Part 2

The Andes take their rise literally at the "end of the World;" for Cape Horn certainly deserves that epithet, and the Straights of Magellan, which divide Terra del Fuego from the continent are comparatively no more than a mountain stream in a hilly country, so that that island may without any impropriety be deemed a part of it. The Andes are not one continuous chain of mountains; but an immensity of piles raised one on another, at different elevations of which are extensive plains, termed "Pampas," some of which appear as boundless as the horizon, and totally divested of herbage. On one of these plains, called the Pampa of Diesmo, in the province of Junin, I was detained some days at the only hut to be seen for leagues. One of the _arreóros_, or muleteers, with me, a native of Madrid, remarked on the solitude of the spot, adding, with a sigh, "This was a different place when first I visited it." Within about half a mile from where we were then conversing was an astonishing freak of Nature. In the midst of the plain were about one hundred naked rocks rising abruptly from the surface, in detached groups, some of which were as high as St. Paul's, and many appeared like the spires of a cathedral. Pointing to these eminences, the muleteer went on to say, "for five months these rocks were my refuge from white men, and from them have I seen an army of twenty-five thousand men traverse this plain again and again; their only support for nearly fourteen months being drawn from the spot." On asking an explanation, he bid me look round and say if I thought I could count the number of sheep on the Pampa. I readily answered I did not think there were fifty. "What will you say, sir," said he, "when I tell you that sixteen years since, there were, _on this plain alone, eight hundred thousand sheep!_ besides oxen; at that time there was scarcely an Indian that did not possess at least two thousand, and this was only a part of the wealth of Peru. The desolation that now exists may justly be laid to the account of a revolution, which has only been the means of creating a spirit of animosity amongst those who before were cordially united; you yourself must be aware that if it were known I was a Godo, (Old Spaniard), my life would not be worth an hour's purchase; another thing you have yourself experienced, is the total absence of hospitality in Peru. This is also an effect of the revolution; for at the time I alluded to, a stranger in this country need not expend a maravedi in travelling; but those days, I fear, will never return."

This conversation occurred in the summer of 1827, and there are a few readers of the MIRROR who were then in Peru, who will readily recognise the writer.

VIATOR.

* * * * *

ON FEAR.

_By Sir Thomas More._

If evils come not, then our fears are vain, And if they do, fear but augments the pain.

* * * * *

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.

SKIMINGTON RIDING.

_(To the Editor of the Mirror.)_

I have been amused by the accounts given in a former volume of the MIRROR, of the curious custom called "Stanging;" may I be allowed to edge in a few words descriptive of a ceremony belonging to the same order, which prevails in my native county, (Dorset), instituted and practised on the same occasions as those mentioned in vol. xii., but differing from them in many material points, and in my opinion partaking more of the theatrical cast than either of those two mentioned by your correspondents. Having been an eye witness to one or two of these exhibitions, I am enabled to give an accurate account of the same. The name which they give to this ceremony, as near as I can make out from the pronunciation, is _Skimington Riding_; the origin of which name I have endeavoured in vain to ascertain. The ceremony commences by two fellows armed with stump brooms mounting on a ladder borne by four or five more of the crowd, when sitting back to back, they commence a fierce attack on each other with the brooms over their shoulders, maintaining at the same time as the procession advances, a scolding dialogue, or rather duet; one of them squeaking to represent the angry tones of the better half, while the other growls his complaints an octave below. In this manner, accompanied by the shouts of the crowd, the rattling of old tin kettles, and the blowing of cow's horns, producing altogether a horrible din, they parade before the dwelling house of some peace-breaking couple; and should they be in possession of any word or words made use of by the unhappy pair in their squabbles, you may be sure such expressions are repeated with all due emphasis by the performers on the (stage) ladder. After making as much noise as they possibly can before the fated dwelling, where they sometimes meet with a most ungracious reception, they proceed in the same style through all the streets of the parish in order that the whole place may be apprized of the conduct of the offending couple; and they keep up the game as long as they possibly can.

_Sturminster._

RURIS.

* * * * *

A SEA-SIDE MAYOR.

_(For the Mirror.)_

At Yarmouth, a person is selected from among those employed on the beach during the fishing season, who is denominated the _Sea-side Mayor_, his office being to inflict certain punishments and penalties on such fishermen as are found guilty of pilfering herrings, &c.

The fishing commences in the latter part of September, a day or two previous to which a procession goes round the town, the object and order of which are as follow:--

A person grotesquely attired, and carrying a trident, to represent Neptune,[3] precedes, followed by four or five men bearing colours with inscriptions of "Prosperity to the town of Yarmouth." "Death to our best Friends," (meaning the herrings), "Success to the Herring Fishery," &c. Then follows a band of musicians. The Sea-side Mayor (dressed as a sailor, and wearing a gilt chain around his neck) brings up the rear, in a handsome boat built for the occasion, and borne on the shoulders of ten or a dozen men, wearing white ribands on the breast of their jackets and on their hats.

[3] An individual named Joseph Penny, was for many years the representative of Neptune. He was a man of daring spirit, and there are many living at this time who were indebted to his intrepidity for being rescued from drowning. In the month of November 1825, accompanied by his son, he went off from the beach in an open boat, to a vessel in distress, soon after which the boat was washed ashore, with the body of the son entangled in the rigging; but the father was never again heard of.

In this order the procession calls at the shops of different tradespeople, or any one at all connected with the herring fishery, where they solicit contributions, and those who are disposed to be liberal, are honoured with a tune from the musicians, and the cheering of the mayor. After parading the town they retire to a tavern to dinner. A great number of French and Dutch fishing boats resort to Yarmouth at the herring fishing, and on the Sunday previous to the 21st of September, "Dutch Fair," as it is denominated, is held on the beach, and presents a novel and interesting appearance.

From twenty to thirty of their flat bottomed boats are run on shore at high water, and as the tide recedes, are left high and dry. Dutch pipes, dried flounders, wooden shoes, apples, and gingerbread, are then offered for sale, and if the weather be fine, the beach is thronged with company, many of whom come from a great distance.

W. S. L.

* * * * *

SAXON NAMES OF THE MONTHS.

_(For the Mirror.)_

December, which stood first, was styled "Mid-winter monath." January was "Aefter-yule," or after Christmas. February "Sol-monath," from the returning sun. March "Rhede, or Rhede monath," rough, or rugged month. April "Easter monath," from a favourite Saxon goddess, whose name we still preserve. May was "Trimilchi," from the cows being then milked thrice in the day. June "Sere monath," dry month. July "Maed monath," the meads being then in their bloom. August was "Weod monath," from the luxuriance of weeds. September "Haerfest monath." October they called "Winter fylleth," from winter approaching with the full moon of that month. And lastly, November was styled "Blot monath," from the blood of the cattle slain that month, and stored for winter provision. Verstegan names the months somewhat differently.

P.T.W.

* * * * *

CURIOUS BEQUEST.

_(For the Mirror.)_

John Wardell, by will, dated August 29, 1656, gave to the Grocers' Company, a tenement known by the name of the White Bear, in Walbrook, to the intent that they should yearly, within thirty days after Michaelmas, pay to the churchwardens of St. Botolph, Billingsgate, £4. to provide a good and sufficient iron and glass lantern, with a candle, for the direction of passengers, to go with more security to and from the water side, all night long, to be placed at the north-east corner of the parish church of St. Botolph, from the Feast Day of St. Bartholomew to Lady Day; out of which sum £1. is to be paid to the sexton for taking care of the said lantern.

H.B.A.

* * * * *

SLEEPERS IN CHURCH.

_(For the Mirror.)_

Richard Davey, in 1659, founded a free-school at Claverley, Salop, and directed to be paid yearly the sum of eight shillings to a poor man of the said parish, who should undertake to awaken sleepers, and to whip out dogs from the church of Claverley, during divine service.

H.B.A.

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR;

AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

* * * * *

THE EPPING HUNT.

_By Thomas Hood, Esq._

We remember the appearance of Mr. Hood's first work--_Odes and Addresses to Great People_; and many a reviewer and printer rejoiced in the light columns which it furnished them by way of extract. They made up very prettily beside a theological critique, a somewhat lumbering book on political economy, or a volume of deep speculations on geology. Hood's little book, a mere thin pocket size, soon grew into notice and favour; the edition ran off, and one or two more impressions have followed. A host of imitators soon sprung up, but we are bound to acknowledge that from the above to the present time, Mr. Hood has kept the field--the Pampa of pun--to himself, and right sincerely are we obliged for the many quips and quiddities with which he has enabled us to _garnish our_ pages. We say garnish, for what upon earth can better resemble the garnishings of a table than Mr. Hood's little volumes: how they enliven and embellish the feast, like birds and flowers cut from carrots, turnips, and beet-root; parsley fried _crisp_; cascades spun in sugar, or mouldings in almond paste, at a pic-nic supper party.

We love a good motto, and one like Mr. Hood's speaks volumes:

"HUNTS ROASTED"--

Next comes an advertisement of the author's endeavour to record a yearly revel (the Epping Hunt,) already fast hastening to decay. Mr. Hood is _serious_, as the following epistle will show:--

"It was penned by an underling at the Wells, 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 much so this year that there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a Decline.

"I am, Sir,

"With respects from

"Your humble Servant,

"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."

Then begins the tale.

John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round, And single Glos'ter flat,-- And English butter in a lump, And Irish--in a _pat_.

Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At _counter_ with his apron tied About his _counter-part_.

The seventh in a sluice-house box, He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays for _eel-pie_ty, A very noted spot.

Huggins gets "Epping in his head," and resolves to go to "the Hunt."

Alas! there was no warning voice To whisper in his ear, Thou art a fool in leaving _Cheap_ To go and hunt the _deer_!

No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs; Not _chicken-hearted_ he, altho' 'Twas whisper'd of his _eggs_.'

Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill; Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout's_ fee, And Surgeon _Hunter's_ bill.

To say the horse was Huggins' own, Would only be a brag; His neighbour Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag.

And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Altho' it was a _tit_.

A well bred horse he was I wis, As he began to show, By quickly "rearing up within The way he ought to go."

And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone

A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss; Wherever she set down her _orts_, Thereby he put a _cross_.

Now Huggins had a crony here, That lived beside the way; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day.

His friend had gone to Enfield Chase:

Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea.

Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box,-- No friends to hunters after deer, Tho' followers of a _Fox_.

And many a score behind--before-- The self-same route inclin'd, And minded all to march one way, Made one great march of mind.

Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; And some had carts, and some a chaise, According to their gig.

Some long-ear'd jacks, some knacker's hacks, (However odd it sounds,) Let out that day _to hunt_, instead _Of going to the hounds_!

And some had horses of their own, And some were forc'd to job it; And some, while they inclin'd to _Hunt_, Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans, Bad, middling, and the smart; Here roll'd along the gay barouche, And there a dirty cart!

And lo! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line; With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slav'd for all the Nine!

* * * * *

And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met, And letting go the _reins_, of course, Prepared for _heavy wet_.

And lo! within the crowded door, Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself.

The portrait is excellent:

A snow white head a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush; A claret tint laid on by health, With master reynard's brush.

A hearty frame, a courteous bow, The prince he learn'd it from: His age about three-score and ten, And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he, So many guests to boast; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host.

They start--

But Huggins, hitching on a tree, Branched off from all the rest.

Then comes the motley mob--

Idlers to wit--no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Ramblers, in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butcher's hacks, That shambled to and fro'! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the _dough_!

Change Alley Bears to speculate, As usual, for a fall; And green and scarlet runners, such As never climb'd a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference A single creature made; A single stag had caused a whole _Stag_nation in their trade.

The deer is brought---

Now Huggins from his saddle rose, And in the stirrups stood; And lo! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,--tho' not For corpses in the least; For this contained the _deer alive_, And not the _dear deceased_!

Robin bounds out, and the hunt starts: Huggins--

Away he went, and many a score Of riders did the same, On horse and ass--like high and low And Jack pursuing game.

Good lord! to see the riders now, Thrown off with sudden whirl, A score within the purling brook, Enjoy'd their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in show'rs; There was another _Floorer_ there, Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips, Some had no caps to show; But few, like Charles at Charing Cross, Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

"O, dear! O, dear!" now might you hear, "I've surely broke a bone;" "My head is sore,"--with many more Such speeches from the _thrown_.

* * * * *

Away they went then dog and deer, And hunters all away.-- The maddest horses never knew _Mad staggers_ such as they!

Some gave a shout, some roll'd about, And antick'd as they rode, And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen _tally-ho'd_!

About two score there were, not more, That gallopped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase!

And by their side see Huggins ride, As fast as he could speed; For, like Mazeppa, he was quite At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check, The gallop to remit, For firm and last, between his teeth, The biter held the bitt.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled Beneath him as he sate,-- He never saw a county go At such a county-rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs:" Quoth Huggins, "so I do,-- I've got the saddle well in hand, And hold as hard as you!"

And now he bounded up and down, Now like a jelly shook: Till bump'd and gall'd--yet not where Gall, For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while, As tars are apt to ride; With every kick he gave a prick, Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged, For cruel smart of spurs, For, riding through a moor, he pitched His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is He squatted all forlorn; And like a bird was singing out While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well as might be. Such cushion to resign: "Possession is nine points," but his Seemed more than ninety nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points That enter'd in his skin, His nag was running off the while The thorns were running in!

A jolly wight comes by upon

A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone; For down upon her knees she went, To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, This farmer, shrewd and sage, Resolv'd by changing horses here, To hunt another stage!

So up on Huggins' horse he got, And swiftly rode away, While Huggins mounted on the mare Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set, in double chase, For such was fortune's whim, The Farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him.

* * * * *

And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark,-- Tho' still the forest murmur'd back An echo of the bark.

But sad at soul John Huggins turn'd: No comfort he could find. Whilst thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped To stay five bars behind.

For tho' by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate-- Howbeit there was no toll at all, They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mus'd a new Gray's elegy On his departed gray.

Huggins now betook him to the Wells--the Hunt was o'er--and many a joke is told--

How Huggins stood when he was rubb'd By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How "worse remain'd 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.

Huggins claims the horse, and offers "a bottle and a pound" for his recovery:

The wine was drunk,--the money paid, Tho' not without remorse. To pay another man so much, For riding on his horse.

MORAL.

Thus Pleasure oft eludes our grasp, Just when we think to grip her; And hunting after Happiness, We only hunt a slipper.

The tale occupies less than thirty pages, and may be read whilst smoking a cigar. It is all quaint fun, whim, humour, and frolic, and one of those merry morsels which amuse us more than the whole leaven of utilitarianism; and if to laugh and learn be your maxim, why read the "Epping Hunt." After this, hold your sides, and look at the _cuts_, designed by George Cruikshank, and engraved by Branston, Bonner, Slader, and T. Williams. Old Tom Rounding is the frontispiece, in a cosy chair, and glass in hand--framed with foxes', and Towler and Jowler's heads, antlers, &c. The rich twinkle of Tom's eye, and the benevolent rotundity of his form, are admirable. Huggins hitched on a tree is the next--then comes "the beast charging in Tom's rear;" his perturbed look and the saucy waggery of a round headed wight who has climbed into an adjoining tree are a good contrast; Huggins "sitting on a thorn" is another ludicrous picture of perturbation; the cit on the grass, with "cattle grazed here" on a tree, is the fifth; and Huggins being cleared of clay by two of Tom Roundhead's helpers, with mop and broom, completes the cuts and catastrophes of the Epping Hunt.

The engravings, one and all, are exceedingly clever, and _proof impressions_, (which we observe are advertised,) will soon find their way into scores of scrapbooks.

* * * * *

The Sketch-Book.

THE SPIRIT OF THE STORM.

_(For the Mirror.)_

When the unfortunate Cedric (who had imbued his hands in the blood of another,) was endeavouring by flight to a distant land to evade the arm of justice, there existed a belief in a supernatural being, whose exclusive office was,

_To guide the whirlwind and direct the storm_.

It was imagined that he circumnavigated the globe in a chariot of fire that was wafted on the wings of the wind through the illimitable fields of aether, but that he ever kept within the bounds of our atmosphere. His course was preceded by thunder and lightning--and storm and tempest followed him wherever he went. He visited every climate in succession, and had a vast concourse of inferior spirits at his command. He never paused in his terrible career, but to witness the shipwreck of a felon, and then only was he visible to mortal view. He was The Spirit of the Storm!

The recollection of this personage occurred to the mind of Cedric, accompanied with no very pleasing associations, just as the Levantine cleared the mouth of the harbour, and was bearing a full sail before a propitious northern gale for India.

A quick voyage had almost brought the vessel successfully to the desired port, when an accident, fatal in its termination occurred, which we shall endeavour to relate.

There was on board an old man who had long been in the habit of reading the almanac, observing the changes of the wind and moon, the rising and setting of the sun, the degree of heat or cold, dryness or dampness of the atmosphere, the form and colour of the clouds, the rising and falling of the mercury, and several other similar indications of the weather, who for his knowledge in these matters, had obtained the epithet of "weatherwise," and indeed not without reason, for although he might sometimes be wrong in his prognostications to the no small amusement of others, and to his own mortification; yet in general they were pretty correct, especially of the approach of a storm in a tropical climate.