Who change, from age to age, the sly deceit,
As science beams, and virtue learns the cheat;
Tyrants of double powers, the souls that blind,
To rob, to scourge, and brutalize mankind,-
Think not I come to croak with omen'd yell
The dire damnations of your future hell,
To bend a bigot or reform a knave,
By op'ning all the scenes beyond the grave.
I know your crusted souls: while one defies,
In sceptic scorn, the vengeance of the skies,
The other boasts,-I ken thee, power divine,
But fear thee not; th' avenging bolt is mine.

No! 'tis the present world that prompts the song,
The world we see, the world that feels the wrong,
The world of men, whose arguments ye know,
Of men, long curb'd to servitude and woe,
Men, rous'd from sloth, by indignation stung,
Their strong hands loos'd, and found their fearless
tongue;

Whose voice of thunder, whose descending steel,
Shall speak to souls, and teach dull nerves to feel.
Think not, (ah no, the weak delusion shun,
Burke leads you wrong, the world is not his own),
Indulge not once the thought, the vap'ry dream,
The fool's repast, the mad-man's thread-bare theme,
That nations, rising in the light of truth,
Strong with new life and pure regenerate youth,
Will shrink from toils so splendidly begun,
Their bliss abandon and their glory shun,
Betray the trust by Heav'n's own hand consign'd,
The great concentred stake, the interest of mankind.
Ye speak of kings combin'd, some league that
draws

Europe's whole force, to save your sinking cause;
Of fancy'd hosts by myriads that advance
To crush the untry'd power of new-born France.
Misguided men! these idle tales despise;
Let one bright ray of reason strike your eyes;
Show me your kings, the sceptred horde parade,—
See their pomp vanish! see your Visious fade!
Indignant MAN resumes the shaft he gave,
Disarms the tyrant and unbinds the slave,
Displays the unclad skeletons of kings,*
Spectres of power, and serpents without stings.
And shall mankind,-shall France, whose giant
might

Rent the dark veil, and dragg'd them forth to light,
Heed now their threats in dying anguish tost?
And she who fell'd the monster, fear the ghost?
Bid young Alei les, in his grasp who takes,
And gripes with naked hand the twisting snakes,
Their force exhausted, bid him prostrate fall,
And dread their shadows trembling on the wall.
But grant to kings and courts their ancient play,
Recal their splendour and revive their sway;
Can all your cant and all your cries persuade
One power to join you in your wild crusade?
In vain ye search to earth's remotest end;
No court can aid you, and no king defend.

Not the mad knave who Sweden's sceptre stole,
Nor she whose thunder shakes the northern pole;
Nor Frederic's widow'd sword, that scorns to tell
On whose weak brow his crown reluctant fell.
Not the tri-sceptred prince, of Austrian mould,
The ape of wisdom and the slave of gold,
Theresa's son, who, with a feeble grace,
Just mimics all the vices of his race;
For him no charm can foreign strife afford,

Too mean to spend his wealth, too wise to trust his sword.

Glance o'er the Pyrenees,-but you'll disdain To break the dream that soothes the monk of Spain.

He counts his beads, and spends his holy zea!
To raise once more th' inquisitorial wheel,
Prepares the faggot and the flame renews,
To roast the French, as once the Moors and Jews.
While abler hands the busy task divide,
His queen to dandle and his state to guide.

Yet ask great Pitt to join your desp'rate work,-
See how his annual aid confounds the Turk!
Like a war-elephant his bulk he shows,
And treads down friends, when frighten'd by his
foes.

Where then, forsaken villains, will ye turn? Of France the outcast and of earth the scorn; What new-made charm can dissipate your fears? Can Burke's mad foam, or Calonne's house of peers? Can Artois' sword, that erst near Calpe's wall, Where Crillon fought and Elliott was to fall, Burn'd with the fire of fame, but harmless burn'd, For sheath'd the sword remain'd, and in its sheath return'd!

Oh Burke, degenerate slave! with grief and shame

The Muse indignant must repeat thy name.
Strange man, declare,-since, at creation's birth,
From crumbling chaos sprang this heav'n and earth,
Since wrecks and outcast relics still remain,
Whirl'd ceaseless round confusion's dreary reign,
Declare, from all these fragments, whence you stolo
That genius wild, that monstrous mass of soul;
Where spreads the widest waste of all extremes,
Full darkness frowns, and heav'n's own splendour
beams;

Truth, error, falsehood, rhetoric's raging tide,
Aud pomp and meanness, prejudice and pride,
Strain to an endless clang thy voice of fire,
Thy thoughts bewilder and thy audience tire.

Like Phoebus' son, we see thee wing thy way,
Suatch the loose reins, and mount the car of day,
To earth now plunging plough thy wasting course,
The great sublime of weakness and of force.
But while the world's keen eye, with generous
glance,

Thy faults could pardon and thy worth enhance. When foes were hush'd, when justice dar'd commend,

And e'en fond freedom claim'd thee as a friend,
Why, in a gulph of baseness, sink forlorn,
And change pure praise for infamy and scorn?

And didst thou hope, by thy infuriate quill
To rouse mankind the blood of realms to spill?
Then to restore, on death-devoted plains,
Their scourge to tyrants, and to man his chains?
To swell their souls with thy own bigot rage,
And blot the glories of so bright an age?
First stretch thy arm, and, with less impious might,
Wipe out the stars, and quench the solar light:
"For heav'n and earth," the voice of God ordains,
"Shall pass and perish, but my word remains,”
Th' eternal WORD, which gave, in spite of thee,
REASON to man, that bids the man be free.

Thou could'st not hope: 'twas heav'n's returning grace,

In kind compassion to our injur'd race,

Which stripp'd that soul, ere it should flee from hence,

Of the last garb of decency or sense.

Left thee its own foul horrors to display,

In all the blackness of its native day,

To sink at last, from earth's glad surface hurl'd,
The sordid sov'reign of the letter'd world.

In some sad hour, ere death's dim terrors spread,
Ere seas of dark oblivion whelm thy head,
Reflect, lost man,-If those, thy kindred knaves,
O'er the broad Rhine whose flag rebellious waves,
Once draw the sword; its burning point shall bring

To thy quick nerves a never-ending sting;
The blood they shed thy weight of woe shall swell,
And their grim ghosts for ever with thee dwell.

Learn hence, ye tyrants, ere ye learn too late,
Of all your craft th' inevitable fate.
The hour is come, the world's inclosing eyes
Discern with rapture where its wisdom lies;
From western heav'ns th' inverted orient springs,
The morn of man, the dreadful night of kings.
Dim, like the day-struck owl, ye grope in light,
No arm for combat, no resource in flight;

If on your guards your lingering hopes repose,
Your guards are men, and men you've made your
foes;

If to your rocky ramparts ye repair,

De Launay's fate can tell your fortune there.
No turn, no shift, no courtly arts avail,
Each mask is broken, all illusions fail;
Driv'n to your last retreat of shame and fear,
One counsel waits you, one relief is near:
By worth internal, rise to self-wrought fame,
Your equal rank, your human kindred claim;
"Tis reason's choice, 'tis wisdom's final plau,
To drop the monarch and assume the man.
Hail MAN, exalted title! first and best,
On God's own image by his haud imprest,
To which at last the reas'ning race is driven,
And seeks anew what first it gain'd from heaven.
O MAN, my brother, how the cordial flame
Of all endearments kindles at the name!
In every clime, thy visage greets my eyes,
In every tongue thy kindred accents rise;
The thought expanding swells my heart with glee,
It finds a friend, and loves itself in thee.

Say then, fraternal family divine,
Whom mutual wants and mutual aids combine,
Say from what source the dire delusion rose,
That souls like ours were ever made for foes;
Why earth's maternal bosom, where we tread,
To rear our mansions and receive our bread,
Should blush so often for the race she bore,
So long be drench'd with floods of filial gore;
Why to small realms for ever rest confin'd
Our great affections, meant for all mankind.
Though climes divide us; shall the stream or sea,
That forms a barrier 'twixt my friend and me,
Inspire the wish his peaceful state to mar,
And meet his falchion in the ranks of war?

Not seas, nor climes, nor wild ambition's fire In nation's minds could e'er the wish inspire; Where equal rights each sober voice should guide, No blood would stain them, and no war divide. 'Tis dark deception, 'tis the glare of state, Man sunk in titles, lost in small and great: 'Tis rank, distinction, all the hell that springs From those prolific monsters, courts and kings, These are the vampires nurs'd on nature's spoils; For these with pangs the starving peasant toils, For these the earth's broad surface teems with grain, Theirs the dread labours of the devious main; And when the wasted world but dares refuse The gifts oppressive and extorted dues, They bid wild slaughter spread the gory plains, The life-blood gushing from a thousand veins, Erect their thrones amid the sanguine flood, And dip their purple in the nation's blood.

The gazing crowd, of glittering state afraid, Adore the power their coward meanness made; In war's short intervals, while regal shows Still blind their reason and insult their woes, What strange events for proud processions call! See kingdoms crowding to a birth-night ball! See the long pomp in gorgeous glare display'd, The tinsel'd guards, the squadron'd horse parade; See heralds gay, with emblems on their vest,

In tissu'd robes, tall, beauteous pages drest;
Amid superior ranks of splendid slaves,
Lords, dukes and princes, titulary knaves,
Confus'dly shine their crosses, gems and stais,
Sceptres and globes and crowns and spoils of wars.
On gilded orbs see thundering chariots roll'd,
Steeds, snorting fire, and champing bitts of gold,
Prance to the trumpet's voice; while each assumes
A loftier gait, and lifts his neck of plumes.
High on a moving throne, and near the van,
The tyrant rides, the chosen scourge of man;
Clarions and flutes and drums his way prepare,
And shouting millions rend the troubled air;
Millions, whose ceaseless toils the pomp sustain,
Whose hour of stupid joy repays an age of pain..
Of these no more. From orders, slaves and kings,
To thee, O MAN, my heart rebounding sprigs,
Behold th' ascending bliss that waits thy call,
Heav'n's own bequest, the heritage of all.
Awake to wisdom, seize the proffer'd prize;
From shade to light, from grief to glory rise.
Freedom at last, with reason in her train,
Extends o'er earth her everlasting reign;
See Gallia's sons, so late the tyrant's sport,
Machines in war and sycophants at court,
Start into men, expand their well-taught mind,
Lords of themselves and leaders of mankind.
On equal rights their base of empire lies,
On walls of wisdom see the structure rise;
Wide o'er the gazing world it towers sublime,
A modell'd form for each surrounding clime.
To useful toils they bend their noblest aim,
Make patriot views and moral views the same,
Renounce the wish of war, bid conquest cease,
Invite all men to happiness and peace,

To faith and justice rear the youthful race,
With strength exalt them and with science grace,
Till truth's blest banners, o'er the regions hurl'd,
Shake tyrants from their thrones, and cheer the
waking world.

In northern climes, where feudal shades of late
Chill'd every heart and palsied every state,
Behold, illumin'd by th' instructive age,
That great phenomenon, a sceptred sage.
There Stanislaus unfurls his prudent plan,
Tears the strong bandage from the eyes of man,
Points the progressive march, and shapes the way.
That leads a realm from darkness into day.

And deign, for once, to turn a transient eye
To that wide world that skirts the western sky;
Hail the mild morning, where the dawn began,
The full fruition of the hopes of man.
Where sage experience seals the sacred cause;
And that rare union, liberty and laws.
Speaks to the reas'ning race: to freedom rise,
Like them be equal, and like them be wise.

THE HASTY PUDDING.

A Poem in Three Cantos, Written at Chambery in Savoy, January, 1793, By Joel Barlow.

Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci, He makes a good breakfast who mixes pudding with molasses.

To Mrs. Washington.

MADAM-A simplicity in diet, whether it be considered with reference to the happiness of individuals or the prosperity of a nation, is of more consequence than we are apt to imagine. In recommending so great and necessary a virtue to the rational part of mankind, I wish it were in my power to do it in such a manner as would be likely to gain their attention. I am sensible that it is one of those sub

jects in which example has infinitely more power than the most convincing arguments, or the highest charms of poetry. Goldsmith's Deserted Village, though possessing these two advantages in a greater degree than any other work of the kind, has not prevented villages in England from being deserted. The apparent interest of the rich individuals, who form the taste as well as the laws in that country, has been against him; and with that interest it has been vain to contend.

The vicious habits which in this little piece I endeavor to combat, seem to me not so difficult to

cure.

There are

No class of people has any interest in supporting them, unless it be the interest which certain families may feel in vieing with each other in sumptuous entertainments. There may indeed be some instances of depraved appetites which no arguments will conquer; but these must be rare. very few persons but would always prefer a plain dish for themselves, and would prefer it likewise for their guests, if there were no risk of repuThis difficulty can only be retation in the case. moved by example; and the example should proceed from those whose situation enables them to take the lead in forming the manners of a nation. Persons of this description in America, I should hope, are neither above nor below the influence of truth and reason when conveyed in language suited to the subject.

Whether the manner I have chosen to address my arguments to them be such as to promise any But I certainly success, is what I cannot decide.

had hopes of doing some good, or I should not have taken the pains of putting so many rhymes together; and much less should I have ventured to place your

name at the head of these observations.

Your situation commands the respect and your character the affections of a numerous people. These circumstances impose a duty upon you, which I believe you discharge to your own satisfaction and that of others. The example of your domestic virtues has doubtless a great effect among your countrywomen. I only wish to rank simplicity of diet among the virtues. In that case it will certainly be cherished by you, and I should hope more esteemed by others than it is at present.

THE AUTHOR.

roam,

Each clime my country, and each house my home,
My soul is soothed, my cares have found an end,
1 greet my long lost, unforgotten friend.

For thee through Paris, that corrupted town,
How long in vain I wandered up and down,
Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard,
Cold from his cave usurps the morning board.
London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea;
No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee;
The uncouth word, a libel on the town,
Would call a proclamation from the crown.*
From climes oblique, that fear the sun's full rays,
Chill'd in their fogs, exclude the generous maize:
A grain, whose rich, luxuriant growth requires
Short gentle showers, and bright etherial fires.

But here, though distant from our native shore, With mutual glee, we meet and laugh once more, The same! I know thee by that yellow face, That strong complexion of true Indian race, Which time can never change, nor soil impair, Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air; For endless years, through every mild domain, Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to reign. But man, more fickle, the bold license claims, In different realms to give thee different names. Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant Polenta call, the French of course Polente. E'en in thy native regions, how I blush To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush! On Hadson's banks, while men of Belgic spaw Insult and eat thee by the name Suppawn. All spurious appellations, void of truth; I've better known thee from my earliest youth, Thy name is Hasty-Pudding! thus my sire Was wont to greet thee fuming from his fire; And while he argued in thy just defence

A certain king, at the time when this was written, was publishing proclamatious to prevent American principles from being propagated in his country.

46

With logic clear, he thus explain'd the sense:-
"In haste the boiling cauldron, o'er the blaze,
Receives and cooks the ready powder'd maize;
In haste 'tis served, and the:i in equal haste,
With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast.
No carving to be done, no knife to grate
The tender ear, and wound the stony plate;
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,
And taught with art the yielding mass to dip,
By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored,
Performs the hasty honors of the board."
Such is thy name, significant and clear,
A name, a sound to every Yankee dear,
But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste
Preserve my pure hereditary taste.

There are who strive to stamp with disrepute
The luscious food, because it feeds the brute;
In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs
Compare thy nursling, ran, to pamper'd pigs;
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest,
Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast.
What though the generous cow gives me to quaff
The milk nutritious; am I then a calf?
Or can the genius of the noisy swine,
Though nursed on pudding, claim a kin to mine?
Sure the sweet song, I fashion to thy praise,
Runs more melodious than the notes they raise.
My song resounding in its grateful glee,
No merit claims: I praise myself in thee.
My father loved thee through his length of days!
For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize;
From thee what health, what vigor he possess'd,
Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest;
Thy constellation ruled my natal morn,
And all my bones were made of Indian corn.
Delicious grain! whatever form it take,
To roast or boil, to smother or to bake,
In every dish 'tis welcome still to me,
But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee.

Let the green succotach with thee contend, Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend, Let butter drench them in its yellow tide, And a long slice of bacon grace their side; Not all the plate, how famed soe'er it be, Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. Some talk of Hoe-Cake, fair Virginia's pride, Rich Johnny-Cake, this mouth has often tried; Both please me well, their virtues much the same, Alike their fabric, as allied their fame, Except in dear New England, where the last Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, To give it sweetness and improve the taste. But place them all before me, smoking hot, The big, round dumpling, rolling from the pot, The pudding of the bag, whose quivering breast, With suet lined, leads on the Yankee feast, The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides A belly soft the pulpy apple hides; The yellow bread whose face like amber glows, And all of Indian that the bake-pan knows,You tempt me not-my fav'rite greets my eyes, To that loved bowl my spoon by instinct flies.

CANTO II.

To mix the food by vicious rules of art, To kill the stomach, and to sink the heart To make mankind to social virtue sour, Cram o'er each dish, and be what they devour; For this the kitchen muse first frain'd her book, Commanding sweats to stream from every cook; Children no more their antic gambols tried, And friends to physic wonder'd why they died. Not so the Yankee- his abundant feast, With simples furnish'd and with plainness drest, A numerous offspring gathers round the board,

And cheers alike the servant and the lord;
Whose well-bought hunger prompts the joyous taste,
And health attends them from the short repast.

While the full pail rewards the milk-maid's toil,
The mother sees the morning cauldron boil;
To stir the pudding next demands their care;
To spread the table and the bowls prepare;
To feed the household as their portions cool
And send them all to labor or to school.

Yet may the simplest dish some rules impart,
For nature scorns not all the aids of art.
E'en Hasty-Pudding, purest of all food,
May still be bad, indifferent, or good,
As sage experience the short process guides,
Or want of skill, or want of care presides.
Whoe'er would form it on the surest plan,
To rear the child and long sustain the man;
To shield the morals while it mends the size,
And all the powers of every food supplies,
Attend the lesson that the muse shall bring,
Suspend your spoons, and listen while I sing.

But since, O man! thy life and health demand
Not food alone but labor from thy hand,
First in the field, beneath the sun's strong rays,
Ask of thy mother earth the needful maize;
She loves the race that courts her yielding soil,
And gives her bounties to the sons of toil.

When now the ox, obedient to thy call,
Repays the loan that fill'd the winter stall,
Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain,
And plant in measur'd hills the golden grain.
But when the tender germ begins to shoot,
And the green spire declares the sprouting root,
Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe,
The insidious worm, the all-devouring crow.
A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire,
Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire;
The feather'd robber with his hungry maw
Swift flies the field before your man of straw,
A frightful image, such as schoolboys bring,
When met to burn the pope, or hang the king.

Thrice in the season, through each verdant row Wield the strong ploughshare and the faithful hoe: The faithful hoe, a double task that takes,

To till the summer corn, and roast the winter cakes. Slow springs the blade, while check'd by chilling rains,

Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains;
But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land,
Then start the juices, then the roots expand;
Then, like a column of Corinthian mould,
The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold;
The busy branches all the ridges fill,

Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill.
Here cease to vex them, all your cares are done:
Leave the last labors to the parent sun;
Beneath his genial smiles, the well-drest field,
When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield.
Now the strong foliage bears the standards high,
And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky;
The suckling ears their silky fringes bend,
And pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend;
The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows,
O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows;
High as a hop-field waves the silent grove,
A safe retreat for little thefts of love,
When the pledged roasting-ears invite the maid,
To meet her swain beneath the new-form'd shade;
His generous hand unloads the cumbrous hill,
And the green spoils her ready basket fill;
Small compensation for the two-fold bliss,
The promised wedding, and the present kiss.
Slight depredations these; but now the moon
Calls from his hollow tree the sly raccoon;
And while by night he bears his prize away,

The bolder squirrel labors through the day.
Both thieves alike, but provident of time,
A virtue rare, that almost hides their crime.
Then let them steal the little stores they can,
And fill their grau'ries from the toils of man;
We've one advantage, where they take no part,-
With all their wiles they ne'er have found the art
To boil the Hasty-Pudding; here we shine
Superior far to tenants of the pine;
This envied boon to man shall still belong,
Unshared by them, in substance or in song.

At last the closing season browns the plain,
And ripe October gathers in the grain;
Deep loaded carts the spacious corn-house fill,
The sack disten led marches to the mill;
The lab'ring mill beneath the burthen groans,
And showers the future pudding from the stones;
Till the glad housewife greets the powder'd gold,
And the new crop exterminates the old.
Ah who can sing what every wight must feel,
The joy that enters with the bag of meal,
A general jubilee pervades the house,
Wakes every child and gladdens every mouse.

CANTO III.

The days grow short; but though the falling sun To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done, Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong, And yield new subjects to my various song. For now, the corn-house fill'd, the harvest home, The invited neighbors to the husking come; A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play, Unite their charms to chase the hours away.

Where the huge heap lies centred in the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed
beaus,

Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.

The laws of husking every wight can tell;
And sure no laws he ever keeps so well:
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
Red as her lips, and taper as her waist,

She walks the round, and culls one favored beau,
Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the sport, as are the wits and brains
Of well pleased lasses and contending swains;
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the last ear wins the day.

Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care,
The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal already waits her hand,
The milk is strain'd, the bowls in order stand,
The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that takes
The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam breaks)
Foams, roars, and rages, with incessant toils,
So the vex'd cauldron rages, roars and boils.

First with clean salt, she seasons well the food,
Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood.
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand;
To stir it well demands a stronger hand;
The husband takes his turn: and round and round
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crown'd;
When to the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn before.

I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More useful matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.
Some with molasses grace the luscious treat,

And mix, like bards, the useful and the sweet.
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak wintry days,
When the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow.

Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ, Great source of health, the only source of joy; Mother of Egypt's god,-but sure, for me, Were I to leave my God, I'd worship thee. How oft thy teats these pious hands have press'd! How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain! And roar'd, like thee, to see thy children slain!

Ye swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own.

Milk then with pudding I should always choose; To this in future I confine my muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Good for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide; But when their growing mass no more can sink, When the soft island looms above the brink, Then check your hand; you've got the portion due, So taught my sire, and what he taught is true.

There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear.
The deep bowl'd Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace,
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienced feeders can alone impart

A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide.
Though not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines;
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose egg shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the side.

Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin:-
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or like me,

Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall,
The wide mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all!*

The following note was added:

"There are various ways of preparing and eating it; with molasses, butter, sugar, cream, and fried. Why so excellent a thing cannot be eaten alone? Nothing is perfect alone, even man who boasts of so much perfection is nothing without his fellow substance. In eating, beware of the lurking heat that lies deep in the mass; dip your spoon gently, take shallow dips and cool it by degrees. It is sometimes necessary to blow. This is indicated by certain signs which every experienced feeder knows. They should be taught to young beginners. I have known a child's tongue blistered for want of this attention, and then the schooldame would insist that the poor thing had told a lie. A mistake: the falsehood was in the faithless pudding. A prudent mother will cool it for her child with her own sweet breath. The husband, seeing this, pretends his own wants blowing too from the same lips. A sly deceit of love,