The Works of Thomas Hood; Vol. 02 (of 11): Comic and Serious, in Prose and Verse, With All the Original IllustrationsHood, Thomas
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The Works of Thomas Hood; Vol. 02 (of 11): Comic and Serious, in Prose and Verse, With All the Original Illustrations
Hood, Thomas
English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
WHEN I am come first to the fire it was not long burnt up; and I was
oblige to walk up and down the floor to keep myself warm. At last, I
take my seat on the stove, quite convenient to look about. In the House
of Commons there was nobody, and I am all alone. The first thing I
observe was a great many rats, ratting about--but they did not known
which way to turn. So they were all burnt dead. The flames grew very
fast; and I am interested very much with the seats, how they burned,
quite different from one another. Some seats made what you call a great
splutter, and popped and bounced, and some other seats made no noise
at all. Mr. Bulwer’s place burned of a blue colour; Mr. Buckstone’s
turned quite black; and there was one made a flame the colour of a
drab. I observe one green flame and one orange, side by side, and they
hiss and roar at one another very furious. The gallery cleared itself
quite quickly, and the seat of Messieurs the reporters, exploded itself
like a cannon of forty-eight pounds. The speaking chair burnt without
any sound at all.
When everything is quite done in the Commons I leave them off, and go
to the House of Lords, where the fire was all in one sheet, and almost
the whole of its inside burnt out. I was able in this room to take
off my great coat. I could find nothing to be saved except one great
ink-stand, that was red hot, and which I carry away in my two hands.
Likewise here, as well as in the Commons, I bottled up several bottles
of smoke, to distribute afterwards, at five guineas a-piece, and may be
more; for I know the English people admire such things, and are fond
after reliques, like a madness almost. I did not make a long stop, for
whenever I was visible, the pompiers was so foolish as play water upon
me, and I was afraid of a catch-cold. In fact, when I arrive at home,
I find myself stuffed in my head, and fast in my chest, and my throat
was a little horse. I am going for it into a bath of boiling water, and
cannot write any more at full length.
_A Letter to a Labouring Man._
BUSHELL,
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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