^' . ,0^ e Hq<. ^ -^ oil -■!■' .4-^ <^^ : ^ov^ .♦^-V. V^^ 1^ -^6^ * ^^ ^^0^ <^%^ Li THE CHOICE WORKS or THOMAS HOOD, In ?3roge anli Uerse, INCLUDIN'i THX CREAM OF THE COMIC ANNUALS. WITH LtTE OP THS AUTHOR, PORTRAIT, AND OVEB Tiro HUNDRED JLLUSTRATJONS. NEW YORK JOHN WURTELE LOVELL, PUBLISHER 14 & 16 AsTOR Place 6^ CONTENTS. MsMon rAG* ix EARLY ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. Ode to Dr Kitchener • • • To Hope . . • • . The Cook's Oracle • • • To Celia Presentiment .... Mr Martin's Pictures and the Bonassus ..... 19 The Two Swans . . . .21 PACB I 2 4 14 IS Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy . . .27 Address to Mr Cross, of Exeter Change 3<» Elegy on David Laing, Esq. . 33 Stanzas to Tom Woodgate . . 35 A Sentimental Journey from Isling- ton to Waterloo Bridge . . 38 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. Ode to Mr Graham, the Aeronaut A Friendly Epistle to Mrs Fry, in Newgate .... Ode to R. Martin, Esq., M.P. . Ode to the Great Unknown . . Ode ;o Joseph Grimaldi, Senior . Ab Address to the Steam- Wash- ing Company .... 49 55 60 62 72 Letter of Remonstrance from Bridget Jones .... Ode to Captain Parry . . Address to Maria Darlington, on her Return to the Stage . . Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D. Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq. 74 77 84 89 WHIMS AND ODDITIES— (First Series, 1826). Moral Reflections on the Cross of St Paul's . Tlic Prayse of Ignorance A Valentine . . Love .... " Please to ring the Belle* A Receipt — for Civilisation On the Popular Cupid . The Last Man . . The Ballad of " Sally Brown and 91 Ben the Carpenter " . 112 93 Backing the Favourite . "5 95 A Complaint against Greatness 116 97 The Mermaid of Margate 118 98 My Son, Sir 122 99 " As it fell upon a Day " . 123 104 A Fairy Tale . . . 124 105 The Spoiled Child , « . 123 The Fa?I of the Deer . r^cceniber and May . A Winter No-e^My I'.questrian Courisliip . " She is far from tlie Land' Fancies on a Teacup . 1 he Stag-Eyed Lady . Walton Redivivus . CONTENTS. FACE PACI . 129 " Love me, Ic ve my Dog " . 147 . 131 Renionstratnry Ode . 150 • 131 A New Liff-Prescrver . . 154 . 133 A Dream . . . , . 156 . 134 The Irish Schoolmaster . 161 • «37 The Sea-Spell . 169 . 139 Faithless Nelly Gray . . 174 . 143 Fancy Portraits . , , . 176 WHIMS AND ODDITIES— (Second Scries, 1827). rreface . 180 Itimca's Dream , 182 A Ballad-Singer . 190 Mary's Ghost 191 The Progress of Art 193 A School for Adults 196 A Legend of Navarre 200 Tiie Demon Sliip . 206 Sally Holt, and the Death of John Hayloft . . 20S A True Story . 211 The Decline of Mrs Shakerly 216 Tim Turpin . . . 218 '1 he Monkey Martyr . . 222 r.andiiii • . 225 Death's Ramble . . • • 227 Craniology . An Affair of Honour A Parthian Glance A Sailor's Apology for " Nothing but Hearts" Jack Hall . The We« Man . Pythagorean Fancies " Don't you smell Fire? The Volunteer A Marriage Procession The Widow . , A Mad Dog . . John Trot . , An Absentee . Ode to the Camehpard Bow The Pi.ea of the Midsummer Fairies Hkro and Leander .... Lycus tmk Ckntaur .... The Two Peacocks of Bedfont . let's . 27S • 307 . 329 . 3i8 MINOR POEMS. A Retrospective Review . 344 The Sea of Death. • . .356 Pair Ines . . 34^' Ballad .... . . 357 Tin- Diparture of Summer . .348 I icm'.mbcr, I remember . .35S Song lor Music . ■ . 35' Ballad .... • 359 Ode : Autumn . . 351 The Water Lady . , . 36c Lalia.l . . 353 The i:xile . . . , . 36c Hymn to the Sun . 354 To an Absentee . . , . 361 To a Cold Beauty . 354 Song .... .361 Autumn . 355 Ode to the Moon . .3(>' Ruth . . ^S^ To . . . . . 36J CONTENTS. «9 The Forsaken • • • • Autumn . . • • • Ode to Melancholy . . Sonnet on Mrs Nicely, a Pattern for Housekeepers . . . Sonnet written in a Volume of Shakespeare . . . . Sonnet to Fancy . • • . PACE 365 365 366 368 369 369 Sonnet to an Enthusiast • . 369 Sonnet 37° Sonnet 370 Sonnet on receiving a Gift . . 370 Sonnet . 371 Sonnet . . • • « 371 Sonnet: Silence • • • . 372 CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE GEM. A Widow 373 Tlie Farewell .... 374 The Dream of Eugene Aram . 375 On a Picture of Hero and Leander 38c. A May-Day . . • • . 380 CREAM OF THE COMIC ANNUALS. The Pugsley Papers . 384 A Letter from an Emigrant • 395 Sonnet on Steam . . .398 A Report iiom Below . . 399 The Las,t Shilling . . 402 Ode to M. Brunei . 406 A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme . 40S A Letter from a Market-Ga rdener to the Secretary of the Horti- cultural Society . . 410 D')ni<:;stic Asides . , . 412 The Schoolmaster Abroad . 413 Sketches on the Road . . 419 John Day . . . . 422 The Parish Revolution. . 425 The Furlough . . . 434 Number One . . • 436 The Drowning Ducks . .438 An Assent to the Summut of Mount Blank . . . 441 A Horse-Dealer , • . 444 The Fall . 446 The Illuminati . . . 448 Conveyancing . , • 453 A I-etter from a Settler for Life in Van Diemeu's Land . , • 455 Sonnet 458 Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist .... 458 Saint Mark's Eve . . . 460 I'm not a Single Man . . . 465 A Greenwich Pensioner . . 469 The Burning of the Love-Letter . 470 The Angler's Farewell . . .471 Sea-Song after Dibdin . . . 473 A Singular Exhibition at Somerset House 474 The Yeomanry .... 477 An Unfavourable Review . . 479 I'm going to Bombay . . . 485 Ode to the Advocates for the Re- moval of Smithfield Market . 488 Drawn for a Soldier . . . 492 Ode for St Cecflia's Eve . . 494 Reflections on Water . • . 499 A Blow-up . . . • . 50a The Wooden Leg . » , 507 The Ghost 509 Ode to ^Tadame Hengler . • 511 Rhyme and Reason , , .514 The Double Knock • • • ^\% A Fox- Hunter . . • .516 Bailey Ballads . . . .518 CONTENTS. Letter from a Parish Clerk in Barbadoes to one in Hampshire 523 Our Village 526 The Scrape- Book . . . .530 A True Story . . . .533 The Sorrows of an Undertaker . 536 The Carelesse Nurse-Mayd . . 539 The Life of Zimmermann . , 540 The Compass, with Variation* . 543 The Duel 549 Ode to Mr Malthas . , .550 A Good Direction . . •554 The Pleasures of Sporting , .556 There's no Romance in that . 561 The Abstraction . , , , 564 Miller Redivivus . . , , 567 A Zoological Report • • • 570 Shooting Pains . . , •573 The Boy at the Nore . . .577 Great Earthquake at Mary-le-bone 580 Ode to St Swithin . . .583 The Apparition .... 586 The Schoolmaster's Motto * . 589 A Blind Man . . , . 591 The Supper Superstition • . 592 A Snake-Snack .... 594 A Storm at Hastings . , . 596 ines to a Lady on her Departure for India • • • • . 603 Sonnet to a Scotch Girl washing Linen 605 Sonnet to a Decayed Seaman . 606 Huggins and Duggins . . . 607 Domestic Didactics . . . 614 The Broken Dish . . .611 Ode to Peace .... 6i3 A Few Lines on completing Forty- Seven 613 To Mary Housemaid . . .613 Pain in a Pleasure-Boat . . 614 A Spent Ball . . . .618 Literary and Literal . . . 619 Sonnet to Lord Wharncliffe, on his Game-Bill .... 624 The Undying One . . . 625 Cockle V. Cackle .... 626 Letter from an Old Sportsman . 630 Tlie Sub-Marine .... 634 The Island 635 The Kangaroos : a Fable . . 639 Ode for the Ninth of November . 641 Rondeau 645 London Fashions for November . 646 Symptoms of Ossification . , 647 Some Account of William Whiston 648 Lines to a Friend at Cobham . 650 To a Bad Rider . , , .651 My Son and Pleir • • • 65a NATIONAL TALES. Preface • • • • . 655 The Spanish Tragedy . . . 656 The Miracle of the Holy Hermit . 677 The Widow of Galicia . . . 680 The Golden Cup and Dish of Silver 683 1 he Tragedy of Seville . . 685 The Lady in Love with Romance 689 The Eighth Sleeper of Ephesus . 692 Madeline ..... 694 Masetto and his Mare . . . 698 The Story of Michel Argenti . 701 The Three Jewels , , . 704 Geronimo and Ghisola ... 707 The Fall of the Leaf . . •710 Baranga . . • . . 713 The Exile . . • . .7t6 The Owl . . . 720 The German Knight • . 722 The Florentine Kinsmen . . 72b The Carrier's Wife . • 729 The Two Faithful Lovers of Sicily 733 The Venetian Countess • • 738 A Tale of the Harem . . 746 The Chestnut Tree . . 755 The Fair Maid of Ludgate . 762 The Three Brothers . . 769 MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. 'T'HOMAS HOOD was bom on the 23d May 1799, in the Poultry, at the house of his father, a partner in the firm of Vemor & Hood, booksellers and publishers. His mother was a Miss Sands, sister to the engraver of that name, to whom the subject of our memoir was afterwards articled. ' The family consisted of two sons, James and Thomas ; and of four daughters, Elizabeth, Anne, Jessie, and Catherine. Hood's father was a man of cultivated taste and literary inclinations, and was the author of two novels which attained some popularity in their day, although now their very names are forgotten. Thomas Hood was sent to a school in Tokenhouse Yard in the City, as a day-boarder. The two maiden sisters who kept the school, and with whom Hood took his dinner, bore the odd name of Hogsflesh, and they had a sensitive brother, who was always addressed as Mr H., and who afterwards became the prototype of Charles Lamb's unsuccessful farce. After the death of his father and his elder brother in rSii, he was apprenticed to his uncle, Mr Robert Sands, the engraver, and plied the burin for some years under his guidance. He thus learnt something of the art which he practised with such pleasant results in after-years in producing grotesque illustrations to his own verses and sketches. This sedentary employment not agree- ing with his health, he was sent for change to some relations at Dundee. He remained in Scotland for a considerable time, and made his first appearance in print there in 1S14, first in the X MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. Dundee Advertiser, then edited by Mr JRintoul, and subsequently in the Dundee Magazine. These early effusions we have not suc- ceeded in procuring, owing to the difficulty of obtaining access to local periodical publications, or we should have gratified the reader's curiosity by reprinting them. On his return to London, after practising for a short time as an engraver, and doing some fruitless desk-work in a merchant's office, an opening that offered more congenial employment pre- sented itself at last, when he was about twenty-two years of age. In 1 82 1, Mr John Scott, the editor of the Londoji Magazine, was killed in a duel. The magazine passed into the hands of Messrs Taylor & Hessey, who were friends of Hood's, and he was offered and acce])ted the sub-editorship. His first original paper ap pearcd in the number for July 182 1, and he continued to con tribute till the summer of 1823. Hood's connexion with the London Magazine was the means of bringing him into contact with many of the chief wits and literati of tlie time, and more especially with Charles Lamb, whose influence over his style and manner of writing is very clearly traceable. All these literary friendships have been delight- fully described in his own " Reminiscences." One of the contributors to the London Magazine was John Hamilton Reynolds, author of an exquisite little volume of verse entitled "The Garden of Florence," whose articles apj)eared under the pseudonym of " Edward Herbert." The acquaintance thus begun had lasting results. On the 5th May 1824, Hood was married to Reynolds's sister, Jane. In the following year (1825) he produced conjointly with his brother-in-law Ins first publication in a separate form, viz., " Odes and Addresses to Great People." This little volume rapidly passed through three editions, and made almost as great a stir as the " Rejected Addresses" of James and Horace Smith. A copy of the first edition, marked Ijy Hood him« self, and now in the possession of the present publishers, thus apportions the respective autliorship of the pieces it contains : — MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. Ode to Mr Graham , T. H. Ode to Mr M'Adam , J. H. Reynold*, Epistle to Mrs Fry . T, H. Ode to Richard Martin T. H. Ode to the Great Unknown T. H. To Mr Dymoke J. H.R. To Grimaldi . T. H. To Sylvanus Urban . J. H.R. To the Steam-Washing Company T. H. To Captain Parry . T. II. To Elhston . J. H.R. To Maiia Darlington . Joint. To Dr Kitchener , T. H, To the Dean and Chapt er J. H.R. To H. Bodkin, Esq. . Joint. In the present edition we have not thought it necessary oi desirable to include those pieces in the above hst which are assigned entirely to Reynolds's authorship. It was in the two series of " Whims and Oddities," * however, published in 1826 and 1827, and illustrated by his own pencil, that Hood first hit on the peculiar vein of humour by which he afterwards became most famous. These twin volumes obtained an immediate and decisive success, which is more than can be said of the volume of serious poems, " Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," and of the two volumes of " National Tales," which followed them in rapid succession in 1827. And yet there is an indefinable grace and charm about the graver productions of Hood's muse, and a picturesque and sometimes weird atmosphere of romance and imagination about the prose stories, that have won the suffrages of many later readers, and that made it seem proper to reproduce them here as representative of one important side of Hood's genius, though not the comic or more popular side. His " Dream of Eugene Aram," first printed in an annual entitled " The Gem," which Hood edited in 1829, is represen- tative of another class of SLrious j)oems in which he excelled — * The title of this work was probably .suggested by a line in Mr Ilookhara Freie's poem of " The Monks and the Giants," published some years previously. «fi MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD, •* those which consist in the vivid imagination and abrupt lyric representation of ghastly situations in physical nature and in human life."* In this year Hood left London for Winchmore Hill, where he took a very pretty cottage situated in a pleasant garden. Here the little jeu d'esprit of " The Epping Hunt " t was written and published as a small pamphlet in 1829 (passing into a second edition in 1830), with six illustrations by George Cruikshank. At Winchmore Hill also his son was bom in 1830. In this year Hood commenced his Christmas serial entitled "The Comic Annual," which enjoyed a long run of public favour, and con- tinued to be published every winter, without intermission, until 1839, when it was discontinued; but resumed for one year only in 1842, when the eleventh and last volume appeared. In 1830 Hood also published a series of "Comic Melodies," which con- sisted of songs written for the entertainments of Mathews and Yates. The motto on the cover of each number was " A doleful song a doleful look retraces, And merry music maketh merry faces.** Over this was a comic illustration of the lines, consisting of some musical notes, the heads of which were filled in with laughing and grimacing countenances. About this period Hood was on several occasions induced to attempt dramatic composition for the stage. He wrote the libretto for a little English opera, brought out, it is believed, at the Surrey Theatre. Its name is lost now, although it had a good run at the time. Perhaps it may be recognised by some old play- goer by the fact that its dramatis personxs were all bees. He also assisted his brother-in-law (Reynolds) in the dramatising of " Gil * Professor Masson in Macmillan's Magazine, II. 328 (August i860), art Thomas Hood. t A companion volume to this, to be entitled " Ejisom Races," was announced In characteristic phrase on the back of the cover, but apparently the design was abandoned, as we cannot discover that such a pamphlet ever appeared. MEMOIR OP THOMAS HOOD. xiil Bias," produced at Drury Lane. For Mr Frederick Yates of the Old Adelphi Theatre he wrote a little entertainment entitled *' Harlequin and Mr Jenkins ; or, Pantomime in the Parlour," * and for other theatres two farces, entitled "York and Lan- caster ; or, a School without Scholars," and " Lost and Found." He likewise supplied the text of an entertainment called " The Spring Meeting," for Charles Mathews the elder. In 1832 Hood left Winchmore Hill, and became the occupier of a house, called Lake House, at Wanstead in Essex. Here he wrote the novel of " Tylney Hall," which was published in the usual three- volume form in 1834. It should be mentioned that during these years Hood was also a large contributor to the fashionable Annuals of the time, "The Forget Me Not," " The Souvenir," " Friendship's Offering," &c., and to the Literary Gazette and the Athenceum. In 1835 the failure of a publishing firm having involved Hood in pecuniary difficulties, he resolved to leave England and live on the Continent. Going over in March of that year, he fixed on Coblenz on the Rhine as the most suitable for his purpose. During about two years that place continued to be the head- quarters of the family. In the middle of 1837 he removed to Ostend. From this prolonged exile, which extended on to 1840, arose the volume published in that year and entitled " Up the Rhine," a work written in a series of letters, avowedly after the model of " Humphrey Clinker." After five years of expatriation, Hood returned to England and took a nouse at Camberwell. He became a contributor to the New Monthly Alagazine, then edited by Theodore Hook, upon whose death in the following year (1841), he himself succeeded to the editorship, and continued in that office until 1843, con- tributing to its pages a number of sketches and verses, which he republished in two volumes in 1844, with illustrations by John Leech, under the title of "Whimsicalities." In 1842 he had • Printed in Duncombe's edition of " Mathews and Yates at Home." »{v MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. removed to St John's Wood, where he continued to reside till hia death, first in Elm Tree Road, and then in Finchley Road. In the Christmas number of Punch for 1843 appeared the famous " Song of the Shirt," together with a less-known piece, "The Pauper's Christmas Carol." There are several other articles, poems, and cuts in the fourth and fifth volumes of Punch presumably by Hood. On New Year's day 1844 was started Hood's Monthly Magazine and Comic Miscellany, with a very promising staff of contributors. Meanwhile Hood's health had been gradually failing. Even during his sojourn on the Continent alarming symptoms had manifested themselves, and since his return to England, matters had gradually grown worse and worse. After some years of suffering and pain, all hope was at last given up. One night in a delirious wandering he was heard to repeat to his wife Jane the lovely words of the Scottish song — "I'm fading awa', Jean, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean 1 I'm fading awa', Jean, To the land o' the leal 1 But weep na, my ain Jean, The world's care's in vain, Jean, We'll meet and aye be fain, Jean, In the land o' the leal 1 " An offer of a pension from Government of ;^ioo a year, to be conferred on his wife, as his own life was so precarious, came through Sir Robert Peel in the latter part of 1844, but the grant was to take effect from the previous June. Sir Robert Peel did this welcome and friendly action in the most courteous and generous way, accompanying it with a letter in which he begged for one return — the opportunity of making Hood's personal acquaintance. The meeting, however, never took place, for Hood grew too ill to allow of its possibility, being only kept alive by frequent instalments of mulled port-wine. He wrote to his benefactor to this effect, and Sir Robert Peel replied in a MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. xf beautiful and touching letter, earnestly hoping for his recovery. There are few more beautiful traits in the great statesman's character, and few stories more honourable to him, than this of his kindness to poor Hood during the last sad months of supreme suffering. He could die at least with the assurance that those nearest and dearest to him would not be reduced to beggary. The end grew nearer and nearer. Some weeks ensued of protracted anguish, of almost indescribable suffering, and of con- vulsive efforts to hold life yet a little longer. At last, on the 3d May 1845, ^fter two days' total unconsciousness, he breathed his last, having scarcely attained the age of forty-six. He was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, and eighteen months afterwards his faithful and devoted wife was laid by his side. R. H. a EARLY ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. ODE TO DR KITCHENER,* Ye Muses nine inspire And stir up my poetic fire ; i Teach my burning soul to speak With a bubble and a squeak ! Of Dr Kitchener I fain would sing, Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles rin^ O culinary sage ! (I do not mean the herb in use. That always goes along with goose) How have I feasted on thy page : '' When hke a lobster boil'd the mom From black to red began to turn," Till midnight, when I went to bed, And clapt my tewah-diddle t on my head. Who is there cannot tell. Thou lead'st a life of living well? ** What baron, or squire, or knight of the shirS Lives half so well as a holy Fry — er?" In doing well thou must be reckon'd The first, — and Mrs Fry the second ; /Vnd twice a Job, — for, in thy feverish toils, Thou w ast all over roasts — as well as boils. Thou wast indeed no dunce. To treat thy subjects and thyself at oncC: r Many a hungry poet eats His brains like thee, But few there be Could live so long on their receipts. • Loudon Magazine, November 1821. ♦ The Doctor's composiiion lur a nightcap. TO HOPE. What living soul or sinner, Would slight thy invitation to a dinner. Ought with the Dan;iids to dwell, Draw i^ravy in a cullender, and hear For ever in his ear The pleasjnt tinkling of thy dinner bciL Immortal' Kitchener ! thy f^me Sh.ill i That long have lain neglected by In sorrow's misty atmosphere ; It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken Such joyous notes so brisk and high ; But are its golden chords all broken ? Are there not some, though weak and low. To play a lullaby to woe ? But thou canst sing of love no more, For Celia show'd that dream was vain ; And many a fancied bliss is o'er. That comes not e'en in dreams again. Alas ! alas! How pleasures pass, And leave thee now no subject, save The peace and bliss beyond the grave! Then be thy flight among the skies : lake, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing. And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing ! Another life-spring there adorns Another youth, without the dread Oi cruel care, whose crown of thorns Is here for manhood's aching he id,— Oh ! tl-.ere are realms of welcome day, A world where tears are wiped away ! Then be thy flight among the skies : Take, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing^ And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing ! THE COOK'S ORACLE. THE COOK'S ORACLED TTie CooVs Oracle; conlainiuj; J\ecdpis foi- Plain Cookery^ &'c.; i^f7u^oleifin^/lit Rdsuli of actual Experiments instituted in the Kitchen of a Physician. DR KITCHENER has greatly recognised the genius of his name by taking boldly the path to which it points ; disregarding all the usual seductions of life, he has kept his eye steadily on the larder, the Mecca of his appetite ; and has unravelled all the mysteries and intricacies of celery sotip, and beef haricot, to the eyes of a reading public. He has taken an extensive kitchen range over the whole world of stews, and broils, and roasts, and comes home to the fireside (from which, indeed, his body has never departed), boiling over with knowledge — stored with curiosities of bone and sinew — a made-up human dish of cloves, mace, curry, cat-up, cayenne, and the like. He has sailed over all the soups, has touched at all the quarters of the lamb, has been, in short, round the stomach world, and returns a second Captain Cook! Dr Kitchener has written a book; and if he, good easy man, should think to surprise any friend or acquaintance by slily asking, "Wh.u book have I written?" he would be sure to be astounded with a successful reply, "A book on Cookery." His name is above all disguises. In the same way a worthy old jjentleman of our acquaintance, who was wont to lead his visitors around his kitchen garden (the Doctor will prick up his ears at this) which he had care- fully and cunningly obscured with a laurel hed:4e. and who always said, with an exulting tone, " Now, you would be puzzled to say where the kitchen g uden was situated," once met with a stony he.irted m m who remorselessly answered, "Not I ! over that hedge, to be sure." The Doctor might exi ect you, in answer to his query, to say— "A book, sir ! Why, perhaps you have plunged your whole soul into the ocean of an epic ; or rolled your mind, with the success of a Sisyphus, up the hill of metaphysics; or pi .yed the sed ite game of the mathematics, that Chinese puzzle to English minds ! or gone a tour with Dugald Stewart, in search of the picturesque, or leaped double sentences and waded through meta(ihors, in a grammatical steeple- chase with Colonel Thornton; or turned liter-iiy cuckoo, and gone sucking the eggs of other people's books, and making the woods of the world echo with one solitary, complaining, r^7//V7xv'/;^ note." Such might be the Doctor's notion of a reply, to wliich we fancy we see him simmering \v\\}ci delight, and saying, "No, sir! I have not meddled either with the curry of poetry or the cold meat of prose. I have not wasted over the slow fire of the metaphysics, or cut up the mathe- matics into thin slices — I have not lost myself amongst the kick-shaivs of fine scenery, or pampered myself on the mock-tunle of metaohors. Neither have I dined at the table and the expense of other men's minds! No, sir, I have written on cookery, on the kitchen, on the solids — 'the substantials. Sir Giles, the substantials !'" * London Magazine, Oct. 1821. THE COOK'S ORACLE % If it were not that critics are proverbial for having no bowels, we should hesitate nt entering the riaradise of pies and pviddint:s which Dr Kitchener has opened to us ; tor the steam of his rich sentences rises about our senses like the odours of flowers nrownd the imagina* tion of a poet ; and larded beef goes nij^h to lord it over our bewil- dered appetites. But being steady men, of sober and temperate habits, and ustd to privatinns in the way of food, we shall not scruple at looking a leg of mutton in the face or shaking hands wiih a shoulder of veal. " Minced cnllops" nothing daunt us ; we brace our nerves, and are not overwlielnitd with "cockle catsup!" When Bays asks his friend, " How do \ ou do when you write?" it would seem that he had the Cook's Oracle in his eye — for to men of any mastication, never was there a book that required more training for a quiet and useful perusal. Cod's-head rises before you in all its glory ! while the oy^iers revolve around it, in their firmament of melitd butter, like its well-ordLred satellites ! Moorgame, mackerel, mussels, fowls, eggs, and force-meat balls, start up in all directions and dance the hays in the imagination. We should recommend those readers with whom dinner is a habit, not to venture on the Doctor's pages, without seeing that their hun^^er, like a ferocious house-do^^, is carefully tied up. To read four pajes with an unchained appetite, would bring on dreadful dreams of being destroyed with spits, or drowned in mulligatawny soup, or of having your tongue neatly smothered in your own brains, and, as Mathews sav s, a lemon stuck in your mouth. We cannot but conceive that such reading, in such unprepared minds, would have strange influences ; and that the dreams of persons would be dished up to suit the various palates. The school-girl would, like the French goose, "be persuaded to roast itself.'' The indolent man would "sleep a fortnight," and even then not be fit for use. The lover would dream th.^t his heart was overdone. The author would be roasted alive in his own quills and basted \\'\\\\ cold ink. It were an endless task to follow this specula- tion ; and indeed we are keeping our readers too long without the meal to which we have taken the liberty of inviting them. The dinner ''bell invites" us — we go, and it is done. The book, the Cook's Oracle, opens with a preface, as other boous occasionally do ; hut "there the likeness ends ;" tor it continues with a whole bunch of introductions, treating of conks, and invita- tions to dinner, and refusals, and "friendly advice," and weights and measures, and then we get fairly launched on the sea of boiling, broiling, roasting, stewing, and again return and cast anchor among the vegetables. It is impossible to say where the book begins; it is a heap of initiatory chapters — a parcel of graces before meat. — a bunch of heads, — the asparagus of literature. You are not troubled with "more last words of Mr Baxter," but are delighted, and r^'dehghied, with more first words of Dr Kitchener. He makes s.everal staris like a restless race-horse before he fairly gets upon the second course ; or rather, like L idy Macbeth's dinner party, he stands much upon the order of his going. But now, to avoid sinking into the same trick, we will proceed without further preface to conduct our readers through the maze of pots, gridirons, and fr) ing pans, \\ hich Dr Kitchener hiis ■S THE COOK'S ORACLE. reiidfred a very poetical, or we should say, a very palaltble ainus*' ment. '^\\t first preface tells us, inter alia, that he has worked all the culinary pioblcnis which Ins book contains in his own kitchen ; and th.it, after this warm experif nee, he did not venture to print a sawce, or a stew, until he had read " two hundred cookery books," which, as he says, "he patiently pioneered through, before lie set about record- ing the results of his o«n exp-iriments ! " We scarcely thought there had been so many volumes written oi| the Dutch-oven. The first introduction begins thus : " The followmg receipts are not a mere marrowless collection of shreds, and patches, and cuttings, and paslings, l)ut a(^^//d-going clock." He then s eaks of food "well done when it is done," which leads to certain leaned sentences upon indigestion. The sad disregard of dinner-hours generally observed meets with his most serious displeasure and re- buke ; but to refuse an invitation to dinner is the capital crime, for which there is apparently no capital punishment. "Nothing can be more disobliging than a refusal which is not grounded on some very strong and unavoidable cause, except not coining at the appointed hour ; according to the laws of conviviality, a certiticate from a sheriff's officer, a doctor, or an undertaker, are the only pleas which are • This cook of a goose, or goose of a cook, whichever it may be, strangely reminds us of the Doctor's own iiUense and eniliu=iastic bustle among tiie b'ltter-hoats. We fancy we .'^ee him, and not the goose, "walking about, and fiving here and there, being cooped in by ihe fire." Ly this time, we should suppose, he must be about "roasted enough." • THE COOK'S ORACLE. admissible. The duties which invitation imposes do not fall only oa the persons invited, but, like all other social duties, are recij)rocal." If you should, therefore, fortunately happen to be arrested, or heave had the good luck to fracture a limb, or, if better than nil, you should have taken a box in that awful theatre at «hi«h all must be present once and for ever ; you may be pardoned refusing the invitation of some tiresome friend to take a chou ; but there is no other excuse, no other available excuse, for absenting yourself; no mental inaptitude will save you. Late comers are thus rebuked : — " There are some who seldom keep an appointment ; we can assure them they as seldom ''scape without whipping,' and exciting those murmurs which inevitably proceed from the best-regulated stomachs —when they are empty and impatient to be filled." Carving is the next subject of the Doctors c.ire ; but he resolutely and somewhat vehemently protests against your wielding the king of knives at any otlier table than your own : thus for ever excluding an author from the luxuries of table-anatomy. After giving an erudite passage from the "Almanach des Gourmands," tUe Doctor wanders into anecdote, and becomes facetious after the following recipe : — " I once heard a gentle hint on this subject given to a blue-mould fancier, who, by looking too long at a Stilton cheese, was at last com- pletely overcome by his eye exciting his appetite, till it became quite ungovernable, and unconscious of e\erything but the inity object of his contemplation, he Ijegan to pick out, in no small portions, the priinest parts his eye could select from the centre of tiie cheese. "The good-natured foimder of the feast, highly amused at the ecsta- sies each morsel created in its passage over ilie palate of the enraptured gourmand, thus encouraged the perseverance of his guest — " Cut away, my dear sir, cut away, use no ceremony, I pray : — I hope you wdl pick out all the best of my cheese — the rind and the rotten will do very well for my wife and family ! " There is something so serene and simple in the above little story, that we recommend it to persons after dmner in preference to those highly-seasoned and spicy jests which Mr Joseph Miller has potted for the use of posterity The next introduction contains '" Friendly Advice to Cooks and other servants ;" but we cannot he.p thinking that Dr Swift has in some degree forestalled our own good Doctor in this department of literature, altliough perhaps Dr Kitchener is the most sober of counsellors. Tlie following, to be sure, is a little sus- picious : — "Enter into all their plans of economy, and endeavour to make the most of everything, as well for your own honour 3s your master's profit." This, without the note, would be unex- ceptionable ; but the Doctor quotes from Dr Trusler (all the Doctors are redolent of servants) as follows : — " I am persuaded that no ser- vant ever saved her master sixpence but she found it in the end in her own pocket.'^ — " Have the dust removed," s lys Dr Kitchener, "regularly every fortnight !" — What dust f — Not that, we trust, which people are often entreated to come down with. T'ie accumulation of soot has its dire evils : for '• many good dinners have been spoiled, and many houses burned down, by the soot falling." Thus the Doctor very vroperly puts the greater evil first. " Give notice to your employe:! THE COOK'S ORACLE. 9 u'hen the contents of your coal cellar are diminished to a chaldron." Diininished I we should be glad to hear when our cellars had increased to thiii stock. There is no hope, then, for those chnmber-gentUmeri who fritter away their lives by sack or Ijushel ! Dr Kitchener is rather abstruse and oarticular in another of his directions : — " The best rule for 7iiarketi>!g is to pay ready money fo?- evetything." This is a good rule with the elect; but, is there no luxury in a baker's VjiII ? Are butchers' reckonings nothing? Is there no virtue in a milk-tally? We cannot help thinking that tick was a great invention, and gives many a man a dinner that would otherwise go unfed. The chapter on weights and measures is short, but deeply interest- ing and intense. There is an episode upon trough nutmeg- graters that would do the water-gruel generation good to hear. And now the book be.Liins to boil. The reader is told that meat takes twenty minutes to the pound; and that block-tin saucepans are the bfst. We can fish out little tlse, except a long and rather skilful cal- culation of the manner in which meat jockeys itself and reduces its weight in the cooking. Buckle and S.im Chiffney are nothing to "a leg of mutton with tl.e shank bone taken out ;" and it perhaps might not be amiss if the Newmarket profession were to consider how far it would be practicable to substitute the cauldron for the blanket, and thus reduce by steam. We should suppose a young gentleman, with half-an-hour's boiling, would ride somewhere about feather- weight. B iking is dismissed in a pnge and a half. We are sorry to find that some joints, when fallen into poverty and decay, are quite unworthy of credit. "When baking a joint oi poor meat, before it has been half baked I have seen it (what?) start from the bone, and shrivel up scarcely to be believed" Roasting is the next object of Dr Kitchener's anxious care ; and if this chapter be generally read, we shall not be surprised to see people in future roasting their meat before their doors and in their areas : tor the Doctor says : — ^'■Roasting should be done in the open air, to ventilate the meat from its own fumes, and by tlie radiant heat of a clear glowing fire, — other- wise it is in i'act baked — the machines the economical grate-makers call roasters, are, in plain English, ovens." The Doctor then proceeds, not being con'ent with telling you how to cook \our victuals, to advise caretuUy as to the best method of coi>k- ing i\\c^re. "The fire that is but just sufficient to receive the noble sirloin will parch up a lighter joint;" whicii is plainly a translation int a young school-girl, who, after three-quarters of a year's dancing, is put back to the Scotch step. Beef has been spoken of before ; but we have not at all made up our ininds on the fallowing subject : — " Ubs. — In Mrs Mason's Laciirs' Assistant tins joint is cilled haunch- bone ; in Henderson's Cooki-ry, edge-bone; in Domestic M..na.ge-" ment, aitch-bont; ; in Reynolds' Coukery, ische-bone ; in Mrs Lydia Fisher's Prudent Housewife, ach-bone ; in Mrs MTvcr's Cookery, hook-bone. We ha\e also fsecn it spelt each-bone, and ridge-bone, and we have also heard it called natch-bone." Of " half a calf's head," Dr Ktchener says, slilv enough, " If you like \\. pill-dressed^ score it .^tiperjicially ; beat up the yolk of an &%'g, and rub it over the head with ?i feather ; powder it,^' &.c. Such a calt''« head as this, so full-dressed, might be company for the best nob]** man's ditto in the land. It is quite impossible for us to accomvany Dr Kitchener reguhirly through "roasting, frying, vegetables." &c., as we are by no means la THE COOK'S ORACLE. sure that our readers would sanction the encore. We shall pick a hrft here and a bit there, from the Doctor's dainty Lirder ; and tike care to choose, as the English do with a French bill of fare, from those niceties which are novelties. "A pig," observes the Doctor, as though he were speaking of an> other dull, obstinate personage, "is a very troublesime subject to roast. Most persons have them baked: send a quarter of a pound of butter, and beg the baker to baste it well." The lollowing occurs to us to be as difficult a direction to fulfil as any of Sir Tliomas Parkins's wrestling instructions : " Lay your pig back to back in the dish, with one h:ilf of the head on each side, and the ears one at < ach end, which you must take care to make nice and crisp, or you will ^^et sculded, as the good man was who bought his wife a pig with one ear." Tlie point at the end is like the point of a spit. Agam : "A suiking pig, like a young child, must not be leit for an inst.mt !" Never was such affection manifested before for this little interesting and persecuted tribe. If Izaak Walton be the greatest of writers on the catching of fish, Dr Kitchener is, bexond doubt, triumphant over all who have written upon the dressing of them. The Doctor dwells upon "the hne pale red rose colour" of pickled salmon, till you doubt whether he is not ndmiring a carnation. " Cod's skull" becomes flowery and attractive ; and tine "silver eels," when "stewed Wiggy's way," swim in beauty as well as butter. The Doctor points out the best method of killing this perversely living fish, observing, very justly, "that the humane, executioner does certain criminals the favour to hang them before he breaks them on the wheel." Of s.ilmon the Do* tor rather quaintly diud- posingly observes, "The thinnest part of the fish is iVrn Jaitest. If you have any leit, put it into a pie-dish, and cover it," &c. 1 l^e direction is condiiinnal, we perceive. " Remember to choose your lobsters * heavy and lively.^ " — " Motion," says the Doctor, "is the index of their freshness." Upon oysters Dr Kitchener is eloquent indeed. He is, as it were, "native here, and to the manner born." "The true lover of an oyster will have some regard for the feelini^s of his little favourite, and will never abandon it to the mercy of a bungling operator — but will open it himself, and contrive to detach the fish from the shell so dexterously, that the oyster is hardly con- scious he has been ejected from his lodging, till he feels the teeth of the piscivorous t;ourm ind tickling him to death." Who would not be an o.st'T to be thus surprised, to be thus pleas- ingly ejected from its tenement of moiher-of-pearl, to be thus tickled to death .? When we are placed in our shell, we should have no ob- jection to be astonished with a similar deliciite and titillating opening! Giblet soup rec[uires to be eaten with the fingers. We were nut aware that these handy instruments could be used successfully in the devouring of gravies and soups. '■^ N.B. — This is rather a iamily dish than a company one; the bones cannot be well picked without the help of a live pincers. Since Tom Coryat introduced forks, A.D. 1642, it has not been the fashion to put * pickers and stealers ' into soup." THE COOK'H ORACLE. 13 After giving a most elaborate recipe for mock turtle soup, he pra« cecds — ''This soup was eaten by the committee of taste with unanimous applause, and they pronounced it a very satisfactory substitute for 'the far fetched and dear bought' turile ; winch itself is indebted for its title of sovereign of savounness ' to the rich soup with which it is surrounded ; without its paraphernalia of double relishes, a * starved turtle ' has not more intrinsic sai'idity than a FATTED CALF." And a little further on he observes — " Obi. — This is a delicious soup, within ^he reach of those ' who eat to live;' but if it had been composed expressly for those who only * live to eat,' I do not know how it could have been made more agree- able ; as it is, the lover of good eating will 'wisii his throat a mi.e long, and every inch of it palate.'" Our readers will pant to have " Mr Michael Kelly's sauce for boiled tripe, calf's-head, or cow-heel." It is this — "Garlick vmegar, a tablespoonful ; of mustard, brown sugar, and black pepper, a teaspoonful each ; stirred into half a pint of oiled melted butter." Gad-a-mercy, what a gullet must be in the possession of Mr Michael Kelly ! We think the following almost a superfluous direction to cooks : — " Take your chops out of the frying-pan," p. 324 ; but then he tells you in another place, " to put your tongue into plenty of cold water ;" p. 156, which makes all even agam. After giving ample directions for the making of essence of anchovy, the Doctor rather damps our ardour for entering noon it. by the fol- lowing oijservaiion : "Mem. — You cannot make essence oj anchovy hall so cheap as you can buy iL' The following passage is rather too close an imitation of one of the puff directions in the Critic : — • "To a pint 01 the cleanest and strongest rectified spirit (sold by Rickards, Piccadilly), add two drachms and a half of the sweet oil of or.inge peel (sold by Stewart, No. n Old Broad Street, near the Bank), shake it up," &c. " Obs. — We do not offer this receipt as a rival to Mr Johnson's curagoa ; it is only proposed as an humble substitute for that incom- parable liqueur." The Doctor proceeds to luxuriate upon made dishes, &c. ; in the course of which he says, " The sirloin of beef I divide into three f)arts : I first have it nicely boned!" This is rather a suspicious wav of having it at all. Mrs Phillips's Irish stew has all the lascination of her country-women. In treating of shin of beef, the Doctor gives us a proverb which we never remember to have heard before. '■ Of all the fowls of the air, commend me to tlie shin of beef: for there's marrow for the master, meat for the mistress, gristles for the servants, and bones for the dogs." On pounded cheese the Doctor writes, " Thcpiguance of this butlery- caseous relish," &c. Is not this a little overdone f The passige, how- ever, on the frying of eg:4S makes up for all. *' Be sure the frying-pan is quite clean ; when the fat is hot, break 14 TO CEI.IA. two or three eggs into it ; do not turn them, but, while they are frying, keep pouring some of the fat over them with a spoon : when the yolk just begins to look white, which it will ia about a couple of minutes, they are done enough ; — the white must not lose its transparency, but the yolk be seen blushing through it : — if they are done nicely, they will look as white and delicate as if they had been poached : take them up with a tin slice, dram the fat from them, trim them neatly, and send them up with the bacon round them." ''The beauty of a poached egg is for the yolk to be seen bluxhL)ig through the white, which should only be just sufficiently hardened to form a transparent veil for the egg." So much for the Cook's Oracle. The style is a piqitaJit sauce to the solid food of the instructions ; and we never recollect reading sentences that relished so savourily. The Doctor appears to have written his work upon the back of a dri[)ping-pan, with the point of his spit, so very cook-like does he dish up his remarks. If we were to be cast awav upon a desert island, and could only carry one book ashore, we should take c;ire to secure the Cook's Oracle ; for let victuals be ever so scarce, there are pages in that erudite book that are, as Congreve's Jeremy says, " a feast for an emperor." Who could starve with sucb R larder of readini; ? TO CELfA.* Old fictions sny that Love hath eyes, Yit sees, unhappy boy ! witli none ; Blind as the night ! but fiction lies, For Love doth always see with one. To one our graces all unveil, To one our tla^s are all exposed ; But when with tenderness we hail, He smiles and keeps the critic closed. But when he's scorn'd, abused, estranged. He opes the eye of evil ken. And all his aui^el friends are changed To demons — and are hated then ! Yet once it happ'd that, semi- blind, He met thee on a summer day, And took thee for his mother kind, And frown'd as he was push'd away. But still he saw thee shine the same, Though he had op.d his evil eye, And found that nothing but her shame Was left to know his mother by ! * London Magazine, April 1822. PRESENTIMENT. And ever since that morning sun, * He thinks of thee, and blesses Fate That he can look with both on one Who hath no ueliness to hate. PRESENTIMENT. A FRAGMENT.* IF a mvci has a little child to whom he bows his heart and stretches forth his arms — if he has an only son, or a little daughter, ivith her sweet face nnd innocent hands, with l.er mother's voice, only louder — and her mother's e\es, only brighter — let him go and caress lliem while they are his, for the dead possess nothmg. Let him put fondness in his breath while it is with him, and caress hiis babes as if they would be fatherless, and blend his fingers with their i^dossy hair as if it were a frul, frail gossamer. And if he be away, let him hasten homeward with his impatient spirit before him, plotting kisses for their lips ; but if he be far distant, let him read my story, and weep and utter fond bre.uh, kissing the words before they go, wishing that they could reach his children's car. And yet let him be glad ; for though he is beyond seas, he is still near them while Death is V-ehind him — for the greater distance sw.illows the less. And the wings of angels may waft his love to trieir fir-away tiioughts, silently, like the whisper- ings of their own spirits while they weep for their f;:ther. It was in the days of my bitterness, when care had bewildered me, and the feverish strife of this world had vexed me till I was mad, that I wtnt into a little land of graves, and there wept ; for my sorrow was deep unto darkness, and I could not win friendship by friendship, nor love (though it still loved me) but in heaven — for it w is purer than the pure air, and had floated up to God. And I sat down upon a tombstone with my unburied grief, and wondered what that earth contained of joy, and misery, and triumph long past, and pride lower than nettles, and how old love was joined to love again, and hate was gone to h .te. For there were many monuments with sunshine on ont side and shade on the other, like life and death, with black frowning letters upon their white brii^ht faces; and throii;_;h those letters one miuht hear the dead speaking silently and slow, for th^re was much meaning in those words, and mysteries which long thought could not fithom. Aiid there was dust upon those flat dwtllings, which 1 kissed, for lips like it were there, and eyes where much love had been, and checks that had warmed the sunshine. But the dust was gone in a bieath, and so were they ; and the wind brou:jht shadows that parsed and passed incessantly over that land of graves, which you might strive to stay, but could not, even as the dead had passed away and been missed in the after bri:_;htness. Thus I buried my thoughts with the dead ; and as I sat, uncoft' • London Magazine, Dec. 1822. It PRESEXTIME.XT, sciously, I lieanl the sound of young sweet voices, and, locking up, 1 saw two little children coming up the path. The lamas lilted up theil heads as they passed and gazed, but fed again without stirrin'4, fol there was nothing to fear from such innocmt looki and so gentle voices ; there was even a mel .ncholy in their tone which does not belong to childhood. The eldest w.is a >oung boy, very fair and gentle, with a little hand linked to iiis ; and, by h;.i talk, it seemed that he had broir^ht his sister to show her where her poor father lay, and to talk about Death. Their lips seemed too rosy and tender to utter his dreadful n:ime — but the word wns empty to them, and un- menning as the sound of a shell — for tliey knew hmi not, that he had kissed them before they were born or breath-jd, and would again when the time came. So they appro.iche'd, dew-dabbled, and struggling through the long-tangled weeds to a new grave, and stood before it, and gazed on its record, like the ignorant sheep, without reading. They did not see their father, but only a little mound of earth, with strange grass and weeds ; and they looked and looked again, and at each other, with whispers in their eyes, and listened, till the flowers dropped from their forgotten hands. And when I saw how rosy they were in that black, which only made them the more rosy, and their bri;^ht curly hair, that had no proud hand to part it, I thought of the yearnings of disembodied love and invisible agony that had no voice, till meihou<;ht their father's spirit passed into mme, and burned, and gazed thiouL;h my e>es upon his children. Thev had not yet seemed to mtice me, but only that silent gr.ive ; and, lookin,' more and more sadly, their eyes filled with large tears, and iheir lips drooped, and their heads sunk so mournfully and so comfortless, that my own grief rushed into my eves and hid them from me. And I said inwardly, I will be their fatlier, and wipe their blue eyes, and win their sorrowful cheeks into dimples, for they are very fair and young — too young for this stormy life. I will watch them through the wide world, for it is a cruel place, where the tendercst are most torn because they are tenderest, and the most beautiful are most blighted. Therefore this little one shill be my dau_;hter, that I may gather her for heaven as my best deed upon earth ; and this young boy shall be my son, to share my blessing when I die, that God in that time may so deal with my own oftspring. For I feel a mis:-;i\ing that 1 shall soon die, and that my own little ones will come to my grave and weep over me, even as these poor orphans. Oh ! how shall I leave them to the care of the careless — to the advice of the winds — to the home of the wide world ? And as I thought of this, the full tears dropped from mv eyes, and I saw again the two children. They were stdl there and wecjung ; but ?s I looked at them more earnestly, 1 per- ceived that they were altered, or my siglit changed, so that I knew their faces. I knew them — for I had seen them in very infancy, and through all their growth — in sickness when I pra\ed over fheni — and in slumber when I had watched over them till I almost wept, thev were so beautiful ! I had kissed, how often ! those very cheeks, blushing my own blood, and had breathed blessin:,;s upon their glossy brows, and had piessed their litile hands in ecstasies '^i anxious love. They also knew me ; but there was an older grief \x. PRESENTIMENT. I7 their looks than had ever been : — and why had they come to me in that place, and in black, so sad and so speechless, and with flowers so withering ? but tliey only shook their heads and wept. Then I trembled exceedingly, and stretched out my arms to embrace them, but there was nothing between me and the tombstone where they had seemed : yet they still gazed at me from behind it, and further and still further as I followed, till they stood upon the verge of the church- yard. Then I saw, in the sunshine, that they were shadowless ; and, as they raised their hands in the light, that no blood was in them ; and as I moved still closer, they slowly turned into trees, and hills, and pale blue sky, that had been in the distance. Still I gazed where they had been, and the sky seemed full of them ; but there were only clouds, and the shadows on the earth were merely shadows, and the rustling was the rustling of the sheep. I saw them no more. They were gone from me, as if for ever ; but I knew that this was my warning, and wept, for it came to me through my own children in all its bitterness. I felt that I should leave them as I had fore- told — their hearts, and lips, and sweet voices, to one another, to be their own comfort ; for I knew that such grief is prophetic of grief, and that angels so minister to man, and that Death thus converses in spirit with his elect. So I spread my arms to the world in farewell, and weaned my eyes from all things that had been pleasant on the earth, and would be so after me, and prepared myself for her ready bosom. And I said, " Now 1 will go home and kiss my children before I die, and put a life's love into my last hour ; for I must hasten while my thoughts are with me, lest I madden, and perhaps wrong them in my delirium, and spurn their sorrowful love, and curse them, instead of blessing, with a fierce stran;4e voice." Thus I hurried towards them faster and faster till I ran ; but as my desire increased, my strength failed me, so that I wished for my death-bed, and threw myself down on a green hill, under the shade of trees that almost hid the sky with their intricate branches. And as I lay, the thought of death came over me as death, with a deep gloom like the shade of a darkened chamber, and blinded me to the trees, and the sky, and the grass, that were round me. But a pale light came, as I thought, through the pierced shutters, and I saw by it strange and familiar faces full of grief, and eyes that watched mine for the last look, and tiptoe figures gliding silently with clasped hands — and a woman that chafed my feet ; and as she seemed to chafe them, she turned to shake her head, and tears gushed into all eyes as if they had been one, so that I seemed drowned, and could see nothing except their shadows in the light of my own spirit. In that moment I heard the cries of my own children, calling to me fainter and fainter, as if they died and I could not save them ; an.l 1 tried to stay them, but my tongue was lifeless in my mouth, and my breath seemed locked up in my bosom : and 1 thought, " Surely I now die, and the last of my soul is in my ears, for I still liear, though I see not ; " but the voices were soon drowned in a noise like the rushing of waters, for the blood was struggling througii my heart, slower and slower, till it stopped, and I turned so cold, that 1 felt the burning of the air upon me, and the scalding of unknown tears. Yet for a moment the light returned t<> B X8 PRESENTIMENT. me, with those mourners — for they were already in black, even the!f faces ; but they turned darker and darker, and whirled round into ont shade till it was utterly dark : and as my breath went forth, the air pressed heavy upon me, so that I seemed buried, and in my deep grave, and suffering the pain of worms till I was all consumed and no more conscious. Thus I lay for unknown time, and without thought ; and again awakening, I saw a dark tigure bending over me, and felt him grasp me till I ached in all my bones. Then I asked him if he was Death or an an.i;el, and if he had brought me wings? for I could not see plainly ; but as my senses returned, I knew an intimate friend and neighbour, and recognised the sound of his voice. He had thus found me, he said, in passing, and had seen me faint, and had recovered me ; but not till he had almost wrung the blood from my fingers ; and he inquired the cause of my distress. So I thanked him, and told him of my vision, and he tried to comfort me : but I knew that the angels of my children had told me truly, and the more so for this shadow of Death that I had passed ; and feeling that my hour was near, and recollecting my home, I endeavoured to rise. But my strength was gone, and I fell backwards ; till fear, which had first taken away my strenj^th, restored it tenfold, and I descended the hill, and hurried onwards before my friend, who could not keep up with me. When I had gone a little way, however, the road was of deep sand, so that I grew impatient of my steps, and wished for the speed of a horse that I heard galloping before me. Even as I heard it, the horse suddenly turned an anglo of the road, and came running with all the madness of fright, plunging and scattering the loose sand from his fiery heels. As he came nearer, I thought 1 saw a rider upon his back — it was only fancy ; but he looked like Death, and very terrible, for I knew that he was coming to tear me and trample me under his horse's hoofs, and carry me away for ever, so that 1 should never see my children again. At that thought my soul fainted within me with- out his touch, and my breath went from me, so that I could not stir even from Death, though he came nearer and nearer, and I could see him frown through the black tossing mane. In a moment he was close ; the wild foaming horse struck at me with his furious heels — so ♦hat the loose sand flew up in my bosom — reared his head disdain- fully, and flew past me with the rush of a whirlwmd. The fiend grinned upon me as he passed, and tossed his arms in an ecstasy of triumph ; but he left me untouched, and the noise soon died away behind me. Then a warm joy trembled over my limbs, and I hurried forward again with an hour's hope of life. My heart's beat quickened my feet, and I soon reached the corner where I had first seen the horse ; but there I stopped — it was only a low moan — but my heart stopped with it. In another throb I was with my children, and in another — they were with God. I saw heir eyes before they closed — • but my son's How it happened I have never asked, or have forgotten. I only know that I had children, and that they are dead. Now I have only tneir angels. They still visit me in the churchyard ; but their eyes are closed, and their little locks drop blood — ihey still shrink, aufl faint, and fade away — but still i die not ! Incog. MR MARTIN'S PICTURES, ETC. ME MARTIN'S PICTURES AND THE BONASSUS* A LETTER FROM MRS WINIFRED LLOYD TO HER FRIEND MRS PRICE, AT THE PARSONAGE HOUSE AT , IN MONMOUTHSHIRE. MY DEAR MRS PRICE, — This is to let you know that me and liiecky and little Humphry are safe arrived in London, where we have been since Monday. My darter is quite inchnnted with the metropalus and lon;^s to be intraduced to it satiety, which please God she shall be as soon as things are ready to make her de- butt in. It is high time now she should be brought into the world being twenty years old cum Midsummer and very big for her size. You knows, Mrs Price, that with her figure and accumplishments she was quite berried in Wales, but I hopes when the country is scowered off she will shine as bright as the best and make a rare havoc aitiong the mail sex. She has larned the pinaforte and to draw, and docs lowers and shells, as Mr Owen says, to a mirrikle, for I spares no munny on her to make her fit for any gentleman's wife, when he shall please to ax her. I took her the other day to the Bullock's Museum to see Mr Martin's expedition of })icters — because she has such a pretty notion of painting herself — and a very nice site it was, thof it cost half-a-crown. I tried to get the children in for half-price but the man said that Becky was a full-grown Ldy, and so she is sure enuff, so I could only beat him down to take a sixpence off little Humphry. The picters are hung in a parler up-stairs (Becky calls it a drawing- room) and you see about a dozen for your munny which brings it to about a penny a piece, and that is not dear. The first on the left hand as you go in — and on the right coming out — is called Revenge. It reperesents a man and woman with a fire breaking out at their backs — Becky thought it was the fire of London — but the show gentleman said It was Troy that was burned out of revenge, so that v\as a very good thought to paint. Then there was Bellshazzer's Feast as you read ot it in the Bible, with Daniel interrupting the handwriting on the wall — with the cunning men and the king and all the nobility. Becky said she never saw such bevvtiful painting — and sure enufT they were the finest cullers I overset eyes on, blews and pmks, and purples and greens all as bright as fresh sattin and velvet, and no doubt they had court sutes all span new for the Banket. As for Humphry there was no getting him from a picter of the Welsh Bard because he knew the ballad about it and saw the whole core of Captain Edwards's sogers coming down the hill, with their waggin train and all, quite natural. To be sure their cullers were very bewtiful, but there was so many mountings piled atop of one another and some going out of sight into heaven that it made my neck ake to look after them. Next to that there was a storm in Babylon, t but not half so well painted, Becky said, as the rest. There was none hardly of those smart bright culler's, only a bunch of flowers * London Magazine, May 1S22. t The Storming of Babylon : Mrs Lloyd mus* have gjt her catalogue b^ kearsay. so MR MARTIN'S PICTURES, ETC. in a garden, that Becky said would look bewtiful on a chaney teacupi Howsomever some gentlemen looked at it a long while and called it clever and said thev prefeared his architecter work to his pamtin^; and he makes very handsum bildings for sartain. They said too that this pictcr was quieter tlian all the rest — but how that can he, God he Icnows, for I could not hear a pin's difference betwixt them — and be- sides that it was in better keeping which I suppose means it is sold to a Lord. The next was only a lady very well dressed and walking in a landskip. But oh, Mrs Price, how shall I tell you about the burning of Herculeum ! Becky said it put her in mind of what is written in the Revealations about the sky being turned to blood, and indeed it seemed to take all the culler out of her face when she looked at it. It looked as if all the world was going to be burnt to death with a shower of live coals ! Oh dear ! to see the poor things running about in sich an earthquack as threw the pillers off their legs — and all the men of war in distress, beating their bottoms, and going to rack and ruin in the arbour! It is a shocking site to see only in a picter, with so many people in silks and sattins and velvets having their things so scorched and burnt into holes ! Oh Mrs Price ! what a mercy we was not born in Vesuvus and there are no burning mountings in Wales I — only think to be holding our sheelds over our heads to keep off the hot sindcrs, and almost suffercated to death with brimstun. It puts one in a shiver to think of it. There is another picter of a burning mounting with Zadok* hang- ing upon a rock — Becky knows the story and shall tell it you — but it looked nothing after the other, though the criketal gentlemen you knows of, said it was a much better painting. But there is no saying for people's ta-tes — as Mr Owen says, the world does not dine upon one dinner — but I have forgot one more, and that is Mac Beth and the three Whiches, with such a rigiment of Hilander^ that I wonder how they got into one picter. Becky says the band ought to be playing bag Pipes instead of Kittle drums, but no doubt Mr Martin knows better than Becky, and I am sure from what I have heard in the North that either Kittles or Drums would sound better than bag Pipes. We are going to-morrow to the play, and any other sites we may see you shall hear. Till then give my respective complements to Mr Price with a kiss from Becky and Humphry and remane, Your faithful huml^le servant Winifred Lloyd. P.S. — I forgot to say that after we had seen Mr Martins expedition, we went from the Bullock's to the lionassus— as it is but a step from wan to the other. The man says' it is a perfect picter, and so it is for sartain and ought to be painted. It is like a bull, only quite different, and cums from the Appellation Mountings. My Humphry thought it must have been catcht in a pound, and I wundered the child could make sich a nateral idear, but he is a sweet boy and very foreward in his larning. He was esely delited at the site you may be sure, but Becky being timorsome shut her eyes all the time she was seeing it. * Mrs Lloyd means Sadak, in the "Tales of the Genii." THE TWO SWANS. St^ But saving his pushing now and then, the anymil Is no ways veracious and eats nothing but vegeatables. The man shov\ed us some outland- ish sort of pees that it hves upon but he give it two hole pales of rare carrots besides. It must be a handsum customer to the green Grocer and a pretty penny 1 warrant it costs for vittles. But it is a wondi^r- ful work of Natur, and ought to make man look to his ways as Mr Lloyd says. Which of our infiddles could make a Pionassus, let them tell me that, Mrs Price! I would have carried him home in my eye to describe to you and Mr Price, but we met Mrs Striker the butcher's lady and she drove him quite out of mv head. Howsomever as you likes curosities I shall send his playbill that knows more about him than I do, though there's nothing like seeing him with wan's own eyes. I think if the man would take him down to Monmouth in a carry van he would get a good many hapence by showing him. Till then I re* mane once more Your faithful humble sarvant Winifred Lloyd, THE TWO SWANS. A FAIRY TALE.* Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear A fairy dream in honour oi true love — True above ills, and fr.iilty, and all fear- Perchance a shadow of his own career "Whose youth was darkly prison'd and long twined By serpent-sorrow, till wliite Love drew near, And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind. I saw a tower builded on a lake, Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep- That seem'd a still intenser night to make, Wherein the quiet waters sunk to sleep, — And, whatsoe'er was prison'd in that keep, A monstrous Snake was warden : — round and round In sable ringlets I beheld him creep, Blackest amid black shadows, to the ground, Whilst his enormous head the topmost turret crown'd t From whence he shot fierce light a'Siainst the stars, Making the pale moon paler with affrii^ht ; And with his ruby eye out-threaten d Mars — That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and bright-^ Nor slept, nor wink'd, but with a steadfast spite • New Monthly Magazine, 1824. THE TWO SWANS. Watch'd their wan looks and tremblings in the skies ; And that be might not slumber in the n ght, The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his 1 ircje eyes, So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize. Prince or princess in dismal durance pent, Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate. Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent, Watching the lonely waters soon and hite. And clouds that pass nnd leave them to their fate^ Or company their grief with heavy tears : — Meanwhile that Hope can s!)y no golden gate For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears They weep and pine away as if immortal years. No gentle bird with gold upon its wing Will perch upon the grate — the gentle bird Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring Freedom's sweet keynote and commission-word Learn'd of a fairy's lips, for pity stirr'd — Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest 1 Watch'd by th..t cruel Snake and darkly heard. He leave a widow on her lonely nest. To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast. No gallant knight, adventiirous, in his bark. Will seek the fruitful perils of the place. To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark That bear that serpent-image on their face. And Love, brave Love ! though he attempt the bas^ Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win His captive lady from the strict embrace Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within His sable folds — like Eve enthrall'd by the old Sin, But there is none — no knight in panoply, Nor Love, entrench'd in his strong steely coat: No little speck — no sail— no hslper nigh, No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat :— The distant shores show dimly and remote, Made of a deeper mist, — serene and grey, — And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float Over the gloomy wave, and pass away, Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play. And bright and silvery the willows sleep Over the shady verge — no mad winds tease Their hoary heads ; but quietly they weep Their sprinkling leaves — half fountains and half tree* 1 There lilies be — and fairer than all these, THE TWO SWANS. J9 A solitary Swnn her breast ot snow Launches against the wave that seems to freeze Into a chaste reriection, still below, Twin-shadow of herself wherever she may go. And forth she paddles in the very noon Of solemn midnight, hke an elfin thing Charm'd into being by the argent moon— Whose silver light for love of her fair wing Goes with her in the shade, still worbhipping Her dainty plumage : — all around her grew A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring ; And all behind, a tiny little clue Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue. And sure she is no meaner than a fay Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake^ By old ordainment : — silent as she lay, Touch'd by a moonlight wand I saw her wake^ And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake The verdant prison of her lily peers. That slept amidst the stars upon the lake— A breathing shape — restored to human fears, And new-born love and grief — self-conscious of her teart And now she clasps her wings around her hearty And near that lonely isle begins to glide, Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start Turns her impatient head from side to side In universal terrors — all too wide To watch ; and often to that marble keep Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep. And well she may, to spy that fearful thing All down the dusky walls in circlets wound ; Alas ! for what rare prize, with many a ring Girdmg the marble casket round and round? His folded tail, lost in the .yloom profound, Terribly darkeneth the rocky base ; But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face Gleam his unwearied eyes, red w atchers of the placft Alas ! of the hot fires that nightly fall, No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite, So he mny never see beneath the wall That timid little creature, all too bright, That stretches her fair neck, slender and white^ THR TtVO SWAINS. Invokin^^ the pale moon, and vainly tries Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night With song — but, hush — it perishes in sighs, And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies! She droops — she sinks — she leans upon the lake, Fainting again into a lifeless flower ; But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake Her spirit from its death, and with new power She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower Of tender song, timed to her falling tears— That wins the sh.tdy summit of that tower, And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears, Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's earSk And, lo ! the scaly beast is all deprest, Subdued like Argus by the might of sound— What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest To magic converse with the air, and bound The many monster eves, all slumber-drown'd ^— « So on the turret-top that watchful Snake Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, As if his wrathful spite would never wake, Charmed into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sakel His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies, To drink that dainty flood of music down— His scaly throat is big with pent-up si;_;hs— And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies, His looks for envy of the charmed sense Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes, Stung into pain by their own impotence. Distil enormous tears into the lake immense^ Oh, tuneful Swan ! oh, melancholy bird ! Sweet was that midnight miracle of song. Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong- Hinting a piteous tale — perchance how long Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake, What time disguised thy leafy mates among — And no eye knew what human love and ache Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to brealt Therefore no poet will ungently touch The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew Trembles like tears ; but ever hold it such As human pain may wander through and through, Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue — THE TWO SWANS. Wherein life dwells, transfii^ured, not entomb'd, By magic spells. Alas ! who ever knew Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and [jlumed, Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed ? And now the winged song has scaled the height Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, And soon ;i little casement flashing bright Widens self-open'd into the cool air — That music like a bird may enter there And soothe the captive in his stony c.ige ; For there is nought of grief, or painful care, But plaintive song may happily engage From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage: And forth into the light, small and remote, A creature, like the fair son of a king, Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat Against the silver moonliuht glistening, And leans upon his white hand listening To that sweet music that with tenderer tone Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan. Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone I And while he listens, the mysterious song, Woven with timid particles of speech, Twines into passionate words that grieve along The melancholy notes, and softly teach The secrets of true love, — that trembling reach His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun He missions like replies, and each to each Their silver voices mingle into one. Like blended streams that make one music as they run. " Ah Love ! my hope is swooning in my heart." — " Av, sweet ! my cage is strong and hung full high."- " Alas ! our lips are held so far apart. Thy words come faint, — they have so far to fly !"— ** If I may only shun that serpent-eye ! " — " Ah me ! that serpent-eye doth never sleep." — " Then nearer thee, Love's maityr, I will die !"— " Alas, alas ! that word has made me weep ! For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep !" " My mnrble keep ! it is my marble tomb ! " — " Nay, sweet ! but thou hast there thy living breath".- ** Ave to expend in sii^hs for this hard doom." — " 5ut I will come to thee and sing beneath, And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath."— THE TWO SWANS. ** Nay, I will find a path from these despairs." — • *' Ah ! needs then thou miist tre.id fJe back of death, Makinf^ his stony ribs thy stony st.nrs ? — Bthold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares !" Full sudden at these words, the princely youth Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth, But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay- Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, Held some short throbs by natural dismay, Then down, down the serpent-track begins his darksome way. Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight, Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall ; Now fair and spangled in the sudden light, And clinging wiih wide arms for fear of fall? Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe ; Slowly he winds adown — dimly and small, Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below, Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow. But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace The iTiarble wails about — which he must tread Before his anxious foot nia\ tt)uch the base : Long is the dreary oath, and must be sped ! But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, Braces his spirit, and with constant toil He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread. Impatient plunges from the last long coil : So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil 1 The song is husli'd, the charm is all complete. And two f.iir Swans are swimming on the lake ! But scarce their tender bills have time to meet. When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake— His steely scales a fearful rustling make. Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell The sable storm ; — the plumy lovers quake— And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer felL His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, Hiss horrible pursuit — his red eves glare The waters into blood— his eager breatii Grows hot upon their plumes : — now, minstrel fair I She drops her ring into the waves, and there PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. It widens all around, a fairy ring Wrought of the silver light— the fearful pair Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing. Bending their course over the pale grey lake, Against the pallid East, wherein light jdI ly'd In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake Circled them round continually, and bay'd Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade The sanctuary ring : his sable mail RoU'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made A shining track over the waters pale, Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous talL And so they sail'd into the distance dim, Into the very distance — small and white, Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim Over the brooklets — foUow'd by the spite Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright Worried them on their course, and sore annoy. Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light, And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy, Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy ! Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes Te.irs are no grief; and from his rosy bowers The Oriental sun began to rise, Cnasing the darksome shadows from the skies ; Wherewith that sable Serpent far auay Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs From waking blossoms purified the day, And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY* Ah me ! those old familiar V)Ounds ! Th.ii cl.issic house, these classic L;round3( My pensive thought recalls ! Wh.ct tender urchms row confine, Wh.it little captives now repine. Within yon irksome walls? * I^iew iMoiiiiily i\Jag;i/,ine, 1824. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT Ay, that's the very house ! I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! Its chimneys in the rear ! And there's the iron rod so hi£:;h, That drew the thunder from the sky, And turn'd our table-beer ! There I was birch'd ! there I was bredl There hke a little Adam ffd From Learning's woful tree ! The we.ry tasks I used to con ! — • The hopeless leaves I wept uron ! — Most fruitless leaves to me ! — The summon'd class ! — the aweful bow !— I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds ! How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads ! And Mrs S ?— Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet Some favour'd two or three, — The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour. And swill her prize — Bohea ? Ay, there's the playground ! there's the Hme^ B'-neath whose shade in summer's prime So wildly I have read ! — Who sits there now, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread ? Who struts the Randall of the walk ? Who models tmy heads in chalk? ■ Who scoops the light canoe ? What early genius buds apace ? Where's Povnter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Bayli's ? blithe Carew ? Alack! they're gone — a thousand ways! And some are serving in " the Greys," And some have perish'd young ! — Jack Harris weds his second wife ; Hal Baylis arives the ivayie ot life ; And blithe Carew — is hung ! OF CLAP HAM A CA DEMY, Grave Bowers teaches ABC To savages at Owh\ ee i Poor Chase is with the worms !— All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — ' New crops of mushroom boys succeed, *'And push us from onx forms I " Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about, At pUiy where we have play'd ! Some hop, some run (some fall), some twino Their crony arms ; some in the shine,— And some are in the shade ! Lo ! there what mix'd conditions run I The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; And Fortune's favour'd care — The wealthy born, for whom she hatll Mac- Adam ised the future path — The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! Some brightly starr'd — some evil bom,— For honour some, and some for scorn, — For fair or foul renown ! Good, bad, indifferent — none may lack ! Look, here's a White, and there's a Black! And there's a Creole brown ! Some laugh and sing, some mope and weet% And wish their " frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home ; " — Some tease the future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And pant for years to come ! — A foolish wish ! There's one at hoop; And four TxKjivesl and five who stoop The marble taw to speed ! And one that curvets in and out, Reigning his fellow Cob about,— Would I were in his steedl Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van To tttil, to tug. O Utile fool ! W hile thou canst be a horse at schooJj To wish to be a man ! ADDRESS TO MR CROSS, Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown, — to be a king ! And sleep on regal down ! Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares; Far happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown ! And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys ? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son ? That manhood's mirth? — Oh, go thy ways To Drury Lane when plays., And see hovt forced our fun 1 Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare I— Our tops are spun with coils of care, Our dumps are no delight ! — The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite ! Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead. Our topmost joys fall dull and dead. Like balls with no rebound ! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground 1 Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot ; There's sky-blue in thy cup ! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast — Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last A sorry breaking-up I ADDRESS TO MR CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE^ ON THE DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT.* •"Tis Greece, but living Greece no more." — Giaour. Oh, Mr Cross ! Permit a sorry stranger to draw near, And slied a tear (I've shed my shilling) for thy recent loss 1 I've been a visitor Of old — a sort of a Buflon inquisitor * New Moulhly Magazine, I026, OF EXETER CHANGE. 3I Of thy menagerie, and knew the beast That is decensed ! I was the Damon of the gentle giant, And oft have been, Like Mr Kean, Tenderly fondled by his trunk compliant. Wlienever I approach'd, the kindly brute Flapp'd his prodigious ears, and bent his knees- It makes me freeze To think of it ! No chums could better suit. Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruit,— For so our former dearness was begun. — I bribed him with an apple, and beguiled The beast of his affection like a child ; And well he loved me till his life was done (Except when he was wild). It makes me blush for human friends — but none I have so truly kept or cheaply won 1 Here is his pen ! The casket — but the jewel is away I The den is rifled of its denizen, — Ah, well-a-day ! This fresh free air breathes nothing of his groJsnesSj And sets me sighing even for its closeness. This light one-storey. Where like a cloud I used to feast my eyes on The grandeur of his Titan-like horizon. Tells a dark tale of its departt^d glory ; — The very beasts lament the change like me. The shaggy Bison Leaneth his head dejected on his knee ; 1 he Hyaena's laugh is hushed ; the Monkey's pout J The Wild Cat frets in a complaining whine ; The Panther paces restlessly about, To walk her sorrow out ; The Lions in a deeper bass repine ; The Kangaroo wrings its sorry short forcpaws ; Shrieks come from the Macaws j The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head, And pineth for the dead; The Boa writhes into a double knot ; The Keeper groans Whilst sawing bones. And looks askance at the deserted spot } Brutal and rational lament his loss, The flower of thy beastly family ! — Poor Mrs Cross Sheds frequent tears into her daily tea, And weakens her Bohea I fi ADDRESS TO MR CROSS. Oh, Mr Cross, how httle it gives birth . cnam -f' To grief when human greatness goes to earth ; How itv/ lament for Czars !— But, oh, the universal heart o'erflow'd At his " high mass," Lighted by gas, When, like Mark Antony, the keeper show'd The Elephantine scars ! — Reporters' eyes Were of an egg-Hke size ; Men that had never wept for murder'd Marrs I Hard-hearted editors, with iron faces. Their sluices all unclosed, — And discomposed Compositors went fretting to their cases ! — That grief has left its traces ; The poor old Beef-eater has gone much greyer With sheer regret ; And the Gazette Seems flie least trouble of the beast's Purveyor ! And I too weep ! a dozen of great men I could have spared without a single tear ; But then They are renewable from year to year ! Fresh Gents would rise though Gent resign'd the pen 5 I should not wholly Despair for six months of another C , Nor, though F lay on his small bier, Be melancholy. But when will such an elephant appear? Though Penley were destroy'd at Drury Lan^ His like might come again ; Fate might supply A second Powell, if the first should die ; Another Bennet, if the sire were snalch'd ; Barnes — might lie match'd ; And Time till up the gap Were Parsloe laid upon the green earth's lap ; Even Claremont might be equall'd, — I could hope (All human greatness is, alas, so puny !^ For other Egcrtons — another Pope, But not another Chuneel Well ! he is dead ! And there's a gap in Nature of eleven Feet high by seven — Five living tons!— and I remain--niiie stone Of skin and bone ! ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ, 33 It is enough to make me shake my head And drea'm of the ;^r.ivc"s brink — • 'Tis worse to think How like the Beast's the sorry life I've led ! — A sort of show Of my poor public self and my sapacity, To profit the rapacity Of certain folks in Paternoster Row, A slavish toil to v/in an upper storey — And a hard glory Of wooden beams about my weary brow I Oh, Mr C. ! If ever you behold me twirl my pen To earn a public supper, that is, eat In the b.ire street, — Or turn about their literary den — Shoot 7ne I ejiua oA ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.^ BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA GREEN Ah me ! what causes such complaining breath, Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow? It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death, For laying Laing low ! From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe— A shrill and persevering loud lament, Echoed by Mrs T.'s Establishment "For Six Young Ladies, In a retired and healthy part of Kent." All weeping, Mr L gone down to Hades ! Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and the veil! Surrey takes up the tale. And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones, With the two parlour-boarders and th' apprentice — So universal this mis-timed event is — Are joining sobs and groans ! The shock confounds all hymeneal planners, And drives the sweetest from iheir sweet behaviours. The girls at Manor House fort^et their manners, And utter sighs like paviours ! Down — down through Devon and the distant shires Tra^els the news of Death's remorseless ci.me ; And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires Of matches against time ! * Literary Gazette, August 4, 1827. }4 ELEGY ON DAVID LAIXG, ESQ, Alonsz the northern route The road is water'd by postilions' eyes ; Tlie topboot paces pensively about, And yellow jackets are all stain'd with siL;hat There is a sound of grieving at the Ship, And sorry hands are wringing at the Bell, In aid of David's knell. The postboy's heart is cracking — not his whi|>-» To gaze upon those useless empty collars His wayworn horses seem so glad to slip — And think upon the dollars That used to urge his gallop — quicker ! quicker I All hope is fled. For Laing is dead — Vicar of Wakefield — Edward Gibbon's vicar ! The barristers shed tears Enough to feed a snipe Csnipes live on suction). To think in after years No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction. Nor knaves inveigle Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal ; The dull reporters Look truly sad and seriously solemn To lose the future cohimn On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters ! But srave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau — That never real beau of flesh and blood Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambatid. Sleep — David Laing ! — sleep In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee ! Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep. And honest postboys mourn thee I Sleep, David ! — safely and serenely sleep, Be-wept of many a learned le-al eye ! To see the mould above thee in a heap Drowns many a lid thai hen toiore w,,s dr,' !- Especially of those that, plunging deep In love, would " ride and tie I " Had I command, thou should'st have gone tl.y ways In chaise and pair — and lain in P^re-la-Chaise I STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 3S STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS.* Tom ; — are you still within this land Of livers — still on Hastings' sand, Or roaming on the waves ? Or has some billow o'er you roll'd, Jealous that earth should lap so bold A seaman in her graves ? On land the rushlight lives of men Go out but slowly ; nine in ten, By tedious long decline — Not so the jolly Scdlor sinks, Who founders in the wave, and drinks The apoplectic brine ! Ay, while I write, mayhap your head Is sleeping on an oyster-bed — - I hope 'tis far from truth ! — With periwinkle eyes ; — your bone Beset with mussels, not your own. And corals at your tooth I Still does the ' Chance ' pursue the chancs The m.iin affords — the ' Aidant' dance In safety on the tide ? Still flies that siyn of my good-will— A little bimting thing — but still To thee a flag of pride ? Does that hard, honest hand now clasp The tiller in its careful grasp — With every summer breeze W^hen ladies sail, in lady-fear — Or tug the oar, a gondolier On smooth Macadam seas ? Or are you where the flounders keep, Some dozen briny fathoms deep. Where sand and shells abound — With some old Triton on your chest. And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest. To find that you are — drown'd? • Literary Souvenir, 1828. $i STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. Swift is the wave, and apt to brintj A sudden doom : perchance I sing A mere funereal strain ; You have endured the utter strife — And are — the same m death or life— A good man in the main ! Oh, no ! — I hope the old brown eye Still watches ebb and flood and sky ; That still the brown old shoes Are sucking brine up — pumps indeed !— Your tooth still full of ocean weed, Or Indian — which you choose, I like you, Tom ! and in these lays Give honest worth its honest praise, No puff at honour's cost; For though you met these words of min^ All letter-learning was a line You, somehow, never cross'd 1 Mayhap we ne'er shall meet again, Except on that Pacific main Beyond this planet's brink ; Yet, as we erst have braved the weather Still may we float awhile together, As comrades on this ink J Many a scudding gale we've had Together, and, my gdiant lad, Some perils we have pass'd ; When huge and black tlie wave career'd^ And oft the giant surge appeai-'d The master of our mast : — Twas thy example taught me how To climb the billow's ho.iry brow. Or cleave the raging heap — - To bound along the ocean wild. With danger — only as a child The waters rock'd to sleep. Oh, who can tell that brave delight. To see the hissing wave in niigiu Come rampant like a snake ! To leap his horrid crest, and feast One's eyes upon the briny beast, Left couchant in the wake ! STANZAS TO TOM IVOODGATE. The simple shepherd's love is still To bask upon a sunny hill, The herdsman ro;ims the vale — ■ With both their f.mcies I agree; Be mine the swelling, scooping sea, That is both hill and dale ! I yearn for that brisk spray — I yearn To feel the wave from stem to stern Uplift the plunging keel ; Th.it merry step we used to dance On board the ' Aidant ' or the ' Chance^* The ocean " toe and heel." I long to feel the steady gale That fills the broad distended sail — The seas on either hand ! My thought, like any hollow shell, Keeps mocking at my ear the swell Of waves against the land. It is no fable — that old strain Of sirens ! — so the witching main Is sinking — and I sigh ! My heart is all at once inclined To seaw;ird— and I seem to hnd The waters in my eye ! Methinks I see the shining bench ; The merry waves, each alter each, Rebounding o'er the flints ; I spy the grim preventive spy ! The jolly boatmen standing nigh ! The maids in morning chintz I And there they float — the sailing crafkl The sail is up — the wmd abaft — The ballast trim and neat. Alas ! 'tis all a dream — a lie ! A printer's imp is standing by, To haul my mizen sheet ! My tiller dwindles to a pen — My craft is that of bookish men— My sale -let Longman tell! Adieu, the wave, the wind, the spray! Men — maidens— chintzes— fade awaj i Tom Woodgate, hire thee well ! !? A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE, IN MARCH [82 1.* "The son of Coi-nelius shall make his own legs his compasses with those he shall measure continents, islands, capes, bays, straits, and ischmuses." — Memoirs of Martinus ScHolerus. <' T SHOULD very much like to travel," s:iid a young cockney, ^it'i 1 his feet on the fender. " London is a vast place ; but the world is ten times bigger, and no doubt a many strange things are to be seen in it." "And pray, young man," said an old gentleman, whom he called the philosopher, " pray, are you so fi miliar vvnh the features of your own country ; are you so well acquainted with its men and manners, that you must go out of it for matter of investigation and speculation .'*" "As for men," replied the cockney, " we may see them anywhere. I've seen Crib and Spring, and the best good ones that ever peel'd ; and as for manners, I learned them at the dancing-school. I have not been all over England, to be sure, like my father's ridc^rs ; but I've been to Margate, Brighton, and Moulsey Hurst ; so tnat what I have not seen by sack I have seen by sample. Besides, London is the very focus of England ; and sure I am that I know it from Wapping to Hyde Park Corner, and have seen all that is instnirtive in it. I've been up the Monument, and down St Paul's, over the Bridges, and under the Tunnel. I've seen the King and Court, Mrs Salmon's royal waxwork too, and the wild beasts at E.xeter 'Change ; — I've seen Drury Lane and Covent Garden playhouses, besides the Houses of Lords and Commons — the Soho Bazaar, and both Bartk*my Fair and the Brighton Pavilion. I never missed a Lord Mayor's show, nor anything that is worth seeing ; and I know by sight Lord Castlerea.;h, Jack Ketch, Sir William Curtis, Billy Waters, and many other public and distinguished characters.'' "If you have seen no more than ynu say," said the philosopher, "you have seen a gre tt deal more than is Knglish ; and if you only wish to study mankind, it is at least a reason a*,ainst your leaving the country. England has, to be sure, its national character ; but it gives birth to many mongrel-^, who belong rather to the Spanish, Dutch, or otner breeds : there are foreigners born here, as well as others who visit us ; and why should we go al)road to study them, when we have them all in epitome at home? Different nations, like different men, are only com ounds of the same ingredients, but in varied propor- tions. We shall find knaves and honest men in every state, and a large prop irtion of fools and dunces in them all. We >hall find every- where the same passions, the same virtues and vices, but altered in their proportions by the influences of education, laws, and religion ; which in some parts tend to invaove, and, in others, to pervert the common nature of mankind. • London Magazine, November 1821. ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. JJT *It is in their civil and religious institutions that we are to look foi the L^rand causes effecung those distinctions which constitute nntional character ; but before we go to investigate them, we should at least understand a little of our own." " Pshaw ! " said the cockney, \\ ho began to grow tired of this har- angue ; " there are siyhts to be seen abroad which can't be brought over here, and as for men being the same all the world over, it's all my eye ; — a'n't there the Hottentots thnt h.ive noses like your pug's, and heads as black and woully as my poodle's ? A'n't the Frenchmen all skinny, and haven't the Spaniards larue whiskers ? There are the Patagonians, too, that are as big as tlie Irish giant, and Laplanders no bigger than Miss What's-her-name, the dwart !" *' Pshaw!" said the i^hilosopher in his turn ; " all these are minor dis- tinctions, and shrink, as it were, to nothing when compared with the immeasurable dist.inccs between the minds of men : whether 1 be Knglishman or Hottentot, a Laplander or a Patagonian,— 'If I could stretch from pole to pole, And grasp the ocean in a span, I must be measured by my soul : The mind's the standard of the man.' There is, no doubt, a considerable difiference between a Hottentot's nose and my own, which, as you observe, is a fine Roman one and very like Cjesai-'s ; but there is, I flatter myself, a much greater difier- ence between our understandings. The first is only a ditierence in the conformation of matter, but the last is a gradation in mind, which, to speak in common language, is the most material matter of the two." Here tlie Cockney was quite out of patience. " He did not care," he said, "about mind and matter; and as to the difference of men's minds, why men would differ, but he meant to be of his own mind, and the philosopher mi:^ht be of his ;" and so they parted. As I was present at this conversation, it occurred to me that if men wre so much alike everywhere, or rather, if every soil produced tne same varieties, I could see as much of them in a walk throu;4h the populous streets of London as in a hasty journey all over the Conti- nent. Oh ! I will not travel, said L for, in the first place, it's unneces- sary ; and secondly, I do not feel equal to its fatigues iuid danijers ; and lastly, said I (for we alwa\s get to the true reason at last), I can't afford it. Besides, I had not seen Waterloo Bridge ; and we ought to see our own bridges before we go to see the bridges of others. A traveller, said I, should have all his wits aljout him, and so wdl I. He should let nothing escape him, no more will I. He should extract re- flections out of a cabbage stump, like sun'Deams squeezed out of cucumbers ; so will I, if I can ; and he should converse with every and any one, e^'en a fishwoman. Perhaps I will, and perhaps I will not, said 1. Who knows but I may make a sentimental journey, as good as St' me s ; but at any rate I can write it, and send it to the London Mag.izine. I had hardlv left the threshold of my door, ere I met, as I thought, with an adventure. I had just reached that ancient and grotesque house which is said to have been a summer seat of Queen Elizabeth, 40 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM though now in the centre of the village, or rather town of Islington, when I observed that tlie steps which led down to the door had becomti the seat, or rather the courh, of an unfortunate female. She had, like Sterne's Maria, her dog and her pipe^ and like her, too, she was evi- dently beside herself. " Poor unfortunate and interesting Maria," said I, as she came into my mind, ex;ictlv as Sierne had drawn her. I had touched a string — at the name of Maria, the female for the first time raised her head, and I caught ;. glance at her uncommon countenance. The rose had not fled from it, nor the bloom, for this was damson, and that was damask ; there was a fixedness in her gaze, and aUlioiigh she quickly turned her head away, she could not hide from me that she had a drop in her eye. " It won't do," said I, shaking my head. "M.'tria found Sterne's handkerchief, and washed it with tears, and dried it in her bosom ; but if I lose mine here, it's ten to one if I see it again ; and if this Maria should wet it with her eyes, methinks it would dry V'jcst again at her nose. There is nothing to sympathise with in her bewilderment — she's rather bewitched than bevv itching— she's a dry subject ;" and so I left her. My eyes, however, were full charged with the tears, and my bosom with the sighs, which I had expected to mingle with those of the supposed unforLunate. Some sentimentalists would have vented them upon the first dead dog or lame chicken they might meet with, but I held them too valuable to be wasted upon sucii objects. I hate the weeping-willow set, who v/ill cry over their pu'^'-dogs and canaries, till they have no tears to spare for the real children of misfortune and misery ; but sensibility is tou scarce, and too valuable, not to be often imitated; and these, therefore, are the ways in which they advertise their counterfeit drops. They should be punished like any other impostors, and they might be made of some use to society at the same time; for as other convicts are set to beat hemp, and pick oakum, so I would set these to perform funerals, and to chop onions. These reflections, and the incidents which gave rise to them, I resolved to treasure up, for they would perhaps have their use in some part of my journey. They will warn me against being too sentimental, said I. In the ■first place, it's ridiculous ; secondly, it's useless ; and lastly, it's incon- venient ; for I just recollect that there's a very large hole in my pocket- handkerchief. These reflections brought me into Colebrook Row, or rather into a heap of mud that stood at the end of it, for street reveries are very subject to such sudden terminatiuns. They say that English- men have a rusticity about them that only rubs otT liy a little travel ; but that must certainly be erroneous, for I had hardly gone a quarter of a mile, ere 1 lost, in the mudding of my boots, the little all of polish that I wore about me. Barring the first agony of mortification, I bore it, however, with uncommon fortitude, for I knew that travellers must expect to meet, as I did, with sad and serious accidents. There passed, however, a young gentleman in very tigiit trotler-cases, but whilst his feet gave evident signs of suffering, I observed that his countenance was calm, vacant, and stoical. Pshaw, s.dd I, if he can bear his pinches so well, I may surely put up with my splashes; this pain of mine exists only in imagination, whereas his poor feet, like Shakespeare's stricken deer, '• distend their leathern coats almost to ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 4I bursting.*' What a felicity there is in a happy application of words! 1 was so pleased with the resemblance which 1 discovered between the foot of a dandy and a stricken deer, that I quite lur^ot uiy vexa- tion and its cause. I found, as I thouLjht, that I had a genius i'or apt quotations, and resolved not to be sparing of them; they would give to my travels an air of great learning; and if learning be better than riches, there would be no more harm in showing it thus than in pulling out a large purse, as some do, to give a poor beggar a halipenny. " Give a poor beggar a halfpenny," said a man, as if he had heard and echoed the last part of my thought. The City Road was excessively dirty, but he had swept a cleaner passage over it, and as I trod across his little track of Terra Firma, I dropped the merited coin into his hat, for I saw he had only half-a- crown in it. "Thank your honour," said he, looking full in my face, and then looking down upon my bo>its, he thanked me a^ain, and still more emphatically. " It is very true," said I, entering into his feeling — " it's very true — and if I too had looked upon my boots, you probably had not had it." He thought, no doubt, with certain philosophers, that man's main- spring is selfishness, and perhaps he was not quite wrong ; but at all events to decide it, I resolved to watch his customers and analyse his profits. "A plague take the fellow! " said an uid gentleman, whom he had hunted fifty paces for a halfpenny, "you ought to be reported to the Mendicity Society." He gave it to him, to get rid of his importunity, thought I. He would have kept his halfpenny by walking a little faster, but he walks very lame, poor old gentleman, and that perhaps makes him pettish. The next halfpenny he got from a lady, who had walked a long way down the road to avail herself of his labour. It was rather for her upper leather's than her soul's sake, said I ; and as for that old lady that followed her, I can read in his face that she has given him a pocket-piece ; hut they all go in charity, as it is called ; and I have learned, by the by, what to do with a forged or flash note. As nobody else seemed inclined to give him anything, I summed up my calculations: one-third had given from inconvenience, and one- third for convenience, and the rest, or the pocket-piece, was the gift of pure charity. We may say of charity, as " Hamlet Travestied " doi s of death — that it's truly a tine thing to talk of We all preach it — we all praise and admire, but when we come to the practice of it, we " leave that to men of more learning ; " and are as careful of our pence as of our lives, when we find they've no chance of returning. I had hardly ended these uncharitable reflections, when I was obliged to retract and repent them. I had begun to read a very conspicuous hand-bill which was posted on some palings near Sadler's Wells, and invited the admirers of fisticuffs to a grand sparring benefit at the Fives Court. But I had hardly got farther than the noble science of self-defence, when it was for the most part eclipsed by a new hand-bill, fresh from the pole of the bill-sticker; and altogether, they then appe.ired as follows: — To the Fancy- — on such a day — a Sermon will be preached by such a Bishop at such a church, for the benefit of such a charity — and as a little piece of the other bill expressed at the bottom ihdiX. real t^ood ones were expected, I -pplied it of course to the, exclusion of pocket-pieces. 4» A SEN7IMENTAL JOURNEY FROM I had a fresh subject besides in this piece of wafrgery of the bill sticker's, which had atiorded ni':^ no little ei.tert.iinnient. Shakespeare w, IS right, and so was the j^hilosopher, in my estimation ; for 1 s.iw that what they h id r-presented was correct, that certain characters are confined to no cl iss, condition, nor country. We may meet with dull pedagogues and authors, and with sensible clowns and witty bill-stickers ; and I doubt not that we shall as readily meet with blunt Frenchmen, with shuffling Englishmen, and honest and brave Italians. I met with no other incident worth relating or reflecting upon, till I came to a public-house near Lady Huntingdon';: Chapel, and there I met with matter of interest and amusemein, inasmuch as it involved a question upon national and domestic government. It was no less than a qu irrd between a man and his wife, who had just ejected him from his seat in the parlour; and the argument was, not whether he should go there at .dl, but whether he should go there with- out her permission hrst soui^ht and obtained. There were not wanting auxiliaries and allies upon each side, and there were as many advocates for tiie rii;hts of woman as there were supporters of the doctrine ot the free-will of man. There was, besides, a third party, composed . hiefly of young persons, perhaps spinsters and bachelors, who, by siding sometimes with one and sometimes the other, seemed inclined to provoke the opposing parties to a general combat. It was evident from the clamour of the females, and from the swearing of the men, that the argument, if such it mi;^ht be called, would never arrive at any legitimate conclusion ; and taking advantage therefore ot a f;eneral pause, the effect of exhausted ra.Lje, I wis induced to offer my aid as a mediator between the two s.xes. Now, it so happens, that when persons are angry or ridiculous, they like to make parties of all the spectators ; and as I had taken no part in the fray, but had been strictly neutral, the proposal \vas generally agreed to; especially as I had the appearance of one of the meek among men. Getting therefore upon one of the benches, I slretciied forth my hand, and proceeded as follows : — " Ladies and gentlemen, the question which you have referred to me is of the greatest importance, not only to me, but to you,— not only to you, but to all the world. " It requires to know which of the sexes was born for dominion — \\hether wum m should rule ('or man should be ruled,' said an Irish- man). It not only questions whether wife should rule husb >nd, or husband rule wife— but also if Queens should ascend the throne, or if Kings should sit upon it ; for whichever may be unht to command a family must be equally unqualified to govern a nation." The con- clusion of this sentence was followed by shouts of applause from both parties, each applying to the other the unfitness to which I alluded. " If," said I, " we may judge from a law which exists and has existed, 1 should say that the softer sex are unqualiiied for the thrones, from wluch by that very law they stand excluded." Here 1 was obliged to bow to the applause of my male hearers, and also to the ladies, in order to avoid the force of a flying patten. " But there is one circumstance," I continued, " and it certainly goes strongly against such a conclusion ; — 1 mean that in ihaj ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 43 instnnce the men were the law-makers." Here again I hr.d to bow to the ladies, and duck to the gentlemen. " I will say, morc-ncr, that if we refer to the history of a nition where that law was unknown, we shall find that the reigns of two thirds of her Queens have been happy or glorious. (Loud applause from the females.) " This fact, however, goes no farther in support of this side of the question than the Salic law on the other ; for allowing that the sway of those Queens was so sweot and splendid, yet we must remember, that they governed by their ministers, and conquered by their generals and admirals. (Cheers from the men.) If we trace still farther back in history, even unto the days of Saul and David, and if we find a frequent mention of Kings, and of their being anointed, what then shall we say ot this question, if we find in the whole course o{ that history, no in- stance of an anointed Queen? (Hisses and grooms from the ladifs.) If such be the fact, what shall we infer from it, but that there were no priestesses? (Shouts and lau;4hter frotn the ladies.) But why h..d they no priestesses ? I must confess that I am unable to answer. (Cheers from the males ) I will now con-ider the other branch of the subject ; for although it is evident that those who are unfit to rule families must be unqualified to govern kingdoms, yet it does not follow, therefore, that those who are unable to govern kingdoms are unequal to the lighter task of governing a family. There are many very worthy women whom 1 should be loth to trust with a sceptre, but they sway the domestic rod with vigour and success — (hear ! from the men) ; — and there are also many men of a ditTerent stamp, of indolent or profligate characters, whose aftairs thrive best, or would thrive better, under the guidance of their wives. (Hear ! from the women.) We know, too, that there are others who have willingly resigned to their wives the control of their purse, and the direction of their alTairs ; convinced, by experience, that they were the best merchants, the best accountants, and the best orators. (Hear, hear! from the ladies.) Upon these grounds we may assign the right of dominion to the female sex — (screams of ai plause from the women, and groans from the men); — I say, upon these grounds we may assign the right of dominion to the female sex (ihe same tumult repeated). I say (said I, raising my voice), I say that upon these grounds we may assign the right of dominion to the female sex, provided that the whole, or the gre aer portion of men, may be supjiosed iiile, profligate, or the most ignorant. But I must conkss, and 1 do it with .11 sincerity, that this would appear to me to be a most unhandsome, most uncharit ble, and unjust estimate. (Shouts from the men, and hissts from the ladies.) " How, then, shall we decide this great question, seeing that the trial by laattle is by Parliament abolished ? It may be ruled from precedent, or rather the want of it, that the fem.ile sex be excluded Irom the sovereignty and the priesthood, tmt their claims to domestic dominion are as yet uncontroverted — (cheers from the ladies) .— and as yet unestablished. (Cheers from the gentlemen.) There onlj remains, in my opinion, a middle course to pursue : • Let all agree, — let none engros the sway, But each command by tuiiis, .and cnch obey.' I4t A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM Let the lady be paramount in the kitchen and the nursery, and abso- lute in the garrets. Let the gentleman be king in his parlour, and emperor in his study ; and as for the nr:iwin;,r-room and the garden, let their sway there be divided. Let her be n judge in fa-hions, m novels, and in nil f.incy articles ; and let him decide on pilitics, on liquors, and on horse-flesh. As for all other matters of argument, let them be considered as drawn battles at draughts ; and finally, let each sex con- sider itself as bound to the other by an alliance offensive and defen- sive." The conclusion of this my oration was followed by very general cries of applause, which were the more gratifying, when I considered the difficulty of pleasing all parties in a concern of so much interest to each. Nor was that my only reward, fcr I received I know not iiow many invitations to partake of porter, gin, and punch, all of which I declined, alleging that I wished to go straightway to Waterloo Bridge • — at least, as much as it wns possible to do so, by Gray's Inn Lane, Chancery Lane, and the Strand. 1 had just reached the middle of Elm Street, when I was alarmed by loud and piercing screams, and as a carriage had r.ipidly turned the corner, I feared that some unfortu- nate human being had been run over. There is something in the shrill cry of a female in distress that irresistibly impels and wings one to her succour. I flew up the hill— turned the corner, and beheld at my feet a poor swine, which was screaming under the repeated lashes of a ruffian drover. She had sunk down, apparently from ex- haustion, in the middle of the kennel, and as she started and kicked under the bloodthirstv thont;, her struggles and sphnshings were truly shocking. Aged — and a female — exposed to insult, cruelty, and indig- nity — her grunts so like groans, and her squeaks so like screams — - it was impossible for humanity to look on and be passive. I straddled over the unfortunate sow, and internosed my bodv betwixt her and her tormentor; and had it been at the ribk of irnmokition, my feelings could not have allowed me to shrink from it. I should have died a glorious martyr to humanity ! 1 protected the innocent, and I did more, for I threatened to chastise her oppressor ; and I should certainly have done so with his own whip, if I could only have wrested it from him. However, I accepted the brute's challenge to fight ; and here I must say, that upon any other occasion, I should have deemed it dis- graceful and ungentlemanly ; but in such a cause, as the champion of humanit)', the guardian of the brute creation, I thought it not only gentlemanly, but angelic ; and I felt that I was quite in my duiy when 1 folded up my new coat and confided it to the care of a decent sh< p- kceper. We exchanged only a few blows, and it I did not thrash him heartily, he owed it to my humanity ; for it was merely from a reluct- ance to end in blood what I hid l.'cgun in tears, that I so speedily de- ciined the combat. The ;:.pectators indeed did not seem to enter into iny feeling ; but whip me the man who would not prefer the praise of mercy to the meed of victory ! Besides, I considered it a sin, a kind of profanation, to mar and disfigure " the human face divine," and one of us, at least, was handsome. I did not, however, resign the cause or interests of the poor ;ow, but slipping a crown into the hand of the dro\er, I recommended her to his mercy as a man and a Christian. " Coax htr," said 1 ; '* call her ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 45 3r run before her, and entice her with a cabbage-leaf — do anything but whip her so cruelly. And now," I continued, addressing myself to the bvstanders, amongst whom were some very well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, *' now let me impress upon your memories one very great error as regards pig-driving. A pig will run this way and thnt, and any way, perhaps, but the right one ; but it is uncharitable and cruel to attribute to obstinacy what may onh originate in an over- anxiety to please. I have seen a pig run backward, and forward, and sideways, and if it had been possible to run a dozen ways at once, I verily believe it would h ive done it." The sow got up, the crowd dispersed, and I pursued my journey. It afterwards struck me that I heard at a di-^tance the same shrill, humanlike, and persevering screams ; but it might be fancy, for I be- lieve they will ring in my ears as often as I pass the corner of Elm Street, Gray's Inn Lane. Gray's Inn Lane, by the by, is not, as I conjecture, the true name of it ; the ancient appellation must have been anything but what it now bears — perhaps Crazing Latte, because, ere it was built upon, the cattle used to graze in it. Be that as it may, there is nothing farther to remark of Gray's Inn Lane,, but that it brings one into Holborn. Hence, and through Chancery Lane, I amused myself by speculat- ing on the faces of the passengers. It's a study I'm very fond of, and if I am in anything superstitious, it is in the signs and forebodings of the countenance. Who cannot trace in the face of a dandy the circu- lation of his two ideas, — his opinion of himself and others ; and who is there that mistakes the keen eye of a genius ? But it is Temper that writes the most legible hand in the counte- nance ; and it is easy therefore to distinguish, amongst a crowd, the pet lamb of his mother, the tyrant of his family, and the humble ser- vant of his wife. " There's that man," said I, looking at a gentleman who was standing on the edge of the pavement — " his curled lip indi- cates his pride ; but I know by the very restlessness of his eye that he's afraid of bailiffs. As for that man who has just passed, I would •'not live with such a temper for my board and lodging. That lady's mask is handsome ; but I must say with the fox, ' Cerebrum non ■habet ; ' and her little girl'sdoU has more wit in her one eye than shehas in two." My judgments, however, were not always fortunate : the man with restless eyes was only looking for his poodle dog ; and as the cross-looking man went soon afterwards into a cook-shop. I supposed that he had been rather hungered than ill-natured. As for the lady and the child, I don't know whether I set them down ri'j:htly or not, but in the meantime I will suppose so, and cling to my studv. I was now in the Strand, close to Temple Bar ; and from hence to Waterloo Bridge, I calculated would be the journey of an hour. Who is there that can walk along this, or any of the principal City streets, without admiring the number of elegant shops, and the still more elegant and wonderful productions which they contain .'' they are to me the sources of the greatest pleasure ; and when time will permit me to do so, I in- spect them from the goldsmith's and jeweller's, down to the humbler repositories of the tinman and brazier. Nay, I have been caught, and rallied by my acquaintance for looking in lovingly at the ha.berd asher's and milliner's. 4tf A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM It is not th.'it I am merely smitten with the be:nuty of their articlri that I look into them with such admiration and delight, but it \% because I can there trace an evident and prugre-sive improvement in the arts and manufactures of my country. This affords me a delight in which all ought to sympathise, and that calls forth an admiration in which all must participate. Whether we examine those paintings and prints, which are more strictly termed works of art ; whether we examine those fabrics which have b-.-en produced by the most comphcited machinery, or those minor articles wliich are the work of the handi- craftsm.in, we shall find that there prevails in all a deL;ree of taste which can only be the result of a general cultivation of mind. It is this that has led to so many ingenious inventions, and has tended above all to promote the general alliance between elegance and utility ; and when we contemplate the mighty effects of its progress hitherto, who can calculate its future attainments .'' Long may it continue its mighty march, to the honour and happiness of my countrymen ; and may they, in better days, obtain for their industry and ingenuity those rewards which hitherto have not kept pace with their merits. May they still travel onwards in the path of improvement, and surmounting all obstacles which a meaner ambition would plant in their way, reach that point of excellence and perfection to which man in this world may be destined to attain ! Here a bookseller's shop gave a new turn to my speculations. We are certainly a reading people, I thought, as I looked in at the window ; but I would fain know if this culiivation of the mind conduces to happiness. I was inclined to decide in the affirmative ; for the collection before me sug_;ested the names of Shakespeare, Addison, Milton, and a host of other authors, linked with a thousand delightful reminiscences. Much must depend upon one's course of reading, said I, still running over the titles : — A Sermon to Sinne — • The Foole's Jest Book — Dialoi^ues of the Dead — Life in London — Tom- linens Sea Worthies — The I\'ewgate Calendar — Cato's Letter to the Country — The King's Reply to his People — PVordes to the IVyse — Witte's Crony kill — A New Spelling Book. But what have we here? It happened very stningely, I might almost say miraculously, that I read a solution of my speculation in a book before me. It was called 'J he Prayse of Ignorance ; and in the two grave-looking brown-com- plexioned pages that lay open, I read as follows : — " Hee was made to bee h^ippye but not learned : for eating of the Tree of Knowledge hee was caste out of Paradyse. Hys was the Blisse of Ignorance ; but We being born to bee learned, and unhappye withall, have noght but the Ignorance of Blisse. Soe we aske not which bee the most happye ; but which bee the leeste unhappye : and trulye hee hath leeste Paines that hath not most Bokes. Hee is your Berksinre or Hampshire manne with a harde Head and a long Stomack — which is a Ho^ge amongst Wittes, but a Witte amongst Hog::;es ; and when hee sLepes you wot not which can grunte loudeste. For why ? Hee beares no care on hys Head : excepte hys Hatte, and that hee hath not much care withal except a-Sundayes. One maye rede in hys Vysage that he wots not to write: but he maketh hys Marke and soe hath one to ten chancs against th. CJallowes. Hys Haire is un- kempte ; and soe is hys Ir-tellecte ; but betwixt buth hee saveth a ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. ^ World of Trouble. Hys Head itches : it doth not ake^ It. is^ as emptye as a drye Bowie; but hys Belly is crammede to the fulle— tor hee is no author. " You maye write him downe a Manne with an Idea : but hee is more blessede than anye with two ; for hee hath nonne of their fevtnshe Deliriums. How can hys Minde wander.^ " Now look you to your Scliollar. He cryes in hys verye Birthe, tor hee is stryped into hys ABC; most of hys Wordes doe end in O, and hys Whyppinges have many Syllables. Hee hateth his Boke fiiile sore : and noe Marvel ! For hee wotteth to the Sorrowe of hys Bottom, that Learning is at the Bo'tom of hys Sorrowe. There is a natural! Hyphen betwixt them. A connexion of Minde and Matter. One Cometh not without the other, and hee curseth them both in hys Waye. Hys Grammar bringes him freshe annoye : for hee onlye weepeth in another Tense. But hee gets the Interjections by Harte. Figures are a great Greefe unto him ; and or.lye multiplie hys Paines. I'he dead Tongues doe brinj^e him a lively sorrowe : hee gets them at hys Fingers endes. And soe hee waxeth in Growth ; into a Quarto or Folio, as maye bee ; a greater Bulke of Learning and Heavinesse ; and belike hee goeth madde with Study overmuch. Alsoe hee betaketh him to write ; and letts hys Braines be suckede forthe through a Quill. If hee seeke to get Monneye hys Boke is unsolrie ; and if hee wolde have of the Worlde's Fame hee is praysde of those that studye not hys Rimes: or is bcornde and mockede of those that will not understande hys Con- ceitcs, which is a greate SorroM'e ; for roesie hath made hys Harte tender, and a little Worde is a greate Paine. Soe he c;etts no Sub- stance, but looses Fleshe. Lnstlye hee dyeth a pitiful! Death ; the kindly Creditour of an unkindlye Worlde ; and then hee is weepede for ; and it is askde, ' Why will hee not write again ?' " And the Parishe Clarke hys witte sufficeth to hys Epitaph, which runnes : — * Alake ! alake ! tlint Studye colde not save eoe great a Witte out of so small a grave. But Learning must decaye, and Letters both, And Studye too. Death is a dreadfull Goih, Which sparelh nonne.' " Unfortunately, I could neither read further, nor turn over the leaf through the glass ; and still more unfortunately, I did not go in and purchase the book. However, I had read enough to lead me to a decision, that the ignorant are the most happy ; and as I walked away from the window I repeated the lines : — " No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to "be wise." As this was the second great question that T had decided, I walked onward to Waterloo Bridge, without any doubt of being able to deter- mine the third, viz., as to the merits and demerits of the bridge and its architect. But here an unforeseen difficulty presented itself; for <.wing to the lateness of my arrival, and the sudden fall of a verv 4* A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, ETC. dense fog, I was unable to do anything more than determine to come again. I accordir.gly walked back into the Strand, and finding a stage ?.*. Somerset House, I took my seat in it, and turned towards home. I had three travelling companions, two males and one female ; and after we had discussed the usual topics, and paid the usual compliments, the conversation dwindled away into a profound silei'ice ; I therefore employed myself in the arrangement of my travels, and in recollecting the various incidents and reflections to which they had given rise. I must request, Mr Editor, your utmost indulgence towards one so inexperienced as a traveller, and if you should find that the style of my narration is rugged and uneven, and that the incidents and reflec- tions are abrupt and unconnected, I beg that you will attribute it to tne unpleasant jolting of the stage, and the frequent interruptions and Stoppages that it met with. INCOG ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 'Catcluos«n the oddities, the whimsies, the absurdities, anc the littlenesses of consctoi greatness by the way." — Ciiizen of the World, [First published 1825.] ODE TO MR GRAHAM, THE AERONA UT, • Up with me I— up with me into the sky I " — WoKDSwoKTH : On a LttrkI Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd. The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. Their meaner fli;.;hts pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and ria« And take a bird's-eye view 1— IL 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 !— TO MR GRAHAM. 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 chann«5 The mighty Thnmes ? — 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 1 VII. Little, indeed ! — my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike. — I must take Their tolls upon mv 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 belovr By very little logs ! — TO MR GRAHAM. X. O 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 1 XI. Now for a glass of bright champagne Above the clouds ! — Come, let us "drain A bumper as we go ! — But hold 1 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 slight 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 1 — 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 opens on my eyes — my ears With buzzing noises ring !" — A fig for Souther's Laureate lore ! — What's Rogers here?— Who cares for Moore, That hears the Angels sing ? — TO MR GRAHAM, XVI. A fig for earth, and all its minions .'— We are nbove the world's opinions, Graliam ! we'll have our own ! — Look what a vantasje 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 " unto fame, Like Williams of Cornhill ? — Speak up, my lad ! — when men run smatt 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 impeacll The potent and the rich, Merely on ethic stilts, — and I Not moralise at two miles high, The true didactic pitch ? XIX. Come, — what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver In Lillipui'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 ? XXL Now, — like you Croly's verse indeed— In heaven — where one cannot read The " Warren " on a wall ? What think you here of th.it man's fame? Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, To me 'tis very small ! TO MR GRAHAM, J3 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 1 Thus being couch'd u()on a cloud, Graham, we'll have our e\es ! We felt the great when we were lcs9^ But we'll retort on littleness Now we are in the skies. XXIV. 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 sorrov\s wheo The world is out of sight I XXV. My name is Tims. — I am the man That North's unseen diminish'd clan So scurvily abused ! 1 am the very P, A. Z. The London's Lion's small pin's head So often hath refused 1 XXVI. Campbell— (you cannot see him here)— Hath scorn'd my lays :—Ao iiis appear Such great e;4gs 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 damn'd small 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 ! TO MR GRAHAM. XXVI 11. What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man f 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 Uatik Is gone — the 'Change and all ! XXIX. What's all the ground-rent of the globe ?— 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 — 1 that like Shakespeare's self may dream Beyond the very clouds, and seem An Universal Man ! XXXI. O 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 Adult's 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 ! TO MRS FRY, |} XXXIV. Of us ! are we gone out of sight ? Lessen'd ! diminish'd ! vanish'd quite I Lost to the tiny town ! Beyond the Eagle's ken — the grope Of DoUond's longest telescope ! Graham ! we're going down J 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 1 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 I've smoked my last cigar ! A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS FEY, IN NE WGA TE. " Sermons in stones." — At Yoit Like It, •' Out t out 1 damaed spot ! "— Macbeth. I LIKE you, Mrs 5ry ! I like your name ! It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In da^y act round Charity's great flame — I like, the crisp Browne way you have of dressing, fH TO MRS FRY. Good Mrs Fry ! I like the placid claim You make to Christianity, — professiiiCT Love, and good tuorks — of course \ ou buy of Barton, Beside the young fry's bookseller, Friend Daiton 1 II. I like, good Mrs Fry, your brethren mute— Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sports I should have said, that wear, the sober suit Shaped like a court dress — but for heaven's court. I like your sisters too, — sweet Rachel's fruit — Protestant nuns ! I like their stiff support Of virtue — and I like to see them clad With such a difference — just like good from bad I IIL I like the sober colours — not the wet ; Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow- Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet — In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain go— The others are a chaste, severer set. In which the good, the pious, and the plain go : They're moral standards, to know Christians by- In short, they are your colours, Mrs Fry 1 IV. As for the naughty tinges of the prism — Crimson's the cruel uniform of war — Blue — hue of brimstone ! minds no catechism; And green is young and gay — not noted for Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, Till it is sadden'd down to tea-,L,'reen, or Olive — and purple's given to wine, I guess ; And yellow is a convict by its dress 1 V, They're all the devil's liveries, that men And women wear m servitude to sin — But how will they come off, poor motleys, when Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand ia The Evil presence ? You and I know then How all the party colours will be^n To part — the /"//lite hues will sadden there, Whereas the FoxiU shades will all show fair! 71? MRS FRY, VI. Witness their goodly labours one by one ! Russet makes garments for the needy poor— Dove-colour preaches love to all — and dun Calls every day at Charity's street-door — Brown studies Scripture, and bids woman shuQ All gaudy furnishing — olive doth pour Oil into wounds : and drad and slate supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs Fry 1 VII. Well ! Heaven forbid that I should discommend The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour ! When all persuasions in your praises blend — The Methodists' creed and cry are, Fry for ever I No — I will be your friend — and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect — Nay, never Start at that word ! — But 1 7m(st ask you why You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs Fry ? VIII. Too well I know the price our mother Eve Paid for her schooling : but must all her daughters Commit a petty larceny, and thieve — Pay down a crime for '''■entrance" to your " quarters f* Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread an(^ waters ! Oh, tho' it cost you rent — (and rooms run high)! Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs Fry I IX. Oh, save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd ! Set up your mounted sign without the gate— And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd I 'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate ! Nay, if you would not have your labours foil'd, Take it inclining \.QW2,rds a virtuous state. Not prostrate and laid fiat — else, woman meek I The upright pencil will but hop and shriek 1 Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,— To bring sobriety to life again. Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,— 5S 71? MRS FRY. To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,— To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her ; To tame the wildfowl^ways of Jenny Diver 1 XI. Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nnncy Dawson on her bed of straw — To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach She made in manners — to write Heaven's own law On hearts of granite. — Nay, how hard to preach In cells, that are not memory's — to draw The moral thread, through the immoral eye Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs Fry 1 XII. In vain you teach them baby-work within : 'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime ; 'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin — Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time- It is too late for scouring to begin When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime Is worn away, and nothing sound remains ; You'll fret the fabric out before the stains 1 XIIL I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry t I like your cookery in every way ; I like your Shrove-tide service and supply; I like to hear your sweet Pandeatis play ; I like the pity in your full-brimm'd ey^ ; I like your carriage, and your silken grey, Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching | But I don't like your Newgatory teaching. XIV. Come out of Newgate, Mrs Fry ! Repair Abroad, and find \ our pupils in the streets. Oh, come abroad into the wholesome air, And take your moral place, before Sin seats Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. Suppose some morals raw ! the true receipt's To dress thein in the pan, but do not try To cook them in the fire, yood Mrs Fry 1 TO MRS FRY. f9 XV. Put on your decent bonnet, and come out / Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools In jail — but at the Porch ! hinting, no doubt, That Vice should have a lesson in the rules Before 'twas whipt by law. — Oh, come about, Good Mrs Fry ! and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and through Newgate Street, But not in Mr Wontner's proper seat 1 XVI, Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you That peerless PeercbS can absolve from dolour Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin of blue, or any other colour ; Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, Month after month, the unpaid druni