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A GHOST STORY.

It can't be denied that Augustine by dint

Of these doings collected a capital "rint,"

And that folks paid their tithes, rates, and dues without stint;

Indeed the good Pope to his cronies would hint,

With an orthodox wink and a sanctified squint,
That he'd reasons for calling Great Britain his mint!
But alas!

"Flesh is grass;"

And so, too, is cash-for it soon came to pass

That the people declined

Any longer to find

That "sweet stuff," "the ready," and vow'd in a mass
That the Saint was a humbug and out of his mind,

'Twas in vain the Saint threaten'd, in vain that he rav'd,
In vain that he told them they shouldn't be sav'd ;
In vain he assured them Gehenna was paved
With very hot brimstone which ne'er should be laved:
'Twas in vain that he dealt out his sayings objurgat'ry,
In vain that he threatened a very long purgat'ry;
'Twas in vain that he echoed his prementioned cry-
"Pay your tithes ! pay your tithes ! if you'd quietly die;
Pay your tithes! if in peace in your graves you would lie."
"Ah, well," said Augustine, "it's perfectly plain

That a miracle only can turn them again.

I

very much wish we could do it without;

But, of course, if we can't we must have one, no doubt."

Now it happened that some forty-five years before
A very great baron went poorly and died;
This baron was known all the whole kingdom o'er
As one of great dignity, power, and pride,

Who bishops, monks, friars, and priests did deride.
And threaten'd the people who came for the tithes

With stripes, cudgels, broadswords, staves, ropes'-ends, and scythes;

And whose very last words, as he turned up his toes,
Bore allusion to punching some clergyman's nose!
Well now, to come back

To the story's right track,

And to take up the thread of our subject again—
Augustine still thundered away at his strain;

A GHOST STORY.

But, just as before, all his labour was vain;
When a very odd circumstance came to his aid:

'Twas as follows (it's frightful, but don't be afraid) :—

One hot afternoon, in the month of July,

There gathered a terrible storm in the sky ;
Cloud leapt upon clord, till the pile seemed to be
A threatening mass of immensity

About to o'erwhelm earth, heaven, and sea!
Forth rushed a great rain,

Like the deluge again,

With a heart-sinking sound in its deep heavy plash:
And the lightnings of God.

O'er the firmament trod,

71

His might in their marchings, His eye in their flash!
The howling winds moaned as they swept through the sky,
Like wandering spirits in agony;

And the thunder-peals seemed, as they awfully broke,

To echo the voice of the storm as it spoke.

Day drooped into eve, but the tempest still raged,

As though its vast fury refused to be 'suaged:

Still flashed the blue lightning, still fell fast the rain,

Still coursed through the sky the wild wind's moaning train.
Eve sunk into night-but the storm did increase;

Not an instant-not one-did the lightning's flash cease;
It seemed that the earth were forsaken by peace,
And left to the hurricane's awful caprice.

At length, as the world seemed to tremble and rock,
And the wind was as strong as a giant siroc,

And men look'd at least for an earthquake's dread shock,
And the sound of the Sulphury Majesty's knock,

The storm reached its height, and—it struck twelve o'clock !

I dare say you know that at that time of day

St. Paul's wasn't built; but, however, just there There was then-vide Somebody's "Saxon Survey"-A church which was named St. Matthias-le-Frere.

Well, just at the time

When the midnight chime

Of Matthias saluted the ear of night,

A bit of the sward

In the old churchyard

72

A GHOST STORY.

Burst open, and out came a figure in white!
You'll hardly believe it, but still it is true,
'Twas the Baron I previously mentioned to you!
Of course there was speedily gathered a throng:
Men, women, and children ran speeding along,
Just as people do now to hear Punch or a song.
Well, the Baron stood still till he saw a large crowd,
Though he seemed not to like standing waiting so long,
And then, "hem ing" twice,

Just to clear up his voice,

He spoke, in a tone very ghastly and loud,

These words-which you'll say, for a baron, were choice :"My friends, you behold

An unfortunate file,
Who on earth was so bold

As to curse and revile

The pope and the priors,

The monks and the martyrs,
The priests and the friars,
The church and its charters;
And who (Faith! I shiver
And furthermore quiver
In head, heart, and liver,
To say it)-refused-

(Oh my mind was abused

By those foes of morality-sin and strong liquor)—
To pay up my church-rates and tithes to the vicar!
Oh! could I but show

What I suffer below,

"Twould harrow the hardest heart's feelings I know.
I conjure ye, then, friends, by my sentence to profit-
Pay up what is owing, and keep out of Tophet.
Don't dare disbelieve me-you'll rue if you doubt;
But remember this maxim-Fork over, Fork out!

Pay your tithes ! pay your tithes !-mark the holy man's

cry

Pay your tithes! pay your tithes ! if you'd quietly die! Pay your tithes ! if in peace in your graves you would lie!

This said, he fell back in his coffin again,
The thunder gave over, and so did the rain,
The tempest concluded its odd sort of strain,

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

The crowd went away,

And from after that day

The saint never sent his collectors in vain.

I trust that there's not any need to discuss
The beautiful lesson this teaches to us:

I hope that you all pay your tithes and your dues,
Your taxes, your rates, and the rents of your pews ;

If you don't-Faith! I'd rather not stand in your shoes

Anon.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

(By permission of Messrs. Strahan and Co.)

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of death
Rode the six hundred.
"Charge!" was the captain's cry;
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode, and well;
Into the jaws of death,

Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:

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74

THE BEST OF WIVES.

Plunged in the battery smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not-
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of death
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them—
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !

Tennyson

THE BEST OF WIVES.

A MAN had once a vicious wife

(A most uncommon thing in life),
His days and nights were spent in strife
Unceasing.

Her tongue went glibly all day long,
Sweet contradiction still her song,
And all the poor man did was wrong,
And ill done.

A truce without doors or within
From speeches long as statesmen spin,
Or rest from her eternal din,

He found not.