—Public Domain Sketches
WEBSTER’S NOOSE
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
At dinner, just afterwards, Longfellow told me a terrific story…
—Charles Dickens, to Wilkie Collins, January 12, 1868
At the warm fireside in Craigie House,
With friend Longfellow, sits famed Charles Dickens.
Still in the poet’s heart, his brilliant spouse,
How she, now dead, would have loved the scene. Thought sickens
In him for a dizzying instant. But the man
Of novels, bustling energy, sits opposite,
Intent on swapping yarns, and so all ban
On prankish tales must lift, as is apposite,
In Longfellow; they trade stories, stride for stride,
And so old griefs for now are whisked aside.
(Yet Dickens wonders what sad note, his own, most
Likely has crossed the face of his friend host.)
Yes, Dickens is in his element: diamond-clear,
Odd anecdotes of dingy London streets.
The man is simply a perfect gazetteer;
With stories to swell a dozen novels, fleets
Along, with flashing teeth and trilling tongue.
He trusts in stories to keep life still young.
Soon they have laughed and groaned at tale’s end;
Each savors the wayward paths events would wend.
…Has Dickens realized what ghost has passed
Across the other’s face, and striven to fend
Off that cloud’s transitory overcast?
Too sensitive not to desire some grief to end;
Without a doubt, the Englishman would miss little,
Spot, as it were, breaks in rhythm of hands that whittle.
Would Dickens bring up that somber knowledge he holds
Of Fanny’s death by fire? Condolences
Have passed by post between them…yet now unfolds
Poet Henry’s frame, dispersing silences
Which just now follow laughter; he makes to speak.
“I have but few good stories of mine to prattle,
And I am not a votary of séances
Or ghastly tales by poor Poe; but from Brattle
Street to Harvard Yard this thing is known”
(—“You, man of few stories?” Dickens interjects—)
“But I’d be surprised if soon this tale’s not flown
To a certain fair island ocean alone protects.
“We knew a doctor by the name of Webster;
Indeed he was a professor we knew well.
He taught anatomy; did not sequester
Himself, but could venture violin, the spell
He cast, quite faltering; yet his fiddle sang
With melancholy of a homespun twang.
“Some twelve of us were gathered near this same fire;
Strange, that with Webster we would make thirteen.
The room was dark save for each leaping spire
As charred log toppled on log, enhancing the sheen.
Webster, a shy man, quiet, for once decided,
I guess, to make a sensation. Undivided
“Attention was ours, once this ungraceful man
Leapt, lank of leg, close to the firedogs,
Plucked forth a cool pair of tongs and then began
To rake those pincers all along the logs,
And he upsprang, now holding a red coal,
Round as a small spotless apple fallen but whole.
“For what came next, some background might be well.
I need not tell you of weird Hare and Burke,
Those men of corpses, who foretaste of hell,
Supplying, underhand, like sneaking clerks,
Anatomy doctors who despise yet deign
To rob the graves by proxy, without stain.
“We knew our Doctor Webster an adept
In this dark art; yet is it ours to judge?
It was but a mark of trade, it never crept
Into our good relations. Without grudge
We entertained the man, he was most welcome
Where he could mingle with others; this would spell some
“Change of manner, place, and mood for him.
So much for preface; Webster held up the coal,
Then, with one movement, as if not by whim
But as one rehearsed, he found an empty bowl,
Deposited that live chunk in that pewter dish,
And in his pocket thrust his hand to fish.
“His hand came forth with an object none could see,
While glow of the coal cast light and shadow—weak—
From deep in the pewter bowl. Now with some glee
He cast his object onto the coal; a squeak
Of strange reaction. Soft light turned bright flash!
We touched hands to our throats, as if a crash
“Of thunder had accompanied the display.
Was it magnesium tossed that lit the Lucifer
Match to the hot coal and made the blaze affray
The shadowed room? As if a crucifer
Had thought to ignite to blazes a true cross
And pledged dark Satan himself to his soul’s loss.
“I promise you this: we really did see Webster
Lit for an instant by an eerie flame
Accenting cheeks, brow, chin; as if would fester
A lich beside the fire, while that same
Now smiling face held its odd light, a fume
Of ghastly odor penetrated the room.
“More strange, the sense of glow would not disperse;
Webster grinned down at us still in our chairs.
But what came next was the authentic curse;
As if a demonic pentagram drew our stares.
He grinned, yet round his neck, knotted but loose,
Seemed hung a thick-woven, hempen snare of noose.”
“What then transpired?” Charles Dickens asks.
“He soon fell from eccentric to the bad;
Behind in paying a debt—it was a task
Postponed until the creditor simply had
To come collect, or know the reason why
The payment due must once more be let lie.
“Words must have been exchanged, and tempers lost.
A stick, raised in the air, on the man’s head
Descends with swiftness doubled by rage; the cost
Is debt redoubled; the creditor lies dead.
Delay ensued; but charred bone fragments found
With false teeth—the poor victim’s own unsound—
“Sought for or no, in Webster’s stove turned up,
And justice had its way with him. The mild
Shy manner of speech unchanged, albeit the cup
Of bitters was his to drink, good name defiled.
Around his neck was draped the noose’s fateful
Knot whose premonition had flickered, fitful.
“Reluctantly, I went as one will go
To see one more friend off, quayside, for voyage;
The doctor was hooded so no one would know
What agony on the face, or what crass courage.
Yet I saw his face. Just prior to the descent,
The spectral with the actual noose was blent.
“Impossible to separate apparition
From sentence passed, then bad life’s dangling end.
I wonder by what mercy or inanition
In memory I regard him as a friend.
My wife knew well the Doctor; also grieved—“
The guest knows words of small use to one
bereaved.
[Inspired by Cross of Snow: A Life of Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow, by Nicholas A. Basbanes]
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks for Tom Goff for his tale of Dickens and Longfellow, a pair which Tom reports were allegedly close friends
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
At dinner, just afterwards, Longfellow told me a terrific story…
—Charles Dickens, to Wilkie Collins, January 12, 1868
At the warm fireside in Craigie House,
With friend Longfellow, sits famed Charles Dickens.
Still in the poet’s heart, his brilliant spouse,
How she, now dead, would have loved the scene. Thought sickens
In him for a dizzying instant. But the man
Of novels, bustling energy, sits opposite,
Intent on swapping yarns, and so all ban
On prankish tales must lift, as is apposite,
In Longfellow; they trade stories, stride for stride,
And so old griefs for now are whisked aside.
(Yet Dickens wonders what sad note, his own, most
Likely has crossed the face of his friend host.)
Yes, Dickens is in his element: diamond-clear,
Odd anecdotes of dingy London streets.
The man is simply a perfect gazetteer;
With stories to swell a dozen novels, fleets
Along, with flashing teeth and trilling tongue.
He trusts in stories to keep life still young.
Soon they have laughed and groaned at tale’s end;
Each savors the wayward paths events would wend.
…Has Dickens realized what ghost has passed
Across the other’s face, and striven to fend
Off that cloud’s transitory overcast?
Too sensitive not to desire some grief to end;
Without a doubt, the Englishman would miss little,
Spot, as it were, breaks in rhythm of hands that whittle.
Would Dickens bring up that somber knowledge he holds
Of Fanny’s death by fire? Condolences
Have passed by post between them…yet now unfolds
Poet Henry’s frame, dispersing silences
Which just now follow laughter; he makes to speak.
“I have but few good stories of mine to prattle,
And I am not a votary of séances
Or ghastly tales by poor Poe; but from Brattle
Street to Harvard Yard this thing is known”
(—“You, man of few stories?” Dickens interjects—)
“But I’d be surprised if soon this tale’s not flown
To a certain fair island ocean alone protects.
“We knew a doctor by the name of Webster;
Indeed he was a professor we knew well.
He taught anatomy; did not sequester
Himself, but could venture violin, the spell
He cast, quite faltering; yet his fiddle sang
With melancholy of a homespun twang.
“Some twelve of us were gathered near this same fire;
Strange, that with Webster we would make thirteen.
The room was dark save for each leaping spire
As charred log toppled on log, enhancing the sheen.
Webster, a shy man, quiet, for once decided,
I guess, to make a sensation. Undivided
“Attention was ours, once this ungraceful man
Leapt, lank of leg, close to the firedogs,
Plucked forth a cool pair of tongs and then began
To rake those pincers all along the logs,
And he upsprang, now holding a red coal,
Round as a small spotless apple fallen but whole.
“For what came next, some background might be well.
I need not tell you of weird Hare and Burke,
Those men of corpses, who foretaste of hell,
Supplying, underhand, like sneaking clerks,
Anatomy doctors who despise yet deign
To rob the graves by proxy, without stain.
“We knew our Doctor Webster an adept
In this dark art; yet is it ours to judge?
It was but a mark of trade, it never crept
Into our good relations. Without grudge
We entertained the man, he was most welcome
Where he could mingle with others; this would spell some
“Change of manner, place, and mood for him.
So much for preface; Webster held up the coal,
Then, with one movement, as if not by whim
But as one rehearsed, he found an empty bowl,
Deposited that live chunk in that pewter dish,
And in his pocket thrust his hand to fish.
“His hand came forth with an object none could see,
While glow of the coal cast light and shadow—weak—
From deep in the pewter bowl. Now with some glee
He cast his object onto the coal; a squeak
Of strange reaction. Soft light turned bright flash!
We touched hands to our throats, as if a crash
“Of thunder had accompanied the display.
Was it magnesium tossed that lit the Lucifer
Match to the hot coal and made the blaze affray
The shadowed room? As if a crucifer
Had thought to ignite to blazes a true cross
And pledged dark Satan himself to his soul’s loss.
“I promise you this: we really did see Webster
Lit for an instant by an eerie flame
Accenting cheeks, brow, chin; as if would fester
A lich beside the fire, while that same
Now smiling face held its odd light, a fume
Of ghastly odor penetrated the room.
“More strange, the sense of glow would not disperse;
Webster grinned down at us still in our chairs.
But what came next was the authentic curse;
As if a demonic pentagram drew our stares.
He grinned, yet round his neck, knotted but loose,
Seemed hung a thick-woven, hempen snare of noose.”
“What then transpired?” Charles Dickens asks.
“He soon fell from eccentric to the bad;
Behind in paying a debt—it was a task
Postponed until the creditor simply had
To come collect, or know the reason why
The payment due must once more be let lie.
“Words must have been exchanged, and tempers lost.
A stick, raised in the air, on the man’s head
Descends with swiftness doubled by rage; the cost
Is debt redoubled; the creditor lies dead.
Delay ensued; but charred bone fragments found
With false teeth—the poor victim’s own unsound—
“Sought for or no, in Webster’s stove turned up,
And justice had its way with him. The mild
Shy manner of speech unchanged, albeit the cup
Of bitters was his to drink, good name defiled.
Around his neck was draped the noose’s fateful
Knot whose premonition had flickered, fitful.
“Reluctantly, I went as one will go
To see one more friend off, quayside, for voyage;
The doctor was hooded so no one would know
What agony on the face, or what crass courage.
Yet I saw his face. Just prior to the descent,
The spectral with the actual noose was blent.
“Impossible to separate apparition
From sentence passed, then bad life’s dangling end.
I wonder by what mercy or inanition
In memory I regard him as a friend.
My wife knew well the Doctor; also grieved—“
The guest knows words of small use to one
bereaved.
[Inspired by Cross of Snow: A Life of Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow, by Nicholas A. Basbanes]
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks for Tom Goff for his tale of Dickens and Longfellow, a pair which Tom reports were allegedly close friends
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