  The Muses, to their infinite disgrace as useful members of society, have for centuries been devoting their time to the sun, the moon, the stars, flowers, lips, hair, love, "kisses, tears, and smiles;" in short, to objects of mere enjoyment and beauty; greatly to the delight, it must be confessed, of the young and the romantic, but tending to no wise and useful purpose, and contributing to no profitable end. The long luxurious indolence of these nine inestimable young ladies for so many, many years, does appear to us to cast no slight shade upon their characters; and Parnassus itself does not "hold its own" as a place of any considerable repute, when the habits of its female frequenters are taken into account. It is, indeed, high time that the Muses should get into places of all work,—that they should earn their bread through habits of honest industry and integrity, and not be idling about the rose-trees, and wasting their powers on a sigh, an eyebrow, or a trumpery star. The time for useful exertion is come; and the days of dalliance, dreaming, and ethereal delight are passing away. Flora gives way to Cocker, and Apollo is whipped off the top of his own Grecian mount by the schoolmaster abroad. If the Muses do not now patronise statistical reports, poor-law estimates, and fat-cattle meetings, they will as surely "sink in their repute," ay, as surely as the name of their firm is "Clio, Tighe, Thalia, Hemans, Euterpe, Landon, Polyhymnia, Jenkinson, and Co." Imagination is all very well in its way; but does it know how "things are in the City?" Is it in the direction—it certainly ought to be—of the Great Northern Railway, or the Public Safety British Patent Axletree Conveyance Company? Can imagination "set a leg or an arm?" if not, why imagination may imagine itself carrying out its own shutters in these enlightened times, and shutting up its own shop at mid-day. We are happy to see, and to be able to say, that the Muses, like the ladies in "the Invincibles," are marching with the times. They are setting imagination to work on various well-sounding schemes for public companies and joint-stockeries. Apollo is preparing a prospectus for a New British Co-operative Joint Stock Music Society, into which, of course, nothing foreign will be allowed to creep, unless it is altered and dressed anew, and "wears a livery like its fellows." Melpomene is to take the Queen's Theatre for a serious bazaar, and Thalia is to turn Astley's into an agreeable chapel for the Jumpers. Urania goes to the Astronomical Society as housekeeper, and Terpsichore is to be the lessee of the dancing-rooms in Brewer-street, Golden-square, It has fallen to our lot to be able to record one of the scientific turns which poetry has taken. The Muses having of late years observed that the palm-tree, the laurel, and all their sacred trees, had, like the trees in all gardens open to the public, suffered much from ill-usage,—premature symptoms of dry-rot having presented themselves,—the Nine were all at sixes and sevens about the matter, until they were recommended by a humane neighbour (as one of Morrison's pill victims says in a grateful advertisement) to "try Kyan." "Try Kyan!" exclaimed Calliope. "What, in the name of music, can Kyan be?" On turning to the columns of the Morning Chronicle, however, Erato (who could read) discovered the advertisement explanatory of the great patent antidote to dry-rot in timber; and a deputation of three of the daughters of Mnemosyne waited on Messrs. Faraday, Pine, Kyan, Memel, Mills, Oakley, Terry, and Woodison, gentlemen interested in the progress of this invaluable discovery,—and finally at the office in Lime-street-square the Muses bargained for a steeping of their undying, dying, decaying timber in the wondrous tank at Red Lion wharf, Poplar. The process, notwithstanding the mischief done to the wood by the poets of this scratching age, was most triumphantly successful; all symptoms of decay, except where certain initials were carved, at once disappeared, and the immortal plants began to put on "all their original brightness!" Apollo gave an awful shriek of delight as he saw the wanton cuttings and witherings disappear, and the grand leaves of beauty starting into life afresh, at the inspiring touch of the immortal Kyan. The Muses, with a few select friends, dined together afterwards, at the Macclesfield Arms in the New-road, and a song upon Kyan's patent was impromptued on the occasion, and was very favourably received, when the mortal waiters were out of the room. We are enabled to lay a copy of it before our readers; and we are sure they will, with us, receive with pleasure this proof of the interest which the Muses are taking in matters of science and useful art. It is reported that the Nine are about to become members of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. THE ANTI-DRY-ROT COMPANY'S SONG. Air—"Well, well, now—no more;—sure you've told me before." Love in a Village. 1. Have you heard,—have you heard,— Anti-dry-rot's the word? Wood will never wear out, thanks to Kyan, to Kyan! He dips in a tank, Any rafter or plank,— And makes it immortal as Dian, as Dian! If you steep but a thread, It will hang by the head, For ever, the largest old lion, old lion; Or will cord up the trunk Of an elephant drunk;— If you doubt it,—yourself go and try 'un, and try 'un. 2. In the days that are gone, As to timber and stone, Decay was by no means a shy 'un, a shy 'un. He bolted our floors, And our vessels by scores, And the thirsty old rot was a dry 'un, a dry 'un! Oak crumbled beneath The dry blast of its breath, As soon as it e'er came a-nigh 'un, a-nigh 'un; But gone is the day Of that glutton Decay, Since he can't eat his timber with Kyan, with Kyan! 3. Say—now—what shall we steep In the tank? just to keep.— Shakespeare sniffed our great secret, the sly 'un, the sly 'un! Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear, Have been Kyan'd, my dear, By Nature's immortal Paul Pry 'un, Paul Pry 'un. Shall the plays of the day Take a plunge from decay? (There is no need for Tell, or for Ion, for Ion;) I fear he could not Soak away the dry-rot From some things:—But all rests on Kyan, on Kyan. 4. Put the lid on the tank,— Not a crack for a plank,— While I point out one thing, as I fly on, I fly on, Which really must not Have a dip 'gainst dry-rot,— Stuff with cotton the ears of my Kyan, my Kyan. In a whisper I speak, (But 'twill rain for a week,— Or as long as St. Swithin will cry on, will cry on,—) The moment I make Your conviction awake That Vauxhall wants no plunge 'gainst the dry 'un, the dry 'un. 5. Do not dip many books In our anti-rot nooks; Keep out novels, and all Sense cries Fie on! cries Fie on! Though, since Wood turns sublime In its strife against time, Most heads that we know, will try Kyan, try Kyan. Only think what great good 'Twould do Aldermen Wood, (Elected for life) if they'd try 'un, they'd try 'un;— Every word that I say Is as true as the day, And each hint you may safely rely on, rely on! 6. Then, hurrah! come uncork! This dry-rot is dry work; Bring the bottle,—that one I've my eye on, my eye on; My spirit I'd steep In its rich anti-deep, And linger for morn, like Orion, Orion! 'Gad the secret is out, We've talk'd so much about; My dog's on the scent,—oh! then hie on, then hie on! 'Tis the bottle, I feel, Makes immortal mere deal, And wine's the solution of Kyan, of Kyan! R. |
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