Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift,

One tub, or keg, to be seen,

It might have given his spirits a lift

Or an _anker_ where _Hope_ might lean!

But there was not a box or a beam afloat,

To raft him from that sad place;

Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat,

Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy,

He saw a sail and a mast,

And called "Ahoy!"--but it was not a hoy,

And so the vessel went past.

And with saucy wing that flapped in his face,

The wild bird about him flew,

With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case,

"Why, thou art a sea-gull too!"

And lo! the tide was over his feet;

Oh! his heart began to freeze,

And slowly to pulse:--in another beat

The wave was up to his knees!

He was deafened amidst the mountain tops,

And the salt spray blinded his eyes,

And washed away the other salt drops

That grief had caused to arise:--

But just as his body was all afloat,

And the surges above him broke,

He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat

Of Deal--(but builded of oak).

The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay,

And chafed his shivering skin;

And the Angel returned that was flying away

With the spirit of Peter Fin!

A FAIRY TALE.

On Hounslow Heath--and close beside the road,

As western travellers may oft have seen,--

A little house some years ago there stood,

A minikin abode;

And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood:

The walls of white, the window-shutters green,--

Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West

(Though now at rest),

On which it used to wander to and fro,

Because its master ne'er maintained a rider,

Like those who trade in Paternoster Row;

But made his business travel for itself,

Till he had made his pelf,

And then retired--if one may call it so,

Of a roadsider.

Perchance, the very race and constant riot

Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran,

Made him more relish the repose and quiet

Of his now sedentary caravan;

Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common,

And so he might impale a strip of soil

That furnished, by his toil,

Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;--

And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower:

Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil

His peace,--unless, in some unlucky hour,

A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r!

But, tired of always looking at the coaches,

The same to come,--when they had seen them one day!

And, used to brisker life, both man and wife

Began to suffer N U E's approaches,

And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,--

So, having had some quarters of school breeding,

They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading;

But setting out where others nigh have done,

And being ripened in the seventh stage,

The childhood of old age,

Began, as other children have begun,--

Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,

Or Bard of Hope,

Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,--

But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,

And then relax'd themselves with Whittington,

Or Valentine and Orson--

But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,

And being easily melted in their dotage,

Slobber'd,--and kept

Reading,--and wept

Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus reading on--the longer

They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger

In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,--

If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him,

She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons,

And magic fishes swim

In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,--

Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons;

When as it fell upon a summer's day,

As the old man sat a feeding

On the old babe-reading,

Beside his open street-and parlor door,

A hideous roar

Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed,

Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels

Or Durham feed;

With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils

From nether side of Tweed,

Or Firth of Forth;

Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,--

With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,--

When,--whether from a fly's malicious comment

Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank;

Or whether

Only in some enthusiastic moment,--

However, one brown monster, in a frisk,

Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,

Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble;

And after a pas seul,--or, if you will, a

Horn-pipe before the basket-maker's villa,

Leapt o'er the tiny pale,--

Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable,

And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail

Right o'er the page,

Wherein the sage

Just then was spelling some romantic fable.

The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,

Could not peruse,--who could?--two tales at once;

And being huffed

At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft;

Banged-to the door,

But most unluckily enclosed a morsel

Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:--

The monster gave a roar,

And bolting off with speed increased by pain,

The little house became a coach once more,

And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again!

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree,

The ancient woman stooping with her crupper

Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,

Was getting up some household herbs for supper;

Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,

And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts

Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail,

To turn it to a coach;--what pretty gifts

Might come of cabbages, and curly kale;

Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail,

Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite

Gone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,

Weary of sitting on her russet clothing,

And looking round

Where rest was to be found,

There was no house--no villa there--no nothing!

No house!

The change was quite amazing;

It made her senses stagger for a minute,

The riddle's explication seemed to harden;

But soon her superannuated _nous_

Explain'd the horrid mystery;--and raising

Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,

On which she meant to sup,--

"Well! this _is_ Fairy work! I'll bet a farden,

Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up,

And set me down in some one else's garden!"

CRANIOLOGY.

'Tis strange how like a very dunce,

Man--with his bumps upon his sconce,

Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he

Has had, till lately, of Phrenology--

A science that by simple dint of

Head-combing he should find a hint of,

When scratching o'er those little poll-hills,

The faculties throw up like mole-hills;

A science that, in very spite

Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light,

For though he knew his skull had _grinders_,

Still there turned up no _organ_ finders,

Still sages wrote, and ages fled,

And no man's head came in his head--

Not even the pate of Erra Pater,

Knew aught about its pia mater.

At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him--

I don't know but it might be Spurzheim--

Tho' native of a dull and slow land,

And makes partition of our Poll-land;

At our Acquisitiveness guesses,

And all those necessary _nesses_

Indicative of human habits,

All burrowing in the head like rabbits.

Thus Veneration, he made known,

Had got a lodging at the Crown;

And Music (see Deville's example)

A set of chambers in the Temple;

That Language taught the tongues close by,

And took in pupils thro' the eye,

Close by his neighbor Computation,

Who taught the eyebrows numeration.

The science thus--to speak in fit

Terms--having struggled from its nit,

Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen

Those scientifical hotch-potch men,

Who have at least a penny dip,

And wallop in all doctorship,

Just as in making broth they smatter

By bobbing twenty things in water:

These men, I say, made quick appliance

And close, to phrenologic science;

For of all learned themes whatever,

That schools and colleges deliver,

There's none they love so near the bodles,

As analysing their own noddles;

Thus in a trice each northern blockhead

Had got his fingers in his shock head,

And of his bumps was babbling yet worse

Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse;

Till having been sufficient rangers

Of their own heads, they took to strangers'.

And found in Presbyterians' polls

The things they hated in their souls!

For Presbyterians hear with passion

Of organs joined with veneration.

No kind there was of human pumpkin

But at its bumps it had a bumpkin;

Down to the very lowest gullion,

And oiliest skull of oily scullion.

No great man died but this they _did_ do,

They begged his cranium of his widow:

No murderer died by law disaster,

But they took off his sconce in plaster;

For thereon they could show depending,

"The head and front of his offending":

How that his philanthropic bump

Was mastered by a baser lump;

For every bump (these wags insist)

Has its direct antagonist,

Each striving stoutly to prevail,

Like horses knotted tail to tail!

And many a stiff and sturdy battle

Occurs between these adverse cattle,

The secret cause, beyond all question,

Of aches ascribed to indigestion,--

Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals

Tugging together like sheer devils,

Till one gets mastery, good or sinister,

And comes in like a new prime-minister.

Each bias in some master node is:--

What takes M'Adam where a road is,

To hammer little pebbles less?

His organ of Destructiveness.

What makes great Joseph so encumber

Debate? a lumping lump of Number:

Or Malthas rail at babies so?

The smallness of his Philopro--

What severs man and wife? a simple

Defect of the Adhesive pimple:

Or makes weak women go astray?

Their bumps are more in fault than they.

These facts being found and set in order

By grave M. D.'s beyond the Border,

To make them for some months eternal,

Were entered monthly in a journal,

That many a northern sage still writes in,

And throws his little Northern Lights in,

And proves and proves about the phrenos,

A great deal more than I or he knows:

How Music suffers, _par exemple_,

By wearing tight hats round the temple;

What ills great boxers have to fear

From blisters put behind the ear;

And how a porter's Veneration

Is hurt by porter's occupation;

Whether shillelaghs in reality

May deaden Individuality;

Or tongs and poker be creative

Of alterations in th' Amative;

If falls from scaffolds make us less

Inclined to all Constructiveness:

With more such matters, all applying

To heads--and therefore _head-ifying_.

THE WEE MAN.

A ROMANCE.

It was a merry company,

And they were just afloat,

When lo! a man, of dwarfish span,

Came up and hailed the boat.

"Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,

And will you let me in?

A slender space will serve my case,

For I am small and thin."

They saw he was a dwarfish man,

And very small and thin;

Not seven such would matter much,

And so they took him in.

They laughed to see his little hat,

With such a narrow brim;

They laughed to note his dapper coat,

With skirts so scant and trim.

But barely had they gone a mile,

When, gravely, one and all

At once began to think the man

Was not so very small:

His coat had got a broader skirt,

His hat a broader brim;

His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out

A very proper limb.

Still on they went, and as they went,

More rough the billows grew,--

And rose and fell, a greater swell,

And he was swelling too!

And lo! where room had been for seven,

For six there scarce was space!

For five!--for four!--for three!--not more

Than two could find a place!

There was not even room for one!

They crowded by degrees--

Ay--closer yet, till elbows met,

And knees were jogging knees.

"Good sir, you must not sit a-stern,

The wave will else come in!"

Without a word he gravely stirred,

Another seat to win.

"Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,

You must not sit a-lee!"

With smiling face and courteous grace,

The middle seat took he.

But still, by constant quiet growth,

His back became so wide,

Each neighbor wight, to left and right,

Was thrust against the side.

Lord! how they chided with themselves,

That they had let him in;

To see him grow so monstrous now,

That came so small and thin.

On every brow a dewdrop stood,

They grew so scared and hot,--

"I' the name of all that's great and tall,

Who are ye, sir, and what?"

Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh

As loud as giant's roar--

"When first I came, my proper name

Was Little--now I'm _Moore!_"[39]

[Footnote 39: Thomas Moore is a forgotten poet, and it cannot therefore

be impertinent to remind the reader that in his early days he published

certain rather "vain and amatorious" poems under the pseudonym of

"Thomas Little."]

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

Oh happy time!--Art's early days!

When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,

Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seemed,

And such Old Masters all were deemed

As nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes--abrupt and few,

So easily and swift I drew,

Sufficed for my design;

My sketchy, superficial hand

Drew solids at a dash--and spanned

A surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content,

But grew more critical--my bent

Essayed a higher walk;

I copied leaden eyes in lead--

Rheumatic hands in white and red,

And gouty feet--in chalk.

Anon my studious art for days

Kept making faces--happy phrase,

For faces such as mine!

Accomplished in the details then,

I left the minor parts of men,

And drew the form divine.

Old Gods and Heroes--Trojan--Greek,

Figures--long after the antique,

Great Ajax justly feared;

Hectors, of whom at night I dreamt,

And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt

Bird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,

A Pallas that out-stared her owl,

A Vulcan--very lame;

A Dian stuck about with stars,

With my right hand I murdered Mars--

(One Williams did the same).

But tired of this dry work at last,

Crayon and chalk aside I cast,

And gave my brush a drink!

Dipping--"as when a painter dips

In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"--

That is--in Indian ink.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose,

Crested with soot, and not with snows:

What clouds of dingy hue!

In spite of what the bard has penned,

I fear the distance did not "lend

Enchantment to the view."

Not Radcliffe's brush did e'er design

Black Forests half so black as mine,

Or lakes so like a pall;

The Chinese cake dispersed a ray

Of darkness, like the light of Day

And Martin over all.

Yet urchin pride sustained me still,

I gazed on all with right good will,

And spread the dingy tint;

"No holy Luke helped me to paint,

The devil surely, not a Saint,

Had any finger in't!"

But colors came!--like morning light,

With gorgeous hues, displacing night,

Or Spring's enlivened scene:

At once the sable shades withdrew;

My skies got very, very blue;

My trees extremely green.

And washed by my cosmetic brush,

How Beauty's cheek began to blush;

With lock of auburn stain--

(Not Goldsmith's Auburn)--nut-brown hair,

That made her loveliest of the fair;

Not "loveliest of the plain!"

Her lips were of vermilion hue:

Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,

Set all my heart in flame!

A young Pygmalion, I adored

The maids I made--but time was stored

With evil--and it came!

Perspective dawned--and soon I saw

My houses stand against its law;

And "keeping" all unkept!

My beauties were no longer things

For love and fond imaginings;

But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?

Why did I get more artist wise?

It only serves to hint,

What grave defects and wants are mine;

That I'm no Hilton in design--

In nature no De Wint!

Thrice happy time!--Art's early days!

When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,

Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seemed,

And such Old Masters all were deemed

As nothing to the young!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells, those evening bells,

How many a tale their music tells,--

Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,

And letters only just in time!

The Muffin-boy has passed away,

The Postman gone--and I must pay,

For down below Deaf Mary dwells,

And does not hear those Evening Bells.[40]

And so 'twill be when she is gone,

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

And other maids with timely yells

Forget to stay those Evening Bells.

[Footnote 40: The muffin-boy, with his "evening bell," is still in the

land; but the evening postman, perambulating the streets and collecting

letters "just in time," has "passed away" for ever.]

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank,

Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;

And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,

Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,

For She was Fayre and He was Kinde;

The Sunne went down before She wist

Another Sonne had sett behinde!

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,

That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,

She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe

Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde

With Shrikes that Echo answered round--

O foolish Mayd! to be soe sadde

The Momente that her Care was drownd!

DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

"I really take it very kind,

This visit, Mrs. Skinner!

I have not seen you such an age--

(The wretch has come to dinner!)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls--

What heads for painters' easels!

Come here and kiss the infant, dears--

(And give it p'rhaps the measles!)

"Your charming boys I see are home

From Reverend Mr. Russell's;

'Twas very kind to bring them both--

(What boots for my new Brussels!)

"What! little Clara left at home?

Well now I call that shabby:

I should have loved to kiss her so--

(A flabby, dabby, babby!)

"And Mr. S., I hope he's well,

Ah! though he lives so handy,

He never now drops in to sup--

(The better for our brandy!)

"Come, take a seat--I long to hear

About Matilda's marriage;

You're come of course to spend the day!

(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage!)

"What! must you go? next time I hope

You'll give me longer measure;

Nay--I shall see you down the stairs--

(With most uncommon pleasure!)

"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,

Next time you'll take your dinners!

(Now, David, mind I'm not at home

In future to the Skinners!")

SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepar'd."--_Macheath._

If I shoot any more I'll be shot,

For ill-luck seems determined to star me,

I have march'd the whole day

With a gun,--for no pay--

Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave;

To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!

With confidence fraught

My two pointers I brought,

But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice!

Of my course he has been a nice chalker,

Not far, were his words,

I could go without birds:

If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,--

My appointments are modern and Mantony;

And I've brought my own man,

To mark down all he can,

But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!

The partridges,--where can they lie?

I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas,

As the least I could do;

But without even two

To brace me,--I'm getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants--how well they're preserv'd!--

My sport's not a jot more beholden,

As the birds are so shy,

For my friends I must buy,

And so send "silver pheasants and golden."

I have tried ev'ry form for a hare,

Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,

With toil unrelax'd,

Till my patience is tax'd,

But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.

I've been roaming for hours in three flats,

In the hope of a snipe for a snap at;

But still vainly I court

The percussioning sport,

I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"

A woodcock,--this month is the time,--

Right and left I've made ready my lock for,

With well-loaded double,

But 'spite of my trouble,

Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise,

But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;

This day's the eleventh,

It is not the seventh,

But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I've waded the marsh,

And haunted each pool, and each lake--oh!

Mine is not the luck,

To obtain thee, O Duck,

Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,

Large or small I am never to sack bird,

Not a thrush is so kind

As to fly, and I find

I may whistle myself for a black-bird!

I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry,

Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,

And so weary an elf,

I am sick of myself,

And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's,

And look out for a cock or a hen there;

I have search'd round and round,

All the Baronet's ground,

But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,

But for nightcaps they set me desiring,

And it's really too bad,

Not a shot I have had

With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."

If this is what people call sport,

Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense;

And there still remains one

More mischance on my gun--

"Fined for shooting without any licence."

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"A Day after the Fair."--_Old Proverb_.

John Day he was the biggest man

Of all the coachman kind,

With back too broad to be conceived

By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight,

When he was in the rear,

And wished his box a Christmas box,

To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love,

What armor can avail?

Soon Cupid sent an arrow through

His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,

From whom he never ranged,

For though he changed his horses there,

His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,

So fondly love prefers;

And often, among twelve outsides,

Deemed no outside like hers!

One day, as she was sitting down

Beside the porter-pump--

He came, and knelt with all his fat,

And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn

To like so huge a man,

So I must beg you will come here

As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit

With vows, and sighs, and tears,

Yet could not pierce her heart, altho'

He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued,

The maid was cold and proud,

And sent him off to Coventry,

While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,

And thence all back to town,

The course of love was never smooth,

So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine

To merely bones and skin,

But still he loved like one resolved

To love through thick and thin.

O Mary! view my wasted back,

And see my dwindled calf;

Tho' I have never had a wife,

I've lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail'd,

He heart withstood the dint;

Though he had carried sixteen stone

He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow

To break his being's link;

For he was so reduced in size,

At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise,

And waste a deal of breath,

But John, tho' he drank nothing else,

He drank himself to death!

The cruel maid that caused his love

Found out the fatal close,

For looking in the butt, she saw

The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,

But that is only talk--

For after riding all his life,

His ghost objects to walk!

HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

PASTORAL, AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns--but call them swains--

Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains,

For all that tend on sheep as drovers

Are turned to songsters or to lovers,

Each of the lass he call'd his dear,

Began to carol loud and clear.

First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,

In the way of ancient shepherd men;

Who thus alternate hitched in song,

"All things by turns, and nothing long."

HUGGINS.

Of all the girls about our place,

There's one beats all in form and face;

Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead,

You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.

DUGGINS.

To groves and streams I tell my flame,

I make the cliffs repeat her name;

When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,

The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!

HUGGINS.

When I am walking in the grove,

I think of Peggy as I rove.

I'd carve her name on every tree,

But I don't know my A, B, C.

DUGGINS.

Whether I walk in hill or valley,

I think of nothing else but Sally.

I'd sing her praise, but I can sing

No song, except "God save the king!"

HUGGINS.

My Peggy does all nymphs excel,

And all confess she bears the bell,--

Where'er she goes swains flock together,

Like sheep that follow the bell wether.

DUGGINS.

Sally is tall and not too straight,--

Those very poplar shapes I hate;

But something twisted like an S,--

A crook becomes a shepherdess.

HUGGINS.

When Peggy's dog her arms empris'n

I often wish my lot was hisn;

How often I should stand and turn,

To get a pat from hands like hern.

DUGGINS.

I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,

To stand about, and stare at she;

But when I look, she turns and shies,

And won't bear none but their sheep's eyes!

HUGGINS.

Love goes with Peggy where she goes,--

Beneath her smile the garden grows;

Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,

'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!

DUGGINS.

Where Sally goes it's always Spring,

Her presence brightens everything;

The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,

It makes brass farthings look like guineas.

HUGGINS.

For Peggy I can have no joy,

She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,

And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,

As comfortless as sheep with ticks!

DUGGINS.

Sally is ripe as June or May,

And yet as cold as Christmas Day;

For when she's asked to change her lot,

Lamb's wool,--but Sally, she wool not.

HUGGINS.

Only with Peggy and with health,

I'd never wish for state or wealth;

Talking of having health and more pence,

I'd drink her health if I had fourpence!

DUGGINS.

Oh, how that day would seem to shine,

If Sally's banns were read with mine;

She cries, when such a wish I carry,

"Marry come up!" but will not marry.

THE CHINA-MENDER.

Good-Morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another pretty job!

Lord help my Lady!--what a smash!--if you had only heard her sob!

It was all through Mr. Lambert: but for certain he was winey,

To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiney.

"Deuce take your stupid head!" says my Lady to his very face;

But politeness, you know, is nothing when there's Chiney in the case;

And if ever a woman was fond of Chiney to a passion,

It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion.

Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home shiploads--

Such bronzes, and such dragons, and nasty squatting things like toads;

And great nidnoddin' mandarins, with palsies in the head:

I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed.

But the frightfuller they are--lawk! she loves them all the better,

She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiney if they'd let her.

Lawk-a-mercy! break her Chiney, and it's breaking her very heart;

If I touched it, she would very soon say, "Mary, we must part."

To be sure she is unlucky: only Friday comes Master Randall,

And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle:

He's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch,

And that's why my Lady doesn't take to children much.

Well, there's stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two greatcoat flaps.

Must go and sit down on the Dresd'n shepherdesses' laps,

As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room!

I couldn't have made a greater sweep with the handle of the broom.

Mercy on us! how my mistress began to rave and tear!

Well, after all, there's nothing like good ironstone ware for wear.

If ever I marry, that's flat, I'm sure it won't be John Dockery--

I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery.

I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy,

And afraid of meat on market-days every Monday and Friday

I'm very much mistook if Mr. Lambert's will be a catch;

The breaking the Chiney will be the breaking-off of his own match.

Missis wouldn't have an angel, if he was careless about Chiney;

She never forgives a chip, if it's ever so small and tiny.

Lawk! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking;

I could find it in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making.

To see him stand a-hammering and stammering like a zany;

But what signifies apologies, if they won't mend old Chaney!

If he sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood's and Mr. Spode's,

He couldn't make amends for the crack'd mandarins and smash'd toads.

Well! every one has their tastes, but, for my part, my own self,

I'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother's old shelf

A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of corns,

And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns,

And such a Jemmy Jessamy in top-boots and sky-blue vest,

And a frill and flower'd waistcoat, with a fine bow-pot at the breast.

God help her, poor old soul! I shall come into 'em at her death;

Though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of breath.

Well! you may think the things will mend--if they won't, Lord mend us all!

My lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert won't need to call;

I'll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give,

He won't sit down again on Chiney the longest day he has to live.

Poor soul! I only hope it won't forbid his banns of marriage;

Or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady's carriage.

But you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert's friend,

I'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend.

To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats,

Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats.

Be particular with the pagoda: and then here's this pretty bowl--

The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole;

And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll,

Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol.

But I needn't tell you what to do, only do it out of hand,

And charge whatever you like to charge--my Lady won't make a stand.

Well! good-morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call, for it's time our gossip ended:

And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney's

mended.

DOMESTIC DIDACTICS.

BY AN OLD SERVANT.

I.

THE BROKEN DISH.

What's life but full of care and doubt

With all its fine humanities,

With parasols we walk about,

Long pigtails, and such vanities.

We plant pomegranate trees and things,

And go in gardens sporting,

With toys and fans of peacocks' wings,

To painted ladies courting.

We gather flowers of every hue,

And fish in boats for fishes,

Build summer-houses painted blue,--

But life's as frail as dishes!

Walking about their groves of trees,

Blue bridges and blue rivers,

How little thought them two Chinese,

They'd both be smashed to shivers!

II.

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.

Oh Peace, oh come with me and dwell--

But stop, for there's the bell.

Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches

On Wednesday, when there's very few

In loft or pew--

Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's.

Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage--

Hush! there's a carriage.

Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods--

The five Miss Woods!

Oh Peace! thou art the goddess I adore--

There come some more.

Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet--

That's Lord Dunn's footman, for he loves a riot!

Oh Peace!

Knocks will not cease.

Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann'd--

That's Weippert's band.

Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches--

I hear the sound of coaches.

Oh Peace! oh Peace! another carriage stops--

It's early for the Blenkinsops.

Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander,

But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander,

And now I've seen her up the stair,

Oh Peace!--but here comes Captain Hare.

Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind,

Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken,--

If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken,

Alderman Gobble won't be far behind.

Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness,--

Make way there for his Serene Highness!

Oh Peace! if you do not disdain

To dwell amongst the menial train,

I have a silent place and lone,

That you and I may call our own;

Where tumult never makes an entry--

Susan! what business have you in my pantry?

Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk,

At variance with his wife--Oh Peace!

And that great German, Vander Trunk,

And that great talker, Miss Apreece;

Oh Peace! so dear to poet's quills--

Oh Peace! our greatest renovator;

I wonder where I put my waiter--

Oh Peace! but here my Ode I'll cease,

I have no peace to write of Peace!

III.

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.

When I reflect with serious sense,

While years and years run on,

How soon I may be summoned hence--

There's cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor,

On sand and not on rocks,

We're hourly standing at Death's door--

There's some one double knocks.

All human days have settled terms,

Our fates we cannot force;

This flesh of mine will feed the worms--

They're come to lunch of course!

And when my body's turned to clay,

And dear friends hear my knell,

Oh let them give a sigh and say--

I hear the upstairs bell!

IV.

TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

Mary, you know I've no love nonsense,

And though I pen on such a day,

I don't mean flirting, on my conscience,

Or writing in the courting way.

Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature,

It saves you p'rhaps from being vain,

And many a poor unhappy creature

May wish that she was half as plain.

Your virtues would not rise an inch,

Although your shape was two foot taller,

And wisely you let others pinch

Great waists and feet to make them smaller.

You never try to spare your hands

From getting red by household duty,

But doing all that it commands,

Their coarseness is a moral beauty.

Let Susan flourish her fair arms,

And at your old legs sneer and scoff,

But let her laugh, for you have charms

That nobody knows nothing of.

LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.[41]

[Footnote 41: These verses form a good specimen of Hood's capabilities

for writing to order. They first appeared in the _Bijou_ for 1828,

accompanying a vignette by Thomas Stothard of two knights, mounted, and

in complete armor, engaged in deadly conflict. This was doubtless

(after the then custom of _Annuals_) placed in Hood's hands for

him to supply the appropriate letterpress.]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,

All chivalrous romantic work

Is ended now and past!--

That iron age--which some have thought

Of metal rather overwrought--

Is now all overcast!

Ay! where are those heroic knights

Of old--those armadillo wights

Who wore the plated vest?--

Great Charlemagne and all his peers

Are cold--enjoying with their spears

An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;

So sleep his knights who gave that Round

Old Table such éclat!

Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!

And none engage at tourneys now

But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by,

And Guy is nothing but a Guy,

Orlando lies forlorn!--

Bold Sidney, and his kidney--nay,

Those "early champions"--what are they

But "Knights without a morn"?

No Percy branch now perseveres,

Like those of old, in breaking spears--

The name is now a lie!--

Surgeons, alone, by any chance,

Are all that ever couch a lance

To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick,

That cut the Moslems to the quick,

His weapon lies in peace:

Oh, it would warm them in a trice,

If they could only have a spice

Of his old mace in Greece!

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold,

And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,

That scaled the holy wall!

No Saracen meets Paladin,

We hear of no great _Salad_in,

But only grow the small!

Our _Cressys_, too, have dwindled since

To penny things--at our Black Prince[42]

Historic pens would scoff:

The only one we moderns had

Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,

And measles took him off!

Where are those old and feudal clans,

Their pikes, and bills, and partisans,

Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs?

A battle was a battle then,

A breathing piece of work; but men

Fight now--with powder puffs!

The curtal-axe is out of date;

The good old crossbow bends--to Fate;

'Tis gone, the archer's craft!

No tough arm bends the spinning yew,

And jolly draymen ride, in lieu

Of Death, upon the shaft!

The spear,--the gallant tilter's pride,

The rusty spear, is laid aside,--

Oh, spits now domineer!

The coat of mail is left alone,--

And where is all chain armor gone?

Go ask at Brighton Pier.

We fight in ropes, and not in lists,

Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists,

A low and vulgar art!--

No mounted man is overthrown:

A tilt!--it is a thing unknown--

Except upon a cart!

Methinks I see the bounding barb,

Clad like his Chief in steely garb,

For warding steel's appliance!

Methinks I hear the trumpet stir!

'Tis but the guard, to Exeter,

That bugles the "Defiance"!

In cavils when will cavaliers

Set ringing helmets by the ears,

And scatter plumes about?

Or blood--if they are in the vein?

That tap will never run again--

Alas! the _Casque_ is out!

No iron-crackling now is scored

By dint of battle-axe or sword,

To find a vital place--

Though certain doctors still pretend,

Awhile, before they kill a friend,

To labor through his case.

Farewell, then, ancient men of might!

Crusader, errant squire, and knight!

Our coats and customs soften;

To rise would only make you weep--

Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep,

As in a safety coffin!

[Footnote 42: The allusion to our modern "Black Prince" is

apparently to Prince Le Boo, whose death, while on a visit to England,

had so impressed the public imagination. He came, however, from the

Pelew Islands, not the "Sandwich;" and it was smallpox, not measles,

that "took him off."]

PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.

"Who'll serve the King?"

What little urchin is there never

Hath had that early scarlet fever,

Of martial trappings caught?

Trappings well call'd--because they trap

And catch full many a country chap

To go where fields are fought!

What little urchin with a rag

Hath never made a little flag

(Our plate will show the manner),

And wooed each tiny neighbor still,

Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,

To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,

In Hamlet, crying "'List, oh, 'list!"

Come, who will serve the king,

And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead,

And cut off Bonyparty's head?--

And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy,

To march with military toy,

And ape the soldier's life;--

And with a whistle or a hum,

I thought myself a Duke of Drum

At least, or Earl of Fife.

With gun of tin and sword of lath,

Lord! how I walk'd in glory's path

With regimental mates,

By sound of trump and rub-a dubs--

To 'siege the washhouse--charge the tubs--

Or storm the garden gates.

Ah me! my retrospective soul!

As over memory's muster-roll

I cast my eyes anew,

My former comrades all the while

Rise up before me, rank and file,

And form in dim review.

Ay, there they stand, and dress in line,

Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine,

And dark "Jamaeky Forde!"

And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes,"

Our captain always made, because

He had a _real_ sword!

Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame,

Who said he had a gun at home,

But that was all a brag;

Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham

A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb

That _would_ hold up the flag!

Tom Anderson, and "Dunny White,"

Who never right-abouted right,

For he was deaf and dumb;

Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray,

And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play

Unless he had the drum.

And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp,

A chap that never kept the step--

No more did "Surly Hugh;"

Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim"--

We often had to halt for him,

To let him tie his shoe.

"Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick,

That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick

The plumes within his hat;

Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout,

That got so thump'd for calling out

"Eyes right!" to "Squinting Matt."

Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd,

Was always in the awkward squad,

And those two greedy Blakes

That took our money to the fair,

To buy the corps a trumpet there,

And laid it out in cakes.

Where are they now?--an open war

With open mouth declaring for?--

Or fall'n in bloody fray?

Compell'd to tell the truth I am,

Their fights all ended with the sham,--

Their soldiership in play.

Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks,

And Martin sells the cock he plucks,

And Jepp now deals in wine;

Harrington bears a lawyer's bag,

And warlike Lamb retains his flag,

But on a tavern sign.

They tell me Cockey Hawes's sword

Is seen upon a broker's board:

And as for "Fighting Jim,"

In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide,

His unresisting cheek I spied

Beneath a Quaker brim!

Quarrelsome Scott is in the church,

For Ryder now your eye must search

The marts of silk and lace--

Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute,

And I--I've got a substitute

To Soldier in my place!

MARY'S GHOST.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

'Twas in the middle of the night,

To sleep young William tried,

When Mary's ghost came stealing in,

And stood at his bedside.

O William dear! O William dear!

My rest eternal ceases;

Alas! my everlasting peace

Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares

Would end with my last minute;

But though I went to my long home,

I didn't stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,

And made a snatch at me;

It's very hard them kind of men

Won't let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep,

Quite decent-like and chary,

But from her grave in Mary-bone,

They've come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm

Is took to Dr. Vyse;

And both my legs are gone to walk

The hospital at Guy's.

I vowed that you should have my hand,

But fate gives us denial;

You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's,

In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet

You used to call so pretty,

There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,

The t'other's in the City.

I can't tell where my head is gone,

But Doctor Carpue can;

As for my trunk, it's all packed up

To go by Pickford's van.

I wish you'd go to Mr. P.

And save me such a ride;

I don't half like the outside place,

They've took for my inside.

The cock it crows--I must be gone!

My William, we must part!

But I'll be yours in death, altho'

Sir Astley has my heart.

Don't go to weep upon my grave,

And think that there I be;

They haven't left an atom there

Of my anatomie.

THE WIDOW.

One widow at a grave will sob

A little while, and weep, and sigh!

If two should meet on such a job,

They'll have a gossip by and by.

If three should come together--why,

Three widows are good company!

If four should meet by any chance,

Four is a number very nice,

To have a rubber in a trice--

But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not

Declare her name?--her name was Cross)

Was one of those the "common lot"

Had left to weep "no common loss";

For she had lately buried then

A man, the "very best of men,"

A lingering truth, discovered first

Whenever men "are at the worst."

To take the measure of her woe,

It was some dozen inches deep--

I mean in crape, and hung so low,

It hid the drops she did _not_ weep:

In fact, what human life appears,

It was a perfect "veil of tears."

Though ever since she lost "her prop

And stay"--alas! he wouldn't stay--

She never had a tear to mop,

Except one little angry drop

From Passion's eye, as Moore would say,

Because, when Mister Cross took flight,

It looked so very like a spite--

He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,

As if "to wet a widows' cheek,"

And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy--

'Twas nothing but a make-believe,

She might as well have hoped to grieve

Enough of brine to float a navy;

And yet she often seemed to raise

A cambric kerchief to her eye--

A _duster_ ought to be the phrase,

Its work was all so very dry.

The springs were locked that ought to flow--

In England or in widow-woman--

As those that watch the weather know,

Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains

To call upon the "dear remains"--

Remains that could not tell a jot

Whether she ever wept or not,

Or how his relict took her losses?

Oh! my black ink turns red for shame--

But still the naughty world must learn,

There was a little German came

To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn,"

At the next grave to Mr. Cross's!

For there an angel's virtues slept,

"Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!"

But still her painted face he kept,

"Encompassed in an angel's frame."

He looked quite sad and quite deprived,

His head was nothing but a hat-band;

He looked so lone, and so _un_wived,

That soon the Widow Cross contrived

To fall in love with even _that_ band!

And all at once the brackish juices

Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices--

Tear after tear too fast to wipe,

Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again--

No leak in sorrow's private pipe,

But like a bursting on the main!

Whoe'er has watched the window-pane--

I mean to say in showery weather--

Has seen two little drops of rain,

Like lovers very fond and fain,

At one another creeping, creeping,

Till both, at last, embrace together:

So fared it with that couple's weeping!

The principle was quite as active--

Tear unto tear

Kept drawing near,

Their very blacks became attractive.

To cut a shortish story shorter,

Conceive them sitting _tête-à-tête_--

Two cups--hot muffins on a plate--

With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water!

The brazen vessel for awhile

Had lectured in an easy song,

Like Abernethy,--on the bile--

The scalded herb was getting strong;

All seemed as smooth as smooth could be,

To have a cosy cup of tea.

Alas! how often human sippers

With unexpected bitters meet,

And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,

Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told,

Had seen three husbands to the mould:

She never sought an Indian pyre,

Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves;

But, with a proper sense of fire,

Put up, instead, with "three removes."

Thus, when with any tender words

Or tears she spoke about her loss,

The dear departed Mr. Cross

Came in for nothing but his thirds;

For, as all widows love too well,

She liked upon the list to dwell,

And oft ripped up the old disasters.

She might, indeed, have been supposed

A great _ship_ owner; for she prosed

Eternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nursed

Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned

What had been left her by her first,

And by her last, and by her second.

Alas! not all her annual rents

Could then entice the little German--

Not Mr. Cross's Three per Cents,

Or Consols, ever make him _her_ man.

He liked her cash, he liked her houses,

But not that dismal bit of land

She always settled on her spouses.

So taking up his hat and band,

Said he, "You'll think my conduct odd--

But here my hopes no more may linger;

I thought you had a wedding-finger,

But oh!--it is a curtain-rod!"

AN OPEN QUESTION.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this

way it is that thou hast placed the lions."--BUNYAN.

What! shut the gardens; lock the latticed gate!

Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket!

And hang a wooden notice up to state,

"On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!"

The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race

Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!

Now, really, this appears the common case

Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens,--so unlike the ones we dub

Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses,--

Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub,--

Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?

No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head,--

Nor rum--nor gin--not even of a Monday--

The Lion is not carved--or gilt--or red,

And does not send out porter of a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The bear denied! the Leopard under locks!

As if his spots would give contagious fevers;

The Beaver close as hat within its box;

So different from other Sunday beavers!

The Birds invisible--the Gnaw-way Rats--

The Seal hermetically seal'd till Monday--

The Monkey tribe--the Family of Cats,--

We visit other families on Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What is the brute profanity that shocks

The super-sensitively serious feeling?

The Kangaroo--is he not orthodox

To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?

Was strict Sir Andrew, in his sabbath coat,

Struck all a heap to see a _Coati Mundi_?

Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note

The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set?

What error in the bestial birth or breeding,

To put their tender fancies on the fret?

One thing is plain--it is not in the feeding!

Some stiffish people think that smoking joints

Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday--

But then the beasts are pious on these points,

For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,

As if transmuted by some spell organic?

Turns fell Hyæna of the Ghoulish race?

The Snake, _pro tempore_, the true Satanic?

Do Irish minds,--(whose theory allows

That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)--

Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows

Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody fellows, not a few,

Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias,

Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,

And think when they are dismal they are pious:

Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun

Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday--

Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one,

Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offence have serious Fellows found

To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney?

Were charitable boxes handed round,

And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?

Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult

The feathers in her head--at least till Monday;

Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt

A tract presented to be read on Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing?

Who has been hiss'd by the Canadian Goose?

On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?

Some Smithfield saint did jealous feelings tell

To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,

Because he prey'd extempore as well

As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way

(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)

Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day

Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious--

As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk

About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,

As any harmless man to take a walk,

If saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,

As surely as I am a Christian scion,

I cannot think it is a mortal sin--

(Unless he's loose) to look upon a lion.

I really think that one may go, perchance,

To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday--

(That is, provided that he did not dance)

Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

I cannot think the day a bit diviner,

Because no children, with forestalling smiles,

Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor--

It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,

That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,

The wondrous History of bird and beast,

Can be Unnatural because it's Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The Dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven?

The tender Love-Bird--or the filial Stork?

The punctual Crane--the providential Raven?

The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?

Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday

That feather'd marvel with a human tongue,

Because she does not preach upon a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver--that sagacious beast!

The Sheep that own'd an Oriental Shepherd--

That Desert-ship the Camel of the East,

The horn'd Rhinoceros--the spotted Leopard--

The creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than Monday--

The elephant, although he wears no band,

Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,

Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature,

Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature"?

Better it were if, in his best of suits,

The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,

Should spend a leisure hour among the brutes,

Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss

(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)

But that the Papists, like some fellows, thus

Had somehow mixed up _Dens_ with their theology?

Is Brahma's Bull--a Hindoo god at home--

A papal bull to be tied up till Monday--

Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,

That there is such a dread of them on Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,

But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,

As vessels cant their ballast--rattling rubbish!

Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,

Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,

And sure as fate they will deny us next

To see the Dandelions on a Sunday--

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

A BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great,

Of being cheated as to cheat."--HUDIBRAS.

The history of human-kind to trace,

Since Eve--the first of dupes--our doom unriddled,

A certain portion of the human race

Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams!

A rage that time seems only to redouble--

The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes,

For rolling in Pactolian streams,

That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.

No matter what,--to pasture cows on stubble,

To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,

To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble,

Or light with gas the whole celestial cope--

Only propose to blow a bubble,

And Lord! what hundreds will subscribe for soap!

Soap!--it reminds me of a little tale,

Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory,

When rustic games and merriment prevail--

But here's my story:

Once on a time--no matter when--

A knot of very charitable men

Set up a Philanthropical Society,

Professing on a certain plan,

To benefit the race of man,

And in particular that dark variety,

Which some suppose inferior--as in vermin

The sable is to ermine,

As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster,

As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow,

As blacking, or as ink, to "milk below,"

Or yet a better simile to show,

As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!

However, as is usual in our city,

They had a sort of managing Committee,

A board of grave responsible Directors--

A Secretary, good at pen and ink--

A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink,

And quite an army of Collectors!

Not merely male, but female duns,

Young, old, and middle-aged--of all degrees--

With many of those persevering ones,

Who mite by mite would beg a cheese!

And what might be their aim?

To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters--

To save their bodies from the burning shame

Of branding with hot letters--

Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes,

Their necks from iron yokes?

To end or mitigate the ills of slavery,

The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery?

To school the heathen Negroes and enlighten 'em,

To polish up and brighten 'em,

And make them worthy of eternal bliss?

Why, no--the simple end and aim was this--

Reading a well-known proverb much amiss--

To wash and whiten 'em!

They look'd so ugly in their sable hides:

So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot

Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides,

However the poor elves

Might wash themselves,

Nobody knew if they were clean or not--

On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot!

Not to forget more serious complaints

That even while they join'd in pious hymn,

So black they were and grim,

In face and limb,

They look'd like Devils, tho' they sang like Saints!

The thing was undeniable!

They wanted washing! not that slight ablution

To which the skin of the White Man is liable,

Merely removing transient pollution--

But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing

And scrubbing,

Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head

With stiff, strong, saponaceous lather,

And pails of water--hottish rather,

But not so boiling as to turn 'em red!

So spoke the philanthropic man

Who laid, and hatch'd, and nursed the plan--

And oh! to view its glorious consummation!

The brooms and mops,

The tubs and slops,

The baths and brushes in full operation!

To see each Crow, or Jim or John,

Go in a raven and come out a swan!

While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels,

Black Venus rises from the soapy surge,

And all the little Niggerlings emerge

As lily-white as mussels.

Sweet was the vision--but alas!

However in prospectus bright and sunny,

To bring such visionary scenes to pass

One thing was requisite, and that was--money!

Money, that pays the laundress and her bills,

For socks and collars, shirts and frills,

Cravats and kerchiefs--money, without which

The negroes must remain as dark as pitch;

A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery,

To think of millions of immortal souls

Dwelling in bodies black as coals,

And living--so to speak--in Satan's livery!

Money--the root of evil,--dross, and stuff!

But oh! how happy ought the rich to feel,

Whose means enable them to give enough

To blanch an African from head to heel!

How blessed--yea, thrice blessed--to subscribe

Enough to scour a tribe!

While he whose fortune was at best a brittle one,

Although he gave but pence, how sweet to know

He helped to bleach a Hottentot's great toe,

Or little one!

Moved by this logic, or appall'd,

To persons of a certain turn so proper,

The money came when call'd,

In silver, gold, and copper,

Presents from "Friends to blacks," or foes to whites,

"Trifles," and "offerings," and "widows' mites,"

Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions,

With other gifts

And charitable lifts,

Printed in lists and quarterly transactions.

As thus--Elisha Brettel,

An iron kettle.

The Dowager Lady Scannel,

A piece of flannel.

Rebecca Pope,

A bar of soap.

The Misses Howels,

Half-a-dozen towels.

The Master Rush's,

Two scrubbing-brushes.

Mr. T. Groom,

A stable broom,

And Mrs. Grubb,

A tub.

Great were the sums collected!

And great results in consequence expected.

But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavor,

According to reports

At yearly courts,

The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

Yes! spite of all the water sous'd aloft,

Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft,

Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand,

Brooms, brushes, palm of hand,

And scourers in the office strong and clever,

In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing,

The routing and the grubbing,

The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

In fact in his perennial speech,

The Chairman own'd the niggers did not bleach,

As he had hoped.

From being washed and soaped,

A circumstance he named with grief and pity;

But still he had the happiness to say,

For self and the Committee,

By persevering in the present way

And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day,

Although he could not promise perfect white,

From certain symptoms that had come to light,

He hoped in time to get them gray!

Lull'd by this vague assurance,

The friends and patrons of the sable tribe

Continued to subscribe,

And waited, waited on with much endurance--

Many a frugal sister, thrifty daughter--

Many a stinted widow, pinching mother--

With income by the tax made somewhat shorter,

Still paid implicitly her crown per quarter,

Only to hear as ev'ry year came round,

That Mr. Treasurer had spent her pound;

And as she loved her sable brother,

That Mr. Treasurer must have another!

But, spite of pounds or guineas,

Instead of giving any hint

Of turning to a neutral tint,

The plaguy Negroes and their piccaninnies

Were still the color of the bird that caws--

Only some very aged souls

Showing a little gray upon their polls,

Like daws!

However, nothing clashed

By such repeated failures, or abashed,

The Court still met;--the Chairman and Directors,

The Secretary, good at pen and ink,

The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink,

And all the cash Collectors;

With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous,

Without whose help, no charlatan alive,

Or Bubble Company could hope to thrive,

Or busy Chevalier, however sedulous--

Those good and easy innocents in fact,

Who willingly receiving chaff for corn,

As pointed out by Butler's tact,

Still find a secret pleasure in the act

Of being pluck'd and shorn!

However, in long hundreds there they were,

Thronging the hot, and close, and dusty court,

To hear once more addresses from the Chair,

And regular Report.

Alas! concluding in the usual strain,

That what with everlasting wear and tear,

The scrubbing-brushes hadn't got a hair--

The brooms--mere stumps--would never serve again--

The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds,

The towels worn to threads,

The tubs and pails too shattered to be mended--

And what was added with a deal of pain,

But as accounts correctly would explain,

Tho' thirty thousand pounds had been expended--

The Blackamoors had still been wash'd in vain!

"In fact, the Negroes were as black as ink,

Yet, still as the Committee dared to think,

And hoped the proposition was not rash,

A rather free expenditure of cash--"

But ere the prospect could be made more sunny--

Up jump'd a little, lemon-colored man,

And with an eager stammer, thus began,

In angry earnest, though it sounded funny:

"What! More subscriptions! No--no--no,--not I!"

"You have had time--time--time enough to try!

They WON'T come white! then why--why--why--why,

More money?"

"Why!" said the Chairman, with an accent bland,

And gentle waving of his dexter hand,

"Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust,

More filthy lucre, in a word, more gold--

The why, sir, very easily is told,

Because Humanity declares we must!

We've scrubb'd the negroes till we've nearly killed 'em,

And finding that we cannot wash them white,

But still their nigritude offends the sight,

_We mean to gild 'em!_"

ETCHING MORALISED.

TO A NOBLE LADY.

"To point a moral."--JOHNSON.

Fairest Lady and Noble, for once on a time,

Condescend to accept, in the humblest of rhyme,

And a style more of Gay than of Milton,

A few opportune verses design'd to impart

Some didactical hints in a Needlework Art,

Not described by the Countess of Wilton.

An Art not unknown to the delicate hand

Of the fairest and first in this insular land,

But in Patronage Royal delighting;

And which now your own feminine fantasy wins,

Tho' it scarce seems a lady-like work, that begins

In a _scratching_ and ends in a _biting_!

Yet oh! that the dames of the Scandalous School

Would but use the same acid, and sharp-pointed tool,

That are plied in the said operations--

Oh! would that our Candours on copper would sketch!

For the first of all things in begining to etch

Are--good _grounds_ for our representations.

Those protective and delicate coatings of wax,

Which are meant to resist the corrosive attacks

That would ruin the copper completely;

Thin cerements which whoso remembers the Bee

So applauded by Watts, the divine LL.D.,

Will be careful to spread very neatly.

For why? like some intricate deed of the law,

Should the ground in the process be left with a flaw,

Aqua-fortis is far from a joker;

And attacking the part that no coating protects,

Will turn out as distressing to all your _effects_

As a landlord who puts in a broker.

Then carefully spread the conservative stuff,

Until all the bright metal is cover'd enough,

To repel a destructive so active;

For in Etching, as well as in Morals, pray note

That a little raw spot, or a hole in a coat,

Your ascetics find vastly attractive.

Thus the ground being laid, very even and flat,

And then smoked with a taper, till black as a hat,

Still from future disasters to screen it,

Just allow me, by way of precaution, to state,

You must hinder the footman from changing your _plate_,

Nor yet suffer the butler to clean it.

Nay, the housemaid, perchance, in her passion to scrub,

May suppose the dull metal in want of a rub,

Like the Shield which Swift's readers remember--

Not to mention the chance of some other mishaps,

Such as having your copper made up into caps

To be worn on the First of September.

But aloof from all damage by Betty or John,

You secure the veil'd surface, and trace thereupon

The design you conceive the most proper:

Yet gently, and not with a needle too keen,

Lest it pierce to the wax through the paper between,

And of course play Old Scratch with the copper.

So in worldly affairs, the sharp-practising man

Is not always the one who succeeds in his plan,

Witness Shylock's judicial exposure;

Who, as keen as his knife, yet with agony found,

That while urging his _point_ he was losing his _ground_,

And incurring a fatal disclosure.

But, perhaps, without tracing at all, you may choose

To indulge in some little extempore views,

Like the older artistical people;

For example, a Corydon playing his pipe,

In a Low Country marsh, with a Cow, after Cuyp,

And a Goat skipping over a steeple.

A wild Deer at a rivulet taking a sup,

With a couple of Pillars put in to fill up,

Like the columns of certain diurnals;

Or a very brisk sea, in a very stiff gale,

And a very Dutch boat, with a very big sail--

Or a bevy of Retzsch Infernals.

Architectural study--or rich Arabesque--

Allegorical dream--or a view picturesque,

Near to Naples, or Venice, or Florence;

Or "as harmless as lambs and as gentle as doves,"

A sweet family cluster of plump little Loves,

Like the Children by Reynolds or Lawrence.

But whatever the subject, your exquisite taste

Will ensure a design very charming and chaste,

Like yourself, full of nature and beauty--

Yet besides the _good points_ you already reveal,

You will need a few others--of well-temper'd steel,

And especially form'd for the duty.

For suppose that the tool be imperfectly set,

Over many _weak lengths in your line_ you will fret,

Like a pupil of Walton and Cotton,

Who remains by the brink of the water, agape,

While the jack, trout, or barbel effects its escape

Thro' the gut or silk line being rotten.

Therefore, let the steel point be set truly and round,

That the finest of strokes may be even and sound,

Flowing glibly where fancy would lead 'em.

But alas! for the needle that fetters the hand,

And forbids even sketches of Liberty's land

To be drawn with the requisite freedom!

Oh! the botches I've seen by a tool of the sort,

Rather hitching than etching, and making, in short,

Such stiff, crabbed, and angular scratches,

That the figures seem'd statues or mummies from tombs,

While the trees were as rigid as bundles of brooms,

And the herbage like bunches of matches!

The stiff clouds as if carefully iron'd and starch'd,

While a cast-iron bridge, meant for wooden, o'er-arch'd

Something more like a road than a river.

Prythee, who in such characteristics could see

Any trace of the beautiful land of the free--

The Free-Mason--Free-Trader--Free-Liver!

But prepared by a hand that is skilful and nice,

The fine point glides along like a skate on the ice,

At the will of the Gentle Designer,

Who impelling the needle just presses so much,

That each line of her labor _the copper may touch_,

As if done by a penny-a-liner.

And behold! how the fast-growing images gleam!

Like the sparkles of gold in a sunshiny stream,

Till perplex'd by the glittering issue,

You repine for a light of a tenderer kind--

And in choosing a substance for making a blind,

Do not sneeze at the paper call'd _tissue_.

For, subdued by the sheet so transparent and white,

Your design will appear in a soberer light,

And reveal its defects on inspection,

Just as Glory achieved, or political scheme,

And some more of our dazzling performances seem,

Not so bright on a _cooler reflection_.

So the juvenile Poet with ecstasy views

His first verses, and dreams that the songs of his Muse

Are as brilliant as Moore's and as tender--

Till some critical sheet scans the faulty design,

And alas! _takes the shine out of every line_

That had form'd such a vision of splendor;

Certain objects, however, may come in your sketch,

Which, design'd by a hand unaccustom'd to etch,

With a luckless result may be branded;

Wherefore add this particular rule to your code,

Let all vehicles take the _wrong_ side of the road,

And man, woman, and child, be _left-handed._

Yet regard not the awkward appearance with doubt,

But remember how often mere blessings fall out,

That at first seem'd no better than curses;

So, till _things take a turn_, live in hope, and depend

That whatever is wrong will come right in the end,

And console you for all your _reverses_.

But of errors why speak, when for beauty and truth

Your free, spirited Etching is worthy, in sooth,

Of that Club (may all honor betide it!)

Which, tho' dealing in copper, by genius and taste,

Has accomplish'd _a service of plate_ not disgraced

By the work of a Goldsmith beside it.[43]

So your sketch superficially drawn on the plate,

It becomes you to fix in a permanent state,

Which involves a precise operation,

With a keen biting fluid, which _eating its way_--

As in other professions is common they say--

Has attain'd an artistical station.

And it's, oh! that some splenetic folks I could name

If they _must_ deal in acids would use but the same,

In such innocent graphical labors!

In the place of the virulent spirit wherewith--

Like the polecat, the weasel, and things of that kith--

They keep biting the backs of their neighbors!

But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's pitch,

You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in which

You may pour the dilute aqua-fortis.

For if raw like a dram, it will shock you to trace

Your design with a horrible froth on its face,

Like a wretch in articulo mortis.

Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure

From the use of _strong waters_, without any pure,

A vile practice, most sad and improper!

For, from painful examples, this warning is found,

That the raw burning spirit will _take up the ground_,

In the churchyard, as well as on copper!

But the Acid has duly been lower'd, and bites

Only just where the visible metal invites,

Like a nature inclined to meet troubles;

And behold! as each slender and glittering line

Effervesces, you trace the completed design

In an elegant bead-work of bubbles!

And yet constantly secretly eating its way,

The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey,

Like some sorrow beyond inquisition,

Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the while

That the face is illumed by its cheerfullest smile,

And the wit is in bright ebullition.

But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff

Has corroded and deepen'd some portions enough--

The pure sky, and the waters so placid--

And these tenderer tints to defend from attack,

With some turpentine varnish and sooty lamp-black

You must _stop out_ the ferreting acid.

But before with the varnishing brush you proceed,

Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed

From the other less innocent liquor--

After which, on whatever you want to protect,

Put a _coat_ that will act to that very effect,

Like the black one which hangs on the Vicar.

Then--the varnish well dried--urge the biting again,

But how long at its meal the _eau forte_ may remain,

Time and practice alone can determine:

But of course not so long that the Mountain, and Mill,

The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will,

Are as black as the spots on your ermine.

It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap,

With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap,

Is consider'd as rather Rembrandty;

And that very black cattle and very black sheep,

A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep,

Are the pets of some great Dilettante.

So with certain designers, one needs not to name,

All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame,

From our birth to our final adjourning--

Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack!

What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black

As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that pitch,

While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich,

More transparent than ebony shutters,

Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say,

Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away,

As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax _at a heat_,

Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti or sweet,

For your hand a performance scarce proper--

So some careful professional person secure--

For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur--

To assist you in _cleaning the copper_.

And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job,

To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob--

Though as sure of an instant forgetting,

When--as after the dark clearing-off of a storm--

The fair Landscape shines out in a lustre as warm

As the glow of the sun, in its setting!

Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint,

That with certain assistance from paper and print,

Which the proper Mechanic will settle,

You may charm all your Friends--without any sad tale

Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale--

With _a fine India Proof of your Metal_.

[Footnote 43: "The Deserted Village." Illustrated by the Etching

Club.]

A TALE OF A TRUMPET.

"Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing?

Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing."

_Old Ballad._

Of all old women hard of hearing,

The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing!

On her head, it is true,

Two flaps there grew,

That served for a pair of gold rings to go through,

But for any purpose of ears in a parley,

They heard no more than ears of barley.

No hint was needed from D.E.F.

You saw in her face that the woman was deaf;

From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery,

Each queer feature asked a query;

A look that said in a silent way,

"Who? and What? and How? and Eh?

I'd give my ears to know what you say!"

And well she might! for each auricular

Was deaf as a post--and that post in particular

That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now,

And never hears a word of a row!

Ears that might serve her now and then

As extempore racks for an idle pen;

Or to hang with hoops from jewellers' shops

With coral, ruby, or garnet drops;

Or, provided the owner so inclined,

Ears to stick a blister behind;

But as for hearing wisdom, or wit,

Falsehood, or folly, or tell-tale-tit,

Or politics, whether of Fox or Pitt,

Sermon, lecture, or musical bit,

Harp, piano, fiddle, or kit,

They might as well, for any such wish,

Have been butter'd, done brown, and laid in a dish!

She was deaf as a post,--as said before--

And as deaf as twenty similes more,

Including the adder, that deafest of snakes,

Which never hears the coil it makes.

She was deaf as a house--which modern tricks

Of language would call as deaf as bricks--

For her all human kind were dumb,

Her drum, indeed, was so muffled a drum,

That none could get a sound to come,

Unless the Devil who had Two Sticks!

She was deaf as a stone--say, one of the stones

Demosthenes suck'd to improve his tones;

And surely deafness no further could reach

Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech!

She was deaf as a nut--for nuts, no doubt,

Are deaf to the grub that's hollowing out--

As deaf, alas! as the dead and forgotten--

(Gray has noticed the waste of breath,

In addressing the "dull, cold ear of death"),

Or the Felon's ear that was stuff'd with Cotton--

Or Charles the First _in statue quo_;

Or the still-born figures of Madame Tussaud,

With their eyes of glass, and their hair of flax,

That only stare whatever you "ax,"

For their ears, you know, are nothing but wax.

She was deaf as the ducks that swam in the pond,

And wouldn't listen to Mrs. Bond,--

As deaf as any Frenchman appears,

When he puts his shoulders into his ears:

And--whatever the citizen tells his son--

As deaf as Gog and Magog at one!

Or, still to be a simile-seeker,

As deaf as dogs'-ears to Enfield's Speaker!

She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy,

Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy;

Whose organs, for fear of our modern sceptics,

Were plugg'd with gums and antiseptics.

She was deaf as a nail--that you cannot hammer

A meaning into for all your clamor--

There never _was_ such a deaf old Gammer!

So formed to worry

Both Lindley and Murray,

By having no ear for Music or Grammar!

Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings,

Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings,

Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle,

Deaf to even the definite article--

No verbal message was worth a pin,

Though you hired an earwig to carry it in!

In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke,

Or all the Deafness in Yearsley's work,

Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing,

Boring, blasting, and pioneering,

To give the dunny organ a clearing,

Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing.

Of course the loss was a great privation,

For one of her sex--whatever her station--

And none the less that the Dame had a turn

For making all families one concern,

And learning whatever there was to learn

In the prattling, tattling village of Tringham--

As who wore silk? and who wore gingham?

And what the Atkins's shop might bring 'em?

How the Smiths contrived to live? and whether

The fourteen Murphys all pigg'd together?

The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners,

And what they boil'd for their Sunday dinners?

What plates the Bugsbys had on the shelf,

Crockery, china, wooden, or delf?

And if the parlor of Mrs. O'Grady

Had a wicked French print, or Death and the Lady?

Did Snip and his wife continue to jangle?

Had Mrs. Wilkinson sold her mangle?

What liquor was drunk by Jones and Brown?

And the weekly score they ran up at the Crown?

If the Cobbler could read, and believed in the Pope?

And how the Grubbs were off for soap?

If the Snobbs had furnish'd their room upstairs,

And how they managed for tables and chairs,

Beds, and other household affairs,

Iron, wooden, and Staffordshire wares?

And if they could muster a whole pair of bellows?

In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies

Perdu in a notable set of Paul Prys,

By courtesy called Statistical Fellows--

A prying, spying, inquisitive clan,

Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan,

Jotting the Laboring Class's riches;

And after poking in pot and pan,

And routing garments in want of stitches,

Have ascertained that a working man

Wears a pair and a quarter of average breeches!

But this, alas! from her loss of hearing,

Was all a seal'd book to Dame Eleanor Spearing;

And often her tears would rise to their founts--

Supposing a little scandal at play

'Twixt Mrs. O'Fie and Mrs. An Fait--

That she couldn't audit the Gossips' accounts.

'Tis true, to her cottage still they came,

And ate her muffins just the same,

And drank the tea of the widow'd Dame,

And never swallow'd a thimble the less

Of something the Reader is left to guess,

For all the deafness of Mrs. S.,

Who _saw_ them talk, and chuckle, and cough,

But to _see_ and not share in the social flow,

She might as well have lived, you know,

In one of the houses in Owen's Row,

Near the New River Head, with its water cut off

And yet the almond-oil she had tried,

And fifty infallible things beside,

Hot, and cold, and thick, and thin,

Dabb'd, and dribbled, and squirted in:

But all remedies fail'd; and though some it was clear

(Like the brandy and salt

We now exalt)

Had made a noise in the public ear,

She was just as deaf as ever, poor dear!

At last--one very fine day in June--

Suppose her sitting,

Busily knitting,

And humming she didn't quite know what tune;

For nothing she heard but a sort of a whizz,

Which, unless the sound of the circulation,

Or of Thoughts in the process of fabrication,

By a Spinning-Jennyish operation,

It's hard to say what buzzing it is.

However, except that ghost of a sound,

She sat in a silence most profound--

The cat was purring about the mat,

But her Mistress heard no more of that

Than if it had been a boatswain's cat;

And as for the clock the moments nicking,

The Dame only gave it credit for ticking.

The bark of her dog she did not catch;

Nor yet the click of the lifted latch;

Nor yet the creak of the opening door;

Nor yet the fall of a foot on the floor--

But she saw the shadow that crept on her gown

And turn'd its skirt of a darker brown.

And lo! a man! a Pedlar! ay, marry,

With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry

Stock'd with brooches, ribbons, and rings,

Spectacles, razors, and other odd things,

For lad and lass, as Autolycus sings;

A chapman for goodness and cheapness of ware,

Held a fair dealer enough at a fair,

But deem'd a piratical sort of invader

By him we dub the "regular trader,"

Who--luring the passengers in as they pass

By lamps, gay panels, and mouldings of brass,

And windows with only one huge pane of glass,

And his name in gilt characters, German or Roman,--

If he isn't a Pedlar, at least he's a Showman!

However, in the stranger came,

And, the moment he met the eyes of the Dame,

Threw her as knowing a nod as though

He had known her fifty long years ago;

And presto! before she could utter "Jack"--

Much less "Robinson"--open'd his pack--

And then from amongst his portable gear,

With even more than a Pedlar's tact,--

(Slick himself might have envied the act)--

Before she had time to be deaf, in fact--

Popp'd a Trumpet into her ear.

"There, Ma'am! try it!

You needn't buy it--

The last New Patent--and nothing comes nigh it

For affording the Deaf, at a little expense,

The sense of hearing, and hearing of sense!

A Real Blessing--and no mistake,

Invented for poor Humanity's sake;

For what can be a greater privation

Than playing Dummy to all creation,

And only looking at conversation--

Great Philosophers talking like Platos,

And Members of Parliament moral as Catos,

And your ears as dull as waxy potatoes!

Not to name the mischievous quizzers,

Sharp as knives, but double as scissors,

Who get you to answer quite by guess

Yes for No, and No for Yes."

("That's very true," says Dame Eleanor S.)

"Try it again! No harm in trying--

I'm sure you'll find it worth your buying,

A little practice--that is all--

And you'll hear a whisper, however small,

Through an Act of Parliament party-wall,--

Every syllable clear as day,

And even what people are going to say--

I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't,

But my Trumpets have heard what Solomon's couldn't;

And as for Scott he promises fine,

But can he warrant his horns like mine

Never to hear what a Lady shouldn't--

Only a guinea--and can't take less."

("That's very dear," says Dame Eleanor S.)

"Dear!--Oh dear, to call it dear!

Why it isn't a horn you buy, but an ear;

Only think, you'll find on reflection

You're bargaining, Ma'am, for the Voice of Affection;

For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth,

And the sweet little innocent prattle of youth:

Not to mention the striking of clocks--,

Cackle of hens--crowing of cocks--

Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox--

Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks--

Murmur of waterfall over the rocks--

Every sound that Echo mocks--

Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box--

And zounds! to call such a concert dear!

But I musn't swear with my horn in your ear.

Why, in buying that Trumpet you buy all those

That Harper, or any trumpeter, blows

At the Queen's Levees or the Lord Mayor's Shows,

At least as far as the music goes,

Including the wonderful lively sound,

Of the Guards' keg-bugles all the year round:

Come--suppose we call it a pound!

"Come," said the talkative Man of the Pack,

"Before I put my box on my back,

For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound,

Come--suppose we call it a pound!

"Only a pound! it's only the price

Of hearing a Concert once or twice,

It's only the fee

You might give Mr. C.

And after all not hear his advice,

But common prudence would bid you stump it;

For, not to enlarge,

It's the regular charge

At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet.

Lord! what's a pound to the blessing of hearing!"

("A pound's a pound," said Dame Eleanor Spearing.)

"Try it again! no harm in trying!

A pound's a pound there's no denying;

But think what thousands and thousands of pounds

We pay for nothing but hearing sounds:

Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law,

Parliamentary jabber and jaw,

Pious cant and moral saw,

Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw,

And empty sounds not worth a straw;

Why it costs a guinea, as I'm a sinner,

To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner!

One pound one thrown into the puddle,

To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle!

Not to forget the sounds we buy

From those who sell their sounds so high,

That, unless the Managers pitch it strong,

To get a Signora to warble a song,

You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker's prong!

"It's not the thing for me--I know it,

To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it;

But it is the best, and time will show it,

There was Mrs. F.

So very deaf,

That she might have worn a percussion-cap,

And been knock'd on the head without hearing it snap.

Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day

She heard from her husband at Botany Bay!

Come--eighteen shillings--that's very low,

You'll save the money as shillings go,

And I never knew so bad a lot,

By hearing whether they ring or not!

"Eighteen shillings! it's worth the price,

Supposing you're delicate-minded and nice,

To have the medical man of your choice,

Instead of the one with the strongest voice--

Who comes and asks you, how's your liver,

And where you ache, and whether you shiver,

And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver,

As if he was hailing a boat in the river!

And then with a shout, like Pat in a riot,

Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet!

Or a tradesman comes--as tradesmen will--

Short and crusty about his bill,

Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner,

And because you're deaf and unable to pay,

Shouts whatever he has to say,

In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way,

Down the street and round the corner!

Come--speak your mind--it's 'No or Yes,'"

("I've half a mind," said Dame Eleanor S.)

"Try it again--no harm in trying,

Of course you hear me, as easy as lying;

No pain at all, like a surgical trick,

To make you squall, and struggle, and kick,

Like Juno, or Rose,

Whose ear undergoes

Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle,

For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle!

"You may go to surgical chaps if you choose,

Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues,

Or cut your tonsils right away,

As you'd shell out your almonds for Christmas-day;

And after all a matter of doubt,

Whether you ever would hear the shout:

Of the little blackguards that bawl about,

'There you go with your tonsils out!'

Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamorgan

On purpose to try a surgical spell,

And paid a guinea, and might as well

Have call'd a monkey into his organ!

For the Aurist only took a mug,

And pour'd in his ear some acoustical drug,

That, instead of curing, deafen'd him rather,

As Hamlet's uncle served Hamlet's father!

That's the way with your surgical gentry!

And happy your luck

If you don't get stuck

Through your liver and lights at a royal entry,

Because you never answer'd the sentry!

"Try it again, dear Madam, try it!

Many would sell their beds to buy it.

I warrant you often wake up in the night,

Ready to shake to a jelly with fright,

And up you must get to strike a light,

And down you go, in you know what,

Whether the weather is chilly or hot,--

That's the way a cold is got,--

To see if you heard a noise or not!"

"Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours

Is hardly safe to step out of doors!

Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt,

But as quiet as if he was 'shod with felt,'

Till he rushes against you with all his force,

And then I needn't describe the course,

While he kicks you about without remorse,

How awkward it is to be groom'd by a horse!

Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear,

And you never dream that the brute is near,

Till he pokes his horn right into your ear,

Whether you like the thing or lump it,--

And all for want of buying a trumpet!

"I'm not a female to fret and vex,

But if I belonged to the sensitive sex,

Exposed to all sorts of indelicate sounds,

I wouldn't be deaf for a thousand pounds.

Lord! only think of chucking a copper

To Jack or Bob with a timber limb,

Who looks as if he was singing a hymn,

Instead of a song that's very improper!

Or just suppose in a public place

You see a great fellow a-pulling a face,

With his staring eyes and his mouth like an O,--

And how is a poor deaf lady to know,--

The lower orders are up to such games--

If he's calling 'Green Peas,' or calling her names?"

("They're tenpence a peck!" said the deafest of Dames.)

"'Tis strange what very strong advising,

By word of mouth, or advertising,

By chalking on walls, or placarding on vans,

With fifty other different plans,

The very high pressure, in fact, of pressing,

It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing!

Whether the Soothing American Syrup,

A Safety Hat, or a Safety Stirrup,--

Infallible Pills for the human frame,

Or Rowland's O-don't-o (an ominous name),

A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits

That it beats all others into _fits_;

A Mechi's razor for beards unshorn,

Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-Catching Horn!

"Try it again, Ma'am, only try!"

Was still the voluble Pedlar's cry;

"It's a great privation, there's no dispute,

To live like the dumb unsociable brute,

And to hear no more of the _pro_ and _con_,

And how Society's going on,

Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John,

And all for want of this _sine quâ non_;

Whereas, with a horn that never offends,

You may join the genteelest party that is,

And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz,

And be certain to hear of your absent friends;--

Not that elegant ladies, in fact,

In genteel society ever detract,

Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd,--

At least as a mere malicious act,--

But only talk scandal for fear some fool

Should think they were bred at _charity_ school.

Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation,

Which even the most Don Juanish rake

Would surely object to undertake

At the same high pitch as an altercation.

It's not for me, of course, to judge

How much a Deaf Lady ought to begrudge;

But half-a-guinea seems no great matter--

Letting alone more rational patter--

Only to hear a parrot chatter:

Not to mention that feather'd wit,

The Starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit;

The Pies and Jays that utter words,

And other Dicky Gossips of birds,

That talk with as much good sense and decorum,

As many _Beaks_ who belong to the quorum.

"Try it--buy it--say ten and six,

The lowest price a miser could fix:

I don't pretend with horns of mine,

Like some in the advertising line,

To '_magnify sounds_' on such marvellous scales,

That the sounds of a cod seem as big as a whale's;

But popular rumors, right or wrong,--

Charity sermons, short or long,--

Lecture, speech, concerto, or song,

All noises and voices, feeble or strong,

From the hum of a gnat to the clash of a gong,

This tube will deliver distinct and clear;

Or, supposing by chance

You wish to dance,

Why, it's putting a _Horn-pipe_ into your ear!

Try it--buy it!

Buy it--try it!

The last New Patent, and nothing comes nigh it,

For guiding sounds to their proper tunnel:

Only try till the end of June,

And if you and the Trumpet are out of tune

I'll turn it gratis into a funnel!"

In short, the Pedlar so beset her,--

Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon'd her better,--

With flatteries plump and indirect,

And plied his tongue with such effect,--

A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet,--

The deaf old woman bought the Trumpet.

* * * * *

The Pedlar was gone. With the horn's assistance,

She heard his steps die away in the distance;

And then she heard the tick of the clock,

The purring of puss, and the snoring of Shock;

And she purposely dropped a pin that was little,

And heard it fall as plain as a skittle!

'Twas a wonderful Horn, to be but just!

Nor meant to gather dust, must and rust;

So in half a jiffy, or less than that,

In her scarlet cloak and her steeple-hat,

Like old Dame Trot, but without her cat,

The Gossip was hunting all Tringham thorough,

As if she meant to canvass the borough,

Trumpet in hand, or up to the cavity;--

And, sure, had the horn been one of those

The wild Rhinoceros wears on his nose,

It couldn't have ripped up more depravity!

Depravity! mercy shield her ears!

'Twas plain enough that her village peers

In the ways of vice were no raw beginners;

For whenever she raised the tube to her drum

Such sounds were transmitted as only come

From the very Brass Band of human sinners!

Ribald jest and blasphemous curse

(Bunyan never vented worse),

With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech

Which the Seven Dialecticians teach;

Filthy Conjunctions, and Dissolute Nouns,

And Particles pick'd from the kennels of towns,

With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs,

Chiefly active in rows and mobs,

Picking Possessive Pronouns' fobs,

And Interjections as bad as a blight,

Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight;

Fanciful phrases for crime and sin,

And smacking of vulgar lips where Gin,

Garlic, Tobacco, and offals go in--

A jargon so truly adapted, in fact,

To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act,

So fit for the brute with the human shape,

Savage Baboon, or libidinous Ape,

From their ugly mouths it will certainly come

Should they ever get weary of shamming dumb!

Alas! for the Voice of Virtue and Truth,

And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth!

The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang,

Shock'd the Dame with a volley of slang,

Fit for Fagin's juvenile gang;

While the charity chap,

With his muffin cap,

His crimson coat, and his badge so garish,

Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole,

Cursed his eyes, limbs, body, and soul,

As if they didn't belong to the Parish!

'Twas awful to hear, as she went along,

The wicked words of the popular song;

Or supposing she listen'd--as gossips will--

At a door ajar, or a window agape,

To catch the sounds they allow'd to escape,

Those sounds belonged to Depravity still!

The dark allusion, or bolder brag

Of the dexterous "dodge", and the lots of "swag",

The plunder'd house--or the stolen nag--

The blazing rick, or the darker crime,

That quench'd the spark before its time--

The wanton speech of the wife immoral--

The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel,

With savage menace, which threaten'd the life,

Till the heart seem'd merely a strop "for the knife";

The human liver, no better than that

Which is sliced and thrown to an old woman's cat;

And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding,

To be punch'd into holes, like "a shocking bad hat,"

That is only fit to be punch'd into wadding!

In short, wherever she turn'd the horn,

To the highly bred, or the lowly born,

The working man, who look'd over the hedge,

Or the mother nursing her infant pledge,

The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels,

Or the Governess pacing the village through,

With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two,

Looking, as such young ladies do,

Truss'd by Decorum and stuff'd with morals--

Whether she listen'd to Hob or Bob,

Nob or Snob,

The Squire on his cob,

Or Trudge and his ass at a tinkering job,

To the "Saint" who expounded at "Little Zion"--

Or the "Sinner" who kept "the Golden Lion"--

The man teetotally wean'd from liquor--

The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar--

Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker--

She gather'd such meanings, double or single,

That like the bell

With muffins to sell,

Her ear was kept in a constant tingle!

But this was nought to the tales of shame,

The constant runnings of evil fame,

Foul, and dirty, and black as ink,

That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink,

Pour'd in her horn like slops in a sink:

While sitting in conclave, as gossips do,

With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green,

And not a little of feline spleen

Lapp'd up in "Catty packages," too,

To give a zest of the sipping and supping;

For still by some invisible tether,

Scandal and Tea are link'd together,

As surely as Scarification and Cupping;

Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea--

Or sloe, or whatever it happen'd to be,

For some grocerly thieves

Turn over new leaves,

Without much amending their lives or their tea--

No, never since cup was fill'd or stirr'd

Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard,

As blacken'd their neighbors of either gender,

Especially that, which is call'd the Tender,

But, instead of the softness we fancy therewith,

Was harden'd in vice as the vice of a smith.

Women! the wretches! had soil'd and marr'd

Whatever to womanly nature belongs;

For the marriage tie they had no regard,

Nay, sped their mates to the sexton's yard,

(Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches

Kept cutting off her L by inches)--

And as for drinking, they drank so hard

That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs!

The men--they fought and gambled at fairs;

And poach'd--and didn't respect gray hairs--

Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses;

And broke in houses as well as horses;

Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton,--

And would their own mothers and wives for a button:

But not to repeat the deeds they did,

Backsliding in spite of all moral skid,

If all were true that fell from the tongue,

There was not a villager, old or young,

But deserved to be whipp'd, imprison'd, or hung,

Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries

To publish at Colburn's, or Longman's, or Murray's.

Meanwhile the Trumpet, _con amore_,

Transmitted each vile diabolical story;

And gave the least whisper of slips and falls,

As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul's,

Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print,

Is famous for making the most of a hint.

Not a murmur of shame,

Or buzz of blame,

Not a flying report that flew at a name,

Not a plausible gloss, or significant note,

Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat,

Of a beam in the eye, or diminutive mote,

But vortex-like that tube of tin

Suck'd the censorious particle in;

And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ

As ever listen'd to serpent's hiss,

Nor took the viperous sound amiss,

On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon!

The Dame, it is true, would mutter "Shocking!"

And give her head a sorrowful rocking,

And make a clucking with palate and tongue,

Like the call of Partlet to gather her young,

A sound, when human, that always proclaims

At least a thousand pities and shames;

But still the darker the tale of sin,

Like certain folks, when calamities burst,

Who find a comfort in "hearing the worst,"

The farther she poked the Trumpet in.

Nay, worse, whatever she heard, she spread

East and West, and North and South,

Like the ball which, according to Captain Z,

Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth.

What wonder between the Horn and the Dame,

Such mischief was made wherever they came,

That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame!

For although it required such loud discharges,

Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear,

To turn the smallest of table-beer,

A little whisper breathed into the ear

Will sour a temper "as sour as varges,"

In fact such very ill blood there grew,

From this private circulation of stories,

That the nearest neighbors the village through,

Look'd at each other as yellow and blue,

As any electioneering crew

Wearing the colors of Whigs and Tories.

Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth,

That "whispering tongues can poison Truth,"--

Yea, like a dose of oxalic acid,

Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid,

And rack dear Love with internal fuel,

Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel,

Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel,--

At least such torments began to wring 'em

From the very morn

When that mischievous Horn

Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham.

The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs,

And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs,

While feuds arose and family quarrels,

That discomposed the mechanics of morals,

For screws were loose between brother and brother,

While sisters fasten'd their nails on each other;

Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff,

And spar, and jar--and breezes as stiff

As ever upset a friendship--or skiff!

The plighted lovers, who used to walk,

Refused to meet, and declined to talk;

And wish'd for _two_ moons to reflect the sun,

That they mightn't look together on one;

While wedded affection ran so low,

That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo--

And instead of the toddle adown the hill,

Hand in hand,

As the song has planned,

Scratch'd her, penniless, out of his will!

In short, to describe what came to pass

In a true, though somewhat theatrical way,

Instead of "Love in a Village"--alas!

The piece they perform'd was "The Devil to Pay!"

However, as secrets are brought to light,

And mischief comes home like chickens at night;

And rivers are track'd throughout their course,

And forgeries traced to their proper source;--

And the sow that ought

By the ear is caught,--

And the sin to the sinful door is brought;

And the cat at last escapes from the bag--

And the saddle is placed on the proper nag;

And the fog blows off, and the key is found--

And the faulty scent is pick'd out by the hound--

And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground--

And the matter gets wind to waft it about;

And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out--

And the riddle is guess'd--and the puzzle is known--

So the truth was sniff'd, and the Trumpet was _blown_!

* * * * *

'Tis a day in November--a day of fog--

But the Tringham people are all agog;

Fathers, Mothers, and Mother's Sons,--

With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,--

As if in pursuit of a rabid dog;

But their voices--raised to the highest pitch--

Declare that the game is "a Witch!--a Witch!"

Over the Green, and along by The George--

Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge,

And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond,

Till they come to the whitewash'd cottage beyond,

And there at the door they muster and cluster,

And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster--

Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster!

A noise, indeed, so loud and long,

And mix'd with expressions so very strong,

That supposing, according to popular fame,

"Wise Woman" and Witch to be the same,

No hag with a broom would unwisely stop,

But up and away through the chimney-top;

Whereas, the moment they burst the door,

Planted fast on her sanded floor,

With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing,

Lo and behold!--Dame Eleanor Spearing!

Oh! then arises the fearful shout--

Bawl'd and scream'd, and bandied about--

"Seize her!--Drag the old Jezebel out!"

While the Beadle--the foremost of all the band,

Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand--

And after a pause of doubt and fear,

Puts it up to his sharpest ear.

"Now silence--silence--one and all!"

For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul!

But before he rehearses

A couple of verses,

The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall:

For instead of the words so pious and humble,

He hears a supernatural grumble.

Enough, enough! and more than enough;--

Twenty impatient hands and rough,

By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff,

Apron, 'kerchief, gown of stuff--

Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff--

Are clutching the Witch wherever they can,

With the spite of Woman and fury of Man;

And then--but first they kill her cat,

And murder her dog on the very mat--

And crush the infernal Trumpet flat;--

And then they hurry her through the door

She never, never will enter more!

Away! away! down the dusty lane

They pull her, and haul her, with might and main;

And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry,

Dandy, or Sandy, Jerry, or Larry,

Who happens to get "a leg to carry!"

And happy the foot that can give her a kick,

And happy the hand that can find a brick--

And happy the fingers that hold a stick--

Knife to cut, or pin to prick--

And happy the Boy who can lend her a lick;--

Nay, happy the urchin--Charity-bred,--

"Who can shy very nigh to her wicked, old head!"

Alas! to think how people's creeds

Are contradicted by people's deeds!

But though the wishes that Witches utter

Can play the most diabolical rigs--

Send styes in the eye--and measle the pigs--

Grease horses' heels--and spoil the butter;

Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk--

And turn new milk to water and chalk,--

Blight apples--and give the chickens the pip--

And cramp the stomach--and cripple the hip--

And waste the body--and addle the eggs--

And give a baby bandy legs;

Though in common belief a Witch's curse

Involves all these horrible things, and worse--

As ignorant bumpkins all profess,

No bumpkin makes a poke the less

At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S.!

As if she were only a sack of barley!

Or gives her credit for greater might

Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night

On that other old woman, the parish Charley!

Ay, now's the time for a Witch to call

On her Imps and Sucklings one and all--

Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown,

(As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down)

Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack,

Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black,

Vinegar Tom and the rest of the pack--

Ay, now's the nick for her friend Old Harry

To come "with his tail" like the bold Glengarry,

And drive her foes from their savage job

As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob:--

But no such matter is down in the bond;

And spite of her cries that never cease,

But scare the ducks and astonish the geese,

The Dame is dragg'd to the fatal pond!

And now they come to the water's brim--

And in they bundle her--sink or swim;

Though it's twenty to one that the wretch must drown,

With twenty sticks to hold her down;

Including the help to the self-same end,

Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend.

A Pedlar!--Yes!--The same!--the same!

Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame!

And now is foremost amid the stir

With a token only reveal'd to her;

A token that makes her shudder and shriek,

And point with her finger, and strive to speak--

But before she can utter the name of the Devil,

Her head is under the water level!

MORAL.

There are folks about town--to name no names--

Who much resemble that deafest of Dames!

And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets,

Circulate many a scandalous word,

And whisper tales they could only have heard

Through some such Diabolical Trumpets!

THE FORGE.[44]

A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE.

"Who's here, beside foul weather?"--KING LEAR.

"Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me,

Should have stood that night against my fire"

--CORDELIA

[Footnote 44: This Poem was doubtless one of the results of Hood's

residence in Germany. It is suggested apparently in about equal

proportions by the Walpurgis-night in _Faust_, and Schiller's _Gang

nach dem Eisenhammer_. Possibly Hood had been stirred up to the attempt

by Retzsch's outlines. He has mixed up localities with the utmost

freedom, the Harz, the Black Forest, and the Scene of Schiller's Poem.

The influence of the _Ingoldsby Legends_ is obvious throughout.]

PART I

Like a dead man gone to his shroud,

The sun has sunk in a copper cloud,

And the wind is rising squally and loud

With many a stormy token,--

Playing a wild funereal air

Through the branches bleak, bereaved, and bare,

To the dead leaves dancing here and there--

In short, if the truth were spoken,

It's an ugly night for anywhere,

But an awful one for the Brocken!

For oh! to stop

On that mountain top,

After the dews of evening drop,

Is always a dreary frolic--

Then what must it be when nature groans,

And the very mountain murmurs and moans

As if it writhed with the cholic--

With other strange supernatural tones,

From wood, and water, and echoing stones,

Not to forget unburied bones--

In a region so diabolic!

A place where he whom we call Old Scratch,

By help of his Witches--a precious batch--

Gives midnight concerts and sermons,

In a Pulpit and Orchestra built to match,

A plot right worthy of him to hatch,

And well adapted, he knows, to catch

The musical, mystical Germans!

However it's quite

As wild a night

As ever was known on that sinister height

Since the Demon-Dance was morriced--

The earth is dark, and the sky is scowling,

And the blast through the pines is howling and growling,

As if a thousand wolves were prowling

About in the old BLACK FOREST!

Madly, sadly, the Tempest raves

Through the narrow gullies and hollow caves,

And bursts on the rocks in windy waves,

Like the billows that roar

On a gusty shore

Mourning over the mariners' graves--

Nay, more like a frantic lamentation

From a howling set

Of demons met

To wake a dead relation.

Badly, madly, the vapors fly

Over the dark distracted sky,

At a pace that no pen can paint!

Black and vague like the shadows of dreams,

Scudding over the moon that seems,

Shorn of half her usual beams,

As pale as if she would faint!

The lightning flashes,

The thunder crashes,

The trees encounter with horrible clashes,

While rolling up from marsh and bog,

Rank and rich,

As from Stygian ditch,

Rises a foul sulphureous fog,

Hinting that Satan himself is agog,--

But leaving at once this heroical pitch,

The night is a very bad night in which

You wouldn't turn out a dog.

Yet ONE there is abroad in the storm,

And whenever by chance

The moon gets a glance,

She spies the Traveller's lonely form,

Walking, leaping, striding along,

As none can do but the super-strong;

And flapping his arms to keep him warm,

For the breeze from the North is a regular starver,

And to tell the truth,

More keen, in sooth,

And cutting than any German carver!

However, no time it is to lag,

And on he scrambles from crag to crag,

Like one determined never to flag--

Now weathers a block

Of jutting rock,

With hardly room for a toe to wag;

But holding on by a timber snag,

That looks like the arm of a friendly hag;

Then stooping under a drooping bough,

Or leaping over some horrid chasm,

Enough to give any heart a spasm!

And sinking down a precipice now,

Keeping his feet the Deuce knows how,

In spots whence all creatures would keep aloof,

Except the Goat, with his cloven hoof,

Who clings to the shallowest ledge as if

He grew like the weed on the face of the cliff!

So down, still down, the Traveller goes,

Safe as the Chamois amid his snows,

Though fiercer than ever the hurricane blows,

And round him eddy, with whirl and whizz,

Tornadoes of hail, and sleet, and rain,

Enough to bewilder a weaker brain,

Or blanch any other visage than his,

Which spite of lightning, thunder and hail,

The blinding sleet and the freezing gale,

And the horrid abyss,

If his foot should miss,

Instead of tending at all to pale,

Like cheeks that feel the chill of affright--

Remains the very reverse of white!

His heart is granite--his iron nerve

Feels no convulsive twitches;

And as to his foot, it does not swerve,

Tho' the Screech-Owls are flitting about him that serve

For parrots to Brocken Witches!

Nay, full in his very path he spies

The gleam of the Were Wolf's horrid eyes;

But if his members quiver--

It is not for _that_--no, it is not for _that_--

Nor rat,

Nor cat,

As black as your hat,

Nor the snake that hiss'd, nor the toad that spat,

Nor glimmering candles of dead men's fat,

Nor even the flap of the Vampire Bat,

No anserine skin would rise thereat,

It's the cold that makes _Him_ shiver!

So down, still down, through gully and glen,

Never trodden by foot of men,

Past the Eagle's nest and the She-Wolf's den,

Never caring a jot how steep

Or how narrow the track he has to keep,

Or how wide and deep

An abyss to leap,

Or what may fly, or walk, or creep,

Down he hurries through darkness and storm,

Flapping his arms to keep him warm--

Till threading many a pass abhorrent,

At last he reaches the mountain gorge,

And takes a path along by a torrent--

The very identical path, by St. George!

Down which young Fridolin went to the Forge,

With a message meant for his own death-warrant!

Young Fridolin! young Fridolin!

So free from sauce, and sloth, and sin,

The best of pages

Whatever their ages,

Since first that singular fashion came in--

Not he like those modern and idle young gluttons

With little jackets, so smart and spruce,

Of Lincoln green, sky-blue, or puce--

A little gold lace you may introduce--

Very showy, but as for use,

Not worth so many buttons!

Young Fridolin! young Fridolin!

Of his duty so true a fulfiller--

But here we need no farther go

For whoever desires the Tale to know,

May read it all in Schiller.

Faster now the Traveller speeds,

Whither his guiding beacon leads.

For by yonder glare

In the murky air,

He knows that the Eisen Hutte is there!

With its sooty Cyclops, savage and grim

Hosts, a guest had better forbear,

Whose thoughts are set upon dainty fare--

But stiff with cold in every limb,

The Furnace Fire is the bait for _Him_!

Faster and faster still he goes.

Whilst redder and redder the welkin glows,

And the lowest clouds that scud in the sky

Get crimson fringes in flitting by.

Till lo! amid the lurid light,

The darkest object intensely dark,

Just where the bright is intensely bright,

The Forge, the Forge itself is in sight,

Like the pitch-black hull of a burning bark,

With volleying smoke, and many a spark,

Vomiting fire, red, yellow, and white!

Restless, quivering tongues of flame!

Heavenward striving still to go,

While others, reversed in the stream, below,

Seem seeking a place we will not name,

But well that Traveller knows the same,

Who stops and stands,

So rubbing his hands,

And snuffing the rare

Perfumes in the air,

For old familiar odors are there,

And then direct by the shortest cut,

Like Alpine Marmot, whom neither rut,

Rivers, rocks, nor thickets rebut,

Makes his way to the blazing Hut!

PART II.

Idly watching the Furnace-flames,

The men of the stithy

Are in their smithy,

Brutal monsters, with bulky frames,

Beings Humanity scarcely claims,

But hybrids rather of demon race,

Unbless'd by the holy rite of grace,

Who never had gone by Christian names,

Mark, or Matthew, Peter, or James--

Naked, foul, unshorn, unkempt,

From touch of natural shame exempt,

Things of which Delirium has dreamt--

But wherefore dwell on these verbal sketches,

When traced with frightful truth and vigor,

Costume, attitude, face, and figure,

Retsch has drawn the very wretches!

However, there they lounge about,

The grim, gigantic fellows,

Hardly hearing the storm without,

That makes so very dreadful a rout,

For the constant roar

From the furnace door.

And the blast of the monstrous bellows!

Oh, what a scene

That Forge had been

For Salvator Rosa's study!

With wall, and beam, and post, and pin,

And those ruffianly creatures, like Shapes of Sin,

Hair, and eyes, and rusty skin,

Illumed by a light so ruddy

The Hut, and whatever there is therein,

Looks either red-hot or bloody!

And, oh! to hear the frequent burst

Of strange, extravagant laughter,

Harsh and hoarse,

And resounding perforce

From echoing roof and rafter!

Though curses, the worst

That ever were curst,

And threats that Cain invented the first,

Come growling the instant after!

But again the livelier peal is rung,

For the Smith, hight Salamander,

In the jargon of some Titanic tongue,

Elsewhere never said or sung,

With the voice of a Stentor in joke has flung

Some cumbrous sort

Of sledge-hammer retort

At Red Beard, the crew's commander.

Some frightful jest--who knows how wild,

Or obscene, from a monster so defiled,

And a horrible mouth, of such extent,

From flapping ear to ear it went,

And show'd such tusks whenever it smiled--

The very mouth to devour a child!

But fair or foul the jest gives birth

To another bellow of demon mirth,

That far outroars the weather,

As if all the Hyænas that prowl the earth

Had clubb'd their laughs together!

And lo! in the middle of all the din,

Not seeming to care a single pin,

For a prospect so volcanic,

A Stranger steps abruptly in,

Of an aspect rather Satanic:

And he looks with a grin at those Cyclops grim,

Who stare and grin again at him

With wondrous little panic.

Then up to the Furnace the Stranger goes,

Eager to thaw his ears and nose,

And warm his frozen fingers and toes--

While each succeeding minute,

Hotter and hotter the Smithy grows,

And seems to declare,

By a fiercer glare,

On wall, roof, floor, and everywhere,

It knows the Devil is in it!

Still not a word

Is utter'd or heard,

But the beetle-brow'd Foreman nods and winks,

Much as a shaggy old Lion blinks,

And makes a shift

To impart his drift

To a smoky brother, who, joining the links,

Hints to a third the thing he thinks;

And whatever it be,

They all agree

In smiling with faces full of glee,

As if about to enjoy High Jinks.

What sort of tricks they mean to play

By way of diversion, who can say,

Of such ferocious and barbarous folk,

Who chuckled, indeed, and never spoke

Of burning Robert the Jäger to coke,

Except as a capital practical joke!

Who never thought of Mercy, or heard her,

Or any gentle emotion felt;

But hard as the iron they had to melt,

Sported with Danger and romp'd with Murder!

Meanwhile the Stranger--

The Brocken Ranger,

Besides another and hotter post,

That renders him not averse to a roast,--

Creeping into the Furnace almost,

Has made himself as warm as a toast--

When, unsuspicious of any danger,

And least of all of any such maggot

As treating a body like a faggot,

All at once he is seized and shoven

In pastime cruel,

Like so much fuel,

Headlong into the blazing oven!

In he goes! with a frightful shout

Mock'd by the rugged ruffianly band,

As round the Furnace mouth they stand,

Bar, and shovel, and ladle in hand,

To hinder their Butt from crawling out,

Who making one fierce attempt, but vain,

Receives such a blow

From Red-Beard's crow

As crashes the skull and gashes the brain,

And blind, and dizzy, and stunn'd with pain,

With merely an interjectional "oh!"

Back he rolls in the flames again.

"Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!" That second fall

Seerns the very best joke of all,

To judge by the roar,

Twice as loud as before,

That fills the Hut, from the roof to the floor,

And flies a league or two out of the door,

Up the mountains and over the moor--

But scarcely the jolly echoes they wake

Have well begun

To take up the fun,

Ere the shaggy Felons have cause to quake,

And begin to feel that the deed they have done,

Instead of being a pleasant one,

Was a very great error--and no mistake.

For why?--in lieu

Of its former hue,

So natural, warm, and florid,

The Furnace burns of a brimstone blue,

And instead of the _couleur de rose_ it threw,

With a cooler reflection,--justly due--

Exhibits each of the Pagan crew,

Livid, ghastly, and horrid!

But vainly they close their guilty eyes

Against prophetic fears;

Or with hard and horny palms devise

To dam their enormous ears--

There are sounds in the air,

Not here or there,

Irresistible voices everywhere,

No bulwarks can ever rebut,

And to match the screams

Tremendous gleams,

Of Horrors that like the Phantoms of dreams,

They see with their eyelids shut!

For awful coveys of terrible things,

With forked tongues and venomous stings,

On hagweed, broomsticks, and leathern wings,

Are hovering round the Hut!

Shapes, that within the focus bright

Of the Forge, are like shadows and blots;

But farther off, in the shades of night,

Clothed with their own phosphoric light,

Are seen in the darkest spots.

Sounds! that fill the air with noises,

Strange and indescribable voices,

From Hags, in a diabolical clatter--

Cats that spit curses, and apes that chatter

Scraps of cabalistical matter--

Owls that screech, and dogs that yell--

Skeleton hounds that will never be fatter--

All the domestic tribes of Hell,

Shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter,

Bones to shatter,

And limbs to scatter,

And who it is that must furnish the latter

Those blue-looking Men know well!

Those blue-looking men that huddle together,

For all their sturdy limbs and thews

Their unshorn locks, like Nazarene Jews,

And buffalo beards, and hides of leather,

Huddled all in a heap together,

Like timid lamb, and ewe, and wether,

And as females say,

In a similar way,

Fit for knocking down with a feather!

In and out, in and out,

The gathering Goblins hover about,

Ev'ry minute augmenting the rout;

For like a spell

The unearthly smell

That fumes from the Furnace, chimney and mouth,

Draws them in--an infernal Legion

From East, and West, and North, and South,

Like carrion birds from ev'ry region,

Till not a yard square

Of the sickening air

But has a Demon or two for its share,

Breathing fury, woe, and despair,

Never, never was such a sight!

It beats the very Walpurgis Night,

Displayed in the story of Doctor Faustus,

For the scene to describe

Of the awful tribe,

If we were _two_ Göthes, would quite exhaust us!

Suffice it, amid that dreary swarm,

There musters each foul repulsive form

That ever a fancy overwarm

Begot in its worst delirium;

Besides some others of monstrous size,

Never before revealed to eyes,

Of the genus Megatherium!

Meanwhile the demons, filthy and foul,

Gorgon, Chimera, Harpy, and Ghoul,

Are not contented to jibber and howl

As a dirge for their late commander;

But one of the bevy--witch or wizard,

Disguised as a monstrous flying lizard,

Springs on the grisly Salamander,

Who stoutly fights, and struggles, and kicks.

And tries the best of his wrestling tricks,

No paltry strife,

But for life, dear life.

But the ruthless talons refuse to unfix,

Till far beyond a surgical case,

With starting eyes, and black in the face,

Down he tumbles as dead as bricks!

A pretty sight for his mates to view!

Those shaggy murderers looking so blue,

And for him above all,

Red-bearded and tall,

With whom, at that very particular nick,

There is such an unlucky crow to pick,

As the one of iron that did the trick

In a recent bloody affair--

No wonder feeling a little sick,

With pulses beating uncommonly quick,

And breath he never found so thick,

He longs for the open air!

Three paces, or four,

And he gains the door;

But ere he accomplishes one,

The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull,

And clasping his fingers round his skull--

However the deed was done,

That gave him that florid

Red gash on the forehead--

With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid,

There's a tremulous quiver,

The last death-shiver,

And Red-Beard's course is run!

Halloo! Halloo!

They have done for two!

But a heavyish job remains to do!

For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand,

Like elder Sons of Giant Despair,

A couple of Cyclops make a stand,

And fiercely hammering here and there,

Keep at bay the Powers of Air--

But desperation is all in vain!--

They faint--they choke,

For the sulphurous smoke

Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain,

They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother.

One for a moment survives his brother,

Then rolls a corpse across the other!

Halloo! Halloo!

And Hullabaloo!

There is only one more thing to do--

And seized by beak, and talon, and claw,

Bony hand, and hairy paw,

Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw,

The four huge Bodies are haul'd and shoven

Each after each in the roaring oven!

* * * * *

That Eisen Hutte is standing still,

Go to the Hartz whenever you will,

And there it is beside a hill,

And a rapid stream that turns many a mill;

The self-same Forge,--you'll know it at sight--

Casting upward, day and night,

Flames of red, and yellow, and white!

Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge,

There it is, the famous Forge,

With its Furnace,--the same that blazed of yore,--

Hugely fed with fuel and ore;

But ever since that tremendous Revel,

Whatever Iron is melted therein,--

As Travellers know who have been to Berlin--

Is all _as black as the Devil_!

THE UNIVERSITY FEUD.[45]

"A plague o' both the houses!"--MERCUTIO.

[Footnote 45: "The Row at the Oxford Arms" (to quote its alternative

title) is a squib on the contest at Oxford, in 1841-42, for the

Professorship of Poetry. The candidates, it will be remembered, were

Isaac Williams and Mr. (afterwards Archdeacon) Garbett. The struggle

was the more intense that it was openly acknowledged to be a trial of

strength between the adherents of the "Oxford Movement" and the

Evangelical Party.]

As latterly I chanced to pass

A Public House, from which, alas!

The Arms of Oxford dangle!

My ear was startled by a din,

That made me tremble in my skin,

A dreadful hubbub from within,

Of voices in a wrangle--

Voices loud, and voices high,

With now and then a party-cry,

Such as used in times gone by

To scare the British border;

When foes from North and South of Tweed--

Neighbors--and of Christian creed--

Met in hate to fight and bleed,

Upsetting Social Order.

Surprised, I turn'd me to the crowd,

Attracted by that tumult loud,

And ask'd a gazer, beetle-brow'd,

The cause of such disquiet.

When lo! the solemn-looking man,

First shook his head on Burleigh's plan,

And then, with fluent tongue, began

His version of the riot:

A row!--why yes,--a pretty row, you might hear from this to Garmany,

And what is worse, it's all got up among the Sons of Harmony,

The more's the shame for them as used to be in time and tune,

And all unite in chorus like the singing-birds in June!

Ah! many a pleasant chant I've heard in passing here along,

When Swiveller was President a-knocking down a song;

But Dick's resign'd the post, you see, and all them shouts and hollers

Is 'cause two other candidates, some sort of larned scholars,

Are squabbling to be Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!

Lord knows their names, I'm sure I don't, no more than any yokel,

But I never heard of either as connected with the vocal;

Nay, some do say, although of course the public rumor varies,

They've no more warble in 'em than a pair of hen canaries;

Though that might pass if they were dabs at t'other sort of thing,

For a man may make a song, you know, although he cannot sing;

But lork! it's many folk's belief they're only good at prosing,

For Catnach swears he never saw a verse of their composing;

And when a piece of poetry has stood its public trials,

If pop'lar, it gets printed off at once in Seven Dials,

And then about all sorts of streets, by every little monkey,

It's chanted like the "Dog's Meat Man," or "If I had a Donkey."

Whereas, as Mr. Catnach says, and not a bad judge neither,

No ballad--worth a ha'penny--has ever come from either,

And him as writ "Jim Crow," he says, and got such lots of dollars,

Would make a better Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.

Howsomever that's the meaning of the squabble that arouses

This neighborhood, and quite disturbs all decent Heads of Houses,

Who want to have their dinners and their parties, as is reason,

In Christian peace and charity according to the season.

But from Number Thirty-Nine--since this electioneering job,

Ay, as far as Number Ninety, there's an everlasting mob;

Till the thing is quite a nuisance, for no creature passes by,

But he gets a card, a pamphlet, or a summut in his eye;

And a pretty noise there is!--what with canvassers and spouters,

For in course each side is furnish'd with its backers and its touters;

And surely among the Clergy to such pitches it is carried,

You can hardly find a Parson to get buried or get married;

Or supposing any accident that suddenly alarms,

If you're dying for a surgeon, you must fetch him from the "Arms";

While the Schoolmasters and Tooters are neglecting of their scholars,

To write about a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers.

Well, that, sir, is the racket; and the more the sin and shame

Of them that help to stir it up, and propagate the same;

Instead of vocal ditties, and the social flowing cup,--

But they'll be the House's ruin, or the shutting of it up,

With their riots and their hubbubs, like a garden full of bears,

While they've damaged many articles and broken lots of squares,

And kept their noble Club Room in a perfect dust and smother,

By throwing _Morning Heralds_, _Times_, and _Standards_ at each other;

Not to name the ugly language Gemmen oughtn't to repeat,

And the names they call each other--for I've heard 'em in the street--

Such as Traitors, Guys, and Judasses, and Vipers and what not,

For Pasley and his divers ain't so blowing-up a lot.

And then such awful swearing!--for there's one of them that cusses

Enough to shock the cads that hang on opposition 'busses;

For he cusses every member that's agin him at the poll,

As I wouldn't cuss a donkey, tho' it hasn't got a soul;

And he cusses all their families, Jack, Harry, Bob or Jim,

To the babby in the cradle, if they don't agree with him.

Whereby, altho' as yet they have not took to use their fives,

Or, according as the fashion is, to sticking with their knives,

I'm bound they'll be some milling yet, and shakings by the collars,

Afore they choose a Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!

To be sure it is a pity to be blowing such a squall,

Instead of clouds, and every man his song, and then his call--

And as if there wasn't Whigs enough and Tories to fall out,

Besides polities in plenty for our splits to be about,--

Why, a cornfield is sufficient, sir, as anybody knows,

For to furnish them in plenty who are fond of picking crows--

Not to name the Maynooth Catholics, and other Irish stews,

To agitate society and loosen all its screws;

And which all may be agreeable and proper to their spheres,--

But it's not the thing for musicals to set us by the ears.

And as to College larning, my opinion for to broach,

And I've had it from my cousin, and he driv a college coach,

And so knows the University, and all as there belongs,

And he says that Oxford's famouser for sausages than songs,

And seldom turns a poet out like Hudson that can chant,

As well as make such ditties as the Free and Easies want,

Or other Tavern Melodists I can't just call to mind--

But it's not the classic system for to propagate the kind,

Whereby it so may happen as that neither of them Scholars

May be the proper Chairman for the Glorious Apollers!

For my part in the matter, if so be I had a voice,

It's the best among the vocalists I'd honor with the choice;

Or a Poet as could furnish a new Ballad to the bunch;

Or at any rate the surest hand at mixing of the punch;

'Cause why, the members meet for that and other tuneful frolics--

And not to say, like Muffincaps, their Catichiz and Collec's.

But you see them there Itinerants that preach so long and loud,

And always takes advantage like the prigs of any crowd,

Have brought their jangling voices, and as far as they can compass,

Have turn'd a tavern shindy to a seriouser rumpus,

And him as knows most hymns--altho' I can't see how it follers--

They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!

Well, that's the row--and who can guess the upshot after all?

Whether Harmony will ever make the "Arms" her House of call,

Or whether this here mobbing--as some longish heads foretell it,

Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues must quell it,

Howsomever, for the present, there's no sign of any peace,

For the hubbub keeps a-growing, and defies the New Police;--

But if _I_ was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of Man,

Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my plan,

Why, I'd settle all the squabble in the twinkle of a needle,

For I'd have another candidate--and that's the Parish Beadle,

Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else by proxy,

And no one never has no doubts about his orthodoxy;

Whereby--if folks was wise--instead of either of them Scholars,

And straining their own lungs along of contradictious hollers,

They'll lend their ears to reason, and take my advice as follers,

Namely--Bumble for the Chairman of the Glorious Apollers!

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, by Thomas Hood