309

That the best of all modes

To widen one's roads

PIGEON SHOOTING AT HURLINGHAM.

In this Sport every element of manly courage and skill is brought into play. The poor caged birds are generally so bewildered on being released that they can scarcely fly, and the skilled marksmen often wound them, so that they flutter about for hours with broken legs and wings. This affords excellent entertainment to the tender-hearted ladies of fashion who witness the sports, and bet on the results.

Occasionally a bird is killed at once, others escape from the grounds and are either captured, or tortured to death by that respectable class of the community which usually congregates around fairs, race meetings, and prize fights.

Altogether, Pigeon-shooting is the sport which, for the sake of our National reputation, should be encouraged.

When we have persuaded the Spaniards to abolish their Bull fights as cruel and unmanly, we may bring them to the innocent delights of battue shooting, hare coursing, fox hunting, or even to Pigeon Shooting, and so realise Poet Wordsworth's noble ideal :

"One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught by what nature shows and what conceals,
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

The subject is treated from the Pigeon's point of view, in the following imitation of Barham's style.

(The pigeon is in its trap, awaiting its turn to be shot at by kind-hearted, sensible men.)

WELL, here I am, and precious hot I find it,

I wish I were a Fantail not to mind it ;
Ten to the foot's too warm for any sinner,
I'd quite as soon be in a pie for dinner;
In fact, it would be cooler to be baked,
For they've the decency to cook us naked
And leave our feet outside; but here, I tell ye,
My toes are cramped and trodden to a jelly.
So, this is Hurlingham! Accursed place!
The fell destroyer of our harmless race,
Centre of fashion, haunt of lords and ladies,
A whited sepulchre, a dazzling Hades.
From Monday here we're massacred till Saturday,
But murdered worse than ever on the latter day;
For then conspire the "Upper Ten " to vex us,
"Omnis ætatis utriusque sexus,"

With jealous hearts, intent to shed the blood
Which, like their own, dates backwards to the Flood,
As for a pretext, they can find a reason
For killing us each day throughout the season.
Some people talk as if the sport were quite meant

To give the birds some innocent amusement,
And say a little shooting to us Rocks is
Just the delight that hunting is to foxes.
Poor beasts! How can they possibly avoid it?
They'd be surprised to hear" how they enjoyed it.
One says that killing pigeons is as good

As murdering barn-door pheasants in a wood.
Granted.

But please to prove that shooting's pleasant
When looked at from the aspect of the pheasant.
They all insist that death attends the shot,
(Some think precedes a trifle and some not);
And then they cry, in ecstasies of virtue,

"Poor things! we kill you, but we never hurt you."
Who was it made the theory so astutely
That pigeons cannot feel at all acutely?
Well, of a want of feeling when he spoke, we
Might well return him a direct tu quoque.

"You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things."
Was said of men's hard hearts, not Rocks with wings.
One comes to bet and thinks the shooting rubbish,
Another shoots, but votes the betting snobbish.
This little episode a moral teaches;
Which of the two is right? I fancy each is.

If we are only slaughter for the larder,

I wish they'd miss us clean or hit us harder.
This amateur despatching ten times worse is
Even than the wicked poulterer's tender mercies;
And why should man be justified in maiming us,
Because he had the privilege of naming us?

"You ladies! You whose gentle hearts do fear
The smallest monstrous mouse, ""
Are those the eyes to gaze on slaughtered doves,
what make you here
The chosen birds of Venus and the Loves?
Alas! what hypocrites of half-a-score, to
Watch the death agonies oculo irretorto.
But when some wretch surmounts the fatal paling,
Sick unto death with sight and pinions failing,
To clap your hands, of pure compassion quite full,
And cry "He's safe, poor darling! How delightful!"
So young, so fair, and can ye lack compassion?
It cannot be; ye are but slaves to Fashion,
Bowing yourselves, as did the Jewish nation,
Before the monster of your own creation.
Shake off the chains, or take a bird's advice-
Serve if ye list, but do not sacrifice.
You, upon whom all fashionable men dance,
From noon to eve, assiduous attendance,
Hence fair ones, hence! nor, like Herodias' daughter
Bring by your charms the guiltless to the slaughter.

My turn at last! I wish he'd leave off squeezing ;

I think I've scratched him! Serve him right for teasing !

Alas! the middle trap he lays his hand on,

"Ye (birds) who enter here all hope abandon."

And now he's pulled my tail out by the roots,

I feel as helpless as a Puss-in-Boots.

(Ah! our poor tails, they won't believe we need 'em
Or else they're fitting us for endless freedom.)
They say it's to prevent my being hit.

(It's very good of them to mention it.)
They tell me I'm a clipper! and shall wobble,
"And yet I am not happy" for their trouble;
And if they want me to get safe from harms off,
Why don't they pull the sportsman's legs and arms off?
Fast in the middle trap. To test the cunning
Of the great guns, it's fallen nine times running;
And now, to baffle their unerring aim,
The next that falls is sure to be the same.
A chilly fear of death is stealing o'er me,
And all my peckadilloes flash before me.

It's very sad to die-to die-to sleep-
To sleep, perchance to dream; I'll take a peep-
Oh! that fair grove, and yon delicious pine,
Towering beyond the fatal boundary line.

And there he stands, the fatal swell of Hurlingham :
His little black moustaches, how he's twirling 'em '
Here comes his gun! If he forgets to cock it,
I'm off to Alabama like a rocket.

A moment more

I wish he'd use a hundred pound torpedo,
And make the people mount in air, as we do.
There go the rocks? "Click, click?"
And I am free, that never was before!
Yes. "Free among the dead," though some, I heard,
Were betting "ten to five upon the bird."
But can their jargon from the land of death
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Or will my ghost be glad, when I am gone,
That I was "freely backed at two to one?"

Well, come what will, "This Rock," at least, shall make
For life one flutter ("Lady of the Lake").
Suppose I fly slap at him, and suppose

I make him think I mean "to have his nose."
Perhaps he'd miss me, but perhaps he wouldn't;
And then, how very awkward if he shouldn't;
He'd be quite sure to hit me if I crawled ;
I think I'll try what Juvenal has called
"Excelsa turris tabulata." Bless it!
I fear the story goes on, "unde altior esset
Casus," &c., ending with a ruinæ.

It's quite enough to make one "shed the briny."
Would that like Milton's demons I could clime
"Part on the earth, and part in air sublime !"
He'd not know which to fire at, and the puzzle
Might make him put his shoulder to the muzzle.

By Jove, I have it! Plan untried by "Rocks,"
I'll light (like Bryant's matches) on the box ¡
The line "In medio tutissimus ibis,"
Perhaps as truthful of the Pigeon tribe is.
He might not like to shoot me till I stir ;
"And thus far will I trust thee, gentle sir,"
I'll sit on top, and try how long I can sit,
Time's precious! "Ready? Pull !"
chance it!

Here goes; I'll

'Tis done 'tis done! Down swept the leaden trail;
And must have killed me had I had a tail;
Behind the trap there was "such scanty room,
It missed my (absent) helm but razed a plume."

Even as it was, so closely came each pellet
That as it passed I could distinctly smell it.
Thanks, courteous trap, for rescue in the nick;
But what a silly man to fire so quick.

So far so good, but doubtless he has reckoned
On "dropping me superbly with his second "
(This sporting euphemism consoles the worst shots
For missing quite absurdly with their first shots).
But I won't budge an inch, and, if he tries,
He'll find it hard to drop me till I rise.
He hesitates, uncertain which to let off,
The gun or me; perhaps I still may get off.
But no! the gentle audience sees his doubt,

And playfully resolves to help him out;
And fifty throats exclaim, with laughter splitting,
"Wire in, my boy, and shoot the beggar sitting !"
Will he "forego his vantage" and retire?
Ah, no! he quietly proceeds to "wire."
The gun is raised! A flash! And so I die-
No, missed me clean, with none to wipe his eye!
Swift to the clouds I wing my way with joy,
While peals of scornful laughter greet "My boy."

Quite so! Va victis! They will spare a brute,
If they can find a human substitute;

For 'tis agreed by Christian, Jew, and nigger,
"Of two given victims, always choose the bigger."
R. L. FRANCIS.

:0:

Every one who has read the Ingoldsby Legends (and who has not?) will be sure to remember the pathetic little poem with which they conclude :

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye!
There came a noble Knyghte,

With his hauberke shynynge brighte,
And his gallant heart was lyghte,
Free and gaye;

As I laye a-thinkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seem'd a crimson plain,

Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne,
And a steed with broken rein

Ran free,

As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,

O merrie sang that Birde as it glittered on her breast With a thousand gorgeous dyes,

While soaring to the skies,

'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise,
As to her nest;

As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest :"Follow, follow me away,

It boots not to delay,❞—
'Twas so she seem'd to saye,
"Here is rest! ,"

AS I SATE A-DRYNKYNGE.

THE LAST WORDS OF JONAS JINGOLDSBY.
(Before going to by-by).

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she hopped about the floore;
There came a gay reporter

Of a "daily," nothynge shorter,
And he ordered halfe of porter,
And he swore,

As I sate a-drynkynge, to have a lyttel more.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
Swetely sang the Birde as she perched upon the bar;
There came a lovely maide,
Who took the coyne he payde,
And giving change, she sayde,
"Here you are."

As I sate a-drynkynge, her face was as a star.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Blythely sang the Birde as she pecked about my shoes; This journalistic childe

Continuously smyled,

And got to mixing "mild"

With Chartreuse.

As I sate a-drynkynge he was upon the booze.

This longing after immortality?

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge,
The Birde declined to sing, having started on the feed :

This youth did sing and shout,

Till there came a chucker-out;
But he stood hym halfe of stout

And a weed,

As I sate a-drynkynge-he did in very deed.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as it finished up its feast, The maiden she did say,

"Now, there's one and nyne to paye

So you had better goe awaye,
Tipsy beast!"

As I sate a-drynkynge, I thought it rude, at least.

As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge. Sleepily the Birde did its song again begin. There came a gallant crew

From The Jingoldsby Legends. By Jonas Jingoldsby, Esq. The Latest Edition.

This little anonymous sixpenny pamphlet was published at 84, Fleet Street, London, about 1882. In addition to the above parody, and A Lay of St. Dunstan's which appears a few pages back, it contained "The Inspector a' Trapping 'em," Sir Wilfrid the Beerless," "The Night and the Ladies," and other imitations of the Ingoldsby Legends, both in prose and verse.

There are two imitations of The Ingoldsby Legends in The Corkscrew Papers, published anonymously in 1876 by W. H. Guest, 9, Paternoster Row, London.

One is styled "Tamborini, the Poet," the other "Pygmalion and His Statue," they are long, and of no particular interest.

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me !
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold-If there's a Power above us

(And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when, or where ?-This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end 'em.

Thus am I doubly armed-My death and life, My bane and antidote are both before me. This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point: The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

Humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable
JOHN, Earl of STAIR.

MITCHELL, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand his tailor's bill, with an expostulatory letter: pen, ink, and paper on the table by him.

IT must be so-Tailor, thou reason'st well! -
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This earnest longing to discharge thy Bill?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of an arrest? Why shrinks the conscious soul
Back on herself, and startles at a Bailiff?
The Justice of a cause prevails within us;
'Tis Honesty that points out better days,
And intimates even Money to a Bard!
Money, thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untry'd life,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

Here will I hold. If a Maecenas be,

(And that there is, Fame publishes abroad
Thro' British realms) he must delight in goodness;

And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when, or who?-at present I'm in need,
And dun'd for debt-but this must bring relief.
(Taking his pen in his hand.)
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My pain or pleasure,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This in a moment claps me in a gaol;
But that informs me I shall yet be rich.
The Muse, secured by inspiration, smiles
At sight of Catchpoles, and defies a Writ.
Nobles may perish, and the King himself
Submit to fate, the very realm be ruined;
But Bards shall flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory broils,

Our civil fury, and our foreign wars.

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps thro' all my senses? Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care, Sinks down to dulness.-Let me drink a Bottle, That my awaken'd Muse may wing her flight, Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life, An off ring fit for STAIR. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest: Mitchell knows neither of them, Indifferent in his choice to live or die,

If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his favor.

From Poems on Several Occasions, in 2 vols., by Joseph Mitchell, commonly called Sir Robert Walpole's Poet. Published at London. 1729.

THE MASQUERADE;

or, the Belle's Soliloquy.

CELESTINA, solus, in a thoughtful posture-a Domino, with Hat and Feather, and a Purse of Gold lying on the table.

IT must be so-smart plume thou reason'st well
Else whence this springing joy, this fond desire,
This longing after concerts, plays, and balls?
Or whence this loathing dread and chill ennui,
At staying oft at home? Why hate we all
Immur'd to sit alone, and start at crickets!
'Tis scenes of polished life which prompt our longings,
'Tis Fashion's self, that points out public places,
And intimates Bon Ton to well-bred females.
Bon Ton, thou heart-reviving, pleasing thought!
Thro' what variety of frolic parties;

Thro' what bright scenes and changes may we pass ;
The brilliant masquerade lies straight before me,
But gods and milk-maids, clowns and demons throng
it.-

Here will I hold-if there's a Queen of Fashion,
(And that there is, each milliner declares
In every cap you buy !) she must love gadding,
And that which she approves the great must follow.
But when or where !-Cits go to the Pantheon !
I cannot make decision; this must close it.

(Laying her hand on the Purse.)

Thus am I doubly arm'd; my cash and trappings,
Money and Domino are both before me ;-
This, in a moment, purchases a ticket:

But this informs me I shan't be much spoke to.
The Belle, secure in Indian princess' robes,
Smiles at the Domino as 'neath her notice!
Colours shall fade; new Irish steps grow old
With lapse of time; ev'n laced Pellice be scorn'd,
But Diamonds still shall flourish and attract,

Unchang'd amid the varyings of caprice,

The coiffure powder'd, or the natural wig!

From Poems, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester. 1803.

LADY TOWNLEY'S SOLILOQUY.

IT must be so great Hoyle, thou counsell'st well;
Else whence this anxious hope, this thirst of gain,
This longing after Faro, Whist, Quadrille ?
But whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of staking all I'm worth? Why shrinks my soul?
Does Reason's secret impulse strive to shake
My firm resolve of going to a drum!

No:-'Tis last night's ill run at which I start;
'Tis want of gold that dictates stay at home,
And intimates 'twere better not to play.
Must I not play? Oh, serious hated thought!
From what variety of pleasing hopes,

From what gay scenes of joy, would'st thou exclude

me,

And tempt my steps to tread Discretion's paths?
The wild, the dreary prospect lies before me,
And none but prudent fools can rest upon it.
Here I will hold: if there is chance at play,
(And that there is, Hoyle proves in every line,
Through all his works) I yet may be successful;
And if successful, then I must be happy.

But when, or where?-Home has no charms for me-
I'm weary of conjectures.-Bring me my jewels.
(To her maid.)

Thus am I doubly arm'd; jewels and gold,
My purse and casket, now are both before me:
This, in a moment, may perchance be lost;
But this insures me credit for a week.
My heart elate, depending on good fortune,
Smiles at Sans prendre, and defies Codille,

The stars shall fade away, the tapers waste,
Morning appear, my husband wake alone;
But I shall flourish heroine at play,
Unhurt by fears of war with France or Spain,
Prussia's defeat, or Brunswick's overthrow,

From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair,

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Fawn and Dryad known; The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste eyed Queen,

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen

spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;

But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's Vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing: While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

About 1800 a satirical parody on this Ode was published anonymously, of which unfortunately no copy can now be traced. It contained the following lines:

ODE TO THE PASSIONS.

"REVENGE impatient rose;

He threw his boxing gloves in haste away,
And, with a knowing look,

A set of Scottish bagpipes took,

And blew a strain so full of fears,

The very Passions melt in tears.

(Tears! such as you've heard Shakespeare say, A Bagpipe's drone WILL bring away.)

And ever and anon he'd hum

The Giant's Song of Fe Fa Fum.

The most complete parody is however to be found in Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, published anonymously in London in 1814. Unfortunately it deals with the politics and politicians of the day, and many of the allusions are of no general interest at the present time, so that only a few extracts need be quoted :

THE ASPIRANTS:

An Ode for Music.

WHEN George our Prince, first sway'd the land,
While yet Restriction cramp'd his hand,
Aspirants oft, with smiles and bows,
Throng'd the door of Carlton House,
Expecting, hinting, praying, striving,
To get the reins, and shew their driving.
By turns they found the Princely mind
Disturb'd or calm, displeased or kind,
Till once, 'tis said, when one and all
Met impatient in his hall,

From a music room beyond

They snatch'd the instruments of sound;
And, having heard, perhaps, at school,
How fiddling Orpheus rose to rule,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would tempt the self-same path to pow'r.

First fiddle Grenville needs must try,

And strain'd the chords, to make them sure : Then back recoil'd, he knew not why, From the unfinish'd overture.

Next, Brougham came pushing from behind,
His native bagpipe at his side:

In one rude roar he forced the wind,
And sounded strong, and far, and wide.

The organ fell to Byron's share,

Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd : A solemn, strange, and mingled air! 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild

But thou, O Croker, bard of flame,
What was thy prophetic story?
Still it spoke of promised glory,

And bade the lofty hopes at distance hail.
Still would his touch the strain prolong :
And from the fort, the height, the vale,

He call'd on Wellington through all the song ;

And as that noble theme he chose,

Britain responsive cheer'd at every close,

And Croker smil'd, well pleas'd, and Britain boasts his fame.

Sheridan came last to trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,*

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd; But soon he saw the soul-awak'ning viol, Whose tone his nobler judgment loved the best: While, as his skilful fingers kiss'd the strings, Wisdom and mirth framed a harmonious round: Then wisdom gracious smiled, with zone unbound, And mirth, amid his frolic play,

Beating brisk measure to the jocund lay,

Waved in the Sun his gaily burnished wings.

R. B. Sheridan's attachment to the bottle was notorious.