 | The Fast-Day |  |
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DEDICATION. TO THE Honourable Mrs. C---s.
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THE FAST-DAY.
'Twas on the ev'ning of that sullen day
When men, by Proclamation, were to pray,
That Piscopella near her toilet sat,
Tir'd of the fawning Chaplain's drowsy chat:
Full thrice she yawn'd; when he, with solemn face,
Took leave, and went to trifle with his Grace.
When men, by Proclamation, were to pray,
That Piscopella near her toilet sat,
Tir'd of the fawning Chaplain's drowsy chat:
Full thrice she yawn'd; when he, with solemn face,
Took leave, and went to trifle with his Grace.
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Thus left alone, she cast her eyes around
On Plays, Romances, Bibles richly bound,
And Books of Prayer, whose gilded leaves unstain'd
Had never been by any hands prophan'd.
Stretch'd on a sofa, to the Spleen a prey,
She seiz'd again the Scandal of the day:
But 'twould not do; already thrice read o'er,
'Twas stale and stupid grown, and charm'd no more.
Comb-brush she call'd;—but, in an elbow-chair,
Lull'd by the dulness of a Form of Prayer,
Comb-brush in pleasing dreams the moments past,
Nor, in her slumbers, thought it was a Fast.
The bell now rung, whose silver-tinkling sound
Awak'd the Damsel from her sleep profound:
She yawn'd, then rubb'd her eyes, and saunt'ring came
To know the pleasure of the vap'rish Dame;
Who, rising from her couch, half turn'd aside
Her sullen face, as if dispos'd to chide;
Then, in no pleasing tone, the silence broke,
And thus her angry disappointments spoke:
PISCOPELLA.On Plays, Romances, Bibles richly bound,
And Books of Prayer, whose gilded leaves unstain'd
Had never been by any hands prophan'd.
Stretch'd on a sofa, to the Spleen a prey,
She seiz'd again the Scandal of the day:
But 'twould not do; already thrice read o'er,
'Twas stale and stupid grown, and charm'd no more.
Comb-brush she call'd;—but, in an elbow-chair,
Lull'd by the dulness of a Form of Prayer,
Comb-brush in pleasing dreams the moments past,
Nor, in her slumbers, thought it was a Fast.
The bell now rung, whose silver-tinkling sound
Awak'd the Damsel from her sleep profound:
She yawn'd, then rubb'd her eyes, and saunt'ring came
To know the pleasure of the vap'rish Dame;
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Her sullen face, as if dispos'd to chide;
Then, in no pleasing tone, the silence broke,
And thus her angry disappointments spoke:
O that this slow-pac'd, canting day were past!
Comb-brush, I almost wish it were my last:
When holy Dulness, by supreme command,
Scatters Hypocrisy through half the land,
And bids each pious soul his lips prepare
To harrass Heaven with unmeaning prayer:
When Pleasure, bound in unrelenting chain,
Appeals to Fashion, but appeals in vain:
When Trade, who neither Saints nor Lent obeys,
Professing hatred of their holy days,
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But, Comb-brush, sure that curse will be forgiven!
—The Doctor talks in vain:—I cannot see
The wisdom of this dull solemnity;
Folly and nonsense all it seems to me:
Vapours, and discontent, and spleen it brings,
Though preach'd by Bishops, and ordain'd by Kings.
Bishops, I know them well, if it should last
Beyond a day, would ne'er propose a Fast:
Or, should it stem Corruption's rapid flood,
Kings would declare it did them too much good .
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Disdains the politic impertinence;
Laughs at the voice of Power, when it shall dare
To shackle free-born minds with times of prayer,
And will not change the habits of the day,
Spite of the pert command that bids to pray.
Of these am I; and why should I refuse
The means which Fashion gives me to amuse
Life's heavy hours, and make them onward glide,
Quick as the billows of the passing tide?
—Let Prelates o'er their sleepy Bibles pore,
And seal the day with one dull chapter more;
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And sweeten ev'ry cup with Calumny;
Let Wits be silent, and the stiffen'd Prude
Make fast her doors, and fancy she is good;
Let loyal Subjects, at the King's command,
Eat stinking fish to save a sinking land;
Let the starch Hypocrite all day delight
In looks demure, but feast himself at night;
And rigid Christians starve themselves till four ,
Glad that the rigours of the day are o'er;
I shall the dictates of my heart obey,
And close the ev'ning with a little play:
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And we together will our fortune try.
Go, bring the Cards!—The thought dispels my pain,
And Piscopella is herself again!
COMB-BRUSH.
Madam, you surely jest—Would not his Grace,
If he should hear it, turn me from my place?
Besides, (don't think I mean to be uncivil,)
I have some little terrors of the Devil.
I had, your La'ship, a sad dream last night,
That made my hair like bristles with affright.
Beside my bed, methought, I saw him stand,
Horns on his head, a pitchfork in his hand:
Two balls of fire, instead of eyes, appear'd,
And two bright forky flames compos'd his beard:
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Which, curl'd around him, made a tail before:
Wide grinn'd his horrid jaws; and, as he spoke,
All steep'd in clammy sweatings, I awoke.
PISCOPELLA.
Cease, cease the horrid tale!—The mighty sin
Shall rest on me:—The Cards! and let's begin.
COMB-BRUSH.
All sin apart, what will the Clergy say,
If they should hear that you had spent in play,
Beneath this roof, the evening of this day?
PISCOPELLA.
Comb-brush, you make me rave!—I fear a Lurch
Far more than all the terrors of the Church.
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Who thought this tott'ring pile an holy place,
Where Guardian Angels, a celestial band,
Were station'd by th' Almighty's dread command,
To his high courts, on speedy wings, to bear
Each humble sigh, and momentary prayer.
With far, far other eyes, these tow'rs I view,
Nor think that, when I'm here, I'm in a pew.
—What's in a Bishop's Wife, that she should be
The only slave of dull Formality?
That she, when other women freely roam,
Must be confin'd to Dullness and to Home?
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Extend their sober dictates to the Wife?
'Tis out of Reason, out of Nature's plan;
'Twas not the Saint I wedded, but the Man.
Bear I the rev'rend titles which he bears?
Or share the holy honours which he wears?
Whatever title doth the Bishop grace,
The Wife knows neither change of name or place.
I feel no holy flame, took no degree,
Nor swell with fervors of Divinity.
No sacred unction bless'd my nuptial bed;—
Holy Divines, like common Laymen, wed.
W**c'ster's gay Wife, and Exon's widow'd Dame,
Could you but ask them, would declare the same:
Nor does the pageant state of Durham bind
The lively wish of Lady Sophy's mind.
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Short is our pride, and trifling are our gains:
The Prelate's honours with himself must die,
And all his titles in his coffin lie;
Nor e'en his children get the smallest store
Of all that glory which their father bore.
Comb-brush, you know full well the time may come
When I must quit this grand and stately home;
To some small house or distant place retreat,
No longer courted, and no longer great;
Where Deans and Doctors I shall never see,
And thank a Curate for his flattery.
—Sure, then, 'tis wisdom, while these seasons last,
To give the crouded Rout and gay Repast;
And, as the Gospel tells, our Friends to bless
With the rich Mammon of Unrighteousness.
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Are hid from those who take delight in Cards,
They should a fairer, better pattern give,
And by their virtues teach us how to live;
They should themselves resist the lures of life,
Nor crave the carnal play-thing of a Wife:
Chaste let them be, and practise pious airs,
Nor look at petticoats, but mind their prayers;
Let all their hours in sacred works be past,
And let them keep through life a gen'ral Fast.
—Such were Divines, ere madcap Henry gave
To every tyrant Clerk a wedded slave;
Ere he (and sure he ne'er will be forgiven)
Mix'd up with carnal Lusts the Grace of Heaven.
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But, after all, my Lady, could I find
Some ruddy, well-made Chaplain to my mind,
You would my Int'rest to his Grace commend,
And patronize your true, though humble friend.
PISCOPELLA.
Oh, never, Comb-brush, with a Parson wed,
But rather take a Sexton to your bed!
Dispel the thought,—the rank desire withstand,
Nor furnish Daughters to pollute the Strand .
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Bring forth the Cards, I say, and hold your peace!
COMB-BRUSH.
Madam, you know I ne'er have disobey'd
Whate'er your Ladyship has wish'd or said;
But still, methinks, it is but one short day,
Whose pray'rs will conquer all America.
PISCOPELLA.
Go, ask the Lab'rer, cheated of his fee,
Who fasts, but 'tis from sad necessity,
How oft he blesses this repentant day,
That robs him of his bread, and bids him pray.
—What, what are all these Colonies to me,
That I should yield an hour of liberty?
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Dumb ev'ry tongue, unshuffled ev'ry Card?
—I rather view them with a friendly eye;—
They hate a Bishop's yoke, and so do I.
I never laid a tax, or gave a vote
To point the poniard at a Brother's throat.
Let them who urg'd the horrid mischief pray,
And weep repentant sorrows night and day;
The wish is from my heart, that they might fast
Till the dire wars themselves have made be past.
But why should thoughts like these my peace molest?
Far other cares corrode my anxious breast:
Oh, let them still for bloody feasts prepare,
So round my walls the gleaming Flambeaux glare!
Let Desolation all its vengeance pour,
So constant raps assail my op'ning door!
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So I have daily Cards and Company.
Come, Comb-brush, come!
COMB-BRUSH.
I pray you, Ma'am, forbear!
To-night I'll try to dissipate your care.
Oh, smooth those frowns, let no distress appear!
Another better day will soon be here;
When Oaths, and Lights, and Raps, as heretofore,
Shall make your Hall resound, and grace your Door.
PISCOPELLA.
Comb-brush, 'tis now the carding time of night,
When Balls begin, and splendid Routs invite:
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The Gay, the Giddy, the Demure, the Proud;
When sparkling Flambeaux gild the rattling Coach,
And wearied Knockers tell its near approach.
COMB-BRUSH.
Ah! should it e'er be known you pass'd in play
The ev'ning of this consecrated day,
The frightful scandal of the Morning-Post
Would say you sinn'd against the Holy Ghost.
PISCOPELLA.
Talk not of such vile Chronicles to me,
Their venal praise, and purchas'd calumny.
The best of Kings but serves to swell their rage,
And Virtue's self lies blacken'd on their page.
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Yet, as I make my plea to you in vain,
I must submit to-night:—the last new Play
Shall help the tedious ev'ning on its way!
And, when the bell shall ring, light up the stairs;
I'll be devout for once, and go to prayers.
THE END.
A Government supported by Corruption would be guilty of a most arrant solecism in politics in recommending supplications to Heaven to restore public virtue, if there was the least chance of succeeding. I cannot conceive any-thing more distressing to the Minister of such a state than repentance and amendment of life in his chief supporters. If conscience should, at any time, urge a troop of his partizans to desert him; or, if a sudden fit of virtue should dispose men, in whom he had trusted, to publish his iniquitous practices; he would retreat immediately from his post, and be very fortunate if he escaped the severest punishment. If the Earl Gower and Lord Weymouth had been accompanied in their political contrition by twenty Peers of the Realm, the Minister would have growled at Virtue and Conscience, and found himself under the disagreeable necessity of quitting the golden seat of power.
It is, I believe, a general matter of faith among devout Christians, that, on days of public fasting and humiliation, no one should eat meat till after the services of the day, which are generally completed at four in the afternoon. In this particular, all persons of Fashion give a very striking example of attention to the duties of such public solemnities.
Miss Talbot was a lady of a most amiable and excellent character: she was related to Archbishop Secker, and resided at Lambeth Palace during his life. Her whole conduct was graced with a splendid but rational piety. She gave the world two volumes of compositions, which afford a most decisive proof of her understanding and virtue, and are an honourable testimony to the manner in which her private hours were employed.
It has frequently been asserted, and, I fear, with truth, that many of those unfortunate women who live by prostitution were the daughters of Clergymen; and being left by their parents in a state of want, and without immediate relief, became victims to the first temptation that assailed them. This is a lamentable evil, and, if I recollect aright, is described with a most pathetic eloquence, in a Sermon preached by the late Dr. Ashton before the Sons of the Clergy.
| The Fast-Day | |