Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse Consisting of the Epistolary Correspondence of Many Distinguished Characters. With Notes and Illustrations. By the Rev. R. Polwhele |
 | I. |
 | II. |
Madam Cant to Miss Pert.
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| III. |
 | Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse |  |
49
Madam Cant to Miss Pert.
“La, Aunt! how very stern you look!
I don't deserve such sharp rebuke.”—
Now in her teens, cried Miss—“You blame,
I'm sure, what's neither sin nor shame;
As if 'twere wrong to while away
The evening of a winter's day
Just in a little healthy hop!
Sure, 'tis no harm to play at Pope!
Am I an owl, condemn'd to mope?
A sparrow on the lone house-top?
A pelican?—How hard my case is!
Forgive me, if I use your phrases.
It seems I'm a conceited minx!—
‘Evil to her who evil thinks!’
Then you are always croaking—croaking,
About my finery:—so provoking!
Who in the world could e'er believe
You'd make a fuss about a sleeve?
This morning, when to tie my sandal,
Coz. Greatheart stoop'd, your look was scandal.
You tell me I do nought but loll,
Or jerk my pretty parasol.
And you attack my poor pelisse,
Too good for such a flaunting niece;
And next you scoffing cry, ‘So—so—ah!’
Ringing you changes on my boa;
Nor cease to boar me with broad hints,
As if I doated on my chintz,
A present from my cousin Greatheart—
At once it seems set down ‘a sweetheart!’
And next, more harassing than all,
You turn and twist my Indian shawl,
And rank me, with a sapient sneer,
Among the beauties of Cashmeer!
La! would you have me wear, like you,
A satin sack, nor black nor blue,
Stuck up, in stomacher and stays,
The fashion of my grandame's days?”
Stiff was, indeed, her bodice-busk;
And her old satin was subfusk.
I don't deserve such sharp rebuke.”—
Now in her teens, cried Miss—“You blame,
I'm sure, what's neither sin nor shame;
As if 'twere wrong to while away
The evening of a winter's day
Just in a little healthy hop!
Sure, 'tis no harm to play at Pope!
Am I an owl, condemn'd to mope?
A sparrow on the lone house-top?
A pelican?—How hard my case is!
Forgive me, if I use your phrases.
It seems I'm a conceited minx!—
‘Evil to her who evil thinks!’
Then you are always croaking—croaking,
About my finery:—so provoking!
Who in the world could e'er believe
You'd make a fuss about a sleeve?
This morning, when to tie my sandal,
Coz. Greatheart stoop'd, your look was scandal.
You tell me I do nought but loll,
Or jerk my pretty parasol.
And you attack my poor pelisse,
Too good for such a flaunting niece;
And next you scoffing cry, ‘So—so—ah!’
Ringing you changes on my boa;
Nor cease to boar me with broad hints,
As if I doated on my chintz,
A present from my cousin Greatheart—
At once it seems set down ‘a sweetheart!’
And next, more harassing than all,
You turn and twist my Indian shawl,
And rank me, with a sapient sneer,
Among the beauties of Cashmeer!
La! would you have me wear, like you,
A satin sack, nor black nor blue,
50
The fashion of my grandame's days?”
Stiff was, indeed, her bodice-busk;
And her old satin was subfusk.
And now, with every creature-comfort,
The patent chimney of Count Rumford,
The blaze, that warm'd so cheerily
Her crimson carpet and settee,
Her tables, chairs from wood of rose,
Scents to regale her snuffy nose,
From cedar boxes black as jet,
In gilding bright, her cabinet;
And through Venetian blinds, half-seen,
The balsam, first in vernal green;
And duly as the clock struck two,
The relish of the high ragout,
And many a spicy viand rich in
The cookery of a genial kitchen;
And malmsey—and perhaps cogniac!
—“A little for the stomach's sake.”—
With all these luxuries blest or curst,
The impatient Aunt her eyebrows purs'd,
And, opening wide her jallow jaws
For utterance in Religion's cause,
(One tooth projecting—quite a tusk)
With passion shook, and stunk of musk;
And fluttering on the wing to pounce
Fierce on her prey, exclaim'd—“Renounce
Your lying vanities; and know,
If you would fly from wail and woe,
Shunning the world's deceitful meshes,
Know what to mortify the flesh is;
This very night Pope Joan abjure,
And read”—she sigh'd and look'd demure—
“Your Bible. This will work your cure;
To read with us will much avail!”—
“Yea,” cried the Niece, “to read and rail! ”
Thinks I—“Her answer's flippant—curt!—
But if the Niece we name Miss Pert;
Without a scruple, the old Aunt
Well may we christen—Madam Cant.”
The patent chimney of Count Rumford,
The blaze, that warm'd so cheerily
Her crimson carpet and settee,
Her tables, chairs from wood of rose,
Scents to regale her snuffy nose,
From cedar boxes black as jet,
In gilding bright, her cabinet;
And through Venetian blinds, half-seen,
The balsam, first in vernal green;
And duly as the clock struck two,
The relish of the high ragout,
And many a spicy viand rich in
The cookery of a genial kitchen;
And malmsey—and perhaps cogniac!
—“A little for the stomach's sake.”—
With all these luxuries blest or curst,
The impatient Aunt her eyebrows purs'd,
And, opening wide her jallow jaws
For utterance in Religion's cause,
(One tooth projecting—quite a tusk)
With passion shook, and stunk of musk;
And fluttering on the wing to pounce
Fierce on her prey, exclaim'd—“Renounce
Your lying vanities; and know,
If you would fly from wail and woe,
Shunning the world's deceitful meshes,
Know what to mortify the flesh is;
This very night Pope Joan abjure,
And read”—she sigh'd and look'd demure—
“Your Bible. This will work your cure;
51
“Yea,” cried the Niece, “to read and rail! ”
Thinks I—“Her answer's flippant—curt!—
But if the Niece we name Miss Pert;
Without a scruple, the old Aunt
Well may we christen—Madam Cant.”
Thus I have heard many females run themselves “out of breath.” Miss Pert indeed is not “quite up” to a volubility which is of daily occurrence.
There has been a vast deal of cant in many of our recent publications. Gray's Elegy, for instance, wants Christianity. To infuse a little Christian spirit into it, a few pretty or petty stanzas have been inserted—enough to leaven the whole lump!
What can be more beautiful to the true believer, than—
“On some fond breast the parting soul relies;Some pious drops the closing eye requires!”
| Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | |