This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about,Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each crackerAnd, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us outWith the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre.Now, hear me—this stranger—it may be mere folly—But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly?Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,Who's here now incog.—he, who made such a fuss, youRemember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off!Pa says he's come here to look after his money(Not taking things now as he used under Boney),Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore,Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such griefShould—unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push—Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek reliefBy rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."
I must now bid adieu—only think, Dolly, thinkIf this SHOULD be the King—I have scarce slept a winkWith imagining how it will sound in the papers,And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors,Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.
Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he—For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see,In the way he went poising, and managed to towerSo erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.
Well, it ISN'T the King, after all, my dear creature!But DON'T you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in 't—For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,He MIGHT be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't.At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own,If for no other cause than to vex MISS MALONE—(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here,Showing off with SUCH airs and a real Cashmere,While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!)But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing,"I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King;As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie,Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch,That a Brandenburg—(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)—Would be, after all, no such very great catch,If the R—G—T, indeed—" added he, looking sly—(You remember that comical squint of his eye)But I stopp'd him—"La, Pa, how CAN you say so,When the R—G—T loves none but old women, you know!"Which is fact, my dear Dolly—we, girls of eighteen,And so slim—Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen;And would like us much better as old—ay, as oldAs that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been toldThat she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear—You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over,Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!
Let me see—'t was on Saturday—yes, Dolly, yes—From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage,"Beginning gay, desperate, clashing down-hilly;And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through,And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huitMake his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois—And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is,Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!The gardens seem'd full—so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statueThere staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!The ponds, too, we view'd—stood awhile on the brinkTo contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—"LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think,Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!"
But WHAT, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove,Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?In vain did I wildly explore every chairWhere a thing LIKE a man was—no lover sat there!In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly castAt the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past,To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given,For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his!Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody,Something about the "green spot of delight,"(Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day)Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night,And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!
We dined at a tavern—La, what do I say?If Bob was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear;Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day,And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine)Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty;Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but in grief,I have always found eating a wondrous relief;And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same QUITE—"My sighs," said he "ceased with the first glass I drank you,The LAMB made me tranquil, the PUFFS made me light,And now that's all o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!"
To MY great annoyance, we sat rather late;For Bobby and Pa had a furious debateAbout singing and cookery—Bobby, of course,Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst,The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it—What with old Lais and Very, I'm curstIf MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!"'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis,When sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul—That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's!We enter'd—and scarcely had Bob, with an air,For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters,When, oh! Dolly, I saw him—my hero was there(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!Oh Dolly, these heroes—what creatures they are!In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter;As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous carAs when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water!He joined us—imagine, dear creature my ecstasy—Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace,But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE,And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd)Were, to HIM, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld."—How pretty!—though oft (as, of course, it must be)Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me.But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did:And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted,That, if the next day should be PASTORAL weather,We all would set off in French buggies, together,To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau.His card then he gave us—the NAME, rather creased—But 't was Calicot—something—a colonel, at least!After which—sure there never was hero so civil—heSaw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,Where his LAST words, as at parting, he threwA soft look o'er his shoulders, were—"how do you do?"
But, Lord—there's Papa for the post—-I'm so vex'd—Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.That dear Sunday night!—I was charmingly dress'd,And—SO providential—was looking my best;Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills,You've no notion how rich—(though Pa has by the bills)—And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear.Then the flowers in my bonnet—but, la, it's in vain—So, good by, my sweet Doll—I shall soon write again,
Nota bene—our love to all neighbors about—Your papa in particular—how is his gout?
P. S.—I 've just open'd my letter to say,In your next you must tell me (now DO, Dolly, prayFor I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz)What sort of a thing, dear, a BRANDENBURG is.
At last, DOLLY—thanks to a potent emeticWhich BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,Have swallowed this morning to balance the blissOf an eel matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses—I've a morning at home to myself, and sit downTo describe you our heavenly trip out of town.How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!Lady JANE in the novel less languish'd to hearIf that elegant cornet she met at LORD NEVILLE'SWas actually dying with love or—blue devils.But love, DOLLY, love is the themeIpursue;With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do—Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spiesAny imps of that color in CERTAIN blue eyes,Which he stares at tillI, DOLL, at HIS do the same;Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, sir, for shame!"
Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dressFor the happy occasion—the sunshine EXPRESS—Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going,It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.Though late when we started, the scent of the airWas like GATTIE'S rose-water, and bright here and thereOn the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet!And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs,As if EACH a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse,And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,And—in short, need I tell you, wherever one goesWith the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, seeA day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was but ONE drawback—-at first when we started,The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB:And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to knowThat Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so,For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S—Served with him, of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies;So martial his features, dear DOLL, you can traceUlm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his faceAs you do on that pillar of glory and brassWhich the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass,It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—About English affairs an odd blunder or two.For example—misled by the names. I dare say—He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH,And—such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on—Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'dThrough that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to knowAll the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!—"'T was there," said he—not that his WORDS I can state—'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;—But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote,The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure,Then sanded it over with silver and azure,And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?-Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!"What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotionsFrom sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions,Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!
"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said—As down the small garden he pensively led—(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkleWith rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)—"'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY,(Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day),That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to formA waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"
Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd,The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is)Led us to talk about other commodities,Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget,For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set,And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,When he ask'd ne, with eagerness—who made my gown?The question confused me—for, DOLL, you must know,And I OUGHT to have told my best friend long ago,That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employThat enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI,But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who—deuce take her—It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker—I mean OF HIS PARTY—and, though much the smartest,LE ROI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.
Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd—so well knowingThe Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;I stammer'd out something—nay, even half namedThe LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed,"Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seenIt was made by that B*rb*n**t b—h, VIOTORINE!"What a word for a hero, but heroes WILL err,And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things JUST as they were,Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,I assure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French.
But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away,And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us—The NOTHINGS that then, love, are EVERYTHING to us—That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,And what BOB calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"—Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vainTo a heart so unpracticed these things to explain,They can only be felt in their fullness divineBy her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish—for BOB, my dear DOLLY,Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,Is just setting off for Montmartre—"for THERE is,"Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS!Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true,O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cueFor the FLESH of the VERYS—I'll visit their BONES!"He insists upon MY going with him—how teasing!This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lieUnseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasingOccurs while I'm out, I may tell you—Good-by.B. F.
Four o'clock.Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever—I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never;To think of the wretch!—what a victim wasI!'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die!My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!Oh what do you think? after all my romancing,My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper—This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!'Tis true as I live—I had coax'd brother BOB so(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so),For some little gift on my birth-day—SeptemberThe thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach(Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove),To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love—(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!)Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop,But—ye gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt—There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out,And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!Oh—Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear—'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear!The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,And when THAT too delightful illusion was past,As a hero had worship'd—vile treacherous thing—To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!My head swam round—the wretch smil'd, I believe,But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive—I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seem'd to wither,And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,With cruel facetiousness said—"Curse the Kiddy,A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!"Only think, my dear creature, if this should be knownTo that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE!What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!It will spread through the country—and never, oh neverCan BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear—And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudgeTo her poor—broken-hearted—young friend,BIDDY FUDGE
Nota Bene,—I'm sure you will hear with delight,That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-nightA laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. Cox(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.
[Illustration: POPE.]
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!In studious dishabille behold her sit,A lettered gossip and a household wit;At once invoking, though for different views,Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse.Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies,A checkered wreck of notable and wise,Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;Unfinished here an epigram is laid,And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.A moral essay now is all her care,A satire next, and then a bill of fare.A scene she now projects, and now a dish;Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish.Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,That soberly casts up a bill for coals;Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.
NETLEY ABBEY.[Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.]R. HARRIS RARHAM
I saw thee, Netley, as the sunAcross the western waveWas sinking slow,And a golden glowTo thy roofless towers he gave;And the ivy sheenWith its mantle of greenThat wrapt thy walls around,Shone lovehly brightIn that glorious light,And I felt 't was holy ground.
Then I thought of the ancient time—The days of thy monks of old,—When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime,The loud Hosanna roll'd,And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.
And then a vision pass'dAcross my mental eye;And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns,And long white vails, went by;Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,——But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!
Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring,And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell,And "dear linen souls,"In clean linen stoles,Swinging their censers, and making a smell.—And see where the Choir-master walks in the rearWith front severeAnd brow austere,Now and then pinching a little boy's earWhen he chants the responses too late or too soon,Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.(Then you knowThey'd a "movable Do,"Not a fix'd one as now—and of course never knewHow to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)It was, in sooth, a comely sight,And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.
But then "a change came o'er"My spirit—a change of fear—That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,But deep beneath the basement floorA dungeon dark and drear!And there was an ugly hole in the wall—For an oven too big,—for a cellar too small!And mortar and bricksAll ready to fix,And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!—That horrible hole!—it seems to say,'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad—And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.Ah me! ah me!—'tis sad to thinkThat maiden's eye, which was made to wink,Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink,Or be closed for ayeIn this kind of way,Shut out forever from wholesome day,Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,No light,—no air,—no victuals,—no drink!—And that maiden's lip,Which was made to sip,Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!—That wandering glance and furtive kiss,Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,Should yet be considered so much amissAs to call for a sentence severe as this!—And I said to myself, as I heard with a sighThe poor lone victim's stifled cry,"Well, I can't understandHow any man's handCOULD wall up that hole in a Christian land!Why, a Mussulman TurkWould recoil from the work,And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, heStands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,'When all's said and done, far better it was for us,Tied back to backAnd sewn up in a sack,To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!'Oh! a saint 't would vexTo think that the sexShould be no better treated than Combe's double X!Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell herA much better method of stocking her cellar."
If ever on polluted wallsHeaven's right arm in vengeance falls,—If e'er its justice wraps in flameThe black abodes of sin and shame,That justice, in its own good time,Shall visit, for so foul a crime,Ope desolation's floodgate wide,And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!
Lo where it comes!—the tempest lowers,—It bursts on thy devoted towers;Ruthless Tudor's bloated formRides on the blast, and guides the stormI hear the sacrilegious cry,"Down—with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"
Down! down they come—a fearful fall—Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,Stained pane, and sculptured stone,There they lie on the greensward strown—Moldering walls remain alone!Shaven crownBombazeen gown,Miter, and crosier, and all are flown!
And yet, fair Netley, as I gazeUpon that gray and moldering wall.The glories of thy palmy daysIts very stones recall!—They "come like shadows, so depart"—I see thee as thou wert—and art—
Sublime in ruin!—grand in woe!Lone refuge of the owl and bat;No voice awakes thine echoes now!No sound—good gracious!—what was that?Was it the moan,The parting groanOf her who died forlorn and alone,Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?—Full and clearOn my listening earIt comes—again—near and more near—Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer—I rush to the door—I tread the floor,By abbots and abbesses trodden before,In the good old chivalric days of yore,And what see I there?—In a rush-bottom'd chairA hag surrounded by crockery-ware,Vending, in cups, to the credulous throngA nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,—And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"Are screeching away, for the life!—for the life!Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."
Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there,Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!—Two or three chimney-sweeps, two or three clowns,Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns,"Two or three damsels, frank and free,Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.Parties below, and parties above,Some making tea, and some making love.Then the "toot—toot—toot"Of that vile demi-flute,—The detestable dinOf that cracked violin,And the odors of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin!"—Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!"And I said to the person who drove my "shay"(A very intelligent man, by the way),"This, all things considered, is rather too gay!It don't suit my humor,—so take me away!Dancing! and drinking!—cigar and song!If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,'And I really consider it all very wrong.——Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"—He paus'd, and said,Scratching his head,"Why I really DO think he's a little to blame,But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name!"
"Well—well!" quoth I,As I heaved a sigh,And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye,"My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubtThat some day or other you'll find it out,Should he come in your way,Or ride in your 'shay'(As perhaps he may),Be so good as to sayThat a Visitor whom you drove over one day,Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,And thus of their owner to speak began,As he ordered you home in haste,No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN,But—'ICAN'T SAY MUCH FOR HIS TASTE!'"
Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day,Though line before I never wrote!"On what occasion?" do you say?Our Dick has got a long-tail'd coat!!
Not a coatee, which soldiers wearButton'd up high about the throat,But easy, flowing, debonair,In short a CIVIL long-tail'd coat.
A smarter you'll not find in town,Cut by Nugee, that snip of note;A very quiet olive brown's the color of Dick's long-tail'd coat.
Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole,The proud Hungarian, and the Croat,Yet Esterhazy, on the wholeLooks best when in a long-tail'd coat
Lord Byron most admired, we know,The Albanian dress, or Suliote,But then he died some years ago,And never saw Dick's long-tail'd coat;
Or past all doubt the poet's themeHad never been the "White Capote,"Had he once view'd in Fancy's dream,The glories of Dick's long-tail'd coat!
We also know on Highland kiltPoor dear Glengarry used to dote,And had esteem'd it actual guiltI' "the Gael" to wear a long-tail'd coat!
No wonder 'twould his eyes annoy,Monkbarns himself would never quote"Sir Robert Sibbald," "Gordon," "Ray,"Or "Stukely" for a long-tail'd coat.
Jackets may do to ride or race,Or row in, when one's in a boat,But in the boudoir, sure, for graceThere's nothing like Dick's long-tail'd cost,
Of course in climbing up a tree,On terra-firma, or afloat,To mount the giddy topmast, heWould doff awhile his long-tail'd coat.
What makes you simper, then, and sneer?From out your own eye pull the mote!A PRETTY thing for you to jeer—Haven't YOU, too, got a long-tail'd coat?
Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean.Why, though too young to give a note,Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat.
What! would you have him sport a chinLike Colonel Stanhope, or that goatO' German Mahon, ere beginTo figure in a long-tail'd coat?
Suppose he goes to France—can heSit down at any table d' hote,With any sort of decency,Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat?
Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,There soon may be a sans culotte,And Nugent's self may then admitThe advantage of a long-tail'd coat.
Things are not now as when, of yore,In tower encircled by a moat,The lion-hearted chieftain woreA corselet for a long-tail'd coat;
Then ample mail his form embraced,Not like a weasel or a stoat,"Cribb'd and confined" about the waist,And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat
With beamy spear or biting ax,To right and left he thrust and smote—Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacksFall from a modern long-tail'd coati
More changes still! now, well-a-day!A few cant phrases learned by rote,Each beardless booby spouts away,A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat!
Prates of the "March of Intellect"—"The Schoolmaster." A PATRIOTESo noble, who could e'er suspectHad just put on a long-tail'd coat?
Alack! alack! that every thick-Skull'd lad must find an antidoteFor England's woes, because, like Dick,He has put on a long-tail'd coat!
But lo! my rhyme's begun to fail,Nor can I longer time devote;Thus rhyme and time cut short the TALE,The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat.
"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions,"—BUNYAN.
What! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate!Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket!And hang a wooden notice up to state,On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race,Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!Now, really, this appears the common caseOf putting too much Sabbath into Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
The Gardens—so unlike the ones we dubOf Tea, wherein the artisan carouses—Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub—Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head—No rum—nor gin—not even of a Monday—The Lion is not carved—or gilt—or red,And does not send out porter of a Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
The Bear denied! the Leopard under looks!As if his spots would give contagious fevers!The Beaver close as hat within its box;So different from other Sunday beavers!The Birds invisible—the Gnaw-way Rats—The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday—The Monkey tribe—the Family of Cats—We visit other families on Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy
What is the brute profanity that shocksThe super-sensitively serious feeling?The Kangaroo—is he not orthodoxTo bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat,Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi?Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to noteThe Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What feature has repulsed the serious set?What error in the bestial birth or breeding,To put their tender fancies on the fret?One thing is plain—it is not in the feeding!Some stiffish people think that smoking jointsAre carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday—But then the beasts are pious on these points,For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,As if transmuted by some spell organic?Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race?The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?Do Irish minds—(whose theory allowsThat now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)—Do Irish minds suppose that Indian CowsAre wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?—But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?
There are some moody Fellows, not a few,Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias,Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,And think when they are dismal they are pious:Is't possible that Pug's untimely funHas sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?—Or perhaps some animal, no serious one,Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What dire offense have serious Fellows foundTo raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney?Were charitable boxes handed round,And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to moltThe feathers in her head—at least till Monday;Or did the Elephant, unseemly, boltA tract presented to be read on Sunday?—But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?
At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing?Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tellTo keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,Because he preyed extempore as wellAs certain wild Itinerants on Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
To me it seems that in the oddest way(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-dayAre like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious—As soon the Tiger might expect to stalkAbout the grounds from Saturday till Monday,As any harmless man to take a walk,If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,As surely as I am a Christian scion,I cannot think it is a mortal sin—(Unless he's loose)—to look upon a lion.I really think that one may go, perchance,To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday—(That is, provided that he did not dance)—Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
In spite of all the fanatic compiles,I can not think the day a bit diviner,Because no children, with forestalling smiles,Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor—It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,Can be unnatural because it's Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven?The tender Love-Bird—or the filial Stork?The punctual Crane—the providential Raven?The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?Nay, must we cut from Saturday till MondayThat feathered marvel with a human tongue,Because she does not preach upon a Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast!The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd—That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,The horned Rhinoceros—the spotted Leopard—The Creatures of the Great Creator's handAre surely sights for better days than Monday—The Elephant, although he wears no band,Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?—But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?
What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature,Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature?"Better it were if, in his best of suits,The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,Should spend a leisure-hour among the brutes,Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thusHad somehow mixed up Deus with their Theology?Is Brahma's Bull—a Hindoo god at home—A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday?—Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,That there is such a dread of them on Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
Spirit of Kant! have we not had enoughTo make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish!Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,And sure as fate they will deny us nextTo see the Dandelions on a Sunday—But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?
ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE[Footnote: Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood'sverses as "profaneness and ribaldry."]THOMAS HOOD.
"Close, close your eyes with holy dread,And weave a circle round him thrice;For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise!"—Coleridge.
"It's very hard them kind of menWon't let a body be."—Old Ballad.
A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land,Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee,Where rolls between us the eternal sea,Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand—Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall;Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call;Across the wavy waste between us stretched,A friendly missive warns me of a stricture,Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched,And though I have not seen the shadow sketched,Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.
I guess the features:—in a line to paintTheir moral ugliness, I'm not a saint,Not one of those self-constituted saints,Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls,Censors who sniff out moral taints,And call the devil over his own coals—Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God,Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed:Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod,Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed,But endless flames, to scorch them like flax—Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbedThe impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!
Of such a character no single traceExists, I know, in my fictitious face;There wants a certain cast about the eye;A certain lifting of the nose's tip;A certain curling of the nether lip,In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky;In brief, it is an aspect deleterious,A face decidedly not serious,A face profane, that would not do at allTo make a face at Exeter Hall—That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray,And laud each other face to face,Till every farthing-candle RAYConceives itself a great gas-light of grace!
Well!—be the graceless lineaments confestI do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth;And dote upon a jest"Within the limits of becoming mirth;"—No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious—Nor study in my sanctum superciliousTo frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull,I pray for grace—repent each sinful act—Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible;And love my neighbor, far too well, in fact,To call and twit him with a godly tractThat's turned by application to a libel.My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven,All creeds I view with toleration thorough,And have a horror of regarding heavenAs any body's rotten borough.
What else? No part I take in party fray,With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging Tartars,I fear no Pope—and let great Ernest playAt Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs!I own I laugh at over-righteous men,I own I shake my sides at ranters,And treat sham Abr'am saints with wicked banters,I even own, that there are times—but thenIt's when I 've got my wine—I say d—— canters!
I've no ambition to enact the spyOn fellow-souls, a spiritual Pry—'Tis said that people ought to guard their nosesWho thrust them into matters none of theirsAnd, though no delicacy discomposesYour saint, yet I consider faith and prayersAmong the privatest of men's affairs.
I do not hash the Gospel in my books,And thus upon the public mind intrude it,As if I thought, like Otahei-tan cooks,No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.
On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk;Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk—For man may pious texts repeat,And yet religion have no inward seat;'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth,A man has got his belly full of meatBecause he talks with victuals in his mouth!
Mere verbiage—it is not worth a carrot!Why, Socrates or Plato—where 's the odds?—Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods,And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
A mere professor, spite of all his cant, isNot a whit better than a Mantis—An insect, of what clime I can't determine,That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence,By simple savages—through sheer pretense—Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin.But where's the reverence, or where the nous,To ride on one's religion through the lobby,Whether as stalking-horse or hobby,To show its pious paces to "the house."
I honestly confess that I would hinderThe Scottish member's legislative rigs,That spiritual Pindar,Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs,That must be lashed by law, wherever found,And driven to church as to the parish pound.
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle,I view that groveling idea as oneWorthy some parish clerk's ambitious son,A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle.On such a vital topic sure 'tis oddHow much a man can differ from his neighbor,One wishes worship freely given to God,Another wants to make it statute-labor—The broad distinction in a line to draw,As means to lead us to the skies above,You say—Sir Andrew and his love of law,And I—the Saviour with his law of love.
Spontaneously to God should tend the soul,Like the magnetic needle to the Pole;But what were that intrinsic virtue worth,Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge,Fresh from St. Andrew's college,Should nail the conscious needle to the north?I do confess that I abhor and shrinkProm schemes, with a religious willy-nilly,That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blinkThe peccadilloes of all Piccadilly—My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy,And will not, dare not, fancy in accordThe Lord of hosts with an exclusive lordOf this world's aristocracy,It will not own a nation so unholy,As thinking that the rich by easy tripsMay go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowlyMust work their passage as they do in ships.
One place there is—beneath the burial-sod,Where all mankind are equalized by death;Another place there is—the Fane of God,Where all are equal who draw living breath;—Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul,Playing the Judas with a temporal dole—He who can come beneath that awful cope,In the dread presence of a Maker just,Who metes to every pinch of human dustOne even measure of immortal hope—He who can stand within that holy door,With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level,And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,—Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil!
Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae,In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage,Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to sayI'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage;A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,—A scoffer, always on the grin,And sadly given to the mortal sinOf liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!
The humble records of my life to search,I have not herded with mere pagan beasts:But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts,"And I have been "where bells have knolled to church."Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bellsWhen on the undulating air they swim!Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells!And trembling all about the breezy dells,As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim.Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn;And lost to sight the ecstatic lark aboveSings, like a soul beatified, of love,With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:—O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters!If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion,Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?
A man may cry Church! Church! at every word,With no more piety than other people—A daw's not reckoned a religious birdBecause it keeps a-cawing from a steeple;The Temple is a good, a holy place,But quacking only gives it an ill savor;While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace,And bring religion's self into disfavor!
Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon,Who, binding up his Bible with his ledger,Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon,A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger,Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak,Against the wicked remnant of the week,A saving bet against, his sinful bias—"Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself,"I lie—I cheat—do any thing for pelf,But who on earth can say I am not pious!"
In proof how over-righteousness re-acts,Accept an anecdote well based on facts;On Sunday morning—(at the day don't fret)—In riding with a friend to Ponder's EndOutside the stage, we happened to commendA certain mansion that we saw To Let."Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple,"You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it!'T was built by the same man as built yon chapel,And master wanted once to buy it,—But t' other driv' the bargain much too hard,—He axed sure-LY a sum prodigious!But being so particular religious,Why, THAT you see, put master on his guard!"Church is "a little heaven below,I have been there and still would go,"Yet I am none of those who think it oddA man can pray unbidden from the cassock,And, passing by the customary hassockKneel down remote upon the simple sod,And sue in forma pauperis to God.
As for the rest,—intolerant to none,Whatever shape the pious rite may bear,Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sunI would not harshly scorn, lest even thereI spurned some elements of Christian prayer—An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"—Acknowledgment of good—of man's futility,A sense of need, and weakness, and indeedThat very thing so many Christians want—Humilty.
Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks,Such is my spirit—(I don't mean my wraith!)Such, may it please you, is my humble faith;I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS!
I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land,As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother,The Bible in one hand,And my own common-place-book in the other—But you have been to Palestine—alasSome minds improve by travel—others, rather,Resemble copper wire or brass,Which gets the narrower by going further!
Worthless are all such pilgrimages—very!If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contriveThe humans heats and rancor to reviveThat at the Sepulcher they ought to bury.A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on,To see a Christian creature graze at Sion,Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full,Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke,At crippled Papistry to butt and poke,Exactly as a skittish Scottish bullHaunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak.
Why leave a serious, moral, pious home,Scotland, renewned for sanctity of old,Far distant Catholics to rate and scoldFor—doing as the Romans do at Rome?With such a bristling spirit wherefore quitThe Land of Cakes for any land of wafers,About the graceless images to flit,And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers,Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?—People who hold such absolute opinionsShould stay at home in Protestant dominions,Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.
Gifted with noble tendency to climb,Yet weak at the same time,Faith is a kind of parasitic plant,That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings;And as the climate and the soil may grant,So is the sort of tree to which it clings.Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo,You aim your club at any creed on earth,That, by the simple accident of birth,YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo.
For me—through heathen ignorance perchance,Not having knelt in Palestine,—I feelNone of that griffinish excess of zeal,Some travelers would blaze with here in France.Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array,Nor for a scuffle with the idols hankerLike crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play,If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR?
Mild light, and by degrees, should be the planTo cure the dark and erring mind;But who would rush at a benighted man,And give him, two black eyes for being blind?
Suppose the tender but luxuriant hopAround a cankered stem should twine,What Kentish boor would tear away the propSo roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?
The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed,With gauds and toys extremely out of season;The carving nothing of the very best,The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason,Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason—Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sectOne truly CATHOLIC, one common form,At which uncheckedAll Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.
Say, was it to my spirit's gain or lossOne bright and balmy morning, as I wentFrom Liege's lovely environs to Ghent,If hard by the wayside I found a cross,That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot—While Nature of herself, as if to traceThe emblem's use, had trailed around its baseThe blue significant Forget-Me-Not?Methought, the claims of Charity to urgeMore forcibly along with Faith and Hope,The pious choice had pitched upon the vergeOf a delicious slope,Giving the eye much variegated scope!—"Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare,Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue;Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair,But"—(how the simple legend pierced me through!)"PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."
With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells,Religion lives and feels herself at home;But only on a formal visit dwellsWhere wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.
Shun pride, O Rae!—whatever sort besideYou take in lieu, shun spiritual pride!A pride there is of rank—a pride of birth,A pride of learning, and a pride of purse,A London pride—in short, there be on earthA host of prides, some better and some worse;But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.
To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard,Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard.Behold him in conceited circles sail,Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff,In all his pomp of pageantry, as ifHe felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail!As for the humble breed retained by man,He scorns the whole domestic clan—He bows, he bridles,He wheels, he sidles,As last, with stately dodgings in a corner,He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn herFull in the blaze of his resplendent fan!
"Look here," he cries (to give him words),"Thou feathered clay—thou scum of birds!"Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes—"Look here, thou vile predestined sinner,Doomed to be roasted for a dinner,Behold these lovely variegated dyes!These are the rainbow colors of the skies,That heaven has shed upon me con amore—A Bird of Paradise?—a pretty story!Iam that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!Look at my crown of glory!Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!"And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick,With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!
That little simile exactly paintsHow sinners are despised by saints.By saints!—the Hypocrites that ope heaven's doorObsequious to the sinful man of riches—But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor,In parish stocks, instead of breeches.
The Saints?—the Bigots that in public spout,Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian,And go like walking "Lucifers" about—Mere living bundles of combustion.
The Saints!—the aping Fanatics that talkAll cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown—That bid you balkA Sunday walk,And shun God's work as you should shun your own.
The Saints!—the Formalists, the extra pious,Who think the mortal husk can save the soul,By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias,To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl!
The Saints!—the Pharisees, whose beadle standsBeside a stern coercive kirk,A piece of human mason-work,Calling all sermons contrabands,In that great Temple that's not made with hands!
Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whomThe gracious prodigality of nature,The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom,The bounteous providence in every feature,Recall the good Creator to his creature,Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome!To HIS tuned spirit the wild heather-bellsRing Sabbath knells;The jubilate of the soaring larkIs chant of clerk;For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet;The sod's a cushion for his pious want;And, consecrated by the heaven within it,The sky-blue pool, a font.Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar;An organ breathes in every grove;And the fall heart's a Psalter,Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!
Sufficiently by stern necessitariansPoor Nature, with her face begrimmed by dust,Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked: but mustReligion have its own Utilitarians,Labeled with evangelical phylacteries,To make the road to heaven a railway trust,And churches—that's the naked fact—mere factories?
O! simply open wide the temple door,And let the solemn, swelling organ greet,With VOLUNTARIES meet,The WILLING advent of the rich and poor!And while to God the loud Hosannas soar,With rich vibiations from the vocal throng—From quiet shades that to the woods belong,And brooks with music of their own,Voices may come to swell the choral songWith notes of praise they learned in musings lone.
How strange it is, while on all vital questions,That occupy the House and public mind,We always meet with some humane suggestionsOf gentle measures of a healing kind,Instead of harsh severity and vigor,The saint alone his preference retainsFor bills of penalties and pains,And marks his narrow code with legal rigor!Why shun, as worthless of affiliation,What men of all political persuasionExtol—and even use upon occasion—That Christian principle, conciliation?But possibly the men who make such fussWith Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm,Attach some other meaning to the term,As thus:
One market morning, in my usual rambles,Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles,Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter,I had to halt a while, like other folks,To let a killing butcher coaxA score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.A sturdy man he looked to fell an ox,Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streakOf well-greased hair down either cheek,As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocksBesides those woolly-headed stubborn blocksThat stood before him, in vexatious huddle—Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped,While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoopedAnd meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle.
Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt,That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt,Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it—And shunned the tainted door as if they smeltOnions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it.At last there came a pause of brutal force;The cur was silent, for his jaws were fullOf tangled locks of tarry wool;The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse,The time was ripe for mild expostulation,And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by—"Zounds!—my good fellow—it quite makes me—whyIt really—my dear fellow—do just tryConciliation!"
Stringing his nerves like flint,The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint—At least he seized upon the foremost wether—And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and cropJust nolens volens through the open shop—If tails come off he didn't care a feather—Then walking to the door, and smiling grim,He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together—"There!—I've CONciliated him!"
Again—good-humoredly to end our quarrel—(Good humor should prevail!)I'll fit you with a taleWhereto is tied a moral.Once on a time a certain English lassWas seized with symptoms of such deep decline,Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign,That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,The doctors gave her over—to an ass.
Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowlOf assinine new milk,Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foalWhich got proportionably spare and skinny—Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann!She can't get over it! she never can!"When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny,The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.
To aggravate the case,There were but two grown donkeys in the place;And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,The other long-eared creature was a male,Who never in his life had given a pailOf milk, or even chalk and water.No matter: at the usual hour of eightDown trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back—"Your sarvant, Miss—a werry spring-like day—Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack!Jenny be dead, Miss—but I'ze brought ye Jack—He doesn't give no milk—but he can bray."
So runs the story,And, in vain self-glory,Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness;But what the better are their pious sawsTo ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,Without the milk of human kindness?