But, what sounds are these? The steamer had shot along during my reverie, and was now passing a long line of low-built strong vessels, moored in the centre of the river. I looked round, and here was more than a dream of the past; here was the past itself—here was man in his primitive state, as he had issued from the forest, before a profane axe had cropped its brushwood. Here I saw perhaps five hundred of my fellow-beings, no more indebted to the frippery of civilisation than the court of Caractacus.—Bold figures, daring brows, Herculean shapes, naked to the waist, and with skins of the deepest bronze. Cast in metal, and fixed in a gallery, they would have made an incomparable rank and file of gladiatorial statues.
The captain of the steamer explained the phenomenon. They were individuals, who, for want of a clear perception of the line to be drawn between meum and tuum, had been sent on this half-marine half-terrestrial service, to reinforce their morals. They were now serving their country, by digging sand and deepening the channel of the river. The scene of their patriotism was called the "hulks," and the patriots themselves were technically designated felons.
Before I could give another glance, we had shot along; and, to my surprise, I heard a chorus of their voices in the distance. I again applied to my Cicerone, who told me that all other efforts having failed to rectify their moral faculties; a missionary singing-master had been sent down among them, and was reported to be making great progress in their conversion.
I listened to the sounds, as they followed on the breeze. I am not romantic; but I shall say no more. The novelty of this style of reformation struck me. I regarded it as one of the evidences of national advance.—My thoughts instinctively flowed into poetry.
Song For The Million.
"Mirth, admit me of thy crew."
Song, admit me of thy crew!
Minstrels, without shirt or shoe,
Geniuses with naked throats,
Bare of pence, yet full of notes.
Bards, before they've learn'd to write,
Issuing their notes at sight;
Notes, to tens of thousands mounting,
Careless of the Bank's discounting.
Leaving all the world behind,
England, in thy march of Mind.
Now, the carter drives his cart,
Whistling, as he goes, Mozart.
Now, a shilling to a guinea,
Dolly cook, sol-fas Rossini.
While the high-soul'd housemaid, Betty,
Twirls her mop to Donizetti.
Or, the scullion scrubs her oven
To thy Runic hymns, Beethoven.
All the sevants' hall combined,
England, in thy march of Mind.
Now, may maidens of all ages
Look unharm'd on pretty pages.
Now, may paupers "raise the wind,"
Now, may score the great undined.
Now, unblamed, may tender pairs
Give themselves the tenderest airs.
Now, may half-pay sons of Mars
Look in freedom through their bars,
Though upon a Bench reclined,
England, in thy march of Mind.
Soon we'll hear our "London cries"
Dulcified to harmonies;
Mackerel sold in canzonets,
Milkmen "calling," in duets.
Postmen's bells no more shall bore us,
When their clappers ring in chorus.
Ears no more shall start at, Dust O!
When the thing is done with gusto.
E'en policemen grow refined,
England, in thy march of Mind.
Song shall settle Church and State,
Song shall supersede debate.
Owlet Joe no more shall screech,
We shall make him sing his speech.
Even the Iron Duke's "sic volo"
Shall be soften'd to a solo.
Discords then shall be disgrace,
Statesmen shall play thorough base;
Whigs and Tories intertwined,
England, in thy march of Mind.