Though legal sharks and screws attack her,
If man would only more attend
To that small voice that crieth--“Back her!”
So oft it would not be his fate
To witness some despairing dropper
In Thames’s tide, and run too late
To that small voice that crieth--“Stop her!”
PUNISHMENT OF SUICIDES.
When would-be Suicides in purpose fail,
Who could not find a morsel though they needed--
If Peter sends them for attempts to jail,
What would he do to them if they succeeded?
ATHOL BROSE.
Charm’d with a drink which Highlanders compose,
A German traveller exclaim’d with glee,--
“Potztausend! sare, if dis is Athol Brose,
How goot dere Athol Boetry must be!”
ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY.
They may talk of the plugging and sweating,
Of our coinage that’s minted of gold,
But to me it produces no fretting
Of its shortness of weight to be told:
All the sov’reigns I’m able to levy
As to lightness can never be wrong,
But must surely be some of the heavy,
_For I never can carry them long_.
ON MRS. PARKES’S PAMPHLET.
Such strictures as these
Could a learned Chinese
Only read on some fine afternoon,
He would cry with pale lips,
“We shall have an Eclipse,
For a Dragon has seized on the Moon!”
AN EXPLANATION
BY ONE OF THE LIVERY.
Says Blue-and-Buff, to Drab-and-Pink,
“I’ve heard the hardest word I think,
That ever posed me since my teens,
I wonder what As-best-os means!”
Says Drab-and-Pink, to Blue-and-Buff,
“The word is clear, and plain enough.
It means a Nag wot goes the pace,
And so _as best os_ wins the race.”
ON THE NEW HALF-FARTHINGS.
“Too small for any marketable shift,
What purpose can there be for coins like these?”
Hush, hush, good Sir!--Thus charitable Thrift
May give a _Mite_ to him who wants a cheese!
THE SURPLICE QUESTION.
BY A BENEDICT.
A very pretty public stir
Is making, down at Exeter,
About the surplice fashion:
And many bitter words and rude
Have been bestowed upon the feud,
And much unchristian passion.
For me, I neither know nor care
Whether a Parson ought to wear
A black dress or a white dress;
Fill’d with a trouble of my own,--
A Wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress!
THE EPPING HUNT.
“HUNT’S ROASTED----”
“On Monday they began to hunt.”--_Chevy Chase._
John Huggins was as bold a man
As trade did ever know,
A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.
There people bought Dutch cheeses round
And single Glos’ter flat;
And English butter in a lump,
And Irish--in a _pat_.
Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart,
At _counter_, with his apron tied
About his _counter-part_.
The seventh, in a Sluice-house box
He took his pipe and pot;
On Sundays, for _eel-pie_ty,
A very noted spot.
Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!
One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head!
Epping, for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage popp’d;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig’s flesh is always _chopp’d_.
But famous more as annals tell,
Because of Easter chase;
There every year, ’twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.
With Monday’s sun John Huggins rose,
And slapped his leather thigh,
And sang the burden of the song,
“This day a stag must die.”
For all the live-long day before,
And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished “Thoughts
On Hunting” in his head.
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo’s answering sounds,
All poets’ wit hath ever writ
In _dog_-rel verse of _hounds_.
Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaving _Cheap_
To go and hunt the _dear_.
No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not _chicken-hearted_ he, although
’Twas whispered of his _eggs_!
Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout’s_ fee,
And Surgeon _Hunter’s_ bill.
So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they wore that day
Was _Warren_-ted to shine.
His yellow buckskins fitted close,
As erst upon a stag;
Thus well equipped he gayly skipped,
At once upon his nag.
But first to him that held the rein
A crown he nimbly flung;
For holding of the horse!--why, no,
For holding of his tongue.
To say the horse was Huggins’ own
Would only be a brag;
His neighbour Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.
And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Although it was a _tit_.
A well-bred horse he was, I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly “rearing up within
The way he ought to go.”
But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne’er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast.
And so he jogged to Tot’n’am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone.
A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;
Wherever she set down her _orts_
Thereby he put a _cross_.
Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way;
One that had promised sure to be
His comrade for the day.
Whereas the man had changed his mind
Meanwhile upon the case!
And meaning not to hunt at all,
Had gone to Enfield Chase!
For why, his spouse had made him vow
To let a game alone,
Where folks that ride a bit of blood,
May break a bit of bone.
“Now, be his wife a plague for life!
A coward sure is he!”
Then Huggins turned his horse’s head,
And crossed the bridge of Lea.
Thence slowly on through Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker’s box--
No Friends to hunters after deer,
Though followers of a _Fox_.
And many a score behind--before--
The self-same rout inclined;
And, minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind.
Gentle and simple, he and she,
And swell, and blood, and prig;
And some had carts, and some a chaise,
According to their gig.
Some long-eared jacks, some knacker’s hacks
(However odd it sounds),
Let out that day to _hunt_, instead
_Of going to the hounds_!
And some had horses of their own,
And some were forced to job it;
And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_,
Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.
All sorts of vehicles and vans,
Bad, middling, and the smart;
Here rolled along the gay barouche,
And there a dirty cart!
And lo! a cart that held a squad
Of costermonger line;
With one poor hack, like Pegasus,
That slaved for all the Nine!
Yet marvel not at any load
That any horse might drag;
When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag.
Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace;
“Hallo!” cried they; “come trot away,
You’ll never see the chase!”
But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answer quite as blunt;
“It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt!”
And so he paced to Woodford Wells,
Where many a horseman met,
And letting go the _reins_ of course,
Prepared for _heavy wet_.
And lo! within the crowded door,
Stood Rounding, jovial elf;
Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,
But frame the man himself.
A snow-white head, a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush;
A claret tint laid on by health,
With master Reynard’s brush;
A hearty frame, a courteous bow,
The prince he learned it from;
His age about threescore and ten,
And there you have Old Tom.
In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast;
So certain congregations meet,
And elevate the host.
“Now welcome lads,” quoth he, “and prads,
You’re all in glorious luck:
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.
“Fair Mead’s the place, where Bob and Tom,
In red already ride;
’Tis but a _step_, and on a horse,
You soon may go _a-stride_.”
So off they scampered, man and horse,
As time and temper pressed--
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
_Branched_ off from all the rest.
Howbeit he tumbled down in time
To join with Tom and Bob,
All in Fair Mead, which held that day
Its own fair meed of mob.
Idlers to wit--no Guardians some,
Of Tattlers in a squeeze;
Ramblers in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators up in trees.
Butchers on backs of butchers’ hacks,
That _shambled_ to and fro!
Bakers intent upon a buck,
Neglectful of the _dough!_
Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual for a fall;
And green and scarlet runners, such
As never climbed a wall!
’Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made;
A single stag had caused a whole
_Stag_nation in their trade.
Now Huggins from his saddle rose,
And in the stirrups stood;
And lo! a little cart that came
Hard by a little wood.
In shape like half a hearse--though not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the _deer alive_,
And not the _dear deceased_!
And now began a sudden stir,
And then a sudden shout,
The prison doors were opened wide,
And Robin bounded out!
His antlered head shone blue and red,
Bedecked with ribbons fine;
Like other bucks that come to ‘list
The hawbucks in the line.
One curious gaze of wild amaze,
He turned and shortly took:
Then gently ran adown the mead,
And bounded o’er the brook.
Now Huggins, standing far aloof,
Had never seen the deer,
Till all at once he saw the beast
Come charging in his rear.
Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the same,
On horse and ass--like High and Low
And Jack pursuing game!
Good Lord! to see the riders now,
Thrown off with sudden whirl,
A score within the purling brook,
Enjoyed their “early purl.”
A score were sprawling on the grass,
And beavers fell in showers;
There was another _Floorer_ there,
Beside the Queen of Flowers!
Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,
Some had no caps to show:
But few, like Charles at Charing Cross
Rode on in _Statue_ quo.
“O dear! O dear!” now might you hear,
“I’ve surely broke a bone;”
“My head is sore”--with many more
Such Speeches from the _Thrown_.
Howbeit their wailings never moved
The wide Satanic clan,
Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned,
To see the fall of Man.
And hunters good that understood,
Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses “throwing off”
So long before the hounds.
For deer must have due course of law,
Like men the Courts among;
Before those Barristers the dogs
Proceed to “giving tongue.”
But now Old Robin’s foes were set
That fatal taint to find,
That always is scent after him,
Yet always left behind.
And here observe how dog and man
A different temper shows:
What hound resents that he is sent
To follow his own nose?
Towler and Jowler--howlers all,
No single tongue was mute;
The stag had led a hart, and lo!
The whole pack followed suit.
No spur he lacked; fear stuck a knife
And fork in either haunch;
And every dog he knew had got
An eye-tooth to his paunch!
Away, away! he scudded like
A ship before the gale;
Now flew to _h_ills we know not of,
Now, nun-like, took the vale.
Another squadron charging now,
Went off at furious pitch;--
A perfect Tam O’Shanter mob,
Without a single witch.
But who was he with flying skirts,
A hunter did endorse,
And, like a poet, seemed to ride
Upon a wingèd horse?
A whipper-in? no whipper-in:
A huntsman? no such soul:
A connoisseur, or amateur?
Why, yes--a horse patrol.
A member of police, for whom
The county found a nag,
And, like Actæon in the tale,
He found himself in stag!
Away they went, then, dog and deer,
And hunters all away;
The maddest horses never knew
_Mad staggers_ such as they!
Some gave a shout, some rolled about,
And anticked as they rode;
And butchers whistled on their curs,
And milkmen _Tally-ho’d_!
About two score there were, or more,
That galloped in the race;
The rest, alas! lay on the grass,
As once in Chevy Chase!
But even those that galloped on
Were fewer every minute;
The field kept getting more select,
Each thicket served to thin it.
For some pulled up, and left the hunt,
Some fell in miry bogs,
And vainly rose and “ran a muck,”
To overtake the dogs.
And some, in charging hurdle stakes,
Were left bereft of sense;
What else could be premised of blades
That never learned to fence?
But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate,
Nor hedge, nor ditch could stay;
O’er all they went, and did the work
Of leap-years in a day!
And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed;
For, like Mazeppa, he was quite
At mercy of his steed.
No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit,
For firm and fast, between his teeth,
The biter held the bit.
Trees raced along, all Essex fled
Beneath him as he sate;
He never saw a county go
At such a county rate!
“Hold hard! hold hard! you’ll lame the dogs!”
Quoth Huggins, “so I do;
I’ve got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you!”
Good Lord! to see him ride along,
And throw his arms about,
As if with stitches in the side
That he was drawing out!
And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook;
Till bumped and galled--yet not where Gall
For bumps did ever look!
And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride;
With every kick he gave a prick
Deep in the horse’s side!
But soon the horse was well avenged
For cruel smart of spurs,
For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze!
Where, sharper set than hunger is,
He squatted all forlorn;
And, like a bird, was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!
Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign;
“Possession is nine points,” but his
Seems more than ninety-nine.
Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!
Now had a Papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf,
Although no horse he had to cross,
He might have crossed himself.
Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;
A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!
A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went
To many a stock and stone!
Now seeing Huggins’ nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage!
Though felony, yet who would let
Another’s horse alone,
Whose neck is placed in jeopardy
By riding on his own?
And yet the conduct of the man
Seemed honest-like and fair;
For he seemed willing, horse and all,
To go before the _mare_!
So up on Huggins’ horse he got,
And swiftly rode away,
While Huggins mounted on the mare
Done brown upon a bay!
And off they set in double chase,
For such was fortune’s whim,
The farmer rode to hunt the stag,
And Huggins hunted him!
Alas! with one that rode so well
In vain it was to strive;
A dab was he, as dabs should be--
All leaping and alive.
And here of Nature’s kindly care
Behold a curious proof,
As nags are meant to leap, she puts
A frog in every hoof!
Whereas the mare, although her share
She had of hoof and frog,
On coming to a gate stopped short
As stiff as any log;
While Huggins in the stirrup stood
With neck like neck of crane,
As sings the Scottish song--“to see
The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane.”
And, lo! the dim and distant hunt
Diminished in a trice:
The steeds, like Cinderella’s team,
Seemed dwindling into mice;
And, far remote, each scarlet coat
Soon flitted like a spark--
Though still the forest murmured back
An echo of the bark!
But sad at soul John Huggins turned:
No comfort could he find;
While thus the “Hunting Chorus” sped,
To stay five bars behind.
For though by dint of spur he got
A leap in spite of fate--
Howbeit there was no toll at all--
They could not clear the gate.
And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,
And sorely cursed the day,
And mused a New Gray’s elegy
On his departed gray.
Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells:
But Huggins, full of ills, of course
Betook him to the Wells,
Where Rounding tried to cheer him up
With many a merry laugh:
But Huggins thought of neighbour Fig,
And called for half-and-half.
Yet, spite of drink, he could not blink
Remembrance of his loss;
To drown a care like his, required
Enough to drown a horse.
When thus forlorn, a merry horn
Struck up without the door--
The mounted mob were all returned;
The Epping Hunt was o’er!
And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle, and of shaft;
And men, by dint of drink, became
The only “_beasts of draught_.”
For now begun a harder run
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken men discussed
The overtaken deer.
How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he stood,
Deerlike, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could:--
And how the hunters stood aloof,
Regardful of their lives,
And shunned a beast, whose very horns
They knew could _handle_ knives!
How Huggins stood when he was rubbed
By help and ostler kind,
And when they cleaned the clay before,
How worse “remained behind.”
And one, how he had found a horse
Adrift--a goodly gray!
And kindly rode the nag, for fear
The nag should go astray;
Now Huggins, when he heard the tale,
Jumped up with sudden glee;
[Illustration: THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.]
[Illustration: “I WISH YOU MAY GET IT.”]
“A goodly gray! why, then, I say,
That gray belongs to me!
“Let me endorse again my horse,
Delivered safe and sound;
And gladly I will give the man
A bottle and a pound!”
The wine was drunk--the money paid,
Though not without remorse,
To pay another man so much
For riding on his horse;--
And let the chase again take place
For many a long, long year--
John Huggins will not ride again
To hunt the Epping Deer!
MORAL.
Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp
Just when we think to grip her:
And hunting after Happiness,
We only hunt the slipper.
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.
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!
’Tis hard one cannot lie amid
The mould, beneath a coffin-lid,
But thus the Faculty will bid
Their rogues break through 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 ghoul behaves,
‘Neath church-yard wall--
Mayhap because he fed on graves,
Was named 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.
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.
Night after night, with crow and spade,
He drove this dead but thriving trade,
Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’d
A single horsehair;
On corses of all kinds he prey’d,
A perfect corsair!
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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
Declin’d the offer.
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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
Quoth 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-inclined
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.
“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!”
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.
All other men had been unmann’d
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.
Throughout his dismal sign prevails,
His name is writ in coffin nails;
The mortal darts make area rails;
A skull that mocketh,
Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails
Whoever knocketh.
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.
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.
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.
And lo! a crowd of spectres tall,
Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall,
Were standing--every ghastly ball--
An eager watcher.
“My friend,” says Death--“friends, Mr. Hall,
The body-snatcher.”
Lord, what a tumult it produced,
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!
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!
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 whipp’d,
Death, ghosts, and all in that career
Were quite outstripp’d.
But those who live by death must die;
Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly;
And when his latter end drew nigh,
Oh! what a swarm
Of doctors came,--but not to try
To keep him warm.
No ravens ever scented prey
So early where a dead horse lay,
Nor vulture 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
Obtain’d from them;
In fact he did not find M. D.’s
Worth one D----M.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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!”
Twelve brows got very grim and black,
Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,
Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack
Took up position,
Ready to share the dying Jack
By long division.