Both were respectable and both were
good, but it was felt, especially by the virtuous Smurthwaite, that
they were 'de trop' in a place so masculine and so carnivorous.
good, but it was felt, especially by the virtuous Smurthwaite, that
they were 'de trop' in a place so masculine and so carnivorous.
Tennyson
, and the gilt bird over the
portal was the work of Grinling Gibbons. When Tennyson wrote this poem
it was the favourite resort of templars, journalists and literary people
generally, as it had long been. But the old place is now a thing of the
past. On the evening of 10th April, 1886, it closed its doors for ever
after an existence of nearly 300 years. There is an admirable
description of it, signed A. J. M. , in 'Notes and Queries', seventh
series, vol. i. , 442-6. I give a short extract:
"At the end of a long room beyond the skylight which, except a feeble
side window, was its only light in the daytime, was a door that led
past a small lavatory and up half a dozen narrow steps to the kitchen,
one of the strangest and grimmest old kitchens you ever saw. Across a
mighty hatch, thronged with dishes, you looked into it and beheld
there the white-jacketed man-cook, served by his two robust and
red-armed kitchen maids. For you they were preparing chops, pork chops
in winter, lamb chops in spring, mutton chops always, and steaks and
sausages, and kidneys and potatoes, and poached eggs and Welsh
rabbits, and stewed cheese, the special glory of the house. That was
the 'menu' and men were the only guests. But of late years, as
innovations often precede a catastrophe, two new things were
introduced, vegetables and women.
Both were respectable and both were
good, but it was felt, especially by the virtuous Smurthwaite, that
they were 'de trop' in a place so masculine and so carnivorous. "
O plump head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,
How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock.
Go fetch a pint of port:
But let it not be such as that
You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
On Lusitanian summers.
No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,
And whisper lovely words, and use
Her influence on the mind,
To make me write my random rhymes,
Ere they be half-forgotten;
Nor add and alter, many times,
Till all be ripe and rotten.
I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,
And lays it thrice upon my lips,
These favour'd lips of mine;
Until the charm have power to make
New life-blood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break
In full and kindly [1] blossom.
I pledge her silent at the board;
Her gradual fingers steal
And touch upon the master-chord
Of all I felt and feel.
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child's heart within the man's
Begins to move and tremble.
Thro' many an hour of summer suns
By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward runs
The current of my days: [2]
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gas-light wavers dimmer;
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,
My college friendships glimmer.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
Unboding critic-pen,
Or that eternal want of pence,
Which vexes public men,
Who hold their hands to all, and cry
For that which all deny them--
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
And all the world go by them.
Ah yet, tho' [3] all the world forsake,
Tho' [3] fortune clip my wings,
I will not cramp my heart, nor take
Half-views of men and things.
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
There must be stormy weather;
But for some true result of good
All parties work together.
Let there be thistles, there are grapes;
If old things, there are new;
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Yet glimpses of the true.
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
As on this whirligig of Time [4]
We circle with the seasons.
This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fair horizons bound:
This whole wide earth of light and shade
Comes out, a perfect round.
High over roaring Temple-bar,
And, set in Heaven's third story,
I look at all things as they are,
But thro' a kind of glory.
portal was the work of Grinling Gibbons. When Tennyson wrote this poem
it was the favourite resort of templars, journalists and literary people
generally, as it had long been. But the old place is now a thing of the
past. On the evening of 10th April, 1886, it closed its doors for ever
after an existence of nearly 300 years. There is an admirable
description of it, signed A. J. M. , in 'Notes and Queries', seventh
series, vol. i. , 442-6. I give a short extract:
"At the end of a long room beyond the skylight which, except a feeble
side window, was its only light in the daytime, was a door that led
past a small lavatory and up half a dozen narrow steps to the kitchen,
one of the strangest and grimmest old kitchens you ever saw. Across a
mighty hatch, thronged with dishes, you looked into it and beheld
there the white-jacketed man-cook, served by his two robust and
red-armed kitchen maids. For you they were preparing chops, pork chops
in winter, lamb chops in spring, mutton chops always, and steaks and
sausages, and kidneys and potatoes, and poached eggs and Welsh
rabbits, and stewed cheese, the special glory of the house. That was
the 'menu' and men were the only guests. But of late years, as
innovations often precede a catastrophe, two new things were
introduced, vegetables and women.
Both were respectable and both were
good, but it was felt, especially by the virtuous Smurthwaite, that
they were 'de trop' in a place so masculine and so carnivorous. "
O plump head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,
How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock.
Go fetch a pint of port:
But let it not be such as that
You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
On Lusitanian summers.
No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,
And whisper lovely words, and use
Her influence on the mind,
To make me write my random rhymes,
Ere they be half-forgotten;
Nor add and alter, many times,
Till all be ripe and rotten.
I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,
And lays it thrice upon my lips,
These favour'd lips of mine;
Until the charm have power to make
New life-blood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break
In full and kindly [1] blossom.
I pledge her silent at the board;
Her gradual fingers steal
And touch upon the master-chord
Of all I felt and feel.
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child's heart within the man's
Begins to move and tremble.
Thro' many an hour of summer suns
By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward runs
The current of my days: [2]
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gas-light wavers dimmer;
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,
My college friendships glimmer.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
Unboding critic-pen,
Or that eternal want of pence,
Which vexes public men,
Who hold their hands to all, and cry
For that which all deny them--
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
And all the world go by them.
Ah yet, tho' [3] all the world forsake,
Tho' [3] fortune clip my wings,
I will not cramp my heart, nor take
Half-views of men and things.
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
There must be stormy weather;
But for some true result of good
All parties work together.
Let there be thistles, there are grapes;
If old things, there are new;
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Yet glimpses of the true.
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
As on this whirligig of Time [4]
We circle with the seasons.
This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fair horizons bound:
This whole wide earth of light and shade
Comes out, a perfect round.
High over roaring Temple-bar,
And, set in Heaven's third story,
I look at all things as they are,
But thro' a kind of glory.
