by Thomas Hood
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 one-key’d 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
Yon 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 Mon-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 rather 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 called 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, deafened 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 n
ames? ‘ —
(‘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 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 rumours, 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 dropp’d 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 steeplehat,
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 ripp’d 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 rais’d 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,
Curs’d 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 listened — as Gossips will —
At a door ajar, or a window agape,
To catch the sounds they allowed 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 lowlyborn,
The working man, who looked over the hedge —
Or the Mother nursing her infant pledge —
The sober Quaker, averse to quarrels —
Or the Governess pacing the village thro’,
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 to 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 vile and horrible anecdotes heard,
As blacken’d their neighbours 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, with poisonous pinches —
Cutting off her L —— by inches) —
And as for drinking, they drank so hard,
