open the
h
eyes" of the Cockneys to their stupid and vulgar manner of speaking.
more difficult and delicate task lay before me. I told her that as she was so much pleased with the first enigma, I would submit another by the same author. I felt very nervous, but determined to proceed:
I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair;
If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there.
The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi,
Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'Igh.
But though on this Horb I am destined to grovel,
I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel;
Not an 'Oss nor an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas!
But often I'm found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,
And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome.
Though 'ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art.
Only look, and you'll see in the Heye I appear,
Only 'ark, and you'll 'ear me just breathe in the Hear;
Though in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox!)
Not a bit of an 'Eifer, but partly a Hox.
Of Heternity Hi'm the beginning! And, mark,
Though I goes not with Noah, I am first in the Hark.
I'm never in 'Ealth—have with Fysic no power;
I dies in a Month, but comes back In a Hour!
In re-citing the above I strongly emphasized the misplaced
h
's. After a brief pause, Mrs. Hitchings exclaimed, "Very good; very clever." I then determined to complete my task by repeating the following enigma upon the same letter written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe and often erroneously attributed to Byron:
'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.
'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death;
It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, with the monarch is crowned.
Without it the soldier and seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
'Twill not soften the heart, and though deaf to the ear,
'Twill make it acutely and instantly hear.
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower—
Oh, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.