SIP THE THIRD. GOS-SIP.
That hour devoted to thy vesper “service”—
Dulcet exhilaration! glorious tea!—
I deem my happiest. Howsoe’er I swerve, as
To mind or morals, elsewhere, over thee
I am a perfect creature, quite impervious
To care, or tribulation, or ennui—
In fact, I do agnize to thee an utter
Devotion even to the bread and butter.
The homely kettle hissing on the bar—
(Urns I detest, irrelevant pomposities)—
The world beyond the window-blinds, as far
As I can thrust it—this defines what “cosset” is—
What woe that rhyme such scene of bliss must mar!
But rhyme, alas! is one of my atrocities;
In common with those bards who have the scratch
Of writing, and are all right with Catnach.
“How Nancy Sniggles was the village pride,—
How Will, her sweetheart, went to be a sailor;
How much at parting Nancy Sniggles cried,—
And how she snubb’d her funny friend the tailor;
How William boldly fought and bravely died;
How Nancy Sniggles felt her senses fail her—”
Then comes a sad dénouement—now-a-days
It is not virtue dominant that pays.
Such tales, in this, the post-octavo age,
Our novelists incontinently tells us—
Tales, wherein lovely heroines engage
With highwaymen, good-looking rogues but callous,
Who go on swimmingly till the last page,
And then take poison to escape the gallows—
Tales, whose original refinement teaches
The pride of eloquence in—dying speeches!
What an apotheosis have we here!
What equal laws th’ awards of fame dispose!
Capture a fort—assassinate a peer—
Alike be chronicled in startling prose—
Alike be dramatised—(how near
Is clever crime to virtue!)—at Tussaud’s
Be grouped with all the criminals at large,
From burglar Sheppard unto fiend Laffarge!
The women are best judges after all!
And Sheridan was right, and Plagi-ary;
To their decision all things mundane fall,
From court to counting-house; from square to dairy;
From caps to chemistry; from tract to shawl,
And then these female verdicts never vary!
In fact, on lap-dogs, lovers, buhl, and boddices,
There are no critics like these mortal goddesses!
To please such readers, authors make it answer
To trace a pedigree to the creation
Of some old Saxon peer; a monstrous grandsire,
Whose battles tell, in print, to admiration—
But I, unfortunate, have never once a
Mysterious hint of any great relation;
I know whether Shem or Japhet—right sir—
Was my progenitor—nor care a kreutzer.
For, though there’s matter for regret in losing
An opportune occasion to record
The feats in gambling, duelling, seducing—
Conventional acquirements of a lord—
Still I have stories startling and amusing,
Which I can tell and vouch, upon my word.
To anybody who desires to hear ’em—
But don’t be nervous, pray,—you needn’t fear ’em.
But what of my poor Hy-son all this while?
She saved the gardener by a timely kiss.
Few husbands are there proof against a smile,
And Te-pott’s rage endured no more than this.
Ah, reader! gentle, moral, free from guile,
Think you she did so very much amiss?
She was not love-sick for the fellow quite—
She merely thought of him—from morn till night!
A state of mind how much by parents dreaded!
(By those outrageous parents, English mammas,
Who scarcely own their daughters till they’re wedded)—
How postulant of patent Chubbs and Bramahs!
And eyes—the safest locks when locks are needed!—
And Abigails, and homilies, and grammars;
And other antidotes for “detrimentals”—
Id est, fine gentlemen unblest with rentals.
But this could not stop here; nor did it stop—
For both were anxious for—an explanation.
And in the harem’s grating was a gap,
Whence Hy-son peep’d in modest hesitation;
While on his spade the gardener would prop
Himself, and issue looks of adoration;
Until it happen’d, like a lucky rhyme,
Each for the other look’d at the same time.
Then fell the gardener upon his knees,
And kiss’d his hand in manner most devout—
So Hy-son couldn’t find the heart to tease
The poor dear man by being in a pout;—
Besides, she might go walk among the trees,
And not a word of scandal be made out.
She thought a—very—little more upon it,
Then smiled to Sou-chong,—and put on her bonnet.