Chapter I: Preface (1)

If the general public, acquainted only with the comic works of THOMAS HOOD, were taken by surprise when they found how he could handle serious and solemn themes; those who saw him in the flesh must have been equally astonished to learn how grave and melancholy a man the famous wit was to all appearance. The chronic ill health, which gave this expression to his countenance, was, however, powerless to affect the tone of his mind. “Here lies one who spat more blood and made more puns than any man living,” was the epitaph he half-jestingly proposed for himself. The connection between the disease and the comic faculty is not so unreasonable as it appears at first. The invalid, who could supply mirth for millions while he himself was propped up with pillows on the bed of sickness, was not a jester whose sole stock in trade consisted in mere animal spirits--which are too often mistaken for wit, but have in common with other spirits a tendency to evaporate somewhat rapidly. HOOD’S wit was the fruit of an even temperament, a cheery and contented mind endowed with a keen appreciation of the ludicrous. This acute perception of what is ludicrous is the foundation of all wit, but it may influence the mind in two ways. It may render its possessor as indifferent to the feelings as it makes him alive to the failings of others. How often does the wit, delighting in the flash and report of his jest, forget the wound it may inflict!

But, on the other hand, the shrewd appreciation of the weaknesses of others assists a kindly and well-balanced mind to avoid the infliction of pain; and the wit of THOMAS HOOD was of this nature. It was all the brighter because it was never stained by a tear wantonly caused. Even the temptations of practical joking--and they have a strong influence on those who enjoy the comic side of things--never betrayed him into any freak that could give pain. He worked away industriously with wood, paint, and glue to send his friend FRANCK a new and killing bait for the early spring--a veritable _Poisson d’Avril_, constructed to come in half after a brief immersion, and reveal the inscription, “Oh, you April Fool!” He could gravely persuade his young wife, when she was first learning the mysteries of housekeeping, that she must never purchase plaice with red spots, for they were a proof that the fish were not fresh. But he was incapable of any of the cruel pleasantries for which THEODORE HOOK was famous: indeed, the only person he ever frightened, even, with a practical joke, was himself; when as a boy he traced with the smoke of a candle on the ceiling of a passage outside his bedroom a diabolical face, which was intended to startle his brother, but which so alarmed the artist himself, when he was going to bed forgetful of his own feat, that he ran down stairs--in a panic and in his night-dress--into the presence of his father’s guests assembled in the drawing-room. He used to enjoy so heartily and chuckle so merrily over his innocent practical jokes and hoaxes (he was never more delighted than when a friend of his was completely imposed on by a sham account of a survey of the Heavens through Lord ROSSE’S “monster telescope”) that the tenderness he showed for the feelings of others is more remarkable. The same forbearance characterises his writings. In spite of many and great provocations, he seldom, or never, wrote a bitter word, though that he could have been severe is amply indicated in his “Ode to RAE WILSON,” or still more in certain letters on “Copyright and Copywrong,” which he was spurred on by injustice and ill-usage to address to the _Athenæum_. He was a Shandean, who carried out in his life as well as his writings the principles which STERNE confined to the latter.

The first appearance of THOMAS HOOD as a comic writer was in the year 1826, when he published the First Series of “Whims and Oddities.” The critics in many instances took offence at his puns, as might have been expected, for his style was new and startling. His book was full of word-play, and it is easy to conceive--as he wrote in his address to the Second Edition--“how gentlemen with one idea were perplexed with a double meaning.” However, the public approved if the critics did not, and called for a second and soon after a third edition. Finally, after the publication of a second series, a fourth issue, containing the two series in one volume, was demanded. “Come what may,” said HOOD, “this little book will now leave four imprints behind it--and a horse could do no more!”

He had by this time commenced the Comic Annuals, a series which he carried on for many years, and by which he established his fame as the first wit and humourist of his day. When this publication ceased he wrote first for _Colburn’s New Monthly_, of which he was appointed Editor on HOOK’S death; and subsequently, and up to the time of his death, in his own periodical, _Hood’s Magazine_.

Puns have been styled the lowest form of wit, and the critics have fallen foul of them from time immemorial until the present day. But a pun proper--and there should be a strict definition of a pun--is, it is humbly submitted, of so complicated a nature as to be anything but a low form of wit. A mere jingle of similar sounds, or a distortion of pronunciation does not constitute a pun--a double meaning is essential to its existence--a play of sense as well as of sound. That the latter was in HOOD’S opinion the more important feature of the two is to be inferred from his statement that “a pun is something like a cherry: though there may be a slight outward indication of partition--of duplicity of meaning, yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own pleasure.” In other words, the sense is complete without any reference to the second meaning. Tested by this rule, the majority of so-called puns, which have brought discredit on punning, would be immediately condemned, the only excuse for the form in which they are written being the endeavour to tack on a second meaning, or too often only an echo of sound without meaning.

Perhaps the best defence of punning is to be found in the following stanzas of “Miss Kilmansegg:”

“There’s strength in double joints, no doubt,
In double X Ale, and Dublin Stout,
That the single sorts know nothing about--
And the fist is strongest when doubled--
And double aqua-fortis, of course,
And double soda-water, perforce,
Are the strongest that ever bubbled!

“There’s double beauty whenever a Swan
Swims on a Lake, with her double thereon;
And ask the gardener, Luke or John,
Of the beauty of double-blowing--
A double dahlia delights the eye;
And it’s far the loveliest sight in the sky
When a double rainbow is glowing!

“There’s warmth in a pair of double soles;
As well as a double allowance of coals--
In a coat that is double-breasted--
In double windows and double doors;
And a double U wind is blest by scores
For its warmth to the tender-chested.

“There’s a twofold sweetness in double pipes;
And a double barrel and double snipes
Give the sportsman a duplicate pleasure;
There’s double safety in double locks;
And double letters bring cash for the box;
And all the world knows that double knocks
Are gentility’s double measure.

“There’s double sweetness in double rhymes,
And a double at Whist and a double Times
In profit are certainly double--
By doubling, the hare contrives to escape;
And all seamen delight in a doubled Cape,
And a double-reef’d topsail in trouble.

“There’s a double chuck at a double chin,
And of course there’s a double pleasure therein,
If the parties were brought to telling:
And however our Denises take offence,
_A double meaning shows double sense_;
And if proverbs tell truth,
A double tooth
Is Wisdom’s adopted dwelling!”

The reputation of THOMAS HOOD as a wit and humourist rests on his writings chiefly. His recorded sayings are few, for in general society he was shy and reserved, seldom making a joke, or doing it with so grave a face that the witticism seemed an accident, and was in many cases possibly allowed to pass unnoticed, for a great number of people do not recognise a joke that is not prefaced by a jingle of the cap and bells. When in the company of a few intimate friends, however, he was full of fun and good spirits. Unfortunately, on such occasions the good things were not “set in a note-book,” and so were for the most part lost; though at times an anecdote, well-authenticated, turns up to make us regret that more have not been preserved.

One such anecdote, which has not hitherto appeared in print, may not be out of place here. HOOD and “PETER PRIGGINS”--the Rev. Mr. HEWLETT--went on a visit to a friend of the latter’s, residing near Ramsgate. As they drove out of the town they passed a board on which was printed in large letters

BEWARE THE DOG.

A glance at the premises which the announcement was intended to guard showed that the quadruped was not forthcoming, whereupon HOOD jumped out of the gig, and, picking up a bit of chalk (plentiful enough in the neighbourhood), wrote under the warning--

WARE BE THE DOG?

These introductory remarks cannot be better wound-up than by a quotation from a preface to “HOOD’S Own,” in which is laid down the system of “Practical Cheerful Philosophy,” which is reflected in his writings, and which influenced his life. The reader will more thoroughly appreciate the comic writings of THOMAS HOOD after its perusal:

In the absence of a certain thin “blue and yellow” visage, and
attenuated figure,--whose effigies may one day be affixed to the
present work,--you will not be prepared to learn that some of the
merriest effusions in the forthcoming numbers have been the
relaxations of a gentleman literally enjoying bad health--the
carnival, so to speak, of a personified Jour Maigre. The very
fingers so aristocratically slender, that now hold the pen, hint
plainly of the “_ills_ that _flesh_ is heir to:”--my coats have
become great coats, my pantaloons are turned into trowsers, and, by
a worse bargain than Peter Schemihl’s, I seem to have retained my
shadow and sold my substance. In short, as happens to prematurely
old port wine, I am of a bad colour with very little body. But what
then? That emaciated hand still lends a hand to embody in words and
sketches the creations or recreations of a Merry Fancy: those gaunt
sides yet shake heartily as ever at the Grotesques and Arabesques
and droll Picturesques that my good Genius (a Pantagruelian
Familiar) charitably conjures up to divert me from more sombre
realities. It was the whim of a late pleasant Comedian, to suppose
a set of spiteful imps sitting up aloft, to aggravate all his petty
mundane annoyances; whereas I prefer to believe in the ministry of
kindlier Elves that “nod to me and do me courtesies.” Instead of
scaring away these motes in the sunbeam, I earnestly invoke them,
and bid them welcome; for the tricksy spirits make friends with the
animal spirits, and do not I, like a father romping with his own
urchins,--do not I forget half my cares whilst partaking in their
airy gambols? Such sports are as wholesome for the mind as the
other frolics for the body. For on our own treatment of that
excellent Friend or terrible Enemy the Imagination, it depends
whether we are to be scared and haunted by a Scratching Fanny, or
tended by an affectionate Invisible Girl--like an unknown Love,
blessing us with “favours secret, sweet, and precious,” and fondly
stealing us from this worky-day world to a sunny sphere of her own.

This is a novel version, Reader, of “Paradise and the Peri,” but it
is as true as it is new. How else could I have converted a serious
illness into a comic wellness--by what other agency could I have
transported myself, as a Cockney would say, from _Dull_age to
_Grin_nage? It was far from a practical joke to be laid up in
ordinary in a foreign land, under the care of Physicians quite as
much abroad as myself with the case; indeed, the shades of the
gloaming were stealing over my prospect; but I resolved, that, like
the sun, so long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side
of everything. The raven croaked, but I persuaded myself that it
was the nightingale! there was the smell of the mould, but I
remembered that it nourished the violets. However my body might cry
craven, my mind luckily had no mind to give in. So, instead of
mounting on the black long-tailed coach horse, she vaulted on her
old Hobby that had capered in the Morris-Dance, and began to exhort
from its back. To be sure, said she, matters look darkly enough;
but the more need for the lights. Allons! Courage! Things may take
a turn, as the pig said on the spit. Never throw down your cards,
but play out the game. The more certain to lose, the wiser to get
all the play you can for your money. Come--give us a song! chirp
away like that best of cricket-players, the cricket himself. Be
bowled out or caught out, but never throw down the bat. As to
Health, it’s the weather of the body--it hails, it rains, it blows,
it snows, at present, but it may clear up by-and-bye. You cannot
eat, you say, and you must not drink; but laugh and make believe,
like the Barber’s wise brother at the Barmecide’s feast. Then, as
to thinness, not to flatter, you look like a lath that has had a
split with the carpenter and a fall out with the plaster; but so
much the better: remember how the smugglers trim the sails of the
lugger to escape the notice of the cutter. Turn your edge to the
old enemy, and mayhap he won’t see you! Come--be alive! You have no
more right to slight your life than to neglect your wife--they are
the two better halves that make a man of you! Is not life your
means of living? So stick to thy business, and thy business will
stick to thee. Of course, continued my mind, I am quite
disinterested in this advice--for I am aware of my own
immortality--but for that very reason, take care of the mortal
body, poor body, and give it as long a day as you can.

Now, my mind seeming to treat the matter very pleasantly as well as
profitably, I followed her counsel, and instead of calling out for
relief according to the fable, I kept along on my journey, with my
bundle of sticks,--_i.e._, my arms and legs. Between ourselves, it
would have been “extremely inconvenient,” as I once heard the
opium-eater declare, to pay the debt of nature at that particular
juncture; nor do I quite know, to be candid, when it would
altogether suit me to settle it, so, like other persons in narrow
circumstances, I laughed, and gossipped, and played the agreeable
with all my might, and as such pleasant behaviour sometimes obtains
a respite from a human creditor, who knows but that it may prove
successful with the Universal Mortgagee? At all events, here I am,
humming “Jack’s Alive!” and my own dear skilful native physician
gives me hopes of a longer lease than appeared from the foreign
reading of the covenants. He declares, indeed, that, anatomically,
my heart is lower hung than usual--but what of that? _The more need
to keep it up!_

EDITORIAL NOTE.

This new issue of HOOD’S Poems has been completely revised, and will be found not only larger in size, but far richer in contents, than any previous edition. This, with the companion volume of “Serious Poems,” will be found to contain _the entire poetical works of Thomas Hood_. The volume has been, moreover, enriched by the addition of a large number of the highly humorous illustrations, in which Thomas Hood’s comic power was displayed.

_July, 1876._

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Reply to a Pastoral Poet 1

A Tale of Temper 2

The Captain’s Cow 5

The Doves and the Crows 9

A Tale of a Trumpet 10

An Open Question 32

The Turtles 37

Town and Country 41

No! 44

The Lost Heir 44

She is far from the Land 48

Anacreontic 50

The Forlorn Shepherd’s Complaint 51

Huggins and Duggins 52

Pain in a Pleasure-Boat 55

Gog and Magog 58

The Sweep’s Complaint 60

The Carelesse Nurse Mayd 63

Jarvis and Mrs. Cope 64

A Lay of Real Life 66

The Lark and the Rook 68

A Nocturnal Sketch 69

Domestic Asides 70

John Day 71

Number One 74

The Drowning Ducks 76

Dibdin Modernized 78

The Storm 79

I’m not a Single Man 80

The Ghost 84

The Double Knock 86

Our Village 87

Pair’d _not_ Matched 89

The Boy at the Nore 91

The Supper Superstition 93

The Broken Dish 95

Literary and Literal 96

The Sub-Marine 100

The Lament of Toby 102

My Son and Heir 104

Clubs 107

The United Family 110

The Dead Robbery 115

A Parental Ode to my Son 120

A Serenade 121

An Incendiary Song 122

Copy 125

Skipping 126

A Butcher 128

A Public Dinner 129

A Charity Sermon 133

The China Mender 135

On a Picture of Hero and Leander 138

Miss Fanny’s Farewell Flowers 138

The Stage-Struck Hero 140

Ye Tourists and Travellers 142

Rural Felicity 143

The Doctor 148

Laying down the Law 150

A Black Job 153

A Discovery in Astronomy 159

The Sausage Maker’s Ghost 159

To Joseph Hume, Esq., M.P. 161

To Admiral Gambier, G.C.B. 164

To Spencer Perceval, Esq., M.P. 166

To Miss Kelly 167

To Doctor Hahnemann 168

To the Advocates for the Removal of Smithfield Market 172

To Mary 175

To Fanny 177

To Mr. Malthus 179

To St. Swithin 182

To a Lady on her Departure for India 185

Sir John Bowring 186

To Mr. M‘Adam 187

A _Friendly_ Epistle to Mrs. Fry, _in_ Newgate 190

To Mr. Dymoke 194

To Joseph Grimaldi, Senior 196

To Sylvanus Urban, Esq. 200

To W. Kitchener, M.D. 202

To the Dean and Chapter of Westminster 207

On an Unfavourable Review 210

To Peace 211

For Ninth November 212

On the Celebration of Peace 216

To Mr. Izaak Walton 217

To Mary Housemaid 221

To a Bad Rider 222

To a Critic 222

The Sweets of Youth 223

To Henrietta 223

Hints to Paul Pry 224

On Steam 227

Allegory--A Moral Vehicle 228

A Somnambulist 228

To Vauxhall 229

To a Scotch Girl washing Linen 229

To a Decayed Seaman 230

To Lord Wharncliffe 230

Lieutenant Luff 231

Love has not eyes 232

A Happy New Year 233

Sea Song 236

Reflections on a New Year’s Day 237

Written under the Fear of Bailiffs 238

A Few Lines on completing Forty-seven 238

A Bull 239

On the Death of the Giraffe 239

On the Removal of a Menagerie 239

Her Majesty’s Visit to the City 240

On the Queen’s Visit by a Cornhill Tradesman 240

On the Trafalgar Square Statues 240

On a Picture of Solomon Eagle 240

Heart Springs 240

Change of Ministry 241

A Pig in a Poke 241

On Reading a Diary 241

The Pursuit of Letters 241

A Reflection 241

Laying the Dust 242

On Lieutenant Eyre’s Narrative of the Disasters at Cabul 242

Superiority of Machinery 242

Party Spirit 242

Lord B---- 242

Traitors’ Aims 243

On a Certain Locality 243

On the Art Unions 243

A Morning Thought 243

Wellington’s Statue 244

On a Daguerreotype Portrait of a Lady 244

Suggestions by Steam 244

Punishment of Suicides 245

Athol Brose 245

On the Depreciated Money 245

On Mrs. Parkes’s Pamphlet 245

An Explanation 246

On the New Half-farthings 246

The Surplice Question 246

The Epping Hunt 247

Jack Hall 261

Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg--
Her Pedigree 269
Her Birth 271
Her Christening 276
Her Childhood 280
Her Education 281
Her Accident 285
Her Precious Leg 289
Her Fame 292
Her First Step 294
Her Fancy Ball 295
Her Dream 303
Her Courtship 307
Her Marriage 311
Her Honeymoon 318
Her Misery 325
Her Last Will 329
Her Death 330
Her Moral 334

John Trot 334

The Widow 337

“Don’t you smell Fire?” 341

The Wee Man 343

“The Last Man” 344

Backing the Favourite 351

The Ballad of “Sally Brown and Ben the Carpenter” 352

Love 355

As it fell upon a day 356

A Fairy Tale 356

The Fall of the Deer 360

Tim Turpin 361

The Monkey-Martyr 364

Craniology 368

A Sailor’s Apology for Bow-Legs 371

The Stag-eyed Lady 373

Faithless Nelly Gray 378

The Sea-Spell 380

The Demon-Ship 384

Mary’s Ghost 387

Ode to Mr. Brunel 389

Anacreontic 390

A Waterloo Ballad 391

Cockle _v._ Cackle 394

Playing at Soldiers 398

“Napoleon’s Midnight Review” 400

Ode to Dr. Kitchener 402

The Cigar 404

An Ancient Concert 405

A Report from Below 408

The Last Wish 410

The Devil’s Album 411

A Valentine 412

Conveyancing 412

The Angler’s Farewell 414

A Blow up 416

The Schoolmaster’s Motto 420

The Kangaroos 422

I cannot bear a Gun 424

Trimmer’s Exercise 427

An Address to the Steam Washing Company 428

The Blue Boar 435

A Flying Visit 442

A Row at the Oxford Arms 450

A Table of Errata 454

The Green Man 457

Ben Bluff 463

Sally Simpkin’s Lament 465

I’m going to Bombay 467

John Jones 469

Pompey’s Ghost 471

To Mr. Wrench at the English Opera House 475

Love, with a Witness 476

Lines by a School Boy 477

Address to Maria Darlington 477

Ode to R. W. Elliston, Esq. 480

Shooting Pains 482

The Duel 485

Dog-grel Verses 487

“Up the Rhine” 490

The Comet 491

More Hullah-Baloo 493

There’s no Romance in that 499

The Painter Puzzled 502

A True Story 504

The Logicians 510

Little O’P. 513

The Assistant Draper’s Petition 514

Symptoms of Ossification 516

A Custom-House Breeze 517

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Arthur’s Seat.

Fancy Portrait--Mrs. Trimmer.

Faults on Both Sides.

Son and Hair.

The Bottle Imp.

Overtaker and Undertaker.

See View--Broad Stairs.

A Public Dinner.

Death’s Door.

Fanny.

Dog-Berry.

The Judgment of Solomon.

Accustomed to the care of Children.

A Hard Roe.

A Child’s Call to be disposed of.

The Duke of Well---- and Prince of Water----.

High and Low Born.

Violinist.

Sea Consumption--waisting away.

Due at Michaelmas.

A Minor Cannon.

The Top of his Profession.

Love and a Cottage.

The Judges of A-size.

A Total Eclipse of the Son.

Palmam qui Meruit Ferat.

War Dance--The Opening of the Ball.

The Buoy at the Nore.

The Ides of March are come.

The Bath Guide.

The Isle of Man.

A Day’s Sport on the Moors.

Barrister on Circuit.

Finding a May’r’s Nest.

I wish you may get it.

The Box Seat.

Does your Mother know you’re out?

To Ladies’s Eyes a round, Boys.

Wether Wise.

The Widow’s Mite.

A Plaster Cast.

A Strange Bird.

Crane-iology.

James’s Powder.

Joining in a Catch.

Single Blessedness.

Long Commons and Short Commons.

The Last Cut.

HOOD’S POETICAL WORKS.

COMIC.

REPLY TO A PASTORAL POET.

Tell us not of bygone days!
Tell us not of forward times!
What’s the future--what’s the past--
Save to fashion rhymes?
Show us that the corn doth thrive!
Show us there’s no wintry weather!
Show us we may laugh and live--
(Those who love--together.)

Senses have we for sweet blossoms--
Eyes, which could admire the sun--
Passions blazing in our bosoms--
Hearts, that may be won!
But Labour doth for ever press us,
And Famine grins upon our board;
And none will help us, none will bless us,
With one gentle word!

None, none! our birthright or our fate,
Is hunger and inclement air--
Perpetual toil--the rich man’s hate--
Want, scorn--the pauper’s fare:
We fain would gaze upon the sky,
Lie pensive by the running springs;
But if we stay to gaze or sigh,
We starve--though the cuckoo sings!

The moon casts cold on us below;
The sun is not our own;
The very winds which fragrance blow,
But blanch us to the bone;
The rose for us ne’er shows its bloom,
The violet its blue eye;
From cradle murmuring to the tomb,
We feel no beauty, no perfume,
But only toil--and die!
PAUPER.

A TALE OF TEMPER.

Of all cross breeds of human sinners,
The crabbedest are those who dress our dinners;
Whether the ardent fires at which they roast
And broil and bake themselves like Smithfield martyrs,
Are apt to make them crusty, like a toast,
Or drams, encouraged by so hot a post;
However, cooks are generally Tartars;
And altogether might be safely cluster’d
In scientific catalogues
Under two names, like Dinmont’s dogs,
Pepper and Mustard.

The case thus being very common,
It followed, quite of course, when Mr. Jervis
Engaged a clever culinary woman,
He took a mere Xantippe in his service--
In fact--her metal not to burnish,
As vile a shrew as Shrewsbury could furnish--
One who in temper, language, manners, looks,
In every respect
Might just have come direct
From him, who is supposed to send us cooks.

The very day she came into her place
She slapp’d the scullion’s face;
The next, the housemaid being rather pert,
Snatching the broom, she “treated her like dirt”--
The third, a quarrel with the groom she hit on--
Cyrus, the page, had half-a-dozen knocks;
And John, the coachman, got a box
He couldn’t sit on.

Meanwhile, her strength to rally,
Brandy, and rum, and shrub she drank by stealth,
Besides the Cream of some mysterious Valley
That may, or may not, be the Vale of Health:
At least while credit lasted, or her wealth--
For finding that her blows came only thicker,
Invectives and foul names but flew the quicker,
The more she drank, the more inclined to bicker,
The other servants one and all,
Took Bible oaths whatever might befal,
Neither to lend her cash, nor fetch her liquor!

This caused, of course, a dreadful schism,
And what was worse, in spite of all endeavour,
After a fortnight of Tea-totalism,
The Plague broke out more virulent than ever!
The life she led her fellows down the stairs!
The life she led her betters in the parlour!
No parrot ever gave herself such airs,
No pug-dog cynical was such a snarler!
At woman, man, and child, she flew and snapp’d,
No rattlesnake on earth so fierce and rancorous--
No household cat that ever lapp’d
To swear and spit was half so apt--
No bear, sore-headed, could be more cantankerous--
No fretful porcupine more sharp and crabbed--
No wolverine
More full of spleen--
In short, the woman was completely rabid!

The least offence of look or phrase,
The slightest verbal joke, the merest frolic,
Like a snap-dragon set her in a blaze,
Her spirit was so alcoholic!
And woe to him who felt her tongue!
It burnt like caustic--like a nettle stung,
Her speech was scalding--scorching--vitriolic!
And larded, not with bacon fat,
Or anything so mild as that,
But curses so intensely diabolic,
So broiling hot, that he, at whom she levell’d,
Felt in his very gizzard he was devill’d!

Often and often Mr. Jervis
Long’d, and yet feared, to turn her from his service;
For why? Of all his philosophic loads
Of reptiles loathsome, spiteful, and pernicious,
Stuff’d Lizards, bottled Snakes, and pickled Toads,
Potted Tarantulas, and Asps malicious,
And Scorpions cured by scientific modes,
He had not any creature half so vicious!

At last one morning
The coachman had already given warning,
And little Cyrus
Was gravely thinking of a new cockade,
For open War’s rough sanguinary trade,
Or any other service, quite desirous,
Instead of quarrelling with such a jade--
When accident explain’d the coil she made,
And whence her Temper had derived the virus!

Struck with the fever, called the scarlet,
The Termagant was lying sick in bed--
And little Cyrus, that precocious varlet,
Was just declaring her “as good as dead,”
When down the attic stairs the housemaid, Charlotte,
Came running from the chamber overhead,
Like one demented;
Flapping her hands, and casting up her eyes,
And giving gasps of horror and surprise,
Which thus she vented--
“O Lord! I wonder that she didn’t bite us!
Or sting us like a Tantalizer,[1]
(The note will make the reader wiser,)
And set us all a dancing like St. Witus!

“Temper! No wonder that the creature had
A temper so uncommon bad!
She’s just confessed to Doctor Griper
That being out of Rum, and like denials,
Which always was prodigious trials,--
Because she couldn’t pay the piper,
She went one day, she did, to Master’s wials,
And drunk the spirit as preserved the Wiper!”

THE CAPTAIN’S COW.

A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE.

“Water, water everywhere,
But not a drop to drink.”--COLERIDGE.

It is a jolly Mariner
As ever knew the billows’ stir,
Or battled with the gale;
His face is brown, his hair is black,
And down his broad gigantic back
There hangs a platted tail.

In clusters, as he rolls along,
His tarry mates around him throng,
Who know his budget well;
Betwixt Canton and Trinidad
No Sea-Romancer ever had
Such wondrous tales to tell!

Against the mast he leans a-slope,
And thence upon a coil of rope
Slides down his pitchy “starn;”
Heaves up a lusty hem or two,
And then at once without ado
Begins to spin his yarn:--

“As from Jamaica we did come,
Laden with sugar, fruit and rum,
It blew a heavy gale:
A storm that scar’d the oldest men
For three long days and nights, and then
The wind began to fail.

“Still less and less, till on the mast
The sails began to flap at last,
The breezes blew so soft;
Just only now and then a puff,
Till soon there was not wind enough
To stir the vane aloft.

“No, not a cat’s paw anywhere:
Hold up your finger in the air
You couldn’t feel a breath
For why, in yonder storm that burst,
The wind that blew so hard at first
Had blown itself to death.

“No cloud aloft to throw a shade;
No distant breezy ripple made
The ocean dark below.
No cheering sign of any kind;
The more we whistled for the wind
The more it did not blow.

“The hands were idle, one and all;
No sail to reef against a squall;
No wheel, no steering now!
Nothing to do for man or mate,
But chew their cuds and ruminate,
Just like the Captain’s Cow.

“Day after day, day after day,
Becalm’d the Jolly Planter lay,
As if she had been moor’d:
The sea below, the sky a-top
Fierce blazing down, and not a drop
Of water left aboard!

“Day after day, day after day,
Becalm’d the Jolly Planter lay,
As still as any log;
The Parching seamen stood about,
Each with his tongue a-lolling out,
And panting like a dog--

“A dog half mad with summer heat
And running up and down the street,
By thirst quite overcome;
And not a drop in all the ship
To moisten cracking tongue and lip,
Except Jamaica rum!

“The very poultry in the coop
Began to pine away and droop--
The cock was first to go;
And glad we were on all our parts,
He used to damp our very hearts
With such a ropy crow.

“But worst it was, we did allow,
To look upon the Captain’s Cow,
That daily seemed to shrink:
Deprived of water hard or soft,
For, though we tried her oft and oft,
The brine she wouldn’t drink:

“But only turn’d her bloodshot eye,
And muzzle up towards the sky,
And gave a moan of pain,
A sort of hollow moan and sad,
As if some brutish thought she had
To pray to heav’n for rain;

“And sometimes with a steadfast stare
Kept looking at the empty air,
As if she saw beyond,
Some meadow in her native land,
Where formerly she used to stand
A-cooling in the pond.

“If I had only had a drink
Of water then, I almost think
She would have had the half:
But as for John the Carpenter,
He couldn’t more have pitied her
If he had been her calf.

“So soft of heart he was and kind
To any creature lame, or blind,
Unfortunate, or dumb:
Whereby he made a sort of vow,
In sympathising with the Cow,
To give her half his rum;--

“An oath from which he never swerved,
For surely as the rum was serv’d
He shared the cheering dram;
And kindly gave one half at least,
Or more, to the complaining beast,
Who took it like a lamb.

“At last with overclouding skies
A breeze again began to rise,
That stiffen’d to a gale:
Steady, steady, and strong it blew;
And were not we a joyous crew,
As on the Jolly Planter flew
Beneath a press of sail!

“Swiftly the Jolly Planter flew,
And were not we a joyous crew,
At last to sight the land!
A glee there was on every brow,
That like a Christian soul the Cow
Appear’d to understand.

“And was not she a mad-like thing
To land again and taste the spring,
Instead of fiery glass:
About the verdant meads to scour,
And snuff the honey’d cowslip flower,
And crop the juicy grass!

“Whereby she grew as plump and hale
As any beast that wears a tail,
Her skin as sleek as silk;
And through all parts of England now
Is grown a very famous Cow,
By giving Rum-and-Milk!”

THE DOVES AND THE CROWS.

Come all ye sable little girls and boys,
Ye coal-black Brothers--Sooty Sisters, come!
With kitty-katties make a joyful noise;
With snaky-snekies, and the Eboe drum!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Play_, Sambo, play,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Ye vocal Blackbirds, bring your native pipes,
Your own _Moor’s_ Melodies, ye niggers, bring;
To celebrate the fall of chains and stripes,
Sing “Possum up a gum-tree,”--roar and sing!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Chaunt_, Sambo, chaunt,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Bring all your woolly pickaninnies dear--
Bring John Canoe and all his jolly gang:
Stretch ev’ry blubber-mouth from ear to ear,
And let the driver in his whip go hang!
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Grin_, Sambo, grin,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Your working garb indignantly renounce;
Discard your slops in honour of the day--
Come all in frill, and furbelow, and flounce,
Come all as fine as Chimney Sweeps in May--
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Dress_, Sambo, dress,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Come, join together in the dewy dance,
With melting maids in steamy mazes go;
Humanity delights to see you prance,
Up with your sooty legs and jump Jim Crow--
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Skip_, Sambo, skip,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Kiss dark Diana on her pouting lips,
And take black Phœbe by her ample waist--
Tell them to-day is Slavery’s eclipse,
And Love and Liberty must be embraced--
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Kiss_, Sambo, kiss,--and, Obadiah, groan!

With bowls of sangaree and toddy come!
Bring lemons, sugar, old Madeira, limes,
Whole tanks and water-barrels full of rum,
To toast the whitest date of modern times--
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Drink_, Sambo, drink,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Talk, all together, talk! both old and young,
Pour out the fulness of the negro heart;
Let loose the now emancipated tongue,
And all your new-born sentiments impart--
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Spout_, Sambo, spout,--and, Obadiah, groan!

Huzza! for equal rights and equal laws;
The British parliament has doff’d your chain--
Join, join in gratitude your jetty paws,
And swear you never will be slaves again--
From this day forth your freedom is your own:
_Swear_, Sambo, swear,--and, Obadiah, groan!

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 ask’d 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 clamour--
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 dummy organ and 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 parlour 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 up-stairs,
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 call’d Statistical Fellows--
A prying, spying, inquisitive clan,
Who have gone upon much of the self-same plan,
Jotting the Labouring Class’s riches;
And after poking in pot and pan,
And routing garments in want of stitches,
Have ascertain’d 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. Au 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, and 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 mustn’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’ key-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 on 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!