The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,
All in full leaf at the right time of year;
About Christmas, or so, they fall into the sear,
And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear:
But it's really delightful in spring-time,—and near
The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear;
Cobham woods to the right,—on the opposite shore
Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more;
Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind,—and before
You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.
So charming a spot It's rarely one's lot
To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.

Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,
And there they all stand each in their degree,
Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,
Two by two in their regular mode,
While a funeral comes down the Rochester road.

Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand,
Cockle in hat, and staff in hand,
Come marching in pairs, a holy band!
Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,
Each with his brazen censer bright,
And singing away with all their might,
Follow the Palmers—a goodly sight;
Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear
On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care,
A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd,
Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd),
And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.

Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied
With a stout cat-o'-ninetails of tough cow-hide,
While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear—Men
-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men.

It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well,
How some sang the requiem, some toll'd the bell;
Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas day
The procession I speak about reach'd the Sacellum;
And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper
Received the first taste of the Father's flagellum;
That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell
All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded,
By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns;
—That year after year, having run round the Quad
With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod,
Having not only kiss'd it, but bless'd it, and thank'd it, he
Died, as all thought, in the odour of sanctity,
When,—strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe
What I'm going to tell you,—next Candlemas eve
The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright,
Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls, and the squalls
Of some one who seem'd running all round the walls!

Looking out, soon By the light of the moon,
There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,
And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,
As black as if steep'd in that “Matchless!” of Hunt's,
And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes
A flagellum, whose lashes appear to be snakes;
While more terrible still, the astounded beholders
Perceived the said Friar has no head on his shoulders,
But is holding his pate In his left hand out straight,

As if by a closer inspection to find
Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
With the aid of a small “bull's-eye lantern,”—as placed
By our own New Police,—in a belt round his waist.
All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes,
When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies
From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,—
In vain,—for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
“Running after him,”—so said the Abbot,—“like Bricks!'

Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight
Course round the Abbey as best he might,
Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite,
While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,—
Then a whoop and a halloo,—and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
And at this time of day One can hardly survey
Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey
With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
But still there are many folks living who say
That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight,
Accoutred and dight In his armour bright,
With his thick black beard,—and the clerical Sprite,
With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood;
More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,
You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy
And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail,
They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of these souls unblest
Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd,
Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd
That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain
Were collected that day, and pack'd up in a chest
Caulk'd and made water-tight,
By command of the Knight,

Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,
And the body itself in a decentish plight,
Yet the Friar's Pericranium was nowhere in sight;
So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead,
And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head!
Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd,
And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd.

Now though this might be, It don't seem to agree
With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,—
I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine
Containing the bones brought from far Palestine
Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine
This fact with the reason these people assign,
Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine
Could be aught but what Yankees would call “genu-ine.”
'Tis a very nice question—but be 't as it may,
The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray),
It is boldly affirm'd, by the folks great and small,
About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall,
Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall,
And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall.
So, I think, when the facts of the case you recall,
My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,
Viz.: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d—d after all!

Alas! one might almost say that of this sacred, and once splendid, edifice, periêrunt etiam ruinæ. An elderly gentleman, however, of ecclesiastical cut, who oscillates between the Garrick Club and the Falcon in Gravesend, and is said by the host to be a “foreigneering Bishop,” does not scruple to identify the ruins still to be seen by the side of the high Dover road, about a mile and a half below the town, with those of the haunted Sacellum. The general features of the landscape certainly correspond, and tradition, as certainly, counteuances his conjecture.