The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 24

No such thing, Reader--most opportunely for Blogg, 'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog!

I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast, But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout, Are a cla.s.s that society doesn't much care about; Men who gam their subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing,"

Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach; And they were so to Bogg, When the curly-tail'd Dog At last dragged him out, high and dry on the beach.

But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think "all that glitters is gold,"

And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a Maitre de Danse, To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)-- Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.-- Be this as it might, It embarra.s.s'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhans might have traced The petiles soins, tendered with so much good taste To the sight of an old-fas.h.i.+on'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste.

The group on the sh.o.r.e Consisted of four, You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term, a "too dense population,"

Indeed the sole sign of man's habitation Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle That led away inland direct from the s.h.i.+ngle Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz., an old man, his wife, two lads, made a start, he The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.-- They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon-Dieuing, Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing,

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it?

(Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one,"

An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, it's clear That with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do.

Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly ill-furnish'd room; "Hot, smoking hot,"

On the fire was a pot Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd, "By Jove, c.o.c.ky-leeky!"

In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon.

Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli.

Meanwhile that old man standing by, Subducted his long coat-tails on high, With his back to the fire, as if to dry A part of his dress which the watery sky Had visited rather inclemently.-- Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly, And something sinister lurk'd in his eye, Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing; He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots, With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes, His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose, And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose, So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant.

The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew; She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat.

And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat.

The little garcons too strove to express Their sympathy toward the "Child of distress"

With a great deal of juvenile French politesse; But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff"

Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender, and tough, Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!"

And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable!

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, That says, "Good Eatynge Deserveth good Drynkynge."

You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Wynkyn, And a very good proverb it is to my thinking.

Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew, His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!"

p.r.o.nounced by the old woman under her breath.

Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!"

He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin."

So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, In his c.o.c.kneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, VEE!"

Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy; So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy, Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, An oracular bulb with a very long neck to it; In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"-- --And here by the way Allow me to say, Kind Reader--you sometimes permit me to stray-- 'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing, So inferior to us in the science of cursing: Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears!

And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, Roar out in a pa.s.sion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from, this little digression:-- Blogg's features a.s.sumed a complacent expression As he emptied his gla.s.s, and she gave him a fresh one; Too little he heeded, How fast they succeeded.

Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did; For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink!

At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.

Mr. Blogg, beside being uncommonly dry, Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy, --"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply"

Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t' other eye;"

For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup, At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."-- His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast That garment 't were rude to Do more than allude to, Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:"

So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!"

And "marshal'd" him so "The way he should go,"

Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, Without table or chair.

Or a movable there, Save an old-fas.h.i.+on'd bedstead, much out of repair, That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.-- With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!"

Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more; When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread, The great curly tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!--

--It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night Through a Church-yard, and seeing a thing all in white.

Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite, To find that the Ghost Is merely a post.

Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in,"

And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head, Or a sever'd carotid, to find that, instead Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"-- Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein; You're delighted with what just before gave you pain; You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg Now bestow'd on HIS friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place On each side his neck in a canine embrace, And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face, And he waggled his tail as much as to say, "Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!"

And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out Before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'T was Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!-- The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair-- The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there-- The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!

It's pa.s.sing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet-- With what warmth and affection each other they greet!

Especially too, as we very well know, If there seems any chance of a little cadeau, A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.

If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest But, it was not so here; For although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg, Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;"

And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!"

So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!"

Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-color'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt'-- 'T was "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake"

In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder,-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping!

For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.

Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a s.h.i.+lling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpa.s.s a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some p.r.o.nounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street; --I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and "bruises,"

I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to,"

And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off.

But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!"

Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;"

And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking.

So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy"

The thumps, and the b.u.mps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pa.s.s'd 'twist the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret"

Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact.

As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the gargcos, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off; Next making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.-- Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the a.s.sa.s.sins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the pa.s.sengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the sh.o.r.e!