HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS. (continued 9)

THE FORGE.[44] A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE. "Who's here, beside foul weather?"—KING LEAR. "Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me, Should have stood that night against my fire" —CORDELIA

PART I Like a dead man gone to his shroud, The sun has sunk in a copper cloud, And the wind is rising squally and loud With many a stormy token,— Playing a wild funereal air Through the branches bleak, bereaved, and bare, To the dead leaves dancing here and there— In short, if the truth were spoken, It's an ugly night for anywhere, But an awful one for the Brocken! For oh! to stop On that mountain top, After the dews of evening drop, Is always a dreary frolic— Then what must it be when nature groans, And the very mountain murmurs and moans As if it writhed with the cholic— With other strange supernatural tones, From wood, and water, and echoing stones, Not to forget unburied bones— In a region so diabolic! A place where he whom we call Old Scratch, By help of his Witches—a precious batch— Gives midnight concerts and sermons, In a Pulpit and Orchestra built to match, A plot right worthy of him to hatch, And well adapted, he knows, to catch The musical, mystical Germans! However it's quite As wild a night As ever was known on that sinister height Since the Demon-Dance was morriced— The earth is dark, and the sky is scowling, And the blast through the pines is howling and growling, As if a thousand wolves were prowling About in the old BLACK FOREST! Madly, sadly, the Tempest raves Through the narrow gullies and hollow caves, And bursts on the rocks in windy waves, Like the billows that roar On a gusty shore Mourning over the mariners' graves— Nay, more like a frantic lamentation From a howling set Of demons met To wake a dead relation. Badly, madly, the vapors fly Over the dark distracted sky, At a pace that no pen can paint! Black and vague like the shadows of dreams, Scudding over the moon that seems, Shorn of half her usual beams, As pale as if she would faint! The lightning flashes, The thunder crashes, The trees encounter with horrible clashes, While rolling up from marsh and bog, Rank and rich, As from Stygian ditch, Rises a foul sulphureous fog, Hinting that Satan himself is agog,— But leaving at once this heroical pitch, The night is a very bad night in which You wouldn't turn out a dog. Yet ONE there is abroad in the storm, And whenever by chance The moon gets a glance, She spies the Traveller's lonely form, Walking, leaping, striding along, As none can do but the super-strong; And flapping his arms to keep him warm, For the breeze from the North is a regular starver, And to tell the truth, More keen, in sooth, And cutting than any German carver! However, no time it is to lag, And on he scrambles from crag to crag, Like one determined never to flag— Now weathers a block Of jutting rock, With hardly room for a toe to wag; But holding on by a timber snag, That looks like the arm of a friendly hag; Then stooping under a drooping bough, Or leaping over some horrid chasm, Enough to give any heart a spasm! And sinking down a precipice now, Keeping his feet the Deuce knows how, In spots whence all creatures would keep aloof, Except the Goat, with his cloven hoof, Who clings to the shallowest ledge as if He grew like the weed on the face of the cliff! So down, still down, the Traveller goes, Safe as the Chamois amid his snows, Though fiercer than ever the hurricane blows, And round him eddy, with whirl and whizz, Tornadoes of hail, and sleet, and rain, Enough to bewilder a weaker brain, Or blanch any other visage than his, Which spite of lightning, thunder and hail, The blinding sleet and the freezing gale, And the horrid abyss, If his foot should miss, Instead of tending at all to pale, Like cheeks that feel the chill of affright— Remains the very reverse of white! His heart is granite—his iron nerve Feels no convulsive twitches; And as to his foot, it does not swerve, Tho' the Screech-Owls are flitting about him that serve For parrots to Brocken Witches! Nay, full in his very path he spies The gleam of the Were Wolf's horrid eyes; But if his members quiver— It is not for that—no, it is not for that— Nor rat, Nor cat, As black as your hat, Nor the snake that hiss'd, nor the toad that spat, Nor glimmering candles of dead men's fat, Nor even the flap of the Vampire Bat, No anserine skin would rise thereat, It's the cold that makes Him shiver! So down, still down, through gully and glen, Never trodden by foot of men, Past the Eagle's nest and the She-Wolf's den, Never caring a jot how steep Or how narrow the track he has to keep, Or how wide and deep An abyss to leap, Or what may fly, or walk, or creep, Down he hurries through darkness and storm, Flapping his arms to keep him warm— Till threading many a pass abhorrent, At last he reaches the mountain gorge, And takes a path along by a torrent— The very identical path, by St. George! Down which young Fridolin went to the Forge, With a message meant for his own death-warrant! Young Fridolin! young Fridolin! So free from sauce, and sloth, and sin, The best of pages Whatever their ages, Since first that singular fashion came in— Not he like those modern and idle young gluttons With little jackets, so smart and spruce, Of Lincoln green, sky-blue, or puce— A little gold lace you may introduce— Very showy, but as for use, Not worth so many buttons! Young Fridolin! young Fridolin! Of his duty so true a fulfiller— But here we need no farther go For whoever desires the Tale to know, May read it all in Schiller. Faster now the Traveller speeds, Whither his guiding beacon leads. For by yonder glare In the murky air, He knows that the Eisen Hutte is there! With its sooty Cyclops, savage and grim Hosts, a guest had better forbear, Whose thoughts are set upon dainty fare— But stiff with cold in every limb, The Furnace Fire is the bait for Him! Faster and faster still he goes. Whilst redder and redder the welkin glows, And the lowest clouds that scud in the sky Get crimson fringes in flitting by. Till lo! amid the lurid light, The darkest object intensely dark, Just where the bright is intensely bright, The Forge, the Forge itself is in sight, Like the pitch-black hull of a burning bark, With volleying smoke, and many a spark, Vomiting fire, red, yellow, and white! Restless, quivering tongues of flame! Heavenward striving still to go, While others, reversed in the stream, below, Seem seeking a place we will not name, But well that Traveller knows the same, Who stops and stands, So rubbing his hands, And snuffing the rare Perfumes in the air, For old familiar odors are there, And then direct by the shortest cut, Like Alpine Marmot, whom neither rut, Rivers, rocks, nor thickets rebut, Makes his way to the blazing Hut! PART II. Idly watching the Furnace-flames, The men of the stithy Are in their smithy, Brutal monsters, with bulky frames, Beings Humanity scarcely claims, But hybrids rather of demon race, Unbless'd by the holy rite of grace, Who never had gone by Christian names, Mark, or Matthew, Peter, or James— Naked, foul, unshorn, unkempt, From touch of natural shame exempt, Things of which Delirium has dreamt— But wherefore dwell on these verbal sketches, When traced with frightful truth and vigor, Costume, attitude, face, and figure, Retsch has drawn the very wretches! However, there they lounge about, The grim, gigantic fellows, Hardly hearing the storm without, That makes so very dreadful a rout, For the constant roar From the furnace door. And the blast of the monstrous bellows! Oh, what a scene That Forge had been For Salvator Rosa's study! With wall, and beam, and post, and pin, And those ruffianly creatures, like Shapes of Sin, Hair, and eyes, and rusty skin, Illumed by a light so ruddy The Hut, and whatever there is therein, Looks either red-hot or bloody! And, oh! to hear the frequent burst Of strange, extravagant laughter, Harsh and hoarse, And resounding perforce From echoing roof and rafter! Though curses, the worst That ever were curst, And threats that Cain invented the first, Come growling the instant after! But again the livelier peal is rung, For the Smith, hight Salamander, In the jargon of some Titanic tongue, Elsewhere never said or sung, With the voice of a Stentor in joke has flung Some cumbrous sort Of sledge-hammer retort At Red Beard, the crew's commander. Some frightful jest—who knows how wild, Or obscene, from a monster so defiled, And a horrible mouth, of such extent, From flapping ear to ear it went, And show'd such tusks whenever it smiled— The very mouth to devour a child! But fair or foul the jest gives birth To another bellow of demon mirth, That far outroars the weather, As if all the Hyænas that prowl the earth Had clubb'd their laughs together! And lo! in the middle of all the din, Not seeming to care a single pin, For a prospect so volcanic, A Stranger steps abruptly in, Of an aspect rather Satanic: And he looks with a grin at those Cyclops grim, Who stare and grin again at him With wondrous little panic. Then up to the Furnace the Stranger goes, Eager to thaw his ears and nose, And warm his frozen fingers and toes— While each succeeding minute, Hotter and hotter the Smithy grows, And seems to declare, By a fiercer glare, On wall, roof, floor, and everywhere, It knows the Devil is in it! Still not a word Is utter'd or heard, But the beetle-brow'd Foreman nods and winks, Much as a shaggy old Lion blinks, And makes a shift To impart his drift To a smoky brother, who, joining the links, Hints to a third the thing he thinks; And whatever it be, They all agree In smiling with faces full of glee, As if about to enjoy High Jinks. What sort of tricks they mean to play By way of diversion, who can say, Of such ferocious and barbarous folk, Who chuckled, indeed, and never spoke Of burning Robert the Jäger to coke, Except as a capital practical joke! Who never thought of Mercy, or heard her, Or any gentle emotion felt; But hard as the iron they had to melt, Sported with Danger and romp'd with Murder! Meanwhile the Stranger— The Brocken Ranger, Besides another and hotter post, That renders him not averse to a roast,— Creeping into the Furnace almost, Has made himself as warm as a toast— When, unsuspicious of any danger, And least of all of any such maggot As treating a body like a faggot, All at once he is seized and shoven In pastime cruel, Like so much fuel, Headlong into the blazing oven! In he goes! with a frightful shout Mock'd by the rugged ruffianly band, As round the Furnace mouth they stand, Bar, and shovel, and ladle in hand, To hinder their Butt from crawling out, Who making one fierce attempt, but vain, Receives such a blow From Red-Beard's crow As crashes the skull and gashes the brain, And blind, and dizzy, and stunn'd with pain, With merely an interjectional "oh!" Back he rolls in the flames again. "Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!" That second fall Seerns the very best joke of all, To judge by the roar, Twice as loud as before, That fills the Hut, from the roof to the floor, And flies a league or two out of the door, Up the mountains and over the moor— But scarcely the jolly echoes they wake Have well begun To take up the fun, Ere the shaggy Felons have cause to quake, And begin to feel that the deed they have done, Instead of being a pleasant one, Was a very great error—and no mistake. For why?—in lieu Of its former hue, So natural, warm, and florid, The Furnace burns of a brimstone blue, And instead of the couleur de rose it threw, With a cooler reflection,—justly due— Exhibits each of the Pagan crew, Livid, ghastly, and horrid! But vainly they close their guilty eyes Against prophetic fears; Or with hard and horny palms devise To dam their enormous ears— There are sounds in the air, Not here or there, Irresistible voices everywhere, No bulwarks can ever rebut, And to match the screams Tremendous gleams, Of Horrors that like the Phantoms of dreams, They see with their eyelids shut! For awful coveys of terrible things, With forked tongues and venomous stings, On hagweed, broomsticks, and leathern wings, Are hovering round the Hut! Shapes, that within the focus bright Of the Forge, are like shadows and blots; But farther off, in the shades of night, Clothed with their own phosphoric light, Are seen in the darkest spots. Sounds! that fill the air with noises, Strange and indescribable voices, From Hags, in a diabolical clatter— Cats that spit curses, and apes that chatter Scraps of cabalistical matter— Owls that screech, and dogs that yell— Skeleton hounds that will never be fatter— All the domestic tribes of Hell, Shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter, Bones to shatter, And limbs to scatter, And who it is that must furnish the latter Those blue-looking Men know well! Those blue-looking men that huddle together, For all their sturdy limbs and thews Their unshorn locks, like Nazarene Jews, And buffalo beards, and hides of leather, Huddled all in a heap together, Like timid lamb, and ewe, and wether, And as females say, In a similar way, Fit for knocking down with a feather! In and out, in and out, The gathering Goblins hover about, Ev'ry minute augmenting the rout; For like a spell The unearthly smell That fumes from the Furnace, chimney and mouth, Draws them in—an infernal Legion From East, and West, and North, and South, Like carrion birds from ev'ry region, Till not a yard square Of the sickening air But has a Demon or two for its share, Breathing fury, woe, and despair, Never, never was such a sight! It beats the very Walpurgis Night, Displayed in the story of Doctor Faustus, For the scene to describe Of the awful tribe, If we were two Göthes, would quite exhaust us! Suffice it, amid that dreary swarm, There musters each foul repulsive form That ever a fancy overwarm Begot in its worst delirium; Besides some others of monstrous size, Never before revealed to eyes, Of the genus Megatherium! Meanwhile the demons, filthy and foul, Gorgon, Chimera, Harpy, and Ghoul, Are not contented to jibber and howl As a dirge for their late commander; But one of the bevy—witch or wizard, Disguised as a monstrous flying lizard, Springs on the grisly Salamander, Who stoutly fights, and struggles, and kicks. And tries the best of his wrestling tricks, No paltry strife, But for life, dear life. But the ruthless talons refuse to unfix, Till far beyond a surgical case, With starting eyes, and black in the face, Down he tumbles as dead as bricks! A pretty sight for his mates to view! Those shaggy murderers looking so blue, And for him above all, Red-bearded and tall, With whom, at that very particular nick, There is such an unlucky crow to pick, As the one of iron that did the trick In a recent bloody affair— No wonder feeling a little sick, With pulses beating uncommonly quick, And breath he never found so thick, He longs for the open air! Three paces, or four, And he gains the door; But ere he accomplishes one, The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull, And clasping his fingers round his skull— However the deed was done, That gave him that florid Red gash on the forehead— With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid, There's a tremulous quiver, The last death-shiver, And Red-Beard's course is run! Halloo! Halloo! They have done for two! But a heavyish job remains to do! For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand, Like elder Sons of Giant Despair, A couple of Cyclops make a stand, And fiercely hammering here and there, Keep at bay the Powers of Air— But desperation is all in vain!— They faint—they choke, For the sulphurous smoke Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain, They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother. One for a moment survives his brother, Then rolls a corpse across the other! Halloo! Halloo! And Hullabaloo! There is only one more thing to do— And seized by beak, and talon, and claw, Bony hand, and hairy paw, Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw, The four huge Bodies are haul'd and shoven Each after each in the roaring oven! That Eisen Hutte is standing still, Go to the Hartz whenever you will, And there it is beside a hill, And a rapid stream that turns many a mill; The self-same Forge,—you'll know it at sight— Casting upward, day and night, Flames of red, and yellow, and white! Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge, There it is, the famous Forge, With its Furnace,—the same that blazed of yore,— Hugely fed with fuel and ore; But ever since that tremendous Revel, Whatever Iron is melted therein,— As Travellers know who have been to Berlin— Is all as black as the Devil!

THE UNIVERSITY FEUD.[45] "A plague o' both the houses!"—MERCUTIO.

As latterly I chanced to pass A Public House, from which, alas! The Arms of Oxford dangle! My ear was startled by a din, That made me tremble in my skin, A dreadful hubbub from within, Of voices in a wrangle— Voices loud, and voices high, With now and then a party-cry, Such as used in times gone by To scare the British border; When foes from North and South of Tweed— Neighbors—and of Christian creed— Met in hate to fight and bleed, Upsetting Social Order. Surprised, I turn'd me to the crowd, Attracted by that tumult loud, And ask'd a gazer, beetle-brow'd, The cause of such disquiet. When lo! the solemn-looking man, First shook his head on Burleigh's plan, And then, with fluent tongue, began His version of the riot: A row!—why yes,—a pretty row, you might hear from this to Garmany, And what is worse, it's all got up among the Sons of Harmony, The more's the shame for them as used to be in time and tune, And all unite in chorus like the singing-birds in June! Ah! many a pleasant chant I've heard in passing here along, When Swiveller was President a-knocking down a song; But Dick's resign'd the post, you see, and all them shouts and hollers Is 'cause two other candidates, some sort of larned scholars, Are squabbling to be Chairman of the Glorious Apollers! Lord knows their names, I'm sure I don't, no more than any yokel, But I never heard of either as connected with the vocal; Nay, some do say, although of course the public rumor varies, They've no more warble in 'em than a pair of hen canaries; Though that might pass if they were dabs at t'other sort of thing, For a man may make a song, you know, although he cannot sing; But lork! it's many folk's belief they're only good at prosing, For Catnach swears he never saw a verse of their composing; And when a piece of poetry has stood its public trials, If pop'lar, it gets printed off at once in Seven Dials, And then about all sorts of streets, by every little monkey, It's chanted like the "Dog's Meat Man," or "If I had a Donkey." Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither, No ballad—worth a ha'penny—has ever come from either, And him as writ "Jim Crow," he says, and got such lots of dollars, Would make a better Chairman for the Glorious Apollers. Howsomever that's the meaning of the squabble that arouses This neighborhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses, Who want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reason, In Christian peace and charity according to the season. But from Number Thirty-Nine—since this electioneering job, Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there's an everlasting mob; Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by, But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye; And a pretty noise there is!—what with canvassers and spouters, For in course each side is furnish'd with its backers and its touters; And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried, You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married; Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms, If you're dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the "Arms"; While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars, To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers. Well, that, sir, is the racket; and the more the sin and shame Of them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same; Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup,— But they'll be the House's ruin, or the shutting of it up, With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears, While they've damaged many articles and broken lots of squares, And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother, By throwing Morning Heralds, Times, and Standards at each other; Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn't to repeat, And the names they call each other—for I've heard 'em in the street— Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judasses, and Vipers and what not, For Pasley and his divers ain't so blowing-up a lot. And then such awful swearing!—for there's one of them that cusses Enough to shock the cads that hang on opposition 'busses; For he cusses every member that's agin him at the poll, As I wouldn't cuss a donkey, tho' it hasn't got a soul; And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim, To the babby in the cradle, if they don't agree with him. Whereby, altho' as yet they have not took to use their fives, Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives, I'm bound they'll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars, Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers! To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall, Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call— And as if there wasn't Whigs enough and Tories to fall out, Besides polities in plenty for our splits to be about,— Why, a cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows, For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows— Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews, To agitate society and loosen all its screws; And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres,— But it's not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears. And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach, And I've had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach, And so knows the University, and all as there belongs, And he says that Oxford's famouser for sausages than songs, And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant, As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want, Or other Tavern Melodists I can't just call to mind— But it's not the classic system for to propagate the kind, Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them Scholars May be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers! For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice, It's the best among the vocalists I'd honor with the choice; Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch; Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch; 'Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics— And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec's. But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud, And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd, Have brought their jangling voices, and as far as they can compass, Have turn'd a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus, And him as knows most hymns—altho' I can't see how it follers— They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers! Well, that's the row—and who can guess the upshot after all? Whether Harmony will ever make the "Arms" her House of call, Or whether this here mobbing—as some longish heads foretell it, Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it, Howsomever, for the present, there's no sign of any peace, For the hubbub keeps a-growing, and defies the New Police;— But if I was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man, Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan, Why, I'd settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle, For I'd have another candidate—and that's the Parish Beadle, Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy, And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy; Whereby—if folks was wise—instead of either of them Scholars, And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers, They'll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers, Namely—Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!