The Sun.
London, England, 1833-09-21 00:00:00

THE EPISCOPAL FOOT-RACE.

A CANTERBURY TALE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN

CHAUCER.

" When the Chief Pricst died, it was no uncommon thing for
the candidates for the vacant situation to assemble a few weeks
afterwards and race on foot to his tomb, when he who reached
it first was formally proclaimed his successor. I took great pains
to ascertain the origin of this singular custom, but without
success. It is now, I believe, fallen into desuetude.—Sturt's
Sketches of New Zealand, 1817.

" A brave idea! " quoth I, as I read
This fact that bothered our traveller's head,
" A good, sharp racing-bout like this,
" Would many a Bishop improve, I wis,
" Enlighten, quicken his spiritual sense
" By abridging his plump circumference,
" Since we know that comparative skin and bone
" Is more active than flesh of twenty stone :
" Once a king was chosen by a horse's neigh,
" And another, as wise, by an ass's bray; *
" Then why should we not elect his Grace,
" By his Harlequin nimbleness in the race ?
" We've a run for gold at times, then why
" Not a run for golden Canterbury ?"
Scarce had I time to close these deep
And grave remarks, than I fell asleep,
And dreamed that death, having left in the lurch
Our Archiepiscopal head of the Church ;
The Bench of Bishops with godly glee
Were about to run for the vacant See,
A four.mile-heat to Canterbury.

'Twas a beautiful sight to see them start,
All firm of purpose and stout of heart ;
While bets among the crowd ran high
As each frisky Prelate galloped by ;
Now York found credit in their sight,
Now London was the Favourite,
But I marked that the odds did seldom stir
From two to one upon Exeter.

While thus I stood watching the busy throng,
Four rosy Bishops came wheezing along,
And far ahead (I knew the prig
By the cut of his ghostly periwig)
On dashed our Exeter fixed to win,
Tho' sore befouled from foot to chin
From the various dirty ways he had ta'en
In his haste the tempting prize to gain ;
Hard pushed, methought, he seemed for wind,
And equally distressed in mind,
For his rival London kept close behind,
Fixing for aye, discreetest soul !
One eye on heaven and one on the goal.
Poor York was distanced, but " huge Llandatr"
Kept labouring on 'mid the gazers' laugh,
Like a heavy Dutch brig in Biscay's Bay,
That pitches and rolls, but makes no way;
Before him, dwindled to a speck,
Durham and Derry, neck and neck,
Strained every nerve the goal to reach,
While his shovel-hat dropped off from each,
And his wig, oh sight grotesque to see!
Flew away to keep it company.
By this the third-mile-stone was passed,
And half the Bench being blown at last,
'Twas plain to every eye to trace
That none could possibly win the race,
Save he who is London's spiritual guide,
And he who in Devon is deified ;
So close together kept the twain,
So like Eclipse they scoured the plain,
That I scarce knew which the most to bless
For his wonderful antelope nimbleness;
Now Exeter shot a yard a-head,
Now Velocipede London took the lead,
While their backers roared with the lungs of Munden,
" Bravo, Exeter"—" Go it, London I"
But ah I just when with hearts so merry
Both came in sight of Canterbury,
Poor Exeter tripping against a stone,
The weight of his pamphlets forced him down—
(Oh Prelate to folly or madness wed,
To carry for ballast such weight of lead 1)—
And just as I awoke from my singular dose,
London had won it by a nose.
410 Darius, King of Persia, was chosen by the neighing of his
horse, and another Scythian King by the braying of an ass.—
Vide Rollin's Ancient History.