Nothing to Eat Part 4

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.

He Discourseth of the Wherefore of Bachelorism.

"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 fas.h.i.+onable 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?

He Discourseth of What some Mortals Live for.

"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 fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+onable places.

He Imploreth Mercy upon those condemned with fas.h.i.+onable folly to Marry, and Ill.u.s.trateth their Condition.

Now heaven in mercy be kind to the wretch, Who marries for money or fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 fas.h.i.+on 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' s.h.i.+rt 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."

He Imploreth Merry for other Unfortunate Beings.

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 wors.h.i.+ps, than G.o.d, 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.

He Discourseth of a Common Prayer.

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?"

He Discourseth of Trouble and Sorrow.

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 fas.h.i.+on or will be to-morrow.

He Moralizeth upon what a Day may Bring forth.

"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 fas.h.i.+on 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

FINISH.