Chapter XXI: Part III (9)

"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!