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Ode To W. Kitchener, M.D.
by [?]

Ode To W. Kitchener, M.D.


“I rule the roast, as Milton says! “–Caleb Quotem.

[Note: Hood, for obvious purposes, slightly departs from the true spelling of Dr. Kitchiner’s name. He was an M. D. of Glasgow, who, having been left a handsome fortune by his father, abandoned the active practice of his profession, and devoted himself to science, notably to that of optics, as well as to gastronomy, being himself eminent as a gourmet. He was the author of a once famous Cookery Book, The Cook’s Oracle; and an improved kitchen range still bears his name.]

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!


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!


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,
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!


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!