I should say, " that's all." The former, indeed,
is not unlikely, for he is a very fast character,
or, at all events, has lots of half-mad friends;
just before the pillars were taken away from
the Regent's Quadrant, I had a proof of this.
I was coming from the Piccadilly end, at my
ordinary quiet pace (for I am very respectable,
and not thin), when I was violently seized by
the shoulders, and threaded – run in and out
– through each of the pillars, all the way to
the top. It was in the mid afternoon, and the
proceeding attracted every eye; but what did
I care? What was the use of caring? " It
is some friend of Blobbs's of Wadham, having
his lark," I said to myself; "and he will be
very much astonished when he comes to find
out that he has got hold of the wrong man!"
as soon as I could get my breath again, I
gave Blobbs's friend in charge to a policeman,
and he paid five pounds for that little run of
his; it would have been cheaper for him to
have taken a cab.

I never saw this parody upon me in all my
life, but I have been very near seeing him;
I got into a coach at Dorchester, one night,
to go to Weymouth, and had to pay about
forty miles' fare further back – from Honiton,
I think. The guard, and the coachman, and
the insides, all swore to my having travelled
that distance, and I was obliged to give the
money – I have no doubt for Blobbs.

And yet it was better so, perhaps, than to
have met him; what horror to have awoke
suddenly, and beheld oneself sitting opposite
in the dim obscure! Echoing, perhaps, one's
cry of terror, wearing his hair after the same
porcupine fashion, and with cheeks of the
like fear-stricken hue!

What a shocking business it will be when
one of us two dies! Perhaps, we shall
expire simultaneously. Otherwise, when an
enfranchised-looking female, in a widow's cap,
comes suddenly upon me in the street, and
faints, I shall then know that Blobbs is dead.

THE TOMB IN GHENT.

A smiling look she had, a figure slight,
With cheerful air, and step both quick and light,
A strange and foreign look the maiden bore,
That suited the quaint Belgain dress she wore;
Yet the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,
And her soft voice told her of English race;
And ever, as she flitted to and fro,
She sand (or murmur'd, rather), soft and low,
Snatches of song, as if she did not know
That she was singing, but the happy load
Of dreams and thought thus from her heart o'erflow'd:
And while on household cares she pass'd along,
The air would bear me fragments of her song;
Not such as village maidens sing, and few
The framers of her changing music knew;
Chants such as heaven and earth first knew of when
Allegri and Marcello held the pen.
But I with awe had often turn'd the page,
Yellow with time, and half defaced by age,
And listen'd, with an ear not quite unskill'd,
While heart and soul to the grand echo thrill'd;
And much I marevll'd, as her cadence fell
From the Laudate, that I knew so well,
Into Scarlatti's minor fugue, how she
Had learn'd such deep and solemn harmony.
But what she told I set in rhyme, as meet
To chronicle the influence, dim and sweet,
'Neath which her young and innocent life had grown:
Would that my words were simply as her own.

Many years since, an English workman went
Over the seas, to seek a home in Ghent,
Where English skill was prized, nor toil'd in vain;
Small, yet enough, his hard-earn'd daily gain.
He dwelt alone – in sorrow or in pride;
He mix'd not with the workers by his side;
He seem'd to care but for one present joy –
To tend, to watch, to teach his sickly boy.
Severe to all beside, yet for the child
He soften'd his rough speech to soothings mild;
For him he smiled, with him each day he walk'd
Through the dark gloomy streets; to him he talk'd
Of home, of England, and strange stories told
Of English heroes in the days of old;
And (when the sunset gilded roof and spire),
The marvellous tale which never seem'd to tire:
How the gilt dragon, glaring fiercely down
From the great belfry, watching all the town,
Was brought, a trophy of the wars divine,
By a Crusader from far Palestine,
And given to Bruges; and how Ghent arose,
And how they struggled long as deadly foes,
Till Ghent, one night, by a brave soldier's skill,
Stole the great dragon, and she keeps it still.
One day the dragon – so 'tis said – will rise,
Spread his bright wings, and glitter in the skies,
And over desert lands and azure seas,
Will seek his home 'mid palm and cedar-trees.
So, as he pass'd the belfry every day,
The boy would look if it were flown away;
Each day surprised to find it watching there,
Above him, as he cross'd the ancient square,
To seek the great cathedral, that had grown
A home for him – mysterious and his own.

  Dim with dark shadows of the ages past,
St. Bavon stands, solemn and rich and vast;
The slender pillars in long vistas spread,
Like forest arches meet and close o'erhead
So high, that like a weak and doubting prayer,
Ere it can float to the carved angels there,
The silver clouded incense faints in air;
Only the organ's voice, with peal on peal,
Can mount to where those far-off angels kneel.
Here the pale boy, beneath a low side-arch,
Would listen to its solemn chant or march;
Folding his little hands, his simple prayer
Melted in childish dreams, and both in air:
While the great organ over all would roll,
Speaking; strange secrets to his spotless soul,
Bearing on eagle-wings the great desire
Of all the kneeling throng, and piercing higher
Than aught but love and prayer can reach, until
Only the silence seem'd to listen still;
Or gathering like a sea still more and more,
Break in melodious waves at heaven's door,
And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain,
Upon the pleading longing hearts again.
Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow,
That crept along the marble floor below,
Passing, as life does, with the passing hours,
Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers.
Now on the brazen letters of a tomb,
Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom,
And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint,
The kneeling figure of some marble saint: