A WILD HUNT.
Can any one confidently say to himself that he has conversed with the
identical, individual, stupidest man now extant in London?"—T. Carlyle.
I STARTED up and slammed the book;
I seized my hat and cane;
I sought the bell and summoned cook
With all my might and main.
My cook, she is a sober lass—
Respectable, but slow:
She wonder'd what had come to pass
To set me ringing so.
Said I, My skiff is on the shore,
My bark is on the sea;
And many suns may set before
I can return to thee.
Expect me back on Friday week;
I'm not at home till then.
Adieu, adieu; I go to seek
The Stupidest of Men!"
I travers'd London in my search,
Careering to and fro,
From Barnsbury to Brixton Church.
From Notting Hill to Bow.
"There's no such word as fail," said I:
"I 'll seek my treasure still
From Brixton Church to Barnsbury,
From Bow to Notting Hill!"
He went not by the penny-boat,
The omnibus, or train;
One hour on shore—the next afloat—
I hunted him in vain.
And ever, as the days wore on
In travels east and west,
I marvell'd where he could have gone,
My own, my Stupidest.
I met, of course, with many men
Whose brains were very small;
I found a party, now and then,
With nearly none at all.
I spoke to some who talk'd about
The weather and the crops;
To others, much the worse, no doubt,
For alcohol or hops.
Alas! in ev'ry deep, you know,
There is a deeper yet;
Methought that I had sunk as low
As I was like to get.
Say, wherefore should I deign to dive
An atom deeper down?
"My Man," said I, "if still alive,
Is hiding out of town."
The fret, the fever, and the fuss,
Were wearing out my brain;
And so at last I hail'd a 'bus
To take me back again.
At home, securely re-install'd,
I rang for Mary Ann;
She said a visitor had call'd—
A "stupid-looking man."
I question'd her, and cook's replies
Completely prov'd the case.
She said, "I never did set eyes
On such a silly face."
"Thrice welcome, Destiny!" I cried
"The moral that you teach:
'Tis thus Man travels far and wide
For things within his reach!'