Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt,
Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt,
Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!
'Twas "no mistake".

He was "wide awake"

In an instant; for, when only decently drunk,
Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!-what's that?—
They have got into chat

In the kitchen below-what the deuce are they at?
There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife—
And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-
At each twist

Of her wrist,

And her great mutton fist,

The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder !—
The fierce kitchen fire

Had not made Blogg perspire

Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.-
It ceases-all's silent !-and now, I declare
There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair!

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like creeping;
He opens the door just sufficient to peep in,
And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping!

For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some
"Precious mischief" on foot, had resolved to "play Possum :"
Down he went, legs and head,

Flat on the bed,

Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead;

While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing,
Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.
Then, just as the villain

Crept, stealthily still, in,

And you'd not have insured his guest's life for a shilling,
As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor,
Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow a "facer:"
Down went man and weapon.-Of all sorts of blows,
From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose

There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person

Was call'd James M'Pherson,

While, as to the second, they stoutly declare

He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where,)
Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer
Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter
For the last twenty years,

By the lively young Peers,

Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermines, treat
Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street ;-
-I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses,

More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and bruises
I'd describe now to
you

As "prime a Set-to,"

And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew;

Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of
Since Cribb, years ago, half-knock'd Molyneux' head off.
But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!"
Lace mittens, she loves,

Detesting"The gloves;"

And, turning, with air most disdainfully mocking,
From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking.
So, as far as I can see,

I must leave you to "fancy,"

The thumps and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's call'd "The Claret”

Flew over the garret :

Merely stating the fact,

As each other they whack'd,

The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd;

Making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer off, With Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off; Next, making a stoop on

The buffeting group on

The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon;
Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's
Tore out the whole seat of his striped Callimancoes.
Really, which way
This desperate fray

Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say,
The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay:
But a few fresh arrivals decided the day;
For bounce went the door,

In came half a score

Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more
Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!
It's a great many years ago-mine then were few—
Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux ;-
I think that they say

She had been, in her day,

A First-rate, but was then what they term a Rasée,-
And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay
(Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.)
In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion,

The little I know that concerns Navigation,
And obtain'd, inter alia, some vague information

Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing,

Was adopted on shipboard-I think 'twas call'd "Cobbing."
How 'twas managed exactly I really can't say,
But I think that a Boot-jack was brought into play-
That is, if I am right :-it exceeds my ability
To tell how 'tis done;

But the system is one

Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility.
And, from all I could learn, I'd much rather be robb'd
Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"—
That's mere matter of taste:

But the Frenchman was placed

I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced-
In such a position, that, on his unmasking,

His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.
The old woman, too,

Was obliged to go through,

With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,-ay, "every man Jack of them."

Moral.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say

Farewell for the present, and wish you good day,
Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!-

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg,

Be wary of strangers!-don't take too much grog!—
And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog:
Above all, carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing,
Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing,
But still on these words of the Bard keep a fixt eye,
INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

L'Envoye.

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him,
I never once thought to inquire what became of him;
If you want to know, Reader, the way, I opine,
To achieve your design,-

Mind, it's no wish of mine,

Is, (a penny will do't,)-by addressing a line
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne

APPENDIX.

Since penning this stanza, a learned Antiquary
Has put my poor Muse in no trifling quandary,
By writing an essay to prove that he knows a
Spot which, in truth, is

The real "Bermoothes,"

In the Mediterranean,-now call'd Lampedosa ;
For proofs having made, as he farther alleges, stir,
An entry was found in the old Parish Register,
The which at his instance the excellent Vicar ex-
-tracted: viz. "Caliban, base son of Sycorax."
-He had rather by half

Have found Prospero's "Staff;"

But 'twas useless to dig, for the want of a pick or axe.-
Colonel Paisley, however, 'tis everywhere said
When he's blown up the whole Royal George at Spit-head,
Takes his new apparatus, and goes out to look
And see if he can't try and blow up "the Book."-
-Gentle Reader, farewell!-If I add one more line,
He'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up mine!

HAVE you, my most feeling, and considerate, and imaginative reader, ever taken an evening lounge, sojourn, saunter, meditation—(call it what you will) -in Greenwich Park, on a real summer's evening, when sunlight, and verdure, and decay, harmonize together, and make music to the human heart? If you have, you will know the scene I would bring before you; and if you have not, you will never waste a coming summer. I would speak, moreover, more particularly to the initiated, to those who have entered the inconvenient doorway, escaping, as it would seem, through triangular iron bars from the scattered flock of cocked-hats on broad gravelled roads, and under great globe-crowned gate-columns, and from silent though frequented cloisters into goodly meads, with hills rising, tree-crowned (pensionerlooking trees!) and with rich old brown-red buildings, yet all the grass, timber, and edifice speaking of other days and other monarchs, -all sublimed and sweetly saddened by sunshine and time! In summer, I perhaps could not thus speak of this affectingly-charming, sacred scene; but at the moment when I am writing, the north-east wind has suddenly driven me to winter in the Italy of the mind,-we all know that the mind can make its own Italy, and I choose mine, for reasons which will immediately appear, to be in my dear, old, solemn, sun-honoured, colour-chastened, hero-dotted park of Greenwich. Reader! come with me! Let us pay our mite to the Janitor that opens the open gate, and enter. The change is wondrous! Recently-but an instant ago-we were on the very loosest of gravelled roads, amidst a throng of the longest blue-flaps, the "shockingest bad hats," (all, however, three-cornered,) the most irregular apportionment of arms and eyes, the greatest variety of legs obtained from Crooked-lane (save where the leg had put in to wood, when

perchance the eye was compelled to water) that every traveller here, in Kent, or in Asia, Africa, or America, saw assembled, or not assembled. To what reflections do not the passing of these stunted, distorted, crinkley-faced, battered, shattered, homely wrecks of valour and patriotism, in cartridge, not Bath-wove-lead! One man leans, with a face like a map of the world he has sailed round, beneath a huge granite gateway-and he is not all before you! No; -one eye parted company at the Nile, at the night hour, when the Orient exploded in the eyes of the shore-bordering Egyptians,—a leg had previously been tossed to a shark that hungered in the troubled and bloody waves which rolled from the Baltic around the "leviathans of the deep," close to the walls of Copenhagen!-Another hero lounges with the shortest and brownest of pipes, over the worn rail, that invariably supports a crew, over the unloading of one collier close to the Ship Tavern,-it appearing that the same age-and-curiosity-paralysed crew will never withdraw their varieties of cockedhats and blue body-flags; that the vessel is always unloading, and never will unload; that the river is running, ever running; and that the sun is in a ruby state of eternal sunset. What serene expression is in his yellow face and deeply-rivetted grey eye!--but it is the expression of a placid and protected retirement from a thousand storms, and his arm has fed the multitudinous fish off Cape Trafalgar! The feeling that I experience in seeing these lay figures of heroes, these Chantrey-charmed men by the effect of Time's sculpture power, these dreamers of the sea,-these Zobeide-people of an uneastern city,-not, however, the less silent, the less motionless, the less imagination-lustred,-is almost inexplicable. I can hardly bear to see them walk,—and a crawler is of sea things my preference, my passion. A quick little man in blue, with a regular cocked-hat, and all his arms, legs, and eyes, is my aversion! I would rather see a wooden-aided and (in battle) a reliable gentleman in yellow!-the stay of motion in this scene, the repose of colour, the pause, as it would seem, of Time, is only realized to me in the exquisite description of the Grecian urn by Keats! He would have felt, wild as my feelings seem to have run (from a Greenwich pensioner to a Grecian vase), the truth of that sentiment,

"What little town by river or sea-shore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate can e'er return."

And here I may take leave to produce a sketch of Greenwich Terrace, made some years ago. The same men are leaning over the

iron rail still!

eyes.

"The terrace that runs along the whole range of the building, between it and the water, is pleasantly situated; but, as it does not much abound with pensioners, is by no means a striking attraction in my In the walk below it, at the edge of the water, narrow, inconvenient, and thronged with watermen, sailors, and other bronzed men, we all delighted to walk. There do the maimed and weathertried tenants of the place saunter out their indolent and late holiday of existence. There do they sit for hours, like Crabbe's Peter Ghrimes, but without his terrors, looking upon the flood. There do they lean,