AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.

   “Archer.  How many are there, Scrub?”
   “Scrub.  Five-and-forty, Sir.” Beaux’ Stratagem.

   “For shame—­let the linen alone!” M.  W. of Windsor.

Mr. Scrub—­Mr. Slop—­or whoever you be! 
The Cock of Steam Laundries,—­the head Patentee
Of Associate Cleansers,—­Chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime—­
Co-partners and dealers, in linen’s propriety—­
That make washing public—­and wash in society—­
O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below,—­
From your new Surrey Geisers all foaming and hot,—­
That soft “simmer’s sang” so endear’d to the Scot—­
If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger—­
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub,—­
O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub,—­
And lend me your ear,—­Let me modestly plead
For a race that your labors may soon supersede—­
For a race that, now washing no living affords—­
Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards,
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease,
Not with bread in the funds—­or investments of cheese,—­
But to droop like sad willows that liv’d by a stream,
Which the sun has suck’d up into vapor and steam. 
Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge—­
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge—­
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins,
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens,
And beginneth her toil while the morn is still gray,
As if she was washing the night into day—­
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her;
Not Venus that rose from the billow so early,
Look’d down on the foam with a forehead more pearly—­
Her head is involv’d in an aerial mist,
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist;
Her visage glows warm with the ardor of duty;
She’s Industry’s moral—­she’s all moral beauty! 
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub—­
Would any man ruin her?—­No, Mr. Scrub! 
No man that is manly would work her mishap—­
No man that is manly would covet her cap—­
Nor her apron—­her hose—­nor her gown made of stuff—­
Nor her gin—­nor her tea—­nor her wet pinch of snuff! 
Alas! so she thought—­but that slippery hope
Has betrayed her—­as tho’ she had trod on her soap! 
And she,—­whose support,—­like the fishes that fly,
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky—­
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare,
To be damp’d once a day, like the great white sea bear,
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop—­
Quite a living absorbent that revell’d in slop—­
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand,
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land!