IN the windows of the great Hall, as well as in those of the long Gallery, and the Library at Tappington, are, and have been many of them from a very early period, various "storied panes" of stained glass, which, as Blue Dick's* exploits did not extend beyond the neighbouring city, have remained unfractured down to the present time. Among the numerous escutcheons there displayed, charged with armorial bearings of the family and its connexions, is one in which a chevron between three eagles' cuisses, sable, is blazoned quarterly with the engrailed saltire of the Ingoldsbys. Mr. Simpkinson from Bath,—whose merits as an antiquary are so well known and appreciated as to make eulogy superfluous, not to say impertinent,—has been for some time bringing his heraldic lore to bear on these monumenta vetusia. He pronounces the coat in question to be that of a certain Sir Ingoldsby Bray who flourished temp. Ric. I. and founded the Abbey of Ingoldsby, in the county of Kent and diocese of Rochester, early in the reign of that monarch's successor. The history of the origin of that pious establishment has been rescued from the dirt and mildew in which its chartularies have been slumbering for centuries and is here given. The link of connexion between the two families is shown by the accompanying extract from our genealogical tree.
I seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a malicious report that Mr. Simpkinson has, in a late publication, confounded King Henry the Fifth with the Duke of Monmouth, and positively deny that he has ever represented Walter Lord Clifford, (father to Fair Rosamond,) as the leader of the 0. P. row.
* Richard Culmer, parson of Chartham, commonly so called, distinguished himself, while Laud was in the Tower, by breaking the beautiful windows in Canterbury Cathedral, "standing on the top of the city ladder, near sixty steps high, with a whole pike in his hand, when others would not venture so high." This feat of Vandalism the caerulean worthy called "rattling down proud Becker's glassie bones"
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE!
A LEGEND OF PALESTINE AND—WEST KENT.
|UT and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,|
A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,
"Come east, come west,
Come lance in rest,
Come falchion in hand, I'11 tickle
Of all the Soldan's Chivalrie!"
|Oh! they came west, and they came east,|
Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
|And they hammer'd away|
At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
|Fall hack, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,—|
But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;
|Twenty and three,|
Of high degree,
|Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,|
All—all save one—and he ran up a tree!
"Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!"
|"Twenty and three!|
Twenty and three!—
|All of them Nobles of high degree:|
There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"What news? what news? come, tell to me!
What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?—
I've been whacking the foe, till it seems an age
Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
Come tell me now, thou Page so small!"
|"Oh, Hawk and Hound|
Are safe and sound,
|Beast in byre and Steed in stall;|
|And the Watch-dog's bark,|
As soon as it's dark,
|Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"|
|—" I care not a pound|
For Hawk or for Hound,
|For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay:|
|Fain would I hear|
Of my dainty dear;
|How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"—|
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,
"What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page!"—
That little Foot-page full low crouch'd he,
And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee,
"Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me:
Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,
Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall:
|She sits alone,|
And she makes her moan;
Dance and song
She considers quite wrong;
Feast and revel
Mere snares of the devil;
|She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!|
When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back!'"
"Thou liest! thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page,
Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me!
|There, in thy breast,|
'Neath thy silken vest,
|What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"|
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,
That little Foot-page he blench'd with fear;
"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
King Richard's Confessor, I ween, is he,
|And tidings rare|
To him do I bear,
|And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"|
"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
No learned clerk, I trow, am I,
|But well, I ween,|
May there be seen
|Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;|
Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;
|Although no clerk,|
Well may I mark
|The particular turn of her P's and her Q's! "|
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage,
By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;
|The scroll he seizes,|
The Page he squeezes,
|And buffets,—and pinches his nose till he sneezes;—|
Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads
Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's-heads.
When the contents of the scroll met his view,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew,
|Backward he drew|
His mailed shoe,
|And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew|
Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,
I may not say whither—I never knew.
|"Now count the slain|
Upon Ascalon plain,—
| Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"|
|"Twenty and three!|
There they be,
|Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!—|
|Twenty and three?—|
—Stay—let me see!
Stretched in his gore
There lieth one more!
|By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and four!|
Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there,
But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where!
Ay, twenty-four corses, I rede, there be,
Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"
|"Look nigher, look nigher,|
My trusty Squire!"—
| "One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!!"|
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he,
|"Now Heav'n thee save,|
A boon I crave,
|A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;|
|A year and a day|
Have I been away,
|King Richard from Ingoldsby Hall so free;|
Dame Alice, she sits there in lonely guise,
And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,
And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,
And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!
Oh! when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'
A boon, a boon, my Liege," quoth he,
"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"
"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,"
King Richard said right graciously,
|"Of all in my host|
That I love the most,
| I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!|
Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon;
But—mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"
| FYTTE II. |
|Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,|
|Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,|
And a belted Knight,
In armour dight,
| Is begging a boon on his bended knee,|
With signs of grief and sounds of woe,
Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.
"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
|0 Holy Father, pardon and grace!|
In my fury and rage
A little Foot-page
|I have left, I fear me, in evil case:|
|A scroll of shame|
From a faithless dame
|Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear;|
|I gave him a 'lick'|
With a stick,
And a kick,
|That sent him—I can't tell your Holiness where!|
Had he as many necks as hairs,
He had broken them, all down those perilous stairs!
"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
|A soldier, I trow,|
Of the Cross art thou;
| Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee!|
Ill it beseems that a soldier true
Of holy Church should vainly sue:—
—Foot-pages, they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they,
|Well mote we spare|
A Page—or a pair,
|For the matter of that—Sir Ingoldsby Bray,|
|But stout and true|
Soldiers, like you,
|Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!|
|Be prayers for the dead|
| Let a mass be sung, and a, pater be said;|
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"
"—Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.
0 Holy Father, pardon and grace!
|Dame Alice, my wife,|
The bane of my life,
| I have left, I fear me, in evil case!|
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
Alack! alack! too surely I knew
The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,
And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
|Dame Alice I found,—|
She sank on the ground,—
| I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!|
With jibe and jeer, and mock, and scoff,
I twisted it on—till I twisted it off!—
All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"
Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
| Why really—I hardly know what to say:—|
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.—
—Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray;
For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,
|For a year, and a day,|
Sir Ingoldsby Bray
| A fair rose-noble must duly pay!|
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"
"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
0 Holy Father, pardon and grace!
|No power could save|
That paramour knave;
|I left him, I wot, in evil case!|
|There, 'midst the slain|
Upon Ascalon plain,
| Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain,|
His legs lie here, and his arms lie there,
And his head lies—I can't tell your Holiness where."
"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight,
|To hack and to hew|
A champion true
| Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!|
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!—
|—A chauntry fair,|
And of Monks a pair,
|To pray for his soul for ever and aye,|
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year must thou pay
|For plenty of lights|
To burn there o' nights—
|None of your rascally 'dips'—but sound,|
Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;—
And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!—
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace I"
"Now nay, Holy Father, now nay, now nay!
Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
"No champion free of the Cross was he;
No belted Baron of high degree;
|No Knight nor Squire|
Did there expire;
|He was, I trow, but a bare-footed Friar!|
And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait
With his monks around him, and early and late
May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,
—He hath lost his Prior—his Prior his pate!"
"Now Thunder and turf! " Pope Gregory said,
And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head—
"Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!
A horrible thing has come to pass!
What!—cut off the head of a reverend Prior,
And say he was 'only (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'—
|'What Baron or Squire,|
Or Knight of the shire
|Is half so good as a holy Friar?'|
Never, I trow, have the Servi sevorum
|Had before 'em|
Such a breach of decorum,
|Such a gross violation of morum bonorum,|
And won't have again saecula saeculorum!—
|Come hither to me,|
My Cardinals three,
My Bishops in partibus,
Masters in Artibus,
Hither to me, A.B. and D.D.
Doctors and Proctors of every degree.
| Go fetch me a book!—go fetch me a bell|
As big as a dustman's!—and a candle as well—
I'll send him—where good manners won't let me tell!"
—"Pardon and grace!—now pardon and grace!"
—Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face—
"Meâ culpâ!—in sooth I'm in pitiful case
Peccavi! peccavi!—I've done very wrong!
But my heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong,
And I'll fight for holy Church all the day long;
And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,
And they're here, and they're there, and I can't tell you
And Holy Church shall come in for her share!"
Pope Gregory paused, and he sat himself down,
And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,
And his Cardinals three they pick'd up his crown.
"Now, if it be so that you own you've been wrong,
And your heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong,
And you really will fight like a trump all day long;—
If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share,—
|Why, my Cardinals three,|
| That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,|
And I think that the Penitent need not despair!
—If it be so, as you seem to say,
Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!
An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
Whose innermost wall's encircling bound
Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
And there in that Abbey all the year round,
A full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns,
Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross-buns;
|And Sir Ingoldsby Bray,|
Shall hie him again
To Ascalon plain,
| And gather the bones of the foully slain:|
And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;
|And plenty of lights|
Shall be there o' nights;
| None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound,|
Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
|And Monk and Nun|
Shall pray, each one,
| For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!|
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave,
|Nor adorn his body,|
Nor drink gin-toddy,
Nor indulge in a pipe,—
But shall dine upon tripe,
| And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,|
And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure
Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and liqueur!"
|(Sir Ingoldsby Bray|
Here gave way
| To a feeling which prompted a word profane,|
But he swallow'd it down, by an effort, again,
And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
Mere repetition of 0, meâ culpâ!)
"Thrice three times upon Candlemas-day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Ahbey, as best he may,
|Subjecting his back|
To thump and to thwack,
| Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,|
With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire;
|And nor he, nor his heir*|
Shall take, use, or bear
Any more, from this day,
The surname of Bray,
| As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has|
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias!
So his qualms of conscience at length may cease,
And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace!"
| Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)|
Is off like a shot away and away,
|Over the brine|
To far Palestine,
| To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain|
For the unburied bones of his victim slain.
|"Look out, my Squire,|
Look higher and nigher,
| Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!|
And pick up the arms, and the legs, of the dead,
And pick up his body, and pick up his head!"
| FYTTE III. |
|Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,|
It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three,
With right of free-warren (whatever that be);
Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,
All in full leaf at the right time of year;
About Christmas, or so they fall into the sear,
And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear:
But it's really delightful in spring-time,—and near
The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear.
Cobham woods to the right,—on the opposite shore
Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more;
Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind,—and before
You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.*
|So charming a spot,|
It's rarely one's lot
|To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.|
|Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,|
And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,
And there they all stand each in their degree,
Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,
Two by two, in their regular mode,
While a funeral comes down the Rochester road.
Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand,
Cockle in hat, and staff in hand,
Come marching in pairs, a holy band!
Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,
Each with his brazen censer bright,
And singing away with all their might,
Follow the Palmers—a goodly sight;
|Next high in air|
Twelve Yeoman bear
| On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care,|
A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd,
Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd),
And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.
|Close by his side|
Is a Friar, supplied
|With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide,|
|While all sorts of queer men|
Bring up the rear—Men-
|-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men.|
|It boots not to tell|
What you'll guess very well,
|How some sang the requiem, some toll'd the bell;|
|Suffice it to say,|
'Twas on Candlemas-day
|The procession I speak about reached the Sacellum;|
|And in lieu of a supper|
The Knight on his crupper
|Received the first taste of the Father's flagellum;—|
|That, as chronicles tell,|
He continued to dwell
|All the rest of his days in the Ahbey he'd founded,|
By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns;
—That year after year, having run round the Quad
With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod,
Having not only kiss'd it, but bless'd it, and thank'd it, he
Died, as all thought, in the odour of sanctity,
When,—strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe
What I'm going to tell you,—next Candlemas Eve
The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright,
|Alarm'd by the bawls,|
And the calls, and the squalls
|Of some one who seem'd running all round the walls!|
|Looking out, soon|
By the light of the moon
|There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,|
And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,
As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless!" of Hunt's,
And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes
A flageilum, whose lashes appear to be snakes;
While more terrible still, the astounded beholders
Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS,
|But is holding his pate|
In his left hand, out straight,
|As if by a closer inspection to find|
Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
With the aid of a small "bull's-eye lantern,"—as placed
By our own New Police,—in a belt round his waist.
|All gaze with surprise,|
Scarce believing their eyes,
|When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies|
From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,—
In vain,—for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
"Running after him,"—so said the Abbot,—"like Bricks!"
Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight
Course round the Abbey as best he might,
Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite,
While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,—
Then a whoop and a halloo,—and all was still!
Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
|And at this time of day|
One can hardly survey
|Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey|
With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
But still there are many folks living who say
That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight,
|Accoutred and dight|
In his armour bright,
|With his thick black beard,—and the clerical Sprite,|
With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood;
More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,
You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy;
|And that once in a gale|
Of wind, sleet, and hail,
|They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail.|
|"What 'tis breaks the rest|
Of these souls unblest
|Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd,|
Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd
|That on Ascalon plain,|
When the bones of the slain
|Were collected that day, and pack'd up in a chest|
|Caulk'd and made water-tight,|
By command of the Knight,
|Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right|
And the body itself in a decentish plight,
Yet the Friar's Pericranium was nowhere in sight;
So, to save themselves trouble, they'd pick'd up instead,
And popp'd on. the shoulders a Saracen's Head!
Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd,
And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd:
|Now though this might be,|
It don't seem to agree
|With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,—|
I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine
Containing the bones brought from far Palestine
Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine
This fact with the reason these people assign,
Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine
Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-ine.'
'Tis a very nice question—but be't as it may,
The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray),
It is boldly affirm'd, by the folks great and small
About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall,
Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall.
And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall.
So, I think, when the facts of the case you recall,
My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,
|Viz.: that, spite of the hope|
Held out by the Pope,
|Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d—d after all!|
| Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,|
In livery or out of it, listen to me!
See what comes of lying!—don't join in a league
To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue!
Ladies!—married and single, from this understand
How foolish it is to send letters by hand!
Don't stand for the sake of a penny,—but when you
|'ve a billet to send|
To a lover or friend,
| Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!|
Reverend gentlemen!—you who are given to roam,
Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!
But while you're abroad lead respectable lives;
Love your neighbours, and welcome,—but don't love their
And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads
When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR
Knights!—whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so
Learn,—to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!
If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,
Rebuke them—but mildly—don't kick them down stairs!
To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend,
"If you want matters well managed, Go!—if not, Send!"
A servant's too often a negligent elf;
—If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!
The state of society seldom requires
People now to bring home with them unburied Friars,
But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life;
Now—don't do that by proxy!—but choose your own wife!
For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed,
|To find in your bed,|
On the pillow, instead
|Of the sweet face you look for—A SARACEN'S HEAD!|