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The golden doll that she used to hug!
Her coral of gold, and the golden mug!
Her godfather's golden presents!

The golden service she had at her meals,
The golden watch, and chain, and seals,
Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,
And her golden fishes and pheasants!

The golden guineas in silken purse

And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurse, Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage

And London streets that were paved with goldAnd the Golden Eggs that were laid of old— With each golden thing

To the golden ring

At her own auriferous Marriage!

And still the golden light of the sun

Through her golden dream appear'd to run,
Though the night that roar'd without was one
To terrify seamen or gipsies—

While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,
Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,
As though she enjoyed the tempest's birth,
In revenge of her old eclipses.

But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,

For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell
That time had lately embitter'd—

The Count, as once at her foot he knelt-
That Foot which now he wanted to melt!
But-hush!-'twas a stir at her pillow she felt-
And some object before her glitter'd.

'Twas the Golden Leg;-she knew its gleam!
And up she started, and tried to scream,
But ev'n in the moment she started-
Down came the limb with a frightful smash,
And, lost in the universal flash

That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,
The Spark, called Vital, departed!

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It is difficult to say whether Hood's jokes look best in verse or prose; in either he rattles on without stint, and apparently without exhaustion. One of the cleverest specimens of the latter sort is an epistle to D. A. A., Esq., of Edinburgh, and on autographs. These, we are told, are of many kinds, but we never dreamt they were so like legion as our comic author's brain has fashioned them. There are, according to his high authority, auto-lithographs on flag-stones. Some gentlemen in love carve theirs on the barks of trees; others on tavern-benches. Shopboys dribble theirs from a skin of water on the pavement. A celebrated personage wrote hers with a pen grasped between her teeth; another held the implement between his toes. Lord Chesterfield did his with a diamond pencil. Human blood is the fluid that some have used; and sundry historical peculiarities are instanced. There have even been autographs written by proxy, as did Dr. Dodd; and Hood himself has often traced his with a walking-stick on the sea-sand. Little girls grow theirs in mustard and cress. Servants scrawl their names on the tea-board with slopped milk. "A young lady possesses a book of autographs, filled just like a tailor's pattern-book, with samples of stuff and fustian." These are a few of the varieties mentioned, and samples of the side wit and under thought of the curious document on autographs. But ere dismissing the volume we must return for a short space to the poetry, and select bits of a "Tale of a Trumpet," being the biography of a deaf old maid, who is tempted by a pawky and loquacious pedlar to purchase an ear-instrument of the kind. Was there ever such a redundancy of description, and heaping of similitude upon similitude, as the following of the poor woman's condition and extremity?

"Of all old women hard of hearing,

The deafest, sure, was old Dame Eleanor Spearing! •
On her head, it is true,

Two flaps there grew,

That serv'd for a pair of gold rings to go through,

But for any purpose of ears in a parley,

They heard no more than ears of barley.

No hint was needed from D. E. F.:

You saw in her face that the woman was deaf:
From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery,
Each queer feature ask'd a query ;

A look that said in a silent way,

'Who? and What? and How? and Eh?
I'd give my ears to know what you say!'

And well she might! for each auricular
Was deaf as a 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 butter'd, done brown, and laid in a dish!

She was deaf as a post, as said before,

And as deaf as twenty similes more,
Including the adder, that deafest of snakes,
Which never hears the coil it makes.

She was deaf as a house-which modern tricks
Of language would call as deaf as bricks-
For 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 deaf as a stone-say one of the stones
Demosthenes suck'd to improve his tones;

And surely deafness no further could reach

Than to be in his mouth without hearing his speech!

She was deaf as a nut-for nuts, no doubt,
Are deaf to the grub that's hollowing out—
As deaf, alas! as the dead and forgotten-
(Gray has noticed the waste of breath,
In addressing the 'dull, cold ear of Death,')
Or the felon's ear that was 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 dog's ears to Enfield's Speaker;

She was deaf as any tradesman's dummy,
Or as Pharaoh's mother's mother's mummy,
Whose organs, for fear of our modern sceptics,
Were plugg'd with gums and antiseptics.

She was deaf as a nail-that you cannot hammer
A meaning into, for all your clamour;
There never was such a deaf old gammer!
So formed to worry

Both Lindley and Murray,

By having no ear for music or grammar!
Deaf to sounds, as a ship out of soundings-
Deaf to verbs, and all their compoundings,
Adjective, noun, and adverb, and particle-
Deaf to even the definite article:

No verbal message was worth a pin,
Though you hired an earwig to carry it in!

In short, she was twice as deaf as Deaf Burke,
Or all the deafness in Yearsley's work,

Who in spite of his skill in hardness of hearing,
Boring, blasting, and pioneering

To give the dunny organ a clearing,

Could never have cured Dame Eleanor Spearing."

Dame Spearing was exceedingly interested about other peoples' affairs, and her deafness may be said to have been a double calamity, considering her anxiety to learn all the scandal that was afloat in the village, or could be hatched over the tea-table :—

"In fact, she had much of the spirit that lies
Perdu in a notable set of Paul Pry's,

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 !"

At length the Pedlar calls on the lady. He is thus distinguished

from a regular Shopkeeper :

"A man! a pedlar? ay, marry,

With the little back-shop that such tradesmen carry,

Stock'd with brooches, ribands, 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 is a showman!"

The Pedlar most eloquently recommends his trumpet:

66 it isn't a horn you buy, but an ear;

Only think, and you'll fine 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.

'It's not the thing for me-I know it,


To crack my own tumpet up, and blow it;
But it is the best, and time will show it.

There was Mrs. F.

So very deaf,

That she might have worn a percussion-cap,

And been knock'd on the head without hearing it snap;
Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day

She heard from her husband at Botany Bay!

Unfortunately the Dame could not resist this torrent, and in an evil hour for her purchased the trumpet that is so eloquently trumpeted :

"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;

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