A SNAKE-SNACK.
“Twine ye, twine ye.”—SIR W. SCOTT.
IT was my good fortune once, at Charing Cross, to witness the feeding of the Boa Constrictor; rather a rare occurrence, and difficult of observation, the reptile not being remarkable for the regularity of its dinner-hour; and a very considerable interval intervenes, as the world knows, between Gorge the First, and Gorge the Second, Gorge the Third, and Gorge the Fourth. I was not in time to see the serpent’s first dart at the prey; she had already twisted herself round her victim,—a living White Rabbit—who with a large dark eye gazed piteously through one of the folds, and looked most eloquently that line in Hamlet—
“O could I shuffle off this mortal coil!”
THE BOA AFTER A MEAL.
The Snake evidently only embraced him in a kill-him-when-I-want-him manner, just firmly enough to prevent an escape—but her lips were glued on his, in a close “Judas’ kiss.” So long a time elapsed, in this position, both as marble-still as poor old Laocoon with his leaches on, that I really began to doubt the tale of the Boa’s ability in swallowing; and to associate the hoax before me, with that of the Bottle Conjuror. The head of the snake, in fact, might have gone without difficulty into a wine-glass, and the throat, down which the rabbit was to proceed whole, seemed not at all thicker than my thumb. In short, I thought the reported cram was nothing but stuff, and the only other visitor declared himself of my opinion: “If that ’ere little wiper swallows up the rabbit, I’ll bolt um both!” and he seemed capable of the feat. He looked like a personification of what Political Economists call the Public Consumer; or, Geoffrey Crayon’s Stout Gentleman, seen through Carpenter’s Solar Microscope; a genuine Edax Rerum; one of your devourers of legs of mutton and trimmings, for wagers: the delight of eating-houses, and the dread of ordinaries. The contrast was whimsical, between his mountain of mummy, and the slim Macaroni figure of the Snake, the reputed Glutton. However, the Boa began at last to prepare for the meal, by lubricating the muzzle of the Rabbit with her slimy tongue, and then commenced in earnest,
As far as in her lay to take him in,
A stranger dying with so fair a skin.
The process was tedious—“one swallow makes a summer”—but it gradually became apparent, from the fate of the head, that the whole body might eventually be “lost in the Serpentine.” The Reptile, indeed, made ready for the rest of the interment by an operation rather horrible. On a sudden, the living cable was observed, as a sailor would say, to haul in her slack, and with a squeeze evincing tremendous muscular power, she reduced the whole body into a compass that would follow the head with perfect ease. It was like a regular smash in business:—the poor rabbit was completely broken—and the wily winder-up of his affairs recommenced paying herself in full. It was a sorry sight and sickening. As for the Stout Gentleman, he could not control his agitation. His eyes rolled and watered; his jaws constantly yawned like a panther’s; and his hands with a convulsive movement were clasped every now and then on his stomach;—but when the whole rabbit was smothered in snake, he could restrain himself no longer, and rushed out of the menagerie as if he really expected to be called upon to fulfil his rash engagement. Anxious to ascertain the true nature of the impulse, I hurried in pursuit of him, and after a short but sharp chase, I saw him dash into the British Hotel, and overheard his familiar voice—the same that had promised to swallow both Snake and Snack—bellowing out, guttural with hunger—“Here!—waiter!—Quick!—Rabbits in onions for two!”
THE GREAT SEA SERPENT DISCOVERED FROM THE MAST-HEAD.
A STORM AT HASTINGS
AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.
’TWAS August—Hastings every day was filling—
Hastings, that “greenest spot on memory’s waste!”
With crowds of idlers willing or 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 pour’d in new coach-fulls 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.
AN ABRIDGMENT OF ALL THAT IS PLEASANT IN MAN.
And lo! amongst all these appear’d a creature,
So small, he almost might a twin have been,
With Miss Crachami—dwarfish quite in stature,
Yet well proportion’d—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 seem’d 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 stirr’d of many a man and many a maid,
To see at every venture how that vile
Small gambler snatch’d—and how he won them too—
A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!
A TIDE-WAITER.
Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,
’Twas handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass,
And dreamt three times she garnish’d 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 climb’d—and rode, and won—and walk’d,
The wondrous topic of the curious swarm
That haunted the Parade. Many were balk’d
Of notoriety by that small form
Pacing it up and down:—some even talk’d
Of ducking him—when lo! a dismal storm
Stepp’d in—one Friday, at the close of day—
And every head was turn’d another way—
Watching the grander guest. It seem’d to rise
Bulky and slow upon the southern brink
Of the horizon—fann’d by sultry sighs—
So black and threatening, I cannot think
Of any simile, except the skies
Miss Wiggins sometime shades in Indian ink—
Miss-shapen blotches of such heavy vapour,
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 roll’d 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
Growl’d long—but low—a prelude note of death,
As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,
But still it mutter’d 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 watch’d the surly advent of the storm,
Much as the brown-cheek’d planters of Barbadoes
Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm:—
Meantime it steer’d, like Odin’s old Armadas,
Right on our coast;—a dismal, coal-black form;—
Many proud gaits were quell’d—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
Vanish’d—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 remain’d that were not cow’d,
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 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 usurp’d 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 tear-drops from a Giant’s eyes—
But then this sprinkle thicken’d in a trice
And rain’d much harder—in good solid ice.
Oh! for a very storm of words to show
How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o’er us!
Handel would make the gusty organs blow
Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us!—
But ev’n his music seem’d composed and low,
When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus;
Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound,
And frozen comfits roll’d along the ground—
As big as bullets:—Lord! how they did batter
Our crazy tiles:—And now the lightning flash’d
Alternate with the dark, until the latter
Was rarest of the two:—the gust too dash’d
So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter
Some panes,—and so it did—and first it smash’d
The very square where I had chose my station
To watch the general illumination.
Another, and another, still came in,
And fell in jingling ruin at my feet,
Making transparent holes that let me win
Some samples of the storm:—Oh! it was sweet
To think I had a shelter for my skin,
Culling them through these “loopholes of retreat”—
Which in a little we began to glaze—
Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!
By which, the cloud had pass’d o’erhead, but play’d
Its crooked fires in constant flashes still,
Just in our rear, as though it had array’d
Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill,
So that it lit the town, and grandly made
The rugged features of the Castle Hill
Leap, like a birth, from chaos, into light,
And then relapse into the gloomy night—
As parcel of the cloud:—the clouds themselves,
Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting,
Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves,
That Milton’s devils were engaged in blasting.—
We could e’en fancy Satan and his elves
Busy upon those crags, and ever casting
Huge fragments loose—and that we felt the sound
They made in falling to the startled ground.
And so the tempest scowl’d away,—and soon,
Timidly shining through its skirts of jet,
We saw the rim of the pacific moon,
Like a bright fish entangled in a net,
Flashing its silver sides,—how sweet a boon,
Seem’d her sweet light, as though it would beget,
With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas—
Peace in the sky—and coolness in the breeze!
Meantime the hail had ceased:—and all the brood
Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;—
At every window, there were maids who stood
Lamenting o’er the glass’s small remains,—
Or with coarse linens made the fractious good,
Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,—
Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt:
The wind resolved—blowing the candles out.
No house was whole that had a southern front,—
No green-house but the same mishap befell:—
Bow-windows and bell-glasses bore the brunt,—
No sex in glass was spared!—For those who dwell
On each hill side, you might have swam a punt
In any of their parlours;—Mrs. Snell
Was slopp’d out of her seat,—and Mr. Hitchin
Had a flow’r-garden wash’d into a Kitchen.
SHE FROM OCEAN RISING.
But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaim’d
The recent violence.—Each after each
The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed,
Tapping, like Woodpeckers, the hollow beach.
Howbeit his weather eye the seaman aim’d
Across the calm, and hinted by his speech
A gale next morning—and when morning broke
There was a gale—“quite equal to bespoke.”
Before high water—(it were better far
To christen it not water then, but waiter,
For then the tide is serving at the bar)
Rose such a swell—I never saw one greater!
Black, jagged billows rearing up in war
Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter,
With lots of froth upon the shingle shed,
Like stout pour’d out with a fine beachy head.
No open boat was open to a fare,
Or launch’d that morn on seven-shilling trips;
No bathing woman waded—none would dare
A dipping in the wave—but waived their dips;
No seagull ventured on the stormy air,
And all the dreary coast was clear of ships;
For two lea shores upon the river Lea
Are not so perilous as one at sea.
Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene
Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,—
A boiling ocean of mix’d black and green,
A sky of copper colour, grim and surly,—
When lo, in that vast hollow scoop’d between
Two rolling Alps of water,—white and curly!
We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming,
Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!
Sometimes a hand—sometimes a little shoe—
Sometimes a skirt—sometimes a hank of hair,
Just like a dabbled seaweed, rose to view,
Sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bare—
At last a frightful summerset he threw
Right on the shingles. Any one could swear
The lad was dead—without a chance of perjury,
And batter’d by the surge beyond all surgery!
However, we snatch’d up the corse thus thrown,
Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it,
And after venting Pity’s sigh and groan,
Then Curiosity began with her fit;
And lo! the features of the Small Unknown!
’Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit!—
And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies!
We found a contract signed Mephistopheles!
A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave
His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion,
Providing in this world he was to have
A lordship over luck, by whose exertion
He might control the course of cards, and brave
All throws of dice,—but on a sea excursion
The juggling Demon, in his usual vein,
Seized the last cast—and Nick’d him in the main!
LINES
TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.
Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,
And tempests make a soda-water sea,
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
And think of me!
Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice,—
A wine more praised that it deserves to be:
Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,
And think of me!
KETCHING ITS PREY.
Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth
Making a midnight meal of he and she;
Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth,
And think of me!
Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,
Or lies along at full length like a tree,
Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,
And think of me!
Go where with human notes the Parrot dealeth
In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,
And like a woman, all she can revealeth,
And think of me!
Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,
And parasols of straw where hats should be,
Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,
And think of me!
Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills,
And tall bamboos—may none bamboozle thee!
Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles,
And think of me!
Go where a cook must always be a currier,
And parch the pepper’d palate like a pea,
Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier,
And think of me!
“A SOW WESTER OFF THE CAPE:—PIGS IN THE TROUGH OF THE SEA.”
Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,
Consign’d for wedlock to Calcutta’s quay,
Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,
And think of me!
Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,
Go to the land of pagod and rupee,
Where every black will be your slave and servant,
And think of me!