Time, midnight; scene, Rheinland; a castle of course,
A castle of bloodshed and slaughter,
Such a castle as barons oppressed with remorse
Inhabit, and nightly are seen in such force
With boots so brickdusted and voices so hoarse
On the Surrey side o’ the water.
Adolf von Lebenwurst sits in his chair,
The firelight flickers o’er him,
It lights up the curls of his chesnut hair,
It plays o’er his beard and mustachios rare,
For the sake of which latter the sex called “fair”
Is reported to adore him.
And close by his side sits his great Tom cat,
So indolent, lazy, so sleek and fat,
That marauding mouse and rebellious rat
In safety keep up their revels,
’Neath tapestry, arras, and wainscot board,
Till the servants declare their departed lord
From his warm berth below must have wandered abroad
To play hide-and-seek with the devils.
And bitter blows the wind without, and fiercely drifts the rain,
And beats, as though it entrance sought, against the window pane;
’Twas such a night as witches love, when on the blasted heath,
Beneath the tree where swings the corpse, they lead the dance of death;
’Twas such a night as women dread, and kneeling ere they sleep,
Implore God’s grace for husbands, sons, and brothers on the deep;
’Twas such a night as trav’llers hate, and seek the nearest roof,
Distrusting Cording’s overcoats and capes of waterproof.
And one of this last-mentioned class now gains the castle door,
And rings the bell more loudly than it e’er was rung before,
And passing by the warder grim, the wond’ring vassals all,
Pursues his course with staggering step across the noble hall;
He climbs the winding turret-stair, he reaches Adolf’s room,
And pale as any ghost or ghoule that ever left the tomb,
He sinks into a chair,
With a vacant stare,
Examines by turns all the furniture there;
He gasps and he groans,
And he bellows and moans,
And he mutters of devils, Old Nick, Davey Jones,
Till his host, who of flying begins to think,
Is relieved by his asking for “something to drink.”
“The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright,”
The guest to sense at length restored,
Declares himself “all right.”
The red blood paints his cheek again, his breast no longer heaves,
And he and Adolf o’er their wine are soon as thick as thieves.
Together they’re laughing,
And talking, and chaffing,
And after each shout comes a fresh bout of quaffing,
Till Adolf asks Kraus, so the stranger is hight,
To give an account of the terrible fright
From which he with him had sought refuge that night.
Oh, Mr. Tennyson!
Grant me your benison,
You, who are fed on sack, turtle, and venison!
Pity a rhymer,
Child of a mimer,
Who, of Parnassus, can scarce be called any son!
Help me! inspire me!
With fine thoughts fire me!
Let me please those who so graciously hire me!
As I try to describe the funeral rite
Which was witnessed by Kraus on that stormy night,
And mainly occasioned his terrible fright!
Thus spake he, in metre sometimes used by you,
Which is always successful, let me try it, too!
“Many a morning have I wandered, strolling o’er the barren plain
Which surrounds this noble castle, and is part of your domain;
Many an evening have I staggered homeward o’er the blasted heath,
Singing, ‘wont go home till morning,’ with a spirit-tainted breath;
Many a time I’ve passed the ruined abbey hidden in the trees,
Covered with a mouldy mantle like an ancient Schweitzer cheese,
Joyous thoughts I always nourished! now what misery lurks beneath!
Oh, the horrid, horrid abbey, oh, the blasted, blasted heath!
Listen, comrade, and believe me, as I passed the spot this night,
Suddenly the ruined abbey shone revealed one blaze of light;
And before each sep’rate entrance stood, in either hand a torch,
Two huge cats in mourning garments, placed as sentries in the porch!
As I halted, half entrancéd, senses going, eye-balls dim,
Sudden o’er my ear came wafted echoes of a mournful hymn!
Nearer pressed I, to a window, climbed, and looking down below,
Saw a funeral procession, marching solemnly and slow.
Eight great cats a bier supported, on the which a dead cat lay,
Scores of others followed after, tabbies, brindles, black, and grey;
On the breast of the departed was there placed a regal crown,
And his features were all placid, undisturbed by smile or frown.
Thrice around the aisle they bore him, thrice arose a caterwaul,
Then they covered o’er the body with a gilt-edged ratskin pall;
Thrice arose the mournful requiem, by the echoes borne afar,
Ci-git notre roi Grimalkin, brave et noble roi des châts.
From the abbey then I hastened, flying off in dread and fear,
Not an instant stopped or stayed I, till I found a refuge here,
Ne’er again to cross that heather after nightfall have I vowed—
Heavens! look! with superhuman sense another cat endowed!”
’Twas so, for scarcely had he spoke
Than a cry of grief from the Tom cat broke,
He wept and shrieked aloud—
“Oh, Grimalkin, my father! my own loved sire!
To think I should leave thee alone to expire,
Surrounded by a hireling crowd,
While I was slumb’ring here!
From strangers I learn thy lamented death,
To strangers thou yieldedst thy latest breath,
And strangers watched thy bier!
If repentance yet serves, behold me now
In grief and affliction—mol row! mol row!”
Thus mourned Tom his sire, when nearer and nigher
A tramp on the stairs resounded,
And into the room through the deep’ning gloom
A mourning-clad tabby bounded.
And after him there comes a train of pussies black and grey,
From Lady Tab who acts the prude to Misses Kit at play,
And down before great Tom they kneel,
With many a caterwaul and squeal
They greet him Lord and King,
They hail him King of Tabby Land,
They deck him with a ratskin grand,
And a golden crown they bring—
At once a procession is started,
Through the great castle gate it departed,
Not so much as a tail
Was e’er seen, I’ll go bail,
By Adolf, who after it darted—
Such was the tale that last winter I heard
From a beery old German, who stoutly averred
Each word of it was veracious;
For myself, I believe it strictly true,
The blame of discredit I leave to you,
If your faith be less capacious.
E. H. D.