Had it been Doctor Arnott's new stove—not a grate;— Had the coal been a "Lord Mayor's coal,"—viz.: a slate;— What a diff'rent tale had I had to relate! And Aunt Fan—and my Shirt—been superior to Fate!— One moment—no more! —Fan open'd the door! The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before; And Aunt Fanny sank down—in despair—on the floor!
You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement, When, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement, She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing, And, losing at once all restraint on her temper, or Feelings, exclaimed, "Hang that Scamp of an Emperor, Although he's my son!— —He thinks it prime fun, No doubt!—While the flames are demolishing Rome, There's my Nero a-fiddling, and singing 'Sweet Home!'" —Stay—I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said The words I've put down, as she stepp'd into bed,— On reflection, I rather believe she was dead; But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I Never was very precise in Chronology; So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a Mistake of no very great moment—in fine, a Mere slip—'twas some Pleb's wife, if not Agrippina.
You may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony, Whom thirty years since we all used to call Boney, When, engaged in what he styled "fulfilling his destinies," He led his rapscallions across the Borysthenes, And had made up his mind Snug quarters to find In Moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs Which are apt to prevail 'mongst the "Owskis" and "Offs," At a time of the year When your nose and your ear Are by no means so safe there as people's are here, Inasmuch as "Jack Frost," that most fearful of Bogles, Makes folks leave their cartilage oft in their "fogles." You may fancy, I say, That same Boney's dismay, When Count Rostopchin At once made him drop chin, And turn up his eyes, as his rapee he took, With a sort of a mort-de-ma-vie kind of look, On perceiving that "Swing," And "all that sort of thing," Was at work,—that he'd just lost the game without knowing it— That the Kremlin was blazing—the Russians "a going it,"— Every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground, And never a Turn-cock at all to be found!
You may fancy King Charles at some Court Fancy-Ball, (The date we may fix In Sixteen sixty-six,) In the room built by Inigo Jones at Whitehall, Whence his father, the Martyr,—(as such mourn'd by all Who, in his, wept the Law's and the Monarchy's fall,)— Stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall— You may fancy King Charles, I say, stopping the brawl,[38] As bursts on his sight the old church of St. Paul, By the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl From basement to buttress, and topping its wall— —You may fancy old Clarendon making a call, And stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl, "Sire, from Pudding Lane's End, close by Fishmongers' Hall, To Pye Corner, in Smithfield, there is not a stall There, in market, or street,—not a house, great or small, In which Knight wields his faulchion, or Cobbler his awl, But's on fire!!"—You may fancy the general squall, And bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl!— —You may fancy all this—but I boldly assert You can't fancy Aunt Fan—as she looked on MY SHIRT!!!
Was't Apelles? or Zeuxis?—I think 'twas Apelles, That artist of old—I declare I can't tell his Exact patronymic—I write and pronounce ill These Classical names—Whom some Grecian Town-Council Employ'd—I believe, by command of the Oracle,— To produce them a splendid piece, purely historical, For adorning the wall Of some fane, or Guildhall, And who for his subject determined to try a Large painting in oils of Miss Iphigenia At the moment her Sire, By especial desire Of "that Spalpeen, O'Dysseus" (see Barney Maguire), Has resolved to devote Her beautiful throat To old Chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire; —An act which we moderns by no means admire,— An off'ring, 'tis true, to Jove, Mars, or Apollo cost No trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust,— Still, although for economy we should condemn none, In an αναξ ανδρων, like the great Agamemnon, To give up to slaughter An elegant daughter, After all the French, Music, and Dancing they'd taught her, And Singing,—at Heaven knows how much a quarter,— In lieu of a Calf!— It was too bad by half! At a "nigger"[39] so pitiful who would not laugh, And turn up their noses at one who could find No decenter method of "Raising the Wind"? No doubt but he might, Without any great Flight, Have obtain'd it by what we call "flying a kite." Or on mortgage—or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he Must have succeeded "by way of annuity." But there—it appears, His crocodile tears, His "Oh!s" and his "Ah!s" his "Oh Law!s" and "Oh dear!s" Were all thought sincere,—so in painting his Victim The Artist was splendid—but could not depict Him. His features, and phiz awry Shewed so much misery, And so like a dragon he Look'd in his agony, That the foil'd Painter buried—despairing to gain a Good likeness—his face in a printed Bandana. —Such a veil is best thrown o'er one's face when one's hurt By some grief which no power can repair or avert!— —Such a veil I shall throw o'er Aunt Fan—and My Shirt!
MORAL.
And now for some practical hints from the story Of Aunt Fan's mishap, which I've thus laid before ye; For, if rather too gay, I can venture to say A fine vein of morality is, in each lay Of my primitive Muse, the distinguishing trait!—
First of all—Don't put off till to-morrow what may, Without inconvenience, be managed to-day! That golden occasion we call "Opportunity" Rarely's neglected by man with impunity! And the "Future," how brightly soe'er by Hope's dupe colour'd, Ne'er may afford You a lost chance restored, Till both you, and your Shirt, are grown old, and pea-soup-colour'd!
I would also desire You to guard your attire, Young Ladies,—and never go too near the fire!— —Depend on't there's many a dear little Soul Has found that a Spark is as bad as a coal,— And "in her best petticoat burnt a great hole!"
Last of all, gentle Reader, don't be too secure!— Let seeming success never make you "cock-sure!" But beware!—and take care, When all things look fair, How you hang your Shirt over the back of your chair!— —"There's many a slip 'Twixt the cup and the lip!" Be this excellent proverb, then, well understood, And Don't halloo before you're quite out of the wood!!!