I hope there is no reader on earth who would be so cruel to an autobiographer—a person who acts the part of a great medicine for the cure of the bile—as to deny him the comfort of two or three pages of Appendix to fill up the sheet with a few trifling specimens of his other writings.
When Haydon’s
“Christ’s entry into Jerusalem” was
exhibited in the Egyptian Hall, M.
Jerricault’s
“Raft of the
| 366 | APPENDIX. |
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Down Bullock’s stair a wit, who
punned and laught,
From Haydon’s picture went to see
the Raft.
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Quoth he—
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“It is a desperate way on foot to go,
Quite from Jerusalem to Jericho!”
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Really, P ——, I am sorry you thought of this thing—
The pleasures of both it will cramp;
For your poor wife will feel she’s “the Slave of the Ring,”
Whilst you are “the Slave of the Lamp.”
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These, I venture to say, in order to anticipate criticism, belong to the class which Lord Brougham calls knob-bed epigrams, on account of their want of point. But any epigram is better than none: witness James Smith’s, when asked to write on the statue of George III., in Cockspur-street—
A pigtail of copper Is not proper— |
In the Tartan He looks like a Spartan— |
| APPENDIX. | 367 |
Poor fellow, to her frown he yields at last, No more he can resist her angry eye: Now he has set his all upon a cast, And he will stand the hazard of the dye. |
On the Duke of York’s horse, “Moses,” winning at Ascot, I pleased H. R. H. with a jeu—
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At Ascot when swift Moses won
(A thing not done by slow fits)
What thought his royal owner on?
He thought, the joke I’ll tell to you,
(His Highness is a Bishop too,)
On Moses and the Profits.
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Patient.—Doctor, (h) I’m wery (h) ill (h) indeed,
(H) and vant fresh (h) air (h) I’m feeling.
Doctor.—You must be lowered, buy
a vig,
And get a nouse at (h) Ealing.
|
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Keeping Tom’s wedding-day, his
friends
Boozed till their brains were addled;
They drank his “Bridal Day!”
Tom sighed
“That same day I was saddled.”
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Poor Helen’s dead! said punning
Ned,
His eyes with tears (of joy) flowing;
Hark to that bell,—I’m passing well,
Although there is my Nell going.
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A woman’s vow is far too long
Upon the marriage-day;
For surely where a woman loves,
She’ll honour and obey.
|
| 368 | APPENDIX. |
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I taught love to as warm a heart
As e’er within a bosom beat;
Above, I saw ’twas Etna’s snow,
Below, I felt ’twas Etna’s heat.
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Alas, alas, how is it now?
That heart’s warm pulses all are told,
That living snow soil’d by the grave,
That bosom’s fires for ever cold.
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For me the light of love is o’er:
What have I then with life to do?
I ne’er can taste its joys again—
But, Mela, I can follow you!
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Fat Moll, the cook, who had a certain spice
Of humour in her, even though out of place,
By advertising gave the town advice
That she was willing to renew her race,
And roast, and boil, and bake, and stew, and sweat, and pant,
For any regular “Plain Family” in want.
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Now Mrs. Mugg, whose features grim and droll,
Were imaged in her children and her spouse,
To take her place invited monstrous Moll;
Who cried, whilst looking at the ill-looked house,
For Ordinary, or for Plain, I’d toil ’tis true,
But curse me if I’ll cook for such an ugly crew.
[This was signed “Dr. Kitchiner.”]
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