Chapter 5
SHE said: the pitying audience melt in tears. But Fate and Jove had stopped the Baron’s ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fixed the Trojan could remain, While Anna begged and Dido raged in vain. Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan; Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:
“Say why are beauties praised and honoured most, The wise man’s passion, and the vain man’s toast? Why decked with all that land and sea afford, Why angels called, and angel-like adored? Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows; How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace: ‘Behold the first in virtue as in face!’ Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charmed the smallpox, or chased old age away, Who would not scorn what housewife’s cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas! frail beauty must decay; Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to grey; Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains but well our power to use, And keep good-humour still whate’er we lose? And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.”
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued; Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her Prude. “To arms, to arms!” the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. All side in parties, and begin the attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes’ and heroines’ shouts confusedly rise, And bass and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in their hands are found, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.
So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heavenly breasts with human passions rage; ’Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms: Jove’s thunder roars, heaven trembles all around, Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound, Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way, And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce’s height Clapped his glad wings, and sate to view the fight; Propped on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enraged Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perished in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song.
“O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,” Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, “Those eyes are made so killing”—was his last. Thus on Mæander’s flowery margin lies The expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a frown; She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, But, at her smile, the beau revived again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men’s wits against the ladies’ hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes: Nor feared the chief the unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength endued, She with one finger and a thumb subdued: Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The gnomes direct, to every atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden, with starting tears each eye o’erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
“Now meet thy fate,” incensed Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Formed a vast buckle for his widow’s gown; Her infant grandame’s whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin graced her mother’s hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears).
“Boast not my fall,” he cried, “insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low, Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind: All that I dread is leaving you behind! Rather than so, ah! let me still survive, And burn in Cupid’s flames—but burn alive.”
“Restore the lock!” she cries; and all around “Restore the lock!” the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roared for the handkerchief that caused his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with pain, In every place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So Heaven decrees: with Heaven who can contest?
Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasured there, There heroes’ wits are kept in ponderous vases, And beaux’ in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound, The courtiers promises, and sick man’s prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise, Though marked by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome’s great founder to the heavens withdrew, To Proculus alone confessed in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice’s locks first rose so bright, The heavens bespangling with dishevelled light. The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleased pursue its progress through the skies.
This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray. This the blest lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda’s lake. This Partridge {137} soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo’s eyes; And hence the egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravished hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For, after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die: When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, And ’midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN:
SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.
BY WILLIAM COWPER.
JOHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.
John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, “Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.
“To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair.
“My sister, and my sister’s child, Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.”
He soon replied, “I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.
“I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go.”
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said: And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear.”
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O’erjoyed was he to find, That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad, The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse’s side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.
’Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs, “The wine is left behind!”
“Good lack!” quoth he—“yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword, When I do exercise.”
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o’er the stones, With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat.
So, “Fair and softly,” John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, “Well done!” As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around; “He carries weight!” “He rides a race!” “’Tis for a thousand pound!”
And still, as fast as he drew near, ’Twas wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke As they had basted been.
But still be seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the Wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcóny spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.
“Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here’s the house!” They all at once did cry; “The dinner waits, and we are tired;” Said Gilpin—“So am I!”
But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there! For why?—his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender’s His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:
“What news? what news? your tidings tell! Tell me you must and shall— Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?”
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke:
“I came because your horse would come, And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here— They are upon the road.”
The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, “My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.
“But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case.”
Said John, “It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.”
So turning to his horse, he said, “I am in haste to dine; ’Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.”
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin’s hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first; For why?—they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half-a-crown;
And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, “This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well.”
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain: Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy’s horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:
“Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!” Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down.
Now let us sing, Long live the king! And Gilpin, long live he! And when he next doth ride abroad May I be there to see!
TAM O’SHANTER: A TALE.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
“_Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke_.”
—GAWIN DOUGLAS.
WHEN chapman billies {147a} leave the street, And drouthy {147b} neibors neibors meet, As market days are wearin’ late, And folk begin to tak the gate; {147h} While we sit bousing at the nappy, And gettin’ fou and unco’ {147c} happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, {147d} and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, {147e} A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; {147f} That frae November till October, Ae market day thou wasna sober; That ilka {147g} melder, {147i} wi’ the miller Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller; That every naig was ca’d a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord’s house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirkton {148f} Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou wouldst be found deep drowned in Doon! Or catched wi’ warlocks i’ the mirk, {148a} By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars {148b} me greet To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthened, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right. Fast by an ingle, {148c} bleezing finely, Wi’ reaming swats, {148d} that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither— They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious; The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle— Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E’en drowned himsel among the nappy! {148e} As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed! Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow’s lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches, Tam maun ride; That hour, o’ night’s black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As never poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as ’twad blown its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand The deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit {149a} on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi’ prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares: Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was ’cross the foord, Whare in the snow the chapman smoored, {149b} And past the birks and meikle stane Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane: And through the whins, and by the cairn Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’. Before him Doon pours a’ his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods; The lightnings flash frae pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze; Through ilka {150h} bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst mak us scorn! Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil: Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!— The swats sae reamed in Tammie’s noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. {150a} But Maggie stood right sair astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle i’ their heels: At winnock-bunker, {150b} i’ the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast, A towzie tyke, {150c} black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screwed the pipes, and gart them skirl, {150d} Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. {150e} Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight {150f} Each in its cauld hand held a light,— By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi’ his last gasp his gab {150g} did gape; Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted: Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o’ life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft: Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’, Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.
As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies {151a} to the wark, And linket {151h} at it in her sark. {151b}
Now Tam! O Tam! had they been queans, A’ plump and strappin’ in their teens, Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, {151c} Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen! Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o’ guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o’ the bonny burdies!
But withered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie {151d} hags, wad spean {151j} a foal, Lowpin’ and flingin’ on a cummock, {151e} I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kenned what was what fu’ brawlie, “There was ae winsome wench and walie,” {151i} That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenned on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perished mony a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bere, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, {151f} o’ Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kenn’d thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft {151g} for her wee Nannie, Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o’ witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cour, Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was, and strang,) And how Tam stood like ane bewitched, And thought his very een enriched; Even Satan glowered, and fidged fu’ fain, And hotch’d {152a} and blew wi’ might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint {152b} his reason a’thegither, And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” And in an instant a’ was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, {152c} When plundering herds assail their byke; {152d} As open pussie’s mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi’ mony an eldritch {152e} screech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’lt get thy fairin’! In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’! Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross; But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; {152f} But little wist she Maggie’s mettle— Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: Whane’er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys owre dear— Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.
The Demon Ship.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
’TWAS off the Wash the sun went down—the sea looked black and grim, For stormy clouds with murky fleece were mustering at the brim; Titanic shades! enormous gloom!—as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!
Down went my helm—close reefed—the tack held freely in my hand— With ballast snug—I put about, and scudded for the land; Loud hissed the sea beneath her lee—my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.
Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail! What darksome caverns yawned before! what jagged steeps behind! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind, Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place; As black as night—they turned to white, and cast against the cloud A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor’s shroud:— Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run! Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heaped in one! With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast, As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last; Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave! Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face— I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base! I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine! Another pulse—and down it rushed—an avalanche of brine! Brief pause had I on God to cry, or think of wife and home; The waters closed—and when I shrieked, I shrieked below the foam! Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after-deed— For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.
. . . . .
“Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?” With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound— And was that ship a _real_ ship whose tackle seemed around? A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft; But were those beams the very beams that I have seen so oft? A face that mocked the human face, before me watched alone; But were those eyes the eyes of man that looked against my own?
Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight As met my gaze, when first I looked, on that accursed night! I’ve seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams— Hyenas—cats—blood-loving bats—and apes with hateful stare— Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls—the lion, and she-bear— Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite— Detested features, hardly dimmed and banished by the light! Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs— All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms— Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,— But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!
His cheek was black—his brow was black—his eyes and hair as dark; His hand was black, and where it touched, it left a sable mark; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I looked beneath, His breast was black—all, all was black, except his grinning teeth, His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves! Oh, horror! e’en the ship was black that ploughed the inky waves! “Alas!” I cried, “for love of truth and blessed mercy’s sake, Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake? What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal? It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gained my soul! Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse: dear meadows that beguiled My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child— My mother dear—my native fields I never more shall see: I’m sailing in the Devil’s Ship, upon the Devil’s Sea!”
Loud laughed that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern— A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce— As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once: A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoyed the merry fit, With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. They crowed their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole:— “Our skins,” said he, “are black, ye see, because we carry coal; You’ll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields— For this here ship has picked you up—the _Mary Ann_ of Shields!”
A Tale of a Trumpet.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
“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 buttered, 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 as deaf as a stone—say one of the stones Demosthenes sucked 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 is stuffed 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 modern sceptics, Were plugged 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 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 pigged together? The wages per week of the Weavers and Skinners, And what they boiled 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 furnished 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 labouring 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 sealed 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 widowed dame, And never swallowed 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, Dabbed, and dribbled, and squirted in: But all remedies failed; 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 whizz, Which, unless the sound of 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, Stocked 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 deemed 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”—opened 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— Popped 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 Dumby 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,” said Dame Eleanor S.)
“Dear!—Oh dear, to call it dear! Why, it isn’t a horn you buy, but an ear; Only think, and you’ll find on reflection You’re bargaining, ma’am, for the Voice of Affection; For the language of Wisdom, and Virtue, and Truth, And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth: Not to mention the striking of clocks— Cackle of hens—crowing of cocks— Lowing of cow, and bull, and ox— Bleating of pretty pastoral flocks— Murmur of waterfall over the rocks— Every sound that Echo mocks— Vocals, fiddles, and musical-box— And zounds! to call such a concert dear! But I mustn’t ‘swear with my horn in your ear.’ Why, in buying that Trumpet you buy all those That Harper, or any Trumpeter, blows At the Queen’s Levees or the Lord Mayor’s Shows, At least as far as the music goes, Including the wonderful lively sound, Of the Guards’ key-bugles all the year round; Come—suppose we call it a pound! Come,” said the talkative Man of the Pack, “Before I put my box on my back, For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, Come, suppose we call it a pound!
“Only a pound: it’s only the price Of hearing a concert once or twice, It’s only the fee You might give Mr. C. And after all not hear his advice, But common prudence would bid you stump it; For, not to enlarge, It’s the regular charge At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet. Lord! what’s a pound to the blessing of hearing!” (“A pound’s a pound,” said Dame Eleanor Spearing.)
“Try it again! no harm in trying! A pound’s a pound, there’s no denying; But think what thousands and thousands of pounds We pay for nothing but hearing sounds: Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, Parliamentary jabber and jaw, Pious cant, and moral saw, Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw, And empty sounds not worth a straw; Why, it costs a guinea, as I’m a sinner, To hear the sounds at a public dinner! One pound one thrown into the puddle, To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle! Not to forget the sounds we buy From those who sell their sounds so high, That, unless the managers pitch it strong, To get a signora to warble a song, You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker’s prong!
“It’s not the thing for me—I know it, To crack my own trumpet up and blow it; But it is the best, and time will show it. There was Mrs. F. So very deaf, That she might have worn a percussion cap, And been knocked on the head without hearing it snap, Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botany Bay! Come—eighteen shillings—that’s very low, You’ll save the money as shillings go, And I never knew so bad a lot, By hearing whether they ring or not!
“Eighteen shillings! it’s worth the price, Supposing you’re delicate-minded and nice, To have the medical man of your choice, Instead of the one with the strongest voice— Who comes and asks you, how’s your liver, And where you ache, and whether you shiver, And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver, As if he was hailing a boat on the river! And then, with a shout, like Pat in a riot, Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet!
“Or a tradesman comes—as tradesmen will— Short and crusty about his bill; Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner, And because you’re deaf and unable to pay, Shouts whatever he has to say, In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way, Down the street and round the corner! Come—speak your mind—it’s ‘No’ or ‘Yes.’” (“I’ve half a mind,” said Dame Eleanor S.)
“Try it again—no harm in trying, Of course you hear me, as easy as lying; No pain at all, like a surgical trick, To make you squall, and struggle, and kick, Like Juno, or Rose, Whose ear undergoes Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle, For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle!
“You may go to surgical chaps if you choose, Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues, Or cut your tonsils right away, As you’d shell out your almonds for Christmas Day; And after all a matter of doubt, Whether you ever would hear the shout Of the little blackguards that bawl about, ‘There you go with your tonsils out!’ Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamorgan On purpose to try a surgical spell, And paid a guinea, and might as well Have called a monkey into his organ! For the Aurist only took a mug, And poured 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 answered 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 of course, While he kicks you about without remorse, How awkward it is to be groomed 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 wall, 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 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 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 gammoned her better,— With flatteries plump and indirect, And plied his tongue with such effect,— A tongue that could almost have buttered 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 picked 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, Shocked 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 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, 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 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 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, 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 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!
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 button: 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 nobody 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 arsenic 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 pass 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 cluster, And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster— Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster! 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, Snatches 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 rehearses 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, Apron, ’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 prick— 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 butter; Smut 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 bumpkins all profess, No bumpkin 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) Dick, 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! And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets, Circulate many a scandalous word, And whisper tales they could only have heard Through some such Diabolical Trumpets!
_NOTE_. THE GAME OF OMBRE
was invented by the Spaniards, and called by them _El Hombre_, or THE MAN, _El Hombre_ being he (or she) who undertakes the game against the other players.
There were variations in the way of playing, and there were sometimes four or even five players; but usually there were three players, as described by Pope in the third canto of _The Rape of the Lock_, where Belinda played as Ombre against the Baron and another, and the course of the game is faithfully described. It is the purpose of this note to enable any reader of _The Rape of the Lock_ to learn the game of Ombre, play it, and be able to follow Pope’s description of a game.
The game of Ombre is played with a pack of cards from which the eights, nines, and tens of each of the four suits have been thrown out. The Ombre pack consists, therefore, of forty cards.
The values of cards when they are not trumps are not arranged in the same order for each colour.
For the two black suits, Spades and Clubs, the values, from highest to lowest, follow the natural order—King, Queen, Knave, seven, six, five, four, three, two. But the two black aces always rank as trumps, and are not reckoned as parts of the black suit. The Ace of Spades is named _Spadille_, the Ace of Clubs is _Basto_.
For the two red suits, Hearts and Diamonds, only the King, Queen, and Knave keep their values in natural order; the other cards have their order of values reversed. The value from highest to lowest for each red suit is, therefore, King, Queen, Knave, ace, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
The values of trump cards are thus arranged:—
The first and best trump is the Ace of Spades, _Spadille_.
The second best trump is the lowest card of the trump suit, the two of trumps in a black suit, or the seven of trumps if the trump suit be red. This second trump is called _Manille_.
The third trump is the Ace of Clubs, _Basto_.
When the trump suit is red, its Ace becomes the fourth trump. Thus if Diamonds be trumps the Ace of Diamonds can take the King of Diamonds; the Ace of Hearts can take the King of Hearts if Hearts be trumps, not otherwise. There is no addition to the value of the Ace of Diamonds when Hearts are trumps. The Ace of a red suit of trumps, having become in this way the fourth trump in order of value, is called _Punto_.
In order of their value, counted from the highest to the lowest, I now place in parallel columns the trumps in black suits and the trumps in red:—
Black. Red. Spadille, Ace of Spades. Spadille, Ace of Spades. Manille, the Two of the Trump Manille, the Seven of the trump suit. suit. Basto, Ace of Clubs. Basto, Ace of Clubs. King. Punto, Ace of the trump suit. Queen. King. Knave. Queen. Seven. Knave. Six. Two. Five. Three. Four. Four. Three. Five. Six.
The three chief trumps, _Spadille_, _Manille_, and _Basto_, are called _Matadores_, and have powers which, together with their name, are passed to the trumps following them, so far as they are found in sequence in the Ombre’s hand. Thus, although _Spadille_, _Manille_, and _Basto_ are strictly speaking the only _Matadores_, if the Ombre can show also in his hand, say, in the red suit, Punto, King, Queen, Knave, he takes for seven _Matadores_; and if there should be joined to these the two and three, his trumps would be all in sequence, every card would be a _Matadore_, and he would be paid for nine, which is the whole number of cards in a hand.
Counters having been distributed, among which a fish is worth ten round counters, each player lays down a fish before the deal. The cards having been shuffled by the dealer, and cut by the player who sits on the left hand of the dealer, are dealt three at a time, and first to the player who sits on the dealer’s right hand, which is contrary to the usual course. The cards are dealt three times round. Each of the three players then has nine, and the remaining thirteen cards are laid down at the right hand of the dealer. No card is turned up to determine trumps.
Each player then looks at his hand. The eldest hand is that to the dealer’s right. He speaks first. If his cards are bad, and he will not venture to be Ombre, he says “Pass,” and lays a counter down at his left. If all three players say “Pass,” each laying a counter down, the cards are dealt again. When a player thinks his cards may win, and is willing to be Ombre, unless he be the third to speak, and the two other hands have passed, he says “Do you give me leave?” or “Do you play without taking in?” If the other players say “Pass,” each depositing his counter at his own left hand, the Ombre begins by discarding from his hand two, three, or more cards that he thinks unserviceable. He lays them down at his left hand. Then before he deals to himself from the pack of thirteen left undistributed the same number of cards that he has thrown out, he must name the trump suit. In doing this he chooses for himself, according to his hand, spades, clubs, hearts, diamonds, whichever suit he thinks will best help him to win. If he has a two of a black suit, or a seven of a red, he can secure to himself _Manille_ by making that suit trumps, or there may be reason why another suit should be preferred.
If the player who proposes to be Ombre has a safe game in his hand—five _Matadores_, for example—he names the trump and elects to play _Sans-prendre_, that is to say, without discarding. Whoever plays _Sans-prendre_, if he win, receives three counters from each of the other players, and pays three counters to each if he should lose the game.
When the Ombre plays _Sans-Prendre_, his opponents have more cards from which to draw, and the first who discards is even free to change all his nine cards; but he usually limits his discard to six or seven, and avoids encroachment on the share of the next player. The two who play against the Ombre are only half in the position of partners at whist, because one of them, when his hand is strong enough, can be the only winner.
The hands having been thus settled, the game begins, from the hand on the right of the dealer. After a trick has been taken, the lead, as at other games, is with the winner of the trick, the order of play being still from left to right.
As at whist, a suit led must be followed, and a player who cannot follow suit is not obliged to play a trump unless he please.
If the first player who follows the Ombre’s lead with a better card, and has in his hand so good a game that he desires, by winning the trick, to obtain the lead, he declares that aloud by saying _Gano_, that is, “I win.” His partner then lets him win, if he can. Thus, Ombre has played a spade, which the next player wins with the Queen, saying _Gano_ when he does so. If the third player has the King in his hand he refrains from playing it, unless he have no spade in his hand of smaller value, in which case he is obliged to follow suit and win the trick against his partner. Where the lead is urgently desired, not for a personal gain of more tricks than the Ombre, which is called _Codille_, but to defend the stake, and the third player is seen to hesitate, _Gano_ may be pressed for, three times, “Gano, if possible.” When Ombre was played by gambling courtiers under Queen Anne and George I., all such words spoken in the game had to be given strictly in the Spanish form, which was, in this case, _Yo Gano_, _si se puede_.
Ombre, to win the stake, must make five tricks; but he can win with four if the other five are so divided between his antagonists that one has only three of them, the other only two. If one of the two defenders of the stakes, playing against Ombre, does not feel almost sure that he can win at least three tricks, with a chance of the fourth, he should win one, and try to avoid winning more, but help whatever chance his partner seems to have of winning four, because Ombre wins with four when each of the other players has won less than four.
If Ombre lose he is said to be Beasted. Whoever loses is said to be Beasted. Whoever is Beasted has to pay to the board counters of the value of what the Ombre takes up if he wins. When players were beasted for revokes and other oversights in play, the fines were heavy upon carelessness.
At the end of the game tricks are counted. When Ombre wins he takes the stakes; when he loses the two opponents will divide the stakes between them, unless one of them should have taken more tricks than the Ombre, in which case that one is said to have won _Codille_. Whoever wins _Codille_ takes all the stake the Ombre played for. For this reason it was not thought creditable for any one to call _Gano_ who had four tricks in his hand, as by so doing he would only be inducing the other player against Ombre to give up to him his half of the winnings. Each player against the Ombre aims at _Codille_ when he thinks it within reach, but in that case it used to be held very bad manners to win by calling _Gano_. When one of the players against the Ombre must either give _Codille_ to the other or let the Ombre win, he gives the _Codille_. For if the Ombre be beasted he has to replace the stakes. But if the Ombre wins, both of the players against him have to stake again. If any one wins all the nine tricks he is said to have won the _Vole_, and clears all stakes upon the table.
Belinda, in the _Rape of the Lock_, having looked at her hand, named trumps—
“‘Let spades be trumps,’ she said, and trumps they were.”
She chose that suit because she had not only the King but also the two of Spades, and two of trumps, called _Manille_, is the second best trump after _Spadille_. Her hand contained also the Ace of Spades, “unconquerable lord” _Spadille_, and the third trump, _Basto_, Ace of Clubs. By making spades trumps she secured the addition of _Manille_. The three best trumps secured her the three best tricks. _Spadille_ and _Manille_ fetched small trumps out of the hands of her antagonists. _Basto_ brought a trump out of the Baron’s suit, that also held the Knave and Queen of trumps, and a small card from the other hand, which showed that it was out of trumps. Then came Belinda’s King of trumps, to win her fourth sure trick, and the Baron, who still had his best trumps in his hand, the Knave and Queen, lost the Knave to it.
After this the Baron’s Queen of trumps was the best card, and Belinda, with no more trumps in her hand, or possibly the other player, sacrificed the King of Clubs to it.
Trumps being exhausted, and the Baron having won a trick and the lead, it is his turn now to win three tricks in succession with the King, Queen, and Knave of Diamonds. At the third round of the Diamonds Belinda has left in her hand only the King and Queen of Hearts. She gives up the Queen.
Each has now four tricks. It is the Baron’s lead. If his card be best he has more tricks than the Ombre, and will win _Codille_. If his card be a club or a diamond—spades are played out—Belinda’s King of Hearts will be unable to follow suit. He will be taken. Thus is she “between the jaws of ruin and codille.” But should his last card be a heart—she has the best heart—
“An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseen Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive Queen. He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. The nymph exulting, fills with shouts the sky, The walls, the woods, the long canals reply.”
In addition to the stakes she won, Belinda was entitled also to the value of four counters from each of her antagonists for her sequence of four _Matadores_, _Spadille_, _Manille_, _Basto_, and the King of Spades. Furthermore, if she had been playing _Sans-prendre_, each of her opponents would have three counters to pay her.
GLOSSARY
{114} And, in old English could be placed like “also” in different parts of a sentence. Thus, in _Nymphidia_,
“She hies her then to Lethe spring, A bottle and thereof doth bring.”
{129} Atalantis, “As long as Atalantis shall be read.” Atalantis was a book of Court scandal by Mrs. De la Rivière Manley, in four volumes, entitled “Secret Memoirs and Manners of several Persons of Quality of both Sexes from the New Atalantis, an Island in the Mediterranean.” Mrs. Manley died in 1724.
{94h} Bauzon, badger. French, _bausin_.
{147a} Billies, fellows, used rather contemptuously.
{147f} Blellum, idle talker.
{150a} Boddle, a Scottish copper coin worth the third part of an English halfpenny; said to be named after the Mint-master who first coined it, Bothwell.
{150h} Bore, hole in the wall.
{91e} But, “without,” “but merriness,” without mirth.
{152d} Byke, hive.
{150f} Cantrip, charm, spell. Icelandic, _gandr_, enchantment; _gand-reithr_ was the witches’ ride.
{83} Can’wick Street, Candlewick, where now there is Cannon Street.
{86a} Champarty, Champartage, was a feudal levy of a share of profit from the ground (_campi pars_), based originally upon aid given to enable profit to be earned. Thus it became a law term for right of a stranger to fixed share in any profits that on such condition he helped a litigant to win.
{85b} Chiche vache, lean cow. French _chiche_, Latin _ciccus_, wretched, worthless; from Greek kíkkos, the core of a pomegranate. Worth no more than a pomegranate seed.
{94i} Cockers, rustic half-boots.
{151g} Coft, bought. German, _kaufte_.
{82b} Copen, buy. Dutch, _koopen_.
{94j} Cordiwin, or cordewane, Cordovan leather.
{89} Coueyn, coveyne convening or conspiring of two or more to defraud.
{94f} Crank, lively. A boat was “crank” when frail, lightly and easily tossed on the waves, and liable to upset. Prof. Skeat thinks that the image of the tossed boat suggested lively movement.
{151c} Creeshie flannen, greasy flannel.
{151e} Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head.
{151f} Cutty, short; so cutty pipe, short pipe.
{85a} Darrain, decide. To “arraign” was to summon _ad rationes_ to the pleadings. To darraign was _derationare_, to bring them to a decision.
{86b} Defy, digest. As in the Vision of Piers Plowman
“wyn of Ossye Of Ruyn and of Rochel, the rost to defye.”
Latin, _defio_ = _deficio_, to make one’s self to be removed from something, or something to be removed from one’s self. To defy in the sense of challenging is a word of different origin, _diffidere_, to separate from _fides_, faith, trust, allegiance to another.
{91d} Degest, orderly. To “digest” is to separate and arrange in an orderly manner.
{150e} Dirl, vibrate, echo.
{147b} Drouthy, droughty, thirsty.
{151a} Duddies, clothes.
{152e} Eldritch, also elrische, alrische, alry, having relation to elves or evil spirits, supernatural, hideous, frightful.
{152f} Ettle, endeavour, aim. Icelandic, _ætla_, to mean anything, design, have aim, is the Scottish _ettle_.
{108d} Fire-drake, dragon breathing out fire.
{91b} Flicht and wary, fluctuate and change.
{92b} Frawfull fary, froward tumult.
{152c} Fyke, fuss.
{30} Fytte, a song, canto. First English, _fit_, a song.
When Wisdom “_thas fitte asungen hæfde_” had sung this song. King Alfred’s Boëthius.
{150g} Gab, mouth.
{148b} Gars, makes; “gars me greet,” makes me weep.
{147h} Gate, road. Icelandic, _gata_.
{35} Habergeon, small hauberk, armour for the neck. Old High German, _hals_, the neck; _bergan_, to protect.
{94d} Harlock, This plant-name occurs only here and in Shakespeare’s _Lear_, Act iv. sc. 4, where Lear is said to be crowned “with harlocks, hemlocks, nettles, cuckoo-flowers.” Probably it is charlock, _Sinapis arvensis_, the mustard-plant.
{98} Hays, The hay was a French dance, with many turnings and windings.
{100} Hient Hill, Ben Hiand, in Ardnamurchan, Argyleshire.
{152a} Hotched, hitched.
{147g} Ilka, each one, every.
{85c} Infere, together.
{148c} Ingle, fire. Gaelic, _aingeal_, allied to Latin _ignis_.
{95b} Keep, “take thou no keep”—heed, “never mind.”
{148f} Kirkton, familiar term for the village in which the country people had their church.
{94k} Ladysmock, _Cardamine pratensis_.
{93b} Leir, lore, doctrine.
{94g} Learned his sheep, taught his sheep.
{94a} Lemster, Leominster.
{95a} Lingell, a shoemaker’s thong. Latin _lingula_.
{151h} Linkit, tripped, moved briskly.
{108c} Lubrican, the Irish leprechaun, a fairy in shape of an old man, discovered by the moan he makes. He brings wealth, and is fixed only as long as the finder keeps his eye upon him.
{108b} Mandrake, the root of mandragora, rudely shaped like the forked animal man, and said to groan or shriek when pulled out of the earth.
{93c} Marchpine, sweet biscuit of sugar and almonds. Marchpane paste was used by comfit-makers for shaping into letters, true-love knots, birds, beasts, etc.
{130} Megrim, pain on one side of the head, headache. French _migraine_, from Gr. _eemikranía_.
{147i} Melder, milling. The quantity of meal ground at once.
{148a} Mirk, dark.
{108a} Molewarp, mole. First English, _moldwearp_.
{148e} Nappy, nap, strong beer.
{126} Pam, Knave of Clubs, the highest card in the game of Loo, derived from “palm,” as “trump” from “triumph.”
{137} Partridge, a maker of prophetic almanacs, who was ridiculed by Swift as type of his bad craft.
{94b} Peakish hull, hill by the Peak of Derbyshire.
{19} Pose, catarrh. First English, _gepósu_.
“By the pose in thy nose, And the gout in thy toes.”
—_Beaumont and Fletcher_.
{88b} Prow, profit. Old French, _prou_, _preu_—“_Oïl voir_, _sire_, _pour vostre preu i viens_.”—_Garin le Loharain_.
{91a} Qu, Scottish = W. Quhair, where; quhois, whose; quheill, wheel; quha, quho, who; quhat, what.
{82a} Ray, striped cloth.
{151d} Rigwoodie, tough. Rigwiddie is the rope crossing the back of a horse yoked in a cart; _rig_, back, and _withy_, a twig. Applied to anything strong-backed.
{82c} Rise, “cherries in the rise,” cherries on the twig. First English, _hris_, a twig, or thin branch. The old practice of selling cherries upon shoots cut from the tree ended in their sale by pennyworths with their stalks tied to a little stick of wood. So they were sold in London when I was a boy.
{151b} Sark, shirt or shift. First English, _syrc_.
{94c} Setiwall, garden valerian.
{147e} Skellum, a worthless fellow. German, _schelm_.
{149a} Skelpit, beat the ground with strong pulsation; rode quickly; pounded along.
{150d} Skirl, sound shrill.
{147d} Slaps, breaks in walls or hedges; also narrow passes.
{149b} Smoored, smothered.
{151j} Spean, wean.
{32} Spear-hawk, sparrow-hawk. From the root _spar_, to quiver or flutter, comes the name of “sparrow” and a part of the name “sparrow-hawk.”
{94e} Summerhall, Stubbs, in the “Anatomy of Abuses,” speaking of the maypole, tells how villagers, when they have reared it up, “with handkerchiefs and flags streaming on the top, they strew the ground about, bind green boughs about it, set up _summerhalls_, bowers, and arbours hard by it, and then fall they to banquet and feast, and leap and dance about it.”
{148d} Swats, new ale, wort. First English, _swate_.
{88c} Teen, vexation, grief.
{152b} Tint, lost.
{150c} Towsie tyke, a large rough cur.
{92a} Tynsall, loss.
{147c} Unco’, uncouth, more than was known usually.
{151i} Wally, walie thriving. First English, _wælig_.
{91c} Warsill, wrestle.
{150b} Winnock-bunker, the window seat.
{93d} Woned, dwelt.
{17} Wottest, knowest.
{88a} Woxen, grown.
{93a} Yconned, taught.
{81} Yode, went. First English, _eóde_, past of _gán_, to go.
FOOTNOTES.
{21} This old French and Anglo-Norman word, answering to the Italian _gentilezza_, and signifying the possession of every species of refinement, has been retained as supplying a want which there is no modern word to fill up.—_Leigh Hunt_.
{26} The sententious sermon which here follows might have had a purely serious intention in Chaucer’s time, when books were rare, and moralities not such commonplaces as they are now; yet it is difficult to believe that the poet did not intend something of a covert satire upon at least the sermoniser’s own pretensions, especially as the latter had declared himself against text-spinning. The Host, it is to be observed, had already charged him with forgetting his own faults, while preaching against those of others. The _refashioner_ of the original lines has accordingly endeavoured to retain the kind of tabernacle, or old woman’s tone, into which he conceives the Manciple to have fallen, compared with that of his narrative style.—_Leigh Hunt_.
{42} “We possess,” says Satan in _Paradise Lost_, “the quarters of the north.” The old legend that Milton followed placed Satan in the north parts of heaven, following the passage in Isaiah concerning Babylon on which that legend was constructed (Isa. xiv. 12–15), “Thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God; I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation _in the sides of the north_.”
{49} Alluding to the “Millers Tale,” which has rather offended the Reve, by reason that it ridiculed a worthy carpenter.—R. H. H.
{50} Or thus:—
For when our climbing’s done our speech aspires; _E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires_.
The original lines are:—
“For whanne we may not don than wol we speken, Yet in our ashen olde is fyre yreken.”
The coincidence of the last line with the one quoted from Gray’s Elegy will be remarked. Mr. Tyrwhit says he should certainly have considered the latter as an “imitation” (of Chaucer), “if Mr. Gray himself had not referred us to the 169 Sonnet of Petrarch as his original:—
Ch’ i’ veggio nel pensier, dolce mio foco, Fredda una lingua, e duo begli occhi chiusi Rimaner dopo noi pien’ di faville.
The sentiment is different in all three; but the form of expression here adopted by Gray closely resembles that of the Father of English Poetry, although in Gray’s time it was no doubt far more elegant to quote Petrarch than Chaucer.—_R. H. Horne_.