The Godless florin, which was first issued in 1807, and which is not especially rare, exhibits, on the obverse, a rather unflattering bust of Phillip the Pennyless—who, we now know, had been murdered near Bern. The lane was fine? Blood carts passed the tulips in the dark. The bottles resembled bones? A blanket covered the casket. The reverse exhibits a circle of shields, at the base of which, next to the figure of a spade, appear the engraver’s initials. There are piercings, a cut edge. A reeded edge, I should say. The sickle-shaped incuse was once thought an emblem of the prince’s regret.
The steward’s tunic was discovered in 1825, at the foot of a pillory. Or, according to older accounts, at the lip of a broad ditch, among certain other remains. Ruins, that is. A Dutch grommet. A captain’s chain. A siege piece. He had lain at the gate? The cold, it was said, had crept into the thorn-box. The hearts were excised on Collop Wednesday and Buzzard Sunday. Does the color green not please you? The cleaver had a rosewood handle. Beneath the copper pot was an altar cloth. Duncolored, I believe. It was bad luck for blood to touch the shroud.
The lord provost’s mourning flag was stolen in 1844. The flag was red, which strikes me as rather odd. Little is made of the tower-pike, however, except in respect of the inscription, the seal inscription, whose point is, indeed, worrisome—if you will forgive the graceless phrasing. Little is made of the weather vane, of the gables, of the steeples. Oh, all my dismal lists. His eyes, it seems, had been eaten by ants. Bowls of witches’ hair had been placed in trenches. The beadle fell to his knees in grief? Edward was afraid. Knobs of burnt wood were discovered, with the hooves of the bellman’s cow, in a rabbit warren. The shape of the flag, incidentally, was often likened to the shape of a poke bonnet, which pleases me—even if the fact of the rowboat has never quite been explained. The duck blind, still and all, the chokecherry and the maw, a bit of a squawk in the lake—the matter is always left at that. His hens, it seems, had been caught at the door and mauled. There were goats, lest we forget. A crowd in the courtyard. How old is your father? Do you miss your brother? The hangman’s name escapes me at the moment. The document was in Latin. Among the possessions were a surplice and a crozier, antique greaves, a seam of fodder—and his mother’s widow’s weeds. The hood and a halved penny were bequeathed to his wife.
The 1858 Arms, issued in commemoration of Long Friday, exhibits, against a gray field, a portrait of Miss Mary Linwood—who, on the Brenner Pass, had swallowed a pretty silver lock. There were clouds in the background? Birds? She was the niece of a priest. A dog howled in the palace? Let us make an accommodation for the hour. There was a blizzard on Pauper Saturday? Certain matrons died in a Moorish town. Beneath the name appears the figure of a bonfire. Beneath the mantle appears the figure of a belfry. Beneath the date appears the figure of Janus in agony. There are small faults, a full black strike.
The King triptych, auctioned in 1882, exhibits, in its center panel, a coach-and-six, a post chaise-and-four, constables two-and-two. The map is inexact. The balcony is often thought too sentimental a figure. And that is that? So it is. Save for the scarlet runners. Save for the fountain. The archbishop of Pritchard—whose geese are apparent in the foreground—was poisoned by a parishioner. The river breaks? There was a slaughter in the midst of a thundershower. A massacre, rather. One sunny day. They burned the flax and tow. Tongues were nailed to the deacon’s door. Our observer prefers to avert his eyes? The final sermon referred to the margrave’s sorrow—and to the margravine’s departure in the fall.