RECITATIVE.
As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,
So I with you am master of the ceremonies,—
These grand rejoicings, let me see, how name ye 'em?
Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E—pi—thalamium.
October's tenth it is, toss up each hat to-day,
And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday.
On this great night 'tis settled by our manager,
That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,
Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillon,
And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;
That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,
May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.
So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,
Spin up a teetotum like Angiollini;
That John and Mrs. Bull from ale and teahouses,
May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis! [They dance and sing.
Air—"Sure such a day."—Tom Thumb.
Lear. Dance, Regan, dance with Cordelia and Goneril,
Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;
Stop Cordelia, do not tread upon her heel,
Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.
See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,
And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than Hell's hubbub.
They tweak my nose, and round it goes, I fear they'll break the ridge of it.
Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.
Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
Lady Macbeth. I kill'd the King, my husband is a heavy dunce,
He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud,
One loves long gloves, for mittens, like King's evidence,
Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.
Macbeth. When spooneys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery.
To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry,
With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,
Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.
Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
Othello. Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,
Spit the feathers from your mouth and munch roast beef;
Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid,
That smother'd you because you pawn'd my handkerchief.
Geo. Barnwell. Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?
Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;
If on beauty stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,
Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.
Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
Hamlet. I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia,
The moon can fix which lunatics makes sharp or flat.
I stuck by ill-luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,
Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat! Rat!"
Ghost. Let Gertrude sup the poisoned cup, no more I'll be an actor in
Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.
Macheath. I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O,
But as for tunes I have but one, and that is "Drops of Brandy O."
Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!
Juliet. I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore,
A Hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.
Friar. And I am the friar who so corpulent a belly bore.
Apothecary. And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.
Romeo. I'm the resurrection man of buried bodies amorous.
Falstaff. I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous,
For though my paunch is round and staunch, I ne'er begin to fill it ere I
Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.
Omnes. Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,
Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza! [Exeunt dancing.
Odes and Addresses to Great People.
(1825.)
——♦——
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
THE AERONAUT.
Up with me!—up with me into the sky!—
Wordsworth—on a Lark:
I.
Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
Their meaner flights pursue,
Let us cast off the foolish ties
That bind us to the earth, and rise
And take a bird's-eye view!
II.
A few more whiffs of my cigar
And then, in Fancy's airy car,
Have with thee for the skies:
How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd
Hath borne me from this little world,
And all that in it lies!
III.
Away!—away!—the bubble fills—
Farewell to earth and all its hills!—
We seem to cut the wind!—
So high we mount, so swift we go,
The chimney-tops are far below,
The Eagle's left behind!
IV.
Ah me! my brain begins to swim!—
The world is growing rather dim;
The steeples and the trees—
My wife is getting very small!
I cannot see my babe at all!—
The Dollond, if you please!—
V.
Do, Graham, let me have a quiz,
Lord! what a Lilliput it is,
That little world of Mogg's!—
Are those the London Docks?—that channel,
The mighty Thames?—a proper kennel
For that small Isle of Dogs!
VI.
What is that seeming tea-urn there!
That fairy dome, St. Paul's!—I swear,
Wren must have been a wren!—
And that small stripe?—it cannot be
The City Road!—Good lack? to see
The little ways of men!
VII.
Little, indeed!—my eyeballs ache
To find a turnpike. I must take
Their tolls upon my trust!—
And where is mortal labour gone?
Look, Graham, for a little stone
MacAdamized to dust!
VIII.
Look at the horses!—less than flies!—
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs
To wish to be a Mayor!
What is the honour?—none at all,
One's honour must be very small
For such a civic chair!
IX.
And there's Guildhall!—'tis far aloof—
Methinks, I fancy thro' the roof
Its little guardian Gogs,
Like penny dolls—a tiny show!—
Well,—I must say they're ruled below.
By very little logs!
X.
Oh! Graham, how the upper air
Alters the standards of compare;
One of our silken flags
Would cover London all about—
Nay, then—let's even empty out
Another brace of bags!
XI.
Now for a glass of bright champagne
Above the clouds!—Come, let us drain
A bumper as we go!
But hold!—for God's sake do not cant
The cork away—unless you want
To brain your friends below.
XII.
Think! what a mob of little men
Are crawling just within our ken,
Like mites upon a cheese!
Pshaw!—how the foolish sight rebukes
Ambitious thoughts!—can there be Dukes
Of Gloster such as these!
XIII.
Oh! what is glory?—what is fame?
Hark to the little mob's acclaim,
'Tis nothing but a hum!
A few near gnats would trump as loud
As all the shouting of a crowd
That has so far to come!
XIV.
Well—they are wise that choose the near,
A few small buzzards in the ear,
To organs ages hence!—
Ah me, how distance touches all;
It makes the true look rather small,
But murders poor pretence.
XV.
"The world recedes!—it disappears!
Heav'n open on my eyes—my ears
With buzzing noises ring!"
A fig for Southey's Laureate lore!—
What's Rogers here?—who cares for Moore
That hears the angels sing!
XVI.
A fig for earth, and all its minions!—
We are above the world's opinions,
Graham! we'll have our own!—
Look what a vantage height we've got!—
Now——do you think Sir Walter Scott
Is such a Great Unknown?
XVII.
Speak up!—or hath he hid his name
To crawl thro' "subways" into fame,
Like Williams of Cornhill?—
Speak up, my lad!—when men run small
We'll show what's little in them all,
Receive it how they will!
XVIII.
Think now of Irving!—shall he preach
The princes down—shall he impeach
The potent and the rich,
Merely on ethic stilts,—and I
Not moralize at two miles high
The true didactic pitch!
XIX.
Come:—what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir?
Is Gifford such a Gulliver
In Lilliput's Review,
That like Colossus he should stride
Certain small brazen inches wide
For poets to pass through?
XX.
Look down! the world is but a spot.
Now say—Is Blackwood's low or not,
For all the Scottish tone?
It shall not weigh us here—not where
The sandy burden's lost in air—
Our lading—where is't flown!
XXI.
Now,—like you Croly's verse indeed—
In heaven—where one cannot read
The "Warren" on a wall?
What think you here of that man's fame?
Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,
To me 'tis very small!
XXII.
And, truly, is there such a spell
In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song?
On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dared on Shakespeare's head to spit,
And say the world was wrong!
XXIII.
And shall not we? Let's think aloud!
Thus being couch'd upon a cloud,
Graham, we'll have our eyes!
We felt the great when we were less,
But we'll retort on littleness
Now we are in the skies.
XXIV.
O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush,—the petty shame,
That used to fret me quite,—
The little sores I cover'd then,
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight!
XXV.
My name is Tims. I am the man
That North's unseen diminish'd clan
So scurvily abused!
I am the very P. A. Z.
The London's Lion's small pin's head
So often hath refused!
XXVI.
Campbell—(you cannot see him here)—
Hath scorn'd my lays:—do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky?
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.
Long, only, in a little Row,
Have thrust my poems by!
XXVII.
What else?—I'm poor, and much beset
With petty duns—that is—in debt
Some grains of golden dust!
But only worth, above, is worth.
What's all the credit of the earth?
An inch of cloth on trust!
XXVIII.
What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man!
Nay, worlds of wealth?—Oh, if you can
Spy out,—the Golden Ball!
Sure as we rose, all money sank:
What's gold or silver now?—the Bank
Is gone—the 'Change and all!
XXIX.
What's all the ground-rent of the globe?—
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
To hear its landlords prate!
But after this survey, I think
I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink
From men of large estate!
XXX.
And less, still less, will I submit
To poor mean acres' worth of wit—
I that have Heaven's span—
I that like Shakespeare's self may dream
Beyond the very clouds, and seem
An Universal Man!
XXXI.
Oh, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds!
Like birds of paradise the clouds
Are winging on the wind!
But what is grander than their range?
More lovely than their sunset change?—
The free creative mind!
XXXII.
Well! the Adults' School's in the air!
The greatest men are lesson'd there
As well as the lessee!
Oh could earth's Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,
How humbled they would be!
XXXIII.
"Oh would some god the giftie gie 'em,
To see themselves as others see 'em,"
'Twould much abate their fuss!
If they could think that from the skies
They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us!
XXXIV.
Of us! are we gone out of sight?
Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite!
Lost to the tiny town!
Beyond the Eagle's ken—the grope
Of Dollond's longest telescope!
Graham! we're going down!
XXXV.
Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opes
The airy valve!—the gas elopes—
Down goes our bright balloon!—
Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell
The lower world! Graham, farewell,
Man of the silken moon!
XXXVI.
The earth is close! the City nears—
Like a burnt paper it appears,
Studded with tiny sparks!
Methinks I hear the distant rout
Of coaches rumbling all about—
We're close above the Parks!
XXXVII.
I hear the watchmen on their beats,
Hawking the hour about the streets.
Lord! what a cruel jar
It is upon the earth to light!
Well—there's the finish of our flight!
I've smoked my last cigar!
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
Let us take to the road!—Beggar's Opera.
I.
M'adam, hail!
Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand
Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!
Oh, universal Leveller! all hail!
To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,
The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going—
To thee—how much for thy commodious plan,
Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!
The Bristol mail
Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible,
When carrying patriots now shall never fail
Those of the most "unshaken public principle."
Hail to thee, Scott of Scots!
Thou northern light, amid those heavy men!
Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside,
Thou scatter'st flints and favours far and wide,
From palaces to cots;
Dispenser of coagulated good!
Distributor of granite and of food!
Long may thy fame its even path march on,
E'en when thy sons are dead!
Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone
To those who ask for bread!
II.
Thy first great trial in this mighty town
Was, if I rightly recollect, upon
That gentle hill which goeth
Down from "the County" to the Palace gate,
And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth
Past the Old Horticultural Society,—
The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James,
Where ladies play high shawl and satin games—
A little Hell of lace!
And past the Athenæum, made of late,
Severs a sweet variety
Of milliners and booksellers who grace
Waterloo Place,
Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,
'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's.
Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the road
From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode
So well, that paviours threw their rammers by,
Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh
Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!
III.
Next, from the palace to the prison, thou
Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,—
Preventing though the rattling in the street,
Yet kicking up a row,
Upon the stones—ah! truly watchman-like,
Encouraging thy victims all to strike,
To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;—
Thou hast smooth'd, alas, the path to the Old Bailey!
And to the stony bowers
Of Newgate, to encourage the approach,
By caravan or coach,—
Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers.
IV.
Who shall dispute thy name!
Insculpt in stone in every street,
We soon shall greet
Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer'd fame!
Where'er we take, even at this time, our way,
Nought see we, but mankind in open air,
Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare;
And with a patient care,
Chipping thy immortality all day!
Demosthenes, of old,—that rare old man,—
Prophetically, follow'd, Mac! thy plan:—
For he, we know
(History says so),
Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak
The smoothest Greek!
V.
It is "impossible, and cannot be,"
But that thy genius hath,
Beside the turnpike, many another path
Trod, to arrive at popularity.
O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh,
Nor ridden a roadster only;—mighty Mac!
And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack,
Thou hast observ'd the highways in the sky!
Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep,
And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say?
Dost think it best for sons of song to keep
The noiseless tenor of their way? (see Gray).
What line of road should poets take to bring
Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!—
Those waters which can wet a man to sing!
Which, like thy fame, "from granite basins burst,
Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?"
VI.
That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might
Vouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadell may, God wot,
Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,—
Cadell's a wayward wight!
Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot,
And I can throw, I think, a little light
Upon some works thou hast written for the town,—
And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown!
"Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt
(One whole edition's out),
And next, for it is fair
That Fame,
Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;—
"Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair"—
(Blair is a Scottish name),
What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam?
VII.
O! indefatigable labourer
In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill be
A mark of thy surpassing industry,
That of the monument, which men shall rear
Over thy most inestimable bone,
Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!
Of a right ancient line thou comest,—through
Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue,
Until we see thy sire before our eyes,
Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise!
But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, and ne'er
Have our walks since been fair!
Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change,
For ever varying, through his varying range,
Time maketh all things even!
In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven!
He hath redeem'd the Adams, and contriv'd—
(How are Time's wonders hiv'd!)
In pity to mankind, and to befriend 'em—
(Time is above all praise)
That he, who first did make our evil ways,
Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em!
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
O breathe not his name!—Moore.
I.
Thou Great Unknown!
I do not mean Eternity nor Death,
That vast incog!
For I suppose thou hast a living breath,
Howbeit we know not from whose lung 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog!
Parent of many children—child of none!
Nobody's son!
Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch
Of orphan eggs,—left to the world to hatch.
Superlative Nil!
A vox and nothing more,—yet not Vauxhall;
A head in papers, yet without a curl!
Not the Invisible Girl!
No hand—but a hand-writing on a wall—
A popular nonentity,
Still call'd the same,—without identity!
A lark, heard out of sight,—
A nothing shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,
"Dark with excess of light!"
Constable's literary John-a-nokes—
The real Scottish wizard—to no which,
Nobody—in a niche;
Every one's hoax!
Maybe Sir Walter Scott—
Perhaps not!
Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?
II.
Thou—whom the second-sighted never saw,
The Master Fiction of fictitious history!
Chief Nong tong paw!
No mister in the world—and yet all mystery!
The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane—
A novel Junius puzzling the world's brain—
A man of magic—yet no talisman!
A man of clair obscure—not him o' the moon!
A star—at noon.
A non-descriptus in a caravan,
A private—of no corps—a northern light
In a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—
A figure—but no shape;
A vizor—and no knight;
The real abstract hero of the age;
The staple Stranger of the stage;
A Some One made in every man's presumption,
Frankenstein's monster—but instinct with gumption;
Another strange state captive in the north,
Constable-guarded in an iron mask—
Still let me ask,
Hast thou no silver platter,
No door-plate, or no card—or some such matter,
To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?
III.
Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger
Of Curiosity with airy gammon?
Thou mystery-monger,
Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon,
That people buy and can't make head or tail of it
(Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it);
Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical,
That lay their proper bodies on the shelf—
Keeping thyself so truly to thyself,
Thou Zimmerman made practical!
Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style,
That, like the Nile,
Hideth its source wherever it is bred,
But still keeps disemboguing
(Not disembroguing)
Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head!
Thou disembodied author—not yet dead,—
The whole world's literary Absentee!
Ah! wherefore hast thou fled,
Thou learned Nemo—wise to a degree,
Anonymous LL.D.!
IV.
Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang
That do—and inquests cannot say who did it!
Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang?
Hast thou made gravy of Wear's watch—or hid it?
Hast thou a Blue Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it!
I should be very loth to see thee hang!
I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd,
An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand.
Tho' thou hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on
The curiosity of all invaders—
I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton,
Who knows a little of the Holy Land,
Writing thy next new novel—The Crusaders!
V.
Perhaps thou wert even born
To be unknown. Perhaps hung, some foggy morn,
At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,
Penn'd to a ticket
That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing
The future great unmentionable being.
Perhaps thou hast ridden
A scholar poor on St. Augustine's back,
Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack
Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden;
A little hoard of clever simulation,
That took the town—and Constable has bidden
Some hundred pounds for a continuation—
To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.
VI.
I liked thy Waverley—first of thy breeding;
I like its modest "sixty years ago,"
As if it was not meant for ages' reading.
I don't like Ivanhoe,
Tho' Dymoke does—it makes him think of clattering
In iron overalls before the king,
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering,
Tuning his challenge to the gauntlets' ring—
Oh better far than all that anvil clang
It was to hear thee touch the famous string
Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang,
Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan,
Like Sagittarian Pan!
VII.
I like Guy Mannering—but not that sham son
Of Brown. I like that literary Sampson,
Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson.
I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson
That slew the Gauger;
And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major;
And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender,
That Scottish Witch of Endor,
That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it,
To tell a great man's fortune—or to make it!
VIII.
I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on,
He makes me think of Mr. Britton,
Who has—or had—within his garden wall,
A miniature Stone Henge, so very small
The sparrows find it difficult to sit on;
And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor;
And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar,
Painted so cleverly,
I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly!
I like thy Barber—him that fir'd the Beacon—
But that's a tender subject now to speak on!
IX.
I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charms
Fashion'd him for renown! In sad sincerity,
The man that robs or writes must have long arms,
If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!
Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity!
Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
Bearing the name she bore,
A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy!
But Roys can never die—why else, in verity,
Is Paris echoing with "Vive le Roy!"
Ay, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di
Vernon, of course, shall often live again—
Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain,
Who can pass by
Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand?
There be Old Bailey Jarveys on the stand!
X.
I like thy Landlord's Tales!—I like that Idol
Of love and Lammermoor—the blue-eyed maid
That led to church the mounted cavalcade,
And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal!
Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches—
I like the family—not silver, branches
That hold the tapers
To light the serious legend of Montrose.
I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours,
As if he could not walk or talk alone.
Without the devil—or the Great Unknown—
Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!
XI.
I like St. Leonard's Lily—drench'd with dew!
I like thy Vision of the Covenanters,
That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew.
I like the battle lost and won,
The hurly-burly's bravely done,
The warlike gallops and the warlike canters!
I like that girded chieftain of the ranters,
Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple,
With one eye on his sword,
And one upon the Word—
How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel!
I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple
His raven steed with blood of many a corse—
I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels
Her texts of Scripture on a trotting horse—
She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!
XII.
I like thy Kenilworth—but I'm not going
To take a Retrospective Re-Review
Of all thy dainty novels—merely showing
The old familiar faces of a few,
The question to renew,
How thou canst leave such deeds without a name,
Forego the unclaim'd dividends of fame,
Forego the smiles of literary houris—
Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise,
And all the Carse of Gowrie's,
When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty—
Or see thy image on Italian trays,
Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté,
Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'s,
Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph!
Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's,
Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself
To other Englands with Australian roamers—
Mayhap, in literary Owhyhee
Displace the native wooden gods, or be
The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf!
XIII.
It is not modesty that bids thee hide—
She never wastes her blushes out of sight:
It is not to invite
The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,—
And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide,
Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd,—
From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars
In crimson collars,
And learned serjeants in the forty-second!
Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd?
Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth,
Defying distance and its dim control;
Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth
A brace of Miltons for capacious soul—
Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north,
And set above ten Shakespeares near the pole!
XIV.
Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp,
With such a giant genius at command,
For ever at thy stamp,
To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land,
When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand
Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter,
Tho' princes sought her,
And lead her in procession hymeneal,
Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal!
Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean wharf,
Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs?
Why, but because thou art some puny dwarf,
Some hopeless imp, like Riquet with the Tuft,
Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd,
Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?
XV.
What in this masquing age
Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy?
What but the critic's page?
One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye,
Another hath a wen—he won't show where;
A third has sandy hair,
A hunch upon his back, or legs awry,
Things for a vile reviewer to espy!
Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose—
Finally, this is dimpled,
Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled;
Things for a monthly critic to expose—
Nay, what is thy own case—that being small,
Thou choosest to be nobody at all!
XVI.
Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones—
E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf,
That shadowy revelation of thyself—
To build thee a small hut of haunted stones—
For certainly the first pernicious man
That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee
In some vile literary caravan—
Shown for a shilling
Would be thy killing.
Think of Crachami's miserable span!
No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in
Than there it fell in—
But when she felt herself a show, she tried
To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!
XVII.
O since it was thy fortune to be born
A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch
From all the Gog-like jostle of great men.
Still with thy small crow pen
Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn—
Still Scottish story daintily adorn,
Be still a shade—and when this age is fled,
When we poor sons and daughters of reality
Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead,
And Time destroys our mottoes of morality,
The lithographic hand of Old Mortality
Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone,
A featureless death's head,
And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!
TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE,
EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.
Dost thou not suspect my years?—
Much Ado About Nothing.
I.
Oh! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurch
A sober age made serious drunk by thee;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,
And nurse thy little bald Biography.
II.
Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!
And what a page attends thee! Long may I
Hang in demure confusion o'er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
III.
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,
Like pensioners that creep about and die;
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,
Livest in monthly immortality!
IV.
How sweet!—as Byron of his infant said,—
"Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace;
To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,
Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!
V.
How dear through thy Obituary to roam,
And not a name of any name to catch!
To meet thy Criticism walking home
Averse from rows, and never calling "Watch!"
VI.
Rich is thy page in soporific things,—
Composing compositions,—lulling men,—
Faded old posies of unburied rings,—
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:—
VII.
Lives of Right Reverends that have never liv'd,—
Deaths of good people that have really died,—
Parishioners,—hatch'd, husbanded, and wiv'd,—
Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!
VIII.
The sacred query,—the remote response,—
The march of serious mind, extremely slow,—
The graver's cut at some right aged sconce,
Famous for nothing many years ago!
IX.
B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write
"Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;—
And C., next month, an answer doth indite,
Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!
X.
X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,
Caught upon Martin Luther years agone;
And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,
Long dead, that gather'd honey for King John.
XI.
There is no end of thee,—there is no end,
Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!
Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,
And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.
XII.
Go on, Sylvanus!—Bear a wary eye,
The churches cannot yet be quite run out!
Some parishes must yet have been pass'd by,—
There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!
XIII.
Go on—and close the eyes of distant ages!
Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!
So epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,
Heavy and lively, though but seldom red.
XIV.
Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!
Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn!
Still live! still prose!—continue still to tell us
Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in!
AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
Archer. How many are there, Scrub?
Scrub. Five-and-forty, Sir.—Beaux Stratagem.
For shame—let the linen alone!—M. W. of Windsor.
Mr. Scrub—Mr. Slop—or whoever you be!
The Cock of Steam Laundries,—the head Patentee
Of Associate Cleansers,—chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime—
Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety—
That make washing public—and wash in society—
O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below,—
From your new Surrey Geisers[216] all foaming and hot,—
That soft "simmer's sang" so endear'd to the Scot—
If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger—
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub—
O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub—
And lend me your ear,—Let me modestly plead
For a race that your labours may soon supersede—
For a race that, now washing no living affords—
Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards,
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease,
Not with bread in the funds—or investments of cheese—
But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream,
Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam.
Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge;
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins,
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens,
And beginneth her toil while the morn is still grey,
As if she was washing the night into day—
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her;
Not Venus that rose from the billow so early,
Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more pearly[217]—
Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist,
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist;
Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty;
She's Industry's moral—she's all moral beauty!
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub—
Would any man ruin her? No, Mr. Scrub!
No man that is manly would work her mishap—
No man that is manly would covet her cap—
Nor her apron—her hose—nor her gown made of stuff—
Nor her gin, nor her tea, nor her wet pinch of snuff!
Alas! so she thought, but that slippery hope
Has betrayed her, as tho' she had trod on her soap!
And she—whose support, like the fishes that fly,
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky;
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare,
To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea bear,
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop—
Quite a living absorbent that revell'd in slop—
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand,
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!
Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands,
Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands!
All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale,
With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-dale!
No smoke from her flue—and no steam from her pane,
Where once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain—
Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross'd,
Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post!
Ah, where are the playful young pinners—ah, where
The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air—
The brisk waltzing stockings—the white and the black,
That danc'd on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack—
The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd,
That blew into shape, and embodied the wind!
There was white on the grass—there was white on the spray—
Her garden—it look'd like a garden of May!
But now all is dark—not a shirt's on a shrub—
You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub!
You've ruin'd her custom—now families drop her—
From her silver reduc'd—nay, reduc'd from her copper!
The last of her washing is done at her eye,
One poor little 'kerchief that never gets dry!
From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth,
And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth;
But her children come round her as victuals grow scant,
And recall, with foul faces, the source of their want—
When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed,
And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead,
And even its pearlashes laid in the grave—
Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave,
And the greatest of coopers, ev'n he that they dub
Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub,—
Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub!
Need you wonder, when steam has depriv'd her of bread,
If she prays that the evil may visit your head—
Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee—
If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city—
In short, not to mention all plagues without number,
If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humber!
Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair,
When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare—
When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl,
And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul—
When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye
Had caught the "Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by,
Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather,
And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together,
In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose,
Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose,
On her sheet—if a sheet were still left her—to write,
Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light—
LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE
FROM BRIDGET JONES,
TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.
It's a shame, so it is,—men can't Let alone
Jobs as is Woman's right to do—and go about there Own—
Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools
For washing to sit Up,—and push the Old Tubs from their stools!
But your just like the Raddicals,—for upsetting of the Sudds
When the world wagged well enuff—and Wommen washed your old dirty duds,
I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no stream Ingins, that's Flat,—
But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as tidy and gentlemanny for all that—
I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle
I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period back when I were little,
And they Said it went with Steem,—But that was a joke!
For I never see none come of it,—that's out of it—but only sum Smoak—
And for All your Power of Horses about your Ingins you never had but Two
In my time to draw you About to Fairs—and curse you, you know that's true!
And for All your fine Perspectuses,—howsomever you bewhich 'em,
Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum,
Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do—
It aant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher can take a Bird'shigh view!
But Thats your lookout—I've not much to do with that—But pleas God to hold up fine,
Id show you caps and pinners and small things as lillywhit as Ever crosst the Line
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place,
And Thats more than you Can—and Ill say it behind your face—
But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak,—
As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak!
Thinks I, when I heard it—Well thear's a Pretty go!
That comes o' not marking of things, or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so!
Till Their friends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault,
But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel—and that ant your Fault.
Only you ought to leafe the Linnens to them as has larn'd,—
For if it warnt for Washing,—and whare Bills is concarnd
What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Edication,
And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays—fit for any Cityation.
Well, what I says is This—when every Kittle has its spout,
Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about!
To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind
For blowing up Boats with,—but not to hurt human kind
Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water,
Thof a Sheriff might know Better, than make things for slaughter,
As if War warnt Cruel enuff—wherever it befalls,
Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing balls,—
But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs
As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Stream rubbing Clubs,
For washing Dirt Cheap,—and eating other Peple's grubs!
Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea,
But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Bo-He!
They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!)
And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods,
When you and your Steam has ruined (G—d] forgive mee!) their lively Hoods,
Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth!
And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth!
But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at—
They won't do for Angell's—nor any Trade like That,
Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,—for that's all Bespoke,—
For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confind Folk
Do their own of Themselves—even the bettermost of em—aye, and even them of middling degrees—
Why God help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese!
Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust,
But we must all go and be Bankers,—and that's what we must!
God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects,
When you nose you have suck'd us and hanged round our Mutherly necks,
And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing—
You ant, curse you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing
In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers
And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now by you next door neighbours—
Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up
No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp—
And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round
They'll scruntch your Bones some day—I'll be bound
And no more nor be a gudgement,—for it cant come to good
To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing,—nor not fit It should,
For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation,
Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation—
And can't be dun without in any Country But a Hottinpot Nation.
Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs
And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs—
But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nayther Bybills or Good Tracks,
Or youd know better than Taking the Close off one's Backs—
And let your neighbours oxin and Asses alone,—
And every Thing thats hern,—and give every one their Hone!
Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself,
And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf,
But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe
And pull off Your Pattins,—and leave the washing to we
That nose what's what—Or mark what I say,
Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day—
When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all,
And Crist mass cum—and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,
Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare
Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite in his Chare—
Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew
And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew
With a vast more like That,—and all along of Steam
Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam—
But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good,
And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud,
For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways
Without taking ourn,—aye, and Moor to your Prays
If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt,
But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!
Yourn with Anymocity,
Bridget Jones.
ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE,
THE GREAT LESSEE!
Rover. Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest man living?—Wild Oats.
I.
Oh! Great Lessee! Great Manager! Great Man!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! Immortal Pan
Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane!
Macready's master! Westminster's high Dane!
As Galway Martin, in the House's walls,
Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls!
Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring!
Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring!
Drury's Aladdin! Whipper-in of Actors,
Kicker of rebel-preface-malefactors!
Glass-blowers' corrector! King of the cheque-taker!
At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker!
Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes!
In silken hose the most reform'd of Rakes!
Oh, Lord High Elliston! lend me an ear!
(Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear)
While I, in little slips of prose, not verse,
Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse!
II.
Bright was thy youth—thy manhood brighter still—
The greatest Romeo upon Holborn Hill—
Lightest comedian of the pleasant day,
When Jordan threw her sunshine o'er a play!
But these, though happy, were but subject times,
And no man cares for bottom-steps that climbs—
Far from my wish it is to stifle down
The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown!
Tho' now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields,
Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George's Fields.
Dibdin was Premier—and a golden age
For a short time enrich'd the subject stage.
Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-and-plenty;
Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou hadst twenty;
But the times changed—and Booth-acting no more
Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery door.
Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence,
Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens!
III.
Next, the Olympic Games were tried, each feat
Practis'd, the most bewitching in Wych Street.
Charles had his royal ribaldry restor'd,
And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whor'd;
Rochester there in dirty ways again
Revell'd—and liv'd once more in Drury Lane:
But thou, R. W.! kept thy moral ways,
Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays,
A lamplight Irving to the butcher boys
That soil'd the benches and that made a noise:—
"You,—in the back!—can scarcely hear a line!
Down from those benches—butchers—they are MINE!"
IV.
Lastly—and thou wert built for it by nature!—
Crown'd was thy head in Drury Lane Theatre!
Gentle George Robins saw that it was good,
And renters cluck'd around thee in a brood.
King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean!
Of many a lady and of many a Quean!
With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun—
But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun,
Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt,
And Colman lives to cut the damnlet's out!
Oh, worthy of the house! the King's commission!
Isn't thy condition "a most bless'd condition?"
Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all
The very lofty and the very small—
Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick—
Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick—
Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments,
Without the danger of newspaper comments—
Tellest Macready, as none dared before,
Thine open mind from the half-open door!—
(Alas! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown,
To be a Boniface in Buxton town!)—
Thou hold'st the watch, as half-price people know,
And callest to them, to a moment, "Go!"
Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing—
Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing—
Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot—and kiss'd
The pearly whiteness of a Stephens' wrist—
Kissing and pitying—tender and humane!
"By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!"
A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips,
Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!
V.
Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well!
Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel—
Show them how thou hast long befriended them,
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn!
Go on! addressing pits in prose and worse!
Be long, be slow, be anything but terse—
Kiss to the gallery the hand that's glov'd—
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Belov'd,
Go on—and but in this reverse the thing,
Walk backward with wax lights before the King—
Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on!
Hope's favourite child! ethereal Elliston!
ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE,
M.P. FOR GALWAY.
I.
How many sing of wars,
Of Greek and Trojan jars—
The butcheries of men!
The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!"
Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill;
But no one sings the man
That, like a pelican,
Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill!
II.
Thou Wilberforce of hacks!
Of whites as well as blacks,
Piebald and dapple gray,
Chestnut and bay—
No poet's eulogy thy name adorns!
But oxen, from the fens,
Sheep—in their pens,
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns!
Thou art sung on brutal pipes!
Drovers may curse thee,
Knackers asperse thee,
And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes;
But the old horse neighs thee,
And zebras praise thee,
Asses, I mean—that have as many stripes!
III.
Hast thou not taught the drover to forbear,
In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,—
Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air!
Bullocks don't wear
Oxide of iron!
The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft,
Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo,
That thought his horse the courser of the two—
Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!—
O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit
Bodies of birds—(if so the spirit shifts
From flesh to feather)—when the clown uplifts
His hand against the sparrow's nest, to grab it,—
He shall not harm the Martins and the Swifts!
IV.
Ah! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanc'd
The horse!—and humbled biped man like Plato!
But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd—
Gone backward in the world—and not advanc'd,—
Remember Cato!
Swift was the horse's champion—not the King's,
Whom Southey sings,
Mounted on Pegasus—would he were thrown!
He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone,
Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things!
Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use
Their steeds so cruelly!—let it debar men
From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse—
Look at the ancients' Muse!
Look at their Carmen!
V.
O, Martin! how thine eye—
That one would think had put aside its lashes,—
That can't bear gashes
Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy
That horrid window fronting Fetter Lane,—
For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual,
Or some man painted in a bloody vein—
Gods! is there no Horse-spital!
That such raw shows must sicken the humane!
Sure Mr. Whittle
Loves thee but little,
To let that poor horse linger in his pane!
VI.
O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses!
O wipe away the national reproach—
And find a decent Vulture for their corses!
And in thy funeral track
Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach!
Steeds that confess "the luxury of wo!"
True mourning steeds, in no extempore black,
And many a wretched hack
Shall sorrow for thee,—sore with kick and blow
And bloody gash—it is the Indian knack—
(Save that the savage is his own tormentor)—
Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf—
The biped woe the quadruped shall enter,
And Man and Horse go half and half,
As if their grief's met in a common Centaur!
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.
Author of the Cook's Oracle—Observations on Vocal Music—the Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life—Practical Observations on Telescopes, Opera Glasses, and Spectacles—the Housekeeper's Ledger—and the Pleasure of Making a Will.
I rule the roast, as Milton says!—Caleb Quotem.
I.
Hail! multifarious man!
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton!
Born to enlighten
The laws of optics, peptics, music, cooking—
Master of the piano—and the pan—
As busy with the kitchen as the skies!
Now looking
At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,
Or boiling eggs—timed to a metronome—
As much at home
In spectacles as in mere isinglass—
In the art of frying brown—as a digression
On music and poetical expression,—
Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas!
Could tell Calliope from "Calliopee!"
How few there be
Could leave the lowest for the highest stories,
(Observatories,)
And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator,
However cook's synonymous with Kater![218]
Alas! still let me say,
How few could lay
The carving-knife beside the tuning-fork,
Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work!
II.
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book!
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate,
How it would look!
With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date,
And one upon the roast, gently cast down—
Thy chops—done nicely brown—
The garnish'd brow—with "a few leaves of bay"—
The hair—"done Wiggy's way!"
And still one studious finger near thy brains,
As if thou wert just come
From editing some
New soup—or hashing Dibdin's cold remains!
Or, Orpheus-like—fresh from thy dying strains
Of music—Epping luxuries of sound,
As Milton says, "in many a bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,"
Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!
III.
Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal,
Standing like Fortune,—on the jack—thy wheel.
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes,
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!)
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges,
As tho' it were the same to sing or fry—
Nay, so it is—hear how Miss Paton's throat
Makes "fritters" of a note!
And is not reading near akin to feeding,
Or why should Oxford sausages be fit
Receptacles for wit?
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart,
Minc'd brains into a tart?
Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts,
Book-treats,
Equally to instruct the cook and cram her—
Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read,
The culinary art in gingerbread—
The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar!
IV.
Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page—
Ay, very pleasant in its chatty vein—
So—in a kitchen—would have talk'd Montaigne,
That merry Gascon—humorist, and sage!
Let slender minds with single themes engage,
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,—
Or Lovelass upon Wills,—thou goest on
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson!
Thy brain is like a rich kaleidoscope,
Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits,
And ever shifting on from change to change,
Saucepans—old songs—pills—spectacles—and spits!
Thy range is wider than a Rumford range!
Thy grasp a miracle!—till I recall
Th' indubitable cause of thy variety—
Thou art, of course, th' epitome of all
That spying—frying—singing—mix'd Society
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet
Welsh Rabbits—and thyself—in Warren Street!
V.
Oh, hast thou still those conversazioni,
Where learned visitors discoursed—and fed?
There came Belzoni,
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead—
And gentle Poki—and that royal pair,
Of whom thou didst declare—
Of whom thou didst declare—
"Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read—
They were—what Sandwiches should be—half bred!"
There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil
Relax'd—and freely own'd he took thy hints
On "making broth with flints"—
There Parry came, and show'd the polar oil
For melted butter—Coombe with his medullary
Notions about the scullery,
And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil—
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf!
Who used to swear thy book
Would really look
A Delphic "Oracle," if laid on Delf—
There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd
His own—and thy own—"Magazine of Taste"—
There Wilberforce the Just
Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd
Thy sly advice to poachers of black folks,
That "do not break their yolks,"—
Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!
VI.
There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore
Thy patties—thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore,
Who call'd thee Kitchen Addison—for why?
Thou givest rules for health and peptic pills,
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for wills,
"Teaching us how to live and how to die!"
There came thy cousin-cook, good Mrs. Fry—
There Trench, the Thames projector, first brought on
His sine Quay non,—
There Martin would drop in on Monday eves,
Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath
'Gainst cattle days and death,—
Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves,
Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager
For fighting on soup meagre—
"And yet (as thou wouldst add) the French have seen
A Marshal Tureen!"
VII.
Great was thy evening cluster!—often grac'd
With Dollond—Burgess—and Sir Humphry Davy!
'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to taste,—
There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste
For puffs—and Accum analysed a gravy.
For puffs—and Accum analysed a gravy.
Colman, the cutter of Colman Street, 'tis said
Came there, and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head,
(His claim to letters)—Kater, too, the Moon's
Crony,—and Graham, lofty on balloons,
There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated,
(Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed),
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ,
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,
Madame Valbrèque thrice honour'd thee, and came
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,—
And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,
And talk'd—till thou didst stop him in the middle,
To serve round Tewah-diddle![219]
VIII.
Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye!
So let them:—thou thyself art still a Host!
Dibdin—Cornaro—Newton—Mrs. Fry!
Mrs. Glasse—Mr. Spec!—Lovelass—and Weber,
Mathews in Quotem—Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber—
Thrice-worthy worthy! seem by thee engross'd!
Howbeit the peptic cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,—
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion!
Thou art, sans question,
The Corporation's love—its Doctor Darling!
Look at the civic palate—nay, the bed
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying
"Illustrations of Lying!"
Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
It measured, and I dread
Was haunted by a terrible night Mare,
A monstrous burthen on the corporation!—
Look at the bill of fare, for one day's share,
Sea-turtles by the score—oxen by droves,
Geese, turkeys, by the flock—fishes and loaves
Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation
Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration!
IX.
Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting demon from great Garratt's breast—
(His honour seems to rest!—)
And what is thy reward?—Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service?
Alas! not even
The tokens it bestow'd on Howe and Jervis!—
Yet could I speak as orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill),
Thou shouldst not miss thy freedom, for a week,
Richly engross'd on vellum:—Reason urges
That he who rules our cookery—that he
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess!
THE END.
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