Over comfits and cates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, He perch'd on the chair Where, in state the great Lord Cardinal sat, Of his Lordship's grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, As such freaks they saw, Said, "the Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!" The feast was over, the board was clear'd, dear little souls! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight His costly turquoise; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, And hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. Off each plum-colour'd shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes they turn up the plates They take up the poker and poke out the grates. They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs: But, no! no such thing; They can't find the Ring! The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book! He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seem'd one penny the worse! The day was gone, The night came on, The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn; On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay, As on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turn'd the wrong way; His pinions droop'd he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "That's him! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray, be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limp'd on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door. Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book, The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, That poor little bird, Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd. In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! Even than before; But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air, At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied or if any one swore Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happen'd to snore, Would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, Don't do so any more! Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died. Mr. Barham possessed such a fund of drollery, that even his ordinary correspondence overflowed with it. On one occasion he sent his friend, Dr Wilmot of Ashford, an invitation to dinner in four stanzas, forming an exact counterpart to Dr Percy's ballad, "O Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" Dr Percy's first stanza is: O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer decked with jewels rare, Barham's imitation is: O Doctor! wilt thou dine with me, And drive on Tuesday morning down? Can ribs of beef have charms for thee The fat, the lean, the luscious brown? No longer dress'd in silken sheen, Nor deck'd with rings and brooches rare, Or corduroys that never tear? Nothing gave this genial humorist more amusement than to read aloud, in a circle of friends, some serious verses ending with an attrappe, which left his auditors staring at the reader in blank amazement. One of these pieces he calls THE CONFESSION. There's something on my breast, father, The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; This weary weight of woe! "Tis not the lack of gold, father, They mourn to see my grief; 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, "Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast. It's that confounded cucumber I've eat and can't digest. A memoir of the Rev. Richard Harris Barham has been written by his son. H. Coleridge. Samuel T. Coleridge's three children, Hartley, Derwent and Sara Coleridge, all distinguished themselves as writers. Hartley, the eldest (1796-1849), was not only a poet, but an essayist, a critic and a biographer. His poetry, as might be expected, is of the school of Wordsworth, or to use the popular designation, the “Lake School." It is very sad that all the efforts of this talented man to gain a position in society were frustrated by his fatal propensity to intemperance. He gained a fellowship at Oxford, but soon lost it in consequence of his irregularities, and his career as a schoolmaster at Ambleside was equally brief. Of Hartley Coleridge's graceful poetry the following lines will give a good idea: ADDRESS TO CERTAIN GOLD-FISHES. Restless forms of living light, Was the sun himself your sire? |