It was the last night of another year Before I understood what punishment Had overtaken Stukeley. Ben, and Brome-- Ben's ancient servant, but turned poet now-- Sat by the fire with the old apothecary To see the New Year in. The starry night Had drawn me to the door. Could it be true That our poor earth no longer was the hub Of those white wheeling orbs? I scarce believed The strange new dreams; but I had seen the veils Rent from vast oceans and huge continents, Till what was once our comfortable fire, Our cosy tavern, and our earthly home With heaven beyond the next turn in the road, All the resplendent fabric of our world Shrank to a glow-worm, lighting up one leaf In one small forest, in one little land, Among those wild infinitudes of God. A tattered wastrel wandered down the street, Clad in a seaman's jersey, staring hard At every sign. Beneath our own, the light Fell on his red carbuncled face. I knew him-- The bo'sun, Hart. He pointed to our sign And leered at me. "That's her," he said, "no doubt, The sea-witch with the shiny mackerel tail Swishing in wine. That's what Sir Lewis meant. He called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see. This is the Mermaid Tavern, sir, no doubt?" I nodded. "Ah, I thought as much," he said. "Well--happen this is worth a cup of ale." He thrust his hand under his jersey and lugged A greasy letter out. It was inscribed THE APOTHECARY AT THE MERMAID TAVERN.
I led him in. "I knew it, sir," he said, While Galen broke the seal. "Soon as I saw That sweet young naked wench curling her tail In those red waves.--The old man called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see.--But you can tell 'Tis wine, sir, by the foam. Malmsey, no doubt. And that sweet wench to make you smack your lips Like oysters, with her slippery tail and all! Why, sir, no doubt, this was the Mermaid Inn."
"But this," said Galen, lifting his grave face To Ben, "this letter is from all that's left Of Stukeley. The good host, there, thinks I wronged Your Ocean-shepherd's memory. From this letter, I think I helped to avenge him. Do not wrong His widow, even in thought. She loved him dearly. You know she keeps his poor grey severed head Embalmed; and so will keep it till she dies; Weeps over it alone. I have heard such things In wild Italian tales. But _this_ was true. Had I refused to let her speak with Stukeley I feared she would go mad. This letter proves That I--and she perhaps--were instruments, Of some more terrible chirurgery Than either knew."