Dear Friend,--I feel constrain’d to say,
The present sent the other day
Claims my best thanks, and while design’d
To please the taste, it warm’d my mind.
Nor, wonder not it should inspire
Within my breast poetic fire!
The Cheese seem’d like some growing state,
Compos’d of little folks and great;
Though we denominate them _mites_,
They call each other Stiltonites.
And ’tis most fit, where’er we live,
The land our epithet should give:
Romans derive their name from Rome,
And Turks, you know, from Turkey come.
Gazing with “microscopic eye”
O’er Stilton land, I did espy
Such wonders, as would make those stare
Who never peep’d or travell’d there.
The country where this race reside
Abounds with crags on ev’ry side:
Its geographic situation
Is under constant variation;
Now hurried up, then down again--
No fix’d abode can it maintain:
And, like the Lilliputian clime,
We read about in olden time,
Huge giants compass it about,
Who dig within, and cut without,
And at a mouthful--direful fate!
A city oft depopulate!
And, then, in Stilton, you must know
There is a spot, call’d _Rotten-row_;
A soil more marshy than the rest,
Therefore by some esteem’d the best.
The natives here, whene’er they dine,
Drink nothing but the choicest wine;
Which through each street comes flowing down,
Like water in New Sarum’s town.
In such a quarter, you may guess,
The leading vice is drunkenness.
Come hither any hour of day,
And you shall see whole clusters lay
Reeling and floundering about,
As though it were a madman’s rout.
Those who dwell nearer the land’s end,
Where rarely the _red show’rs_ descend,
Are in their turns corporeal
More sober and gymnastical
Meandering in kindred dust,
They gauge, and with the _dry-rot_ burst,
For we may naturally think,
They live not long who cannot drink.
Alas! poor Stilton! where’s the muse
To sing thy downfall will refuse?
Melpomene, in mournful verse,
Thy dire destruction will rehearse:
Comus himself shall grieve and weep,
As notes of woe his gay lyre sweep;
For who among thy countless band
The fierce invaders can withstand?
Nor only _foreign_ foes are thine--
Children thou hast, who undermine
Thy massive walls that ’girt thee round.
And ev’ry corner seems unsound.
A few more weeks, and we shall see
Stilton, the fam’d-will cease to be!
Before, however, I conclude,
I wish to add, that gratitude
Incites me to another theme
Beside coagulated cream.
’Tis not about the _village_ Ham,
Nor yet the _place_ call’d Petersham--
Nor more renowned Birmingham:
Nor is it _fried_ or _Friar Bacon_,
The Muse commands me verse to make on.
Nor _pig_mies, (as the poet feigns,)
A people once devour’d by cranes,
Of these I speak not--my intention
Is something nearer home to mention;
Therefore, at once, for pig’s hind leg
Accept my warmest thanks, I beg.
The meat was of the finest sort,
And worthy of a dish at court.
Lastly, I gladly would express
The grateful feelings I possess
For such a boon--th’ attempt is vain,
And hence in wisdom I refrain
From saying more than what you see--
Farewell! sincerely yours,