The Sun.
London, England, 1841-01-01 00:00:00

BENTLEY'S MISCELLAVY.

Tom Ingoldsby, the prince of wags, who com-
bines broad practical humour with a play of fancy
to be found in Wilson alone, of all the writers of
the day, opens the new year with a comic legend
calculated to put us all in the best possible spirits,
notwithstanding the disheartening fact that with the
advent of 1841, we arc all of us a year older, and
but few of us a year wiser. The theme that Tom
has selected for his drollery, is the tradition of Nell
the cook-maid, who having found favour in the
eves of a fat old monk in the monastery to which
she belonged, was afterwards supplanted in his
good graces by a handsome young lady who repre-
sented herself as his niece, and was in consequence
furnished by him with board and lodging in a vil-
lage within a comfortable walking distance of the
monastery. Here the monk often visited her at
nightfall—no doubt for purposes of spiritual edifi-
cation ; but Nell thinking that she had quite as
much right to be edified as her rival, took umbrage
at the ghostly man's neglect of her soul ; and one
fine day, in a fit of raging jealousy, poisoned both
him and his niece, as is duly related in these

" But where that Lady pass'd her nights I may not well
divine,
Perhaps in pious oraisons at good St. Thomas' Shrine,
And for her father far away breathed tender vows and true—
It may bo so—l cannot say—but Nelly luok'd askew.
" And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all arc lock'd
in sleep,
She'd listen at the Canon's door,—she'd through the key-
hole peep—
I know not what she heard or saw, but fury fill'd her eye-
-She bought some nasty Doctur's-stuff, and she put it in
a pie !

" It was a glorious summer's eve—with beams of rosy red
The Sun went down—all Nature smiled—but Nelly shook
her head!
Full softly to the balmy breeze rang out the Vesper bell-
-Upon the C:non's startled ear it sounded like a knell!
" ' Now here's to thee, mine Uncle! a health I drink to
thee
Now pledge me back in Slaerris sack, or a cup of Mal-
voisie !
The Canon sigh'd—but rousing, cried, ' I answer to thy
call,
And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal !' "
'Tis early dawn—the matin chime rings out for morning
pray 'r—
And Prior and Friar is in his stall—the Canon is not there !
Nor in the small Refcct'ry hall, nor cloister'd walk is he—
All wonder•—and the Sacristan says Lauk-a-daisey-ma 1'
They've searched the aisles and Baptistry—they've search'd
:sbove—around—
The ' Sermon House'—the Audit Room'—the Canon is
not found.
They only find the pretty cook concocting a ragout ;
They ask here whore her master is—but Nelly looks askew !
They call for crow-bars—' jemmies' is the modern name
they bear—
They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar—but what a
sight is there !
The Canon's head lies on the bed—his Niece lies on the
floor !
—They are dead as any nail that is in any door !
" The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back !
His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and
black
The livid spot is on her cheek—it's on her neck of snow,
And the Prior sighs and sadly cries, ' Well ! here's a
pretty Go !'

" All at the silent hour of night a bell is heard to toll,
A knell is rung, a requiem's sung as for a sinful soul,
And there's a grave within the Nave, it's dark, and deep,
and wide,
And they bury there a Lady fair, and a Canon by her side !
" An Uncle !—so 'tis whisper'd now throughout the sacred
lane,—
And a Niece—whose father's far away upon the Spanish

Main—
The Sacristan he says no word to indicate a doubt,
But he put his thumb unto his nose, and he spreads his
fingers out f"
" Guy Fawkes" proceeds pretty much in its usual
style—that is to say, with a full flow of incident, but
with an utter disregard to anything like individu-
ality of character. The scene wherein Viviana,
the heroine, is represented as being put to the
torture, is meant to be impressive, instead of
which it is simply repulsive. We hate to read of
pretty young girls having their taper fingers crushed
by thumb-screws, which of course involves the ne-
cessity of a poultice, and God knows how many
other unsentimental applications But Mr. Ains
worth is always prodigal of his horrors, and whe-
ther we like the feast or not, compels us, like
Macbeth, to sup full of them. " Merrie England
in the Olden Time," abounds in quaint conceits
and characteristic anecdotes. " Opinions of the
Times" is horrid stuff. The "Village Blacksmith" is
a spirited poem, some of whose descriptive touches
are as literally true to life as Crabbe's. Charles Lamb
and his jokes are again brought on the tapis in
an amusing paper, headed, the '' Old Ledger,"
the writer of which eulogizes Elia in far too ex-
travagant terms. He was a discriminating critic,
but his sphere was a circumscribed one, and his
powi rs of humour and fancy were equally
He wrote many quaint essays, through which
trickled a small stream of thought, but he
achieved nothing really great in literature. As for
his poems, they have quite a cast-iron stiffness
about them, and, in point of melody, resemble no-
thing so much as the drone of the bag-pipes. The
" 13iographical Memoir of time late Thomas Hill "
is penned in a friendly, cordial spirit. - This lite-
rary veteran, who knew everything and everybody,
and who NN- as already in the autumn of his life when
half the present generation were in their cradles,
confessed in his last illness to the patriarchal age
of eighty-two, but we learn on good authority that
in the agitation of the moment, he had omitted a
century in his confession. It is conjectured, and
not without reason, that he assisted Gay in his
Beggar's Opera, and some years afterwards lent
Goldsmith the money with which he purchased his
famous peach-blossom coat. Poor Tommy Hill! He
had set death;at defiance so long,that most people thought
that, like Godwin's St. Leon, he was proof against mor-
tality ; hut the old archer brought him down at last.
" My Grand Tour" is a rough sketch hastily dashed off in
oils. In Cohn Clink," the closing scenes of the
murderer, Dr. Rowel's, life are pourtrayed with vigour,
yet without any visible straining after effect. The
power is that of robust health, not of convulsion. We here
lay down our pen, for just at this moment, the clock on
our mantel-piece warns us that the old year is dead
It was " launched into eternity" scarce half a minute
since, so that our sentence about " Cohn Clink' which
wos commenced in 1840, was actually not concluded
ti:l 1841 1 We might indulge in divers grave and sage
reflections on this subject ; but shall content ourselves
—in lieu of solitary meditation which is apt to make
one too thirsty—with just drinking a temperate bumper
of port to the men ory of the depa;ted year, and
another in honour of its successor, whom we earnestly
conjure to load us with no war taxes, but to keep us in
peace and good fellowship with all the world.