[F2] "The Sanguine Poetaster. A Sketch by Eric Iterbil," Spirit of the Times, March 23, 1842

The Sanguine Poetaster.

A Sketch by Eric Iterbil.

(Concluded.)

"There's a divine afflatus—there. Why, Miss Emeline, what makes you so red in the face?—hey?"

"O! nothing particular—by-the-bye, Mr. Crust, when will you bring my Album back? You promised to write me a piece of poetry some three months ago."

"I am waiting faw the inspiwation—I want a subject;" and here as if seized by some bright idea, he approached the table and taking something from a work-basket, he again spoke.

"I want a subject. Something to concentwate my ideeas—in short, I want such an inspirer as yourself—or this awburn ringlet—(Mr. Crust called ladies' hair, whatever color it might be, auburn—"it was so demd poetical!")—in short, fair Em'line, this auburn ringlet is the very thing!"

He took the scissors that he held in his hand, and clipt, the rich brown tress close to the head. The deed was done. Miss Emeline W— looked around. Henry Bread Crust, Esq., Poet and Songster was gone.

Miss Emeline W- looked in the glass as if to assure herself of the awful reality.

"The impertinent puppy!" she at last exclaimed, "now I's to be penned up in the house for three months! I can never go out again—never! My prettiest tress gone—entirely clipt off! Well! And a real curl too! If it had been artificial I would not have cared—but a real curl!"

IV. The Album.

It was near noon on the ensuing day, when Miss Emeline W., attired in the prettiest dishabille in the world, was seated in the drawing room. The Irish servant entered. He held a richly decorated album.

"Hay, brought it. The gentleman wid the fiery comb. He said he'd wait for a replay."

Miss Emeline hurriedly opened the album. It was entirely new, gilt edged, and filled with the costliest engravings. Emeline opened the album upon the Dedicatory leaf; and there in a most villanous scrawl was written the following:—

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.

Stanzas.

Respectfully Dedicated to the fair

Miss Emeline W.,

By

HENRY BREAD CRUST, Esq.

This capital "heading" was followed by a number of namby pamby rhymes, written in the peculiar style of Mr. Henry Bread Crust. Indeed, it was hard to tell them from a New Year's Address, which he had penned for a penny paper. Henry had a certain number of original ideas, which he employed in every kind of rhyming, whether stanzas, musings, thoughts, or inklings.

As Miss W. read, her lip curled and her eye flashed.

"What impudence!" she exclaimed to herself, "one of my best curls cut off—and my Album (Pa gave a hundred dollars for it) disfigured by such stuff as that!"

"Patrick," she continued aloud, "is the person who delivered this waiting below?"

"Aye, is he: it's him; the red haired gintleman."

"Patrick, here's a dollar for you. Now turn him out!"

Patrick makes the best of his way down stairs.—The classical young man waits in the entry.

"Well, well, how did Miss Emeline like it? Eh?"

"Come my buffer," exclaimed the Irishman, "now jist walk out—will ye?"

The emphasis laid upon the last words, was accompanied by a look that said, "If ye don't walk out it's meself that 'ill be making ye."

"What means this—slave!" said Mr. H. B. Crust with an air learned from the Rhetorical Association. "What means this—slave!"

This was said very prettily, but it wouldn't do.

"Is it going out ye are?" inquired Patrick in his peculiar way. "Is it goin' out ye are?"

"Tell Miss W. that I would speak with her," exclaimed Bread Crust with quiet dignity.

"Is it goin' out ye are, I say?"

"You shall repent this insolence—I will inform"—(retreating a step)

"Will ye go out o' that door?"

"Now, sir, this matter has gone far enough. I consider it my duty to—" (retreating another step.)

"Be j—s, but I'll put ye out," cried Patrick as opening the door with one hand, he thrust Mr. Bread Crust into the street with the other, extending his right foot at the same time in a manner that was at once offensive and peculiar.

"Now spile a leddy's picture book again, will ye?"

Patrick closed the door, and as he closed it, Henry Bread Crust, Esq., beheld the face of Miss Emeline W. peering over the bannisters in the background.

"I think I'll not go there again soon," exclaimed the Sanguine Poetaster as he walked away.

Thus ends this slight yet characteristic passage in the life of Henry Bread Crust. I may be tempted to give another of his rare and curious adventures. It concerns the Sanguine Poetaster, and his friend the Bilious Rhymster, and is entitled, "The Duel at Camden, a passage in the lives of Henry Bread Crust and Thomas Done Brown, Esquires."