A TALE OF A TRUMPET.

PART III.

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.

'Tis strange what very strong advising,
By word of mouth or advertising,

By chalking on walls, or placarding on vans,
With fifty other different plans,—

The very high pressure in fact of pressing,
It needs to persuade one to purchase a blessing!
Whether the Soothing American Syrup,
A Safety Hat, or a Safety Stirrup,
Infallible Pills for the human frame,

Or Rowland's O-don't-O! (an ominous name!)
A Doudney's suit which the shape so hits
That it beats all others into fits;

A Mechi's Razor for beards unshorn,
Or a Ghost-of-a-Whisper-Catching Horn!

"Try it again, Ma'am, only try!"
Was still the voluble Pedlar's cry;
"It's a great privation, there's no dispute,
To live like the dumb unsociable brute,
And hear no more of the pro and con,
And how Society's going on,

Than Mumbo Jumbo or Prester John,
And all for want of this Sine Quâ Non;
Whereas with a horn that never offends,
You may join the genteelest party that is,
And enjoy all the scandal, and gossip, and quiz,
And be certain to hear of your absent friends-
Not that elegant ladies, in fact,

In genteel society ever detract,

Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd,

At least as a mere malicious act,

But only talk scandal for fear some fool

Should think they were bred at Charity-School:
Or, maybe, you like a little flirtation,

Which even the most Don Juanish rake
Would rather object to undertake

At the same high pitch as an altercation.

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 the proper tunnel!
Only try till the end of June,

And if you and the Trumpet are out of tune,
I'll turn it-gratis-into a Funnel !"

In short, the Pedlar so beset her—

Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon'd her better,
With flatteries plump and indirect,

And plied his tongue with such effect,

A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet,— The deaf Old Woman bought the Trumpet.

The Pedlar was gone. With the Horn's assistance,
She heard his steps die away in the distance;

And then she heard the tick of the clock,

The purring of Puss, and the snoring of Shock;
And she purposely dropp'd a pin that was little,
And heard it fall as plain as a skittle!

'Twas a wonderful Horn, to be but just!
Nor meant to gather dust, must, and rust;
So in half a jiffy, or less than that,
In her scarlet cloak, and her 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 ripp'd up more depravity!

Depravity! Mercy shield her ears!
'Twas plain enough that her village peers,

In the ways of vice were no raw beginners:
For whenever she rais'd the tube to her drum,
Such sounds were transmitted as only come
From the very Brass Band of human Sinners!
Ribald jest, and blasphemous curse,
(Bunyan never vented worse),

With all those weeds, not flowers, of speech
Which the Seven Dialecticians teach-
Filthy Conjunctions, and dissolute Nouns,

And Particles pick'd from the Kennels of towns,

With Irregular Verbs for irregular jobs,
Chiefly Active in rows and mobs,
Picking Possessive Pronouns' fobs;
And Interjections as bad as a blight,

Or an Eastern blast, to the blood and the sight-
Fanciful phrases for crime and sin,
And smacking of vulgar lips where gin,
Garlic, tobacco, and offals go in—

A jargon so truly adapted, in fact,

To each thievish, obscene, and ferocious act,
So fit for the brute with the human shape,
Savage Baboon, or libidinous Ape,

From their ugly mouths it will certainly come,
Should they ever get weary of shamming dumb!

Alas! for the voice of Virtue and Truth,
And the sweet little innocent prattle of Youth!
The smallest urchin whose tongue could tang,
Shock'd the Dame with a volley of slang,
Fit for Fagin's juvenile gang;

While the charity chap,

With his muffin-cap,

His crimson coat, and his badge so garish, Playing at dumps, or pitch in the hole, Curs'd his eyes, limbs, body and soul,

As if they didn't belong to the Parish!

'Twas awful to hear, as she went along, The wicked words of the popular song;

Or supposing she listened-as Gossips will

At a door ajar, or a window agape,

To catch the sounds they allowed to escape,
Those sounds belonged to Depravity still!

The dark allusion,-or bolder brag

Of the dexterous" dodge" and the lots of "swag," The plunder'd house, or the stolen nag

The blazing rick, or the darker crime

That quench'd the spark before its time-
The wanton speech of the wife immoral-
The noise of drunken or deadly quarrel,

With savage menaces which threaten'd the life,
Till the heart seem'd merely a strop for "the Knife;"
The human liver no better than that

Which is sliced, and thrown to an old woman's cat;

And the head, so useful for shaking and nodding, To be punch'd into holes, like a shocking bad hat, That is only fit to be punch'd into wadding!

In short, wherever she turn'd the Horn
To the highly-bred or the lowly-born,—
The working-man who looked over the hedge-
Or the Mother nursing her infant pledge—
The sober Quaker averse to quarrels-
Or the Governess pacing the village thro',
With her twelve Young Ladies, two and two,
Looking, as such young ladies do,

Truss'd by Decorum and stuff'd with Morals-
Whether she listen'd to Hob or Bob,

Nob or Snob, the Squire on his Cob,

Or Trudge and his Ass at a tinkering job,—

To the Saint who expounded at Little Zion-
Or the Sinner who kept the Golden Lion-
The man teetotally wean'd from liquor—
The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar-
Nay, the very Pie in its cage of wicker,—
She gather'd such meanings double or single,
That, like the bell

With muffins to sell,"

Her ear was kept in a constant tingle!

But this was nought to the tales of shame,
The constant runnings of evil fame,

Foul, and dirty, and black as ink,

That her ancient Cronies, with nod and wink,
Pour'd in her horn like slops in a sink :
While sitting in conclave, as gossips do,

With their Hyson or Howqua, black or green,
And not a little of feline spleen

Lapp'd up in "Catty Packages" too,

To give a zest to the sipping and supping;
For still, by some invisible tether,
Scandal and Tea are link'd together

As surely as Scarification and Cupping-
Yet never since Scandal drank Bohea,
Or sloe, or whatever it happen'd to be,-
For some grocerly thieves

Turn over new leaves

Without much amending their lives or their tea-
No, never since cup was fill'd or stirr'd,

Were such vile and horrible anecdotes heard,
As blacken'd their neighbours of either gender,
Especially that which is call'd the Tender,
But instead of the softness we fancy therewith,
As harden'd in vice as the vice of a smith.
Women!--the wretches had soil'd and marr'd
Whatever to womanly nature belongs,
For the marriage-tie they had no regard-
Nay, sped their mates to the Sexton's yard,
(Like Madame Laffarge with poisonous pinches,
Cutting off her L- by inches);

And as for drinking, they drank so hard,

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 tongue
There wasn't a villager, old or young,

But deserved to be whipt, imprison'd, or hung,
Or sent on those travels which nobody hurries

To publish at Colburn's, or Longman's, 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. Pauls,
Which, as all the world knows by practise 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 straw in the scandalous circles afloat,
From the beam in the eye to diminutive mote,
But vortex-like that tube of tin

Suck'd the censorious particle in:

And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listened to serpent 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 further she pok'd 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 requires 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 Look'd 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;"
Yea-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 to sweeten gruel—

At least such torments began to wring 'em
From the very morn

When that mischievous Horn

Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham.