The Poetical Works of Horace Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of Horace Smith

Now First Collected. In Two Volumes

Smith, Horace (1779-1849)

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

COMIC POEMS.

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II. VOL. II.

COMIC POEMS.

THE ENGLISHMAN IN FRANCE.

A Frenchman seeing, as he walk'd,
A friend on t'other side the street,
Cried “Hem!” exactly as there stalk'd
An Englishman along the road;
One of those Johnny Raws we meet
In every sea-port town abroad,
Prepared to take and give offence
Partly, perhaps, because they speak
About as much of French as Greek,
And partly from the want of sense.

The Briton thought this exclamation
Meant some reflection on his nation,
So bustling to the Frenchman's side,
“Mounseer Jack Frog,” he fiercely cried,
“Pourquoi vous dire ‘Hem!’ quand moi passe?”
Eyeing the querist with his glass,
The Gaul replied,—“Monsieur God-dem,
Pourquoi vous passe quand moi dire ‘Hem?’”—

THE CULPRIT AND THE JUDGE.

The realm of France possess'd, in days of old,
A thriving set of literati,
Or men of letters, turning all to gold:—
The standard works they made less weighty
By new abridgments—took abundant
Pains their roughnesses to polish,
And plied their scissors to abolish
The superficial and redundant.

And yet, instead of fame and praise,
Hogsheads of sack, and wreaths of bays,
The law, in those benighted ages,
By barbarous edicts did enjoin

That they should cease their occupation,
Terming these literary sages
Clippers and filers of the coin;
(Oh! what a monstrous profanation!)
Nay, what was deeper to be dreaded,
These worthies were, when caught, beheaded!

But to the point. A story should
Be like a coin—a head and tail,
In a few words envelop'd. Good!
I must not let the likeness fail.—
A Gascon who had long pursued
This trade of clipping,
And filing the similitude
Of good King Pepin,
Was caught by the police, who found him
With file and scissors in his hand
And ounces of Pactolian sand
Lying around him.

The case admitting no denial,
They hurried him forthwith to trial;
When the Judge made a long oration,
About the crime of profanation,
And gave no respite for repentance,
But instantly pronounced his sentence,
“Decapitation!”

“As to offending powers divine,”
The culprit cried,—“be nothing said:
Yours is a deeper guilt than mine.
I took a portion from the head
Of the king's image; you, oh fearful odds!
Strike the whole head at once from God's!”

SONNET TO MY OWN NOSE.

O nose! thou rudder in my face's centre,
Since I must follow thee until I die,—
Since we are bound together by indenture,
The master thou, and the apprentice I,
O be to your Telemachus a Mentor,
Though oft invisible, for ever nigh;
Guard him from all disgrace and misadventure,
From hostile tweak, or Love's blind mastery.
So shalt thou quit the city's stench and smoke,
For hawthorn lanes and copses of young oak,

Scenting the gales of heaven that have not yet
Lost their fresh fragrance, since the morning broke,
And breath of flowers “with rosy may-dews wet,”
The primrose, cowslip, blue-bell, violet.

THE MILKMAID AND THE BANKER.

A Milkmaid, with a very pretty face,
Who lived at Acton,
Had a black Cow, the ugliest in the place,
A crooked-back'd one,
A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful,
Vicious and spiteful;
And so confirm'd a truant, that she bounded
Over the hedges daily, and got pounded:
'Twas all in vain to tie her with a tether,
For then both Cow and cord eloped together.

Arm'd with an oaken bough—(what folly!
It should have been of thorn, or prickly holly,)
Patty one day was driving home the beast,
Which had, as usual, slipp'd its anchor,
When on the road she met a certain Banker,
Who stopp'd to give his eyes a feast,
By gazing on her features crimson'd high
By a long Cow-chase in July.

“Are you from Acton, pretty lass?” he cried.
“Yes”—with a curtsey she replied.—
“Why, then you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?”—
“Yes, she's my cousin, Sir, and next-door neighbour.”
“That's lucky—I've a message for the wench,
Which needs dispatch, and you may save my labour.
Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it:
But mind, you owe me one—I've only lent it.”—

“She shall know,” cried the girl, as she brandish'd her bough,
“Of the loving intentions you bore me;
But since you're in haste for the kiss, you'll allow,
That you'd better run forward and give it my Cow,
For she, at the rate she is scampering now,
Will reach Acton some minutes before me.”

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE GASCON.

At Neufchâtel, in France, where they prepare
Cheeses that set us longing to be Mites,
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare
Skill in these small quadrangular delights.—
Where they were made, they sold for the immense
Price of three sous a-piece;
But as salt water made their charms increase,
In England the fix'd rate was eighteen-pence.

This damsel had to help her in the farm,
To milk her cows, and feed her hogs,
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm
For digging, or for carrying logs;

But in his noddle weak as any baby,
In fact a gaby,
And such a glutton when you came to feed him,
That Wantley's dragon, who “ate barns and churches,
As if they were geese and turkeys,”
(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him.

One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl
Of cream, like nectar,
And wouldn't go to Church (good careful soul!)
Till she had left it safe with a protector;
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon
To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone.—

Watch it he did—he never took his eyes off,
But lick'd his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,
Which if they got,

Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
And cried,—“O happy, happy fly,
How I do envy you your lot!”

Each moment did his appetite grow stronger;
His bowels yearn'd;
At length he could not bear it any longer,
But on all sides his looks he turn'd,
And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd
The whole up at a draught.—
Scudding from church, the farmer's wife
Flew to the dairy;
But stood aghast, and could not, for her life
One sentence utter,
Until she summon'd breath enough to mutter,
“Holy St. Mary!”
And shortly, with a face of scarlet,
The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew
Upon the varlet,

Asking the when, and where, and how, and who
Had gulp'd her cream, nor left an atom;
To which he gave not separate replies,
But with a look of excellent digestion,
One answer made to every question,
“The Flies!”

“The flies, you rogue! the flies, you guzzling dog!
Behold your whiskers still are covered thickly;
Thief,—liar,—villain,—gormandizer,—hog!
I'll make you tell another story quickly.”
So out she bounced, and brought, with loud alarms,
Two stout Gens-d'armes,
Who bore him to the judge,—a little prig,
With angry bottle nose
Like a red cabbage rose,
While lots of white ones flourished on his wig.—
Looking at once both stern and wise,
He turn'd to the delinquent,

And 'gan to question him and catechise
As to which way the drink went:
Still the same dogged answers rise,
“The flies, my Lord—the flies, the flies!”

“Psha!” quoth the judge, half peevish and half pompous,
“Why, you're non compos.
You should have watch'd the bowl as she desired,
And kill'd the flies, you stupid clown.”
“What, is it lawful then,” the dolt enquired,
“To kill the flies in this here town?”—
“The man's an ass! a pretty question this!
Lawful, you booby? to be sure it is.—
You've my authority, whene'er you meet 'em
To kill the rogues, and if you like it, eat 'em.”
“Zooks!” cried the rustic, “I'm right glad to hear it.
Constable, catch that thief! may I go hang
If yonder blue-bottle, (I know his face,)
Isn't the very leader of the gang

That stole the cream, let me come near it!”
This said, he started from his place,
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows
At a large fly upon the Judge's nose,
The luckless blue-bottle he smash'd,
And gratified a double grudge,
For the same catapult completely smash'd
The bottle-nose belonging to the Judge!

THE AUCTIONEER AND THE LAWYER.

A City Auctioneer, one Samuel Stubbs,
Did greater execution with his hammer,
Assisted by his puffing clamour,
Than Gog and Magog with their clubs,
Or that great Fee-fa-fum of War,
The Scandinavian Thor,
Did with his mallet, which (see Bryant's
Mythology,) fell'd stoutest giants;—
For Samuel knock'd down houses, churches,
And woods of oak, and elms, and birches,
With greater ease than mad Orlando
Tore the first tree he set his hand to.—

He ought in reason to have raised his own
Lot by knocking others' down.
And had he been content with shaking
His hammer and his hand, and taking
Advantage of what brought him grist, he
Might have been as rich as Christie;—
But somehow when thy midnight bell, Bow,
Sounded along Cheapside its knell,
Our spark was busy in Pall-Mall
Shaking his elbow;—
Marking, with paw upon his mazzard,
The turns of hazard;
Or rattling in a box the dice,
Which seem'd as if a grudge they bore
To Stubbs: for often in a trice,
Down on the nail he was compell'd to pay
All that his hammer brought him in the day,
And sometimes more.

Thus like a male Penelope, our wight
What he had done by day undid by night:
No wonder, therefore, if like her
He was beset by clamorous brutes,
Who crowded round him to prefer
Their several suits.

One Mr. Snipps, the tailor, had the longest
Bill for many suits—of raiment,
And naturally thought he had the strongest
Claim for payment.
But debts of honour must be paid,
Whate'er becomes of debts of trade;
And so our stylish auctioneer,
From month to month throughout the year,
Excuses, falsehoods, pleas, alleges;
Or flatteries, compliments, and pledges,
When in the latter mood one day,
He squeezed his hand, and swore to pay.—

“But when?” “Next month, you may depend on't,
My dearest Snipps, before the end on't;—
Your face proclaims, in every feature,
You wouldn't harm a fellow creature,—
You're a kind soul, I know you are, Snipps.”—
“Ay, so you said six months ago;
But such fine words, I'd have you know,
Butter no parsnips.”
This said, he bade his lawyer draw
A special writ,
Serve it on Stubbs, and follow it
Up with the utmost rigour of the law.

This lawyer was a friend of Stubbs;
That is to say
In a civic way,
Where business interposes not its rubs;
For where the main chance is in question,
Damon leaves Pythias to the stake,

Pylades and Orestes break,
And Alexander cuts Hephæstion;
But when our man of law must sue his friends,
Tenfold politeness made amends.

So when he meets our Auctioneer,
Into his outstretch'd hand he thrust his
Writ, and said with friendly leer,
“My dear, dear Stubbs, pray do me justice;
In this affair I hope you see
No censure can attach to me—
Don't entertain a wrong impression;
I'm doing now what must be done
In my profession.”—
“And so am I,” Stubbs answer'd with a frown;
So crying, “Going—going—going—gone!”
He knock'd him down.

THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER.

In Broad Street Buildings, on a winter night,
Snug by his parlour fire a gouty wight
Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing
His leg wrapp'd up in fleecy hose,
While t'other held beneath his nose
The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,
He noted all the sales of hops,
Ships, shops, and slops,
Gums, galls, and groceries, ginger, gin,
Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin;

When lo! a decent personage in black
Enter'd, and most politely said,—
“Your footman, Sir, has gone his nightly track,
To the King's Head,
And left your door ajar, which I
Observed in passing by,
And thought it neighbourly to give you notice.”

“Ten thousand thanks! how very few get,
In time of danger,
Such kind attentions from a stranger!
Assuredly that fellow's throat is
Doom'd to a final drop at Newgate,
He knows too, the unconscionable elf!
That there 's no soul at home except myself.”

“Indeed!” replied the stranger, looking grave;
“Then he's a double knave.
“He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
“Nightly beset unguarded doors;

“And see how easily might one
“Of these domestic foes,
“Even beneath your very nose,
“Perform his knavish tricks,
“Enter your room as I have done,
“Blow out your candles,—thus and thus,
“Pocket your silver candlesticks,—
“And walk off—thus!”

So said, so done—he made no more remark;
Nor waited for replies,
But march'd off with his prize,
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.

THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC.

Cardinal Wolsey was a man
Of an unbounded stomach, Shakespeare says:
Meaning, (in metaphor,) for ever puffing
To swell beyond his size and span;
But had he seen a player of our days
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,
He would have own'd that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Equall'd not that within the bounds
This actor's belt surrounds,
Which is, moreover, all alive and real.—

This player, when the Peace enabled shoals
Of our odd fishes
To visit every clime between the poles,
Swam with the stream, a histrionic Kraken:
Although his wishes
Must not in this proceeding be mistaken,
For he went out professionally bent
To see how money might be made, not spent.—

In this most laudable employ
He found himself at Lille one afternoon;
And that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon,
Out of the town he took a stroll,
Refreshing in the fields his soul
With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces,
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.—

When we are pleasantly employ'd, time flies;—
He counted up his profits, in the skies,

Until the moon began to shine,
On which he gazed awhile, and then,
Pull'd out his watch, and cried—“Past nine!
Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten!”
Backwards he turn'd his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main,
And though 'tis plain
He couldn't gallop, trot, or canter,
(Those who had seen it would confess it,) he
March'd well for one of such obesity.

Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping,
He puff'd and blew along the road,
Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping;
When in his path he met a clown,
Returning from the town.—
“Tell me,” he panted in a thawing state,
“Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate?”

“Get in?” replied the hesitating loon,
Measuring with his eye our bulky wight:
“Why yes, Sir, I should think you might—
“A load of hay got in this afternoon!”

THE BANK CLERK AND THE STABLE KEEPERS

Showing how Peter was undone
By taking care of Number One.—

Of Peter Prim (so Johnson would have written,)
Let me indulge in the remembrance;—Peter!
Thy formal phiz has oft my fancy smitten,
For sure the Bank had never a completer
Quiz among its thousand clerks,
Than he who now elicits our remarks.—

Prim was a formalist, a prig,
A solemn fop, an office Martinet,
One of those small precisians who look big
If half an hour before their time they get
To an appointment, and abuse those elves
Who are not over-punctual like themselves.

If you should mark his powder'd head betimes,
And polish'd shoes in Lothbury,
You knew the hour—for the three-quarters' chimes
Invariably struck as he went by;
From morning fines he always saved his gammon,
Not from his hate of sloth, but love of Mammon.

For Peter had a special eye
To Number One—his charity
At home beginning, ne'er extends,
But where it started had its end too;
And as to lending cash to friends,
Luckily he had none to lend to.—

No purchases so cheap as his,
While no one's bargains went so far,
And though in dress a deadly quiz,
No Quaker more particular.

This live automaton, who seem'd
To move by clockwork, ever keen
To live upon the saving plan,
Had soon the honour to be deem'd
That selfish, heartless, cold machine,
Call'd in the City—a warm man.

A Bank Director once, who dwelt at Chigwell,
Prim to a turtle-feast invited,
And as the reader knows the prig well,
I need not say he went, delighted;
For great men, when they let you slice their meat,
May give a slice of loan—a richer treat.

No stage leaves Chigwell after eight,
Which was too early to come back,
So, after much debate,
Peter resolved to hire a hack;
The more inclined to this, because he knew
In London Wall, at Number Two,
An economic stable-keeper,
From whom he hoped to get one cheaper.

Behold him mounted on his jade,
A perfect Johnny Gilpin figure;
But the good bargain he had made
Compensating for sneer and snigger,
He trotted on—arrived—sat down,
Devour'd enough for six or seven,
His horse remounted, and reach'd town
As he had fix'd, exactly at eleven.
But whether habit led him, or the Fates
To give a preference to Number One,
(As he had always done,)

Or that the darkness jumbled the two gates,
Certain it is he gave that bell a drag,
Instead of Number Two,
Rode in,—dismounted—left his nag,
And homeward hurried without more ado.

Some days elapsed, and no one came
To bring the bill, or payment claim;
He 'gan to hope 'twas overlook'd,
Forgotten quite, or never book'd,—
An error which the honesty of Prim
Would ne'er have rectified, if left to him.
After six weeks, however, comes a pair
Of groom-like looking men,
Each with a bill, which Peter they submit to;
One for the six weeks' hire of a bay mare,
And one for six weeks' keep of ditto:
Together—twenty-two pounds ten!

The tale got wind. What! Peter make a blunder?
There was no end of joke, and quiz, and wonder,
Which, with the loss of cash, so mortified
Prim, that he suffered an attack
Of bile, and bargain'd with a quack,
Who daily swore to cure him—till he died;
When, as no will was found,
His scraped, and saved, and hoarded store,
Went to a man to whom, some months before,
He had refused to lend a pound!

PIRON, AND THE JUDGE OF THE POLICE.

Piron, a Poet of the Gallic nation,
Who beat all waggish rivals hollow,
Was apt to draw his inspiration
Rather from Bacchus than Apollo.
His hostess was his deity,
His Hippocrene was eau-de-vie;
And though 'tis said
That poets live not till they die,
When living he was often dead,—
That is to say, dead drunk.—“While I,”
Quoth Piron, “Am by all upbraided
With drunkenness, the vilest, worst,

Most base, detestable, degraded,
Of sins that ever man repented,
None of you blames this cursed thirst
With which I'm constantly tormented.—
Worse than a cholic or a phthisic,
E'en now it gripes me so severely,
That I must fly to calm it, merely
Swallowing brandy as a physic.”

To cure this unrelenting fever
He pour'd such doses through his lips, he
Was shortly what the French call ivre,
Anglicè—tipsy;
And while the midnight bell was pealing
Its solemn tolling,
Our Bacchanal was homeward reeling,
Tumbling and rolling,
Until at last he made a stop,
Suffering his noddle, which he could not keep
Upright, upon the ground to drop,

And in two minutes was asleep,
Fast as a top.

Round came the guard, and seeing him extended
Across the gutter,
Incompetent to move or utter,
They thought at first his days were ended;
But finding that he was not dead,
Having lost nothing but his head,
They popp'd him on a horse's back,
Just like a sack,
And shot him on the guard-house floor,
To let him terminate his snore.

Next morning when our tippling bard
Had got his senses,
They brought a coach into the yard,
And drove him off to answer his offences,
Before the Judge of the Police,
Who made a mighty fuss and clamour;

But, like some Justices of peace,
Who know as much of law as grammar,
Was an egregious ninny-hammer.
“Well, fellow,” cried the magistrate,
“What have you got to say for boozing,
Then lying in the streets and snoozing
All night in that indecent state?”—
“Sir,” quoth the culprit to the man of law,
“It was a frost last night in town,
And tired of tripping, sliding, and slipping,
Methought I might as well lie down,
And wait until there came a thaw.”
“Pooh! nonsense! psha!
Imprisonment must be the lot
Of such a vagabond and sot.
But, tell me, fellow, what's your name?”
“Piron.”—“The dramatist?”—“The same.”
“Ah, well, well, well, Monsieur Piron,
Pray take your hat and quit the court,
For wags like you must have their sport;

But recollect, when you are gone,
You'll owe me one, and thus I shew it:
I have a brother who's a poet,
And lives as you do, by his wits.”
Quoth Piron, “that can never pass,
For I've a brother who's an ass,
So we are quits.”

THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR.

A counsel in the Common Pleas,
Who was esteem'd a mighty wit,
Upon the strength of a chance hit
Amid a thousand flippancies,
And his occasional bad jokes
In bullying, bantering, browbeating,
Ridiculing, and maltreating
Women, or other timid folks,
In a late cause resolved to hoax
A clownish Yorkshire farmer—one
Who, by his uncouth look and gait,
Appear'd expressly meant by Fate
For being quizz'd and played upon:

So having tipp'd the wink to those,
In the back rows,
Who kept their laughter bottled down,
Until our wag should draw the cork,
He smiled jocosely on the clown,
And went to work.—

“Well, Farmer Numscull, how go calves at York?”
“Why—not, Sir, as they do wi' you,
But on four legs, instead of two.”
“Officer!” cried the legal elf,
Piqued at the laugh against himself,
“Do pray keep silence down below there.
Now look at me, clown, and attend;
Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?”
“Yees—very like—I often go there.”
“Our rustic's waggish—quite laconic,”
The counsel cried, with grin sardonic;
“I wish I'd known this prodigy,
This genius of the clods, when I

On circuit was at York residing.
Now, Farmer, do for once speak true—
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you,
Who doubtless think yourself so clever,
Are there as many fools as ever
In the West Riding?”
“Why—no, Sir, no; we've got our share,
But not so many as when you were there!”

THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER.

At Trin. Coll. Cam.—which means, in proper spelling,
Trinity College, Cambridge, there resided
One Harry Dashington,—a youth excelling
In all the learning commonly provided
For those who choose that classic station
For finishing their education:
That is, he understood computing
The odds at any race or match;
Was a dead hand at pigeon-shooting;
Could kick up rows, knock down the watch—
Play truant and the rake at random—
Drink—tie cravats—and drive a tandem.

Remonstrance, fine, and rustication,
So far from working reformation,
Seem'd but to make his lapses greater,
Till he was warn'd that next offence
Would have this certain consequence—
Expulsion from his Alma Mater.

One need not be a necromancer
To guess that, with so wild a wight,
The next offence occurr'd next night,
When our incurable came rolling
Home as the midnight chimes were tolling,
And rung the College bell.—No answer.

The second peal was vain—the third
Made the street echo its alarum;
When to his great delight he heard
The sordid Janitor, old Ben,
Rousing and growling in his den.
“Who's there?—I s'pose young Harum Scarum.”

“'Tis I, my worthy Ben, 'tis Harry.”
“Ay, so I thought—and there you'll tarry.
'Tis past the hour—the gates are closed,
You know my orders; I shall lose
My place if I undo the door.”
“And I (young Hopeful interposed)
“Shall be expelled if you refuse;
So prythee”—Ben began to snore.

“I'm wet,” cried Harry, “to the skin;
Hip! hallo! Ben!—don't be a ninny;
Beneath the gate I've thrust a guinea,
So tumble out and let me in.”—

“Humph!” growled the greedy old curmudgeon,
Half overjoy'd and half in dudgeon,
“Now, you may pass, but make no fuss,
On tiptoe walk, and hold your prate.”
“Look on the stones, old Cerberus,”
Cried Harry as he pass'd the gate,

“I've dropp'd a shilling,—take the light,
You'll find it just outside;—good night.”

Behold the porter in his shirt,
Cursing the rain which never stopp'd,
Groping and raking in the dirt,
And all without success; but that
Is hardly to be wondered at,
Because no shilling had been dropp'd;
So he gave o'er the search at last,
Regain'd the door and found it fast!

With sundry oaths, and growls, and groans,
He rang once, twice, and thrice; and then,
Mingled with giggling, heard the tones
Of Harry, mimicking old Ben.

“Who's there?—'Tis really a disgrace
To ring so loud.—I've lock'd the gate—
I know my duty—'tis too late,
You wouldn't have me lose my place?”

“Psha! Mr. Dashington: remember,
This is the middle of November,
I'm stripp'd, 'tis raining cats and dogs.”
“Hush, hush!” quoth Hal, “I'm fast asleep;”
And then he snored as loud and deep
As a whole company of hogs:
“But, harkye, Ben, I'll grant admittance
At the same rate I paid myself.”
“Nay, master, leave me half the pittance,”
Replied the avaricious elf.
“No: all or none—a full acquittance:
The terms, I know, are somewhat high;
But you have fix'd the price, not I,—
I won't take less, I can't afford it.”
So, finding all his haggling vain,
Ben, with an oath and groan of pain,
Drew out the guinea, and restored it.

“Surely you'll give me,” growled th' outwitted
Porter, when again admitted,

“Something, now you've done your joking,
For all this trouble, time, and soaking.”
“Oh surely, surely,” Harry said;
“Since, as you urge, I broke your rest,
And you're half drown'd, and quite undress'd,
I'll give you—leave to go to bed!”

THE MAYOR OF MIROBLAIS.

While he was laying plans for getting
The honours of the Chapeau rouge,
The Cardinal Dubois was ever fretting;
All his days and nights allotting
To bribes and schemes, intriguing, plotting,
Until his face grew yellow as gamboge,
His eyes sepulchral, dull, and gummy,
And his whole frame a walking mummy.—

Meanwhile his steward, De la Vigne,
Seem'd to be fattening on his master,
For, as the one grew lank and lean,
The other only thrived the faster,

Enjoying, as he swell'd in figure,
Such constant spirits, laugh and snigger,
That it e'en struck his Excellency,
Who call'd him up, and ask'd him whence he
Contrived to get so plump and jolly,
While he himself, a man of rank, Visibly shrank,
And daily grew more melancholy.—

“Really, my lord,” the steward said,
“There's nothing marvellous in that;
“You have a hat for ever in your head,
“My head is always in my hat.”

Dubois, too wealthy to be marr'd in all
His plots, was presently a Cardinal,
And wore what he had pined to win;
When pasquinades soon flew about,
Hinting his sconce was deeper red without,
Than 'twas within.—

Perhaps it was, but that's no matter,
The Pope, like any other hatter,
Makes coverings, not heads; and this
With its new guest agreed so well,
That he soon wore an alter'd phiz:
Ate heartily, began to swell,
Recover'd from his ails and ills,
And grew quite rosy in the gills.

'Tis strange, but true, our worthy wore
Fine robes, and wax'd both plump and fresh,
From the first moment he forswore
All pomps and appetites of flesh.—
His Eminence, on this inflation
Both of his stomach and his station,
His old Château resolved to visit,
Accompanied by one Dupin,
A sandy-headed little man,
Who daily managed to elicit

Jokes from some French Joe Miller's page,
Old, and but little of their age;
Though they drew forth as never-failing
A roar of laughter every time,
As if they were as new and prime
As those which we are now retailing!

To the Château in Languedoc;
Whole deputations
From the surrounding districts flock,
With odes, addresses, gratulations,
And long orations;
And amongst others, the Préfet
Of Miroblais,
Famed for its annual Fair of Asses,
Began a speech which, by its dull
Exordium, threaten'd to be full
As long and dry as fifty masses.

Dupin, who saw his yawning master
Somewhat annoy'd by this disaster,
And thought it might be acceptable
To quiz the bore, and stop his gabble,
Abruptly cried—“Pray, Mr. Mayor,
How much did asses fetch, last Fair?”

“Why, Sir,” the worthy Mayor replied,
As the impertinent he eyed—
“Small sandy ones, like you, might each
Sell for three crowns, and plenty too:”
Then quietly resumed his speech,
And mouth'd it regularly through.

RABELAIS AND THE LAMPREYS.

When the eccentric Rabelais was physician
To Cardinal Lorraine, he sat at dinner
Beside that gormandizing sinner;
Not like the medical magician
Who whisk'd from Sancho Panza's fauces
The evanescent meats and sauces,
But to protect his sacred master
Against such diet as obstructs
The action of the epigastre,
O'erloads the biliary ducts,
The peristaltic motion crosses,
And puzzles the digestive process.

The Cardinal, one hungry day,
First having with his eyes consumed
Some lampreys that before him fumed,
Had plunged his fork into the prey,
When Rabelais gravely shook his head,
Tapp'd on his plate three times and said—
“Pah!—hard digestion! hard digestion!”
And his bile-dreading Eminence,
Though sorely tempted, had the sense
To send it off without a question.—

“Hip! Hallo! bring the lampreys here!”
Cried Rabelais, as the dish he snatch'd;
And gobbling up the dainty cheer,
The whole was instantly dispatch'd.

Redden'd with vain attempts at stifling
At once his wrath and appetite,
His patron cried, “Your conduct's rude,
This is no subject, Sir, for trifling;

How dare you designate this food
As indigestible and crude,
Then swallow it before my sight?”

Quoth Rabelais, “It may soon be shown
That I don't merit this rebuff:
I tapp'd the plate, and that you'll own,
Is indigestible enough;
But as to this unlucky fish,
With you so strangely out of favour,
Not only 'tis a wholesome dish,
But one of most delicious flavour!”

THE BITER BIT.

Jack Dobson, honest son of tillage,
The Toby Philpot of his village,
Laugh'd and grew fat, Time's gorgon visage braving;
To hear him cackle at a hoax,
Or new edition of old jokes,
You'd think a Roman Capitol was saving.

Not Boniface, when at a mug
Of ale he gave a hearty tug,
Was fuller of his subject-matter;
And Dobson had a better plea
For boasting of its pedigree;
For his was brew'd at home, and he
Was infinitely fatter.

One cask he had better and stronger
Than all the rest—brew'd at a christening;
To pass it set his eyes a glistening;
In short he couldn't tarry longer,
But seizing spiggot and a faucet,
He tapp'd it—quaff'd a luscious posset—
Then, like a hospitable fellow,
Sent for his friends to make them mellow.—

Among them he invited one
Call'd Tibbs, a simple-minded wight,
Whom waggish Dobson took delight
To make the subject of his fun:
For Nature such few brains had put
In neighbour Tibbs's occiput,
That all the rustic wags and wits
Found him a most convenient butt
For their good hits;
Though sometimes, as both great and small aver,
He gave them Roland for their Oliver.

The guests all met, and dinner spread,
Dobson first tipp'd the wink, then said,
“Well, now, my lads, we'll all draw lots,
To settle which of us shall go
Into the cellarage below,
To fill the pots.”
So saying, he adroitly wriggled
The shortest into Tibbs's paw,
Whereat the others hugely giggled,
And Tibbs, obedient to the law,
Went down, the beverage to draw.

Now, Farmer Dobson, wicked wag!
Over the cellar door had slung
A water-bowl, so slily hung,
That whoso gave the door a drag,
Was sure to shower down at once
A quart of liquid on his sconce.

Our host and all his brother wits,
Soon as they heard their victim's tramp,
Who look'd half-drown'd, burst into fits,
Which in fresh peals of laughter flamed,
When Tibbs in drawling tone, exclaim'd:
“Isn't your cellar rather damp?”

Grace being said, quick havoc follow'd;
Many good things were said and swallow'd;—
Joking, laughing, stuffing, and quaffing,
For a full hour they push'd about
The cans, and when there came a pause,
From mere exhaustion of their jaws,
Tibbs with his nasal twang drawl'd out—
“Suppose we now draw lots again,
Which of us shall go down to put
The spiggot back into the butt.”
“Why, zounds!” the farmer roar'd amain—
“The spiggot back! come, come, you're funning,
You haven't left the liquor running?”

“I did as I was ordered, Jack,”
Quoth Tibbs;—“and if it was intention'd
That I should put the spiggot back,
'Tis a great pity 'twasn't mention'd:—
You've lost a cask of precious stuff,
But I, for one, have drunk enough.”

“Ass! numskull! fool!” the farmer cried,—
“What can one get, confound their souls!
By asking such half-witted lubbers?”—
“This lesson, neighbour,” Tibbs replied,—
“That those who choose to play at bowls
Must expect rubbers!”

THE PARSON AT FAULT.

A country parson took a notion
Into his head, one Whitsuntide,
That it was more like true devotion
To preach extempore;—he tried:
Succeeded once—twice—thrice—but, lo!
His fourth discourse was not forthcoming;
Spite of his hawing and his humming,
Not a word further could he go;
So that the worthy man perforce
Was fain to leave them in the lurch,
And say, that, since he came to church,
He'd lost the thread of his discourse.

Whereat a man below exclaim'd,
“Lock the doors, beadle! search us round,
All, every one, until it's found:
The thief should really be ashamed.—
Here are my pockets—ransack both!
I have it not, I'll take my oath.”

BLINDMAN'S BUFF.

Three wags, (whom some fastidious carpers
Might rather designate three sharpers,)
Enter'd, at York, the Cat and Fiddle,
And finding that the host was out
On business for two hours or more,
While Sam, the rustic waiter, wore
The visage of a simple lout,
Whom they might safely try to diddle,
They order'd dinner in a canter—
Cold or hot, it matter'd not,
Provided it were served instanter;

And as the heat had made them very
Dry and dusty in their throttles,
They bade the waiter bring three bottles
Of prime old port, and one of sherry.—

Sam ran with ardour to the larder,
Then to the kitchen;
And, as he briskly went to work, he
Drew from the spit a roasting turkey,
With sausages embellish'd, which in
A trice upon the board was spread,
Together with a nice cold brisket,
Nor did he even obliviscate
Half a pig's head.
To these succeeded puddings, pies,
Custards and jellies,
All doom'd to fall a sacrifice
To their insatiable bellies;

As if, like camels, they intended
To stuff into their monstrous craws
Enough to satisfy their maws,
Until their pilgrimage was ended.
Talking, laughing, eating, and quaffing,
The bottles stood no moment still;
They rallied Sam with joke and banter,
And, as they drain'd the last decanter,
Call'd for the bill.—

'Twas brought,—when one of them who eyed
And added up the items, cried,
“Extremely moderate indeed!
I'll make a point to recommend
This inn to every travelling friend;
And you, Sam, shall be doubly fee'd.”
This said, a weighty purse he drew,
When his companion interposed,—
“Nay, Harry, that will never do,
Pray let your purse again be closed;

You paid all charges yesterday,
'Tis clearly now my turn to pay.”

Harry however, wouldn't listen
To any such insulting offer,
His generous eyes appear to glisten
Indignant at the very proffer;
And though his friend talk'd loud, his clangour
Served but to aggravate Hal's anger.
“My worthy fellow,” cried the third,
“Now really this is too absurd;
What! do both of ye forget
I haven't paid a farthing yet?
Am I eternally to cram
At your expense? 'tis childish quite;
I claim this payment as my right—
Here—how much is the money, Sam?”

To this most rational proposal
The others gave such fierce negation,

One might have fancied they were foes all,
So hot became the altercation,
Each in his purse his money rattling,
Insisting, arguing, and battling.

One of them cried at last—“A truce!—
This point we will no longer moot;
Wrangling for trifles is no use,
And thus we'll finish the dispute.—
That we may settle what we three owe,
We'll blindfold Sam, and whichsoe'er
He catches of us first, shall bear
The whole expenses of the trio,
With half-a-crown (if that's enough,)
To Sam for playing Blindman's Buff.”

Sam liked it hugely—thought the ransom,
For a good game of fun was handsome;
Gave his own handkerchief beside,
To have his eyes securely tied,

And soon began to grope and search;
When the three knaves, I needn't say,
Adroitly left him in the lurch,
Slipp'd down the stairs, and stole away.

Poor Sam continued hard at work;—
Now o'er a chair he gets a fall;
Now floundering forwards with a jerk,
He bobs his nose against the wall;
And now encouraged by a subtle
Fancy, that they're near the door,
He jumps behind it to explore,
And breaks his shins against the scuttle.—
Crying, at each disaster—“Drat it!
Dang it! 'od rabbit it! and rat it!”—
Just in this crisis of his doom,
The host, returning, sought the room;

And Sam no sooner heard his tread,
Than, pouncing on him like a bruin,
He almost shook him into ruin,
And with a shout of laughter said—
“By gom, I've cotch'd thee now, so down
With cash for all, and my half crown!”—
Off went the bandage, and his eyes
Seem'd to be goggling o'er his forehead,
While his mouth widen'd with a horrid
Look of agonised surprise.

“Gull!” roar'd his master, “Gudgeon! dunce!
Fool as you are, you're right for once,
'Tis clear that I must pay the sum;—
But this one thought my wrath assuages—
That every halfpenny shall come
Out of your wages!”

THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST.

Authors of modern date are wealthy fellows;—
'Tis but to snip his locks and follow
Now the golden-hair'd Apollo.
Invoking Plutus to blow up the bellows
Of inspiration, they distil
The rhymes and novels which cajole us,
Not from the Heliconian rill
But from the waters of Pactolus.

Before this golden age of writers,
A Grub-street Garreteer existed,
One of the regular inditers
Of odes and poems to be twisted

Into encomiastic verses,
For patrons who have heavy purses.
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had
Others to let, both gay and sad,
All ticketed from A to Izzard;
And living by his wits, I need not add,
The rogue was lean as any lizard.

Like a rope-maker's were his ways,
For still one line upon another
He spun, and, like his hempen brother,
Kept going backwards all his days.

Hard by his attic lived a Chemist,
Or Alchemist, who had a mighty
Faith in the Elixir Vitæ;
And though unflatter'd by the dimmest
Glimpses of success, kept groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation,
Stupidly hoping

To find the art of changing metals,
And guineas coin from pots and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion
To seek this conjuror's abode;
Not with encomiastic ode,
Or laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds the secret art,
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,

Crow'd, caper'd, giggled, seem'd to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
“Now, now, the secret I implore;
For God's sake speak, discover, utter!”

With grave and solemn air the Poet
Cried—“List—oh, list! for thus I show it:—
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave,
That we may all have what we like,
Simply by liking what we have!”

THE ASTRONOMICAL ALDERMAN.

The pedant or scholastikos became
The butt of all the Grecian jokes;—
With us, poor Paddy bears the blame
Of blunders made by other folks;
Though we have certain civic sages
Term'd Aldermen, who perpetrate
Bulls as legitimate and great,
As any that the classic pages
Of old Hierocles can show,
Or Mr. Miller's, commonly called Joe.—

One of these turtle-eating men,
Not much excelling in his spelling,
When ridicule he meant to brave,
Said he was more ph. than n.
Meaning thereby, more phool than nave.
Though they who knew our cunning Thraso,
Pronounced it flattery to say so.
His Civic brethren to express
His “double, double, toil and trouble,”
And bustling noisy emptiness,
Had christen'd him Sir Hubble Bubble.

This wight ventripotent was dining
Once at the Grocers' Hall, and lining
With calipee and calipash
That tomb omnivorous—his paunch,
Then on the haunch
Inflicting many a horrid gash,
When having swallow'd six or seven
Pounds, he fell into a mood

Of such supreme beatitude,
That it reminded him of Heaven,
And he began with mighty bonhomie
To talk Astronomy.—

“Sir,” he exclaim'd, between his bumpers,
“Copernicus and Tycho Brahe,
And all those chaps, have had their day;
They've written monstrous lies, Sir, thumpers!—
Move round the sun?—it's talking treason;
The earth stands still—it stands to reason.—
Round as a globe? stuff—humbug—fable!
It's a flat sphere, like this here table,
And the sun overhangs this sphere,
Ay—just like that there chandelier.”

“But,” quoth his neighbour, “when the sun
From East to West his course has run,
How comes it that he shows his face
Next morning in his former place?”

“Ho! there's a pretty question, truly!”
Replied our wight, with an unruly
Burst of laughter and delight,
So much his triumph seem'd to please him;
“Why blockhead! he goes back at night,
And that's the reason no one sees him!”

SOUTH-DOWN MUTTON.

If men, when in a rage, inspected
Before a glass their angry features,
Most likely they would stand corrected
At sight of such distorted creatures;
So we may hold a moral mirror
Before these myrmidons of passion,
And make ill temper see its error,
By gravely mimicking its fashion.

A sober Cit of Sweeting's Alley,
Deem'd a warm man on 'Change, was what
In temper might be reckoned hot,
Indulging many an angry sally

Against his wife and servants:—(this
Is no unprecedented state
For man and wife, when, tête-à-tête,
They revel in domestic bliss,)—
But to show off his freaks before his
Guests, was contra bonos mores.

Our Cit was somewhat of a glutton,
Or epicure, at least in mutton;
Esteeming it a more delicious
Feast, than those of old Apicius,
Crassus' savoury symposia,
Or even Jupiter's ambrosia.

One day a leg arrived from Brighton,
A true South Down legitimate,
When he enlarged with much delight on
The fat and grain, and shape and weight;
Pronounced on each a learned stricture,
Declared the joint a perfect picture,

And as his eye its outline follow'd,
Call'd it a prize—a lucky hit—
A gem—a pearl more exquisite
Than ever Cleopatra swallow'd;
Promulging finally, this fiat—
“I'll dine at five, and ask Jack Wyatt.”

The cover raised, the meat he eyed
With new enjoyment—next the cloth he
Tuck'd in his button-hole, and cried,
“Done to a tittle—brown and frothy!”
Then seized the carving-knife, elate,
But lo! it would not penetrate
The skin—(the anatomic term is
The what-d'-ye-call?—ay—epidermis.)

He felt the edge—'twas like a dump;
Whereat with passion-crimson'd frown,
He reach'd the stair-head at a jump,
And threw the blade in fury down,

Venting unnumber'd curses on
His thoughtless lazy servant—John.

His guest, observing this disclosure
Of temper, threw with great composure
The dish, with mutton, spoons and all,
Down helter-skelter to the hall,
Where it arrived with fearful clatter.
“Zounds!” cried the Cit,—“why, what's the matter?”
“Nothing whatever,” with a quiet
Look and accent, answer'd Wyatt:
“I hope I haven't unawares
Made a mistake; but when you threw
The knife below, in such a stew,
I thought you meant to dine down stairs!”

EVENING; AN ELEGY.

By a Poetical Carman.

Apollo now, Sol's carman, drives his stud
Home to the mews that's seated in the West,
And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames Street mud,
Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress'd.

So from the stands the empty carts are dragg'd,
The horses homeward to their stables go,
And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagg'd,
Prepare to taste the luxury of—“Wo!”

Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar,
Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields,
And Mr. Sweetman's gig is at the door,
To take him to his house in Hackney Fields.

Closed are the gates of the West India Docks,
Rums, Sugars, Coffee, find at length repose,
And I, with other careless carmen, flocks
To the King's Head, the Chequers, or the Rose.

They smoke a pipe—the shepherd's pipe I wakes,
Then skittles pleases—me the Muse invites,
They in their ignorance to drinking takes,
I, bless'd with learning, takes a pen and writes.

PATENT BROWN STOUT.

A Brewer, in a country town.
Had got a monstrous reputation;
No other beer but his went down;—
The hosts of the surrounding station
Engraved his name upon their mugs,
And painted it on every shutter;
And though some envious folks would utter
Hints, that its flavour came from drugs,
Others maintain'd 'twas no such matter,
But owing to his monstrous vat,
At least as corpulent as that
At Heidelberg—and some said fatter.

His foreman was a lusty Black,
An honest fellow;
But one who had an ugly knack
Of tasting samples as he brew'd,
Till he was stupified and mellow.
One day, in this top-heavy mood,
Having to cross the vat aforesaid,
(Just then with boiling beer supplied,)
O'ercome with giddiness and qualms, he
Reel'd—fell in—and nothing more said,
But in his favourite liquor died,
Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey.

In all directions round about
The Negro absentee was sought;
But as no human noddle thought
That our fat Black was now Brown Stout,
They settled that the rogue had left
The place for debt, or crime, or theft.

Meanwhile the beer was, day by day,
Drawn into casks and sent away,
Until the lees flow'd thick and thicker;
When lo! outstretch'd upon the ground,
Once more their missing friend they found,
As they had often done—in liquor.

“See!” cried his moralizing master,
“I always knew the fellow drank hard,
And prophesied some sad disaster;
His fate should other tipplers strike:
Poor Mungo! there he welters, like
A toast at bottom of a tankard!”
Next morn a publican, whose tap
Had help'd to drain the vat so dry,
Not having heard of the mishap,
Came to demand a fresh supply,
Protesting loudly that the last
All previous specimens surpass'd,

Possessing a much richer gusto
Than formerly it ever used to,
And begging, as a special favour,
Some more of the exact same flavour.—
“Zounds!” cried the Brewer, “that's a task
More difficult to grant than ask:—
Most gladly would I give the smack
Of the last beer to the ensuing,
But where am I to find a Black,
And boil him down at every brewing?”

YORK KIDNEY POTATOES.

One Farmer Giles, an honest clown
From Peterborough, had occasion
To travel up to London town,
About the death of a relation,
And wrote, his purpose to explain,
To cousin Jos. in Martin's lane;
Who quickly sent him such an answer, as
Might best determine him to dwell
At the Blue Boar—the Cross—the Bell,
Or some one of the caravanseras
To which the various coaches went—
All which, he said, were excellent.

Quoth Giles, “I think it rather odd he
Should write me thus, when I have read
That London hosts will steal at dead
Of night, to stab you in your bed,
Pocket your purse, and sell your body;
To 'scape from which unpleasant process,
I'll drive at once to cousin Jos.'s.”

Now cousin Jos. (whose name was Spriggs)
Was one of those punctilious prigs
Who reverence the comme il faut;
Who deem it criminal to vary
From modes prescribed, and thus “Monstrari
Pretereuntium digito.”

Conceive him writhing down the Strand
With a live rustic in his hand,
At once the gaper and gapee;
And pity his unhappy plight,
Condemn'd when, tête-à-tête, at night

To talk of hogs, nor deem it right
To show his horrible ennui.

Jos. was of learned notoriety,
One of the male Blue-stocking clan,
Was register'd of each Society,
Royal and Antiquarian;
Took in the Scientific Journal,
And wrote for Mr. Urban's Mag.
(For fear its liveliness should flag,)
A thermometrical diurnal,
With statements of old tombs and churches,
And such unreadable researches.

Wearied to death, one Thursday night,
With hearing our agrarian wight
Prose about crops, and farms and dairies,
Spriggs cried—“A truce to corn and hay,—
Somerset House is no great way,
We'll go and see the Antiquaries.”—

“And what are they?” inquired his guest:—
“Why, Sir,” said Jos., somewhat distress'd
To answer his interrogator,—
“They are a sort—a sort—a kind
Of commentators upon Nature.”—
“What, common 'tatoes!” Giles rejoin'd,
His fist upon the table dashing:
“Take my advice—don't purchase one,
Not even at a groat a ton,—
None but York kidneys does for mashing.”

THE HANDKERCHIEF.

A Judge of the Police, and Spy,
(For both are joined in Eastern nations,)
Prowling about with purpose sly,
To list to people's conversations,
And pry in every corner cupboard,
According to his dirty calling,
Saw a poor woman passing by,
Who wept and blubber'd,
Like a church spout, when rain is falling,
Which strives in vain to vent and utter
The overflowings of the gutter.

Our magistrate thought fit to greet her,
Insisting on the dame's declaring
What caused this monstrous ululation,
When she averr'd her spouse had beat her
Black and blue, beyond all bearing,
Without the smallest provocation.

To work the Judge's pen and ink went,
Taking the rogue's address and trade,
And the next morning the delinquent
Was duly into court convey'd:
When he asserted, that his wife
Was such an advocate of strife,
That she would raise a mighty clangour,
And put herself into a pucker,
For trifles that surpass'd belief;
And, for the recent cause of anger,
He swore, point blank, that he had struck her
With nothing but his handkerchief.

The judge, convinced by this averment,
Dismiss'd the case without a word;
When in the court there rose a ferment,
And the wife's angry voice was heard:—
“To cheat your worship is too bad!
My lord, my lord! do interpose,
And stop the knave where'er he lingers;
The villain! he forgot to add
That he for ever blows his nose
With his own fingers!”

THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH.

One of the Kings of Scanderoon,
A royal jester,
Had in his train a gross buffoon,
Who used to pester
The court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folks his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool;
Which wholesome rule

Occurr'd not to our jackanapes,
Who consequently found his freaks
Lead to innumerable scrapes,
And quite as many kicks and tweaks,
Which only seem'd to make him faster
Try the patience of his master.

Some sin at last, beyond all measure,
Incurr'd the desperate displeasure
Of his serene and raging highness:
Whether the wag had twitch'd his beard,
Which he was bound to have revered,
Or had intruded on the shyness
Of the seraglio, or let fly
An epigram at royalty,
None knows—his sin was an occult one;
But records tell us that the sultan,
Meaning to terrify the knave,
Exclaim'd—“'Tis time to stop that breath;

100

Thy doom is seal'd;—presumptuous slave!
Thou stand'st condemn'd to certain death.
Silence, base rebel!—no replying!—
But such is my indulgence still,
That, of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying.”

“Thy royal will be done—'tis just,”
Replied the wretch, and kiss'd the dust;
“Since, my last moments to assuage,
Your majesty's humane decree
Has deign'd to leave the choice to me,
I'll die, so please you, of old age.”

101

LAUS ATRAMENTI,

Or the Praise of Blacking.

A New Song.

Our Sires were such pedagogue blockheads of yore,
That they sent us to college instruction to seek,
Where we bother'd our brains with pedantical lore,
Law, Logic, and Algebra, Latin and Greek;
But now, wiser grown, leaving learning alone,
And resolving to shine by a light of our own,
Our cares we transfer from the head to the foot,
Leave the brain to be muddied, and polish the boot.

102

On the banks of the Isis, ye classical fools,
Who with Lycophron's crabbedness puzzle your ear,
And ye who learn logarithmetical rules
At Cambridge, from tables of Baron Napier,
Renounce Aristotle, and take to the bottle
That wears “Patent Blacking” inscribed on its throttle;
For Napier and Greek are by few understood,
While all can decide when your blacking is good.

When a gentleman dubb'd by the wight of the brush,
Which has set up your foot in Corinthian style,
For the rest of your wardrobe you care not a rush,
Secure of the public's distinguishing smile.
Though your dress may be dusty, and musty and fusty,
You're whitewash'd by blacking, and cannot be rusty;—
Such errors as these are but venial and small,
People look at your boot, which atones for them all.

And ye who are struggling your fortune to make
By the brief or the bolus, law, commerce, or trade,

103

Your pitiful schemes of ambition forsake,
And be makers of blacking, by taunts undismay'd;
For what is auguster than giving a lustre
To those who without you would hardly pass muster,
And by selling your “brilliant and beautiful jet,”
A name and a fortune together to get?—

Day and Martin now laugh as they ride in their coach,
Till they're black in the face as their customers' boots;
Warren swears that his blacking's beyond all approach,
Which Turner's advertisement plumply refutes;
They hector and huff, print, publish, and puff,
And write in the papers ridiculous stuff,
While Hunt, who was blacken'd by all, and run down,
Takes a thriving revenge as he blackens the town.

Their labels belibel each other—each wall
With the feuds of these rivals in blacking is white;
But the high polish'd town seems to patronise all,
And the parties get rich in each other's despite;

104

For my own part, I think I shall mix up my ink,
In a bottle with lamp-black and beer to the brink,
And set up at once for a shiner of shoes,
Since I never shall shine by the aid of the muse.

105

THE TWO BRACELETS.

A Farmer General, one Monsieur B---,
Who dwelt in France when Louis held the throne,
Lived like a prince from every trouble free,
Except a wife,—(th' exception's large, I own)
For she was fat as any marchioness,
And given to extravagance in dress.—

One day she bought a pair of bracelets—such
As few but royal damsels would bespeak;
They cost—I cannot recollect how much,
But they were quite magnificent—unique,—
And having clasp'd them on, away she flies
Off to the Opera to show her prize.

106

It happen'd that the Queen was there that night,
Just opposite the box that Madame took,
And on the bracelets with intense delight
Frequently look'd—or else appear'd to look;
For she took special care to have them seen,
As if on purpose to outvie the Queen.

Soon to the box door came a Page, attired
In the Queen's proper livery, all in style,
And in the name of Majesty required
One of the bracelets for a little while,
That by her eye she might the pattern take,
And order some of the exact same make.

Off went the sparkling bauble in a trice,
While her rouged cheeks with exultation burn,
As, bowing to the Royal party thrice,
She patiently awaited its return;
But when the Queen retired, and none was sent,
Our dame began to wonder what it meant.—

107

A Lord in waiting soon confirm'd her fears:
“Oh, that pretended Page I've often seen,—
A noted sharper—has been such for years.
Madame, you're robb'd,—he came not from the Queen;
I knew the rogue, and should have had him taken,
But that he slipp'd away, and saved his bacon.”

Boiling with anger, Madame called her coach,
And drove to the Bureau de la Justice,
Where, with loud tongue, and many a keen reproach,
About the shameful state of the police,
She call'd upon the Provost for relief,
And bade him send his men to catch the thief.

Early next morn she heard the knocker's din;
Her heart beat high, with expectation big,
When lo! the Provost's Clerk was usher'd in,—
A formal consequential little prig,
Who, with a mighty magisterial air,
Hemm'd, and began his errand to declare:—

108

“Madame, a man is brought to our bureau,
On whom was found a bracelet of great cost,
And we are all anxiety to know
Whether or not it is the one you lost;
Wherefore I'll take the other, if you please,
Just to compare, and see if it agrees.”

“Dear Sir, I'm overjoy'd,—'tis mine, I'm sure;
Such a police as ours how few can boast!
Here, take the bracelet,—keep the rogue secure,
I'll follow you in half an hour at most;
Ten thousand thanks—I hope you'll trounce the spark—
Open the door, there, for the Provost's Clerk!”

Oh! how she chuckled as she drove along,
Settling what pangs the pilferer should feel:
No punishment appear'd to her too strong,
E'en should the wretch be broken on the wheel;
For what infliction could be reckon'd cruel,
To one who would purloin so rich a jewel?

109

Arrived at the bureau, her joy finds vent:
“Well, Mr. Provost, where's the guilty knave?
The other bracelet by your clerk I sent,
Doubtless it matches with the one you have;
Why, then, outstretch your mouth with such surprise,
And goggle on me thus with all your eyes?”

“La! bless me, Ma'am, you're finely hoax'd—good lack!
I sent no clerk, no thief have we found out,
And the important little prig in black
Was the accomplice of the Page no doubt;—
Methinks the rascals might have left you one,
But both your bracelets now are fairly gone!”

110

MARSHAL SAXE AND HIS PHYSICIAN.

Fever's a most audacious varlet:—
Now in a general's face he shakes
His all-defying fist, and makes
His visage like his jacket—scarlet;
Now o'er surrounding guards he throws
A summerset, and never squeaks
“An' please your Majesty,” but tweaks
The Lord's anointed by the nose.

With his inflammatory finger,
(Much like the heater of an urn)
He makes the pulses boil and burn,
Puts fur upon the tongue, (not ermine,)
And leaves his prey to die or linger,
Just as the doctors may determine.

111

Though this disorder sometimes seems
Mild and benignant,
It interferes so with our schemes,
Imparting to our heads a dizziness,
Just when we want them clear for business,
That it may well be termed malignant.

Of these inopportune attacks,
One fiercely fell on Marshal Saxe,
Just as his troops had open'd trenches
Before a fortress; (what a pity!)
Not only did it make his heart ache
To be condemn'd to pill, cathartic,
Bolus and blister, drugs and drenches,
But shock'd his military notions,
To make him take unwish'd-for potions,
Instead of taking, as he wish'd,—the city.

Senac, however, his physician,
Soon gave our invalid permission

112

To be coach'd out an easy distance,
First stipulating one condition,—
That whatsoe'er the when and where,
The Doctor should be then and there,
Lest any syncope, relapse,
Or other unforeseen mishaps,
Should call for medical assistance.

Saxe gives consent with all his heart,
Orders the carriage in a minute,
Whispers the coachman—mounts within it,
Senac the same, and off they start,
Joking, smiling, time beguiling,
In a facetious tête-à-tête.—
The subject of their mutual chatter is
Nothing to us;—enough to state
That Marshal Saxe at length got out
To reconnoitre a redoubt,
Projecting from a range of batteries.

113

Left in the carriage, our physician
By no means relish'd his position,
When he discover'd they had got
Nearly within half cannon shot;
Wherefore he bawl'd, with fear half melted,
“For God's sake move me from this spot!—
Doubtless they've noticed our approach,
And, when they recognize your coach,
Shan't I be fired at, pepper'd, pelted,
(When I can neither fly nor hide)
From some of yonder bristling masses?”
“It's not unlikely,” Saxe replied;
“And war I know is not your trade,
So if you feel the least afraid,
Pull up the glasses!”

114

STANZAS TO PUNCHINELLO.

Thou lignum-vitæ Roscius, who
Dost the old vagrant stage renew,
Peerless, inimitable, Punchinello!
The Queen of smiles is quite out-done
By thee, all-glorious king of fun,
Thou grinning, giggling, laugh-extorting fellow!

At other times mine ear is wrung
Whene'er I hear the trumpet's tongue,
Waking associations melancholic;
But that which heralds thee recalls
All childhood's joys and festivals,
And makes the heart rebound with freak and frolic.

115

Ere of thy face I get a snatch,
Oh! with what boyish glee I catch
Thy twittering, cackling, bubbling, squeaking gibber—
Sweeter than syren voices—fraught
With richer merriment than aught
That drops from witling mouths, though utter'd glibber.

What way was ever known before
To keep the circle in a roar,
Nor wound the feelings of a single hearer!
Engrossing all the jibes and jokes,
Unenvied by the duller folks,
A harmless wit—an unmalignant jeerer.

The upturn'd eyes I love to trace
Of wondering mortals, when their face
Is all alive with an expectant gladness:
To mark the flickering giggle first,
The growing grin—the sudden burst,
And universal shout of merry madness.

116

I love those sounds to analyse,
From childhood's shrill ecstatic cries,
To age's chuckle with its coughing after;
To see the grave and the genteel
Rein in awhile the mirth they feel,
Then loose their muscles, and let out the laughter.

Sometimes I note a henpeck'd wight
Enjoying thy marital might,
To him a beatific beau idéal;
He counts each crack on Judy's pate,
Then homeward creeps to cogitate
The difference 'twixt dramatic wives and real.

But, Punch, thou'rt ungallant and rude,
In plying thy persuasive wood;
Remember that thy cudgel's girth is fuller
Than that compassionate, thumb-thick,
Established wife-compelling stick,
Made legal by the dictum of Judge Buller.

117

When the officious doctor hies
To cure thy spouse, there's no surprise;
Thou should'st receive him with nose-tweaking grappling;
Nor can we wonder that the mob
Encores each crack upon his nob,
When thou art feeing him with oaken sapling.

As for our common enemy,
Old Nick, we all rejoice to see
The coup de grace that silences his wrangle;
But, lo! Jack Ketch!—ah, welladay!
Dramatic justice claims its prey,
And thou in hempen handkerchief must dangle.

Now helpless hang those arms which once
Rattled such music on the sconce;
Hush'd is that tongue which late out-jested Yorick;
That hunch behind is shrugg'd no more,
No longer heaves that paunch before,
Which wagg'd with such a pleasantry plethorick.

118

But Thespian deaths are transient woes,
And still less durable are those
Suffer'd by lignum-vitæ malefactors;
Thou wilt return, alert, alive,
And long, oh long may'st thou survive,
First of head-breaking and side-splitting actors!

119

THE HURRICANE AND THE MENACE.

Verdant St. Kitt's! thou art indeed a gem,
“A precious stone set in the silver sea,”
An emerald in Neptune's diadem,
An island formed in Nature's poetry;
And yet thou art unsung by son or stranger,
Save a few passing lines by Doctor Grainger.

The vale of Tempe,—Plato's fabled isle,
Hesperian gardens, Enna's classic plain,

120

All, all must yield to that Arcadian smile
That thou, in thy unparagon'd domain,
Palmy St. Christopher's, the sweetest, fairest
Of earthly Paradises, ever wearest.—

Wild and romantic are thy breezy mountains,
Forth from whose sides, with cane plantations clad,
Leap here and there perennial rills and fountains,
Making the landscape all so green and glad,
That nymphs and sylvans through thy bowers might ramble,
And Nereids in thy glassy waters gambol.

Contentment with his lot I ne'er could trace
In any Negro, save a single soul,
And he, poor fellow,—which explains the case—
Was a good-humour'd, grinning, brainless droll,
Whose nickname, Silly Bingo, presupposes
That he was not a Solomon or Moses.

121

Bingo, whose fortune never made him grumble,
The banshaw ('tis a rude guitar) could twang,
And after work was fain to sing, dance, tumble,
As the mere butt of every Negro gang;
And yet this seeming simple-witted donkey,
In pilfering was as subtle as a monkey.

One Mr. Jackson was the overseer
Of the estate where Bingo was employ'd;
Nor could St. Christopher's produce his peer,
For he was honest to the Planter, void
Of all oppression, hated whips, loved pardons,
And had a taste for rural shades and gardens.

Palm Villa, his abode, was sweetly placed
Between the sloping mountains and the ocean;
An avenue of noble palm-trees graced
Its front; while, singing to its own commotion,
A stream throughout the shady grounds meander'd,
Diffusing coolness wheresoe'er it wander'd.

122

The mansion's rear was shaded by a screen
Of lofty tamarinds and cassias sweet;
On either side were fragrant gardens seen,
Where melons, sabbacas, and citrons meet,
Limes, lemons, guavas, sappadillas mellow,
The green anana, and the shaddock yellow.

Hence, when refreshen'd by the moist Aurora,
Incense and balm were wafted all around,
And in all seasons, unexhausted Flora
Broider'd with richest tapestry the ground;
While the gilt humming-bird and cooing turtle
Perch'd on each hedge of acassee and myrtle.

Nature, however, loves to strike a balance;
And he who once has known the venom'd bite
Of fierce mosquitoes, felt the land-crab's talons,
Or found cockroaches in his bed at night,
Knows to his sorrow that the land they breed in
Is not by any means a curseless Eden.

123

Here in an arbour I had found a seat
Of privet with carnation shrubs entwined,
Yielding a fragrant shelter from the heat
And persecuting flies of every kind,
When divers simultaneous signs accruing,
Proved that an elemental war was brewing.

The warn'd mosquitoes left the sunny light,
The speckled lizards to their holes withdrew,
Cockroaches crawled abroad, a loathsome sight!
And land-crabs crept from every slope in view;
While doves and pigeons, on the roofs collected,
Up to the sky their anxious looks directed.

A suffocating heat oppress'd the air,
Still'd were the lightest feathers of the palm,
The sky was coppery, and a blood-red glare
Shot from the misty sun;—portentous calm!
When Nature's self appears to faint and sicken,
And wail her doom, aghast and horror-stricken.

124

The fear-fraught waves came panting to the shore,
Usher'd by flocks of scared and screaming birds;
While, as they wildly eyed the clouds, a roar
Loud-bellowing burst from the bewilder'd herds;
And the mazed horse, with sudden fear transported,
Snuffing the tainted air, stood still and snorted.

To covert fled the Negroes, 'mid the cry
Of wailing dogs: at which absorbing hour
Did Silly Bingo, judging none would spy
His depredations, steal upon my bower,
Thinking no doubt that he had found a famous
Season for plund'ring the contiguous yam-house.

The dog that guarded it had lately died,—
Poison'd perhaps, but that was not in proof;—
But still the Black with much misgiving eyed
The precincts, keeping carefully aloof,
Then crouching on as stealthily as Reynard,
When he is stealing to attack a hen-yard.

125

Reaching the place, he fill'd his bag, and back
The rogue retreated with his shoulder'd prize,
Peering with fearful joy around his track,
Showing his teeth, and rolling his large eyes,—
Just like some great baboon, who, undiscover'd,
Steals with his plunder to the nearest covert.

The bag within a tangled brake he dropp'd,
Then back to his companions would have fled;
But suddenly, as if transfix'd, he stopp'd,
Scared by the skies so menacing and dread:
For now a low'ring hurricane impended,
That woe and horror to the isle portended.

Up from the westward heaves a mass of clouds,
Climbing successively the mountain tips,
Which rapidly the whole horizon shrouds
In lurid gloom, and fulgurous eclipse;
While the dark ridges, as they take position,
Seem batteries for the island's demolition.

126

Crash! burst the whole artillery of thunder,
Concentrating its force in one explosion,
As it would rive the rooted earth asunder,
Split the sky's vault, and overturn the ocean;
Fierce leap'd the lightning forth, as if with savage
Triumph it came, the world to blast and ravage.

The prison'd winds break loose, like Furies dire,
Rattling their chains, and roaring all amain;
Heaven's flood-gates open, water leagues with fire;
It might be thought the frantic hurricane,
As in its fangs the shrieking isle it seizes,
Would shake and tear it in ten thousand pieces.

All is confusion, terror, havoc, flight—
Plantations, houses, to the ground are hurl'd,
The welkin yells with tumult and affright;
Huts, canes, and shrubs, aloft in air are twirl'd;
And cattle, madden'd with dismay and wonder,
Wildly rebellow to the roaring thunder.

127

The stream that lately held its gentle course,
Swoll'n to a torrent, devastates the plain,
Seizing and sweeping with resistless force,
Men, trees, and oxen to the troubled main,
Whose shores are strew'd with vessels wreck'd and broken,
Of the storm's ravages a dismal token.

Tost in the raging waves, mine eye explored
One lab'ring ship, whose terror-stricken crew
Had cut away her masts, and overboard
Into the yawning deep her cargo threw;
Though still the sea did but the fiercer wrestle,
To swallow up the doom'd and shatter'd vessel.

Meanwhile, my looks I did not long withdraw
From Silly Bingo, the purloining Black,
Whose face depictured, as he heard and saw
The dire destruction and the thunder-crack,
A rapid change and struggle of sensations,
Emblazon'd by the flashing coruscations.

128

Thinking at first that Jackson had let fly
This hurricane, the robber to disquiet,
He seem'd indignant, and I heard him cry—
“Gog! here's a hurly burly and a riot
About a bag o' yams, not more dan twenty!—
Why for you grumble, Massa? you got plenty.”

But when the sulph'rous bolt above his head
Shatter'd the cedar-tree 'neath which he stood,
Terror possess'd him, and he humbly said,
With eyes upturn'd in supplicating mood,
“Please Massa cloud, no more make such a clatter!
Bingo gib back de yams,—dat end de matter.”

Off to the brake reluctantly he stole,
The plunder'd bag upon his shoulders took,
Crept to the store-house, and replaced the whole,
Returning past me with the scowling look
Of hungry beasts, when they have been molested,
And had their booty from their clutches wrested.

129

Clenching his fist as he the house drew near,
This parting menace he pronounced aloud:
“Now you remember, Massa Oberseer,
Next time you send a great black nassy cloud,
Out of his wits to frighten Silly Bingo,
I'll throw a stone at it,—I will, by jingo!”

In his poem of the “Sugar Cane.”

130

THE PLEASANT TETE-A-TETE.

The Isle of Saint Eustatia, which the Dutch
First colonized, was govern'd long ago—
(I mean mis-govern'd)—by the Herr Van Gutch,
As great a rogue as one would wish to know,
Who should, instead of ruling at Eustatia,
Have shared a convict's fate in Australasia.

No excellency could the knave pretend to,
Save in his title, which the folks about him
Lavish'd upon him as an innuendo,
Ironically meant to mock and flout him;
For he had proved himself in every case
Sordid, corrupt, extortionate, and base.

131

Lord Bacon urged that when in bribes he did err,
Justice, but not injustice, he had sold;
Van Gutch sold either to the highest bidder:
So that each criminal possess'd of gold
Became, of course, more daring and more harden'd,
Knowing beforehand that he should be pardon'd.

Our governor was in fact an island Pope,
(But not, I ween, Pope Innocent or Pius,)
Selling indulgences that gave full scope
To him who foster'd any lawless bias,
To sear his conscience, so that nought should shock it,
By purchased absolutions in his pocket.

As he sat waiting for this odious traffic,
Ready for hire to pardon or condemn,
Smoking his pipe in vacancy seraphic,
'Twixt stupid sottishness and native phlegm,
An Englishman, named Tate, made application
To buy a pardon by anticipation.

132

“May't please your Excellency,” whisper'd Tate,
“I want to horsewhip, kick, and clapper-claw
A fellow that I hold in special hate:
But as the knave will doubtless take the law,
I wish beforehand to enquire the pittance
That I must pay to purchase an acquittance.”—

“That,” said Van Gutch, “on circumstance must rest;
Does the man merit such a deep disgrace?”—
“Richly; he stands recorded and confess'd
The most notorious scoundrel in the place.”—
“Nay, then, I'll not be hard in my condition:
I promise, for ten ducats, full remission.”—

“Take them,” said Tate, and threw them on the table;
Then drew a whip prepared for the occasion,
And laid it on as if he would disable
His victim from all further malversation,
So thick a storm he raised of kicks and lashes,
With curses, sandwich-like, between the slashes.

133

Cried Tate, “Your Excellency's the convicted
And flagrant knave to whom I made allusion,
And this unmeasured scourging I've inflicted,
Because your back claims lengthen'd retribution.
There!—there's no harm done—all is honest barter:
I've trimmed a scoundrel:—you have caught a Tartar.”

This said, he bowed politely and departed;
Hied to the shore, embark'd and hoisted sail;
And in some half hour's space had fairly started
From St. Eustatia with a fav'ring gale,
Leaving the writhing Dutchman in a fluster
Of anguish, rage, oaths, bullying, and bluster.

134

A TOUR TO THE LAKES.

If as pleasure you can rank it,
To gaze at beauty through a blanket,
Go where each lovely lake enshrouds
Her charms behind a vale of clouds.

Some of our summer tourists seek the Alps,
Risking their own to climb the mountain scalps,
And if they do not slip, and so
Stick midway in some icy nook
O'erhanging an abyss of snow;
Or that no avalanche down-slides,
Engulphing them and all their guides,
They write a book,

135

To shew the world what fools they've been,
And tell the nothings they have seen.

Others there are who can't abide
To glide and slide on a glacier's side,—
When a trip or a slip may send them to dip,
With a hop and a skip,
In a bath of snow, where you taste the pleasure
Of dying by inches, and freezing at leisure.
So, for their consciences' sakes,
Eschewing such a clear self-slaughter,
They substitute for mountains, lakes,
And ramble all on fire for water,
Exploring every classic pond,
From Pô to Naples,
And doating on each muddy moat
That boasts sufficient depth to float
The ducks of some Italian Mrs. Bond.
But if a brace of moping maples

136

Or pining pines o'erhang the bank,
Lord! how they laud the fœtid tank;
While, ten to one, some rhyming fool
Writes stanzas to his “Peerless Pool!”

Travellers we have much more John Bullish,
Deeming each brother tourist foolish
Who his country forsakes,
To seek mountains and lakes,
When he may get them ready made at home,
And so to Westmoreland they roam,
Thinking, with all their mights and mains,
Of Southey's and of Wordsworth's strains,
Of landscapes, picturesque and grand,
And crags whose lines are never scann'd,
They pierce into the clouds so far,—
Of picnic parties, moonlight nights,
Boat dinners, and the dear delights
Of poetry and potted char!

137

Our lakes, it must be own'd, are pretty things,
When one can see them, which is very seldom,
For Pluvian Jupiter for ever wings
His clouds above them, and Apollo flings
His rays so rarely, one would think he held 'em
Only for sabbaths, but that not e'en one day
In a lake-week deserves the name of Sunday.
Maugre this soaking of the scenery,
Thither I went last Summer-time (not Summer),
A greenhorn gazing for the greenery,
And bent, like every undeceived new-comer,
To rise by daylight and explore
Lake, mountain, valley, tarn, and shore;
With which most laudable intent,
Having bespoken proper guides
For walks and boatings, drives and rides,
To bed I went.

Up with the sun! and so I might,
If I had lain in bed till night!

138

The morning came, at least the hour,
But 'stead of light, a darkling shower,
That seem'd as if it came to barter us
For English weather that of Tartarus.
Said I, a shower? Alas! the Lakes
Know not the word; for when it takes
A falling fit, the rain comes down
As if it were resolved to drown
All it encounters here and there,
Except the prison'd Tourist's care.
'Tis not a storm that spits its spite,
Then hurries off, and leaves the scene
Enliven'd with a brighter green,
And sparkling in the rainbow light:
No—'tis a straight unceasing fall
Of sullen, dogged, steady rain,
Set in to last while you remain,
Enshrouding lake, shore, mountain, all,
In one impenetrable pall.—

139

After some hours it would subside
Into a drizzle drearier yet;
For then th' impending clouds were spied,
Like monstrous udders—spongy, wet,
Flapping and flagging,
Lagging and dragging
Against the mountain sides, and spilling o'er
Whate'er they touch'd their unexhausted store.
None could admire such mists, except some scion
Descended from old cloud-kissing Ixion.
It might be thought the scullions of the sky
Had had a washing-day on high,
And hung their dish-clout clouds to drain, not dry;
While Earth, in a muddle
Of pool and of puddle,
Assumed a most bedraggled, miry mien;
Such slipping and slopping,
And dripping and dropping,
Save at the Lakes, was surely never seen.

140

Even the ducks one saw the kennel sucking,
Appear'd to quake at getting such a ducking,—
And, floundering through the slough, each passing man
Look'd like a sop in Earth's great dripping-pan.
And yet in these diminish'd inundations,
(There never were complete cessations,)
My guides would quit
The taps where they had been carousing,
And try to tempt me to a sousing.
“It don't rain now, Sir, scarce a bit:
We've mopp'd the boat, Jem Thwaites and me:
And finer weather cannot be,
After those heavy showers and squalls,
For seeing both the Waterfalls.”—
“Thank you, my friends,” was my reply;
“But as I've had from morn till eve,
A cataract in either eye,
I must be couch'd, with your good leave.”
And this was done as soon as said,
For off I hurried to my bed.

141

“Doubtless, to-morrow 'twill give o'er,”
I whisper'd as I sank to rest;
But when the morning stood confest,
Zounds! it was wetter than before!
The sky had now been used to pour,
And seem'd to do it with a zest;
For the clouds spouted con amore,
And the rain reign'd in all its glory.
Oh! how I watched the window pane,
Then gazed upon the blubb'ring gutter,
Then read the Guide-book through again,
And 'twixt my teeth began to mutter
Curses upon this most abhorrent
And personally spiteful torrent.—
My execrations had no force,
I could not dam it in its course:
Nay, it began to flow the faster,
As if to mock at my disaster.

142

E'en the church clock, that toll'd the hours,
Appear'd half-smother'd in the showers,
So sullenly its muffled knell
Boom'd through the heavy air around.
Sick of the wet and weary sound,
In mere despair I rang the bell:—
“Waiter!” said I, “d'ye think this weather
Will long continue?”—“No, Sir, no;
I shouldn't wonder in the least,
If in a week or two it ceased,
And gave us two fine days together!
Some shifts of wind they sets it going,
Others they sets it faster flowing,
But still you know, Sir, there's no knowing.”
“Pleasant and shrewd! But tell me pray,
Have you no public show or sight
To which a wretched tourist may
Fly from Aquarius's spite?”

143

“Oh yes, Sir, yes; the gentlefolks
Goes now and then to Mr. Noakes',
Who has a show uncommon fine,
Something in the Museum line.”—
“Got a Museum, say you? That's
A sight I'll see, though Jove's decanter
Pour cats and dogs, and dogs and cats.
Which is the house? I'm off instanter.”
Behold me then, umbrella'd, booted,
Great-coated, and envelop'd duly
In triple wraps,—in fact just suited
To face a Lake-ish day in July,
Dabbling and waddling,
Splashing and paddling,
To the Museum, where I found,
A covey of amphibious peasants,
Standing in Mr. Noakes' presence,
With their dab-chicks all dripping round,
And all their mouths and goggle eyes
Wide open with profound surprise.

144

“Ladies and gemmen,” said the showman,
Raising his magisterial wand,
“You'll all be pleased to understand
You mustn't chatter-mag, for no man
Can tell his story out of hand,
If, when he's stating all his factses,
You bothers him and questions axes.”

“This here (it's number one) that's hung
Those Ethiopian birds among,
Is an Owhyhee tomahawk.”
“Whew!” cries a crone, “It look, good lauk!
More like a handsaw nor a hawk.
Bees that a hawk?—What say ye, Tommy?”
“Naw that it baint, I'm certain, Mommy.”
“Silence!” commanded Mr. Noakes;
“Please to attend to me, good folks.—
This is a whinkam whankam wam,
Or statue of the Goddess Isis,

145

Brought from the Islands called the Sandwich;
Because the natives are a band which
Cut their war-prisoners into slices,
As we do ham,
And eat them with their bread and butter,
A thing most horrible to utter!
This here's their bludgeon as they uses
In sea or land-fights as they chooses.”—
“Why then,” quoth I, “these savages
Have got, to give our pride a rub,
Their own United-Service Club.”
(“Pray, Sir, be silent if you please.”)

“This is the Indian calumet,
Or pipe of peace, the end on't's broken.”—
“Call it,” cried I, “by that same token,
(When a new catalogue you get)
A piece of pipe, not pipe of peace.”—
(“Pray, Sir, be silent if you please.”)

146

“That animal is call'd up there,
The great Ant-eater, from Bengal.”—
“Lauk!” screamed a child, “the horrid cretur!
If he be such a great-aunt-eater,
Do pray, Aunt Polly, have a care,
Or he may eat you crutch and all!
So prythee, prythee, this way hobble,
Lest he should gulp you at a gobble.”—
“La! Miss,” cried Noakes, and blandly smiled;
“He do look just like life, it's true,
But don't be frightened, little child!
The beast's no more alive than you.—

“These crooked horns were all imported
Straight from Cape Horn; but how they call
The beasts by whom they were supported,
I never couldn't larn at all;
And hope I needn't make apology
For knowing nought of Hornithology.

147

This is a Chinese shoe that pinches
A lady's foot within four inches;—
Here's a rhinoceros's egg;—
This drawing shows you a flea's leg;
But whether 'tis the leg behind
Or that before, I cannot find,
Not being larned in phlebotomy,
Nor over skilful in anatomy.—
This finger in the bottle's one
Of Edward the Black Prince's;—see!
It's black as ink itself;—so none
Can doubt its authenticity.—
This is a Polecat from the Pole,
Right underneath the great Equator;
And this a Roman painted Bowl:
How wondrous are the works of Natur!—
Here is a Lynx, whose fiery eyes
Have caused us to call flambeaux links;
And a Chameleon, changing dyes
At will, although it never drinks

148

Nor eats, except a sup of air;—
I can't say I should like such fare.—

“Now please to open all your eyes;
This rarest rarity of all,
In the glass-case against the wall,
Is Cromwell's head, my greatest prize,
With vouchers giving true and full
Proof that it is his genuine skull.”—
“Softly,” cried I; “I've seen a head
At Oxford, which is also said
To have been Cromwell's, proved as such
By all the certified contents
Of most authentic documents,
And that was larger,—larger much.”—
“What odds, if mine be summat less?”
Ask'd Noakes; “this head that I'm a-showing,
Might have been his, as any fool may guess,
When he was small and hadn't done a-growing.”

149

Thus did he blunder through his task,
While I maliciously would ask
Questions of Noakes, intended to hoax,
And turn into jokes, all he said to the folks,
Who, pleased with what they heard and saw,
Would burst into a broad Haw! haw!
And say, “This chop's a queer one, aint'n?”—
“Aw! he's a rare rum codger, baint'n?”

The show, though not the rain, was o'er,
Which still continued, pour, pour, pour:
But wading on through thick and thin,
I swam and flounder'd to my inn,
Dined, went to bed, and closed my eyes
Amid the soothing lullabies
Of rain bespattering, windows clattering,
The spatter and sputter of every gutter,
And all the sounds of liquid clamour
That water on the ear can hammer.

150

Next morn the same da capo strain
Of everlasting rain, rain, rain.
So leaving some more patient fool
To wait till doomsday for fine days,
I pack'd my luggage, call'd a chaise,
And started back for Liverpool;
While as they laid their heads together,
The waiter to the ostler said,
“Why what a flot this chap is, Ned,
To coom to th' Lakes and hope to get fine weather!”

151

AN EASY REMEDY.

An honest tailor, whose baptismal
And patronymic appellations
Were William Button, had a dismal
Tendency to deep potations;
And though, as he was over-mated,
Like Jerry Sneak, our snip was fated
In spite of all his hungry heavings,
To drink the tea and coffee leavings,
And eat cold mutton-flaps at dinner;
Yet sometimes the rebellious sinner,
Asserting his marital rights,
Would on the wages-paying nights,

152

Betake him to the public-house,
To smoke, and tipple, and carouse;
And as with each new dram and sip he
Still more and more pot-valiant grew,
At last he fairly braved his spouse,
Call'd her a vixen and a shrew,
A Jezabel and a Xantippe!

Returning home one night, our varlet
Bold with his wife-compelling liquor,
Rattled the knocker quick and quicker,
When with fierce eye and face of scarlet
His tender spouse appeared, and shrilly
Vented reproaches on her Willy.
“So, Jackanapes, you've come at last!
No doubt the evening has been passed
In tippling purl, you drunken sot,
Mull'd ale and amber, hot and hot;
While your poor wife is left to slave,
And drink cold water from the can,

153

Cold water, ye remorseless knave!”
“Cold!” cried the husband, who began
In turn to wrangle and to storm it,—
“Cold! ye poor lazy slattern;—cold!
Then why, ye good-for nothing scold,
Why don't you warm it?”

154

MADAME TALLEYRAND AND THE TRAVELLER.

The famous Talleyrand, who knew
The secret of avoiding execution,
And kept his head upon his shoulders, through
All the convulsions of the Revolution,
When heads were cropp'd by the prevailing powers,
Like cauliflowers,
Till they themselves endured the keen
Infliction of the Guillotine,
And made way for another faction,
To undergo the same reaction:—
This Talleyrand possessed a wife,
Selected in his humbler life,—

155

A rich bourgeoise of homely breeding,
Neither bas bleu, nor femme savante,
But rather, as I freely grant,
Deficient in her general reading.

One day—'twas when he stood elate,
Napoleon's minister of state,—
Having invited to his house
Some literati to confer
With a great foreign traveller,
The husband thus addressed his spouse:—
“My dear, at dinner you will meet
A foreigner, a man of note.
These authors like that you should quote
From their own works; therefore, to greet
Our guest, suppose you learn by rote
A sentence here and there, that when
He prates, like other travell'd men,
Of his exploits on land and ocean,
You may not be completely gravell'd,

156

But have at least some little notion
Of how, and when, and where he travell'd.
Take down his book, you'll find it yonder;
Its dull contents you need not ponder;
Read but the headings of the chapters,
Refer to them with praise and wonder,
And our vain guest will be in raptures,”

Madame resolved to play her part
So as to win the stranger's heart,
Studied the book; but far from dull,
She found it quite delightful;—full
Of marvellous adventures, fraught
With perilous escapes, which wrought
So deep an interest in her mind,
She really was surprised to find,
As to the dinner-room she tripp'd,
How rapidly the time had slipp'd.

157

The more to flatter and delight her,
When at the board she took her place,
The famous traveller and writer
Was seated by her side;—the grace
Was hardly said, or soup sent round,
'Ere with a shrug and a grimace,
Eager to show her lore profound,
A la Française, she raised her eyes,
And hands, and voice, in ectasies,—
“Eh, Monsieur Robinson, mon Dieu,
Voilà un conte merveilleux!
Ah, par exemple! it appals
The mind to think of your attacks
On those terrific cannibals,—
Those horrid savages and blacks,
Who, if they once had gained the upper
Hand, had eaten you for supper,
And so prevented your proceeding
With that sweet book I've just been reading.
Mais, quel bonheur! to liberate

158

Poor Friday from the murd'rous crew,
And gain in your deserted state,
So lonely and disconsolate
A servant and companion too!”

The visitants were all astounded;
The stranger stared aghast, dumfounded;
Poor Talleyrand blushed red as flame,
Till having catechised the dame,
The mystery was quickly clear'd;
The simple woman it appear'd,
Instead of the intended book
In which she had been urged to look,
From the same shelf contrived to take
Robinson Crusoe by mistake!

159

PROJECTS AND COMPANIES.

“Some were condensing air into a dry tangible substance by extracting the nitre, and letting the aqueous or fluid particles percolate; others softening marble for pillows and pincushions; others petrifying the hoofs of a living horse to preserve them from foundering.”—Gulliver's Travels.

A Nation's wealth that overflows,
Will sometimes in its course disclose
Fantastical contortions:
'Tis like the rising of the Nile,
Which fats the soil, but breeds the while
Strange monsters and abortions.

160

Better our superflux to waste
On peaceful schemes, howe'er misplaced,
Than war and its abuses;
But better still if we could guide
And limit the Pactolian tide,
To salutary uses.

Our sires, poor unambitious folks!
Had but an individual hoax,
A single South-sea bubble:
Each province our delusion shares,
From Poyais down to Buenos-Ayres,—
To count them is a trouble.

The gold that's sent out ready made
To the new world, must be repaid
By help of Watt and Boulton,
Who from their mines, by aid of pumps,
Will raise up ore, and lumps, and dumps,
Whence sovereigns may be molten!

161

Others, not roaming quite so far,
In stocks and bonds Peninsular,
Find all their treasure vanish;
Leaving a warning to the rash,
That the best way to keep their cash,
Is not to touch the Spanish.

Gilded by Eldorado dreams,
No wonder if our foreign schemes
Assume a tint romantic;
But e'en at home, beneath our eyes,
What ignes fatui arise,
Extravagant and antic!

Bridges of iron, stone, and wood,
Not only, Thames, bestride thy flood,
As if thou wert a runnel;
But terraces must clog thy shore,
While underneath thy bed we bore
A subterranean tunnel.

162

Now bursts a fiercer mania—all
From every shire, the great, the small
For Railroad shares are scrambling:
Peers, paupers, countesses, their maids,
With equal ardour ply the trades
Of jobbing, scheming, gambling.

Decoy'd by projects wild and rash,
Some find their rail-devoted cash
Is lost beyond retrieval;
Others, who profitably sold,
Will tell you that the age of gold
And iron are coeval.

With each new moon new bubbles rise,
Each, as it flits before our eyes,
Its predecessor smashing;
All at their rivals freely throw
Their dirt, to which we doubtless owe
The Company for washing.

163

These are but weeds; the rich manure
Of overflowing wealth is sure
To generate the thistle:—
They who would learn its nobler use,
May Pope's majestic lines peruse
That close his Fourth Epistle.

164

ELEGY.

TO THE MEMORY OF MISS EMILY KAY, COUSIN TO MISS ELLEN GEE, OF KEW, WHO DIED LATELY AT EWELL, AND WAS BURIED IN ESSEX.

“They fool me to the top of my bent.”—
Shakespear.

Sad nymphs of U L, U have much to cry for,
Sweet M L E K U never more shall C!
O S X maids! come hither and D, o,
With tearful I, this M T L E G.

Without X S she did X L alway,
Ah me! it truly vexes 1 2 C,
How soon so D R a creature may D K,
And only leave behind X U V E!

165

Whate'er 1 0 to do she did discharge,
So that an N M E it might N D R:
Then why an S A write?—then why N
Or with my briny tears B D U her B R?

When her Piano-40 she did press,
Such heavenly sounds did M N 8, that she
Knowing her Q, soon 1 U 2 confess
Her X L N C in an X T C.

Her hair was soft as silk, not Y R E,
It gave no Q, nor yet 2 P to view:
She was not handsome: shall I tell U Y?
U R 2 know her I was all S Q.

L 8 she was, and prattling like a J;
How little, M L E! did you 4 C,
The grave should soon M U U, cold as clay,
And you should cease to be an N T T!

166

While taking T at Q with L N G,
The M T grate she rose to put a:
Her clothes caught fire—no 1 again shall see
Poor M L E; who now is dead as Solon.

O L N G! in vain you set at 0
G R and reproach for suffering her 2 B
Thus sacrificed; to J L U should be brought,
Or burnt U 0 2 B in F E G.

Sweet M L E K into S X they bore,
Taking good care the monument 2 Y 10,
And as her tomb was much 2 low B 4,
They lately brought fresh bricks the walls to 10 (heighten.)

167

PITT'S BON-MOT.

Though William Pitt (nick-named the Tory
In Morris's facetious story,)
Retains the honours of his name
As a Debates-man,
Who in the House of Commons, “ore
Rotundo,” cried up England's glory,
Yet as a statesman,
Or as a financier, his fame
May be compared to his own sinking fund,
Which, if not quite extinct, is moribund.

168

Seeing this heaven-born minister's renown
In his political capacity,
Thus tumbling down,
An instance of his smart dicacity
Ought in justice to be stated,
In order that the reader may bestow
Due praise on the defunct for a bon-mot,
The only one he ever perpetrated.

When the French threaten'd in flat-bottom'd boats,
To come and cut our throats,
Pitt—then Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports—held
A meeting in the town of Dover,
To settle, should the French come over,
How they might best and soonest be repell'd;
Which said assemblage, being fierce and loyal,
Declared that England might discard her fears,
For they themselves would promise to destroy all
The French, if they might form a corps, the Mayor
To be commander, and the whole to bear
The name of Royal Dover Volunteers.

169

The Premier, when the cheering ceased,
Smiled, for he knew the dictum true,
That greatest boasters do the least,
And whisper'd to himself—“The Dover traders
Are most insufferable gasconaders;
If any folks deserve an innuendo,
By way of a rebuke, I'm sure these men do.”
However no remark was made,
Until the secretary reading o'er
The rules and regulations of the corps,
Broke off, and to the chairman said,
“Sir, I respectively submit
That it were well on this occasion,
Among our standing rules and laws,
To insert the customary clause,
Not to serve out of England.”—“Yes,” said Pitt,
“Except in case of an invasion!”

170

HOBBS AND DOBBS.

Adrian.—“Your jest is somewhat of the oldest, Master Giles.”
Giles.—“Hush! do you think I would offer a new joke, any more than new wine, to your Worship?”—The Unknown.

Love in a village, where the parties revel
In all the neighbourly civility
Of cheerful, social amiability,
Is vastly pleasant;
But hatred in a village is the devil!
Because each peasant
Is ever meeting in that narrow circle,
The very man on whom he longs to work ill.
How sad the pity that our beau idéal
Is never real;—

171

That envy, hatred, jealousy, and malice,
Should hold their chalice
Up to the lips of rustics, who were meant
By Nature to be innocent,
And harmless as the household dove,
That type of love!

After this pretty bit of flummery,
Or moral sentimental proem,
(An apt exordium to my poem,)
I must be quick, concise, and summary,
And without any more preparative,
Commence my narrative.

At Oakley, in the Western Riding
Of Yorkshire, were two men residing,
Named Hobbs and Dobbs, whose constant quarrels,
Springing from rivalry in trade,
A sort of village warfare made,
Which sadly spoilt the people's morals,

172

Splitting them into furious factions,
Some warmly advocating Hobbs,
While others, both by words and actions,
Supported Dobbs.
And yet these foolish fellows ought
In their two leaders to have found
Men of strong understanding, taught
With friendly stitches,
To patch up, not occasion breaches,
And mend the soles of all the rustics round,
For they were both shoemakers, and their labours
Should have been circumscribed to putting
Their friends, and customers, and neighbours,
On a good footing.

They lived, unfortunately, vis-à-vis,
And soon began the work of emulation,
By flaming shopboards, where in gilt
And lacker'd lustre, you might see

173

The symbols of their occupation,
Much paint in blue and crimson being spilt,
That each might be more splendid than the other,
And win all custom from his baffl'd brother.

Hobbs, who had somehow given handle
For undeserved reproach and scandal,
When he new-dizen'd out his board,
Wrote at its foot this Latin scrap—
“Mens conscia recti,” which he took
From some heraldic motto-book,
Meaning thereby to have a slap
At his maligners, and afford
Proof that his path he still pursued,
Strong in a conscious rectitude.

This was a source of envious dolour
To Dobbs, who, in his first confusion,
Knowing his rival was no scholar,
Deduced the natural conclusion

174

That “conscia recti” doubtless meant
Some article of trade, perchance,
Some fashion just arrived from France,
And being resolutely bent
His hated rival to eclipse,
He sent forthwith for Mr. Cripps,
Painter and glazier,
When thus ejaculated Dobbs—
“Paint me a still more flaming board,
Of green, and gold, and azure;
What! do you think I can't afford
To pay for it as well as Hobbs?
Be these French kickshaws what they will,
I am resolved to beat him still,
To which effect I
Desire you'll print in gold at bottom,
(That folks may fancy I have got'em,)
Men's and women's conscia recti!”

175

MONSIEUR LE BRUN.

Monsieur le Brun (who must not be confused
With the great painter) jointly cultivated
Apollo's laurel and the grape of Bacchus,
And into médiocre verse translated,
Or rather, as the French would say, traduced
The odes of Flaccus.
The work, I must confess, was badly done,
For poor Le Brun,
Still scribbling, and unable still to win
A living for himself and wife,
Was like a rope-maker, condemned to spin
Long lines, yet still go backward all his life.

176

Le Brun asserted that an author loses
By quaffing with the water-drinking Muses,
Wherefore he held in small account
Castalia's fount,
And not a solitary sip he
Ever quaffed from Aganippe,
Maintaining that champagne and other wine,
With, now and then, a draught of liquor,
Produced an inspiration quicker,
As well as more delightful and divine.—
If to his cups his couplets he had suited,
They must have sparkl'd—and 'tis strange to me,
That want of life should ever be imputed
To poetry inspired by eau-de-vie.

But so it was—his poems, every one,
Were like a flintless gun,
Which won't go off for want of fire;
And poor Le Brun who took to deeper drinking
Instead of thinking,

177

Sunk daily deeper in oblivion's mire.
While swallowing compound spirits, still the faster
He lost his own, till he became a prey
To hypochondria; and one disaster
Another following, his health gave way.
His stomach, it was said, had lost its coat,
Or thrown it off, perhaps, from being hot,
For his old trick he never had forgot,
Of pouring ardent spirits down his throat;
Which daily system of potation
Most deleterious,
Brought fever first, then inflammation,
When his poor wife, so much his aspect shock'd her,
Call'd in the doctor,
And now the case grew serious.

Bolus, a man of fees, not feeling,
Finding his purse was low, though high his fever,
Bolted, but sent a priest, who, kneeling,
Thus comforted the bibulous believer,—

178

“My son, 'tis clear you have not long to live,
So you must quickly use this unction,
Confess your sins with due compunction,
And freely all your enemies forgive—
Bestowing on them, if they're nigh,
The kiss of peace before you die!”

“Kiss what I hated most—my deadliest foes!
Surely, good father, you impose
A penance too revolting to be just,
'Tis ten times worse than fasts, hair shirts, and whips;
However, if I must, I must;
So put a glass of water to my lips!”

179

POETICAL EPISTLE,

From Amos Stokes, Esq., of Nashville, United States, to Washington Nokes, Esq., of Liverpool, commencing the Account of a very remarkable Aerial Voyage made in the grand Kentucky Balloon.

In ordinary times and moods, dear Nokes,
You might for centuries have had to whistle,
'Ere I, the plain prosaic Amos Stokes,
Should send you a poetical epistle:
But the muse sometimes visits solemn folks,
As a flower blossoms even on the thistle,
And mine's a theme so startling and sublime,
That it affords good reason for my rhyme.—

180

I have been far above the clouds,—and seen
Sights unreveal'd before to mortal eye!
You know that merry madcap, Harry Green,—
Well—he persuaded Ebenezer Guy,
A Latin usher—solemn, long, and lean,
Whose talk was pompous, polyglot, and dry,
And your unlucky friend—(a witless wight!)
In Hudson's grand balloon to take a flight.

Hudson—long practised in balloons, was meant
To steer our bark, and manage every part;
In fact, all four were seated—all intent
On making quickly an auspicious start,
When, leaning to untie the rope, too far,
Our clumsy pilot tumbled from the car!

181

As Hudson was a heavy man, of course
The loss of his preponderating weight,
Made the machine start upwards with a force
As if a whizzing rocket went elate.
So instantaneous was our earth-divorce,
We had no time the crowd to calculate,
Or note their shouts, fast dwindling to a hum,
When the whole scene grew indistinct and dumb.

E'en I, dear Nokes, an unreflecting wight,
Felt an awe-stricken, and a solemn mood,
In being sever'd from the world outright,
And floating upwards thro' th' infinitude
Of space; as if, while blessed with life and light,
A sort of dissolution had accrued,
And I had bid a last adieu to earth,
To find, in some new sphere, a second birth.

182

Is that dim mass, methought, obscured with clouds,
Looming below, a doubtful vapoury form,—
Is that our planet, with its countless clouds,—
Its nations, empires, cities? Is the storm
Of vice and passion that man's heart enshrouds,
The virtues that the female bosom warm,
Thrilling and throbbing in that little sphere?
Oh! what an ant-hill does the whole appear!

And other planets, throng'd like ours, perchance,
With beings that seem only born to die;
Why do they weave their rotatory dance,
Like gnats disporting in a summer sky?
Why do they fill the limitless expanse
With sepulchres that whirl eternally
Around the central fount of life and light,
What was their dawning—when will be their night?

183

While thoughts like these were flashing through my mind
With lightning speed, adapted to our motion,
My comrade, Harry Green, remain'd resign'd
To a convulsive laughter, at the notion
Of the fat sprawler whom we left behind,
Till, having wiped the tears that made a lotion
For either cheek, he cried “I can't forget
Hudson's own wonder at his somerset.”

“Had he been with us, our retarded flight,
If we could fly at all—a doubtful case,—
Had been no higher than an urchin's kite,
Or eagle, towering in its pride of place;
And never had we known the keen delight
Of soaring thus triumphantly through space,
And looking, every moment as we climb,
Down on the earth with feelings more sublime.”

184

“Do you remember, Guy, the well-known joke
Of singing Dignum at a public dinner,
Who, slicing from the pudding, at one stroke,
A mass that left it some three quarters thinner,
Said, as he moved the dish—‘some pudding, Skinner?
‘Which,’ replied Skinner, as his glances stray
From plate to dish, ‘which is the pudding, pray?’”

“So I, while gazing on the sphere below,
And that above, which, like a silken moon,
Sustains our car, am half in doubt to know
Which is the Earth, and which is the balloon,
How beautiful is this celestial show!
Methinks it were an enviable boon
Ne'er to revisit Earth, but in the sky,
Amid these glorious scenes, to live and die.”

185

“There's little doubt about the last,” replied
The hollow voice of Guy, who hitherto,
While as with fear transfix'd, he sternly eyed
The mass above him, evidently drew
Grim auguries he did not seek to hide;—
“Prepare for death—you've nothing else to do—
Giving false hopes I'll not be a colleague at,
For dubiam qui dat salutem, negat.

“An endless holiday my school will have,—
I never more shall wield the birch or cane;
No human agency our lives can save,
In this accursed car must we remain,
Until it proves—as soon it will—our grave.
Our fate is manifest,—the case is plain,—
I wouldn't hurt your feelings,—never mind,
Mors omnibus communis,—I'm resign'd.”

186

As his affrighted looks the boast belied,
We called upon him for an explanation;
When, in the same sepulchral voice, he sigh'd—
“As Hudson tumbled, in his agitation
He caught the string that to the valve is tied,
And snapp'd it off—so that no operation
Can now let off the gas, and we must rise
Till cold or famine kill us in the skies!”—

“Nonsense,” cried Harry Green,—who lov'd his joke,
Bad as it might be, better than his friend,—
“While we thus soar (excuse the équivoque)
Into the grave we cannot well descend.”—
“So much the worse,” with melancholy croak,
Responded Guy, “we shall not in our end
Have even decent burial, but be cast to
And fro in air—nantes in gurgite vasto,—

187

Until the flesh is wasted from our bones,
(Dying of famine, that will soon be done!)
When for unnumber'd years our skeletons,
Floating in space, may reach at last some zone,
Or sphere remote, whose geologic sons,
In a glass case may have us clapp'd, and shown
As fossils of the air—quis talia fando—
But I'll not weep—Fortunæ omnia mando.”

At first I thought by climbing up some rope,
That we might cut the silk or tear a rent,
So as to let th' imprison'd gas elope;
But after each had tried th' experiment,
In climbings numberless, we lost all hope,
For none by grappling made the least ascent;
The car hung low,—the cords were small,—and we
Had ne'er since boyhood even climbed a tree.

188

Little supposing, when we first went up,
That we should spend the morning in the sky,
Still less that we should want to dine or sup,
We ne'er had dreamt of taking a supply;—
Of liquids we had not a single cup,
Nor would our solids bear a scrutiny,
Consisting of a quince-cake, small enough,
Three pears, two apples, and a penny puff.—

“We're stump'd, I fear,” said Harry Green, whose mood
Changed with his grave and lengthen'd countenance;
“But our first duty is to share the food,
So as to give to each an equal chance.
The puff and quince-cake must not now be chew'd,
The pears are three, a lucky circumstance;
The apple-sharing I myself will see to,
There's one for you two, and there's one for me too.”

189

At first I thought this trite and sorry jest
Was merely fun, until he ate the prize,
When Guy and I our discontent express'd,
Whereat he said decisively—“Be wise,
Discard all thoughts of quarrel from your breast,
If we fall out we're dash'd to atomies.—”
“Humph, a high joke,” quoth Guy; “you little ween,
Hi joci in seria ducunt—Mr. Green.”

In fact we all look'd serious as he spoke,
Eyeing each other with distrust and fear,
And none of us the sulky silence broke,
For now the sun was setting—night drew near—
None had an extra Macintosh or cloak,
And the cold grew so nipping and severe,
That though no single syllable we said,
Our teeth began to chatter in our head.

190

The cold augmented as we soar'd more high,
But this, though most distressing, would not bear
Comparison with the sharp agony
Caused by the rarefaction of the air.
We gasp'd for breath as if about to die,
As fishes on dry land pant, gulp, and stare,
And swell'd as if our blood and bones were thirsting
To leave the body by a general bursting.

This must have been our dismal fate, indeed,
But that our noses, in a copious stream,
At the same moment all began to bleed,
Which gave us ease—your ministers may deem
The pressure from without a bore—agreed!
That from within is a far worse extreme,
When your exterior seems all turn'd about,
And your inside is struggling to get out.

191

Up in that keen attenuated air,
Th' evaporation is so great and swift,
That we already wither'd, as it were:—
Our parch'd and rattling tongues we could not lift,
Our eyes were solder'd up—no tears were there;
And when that æther rare we breath'd or sniff'd,
Our stomach's region, and brain's pia mater,
Felt twice as dry as a limeburner's gaiter.

The silence, too, so thrillingly intense,
Caused a fresh pain: dilated and acute,
Our ears ached piercingly, because their sense
Could catch no sound—all, all was hush'd and mute;
While now the darkness most profound and dense,
Might half persuade us Death had won his suit,
And struck us all, but that by fits and starts,
We heard the feeble beating of our hearts.

192

Oh! there's an awfulness most dread and deep
In piercing thus night's topmost atmosphere,
And feeling that, however fast you sweep,
You never need look out a-head for fear
Of running foul of others, since you keep
A course that none have ever dared to steer,
And have all space before you, all your own,
E'en to the wide creation's widest zone.

But what!—methought, if like our planet, space—
Holds some vast desert,—some Zahara dark,
Where the Creator's hand has left no trace,
A primal chaos, never cheer'd by spark
Of sun or moon, and that our airy chase
Should finish by delivering our bark
Into that limbo, and so leave us fated,
'Mid nothingness to be annihilated!

193

From this appalling reverie I woke,
By seeing in the blazing skies afar,
A fearful storm, which suddenly outbroke
In the full rage of elemental war,
Amid whose lightning flash and lurid smoke,
Diminish'd earth, no bigger than our car,
Seem'd to sustain a contest most uneven,
With all the dread artillery of heaven.

Tremendous must have been the thunder's peal,
But not the faintest murmur reach'd mine ear,
A fact, dear Nokes, which will alone reveal
Our measureless remoteness from earth's sphere.
As the storm died away I seem'd to feel
The darkness that return'd more deep and drear,
And nought disturb'd the silence of the sky,
Save the mix'd snores and mutterings of Guy.

194

Mumbling his prayers, and dreaming that he heard
His boys their Greek and Latin tasks repeat,
I caught this galimatias absurd:—
“Amo, amas—a dactyle has three feet—
God's will be done!—that's not a Latin word—
Tupto-tupteis, means—verbero, to beat;”
And then he murmured in a tone more drowsy,
“Amen!—good night,—tuptomen,—boy,—tuptousi.”

Harry, meanwhile, as if he strove no more
With adverse fate, began to nod his head,
And soon set up a comfortable snore,
Like him who, when his bark resistless sped
Tow'rds dread Niagara's engulphing roar,
Threw down his oar, his cloak above him spread,
Stretch'd out his legs, composed himself to sleep,
And thus perform'd his last tremendous leap.

195

Our plight, in sooth, was much the same as his,
Save that our vortex was a stream of air,
Which hurried us to some unknown abyss;—
And yet, perhaps, we better might compare
Our danger with Mazeppa's wretchedness,
For our wild steed no curb or check would bear,
And if he would, to dream of it were idle,
For in the valve-string we had lost the bridle.

I could not sleep; for, through the darkness dense
That hitherto had compassed us about,
In beautiful and bright magnificence,
The constellations, signs, and stars shone out,
Like monarchs stepping from their thrones; my sense
Ached at their flashing crowns, which made me doubt
Whether they were the same whose duller glories
I had oft mark'd from Earth's observatories.

196

At length, when all unconscious of the lapse,
I sunk into a short and broken rest,
It was this vision doubtless—(though perhaps,
Mazeppa's horse occasion'd half the pest)—
That brought, 'midst many painful after-claps,
The nightmare to bestride my lab'ring breast;
And conjured up, out of this heavenly glory, a
Most diabolical phantasmagoria.

The Zodiac's monsters and celestial signs
Seem'd to take living bodies, near and far;
Their arms they snatch'd, and quitting their confines,
Cried “Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war.”
The trumpet's clang rang loud along their lines;
While shouted fiercely every sign and star,—
“Sacrilege, sacrilege! destroy—o'erwhelm
The impious wretches that invade our realm!”

197

The roaring Lion, rushing from his lair,
Lifted his paw, and bared his snarling teeth;
Up, with a growl appalling, sprang the Bear;
The hissing Serpent, darting from his wreath,
Transfix'd me with his eyeball's fiery glare;
And all the forms I saw—(I'm here beneath
The mark)—were ten times bigger, every one,
Than Doctor Mantell's famed Iguanadon.

The Scorpion huge, his shudd'ring prey to reach,
Stretch'd out his bristling claws; the Hydra rear'd
His furious heads, each horrider than each;
Orion with his cries the Dog-star cheer'd;
The Twins (not Siamese) with horrid screech,
Urg'd on the Crab and Lizard; all appear'd
Eager and rampant for the sign when all,
With ravening rage, upon their prey might fall.

198

It was not long delay'd. From out her chair
Cassiopeia rose, and shouted “On!”
Twang! went the Archer's bow, and through the air
Claws, teeth, horns, hoofs, and weapons fell upon
Our wretched trio; while the startled zone
Still more our 'wilder'd faculties to scare,
With roaring, growling, grunting, hissing rang,
The clash of cymbals, and the clarion's clang.

Roused by this charivari, when I woke,
Shivering and stupified with cold and fear,
The baseless fabric of the vision broke,
And all again was silent, dark, and drear,
Except when Guy, in mingled mutterings spoke,
Or Harry's heavy snorings met mine ear.
So pass'd the night;—but oh! with morning's beam,
The real sight was ghastlier than my dream!—

199

Gaunt—stiffen'd—pale—desiccated—adust—
Our clothes and faces in a gory smear
With our nose-blood,—our stony eyes out-thrust,
Striving in vain to shed the frozen tear;
Harrow'd with horror, sicken'd with disgust,
Our teeth's sharp chatter all that met our ear,—
We looked like corpses, or three dismal dummies,
Hung up to dry till we should turn to mummies.

How long we thus remain'd transfix'd and mute,
I cannot tell—perhaps an hour or more,
Till, pinch'd with hunger, I drew out the fruit
Which I had pocketed the night before;
So did my friends, all eating with such brute
Voracity, that breakfast soon was o'er,
Tho' every pear was large and full of juice—(it's
The sort that here is called the Massachusets.)

200

O Nokes! how suddenly our frame derives
Fresh vigour, sometimes from the scantiest meal!
Our moisten'd tongues threw quickly off their gyves,
And as his mood relax'd from woe to weal,
Cried Hal, “We draw, (to judge by what I feel,)
From the first pear a second time our lives!”
Whereat Guy, frowning, said, “Don't talk at random,
Ne lude sacris, Mr. Green—nefandum!”

Alas! our subsequent and dire distress
Was but augmented by this short relief,
For hunger's gnawings and cold's bitterness
Returned with tenfold sharpness; but our chief
Torment was thirst, increased by the excess
Of dryness in the atmosphere;—in brief
I stated, that if others felt as I did,
I thought our quince-cake ought to be divided.

201

“Quince-cake!” laughed Harry, with a look of bonhommie,
“To tell the truth, I swallowed it last night
From pure and abstract motives of economy,
Fearing it might evaporate outright;
But some concession you have fairly won o'me;
So of the penny puff I waive my bite.”
“Sir!” mutter'd Guy, “I hate and I despise you,
Thus blando fraudem pretexere risu.”

To guard against th' extension of this code
So treacherous and base, myself and Guy
Shared the small puff—no very heavy load
For stomachs yearning with inanity;
And now, in our most desolate abode,
Was left no drop—no mouthful of supply,
Whatever crib or cruise we might examine,
To save us from th' extremity of famine.

202

Our woes to aggravate, we found, alas!
That when the outward pressure was reduced,
In its endeavours to escape, the gas
Thro' the stretch'd silk had gradually oozed,
Until the whole machine's suspended mass,
Balanced in equilibrio, refused
To rise or fall; affording us the pleasure
To starve, or freeze, or wither up at leisure.

“Ha!” suddenly cried Hal, “I've found a way,
By which we all may shun our threaten'd fate.”—
“What is it?” we together cried,—“Oh say!”—
“You may jump out,” drawled Harry; “I, elate,
Then to some higher habitat may stray,
While you a starving death will evitate.”
Quoth Guy,—“You should have left these jests, jamdudum,
Nec lusisse pudet, sed non incidere ludum.”

203

“'Tis our sole chance,” quoth Hal, “for our career,
When lightened thus, will doubtless recommence,
And we may soar until some higher sphere
Bring us within attraction's influence—
Some peopl'd globe, where hospitable cheer
May welcome us with glad benevolence:
Heaven grant that we may find, for our revival,
A smoking dinner waiting our arrival.”

His low'ring looks soon darken'd to a stern
And fell expression that confirm'd his speech;
And thus we sate in silence, each in turn
Eyeing his comrade with misgiving—each
Holding dark counsel with his thoughts, to learn
How he might save himself—and overreach
His friends, so lawless in its operation
Is that remorseless law—Self-preservation.

204

Heavy and slowly dragg'd the dreary day,
Our bosoms rankling with a fiercer ire,
As the light ominously died away,
And thirst and cold and hunger grew more dire.
I hoped some rain or dew-drops might allay
Our raging thirst's insatiable fire;
But in those altitudes, dear Nokes, there's neither
Rain-drops nor dew to damp the parching ether.

What horrid thoughts of violence and crime
Haunted my comrades in the dead of night,
I know not; but the Devil at one time
Urged me to grapple Green with all my might,
And throw him out; but Hal was in his prime,
And, waking, might on me bestow the flight
I meant for him. Guy was awake, poor elf!
So Satan whisper'd me—throw out thyself!

205

These temptings I resisted, Heaven be praised!
And bore my torments till the break of morn,
When Harry as his heavy eyes he raised,
And marked our looks grim, haggard, and forlorn,
Gried—“Gentlemen, you surely must be crazed,
To think these pangs much longer can be borne,
We'll wait till sunset, then draw lots to know
Which of the party overboard must go.”

“But it were well (the hint I venture here
Is offered to your joint consideration)
If one of you would kindly volunteer
To act the Curtius on this sad occasion,
By leaping in the gulph—a fate, 'tis clear,
Better than vi et armis jactitation,
And as you're oldest, Guy, I tell you plump,
'Tis your's to make the sacrificial jump.

206

“Mine!” cried the pedagogue, with angry sneer,
“In your own idle vein to give reply,
I might maintain that as I'm tallest here,
And we are doomed to die by inches—I
Must perish last;—besides, your loose career
Has prematurely destined you to die.
Against all suicide I make disclaimer,
Quocunque trahant fata nos sequamur.—

“Moreover, I've a nephew full of glee,
Yet fonder still of learning than of frolics,
For all his Latin who depends on me,
And has begun translating his Bucolics:
On his account I wish my life to be
A little lengthen'd—not of course too prolix;—
At thought of leaving him my very gorge aches,
At least—before he gets into his Georgics.”

207

“Well then,” said Green, “you, Stokes, will not pretend
That you have niece or nephew—what say you?
Will you jump overboard to save a friend?”
“I would,” said I, “but I've a cousin who
Is giddy—young—wants watching, or he'll spend
His cash too fast. Oh Harry! if you knew
My cousin Tom, I ne'er had been expected
To leave him cousinless and unprotected.”

“As for myself, I own,” said Green, and smiled,
“That I am free from every social clog,
Have neither kith nor kindred, chick nor child,
But I've a poodle puppy—such a dog!
He, too, depends on me—is young and wild,
And from his home might wander in a fog:
You're Christians, gentlemen!—have hearts—confess
You would not leave that poodle masterless!”

208

The voluntary principle, we saw,
Had no supporters in our coterie,
So we resolved, at sunset, lots to draw,
And sacrifice one victim of the three.
Thus sat we grim and silent, cold and raw,
Two destined murderers and one murderee;
Eyeing each other, all that day of fate,
With scowls most savage, fell, and desperate,

As the watch'd sun went down—(it was the last
Sunset that one of us was doom'd to view)—
An ominous and baleful glance it cast
On our most ghastly and sepulchral crew:
Our senses swam—our hearts beat loud and fast,
And more convulsively our gasps we drew,
Clenching our teeth and drawing in our breath,
As Green prepared the paper lots of death.

209

There was a leering devil in his eye,—
A look of cruelty and craft combined,
Which satisfied me that some treachery
Lurked in his bosom. My misgiving mind
Whisper'd that if he drew the lot to die,
Some fraudulent evasion he would find,
Or might, in desperation's last resource,
Throw overboard myself or Guy by force.

Resolved to see fair play, and sell my life
As dearly as I could, if thus defied,
I kept my hand upon a large clasp-knife
In my coat pocket, while I gave, aside,
A friendly wink to Guy, in whom the strife
Of hope and fear was potent as he cried,
“My pangs can't last, one plunge and I shall lose 'em
In space profound—profundo—profudi—profusum!”

210

“The hour is come!” croaked Green, and well we knew
What was to follow that appalling text,
“The hour is come!”—Adzooks! that's very true,
'Tis twelve—the Packet sails at one—I'm vex'd
To break off here, dear Nokes!—in haste, adieu!
Allow me to refer you to my next,
Which will contain a full and true relation
Of what next happen'd in our aërostation.

211

SECOND POETICAL EPISTLE.

From Amos Stokes, Esq., of Nashville, United States, to Washington Nokes, Esq., of Liverpool, containing the Account of the very remarkable Ascent made in Mr. Hudson's Grand Kentucky Balloon.

My last, dear Nokes, convey'd a full account
Of our most desperate and horrid plight,
When, to compel our poised balloon to mount
By rendering it more volatile and light,
So that we might approach some stellar fount,
And quench our raging thirst—we deem'd it right
To fix, by drawing lots of paper,
Which of our trio overboard should caper.

212

One after one Green placed them on his palm,
And was about to close his hand, when lo!
Although it hitherto had been dead calm,
A gust of wind snatch'd up those types of woe,
And whisk'd them out of sight. Hope's sudden balm
Gave to our spirits a reviving flow;
For, in this crisis of our sad condition,
It seem'd a heavenly interposition.

Especially when our balloon, beneath
Some new and strong attraction, upwards rush'd,
And we drew in, between our chattering teeth,
A warmer air, which thro' our system gush'd,
Thawing our blood until it seem'd to seethe,
While we no longer felt oppress'd and crush'd
By th' outward atmosphere, which now was neither
Too rare nor cold, but a delicious æther.

213

Hey! presto! pass!—One anxious moment more,
And we were compass'd by a vapoury shroud.
Another pause, and there began to pour
A heavy rain from this dissolving cloud;
So that, by holding up the hats we wore,
The swelling sides of the balloon allow'd
A stream continuous to trickle down,
And fill a bumper in the indented crown.

Me and my comrades did that magic draught
Raise from despair to bliss without alloy,
As if we simultaneously had quaff'd
Hope, courage, strength, vitality, and joy.
Green was no longer truculent:—he laugh'd,
And thought no more of whom he should destroy;
While Guy kept praying, in his own farrago,
Jupiter auctor! tibi gratias ago.”

214

From that most blessed cloud emerging soon,
There shot athwart our course a sudden light,
As warm as a meridian day of June,—
When our three voices, at their topmost height,
Set up a choral shout—“The moon! the moon!”
And there it was above us, huge and bright;
Confounding all my system of astronomy,
And notions of the sun and moon's economy.

When, as we thought, the balanced element,
Kept our balloon in equipoised inaction,
We still had made a gradual ascent,
Until we came within the moon's attraction.
For 'twas the moon indeed to which we bent
Our course with so much speed and satisfaction.
I tell you simply what I saw, dear Nokes,
So don't suppose my history a hoax.

215

After the sun went down brief twilight gleam'd;
We were rapt upwards with a rush—and lo!
As we approach'd the moon, the morning beamed,
And the warm planet sparkled in the glow
Of sunshine;—yes, however strange it seem'd,
There was no night that night. Guy felt it so,
For he exclaim'd,—“A miracle confess'd!
Occubuit sol, nox nulla secuta est.”

As we drew nearer, still the fairer smiled
That lunar garden of delight, until
The paradise thus open'd in the wild
Fill'd us with wonder, though it could not fill
Our maws:—the pangs of Tantalus were mild,
Compared to those that made us yearn and thrill,
As various fruits we noted, all and each
Within our sight, but far above our reach.

216

When we had nearly gain'd the promised land,
Some most provoking law of ærostatics
Brought our poised vessel to a second stand,
And thus we hung suspended in the attics;
While the ground floor exhibited a bland
Display of warmth to solace our rheumatics,
As well as food, which, in our starving langour,
Half madden'd us with an impatient anger.

Our woes to aggravate, the rustic crew,
Who in the fields already were at work,
Soon as our floating figures came in view,
Brandish'd ferociously scythe, spade, and fork,
Or gathered stones, which at our car they threw,
Each, with the look of a malignant Turk,
Shouting amain—“Hikanah polbob, boo!”
Words meaning, when their English garb is put on,
“If you alight, you're all as dead as mutton!”

217

Just then some influence of gravitation
Brought our balloon still nearer to the ground,
When, smitten with a sudden consternation
The peasants fled to the defying sound,
“Hikanah polbob, boo!” but in their station
We marked one maiden as we gazed around,
For such we judged her by her curly head,
Her figure slim, and petticoat of red.

Cried Green, whose spirits had revived, “By jingo!
That flaming petticoat and graceful mien
Give her the semblance of a red flamingo,
But that no beak or pinions can be seen.
I wonder whether she can speak our lingo:—
Hilloa! Ma'am or Miss! behold our lean
And starving state. If you can throw so far,
Pray toss a quartern loaf into our car!”

218

Whereat she threw her body back—uprear'd
Her fair round arms, and tenderly exclaim'd
“Squanch zimzom squish!” How euphonous appear'd
Those guttural and Dutch-like words, when named
By woman's ever welcome voice, endear'd
Tenfold to us, whose hearing was inflamed
By long and hungry listening for a sound,
While we were prison'd in our silent pound.

As speech was useless here, I made a sign,
By pointing to my mouth with starving look;
Untwisting then a little ball of twine,
And fastening to its lower end a hook,
I let a basket down until the line
Came within reach, which eagerly she took,
Untied the pannier in a trice, and, quicker
Than any antelope, bore off the wicker.

219

Oh! how we watch'd her flitting o'er the ground,
As to the covert of a wood she flew!
Oh! how our bosoms thrill'd with joy profound,
As her light form appeared again in view!
Oh! when the string she to the handle bound,
How carefully the basket we up-drew!
But oh! (and this beat all the other oh!'s)
At sight of its contents what joy arose!

Three bowls of milk we saw: I cannot say
How mortal cows could yield so rich a draught,
Unless they pastured in the milky way;—
Imagine with what eagerness we quaff'd!
Next were three loaves upon a wooden tray,
So far beyond an earthly baker's craft,
That from their taste they might have been surmised
To be sweet almond cakes celestialized.

220

Not Heliogabalus nor old Apicius,
Nor the famed suicidal cook Vattel,
Ever concocted banquet more delicious,
Or one so eagerly devour'd.—To tell
Th' effect of those restoratives auspicious
Transcends my power; in short, we felt quite well,
And in an access of hysteric gladness,
Shriek'd, laugh'd, and jumped with every sign of madness.

So kind the maiden, that I felt a hope,
Perchance, that she might aid us to descend,
So I uncoil'd and lowered down a rope,
With a small grappling iron at its end,
Making a sign,—(oh! there is ample scope
In signs, if people will but comprehend,)
That she should stick the hook into the ground,
Or fasten it to anything she found.

221

As quick to execute as understand,
The tackle to a withered stump she tied,
Then lifting up each alabaster hand,
She bowed, as if to say “I have complied.”
So did we gently pull ourselves to land,
And mooring the balloon that it might ride
Safely at anchor, out we jumped, enchanted
To find our feet on terra firma planted.

How shall I paint it—where begin—how frame
Language descriptive of a scene so rare?
Luxora (so the nymph was call'd) must claim
Precedence of my pen. That fairest fair,
Bending one knee as to the ground we came,
Thrice touch'd her forehead with a reverent air,
Then smiling like an opening rose in June,
Appeared to give us welcome to the moon.

222

All the Lunarians, you must keep in mind,
Are somewhat smaller than the human race,
Bearing the same proportion to mankind,
That the moon does to earth. In stature, grace,
And symmetry, Luxora's form combined
All that we dream of sylphs, although her face
More round and moonlike than we see on earth,
Showed her to be a girl of lunar birth.

Yet was it fair, most exquisitely fair,—
Her cheeks just beaming with a roseate light,
Contrasting with the yellow silken hair
That fell in tendrils o'er her shoulders white;
Her round ox-eye with Juno's might compare,
Save that its hue was moonlike, with a bright
Spot in the centre of the purest hazel,
More sparkling than the pupil of the gazelle.

223

Her tight-made boddice of a golden thread,
The budding beauties of her bust conceal'd,
Her petticoat of dark flamingo red,
Half of her fair unstocking'd leg reveal'd.
No wonder that with such a foot, her tread
Was light as gossamer. No nymph lark-heel'd,
Nor Dian, Atalanta, nor Aurora,
Had legs so lissom as the light Luxora.

When I had gazed my fill—no easy task,—
I look'd around me on the landscape fair.
Oh! what a master's pencil would it ask
To paint a scene so beautifully rare,
Where the whole face of nature wore a mask
That gave her features a diminish'd air,
And yet enhanced their charms, as if she sought
To prove how well in miniature she wrought.

224

A golden bloom illumed the velvet grass,
Whose flowers gave forth a perfume rich and rare,
The tinted waters looked like purple glass,
Flowing through meads auriferous;—the air
Thrill'd with the songs of birds that far surpass
Earth's nightingales in summer evenings fair;
And when we raised our ravished eyes on high,
What lovely visions glorified the sky!

Prismatic clouds assumed the form and hues
Of a grand gallery of pictures splendid,
Where every taste its favourite scene might choose:
For here a gorgeous landscape lay extended,
An air-drawn Paradise; and there sea-views,
With figures, flowers, and cattle-pieces blended.
All, when a zephyr wafted them from sight,
To form again more beautifully bright.

225

While I stood thus in an admiring trance,
Green, who had gather'd and devour'd a mango,
Now, bowing, to Luxora would advance,
Now twirl around her in a mad fandango,
Crying at times, as he increased his dance,
“I'll show you, Miss, how rapidly I can go,”
And laughing louder as he caper'd round,
At poor Luxora's wonderment profound.

Guy's wonder was a stupor; every sight
And every moment seeming to increase it:
His first quotation was a bull outright,
“Steterunt comæ, vox faucibus hæsit,”—
For he was bald, and spoke.—“Who,” quoth our wight,
“Quis tale credat? even when he sees it?
Well may the moon be called decus astrorum,
Where everything is dulce et decorum.”

226

And now Luxora, tripping o'er the glades
That formed its outskirts, led us to a wood,
Within whose fragrant and sequestered shades,
A small pavilion picturesquely stood,
With windows looking down, thro' green arcades,
On a far lake, whose waves the zephyr woo'd,
Or sped some vessel on its sunny way,
That dash'd the waters into sparkling spray.

In this retreat, where everything betray'd
Simplicity, refined by female taste,
Our fair neat-handed Phillis—now our maid
And hostess too—(both characters she graced,)
A plain repast upon the table laid,
Waiting upon us with such looks of chaste
And reverent homage in her beaming features,
'Twas plain she took us for celestial creatures.

227

Whene'er we spoke, this answer still we heard—
“Squanch zimzom squish,” whose lunar sense implies,
“I cannot understand a single word;”
But we had little need of colloquies,
For what we wanted instantly occurr'd,
As if she read our very thoughts and eyes;
Such was the intuition of this airy,
Brave, gracious, graceful, deferential fairy.

Our meal concluded, with her tiny hand
Of ivory, she pointed to a door,
With signs to open it; at which command
We pass'd within and mark'd upon the floor
Three couches ready to receive our band;
Each at its head a plume of feathers bore,
Each was with rushes strewn, and flowers whose balm
Inspires a sleep, refreshing sweet, and calm.

228

When we returned, behold! the nymph had fled,
Or vanish'd as by magic from the place:
We listen'd, but we could not hear her tread;
We gazed around, no object could we trace;
So to beguile our lonesomeness we sped
Forth to the circling forest—not in chace
Of the fair fugitive—but just to see
Whate'er might move our curiosity.

Oft will my memory that stroll renew,
So strange and lovely was the woodland show:
Each wild flower, shrub, and tree that met our view,
Resembled those that in our tropics grow—
Palm, cedar, cypress, banyan, bamboo,
And many more whose names we did not know,
Were laced together in alcoves and bowers,
By parasitic plants, enwreathed with flowers.

229

The dove, gold pheasant, humming-bird, maccaw,
Swung to and fro upon the high festoons,
While, sporting in the lower boughs, we saw
Opossums, squirrels, monkeys, and racoons,
And all by some mysterious lunar law
Had round flat faces just like little moons;
Even the animals unknown on earth,
Bearing this token of their lunar birth.

If they were strange to us, 't was clearer still
That we were strange to them; for, as we sped,
The birds flew off with startl'd screamings shrill,
While quickly disappeared each quadruped;
New forms we glimpsed, which scarcely waited till
We came in sight, when instantly they fled.
We laugh'd at their alarms, but far more pleasant
Was the wild panic of a passing peasant.

230

Thus we pursued our fear-diffusing walk
Till evening's shadows fell, when home we hied,
Of fair Luxora's bravery to talk—
The only being who, unterrified,
Had faced us, and not only scorn'd to baulk
Our hopes of aid, but kindly had supplied
Such food and lodging, we could almost fancy
The whole some scene of fairy necromancy.

We saw the sun behind the mountains set
In all th'effulgence of prismatic glory,
Then gladly to our couches did we get,
To chat awhile of our surprising story,
But the flowers soporific would not let
Our talk be more than brief and transitory,
For we all sunk in balmy slumber soon:
So passed our first day's sojourn in the moon.

231

THIRD POETICAL EPISTLE.

From Amos Stokes, Esq., of Nashville, United States, to Washington Nokes, Esq., of Liverpool, concluding the Account of a very remarkable Aerial Voyage made in the Grand Kentucky Balloon.

Waking next morning, when I raised my head
After a slumber sweet beyond compare,
I found, as if by magic fingers spread,
A ready breakfast of substantial fare:
Fruits, milk, and honey, and a sort of bread
Resembling ours, but far more rich and rare,
Composed the meal, of which our approbation
Was shown by its immediate mastication.

232

By her own pure and pious heart deceived,
Luxora thought us a celestial crew,
Who, in their visit, ought to be received
With all the reverence to angels due;
And stating to the King what she believed,
His Majesty, who deem'd the story true,
Next morning sent a solemn deputation,
To offer us a royal habitation.

The gravest Quaker's gravest pug would bark
Had he but seen the pomp and the grimaces,
Of these dwarf'd spindle-shanks, without a spark
Of animation in their moony faces;
Yet proud as Lucifer, if any mark,
Or badge, or bearing, gave the smallest traces
That they might elevate their pigmy bodies
One jot above their brother hoddy-doddies.

233

Some had a maze of horse-hair, saturate
With grease and dust, entwisted round their polls,
Which dirty dignitaries walk'd in state,
As grave as judges. Bless their nasty souls!
Some strutted in fantastic robes, ornate
With filthy fur of polecats or of moles,
Seeming to think that it enhanced their rank,
The more the animals that wore them stank.

Others, deriving their distinction's germ
From baser sources still, displayed a dress
Spun from the bowels of a loathsome worm;
Others again, like earthly savages,
Wore toys and trinkets worthy of the term,
Such as sliced vegetables, to express
Their rank and honour; these their vests were put on,
Or dangled from a coat's conspicuous button.

234

Another class there was, in trappings gay,
Fine colours—laces—feathers—ribbons—wreaths,
Who let themselves for hire, to kill and slay,
For which they carried carving knives in sheaths;
Of shoulder-knots, and liveried array,
Prouder than any popinjay that breathes;
And what was strange, the women seemed to love
These men-destroyers other men above.

The leader of the party, robed and starr'd,
Made a long speech in the terrestrial fashion;
Sawing the air, he thumped his bosom hard,
With every sign of vehemence and passion,
Just to assure us of the king's regard,
And to convey the royal invitation,
That we should permanently be installed
At Phosphan (so their capital is call'd).

235

As in procession we began our march
Through groves and fields, and avenues romantic,
Green vented his vivacity most arch,
In every sort of foolery and antic,
Pulling the pig-tail of the leader starch,
Who, turning sharply round, with rage half frantic,
Cuffed more than once his own astonished folk,
Whom he suspected of this shameful joke.

But Green's great aim in pulling was to turn
Suspicion on the grave decorous Guy,
Whose deprecating look of blank concern,
(Not to say horror,) language must defy.
“You had rather lose,” he cried, in accents stern,
“Your friend than joke.” “Why that,” (was the reply,)
“Somewhat depends,”—(he sniggered as he spoke,)
“Upon the friend, but more upon the joke.”

236

If for a moment, Nokes, you recollect
The influence of the moon on people craz'd,
How, at its full, it has a marked effect
On lunatics, you will not be amazed
That here its power, more stringent and direct,
Should to a more morbific height be raised.
So that the people, to their planet fitted,
Are lunatics outright, or else half-witted.

Thus their whole architecture's scope and plan,
Opposes nature, who, in building trees,
Holds out a lesson to masonic man,
By suiting them to their localities.
Where we require a parasol or fan,
And there's no snow to break their canopies,
Her boughs she spreads as widely as she can,
As in the cedar, cypress, and banyan.

237

In northern climes, where shade we can forego,
Her verdant structures take the conic form,
As best adapted to shoot off the snow,
And bide the pelting of the frequent storm;
While the close branches, tapering from below,
Support, protect, and keep each other warm:
As we discover in the fir and plane,
Indigenous to every cold domain.

Winter, at Phosphan, is so long and drear,
That they've more need of flannel than o shades,
Yet they've imported from their southern sphere,
A taste for corridors and colonnades,
Flat roofs, wide balconies, (to lovers dear,)
Projecting porticoes, and cool arcades,
Which would appear less thoroughly misplaced,
Could they import the climate with the taste.

238

During eight days we led a life serene,
Pampered with feasts, and garlanded with roses,
But on the ninth a change came o'er the scene,
Which ended quickly our apotheosis;
The cause of which reverse was Harry Green,
Whose frantic course of lunar life discloses
Insults most gross—iniquities most daring—
And drunken outrages beyond all bearing.

Learning these black enormities, the king
And council met in secret, made decree
That as our crime was such an impious thing,
In having claimed a sham divinity,
We should, without a formal trial, swing
Early next morning on the gallows tree!
Which, I submit, was sacrificing us,
For their own notions superstitious.

239

How she obtained the secret none can tell,
But in the night, Luxora passed our gate,
And by her speaking looks and signs, full well
Gave us to understand our threatened fate;
To shun which doom most truculent and fell,
She urged our flight ere yet it was too late,
Offering to guide us to the spot where we
Left our balloon fast tackled to a tree.

In her right hand our fairy guide conceal'd
A turning lamp, whose light at times was dead,
At times, the glades and copses it reveal'd,
Through which in silent fearfulness we fled.
And thus we hurried on through wood and field,
Till to the moor'd balloon our way we sped,
When in we jumped—cut loose—and soar'd together
Up in a whirlwind like an eagle's feather.

240

How we should ever re-descend to earth,
We hadn't, one of us, the smallest notion;
But while our thoughts were struggling for a birth,
A moon volcano, in a fierce explosion,
Threw out an aerolite, which struck the girth
Of our silk globe, and caused a strange commotion—
Out went the gas, and down, down, down went we,
Shooting through space with dread velocity!

All thoughts of life I now resigned, well knowing
That if we reached the earth, (and what if not!)
At the tremendous rate that we were going,
We must be dashed to atoms on the spot.
While this sad prospect set my brains all glowing,
Whiz! dash! smash! crash! beneath the waves we shot,
And down we sank till rising breathless, scared,
I oped my peepers and around me stared.

241

A brig I saw upon our starboard bow,
The Jane of Boston, Captain Samuel Ford,
Who, when he saw us rising from below,
Lowered a boat and took us all on board.
Both Green and Guy at first were somewhat slow
In coming to, but were at length restored,
And quaff'd a glass of grog to cure the rum ache
Occasioned by the water in their stomach.

It seems that we had plunged in our descent
Into the Gulf of Mexico—a cast
Which saved our bones and lives; so now we bent
Our course for Boston, which we reach'd at last,
Thence by the diligence we homeward went,
Much talking of our strange adventures past,
Deeming ourselves all singularly lucky
Safely to reach our dwellings in Kentucky

242

ST. GEORGE'S PENITENTIARY.

The learned and facetious Dr. Airy
Preach'd, 'tother day, a sermon so pathetic,
For the St. George's Penitentiary,
That it seemed just like giving an emetic
To every purse of Christian bowels:
Folks sobbed and blubber'd
So fast, that handkerchiefs were turned to towels;
And the last tear seemed squeezed from out its cupboard.
The Doctor smiled (within his sleeve)
At these salt tributes to his oratory,

243

Sure that the Institution would receive
A sum redounding to his proper glory,
From the soul-melted auditory.

The sermon o'er, he bent his keen
Ear to the tinklings of the plate;—
Alas they came with pause deliberate
'Twixt each donation,
“Like angel visits, few and far between,”
(I like a new quotation,)
But, as he caught the sounds, he thought
Each had a golden echo, which in fairness
Made full atonement for its rareness.
“Ay, ay,” soliloquized the preacher,
“I told them charity aton'd
For multitudes of sins;—they've owned
For once the wisdom of their teacher,
And, for their many crimes untold,
Are doing penance with their gold.”

244

With this auriferous impression,
Proud and elate,
He moved towards the plate;
But ah! how changed was his expression,
When, 'stead of the expected prize,
Nothing but shillings met his eyes,
And those, alas! too few in number
Each other to encumber.
“Ah!” cried the parson,—“addle-pated
Dolts and dunces! when I stated,
‘Love of our species is the just
Measure of charity,’ they must
Have understood the phrase to be,
Love of our specie.
Nothing but shillings, shillings still!
A strange vagary!
Now on my credit, if I had my will,
Their Institution's title I would vary,
Into the Twelve-penny-tentiary.”

245

Doctor! 'tis my opinion humble,
You had not any right to grumble,
For he who in this penny age can touch
A shilling, gets twelve times as much
As other folks;—I state no hoax,
But simple fact, devoid of jokes,
Or amphibological equivoques;
Yes, since the penny banner was unfurl'd,
In this two-halfpenny four-farthing world,
Have we not thousands who are willing
To place unlimited reliance,
For learning, news, and science,
Upon the twelfth part of a shilling?
Have we not Penny Cyclopedias,
Penny Magazines and books,
Penny Tracts, less good than tedious,
For penitents of rueful looks,
And penny classics that give scope
To boys at penny schools, and misses,

246

To sympathize with poor Ulysses
And his beloved Penny-lope?

With such economy,
Where every cottage is a college,
What wonder, in the march of knowledge,
That ploughboys understand astronomy?
Cries Hodge—“How comes it that the sun,
Which nightly seeks the western shore,
Rises, as sure as any gun,
Next morning where he was afore?”
“Spoony!” replies a learned wight,
Your ignorance is truly risible;
He always travels back at night,
And that's the reason he's inwisible.”

It was a penny Latinist, who said,
In chaos there had been a battle
Before the days of men and cattle,

247

Though not set down in Holy Writ,
Because in Ovid he had read
That was the time when nihil fit.
Such tales, (I hope that none have quizzed 'em,)
Evince the march of penny wisdom,
And might be told ad infinitum,
Had we just now the time to write 'em.

248

CHARADE.

Sordid and narrow and mean is my First,
Where in tenements rank with tobacco and gin,
Dwells the toiling mechanic with poverty cursed,
'Mid the breakers of law and the victims of sin.
'Tis gone!—a hall uprises,—view
Yon clamorous prize-fighting crew,
Wrangling, jangling, sense entangling,
Law new-fangling, justice mangling,—
'Tis not Bedlam, but as bad,
For money-mania makes them mad.
Hey presto pass! a graced saloon behold
Where to a brighter star bright stars repair
And beauties decked in jewelry and gold,
Curtsey to grace and beauty still more rare.

249

From each and all of these, at times,
Prison'd within my second's bound,
The sick—the sad—the doom'd for crimes,
The idle and the gay are found,
Swiftly their wingless flight is flown,
Their guide a lady's plaything, beckon'd
By hand unseen from spot unknown:—
What urges thee so fast my second?
What hurts the eye, yet mocks the sight,
Feels not, yet sighs and makes lament;—
As any floating feather light,
And yet at times omnipotent.
Guarded, my Second, thus, thy might
Would seem to challenge fate and death,
Yet doom and danger track thy flight,
Threat'ning around—above—beneath.
See, see, the lightning's angry flash;
Hark! what an elemental roar!
A shuddering cry—a thunder crash,—
My Second's gone—'tis seen no more!

250

Let none but pleasant sights appear,
Naught but the turtle-dove be heard,
Where Passion-flowers, to lovers dear,
Enwreathe an arbour for my Third.—
There the heart vents in tender sighs
The feeling that no words can reach,
Or makes the love-revealing eyes
More fond and eloquent than speech.
Fulfill'd be all the hopes ye raise,
Enamour'd inmates of the bower,
And oh! may all your future days
Be blissful as the present hour!—

[Courtship.]

251

CHARADE.

Gin-palace Circe! quit the niche
Or den that constitutes my First,
Nor from below, thou fair foul witch!
Call spirits baleful and accurs'd.
She's gone!—Beware! your pouch to pick,
Yon crew throws dust into your eyes:
Distrust their flowers of rhetoric,
They garland whom they victimise.
Now to our dearest hopes opposed,
My changeful First! thou'rt all we dread;
And now, in solid gold disclosed,
How eagerly thou'rt coveted!

252

But ah! most fatal art thou when
Thou'rt formed beneath the 'whelming wave,
Of women fair and gallant men,
The Sacrificer and the grave!

The friend, the lover, are on thee,
My Second! source of many a tear,
When their vex'd souls they cannot free
From dark suspense, and jealous fear.
On thee, within his prison lone,
The doom'd assassin or the thief,
Vents, in his agony, the groan,
Or prays for death as a relief.
I see thee speeding overhead,
As if thou hadst an eagle's wing,
I see thee in the cattle shed,
A lifeless and unmoving thing,

253

My Third is fashion'd to enfold
Strange implements of war.—Behold
Those frames with human features;
By time and artificial means
They're manufactured to machines
For killing human creatures.
Obedient moves—east, west, north, south,
Up to the breach, or cannon's mouth:
Each automatic figure,—
'Gainst friend or foe, whate'er the cause,
With equal nonchalance he draws
His death dispensing-trigger.
Enslaved alike in frame and mind,
Life's object for its means resign'd,
What gains th'unlucky varlet?
Dying, he sleeps on honours couch,
And living, flaunts with empty pouch,
In outward gold and scarlet.
Never were muscles, bones, and will,
By such self-sacrificing skill,

254

Made neuter, passive, active.
Machine! thou'rt mechanism's pride,
But never was its art applied
To purpose less attractive!

[Barrack.]

255

CHARADE.

Oh! what a glorious city!—behold
Its obelisks, pyramids, sphinx-guarded fanes,
You gaze on Bubastis in Egypt of old,
And hark! to those sacred melodious strains!
The dulcimer, harp, shawm, and tabret combine
With the choral rejoicings and anthems that burst
From yon temples august and magnificent shrine,
Where prostrated crowds are adoring my First.
How strange the conflicting caprices and whims
Of blind superstition! some ages are fled,
And the object which living was worshipp'd with hymns,
And graced with an apotheosis when dead,

256

In Europe is marked for proscription and ban,
As leagued with the foul and unsanctified crew
Who ply the black art that's forbidden to man,
And with spirits of darkness dark courses pursue.

And where is my changeable Second display'd?
In the belle and the bird, in the damsel and crone,
In the foul and the fair, in the mistress and maid,
In the dabbler in mud, in the queen on her throne.
Who can reckon its changes of form and abode?
Arch'd and square, low and dirty, distorted and strait,
It is seen in the ditch, on the dunghill, the road,
In the huts of the poor, in the halls of the great.
It is pure flesh and blood, when from Nature's own hand:
Made by man, its diversified substance is found
In the fish of the deep, in the beasts of the land,
In the trees of the field, in the ore underground.
If sometimes 'tis worn unembellish'd and plain,
By the wives or the daughters of niggardly churls,

257

At others 'tis deck'd with a glittering train
Of diamonds and amethysts, rubies and pearls.

In my populous Third what a withering change
From the busy Bubastis my first gave to sight:
No sunbeam, no moon gilds its desolate range;
All is silence profound and perpetual night.
It has numberless houses, and each one contains
A single inhabitant ever asleep,
No footfall is heard in its streets and its lanes,
In the midst of a crowd there is solitude deep
Here lovers whose union has long been denied,
Often meet, but no love-breathing whisper is heard;
Here bitterest foemen are placed side by side,
But their warfare is over: there's peace in my Third!

[Catacomb.]

258

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

A RECENT OCCURRENCE.

A firm there is, of civic fame,
At all events, of notoriety,
(Excuse my mentioning its name,)
Which crams the public to satiety,
With rhyming puffs by shopmen bards,
And huge conspicuous placards,
Slung on the backs of men and boys,
And hobble-de-hoys,
Plying all day their devious courses;
Or stuck on the tall vans that flare
Through every crowded thoroughfare,
To cozen asses and to frighten horses.

259

This firm's emporium or bazaar,
Near Aldgate pump, is known afar
By catchpenny devices manifold,
By panes of glass worth many guineas,
And all that may attract the ninnies
Who think they're buying cheap, and find they're sold.

Two clowns, one day, before the shop,
In rustic frocks and spatterdashes,
Besmirch'd with stercoraceous splashes,
Came to a stop;
Not to admire the flash habiliments,
Which a month's wear would turn to filaments;
Not to indulge in talk domestic,
But to decide by imprecations,
And interchange of objurgations,
Some unadjusted feud agrestic.
Their flashing eyes and gestures furious
Soon show'd that words, howe er injurious,

260

Would not interpret what their rage meant,
So they began a fist engagement;
And, in the very first attack,
One of the rustics, reeling back,
Against the window fell slap dash.
Zooks! what a crash!
'Twas obvious that the largest pane
(If we may speak in Yankee strain)
Was sent to everlasting smash.

Away the first aggressor hurried,
And presently was lost to sight;
Out rushed four shopmen, red and flurried,
Who seized the window-breaking wight,
Aghast and trembling with affright,
Dragg'd him into their shop or trap, and
Told their master what had happen'd.
“It cost ten pounds!” the latter roar'd;
“Ten pounds, and you must pay them down,

261

Before your liberty's restored.
D' ye hear? hast got the money, clown?”

“Ten pounds!” cried Hodge, in blank dismay;
“Lord love you, I can never pay.
I've got ten shillings and some pence;
('Tis hard to make me such a loser,)
But if they'll cover the offence,
Take 'em and let me go, now do, sir.”
“Blockhead! will such a mite atone?
You must make good the whole disaster.”
“I've nothing else, sir, of my own;
What more I've got belongs to master.”
“So you have money then? how much?”
“Why, sir, he sent me on a job,
To cash a check for fifty pound;
'Tis done, the note is in my fob,
Wrapp'd in a paper, safe and sound;
But that, you know, I mustn't touch;

262

You wouldn't bring me to disgrace,
Wi' loss o' character and place;
So don't ye ax me, sir, pray don't;
Touch it I mustn't, and I won't.”
“Your master, clown, is answerable
For your misdeeds, whate'er they be;
Down with the note upon the table,
And we'll give change and set you free;
If not, prepare to go to prison,”
“Dang it!” cried Hodge, with face of woe,
“What can I do, sir, when you know
The money isn't mine, but his'n?”
“Stuff!” quoth the magnate of the shop;
“Quick! quick! let the police be called,
And send him straight to gaol.” “Stop! stop!”
Ejaculated Hodge, appall'd,
And like a leaf of aspen shaking,
Such was his pitiable taking,
“Master, if I am miss'd, will say
I've robbed him, and have run away

263

It can't be helped—what must be, must.”
So saying he fish'd up the note,
From the deep fob in which 'twas thrust,
And twisted like a papillote,
Secured the change, and then departed,
Half frightened and half broken hearted,
Moaning and muttering, “I fegs!
How shall I ever tell my master
About this terrible disaster?
I'm ruined, sure as eggs is eggs.”

Our cits, though chuckling with intense
Enjoyment at the clown's expense,
Had little cause for mirth, if any.
For lo! their banker's clerk appears
Next day, and whispers in their ears,
“This fifty's forged—not worth a penny!”

Such was the fact,—our firm had lost,
Besides the broken window's cost,

264

Pounds forty at a single throw:
What had they in return to show
For such subtraction from their till?
A piece of paper, value—nil!

Meanwhile the fighting clowns, whose roguery
(They were colleagues) the plot had plann'd,
By which the tradesmen were trepann'd,
Changed their smock frocks for stylish toggery,
To Margate steam'd, to take their pleasure,
And spent their forty pounds at leisure.

THE END.