220. Robert Bloomfield to the Editor of The Monthly Mirror, December 1807


220. Robert Bloomfield to the Editor of The Monthly Mirror, December 1807* 

City Road Dec. 1807

Mr Editor

A young man occasionally calls upon me who is deaf and dumb, and who has been educated at the Asylum in the Grange Road; they have taught him to make shoes, to write, and to speak a few words; and the last time he call'd here, he announced his intended marriage in the following words,

'Five Months, I will getting she married'

O how can the Dumb go a courting,
Or how can the Maiden approve?
Tis easy while fancy is sporting
The eyes speak the language of love.

Poor youth! Alltho born without hearing
Benevolence cheers such as you
And teaches the words most endearing
'God bless you,' and 'How do you do'?

From these, and the use of your pen,
Though in grammar you're not over nice
Love can make out your where and your when,
And fill up your chinks in a trice

And though you hear not the soft sigh
Of delight, when you press on their cheek,
That loss other joys shall supply,
E'en the turn of a finger can speak.

We all deal in nodding and winking,
And talk through a smile or a frown;
But you, on whatever you'r thinking,
Have a strange set of nods of your own.

The credit of nodding we grant you,
But all former specimens prove
That nothing could ever enchant you,
Or light up your features like love.

For who shall describe the wild glee
That dwelt on your brow while you tarried
Oer that pen which recorded so free
'Five months I will getting she married'.

Perhaps she will study your face
And read all your meanings with ease,
And prove that affection's pure grace
In despite of all language can please.

The balance is much on your side,
Should she scold, why who better can bear it?
You may see a Child's mouth open'd wide
When it cries,—But you never can hear it.

If your heart bounds with pleasure, or bleeds,
Should fortune prove friendly or shy,
No oaths in your book of misdeeds
Will stare in your face when you die.

You'r right thus to marry, methinks,
While young, though the wise ones have tarried,
For me, I'll remember your winks
And 'Five months I will getting she married'.

R. Bloomfield

Address: Mr Hill from / R. Bloomfield

* BL Add. MS 22488, f. 52; published in The Monthly Mirror, NS 3 (January 1808), 39–40 BACK