Vouchsafe;--and Mr. Cadell _may_, God wot,
Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,--
Cadell’s a wayward wight!
Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot,
And I can throw, I think, a little light
Upon some works thou hast written for the town,--
And published, like a Lilliput Unknown!
“Highways and Byeways” is thy book, no doubt,
(One whole edition’s out,)
And next, for it is fair
That Fame,
Seeing her children, should confess she had ’em;--
“Some _Passages_ from the life of Adam Blair,”--
(Blair is a Scottish name,)
What are they, but thy own good roads, M‘Adam?
O! indefatigable labourer
In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, ’twill be
A mark of thy surpassing industry,
That of the monument, which men shall rear
Over thy most inestimable bone,
Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!--
Of a right ancient line thou comest,--through
Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue,
Until we see thy sire before our eyes,--
Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise!
But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne’er
Have our walks since been fair?
Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on ‘Change,
For ever varying, through his varying range,
Time maketh all things even!
In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven,
He hath redeemed the Adams, and contrived,--
(How are time’s wonders hived!)
In pity to mankind, and to befriend ’em,--
(Time is above all praise,)
That he, who first did make our evil ways,
Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend ’em!
A _FRIENDLY_ EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY, _IN_ NEWGATE.
“Sermons in stones.”--_As You Like It._
“Out! out! damned spot!”--_Macbeth._
I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing
In daily act round Charity’s great flame--
I like the crisp brown way you have of dressing,
Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity,--professing
Love, and good _works_--of course you buy of Barton,
Beside the young _fry’s_ bookseller, Friend Darton!
I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute--
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport--
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 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!
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 saddened down to tea-green, or
Olive--and purple’s given to wine, I guess;
And yellow is a convict by its dress!
They’re all the devil’s liveries, that men
And women wear in servitude to sin--
But how will they come off; poor motleys, when
Sin’s wages are paid down, and they stand in
The Evil presence? You and I know, then
How all the party colours will begin
To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the _Fox_ite shades will all show fair!
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 shun
All gaudy furnishing--_olive_ doth pour
Oil into wounds: and _drab_ and _slate_ supply
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour!
When all persuasions in your praises blend--
The Methodist’s creed and cry are, _Fry_ for ever!
No--I will be your friend--and, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defect--Nay, never
Start at that word!--But I _must_ ask you why
You keep your school _in_ Newgate, Mrs. Fry?
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_?”
Your classes may increase, but I must grieve
Over your pupils at their bread-and-waters!
Oh, tho’ it cost you rent--(and rooms run high!)
Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoiled!
Set up your mounted sign _without_ the gate--
And there inform the mind before ’tis soiled!
’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!
Nay, if you would not have your labours foiled,
Take it _inclining_ tow’rds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flat--else, woman meek!
The _upright_ pencil will but hop and shriek!
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,--
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 wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy 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!
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 ravelled out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains!
I like your chocolate, good Mrs. Fry!
I like your cookery in every way;
I like your shrove-tide service and supply;
[Illustration: “A CHILD’S _call_ TO BE DISPOSED OF.”]
[Illustration: “TO LADIES’ EYES A ROUND, BOYS!”]
I like to hear your sweet _Pandeans_ play;
I like the pity in your full-brimmed eye;
I like your carriage, and your silken grey,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.
Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair
Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.
O, 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 them in the pan, but do not try
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!
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.--O come about,
Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools
All down the Old Bailey, and thro’ Newgate-street,
But not in Mr. Wontner’s proper seat!
Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress 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 drunken dollar;
Teach her that “flooring Charleys” is a game
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.
O come and teach our children--that ar’n’t _ours_--
That heaven’s straight pathway is a narrow way,
Not Broad St. Giles’s, where fierce Sin devours
Children, like Time--or rather they both prey
On youth together--meanwhile Newgate low’rs
Ev’n like a black cloud at the close of day,
To shut them out from any more blue sky:
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!
You are not nice--go into their retreats,
And make them Quakers, if you will.--’Twere best
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans _pleats_;
That they had hats _with_ brims,--that they were drest
In garbs without _lappels_--than shame the streets
With so much raggedness.--You may invest
Much cash this way--but it will cost its price,
To give a good, round, real _cheque_ to Vice!
In brief,--Oh teach the child its moral rote,
Not _in_ the way from which ’twill not depart,--
But _out_--out--out! Oh, bid it walk remote!
And if the skies are closed against the smart,
Ev’n let him wear the single-breasted coat,
For that ensureth singleness of heart.--
Do what you will, his every want supply,
_Keep_ him--but _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
TO MR. DYMOKE.
THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.
“---- Arma Virumque cano!”--VIRGIL.
Mr. Dymoke! Sir Knight! if I may be so bold--
(I’m a poor simple gentleman just come to town,)
Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold?--
Is your gauntlet ta’en up, which you lately flung down?
Are you--who _that_ day rode so mail’d and admired,
Now sitting at ease in a library chair?
Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,
With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?
What’s become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker! say!
Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!
Oh: _three golden balls_ haven’t lured you to play
Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?
How defunct is the show that was chivalry’s mimic!
The breastplate--the feathers--the gallant array!
So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!
The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would say!
Perchance in some village remote, with a cot,
And a cow, and a pig, and a barndoor, and all;--
You show to the parish that peace is your lot,
And plenty,--though absent from Westminster Hall!
And of course you turn every accoutrement now
To its separate use, that your wants may be well-met;--
You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and grow
A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.
And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright
Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;
And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,
Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!
How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas,
With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched,
And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas
And drenched the King’s Bench,--if the glove had been touched!
If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions
Had snatched your “best doe,”--he’d have flooded the floor;--
Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions,
“Life Preservers,” have floated him out of his gore!
Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there!
The man and his _backer_,--to win a great fight!
Though the trumpet was loud,--you’d an undisturbed air!
And the nag snuffed the feast and the fray _sans_ affright!
Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore
When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;--
For though his departure was at the front door,
Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.
He went,--and ’twould puzzle historians to say,
When they trust Time’s conveyance to carry your _mail_,--
Whether caution or courage inspired him that day,
For though he retreated, he never turned tail.
By my life, he’s a wonderful charger!--The best!
Though not for a Parthian corps!--yet for you!--
Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast,
What a horse for a grand Retrospective Review!
What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool
When the sun’s in the face, and the shade’s far aloof!--
What a _tailpiece_ for Bewick!--or piebald for Poole,
To bear him in safety from Elliston’s hoof!
Well! hail to old Cato! the hero of scenes
May Astley or age ne’er his comforts abridge;--
Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans,
Well “pent up in Utica” over the Bridge!
And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb’s rival, I keep
Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best!
And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep,
May you lie “like a warrior taking his rest!”
TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR.
“This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit.”
--_Twelfth Night._
Joseph! they say thou’st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life,
And taste the flannell’d ease of age,
Apart from pantomimic strife--
“Retired--[for Young would call it so]--
The world shut out”--in Pleasant Row!
And hast thou really wash’d at last
From each white cheek the red half-moon!
And all thy public Clownship cast,
To play the private Pantaloon?
All youth--all ages yet to be
Shall have a heavy miss of thee!
Thou didst not preach to make us wise--
Thou hadst no finger in our schooling--
Thou didst not “lure us to the skies”--
Thy simple, simple trade was--Fooling!
And yet, Heav’n knows! we could--we can
Much “better spare a better man!”
Oh, had it pleased the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage,
Or Southey, for our quiet’s sake,
Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid’s sage,
Or, damme! namby pamby Poole,--
Or any other clown or fool!
Go, Dibdin--all that bear the name,
Go Byeway Highway man! go! go!
Go, Skeffy--man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!
Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made
His grey hairs scarce in private peace--
Had Waithman sought a rural shade--
Or Cobbett ta’en a turnpike lease--
Or Lisle Bowles gone to _Balaam_ Hill--
I think I could be cheerful still!
Had Medwin left off, to his praise,
Dead-lion-kicking, like--a friend!--
Had long, long Irving gone his ways
To muse on death at _Ponder’s End_--
Or Lady Morgan taken leave
Of Letters--still I might not grieve!
But, Joseph--everybody’s Joe!--
Is gone--and grieve I will and must!
As Hamlet did for Yorick, so
Will I for thee (though not yet dust),
And talk as he did when he miss’d
The kissing-crust that he had kiss’d!
Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, _drunken_ eyes,
(As old Catullus would have said,)
Thy oven-mouth, that swallow’d pies--
Enormous hunger--monstrous drouth!--
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!
Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff’d!--
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!--
Thy partridge body, always stuff’d
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!--
Thy foot--like Berkeley’s _Foote_--for why?
’Twas often made to wipe an eye!
Ah, where thy legs--that witty pair!
For “great wits jump”--and so did they!
Lord! how they leap’d in lamplight air!
Caper’d--and bounced--and strode away!--
That years should tame the legs--alack!
I’ve seen spring through an Almanack!
But bounds will have their bound--the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisk’d in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose--
One only--(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter--Spring!
And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown,
Will visit--but I did not mean
To moralize, though I am grown
Thus sad,--Thy going seem’d to beat
A muffled drum for Fun’s retreat!
And, may be--’tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London
Are gone--thou, Joseph, one,--the other,
A Joe!--“sic transit gloria _Munden_!”
A third departure some insist on,--
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!--
Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient “_Dozey_” to the dregs,--
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o’er her eggs!
Let Farley weep--for Magic’s man
Is gone--his Christmas Caliban!
Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As though they walk’d behind thy bier,--
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters,--if in heav’n or here!
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!--
There’s _Quick_ might just as well be dead!
Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamplight of the little breast!
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best,--
Poor urchin! what avails to him
The cold New Monthly’s _Ghost of Grimm_?
For who like thee could ever stride!
Some dozen paces to the mile!
The motley, medley coach provide--
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The _vegetable man_ complete!--
A proper _Covent Garden_ feat!
Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat,--swill--swallow--bolt--and choke!
Nod, weep, and hiccup--sneeze and wink?--
Thy very yawn was quite a joke!
Though Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,
“There’s no Fool like the old Fool” still!
Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!
We met with mirth,--we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go
Ere Fun can see thy like again--
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns--that are not _Boors_!
TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ.,
EDITOR OF THE “GENTLEMAN’S MAGAZINE.”
“Dost thou not suspect my years?”--_Much Ado about Nothing._
Oh! Mr. Urban! never must _thou_ lurch
A sober age made serious drunk by thee;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,
And nurse thy little bald Biography.
Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!
And what a page attends thee! Long may I
Hang in demure confusion o’er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,
Like pensioners that creep about and die;--
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,
Livest in monthly immortality!
How sweet!--as Byron of _his_ infant said,--
“Knowledge of objects” in thine eye to trace;
To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,
Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!
How dear through thy Obituary to roam,
And not a name of any name to catch!
To meet thy Criticism walking home
Averse from rows, and never calling “Watch!”
Rich is thy page in soporific things,--
Composing compositions,--lulling men,--
Faded old posies of unburied rings,--
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:--
Lives of Right Reverends that have never lived,--
Deaths of good people that have really died,--
Parishioners,--hatched,--husbanded,--and wived,--
Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!
The sacred query,--the remote response,--
The march of serious mind, extremely slow,--
The graver’s cut at some right agèd sconce,
Famous for nothing many years ago!
B. asks of C. if Milton e’er did write
“Comus,” obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;--
And C., next month, an answer doth indite,
Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!
X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,
Caught upon Martin Luther years agone;--
And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,
Long dead, that gathered honey for King John.
There is no end of thee,--there is no end,
Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!
Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,
And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.
Go on, Sylvanus!--Bear a wary eye,
The churches cannot yet be quite run out!
Some parishes must yet have been passed by,--
There’s Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!
Go on--and close the eyes of distant ages!
Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!
So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,
Heavy and lively, though but seldom _red_.
Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!
Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn!
Still live! still prose!--continue still to tell us
Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in!
TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.,
AUTHOR OF “THE COOK’S ORACLE,” “OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC,” “THE
ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE,” “PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS
ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES,” “THE HOUSEKEEPER’S
LEDGER,” AND “THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL.”
“I rule the roast, as Milton says!”--CALEB QUOTEM.
Hail! multifarious man!
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton!
Born to enlighten
The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking--
Master of the Piano--and the Pan--
As busy with the kitchen as the skies!
Now looking
At some rich stew through Galileo’s eyes,--
Or boiling eggs--timed to a metronome--
As much at home
In spectacles as in mere isinglass--
In the art of frying brown--as a digression
On music and poetical expression,--
Whereas, how few, of all our cooks, alas!
Could tell Calliope from “Callipee!”
How few there be
Could cleave the lowest for the highest stories,
(Observatories,)
And turn, like thee, Diana’s calculator,
However _cook’s_ synonymous with _Kater_![5]
Alas! still let me say,
How few could lay
The carving knife beside the tuning fork,
Like the proverbial _Jack_ ready for any work!
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book!
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate,
How it would look!
With one raised eye watching the dial’s date,
And one upon the roast, gently cast down--
Thy chops--done nicely brown--
The garnish’d brow--with “a few leaves of bay”--
The hair--“done Wiggy’s way!”
And still one studious finger near thy brains,
As if thou wert just come
From editing of some
New soup--or hashing Dibdin’s cold remains!
Or, Orpheus-like,--fresh from thy dying strains
Of music,--Epping luxuries of sound,
As Milton says, “in many a bout
Of linkëd sweetness long drawn out,”
While all thy tame stuff’d leopards listen’d round!
Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal,
Standing like Fortune,--on the jack--thy wheel.
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes,
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!)
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges,
As though it were the same to sing or fry--
Nay, so it is--hear how Miss Paton’s throat
Makes “fritters” of a note!
And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born
By name and nature) oh! how night and morn
He for the nicest public taste doth dish up
The good things from that Pan of music--Bishop!
And is not reading near akin to feeding,
Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit
Receptacles for wit?
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart,
Minced brains into a Tart?
Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts,
Book-treats,
Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her--
Receipts to be devour’d, as well as read,
The Culinary Art in gingerbread--
The Kitchen’s _Eaten_ Grammar!
Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page--
Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein--
So--in a kitchen--would have talk’d Montaigne.
That merry Gascon--humourist, and sage!
Let slender minds with single themes engage,
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,--
Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,--or
Hume on--“Twice three make four.”
Or Lovelass upon Wills,--Thou goest on
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson!
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope,
Stuff’d with a brilliant medley of odd bits,
And ever shifting on from change to change,
Saucepans--old Songs--Pills--Spectacles--and Spits!
Thy range is wider than a Rumford range!
Thy grasp a miracle!--till I recall
Th’ indubitable cause of thy variety--
Thou art, of course, th’ Epitome of all
That spying--frying--singing--mix’d Society
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet
Welsh Rabbits--and thyself--in Warren Street!
Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni,
Where learnëd visitors discoursed--and fed?
There came Belzoni,
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead--
And gentle Poki--and that Royal Pair,
Of whom thou didst declare--
“Thanks to the greatest _Cooke_ we ever read--
They were--what _Sandwiches_ should be--half _bred_?”
There famed M‘Adam from his manual toil
Relax’d--and freely own’d he took thy hints
On “making _Broth_ with _Flints_”--
There Parry came, and show’d thee polar oil
For melted butter--Combe with his medullary
Notions about the _Skullery_,
And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil--
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf!
Who used to swear thy book
Would really look
A _Delphic_ “Oracle,” if laid on _Delf_--
There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss’d
His own--and thy own--“_Magazine of Taste_”--
There Wilberforce the Just
Came, in his old black suit, till once he traced
Thy sly advice to _Poachers_ of Black Folks,--
That “do not break their _yolks_,”--
Which huff’d him home, in grave disgust and haste!