Niffy Swift

Following the post below, I was steered (by a newsgroup post) in the direction of a wonderful 1732 poem by Jonathan Swift, The Lady's Dressing Room, a prize exhibit in the natural history of bodily odours. A young man gains access to his sweetheart's bedroom, and what he sees there -- and in particular what he smells there -- leads to a dampening of his ardour. I have to quote one passage, which may make the poem the most nauseating thing you'll read this year:

As Mutton Cutlets, Prime of Meat,
Which tho' with Art you salt and beat,
As Laws of Cookery require,
And toast them at the clearest Fire;
If from adown the hopful Chops
The Fat upon a Cinder drops,
To stinking Smoak it turns the Flame
Pois'ning the Flesh from whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy Stench,
For which you curse the careless Wench;
So Things, which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking Chest;
Send up an excremental Smell
To taint the Parts from whence they fell.
The Pettycoats and Gown perfume,
Which waft a Stink round every Room.

In other words, if you can stand to have it served up again in other words, the act of evacuation is no such thing, because the foul airs thus released will waft up your skirt and follow you around all day.

Swift, eh? What an old romantic.

That page, by the way, is one of many maintained by Jack Lynch, a professor at Rutgers and a specialist in 18th century literature. His home page has many fascinating links, on Dr. Johnson, 18th century e-books and stuff on forgery and deception. Good place for a snuffle round.

And speaking of snuffling: keep those smelly history reports coming in!