Peter Faultless to his brother Simon :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas midnight wild! and, heavy, pass'd
O'er John White's cot the frequent blast.
The clouds, beneath Night's awful noon,
Pursued the oft-extinguish'd moon,
Like troubled waves, that, maned with foam
Bound o'er the sailor's wandering home.
Long had John's window wanted mending;
And the blast blew his candle out,
The sparks o'er bed and corn-bin sending.
Cold by the fire, he wip'd his snout,

Or, shook the ashes from his short pipe;
And toothache gave him many a tort gripe;
While, like the very Hag of spite,
Nell, his old wife, sat opposite;
And, o'er the sink, of nought afraid,
Washing her smock, bent Moll, the maid;
And Tom, the plowman, on the floor
Snor'd, though he was not heard to snore.
Full thirty years had John taught Nelly;
Yet, still unlearn'd, though long at school,
Brains had she never—in her belly;
What could he hope from such a fool?
They snagg'd, the learn'd aver, and truly,
From August scorch'd, till blazing July;
For, while Nell bore not children any,
Her husband father'd bastards many;
And said it was, by every liar,
That oft the wife of Farmer Bacon
Had Nell's Lord for her own mistaken,
And that fat Giles, with face of fire,
Had sons who might call John their Sire.

But Nelly was by nature evil;
And, were she riding to the devil,
Yet would she, in her headlong course,
Whip him who did not whip the horse.
John ne'er was, by his neighbours, deem'd
The best good-natured man on earth;
But sulkier now than ever seem'd
The stern old sinner! while to mirth
And sudden fun inclin'd was Nell;
But why, old Johnny could net tell.
No longer now the type express,
And visible sign of loneliness,
She laugh'd, talk'd, kick'd the kettle o'er,
And laid John, sprawling, on the floor;
When had she such a fit before?
The ruddy embers, almost spent,
Seem'd to partake her merriment,
And wink o'erpower'd, then blaze amain.
But all her pranks were play'd in vain;
For still more darkly frown'd old John.
Vainly she laugh'd, like woman mad,
And lifted up her dear old lad,

Then plac'd her palm his knee upon,
And chuck'd his chin, and chuck'd again.
Still sat he shy, with awful eye
Like statue of austerity,
Or banker's clerk behind his book,
Or monthly critic in his nook,
Hunting for flaws, but lacking game,
And sick at thought of rising name.
And cause, as after will be seen,
There was, for both their moods, I ween.
At last, incens'd, and weary, too,
With wrinkled hand, of greyish blue,
Into the fire her cap she threw;
And, from her crown, her tresses flew,
And down her back, like pale snakes, hung,
And o'er her breast, and o'er her beard;
While, grim as witch the fiends among,
And, dancing like a squib, she sung,
With more than melody, a song
Which all true lovers should have heard.

II.

“How quiet, in the church-yard wide,
Lie John and Nelly side by side!
Their wedded war is o'er;
Silent the curtain lecture sweet,
The Iliad in a nuptial sheet;
Hating, they died; and hop'd to meet,
In heaven, or hell, no more.”

III.

Moll laugh'd, almost until she split,
And overthrew both suds and kit;
But still more grimly frown'd grey John:
The old clock, which he gaz'd upon,
Tick'd slower, some say, with affright;
A proof that spectres walk'd that night.
He took his hat from where it hung;
But Nell more loud and wildly sung,
And seiz'd him, as in spite;
“Stay thou with me, love, I pray thee,
For terrors haunt the night.”

And, rapid as the reinless wind,
Around her love her arms she twin'd,
And gave him such a potent kiss,
As set the cottage-door ajar;
So loud it spake of wedded bliss.
Moll stood astonish'd!—well she might,—
Because it was a thing not common:
“Hem!” growl'd old John, “Is't devil i' th' woman?”
And rais'd his hand, and push'd her far.
Then—while the clock struck one, and shook,—
Gruff, into th' night his way he took,
And Nell bang'd after him the door;
And up rose Thomas from the floor,
Staring, as if he fear'd the fall
Of roof and rig-tree over all.

IV.

By the wild moon's disastrous light,
Whither, oh, Night, in such a night,
Albeit unus'd to palpitations,
Went the grey sire of generations?
He went (and haply for no good)
Strait to the hut, beyond the wood,

Where dwelt, renown'd for cure of itch,
Martha, the doctress, and the witch,
Whose physic (there was magic in it)
Could make folks sleep an hour a minute.
Strange things, indeed, could Mat perform!
'Tis certain she could lay a storm,
And bottle th' lightning; and—a wonder!—
She kept in pots her pounded thunder;
And, when hot summers bak'd all dry,
She pickled th' sunshine, to lay by
For future use, in wintry day.
But could poor Mat have witch'd away
Those ills that caus'd her still to sigh,
Disease, and age, and poverty;
Or, had she been young, fair, or rich,
She would not have been deem'd a Witch.
Her form, that once, perhaps, was strait,
Was crooked now, as bend of skate,
And, symptom sure of sorcery,
She had a wart beneath her eye.
Not of the Graces lov'd was she;
But Fun she lov'd, and her lov'd he,

Her best, almost her only friend.
But she was wearing to her end;
And, though none better lov'd a joke,
One secret woe, would oft provoke
The deep, unbidden sigh, that spoke
More than words could, but spoke in vain,
And lighten'd not her load of pain.
Her sons had left their house of birth,
That house, no more the home of mirth;
All scatter'd were they over earth;
Well might she death to life prefer!
Alas, they fail'd to visit her!
Years pass'd, and still they came not near;
This cost her many a bitter tear.
The four green acres, low and warm,
(Now join'd to fat Giles Bacon's farm,)
That fed their cow, ere William died,—
She wish'd to keep them! 'twas denied;
And the dark workhouse, frowning nigh,
Was her sole earthly treasury.
Oh! to desertion, want, and age,
What ill could fate add, in his rage?

What bore she in her aged breast?
Not the dread fire of soul unbless'd;
But in that bosom, torture-sore,
A cancer, cureless ill, she bore!
Death star'd her ever in the face;
And woe watch'd in her dwelling place;
Yet was she cheerful, though in pain;
For in the cup which she must drain,
A gem of heavenly lustre shone.
And, frequent, on her pillow lone,
She shed the tear of memory,—
No curse to her! with streaming eye,
Then thought she of her husband's grave,
Crown'd with the turf of twenty years,
Where latest verdure still shall wave,
And spring the earliest daisy rears.
The dead, whom vainly we deplore,
Not lost, she deem'd, but gone before;
And her tried soul, its haven nigh,
Was anchor'd on eternity.
Heaven, pitying, stoop'd, to make her sorrows less,
Man scowl'd to see her burdensome distress,
And the dogs knew her by her wretchedness.

V.

Night's angels (who, perchance, know well
More queer things than they choose to tell)
Have not inform'd us what befell
John, on the road from home and hell,
To meet the wrinkled sorceress;
Whether the air-borne coffin met
The hoary sinner on his way;
Whether the whisper accentless
Of wretch self slain, his path beset,
While dumb hand beckon'd him to stay;
Whether he stood aghast to see,
Beneath the yew's etersial gloom,
Gleaming in rawness horribly,
The flay'd horse, rampant on a tomb;
Or whether, where the four roads meet,
And the three oaks their moss'd boughs stretch,
He heard the sound of lifeless feet,
Or sigh of ne'er-seen gabelwretch.
But 'tis most certain, that the spark
Which redly rose, and rose to die,
From Martha's chimney in the dark,

Woke not in Johnny's breast a sigh,
Or thought of his mortality.
No!—Queerer thoughts on John, instead,
Grinn'd, like an old wife's maidenhead,
And, laughing through his frost, were seen
The wrinkles of a leaf of green.

VI.

He reach'd the hut, and knock'd with strength;
Long knock'd he vainly! but, at length,
The door was open'd, and he enter'd,
Wondering no little how he ventur'd.
Yet scarce within the open door,
He stood, the viewless witch before;
For darkness darken'd, in the light
That glimmer'd from the eyes of sprite
Who with her dwelt, in shape a cat;
And Johnny quak'd with dread thereat!
But when he heard the demon pur,—
His very guts began to stir!
And that sound only could he hear,
Save creaking fire, all rayless, near.

His slow foot, lifted from the ground,
Struck something that return'd no sound;
Dead to the touch, and black it lay.
Yet, causeless, learn'd historians say,
At that dire moment, were his fears,
And that 'twas but a bag of soot
'Gainst which so dreadly struck his foot.
Her son, the sweep, to do her honour,
Had call'd that afternoon upon her,
For the first time in ten long years:
He spake not,—though he saw her tears,—
But left his bag, and went away,
Because he did not come to stay.
And yet, oh! widow, yet to thee,
That visit stern was ecstasy!
The mother, bow'd with time and pain,
Hath seen her child, her child, again!
Oh! sweetest in thy bitter cup,
That sweet drop, mother, drink it up!
Sweet, and the last that thou shalt have,
Perchance, on this side of the grave!—

Oh! even in woe's petrific shade,
Where age and want the wretch invade,
Nature, thy bless'd affections burn!
Bless'd, she awaited his return:
“He'll come back for his bag!” she said;
Nor could the wealth of worlds have bought
Th' Elysium of that simple thought;
But so deep in the reverie
Of its enjoyment lapp'd was she,
That John, unheard, and bent on sin,
Knock'd long, before she let him in.

VII.

“Mat!” said grey John, and listen'd, “Mat!
Well know you what I would be at:
True to appointment, here stand I.
May the lie choak me, if I lie!
But Nell, as bottled beer, is mad.
Curs'd with a shrew, a woful man,
Now rid me, as you say you can,
Of her, and married misery;

Or I shall be than she is madder.
If she were dead, I should be glad;
And would I in her coffin had her!
Not that I love my servant Molly,
As bawls Giles Bacon, in his folly;
For that would be both sin and shame,
In one so old as I am, dame.
Beside, I fear she likes my man,
Who ne'er gets drunk, but when he can:
Sot! he should th' whipping post be tied to,
If all lov'd whoremasters as I do!”

VIII.

Mute, sigh'd the witch: he heard the sigh,
But did not heed it! nor could he
Discern the pity, mix'd with scorn,
That glimmer'd in her faded eye,
Behind her locks so white and worn.
Even in resentment, kind was she:
Unlike some saints of this sad world
Whose life of serpents, envy curl'd,

Would venom, while it kiss'd a brother;
Saints than whom nought in hell can be
Less like the angels of the other!
Honey with gall she lov'd to deal,
And never wounded, but to heal.

IX.

“It will be all the same to me,
Whether my wife,” continued he,
“Be carried, living, into hell,
Or, by enchantment, die in bed.”

X.

Still was the sorceress silent. “Nell
Must, when her time comes, die,” he said,
“Nor care I, if she die before,—
Provided we from guilt be free,
That is, provided none blame me.
Aye, let the blame at Satan's door,
Or any door, but mine, be laid,
And even do with her what thou wilt;
For then we shall be free from guilt.”

XI.

“Certainly,” said the witch, at last,
“The blame will, as we wish, be cast
Ev'n on themselves, the evil powers,
'Twill seem the Devil's deed, and not our's.
But that contrive we can to steer
Guiltless, as blameless, is not clear.”

XII.

“For guilt no matter!” answer'd he,
“Provided slander silent be,
Conscience shall sit as still as she.”

XIII.

“Yet pause,” said Mat, “or ere thou do
This thing of fear. Canst thou go through
The dreadful business, without shrinking?
Think.”—“Phoo!” cried he, “what matters thinking?
I will go through it, come what may;—
Not that I love my servant Molly,
As guts, lies, horns, and melancholy

May (having often said it) say;
For Giles, whom no ties satisfy,
Is not content, we all know well,
To talk of sweet sounds as they fly,
But hoards, for after claps, the smell;
A huge paunch, set on props a-straddle,
That, ever cramming, never glutted,
Hath fed (all swear't who see his waddle)
On roast ducks till he's grown web-footed!”

XIV.

“Lo!” mutter'd she, “I write thy name
In Satan's blood!” Then, still more low,
In accents half suppress'd, and slow,
She spake the curse: “May fiends of flame
Pursue, and scourge thee to the tomb,
A hope-left, God-abandon'd man!
And may the hell-rung frying-pan
Jar in thine ears till th' crack of doom!
If thou per form not what I bid,
When fate hath clos'd this volume's lid!

And woe! if thou have aught conceal'd,
And not thine inmost soul reveal'd.”

XV.

Then, with the magic grasp of hands,
The witch impos'd her dread commands,
In whispers, such as sinners needed,
And us'd with caution, in th' beginning,
Ere prayers and cant had superseded
The use of clumsier tools in sinning;
And, passion-rul'd, and evil-sent,
And hag-instructed, forth he went.
Whither? To Bacon's barn, that stood
Where roars the river through the wood,
Then battling with the blast on high,
And o'er rocks waving gloomily,
What time, in dreams of dying men,
The winged dragon, from his den,
Was seen, o'er Huthwaite's firs reclin'd,
To lash, with tail of woe, the wind.
He, entering, trode the spacious floor,
But did not dare to shut the door;

100

And, while the moon's inconstant light,
Illum'd, by fits, his locks of white,
Thus he address'd, on bended knee,
The powers that are, and still will be,
Till man shall triumph o'er the grave,
And fate no more be passion's slave.

XVI.

“Ye, who prescribe the doom of man!
Ye, to whom life is dancing dust!
Ye, who must aid me, if you can!
(Dread slaves!) ye shall! because ye must.—
Let my wife die! no matter how;
But be it soon! and why not now?
And, if to wed again I choose,
Let not the baggage, Moll, refuse!
For well ye know,—or I'd not tell ye,—
I love her, as I ne'er lov'd Nelly,
And Giles says, all my actions show it:
I tell ye th' truth, because ye know it.
Now—by her chaste lip's rosy red!
And by her stainless maidenhead!

101

And by her garters, strip'd with black!
And by the gown upon her back,
Made of six yards of tawny cotton,
Which I bought cheap, because 'twas rotten,
And to her gave, (all good betide her!)
Unknown to Nell, who can't abide her!
By these, and by her soul and liver,
Let her, I charge ye, love the giver
Of gown and garters, and forever
John White to all the world prefer,
With passion hot, as his for her!
Last—make me, spite of time and pain,
(If ye can do it,) young again!”

XVII.

Lo! as if dead in heaven, the moon
Vanish'd from night's portentous noon!
And two fleet forms, perchance, of air,
(John saw not whether foul or fair,)
Enter'd the barn inaudibly;
And, quick, as glance of trout in stream,
Sudden, as comes, uncall'd, a dream,

102

Clos'd the huge door. All-shuddering, he
Might soothly swear, but might not see,
That things of earth they could not be.
And now, immers'd in utter darkness,
Even his inward light was sparkless;
For, as he felt, or smelt, or heard
Their passing tread, his ancient beard
Cring'd, and his hair threw off his hat;
And, as in river plunges rat,
Down, heavy, dropp'd the hat to th' ground,
Which inly groan'd, a deathly sound,
Like fall of clay on coffin lid.
Johnny, 'tis written, never did,
When of that twain he chose to tell,
Say what the craft they made a trade of,
Nor what the stuff he thought them made of,—
Whether o' th' dunnest smoke of hell,
Or moonshine, when invisible,
Or sound, or fragrance: who shall tell?
But, howsoe'er it came to pass,
An odour certainly there was,

103

Though some aver who would not lie,
It savour'd of mortality.
But Johnny neither would nor could,
Suppose they might be flesh and blood;
And, if omniscient, too, they were,
They must have known that he was there!
Yet learn'd historians have averr'd,
And bards have sung, and I have heard,
Whate'er might then their business be,
They did not wish for company.
Bodiless did the phantoms glide?
And yet an elbow struck his side!
But hoary John was too polite
To ask, at such a time of night,
How elbow of unreal sprite
Did e'er, or could, since time began,
Give pain to rib of living man;
But, listening, as was wise and meet,
He heard what seem'd the tread of feet,
Like distant step on midnight street;
And something heavy seem'd to fall,
If not on th' floor, against the wall.

104

Then, while his heart throbb'd loud and fast,
Ceas'd the old walls to reel and shake?
The rafters, overhead, to quake?
The earth to shudder? Did the blast
Pause, and at once, on clouds above?
And slept the aspin in the grove?
Did he—a power, but not a form,—
Who more than whirlwind's strength can bind;
Did he, the Genius of the storm,
Stoop, listening, as he rein'd the wind?
Did midnight, did the stars, the skies,
With damned witchcraft sympathise?

XVIII.

Poor human nature! could'st thou see,
In their own forms, distinct and bare,
Stripped of their fancied foul and fair,
The things that bless, or bother, thee;
Then—Earth, indeed, would desert be!

XIX.

The tyrant is sometimes a slave;
So brave men are not always brave:

105

Truth treads o' th' tale of serpent error;
So courage may succeed to terror.
Vanish'd, at length, poor Johnny's fears,
And he began to prick his ears.
'Twas silence all! save, soft and low,
A sound, as of the melting snow;
Or, distant music's faintest flow;
Or, sigh of sorrow in repose;
Or, dewdrop, sliding from the rose,
When, sweet, the breath of midnight blows;
Or, murmur of the moonlight grass,
When fairies o'er the daisy pass;
Or, tremble of the conscious grove
That hides the stolen kiss of love
Even from the prying stars above,
When passion pants on beauty's cheek,
And blushes what it cannot speak.
John wish'd for light, to use his eyes!
What was that voice of whisper'd bliss?
Was't the old compound, lovers' sighs,
Mix'd with the oft-imprinted kiss;

106

A compound, ere love learn'd to grieve,
Invented by our mother Eve,
Who granted—so 'tis said of Madam—
A patent for't to the devil, and Adam?
Lo! light burst, sudden, from on high!
John ask'd no questions, how, or why,
But all was light, as brightest day!
And, plain, before him, on the hay,
The two mysterious phantoms lay,
Less like two spectres, side by side,
Than bridegroom and enamour'd bride.
Male seem'd the one; John could have ta'en him
For his own plowman, Tommy Blainim,
So like he seem'd in form and size:
But t'other caus'd him most surprise!
Female it seem'd, with bosom bare;
And, o'er the heaven of whiteness there,
Seem'd wandering locks of Night's dark hair!
But may he call his eyes his own?
Or, did he buy that tawny gown?
And does he see, or seem to see,
Bound on that loveliest spectre-knee,

107

A garter, strip'd with black and white?
He star'd with eyes mile-wide, or more:
Darkness and devils, what a sight!
And soon his grunt became a roar!
“Forgery! Tipstaves! Help! Thou boar!
“Oh, Lord, ha' mercy! Moll, Tom! Whore!”

XX.

Shrieking, up sprang that seeming female;
Laughing, with her upstarted the male;
A laugh it was, uncouth and dread,
That shook the stumps in Johnny's head.
Still, as he laugh'd, the spectre rais'd
His eye accurs'd, and upward gaz'd.
And upward, too, look'd haggard John:—
Oh, Night! what horror stares he on?
What vision binds him, or what charm?
And something trickles, wet and warm,
As tear of brine from mourner's eyes,
Down both his lean and wither'd thighs,
Which when that laughing devil sees
Hot-issuing at the breeches knees,

108

And dripping, bright, as rose distill'd,
Until the wooden shoes are fill'd,
He claps his hellish hands for gladness,
And howls, like folly drunk, or madness.

XXI.

As lady fine, rais'd from her grave
By some abhorr'd enchanter-knave,
(And still, as erst, precise and proud,)
Shudders, and, from her faded shroud,
The wriggling worms, so foul to sense,
Shakes,—wondering at their impudence;
So wonder'd Johnny!—well he might,—
To see the sibyl of affright
Who, seated on the highest beam,
Cast from her eyes a sulphur-gleam,
Which he beholding, lowly cring'd,
For't seem'd a blaze that might have sing'd
His very soul, if he had had one,
So grimly glar'd that very bad one.
Her awful right hand grasp'd a candle;
And in the other, like pump handle,

109

Wav'd, what hath made the bravest faulter,
The twisted cord of fate, a halter;
While, streaming from her capless scull,
Her gorgon tresses, white as wool,
Veil'd features that might startle hell.
John thought he saw his old wife Nell!
And, diuretic as he trembled,
Muttering what could not be dissembled,
(Like night-mare in a widow's bed,
Who sees, return'd, her husband, dead,)
“Take any shape but that!” he said;
While to the balk, with hideous leer,
The hag bound fast her cord of fear,
Which done, these accents met his ear:
“Did'st thou not come to get unmarried?
Then, John, thy plot hath not miscarried.
Place in this noose thy neck abhorr'd;
And, if I stir, to cut the cord,
Still shall Old Nick thy true friend be,
And hang grey Nell, instead of thee.”

110

XXII.

Alas! what horrors face must he
Who deals with damned sorcery!
The door, at that dread instant, flew
Wide open, and rush'd in a crew
Of demons dire, that well could ape
The human voice, the human shape,
'Mid whom, on stang high mounted, sate
Martha, the grisly hag of fate.
What torches of Plutonian tar
Cast red their radiance near and far!
In hands of seeming boy and man
Was many a seeming frying-pan;
And female voices rang in air,
And many a seeming cap was there,
And many a bosom laughter heav'd;
And hundreds grinn'd, while one was griev'd.
John thought his neighbours, for their evils,
Fed all on brimstone, and were devils!

XXIII.

“Come down, in all thy charms, come down!
John shall not die!” yell'd Mat the brown;

111

“But though thou may'st not him there hang,
Thou shalt, with halter, soundly bang
His back and sides, and ancient breech,
Until his distant home he reach.”
Thereat, what seem'd her sooty son
Began John's torments new, for fun:
Sly, he approach'd, in raven guise,
And, into John's despairing eyes,
A handful threw of dusky grain!
Then black tears flow'd, like sable rain;
And Johnny fled, but slowly flew,
Him hemm'd so close the goblin crew.
Still, as he strove his flight to urge,
That wife-like spectre plied the scourge,
And chang'd, with halter's sounding thwack,
From white to black and blue, his back;
While laughter, and demoniac noises
Made such pother in the night,
That certain asses, wak'd in fright,
Half-envious, wish'd to change their voices.
Small leisure then had John to wonder
At what seem'd Farmer Bacon's thunder;

112

A voice it was that struck him dumb,—
To any witch, worth any sum,
To raise the devil with, in a storm.
But lowly bow'd his bleeding form;
Fainting, he stoop'd, amid the throng,
Yet 'scap'd not so the cruel thong.
At length, from scalp to buttock sore,
Eager, he reach'd his cottage door,
Where entering, pale,—how stunn'd was he,
Asleep by th' fire, old Nell to see!
Up she arose, and sad was she,
And cause she had to grieve!
He scratch'd his head, he touch'd his belly,
Nor could, nor would believe,
If he was John, that she was Nelly!
Until, at last, his pains to ease,
She stripp'd him bare from head to knee,
And rubb'd his back with candle-grease,
And fondly pass'd her faithful thumb
From scragg of neck to ridge of bum.