THE

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON:

A LAY OF ST. THOMAS A' BECKET.

BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQ.

You are all aware that

On our throne there once sat

A very great King, who'd an Angevin hat

With a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it,
Named from this circumstance, Henry Plantagenet.

Pray don't suppose

That I'm going to prose

O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes,
With the dagger, and bowl, and all that sort of thing,
Not much to the credit of Miss, Queen, or King.

The tale may be true,

But between me and you,

With the King's escapades I'll have nothing to do;
But shall merely select as a theme for my rhymes,
A fact, which occurr'd to some folks in his times.

If for health, or "a lark,"

You should ever embark

In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark,
The steam-vessel, call'd the "Red Rover," the barge
Of an excellent officer, named Captain Large,

You may see some half way

'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay

And Margate, the place where you're going to stay,
A village call'd Birchington, famed for its "Rolls,"
As the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for Soles.
Well-there stood a fane

In this Harry Broom's reign,
On the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main,
Renown'd for its sanctity all through the nation
And orthodox friars of the Austin persuasion.
June.-VOL. LXXIV. NO. CCXciv.

L

Among them there was one,
Whom if once I begun

To describe as I ought I should never have done,
Father Richard of Birchington, so was the Friar
Yclept, whom the rest had elected their Prior.

He was tall and upright,
About six feet in height,

His complexion was what you'd denominate light,
And the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown,
A little bald patch on the top of his crown.

His bright sparkling eye
Was of hazel, and nigh

Rose a finely-arch'd eyebrow of similar dye,
He'd a small, well-form'd mouth, with the Cupidon lip,
And an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip.
In doors and out

He was very devout,

With his Aves and Paters-and, oh, such a Knout
For his self flagellations! the Monks used to say
He would wear out two penn'orth of whip-cord a day!
Then, how his piety

Shows in his diet! he

Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety,
Sand-eels and dabs; or his appetite mocks
With those small periwinkles, that crawl on the rocks.
In brief, I don't stick

To declare Father Dick

-So they call'd him, "for short"-was a "Regular Brick,"
A metaphor taken-I have not the page aright-
Out of an ethical work by the Stagyrite.*

And among

Now Nature! 'tis said,

Is a comical jade,

the fantastical tricks she has play'd,

Was the making our good Father Richard a brother,

As like him in form as one pea's like another;

He was tall and upright,
About six feet in height,

His complexion was what you'd denominate light,
And, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown,
He'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown.

He'd a bright sparkling eye

Of the hazel, hard by

Rose a finely-arch'd sourcil of similar dye;

He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a Cupidon lip,
And a good Roman nose, rather red at the tip.

But here, it's pretended, .

The parallel ended;

In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended,
And people, who spoke of the Prior with delight,

Shook their heads if you mention'd his brother, the Knight.
If you'd credit report,

There was nothing but sport

And High Jinks going on, night and day, at "the Court,"
Where Sir Robert, instead of devotion and charity,
Spent all his time in unseemly hilarity.

He drinks and he eats

Of choice liquors and meats,

And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats,
Gets tipsy wherever he dines or he sups,

And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his

No Paters, no Aves;

An absolute slave he's

cups.

To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies;
While as to his beads-what a shame in a Knight-
He really don't know the wrong end from the right!
So, though 'twas own'd then,
By nine people in ten,

That "Robert and Richard were two pretty men,"
Yet there the praise ceased, or, at least, the good Priest
Was consider'd the "Beauty," Sir Robert the "Beast."
Indeed, I'm afraid

More might have been laid

To the charge of the Knight than was openly said,
For then we'd no " Phiz's," no "H. B.'s," nor "Leeches,"
To call Roberts" Bobs," and illustrate their speeches.

'Twas whisper'd he'd rob,
Nay murder! a job

Which would stamp him no "Brick," but a "Regular Snob," (An obsolete term, which at this time of day,

We should probably render by Mauvais Sujet.)

Now if here such affairs

Get wind unawares,

They are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs," Where old Nick has a register-office, they say,

With Commissioners quite of such matters au fait.

Of course, when he heard

What his people averr'd

Of Sir Robert's proceedings in deed and in word,
He ask'd for the ledger, and hasten'd to look
At the leaves on the Creditor side of his book.

"Twas with more than surprise
That he now ran his eyes

O'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies,
Et cet'ra, set down in Sir Robert's account,
He was quite "flabbergasted" to see the amount.
"Dear me! this is wrong!

It's a great deal too strong,

I'd no notion this bill had been standing so long-
Send Levybub here!" and he fill'd up a writ
Of "Ca Sa," duly prefaced with "Limbo to wit."
"Here, Levybub, quick!"

To his bailiff, said Nick,

"I'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,'' Go a-head slick' Up to Kent--not Kentuck-and at once fetch away A snob there-I guess that's a Mauvais Sujet.

"One De Birchington, Knight

'Tis not clear quite

What his t'other name is-they've not enter'd it right,
Ralph, Robert, or Richard? they've not gone so far,
Our critturs have put it down merely as R.'

"But he's tall and upright,

About six feet in height,

His complexion, I reckon, you'd calculate light,
And he's farther sot down' having ringlets of brown,
With a little bald patch on the top of his crown.

"Then his eye, and his lip,
Hook-nose, red at the tip,

Are marks your attention can't easily slip;
Take Slomanoch with you, he's got a good knack
Of soon grabbing his man, and be back in a crack!"

That same afternoon,

Father Dick, who as soon

Would "knock in," or "cut chapel," as jump o'er the moon,
Was missing at Vespers-at Compline-all night!
And his Monks were of course in a deuce of a fright.

Morning dawn'd-'twas broad day,

Still no Prior!-the tray

With his muffins and eggs went untasted away-
He came not to luncheon-all said "it was rum of him!"
-None could conceive what on earth had become of him.

They examined his cell,

They peep'd down the well,

They went up the tow'r and look'd into the bell,
They dragg'd the great fish-pond, the little one tried,
But found nothing at all, save some carp-which they fried.

"Dear me! Dear me!

Why, where can he be?

He's fall'n over the cliff?-tumbled into the sea?"
"Stay-he talk'd," exclaims one, "If I recollect right,
Of making a call on his brother, the Knight!"

He turns as he speaks,

The "Court-Lodge" he seeks,

Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes,
But scarce half a mile on his way had he sped,

When he spied the good Prior in the paddock-stone dead!

Alas! 'twas too true!

And I need not tell

you,

In the convent his news made a pretty to do;

Through all its wide precinct so roomy and spacious,
Nothing was heard but "Bless me!" and "Good Gracious!!"

They sent for the May'r

And the Doctor, a pair

Of grave men who began to discuss the affair,
When in bounced the Coroner, foaming with fury
"Because," as he said, "twas pooh! pooh! ing his Jury."
Then commenced a dispute,

And so hot they went to't,

That things seem'd to threaten a serious emeute,
When just in the midst of the uproar and racket,
Who should walk in but St. Thomas A' Becket.

Quoth his Saintship, "How now?
Here's a fine coil I trow!

I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row?
Mr. Wickliffe-or Wackliffe-whatever your name is—
And you, Mr. May'r, don't you know, Sirs, what shame is?

Pray what's all this clatter
About?-what's the matter?"

Here a Monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter,
Sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor,

66

""Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick!-he's no more!"

"How!-what?" says the Saint,

"Yes he is-no he aint-*

He can't be deceased--pooh! it's merely a faint,

Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter,
'He should have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'

"His time is not out;

Some blunder no doubt,

It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about

I shan't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's

Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks."

Cantice for "is not." St. Thomas, it seems, had lived long enough in the County to pick up a few of its Provincialisms.