THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.
Old Mother Hubbard
GENTLE READER: You have a soul for poetry. Even when an infant, and in your cradle, you had a soul for poetry. You were not aware of it at this early stage, but your mother--if you had one--was. With what fond alacrity did she hasten to your cradle-side, when some wicked little pin was trying to insinuate itself into your affections much against your inclination, and soothe you with the pleasing strains of Mother Goose. And how your eyes brightened and your little feet and hands commenced playing tag, when you heard the wonders of Mother Goose extolled in pretty verse. Ah! those were the days of romance. I will leave them now, to search for the hidden beauties of one of your childhood's melodies, the eventful career of Mother HUBBARD and her dog.
I will begin with the opening Canto of the poem, and limit myself, for the present, with detailing the beauties of its many incidents.
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CANTO I.
Old Mother Hubbard Went to the Cupboard To get her poor dog a bone; When she got there The Cupboard wan bare. And so the poor dog had none! |
Now, Kind Reader, follow closely whilst I display the hidden beauties of Canto First. You will notice that the author, who now sleeps with the unnumbered dead--a presumption on my part--has no dedication, no introduction, no preface. He scorned a dedication, that misnomer for gratuitous advertising. He wanted no patron, no Lord or Count somebody or other, who might, perhaps, insure the sale of one more copy. No. He determined to paddle his own canoe. And he did, you bet.--He wrote no preface. What was it to the public how many ancient authors he had ransacked to obtain ideas for his poem? What was it to the public how many noble minds he had associated with him to help him in his laborious work? What would the public care about his intentions to have his book in such a form, to appear at such a date, or to be sold for such a price? What would be the use of apologizing to the public for his many weak points, when he thought that he knew more than they? On the contrary, he very naturally determined that if his Poem, wasn't readable, it would not be read, and a Preface of ignorance would make the matter no better.--He kept clear of the folly of an Introduction-a something which a writer gets up just to keep his hand in, perhaps, or to tell the reader that he knows all about it!--The empty dishes on the banquet-board: no one cares for them.
Our felicitous Author, throwing aside all these traditional idiosyncrasies, launches boldly into the billowy sea of his idea-scattered brain[A], and in his very first line gives a full, concise description of the heroine, Mrs. HUBBARD; and having finished her description, enumerates, as was meet, the peculiarities, and, I might say, dogmatic tendencies, of the hero of the tail, Herr Dog! [He (not H.D., but the Author) says "Old Mother HUBBARD.">[ Here is simplicity for you! Here is brevity! "Old Mother HUBBARD!" How sweetly it sounds; how nicely the words fit each other! What an immense range of thought he must have who first said "Old Mother HUBBARD." Less gifted authors of the present would rejoice exceedingly, could they do likewise. Ah!--and a spark of enthusiasm lightens up your countenance, [Highfalutin,]--they have no HUBBARD. And if they had they would commence with a minute detail of how old she was, how venerable she was, what kind of a mother she was, whose mother she was, and all about her aunt's family.
Alas! for the fallen state of our Literature, which tells you everything, and leaves you nothing to guess at, lest you might not guess correctly. Well, as I previously observed, the author says "Old Mother HUBBARD." He must have been correct. You know how it is yourself.
This felicitous writer then proceeds, and in the next line gives vent to his pent-up feelings thusly: "Went to the Cupboard." "Went!" What a happy expression! How appropriate! Besides, it supplies a deficiency which would have occurred had it been left out. "Went!" There's Saxon for you. Our happy author, overburdened by his transcendent imagination, has not the evil propensity of thrusting upon his reader the mode of how she went; but, noble and manly as he was, he leaves it to you and to me how she went!
Here is a vast range for your imagination. Give your fancy wings. One may think she waddled; another that she rambled. One may say she preambulated; another that she pedalated.[B] One may remark that she crutchalated; [C] but all must concede that she "went". Now whither did she "went"? Ah! methinks your brain is puzzled. Why, she "went to the Cupboard," says our author, who, perhaps, just then took a ten-cent nip. She did not go around it, or about it, or upon it, or under it. She did not let it come to her, but she went herself to the above-mentioned and fore-named Cupboard.