A Fable

One day, it was before a civic dinner,Two London Aldermen, no matter which,Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker, Skinner--But both were florid, corpulent, and rich,And both right fond of festive demolition,Set forth upon a secret expedition.Yet not, as might be fancied from the token,To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the StreetOf Bread, or Grub, or anything to eat,Or drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken,But eastward to that more aquatic quarter,Where folks take water,Or bound on voyages, secure a berthFor Antwerp or Ostend, Dundee or Perth,Calais, Boulogne, or any Port on earth!Jostled and jostling, through the mud,Peculiar to the Town of Lud,Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they dived,Past many a gusty avenue, through whichCame yellow fog, and smell of pitch,From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf derived;With darker fumes, brought eddying by the draught,From loco-smoko-motive craft;Mingling with scents of butter, cheese, and gammons,Tea, coffee, sugar, pickles, rosin, wax,Hides, tallow, Russia-matting, hemp and flax,Salt-cod, red-herrings, sprats, and kipper’d salmons,Nuts, oranges, and lemons,Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum,Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin, and rum;Alamode-beef and greens--the London soil--Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine and oil,Bark, assafœtida, squills, vitriol, hops,In short, all whiffs, and sniffs, and puffs and snuffs,From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs,Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or slops--In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, waggons, taverns, shops,Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops,That, as we walk upon the river’s ridge,Assault the nose--below the bridge.

A walk, however, as tradition tells,That once a poor blind Tobit used to choose,Because, incapable of other views,He met with “such a sight of smells.”

But on, and on, and on,In spite of all unsavoury shocks,Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John,Steadily steering ship-like for the docks--And now they reach a place the Muse, unwilling,Recalls for female slang and vulgar doing,The famous Gate of Billing,That does not lead to cooing--And now they pass that House that is so uglyA Customer to people looking “smuggley”--And now along that fatal Hill they passWhere centuries ago an Oxford bled,And proved--too late to save his life, alas!--That he was “off his head.”

At last before a lofty brick-built pileSir Peter stopp’d, and with mysterious smileTingled a bell that served to bringThe wire-drawn genius of the ring,A species of commercial Samuel Weller--To whom Sir Peter--tipping him a wink,And something else to drink--“Show us the cellar.”

Obsequious bow’d the man, and led the wayDown sundry flights of stairs, where windows small,Dappled with mud, let in a dingy ray--A dirty tax, if they were tax’d at all.

At length they came into a cellar damp,With venerable cobwebs fringed around,A cellar of that stampWhich often harbours vintages renown’d,The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly,With sherry, brown or golden,Or port, so olden,Bereft of body ’tis no longer portly--But old or otherwise--to be veracious--That cobwebb’d cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious,Held nothing crusty--but crustaceous.

Prone, on the chilly floor,Five splendid Turtles--such a five!Natives of some West Indian shore,Were flapping all alive,Late landed from the Jolly Planter’s yawl--A sight whereon the dignitaries fix’dTheir eager eyes, with ecstacy unmix’d,Like fathers that behold their infants crawl,Enjoying every little kick and sprawl.Nay--far from fatherly the thoughts they bredPoor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried!The Aldermen too plainly wish’d them deadAnd Aldermanbury’d!

“There!” cried Sir Peter, with an airTriumphant as an ancient victor’s,And pointing to the creatures rich and rare,“There’s picters!”

“Talk of Olympic Games! They’re not worth mention;The real prize for wrestling is when Jack,In Providence or Ascension,Can throw a lively turtle on its back!”

“Aye!” cried Sir John, and with a score of nods,Thoughtful of classical symposium,“There’s food for Gods!There’s nectar! there’s ambrosium!There’s food for Roman Emperors to eat--Oh, there had been a treat(Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us)For Helio-gobble-us!”

“There were a feast for Alexander’s Feast!The real sort--none of your mock or spurious!”And then he mention’d Aldermen deceased,And “Epicurius,”And how Tertullian had enjoy’d such foison;And speculated on that verdigreaseThat isn’t poison.

“Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that!Give me green fat!As for your Poets with their groves of myrtlesAnd billing turtles,Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there,A-billing in a bill of fare!”

“Of all the things I ever swallow--Good, well-dressed turtle beats them hollow--It almost makes me wish, I vow,To have two stomachs, like a cow!”And lo! as with the cud, an inward thrillUpheaved his waistcoat and disturb’d his frill,His mouth was oozing and he work’d his jaw--“I almost think that I could eat one raw!”

And thus, as “inward love breeds outward talk,”The portly pair continued to discourse;And then--as Gray describes of life’s divorce--With “longing lingering look” prepared to walk,--Having thro’ one delighted sense, at least,Enjoy’d a sort of Barmecidal feast,And with prophetic gestures, strange to see,Forestall’d the civic Banquet yet to be,Its callipash and callipee!

A pleasant prospect--but alack!Scarcely each Alderman had turn’d his back,When seizing on the moment so propitious,And having learn’d that they were so deliciousTo bite and sup,From praises so high flown and injudicious,--And nothing could be more pernicious!The turtles fell to work, and ate each other up!