THE HOUNDSDITCH ALBUM. Third Letter from Miss Hebe Hoggins. The Conversazione. CADMUS had not greater difficulty in civilizing his Baotians, than I have found in introducing a comparative gentility to our domestic circle in Houndsditch, although I have finally succeeded, as far as the nature of the obstacles will admit. An unconditional assent has been given to three articles in which I was personally interested; I am to put on a white gown every day, not to go to afternoon church on a Sunday, and never to wear pattens. My father, after a severe struggle, has consented to exchange his bob-wig for a fashionable crop; and my mother has conformed to all the external modifications I could wish, though she remains incurably afflicted with that infirmity of speech to which Mrs. Malaprop was subject. Upon questions of grammar we are perpetually at variance, for I am so often in the accusative case that Mrs. Hoggins cannot keep out of the imperative mood, and not unfrequently interrupts me with exclamations of " Psha! child, don't worret one so; I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself; I knew nothing of genders and conjunctions when I was your age, but I thinks girls talks of every thing now a-days." As to mending her cacophony, (as my Lord Duberly says) it is a hopeless attempt; silence is the only corrective, and to this alternative I was particularly anxious to reduce her last night, when I obtained her consent to my giving a literary conversazione, which I am happy to say passed off with the greatest possible success and éclat. Exclusively of the members of our society, some of the most celebrated characters in the world of letters honoured our coterie. The gentleman who wrote the last pantomime for one of our minor theatres, distinguished himself by some excellent practical jokes, which he played off with infinite adroitness. Mr. Grope, index-maker to one of the first publishers in the Row, astonished us by the alphabetical accuracy of his genius; Mr. Grub, who inserted in the Gentleman's Magazine a most interesting account of a Roman tooth-pick, dug up at the mouth of the Thames, was profound in antiquarian research; Miss Sphinks, who writes all the charades and rebuses for the Lady's Pocket-book, captivated the company with some capital conundrums; while we were all highly delighted with the caustic satire and biting irony of Mr. Fungus, a young man of great future celebrity, who, not having completed his studies, has not yet attained the art of writing books, and therefore contents himself for the present with reviewing them. It is well known that absence of mind has been an invariable accompaniment of genius, and it is therefore not without complacency that I record a ludicrous incident arising from one of those fits of literary abstraction to which I have been recently subject. While presiding at the tea-table I inadvertently substituted a canister of my father's snuff for the caddy, infusing eight large spoonfuls of the best Lundy Foot into the tea-pot; nor did I discover my mistake until the wry faces, watery eyes, and incessant sneezing of the company, were explained by Papa's angry exclamation-" Why, drat it! the girl's bewitch'd—I'll be hang'd if she hasn't wasted half-a-pound of my best Lundy Foot upon these confounded." A violent fit of sneezing fortunately prevented the completion of the sentence, and as I made good haste to repair my error by tendering him a cup (which he will persist in calling a dish) of genuine souchong by the time he had done wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, he suffered himself to be pacified. Dispatching as rapidly as possible this repast of the body, I hastened to the feast of reason, which I began by reciting a little song of my own composition, entitled Forgetful Cupid. A ROSE one morning Cupid took, And fill'd the leaves with vows of love, Seizing his dart, the god then traced Quoth, Psyche, "From your wing I'll take Cries Cupid, "But if every pen Be used in writing oaths to stay, I want them both-to fly away?" I frankly admitted that I thought the flow of these verses somewhat Moore-ish, and observed that they adapted themselves happily to one of the Irish Melodies, when I overheard Miss Caustic whisper to her neighbour, that if I was correct as to the metre, there wanted nothing but different words and sentiments to make it really very like Moore. "Envy does merit like its shade pursue," and we all know Miss Caustic's amiable propensities. If I were to require her to write a better, before she presumed to criticise my production, I fancy she would be condemned to a pretty long silence. Mr. Scribbleton, a multifarious operator for the theatres, particularly in getting up farces, next favoured us with a comic song, which he assured us was the easiest thing in the world to compose, as it was only to take a story from Joe Miller, versify it, and add a little nonsense by way of chorus, and he had never known the experiment fail. He relied confidently on a double encore for the following, inserted in a forthcoming piece, put into the mouth of a Yorkshireman. The Smoky Chimney. GRIPE'S chimney were smother'd wi' soot and wi' smoke, But I won't pay for sweeping, he mutter'd; So he took a live goose to the top-gave a poke, And down to the bottom it flutter'd. Hiss, flippity! hiss, flappity! Flippity, flappity, hiss! Wauns! how cruel, cries one-says another I 'm shock'd— But I'll do so no more. So the next time it smok'd, Quaak, flippity! quaak, flappity! At my earnest solicitation, Mr. Schweitzkoffer next recited some farther extracts from "The Apotheosis of Snip." This hero is conducted to the Dandelion Tea Gardens formerly established in the vicinity of Margate, where he delivers a political harangue, which a part of the company receive in dudgeon while others' supporting the orator, a pelting of stones and general combat ensue, of which the par ticulars are thus humorously detailed. Not with more dire contention press'd The Greeks and Trojans, breast to breast, O'er Snip, the prostrate, fought and bluster'd. Nor was that combat so prolific Of doleful yells and screams terrific ; For Trojan stout and stubborn Greek, Tho' wounded, scorn'd to whine or squeak, While those who were from wounds most safe Did here most clamorously chafe. Mothers, aunts, sisters, nieces, grannies, O heavens! there's another volley! Sally's lace veil is gone, I vow— I'll take my oath 'twas here just now. OI shall ne'er survive the squeedge! Ma, that's the man as play'd the harp. I shan't soon make another visit. George Crump, the inspired carman, of whose original Muse I have already furnished interesting specimens, having completed a poem entitled "The Skittle ground," with the exception of the introductory stanzas, applied to me for that difficult portion; and as I was very sure that he would never imitate the discourteousness of Dr. Darwin, who received a similar contribution from Miss Seward, and prefixed it to his Botanic Garden without the smallest acknowledgment, I resolved to gratify his wish, running over in my mind the opening lines of the most celebrated epics. Virgil's "Arma virumque cano"-Tasso's "Canto l'arme pietoso"-Ariosto's "Canto le Donne e' i Cavalieri” -Milton's "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit," with many other initiatory verses, occurred to my recollection; but Mr. Crump, having intimated at our conversazione that he had himself hit upon a happy exordium, I obtained silence, when he recited the following four lines as his proposed commencement, assuring us that the fact corresponded with his statement, which he considered a most auspicious augury. While playing skittles, ere I took my quid, For in a trice I knock'd the nine-pins down! It was my intention to have furnished some farther poetical flowers from the literary garland woven at this interesting Symposium, but the recollection of an incident which occurred towards the end of the entertainment actually paralyzes my faculties, and makes the pen flutter in my hand. My father, who is passionately fond of whist, had stipulated for a table in one corner of the room; and for the purpose of tenanting it had invited four or five humdrum neighbours, who could only be called men of letters in the postman's sense of the phrase, although they were perfectly competent to go through the automatical movements of shuffling, cutting, and dealing. After the rubber had been played once over in fact, and twice in subsequent discussion, they prepared to depart, and I heard the announcement of their servants arrival with a pleasure that I could ill conceal." Mrs. Waddle's maid and umbrella!" sounded up the stairs, and the corpulent old lady slowly obeyed the summons. "Miss Clacket's pattens stop the way!" was the next cry; and her shrill voice, still audible from below, continued without ceasing till the hall-door closed upon her clangour. "Mr. Wheeze's boy and lantern!" followed, when the worthy oilman, having put on two great coats, and tied as many handkerchiefs round his throat, coughed himself out of the house, wishing that he was well over Tower Hill on his way to Ratcliffe. Mrs. Dubb's shopman came to claim the last of this quartetto of quizzes; and I was just congratulating myself on the prospect of renewing our feast of intellect, free from the interruptions of uncongenial souls, when my father, running up to the table, cried out-" Well now let's see what card-money they have left." So saying, he looked under one of the candlesticks, took up a shilling, bit it, rung it upon the table, and exclaiming, "Zounds! it's a bad one--it's Mrs. Dubb's place-Hallo! Mrs. Dubbs, this won't do though, none of your raps"-rushed hastily out of the room. After two or three minutes, passed by me in silent horror, he re-entered, nearly out of breath, ejaculating as he spun another shilling with his finger and thumb--" Ay, ay, this will do; none of your tricks upon travellers, Mrs. Dubbs :- -a rank Brummagem!"— Miss Caustic began the titter-but I can describe no farther. I fell into as complete a state of defaillance as the subject of Sappho's celebrated ode-my blood tingled, my eyes swam, "my ears with hollow murmurs rang," and yet this fainting of the mind did not afford any relief to the shame and mortification that overwhelmed the too refined and sensitive bosom of HEBE HOGGINS. NIGHT. "O quante belle Luci il tempio celeste in ve raguna." WHEN 1 look forth into the face of night, And see those silent orbs that gem the sky The moon that holds her glorious path on high The countless host of stars of lesser light, Through the broad ocean of infinity, Steer'd by the hand of Him whose glories lie With this array, and downward turn mine eyes, My soul expands into its native might, And loathes the burden of that coil that lies Like lead upon the soul, and clogs its flight TASSO. M. |