A postscript to the new Bath guide :: :: University of Virginia Library

Declaratory Ingenuousness—Strange Commixture of Human Actions—A Hit at the Widows—The Discomfiture of the Fubseys in their Efforts to be genteel—Old Q—Progress of an Amour—The Lover's Oath.

I'm an Idler innate, if innately no Poet,
But of that Bob enough—since the world and you know it:
As the grief-cumber'd Hours each other succeed,
My Reason rebels while the Will prompts the Deed.
Tho' such candid confessions with Wit disagree,
I'll rehearse what I think, and relate what I see.

This scroll, like a French Table d'Hote, shall have all things,
The mean and magnificent—great things, and small things.

Tho' my wrath is high kindled with follies this minute,
The next shews an act with philanthropy in it:
In checquer'd confusion thus life rolls away,
And Evil and Good journey on through the day:
Thus Grace leads Repulsion, not envious to slight her,
But merely to make her own beauties seem brighter.
Here Charity rescues the wretch from his doom,
And Paupers catch comfort but see not from whom.
Thus Holy-Writ prints, mortal sense to enshroud,
Shew God's hand with a gift, but the rest's in a cloud.

Here all ranks and parties assume an alertness,
A je ne sçai quoi, a parade, and a pertness.

As I frequently ambulate through this gay Town,
The reverse of what ought makes Philosophy frown:
There is something with which e'en those things seem contented,
Which my Pity oft view'd, and when viewing lamented:
Content—nay they're proud, and that ill-nurtur'd spirit,
Seem'd strong in proportion as all wanted merit:
Tho' they issued from filth, and are ignorant of letters,
Their phrase is—that Man, when they point to—their betters!

Here Widows resort in astonishing crowds,
With the ensigns of war on their top-gallant shrouds;
To inform the observant they're arm'd for a Storm,
Like the Spahi's Red-Flag—when the fight waxeth warm.

From the desperate hope to be—demi-genteel,
In the eve of their being, brown Citizens steal
From the haunts of Old Lud (where their forefathers tarried,
And caught the stiff prejudice—moulted and married)
To voluptuous Bath—where they visit the Rooms,
And blush when the Mirror reflects their false Plumes;
Creep in corners to hide from blythe Fashion's keen gaze,
As Abraham wink'd at the Angel's bright blaze:
There Madam, and Misses, and Sir, view the sport,
In rapturous awe, like Omai at Court;
And Fear strikes 'em dumb to see Tyson advance,
When the Monarch of Taste asks the Fubseys to dance:
At length more courageous, the Draper sits down,
And ventures to cut in at Whist—for a Crown;
Where the skill he once shew'd 'mid a Mansion-house throng,
Is now all absorb'd—in the dread to do wrong;

Plays a Club for a Spade, trembles—reddens—revokes,
And lastly recedes from intolerant jokes:
While his partner's fierce eye, as he pulls out his purse,
Pursues the maim'd Cit with a harsh still-born curse.—

Borne home to his Inn full of anguish and care,
The first time of his life, hapless dolt, in a Chair;
Recounts his misfortunes to Spouse and his Daughters,
But resolves to take leave both of Bath and its Waters;
And wind up that Clock with great pains in Old Jewry,
Which here had run down with precipitate fury;
Prefer solid gain to weak rantipole dreams,
And embrace Tare and Trett, and some starvation schemes;
Then his Dame shall as painfully draw one poor guinea,
From the old ram-skin fob of the misconceiv'd ninny;
As zealous inveterate laundresses squeeze
The last latent drop from a new-wash'd chemise!

Of all the odd Bipeds who hitherward scud,
Since scrophulous Bladud who hallow'd the mud;
The needle of Wonder turns most to Old Q,
Who defies iron Time, and the worst he can
Antiquity braces his nerves as he grows,
And tempers life's ills for this Nestor of beaus;
When Intemperance lists to Propriety's sneer,
She laughs at her malice, and shews the gaunt Peer;
Like Richlieu, who, palsied, would kisses implore,
He nibbles at youth, and gallants at fourscore.
As the strength of the wine on the element bubbles,
His well-tutor'd spirit o'ertops human troubles.

You ask my success with the beauties of Bath;—
How could I hope much who am thin as a lath?
My amours have, as yet, scarce extended to any,
Except a coarse Soubrette from Abergavenny,

Who brushes the cobwebs from Lucas's cielings,
And by shewing her limbs wakes Debility's feelings.
But those Cambrian wenches are all so strong knitted,
That the toil and the blessing are scarcely well fitted;
For they fight, scratch, and spit, so harsh, furious and warm,
'Tis like gathering a weed off the Alps—in a storm!
Ere the vestal would yield to what Passion would make her,
The low Nymph made me swear that I'd never forsake her.
I have sent you the oath, which, though aptly mysterious,
My Helen received as deep, true, firm, and serious.

THE OATH.

By those delicious pulpy lips,
Where Cupid his ambrosia sips,
Those lips whose pressure would assuage
The frigid force of ice-bound age!

By all the graces of thy mien,
Where ease and elegance are seen!
By the delusions of that Cestus,
Which Venus gave you when she blest us!
By the keen magic of that spot,
Where grief in rapture is forgot!
Celestial spot! whose slightest touch,
Or gives too little—or too much!
With this badinage I shall finish my letter—
I hope you think Paris could ne'er protest better.

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.