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!
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