THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.

"I like to meet a sweep--such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the _peep, peep_, of a young sparrow."

--ESSAYS OF ELIA.

----"A voice cried Sweep no more!

Macbeth hath murdered sweep."

SHAKSPEARE.

One morning, ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet.

A mongrel tint he seemed to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, White overcoming jet.

From side to side he crossed oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walked upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job His lab'ring breast appeared to throb, And half a hiccup half a sob Betray'd internal woe.

To cry amain he had by rote He yearn'd, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped--but not a crow!

I watched him and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd With red, as if the soot had catch'd That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I, the cause he will betray-- And thus at last he did.

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!

But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging.

They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum.

But they can't undo natur--as sure as ever the morning begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep!

For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy.

Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up.

Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup!

If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order.

I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathize with us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus.

God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings?

I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.

For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing, And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing.

Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks--to do the unpartial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob.

Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders, Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows?

There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City; Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty.

I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses.

Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut?

Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut.

Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together.

I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father and Mother.

They havn't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles.

If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps.

Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue.

As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain't to be a Cryer?

There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows?

Do _we_ go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral sermon?

But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Everything, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves!

Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more?

We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door.

And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations!

And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly, For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chimbley.

THE DESERT-BORN[34]

"Fly to the desert, fly with me."--LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

[Footnote 34: For the purposes of his pun on "night-mare," Hood adroitly utilizes the story of the famous Lady Hester Stanhope, whom Kinglake, in his _Eothen_, first made familiar to so many of us. He there speaks of the "quiet women in Somersetshire," and their surprise when they learned that "the intrepid girl who used to break their vicious horses for them" was reigning over the wandering tribes of Western Asia!]

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,-- To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!-- My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand, I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand, The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,-- When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud, And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene, Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow; A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below, And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear; In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere; Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk; Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath, Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet-- And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!

Of course I bowed my lowest bow--of all the things on earth, The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth, To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon, A man should bend the lowest in a _Desert_ to a _Woman_!

Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd, Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind; There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh, Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!

With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land, I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand; And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise, Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face, She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race; "Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet; "It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet!

Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars, This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!"

Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands, A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands, Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race.

"Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof, "Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof!

Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth, And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth."

Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near, She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL--for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee, But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free, And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride, Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side; Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath, Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth, A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.

Methought--but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight, Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white!

To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse, The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse: Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat, Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat, I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;-- As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one _is_ a hero, Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs, Tempestuous tail--to picture him description vainly begs!

His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath-- Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death?

Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied: "Mount, happy man, and _run away_ with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke, Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke, So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born, Or any of its _ridings_, this would be a blessed morn; But, hapless one! I cannot ride--there's something in a horse That I can always honor, but I never could endorse-- To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight: 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 houris 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 honor of your birth, The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to 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 appeared 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!