  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. I. 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 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 "Calliopee!" 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 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— Ay, 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 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! 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— 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 the polar oil For melted butter—Coombe with his medullary Notions about the scullery, 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 wouldst add) the French have seen A Marshal 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 Colburn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs—and Accum analysed a gravy. For puffs—and Accum analysed a gravy. Colman, the cutter of Colman 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 humour heated, (Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed), And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, Madame ValbrÈque thrice honour'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,— 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, Mathews in Quotem—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! Thou art, sans question, The Corporation's love—its Doctor Darling! Look at the civic palate—nay, the bed Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying "Illustrations of Lying!" Ninety square feet of down from heel to head It measured, and I dread Was haunted by a terrible night Mare, A monstrous burthen on the corporation!— Look at the bill of fare, for one day's share, Sea-turtles by the score—oxen by droves, Geese, turkeys, by the flock—fishes and loaves Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration! IX. Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven The squatting demon from great Garratt's breast— (His honour seems to rest!—) And what is thy reward?—Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service? Alas! not even The tokens it bestow'd on Howe and Jervis!— Yet could I speak as orators should speak Before the worshipful the Common Council (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill), Thou shouldst not miss thy freedom, for a week, Richly engross'd on vellum:—Reason urges That he who rules our cookery—that he Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess! THE END. PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. |
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