The Hasty-Pudding
Canto I
Assist me first with pious toil to trace
Thro' wrecks of
time thy lineage and thy race;
Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore,
(Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore)
First gave thee to the
world; her works of fame
Have liv'd indeed, but liv'd without a name.
Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days,
First learn'd with stones to
crack the well-dry'd maize,
Thro' the rough sieve to shake the golden
show'r,
In boiling water stir the yellow flour.
The yellow flour,
bestrew'd and stir'd with haste,
Swells in the flood and thickens to a
paste,
Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim,
Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim:
The
knobs at last the busy ladle breaks,
And the whole mass
its true consistence takes.
Could but
her sacred name, unknown so long,
Rise like her labors, to the sons of song,
To her, to them, I'd consecrate my lays,
And blow her pudding with the
breath of praise.
If 'twas Oella, whom I sang before,
I here ascribe her
one great virtue more.
Not thro' the rich Peruvian realms alone
The fame
of Sol's sweet daughter should be known,
But o'er the world's wide climes
should live secure,
Far as his rays extend, as long as they
endure.
Dear Hasty-Pudding, what
unpromis'd joy
Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy!
Doom'd o'er the
world thro' devious paths to roam,
Each clime my country, and each house my
home,
My soul is sooth'd, my cares have found an end,
I greet my
long-lost, unforgotten friend.
For
thee thro' Paris, that corrupted town,
How long in vain I wandered up and
down,
Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard
Cold from his
cave usurps the morning board.
London is lost in smoke and steep'd in tea;
No Yankey there can lisp the name of thee:
The uncouth word, a libel on
the town,
Would call a proclamation from the crown.*
For climes oblique,
that fear the sun's full rays,
Chill'd in their fogs, exclude the generous
maize;
A grain whose rich luxuriant growth requires
Short gentle
showers, and bright etherial fires.
But here tho' distant from our native shore,
With mutual glee we meet
and laugh once more,
The same! I know thee by that yellow face,
That
strong complexion of true Indian race,
Which time can never change, nor soil
impair,
Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air;
For endless vears,
thro' every mild domain,
Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to
reign.
But man, more fickle, the bold
licence claims,
In different realms to give thee different
names.
Thee the soft nations round
the warm Levant
Palanta call, the French of course Polante;
E'en in thy native regions, how I blush
To hear the Pennsylvanians
call thee Mush!
On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn
Insult and
eat thee by the name suppawn.
All spurious appellations, void of
truth:
I've better known thee from my earliest youth,
Thy name is
Hasty-Pudding! thus our sires
Were wont to greet thee fuming from
their fires;
And while they argu'd in thy just defence
With logic clear,
they thus explained the sense: —
"In
haste the boiling cauldron o'er the blaze,
Receives and cooks the
ready-powder'd maize;
In haste 'tis serv'd, and then in equal
haste,
With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast.
No carving to
be done, no knife to grate
The tender ear, and wound the stony plate;
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,
And taught with art the
yielding mass to dip,
By frequent journies to the bowl well stor'd,
Performs the hasty honors of the board."
Such is thy name, significant
and clear,
A name, a sound to every Yankey dear,
But most to me, whose
heart and palate chaste
Preserve my pure hereditary
taste.
There are who
strive to stamp with disrepute
The luscious food, because it feeds the
brute;
In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs
Compare thy
nursling man to pamper'd pigs;
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest,
Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast.
What though the generous
cow gives me to quaff
The milk nutritious; am I then a calf?
Or can the
genius of the noisy swine,
Tho' nurs'd on pudding, thence lay claim to mine?
Sure the sweet song, I fashion to thy praise,
Runs more melodious than
the notes they
raise.
. . .
Some talk of Hoe-cake, fair Virginia's pride,
Rich Johnny-cake this mouth
has often tri'd;
Both please me well, their virtues much the same;
Alike
their fabric, as allied their fame,
Except in dear New-England, where the
last
Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste,
To give it sweetness and
improve the taste.
But place them all before me, smoaking hot,
The big
round dumplin rolling from the pot;
The pudding of the bag, whose quivering
breast,
With suet lin'd leads on the Yankey feast;
The Charlotte brown,
within whose crusty sides
A belly soft the pulpy apple hides;
The yellow
bread, whose face like amber glows,
And all of Indian that the bake-pan
knows —
You tempt me not — my fav'rite greets
my eyes,
To that lov'd bowl my spoon by instinct flies.
Canto III
The days grow short; but tho' the falling sun
To the glad swain proclaims
his day's work done,
Night's pleasing shades his various task prolong,
And yield new subjects to my various song.
For now, the corn-house
fill'd, the harvest home,
Th' invited neighbours to the Husking come;
A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play,
Unite their charms, to
chace the hours away.
Where the huge heap lies center'd in
the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed
nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux.
Alternate rang'd, extend in circling
rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
The dry husks rustle,
and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.
The laws
of Husking ev'ry wight can tell;
And sure no laws he ever keeps so well:
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear she
smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
Red as her lips, and taper as her waist,
She walks the round, and culls
one favor'd beau,
Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the
sport, as are the wits and brains
Of well pleas'd lasses and contending
swains:
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the
last ear, wins the day.
Meanwhile the house-wife urges all
her care,
The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal
already waits her hand,
The milk is strain'd, the bowls in order stand,
The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that takes
The headlong stream
that o'er the mill-dam breaks)
Foams, roars and rages with incessant toils,
So the vext cauldron rages, roars and boils.
First
with clean salt she seasons well the food,
Then strews the flour and
thickens all the flood.
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand:
To stir it well demands a stronger hand;
The husband takes his turn; and
round and round
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crown'd;
When to
the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn
before.
I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More copious matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, tho'
ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be
ate.
Some with molasses line the luscious treat,
And
mix, like Bards, the useful with the sweet.
A wholesome dish, and
well-deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak wintry days,
When
the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas drives the shivering
cow.
Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy;
How oft thy teats these
pious hands have prest!
How oft thy bounties prove my only feast!
How
oft I've fed thee with my fav'rite grain!
And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain!
Ye
swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from Winter's
angry skies.
Potatoes, Pumpkins, should her sadness cheer,
Corn from
your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When Spring returns she'll well acquit
the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.
Milk then with pudding I should always chuse;
To this in future I confine my
Muse,
Till she in haste some farther hints unfold,
Well for the young, nor
useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop
with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will
hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
But when their growing
mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then
check your hand: you've got the portion's due,
So taught our sires, and what
they taught is true.
There is a choice in spoons. Tho'
small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear,
The deep bowl'd
Gallic spoon, contriv'd to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to
the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace,
The
gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space,
With ease to enter and discharge
the freight,
A bowl less concave but still more dilate,
Becomes the
pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienc'd feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of
art.
These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried,
With just
precision could the point decide,
Tho' not in song; the muse but poorly
shines
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines.
Yet the true form, as
near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg-shell,
Which
in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the
side.
Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin,
Like the
free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your
wise head project,
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a
bucket, heeds no drops that fall,
The wide mouth'd bowl will surely catch
them all.
*A certain king, at the time when this was
written, was publishing proclamations to prevent American
principles from being propagated in
his country.