Playful Poems Part 21

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 qua 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 blacked, - 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 feathered wit, The starling, who speaks when his tongue is slit; The pies and jays that utter words, And other d.i.c.ky 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 gammoned her better, - With flatteries plump and indirect, And plied his tongue with such effect, - A tongue that could almost have b.u.t.tered a crumpet: The deaf old woman bought the Trumpet.

The pedlar was gone. With the horn's a.s.sistance, 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 canva.s.s 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 Bra.s.s 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 picked from the kennels of towns, With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs, Chiefly active in rows and mobs, Picking Possessive p.r.o.nouns' 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, Shocked the Dame with a volley of slang, Fit for f.a.gin's juvenile gang; While the charity chap, With his m.u.f.fin 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 did not 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 plundered house--or the stolen nag - The blazing rick, or the darker crime, That quenched the spark before its time - The wanton speech of the wife immoral, The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel, With savage menace, which threatened the life, Till the heart seemed 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 punched into holes, like a "shocking bad hat"

That is only fit to be punched into wadding!

In short, wherever she turned the horn, To the highly bred, or the lowly born, 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 through, With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two, Looking, as such young ladies do, Trussed by Decorum and stuffed with morals - Whether she listened to Hob or Bob, n.o.b or Sn.o.b, The Squire on his cob, Or Trudge and his a.s.s at a tinkering job, To the "Saint" who expounded at "Little Zion" - Or the "Sinner" who kept the "Golden Lion" - The man teetotally weaned from liquor - The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar - Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker - She gathered such meanings, double or single, That like the bell, With m.u.f.fins 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, Poured 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, Lapped up in "Catty packages," too, To give a zest to the sipping and supping; For still by some invisible tether, Scandal and Tea are linked together, As surely as Scarification and Cupping; Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea - Or sloe, or whatever it happened to be, For some grocerly thieves Turn over new leaves, Without much mending their lives or their tea - No, never since cup was filled or stirred Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard, As blackened their neighbours of either gender, Especially that, which is called the Tender, But instead of the softness we fancy therewith, Was hardened in vice as the vice of a smith.

Women! the wretches! had soiled and marred Whatever to womanly nature belongs; For the marriage tie they had no regard, Nay, sped their mates to the s.e.xton's yard, (Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches Kept cutting off her L by inches) - And as for drinking, they drank so hard That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs!

The men--they fought and gambled at fairs; And poached--and didn't respect grey hairs - Stole linen, money, plate, poultry, and corses; And broke in houses as well as horses; Unfolded folds to kill their own mutton, - And would their own mothers and wives for a b.u.t.ton: But not to repeat the deeds they did, Backsliding in spite of all moral skid, If all were true that fell from the tongue, There was not a villager, old or young, But deserved to be whipped, imprisoned, or hung, Or sent on those travels which n.o.body hurries, To publish at Colburn's, or Longmans', or Murray's.

Meanwhile the Trumpet, con amore, Transmitted each vile diabolical story; And gave the least whisper of slips and falls, As that Gallery does in the Dome of St. Paul's, Which, as all the world knows, by practice or print, Is famous for making the most of a hint.

Not a murmur of shame, Or buzz of blame, Not a flying report that flew at a name, Not a plausible gloss, or significant note, Not a word in the scandalous circles afloat, Of a beam in the eye, or diminutive mote, But vortex-like that tube of tin Sucked the censorious particle in; And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listened to serpent's hiss, Nor took the viperous sound amiss, On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon!

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

And give her head a sorrowful rocking, And make a clucking with palate and tongue, Like the call of Partlet to gather her young, A sound, when human, that always proclaims At least a thousand pities and shames; But still the darker the tale of sin, Like certain folks, when calamities burst, Who find a comfort in "hearing the worst,"

The farther she poked the Trumpet in.

Nay, worse, whatever she heard she spread East and West, and North and South, Like the ball which, according to Captain Z., Went in at his ear, and came out at his mouth.

What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, Such mischief was made wherever they came, That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame!

For although it required such loud discharges, Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, To turn the smallest of table-beer, A little whisper breathed into the ear Will sour a temper "as sour as varges."

In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, That the nearest neighbours the village through, Looked at each other as yellow and blue, As any electioneering crew Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories.

Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth, That "whispering tongues can poison Truth," - Yes, like a dose of oxalic acid, Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, And rack dear Love with internal fuel, Like a.r.s.enic pastry, or what is as cruel, Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel, - At least such torments began to wring 'em From the very morn When that mischievous Horn Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham.

The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, While feuds arose and family quarrels, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother, While sisters fastened their nails on each other; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, And spar, and jar--and breezes as stiff As ever upset a friendship--or skiff!

The plighted lovers who used to walk, Refused to meet, and declined to talk: And wished for two moons to reflect the sun, That they mightn't look together on one: While wedded affection ran so low, That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo - And instead of the toddle adown the hill, Hand in hand, As the song has planned, Scratched her, penniless, out of his will!

In short, to describe what came to pa.s.s In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, Instead of "Love in a Village"--alas!

The piece they performed was "The Devil to Pay!"

However, as secrets are brought to light, And mischief comes home like chickens at night; And rivers are tracked throughout their course, And forgeries traced to their proper source; - And the sow that ought By the ear is caught, - And the sin to the sinful door is brought; And the cat at last escapes from the bag - And the saddle is placed on the proper nag - And the fog blows off, and the key is found - And the faulty scent is picked out by the hound - And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground - And the matter gets wind to waft it about; And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out - And a riddle is guessed--and the puzzle is known - So the Truth was sniffed, and the Trumpet was blown!

'Tis a day in November--a day of fog - But the Tringham people are all agog!

Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers' Sons, - With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns, - As if in pursuit of a rabid dog; But their voices--raised to the highest pitch - Declare that the game is "a Witch!--a Witch!"

Over the Green and along by the George - Past the Stocks and the Church, and the Forge, And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond, Till they come to the whitewashed cottage beyond, And there at the door they muster and cl.u.s.ter, And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bl.u.s.ter - Enough to put Old Nick in a fl.u.s.ter!

A noise, indeed, so loud and long, And mixed with expressions so very strong, That supposing, according to popular fame, "Wise Woman" and Witch to be the same, No hag with a broom would unwisely stop, But up and away through the chimney-top; Whereas, the moment they burst the door, Planted fast on her sanded floor, With her trumpet up to her organ of hearing, Lo and behold!--Dame Eleanor Spearing!

Oh! then rises the fearful shout - Bawled and screamed, and bandied about - "Seize her!--Drag the old Jezebel out!"

While the Beadle--the foremost of all the band, s.n.a.t.c.hes the Horn from her trembling hand - And after a pause of doubt and fear, Puts it up to his sharpest ear.

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

For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul!

But before he rehea.r.s.es A couple of verses, The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall!

For instead of the words so pious and humble, He hears a supernatural grumble.

Enough, enough! and more than enough; - Twenty impatient hands and rough, By arm and leg, and neck and scruff, Ap.r.o.n, 'kerchief, gown of stuff - Cap and pinner, sleeve and cuff - Are clutching the Witch wherever they can, With the spite of woman and fury of man; And then--but first they kill her cat, And murder her dog on the very mat - And crush the infernal Trumpet flat; - And then they hurry her through the door She never, never will enter more!

Away! away! down the dusty lane They pull her and haul her, with might and main; And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry, Dandy or Sandy, Jerry or Larry, Who happens to get "a leg to carry!"

And happy the foot that can give her a kick, And happy the hand that can find a brick - And happy the fingers that hold a stick - Knife to cut, or pin to p.r.i.c.k - And happy the boy who can lend her a lick; - Nay, happy the urchin--Charity-bred, - Who can shy very nigh to her wicked old head!

Alas! to think how people's creeds Are contradicted by people's deeds!

But though the wishes that Witches utter Can play the most diabolical rigs - Send styes in the eye--and measle the pigs - Grease horses' heels--and spoil the b.u.t.ter; s.m.u.t and mildew the corn on the stalk - And turn new milk to water and chalk, - Blight apples--and give the chickens the pip - And cramp the stomach--and cripple the hip - And waste the body--and addle the eggs - And give a baby bandy legs; Though in common belief a Witch's curse Involves all these horrible things and worse - As ignorant b.u.mpkins all profess, No b.u.mpkin makes a poke the less At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S.!

As if she were only a sack of barley!

Or gives her credit for greater might Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night On that other old woman, the parish Charley!

Ay, now's the time for a Witch to call On her imps and sucklings one and all - Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown, (As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down) d.i.c.k, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack, Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black, Vinegar Tom, and the rest of the pack - Ay, now's the nick for her friend Old Harry To come "with his tail," like the bold Glengarry, And drive her foes from their savage job As a mad black bullock would scatter a mob:- But no such matter is down in the bond; And spite of her cries that never cease, But scare the ducks and astonish the geese, The dame is dragged to the fatal pond!

And now they come to the water's brim - And in they bundle her--sink or swim; Though it's twenty to one that the wretch must drown, With twenty sticks to hold her down; Including the help to the self-same end, Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend.

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

Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame!

And now is foremost amid the stir, With a token only revealed to her; A token that makes her shudder and shriek, And point with her finger, and strive to speak - But before she can utter the name of the Devil, Her head is under the water level!

MORAL.

There are folks about town--to name no names - Who much resemble the deafest of Dames!