GARLANDINE AND THE TUTOR-A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

BY GEOFFRY BRIEFLESS, ESQUIRE, BARRISTER-AT-LAW.

"Tis a fact well known on the Banks of Rhine,
When the vineyards gleam in the pale moonshine,
And the trellised clusters are bending low,
Tinted with autumn's rip'ning glow,
That a mighty shade in a purple vest-
I shan't now stop to describe the rest
Of his clothing is seen the hills to climb,
Which hang o'er ruined Rudesheim.*
Many have seen him, with eye appalled,
Dodging about the Niederwald,

Where, should the tourist chance to stand,
He'll see the best of the Fatherland;
Thence his raptured eye may mark
Many a stately villa and park,

With dome, and hamlet, and cloister grey,
Peeping from lindens far away.

I've gazed myself on that landscape rare,
And ne'er saw any on earth more fair!
'Twas at the hour when sunbeams rise
Above the river where Bingen lies,
And morning's saffron mantle fell
Upon the shrine of Roca-Cappelle,
Where a wooden lady stands in a niche,
With a massive silver candlestick,
In which each pious pilgrim fixes
His daily share of "a pound of sixes."
Mounted on donkeys we gained the top,

Where the heat was such we were like to drop;
When lo! there stood, mid the forest's shade,
As jolly a tap as ever was made

Where wine was sold, drink fit for an earl,
And by a monstrous pretty girl.

"Twill repay, dear friend, your trouble well,
To leave your couch, at the Rhine Hotel,
An hour at least ere the sun can rise,
To get one glance from that fraulein's eyes.
But from digression we must refrain,
Or we never will get to Charlemagne.
Doctors say that the night air's bad
For one to roam out in, lightly clad.
I fully agree in that maxim old;
But the emperor never catches cold
When forth he comes, as daylight fails,

In a shirt which the climbing his tomb's sharp rails

Has left rather short in regard of tails;

And he blesses each night, in the pale moonshine,
The purple grapes of his darling Rhine.
Many a summer's morn is buried,

The tide of time has ebbed and flowed,

It is a popular tradition, that the shade of Charlemagne is seen to cross the river between Bingen and Rudesheim. Whenever the vintage promises to be unusually good, it is attributed by the peasants to this apparition.-Gieb's Legends.

Is much more fatal I know to view;
And so they found,

For knights came round

From many a distant mile;

Hot words were delivered,
And lances shivered,

For that bright maiden's smile.
But all would not do

For the valiant crew,

With their tossing plumes and their pennons gay, Though they paid morning visits, and stayed all day, And emptied whole flasks of foaming wine,

There was not one man

Of the mailed clan

His point could carry,

Or persuade to marry

The emperor's daughter, Garlandine.

And though at her gate,

Both early and late,

Princes and nobles in troops would appear,

It didn't much fret her,

She liked few things better

Than sending them home with a flea in the ear.
She'd think nothing at all

Of going up to the wall,

To say, with her best satin dress on,

When a knight came to dine

"It is all mighty fine,

But you do not lodge here, Mr. Ferguesson."
Pray be so good, for the sake of my song,

66

To pronounce here the antepenultimate long ;"

These two lines I've stolen, for sake of prosody, But I beg you will mention the fact to nobody. "Oh, woman! in our hours of ease"

I quote a poet whom you know—

Ye are the very deuce to please;

Dear creatures, why should this be so?
We know how dreadful is the bore,
When she we worship like a star
Is seen, upon some ball-room's floor,
Waltzing with a damned light hussar;
His arm is round her faëry waist,
Encircling all you dream of bliss,
And the lips you long to taste
Turn kindly pouting up to his.
It is most trying to the feeling

Of even the mildest-manner'd folk,
And makes one wish, one's grief concealing,
That we had learned to waltz or polk.
Thus felt each suitor

What he thought was destined to be his place.

There had come, at an hour which was rather late,

A wayworn youth to the castle gate,

Of comely features, and stature tall;

And the warder asked, as he neared the wall,
If he wanted aught, with a surly grin.

The stranger replied, that he wanted in.
"That sort of gammon is all in my eye;
Don't you wish you may come it-only try."

Then he winked, as he said to himself, "What a Guy!"
But Charlemagne near, in the warm sunshine,

Lay, gazing down on his own bright Rhine,

With some beer drawn mild, which that climate suits,
('Tis a liquor I like to drink with cheroots)
And hearing this noisy talk at his door,
He summons the youth to come before
His presence august, that he might know
Why he had bored the warder so.

*

The stranger his learning soon recounts-
He can write, he says, and can cast accounts-
Can break a charger, or read quite pat in
The tongues, then so rare, of French and Latin.
He could also, he modestly added, speak-
But this was a bounce-a little Greek;
Could play the piano, the harp, and sing,
And strike with his lance the smallest ring.

Carl listens, is charmed, and says, ""Twill do ;"
Then, rising, concludes the interview.
"Uncommon kind, how the gods do grant
The sort of things that we monarchs want."
Such was the Emperor's silly boast-
But for once he reckoned without his host;
And thought how nicely at last he'd caught a
Teacher of French for his pretty daughter.
So he asked the stranger to stay to dine,
And be presented to Garlandine.

I'm fond, being nought but a hungry sinner,
Of the varied joys of a splendid dinner;
When the turtle-soup is fair to see,
The green fat well mingled with calipee.
I like entrees, but the sort of dish
I'm most partial to is a kind of fish-
Pinkeens; but gourmands, I think, of late,
Who know the best, have called it bait,
White bait, thou'rt pleasant enough in the main,
With buttered brown bread and pink champagne;
But still can I fill a banquet's pause

With a lobster pâte and oyster sauce.

And few things are better to eat, I know,

That veal made into a fricandeau.

Oh, ye mortals, unlearned that are,

For ye ne'er have dined with the North-East Bar,
What can your ravenous, ignorant maw,

Know of the joys of that feast of Law.

The "côttelettes de saumon," the "crêmes" so nice,
The cool Lafitte, the champagne in ice,

Creaming up to the crystal brim,
Till midnight's taper waneth dim;
The feast of reason, the flow of soul,
That mantles round each glorious bowl;
The wit that flashes, of brilliant sort,
The ready jest, and the neat retort-
From the learned father, with head so bald,
To the callous junior, recently called;
Who, if he's properly up to his work,
Into his pocket should put each cork,
That he may know when a single flask fails;
Waiters are such infernal rascals.

Briefs were unheeded in that gay revel,
Pleas and demurrers sent to the devil-

"To those unpleasant realms below,
Whither the dead attorneys go,

And the living shall also."

Even as I pen these stanzas few,
There rises before me, in long review,
Each well-known face of that jovial crew.
A wave of the wand of necromancy,
And back they troop to the eye of Fancy.
Forms which have long in darkness lain,
Are seated around the board again.
Some are dead this many a year ;†
In scarlet and ermine some appear;
Learned judges, with very thick pates,
While others are city magistrates.
Some are sleeping much at their ease,
On nice soft chairs in the Common Pleas.
Become fat-witted and dreadfully stout,
With law, and leisure, and port, and gout.
Some have gained, by their legal quirks,
Places snug in the Board of Works;
And those who love not the air of cities,
Have long paired off on Relief Committees ;
Some state offices deftly fill,

And some, like myself, are briefless still.

* Vide DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE, Vol. xxvii., p. 408.

† Of course I must be here understood to anticipate the fate of my learned bre

thren.-G. B.

And the rising tear to mine eye doth steal,
As I hear the sorrows of Lucy Neal;
And again I laugh, until like to die,
"At the house which fell into chancery ;"
And I feel my breath coming uncommonly short
At the musical chime of The Pewter Quart.
I'm an old man now, and the wish were vain,
But would I could live my life again;
Roaming the crowded hall about,
My bag well filled with parcels stout;
Diving down to those shades obscure,

As in my time each learned man did,
Emerging then with a face demure,

Gowned and wigged, and neatly banded.
But really I sin beyond expression—
Dear reader, pardon this my last digression.

"It was iddlesse all" at Ingelheim,

That castle which stands on a rock sublime;
With ramparts stout, and an iron gate,
Looking so sadly desolate.

The day is over long-long ago,

When, banners on high, and battles below,
Were seen by those grey and ruined towers,
Which now in hoary grandeur shine,
Down on that vale, where, girt with flowers,
Sweeps foaming on the glorious Rhine.
Bless my soul! could the Baron rise
From the marble coffin wherein he lies,

And see the change on that river's tide,

Which hath come to pass since the night he died.
See the steamers that, to and fro,
Puffing, "at stated periods," go.
Little I ween his eye would reck,

Glancing down on the peopled deck,

Where crowds of staring Cockneys tread,
Each with his guide-book bound in red.
Ladies in bonnets and smart vissettes,
Bandboxes, couriers, and grisettes;
Kelners* all tearing about like the wind,
For cheating" Englanders" much inclined;
In small-clothes fastened with clasp behind,
And jackets uncommonly short in the waist,
Tumbling about in desperate haste;
Rushing from stem to stern like mad,
With smoking viands uncommonly bad.
Salad, red cabbage, boiled beef, and fishes,
Served upon oblong, small white dishes;
And wine poured into a labelled flask,
Of every sort that a man could ask.

En passant, I've heard what, if true, is a shame,
Though the labels do differ, the wine's the same;
And the choicest which falls to the tourist's share,
Is nought but the Rhine "vin ordinaire."
Could the old Herr Baron behold all this,
He would be hugely surprised, I wis;
And turning round with a sigh of pain,
Get back to his marble sleep again.

Anglice, "waiters."