[F1] "The Sanguine Poetaster," Spirit of the Times, March 22, 1842

The Sanguine Poetaster.

A TALE BY ERIC ITERBIL.

I. Miss Emeline W—.

The young lady cast her eye around the apartment. There were rich ottomans, the table with its gorgeous cover upon which stood an astral lamp, throwing its softened light around the apartment.—There was the comfortable fire burning in the grate; and there was the floor covered by the rich Brussels carpet. Miss Emeline W—, the beautiful and the fashionable Miss Emeline W— cast her eye around the splendidly furnished room and yet found nothing to dispel her ennui.

"How dull!" she exclaimed in a voice as sweet as that of a humming bird would be, provided it could articulate the sentence—"How dull! Every body out—nobody dropping in!—O! my!" Emeline sighed.

She drew the rich curtains that depended from the lofty window, and looked out upon the fashionable Chestnut street, where crowds of plumed belles, and corseted beaus were strolling along, while the buff coated watchmen were very picturesquely lighting up the lamps. As Miss Emeline W. gazed upon the scene, she sincerely wished that a carriage or so, would break down in the street merely to give interest to the scene. She then breathed an ejaculation in behalf of the doctor, by whose commands it was that she remained closeted in the house.

"A paltry cold! And I am to be cooped up here!—For my part, I never could see what these Doctors were good for."

As she uttered this philosophical sentiment, she caught sight of a fashionable young gentleman, standing upon the steps of her father's mansion, and pulling the bell with an earnestness that was really pathetic.

No sooner did she behold this young gentleman, than Miss Emeline W.—the fashionable and the fair-uttered an exclamation descriptive of that state of mind commonly called "Contempt," the exclamation being nothing less than "O! the fright!" She then threw herself upon the sofa, and composed her form into an attitude, which was certainly very pretty.

Now I might picture her face and figure, but as all the terms commonly used for this purpose, are stereotyped, I have no other method than that used by a glazier to describe a pane of glass:—"It is eight by ten;" so of the young lady, she was five feet by one foot six and a half inches across the shoulder, &c., &c. I think I'll omit the description all together merely stating that in her effort to throw herself into a position "to kill," a tress of the loveliest, dark brown hair escaped from her head dress and fell in glossy richness down upon her fair and snow-white shoulder.

The door opened.

"Miss Amheline," exclaimed a servant, whose brogue, would not by any means be taken for an enunciation of Greek, Latin, or English; "Miss Amheline, there's a gentleman awaiting to see yez—it's Maister Henry Bread Crust."

II. MR. HENRY BREAD CRUST.

And at that instant there stood in the door way, a young gentleman, slim, slender, and beneath the middle size. A short classical cloak thrown over his shoulders in the most interesting manner, revealed a tight fitting frock coat of black cloth, beneath which was a buckskin colored waistcoat, with bright metal buttons, around his neck was a cravat of indigo blue, extending over his chest and bulging from the collar of the waistcoat. It bore in its centre a breast pin large enough to contain the picture of the battle of Bunker's Hill. The pantaloons of the gentleman presented as strong a contrast as did the other parts of his attire. They were of bright yellow, made close to the skin, striped somewhat after the manner of the rattle snake's back, and strapped around fashionably made boots.

The face of the gentleman would have thrown Cruikshank into fits, and killed Hlogarth with joy.

From beneath his black velvet cap, there strayed over his ears and down each cheek, starved tangled masses of red hair; and could a painter have extracted the essence of these locks it would have put his vermillion to the blush.

His formal white eyebrows arched over, dull blue eyes with white eye-lashes. These orbs were somewhat like the eyes of a pickled mackerel. His nose was straight enough but it was as square as that of one of those ingenious pieces of statuary usually displayed before a tobacconist's shop. His lips were thin, his chin large and prominent, his whole countenance somewhat long, and from both of his ears, along his cheek bone to the point of his chin, there ran a starved red whisker that reminded you of the Desert of Arabia. His skin was light and sanguine, and it shone like a well-greased hob-nailed boot.

III. THE CONVERSATION.

"Why Miss Em'line, you certainly do look very enchanting," exclaimed Mr. Crust, in a voice exactly like that of a stout, masculine woman—"How d'ye do."—He seated himself beside her on the sofa. And after the compliments of the evening were exchanged,—he asked—

"Awh, Miss Em'line did yah see my last new song? Hey? I flattaw meself it's not a whit infere-ah to the 'Bwave Old Oak' of my intimate friend Generawl Morris—here it is"—He drew a roll of music from under his cloak—"I call it the CWAB TWEE OLD AND GWAY-read the first stanza."

Miss Emeline W— began in her soft and musical voice—

'The crab tree old and gray

What cares it for the wind's wild sway?—

It shakes its leaves the live long day,

And thus to man it seems to say—

Oh! the crab-tree old and grey!

Ah! The crab-tree old and grey!

When I was young the children used to play

Under my limbs now old and gray—

Crab-apples gather all the day

And to their mothers bear 'em all away—

Oh! the crab-tree old and grey!

Ah! The crab-tree old and grey!

"That,"—interrupted Mr. Crust, "That is what I call—fine."—

"O! very fine!"—exclaimed Miss Emeline, with a curious movement of her features—"very fine,—especially those lines, that speak of the little children gathering crab-apples,—there is true pathos in that—but Mr. Crust," she continued with an innocent look—"I wonder if 'their mothers' made preserves of the crab-apples!"

"Why really that didn't strike me!—capital idea! Let me see—I can work it up yet."—He crossed one leg over another, and resting his elbow on his knee, he spread out his hand to support his face, and casting his eyes up to the ceiling, he looked very much like a poodle-dog inspecting a spider-web.

"I have it, I have it!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Here it is—"

When winter comes with balls so gay,

And dancers tripping on their lightsome way,

Then shall the kind mamma come forth and say,

"My friends here nice preserves—take some I pray;

They're from the crab-tree, old and grey.

Oh! the Crab tree! Old and grey!"

It was very strange that Miss Emeline W—, ere this beautiful extract was half-finished, sprang suddenly from the sofa, and began to poke the fire with an energy that was truly commendable.

(To be continued)