Nothing to Eat | Page 4

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.
Mrs. Merdle goes to Market.
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?'
The Dinner-bell Rings.
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.
The Dinner Table Talk.
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.
Mrs. Merdle doubts Paradise's Uneating Pleasure.
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!
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Things Earthly.
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