Tidbits of Times Past
May 29th, 2008 | Project Gutenberg
1880, 1882, Poetry
“He Giveth His Beloved Sleep”, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Illustrated by Miss L. B. Humphrey, engraved by Andrew. Published 1882, ©1880.
One of my oldest clearances — it took a while for us to figure out that the best way to present this heavily illustrated book is the simplest way: as illustrations.
May 29th, 2008 | Project Gutenberg
1903, Poetry
Graded Memory Selections, by SD Waterman, et al. Published 1903.
May 26th, 2008 | Project Gutenberg
1875, Poetry
Heart Utterances at Various Periods of a Chequered Life., by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney. “Not Published” after 1875.
I’ve seen “Printed for the Author” on title pages before, but seeing “Not Published” on this one was a first.
The “preface” is rather appropriate:
In this book I have scribbled some innocent rhymes,
In various moods, and at different times;
Some grave and some cheerful, some merry, some sad,
Though none may be good, there are none very bad.
Typical of mid-19th century (written from 1811 to 1875) self-published poetry, this is full of “Bereavement” poems and “Bible story” poems. What is surprising to me is there are few (dare I say no?) poems specifically about Mrs Gurney’s husband or any children, nor any youthful “friends forever” verses. It could well be that Mrs Gurney wanted only to commemorate her “serious” poems, or she did write about such things but couched them in religious tones.
May 11th, 2008 | Project Gutenberg
1839, Poetry
Broad Grins; Comprising, With New Additional Tales in Verse, Those Formerly Publish’d Under the Title “My Night-Gown and Slippers.”, by George Colman, the Younger. Published 1839.
When I started Post-processing this, I didn’t think much of the verses. They do have their charms, however, even though they are a bit salacious.
November 20th, 2007 | Excerpts, Weird Stuff
1895, Fragments, Poetry
(Say 1 vol., octavo, about 128 pages, wanting very much a publisher.)
To Death.
Welcome, sad Death, creed of the glazèd eye,
Our last true friend, the fickle hand of maid,
The faith of dame replacing, unafraid
Who clasp they own and with one latest breath
Bid, “Lead me to some palace of the night
That all must know, deprived of mortal sight,
Of earthly comfort, health, and human aid”;
Welcome, thrice welcome, final hope, sweet Death!
Perhaps in that long vision signs decree
Of aspirations and unclaimed desires
That fitly rose to feed immortal fires
The consummation that came not to me
Within this weary width of land and sea,
Of parents, pavements acres, homes, and spires.
From: My Soundspeed Discovery, by George Winslow Pierce. Boston: Published by the Author, 1895.
My Soundspeed Discovery is one of those volumes that you’re not quite sure what to make of. Is it a proof developed by a crack-pot? Is it Art? Is it a cipher or some other sort of puzzle? This poem is on one of the few pages that can easily be transcribed to text + HTML, so don’t expect it to show up at DP anytime soon.
April 19th, 2007 | Excerpts
1652, DP, Poetry, Whole
Doctors lay by your Irksome Books
And all ye Petty-Fogging Rookes
Leave Quacking; and Enucleate
The vertues of our Chocolate.
Let th’ Universall Medicine
(Made up of Dead-mens Bones and Skin,)
Be henceforth Illegitimate,
And yeild to Soveraigne-Chocolate.
Let Bawdy-Baths be us’d no more;
Nor Smoaky-Stoves but by the whore
Of Babilon: since Happy-Fate
Hath Blessed us with Chocolate.
Let old Punctæus Greaze his shooes
With his Mock-Balsome: and Abuse
No more the World: But Meditate
The Excellence of Chocolate.
Let Doctor Trigg (who so Excells)
No longer Trudge to Westwood-Wells:
For though that water Expurgate,
’Tis but the Dreggs of Chocolate.
Let all the Paracelsian Crew
Who can Extract Christian from Jew;
Or out of Monarchy, A State,
Breake àll their Stills for Chocolate.
Tell us no more of Weapon-Salve,
But rather Doome us to a Grave:
For sure our wounds will Ulcerate,
Unlesse they’re wash’d with Chocolate.
The Thriving Saint, who will not come
Within a Sack-Shop’s Bowzing-Roome
(His Spirit to Exhilerate)
Drinkes Bowles (at home) of Chocolate.
His Spouse when she (Brimfull of Sense)
Doth want her due Benevolence,
And Babes of Grace would Propagate,
Is alwayes Sipping Chocolate.
The Roaring-Crew of Gallant-Ones
Whose Marrow Rotts within their Bones:
Their Bodyes quickly Regulate,
If once but Sous’d in Chocolate.
Young Heires that have more Land then Wit,
When once they doe but Tast of it,
Will rather spend their whole Estate,
Then weaned be from Chonolate.
The Nut-Browne-Lasses of the Land
Whom Nature vayl’d in Face and Hand,
Are quickly Beauties of High-Rate,
By one small Draught of Chocolate.
Besides, it saves the Moneys lost
Each day in Patches, which did cost
Them deare, untill of Late
They found this Heavenly Chocolate.
Nor need the Women longer grieve
Who spend their Oyle, yet not conceive,
For ’tis a Helpe-Immediate,
If such but Lick of Chocolate.
Consumptions too (be well assur’d)
Are no lesse soone then soundly cur’d:
(Excepting such as doe Relate
Unto the Purse) by Chocolate.
Nay more: It’s vertue is so much,
That if a Lady get a Touch,
Her griefe it will Extenuate,
If she but smell of Chocolate.
The Feeble-Man, whom Nature Tyes
To doe his Mistresse’s Drudgeries;
O how it will his minde Elate,
If shee allow him Chocolate!
’Twill make Old women Young and Fresh;
Create New-Motions of the Flesh,
And cause them long for you know what,
If they but Tast of Chocolate.
There’s ne’re a Common Counsell-Man,
Whose Life would Reach unto a Span,
Should he not Well-Affect the State,
And First and Last Drinke Chocolate.
Nor e’re a Citizen’s Chast wife,
That ever shall prolong her Life,
(Whilst open stands Her Posterne-Gate)
Unlesse she drinke of Chocolate.
Nor dost the Levite any Harme,
It keepeth his Devotion warme,
And eke the Hayre upon his Pate,
So long as he drinkes Chocolate.
Both High and Low, both Rich and Poore
My Lord, my Lady, and his —-
With all the Folkes at Billingsgate,
Bow, Bow your Hamms to Chocolate.
By Don Diego de Vadesforte, a.k.a. Capt. James Wadsworth, in Chocolate: or, An Indian Drinke.
October 17th, 2006 | Excerpts
1887, DP, October, Poetry, Whole
The teacher a lesson he taught;
The preacher a lesson he praught;
The stealer, he stole;
The healer, he hole;
And the screecher, he awfully scraught.
The long-winded speaker, he spoke;
The poor office seeker, he soke;
The runner, he ran;
The dunner, he dan;
And the shrieker, he horribly shroke.
The flyer to Canada flew;
The buyer, on credit he bew;
The doer, he did;
The suer, he sid;
And the liar (a fisherman) lew.
The writer, this nonsense he wrote;
The fighter (an editor) fote;
The swimmer, he swam;
The skimmer, he skam;
And the biter was hungry and bote.
H. C. Dodge, reported in Buchanan’s Journal of Man, October 1887
October 13th, 2006 | Excerpts
1844, DP, February, Poetry, Whole
‘The sea, the sea, the o—pen sea, the blue, the fresh;’ but here we halt;
Mr. Cornwall knew very little about the sea, or he would have written SALT.
‘The whales they whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;’
Worse and worse; more blunders than words, and such a jumble!
Whales spout, but never whistle; dolphins’ backs are silver; and porpoises never roll, but tumble.
‘It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
And like a cradled creature lies,’ and squalls,
He should have added; but to avoid brawls
With the poet’s friends I’ll quote no more; but entre nous,
Those who write correctly about the sea are exceeding few.
Young Dana with us, and Marryat over the water,1
Are all the writers that I know of, who appear to have brought a
Discerning eye to bear on that peculiar state of existence,
An ocean life, which looks so romantic at a distance.
To succeed where every body else fails, would be an uncommon glory,
While to fail would be no disgrace; so I am resolved to try my hand upon a sea-story.
In naming sea-authors, I omitted Cooper, Chamier, Sue, and many others,
Because they appear to have gone to sea without asking leave of their mothers:
For those good ladies never could have consented that their boys should dwell on
An element that Nature never fitted them to excel on.
Their descriptions are so fine, and their tars so exceedingly flowery,
They appear to have gathered their ideas from some naval spectacle at the ‘Bowery;’
And in fact I have serious doubts whether either of them ever saw blue water,
Or ever had the felicity of saluting the ‘gunner’s daughter.’