Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, REMONSTRATORY ODE, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

REMONSTRATORY ODE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh, mr. Matthews! Sir!
Last Line: "or be it ""matthews, elephant, and co.!"
Variant Title(s): Ode To Mr. Mathews
Subject(s): Elephants; Opera


FROM THE ELEPHANT AT EXETER CHANGE, TO MR. MATTHEWS AT THE ENGLISH OPERA-HOUSE.

[WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.]

OH, Mr. Matthews! Sir!
(If a plain elephant may speak his mind,
And that I have a mind to speak I find
By my inward stir)
I long have thought, and wished to say, that we
Mar our well-merited prosperity
By being such near neighbours,
My keeper now hath lent me pen and ink,
Shov'd in my truss of lunch, and tub of drink,
And left me to my labours.
The whole menagerie is in repose,
The Coatamundi is in his Sunday clothes,
Watching the Lynx's most unnatural doze;
The Panther is asleep, and the Macaw;
The Lion is engaged on something raw;
The white Bear cools his chin
'Gainst the wet tin;
And the confined old Monkey's in the straw:
All the nine little Lionets are lying
Slumbering in milk, and sighing;
Miss Cross is sipping ox-tail soup,
In her front coop,
So here's the happy mid-day moment; -- yes,
I seize it, Mr. Matthews, to address
A word or two
To you
On the subject of the ruin which must come
By both being in the Strand, and both at home
On the same nights; two treats
So very near each other,
As, oh my brother!
To play old gooseberry with both receipts.

When you begin
Your summer fun, three times a week, at eight,
And carriages roll up, and cits roll in,
I feel a change in Exeter 'Change's change.
And, dash my trunk! I hate
To ring my bell, when you ring yours, and go,
With a diminish'd glory through my show!
It is most strange;
But crowds that meant to see me eat a stack,
And sip a water-butt or so, and crack
A root of mangel-wurzel with my foot,
Eat little children's fruit,
Pick from the floor small coins,
And then turn slowly round and show my India-rubber loins:
'Tis strange -- most strange, but true,
That these same crowds seek you!
Pass my abode and pay at your next door!
It makes me roar
With anguish when I think of this; I go
With sad severity my nightly rounds
Before one poor front row,
My fatal funny foe!
And when I stoop, as duty bids, I sigh
And feel that, while poor elephantine I
Pick up a sixpence, you pick up the pounds!

Could you not go?
Could you not take the Coburg or the Surrey?
Or Sadler's Wells, -- (I am not in a hurry,
I never am!) for the next season? -- oh!
Woe! woe! woe!
To both of us, if we remain; for not
In silence will I bear my altered lot,
To have you merry, sir, at my expense;
No man of any sense,
No true great person (and we both are great
In our own ways) would tempt another's fate.
I would myself depart
In Mr. Cross's cart;
But, like Othello, "am not easily moved."
There's a nice house in Tottenham Court, they say,
Fit for a single gentleman's small play;
And more conveniently near your home;
You'll easily go and come.
Or get a room in the City -- in some street --
Coachmakers' Hall, or the Paul's Head,
Cateaton Street;
Any large place, in short, in which to get your bread,
But do not stay, and get
Me into the Gazette!

Ah! The Gazette!
I press my forehead with my trunk, and wet
My tender cheek with elephantine tears,
Shed of a walnut size
From my wise eyes,
To think of ruin after prosperous years.
What a dread case would be
For me -- large me!
To meet at Basinghall Street, the first and seventh
And the eleventh!
To undergo (D ---------- n!)
My last examination!
To cringe, and to surrender,
Like a criminal offender,
All my effects -- my bell-pull, and my bell,
My bolt, my stock of hay, my new deal cell.
To post my ivory, Sir!
And have some curious commissioner
Very irreverently search my trunk;
'Sdeath! I should die
With rage, to find a tiger in possession
Of my abode; up to his yellow knees
In my old straw; and my profound profession
Entrusted to two beasts of assignees!

The truth is simply this, -- if you will stay
Under my very nose,
Filling your rows
Just at my feeding time, to see your play,
My mind's made up,
No more at nine I sup,
Except on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays,
From eight to eleven,
As I hope for heaven,
On Thursdays, and on Saturdays, and Mondays,
I'll squeak and roar, and grunt without cessation,
And utterly confound your recitation.
And, mark me! all my friends of the furry snout
Shall join a chorus shout:
We will be heard -- we'll spoil
Your wicked ruination toil.
Insolvency must ensue
To you, Sir, you;
Unless you move your opposition shop,
And let me stop.

I have no more to say: -- I do not write
In anger, but in sorrow; I must look,
However, to my interests every night,
And they detest your "Memorandum-book."
If we could join our forces -- I should like it;
You do the dialogue, and I the songs.
A voice to me belongs;
(The Editors of the Globe and Traveller ring
With praises of it, when I hourly sing
God save the King.)
If such a bargain could be schemed, I'd strike it!
I think, too, I could do the Welch old man
In the Youthful Days, if dress'd upon your plan;
And the attorney in your Paris trip, --
I'm large about the hip!
Now think of this! -- for we cannot go on
As next door rivals, that my mind declares:
I must be pennyless, or you be gone!
We must live separate, or else have shares.
I am a friend or foe
As you take this;
Let me your profitable hubbub miss,
Or be it "Matthews, Elephant, and Co.!"





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