A word, before I part, to the Blue Stockings—(I would _whisper_ it if I could do so in print)—It’s very well to quote Shakspeare, and Byron, and Milton, (whom nobody reads,) and Mrs. Hemans, who had much better written sermons. But if you want to acquire a lasting reputation, and choke off envy and detraction, have an eye to your cook. The most fastidious critic would sooner forgive a misquotation than the want of seasoning in a favorite dish. As much literary reputation may be acquired by dining literary men, as by imitating or plundering their writings.
[1] I hope that in a chapter on eating I may quote “Bacon.”
[2] “Gray, my friend, is all Theory, and Green the Tree of life,” says Mephistophiles to the student, in Goethe’s Faust.
Let us go to the dewy mountain, love, ’Tis the time of the Maying weather; The lark is up in the blue above, The thrush in the briery heather; From the cottage elm the robin calls— List, love, to the gentle warning— We’ll away to the mountain waterfalls, And drink the dew of the morning.
Let us go to the tangled greenwood fair, The scented buds invite us; The young red deer will gambol there, And a thousand songs delight us. Thy hand in mine, and mine in thine, In the wood-path we will linger, Where the dew is bright on the eglantine, As the jewel on thy finger.
Let us go to the moor and the virgin lake— I hear the call of the plover; And the fisherman’s song comes over the brake, With the perfume of the clover. A bonny boat with a pennon gay, Like a nymph on the blue is sleeping— To the fairy lake, oh, let us away, While the sun from the hills is peeping.
Let us go to the upland airy lea, Where the silent flocks are browsing; We’ll pass the dale where the honey-bee His early store is housing. Our path shall lead through the meadow lane, Its daisy blooms will meet us; And the reed-pipe strain on the distant plain, With the herd-boy’s song will greet us.
Let us go abroad at the early dawn, With the blue sky bending o’er us; While the mingled music of grove and lawn Goes up in a grateful chorus; For sweet is the breath of the morning, love, And sweet are the opening flowers; And sweet shall our communion prove, In the fields and woodland bowers.