« 上一页继续 »
“Couched, but not bed-ridden," exclaimed Glanville, laughing.
“No, not yet, thank heaven!” said old Smirke. “Glanville, I'll not quit this house till I've altered my will."
“Having already changed your mind,” said Glanville, laughing, “you know I always said, that although I never complained of your personal disposition, I protested against the injustice of the disposition of your property. And you have to thank me, old boy, for having made you uncomfortable; for I have shown you your errors; and it is only an old friend like myself that can venture upon such an experiment with impunity. But I rejoice in the deed-although I may lose a legacy."
“ You sha'nt,” interrupted old Smirke.
Three years and nine months after this strange eventful history old Smirke died !
A host of expectant relatives swarmed from all parts, and crowded the gloomy mansion, wishing to pay the last tribute of respect to their dear and much-lamented kinsman!
Hyena was there—an important smile, dashed with an expression of sorrow, flickered over his countenance like a ray of diluted moonlight, as he officiously did the honours of the house, as if he were already in possession of the long-coveted wealth of his uncle. He regarded his cousin Arthur with a look of mingled contempt and pity ; but still he smiled, for long custom had rendered his muscles incapable of any other expression.
The funeral over, Glanville, the oldest friend and executor of the deceased opened the will. What a moment of intense anxiety ! With the exception of a few trilling legacies, and considerable bequests to charitable institutions, which Hyena felt as so many deductions from his purse, the whole of the real and personal property of the deceased was bequeathed to his nephew Arthur! Did Hyena smile? No: reader, he laughed-on the wrong side of his mouth!
BY SIMON DACH.*
For Beauty's charms to glow and die,
And for a fairer fortune sigh,
Can easily his faith display;
Who grieves, and yet is ever gay.
And thus his long-sought bliss insure,
With patience hope, with joy endure.
• Born 1605, at Memel-died 1659.
S. Heloïus in hâc urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus est a fidelibus. Nocte autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus lapidem qui sarcophagum tegebat revolvit, erectumque contra se corpus Sancti spoliare conatur. At ille, lacertis constrictum, ad se hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus, tanquam constipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat. *** ** Judex loci sepulchri violatorem jubet abstrahi, et legali pænæ sententiâ condemnari ; sed non laxabatur a Sancto. Tunc intelligens voluntatem defuncti, Judex, factâ de vità promissione, absolvit, deinde laxatur, et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur de missus quin se vitam monastericam amplexurum spopondisset.
Greg: Turonens: de Gloria Confessorum.
Was the Bishop of Blois,
He grieved and he pined
For the woes of mankind,
He would rescue the rat
From the claws of the cat,
Though his cassock was swarming
With all sorts of vermin,
Kind, tender, forgiving
To all things living,
Nihil PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM.
The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,
A holy man was he !
As a Bishop in his degree.-
To augment her treasurie.
That Holy Church might have more to spend.
His breeches cost him but a crown,
And so he call’d the Tailor lown.”
• Teste Messire lago, a distinguished subaltern in the Venetian service, circiler A.D. 1750. His biographer, Mr. William Shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note, makes him say“ King Stephen," inasmuch as the “ worthy peer subsequently usurped the crown of England. The anachronism is a pardonable one.- Mr. Simpkinson of Bath.
Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count,
He had knock'd that Tailor down
He despised the pelf;
Yet so it is—for loud and clear
With solemn swell,
The deep-toned bell
And hark !-at its sound,
As a cunning old hound, When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps,
So—the little bells all,
No matter how small, From the steeples both inside and outside the wall,
With bell-metal throat
Respond to the note,
Or, as Blois' Lord May'r
Is heard to declare, “Should leave this here world for to go to that there."
And see, the portals opening wide,
Forth from the doors
The torrent pours,
Holy Father, and Holy Mother,
Every one drest
Like a guest in his best, In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear, Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair, Or weave into gloves, at three shillings a pair,
And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,-a
Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone,
Slowly the throng
Come passing along,
Dies ise, and De profundis,
Miserere, and Domine dirige nas,Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral,
To secure the defunct's repose, And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, That be a better be minding his P's and his Q's, Aad noi carne too near,--since they can, if they choose, Mate bine shake in his hoofs-as he does not wear shoes.
sal on they go,
A goodly show, u inosteps sure, though certainly slow, er two, in a very long row;
With feathers, and Mutes
In mourning suits,
Eight Franciscans sturdy and strong
Eight more hold a canopy high over all,
And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see
Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee,
Aye, 'tis a comely sight to behold,
As the company march
Of that Cathedral old
Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em,
While, brilliant and bright,
An unwonted light
With their mailed hose,
And their dogs at their toes,
Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes,
-The effect of the music, too, really was fine,
And by old and young
The · Requiem' was sung ; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is—Latin-I don't think they meddled with GreekIn short, the whole thing produced-so to speakWhat in Blois they would call a Coup d'oil magnifique !
Yet, surely, when the level ray
Of some mild eve's descending sun
In years ere ours had well begun-
He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree,
Of what Man is — what Man shall be !
By that same quiet churchyard yew,
The dust they loved a last adieu-
But Chacun à son goût, this is talking at random-
The Cathedral of Blois
Where the Sainted Aloys