’Twas August — Hastings every day was filling —

Hastings, that “greenest spot on memory’s waste”!

With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling

To be bedipped — be noticed — or be braced,

And all things rose a penny in a shilling.

Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste

“Accommodation bills” kept coming down,

Gladding “the world of-letters” in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits,

Flying from London smoke and dust annoying,

Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits,

And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying,

Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits,

And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying

A morning’s reading by the ocean’s rim,

That sect delighting in the sea’s broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature,

So small, he almost might a twin have been

With Miss Crachami — dwarfish quite in stature,

Yet well proportioned — neither fat nor lean,

His face of marvellously pleasant feature,

So short and sweet a man was never seen —

All thought him charming at the first beginning —

Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance — and chance repaid

His ardent passion with her fondest smile,

The sunshine of good luck, without a shade,

He staked and won — and won and staked — the bile

It stirred of many a man and many a maid,

To see at every venture how that vile

Small gambler snatched — and how he won them too —

A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,

’Twas handsome rosewood, and inlaid with brass,

And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks

Of needles, silks, and cottons — but, alas!

She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox

Was lucky — but she saw three caddies pass

To that small imp; — no living luck could loo him!

Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed — and rode — and won — and walked,

The wondrous topic of the curious swarm

That haunted the Parade. Many were balked

Of notoriety by that small form

Pacing it up and down: some even talked

Of ducking him — when lo! a dismal storm

Stopped in — one Friday, at the close of day —

And every head was turned another way —

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise

Bulky and slow upon the southern brink

Of the horizon — fanned by sultry sighs —

So black and threatening, I cannot think

Of any simile, except the skies

Miss Wiggins sometimes shades in Indian ink —

Mis-shapen blotches of such heavy vapor,

They seem a deal more solid than her paper.

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave,

And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on

The stony-hearted beach; — some bards would have

It always rampant, in that idle fashion —

Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave,

Like schoolboys, when the master’s in a passion,

Who meekly settle in and take their places,

With a very quiet awe on all their faces.

Some love to draw the ocean with a head,

Like troubled table-beer — and make it bounce,

And froth, and roar, and fling — but this, I’ve said,

Surged in scarce rougher than a lady’s flounce:

But then, a grander contrast thus it bred

With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce

Something more awful in the serious ear,

As one would whisper that a lion’s near —

Who just begins to roar: so the hoarse thunder

Growled long — but low — a prelude note of death,

As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,

But still it muttered to the sea beneath

Such a continued peal, as made us wonder

It did not pause more oft to take its breath,

Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather,

And hardly cared to wed two words together,

But watched the surly advent of the storm,

Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes

Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm:

Meantime it steered, like Odin’s old Armadas,

Right on our coast; — a dismal, coal-black form;

Many proud gaits were quelled — and all bravadoes

Of folly ceased — and sundry idle jokers

Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.

So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days

The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing,

And they are used to many a pretty blaze,

To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing

With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays:

And truly one could think, without much lashing

The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful

And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful.

The gay Parade grew thin — all the fair crowd

Vanished — as if they knew their own attractions —

For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud

Began to make some very crooked fractions —

Only some few remained that were not cowed,

A few rough sailors, who had been in actions,

And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo’s,

Lest it should blow — were pulling up the Rose:

(No flower, but a boat)— some more were hauling

The Regent by the head:— another crew

With that same cry peculiar to their calling—

Were heaving up the Hope:— and as they knew

The very gods themselves oft get a mauling

In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew

The Neptune rather higher on the beach,

That he might lie beyond his billows’ reach.

And now the storm, with its despotic power,

Had all usurped the azure of the skies,

Making our daylight darker by an hour,

And some few drops — of an unusual size —

Few and distinct — scarce twenty to the shower,

Fell like huge teardrops from a giant’s eyes —

But then this sprinkle th............