Kitabı oku: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 355, February 7, 1829», sayfa 6

"This is an easier job than you had yesterday," said the man who held the goat. "I wish all the throats we've cut were as easily and quietly done. Did you ever hear such a noise as the old gentleman made last night! It was well we had no neighbour within a dozen of miles, or they must have heard his cries for help and mercy."

"Don't speak of it," replied the other; "I was never fond of bloodshed,"

"Ha, ha!" said the other with a sneer, "you say so, do you?"

"I do," answered the first, gloomily; "the Murder Hole is the thing for me—that tells no tales—a single scuffle—a single plunge—and the fellow's dead and buried to your hand in a moment. I would defy all the officers in Christendom to discover any mischief there."

"Ay, Nature did us a good turn when she contrived such a place as that. Who that saw a hole in the heath, filled with clear water, and so small that the long grass meets over the top of it, would suppose that the depth is unfathomable, and that it conceals more than forty people who have met their deaths there! it sucks them in like a leech!"

"How do you mean to dispatch the lad in the next room?" asked the old woman in an under tone. The elder son made her a sign to be silent, and pointed towards the door where their trembling auditor was concealed; while the other, with an expression of brutal ferocity, passed his bloody knife across his throat.

The pedlar boy possessed a bold and daring spirit, which was now roused to desperation; but in any open resistance the odds were so completely against him, that flight seemed his best resource. He gently stole to the window, and having by one desperate effort broken the rusty bolt by which the casement had been fastened, he let himself down without noise or difficulty. This betokens good, thought he, pausing an instant in dreadful hesitation what direction to take. This momentary deliberation was fearfully interrupted by the hoarse voice of the men calling alound, "The boy has fled—let loose the bloodhound!" These words sunk like a death-knell on his heart, for escape appeared now impossible, and his nerves seemed to melt away like wax in a furnace. Shall I perish without a struggle! thought he, rousing himself to exertion, and, helpless and terrified as a hare pursued by its ruthless hunters, he fled across the heath. Soon the baying of the bloodhound broke the stillness of the night, and the voice of its masters sounded through the moor, as they endeavoured to accelerate its speed,—panting and breathless the boy pursued his hopeless career, but every moment his pursuers seemed to gain upon his failing steps. The hound was unimpeded by the darkness which was to him so impenetrable, and its noise rung louder and deeper on his ear—while the lanterns which were carried by the men gleamed near and distinct upon his vision.

At his fullest speed, the terrified boy fell with violence over a heap of stones, and having nothing on but his shirt, he was severely cut in every limb. With one wild cry to Heaven for assistance, he continued prostrate on the earth, bleeding, and nearly insensible. The hoarse voices of the men, and the still louder baying of the dog, were now so near, that instant destruction seemed inevitable,—already he felt himself in their fangs, and the bloody knife of the assassin appeared to gleam before his eyes,—despair renewed his energy, and once more, in an agony of affright that seemed verging towards madness, he rushed forward so rapidly that terror seemed to have given wings to his feet. A loud cry near the spot he had left arose on his ears without suspending his flight. The hound had stopped at the place where the Pedlar's wounds bled so profusely, and deeming the chase now over, it lay down there, and could not be induced to proceed; in vain the men beat it with frantic violence, and tried again to put the hound on the scent,—the sight of blood had satisfied the animal that its work was done, and with dogged resolution it resisted every inducement to pursue the same scent a second time. The pedlar boy in the meantime paused not in his flight till morning dawned—and still as he fled, the noise of steps seemed to pursue him, and the cry of his assassins still sounded in the distance. Ten miles off he reached a village, and spread instant alarm throughout the neighbourhood—the inhabitants were aroused with one accord into a tumult of indignation—several of them had lost sons, brothers, or friends on the heath, and all united in proceeding instantly to seize the old woman and her sons, who were nearly torn to pieces by their violence. Three gibbets were immediately raised on the moor, and the wretched culprits confessed before their execution to the destruction of nearly fifty victims in the Murder Hole which they pointed out, and near which they suffered the penalty of their crimes. The bones of several murdered persons were with difficulty brought up from the abyss into which they had been thrust; but so narrow is the aperture, and so extraordinary the depth, that all who see it are inclined to coincide in the tradition of the country people that it is unfathomable. The scene of these events still continues nearly as it was 300 years ago. The remains of the old cottage, with its blackened walls (haunted of course by a thousand evil spirits,) and the extensive moor, on which a more modern inn (if it can be dignified with such an epithet) resembles its predecessor in every thing but the character of its inhabitants; the landlord is deformed, but possesses extraordinary genius; he has himself manufactured a violin, on which he plays with untaught skill,—and if any discord be heard in the house, or any murder committed in it, this is his only instrument. His daughter (who has never travelled beyond the heath) has inherited her father's talent, and learnt all his tales of terror and superstition, which she relates with infinite spirit; but when you are led by her across the heath to drop a stone into that deep and narrow gulf to which our story relates,—when you stand on its slippery edge, and (parting the long grass with which it is covered) gaze into its mysterious depths,—when she describes, with all the animation of an eye witness, the struggles of the victims grasping the grass as a last hope of preservation, and trying to drag in their assassin as an expiring effort of vengeance,—when you are told that for 300 years the clear waters in this diamond of the desert have remained untasted by mortal lips, and that the solitary traveller is still pursued at night by the howling of the bloodhound,—it is then only that it is possible fully to appreciate the terrors of THE MURDER HOLE.

Blackwood's Magazine.

DANCING

 
I never to a ball will go,
That poor pretence for prancing,
Where Jenkins dislocates a toe,
And Tomkins thinks he's dancing:
And most I execrate that ball,
Of balls the most atrocious,
Held yearly in old Magog's hall,
The feasting and ferocious.
 
 
I execrate the mob, the squeeze,
The rough refreshment-scramble:
The dancers, keeping time with knees
That knock as down they amble;
Between two lines of bankers' clerks,
Stared at by two of loobies—
All mighty fine for city sparks,
But all and each one boobies:—
 
 
Boobies with heads like poodle-dogs,
With curls like clew-lines dangling;
With limbs like galvanizing frogs,
And necks stiff-starched and strangling;
With pigeon-breasts and pigeon-wings,
And waists like wasps and spiders;
With whiskers like Macready's kings',
Mustachios like El Hyder's.
 
 
Miss Jones, the Moorfields milliner,
With Toilinet, the draper,
May waltz—for none are willinger
To cut cloth or a caper.—
Miss Moses of the Minories,
With Mr. Wicks of Wapping,
May love such light tracasseries,
Such shuffle shoe and hopping:
 
 
Miss Hicks, the belle of Holywell,
And pride of Norton Falgate,
In waltzing may the world excel,
Except Miss Hicks of Aldgate.
Well, let them—'tis their nature—twirl,
And Smiths adore their twirlings,
Which kill with envy every girl
That fingers lace at Urling's,
 
 
I laugh while I lament to see
A fellow, made to measure
'Gainst grenadiers of six feet three,
"Die down the dance" with pleasure.
I laugh to see a man with thews
His way through Misses picking,
Like pig with tender pettitoes,
Or chicken-hearted chicken;
 
 
A tom-cat shod with walnut-shells,
A pony race in pattens,
A wagon-horse tricked out with bells,
A sow in silks and satins,
A butcher's hair en papillote,
And lounging Piccadilly,
A clown in an embroidered coat,
Are not more gauche and silly.
 
 
Let atoms take their dusty dance,
But men are not corpuscles:
An Englishman's not made in France,
Nor wire and buckram muscles.
The manly leap, the breathing race,
The wrestle, or old cricket,
Give to the limbs a native grace—
So, here's for double-wicket.
 
 
Leave dancing to the women, Men—
In them it is becoming;—
I never tire to see them, when
Joe Hart his fiddle's strumming,
Or Colinet and mild Musard
Have set their hearts quadrilling;—
Then be each nymph a gay Brocard,
And every woman killing.
 
 
I love to see the pretty dears
Go lightly caracolling,
And drinking love at eyes and ears,
With every look their soul in!
I like to watch the swan-like grace
They show in minuetting.
It hits one's bosom's tenderest place,
To see them pirouetting.
 
 
But when a measurer of tape
Turns butterfly and dandy,
Assumes their grace, their air, their shape,
I wish a pump were handy!
I never to such balls will go,
Those poor pretexts for prancing;
Where Jenkins dislocates his toe,
And Tomkins thinks he's dancing.
 

Monthly Magazine.