Chapter XVI: Part III (4)

Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!
One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head;

Epping, for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage pop't;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig's flesh is always _chop't_.

But famous more, as annals tell,
Because of Easter Chase:
There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,
And slapt his leather thigh,
And sang the burthen of the song,
"This day a stag must die."

For all the livelong day before,
And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts
On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo's answering sounds,
All poets' wit hath ever writ
In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_.

Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaping _Cheap_
To go and hunt the _deer_!

No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not _chicken-hearted_ he, altho'
T'was whispered of his _egg_!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout's_ fee,
And Surgeon _Hunter's_ bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they wore that day
Was _Warren_-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close,
As once upon a stag;
Thus well equipt he gaily skipt,
At once, upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein
A crown he nimbly flung:
For holding of the horse?--why, no--
For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins' own,
Would only be a brag;
His neighbor Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Altho' it was a _tit_.

A well-bred horse he was, I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly "rearing up within
The way he ought to go."

But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne'er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast.

And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone.

A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;
Wherever she set down her _orts_,
Thereby he put a _cross_.

Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way;
One that had promised sure to be
His comrade for the day.

Whereas the man had changed his mind,
Meanwhile upon the case!
And meaning not to hunt at all,
Had gone to Enfield Chase.

For why, his spouse had made him vow
To let a game alone,
Where folks that ride a bit of blood
May break a bit of bone.

"Now, be his wife a plague for life!
A coward sure is he":
Then Huggins turned his horse's head,
And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker's box,--
No friends to hunters after deer,
Tho' followers of a _Fox_.

And many a score behind--before--
The self-same route inclined,
And, minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she,
And swell, and blood, and prig;
And some had carts, and some a chaise,
According to their gig.

Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks,
(However odd it sounds),
Let out that day _to hunt_, instead
_Of going to the hounds!_

And some had horses of their own,
And some were forced to job it:
And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_,
Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans,
Bad, middling, and the smart;
Here rolled along the gay barouche,
And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad
Of costermonger line;
With one poor hack, like Pegasus,
That slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load,
That any horse might drag,
When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag!

Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace;
"Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away,
You'll never see the chase!"

But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answer quite as blunt;
"It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt!"

And so he paced to Woodford Wells,
Where many a horseman met,
And letting go the _reins_, of course,
Prepared for _heavy wet_.

And lo! within the crowded door,
Stood Rounding, jovial elf;
Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,
But frame the man himself.

A snow-white head, a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush;
A claret tint laid on by health,
With Master Reynard's brush;

A hearty frame, a courteous bow,
The prince he learned it from;
His age about threescore and ten,
And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast;
So certain congregations meet,
And elevate the host.

"Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads,
You're all in glorious luck:
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.

"Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom
In red already ride;
'Tis but a _step_, and on a horse
You soon may go _a-stride_."

So off they scampered, man and horse,
As time and temper pressed--
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
_Branched_ off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in time
To join with Tom and Bob,
All in Fair Mead, which held that day
Its own fair mead of mob.

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some,
Of Tattlers in a squeeze;
Ramblers in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks,
That shambled to and fro!
Bakers intent upon a buck,
Neglectful of the _dough_!

Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual, for a fall;
And green and scarlet runners, such
As never climbed a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made;
A single stag had caused a whole
_Stag_nation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose,
And in the stirrups stood:
And lo! a little cart that came
Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,--tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the _deer alive_,
And not the _dear deceased_!

And now began a sudden stir,
And then a sudden shout,
The prison-doors were opened wide,
And Robin bounded out!

His antlered head shone blue and red,
Bedecked with ribbons fine;
Like other bucks that come to 'list
The hawbucks in the line.

One curious gaze of mild amaze,
He turned and shortly took;
Then gently ran adown the mead,
And bounded o'er the brook.

Now Huggins, standing far aloof,
Had never seen the deer,
Till all at once he saw the beast
Come charging in his rear.

Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the same,
On horse and ass--like high and low
And Jack pursuing game!

Good Lord! to see the riders now,
Thrown off with sudden whirl,
A score within the purling brook,
Enjoyed their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass,
And beavers fell in showers;
There was another _Floorer_ there
Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,
Some had no caps to show;
But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,
Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

"O dear! O dear!" now might you hear,
"I've surely broke a bone";
"My head is sore,"--with many more
Such speeches from the _thrown_.

Howbeit their wailings never moved
The wide Satanic clan,
Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned,
To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good, that understood,
Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses "throwing off,"
So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law,
Like men the Courts among;
Before those Barristers the dogs
Proceed to "giving tongue."

And now Old Robin's foes were set
That fatal taint to find,
That always is scent after him,
Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man,
A different temper shows,
What hound resents that he is sent
To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler--howlers all,
No single tongue was mute;
The stag had led a hart, and lo!
The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife
And fork in either haunch;
And every dog he knew had got
An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like
A ship before the gale;
Now flew to "_h_ills we know not of,"
Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now,
Went off at furious pitch;--
A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob,
Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts,
A hunter did endorse,
And like a poet seemed to ride
Upon a wingèd horse,--

A whipper-in?--no whipper-in:
A huntsman? no such soul.
A connoisseur, or amateur?
Why yes,--a Horse Patrol.

A member of police, for whom
The county found a nag,
And, like Acteon in the tale,
He found himself in stag!

Away they went then, dog and deer,
And hunters all away,--
The maddest horses never knew
_Mad staggers_ such as they!

Some gave a shout, some rolled about,
And anticked as they rode,
And butchers whistled on their curs,
And milkmen _tally-hoed_.

About two score there were, not more,
That galloped in the race;
The rest, alas! lay on the grass,
As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on
Were fewer every minute,--
The field kept getting more select,
Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt,
Some fell in miry bogs,
And vainly rose and "ran a muck,"
To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes,
Were left bereft of sense--
What else could be premised of blades
That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate,
Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay;
O'er all they went, and did the work
Of leap years in a day.

And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed;
For, like Mazeppa, he was quite
At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit,
For firm and fast, between his teeth,
The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled
Beneath him as he sate,--
He never saw a county go
At such a county rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs,"
Quoth Huggins, "So I do,--
I've got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you!"

Good Lord! to see him ride along,
And throw his arms about,
As if with stitches in the side,
That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook:
Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall
For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride,
With every kick he gave a prick,
Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged
For cruel smart of spurs,
For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is
He squatted all forlorn;
And like a bird was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign:
"Possession is nine points," but his
Seemed more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf,
Altho' no horse he had to cross,
He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;
A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went
To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage!

Tho' felony, yet who would let
Another's horse alone,
Whose neck is placed in jeopardy
By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man
Seemed honest-like and fair;
For he seemed willing, horse and all,
To go before the _mare_!

So up on Huggins' horse he got,
And swiftly rode away,
While Hugging mounted on the mare,
Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set, in double chase,
For such was fortune's whim,
The farmer rode to hunt the stag,
And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well
In vain it was to strive;
A dab was he, as dabs should be--
All leaping and alive!

And here of Nature's kindly care
Behold a curious proof,
As nags are meant to leap, she puts
A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, altho' her share
She had of hoof and frog,
On coming to a gate stopped short
As stiff as any log;

Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood
With neck like neck of crane,
As sings the Scottish song--"to see
The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane."

And lo! the dim and distant hunt
Diminished in a trice:
The steeds, like Cinderella's team,
Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat
Soon flitted like a spark,--
Tho' still the forest murmured back
An echo of the bark!

But sad at soul John Huggins turned:
No comfort could he find;
While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped,
To stay five bars behind.

For tho' by dint of spur he got
A leap in spite of fate--
Howbeit there was no toll at all,
They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,
And sorely cursed the day,
And mused a new Gray's elegy
On his departed gray!

Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells:
But Huggins, full of ills, of course,
Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up
With many a merry laugh,
But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig,
And called for half-and-half.

Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink
Remembrance of his loss;
To drown a care like his, required
Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn
Struck up without the door,--
The mounted mob were all returned;
The Epping Hunt was o'er!

And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle, and of shaft;
And men, by dint of drink, became
The only "_beasts of draught_."

For now begun a harder run
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken man discussed
The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he stood,
Deer-like, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could;

And how the hunters stood aloof,
Regardful of their lives,
And shunned a beast, whose very horns
They knew could _handle_ knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed
By help and ostler kind,
And when they cleaned the clay before,
How worse "remained behind."

And one, how he had found a horse
Adrift--a goodly gray!
And kindly rode the nag, for fear
The nag should go astray.

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale,
Jumped up with sudden glee;
"A goodly gray! why, then, I say
That gray belongs to me!

"Let me endorse again my horse,
Delivered safe and sound;
And, gladly, I will give the man
A bottle and a pound!"

The wine was drunk,--the money paid,
Tho' not without remorse,
To pay another man so much,
For riding on his horse.

And let the chase again take place,
For many a long, long year,
John Huggins will not ride again
To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp,
Just when we think to grip her;
And hunting after happiness,
We only hunt a slipper.

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others, Were little ducklings in a pond, Swimming about beside their mothers-- Small things like living water-lilies, But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.

"It's very hard," she used to moan, "That other people have their ducklings To grace their waters--mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings." For why!--each little yellow navy Went down--all downy--to old Davy!

She had a lake--a pond, I mean-- Its wave was rather thick than pearly-- She had two ducks, their napes were green-- She had a drake, his tail was curly,-- Yet 'spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers-- The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck-- The infant D's came forth like others-- But there, alas! the matter stuck! They might as well have all died addle As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water, Like any overloaded boat; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humor in a gander Brought havoc on her little folks,-- No poaching cook--a frying pander To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,-- Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em! They went, like plummets, to the bottom.

The thing was strange--a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works! For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks: Great Johnson, it bewildered him! To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do But change the breed--and she tried divers Which dived as all seemed born to do; No little ones were e'er survivors-- Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking, They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn; They floundered still!--Batch after batch went! The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchment! Whene'er they launched--oh, sight of wonder! Like fires the water "got them under."

No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did; At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up, and desponded; For Death among the water-lilies, Cried "_Duc_ ad me" to all her dillies!

But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddle-- Alas! 'twas darker than before! At last about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the Sun did!

The thirsty Sirius dog-like drank So deep, his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool, Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface; And when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face, In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet-pie!

The sight at once explained the case, Making the Dame look rather silly: The tenants of that _Eely Place_ Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_, And so, by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks' abduction.

A STORM AT HASTINGS,

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'Twas August--Hastings every day was filling-- Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"! With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling To be bedipped--be noticed--or be braced, And all things rose a penny in a shilling. Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste "Accommodation bills" kept coming down, Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits, Flying from London smoke and dust annoying, Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits, And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying, Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits, And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying A morning's reading by the ocean's rim, That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature, So small, he almost might a twin have been With Miss Crachami--dwarfish quite in stature, Yet well proportioned--neither fat nor lean, His face of marvellously pleasant feature, So short and sweet a man was never seen-- All thought him charming at the first beginning-- Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance--and chance repaid His ardent passion with her fondest smile, The sunshine of good luck, without a shade, He staked and won--and won and staked--the bile It stirred of many a man and many a maid, To see at every venture how that vile Small gambler snatched--and how he won them too-- A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box, 'Twas handsome rosewood, and inlaid with brass, And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks Of needles, silks, and cottons--but, alas! She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox Was lucky--but she saw three caddies pass To that small imp;--no living luck could loo him! Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed--and rode--and won--and walked, The wondrous topic of the curious swarm That haunted the Parade. Many were balked Of notoriety by that small form Pacing it up and down: some even talked Of ducking him--when lo! a dismal storm Stopped in--one Friday, at the close of day-- And every head was turned another way--

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise Bulky and slow upon the southern brink Of the horizon--fanned by sultry sighs-- So black and threatening, I cannot think Of any simile, except the skies Miss Wiggins sometimes _shades_ in Indian ink-- _Mis-shapen_ blotches of such heavy vapor, They seem a deal more solid than her paper.

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave, And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on The stony-hearted beach;--some bards would have It always rampant, in that idle fashion-- Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave, Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion, Who meekly settle in and take their places, With a very quiet awe on all their faces.

Some love to draw the ocean with a head, Like troubled table-beer--and make it bounce, And froth, and roar, and fling--but this, I've said, Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce: But then, a grander contrast thus it bred With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce Something more awful in the serious ear, As one would whisper that a lion's near--

Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder Growled long--but low--a prelude note of death, As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under, But still it muttered to the sea beneath Such a continued peal, as made us wonder It did not pause more oft to take its breath, Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather, And hardly cared to wed two words together,

But watched the surly advent of the storm, Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm: Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas, Right on our coast;--a dismal, coal-black form; Many proud gaits were quelled--and all bravadoes Of folly ceased--and sundry idle jokers Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing, And they are used to many a pretty blaze, To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays: And truly one could think, without much lashing The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

The gay Parade grew thin--all the fair crowd Vanished--as if they knew their own attractions,-- For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud Began to make some very crooked fractions-- Only some few remained that were not cowed, A few rough sailors, who had been in actions, And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's, Lest it should _blow_,--were pulling up the _Rose_:

(No flower, but a boat)--some more were hauling The _Regent_ by the head:--another crew With that same cry peculiar to their _calling_-- Were heaving up the _Hope_:--and as they knew The very gods themselves oft get a mauling In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew The _Neptune_ rather higher on the beach, That he might lie beyond his billows' reach.

And now the storm, with its despotic power, Had all usurped the azure of the skies, Making our daylight darker by an hour, And some few drops--of an unusual size-- Few and distinct--scarce twenty to the shower, Fell like huge teardrops from a giant's eyes-- But then this sprinkle thickened in a trice And rained much _harder_--in good solid ice.

Oh for a very storm of words to show How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us! Handel would make the gusty organs blow Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us:-- But ev'n his music seemed composed and low, When we were _handled_ by this Hailstone Chorus; Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound, And frozen comfits rolled along the ground--

As big as bullets:--Lord! how they did batter Our crazy tiles:--and now the lightning flashed Alternate with the dark, until the latter Was rarest of the two!--the gust too dashed So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter Some panes,--and so it did--and first it smashed The very square where I had chose my station To watch the general illumination.

Another, and another, still came in, And fell in jingling ruin at my feet, Making transparent holes that let me win Some samples of the storm:--Oh! it was sweet To think I had a shelter for my skin, Culling them through these "loopholes of retreat"-- Which in a little we began to glaze-- Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!

But which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played Its crooked fires in constant flashes still, Just in our rear, as though it had arrayed Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill, So that it lit the town, and grandly made The rugged features of the Castle Hill Leap, like a birth, from chaos into light, And then relapse into the gloomy night--

As parcel of the cloud;--the clouds themselves, Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves, That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting. We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves Busy upon those crags, and ever casting Huge fragments loose,--and that we _felt_ the sound They made in falling to the startled ground.

And so the tempest scowled away,--and soon Timidly shining through its skirts of jet, We saw the rim of the pacific moon, Like a bright fish entangled in a net, Flashing its silver sides,--how sweet a boon Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget, With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas-- Peace in the sky--and coolness in the breeze!

Meantime the hail had ceased:--and all the brood Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains; At every window there were maids who stood Lamenting o'er the glass's small remains,-- Or with coarse linens made the fractions good, Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,-- Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt The wind resolved--blowing the candles out.

No house was whole that had a southern front,-- No greenhouse but the same mishap befell; _Bow_-windows and _bell_-glasses bore the brunt,-- No sex in glass was spared!--For those who dwell On each hill-side, you might have swum a punt In any of their parlors;--Mrs. Snell Was slopped out of her seat,--and Mr. Hitchin Had a _flower_-garden washed into a _Kitchen_.

But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed The recent violence.--Each after each The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed, Tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach. Howbeit his _weather eye_ the seaman aimed Across the calm, and hinted by his speech A gale next morning--and when morning broke, There was a gale--"quite equal to bespoke."

Before high water--(it were better far To christen it not _water_ then, but _waiter_, For then the tide is _serving at the bar_) Rose such a swell--I never saw one greater! Black, jagged billows rearing up in war Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter, With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, Like stout poured out with a fine _beachy head_.

No open boat was open to a fare, Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips; No bathing woman waded--none would dare A dipping in the wave--but waived their dips; No seagull ventured on the stormy air, And all the dreary coast was clear of ships; For two _lea shores_ upon the River Lea Are not so perilous as one at sea.

Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,-- A boiling ocean of mixed black and green, A sky of copper color, grim and surly,-- When lo, in that vast hollow scooped between Two rolling Alps of water,--white and curly! We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming, Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!

Sometimes a hand--sometimes a little shoe-- Sometime a skirt--sometimes a hank of hair Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view, Sometimes a knee--sometimes a back was bare-- At last a frightful summerset he threw Right on the shingles. Any one could swear The lad was dead--without a chance of perjury, And battered by the surge beyond all surgery!

However, we snatched up the corse thus thrown, Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, And after venting Pity's sigh and groan, Then curiosity began with _her_ fit; And lo! the features of the Small Unknown! 'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit! And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies, We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles!

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion, Providing in this world he was to have A lordship over luck, by whose exertion He might control the course of cards and brave All throws of dice,--but on a sea excursion The juggling demon, in his usual vein, Seized the last cast--and _Nicked_ him in the _main_!

LINES TO A LADY.[29]

[Footnote 29: A parody of John Hamilton Reynolds's once popular lines, beginning--

"Go, where the water glideth gently ever,"]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempest make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens _her_ juice,-- A wine more praised than it deserves to be! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth, Making a midnight meal of he and she; Go where the lion in his hunger howleth, And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Or lies along at full length like a tree, Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth In mono-_polly_-logue with tongue as free, And, like a woman, all she can revealeth, And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And parasols of straw where hats should be, Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills, And tall bamboos--may none _bamboozle_ thee! Go gaze upon their elephants and castles, And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier, And parch the peppered palate like a pea, Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier, And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me!

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the _Chub_, tho' it's chubby, be _thinnish_!

Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With _attention_ I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a _Tench on_!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the "_Council of Nice_," And rejected their "_Diet of Worms_," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it's night, Without any bite And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!

No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not "Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize To be got in this fresh-water-lottery! What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that 'tis--like St. Mary's--_Ottery_!

For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton's own showing-- But a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles, Till I'm weary of dipping and casting, And hungry and faint-- Let the Fancy just paint What it is, _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!

And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell-- So, wet to the skin, I'll e'en back to my inn, Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."--DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic men!-- For this address I need not make apology-- Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology-- Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds! As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers; Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow'd--like Iö--by the cattle!

Fancy,--when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,-- Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson's with a _Fear-on!_

Or, in St. Martin's Lane,
Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,--
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,
While rushing souse
Into a coffee-house,
To find it--Slaughter's!

Or fancy this:-- Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo!"-- You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!

Think of some poor old crone
Treated, just like a penny, with a toss!
At that vile spot now grown
So generally known
For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop--and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of _Oxy-Muriate!_

Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows-- "'Tis well for you that live apart--unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our _firesides_ are troubled with their _bellows_."

"Folks that too freely sup
Must e'en put up
With their own troubles if they can't digest;
But we must needs regard
The case as hard
That _others'_ victuals should disturb our rest,
That from our sleep _your_ food should start and jump us!
We like, ourselves, a steak,
But, Sirs, for pity's sake!
We don't want oxen at our doors to _rump-us!_"

"If we _do_ doze--it really is too bad! We constantly are roar'd awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers--now let's take The woes of those that wish to keep _a Wake!_ O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones; Such fierce tame beasts, That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf,"
Seeing a red Cow come
To swallow her Tom Thumb,
And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co., When looking at their public private boxes, To see in the back row Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's! Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,
Just when the Ghost is certain,
A great rent in the curtain,
And enter two tall skeletons--of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication! Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right, And to each Show and sight Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude; To Richardson's Stage Dramas, Dio--and Cosmo--ramas, Giants and Indians wild, Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows--a Show of Gratitude!

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."--SEA SONG.

As Mister B. and Mistress B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot-- They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot-- For Memory brought a deed to match At Deptford done by night-- Before one eye appeared a Patch, In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabor'd at of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse hadd both man and dame, He seized the tongs--she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer's rat, And then--as white as my cravat-- Poor Mary May, the servant! Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, "Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?" Till Mary, getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:--

"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house. Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; 'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'--and there she stops for coughin, 'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often, But please the pigs,'--for that's her way of swearing in a passion, I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion! Well down she takes my master's horn--I mean his horn for loading, And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper, I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper; You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. Well, when the pinch is over--'Teach your Grandmother to suck A powder horn,' says she--Well, says I, I wish you luck. Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees. So in it goes, and Bounce--O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather; But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin; Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stocking-- Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em--none but--nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump, When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--'Why, where _is_ the powder blew?'"

"I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN."[30]

[Footnote 30: Written in the album of Miss Smith, daughter of Mr. Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Miss Smith happily still survives to show her friends with pride these admirable verses, inscribed in Hood's neat and clear handwriting.]

LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.

A pretty task, Miss S----, to ask
A Benedictine pen,
That cannot quite at freedom write
Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my muse must paint
To fill this page's span,
But be correct and recollect
I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink
How hard to get along,
That may not turn on words that burn
Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I
May woo all in a clan,
But one Miss S---- I daren't address--
I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head
May eke it out with heart,
And in their lays it often plays
A rare first-fiddle part.

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss,
But if _I_ so began,
I have my fears about my ears--
I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak,
Nor on your lip be warm,
I must be wise about your eyes,
And formal with your form;

Of all that sort of thing, in short,
On T.H. Bayly's plan,
I must not twine a single line--
I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart
To keep you off its _beat_,
And I might dare as soon to swear
At _you_, as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire
As other poets can--
My life (she's by) won't let me die--
I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove,
Forbidden bow and dart,
Without a groan to call my own,
With neither hand nor heart;

To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd
To flirt e'en with your fan,
Here end, as just a friend, I must--
I'm not a single man.

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--MERCUTIO

I.

'Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim,
Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup"--
When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"O father dear, O mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim--
You know when some one went to sea--
Don't cry--but I am him!"

IV.

"You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your absent Jack,
But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back!"

V.

"From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs!"

VI.

"The ship we pumped till we could see
Old England from the tops;
When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel's Chops."

VII.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart,
The very place it tells;
I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells."

VIII.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'
We have at last a call;
The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate's parrot too, and all."

IX.

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest
In Davy Joneses sod,
Till I've appeared to you and said--
Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!"

X.

"You live on land, and little think
What passes in the sea;
Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.,
That Cod was picking me!"

XI.

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,
They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one."

XII.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave,
They sucked my blood like imps!"

XIII.

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,
The brutes I used to pat,
They'll know the smell they used to smell,
Just try the dog and cat!"

XIV.

The spirit fled--they wept his fate,
And cried, Alack, alack!
At last up started brother Jim,
"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

XV.

They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
And little Kitten too,
And down they put the Cod and sauce,
To see what brutes would do.

XVI.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,
But munched the Cod--and little Kit
Quite feasted on the shrimps!

XVII.

The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!

THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one
nosegay."

In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell--
I'll pop it into you.

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's.

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give--
When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forbore,
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul's Cathedral now
Be doomed to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr, B., I do agree--
But think of Honor's Courts!
If we go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports.

But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun:
Why can't we aim above, as if
We had called out the sun?

Soup into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end!

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."--_Scotch Song_.

On that first Saturday in May, When Lords and Ladies, great and grand, Repair to see what each R.A. Has done since last they sought the Strand, In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue, In short, what's called the private view,-- Amongst the guests--the deuce knows how She got in there without a row-- There came a large and vulgar dame, With arms deep red, and face the same, Showing in temper not a Saint; No one could guess for why she came, Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."

From wall to wall she forced her way, Elbowed Lord Durham--poked Lord Grey-- Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move, And Devonshire's Duke received a shove; The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honor, budge, And gave a pinch to Park, the judge. As for the ladies in this stir, The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two, She searched the pictures through and through, On benches stood, to inspect the high ones, And squatted down to see the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part, A deeper red each cheek became, Her very eyes lit up in flame, That made each looker-on exclaim, "Really an ardent love of art!" Alas! amidst her inquisition, Fate brought her to a sad condition; She might have run against Lord Milton, And still have stared at deeds in oil. But ah! her picture-joy to spoil, She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes, Like a lay-figure for surprise, At last this stammered out, "How now? Woman--where, woman, is your ticket, That ought to have let you through our wicket?" Says woman, "Where is David's Cow?" Said Mr. H---- with expedition, "There's no Cow in the Exhibition." "No Cow!"--but here her tongue in verity, Set off with steam and rail celerity--