Bentley's Miscellany

BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

THE UNPUBLISHED INGOLDSBY LEGEND.

TO WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,-Some weeks ago you may have seen advertised-and it must have caused you some little surprise-a proposed reading of an " Unpublished Ingoldsby Legend." No one could have been more astonished by such an announcement than myself. Nothing of the sort was in existence! On inquiry, it turned out that the poem in question was indeed genuine, having been written by my father during his last illness, and having for its subject his own personal condition at that time, but that it was obviously no Legend;" and I should state that the lecturer apologised for the misnomer, for which, however, he was not himself responsible. In point of fact, "The Bulletin" was but a slight pièce de circonstance, struck off, during one of those gleams of cheerfulness which bodily pain could not entirely extinguish, partly for the purpose of relieving the anxiety of a very dear friend of the author's, partly, I suspect, because with him, as with the Satirist, the difficulty was not to write!

For my own part, although time may be thought to have removed all objections to the appearance of this sketch, I should, even now, have hesitated to make it public but that the matter has been in some measure taken out of my hands by the transaction referred to. As it is, I cannot but feel that of all classes of readers that which comprises the "following" of Bentley's Miscellany has certainly the first claim to be presented with anything that fell from the pen of Thomas Ingoldsby. I am, dear Sir, sincerely yours,

Lolworth Rectory, June 16, 1862.

VOL. LII.

R. H. DALTON BARHAM.

THE BULLETIN.

9, Dowry-square, Hot Wells, May 29, 1845.

Hark! the doctors come again,
Knock-and enter doctors twain-
Dr. Keeler, Dr. Blane.

"Well, sir, how

Go matters now?

Please your tongue put out again!"
Meanwhile, t'other side the bed,
Doctor Keeler

Is a feeler

Of my wrist, and shakes his head.
"Rather low, we're rather low!"

(Deuce is in't, an 'twere not so!
Arrowroot, and toast-and-water,
Being all my nursing daughter,
By their order, now allows me;
If I hint at more she rows me,
Or at best will let me soak a
Crust of bread in Tapioca.)

"Cool and moist though, let me see
Seventy-two, or seventy-three,
Seventy-four, perhaps, or so;
Rather low, we're rather low!
Now, what sort of night, sir, eh?
Did you take the mixture, pray?
Iodine and anodyne,

Ipecacuanha wine,

And the draught and pills at nine?"

PATIENT (loquitur).

"Coughing, doctor, coughing, sneezing,
Wheezing, teazing, most unpleasing,
Till at length, I, by degrees, in-
Duced Tired nature's sweet restorer,
Sleep, to cast her mantle o'er her

Poor unfortunate adorer,

And became at last a snorer.
Iodine and anodyne,
Ipecacuanha wine,

Nor the draughts did I decline;
But those horrid pills at nine,
Those I did not try to swallow,
Doctor, they'd have beat me hollow.
I as soon

Could gulp the moon,

Or the great Nassau balloon,
Or a ball for horse or hound, or
Bullet for an eighteen-pounder."

How, sir! choking?

Pooh! you're joking

Bless me! this is quite provoking!
What can make you, sir, so wheezy?
Stay, sir!-gently!-take it easy!
There, sir, that will do to-day.
Sir, I think that we may say
We are better, doctor, eh?
Don't you think 80, Doctor Blane?
Please put out your tongue again!
Iodine and anodyne,
Ipecacuanha wine,

And since you the pills decline,
Draught and powder grey at nine.
There, sir! there, sir! now good day,
I've a lady cross the

way,

I must see without delay!"

[Exeunt Doctors.*

* Another of these pleasantries was addressed by Mr. Barham to his friends at the Garrick Club. It commenced:

"Ye shepherds give ear to my lay,

Who have nothing to do about sheep,

While, as Shenstone the poet would say,

I have nothing to do but to weep.

"For here I sit all the day long,

And must do so, I dare say, all June,
While so far from singing a song,
I can't even whistle a tune.

"For the probang, the blister, and leech,
So completely my notes have o'erthrown,
When I try the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.

"It's useless attempting to speak,

For my voice is beyond my control;
If high, it's an ear-piercing squeak,
If low, it's a grunt or a growl!

"Can Clifton those beauties assume,
Which patients have found in her face,
When shut up all day in a room,
One can't get a peep at the place.

"Ye Garrickers, making your sport,
As ye revel in gossip and grub,
Oh! send some endearing report

Of how matters go on at the club.
"When I think on the rapid mail train,
In a moment I seem to be there,
But the sight of N.E. on the vane,

Soon hurries me back to despair," &c.

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Bentley's Miscellany, Volum 52