'Twas off the Wash—the sun went down—the sea
look'd black and grim,
For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the
brim;
Titanic shades! enormous gloom!—as if the solid night
Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light!
It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye
With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!
Down went my-helm—close reef'd—the tack held
freely in my hand—
With ballast snug—I put about, and scudded for the
land.
Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee—my little boat flew
fast,
But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.
Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!
What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of
hail!
What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps
behind!
Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the
wind.
Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,
But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place;
As black as night—they turned to white, and cast
against the cloud
A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's
shroud:—
Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run!
Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heap'd in one!
With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling,
fast,
As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last!
Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;
It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a
wave!
Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face—
I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!
I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine!
Another pulse—and down it rush'd—an avalanche of
brine!
Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home;
The waters clos'd—and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below
the foam!
Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed—
For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.
"Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of
death?"
With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath;
My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful
sound—
And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd
around?
A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft;
But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft?
A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone;
But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my
own?
Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight
As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night!
I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes
Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my
dreams—
Hyenas—cats—blood-loving bats—and apes with
hateful stare,—
Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls—the lion, and
she-bear—
Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and
spite—
Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light!
Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their
tombs—
All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms—
Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all
aghast,—
But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!
His cheek was black—his brow was black—his eyes
and hair as dark;
His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable
mark;
His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd
beneath,
His breast was black—all, all, was black, except his
grinning teeth.
His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves!
Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky
waves!
"Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake,
Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?"
"What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal?
It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul!
Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil'd
My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child,—
My mother dear—my native fields, I never more shall
see:
I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!"
Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return
His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to
stern—
A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the
nonce—
As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once:
A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit,
With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the
Pit.
They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for
the whole;—
"Our skins," said he, "are black, ye see, because we carry
coal;
You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native
fields—
For this here ship has pick'd you up—the Mary
Ann of Shields!"
TIM TURPIN.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
And ne'er had seen the skies:
For Mature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.
So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
Poor Tim was forc'd to do—
Look out for pupils, for he had
A vacancy for two.
There's some have specs to help their sight
Of objects dim and small:
But Tim had specks within his eyes,
And could not see at all.
Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid,
And took her to his arms;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.
By day she led him up and down
Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, altho' she led
The life of any dog.
But just when Tim had liv'd a month
In honey with his wife,
A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes,
Like oysters, with a knife.
But when his eyes were open'd thus,
He wish'd them dark again:
For when he look'd upon his wife,
He saw her very plain.
Her face was bad, her figure worse,
He couldn't bear to eat:
For she was any thing but like
A Grace before his meat.
Tim he was a feeling man:
For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for every thing—
But that was with a stick.
So with a cudgel in his hand—
It was not light or slim—
He knocked at his wife's head until
It open'd unto him.
And when the corpse was stiff and cold,
He took his slaughter'd spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all
The ashes of her house.
But like a wicked murderer,
He lived in constant fear
From day to day, and so he cut
His throat from ear to ear.
The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in:
Said he, this wound I dread
Can hardly be sew'd up—his life
Is hanging on a thread.
But when another week was gone,
He gave him stronger hope—
Instead of hanging on a thread,
Of hanging on a rope.
Ah! when he hid his bloody work
In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out.
But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap
Than he contracted for!
A dozen men to try the fact,
Were sworn that very day;
But tho' they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.
Said Tim unto those jurymen,
You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself at once
The author of her death.
And, oh! when I reflect upon
The blood that I have spilt,
Just like a button is my soul,
Inscrib'd with double guilt!
Then turning round his head again,
He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,
The judges of a-size!
The great judge took his judgment cap,
And put it on his head,
And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang,
'Till he was three times dead.
So he was tried, and he was hung
(Fit punishment for such)
On Horsham-drop, and none can say
It was a drop too much.
One day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.
His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank,
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.
And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd
Like a butcher that kills his own.
The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh,
(For the man was a coffin-maker,)
To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.
Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.
He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;
And he shot one through at once—for he knew
They never would shoot each other.
He saw a watchman fast in his box,
And he gave a snore infernal;
Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."
He met a coachman driving his coach
So slow, that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the quick.
Death saw a toll-man taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;
But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summon'd to all eternity.
He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!
Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;
But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."
He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.
He saw a sailor mixing his grog,
And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for Death,
And never on rum-and-water.
Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!
There's some is born with their straight legs by natur—
And some is born with bow-legs from the first—
And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter,
But they were badly nurs'd,
And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs
Astride of casks and kegs:
I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard,
And starboard,
And this is what it was that warp'd my legs.—
'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say,
That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip;
But on the tenth of May,
When I gets under weigh,
Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship,
I sees the mail
Get under sail,
The only one there was to make the trip.
Well—I gives chase,
But as she run
Two knots, to one,
There warn't no use in keeping on the race!
Well—casting round about, what next to try on,
And how to spin,
I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,
And bears away to leeward for the inn,
Beats round the gable,
And fetches up before the coach-horse stable:
Well—there they stand, four kickers in a row.
And so
I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable.
But riding isn't in a seaman's natur—
So I whips out a toughish end of yarn,
And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter
To splice me, heel to heel,
Under the she-mare's keel,
And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!
My eyes! how she did pitch!
And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line,
Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line,
But always making lee-way to the ditch,
And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways.
The devil sink the craft!
And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays!
We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft!
Well—I suppose
We hadn't run a knot—or much beyond—
(What will you have on it?)—but off she goes,
Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond!
There I am!—all a-back!
So I looks forward for her bridle-gears,
To heave her head round on the t'other tack;
But when I starts,
The leather parts,
And goes away right over by the ears!
What could a fellow do,
Whose legs, like mine, you know, we're in the bilboes,
But trim myself upright for bringing-to,
And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows,
In rig all snug and clever,
Just while his craft was taking in her water?
I didn't like my berth tho', howsomdever,
Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter,—
Says I—I wish this job was rayther shorter!
The chase had gain'd a mile
A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking;
Now, all the while
Her body didn't take of course to shrinking.
Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking—
And so she swell'd, and swell'd,
And yet the tackle held,
'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin.
My eyes! but she took in enough to founder!
And there's my timbers straining every bit,
Ready to split,
And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!
Well, there—off Hertford Ness,
We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together,
And can't contrive a signal of distress;
Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather,
Tho' sick of riding out—and nothing less;
When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:—
Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!—
And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn.
So I gets off, and lands upon the road,
And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn,
A-standing by the water.
If I get on another, I'll be blow'd!—
And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd!
"The clashing of my armor in my ears
Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me
In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe
To dig my grave."
THE LOVER'S PROGRESS.
I.
'Twas in that memorable year
France threaten'd to put off in
Flat-bottom'd boats, intending each
To be a British coffin,
To make sad widows of our wives,
And every babe an orphan:—
II.
When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,
And heads were dredg'd with flour,
I listed in the Lawyer's Corps,
Against the battle hour;
A perfect Volunteer—for why?
I brought my "will and pow'r."
III.
One dreary day—a day of dread,
Like Cato's, over-cast—
About the hour of six, (the morn
And I were breaking fast,)
There came a loud and sudden sound,
That struck me all aghast!
IV.
A dismal sort of morning roll,
That was not to be eaten;
Although it was no skin of mine,
But parchment that was beaten,
I felt tattooed through all my flesh,
Like any Otaheitan.
V.
My jaws with utter dread enclos'd
The morsel I was munching,
And terror lock'd them up so tight,
My very teeth went crunching
All through my bread and tongue at once,
Like sandwich made at lunching.
VI.
My hand that held the tea-pot fast,
Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady,
Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er
The cup in one long eddy,
Till both my hose were marked with tea,
As they were mark'd already.
VII.
I felt my visage turn from red
To white—from cold to hot;
But it was nothing wonderful
My color changed, I wot,
For, like some variable silks,
I felt that I was shot.
VIII.
And looking forth with anxious eye,
From my snug upper story,
I saw our melancholy corps,
Going to beds all gory;
The pioneers seem'd very loth
To axe their way to glory.
IX.
The captain march'd as mourners march,
The ensign too seem'd lagging,
And many more, although they were
No ensigns, took to flagging—
Like corpses in the Serpentine,
Methought they wanted dragging.
X.
But while I watch'd, the thought of death
Came like a chilly gust,
And lo! I shut the window down,
With very little lust
To join so many marching men,
That soon might be March dust.
XI.
Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so,
Our foe the coast must land on";—
I felt so warm beside the fire
I cared not to abandon;
Our hearths and homes are always things
That patriots make a stand on.
XII.
"The fools that fight abroad for home,"
Thought I, "may get a wrong one;
Let those who have no homes at all
Go battle for a long one."
The mirror here confirm'd me this
Reflection, by a strong one.
XIII.
For there, where I was wont to shave,
And deck me like Adonis,
There stood the leader of our foes,
With vultures for his armies—
No Corsican, but Death himself,
The Bony of all Bonies.
XIV.
A horrid sight it was, and sad,
To see the grisly chap
Put on my crimson livery,
And then begin to clap
My helmet on—ah me! it felt
Like any felon's cap.
XV.
My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse,
An undertaker's crest;
My epaulette's like coffin-plates;
My belt so heavy press'd,
Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie
At once upon my breast.
XVI.
My brazen breast-plate only lack'd
A little heap of salt,
To make me like a corpse full dress'd,
Preparing for the vault—
To set up what the Poet calls
My everlasting halt.
XVII.
This funeral show inclined me quite
To peace:—and here I am!
Whilst better lions go to war,
Enjoying with the lamb
A lengthen'd life, that might have been
A Martial Epigram.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Striding in the Steps of Strutt—The historian of the old English ports—the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.
In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing:—
"Sir,—About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline."
"I am, Sir,"
"With respects from your humble Servant,"
"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."
"On Monday they began to hunt."—Chevy Chase.
John Huggins was as bold a man
As trade did ever know,
A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.
There people bought Dutch cheeses round,
And single Glo'ster flat,—
And English butter in a lump,
And Irish—in a pat.
Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart,
At counter, with his apron tied
About his counter-part.
The seventh, in a sluice-house box
He took his pipe and pot;
On Sundays, for eel-piety,
A very noted spot.
Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!
One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head;
Epping, for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage pop't;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig's flesh is always chop't.
But famous more, as annals tell,
Because of Easter Chase:
There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.
With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,
And slapt his leather thigh,
And sang the burthen of the song,
"This day a stag must die."
For all the livelong day before,
And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts
On Hunting" in his head.
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo's answering sounds,
All poets' wit hath ever writ
In dog-rel verse of hounds.
Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaping Cheap
To go and hunt the deer!
No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not chicken-hearted he, altho'
T'was whispered of his egg!
Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. Ridout's fee,
And Surgeon Hunter's bill.
So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they wore that day
Was Warren-ted to shine.
His yellow buckskins fitted close,
As once upon a stag;
Thus well equipt he gaily skipt,
At once, upon his nag.
But first to him that held the rein
A crown he nimbly flung:
For holding of the horse?—why, no—
For holding of his tongue.
To say the horse was Huggins' own,
Would only be a brag;
His neighbor Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.
And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Altho' it was a tit.
A well-bred horse he was, I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly "rearing up within
The way he ought to go."
But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne'er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast.
And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone.
A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;
Wherever she set down her orts,
Thereby he put a cross.
Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way;
One that had promised sure to be
His comrade for the day.
Whereas the man had changed his mind,
Meanwhile upon the case!
And meaning not to hunt at all,
Had gone to Enfield Chase.
For why, his spouse had made him vow
To let a game alone,
Where folks that ride a bit of blood
May break a bit of bone.
"Now, be his wife a plague for life!
A coward sure is he":
Then Huggins turned his horse's head,
And crossed the bridge of Lea.
Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker's box,—
No friends to hunters after deer,
Tho' followers of a Fox.
And many a score behind—before—
The self-same route inclined,
And, minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind.
Gentle and simple, he and she,
And swell, and blood, and prig;
And some had carts, and some a chaise,
According to their gig.
Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks,
(However odd it sounds),
Let out that day to hunt, instead
Of going to the hounds!
And some had horses of their own,
And some were forced to job it:
And some, while they inclined to Hunt,
Betook themselves to Cob-it.
All sorts of vehicles and vans,
Bad, middling, and the smart;
Here rolled along the gay barouche,
And there a dirty cart!
And lo! a cart that held a squad
Of costermonger line;
With one poor hack, like Pegasus,
That slaved for all the Nine!
Yet marvel not at any load,
That any horse might drag,
When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag!
Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace;
"Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away,
You'll never see the chase!"
But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answer quite as blunt;
"It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt!"
And so he paced to Woodford Wells,
Where many a horseman met,
And letting go the reins, of course,
Prepared for heavy wet.
And lo! within the crowded door,
Stood Rounding, jovial elf;
Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,
But frame the man himself.
A snow-white head, a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush;
A claret tint laid on by health,
With Master Reynard's brush;
A hearty frame, a courteous bow,
The prince he learned it from;
His age about threescore and ten,
And there you have Old Tom.
In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast;
So certain congregations meet,
And elevate the host.
"Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads,
You're all in glorious luck:
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.
"Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom
In red already ride;
'Tis but a step, and on a horse
You soon may go a-stride."
So off they scampered, man and horse,
As time and temper pressed—
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
Branched off from all the rest.
Howbeit he tumbled down in time
To join with Tom and Bob,
All in Fair Mead, which held that day
Its own fair mead of mob.
Idlers to wit—no Guardians some,
Of Tattlers in a squeeze;
Ramblers in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators up in trees.
Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks,
That shambled to and fro!
Bakers intent upon a buck,
Neglectful of the dough!
Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual, for a fall;
And green and scarlet runners, such
As never climbed a wall!
'Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made;
A single stag had caused a whole
Stagnation in their trade.
Now Huggins from his saddle rose,
And in the stirrups stood:
And lo! a little cart that came
Hard by a little wood.
In shape like half a hearse,—tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased!
And now began a sudden stir,
And then a sudden shout,
The prison-doors were opened wide,
And Robin bounded out!
His antlered head shone blue and red,
Bedecked with ribbons fine;
Like other bucks that come to 'list
The hawbucks in the line.
One curious gaze of mild amaze,
He turned and shortly took;
Then gently ran adown the mead,
And bounded o'er the brook.
Now Huggins, standing far aloof,
Had never seen the deer,
Till all at once he saw the beast
Come charging in his rear.
Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the same,
On horse and ass—like high and low
And Jack pursuing game!
Good Lord! to see the riders now,
Thrown off with sudden whirl,
A score within the purling brook,
Enjoyed their "early purl."
A score were sprawling on the grass,
And beavers fell in showers;
There was another Floorer there
Beside the Queen of Flowers!
Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,
Some had no caps to show;
But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,
Rode on in Statue quo.
"O dear! O dear!" now might you hear,
"I've surely broke a bone";
"My head is sore,"—with many more
Such speeches from the thrown.
Howbeit their wailings never moved
The wide Satanic clan,
Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned,
To see the fall of Man.
And hunters good, that understood,
Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses "throwing off,"
So long before the hounds.
For deer must have due course of law,
Like men the Courts among;
Before those Barristers the dogs
Proceed to "giving tongue."
And now Old Robin's foes were set
That fatal taint to find,
That always is scent after him,
Yet always left behind.
And here observe how dog and man,
A different temper shows,
What hound resents that he is sent
To follow his own nose?
Towler and Jowler—howlers all,
No single tongue was mute;
The stag had led a hart, and lo!
The whole pack followed suit.
No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife
And fork in either haunch;
And every dog he knew had got
An eye-tooth to his paunch!
Away, away! he scudded like
A ship before the gale;
Now flew to "hills we know not of,"
Now, nun-like, took the vale.
Another squadron charging now,
Went off at furious pitch;—
A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob,
Without a single witch.
But who was he with flying skirts,
A hunter did endorse,
And like a poet seemed to ride
Upon a wingèd horse,—
A whipper-in?—no whipper-in:
A huntsman? no such soul.
A connoisseur, or amateur?
Why yes,—a Horse Patrol.
A member of police, for whom
The county found a nag,
And, like Acteon in the tale,
He found himself in stag!
Away they went then, dog and deer,
And hunters all away,—
The maddest horses never knew
Mad staggers such as they!
Some gave a shout, some rolled about,
And anticked as they rode,
And butchers whistled on their curs,
And milkmen tally-hoed.
About two score there were, not more,
That galloped in the race;
The rest, alas! lay on the grass,
As once in Chevy Chase!
But even those that galloped on
Were fewer every minute,—
The field kept getting more select,
Each thicket served to thin it.
For some pulled up, and left the hunt,
Some fell in miry bogs,
And vainly rose and "ran a muck,"
To overtake the dogs.
And some, in charging hurdle stakes,
Were left bereft of sense—
What else could be premised of blades
That never learned to fence?
But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate,
Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay;
O'er all they went, and did the work
Of leap years in a day.
And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed;
For, like Mazeppa, he was quite
At mercy of his steed.
No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit,
For firm and fast, between his teeth,
The biter held the bit.
Trees raced along, all Essex fled
Beneath him as he sate,—
He never saw a county go
At such a county rate!
"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs,"
Quoth Huggins, "So I do,—
I've got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you!"
Good Lord! to see him ride along,
And throw his arms about,
As if with stitches in the side,
That he was drawing out!
And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook:
Till bumped and galled—yet not where Gall
For bumps did ever look!
And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride,
With every kick he gave a prick,
Deep in the horse's side!
But soon the horse was well avenged
For cruel smart of spurs,
For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze!
Where sharper set than hunger is
He squatted all forlorn;
And like a bird was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!
Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign:
"Possession is nine points," but his
Seemed more than ninety-nine.
Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!
Now had a Papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf,
Altho' no horse he had to cross,
He might have crossed himself.
Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;
A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!
A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went
To many a stock and stone!
Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage!
Tho' felony, yet who would let
Another's horse alone,
Whose neck is placed in jeopardy
By riding on his own?
And yet the conduct of the man
Seemed honest-like and fair;
For he seemed willing, horse and all,
To go before the mare!
So up on Huggins' horse he got,
And swiftly rode away,
While Hugging mounted on the mare,
Done brown upon a bay!
And off they set, in double chase,
For such was fortune's whim,
The farmer rode to hunt the stag,
And Huggins hunted him!
Alas! with one that rode so well
In vain it was to strive;
A dab was he, as dabs should be—
All leaping and alive!
And here of Nature's kindly care
Behold a curious proof,
As nags are meant to leap, she puts
A frog in every hoof!
Whereas the mare, altho' her share
She had of hoof and frog,
On coming to a gate stopped short
As stiff as any log;
Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood
With neck like neck of crane,
As sings the Scottish song—"to see
The gate his hart had gane."
And lo! the dim and distant hunt
Diminished in a trice:
The steeds, like Cinderella's team,
Seemed dwindling into mice;
And, far remote, each scarlet coat
Soon flitted like a spark,—
Tho' still the forest murmured back
An echo of the bark!
But sad at soul John Huggins turned:
No comfort could he find;
While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped,
To stay five bars behind.
For tho' by dint of spur he got
A leap in spite of fate—
Howbeit there was no toll at all,
They could not clear the gate.
And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,
And sorely cursed the day,
And mused a new Gray's elegy
On his departed gray!
Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells:
But Huggins, full of ills, of course,
Betook him to the Wells,
Where Rounding tried to cheer him up
With many a merry laugh,
But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig,
And called for half-and-half.
Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink
Remembrance of his loss;
To drown a care like his, required
Enough to drown a horse.
When thus forlorn, a merry horn
Struck up without the door,—
The mounted mob were all returned;
The Epping Hunt was o'er!
And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle, and of shaft;
And men, by dint of drink, became
The only "beasts of draught."
For now begun a harder run
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken man discussed
The overtaken deer.
How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he stood,
Deer-like, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could;
And how the hunters stood aloof,
Regardful of their lives,
And shunned a beast, whose very horns
They knew could handle knives!
How Huggins stood when he was rubbed
By help and ostler kind,
And when they cleaned the clay before,
How worse "remained behind."
And one, how he had found a horse
Adrift—a goodly gray!
And kindly rode the nag, for fear
The nag should go astray.
Now Huggins, when he heard the tale,
Jumped up with sudden glee;
"A goodly gray! why, then, I say
That gray belongs to me!
"Let me endorse again my horse,
Delivered safe and sound;
And, gladly, I will give the man
A bottle and a pound!"
The wine was drunk,—the money paid,
Tho' not without remorse,
To pay another man so much,
For riding on his horse.
And let the chase again take place,
For many a long, long year,
John Huggins will not ride again
To hunt the Epping Deer!
MORAL.
Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp,
Just when we think to grip her;
And hunting after happiness,
We only hunt a slipper.