In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left, and he looked to the right.
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:

The startled Priest struck both his thighs,
And the Abbey clock struck one!
All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sate on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod.
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare:
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double;
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets;
And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago:
And the hands that worked his foreign vest,
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:

You would have sworn, as you looked on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly-

It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye :
Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within and a chain without;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth:
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel:
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon-stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!

Cold, by this, was the midnight air;
But the Abbot's blood ran colder,
When he saw a gasping knight lay there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;
For he who writhed in mortal pain,
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain,
The cruel Duke of Glo'ster!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent Abbot knew full well
The swelling form and the steaming smell;
Never a monk that wore a hood

Could better have guessed the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded at close of day.

Sounded then the noisy glee,
Of a revelling company;
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork,

But where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!

Pulling and tugging the fisherman sate;
And the priest was ready to vomit
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,
And a nose as red as a comet.
"A capital stew," the Fisherman said,
"With cinnamon and sherry!"
And the Abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The Mayor of St. Edmond's Bury!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

It was a bundle of beautiful things,

A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings,

A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,

A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,

And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled,

That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.
Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales:
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words.
"Smile, lady, smile!-I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white,
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, lady, smile!-I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, lady, smile!-for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still ?"

One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair :

But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.

Ah, ha!" said the Fisher, in merry guise, "Her gallant was hooked before," And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs, For oft he had bless'd those deep blue eyes, The eyes of Mistress Shore!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

Many the cunning sportsman tried,

Many he flung with a frown aside:
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,

Add golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was prest from the Burgundy vine.

There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre !
From top to toe the Abbot shook

As the Fisherman armed his golden hook;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream, or wakened thought.

Look how the fearful felon gazes

On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked, and the jaws are dry,
With the thirst which only in death shall die:
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown,

As the swaling wherry settles down,
When peril has numbed the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:

Fixed as a monument, still as air,

He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer;
But he signed-he knew not why or how,-
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.

66

Oh, ho! Oh, ho!

The cock doth crow;

It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.

Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine;

He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line;

Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,―

The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth."

The Abbot had preached for many years,

With as clear articulation

As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against Emancipation:

His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs;
Had kept the Court an hour awake,
And the king himself three-quarters:

But ever, from that hour, 'tis said,
He stammered and he stuttered
As if an axe went through his head,
With every word he uttered.

He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban,
He stuttered drunk or dry,

And none but he and the Fisherman

Could tell the reason why!

SERJEANT BUZFUZ'S ADDRESS.

CHARLES DICKENS.

[See page 42.]

SERJEANT BUZFUZ rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the Jury as follows:

Never, in the whole course of his professional experience-never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law-had he approached a case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him-a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him.

Counsel always begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be.

66

"You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen," continued Serjeant Buzfuz: "you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at 1500l. But you have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend's province to tell you, what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I will place in that box before you.

"The plaintiff, gentlemen-the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.

"Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell-street; and here she placed in her front parlour-window a written placard, bearing this inscription- Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.'

"I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!' Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear-she had no distrust-she had no suspicion-all was confidence and reliance. Mr. Bardell,' said the widow; Mr. Bardell was a man of honour-Mr. Bardell was a man of his word-Mr. Bardell was no deceiver-Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation-in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.' Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best im