Nothing to Eat | Page 5

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 us at dinner with sagest reflections,
Of beauty, and duty we owe
all our lives
To you, noble lords, of this mundane creation;
Which,
judging from some things they tell us,
Was made for the creatures of
this trading nation,
Who make it a business to buy us and sell us,

Like 'Erie,' or 'Central,' or other such stocks;
With care, when they
bid for a very 'Miss Nancy,'
That she's of a stock that the brokers call
'fancy,'
Or else has a pocket 'chuck full of the rocks'--
The rocks

that are wrecking each day of their sailing,
More fortunes than ever in
ocean were swallowed;
Where 'ventures' of marriage their victims
impaling
With mammon and mis'ry together have wallowed.
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Things Eatable.
Now Colonel, to husband you need not be winking,
While wiping the
soup with a smile from your lips;
I know just as well as he does how
you're thinking
The soup is as tasteless as though made of chips.
You need not deny it, and swear that no better
Concocted was ever in
London or Paris;
Remember the praises you gave in your letter
Of
cooking and eating you wrote to Miss Harris.
Now, Colonel, don't offer a word more to flatter--
The soup may be
so-so, but wait for the meat;
And after you've seen the last dish, plate,
or platter,
You'll own then, I'm certain, we've nothing to eat--
That
is compared, as described to Miss Harris,
With all the best tables you
eat at in Paris.
Mrs. Merdle Ordereth the Second Course.
Come, John, Jane, and Susan, the soup take away,
And bring in the
turbot, the sheep's head and bass;
And have you got lobster and salad
to-day?
And see that the celery's all right in the glass.
Now fish--Colonel Dinewell, which fish will you try?
And how shall
I dress it to suit your nice taste?
For sauce to the fish is as love to the
sigh,
Imperfect, it's worthless, and both prove a waste.
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth of Hygiene and Fish Sauce.
But this is concocted by rules so complete;
Though piquant, is
healthy and easy digested;
And if you will note it as slowly we eat,

The contents I'll give for our friends interested.

Imprimus: in fish stock, an onion we stew,
And anchovy essence two
spoonfuls we add;
With butter, horse-radish, and lemons a few;

Mushrooms, too, in ketchup is not very bad;
And pickle of walnuts
with onions chopped fine,
To which there is added some old sherry
wine.
My doctor, so queer, when I suffer distress,
Inquires what I've latterly
foolishly eaten,
And swears that to swallow this 'horrible mess,'

Would entitle a dog like a dog to be beaten.
But la! such a doctor knows nothing of women's complaints,
And
talks Latin nonsense about 'regular diet;'
And thinks that us
mortals--should live more like saints,
On moonshine and nonsense of
a heavenly quiet.
He says that a woman of my plaint complaining,
If she was a woman
at all half discreet,
Would shudder to think every day she is maiming

Her stomach with trash, and such stuff as we eat!
Mrs. Merdle Describeth her Doctor.
But he's an old fogy, you may know by this sign--
He don't smoke
tobacco, drink lager or wine;
And swears that rich gravy, roast pork
or chop,
Would kill a big ostrich, if stuffed in his crop.
He told me one day 'bout the pain in my feet,
'I see what 't is ails
you--you've nothing to eat!'
Provoking, absurd, foolish hint that my health
Was injured by eating
what station and wealth
And fashion give right for my sex to enjoy

In spite of the doctors we choose to employ.
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth again on Dinner.
But you are not eating, and I fear that the fish,
Or else 't is the gravy's
not done to your wish.

You're starving while waiting for something to eat--
Thank fortune I
told you how poorly we live--
I hope John now will give us a piece of
roast meat,
Or else such a dinner you'd never forgive.
Why yes, Merdle, look, there is beef on that dish--
Jane Hill, don't
you see, there's a plate here to shift--
That John is now bringing--'t is