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!
Some scratchy strokes--abrupt and few
So easily and swift I drew,
Suffic’d 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.
Old gods and heroes--Trojan--Greek,
Figures--long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly fear’d;
Hectors of whom at night I dreamt,
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.
A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
A Pallas, that outstar’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.)
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.
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.”
Not Radcliffe’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.
Yet urchin pride sustain’d me still,
I gaz’d on all with right good-will,
And spread the dingy tint;
“No holy Luke helped me to paint.
The Devil surely, not a saint.
Had any finger in’t”.
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.
And wash’d by my cosmetic brush,
How beauty’s cheek began to blush;
With locks of auburn stain--
(Not Goldsmith’s Auburn)--nut-brown hair,
That made her loveliest of the fair;
Not “loveliest of the plain!”
Her lips were of vermilion hue;
Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
Set all my heart in flame!--
A young Pygmalion, I adored
The maids I made--but time was stor’d
With evil--and it came!
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 seem’d,
And such old masters all were deem’d
As nothing to the young!
In verification of the old saying, “Once a man, twice a child,” Mr. Hood
tells of “A School for Adults,”--and gives a picture of aged men,
baldheaded and wigged, whose education had been neglected, studying
their A, B, C. A letter from one of them at a preparatory school is
exceedingly amusing. The article is preceded by a dramatic scene.
_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 Man._ 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
Age grows upon men here, their learning wastes,
And so decays, that, if they live until
Threescore, their sons send ’em to school again;
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!
[_Exit, singing._]
“THE ANTIPODES,” _by R. Brome_.
No reader of the first series of the “Whims and Oddities” can have
forgotten “The Spoiled Child” of “My Aunt Shakerly,” or the unhappy lady
herself; and now we are informed that “towards the close of her life, my
aunt Shakerly increased 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 was not the
triumph, however, of any systematic diet for the promotion of
fat,--(except oyster-eating there is no human system of
_stall_-feeding,)--on the contrary, she lived abstemiously, diluting her
food with pickle-acids, and keeping frequent fasts in order to reduce
her compass; 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; originally 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 brewer’s grains.
“It was the common joke of the neighbourhood to designate 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.’”--This is the commencement of an article
entitled “The _Decline_ of Mrs. Shakerly.”
A story of “the Absentee,” and of the “absent tea,” on a friend’s visit
to him, is painfully whimsical. Akin to it is an engraving of a person
who had retired to rest coming down stairs in his shirt, and shorts, and
great alarm, with a chamber-light in his hand, and the top of his
nightcap in a smothering blaze, exclaiming
“_Don’t you smell Fire?_”
Run!--run for St. Clement’s engine!
For the pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,
And the pledges are frying and singing--
Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!
Now where can the turncock be drinking?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf?--
But he still may tope on, for I’m thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.
The engines!--I hear them come rumbling:
There’s the Phœnix! 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 firemen 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 any thing sadder?
My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,
And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!
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 unpav’d!
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 _chancy_!
Her basins, 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!
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!
There are ballads in the “New Series” that rival “Sally Brown and Ben
the Carpenter” in the former volume. Of this class are “Mary’s Ghost;”
the story of “Tim Turpin,” mentioned before; and another of “Jack Hall,”
showing, how Jack was an undertaker’s mute--how Jack sometimes drove the
hearse--how Jack was in league with resurrection-men, and stole the
bodies he buried--how Death met Jack in St. Pancras burying-ground, and
shook hands with him--how Death invited Jack home to supper--how Jack
preferred going to the Cheshire Cheese, and Death didn’t--how Jack was
brought to Death’s door, and what he saw there--how Jack was obliged to
go in, and Death introduced him to his friends as “Mr. Hall the
body-snatcher”--how Jack got off without bidding them good night--how
Jack was indisposed--how twelve doctors came to visit Jack without
taking fees--how Jack got worse, and how he confessed he had sold his
own body twelve different times to the twelve doctors--how the twelve
doctors did not know Jack was so bad--how the twelve doctors disputed in
Jack’s room which should have his body till twelve o’clock--how Jack
then departed, the twelve doctors couldn’t tell how--and how, as Jack’s
body could not be found, the twelve doctors departed, and not one of
them was satisfied.
In the forementioned ballads there are many “verbal misdemeanours,” at
which the author cautiously hints in his preface with some tokens of
deprecation:--“Let me suggest,” he says, “that a pun is somewhat like a
cherry: though there may be a slight outward indication of partition--of
duplicity of meaning--yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against
his own pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, I
have refrained from putting the majority in italics.” He is equally
sinful and considerate in his prose: as, for instance, in the following
character, which fairly claims a place with those of bishop Earle, sir
Thomas Overbury, and even Butler.
“A BALLAD SINGER
Is a town-crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hunger 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 mackerel, but was just soft enough for Robin Adair.
His business is to make popular songs unpopular,--he gives the air, like
a weathercock, 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. Notwithstanding 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 entreaties for a song;
for he will chant, 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
commonly 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 good off the stones.”
An incurable joker subjects himself to the inconvenience of not being
believed, though he speak the truth; and therefore the following
declaration of the author of “Whims and Oddities” is questionable. He
says:--
“A MAD DOG
Is none of my bugbears. 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
brushtail!----
“I put no faith in the vulgar stories of human beings betaking
themselves, through a dog-bite, to dog-habits: and consider the
smotherings and drownings, that have originated in that fancy, as cruel
as the murders for witchcraft. Are we, for a few yelpings, to stifle all
the disciples of Loyola--Jesuits’ bark--or plunge unto death all the
convalescents who may take to bark and wine?
“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?”
Mr. Hood answers the question himself by “hydrophobia” of his own
creation, namely, an engraving of a dog, on whom he makes “each
particular hair to stand an end;” and whom he represents walking
biped-fashion; he hath for his shield, as Randle Holme would say, an
umbrella _vert_, charged with the stick thereof, as a bend _or_.
“The career of this animal,” says Mr. Hood, “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 collector
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, rushes out, ripe
for hunting, to the street. A twilight remembrance leads him to the
house of his intended. He fastens on her hand--next worries his
mother--takes a bit 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--sweet-heart--mother and sisters--the-two
bed-beaters--all inherit the rabies, and run about to bite others.”
But, is not this drollery on hydrophobia feigned? Is it not true that a
certain bootmaker receives orders every July from the author of “Whims
and Oddities,” for boots to reach above the calf, of calf so
inordinately stout as to be capable of resisting the teeth of a dog,
however viciously rabid, and with underleathers of winter thickness, for
the purpose of kicking all dogs withal, in the canicular days? These
queries are not urged upon Mr. H. with the tongue of scandal; of that,
indeed, he has no fear, for he dreads no tongue, but (to use his
quotation from Lord Duberly) the “vermicular tongue.” This little
exposure of his prevailing weakness he has provoked, by affecting to
discredit what his sole shakes at every summer.
The “New Series of Whims and Oddities” abounds with drolleries. Its
author’s “Forty Designs” are all ludicrous; and, that they have been
engraven with fidelity there can be little doubt, from his compliment to
the engraver. “My hope persuades me,” he says, “that my illustrations
cannot have degenerated, so ably have I been seconded by Mr. Edward
Willis; who, like the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in the
wood.”[478] Though the engravings are indescribably expressive, yet a
few may be hinted at, viz.
“Speak up, sir!” a youth on his knees, vehemently declaring his love,
yet in a tone not sufficiently loud, to a female on a sofa, who doth
“incline her ear” with a trumpet, to assist the auricle.
“In and out Pensioners,” exemplifying the “Suaviter in modo,” and
“Fortiter in re.”
“The spare bed,” uncommonly spare.
“Why don’t you get up behind?” addressed by a donkey-rider--who does not
sit before--to a boy on the ground.
“Banditti,” street minstrels.
“Dust O!” Death collecting his dust--_critically_ speaking, this might
be objected to.
“Crane-iology;” a crane, with its bill calliper-wise, speculating on a
scull, and ascertaining its developements.
“A Retrospective Review;” very literal.
“She is all heart;” a very hearty body.
“The last visit;” quacks.
“The Angel of Death;” one of them--very fine.
“Joiners;” Vicar and Moses.
“Drill and Broadcast;” nature and art.
“High-born and Low-born;” odd differences.
“Lawk! I’ve forgot the brandy!” abominably provoking--only look!
“Comparative Physiology” is “a wandering camel-driver and exhibitor,
parading, for a few pence, the creature’s outlandlish hump, yet
burthened himself with a bunch of flesh between the shoulders.”--
“Oh would some power the giftie gi’ us
To see oursel’s as others see us!”
Mr. Hood’s talents are as versatile as his imagination is excursive: and
it would be difficult to decide, whether he excels in the ludicrous or
the grave. He depicts a pathetic scene with infinitely delicate and
discriminative touches, and his powers are evidently equal to a high
order of poetical grandeur. His “Sally Holt and the Death of John
Hayloft,” is an exquisite specimen of natural feeling.
“Nature, unkind to _Sally Holt_ as to Dogberry, denied to her that
knowledge of reading and writing, which 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 difficult combinations. Writing was
worse to her than conjuring. 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 precious lock--no, not a lock, but rather a remnant of very 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, Hyperian, 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!
“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 both 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 O dear! O dear! Passion could not wring more
from her in the way of exclamation than the tooth-ache. Her lamentations
were always the same, even in tone. By and by she pulled out the
hair--the cropped, yellow, stunted, scrubby hair; then she fell to
rocking--then O dear! O 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 Littelton’s!
“‘Heyday, Sally! what is the matter?’ was a very natural 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.
“‘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.”----
The many “stories of storm-ships and haunted vessels, of spectre
shallops, and supernatural Dutch-doggers--the adventures of Solway
sailors, with Mahound in his bottomless barges, and the careerings of
the phantom-ship up and down the Hudson,” suggest to Mr. Hood a story
entitled “The Demon-Ship.” This he illustrates by an engraving called
“The Flying-Dutchman,” representing the aerial ascent of a native of the
Low Countries, by virtue of a reversal of the personal gravity, which,
particularly in a Hollander, has been commonly understood to have a
tendency downwards. Be this as it may, Mr. Hood’s tale is illustrated by
the tail-piece referred to. The story itself commences with a highly
wrought description of a sea-storm, of uncommon merit, which will be the
last extract from his interesting volume that can be ventured, viz.:--
’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!
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 turn to white, and cast against the cloud
A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturn’d 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 contain’d 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 rush’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!
[477] A “History of the Art of Caricaturing, by J. P. Malcolm, F.S.A.,
1813,” 4to., is by no means what its title purports. Mr. Malcolm was a
very worthy man, and a diligent compiler of facts on other subjects;
but, in the work alluded to, he utterly failed, from want of knowledge
and discrimination. He confounds character with caricature, and was
otherwise inadequate to the task he undertook.
[478] This passage is quoted here from kind feeling, and friendly
wishes, towards the worthy person mentioned in it.
Vol. II.--49.
[Illustration: ~Mr. Gliddon’s Cigar Divan.~