Читать книгу Fairy Realm: A Collection of the Favourite Old Tales Told in Verse - Tom Hood - Страница 5

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IN that strange region, dim and grey,

Which lies so very far away,

Whose chronicles in prose or rhyme

Are dated "Once upon a time,"

There was a land where silence reigned

So deep—the ear it almost pained

To hear the gnat's shrill clarion blow—

Though he Sleep's herald is we know.

Scarce would you deem that calm profound,

Unbroken by the ghost of sound,

Had, like a sudden curtain, dropt

Upon a revel, instant stopt—

That laugh and shout and merry rout

And hunting song had all died out,

Stricken to silence at a touch—

A single touch! It was not much!

I 'll tell you how it came about.

What bevies of pages

Of various ages

Princess Prettipet's christening banquet engages!

They all look as deeply important as sages.

What hundreds of cooks!

To judge by their looks,

They had written the very profoundest of books.

(Of course, books like those by Hobbes, Bacon, or Hooker I

Mean—not mere Kitchener's Essays on Cookery.)

As to the cartes,

From the soups to the tarts,

'T would need to detail them a man of some parts;

While to eat of each item—

To taste—just to bite 'em,

The veracious voracious will own would affright 'em.

If you want to find out

The amount, or about,

Of the salmon, beef, partridges, lobsters, sourcrout,

Maccaroni, potatoes, cream, cutlets, ice, trout,

Lamb, blanc-mange, kippered herring, duck, brocoli sprout,

Sheep's trotters, real turtle, tripe, truffles, swine's snout,

Sole au gratin, snails, birds' nests, Dutch cheese, whiting-pout,

Jelly, plovers' eggs, bitters, liqueurs, ale, wine, stout,

Peas, cheese, fricassées, and ragoût—(say ragout

For the sake of the rhyme)—

And have plenty of time,

And a knowledge of figures (which I call a crime),

Because it's a feat that would puzzle beginners—

Make out and declare

The cube of the square,

Of twice twenty thousand of Lord Mayor's grand dinners.

#####

The invited guests begin to arrive:

With nobles and courtiers the scene is alive.

They hustle,

And bustle,

In rich dresses rustle;

The squeeze for good places is almost a tussle;

Precedence depends not on birth, but on muscle.

But they're none of them able

To reach the high table,

For the grave Major-Domo, perceiving the Babel,

A sufficient space clears

With the King's Musqueteers,

Because he well knows it will cost him his ears

If—when the time comes for the soups and the meats—

The twelve fairy godmothers cannot find seats.

At last there's a bray

Of trumpets, to say

That His Majesty's Majesty's coming this way,

With his Ministers all in their gorgeous array,

And the Lords of his Council, a noble display,

And the Queen, who's as beauteous as blossoms in May,

With her Ladies in Waiting so smiling and gay,

With a great many more

I might briefly run o'er

If at pageants like this I were only au fait. The glittering procession Makes stately progression To the seats that the Musqueteers hold in possession At the top of the hall; While the visitors all Are crowded to death, though the place is not small, But from wall unto wall Crammed with short folks and tall, Who, as chances befall, And in various degrees They suffer the squeeze, bawl, brawl, haul, maul, squall, call, fall, crawl, and sprawl The King's looking pleasant, Expecting a present— Say knives, forks, and spoons that cost many a bezant— For his daughter and heiress From each of the fairies; (A fay for a sponsor in these days quite rare is!) But fairies, we' know, Have gifts to bestow More precious than silver and gold ones—and so One gives the babe beauty, Another gives health, This a strong sense of duty, That plenty of wealth. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten Add their presents, but when Eleven have endowed her, the last of the dozen Says, "I really don't know what to give her, dear cousin (Addressing the Queen,) "But the courses between I shall hit upon something. I will not be mean; So pray take your seats, for I'm not such a sinner As, while I am thinking, to keep you from dinner!" The King has taken the highest place, Beside him the Queen in her diamonds and lace. Each fairy godmother Sits down by another, And my lord the Archbishop is just saying grace, When in comes a cook, with a very white face, Who cries, as he straight up the hall rushes nimbly, "Please your Majesty, somebody's fell down the chimbley! There's silence in the hall For half a minute, And not a word doth fall From those within it; When, lo!—No!—And yet it is so! The sound of a foot comes heavy and slow Up the staircase from down below; And a figure ill-grown, Unattended, alone, Walks straight through the guests to the foot of the throne, And then with a squeak Rising into a shriek, And eyes that with fury are terribly glistening, Cries, "Pray, sir, why was not I asked to the christening?" 'T was old Fairy Spite, Whom they did not invite, Because of her manners, which were not polite. She led a bad life, Was addicted to strife, And besides—worst of all—she ate peas with a knife! But 'twas really no joke Her wrath to provoke. So in hopes to appease her His Majesty spoke, And said, sore affrighted, "They both were delighted To see her that day— Quite charmed—in fact, they Couldn't think how it was she had not been invited! Shrieked Spite, "Silence, gaby! Let's look at the baby." The Queen, in a tremble, Her fears to dissemble, Said, Here is the darling—papa she'll resemble. You'd like, p'rhaps, to take her, But please not to wake her, She sleeps." "Sleeps!" said Spite, "does she really? I 'll make her Of sleep, ma'am, have plenty" (Here—"Chorus "Attente!")* "If she touches a spindle before she is twenty! "For if she does, a heavy sleep Shall over all your palace creep, And you, with your whole court, shall keep Buried in leaden fetters deep!" "Until"—here Fairy Number Twelve, Who, as we know, was forced to shelve Her gift because the banquet waited, Broke in and capped what Spite had stated— "Until a prince shall come to wake The Sleeping Beauty, and so break The spell wherewith old Spite in vain Would her young life for aye enchain!" ##### The King sent heralds through the land Proclaiming spindles contraband, Pronouncing penalties and pains 'Gainst distaffs, treadles, rocks, and skeins. And so to spin Became a sin; Wheels were bowled out, and looms came in. No more old women were allowed to meddle With wheel or treadle; There were no spinsters left, the fair deceivers All became weavers; * The passage I quote in this wild dithyramb you'll assuredly find in Act I. of "Sonnambula." The very name and uses of a spindle To nought did dwindle; The fashion was, folks said, Entirely dead, Expired—past human effort to re-kindle. Time's wonted pace Is not a rapid race; His motto seems to be "Festina lente." But yet he passed away, Until at length the day— Approached on which the Princess would be twenty. What consultations! What preparations! What busy times for people of all stations! What scouring out of rooms With mops and brooms! What scouring to and fro of hurried grooms! No leisure, not the least, For man or beast, Because His Majesty had fixed a feast— Acres of eatables and seas of ale, A banquet that should make all others pale, E'en those of Heliogabalus, deceased— To celebrate the day his child was quite Beyond the malice of old Fairy Spite!

It was a scene of bustle and intrusion,

And vast profusion—

Such game, and meat, and fish, and rare confections!

The tables and the chairs

Down- and up-stairs

Were packed away—piled up in all directions,

In chaos, which the master of a house

Whose want of nous Is such that he allows his wife a soirée, Discovers round him, when tired out and sorry, He fain would sleep, but cannot for the din doze— In short, that plague, "a house turned out of windows." No wonder the Princess, so meek and quiet, Should run away from all the dust and riot. No wonder, I repeat, When all the suite, From the Great Seal to her who made the beds, Were hardly sure if they were on their heads, Or on their feet! No wonder the Princess—no soul aware, Even of those who had her in their care— Stole from her room, and up a winding stair, Up to the highest turret's tipmost top, Without or let or stop, Went to enjoy the scenery and air! In a room at the top of the tower that day Merrily, merrily turned the wheel! An old dame span, with never a stay, Merrily, merrily turned the wheel! The wool was as white as the driven snow, Merrily, merrily turned the wheel! And she sang, "Merrily, merrily, oh! Merrily turn the wheel!"