Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

  Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?

  O Love! — but whither, now? forgive me, pray;

  I’m not the first that Love hath led astray.

  A RECIPE FOR CIVILIZATION.

  THE following Poem — is from the pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER! — the most heterogeneous of authors, but at the same time — in the Sporting Latin of Mr. Egan, — a real Homo-genius or a Genius of a Man! In the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSTIASM, as usual — boils over! and makes it seem written, as he describes himself (see The Cook’s Oracle) — with the Spit in one hand! — and the Frying Pan in the other, — while in the style of the rhymes it is Hudibrastic, — as if in the ingredients of Versification, he had been assisted by his BUTLER!

  As a Head Cook, Optician-Physician, Music Master — Domestic Economist and Death-bed Attorney! — I have celebrated The Author elsewhere with approbation; — and cannot now place him upon the Table as a Poet, — without still being his LAUDER, a phrase which those persons whose course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FORGERY on the Immortal Bard of Eden! —— will find easy to understand.

  SURELY, those sages err who teach

  That man is known from brutes by speech,

  Which hardly severs man from woman,

  But not th’ inhuman from the human, —

  Or else might parrots claim affinity,

  And dogs be doctors by latinity, —

  Not t’ insist, (as might be shown)

  That beasts have gibberish of their own,

  Which once was no dead tongue, tho’ we

  Since Esop’s days have lost the key;

  Nor yet to hint dumb men, — and, still, not

  Beasts that could gossip though they will not,

  But play at dummy like the monkeys,

  For fear mankind should make them flunkies.

  Neither can man be known by feature

  Or form, because so like a creature,

  That some grave men could never shape

  Which is the aped and which the ape,

  Nor by his gait, nor by his height,

  Nor yet because he’s black or white,

  But rational, — for so we call

  The only COOKING ANIMAL!

  The only one who brings his bit

  Of dinner to the pot or spit,

  For where’s the lion e’er was hasty,

  To put his ven’son in a pasty?

  Ergo, by logic, we repute,

  That he who cooks is not a brute, —

  But Equus brutum est, which means,

  If a horse had sense he’d boil his beans,

  Nay, no one but a horse would forage

  On naked oats instead of porridge,

  Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary.

  The difference is culinary.

  Further, as man is known by feeding

  From brutes, — so men from men, in breeding,

  Are still distinguished as they eat,

  And raw in manners, raw in meat, —

  Look at the polish’d nations hight,

  The civilized — the most polite

  Is that which bears the praise of nations

  For dressing eggs two hundred fashions,

  Whereas, at savage feeders look, —

  The less refined the less they cook;

  From Tartar grooms that merely straddle

  Across a steak and warm their saddle,

  Down to the Abyssinian squaw,

  That bolts her chops and collops raw,

  And, like a wild beast, cares as little

  To dress her person as her victual,

  For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets,

  Are beauty’s sauces, spice, and sippets,

  And not by shamble bodies put on,

  But those who roast and boil their mutton;

  So Eve and Adam wore no dresses

  Because they lived on water-cresses,

  And till they learn’d to cook their crudities,

  Went blind as beetles to their nudities.

  For niceness comes from th’ inner side

  (As an ox is drest before his hide),

  And when the entrail loathes vulgarity

  The outward man will soon cull rarity,

  For ’tis th’ effect of what we eat

  To make a man look like his meat,

  As insects show their food’s complexions:

  Thus foplings’ clothes are like confections.

  But who to feed a jaunty coxcomb,

  Would have an Abyssinian ox come? —

  Or serve a dish of fricassees,

  To clodpoles in a coat of frieze?

  Whereas a black would call for buffalo

  Alive — and, no doubt, eat the offal too

  Now, (this premised) it follows then

  That certain culinary men

  Should first go forth with pans and spits

  To bring the heathens to their wits,

  (For all wise Scotchmen of our century

  Know that first steps are alimentary;

  And, as we have prov’d, flesh pots and saucepans

  Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans;)

  But Bunyan err’d to think the near gate

  To take man’s soul, was battering Ear gate,

  When reason should have work’d her course

  As men of war do — when their force

  Can’t take a town by open courage,

  They steal an entry with its forage.

  What reverend bishop, for example,

  Could preach horn ‘d Apis from his temple?

  Whereas a cook would soon unseat him,

  And make his own churchwardens eat him.

  Not Irving could convert those vermin

  Th’ Anthropophages, by a sermon;

  Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice,

  Would “take a shin of beef and spice,” —

  And raise them such a savoury smother,

  No Negro would devour his brother,

  But turn his stomach round as loth

  As Persians, to the old black broth, —

  For knowledge oftenest makes an entry,

  As well as true love, thro’ the pantry,

  Where beaux that came at first for feeding

  Grow gallant men and get good breeding; —

  Exempli gratia — in the West,

  Ship-traders say there swims a nest

  Lin’d with black natives, like a rookery,

  But coarse as carrion crows at cookery. —

  This race, though now call’d O. Y. E. men.

  (To show they are more than A. B. C. men.)

  Was once so ignorant of our knacks

  They laid their mats upon their backs,

  And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon

  On trees that baked them in the sunshine.

  As for their bodies, they were coated,

  (For painted things are so denoted;)

  But, the naked truth is, stark primevals,

  That said their prayers to timber devils,

  Allow’d polygamy — dwelt in wig-wams, —

  And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams. —

  And why? — because their savage nook

  Had ne’er been visited by Cook, —

  And so they fared till our great chief

  Brought them, not methodists, but beef,

  In tubs, — and taught them how to live,

  Knowing it was too soon to give,

  Just then, a homily on their sins,

  (For cooking ends ere grace begins)

  Or hand his tracts to the untractable

  Till they could keep a more exact table —

  For nature has her proper courses,

  And wild men must be back’d like horses,

  Which, jockeys know, are never fit

  For riding till they’ve had a bit

  I’ the mouth; but then, with proper tackle,

  You may tr
ot them to a tabernacle;

  Ergo (I say) he first made changes

  In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges,

  And taught the king’s cook, by convincing

  Process, that chewing was not mincing,

  And in her black fist thrust a bundle

  Of tracts abridg’d from Glasse and Rundell,

  Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits.

  She saw the spareness of her habits,

  And round her loins put on a striped

  Towel, where fingers might be wiped,

  And then her breast clothed like her ribs,

  (For aprons lead of course to bibs)

  And, by the time she had got a meat —

  Screen, veil’d her back, too, from the heat —

  As for her gravies and her sauces,

  (Tho’ they reform’d the royal fauces,)

  Her forcemeats and ragouts, — I praise not,

  Because the legend further says not,

  Except, she kept each Christian high-day,

  And once upon a fat good Fry-day

  Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan,

  That turn’d the spit, to chop up Dagon! —

  * Cook to the late Sir Joseph Banks.

  THE LAST MAN.

  ‘TWAS in the year two thousand and one,

  A pleasant morning of May,

  I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone,

  A-chaunting a merry lay, —

  To think how the pest had spared my life,

  To sing with the larks that day!

  When up the heath came a jolly knave,

  Like a scarecrow, all in rags:

  It made me crow to see his old duds

  All abroad in the wind, like flags; —

  So up he came to the timber’s foot

  And pitch’d down his greasy bags. —

  Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was!

  At pulling out his scraps, —

  The very sight of his broken orts

  Made a work in his wrinkled chaps:

  “Come down,” says he, “you Newgate-bird,

  And have a taste of my snaps!” —

  Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast,

  I slided, and by him stood:

  But I wish’d myself on the gallows again

  When I smelt that beggar’s food, —

  A foul beef bone and a mouldy crust; —

  “Oh!” quoth he, “the heavens are good!”

  Then after this grace he cast him down:

  Says I, “You’ll get sweeter air

  A pace or two off, on the windward side” —

  For the felons’ bones lay there —

  But he only laugh’d at the empty skulls,

  And offer’d them part of his fare.

  “I never harm’d them, and they won’t harm me:

  Let the proud and the rich be cravens!”

  I did not like that strange beggar man,

  He look’d so up at the heavens —

  Anon he shook out his empty old poke; —

  “There’s the crumbs,” saith he, “for the ravens!”

  It made me angry to see his face,

  It had such a jesting look;

  But while I made up my mind to speak,

  A small case-bottle he took:

  Quoth he, “Though I gather the green water-cress,

  My drink is not of the brook!”

  Full manners-like he tender’d the dram;

  Oh it came of a dainty cask!

  But, whenever it came to his turn to pull,

  “Your leave, good sir, I must ask;

  But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve,

  When a hangman sups at my flask!”

  And then he laugh’d so loudly and long,

  The churl was quite out of breath;

  I thought the very Old One was come

  To mock me before my death,

  And wish’d I had buried the dead men’s bones

  That were lying about the heath!

  But the beggar gave me a jolly clap —

  “Come, let us pledge each other,

  For all the wide world is dead beside,

  And we are brother and brother —

  I’ve a yearning for thee in my heart,

  As if we had come of one mother.”

  “I’ve a yearning for thee in my heart

  That almost makes me weep,

  For as I pass’d from town to town

  The folks were all stone-asleep, —

  But when I saw thee sitting aloft,

  It made me both laugh and leap!”

  Now a curse (I thought) be on his love,

  And a curse upon his mirth, —

  An it were not for that beggar man

  I’d be the King of the earth, —

  But I promis’d myself, an hour should come

  To make him rue his birth! —

  So down we sat and bous’d again

  Till the sun was in mid-sky,

  When, just as the gentle west-wind came,

  We hearken’d a dismal cry:

  “Up, up, on the tree,” quoth the beggar man,

  “Till those horrible dogs go by!”

  And, lo! from the forest’s far-off skirts,

  They came all yelling for gore,

  A hundred hounds pursuing at once,

  And a panting hart before,

  Till he sunk adown at the gallows’ foot,

  And there his haunches they tore!

  His haunches they tore, without a horn

  To tell when the chase was done;

  And there was not a single scarlet coat

  To flaunt it in the sun! —

  I turn’d, and look’d at the beggar man,

  And his tears dropt one by one!

  And with curses sore he chid at the hounds,

  Till the last dropt out of sight,

  Anon saith he, “Let’s down again,

  And ramble for our delight,

  For the world’s all free, and we may choose

  A right cozie barn for to-night!”

  With that, he set up his staff on end,

  And it fell with the point due West;

  So we far’d that way to a city great,

  Where the folks had died of the pest —

  It was fine to enter in house and hall,

  Wherever it liked me best! —

  For the porters all were stiff and cold,

  And could not lift their heads;

  And when we came where their masters lay,

  The rats leapt out of the beds: —

  The grandest palaces in the land

  Were as free as workhouse sheds.

  But the beggar man made a mumping face,

  And knocked at every gate:

  It made me curse to hear how he whined,

  So our fellowship turn’d to hate,

  And I bade him walk the world by himself,

  For I scorn’d so humble a mate!

  So he turn’d right and I turn’d left,

  As if we had never met;

  And I chose a fair stone house for myself,

  For the city was all to let;

  And for three brave holydays drank my fill

  Of the choicest that I could get.

  And because my jerkin was coarse and worn,

  I got me a properer vest;

  It was purple velvet, stitch’d o’er with gold,

  And a shining star at the breast! —

  ’Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave

  To see me so purely drest! —

  But Joan was dead and under the mould,

  And every buxom lass;

  In vain I watch’d, at the window pane,

  For a Christian soul to pass; —

  But sheep and kine wander’d up the street,

  And brows’d on the new-come grass. —

  When lo! I spied the old beggar man,

  And lustily he did sing! —
/>   His rags were lapp’d in a scarlet cloak,

  And a crown he had like a King;

  So he stept right up before my gate

  And danc’d me a saucy fling!

  Heaven mend us all! — but, within my mind,

  I had kill’d him then and there;

  To see him lording so braggart-like

  That was born to his beggar’s fare,

  And how he had stolen the royal crown

  His betters were meant to wear.

  But God forbid that a thief should die

  Without his share of the laws!

  So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,

  And soon tied up his claws, —

  I was judge, myself, and jury, and all,

  And solemnly tried the cause.

  But the beggar man would not plead, but cried

  Like a babe without its corals,

  For he knew how hard it is apt to go

  When the law and a thief have quarrels, —

  There was not a Christian soul alive

  To speak a word for his morals.

  Oh, how gaily I doff’d my costly gear,

  And put on my work-day clothes;

  I was tired of such a long Sunday life, —

  And never was one of the sloths;

  But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal,

  And made many crooked mouths.

  So I haul’d him off to the gallows’ foot.

  And blinded him in his bags;

  ’Twas a weary job to heave him up,

  For a doom’d man always lags;

  But by ten of the clock he was off his legs

  In the wind and airing his rags!

  So there he hung, and there I stood

  The LAST MAN left alive,

  To have my own will of all the earth:

  Quoth I, now I shall thrive!

  But when was ever honey made

  With one bee in a hive!

  My conscience began to gnaw my heart

  Before the day was done,

  For other men’s lives had all gone out,

  Like candles in the sun! —

  But it seem’d as if I had broke, at last,

  A thousand necks in one!

  So I went and cut his body down

  To bury it decentlie;

  God send there were any good soul alive

  To do the like by me!

  But the wild dogs came with terrible speed,