British Women Romantic Poets Project

The Mince Pye: an Historic Epistle.

Cobbold, Elizabeth, 1767-1824

Copyright (c) 2002, University of California

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series

The mince pye: an heroic epistle; humbly addressed to the sovereign dainty of a British feast

Cobbold, Elizabeth

[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:210. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:210mf.]

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THE
MINCE PYE;
AN HEROIC EPISTLE: HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO
THE SOVEREIGN DAINTY
OF
A BRITISH FEAST.

By

CAROLINA PETTY PASTY.

TO
A PLUM-PUDDING.

ALTHOUGH the following Epistle be addressed to a Mince Pye, yet the Author hopes that you, for whom she has ever entertained the sincerest affection, will be graciously pleased to accept it from one of your most devoted admirers.

Inconsistent, and even derogatory to your merits, as such an application may at first appear, she ventures to believe that it may be excused, if not justified, under the peculiar circumstances of the case. The same particular ingredients; the same general reception, as conducive to the People's welfare; the same benevolent protection experienced from those whose Religion and Loyalty formerly exposed them to the utmost rigour of fanatic and Oliverian persecution; the same delectable contribution to the luxury of Europe and the happiness of Epicures, have emi-

nently distinguished these two favourite Dishes now so honourably allied: but there is still another consideration which perhaps may entitle this Poem, with all its imperfections, to the indulgence of being dedicated to a Dainty, which, in the opinion of many, far surpasses a Mince Pye! He who has long been accustomed to the highest dishes, acquires a true relish and taste for the refinements of Cookery: he is instantly struck with the excellence of any culinary composition; and feels delighted at such exquisite flavours, as either escape the notice, or make less impressions on the palates of those, who have not had frequent opportunities of dining at luxurious tables. By a similar process it is, that a Plum-pudding may be supposed to have occasioned the following address; as the Author would probably have been less captivated with the happy combination in a Mince Pye, had she not, from her earliest youth, been accustomed to appreciate the qualities of a good Plum-pudding, which is the pride and ornament of a BRITISH FEAST .

THE
MINCE PYE.

OH , King of Cates, whose pastry-bounded reign
Is felt and own'd o'er Europe's whole domain!
Whom greater gluttons own their Sov'reign lord
Than ever bow'd beneath the dubbing sword,
Than ever heard the famous Bell of Bow,
Or gaz'd with transport on a Lord Mayor's Show!

Say, can the spices from the eastern grove,
The fragrant cinnamon, the dusky clove,
The strength of all the aromatic train
That careful Dutchmen waft across the main,
The pastry frontier, the embattled crust,
Moulded with butter and the mealy dust,
The taper rolling-pin that, white and round,
Rolls o'er the dresser with a thund'ring sound;
Can apples, currants, raisins, all combin'd
Make a Mince Pye delight the taste refin'd,
Command the praises of the pamper'd guest,
Or court the palate with a genuine zest?
No; none of these the appetite can crown,
Or smooth the hungry Aldermanic frown:
Weak in themselves alone, their tastes dispense
Fallacious seemings to the outward sense:
Their truest influence depends on this;
Are these the objects of a glutton's bliss?

But happy they, thrice happy, who possess
The art to mix these sweets with due address,
Delight in pastry, temper well the crust,
And hold the rolling-pin a sacred trust;
Not in the tyrant's persecuting mood,
But as a graceful instrument of good.
Where shall the cook discern so sure a way
To give Mince Pyes an universal sway?
For when the sweets, combin'd with happy skill,
The light puff-paste with meat delicious fill,
Like Albion's rich Plum-pudding, famous grown,
The Mince Pye reigns in realms beyond his own:
Through foreign latitudes his pow'r extends,
And only terminates where eating ends:
Blest Epicures from ev'ry climate pour
Their gustful praise, his culminating store,
Improv'd in sweets and spices, hourly draws
The countless tribute of a world's applause.

Hail then, exalted Pye, whose high renown
Danes, Dutchmen, Russians, with applauses crown!
Sov'reign of Cates, all hail! nor thou refuse
This cordial off'ring from an English muse,
Who pours the brandy in libation free,
And finds Plum-pudding realiz'd in thee.
Chaunts the high hymn to themes that far surpass
The luxuries of honour'd Mrs. Glasse.
    What lips unmoisten'd speak that glorious name?
What bosom burns not with a charcoal flame?
Yet when reflection views her ardent mind
Kindling the kitchen range of human kind;
From rapt amaze to liq'rish fancies toast,
We scarcely credit what delights us most:
Till, led by appetite, our thoughts advance,
And grave receipt books look like gay romance.

[Last line of text at bottom of illustration has been cut off in original printed edition.]

But mark, the cook-maid comes, of portly mien,
Whose swill-pail often animates the scene!




The channell'd river now remotely drains,
And spreads redundant moisture o'er the plains;
The fertile fields, enrob'd in verdure, greet
The sacred treasure of the still retreat;

And sweetest flow'rs, that scent the painted mead,
To foetid smells and squalid filth succeed.
But wheresoe'er the fascinated eyes
Their vision turn, fresh prodigies arise;
The furrows straight in lengthen'd order run;
Wheat, oats, and barley, glitter in the sun;
And loftier fields of hemp, that, green in hope,
Exalt their stalks; fair promise of a rope;
And beans, and pease, and rye, and many more,
That swell the stack or barn's collected store.
But e'en beyond the barn her powers range;
The paddock emulates the wond'rous change.
Where horticulture's arts had never spread,
The hollyhock uprears its tow'ring head;
Unnumber'd plants the raptur'd sight assail,
Play in the sunbeam, catch the shifting gale,
Or with profounder roots the moisture seize,
Brave changing skies, and rise to lofty trees.

These are the cook-maid's works; nor these alone.
Superior still her vast achievements shone;
For, fix'd in thought, her meditative eye
Form'd a delicious plan . . . that plan was Pye.
Within the bounds of pastry work to keep
Unruly Pudding, that was us'd to sweep
Wide o'er the board, unless by bag confin'd,
And bake the suet with the sweets combin'd:
With clean-wash'd hands, and ready skill, to trace
Decided outlines of the doughy base;
Firm against heat, or damp, or nauseous dust,
To build the solid fabric of the crust,
With knots and ornaments profusely grac'd,
Glaz'd o'er with white of egg, and neatly plac'd,
And on the labour'd walls, of matchless art,
Enrich'd with all that butter could impart,
The lid's entablature and dome to raise,
To swell her glory and her country's praise.

To Luxury, who rules in Fortune's ranks,
Let cooks, by active conduct, prove their thanks.
Whether, expert to stew, ragout, or mince,
Their eye command the kitchen of a prince;
Or only rais'd to grace a noble's dish,
They dress, to please my lord, his Fowland fish;
Or fix'd in humbler station, scantly boast
To rule the greatness of a cottage roast;
Where'er their posture, let them ask of sense,
What bliss can culinary skill dispense?
'Tis not the flavour of the ripe dessert;
The gard'ner's embryo treasures, here inert,
Can lay no claim to merit. Is it then
The cook's best bliss to please the taste of men?
Though man may dread sometimes, o'er dish or pan,
The mysteries of luxury to scan,
We may, with confidence of truth, maintain
A good Mince Pye was seldom made in vain.

What happy ends has cookery in view!
It stills our hunger, gives us dainties too;
Dainties the glutton seeks for ev'ry hour,
And rising in the scale with wealth and pow'r;
But there is none, perhaps, amongst them all,
For which the table's claims more loudly call,
Than rich Mince Pyes of universal price,
That strengthen brandy by the force of spice;
Mince Pye is still the source of gobbling strife;
Mince Pye, the talisman of civil life:
Nor could the fancied pow'r of spells invent
So rich a feast, so near omnipotent.
By this, and not the cauldron or the fire,
Medea woke to youth her Jason's sire,
Pierc'd through the gloomy apathy where taste
Mourn'd, pow'rless mourn'd, time's unrelenting waste,
Provok'd the palate of Thessalia's lord,
And led the dotard to the tempting board,

Where all that art luxurious could supply
Was plac'd, but most pre-eminent Mince Pye,
Whose light brown battlements, and flaky wall,
Shake from their utmost depth, and shiv'ring fall.
    The cook's invention for her country's good,
Which calls forth ecstasies of gratitude,
Which highest sentiments of praise inspires
In princes, lords, knights, citizens, and squires;
From which the sons of lux'ry blessings date;
May fix of Christmas feasts the wav'ring fate;
Christmas, whose gobbling sons for dainties strive,
Her preservation may perhaps derive
From that important and momentous day,
When Molly's meditation pav'd the way
For what the cooking art has since attain'd,
For what Glasse, Mason, Farley, since have gain'd.
When, yet a youthful cook, she saw her skill
Almost neglected for the charmed quill.

Of wit and eloquence, her pungent thought
Improv'd the knowledge by experience bought,
Extracted gravy from a mutton bone,
Prov'd attic salt by basket salt o'erthrown;
Nor scorn'd to wash the plates or jelly stands;
But gave the rolling-pin to older hands;
By due gradation rose, and firmly shew'd,
Merit, and only merit, was the road
To high advancement. Thus, from off the ground
When mount the pond'rous jack-weights, round by round,
The aged scullion views, with glowing pride,
The lawful cook-maid basting by her side;
By state her mistress, but her mate by choice;
Shame drowns the clamours of vexation's voice,
And hot complaint and broiling discords fly,
Nor e'en the bellows dare to breathe a sigh.
Fir'd by a strength like this, that scorns to yield,
A calf attacks a butcher in the field;

Antæus like returns th' Alcidian blow,
And seems to gather strength from ev'ry throw;
But here the parallel we cease to feel,
The calf's knock'd down, and butcher'd into veal.
But do we wonder that our matchless Pyes
From diligence and skill like this should rise;
Such diligence as oft pursu'd a road
Of heavier toil than ever patriot trod,
And hams, and tongues, from greater heights brought down,
Than monarchs have essay'd, or poets known?
Knows not the gard'ner well, whose master's taste
The best manure would prodigally waste
In eager purchase of the fungous prize,
That mushrooms will from stable litter rise?
Dear mushrooms! banish'd from Ovidian lays,
Ye mark not Hyacinth's, or Ajax' praise,
Yet still ye picture, to the poet's eye,
A powder'd coxcomb, or an upstart boy.

Nor less assur'd are those transcendent Pyes,
Which, form'd by Molly, from the oven rise;
Nor less the nature of their future course,
Whose flavour flow'd from so divine a source.
What Pyes like these, which all the world could charm,
New bak'd, and from the oven steaming warm;
The board of state and splendour form'd to please,
Could fly from luxury, abandon ease;
On a meek earthen plate be humbly brought
To grace the festival that cheer'd a cot,
That low mechanics might a blessing share,
And crown, for once, their toils with sumptuous fare;
That cottagers might boast a bliss unknown,
And make the dainties of the great their own:
Rich were the Pyes, and Molly's care had bound
The pastry edges with a crinkled round;
Its varied form the wond'ring children pleas'd,
With eager haste the ornament they seiz'd,

Till, check'd by dear mama's commanding frown,
They, sighing, laid the envy'd treasure down.
Yet had they known, at various times, the feast
Of Currant Dumplings temper'd light with yeast;
When, anxious to avert the price of beef,
A dumpling gave the appetite relief;
When frugal labour shunn'd expensive meat,
And shrank from victuals that it fear'd to eat.
They had been able too, to claim a part.
In that fam'd dish, a noble Apple Tart;
But if they thought, dishearten'd by his cares,
Their father's supper might demand their shares;
If, spent by hunger, or by toil opprest,
Their simple treat might soothe his grief to rest;
Each laid his little portion on the shelf,
Resign'd his claim . . . nor gave a sigh to self;
Calmly they bade their own enjoyments cease,
To give their parents comfort, ease, and peace.

But still, howe'er we dignify the name,
The principle of feeding is the same.
Their mother may, from summer's coming store,
To crown their self-denial promise more;
Of Raspb'ry pasties when released, from school,
Or a nice supper of a Gooseb'ry Fool;
But not till Christmas must they hope again
Their dear Mince Pye's long abdicated reign.
    Illustrious Pye! O could thy sweets infuse
Their faint resemblance in the anxious muse,
Then, in high-season'd song her voice should raise
Strains less unequal to thy dainty praise!
But what, alas! avails the kitchen fire?
Its smoke half suffocates, its blazes tire;
Vain are the pot-hooks that adorn its crane,
Its whirling jack, and shining ranges vain
To grace Mince Pye; though they from it receive
The deathless fame Mince Pye alone can give.

Since then establish'd Mince Meat thus defies
The pow'r of luxury, that never dies;
The splendid dish and plate how much more vain,
Of perishable glass or porcelain,
Though pott'ries be exhausted, millions spent,
The glutton's paunch is Mince Pye's monument!
    And thou, lost mess, which civil discord gave
An early victim to oblivion's grave,
Whate'er thy faults, Plum-porridge, (who has none?)
Amply thy excellencies might atone,
When, smoking hot, thy spicy vapours crost
The morning keenness of a Christmas frost.
Thee, sour Reserve, in sable garments dight,
Fanatic gloom excluding Reason's light,
And Av'rice o'er the saveall's dying flame,
Shall ever execrate and hate thy name;
While Hospitality's regretful tear
Shall drop a tribute on thy mournful bier.

But Fate so will'd! nor let these realms deplore
The mixt event, that left one dainty more:
Yes! though a Custard left, which Betty stirs
With porridge richness in her porringers;
And in whose smooth soft texture Pleasure saw
The sweetest soother for a toothless jaw.
Their public zeal for this it well becomes
Rich Aldermen to mark in pond'rous tomes;
But where is he, the ablest bards among,
Who hopes to name their wondrous feats in song?
Vain were the task: nor let them once suppose
The Muse such mighty deeds could e'er disclose:
Weak the attempt their eatings to rehearse,
Though childish fondness might endure the verse:
Nor can she deem it meet; for should as high
As jellies pil'd on salvers, volumes lie,
And cloud-capt heaps of panegyric raise,
This couplet would contain their sum of praise;

"They seiz'd, with greedy haste, the Custard's store,
"And fairly ate, till they could eat no morel"
    Oh ye! who know the luxury to trace
The pamper'd wishes of your infant race;
Their little wayward poutings to beguile
With rich Plum-cake, and raise the cheering smile;
To let them snatch the Biscuits from the plate,
And feel their rudeness your delight create;
Ye best can estimate the chains that draw
The piggish booby to his fond mamma;
The praise that Master Jacky's antics claim:
From the dull bosom of the idle dame,
Hail, blest Twelfth-cakes, of eminence supreme!
For what ye taste like, not for what ye seem:
Not for your sugar'd tops, or gilded head,
Such often folds o'er musty gingerbread;
But for the larger means that ye possess
Of giving little gluttons happiness.

What sweet beatitudes mamma employ
When thus she gives her sickly offspring joy!
What transport can from books and reason rise,
Compar'd with spicy Cakes and sugar'd Pyes?
This is the loveliest object fancy meets,
A mother making children sick with sweets!
Yes! there are those, and thanks to Folly's care,
Each town and village shews us that there are;
There are those mothers, who forget to feel
A moment's int'rest for their children's weal,
Indulge in ev'ry vice the little elf,
For the dear pleasure of indulging self!
Nor lies their influence in a narrow space,
Its sphere of action is the human race;
Wide spreads Example's and undermining flame,
And Idleness and Vice enlarge their claim.
    That emanation from the light divine,
That Word, where mild Religion's precepts shine,

Gives way to Fashion's code, which gayly rules
O'er musty Truth in modern boarding schools!
Mamma delights to view her darling glare
The torch of Taste; put on a modish stare;
The garb of Impudence undaunted wear,
And Infidelity's assuming sneer:
For oft 'tis thought the mark of sense or wit
To ridicule the books of Sacred Writ:
The man of dash and spirit joys to tear
From calm domestic bliss the wedded fair;
To drown an injury in Friendship's blood,
And for a bribe betray the Public Good;
To scorn the raptures, innocent and mild,
Of parents gazing on their virtuous child,
And with feign'd softness, and impassion'd air,
Seduce the daughter from the parent's care,
Then cast her on the world, by mis'ry driv'n
To infamy, abandon'd' e'en of Heav'n!

When these foul passions, which our souls disgrace,
Rush on the heart, and all of good displace,
The wild career begins, but cannot end;
We hate our parents, children, country, friend,
In crimes progressive live; neglected die,
Without one social, one endearing tie.
    Yet not for thee, Mince Pye, can Reason deem
These lines important to the solemn theme:
Or wish the pow'r of luxury to press,
A pow'r thy excellencies still confess;
Confess, encourage, and without deceit
Own he can act the worst, who best can eat.
But there are gluttons far beyond the reach
Of all the proudest faculties of speech;
To whom Rome's fam'd Lucullus must submit,
Nor e'en for once avail the pow'rs of PITT .
For what descriptive talents can declare
The sweet emotions, that a bill of fare

Has often pour'd, o'er Quin or Helluo's soul,
When various dishes form'd one perfect whole;
Or that keen anguish when, his dinner o'er,
The brimful glutton can devour no more?
How poor is language, eloquence how mean,
To paint the keenly tantalising scene,
When, on the board fresh delicacies plac'd,
The sated glutton wants the pow'r to taste,
When from his eyes the tears regretful flow,
And his pall'd stomach heaves with sick'ning woe!
In dreadful tasteless expectation hung,
The maukish morsel trembles on his tongue!
That palate which, so late, sublimely fed,
Now from the table turns with trembling dread:
His quiv'ring hands the knife and fork impress,
That help'd his sated appetite to bless,
That often to his mouth had found the road,
Climbing the steep, ascent with many a heavy load!

But now, from Sorrow's dismal haunts, the muse
To halls of bright'ning joy her way pursues;
From writhing stomach-ach, and throbs that grieve,
To happier treats where countless dainties live,
To banish yesterday's remember'd pain;
To bid the glutton be himself again,
And find returning appetite increas'd,
By healthiest viands in A BRITISH FEAST .
There, fam'd for strength and pow'r in ages past,
Unconquer'd MALT maintains her state at last,
Beholds the honours of her beer restor'd,
And thanks her injuries for a roast-beef lord.
From her Britannia's sons their strength deriv'd,
Yet late of Britain's lov'd approof depriv'd;
By Gallia's vintage destin'd to despair,
She finds a resting place, a refuge there.
Displacing Claret, Burgundy, Champaigne,
Here British Ale and Porter hold their reign,

With gen'rous Port, that wakes to patriot fire
The glowing spirit of the country 'squire;
Hence loyal toasts with loud applauses spring;
Hence in full chorus bursts "GOD SAVE THE KING !"
Hilarity presides o'er all the feast,
And cheers alike the layman and the priest:
The pious pastor's unaffected worth
Will never find a crime in decent mirth;
Fanatic gloom and bigotry create
The poor man's terror, and the rich man's hate;
While gentleness and truth recall them home,
And lead the wand'rers to Religion's dome.
    Here let the Muse, how weak soe'er the lay,
One tribute to her country's dinners pay:
Roast Beef, in vain desir'd by France or Spain;
The Turbot, monarch of the British main;
Fat Turkies, with delicious Veal and Ham,
Geese, Fowls, and, in its season, tender Lamb;

Mince Pyes, and puffs, and pastry, all bestow
The hospitable Crown on Britain's brow:
Let various fruits, from many a foreign coast,
In her dessert their ripest flavour boast;
The princely orange, Bourbon's purple vine,
With plums, and apricots, and peaches twine,
And to the pine-apple the melon join.
    Delightful Ice, cool fav'rite of the fair!
Be thou, with all thy varied flavours, there;
May thy mild radiance, on a silver plate,
Shine ever foremost in a summer treat:
So shalt thou, at the gen'rous fair's behest,
Cool the wild ardours of the warrior's breast,
From love's fierce flame the sighing captain save,
And heal the wounds resistless beauty gave.

    Now, in the ball-room join'd, together move
The gallant youth and fair who claims his love:

For who could hear the viol's sprightly sound,
Nor instant join the dear enchanting round,
When near the bosoms of the young and gay
The sportive fans in breezy flutt'rings play?
What man of spirit could have tamely staid
While drunkards exercis'd their sottish trade?
What man of feeling could have calmly stood
And not engag'd a partner fair or good?
What man of constancy had felt unmov'd
While coxcombs prattled near the shrine he lov'd?
What human breast could hold a heart of stone
When, in the dance, youth, beauty, pleasure, shone?
Avaunt then, rigid Prudery! that fain
Would shelter vice, and render virtue vain:
'Tis social Pleasure's animating cause,
And modest Beauty crowns it with applause.
For this, the youth foregoes his midnight rest;
For this, his heart leaps gayly in his breast:

For this, without the call of fife or drum,
In dread array our smart Militia come;
How neat, how trim, the uniform they wear!
How emblematic of their colonel's care,
That fondly hovers o'er his subject brood,
Looks on his corps, and proudly calls it good!
No private interest, no point of state,
No party strife, no politic debate,
Had urg'd him to become a son of war:
He in his country-seat securely sat,
Nor thought of Naples or Sardinia's fate:
But 'twas with boon companions free, to dine;
And join the social mess in jocund wine:
For chance had kindly to the mess assign'd
A Cook well skill'd to please the taste refin'd;
And had ragouts and hashes fail'd to move,
Her fam'd Mince Pyes had well secur'd his love.

As from the purlieus of St. James's-square
Bright Fashion flies, to charm the modish fair,
And from the flapping of her painted wings
The cap, the robe, pellice, and bonnet flings;
Around with pleasure and applauses loud
The Bond-street swarms in gay disorder crowd,
While volumes of her perfum'd breath disclose
The odours of the jessamine and rose:
The fair creation owns her rougeing reign,
And simple Nature sighs and pleads in vain.
So from the confines of her darling France
The pallid fiend, Soup-meagre, dares advance,
Hors'd on a stock-fish; wide her pinions spread,
And shake down frogs, and herbs, and barley bread:
Beneath those pinions' shade a sickly crowd
Creeps languid, and enjoys delusion's cloud;
Eager to make us quit Roast Beef and feed
On spinach, cel'ry, and each maukish weed.

Where'er her mess is pour'd, the famish'd train
Longs for content and joy, but longs in vain;
O'er the pale cheek cold, blooded tremors dart,
Consuming Envy gnaws upon the heart;
And social comfort languishes and dies.
Lo! where in token of her baneful gripe,
Signal of famine, flares a rag of Tripe;
Stew'd to transparency, it flouts the sky,
And taunts Roast-beef with idle mockery.
Uprearing it aloft, the hungry brood
Invade the board where late a sirloin stood,
And, mad with lust of innovation, wish
For conquest o'er each long-established dish.
When near the meagre host Plum-pudding rose,
Whose smoking sweets delicious scents disclose;

Full o'er the board, she had her flavours pour,
And from her empire, drive them back to shore.
There with malicious hate soup-maigre spread,
And scantily surrounding nations fed,
Deplor'd good-living lost, and fasting moan'd,
Till, half convuls'd with cholic, Europe groan'd:
And more had suffer'd yet; but, great in fame,
MINCE PYE appear'd: at his avenging claim
The soup-devouring bands, aghast, displac'd,
Fell back, astounded at his conq'ring taste.
Italia too, whose omlets pleas'd the world,
To onion soup and lenten potage hurl'd,
Wept o'er her macaroni boil'd in vain,
And bent in anguish to soup-maigre's reign;
Till to her aid thy plums and spices flown
Rivall'd those dainties Capua once could own:
The soup, the frogs, the herbs, the barley bread,
And all the sickly train, in pale confusion fled.

Proceed, MINCE PYE ! thy country's, Europe's pride!
Proceed! and stop the overwhelming tide,
That breaks down social merry-making's mound,
Levels the treat of ages with the ground,
Sweeps off festivities, nor leaves a trace,
But tears up Christmas gambols from their base.
Could our great ancestors' exalted shades
See how Mince Pye the realm of taste pervades,
How would their breasts with exultation swell,
To view that dainty, which they lov'd so well,
No longer struggling in its infant state
With new inventions, or the varied cate,
But, in the plenitude of sweets, become
That meat of spicy taste, to which belongs
The rod of vengeance for the sirloin's wrongs;
That paste for which imploring nations cry
To build the walls of English Christmas Pye!

How would each spirit's mouth with water swim,
To taste that fare which erst was spread for him!
Thus, when, entranc'd in frothy dishes light,
The culinary empire sank in night;
Immortal MASON rose . . . and now, where late,
The dark horizon of a slumb'ring treat,
In cold privation of improvement's beam,
Was rapt in chilly flumm'ry, and whipt cream,
The spicy flavour glow'd, its warmth began
And cheer'd the stomach and the heart of man.
The torpid blood, that indolent and slow,
In icy current hardly seem'd to flow;
The pulse of apathy, that void of heat,
In languid motion scarce was felt to beat;
The meagre pedant, who with letter'd pride
Withstood the force of port's empurpling tide,
Felt the mild influence of th' inspiring cook,
And rose in vigour as he read her book.

Call'd into action thus, his lazy frame
Throve with new energies, to bulk laid claim;
And still has grown and fatten'd, as the sun
Thrice o'er his head its annual course has run,
Till at the last, in these auspicious days,
His face in emblematic pomp displays,
With full resplendent orb, MINCE PYE'S meridian blaze.

NOTES.

Mrs. Glasse's book of cookery has been long known to the culinary world, and is to this day referred to as of the highest authority.
But mark the cook-maid comes, of courtly mien. P. 5, l. 9

Miss Carolina Petty Pasty humbly begs pardon of her readers for leaving such a chasm in the poem; but, as the lines which her muse ventured to whisper were not the most delicate, she thought it would be too unlady like to print them; but they may be found, almost verbatim, in the 18th page of a poem entitled "The Sovereign."
These are the cook-maid's works: nor these alone. P. 7, l. 1.

The attempt to specify the various manures derived from a kitchen, and employed in the improvement and cultivation of the land, would swell this note into volumes: the reader can alone obtain satisfactory information upon these points, by consulting the best agriculturalists of present day.
Medea woke to youth her Jason's sire. p. 9, l. 14.

"Sed isto,
"Quod petis, experiar majus dare munus, Jason.
"Arte mea soceri longum tentabimus ævum,
"Non annis revocare tuis."
OVID. MET. Lib. vii. 174.
Provok'd the palate of Thessalia's lord,
And led the dotard to the tempting board. P. 9, l. 17.

"Nunc opus et succis; per quos renovata senectus
"In Florem readet, primrosque recolligat annos."
OVID. MET. Lib. vii. 215.

And thou, lost mess, which civil discord gave
An early victim to oblivion's grave. P. 16, l. 7.

"Quarrel with Mince Pies, and disparage
"Their best and dearest friend, Plum Porridge."
BUTLER'S HUDIBRAS.
And thanks her injuries for a roast-beef lord. P. 23, 1. 12.

The liquor brewed from malt, which might have defied the attacks of the fashion and frippery of France, was, at one time, on the point of yielding to a taste for her wines: but the country knights and 'squires, who still remain faithful to the beverage of their ancestors, and feel that no French wine, not Claret or Burgundy, should stand in competition with English Ale, have most liberally determined that it shall ever have a place at their tables, have taken it under their protection, and continue, at all seasons of festivity, to exhilarate the spirits of their tenants and neighbors with this powerful and sanative extract of malt.
Rivall'd those dainties Capua once could own. P. 30, l. 16.

Hannibal, after having obtained a signal victory over the Romans in the battle of Cannæ, wintered his victorious army at Capua, then famous for the luxuries it afforded. His soldiers indulged so freely in all its pleasures, especially those of the table, that they could no longer enjoy any others, and entirely lost their appetite for fighting.
THE END. T. Bensley, Printer, Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London.