*

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_t