The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

Had it been Dr. Arnott's new stove—not a grate:—
Had the coal been a “Lord Mayor's coal,”—viz.: a slate;—
What a different tale had I had to relate!
And Aunt Fan—and my Shirt—been superior to Fate;—
One moment—no more!— —Fan open'd the door!
The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before;
And Aunt Fanny sank down—in despair—on the floor!

You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement,
When, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement,
She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing,
And, losing at once all restraint on her temper, or
Feelings, exclaimed, “Hang that Scamp of an Emperor,
Although he's my son!— —He thinks it prime fun,
No doubt!—While the flames are demolishing Rome,
There's my Nero a-fiddling and singing ‘Sweet Home!’”
—Stay—I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said
The words I've put down, as she stepp'd into bed,—
On reflection, I rather believe she was dead;
But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I
Never was very precise in Chronology;
So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a
Mistake of no very great moment—in fine, a
Mere slip—'twas some Pleb's wife, if not Agrippina.

You may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony,
Whom thirty years since we all used to call Boney,
When, engaged in what he styled “fulfilling his destinies,”
He led his rapscallions across the Borysthenes,
And had made up his mind Snug quarters to find
In Moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs
Which are apt to prevail 'mongst the “Owskis” and “Offs.”

107

At a time of the year When your nose and your ear
Are by no means so safe there as people's are here,
Inasmuch as “Jack Frost,” that most fearful of Bogles,
Makes folks leave their cartilage oft in their “fogles.”
You may fancy, I say, That same Boney's dismay,
When Count Rostopchin At once made him drop chin,
And turn up his eyes, as his rappee he took,
With a sort of a mort-de-ma-vie kind of look,
On perceiving that “Swing,” And “all that sort of thing,”
Was at work—that he'd just lost the game withont knowing it:
That the Kremlin was blazing—the Russians “a-going it,”—
Every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground,
And the deuce of a Turn-cock at all to be found!

You may fancy King Charles at some Court Fancy-Ball,
(The date we may fix In Sixteen sixty-six,)
In the room built by Inigo Jones at Whitehall,
Whence his father, the Martyr,—(as such mourn'd by all
Who, in his, wept the Law's and the Monarchy's fall,)
Stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall—
You may fancy King Charles, I say, stopping the brawl,
As bursts on his sight the old church of St. Paul,
By the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl
From basement to buttress, and topping its wall—
—You may fancy old Clarendon making a call,
And stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl,
“Sire, from Pudding Lane's End, close by Fishmongers' Hall,
To Pye Corner, in Smithfield, there is not a stall
There, in market, or street,—not a house, great or small,
In which Knight wields his falchion, or Cobbler his awl,

108

But's on fire!!”—You may fancy the general squall,
And bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl!—
—You may fancy all this—but I boldly assert
You can't fancy Aunt Fan—as she looked on MY SHIRT!!!

Was't Apelles? or Zeuxis?—I think 'twas Apelles,
That artist of old—I declare I can't tell his
Exact patronymic—I write and pronounce ill
These Classical names—whom some Grecian Town-Council
Employ'd,—I believe, by command of the Oracle,—
To produce them a splendid piece, purely historical,
For adorning the wall Of some fane, or Guildhall,
And who for his subject determined to try a
Large painting in oils of Miss Iphigenia
At the moment her Sire, By especial desire
Of “that Spalpeen, O'Dysseus” (see Barney Maguire),
Has resolved to devote Her beautiful throat
To old Chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire;
—An act which we moderns by no means admire,—
An off'ring, 'tis true, to Jove, Mars, or Apollo cost
No trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust,—
Still, although for economy we should condemn none,
In an ANAC ANDRWN, like the great Agamemnon,
To give up to slaughter An elegant daughter,
After all the French, Music, and Dancing they'd taught her,
And Singing,—at Heaven knows how much a quarter,—
In lieu of a Calf!— It was too bad by half!
At a “nigger” so pitiful who would not laugh,
And turn up their noses at one who could find
No decenter method of “Raising the Wind?”
No doubt but he might, Without any great Flight,
Have obtain'd it by what we call “flying a kite.”
Or on mortgage—or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he
Must have succeeded “by way of annuity.”
But there—it appears, His crocodile tears,
His “Oh!s” and his “Ah!s,” his “Oh Law!s” and “Oh dear!s,”

109

Were all thought sincere,—so in painting his Victim
The Artist was splendid—but could not depict Him,
His features and phiz awry Shew'd so much misery,
And so like a dragon he, Look'd in his agony,
That the foil'd Painter buried—despairing to gain a
Good likeness—his face in a printed Bandana.
—Such a veil is best thrown o'er one's face when one's hurt
By some grief which no power can repair or avert!—
—Such a veil I shall throw o'er Aunt Fan—and My Shirt!

Not a “row” but a dance,— “The brave Lord Keeper led the brawls, The seals and maces danced before him.”—Gray. —And truly Sir Christopher danced to some tune.

Hibernicè “nigger,” quasi “niggard,” Vide B. Maguire passim.