University of Virginia Library

LOVE LETTERS TO MY WIFE;

Written in 1789.

LETTER I.

[Tho' to Thee 'tis nothing rare]

Dear Hannah,

Tho' to Thee 'tis nothing rare,
That I pronounce I'm fond, and Thou art fair—
That Love, attending Time, thro' many a round,
Unfluctuating still my Faith hath found—
And still my Mind, were every Fair-one free,
Would feel thy charm the same, and fix on Thee.
Should such positions meet the Public's eyes,
All would pronounce them mere poetic lies;
For each, while beastly lusts their bosom sway;
Would judge the rest were all as vile as they.
And it must needs appear exceeding strange,
In eight and twenty Years to feel no change!
Strange! in a foolish, fickle, World, like this,
Which boasts in change alone, its choicest bliss;
But, if a change in Us, unlike our Betters,
As facts will prove before I close these Letters.
A Letter to a Wife! the subject Love!—
This must seem stranger still to Folks above,
Whose wandering hearts in countless channels stray,
Ere Hymen hails their eight and twentieth day.
But 'tis not so with Us, in deed, or will,
As Heav'n hath witness'd and can witness still—
Thou ever lov'd, and ever loving Wife!
Substantial image in the dream of Life!
Chief sweetner of my Being's mawkish cup,
Which prompts me, maugre dregs, to drink it up!
Thou swell'st each joy, and soften'st every woe:
Heav'n's noblest bounty in my lot below!
Except that purer bliss, which still descends
On true Believers, from their best of Friends!
Twelve tedious weeks have, slowly, crawled along,
Since thy transporting presence made me young;
When my responsive, palpitating, heart,
In all thy raptures bore its ready part;
When each fond nerve in lesser joys would join,
And strike its tones in unison with thine!
If twittering Red-breast caught thy listening ear,
To me no Nightingale was half so dear!
But if thy tongue attun'd the vocal strain,
Whole woodland choirs might urge each song in vain!
The faintest flow'rs that sprigg'd the gloomy glades,
Or, void of scent, peep'd pale thro' sickly shades,
I found, when pluck'd, and on thy bosom plac'd,
All Flora's pride by Thee and them disgrac'd,
Tho' Summer-sweets from grove and field were fled,
Thy opening lips their essenc'd odours shed—
Tho' rose and lily long had left the year,
I view'd thy face and found both blooming there—
Tho' fogs, autumnal, shut out half the day,
Thy azure eyes could look that loss away;
And when discarded quite, with wintry shrowd,
Thy vernal charms still shone without a cloud.
If whistling winds were thy enamour'd theme,
I sigh'd no more for Summer's fanning stream;
Or shew'd'st affection for a show'ry sky,
I never wish'd a single hour of dry.
When grinding Gout convuls'd my tortur'd toe,
'Twas rapture, even then, with Thee to go;
For tho' each grating step provok'd a groan,
'Twas happier, far, than pining here, alone—
And oft, while here, when seated near thy side,
I dar'd the Despot's amplest pow'r deride;
For while my eye survey'd thy matchless charms,
My heart forgot, or spurn'd his dire alarms—
Or, where the Tyrant struck his ruffian fangs,
Thy hand's soft stroke asswag'd the sharpest pangs,
While each calm'd tendon took a quiet nap,
So sweetly lull'd within thy cradling lap!
The fell Fiend, now, with tenfold rage returns—
Deep-agonizing gnaws, and throbs, and burns.
Without controul dissects his destin'd prey,
Whilst Thou, Physician fair! art far away;
Anatomizing still with tenter'd claw,
He leaves each tender nerve to torment raw,
But while his talons tear each morbid part,
Thy absence wrings, much more, my wretched heart!
No soothing Friend, sweet antidote! is nigh,
While wintry horrors Nature's charms destroy;
December calling up tempestuous trains,
With warlike arms to persecute the plains—
Keen barbed blasts, with meteors dense at night,
The welkin chill, and chase the short-liv'd light!
No smiling leaf appears—no fragrant flow'r—
No song survives to glad the gloomy bow'r;
But tragic rooks bedim the dusky spray,
And caw, with clamorous plaint, for lingering day!
The pilfering frosts, and furious hostile floods,
Bedrench the dales, and pillage hills and woods;
Dark desolation shrowds the ghastly ground,
While storms, undenn'd, howl horrid mischiefs round,
And thou, my gentle Hannah! art not near,
Smiling again to Spring the pliant Year!
Imprison'd fast in dismal monkish cell,
With owls, and bats, and spectres, doom'd to dwell;
Coop'd like a recluse swine, in cloister'd stye,
Cut off from every sweet and social joy!
Or shackled savage, in sequestered den,
Expung'd from all the chearful haunts of men;
Except such haunts as beasts of prey approve,
Hermits affect, or sots and dullards love.
Such fate we servile Slaves must, frequent feel,
While scourg'd with scorpion whips of biting steel,
Which, proud of pow'r, all petty Tyrants wield,
Rejoic'd to make we sturdy Truants yield;
Yet Nature's common claims start, uncontroul'd,
Tho' Will and Sense are prodigally sold—
Sold to some selfish Arbiter of Earth,
To proud to estimate Man's genuine worth,
Whose Liberty and Time are truck'd for nought,
The Soul's fair commerce! merchandize of thought!
'Tis Esau's curse; who, like our abject troop,
His birthright bartered for a mess of soup!
Men, thus degraded, must assume new shapes,
As camels—asses—lap-dogs—pointers—apes.
Bear heavy burdens—learn to fetch and carry—
Play monkey tricks—but never, never marry!
For Wives will claim affection, thought, and time;
And Children aggravate the deadly crime—
Spontaneous impulse must be thrust aside,
The love of Offspring, and of tender Bride;
Friend—Husband—Father—all mere mock repute—
In bondage duteous; but, at home—a Brute—
A Despot's dupe! a Family's fell rod!
Fulfil his office, but forget his God!
His actions must be shap'd—his air, and mien—
A plain repeater! copying machine!
His words and looks conform to mimic laws,
Like puppets—magpies—parrots—jays, and daws.
Go back to pupillage; and, promptly, learn,
Head, eyes, and ears, and arms, and legs, to turn—
Soft sentiments and accents fitly form
To mould and tone, or meet perpetual storm.
The head, like barber's block, propp'd up by pride,
With freestone curl, or crape, on either side;
And lengthen'd cones of hair, which downward shoot
Like parsnip, radish, beet, or carrot root—
With store of stiffening filth to roll behind,
Like stuccoed tails of greasy, grunting, kind;
Forg'd full in lumps, and ballasted with lead,
Appendage fit for dolt's unfurnish'd head—
Or, plaited, powder'd, swell'd in antic taste,
Like twisted vermicelli, or puff-paste:
The rest with roasted frizz, and flow'r, bedight,
Like foppish furze-bush on hoar-frosty night—
I look, and look again, but scarcely can,
In conscience, call such mongrel creature, Man.
None suffers Nature, now, in genuine way,
To grizzle aged heads, alone, with grey—
Let Youth's and puberty's loose tresses flow,
With varied tinctures, and with vivid glow—
Lank, pencill'd locks, without a curve, descend,
Or curls, in endless combinations, bend;
To give Diversity her beauteous range,
And keep Identity from treacherous change;
But all from Heav'n's establish'd order start,
And spoil their charms by childish tricks of Art.
Were comeliness Mankind's conspiring aim
To fix fond Admiration's rambling flame—
With Beauty's blaze to kindle warm desire;
Fan transient Lust; or feed Love's lasting fire;
All would pursue pure Nature's simple plan,
Woman be Woman still, and Man be Man;
Age still appear as Age, and Youth as Youth,
With unaffected traits like rapturing Truth:
For Nature only shapes those magic charms,
That furnish Beauty's most resistless arms—
Those lines and colours, innocence and grace,
Which throw enchantment o'er Thy form and face;
Knit the sure knots with which those nets are wrought,
That fetter fancy, and entangle thought—
That spread the spell, and modulate the lure,
Which fascinate each eye, each heart secure.
Taste, wonderous Talisman! with perfect ease,
Preserves the sure, the happy, pow'r to please—
Variety, with wild, bewitching, air,
Tho' changeful, chaste; tho' fanciful yet, fair;
With pure Simplicity, sweet Sister-twins!
The one securing what the other wins;
Attending constant, in their Mother's train,
Still help her conquests and enlarge her reign—
But handmaid, Art, leads Nymphs and Swains astray,
Thro' many a devious, many an irksome, way—
By flattering prospect fluttering Hope's betray'd,
Whose visions vanish, and whose objects fade.
Art wantonly invents, with varied whim,
To tinge the features, and the form to trim;
Till by ambiguous care, and endless cost,
All Nature's hues, and lineaments, are lost—
While Love lies vexing o'er her vanquish'd charms,
And throws away, with tears, his useless arms;
Or, to the rural plain, impatient, hies,
To fix his reign, and feast on fadeless joys,
Where thy bright beauties, Hannah, long have blown,
To crown his altar, and confirm his throne.
To tell how heads, and arms, and legs, we train,
A well-known simile will best explain—
Hast Thou not seen, in March, or April, morns,
When buds and blooms begin to deck the thorns;
Behind the clean, colloquial, bird-cage walk,
Where beaux and belles recline, or strut and talk;
(Why call'd so Antiquaries may discuss,
Who o'er mere trifles make a tedious fuss)
Near that fam'd structure, whence the worshipp'd Pair,
Brought forth to view, made Ignorance gape and stare,
With reverential wonder, to behold,
Two Mortals glare with frippery and gold—
Or, to keep up the price of kingly pride,
Fools' empty tongues, and vulgar eyes, avoid;
Box'd up in close sedans, with curtain'd glasses,
To scape the peeps of twice ten hundred asses.
Which sacred Personages, when within,
By close economy shun beastly sin;
Abstemious eat and drink, while, free from fear,
They stock the Earth, like Us, each teeming year—
Near that said Mansion, on the grassy plain,
Expos'd to heat, and cold, and wind, and rain,
Spruce ranks of brick-dust-colour'd beaux are seen,
Like Statues stiffly stuck athwart the green;
While, full before their face, with martial wand,
And high majestic air, their Masters stand:
Whose churlish looks, by strong mysterious charm,
Move every jointless leg, and awkward arm;
Or oaths and threats, miraculous like blows,
New hinge the knees—articulate the toes—
Full shoulders flatten—bloat the hollow breast—
Till, like proud puppets, swivell'd, wir'd, and dress'd,
They fiercely look—whirl round—and roll their quids,
Just as the conjuring Shewman bluffly bids.
Thus we must manage heads, and hands, and feet,
As our sublime Commanders deem most meet.
Must skip like apes—like prudes look pure and prim,
To tickle haughty pride, or flatter whim;
And when harsh act, or speech, or look, reprove,
With patience listen, and with promptness move.
The tortur'd heart may swell—or burst—or break—
No trammell'd tongue those throbbing pangs must speak
But looks must fondly fawn, and lips must lie,
The supple back must bend, and feet must fly,
And hands, alert, perform their tasks, with speed,
Tho' eyes are drown'd, and bosom throb and bleed.
Should honest office, e'er so kindly meant,
In jot or tittle fail the full intent,
No virtuous views explain'd, or clearly known,
Can for such slips, or slight mistakes, atone;
But while on treacherous Memory's boggy ground,
No wholesome herb, or scented flow'r, be found,
Yet, like the trench the Grecian barber made,
And there fool Midas' fatal trust betray'd;
If ever dubious deed, or sentence quaint,
Or ought that scandal's blighting breath can taint;
Or just resentment, rationally stirr'd,
Produce one louring look, or waspish word,
Forth from the spongey soil, like pointed reed,
With dog-rose thorny smile, sharp sounds proceed,
In lie, or libel, two-edg'd taunt, or jeer,
At every change of sky throughout the year;
While Treachery cheats, or stabs, fair Friendship's trust,
Like Judas' devilish kiss, or Joab's jealous thrust.
Despots, tho' cruel, deem it monstrous queer,
Respectful duty should to dulness veer,
Then turn to strong dislike; while, weakly, they
Hope Tools, chastiz'd, more chearful will obey—
Think base Plebeians never know they're hurt,
But bear Pow'r's stripes, and still look more alert—
That beaten Slaves will fawn on Fools above,
And persecuted Louts, like Spaniels love—
As soon might Earth's antipodes unite,
As cruelty kind sentiments excite.
As soon an Angel from a Fiend be born,
As kindness flow from insolence and scorn:
Affection springs, alone, from tender ties—
Love only will from genuine love arise—
Benevolence must ever mutual be—
The Soul's delightful reciprocity!
Man, godlike Man! tho' sunk to servile state,
Feels not, like burden'd Beasts, the force of fate,
To tame obedience by keen lashes broke,
And go more freely, gall'd by bloody stroke—
Not like the mean domestic breed of Dogs,
That crouching, fawn, and lick the hand that flogs—
Nor like the Worm that slinks to sly retreat,
And scarcely turns when trampled under feet;
But basely twists while Tyrants bait their hook,
By which tom-culls or minnies may be took—
Still, tho' thro' Time by Providence depress'd,
He feels true dignity expand his breast;
And, knowing his descent, his heavenly birth,
Spurns Earth, and all that appertains to Earth!
Can arbitrary influence e'er controul
The in-born bias of Man's soaring Soul?
Can Mammon's votaries vainly hope to bind,
In shining shackles, his immortal Mind?
Put on some tinkling bells, and tinsel chains,
And hope he'll trudge with joy, 'mid griefs and pains?
Hope, tho' degraded to Man's meanest shape,
'Mid scoff and ridicule he'll act the ape?
That prison'd Minds will cease to pine, and mope,
'Tis Fools' absurd philosophism to hope.
Not bulls from Popes, or warrants back'd by Kings,
The Martyr's burning piles, or Miscreants' strings,
Can faithful Souls by fear, or force, subdue,
Who know their crimes are cross'd, and Heav'n is true—
For tho' imperious Popes, or Kings, may kill,
No earthly pow'r can bind the free-born Will:
'Tis like the thwarting elements at strife,
Or adverse interests torturing Man and Wife—
'Tis oil with water join'd, or fire with phlegm,
What Dolt would ever dream of mixing them?
Sooner might foolish Coachman hope to force,
The kind esteem of beaten, batter'd, horse—
Or pert Postilion, mad with megrims, think,
By whips and wales to make the creature drink:
I may by dint of discipline, compel
The fear-struck animal to travel well,
But never can by any force, or fright,
Produce pure love, or prompt an appetite.
Search Laws, reveal'd, or Nature's system, through,
Heav'n works, in all, with order strict, and true.
No Reptile, Insect, Fish, Bird, Beast, or Man,
By fraudful force, or stratagem, e'er can
Produce each other; but in form and mien,
The parents' portrait's in the offspring seen.
No beauteous Couples of the northern race,
With tropic black their progeny disgrace;
Nor Sires of sable hue, and woolly hair,
Produce the flaxen, or the fresh and fair:
So human Minds beget on human Minds
Similitudes in colours, shapes, and kinds;
In fellow Souls producing mental tone,
Of lusts—affections—passions—like their own—
O'er the whole frame their tranquil traits diffuse,
Or force contortions, vile, and heighten'd hues;
Depicting lights and shades, in face and form,
The smiling sunshine, or the frowning storm.
If Reason, with her tutor'd pencil, trace
Mild lineaments and lights, o'er form and face,
The soft attraction each beholder feels,
While, to each heart, she makes her mute appeals;
O'er all, around, the living lustre breaks,
And each calm countenance approval speaks:
So the smooth surface of the tranquil stream,
Enlighten'd by the Sun's celestial beam,
To all things, near, a faithful mirror holds,
And each clear form in earth and sky unfolds;
Delighted, every eye the vision views,
Distinctly trac'd, in sizes, shapes, and hues;
But when a passing cloud obscures the light,
No more enchanting landscapes charm the sight—
Or, when the winds in ruffling breezes blow,
And break the surface of the lake below,
A wild confusion every object blends,
And all the fairy fascination ends;
So, when perturbing passion stirs the breast,
No more the troubled form and features rest,
But every eye perceives the alter'd frame,
And every sentient heart partakes the same.
If Anger's brushes draw the harden'd lines,
No more the heavenly portrait, placid, shines;
But, Necromancer like, o'er magic book,
The vengeful visage, the malignant look,
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and flaming eye,
Transfer infection to each stander by,
Till every face is like a fiend's impress'd,
By fire and fury gender'd thro' the breast—
Or when fierce Hatred fires the tortur'd soul,
While bosom roars, and burning eye-balls roll,
Each neighbouring breast will feel the imp inspire,
Each blazing eye betray infernal fire,
Till foes and friends with canine fury yelp,
Stab, to revenge, or fiercely curse to help—
But Love, celestial Love! sweet Grace, divine!
Makes all hearts melt; all angel-faces shine;
And looks—longs—labours; sighs, and weeps, and bleeds,
Less to supply her own than others needs.
Nor christian Providence, nor pagan Chance,
In loving-kindness, or in casual dance,
Nor blindfold pow'rs of Fortune, or of Fate,
Make Hate engender Friendship, Friendship Hate;
Nor all the pow'rs below, or pow'rs above,
Can make malignant Passions procreate Love,
Can devilish Spite, in her delirious pet,
Meekness, and modest Gentleness, beget?
Humility be natural child of Pride?
Or Vice or Virtue bring forth ought beside?
Base Lust may fondly bid, or foully bribe,
And gain gross favours from her sister-tribe;
But Love, pure Love! can ne'er be bought, or sold,
By thirst for fame, or hunger after gold—
She feels no force in pow'r, or pomp, or pelf,
But simply barters, blessed Self for Self!
Sometimes, mayhap, the smiling, artless, Maid,
May be by serpent wile, or wit, betray'd—
May be, a time, enclos'd in Treachery's trap—
Recline her harmless head in Cunning's lap—
But ne'er by frowns, or threats, or ravings, rude,
The independent Paragon's subdued:
If trapp'd by trick, or snar'd by subtle lies,
She breaks her bonds, or ponders—pines—and dies—
She never cringes like a servile Slave,
But Freedom finds, or greets a welcome grave—
She seeks no service but her heavenly Sire's,
Who, kindles, fans, and feeds, her sacred fires;
His semblance bearing tho' in small degree,
And feels, tho' always serving, always free!
Shall noise and nonsense, giddy pomp and glare,
The simple, systematic, Swain ensnare?
Falshood and flattery, turpitude and pain,
Cajole his judgment? rend his heart in twain?
Seduce from guileless chat with modest maid,
To seek some vile, corrupt, and jilting Jade?
Despise the graceful garb, and comely coif,
With all the pure felicities of life,
For false and vicious lust, and vulgar lore,
With twice-dy'd, cast-off, cloaths bedizen'd o'er;
Head puff'd like owl's, with pigeon's bloated breast,
In ribbons, lappets, wires, and gauzes dress'd?
Have patience, Hannah; while I truly trace
The crafty city-crowd, and rural race—
No highly pencill'd picture's my design,
But just to sketch the clear, and bold, outline;
It calls a veteran Cowper's tutor'd hand,
To make each figure strong, and fitly, stand,
In high and rich relief, distinct and true;
My Muse's aim's a far inferior view,
Wrought rough and rude, for fellow-Rustic's eye,
To hint some caution; urge my Peers to fly,
And shun that gulph, the sober Boor's disgrace,
Where hiss'd Religion hides her hated face—
Where pure Morality her laws conceals,
Still stifling what she knows, and what she feels—
Where modest Merit hangs her bashful head,
While whooted Truth, and Liberty, lie dead.
How proudly would they trace Titanian Sire,
In wrath destroy'd by Heav'n's electric fire;
Or prouder still from ant'deluvian birth,
Close-dated down from giant Sons of Earth:
But, sad to tell! what must such claim confound,
That impious, proud, pragmatic, brood was drown'd!
Their title's clear to Ham's obscene descent,
Who sham'd his Father, drunk within his tent—
But, maugre all! Dan Pryor's honest boast,
Must level down this huge gigantic host,
Whose riven hearts, with indignation, grieve,
That all, alike, descend from grandam Eve!
Ah! did they feel that far superior claim,
Thy nobler boast, and mine, my dove-ey'd Dame!
Deriv'd from that great Being, most sublime!
Who rules all Worlds! continues thro' all Time!
Unbounded fountain, whence all blessings flow;
All bliss above! all wealth and pow'r below!
By titles, names, and epithets, disgrac'd,
On highest Angels, or Archangels plac'd;
Degraded more, compar'd with earthly things,
Whether the Lord of Lords, or King of Kings!
Him, tho' the King of all created hosts,
Him! Friend, and Father, each true Christian boasts,
While Mammon's offspring, haughtily disclaim
The real substance, yet usurp the Name.
No longer, then, let Bodies, equal born,
In fellow-dust dissolv'd, alike forlorn;
Nor let Fame, Wealth, or Titles, Pomp, or Pow'r,
The shadowy pageants of a passing hour!
Tempt the mistaken Soul to swell with pride,
Or humble Want and Worth with scorn deride;
God's only Son, when He, in lowly guise,
To bless rebellious Creatures, left the skies,
To preach repentance; urge regenerate birth;
And shew fall'n Man his fullest hopes on Earth—
His Spirit calling, still, to quit the dust;
To mortify false pride, and banish lust—
He, guiltless of all guile, and free from sin,
With Love, while striving, sinful Souls to win,
Was persecuted still by cruel Pow'r,
And vengeful Envy, to life's latest hour;
Then crucify'd and kill'd, with devilish Hate,
By whom?—the worldly Wise, and worldly Great!
Perhaps, my Hannah! Fraud, or hostile Force,
In Law's chicane, or conquering Bastard's course,
Have stol'n from peaceful, pristine, Ancestry,
What should, in right, attach to Thee and Me:
Then be it so; our blessedness consists,
Not in a Norman Plunderer's pilfering lists—
To blaze in herald registers enroll'd—
In large domains, or magazines of gold—
But interests and honours, still far high'r,
Christ's riches ours! His Father for our Sire!
And, tho' of earthly pomp and pow'r devoid,
Of golden treasures, and dominions wide,
Still we've a title, with all christian Clowns,
To heavenly Kingdoms, and celestial Crowns,
Unbounded glory, in the World above,
And here, below, the noblest bliss of Love!
If Genius haply lie in Penury's lot,
'Tis faintly notic'd, or 'tis soon forgot;
For hungry Ostentation constant craves
Fresh treats of flattery from her feudal slaves—
Claims myrrh and frankincense as rightful dues,
From priestly censer of the servile Muse—
As meagre bitterns, ever-sateless, roar,
And, while with dainties gorg'd, still gape for more.
When Flattery's food from Vanity's withdrawn,
And Cooks and Scullions, o'er their office yawn;
Pride thinks their scanty wages never earn'd,
Their care's all scouted; prompt attention spurn'd;
Till, pinch'd with hunger, Petulance discards
Each frail purveyor, even it's household Bards.
The nicest dish ne'er long affords delight
To puling Pride's fastidious appetite;
But Fancy must thro' Art and Nature rove,
Drain every lake, and river; plain, and grove;
Then bring the boundless spoils, as deem'd most meet,
And lay them, humbly, at the Harpy's feet—
Fantastic Taste still want of change bewails,
And, as it loath'd the Manna, loaths the Quails.
To Pride's imperious, stiffneck'd, Jewish train,
Their Maker wills, commands, and works, in vain;
All Wealth's and Fashion's Children, Slaves of Art!
Push God and Nature out from head and heart;
Adoring Titles, Honours, Pow'r, and Pelf,
But chiefly worshipping the idol, Self:
Like Chaldee's King, or Hebrew Priest, of old,
Rearing gigantic Gods, or Calves of gold,
Till heavenly vengeance doom their Pride, and Lust,
To bite Earth's bitter herbs, and drink the golden dust.

LETTER II.

[Now I'll prosecute my theme]

Dear Hannah,

Can righteous Heav'n regard ungracious Elves,
Whose worship centers wholly in themselves;
Adoring face, or form, or gaudy trim?
While God proclaims, that all shall honour Him—
That He's a jealous God—nor will forego,
One jot or tittle of his rights below—
That He'll inflict on culprits every curse,
Who dare His Will withstand, His views reverse.
What can such treasonable crimes atone,
Usurping, thus, their heavenly Sovereign's throne?
'Tis sacrilege; and Heav'n resents the wrongs,
When Creatures challenge what to Christ belongs!
'Tis Image-worship when a Mortal's shewn
The honours that pertain to God alone!
And are not such offences ever found,
In graceless Grandeur's fashionable round?
For is not all its glitter—all its gold—
Form'd into Images with Fancy's mould?
And tho' the Idol be a Knave or Fool,
When finish'd nice with Fashion's graving tool,
The reverence paid looks more or less divine,
In due proportion to the shew and shine.
All's calculated by the glow, and glare—
Frail, short-liv'd things their full affection share—
While Vanity unveils her whiffling flags,
Her glittering trinkets, and her tawdry rags—
Spreads spangled nets, and fills her philter'd bowl,
To fix each Sense, and fascinate the Soul—
Her birdlime twigs contrived with such sly Art,
That while they tangle thoughts, they trap the heart,
Thus to impair her strength, and spoil her wings,
No more to mount o'er temporary things,
But, drunk with spurious Pleasure—cag'd in State—
Forego true Freedom, and forget her Fate!
Thus God's disgrac'd, and thrust from thought, by stealth,
Thro' all the regions of unholy Wealth;
And each proud fabrick fill'd with Idols base,
By Pride's and Dissipation's impious Race—
But soon will Death arrive, and Time decay,
While Judgment sweeps these Works, and Them, away!

LETTER III.

[In my last, Thou'lt fully find]

Dear Hannah,

In my last, Thou'lt fully find
How Creature-worship will degrade the Mind—
How Vanity and Riches, Pomp and Pow'r,
The small remains of Innocence devour;
While from such fate, We feel Ourselves exempt,
No Wealth to wilder, and no Pomp to tempt—
From Fashion's wild bewitching influence free,
And Customs which corrupt each high Degree.
Still, tho' our hearts experience inborn Pride,
Its insolent demands are all denied;
And still, let us, my Hannah; live such lives
As well may shame all Courtiers and their Wives—
Our strength of Mind to moral duties turn'd,
Which Heav'n has taught, or Love, and Reason, learn'd.
Our noble energies confin'd, alone,
To pay their due devoirs at Heaven's throne—
To waft each Wish, and wing each dull Desire;
To graft each Grace, and rear each Virtue high'r,
Till all our Souls, inflam'd with heavenly Love,
Spurn Earth's frail toys, and soar to bliss above!
All weedy growths with ghostly tools root out;
Not dung and dress, like Them, each poisonous sprout,
But lop off every Lust's luxuriant head,
By Pow'r and Riches, Pomp and Luxury, fed—
Deprive the parent, Pride, of fattening food,
And strive to banish all its bastard brood.
With Affluence pamper'd or supine with Ease,
Pride scouts the very first of God's Decrees—
Heedless, or ignorant, of the sacred text,
In countless views Pomp violates the next;
And, still revolting from Heav'n's holy word,
Blind Passion and Prophaneness, break the third.
When God in Love his gracious Law declares,
And stamps with guilt each graceless Soul that swears;
Did He intend His vengeance to confine,
To mere blasphemers of his Name divine;
Whose impious hearts, in jollity, or joke,
Contemn His Anger, and His Pow'r provoke?
Those who in Passion His fix'd will defy,
Or use His Name to seal a solemn Lie?
Did He not comprehend, in that command,
As well the careless, hypocritic Band;
And mean the punishment alike for all,
Who on that Name in sacred Temples call;
When thoughtless, thankless, Worshippers appear,
And oft repeat those awful accents there,
As inattentive, idle, heedless, loud,
As oaths and curses in a vulgar crowd?
Pure Appellation! which, when Seraphs sound,
They bow their heads with holy awe profound!
And when His praise the high'st Archangel sings,
He veils his visage with his shining wings!
Yes—shameless Hypocrites must share the curse,
Whose bold audacity's the vile reverse!
Whose folly, falshood, or indifference, dare
Profane that Name in thanks, or praise, or pray'r—
Worse than vain Wretches who in sport, or pet,
Swear by that God, and swell their damning debt!

LETTER IV.

[Could thy artless eyes behold]

Dear Hannah,

LETTER V.

[Do not Thou begin to think]

Dear Hannah,

Should Wealth attend the Church, in Woman's form,
With head ne'er cool, and bosom never warm,
In works like that, when Melancholy's prey,
Or spiteful Spleen's, 'twere better be away.
Beside, such fondly deem 'twould weakly waste
Time happier spent in powder—paint—and paste.
Or, while a French frisseur adorns the head,
New Play, or luscious Novel, might be read.
Perhaps the sports and joys of Evening past,
With lov'd remembrance might thro' Morning last;
Or closely hid from every Creature's sight,
Absorb'd in dreams of future dear delight!
Still, on their couch reclin'd, indulge repose,
Till matin Pray'rs, and Psalms, and Sermon, close.
Perchance may stir by Two; get breakfast o'er
In time to dress, for all the Day, by Four:
Their irksome hours soon hoping to relieve,
By motley troops, in rabble-rout, at Eve;
For Fashion, when it entertains its Friends,
Begins its work when sober People's ends.
Do those that constitute this impious Band,
Religiously obey God's great Command?
Leave mad Amusement's vile collected Crews
At Gaming-tables—Taverns—Clubs—and Stews—
Relinquish wanton Lust, licentious Whim,
All Vice, and Vanity, to honour Him?
Frequent his Temples—reverence all his Rites—
And in his Service find their first delights?
Or do they honour those that gave them birth?
Mark'd as most excellent of all the Earth?
Or, still indulging devilish Sports, and Play,
Their Parents' honourable hopes betray?
Their anxious Cares, and Labours, all, beguile?
And thus become the vilest of the Vile?
And are not Man's most execrable Hords,
The broods of 'Squires—Knights—Baronets and Lords?
Or shameless Progeny of proudest Rates,
Viscounts—Earls—Marquisses—Dukes—Potentates?
Who seem best priviledg'd the palm to win,
Of every devilish Vice, and sordid Sin!

LETTER VI.

[Do not Thou too fondly deem]

Dear Hannah,

Do not Thou too fondly deem
My Muse is running to a rash extreme;
Or, led by Fancy's fascinating lure,
Is painting courtly Pictures too impure.
Didst Thou behold, with thy discerning Eye,
What oft, in Me, provokes the groan and sigh—
Perceive, obtruded on Thy tender Ear,
What sometimes prompts, in Me, the pitying tear—
Or find Thy heart, like Mine; from pains exempt;
When listening tales exciting stern contempt;
Then, Thou'dst no longer feel the faintest ruth,
Or blame my Muse for telling hateful truth.

LETTER VII.

[I no proud exemption plead]

Dear Hannah,

I no proud exemption plead
From folly, or from fault; in word or deed—
Aim not to stand aloof, distinct from others,
My sinful Sisters, or debased Brothers;
For, whether more, or less, my Body's found,
Tall, active, graceful, fair, strong, sweet, or sound—
Mind, witty, more, or less, or learn'd, or wise,
In Heav'n's endowments all the difference lies.
Yet still I wish, with Thee, to stand the test,
Which of the twain are best, and blessedest:
Whether Wealth, Pow'r, and Pomp, can counterpoise
Our moral pleasures, and religious joys—
Whether our station, and unnotic'd Name,
Secure not comfort more than public Fame—
Whether we find not fuller happiness
In simple Diet, and in simple Dress,
Devoid of foolish, and affected, airs,
Than they, in all the Luxury of theirs;
Or, whether our simplicity of Speech
May not Man's heart, and Heav'n's kind audience, reach,
As much, or more, than their exalted Sense,
With all the tropes of tutor'd Eloquence!
How gladly would my sympathetic Soul,
Their follies counteract! their faults controul!
Then should the Tyrants of our sentenc'd Earth,
Lay by the pride of Pow'r, of Wealth, and Birth,
And, warm with chearful zeal, at Church, or Home,
Hear—read—and ponder, Heav'n's instructive Tome—
To understand the Truths—the Rules apply—
To live with lustre—free from doubtings die—
And, full of Faith, and Hope, and fellow-Love,
Direct their looks and steps tow'rds bliss above,
While marking, accurate, and copying, fair,
One well-depicted, full-length, Portrait, there;
The Portrait of a Personage, so supreme,
He shines its Author, and its chiefest Theme!
Not hoping lights so strong, or tints so pure;
But faintly sketch'd in humble miniature.
Then God, complacent, from his gracious Throne,
Would view all Worshippers, in Love alone;
And ne'er with vengeance, or with wrath, review
A careless Crowd, or bold rebellious Crew.
Then Lust would ne'er attempt a Neighbour's wrong—
No speech, impure, contaminate the tongue—
But every phrase profane, and falshood, then,
Give place, in peace, to yea, and nay—Amen!
Then blissful Love would each fond bosom fill—
All subject Wills obey His sovereign Will—
By that blest Book, and Exemplar sublime,
All hearts be happy thro' the reign of Time!
And, when they feel their Foe's last, cruel, call,
With Hope, and Faith, in full assurance fall!
Obeying still, thro' Life, his righteous Laws,
With Conscience clear, yet void of Self-applause.
And hath not He a right, who form'd the Whole,
To stablish Laws His Creatures to controul?
And may not He, with Justice, punish those
Who quit His Kingdom, and become his Foes?
And hath not He sufficient Pow'r to quell
All Rebels' malice, both in Earth and Hell;
As well as Love, all Creatures to requite,
That learn His Law, and in His Name delight?

LETTER VIII.

[Let's again, distinctly, try]

Dear Hannah,

Nor only female Prudes, but male,
In which these Passions mightily prevail,
Partaking all expences, toils and pains,
For such mere negatives, or airy gains;
While all their private conduct ill accords
With what should be a Lady's—or a Lords.
Such Ladies, oft, will smuggle—fib—and plot—
Whisper—and wink—and wheedle—and—what not—
Such Lords o'er Slaves, and Vassals, domineer,
And practice countless tricks beneath a Peer—
Yet both will bend to proud Superior's nod,
And worship Kings, as Christians worship God.
Ev'n troops whose titles swell with loftier sound,
Will stoop to Tyrants, awfully profound—
To mortal Monarchs reverently bow—
Vent loving elogies—allegiance vow—
But ne'er on God, with gratitude, attend,
Or neck, or knee, to Christ, e'er bow, or bend.
Nor are those numbers of exalted Name,
Devoid of tyranny, or moral blame—
Viscounts and Earls oft sink beneath such Ranks—
Sometimes their Spouses play strange faux-pas pranks—
While Marquisses and Dukes degrade their places;
And prudish Duchesses forget their Graces—
Prelatic Priests, to glory, gold prefer,
Deceive and swear—with some few foibles more—
Kings may be caught in Faults, or Folly's snare—
Some Queens, in selfishness, resemblance bear;
And, like the Ladies, and their Lordships, shew
Most fondness for the fleeting things below.
Thus Rich and Great, the most Sublime, sometimes,
Grieve God, and Conscience, and forget their Crimes—
Pervert their talents, and their time destroy;
Refuse all Grace, and flout all genuine Joy!
Among mere Mortals, then, what can we trace
Distinguishing the Clown's, and Courtier's Race?
What, that can satisfy a reasoning Mind,
Among the various Ranks of human Kind?
Princes and Princesses, or Queens and Kings,
From Us, uncouth, and despicable, Things!
If Toys, and Trinkets, form the mighty claim,
Money, for Thee, and Me, might do the same,
Were able Artists properly employ'd,
Our bodily defects, like Theirs, to hide.
If Titles can produce such wonderous pother,
Rustics might add the like to one another—
Might call this Clown a Lord; and that a Duke;
Nor care a fig for Court's, or King's rebuke—
Yea, oft we hear, when Nature has been slack,
And plac'd a hump on poor Plebian's back,
Whether his furniture be fair, or foul—
His features form an Angel, or an Owl—
Whether he proves a Genius, or a Dunce,
His Title's clear—He's dubb'd a Lord at once.
Then what are Titles, if such dregs of Man,
Nature's worst refuse! thus can join the Clan?
They're but a set of noisey, silly, sounds,
Bereft of weight, where Worth, or Wit, abounds!
What are blue Ribbands, drawn across the breast,
With which a Dunce, or Monkey, may be dress'd?
Brighter, at Balls, on School-girls, oft are seen,
Or Morris-dancer's on the daisied Green;
And, when conjoin'd with glittering, tinsel, Star,
The May-day Chimney-sweeper's finer far:
While all the Shew, with which the Ladies shine,
Is mostly dug from dark, and dirty mine;
Or filthy worms, and sordid shells, supply,
To deck the body, and delight the eye!
Be but their trinkets, and their trim put off,
How Louts would laugh! and Common-sense would scoff!
And when Religion's deep-discerning view
Looks all their close-conceal'd recesses through;
Sees them, when every avenue is stopp'd,
And all their proud appendages are dropp'd,
She looks with langour, and with pity grieves,
To see fall'n Adams, and frail naked Eves!

LETTER IX.

[My dearest Hannah; Let me now, once more]

My dearest Hannah; Let me now, once more,
The conduct of the Rich, and Proud, explore.
From full experience, or clear knowledge, state,
The Arts, and Habits, of the Gay and Great.
Line out a little more this mighty Race,
Whate'er their Titles—Property—or Place.
Inspect each Frame—scan all their Conduct o'er,
While Reason rummages their mental Store,
And well infers, from every Act, and Word,
What Common-sense deems wicked, or absurd—
Mark well the traits, and tones, with ears, and eyes,
While Judgment weighs as Understanding pries—
Examine all their Language—every look—
Long figur'd down in Memory's faithful Book—
Endeavouring every step to trace some proof,
Why thus they hold their heads so far aloof,
O'er Us, and others; poor Plebians born!
And, if they look at all, look down with scorn;
Tho', maugre all their malice—Pomp—and Pride—
From Clowns and Artists are all wants supplied—
Still daily Debtors to the boorish Brood,
For toys and trinkets—covering—clothing—food—
As I, with more precision, hope to prove,
Ere Providence to Heav'n my Soul remove.
Meantime I'll labour at my moral plan,
To state the common Character of Man;
And sketch each Gift and Grace, that, clearly, shew
The Courtier and the Clown; the High and Low.
Deem not, my Muse, dear Hannah, idly halts,
Describing Courtiers' foibles, Grandeur's faults;
Or, while she registers Wealth's righteous Debts,
Devoid of gratitude, Our own forgets;
Or thinks the boons bestow'd on Boors, the while,
The just reward of temperance, care, and toil—
No! Heaven, to all, gives all they are, or have,
From first conception till they reach the grave!
Nor was it mere unconsciousness of mind,
That made me leave that humbling thought behind,
But, knowing well, if e'er the Rich should read,
They'd thank me to omit the Christian's Creed;
For any subject yields them more delight,
Than bringing that bless'd object so to sight;
And why? It makes their Self-complacence less,
Exhibiting full proofs of nothingness—
And Honours, Titles, Pomp, and Pride, must fall,
Confronted, thus, with Heav'n's Great All in All!
As Nature's complicated wants impress
They swill and swallow down the motley mess;
And, when replenish'd, their impulsive pow'rs
Throw off all fog and feculence like ours.
Like us pure atmospheric air inspire—
Like our's their foul mephitic streams retire—
Like our's their moist, and musty matter, all,
That filters from the skin, or skirts let fall;
Unless their richer food, at every vent,
May happily improve each higher scent.
Her more delicious impulse we obey,
In general usage, just the self-same way,
Except with such supreme enjoyment cloy'd,
The pure beatitude of hallow'd Bride;
The concubine embrace; and harlot range;
Fastidious grown with cheapness, choice, and change,
Their bosoms burn with fierce, unnatural fires,
Committing crimes beyond ev'n Brute's desires—
Tho' mark'd in males, with females own no name,
Sodom's destruction! Corinth's noted shame!
Nor let this well-known simple truth surprise,
We boast as many ears—as many eyes—
A nose, like theirs; whose accuracy tells,
As nicely, fetid, and all fragrant, smells—
A tongue, which dainty tastes as well discerns—
But not so apt untruths, and flattery, learns.
Two limbs, like theirs, as upright frames support;
More fit for toil; not so to cringe at Court—
Not laid at length, indulging dangerous ease,
Till fulsome indolence brings forth disease,
But hourly filling up some useful plan,
For honouring God, or benefiting Man.
Two arms, and hands, more active—hardy—strong—
Not all unskill'd in penning prose, or song,
To tell corporeal wants, or mental woe,
Which, from their tyrant conduct, frequent, flow;
But more in culturing or mechanic skill,
To aid their wants, or gratify their will;
Or, skill'd in curious Arts, each pow'rs employ'd
To prompt their Vanity, and puff their Pride.
We feel as tremblingly alive as them—
More free from insipidity and phlegm—
Are conscious what is courteous, true, and just—
More faithful to our promise, troth, and trust—
Our sense of Justice much more finely feels;
Our injur'd Honour makes more pure appeals—
Their's, still to vengeful arms, or art, applies;
Our's to that Will which governs Earth and Skies.
Like them we sometimes laugh, more frequent weep—
Like their's our Souls and Bodies sink in Sleep—
But, unlike Gentlemen and Ladies, We,
In hours, and times, and manners, disagree.
Then, the Ladies who ne'er forgot their cates,
That throng their larders, or their procreant pates;
With many a solid, and substantial, dish,
Yclep'd, in common, Game—Fowl—Flesh—or Fish—
Roots—Herbs—and Fruits—but so by skill compounded,
Poor Taste and Language, both, become confounded!
No Auther names them on the kitchen shelves,
Nor Cooks can scarcely stammer out themselves!
Choice wines of every flavour—every clime—
Whose titles puzzle thought, and baffle rhyme;
Class'd, and consider'd, which, and when, most meet
For pompous Peers, and Diplomatique's treat—
Or else reflecting on inferior sorts,
Which, well arrang'd, and added to the orts
Of all the manag'd meats that then remain,
May humbler Friends, and Authors, entertain.
Now view their various debts, and stock in trade—
Visits to be return'd—and visits paid—
Some, principals must pay—some, Servant's blanks—
Cards of condoleance; or, returning thanks—
Billets, polite, irrelevant, or vague—
A moment's pleasure, or a moment's plague.
These Understanding needs must set to rights,
With vast events that pass'd preceding nights—
What bows and curtsies, compliments and smiles,
Made ample recompence for pains and toils;
What careless looks, nods, dips, or hints unkind,
Stirr'd Anger up, and urged Revenge behind,
Forming her plan to point keen Hatred's glance,
Or meditating speech for Spite's advance:
Sweet billet-doux in some snug corner sleep;
And assignations, near, just, slily, peep;
While deep-laid schemes, and intrigues, huddled by,
Shun all but Her's, and—one all-seeing Eye!
While sylphic Fancy runs these objects o'er,
They hurry up, and sip one breakfast more—
Then order dinner—dress, for Morn, by Twelve,
That Fashion in her farm may dig and delve,
And call her Servants, and her Cattle, out,
To push her pressing businesses about.
Her daily labour's much; and must be done;
Her Team is, therefore, order'd out by One:
But, for convenience, and to 'scape reproach,
Custom has made her Cart become a Coach.
Two Beaux, behind, of spruce, pragmatic, look,
With live-long list, prepar'd from Porter's book,
Of names, on cards, or strips of cards, in store,
They rattle round, and fly from door to door.
With milk-white hose, and heads full fraught with meal,
On tiptoe standing, with high-lifted heel,
Dancing on cushions, or on solid planks,
With little comfort, and as little thanks;
The pair of Macaronies, propp'd on high,
Encounter all the storms of Earth and Sky—
Descending show'rs of rain—hail—sleet—or snow—
Or whirling winds, and clouds of dust below.
One, while the other stands erect, and pert,
Is often forc'd to foot it through the dirt;
And, ere the clamorous carriage turns, and stops,
Down from his elevated perch he drops;
Compell'd by duty, maugre spot, or splash,
Across the muddy street, half-way, to dash,
That no demur, such urgent matter stay,
Or precious time, like theirs, be thrown away.
Some People's more polite occasions call
That doors, like day-light, should be free for all—
But, chiefly, on the Sabbath's hated hours,
When cruel Custom dearer joys devours;
That Fashion, Rank, and Riches, then may find,
A common market for each trading Mind;
When every stamp of Merchants may attend,
By barter, all their various wares, to vend.
On equal terms all individuals treat,
Whether their articles be small, or great.
'Twould introduce confusion to refuse
Their stock of Knowledge, or their stock of News.
Their traffic's not like merchandise at large,
Commercial People cast up cost and charge;
And, with maturest Wisdom—judgment—sense—
Compare the profits with the whole expence:
But profits and expence they scorn to learn,
Such low pursuits are never their concern.
They only wish to teach, or strive to hear,
What to their hankering hearts is doubly dear,
News, which in each gazette of Fashion's found,
And grows, like weeds, on Scandal's dungy ground—
Knowledge, which serious Christians never sought;
The follies of their Friends, or Neighbour's fault—
But, while they make these faults and follies known,
They cautiously contrive to hide their own.
I never bore an honourable part,
In trade, or commerce, at such curious Mart,
But have been told of matters, mighty strange,
Transacted on such fashionable 'Change—
When parties met, and could not well agree,
On trading terms, in common Coterie,
They've hinted assignations, tête-à-tête,
To make a private bargain quite complete.
Disinterested Souls! so pleas'd with play
They mutually would give Themselves away.
Like little Children; doubling all their joys,
By chaffering trifles, or exchanging toys.
Sordid Self-love so foreign from their heart,
None courts increase, but labours to impart,
All but such copies of each other's face
As carry scandal, or produce disgrace;
Or characters, in gross caricature,
Of other's sought, but none of Self endure.
No simple action, sentiment, or thought,
In such Bazaars is ever sold or bought—
Nor are Truth, Innocence, or Love, sincere;
Or Piety, or Morals, ever there.
In such commodities they never deal;
These they affect not, those they never feel.
Flattery, and Falshood; Vanity and Vice;
Are the main objects of their Merchandise—
While feathers, tinsel, toys, are bought and sold,
Dearer than diamonds, pearls, or purest gold.
Spite's credulous reports, and Envy's tales,
Are current, cent per cent, at all their Sales;
And every Dealer's eager as a Jew
Catching old clothes, to seize on something new.
At every high exchange each other hustle,
And, o'er their bargains make such mighty bustle,
In full confusion, Women mixt with Men,
It looks like antient Chaos come agen—
Like jostling Jonathan's loud hue and cry,
Where every One has Stocks to sell, or buy—
Or like St. Luke's, or Bedlam's, wild abuse,
When every frantic Patient's just broke loose.
Is this the properest plan for spending time,
To quiet Conscience, and escape from Crime?
The path a Christian Spirit should pursue,
To help a Neighbour, or give God his due?
Is this a course to keep the Soul aloft,
Above all sin, and make a sick-bed soft?
The conduct that will ease the dying breath,
And glad the bosom in the grasp of Death?
Assist firm Faith to look, with lifted head,
When Jesus comes to judge the Quick and Dead?
Is this devoting Soul's and Body's pow'rs
To Him who gave them all their gracious dow'rs?
Do Spirit's energies, and fleshly Frame,
Thus laud and magnify their Maker's name?
Are these the best returns their Hearts can pay,
For providential blessings, Night and Day?
For all His bounteous boons of Ease, and Health?
Each privilege of Reason, Pow'r and Wealth?
To Him, for stronger obligations still,
Subordinating Sense, and Time, and Will?
To Him subjecting Passions—Pride—and Lust—
Who, for the love of them, embrac'd the Dust?
For love of them resign'd his heavenly Crown?
From boundless bliss to scorn and death came down
And bore all sufferings, for their sakes, below,
To save their Souls from endless pain and woe?
Alas! their Lives but little proof afford,
They love his Person, or respect his Word;
But all their shameless Conduct clearly shews
They loathe his Lovers, and affect his Foes!