PAGE 5
The Epping Hunt
by
And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,
And sorely cursed the day,
And mused a new Gray’s elegy
On his departed gray!
Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells:
But Huggins, full of ills, of course,
Betook him to the Wells,
Where Rounding tried to cheer him up
With many a merry laugh,
But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig,
And called for half-and-half.
Yet, ‘spite of drink, he could not blink
Remembrance of his loss;
To drown a care like his, required
Enough to drown a horse.
When thus forlorn, a merry horn
Struck up without the door,–
The mounted mob were all returned;
The Epping Hunt was o’er!
And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle, and of shaft;
And men, by dint of drink, became
The only “beasts of draught.”
For now begun a harder run
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken man discussed
The overtaken deer.
How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he stood,
Deer-like, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could;
And how the hunters stood aloof,
Regardful of their lives,
And shunned a beast, whose very horns
They knew could handle knives!
How Huggins stood when he was rubbed
By help and ostler kind,
And when they cleaned the clay before,
How worse “remained behind.”
And one, how he had found a horse
Adrift–a goodly gray!
And kindly rode the nag, for fear
The nag should go astray.
Now Huggins, when he heard the tale,
Jumped up with sudden glee;
“A goodly gray! why, then, I say
That gray belongs to me!
“Let me endorse again my horse,
Delivered safe and sound;
And, gladly, I will give the man
A bottle and a pound!”
The wine was drunk,–the money paid,
Tho’ not without remorse,
To pay another man so much,
For riding on his horse.
And let the chase again take place,
For many a long, long year,
John Huggins will not ride again
To hunt the Epping Deer!
MORAL.
Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp,
Just when we think to grip her;
And hunting after happiness,
We only hunt a slipper.
[Note: Originally published in 1830 in a thin duodecimo, with illustrations by George Cruikshank. It was while Hood was living at Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features of this once famous Civic Revel–the Easter Monday Hunt–even then in its decadence.]
ADVERTISEMENT.
Striding in the Steps of Strutt–The historian of the old English ports–the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.
In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing:–
“Sir,–About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline.”
“I am, Sir,”
“With respects from your humble Servant,”
“BARTHOLOMEW RUTT.”
“On Monday they began to hunt.”–Chevy Chase.