Dispatches from the Kitchen Front

Olive oil does not substitute for vegetable oil in quick-drop biscuits.

Just sayin'.

---L.

Dispatches from the Poetry Front

The promised report on The Worst English Poets: Oh yes, they are. Or at least, the worst of 19th century, for that seems to be the focus. There's not a single poem I look at and think, "This isn't bad enough to be here."

Most startling omission: There's no listing of poets, as you might expect given the title. The table of contents just lists the thematic sections, and the index isn't.

Most startling fact learned: While McGonagall's shaky grasp of prosody is all-but-unique, he had many models for his manner and matter, and even his tone. The Victorians published that stuff by the metric cartload, it seems. I did more than one doubletake: "Wait, this sounds Just Like McGonagall -- but the meter scans! -- and the syntax isn't tortured to reach for that banal rhyme! But! -- but! -- does not compute! -- does not compute!"

Best unintentionally funny line: My friend, be firm, let not thy manhood shake

Best ending selection evah for an anthology:

"OH, SHUT THE BOOK, dear Ellen, shut the book!"
HUBERT exclaim'd, with wild and frantic look.

Biggest unanswerable question: Was this copy permeated with marijuana smoke from an attempt to ease the pain of reading it or to up the hilarity?

Edit to add citations: the first quote's from A Elegy on Colonel Robert Montgomery. Written on the Fatal Spot where the Lamentable Duel Transpired by S. L. Francis; the second's from Ellen Gray, or The Dead Maiden's Curse by Archibald Macleod.

---L.

Further Dispatches from the Poetry Front

I knew the new Collected Poems of William McGonagall has additional works not in his three collections. I hadn't known one is a previously unpublished play: a sub-sub-Shakespearean wonder called Jack o' the Cudgel, or The Hero of a Hundred Fights. (Note to angevin2: It's set in the court of Edward III.) Judging from extracts quoted in reviews, it's never been performed because it's unperformable.

Leave the minstrel, thou pig-headed giant, or I'll make you repent
For thou must know my name is Jack, and I hail from Kent.

Declaim that iambic pentameter with a straight face, if you can. Later, when the king knights him:

Sir Jack, I give thee land to the value of six hundred marks
In thine own native county of Kent, with beautiful parks
Also beautiful meadows and lovely flowers and trees
Where you can reside and enjoy yourself as you please.

Clearly, I need this.

---L.