resting-place ; 
 Or on to Haytor, whose bold crown we leave 
 To come upon the far-famed Lustleigh Cleeve 
 A spot so beautiful, romantic, wild, 
 With massive granite rocks fantastic piled, 
 As if some giant army here had fought, 
 And all the hugest stones in Britain brought 
 To crush each other in a wild melee. 
 Leaving the battle-field as now we see 
 The quiet town of Moreton, Fingle Bridge, 
 And breezy Sharptor, with its mossy ridge, 
 Old Cranbrook Castle, from whose pleasant height 
 Do we behold a panoramic sight ; 
 From here we see near half the county o'er, 
 And glimpses of the lands beyond the Moor, 
 Whilst here and there stand out before the eye 
 The mighty Tors, which seem to touch the sky.
 
 NEWTON AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. 57 
 
 From Newton, Bovey Tracey 's quickly reached, 
 And there a spot on which John Wesley preached. 
 I wish that " spot " was by his spirit haunted, 
 For, looking round, just here 'tis sadly wanted. 
 Need I write more of Bovey in this space ? 
 There 's too much " Rit " already 'bout the place. 
 Not far from here is Chudleigh's famous vale, 
 Of which they tell a most romantic tale : 
 How once an ancient Baron's only child 
 By pixies to the cavern was beguiled, 
 And there surrounded by a fairy ring, 
 And forced to marry with the pixy king. 
 But we can't spare the time just now to dwell 
 Upon the pixy lore of Chudleigh dell ; 
 But back to Newton, where the quaint old tower 
 Suggests the time when the Third William's power 
 Was in its birth, and everything looked gay 
 As he of " Orange " proudly passed that way. 
 
 Let us in fancy look upon the scene 
 
 The loud huzzahs as William crossed the Teign, 
 
 The " proclamation," and the cringing lords, 
 
 Who smiled and wept and played their double cards, 
 
 Not feeling sure his game would bring success, 
 
 And so desired to 'scape an awkward mess ; 
 
 Feasted and feted, yet felt half afraid 
 
 To take a side until his mark he 'd made.
 
 58 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Talk of the good old times, the golden days, 
 Which maudlin poets sing in funereal lays, 
 As if they felt like beings broken-hearted 
 At all worth having in this world departed ! 
 I Ve only one wish with regard to these : 
 It is that every gushing bard who sees 
 In days of yore so very much to praise- 
 That he himself had lived in those blest days ; 
 Of this we should be pretty sure, at least, 
 That by this time his ravings would have ceased. 
 
 But I must pause, as p'rhaps the time will be 
 When critics n ay with truth complain of me ; 
 And as next week we stroll a pleasant way, 
 I '11 not be spiteful, nor desire to say 
 A single word to mar the pleasant flow 
 Of sociability, as on we go, 
 O'er hill and dale, rich in primeval traces, 
 Towards Torquay, " the queen of watering-places."
 
 TORQUAY, 
 
 BY WAY OF BABBICOMBE, ANSTEY'S COVE, 
 MAR\CHURCH, AND BISHOPSTOWE. 
 
 NDULGENT reader, see, I Ve kept my word, 
 Although our rambles have been oft deferred ; 
 And yet not always has it been my fault 
 That on our journey we saw fit to halt. 
 Then on we go, yet must our steps retrace, 
 As Shaldon was to be our starting-place, 
 To reach Torquay along the line of coast, 
 Which doth such charming bays and inlets boast. 
 No wonder Dibdin, when he came this way, 
 Was heard (when looking on the sea) to say, 
 " Thank heaven, we can at invaders smile, 
 Whilst on our little, right, tight, sea-girt isle ! " 
 Dibdin ; s correct. Dame Nature has done much 
 For England's strength and beauty by her touch.
 
 60 POETIC P1CTUKES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Here land and ocean and the azure sky 
 Seem (though in pleasant harmony) to vie ; 
 Surely our island (from the moon) must be 
 Like some rich gem set in a silver sea. 
 
 If any reader of my mazy flow 
 Has not enjoyed this pleasant ramble, go 
 At once ; for, take my word, you should not miss 
 The pleasure you Ml experience in this. 
 And, even now as we are strolling on, 
 We scarcely are aware how far we Ve gone ; 
 For here is Babbicombe, a rising place, 
 Upon whose rocks can friend Pengelly trace 
 When feet pre-Adamite had trod this way, 
 And makes ten thousand years as but a day. 
 And quiet Marychurch, with villas bright, 
 Presents a picturesque and pleasant sight ; 
 Indeed, there's not just here an inch of ground 
 Where something worthy notice is not found. 
 And now we come upon famed Anstey's Cove, 
 Which looks as if the god of thunder, Jove, 
 Had, in a towering passion, madly hurled 
 One of his thunder-bolts upon the world, 
 Which fell just here, and split the rock in two, 
 Leaving the lovely chasm which we view. 
 Here is the spot, indeed, for pleasant rambles, 
 For soft flirtations, and for rocky scrambles.
 
 TO TORQUAY. 61 
 
 Descending mazy winding paths, we reach 
 
 A most delightful creek and charming beach, 
 
 O'er which the sparkling breakers from the sea 
 
 Come dancing on in buoyant ecstasy, 
 
 Making the marble fragments on the strand 
 
 Shine as if polished by some fairy hand 
 
 A place where Neptune well might hold his court, 
 
 And bashful mermaids demi-nude disport. 
 
 'Tis so sequestered, cosy, and retired, 
 
 A poet here must feel himself inspired. 
 
 Pardon the joke, but what romantic Miss 
 
 Could other than admire a cove like this ? 
 
 But oh, support me, what is this I see ? 
 
 Can I believe my eyes ? It cannot be. 
 
 A rival poet here ! Can it be true ? 
 
 Yes, and by all that 's vile, a " Thomas " too. 
 
 Here 's his production, placed, for all to read, 
 
 Upon a board. To copy I proceed : 
 
 " All pleasure-seekers who would rove, 
 Must come and stay at Anstey's Cove; 
 For pleasure-boats are all at hand, 
 And boil tea-water on the strand. 
 His boats are always neat and trim ; 
 He also teaches young ladies to swim" 
 
 Shades of my now departed great conceit, 
 I never thought in Europe I should meet
 
 62 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Another Thomas who could doggerel write, 
 
 So I resolved to call him out to fight. 
 
 " Th' usurper shall not live," I madly said. 
 
 "A rival, and a Thomas oh, my head !" 
 
 I hurried down, I felt a taste for blood ! 
 
 But slipped my foot, and got a taste of mud. 
 
 Ah ! there he is, I see, without his coat, 
 
 Tarring the bottom of a pleasure-boat. 
 
 " Is your name Thomas ?" " Certainly," said he. 
 
 "What poet wrote on yonder board?" "Why me." 
 
 " Then die !" To say this, I'd a great desire, 
 
 But saw his tar-brush and a blazing fire ; 
 
 Besides, he weighed at least a dozen %core, 
 
 And so I thought I 'd better say no more. 
 
 But I resolved to come out after supper, 
 
 Rub out my name, and write up " Martin Tupper." 
 
 Then some, no doubt, will call the stanza fine ; 
 
 But I don't care, so long as 't isn't mine. 
 
 The thing will come to Tupper's ears, no doubt, 
 
 And 'tis for him to come and fight it out. 
 
 I'm off, and "he who writes and runs away," 
 
 Of course, "will live to write another day."
 
 BISHOPSTOWS AND KENT'S CAVERN. 
 
 OME, Mr. Thomas, what are you about ? 
 Have you at last, then, run your journey out? 
 Nearly a month, and not a word to say ? 
 If not spun out, what means this long delay ?" 
 These are the sounds which ring upon mine ear, 
 Morn, noon, and night, and very much I fear 
 
 'Tis not in fancy only they are heard. 
 
 About the journey I Ve so long deferred, 
 
 I'll tell the secret if you've no objection. 
 
 Well, then, my friends, 'twas Exeter election, 
 
 Which gave " yours truly " something more to do 
 
 Than skipping gaily round the coast with you. 
 
 Besides, there's lots of time to ramble o'er 
 
 Devonia's beauty spots ere Eighty-four. 
 
 Thus much, by way of introduction. So, 
 
 With your kind approbation on we '11 go,
 
 64 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 But not before I wish, with all my heart, 
 
 The season's compliments. And now we'll start. 
 
 If you remember, when we parted last 
 From Anstey's Cove we all were running fast ; 
 That is, departed in a hurried way, 
 And of the cause I wish no more to say. 
 But, surely, you '11 admit 'twas very hard 
 That I should meet another doggerel bard 
 Just at the very time I thought I 'd found 
 For my Pegasus a new trotting-ground. 
 But that is past, and now we '11 onward go 
 Towards Torquay by way of Bishopstowe : 
 A snug retreat, almost a princely one, 
 Whose towers are glistening in the autumn sun. 
 'Twas here Old Exon's Bishop calmly passed 
 His latter days, and here he breathed his last ; 
 But even here, with everything serene, 
 His life much like the sea below had been. 
 Sometimes a gentle ripple crossed his face, 
 And very oft that ripple would give place 
 To such a tempest as would nearly shake 
 The diocese, and make his clergy quake. 
 Here the pugnacious prelate, so they say, 
 Had done much legal business in his day ; 
 In fact, 'tis said, he'd such a taste for law 
 That in an instant he 'd detect a flaw,
 
 BISHOPSTOWE AND KENT'S CAVERN. 65 
 
 And Nisi Prius lost a son of fame 
 When Exon's Bishop Henry became. 
 Methinks I see the patriarch prelate now, 
 With lip compressed, and closely-wrinkled brow, 
 Contending that to fate he was a martyr, 
 When in a certain case he " caught a Tartar." 
 The " Cream of Tartars " too, that one he caught, 
 Who wrote him up, and bravely set at naught 
 The mighty influence some wielded then, 
 To crush the Western "giant of the pen." 
 And Henry Phillpotts, snugly sheltered here 
 From care and strife, a spiritual peer, 
 Enjoyed in peace and calm his latter days, 
 With nothing to disturb ; at least so says 
 His own biographer, who ought to know 
 How passed his life at lovely Bishopstowe. 
 I think, if Henry were alive just now, 
 He 'd have his work cut out to 'scape a row ; 
 And Exon's Frederick, I 'm inclined to think, 
 Will not much longer be content to wink 
 At all the ultra-Ritualistic work 
 Which he or someone else will have to burke. 
 But there 's no need to trouble or to fear, 
 Though apathetic he may now appear, 
 We cannot think the liberal hand that hurled. 
 At bigots, " Education of the World," 
 Could aught but take a firm, defiant line 
 'Gainst all who would plain doctrine undermine. 
 F
 
 66 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 But modern musings for awhile we '11 end, 
 And into famed Kent's Cavern we '11 descend - 
 Whose walls fantastic glisten strangely bright. 
 Just as they gleamed ere Moses saw the light. 
 On no account, dear tourist, should you miss 
 A place so full of interest as this ; 
 The caves of stalactite, which clearly prove 
 That this round ball on which we live and move 
 Was rolling on through space at such a time 
 That no amount of figures can define. 
 Come, " theologic students," to this cave, 
 And, in your deep research, much time 'twill save, 
 For Nature here unerringly displays 
 Her truthful teachings in a thousand ways. 
 But there 's no time to tarry longer here, 
 For I have kept you much too long, I fear, 
 Upon our journey. But at length we see 
 England's " Montpellier," genial Torquay. 
 And here spread out is such a varied feast, 
 That we '11 devote to it a page at least : 
 And there 's a legend also I Ve to tell 
 Of old Torre Abbey. So, till then, farewell.
 
 IN &ITD AROUND TORQUAY. 
 
 jHO would have thought it, fifty years ago, 
 That that small fishing village, Torre, would 
 
 grow 
 
 To such a splendid town as we to-day 
 See smiling proudly on the noble bay ! 
 It doubtless seems to some a little while, 
 
 When Torrites had to travel many a mile 
 
 To do their shopping, up to Totnes town, 
 
 The nearest market ; but its great renown 
 
 Had not at that time reached its famous height, 
 
 Nor had the mystic " Mum " beheld the light. 
 
 Of Totnes now no more I wish to say, 
 
 As I shall stumble o'er it on my way ; 
 
 So let us look around a little while 
 
 Upon this cosy inlet of our isle, 
 
 Where invalids recruit their failing powers ; 
 
 This sheltered nursery for drooping flowers ;
 
 68 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 This earthly paradise of those who see 
 
 The bliss of life all centred in ennui. 
 
 Where is the humble fisherman's abode 
 
 Which stood where now we see the Abbey-road ? 
 
 The nets hung out to dry upon the land 
 
 We promenade to-day, and call the Strand ? 
 
 The rugged heights, whose sheltered nooks among 
 
 The white-winged sea birds built and reared their young, 
 
 Are now with stately villas dotted o'er, 
 
 Studding, as if with gems, the verdant shore, 
 
 Which from the bay, at eve, presents a sight 
 
 As from a page in the Arabian Night . 
 
 The charming terraces, the rides, the drives. 
 
 And mansions peeping like colossal hives, 
 
 With mimic battlements, and graceful towers 
 
 Above the labyrinth of shrubs and flowers. 
 
 For Torquay Nature has done very much. 
 
 Whilst man has given the artistic touch. 
 
 In fact, on every hand fresh proofs we meet 
 
 Of what a most desirable retreat 
 
 Torquay must be, to that thrice happy few 
 
 With nothing in particular to do. 
 
 On Daddy Hole, the tourist is repaid 
 
 For any little sacrifice he : s made 
 
 In walking up the hill, and he '11 admit 
 
 All Beslc^s Guide Book says concerning it. 
 
 The eye is gratified, turn any way, 
 
 The spread of ocean, and the charming bay,
 
 IN AND AROUND TORQUA Y. 69 
 
 With distant landscape, making up a scene 
 Which gives Torquay the title " Devon's Queen." 
 
 Oh, restless Britons, who are not content 
 Unless ye gallop to the Continent. 
 And suffer martyrdom both night and day, 
 Just for the pleasure (when returned) to say, 
 The scenery (you scarcely saw) was fine, 
 And go in fits about the lovely Rhine ! 
 Pray look around upon the land and sea, 
 And tell me if you think that there can be 
 A spot where varied beauties so combine, 
 To make what Ruskin would pronounce sublime. 
 Poets inspired have oft been heard to sing 
 A hundred lines upon some village stump ; 
 In gushing pathos, make the welkin ring, 
 With strains ecstatic on the parish pump. 
 Whilst some will soar away to Timbuctoo ; 
 Through continental odours love to roam, 
 Or rave of cloudless skies transparent blue, 
 Unconscious of the beauties nearer home. 
 Why spoil your pleasures in ascending hills 
 Enough to break the lungs instead of healing, 
 Or run away to foreign rippling rills, 
 And cheat yourself with false romantic feeling ? 
 There 's little need, my dear romantic friend, 
 To search half o'er the Continent in quest
 
 70 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Of what you '11 find, if you 're inclined to spend 
 A day or two in this our lovely West. 
 Go, praise the Grecian Isles, all green and gold, 
 Or from the Righi watch the setting sun ; 
 But here, on Torquay heights, can we behold 
 These varied beauties blended into one. 
 
 There's just a little drawback I can see 
 To all this excellence in dear Torquay 
 The houses are so one above the other 
 That, should Old Cole desire to make a smother, 
 His upper neighbours, as is more than fair, 
 Come in, of course, for quite a double share ; 
 Or should Binks have a party, you may know 
 The sort of thing they 're cooking down below ; 
 Or should friend Toddy miss his way at night, 
 Down Busby's chimney he may take his flight. 
 But this is levity, and just like me, 
 If anything grotesque I chance to see ; 
 No matter what, or how sublime the point, 
 All sentiment at once gets out of joint. 
 " 'Tis but one step," they say, " from the sublime 
 To the ridiculous," and in my rhyme 
 Behold that step. 
 
 But stop ! I Ve filled my space, 
 And so must ask another week of grace.
 
 IN AND AROUND TORQUAY. 71 
 
 Besides I hav 'nt told my legend yet, 
 Which, if all 's well, next issue you shall get. 
 
 About Torquay itself, I think I 've said 
 
 In my past rambles plenty on that head ; 
 
 And those who have not read my running rhymes 
 
 Can find them in the Devon Weekly Times. 
 
 So let 's be off at once, my friends. " But stay ! 
 
 Where is your legend of the Abbey, pray ? " 
 
 " Come, enter in, and view the ruin old, 
 
 Of which there 's many a tale romantic told. 
 
 These fine old trees, this ivy-covered cell, 
 
 This ruined chapel, could their stories tell. 
 
 A cloister here, whose walls are written o'er 
 
 With strange devices, and upon the floor 
 
 A crest, well-nigh by time trod out, we see, 
 
 And on it cut the letters H and B." 
 
 " Why look you," said our guide, " upon that stone ? 
 
 " Ah ! generations, my good sir, have flown 
 
 Since Hugh de Bruiere gave the Church these lands 
 
 To ease his weary heart and cleanse his hands. 
 
 Tis worth the telling ; would you like to hear 
 
 The history of those letters written there ? 
 
 Then, as the shades of evening gather round. 
 
 And sighing breezes mingle with the sound 
 
 Of wavelets breaking gently on the shore, 
 
 I will recite the Abbey legend o'er."
 
 72 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 5De 
 
 A LEGEND OF TORRE ABBEY. 
 
 The news came over from Palestine, 
 
 That many a brave young knight 
 Had spilt his blood on Ascalon's plain, 
 
 And fallen in the fight. 
 It told how Coeur de Lion fought 
 
 With Saladin the foe ; 
 And how he smote the Saracens 
 
 With many a deadly blow ; 
 And Richard's loud appeal for aid 
 
 Was echoed through the land, 
 Till brave hearts panted with desire 
 
 To join the knightly band, 
 And crush the " haughty infidel," 
 
 Whose " vile, accursed race 
 Had dared deny us pilgrimage 
 
 To that most holy place." 
 Fond mothers bade their sons prepare 
 
 To join their warrior king ; 
 Fair maidens bade their lovers go, 
 
 And make all Europe ring 
 With their undaunted bravery 
 
 Upon the battle-field ;
 
 IN AND AROUND TORQUA Y. 73 
 
 Whilst fathers blessed their sons, and cried, 
 
 " Better to die than yield." 
 The flower of many a noble house, 
 
 With willing heart and brave, 
 Beneath the waving " cross of red," 
 
 Went eastward to his grave. 
 
 De Bruiere sought his lady love, 
 
 The pride of Ilsham's line ; 
 " In life or death," he calmly said, 
 
 " Sweet Hester, I am thine." 
 "What mean those words !" the lady cried, 
 
 " My lord, why look so pale ?" 
 He gently kissed her brow, and said, 
 
 " To-morrow we set sail." 
 She threw her arms about his neck, 
 
 He tenderly caressed 
 The maiden's slender form, as she 
 
 Still wept upon his breast : 
 " Oh, leave me not, so soon," she cried ; 
 
 "At least, another day!" 
 " Ah ! tempt me not," De Bruiere replied, 
 
 '" Wouldst thou have me delay 
 Our lion-hearted king's commands ? 
 
 And wouldst thou have me show 
 Less courage than De Pomeroy?" 
 
 She slowly answered, " Go !
 
 74 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Thou wouldst indeed unworthy be, 
 
 And I of thy true love. 
 Oh, may the angels kindly guard 
 
 And watch thee from above !'' 
 
 The moon upon the noble bay 
 
 Shed forth a silvery light, 
 The lovers stood upon the beach 
 
 And watched the ripples bright ; 
 She vowed no power but death should rend 
 
 The sacred love she bore. 
 " 'Twill cheer my heart," De Bruiere said. 
 
 " When on that distant shore, 
 To know that thou, my worldly joy, 
 
 Wilt to the Virgin kneel, 
 And ask that she may intercede 
 
 For thy De Bruiere's weal." 
 She took a jasper rosary, 
 
 And hung it on his breast ; 
 He on her finger placed a ring, 
 
 With the De Bruiere crest. 
 " My father gave my mother this, 
 
 Which now I give to thee ; 
 And let it, as it was with them, 
 
 A sacred plighting be."'
 
 IN AND AROUND TORQUA Y. 75 
 
 The cliffs of dear old Albion 
 
 Had faded from the sight 
 Of that brave band, who longed to join 
 
 King Richard in the fight. 
 The Courtenays, the De Pomeroys, 
 
 And Totness, each had sent 
 A scion to the holy wars, 
 
 When Hugh de Bruiere went. 
 The Lady Hester sighed and sung, 
 
 And mourned her lonely state ; 
 A weary year had passed, and yet 
 
 No tidings of his fate. 
 At length De Pomeroy returned, 
 
 The fatal news he spread, 
 That " Lion Heart " a captive was, 
 
 And Hugh de Bruiere dead. 
 De Pomeroy sought the lady fair, 
 
 Told how "her brave young knight," 
 Among the band of Devon's sons, 
 
 Fell foremost in the fight. 
 He told her how the coward foe 
 
 Had smote him as he fell 
 She bade him oft, with tearful eyes, 
 
 The fatal story tell. 
 She mourned her knight, as lady should ; 
 
 But Pomeroy was there, 
 He 'd loved her long in secret, and 
 
 She listened to his prayer.
 
 76 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 For scarce a year had passed away, 
 
 \Vhen Ilsham's joy and pride 
 Was greeted by De Pomeroy 
 
 As his affianced bride. 
 And yet he knew Ue Bruiere was 
 
 A captive with his king- 
 But he knew not his wedding bells 
 
 A fatal peal would ring ! 
 
 The morn was bright and sunny, 
 
 Old Ilsham Grange looked gay. 
 And flags on Berry Pomeroy waved, 
 
 For 'twas a wedding day. 
 The waters sparkled in the sun, 
 
 And Nature lent her charms 
 To gild the arch of roses 
 
 Which bore the lovers' arms. 
 The bells of Mary and of Torre 
 
 Sent forth their peals of joy ; 
 De Pomeroy's cup of bliss that morn 
 
 To him had no alloy. 
 Old Ilsham's chapel altar blazed, 
 
 And nobles of the shire 
 Were gathered 'neath the sacred roof, 
 
 When Lady Hester's sire, 
 The blushing maiden in his hand, 
 
 Walked proudly up the aisle
 
 IN AND AROUND TORQUAY. 77 
 
 (The way with fragrant flowers bestrewed), 
 
 And with paternal smile 
 He greeted Lord de Pomeroy : 
 
 " Sir Knight, thou 'st bravely won 
 The richest jewel of our house 
 
 I greet thee as my son !" 
 The robed priests had raised the host, 
 
 And blessed the noble pair, 
 De Pomeroy led his lady forth, 
 
 She seemed surpassing fair. 
 And if the " bride on whom the sun 
 
 Shines out " is blest, then she 
 Was doubly blest the golden light 
 
 Was shed on land and sea. 
 
 The firmament is thick with stars, 
 
 And noiseless ripples play 
 Around a ship from Germany, 
 
 Just anchored in the bay. 
 Strange phosphorescent light is seen 
 
 By watchers on the strand 
 'Tis from the splash of oars a boat 
 
 Is hastening to the land. 
 For Hugh de Bruiere had returned, 
 
 His king once more was free. 
 He bade the boatmen ply their oars, 
 
 For, oh ! he longed to see
 
 78 POETIC PICTURES Oh' SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 His love, and clasp her in his arms, 
 
 And tell his story o'er ; 
 To press her fondly to his heart, 
 
 And leave her side no more. 
 They neared the shoi. De Bruicre's heart 
 
 Leapt at the welcome sight. 
 But Ilsham Grange seemed from the bay 
 
 As in a blaze of light. 
 " What means all this? I never saw 
 
 The place so gaily decked, 
 And on the waters of the bay 
 
 A thousand lights reflect. 
 They surely could not hear the news, 
 
 That we at length are free ! 
 Oh, I had hoped my lady love 
 
 Had heard it first from me ! " 
 He leaped upon the rugged shore : 
 
 A fisherman stood by. 
 " Good friend, the Grange seems gay to-night, 
 
 Canst tell the reason why ?'' 
 " In truth, I can. Do you not know," 
 
 The fisherman replied, 
 " That Lady Hester has become 
 
 Young Lord de Pomeroy's bride?" 
 De Bruiere felt a thrill of ice, 
 
 Yet showed he no surprise, 
 Though all the lights of Ilsham Grange 
 
 Seemed dancing fore his eyes.
 
 IN AND AKOUND TORQUAY. 79 
 
 " We mourned with her our brave young lord ; 
 
 But soon she gave her. hand 
 To him who 'd brought the fatal news 
 
 Home from the Holy Land." 
 'Twas then he saw the treachery, 
 
 For to De Pomeroy's care 
 A message he 'd intrusted 
 
 Could she be false as fair ? 
 Impossible ! "Pray tell me, friend, 
 
 If thou indeed art sure 
 The noble lady wed to-day 
 
 Is she who mourned De Bruiere?" 
 Unknown he learnt the story, 
 
 And knew she thought him dead. 
 He knelt upon the sand, and swore 
 
 Revenge upon his head. 
 
 Next day, at Castle Pomeroy, 
 
 Its lord could not be found. 
 The night came on, and through the wood 
 
 The torches glared around. 
 At length a peasant brought report 
 
 That, floating on the Dart, 
 They_'d found the Lord de Pomeroy 
 
 With a dagger through his heart. 
 That night the ring De Bruiere gave 
 
 Her who had mourned him dead
 
 8o POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Was missing, and a rosary 
 
 Was hanging in its stead. 
 Not long had death to watch and wait 
 
 For one who longed to go 
 Where "weary spirits* are at rest," 
 
 And leave this vale below. 
 For many years beside the grave 
 
 Where Lady Hester lay, 
 A monk in prayer was often seen ; 
 
 But all have passed away. 
 There 's little left of Ilsham Grange, 
 
 'Tis gone as all things must 
 The Abbey Hugh de Bruiere built 
 
 Has crumbled into dust. 
 Yet, as we stand amid the wreck, 
 
 The sunbeams glancing through, 
 We sigh at Lady Hester's fate, 
 
 And wonder if 'twas true !
 
 ROUND THS BAY TO P&IGITTOXT. 
 
 Y legend 's finished. Did I go too far 
 In the " grandiloquent ' ; on love and war ? 
 'Twas my intention to have written more, 
 But heaps of letters cried, " Give o'er ! give 
 
 o'er!" 
 
 One neat epistle, to my great surprise, 
 Hinted my legend was " a pack of lies." 
 One writer, " Hob-nailed Boots," was pleased to say, 
 He 'd greet me warmly if I 'd come his way. 
 
 Another billet-doux said, " Mister T , 
 
 We 've got a hoss-pond that you ought to see, 
 It 's got a legend that you ought to know : 
 Come down at once." I don't intend to go ! 
 I think it only right, when there 's a chance, 
 To lead my readers a romantic dance ; 
 And hereabout materials are plenty 
 Enough, I 'm sure, to manufacture twenty, 
 c
 
 Sa POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Then, where 's the harm, when there is such a held, 
 
 If I should to the " ruling passion " yield ? 
 
 I 'rn not the only poet, goodness knows, 
 
 Who excavates his legends as he goes. 
 
 Think of what " Ingoldsby " in this could do 
 
 And he a Church of England parson, too ! 
 
 " Too sentimental !" Was it? P'rhaps you 're right : 
 
 But don't attempt to check my fancy's flight, 
 
 For whilst I make romance and history blend, 
 
 And at the same time faithfully attend 
 
 To all the local points as we proceed 
 
 Along our pleasant way, there 's little need 
 
 To stick at trifles, or be over nice 
 
 What would most dishes be without the spice ? 
 
 Yet, bear in mind, 'tis farthest from my wish 
 
 That I should cook, and so prepare my dish 
 
 To tickle palates only for the minute, 
 
 With nothing we may call substantial in it. 
 
 Rather than this at once I 'd drop my pen, 
 
 And take "Take what?" Why, take it up again. 
 
 Thank you, dear reader, your advice is kind, 
 
 So let 's proceed. 
 
 And now we leave behind 
 The " modern Naples," which, across the bay, 
 I ,ooks much as if the fays had passed that way, 
 And, seeing Nature had done well her part, 
 Added the graceful requisites of art ;
 
 ROUND THE BAY TO PAIGNTON. 83 
 
 So that the proverb, in which poets boast 
 
 That " Nature unadorned 's adorned the most," 
 
 In this fair region is not to the letter, 
 
 For Nature well adorned here looks the better. 
 
 The cliffs, as on we stroll, present a sight 
 
 That must the geologic mind delight. 
 
 In the " red sandstone " here a proof is seen, 
 
 Not of what might have, but what must have been. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas here great Newton rambled o'er, 
 
 Speaking of man with pebbles on the shore. 
 
 Yes, mid the strata countless years have piled, 
 
 Man is, as Newton said, "a wondering child." 
 
 We slowly ramble o'er the rugged beach, 
 Mid countless wave-worn fissures, till we reach 
 The town of Paignton, which to senses fine 
 Smells rather strong of well, say "iodine." 
 Don't be afraid its flavour to inhale, 
 This fishy seaweed, though a little stale. 
 Fastidious invalids ! in fact, all who 
 Come to Torquay for health, a word with you : 
 Go round to Paignton twice a week at least, 
 Let your " olfactories " on the seaweed feast ; 
 Unpleasant p'rhaps at first, but sniff away, 
 And very soon you '11 be inclined to say, 
 No more with Frangipani you '11 anoint 
 Your snowy handkerchiefs; and out of joint
 
 84 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Will be great Rimmell's nose, for you '11 declare 
 His perfumes are eclipsed by Paignton air. 
 If anyone will take this " sage" advice, 
 And thus regain what is beyond all price, 
 Pray don't forget the reckless scribbling elf, 
 Who ran the risk, and tried it on himself. 
 What 's that, dear reader, you are pleased to say ? 
 " No risk at all, or I 'd have run away ? " 
 Oh, thank you kindly, you are too polite 
 Though, after all, I think perhaps you're right. 
 
 Come, let us for a moment glance around, 
 
 And see what beauty spots are to be found. 
 
 The little town some trace doth still retain, 
 
 In places, of the Norman and the Dane : 
 
 The Church St. John, whose massive antique door 
 
 Suggests the time when " Orange Will " came o'er ; 
 
 The crumbling palace where the Bishops dwelt, 
 
 And where the good Miles Coverdale oft knelt 
 
 To pray " that all mankind might be at peace," 
 
 And ask a blessing on his diocese, 
 
 With true humility his head would bow 
 
 I wonder if the Bishops do it now ! 
 
 Doubtless they do these meek and lowly men, 
 
 Whose lives so imitate the One who, when 
 
 He trod this earth, went joyous on His way, 
 
 With something less than thirty pounds a day.
 
 ROUND THE BAY TO PAIGNTON. 85 
 
 But things are altered now, and " things are dear," 
 And I must drop that little subject now, for fear 
 Of bringing down the " clargey " on my toes, 
 And making Bishops long to pull my nose. 
 
 Some pleasant walks, and drives, and villas neat, 
 
 And well-stocked shops ; and here and there we meet 
 
 The bronzed faces of old Neptune's crew, 
 
 With very much the look of " well-to-do." 
 
 Then, strolling down towards the bay, we see 
 
 Some signs of commerce on a well-built quay. 
 
 In all a busy place need I say more? 
 
 And now is just the time to view it o'er 
 
 Rich in fine orchards, looking bright and gay, 
 
 Like Nature's bride upon her wedding-day. 
 
 The birds are singing mid the blossom white ; 
 
 The sun's decline reflects a golden light 
 
 Upon the dancing waters, as we say, 
 
 " Paignton, adieu ! " For we have now to pay 
 
 A visit to old Brixham, rich in lore, 
 
 So for the time I think I '11 say no more.
 
 IN AND AROUND BRIXH&M. 
 
 all the seasons, Spring the welcome Spring ! 
 Don't be alarmed ! I 'm not about to sing 
 Or write a dozen stanzas in its praise, 
 The thing 's been done too many times and ways ; 
 There 's not a rhymester who 's not tried to turn 
 The handle of the great poetic churn ; 
 
 And, I 'in afraid, should I attempt to cull 
 
 From Poesy's spring garden, I should " mull." 
 
 How can I hope to churn, by what I utter, 
 
 The milk that 's been well skimmed to fresh spring butter. 
 
 Upon your patience I 've presumed too much ; 
 
 In your forbearance there 's a martyr's touch. 
 
 To follow me along and never tire, 
 
 'Twill all your strength and all your faith require. 
 
 As yet but one refuses to proceed 
 
 Of his remarks I pray you take no need. 
 
 He had the taste the bad taste to infer 
 
 The road we take leads on to Exminster.
 
 IN AND AROUND BRIXHAM. 87 
 
 That 's not the reason why he 's given out ; 
 The secret is, poor man, he 's got the gout ; 
 So let 's without him follow up our plan, 
 And leave him to get back as best he can. 
 For here is Brixham ; and I 've lots to say 
 About this spot ere we pursue our way. 
 
 To reach this famous town by land or sea, 
 
 The lynx-eyed tourist on his way will be 
 
 Pleased beyond measure at the glimpses rare 
 
 Of land and sea around him everywhere. 
 
 Let 's take the higher ground. The sun shines bright, 
 
 And here the tourist gets a splendid sight ; 
 
 At every step the landscape seems to change, 
 
 There 's a fresh aspect in the distant range : 
 
 The spots we 've seen before appear quite new, 
 
 Entirely transformed. 
 
 Yet another view 
 
 Hope's Ness, Shag Rock, the Start, and Berry Head, 
 The hills across the bay the eye is led 
 On and around, till one feels quite inspired 
 To turn a poet but there 's none required ; 
 Too many poets are there in the field, 
 All jealous of each other none will yield 
 The palm, and would most readily knock down 
 Him who would dare to claim the " laurel crown."
 
 88 POETIC PICTURES O/- SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 There 's Tibbs the chemist, " I," and Billy Green, 
 
 And Jones the barber, who declares he 's seen 
 
 Nothing in Shakspere that could venture near 
 
 His celebrated " Ode to Table Beer." 
 
 'Tis true there's Byron, Tennyson, Longfellow, 
 
 " Whose songs," says Quizby, " only fools should bellow ;" 
 
 Whilst Bunk, the baker, twenty times has said, 
 
 "When 'Joipkins' dies the muses will be dead." 
 
 So poets by the gross are to be had. 
 
 No more ! or we shall drive our readers mad. 
 
 Hail ! Lords of Brixham ! masters of the ground 
 On which the Prince of Orange safely found 
 A footing firm ! do I now dedicate 
 These lines to you ; and should it be my fate 
 That you approve nor wish to make protest, 
 Then shall your scribe indeed be doubly blest. 
 
 Perhaps, my readers, you are not aware, 
 
 That almost every fisherman 's a share 
 
 In Brixham Manor, which their grandsires bought, 
 
 And it 's as good a fish as e'er they caught ;' 
 
 'Twas in the reign, I think, of good Queen Anne, 
 
 The owner of the manor formed a plan 
 
 By which to raise the wind, and pay his debts, 
 
 I think he 'd lost a lot on racing bets.
 
 IN AND AROUND BRIXHAM. 89 
 
 He pawned the manor to twelve fishermen, 
 
 And couldn't " raise " to take it out again ; 
 
 He sold the ticket to a dozen more, 
 
 Who subdivided with another score, 
 
 Until of " Brixham Quay lords " you may meet 
 
 Almost enough to fully man the fleet. 
 
 The town of Brixham, so Macaulay says, 
 
 Has played her part in history many ways ; 
 
 But time and space, I find, will not allow 
 
 Our party to proceed much further now. 
 
 And there 's so much to say, I think it best 
 
 That till next week we '11 take a little rest, 
 
 When, by your leave (I Ve got my jottings down), 
 
 We '11 ramble o'er, and criticise the town. 
 
 I hope the " noble lords of Brixham " may 
 
 Not look on me as someone in the way, 
 
 Nor think that I with them have made too free, 
 
 And wish to dip me gratis in the sea. 
 
 I 'm quite aware it 's bathing time just now, 
 
 But I can't stand cold water anyhow. 
 
 No doubt they 'd do it in a friendly way, 
 
 And 'twould be beneficial, I dare say ; 
 
 Yet, ne'ertheless, with thanks I should decline, 
 
 At least, until the weather 's very fine.
 
 90 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVOID. 
 
 The Brixham salts can tell you many a tale 
 About the " Spaniards " and that dreadful gale ; 
 And they can show the stone, the " werry same," 
 Prince William stepped upon when first he came 
 On English soil, and so the story goes 
 He slipped his foot and almost broke his nose, 
 Although Macaulay doesn't tell us that ; 
 Some say he only fell, and smashed his hat. 
 This as it may, one fact is pretty clear, 
 The Prince of Orange doubtless landed here. 
 And since that day, no Briton can deny, 
 They 've landed larger fish and smaller fry ; 
 For Brixham 's now a noted fishing station, 
 And sends its finny produce through the nation. 
 The fish sometimes they send at night away 
 Is at the Lord Mayor's banquet served next day. 
 Her Majesty herself 's had many a dish 
 (And quite enjoyed it too) of Brixham fish. 
 Some writer calls it let us hope in fun 
 " The Western Billingsgate," and 'tis in one 
 Respect, because the Brixham lords have made 
 The place in fish transact the largest trade. 
 
 Some institutions good can Brixham boast, 
 As shall be found upon our wave-washed coast. 
 The Orphan Home, for bairns of those who sleep 
 Beneath the cruel billows of the deep.
 
 IN AND AROUND BRIXHAM. 91 
 
 Oh, sons of fortune, when your hearts are warm, 
 Think of the man who braves the fiercest storm, 
 And ne'er again beholds his blue-eyed boy, 
 That you may all the world's best fruits enjoy ! 
 Brave and undaunted Plimsoll, unto you 
 The thanks of all humanity are due. 
 Already does your " voice of warning " save 
 Full many a seaman from a deep-sea grave. 
 Go on, and prosper in thy holy cause ; 
 If there is aught deserving man's applause, 
 And recognition of the Power Divine, 
 Assuredly, friend Plimsoll, it is thine. 
 Of architectural beauty there 's not much 
 About the town on which we dare to touch. 
 It looks as if the builder, in a flurry 
 About some larger place, had in a hurry 
 Run up a makeshift town, until such day 
 As he could build it in a proper way. 
 It is, withal, a busy little place ; 
 Her sons of that true hardy English race ; 
 Of pretty daughters, too, we see a lot 
 But where in this fair county are they not ? 
 Not Brixham only, but throughout the shire, 
 Do we behold what doth the gods inspire. 
 No wonder Orange William tripped and fell ; 
 Perhaps on landing some fair Brixham belle 
 Was on the beach, and caught the prince's eye, 
 And then he caught his toe and there he lie.
 
 92 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 He 's not the only cautious, wise, discreet, 
 Who 's prostrate fall'n at fair Devonia's feet, 
 And who on terra firma safely feels, 
 When Beauty turns his head and trips his heels. 
 Long may their grace excel, long may their smile 
 Light this fair county "garden of our isle;" 
 And may we men live long so to admire 
 The lovely women of this " merrie shire." 
 
 " Thomas, wake up !" 1 started, looked around, 
 And, to my very great surprise, I found 
 Myself upon the still unfinished pier, 
 With two old lords of Brixham standing near, 
 Too near, in fact, for I heard one exclaim, 
 " All by hisself poor devil what a shame ! '' 
 " Get up, my man," said one, " or you '11 be drowned ! 
 Poor fellow 's daft." I started up, and frowned. 
 You should have seen these "nobles" jump apace. 
 I looked indignant, and I left the place ; 
 Went to the Queen's Hotel, and had some tea, 
 When presently a voice said, " There ; that 's he ' ' 
 And then I heard another fellow shout, 
 "They didn't ought to let such people out !" 
 Twas all alike; the landlord thought me wild ; 
 But, like Lord Hamlet, to myself I smiled. 
 He seemed too frightened to present the bill, 
 So I walked calmly off, and owe it still.
 
 BERRY HEAD. 
 
 ^* AST week I told you of that strange mistake 
 The Brixham people were about to make, 
 In thinking that I had "a tcte malade;" 
 I certainly was vexed, but 'twas too bad. 
 The landlord soon recovered from his fright, 
 For long before I 'd rambled out of sight 
 He sent the ostler and the boots to say, 
 " For my refreshment I 'd forgot to pay ! " 
 I thought I 'd better, and have no disputes, 
 Especially as both wore heavy boots, 
 So paid the money. As they went away 
 I heard that horrid boots distinctly say 
 Unto the ostler (who was rather deaf), 
 "Ah, he's a darned good deal more R than F !" 
 I thought that boots exceedingly low-bred, 
 But let him go for here is Berry Head.
 
 94 rOETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 My predecessors in the tourist line 
 
 Pronounce the scenery here as " very fine ;" 
 
 "1" would puzzle them, mid such a grand display, 
 
 To speak of it in any other way. 
 
 From the bold headland, upon which we stand, 
 
 A view extremely charming we command- 
 
 The bay entire, its rocks and inlets lie, 
 
 As in a convex mirror 'fore the eye. 
 
 How tranquil seems the sparkling bay below, 
 
 Yet its associations shadows throw, 
 
 \Vhich, as I close my eyes, resolve in form 
 
 To incidents historic, calm and storm. 
 
 Let us in fancy history's steps retrace 
 
 To one bright morning in "a year of grace." 
 
 Come, look with me, I '11 show you a strange sight ; 
 
 The waters of the bay are sparkling bright, 
 
 With countless craft its surface dotted o'er 
 
 A " water fair ;" whilst all around the shore 
 
 Thousands of anxious gazers strain their eyes 
 
 To catch a glimpse of the " illustrious prize :> 
 
 The Bellerophon as a captive brings ; 
 
 Whilst with the welcome news the country rings. 
 
 Yes, Bonaparte, " the terror of the world," 
 
 Who from their power had kings and princes hurled, 
 
 Had bearded popes, had crushed and set up thrones, 
 
 And dotted Europe o'er with bleaching bones ;
 
 BERRY HEAD. 95 
 
 This " god of France," her idol, pride, and boast, 
 
 Now gazed on by a gaping, sneering host, 
 
 Who swarm around to get the faintest sight 
 
 Of him whose future seems as blackest night. 
 
 And now a murmur sounds from sea and land, 
 
 As a stout form with telescope in hand 
 
 Steps on the quarter deck to gaze around, 
 
 And list in wonder to the murmuring sound. 
 
 Ah ! who shall say what thoughts engrossed his mind 
 
 Escaped from barren Elba ; but to find 
 
 Himself still deeper fallen. There he stands, 
 
 With saddened visage, as he clasps his hands 
 
 Behind him, just as he was wont to do 
 
 When from some eminence the fight he 'd view. 
 
 Behold the man, of whom, in bated breath 
 
 Princes would speak the man whose frown was death. 
 
 Oh, warrior ! where is all thy greatness now ? 
 
 Where are the laurels that adorned thy brow ? 
 
 Does this vast multitude upon the waves 
 
 Seem like the forms of thy departed braves 
 
 Gath'ring around (as when the trump shall call) 
 
 But to upbraid and mock thee in thy fall ? 
 
 For what has been thy sword thrust to the hilt 
 
 Into defenceless breasts ? for what hast spilt 
 
 A sea of precious life-blood ? History's story 
 
 Can answer fittest for thee " Glory ! glory !"
 
 96 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 The mariner who ploughs the trackless deep, 
 
 The Livingstones who far from loved ones sleep, 
 
 The sons of science, all who toil to find 
 
 Some lasting benefit for poor mankind 
 
 Though less to mark their deeds on stone we see 
 
 Are greater heroes than thou e'er canst be. 
 
 And was there nothing in thy abject fall, 
 
 To act as silent warning, or recall 
 
 Thy fatal steps to him who courted fame, 
 
 With little of thee in him but the name ? 
 
 And this he used till, like thyself, he fell ; 
 
 He knew not Caesar, though he wrote him well. 
 
 How strange in exile and misfortune's day, 
 
 That both should look upon this lovely bay ; 
 
 Was it the troubled spirit of the first, 
 
 Still lingering where his heart once well-nigh burst. 
 
 That drew the fated nephew to the spot, 
 
 That they together might bewail their lot ? 
 
 When I beheld the fallen Louis last, 
 
 Returning salutations as he passed, 
 
 I thought, as at my side he took a seat, 
 
 How changed since when I happened once to meet 
 
 By chance the Emperor with map and chart. 
 
 Ambitions peaceful only filled his heart ; 
 
 His soul's desire that Paris should be seen, 
 
 Of all the gorgeous capitals the Queen. 
 
 And better far had he still gone that way, 
 
 With no desire a larger game to play
 
 BERRY HEAD. 97 
 
 A game which brought him to King William's feet ; 
 
 And left him resting on a Torquay seat, 
 
 Looking more like a genial country squire, 
 
 Than he who had baptized his son in fire ; 
 
 But let ys drop the curtain. Who can tell ? 
 
 He might have wished to serve his country well. 
 
 Let 's not forget, this is no easy task, 
 
 When in the smiles of France men cease to bask 
 
 A people volatile, impulsive, vain, 
 
 Who when successful gloried in his reign, 
 
 And cheered him to destruction till he fell ; 
 
 Then they 'd consign him to the seventh hell. 
 
 Ah ! La Belle France, how oft caprice demands 
 
 A hero or a victim at thy hands. 
 
 But I must ope my eyes the sun has set, 
 And we have scarcely looked around as yet ; 
 Then pray excuse me till next week's impression, 
 When from the subject we'll have no digression. 
 I 'm glad, dear readers, you approve my plan 
 To make our tour as chatty as I can 
 In homely language, to be understood 
 By all who care to read my lines ; nor would 
 1 other than pursue our pleasant way, 
 With no attempts at rhetoric display, 
 Which often mars the even, easy flow, 
 And sacrifices sense for wordy show. 
 H
 
 98 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 The language of some poets is so grand, 
 
 That only they themselves can understand 
 
 The depth of eloquence and thought profound : 
 
 Each sentence breathes a spell, which twines around 
 
 The hapless reader till he cannot sit, 
 
 And has to take a walk to save a fit. 
 
 The only fits I hope to send you in 
 
 Are fits of laughter. And I trust to win, 
 
 Before I end these " pictures," many a smile, 
 
 Yet keep reality in view the while. 
 
 From Berry Head the tourist can select 
 
 A half-a-dozen places to inspect, 
 
 But, as we come upon them in our way, 
 
 We '11 go straight on, and thus prevent delay. 
 
 The tourist lots of noted spots can see 
 
 About this " very fine " locality, 
 
 The old bone caves adjoining Windmill Hill, 
 
 And traces of the " Roman Conquest " still 
 
 Are found. Encampments of a later date 
 
 Speak of the time which settled "BoneyV' fate 
 
 I mean, of course, our last " set to " with France, 
 
 When " Boney " led all Europe such a dance. 
 
 At that time, and in time of previous wars, 
 
 This headland housed a thousand sons of Mars.
 
 BERRY HEAD. 99 
 
 So many little trips about this part 
 
 The ancient family seats, the river Dart, 
 
 Of which, of course, in good time we shall speak, 
 
 The mystic Laywell spring, the Smugglers' Creek, 
 
 'Bout which a story 's told, and they declare 
 
 "'Tis perfect fact," though none of them are there. 
 
 So, as we're strolling on to Dartmouth town, 
 
 I '11 tell the story as I took it down 
 
 From a grandson of him whom 'tis about. 
 
 As for the truth well, you must find that out. 
 
 I 've searched the county records, but no trace 
 
 Is found there of its having taken place. 
 
 By the historian it has been forgotten, 
 
 And I believe not even Mr. Cotton 
 
 To whose research Devonia's thanks are due 
 
 For facts which, till he spoke, she never knew 
 
 Not even he, I think, the story knows. 
 
 And this alone, in my opinion, shows 
 
 That of the truth there 's reason grave to doubt, 
 
 So I shan't ask him lest he 'd kick me out, 
 
 But tell the story simply as I heard 
 
 (In prose) from Elliott's grandson, word for word. 
 
 I Ve turned it into rhyme, because it's best, 
 
 And gives imagination time to rest. 
 
 Yet, pray, don't think I wish to tell a crammer ; 
 
 I 'm not addicted, sirs, to sling the hammer. 
 
 Oh, you may look amazed, and laugh away, 
 
 I '11 tell the story, spite of what you say ;
 
 ioo POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Tis no encouragement to rack one's brains, 
 Then get one's statement doubted for one's pains. 
 
 Spirit of Chatterton ! who wrote a lot 
 
 Of poems, and poked them in the coffee-pot 
 
 To give them the appearances of age, 
 
 And get a lot of money for each page, 
 
 So they for " Rowley Poems " fairly passed ; 
 
 But, poor young man, they found him out at last, 
 
 Which got the genius into such disgrace 
 
 That he resolved to quit his native place, 
 
 And go to London, and there try his hand 
 
 At writing lines for Roberts, in the Strand, 
 
 Who paid the youth so well for each production 
 
 That he, poor wretch, committed self-destruction - 
 
 I say, oh, shade of Chatterton ! look down, 
 
 And cheer me on amid the critic's frown. 
 
 The look of real old age my paper 's got 
 
 I swear I haven't used the coffee-pot. 
 
 poto 33ob Elliott teas -Burtcti. 
 
 Old Smuggler Bob 
 
 Had done many a job 
 In running across the bay, 
 
 With a cargo of stuff, 
 
 For Bob wasn't a muff, 
 And did things in a business, way.
 
 BERRY HEAD. 
 
 He 'd a very small crew, 
 
 But Bob Elliott knew 
 They were stars of the very first water. 
 
 His skiff was his pride, 
 
 Like a phantom she 'd glide, 
 No Custom-house crew ever caught her. 
 
 And many a ruse, 
 
 But all of no use, 
 His Majesty's men had tried ; 
 
 For old Bob was too deep, 
 
 And managed to keep, 
 By stratagem, on the right side. 
 
 The crew of the smack 
 
 Were Slippery Jack, 
 Bob Dugdale, and Aaron Trier ; 
 
 There were Fogwell and Shears, 
 
 Green, Lakeman, and Myers, 
 In fact, all bold men could require. 
 
 But Bob had the gout, 
 
 So couldn't get out 
 When a cargo of stingo was due, 
 
 And for many a week 
 
 Had Smugglers' Creek 
 Been watched by a vigilant crew.
 
 102 POETIC PICTURES Of- SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 For the weather was clear, 
 
 And to come too near 
 Was a risky thing to do, 
 
 As now and again 
 
 The coastguard men 
 Their glasses were scanning through. 
 
 But good luck seemed to aid 
 
 The rogues, so it made 
 The night as black as a coal ; 
 
 And ere the morn broke 
 
 They had managed to poke 
 The haul in a secret hole. 
 
 Which is said to have led 
 
 From Berry Head 
 To a spot in Brixham town ; 
 
 Called the Old Laywell, 
 
 Which rose and fell 
 As the tide went up and down. 
 
 Yet they felt in a fix, 
 
 For they 'd still got six 
 Small four-gallon kegs to stow ; 
 
 But 't would take no more, 
 
 And the mate he swore 
 In a way only smugglers know.
 
 BERRY HEAD. 103 
 
 No time for delay, 
 
 So they scampered away 
 With the kegs to Captain Bob, 
 
 Who gave them a prayer 
 
 For bringing it there. 
 And promised each "one for his nob." 
 
 " Here am I with the gout, 
 
 And can't get out ; 
 Oh ! what with these kegs shall we do ? 
 
 They '11 be here without doubt, 
 
 And bowl us out. 
 So it 's all up with I and you." 
 
 " I 'm on the tack," 
 
 Says Slippery Jack ; 
 "We must give out that you're gone dead. 
 
 You can sit in a chair 
 
 Like your grandmother there, 
 And we'll stow all the stuff in the bed." 
 
 The bright sun rose, 
 
 And a coastman's nose 
 Was sniffing the morning air ; 
 
 And he knowingly said, 
 
 With a twitch of the head, 
 " There 's a cargo bin landed, I '11 swear.
 
 104 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Bob Elliott, no doubt, 
 
 But we'll find it out." 
 So they made for the smuggler's door, 
 
 And although 't wasn't kind, 
 
 Were delighted to find 
 That troublesome Bob was " no more." 
 
 Then the Commodore said, 
 
 " Respect for the dead 
 Restrains us from searching the den ; 
 
 But we '11 keep it in sight 
 
 By day and by night, 
 'Till they've buried the duffer and then ?" 
 
 There was no other chance 
 
 But to lead them a dance, 
 So a coffin of monstrous size 
 
 Was made, and good need, 
 
 For Bob was no reed, 
 Yet the box caused a little surprise. 
 
 'Twas a mournful day 
 When they bore him away 
 
 Not he in his grandmother's clothes ; 
 'Twas his spirit they bore, 
 Whilst to keep from a roar 
 
 In a kerchief Bob buried his nose.
 
 BERRY HEAD. 105 
 
 The crew of the Bess 
 
 Seemed in deep distress, 
 As each marched, with a handkerchief white, 
 
 To the burial-place, 
 
 Quite hid up his face, 
 'Twas a serio-comical sight. 
 
 The men of Excise 
 
 Even piped their eyes, 
 For they looked on Bob as a " brick ; " 
 
 But little they knew, 
 
 As they searched the house through, 
 How cleverly Bob did the trick. 
 
 That very same night 
 
 A terrible sight 
 Was beheld, by coastguards three, 
 
 On the Totnes road, 
 
 With a phantom load, 
 They could solemnly swear 'twas he. 
 
 And each declared 
 
 Bob Elliott glared 
 Like one whom they J d rather not name. 
 
 Whilst the nag cocked his tail 
 
 Like a harpooned whale, 
 And snorted a crimson flame.
 
 io6 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 But Commodore Green 
 
 Was a man who had seen 
 A bit of the world, and so 
 
 He made up his mind 
 
 For himself to find 
 If the thing was manoeuvred or no. 
 
 Next night to Bob's house 
 
 He crept like a mouse, 
 And listened outside the door, 
 
 When he heard Bob say, 
 
 " Then they all ran away," 
 Which set the whole crew in a roar. 
 
 " Oh," said Commodore Green, 
 
 " Then done we Ve been," 
 As he poked his head inside, 
 
 Which scared 'em at first 
 
 Then a louder burst, 
 For it wasn't to be denied. 
 
 The Commodore saw 
 
 'Twas no use to be " raw," 
 So he called them " a d bad lot, 
 
 Past mending, I fear ; 
 
 But whilst I 'm here 
 I may as well have some and hot."
 
 BERRY HEAD. 
 
 Next morning they knew 
 
 At the rendezvous 
 How cleverly they 'd been done. 
 
 He was named for that job 
 
 " Resurrection Bob," 
 And he handed it down to his son. 
 
 107
 
 DARTMOUTH. 
 
 , tourist, up again ; I 've done my best, 
 By spinning yarns, to give your legs a rest. 
 The air is breezy, and the sky is clear, 
 And very soon will Dartmouth town appear. 
 This charming slope, o'er which we're passing now, 
 Is called Kingswear, and clustered round its brow 
 Are many dwellings, whilst the slopes are graced 
 With handsome villas, built with varied taste. 
 Ah ! here is Dartmouth, looking quite sedate, 
 Although 't has had a breeze or two of late 
 On points ecclesiastic ; and they say 
 The Kits' performance here beats any play ; 
 And as for candles, one would think the place 
 Was used as means of grease instead of grace, 
 And things substantial wrapped in clouds of vapour, 
 .And light that should be broad extremely taper. 
 Yet we must pray for our he-lighted friends ; 
 They mean no harm, and often make amends
 
 DARTMOUTH. 109 
 
 For much that 's silly by the goodly work, 
 Which, at the risk of life, they never shirk. 
 Sisters of Charity ! a grateful nation 
 Well understands and feels its obligation ; 
 But tell me, " dearest sister," tell me why 
 You look so sad and make up such a guy ? 
 That cloak and hood destroys your every grace, 
 And spoils the natural beauty of your face. 
 'Tis possible an angel's work to do, 
 And be a saint, and have a husband too. 
 Heaven forbid that all the ladies should 
 Take in their heads to be so precious good, 
 And to the sterner sex no mercy show ! 
 'T would be the downright death of me, I know, 
 Or in a cowl and hood my head I 'd smother, 
 Then shave my pate, and go in as a "brother." 
 Methinks I hear you say, " The fates keep from us 
 Such an infliction as ' the good Saint Thomas.' " 
 
 In English history Dartmouth takes a stand 
 Of some importance in our western land ; 
 E'en now the old defences do recall 
 When glistening weapons swarmed each castle wall, 
 When Plymouth joined with Dartmouth to repel 
 The French invaders, whom they thrashed so well ; 
 Or when the bold Crusaders swarmed the place, 
 Ere they set out upon their cut-throat race,
 
 io POETIC PICTURES Ol- SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 When he who spilt most blood in the blest fight 
 
 Came home bespattered o'er, a "red cross knight.' 1 
 
 And here 's the old Britannia training-ship, 
 
 Which doubtless in her days had many a trip 
 
 On errands to our foes by no means pleasant, 
 
 And left behind some most unwelcome present. 
 
 From Dartmouth harbour to the Russian war 
 
 Went some of England's braves to fight the Czar. 
 
 Not he who came to us the other day, 
 
 And seemed uncommon glad to get away. 
 
 Was it because, since he the serfs has freed, 
 
 Of servile toadies he 's but little need ? 
 
 Who rave and shout, and bow and scrape and cringe, 
 
 And go upon all fours to kiss the fringe 
 
 Of any mantle, if it Royal be, 
 
 Or toe that hoist them into dignity. 
 
 Oh, 'twas a sorry sight when Britons (crazed) 
 
 Went mad about the Shah, and hats were raised, 
 
 And ringing cheers were echoed through the land, 
 
 And noble ladies fought to kiss the hand 
 
 Of him who (diamond-daubed from head to heel) 
 
 For starving Persia could no pity feel. 
 
 When direful famine stalked his country wide, 
 
 With thousands perishing on every side ! 
 
 The Prince, who lavished presents, would not give 
 
 One jewel from his hat that they might live ; 
 
 But calmly held high council to decide 
 
 The quickest mode to stop the famine's tide.
 
 DARTMOUTH. 
 
 And 'twas proposed (but fear restrained the hand) 
 To stamp the famine-stricken from the land. 
 This was the potentate who made us shout, 
 And shoddy lords went raving mad about. 
 
 Oh, Beelzebub the First, now is your day, 
 
 Announce a splendid coming, and your way 
 
 Shall with triumphal arches be arrayed, 
 
 And all our country's wealth shall be displayed ! 
 
 Our Aldermen shall fete thee, and our Mayors 
 
 Shall read to thee addresses, humble prayers, 
 
 In which thy deeds shall lavishly be praised, 
 
 In hopes, of course, that some of us be raised 
 
 To knightly seats for feasting thee so well ; 
 
 And nothing but thy photograph shall sell. 
 
 At a grand ball thou shalt lead off the set, 
 
 And with a duchess dance a minuet ; 
 
 We '11 in thy honour wear thy favourite hue, 
 
 Discard magenta for a brimstone blue. 
 
 At banquets devilled kidneys shall prevail, 
 
 And our dress coats shall have a deal more tail; 
 
 Our ladies shall in coils their hair entwine, 
 
 And serpent necklets wear of chaste design. 
 
 This question shall be asked by errand lads, 
 
 And sung in music-halls by jolly cads. 
 
 From mouth to mouth be bandied sharp and thick, 
 
 Not " Seen the Shah ?" But " Have you seen old Nick ?"
 
 2 rOETIC PICTURES OI< SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Dan Godfrey shall no other music play 
 
 Than choice selections from " Orpheus " en /tiit, 
 
 Our swells in club-foot boots shall bravely scoff-all-ease, 
 
 To limp the parks " Le Mephistopheles." 
 
 In fact, we'll honour thee in such a way 
 
 That thou 'It inclined be to prolong thy stay ; 
 
 If so, be careful, sire, or, sure as fate, 
 
 You '11 go back minus half your jewels and plate. 
 
 But, oh ! good gracious me, I 've bolted quite 
 
 From where we started 'tis a fancy's flight ; 
 
 The flight we now must take shall be more real. 
 
 This lovely river makes a fellow feel 
 
 Inclined to take a header; what d'ye say? 
 
 But duty says, " Come on ; we cannot stay.'' 
 
 'Twas here Newcomin, who invented steam, 
 
 First saw the light, ere Watt began to dream 
 
 Of plans gigantic we behold to-day, 
 
 And leaves his grandest schemes as children's play. 
 
 A stroll around the town for half-an-hour, 
 
 A visit to the church and Oilman's tower, 
 
 You feel a pleasant longing to depart 
 
 And mount " the English Rhine," the lovely Dart. 
 
 The boat is ready, and the wind is fair, 
 
 The Cap'en with his man an ancient pair. 
 
 We 're bound for Totnes, but I 've filled my space, 
 
 Which gives me just another week of grace.
 
 & TRIP UP TKS DART* 
 
 A WONDERFUL ECHO. 
 
 *O wonder poets all delight to sing 
 In praise unmeasured of this grand old stream ! 
 It puts Pegasus fairly on the wing, 
 And is indeed for bards a fitting theme. 
 No wonder tourists to the West are loud 
 In adulation of our English Rhine : 
 
 Of such a river we might well be proud. 
 
 The pen to do it justice is not mine, 
 
 Yet will I add in this my humble lay 
 
 Another tribute to the many penned ; 
 
 So with the Cap'en's leave we '11 pull away, 
 
 And mark the noted spots as we ascend. 
 
 Having been up and down, I 'd recommend 
 
 Which route is calculated most to please. 
 
 i
 
 M4 rOETJC PICTURES Oh' SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 'Tis best to start from Totnes and descend, 
 
 Because the charm comes on you by degrees, 
 
 Growing and growing as on either side 
 
 Fresh beauties start at every stroke we take, 
 
 Or, gliding calmly with the flowing tide, 
 
 Bringing new pictures every point we make ; 
 
 So varied in its character the scene, 
 
 So truly lovely 'tis on either shore, 
 
 That tourists from all parts declare they Ve seen 
 
 A wood, a creek, or slope like that before. 
 
 A Scot exclaims (just where the river's wide, 
 
 As he takes in a pinch of black rappee) 
 
 " It so reminds me of my bonnie Clyde,'' 
 
 Whilst "Jones-ap-Jones" his favourite stream can see. 
 
 Then there 's a spot which Captain MacO'Dowd, 
 
 Who 's on his tour (he 's married Miss O'Leary) 
 
 Points out to her, and bawls extremely loud 
 
 " How like me fah-thur's place in County Carey," 
 
 Yet all declare " the stream by far excels 
 
 From end to end the river of his part." 
 
 And truly we should have to travel far 
 
 To find a rival to the silvery Dart. 
 
 Starting from Dartmouth town the view is fine, 
 
 The waters sparkling, and the banks all green ; 
 
 The river runs some distance by the line, 
 
 From which Mount Boone's well wooded heights are seen.
 
 A TRIP UP THE DART. 115 
 
 We pass the celebrated Anchor Stone, 
 
 Which one would think meant safety in a storm ; 
 
 But 'tis an anchor, if not left alone, 
 
 Is safe and sure to bring your craft to harm. 
 
 Now, on our right, nestled among the trees, 
 
 Mid graceful shrubs, doth pleasant Greenway stand, 
 
 Birth-place of Gilbert, student of the seas, 
 
 Who opened up our trade with Newfoundland. 
 
 Then Dittisham, and rising far above 
 
 Stands Waddeton Court ; then Sandridge grounds appear, 
 
 Oh, such a place for poetry and love ! 
 
 A busy trade could Cupid do just here. 
 
 And now the noble river narrows in, 
 
 Only to bring its charms a little nearer ; 
 
 Here hills and dales and woods and vales begin 
 
 To show their varied hues and beauties clearer. 
 
 This is Stoke Gabriel creek. Pray pause awhile, 
 And let your souls drink in the grand display 
 Which dear Dame Nature, as she seems to smile, 
 Presents us in her most romantic way. 
 The stillness now is broken by a splash, 
 And quivering in the air we see a fish 
 Between the heron's bill, who with a dash 
 Soars off to Sharpham with its dainty dish. 
 Ah, lovely Sharpham ! who indeed can speak 
 Of all thy beauties, and thy owner too, 
 And not be conscious that his power is weak 
 In all the justice he would like to do.
 
 \i(> POETIC PICTURES OI- SOUTH DETOA'. 
 
 Oh, Heaven-born gift to those who do possess 
 The power and will to succour in distress, 
 Methinks more fragrance all the flowers give, 
 Around the spot where generous owners live. 
 
 And there's an Echo somewhere near this place 
 Which, if you bellow loudly " How d'you do? '' 
 Will answer back (they say) with polished grace, 
 " I 'm pretty well, I thank you, how are you ? " 
 My friends persuaded me to have a say, 
 And as I didn't like to make a fuss. 
 I thus began; but judge of my dismay 
 When to my lovely lines it answered thus, 
 
 How beautiful, 'neath azure skies 
 
 To write my tour and ruralize. 
 
 Echo : " Rural lies ! " 
 
 How sad for those who have the gout, 
 And in such weather can't get out. 
 
 Eclto : " Get out ! " 
 
 How mid such scenes my thoughts are raised ; 
 At my own power I feel amazed. 
 
 Echo: "Ah, mazed!" 
 Tis grand to sip from Nature's cup, 
 Nor be in crowded town shut up. 
 
 Echo : " Shut up ! " 
 
 Oh, Echo ! let no woodman mar 
 Your sounds, I love you as you are. 
 
 Echo : " You ass ! you are ! "
 
 A TRIP UP THE DART. 117 
 
 This was enough ; all my companions roared 
 To see how quite struck comical I stood, 
 And no mistake, I felt completely floored, 
 But I believe some fellow in the wood 
 Sent back those answers, merely in a joke. 
 I 'm told such pranks just here they often play ; 
 But when an Echo calls a man a " moke," 
 'Tis time, I think, to pack and clear away. 
 
 Now, let me upon tourists all prevail, 
 
 That ere the towers of Totnes Church appear, 
 
 They of a most enchanting sight avail 
 
 Themselves. At any price 'twould not be dear. 
 
 Just mount the hill, and take a calm survey 
 
 From famed " Wind-Whistle Cottage " towering high 
 
 " A splendid spot " (so the star-gazers say) 
 
 " To view the planets, as they 're rushing by !" 
 
 But see, by yonder tower, our trip is o'er ; 
 
 'Tis Totnes Church, and very soon the town 
 
 Will be in sight, of which I shall say more ; 
 
 " But ere we part, old friends," said Cap'en Brown, 
 
 " I like to tell'ee what occurred to me 
 
 On my last voyage 'pon the briny sea, 
 
 And how by cannibals I once was took 
 
 When sailing in the good ship Captain Cook."
 
 iiS rOETIC PICTURES Of SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Or -Bia|)0jp of 
 
 STORY OF DARTMOUTH JACK, THE MATE OF THE 
 "C 'ATTAIN COOK." 
 
 [IN THE SEYMOUR HOTEL.] 
 
 He winked his eye in a nautical way, 
 As on the table his pipe he lay, 
 Took a very long pull at a pewter can, 
 Gave a jerk to his breeches, and thus began : 
 
 " You Ve 'card of the salt wot used to tell 
 How he was the crew of the Nancy Bell, 
 Through being wrecked and cast away 
 Without any grub, so every day 
 They had to cast lots, and one after t'other 
 Was eat, until only him and another 
 Was left in the boat ; and they went 'odd man.' 
 Bill won the toss, so his story ran ; 
 And often and often I Ve 'card him tell 
 How he was the crew of the Nancy Bell. 
 It 's a comical tale, and it mayn't be true, 
 But this here one I 'm for telling to you 
 Is as true as a story well can be, 
 And I ought for to know, as it happened to me \
 
 A TRIP UP THE DART. 119 
 
 " At the time of the ' Ingen war,' I took 
 The berth of fust mate in the Captain Cook ; 
 As smart a craft as ever set sail, 
 Or turned up her nose at a sou-west gale ; 
 I shouldn't a gone agin to sea, 
 But me and my missus us couldn't agree ; 
 I 'd a peppery temper myself no doubt, 
 But she was a Tartar, out and out. 
 'Twas before the rail and the iron hoss, 
 I used to ferry the people across 
 From Dartmouth to Kingswear, and did werry well ; 
 But that 's not the story I 'm going to tell. 
 I sold the boat, and gave her the brass, 
 And says I, "Tis better we part, my lass ;' 
 She didn't believe me, I saw by her look, 
 But she knew it next day, for the Captain Cook 
 Left Dartmouth harbour that werry same night, 
 And long before morning was clean out of sight. 
 
 "We hadn't been long in the southern seas, 
 Before there sprung up summut more than a breeze ; 
 We got in the breakers, and werry soon found, 
 That her bottom was dancing on werry rough ground. 
 And oh, Davey Jones, 't wasn't pleasure to see 
 A swarm of mad cannibals j umping in glee 
 At the 1 prospect of having a bountiful spread, 
 And I wished myself back home, at Dartmouth, in bed.
 
 120 roE'nc PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 They potted us all as we swam to the shore, 
 
 Then boarded the wreck with a terrible roar ; 
 
 Their skins was so black, and their teeth was so white, 
 
 And the grin on their mugs was a horrible sight. 
 
 They frizzled and bolted Jack Stark and Bill Green, 
 
 Then my turn came next for the spit, but the queen 
 
 Said, ' Wompi-o-tompi-collossee-goboro,' 
 
 Which meant, ' Let us put by this dish for to-morrow.' 
 
 But the king in the night drank three bottles of rum, 
 
 And the whole of his court got as tight as a drum, 
 
 They set up a yelling and fighting like mad, 
 
 And got treating Bouboske a little too bad. 
 
 For next morning I 'card a most horrible wail, 
 
 They 'd found the old buffer as dead as a nail. 
 
 In their anguish they hinted the best thing to do 
 
 Was to make up myself in a calabash stew, 
 
 A dish they prepare at their feastings of grief, 
 
 In which I was booked to do duty for beef. 
 
 'Tis made up in dough from the bread-fruit tree, 
 
 With a layer of gorilla and chimpanzee, 
 
 And young hippopotamus, cut in junks, 
 
 Then kangaroo's noses and elephant's trunks. 
 
 In fact, for variety it could vie 
 
 With that local production we call squab-pie ; 
 
 But just as ten niggers were lugging me out 
 
 Her majesty fetched 'em a whack on the snout, 
 
 And said something I afterwards found to be, 
 
 'Go. 'long, you black debbles, and leave him to me.'
 
 A TRIP UP THE DART. 121 
 
 'Twas enough ; for each cannibal cut for his life. 
 
 Then she said, ' Po-kee-boo,' which means, 'I'll be your wife.' 
 
 They carved my poor face, through my nose put a ring, 
 
 And mid beating of tom-toms proclaimed me their king. 
 
 I thought if my Betsy could pop in just now 
 
 The niggers might study a civilized row. 
 
 She'd have pulled all the wool off her majesty's pate, 
 
 And I 'd have been roasted as certain as fate. 
 
 I soon learned the brogue, but my queen was a fright : 
 
 Her eyes rolled about, and her mouth was a sight. 
 
 We got on pretty well, though whenever a ship 
 
 Hove in sight I had no chance to give her the slip, 
 
 But, oh, to my horror, disgust, and dismay, 
 
 A slave brought the news to our wigwam one day 
 
 That Bug-a-boo-Tong was about to arrive, 
 
 To wage war on our village and skin me alive. 
 
 So my queen she explained that 't was proper and right, 
 
 The great king (that was me) should be first in the fight. 
 
 I didn't say much, but a thousand times o'er 
 
 I longed for my Betsy and Dartmouth once more. 
 
 I looked from the hut, saw a ship in full sail, 
 So I pitched up the queen a most plausible tale, 
 That with a ship's cannon what work we could do. 
 'Well,' she said, 'Go and fetch it; but I must go too.'
 
 122 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 I couldn't persuade her ; she 'd made up her mind, 
 
 If I did run away, shouldn't leave her behind. 
 
 But she little expected, when hauled up that day 
 
 On the deck of the Nipper, the part she would play. 
 
 She raved, danced, and kicked, fought, bellowed, and 
 
 swore, 
 
 When she found I refused to return to the shore : 
 So, rather than drown her, we brought her away, 
 And we landed at Plymouth on Michuelmas-day. 
 But when crossing the briny I hit on a plan, 
 So I bought from Old Wombwell a small carawan, 
 And followed behind 'em wherever they 'd go, 
 And I made a good thing of my cannibal show ; 
 But somehow she fancied it wasn't all right, 
 And refused to perform on a werry full night. 
 I gave her the whip ; then she got in a rage, 
 Nearly scratched me to death, broke the bars of her 
 
 cage, 
 
 And the audience thought it was part of the fun, 
 Till she turned upon them, and oh, didn't they run ! 
 She got out and played the old deuce in the fair, 
 She bit the policemen, and pummelled the mayor ; 
 The town was in arms, and 'twas getting too hot, 
 So I thought I 'd best cut, and get rid of the lot. 
 I bolted to Dartmouth, and found my old gal, 
 She 'd set up a mangle, was doing quite well ; 
 But I never informed her of where I had been, 
 Nor the part I had played when I married the queen.
 
 A TRIP UP THE DAR'J'. 
 
 I read in the papers they'd seized on the wan, 
 And werry particular wanted the man. 
 
 Then I heard of a meeting at Exeter Hall, 
 
 Where the Rev. Fluke made a h eloquent call 
 
 On behalf of the natives of Bungaraboo ; 
 
 And to give them good proof that his story was true, 
 
 He showed 'em, mid cheer upon cheer, my old queen, 
 
 As one whom his efforts had worked to redeem. 
 
 Lord Shaftesbury was joyous, swore nothing would do 
 
 But Fluke as the bishop of Bungaraboo. 
 
 They gave a big tea, and collected a sum. 
 
 A cartload of books, and a barrel of rum. 
 
 He was only a week in his new diocese, 
 
 When he served for the natives a mouthful apiece : 
 
 And although but a werry small portion each got, 
 
 'Tis supposed that he werry near poisoned the lot. 
 
 To Volker, the chemist, they sent a small bit, 
 
 And he found 'twas too /iig/i, as poor Fluke was a Rit. 
 
 What became of the queen there was nothing to show, 
 
 And I haven't the least inclination to know." 
 
 We listened to the Captain's strange romance, 
 Then paid him liberally, he said " Good-bye !" 
 But there was something in that captain's glance, 
 A sort of comic twinkle in his eye.
 
 124 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 And well there might, for, to our great dismay, 
 We found till late he 'd been a Dartmouth barber, 
 And gave it up because it wouldn't pay : 
 He 'd never been a mile outside the harbour, 
 So said our waiter, and he grinned like mad 
 At what he called our "purchase of the packet." 
 I didn't show my rage at being had ; 
 But how I longed to warm that captain's jacket !
 
 'OTNES AITD NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 SCARCE can trust myself to think or speak 
 Of that untruthful rascal who, last week. 
 So basely took my coin, then "took me in." 
 But why, dear readers, why should you all grin ? 
 One writes to say " the sell " gave him delight ; 
 Another says, " Ah, Thomas, serves you right !'' 
 
 And one, on tinted paper, comes out bold : 
 
 He says 'tis nothing to the fibs I 've told, 
 
 And even hints that tale was of my making. 
 
 I 'd like to give that reader dear a shaking. 
 
 But, tourist, we have something else to do, 
 And I 've a duty which I owe to you ; 
 So let us roam at once o'er Totnes town. 
 Inspect each noted spot, and jot it down. 
 Ah, here 's the " Seymour." that far-famed hotel, 
 Which Parliamentary aspirants know well.
 
 126 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Just cross the bridge, dear tourist, and we come 
 
 Upon the "Seven Stars/' where "Mr. Mum," 
 
 The mystic agent, by his wondrous power 
 
 Made voters change their minds in half-an-hour. 
 
 'Twas here the wealthy, brave, and sanguine Dent 
 
 Came down with well-filled purse, on victory bent ; 
 
 'Twas here poor Dawkins entered on the fight, 
 
 Which gave him heavy heart and pocket light ; 
 
 And Alfred Seymour wouldn't like to say 
 
 How much to Totnes he has had to pay 
 
 For the blest privilege to represent 
 
 "Ye town of Totnes" in "ye Parliament." 
 
 Then there was Fender, the great merchant prince. 
 
 They even made that man of money wince. 
 
 'Twas my intention to contest the town, 
 
 But couldn't get the Bank of England down ; 
 
 So, in the absence of this slight condition, 
 
 I missed the train, which caused me no contrition. 
 
 For Fender took the field, spent lots of brass, 
 
 But soon went home and wrote himself " an ass.'' 
 
 We all remember how, week after week, 
 
 The "Royal Commission" sat, and 'fore "the beak" 
 
 The needy voters quaked and shook with fear, 
 
 When cross-examined by the mighty Bere, 
 
 Who told the grave offenders he had come 
 
 To find out who and what was " Mr. Mum."
 
 TOTNES AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. 127 
 
 But months rolled on, and sixty pounds a day 
 
 (Or thereabouts) was squandered on this play, 
 
 'Till some outrageous wag conceived a plan 
 
 To make them think that Thomas was the man. 
 
 So I was summoned 'fore a crowded court, 
 
 Who thought unearthing " Mum " delightful sport. 
 
 The Chief Commissioner was in high glee, 
 
 To think the culprit had been traced to me 
 
 The man, who was in Exeter a Rad, 
 
 Come here a Tory briber ; 't was too bad. 
 
 But, " O Jerusalem," let it not be told 
 
 Their looks when they discovered they 'd been sold. 
 
 A caution 'twas, the Court was in a roar, 
 
 Bere slammed his book, and frowned some say he swore ; 
 
 He even hinted I myself had been 
 
 The cause of showing them as "jolly green/' 
 
 That as it may, the incident showed clearly 
 
 The borough for the farce was paying dearly. 
 
 But by the Chief Commissioner, they say, 
 
 'Tis not forgotten to this very day. 
 
 I hope I am forgiven ; if 't is so, 
 
 I '11 write an ode, my gratitude to show. 
 
 But I've been told 'twas once a serious matter 
 
 To say, "Friend Montague, pray, who's your hatter?' 
 
 Poor Mr. Fender, how they worked his mine ! 
 I offered to portray his woes in rhyme,
 
 128 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 But his reply, I think, was most uncivil, 
 
 " I want no doggerel, sir ; go to the d ! " 
 
 Of course I said I should do no such thing ; 
 I 've writ my song, and I intend to sing, 
 So here it is, and doubtless you will see 
 That just " three flats " will be the proper key. 
 
 Cotnee lection. 
 
 DENT. 
 
 I went down to Totnes with plenty of tin, 
 And thought 'twas no difficult job to get in ; 
 But they skinned me entirely out of my heap, 
 And my sole consolation 's to bear it and weep. 
 
 SEYMOUR. 
 
 Dawkins was Daivkcy, what money he spent ! 
 A great in^?/z/-ation they made in poor Dent ; 
 Alfred is artful, he 's been here before, 
 They Ve seen some of his cash, but they '11 never See(y)more. 
 
 FENDER. 
 
 I '11 go back to Manchester, and let them all see, 
 How those independent electors served out me ; 
 Catch me down there again never no more, 
 If Rothschild was member they 'd make him quite poor.
 
 TOTNES AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. 129 
 
 FIRST COMMISSIONER. 
 
 We '11 have a Commission, and find " Mr. Mum," 
 And make him say what has become of that sum ; 
 We '11 bully poor voters for taking the brass, 
 But the rich ones, of course, we '11 touch lightly, or pass. 
 
 And so poor Totnes from the franchise fell 
 
 Let 's hope without it she is doing well. 
 
 The little town has had to take her part 
 
 In bygone troubles, and she 's had to smart 
 
 For her transgression in the days of yore 
 
 In Domesday Book you '11 find, if you explore. 
 
 The only building in the town of note 
 
 Is the old castle, with its ancient moat 
 
 Scarce visible, and there 's the stone, they say, 
 
 On which at marbles Brutus used to play. 
 
 But there 's a stone raised to the name of one 
 
 Who laid him down beneath Australia's sun, 
 
 And died upon that vast untrodden plain, 
 
 A martyr pioneer for human gain. 
 
 The name of Wills shall, in a future age, 
 
 Shine out more brightly on our history's page ; 
 
 And as Australia's mighty cities rise, 
 
 Her children, on the map, shall turn their eyes 
 
 To Totnes, in old England, and shall say, 
 
 " 'Twas here he lived who died to mark our way."
 
 FROM TQTITSS. 
 
 ND so from Totnes town we now depart, 
 To find ourselves upon the higher Dart, 
 Which dances down all sparkling from the Moor, 
 Whose wild and rugged heights we shall explore. 
 From Totnes there are several roads to take, 
 Each very charming, quite enough to make 
 The tourist pleased and gratified to see 
 In this romantic, fine locality ; 
 By rail or road, or by the river, we 
 May reach Ashburton, Holne, and Buckfastleigh, 
 Through pretty Staverton, and do not lose 
 The chance of shaking hands with Parson Hughes, 
 Whose father was the friend of Thomas Moore. 
 See the fine church he '11 gladly show you o'er 
 And don't forget the justly-famed Holne Chase, 
 Where Nature dons her most enchanting grace, 
 Where poets, painters, Beauty's students roam, 
 And find some treasures rich to carry home,
 
 FROM TOTNES. 131 
 
 Some pretty legends of this part, they say, 
 
 Are told by Carrington, and Mrs. Bray ; 
 
 And what they 've done, they both have done so well 
 
 There 's really very little left for me to tell, 
 
 They 've used up all the legends, all the verse, 
 
 Which almost every native can rehearse, 
 
 And you, my readers, justly would condemn 
 
 If in the slightest shade I followed them. 
 
 But there 's no fear, my friends, this scribbling elf 
 Knows how to carve his " crammers " for himself. 
 And as for legends I can truly say 
 
 I '11 tell as big a tale as ever they ; 
 
 E'en Ingoldsby himself, though strange and wild, 
 
 Compared with mine you '11 think he drew it mild, 
 
 And whilst you'll say at "crammers" he was clever, 
 
 Of me you '11 cry in horror, " Well, I never !" 
 
 And as I promised many weeks ago 
 
 To tell my patient readers all I know 
 
 About that legend near the Lover's Leap, 
 
 And on my honour I 've no wish to keep 
 
 The story from you, if it be your will 
 
 That I should tell it, 'tis about "the mill" 
 
 Which once upon a time stood on the banks 
 
 Near Buckfastleigh, where pixies played such pranks, 
 
 And used unseen a host of ills to shower 
 
 On all who dared to question pixy power.
 
 132 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 of 
 
 OR, THE PRIEST AND THE PIXY. 
 
 This legend (as legends do, you know,) 
 
 Goes back to a very long time ago, 
 
 When goblins, and witches, and pixies, they say, 
 
 Ruled the roast in a most disagreeable way ; 
 
 When the down of the thistle detected lies, 
 
 And cripples of ninety had evil eyes ; 
 
 When the peasants sat up on particular nights, 
 
 And waited the coming of curious sights ; 
 
 When a bit of stray cloud passing over the moon, 
 
 F.oretold of a death in the family soon ; 
 
 When, as soon as the sun had gone in the west, 
 
 The pixies in clothing invisible dressed ; 
 
 Played the strangest of pranks with the farmers around, 
 
 When their orchards were blighted, their cattle were drowned : 
 
 When the butter and milk if bewitched wouldn't keep, 
 
 And poor Giles through their horrible pranks couldn't sleep ; 
 
 When they 'd play hunt the slipper across his poor toes, 
 
 Or march in procession o'er Gosling's nose. 
 
 When the leg of a frog would charm away 
 
 The mumps or king's evil in less than a day, 
 
 And a baby if born with a mole on his cheek 
 
 Would sicken for measles in less than a week ; 
 
 And when maidens their swains to the altar could bring, 
 
 By going to sleep with a wedding ring.
 
 FROM TOTNES. 133 
 
 The power of the pixies was awful and great, 
 And they kicked up their antics both early and late. 
 From sundown they lorded o'er layman and priest, 
 Till a streak of red sunlight appeared in the east ; 
 When, like mist across Yes Tor, they 'd scamper away, 
 But to come out again at the close of the day. 
 'Twas when only one crystal stream used to flow 
 From the foot of Fur Tor to the valley below 
 At the dawn of the morn 'twas a beautiful sight 
 To see the mad torrent all sparkling and bright, 
 First weeping, then creeping around where once stood 
 A forest of oaks in the Wistman's Wood, 
 Then carolling onwards, or ling'ring to play 
 Round a huge mass of granite which stood in the way \ 
 Still growing and growing in beauty and strength, 
 Attended by satellite streams, till at length 
 It danced, foamed, and bounded in giant-like glee : 
 Then stealthily gliding o'er Exworthy lea ; 
 Now gentle and childlike with prattle and song, 
 And gaining in strength as it babbles along ; 
 Then raging and rushing with angry roar, 
 Like a fiend in his wrath coming down from the Moor; 
 And suddenly rising with treacherous sway, 
 As if savagely seeking for human prey 
 As we 're told, in the story of " River o' Dart," 
 How " every year it claimeth a heart ; " 
 Now leaping, now creeping with scarcely a sound, 
 Now clearing a rugged cascade with a bound ;
 
 134 POETIC. PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Then tripping at Holne the bright pebbles among, 
 Making musical notes as it warbles along ; 
 Now clear as a crystal, now maddened with, foam, 
 As if fleeting in haste to the ocean, its home; 
 Then gracefully gliding, majestic and free, 
 On, on, till it joins and is lost in the sea. 
 
 Well, 'twas just at this time, so the legend goes on, 
 That a miller, well known as old "Darlington John," 
 Kept house near the foot of that dangerous steep, 
 Where the lovers are said to have taken a leap. 
 (But whether that story be romance or not, 
 It strangely resembles the usual lot 
 Of all lovers who stand and fidelity swear, 
 Then take a long leap into goodness knows where.) 
 But John remained single, and set up a mill 
 On the banks of the Dart, and the tourist may still 
 Observe an old building, long gone to decay, 
 With a granite-built pit where the wheel used to play. 
 A curious fellow was John in his way, 
 A terrible sceptic, and many a day 
 With the Abbot of Buckland his views he 'd defend, 
 Till the abbot's few hairs fairly stood upon end. 
 They were always good friends, for whenever the priest 
 Paid the miller a visit, they 'd swallow at least 
 A dozen good glasses of " hot, sweet, and strong," 
 And sometimes the miller would sing him a song
 
 FROM TOTNES. 135 
 
 Of some beautiful maid, and he 'd eagerly listen 
 
 Till his eyes (But no doubt 'twas the grog made them 
 
 glisten.) 
 
 And John would rail loudly 'gainst pixies and priests, 
 High mass with low diets, and passover feasts ; 
 In fact, the dogmaticals one and all found 
 No friend in the miller he hit 'em all round. 
 The abbot, good soul, did his best to redeem 
 The sceptical miller, who sometimes would seem 
 To listen devoutly, as if in a fog, 
 Which was quickly dispelled in a tumbler of grog. 
 
 One morning the miller was busy at work, 
 
 When he felt at his elbow a terrible jerk ; 
 
 And looking around him, he saw standing by 
 
 A little old man, about twelve inches high. 
 
 " Good morrow, my friend," said the dwarf with a smile, 
 
 " I 'm hungry and thirsty, and many a mile 
 
 I Ve walked o'er the moorlands to hear you sing 
 
 Of your unbelief in the ' pixy ring.' 
 
 I 'm told you sing it at break of day, 
 
 And declare you are right in what you say ; 
 
 But whether your knowledge be right or wrong, 
 
 I should very much like to hear the song." 
 
 The miller felt flattered, and laughing said, 
 
 " Like the rest of the noodles, no doubt you Ve read 
 
 Of these goblins and pixies, and all their strange ways, 
 
 Till at length, like them all, you 're possessed of the craze.
 
 *36 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 But come you inside, little man, and rest. 
 Take a bite and a sup, and I '11 do my best 
 To sing you the song which, I sadly fear, 
 Will never repay you in coming to hear." 
 
 " Don't talk to me of such wild things 
 As pixies, or of pixy rings ; 
 For no superstitious lout am I, 
 And that ah ! ah ! is the reason why 
 The pixies I can never see, 
 For they never dare show themselves to me 
 So from morn till eve I '11 gaily sing, 
 And laugh to scorn the pixie ring. 
 
 " Poor Hodge, when reeling home at eve, 
 In maudlin fear, would make believe 
 The pixies 'twas who did bewitch, 
 And cause his flounder in the ditch. 
 Though Farmer Mags may still declare, 
 He 's seen 'em oft at Totnes fair ; 
 But, till convinced, I ; 11 ever sing 
 And laugh to scorn the pixy ring." 
 
 He finished his song with a knowing wink. 
 "Bravo," said the dwarf; "but, my friend, I think 
 A most unwelcome proof I could bring 
 Of a pixy power, and a pixy king."
 
 FROM TOTNES. 137 
 
 " Indeed," said the miller, " I 'd like to see 
 
 The man that could work such a change in me ; 
 
 'T would be easier much for those pixy elves 
 
 To take the task upon themselves, 
 
 To prove my single life a dream, 
 
 Or to turn my wheel against the stream ; 
 
 Or to change the course of the river Dart ; 
 
 If they could do this, then with all my heart 
 
 I 'd frankly admit that I was wrong, 
 
 And never more warble my sceptical song." 
 
 " 'Tis well," said the dwarf, with a strange grimace, 
 
 As a light most unearthly lit up his face ; 
 
 " Your song and your singing are very good, 
 
 But, my sceptical miller, I think I could 
 
 Cause what you have mentioned to come to pass." 
 
 And a strange blue light lit up the glass 
 
 He held in his hand. " Now, I wish you good-day," 
 
 Said the dwarf with a grin, as he toddled away. , 
 
 " What a rum little chap," said the miller, and then 
 
 He went to the door to look at him again. 
 
 But the little wee cripple had gone out of sight, 
 
 And the subject forgotten almost by the night, 
 
 Till the abbot looked in, when the miller related 
 
 What the comical midget had prognosticated. 
 
 Then the abbot looked grave, as he mixed the grog stronger, 
 
 And stayed with the miller that night a bit longer ;
 
 138 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 But whether the priest had forebodings or not, 
 He mixed up the liquors uncommonly hot, 
 And at parting they both were agreed on the folly 
 Of losing one chance in this world to be jolly. 
 
 The bright sun was shining o'er valley and hill, 
 And up with the lark were the men at the mill ; 
 But they looked at each other in wildest dismay, 
 When they saw the mill wheel running round the wrong way. 
 It shook the whole building ; the miller cried out 
 To the man in the mill, "What the devil be 'bout?" 
 And the man bellowed back in a terrible fright, 
 " I '11 be darned if I know, but there's summut not right." 
 Then the miller looked out of the window to see 
 What on earth with his mill stream the matter could be, 
 When he saw the mill leat with huge boulders all crammed, 
 And the water to feed it completely dammed. 
 The wheel rushed round at a terrible rate, 
 The miller glared wildly, each hair on his pate 
 Stood up as he viewed it in wonder profound ; 
 To see without water the wheel rushing round ! 
 With boulders the river was blocked, like the stream. 
 .Then he thought of the dwarf, yet believed it a dream ; 
 But, oh, very quickly he saw what was done, 
 For the river itself was beginning to run 
 In another direction a mile from the mill. 
 Yet the wheel the wrong way went on galloping still,
 
 FROM TOTNES. 139 
 
 And so silently now, for the din and the roar 
 Of the river had gone, and the miller once more 
 Tried to speak, but tongue-tied, couldn't utter a word, 
 And yet all around him he fancied he heard 
 His sceptical song as if sung in the air. 
 He looked all about him, yet nothing was there ; 
 But he recognised then, in the words as they ran, 
 The voice and the laugh of the little old man : 
 
 " Your single life is not a dream, 
 But the wheel is turning against the stream. 
 Behold, the course of the river now, 
 And to the power of pixies bow ! 
 Come, miller, come, let 's hear you sing, 
 And laugh to scorn the pixie ring." 
 
 The miller was scared to an awful extent, 
 And away for the Abbot of Buckland he sent, 
 Who came at once, and could quickly see 
 There was need for some prayers and a rosary. 
 " This comes," said the abbot, "of unbelief; 
 But if you repent you shall have relief." 
 " On this condition," said John, " I will, 
 Restore my stream, my wheel, my mill." 
 "'Tis well," said the abbot, "and you shall see;" 
 So he sent for the monks of Buckfastleigh. 
 They surrounded the miller, the wheel, the leat, 
 And ev'ry ten minutes would words repeat,
 
 140 POETIC PICTURES OF SOUTH DEVON. 
 
 Which were said in those times to lay a ghost, 
 Or destroy the power of the pixy host. 
 They stayed with the miller throughout the night, 
 And at the first dawn of morning light 
 The stones were gone, and the stream ran bright, 
 The leat was full, and the wheel was right ; 
 They had put the pixy power to flight, 
 And the miller he capered in wild delight. 
 Then they all partook of his excellent cheer, 
 They finished his brandy, rum, whisky, and beer, 
 With hot water and lemons ; most certainly they 
 Did the " spirits " remove in a wonderful way. 
 
 But as soon as the sun had dipped his nose 
 Behind Buckland Beacon a storm arose, 
 And the boulders again went flying about, 
 Putting the abbot and monks to the rout. 
 The river was blocked, and the wheel began 
 To spin the wrong way, and every man 
 Went down with a flop on his marrow-bones, 
 But they had to get up, for the whizzing stones 
 Went flying around them, sufficient to scare 
 The devoutest of monks in the midst of a prayer. 
 So the contest 'tween pixies and priests raged hot, 
 But the pixies, alas ! soon the best of it got, 
 For the monks one and all, as they ran in despair, 
 Said they knew besides pixies the devil was there.
 
 FROM TOTNES. 141 
 
 And oh, what a wreck of a place was now seen, 
 
 A pile of huge boulders where lately had been 
 
 The mill and the dwelling, beyond all repairing. 
 
 Yet the miller, bad man, began cursing and swearing, 
 
 And rapped out in so awfully awful a way, 
 
 That the abbot and monks without further delay 
 
 Scampered off to the Abbey, too scared and devout 
 
 To encounter the stones which were flying about 
 
 From invisible hands, and the abbot could show 
 
 For years on his nose the effects of a blow. 
 
 Next morning the miller, chop-fallen and sore, 
 
 Presented himself at the old Abbey door, 
 
 And begged for admission, declaring that he 
 
 Henceforth the most pious believer would be ; 
 
 Did penance, and each obligation he took. 
 
 Then the abbot, good man, made him baker and cook, 
 
 A post which he filled (in the records 'tis seen) 
 
 As if born to the faith and the berth he had been. 
 
 Still stands the old pit, but long gone to decay 
 Have the cottage and mill, and if passing that way, 
 The tourist can see how the course of the Dart 
 Was just at this place rudely riven apart, 
 Then joining below at a point which they say 
 Is known as Dart-meet unto this very day.
 
 ISGELLuMSOUS f OEMS.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 FiTHSR PSTEE'S SGIR&E. 
 
 A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE, 1868, 
 
 IN WHICH THE STATUE OF FATHER PETER INVITES ALL THE FIGURES 
 IN FRONT OF THE EXETER CATHEDRAL TO AN EVENING PARTY. 
 
 And 
 And 
 
 SCENE : Front of Exeter CatJtedral. 
 
 LD Christopher Tagg was a tailor by trade 
 He worked for a shop in the city. 
 A very respectable living he made, 
 And he often declared 'twas a pity 
 If a man, after toiling from morning till night, 
 Couldn't manage at times to be jolly ; 
 
 especially Christmas he thought it but right, 
 
 to differ, he argued, was folly. 
 L
 
 146 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 
 
 Now, a very good master had Christopher Tagg ; 
 
 He believed 'twas a shame and a sin too ; 
 
 So each Christmas he made it a practice to give 
 
 As much punch as his men could swig into. 
 
 Now, no wondrous prophet was needed to see 
 
 Nor indeed was there room to suppose 
 
 That Christopher never got fuddled on tea, 
 
 " As the red moon was up " on his nose. 
 
 So they drank to the health of the missus and master, 
 
 And the sons and the daughters, and prosperous trade, 
 
 Till old Christopher's head began running round faster 
 
 Than ever his needle the buttonholes made. 
 
 'Twas getting near one when the old chap departed, 
 
 Through the lane of St. Martin's (he lived near the Close), 
 
 And on passing the front of St. Peter's he started 
 
 To see a quaint figure sit rubbing his nose. 
 
 He looked at the front of the building, and wondered 
 
 To see vacant places where statues had been. 
 
 " Why I can't understand there was nearly a hundred, 
 
 And now only that rum-looking chap 's to be seen !" 
 
 Just then the old bell on the midnight air, 
 
 Boomed solemnly out : how old Christopher shook ! 
 
 "Why 'twas filled up with figures this morning, I '11 swear; 
 
 Now there's none to be seen but just one in yon nook." 
 
 He took out his kerchief and rubbed his old eyes. 
 
 "Well, if this isn't strange may I never more stitch !"
 
 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 147 
 
 When, to Christopher's horror and great surprise, 
 
 The figure he gazed at stepped down from the niche. 
 
 " Good gracious, I 'm dreaming ! " old Christopher cried ; 
 
 " Or has Christopher Tagg been deprived of his sight?" 
 
 " Neither one nor the other," the figure replied ; 
 
 " My companions are supping with Peter to-night, 
 
 They left about twelve ; but I had my fears 
 
 About going myself, they 've so crippled my points, 
 
 And sitting cross-legged for six hundred years 
 
 Makes a fellow, you'll own, rather stiff in the joints. 
 
 But if you would kindly just help me along, 
 
 You shall go to the party, so give us your hand, 
 
 And when we get there you shall sing us a song." 
 
 Poor old Christopher shook ; he scarcely could stand. 
 
 " Keep up," said the statue, " you 're surely not frightened, 
 
 In a second or two we shall be at the place." 
 
 At the sound of strange music his wonder was heightened, 
 
 And the cold perspiration ran over his face ; 
 
 Then a massive old door was thrown open, and there 
 
 The strangest of sights met Christopher's gaze : 
 
 There was old " Father Peter," perched up in a chair, 
 
 And the statues sat posed in all manner of ways. 
 
 Old Peter cried, " Order ! a stranger 's among us, 
 
 Whoe'er he may be, or whatever his grade, 
 
 P'rhaps he writes for the papers, and comes here to wrong us." 
 
 " No ! I 'm Christopher Tagg, and a tailor by trade." 
 
 Then Peter smiled grimly, and shook up his keys, 
 
 And the figures around seemed quite awed at the bunch ;
 
 148 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 
 
 Then turning to Christopher, " Pray be at ease, 
 And I '11 brew you some antediluvian punch. 
 Meanwhile, as 'tis Christmas, it cannot be wrong, 
 And we don't have a soire'e here every day, 
 We '11 get this old tailor to give us a song." 
 So poor Christopher struck up a comical lay. 
 
 " O dear ! I never thought, 
 When I left the shop to-night, 
 That I should be found on such queer ground, 
 And behold such a curious sight. 
 You're all so very cold, 
 And you 're surely made of stone. 
 Yet you caper and dance 
 Like Roberts or Vance, 
 Or the nimblest flesh and bone ; 
 Your company gives me great delight, 
 But I 'm bound to leave, so, friends, good night." 
 
 \They all stop him. 
 
 " Well done," said Father Peter. " Tailor Tagg, your health. 
 Now, stony-hearted brothers, let us show 
 This son of earth what we prize more than wealth 
 Acquaintance with, six hundred years ago." 
 
 A statue, with one arm, one leg, one eye, 
 
 Said, " Doubtless, Tailor Tagg, you Ve oft seen me,
 
 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 149 
 
 And wondered how I got in this condition. 
 I '11 tell you, but it is a strange admission. 
 Well then, you must know that I fell in love 
 With the same girl as number twelve above ; 
 She worked for Mrs. Treadwin, and each day 
 She smiled so sweetly when she passed our way. 
 She couldn't have us both, 'twould not be right, 
 So we came down one day and had a fight. 
 Look at his head, 'twas I knocked off that piece, 
 And I 'd have killed him but for the police ; 
 For miles around the people heard the blows ; 
 We couldn't break each other's hearts, we broke each 
 other's nose." 
 
 He Sings: 
 
 " No doubt you've beheld us in passing that way, 
 
 And wondered what caused this dejected display; 
 
 Why our legs and our arms are so battered and bruised. 
 
 Well, I '11 tell you the story, and you '11 be amused : 
 
 Very oft in the winter, before we got old, 
 
 We 'd run round the yard, just to keep out the cold, 
 
 And one or the other would often get tight 
 
 At the ' Globe ' or the ' Clarence/ and stop out all night. 
 
 To keep in one posture year after year, 
 
 Would make stronger fellows uncommonly queer. 
 
 'Tis true we assisted, just now and again, 
 
 Young Exeter's game on the fifth of Novem. ; 
 
 And much like you mortals, when nothing to do, 
 
 We got up an argument and a set to ;
 
 ISO FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 
 
 In the vale of St. David's we had a melee, 
 
 And that 's how we 're battered and bruised as you see," 
 
 Chorus by Statues. 
 11 And that 's how we 're battered and bruised as you see. 
 
 Then an old figure, battered, crumbled, broke, 
 Stood up, glanced all around, and thus he spoke : 
 
 " What sights have I beheld from my old place ! 
 What horrid works been done before mine eyes ! 
 The blood of martyrs sprinkled on my face ! 
 I 've heard their shrieks, ascending to the skies ! 
 I 've seen the fiends look on in hellish glee, 
 And pile the faggots up, and bless the Lord ! 
 Oh, I have been compelled to stand and see 
 What should break human hearts, but mine is hard. 
 I 've seen the blushing bride, all smiles and love, 
 Walk forth beneath my pedestal to die ; 
 I Ve heard the bridal peal, the funeral knell, 
 Before that day's bright sun had left the sky. 
 How little do the thoughtless, giddy throng, 
 Who pass us daily by, and rudely stare, 
 Think what we Ve been compelled to look upon ; 
 But let them pass away, we '11 still be there." 
 
 "Stop, stop !" said Peter, "this dull theme is wrong, 
 Let's ask the tailor for another song."
 
 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 151 
 
 Poor Christopher, he looked towards the door, 
 And would have bolted had there been a chance ; 
 But, oh, 'twas guarded well by three or four 
 Statues, who straight began to grin and dance, 
 And cut such capers that the poor old fellow 
 Had to comply. He thus began to bellow : 
 
 "If you'll only let me out of this, as true as my name's Tagg, 
 I'll make you all dress coats around, and never charge a 
 
 mag; 
 
 I '11 mend up all your breeches, and if you 're a button short 
 I '11 sew it on with pleasure, yes, I will with all my heart ; 
 You fine old English gentlemen, all of the olden time. 
 
 Chorus by Statues. 
 " We fine old English gentlemen, all of the olden time. 
 
 " You see, I want to get back soon ; I 've had enough of this, 
 There 's plenty of you here, and so, of course, you will not 
 
 miss 
 
 A wretched little tailor, who is only in the way, 
 And whose wife, if he 's not home soon, will think he 's gone 
 
 astray. 
 You fine old English gentlemen, pray let me go this time. 
 
 Chorus by Statues. 
 " We fine old English gentlemen, all of the olden time." 
 
 Then up spoke Father Peter, " On my word 
 I 'm sorry for your wife, and family too,
 
 152 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 
 
 A better rendered song I never heard ; 
 'Tis quite impossible, we can't spare you. 
 Here, take another glass, don't be afraid, 
 'Tis the same sort King Alfred used to drink. 
 And sometimes for his Majesty I've made 
 A jorum, which compelled him oft to wink. 
 
 " There, that 's the way ! Now, saints, keep order, please, 
 Or I '11 chastise you with this bunch of keys." 
 This stopped the chatter. Peter bowed to each, 
 Winked at the tailor, and began his speech. 
 
 " How many years, with lantern, keys, and book, 
 
 Have I looked on the city from my nook ! 
 
 The passers-by who glance up at my face 
 
 Would scarcely think that from that quiet place 
 
 I Ve watched the generations come and go, 
 
 Nor think how much of them and theirs I know. 
 
 I Ve seen poor fools puffed up by fortune's freak, 
 
 Forget their friend, and e'en refuse to speak 
 
 To poor relations as they passed along. 
 
 I Ve seen the struggling weak crushed by the strong. 
 
 I Ve seen men rise to affluence and power, 
 
 And all come tumbling down in one short hour. 
 
 I Ve seen poor, empty, brainless idiots sit 
 
 In judgment upon intellect, and spit
 
 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 153 
 
 Their pointless satire on the wise and just, 
 And I have seen these idiots lick the dust. 
 I Ve often watched the steps of goodly men 
 Whose souls' desire was only answered when 
 They helped a fellow mortal ; and at last 
 I Ve wept the life departed as it passed. 
 I Ve seen the city all on joy intent ; 
 I Ve seen it all in solemn sorrow bent. 
 When I look round I find all things altered so, 
 The old Guildhall 's the only face I know. 
 How changed is all since first I took my stand 
 Down to the day when, from my failing hand, 
 I dropped my book on a dissenter's nose ! 
 'Twas quite an accident, but there are those 
 Who swear I threw it at him, from my perch, 
 Because he said he wouldn't go to church. 
 
 "And now, my tailor friend, a word with you : 
 In coming here you made a sad mistake ; 
 'Tis useless here for mercy now to sue, 
 You Ve made up all the clothes you '11 ever make. 
 The vacant niche in future you must fill ; 
 We '11 turn you into stone, and make you sainted ; 
 So choose your title} take whate'er you will." 
 
 The tailor bellowed " Murder " twice, and fainted.
 
 1 54 FATHER PETER'S SOIREE. 
 
 At two o'clock a.m. on Christmas Day 
 The snow was falling gently in the Close, 
 When P.C. Jenkins, walking round that way, 
 Fancied he saw a pair of human toes 
 Peeping from out the old Cathedral door. 
 " Is this the way your Christmas Day you keep ? " 
 He said ; for there, stretched out upon the floor, 
 Was poor old Tagg, half frozen and asleep. 
 " Don't bellow ' Murder' here, or, by my staff, 
 Of Christmas dinner you shall not get much." 
 "Good, kind policeman, help me up; don't laugh, 
 For really I 'm as stiff as any crutch." 
 
 Poor Christopher got home at half-past three, 
 And ever since that day, when passing by 
 The old Cathedral, Tagg looks up to see 
 If they are all at home, but he fights shy 
 Of Father Peter, and he never told 
 His missus how he caught that shocking cold.
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY, 
 
 STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE, 1781. 
 
 HY does my lady of Rougemont go, 
 On this terrible night, through the drifting snow, 
 To kneel at a humble grave in prayer, 
 Leaving a wreath of immortelles there? 
 Ah ! why, indeed ! for the night is chill, 
 And the snow-storm sweeps over David's Hill, 
 Piling the flakes on the tombstones high, 
 That the moon, as she fitfully peeps from the sky, 
 Seems to fill ev'ry part of that sacred ground 
 As with white-winged angels watching around. 
 But years, ere time had tinged her hair, 
 Each Christmas Eve had she been there ; 
 And sure as came round each Christmas Day, 
 The worshippers looked as they passed that way, 
 For they knew a fresh wreath would be placed, instead 
 Of the one that had crumbled, all withered and dead.
 
 156 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 Come, Father James, we pray you tell 
 The story they say you know so well. 
 
 'Tis sixty years this very night; 
 
 The air was as cold, and the roads as white, 
 
 The yule-logs crackled, and sent their glow 
 
 Through the casements bright to the dancing snow. 
 
 The welcome sounds of the Christmas waits 
 
 Were heard beyond the city gates. 
 
 I remember it well, though I was but a boy, 
 
 For I always looked forward with youthful joy 
 
 To Christmas-tide, when I dared to show 
 
 I knew the use of the mistletoe. 
 
 Real Christmas weather as used to be, 
 
 And a frost as now we but seldom see ; 
 
 Though they'd not believe 'twas Christmas at all 
 
 Unless the waits had given a call. 
 
 And we greeted the coming with great delight, 
 
 Of Christmas Eve and New Year's Night, 
 
 For Lord of the Manor, the Parson, or Squire, 
 
 Were never forgot by St. David's choir. 
 
 Two pounds apiece at least 'twas worth 
 
 Our singing " Good will and peace on earth ;" 
 
 Although at times, I am sorry to say, 
 
 It didn't wind up in a peaceable way. 
 
 But I '11 to my story. We always met 
 
 At Jefferson's cottage, and Jeff would get
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 157 
 
 A jug of flip, sweet, strong, and warm, 
 
 Which was proof, as he said, against frost or storm 
 
 Jeff was clerk of the parish. His wife was 'dead ; 
 
 But she 'd left him a treasure as dear in her stead, 
 
 Their only child, his darling Grace, 
 
 With her mother's love, and her mother's face ; 
 
 And the gloom which fell with the loss of his wife 
 
 Was dispelled by this heaven-sent light of his life ; 
 
 For Grace was loving as she was fair. 
 
 With her deep blue eyes and flaxen hair, 
 
 And though twenty summers she 'd scarcely seen, 
 
 More than one smitten swain at her feet had been, 
 
 Or to ask the old man if he thought she would smile 
 
 On their suit; but he answered them all, "Wait awhile." 
 
 We 'd finished the flip, and prepared to start, 
 
 But the wind howled so fiercely, we 'd scarcely the heart ; 
 
 And when Jefferson rose to open the door, 
 
 It rushed into the place with a terrible roar, 
 
 Filling the room with the flakes of snow, 
 
 I began to despair we should ever go. 
 
 'Twas decided we should; but as I was young, 
 
 And never before with the choir had sung, 
 
 'Twas settled that I should remain in the place, 
 
 And be company there for Mistress Grace. 
 
 So we drew our chairs to the blazing logs, 
 Which sparkled and hissed on the " hangle dogs,"
 
 158 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 That gave to our fancy such fantastic shapes, 
 
 Now castles, now cities, now angels, now apes. 
 
 We were laughing to see stately palaces fall, 
 
 When we heard at the window old Jefferson call, 
 
 " Grace, open the door, my child ! open, I pray ! 
 
 Be quick, dear !" he cried, as she rushed to obey. 
 
 Then he placed in her arms what appeared, by the glow 
 
 Of the log, was a bundle all covered with snow. 
 
 Then he rushed from the cottage, and Grace's eyes 
 
 Bespoke her amazement and surprise. 
 
 But, oh, how great was her delight 
 
 When she beheld so strange a sight ! 
 
 The bundle opened, disclosed to Grace 
 
 A baby girl with an angel face. 
 
 Like yesterday, I can see her there, 
 
 As she kissed the cherub with tenderest care, 
 
 And fed it, and warmed it, and hummed it a song, 
 
 And wondered to whom did the stranger belong. 
 
 Then the fairy tales flitted across her young mind, 
 
 Irt her girlish desire some solution to find. 
 
 Had she found a real princess, by pixies preserved 
 
 From a terrible fate, which no baby deserved ? 
 
 When the party returned, all were anxious to know 
 What old Jefferson had (as he told them) to show. 
 His story was short. " I was waiting," he said, 
 " For the rest of the choir, who had gone on ahead.
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY* 159 
 
 I could scarcely see for the blinding sleet, 
 
 When I fancied I heard a faint wail at my feet. 
 
 I had sheltered myself 'neath the Eastgate wall 
 
 From the piercing wind and the heavy fall, 
 
 And I thought that I heard the faint wailing again, 
 
 But weakly, and helpless, and seeming in pain. 
 
 I kicked a large heap by my side, when, lo ! 
 
 That bundle you see there lay buried in snow. 
 
 I was startled at first, but my only thought 
 
 Was to do at once what a Christian ought ; 
 
 So Grace, my own darling, I give to you 
 
 A sister, for just an hour or two ; 
 
 And if nobody claims it, the parish must bear 
 
 The burden of this, so we '11 send it there." 
 
 Grace looked at her father, and begged she may 
 
 " Keep the dear little thing over Christmas Day." 
 
 He gave his consent, but, ah ! little he thought 
 
 With what danger that small concession was fraught ; 
 
 For when two long days had flitted by, 
 
 The old man said, with a moistened eye, 
 
 " Come, Grace, my daughter, the little waif 
 
 Must go where it's sure to be happy and safe." 
 
 She begged again that another day 
 
 She might keep the babe ere 'twas taken away. 
 
 But her father shook his head, and smiled, 
 
 Kissed her fair forehead, and said, " My child, 
 
 To keep it with us would be unwise, 
 
 And may seem somewhat strange in other eyes ;
 
 160 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 The world is too prone to misconstrue, 
 And condemn what e'en angels dare to do." 
 She pleaded hard, and the old man saw 
 That his case was lost, and her love was law. 
 They kept the babe, but, strange to say, 
 Suitors were scarcer from that day. 
 
 Fifteen Christmas Eves had flown, 
 
 And Eve to a beautiful girl had grown : 
 
 They called her Christmas Eve, you know, 
 
 Because of the night she was found in the snow. 
 
 Old Jeff had gone from this world of strife 
 
 To join his good and loving wife; 
 
 And Grace her tears of sorrow had shed 
 
 Where the daisies grew o'er her parent's head. 
 
 But the " bread on the waters " was surely cast, 
 
 When, in that night of storm and blast, 
 
 She took the foundling to her heart, 
 
 And kindled a love that should never depart. 
 
 Through a long, weary sickness Eve nursed her with care, 
 
 And at her side was ever there, 
 
 While o'er her " mother " she gently bent, 
 
 Like a guardian angel from Paradise sent ; 
 
 For Eve was her solace by day and by night, 
 
 The flowers on her pathway, her life, and her light.
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 161 
 
 The proud old lord of Rewe had died, 
 
 And his heir had taken himself a bride ; 
 
 There was joy at the manor, the yule log burned, 
 
 For the happy pair had j ust returned. 
 
 'Twas Christmas Eve, and the sky was clear, 
 
 And the song of carollers sounded near ; 
 
 The air was fresh, and the moon shone bright, 
 
 Pouring its rays of liquid light 
 
 So full and grand, that Heaven's gem 
 
 Seemed to herald the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 " My lord seems sad," the lady cried, 
 
 " This should not be at Christmas-tide. 
 
 What ails my love ? I pray you say, 
 
 Why thus with you when all is gay ? " 
 
 He drew her gently to his breast. 
 
 " Alas ! 'tis true, I have no rest ; 
 
 And but for the love I know you feel, 
 
 My heart would fail me to reveal, 
 
 At such a time, on such a night, 
 
 The cause of my sorrow, which seems to blight 
 
 My every joy, and bids me sigh 
 
 When mirth should reign, and thou art nigh. 
 
 My sire was proud of the family tree, 
 
 And hugged our ancient pedigree ; 
 
 And oft he 'd say, with the fiercest frown, 
 
 ' Who dares to drag our pedigree down, 
 
 By union with an inferior line, 
 
 Shall be no son or heir of mine.' 
 M
 
 1 62 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 He looked upon me with jealous care, 
 
 For, were she virtuous and fair, 
 
 'T would, weigh as nought, unless her line 
 
 Was of as ancient date as thine. 
 
 But oh ! my heart was young and warm, 
 
 I had no fear, I saw no harm, 
 
 If I should wed what pleased me, 
 
 E'en without wealth or pedigree. 
 
 I wooed and won a beauteous maid 
 
 Of humble birth, but was afraid 
 
 To tell my sire, whose wrath I feared 
 
 For sake of her to me endeared. 
 
 Too long he thought I 'd been away, 
 
 Bid me return without delay ; 
 
 My regiment, too, was like to be 
 
 Soon sent to face the enemy. 
 
 I brought her to the lovely West, 
 
 I 'd made resolve, and thought it best, 
 
 Should I confess what I had done, 
 
 To plead excuse through her I 'd won. 
 
 I had arranged that she should dwell 
 
 In a pretty cot near Exwick dell ; 
 
 And she was content to know that I, 
 
 Though oft away, was ever nigh. 
 
 But on our joy a shadow fell, 
 
 Which I battled bravely to dispel ; 
 
 For the angel of death was hovering near, 
 
 Torturing me, mid hope and fear,
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 163 
 
 And our baby girl scarce saw the light 
 
 Ere the mother's spirit had taken flight 
 
 The vow I made in that humble place, 
 
 As my tears fell on her dear dead face, 
 
 I have not kept, and my peace of mind 
 
 Great Heaven, I fear I shall never find ! 
 
 Look not with scorn, and you shall know 
 
 I never meant it should be so. 
 
 The child remained with the ancient pair, 
 
 Who never knew nor seemed to care. 
 
 Yet I was possessed of a foolish fear, 
 
 Lest my child and my home should be too near ; 
 
 For I had resolved, without delay, 
 
 To join my regiment for the fray. 
 
 " I knew one Andre Fabian, 
 Who 'd been my father's serving-man, 
 Returning was to south of France, 
 And it occurred that he, perchance, 
 Might take the child, and that his wife 
 Would tend it well, and save her life ; 
 For the child was weak, and should I send 
 To south of France, a double end 
 By its removal would be served, 
 Both child and secret be preserved. 
 I thought my plan had well been laid, 
 And when a long farewell I bade
 
 164 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 To home and friends, I little knew 
 To peace of mind I 'd bid adieu. 
 Andre arranged that they should leave 
 For ' Les Martignes ' on Christmas Eve, 
 In the trading vessel Fleur de Mai, 
 Which was to sail on Christmas Day. 
 I bade him come to the Eastern gate, 
 As the old cathedral clock struck eight ; 
 The snow and sleet beat in my face 
 As I met him at the appointed place. 
 He took the child, and from that day 
 What came of it I cannot say. 
 I troubled much through that long time, 
 By duty kept in a foreign clime ; 
 And when to Europe I returned 
 To see my child, my bosom yearned. 
 I sought De Fabian, but, alas ! 
 The place a ruin, and the grass 
 With weeds around the dwelling grown 
 Long vacant was too plainly shown. 
 All I could gather was, that he 
 Had ruined been, and crossed the sea. 
 A dame I saw, who said she knew 
 De Fabian well, and Madame too ; 
 And to my grief did she declare, 
 She never saw an infant there. 
 For years I sought my child to trace 
 In fruitless search from place to place.
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 165 
 
 Just twenty weary years have flown, 
 And now to you, sweet wife, I own, 
 Each Christmas Eve my heart is led 
 To mourn her if alive or dead. 
 But hark ! the Christmas waits I hear, 
 With them the past comes up too clear. 
 You now know why, when all is glad, 
 My heart is torn, and I am sad." 
 
 The Christmas waits had sung and played, 
 
 And my lord of Rewe came out and bade 
 
 Them enter, and partake of cheer, 
 
 And round the ashen log draw near. 
 
 " A Merry Christmas I pledge to you, 
 
 And welcome every one to Rewe," 
 
 His lordship said ; when a servant came 
 
 To announce a beggarman, whose name 
 
 He couldn't pronounce, " but the fellow says 
 
 He was known to my lord in former days." 
 
 " Bid him come in, that I may see," 
 
 His lordship said, " who he may be ; 
 
 He 's welcome, be he known or not, 
 
 To such as we this night have got." 
 
 The man had scarcely passed the door, 
 
 The cup was dashed upon the floor ; 
 
 His lordship staggers with a groan 
 
 " Great God ! De Fabian ! and alone ! "
 
 166 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 He sprang at his throat like a panther wild, 
 
 " My child ! Wretch, speak ! where is my child ? 
 
 You took my infant, you took my gold, 
 
 But I 'd have given a hundredfold 
 
 Of what I gave in that pitiless storm 
 
 To have saved my innocent child from harm." 
 
 " Par Bleu ! mi lor, vot do you say ? 
 
 Is this in earnest or in play? 
 
 I vait outside the Vestgate vail 
 
 Till I freeze, but you nevare come at all. 
 
 I vait till viz snow I vas nearly blind, 
 
 And I left ven I think that you alter your mind." 
 
 " Did I not give the gold to you ? " 
 
 " Mon Dieu, I nevare receive a sou ! 
 
 I get no child, I get no gold, 
 
 But vait all night in bitter cold. 
 
 I lose my all, and I tramp this vay 
 
 In hope for some help on Christmas Day ; 
 
 And instead of receive vot I expeck, 
 
 I find you take me by ze neck." 
 
 The waits looked on in fear and dread, 
 But I had heard what De Fabian said ; 
 And my thoughts in a moment seemed to go 
 To the baby old Jefferson found in the snow. 
 " Pray loose your hold, my lord, I pray, 
 For I desire a word to say.
 
 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 167 
 
 Was it twenty years, and on Christmas Eve ? 
 
 If so, my lord, then I believe 
 
 That I on this matter can throw some light, 
 
 For an infant was found in the snow that night. 
 
 Your lordship speaks of the Eastgate wall, 
 
 He speaks of the West, and in that fall 
 
 Of snow your lordship made mistake, 
 
 And let some evil villain take 
 
 Your child and gold ; then on the ground 
 
 Left the babe to perish, where 'twas found." 
 
 'Twas then I related what I knew, 
 
 And in less than an hour my lord of Rewe. 
 
 With myself for a guide, gently knocked at the door 
 
 Of " the Wynard's home " for the worthy poor. 
 
 There was joy at the manor, the logs were piled, 
 
 And the bells rang out for the long-lost child ; 
 
 And ere another Christmas came, 
 
 The young heir of Rougemont rode out to claim 
 
 The beautiful Lady Eve as his bride. 
 
 But there was one who stood by her side 
 
 On that bridal morn, whose kiss of love 
 
 She prized all earthly things above 
 
 Her foster-mother, who felt that morn 
 
 A joy in her soul that was heaven-born.
 
 168 MISS JEFFERSON'S BABY. 
 
 At Rougemont Castle there 's mirth to-night. 
 Sweet music sounds, and the logs burn bright ; 
 But my Lady Eve, she would not miss 
 E'en on such a boisterous night as this, 
 To visit the old churchyard, and place 
 On the grave of her foster-mother, Grace, 
 That beautiful wreath, which is always seen 
 Each Christmas Day, looking fresh and green. 
 But hark ! St. David's choir I hear, 
 And the day of peace and love draws near. 
 I Ve told my story, and now you know 
 Who knelt to-night in the blinding snow ; 
 And I see that I need not tell you why 
 There 's a love in her heart that can never die.
 
 OLD PILKING1WS DOUBLE-B&SS, 
 
 A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 H ! 'tis not for want of feeling, 
 Or that people are unmindful 
 Of the trials and the troubles, 
 
 Which beset us on our way 
 Through this world of thorns and roses, 
 Through these scenes of tribulation, 
 Leading onward to a brighter, 
 
 And an everlasting day. 
 Nor is it the deepest sorrow 
 Finds its way to open daylight ; 
 'Tis the suffering borne in secret, 
 
 Never breathed to mortal ears. 
 There 's small need to fly to romance 
 For true heroines or heroes, 
 Nor can Dives know whose daily bread 
 
 Is often wet with tears.
 
 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 
 
 Oh, ye trumpet-tongued philanthropists, 
 Who give but to emblazon 
 Your names before your fellows, 
 
 More to gratify your pride ! 
 Would ye know how to discover 
 Where your bounty would be blessed ? 
 Then go seek the quiet garret 
 
 AVhere true poverty doth hide. 
 But I 'm running from my story, 
 So I think at once I 'd better 
 Stop this sentimental musing, 
 
 Which, perhaps, at such a time 
 Is not exactly proper ; 
 For at this gay festive season 
 I 've no desire to cram you 
 
 With bad logic and worse rhyme. 
 Now I 'm never more delighted 
 Than when telling up a story 
 At which my willing listeners 
 
 Would rather laugh than cry ; 
 Though I '11 not pretend to prophesy 
 That this will be successful 
 In e'en calling up a smile, 
 
 Yet ne'ertheless I '11 try. 
 Well, 'twas when old Exon's city, 
 With its quaint old-fashioned gables, 
 Still had north, east, south, and west gates, 
 
 To mark the civic bound ;
 
 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 171 
 
 When St. Sidwell's had its corn-fields, 
 
 And St. David's was a valley, 
 
 And the Castle walls of Rougemont 
 
 Had their pleasure walks around. 
 When the now decayed localities 
 Of Pan eras, Mary Arches, 
 And St. Smythen, and Exe Island, 
 
 Had their mansions large and grand ; 
 When the citizens had buckles 
 On their shoes, and wore knee-breeches ; 
 And the porch 'neath the old Guildhall 
 
 Was Ex'ter's market stand. 
 And the noble old Cathedral 
 Stood out in all its glory, 
 And the Close was broad and open, 
 
 With its skirt of fine old trees ; 
 And the citizens delighted, 
 On the balmy autumn evenings, 
 To congregate on " Nornay's " slopes 
 
 And catch the passing breeze. 
 Long before the Queen Street Station, 
 In the valley of St. David's, 
 Had cut off the stream of water 
 
 Where the cresses used to grow ; 
 When, the Exe was filled with salmon, 
 And the citizens could go there 
 And fish without condition, 
 
 No authority need show.
 
 OLD ALDINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 
 
 In a little gabled cottage, 
 In the parish of St. Pancras, 
 There lived old Herman Pilkington, 
 
 Whose wife had long been dead ; 
 And the wrinkles in his forehead, 
 And his locks of frosted silver, 
 Plainly told that many summers 
 
 Had passed o'er Herman's head ; 
 But withal he was as nimble 
 As some people are at thirty. 
 He could sing a song, and tell a tale, 
 
 And always take his share 
 Of the home-brewed of the period ; 
 In fact, no city " outing " 
 Was considered half successful 
 
 If old Herman wasn't there. 
 He'd a very pretty daughter, 
 Who attended to the duties 
 Of the little humble household, 
 
 Made more cheerful by her face. 
 And on Sundays in the Choir 
 Of St. Pancras she assisted, 
 Where old Herman had for forty years 
 
 Scraped on the double-bass. 
 And on Christmas Eve the Choir 
 Went around to all the houses 
 Of the most important citizens, 
 
 For good old custom's sake ;
 
 OLD PILA'fNGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 173 
 
 So the slumbers of the Bishop, 
 And, of course, the Dean and Chapter, 
 Oft at Christmas-time were broken 
 With their " Mortals, wake, awake ! " 
 
 They had scraped and sung three pieces 
 At the mansion of the Bampfylds, 
 For the steward always had them in, 
 
 And treated them like lords ; 
 And the stingo he provided 
 Cheered their hearts and cleared their voices, 
 And their faces glowed like Saxon 
 
 Alfred's bacchanalian bards. 
 But 'twas fortunate, extremely, 
 That the choir had serenaded 
 All the others ere they entered 
 
 'Neath that hospitable roof; 
 For they all partook so freely 
 That on rising for departure 
 They gave evidence the beverage 
 
 Was at least of double proof. 
 Now they all, though slightly groggy, 
 Felt quite capable of walking 
 Till they reached where stood John's Hospital 
 
 'Twas then an open square. 
 They felt as bold as lions, 
 As the snow upon them pelted ; 
 And, oh the wondrous magic 
 
 Of that little change of air !
 
 174 OLD PILKINGTON' S DOUBLE-BASS. 
 
 The Clarionet, he staggered ; 
 And the Ophicleide looked silly ; 
 Whilst the old Trombone, he squatted 
 
 On a heap of drifted snow. 
 Then the Sackbut went down sprawling, 
 And old Pilkington was leaning 
 For support upon his instrument, 
 
 And could no farther go. 
 Then the wind set up a howling, 
 And old Pilkington he bellowed, 
 " Fetch my darter ! fetch my darter !" 
 
 As the snow swept in his face ; 
 When a mighty crash like thunder 
 Scared the maudlin musicians ; 
 For Pilkington had fallen on, 
 
 And smashed, his double-bass. 
 There were stifled sounds of " Murder " 
 From that instrument's interior, 
 Like voices of the demons 
 
 From the regions down below. 
 Then the Clarionet attempted, 
 But in vain, to give assistance 
 He declared that something held him fast, 
 
 And wouldn't let him go. 
 Then the Piccolo he staggered 
 To where Pilkington was lying, 
 With the very best intentions 
 
 His good offices to do ;
 
 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 175 
 
 But, alas ! he lost his footing, 
 And came down upon old Herman, 
 And the double-bass received him, 
 
 But there wasn't room for two. 
 Now the wind was howling louder, 
 And the snow was falling faster ; 
 There seemed quite a probability 
 
 That, ere the morning broke, 
 The drifting snow would cover 
 Up the Choir of good St. Pancras, 
 Which the old Trombone began to think 
 
 Was far beyond a joke. 
 Only two amongst the party 
 Now were really in condition 
 To gather up the instruments, 
 
 Or keep upon their feet. 
 'Twas the Flute and the Triangle, 
 And they tried to move the party ; 
 But they couldn't stir the Choir, 
 
 Who were lying in the sleet. 
 Now whether 'twas the freshness 
 Of the night, I cannot tell you, 
 Or the swift evaporation 
 
 Of the spirit they had drank ; 
 But the old Trombone he shuddered, 
 And looked up in wild amazement, 
 Whilst the melting snow had made the bass 
 
 A semi water-tank.
 
 176 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 
 
 So they picked themselves together ; 
 But, in spite of wind and weather, 
 Old Herman snored unconscious 
 
 In the bass. They turned him out, 
 When he glared like one bewildered, 
 As on the snow they placed him ; 
 And he rudely put the question 
 
 "What the devil be ee 'bout?" 
 " Lor a massy," bellowed Ophicleide, 
 " In goodness' name where be us ? 
 I feel I got the rheumatis 
 
 How ever came us here ? " 
 And the Clarionet was longing 
 For a drop more of the stingo, 
 Whilst the Sackbut stood and shook himself. 
 
 And felt uncommon queer. 
 Then the phantom band moved forward 
 Towards High Street, but they couldn't 
 Get old Pilkington to walk or stand, 
 
 Or try to leave the place. 
 So the Flute and the Triangle, 
 Growing desperate, determined 
 To carry him, and therefore 
 
 Put him in the double-bass. 
 With assistance from the others, 
 Who to stand were scarcely able, 
 Old Pilkington was mounted 
 
 In the instrument he prized ;
 
 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 177 
 
 And they staggered down the High Street 
 As the snow was pelting on them, 
 In danger every moment 
 
 That the lot would be capsized. 
 Still they managed to keep steady 
 Till they reached where now the office 
 Of the Devon Weekly Times is, 
 
 Or somewhere thereabout ; 
 When old Pilkington got restless, 
 Or he didn't like the jolting, 
 And he rose to reconnoitre, 
 
 And the bottom tumbled out. 
 Oh, if Hogarth had been living 
 'T would have well become his pencil 
 The picture of true wretchedness 
 
 Presented by the Choir ; 
 But the shock had made them sober, 
 So they gathered up the pieces, 
 And got home to Herman's cottage 
 
 By a cheerful blazing fire. 
 Pilkington was sadly shaken ; 
 They all caught the influenza 
 Mustard plasters, treacle possets, 
 
 And hot water for their toes, 
 Were prescribed by Doctor Squilby, 
 Who was looked on as a wonder, 
 And who always recommended 
 
 Tallow candle on the nose. 
 
 N
 
 178 OLD PILKINGTON'S DOUBLE-BASS. 
 
 Old Pilkington got better, 
 But the loss of his big fiddle 
 Rested heavy on his conscience, 
 
 'T was an heirloom from his dad ; 
 And they never could persuade him, 
 From the date of that disaster, 
 To assist at Christmas carols. 
 
 " Quite enough " he said he 'd had. 
 
 Many Christmases have vanished 
 Since old Pilkington departed, 
 And was gathered to his fathers ; 
 
 But the custom still remains, 
 With sweet music to remind us 
 That the years are swiftly passing ; 
 And may the day be distant 
 
 Ere we cease to hear the strains.
 
 A ROLAND FOR AIT OLIVER. 
 
 A STORY OF CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 'HE world is filled with cares and trials, ups and 
 downs, 
 
 No matter what our calling, creed, or station ; 
 
 One day we get the public smiles, next its frowns. 
 
 He who with grace accepts the situation 
 
 Is a philosopher ; but I 'm afraid such men 
 Are few and far between on this our planet. 
 We boast of love, forbearance, charity ; but then 
 We pride ourselves on hearts of strongest granite ; 
 And yet with all this high, self-lauding strain 
 "Lords of creation," "gods," and all the rest, 
 Conceited, proud, ambitious, haughty, vain 
 We 're but a set of noodles at the best ! 
 
 Well, then, not far from Exeter resided 
 Miss Arabella Jopkins, with her mother ;
 
 l8o A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 
 
 The dear old dame's paternal care divided 
 
 'Twixt Arabella and her little brother, 
 
 A most mischievous urchin, always late 
 
 At school, and such a limb at window smashing. 
 
 His greatest joy was swinging on a gate, 
 
 And giving smaller boys " a jolly thrashing." 
 
 Not far from Arabella's, well-to-do, 
 
 Lived Farmer Gosling and his buxom wife ; 
 
 His highest boast (I wonder if 'twas true?) 
 
 " He never owed a penny in his life." 
 
 They 'd two fine girls, one dark, the other fair ; 
 
 A little " nosey " for their social station. 
 
 Handsome, 'tis true; and well they knew they were : 
 
 They very often got an invitation 
 
 To spend the evening up at Bunkum Hall, 
 
 Or join at croquet with the vicar's wife ; 
 
 And sometimes they 'd attend the county ball ; 
 
 So felt a cut above a rustic life. 
 
 Their only brother, George, a strapping youth, 
 
 Was rather sweet on Arabella J. ; 
 
 But though she lacked not beauty, virtue, truth, 
 
 She had a horrid vice ; for which sin they, 
 
 His sisters, " shuddered at her lost condition." 
 
 11 George, are you mad ? What ! throw yourself away ? 
 
 She's got no money; worse, she's no position !" 
 
 Young Gosling liked the girl, and set at naught 
 
 The kind advice his loving sisters gave ;
 
 A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 181 
 
 But they made up their minds, they said they ought 
 To stop the match, and their " position " save. 
 
 Only a garden wall, not very high, 
 
 Divided Gosling's grounds from Arabella's, 
 
 So when the weather wasn't very dry 
 
 You might have seen a pair of umbrellas ; 
 
 For every day, no matter what the weather, 
 
 He 'd sit and whistle on that garden wall 
 
 Until she came, and there they 'd chat together 
 
 To when her mother thpught 'twas time to call. 
 
 Her little brother Sam, mischievous scamp 
 
 (They often wished him buried or in bed), 
 
 Would get behind the water-butt, and damp 
 
 Young Gosling's bliss shy " taties " at his head. 
 
 But then the course of love, so poets sing, 
 
 Was never smooth ; and Gosling's love grew stronger, 
 
 Determined matters to a close to bring. 
 
 He 'd ask her mother, he could wait no longer. 
 
 Dame Jopkins gave consent, they named the day, 
 
 And he became henceforth acknowledged guest. 
 
 But that young Sam was always in the way, 
 
 He 'd stop at home and grin the horrid pest. 
 
 The family of young Gosling, when they heard 
 
 How matters stood, were filled with great vexation ; 
 
 " Because," they said, " he 'd given them his word 
 
 He'd never marry one beneath his station."
 
 i82 A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 
 
 "His word was passed, and he should claim her hand." 
 The sisters tried all mortal means to stop her; 
 Though, had they seen a chance above their stand, 
 They would have thought the alliance right and proper. 
 
 The wedding was arranged for Christmas-day ; 
 
 Friends were invited, preparations made, 
 
 A cake provided " hundred weight " they say. 
 
 The banns were published, and the fees were paid. 
 
 At length the morn arrived, and little Sam 
 
 Had entered on that cake before 'twas time, 
 
 He also massacred three pots of jam 
 
 (I merely mention this to make a rhyme). 
 
 'Twas ten o'clock. The bride, in blue and white, 
 
 With numerous friends, unto the church repaired, 
 
 And all the place turned out to see the sight ; 
 
 The bride blushed, and no wonder, "they so stared." 
 
 Young Gosling had gone on before, and so 
 
 Was waiting in the church, as right he should. 
 
 The parson then commenced, and wished to know 
 
 " If this young man before the altar would 
 
 Take this young woman for his wedded wife ; 
 
 Renouncing all for her whilst here below, 
 
 And cleave unto her till the end of life ? " 
 
 He saw his sisters, and he answered, " No !" 
 
 The scene'that followed is beyond the power 
 Of earthly mortal to describe or paint ;
 
 A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 183 
 
 Each moment seemed at least quite half an hour. 
 
 A bridesmaid whispered, " Dear, you 'd better faint ;" 
 
 She took the hint, and went off like a lamb, 
 
 Which all her friends were quite upset to see ; ' 
 
 Her brother was upset but 'twas the jam 
 
 That upset him, as anyone could see. 
 
 Depraved young glutton ! said 'twas a relief 
 
 To know no wedding luncheon there would be ; 
 
 And, quite regardless of his sister's grief, 
 
 Said, " Don't ee cry, 'twill be more cake for me." 
 
 Young Gosling left the place. He 'd been away 
 
 About ten months I won't say to a week ; 
 
 And when in Exeter, one market-day, 
 
 Ran slap against the girl she wouldn't speak. 
 
 He felt downright ashamed, and well he might ; 
 
 He craved forgiveness for his wicked act. 
 
 " 'Twas not his wish," he said, " to offer slight, 
 
 He 'd promised mother, and could not retract ; 
 
 So pray forgive me, though I cannot wed." 
 
 " On one condition only," answered she. 
 
 " Name it," he cried. " Then it is this," she said, 
 
 " That I make you the fool you once made me ; 
 
 That I, before your friends and mine, shall say, 
 
 ' No !' in responding to the parson's call ; 
 
 That I, like you, shall turn and walk away, 
 
 And leave you there, the laughing-stock of all."
 
 184 A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 
 
 "'Tis terrible," he cried, "but I submit." 
 The Christmas-day was named, and friends invited ; 
 The church was filled, no room to stand or sit ; 
 And all except the bridegroom seemed delighted. 
 
 The pair stood at the altar as before, 
 
 He boldly did his part, and said, "I will;" 
 
 And heartily he wished the business o'er, 
 
 For now was coming his most bitter pill. 
 
 "And wilt thou take this man?" the parson said. 
 
 She gazed upon him, but he looked so ill 
 
 Her heart was softened ; as he bowed his head 
 
 She smiled so sweetly, and she said, " I will." 
 
 " Ten thousand Fenians," young Gosling cried, 
 
 '"Tis a mistake, she should have answered 'No.'" 
 
 " It can't be helped, love," said the blushing bride, 
 
 " There 's nothing more to say, we 'd better go ; 
 
 I wouldn't let them see the silly fool 
 
 I might have made you, had I been inclined." 
 
 His rage was great, but he began to cool. 
 
 Then wisdom came ; he said, " Well, never mind, 
 
 'Tis done, and can't be helped, that's pretty plain." 
 
 His friends forgave her that same afternoon ; 
 
 And from St. David's, by the " Four-ten " train, 
 
 They went to Bath, and spent the honeymoon.
 
 A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. 185 
 
 Years have flown by, and many a friendly face, 
 
 Which smiled upon the pair that Christmas-day, 
 
 Has long departed to earth's resting-place ; 
 
 E'en Gosling's hair 's a little tinged with grey. 
 
 But not in any sweet Devonian dell 
 
 Is home more happy, or a face more bright ; 
 
 And every Christmas-day he loves to tell 
 
 His children how mamma once " served him right." 
 
 She smiles to hear him say he 's cause to bless 
 
 The day "that sly young hussy answered 'Yes.'"
 
 EXMQUTHESI& 
 
 AND THE GOOD FAIRY OF HONITON'S CLYST; 
 Or, 33jt Bemort grc of Uuncijt&fOtlJ. 
 
 THE PLOT. 
 
 XMOUTHESIA was the only and beautiful daughter of 
 "Clyst St. Laurence," brother of "Clyst St. George," the 
 same St. George whom we read of in history (?) as having 
 fought and killed a Dragon at Aylesbeare. She [the lady, 
 not the Dragon] was beloved by one Matthew the Miller, 
 of Stepcot Hill ; she was also beloved by Sir Moreton 
 Hampstead, of Okehampton Castle, first cousin to Sir 
 Isaac Newt on -Abbot, of Bovey-Tracey [all in the "History of 
 England " if you are not above-a-tracing it] ; but Exmouthesia spurned 
 the love of Sir Moreton, because, to use a classical expression, she was 
 " gone " upon Matthew the Miller. 
 
 Sir Moreton, smarting under his humiliating slight, determines to 
 carry her off, and for this purpose invokes the aid of the Demon Ogre of 
 Dunchideock. The abduction is successful until they come to Dunsford 
 Bridge, where Blackingstone- Hey tore, a rival demon, who has over-
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 187 
 
 heard the arrangement between Sir Moreton and the Demon of Dun- 
 chideock, is waiting with his creatures to recapture Exmouthesia. 
 
 On arriving at Dunsford Bridge a terrible encounter, takes place, in 
 which Dunchideock's demons are beaten, and Blackingstone- Hey tore 
 rushes off with the fainting maiden, locks her up in Totnes Castle, and 
 declares that none shall become jpossessed of her for less than twenty- 
 five thousand pounds, and " mum 's " the word. 
 
 The Demon of Dunchideock, who remained at the cottage of Ex- 
 mouthesia, on Woodbury Hill, unaware that his creatures had been 
 beaten and the lady recaptured, gloats over the grief of Matthew the 
 Miller at the loss of his love, and endeavours to persuade him that she 
 has run away with the Man in the Moon. 
 
 Matthew, in great distraction, sets out in search of his love, and in 
 despair is about to throw himself over Cowley Bridge as the "Flying 
 Dutchman " is passing, when the good fairy of Honiton Clyst appears 
 upon the scene and informs him of the true state of affairs, giving him a 
 magic key by which he can obtain an interview with King Gold, from 
 whom he obtains the ransom required to release his lady-love. With 
 a light heart he sets out for Totnes, but arrives in time only to find that 
 Sir Moreton Hampstead has paid the required sum, and Carried off the 
 lady to Okehamptdn Castle. Matthew, disconsolate, returns to the 
 neighbourhood of Honiton Clyst, calls all the villagers together, and 
 forming the First Devon Volunteers, they march upon Okehampton 
 Castle, storm the place, kill Sir Moreton, and throw his body into the 
 river below, rescue Exmouthesia, and return with her in triumph, 
 receiving an ovation from every town and village as they pass, whilst 
 Okehampton Castle remains unto this day a heap of ruins.
 
 i88 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 COTTAGE OF EXMOUTHESIA, ON WOODBURY 
 HILL. 
 
 Exmouthesia discovered looking out of window. 
 
 very, very lonely is this place ! 
 I scarcely ever see a neighbour's face ! 
 Neighbours ? I Ve none, and friends I've very few, 
 Except my Matthew. Ah ! then that '11 do. 
 Since pa 's become a Mason, " Double Grand," 
 He stops out late ; nor can I understand 
 Why 'gainst poor Matthew he 's in such a tear, 
 And talks of " grips " and " chapters " on the square. 
 Pa so objects to Matthew; says I 'm bored, 
 And ought to marry none but young Sid' Ford; 
 But I don't like him, though he calls me fairy, 
 Because he flirts with Haughty Wry St. Mary (Ottefy 
 
 St. Mary). 
 
 I hate that girl, so vain, so proud ; she marches 
 With Mary Major, and that Mary Arches 
 Her eyebrows awfully, and tries to show 
 Herself a Belle to catch St. Stephen's beau (Sow}. 
 
 How beautiful old Haldon Hills appear ! 
 The evening is so bright, so fresh, so clear, 
 And distant objects seem so very near. 
 I see the flagstaff on the Belvedere ;
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 189 
 
 The sun pours down its rays of golden light, 
 Making the Exe Stream look Ex-tremely bright. 
 
 Tis very hard indeed I ne'er can go 
 
 Nice walks and trips like other girls I know. 
 
 Papa declares he doesn't think it right 
 
 That I should even go to post at night ; 
 
 And then he called me " silly little fool" 
 
 Because I asked to go to Salmon-Pool. 
 
 They ; re going to have a dance down in the park ; 
 
 I know they '11 keep it up till after dark. 
 
 Matthew is there, and I am lonely still ; 
 
 I 'm Woodbury sick ; in fact, I 'm Woodbury H-ill. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Father, dear father, come home to me now, 
 
 The church clock at Exmouth chimes eight ; 
 You know, like my mother I can't make a row, 
 
 And that 's why you stop out so late. 
 The sun will soon go down behind Haldon Heights, 
 
 And the sea 's coming in white with foam : 
 A very sure sign we shall have some rough nights 
 
 So, father, dear father, come home. 
 
 Father, dear father, Sir Moreton 's been here, 
 He 's been plaguing me out of my life ; 
 
 And he 's promised so much, I 'm beginning to fear 
 He '11 go wild if I won't be his wife. 
 
 But if Matthew 's too bashful the question to pop, 
 I might be persuaded to roam ;
 
 190 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 And then there 's no knowing, pa, where it may stop 
 So father, dear father, come home. 
 
 Enter MATTHEW THE MILLER. 
 Ah, Exmouthesia! all alone I see; 
 1 7 m come to ask you down to dance with me. 
 Do come, my love; your pa objects, I know, 
 To trips upon the light, fantastic toe. 
 The berth I give him, dear, is precious wide 
 He's always threatening to "tan" my "hide." 
 I 'd rather not be treated in this manner ; 
 I '11 stand my ground, but cannot stand a tanner. 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 I think 'tis not because you fear my father 
 You keep away so much ; perhaps you 'd rather 
 Dance with some other girl, who has no faults. 
 But tell me, will they dance the Mabel waltz ? 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 They will, my love. 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 Then go, and tell them all 
 That I agree to ope with you the Ball. 
 
 SONG. 
 We '11 dance that waltz, the Mabel waltz ; 
 
 But, my love, you see 
 'Gainst that tune my mind revolts 
 
 When 'tis played to me.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 191 
 
 Still my love soars above our cathedral tower. 
 Say the word, sweetest bird, for I 'm in your power, 
 And we '11 dance that waltz, that Mabel waltz ; 
 
 And Godfrey's band shall play, 
 Till everyone 's sick of the Mabel waltz, 
 Hearing it every day. 
 
 [Exit MATTHEW. 
 Enter SIR MORETON. 
 
 Ah, there she is ! what great R.A. could paint 
 
 Such beauty ? She 's asleep ! She ain't ! 
 
 Down on my bended knees, sweet Woodbury Lily. 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 Get up, Sir Moreton ; pray don't look so silly ! 
 
 SIR MORETON. 
 
 What ! spoil my beauty, now so much admired. 
 Would you believe it, this physog's inspired 
 An "Angel;" that is, when he took my Carte- 
 De - Visite here, Miss also took my heart 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 I Ve told you twenty times I would not wed 
 A man with such a stony heart and head. 
 
 SIR MORETON. 
 
 Oh, say not so, or you will crack my heart ! 
 Nor Dart-moor spiteful glances, or the Dart 
 Shall be my grave, and then most likely you 
 Will paddle o'er my head your own canoe.
 
 i 9 2 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 SONG. From Faust. 
 
 Come, my love r at once away ; 
 
 Come, let 's no longer stay ; 
 I '11 be your slave by night and by day. 
 Make my heart glad, don't drive me mad ; 
 
 Come, let 's away. 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Don't you wish that you may get it ? 
 Marry a scrub like you ! oh, dear, no, thank you ! 
 I 've got one who loves me dearly ; 
 If you don't go, you '11 be horsewhipped severely. 
 
 SIR MORETON. 
 
 Vengeance I '11 have upon his head. 
 Pehaps she '11 have me when he 's dead 
 Perhaps I shall get a jolly good kicking instead. 
 By all that 's blue, or of horrible hue, 
 Vengeance I '11 have. [Rushes out. 
 
 The saucy jade, with kindness I could kill her ; 
 She loves that Matthew chap, a stripling miller. 
 Just like my luck ; I think this is the fifth 
 That 's cut my comb, and sent my barque adrift. 
 I '11 not be thwarted, neither will I pout, 
 But I '11 turn " Maggie's Secret " inside out. 
 
 SONG. Air Maggie's Secret. 
 I loved a young woman, she didn't love me. 
 That was awkward, of course, you '11 allow ;
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 193 
 
 But I thought she 'd come round, so I let her " a' be" 
 
 As 'twas no use to kick up a row. 
 
 I made her fine presents, but all was no use, 
 
 She only laughed in my face, 
 
 And gave me all manner of sauce and abuse, 
 
 Whilst her pa kicked me out of the place ; 
 
 And she told me I need not come spooning to she, 
 
 For my chance, my chance was all U. P. 
 
 I sung all the new music, from " Grandfather's Clock " 
 
 To " Paddle your own Canoe," 
 
 " Meet me in the Lane " when the clock strikes nine 
 
 TJiat I never could get her to do. 
 
 I was " Dreaming of Angels " from morning till night, 
 
 And kept bellowing " Ever of Thee," 
 
 When she said there 's a place down at Exminster 
 
 Where they put all such boobies as me, 
 
 And she told me I need not, &c. 
 
 CLYST ST. LAWRENCE enters the Cottage. 
 
 My darling child, you see I Ve not stopped late, 
 Although I had to pass the " Pinhoe Gate." 
 Unhanging gates is not my stile, you know, 
 For they '11 Pin-he who tries to cheat Pin-hoe. 
 Bring me my pipe. You 're looking rather pale. 
 Has Matthew been here, pitching up a tale ? 
 I'll warm his jacket, the conceited elf, 
 As once your mother's father warmed myself, 
 o
 
 194 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 SONG. Air Polly Perkins. 
 
 Oh, the days of my youth's joys and pleasures are past, 
 And I 'm come to grey whiskers and agues at last ; 
 But I '11 ne'er be down-hearted ; I never have been, 
 And I think to give way is uncommonly green. 
 
 Spoken. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis but as yesterday 
 When I used to chase the butterflies 
 O'er the meadows so green 
 With your mother, such a pretty, pert thing, 
 As proud as a queen. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 GLITTERING ABODE OF THE FAIRY QUEEN IN 
 THE REALMS OF FANCY ; 
 
 Pearly Grotto of Oyster Shells on Exe Island ; the Gasometer 
 by Moonlight. 
 
 FAIRY QUEEN. 
 
 Come, my sweet fairies, there 's no time to lose ; 
 We Ve lots to do, and I 've got lots of news 
 The parliamentary squabbles, fights, and fines, 
 The Flying Post, Gazette, Western and Weekly Times, 
 Singing each other's praises hot and strong : 
 The love 's too hot, I fear, to last too long. 
 'Tis pleasant to behold their mutual love, 
 The " Flying Angel " and the " Western Dove," 
 The " Devon Weekly Balm " and " Tell-a-cram," 
 Mixed up together, what an awful jam !
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 195 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 But is it true at Christmas-time they drink 
 Each other's health in bumpers of hot ink ? 
 
 THIRD FAIRY. 
 
 Oh, yes, 't is true ; for I was of the party : 
 They shook each other by the hand quite hearty. 
 The Post shed tears at this fraternal revel, 
 And hugged and kissed each other's " printer's devil." 
 " Let 's all amalgamate," said one, " we may be happy yet, 
 And call our sheet The ' Western,' 1 ' Weekly,' ' Flying] 
 
 1 Gazette.'" 
 
 Though whilst we joke them, we must not forget 
 We owe the Press a deep and lasting debt, 
 Racking the brain by night and day to find 
 Food for the ever fickle public mind 
 A hydra-headed monster. Ah, these men 
 Are rightly, fairly termed, Knights of the Pen. 
 
 But sometimes, when a reader asks redress, 
 They 're apt to stint this freedom of the Press. 
 "Our correspondent's letter's much too long; 
 His arguments won't do, they 're much too strong ; " 
 " Our correspondent's views are right, no doubt ; 
 But press of matter 's great you 're crowded out." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 What complications editors are blessed with every day, 
 Humouring correspondents, who will always have their say :
 
 196 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 One writes a letter three yards long, in which he has no doubt 
 
 That all the world is wrong, and //<?,why he is "crowded out." 
 
 Oh, 'tis nice to be an editor, one of the modern times ! 
 
 One fancies he 's a poet, but the people are such fools, 
 And " utterly too utter " for our great sesthetic schools ; 
 His last effusion will, he says, put Tennyson to rout ; 
 He 's made a hit, but has a fit on being " crowded out." 
 Oh, 'tis nice to be an editor, &c. 
 
 Then some one at the office calls, and swearing he has read 
 A libel on his honour, means to shoot the writer dead ; 
 The editor sends down a note to say he 's ill in bed ; 
 So they compromise the matter, and they punch each 
 other's head. 
 
 Oh, 'tis nice to be an editor, &c. 
 
 I 've sent to ask the Fairy of the Sea 
 
 If she '11 come up and take a dish of tea 
 
 In Lympstone Cave, with Fairies Earth and Air, 
 
 But as 'tis private " no reporters there." 
 
 Enter QUEEN OF THE SEA drawn upon the water by 
 two beautiful white swans. 
 
 QUEEN OF THE SEA. 
 I 'm come at last, I hope it's not too late. 
 
 FAIRY QUEEN. 
 
 You 're welcome to the shore, at any rate ; 
 But ere I tell you what 's been done above, 
 Tell us what 's going on below, my love.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 197 
 
 QUEEN OF THE SEA. 
 
 Oli, dreadful ! What d' ye think ? the other day, 
 As I and twenty nymphs were out at play 
 At hide-and-seek amongst the coral beds, 
 A great black ugly line dropt o'er our heads. 
 Pearlesia first looked up, a scream she gave, 
 Then darted down into our ocean cave. 
 We followed her, to speak when she was able. 
 She cried, " They 're laying the Atlantic cable ! " 
 We all rushed out ; I said we would not stand 
 This base intrusion ; seized it in my hand 
 With firm resolve to break the rope in two, 
 When twenty thousand needles pierced me through. 
 
 When I looked up this side of Exmouth Bar, 
 
 I knew from Exeter I wasn't far; 
 
 I saw by Earl of Devon's Belvedere 
 
 Semper Fidelis must be pretty near. 
 
 They want a little mending, " Exmouth Docks ; " 
 
 They wouldn't let me pass at Double Locks ; 
 
 They said I 'd stolen these swans near Starcross Station 
 
 From Captain Peacock dreadful accusation ! 
 
 I said, " With theft my name was never tainted ; 
 
 How can these Swans be Peacocks!" then they fainted. 
 
 But let 's to business. What 's it all about ? 
 
 A special commission this ; and I 've no doubt 
 
 'Twill do more good, and not cost half the sum 
 
 They spend on some commissions ; but that 's " mum."
 
 ig8 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Enter FAIRY PROGRESS. 
 
 Here, stop a moment ; I feel rather slighted. 
 
 I 'd like to know why I was not invited ? 
 
 Can anything be done without my aid ? 
 
 Surely of Progress none should be afraid. 
 
 Was it not I who, when the world was dark, 
 
 Lit up an intellectual fire ? And, lo ! the spark 
 
 Has flashed throughout the world a chain to bind 
 
 In universal friendship all mankind. 
 
 I gave excursions cheap by land and sea ; 
 
 Your wealth and happiness are due to me. 
 
 My name is found with every useful movement, 
 
 And I am recognized in all improvement ; 
 
 And plenty more I '11 do, if you '11 invite me. 
 
 'Twill damp my good intentions if you slight me. 
 
 I freed the slaves ; that dark, thick, sickly cloud 
 
 Has melted 'fore the intellectual sun, 
 
 Whose genial rays shall ripen glorious fruit. 
 
 Now some of you begin I Ve done. 
 
 FAIRY QUEEN. 
 
 Well, then, 't is this : We 're in a dreadful fright, 
 What with the trams and the electric light, 
 The rows in parliament and lady's dress 
 All filling " Fairydom " with great distress. 
 And as you are the medium of all nations, 
 We think you ought to join our consultations, 
 Although, my dear, we 'd have it understood 
 That mid the evils there is much that 's good.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 199 
 
 And Exeter is all alive, they say ; 
 
 They're going to launch a lifeboat there to-day; 
 
 A nobler act a city scarce can do. 
 
 Great Spirit of the Storm, guide and protect her crew ! 
 
 God speed the boat our prayer shall ever be, 
 
 May she glide safely o'er the angry sea, 
 
 And bless the men who risk their lives to save 
 
 A fellow-mortal from an ocean grave ! 
 
 So let 's with pleasure pass the time away ; 
 All Devon rings with unmixed joy to-day. 
 
 SONG. Air Spring, Spring. 
 Oh for a fairy's life down by the sea, 
 Free from all care and strife, happy are we ! 
 We Ve no " bank bubbles" but those from the waves ; 
 We are the " treasures " which lie in the caves. 
 Let the world scramble, tumble, and fight ; 
 Let them to law go, and swear that black 's white ; 
 Let them with piety cheat young and old. 
 I wouldn't be mortal for caverns of gold. 
 Oh for a fairy's life, &c. 
 
 Enter DEMON OGRE OF DUNCHIDEOCK. 
 What horrid, dreadful, happy sounds are these ? 
 They set my teeth on edge ; and, oh, my knees 
 Shake like a pot of size to hear them say, 
 All Devon rings with unmixed joy to-day. 
 But I Ve a plan to stop their hated mirth ; 
 If I succeed, the city shan't be worth
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 What now remains of old St. David's Station 
 I '11 shake their " Simper Fiddlestick's " foundation. 
 What ho ! my " Aids-de-Scamps, "Cockwood, Dawlish, ho ! 
 Axminster, Exmouth, Topsham, Brampford. Bow ! 
 
 [Imps all rush in. 
 Speak, Brampford-6^^, is Hall-done Hill done well ? 
 
 IMP. 
 Ax-mister, great Dunchideock, he can tell. 
 
 SECOND IMP. 
 'Tis all done well. Let's strike at once. 
 
 DUNCHIDEOCK. 
 
 We will ! 
 
 A good time, too. John 's-cross, and David 'sh-///. 
 Go guard St. Thomas by the turnpike gate ; 
 You Ide in Alphington lie still and wait 
 Until you hear my well-known trumpet call ; 
 That is, when we All-Hallows on the Wall. 
 Take all their gold, take Little Silver too ; 
 I can't a-Shillingford to lose, 'tis true. 
 Six go to Westgate, take what arms you 've got, 
 Because down there, I know, you '11 catch it hot. 
 I '11 up the town, and make the Grecians bolt, 
 And seize St. Sidwell's with a " Lion's Holt." 
 If you succeed, I '11 take the filthy dross, 
 And make you Knights of 
 
 ALL. 
 
 What? 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 The Grand Star Cross.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 20: 
 
 SONG. Air Over the Garden Wall. 
 We '11 go to the Grecians, and make them fly 
 
 Over the garden wall ; 
 They'll run if they see me but cock my eye 
 
 Over the garden wall. 
 
 We ''11 use the steam roller their force to evade, 
 We '11 steal all the arms from the Rifle Brigade, 
 And then bolt into Southernhay through the Arcade, 
 
 Then over the garden wall. 
 
 Over the garden wall, so list to my trumpet call ; 
 We '11 wallop 'em yet, the whole of the set ; 
 And you may bet they '11 ne'er forget 
 The terrible whacking they 're likely to get 
 Under the garden wall. 
 
 Enter GOOD FAIRY. 
 
 Stay, ugly monster ! know you I Ve the power 
 To spoil your scheme in less than half-an-hour ! 
 I Ve overheard your vile and wicked plan, 
 But I defy you do it if you can. 
 No, beauteous Devon, thou hast nought to fear 
 While the Good Fairy of the Clyst is near ; 
 Long shall thy maidens' grace excel, thy children smile, 
 And thou acknowledged " Garden of our Isle." 
 May this year's trade by far exceed the last, 
 And all ill feeling buried with the past. 
 May Afric's sun set red in blood no more ; 
 May Peace and Friendship stretch from shore to shore ; 
 May man to man be little more the brother.
 
 32 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 DEMON. 
 Like our Town Council, dote on one another. 
 
 FAIRY. 
 
 Yes, like our Council, though sometimes 'tis true 
 We see too much of yellow and of blue. 
 With all their rows and squabbles, you must say 
 They beat the House of Commons any day, 
 And do their very best for public good. 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 Ah ! that they may, but I don't think they should ; 
 I love to see them thwart each other's aims, 
 Rake up old sores, and call each other names. 
 
 FAIRY. 
 
 But come, old Hangback, surely you '11 admit 
 They 've done some good since North Street was a pit, 
 And South Street houses used almost to meet, 
 And friends upstairs shake hands across the street. 
 Then look at Queen Street, but the other day 
 The old Swan Tavern stood and stopped the way ; 
 But now, behold, as if by fairy hand, 
 As finest street in Devon takes its stand. 
 St. David's Station come, object to that ; 
 More like a palace than a railway station ; 
 The other day a damp, low-lying flat, 
 Now use and beauty marks the situation.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 203 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 Oh, thanks, Directors Green, Jones, Jenkins, Brown, 
 To build that splendid station out of town. 
 "Pis glorious to feel, in the pouring rain, 
 Folk have to walk a mile the town to gain. 
 
 FAIRY. 
 The old Guildhall, they Ve much improved that place. 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 They 'd better take him home and wash his face. 
 But there, I like to see things dark and small ; 
 " Justice is blind," so why light up the hall ? 
 
 FAIRY. 
 
 There 's lots of institutions in the city : 
 The School of Art, Museum. 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 More 's the pity. 
 
 I hate museums, art, science, knowledge, books. 
 Why know them more than I know lords or dukes ? 
 With lords and dukes and books, like many a swell, 
 I learn their names, and boast I know them well. 
 And your " Teign Valley," too, looks well on paper. 
 
 FAIRY. 
 
 And it shall end in steam, and not in vapour. 
 But really, sir, I Ve something else to do 
 Than waste my time in arguments with you.
 
 204 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 I see 'gainst all that 's good you 're waging war ; 
 
 Yet pray remember you may go too far. [Exit. 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 She little thinks the game I have in hand 
 I '11 scatter 'em as *" Bass " the German band. 
 
 SONG. Air German Band. 
 
 In me you see a literary demon. As author I 've no equal : 
 In the first and second vjolume I raise their spirits up, 
 And I drop them down again in the sequel. 
 If you wish to make a hit, you must lie above a bit ; 
 For the people want, and will have, sensation ; 
 And I intend to swear that for rot and passion rare 
 You haven't got my equal in the nation. 
 To talk of Dickens, Tupper, Tennyson, 
 Miss Braddon, Brown, or anyone, 
 Or all the first-rate authors in the land, 
 For murder, mist, or haddle, I 'd make them all skedaddle, 
 As " Old Bass " he did the " German Band." 
 
 SCENE III. 
 COTTAGE OF EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 She has just returned from the Ball, and is seated before the glass taking 
 down her back hair. Demons peeping in at the window, down 
 the chimney, through the key-hole, &c. 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Oh, what a jolly dance we 've had to-day ! 
 Sir Moreton came, I soon sent him away.
 
 EXMOVTHESIA. 205 
 
 And Whimple paid me very marked attention ; 
 
 And Feniton well, there, I never mention. 
 
 Young Sidmouth challenged Budleigh out to fight 
 
 Because he danced with me three times to-night ; 
 
 I was alarmed at first, but Branscombe said, " Don't fear ; 
 
 If he begins I '11 Seat-on on his Beer." 
 
 But Matthew took me off whilst they were foaming, 
 
 And, oh, 't was very pleasant in " the gloaming." 
 
 SONG. Air In the Gloaming. 
 In the gloaming I am combing 
 Out my locks of flaxen hair, 
 And I know who saw me home in 
 Such a handsome sedan-chair ; 
 But should old Sir Moreton ask me 
 If I 'd wed him, this I '11 do, 
 Answer pertly, " Oh dear no, sir, 
 Best for me, and best for you." 
 
 In the gloaming I 've been roaming 
 All around St. Mary's Clyst, 
 With my Matty, oh, so chatty, 
 And so gentle when he kissed ! 
 But when I 'm Mrs. Matthew 
 I '11 allow him no latch-key ; 
 For as husbands go I think 'tis 
 Best for him and best for me. 
 
 I '11 shut the window, for 'tis getting colder. 
 I wish that Matthew was a little bolder ;
 
 206 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 He 's too reserved, and scarcely speaks a word. 
 I would he would ! I " would I were a bird ! " 
 
 SONG. Air Would I were a Bird. 
 
 He scarcely speaks one word, and yet I cannot see 
 Why Matthew should prefer some other girl to me ; 
 And yet I know full well, however fair she be, 
 He would not wish to woo her, because he doats on me. 
 Ah ! when we went to Dawlish, that afternoon so dear, 
 When we walked across to Teignmouth, and made love 
 
 upon the pier ; 
 But oh, I fancy now he 's whispering to me 
 
 That 
 
 SONG. 
 
 He '11 never come back any more, 
 'He'll never come back any more, 
 That he '11 go away and live at Torbay, 
 Shaldon, or Labrador. 
 But I '11 lock up the house if he does, 
 And I '11 bar every window and door ; 
 I 'd join him at once, and I 'd marry the dunce, 
 And we 'd never come back any more. 
 
 \Demons and sprites rush in and seize her; she is about 
 to scream when they ram in her mouth a half-dozen 
 West of England Bank shares ; she faints. 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 Now take her gently, softly down the hill ; 
 Shun the West Quarter, or p'raps Upright's mill
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 207 
 
 May damp your courage, if the " lambs " should see ; 
 Don't wake the turnpike man at Heavitree ; 
 Be soft as spectres when you pass Guildhall, 
 For the inspector there suspects us alL 
 
 SONG. Air Pretty 'Little Sarah. 
 Pretty little fairy, take her up with care ; 
 
 Don't joggle down the hill, I give you warning ; 
 If out of place upon her head you put a single hair, 
 
 I '11 drown you in the Teign to-morrow morning. 
 When you pass St Thomas's don't evade the toll, 
 
 Or, like the " Haldon postboy," they may put you in 
 
 the hole ; 
 Tell my friend Sir Moreton I '11 be with him by-and-by ; 
 
 Meet me down at Fingle Bridge, where the Teign runs 
 
 high. 
 
 Pretty little fairy, &c. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 DUNSFORD BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Blackingstone-Haytor, surrounded by his creatures, listening for the 
 approach of the captors of Exmouthesia. 
 
 BLACKINGSTONE. 
 
 Steady, my friends, don't let a sound be heard, 
 Rush smack out on 'em when I give the word. 
 They stop Long-down on Pok-ham Bridge, I fear 
 The length of journey makes them rather queer; 
 Or p'rhaps it is the new electric light, 
 They 've lost their way and dazzled up their sight.
 
 208 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 But hark ! they come ; they 're fuddled all, I knew it ; 
 Powder-hem well, for we Ken-Ford to do it. 
 
 \They arrive on Dunsford Bridge, a terrible conflict takes 
 place, the scene closes as Blackingstone-Haytor rushes up the 
 Teign Valley with the fainting Exmouthesia in his arms. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 COWLEY BRIDGE. 
 
 Enter MATTHEW and DEMON OGRE OF DUNCHIDEOCK. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 My Exmouthesia ! no, it can't be so ; 
 I '11 ne'er believe it possible she 'd go ! 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 Young man, 'tis true, she went this afternoon ; 
 Eloped with him who lives up in the moon. 
 She said you needn't look, you 'd never find her, 
 And you might go and sing the " Organ Grinder." 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 Up in the moon ! then all my hopes are blighted, 
 Like London's Ex-Lord Mayors, I feel be-knighted. 
 To find my love I 'd give the wealth of mines. 
 Come back to him who sits on Cowley Bridge, and Pynes 
 
 SONG. Air believe me if all. 
 Oh, I '11 stray o'er the county feom morning till eve, 
 Though perhaps I 'm a silly young spoon ;
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 209 
 
 Yet nil dcsperandum, I '11 never believe 
 
 That she 'd bolt with the Man in the Moon. 
 
 Come down, if you 're there ; drive my sadness away, 
 
 Or they '11 take me to Exminster soon, 
 
 And never again, if once there, shall I stray 
 
 " By thy sweet silver light, bonny moon." 
 
 [ffe is about to throw himself over the bridge, when the 
 Good Fairy of Honiton Clyst appears. 
 
 GOOD FAIRY. 
 
 Stay, stay, young man ! Do nothing rash, I pray. 
 She 's not up there ; your love 's been stolen away : 
 She 's locked in Totnes Castle, and I doubt 
 If aught but ready cash will get her out. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 In Totnes Castle ! Perhaps the light of day 
 She '11 ne'er Sey-mour (see more). H-O-tell, I pray ! 
 My heart is brave and firm, my hand is steady. 
 
 FAIRY. 
 That won't release her. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 Then what will ? 
 
 FAIRY. 
 
 The Ready. 
 
 Here, take this ring, and by its magic power 
 You '11 see King Gold within this very hour.
 
 2io EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Lose not a moment, or your chance is lost ; 
 
 Possess the treasure, never mind the cost. 
 
 Others will offer sums, by no means small ; 
 
 But you, with thirty thousand, Topsham (tops 'em) all. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 Ah, true ! I 'm going to an awful place. 
 If I disguise, they will not know my face ; 
 But if that Anstey's Cove demands a parley, 
 Who shall I say I am ? 
 
 FAIRY. 
 
 Oh, Nelson Varley ! 
 
 But when she 's yours, no flirting I should stand ; 
 Take my advice, and keep her well in hand. 
 
 SONG. A\rBaby Mine. 
 I shall stop all this coquetting when she's mine, when 
 
 she 's mine ; 
 All her pouting, all her fretting, when she 's mine, when 
 
 she 's mine. 
 
 I shall quickly let her see that her lord I mean to be : 
 She shall honour and obey me when she 's mine. 
 
 She shall dress as I think proper when she 's mine, when 
 
 she 's mine ; 
 No more ulster, tie, and topper, when she J s mine, when 
 
 she 's mine ; 
 
 I '11 commence the wedding-day to have everything my way, 
 Love, honour, and obey, when she's mine, when she's mine.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 2 \ i 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 ABODE OF KING GOLD, 
 
 Thirty miles below the Dunchideock Treacle Mines ; horrible smell of 
 burnt Debenture Bonds ; King Gold, who is lying on a heap of 
 glittering metal, raises himself up, rubs his jaundiced eyes, and 
 exclaims : 
 
 'Tis tiresome work to be here so confined ; 
 By worthless paper I 've been left behind. 
 I used to shake my head, when up it went ; 
 And what 's the consequence ? I 'm 2 per cent. ! 
 Breathes there a man on this colossal globe, 
 Rolling through space 'twixt millions of its kind, 
 Who with his thoughts a half-spent life can probe, 
 Yet in its depths no bygone pleasures find ? 
 I am not he ; and yet what little cause 
 Have I to look with pleasure on my days ! 
 Oh, I was happy until ruthless man 
 Coined me, and sent me twenty thousand ways ! 
 I make acquaintance with all kinds of men ; 
 I tramp the world, but I come back again. 
 They should have let me rest, the hungry knaves ! 
 But now they own my power, they 're all my slaves. 
 
 SONG. Air Power of Love. 
 I 'm a power whose sway mortals all adore ; 
 Keeps dull care at bay, oft makes rich feel poor ; 
 Hungry mortals prize, makes the coward bold ; 
 Blinds some people's eyes great the power of Gold !
 
 2 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Source of joy and woe, source of love and hate, 
 Should I quickly go, then they call it " fate." 
 Princes own my spell, beggars kiss my mould ; 
 Language cannot tell half the power of Gold ! 
 
 Enter MATTHEW. 
 
 I 'm here at last ! But what a horrid place ! 
 Who 's that old man asleep, with shining face ? 
 Tis Gold. I dare not wake him, yet I must. 
 Sweet Fairy of the Clyst, to thee I trust. 
 
 \CalfsGoLD. 
 GOLD. 
 
 Who calls for me at this strange time of night ? 
 
 Another worshipper of yellow light ? 
 
 Was ever mortal being so annoyed, 
 
 Or with the baser metals so alloyed ? 
 
 They call me cursed, filthy lucre, dross" ! 
 
 That 's only when my votaries are cross 
 
 When of my smiles they cannot get enough, 
 
 'Tis then I 'm horrid, vile, and filthy stuff. 
 
 They curse my very name, spit in my face, 
 
 And call me evil genius of their race. 
 
 I smile they kiss my hand, and grin like apes ; 
 
 But when I frown oh, then 'tis "fox and grapes !" 
 
 The willing slave of all, yet I am king ; 
 
 For those who trust me I can have no sting. 
 
 'Tis those who know me, yet abuse my worth, 
 
 I do their will, and crush them to the earth.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 213 
 
 Oh, how I hate the man who loves me most, 
 Yet keeps me captive, like unransomed host, 
 And will not let me see the light of day 
 Lest I might fall in love, and run away ! 
 Have I not in the hands of goodly men 
 Made paradise of many a spot? 'Tis when 
 I help the needy, comfort the distressed, 
 Is my true mission understood and blessed. 
 Widows and orphans bless me, devils damn : 
 'Tis those who use me make me what I am. 
 
 But what 's your errand ? Do you want to be 
 
 A worshipped fraud in huge philanthropy ; 
 
 Or do you wish to take the markets unawares 
 
 Run down some honest scheme, and buy the shares ? 
 
 Or seek to act as friend to some young gent, 
 
 And lend him cash at ninety-five per cent. ? 
 
 Or do you want my aid to buy and sell 
 
 Your needy neighbours ? Come, your business tell ! 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 'Tis not, great spirit, for myself I pray 
 Your kindly aid in a pecuniary way ; 
 'Tis to release my love, so young, so fair, 
 I ask your help, to ease my dire despair. 
 She 's locked in Totnes Castle, and I 've found 
 To get her out takes thirty thousand pound. 
 
 GOLD. 
 No very small request. But take it, boy.
 
 214 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 Oh, I could turn a Somerset for joy ! 
 Dear Exmouthesia, to thee I come. 
 
 GOLD. 
 Don't make a noise, or you might lose it. " Mum ! " 
 
 SONG. Air Tramp, tramp. 
 If our fathers could but see 
 What a clever lot are we 
 
 What improvement and what change has taken place-- 
 How 'twould make our grannies stare ! 
 Very likely they 'd declare 
 
 'Twas the work of him who dwells in yonder place. 
 But, ah! 'tis the intellect that's marching, 
 And glorious work we yet intend to do. 
 If we all go hand in hand, then no obstacle can stand 
 'Gainst the useful, good, the beautiful, and true. 
 
 Now the Devon School of Art 
 
 Is intended to impart 
 
 A strong desire for elevated taste ; 
 
 And a wise and useful movement 
 
 Is the Working Men's Improvement, 
 
 So all who haven't joined it pray make haste. 
 
 With the knowledge you have got don't be contented, 
 
 Although you 're very clever all, no doubt, 
 
 You may try with all your might 
 
 To be foremost in the fight ; 
 
 But it 's ten to one your sons will snuff you out. 
 
 For, ah ! 'tis the intellect, &c.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 215 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 TOTNES CASTLE. 
 
 Exmouthesia closely guarded, attended by the wife of 
 Blackingstone- Hay tor. 
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Why do they keep me here from day to day ? 
 I can't escape ; I 've tried to every way. 
 That Haytor*s wife, I hate-her worse than he ; 
 She tells me Lady Moreton-Hampstead I must be. 
 If Matthew only knew, 'twould break his heart. 
 When I get out of this I '11 make them smart ; 
 I hear them every night, the row they make 
 About the price, and I am kept awake. 
 Last night Sir Moreton raved and stamped, and swore 
 He wouldn't pay a blessed penny more. 
 
 SONG. Air Write Me a Letter. 
 
 Sadly I sit me and weep weep as I have not for years. 
 
 Why do my eyes fail to keep back my vexation and tears ? 
 
 I think of dear Matthew away. Oh, why did they force 
 me to roam ? 
 
 Will someone go tell him for me 
 
 To come here and take me back home ? 
 
 Has he forgotten me now, 
 
 Or know how they forced me to roam ? 
 
 Someone go tell him for me 
 
 To come here and take me back home.
 
 2i6 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 \Matthew arrives at Totnes, and is met by the wily creatures 
 of Blackingstone, who keep him bartering and spending the 
 ransom, until he discovers that Sir Moreton-Hampstead 
 has paid the required sum, and carried off the prize. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 Unlucky Matthew ! Miserable fate ! 
 Arrived in time enough to be too late. 
 But there 's one consolation : well I know 
 That I am not the very first to go 
 Down into Totnes borough for redress 
 Well stocked with cash, and then return with less ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I went down to Totnes with plenty of tin, 
 
 And thought it no difficult matter to win ; 
 
 But they "skinned " me entirely out of my heap, 
 
 And my sole consolation 's to bear it and weep ! 
 
 Dawkins was dawkey ; what money he spent ! 
 
 A great in-dent-ation they made in poor Dent. 
 
 Seymour was artful he 'd been there before ; 
 
 They 'd seen much of his cash, but they 'd never see more ! 
 Those chaps, they try, &c., 
 All to console me, but that 's all my eye ; 
 I bet a penny they'll fail by-and-by. 
 
 I '11 go back to Woodbury, and let them all see 
 
 How those independent electors served me. 
 
 Catch me down there again never no more ! 
 
 If Rothschild went near them they'd make him quite poor.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 217 
 
 I '11 muster an army from villages round, 
 And we '11 march through the county until we have found 
 The tyrant Sir Moreton, and put out his light ; 
 And we '11 show to Creation how Devon can fight ! 
 Those chaps, those chaps, &c. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 
 ABODE OF THE DEMON OGRE OF DUNCHIDEOCK, 
 In the Quicksilver Mines under Exwicke. 
 
 DEMON. 
 
 Well, things are coming to a pretty pass ! 
 People are all good friends ; and we, alas ! 
 Are now compelled to drop the demon-brother, 
 And live, like vampires, upon one another ! 
 To think that Blackingstone, when all seemed well, 
 Should whack my imps, and carry off the " gell," 
 And even then refuse the smallest share 
 " Honour 'mong thieves," his conduct wasn't square ! 
 Nothing seems wrong, and everything looks bright ; 
 I cannot even make Town Councils fight. 
 I wish I could. My power has left my hand ; 
 I feel an exile quite, on Exe-islzx\&. 
 
 SONG. Beautiful Isle of the Sea. 
 Beauteous Exe Island for me ! 
 Home of great rows and hot water, 
 Queer are your memories to me 
 Songs of the rat-catcher's daughter ;
 
 218 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Emptying ashes and pails 
 Into the murmuring river. 
 Sniffing the scent of fish-scales, 
 Oh, I could wander for ever ! 
 Round Tree in Ewing's Lane, 
 Place ever dear unto me. 
 Talk of Mount Radford ! don't name 
 It with beauteous Exe Island for me ! 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 OKEHAMPTON CASTLE. 
 Sir Moreton not altogether pleased with his success. 
 
 SIR MORETON. 
 
 Sir Moreton, you 're a fool ; for you have been 
 And gone and done it made a Frankenstein ! 
 You 've bought the treasure at a frightful cost ; 
 I almost wish my path she 'd never crossed. 
 If I advance, or try a gracious smile, 
 She pulls a face as if my looks were vile. 
 She 's awful Sour-ton if I try to show 
 My nose ; but in her presence Bride's-toe 
 Kicks out tremendous. Yestor said he found 
 It Yesfor-da.y, to Lift-on off the ground. 
 I '11 break her heart, if I can't break her will, 
 As sure as yonder bubbling, babbling rill 
 Rises on Dartmoor, where I roam about 
 All night, because my lady locks me out. 
 I 've tried to win her love ; the songs I Ve sung, 
 And in response but get my poor nose rung.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 219 
 
 I wonder why it is ? It grieves me sadly 
 To think with ladies I get on so badly ; 
 But never mind, I '11 change her note ere long ; 
 Meantime I '11 serenade her with a song. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The daisies were peeping, 
 
 Primroses were creeping 
 Quite bashfully out to be kissed by the sun. 
 
 Two lovers were walking, 
 
 And whispering and talking, 
 And sighing and blushing, as others have done. 
 
 " How delightful 't will be, 
 
 Dearest Clara," said he, 
 " When the face of the sun comes out radiant as thine." 
 
 When she raised her blue eyes 
 
 Not quite up to the skies, 
 And exclaimed, "Would to heaven it never would shine !" 
 
 The lover looked frightened, 
 
 His wonder was heightened 
 As a large crystal tear darted down her pale cheek. 
 
 " Oh, tell me, my dearest, 
 
 What is it thou fearest ? 
 Why dread the blest sunshine ? Speak out, darling, speak, 
 
 And say what mighty grief 
 
 Has broke in like a thief 
 On the peace of my loved one ! Why so cast down ? " 
 
 " Then I '11 tell you," she cried, 
 
 As her lover she eyed, 
 "'T would make your old hat look so dreadfully brown."
 
 220 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 NEIGHBOURHOOD OF HONITON CLYST. 
 
 Inhabitants of the neighbourhood in great consternation at the 
 disappearance of Matthew. 
 
 . VILLAGER. 
 
 We cannot find poor Matthew, high nor low ! 
 
 Did any one in the village see him go ? 
 
 He talked of going to the moon or sun, 
 
 A thing by far more easy said than done. 
 
 He 's lost his sweetheart, and he 's lost his head, 
 
 And with poor Matthew all our fun has fled. 
 
 SONG. Air Up in a Balloon. 
 
 We 've hunted high, we've hunted low, 
 'Till now we've nowhere else to go. 
 If only the tip of his nose he 'd show, 
 We 'd soon be on his track. 
 We Ve been to the Bude, the Bull, the Bell, 
 The London Inn, Globe Hotel, 
 From Countess Weir to Crockernwell, 
 But where he is got to we really can't tell, 
 
 Spoken. 
 
 Unless he really is gone 
 
 Up in a balloon, boys ! up in a balloon ! 
 
 If that's the case, I fear he'll not be down this'afternoon.
 
 EXMOUTHESIA. 221 
 
 Enter MATTHEW. 
 
 My friends and -brothers, pray don't start and stare ! 
 
 I '11 tell you all how I 've been served down there. 
 
 I went, intent to cut a mighty dash, 
 
 But somehow they found out I 'd got the cash. 
 
 They said, " You 're safe, young man ; pray, don't be 
 
 daunted." 
 
 They 'd find the girl, if I 'd find what they wanted. 
 I took the hint, spent every blessed mag, 
 Then one got up, and shook the very bag : 
 They skinned me out, and gave me vile abuse, 
 Laughed in my face, and called me " Golden Goose." 
 Meanwhile Sir Moreton came and paid the ransom 
 Placed on my loved one's head. 'Twas most unhandsome, 
 They gave her up to him, and I was done. 
 I asked them why ; but all was silent " mum ! " 
 I vowed revenge. They said they didn't care ; 
 And styled me a sick Babbicome for change of air. 
 The impudence of Anstey's Cove ! He said 
 I 'd better go at once, and Berry Head 
 And shoulders in Kent's Cave, or Daddy Hoe 
 Would quickly let me feel a Bishopstowe. 
 I turned upon my heel, and made a vow 
 I 'd have my Exmouthesia or a row. 
 Sir Moreton's castle 's strong, but we 're a lot, 
 And every blessed man a good crack shot. 
 We 're in the right, and right can have no fears 
 If backed by Devon's noble volunteers.
 
 222 EXMOUTHESIA. 
 
 Enter GOOD FAIRY. 
 
 Stop ! don't be headstrong, or you '11 not succeed. 
 Here, take this sword, and Exmouthesia 's freed : 
 I 've guarded her in safety through the past, 
 And I shall still befriend you to the last. 
 Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, and in you 
 I recognize a lover staunch and true. 
 
 They marched upon the castle, stormed the place, 
 
 And when Sir Moreton showed his ugly face, 
 
 Matthew, inspired by love and hate, let fly, 
 
 And caught the hated tyrant in the eye. 
 
 The castle falls. " The day is ours ! " they shout 
 
 Matthew brings fainting Exmouthesia out. 
 
 Through the route home thousands turn out to greet them. 
 
 All Exeter is at John's CrosS to meet them. 
 
 Passing up Fore Street Hill the sight is grand, 
 
 Old Peter at the corner waves his hand 
 
 To bless the nuptials of his darling boy, 
 
 Church bells ring sweetly out, and all is joy.
 
 8RITMNI&RUM ; 
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 
 
 Sale of $Jrtmf=(Si)tT Sags. 
 
 }HE period in which we lay the scene of our story is 
 certainly a most uncertain one ; but this much we know, 
 it was previous to the conquest of Britain by Julius Ceesar. 
 Yet at this early age the probability of an invasion was 
 known to the natives, as was seen by the warm and enthu- 
 siastic reception the Romans were treated to at Dover. 
 This knowledge of a threatened invasion was said to have 
 been imparted by a Gallic Druid, who came over and nearly poisoned 
 the inhabitants by selling them bad claret ; and this opinion is 
 strengthened by the writings of Macaulayandibus, poet and his- 
 torian to the Court of Skibareen- Bunkum the First. 
 
 It is doubtless most gratifying and instructive at this period of 
 British history to know something of the manners, customs, and tastes 
 of our forefathers. And in this age of questionable statistics, unreliable 
 biographies, ambiguous histories, and doubtful proofs, it is satisfactory
 
 224 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 to be assured that I have not gone to Flint Jack, the well-known 
 manufacturer of flint arrow-heads and ancient blades, who, during the 
 visit of the British Association to Exeter, paid a professional visit to 
 one of Her Majesty's Colleges at Cold Bath Fields in explanation of his 
 discovery of the Abbeville Jaw Bone, which he was desirous of pre- 
 senting to a distinguished member of the Association for a slight con- 
 sideration. Such, however, was the ignorance of the officials of that 
 establishment, that it took the learned professor six months to prove 
 that he was even fit to be at large. 
 
 My story is chiefly from the documents of Lexicon Jenkins, an 
 historian of an early date, who gives us some most important and 
 (lucky for him) uncontrovertible information. He tells us how the 
 people disregarded more than in the present day the ho%)w shams of a 
 deceptive exterior, and loved the naked truth. 
 
 The word Baron, he very clearly explains, is a corruption of Barren, 
 or Bare-un. This title originated in the fact that the aristocracy of 
 these Isles were at this period rather deficient of clothing ; hence the 
 word Barren. Those who had achieved some great distinction were 
 allowed to don a kind of net ; hence the title Barren-net. 
 
 He also explains that the love of conquest and the great desire of the 
 Immortal Roman to seize everything he could clap his hands on, earned 
 for him the title of Seizer. His friend, however, is said to have been 
 unkind to his wife, and consequently he was styled Bruit-v&. 
 
 And the captive King, who exclaimed, when looking round on the 
 magnificence of Rome, " Why should they with all this splendour envy 
 me my humble cot in Britain ? " so struck the conscience of Julius 
 Cresar, that he cried aloud, " What a selfish old cus I am. I stand 
 torrect-ed." That Briton, he tells us, is known to this day as 
 Correct-i-cus. But to our story.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 225 
 
 THE PLOT. 
 
 Cornwallicus, a powerful and puffy monarch of the extreme western 
 shores of Britanniarum, had, on the death of Skibareen-Bunkum the 
 Tenth, appropriated his dominions and his widow. In due time she 
 presented him with a princess, who, from the purely Saxon colour of 
 her hair, was christened " Red Ruth." In the course of years the 
 young lady grew up to be the envy of her sex and the admiration 
 of all the native princes ; in fact, not a day passed without some 
 token of affection in the shape of half-a-dozen foxes' noses, a couple 
 of Savoy cabbages, or other savoury presents most acceptable at 
 this particular period of our civilization. But, of course, Red Ruth 
 (like her successors) had her own particular favourites, and amongst 
 these was Prince Penzance, whose only territory was St. Michael's 
 Mount and the Stilly Isles ; he was a very great dandy in his 
 way, keeping his court tailor, Ruskinadaub, continually engaged in 
 painting new suits of clothes upon him ; but she only used him to 
 flirt with, for her real affection was centred upon Totnesendicus, 
 King of Devonia, who lived at Berry Head, and held sway from Lyme 
 Regis to the mouth of the Dart, but under whom were the several 
 Baronies of Topsham, Whitstone, Haldon, Newton, and Shaldon. 
 Totnesendicus was deeply enamoured of Red Ruth, but they little 
 knew that Whacklaricus, King of Hampshire, had not only formed a 
 desire to plunder Cornwallicus, but to marry at all hazards Red Ruth. 
 So on the very night he, Totnesendicus, expected a state visit from his 
 bride-elect, they brought him news that 'Whacklaricus had landed, 
 played old gooseberry with her father, and had carried her down to the 
 canoes ; but as they had all drifted out to sea, Whacklaricus was com- 
 pelled to return by land, and was then crossing Dartmoor with Red 
 Ruth on his way to Hampshire. Totnesendicus became furious, and 
 tore his hair ; and all his Barrens, as in duty bound, began to tear their 
 hair, so much so that when the paroxysm of grief was over there 
 was enough real hair lying about to stuff a dozen chairs and a couple 
 of sofas, had such luxuries then been invented. 
 
 Q
 
 226 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 Calling all his forces together, they made their way for Dartmoor, 
 and found Whacklaricus had gone on to Lustleigh Cleeve, where they 
 came up with him, and one of those severe and sanguinary encounters 
 took place which has only been equalled in modern times by the 
 celebrated fight of the Kilkenny cats. When every weapon was 
 entirely destroyed in the fray, they commenced hurling huge masses of 
 granite at each other ; so that Lustleigh Cleeve to this day shows what 
 a terrible time it must have been for anyone in the locality living in 
 "glass houses." 
 
 While this was passing, a petty Prince Boveytraceybus took advantage 
 of the mc'lee, and under the pretence of protection hid Red Ruth in 
 Chudleigh Cavern, and endeavoured to persuade her to become Princess 
 Boveytraceybus by telling her that Cornwallicus and Totnesendicus had 
 been killed, and that Whacklaricus had determined to make her his 
 slave. But Red Ruth, disbelieving his story, watched her opportunity, 
 and when he was asleep stopped up the mouth of the cave, and made 
 her way to Berry Head, where she found the Court in deep black, worn 
 on the eyes and shins of the Barrens, and provided gratis by the enraged 
 Totnesendicus, who 
 
 Sighed and sobbed as he mourned her dead, 
 And pummelled each loving courtier's head. 
 
 The general joy on the arrival of Red Ruth was so intense that 
 Totnesendicus at once made amends to his Barrens by painting their 
 bruises a bright yellow ; and the next day the whole Court was dressed 
 in the gayest colours as they set out to meet Cornwallicus, who had 
 been apprised of his daughter's safety, and great was the rejoicing as 
 the High Priest of the Druids gave them his blessing in the now 
 departed temple on the summit of Brent Tor.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 227 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 THE NEW FOREST, HAMPSHIRE. 
 So called on account of its great age. 
 
 WHACKLARICUS, a hostile chief \1wstile to everything and 
 everybody^, surrounded by his warriors and statesmen. 
 
 free-born Britons, masters of the soil ! 
 
 Be seated, pray; but don't your trowsers spoil. 
 
 Bare with me whilst I speak the naked truth. 
 
 I love the daughter of Cornwallicus, Red Ruth. 
 
 'Tis true he is to us a \\Qstile chief : 
 
 I don't admire the style; but there 's relief 
 In knowing*, if the thing cannot be done 
 Without a row, that we are two to one. 
 I '11 have Red Ruth, though she may make a fuss ; 
 Nor care I for Cornwalli^ a cuss. 
 We 've found our neighbours on the western shores 
 More R than F, and most confounded bores ; 
 In fact, they bore the brunt of our last fight ; 
 They bore the earth which bore the metal white ; 
 They bore old \5zx\.moor for the precious ore, 
 And so the more they bore the Moor, the more we bore. 
 Then, my brave warriors, get out your canoes ; 
 We '11 off at once. She cannot well refuse
 
 228 BRITANNIARUM '; OR, 
 
 The great Whacklaricus, whose mighty fame 
 
 Is known (or should be known, 'tis all the same). 
 
 I '11 take her all those very precious gems 
 
 We took last fall from King-" ston" -upon-Thames, 
 
 When he came down this way to take a Rydc 
 
 Upon Southampton Water ; but the tide 
 
 At Netley Point, a nettly point, was low, 
 
 And till next tide he couldn't farther go ; 
 
 (But we of course had no desire to stay 
 
 And watch him floundering in the mud all day ;) 
 
 So in the Solent this vh-solent chief 
 
 Upon the Needles' Point took in a reef; 
 
 That reef he took arranged his business quite, 
 
 And sent him Shanklin to the Isle of Wight. 
 
 So let 's be careful that this awkward fate 
 
 Does not on Cornwairs coast ourselves await. 
 
 I know Cornwallicus has often said 
 
 To Jerseyandus, whose great power I dread, 
 
 That if upon his shores I lay my hands, 
 
 I should be Lostwithiel (Lost-with-all) on Slapton Sands. 
 
 My mind 's made up, Red Ruth shall be my bride ; 
 
 But, anyhow, I '11 tan her father's hide ! 
 
 So now each warrior to his " own canoe ! " 
 
 Keep yourselves cool, for there 's hot work to do. 
 
 SONG. Air Bohemian Girl. 
 
 On to the West ! The foe is there, 
 Grinding his teeth and tearing his hair !
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 229 
 
 On to the West, with bow in hand, 
 
 And drive the painted foeman from the land. 
 
 Think of the deeds your sires have done ; 
 
 Think of the scalps they wear. 
 
 Sons of your mothers, leave your soil ! 
 
 Husbands and brothers, cease to toil ! 
 
 Steady, brave hearts, with bow in hand, 
 
 And drive them from the western land ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 STRONGHOLD OF PRINCE PENZANCE ON SAINT 
 MICHAEL'S MOUNT. 
 
 The Prince, who is about to pay a visit to Red Ruth, is engaged with 
 his Court Tailor, Ruskinadaub, having a new suit of clothes painted 
 on him. 
 
 Enter BODMINASSIZEACUS, attended by DARWINEUS, 
 Genealogian and " Gee-up"-ologtan to the Court. 
 
 PENZANCE. 
 
 How beautiful is all around ! how fair ! 
 I wonder now who my ancestors were. 
 'Tis rather awkward that a power like mine 
 Should be in doubt about his royal line. 
 Perhaps I am a donkey, p'rhaps a calf; [DARWINEUS smiles. 
 Perhaps the both. There 's little need to laugh ; 
 For, as it may, there 's little need to doubt, 
 If I 'm an ass, there 's plenty more about. 
 Tell me, my brave Darwineus, if my sire, 
 As man, could date his origin much higher.
 
 230 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 DARWIN. 
 
 I 've studied long the subject of our race, 
 
 And I am prone to look things in the face : 
 
 'Tis then I do observe a wondrous clue 
 
 To what the grandsires were of me and you. 
 
 Tis my intent to write a book to show 
 
 How apes, with fostering care and time, could grow 
 
 To such as we are frisky, but not wild. 
 
 PENZANCE. 
 Oh, come, Darwineus ! I say, draw it mild ! 
 
 DARWIN. 
 
 I draw it mild ; yet I 'm prepared to prove 
 From apes some men are scarcely one remove. 
 Look at our children, watch them every day, 
 And see what little monkey-tricks they play. 
 I '11 show the qpe-x of mankind's delight 
 Is to a/<?-ar to ape with all their might 
 ^/^-arances of others. So I 'm right 
 To thus afle-a.se my ope-ish. ope-tite. 
 
 Prince, upon this point I 'd not deceive you. 
 
 PENZANCE. 
 
 The truth is in your face, and I believe you. 
 And yet with me your story won't avail ; 
 
 1 'm no believer in this monkey's ta(i)le.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 231 
 
 SONG. Air The Scamp. 
 
 I 'm monarch of all I survey, 
 
 And it matters but little to me, 
 So long as I have my own way, 
 
 What the first of my line used to be. 
 I 'm contented with things as they are, 
 For I live on the fat of the land. 
 And why should men muddle 
 Their brains, or should trouble 
 Of things they can ne'er understand ? 
 
 But if ever there was a proud prince, 
 I flatter myself I am he ; 
 Whether Norman or Noodle, 
 Ape, Roman, or Poodle, 
 It matters but little to me. 
 
 They say I 'm a bit of a swell, 
 
 And I think it 's not far from the truth ; 
 I 've an eye to all Cornwall as well, 
 
 If I can but marry Red Ruth. 
 And if that should ever take place, 
 When Cornvvallicus turns up his toes, 
 I 'm willing to do it, 
 If she '11 consent to it 
 Without turning up her sweet nose. 
 
 But if ever there was a proud prince, 
 I flatter myself I am he ; 
 Whether Celtic, Sclavonic, 
 Or Gallic, Teutonic, 
 It matters but little to me.
 
 232 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 Enter BODMINASSIZEACUS, in a great haste. 
 
 Most noble and most variegated prince, 
 To vary 's not my gait, nor matters mince ; 
 Nor would I aught than make your highness smile, 
 And yet I must disturb the royal bile. 
 
 PENZANCE (Jumping tip, and completely spoiling the effect of a 
 frill-front which the Court Tailor has fainted on his breast}. 
 
 My faithful Bodmin, speak right out, and say 
 If any evil winds do blow this way. 
 Blow'dii I care, whatever danger's nigh ! 
 Speak out, or I shall black and blue your eye. 
 
 BODMIN. 
 
 This morn, as is my wont, I took a stroll, 
 
 To break my fast where fast the breaker roll, 
 
 When I beheld canoes a thousand strong, 
 
 Filled with armed Britons singing a war-song ; 
 
 And I, of course, as I 'm in duty bound, 
 
 Took down the very words, the very sound, 
 
 Upon an oyster-shell, and they '11 impart 
 
 More wrinkles to the cockles of your heart. 
 
 Your twitching muscles tell how crabb 'd you are ! 
 
 So here 's the song, which means " Prepare for war ! " 
 
 SONG. Air The Campbells are Coming. 
 
 The Scramble is coming ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! 
 So string up your bows, as the coast we near !
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 233 
 
 And if our great chief can't have Ruth for a wife, 
 We intend to go in for a war to the knife ! 
 So let us be ready, and take our aim steady ; 
 We '11 soon make those Western chiefs sing very small 
 Though their pluck isn't shaken, we 're sadly mistaken 
 If dear Cousin Jackeys don't run " One and All ! " 
 The Scramble is coming, &c. 
 
 PENZANCE, trembling. 
 
 If this be so, if thy account be true, 
 At once I '11 not decide on what to do. 
 'Twill all depend how many men they muster : 
 If they 're a few, then we '11 go in a " buster ; " 
 But if they're numerous, then tell Cornwallicus 
 I love his daughter, but won't make a fuss ! 
 I know she loves me more than all the crew 
 Who to her father's court come down to woo. 
 She much less cared for Prince Liskeard than I, 
 And told St. Austell that he needn't try ; 
 And then she turned her nose at young Truro, 
 And told Bude Haven that he 'd better go. 
 So send and tell Cornwallicus that I 
 Will come to his assistance by-and-by ; 
 Meanwhile look out, and get my traps all packed. 
 I 'm off if by F/fo<:/laricus we 're whacked. \ 
 
 SONG. Air Bonnie Dundee. 
 
 Now, it 's all very well for a party with pluck, 
 But not for a prince who is down on his luck.
 
 234 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 I 'm fond of Red Ruth, and would rather not run ; 
 If I 'd two heads, I wouldn't mind risking the one ! 
 So bring out my luggage, and let us make tracks, 
 Ere the wrath of IV/iac&\a.ricus stronger should wax. 
 To fight for one's lady is noble, no doubt ; 
 But where can you shine when your light is put out ? 
 
 I think my best plan is to do nothing rash ; 
 
 So I '11 visit my friends for a week at Saltash, 
 
 Where the dear Amazonians, now and again, 
 
 Win all the boat-races, and wallop the men ! 
 
 So bring out my luggage, and let us make tracks, 
 
 Ere the wrath of W%ac&\a.ricns stronger should wax. 
 
 To fight for one's lady is noble, no doubt ; 
 
 But I can't see the joke if one's light gets put out. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 CORNWALLICUS, SURROUNDED BY HIS BARRENS, 
 Holding a Council of War. 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 For fifty years or more have we enjoyed 
 A blessed peace, and quiet unalloyed ; 
 Nor care we to molest our neighbours' land, 
 Nor seem with greedy eye nor selfish hand. 
 Our sires with all the tribes have lived in peace, 
 And as we civilize shall this all cease ? 
 Shall we then, in becoming more refined, 
 Leave Nature's truest instincts far behind ?
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 235 
 
 What says Macaulayandibus to this ? 
 
 In getting civilized are we to miss 
 
 The simple beauties which surround our days, 
 
 And bring us pleasures in a thousand ways ? 
 
 Charge thy kaleidoscope, and let us see 
 
 Some glimpses of a long futurity ; 
 
 Or, by the Druids and the cage of fare, 
 
 I '11 hand thee over to their cruel desire ! 
 
 SONG. Mr Happy Bird. 
 Come, tell what the future of Britain shall be 
 When this rudeness has all passed away ; 
 Whether peace and prosperity here thou canst see 
 In the view of a far distant day. 
 
 Oh, tell us if man will be noble and brave, 
 If honour and truth shall prevail ; 
 If the strong will stand ever the weaker to save, 
 Or the strong shall the weaker assail ? 
 
 Come, tell what the future, &c. 
 
 MACAULAYANDIBUS places his kaleidoscope to his eye. 
 
 Most gracious chief, thy wishes I obey, 
 To tell what I observe without delay. 
 I see an army from the coast of Gaul 
 With bristling weapons on our homesteads fall ; 
 I see the mighty princes of the Isle 
 Compelled to feed their subjects' funeral pile ; 
 I see our people conquered by the foe, 
 And Dartmoor Forest in a lurid glow ;
 
 236 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 Our blessed Druids flying in despair, 
 
 And nought but shrivelled oaks remaining there, 
 
 With crumbling stones to indicate where stood 
 
 Their sacred altars in the Wiseman's Wood. 
 
 I see the holy temples scattered o'er 
 
 The mossy surface of the tranquil Moor, 
 
 And bleating cattle grazing o'er the land 
 
 Where now a thousand Druid temples stand. 
 
 I see broad tracts of land, which only yields 
 
 To us our firewood, changed to fertile fields, 
 
 And the small streamlets which our children stride 
 
 Become important rivers, clear and wide, 
 
 And noble cities with their gilded domes, 
 
 And millions of bright and happy homes. 
 
 I see strange institutions grandly rise, 
 
 And teeming marts of commerce greet mine eyes. 
 
 Yes, I behold our rude and barren land 
 
 Changed, as if by some great magic hand. 
 
 [He gives it another turn. 
 And here 's a spot I scarce can recognize, 
 But from the fact that I perceive it lies 
 Upon the banks of Isca's rippling rill ; 
 And Rougemont slopes I find called Fore Street Hill, 
 Whilst on the spot where stands the Druids' pool 
 There 's seen a building, which they call Hele School ; 
 And Sidwell Mount, where now our children play, 
 All rudeness gone, and 'tis called Northernhay.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 237 
 
 And here 's a spot I thoroughly well know, 
 But now I find they call it Plymouth Hoe. 
 'Tis much improved by man's artistic touch; 
 And O this Hoe doth Owe to Nature much. 
 
 I see a spot all bright with shrubs and flowers, 
 
 Where good old age enjoys some pleasant hours ; 
 
 It has a cosy look, a peaceful grace : 
 
 'Tis called Mount Dinham, a most pleasant place. 
 
 'Tis goodly work, though not of world renown, 
 
 And will last longer than a laurel crown. 
 
 In ages yet to come the warrior's name 
 
 May shine upon the scroll of empty fame. 
 
 But this must fade, and when no trace is seen 
 
 Mount Dinham's banks will still be fresh and green. 
 
 I see a quay with loaded grain-ships moored, 
 
 A City Roller, and a Local Board; 
 
 I see an old Guildhall, whose crumbling face 
 
 Gives the true touch of ancient to the place. 
 
 I see a Mayor and Corporation too, 
 
 Some painted yellow, others painted blue; 
 
 Some in high glee, and some in deep dejection; 
 
 And there 's a bill stuck up, " School Board Election." 
 
 And here 's another lovely spot I see, 
 
 Though greatly changed most certain it must be, 
 
 Upon the banks of that broad stream which flows 
 
 On to the ocean, our beloved Hamoaze
 
 238 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 Huge painted monsters on its breast disport, 
 All foliage gone and 'tis called Devonport. 
 Yet all around, where'er I turn mine eyes, 
 High battlements and fortresses arise, 
 As if the natives dwelt in dread and fear, 
 Like us, that Caesar's host was coming near. 
 Tis but my fancy's little out of joint, 
 For I 've been sitting on the Devil's Point : 
 Can it be true, with so much education, 
 That nation needs to fear or harass nation ? 
 
 I see good schools where knowledge they impart, 
 A fine Museum and a School of Art; 
 I see the rivals for the city seat 
 Hugging each other in the open street. 
 And now I see the Exeter Gazette, 
 With Flying Post, out in the pouring wet, 
 Preferring to get drenched, the generous fellows, 
 That Latimer might have their Humber Hello's. 
 
 I see a parson writing comic rhymes 
 To publish in the Devon Weekly Times ; 
 And then I see the Western Morning News 
 Lending the Mercury his dancing-shoes, 
 And with the Independent arm in arm 
 Enough to give their readers some alarm. 
 There 's the Good Templars and the Licensed Vits, 
 Hobnobbing with Cremationists and Rits,
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 239 
 
 Swearing that they all difference will smother, 
 And advocate the claims of one another. 
 
 If I am not mistaken, now I see 
 The L. S. W. and the B. and E., 
 Regardless whether 'twill be loss or gain, 
 With third-class carriages to every train. 
 
 And here I see some parsons looking cross, 
 And almost fighting o'er a Reredos ; 
 Let 's hope their sacred feelings will not let 
 The quiet of the " Temple" be upset. 
 
 And there I see a Co-operative Store, 
 Where people are content to pay much more 
 For goods with ready cash, whilst some give o'er 
 Dealing with those where still they owe a score. 
 And then they call it Civil Service, too : 
 I call it most uncivil of those who 
 Derive their income from the taxes paid 
 By those who often lose their all in trade. 
 They look like Britons, by the build and face 
 And yet they can't be of the Celtic (sell, tick) race. 
 
 And now I see a British Workman's Club, 
 Enticing age and youth from many a. pub. 
 The movement 's good ; for such a thing there 's need, 
 And from my heart I wish it may succeed.
 
 240 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 I see some Britons also who would cram 
 Their fellows with some high dogmatic sham ; 
 Would throw Pengelly's hammer in the fire, 
 Call Huxley "fool," and Galileo "liar." 
 And, although very dimly, I perceive 
 There are some silly Britons who believe 
 That raising fellows to a higher stand 
 Will bring some dreadful bogey in the land. 
 And yet I see they 're building (through my glass) 
 Some better dwellings for the working class. 
 Let education spread, and we shall see 
 'Twill give to labour a true dignity. 
 But is this, then, intended as a sample 
 (For I behold they 're following the example) ? 
 Yes ; I observe, although 'tis raining hard, 
 Loud cheers are ringing in the Mermaid Yard. 
 
 SONG. Air Call her back and kiss her. 
 Whatever work we take in hand, 
 
 Let 's do it with a will ; 
 Our motto " Up and doing " be 
 
 The globe is never still. 
 We need not wander far to find 
 
 Some object for our aid ; 
 If we would not be left behind, 
 
 We must not be afraid. 
 Then let us, with a right good will 
 
 And joyously, set to it ; 
 While health and strength attend the work, 
 
 Then let 's be up and do it.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 241 
 
 CORNWALL. 
 
 I like your mystic observations much 
 And let us hope 'twill all turn out as such. 
 You 've sung the praises' of the future men ; 
 Come, can't you show us something to condemn ? 
 
 [MACAULAYANDIBUS is about to place the kaleidoscope to his 
 eye, when it falls from his hand into a tJiousand pieces. 
 So you and I have much to be thankful for. 
 
 SONG. Mr The Mill. 
 
 There 's far more good than ill in man ; 
 
 Then let 's, ere we condemn, 
 Examine in our precious selves 
 
 The faults of other men. 
 
 Now oft, for want of intercourse, 
 
 Do thoughtless men despise 
 What they would cheerfully applaud 
 
 If seen with clearer eyes. 
 
 So let us in true charity 
 
 Be just to every man ; 
 We cannot miss our safety-path, 
 
 If honour leads the van.
 
 242 BRITANNIARUM ; OR, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 THE ABODE OF PRINCE TOTNESEND1CUS AT 
 BERRY HEAD. 
 
 The Prince is discovered swinging his legs over the extreme edge of the 
 cliff, gazing towards the Gallic coast. The rising ground on the 
 opposite side of the Bay, now known as Torquay, was at this time 
 the habitation of the hycena, the wolf, and various animals, relics of 
 which have since been found in large quantities in the subterranean 
 recesses of Kent's Cavern. 
 
 He soliloquizes. 
 
 Oh that I 'd wings ! to Cornwall then I 'd fly, 
 To pepper Prince Penzance, and paint his eye ! 
 My Dart-heads, I must Sharp 'em ere I tell 
 My Brixham subjects here to Paint ''en well. 
 He dare to ask Cornwallicus to give 
 To him the only prize for which I live ! 
 Red Ruth oh, how suggestive is that name 
 Of fiery courage and true Saxon fame ! 
 He shall not have her ! I would rather dye 
 Myself the colour of a murky sky ; 
 I'd rather see vtiefuliifs Ccesar seize her 
 In his accursed Romish arms, and squeeze her, 
 Then hurl her o'er Kings-bridge, and as she fell 
 Receive her father's curse and Kings-kers(e)-u>ell ! (curse well) 
 This very night I am to see my sweet, 
 And o'er the downy grass her fawn-like feet 
 Shall trip it lightly, whilst my Barrens proud 
 Shall sing unto her praises long and loud.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 243 
 
 Here, Martintuppereni, write an ode 
 You owed me one upon my love's abode. 
 Let it be worthy of the power that 's in you, 
 Or, by the javelin of my sire, I ; 11 skin you ! 
 
 SONG. Air Gay Mabille. 
 Now, let there be no delay, 
 But get to your work, I say, 
 And write me a beautiful ode, a la mode ; 
 For my sweetheart is coming to-day ! 
 Praise her beautiful hair and eyes, 
 And tell her she 's witty and wise, 
 As we mustn't be nice, for at any price 
 I mean to secure my prize ! 
 
 MARTINTUPPERINI, Poet Laureate to the Court. 
 What have I done to Nature's dame, that she 
 A Poet Laureate should make of me ? 
 The man who cooks the grub, or holds a tray, 
 Or bawls out, " Whose wheelbarrow stops the way ? " 
 Compared with me, is quite a noble lord ! 
 Barred are the pleasures of a Royal Bard! 
 My duty 'tis to laud up to the skies 
 What in my Jieart I heartily despise. 
 I 'm oft compelled to sing in praise of those 
 Who p'rhaps an hour before had pulled my nose. 
 If any of the family should die, 
 In measured tears I 'm called upon to cry ; 
 Or if my royal master loudly sneezes, 
 'Tis mine to praise the same, and say it pleases.
 
 244 BRITANXIARUM ; OR, 
 
 'Tis well my blessed father never knew 
 Wh&'f-axy-s0n (Tennyson) of his had to come to ; 
 I get no presents from a flattered prince ; 
 I get no butt of wine, I whine and wince. 
 
 SONG. Air / ant so Volatile. 
 'Twas a horrible day for me 
 When I took to writing rhymes ; 
 So now I must write by day and by night, 
 And sing at all seasons and times. 
 Sometimes I 'm ordered to cry, 
 And then I 'm compelled to smile : 
 'Tis my duty to sing 
 Upon every thing, 
 
 I am so versatile. 
 
 If His Majesty should wish 
 
 To sit up in his bed all night, 
 
 'Tis my duty to stand with my pen in my hand, 
 
 And some humbugging sonnet to write ; 
 
 Or, if he 's laid up with the gout, 
 
 'Tis my duty his hours to beguile : 
 
 At some comical lay 
 
 I must jabber away, 
 
 I am so versatile. 
 
 Enter BLUSTERANDICUS. 
 Where is our noble master ? Quickly say ! 
 
 Oh, there has been the very to pay ! 
 
 \Vhacklaricns has been and w/iack-tA Cormcallicus, 
 And now intends to come and larrup us.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 245 
 
 Enter TOTNESENDICUS. 
 What's that I hear? 
 
 BLUSTERANDICUS. 
 
 I didn't tell it all, 
 
 My grief about Cornwallicus is small, 
 His loss is nothing, 'tis your lovely bride. 
 
 TOTNESENDICUS. 
 Eh ! what of her ? Speak, or I '11 tan your hide. 
 
 BLUSTERANDICUS. 
 
 Well, then they gave Cornwallicus two black eyes, 
 And carried off your Red Ruth as a prize ; 
 They 're crossing now the Moor, let 's on the track 
 And give them something hot to carry back. 
 
 TOTNESENDICUS. 
 
 We will. What, ho ! my javelin men, prepare ! 
 That cus Whacklaricus but I won't swear. 
 Red Ruth ! Totnesendicus is on his way 
 To rescue thee ! Let there be no delay; 
 Paint on my breast a double coat of armour, 
 I must be whack-^root to release my charmer. 
 Now, noble warriors, on with heart and will, 
 Look out for squalls if any 's taken ill. 
 
 BUTTERFLY So^G.Chilperic. 
 
 Let 's fly at once to save my love, and let our valour show : 
 No doubt he thinks us cowards, but we'll quickly let him know. 
 We '11 mount the Dart with lion heart, and fight till all is blue, 
 And they shall find they've left behind what ne'er before they 
 knew.
 
 246 BR1TANNIARUM ; OA', 
 
 So up, each chief, and give relief to my beloved Red Ruth ! 
 Let 's fight like forty thousand cats for liberty and truth ; 
 And should the enemy show fight, if we are less than they, 
 There's one thing always left to do that's, cut and run away. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 CHUDLEIGH CAVERN. 
 Red Ruth reposing ; Boveytraceybus standing admiring her. 
 
 BOVEY. 
 
 "All 's fair in love and war," and so, you see, 
 
 On neutral ground, this prize belongs to me. 
 
 A charming creature truly, without doubt ; 
 
 But scarcely quite enough to fight about. 
 
 Yet, from the time of Adam up to now, 
 
 A woman is mixed up in every row ! 
 
 The lovely creatures think it only right 
 
 That man for them should snarl, and kick, and bite ! 
 
 She must be tired, she 's sleeping very long ; 
 
 I '11 wake her gently with a little song. 
 
 SONG. Air Fisherman' 1 s Daughter. 
 Now I mean to surprise her ; 
 She cannot act wiser 
 Than jump at the offer 
 I mean now to make. 
 But should she refuse me, 
 Commence to abuse me, 
 Though my heart is of granite, 
 'Twill certainly break !
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 247 
 
 If she doesn't like Chudleigh, 
 
 I '11 take her to Budleigh, 
 
 Or Exmouth, or Topsham, 
 
 Or over the sea. 
 
 She shall eat conger-pasty, 
 
 No matter how tasty, 
 
 If she will consent to be Princess Bov-ey. 
 
 RED RUTH awakes, and rubs her eyes. 
 Where am I now ? What pleasant sounds are those ? 
 Who ; s that strange being with that horrid nose ? 
 
 BOVEY. 
 
 It 's only me, sweet lady ; it was I 
 Who saved you from the slaughter here hard by. 
 Cornwallicus is dead, and 'tis no use 
 Call Totnesendicus : they 've cooked his goose. 
 So now, sweet angel, you are quite bereft 
 Of all your friends. At least, but one is left, 
 And I am he ; so dry your tears, and say 
 You '11 be my bride. Is that agreed on, eh ? 
 
 RED RUTH. 
 
 Oh, say not that your horrid tale is true ! 
 
 My pa and lover 
 
 BOVEY. 
 
 So help me Bob, I do ! 
 
 RED RUTH. 
 
 If so, farewell to all my wildest hopes ! 
 Farewell to Cornwall's bleak and barren slopes !
 
 248 BRITANNIARUM '; OR, 
 
 Farewell to pilchard-pasties and squab-pie ! 
 Farewell to conger-tarts and broccoli ! 
 Oh, can it be that I shall never more 
 Hear the sweet music on the rocky shore, 
 Where broad Atlantic's waves come dashing in 
 With frantic, foaming glee, and joyous din ! 
 But if this wretch will have me for a wife 
 Oh, sweet revenge ! I '11 lead him such a life ! 
 Yet, what if all he says is not correct ? 
 But I '11 dissemble, for I do suspect 
 I '11 try allurements then ; for man is frail, 
 And when a woman wills she cannot fail. 
 
 SONG. Air True, 
 
 Yet will I prize his fond devotion, 
 
 Still faithful, unselfish, and true as the day ! 
 Silence, my heart ! stifle thy emotion ! 
 
 Something persuades me that see him I may. 
 Never again can I know joy or pleasure, 
 
 Never again shall a smile light my brow : 
 Oh, let me die, that I may be near him 
 
 All that 's worth living for gone from me now ! 
 Would that I knew, &c. 
 
 [Looks at BOVEY. 
 
 He sleeps ; and now I '11 fly without delay, 
 And we shall meet, good chief, another day. 
 Now, generous spirits, help this maid forlorn, 
 Who almost wishes she had ne'er been born.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 249 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 COURT OF TOTNESENDICUS IN DEEP MOURNING 
 (BLACK AND BLUE). 
 
 TOTNESENDICUS, painted black. 
 This is indeed Black Monday for us all ! 
 The world to me is like a huge Black Ball: 
 I feel Blackballed by every blessed club 
 That rubb'& against my head. Ah, there 's the rub ! 
 Call this Black Torrington ; but 't won't avail. 
 Let everything be Black levy Black Mail ; 
 Let all my guards be Black-guards, and then I 
 Will kindly black each loving courtier's eye. 
 Let's eat Black berries ; also let us cram 
 Ourselves with jorams of Black currant jam, 
 .Z?/<:/-puddings, /ac&-pots. And the first who laughs 
 Shall be condemned to Black-ing and Black draughts. 
 Only to think, when all seemed bright and fair, 
 My fair should vanish, nobody knows where. 
 'Tis true that vile Whacklaricus is dead ; 
 I saw my Berry Pomeroy Bury Head 
 And shoulders in a trench hard by. 
 They live to stand the hazard of his die. 
 But, oh, Red Ruth, what princes of our isle 
 Could scold like thee, or like thee sweetly smile. 
 Soon as 'twas known that she had passed away, 
 I got some billy-duckses every day.
 
 250 BRITANNIA RUM; OK, 
 
 There 's Mary Tavy well, I do not blame her ; 
 But should I marry Tavy, won't I Tam-er ! 
 She says she is possessed of Great Consols 
 Great rt?/w0/-ation that, if there 's no calls 
 Dolly Pentreath and Wheal Maria too, 
 Wheal Mary Hutchings. Mary wheal not do. 
 Wheal do without 'em ; for there 's little doubt 
 They 'd quickly set me to the wheal about. 
 They 're mines of wealth, perhaps, but will not pay. 
 My mine's made up; let share lists fade away. 
 
 SONG. Air Fading Away. 
 
 Who can console me ? What now can cheer me ? 
 All my bright visions have vanished to-day. 
 What now to me is the beautiful ocean ? 
 What now to me is the wild foaming spray ? 
 All which to me was enchanting and lovely, 
 Like dreams of my childhood, have faded away. 
 
 Why should I linger on here without her? 
 Blank is my future, dark is the world. 
 Why did the spirits not hover about her ? 
 Why is my bliss from its pinnacle hurled? 
 She whom I loved with power unbounded 
 Gone, and my happiness faded away. 
 
 Enter RED RUTH. General consternation, during which 
 the lovers rush into each other's arms. 
 
 TOTNESENDICUS. 
 
 Can I believe my arms, my legs, my eyes?
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 251 
 
 ^ RED RUTH. 
 
 Whatris the meaning of this great surprise ? 
 Tis I who should be scared ; for Bovey said 
 That you and pa and everyone were dead ; 
 Instead of that, my lord, I find that you 
 Have sent to more than one princess a billet-doux, 
 
 TOTNESENDICUS. 
 
 My dear, a thing your Billy would not do, 
 
 Although I have received a note or two ; 
 
 But I am red-dy, my beloved Red Ruth, 
 
 Of my devotion to give red-dy proof. 
 
 Our marriage ceremony shall be re(a]d to-day, 
 
 And we '11 be mar-ra/ off without delay ; 
 
 We '11 kill the J?ed-deer, thus I '11 make red-dition, 
 
 And so ra/-eem thy ra/-olent position. 
 
 SONG. Air Nae Luck aboot the Hoose. 
 
 So let us all prepare at once, 
 
 I '11 send and tell your sire, 
 
 That on Brent Tor, 
 
 It isn't far, 
 
 His presence we '11 require. 
 
 Come, say the word, 
 
 My charming bird, 
 
 Then let the valleys ring, 
 
 And all the poets in the Isle 
 
 In praise of Ruth shall sing.
 
 252 BR1TANNIARUM ; OK, 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 SUMMIT OF SRENT TOR. 
 
 Grand meeting of the Courts of Totnesendicus and Cornwallicus. 
 
 The Druidical Marriage Ceremony. 
 
 
 
 HIGH PRIEST. 
 
 Welcome, great chiefs, upon our blessed Moor ; 
 Yet ere you pass our sacred temple door 
 Kneel with your people while our virgin choir 
 Sing the sweet hymn which doth our souls inspire ; 
 Light up the altar fires, and thus proclaim 
 Our acquiescence by its sacred flame ; 
 Kindle the holy light on every tor, 
 So that our doings may be known afar. 
 
 \Thcy all kneel. 
 
 THE DRUIDS' CHANT. Air Power of Love. 
 
 Let all the hills and valleys ring 
 
 With sounds of happiness and joy, 
 
 And let no feuds unholy rise 
 
 Our peace and quiet to destroy. 
 
 Oh, may we ever feel the glow 
 
 Of love's bright sunshine pure and warm, 
 
 And may our unity still grow 
 
 To shield us evermore from harm ! 
 
 [All kneel and face the sun.
 
 THE FIRST OF THE BARE-UNS. 253 
 
 HIGH PRIEST placing hands on the pair. 
 
 By the bright sun, whose pure, resplendent light ; 
 By the clear moon, which calmly beams at night ; 
 By the rich showers, which fertilize the earth, 
 And teach all Nature's lessons in its birth ; 
 By all the blessings of our sacred land, 
 I join thee, Prince and Princess, hand in hand ! 
 May their bright hours with pleasure be beguiled ! 
 May they ne'er find their bliss a Baron Wilde ! 
 And in all time to come may this our Isle 
 With peace, prosperity, and plenty smile ! 
 May trade and commerce spread itself around, 
 Where now but inlets small are to be found ! 
 May cities rise around our sea-girt coast, 
 And future Britons smile, and proudly boast, 
 In arts and science Britain takes the lead 
 In upward strides, which never can recede ! 
 May love of war be from her surface hurled, 
 And she become the glory of the world ! 
 
 GRAND WEDDING MARCH,
 
 "& THUNDERBOLT/' 
 
 BY JOVE. 
 
 NE day a thunderbolt came down 
 On Devonport and Morice Town, 
 On Plymouth and on Stoke as well 
 This engine of confusion fell ; 
 It hit some people rather hard, 
 It knocked down hobbies made of card : 
 It made the Local Board awake, 
 And Guardians of the Poor to quake ; 
 It shook Churchwardens and Police, 
 And frightened Justices of Peace. 
 It rattled round the New Guildhall, 
 And would have struck, but '(was so small, 
 Thejigure of Sir Francis Drake 
 It made the Corporation shake ; 
 It danced about the civic chair, 
 It hit the Council and the Mayor ;
 
 " A THUNDERBOL T." 255 
 
 But they, of course, survived the shock, 
 And then it flew past Berry's clock ; 
 Rushed madly in the Royal Hotel, 
 And gave our member Clarke a smell ; 
 But nothing daunted Clarke began 
 To make a speech, which somehow ran 
 So double-jointed that the shaft 
 Rushed wildly out, and Edward laughed. 
 Then to the Theatre it went, 
 To press on Newcombe's toes intent ; 
 Up Lockyer Street, upon the Hoe, 
 And struck with one tremendous blow 
 An Admiral, and knocked him flat, 
 But strange ! it didn't smash his hat. 
 The Bolt looked on the Tile dismayed, 
 And said, " By Jove, I Ve been betrayed ; " 
 To Jove it rushe'd demanding " why 
 So frail a thing should thus defy 
 A power acknowledged o'er the world, 
 Yet when against a hat 'twas hurled 
 (Which only ten and sixpence cost), 
 Thy great and mighty power was lost." 
 " Do ye not know," great Jove replied 
 (As on the earth the hat he spied), 
 "'Tis one of Thomas's, and he 
 Has honoured our mythology. 
 When the god ' Castor ' came of age, 
 The brightest day on Mytho's page,
 
 256 "A THUNDERBOLT." 
 
 When o'er Olympus shouts of joy 
 Greeted our pugilistic boy. 
 No poet 'mortalized his name 
 Upon the earth 'till Thomas came, 
 Whose verses Venus so admired, 
 That Juno hinted she inspired. 
 Venus declared 'twas not the case, 
 And hinted that she 'd smack her face." 
 "Ask Thomas up," Diana said, 
 But Jupiter he shook his head, 
 Whilst all the gods looked very blue, 
 And said they thought it wouldn't do. 
 Yet all agreed the hatter's name 
 Should also spread young Castor's fame, 
 And in return for graceful rhyme 
 His hats should stand the test of time ; 
 When other hats were done for quite, 
 His should be beautiful and bright. 
 And now I think we 'd better stop, 
 Or somebody may bellow, "Shop !"
 
 TIYSRTOIT JUITGTK 
 
 A STORY OF "THE SLIP CAR Rf AGE. 
 
 ON'T be silly," said Aunt Betsy 
 To her charming niece Helena, 
 Who sat sighing on the sofa, 
 
 Working slippers on a frame ; 
 " For I 'm sure, my dear, I J d rather 
 Be persuaded by your father. 
 You 're not twenty yet and love-sick. 
 
 I could almost say, ' For shame ! ' 
 Oh ! no doubt, he 's past perfection, 
 Marching under your inspection. 
 I admit he 's passing handsome, 
 
 And he doesn't seem a fool. 
 But you 're surely not so simple 
 As to think young Ensign Whimple 
 Is a paragon to what our 
 
 Army men are as a rule ! " 
 s
 
 258 T1VERTON JUNCTION. 
 
 " Well, 1 '11 try," replied the maiden, 
 Though her lovely eyes were laden 
 With that sparkling tell-tale index 
 
 Of the heart when lips are dumb ; 
 And the slippers 'neath her glancing 
 Seemed like forty slippers dancing : 
 Then a piercing scream was heard- 
 
 She 'd stuck the needle in her thumb ! 
 " Come, you '11 conquer it, no doubt, child 
 'Tis no use to sigh or pout, child ; 
 He won't break his heart for you, my dear- 
 
 I know these men too well." 
 For Aunt Betsy was a spinster, 
 Had exceeded forty summers, 
 And had never been in love 
 
 Or, if she had, she wouldn't tell. 
 Yet Aunt Betsy had a locket 
 On a bit of faded ribbon, 
 And a few time-tinted letters, 
 
 With two shades of glossy hair, 
 Tied with care, and neatly knotted ; 
 And the letters seemed all spotted, 
 Just as if from time to time 
 
 Many tears had fallen there. 
 Ah, how varied are the reasons 
 For that " blessed state " the " single," 
 From which so many bachelors 
 
 And spinsters ne'er depart !
 
 TIVERTON JUNCTION. 259 
 
 Perhaps a true love unrequited, 
 Or a hope, long cherished, blighted, 
 Puts the token in the casket, 
 
 And the canker in the heart. 
 So Aunt Betsy's admonition, 
 She believed, had brought contrition ; 
 For Helena looked submission, 
 
 As like Niobe she sat ; 
 And her little poodle Moutie, 
 Whose ugliness was " beauty," 
 Looked dejected and unhappy, 
 
 Doing duty as a mat. 
 Then the conversation ended ; 
 But the minx, she ne'er intended 
 To abide by all the promises 
 
 She reluctantly had made. 
 And 'tis only fair to mention, 
 That, whatever her intention, 
 Her heart was " under orders " 
 
 Which she feared must be obeyed. 
 So that very night a billet , 
 Rather vague and very silly, 
 Was despatched to Ensign Whimple, 
 
 Who was " ne'er to see her more ! " 
 So she said; and if she meant it, 
 Very soon did she repent it ; 
 For that evening they were " booking " 
 
 Vows eternal at the door.
 
 26o TIVERTON JUXCTIOX. 
 
 Now I will not justify it ; 
 
 But this fact we can't deny it 
 
 Love has always been a rebel 
 
 Whom we cannot bolt or bar. 
 And this case was on an equal 
 With the rest, as by the sequel 
 I shall show ; for love and discipline 
 
 Have ever been at war. 
 Uncle George, a dear relation. 
 Had sent down an invitation 
 For Helena to spend Christmas 
 
 Up at Tiverton with them : 
 And, although I blush to mention. 
 'Twas these lovers' fixed intention 
 To elope on this pretension- 
 
 Which, of course, we all condemn. 
 Whether right or wrong, they meant it. 
 Ne'er believing they'd repent it. 
 Ensign Whimple got the licence, 
 
 And arranged, without delay, 
 That at Taunton he 'd await her 
 Risking wrath of angry filter, 
 Who, he hoped, would grant forgiveness 
 
 To the truants Christmas-day. 
 
 Christmas-eve, with all its bustle, 
 And its hurry-scurry tussle,
 
 TIVERTON JUNCTION. 261 
 
 In St David's at Four-forty, 
 
 As the engine shrieked aloud : 
 Parcel, package, box, and hamper, 
 Helter-skelter, rush, and scamper 
 Yet, withal, a most good-tempered 
 
 And a well-conducted crowd. 
 What a scene of animation 
 Is a busy railway station ! 
 And how foreign are the missions 
 
 On which the crowd departs : 
 Some by prospects bright elated, 
 Some to disappointment fated. 
 See ! a hundred beaming faces, 
 
 And a hundred heavy hearts ! 
 Who 'd have thought that Miss Helena. 
 With her maidenly demeanour, 
 Was about to make a plunge into 
 
 The matrimonial state ! 
 Who'd have thought that Ensign Whim pie, 
 As he looked intensely simple, 
 Contemplated the adventure 
 
 He was happy to await ! 
 Now Helena's maid, Jane Harper 
 (And no lady's maid was sharper), 
 Understood the situation, 
 
 For she knew the whole affair 
 Very properly was going, 
 For, she argued, " There 's no knowing
 
 262 TIVEKTON JUNCTION. 
 
 What may happen on the journey, 
 
 And you 'd like to have me there." 
 Then Helena kissed Aunt Betsy ; 
 Brother Fred, and Poodle Moiitic 
 Got caresses warm and tender ; 
 
 Then the guard was heard to say, 
 As he strode gigantic paces, 
 " Take your places ! Take your places ! 
 And all passengers for Tiverton 
 
 Will please to come this way." 
 Ensign Whimple, he kne\v better, 
 With Aunt Betsy there, to let her 
 See his face upon the platform, 
 
 And be called on to explain ; 
 So he took a seat, believing 
 That there could be no deceiving 
 (Though his carriage was the farthest), 
 
 If his love was in the train. 
 From St David's they went steaming, 
 With the lovers never dreaming 
 How the plan, so well concocted, 
 
 Would so very soon be cleft ; 
 And it certainly alarmed her 
 When a passenger informed her, 
 " That without the train a-stoppin 1 , 
 
 This yer carriage would be left !" 
 By this time, too, his compunction 
 Was increased he'd passed the Junction;
 
 TIVERTON JUNCTION. 263 
 
 Staring frantic from the window, 
 
 Saw her carriage left behind, 
 Making mad gesticulation 
 To the fast receding station, 
 Whilst himself was carried forward 
 
 On the pinions of the wind. 
 All the passengers looked frightened, 
 And their wonderment was heightened ; 
 for he looked so like a lunatic, 
 
 From Exminster broke loose ! 
 His appearance was quite frightful, 
 And he looked so wild and spiteful ! 
 So they tried to soothe his anguish ; 
 
 But their efforts were no use. 
 Judge Helena's sad vexation ! 
 For already at the station 
 Were her uncle and three cousins, 
 
 All surprised to see her weep. 
 But they thought 'twas joy at meeting. 
 So increased their loving greeting : 
 Yet, with all their kind attention, 
 
 She could neither eat nor sleep ! 
 Now the aspect was distressing, - 
 Seeming quite beyond redressing ; 
 He was cooling down at Taunton, 
 
 She at Tiverton in tears : 
 Quite enough to write a play on, 
 If the romance thick you lay on
 
 264 TIVEKTON JUNCTION. 
 
 44 Cruel father ! " " Fickle lover ! " 
 
 " Blood and murder ! '' " Hopes and fears ! " 
 But the romance here was ended, 
 Though not as at first intended : 
 For Helena, conscience stricken, 
 
 To her uncle told it all ! 
 Pa was sent for in a hurry, 
 Poor mamma was in a flurry ; 
 And had Whimple heard their comments, 
 
 He 'd have felt uncommon small ! 
 But next day a consultation, 
 And a long deliberation, 
 'Twixt papa, mamma, three uncles, 
 
 With Aunt Betsy and a friend, 
 Which resulted in relenting, 
 And with pa and ma consenting ; 
 So this very awkward story 
 
 Had a very pleasant end. 
 
 On a hill there stands a villa, 
 With the sobriquet " Helena," 
 Partly hid by shrubs and flowers : 
 
 'Tis a most delightful spot ! 
 And inside a puggy poodle, 
 Once so jealous of its owner, 
 Guards a lovely, chubby cherub 
 
 Soundly sleeping in a cot !
 
 WRECKED, BUT HOT LOST. 
 
 Y son, you ask me why my hair 
 Is changed to silvery white ; 
 And say it cannot be from care, 
 
 Because my heart is light. 
 It is not always sorrow, boy, 
 
 That gives the silvery threads ; 
 Hearts which have known but peace and joy, 
 
 Oft claim for whiter heads. 
 The frost descended like a spell 
 
 Upon my head, alas ! 
 But sit you down, and I will tell 
 You how it came to pass. 
 
 My start upon life's ladder, boy, 
 Was at the lowest rung j 
 
 Be frugal, honest, labour, wait, 
 The ceaseless song I sung.
 
 266 WRECKED, BU'I A r O7 LOST. 
 
 Long, patient years, raid hopes and fears. 
 
 I 'd thought and striven hard 
 To reach, and fancied I had reached, 
 
 My industry's reward. 
 I ever gave a willing ear 
 
 To any cause or aim 
 Which to ray mind was like to near, 
 
 Or reach success and fame ; 
 I ne'er forgot that mighty truths 
 
 Were oft by clamour hushed, 
 And many a brilliant effort had 
 
 By prejudice been crushed. 
 Yet, is it not through sanguine men. 
 
 Whose minds undaunted rise, 
 Our country leads progression's van 
 
 In other nation's eyes ? 
 
 I own my heart's ambition took 
 
 No humble, lowly flight, 
 For I had seen men safely reach 
 
 A far more giddy height. 
 Through a metallic lens I saw 
 
 My "castle 'in the a"ir," 
 And fancy handed me the key 
 
 With which to enter there. 
 I ventured on the treacherous path. 
 
 By fascination led,
 
 WRECKED, BUT NOT LOST. 267 
 
 Until at length retreating steps, 
 
 Their power for me, had fled. 
 How bright the vision of success 
 
 Each moment seemed to grow ! 
 Then how, as time wore on, my faith 
 
 In turn would ebb and flow. 
 Grim doubt and fear seemed ever near ; 
 
 Like straws to drowning men 
 I clutched at every ray of hope 
 
 To buoy me up again. 
 Thy mother watched me day by day, 
 
 She saw my pallid cheek ; 
 With all her love she feared to ask 
 
 Of what I feared to speak. 
 I saw the good name I had prized 
 
 Beyond all worldly worth, 
 With all the work of twenty years, 
 
 Come tottering to the earth. 
 Oh, how I feared my throbbing heart 
 
 Would burst beneath the strain. 
 And fever hold dominion 
 
 O'er my racked and burning brain ! 
 The golden summer glided by, 
 
 Unheeded were the flowers : 
 All joy was banished from my soul 
 
 In those sad, rayless hours. 
 Not for myself my heart was torn, 
 
 But those I held most dear ;
 
 268 WRECKED, HUT XOT LOST. 
 
 Dark ruin in the distance frowned, 
 
 I knew the crash was near. 
 Twas then thy mother's noble heart 
 
 Poured out a soothing balm ; 
 She bade me think of you and her, 
 
 And to be brave and calm : 
 "We 've love and health, what worldly wealth 
 
 Can equal this? lie true ! 
 Come, dry the tear ; we need not fear 
 
 To start the world anew !" 
 1 kissed her brow the ebon clouds 
 
 That moment seemed to roll- - 
 And, oh, a mighty leaden weight 
 
 Was lifted from my soul ! 
 Ah ! it was she who held the key 
 
 By which I could retrace 
 My fatal steps, and look the world 
 
 Undaunted in the face. 
 
 My head is white, my heart is light, 
 
 And I can breast the gale ; 
 Though snows be on the mountain, boy, 
 
 There's sunshine in the vale.
 
 THE POET'S FIRST BABY. 
 
 HAT ? " a fidget," you say, without reason. 
 
 Well, maybe I am what you say. 
 
 I know to complain is high treason, 
 
 Though your " angel " keeps squalling all day. 
 
 " Don't deserve to have babies." I know it, 
 
 If babies mean Babel and din. 
 Oh, turn up your nose at the poet, 
 And tell him to shut himself in ! 
 " He 's so beautiful ! " Well, I admit it ; 
 But I think him most lovely in bed : 
 When a point of fine frenzy I 've hit it, 
 His howl knocks it out of my head. 
 " The quietest lamb in creation, 
 And sleeps like a cherub all day ! " 
 Then perhaps 'tis his sweet inclination 
 To slumber when I am away. 
 " So like me." Yes ; I know I 'm a beauty ; 
 But when my papa wrote his verse
 
 270 THE rOET'S FIRST HAKY. 
 
 My mother submitted to duty, 
 
 And sent me upstairs "with the nurse. 
 
 " Such a musical voice ! " Oh, quite charming ! 
 
 In that, dear, he takes after you. 
 
 But you see my position *s alarming, 
 
 Tis music (?) and poetry too. 
 
 Thank Heaven, at last he reposes ! 
 
 So now to continue my ode. 
 
 Let me see : I left off amid roses, 
 
 The teautiful Mildred's abode, 
 
 Where she blushes when told that she may be 
 
 Soon the bride of that truest of men, 
 
 Sir " Burgoigne de Burg.'' Oh, the baby ! 
 
 Confound him, he 's at it again !
 
 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY* 
 
 WAS the fourteenth of Feb., and the postmen, 
 they say, [Day ; " 
 
 Were laden like donkeys 'twas "Valentine's 
 Ah ! and many a donkey 's attempt to be clever 
 Had made his adored more disgusted than ever. 
 That morning old Fumbleton rose from his bed, 
 Then raising the window, he poked out his head, 
 Surveying the terrace, cried " What can it be ? 
 All the people, this morning, seem on the qui vive. 
 Why, at every house someone 's peeping, I find, 
 From the door, or the window, or under the blind. 
 I can't understand ; though 'tis business, no doubt, 
 That makes everyone anxiously on the, look-out." 
 But the faces were then disappearing quite fast 
 From the windows and doors, as the postman had passed. 
 Old Fumbleton's nieces Maud, Lillie, and Flo 
 Were stopping just then with "dear uncle," you know, 
 And each had made known to the "slave" left behind her 
 Where a letter, if sent, would be likely to find her.
 
 2J2 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 But the postman had passed, and with tears in their eyes 
 
 They voted their lovers' professions all lies. 
 
 And down in the kitchen the case was as bad 
 
 The parlour-maid frowned, the poor house-maid looked sad, 
 
 The boy who was cleaning the boots wouldn't speak, 
 
 And the cook, she gave notice to leave this day week. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! " cried Fumbleton, " what does this mean 
 
 Such a grief-stricken lot sure there never was seen. 
 
 Has anything happened, my darlings? come, say." 
 
 " No letters, dear uncle, and Valentine's Day ! " 
 
 "Oh, oh," said old Fumbleton, "girls, I'm surprised 
 
 You should take on at trifles, now pray be advised ; 
 
 I never was guilty He would have said more, 
 
 When a rat-tat tremendous was heard at the door ; 
 
 The boy dropped the boots, the cook dropped the dinner, 
 
 She showed, although fat, there was nimbleness in her ; 
 
 And even the ladies, this time not too proud 
 
 To open the door 'twas a regular crowd. 
 
 " A Valentine " truly, but judge their dismay 
 
 When they found 'twas for uncle, and ninepence to pay ! 
 
 Poor uncle turned red to the tip of his nose. 
 
 " Don't grin like a lot of hyaenas, it shows 
 
 A want of good breeding ; here, bring me a knife." 
 
 Young Buttons, to fetch one, ran down for his life. 
 
 He brought up the carver, they opened the case, 
 
 When oh, such a grin passed o'er Fumbleton's face 
 
 "Good gracious ! what is it?" he shows them and smiles, 
 
 ONE OF THOMAS'S BEAUTIFUL HALF-GUINEA TILES.
 
 THE CLOUD WITH A SILYSR LINING. 
 
 HIS world is a beautiful world to those 
 Who tint not their glasses to view it, 
 As " a howling wilderness only " it shows 
 To those who go howling through it. 
 'Tis no fault of the angels who hover around 
 If for spirits of ill we mistake them ; 
 
 On our pathway a fairy or fiend can be found, 
 
 Or whatever we choose to make them. 
 
 The skies may reflect their heavenly blue 
 
 On the broad and peaceful waters. 
 
 Eyes may be bright, and hearts as true 
 
 As Devonia's beautiful daughters. 
 
 The sun may shine, and the flowers bloom 
 
 Unseen, unloved, unheeded ; 
 
 For to some the flowers have no perfume, 
 
 And their garden of life is unweeded. 
 
 But the clouds of life which gather around, 
 
 And darken our days of sorrow, 
 
 Are riven by hope, and are seldom found 
 
 At the dawn of a fearless morrow. 
 
 The blacker the cloud, the brighter the rays 
 
 Round the fringe of the sable masses, 
 
 And its piercing and dazzling light displays 
 
 A world of good as it passes.
 
 44 
 
 BORN, BUT NOT BURIED." 
 
 ORN, but not buried" think on it, my child ! 
 
 Yonder old pauper, once as young as thou. 
 His loving parents fondly o'er him smiled, 
 
 And crowded kisses on his darling brow. 
 
 " Born, but not buried " once yon tottering form 
 Stood firm, erect, in honest manly pride 
 
 Before the altar, waiting one who came 
 To give her hand, a blushing, happy bride. 
 
 " Born, but not buried " see that careworn face, 
 Perhaps bright hopes and prospects rudely crushed, 
 
 All whom he loved gone to earth's resting-place, 
 And the sweet music of their voices hushed. 
 
 " Born, but not buried " think, ye pompous, vain, 
 Who strut the earth, and proudly toss the head, 
 
 Man sometimes trips upon a lovely plain, 
 A pauper's tears by you may yet be shed.
 
 DICKSITS AND TH&GKEH&Y, 
 
 A LITERAL STORY. 
 
 ICKENS relates that Thackeray one day said, 
 " I cannot write nor think ; my brain 's like lead ! 
 My puns lack /?///gency, my points are dull, 
 And all my thoughts in one tu;//?//tuous mull ; 
 My wit this week is of the weakly sort ; 
 
 I cannot even make a tart retort. 
 
 In satire's seat, they say, no man 's sat higher ; 
 
 Sometimes a quire of paper I require ! 
 
 But lately all my/^mngs are so poor, 
 
 And ^Fancy's flights haveyftw;/, Fun's flow to floor. 
 
 My Safest jokes which I relate, of late 
 
 Are /for, and lacks the ga/#.# of my pate. 
 
 Invention won't give zw/, and thus preventing 
 
 My present copy presently presenting, 
 
 My sapient publisher essays to Jay, 
 
 Hopes that no longer I '11 delay that lay.
 
 276 DICKENS AND THACKERAY. 
 
 Right off I cannot rightly write, you see, 
 
 Dickens ! What the dickens can it be ? " 
 
 Dickens observed a hat upon his head, 
 
 And smiled, because the cause he saw, and said : 
 
 " I see the secret why your wit 's at sea / 
 
 How otherwise, wiseacre, could it be ? 
 
 Your hat weighs just a pound ! Could any elf 
 
 With such a tile be versa///*? himself? 
 
 That clumsy fur-tile stops your fertile flow. 
 
 In vain a humorous rein you 'd try to show ; 
 
 Your i\\tile efforts, once so volatile, 
 
 With agony piled, up by ' velvet pile!' 
 
 Cast off that castor ; feel ihis/e/t of mine ! 
 
 Here lightness, ease, and elegance combine ! " 
 
 " Pray, who J s your hatter ? " Thackeray then cried. 
 
 " There 's not a place in London but I 've tried ! 
 
 1 Ve been a martyr (mortar) to these tiles, old brick ; 
 What 7>/er now Will Rufus ? Tell me, quick ! " 
 Then Dickens said, to simplify the matter : 
 
 " I get my hats from Devon's poet hatter ; 
 And somehow, when his hats are on my pate, 
 Supplying copy I am never late ! " 
 
 Thackeray sent off to Thomas the same night, 
 And from that time his heart (and head) were light. 
 His publisher complained he wrote too fast ; 
 Yet all his former efforts were surpassed.
 
 DICKENS AND THACKERAY. 277 
 
 These two great writers shook each other's hand, 
 And said, " When we are called to leave this land 
 No London scribe shall take our mantles from us ; 
 Let's pack 'em up, and send 'em down to Thomas." 
 That very night by Pickford's van 'twas done. 
 So Thomas had the two made up in one ; 
 And while it gives his patron friends delight 
 Will Thomas thus continue on to write, 
 And keep that name he laboured to acquire 
 For hatchet throwing in this merrie shire.
 
 G&RFISLD, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF THE PRESIDENT. 
 
 (DEDICATED TO His EXCELLENCY THIC HON. J. RUSSELL LOWELL.) 
 
 CLOUD has fall'n upon Columbia's heart, 
 And bowed her head, bathing her face with tears ; 
 A mighty grief, in which the world takes part, 
 Made deeper still by anxious hopes and fears. 
 Brave son of Freedom, 'neath whose sturdy blow 
 The one black spot, which marred the sacred name 
 Of Liberty, was doomed to overthrow, 
 And bid our Sister blush no more for shame ! 
 He battled bravely with the terror King, 
 As through his life he fought his country's foes, 
 Cheered by that pure devotion she could bring, 
 Sweet partner of his triumphs, joys, and woes. 
 Gone, and as went that other precious gift,* 
 Bestowed by Providence upon the land. 
 
 Lincoln.
 
 GARFIELD. 279 
 
 Angel of Justice, let thy flight be swift, 
 
 If but to stay in death the unrighteous hand ! 
 
 God knows Columbia can ill afford 
 
 To lose such strength as he we mourn possessed ; 
 
 For in that good and kindly heart were stored 
 
 Virtues the highest, sympathies the best ; 
 
 He loved his country, and with all mankind 
 
 His heart, now still, beat generously and warm. 
 
 Snatched from our midst, yet Garfield leaves behind 
 
 A name and fame assassins cannot harm. 
 
 Oh, fair Columbia, countless human hearts 
 
 Mingle with thine their tears of grief profound. 
 
 Yet the bright halo which his death imparts 
 
 Reflects a people's love more closely bound.
 
 FREDDY'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 RIGHT joyous mirth-day 
 
 Was Freddy's fourth birthday ; 
 
 The morn came in smiling, and beamed with delight, 
 And the sun seemed to say, 
 As he rose on his way, 
 
 " No cloud shall o'ershadow, but all shall be bright." 
 
 The fragrant breeze 
 
 Woke the leaflets and trees, 
 And whispered the news to the daisies and ferns ; 
 
 But the roses all knew : 
 
 They in bright drops of dew 
 Seemed to drink of the day " many happy returns." 
 
 The lark in the sky 
 
 By her song seemed to vie 
 With the birds, who in chorus were piping a glee ; 
 
 And the flowers in their beds 
 
 Were all nodding their heads, 
 Whilst the butterfly danced to the hum of the bee.
 
 FREDDY'S BIRTHDAY. 281 
 
 The joyous young band 
 
 Pressed the little host's hand, 
 And kissed his fair cheek, as a welcome he smiled ; 
 
 And a voice seemed to say, 
 
 " See how short is our day ; 
 Come join in the sport, and be once more a child." 
 
 Yes, a bright happy mirth-day 
 
 Was our Freddy's birthday. 
 May he meet in life's path but few thorns on the way ! 
 
 May his nature be kind ! 
 
 To the end may he find, 
 What we all wished him, " Happy returns of the day."
 
 PLAY THAT AIR AGAIN!" 
 
 Her Majesty the Queen has been pleased to accept from the Author 
 the Manuscript of this Ballad. 
 
 N old man sat in his easy chair, 
 
 His locks were white as snow, 
 And his grandchild played an ancient air, 
 
 Which the old man seemed to know ; 
 But she wondered why such a simple tune 
 
 Should make him sigh or smile, 
 How a tear in his eye could be brought so soon 
 
 By a book from a dusty pile. 
 
 " Oh, darling, play that air again ! 
 
 It brings me back the day 
 Ere angels to a happier home 
 
 Her spirit bore away ; 
 It brings me back my youth, my love, 
 
 The old familiar face, 
 Where in our joy we first beheld 
 
 Thy mother's angel face.
 
 "Off, PLAY THAT AIR AGAIN!" 283 
 
 "There's joy and sorrow blended, dear, 
 
 There 's life in every chord, 
 And by its influence I hear 
 
 Some sweet familiar word ; 
 Scenes long forgotten come and go 
 
 Before my dimming sight ; 
 I know not why these tears should flow, 
 
 Whilst my old heart is light. 
 
 " But play it softly, sweetly, love, 
 
 Lest thou shouldst scare away 
 The vision which, like Noah's dove, 
 
 Bespeaks a brighter day. 
 I see them smiling on me now, 
 
 And I shall join them soon ; 
 So, darling, play it softly, 
 
 There 's a lifetime in the tune." 
 
 Published by Sa-wday, Plymouth ; and to be had of all Music Sellers.
 
 DEYOXTIA. 
 
 OVELY Devonia, garden of our isle, 
 Who uninspired can view thy varied charms? 
 Most graciously doth Nature on thee smile, 
 And nurse thee kindly in her fertile anus. 
 Thy grand old moors fresh vigour do impart, 
 Thy streamlets warble music soft and sweet, 
 Thy hills and valleys fill the poet's heart, 
 Thou art the bard's elysian retreat. 
 There is an air of romance in thy tors, 
 Which speaks of pixies, demons, ogres, fays ; 
 Thy castles old tell out their tale of wars, 
 Of knightly chivalry and feudal days. 
 Oft hath the " Poet Capern " sweetly sung 
 Where blooms the violet in some cool recess ; 
 Thy verdant hills and valleys oft have rung 
 With his sweet praises of thy loveliness. 
 Thou dost indeed possess some beauty spots, 
 By which the " iron road " is still defied, 
 And scattered here and there primeval cots, 
 As quaint and rude as when King Egbert died.
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN BOWRING. 
 
 RITANNIA ! thou hast lost a worthy son, 
 Whose cherished aim thy prestige in the world ! 
 Laden with honours nobly, bravely won, 
 On fields where Freedom's banner was unfurled. 
 The brave old Knight who fought the bigot foe, 
 And battled 'gainst oppression's hated sway, 
 Lays the good sword aside whose every blow 
 Removed some block that stood in Freedom's way. 
 Now is the " good and faithful servant " called 
 To " enter and receive the blest award " 
 For labour done in freeing mind enthralled 
 By those who would both light and truth retard. 
 The broad Catholicism of his soul 
 Refused the dogma, spurned the narrow creed. 
 Unshackled thought his aim, his earthly goal 
 To hail mankind from bigot thraldom freed. 
 He bore the olive-branch to many a land, 
 Made peace where strife and discord reigned before,
 
 286 ON THE DEATH OF S/K JOHN BO WRING. 
 
 And foreign treaties tell 'twas his the hand 
 That wafted wealth and commerce to our shore. 
 Princes have listened with respect profound 
 To the clear wisdom of his master mind, 
 And acting on his goodly counsel found 
 Security which despots cannot find. 
 Gone from our midst, his great and honoured name 
 Shall be engraven on our history's page ; 
 Deeply we mourn this worthy son of fame, 
 Whose life reflects a lustre on our age.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 The Earl of Devon. 
 
 The Earl of Portsmouth. 
 
 The Earl Fortescue. 
 
 Lord Poltimore. 
 
 Lord Coleridge. 
 
 Viscount Sidmouth. 
 
 Viscountess Chetwynd. 
 
 Viscount Lymington, M.P. 
 
 Viscount Ebrington, M.P. 
 
 Lord Haldon. 
 
 Lord Courtenay. 
 
 Lady Sawle. 
 
 Sir John Kennaway, Bart., M.P. 
 
 Lady Clifford. 
 
 Sir Lydston Newman, Bart. 
 
 Lady Morley. 
 
 Sir John Duntze, Bart. 
 
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 Lady Bruce Chichester. 
 
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 Lady Spry. 
 
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 Col. Hamilton, C.B. 
 
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 Major Wyatt-Edgell, J.P. 
 
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 Hon. and Rev. Hugh Courtenay. 
 
 Major-Gen. F. E. Drewe, J.P. 
 
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 Admiral Parker, J.P. 
 
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 2SS 
 
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 Mayor of Plymouth. 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 289 
 
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 Alderman Wilshire. 
 
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 Miss Norrish. 
 
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 290 
 
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 Rev. T. W. Chignell. 
 
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 S. East, Ksq. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 291 
 
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 292 
 
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 E. Parfitt, Esq. 
 W. Hookway, Esq. 
 
 F. Dunn, Esq. 
 S. Steer, Esq. 
 
 F. Loram, Esq. 
 
 G. M. Walsh, Esq. 
 W. Madge, Esq. 
 J. Cock, Esq. 
 
 J. Martin, Esq. 
 T. Linscott, Esq. 
 G. Sargeant, Esq, 
 G. T. Passmore, Esq. 
 G. Guillaume, Esq. 
 J. Baker, Esq. 
 W. Mears, Esq. 
 W. Ellis, Esq. 
 R. French, Esq. 
 J. O. Harris, Esq. 
 J. C. Moore, Esq. 
 
 W. Martin, Esq. 
 
 S. R. Goss, Esq. 
 
 G. Ross, Esq. 
 
 E. Ellis, Esq. 
 ; G. Huxham, Esq. 
 j J. S. Larcombc, Esq. jfc 
 | W. H. Woodbridge, Ksq. 
 
 Mrs. Brent. 
 
 W. Luckham, Esq. 
 
 J. Taylor, Esq. 
 
 Gage Hodge, Esq. 
 
 H. W. Madclcy, Esq. 
 
 E. Turner, Esq. 
 
 J. R. Holman, Esq. 
 
 T. Haydon, Esq. 
 
 H. Clark, Esq. 
 
 W. B. Hamlyn, Esq. 
 
 J.W. Petherick, Esq. 
 
 H. Vial, Esq. 
 
 W. Yeo, Esq. 
 
 P. Varwell, Esq. 
 
 J. Sampson, Esq. 
 
 T. Andrew, Esq. 
 
 C. Long, Esq. 
 
 \V. Partridge, Esq. 
 
 Hugh Latimer, Esq. 
 
 W. P. Fowler, Esq. 
 
 E. C. Chatterley, Esq. 
 
 J. Rowe, Esq. 
 
 J. Venton, Esq. 
 
 J. Trehane, Esq. 
 
 Mrs. Davis. 
 
 J. Lethbridge, Esq.
 
 *LZST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 293 
 
 A. M. Burch, Esq. 
 
 A. Honey, Esq. 
 
 W. Woodman, Esq.*, 
 
 Morris Hart, Esq. 
 
 Mrs. H. Palk. 
 
 R. Urock, Esq. 
 
 J. Rowley, Esq. 
 
 J. Blunt, Esq. 
 
 W. H. Stafford, Esq. 
 
 S. Bulleid, Esq. 
 
 T. Ball, Esq. 
 
 R. Peter, Esq. 
 
 H. Hayman, Esq. 
 
 T. T. Warren, Esq. 
 
 T. Tilley, Esq. 
 
 R. Robertson, Esq. 
 
 T. Edwards, Esq. 
 
 M. Sheppard, Esq. 
 
 Mrs. Fry. 
 
 H. Wills, Esq. 
 
 A. S. Beckwith, Esq. 
 
 G. M. Kelley, Esq. 
 
 J. F. Smith, Esq. 
 
 T. Manning, Esq. 
 
 S. Gillard, Esq. 
 
 Miss Tomlinson. 
 
 C. W. Gardner, Esq. 
 
 M. King, Esq. 
 
 W. Reed, Esq. 
 
 M. Brice, Esq. 
 
 C. W. Couldock, Esq. 
 
 T. Fraser, Esq. 
 
 P. L. Roberts, Esq. 
 
 M. Wells, Esq. 
 T. Abbot, Esq. 
 Mrs. A. Ash. 
 F. Archer, Esq. 
 
 A. Batt, Esq. 
 Rev. R. Barnes. 
 W. Birkett, Esq. 
 Miss Winter. 
 
 J. Townsend, Esq. 
 H. Trimble, Esq. 
 W. H. Shaw, Esq. 
 S. Smith, Esq. 
 T. Attree, Esq. 
 Rev. C. Sawday. 
 W. Gardner, Esq. 
 Mrs. Semple. 
 Rev. G. Porter. 
 Rev. J. S. Pearce. 
 Rev. C. Clark. 
 W. Adams, Esq. 
 
 B. Bailey, Esq. 
 F. Kingdon, Esq. 
 H. H. Rogers, Esq. 
 
 F. Todd, Esq. 
 R. Stevens, Esq. 
 Rev. J. Wonnacott. 
 S. Lendon, Esq. 
 T. Lendon, Esq. 
 
 G. Cooper, Esq. 
 Mrs. Acland. 
 
 S. Green, Esq. 
 J. Walters, Esq. 
 R. Newcombe, Esq.
 
 294 
 
 LIST 01- SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 W. S. GUlard, Esq. 
 
 C. J. K. Roberts, Esq. 
 
 W. J. Battishill, Esq. 
 
 H. A. Porter, Esq. 
 
 Sidney Smith, Esq., M.D. 
 
 A. L. de la Pole, Esq. 
 
 G. Tucker, Esq. 
 
 A. E. Shapland, Esq. 
 
 J. Steadman, Esq. 
 
 S. Davey, Esq. 
 
 R. G. F. Thrackral, Esq. 
 
 J. D. Bassett, Esq. 
 
 J. B. Tonar, Esq. 
 
 A. Pearce, Esq. 
 
 C. Luxmore Hockin, Esq. 
 
 Rev. F. T. Hole. 
 
 C. Hind, Esq. 
 
 Rev. J. Owen. 
 
 Rev. H. T. Ellacombe. 
 
 C. H. Balkwill, Esq. 
 
 C. Ball, Esq. 
 
 R. K. Norris, Esq. 
 
 F. J. Williams, Esq. 
 
 H. A. Burrows, Esq. 
 
 Spencer Cox, Esq. 
 
 W. H. Widgery, Esq. 
 
 F. Channon, Esq. 
 T. Higgs, Esq. 
 
 G. F. Truscott, Esq. 
 E. H. Harbottle, Esq. 
 W. Pollard, Esq. 
 
 J. Chalk, Esq. 
 W. Wheaton, Esq. 
 
 R. Rouse, Esq. 
 T. Boon, Esq. 
 R. Southcott, Esq. 
 C. T. Wallis, Esq. 
 Mark Rowe, Esq. 
 J. B. Powell, Esq. 
 F. B. Purnell, Esq. 
 J. Upright, Esq. 
 
 E. Wilson, Esq. 
 R. Hooper, Esq. 
 
 F. Parkin, Esq. 
 
 G. L. Boundy, Esq. 
 J. Algar, Esq. 
 
 R. Squire, Esq. 
 Rev. Barons Northcotc. 
 Rev. T. B. Melhuish. 
 A. A. Broad, Esq. 
 H. Yolland, Esq. 
 J. Stevens, Esq. 
 
 E. T. Fulford, Esq. 
 Meyer Jacobs, Esq. 
 A. King, Esq. 
 
 F. Clapp, Esq. 
 J. Easton, Esq. 
 T. Symons, Esq. 
 R. Blackburn, Esq. 
 E. H. Shephard, Esq. 
 R. Dymond, Esq. 
 
 H. Seaman, Esq. 
 T. Lethbridge, Esq. 
 W. Challice, Esq. 
 D. Power, Esq. 
 
 G. N. Collyns, Esq.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 295 
 
 J. E. Critchley, Esq. 
 
 E. Tozer, Esq. 
 
 F. Clapp, Esq. 
 
 G. Packham, Esq. 
 W. H. Sclater, Esq. 
 
 F. A. Paine, Esq. 
 
 G. Short o, Esq. 
 
 B. C. Gidley, Esq. 
 W. Thomas, Esq. 
 A. Ward, Esq. 
 Hercules Brown, Esq. 
 
 C. E. Bewes, Esq. 
 Miss L. Beddek. 
 T. T. Coniam, Esq. 
 C. Bennett, Esq. 
 A. J. Hamlin, Esq. 
 
 E. Ellis, Esq. 
 R. Crosse, Esq. 
 
 F. Day, Esq. 
 
 R. J. Andrews, Esq. 
 J. C. Harris, Esq. 
 H. Ford, Esq. 
 R. Bradley, Esq. 
 E. E. Brand, Esq. 
 H. Brewster, Esq. 
 H. Brice, Esq. 
 W. Brodie, Esq. 
 R. S. Brooking, Esq. 
 W. Brooking, Esq. 
 Linford Brown, Esq. 
 H. D. Barton, Esq. 
 J. A. Bastowe, Esq. 
 J. P. Bear, Esq. 
 
 G. de Courcy Hamilton, Esq. 
 R. Best, Esq. 
 Mrs. Biddell. 
 G. Brothers, Esq. 
 Miss Butland. 
 R. C. Campion, Esq. 
 H. F. Carr, Esq. 
 W. Mortimer, Esq. 
 J. B. Gould, jun., Esq. 
 C. Ashford, Esq. 
 Mrs. Ashford. 
 J. Knill, Esq. 
 W. Hake, Esq. 
 J. Carter, Esq. 
 E. W. Gates, Esq. 
 Mrs. Garton. 
 H. Davy, Esq. 
 J. Black, Esq. 
 W. S. M. D'Urban, Esq. 
 R. Godbeer, Esq. 
 i G. Gratwick, Esq. 
 J. Horswell, Esq. 
 Miss Pearce. 
 M. Barrett, Esq. 
 J. Batting, Esq. 
 Mrs. Bellerby. 
 E. Berg, Esq. 
 M. Bickford, Esq. 
 T. Blackball, Esq. 
 O. Bodley, Esq. 
 W. J. Hooper, Esq. 
 J. H. Bond, Esq. 
 W. Born, Esq.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCKIBEHS. 
 
 E. Bradshaw, Esq. 
 
 F. Brokenshire, Esq. 
 Messrs. Cadman and Fish. 
 
 G. Carlisle, Esq. 
 S. Caseley, Esq. 
 W. Chappcll, Esq. 
 J. Chalk, Esq. 
 
 R. Chown, Esq. 
 
 H. T. Clark, Esq. 
 
 L. Clark, Esq. 
 
 R. Cole, Esq. 
 
 W. Dameral, Esq. 
 
 H. Hems, Esq. 
 
 Rev. J. Ingle. 
 
 W. Coles, Esq. 
 
 C. Ham, Esq. 
 
 H. Davis, Esq. 
 
 Mrs. Card. 
 
 R. B. Collings, Esq. 
 
 J. Hancock, Esq. 
 
 G. Madge, Esq. 
 
 E. L. Luscombe, Esq. 
 
 W. Mallett, Esq. 
 
 Mrs. C. Lewis. 
 
 W. Lamacraft, Esq. 
 
 T. Moore, Esq. 
 
 J. Lucas, Esq. 
 
 G. W. Cunningham, Esq. 
 
 A. Dameral, Esq. 
 
 J. F. Hussen, Esq. 
 
 A. Cridland, Esq. 
 
 G. Herbert, Esq. 
 
 S. Jones, Esq., jun. 
 
 T. Gardner, Esq. 
 
 J. Underbill, Esq. 
 
 F. Warren, Esq. 
 H. Tuckwell, Esq. 
 H. Strawson, Esq. 
 R. Jury, Esq. 
 
 R. Kenshole, Esq. 
 A. E. Gater, Esq. 
 H. Gadd, Esq. 
 H. Reed, Esq. 
 J. Moass, Esq. 
 A. Roper, Esq. 
 R. Mock, Esq. 
 J. Newberry, Esq. 
 S. Ward, Esq. 
 J. C. Wall, Esq. 
 R. Pike, Esq. 
 J. Page, Ksq. 
 
 G. Lamacraft, Ksq. 
 | J. Northam, Esq. 
 
 ' G. Delves, Esq. 
 W. Hookway, Ksq. 
 F. J. Radford, Esq. 
 Capt. Houlditch. 
 
 F. Pollard, Esq. 
 
 G. S. Sandford, Ksq. 
 W. Pidsley, Esq. 
 
 T. Redway, Esq. 
 
 E. S. Kennedy, Esq. 
 I W. Marsh, Esq. 
 i G. Phillips, Esq. 
 
 H. Tremayne, Esq. 
 
 G. P. Benmore, Esq. 
 
 R. T. Watson, Esq. 
 , T. B. Worth, Esq. 
 ! G. Elliott, Esq. 
 
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