Chapter XIV: Part III (2)

I like St. Leonard's Lily--drench'd with dew! I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, That bloody-minded Grahame shot and slew. I like the battle lost and won; The hurly-burlys bravely done, The warlike gallop 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 cloth 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! P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, P'rhaps 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 Shakspeares near the pole!

XIV.

Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, With such a giant genius at command, Forever 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 Biquet 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!

ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR.

"This fellow's wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit."
_Twelfth Night_.

I.

Joseph! they say thou'st left the stage, To toddle down the hill of life, And taste the flannel'd ease of age, Apart from pantomimic strife-- "Retir'd--(for Young would call it so)-- The world shut out"--in Pleasant Row!

II.

And hast thou really wash'd at last From each white cheek the red half-moon! And all thy public Clownship cast, To play the private Pantaloon? All youth--all ages--yet to be Shall have a heavy miss of thee!

III.

Thou didst not preach to make us wise-- Thou hadst no finger in our schooling-- Thou didst not "lure us to the skies"-- Thy simple, simple trade was--Fooling! And yet, Heav'n knows! we could--we can Much "better spare a better man!"

IV.

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take The reverend Croly from the stage, Or Southey, for our quiet's sake, Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage, Or, damme! namby-pamby Poole,-- Or any other clown or fool!

V.

Go, Dibdin--all that bear the name, Go, Byeway Highway man! go! go! Go, Skeffy--man of painted fame, But leave thy partner, painted Joe! I could bear Kirby on the wane, Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

VI.

Had Joseph Wilfrid Parkins made His gray hairs scarce in private peace-- Had Waithman sought a rural shade-- Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease-- Or Lisle Bowles gone to _Balaam_ Hill-- I think I could be cheerful still!

VII.

Had Medwin left off, to his praise, Dead lion kicking, like--a friend!-- Had long, long Irving gone his ways, To Muse on death at _Ponder's End_ Or Lady Morgan taken leave Of Letters--still I might not grieve!

VIII.

But, Joseph--everybody's Jo!-- Is gone--and grieve I will and must! As Hamlet did for Yorick, so Will I for thee (though not yet dust), And talk as he did when he miss'd The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd!

IX.

Ah, where is now thy rolling head! Thy winking, reeling, _drunken_ eyes, (As old Catullus would have said), Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies-- Enormous hunger--monstrous drowth! Thy pockets greedy as thou mouth!

X.

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd!-- Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!-- Thy partridge body, always stuff'd With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!-- Thy foot--like Berkeley's _Foote_--for why? 'Twas often made to wipe an eye!

XI.

Ah, where thy legs--that witty pair! For "great wits jump"--and so did they! Lord! how they leap'd in lamplight air! Caper'd--and bounc'd--and strode away!-- That years should tame the legs--alack! I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!

XII.

But bounds will have their bound--the shocks Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes; And those that frisk'd in silken clocks May look to limp in fleecy hose-- One only--(Champion of the ring) Could ever make his Winter,--Spring!

XIII.

And gout, that owns no odds between The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, Will visit--but I did not mean To moralize, though I am grown Thus sad,--Thy going seem'd to beat A muffled drum for Fun's retreat!

XIV.

And, may be--'tis no time to smother A sigh, when two prime wags of London Are gone--thou, Joseph, one,--the other A Joe!--"sic transit gloria _Munden_!" A third departure some insist on,-- Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!--

XV.

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep With ancient "_Dozey_" to the dregs-- Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep, And put a hatchment o'er her eggs! Let Farley weep--for Magic's man Is gone,--his Christmas Caliban!

XVI.

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain, As tho' they walk'd behind thy bier,-- For since thou wilt not play again, What matters,--if in heav'n or here! Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!-- There's _Quick_ might just as well be dead!

XVII.

Oh, how will thy departure cloud The lamplight of the little breast! The Christmas child will grieve aloud To miss his broadest friend and best,-- Poor urchin! what avails to him The cold New Monthly's _Ghost of Grimm?_

XVIII.

For who like thee could ever stride! Some dozen paces to the mile!-- The motley, medley coach provide-- Or like Joe Frankenstein compile The _vegetable man_ complete!-- A proper _Covent Garden_ feat!

XIX.

Oh, who like thee could ever drink, Or eat,--swill, swallow--bolt--and choke! Nod, weep, and hiccup--sneeze and wink?-- Thy very yawn was quite a joke! Tho' Joseph, Junior, acts not ill, "There's no Fool like the old Fool" still!

XX.

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe! We met with mirth,--we part in pain! For many a long, long year must go Ere Fun can see thy like again-- For Nature does not keep great stores Of perfect Clowns--that are not _Boors_!

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 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 labors 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 vapor 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 gray, 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_-- Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist, And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist; Her visage glows warm with the ardor 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 fagot for burning, like Allan-a-dale! No smoke from her flue--and no steam from her pane, There 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 danced 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 looked 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 steem Indians, 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 Indians you never had but Two In my time to draw you About to Fairs--and hang 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, Tho' I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do-- It aint as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a Birds-high view! But Thats your look out--I've not much to do with that--But pleas God to hold up fine, I'd show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, And Thats more than you Can--and I'll say it behind your face-- But when Folks talks of washing, it aint for you to Speak,-- As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak! Thinks I, when I heard it--Well there's a pretty go! That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks, and Huddling 'em up so! Till Their friends conies and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel--and That aint your Fault, Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn'd,-- For if it warnt for Washing,--and whare Bills is concarned What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Womans Headication, 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 steem about! To be sure its very Well, when Their aint 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, Tho' a X Sherif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff--wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls,-- But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bare Faced Scrubbs As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem 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 Beau-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 Steem has ruined (G--d forgive mee) their lively Hoods, Poor Wommen 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 Angells--nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that's all Bespoke,-- For the Quakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk Do their own of Themselves--even the better-most of em--aye, and evn them of middling degrees-- Why Lauk help you Babby Linen aint Bread and Cheese! Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers,--like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Charnberses,--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 aint, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, aint you now by your next door naybors-- 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 the Creation-- And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked 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) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs-- And let your neighbors oxin an 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 aint nun at all, And Cristmass 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 to do good in his Harm-Chare-- Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you don't wash) And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, With a vast more like That,--and all along of Steem 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 You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam's milky ways--that's what you might, Or bete Carpets--or get into Parleamint,--or drive Crabrolays from morning to night, Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste! (Which is an od way of sleping, I must say,--and a very hard pillow at most,) Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares, Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen) and roe peple up and down Hungerford stares, Or 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 CAPTAIN PAERY[24]

"By the North Pole, I do challenge thee!"
_Love's Labour's Lost_.

[Footnote 24: The famous Arctic explorer was engaged for many years, from 1818 onwards, in his various efforts to discover the North-West Passage. He died in 1855.]

I.

Parry, my man! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the peg On which the world is spun? Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare Writ by the hand of Nature there Where man has never run!

II.

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown Of channels in the Frozen Zone, Or held at Icy Bay, Hast thou still miss'd the proper track For homeward Indian men that lack A bracing by the way?

III.

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble Of geographic scholar? Or found new ways for ships to shape, Instead of winding round the Cape, A short cut thro' the collar?

IV.

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to The Pole--tho' God knows whom they went to! That track reveal'd to Pope-- Or if the Arctic waters sally, Or terminate in some blind alley, A chilly path to grope?

V.

Alas! tho' Ross, in love with snows, Has painted them _couleur de rose_, It is a dismal doom, As Clauclio saith, to Winter thrice, "In regions of thick-ribbed ice"-- All bright,--and yet all gloom!

VI.

'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit Before the fire and worship it With pecks of Wallsend coals, With feet upon the fender's front, Roasting their corns--like Mr. Hunt-- To speculate on poles.

VII.

'Tis easy for our Naval Board-- 'Tis easy for our Civic Lord Of London and of ease, That lies in ninety feet of down, With fur on his nocturnal gown, To talk of Frozen Seas!

VIII.

'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, And prate about the mundane spit, And babble of _Cook's_ track-- He'd roast the leather off his toes, Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows, To plant a British _Jack_!

IX.

Oh, not the proud licentious great, That travel on a carpet skate, Can value toils like thine! What 'tis to take a Hecla range, Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange, And alpine lumps of brine?

X.

But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme, Can tell how hard it is to climb The lofty slippery steep, Ah! there are more Snow Hills than that Which doth black Newgate, like a hat, Upon its forehead, keep.

XI.

Perchance thou'rt now--while I am writing-- Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting About thy frozen spine! Or thou thyself art eating whale, Oily, and underdone, and stale, That, haply, cross'd thy line!

XII.

But I'll not dream such dreams of ill-- Rather will I believe thee still Safe cellar'd in the snow,-- Reciting many a gallant story, Of British kings and British glory, To crony Esquimaux--

XIII.

Cheering that dismal game where Night Makes one slow move from black to white Thro' all the tedious year,-- Or smitten by some fond frost fair, That comb'd out crystals from her hair, Wooing a seal-skin dear!

XIV.

So much a long communion tends, As Byron says, to make us friends With what we daily view-- God knows the daintiest taste may come To love a nose that's like a plum In marble, cold and blue!

XV.

To dote on hair, an oily fleece! As tho' it hung from Helen o' Greece-- They say that love prevails Ev'n in the veriest polar land-- And surely she may steal thy hand That used to steal thy nails!

XVI.

But ah, ere thou art fixed to marry, And take a polar Mrs. Parry, Think of a six months' gloom-- Think of the wintry waste, and hers, Each furnish'd with a dozen _furs_, Think of thine icy _dome_!

XVII.

Think of the children born to _blubber_! Ah me! hast thou an Indian rubber Inside!--to hold a meal For months,--about a stone and half Of whale, and part of a sea calf-- A fillet of salt veal!--

XVIII.

Some walrus ham--no trifle but A decent steak--a solid cut Of seal--no wafer slice! A reindeer's tongue and drink beside! Gallons of sperm--not rectified! And pails of water-ice!

XIX.

Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus? Still come away, and teach to us Those blessed alternations-- To-day to run our dinners fine, To feed on air and then to dine With Civic Corporations--

XX.

To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, And then to take a half-year's filling In P.N.'s pious Row-- When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son, Thro' something we have worn our pens on For Longman and his Co.

XXI.

O come and tell us what the Pole is-- Whether it singular and sole is,-- Or straight, or crooked bent,-- If very thick or very thin,-- Made of what wood--and if akin To those there be in Kent?

XXII.

There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, Have talk'd of poles--yet, after all, What has the public learn'd? And Hunt's account must still defer,-- He sought the _poll_ at Westminster-- And is not yet _return'd_!

XXIII.

Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, Is play'd in snow-towns near the Pole, And how the fur-man deals? And Eldon doubts if it be true, That icy Chancellors really do Exist upon the _seals_!

XXIV.

Barrow, by well-fed office grates, Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, And longs that he were there; And Croker, in his cabriolet, Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, And pants to cross the _mer_!

XXV.

O come away, and set us right, And, haply, throw a northern light On questions such as these:-- Whether, when this drown'd world was lost. The surflux waves were lock'd in frost, And turned to Icy Seas!

XXVI.

Is Ursa Major white or black? Or do the Polar tribes attack Their neighbors--and what for? Whether they ever play at cuffs, And then, if they take off their muffs In pugilistic war?

XXVII.

Tells us, is _Winter_ champion there, As in our milder fighting air? Say, what are _Chilly_ loans? What cures they have for rheums beside, And if their hearts get ossified From eating bread of bones?

XXVIII.

Whether they are such dwarfs--the quicker To circulate the vital liquor,-- And then, from head to heel-- How short the Methodists must choose Their dumpy envoys not to lose Their toes in spite of zeal?

XXIX.

Whether 'twill soften or sublime it To preach of Hell in such a climate-- Whether may Wesley hope To win their souls--or that old function Of seals--with the extreme of unction-- Bespeaks them for the Pope?

XXX.

Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd" Where six months' "midnight oil" is burn'd Or Letters must confer With people that have never conn'd An A, B, C, but live beyond The _Sound of Lancaster_!

XXXI.

O come away at any rate-- Well hast thou earn'd a downier state-- With all thy hardy peers-- Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, And rub thy feet with opodeldock, After such frosty years.

XXXII.

Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd. However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy rest In that _Brest Harbor_, woman's breast, And tempt the Fates no more!

ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.[25]

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_.

[Footnote 25: Hood, for obvious purposes, slightly departs from the true spelling of Dr. Kitchiner's name. He was an M. D. of Glasgow, who, having been left a handsome fortune by his father, abandoned the active practice of his profession, and devoted himself to science, notably to that of optics, as well as to gastronomy, being himself eminent as a gourmet. He was the author of a once famous Cookery Book, _The Cook's Oracle_; and an improved kitchen range still bears his name.]

Oh! 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 "Callipee!" 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_! 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 how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born By name and nature) oh! how night and morn He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that _Pan_ of music, Bishop! 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-- Aye, 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 Haydon on perpetual Haydon,--or Hume on "Twice three make four," 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 Welch 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-- "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 thee polar oil For melted butter--Combe with his medullary Notions about the _Skullery_, 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 would'st add,) the French have seen A Marshall _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 Colborn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analyzed a gravy. Colman--the Cutter of Coleman 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 humor 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 honor'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,-- The Dibdins,--Tom, Charles, Frognall,--came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns! 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_!

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, Matthews in Quot'em--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 honor seems to rest!--) And what is thy reward?--Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestowed 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 should'st 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 LAST MAN.

I.

'Twas in the year two thousand and one, A pleasant morning of May, I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone, A channting a merry lay,-- To think how the pest had spared my life, To sing with the larks that day!

II.

When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags: It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags;-- So up he came to the timber's foot And pitch'd down his greasy bags.--

III.

Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was! At pulling out his scraps,-- The very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps: "Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird, And have a taste of my snaps!"--

IV.

Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, I slided, and by him stood: But I wish'd myself on the gallows again When I smelt that beggar's food,-- A foul beef bone and a mouldy crust;-- "Oh!" quoth he, "the heavens are good!"

V.

Then after this grace he cast him down: Says I, "You'll get sweeter air A pace or two off, on the windward side"-- For the felons' bones lay there-- But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls, And offer'd them part of his fare.

VI.

"I never harm'd _them_, and they won't harm me: Let the proud and the rich be cravens!" I did not like that strange beggar man, He look'd so up at the heavens-- Anon he shook out his empty old poke;-- "There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens!"

VII.

It made me angry to see his face, It had such a jesting look; But while I made up my mind to speak, A small case-bottle he took: Quoth he, "Though I gather the green water-cress, My drink is not of the brook!"

VIII.

Full manners-like he tender'd the dram; Oh it came of a dainty cask! But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, "Your leave, good sir, I must ask; But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, When a hangman sups at my flask!"

IX.

And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, The churl was quite out of breath; I thought the very Old One was come To mock me before my death, And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones That were lying about the heath!

X

But the beggar gave me a jolly clap-- "Come, let us pledge each other, For all the wide world is dead beside, And we are brother and brother-- I've a yearning for thee in my heart, As if we had come of one mother."

XI.

"I've a yearning for thee in my heart That almost makes me weep, For as I pass'd from town to town The folks were all stone-asleep,-- But when I saw thee sitting aloft, It made me both laugh and leap!"

XII.

Now a curse (I thought) be on his love, And a curse upon his mirth,-- An it were not for that beggar man I'd be the King of the earth,-- But I promis'd myself, an hour should come To make him rue his birth!--

XIII.

So down we sat and bons'd again Till the sun was in mid-sky, When, just as the gentle west-wind came, We hearken'd a dismal cry: "Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, "Till those horrible dogs go by!"

XIV.

And, lo! from the forest's far-off skirts, They came all yelling for gore, A hundred hounds pursuing at once, And a panting hart before, Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot, And there his haunches they tore!

XV.

His haunches they tore, without a horn To tell when the chase was done; And there was not a single scarlet coat To flaunt it in the sun!-- I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, And his tears dropt one by one!

XVI.

And with curses sore he chid at the hounds, Till the last dropt out of sight, Anon saith he, "Let's down again, And ramble for our delight, For the world's all free, and we may choose A right cozie barn for to-night!"

XVII.

With that, he set up his staff on end, And it fell with the point due West; So we far'd that way to a city great, Where the folks had died of the pest-- It was fine to enter in house and hall, Wherever it liked me best!--

XVIII.

For the porters all were stiff and cold, And could not lift their heads; And when we came where their masters lay, The rats leapt out of the beds:-- The grandest palaces in the land Were as free as workhouse sheds.

XIX.

But the beggar man made a mumping face, And knocked at every gate: It made me curse to hear how he whined, So our fellowship turn'd to hate, And I bade him walk the world by himself, For I scorn'd so humble a mate!

XX.

So _he_ turn'd right and _I_ turn'd left, As if we had never met; And I chose a fair stone house for myself, For the city was all to let; And for three brave holydays drank my fill Of the choicest that I could get.

XXI.

And because my jerking was coarse and worn, I got me a properer vest; It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold, And a shining star at the breast,-- 'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave To see me so purely drest!--

XXII.

But Joan was dead and under the mould, And every buxom lass; In vain I watch'd, at the window pane, For a Christian soul to pass;-- But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, And brows'd on the new-come grass.--

XXIII.

When lo! I spied the old beggar man, And lustily he did sing!-- His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, And a crown he had like a King; So he stept right up before my gate And danc'd me a saucy fling!

XXIV.

Heaven mend us all!--but, within my mind, I had kill'd him then and there; To see him lording so braggart-like That was born to his beggar's fare, And how he had stolen the royal crown His betters were meant to wear.

XXV.

But God forbid that a thief should die Without his share of the laws! So I nimbly whipt my tackle out, And soon tied up his claws,-- I was judge, myself, and jury, and all, And solemnly tried the cause.

XXVI.

But the beggar man would not plead, but cried Like a babe without its corals, For he knew how hard it is apt to go When the law and a thief have quarrels, There was not a Christian soul alive To speak a word for his morals.

XXVII.

Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear, And put on my work-day clothes;-- I was tired of such a long Sunday life, And never was one of the sloths; But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal, And made many crooked mouths.

XXVIII.

So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot. And blinded him in his bags; 'Twas a weary job to heave him up, For a doom'd man always lags; But by ten of the clock he was off his legs In the wind and airing his rags!

XXIX.

So there he hung, and there I stood The LAST MAN left alive, To have my own will of all the earth: Quoth I, now I shall thrive! But when was ever honey made With one bee in a hive!

XXX.

My conscience began to gnaw my heart Before the day was done, For other men's lives had all gone out, Like candles in the sun!-- But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, A thousand necks in one!

XXXI.

So I went and cut his body down To bury it decentlie;-- God send there were any good soul alive To do the like by me! But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, And bay'd me up the tree!

XXXII.

My sight was like a drunkard's sight, And my head began to swim, To see their jaws all white with foam, Like the ravenous ocean-brim;-- But when the wild dogs trotted away Their jaws were bloody and grim!

XXXIII.

Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord! But the beggar man, where was he?-- There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags Below the gallows' tree!-- I know the Devil, when I am dead, Will send his hounds for me!--

XXXIV.

I've buried my babies one by one, And dug the deep hole for Joan, And cover'd the faces of kith and kin, And felt the old churchyard stone Go cold to my heart, full many a time, But I never felt so lone!

XXXV.

For the lion and Adam were company, And the tiger him beguil'd; But the simple kine are foes to my life, And the household brutes are wild. If the veriest cur would lick my hand, I could love it like a child!

XXXVI.

And the beggar man's ghost besets my dreams, At night to make me madder,-- And my wretched conscience, within my breast, Is like a stinging adder;-- I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, And look at the rope and ladder!--

XXXVII.

For hanging looks sweet,--but, alas! in vain, My desperate fancy begs,-- I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, And drink it to the dregs,-- For there is not another man alive, In the world, to pull my legs!

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.[26]

[Footnote 26: These famous verses were first published as from an anonymous correspondent in the _London Magazine_. When Hood reprinted them, under his own name, in the first series of _Whims and Oddities_, he prefaced them with the following words:--

"I have never been vainer of any verses than of my part in the
following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical nurses, has an
enviable renown; and Campbell's Ballads enjoy a snug, genteel
popularity. Sally Brown has been favored perhaps with as wide a
patronage as the Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been
of so select a class as the friends of 'Hohenlinden.' But I do not
desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The
lamented Emery, dressed as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal
benefit at Covent Garden; and ever since it has been a great
favorite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as
the wherrymen of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the
watermen it went naturally to Vauxhall, and over land to Sadler's
Wells. The Guards--not the mail coach, but the Lifeguards--picked
it out from a fluttering hundred of others, all going to one air,
against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. Cheap printers of Shoe Lane
and Cow Cross (all pirates!) disputed about the copyrights, and
published their own editions; and in the meantime the authors, to
have made bread of their song (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient
case!), must have sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of
Literature! the profits of 'Sally Brown' were divided by the Ballad
Mongers;--it has cost, but has never brought me, a halfpenny."]

AN OLD BALLAD.

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint.
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water-side,
And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her,--
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow";
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see";--
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,
What a hard-ship that must be!

"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But, oh! I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
'The virgin and the scales,'
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales,"

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all the sails were furl'd.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.

"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so,
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!"

Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happen'd in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.

"AS IT FELL UPON A DAY."

Oh! what's befallen Bessy Brown,
She stands so squalling in the street;
She's let her pitcher tumble down,
And all the water's at her feet!

The little school-boys stood about,
And laugh'd to see her pumping, pumping;
Now with a curtsey to the spout,
And then upon her tiptoes jumping.

Long time she waited for her neighbors,
To have their turns:--but she must lose
The watery wages of her labors,--
Except a little in her shoes!

Without a voice to tell her tale,
And ugly transport in her face;
All like a jugless nightingale,
She thinks of her bereavèd case.

At last she sobs--she cries--she screams!
And pours her flood of sorrows out,
From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,
Just like the lion on the spout.

For well poor Bessy knows her mother
Must lose her tea, for water's lack,
That Sukey burns--and baby-brother
Must be dryrubb'd with huck-a-back!

THE STAG-EYED LADY.

A MOORISH TALE.

Scheherazade immediately began the following story.

I.

Ali Ben Ali (did you never read
His wond'rous acts that chronicles relate,--
How there was one in pity might exceed
The Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate
Upon the throne of greatness--great indeed!
For those that he had under him were great--
The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,
Was a Bashaw--Bashaws have horses' tails.

II.

Ali was cruel--a most cruel one! 'Tis rumored he had strangled his own mother-- Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too--but happily that none Did live within harm's length of one another, Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days.

III.

Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit, And makes a bad man--absolutely bad, Made Ali wicked--to a fault:--'tis fit Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had No curb upon his will--no, not a _bit_-- Wherefore he did not reign well--and full glad His slaves had been to hang him--but they falter'd And let him live unhang'd--and still unalter'd,

IV.