by Thomas Hood
They were solemn bequests to Vanity —
Or when her robes she began to doff,
That she stood so near to the putting off
Of the flesh that clothes humanity.
CCCXXII.
And when she quench’d the taper’s light,
How little she thought as the smoke took flight,
That her day was done — and merged in a night
Of dreams and duration uncertain —
Or along with her own,
That a Hand of Bone
Was closing mortality’s curtain!
CCCXXIII.
But life is sweet, and mortality blind,
And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind
In concealing the day of sorrow;
And enough is the present tense of toil —
For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil —
And the mind flies back with a glad recoil
From the debts not due till to-morrow.
CCCXXIV.
Wherefore else does the Spirit fly
And bid its daily cares good-bye,
Along with its daily clothing?
Just as the felon condemn’d to die —
With a very natural loathing —
Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes,
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes,
To a caper on sunny gleams and slopes,
Instead of a dance upon nothing.
CCCXXV.
Thus, even thus, the Countess slept,
While Death still nearer and nearer crept,
Like the Thane who smote the sleeping —
But her mind was busy with early joys,
Her golden treasures and golden toys;
That flash’d a bright
And golden light
Under lids still red with weeping.
CCCXXVI.
The golden doll that she used to hug!
Her coral of gold, and the golden mug!
Her godfather’s golden presents!
The golden service she had at her meals,
The golden watch, and chain, and seals,
Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,
And her golden fishes and pheasants!
CCCXXVII.
The golden guineas in silken purse —
And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurse
Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage —
And London streets that were paved with gold —
And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old —
With each golden thing
To the golden ring
At her own auriferous Marriage!
CCCXXVIII.
And still the golden light of the sun
Through her golden dream appear’d to run,
Though the night, that roared without, was one
To terrify seamen or gypsies —
While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,
Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,
As though she enjoy’d the tempest’s birth,
In revenge of her old eclipses.
CCCXXIX.
But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,
For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell
That time had lately embitter’d —
The Count, as once at her foot he knelt —
That foot, which now he wanted to melt!
But — hush!— ’twas a stir at her pillow she felt —
And some object before her glitter’d.
CCCXXX.
’Twas the Golden Leg! — she knew its gleam!
And up she started and tried to scream, —
But ev’n in the moment she started
Down came the limb with a frightful smash,
And, lost in the universal flash
That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,
The Spark, call’d Vital, departed!
* * * * *
CCCXXXI.
Gold, still gold! hard, yellow, and cold,
For gold she had lived, and she died for gold —
By a golden weapon — not oaken;
In the morning they found her all alone —
Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone —
But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone,
And the “Golden Bowl was broken!”
CCCXXXII.
Gold — still gold! it haunted her yet —
At the Golden Lion the Inquest met —
Its foreman, a carver and gilder —
And the Jury debated from twelve till three
What the Verdict ought to be,
And they brought it in as Felo de Se,
“Because her own Leg had kill’d her!”
HER MORAL.
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammer’d and roll’d;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, barter’d, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrow’d, squander’d, doled:
Spurn’d by the young, but hugg’d by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold:
Good or bad a thousand-fold!
How widely its agencies vary —
To save — to ruin — to curse — to bless —
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamp’d with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
ON A LATE IMMERSION
Long Life and hard frosts to the fortunate Prince!
And for many a skating may Providence spare him!
For surely his accident served to evince
That the Queen dearly loved, tho’ the ice couldn’t bear him!
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 serv’d 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 posh — and that post in particular
That stands at the corner of Dyottstreet 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 inclin’d,
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 all her human kind were dumb,
Her drum, indeed, was
so muffled a drum,
That none could get a sound to come,
Unless the Devil that 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 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 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 liv’d, 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 turned 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 is 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 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 partywall,
Ev’ry 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;
