A COOKE’S HEAD ON A CHARGER.
Our excellent friend Mr. William Cooke, the much respected lessee of Astley’s, announces his farewell season. His own benefit, on the 30th of January, was, of course, a bumper,- ominous as was the choice of a day which gives one associations with calves’ heads – instead of Cookes – on chargers.
There is at least one Cooke who has deserved well of the public. The French talk of “des chevaux dressés pour le manège,” but there is no Cook who has “dressed” so much horse-flesh in this way as the Cooke in question. Has he not dished up for us.
“Manège horses hot, manège horses cold,
Manège horses (cream and spot) no end of seasons old?”
Has he not sauced Shakespeare for us, like roast beef, with a spicy sprinkling of horse-radish,- tossed up opera à la pas de Galoppe,- and served solid pièces de resistance of contemporary military history with a flourish of horse-music, such as beseems the rough throat of Mars? In short,- though we are not of the Hippophagous school of M. de St-Hilaire,- may we not say, that Mister Cooke has proved himself a Master Cook in the composition of his bills of fare at Astley’s, of which horseflesh has always formed the standing dish? Never were there so many Cookes associated in any culinary enterprise before, without spoiling the broth. William has been Head Cooke; but he can boast a numerous train of Cooke-boys and Cooke-maids: Gallant, graceful, and agile John Henry; lithe young Alfred, and elastic young Harry; brown-eyed, round-limbed, and graceful Kate, prettiest of Haute-école écuyères, now lost to the ring of Astley’s alas! by her suit and service to the ring of Hymen; and Alice, Kate’s younger sister, as brown-haired, as brown-eyed, and as pretty, but not quite such a Hippodamia,- not so consummate a tameress of horses; modest and maidenly Clarissa; and last, not least, fair, slender, and statuesque Emily, a Hebe on horseback, or an Iris, Under the floating arch of her rainbow scarf!- and even then our catalogue is incomplete. But only think of so many Cookes, male and female, and not a Plain Cook among them!
It is difficult to conceive an equestrian artist in retirement. Does he always, I wonder, wear the blue single-breasted coat, white tights, and riding-boots, which are his nearest approach to the vulgar attire, while in his enchanted state of a slave of the ring? When he gives an entertainment, is it a “drawing-room one,” à la Risley? When he rides to hounds, does he bound along by the side of his horse, vault over five-barred gates, by aid of the pummel of the saddle, with a “houp la!” in the manner of the well-known British Foxhunter of the arena? How does he bring up his children? In a series of round turns, like the professors whom we see tying their infant progeny in knots round their own necks, or at the end of a long pole, like the acrobatic parent of the side-street pitch? Can he forbear breaking out, from time to time, in the airy splendour of trunks, alike spangled and scanty, and the statuesque simplicity of fleshings? Does he never take a turn on his lawn, on summer mornings, as The Grecian Statues?
When brother Cookes encounter, are their greetings like those of common men, or like those of the “bounding Olympian,” or “Athenian” brothers of the Circus – consisting in a rapid smiting of the chest, a rigid striking of an attitude, a sudden fall of one brother into the Dying Gladiator pose, and a rearing of the other him, in the manner of the Destroying Hercules? But – whatever be the occupations, pleasures, pursuits, of Mr. Cooke’s retirement,- Mr. Punch wishes him wealth, health, long life, and happiness to enjoy it. He has always – Mr. Punch is pleased to know – maintained the character, which his family have upheld for generations of equestrian managership. He is a kindly, honest, and industrious man; a good trainer, a good rider, and has been, in his time, a daring athlete of the arena; and, crown of all, he is the most affectionate of sons, husbands, fathers, brothers, and uncles.
Long may his pot boil, while generations of Cookes gather round it – helping to fill, helping to empty.
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