by Thomas Hood
In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still,
I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will;
Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle
On any horse without ‘a want of keeping’ in the saddle.
In short,’ and here I blush’d, abash’d, and held my head full low,
‘I’m one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!’
The lady smiled, as hour is smile, adown from Turkish skies,
And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes;
‘Stranger,’ she said, ‘or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend,
There’s something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep’s bend,
That tells me you’re of Arab race, whatever spot of earth,
Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honour of your birth,
The East it is your country! Like an infant changed at nurse
By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse;
But this — these desert sands — these palms, and cedars waving wild,
All, all, adopt thee as their own — an oriental child —
The cloud may hide the sun awhile — but soon or late, no doubt,
The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out!
I read the starry characters — and lo! ’tis written there,
Thou wert foredoom’d of sons of men to ride upon this Mare,
A Mare till now was never back’d by one of mortal mould,
Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal’d!’
And truly — I devoutly wish’d a blast of the simoom
Had stifled her! — the Mare herself appear’d to mock my doom;
With many a bound she caper’d round and round me like a dance,
I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance,
And felt myself, and saw myself — the phantasy was horrid! —
Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead!
On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais’d in pray’r,
I begg’d the turban’d Sultaness the issue to forbear;
I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow’d wife,
And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life.
‘Behold,’ I said, ‘a simple man, for such high feats unfit,
Who never yet has learn’d to know the crupper from the bit,
Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill,
Would well be task’d to bend so wild a creature to the will.’
Alas! alas! ’twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel,
The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal!
‘Fear nothing,’ said the smiling Fate, ‘when human help is vain,
Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein;
Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark,
And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark!
As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild
But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child.’
‘Nay then,’ cried I — (heav’n shrive the lie!) ‘to tell the secret truth,
’Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth!
A playful child, so full of life! — a little fair-haired boy,
His sister’s pet, his father’s hope, his mother’s darling joy!
Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now! —
That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow;
A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse,
That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!’
Good heav’n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now!
A chill ran all my marrow through — the drops were on my brow!
I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare,
And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff’d the sultry air
How lion-like she lash’d her flanks with her abundant tail;
While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale!
How fearfully she roll’d her eyes between the earth and sky,
As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly!
While with her hoof she scoop’d the sand as if before she gave
My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!
And I, that ne’er could calmly bear a horse’s ears at play,
Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh —
Whose foot within a stable door had never stood an inch —
Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,
I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small,
To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall!
For oh! it is no fable, but at ev’ry look I cast
Her restless legs seem’d twice as long as when I saw them last!
In agony I shook, and yet, although congealed by fears,
My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears;
I gasp’d as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair,
Some secret Demon seem’d to pass his fingers through my hair.
I could not stir — I could not speak — I could not even see —
A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me,
I tried to pray, but found no words — tho’ ready ripe to weep,
No tear would flow, o’er ev’ry sense a swoon began to creep,
When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt,
Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front, ‘
And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn,
I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!
Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight
Was felt upon her back, as if exulting in her freight;
Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,
‘Off with the bridle — quick! — and leave his guidance to his star!
‘Allah! il Allah!’ rose the shout, and starting with a bound,
The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground;
And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands,
Away we flew — away! away! across the shifting sands!
My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race,
But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,
For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force
Rush’d like a torrid hurricane still adverse to our course —
One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,
The next it only murmur’d like the humming of a bee!
And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,
Oh ne’er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!
What seem’d a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain,
A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!
What tongue could tell, what pencil paint, what pen describe the ride?
Now off — now on — now up — now down, and flung from side to side!
I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone —
My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan —
My joints were racked — my back was strained, so firmly I had clung —
My nostrils gush’d, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue —
When lo! — farewell all hope of life! — she turn’d and faced the rocks,
None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!
So thought I, but I little knew the desert pride and fire,
Deriv’d from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire;
Little I guess’d the energy of muscle, blood, and bone,
Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear’d each massive stone; —
Nine mortal leaps were pass’d before a huge grey rock at length
Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength —
My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!
She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;
Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn’d me of her spring,
I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing —
But oh! the crash! — the hideous shock! — the million sparks around!
Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!
Wild shriek’d the headlong Desert-Born — or else ’twas demon’s mirth,
One second more, and Man and Mare roll’d breathless on the earth!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,
And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;
For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,
The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.
My heart was still — my pulses stopp’d — midway ‘twixt life and death,
With pain unspeakable I fetch’d the fragment of a breath,
Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh,
Yet even that I loath’d because it would not let me die.
Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,
Time flapp’d along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!
I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife —
A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life —
But who hath felt a horse’s weight oppress his labouring breast?
Why any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.
AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS
A PASTORAL REPORT
One Sunday morning — service done —
‘Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,
A knot of bumpkins stood to chat
Of that and this, and this and that;
What people said of Polly Hatch —
Which side had won the cricket match;
And who was cotch’d, and who was bowl’d; —
How barley, beans, and ‘taters sold —
What men could swallow at a meal —
When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal —
And who was taken off to jail —
And where they brew’d the strongest ale —
At last this question they address,
‘What’s Agricultural Distress?’
Hodge.
‘For my peart, it’s a thought o’ mine,
It be the fancy farming line,
Like yonder gemman, him I mean,
As took the Willa nigh the Green,
And turn’d his cattle in the wheat;
And gave his porkers hay to eat;
And sent his footman up to town,
To ax the Lonnon gentry down,
To be so kind as make his hay,
Exactly on St. Swithin’s day; —
With consequences you may guess —
That’s Hagricultural Distress.’
Dickon.
‘Last Monday morning, Master Blogg
Com’d for to stick our bacon-hog;
But th’ hog he cock’d a knowing eye,
As if he twigg’d the reason why,
And dodg’d and dodg’d ‘un such a dance,
He didn’t give the noose a chance;
So Master Blogg at last lays off,
And shams a rattle at the trough,
When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog
Atwixt the legs o’ Master Blogg,
And flops him down in all the muck,
As hadn’t been swept up by luck —
Now that, accordin’ to my guess,
Be Hagricultural Distress.’ —
Giles.
‘No, that arn’t it, I tell ‘ee flat;
I’ze bring a worser case nor that!
Last Friday week, I takes a start
To Reading, with our horse and cart;
Well, when I’ze set the ‘taters down,
I meets a crony at the Crown;
And what betwixt the ale and Tom,
It’s dark afore I starts for home;
So whipping hard, by long and late,
At last we reaches nigh the gate,
And, sure enough, there Master stand,
A lantern flaring in his hand,
“Why, Giles,” says he, “what’s that ‘un thear?
Yond’ chestnut horse bean’t my bay mear!
He bean’t not worth a leg o’ Bess!”
There’s Hagricultural Distress!’ Hob.
‘That’s nothin’ yet, to Tom’s mishap!
A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,
Only to fetch his milking-pails,
When up he shies like head or tails;
Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,
Till he had toss’d the best o’ three; —
And there lies Tom with broken bones,
A surgeon’s job for Doctor Jones;
Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,
“There’s two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,
Eat well,” says he, “ stuff out your case,
For that will keep the ribs in place;”
But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,
Seeing as how he’d broke his jaw?
That’s summut to the pint — yes, yes,
That’s Hagricultural Distress! ‘Simon.
‘Well, turn and turn about is fair:
Tom’s bad anough, and so’s the mare;
But nothing to my load of hay —
You see, ’twas hard on quarter-day,
And cash was wanted for the rent;
So up to Lonnon I was sent,
To sell as prime a load of hay
As ever dried on summer’s day.
Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,
A chap comes up to buy my load,
And looks, and looks about the cart,
Pretending to be ‘cute and smart;
But no great judge, as people say,
‘Cause why? he never smelt the hay.
Thinks I, as he’s a simple chap,
He’ll give a simple price mayhap,
Such buyers comes but now and then,
So slap I axes nine pun’ ten.
“That’s dear,” says he, and pretty quick
He taps his leathers with his stick.
“Suppose,” says he, “we wet our clay,
Just while we bargin ‘bout the hay.”
So in we goes, my chap and me;
He drinks to I, and I to he;
At last, says I, a little gay,
“Its time to talk about that hay.”
“Nine pund,” says he, “and I’m your man,
Live, and let live — for that’s my plan.” —
“That’s true,” says I, “but still I say,
It’s nine pun’ ten for that ‘ere hay.”
And so we chaffers for a bit,
At long and last the odds we split;
And off he sets to show the way,
Where up a yard I leaves the hay.
Then, from the pocket of his coat,
He pulls a book, and picks a note.
“That’s Ten,” says he—” I hope to pay
Tens upon tens for loads of hay.” no
“With all my heart, and soon,” says I,
And feeling for the change thereby;
But all my shillings com’d to five —
Says he, “No matter, man alive!
There’s something in your honest phiz
I’d trust, if twice the sum it is; —
You’ll pay next time you come to town.”
“As sure,” says I, “as corn is brown.”
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br /> “All right,” says he. — Thinks I, “huzza!
He’s got no bargain of the hay!”
‘Well, home I goes, with empty cart,
Whipping the horses pretty smart,
And whistling ev’ry yard o’ way,
To think how well I’d sold the hay —
And just cotch’d Master at his greens
And bacon, or it might be beans,
Which didn’t taste the worse surety,
To hear his hay had gone so high.
But lord! when I laid down the note,
It stuck the victuals in his throat,
And chok’d him till his face all grew
Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue;
With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!
They seem’d a-coming out like snails!
“A note,” says he, half mad with passion,
“Why, thou dom’d fool! thou’st took a flash ‘un!”
Now, wasn’t that a pretty mess?
That’s Hagricultural Distress.’ Colin.
‘Phoo! phoo! You’re nothing near the thing!
You only argy in a ring;
‘Cause why? You never cares to look,
Like me, in any larned book;
But schollards know the wrong and right
Of every thing in black and white.
‘Well, Farming, that’s its common name,
And Agriculture be the same:
So put your Farming first, and next
Distress, and there you have your text.
But here the question comes to press,
What farming be, and what’s distress? —
Why, farming is to plough and sow,
Weed, harrow, harvest, reap and mow,
Thrash, winnow, sell, and buy and breed
The proper stock to fat and feed.
Distress is want, and pain, and grief,
And sickness, things as wants relief;
Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe;
In short, ax any overseer,
Well, now, the logic for to chop,
Where’s the distress about a crop?
There’s no distress in keeping sheep,
I likes to see ‘em frisk and leap;
There’s no distress in seeing swine
Grow up to pork and bacon fine;
There’s no distress in growing wheat
And grass for men or beasts to eat;
And making of lean cattle fat,
There’s no distress, of course, in that.
Then what remains? — But one thing more,