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diff --git a/5868-h/5868-h.htm b/5868-h/5868-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed1ba99 --- /dev/null +++ b/5868-h/5868-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2056 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Nothing to Eat, by Horatio Alger and Thomas Chandler Haliburton + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Nothing to Eat, by +Horatio Alger and Thomas Chandler Haliburton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Nothing to Eat + +Author: Horatio Alger and Thomas Chandler Haliburton + + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5868] +This file was first posted on September 15, 2002 +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTHING TO EAT *** + + + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + NOTHING TO EAT + </h1> + <h2> + By Horatio Alger and Thomas Chandler Haliburton + </h2> + <h4> + NOT By the Author of “Nothing to Wear” + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + “I'll nibble a little at what I have got.” + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<h4> + —“My appetite's none of the best.<br /> + And so I must pamper the delicate thing."<br /><br /> + + —The least mite will suffice:<br /> + A side bone and dressing and bit of the breast.<br /> + The tip of the rump—that's it—and one of the fli's"<br /><br /><br /> + </h4> + <h5> + {Illustration: “PROTESTING, EXCUSING, AND SWEARING A VOW, SHE'D NOTHING + WORTH EATING TO GIVE US FOR DINNER."} <br /> <br /> NEW YORK <br /> <br /> + 1857 <br /> <br /> Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year + 1857, by EDWARD O. JENKINS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court + for the Southern District of New York. + </h5> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Respectfully Dedicated <br /> <br /> TO ALL LADIES “DYING WITH DYSPEPSIA. + <br /> <br /> “Where fashion and folly are all of a suit.” <br /> <br /> BY A + JOLLY GOOD NATURED AUTHOR. + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>NOTHING TO EAT.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> The Argument </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> The Proof—the Queen of Fashion </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The Object aimed at. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> What another Poet did. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> How the Author sometimes Dines. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Merdle the Banker. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Places Where Mortals Dine. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Things That Mortals Eat There. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> The Invitation. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> The Merdle Origin. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Mrs. Merdle At Home. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Mrs. Merdle goes to Market. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> The Dinner-bell Rings. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> The Dinner Table Talk. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Mrs. Merdle doubts Paradise's Uneating Pleasure. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Things Earthly. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Things Eatable. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Mrs. Merdle Ordereth the Second Course. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Hygiene and Fish + Sauce. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Mrs. Merdle Describeth her Doctor. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth again on Dinner. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Mrs. Merdle Accepteth of a slight Dinner, + suitable for a Woman suffering with Dyspepsia. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Wishes and her + Sufferings. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Pudding. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of the necessity of good + Wine and other Matters. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Mrs. Merdle Suggesteth that Dinner being + finished, the Gentlement will Smoke. In the meantime, she Discourseth. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Mrs. Merdle, having “Nibbled a Little” for two + Hours at Dinner, retireth from the Table unsatisfied. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The Poet Moralizeth—He Discourseth to + those who Gorge and Complain. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> He Discourseth of the Wherefore of Bachelorism. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> He Discourseth of What some Mortals Live for. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> He Imploreth Mercy upon those condemned with + fashionable folly to Marry, and Illustrateth their Condition. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> He Imploreth Merry for other Unfortunate Beings. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> He Discourseth of a Common Prayer. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> He Discourseth of Trouble and Sorrow. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> He Moralizeth upon what a Day may Bring forth. + </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_ILL" id="link2H_ILL"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <b>ILLUSTRATIONS. (not available in this edition)</b> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br />PLATE I, NOTHING TO EAT <br /> <br />PLATE II, THE “DINING + SALOON” <br /> <br />PLATE III, THE INVITATION TO DINNER <br /> <br />PLATE + IV, KITTY MALONE'S INHERITANCE <br /> <br />PLATE V, THE MEAT MARKET <br /> + <br />PLATE VI, THE DINNER <br /> <br />PLATE VII, THE WATER CURE <br /> <br />PLATE + VIII, AFTER DINNER <br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + NOTHING TO EAT. + </h1> + <h3> + Not by the Author of “Nothing to Wear.” + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Argument + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THOUGH famine prevails not at all in the city; + Though none of starvation have died in the street; + Yet many there are now exciting our pity, + Who're daily complaining of nothing to eat. + + The every-day cry and the every-day fare, + That's every day heard where the Livewells are dining, + Is nothing to eat, or else nothing to wear, + Which naked and starving rich Merdles are whining. + + There's Kitty Malone—Mrs. Merdle 'tis now— + Was ever on earth here before such a sinner; + Protesting, excusing and swearing a vow, + She'd nothing worth eating to give us for dinner. + + Why Kitty, if starving for want of a meal, + And had'nt a cent in the world to buy meat, + You wouldn't exclaim with a more pious zeal, + “I'm dying of hunger—we've nothing to eat!!” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Proof—the Queen of Fashion + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The point I advance, if it need confirmation, + I'll prove by a witness that few will dispute, + A pink of perfection and truth in the naion + Where fashion and folly are all of a suit. + + 'Tis “Merdle the banker”—or rather his wife, + Whose fashion, religion, or music, or dress, + Is followed, consulted, by many through life, + As pilots are followed by ships in distress; + For money's a pilot, a master, a king, + Which men follow blindly through quicksands and shoals, + Where pilots their ships in a moment might fling + To destruction the vessel and cargo and souls. + + 'Twas money made Kitty of fashion the queen, + And fortune oft lends queens the scepter; + So fortune and fashion with this one we've seen + Her money and fortune in fashion has kept her; + While slaves of the queen with her hoops rules the day, + Expanding their utmost extent of expansion, + And mandates of fashion most freely obey, + And would if it bid all their souls to extinction. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Object aimed at. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But what “lady patron” as queen holds the sway; + Or sweeping, whose hoops in the street are most sweeping; + The burthen is not of this truth-telling lay, + That should in its reading the world set to weeping, + While telling the suff'rings from head to the feet, + Of poor human beings with <i>nothing to eat</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + What another Poet did. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Another expounder of life's thorny mazes + Excited our pity at fortune's hard fare, + And troubled the city's most troublesome places, + While singing his ditty of “Nothing to Wear.” + + “A tale worth the telling,”' though I tell for the same, + Great objects of pity we see in the street, + “With nothing to wear, though a legion by name, + Is not to buy clothing, but something to eat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + How the Author sometimes Dines. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And now by your leave I will try to expound it, + In truth as it is and the way that I found it. + + My dinner, sometimes, like things transcendental + And things more substantial, like women and wine + A thing is, uncertain, and quite accidental, + And sometimes I wonder, “Oh! where shall I dine?” + + It was when reflecting one evening of late, + What tavern or hotel or dining-room skinner, + With table cloth dirty and dirtier plate, + Would give me a nausea and call it a dinner, + I met with Jack Merdle, a name fully known + As good for a million in Stock-gamblers' Street, + Where none but a nabob or forger high flown + With “bulls” or with “bears” need look for a seat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Merdle the Banker. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now Merdle this day having toss'd with his horns + The bears that were pulling so hard at the stocks, + And gored every bull that was treading his corns, + Had lined all his pockets with “plenty of rocks,” + And home now was driving at “two forty” speed, + Where dinner was waiting—“a jolly good feed.” + + Himself feeling happy, he knew by my looks, + A case full of sadness and deep destitution + Was present in person, not read of in books, + Appealing in pity for an alms institution. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Places Where Mortals Dine. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner, + Whose fate hung on chance—a chance for his dinner; + A chance for all mortals, with truth I assert, + Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate, + “To eat during life each a peck of pure dirt” + By eating at once the whole peck from one plate. + For true when I think of the places we eat at, + Or rather the places by hunger when driven + We rush in and swallow our bread and our meat at, + A bushel good measure in life will be given + To those who are living a “boarding-house life,” + Or those who are driven by fortune to journey, + And eat when we must with so dirty a knife, + I wish't could be done by the power of attorney; + Or where you must eat in a place called “saloon;” + Or “coffee-house” synonym of whisky and rum; + (I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon, + And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;) + Or where “Restauration” hangs out for sign, + At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room, + Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine, + And table cloths look as though washed with a broom; + Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves, + And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned; + Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves, + And mayors with villains his worship has screened. + + {ILLUSTRATION: “WHERE KNIVES WAITERS SPIT ON AND WIPE ON THEIR + SLEEVES, AND PLATES NEEDING POLISH, WITH COAT TAILS ARE CLEANED."} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Things That Mortals Eat There. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And what do you eat in the mess there compounded? + For roast beef, the gravy the soap-man should claim— + The soup some odd things might turn up if sounded, + And other “made-dishes” might turn up the same. + + Decoctions that puzzle your chemical skill, + You get if you call either coffee or tea; + And milk that is made with and tastes of the swill, + As like milk, as wine is that often we see + Is like to the juice of the grape in perfection, + Or like as the candidate after election + Is like the fair thing that we hoped or expected + Before the base thief was exposed or detected; + As like truth and virtue—and more is the pity— + The men we elected to rule our own city. + + In “council” while sitting, though “common” we call them, + In common opinion, if people at large + Are's common in morals, no worse could befal 'em + If Satan should take them at once in his charge. + + If food as their filth was as plenty for diet, + No lack would they feel of the coveted cash, + Or power they maintain with the power of a riot, + When heads of opponents are served up as hash + By Star-chamber cooks of the club “restoration,” + That rules now the city and would rule the nation, + If “Sachems” were willing the “Wigwam” to yield, + And give the arch-traitor a fair fighting field. + + {Illustration: “JACK WARDEN DROVE UP IN HIS CARRIAGE AND BAYS."} + + But fighting just now is not our intention, + But dining with Merdle, the banker, in state, + And only these items like side dishes mention, + While waiting the coming the main dinner plate. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Invitation. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While waiting debating I stated before, + Jack Merdle drove up in his carriage and bays, + “Halloo,” said the banker, “I see you're ashore— + No wonder—this weather is all in a haze— + But come in my carriage, and truly confess + You're a victim of hunger and dinner down town; + A case of most common distressing distress; + When dining in public with Jones, Smith or Brown, + Or some other practical men of the nation, + Is worse on the whole than a little starvation. + + But come home with me for the sake of Lang Syne, + And see Mrs. Merdle and see how we dine. + + I must not expect,” he advised in advance, + “To meet with a dinner got up in perfection, + But must run the risk of the luck and the chance, + As candidates do on the day of election.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Merdle Origin. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now Merdle, <i>en passant</i>, I had known for a score + Of years, when a dinner with Jones, Brown or Smith + As good as one gets for a quarter or more, + Was a thing unthought of, or else but a myth + In Merde's day-dreaming of things yet in store, + When hope painted visions of a painted abode, + And hope never hoped for anything more— + I'm sure never dreamed he would dine <i>a la mode</i>. + + In dreams wildest fancy I doubt if he dreamed, + That time in its changes that wears rocky shores, + Should change what so changeless certainly seemed, + Till Merdle, Jack Merdle, would own twenty stores, + Much more own a bank, e'en the horse that he rode, + Or pay half the debts of the wild oats he sowed. + + I knew when he worked at his old father's trade, + And thought he would stick to his wax and the last, + But Fortune, the fickle, incontinent jade, + A turn to his fortune has given a cast; + “A wife with a fortune,” which men hunt in packs, + To Jack was the fortune that fell to his share; + A fortune that often is such a hard tax, + That men hurry through it with “nothing to spare,” + With “nothing to eat,” or a house “fit to live in,” + With “nothing half decent” to put on their backs, + With nothing “exclusive” to have or believe in, + “Except what is common to common street hacks.” + + So fortune and comfort, that should be like brothers, + Though fought for and bled for where fortunes are made, + Though sought for and failed of by ten thousand others, + Are not worth the fighting and fuss that is made. + + But fortune for Merdle by Cupid was cast, + And bade him look higher than wax and the last, + That Merdle his father, with good honest trade, + Had used with the stitches his waxed end had made. + + I knew when old Merdle lived down by the mill, + I often went fishing and Jack dug the bait; + But Jack Merdle then never thought he should fill + With fish and roast meat such a full dinner plate: + Nor I, when my line which I threw for a trout + While Jack watched the bob of the light floating cork, + Ever thought of the time in a “Merdle turn out” + To ride, or to dine with a pearl handle fork + In Jack's splendid mansion, where taste, waste and style, + Contend for preemption, as then by the mill, + Old Merdle contended with fortune the while, + For bread wherewithal Jack's belly to fill. + + {Illustration: “I NEVER THOUGHT THEN LITTLE KITTY MALONE, AS HEIR TO + OLD CRIPUS WOULD BRING HIM THE CASH."} + + I never thought then little Kitty Malone + As heir to old Gripus would bring him the cash, + 'Pon which as a banker Jack Merdle has shone, + And Kitty in fashion has cut such a dash; + Nor when as a girl not a shoe to her feet, + She accepted my offers of coppers or candy, + She would tell me in satin “we've nothing to eat,” + While eating from silver or sipping her brandy, + And wond'ring that Merdle, the Jack I have named, + Should bring home a friend—('twas thus she exclaimed— + The day that I've mentioned—a day to remember— + When Merdle and I in his carriage and bays, + Through Avenue Five on a day in September, + Drove up to a mansion with gas-light ablaze.) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle At Home. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She Discourseth of Nothing to Eat and the Cost thereof. + + Why Merdle—why did you bring Dinewell to-day? + So very, though welcome, so quite unexpected! + + For dinner, if any, I'm sure I can't say, + Our servants with washing are all so infected. + + If any's provided, 't is nothing but scraps + Of pot-luck or pick up of some common fare; + Or something left over from last week perhaps, + Which you've brought a friend, and an old one, to share. + + I never, I'm sure now, so much was ashamed, + To think he'll discover—what's true to the letter— + We've nothing, or next to't that's fit to be named, + For one who is used every day to what's better. + + But what can you expect if you come on a Monday? + Our French cook's away too, I vow and declare— + But if you would see us with something to spare, + Let's know when you're coming, or come on a Sunday; + For that of all others, for churchmen or sinners, + A day is for gorging with extra good dinners. + + {Illustration: “AND THAT IS JUST WHAT, AS OUR BUTCHER EXPLAINS, THE + DICKENS HAS PLAYED WITH OUR BEEF AND OUR MUTTON."} + + If Merdle had told me a friend would be here, + A dinner I'd get up in spite of the bills— + I often tell butcher he's wonderful dear— + He says every calf that a butcher now kills, + Will cost near as much as the price of a steer, + Before all the banks in their discount expanded + And flooded the country with 'lamp-black and rags,' + Which poor men has ruined and shipwrecked and stranded + On Poverty's billows and quick-sands and crags. + + And that is just what, as our butcher explains, + The dickens has played with our beef and our mutton; + But something is gained, for, with all of his pains, + The poor man won't make of himself such a glutton. + + I'm sure if they knew what a sin 't is to eat, + When things are all selling at extravagant prices, + That poor folks more saving would be of their meat, + And learn by example how little suffices. + + I wish they could see for themselves what a table— + What examples we set to the laboring poor, + In prudence, and saving, in those who are able + To live like a king and his court on a tour. + + I feel, I acknowledge, sometimes quite dejected + To think, as it happens with you here today, + To drop in so sudden and quite unexpected, + How poor we are living some people will say. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle goes to Market. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With prices outrageous they charge now for meat, + And servants so worthless are every day growing, + I wonder we get half enough now to eat, + And shouldn't if 't want for the fact of my going + To market to cheapen potatoes and beef, + And talk to the butchers about their abuses, + And listen to stories beyond our belief, + They tell while they cheat us, by way of excuses. + + And grocers—do tell us—is 't legal to charge + Such prices for sugar, and butter, and flour? + + Oh, why don't the Mayor in his wisdom enlarge + Both weight and measure as he does 'doubtful power?' +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Dinner-bell Rings. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mrs. Merdle Describes the Sufferings of Dyspepsia and its Remedy. + + But come, now, I hear by the sound of the ringing + That dinner is ready; and time none to spare + To finish our eating in time for the singing + At Niblo's; or at Burton's drop in for a stare. + + To 'kill time' the object, whatever the source is, + And that is the reason we sit at the table + And call for our dinner in slow-coming courses, + To kill, while we eat, all the time we are able. + + Though little, I told you, that's worthy your taste + You'll find on our table, pray don't think us mean— + Your welcome is ample—that's better than waste— + Oh! here comes the soup in a silver tureen— + 'Tis mock turtle too—so good for digestion: + That kills me by inches, the wretched complaint + Dyspepsia—to cure which, I take by suggestion + Port-wine in the soup, when I feel slightly faint. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Dinner Table Talk. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now soup, if you like made of beef very nice, + You'll find this the next thing to the height of perfection; + And eaten with ketchup, or thickened with rice, + Will suit you I know, if this is your selection. + + My own disposition to this one inclines, + But dreadful dyspepsia destroys all the pleasure + Of dinner, except it's well tinctured with wines + Which plan I adopt as a health-giving measure. + + A table well ordered, well furnished, and neat, + No wonder our nature for ever is tempting; + And I'd like to know if Mahomet could beat + Its pleasures—dyspepsia for ever exempting— + With all that he promised in paradise gained, + With Houris attendant in place of the churls + With which we are worried, tormented, and pained— + The colored men servants, or green Irish girls. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle doubts Paradise's Uneating Pleasure. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though Houris are handsome, though lovely the place— + More lovely perhaps than our own country seat— + I never could see, in the light of free grace + What pleasure they have there with nothing to eat. + + With nothing to wear, if the climate is suiting, + We might get along I am sure pretty well; + No washing and starching and crimping and fluting, + No muslin and laces and trouble of dressing, they tell, + E'er troubles the women, or bothers the men, + Who soon grow accustomed, as people do here, + To fashions prevailing, and things that they ken; + To dresses fore-shortened where bosoms appear; + To bonnets that show but a rose in the wearing; + To dresses that sweep like a besom the street; + To dresses so gauzy the hoops through are seen; + To shoes quite as gauzy to cover the feet; + But watch how a man here goes raving and swearing, + At wife and all hands, if they've nothing to eat! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Things Earthly. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No matter how costly or flimsy her dresses, + The angel you honor with your kind attentions; + No matter how foolish her wardrobe inventions, + You love her, or say so, from slipper to tresses; + But, presto! you call her the greatest of sinners, + Though smiling, she treats you to badly cooked dinners; + Which proves where the seat is of men's best affections, + With which 'pon their honor they extol us as wives, + And treat us at dinner with sagest reflections, + Of beauty, and duty we owe all our lives + To you, noble lords, of this mundane creation; + Which, judging from some things they tell us, + Was made for the creatures of this trading nation, + Who make it a business to buy us and sell us, + Like 'Erie,' or 'Central,' or other such stocks; + With care, when they bid for a very 'Miss Nancy,' + That she's of a stock that the brokers call 'fancy,' + Or else has a pocket 'chuck full of the rocks'— + The rocks that are wrecking each day of their sailing, + More fortunes than ever in ocean were swallowed; + Where 'ventures' of marriage their victims impaling + With mammon and mis'ry together have wallowed. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Things Eatable. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now Colonel, to husband you need not be winking, + While wiping the soup with a smile from your lips; + I know just as well as he does how you're thinking + The soup is as tasteless as though made of chips. + + You need not deny it, and swear that no better + Concocted was ever in London or Paris; + Remember the praises you gave in your letter + Of cooking and eating you wrote to Miss Harris. + + Now, Colonel, don't offer a word more to flatter— + The soup may be so-so, but wait for the meat; + And after you've seen the last dish, plate, or platter, + You'll own then, I'm certain, we've nothing to eat— + That is compared, as described to Miss Harris, + With all the best tables you eat at in Paris. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Ordereth the Second Course. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, John, Jane, and Susan, the soup take away, + And bring in the turbot, the sheep's head and bass; + And have you got lobster and salad to-day? + And see that the celery's all right in the glass. + + Now fish—Colonel Dinewell, which fish will you try? + And how shall I dress it to suit your nice taste? + For sauce to the fish is as love to the sigh, + Imperfect, it's worthless, and both prove a waste. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Hygiene and Fish Sauce. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But this is concocted by rules so complete; + Though piquant, is healthy and easy digested; + And if you will note it as slowly we eat, + The contents I'll give for our friends interested. + + Imprimus: in fish stock, an onion we stew, + And anchovy essence two spoonfuls we add; + With butter, horse-radish, and lemons a few; + Mushrooms, too, in ketchup is not very bad; + And pickle of walnuts with onions chopped fine, + To which there is added some old sherry wine. + + My doctor, so queer, when I suffer distress, + Inquires what I've latterly foolishly eaten, + And swears that to swallow this 'horrible mess,' + Would entitle a dog like a dog to be beaten. + + But la! such a doctor knows nothing of women's complaints, + And talks Latin nonsense about 'regular diet;' + And thinks that us mortals—should live more like saints, + On moonshine and nonsense of a heavenly quiet. + + He says that a woman of my plaint complaining, + If she was a woman at all half discreet, + Would shudder to think every day she is maiming + Her stomach with trash, and such stuff as we eat! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Describeth her Doctor. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But he's an old fogy, you may know by this sign— + He don't smoke tobacco, drink lager or wine; + And swears that rich gravy, roast pork or chop, + Would kill a big ostrich, if stuffed in his crop. + + He told me one day 'bout the pain in my feet, + 'I see what 't is ails you—you've nothing to eat!' + + Provoking, absurd, foolish hint that my health + Was injured by eating what station and wealth + And fashion give right for my sex to enjoy + In spite of the doctors we choose to employ. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth again on Dinner. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But you are not eating, and I fear that the fish, + Or else 't is the gravy's not done to your wish. + + You're starving while waiting for something to eat— + Thank fortune I told you how poorly we live— + I hope John now will give us a piece of roast meat, + Or else such a dinner you'd never forgive. + + Why yes, Merdle, look, there is beef on that dish— + Jane Hill, don't you see, there's a plate here to shift— + That John is now bringing—'t is all he can lift— + And Colonel, that turkey, you know 't is my wish— + You know that Excelsior's your motto in carving— + As nothing more now we shall have on the table + “We'll eat and give thanks this day that we're able + To keep our poor bodies entirely from starving. + + Now Susan's this all that you've been able to pick up? + Oh, no! there's a ham, and it's done to a turn + So nice, that the nose of a Jew needn't stick up; + And a tongue—well, a tongue I never could spurn; + It's nice while the wine at our leisure we sip; + And good with a cracker in wine we can dip. + + {Illustration: “MY APPETITE'S NONE OF THE BEST AND SO I MUST PAMPER + THE DELICATE THING. AND TICKLE A FANCY THAT'S VERY CAPRICIOUS WITH + BITS OF A TURKEY, THE BREAST OR THE WING. WITH KIRF VERY TENDER AND + GRAVY DELICIOUS."} +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Accepteth of a slight Dinner, suitable for a Woman suffering + with Dyspepsia. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some turkey? why yes—the least mite will suffice; + A side bone and dressing and bit of the breast; + The tip of the rump—that's it—and one o' the fli's— + In spite of the doctor: my appetite's none of the best, + And so I must pamper the delicate thing, + And tickle a fancy that's very capricious + With bits of a turkey, the breast or the wing, + With beef very tender, and gravy delicious. + + Some beef now? I thank you, not any at present; + I'll nibble a little at what I have got, + And wish for a duck, or a grouse, or a pheasant, + Though none of them come for a wish, in the pot. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Wishes and her Sufferings. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'If wishes were horses'—I've heard when a girl— + 'If wishes were horses, the beggars would ride'— + If wishes were pheasants, I'd wish with a skirl + Till cooked ones came flying and sat by my side. + + A fig, then, for doctors, their tinctures and drugs; + Good eating would cure me, with plenty of game; + And as for pill boxes, and bottles, and jugs, + I wouldn't know one, when I saw it, by name. + + Oh, dear! such a load now my stomach oppresses, + While eating these trifles, attempting to dine— + I'm sure 'taint the turkey—it must be my dresses— + And if so 't will ease them to sip sherry wine. + + 'Tis sad, though, to be such a sad invalid— + Dear me, Colonel Dinewell, you've done eating meat— + Your doctor, like mine, I hope hasn't forbid, + That you shouldn't have, as I do, so little to eat. + Ah! well then, I see, though I've hardly begun, + The meats and the solids must go right away; + So bring in the pudding, if Susan's got one, + Which will for a while one's appetite stay. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Pudding. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A pudding! why yes, as I live, too, it's plum; + So plain, Susan makes them on purpose for me + I never refuse, when the plum puddings come, + To finish my dinner, if finished 't can be + On things unsubstantial, like puddings and pies, + So made up of suet, and currants, and flour, + Like this one before us, to get up the size, + And stirred up and beaten with eggs by the hour, + With bread crumbs, and citron, and small piece of mace; + With nutmeg, and cinnamon, and sugar, and milk, + And” currants, and raisins, and spices so race, + And what else I know not of things of that ilk. + + The whole after cooking six hours at the least, + When thus well compounded with delicate skill, + With wine sauce is eaten, to finish the feast, + And suits the digestion of ladies quite ill, + Who suffer as I do, from having bad cooks, + And very weak stomachs, and food that near kills 'em; + And then such a sight of bad rules in the books + From contents to finis, to cure one that fills 'em. + + {Illustration: “FOR NOTHING TO CURE WITH IS USED BUT COLD WATER: AND + WHAT WITH THE BATHING AND WASHING AND SCRUBBING—“} + + There's one of all others so much recommended + To cure every ill of old Eve's every daughter, + With nothing or next to't, for medicine expended, + For nothing to cure with is used but cold water. + + And what with the bathing, and washing, and scrubbing; + The packing, and sweating, and using the sheet; + The shower bath, and douche bath, and all sorts of rubbing; + And literally nothing but brown bread to eat, + No wonder the patient accepts of the lure, + To escape such a ducking, acknowledged a cure. + + But Lord, what a skein I have made of my yarn, + While Susan's arranging and changing the plates, + And running all round old Robin Hood's barn, + Like puzzles at school that we made on our slates; + But talking of puzzles, no one that we made, + While playing the fool we played as a trade, + When childhood and folly joined hands at the schools, + Could equal the pranks of these cold-water fools. + + Yes, yes, Mr. Merdle, I knew by the smelling + The pudding was ready, without any telling; + So Colonel, I'll help you a delicate slice— + For nothing, I'm sure, like a dinner you've eaten— + And afterwards follow with jelly and ice, + So pleasant while waiting to cool off the heat on; + And then with a syllabub, comfit, or cream, + Our dessert of almonds and raisins we'll nibble, + Till coffee comes in to revive with it's steam, + When cakes in its fragrance we'll leisurely dibble. + + I'm sure after all it's a terrible bore + To labor so hard as we do for our victuals; + I envy the women that beg at the door, + Or hire out for wages to handle your kettles, + And wash, bake, and iron, and do nothing but cooking, + So rugged and healthy, and often good looking: + The doctor has told me except when they're mothers, + They never take tincture, or rhubarb, or pill, + And swears the profession if there were no others, + Their patients would use up, and starve out and kill. + + I'm sure I don't see how that makes them exempt + From all sorts of sickness and woman's complaints, + With nothing to hinder if appetite tempt + From eating or drinking as happy as saints. + + Oh Lord, now, this pudding so delicate made, + And gravy I'm sure with nothing that's rich in, + That one of those women who beg as a trade, + The whole in one stomach could leisurely pitch in, + Is now in my own so terribly painful in feeling, + Its calls for relief are most loudly appealing. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of the necessity of good Wine and other Matters. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So while we are eating the fruits of the vine, + Don't let us forget such a health giving juice, + As Champagne, or Sherbet, or other good wine, + Nor sin by neglecting its 'temperate use.' + + Now Sherbet, my husband extols to the skies, + With me though, my stomach is weak and won't bear it: + And Sherry, though sometimes affecting my eyes, + A bottle with pleasure we'll open and share it. + + Ha, ha, well-a-day—what a queer world to live in, + If one were contented on little to dine, + We need not be longing another to be in, + Where women, they tell us, exist without wine; + Where husbands are happy and women content; + Where dresses, though gauzy, are fit for the street; + Where no one is wretched with purses unbent, + With nothing to wear and nothing to eat. + + Where women no longer are treated la Turk, + Where husbands descended from Saxon or Norman, + For women when sickly are willing to work, + And not long for Utah and pleasures la Mormon— + Where men freely marry and live with their wives, + And not live as you do, mon Colonel, so single. + + Such wretched and dinnerless bachelor lives; + You don't know the pleasure there is in the tingle + Of ears pricked by lectures, la curtain, au Caudle, + Or noise of young Dinewells beginning to toddle; + While plodding all day with your paper and quills, + And copy, and proof sheets, and work for the printer, + Pray what do you know of the housekeeper's bills, + And other such 'pleasures of hope' for the winter? + + You men, selfish creatures, think all of the care + Of living and keeping yourselves in existence, + Is due to your own daily labor, and share, + From breakfast to dinner of business persistance; + While woman is either a plaything or drudge, + According to station of wealth or position, + Which men help along with a word or a nudge + To heaven high up or low down to perdition. + + But what was I saying of a world free from care, + Of eating and drinking and dresses to wear? + + Where women by husbands are never tormented, + And never asked money where husbands dissented? + And never see others, their rivals, in fashion ahead, + And never have doctors—a woman's great dread— + And nothing, I hope, like my own indigestion, + To torment and starve them, as this one does me, + And keep them from sipping—forgive the suggestion— + The nectar etherial they drink for their tea. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle Suggesteth that Dinner being finished, the Gentlement will + Smoke. In the meantime, she Discourseth. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now Merdle—now Colonel—I know you are waiting. + And thinking my talking to eating's a bar, + Still hoping, by tasting, my appetite sating, + Will give you the license to smoke a cigar. + + {Illustration: “WILL GIVE YOU THE LICENSE TO SMOKE A CIGAR"} + + Well then, I've done now, and hope too you've dined, + As well as down town where you dine for a shilling, + At Taylor's, or Thompson's, or one of the kind, + Where mortals are flocking each day for their filling; + Or else at the Astor where bachelors quarter, + Where port holes for windows give light to the room, + Far out of the region of Eve's every daughter, + So high they are stuck up away toward the moon. + + Though as for the 'stuck up' no walls built of brick, + Or granite, or marble, or dirty red sand, + Could stick up a man who himself's but a stick, + An inch above where he would naturally stand. + + To witness the truth of this final assertion, + I call you to witness the sticks at the door, + Where they make it a daily, a 'manly' diversion, + To ogle each woman, and sometimes do more, + Who passes the hotel that's named by a saint, + Where boorish bad manners give room for complaint. + + Where idlers and loafers, with gamblers a few, + Make up for the nonce the St. Nicholas crew. + + The 'outside barbarians,' I freely confess, + Who ogle our faces and ogle our dress, + Who spit where we walk as dirty a puddle + As bipeds can make when their brains are 'a muddle,' + Do not prove the inside is as dirty as they are, + Or else the gods help all the ladies who stay there. + + Why any prefer in a hotel to stay, + Instead of a house of their choosing to own, + Is just to avoid all the trouble, they say, + That servants to give us are certainly prone, + I'm sure if a tyranny more terrible prevails, + In Austria or other despotic domain, + My memory where most certainly fails, + That servants and milliners over us gain, + Just here in New York, and the more is the pity, + Where Wood is the Mogul that governs the city. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mrs. Merdle, having “Nibbled a Little” for two Hours at Dinner, retireth + from the Table unsatisfied. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Impatient—oh yes—just the way with you men! + + I never have time to half finish my eating + Ere Merdle is done; such a fidget is then, + He'd starve me I think rather 'n miss of a meeting + Where brokers preside o'er the fate of the stocks, + As Pales presided o'er shepherds and flocks. + + Now while you are smoking—what nonsense and folly— + I'll go to my room.—don't say No, for I must— + Put on a new dress, with assistance of Molly, + And then with a little strong tea and a crust, + My strength I may hope for a walk will be able + As far as the gate, and a very short ride, + To give me a relish again for the table— + What else do we live for in this world beside?” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Poet Moralizeth—He Discourseth to those who Gorge and Complain. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! Kitty Malone—Mrs. Merdle 'tis now— + Was there ever on earth than this, greater folly? + + Still gorging, while groaning, and swearing a vow, + That yours is a case of most sad melancholy. + + With table that Croesus never had but might covet, + You live but to eat and to eat 'cause you love it; + And yet while you swallow great sirloins of meat + Complain like a beggar of nothing to eat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Discourseth of the Wherefore of Bachelorism. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What else do we live for in this world beside?” + + Alas! 't is the question of ten times a day, + That comes on the wind, or that floats on the tide, + And creeps in the houses where men go to pray. + + What else do we live for than get such a wife + As this of the banker of our faint description? + + What else is the end of our fashionable life + From which men escape as they would from conscription? + + What else is the reason so few natives marry, + Than this, that extravagance leads on to ruin? + + It is because few men are able to carry + The load of this baking and roasting and stewing, + Of buying and wasting extravagant meat, + Where women are dying of “nothing to eat;” + Where men in corruption so rapidly tending, + In morals and wealth in bankruptcy ending. + + That forging and stealing and breaches of trust, + And ten thousand arts of the confidence game, + And follies uncounted of men “on a bust,” + Are follies and crimes of this age to our shame, + Till angels who witness the folly so wide + Extended from palace to farm-house and cot, + Might wonder if mortals life's objects forgot, + Or Merdle's position is man's common lot? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Discourseth of What some Mortals Live for. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What else do they live for in this world beside?” + + What else but for Kittys or one of the same, + Do mothers their daughters at schools give the touch + That leaves them to live as a wife but in name + While position and fashion they frantically clutch. + + What else do they live for, our girls so refined, + So forward, precocious, and gifted at ten + They are flirting and courting and things of the kind, + That never came under our grandmother's ken. + + At fifteen so dressed up, and hooped up, I ween, + They're mothers full often before they're sixteen, + And fading and dowdy and sickly at twenty, + With one boy in trowsers and two girls in laces + Complaining of starving while dying of plenty + The fate is of ladies in fashionable places. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Imploreth Mercy upon those condemned with fashionable folly to Marry, + and Illustrateth their Condition. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now heaven in mercy be kind to the wretch, + Who marries for money or fashion or folly; + He'd better accept of the noose of Jack Ketch + Than such a “help-meet;” or at once marry Dolly + The cook, or with Bridget, the maid of the broom; + With one he'd be sure to get coffee and meat, + And never hear whining of nothing to eat, + And 't other would make up his bed and his room; + And if he was blest with a child now and then, + As happens sometimes with your fashionable wives, + Who're coupled to bipeds, in nature called men, + He'd need no insurance to warrant their lives; + And need no expense of a grand “bridal tour,” + Or visit each season at “watering places,” + Where fashion at people well known to be poor, + In money or station, will make ugly faces; + Where women, though married, with roues will flirt; + Where widows, though widows in fresh sable weeds, + Spread nets that entangle like old Nessus' shirt + And finish with Burdell and Cunningham deeds; + Where daughters when fading are taken to spend + A month at the springs, or a week in salt water; + Where bachelors flirting on Ellen attend, + Are whispered by mamma, “engaged to my daughter.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Imploreth Merry for other Unfortunate Beings. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now heaven in mercy be kind to the wretches + Who stay on the earth like this Mrs. Merdle! + + More wretched than ever a wretch on the hurdle + Was drawn by all England's official Jack Ketches; + More wretched, if can be, at church on a Sunday + A woman, who worships, than God, more her dress, + Would be if she heard or e'en thought Mrs. Grundy + Would sneer at the set of a bonnet or tress; + Or say that she thought Miss Freelove's new pattern + Of laces, or collars, or yard flowing sleeves, + Looked more like the dress of a real Miss Slattern + And not “so becoming” 's the first one of Eve's. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Discourseth of a Common Prayer. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yet look at the thousands whose every day prayer, + Far more than their own or their neighbor's salvation, + Absorbs every thought, every dream, and all care, + “To eat or to wear, is anything new in creation?” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Discourseth of Trouble and Sorrow. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What else do they live for? They live but for this; + And nothing but this ever troubles their thinking; + Rich eating, rich dressing, and flirting's their bliss, + And life's better purposes constantly blinking. + + Their life's but a tissue of trouble and sorrow + Of what is the fashion or will be to-morrow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + He Moralizeth upon what a Day may Bring forth. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To-morrow!” who'll warrant to-morrow we'll see? + + Who'll care the next day or day after for dinner? + + Or what the next fashion of new dress will be? + + Or who Mrs. Grundy will say is the winner? + + Having reached Thirtysixthly, the Author is + about to Make the “Application,” and Pray + forgiveness, but concludes by remaining Incog. + + “Who'll care for, to-morrow, for this bit of scandal, + With malice prepense that a cynic has written? + + (That's what they will say when the poem they handle, + Who feel 'tis themselves whom the mad dog has bitten; + And wish he was treated as dogs with the rabies + Are treated, to stop his unmannerly bark; + Or packed off to bed as you do naughty babies, + To sleep, or be frightened all alone in the dark.) + + Who'll care? why the author of this ugly poem— + He'll care—for a reason—that all of you read it— + He'll care for the cash you'll give—Oh! how he needs it— + (Oh! what would you give, ladies dear, just to know him?—) + + But that, by your leave, by the aid of the elf + The printer employs, he will keep to himself. + + He knows, if you knew him, what fate he would meet; + At every table you'd give him—nothing to eat. + + Excuse then, dear ladies, the author his shyness, + And accept his conge at the end of this +</pre> + <h3> + FINIS. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Nothing to Eat, by +Horatio Alger and Thomas Chandler Haliburton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTHING TO EAT *** + +***** This file should be named 5868-h.htm or 5868-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/8/6/5868/ + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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