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

XXX.

Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd"

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

XXXI.

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

XXXII.

Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd.

However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy rest In that _Brest Harbor_, woman's breast, And tempt the Fates no more!

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

AUTHOR OF "THE COOK'S ORACLE," "OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC," "THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE," "PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES," "THE HOUSEKEEPER'S LEDGER," AND "THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL."

"I rule the roast, as Milton says! "--_Caleb Quotem_.

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

Oh! multifarious man!

Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton!

Born to enlighten The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking-- Master of the Piano--and the Pan-- As busy with the kitchen as the skies!

Now looking At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes,-- Or boiling eggs--timed to a metronome-- As much at home In spectacles as in mere isinglass-- In the art of frying brown--as a digression On music and poetical expression, Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas!

Could tell Calliope from "Callipee!"

How few there be Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,) And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, However _cook's_ synonymous with _Kater_!

Alas! still let me say, How few could lay The carving knife beside the tuning fork, Like the proverbial _Jack_ ready for any work!

II.

Oh, to behold thy features in thy book!

Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, How it would look!

With one rais'd eye watching the dial's date, And one upon the roast, gently cast down-- Thy chops--done nicely brown-- The garnish'd brow--with "a few leaves of bay"-- The hair--"done Wiggy's way!"

And still one studious finger near thy brains, As if thou wert just come From editing some New soup--or hashing Dibdin's cold remains; Or, Orpheus-like,--fresh from thy dying strains Of music,--Epping luxuries of sound, As Milton says, "in many a bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out,"

Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!

III.

Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, Standing like Fortune,--on the jack--thy wheel.

(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!) Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, As tho' it were the same to sing or fry-- Nay, so it is--hear how Miss Paton's throat Makes "fritters" of a note!

And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born By name and nature) oh! how night and morn He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that _Pan_ of music, Bishop!

And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should _Oxford Sausages_ be fit Receptacles for wit?

Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, Minc'd brains into a _Tart_?

Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, Book-treats, Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her-- Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read, The Culinary Art in gingerbread-- The Kitchen's _Eaten_ Grammar!

IV.

Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page-- Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein-- So--in a kitchen--would have talk'd Montaigne, That merry Gascon--humorist, and sage!

Let slender minds with single themes engage, Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,-- Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,--or Hume on "Twice three make four,"

Or Lovelass upon Wills,--Thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson!

Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, Stuff'd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, And ever shifting on from change to change, Saucepans--old Songs--Pills--Spectacles--and Spits!

Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range!

Thy grasp a miracle!--till I recall Th' indubitable cause of thy variety-- Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all That spying--frying--singing--mix'd Society Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welch Rabbits--and thyself--in Warren Street!

V.

Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, Where learned visitors discoursed--and fed?

There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead-- And gentle Poki--and that Royal Pair, Of whom thou didst declare-- "Thanks to the greatest _Cooke_ we ever read-- They were--what _Sandwiches_ should be--half _bred_"!

There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil Relax'd--and freely own'd he took thy hints On "making _Broth_ with _Flints_"-- There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil For melted butter--Combe with his medullary Notions about the _Skullery_, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil-- There witty Rogers came, that punning elf!

Who used to swear thy book Would really look A _Delphic_ "Oracle," if laid on _Delf_-- There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd His own--and thy own--"_Magazine_ of _Taste_"-- There Wilberforce the Just Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd Thy sly advice to _Poachers_ of Black Folks, That "do not break their _yolks_"-- Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!

VI.

There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy _Patties_--thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who call'd thee "_Kitchen Addison_"--for why?

Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, "_Teaching us how to live and how to die_!"

There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry-- There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on His sine _Quay_ non,-- There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death,-- Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre-- "And yet, (as thou would'st add,) the French have seen A Marshall _Tureen_"!

VII.

Great was thy Evening Cluster!--often grac'd With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy!

'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,-- There Colborn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analyzed a gravy.

Colman--the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said Came there,--and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)--Kater, too, the Moon's Crony,--and Graham, lofty on balloons,-- There Croly stalk'd with holy humor heated, Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed-- And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,-- Madame Valbreque thrice honor'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,-- The Dibdins,--Tom, Charles, Frognall,--came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns!

And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,-- And talk'd--till thou didst stop him in the middle, To serve round _Tewah-diddle_!

VIII.

Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye!

So let them:--thou thyself art still a _Host_!

Dibdin--Cornaro--Newton--Mrs. Fry!

Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!--Lovelass--and Weber, Matthews in Quot'em--Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber-- Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross'd!

Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,-- And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion!