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Thomas Hood - Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D.
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Author of The Cook`s Oracle, Observations on Vocal Music, The Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life, Practical Observations on Telescopes, Opera-Glasses, and Spectacles, The Housekeeper`s Ledger and The Pleasure of Making a Will. 

"I rule the roast, as Milton says!"—Caleb Quotem.

 
Oh! multifarious man! 
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton! 
Born to enlighten 
The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking— 
Master of the Piano—and the Pan— 
As busy with the kitchen as the skies! 
Now looking 
At some rich stew thro` Galileo`s eyes,— 
Or boiling eggs—timed to a metronome— 
As much at home 
In spectacles as in mere isinglass— 
In the art of frying brown—as a digression 
On music and poetical expression, 
Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas! 
Could tell Calliope from "Callipee!" 
How few there be 
Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,) 
And turn, like thee, Diana`s calculator, 
However cook`s synonymous with Kater! 
Alas! still let me say, 
How few could lay 
The carving knife beside the tuning fork, 
Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work!

 
II
 
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book! 
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate, 
How it would look! 
With one rais`d eye watching the dial`s date, 
And one upon the roast, gently cast down— 
Thy chops—done nicely brown— 
The garnish`d brow—with "a few leaves of bay"— 
The hair—"done Wiggy`s way!" 
And still one studious finger near thy brains, 
As if thou wert just come 
From editing some 
New soup—or hashing Dibdin`s cold remains; 
Or, Orpheus-like,—fresh from thy dying strains 
Of music,—Epping luxuries of sound, 
As Milton says, "in many a bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out," 
Whilst all thy tame stuff`d leopards listen`d round!

 
III
 
Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal, 
Standing like Fortune,—on the jack—thy wheel. 
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes, 
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye!) 
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, 
As tho` it were the same to sing or fry— 
Nay, so it is—hear how Miss Paton`s throat 
Makes "fritters" of a note! 
And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born 
By name and nature) oh! how night and morn 
He for the nicest public taste doth dish up 
The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop! 
And is not reading near akin to feeding, 
Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit 
Receptacles for wit? 
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, 
Minc`d brains into a Tart? 
Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, 
Book-treats, 
Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her— 
Receipts to be devour`d, as well as read, 
The Culinary Art in gingerbread— 
The Kitchen`s Eaten Grammar!

 
IV
 
Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page— 
Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein— 
So—in a kitchen—would have talk`d Montaigne, 
That merry Gascon—humorist, and sage! 
Let slender minds with single themes engage, 
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,— 
Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,—or 
Hume on "Twice three make four," 
Or Lovelass upon Wills,—Thou goest on 
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson! 
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, 
Stuff`d with a brilliant medley of odd bits, 
And ever shifting on from change to change, 
Saucepans—old Songs—Pills—Spectacles—and Spits! 
Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range! 
Thy grasp a miracle!—till I recall 
Th` indubitable cause of thy variety— 
Thou art, of course, th` Epitome of all 
That spying—frying—singing—mix`d Society 
Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet 
Welch Rabbits—and thyself—in Warren Street!

 
V
 
Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, 
Where learned visitors discoursed—and fed? 
There came Belzoni, 
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead— 
And gentle Poki—and that Royal Pair, 
Of whom thou didst declare— 
"Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read— 
They were—what Sandwiches should be—half bred"! 
There fam`d M`Adam from his manual toil 
Relax`d—and freely own`d he took thy hints 
On "making Broth with Flints"— 
There Parry came, and show`d thee polar oil 
For melted butter—Combe with his medullary 
Notions about the Skullery, 
And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil— 
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! 
Who used to swear thy book 
Would really look 
A Delphic "Oracle," if laid on Delf— 
There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss`d 
His own—and thy own—"Magazine of Taste"— 
There Wilberforce the Just 
Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac`d 
Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks, 
That "do not break their yolks"— 
Which huff`d him home, in grave disgust and haste!

 
VI
 
There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore 
Thy Patties—thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, 
Who call`d thee "Kitchen Addison"—for why? 
Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, 
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, 
"Teaching us how to live and how to die!" 
There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry— 
There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on 
His sine Quay non,— 
There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, 
Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 
`Gainst cattle days and death,— 
Answer`d by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, 
Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager 
For fighting on soup meagre— 
"And yet, (as thou would`st add,) the French have seen 
A Marshall Tureen"!

 
VII
 
Great was thy Evening Cluster!—often grac`d 
With Dollond—Burgess—and Sir Humphry Davy! 
`Twas there M`Dermot first inclin`d to Taste,— 
There Colborn learn`d the art of making paste 
For puffs—and Accum analyzed a gravy. 
Colman—the Cutter of Coleman Street, `tis said 
Came there,—and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, 
(His claim to letters)—Kater, too, the Moon`s 
Crony,—and Graham, lofty on balloons,— 
There Croly stalk`d with holy humor heated, 
Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed— 
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, 
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,— 
Madame Valbrèque thrice honor`d thee, and came 
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,— 
The Dibdins,—Tom, Charles, Frognall,—came with tuns 
Of poor old books, old puns! 
And even Irving spar`d a night from fame,— 
And talk`d—till thou didst stop him in the middle, 
To serve round Tewah-diddle!

 
VIII

Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! 
So let them:—thou thyself art still a Host! 
Dibdin—Cornaro—Newton—Mrs. Fry! 
Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!—Lovelass—and Weber, 
Matthews in Quot`em—Moore`s fire-worshipping Gheber— 
Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross`d! 
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast, 
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,— 
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion! 
Thou art, sans question, 
The Corporation`s love its Doctor Darling! 
Look at the Civic Palate—nay, the Bed 
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying 
Illustrations of Lying! 
Ninety square feet of down from heel to head 
It measured, and I dread 
Was haunted by a terrible night Mare, 
A monstrous burthen on the corporation!— 
Look at the Bill of Fare for one day`s share, 
Sea-turtles by the score—Oxen by droves, 
Geese, turkeys, by the flock—fishes and loaves 
Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation 
Was making up the huge man-mountain`s ration!

 
IX

Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven 
The squatting Demon from great Garratt`s breast— 
(His honor seems to rest!—) 
And what is thy reward?—Hath London given 
Thee public thanks for thy important service? 
Alas! not even 
The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!— 
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak 
Before the worshipful the Common Council 
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) 
Thou should`st not miss thy Freedom, for a week, 
Richly engross`d on vellum:—Reason urges 
That he who rules our cookery—that he 
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be 
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess!
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