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WHIMS AND ODDITIES, 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 
 BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ. 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE " COMIC ANNUAL," " EPPING HUNT," &C. 
 
 f Why don't you get up behind?'' 
 
 a Jfteto etrtttott. 
 
 'What Demon has possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that 
 impertinent custom of punning." 
 
 SCftlBLERUS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 CHARLES TILT, 86, FLEET ST REE^T. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVL 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 When I last made my best bow in this book, I 
 imagined that the public, to use a nautical phrase, 
 had " parted from their best bower ;" but it was an 
 agreeable mistake. The First and Second Series, 
 being- now, like Colman's " Two Single Gentlemen 
 rolled into one," a request is made to me, to furnish 
 the two-act piece with a new prologue. Possibly, 
 as I have declared the near relationship of this work 
 to the Comic Annual, the Publisher wishes, by 
 this unusual number of Prefaces, to connect it also 
 with the Odes and Addresses. At all events, I 
 accede to his humour, in spite of a reasonable fear 
 that, at this rate, my Sayings will soon exceed my 
 Doings. 
 
 To tell the truth, an Author does not much dis- 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 relish the call for these " more last words ;" and I 
 confess at once that I affix this preliminary post- 
 script, with some pride and pleasure. A modern 
 book, like a modern race-horse, is apt to be reck- 
 oned aged at six years old; and an Olympiad and 
 half have nearly elapsed since the birth of my first 
 editions. It is pleasant, therefore, to find, that what 
 was done in black and white has not become quite 
 grey in the interval;— to say nothing of the com- 
 fort, at such an advanced age, of still finding friends 
 in public, as well as in private, to put up with 
 one's Whims and Oddities. 
 
 Seriously, I feel very grateful for the kindness 
 which has exhausted three impressions of this work, 
 and now invites another. Come what may, this little 
 book will now leave four imprints behind it, — and 
 a horse could do no more. 
 
 T. HOOD. 
 
 Winchmore Hill, 
 
 January, 1832. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Preface to the First Edition . . xi 
 
 Address to the Second Edition . . . xiv 
 
 Address to the Third Edition - . . . xvii 
 
 Moral Reflections on the Cross of St. Paul's . . 1 
 
 The Prayse of Ignorance 1 . .4 
 
 A Valentine . . . . 8 
 
 Love . . . . .13 
 
 •Please to ring the Belle " . . . 17 
 
 A Recipe — for Civilization . . . .18 
 
 On the Popular Cupid . . . 26 
 
 The Last Man . . > . .29 
 The Ballad of " Sally Brown, and Ben the Carpenter " . 41 
 
 Backing the Favourite . . I 48 
 
 A Complaint against Greatness . . .51 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Mermaid of Margate 
 
 . 55 
 
 My Son, Sir 
 
 . 62 
 
 " As it Fell upon a Day " 
 
 . 64 
 
 A Fairy Tale .... 
 
 . 67 
 
 The Spoiled Child . 
 
 . 73 
 
 The Fall of the Deer, from an old MS. 
 
 . 78 
 
 December and May 
 
 . 82 
 
 A Winter Nosegay 
 
 . 84 
 
 Equestrian Courtship 
 
 . 87 
 
 " She is Far from the Land " 
 
 . 91 
 
 Fancies on a Tea-cup 
 
 . 98 
 
 The Stag-eyed Lady. A Moorish Tale 
 
 . 103 
 
 Walton Hedivivusv A New-Ttiver Eclogue 
 
 . 110 
 
 " Love Me, Love My Dog " 
 
 . 120 
 
 Remonstratory Ode . 
 
 . 128 
 
 A New Life- Preserver 
 
 . 137 
 
 A Dream . 
 
 . 140 
 
 The Irish Schoolmaster 
 
 . 155 
 
 The Sea-Spell 
 
 . 172 
 
 Faithless Nelly Gray. A Pathetic Ballad 
 
 . 182 
 
 Fancy Portraits . . . 
 
 . 188 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Preface 
 
 . 
 
 . 201 
 
 Bianca's Dream 
 
 . 
 
 . 20 
 
 A Ballad-Singer 
 
 . 
 
 . 223 
 
 Mary's Ghost 
 
 • 
 
 . 225 
 
 The Progress of Art 
 
 
 . 230 
 
 A School for Adults 
 
 • 
 
 . 236 
 
 A Legend of Navarre 
 
 . 
 
 . 245 
 
 The Demon- Ship 
 
 . 
 
 . 261 
 
 Sally Holt, and the Death of John Hayloft 
 
 . 268 
 
 A True Story , 
 
 . 
 
 . 276 
 
 The Decline of Mrs. Shakerly . 
 
 . 287 
 
 Tim Turpin 
 
 . 
 
 . 291 
 
 The Monkey-Martyr 
 
 • 
 
 . 297 
 
 Banditti 
 
 • • • 
 
 . 304 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Death's Ramble ... . . . 308 
 
 Craniology . . . . .312 
 
 An Affair of Honour . . . . 319 
 
 A Parthian Glance .... 323 
 
 A Sailor's Apology for Bow-Legs . . . 327 
 
 " Nothing but Hearts ! " . . . .331 
 
 Jack Hall . . . . . 336 
 
 The Wee Man . . . .353 
 
 Pythagorean Fancies . . . 357 
 
 " Don't You Smell Fire 1 M . . .365 
 
 The Volunteer . . . • 369 
 
 A Marriage Procession .... 377 
 
 The Widow . . . • 384 
 
 A mad Dog . 393 
 
 John Trot . . . . . 397 
 
 An Absentee ..... 404 
 
 Ode to the Cameleopard . . . 409 
 
 May Day . . . . .415 
 
In presenting liis Whims and Oddities to the Public, 
 the Author desires to say a few words, which he hopes 
 will not swell into a Memoir. 
 
 It happens to most persons, in occasional lively 
 moments, to have their little chirping fancies and 
 brain crotchets, that skip out of the ordinary mea- 
 dow-land of the mind. The Author has caught his, and 
 clapped them up in paper and print, like grasshoppers 
 in a cage. The judicious reader will look upon the 
 trifling creatures accordingly, and not expect from 
 them the flights of poetical winged horses. 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 At a future time, the Press may be troubled with 
 some things of a more serious tone and purpose, — 
 which the Author has resolved upon publishing, in 
 despite of the advice of certain critical friends. His 
 forte, they are pleased to say, is decidedly humorous ; 
 but a gentleman cannot always be breathing his comic 
 vein. 
 
 It will be seen, from the illustrations of the present 
 work, that the Inventor is no artist;— in fact, he was 
 never " meant to draw " — any more than the tape-tied 
 curtains mentioned by Mr. Pope. Those who look at 
 his designs, with Ovid's Love of Art, will therefore be 
 disappointed ; — his sketches are as rude and artless to 
 other sketches, as Ingram's rustic manufacture to the 
 polished chair. The designer is quite aware of their 
 defects : but when Raphael has bestowed seven odd 
 legs upon four Apostles, and Fuseli has stuck in a 
 great goggle head without an owner ; — when Michael 
 Angelo has set on a foot the wrong way, and Hogarth 
 has painted in defiance of all the laws of nature and 
 
PREFACE. Xlll 
 
 perspective, he does hope that his own little enormities 
 may be forgiven — that his sketches may look inte- 
 resting, like Lord Byron's Sleeper, — " with all their 
 errors." 
 
 Such as they are, the Author resigns his pen-and- 
 ink fancies to the public eye. He has more designs 
 in the wood ; and if the present sample should be 
 relished, he will cut more, and come again, according 
 to the proverb, with a N ew Series. 
 
XIV 
 
 Elites 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The first edition of Whims and Oddities being 
 exhausted, I am called forward by an importunate 
 publisher to make my best bow, and a new address 
 to a discerning and indulgent public. Unaffectedly 
 flattered by those who have bought this little work, 
 and still more bound to those who have bound 
 it, I adopt the usual attitude of a Thanksgiver, but 
 with more than the usual sincerity. Though my head 
 is in Cornhill, my hand is not on my Cheapside, in 
 making these professions. There is a lasting im- 
 pression on my* heart, though there is none on the 
 shelves of the publisher. 
 
ADDRESS. XV 
 
 To the Reviewers in general my gratitude is emi- 
 nently due, for their very impartial friendliness. It 
 would have sufficed to reconcile me to a far greater 
 portion than I have met with, of critical viper-tupe- 
 ration. The candid journalists, who have condescended 
 to point out my little errors, deserve my particular 
 thanks. It is comely to submit to the hand of taste, 
 and the arm of discrimination, and with the head 
 of deference I shall endeavour to amend (with one 
 exception) in a New Series. 
 
 I am informed that certain monthly, weekly, and 
 very every day critics, have taken great offence at my 
 puns : — and I can conceive how some Gentlemen with 
 one idea must be perplexed by a double meaning. 
 To my own notion a pun is an accommodating word, 
 like a farmer's horse, — with a pillion for an extra 
 sense to ride behind ; — it will carry single, however, 
 if required. The Dennises are merely a sect, and I 
 had no design to please, exclusively, those verbal 
 Unitarians. 
 
XVI ADDRESS. 
 
 Having made this brief explanation and acknow- 
 ledgment, I beg leave, like the ghost of the royal 
 Dane, to say " Farewell at once," and commend my 
 remembrance and my book together, to the kindness 
 of the courteous reader. 
 
TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 It is not usual to have more than one grace before 
 meat, one prologue before a play — one address before 
 a work, — Cerberus and myself are perhaps the only 
 persons who have had three prefaces. I thought, in- 
 deed, that I had said my last in the last impression, 
 but a new Edition being called for, I came forward for 
 a new exit, after the fashion of Mr. Romeo Coates — a 
 Gentleman, notorious, like Autumn, for taking a great 
 many leaves at his departure. 
 
 As a literary parent, I am highly gratified to find 
 
 that the elder volume of Whims and Oddities does not 
 
 get snubbed, as happens with a first child, at the birth 
 
 of a second ; but that the Old and New Series obtain 
 
 b 
 
XV111 ADDRESS. 
 
 fresh favour and friends for each other, and are likely 
 to walk hand in hand, like smiling brothers, towards 
 posterity. 
 
 Whether a third volume will transpire is a secret 
 still "warranted undrawn" even to myself; — there is, 
 I am aware, a kind of nonsense indispensable, — or sine 
 qua non-sense — that always comes in welcomely to , 
 relieve the serious discussions of graver authors, and 
 I natter myself that my performances may be of this 
 nature ; but having parted with so many of my vaga- 
 ries, I am doubtful whether the next November may 
 not find me sobered down into a political economist. 
 
WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 jFirst Series. 
 
Uetrtcatton, 
 TO THE REVIEWERS. 
 
 What is a modern Poet's fate ? 
 To write his thoughts upon a slate ; — 
 The Critic spits on what is done,— 
 Gives it a wipe,— -and all is gone. 
 
WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF 
 ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 The man that pays his pence, and goes 
 
 Up to thy lofty cross, St. Paul, 
 Looks over London's naked nose, 
 Women and men : 
 The world is all beneath his ken, 
 He sits above the Ball. 
 He seems on Mount Olympus' top, 
 Among the Gods, by Jupiter ! and lets drop 
 His eyes from the empyreal clouds 
 On mortal crowds. 
 
 Seen from these skies, 
 
 How small those emmets in our eyes \ 
 
 Some carry little sticks — and one 
 His eggs^-to warm them in the sun : 
 
MORAL REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 Dear ! what a hustle, 
 And bustle ! 
 And there's my aunt. I know her by her waist, 
 
 So long and thin, 
 
 And so pinch'd in, 
 Just in the pismire taste. 
 
 Oh ! what are men ? — Beings so smal., 
 
 That, should I fall 
 Upon their little heads, I must 
 Crush them by hundreds into dust ! 
 
 And what is life ? and all its ages — 
 
 There's seven stages ! 
 Turnham Green ! Chelsea ! Putney ! Fulham ! 
 Brentford ! and Kew ! 
 And Tooting, too ! 
 And oh ! what very little nags to pull ? em. 
 
 Yet each would seem a horse indeed, 
 If here at Paul's tip-top we'd got 'em ; 
 
 Although, like Cinderella's breed, 
 They're mice at bottom. 
 
 Then let me not despise a horse, 
 Though he looks small from Paul's high cross ! 
 Since he would be,— as near the sky, 
 — Fourteen hands high. 
 
THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL S. O 
 
 What is this world with London in its lap ? 
 
 Mogg's Map. 
 The Thames, that ebbs and flows in its broad channel ? 
 
 A tidy kennel. 
 The bridges stretching from its banks ? 
 
 Stone planks. 
 Oh me ! hence could I read an admonition 
 
 To mad Ambition ! 
 But that he would not listen to my call, 
 Though I should stand upon the cross, and ball J 
 
 VERY DEAF, INDEED. 
 
 b2 
 
THE 
 
 PRAYSE OF IGNORANCE. 
 
 An Extract from an Oration delivered before the most grave and 
 Learned Faculty of Padua, by the Admirable Crichton. 
 
 Now your Clown e knoweth none of the Booke-man's 
 troubles, and his dayes be the longer; for he doth not 
 vault upon the fierie Pegasus, but jumpes merrilye upon old 
 Ball, who is a cart-horse, and singeth another man's song, 
 which hath, it may be, thirty and six verses, and a burthen 
 withal, and goes to a tune which no man knowes but him- 
 self. Alsoe, he wooes the ruddye Cicely, which is not a 
 Muse, but as comely a maide of fleshe as needes be, and 
 many daintye ballades are made of their loves, as may be 
 read in our Poets, their Pastoralls ; only that therein he is 
 called Damon, which standes for Roger, and Cicely, belike, 
 is ycleped Sylvia, as belongs to their pastorall abodes. 
 Where they lead soe happy e life as to stir up envye in the 
 towne's women, who would fame become Shepherdesses, 
 by hook and by crook, and get green gownes and lay down 
 upon the sweet verdant grass. Oh, how pleasauntly they 
 
THE PRAYSE OF IGNORANCE. D 
 
 sit all the daye long under a shady tree, to hear the young 
 lamhes ; but at night they listen to the plaintive Philomell, 
 and the gallaunts doe make them chappelets: or, if it 
 chance to be May, they goe a Mayinge, whilst the yonge 
 buds smell sweetlye, and the littel birdes are whistlynge 
 and hoppinge all about. 
 
 Then Roger and Cicely sit adowne under the white 
 haw-thorne, and he makes love to her in a shepherdlike 
 waye, in the midst of her flocke. She doth not minde 
 sheepes'-eyes. Even like Cupid and Psyche, as they are 
 set forthe by a cunning Flemishe Limner, as hath been 
 my hap to behold in the Low Countrye, wherein Cupid, 
 with his one hand, is a toyinge with the haires of his 
 head ; but with the other, he handleth the fair neck of his 
 mistresse, who sitteth discreetlye upon a flowerie bank, and 
 lookes down as beseemes upon her shoon ; for she is vain 
 of her modestye. This I have seen at the Hague. 
 
 And Roger sayth, O Cicely, Cicely, how prettye you 
 be ; whereat she doth open her mouthe, and smiles loudly ; 
 which, when he heares, he sayth again, Nay, but I doe 
 love thee passing well, and with that lays a loud buss 
 upon her cheek, which cannot blushe by reason of its 
 perfect ruddynesse. Anon, he spreadeth in her lap the 
 pink ribbands which he bought at the wake, for her busk- 
 ing, and alsoe a great cake of ginger brede, which causeth 
 
6 THE PRAYSE OF IGNORANCE. 
 
 her heart to be in her mouthe. Then, quoth he, The little 
 Robins have got their mates, and the pretty Finches be all 
 paired, and why sholde not we ? And, quoth she, as he 
 kisseth her, O Robin, Robin, you be such a sweet billed 
 bird, that I must needes crye " Aye." Wherefore, on the 
 Sundaye, they go to the Parishe Churche, that they may 
 be joyned into one, and be no more single. Whither they 
 walk tenderlye upon their toes, as if they stepped all the 
 waye upon egges. And Roger hath a brave bowpot at his 
 bosom, which is full of Heart's Ease ; but Cicely is decked 
 with ribbands, a knot here, and a knot there, and her head 
 is furnished after a daintye fashion, soe that she wishes, 
 belike, that she was Roger to see herselfe all round about, 
 — and content her eyes upon her own devices. Whereas, 
 Roger smells to his nosegay e ; but his looks travel, as the 
 crabbe goeth, which is side- way es, towards Cicely ; and he 
 smiles sweetlye, to think how that he is going to be made 
 a husband-man, and alsoe of the good cheere which there 
 will be to eat that daye. Soe he walks up to the altar with 
 a stout harte ; and when the parson hath made an ende, 
 he kisseth Cicely afreshe, and their markes are registered 
 as man and wife in the church bokes. 
 
 After which, some threescore yeares, it may befall you 
 to light on a grave-stone, and, on the wood thereof, to read 
 as followeth :— 
 
THE PRAYSE OF IGNORANCE. 7 
 
 " Here I bee Roger Rackstrawe, which did live at Dip- 
 more Ende, of this Parishe — but now in this tomb. 
 
 Time was that I did sowe and plough, 
 That lyes beneathe the furrowes now ; 
 But though Death sowes me with his graine, 
 I knowe that I shall spring againe." 
 
 Now is not this a life to be envyde, which needeth so 
 many men's paynes to paint its pleasures ? For, saving the 
 Law clerkes, it is set forth by all that write upon sheepe's 
 skins, even the makers of pastoralls: wherein your Clown 
 is constantly a figure of Poetry, — being allwayes amongst 
 the leaves. He is their Jack-i'-the-Green. — Wherefore I 
 crye, for my owne part, O ! that I were a Boore ! Oh ! 
 that I were a Boore! that troubleth no man, and is trou- 
 bled of none. Who is written, wherein he cannot reade, 
 and is may de into Poetry, that yet is no Poet; for how 
 sholde he make songs, that knoweth not King Cadmus, his 
 alphabet, to pricke them down withal ? — 
 
 Seeing that he is nowayes learnede — nor hath never 
 bitten of the Apple of Knowledge, which was but a sowre 
 crabbe apple, whereby Adam his wisdom-teeth were set 
 on edge. Wherefore, he is much more a happye man, 
 saying unto his lusty yonge Dame, We twaine be one 
 fleshe. — But the Poet sayth to his mate, Thou art skin of 
 my skin, and bone of my bone ; soe that this saying is not 
 a paradoxe, — That the Boke Man is a Dunce in being 
 Wise, — and the Clowne is Wise, in being a Dunce. 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 Oh ! cruel heart ! ere these posthumous papers 
 Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath ; 
 
 Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers, 
 Have only lighted me the way to death. 
 
 Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapours, 
 When I am gone, and green grass covereth 
 
 Thy lover, lost ; but it will be in vain — 
 
 It will not bring the vital spark again. 
 
 Ah ! when those eyes, like tapers, burn'd so blue, 
 It seemed an omen that we must expect 
 
 The sprites of lovers ; and it boded true, 
 For I am half a sprite — a ghost elect ; 
 
 Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu, 
 With my last pen — before that I effect 
 
 My exit from the stage ; just stopped before 
 
 The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door. 
 
MISS TREE. 
 
A VALENTINE. 11 
 
 Full soon these living eyes, now liquid bright, 
 Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save 
 
 They shed a dreary and inhuman light, 
 
 Illum'd within by glow-worms of the grave ; 
 
 These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight, 
 These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have, 
 
 Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh, 
 
 Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh ! 
 
 Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee, 
 As broken victuals to the worms will go ; 
 
 And all the world will dine again but me — 
 For I shall have no stomach ; — and I know, 
 
 When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be 
 As now thou art : but will not tears of woe 
 
 Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct, 
 
 When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct ? 
 
 And when thy soul is buried in a sleep, 
 In midnight solitude, and little dreaming 
 
 Of such a spectre — what, if I should creep 
 Within thy presence in such dismal seeming ? 
 
 Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep, 
 And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming, 
 
 And pray with mingled penitence and dread 
 
 That I were less alive — or not so dead. 
 
12 A VALENTINE. 
 
 Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove 
 This wilful homicide which thou hast done: 
 
 And the sad epitaph of so much love 
 Will eat into my heart, as if in stone : 
 
 And all the lovers that around thee move, 
 Will read my fate, and tremble for their own ; 
 
 And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh, 
 
 " Man, born of woman, must of woman die ! " 
 
 Mine eyes grow dropsical — I can no more — 
 And what is written thou may'st scorn to read, 
 
 Shutting thy tearless eyes.— 'Tis done — 'tis o'er- 
 My hand is destin'd for another deed. 
 
 But one last word wrung from its aching core, 
 And my lone heart in silentness will bleed; 
 
 Alas! it ought to take a life to tell 
 
 That one last word — that fare — fare — fare thee well ! 
 
LOVE. 
 
 O Love ! what art thou, Love ? the ace of hearts, 
 Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits ; 
 
 A player, masquerading many parts 
 
 In life's odd carnival ; — a boy that shoots, 
 
 From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ; 
 A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots ; 
 
 The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real — 
 
 A marriageable maiden's " beau ideal." 
 
 Love ! what art thou, Love ? a wicked thing, 
 Making green misses spoil their work at school ; 
 
 A melancholy man, cross-gartering ? 
 
 Grave ripe-fac'd wisdom made an April fool ? 
 
 A youngster tilting at a wedding ring ? 
 A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool ? 
 
 A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel ? 
 
 Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ? 
 
14 LOVE. 
 
 O Love ! what art thou, Love ? one that is bad 
 With palpitations of the heart — like mine — 
 
 A poor bewilder' d maid, making so sad 
 A necklace of her garters — fell design ! 
 
 A poet, gone unreasonably mad, 
 
 Ending his sonnets with a hempen line ? 
 
 O Love ! —but whither, now ? forgive me, pray ; 
 
 I'm not the first that Love hath led astray. 
 
RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. 
 
17 
 
 " PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." 
 
 I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore : — 
 Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door : 
 So he call'd upon Lucy— 'twas just ten o'clock — 
 Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. 
 
 ii. 
 Now a hand-maid, what ever her fingers be at, 
 Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-i&t : 
 So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more 
 Had questioned the stranger and answer'd the door. 
 
 in. 
 
 The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe : 
 For the moment will come when such comers must go : 
 So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd — poor innocent thing — 
 " The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." 
 c 
 
18 
 
 A RECIPE— FOR CIVILIZATION. 
 
 The following Poem— is from the pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER! — 
 the most heterogeneous of authors, but at the same time— in the 
 Sporting Latin of Mr. Egan, — a real Homo-genius, or a Genius of a 
 
 Man ! in the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual boils 
 
 over ! and makes it seem written, as he describes himself (see The 
 Cook's Oracle)— with the Spit in one hand !— and the Frying Pan in 
 
 the other, — while in the style of the rhymes it is Hudibrastic,- 
 
 as if in the ingredients of Versification, he had been assisted by his 
 BUTLER ! 
 
 As a Head Cook, Optician — Physician, Music Master — Domestic 
 Economist and Death-bed Attorney !— I have celebrated The Author 
 elsewhere with approbation : — and cannot now place him upon the 
 
 Table as a Poet, without still being his LAUDER, a phrase which 
 
 those persons whose course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS 
 FORGERY on the Immortal Bard of Avon ! will find easy to under- 
 stand. 
 
 Surely, those sages err who teach 
 That man is known from brutes by speech, 
 Which hardly severs man from woman, 
 But not tli' inhuman from the human, — 
 
A RECIPE — FOR CIVILIZATION. 19 
 
 Or else might parrots claim affinity, 
 And dogs be doctors by latinity,— 
 Not t' insist, (as might be shown) 
 That beasts have gibberish of their own, 
 Which once was no dead tongue, tho' we 
 Since E sop's days have lost the key; 
 Nor yet to hint dumb men, — and, still, not 
 Beasts that could gossip though they will not, 
 But play at dummy like the monkeys, 
 For fear mankind should make them flunkies. 
 Neither can man be known by feature 
 Or form, because so like a creature, 
 That some grave men could never shape 
 Which is the aped and which the ape, 
 Nor by his gait, nor by his height, 
 Nor yet because he's black or white, 
 But rational, — for so we call 
 The only Cooking Animal ! 
 The only one who brings his bit 
 Of dinner to the pot or spit, 
 For whereas the lion e'er was hasty, 
 To put his ven'son in a pasty ? 
 Ergo, by logic, we repute, 
 That he who cooks is not a brute, — 
 But Equus brutum est, which means, 
 c2 
 
20 A RECIPE — FOR CIVILIZATION. 
 
 If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans, 
 
 Nay, no one but a horse would forage 
 
 On naked oats instead of porridge, 
 
 Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary, 
 
 The difference is culinary. 
 
 Further, as man is known by feeding 
 
 From brutes, — so men from men, in breeding 
 
 Are still distinguished as they eat, 
 
 And raw in manners, raw in meat, — ■ 
 
 Look at the polish'd nations hight, 
 
 The civilized — the most polite 
 
 Is that which bears the praise of nations 
 
 For dressing eggs two hundred fashions, 
 
 Whereas, at savage feeders look, — 
 
 The less refined the less they cook ; 
 
 From Tartar grooms that merely straddle 
 
 Across a steak and warm their saddle, 
 
 Down to the Abyssinian squaw, 
 
 That bolts her chops and collops raw, 
 
 And, like a wild beast, cares as little 
 
 To dress her person as her victual, — 
 
 For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets, 
 
 Arc beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets, 
 
 And not by shamble bodies put on, 
 
 But those who roast and boil their mutton ; 
 
A RECIPE — FOR CIVILIZATION. 21 
 
 So Eve and Adam wore no dresses 
 
 Because they lived on water cresses, 
 
 And till they learn'd to cook their crudities, 
 
 Went blind as beetles to their nudities. 
 
 For niceness comes from th' inner side, 
 
 (As an ox is drest before his hide) 
 
 And when the entrail loathes vulgarity 
 
 The outward man will soon cull rarity, 
 
 For 'tis th' effect of what we eat 
 
 To make a man look like his meat, 
 
 As insects show their food's complexions ; 
 
 Thus fopling's clothes are like confections. 
 
 But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb, 
 
 Would have an Abyssinian ox come ? — 
 
 Or serve a dish of fricassees. 
 
 To clodpoles in a coat of frize ? 
 
 Whereas a black would call for buffalo 
 
 Alive — and, no doubt, eat the offal too. 
 
 Now, (this premised) it follows then 
 
 That certain culinary men 
 
 Should first go forth with pans and spits 
 
 To bring the heathens to their wits, 
 
 (For all wise Scotchmen of our century 
 
 Know that first steps are alimentary ; 
 
 And, as we have prov'd, flesh pots and saucepans 
 
22 A RECIPE — FOR CIVILIZATION. 
 
 Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans ;) 
 But Bunyan err'd to think the near gate 
 To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate, 
 When reason should have workM her course 
 As men of war do — when their force 
 Can't take a town by open courage, 
 They steal an entry with its forage. 
 What reverend bishop, for example, 
 Could preach horn'd Apis from his temple '? 
 Whereas a cook would soon unseat him, 
 And make his own churchwardens eat him. 
 Not Irving could convert those vermin 
 Th' Anthropophages, by a sermon ; 
 Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice, 
 Would " take a shin of beef and spice,"— 
 And raise them such a savoury smother, 
 No Negro would devour his brother, 
 But turn his stomach round as loth 
 As Persians, to the old black broth, — 
 For knowledge oftenest makes an entry, 
 As well as true love, thro' the pantry, 
 Where beaux that came at first for feeding* 
 Grow gallant men and get good breeding ; — 
 
 * Cook to the late Sir Joseph Banks. 
 
A RECIPE FOR CIVILIZATION. 23 
 
 Exempli gratia — in the West, 
 Ship-traders say there swims a nest 
 Lin'd with black natives, like a rookery, 
 But coarse as carrion crows at cookery. — 
 This race, though now eall'd O. Y. E. men, 
 (To show they are more than A. B. C. men,) 
 Was once so ignorant of our knacks 
 They laid their mats upon their backs, 
 And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon 
 On trees that baked them in the sunshine . 
 As for their bodies, they were coated, 
 (For painted things are so denoted ;) 
 But, the naked truth is stark primevals, 
 That said their prayers to timber devils, 
 Allow'd polygamy— dwelt in wig-wams. — ■ 
 And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.— 
 And why ? — because their savage nook 
 Had ne'er been visited by Cook, — 
 And so they fared till our great chief, 
 Brought them, not methodists, but beef 
 In tubs, — and taught them how to live, 
 Knowing it was too soon to give, 
 Just then, a homily on their sins, 
 (For cooking ends ere grace begins) 
 Or hand his tracts to the untractabh? 
 
24 A RECIPE — FOR CIVILIZATION* 
 
 Till they could keep a more exact table — 
 For nature has her proper courses, 
 And wild men must be back'd like horses, 
 Which, jockeys know, are never fit 
 For riding till they've had a bit 
 V the mouth ; but then, with proper tackle, 
 You may trot them to a tabernacle, 
 Ergo (I say) he first made changes 
 In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges, 
 And taught the king's cook, by convincing 
 Process, that chewing was not mincing, - 
 And in her black fist thrust a bundle 
 Of tracts abridg'd from Glasse and Rundell, 
 Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits, 
 She saw the spareness of her habits, 
 And round her loins put on a striped 
 Towel, where fingers might be wiped, 
 And then her breast clothed like her ribs 
 (For aprons lead of course to bibs) 
 And, by the time she had got a meat- 
 Screen, veil'd her back, too, from the heat — 
 As for her gravies and her sauces, 
 (Tho' they reform'd the royal fauces,) 
 Her forcemeats and ragouts, — I praise not, 
 Because the legend further says not, 
 
A RECIPE FOR CIVILIZATION. 
 
 25 
 
 Except, she kept each Christian high-day, 
 And once upon a fat good Fry-day 
 Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan, 
 That turn'd the spit, to chop up Dagon!— 
 
 THE COOK S ORACLE/ 
 
26 
 
 ON THE POPULAR CUPID. 
 
 " TELL ME, MY HEART, CAN THIS BE LOVE." 
 
 The figure above was copied, by permission, from a 
 lady's Valentine. To the common apprehension, it repre- 
 sents only a miracle of stall-feeding — a babe- Lambert — a 
 caravan-prodigy of grossness, — but, in the romantic my- 
 thology, it is the image of the Divinity of Love. — 
 
 In sober verity, — does such an incubus oppress the 
 female bosom ? Can such a monster of obesity be coeval 
 
ON THE POPULAR CUPID. 27 
 
 with the gossamer natures of Sylph and Fairy in the 
 juvenile faith ? Is this he — the buoyant Camdeo, — that, 
 in the mind's eye of the poetess, drifts adown the Ganges 
 in a lotus — 
 
 " Pillow'd in a lotus flow'r 
 Gather'd in a summer hour, 
 Floats lie o'er the mountain wave, 
 Which would be a tall ship's grave ! " — 
 
 Is this personage the disproportionate partner for whom 
 Pastorella sigheth, — in the smallest of cots! — Does the 
 platonic Amanda (who is all soul) refer, in her discourses 
 on Love, to this palpable being, who is all body ? Or does 
 Belinda, indeed, believe that such a substantial Sagittarius 
 lies ambush'd in her perilous blue eye ? 
 
 It if in the legend, that a girl of Provence was smitten 
 once, and died, by the marble Apollo : but did impassioned 
 damsel ever dote, and wither, beside the pedestal of this 
 preposterous effigy ? or, rather is not the unseemly emblem 
 accountable for the coyness and proverbial reluctance of 
 maidens to the approaches of Love ? 
 
 I can believe in his dwelling alone in the heart — seeing 
 that he must occupy it to repletion; — in his constancy, 
 because he looks sedentary and not apt to roam. That he 
 is given to melt — from his great pinguitude. That he 
 burneth with a flame, for so all fat burneth — and hath 
 
28 
 
 ON THE POPULAR CUPID. 
 
 languishings — like other bodies of his tonnage. That he 
 sighs — from his size. — 
 
 I dispute not his kneeling at ladies' feet — since it is the 
 posture of elephants, — nor his promise that the homage 
 shall remain eternal. I doubt not of his dying, — being of 
 a corpulent habit, and a short neck. — Of his blindness-— 
 with that inflated pig's cheek. But for his lodging in 
 Belinda's blue eye, my whole faith is heretic—^br she 
 hath never a sty in it. 
 
 " SON OF THE SLEEPLESS ! " 
 
29 
 
 •v-w 
 
 " THE LAST MAN." 
 
 'Twas in the year two thousand and one, 
 
 A pleasant morning of May, 
 
 I sat on the gallows-tree all alone, 
 
 A chaunting a merry lay, — 
 
 To think how the pest had spared my life, 
 
 To sing with the larks that day ! 
 
30 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 When up the heath came a jolly knave, 
 Like a scarecrow, all in rags : 
 It made me crow to see his old duds 
 All abroad in the wind, like flags : — 
 So up he came to the timbers' foot 
 And pitch' d down his greasy bags. — 
 
 Good Lord ! how blythe the old beggar was ! 
 
 At pulling out his scraps, — 
 
 The very sight of his broken orts 
 
 Made a work in his wrinkled chaps : 
 
 " Come down," says he, " you Newgate-bird, 
 
 And have a taste of my snaps ! " 
 
 Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, 
 
 I slided, and by him stood ; 
 
 But I wished myself on the gallows again 
 
 When I smelt that beggar's food, 
 
 A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust ; 
 
 "Oh!" quoth he, " the heavens are good ! " 
 
 Then after this grace he cast him down : 
 
 Says I, " You'll get sweeter air 
 
 A pace or two off, on the windward side," 
 
 For the felons' bones lay there. 
 
 But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls, 
 
 And offered them part of his fare. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 31 
 
 " I never harm'd them, and they won't harm me : 
 
 Let the proud and the rich be cravens ! " 
 
 J did not like that strange beggar man, 
 
 He look'd so up at the heavens. 
 
 Anon he shook out his empty old poke ; 
 
 " There's the crumbs," saith he, " for the ravens ! " 
 
 It made me angry to see his face, 
 
 It had such a jesting look; 
 
 But while I made up my mind to speak, 
 
 A small case-bottle he took : 
 
 Quoth he, " though I gather the green water-cress, 
 
 My drink is not of the brook! " 
 
 Full manners-like he tender' d the dram ; 
 
 Oh, it came of a dainty cask ! 
 
 But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, 
 
 " Your leave, good Sir, I must ask ; 
 
 But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve. 
 
 When a hangman sups at my flask ! " 
 
 And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, 
 
 The churl was quite out of breath; 
 
 I thought the very Old One was come 
 
 To mock me before my death, 
 
 And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones 
 
 That were lying about the heath ! 
 
32 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 But the beggar gave me a jolly clap — 
 " Come, let us pledge each other, 
 For all the wide world is dead beside, 
 And we are brother and brother — 
 I've a yearning for thee in my heart, 
 As if we had come of one mother. 
 
 " I've a yearning for thee in my heart 
 That almost makes me weep, 
 For as I pass'd from town to town 
 The folks were all stone-asleep, — 
 But when I saw thee sitting aloft, 
 It made me both laugh and leap ! " 
 
 Now a curse (I thought) be on his love, 
 
 And a curse upon his mirth, — 
 
 An' it were not for that beggar man 
 
 I'd be the King of the earth, — 
 
 But I promis'd myself, an hour should come 
 
 To make him ru€ his birth — 
 
 So down we sat and bous'd again 
 
 Till the sun was in mid-sky, 
 
 When, just when the gentle west- wind came, 
 
 We hearken' d a dismal cry ; 
 
 " Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, 
 
 " Till these horrible dogs go by ! " 
 
THE LAST MAN. 33 
 
 And, lo ! from the forest's far-off skirts, 
 
 They came all yelling for gore, 
 
 A hundred hounds pursuing at once, 
 
 And a panting hart before, 
 
 Till he sunk adovvn at the gallows' foot 
 
 And there his haunches they tore ! 
 
 His haunches they tore, without a horn 
 To tell when the chase was done ; 
 And there was not a single scarlet coat 
 To flaunt it in the sun ! — 
 I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, 
 And his tears dropt one by one ! 
 
 And with curses sore he chid at the hounds, 
 
 Till the last dropt out of sight, 
 
 Anon, saith he, " let's down again, 
 
 And ramble for our delight, 
 
 For the world's all free, and we may choose 
 
 A right cozie barn for to-night ! n 
 
 With that, he set up his staff on end, 
 And it fell with the point due West ; 
 So we far'd that way to a city great, 
 Where the folks had died of the pest — 
 It was fine to enter in house and hall, 
 Wherever it liked me best ; — 
 
 D 
 
34 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 For the porters all were stiff and cold, 
 
 And could not lift their heads : 
 
 And when he came where their masters lay, 
 
 The rats leapt out of the beds ; 
 
 The grandest palaces in the land 
 
 Were as free as workhouse sheds. 
 
 But the beggar man made a mumping face, 
 
 And knock' d at every gate : 
 
 It made me curse to hear how he whin'd 
 
 So our fellowship turn'd to hate, 
 
 And I bade him walk the world by himself, 
 
 For I scorn'd so humble a mate \ 
 
 So he turn'd right and / turn'd left, 
 
 As if we had never met ; 
 
 And I chose a fair stone house for myself. 
 
 For the city was all to let ; 
 
 And for three brave holydays drank my fill 
 
 Of the choicest that I could get. 
 
 And because my jerkin was coarse and worn, 
 
 I got me a properer vest ; 
 
 It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold, 
 
 And a shining star at the breast ! — 
 
 'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave 
 
 To see me so purely drest!— 
 
THE LAST MAN. 35 
 
 But Joan was dead and under the mould, 
 
 And every buxom lass ; 
 
 In vain I watch'd, at the window pane, 
 
 For a Christian soul to pass ! 
 
 But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, 
 
 And browz'd on the new-come grass. — 
 
 When lo ! I spied the old beggar man, 
 And lustily he did sing !— 
 His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, 
 And a crown he had like a King ; 
 So he stept right up before my gate 
 And danc'd me a saucy fling! 
 
 Heaven mend us all ! — but, within my mind, 
 I had kill'd him then and there ; 
 To see him lording so braggart-like 
 That was born to his beggar's fare, 
 And how he had stoPn the royal crown 
 His betters were meant to wear. 
 
 But God forbid that a thief should die 
 Without his share of the laws ! 
 So I nimbly whipt my tackle out, 
 And soon tied up his claws, — 
 I was judge myself, and jury, and all, 
 And solemnly tried the cause. 
 d2 
 
36 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 But the beggar man would not plead, but cried 
 
 Like a babe without its corals, 
 
 For he knew how hard it is apt to go 
 
 When the law and a thief have quarrels,— 
 
 There was not a Christian soul alive 
 
 To speak a word for his morals. 
 
 Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear, 
 
 And put on my work-day clothes ; 
 
 I was tired of such a long Sunday life,— 
 
 And never was one of the sloths ; 
 
 But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, 
 
 And made many crooked mouths. 
 
 So I liaul'd him off to the gallows' foot, 
 
 And blinded him in his bags ; 
 
 'Twas a weary job to heave him up, 
 
 For a doomed man always lags ; 
 
 But by ten of the clock he was off his legs 
 
 In the wind, and airing his rags ! 
 
 So there he hung, and there I stood, 
 
 The LAST MAN left alive, 
 
 To have my own will of all the earth : 
 
 Quoth I, now I shall thrive ! 
 
 But when was ever honey made 
 
 With one bee in a hive! 
 
THE LAST MAN. 37 
 
 My conscience began to gnaw my heart, 
 
 Before trie day was done^ 
 
 For the other men's lives had all gone out, 
 
 Like candles in the sun ! — 
 
 But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, 
 
 A thousand necks in one ! 
 
 So I went and cut his body down 
 
 To bury it decentlie ; — 
 
 God send there were any good soul alive 
 
 To do the like by me ! 
 
 But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, 
 
 And bade me up the tree I 
 
 My sight was like a drunkard's sight, 
 And my head began to swim, 
 To see their jaws all white with foam, 
 Like the ravenous ocean brim ;— 
 But when the wild dogs trotted away 
 Their jaws were bloody and grim! 
 
 Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord ! 
 
 But the beggar man, where was he ? — 
 
 There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags 
 
 Below the gallows' tree ! — 
 
 I know the Devil, when I am dead, 
 
 Will send his hounds for me ! — 
 
38 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 I've buried my babies one by one, 
 And dug the deep hole for Joan, 
 And cover'd the faces of kith and kin, 
 And felt the old churchyard stone 
 Go cold to my heart, full many a time, 
 But I never felt so lone ! 
 
 For the lion and Adam were company, 
 And the tiger him beguil'd ; 
 But the simple kine are foes to my life, 
 And the household brutes are wild . 
 If the veriest cur would lick my hand, 
 I could love it like a child ! 
 
 And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream, 
 
 At night to make me madder,— 
 
 And my wretched conscience within my breast, 
 
 Is like a stinging adder ; — 
 
 I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, 
 
 And look at the rope and ladder ! — 
 
 For hanging looks sweet, — but alas ! in vain 
 
 My desperate fancy begs, — 
 
 I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, 
 
 And drink it to the dregs, — 
 
 For there is not another man alive, 
 
 In the world, to pull my legs \ 
 
C( PIGMY AND CRANE.*' 
 
41 
 
 THE BALLAD OF 
 
 SALLY BROWN, AND BEN THE CARPENTER." 
 
 I have never been vainer of any verses than of my part 
 in the following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical 
 nurses, has an enviable renown— and Campbell's Ballads 
 enjoy a snug genteel popularity. " Sally Brown " has 
 been favoured, perhaps, with as wide a patronage as the 
 Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been of so 
 select a class as the friends of " Hohenlinden." But I do 
 not desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant 
 Extracts. The lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it 
 at his last mortal Benefit at Covent Garden ; — and, ever 
 since, it has been a great favourite with the watermen of 
 Thames, who time their oars to it, as the wherry-men of 
 Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the water- 
 men, it went naturally to Vauxhall : — and, over land, to 
 Sadler's Wells. The Guards, not the mail coach, but the 
 
42 SALLY BROWN, AND BEN THE CARPENTER. 
 
 Life Guards, — picked it out from a fluttering hundred of 
 others — all going to one air— against the dead wall at 
 Knightsbridge. Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane, and Cow- 
 cross, (all pirates ! ) disputed about the Copyright, and pub- 
 lished their own editions, — and, in the meantime, the 
 Authors, to have made bread of their song, (it was poor old 
 Homer's hard ancient case ! ) must have sung it about the 
 street. Such is the lot of Literature ! the profits of " Sally 
 Brown " were divided by the Ballad Mongers :— it has cost, 
 but has never brought me, a half-penny, 
 
 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 
 
 Young Ben he was a nice young man, 
 
 A carpenter by trade - t 
 And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 
 
 That was a lady's maid. 
 
 But as they fetch'd a walk one day, 
 
 They met a press-gang crew ; 
 And Sally she did faint away, 
 
 Whilst Ben he was brought to. 
 
CHRISTMAS PANTOMJME, 
 
SALLY BROWN, AND BEN THE CARPENTER. 45 
 
 The Boatswain swore with wicked words, 
 
 Enough to shock ar saint, 
 That though she did seem in a fit, 
 
 'Twas nothing but a feint. 
 
 " Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head, 
 
 He'll be as good as me ; 
 For when your swain is in our boat, 
 
 A boatswain he will be." 
 
 So when they'd made their game of her, 
 
 And taken off her elf, 
 She rous'd, and found she only was 
 
 A coming to herself. 
 
 " And is he gone, and is he gone ? " 
 She cried, and wept outright : 
 
 u Then I will to the water side, 
 And see him out of sight." 
 
 A waterman came up to her, 
 " Now, young woman," said he, 
 
 " If you weep on so, you will make 
 Eye-water in the sea." 
 
46 SALLY BROWN, AND BEN THE CARPENTER. 
 
 " Alas ! they've taken my beau Ben 
 
 To sail with old Benbow ; " 
 And her woe began to run afresh, 
 
 As if she'd said, Gee woe ! 
 
 Says he, " they've only taken him 
 
 To the Tender ship, you see ; n 
 " The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown, 
 
 " What a hard-ship that must be ! 
 
 " O ! would I were a mermaid now, 
 
 For then I'd follow him ; 
 But Oh !— -I'm not a fish- woman, 
 
 And so I cannot swim. 
 
 " Alas ! I was not born beneath 
 
 The virgin and the scales, 
 So I must curse my cruel stars, 
 
 And walk about in Wales." 
 
 *■ 
 
 Now Ben had sail'd to many a place 
 
 That's underneath the world ; 
 But in two years the ship came home, 
 
 And all her sails were furl'd. 
 
SALLY BROWN, AND BEN THE CARPENTER. 47 
 
 But when he call'cl on Sally Brown, 
 
 To see how she got on, 
 He found she'd got another Ben, 
 
 Whose Christian-name was John. 
 
 " O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, 
 How could you serve me so, 
 
 I've met with many a breeze before, 
 But never such a blow : " 
 
 Then reading on his 'baeco box, 
 
 He heav'd a bitter sigh, 
 And then began to eye his pipe, 
 
 And then to pipe his eye. 
 
 And then he tried to sing " All's Well," 
 But could not though he tried ; 
 
 His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd 
 His pigtail till he died. 
 
 His death, which happen'd in his birth, 
 
 At forty-odd befell : 
 They went and told the sexton, and 
 
 The sexton toll'd the bell. 
 
48 
 
 BACKING THE FAVOURITE! 
 
 Oh a pistol, or a knife ! 
 For I'm weary of my life, — 
 
 My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it : 
 My estate is out at nurse, 
 And my heart is like my purse — 
 
 And all through backing of the Favourite ! 
 
 At dear O'Neil's first start, 
 I sported all my heart, — 
 
 Oh, Becher, he never marr'd a braver hit ! 
 For he cross'd her in her race, 
 And made her lose her place, 
 
 And there was an end of that Favourite ! 
 
BACKING THE FAVOURITE. 49 
 
 Anon, to mend my chance, 
 For the Goddess of the Dance * 
 
 I pin'd, and told my enslaver it !— 
 But she wedded in a canter, 
 And made me a Levanter, 
 
 In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then next Miss M. A. Tree 
 I adored, so sweetly she 
 
 Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it ;- 
 But she left that course of life 
 To be Mr. Bradshaw's wife, 
 
 And all the world lost on the Favourite ! 
 
 v. 
 
 But out of sorrow's surf 
 Soon I leap'd upon the turf, 
 
 Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it ; — 
 But standing on the pet, 
 " Oh my bonny, bonny Bet ! " 
 
 Black and yellow pull'd short up with the Favourite! 
 
 * The late favourite of the King's Theatre, who left the pas seul of 
 life, for a perpetual Ball. Is not that her effigy now commonly borne 
 about by the Italian image venders — an ethereal form holding a wreath 
 with both hands above her head— and her husband, in emblem, beneath 
 her foot. E 
 
50 
 
 BACKING THE FAVOURITE. 
 
 Thus flung by all the crack, 
 I resolv'd to cut the pack, — 
 
 The second-raters seem'd then a safer hit ! 
 So I laid my little odds 
 Against Memnon ! Oh, ye Gods ! 
 
 Am I always to be floored by the Favourite I 
 
 O, MY BONNIE, BONNIE, BET ! 
 
51 
 
 A COMPLAINT AGAINST GREATNESS. 
 
 I am an unfortunate creature, the most wretched of all 
 that groan under the burden of the flesh. I am fainting, 
 as they say of kings, under my oppressive greatness. A 
 miserable Atlas, I sink under the world of — myself. 
 
 But the curious will here ask me for my name. I am 
 then, or they say I am, " The Reverend Mr. Farmer, a 
 four-years' old Durham Ox, fed by himself, upon oil cake 
 and mangel-wurzel : " but I resemble that worthy agricul- 
 tural Vicar only in my fat living. In plain truth, I am an 
 unhappy candidate for the show at Sadler's, not " the 
 Wells," but the Repository. They tell me I am to bear 
 the bell, (as if I had not enough to bear already!) by my 
 surpassing tonnage — and, doubtless, the prize-emblem will 
 be proportioned to my uneasy merits. With a great Tom 
 of Lincoln about my neck — alas ! what will it comfort me 
 to have been " commended by the judges." 
 
 Wearisome and painful was my Pilgrim-like progress to 
 this place, by short and tremulous steppings, like the digit's 
 e2 
 
52 A COMPLAINT AGAINST GREATNESS. 
 
 march upon a dial. My owner, jealous of my fat, pro- 
 cured a crippled drover, with a withered limb, for my con- 
 ductor ; but even he hurried me beyond my breath. The 
 drawling hearse left me labouring behind ; the ponderous 
 fly-waggon passed me like a bird upon the road, so tedi- 
 ously slow is my pace. It just sufficeth, Oh, ye thrice 
 happy Oysters ! that have no locomotive faculty at all, to 
 distinguish that I am not at rest. Wherever the grass 
 grew by the way- side, how it tempted my natural longings 
 — the cool brook flowed at my very foot, but this short 
 thick neck forbade me to eat or drink : nothing but my 
 redundant dewlap is likely ever to graze on the ground ! 
 
 If stalls and troughs were not extant, I must perish. 
 Nature has given to the Elephant a long flexible tube, or 
 trunk, so that he can feed his mouth, as it were, by his 
 nose ; but is man able to furnish me with such an imple- 
 ment? Or would he not still withhold it, lest I should 
 prefer the green herb, my natural delicious diet, and reject 
 his rank, unsavoury condiments? What beast, with free 
 will, but would repair to the sweet meadow for its pasture; 
 and yet how grossly is he labelled and libelled? Your 
 bovine servant, — in the catalogue, is a " Durham Ox, fed 
 by himself, (as if he had any election,) upon oil-cake." 
 
 I wonder what rapacious Cook, with an eye to her insa- 
 tiable grease-pot and kitchen perquisites, gave the hint of 
 
a COMPLAINT AGAINST GREATNESS, 63 
 
 this system of stall-feeding ! What unctuous Hull Mer- 
 chant, or candle-loving Muscovite, made this grossness a 
 desideratum ? If mine were, indeed, like the fat of the 
 tender sucking pig, that delicate gluten ! there would be 
 reason for its unbounded promotion ; but to see the prize 
 steak, loaded with that rank yellow abomination, (the lamp- 
 lighters know its relish,) might wean a man from carnivo- 
 rous habits for ever. Verily, it is an abuse of the Christ- 
 mas holly, the emblem of Old English and wholesome 
 cheer, to plant it upon such blubber. A gentlemanly en- 
 trail must be driven to extreme straits, indeed, (Davis's 
 Straits,) to feel any yearnings for such a meal; and yet I 
 am told that an assembly of gentry, with all the celebra- 
 tions of full bumpers and a blazing chimney-pot, have 
 honoured the broiled slices of a prize bullock, a dishful of 
 stringy fibres, an animal cabbage-net, and that rank even 
 hath been satisfied with its rankness. 
 
 Will the honourable club, whose aim it is thus to make 
 the beastly nature more beastly, consider of this matter ? 
 Will the humane, when they provide against the torments 
 of cats and dogs, take no notice of our condition ? Nature, 
 to the whales, and creatures of their corpulence, has as- 
 signed the cool deeps ; but we have no such refuge in our 
 meltings. At least, let the stall-feeder confine his system 
 to the uncleanly swine which chews not the cud ; for let 
 
54 
 
 A COMPLAINT AGAINST GREATNESS, 
 
 the worthy members conceive on the palate of imagination, 
 the abominable returns of the refuse-linseed in our after 
 ruminations. Oh ! let us not suffer in vain ! . It may seem 
 presumption in a brute, to question the human wisdom ; 
 but, truly, I can perceive no beneficial ends, worthy to be 
 set off against our sufferings. There must be, methinks, 
 a nearer way of augmenting the perquisites of the kitchen- 
 wench and the fire-man, — of killing frogs, — than by ex- 
 citing them, at the expense of us poor blown-up Oxen, to 
 a mortal inflation. 
 
 O, THAT THI8 TOO TOO SOLID FLESH WOULD MELT! 
 
 I ' ? 
 
55 
 
 THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 
 
 ** all's well that ends well." 
 
 * Alas 1 what perils do inviron 
 That man who meddles with a siren ! " 
 
 Hudibras. 
 
 On Margate beach, where the sick one roams, 
 
 And the sentimental reads ; 
 Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes- 
 
 Like the ocean — to cast her weeds ; — 
 
56 THE MERMAID OF MARGATE, 
 
 Where urchins wander to pick up shells. 
 And the Cit to spy at the ships, — 
 
 Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells,— 
 And the Chandler for watery dips ;— 
 
 There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim. 
 
 As lovely and fair as sin ! 
 But woe, deep water and woe to him, 
 
 That she snareth like Peter Fin! 
 
 Her head is crown' d with pretty sea-wares, 
 And her locks are golden and loose : 
 
 And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs. 
 To stand, of course, in her shoes ! 
 
 And, all day long, she combeth them well, 
 With a sea-shark's prickly jaw ; 
 
 And her mouth is just like a rose-lipp'd shell, 
 The fairest that man e'er saw ! 
 
 And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be, 
 Hath planted his seat by her side ; 
 
 " Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea, 
 To make thee so watch the tide ? " 
 
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 57 
 
 She turn'd about with her pearly brows, 
 
 And clasp'd him by the hand ; 
 " Come, love, with me ; I've a bonny house 
 
 On the golden Goodwin Sand." 
 
 And then she gave him a siren kiss, 
 
 No honeycomb e'er was sweeter : 
 Poor wretch ! how little he dreamt for this 
 
 That Peter should be salt-Peter : 
 
 And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, 
 
 Not walking, as damsels do, 
 With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept, 
 
 But she hopt like a Kangaroo ; 
 
 One plunge, and then the victim was blind, 
 
 Whilst they galloped across the tide ; 
 At last, on the bank he waked in his mind, 
 
 And the Beauty was by his side. 
 
 One half on the sand, and half in the sea, 
 
 But his hair all began to stiffen ; 
 For when he look'd where her feet should be, 
 
 She had no more feet than Miss Biffen ! 
 
58 THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 
 
 But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth, 
 
 In the dabbling brine did soak : 
 At last she open'd her pearly mouth, 
 
 Like an oyster, and thus she spoke : 
 
 " You crimpt my father, who was a skate ; — 
 And my sister you sold — a maid ; 
 
 So here remain for a fish'ry fate, 
 For lost you are, and betray 'd ! " 
 
 And away she went, with a seagull's scream, 
 
 And a splash of her saucy tail ; 
 In a moment he lost the silvery gleam 
 
 That shone on her splendid mail ! 
 
 The sun went down with a blood-red flame, 
 And the sky grew cloudy and black, 
 
 And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came, 
 Each over the other's back ! 
 
 Ah. me ! it had been a beautiful scene, 
 With the safe terra-firm a round ; 
 
 But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him, 
 Like those in a church-yard ground ; 
 
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 59 
 
 And Christians love in the turf to lie, 
 
 Not in watery graves to be ; 
 Nay, the very fishes will sooner die 
 
 On the land than in the sea. 
 
 And whilst he stood, the watery strife 
 
 Encroached on every hand, 
 And the ground deereas'd— -his moments of life 
 
 Seem'd measured, like Time's, by sand ; 
 
 And still the waters foam'd in, like ale, 
 
 In front, and on either flank, 
 He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail, 
 
 There was such a run on the bank. 
 
 A little more, and a little more, 
 
 The surges came tumbling in ; 
 He sang the evening hymn twice o'er, 
 
 And thought of every sin ! 
 
 Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart, 
 
 As cold as his marble slab ; 
 And he thought he felt, in every part, 
 
 The pincers of scalded crab. 
 
60 THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 
 
 The squealing lobsters that he had boil'd, 
 
 And the little potted shrimps, 
 All the horney prawns, he had ever spoil'd, 
 
 Gnawed into his soul, like imps ! 
 
 And the billows were wandering to and fro, 
 
 And the glorious sun was sunk, 
 And Day, getting black in the face, as though 
 
 Of the night shade she had drunk \ 
 
 Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, 
 
 One tub, or keg, to be seen ; 
 It might have given his spirits a lift 
 
 Or an anker where Hope might lean ! 
 
 But there was not a box or a beam afloat, 
 To raft him from that sad place ; 
 
 Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackarel boat, 
 Nor a smack upon Neptune's face. 
 
 At last, his lingering hopes to buoy, 
 
 He saw a sail and a mast, 
 And called " Ahoy! " — but it was not a hoy 
 
 And so the vessel went past. 
 
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 61 
 
 And with saucy wing that flapped in his face, 
 
 The wild bird about him flew, 
 With a shrilly scream, that twitted his ca*e, 
 
 " Why, thou art a sea-gull too ! " 
 
 And lo ! the tide was over his feet ; 
 
 O ! his heart began to freeze, 
 And slowly to pulse : — in another beat 
 
 The wave was up to his knees ! 
 
 He was deafen' d amidst the mountain tops 
 
 And the salt spray blinded his eyes, 
 And waslrd away the other salt drops 
 
 That grief had caused to arise :— 
 
 But just as his body was all afloat, 
 
 And the surges above him broke, 
 He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat, 
 
 Of Deal — (but builded of oak). 
 
 The skipper gave him a clrarn, as he lay. 
 
 And chafed his shivering skin ; 
 And the Angel retum'd that was flying away 
 
 With the spirit of Peter Fin ! 
 
62 
 
 MY SON, SIR. 
 
 It happened, the other evening, that, intending to call 
 
 in L Street, I arrived a few minutes before Hyson ; 
 
 when W * * * *, seated beside the Urn, his eyes shaded 
 by his hand, — was catechising his learned progeny, the 
 Master Hopeful, as if for a tea-table degree. It was a 
 whimsical contrast, between the fretful pouting visage of 
 the urchin, having his gums rubbed so painfully, to bring 
 forward his wisdom-tooth — and the parental visage, sage, 
 solemn, and satisfied, and appealing ever and anon by a 
 dramatic side look, to the circle of smirking auditors. 
 
 W * * * * * was fond of this kind of display, eternally 
 stirring up the child for exhibition with his troublesome 
 long pole, — besides lecturing him through the diurnal 
 vacations so tediously, that the poor urchin was fain, — 
 for the sake of a little play, — to get into school again. 
 
 I hate all forcing-frames for the young intellect, — and 
 the Locke system, which after all is but a Canal system 
 for raising the babe-mind to unnatural levels. I pity the 
 
MY SON, SIR. 
 
 63 
 
 poor child, that is learned in alpha beta, but ignorant of 
 top and taw — and was never so maliciously gratified, as 
 when, in spite of all his promptings and leading questions, 
 I beheld W * * * * * reddening, even to the conscious tips 
 of his tingling ears, at the boy's untimely inaptitude. 
 Why could he not rest contented, when the poor imp 
 had answered him already, "What was a Roman Em- 
 peror? — without requiring an interpretation of the Logos? 
 
 U MY SON, SIR." 
 
64 
 
 'AS JT FELL UPON A DAY." 
 
 I wonder that W , the Ami des Enfans, has 
 
 never written a sonnet, or ballad, on a girl that had broken 
 her pitcher. There are in the subject the poignant heart's 
 anguish for sympathy and description ; — and the brittle- 
 ness of jars and joys, with the abrupt loss of the watery 
 fruits — (the pumpkins as it were) of her labours, for a 
 moral. In such childish accidents there is a world of 
 woe; — the fall of earthenware is to babes, as, to elder 
 contemplations, the Fall of Man. 
 
 I have often tempted myself to indite a didactic ode to 
 that urchin in Hogarth, with the ruined pie-dish. What 
 a lusty agony is wringing him — so that all for pity he 
 could die ; — and then, there is the instantaneous falling 
 on of the Beggar Girl, to lick up the fragments — expres- 
 sively hinting how universally want and hunger are abound- 
 ing in this miserable world, — and ready gaping at every 
 turn, for such windfalls and stray Godsends. But, hark ! — 
 what a shrill, feline cry startlcth the wide Aldgate ! 
 
AS IT FELL UPON A DAY. 65 
 
 Oh ! what's befallen Bessy Brown, 
 
 She stands so squalling in the street ; 
 She's let her pitcher tumble down, 
 
 And all the water's at her feet ! 
 
 The little school-boys stood about, 
 
 And laughed to see her pumping, pumping ; 
 
 Now with a curtsey to the spout, 
 And then upon her tiptoes jumping. 
 
 Long time she waited for her neighbours, 
 To have their turns : — but she must lose 
 
 The watery wages of her labours, — 
 Except a little in her shoes! 
 
 Without a voice to tell her tale, 
 
 And ugly transport in her face ; 
 All like a jugless nightingale, 
 
 She thinks of her bereaved case. 
 
 At last she sobs — she cries — she screams ! — 
 
 And pours her flood of sorrows out, 
 From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams, 
 
 Just like the lion on the spout, 
 
66 
 
 AS IT FELL UPON A DAY. 
 
 For well poor Bessy knows her mother 
 Must lose her tea, for water's lack, 
 
 That Sukey burns — and baby-brother 
 Must be dry rubb' d with huck-a-back ! 
 
 " AS IT FELL UPON A DAY.' 
 
67 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 On Hounslow heath — and close beside the road, 
 
 As western travellers may oft have seen, — 
 A little house some years ago there stood, 
 
 A minikin abode ; 
 And built like Mr. BirkbecFs, all of wood : 
 The walls of white, the window shutters green ;~— 
 Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West, 
 
 (Tho' now at rest) 
 On which it used to wander to and fro', 
 Because its master ne'er maintain'd a rider, 
 
 Like those who trade in Paternoster Row ; 
 But made his business travel for itself, 
 
 Till he had made his pelf, 
 And then retired — if one may call it so, 
 
 Of a roadsider. 
 
 Perchance, the very race and constant riot 
 Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, 
 f2 
 
68 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 Made him more relish the repose and quiet 
 
 Of his now sedentary caravan ; 
 Perchance, he lov'd the ground because 'twas common, 
 And so he might impale a strip of soil, 
 That furnish'd, by his toil, 
 Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ; — 
 And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower, 
 Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil 
 His peace, unless, in some unlucky hour, 
 A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow'r. 
 
 But tir'd of always looking at the coaches, 
 
 The same to come, — when they had seen them one day ! 
 
 And, used to brisker life, both man and wife 
 Began to suffer NUE's approaches, 
 And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday, — 
 So, having had some quarters of school breeding, 
 They turn'd themselves like other folks, to reading ; 
 But setting out where others nigh have done, 
 
 And being ripen' d in the seventh stage, 
 The childhood of old age, 
 Began, as other children have begun, — 
 Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, 
 
 Or Bard of Hope, 
 Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson, — 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 69 
 
 But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, 
 And then relaxed themselves with Whittington, 
 
 Or Valentine and Orson — 
 But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, 
 And being easily melted in their dotage, 
 
 Slobber'd, — and kept 
 
 Reading, — and wept 
 Over the white Cat, in their wooden cottage. 
 
 Thus reading on— the longer 
 They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger 
 In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim, — 
 If talking Trees and Birds reveal'd to him, 
 She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-waggons, 
 
 And magic fishes swim 
 In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons. — 
 Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons ; 
 When as it fell upon a summer's day, 
 As the old man sat a feeding 
 
 On the old babe-reading, 
 Beside his open street-and-parlour door, 
 
 A hideous roar 
 Proclaim'd a drove of beasts was coming by the way. 
 
 Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, 
 
70 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels 
 
 Or Durham feed ; 
 With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils 
 
 From nether side of Tweed, 
 
 Or Firth of Forth ; 
 Looking half wild with joy to leave the North, 
 With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, — 
 When, — whether from a fly's malicious comment 
 Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank ; 
 
 Or whether 
 Only in some enthusiastic moment, — 
 However, one brown monster, in a frisk, 
 Giving his tail a perdendicular whisk, 
 Kick'd out a passage thro' the beastly rabble ; 
 And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a 
 Horn-pipe before the Basket-maker's villa, 
 
 Leapt o'er the tiny pale, — 
 Back'd his beef steaks against the wooden gable, 
 And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail 
 
 Right o'er the page, 
 
 Wherein the sage 
 Just then was spelling some romantic fable. 
 
 The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, 
 
 Could not peruse,— who could ? — two tales at once ; 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 71 
 
 And being huff'd 
 At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, 
 
 Bang'd-to the door, 
 But most unluckily enclosed a morsel 
 Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : — 
 
 The monster gave a roar, 
 And bolting off with speed increased by pain, 
 The little house became a coach once more, 
 And, like Macheath, " took to the road" again ! 
 
 Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, 
 The ancient woman stooping with her crupper 
 Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, 
 Was getting up some household herbs for supper ; 
 Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, 
 And quaintly wondering if magic shifts 
 Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, 
 To turn it to a coach ; — what pretty gifts 
 Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; 
 Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, 
 Nor turn'd, till home had turn'd a corner, quite 
 Gone out of sight ! 
 
 At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, 
 Weary of sitting on her russet clothing 
 
72 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 And looking round 
 Where rest was to be found, 
 There was no house — no villa there— no nothing ! 
 No house ! 
 The change was quite amazing ; 
 It made her senses stagger for a minute, 
 The riddle's explication seem'd to harden ; 
 But soon her superannuated nous 
 Explained the horrid mystery; — and raising 
 Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, 
 
 On which she meant to sup, — 
 " Well! this is Fairy Work! I'll bet a farden, 
 Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up, 
 And set me down in some one else's garden V y 
 
73 
 
 THE SPOILED CHILD. 
 
 My Aunt Shakerly was of enormous bulk. I have not 
 done justice to her hugeness in my sketch, for my timid 
 pencil declined to hazard a sweep at her real dimensions. 
 There is a vastness in the outline, of even moderate pro- 
 portions, 'till the mass is rounded-off by shadows, that makes 
 the hand hesitate, and apt to stint the figure of its proper 
 
74 THE SPOILED CHILD. 
 
 breadth : how, then, should I have ventured to trace, like 
 mapping in a Continent, the surpassing boundaries of my 
 Aunt Shakerly ! — 
 
 What a visage was hers ! — the cheeks, a pair of hemi- 
 spheres: — her neck literally swallowed up by a supplemen- 
 tary chin. Her arm, cased in a tight sleeve, was as the 
 bolster, — her body like the feather bed of Ware. The 
 waist, which, in other trunks, is an isthmus, was in hers 
 only the middle zone of a continuous tract of flesh : — her 
 ankles overlapped her shoes. 
 
 With such a figure, it may be supposed that her habits 
 were sedentary. — When she did walk, the Tower Quay, for 
 the sake of the fresh river-breeze, was her favourite resort. 
 But never, in all her waterside promenades, was she hailed 
 by the uplifted finger of the Waterman. With looks pur- 
 posely averted he declined, tacitly, such a Fairlopian Fair. 
 — The Hackney-coach driver, whilst she halted over against 
 him, mustering up all her scanty puffings for an exclama- 
 tion, drove off to the nether pavement, and pleaded a prior 
 call. The chairman, in answer to her signals — had just 
 broken his poles. — Thus, her goings were crampt within a 
 narrow circle: many thoroughfares, besides, being strange 
 to her and inaccessible, such as Thames Street, through the 
 narrow pavements ; — others, like the Hill of Holborn, — 
 from their impracticable steepness. How she was finally 
 
THE SPOILED CHILD. 75 
 
 to master a more serious ascension, (the sensible incum- 
 brance of the flesh clinging to her even in her spiritual 
 aspirations) was a matter of her serious despondency — a 
 picture of Jacob's Ladder, by Sir F. Bourgeois, confirming 
 her, that the celestial staircase was without a landing. 
 
 For a person of her elephantine proportions, my Aunt 
 was of a kindly nature — for I confess a prejudice against 
 such Giantesses. She was cheerful, and eminently chari- 
 table to the poor, — although she did not condescend to a 
 personal visitation of their very limited abodes. If she had 
 a fault, it was in her conduct towards children — not spoil- 
 ing them by often repeated indulgences, and untimely 
 severities, the common practice of bad mothers : — it was by 
 a shorter course that the latent and hereditary virtues of 
 the infant Shakerly were blasted in the bud. — 
 
 Oh, my tender cousin * * ! (for thou wert yet unbap- 
 tized.) Oh! would thou had'st been, — my little babe- 
 cousin, — of a savager mother born ! — For then, having thee 
 comfortably swaddled, upon a backboard, with a hole in 
 it, she would have hung thee up, out of harm's way, above 
 the mantel-shelf, or behind the kitchen door — whereas, thy 
 parent was no savage, and so, having her hands full of 
 other matters, she laid thee down, helpless, upon the 
 parlour chair ! — 
 
 In the mean time, the " Herald " came — Next to an 
 
76 THE SPOILED CHILD. 
 
 easy seat, my Aunt dearly loved a police newspaper; — 
 when she had once plunged into its columns, the most 
 vital question obtained from her only a random answer ; — 
 the world and the roasting jack stood equally still. — So, 
 without a second thought, she dropped herself on the nurs- 
 ing chair. One little smothered cry — my cousin's last 
 breath, found its way into the upper air, — but the still 
 small voice of the reporter engrossed the maternal ear. 
 
 My Aunt never skimmed a newspaper, according to some 
 people's practice. She was as solid a reader as a sitter, 
 and did not get up, therefore, till she had gone through 
 the " Herald " from end to end. When she did rise, — 
 which was suddenly, — the earth quaked — the windows 
 rattled — the ewers splashed over — the crockery fell from 
 the shelf — and the cat and rats ran out together, as they 
 are said to do from a falling house. 
 
 " Heyday ! " said my uncle, above stairs, as he stag- 
 gered from the concussion — and, with the usual curiosity, 
 he referred to his pocket-book for the Royal Birthday. But 
 the almanack not accounting for the explosion, he ran 
 down the stairs, at the heels of the housemaid, and there 
 lay my Aunt, stretched on the parlour-floor, in a fit. At 
 the very glimpse, he explained the matter to his own satis- 
 faction, in three words — 
 
 " Ah — the apoplexy ! " 
 
THE SPOILED CHILD. 77 
 
 Now tlie housemaid had done her part to secure him 
 against this error, by holding up the dead child ; but as 
 she turned the body edge-ways, he did not perceive it. 
 When he did see it — but I must draw a curtain over the 
 parental agony — 
 
 ***** 
 
 * 
 
 About an hour after the catastrophe, an inquisitive she- 
 neighbour called in, and asked if we should not have the 
 Coroner to sit on the body :— but my uncle replied, "There 
 was no need." — " But in cases, Mr. Shakerly, where the 
 death is not natural/' — " My dear Madam," interrupted 
 my uncle, — " it was a natural death enough." 
 
78 
 
 THE FALL OF THE DEER. 
 
 [from AN OLD MS.] 
 
 Now the loud Crye is up, and harke ! 
 The barkye Trees give back the Bark ; 
 The House Wife heares the merrie rout, 
 And runnes, — and lets the beere run out, 
 Leaving her Babes to weepe, — for why ? 
 She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye, 
 And see the wild Stag how he stretches 
 The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches, 
 Running like one of Human kind 
 Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind — 
 As if he had not payde his Bill 
 For Ven'son, or was owing still 
 For his two Homes, and soe did get 
 Over his Head and Ears in Debt ; — 
 Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye 
 With his long Legges the while he maye : — 
 
MASTER GRAHAM. 
 
THE FALL OF THE DEER. 81 
 
 But he is chased, like Silver Dish, 
 As well as anye Hart may wish 
 Except that one whose Heart doth beat 
 So faste it hasteneth his feet ; — 
 And runninge soe he holdeth Death 
 Four Feet from him, — till his Breath 
 Faileth, and slacking Pace at last, 
 From runninge slow he standeth faste, 
 With hornie Bayonettes at haye, 
 To baying Dogges around, and they 
 Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore, 
 And goreth them that seeke his Gore, — 
 Whatever Dogge his Home doth rive 
 Is dead — as sure as he's alive ! 
 Soe that courageous Hart doth fight 
 With Fate, and calleth up his might, 
 And standeth stout that he maye fall 
 Bravelye, and be avenged of all, 
 Nor like a Craven yeeld his Breath 
 Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death ! 
 
82 
 
 DECEMBER AND MAY. 
 
 " Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 I. 
 Said Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day, 
 " Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes 
 
 away ? 
 You ought to be more fortified ; " " Ah, brute, be quiet, 
 
 do, 
 I know I'm not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied, as you ! 
 
 ii. 
 Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, 
 You'd die for me you swore, and I — I took you at your 
 
 word. 
 1 was a tradesman's widow then — a pretty change I've 
 
 made ; 
 To live, and die the wife of one, a widower by trade ! " 
 
DECEMBER AND MAY. 83 
 
 III. 
 
 " Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober 
 
 truth, 
 You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth; 
 Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me 
 
 you huff." 
 " Why, yes," she said, " and so I do— but you're not old 
 
 enough ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet 
 
 hive ; 
 I'll be the best of men, — I mean, — 111 be the best alive ! 
 Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core." — 
 " I thank ye, Sir, for telling me — for now I'll grieve the 
 
 more ! 
 
 I" 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 O, withered winter Blossoms, 
 Dowager-flowers, — the December vanity. 
 In antiquated visages and bosoms. — 
 
 What are ye planned for, 
 
 Unless to stand for 
 Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity ? 
 
A WINTER NOSEGaV. 85 
 
 There is my Quaker Aunt, 
 A Paper-Flower, — ni£h a formal border 
 
 >■" breeze could e'er disorder, 
 Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry, 
 
 A pucker" d ceny : 
 And a Box, like tough-liv d annuitant, — 
 
 Verdant alway — 
 From quarter-day ereu to quarter-day ; 
 And pool old H:u^:y. as thin as want, 
 
 Well named — God-wot ; 
 Under the baptism of the water-pot, 
 Tne Teiy apparition of a plant ; 
 
 And why. 
 Dos: ':.:'. . Lr - Lirl. 
 
 Old Winter-Daisy ; — 
 Because thy Tirtue never was infirm, 
 
 Howe'er thy stalk be era z 
 That never wanton fly, or blighted worm. 
 Made holes in thy most perfect indentation ? 
 
 Tis likely that sum leaf. 
 
 To garden thief, 
 Forcepp'd ox wingM, was never a temptation : — 
 Well, — still uphold thy wintry reputation ; 
 Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers' trial : 
 And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of ours 
 
86 A WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 Converse with flow'rs, 
 Then thou shalt be the token of denial. 
 
 Away! dull weeds, 
 Born without beneficial use or needs ! 
 Fit only to deck out cold winding-sheets ; 
 And then not for the milkmaid's funeral-bloom, 
 
 Or fair Fidel e's tomb 
 
 To tantalize, — vile cheats ! 
 Some prodigal bee, with hope of after-sweets, 
 
 Frigid, and rigid, 
 
 As if ye never knew 
 
 One drop of dew, 
 Or the warm sun resplendent ; 
 Indifferent of culture and of care, 
 Giving no sweets back to the fostering air, 
 Churlishly independent — 
 
 I hate ye, of all breeds ! 
 Yea, all that live so selfishly — to self, 
 And not by interchange of kindly deeds — 
 
 Hence !— from my shelf ! 
 
87 
 
 EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP. 
 
 i. 
 It was a young maiden went forth to ride, 
 And there was a wooer to pace by her side ; 
 His horse was so little, and hers so high, 
 He thought his Angel was up in the sky. 
 
 ii. 
 His love was great, tho' his wit was small ; 
 He bade her ride easy — and that was all ; 
 The very horses began to neigh, — 
 Because their betters had nought to say. 
 
 in. 
 They rode by elm, and they rode by oak, 
 They rode by a church-yard, and then he spoke : 
 " My pretty maiden, if you'll agree 
 You shall always amble through life with me." 
 
88 EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP. 
 
 IV* 
 
 The damsel answered him never a word, 
 
 But kiek'd the grey mare, and away she spurr'd. 
 
 The wooer still follow'd behind the jade, 
 
 And enjoy'd — like a wooer — the dust she made* 
 
 They rode thro* moss, and they rode thro' moor, — 
 
 The gallant behind and the lass before : — 
 
 At last they came to a miry place, 
 
 And there the sad wooer gave up the chase. 
 
 vr. 
 
 Quoth he, " If my nag was better to ride r 
 
 I'd follow her over the world so wide. 
 
 Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail, 
 
 But IVe lost the last glimpse of the grey mare's tail ! " 
 
1 SHK IS PAR FROM 7HF. LAND. 
 
91 
 
 " SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND," 
 
 It has been my fortune, or misfortune, sometimes to 
 witness the distresses of females upon shipboard; — that 
 is, in such fresh-victual passages as to Ramsgate — or to 
 Leith. How they can contemplate or execute those longer 
 voyages, beyond Good Hope's Cape, — even with the im- 
 plied inducements of matrimony, — is one of my standard 
 wonders. There is a natural shrinking — a cat-like anti- 
 pathy, — to water, in the lady- constitution, — (as the false 
 Argonaut well remembered when he shook off Ariadne) — 
 that seems to forbid such sea adventures. Betwixt a 
 younger daughter, in Hampshire for example, — and a 
 Judge's son of Calcutta, there is, apparently, a great gulf 
 fixed : — 
 
 How have I felt, and shuddered, for a timid, shrink- 
 ing, anxious female, full of tremblings as an aspen, — 
 about to set her first foot upon the stage — but it can be 
 nothing to a maiden's debut on the deck of an East India- 
 
92 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 Handkerchiefs waving — not in welcome, but in farewell, 
 — Crowded boxes, — not filled with living Beauty and 
 Fashion — but departing luggage. Not the mere noisy Gods 
 of the gallery to encounter, — but those more boisterous, 
 of the wind and wave. And then, all before her, — the 
 great salt-water Pit ! — 
 
 As I write this, the figure of Miss Oliver rises up before 
 me, — just as she looked on her first introduction, by the 
 Neptune, to the Ocean, It was her first voyage, — and she 
 made sure would be her last. Her storms commenced at 
 Gravesend, — her sea began much higher up. She had 
 qualms at Blackwall. At the Nore, she came to the moun- 
 tain-billows of her imagination ; for however the ocean 
 may disappoint the expectation, from the land, — on ship- 
 board, to the uninitiated, it hath all its terrors. — The sailor's 
 capfull of wind was to her a North-wester. Every splash 
 of a wave shocked her, as if each brought its torpedo. The 
 loose cordage did not tremble and thrill more to the wind 
 than her nerves. At every tack of the vessel, — on all-fours, 
 for she would not trust to her own feet, and the out-stretched 
 hand of courtesy, — she scrambled up to the higher side. 
 Her back ached with straining against the bulwark, to pre- 
 serve her own, and the ship's, perpendicular :— - her eyes 
 glanced right, left, above, beneath, before, behind — with 
 
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 93 
 
 all the alacrity of alarm. She had not organs enough 
 of sight, or hearing, to keep watch against all her imagined 
 perils ; her ignorance of nautical matters, in the meantime, 
 causing her to mistake the real sea-dangers for subjects of 
 self-congratulation. It delighted her to understand that 
 there were barely three fathoms of water between the vessel 
 and the ground ; — her notion had been, that the whole sea 
 was bottomless, — When the ship struck upon a sand, and 
 was left there high and dry by the tide, her pleasure was, 
 of course, complete. " We could walk about," she said, 
 " and pick up shells." I believe, she would have been as 
 well contented, if our Neptune had been pedestalled upon 
 a rock, — deep water and sea-room were the only subjects 
 of her dread. When the vessel, therefore, got afloat again, 
 the old terrors of the landswoman returned upon her with 
 the former force. All possible marine difficulties and dis- 
 asters were huddled, like an auction medley, in one lot, 
 into her apprehension : — 
 
 Cables entangling her, 
 Shipspars for mangling her, 
 Ropes, sure of strangling her ; 
 Blocks over-dangling her ; 
 Tiller to batter her, 
 Topmast to shatter her, 
 Tobacco to spatter her ; 
 
94 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 Boreas blustering, 
 Boatswain quite flustering, 
 Thunder clouds mustering 
 To blast her with sulphur — 
 If the deep don't engulph her ; 
 Sometimes fear's scrutiny 
 Pries out a mutiny, 
 Sniffs conflagration, 
 Or hints at starvation : — 
 All the sea- dangers 
 Buccaneers, rangers, 
 Pirates, and Sallee-men, 
 Algerine galley men, 
 Tornadoes and typhons, 
 And horrible syphons, 
 And submarine travels 
 Thro' roaring sea -navels ; 
 Every thing wrong enough, 
 Long boat not long enough, 
 Vessel not strong enough ; 
 Pitch marring frippery, 
 The deck very slippery, 
 And the cabin — built sloping, 
 The Captain a-toping, 
 And the Mate a blasphemer, 
 That names his Redeemer, — 
 
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 95 
 
 With inward uneasiness ; 
 The cook, known by greasiness, 
 The victuals beslubber'd, 
 Her bed — in a cupboard ; 
 Things of strange christening, 
 Snatch' d in her listening, 
 Blue lights and red lights 
 And mention of dead lights, 
 And shrouds made a theme of, 
 Things horrid to dream of, — 
 And buoys in the water 
 To fear all exhort her ; 
 Her friend no Leander, 
 Herself no sea gander, 
 And ne'er a cork jacket 
 On board of the packet ; 
 The breeze still a stiffening, 
 The trumpet quite deafening ; 
 Thoughts of repentance, 
 And doomsday and sentence ; . 
 Every thing sinister, 
 Not a church minister, — 
 Pilot a blunderer, 
 Coral reefs under her, 
 Ready to sunder her ; 
 
96 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 Trunks tipsy-topsy, 
 The ship in a dropsy ; 
 Waves oversurging her, 
 Syrens a-dirgeing her ; 
 Sharks all expecting her, 
 Sword-fish dissecting her, 
 Crabs with their hand-vices 
 Punishing land vices ; 
 Sea-dogs and unicorns, 
 Things with no puny horns, 
 Mermen carnivorous — 
 " Good Lord deliver us ! " 
 
 The rest of the voyage was occupied, — excepting one 
 bright interval, — with the sea malady and sea-horrors. 
 We were off Flamborough Head. A heavy swell, the con- 
 sequence of some recent storm to the Eastward, was rolling 
 right before the wind upon the land : — and, once under the 
 shadow of the bluff promontory, we should lose all the 
 advantage of a saving Westerly breeze. Even the seamen 
 looked anxious : but the passengers (save one) were in 
 despair. They were, already, bones of contention, in their 
 own misgivings, to the myriads of cormorants and water- 
 fowl inhabiting that stupendous cliff. Miss Oliver alone 
 
She is far from the land. 
 
 97 
 
 was sanguine :— she was all nods, and becks, and wreathed 
 smiles ; — her eheeriness increased in proportion with our 
 dreariness. Even the dismal pitching of the vessel could 
 not disturb her unseasonable levity ; — it was like a lighten- 
 ing before death — but, at length, the mystery was ex- 
 plained. She had springs of comfort that we knew not of. 
 Not brandy, — for that we shared in common ; — nor sup- 
 plications, — for those we had all applied to ; — but her ears, 
 being jealously vigilant of whatever passed between the 
 mariners, she had overheard from the captain, — and it 
 had all the sound, to her, of a comfortable promise, — that 
 " if the wind held, we should certainly go on shore" 
 
 COME O ER THE SEA. 
 
98 
 
 FANCIES ON A TEA-CUP. 
 
 I love to pore upon old china — and to speculate, from 
 the images, on Cathay. I can fancy that the Chinese 
 manners betray themselves, like the drunkard's, in their 
 cups. — 
 
 How quaintly pranked and patterned is their vessel ! — 
 exquisitely outlandish, yet not barbarian. — How daintily 
 transparent ! — It should be no vulgar earth, that produces 
 that superlative ware, nor does it so seem in the enamell'd 
 landscape. 
 
 There are beautiful birds ; there — rich flowers and gor- 
 geous butterflies, and a delicate clime, if we may credit 
 the porcelain. There be also horrible monsters, dragons, 
 with us obsolete, and reckoned fabulous ; the main breed, 
 doubtless, having followed Fohi (our Noah), in his wan- 
 derings thither from the Mount Ararat. — But how does 
 that impeach the loveliness of Cathay ? — There are such 
 creatures even in Fairy-land. 
 
FANCIES ON A TEA-CUP. VV 
 
 I long often to loiter in those romantic Paradises — 
 studded with pretty temples — holiday pleasure grounds — 
 the true Tea-Gardens. I like those meandering waters, 
 and the abounding little islands. 
 
 And here is a Chinese nurse maid, — Ho-Fi, chiding a 
 fretful little Pekin child. The urchin hath just such another 
 toy, at the end of a string, as might be purchased at our 
 own Mr. Dunnett's. It argues an advanced state of civi- 
 lization, where the children have many playthings ; and 
 the Chinese infants — witness their flying fishes and whirli- 
 gigs, sold by the stray natives about our streets — are far 
 gone in such juvenile luxuries. 
 
 But here is a better token. — The Chinese are a polite 
 people :* for they do not make household, much less hus- 
 bandry, drudges of their wives. You may read the women's 
 fortune in their tea cups. In nine cases out of ten, the 
 female is busy only in the lady-like toils of the toilette. 
 Lo ! here, how sedulously the blooming Hy-son is pencil- 
 ling the mortal arches, and curving the cross-bows of her 
 eye brows. A musical instrument, her secondary engage- 
 ment, is at her almost invisible feet. Are such little extre- 
 mities likely to be tasked with laborious offices? — Marry, 
 in kicking, they must be ludicrously impotent, — but then 
 she hath a formidable growth of nails. 
 
 By her side, the obsequious Hum is pouring his soft 
 h2 
 
100 FANCIES ON A TEA-CUP. 
 
 t 
 
 flatteries into her ear. When she walketh abroad, (here it 
 is on another sample) he shadeth her at two miles off with 
 his umbrella. It is like an allegory of Love triumphing 
 over space. The lady is walking upon one of those frequent 
 petty islets, on a plain, as if of porcelain, without any 
 herbage, only a solitary flower springs up, seemingly by 
 enchantment, at her fairy-like foot. The watery space 
 between the lovers is aptly left as a blank, excepting her 
 adorable shadow, which is tending towards her slave. 
 
 How reverentially is yon urchin presenting his flowers 
 to the Grey-beard ! So honourably is age considered in 
 China ! There would be some sense, there, in birth-day 
 celebrations. 
 
 Here, in another compartment, is a solitary scholar, ap- 
 parently studying the elaborate didactics of Con-Fuse- Ye. 
 
 The Chinese have, verily, the advantage of us upon 
 earthenware ! They trace themselves as lovers, contempla- 
 tists, philosophers: — whereas, to judge from our jugs and 
 mugs, we are nothing but sheepish piping shepherds and 
 fox-hunters. 
 
PERE LA CHAISF. 
 
103 
 
 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 Scheherazade immediately began the following story. 
 
 A li Ben Ali (did you never read 
 
 His wond'rous acts that chronicles relate, — 
 How there was one in pity might exceed 
 
 The sack of Troy ?) Magnificent he sate 
 Upon the throne of greatness — great indeed, 
 
 For those that he had under him were great — 
 The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, 
 Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses' tails. 
 
 Ali was cruel — a most cruel one ! 
 
 'Tis rumour' d he had strangled his own mother— 
 Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 
 
 'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother 
 And sister too— but happily that none 
 
 Did live within harm's length of one another, 
 Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze 
 To endless night, and shorten' d the Moon's days, 
 
104 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit, 
 
 And makes a bad man — absolutely bad, 
 Made Ali wicked — to a fault : — 'tis fit 
 
 Monarchs should have some check-strings ; but he had 
 No curb upon his will — no not a bit — 
 
 Wherefore he did not reign well — and full glad 
 His slaves had been to hang him — but they falter'd, 
 And let him live unhang' d — and still unaltered, 
 
 Until he got a sage bush of a beard, 
 
 Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trail 
 
 Of bristly hair — that, honour'd and unshear'd, 
 Grew downward like old women and cow's tail : 
 
 Being a sign of age— some grey appear'd, 
 
 Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale ; 
 
 But yet not so poetic as when Time 
 
 Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime. 
 
 Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex 
 
 His royal bosom that he had no son, 
 No living child of the more noble sex, 
 
 To stand in his Morocco shoes— not one 
 To make a negro-pollard— or tread necks 
 
 When he was gone — doom'd, when his days were done, 
 To leave the very city of his fame 
 Without an Ali to keep up his name. 
 
THE STAG-EYED LADY. 105 
 
 Therefore he chose a lady for his love, 
 
 Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear ; 
 
 So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, above 
 All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear ; 
 
 Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, 
 
 And drumm'd with proxy -prayers Mohammed's ear, 
 
 Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, 
 
 Or else he was not praying to his Profit. 
 
 Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair 
 
 Will grow like beer ; so did that stag-eyed dame : 
 
 Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir, 
 
 Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name 
 
 Of mighty hero that his child should bear ; 
 He made so certain ere his chicken came : 
 
 But oh ! all worldly wit is little worth, 
 
 Nor knoweth what to-morrrow will bring forth. 
 
 To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun 
 
 A little daughter to this world of sins, — 
 .Mm-fortunes never come alone — so one 
 
 Brought on another, like a pair of twins : 
 Twins ! female twins ! — it was enough to stun 
 
 Their little wits and scare them from their skins 
 To hear their father stamp, and curse and swear, 
 Pulling his beard because he had no heir. 
 
106 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down 
 This his paternal rage, and thus addrest : 
 
 O ! Most Serene ! why dost thou stamp and frown, 
 And box the compass of the royal chest ? 
 
 Ah ! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own 
 I love to gaze on ! — Pr'ythee, thou hadst best 
 
 Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin 
 
 Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin ! 
 
 But not her words, or e'en her tears, could slack 
 The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew : 
 
 He called his slaves to bring an ample sack 
 Wherein a woman might be poked — a few 
 
 Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black 
 At this sad order; but their slaveships knew 
 
 When any dared demur, his sword so bending 
 
 Cut off the " head and front of their offending." 
 
 For Ali had a sword, much like himself, 
 A crooked blade, guilty of human gore— - 
 
 The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf 
 Were stuck at his Aearf-quarters by the score — 
 
 Nor yet in peace he laid it on the shelf, 
 But jested with it, and his wit cut sore ; 
 
 So that (as they of Public Houses speak) 
 
 He often did his dozen butts a week. 
 
THE STAG-EYED LADY. 107 
 
 Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears. 
 
 Came with the sack the lady to enclose ; 
 In vain from her stag-eyes " the big round tears 
 
 Coursed one another down her innocent nose ;" 
 In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears ; 
 
 Though there were some felt willing to oppose, 
 Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute, 
 Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it. 
 
 And when the sack was tied, some two or three 
 Of these black undertakers slowly brought her 
 
 To a kind of Moorish Serpentine ; for she 
 
 Was doom'd to have a winding sheet of water. 
 
 Then farewell, earth — farewell to the green tree — 
 Farewell, the sun — the moon — each little daughter ! 
 
 She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, 
 
 Like a bag of WalPs-End from a coalman's back. 
 
 The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill'd 
 
 All that the waters oped, as down it fell ; 
 Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd 
 
 A ring above her, like a water-knell ; 
 A moment more, and all its face was still'd, 
 
 And not a guilty heave was left to tell 
 That underneath its calm and blue transparence 
 A dame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence. 
 
108 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore, 
 The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, 
 
 Like Desdemona smother' d by the Moor 
 The lady's natal star with pale affright 
 
 Fainted and fell — and what w 7 ere stars before, 
 Turn'd comets as the tale was brought to light ; 
 
 And all look'd downward on the fatal wave, 
 
 And made their own reflections on her grave. 
 
 Next night, a head — a little lady head, 
 
 Push'd through the waters a most glassy face, 
 
 With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, 
 Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the space 
 
 Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed 
 A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace 
 
 Over their sleepy lids — and so she rais'd 
 
 Her opaline nose above the stream, and gazed. 
 
 She oped her lips — lips of a gentle blush, 
 So pale it seem'd near drowned to a white, — 
 
 She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush 
 Of music bubbling through the surface light ; 
 
 The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush 
 To listen to the air — and through the night 
 
 There come these words of a most plaintive ditty, 
 
 Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity : 
 
THE STAG-EYED LADY. 109 
 
 THE WATER PERI S SONG. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter, 
 The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave ; 
 
 The Mussulman coming to fish in this water, 
 Adds a tear to the Hood that weeps over her grave. 
 
 This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, 
 This greyish bath cloak is her funeral pall, 
 
 And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear 
 Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, 
 
 My mother's own daughter — the last of her race — 
 
 She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, 
 And sleeps in the water that washes her face. 
 
no 
 
 WALTON REDIVIVUS. 
 
 " My old New River hath presented no extraordinary novelties lately. 
 But there Hope sits, day after day, speculating on traditionary gud- 
 geons. I think she hath taken the Fisheries. I now know the reasons 
 why our forefathers were denominated East and West Angles. Yet is 
 there no Jack of spawn, for 1 wash my hands in fishets that come 
 through the pump, every morning, thick as motelings — little things 
 that perish untimely, and never taste the brook." 
 
 From a Letter of C. Lamb. 
 
 [Piscator is fishing,— near the Sir Hugh Middleton's Head, without 
 either basket or cann. Viator cometh up to him, with an angling-rod 
 and a bottle.] 
 
 Via. Good morrow, Master Piscator. Is there any sport 
 afloat ? 
 
 Pis. I have not been here time enough to answer for it. 
 It is barely two hours agone since I put in. 
 
 Via. The fishes are shyer in this stream than in any 
 water that I know. 
 
 Pis. I have fished here a whole Whitsuntide through 
 without a nibble. But then the weather was not so ex- 
 cellent as to-day. This nice shower will set the gudgeons 
 all agape. 
 
' MY BANKS THEY ARE FURNISHED." 
 
WALTON REDIVIVUS. 113 
 
 Via. I am impatient to begin. 
 
 Pis. Do you fish with gut ? 
 
 Via. No — I bait with gentles. 
 
 Pis. It is a good taking bait : though my question re- 
 ferred to the nature of your line. Let me see your tackle. 
 Why this is no line, but a ship's cable. It is a six-twist. 
 There is nothing in this water but you may pull out with 
 a single hair. 
 
 Via. What are there no dace, nor perch ? — 
 
 Pis. I doubt not but there have been such fish in former 
 ages. But now-a-days there is nothing of that size. They 
 are gone extinct, like the mammoths. 
 
 Via. There was always such a fishing at 'em. Where 
 there was one Angler in former times, there is now a hun- 
 dred. 
 
 Pis. A murrain on 'em ! — A New-River fish now-a-days, 
 cannot take his common swimming exercise without hitch- 
 ing on a hook. 
 
 Via. It is the natural course of things, for man's popu- 
 lousness to terminate other breeds. As the proverb says, 
 " The more Scotchmen the fewer herrings." It is curious 
 to consider the family of whales growing thinner according 
 to the propagation of parish lamps. 
 
 Pis. Aye, and withal, how the race of man, who is a 
 terrestrial animal, should have been in the greatest jeopardy 
 
114 WALTON REDIVIVUS. 
 
 of extinction by the element of water; whereas the whales, 
 living in the ocean, are most liable to be burnt out. 
 
 Via. It is a pleasant speculation. But how is this ?— 
 I thought to have brought my gentles comfortably in an 
 old snuff-box, and they are all stark dead ! 
 
 Pis. The odour hath killed them. There is nothing more 
 mortal than tobacco, to all kinds of vermin. Wherefore, a 
 new box will be indispensable, though, for my own practice 
 I prefer my waistcoat pockets for their carriage. Pray mark 
 this : — and in the meantime I will lend you some worms. 
 
 Via. I am much beholden : and when you come to 
 Long Acre, I will faithfully repay you. But, look you, my 
 tackle is still amiss. My float will not swim. 
 
 Pis. It is no miracle— for here is at least a good ounce 
 of swan-shots upon your line. It is over-charged with lead. 
 
 Via. I confess, I am only used to killing sparrows, and 
 such small fowls, out of the back-casement. But my igno- 
 rance shall make me the more thankful for your help and 
 instruction. 
 
 Pis. There. The fault is amended. And now, observe, 
 — you must watch your cork very narrowly, without even 
 an eye-wink another way ; — for, otherwise, you may over- 
 look the only nibble throughout the day. 
 
 Via. I have a bite already ! — my float is going up and 
 down like a ship at sea. 
 
 Pis. No. It is only that house-maid dipping in her 
 
WALTON REDIVIVUS. 115 
 
 bucket, which causes the agitation you perceive. 'Tis a 
 shame so to interrupt the honest Angler's diversion. It 
 would be but a judgment of God, now, if the jade should 
 fall in ! 
 
 Via. But I would have her only drowned for some brief 
 twenty minutes or so — and then restored again by the Sur- 
 geons. And yet I have doubts of the lawfulness of that 
 dragging of souls back again, that have taken their formal 
 leaves. In my conscience, it seems like flying against the 
 laws of predestination* 
 
 Pis. It is a doubtful point;— for, on the other hand, I 
 have heard of some that were revived into life by the 
 Doctors, and came afterwards to be hanged. 
 
 Via. Marry! 'tis pity such knaves' lungs were ever puff'd 
 up again ! It was good tobacco-smoke ill wasted ! Oh ! 
 how pleasant, now, is this angling, which furnishes us with 
 matter for such agreeable discourse ! Surely, it is well 
 called a contemplative recreation, for I never had half so 
 many thoughts in my head before ! 
 
 Pis. I am glad you relish it so well. 
 
 Via. I will take a summer lodging hereabouts, to be 
 near the stream. How pleasant is this solitude ! There 
 are but fourteen a-fishinghere, — and of those but few men. 
 
 Pis. And we shall be still more lonely on the other side 
 of the City Road.— Come, let's across. Nay, we'll put in 
 i2 
 
116 WALTON REDIVIVUS. 
 
 our lines lower down. There was a butcher's wife dragged 
 for, at this bridge, in the last week. 
 
 Via. Have you, indeed, any qualms of that kind ? 
 
 Pis. No — but, hereabouts, 'tis likely the gudgeons will 
 be gorged. Now, we are far enough. Yonder is the row 
 of Colebrook. What a balmy wholesome gust is blowing 
 over to us from the cow-lair. 
 
 Via. For my part, I smell nothing but dead kittens— 
 for here lies a whole brood in soak. Would you believe 
 it, — to my phantasy, the nine days' blindness of these crea- 
 tures smacks somewhat of a type of the human pre-exist- 
 ence. Methinks, I have had myself such a mysterious 
 being, before I beheld the light. My dreams hint at it. 
 A sort of world before eye sight. 
 
 Pis. I have some dim sympathy with your meaning. At 
 the Creation, there was such a kind of blind-man's buff 
 work. The atoms jostled together, before there was a 
 revealing sun. But are we not fishing too deep ? 
 
 Via. I am afeard on't ! Would we had a plummet ! 
 We shall catch weeds. 
 
 Pis. It would be well to fish thus at the bottom, if we 
 were fishing for flounders in the sea. But there, you must 
 have forty fathom, or so, of stout line ; and then, with your 
 fish at the end, it will be the boy's old pastime carried 
 into another element. I assure you, 'tis like swimming 
 a kite ! — 
 
WALTON REDIVIVUS. 117 
 
 Via. It should be pretty sport — but hush ! My cork has 
 just made a bob. It is diving under the water! — Holla! 
 —I have catch'd a fish ! 
 
 Pis. Is it a great one ? 
 
 Via. Purely, a huge one ! Shall I put it into the bottle ? 
 
 Pis. It will be well, — and let there be a good measure 
 of water, too, lest he scorch against the glass. 
 
 Via. How slippery and shining it is ! — Ah, he is gone ! 
 
 Pis. You are not used to the handling of a New-River 
 fish; — and, indeed, very few be. But hath he altogether 
 escaped ? 
 
 Via. No ; I have his chin here, which I was obliged to 
 tear off, to get away my hook. 
 
 Pis Well, let him go: — it would be labour wasted to 
 seek for him amongst this rank herbage. 'Tis the com- 
 monest of Anglers' crosses. 
 
 Via. I am comforted to consider he did not fall into the 
 water again, as he was without a mouth, —and might have 
 pined for years. Do you think there is any cruelty in our 
 Art? 
 
 Pis. As for other methods of taking fish, I cannot say : 
 but I think none in the hooking of them. — For, to look at 
 the gills of a fish, with those manifold red leaves, like a 
 housewife's needle-book, they are admirably adapted to 
 our purpose ; and manifestly intended by Nature to stick 
 our steel in. 
 
118 WALTON REDIVIVUS. 
 
 Via. I am glad to have the question so comfortably re- 
 solved, — for, in truth, I have had some misgivings. — Now, 
 look 1 how dark the water grows ! There is another shower 
 towards. 
 
 Pis. Let it come down, and welcome. I have only my 
 working-day clothes on. Sunday coats spoil holidays. Let 
 every thing hang loose, and time too will sit easy. 
 
 Via. I like your philosophy. In this world, we are the 
 fools of restraint. We starch our ruffs till they cut us 
 under the ear. 
 
 Pis. How pleasant it would be to discuss these senti- 
 ments over a tankard of ale ! — I have a simple bashfulness 
 against going into a public tavern, but I think we could 
 dodge into the Castle, without being much seen. 
 
 Via. And I have a sort of shuddering about me, that is 
 willing to go more frankly in. Let us put up then. — By 
 my halidom ! here is a little dead fish hanging at my 
 hook : — and yet I never felt him bite. 
 
 Pis. 'Tis only a little week-old gudgeon, and he had not 
 strength enough to stir the cork. However, we may say 
 boldly that we have caught a fish. 
 
 Via. Nay, I have another here in my bottle. He was 
 sleeping on his back at the top of the water, and I got him 
 out nimbly with the hollow of my hand. 
 
 Pis. We have caught a brace then ; — besides the great 
 one that was lost amongst the grass. I am glad on't, for we 
 
WALTON REDIVIVUS. 
 
 119 
 
 can bestow them upon some poor hungry person in our way 
 home. It is passable good sport for the place. 
 
 Via. I am satisfied it must be called so. But the next 
 time I come hither, I shall bring a reel with me, and a 
 ready-made minnow, for I am certain there must be some 
 marvellous huge pikes here ; they always make a scarcity 
 of other fish. However, I have been bravely entertained, 
 and, at the first holiday, I will come to it again. 
 
120 
 
 « LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG," 
 
 Seems, at first sight, an unreasonable demand. May I 
 profess no tenderness for Belinda without vowing an 
 attachment to Shock? Must I feel an equal warmth 
 towards my bosom friend and his greyhound ? Some 
 country gentlemen keep a pack of dogs. Am I expected 
 to divide my personal regard for my Lord D. amongst all 
 his celebrated fox hounds ? 
 
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 121 
 
 I may be constitutionally averse to the whole canine 
 species ; I have been bitten, perhaps, in my infancy by a 
 mastiff, or pinned by a bull- dog, There are harrowing 
 tales on record of hydrophobia, of human barkings, and 
 inhuman smotherings. A dog may be my bugbear. 
 Again, there are differences in taste. One man may like 
 to have his hand licked all over by a grateful spaniel ; but 
 I would not have my extremity served so — even by the 
 human tongue. 
 
 But the proverb, so arrogant and absolute in spirit, 
 becomes harmless in its common application. The terms 
 are seldom enforced, except by persons that a gentleman 
 is not likely to embrace in his affection — rat-catchers, 
 butchers, and bull-baiters, tinkers and blind mendicants, 
 beldames and witches. A slaughterman's tulip-eared 
 puppy, is as liable to engage one's liking as his chuckle- 
 headed master. When a courtier makes friends with a 
 drover, he will not be likely to object to a sheep-dog as 
 a third party in the alliance. 
 
 " Love me," says Mother Sawyer, " love my dog." 
 
 Who careth to dote on either a witch or her familiar ? 
 The proverb thus loses half of its oppression : in other 
 cases, it may become a pleasant fiction, an agreeable con- 
 
122 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 
 
 fession. I forget what pretty Countess it was, who made 
 confession of her tenderness for a certain sea captain, by 
 her abundant caresses of his Esquimaux wolf-dog. The 
 shame of the avowal became milder, (as the virulence of 
 the small pox is abated, after passing through the consti- 
 tution of a cow,) by its transmission through the animal. 
 
 In like manner, a formal young Quaker and Quakeress 
 — perfect strangers to each other, and who might otherwise 
 have sat mum-chance together for many hours — fell sud- 
 denly to romping, merely through the maiden's playfulness 
 wilh Obadiah's terrier. The dog broke the ice of formality, 
 —and, as a third party, took off the painful awkwardness 
 of self-introduction. 
 
 Sir Ulic Mackilligut, when he wished to break hand- 
 somely with Mistress Tabitha Bramble, kicked her cur. 
 The dog broke the force of the affront, and the knight's 
 gallantry was spared the reproach of a direct confession 
 of disgust towards the spinster ; as the lady took the aver- 
 sion to herself only as the brute's ally. 
 
 My step-mother Hubbard, and myself, were not on visit- 
 ing terms for many years. Not, we flattered ourselves, 
 through any hatred or uncharitableness, disgraceful be- 
 tween relations, but from a constitutional antipathy on the 
 one side, and a doting affection on the other — to a dog. 
 My breach of duty and decent respect was softened down 
 
POOR-TRAY CHARMANT. 
 
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 125 
 
 into my dread of hydrophobia : — my second-hand parent 
 even persuaded herself, that I was jealous of her regard 
 for Bijou. It was a comfortable self-delusion on both sides, 
 — but the scape-goat died, and then, having no reasonable 
 reason to excuse my visits, we came to an open rupture. 
 There was no hope of another favourite.— My step-mother 
 had no general affection for the race, but only for that 
 particular cur. It was one of those incongruous attach- 
 ments, not accountable to reason, but seemingly predes- 
 tined by fate. The dog was no keepsake — -no favourite of 
 a dear deceased friend ; — ugly as the brute was, she loved 
 him for his own sake, — not for any fondness and fidelity, 
 for he was the most ungrateful dog, under kindness, that 
 I ever knew ; — not for his vigilance, for he was never 
 wakeful. He was not useful, like a turnspit ; nor accom- 
 plished, for he could not dance. He had not personal 
 beauty even, to make him a welcome object; and yet, if 
 my relation had been requested to display her jewels, she 
 would have pointed to the dog, and have answered in the 
 very spirit of Cornelia, — " There is my Bijou." 
 
 Conceive, Reader, under this endearing title, a hideous 
 dwarf-mongrel, half pug and half terrier, with a face like 
 a frog's—his goggle-eyes squeezing out of his head : — a 
 body like a barrel churn, on four short bandy legs, — as if, 
 in his puppyhood, he had been ill-nursed — terminating in 
 
126 LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 
 
 a tail like a rabbit's. There is only one sound in nature, 
 similar to his barking:— to hear his voice, you would have 
 looked, not for a dog, but for a duck. He was fat, and 
 scant of breath. It might have been said, that he was 
 stuffed alive ; — but his loving mistress, in mournful antici- 
 pation of his death, kept a handsome glass case, to hold 
 his mummy. She intended, like dueen Constance, to 
 " stuff out his vacant garment with his form;" — to have 
 him ever before her, " in his habit as he lived ; " — but that 
 hope was never realized. 
 
 In those days there were dog-stealers, as well as slave 
 dealers, — the kidnapping of the canine, as of the Negro 
 victim, being attributable to his skin. 
 
 One evening, Bijou disappeared. A fruitless search was 
 made for him at all his accustomed haunts, — but at day 
 break the next morning, — stripped naked of his skin,— with 
 a mock paper frill, — and the stump of a tobacco-pipe stuck 
 in his nether jaw,— he was discovered, set upright against 
 a post ! 
 
 My step-mother's grief was ungovernable. Tears, which 
 she had not wasted on her deceased step-children, were 
 shed then. In her first transport, a reward of £100 was 
 offered for the apprehension of the murderers, but in 
 
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. 127 
 
 The remains of Bijou, such as they were, she caused to 
 be deposited under the lawn. 
 
 I forget what popular poet was gratified with ten guineas 
 for writing his epitaph ; but it was in the measure of the 
 " Pleasures of Hope." 
 
 •' O LIST UNTO MY TALE OF WOE ! " 
 
128 
 
 REMONSTRATORY ODE, 
 
 FROM THE ELEPHANT AT EXETER CHANGE, TO MR. MATHEWS, AT 
 THR ENGLISH OPERA-HOUSE. 
 
 " See with what courteous action, 
 
 He beckons you to a more removed ground."— Hamlet. 
 
 [written by a friend.] 
 
 Oh, Mr. Mathews ! Sir ! 
 (If a plain elephant may speak his mind, 
 And that I have a mind to speak I find 
 
 By my inward stir) 
 I long have thought, and wish'd to say, that we 
 Mar our well-merited prosperity 
 
 By being such near neighbours, 
 My keeper now hath lent me pen and ink, 
 Shov'd in my truss of lunch, and tub of drink, 
 
 And left me to my labours. 
 The whole menagerie is in repose, 
 The Coatamundi is in his Sunday clothes, 
 Watching the Lynx's most unnatural doze ; 
 The Panther is asleep, and the Macaw ; 
 The Lion is engaged on something raw ; 
 
REMONSTRATORY ODE. 129 
 
 The white bear cools his chin 
 
 'Gainst the wet tin ; 
 And the confined old Monkey's in the straw. 
 All the nine little Lionets are lying 
 Slumbering in milk, and sighing ; 
 
 Miss Cross is sipping ox-tail soup, 
 
 In her front coop, 
 So here's the happy mid-clay moment ; — yes, 
 I seize it, Mr. Mathews, to address 
 
 A word or two 
 To you 
 On the subject of the ruin which must come 
 By both being in the Strand, and both at home 
 On the same nights ; two treats 
 
 So vjry near each other, 
 
 As, oh my brother! 
 To play old gooseberry with both receipts. 
 
 When you begin 
 Your summer fun, three times a week, at eight, 
 And carriages roll up, and cits roll in, 
 I feel a change in Exeter 'Change's change. 
 And, dash my trunk ! I hate 
 To ring my bell, when you ring yours, and go 
 With a diminish'd glory through my show T ! 
 
130 REMONSTRATORY ODE. 
 
 It is most strange ; 
 But crowds that meant to see me eat a stack, 
 And sip a water-butt or so, and crack 
 A root of mangel-wurzel with my foot, 
 Eat little children's fruit, 
 
 Pick from the floor small coins, 
 And then turn slowly round and show my India-rubber loins : 
 'Tis strange — most strange, but true, 
 That these same crowds seek you ! 
 Pass my abode, and pay at your next door ! 
 It makes me roar 
 
 With anguish when I think of this ; I go 
 With sad severity my nightly rounds 
 Before one poor front row, 
 My fatal funny foe ! 
 And when I stoop, as duty bids, I sigh 
 And feel that, while poor elephantine I, 
 
 Pick up a sixpence, you pick up the pounds ! 
 
 Could you not go ? 
 Could you not take the Cobourg or the Surry ? 
 Or Sadler's Wells, — (I am not in a hurry, 
 I never am !) for the next season ? — oh ! 
 
 Woe ! woe ! woe ! 
 To both of us, if we remain ; for not 
 In silence will I bear my altered lot, 
 
REMONSTRATORY ODE. 131 
 
 To have you merry, sir, at my expense ; 
 
 No man of any sense, 
 No true great person (and we both are great 
 In our own ways) would tempt another's fate. 
 I would myself depart 
 In Mr. Cross's cart ; 
 
 But, like Othello, " am not easily moved/' 
 There's a nice house in Tottenham Court, they say, 
 Fit for a single gentleman's small play ; 
 
 And more conveniently near your home ; 
 
 You'll easily go and come. 
 Or get a room in the City — in some street— 
 Coachmaker's Hall, or the Paul's Head, 
 
 Cateaton Street ; 
 Any large place, in short, in which to get your bread ; 
 
 But do not stay, and get 
 
 Me into the Gazette ! 
 
 Ah ! The Gazette ; 
 I press my forehead with my trunk, and wet 
 My tender cheek with elephantine tears, 
 
 Shed of a walnut size 
 
 From my wise eyes, 
 To think of ruin after prosperous years. 
 
 What a dread case would be 
 
 For me — large me ! 
 K 2 
 
132 REMONSTRATORY ODE. 
 
 To meet al Basinghall Street, the first and seventh 
 
 And the eleventh ! 
 To undergo (D n!) 
 
 My last examination ! 
 To cringe, and to surrender, 
 Like a criminal offender, 
 All my effects — my bell-pull, and my bell, 
 My bolt, my stock of hay, my new deal cell. 
 
 To post my ivory, Sir ! 
 And have some curious commissioner 
 Very irreverently search my trunk ; 
 
 'Sdeath ! I should die 
 With rage, to find a tiger in possession 
 Of my abode ; up to his yellow knees 
 In my old straw ; and my profound profession 
 Entrusted to two beasts of assignees ! 
 
 The truth is simply this, — if you will stay 
 
 Under my very nose, 
 
 Filling your rows 
 Just at my feeding time, to see your play, 
 
 My mind's made up, 
 
 No more at nine I sup, 
 Except on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays, 
 
 From eight to eleven, 
 
 As I hope for heaven, 
 
" HOW HAPPY COULD I BE WITH EITHER !" 
 
REMONSTRATORY ODE. 135 
 
 On Thursdays, and on Saturdays, and Mondays, 
 I'll squeak and roar, and grunt without cessation, 
 And utterly confound your recitation. 
 And, mark me ! all my friends of the furry snout 
 
 Shall join a chorus shout, 
 We will be heard — we'll spoil 
 Your wicked ruination toil. 
 
 Insolvency must ensue 
 To you, sir, you ; 
 Unless you move your opposition shop, 
 And let me stop. 
 
 I have no more to say : — I do not write 
 In anger, but in sorrow ; I must look 
 However to my interests every night, 
 
 And they detest your " Memorandum-book." 
 If we could join our forces — I should like it ; 
 
 You do the dialogue, and I the songs. 
 A voice to me belongs ; 
 (The Editors of the Globe and Traveller ring 
 With praises of it, when I hourly sing 
 
 God save the King.) 
 If such a bargain could be schemed, I'd strike it! 
 I think, too, I could do the Welch old man 
 In the Youthful Days, if dress'd upon your plan ; 
 
J 36 
 
 REMONSTRATORY ODE. 
 
 And the attorney in your Paris trip, — 
 
 I'm large about the hip ! 
 Now think of this! — for we cannot go on 
 
 As next door rivals, that my mind declares 
 I must be pennyless, or you be gone ! 
 We must live separate, or else have shares. 
 J am a friend or foe 
 As you take this ; 
 Let me your profitable hubbub miss, 
 Or be it " Mathews, Elephant, and Co. ! " 
 
 'take, o take those lips away 
 
137 
 
 A NEW LIFE-PRESERVER. 
 
 " Of hair -breadth 'scapes." — Othello. 
 
 I have read somewhere of a Traveller, who carried with 
 him a brace of pistols, a carbine, a cutlass, a dagger, and 
 an umbrella, but was indebted for his preservation to the 
 umbrella; it grappled with a bush, when he was rolling 
 over a precipice. In like manner, my friend W — -, 
 though armed with a sword, rifle, and hunting-knife, 
 owed his existence — to his wig ! 
 
 He was specimen-hunting (for W is a first-rate natu- 
 ralist,) somewhere in the back woods of America, when, 
 happening to light upon a dense covert, there sprang out 
 upon him, — not a panther or catamountain, — but, with 
 terrible whoop and yell, a wild Indian, — one of a tribe 
 
 then hostile to our settlers. W 's gun was mastered 
 
 in a twinkling, himself stretched on the earth, the barba- 
 rous knife, destined to make him balder than Granby's 
 celebrated Marquis, leaped eagerly from its sheath. 
 
 Conceive the horrible weapon making its preliminary 
 flourishes and circumgyrations ; the savage features, made 
 savager by paint and ruddle, working themselves up to a 
 
138 A NEW LIFE-PRESERVER. 
 
 demoniacal crisis of triumphant malignity ; his red right 
 hand clutching the shearing-knife ; his left, the frizzled 
 top-knot ; and then, the artificial scalp coming off in the 
 Mohawk grasp ! 
 
 W says, the Indian catchpole was, for some mo- 
 ments, motionless with surprise: recovering, at last, he 
 dragged his captive along, through brake and jungle, to 
 the encampment. A peculiar whoop soon brought the 
 whole horde to the spot. The Indian addressed them with 
 vehement gestures, in the course of which W— — was 
 again thrown down, the knife again performed its circuits, 
 and the whole transaction was pantomimically described. 
 All Indian sedateness and restraint were overcome. The 
 assembly made every demonstration of wonder ; and the 
 wig was fitted on, rightly, askew, and hind part before, by 
 a hundred pair of red hands. Captain Gulliver's glove 
 was not a greater puzzle to the Houhyhnms. From the 
 men, it passed to the squaws ; and from them, down to the 
 
 least of the urchins ; W 's head, in the meantime, 
 
 frying in a midsummer sun. At length, the phenomenon 
 returned into the hands of the chief — a venerable grey- 
 beard : he examined it afresh, very attentively, and, after 
 a long deliberation, maintained with true Indian silence 
 and gravity, made a speech in his own tongue, that pro- 
 cured for the anxious trembling captive very unexpected 
 
A NEW LIFE-PRESERVER. 139 
 
 honours. In fact, the whole tribe of women and warriors 
 danced round him, with such unequivocal marks of homage, 
 that even W comprehended that he was not in- 
 tended for sacrifice. He was then carried in triumph to 
 their wigwams, his body daubed with their body colours of 
 the most honourable patterns ; and he was given to under- 
 stand, that he might choose any of their marriageable 
 maidens for a squaw. Availing himself of this privilege, 
 and so becoming, by degrees, more a proficient in their 
 language, he learned the cause of this extraordinary res- 
 pect. — It was considered, that he had been a great war- 
 rior; that he had, by mischance of war, been overcome 
 and tufted ; but, that, whether by valour or stratagem, 
 each equally estimable amongst the savages, he had 
 recovered his liberty and his scalp. 
 
 As long as W kept his own council, he was safe ; 
 
 but trusting his Indian Dalilah with the secret of his 
 locks, it soon got wind amongst the squaws, and from 
 them became known to the warriors and chiefs. A so- 
 lemn sitting was held at midnight, by the chiefs, to consi- 
 der the propriety of knocking the poor wig-owner on the 
 head ; but he had received a timely hint of their inten- 
 tion, and, when the tomahawks sought for him, he was 
 far on his way, with his Life-preserver, towards a British 
 settlement. 
 
140 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 In the figure above, — (a medley of human faces, 
 wherein certain features belong in common to different 
 visages, the eyebrow of one, for instance, forming the 
 mouth of another,) — I have tried to typify a common cha- 
 racteristic of dreams, namely, the entanglement of divers 
 ideas, to the waking mind distinct or incongruous, but, by 
 the confusion of sleep, inseparably ravelled up, and knotted 
 into Gordian intricacies. For, as the equivocal feature, in 
 the emblem, belongs indifferently to either countenance, 
 
A DREAM. 141 
 
 but is appropriated by the head that happens to be pre- 
 sently the object of contemplation ; so, in a dream, two 
 separate notions will mutually involve some convertible 
 incident, that becomes, by turns, a symptom of both in 
 general, or of either in particular. Thus are begotten the 
 most extravagant associations of thoughts and images, — 
 unnatural connexions, like those marriages of forbidden 
 relationships, where mothers become cousin to their own 
 sons or daughters, and quite as bewildering as such gene- 
 alogical embarrassments. 
 
 I had a dismal dream once, of this nature, that will 
 serve well for an illustration, and which originated in the 
 failure of my first, and last, attempt as a dramatic writer. 
 Many of my readers, if I were to name the piece in ques- 
 tion, would remember its signal condemnation. As soon 
 as the Tragedy of my Tragedy was completed, I got into 
 a coach, and rode home. My nerves were quivering with 
 shame and mortification. I tried to compose myself over 
 " Paradise Lost," but it failed to soothe me. I flung my- 
 self into bed, and at length slept ! but the disaster of the 
 night still haunted my dreams ; I was again in the ac- 
 cursed theatre, but with a difference. It was a compound 
 of the Drury Lane Building, and Pandemonium. There 
 were the old shining green pillars, on either side of the 
 stage, but, above, a sublimer dome than ever overhung 
 
142 A DREAM. 
 
 mortal playhouse. The wonted familiars were in keeping 
 of the fore-spoken seats, but the first companies they ad- 
 mitted were new and strange to the place. The first and 
 second tiers, 
 
 " With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms." 
 
 showed like those purgatorial circles sung of by the ancient 
 Florentine. Satan was in the stage-box. The pit, dis- 
 mally associated with its bottomless name-sake, was peo- 
 pled with fiends. Mehu scowled from the critic's seat. 
 Belial, flushed with wine, led on with shout and catcall the 
 uproar of the one shilling infernals. My hair stood up- 
 right with dread and horror ; I had an appalling sense, that 
 more than my dramatic welfare was at stake : — that it was 
 to be not a purely literary ordeal. An alarming figure, 
 sometimes a newspaper reporter, sometimes a devil, so 
 prevaricating are the communications of sleep, was sitting, 
 with his note-book, at my side. My play began. As it 
 proceeded, sounds indescribable arose from the infernal 
 auditory, increasing till the end of the first act. The 
 familiar cry of " Chuse any oranges ! " was then inter- 
 mingled with the murmurings of demons. The tumult 
 grew with the progress of the play. The last act passed 
 in dumb show, the horned monsters bellowing, through- 
 out, like the wild bulls of Bashan, Prongs and flesh-hooks 
 
A DREAM. 143 
 
 showered upon the stage. Mrs. Siddons — the human nature 
 thus jumbling with the diabolical — was struck by a brim- 
 stone ball. Her lofty brother, robed in imperial purple, 
 came forward towards the orchestra, to remonstrate, and 
 was received like the Arch-devil in the Poem : 
 
 " he hears 
 
 On all sides, from innumerable tongues 
 A dismal universal hiss, the sound 
 Of public scorn. " 
 
 He bowed to the sense of the house, and withdrew. My 
 doom was sealed ; the recording devil noted down my 
 sentence. A suffocating vapour, now smelling of sulphur, 
 and now of gas, issued from the unquenchable stage 
 lamps. The flames of the Catalonian Castle, burning in 
 the back scene, in compliance with the catastrophe of the 
 piece, blazed up with horrible import. My flesh crept all 
 over me. I thought of the everlasting torments, and at 
 the next moment, of the morrow's paragraphs. I shrunk 
 from the comments of the Morning Post, and, the hot marl 
 of Malebolge. The sins of authorship had confounded 
 themselves, inextricably, with the mortal sins of the law. 
 I could not disentangle my own from my play's perdition. 
 I was damned : but whether spiritually or dramatically the 
 twilight intelligence of a dream was not clear enough to 
 determine. 
 
144 A DREAM. 
 
 Another sample, wherein the preliminaries of the dream 
 involved one portion, and implicitly forbade the other 
 half of the conclusion, was more whimsical. It occurred 
 when I was on the eve of marriage, a season, when, if 
 lovers sleep sparingly, they dream profusely. A very brief 
 slumber sufficed to carry me in the night-coach to Bognor. 
 It had been concerted, between Honoria and myself, that 
 we should pass the honeymoon at some such place upon 
 the coast. The purpose of my solitary journey was to pro- 
 cure an appropriate dwelling, and which, we had agreed, 
 should be a little pleasant house, with an indispensable 
 look-out upon the sea. I chose one, accordingly ; a pretty 
 villa, with bow windows, and a prospect delightfully marine. 
 The ocean murmur sounded incessantly from the beach. 
 A decent elderly body, in decayed sables, undertook, on her 
 part, to promote the comforts of the occupants by every suit- 
 able attention, and, as she assured me, at a very reasonable 
 rate. So far, the nocturnal faculty had served me truly. A 
 daydream could not have proceeded more orderly; but alas! 
 just here, when the dwelling was selected, the sea view 
 secured, the rent agreed upon, when every thing was plau- 
 sible, consistent, and rational, the incoherent fancy crept 
 in and confounded all, — by marrying me to the old woman 
 of the house ! 
 
 A large proportion of my dreams have, like the preceding, 
 
OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME ! " 
 
A DREAM. 147 
 
 an origin, more or less remote, in some actual occurrence. 
 But from all my observation and experience, the popular 
 notion is a mistaken one, that our dreams take their sub- 
 ject and colour from the business or meditations of the day. 
 It is true, that sleep frequently gives back real images and 
 actions, like a mirror ; but the reflection returns at a lon- 
 ger interval. It extracts from pages of some standing, like 
 the " Retrospective Review." The mind released from its 
 connexion with external associations, flies off, gladly, to 
 novel speculations. The soul does not carry its tasks out 
 of school. The novel, read upon the pillow, is of no more 
 influence than the bride-cake laid beneath it. The charms 
 of Di Vernon have faded with me, into a vision of Dr. 
 Faustus ; the bridal dance and festivities, into a chase by 
 a mad bullock. 
 
 The sleeper, like the felon, at the putting on of the 
 night-cap, is about to be turned off from the affairs of this 
 world. The material scaffold sinks under him ; he drops 
 — as it is expressively called — asleep; and the spirit is 
 transported, we know not whither! 
 
 I should like to know, that, by any earnest application of 
 thought, we could impress its subject upon the midnight 
 blank. It would be worth a day's devotion to Milton, — 
 " from morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve," — to ob- 
 tain but one glorious vision from the " Paradise Lost," to 
 l2 
 
J 48 A DREAM. 
 
 Spenser, to purchase but one magical reflection — a Fata 
 Morgana, of the " Faery Queen !" I have heard it affirmed, 
 indeed, by a gentleman, an especial advocate of Early 
 Rising, that he could procure whatever dream he wished ; 
 but I disbelieve it, or he would pass far more hours than 
 he does in bed. If it were possible, by any process, to 
 bespeak the night's entertainment, the theatres, for me, 
 might close their uninviting doors. Who would care to 
 sit at the miserable parodies of " Lear," " Hamlet," and 
 " Othello ; " to say nothing of the " Tempest, " or the 
 " Midsummer Night's Phantasy," — that could command 
 the representation of either of those noble Dramas, with all 
 the sublime personations, the magnificent scenery, and 
 awful reality of a dream ? 
 
 For horrible fancies, merely, nightmares and incubi, 
 there is a recipe extant, that is currently attributed to the 
 late Mr. Fuseli. I mean, a supper of raw pork ; but, as I 
 never slept after it, I cannot speak as to the effect. 
 
 Opium, I have never tried, and, therefore, have never 
 experienced such magnificent visions as are described by 
 its eloquent historian. I have never been buried for ages 
 under pyramids ; and yet, methinks, have suffered agonies 
 as intense as his could be, from the common-place inflic- 
 tions. For example, a night spent in the counting of in- 
 terminable numbers, — an Inquisitorial penance — ever- 
 lasting tedium — the Mind's treadmill ! 
 
MY NATURE IS SUBDUED TO WHAT IT WORKS IN." 
 
A DREAM. 151 
 
 Another writer, in recording his horrible dreams, de- 
 scribes himself to have been sometimes an animal pursued 
 by hounds; sometimes a bird, torn in pieces by eagles. 
 They are flat contradictions of my Theory of Dreams. 
 Such Ovidian Metamorphoses never yet entered into my 
 experience. I never translate myself. I must know the 
 taste of rape, and hempseed, and have cleansed my giz- 
 zard with small gravel, before even Fancy can turn me 
 into a bird. I must have another nowl upon my shoulders, 
 ere I can feel a longing for " a bottle of chopt hay, or your 
 good dried oats." My own habits and prej udices, all the 
 symptoms of my identity, cling to me in my dreams. It 
 never happened to me to fancy myself a child or a woman, 
 dwarf or giant, stone-blind, or deprived of any sense. 
 
 And here, the latter part of the sentence reminds me of 
 an interesting question, on this subject, that has greatly 
 puzzled me ; and of which I should be glad to obtain a 
 satisfactory solution, viz. — How does a blind man dream ? 
 I mean a person with the opaque chrystal from his birth. 
 He is defective in that very faculty, which, of all others, is 
 most active in those night-passages, thence emphatically 
 called Visions. He has had no acquaintance with external 
 images, and has, therefore, none of those transparent pic- 
 tures, that, like the slides of a magic-lantern, pass before 
 the mind's eye, and are projected by the inward spiritual 
 
152 A DREAM. 
 
 light upon the utter blank. His imagination must be like 
 an imperfect kaleidoscope, totally unfurnished with those 
 parti-coloured fragments, whereof the complete instrument 
 makes such interminable combinations. It is difficult to 
 conceive such a man's dream. 
 
 Is it, a still benighted wandering,-— a pitch-dark night 
 progress, made known to him by the consciousness of the 
 remaining senses ? Is he still pulled through the universal 
 blank, by an invisible power, as it were, at the nether end 
 of the string ? — regaled, sometimes, with celestial volunta- 
 ries and unknown mysterious fragrances, answering to our 
 romantic flights ; at other times, with homely voices and 
 more familiar odours ; here, of rank smelling cheeses ; 
 there, of pungent pickles or aromatic drugs, hinting his 
 progress through a metropolitan street. Does he over 
 again enjoy the grateful roundness of those substantial 
 droppings from the invisible passenger, — palpable deposits 
 of an abstract benevolence, — or, in his night-mares, suffer 
 anew those painful concussions and corporeal buffetings, 
 from that (to him) obscure evil principle, the Parish Beadle? 
 
 This question I am happily enabled to resolve, through 
 the information of the oldest of those blind Tobits that 
 stand in fresco against Bunhill Wall ; the same who made 
 that notable comparison, of scarlet, to the sound of a 
 trumpet. As I understood him, harmony, with the gravel- 
 
A DREAM. 153 
 
 blind, is prismatic as well as chromatic. To use his own 
 illustration, a wall-eyed man has a palette in his ear, as 
 well as in his mouth. Some stone blinds, indeed, dull 
 dogs, without any ear for colour, profess to distinguish the 
 different hues and shades, by the touch, but that, he said, 
 was a slovenly uncertain method, and in the chief article 
 of Paintings not allowed to be exercised. 
 
 On my expressing some natural surprise at the aptitude 
 of his celebrated comparison,— a miraculous close likening, 
 to my mind, of the known to the unknown, — he told me, 
 the instance was nothing, for the least discriminative 
 among them could distinguish the scarlet colour of the 
 mail guards' liveries, by the sound of their horns: but 
 there were others, so acute their faculty ! that they could 
 tell the very features and complexion of their relatives and 
 familiars, by the mere tone of their voices. I was much 
 gratified with this explanation ; for I confess, hitherto, I was 
 always extremely puzzled by that narrative in the " Tatler," 
 of a young gentleman's behaviour after the operation of 
 couching, and especially at the wonderful promptness 
 with which he distinguished his father from his mother, — 
 his mistress from her maid. But it appears that the blind 
 are not so blind as they have been esteemed in the vulgar 
 notion. What they cannot get in one way they obtain in 
 
154 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 another : they, in fact, realize what the author of Hudibras 
 has ridiculed as a fiction, for they set up 
 
 « communities of senses, 
 
 To chop and change intelligences. 
 
 As Rosicrucian Virtuosis 
 
 Can see with ears— and hear with noses." 
 
 SPRING AND FALL. 
 
155 
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Alack ! 'tis melancholy theme to think 
 How Learning doth in rugged states abide, 
 And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, 
 In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied ; 
 Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride, 
 Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, 
 But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, 
 In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, 
 In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen ! 
 
 ii. 
 This College looketh South and West alsoe, 
 Because it hath a cast in windows twain ; 
 Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow 
 Thorough transparent holes in every pane, 
 Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again 
 With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach, 
 To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain 
 Stormeth, he puts, " once more unto the breach," 
 Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each. 
 
156 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 III. 
 
 And in the midst a little door there is, 
 Whereon a board that doth congratulate 
 With painted letters, red as blood I wis, 
 Thus written, 
 
 " CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE : " 
 And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate, 
 Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak, 
 And moans of infants that bemoan their fate, 
 In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, 
 Which, all i'the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For some are meant to right illegal wrongs 
 And some for Doctors of Divinitie, 
 Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues, 
 And soe win academical degree ; 
 But some are bred for service of the sea, 
 Howbeit, their store of learning is but small. 
 For mickle waste he counteth it would be 
 To stock a head with bookish wares at all, 
 Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball. 
 
 v. 
 Six babes he sways, — some little and some big, 
 Divided into classes six ; — alsoe, 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 157 
 
 He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig, 
 That in the College fareth to and fro, 
 And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below, — 
 And eke the learned rudiments they scan, 
 And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know, — 
 Hereafter to be shown in caravan, 
 And raise the wonderment of many a learned man. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, 
 Whereof, above his head, some two or three 
 Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls. 
 But on the branches of no living tree, 
 And overlook the learned family ; 
 While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, 
 Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, 
 Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research 
 In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge — now a birch. 
 
 VII. 
 
 No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, 
 Such as would magisterial hams imbed, 
 But sitteth lowly on a beechen log, 
 Secure in high authority and dread : 
 
158 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Large, as a dome for learning, seems his head, 
 And like Apollo's, all beset with rays, 
 Because his locks are so unkempt and red, 
 And stand abroad in many several ways : — 
 No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baise, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows 
 O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, 
 That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows 
 A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue ; 
 His nose, — it is a coral to the view ; 
 Well nourish' d with Pierian Potheen, — 
 For much he loves his native mountain dew ; — 
 But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, 
 A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. 
 
 IX. 
 
 As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short 
 
 As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales ; 
 
 But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, 
 
 So that the wind his airy breast assails ; 
 
 Below, he wears the nether garb of males, 
 
 Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee ; — 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 159 
 
 Thence further down the native red prevails, 
 Of his own naked fleecy hosierie : — 
 Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee. 
 
 x. 
 
 Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap 
 His function in a magisterial gown, 
 That shows more countries in it than a map, — 
 Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown, 
 Besides some blots, standing for country-town ; 
 And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide ; 
 But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown, 
 He turns the garment of the other side, 
 Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, 
 That look for shady or for sunny noon, 
 Within his visage, like an almanack, — 
 His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon : 
 But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, 
 With horrid chill each little heart un warms, 
 Knowing, that infant showr's will follow soon, 
 And with forebodings of near wrath and storms 
 They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms. 
 
160 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ah ! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat 
 " Corduroy Colloquy,"— or " Ki, Kae, Kod,"— 
 Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat 
 More sodden, tho' already made of sod, 
 For Dan shall whip him with the word of God, — 
 Severe by rule, and not by nature mild, 
 He never spoils the child and spares the rod, 
 But spoils the rod and never spares the child, 
 And soe with holy rule deems he is reconciled. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But, surely, the just sky will never wink 
 At men who take delight in childish throe, 
 And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink 
 Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe ; 
 Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, 
 By useless birches, that forlorn recess, 
 Which is no holiday, in Pit below, 
 Will hell not seem designed for their distress, — 
 A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use 
 Of needful discipline, in due degree. 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 161 
 
 Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, 
 Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree, 
 This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be. 
 Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands, 
 And Learning's help be used for infamie, 
 By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, 
 In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands. 
 
 xv. 
 
 But ah ! what shrilly cry doth now alarm 
 The sooty fowls that doz'd upon the beam, 
 All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm, 
 And cackling chorus with the human scream ; 
 Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam 
 In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, 
 Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, 
 That falsely lets the fierce besieger in 
 Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 No parent dear he hath to heed his cries ; — 
 Alas ! his parent dear is far aloof, 
 And deep his Seven-Dial cellar lies, 
 Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, 
 Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, 
 
 M 
 
162 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, 
 Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy- woof, 
 Dreaming he sees his home, — his Phelim smile ; 
 Ah me ! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Ah ! who can paint that hard and heavy time, 
 When first the scholar lists in learning's train, 
 And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb, 
 Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain, 
 From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, 
 Wherein, alas ! no sugar'd juices dwell ? 
 For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain, 
 Another weepeth over chilblains fell, 
 Always upon the heel, yet never to be well ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Anon a third, for his delicious root, 
 Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit, 
 So soon is human violence afoot, 
 So hardly is the harmless biter bit ! 
 Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit 
 And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan, 
 Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit, 
 Alack, — mischance comes seldomtimes alone, 
 But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one. 
 
ALL IN THE DOWNS. 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 165 
 
 XIX. 
 
 For lo ! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, 
 Smites his scald head, that is already sore, — 
 Superfluous wound, — such is Misfortune's rub ! 
 Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, 
 And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, 
 That still with backward fist he strives to dry ; 
 Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er, 
 His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, 
 Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky. 
 
 xx. 
 
 So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, 
 And with his natural untender knack, 
 By new distress, bids former grievance cease, 
 Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback, 
 That sets the mournful visage all awrack ; 
 Yet soon the childish countenance will shine 
 Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, 
 For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, 
 This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine. 
 
 xxi. 
 
 Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound, 
 The Dominie lays ope the learned page ; 
 
166 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 (So be it called) although he doth expound 
 Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage ; 
 Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age, 
 How Romulus was bred in savage wood, 
 By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage ; 
 And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, 
 But watered it, alas ! with warm fraternal blood. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Anon, he turns to that Homeric war, 
 How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town ; 
 And stout Achilles at his jaunting-car, 
 Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown : 
 And eke the bard, that sung of their renown, 
 In garb of Greece most beggar-like and torn, 
 He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down : 
 Because, at once, in seven cities born ; 
 And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Anon, through old Mythology he goes, 
 Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees, 
 But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows 
 How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates, 
 Confess' d not to those heathen hes and shes ; 
 
' ! THERE S NOTHING HALF SO SWEET IN LIFE, 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 169 
 
 But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope 
 Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys, 
 And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope, 
 Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, 
 To new philosophies, that still are green, 
 And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guide 
 The wheels of great political machine ; 
 If English corn should grow abroad, I ween, 
 And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet ; 
 How many pigs be born to each spalpeen ; 
 And ah ! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,— 
 With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Here, he makes end ; and all the fry of youth, 
 That stood around with serious look intense, 
 Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth, 
 Which they had opened to his eloquence, 
 As if their hearing were a threefold sense ; 
 But now the current of his words is done, 
 And whether any fruits shall spring from thence, 
 In future time, with any mother's son ! 
 It is a thing, God wot ! that can be told by none. 
 
170 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Now by the creeping shadows of the noon, 
 The hour is come to lay aside their lore ; 
 The cheerful pedagogue perceives it soon, 
 And cries, " Begone ! " unto the imps, — and four 
 Snatch their two hats, and struggle for the door, 
 Like ardent spirits vented from a cask, 
 All blythe and boisterous, — but leave two more, 
 With Reading made Uneasy for a task, 
 To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod, 
 With tender moss so sleekly overgrown, 
 That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod, 
 So soothly kind is Erin to her own ! 
 And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone, — 
 For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow ; 
 Ah ! Phelim's step-dame is a canker' d crone ! 
 Whilst other twain play at an Irish row, 
 And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow ! 
 
 xxvm. 
 But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, 
 Now changeth ferula for rural hoe ; 
 But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift 
 
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 171 
 
 His college gown, because of solar glow, 
 And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow : 
 Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean, 
 Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, 
 Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, 
 With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, 
 Link'd each to each by labour, like a bee ; 
 Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs ; — 
 Would there were many more such wights as he, 
 To sway each capital academie 
 Of Cam and Isis ; for, alack ! at each 
 There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, 
 That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, 
 But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech ! 
 
172 
 
 THE SEA-SPELL. 
 
 " Cauld, cauld, he lies beneath the deep." 
 
 Old Scotch Ballad. 
 
 It was a jolly mariner ! 
 
 The tallest man of three, — 
 
 He loosed his sail against the wind, 
 
 And turned his boat to sea : 
 
 The ink-black sky told every eye, 
 
 A storm was soon to be ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 But still that jolly mariner 
 
 Took in no reef at all, 
 
 For, in his pouch, confidingly, 
 
 He wore a baby's caul ; 
 
 A thing, as gossip -nurses know, 
 
 That always brings a squall ! 
 
PANDEANS. 
 
THE SEA-SPELL. 175 
 
 III. 
 
 His hat was new, or, newly glaz'd, 
 Shone brightly in the sun ; 
 His jacket, like a mariner's, 
 True blue as e'er was spun ; 
 His ample trowsers, like Saint Paul, 
 Bore forty stripes save one. 
 
 And now the fretting foaming tide 
 
 He steer'd away to cross ; 
 
 The bounding pinnace play'd a game 
 
 Of dreary pitch and toss ; 
 
 A game that, on the good dry land, 
 
 Is apt to bring a loss ! 
 
 Good Heaven befriend that little boat, 
 
 i 
 And guide her on her way \ 
 
 A boat, they say, has canvass wings, 
 
 But cannot fly away ! 
 
 Though like a merry singing-bird, 
 
 She sits upon the spray ! 
 
176 THE SEA-SPELL. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Still east by south the little boat, 
 
 With tawny sail kept beating : 
 
 Now out of sight, between two waves, 
 
 Now o'er th' horizon fleeting : 
 
 Like greedy swine that feed on mast, — 
 
 The waves her mast seem'd eating ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 The sullen sky grew black above, 
 The wave as black beneath ; 
 Each roaring billow show'd full soon 
 A white and foamy wreath ; 
 Like angry dogs that snarl at first, 
 And then display their teeth. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The boatman looked against the wind, 
 
 The mast began to creak, 
 
 The wave, per saltum, came and dried, 
 
 In salt, upon his cheek ! 
 
 The pointed wave against him rear'd, 
 
 As if it own'd a pique ! 
 
THE SEA-SPELL. 177 
 
 IX. 
 
 Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave, 
 
 That boatman could alarm, 
 
 But still he stood away to sea, 
 
 And trusted in his charm ; 
 
 He thought by purchase he was safe, 
 
 And arm'd against all harm ! 
 
 x. 
 
 Now thick and fast and far aslant, 
 The stormy rain came pouring, 
 He heard upon the sandy bank, 
 The distant breakers roaring, — 
 A groaning intermitting sound, 
 Like Gog and Magog snoring ! 
 
 The sea-fowl shriek'd around the mast, 
 
 Ahead the grampus tumbled, 
 
 And far off, from a copper cloud, 
 
 The hollow thunder rumbled ; 
 
 It would have quail'd another heart, 
 
 But his was never humbled. 
 
178 THE SEA-SPELL. 
 
 XII. 
 
 For why ? he had that infant's caul ; 
 And wherefore should he dread ? 
 Alas ! alas ! he little thought, 
 Before the ebb-tide sped, — 
 That like that infant, he should die, 
 And with a watery head ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The rushing brine flowed in apace : 
 
 His boat had ne'er a deck ; 
 
 Fate seemed to call him on, and he 
 
 Attended to her beck ; 
 
 And so he went, still trusting on 
 
 Though reckless — to his wreck ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For as he left his helm, to heave 
 
 The ballast-bags a-weather, 
 
 Three monstrous seas came roaring on, 
 
 Like lions leagued together. 
 
 The two first waves the little boat 
 
 Swam over like a feather. — 
 
THE SEA-SPELL. 179 
 
 XV. 
 
 The two first waves were past and gone, 
 
 And sinking in her wake ; 
 
 The hugest still came leaping on, 
 
 And hissing like a snake, 
 
 Now helm a-lee ! for through the midst, 
 
 The monster he must take ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Ah, me ! it was a dreary mount ! 
 Its base as black as night, 
 Its top of pale and livid green, 
 Its crest of awful white, 
 Like Neptune with a leprosy, — 
 And so it rear'd upright ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 With quaking sails the little boat 
 ClinriVd up the foaming heap ; 
 With quaking sails it paused awhile, 
 At balance on the steep ; 
 Then rushing down the nether slope, 
 Plunged with a dizzy sweep ! 
 N 2 
 
180 THE SEA- SPELL. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Look, how a horse, made mad with fear 
 
 Disdains his careful guide ; 
 
 So now the headlong headstrong boat, 
 
 Unmanaged, turns aside, 
 
 And straight presents her reeling flank 
 
 Against the swelling tide ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The gusty wind assaults the sail ; 
 
 Her ballast lies a-lee! 
 
 The sheets to windward taught and stiff! 
 
 Oh ! the Lively — where is she ? 
 
 Her capsiz'd keel is in the foam, 
 
 Her pennon 's in the sea ! 
 
 The wild gull, sailing overhead, 
 Three times beheld emerge 
 The head of that bold mariner, 
 And then she screamed his dirge ! 
 For he had sunk within his grave, 
 Lapp'd in a shroud of surge ! 
 
THE SEA-SPELL. 
 
 181 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The ensuing wave, with horrid foam, 
 Rush'd o'er and covered all, — 
 The jolly boatman's drowning scream 
 Was smother' d by the squall, 
 Heaven never heard his cry, nor did 
 The ocean heed his caul. 
 
 DE GUSTIBUS .VOX EST DISPUTANDUM. 
 
182 
 
 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 n ©atretic ISailafc. 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 
 And used to war's alarms : 
 
 But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
 So he laid down his arms ! 
 
 Now as they bore him off the field, 
 Said he, " Let others shoot, 
 
 For here I leave my second leg, 
 And the Forty-second Foot! " 
 
 The army-surgeons made him limbs : 
 Said he, — " They're only pegs : 
 
 But there's as wooden members quite, 
 As represent my legs ! '' 
 
'* A MAN'S A MAN FOR a' THAT/ 
 
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 185 
 
 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, 
 
 Her name was Nelly Gray ; 
 So he went to pay her his devours, 
 
 When he'd devoured his pay ! 
 
 But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
 
 She made him quite a scoff ; 
 And when she saw his wooden legs, 
 
 Began to take them off ! 
 
 O, Nelly Gray ! O, Nelly Gray ! 
 
 Is this your love so warm ? 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat, 
 
 Should be more uniform ! " 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
 
 For he was blythe and brave ; 
 But I will never have a man 
 
 With both legs in the grave ! 
 
 " Before you had those timber toes, 
 
 Your love I did allow, 
 But then, you know, you stand upon 
 
 Another footing now ! " 
 
186 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 
 O, Nelly Gray ! 0, Nelly Gray! 
 
 For all your jeering speeches, 
 At duty's call, I left my legs 
 
 In Badajos's breaches ! " 
 
 " Why, then," said she, " youVe lost the feet 
 
 Of legs in war's alarms, 
 And now you cannot wear your shoes 
 
 Upon your feats of arms ! " 
 
 " O, false and fickle Nelly Gray ; 
 
 I know why you refuse :— 
 Though I've no feet— some other man 
 
 Is standing in my shoes ! 
 
 I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 
 
 But, now, a long farewell ! 
 For you will be my death ;-— alas ! 
 
 You will not be my Nell!" 
 
 Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 
 
 His heart so heavy got — 
 And life was such a burthen grown, 
 
 It made him take a knot ! 
 
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 187 
 
 So round his melancholy neck, 
 
 A rope he did entwine, 
 And, for his second time in life, 
 
 Enlisted in the Line ! 
 
 One end he tied around a heam, 
 And then removed his pegs, 
 
 And, as his legs were off, — of course, 
 He soon was off his legs ! 
 
 And there he hung, till he was dead 
 
 As any nail in town, — 
 For though distress had cut him up, 
 
 It could not cut him down ! 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse, 
 
 To find out why he died — 
 And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
 
 With a stake in his inside ! 
 
188 
 
 FANCY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Many authors preface their works with a portrait, and 
 it saves the reader a deal of speculation. The world loves 
 to know something of the features of its favourites ; — it 
 likes the Geniuses to appear bodily, as well as the Genii. 
 We may estimate the liveliness of this curiosity, by the 
 abundance of portraits, masks, busts, china and plaster 
 casts, that are extant, of great or would-be great people. 
 As soon as a gentleman has proved, in print, that he really 
 has a head,— a score of artists begin to brush at it. The 
 literary lions have no peace to their manes. Sir Walter 
 is eternally sitting like Theseus to some painter or other ; — 
 and the late Lord Byron threw out more heads before he 
 died than Hydra. The first novel of Mr. Gait, had barely 
 been announced in the second edition, when f he was re- 
 quested to allow himself to be taken " in one minute ; " — 
 Mr. Geoffrey Crayon was no sooner known to be Mr. Wash- 
 ington Irving, than he was waited upon with a sheet of 
 paper and a pair of scissors. 
 
 The whole world, in fact, is one Lavater : — it likes to 
 find its prejudices confirmed by the Hooke nose of the 
 
THE BARD OF HOPE. 
 
MR, CRABBE. 
 
FANCY PORTRAITS. 193 
 
 Author of Sayings and Doings — or the lines and angles in 
 the honest face of Izaak Walton. It is gratified in dwell- 
 ing on the repulsive features of a Newgate ordinary ; and 
 would be disappointed to miss the seraphic expression on 
 the Author of the Angel of the World. The Old Bailey 
 jurymen are physiognomists to a fault ; and if a rope can 
 transform a malefactor into an Adonis, a hard gallows face 
 as often brings the malefactor to the rope. A low forehead 
 is enough to bring down its head to the dust. A well- 
 favoured man meets with good countenance ; but when 
 people are plain and hard-featured (like the poor, for in- 
 stance,) we grind their faces ; an expression, I am con- 
 vinced, that refers to physiognomical theory. 
 
 For my part, I confess a sympathy with the common 
 failing. I take likings and dislikings, as some play music, 
 — at sight. The polar attractions and repulsions insisted 
 on by the phrenologist, affect me not ; but I am not proof 
 against a pleasant or villainous set of features. Sometimes, 
 I own, I am led by the nose, (not my own, but that of the 
 other party) — in my prepossessions. 
 
 My curiosity does not object to the disproportionate num- 
 ber of portraits in the annual exhibition, — nor grudge the 
 expense of engraving a gentleman's head and shoulders. 
 Like Judith, and the daughter of Herodias, I have a taste 
 for a head in a plate, and accede cheerfully to the charge 
 
194 FANCY PORTRAITS. 
 
 of the charger. A book without a portrait of the author, 
 is worse than anonymous. As in a church-yard, you may 
 look on any number of ribs and shin-bones, as so many 
 sticks merely, without interest ; but if there should chance 
 to be a scull near hand, it claims the relics at once, — so it 
 is with the author's head-piece in front of his pages. The 
 portrait claims the work. The Arcadia, for instance, I 
 know is none of mine — it belongs to that young fair gen- 
 tleman, in armour, with a ruff. 
 
 So necessary it is for me to have an outward visible 
 sign of the inward spiritual poet or philosopher, that in 
 default of an authentic resemblance, I cannot help forging 
 for him an effigy in my mind's eye, — a Fancy portrait. A 
 few examples of contemporaries I have sketched down, 
 but my collection is far from complete. 
 
 How have I longed to glimpse, in fancy, the Great 
 Unknown ! — the Roc of Literature ! — but he keeps his 
 head, like Ben Lomond, enveloped in a cloud. How have 
 I sighed for a beau ideal of the author of Christabel, and 
 the Ancient Marinere ! — but I have been mocked with a 
 dozen images, confusing each other, and indistinct as water 
 is in water. My only clear revelation was a pair of Hessian 
 boots highly polished, or what the ingenious Mr. Warren 
 would denominate his " Aids to Reflection ! " 
 
 I was more certain of the figure at least of Dr. Kit- 
 
MR. EOWLES. * 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF BROAD GRINS. 
 
FANCY PORTRAITS. 197 
 
 chener, (p. 25) though I had a misgiving about his features, 
 which made me have recourse to a substitute for his head. 
 Moore's profile struck me over a bottle after dinner, and 
 the countenance of Mr. Bowles occurred to me, as in a 
 mirror, — by a tea-table suggestion ; Colman's at the same 
 service ; — and Mr. Crabbe entered my mind's eye with the 
 supper. But the Bard of Hope — the Laureate of promise 
 and expectation, — occurred to me at no meal-time. We all 
 know how Hope feeds her own. 
 
 I had a lively image of the celebrated Denon, in a 
 midnight dream (p. 149) and made out the full length of 
 the juvenile Graham, from a hint of Mr. Hilton's. 
 
 At a future season, I hope to complete my gallery of 
 Fancy-Portraits. 
 
 ANACREON, JUNIOR. 
 
END OF THE FIRST SERIES. 
 
WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 £>eeontr Series. 
 
 «* What Demon hath possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that 
 wmpertinent custom of punning ? " 
 
In the absence of better fiddles. I have ventured to 
 come forward again with my little kit of fancies. I 
 trust it will not be found an unworthy sequel to my 
 first performance ; indeed, I have done my best, in 
 the New Series, innocently to imitate a practice that 
 prevails abroad in duelling — I mean, that of the 
 Seconds giving Satisfaction. 
 
 The kind indulgence that welcomed my Volume 
 heretofore, prevents me from reiterating the same 
 apologies. The Public have learned, by this time, 
 from my rude designs, that I am no great artist, and 
 
202 PREFACE. 
 
 from my text, that I am no great author, but humbly 
 equivocating, bat-like, between the two kinds ; — though 
 proud to partake in any characteristic of either. As 
 for the first particular, my hope persuades me that 
 my illustrations cannot have degenerated, so ably as 
 I have been seconded by Mr Edward Willis, who, like 
 the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in 
 the Wood. 
 
 In the literary part I have to plead guilty, as usual, 
 to some verbal misdemeanours ; for which, I must 
 leave my defence to Dean Swift, and the other great 
 European and Oriental Pundits. Let me suggest, 
 however, that a pun is somewhat like a cherry : though 
 there maybe a slight outward indication of partition — 
 of duplicity of meaning — yet no gentleman need make 
 two bites at it against his own pleasure. To accom- 
 modate certain readers, notwithstanding, I have re- 
 frained from putting the majority in italics. It is not 
 every one, I am aware, that can Toler-ate a pun like 
 my Lord Norbury. 
 
WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 Swottir Series. 
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bianca ! — fair Bianca ! — who could dwell 
 With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, 
 
 Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, 
 Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days ? 
 
 The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, 
 She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze ; 
 
 Each eye of her's had Love's Eupyrion in it, 
 
 That he could light his link at in a minute. 
 
 ii. 
 So that, wherever in her charms she shone, 
 A thousand breasts were kindled into flame ; 
 
204 bianca's dream. 
 
 Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own, 
 And beaux were tum'd to flambeaux where she came ; 
 
 All hearts indeed were conquered but her own, 
 Which none could ever temper down or tame : 
 
 In short, to take our haberdasher's hints, 
 
 She might have written over it, — "from Flints." 
 
 in. 
 She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex, 
 
 At least in Venice — where with eyes of brown 
 Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex 
 
 An amorous gentle with a needless frown ; 
 Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks, 
 
 And love at casements climbeth up and down, 
 Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind, 
 Some have considered a Venetian blind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught, 
 Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailor, 
 
 To hapless Julio — all in vain he sought 
 
 With each new moon his hatter and his tailor ; 
 
 In vain the richest padusoy he bought, 
 And went in bran new beaver to assail her — 
 
 As if to show that Love had made him smart 
 
 All over — and not merely round his heart. 
 
SPEAK UP, SIR ! 
 
bianca's dream. 207 
 
 v. 
 In vain he laboured thro' the sylvan park 
 
 Bianca haunted in — that where she came, 
 Her learned eyes in wandering might mark 
 
 The twisted cypher of her maiden name, 
 Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark : 
 
 No one was touched or troubled by his flame, 
 Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow 
 In trees, — like wooden dolls in embryo. 
 
 vi. 
 In vain complaining elegies he writ, 
 
 And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, 
 And sang in quavers how his heart was split, 
 
 Constant beneath her lattice with each eve ; 
 She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit, 
 
 And slashed his suit so that it matched his sleeve, 
 Till he grew silent at the vesper star, 
 And quite despairing, hamstring' d his guitar. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er 
 
 With snows unmelting — an eternal sheet, 
 
 But his was red within him, like the core 
 Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat ; 
 
208 bianca's dream. 
 
 And oft he longed internally to pour 
 
 His flames and glowing lava at her feet, 
 But when his burnings he began to spout, 
 She stopped his mouth, and put the crater out. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men, 
 So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key 
 
 Suspended at death's door — so pale — and then 
 He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree ; 
 
 The life of man is three-score years and ten, 
 But he was perishing at twenty-three, 
 
 For people truly said, as grief grew stronger, 
 
 " It could not shorten his poor life — much longer." 
 
 For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed, 
 Nor relished any kind of mirth below ; 
 
 Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head, 
 Love had become his universal foe, 
 
 Salt in his sugar — nightmare in his bed, 
 At last, no wonder wretched Julio, 
 
 A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth 
 
 Of hope— made up his mind to cut her girth ! 
 
bianca's dream. 209 
 
 For hapless lovers always died of old, 
 
 Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud; 
 So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told, 
 
 The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood ; 
 And so poor Sappho, when her boy was cold, 
 
 Drown'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood, 
 Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past, 
 For those old suitors lived beyond their last. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So Julio went to drown, — when life was dull, 
 But took his corks, and merely had a bath ; 
 
 And once, he pull'd a trigger at his skull, 
 But merely broke a window in his wrath ; 
 
 And once, his hopeless being to annul, 
 He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath, 
 
 A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 
 
 'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether, 
 
 XII. 
 
 Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust 
 
 His sorrows thro' — 'tis horrible to die ! 
 And come down with our little all of dust, 
 
 That dun of all the duns to satisfy : 
 
210 bianca's dream. 
 
 To leave life's pleasant city as we must, 
 
 In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie, 
 Where even all our personals must go 
 To pay the debt of Nature that we owe ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 So Julio lived : — 'twas nothing but a pet 
 
 He took at life — a momentary spite ; 
 Besides, he hoped that time would some day get 
 
 The better of love's flame, however bright ; 
 A thing that time has never compass'd yet, 
 
 For love, we know, is an immortal light. 
 Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt, 
 Was always in, — for none have found it out. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Meanwhile, Bianca dream' d — 'twas once when Night 
 Along the darken'd plain began to creep, 
 
 Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, 
 Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep : 
 
 The flow'rs had shut their eyes — the zephyr light 
 Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep. 
 
 And all the little birds had laid their heads 
 
 Under their wings — sleeping in feather beds. 
 
bianca's dream. 211 
 
 XV. 
 
 Lone in her chamber sate the dark ey'd maid, 
 
 By easy stages jaunting thro' her prayers, 
 But list'ning side-long to a serenade, 
 
 That robb'd the saints a little of their shares : 
 For Julio underneath the lattice play'd 
 
 His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs, 
 Born only underneath Italian skies, 
 Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Sweet was the tune — the words were even sweeter — 
 Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair, 
 
 With all the common tropes wherewith in metre 
 The hackney poets overcharge their fair. 
 
 Her shape was like Diana's, but completer ; 
 Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare : 
 
 Cupid, alas ! was cruel Sagittarius, 
 
 Julio — the weeping water-man Aquarius. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now, after listing to such laudings rare, 
 
 'Twas very natural indeed to go — 
 What if she did postpone one little pray'r— 
 
 To ask her mirror " if it was not so ?" 
 p2 
 
212 bianca's dream. 
 
 Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear, 
 
 Reflecting her at once from top to toe : 
 And there she gazed upon that glossy track, 
 That show'd her front face tho' it " gave her back." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall, 
 By that dear page where first the woman reads : 
 
 That Julio was no flatterer, none at all, 
 
 She told herself — and then she told her beads ; 
 
 Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall 
 Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds ; 
 
 For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares, 
 
 Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then like a drooping rose so bended she, 
 Till her bow'd head upon her hand repos'd ; 
 
 But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, 
 That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were clos'd, 
 
 A beauty bright as it was wont to be, 
 
 A portrait Fancy painted while she doz'd : 
 
 'Tis very natural, some people say, 
 
 To dream of what we dwell on in the day. 
 
bianca's dream. 213 
 
 XX. 
 
 Still shone her face — yet not, alas ! the same, 
 
 But 'gan some dreary touches to assume, 
 And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came — 
 
 Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom, 
 Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same, 
 
 Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum : 
 There was a throbbing at her heart within, 
 For, oh ! there was a shooting in her chin. 
 
 And lo ! upon her sad desponding brow, 
 The cruel trenches of besieging age, 
 
 With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show 
 Her place was booking for the seventh stage ; 
 
 And where her raven tresses used to flow, 
 
 Some locks that Time had left her in his rage, 
 
 And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady, 
 
 A compound (like our Psalms) of tete and braidy. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then for her shape — alas ! how Saturn wrecks, 
 And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about, 
 
 Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks, 
 Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout, 
 
214 bianca's dream. 
 
 Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex : 
 Witness those pensioners called In and Out, 
 Who all day watching first and second rater, 
 Quaintly unbend themselves — but grow no straighter. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made 
 Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow ; 
 
 His iron hand upon her spine he laid, 
 
 And twisted all awry her " winsome marrow." 
 
 In truth it was a change ! — she had obey'd 
 The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow, 
 
 But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her 
 
 Something between a Glassite and a Quaker. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme, 
 And she had ample reason for her trouble ; 
 
 For what sad maiden can endure to seem 
 Set in for singleness, tho' growing double* 
 
 The fancy madden'd her ; but now the dream, 
 Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble, 
 
 Burst, — but still left some fragments of its size, 
 
 That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes. 
 
IN-AND-OUT PENSIONERS 
 
bianca's dream. 217 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And here— just here — as she began to heed 
 The real world, her clock chim'd out its score ; 
 
 A clock it was of the Venetian breed, 
 
 That cried the hour from one to twenty-four ; 
 
 The works moreover standing in some need 
 Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more ; 
 
 A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears. 
 
 Such strokes referring doubtless to her years. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, 
 By twenty she had quite renounc'd the veil ; 
 
 She thought of Julio just at twenty-one, 
 And thirty made her very sad and pale, 
 
 To paint that ruin where her charms would run ; 
 At forty all the maid began to fail, 
 
 And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her, 
 
 Of single blessedness, than single Gloster. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And so Bianca changed ; — the next sweet even, 
 
 With Julio in a black Venetian bark, 
 Row'd slow and stealthily — the hour, eleven, 
 
 Just sounding from the tow'r of old St. Mark. 
 
218 bianca\s dream. 
 
 She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n, 
 Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark 
 That veil'd her blushing cheek, — for Julio brought her 
 Of course — to break the ice upon the water. 
 
 XX VII I. 
 
 But what a puzzle is one's serious mind 
 To open ; — oysters, when the ice is thick, 
 
 Are not so difficult and disinclin'd; 
 And Julio felt the declaration stick 
 
 About his throat in a most awful kind ; 
 However, he contrived by bits to pick 
 
 His trouble forth, — much like a rotten cork 
 
 Grop'd from a long-neck' d bottle with a fork. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But love is still the quickest of all readers ; 
 
 And Julio spent besides those signs profuse 
 That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders, 
 
 In help of language, are so apt to use, 
 Amis, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders, 
 
 Nods, shrugs, and bends, — Bianca could not choose 
 But soften to his suit with more facility, 
 He told his story with so much agility. 
 
A SPECIAL PLEADER. 
 
bianca's dream. 221 
 
 XXX. 
 
 11 Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear, 
 
 (So he began at last to speak or quote ;) 
 Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier, 
 
 (For passion takes this figurative note ;) 
 Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier ; 
 
 Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote : 
 My lily be, and I will be thy river ; 
 Be thou my life — and I will be thy liver." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 This, with more tender logic of the kiud, 
 He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear, 
 
 That timidly against his lips inclin'd - r 
 
 Meanwhile her eyes glanc'd on the silver sphere 
 
 That even now began to steal behind 
 
 A dewy vapour, which was lingering near, 
 
 Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale, 
 
 Just like a virgin putting on the veil : — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Bidding adieu to all her sparks — the stars, 
 
 That erst had woo'd and worshipped in her train, 
 
 Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars — 
 Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. 
 
222 bianca's dream. 
 
 Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, 
 Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, 
 But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse, 
 With words, lite verbal kisses, on her lips. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He took the hint full speedily, and, back'd 
 By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, 
 
 Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smacFd 
 (Tho > quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness ; 
 
 That made her think all other kisses lack'd 
 Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness : 
 
 Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, 
 
 Insipid things — like sandwiches of veal. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring 
 
 The pretty fingers all instead of one ; 
 Anon his stealthy arm began to cling 
 
 About her waist that had been clasp'd by none ; 
 Their dear confessions I forbear to sing, 
 
 Since cold description would but be outrun : 
 For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r, 
 In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour ! 
 
223 
 
 A BALLAD SINGER 
 
 Is a town crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hun- 
 ger hath made him a wind instrument : his want is vocal, 
 and not he. His voice had gone a-begging before he took 
 it up and applied it to the same trade ; it was too strong to 
 hawk mackarel, but was just soft enough for Robin Adair. 
 His business is to make popular songs unpopular, — he gives 
 the air, like a weather-cock, with many variations. As for 
 a key, he has but one — a latch key — for all manner of 
 tunes ; and as they are to pass current amongst the lower 
 sorts of people, he makes his notes like a country banker's, 
 as thick as he can. His tones have a copper sound, for he 
 sounds for copper ; and for the musical divisions he hath 
 no regard, but sings on, like a kettle, without taking any 
 heed of the bars. Before beginning he clears his pipe with 
 gin ; and he is always hoarse from the thorough draft in 
 his throat. He hath but one shake, and that is in winter. 
 His voice sounds flat, from flatulence; and he fetches 
 breath, like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Not- 
 
224 A BALLAD-SINGER. 
 
 withstanding all this his music gains ground, for it walks 
 with him from end to end of the street. 
 
 He is your only performer that requires not many en- 
 treaties for a song ; for he will chaunt, without asking, to 
 a street cur or a parish post. His only backwardness is to 
 a stave after dinner, seeing that he never dines ; for he 
 sings for bread, and though corn has ears, sings very com- 
 monly in vain. As for his country, he is an Englishman, 
 that by his birthright may sing whether he can or not. To 
 conclude, he is reckoned passable in the city, but is not so 
 £Ood off the stones. 
 
225 
 
 MARY'S GHOST, 
 a Paretic aSairatr- 
 
 'Twas in the middle of the night, 
 To sleep young William tried, 
 
 When Mary's ghost came stealing in, 
 And stood at his bed-side. 
 
 William dear ! O William dear ! 
 My rest eternal ceases ; 
 
 Alas ! my everlasting peace 
 Is broken into pieces. 
 
 1 thought the last of all my cares 
 Would end with my last minute ; 
 
 But tho' I went to my long home, 
 I didn't stay long in it. 
 
 Q 
 
226 mary's ghost. 
 
 The body-snatchers they have come, 
 And made a snatch at me ; 
 
 It's very hard them kind of men 
 Won't let a body be. 
 
 You thought that I was buried deep, 
 Q,uite decent like and chary, 
 
 But from her grave in Mary-bone 
 They've come and bon'd your Mary. 
 
 The arm that us'd to take your arm 
 
 Is took to Dr. Vyse : 
 And both my legs are gone to walk 
 
 The hospital at Guy's. 
 
 I vow'd that you should have my hand, 
 But fate gives us denial ; 
 
 You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's, 
 In spirits and a phial. 
 
 As for my feet, the little feet 
 You used to call so pretty, 
 
 There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, 
 The t'other's in the city. 
 
mary's ghost. 229 
 
 I can't tell where my head is gone, 
 
 But Doctor Carpue can : 
 As for my trunk, it's all pack'd up 
 
 To go by Pickford's van. 
 
 I wish you'd go to Mr. P. 
 
 And save me such a ride ; 
 ] don't half like the outside place, 
 
 They've took for my inside. 
 
 The cock it crows — I must be gone ! 
 
 My William, we must part ! 
 But I'll be your's in death, altho' 
 
 Sir Astley has my heart. 
 
 Don't go to weep upon my grave, 
 
 And think that there I be ; 
 They haven't left an atom there, 
 
 Of my anatomic 
 
230 
 
 INFANT GENIUS. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ART. 
 
 O happy time ! Art's early days ! 
 
 When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, 
 
 Narcissus-like I hung ! 
 When great Rembrandt but little seem'd, 
 And such Old Masters all were deem'd, 
 
 As nothing to the young ! 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ART. 231 
 
 Some scratchy strokes — abrupt and few, 
 So easily and swift I drew, 
 
 Sufficed for my design ; 
 My sketchy, superficial hand, 
 Drew solids at a dash— and spann'd 
 
 A surface with a line. 
 
 Not long my eye was thus content, 
 But grew more critical — my bent 
 
 Essay'd a higher walk ; 
 I copied leaden eyes in lead — 
 Rheumatic hands in white and red, 
 
 And gouty feet — in chalk. 
 
 Anon my studious art for days 
 Kept making faces — happy phrase, 
 
 For faces such as mine ! 
 Accomplish' d in the details then, 
 I left the minor parts of men, 
 
 And drew the form divine. 
 
232 THE PROGRESS OF ART. 
 
 Old Gods and Heroes — Trojan— Greek, 
 Figures — long after the antique, 
 
 Great Aj ax justly fear'd ; 
 Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt, 
 And Nestor, fring'd enough to tempt 
 
 Bird-nesters to his beard. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, 
 A Pallas, that out-star' d her owl, 
 
 A Vulcan — very lame ; 
 A Dian stuck about with stars, 
 With my right hand I murder' d Mars — 
 
 (One Williams did the same.) 
 
 VII. 
 
 But tir'd of this dry work at last, 
 Crayon and chalk aside I cast, 
 
 And gave my brush a drink * 
 Dipping—" as when a painter dips 
 In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," — 
 
 That is — in Indian ink. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ART. 233 
 
 Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, 
 Crested with soot, and not with snows : 
 
 What clouds of dingy hue ! 
 In spite of what the bard has penn'd, 
 I fear the distance did not " lend 
 
 Enchantment to the view." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design 
 Black Forests, half so black as mine, 
 
 Or lakes so like a pall ; 
 The Chinese cake dispers'd a ray 
 Of darkness, like the light of Day 
 
 And Martin over all. 
 
 x. 
 
 Yet urchin pride sustain'd me still, 
 I gaz'd on all with right good will, 
 
 And spread the dingy tint ; 
 " No holy Luke help'd me to paint. 
 The devil surely, not a Saint, 
 
 Had any finger in't ! " 
 
234 THE PROGRESS OF ART. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But colours came !— like morning light, 
 With gorgeous hues displacing night, 
 
 Or Spring's enliven'd scene : 
 At once the sable shades withdrew ; 
 My skies got very, very blue ; 
 
 My trees extremely green. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And wash'd by my cosmetic brush, 
 How Beauty's cheek began to blush ; 
 
 With lock of auburn stain — 
 (Not Goldsmith's Auburn) — nut-brown hair, 
 That made her loveliest of the fair ; 
 
 Not " loveliest of the plain ! " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Her lips were of vermilion hue ; 
 Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, 
 
 Set all my heart in flame S 
 A young Pygmalion, I ador'd 
 The maids I made— but time was stor'd 
 
 With evil — and it came ! 
 
THE PROGRESS OF ART. 2So 
 
 Perspective dawn'd— and soon I saw 
 My houses stand against its law ; 
 
 And " keeping" all unkept ! 
 My beauties were no longer things 
 For love and fond imaginings ; 
 
 But horrors to be wept ! 
 
 Ah ! why did knowledge ope my eyes ? 
 Why did I get more artist-wise ? 
 
 It only serves to hint, 
 What grave defects and wants are mine ; 
 That I'm no Hilton in design — 
 
 In nature no Dewint ! 
 
 Thrice happy time! — Art's early days ! 
 When o'er each deed with sweet self-praise, 
 
 Narcissus-like I hung ! 
 When great Rembrandt but little seemM, 
 And such Old Masters all were deem'd 
 
 As nothing to the young ! 
 
236 
 
 A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 How well you saw 
 
 
 Your father to school to-day, knowing how apt 
 
 
 He is to play the truant. 
 
 Son. 
 
 But is he not 
 
 
 Yet gone to school ? 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Stand by, and you shall see. 
 
 
 Enter three Old Men with satchels, singing. 
 
 All Three. 
 
 Domine, Domine, duster, 
 
 
 Three knaves in a cluster. 
 
 Son. 
 
 O this is gallant pastime. Nay, come on ; 
 
 
 Is this your school ? was that your lesson, ha ? 
 
 1st Old Mar, 
 
 i. Pray, now, good son, indeed, indeed — 
 
 Son. 
 
 Indeed 
 
 You shall to school. Away with him ! and take 
 Their wagships with him, the whole cluster of 
 them. 
 2d Old Man. You shan't send us, now, so you shan't — 
 3d Old Man. We be none of your father, so we be'nt. — 
 Son. Away with 'em, I say ; and tell their school- mistress 
 
 What truants they are, and bid her pay 'em soundly. 
 All Three. Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 Lady. Alas ! will nobody beg pardon for 
 
 The poor old boys ? 
 Traveller. Do men of such fair years here go to school ? 
 Native. They would die dunces else. 
 
 These were great scholars in their youth ; but when 
 
" BETTER LATE THAN NEVER." 
 
A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 
 
 239 
 
 Age grows upon men here, their learning wastes 
 And so decays, that, if they live until 
 Threescore, their sons send 'em to school again j 
 They'd die as speechless else as new-born children. 
 
 Traveller. 'Tis a wise nation, and the piety 
 
 Of the young men most rare and commendable : 
 Yet give me, as a stranger, leave to beg 
 Their liberty this day. 
 
 Son. 'Tis granted. 
 
 Hold up your heads ; and thank the gentleman, 
 Like scholars, with your heels now. 
 
 All Three. Gratias ! Gratias ! Gratias ! [Exeunt Singing. J 
 
 "The Antipodes,"— By R. Brome. 
 
 Amongst the foundations for the promotion of National 
 Education, I had heard of Schools for Adults; but I 
 doubted of their existence. They were, I thought, merely 
 the fancies of old dramatists, such as that scene just 
 quoted; or the suggestions of philanthropists— the theo- 
 retical buildings of modern philosophers — benevolent pro- 
 spectuses drawn up by warm-hearted enthusiasts, but of 
 schemes never to be realized. They were probably only 
 the bubble projections of a junto cf interested pedagogues, 
 not content with the entrance monies of the rising gene- 
 ration, but aiming to exact a premium from the unlettered 
 grey-beard. The age, I argued, was not ripe for such 
 institutions, in spite of the spread of intelligence, and the 
 
240 A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 
 
 vast power of knowledge insisted on by the public journalist. 
 I could not conceive a set of men, or gentlemen, of mature 
 years, if not aged, entering themselves as members of 
 preparatory schools, and petty seminaries, in defiance of 
 shame, humiliation, and the contumely of a literary age. 
 It seemed too whimsical to contemplate fathers, and vene- 
 rable grandfathers, emulating the infant generation, and 
 seeking for instruction in the rudiments. My imagination 
 refused to picture the hoary abecedarian, 
 
 " With satchel on his back, and shining morning face, 
 Creeping, like snail, unwillingly to school." 
 
 Fancy grew restive at a patriarchal ignoramus with a fool's- 
 cap, and a rod thrust down his bosom ; at a palsied truant 
 dodging the palmy inflictions of the cane; or a silver- 
 headed dunce horsed on a pair of rheumatic shoulders for 
 a paralytic flagellation. The picture notwithstanding is 
 realized! Elderly people seem to have considered that 
 they will be as awkwardly situated in the other world, as 
 here, without their alphabet, — and Schools for Grown 
 Persons to learn to read, are no more Utopian than New 
 Harmony. The following letter from an old gentleman, 
 whose education had been neglected, confirms me in the 
 fact. It is copied, verbatim and literatim, from the original 5 
 which fell into my hands by accident. 
 
A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 241 
 
 Black Heath, November, 1827. 
 
 Deer Brother, 
 
 My honnerd Parents being Both desist 
 I feal my deuty to give you Sum Acount of the Proggress 
 I have maid in my studdys since last Vocation. You will 
 be gratefied to hear I am at the Hed of my Class and Tom 
 Hodges is at its Bottom, tho He was Seventy last Burth 
 Day and I am onely going on for Three Skore. I have 
 begun Gografy and do exsizes on the Globs. In Aggers 
 I am all most out the fore Simples and going into Com- 
 pounds next weak. In the mean time hop you will aprove 
 my Hand riting as well as my Speling witch I have took 
 grate panes with as you desird. As for the French Tung 
 Mr. Legender says I shall soon get the pronounciation as 
 well as a Parishiner but the Master thinks its not advisible 
 to begin Lattin at my advanced ears. 
 
 With respecks to my Pearsonal comfits I am verry happy 
 and midling Wellxcept the old Cumplant in my To — but the 
 Master is so kind as to let me have a Cushin for my feat. 
 If their is any thing to cumplane of its the Vittles. Our 
 Cook don't understand Maid dishes her Currys is xcrabble. 
 Tom Hodges Foot Man brings him Evry Day soop from 
 Birches. I wish you providid me the same. On the hole 
 I wish on menny Acounts I was a Day border partickly as 
 Barlow sleeps in our Ptoom and coffs all nite long. His 
 
 R 
 
242 A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 
 
 brother's Ashmy is wus then his. He has took lately to 
 snuff and I have wishes to do the like. Its very dull after 
 Supper since Mr. Grierson took away the fellers Pips, and 
 forbid smocking, and allmost raized a Riot on that hed, 
 and some of the Boys was to have Been horst for it. I am 
 happy (to) say I have never been floged as yet and onely 
 Caind once and that was for damming at the Cooks chops 
 becous they was so overdun, but there was to have been 
 fore Wiped yeaster day for Playing Wist in skool hours, 
 but was Begd off on acount of their Lumbargo. 
 
 I am sorry to say Ponder has had another Stroak of the 
 perrylaticks and has no Use of his Lims. He is Parrs 
 fag — and Parr has got the Roomytix bysides very bad but 
 luckly its onely stiffind one Arm so he has still Hops to 
 get the Star for Heliocution. Poor Dick Combs eye site 
 has quite gone or he would have a good chance for the 
 Silvur Pen. 
 
 Mundy was one of the Fellers Burths Days and we was 
 to have a hole Holiday but he dyed sudnly over nite of the 
 appoplxy and disappinted us verry much. Two moor was 
 fetcht home last Weak so that we are getting very thin 
 partickly when we go out Wauking, witch is seldom more 
 than three at a time, their is allways so menny in the 
 nursry. I forgot to say Garrat run off a month ago he 
 got verry Homesick ever since his Grandchildren cum to 
 
A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 243 
 
 sea him at skool, — Mr. Grierson has expeld him for run- 
 ning away. 
 
 On Tuesday a new Schollard cum. He is a very old 
 crusty Chap and not much lick'd for that resin by the rest 
 of the Boys, whom all Teas him, and call him Phig because 
 he is a retired Grosser. Mr. Grierson declind another New- 
 Boy because he hadn't had the Mizzles. I have red Gays 
 Febbles and the other books You were so kind to send 
 me — and would be glad of moor partickly the Gentlemans 
 with a Welsh Whig and a Worming Pan when you fore ward 
 my Closebox with my clean Lining like wise sum moor 
 Fleasy Hoshery for my legs and the Cardmums I rit for 
 with the French Grammer &c. Also weather I am to 
 Dance next quarter. The Gimnystacks is being inter- 
 deuced into our Skool but is so Voilent no one follows 
 them but Old Parr and He cant get up his Pole. 
 
 I have no more to rite but hop this letter will find you 
 as Well as me ; Mr. Grierson is in Morning for Mr. Linly 
 Murry of whose loss you have herd of — xcept which he is 
 in Quite good Helth and desires his Respective Comple- 
 ments with witch I remane 
 
 Your deutiful and 
 
 loving Brother 
 
 S. P. Barlow and Phigg have just had a fite in the 
 r2 
 
244 A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 
 
 Yard about calling names and Phigg has pegged Barlows 
 tooth out But it was loose before. Mr. G. dont alow 
 Puglism if he nose it among the Boys as at their Times of 
 lifes it might be fatle partickly from puling their Coats of 
 in the open Are. 
 
 Our new Husher is cum and his verry well Red in his 
 Mother's tung, witch is the mane thing with Beginers but 
 We wish the Frentch Master was changed on Acount of 
 his Pollyticks and Religun. Brassbrige and him is always 
 Squabling about Bonnyparty and the Pop of Room. Has 
 for Barlow we cant tell weather He is Wig or Tory for he 
 cant express his Sentymints for Coffing. 
 
245 
 
 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 
 
 'Twas in the reign of Lewis, calPd the Great, 
 As one may read on his triumphal arches, 
 
 The thing befel I'm going to relate, 
 
 In course of one of those " pomposo" marches 
 
 He lov'd to make, like any gorgeous Persian, 
 
 Partly for war, and partly for diversion. 
 
 Some wag had put it in the royal brain 
 To drop a visit at an old chateau, 
 
 Quite unexpected, with his courtly train ; 
 The monarch lik'd it, — but it happened so, 
 
 That Death had got before them by a post, 
 
 And they were " reckoning without their host" 
 
246 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Who died exactly as a child should die, 
 Without one groan or a convulsive breath, 
 
 Closing without one pang his quiet eye, 
 Sliding composedly from sleep — to death ; 
 
 A corpse so placid ne'er adorn' d a bed, 
 
 He seem'd not quite — but only rather dead. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All night the widow'd Baroness contrived 
 To shed a widow's tears ; but on the morrow 
 
 Some news of such unusual sort arriv'd, 
 There came strange alteration in her sorrow ; 
 
 From mouth to mouth it pass'd, one common humming 
 
 Throughout the house — the King ! the King is coming ! 
 
 The Baroness, with all her soul and heart, 
 A loyal woman, (now called ultra royal,) 
 
 Soon thrust all funeral concerns apart, 
 And only thought about a banquet royal ; 
 
 In short, by aid of earnest preparation, 
 
 The visit quite dismiss' d the visitation. 
 
A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 247 
 
 And, spite of all her grief for the ex-mate, 
 There was a secret hope she could not smother, 
 
 That some one, early, might replace " the late" — 
 It was too soon to think about another ; 
 
 Yet let her minutes of despair be reekon'd 
 
 Against her hope, which was but for a second. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She almost thought that being thus bereft 
 Just then, was one of time's propitious touches ; 
 
 A thread in such a nick so nick'd, it left 
 Free opportunity to be a duchess ; 
 
 Thus all her care was only to look pleasant, 
 
 But as for tears — she dropped them — for the present. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Her household, as good servants ought to try, 
 Looked like their lady — any thing but sad, 
 
 And giggled even that they might not cry, 
 To damp fine company ; in truth they had 
 
 No time to mourn, thro' choking turkeys' throttles, 
 
 Scouring old laces, and reviewing bottles. 
 
248 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh what a hubbub for the house of woe ! 
 
 All, resolute to one irresolution, 
 Kept tearing, swearing, plunging to and fro, 
 
 Just like another French mob-revdiution. 
 There lay the corpse that could not stir a muscle, 
 But all the rest seem'd Chaos in a bustle. 
 
 x. 
 
 The Monarch came : oh ! who could ever guess 
 The Baroness had been so late a weeper ! 
 
 The kingly grace and more than graciousness, 
 Buried the poor defunct some fathoms deeper,— 
 
 Could he have had a glance — alas, poor Being ! 
 
 Seeing would certainly have led to D— ing. 
 
 For casting round about her eyes to find 
 Some one to whom her chattels to endorse, 
 
 The comfortable dame at last inclin'd 
 To choose the cheerful Master of the Horse ; 
 
 He was so gay, — so tender, — the complete 
 
 Nice man, — the sweetest of the monarch's suite. 
 
A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 249 
 
 XII. 
 
 He saw at once and enter'd in the lists — 
 Glance unto glance made amorous replies; 
 
 They talk'd together like two egotists, 
 In conversation all made up of eyes : 
 
 No couple ever got so right consort-ish 
 
 Within two hours — a courtship rather shortish. 
 
 At last, some sleepy, some by wine opprest, 
 The courtly company began " nid noddin ; " 
 
 The King first sought his chamber, and the rest 
 Instanter followed by the course he trod in. 
 
 I shall not please the scandalous by showing 
 
 The order, or disorder of their going. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The old Chateau, before that night, had never 
 Held half so many underneath its roof; 
 
 It task'd the Baroness's best endeavour, 
 And put her best contrivance to the proof, 
 
 To give them chambers up and down the stairs, 
 
 In twos and threes, by singles, and by pairs. 
 
250 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 
 
 XV. 
 
 She had just lodging for the whole— yet barely ; 
 
 And some, that were both broad of back and tall, 
 Lay on spare beds that served them very sparely ; 
 
 However, there were beds enough for all; 
 But living bodies occupied so many, 
 She could not let the dead one take up any ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The act was, certainly, not over decent : 
 
 Some small respect, e'en after death, she ow'd him, 
 Considering his death had been so recent ; 
 
 However, by command, her servants stow'd him, 
 (I am asham'd to think how he was slubber'd,) 
 Stuck bolt upright within a corner cupb oard ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And there he slept as soundly as a post, 
 With no more pillow than an oaken shelf; 
 
 Just like a kind accommodating host, 
 Taking all inconvenience on himself; 
 
 None else slept in that room, except a stranger, 
 
 A decent man, a sort of Forest Ranger. 
 
THE SPARE BED. 
 
A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 253 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Who, whether he had gone too soon to bed, 
 Or dreamt himself into an appetite, 
 
 Howbeit, he took a longing to be fed, 
 Abont the hungry middle of the night ; 
 
 So getting forth, he sought some scrap to eat, 
 
 Hopeful of some stray pasty, or cold meat. 
 
 The casual glances of the midnight moon, 
 Bright'ning some antique ornaments of brass, 
 
 Guided his gropings to that corner soon, 
 Just where it stood, the coffin-safe, alas ! 
 
 He tried the door— then shook it — and in course 
 
 Of time it opened to a little force. 
 
 xx. 
 
 He put one hand in, and began to grope ; 
 
 The place was very deep and quite as dark as 
 The middle night ; — when lo ! beyond his hope, 
 
 He felt a something cold, in fact, the carcase ; 
 Right overjoy'd, he laugh'd, and blest his luck 
 At finding, as he thought, this haunch of buck ! 
 
254 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Then striding back for his couteau de chasse, 
 Determin'd on a little midnight lunching, 
 
 He came again and prob'd about the mass, 
 As if to find the fattest bit for munching ; 
 
 Not meaning wastefully to cut it all up, 
 
 But only to abstract a little collop. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But just as he had struck one greedy stroke, 
 His hand fell down quite powerless and weak ; 
 
 For when he cut the haunch it plainly spoke 
 As haunch of ven'son never ought to speak; 
 
 No wonder that his hand could go no further — 
 
 Whose could? — to carve cold meat that bellow'd," murther! " 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Down came the Body with a bounce, and down 
 The Ranger sprang, a staircase at a spring, 
 
 And bawl'd enough to waken up a town ; 
 
 Some thought that they were murder'd, some, the King, 
 
 And, like Macduff, did nothing for a season, 
 
 But stand upon the spot and bellow, " Treason ! " 
 
"why don't you get up behind?' 
 
A LEGEND OF NAVARRE- 257 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A hundred nightcaps gather'd in a mob, 
 
 Torches drew torches, swords brought swords together, 
 It seem'd so dark and perilous a job ; 
 
 The Baroness came trembling like a feather 
 Just in the rear, as pallid as a corse, 
 Leaning against the Master of the Horse. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A dozen of the bravest up the stair, 
 
 Well lighted and well watch'd, began to clamber ; 
 They sought the door — they found it — they were there, 
 
 A dozen heads went poking in the chamber ; 
 And lo ! with one hand planted on his hurt, 
 There stood the Body bleeding thro' his shirt, — 
 
 No passive corse—but like a duellist 
 
 Just smarting from a scratch— in fierce position, 
 One hand advanc'd, and ready to resist ; 
 
 In fact, the Baron dofF'd the apparition, 
 Swearing those oaths the French delight in most, 
 And for the second time " gave up the ghost 1 " 
 s 
 
258 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE. 
 
 A living miracle ! — for why ?— the knife 
 
 That cuts so many off from grave grey hairs. 
 
 Had only carv'd him kindly into life : 
 How soon it chang'd the posture of affairs ! 
 
 The difference one person more or less 
 
 Will make in families, is past all guess. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 There stood the Baroness— no widow yet : 
 Here stood the Baron — " in the hody" still : 
 
 There stood the Horses' Master in a pet, 
 Choking with disappointment's hitter pill, 
 
 To see the hope of his reversion fail, 
 
 Like that of riding on a donkey's tail. 
 
 The Baron liv'd — 'twas nothing hut a trance : 
 The lady died — 'twas nothing hut a death : 
 
 The cuphoard-cut serv'd only to enhance 
 This postscript to the old Baronial hreath :- 
 
 He soon forgave, for the revival's sake, 
 
 A little chop intended for a steak ! 
 
s2 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 
 
261 
 
 THE DEMON-SHIP. 
 
 Stories of storm-ships and haunted vessels, of spectre- 
 shallops, and supernatural Dutch doggers, are common to 
 many countries, and are well attested both in poetry and 
 prose. The adventures of Sol way sailors, with Mahound, 
 in his bottomless barges, and the careerings of the phantom- 
 ship up and down the Hudson, have hundreds of asserters 
 besides Messrs. Cunningham and Crayon ; and to doubt 
 their authenticity may seem like an imitation of the des- 
 perate sailing of the haunted vessels themselves against 
 wind and tide. I cannot help fancying, however, that 
 Richard Faulder was but one of those tavern-dreamers 
 recorded by old Heywood, who conceived 
 
 "The room wherein they quaff' d to be a pinnace." 
 
 And as for the Flying Dutchman, my notion is very dif- 
 ferent from the popular conception of that apparition, as I 
 have ventured to show by the opposite design. The spec- 
 tre-ship, bound to Dead Man's Isle, is almost as awful a 
 
262 THE DEMON-SHIP. 
 
 craft as the skeleton-bark of the Ancient Mariner ; but 
 they are both fictions, and have not the advantage of being 
 realities, like the dreary vessel with its dreary crew in the 
 following story, which records an adventure that befel even 
 unto myself. 
 
 'Twas off the Wash — the sun went down — the sea look'd 
 
 black and grim, 
 For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at 
 
 the brim ; 
 Titanic shades ! enormous gloom ! — as if the solid night 
 Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light ! 
 It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, 
 With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky! 
 
 Down went my helm — close reef 'd — the tack held freely in 
 
 my hand — 
 With ballast snug — I put about, and scudded for the land. 
 Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee — my little boat flew 
 
 fast, 
 But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the 
 
 blast. 
 Lord ! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail ! 
 What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of 
 hail ! 
 
THE DEMON-SHIP. 263 
 
 What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps 
 
 behind ! 
 Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the 
 
 wind. 
 Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, 
 But where it sank another rose and gallop'd in its place ; 
 As black as night — they turned to white, and cast against 
 
 the cloud 
 A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's 
 
 shroud :— 
 Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run! 
 Behold yon fatal billow rise — ten billows heap'd in one ! 
 With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, 
 
 fast. 
 As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last ! 
 Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave ; 
 It seem'd as though some cloud had turn'd its hugeness 
 
 to a wave ! 
 Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face — 
 I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base ! 
 I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine ! 
 Another pulse — and down it msh'd — an avalanche of brine! 
 Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and 
 
 home; 
 The waters clos'd — and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below 
 
 the foam ! 
 
264 THE DEMON-SHIP. 
 
 Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed — 
 For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. 
 
 " Where am I ? in the breathing world, or in the world ol 
 
 death?" 
 With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of 
 
 breath ; 
 My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful 
 
 sound — 
 And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around ? 
 A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft ; 
 But were those beams the very beams that I had seen 
 
 so oft? 
 A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd 
 
 alone ; 
 But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against 
 
 Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a 
 
 sight 
 As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed 
 
 night ! 
 I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes 
 Of fever ; and most frightful things have haunted in my 
 
 dreams — 
 
THE DEMON-SHIP. 265 
 
 Hyenas—cats — blood-loving bats — and apes with hateful 
 stare, — 
 
 Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls —the lion, and she- 
 bear — 
 
 Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite — 
 
 Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the 
 light! 
 
 Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their 
 tombs — 
 
 All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms — 
 
 Hags, goblins, demons,, lemures, have made me all 
 aghast, — 
 
 But nothing like that Grimly One who stood beside the 
 mast ! 
 
 His cheek was black — his brow was black — his eyes and 
 
 hair as dark: 
 His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable 
 
 mark; 
 His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd 
 
 beneath, 
 His breast was black— all, all was black, except his 
 
 grinning teeth. 
 His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves ! 
 Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black thatplough'd the inky 
 
 waves ! 
 
266 THE DEMON SHIP. 
 
 " Alas ! " I cried, " for love of truth and blessed mercy's 
 
 sake, 
 Where am I ? in what dreadful ship ? upon what dreadful 
 
 lake? 
 What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal ? 
 It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul ! 
 Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that 
 
 beguil'd 
 My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child, — 
 My mother dear — my native fields, I never more shall see : 
 I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea ! " 
 
 Loud laugh'd that Sable Mariner, and loudly in 
 
 return 
 His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to 
 
 stern — 
 A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the 
 
 nonce — 
 As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once : 
 A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit, 
 With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of 
 
 the Pit. 
 They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for 
 
 the whole ; — 
 " Our skins," said he, " are black ye see, because we carry 
 
 coal ; 
 
THE DEMON-SHIP. 
 
 267 
 
 You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native 
 
 fields — 
 For this here ship has pick'd you up — the Mary Ann of 
 
 Shields!" 
 
 FANCY PORTRAIT '. CAPTAIN HEAD. 
 
268 
 
 SALLY HOLT, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 DEATH OF JOHN HAYLOFT. 
 
 Four times in the year — twice at the season of the half- 
 yearly dividends, and twice at the intermediate quarters, 
 to make her slender investments — there calls at my Aunt 
 Shakerly's, a very plain, very demure maiden, about forty, 
 and makes her way downward to the kitchen, or upward 
 to my cousin's chamber, as may happen. Her coming is 
 not to do chair-work, or needlework— to tell fortunes — to 
 beg, steal, or borrow. She does not come for old clothes, 
 or for new. Her simple errand is love — pure, strong, 
 disinterested, enduring love, passing the love of women — 
 at least for women. 
 
 It is not often servitude begets much kindliness between 
 the two relations ; her's, however, grew from that ungenial 
 soil. For the whole family of the Shakerlies she has a 
 strong feudal attachment, but her particular regard dwells 
 with Charlotte, the latest born of the clan. Her she doats 
 upon — her she fondles -and takes upon her longing, loving 
 lap. 
 
SALLY HOLT, AND THE DEATH OF JOHN HAYLOFT. 269 
 
 O let not the oblivious attentions of the worthy Dominie 
 Sampson, to the tall boy Bertram, be called an unnatural 
 working! I have seen my cousin, a good feeder, and 
 well grown into womanhood, sitting — two good heads 
 taller than her dry-nurse — on the knees of the simple- 
 hearted Sally Holt! I have seen the huge presentation 
 orange, unlapp'd from the homely speckled kerchief, and 
 thrust with importunate tenderness into the bashful mar- 
 riageahle hand. 
 
 My cousin's heart is not so artificially composed, as to 
 let her scorn this humble affection, though she is puzzled 
 sometimes with what kind of look to receive these honest 
 but awkward endearments. I have seen her face quivering 
 with half a laugh. 
 
 It is one of Sally's staple hopes that, some day or other, 
 when Miss Charlotte keeps house, she will live with her as 
 a servant : and this expectation makes her particular and 
 earnest to a fault in her inquiries about sweethearts, and 
 offers, and the matrimonial chances : questions which I 
 have seen my cousin listen to with half a cry. 
 
 Perhaps Sally looks upon this confidence as her right, 
 in return for those secrets which, by joint force of ignorance 
 and affection, she could not help reposing in the bosom of 
 her foster-mistress. Nature, unkind to her, as to Dogberry, 
 denied to her that knowledge of reading and writing which 
 
270 SALLY HOLT, AND THE DEATH OF JOHN HAYLOFT. 
 
 comes to some by instinct. A strong principle of religion 
 made it a darling point with her to learn to read, that she 
 might study in her bible : but in spite of all the help of my 
 cousin, and as ardent a desire for learning as ever dwelt in 
 scholar, poor Sally never mastered beyond A-B-ab. Her 
 mind, simple as her heart, was unequal to any more dif- 
 ficult combinations. Writing was worse to her than con- 
 juring. My cousin was her amanuensis: and from the 
 vague, unaccountable mistrust of ignorance, the inditer 
 took the pains always to compare the verbal message with 
 the transcript, by counting the number of the words. 
 
 I would give up all the tender epistles of Mrs. Arthur 
 Brooke, to have read one of Sally's epistles ; but they were 
 amatory, and therefore kept sacred : for plain as she was, 
 Sally Holt had a lover. 
 
 There is an unpretending plainness in some faces that 
 has its charm— an unaffected ugliness, a thousand times 
 more bewitching than those would-be pretty looks that 
 neither satisfy the critical sense, nor leave the matter of 
 beauty at once to the imagination. We like better to make 
 a new face than to mend an old one. Sally had not one 
 good feature, except those which John Hayloft made for 
 her in his dreams ; and to judge from one token, her partial 
 fancy was equally answerable for his charms. One pre- 
 cious lock — no, not a lock, but rather a remnant of very 
 
SALLY HOLT, AND THE DEATH OF JOHN HAYLOFT. 271 
 
 short, very coarse, very yellow hair, the clippings of a 
 military crop, for John was a corporal — stood the foremost 
 item amongst her treasures. To her they were, curls, 
 golden, Hyperion, and cherished long after the parent- 
 head was laid low, with many more, on the bloody plain of 
 Salamanca. 
 
 I remember vividly at this moment the ecstasy of her 
 grief at the receipt of the fatal news. She was standing 
 near the dresser with a dish, just cleaned, in her dexter 
 hand. Ninety-nine women in a hundred would have 
 dropped the dish. Many would have flung themselves 
 after it on the floor; but Sally put it up, orderly, on the 
 shelf. The fall of John Hayloft could not induce the fall 
 of the crockery. She felt the blow notwithstanding; and 
 as soon as she had emptied her hands, began to give way 
 to her emotions in her own manner. Affliction vents itself 
 in various modes, with different temperaments : some rage, 
 others compose themselves like monuments. Some weep 
 some sleep, some prose about death, and others poetize on 
 it. Many take to a bottle, or to a rope. Some go to 
 Margate, or Bath. 
 
 Sally did nothing of these kinds. She neither snivelled, 
 travelled, sickened, maddened, nor ranted, nor canted, 
 nor hung, nor fuddled herself — she only rocked herself 
 upon the kitchen chair ! ! 
 
272 SALLY HOLT, AND THE DEATH OF JOHN HAYLOFT. 
 
 The action was not adequate to her relief. She got 
 up — took a fresh chair — then another — and another — and 
 another, — till she had rocked on all the chairs in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 The thing was tickling to hoth sympathies. It was 
 pathetical to behold her grief, but ludicrous that she knew 
 no better how to grieve. 
 
 An American might have thought that she was in the 
 act of enjoyment, but for an intermitting^ dear! dear ! 
 Passion could not wring more from her in the way of ex- 
 clamation than the tooth-ache. Her lamentations were 
 always the same, even in tone. By and bye she pulled out 
 the hair — the cropped, yellow, stunted, scrubby hair ; then 
 she fell to rocking — then dear ! dear !— and then Da 
 Capo. 
 
 It was an odd sort of elegy, and yet, simple as it was, I 
 thought it worth a thousand of Lord Littleton's ! 
 
 " Heyday, Sally ! what is the matter ? " was a very na- 
 tural inquiry from my Aunt, when she came down into the 
 kitchen ; and if she did not make it with her tongue, at 
 least it was asked very intelligibly by her eyes. Now 
 Sally had but one way of addressing her mistress, and she 
 used it here. It was the same with which she would have 
 asked for a holiday, except that the waters stood in her 
 eyes. 
 
PONY-ATOWSKI. 
 
SALLY HOLT, AND THE DEATH OF JOHN HAYLOFT. 275 
 
 " If you please, Ma'am," said she, rising up from her 
 chair, and dropping her old curtsey, "if you please, 
 Ma'am, it's John Hayloft is dead ; " and then she began 
 rocking again, as if grief was a baby that wanted jogging 
 to sleep. 
 
 My Aunt was posed. She w 7 ould fain have comforted 
 the mourner, but her mode of grieving was so out of the 
 common way, that she did not know how to begin. To 
 the violent she might have brought soothing ; to the des- 
 ponding, texts of patience and resignation ; to the hys- 
 terical, sal volatile ; she might have asked the sentimental 
 for the story of her woes. A good scolding is useful with 
 some sluggish griefs:— in some cases a cordial. In others 
 —a job. 
 
 If Sally had only screamed, or bellowed, or fainted, or 
 gone stupified, or raved, or said a collect, or moped about, 
 it would have been easy to deal with her. But with a 
 
 woman that only rocked on her chair 
 
 What the devil could my Aunt do ? — 
 
 Why, nothing : — and she did it as well as she could. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 A SHOOTING TOOTH. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Of all our pains, since man was curst, 
 I mean of body, not the mental, 
 To name the worst, among the worst, 
 The dental sure is transcendental ; 
 Some hit of masticating bone, 
 That ought to help to clear a shelf, 
 But let its proper work alone, 
 And only seems to gnaw itself; 
 
A TRUE STORY. 277 
 
 In fact, of any grave attack 
 On victual there is little danger, 
 Tis so like coming to the rack, 
 As well as going to the manger. 
 
 Old Hunks — it seem'd a fit retort 
 Of justice on his grinding ways — 
 Possess 5 d a grinder of the sort, 
 That troubled all his latter days. 
 The best of friends fall out, and so 
 His teeth had done some years ago, 
 Save some old stumps with ragged root, 
 And they took turn about to shoot ; 
 If he drank any chilly liquor, 
 They made it quite a point to throb ; 
 But if he warm'd it on the hob, 
 Why then they only twitch' d the quicker. 
 
 One tooth — I wonder such a tooth 
 
 Had never kill'd him in his youth — 
 
 One tooth he had with many fangs, 
 
 That shot at once as many pangs, 
 
 It had an universal sting ; 
 
 One touch of that extatic stump 
 
 Could jerk his limbs, and make him jump, 
 
278 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Just like a puppet on a string ; 
 And what was worse than all, it had 
 A way of making others bad. 
 There is, as many know, a knack* 
 With certain farming undertakers, 
 And this same tooth pursued their track, 
 By adding ackers still to ackers ! 
 
 One way there is, that has been judg'd 
 A certain cure, but Hunks was loth 
 To pay the fee, and quite begrudg'd 
 To lose his tooth and money both \ 
 In fact, a dentist and the wheel 
 Of Fortune are a kindred east, 
 For after all is drawn, you feel 
 It's paying for a blank at last ; 
 So Hunks went on from week to week, 
 And kept his torment in his cheek ; 
 Oh ! how it sometimes set him rocking, 
 With that perpetual gnaw — gnaw— gnaw, 
 His moans and groans were truly shocking 
 And loud, — altho' he held his jaw. 
 Many a tug he gave his gum, 
 And tooth, but still it would not come, 
 Tho' tied by string to some firm thing* 
 
A TRUE STORY. 279 
 
 He could not draw it, do his best, 
 By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest. 
 
 At last, but after much debating. 
 
 He joined a score of mouths in waiting, 
 
 Like his, to have their troubles out. 
 
 Sad sight it was to look about 
 
 At twenty faces making faces, 
 
 With many a rampant trick and antic, 
 
 For all were very horrid cases, 
 
 And made their owners nearly frantic. 
 
 A little wicket now and then 
 
 Took one of these unhappy men, 
 
 And out again the victim rush'd, 
 
 While eyes and mouth together gush'd ; 
 
 At last arriv'd our hero's turn, 
 
 Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, 
 
 And down he sat prepar'd to learn 
 
 How teeth are eharm'd to quit their sockets. 
 
 Those who have felt such operations, 
 Alone can guess the sort of ache, 
 When his old tooth began to break 
 The thread of old associations ; 
 It touch'd a string in every part, 
 
280 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 It had so many tender ties ; 
 One chord seem'd wrenching at his heart, 
 And two were tugging at his eyes ; 
 " Bone of his bone," he felt of course, 
 As husbands do in such divorce ; 
 At last the fangs gave way a little, 
 Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, 
 And lo ! the cause of all this work, 
 Went — where it used to send his victual ! 
 
 The monstrous pain of this proceeding 
 Had not so numb'd his miser wit, 
 But in this slip he saw a hit 
 To save, at least, his purse from bleeding ; 
 So when the dentist sought his fees, 
 Q,uoth Hunks, " Let's finish, if you please.' 
 "How, finish! why it's out ! "-— " Oh ! no- 
 I'm none of your before-hand tippers, 
 'Tis you are out, to argue so ; 
 My tooth is in my head no doubt, 
 But as you say you pull'd it out, 
 Of course it's there — between your nippers." 
 " Zounds! sir, d'ye think I'd sell the truth 
 To get a fee ? no, wretch, I scorn it." 
 But Hunks still ask'd to see the tooth, 
 And swore by gum ! he had not drawn it. 
 
A TRUE STORY. 281 
 
 His end obtain'd, he took his leave, 
 
 A secret chuckle in his sleeve ; 
 
 The joke was worthy to produce one, 
 
 To think, by favour of his wit, 
 
 How well a dentist had been bit 
 
 By one old stump, and that a loose one ! 
 
 The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth 
 
 Is still the frailest thing on earth : 
 
 Alas ! how often when a joke 
 
 Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough, 
 
 There comes some unexpected stroke, 
 
 And hangs a weeper on the cuff! 
 
 Hunks had not whistled half a mile, 
 When, planted right against a stile, 
 There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney, 
 A vagrant reaper, Irish-born, 
 That help'd to reap our miser's com, 
 But had not help'd to reap his money, 
 A fact that Hunks remembered quickly ; 
 His whistle all at once was quell'd, 
 And when he saw how Michael held 
 His sickle, he felt rather sickly. 
 
 Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, 
 Would soon have paid the bill at sight, 
 
282 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 But misers (let observers watch it) 
 Will never part with their delight 
 Till well demanded by a hatchet — 
 They live hard — and they die to match it. 
 Thus Hunks prepar'd for Mike's attacking, 
 Resolv'd not yet to pay the debt, 
 But let him take it out in hacking ; 
 However, Mike began to stickle 
 In words before he used the sickle ; 
 But mercy was not long attendant : 
 From words at last he took to blows, 
 And aim'd a cut at Hunks's nose ; 
 That made it what some folks are not — 
 A member very independent. 
 
 Heaven knows how far this cruel trick 
 
 Might still have led, but for a tramper 
 
 That came in danger's very nick, 
 
 To put Mahoney to the scamper. 
 
 But still compassion met a damper ; 
 
 There lay the sever'd nose, Alas ! 
 
 Beside the daisies on the grass, 
 
 " Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they, 
 
 According to the poet's lay : 
 
 And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter ! 
 
 Away ran Hodge to get assistance, 
 
A TRUE STORY. 283 
 
 With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, 
 
 But somewhat at unusual distance. 
 
 In many a little country place 
 
 It is a very common case 
 
 To have but one residing doctor, 
 
 Whose practice rather seems to be 
 
 No practice, but a rule of three, 
 
 Physician — surgeon — drug-decocter ; 
 
 Thus Hunks was forc'd to go once more 
 
 Where he had ta'en his tooth before. 
 
 His mere name made the learn' d man hot, — 
 
 " What ! Hunks again within my door ! 
 
 " I'll pull his nose ; " quoth Hunks, " you cannot." 
 
 The doctor look'd and saw the case 
 Plain as the nose not on his face. 
 " O ! hum — ha — yes — I understand." 
 But then arose a long demur, 
 For not a finger would he stir 
 Till he was paid his fee in hand ; 
 That matter settled, there they were, 
 With Hunks well strapp'd upon his chair. 
 
 The opening of a surgeon's job — 
 His tools, a chestfull or a drawerfull — 
 
284 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Are always something veiy awful, 
 
 And give the heart the strangest throb ; 
 
 But never patient in his funks 
 
 Look'd half so like a ghost as Hunks, 
 
 Or surgeon half so like a devil 
 
 Prepar'd for some infernal revel : 
 
 His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, 
 
 Just like a bolus in a box : 
 
 His fury seem'd above controlling, 
 
 He bellow' d like a hunted ox : 
 
 " Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how 
 
 We treat such cheating knaves as thou ; 
 
 Oh ! sweet is this revenge to sup ; 
 
 I have thee by the nose — it's now 
 
 My turn— and I will turn it up." 
 
 Guess how the miser lik'd the scurvy 
 And cruel way of venting passion ; 
 The snubbing folks in this new fashion 
 Seem'd quite to turn him topsy turvy ; 
 He utter'd pray'rs, and groans, and curses, 
 For things had often gone amiss 
 And wrong with him before, but this 
 Would be the worst of all reverses ! 
 In fancy he beheld his snout 
 
A TRUE STORY. 285 
 
 Turn'd upward like a pitcher's spout ; 
 There was another grievance yet, 
 And fancy did not fail to show it, 
 That he must throw a summerset, 
 Or stand upon his head to blow it. 
 
 And was there then no argument 
 
 To change the doctor's vile intent, 
 
 And move his pity ? — yes, in truth, 
 
 And that was — paying for the tooth. 
 
 " Zounds ! pay for such a stump ! I'd rather — " 
 
 But here the menace went no farther, 
 
 For with his other ways of pinching, 
 
 Hunks had a miser's love of snuff, 
 
 A recollection strong enough 
 
 To cause a very serious flinching ; 
 
 In short he paid and had the feature 
 
 Replac'd as it was meant by nature ; 
 
 For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle, 
 
 (No corpse's could have felt more horrid,) 
 
 And white just like an end of candle, 
 
 The doctor deem'd and prov'd it too, 
 
 That noses from the nose will do 
 
 As well as noses from the forehead ; 
 
286 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 So, fix'd by dint of rag and lint, 
 The part was bandag'd up and muffled. 
 The chair unfasten'd, Hunks arose, 
 And shuffled out, for once unshuffled ; 
 And as he went, these words he snuffled — 
 " Well, this is ' paying thro' the nose,' " 
 
287 
 
 WHOLESALE RETAIL— AND FOR EXPORTATION. 
 
 THE DECLINE OF MRS. SHAKERLY. 
 
 Towards the close of her life, my Aunt Shakerly in- 
 creased rapidly in bulk : she kept adding growth unto her 
 growth, 
 
 " Giving a sum of more to that which had too much," 
 till the result was worthy of a Smithfield premium. It 
 
288 THE DECLINE OF MRS. SHAKERLY. 
 
 was not the triumph, however, of any systematic diet 
 for the promotion of fat, — (except oyster-eating there is 
 no human system of sta/Z-feeding,) — on the contrary, she 
 lived abstemiously, diluting her food with pickle-acids, 
 and keeping frequent fasts, in order to reduce her com- 
 pass ; but they failed of this desirable effect. Nature had 
 planned an original tendency in her organization that was 
 not to be overcome : — she would have fattened on sour 
 krout. 
 
 My uncle, on the other hand, decreased daily; origi- 
 nally a little man, he became lean, shrunken, wizened. 
 There was a predisposition in his constitution that made 
 him spare, and kept him so : — he would have fallen off 
 even on brewers' grains. 
 
 It was the common joke of the neighbourhood to desig- 
 nate my aunt, my uncle, and the infant Shakerly, as 
 " Wholesale, Retail, and For Exportation ; " and, 
 in truth, they were not inapt impersonations of that popular 
 inscription, — my aunt a giantess, my uncle a pigmy, and 
 the child being " carried abroad." 
 
 Alas! of the three departments, nothing now remains 
 but the Retail portion — my uncle, a pennyworth, a mere 
 sample. 
 
 It is upon record, that Dr. Watts, though a puny man 
 in person, took a fancy, towards his latter days, that he 
 
THE DECLINE OF MRS. SHAKERLY. 289 
 
 was too large to pass through a door : an error which 
 Death shortly corrected by taking him through his own 
 portal. My unhappy aunt, with more show of reason, 
 indulged in a similar delusion ; she conceived herself to 
 have grown inconveniently cumbersome for the small 
 village of * * * *, and my uncle, to quiet her, removed to 
 the metropolis. There she lived for some months in com- 
 parative ease, till at last an unlucky event recalled all her 
 former inquietude. The Elephant of Mr. Cross, a good 
 feeder, and with a natural tendency to corpulence, throve 
 so well on his rations, that, becoming too huge for his den, 
 he was obliged to be dispatched. My aunt read the ac- 
 count in the newspapers, and the catastrophe with its 
 cause took possession of her mind. She seemed to herself 
 as that Elephant. An intolerable sense of confinement and 
 oppression haunted her by day and in her dreams. First 
 she had a tightness at her chest, then in her limbs, then 
 all over ; she felt too big for her chair— then for her bed — 
 then for her room — then for the house ! To divert her 
 thought my uncle proposed to go to Paris ; but she was 
 too huge for a boat— for a barge — for a packet — for a frigate 
 — for a countiy— for a continent ! " She was too big," she 
 said, " for this world — but she was going to one that is 
 boundless." 
 Nothing could wean her from this belief: her whole 
 u 
 
290 THE DECLINE OF MRS. SHAKERLY. 
 
 talk was of " cumber-grounds : " of the " burthen of the 
 flesh : " and of " infinity." Sometimes her head wan- 
 dered, and she would then speak of disposing of the 
 " bulk of her personals." 
 
 In the meantime her health decayed slowly, but per- 
 ceptibly : she was dying, the doctor said, by inches. 
 
 Now my uncle was a kind husband, and meant ten- 
 derly, though it sounded untender : but when the doctor 
 said that she was dying by inches— 
 
 " God forbid ! " cried my uncle : " consider what a 
 great big creature she is ! " 
 
291 
 
 THE JUDGES OF A-STZE. 
 
 TIM TURPIN, 
 
 Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, 
 And ne'er had seen the skies : 
 
 For Nature, when his head was made, 
 Forgot to dot his eyes, 
 u 2 
 
292 TIM TURPIN. 
 
 So, like a Christmas pedagogue, 
 Poor Tim was forc'd to do — 
 
 Look out for pupils, for lie had 
 A vacancy for two. 
 
 There's some have specs to help their sight 
 
 Of objects dim and small: 
 But Tim had specks within his eyes, 
 
 And could not see at all. 
 
 Now Tim he woo'd a servant maid, 
 
 And took her to his arms ; 
 For he, like Pyramus, had cast 
 
 A wall-eye on her charms. 
 
 By day she led him up and down 
 
 Where'er he wish'd to jog, 
 A happy wife, altho' she led 
 
 The life of any dog. 
 
 But just when Tim had liv'd a month 
 
 In honey with his wife, 
 A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes, 
 
 Like oysters, with a knife. 
 
TIM TURPIN. 293 
 
 But when his eyes were open'd thus, 
 
 He wish'd them dark again : 
 For when he look'd upon his wife, 
 
 He saw her very plain. 
 
 Her face was bad, her figure worse, 
 
 He couldn't bear to eat : 
 For she was any thing but like 
 
 A Grace before his meat. 
 
 Now Tim he was a feeling man : 
 
 For when his sight was thick, 
 It made him feel for every thing — 
 
 But that was with a stick. 
 
 So with a cudgel in his hand- 
 It was not light or slim — 
 
 He knocked at his wife's head until 
 It open'd unto him. 
 
 And when the corpse was stiff and cold, 
 
 He took his slaughtered spouse, 
 And laid her in a heap with all 
 
 The ashes of her house. 
 
294 TIM TURPIN. 
 
 But like a wicked murderer, 
 He liv'd in constant fear 
 
 From day to day, and so he cut 
 His throat from ear to ear. 
 
 The neighbours fetch' d a doctor in : 
 Said he, this wound I dread 
 
 Can hardly be sow'd up — his life 
 Is hanging on a thread. 
 
 But when another week was gone, 
 He gave him stronger hope — 
 
 Instead of hanging on a thread, 
 Of hanging on a rope. 
 
 Ah ! when he hid his bloody work, 
 
 In ashes round about, 
 How little he supposed the truth 
 
 Would soon be sifted out. 
 
 But when the parish dustman came, 
 His rubbish to withdraw, 
 
 He found more dust within the heap, 
 Than he contracted for ! 
 
TIM TURPIN. 295 
 
 A dozen men to try the fact, 
 
 Were sworn that very day ; 
 But tho' they all were jurors, yet 
 
 No conjurors were they. 
 
 Said Tim unto those jurymen, 
 
 You need not waste your breath, 
 For I confess myself at once, 
 
 The author of her death. 
 
 And, oh ! when I reflect upon 
 
 The blood that I have spilt, 
 Just like a button is my soul, 
 
 Inscrib'd with double guilt ! 
 
 Then turning round his head again, 
 
 He saw before his eyes, 
 A great judge, and a little judge, 
 
 The judges of a-size! 
 
 The great judge took his judgment cap, 
 
 And put it on his head, 
 And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang, 
 
 .'Till he was three times dead. 
 
296 
 
 TIM TURPIN. 
 
 So he was tried, and he was hung 
 (Fit punishment for such) 
 
 On Horsham-drop, and none can say 
 It was a drop too much. 
 
 JURORS NOT CON-JURORS. 
 
297 
 
 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 
 
 " God help thee, said I, but I'll let thee out, cost what it will : so 
 I turned about the cage to get to the door.' , — Sterne. 
 
 'Tis strange, what awkward figures and odd capers 
 Folks cut, who seek their doctrine from the papers ; 
 But there are many shallow politicians, 
 Who take their bias from bewilder' d journals- 
 Turn state-physicians, 
 And make themselves fools'-caps of the diurnals. 
 
 One of this kind, not human, but a monkey, 
 Had read himself at last to this sour creed — 
 That he was nothing but Oppression's flunkey, 
 And man a tyrant over all his breed. 
 
 He could not read 
 Of niggers whipt, or over-trampled weavers, 
 But he applied their wrongs to his own seed, 
 And nourish' d thoughts that threw him into fevers. 
 His very dreams were full of martial beavers, 
 
298 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 
 
 And drilling Pugs, for liberty pugnacious, 
 
 To sever chains vexatious : 
 In fact, he thought that all his injur'd line 
 Should take up pikes in hand, and never drop 'em 
 Till they had cleared a road to Freedom's shrine, — 
 Unless perchance the turn-pike men should stop 'em. 
 
 Full of this rancour, 
 Pacing one day beside St. Clement Danes, 
 
 It came into his brains 
 To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor; 
 Where certain solemn sages of the nation 
 Were at that moment in deliberation 
 How to relieve the wide world of its chains, 
 
 Pluck despots down, 
 
 And thereby crown 
 Whitee- as well as blackee-man-cipation. 
 Pug heard the speeches with great approbation, 
 And gaz'd with pride upon the Liberators ; 
 
 To see mere coal-heavers 
 
 Such perfect Bolivars — 
 Waiters of inns sublim'd to innovators, 
 And slaters dignified as legislators — 
 Small publicans demanding (such their high sense 
 Of liberty) an universal license— 
 
THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 290 
 
 And patten-makers easing Freedom's clogs — 
 
 The whole thing seem'd 
 
 So fine, he deem'd 
 The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs ! 
 
 Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, 
 Walk'd out at last, and turn'd into the Strand, 
 
 To the left hand, 
 Conning some portions of the previous twaddle, 
 And striding with a step that seem'd design' d 
 To represent the mighty March of Mind, 
 
 Instead of that slow waddle 
 Of thought, to which our ancestors inclin'd — 
 No wonder, then, that he should quickly find 
 He stood in front of that intrusive pile, 
 
 Where Cross keeps many a kind 
 
 Of bird confin'd, 
 And free-born animal, in durance vile — 
 A thought that stirr'd up all the monkey-bile! 
 
 The window stood ajar — 
 
 It was not far, 
 Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb— 
 The hour was verging on the supper-time, 
 And many a growl was sent through many a bar. 
 Meanwhile Pug scrambled upward like a tar, 
 
300 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 
 
 And soon crept in, 
 
 Unnotic'd in the din 
 Of tuneless throats, that made the attics ring 
 With all the harshest notes that they could bring ; 
 
 For like the Jews, 
 
 Wild beasts refuse, 
 In midst of their captivity — to sing. 
 
 Lord ! how it made him chafe, 
 Full of his new emancipating zeal, 
 To look around upon this brute-bastillee, 
 And see the king of creatures in — a safe ! 
 The desert's denizen in one small den, 
 Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills — 
 A bear in bars unbearable. And then 
 The fretful porcupine, with all its quills 
 
 Imprison' d in a pen ! 
 A tiger limited to four feet ten ; 
 
 And, still worse lot, 
 
 A leopard to one spot 
 
 An elephant enlarg'd, 
 
 But not discharg'd ; 
 (It was before the elephant was shot ;) 
 A doleful wanderow, that wandered not ; 
 An ounce much disproportion^ to his pound. 
 
 Pug's wrath wax'd hot 
 
THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 301 
 
 To gaze upon these captive creatures round ; 
 
 Whose claws — all scratching — gave him full assurance 
 
 They found their durance vile of vile endurance. 
 
 He went above — a solitary mounter 
 
 Up gloomy stairs— and saw a pensive group 
 
 Of hapless fowls — 
 
 Cranes, vultures, owls, 
 In fact, it was a sort of Poultry-Compter, 
 Where feather' d prisoners were doom'd to droop : 
 Here sat an eagle, forc'd to make a stoop, 
 Not from the skies, but his impending roof; 
 
 And there aloof, 
 A pining ostrich, moping in a coop ; 
 With other samples of the bird creation, 
 All cag'd against their powers and their wills, 
 And cramp'd in such a space, the longest bills 
 Were plainly bills of least accommodation. 
 In truth, it was a very ugly scene 
 To fall to any liberator's share, 
 To see those winged fowls, that once had been 
 Free as the wind, no freer than fix'd air. 
 
 His temper little mended, 
 Pug from this Bird-cage Walk at last descended 
 
302 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 
 
 Unto the lion and the elephant, 
 
 His bosom in a pant 
 To see all nature's Free List thus suspended, 
 And beasts depriv'd of what she had intended. 
 
 They could not even prey 
 
 In their own way ; 
 A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. 
 
 Thus he revolv'd — 
 
 And soon resolv'd 
 To give them freedom, civil and religious. 
 
 That night there were no country cousins, raw 
 From Wales, to view the lion and his kin : 
 The keeper's eyes were fix'd upon a saw ; 
 The saw was fix'd upon a bullock's shin : 
 
 Meanwhile with stealthy paw, 
 
 Pug hastened to withdraw 
 The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. 
 Now, monarch of the forest ! thou shalt win 
 Precious enfranchisement — thy bolts are undone ; 
 Thou art no longer a degraded creature, 
 But loose to roam with liberty and nature ; 
 And free of all the jungles about London- 
 All Hampsteacl's heathy desert lies before thee ! 
 Methinks I see thee bound from Cross's ark, 
 
THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 
 
 303 
 
 Full of the native instinct that comes o'er thee, 
 
 And turn a ranger 
 Of Hounslow Forest, and the Regent's Park- 
 Thin Rhodes's cows — the mail-coach steeds endanger, 
 And gobble parish watchman after dark : — 
 Methinks I see thee, with the early lark, 
 Stealing to Merlin's cave — {thy cave.) — Alas, 
 That such bright visions should not come to pass ! 
 Alas, for freedom, and for freedom's hero ! 
 
 Alas, for liberty of life and limb ! 
 For Pug had only half unbolted Nero, 
 
 When Nero bolted him ! 
 
 BRUTE EMANCIPATION. 
 
304 
 
 BANDITTI. 
 
 Of all the saints in the Calendar, none has suffered less 
 from the Reformation than St. Cecilia, the great patroness 
 of Music. Lofty and lowly are her votaries — many and 
 magnificent are her holiday festivals — and her common 
 service is performing at all hours of the day. She has not 
 only her regular high-priests and priestesses ; but, like the 
 Wesleyans, her itinerants and street-missionaries, to make 
 known her worship in the highways and in the byeways. 
 
BANDITTI. 305 
 
 Nor is the homage confined to the people of one creed ; — 
 the Protestant exalts her on his barrel-organ — the Catholic 
 with her tambourine — the wandering Jew with his Pan's- 
 pipe and double-drum. The group opposite was sketched 
 from a company of these " Strolling Players." 
 
 It must be confessed that their service is sometimes of a 
 kind rather to drive angels higher into heaven, than to 
 entice them earthward ; and there are certain retired 
 streets — near the Adelphi, for instance — where such half- 
 hourly deductions from the natural quiet of the situation 
 should justly be considered in the rent. Some of the 
 choruses, in truth, are beyond any but a saintly endurance. 
 Conceive a brace of opposition organs, a fife, two hurdy- 
 gurdies, a clarionet, and a quartette of decayed mariners, 
 all clubbing their music in common, on the very principle 
 of Mr. Owen's New Harmony ! 
 
 In the Journal of a recent Traveller through the Papal 
 States, there is an account of an adventure with Neapo- 
 litan robbers, that would serve, with very slight altera- 
 tions, for the description of an encounter with our own 
 banditti. 
 
 " To-day, Mrs. Graham and I mounted our horses and 
 rode towards Islington. We had not proceeded far, when 
 we heard sounds as of screaming and groaning, and pre- 
 sently a groupe of men appeared at a turn of the road. It 
 x 
 
306 BANDITTI. 
 
 was too certain that we had fallen in with one of these 
 roving bands. Escape was impossible, as they extended 
 across the road. Their leader was the celebrated Flanigan, 
 notorious for his murder of Fair Ellen, and the Bewildered 
 Maid. One of the fellows advanced close up to Mrs. G., 
 and putting his instrument to her ear, threatened to blow 
 out her brains. We gave them what coppers we had, and 
 were allowed to proceed. We were informed by the coun- 
 try-people, that a gentlewoman and her daughter had been 
 detained by them, near the same spot, and robbed of their 
 hearings, with circumstances of great barbarity; Flan- 
 igan in the meantime, standing by with his pipe in his 
 mouth ! 
 
 " Innumerable other travellers have been stopped and 
 tortured by these wretches, till they gave up their money : 
 and yet these excesses are winked at by the police. In 
 the meantime, the government does not interfere, in the 
 hope, perhaps, that some day those gangs may be broken 
 up, and separated, by discord amongst themselves." 
 
 Sometimes to the eye of fancy these wandering minstrels 
 assume another character, and illustrate Collins's Ode on 
 the Passions, in a way that might edify Miss Macauley. 
 First, Fear, a blind harper, lays his bewildered hand 
 amongst the cords, but recoils back at the sound of an 
 approaching carriage. Anger, with starting eye-balls, 
 
BANDITTI. 307 
 
 blows a rude clash on the bugle-horn ; and Despair, a 
 snipe-faced wight, beguiles his grief with low sullen sounds 
 on the bassoon. Hope, a consumptive Scot, with golden 
 hair and a clarionet, indulges, like the flatterer herself, 
 in a thousand fantastic flourishes beside the tune — with a 
 lingering quaver at the close; and would quaver longer, 
 but Revenge shakes his matted locks, blows a fresh alarum 
 on his pandeans, and thumps with double heat his double- 
 drum. Dejected Pity at his side, a hunger-bitten urchin, 
 applies to his silver-toned triangle ; whilst Jealousy, sad 
 proof of his distracted state, grinds on, in all sorts of time, 
 at his barrel-organ. With eyes upraised, pale Melancholy 
 sings retired and unheeded at the corner of the street ; and 
 Mirth, — yonder he is, a brisk little Savoyard, jerking away 
 at the hurdy-gurdy, and dancing himself at the same time, 
 to render his jig-tune more jigging. 
 
 x2 
 
308 
 
 DEATH'S RAMBLE. 
 
 One day the dreary old King of Death 
 Inclined for some sport with the carnal, 
 
 So he tied a pack of darts on his back, 
 And quietly stole from his charnel. 
 
 His head was bald of ilesh and of hair, 
 
 His body was lean and lank, 
 His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur 
 
 Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. 
 
 And what did he do with his deadly darts, 
 
 This goblin of grisly bone ? 
 He dabbled and spilPd man's blood, and he kill'd 
 
 Like a butcher that kills his own. 
 
death's ramble. 309 
 
 The first he slaughter'd it made him laugh, 
 
 (For the man was a coffin-maker,) 
 To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, 
 
 Would mourn for an undertaker. 
 
 Death saw two Quakers sitting at church, 
 
 Quoth he, " we shall not differ." 
 And he let them alone, like figures of stone, 
 
 For he could not make them stiffer. 
 
 He saw two duellists going to fight, 
 
 In fear they could not smother ; 
 And he shot one through at once — for he knew 
 
 They never would shoot each other. 
 
 Hs saw a watchman fast in his box, 
 
 And he gave a snore infernal ; 
 Said Death, " he may keep his breath, for his sleep 
 
 Can never be more eternal." 
 
 He met a coachman driving his coach 
 
 So slow, that his fare grew sick ; 
 But he let him stray on his tedious way, 
 
 For Death only wars on the quick. 
 
310 death's ramble. 
 
 Death saw a toll-man taking a toll, 
 
 In the spirit of his fraternity ; 
 But he knew that sort of man would extort, 
 
 Though summon' d to all eternity. 
 
 He found an author writing his life, 
 
 But he let him write no further ; 
 For Death, who strikes whenever he likes. 
 
 Is jealous of all self-murther I 
 
 Death saw a patient that pulPd out his purse, 
 
 And a doctor that took the sum ; 
 Bat he let them he — for he knew that the "fee" 
 
 Was a prelude to " faw " and " fum." 
 
 He met a dustman ringing a bell, 
 And he gave him a mortal thrust ; 
 
 For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, 
 Is contractor for all our dust. 
 
 He saw a sailor mixing his grog, 
 
 And he marked him out for slaughter ; 
 
 For on water he scarcely had cared for Death. 
 And never on rum-and-water. 
 
DEATH S RAMBLE. 
 
 311 
 
 Death saw two players playing at cards, 
 But the game was n't worth a dump, 
 
 For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, 
 To wait for the final trump ! 
 
 4 'dust o ! " 
 
312 
 
 CftANIOLOGY. 
 
 'Tjs strange how like a very dunce, 
 
 Man — with his bumps upon his sconce, 
 
 Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he 
 
 Has had, till lately, of Phrenology — 
 
 A science that by simple dint of 
 
 Head-combing he should find a hint of> 
 
 When scratching o'er those little pole-hilIs ? 
 
 The faculties throw up like mole-hills ;— 
 
 A science that, in very spite 
 
 Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, 
 
 For tho' he knew his skull had grinders, 
 
 Still there turn'd up no organ finders, 
 
 Still sages wrote, and ages fled, 
 
 And no man's head came in his head — 
 
 Not even the pate of Erra Pater, 
 
 Knew ought about its pia mater. 
 
 At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him — 
 
 I don't know but it might be Spurzheim — 
 
CRANE-IOLOGY* 
 
CRANIOLOGY. 315 
 
 Tho' native of a dull and slow land, 
 
 And makes partition of our Poll-land ; 
 
 At our Acquisitiveness guesses, 
 
 And all those necessary nesses 
 
 Indicative of human habits, 
 
 All burrowing in the head like rabbits. 
 
 Thus Veneration, he made known, 
 
 Had got a lodging at the Crown : 
 
 And Music (see Deville's example) 
 
 A set of chambers in the Temple : 
 
 That Language taught the tongues close by, 
 
 And took in pupils thro' the eye, 
 
 Close by his neighbour Computation, 
 
 Who taught the eyebrows numeration. 
 
 The science thus — to speak in fit 
 Terms — having struggled from its nit, 
 Was seiz'd on by a swarm of Scotchmen, 
 Those scientifical hotch-potch men, 
 Who have at least a penny dip 
 And wallop in all doctorship, 
 Just as in making broth they smatter 
 By bobbing twenty things in water : 
 These men, I say, made quick appliance 
 And close, to phrenologic science ; 
 
316 CRANIOLOGY. 
 
 For of all learned themes whatever, 
 
 That schools and colleges deliver, 
 
 There's none they love so near the bodies, 
 
 As analyzing their own noddles ; 
 
 Thus in a trice each northern blockhead 
 
 Had got his fingers in his shock head, 
 
 And of his bumps was babbling yet worse 
 
 Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse ; 
 
 Till having been sufficient rangers 
 
 Of their own heads, they took to strangers', 
 
 And found in Presbyterians' polls 
 
 The things they hated in their souls ; 
 
 For Presbyterians hear with passion 
 
 Of organs join' d with veneration. 
 
 No kind there was of human pumpkin 
 
 But at its bumps it had a bumpkin ; 
 
 Down to the very lowest gullion, 
 
 And oiliest scull of oily scullion. 
 
 No great man died but this they did do, 
 
 They begged his cranium of his widow : 
 
 No murderer died by law disaster, 
 
 But they took off his sconce in plaster ; 
 
 For thereon they could show depending, 
 
 " The head and front of his offending," 
 
CRANIOLOGY. 317 
 
 How that his philanthropic bump 
 Was master'd by a baser lump ; 
 For every bump (these wags insist) 
 Has its direct antagonist, 
 Each striving stoutly to prevail, 
 Like horses knotted tail to tail ; 
 And many a stiff and sturdy battle 
 Occurs between these adverse cattle, 
 The secret cause, beyond all question, 
 Of aches ascrib'd to indigestion,— 
 Whereas His but two knobby rivals 
 Tugging together like sheer devils, 
 Till one gets mastery good or sinister, 
 And comes in like a new prime-minister. 
 
 Each bias in some master node is : — 
 What takes M'Adam where a road is, 
 To hammer little pebbles less ? 
 His organ of Destructiveness. 
 What makes great Joseph so encumber 
 Debate ? a lumping lump of Number : 
 Or Malthus rail at babies so ? 
 The smallness of his Philopro — 
 What severs man and wife ? a simple 
 Defect of the Adhesive pimple : 
 
318 CRANIOLOGY. 
 
 Or makes weak women go astray ? 
 
 Their bumps are more in fault than they. 
 
 These facts being found and set in order 
 
 By grave M.D.s beyond the Border, 
 
 To make them for some few months eternal, 
 
 Were enter'd monthly in a journal, 
 
 That many a northern sage still writes in, 
 
 And throws his little Northern Lights in, 
 
 And proves and proves about the phrenos, 
 
 A great deal more than I or he knows. 
 
 How Music suffers, par exemple, 
 
 By wearing tight hats round the temple ; 
 
 What ills great boxers have to fear 
 
 From blisters put behind the ear : 
 
 And how a porter's Veneration 
 
 Is hurt by porter's occupation : 
 
 Whether shillelaghs in reality 
 
 May deaden Individuality : 
 
 Or tongs and poker be creative 
 
 Of alterations in th' Amative : 
 
 If falls from scaffolds make us less 
 
 Inclin'd to all Constructiveness : 
 
 With more such matters, all applying 
 
 To heads — and therefore headifymg. 
 
319 
 
 "honour calls him to the field/' 
 
 AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR. 
 
 *" And those were the only duels," concluded the 
 
 major, " that ever I fought in my life." 
 
 Now the major reminded me strongly of an old boat- 
 man at Hastings, who, after a story of a swimmer that 
 was snapped asunder by a " sea attorney" in the West 
 Indies, made an end in the same fashion : — " And that 
 was the only time/' said he, " I ever saw a man bit in 
 two by a shark." 
 
320 AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR. 
 
 A single occurrence of the kind seemed sufficient for 
 the experience of one life ; and so I reasoned upon the 
 major's nine duels. He must, in the first place, have 
 been not only jealous and swift to quarrel : but, in the 
 second, have met with nine intemperate spirits equally 
 forward with himself. It is but in one affront out of ten 
 that the duellist meets with a duellist: a computation 
 assigning ninety mortal disagreements to his single share ; 
 whereas I, with equal irritability and as much courage 
 perhaps, had never exchanged a card in my life. The 
 subject occupied me all the walk homeward through the 
 meadows : — " To get involved in nine duels/' said I : " 'tis 
 quite improbable ! " 
 
 As I thought thus, I had thrust my body halfway 
 under a rough bar that was doing duty for a stile at one 
 end of a field. It was just too high to climb comfortably, 
 and just low enough to be inconvenient to duck under ; 
 but I chose the latter mode, and began to creep through 
 with the deliberateness consistent with doubtful and 
 intricate speculation. " To get involved in nine duels — 
 here my back hitched a little at the bar — 'tis quite im- 
 possible." 
 
 I am persuaded that there is a spirit of mischief afoot 
 in the world— some malignant fiend to seize upon and 
 direct these accidents : for just at this nick, whilst I was 
 
AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR. 321 
 
 boggling below the bar, there came up another passenger 
 by the same path : so seeing how matters stood, he made 
 an attempt at once to throw his leg over the impediment : 
 but mistaking the altitude by a few inches, he kicked me 
 — where I had never been kicked before. 
 
 " By Heaven ! this is too bad," said I, staggering through 
 head foremost from the concussion : my back was up, in 
 every sense, in a second. 
 
 The stranger apologised in the politest terms, — but with 
 such an intolerable chuckle, with such a provoking grin 
 lurking about his face, that I felt fury enough, like Bea- 
 trice, to " eat his heart in the market-place. " In short, 
 in two little minutes, from venting my conviction upon 
 duelling, I found myself engaged to a meeting for the 
 vindication of my honour. 
 
 There is a vivid description in the History of Robinson 
 Crusoe, of the horror of the solitary Mariner at finding the 
 mark of a foot in the sandy beach of his Desert Island. 
 That abominable token, in a place that he fancied was 
 sacred to himself — in a part, he made sure, never trodden 
 by the sole of man — haunted him wherever he went. So 
 did mine. I bore about with me the same ideal imprint 
 — to be washed out, not by the ocean-brine, but with 
 blood! 
 
322 AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR. 
 
 As I walked homeward after this adventure, and re- 
 flected on my former opinions, I felt that I had done the 
 gallant major an injustice. It seemed likely that a man 
 of his profession might be called out even to the ninth 
 time— nay, that men of the peaceful cloth might, on a 
 chance, be obliged to have recourse to mortal combat, 
 
 As for Gentlemen at the Bar, I have shown how they 
 may get into an Affair of Honour in a twinkling. 
 
323 
 
 A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 
 
 ' Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
 Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail." 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days. 
 
 And lift up a little Oblivion's veil ; 
 Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, 
 
 Like a peacock whose eyes are inclin'd to his tail. 
 
 Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind, 
 
 Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, 
 
 That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, 
 And so turn face about for reviewing the rear. 
 
 Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, 
 Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise ! 
 
 And as farther our back-searching glances prevail, 
 Like the emmets, " how little we are in our eyes ! w 
 y2 
 
324 A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 
 
 What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, 
 
 On a dimity lap of true nursery make ! 
 I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song 
 
 That was meant to compose me, hut kept me awake. 
 
 Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, 
 
 When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin — 
 
 Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, 
 
 Oh ! how little they dreamt they were driving them in ! 
 
 Infant sorrows are strong — infant pleasures as weak — 
 But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note ; 
 
 Did you ever .attempt a small " bubble and squeak," 
 Thro' the Darby's Carminative down in your throat ? 
 
 Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce ? 
 
 Did you ever come down to the floor with the same ? 
 Oh ! I can't but agree with both ends, and pronounce 
 
 " Head or tails" with a child, an unpleasantish game ! 
 
 Then an urchin — I see myself urchin, indeed, 
 • With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight ; 
 I Why should weeks have an end ? — I am sure there was 
 need 
 Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday-night. 
 
A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 325 
 
 Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub ? 
 
 Have you ever felt huckaback soften' d with sand ? 
 Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, 
 
 And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand ? 
 
 Then a school-boy — my tailor was nothing in fault, 
 For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees, — 
 
 But how well I remember that " pepper and salt " 
 That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees ! 
 
 What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke ! 
 
 With a lanky right leg duly planted before ; 
 Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke, 
 
 And extended my arms as " the arms that he wore ! " 
 
 Next a Lover — Oh ! say, were you ever in love ? 
 
 With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot ! 
 Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove ? 
 
 Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot ? 
 
 With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue, 
 Did you walk up the aisle — the genteelest of men ? 
 
 When I think of that beautiful vision anew, 
 Oh ! I seem but the biffin of what I was then ! 
 
326 
 
 A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 
 
 I am wither'd and worn by a premature care, 
 And my wrinkles confess the decline of my days ; 
 
 Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, 
 And I'm seeking to hide it — by writing for bays ! 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
327 
 
 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 
 
 There's some is bom with their straight legs by natur — 
 
 And some is born with bow-legs from the first — 
 
 And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter, 
 
 But they were badly nurs'd, 
 And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs 
 
 Astride of casks and kegs : 
 I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard, 
 
 And starboard. 
 And this is what it was that warp'd my legs. — 
 
 Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, 
 That fouTd my cable when I ought to slip; 
 
 But on the tenth of May, 
 
 When I gets under weigh, 
 Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship, 
 
 I sees the mail 
 
 Get under sail, 
 The only one there was to make the trip. 
 
328 a sailor's apology for bow-legs. 
 
 Well — I gives chase, 
 But as she run 
 Two knots to one, 
 There war'nt no use in keeping on the race ! 
 
 Well — casting round about, what next to try on, 
 
 And how to spin, 
 I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, 
 And bears away to leeward for the inn, 
 
 Beats round the gable, 
 And fetches up before the coach-horse stable : 
 Well — there they stand, four kickers in a row, 
 
 And so 
 I just makes free to cut a brown'un's cable. 
 But riding is'nt in a seaman's natur — 
 So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, 
 And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter 
 
 To splice me, heel to heel, 
 
 Under the she-mare's keel, 
 And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn ! 
 
 My eyes ! how she did pitch ! 
 And would'nt keep her own to go in no line, 
 Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, 
 But always making lee- way to the ditch, 
 
a sailor's apology for bow-legs. 329 
 
 And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. 
 
 The devil sink the craft ! 
 And was'nt she trimenclus slack in stays ! 
 We could'nt, no how, keep the inn abaft! 
 
 Well — I suppose 
 We had'nt run a knot— or much beyond — 
 (What will you have on it ?) —but off she goes, 
 Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond ! 
 
 There I am !— all a-back ! 
 So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, 
 To heave her head round on the t'other tack ; 
 
 But when I starts, 
 
 The leather parts, 
 And goes away right over by the ears ! 
 
 What could a fellow do, 
 Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, 
 But trim myself upright for bringing-to, 
 And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows, 
 
 In rig all snug and clever, 
 Just while his craft was taking in her water ? 
 I did'nt like my burth tho', howsomdever, 
 Because the yarn, you see, kept getting taughter, — 
 Says I — I wish this job was rayther shorter! 
 
 The chase had gain'd a mile 
 
330 a sailor's apology for bow-legs. 
 
 A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking: 
 
 Now, all the while 
 Her body did'nt take of course to shrinking* 
 Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking — 
 
 And so she swell'd, and swell'd, 
 
 And yet the tackle held, 
 'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. 
 My eyes ! but she took in enough to founder ! 
 And there's my timbers straining every bit, 
 
 Ready to split, 
 And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder ! 
 
 Well, there — off Hartford Ness, 
 We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, 
 
 And can't contrive a signal of distress ; 
 Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, 
 Tho' sick of riding out — and nothing less ; 
 When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn : — 
 Hollo ! says I, come underneath her quarter ! — 
 And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. 
 So I gets off, and lands upon the road, 
 And leaves the she-mare to her own concarn, 
 
 A-standing by the water. 
 If I get on another, I'll be blow'd ! — 
 And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd! 
 
331 
 
 " NOTHING BUT HEARTS !" 
 
 It must have been the lot of every whist-player to ob- 
 serve a phenomenon at the card-table, as mysterious as 
 any in nature — I mean the constant recurrence of a certain 
 trump throughout the night — a run upon a particular suit, 
 that sets all the calculations of Hoyle and Cocker at defi- 
 ance. The chance of turning-up is equal to the Four 
 Denominations. They should alternate with each other, 
 on the average — whereas a Heart, perhaps, shall be the 
 last card of every deal. King or Queen, Ace or Deuce, — 
 still it is of the same clan. You cut — and it comes again. 
 " Nothing but Hearts ! " 
 
 The figure herewith might be fancied to embody this 
 kind of occurrence; and, in truth, it was designed to 
 commemorate an evening dedicated to the same red suit. 
 I had looked in by chance at the Royal Institution : a Mr. 
 Professor Pattison, of New York, I believe, was lecturing, 
 and the subject was — " Nothing but Hearts ! " 
 
332 " NOTHING BUT HEARTS ! " 
 
 Some hundreds of grave, curious, or scientific personages 
 were ranged on the benches of the Theatre ; — every one in 
 his solemn black. On a table in front of the Professor, 
 stood the specimens : hearts of all shapes and sizes — man's, 
 woman's, sheep's, bullock's, — on platters or in cloths, — 
 were lying about as familiar as household wares. Draw- 
 ings of hearts, in black or blood- red, (dismal valentines !) 
 hung around the fearful walls. Preparations of the organ 
 in wax, or bottled, passed currently from hand to hand, 
 from eye to eye, and returned to the gloomy table. It was 
 like some solemn Egyptian Inquisition — a looking into 
 dead men's hearts for their morals. 
 
 The Professor began. Each after each he displayed the 
 samples; the words " auricle " and "ventricle" falling 
 frequently on the ear, as he explained how those " solemn 
 organs " pump in the human breast. He showed, by ex- 
 periments with water, the operation of the valves with the 
 blood, and the impossibility of its revulsion. As he spoke, 
 an indescribable thrilling or tremor crept over my left 
 breast — thence down my side — and all over. I felt an 
 awful consciousness of the bodily presence of my heart, till 
 then nothing more than it is in song — a mere metaphor — 
 so imperceptible are all the grand vital workings of the 
 human frame ! Now I felt the organ distinctly. There 
 it was ! — a fleshy core — aye, like that on the Professor's 
 
" NOTHING BUT HEARTS ! " 333 
 
 plate — throbbing away, auricle, and ventricle, the valve 
 allowing the gushing blood at so many gallons per minute, 
 and ever prohibiting its return ! 
 
 The Professor proceeded to enlarge on the important 
 office of the great functionary, and the vital engine seemed 
 to dilate within me, in proportion to the sense of its stu- 
 pendous responsibility. I seemed nothing but auricle, and 
 ventricle, and valve. I had no breath, but only pulsations. 
 Those who have been present at anatomical discussions can 
 alone corroborate this feeling — how the part discoursed of, 
 by a surpassing sympathy and sensibility, causes its coun- 
 terpart to become prominent and all-engrossing to the 
 sense; how a lecture on hearts makes a man seem to 
 himself as all heart ; or one on heads causes a Phrenolo- 
 gist to conceive he is " all brain." 
 
 Thus was I absorbed : — my " bosom's lord/' lording over 
 every thing beside. By and bye, in lieu of one solitary 
 machine, I saw before me a congregation of hundreds of 
 human forcing pumps, all awfully working together — the 
 palpitations of hundreds of auricles and ventricles, the 
 flapping of hundreds of valves ! And anon they col- 
 lapsed — mine — the Professor's — those on the benches — 
 all! all! — into one great auricle — one great ventricle — 
 one vast universal heart ! 
 
 The lecture ended — I took up my hat and walked out, 
 
334 " NOTHING BUT HEARTS ! " 
 
 but the discourse haunted me. I was full of the subject. 
 A kind of fluttering, which was not to be cured even by 
 the fresh air, gave me plainly to understand that my heart 
 was not " in the Highlands," — nor in any lady's keeping 
 — but where it ought to be, in my own bosom, and as hard 
 at work as a parish pump. I plainly felt the blood — like 
 the carriages on a birth-night — coming in by the auricle, 
 and going out by the ventricle ; and shuddered to fancy 
 what must ensue either way, from any " breaking the line." 
 Then occurred to me the danger of little particles absorbed 
 in the blood, and accumulating to a stoppage at the valve, 
 — the " pumps getting choked," — a suggestion that made 
 me feel rather qualmish, and for relief 1 made a call on 
 
 Mrs. W . The visit was ill-chosen and mistimed, 
 
 for the lady in question, by dint of good-nature, and 
 a romantic turn — principally estimated by her young and 
 female acquaintance — had acquired the reputation of 
 being " all heart." The phrase had often provoked my 
 mirth, — but, alas! the description was now over true. 
 Whether nature had formed her in that mould, or my own 
 distempered fancy, I know not — but there she sate, and 
 looked the Professor's lecture over again. She was like 
 one of those games alluded to in my beginning •— " No- 
 thing but Hearts ! " Her nose turned up. It was a 
 heart — and her mouth led a trump. Her face gave a 
 
" NOTHING BUT HEARTS ! " 335 
 
 heart — and her cap followed suit. Her sleeves puckered 
 and plumped themselves into a heart-shape— and so did 
 her body. Her pincushion was a heart — the very back of 
 her chair was a heart — her bosom was a heart. She was 
 " all heart " indeed ! 
 
 SHE IS ALL HEART. ' 
 
336 
 
 JACK HALL. 
 
 Tis very hard when men forsake 
 This melancholy world, and make 
 A bed of turf, they cannot take 
 
 A quiet doze, 
 But certain rogues will come and break 
 
 Their "bone repose." 
 
 Tis hard we can't give up our breath, 
 And to the earth our earth bequeath, 
 Without Death Fetches after death, 
 
 Who thus exhume us ; 
 And snatch us from our homes beneath, 
 
 And hearths posthumous. 
 
JACK HALL- 337 
 
 III. 
 
 The tender lover comes to rear 
 
 The mournful urn, and shed his tear — 
 
 Her glorious dust, he cries, is here ! 
 
 Alack ! alack ! 
 The while his Sacharissa dear 
 
 Is in a sack ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis hard one cannot lie amid 
 The mould beneath a coffin-lid, 
 But thus the Faculty will bid 
 
 Their rogues break thro' it ! 
 If they don't want us there, why did 
 
 They send us to it ? 
 
 One of these sacrilegious knaves, 
 Who crave as hungry vulture craves, 
 Behaving as the goul behaves, 
 
 'Neath church-yard wall — 
 Mayhap because he fed on graves, 
 
 Was nam'd Jack Hall. 
 
338 JACK HALL. 
 
 By day it was his trade to go 
 Tending the black coach to and fro ; 
 And sometimes at the door of woe, 
 
 With emblems suitable, 
 He stood with brother Mute, to show 
 
 That life is mutable. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But long before they pass'd the ferry, 
 The dead that he had help'd to bury, 
 He sack'd — (he had a sack to carry 
 
 The bodies off in.) 
 In fact, he let them have a very 
 
 Short fit of coffin. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Night after night, with crow and spade, 
 He drove this dead but thriving trade, 
 Meanwhile his conscience never weight 
 
 A single horsehair ; 
 On corses of all kinds he prey'd, 
 
 A perfect corsair ! 
 
JACK HALL. 339 
 
 IX. 
 
 At last — it may be, Death took spite, 
 Or jesting only meant to fright— 
 He sought for Jack night after night 
 
 The churchyards round ; 
 And soon they met, the man and sprite, 
 
 In Pancras' ground. 
 
 x. 
 
 Jack, by the glimpses of the moon, 
 Perceiv'd the bony knacker soon, 
 An awful shape to meet at noon 
 
 Of night and lonely ; 
 But Jack's tough courage did but swoon 
 
 A minute only. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Anon he gave his spade a swing 
 Aloft, and kept it brandishing, 
 Ready for what mishaps might spring 
 From this conjunction ; 
 Funking indeed was quite a thing 
 
 Beside his function. 
 z2 
 
340 JACK HALL. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Hollo !" cried Death, " d'ye wish your sands 
 Run out ? the stoutest never stands 
 A chance with me, — to my commands 
 
 The strongest truckles ; 
 But I'm your friend — so let's shake hands, 
 
 I should say — knuckles." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Jack, glad to see th' old sprite so sprightly, 
 And meaning nothing but uprightly, 
 Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly, 
 
 His mull did proffer : 
 But Death, who had no nose, politely 
 
 Declined the offer. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then sitting down upon a bank, 
 Leg over leg, shank over shank, 
 Like friends for conversation frank, 
 
 That had no check on : 
 Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank, 
 
 " You're Death, I reckon." 
 
JACK HALL. 341 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Jaw-bone grinn'd : — " I am that same, 
 You've hit exactly on my name ; 
 In truth it has some little fame 
 
 Where burial sod is." 
 Quoth Jack, (and wink'd,) " of course ye came 
 
 Here after bodies." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Death grinn'd again and shook his head : — 
 " I've little business with the dead ; 
 When they are fairly sent to bed 
 
 I've done my turn ; 
 Whether or not the worms are fed 
 
 Is your concern. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " My errand here, in meeting you, 
 Is nothing but a ' how-d'ye do ; ' 
 I've done what jobs I had — a few 
 
 Along this way ; 
 If I can serve a crony too, 
 
 I beg you'll say." 
 
342 JACK HALL. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Q,uoth Jack, " Your Honour's very kind : 
 And now I call the thing to mind, 
 This parish very strict I find ; 
 
 But in the next 'un 
 There lives a very well-inelin'd 
 
 Old sort of sexton." 
 
 Death took the hint, and gave a wink 
 As well as eyelet holes can blink ; 
 Then stretching out his arm to link 
 
 The other's arm, — 
 " Suppose," says he, " we have a drink 
 
 Of something warm." 
 
 Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease 
 Spoke up at once : — " Why, what ye please ; 
 Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese, 
 
 A famous tap." 
 But this suggestion seem'd to tease 
 
 The bony chap. 
 
JACK HALL. 343 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " No, no— your mortal drinks are heady, 
 And only make my hand unsteady ; 
 I do not even care for Deady, 
 
 And loathe your rum ; 
 But I've some glorious brewage ready, 
 
 My drink is — mum ! " 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And off they set, each right content — 
 Who knows the dreary way they went ? 
 But Jack felt rather faint and spent, 
 
 And out of breath ; 
 At last he saw, quite evident, 
 
 The Door of Death. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 All other men had been unmanned 
 To see a coffin on each hand, 
 That served a skeleton to stand 
 
 By way of sentry ; 
 In fact, Death has a very grand 
 
 And awful entry. 
 
344 JACK HALL. 
 
 Throughout his dismal sign prevails, 
 His name is writ in coffin nails, 
 The mortal darts make area rails ; 
 
 A scull that mocketh, 
 Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails 
 
 Whoever knocketh. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And lo ! on either side, arise 
 
 Two monstrous pillars — bones of thighs ; 
 
 A monumental slab supplies 
 
 The step of stone, 
 Where waiting for his master lies 
 
 A dog of bone. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The dog leapt up, but gave no yell, 
 The wire was pull'd, but woke no bell, 
 The ghastly knocker rose and fell, 
 
 But caused no riot ; 
 The ways of Death, we all know well 
 
 Are very quiet. 
 
DEATH S DOOR. 
 
JACK HALL. 347 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Old Bones stept in ; Jack stepp'd behind, 
 Quoth Death, " I really hope you'll find 
 The entertainment to your mind, 
 
 As I shall treat ye — 
 A friend or two of goblin kind, 
 
 I've asked to meet ye." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And lo ! a crowd of spectres tall, 
 Like jack- a-lanterns on a wall, 
 Were standing— every ghastly ball 
 
 An eager watcher. 
 " My friends," says Death — " friends, Mr. Hall, 
 
 The body-snatcher." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Lord, what a tumult it produc'd, 
 When Mr. Hall was introduced ! 
 Jack even, who had long been used 
 
 To frightful things, 
 Felt just as if his back was sluic'd 
 
 With freezing springs ! 
 
348 JACK HALL. 
 
 Each goblin face began to make 
 
 Some horrid mouth — ape — gorgon — snake ; 
 
 And then a spectre-hag would shake 
 
 An airy thigh-bone ; 
 And cried, (or seem'd to cry,) I'll break 
 
 Your bone, with my bone \ 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Some ground their teeth — some seem'd to spit- 
 (Nothing, but nothing came of it,) 
 A hundred awful brows were knit 
 
 In dreadful spite. 
 Thought Jack— I'm sure I'd better quit, 
 
 Without good night. 
 
 One skip and hop and he was clear, 
 And running like a hunted deer, 
 As fleet as people run by fear 
 
 Well spurr'd and whipped, 
 Death, ghosts, and all in that career 
 
 Were quite outstripp'd. 
 
JACK HALL. 349 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But those who live by death must die ; 
 Jack's soul at last prepaid to fly ; 
 And when his latter end drew nigh, 
 
 Oh 1 what a swarm 
 Of doctors came, — but not to try 
 
 To keep him warm. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 No ravens ever scented prey 
 So early where a dead horse lay, 
 Nor vultures sniff d so far away 
 
 A last convulse : 
 A dozen " guests" day after day 
 
 Were " at his pulse." 
 
 Twas strange, altho' they got no fees, 
 How still they watch' d by twos and threes : 
 But Jack a very little ease 
 
 Obtained from them ; 
 In fact he did not find M. D.s 
 
 Worth one D — M. 
 
350 JACK HALL. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The passing bell with hollow toll 
 Was in his thought — the dreary hole ! 
 Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll, 
 
 And then a cough : — 
 " There's something weighing on my soul 
 
 I wish was off; 
 
 " All night it roves about my brains, 
 All day it adds to all my pains, 
 It is concerning my remains 
 
 When I am dead : " 
 Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes 
 
 Drew near his bed. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Alas ! " he sigh'd, " I'm sore afraid, 
 A dozen pangs my heart invade ; 
 But when I drove a certain trade 
 
 In flesh and bone, 
 There was a little bargain made 
 
 About my own." 
 
JACK HALL. 351 
 
 Twelve suits of black began to close, 
 Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose, 
 Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows, 
 
 At once drew round ; 
 Twelve noses turn'd against his nose, 
 
 Twelve snubs profound. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " Ten guineas did not quite suffice, 
 And so I sold my body twice ; 
 Twice did not do — I sold it thrice, 
 
 Forgive my crimes ! 
 In short I have received its price 
 
 A dozen times ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Twelve brows got very grim and black, 
 Twelve wishes stretch'd him on the rack, 
 Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack 
 
 Took up position, 
 Ready to share the dying Jack 
 
 By long division. 
 
352 JACK HALL. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Twelve angry doctors wrangled so, 
 That twelve had struck an hour ago, 
 Before they had an eye to throw 
 
 On the departed ; 
 Twelve heads turn'd round at once, and lo ! 
 
 Twelve doctors started. 
 
 XLI1I. 
 
 Whether some comrade of the dead, 
 
 Or Satan took it in his head 
 
 To steal the corpse — the corpse had fled! 
 
 'Tis only written, 
 That " there was nothing in the bed, 
 
 But twelve were bitten !*' 
 
353 
 
 THE WEE MAN. 
 9 Bomattce. 
 
 It was a merry company, 
 And they were just afloat, 
 
 When lo ! a man, of dwarfish span, 
 Came up and hail'd the boat. 
 
 " Good morrow to ye, gentle folks, 
 And will you let me in ? — 
 
 A slender space will serve my case, 
 For I am small and thin." 
 
 They saw he was a dwarfish man, 
 And very small and thin ; 
 
 Not seven such would matter much, 
 And so they took him in. 
 
354 THE WEE MAN. 
 
 They laugh'd to see his little hat, 
 
 With such a narrow brim ; 
 They laugh'd to note his dapper coat 
 
 With skirts so scant and trim. 
 
 But barely had they gone a mile, 
 When, gravely, one and all, 
 
 At once began to think the man 
 Was not so very small. 
 
 His coat had got a broader skirt, 
 
 His hat a broader brim, 
 His leg grew stout, and soon plump'd out 
 
 A very proper limb. 
 
 Still on they went, and as they went, 
 More rough the billows grew, — 
 
 And rose and fell, a greater swell, 
 And he was swelling too ! 
 
 And lo! where room had been for seven, 
 For six there scarce was space ! 
 
 For five ! — for four ! — for three ! — not more 
 Than two could find a place I 
 
THE WEE MAN. 355 
 
 There was not even room for one ! 
 
 They crowded by degrees — 
 Aye — closer yet, till elbows met, 
 
 And knees were jogging knees. 
 
 " Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, 
 
 The wave will else come in ! " 
 Without a word he gravely stirr'd, 
 
 Another seat to win. 
 
 *< Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, 
 
 You must not sit a-lee ! " 
 With smiling face, and courteous grace, 
 
 The middle seat took he. 
 
 But still, by constant quiet growth, 
 
 His back became so wide, 
 Each neighbour wight, to left and right, 
 
 Was thrust against the side. 
 
 Lord! how they chided with themselves, 
 
 That they had let him in ; 
 To see him grow so monstrous now, 
 
 That came so small and thin. 
 aa2 
 
56 
 
 THE WEE MAN. 
 
 On every brow a dew-drop stood, 
 They grew so scared and hot, — 
 
 " F the name of all that's great and tall, 
 Who are ye, sir, and what? " 
 
 Loud laugh'd the Gogmagog, a laugh 
 
 As loud as giant's roar — 
 " When first I came, my proper name 
 
 Was Little— now I'm Moore! " 
 
 A HARD ROW. 
 
357 
 
 penn's conference with the natives. 
 
 PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 
 
 Of all creeds — after the Christian — I incline most to the 
 Pythagorean. I like the notion of inhabiting the body of 
 a bird. It is the next thing to being a cherub — at least, 
 according to the popular image of a boy's head and wings ; 
 a fancy that savours strangely of the Pythagorean. 
 
358 PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 
 
 I think nobly of the soul, with Malvolio, but not so 
 meanly, as he does by implication, of a bird-body. What 
 disparagement would it seem to shuffle off a crippled, 
 palsied, languid, bed-ridden carcase, and find yourself 
 floating above the world — in a flood of sun- shine — under 
 the feathers of a Royal Eagle of the Andes ? 
 
 For a beast-body I have less relish — and yet how many 
 men are there who seem predestined to such an occupancy, 
 being in this life even more than semi-brutal ! How many 
 human faces that at least countenance, if they do not con- 
 firm, this part of the Brahminical Doctrine. What apes, 
 foxes, pigs, curs, and cats, walk our metropolis— to say 
 nothing of him ; shambling along Carnaby or White- 
 chapel — 
 
 A BUTCHER! 
 
 Whoe'er has gone thro' London Street, 
 Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat, 
 
 And how he keeps 
 
 Gloating upon a sheep's 
 Or bullock's personals, as if his own ; 
 
 How he admires his halves 
 
 And quarters— and his calves, 
 As if in truth upon his own legs grown ; — 
 
 His fat ! his suet ! 
 
PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 350 
 
 His kidneys peeping elegantly thro' it! 
 His thick flank ! 
 And his thin 1 
 His shank ! 
 His shin ! 
 Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone ! 
 
 With what an air 
 He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare 
 Gazing — and will not let a body by, 
 Tho' buy ! buy ! buy ! be constantly his cry ; 
 Meanwhile with arms a-kimbo, and a pair 
 Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare 
 At his Joint Stock — for one may call it so, 
 
 Howbeit, without a Co. 
 The dotage of self-love was never fonder 
 Than he of his brute bodies all a-row ; 
 Narcissus in the wave did never ponder 
 
 With love so strong, 
 
 On his " portrait charmant," 
 As our vain Butcher on his carcase yonder. 
 
 Look at his sleek round skull ! 
 How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is ! 
 His visage seems to be 
 Ripe for beef-tea; 
 
360 PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES, 
 
 Of brutal juices the whole man is full- 
 In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis, 
 The Butcher is already half a Bull. 
 
 Surpassing the Butcher, in his approximation to the 
 brute, behold yon vagrant Hassan — a wandering camel- 
 driver and exhibitor, parading, for a few pence, the crea- 
 ture's outlandish hump, yet burthened himself with a 
 bunch of flesh between the shoulders. For the sake of the 
 implicit moral merely, or as an illustration of comparative 
 physiology, the show is valuable ; but as an example of 
 the Pythagorean dispensation, it is above appraisement. 
 The retributive metamorphosis has commenced — the Beast 
 has set his seal upon the Human Form — a little further, 
 and he will be ready for a halter and a show-man. 
 
 As there are instances of men thus transmuting into the 
 brute ; so there are brutes, that, by peculiar human man- 
 ners and resemblance, seem to hint at a former and a better 
 condition. The ouran-outang, and the monkey, notoriously 
 claim this relationship ; and there are other tribes, and in 
 particular some which use the erect posture, that are apt 
 to provoke such Pythagorean associations. For example : — 
 I could never read of the great William Penn's interview 
 with the American savages, or look on the painting com- 
 memorative of that event, without dreaming that I had 
 seen it acted over again at the meeting of a tribe of Kan- 
 
COMPARATIVE PHYSIOLOGY. 
 
PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 363 
 
 garoos and a Penguin. The Kangaroos, sharp-sighted, 
 vigilant, cunning, wild, swift, and active, as the Indians 
 themselves ; — the Penguin, very sleek, guiltless of arms, 
 very taciturn, very sedate, except when jumping ; upright 
 in its conduct— a perfect Quaker. It confirmed me in 
 this last fancy, to read of the conduct of these gentle birds 
 when assaulted, formerly, with long poles, by the seamen 
 of Captain Cook — bufferings which the Penguins took 
 quietly on either cheek, or side of the head, and died as 
 meekly and passively as the primitive Martyrs of the 
 Sect! 
 
 It is difficult to say to what excesses the desire of fresh 
 victual, after long salt junketting, may drive a mariner ; 
 for my own part, I could not have handled a pole in that 
 persecution without strong Pythagorean misgivings. 
 
 There is a Juvenile Poem, — " The Notorious Glutton/' 
 by Miss Taylor, of Ongar, in which a duck falls sick and 
 dies in a very human-like way. I could never eat duck 
 for some time after the perusal of those verses ; — it seemed 
 as if in reality the soul of my grandam might inhabit such 
 a bird. In mere tenderness to past womanhood, I could 
 never lay the death scene elsewhere than in a lady's 
 chamber — with the body of the invalid propped up by com- 
 fortable pillows on a nursery chair. The sick attendant 
 seemed one that had relished drams aforetime— had been 
 
364 
 
 PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 
 
 pompously officious at human dissolutions, and would 
 announce that " all was over ! " with the same flapping of 
 paws and duck-like inflections of tone. As for the physi- 
 cian, he was an Ex-Quack of our own kind, just called in 
 from the pond— a sort of Man-Drake, and formerly a bro- 
 ther by nature, as now by name, of the author of" Winter 
 Nights." 
 
 THE LAST VISIT. 
 
365 
 
 ers} 
 
 ^wmrnw^ 
 
 "DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?" 
 
 Run ! — run for St. Clements's engine ! 
 
 For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze, 
 And the pledges are frying and singing — 
 
 Oh ! how the poor pawners will craze ! 
 
366 " don't you smell fire ? " 
 
 Now where can the turncock be drinking ? 
 
 Was there ever so thirsty an elf ? — 
 But he still may tope on, for Fm thinking 
 
 That the plugs are as dry as himself. 
 
 The engines ! — I hear them come rumbling ; 
 
 There's the Phoenix ! the Globe ! and the Sun ! 
 What a row there will be, and a grumbling, 
 
 When the water don't start for a run ! 
 See ! there they come racing and tearing, 
 
 All the street with loud voices is fill'd ; 
 Oh ! it's only the fireman a-swearing 
 
 At a man they've run over and kill'd ! 
 
 How sweetly the sparks fly away now, 
 
 And twinkle like stars in the sky ; 
 It's a wonder the engines don't play now, 
 
 But I never saw water so shy ! 
 Why there isn't enough for a snipe, 
 
 And the fire it is fiercer, alas ! 
 Oh ! instead of the New River pipe, 
 
 They have gone— that they have — to the gas 
 
 Only look at the poor little P 's 
 
 On the roof— is there anything sadder ? 
 
 My dears, keep fast hold, if you please, 
 
 And they won't be an hour with the ladder ! 
 
" don't you smell fire ? " 367 
 
 But if any one's hot in their feet, 
 
 And in very great haste to be sav'd, 
 Here's a nice easy bit in the street, 
 
 That M'Adam has lately unpavM ! 
 
 There is some one — I see a dark shape 
 
 At that window, the hottest of all, — 
 My good woman, why don't you escape ? 
 
 Never think of your bonnet and shawl : 
 If your dress is'nt perfect, what is it 
 
 For once in a way to your hurt ? 
 When your husband is paying a visit 
 
 There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt ! 
 
 Only see how she throws out her chaney ! 
 
 Her basons, and teapots, and all 
 The most brittle of her goods — or any, 
 
 But they all break in breaking their fall : 
 Such things are not surely the best 
 
 From a two-story window to throw — 
 She might save a good iron-bound chest, 
 
 For there's plenty of people below ! 
 
 O dear ! what a beautiful flash ! 
 
 How it shone thro' the window and door ; 
 We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, 
 
 When the woman falls thro' with the floor ! 
 
368 " don't you smell fire ? " 
 
 There ! there \ what a volley of flame, 
 And then suddenly all is obscur'd ! — 
 
 Well — I'm glad in my heart that I came ; — 
 But I hope the poor man is insur'd ! 
 
369 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 ' The clashing of my armour in my ears 
 Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me 
 In mind of a bier ; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe 
 To dig my grave." 
 
 The Lover's Progress, 
 
 'Twas in that memorable year 
 France threaten'd to put off in 
 Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each 
 To be a British coffin, 
 To make sad widows of our wives, 
 And every babe an orphan : — 
 
 When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, 
 
 And heads were dredg'd with flour, 
 
 I listed in the Lawyers' Corps, 
 
 Against the battle hour ; 
 
 A perfect Volunteer — for why ? 
 
 I brought my " will and pow'r." 
 
 B B 
 
370 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 III. 
 
 One dreary day — a day of dread, 
 
 Like Cato's, over-cast — 
 
 About the hour of six, (the morn 
 
 And I were breaking fast,) 
 
 There came a loud and sudden sound, 
 
 That struck me all aghast ! 
 
 A dismal sort of morning roll, ■ 
 That was not to be eaten : 
 Although it was no skin of mine, 
 But parchment that was beaten, 
 I felt tattoo' d through all my flesh, 
 Like any Otaheitan. 
 
 My jaws with utter dread enclos'd 
 
 The morsel I was munching, 
 
 And terror lock'd them up so tight, 
 
 My very teeth went crunching 
 
 All through my bread and tongue at once, 
 
 Like sandwich made at lunching. 
 
THE VOLUNTEER. 371 
 
 VI. 
 
 My hand that held the tea-pot fast, 
 
 Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady, 
 
 Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er 
 
 The cup in one long eddy, 
 
 Till both my hose were mark'd with tea, 
 
 As they were mark'd already. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I felt my visage turn from red 
 To white — from cold to hot ; 
 But it was nothing wonderful 
 My colour chang'd, I wot, 
 For, like some variable silks, 
 I felt that I was shot. 
 
 And looking forth with anxious eye, 
 
 From my snug upper story, 
 
 I saw our melancholy corps, 
 
 Going to beds all gory; 
 
 The pioneers seem'd very loth 
 
 To axe their way to glory. 
 
 bb2 
 
372 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The captain march'd as mourners march, 
 The ensign too seem'd lagging, 
 And many more, although they were 
 No ensigns, took to flagging — 
 Like corpses in the Serpentine, 
 Methought they wanted dragging. 
 
 But while I watch'd, the thought of death 
 
 Came like a chilly gust, 
 
 And lo ! I shut the window down, 
 
 With very little lust 
 
 To join so many marching men, 
 
 That soon might he March dust. 
 
 Quoth I, "since Fate ordains it so, 
 
 Our foe the coast must land on ; " — 
 
 I felt so warm beside the fire 
 
 I car'd not to abandon ; 
 
 Our hearths and homes are always things 
 
 That patriots make a stand on. 
 
THE ANGEL OF DEATPI. 
 
THE VOLUNTEER. 375 
 
 XII. 
 
 " The fools that fight abroad for home," 
 Thought I, " may get a wrong one ; 
 Let those that have no homes at all, 
 Go battle for a long one." 
 The mirror here confirm' d me this 
 Reflection, by a strong one. 
 
 For there, where I was wont to shave, 
 And deck me like Adonis, 
 There stood the leader of our foes, 
 With vultures for his cronies — 
 No Corsican, but Death himself, 
 The Bony of all Bonies. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A horrid sight it was, and sad 
 To see the grisly chap 
 Put on my crimson livery, 
 And then begin to clap 
 My helmet on — ah me ! it felt 
 Like any felon's cap. 
 
376 THE VOLUNTEER. 
 
 My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, 
 
 An undertaker's crest ; 
 
 My epaulettes like coffin-plates ; 
 
 My belt so heavy press'd, 
 
 Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie 
 
 At once upon my breast. 
 
 My brazen breast-plate only lack'd 
 
 A little heap of salt, 
 
 To make me like a corpse full dress' d, 
 
 Preparing for the vault — 
 
 To set up what the Poet calls 
 
 My everlasting halt. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 This funeral show inclin'd me quite 
 
 To peace : — and here I am ! 
 
 Whilst better lions go to war, 
 
 Enjoying with the lamb 
 
 A lengthen'd life, that might have been 
 
 A martial epigram. 
 
377 
 
 BRIDE AND BRIDESMAID. 
 
 A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 
 
 It has never been my lot to marry — whatever I may 
 have written of one Honoria to the contrary. My affair 
 with that lady never reached beyond a very embarrassing 
 declaration, in return for which she breathed into my dull 
 deaf ear an inaudible answer. It was beyond my slender 
 assurance, in those days, to ask for a repetition, whether 
 of acceptance or denial. 
 
378 A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 
 
 One chance for explanation still remained. I wrote to 
 her mother, to bespeak her sanction to our union, and re- 
 ceived, by return of post, a scrawl, that, for aught I knew, 
 might be in Sanscrit. I question whether, even at this time, 
 my intolerable bashfulness would suffer me to press such a 
 matter any farther. 
 
 My thoughts of matrimony are now confined to occa- 
 sional day-dreams, originating in some stray glimpse in 
 the Prayer Book, or the receipt of bride-cake. It was on 
 some such occurrence that I fell once, Bunyan-like, into 
 an allegory of a wedding. 
 
 My fancies took the order of a procession. With flaunt- 
 ing banners it wound its Alexandrine way — in the manner 
 of some of Martin's painted pageants — to a taper spire in 
 the distance. And first, like a band of livery, came the 
 honourable company of Match-makers, all mature spinsters 
 and matrons — and as like aunts and mothers as may be. 
 The Glovers trod closely on their heels. Anon came, in 
 blue and gold, the parish beadle, Scarabeus Parochialis, 
 with the ringers of the hand-bells. Then came the Banns 
 — it was during the refign of Lord Eldon's Act — three 
 sturdy pioneers, with their three axes, and likely to hew 
 down sterner impediments than lie commonly in the path 
 of marriage. On coming nearer, the countenance of the 
 first was right foolish and perplext ; of the second, sim- 
 
A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 381 
 
 pering ; and the last methought looked sedate, and as if 
 dashed with a little fear. After the banns — like the judges 
 following the halberts — came the joiners : no rough me- 
 chanics, but a portly, full-blown vicar, with his clerk — 
 both rubicund — a peony paged by a pink. It made me 
 smile to observe the droll clerical turn of the clerk's beaver, 
 scrubbed into that fashion by his coat, at the nape. The 
 marriage-knot — borne- by a ticket-porter— came after the 
 divine, and raised associations enough to sadden one, but 
 for a pretty Cupid that came on laughing and trundling 
 a hoop-ring. The next group was a numerous one, Fire- 
 men of the Hand-in-Hand, with the Union flag — the chief 
 actors were near. With a mixture of anxiety and curiosity, 
 I looked out for the impending couple, when, how shall I 
 tell it ? I beheld, not a brace of young lovers — a Romeo 
 and Juliet, not a " he-moon here, and a she-sun there " — 
 not bride and bridegroom — but the happy pear, a solitary 
 Bergamy, carried on a velvet cushion by a little foot-page. 
 I could have forsworn my fancy for ever for so wretched a 
 conceit, till I remembered that it was intended, perhaps, to 
 typify, under that figure, the mysterious resolution of two 
 into one, a pair nominally, but in substance single, which 
 belongs to marriage. To make amends, the high con- 
 tracting parties approached in proper person — a duplication 
 
382 A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 
 
 sanctioned by the practise of the oldest masters in their 
 historical pictures. It took a brace of Cupids, with a halter, 
 to overcome the " sweet reluctant delay," of the Bride, 
 and make her keep pace with the procession. She was 
 absorbed like a nun, in her veil ; tears, too, she dropped, 
 large as sixpences, in her path ; but her attendant Brides, 
 maid put on such a coquettish look, and tripped along so 
 airily, that it cured all suspicion of heart-ache in such 
 maiden showers. The Bridegroom, drest for the Honey- 
 moon, was ushered by Hymen — a little link-boy ; and the 
 imp used the same importunity for his dues. The next 
 was a motley crew. For nuptial ode or Carmen, there 
 walked two carters, or draymen, with their whips ; a leash 
 of footmen in livery indicated Domestic Habits! and 
 Domestic Comfort was personated by an ambulating ad- 
 vertiser of " Hot Dinners every day." 
 
 I forget whether the Bride's Character preceded or fol- 
 lowed her — but it was a lottery placard, and blazoned 
 her as One of Ten Thousand. The parents of both families 
 had a quiet smile on their faces, hinting that their enjoy- 
 ment was of a retrospective cast; and as for the six sisters 
 of the bride, they would have wept with her, but that six 
 young gallants came after them. The friends of the family 
 were Quakers, and seemed to partake of the happiness 
 
A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 383 
 
 of the occasion in a very quiet and quaker-like way. I 
 ought to mention that a band of harmonious sweet music 
 preceded the Happy Pair. There was none came after — 
 the veteran, Townsend, with his constables, to keep order, 
 making up the rear of the Procession. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE HONEYMOON. 
 
384 
 
 " encompass'^ in an angel's frame." 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 One widow at a grave will sob 
 A little while, and weep, and sigh ! 
 If two should meet on such a job, 
 They'll have a gossip by and by. 
 If three should come together — why, 
 Three widows are good company ! 
 If four should meet by any chance, 
 Four is a number very nice, 
 
THE WIDOW. 385 
 
 To have a rubber in a trice — 
 But five will up and have a dance ! 
 
 Poor Mrs. C (why should I not 
 
 Declare her name ? — her name was Cross) 
 Was one of those the " common lot" 
 Had left to weep " no common loss ; " — 
 For she had lately buried then 
 A man, the " very best of men," 
 A lingering truth, discovered first 
 Whenever men " are at the worst." 
 To take the measure of her woe, 
 It was some dozen inches deep — 
 I mean in crape, and hung so low, 
 It hid the drops she did not weep : 
 In fact, what human life appears, 
 It was a perfect " veil of tears." 
 Though ever since she lost " her prop 
 And stay," — alas ! he wouldn't stay — 
 She never had a tear to mop, 
 Except one little angry drop, 
 From Passion's eye, as Moore would say ; 
 Because, when Mister Cross took flight, 
 It look'd so very like a spite- 
 He died upon a washing-day ! 
 c c 
 
386 THE WIDOW. 
 
 Still Widow Cross went twice a week, 
 
 As if " to wet a widow's cheek," 
 
 And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy,— 
 
 'Twas nothing but a make-believe, 
 
 She might as well have hop'd to grieve 
 
 Enough of brine to float a navy ; 
 
 And yet she often seem'd to raise 
 
 A cambric kerchief to her eye — 
 
 A duster ought to be the phrase, 
 
 Its work was all so very dry. 
 
 The springs were lock'd that ought to flow — 
 
 In England or in widow- woman — 
 
 As those that watch the weather know, 
 
 Such " backward Springs" are not uncommon. 
 
 But why did Widow Cross take pains, 
 
 To call upon the " dear remains," — 
 
 Remains that could not tell a jot, 
 
 Whether she ever wept or not, 
 
 Or how his relict took her losses ? 
 
 Oh ! my black ink turns red for shame — 
 
 But still the naughty world must learn, 
 
 There was a little German came 
 
 To shed a tear in " Anna's Urn, " 
 
 At the next grave to Mr. Cross's ! 
 
THE WIDOW. 387 
 
 For there an angel's virtues slept, 
 
 " Too soon did Heaven assert its claim ! " 
 
 But still her painted face he kept, 
 
 " Encompass' d in an angel's frame." 
 
 He look'd quite sad and quite depriv'd, 
 His head was nothing but a hat-band ; 
 He look'd so lone, and so w/iwiv'd, 
 That soon the Widow Cross contriv'd 
 To fall in love with even that band ; 
 And all at once the brackish juices 
 Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices — 
 Tear after tear too fast to wipe, 
 Tho' sopp'd, and sopp'd, and sopp'd again- 
 No leak in sorrow's private pipe, 
 But like a bursting on the main ! 
 Whoe'er has watch'd the window-pane — 
 I mean to say in showery weather — 
 Has seen two little drops of rain, 
 Like lovers very fond and fain, 
 At one another creeping, creeping, 
 Till both, at last, embrace together : 
 So far'd it with that couple's weeping 
 The principle was quite as active — 
 cc2 
 
388 THE WIDOW. 
 
 Tear unto tear, 
 
 Kept drawing near 
 Their very blacks became attractive. 
 To cut a shortish story shorter, 
 Conceive them sitting tete a tete — 
 Two cups, — hot muffins on a plate, — 
 With " Anna's Urn" to hold hot water ! 
 The brazen vessel for a while, 
 Had lectured in an easy song, 
 Like Abernethy — on the bile — 
 The scalded herb was getting strong ; 
 All seem'd as smooth as smooth could be, 
 To have a cosey cup of tea ; 
 Alas ! how often human sippers 
 With unexpected bitters meet, 
 And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, 
 Like sugar, only meet the nippers ! 
 
 The widow Cross, I should have told, 
 Had seen three husbands to the mould ; 
 She never sought an Indian pyre, 
 Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves, 
 But with a proper sense of fire, 
 Put up, instead, with " three removes : " 
 Thus, when with any tender words 
 
THE WIDOW. 389 
 
 Or tears she spoke about her loss, 
 The dear departed, Mr. Cross, 
 Came in for nothing but his thirds ; 
 For, as all widows love too well, 
 She liked upon the list to dwell, 
 And oft ripp'd up the old disasters — 
 She might, indeed, have been suppos'd 
 A great ship owner, for she pros'd 
 Eternally of her Three Masters ! 
 Thus, foolish woman ! while she nurs'd 
 Her mild souchong, she talk'd and reckon' d 
 What had been left her by her first, 
 And by her last, and by her second. 
 Alas ! not all her annual rents 
 
 Could then entice the little German — 
 
 Not Mr. Cross's Three Per Cents, 
 
 Or Consuls, ever make him her man ; 
 
 He liked her cash, he liked her houses, 
 
 But not that dismal bit of land 
 
 She always settled on her spouses. 
 
 So taking up his hat and band, 
 
 Said he " You'll think my conduct odd — 
 
 But here my hopes no more may linger ; 
 
 I thought you had a wedding-finger, 
 
 But oh ! — it is a curtain-rod ! " 
 
390 
 
 A MAD DOG 
 
 Is none of my bug-bears. Of the bite of dogs, large 
 ones especially, I have a reasonable dread ; but as to any 
 participation in the canine frenzy, I am somewhat sceptical. 
 The notion savours of the same fanciful superstition that 
 invested the subjects of Dr. Jenner with a pair of horns. 
 Such was affirmed to be the effect of the vaccine matter — 
 and I shall believe what I have heard of the canine virus, 
 when I see a rabid gentleman, or gentlewoman, with flap 
 ears, dew-claws, and a brush-tail ! 
 
 I lend no credit to the imputed effects of a mad dog's 
 saliva. We hear of none such amongst the West Indian 
 Negroes — and yet their condition is always slavery* 
 
 I put no faith in the vulgar stories of human beings be- 
 taking themselves, through a dog-bite, to dog-habits : and 
 consider the smotherings and drownings, that have ori- 
 ginated in that fancy, as cruel as the murders for witchcraft. 
 Are we, for a few yelpings, to stifle all the disciples of 
 Loyola — Jesuit's Bark — or plunge unto death all the con- 
 valescents who may take to bark and wine ? 
 
A MAD DOG. 391 
 
 As for the Hydrophobia, or loathing of water, I have it 
 mildly myself. My head turns invariably at thin washy 
 potations. With a dog, indeed, the case is different — he is 
 a water-drinker; and when he takes to grape-juice, or the 
 stronger cordials, may be dangerous. But I have never 
 seen one with a bottle — except at his tail. 
 
 There are other dogs who are born to haunt the liquid 
 element, to dive and swim — and for such to shun the lake 
 or the pond would look suspicious. A Newfoundlander, 
 standing up from a shower at a door- way, or a Spaniel 
 with a Parapluie, might be innocently destroyed. But 
 when does such a cur occur ? 
 
 There are persons, however, who lecture on Hydrophobia 
 very dogmatically. It is one of their maggots, that if a 
 puppy be not wormed, he is apt to go rabid. As if for- 
 sooth it made so much difference, his merely speaking or 
 not with, what Lord Duberly calls, his "vermicular 
 tongue ; " Verily, as Izaak Walton would say, these gud- 
 geons take the worm very kindly ! 
 
 Next to a neglect of calling in Dr. Gardner, want of 
 water is prone to drive a dog mad. A reasonable saying — 
 but the rest is not so plausible, viz. that if you keep a dog 
 till he is very dry, he will refuse to drink. It is a gross 
 libel on the human-like instinct of the animal, to suppose 
 him to act so clean contrary to human-kind. A crew of 
 
392 A MAD DOG. 
 
 sailors, thirsting at sea, will suck their pumps or the 
 canvas— any thing that will afford a drop of moisture; 
 whereas a parching dog, instead of cooling his tongue at 
 the next gutter, or licking his own kennel for imaginary 
 relief, runs senselessly up and down to over-heat himself, 
 and resents the offer of a bucket like a mortal affront. 
 Away he scuds, straight forward like a marmot — except 
 when he dodges a pump. A glimmering instinct guides 
 him to his old haunts. He bites his Ex-master — grips his 
 trainer — takes a snap with a friend or two where he used 
 to visit — and then biting right and left at the public, at 
 last dies — a pitchfork in his eye, fifty slugs in his ribs, and 
 a spade through the small of his back. 
 
 The career of the animal is but a type of his victim's — 
 suppose some Bank Clerk. He was not bitten, but only 
 splashed on the hand by the mad foam or dog-spray : a 
 recent flea-bite gives entrance to the virus, and in less than 
 three years it gets possession. Then the tragedy begins. 
 The unhappy gentleman first evinces uneasiness at being 
 called on for his New River rates. He answers the Col- 
 lector snappishly, and when summoned to pay for his 
 supply of water, tells the Commissioners doggedly, that 
 they may cut it off. From that time he gets worse. He 
 refuses slops — turns up a pug nose at pump- water — and 
 at last, on a washing-day, after flying at the laundress, 
 
HYDROPHOBIA. 
 
A MAD DOG. 395 
 
 rushes out, ripe for hunting, to the street. A twilight re- 
 membrance leads him to the house of his intended. He 
 fastens on her hand — next worries his mother — takes a bite 
 apiece out of his brothers and sisters — runs a-muck, 
 " giving tongue," all through the suburbs — and finally, is 
 smothered by a pair of bed-beaters in Moorfields. 
 
 According to popular theory the mischief ends not here. 
 The dog's master— the trainer, the friends, human and 
 canine — the Bank Clerks— the laundresses — sweetheart — 
 mother and sisters — the two bed-beaters — all inherit the 
 rabies, and run about to bite others. It is a wonder, the 
 madness increasing by this ratio, that examples are not 
 running in packs at every turn : — my experience, notwith- 
 standing, records but one instance. 
 
 It was my Aunt's brute. His temper, latterly, had 
 altered for the worse, and in a sullen, or insane fit, he 
 made a snap at the cook's radish-like fingers. The act 
 demanded an inquest De Lunatico Inquirendo — he was 
 lugged neck and crop to a full bucket ; but you may bring 
 a horse to the water, says the Proverb, yet not make him 
 drink, and the cur asserted the same independence. To 
 make sure, Betty cast the whole gallon over him, a favour 
 that he received with a mood that would have been natural 
 in any mortal. His growl was conclusive. The cook 
 alarmed, first the family, and then the neighbourhood, 
 
396 A MAD DOG. 
 
 which poured all its males capable of bearing arms into 
 the passage. There were sticks, staves, swords, and a gun, 
 a prong or two, moreover, glistened here and there. The 
 kitchen-door was occupied by the first rank of the column, 
 their weapons all bristling in advance ; and right opposite 
 —at the further side of the kitchen, and holding all the 
 army at bay — stood Hydrophobia — "in its most dreadful 
 form!" 
 
 Conceive, Mulready! under this horrible figure of 
 speech, a round, goggle-eyed pug-face, supported by two 
 stumpy bandy-legs — the forelimbs of a long, pampered, 
 sausage-like body, that rested on a similar pair of crotchets 
 at the other end ! Not without short wheezy pantings, he 
 began to waddle towards the guarded entry — but before he 
 had accomplished a quarter of the distance, there resounded 
 the report of a musket. The poor Turnspit gave a yell — 
 the little brown bloated body tumbled over, pierced by a 
 dozen slugs, but not mortally ; for before the piece could 
 be reloaded, he contrived to lap up a little pool— from 
 Bettv's bucket — that had settled beside the hearth. 
 
397 
 
 DRILL AND BROADCAST. 
 
 JOHN TROT. 
 % Ballatr. 
 
 John Trot he was as tall a lad 
 As York did ever rear — 
 
 As his dear Granny used to say, 
 He'd make a grenadier. 
 
398 JOHN TROT. 
 
 A serjeant soon came down to York r 
 With ribbons and a frill ; 
 
 My lads, said be, let broadcast be, 
 And come away to drill. 
 
 But when he wanted John to 'list, 
 
 In war he saw no fun, 
 Where what is call'd a raw recruit, 
 
 Gets often over-done. 
 
 Let others carry guns, said he, 
 And go to war's alarms, 
 
 But I have got a shoulder-knot 
 Impos'd upon my arms. 
 
 For John he had a footman's place 
 To wait on Lady Wye — 
 
 She was a dumpy woman, tho' 
 Her family was high. 
 
 Now when two years had past away, 
 
 Her Lord took very ill, 
 And left her to her widowhood, 
 
 Of course more dumpy still. 
 
JOHN TROT. 399 
 
 Said John, I am a proper man, 
 
 And very tall to see ; 
 Who knows, but now her Lord is low, 
 
 She may look up to me ? 
 
 A cunning woman told me once, 
 
 Such fortune would turn up ; 
 She was a kind of sorceress, 
 
 But studied in a cup ! 
 
 So he walk'd up to Lady Wye, 
 
 And took her quite amaz'd, — 
 She thought, tho' John was tall enough, 
 
 He wanted to be rais'd. 
 
 But John — for why ? she was a dame 
 
 Of such a dwarfish sort — 
 Had only come to bid her make 
 Her mourning very short. 
 
 Said he, your Lord is dead and cold, 
 
 You only cry in vain ; 
 Not all the Cries of London now, 
 
 Could call him back again ! 
 
400 JOHN TROT. 
 
 You'll soon have many a noble beau, 
 To dry your noble tears — 
 
 But just consider this, that I 
 Have follow'd you for years. 
 
 And tho' you are above me far, 
 What matters high degree, 
 
 When you are only four foot nine, 
 And I am six foot three ? 
 
 For tho' you are of lofty race, 
 
 And I'm a low-born elf; 
 Yet none among your friends could say, 
 
 You match' d beneath yourself. 
 
 Said she, such insolence as this 
 Can be no common case ; 
 
 Tho' you are in my service, sir, 
 Your love is out of place. 
 
 O Lady Wye ! O Lady Wye ! 
 
 Consider what you do ; 
 How can you be so short with me, 
 
 I am not so with you ! 
 
HIGH-BORN AND LOW-BORN, 
 
JOHN TROT. 403 
 
 Then ringing for her serving men, 
 
 They show'd him to the door : 
 Said they, you turn out better now, 
 
 Why didn't you before ? 
 
 They stripp'd his coat, and gave him kicks 
 
 For all his wages due ; 
 And off, instead of green and gold, 
 
 He went in black and blue. 
 
 No family would take him in, 
 
 Because of this discharge ; 
 So he made up his mind to serve 
 
 The country all at large. 
 
 Huzza ! the Serjeant cried, and put 
 
 The money in his hand, 
 And with a shilling cut him off 
 
 From his paternal land. 
 
 For when his regiment went to fight 
 
 At Saragossa town, 
 A Frenchman thought he look'd too tall, 
 
 And so he cut him down ! 
 dd2 
 
404 
 
 AN ABSENTEE. 
 
 If ever a man wanted a flapper — no Butcher's mimosa, 
 or catch-fly, but one of those officers in use at the court 
 of Laputa — my friend W should have such a re- 
 membrancer at his elbow. I question whether even the 
 appliance of a bladder full of peas, or pebbles, would 
 arouse him from some of his abstractions — fits of mental 
 insensibility, parallel with those bodily trances in which 
 persons have sometimes been coffined. Not that he is 
 entangled in abstruse problems, like the nobility of the 
 Flying Island ! He does not dive, like Sir Isaac Newton, 
 into a reverie, and turn up again with a Theory of Gravi- 
 tation. His thoughts are not deeply engaged elsewhere — 
 they are nowhere. His head revolves itself, top-like, into 
 a profound slumber: — a blank doze without a dream. 
 He is not carried away by incoherent rambling fancies, 
 out of himself, — he is not drunk, merely, with the 
 
AN ABSENTEE. 405 
 
 Waters of Oblivion, but drowned in them, body and 
 soul! 
 
 There is a story, somewhere, of one of these absent per- 
 sons, who stooped down, when tickled about the calf by 
 a blue-bottle, and scratched his neighbour's leg : an act of 
 tolerable forgetfulness, but denoting a state far short 
 
 of W 's absorptions. He would never have felt 
 
 the fly. 
 
 To make W- 's condition more whimsical, he lives 
 
 in a small bachelor's house, with no other attendant than 
 an old housekeeper — one Mistress Bundy, of faculty as 
 infirm and intermitting as his own. It will be readily 
 believed that her absent fits do not originate, any more 
 than her master's, in abstruse mathematical speculations 
 —a proof with me that such moods result, not from ab- 
 stractions of mind, but stagnation. How so ill-sorted a 
 couple contrive to get through the common-place affairs 
 of life, I am not prepared to say : but it is comical indeed 
 to see him ring up Mistress Bundy to receive orders, which 
 he generally forgets to deliver— or if delivered, this old 
 Bewildered Maid lets slip out of her remembrance with 
 the same facility. Numberless occurrences of this kind — 
 in many instances more extravagant — are recorded by his 
 friends ; but an evening that I spent with him recently, 
 will furnish an abundance of examples. 
 
406 AN ABSENTEE. 
 
 In spite of going 1 by his own invitation, I found W 
 
 within. He was too apt, on such occasions, to be denied 
 to his visitors ; but what in others would be an unpardon- 
 able affront, was overlooked in a man who was not always 
 at home to himself. The door was opened by the house- 
 keeper, whose absence, as usual, would not allow her to 
 decide upon that of her master. Her shrill quavering 
 voice went echoing up stairs with its old query, — " Mr. 
 
 W ! are you within ? " then a pause, literally for 
 
 him to collect himself. Anon came his answer, and I was 
 ushered up stairs, Mrs. Bundy contriving, as usual, to 
 fcrget my name at the first landing-place. I had there- 
 fore to introduce myself formally to W , whose old 
 
 friends came to him always as if with new faces. As for 
 what followed, it was one of the old fitful colloquies — a game 
 at conversation, sometimes with a partner, sometimes with 
 a dummy; the old woman's memory in the meantime 
 growing torpid on a kitchen-chair. Hour after hour passed 
 away : no tea-spoon jingled, or tea-cup rattled ; no mur- 
 muring kettle or hissing urn found its way upward from 
 one Haunt of Forgetfulness to the other. In short, as 
 might have been expected with an Absentee, the Tea was 
 absent, 
 
 It happens that the meal in question is not one of my 
 
AN ABSENTEE. 407 
 
 essentials ; I therefore never hinted at the In Tea Speravi 
 of my visit ; but at the turn of eleven o'clock, my host 
 rang for the apparatus. The Chinese ware was brought 
 up, but the herb was deficient. Mrs. Bundy went forth, 
 by command, for a supply ; but it was past grocer-time, 
 and we arranged to make amends by an early supper, 
 which came, however, as proportionably late as the tea. 
 By dint of those freedoms which you must use with an 
 entertainer who is absent at his own table, I contrived 
 
 to sup sparely ; and W— 's memory, blossoming like 
 
 certain flowers to the night, reminded him that I was 
 accustomed to go to bed on a tumbler of Geneva and 
 water. He kept but one bottle of each of the three kinds, 
 Hum, Brandy, and Hollands, in the house; and when 
 exhausted, they were replenished at the tavern a few doors 
 off. Luckily, for it was far beyond the midnight hour 
 when, according to our vapid magistracy, all spirits are 
 evil, the three vessels were full, and merely wanted bring- 
 ing up stairs. The kettle was singing on the hob : the 
 tumblers, with spoons in them, stood miraculously ready 
 on the board ; and Mrs. Bundy was really on her way from 
 below with the one thing needful. Never were fair hopes 
 so unfairly blighted ! I could hear her step labouring on 
 the stairs to the very last step, when her memory serving 
 
408 AN ABSENTEE. 
 
 her just as treacherously as her forgetfulness, or rather 
 both betraying her together, there befel the accident which 
 I have endeavoured to record by the following sketch. 
 I never ate or drank with the Barmecide again ! 
 
 " LAWK ! I'VE FORGOT THE EPANDY ! ? 
 
409 
 
 WHITE BAIT. 
 
 ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD. 
 
 Welcome to Freedom's birth-place — and a den ! 
 
 Great A nti- climax, hail ! 
 So very lofty in thy front — but then, 
 
 So dwindling at the tail ! — 
 In truth, thou hast the most unequal legs ! 
 Has one pair gallopp'd, whilst the other trotted, 
 
410 ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD. 
 
 Along with other brethren, leopard-spotted, 
 O'er Afric sand, where ostriches lay eggs ? 
 Sure thou wert caught in some hard uphill chase, 
 Those hinder heels still keeping thee in check ! 
 
 And yet thou seem'st prepaid in any case, 
 
 Tho' they had lost the race, 
 To win it by a neck ! 
 
 That lengthy neck — how like a crane's it looks ! 
 Art thou the overseer of all the brutes ? 
 Or dost thou browze on tip-top leaves or fruits — 
 Or go a-birdnesting amongst the rooks ? 
 How kindly nature caters for all wants ; 
 Thus giving unto thee a neck that stretches, 
 
 And high food fetches — 
 To some a long nose, like the elephant's ! 
 
 Oh ! had'st thou any organ to thy bellows, 
 To turn thy breath to speech in human style, 
 
 What secrets thou might'st tell us, 
 Where now our scientific guesses fail ; 
 
 For instance, of the Nile, 
 Whether those Seven Mouths have any tail — 
 
 Mayhap thy luck too, 
 From that high head, as from a lofty hill, 
 
AFRICAN WRECKERS. 
 
ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD. 413 
 
 Has let thee see the marvellous Timbuctoo — 
 
 Or drink of Niger at its infant rill ; 
 
 What were the travels of our Major Denham, 
 
 Or Clapperton, to thine 
 
 In that same line, 
 If thou could'st only squat thee down and pen 'em ! 
 
 Strange sights, indeed, thou must have overlooked, 
 With eyes held ever in such vantage-stations ! 
 Hast seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cook'd, 
 And then made free of negro corporations ? 
 Poor wretches saved from cast away three-deckers — 
 
 By sooty wreckers — 
 From hungry waves to have a loss still drearier, 
 To far exceed the utmost aim of Park — 
 And find themselves, alas ! beyond the mark, 
 In the insides of Africa's Interior ! 
 
 Live on, Giraffe ! genteelest of raff kind ! — 
 Admir'd by noble, and by royal tongues ! 
 
 May no pernicious wind, 
 Or English fog, blight thy exotic lungs ! 
 Live on in happy peace, altho' a rarity, 
 Nor envy thy poor cousin's more outrageous 
 
 Parisian popularity ; — 
 Whose very leopard-rash is grown contagious, 
 
414 
 
 ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD. 
 
 And worn on gloves and ribbons all about, 
 
 Alas ! they'll wear him out !— 
 So thou shalt take thy sweet diurnal feeds — 
 When he is stuff' d with undigested straw, 
 Sad food that never visited his jaw ! 
 And staring round him with a brace of beads ! 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS IMITATION. 
 
415 
 
 A MAY-DAY. 
 
 I know not what idle schemer or mad wag put such a 
 folly in the head of my Lady Rasherly, but she resolved to 
 celebrate a May-day after the old fashion, and convert 
 Porkington Park — her Hampshire Leasowes — into a new 
 Arcadia. Such revivals have always come to a bad end : 
 the Golden Age is not to be regilt ; Pastoral is gone out, 
 and Pan extinct — Pans will not last for ever. 
 
 But Lady Rasherly's fete was fixed. A large order was 
 sent to Ingram, of rustic celebrity, for nubbly sofas and 
 crooked chairs ; a letter was dispatched to the Manager 
 
 of the P h Theatre, begging a loan from the dramatic 
 
 wardrobe ; and old Jenkins, the steward, was sent through 
 the village to assemble as many, male and female, of 
 the barn-door kind, as he could muster. Happy for the 
 Lady, had her Hampshire peasantry been more pig-headed 
 and hoggishly un tractable, like the staple animal of the 
 county : but the time came and the tenants. Happy for 
 her, had the goodnatured manager excused himself, with a 
 
416 A MAY-DAY. 
 
 plea that the cottage-hats, and blue boddices, and russet 
 skirts, were bespoke, for that very night, by Rosina and her 
 villagers. But the day came and the dresses. I am told 
 that old Jenkins and his helpmate had a world of trouble 
 n the distribution of the borrowed plumes : this maiden 
 urning up a pug-nose, still pugger, at a faded boddice ; 
 that damsel thrusting out a pair of original pouting lips, 
 still more spout-like, at a rusty ribbon ; carroty Celias 
 wanted more roses in their hair, and dumpy Delias more 
 flounces in their petticoats. There is a natural tact, how- 
 ever, in womankind as to matters of dress, that made them 
 look tolerably when all was done : but pray except from 
 this praise the gardener's daughter, Dolly Blossom, — a 
 born sloven, with her horticultural hose, which she had 
 pruned so often at top to graft at bottom, that, from long 
 stockings, they had dwindled into short socks ; and it 
 seemed as if, by a similar process, she had coaxed her 
 natural calves into her ankles. The men were less fortu- 
 nate in their toilette : they looked slack in their tights, and 
 tight in their slacks ; to say nothing of Johnny Giles, who 
 was so tight all over, that he looked as if he had stolen his 
 clothes, and the clothes, turning King's evidence, were 
 going to " split upon him." 
 
 In the mean time, the retainers at the Park had not 
 been idle. The old mast was taken down from the old 
 
A MAY -DAY. 417 
 
 bam, and stripped of its weathercock, did duty as a May- 
 pole. The trees and shrubs were hung with artificial gar- 
 lands ; and a large marquee made an agreeable contrast, 
 in canvass, with the long lawn. An extempore wooden 
 arbour had likewise been erected for the May Queen ; and 
 here stood my Lady Rasherly with her daughters : my 
 Lady, with a full moon face, and a half moon tiara, was 
 Diana; the young ladies represented her Nymphs, and 
 they had all bows and arrows, Spanish hats and feathers, 
 Lincoln green spensers and slashed sleeves, — the uniform 
 of the Porkington Archery. There were, moreover, six 
 younger young ladies — a loan from the parish school— who 
 were to be the immediate attendants on her Sylvan Majesty, 
 and, as they expressed it in their own simple Doric, " to 
 shy flowers at h.exfut ! " 
 
 And now the nymphs and swains' began to assemble: 
 Damon and Phillis, Strephon and Amaryllis — a nomen- 
 clature not a little puzzling to the performers, for Delia 
 answered to Damon, and Chloe instead of Colin, — 
 
 " And, though I called another, Abra came." 
 
 But I must treat you with a few personalities. Damon 
 was one Darius Dobbs. He was entrusted with a fine 
 tinsel crook and half-a-dozen sheep, which he was puzzled 
 to keep, by hook, or by crook, to the lawn ; for Cory don, 
 
418 A MAY-DAY. 
 
 his fellow shepherd, had quietly hung up his pastoral em- 
 blem, and walked off to the sign of the Rose and Crown. 
 Poor Damon ! there he sat, looking the very original of 
 Phillips's line, — 
 
 " Ah, silly I, more silly than my sheep," 
 
 and, to add to his perplexity, he could not help seeing and 
 hearing Mary Jenks, his own sweetheart, who, having no 
 lambs to keep, was romping where she would, and treating 
 whom she would with a kindness by no means sneaking. 
 Poor Darius Dobbs ! 
 
 Gregory Giles was Colin ; and he was sadly hampered 
 with " two hands out of employ ; " for, after feeling up his 
 back and down his bosom, and about his hips, he had dis- 
 covered that, to save time and trouble, his stage-clothes 
 had been made without pockets. But 
 
 " Satan finds some mischief still 
 For idle hands to do 3 " 
 
 and, accordingly, he soon set Colin's fingers to work so 
 busily, that they twiddled off all the buttons from his 
 borrowed jacket. 
 
 Strephon was nothing particular, only a sky-blue body 
 on a pair of chocolate-coloured legs. But Lubin was a 
 jewel! He had formerly been a private in the Bacon- 
 
A MAY-DUKE. 
 
A MAY-DAY. 421 
 
 field Yeomanry, and therefore thought proper to surmount 
 his pastoral uniform with a cavalry cap ! Such an incon- 
 gruity was not to be overlooked. Old Jenkins remonstrated, 
 but Lubin was obstinate ; the steward persisted, and the 
 other replied with a " positive negative ; " and, in the end, 
 Lubin went off in a huff to the Rose and Crown. 
 
 The force of two bad examples was too much for the 
 virtue of Darius Dobbs : he threw away his crook, left 
 his sheep to anybody, and ran off to the alehouse, and, 
 what was worse, Colin was sent after him, and never came 
 back ! 
 
 The chief of the faithful shepherds, who now remained 
 at the park, was Hobbinol— one Josias Strong, a notorious 
 glutton, who had won sundry wagers by devouring a leg 
 of mutton and trimmings at a sitting. He was a big 
 lubberly fellow, that had been born great, and had achieved 
 greatness, but had not greatness thrust upon him. It was 
 as much as he could do to keep his trowsers, — for he was 
 at once clown and pantaloon, — down to the knee, and 
 more than he could do to keep them up to the waist ; and, 
 to crown all, having rashly squatted down on the lawn, the 
 juicy herbage had left a stain behind, on his calimancoes, 
 that still occupies the " greenest spot " in the memoirs Of 
 Baconfield. 
 
 There were some half-dozen of other rustics to the same 
 £ e 2 
 
422 A MAY-DAY. 
 
 pattern, but the fancy of my Lady Rasherly did not confine 
 itself to the humanities. Old Joe Bradley, the blacksmith, 
 was Pan ; and truly he made a respectable satyr enough, 
 for he came half drunk, and was rough, gruff, tawny and 
 brawny, and bow-legged, and hadn't been shaved for a 
 month. His cue was to walk about in buckskins, leading 
 his own billy-goat, and he was followed up and down by 
 his sister, Patty, whom the wags called Patty Pan. 
 
 The other Deity was also a wet one — a triton amongst 
 mythologists, but Timothy Gubbins with his familiars, — 
 the acknowledged dolt of the village, and remarkable for 
 his weekly slumbers in the parish church. It had been 
 ascertained that he could neither pipe, nor sing, nor dance, 
 nor even keep sheep, so he was stuck with an urn under 
 his arm, and a rush crown, as the God of the fish-pond, — 
 a task, simple as it was, that proved beyond his genius, for, 
 after stupidly dozing awhile over his vase, he fell into a 
 sound snoring sleep, out of which he cold-pigged himself 
 by tumbling, urn and all, into his own fountain. 
 
 Misfortunes always come pick-a-back. The Rose and 
 Crown happened to be a receiving-house for the drowned, 
 under the patronage of the Humane Society, wherefore the 
 Water God insisted on going there to he dried, and Cuddy, 
 who pulled him out, insisted on going with him ! These 
 two had certainly some slight excuse for walking off to the 
 
A MAY-DAY. 423 
 
 alehouse, whereas Sylvio thought proper to follow them 
 without any excuse at all ! 
 
 This mischance was but the prelude of new disasters. 
 It was necessary, before beginning the sports of the day, to 
 elect a May Queen, and, by the influence of Lady 
 Rasherly, the choice of the lieges fell upon Jenny Acres, 
 a really pretty maiden, and worthy of the honour ; but in 
 the meantime Dolly Wiggins, a brazen strapping dairy- 
 maid, had quietly elected herself,— snatched a flower-basket 
 from one of the six Floras, strewed her own path, and get- 
 ting first to the royal harbour, squatted there firm and fast, 
 and persisted in reigning as Queen in her own right. 
 Hence arose civil and uncivil war,— and Alexis and Diggon, 
 being interrupted in a boxing match in the Park, adjourned 
 to the Rose and Crown to have it out ; and as two can't 
 make a ring, a round dozen of the shepherds went along 
 with them for that purpose. 
 
 There now remained but five swains in Arcadia, and 
 they had five nymphs apiece, besides Mary Jenks, who 
 divided her favour equally amongst them all. There 
 should have been next in order a singing match on the 
 lawn, for a prize, after the fashion of Pope's Pastorals ; 
 but Corydon, one of the warblers, had bolted, and Palemon, 
 who remained, had forgotten what was set down for him , 
 though he obligingly offered to sing " Tom Bowling " in- 
 
424 A MAY-DAY. 
 
 stead. But Lady Rasherly thought proper to dispense 
 with the song, and there being nothing else, or better, to 
 do, she directed a movement to the marquee, in order to 
 begin, though somewhat early, on the collation. Alas! 
 even this was a failure. During the time of Gubbins's 
 ducking — the Queen's coronation— and the boxing-match 
 — Hobbinol, that great greedy lout, had been privily in 
 the pavilion, glutting his constitutional voracity on the 
 substantials, and he was now lying insensible and harm- 
 less, like a gorged boa constrictor, by the side of the table. 
 Pan too had been missing, and it was thought he was at 
 the Rose and Crown, — but no such luck ! He had been 
 having a sly pull at the tent tankards, and from half drunk 
 had got so whole drunk, that he could not hinder his goat 
 from having a butt even at Diana herself, nor from en- 
 tangling his horns in the table-cloth, by which the catas- 
 trophe of the collation was completed ! 
 
 The rest of the fete consisted of a succession of mis- 
 fortunes which it would be painful to dwell upon, and 
 cruel to describe minutely. So I will but hint, briefly, 
 how the fragments of the banquet were scrambled for by 
 the Arcadians — how they danced afterwards round the 
 May-pole, not tripping themselves like fairies, but tripping 
 one another — how the Honourable Miss Rasherly, out of 
 idleness, stood fitting the notch of an arrow to the string— 
 
A MAY-DAY. 425 
 
 and how the shaft went off of itself, and lodged, unluckily, 
 in the calf of one of the caperers. I will leave to the imagi- 
 nation, what suits were torn past mending, or soiled be- 
 yond washing — the lamentations of old Jenkins — and the 
 vows of Lady Rasherly and daughters, that there should be 
 no more May-days at Porkington. Suffice it, that night 
 found all the Arcadians at the Rose and Crown : and on 
 the morrow, Diana and her Nymphs were laid up with 
 severe colds — Dolly Wiggins was out of place— Hobbinol 
 in a surfeit—Alexis before a magistrate— Palemon at a 
 surgeon's— Billy in the pound— and Pan in the stocks, with 
 the fumes of last night's liquor not yet evaporated from 
 his grey gooseberry eyes. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, FRINTERS, BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET. 
 
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