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BEYOND the Pontine marshes, and bordering the sea,
There stands a town of great renown in robber history:
As learned Geoffrey Crayon hath told us long ago,
And as some trav'llers may have had ample cause to know.

But Terracina's heroes frequent "the road" no more-
The neighbourhood, tho' far from good, is safer than of yore:
Yet must the passing stranger perforce a tribute pay,
Tho' brigands spare, a lion's share the Douane takes away.

How diff'rent from the olden time, when from some mountain top,
Or wooded hill, a signal shrill bade horse and carriage stop:

When men in velvet jackets, with black masks o'er the face,
Ransacked each box, and picked the locks with true romantic grace.

Yes, things are strangely alter'd along this rocky coast,

Where folks were stopped, and ears were cropped, and forwarded by post; Masked robbers then used picklocks our trunks to overhaul,

But not so these, who beg our keys, and wear no mask at all.

Not far beyond the arched gate that binds the little town,

Which must have been by tourists seen to Naples going down,

There is a rock o'erhanging the road, so narrow there

That scarce there's room for e'en a Brougham to pass a chaise and pair.

This giant rock is lofty, its polished sides are steep,

So smooth and bare, no footing's there to tempt the wild goat's leap;
Save one long winding pathway the solid mass cut in,

Trodden by none save those who own a rocky home within.

And there, instead of windows to court the sunshine bright,

In the thick wall are loopholes small, which scarce tell day from night;

A door above the pathway affords them entrance, but

It seems the light offends their sight, and so they keep it shut.

Time was, in Terracina a gray-haired miser dwelt,

So stern, so grim, that few for him or love or friendship felt;

He had one child, Francesca, (which Anglicised is Fan,)

Folks thought her much too good for such a horrid cross old man.

She loved him well and truly, but then that wouldn't do,

Tho' of her heart he held a part, that heart had room for two;
And like poor Desdemona, she candidly confessed,

She loved papa extremely, ma-she loved Lorenzo best.

Thrice lucky wight, Lorenzo! half such a heart to win,

Blest with Francesca's fond caress, and all her father's tin!

Alas! the stern old father dismissed him in a trice;

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Young man, 'twon't do, she's not for you, no, not at any price!

"They tell me you're a robber, and lead a shocking life,
No doubt, and yet you think to get my daughter for a wife!
A girl like my Francesca! Pooh, pooh! this nonsense cease,
Go quietly, and don't force me to send for the police."

Lorenzo gave him one look, that made his blood run cold,
Not for his child, so fair and mild, he feared, but for his gold;
Yet not a word in answer the robber deigned to say,
After that look, but coolly took his hat and walked away.

Time passed, Francesca thought it passed slower than before;
Despite her sighs and tearful eyes, Lorenzo came no more:
No more at eve she met him, for, ere he went to sup,

To "make assurance doubly sure," her father locked her up.

'Twas on a lovely morning in bright and balmy June,
Francesca at her casement sat, and hummed a plaintive tune;
When a low whisper'd rumour thro' Terracina ran,
"In yonder cell there's come to dwell, oh! such a holy man !"

The rumour soon grew louder, 'twas proved beyond all doubt
A man was there in shirt of hair, which he wore inside out;
His long grey beard hung lower than beards in genʼral do,
Nor wanted much in length to touch the latchet of his shoe.

'Twas said, when others slumber'd a fasting watch he kept,
And lay upon a rugged stone for pillow when he slept ;
'Twas said he never tasted fish, flesh, or fowl, or wine,
Content enough on garden stuff and Adam's ale to dine.

In short he seemed a model to follow and admire,

So meek, so good, no penance could his zeal or patience tire;
No wonder then that hundreds of gaping peasants ran
From morn till night to get a sight of such a holy man.

Francesca watched them sadly, and fain herself would go,
"Let me, papa, it isn't far !" but cross papa said “No !”
And bought a lock, so anxious was he his child to snub,
As strong and thick, and hard to pick as any made by Chubb.

He led her to her chamber, and double-locked the door,
Two keys, thought he, will surer be than one key was before;
But when she'd been a captive three days or thereabout,
"Francesca dear," she heard quite clear, "I'm come to let you out."

The keys were turned, and sudden the door wide open flew,
And she was free, how could it be? in truth she little knew:
Her father stood beside her, he smiled and looked so kind,

She tried in vain to ascertain what could have changed his mind.

'Twas not without a reason her pa had ceased to frown,

That very morn report had borne a tale throughout the town;

Next day from Terracina the holy man must go,

Yet, ere he went, 'twas his intent a portion to bestow:

Not on the haughty beauty, in youthful charms array'd,

For time soon flies, youth's blossom dies, and beauty soon must fade; Not on the flirt who scattered her smiles among a host,

But on the maid, the good man said, whom he admired the most.

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the miser, "here's luck in store for me,
The holy man must choose my Fan, there's none so fair as she;
'Twould be a shocking pity to lose a chance so fine,
The honour shall to her share fall, the money shall be mine.

"And as to that Lorenzo, he'll never meet her there,
In such a place to show his face I don't think he would dare;
I'll give him leave to-morrow to try-'twill be in vain,
For by the pow'rs, the booty ours, I'll lock her up again."

The last faint rays of daylight still tinged the western sky,

When from the town maids fair and brown the hermit's cell drew nigh;
The foremost paused an instant his saddled horse to scan,

Too fresh, thought they, too full of play for such a holy man.

Beneath the rock assembling the lovely maidens came,

Each dark eye seemed, so proud it gleamed, the prize at once to claim;
Behind them stood Francesca, whose glance's sparkling ray,

Like glow-worm's light, shone forth by night far brighter than by day.

Soon rose a gentle murmur amid that anxious throng,

"Twas growing late, but they must wait,-they hoped he'd not be long; Besides, the light was fading, each moment 'twas more dim,

And how could he their faces see, or how could they see him?"

A minute passed, another, and then a whisper ran

From tongue to tongue the crowd among, ""Tis he, the holy man !”

Oh! then, as if by magic, there beamed a witching wile

Soft and yet sly in each dark eye-all smiled or tried to smile.

He came, the hill descending with solemn step and slow,

He paused half way-oh! what would they have giv'n his thoughts to know! Nearer he came, once looking at each in turn-no more,

As if his mind, to beauty blind, was made up long before.

In vain did Maddalena her fascination try,

Not all her wiles, nor Nina's smiles, could catch the old man's eye :

Red lips, jet locks availed not, white teeth and whiter skin,

And snowy arms were pow'rless charms his icy heart to win.

Francesca gazed, and wondered how he could still defer

His choice, and why he passed all by, yet looked so hard at her;
But wondered more to hear him, in quite a lover's tone,

Say "Those bright eyes have won the prize, 'tis thine, and thine alone!

"Come hither, fairest maiden, come hither, thou shalt see

My coal-black steed, 'tis beauty's meed, and such I give to thee;"

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Ha! ha!" laughed Maddalena," a horse, and nought beside!"

"Oh yes!" said he, "and somebody to teach her how to ride!"

He placed her in the saddle, and whispered in her ear

Words heard by none save her alone, which quite dispelled her fear;
Then quickly sprang behind her, tore off his beard so grey,

And patched old gown, and flung them down, and galloped right away.

Bestir ye, gallant horsemen, o'ertake him if you can,

Spur on in chase, don't spare the pace to catch the holy man!

Alas! alas! ye follow the spoiler's track in vain,

For Terracina ne'er will see the robber's bride again.

Now how the slighted damsels abused the happy pair,

And how the miser "piped his eye" for grief, and tore his hair;
And how across the mountains his bride Lorenzo bore,
This we must fancy as we can-the legend says no more.

Yet, reader, tho' abruptly tradition's records fail,
Still your own eyes may recognise the locale of the tale;
And while the Pope's officials your bags and boxes scan,
You still, trust me, the rock may see, but not the holy man.

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SOME years since, while living in the country, I became acquainted with an old gentleman who resided next door to me. He is now, I grieve to say, dead; and though I am possessed of a long list of valued friends, I know of no one who can fill his place. He had been, until a very short time before my introduction to him, a great traveller; and many a curious story of far-off lands has he told to me, while sitting nose and knees into a roaring fire in winter, or, on summer evenings smoking, in some green and leafy nook of his garden, a curiously carved German meerschaum, for which (being a bachelor) he possessed almost a fatherly affection. And a first-rate hand he was at telling a good tale, whether serious or comic, grim or grotesque. He had a firm, clear enunciation, perfect ease and self-possession, a large share of humour, and such a strong and vivid imagination, that in a few words he could place a scene before you with startling and life-like distinctness. Moreover, he had not that almost universal fault among story-tellers, of prolonging a narrative to so great an extent, with little episodical remarks and constant repetitions, that the catastrophe falls perfectly pointless and ineffective upon the hearer. He just hovered about the outset and middle parts of his stories sufficiently to tickle the curiosity of his auditors; but that was all.

One New Year's Eve, (for it was a regular custom with my friend— would that it were so with every one who has the time and means! -to keep up, with great feasting and jollity, all our old English festivals,one New Year's Eve, I say, a small party of ladies and gentlemen, myself among the number, were assembled at the old traveller's hospitable house, to hail the birth of Dan Time's new offspring in copious libations of that glorious, noble, genuine Saxon drink, wassail. And it was real wassail, too, that we had; none of your false, flimsy, meretricious French-wine humbug, (which is a scandalous foreign imposition upon the public,) but the true, legitimate English drink, compounded of true, legitimate English ale and roasted crabs, together with sundry other minor ingredients, of which the real wassailer does not need, and the false wassailer does not deserve, to be told.

It was a bleak and bitter evening; with a shrill, moaning, wailing, restless wind, which seemed to go incessantly round and round and round the house, like some wild beast who had no shelter from the night: raw and misty, too, with a sullen leaden sky overhead, and a thick carpet of snow under foot. It was just the very evening of all others for wassail; and I never beheld a more delightful scene of the

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homely kind, (and there is no scenery like that of home,) than when-dinner being over-the whole party drew themselves in a semicircle about the fire, like so many satellites round Jupiter, and the strongest and most sinewy in the houseentered with a gigantic bowl full of the generous liquor. At this appearance, a kind of subdued murmur ran gently through the whole assembly; and the very fire (though it had been any thing but a dull one before) seemed to grow still greater in its life and spirits; for it chuckled, and laughed, and crowed to itself, and threw countless soft lights and shadows into the room, and burst out at a thousand places into nimble flames, some dancing, some gliding, some lapsing, some heaving and palpitating like living things, some twining and coiling round great masses of coal, some gushing upwards from the heart and centre of the fire, and soaring half-way up the chimney. It was, deed, a cheerful, jovial scene, enough almost to have turned a bigot into a religious man.

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When each and all had been served with great goblets of the steaming wassail, mine host said

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Well, ladies and gentlemen, how shall we amuse ourselves during the long evening before us?"

An old maiden lady timidly proposed a game at "Kiss in the Ring," and inquired of me whether I didn't think it capital sport; to which I replied "Yes;" considering myself bound by the laws of gallantry to assent to any thing proposed by a lady. But this being violently protested against by some young fair ones, and no other suggestion made, I turned to my friend and said

"As the ladies, with only one exception, have so violent an antipathy to Kiss in the Ring,' I do not see how we can be better entertained than by listening to one of your adventures in foreign parts, if you will oblige us by narrating one."

The old gentleman was evidently flattered by this proposal; yet, not wishing to appear to desire it himself, he affected to be modest, and replied

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My dear sir, you do me great honour by such a wish; and although you have often been so kind as to listen to my little narratives, I am afraid that the haps and mishaps of an old bachelor-traveller would be of very little interest to the fair portion of my company."

At this, there was a great cry of " No, no," among the ladies, followed by a loud request from every one present for a story immediately; whereupon, excusing this departure from his habitual modesty before company, upon the plea of its being "impossible to resist the unanimous request of the fair," my friend took a long draught of the generous liquor at his side, and then, casting his eyes for a moment to the ceiling, (in which locality, from some unexplained cause, the ideas of story-tellers are invariably seated,) began as is here set down.

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When I was travelling in Holland and the Netherlands But wait a bit. I have two narratives connected with those countries,one of a ludicrous, the other of a grim nature. Which would you prefer, ladies and gentlemen? Perhaps you had better put it to the vote."

There was not the slightest occasion to do so. From some remarkable appetite for the ghastly existing in almost all people, both young

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