Epistles from Bath :: :: University of Virginia Library

Epistles from Bath

Or, Q.'s Letters to His Yorkshire Relations; And Miscellaneous Poems. By Q. In The Corner [i.e. N. T. H. Bayly]

Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839)

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To B--- J--- W---, Esq. THIS VOLUME IS PRESENTED, AS A Token of Regard and Esteem, BY HIS SINCERE FRIEND, THE AUTHOR.

[EPISTLES FROM BATH.]

EPISTLE THE FIRST, From Q. in the CORNER to his SISTER JANE.

Dear Sister Jane, since cruel fate
Decrees that we must separate,
Since word of mouth cannot convey
What each will doubtless wish to say,
'Tis my intention now and then
To speak to you by word of pen:
Thus every thing that charms me most
I'll forward weekly by the post;
And when the Balls and Plays are over,
Detail their merits under cover.

To you, dear Jane, I need not trace
My perils ere I reached this place;

My multiplicity of dreads
Respecting dirt, and unaired beds;
The many grievous jolts I met,
The carriage, too, all but upset;
Th' exorbitant demands I paid,
My parcels lost, my things mislaid.
How often have my spirits sunk,
When forced to ransack every trunk,
And pulling all my boxes over,
Some useful garment to discover,
Which I was doomed at length to find
Was evidently left behind.
At night, too, just as you begin
To sleep serenely at an Inn,
How sad to hear some wretch approach,
To call your neighbours for the coach;
Or kept all night upon your guard,
By noises in the bar, or yard.

All this to me, who ne'er 'till then
Had sought the busy haunts of men,
Or sallied forth equipt to roam
More than a dozen miles from home,

All this confusion seemed to me
The very depth of misery;
And oft I thought, whilst moving hither,
My tour and life would end together:
But here, you find, I am at last,
My travelling distresses past.

And now, perhaps, you may expect
Some information to collect,
Respecting Bath—its Corporation,
Its manners, views, and situation;
With observations, after these,
On its famed waters, buns, and cheese.
But as I only came last night,
When skies were dark, and lamps were bright,
Of course, dear Jane, I can have met
With little of importance yet.

This morning, at the York-Hotel,
I found myself alive and well;
And having got my breakfast down,
I sallied forth to see the town:
The folks are odd,—the streets are even,—
The belles the fairest under heaven;—

The pump-room is extremely spacious,—
The waters very efficacious,
Which many years ago were found
Boiled by Dame Nature under ground.
Here beaux and belles come every day
To drink and hear the music play,
Which, whilst they swallow the libation,
Facilitates its operation.

Write to me soon, dear Jane, adieu—
Your faithful friend and brother,

EPISTLE THE SECOND, FROM Q. TO HIS AUNT RUTH.

From Bath's gay realm, where Fashion's airy throng
Pursue the joys of midnight dance and song;
Where belles and beaux to pass their hours away,
Sport half the night, and slumber half the day;
Whose nerves can scarce the load of life sustain
Till charming candle-light returns again;
Who thus the vulgar charms of daylight shun,
While close drawn curtains quite exclude the sun.
From scenes like these so variously gay,
How shall the Muse each tempting bliss portray;
Or how, dear Aunt, shall I contrive to give
A just description of the life we live?

In this auspicious region all mankind
(Whate'er their taste) congenial joys may find;
Here monied men may pass for men of worth,
And wealthy cits may hide plebeian birth;

Here men devoid of cash may live with ease,
Appear genteel, and pass for what they please;
Here single men their better half may claim,
And flirting spinsters lose that doleful name;
Here husbands weary of domestic strife,
May please themselves, and live a single life;
And married ladies, in their husbands' view,
May freely flirt, and boast their conquests too;
Here boys and girls may marry in their teens,
And live on visionary ways and means;
Here fortune-hunting beaux delude the fair
With large estates and castles in the air;
Here lovely belles so sensitive appear,
They fall in love at least four times a year;
And dames who well the board of green cloth know,
Sit—where they sat near sixty years ago.
Here busy Scandal's ever ready tongue
Will interfere to regulate the young,
Brings every hidden mystery to light,
Corrects the weak, and sets the erring right,
Declares what actions they should chuse or shun,
What they may do, and what must not be done.
Here doctors conscientiously contrive,
By daily calls, to keep their friends alive;
Who, though declining, many days may see,
Whilst daily calls produce a daily fee.

All systems change, and physic, like the rest,
When newly fashioned operates the best:
Thus each practitioner his system draws
From some internal ever-ruling cause,
And laying former doctrines on the shelf,
Cures by a mode peculiar to himself.
One feels your pulse and potently observes—
All your complaints originate in nerves;
If still unsatisfied, the next you call
Will vow that people have no nerves at all:
One says the stomach is the tainted part,
One says the head's in fault, and one the heart;
One undertakes to set you up with ease,
And swears that bile occasions your disease,
Says bile affects you if you glow or shiver,
And throws new lights upon his patient's liver.

A time there was ere modern ills were known,
When matrons had a system of their own;
Each wife possessed a closet amply fill'd
With drugs well mixed, and waters well distill'd;
Alternate food and physic stored her book,
With precepts for the doctress and the cook;
There sage prescriptions followed rich receipts,
And nauseous bitters counteracted sweets:

If sickness pained her spouse, her ready skill
Possessed a remedy for every ill;
Each seasoned dish, each potent draught she knew,—
She made him sick, and cured his sickness too.
But this is past—no spouse now risks his life,
Or trusts his constitution to his wife.

And now, dear Aunt, allow me to proceed
And sketch the Fashionable Invalid,—
By day, all langour—stretched upon the bed,
With feeble body, and with aching head;
Her limbs extended, motionless and faint,
Seemed chained, and stiffened by some sad complaint;
And her pale cheek apparently reveals
A complication of all earthly ills:
But night comes on—then friendly rouge supplies
Health to her cheek, and brightness to her eyes;
Her prudent flannels, and her wraps give place
To airy muslin and transparent lace,—
And, drest for conquest, lovely dimples play
Around those lips that scarcely moved all day;
That tongue which lately, clothed in sickly white,
Exposed its symptoms to the doctor's sight,
Now nimbly moves, from langour's bondage free,
And charms the croud with jest and reparteé.

EPISTLE THE THIRD, FROM Q. TO HIS UNCLE JOHN.

Dear Uncle, I know I am very remiss,
For not having sent to you long before this;
But really this place is so charmingly gay,
What with dancing all night, promenading all day—
What with learning each new-fangled air to attain—
What with dressing, undressing, and dressing again,
And flirting with women, and lounging with men,
I have not had leisure to take up my pen.

I know that the pleasures we daily pursue
Can boast of but little attraction for you,
Nor will you suppose that the cut of a coat,
Or the shape of a boot can be worthy of note;
But, believe me, this city is very prolific
With learned concerns, and with men scientific.

Each weekly Bath paper is sure to contain
The produce of some philosophical brain,
With many a learned and deep dissertation,
Intended, no doubt, for the good of the nation:
An epistle's the thing—but no matter on what,
Whether having a subject, or having it not;
With versatile powers they easily pass
From sulphur to salts, from princesses to gas;
The pens of the writers are worn to the stumps,
Laying open the claims of aperient pumps:
When steam is exhausted, to heighten the joke,
I next shall expect an epistle on smoke;
To begin upon smoke I would now recommend,
For then where it begins it will certainly end.

I subscribe to a library, where I can look
In a new magazine, or a popular book;
And there all the Ladies and Gentlemen sit,
Surrounded by volumes of wisdom and wit;
But the wisdom and wit remain on the shelves,—
They seem not to covet an atom themselves:
The classics are lost on these babes in the wood,
How can they be relished when not understood?

The force of sound argument sets them to sleep.
For shallow capacities prose is too deep,
And poetry, too, no attention can call:—
Duodecimos, quartos, octavos, and all!
And Helicon's stream they untasted condemn,
As Lethe is far better suited to them.
Surveying the bindings, directed by chance,
They dip in a novel, or skim a romance;
Intellectual joys are uudoubtedly felt,
When gazing on vellum, morocco, and gilt;
In a volume in boards no attractions are found—
Verse only can charm, when 'tis charmingly bound.

But at present no more of my paper I'll waste
On the tasteless affairs of these people of taste;
May you share all that health and that fortune can give you,
Is the wish of your truly affectionate Nephew.

EPISTLE THE FIFTH. FROM Q. TO HIS AUNT RUTH.

My dearest Aunt Ruth, you're beginning, no doubt,
To marvel exceedingly what I'm about,
And from my long silence perhaps you suspect
I treat all my Uncles and Aunts with neglect;
Yet oft I've resolved to address you, but when
I had opened my inkstand, and mended my pen,
Some friend was announced who enticed me away,
To lounge and to laugh the best part of the day.

It doubtless to you rather strange will appear,
That friends should already encompass me here;
But let me assure you, 'midst people of ton,
A score may as soon be collected as one.
If a stranger arrive, he possesses the power
Of forming an intimate friend in an hour:

When first introduced, by some wonderful charm,
Men's affections are linked, and they walk arm in arm,—
But no very lasting communion they seek,
They will probably cut at the end of the week;
Perhaps one (all tender emotions to smother)
With affectionate ardour will horsewhip the other,
Or each seek his friend, taking infinite pains,
By a lasting impression to blow out his brains.

Whatever has novelty surely is best,
And friends need replacing as well as the rest;
When weary of one, we are certain to find
In a moment another that's more to our mind:
To tales of old friendships pray who will attend,
Since the older a thing is—the nearer its end?

Perhaps, after this, you will not disapprove,
If I offer a few observations on love;
Not the rural delights of a mutual passion,
But what passes for love with people of fashion.
Most men will allow that no wife is the worse
For being possessed of some cash in her purse;
But of beauties there must be a wonderful dearth,
If the weight of her riches can add to her worth.

All suitors at present appear to commence
A new mode of measuring beauty and sense,—
The woman no value on worth can confer,
Since now 'tis the wealth that gives value to her:
Though the belles are delightful, in Bath, I am told,
That at present the real belle metal is gold.
In old-fashioned times, I am told, it was common
For a man to be struck with the charms of a woman,
And next of her chattels he took an account,
And thus of their means ascertained the amount.
By a different method these things are now reckoned,
The fortune comes first, and the woman comes second,—
And the fortune once gained, their regret would be small
If the woman were not to be thought of at all:
All love is absurd, and affection is stuff,
Any woman will do who is gilded enough:
Matrimonial forms they genteely rehearse,
And he takes the Lady “for better for worse,”—
And whilst the word “better,” alludes to her pelf,
The second word “worse,” seems applied to herself.

Farewell, my dear Aunt, and allow me to say,
When I wed it shall be in a different way;—

Those who marry for money too often may prove,
That their helpmates may afterwards wander for love;
And though love and short commons may make a man sad,
To me Doctors' Commons seem equally bad.

EPISTLE THE SIXTH, FROM Q. TO HIS SISTER JANE.

Dear Sister, the city continues to fill,
And the routes, balls, and card parties multiply still,
And daily the Pump-room arrival-book claims,
A charming addition of elegant names;
Our countryfied neighbours, the Stubbs's, are come,
I have paid them a visit, and found them at home;
And though their acquaintance of course must be small,
They intend (would you think it?) to give a grand ball.

No doubt you will wonder how strangers contrive
To collect crowds of visiters when they arrive,—
But 'tis easily managed, provided they shine
With plenty of supper, and plenty of wine.

To return to the Stubbs's—they really appear
Determined to vie with the first people here:—

Miss Mary Elizabeth wears on her head
A straw composition that looks like a shed—
A thing that they term a Parisian bonnet,
With handkercheifs, ribbons, and roses upon it,
And turned up all round at the edge like a drain,
Which is very convenient to carry off rain.

And then her poor Mother! 'twould ruffle a saint,
To look at her caxon, pearl-powder, and paint;
Her pads and her corsets are managed so well,
Those who follow her sometimes may think her a belle,
But when you o'ertake her, astonished you find
She's a Gorgon before, though a Venus behind;
A nondescript thing shuffled into society,
Of age, youth, and folly, a motley variety;
The faults of both ages her manners unfold—
She cannot be young, and she will not be old;
Let her polish and varnish as much as she will,
The rust of antiquity hangs round her still.

Dear Jane, after all the accounts I have given
Of Bath and its joys, you must think it a heaven;
But though heavenly now, its enjoyments abound
In the season alone, and not all the year round:

In May or in June all the world go away
To dip in the ocean, and pickle their clay;
At Cheltenham remove constitutional faults,
By drinking the waters, and swallowing salts.
Thus within and without all defects disappear,
Which keeps them in order the rest of the year.

Though Bath in the winter with Fashion is full,
Yet Bath in the summer is dreadfully dull;
No tramping of horses, no rumbling of wheels,
No noise on the pavement of Gentlemen's heels;
The Pump-room Musicians are laid on the shelf,
And the Renter may drink the warm water herself;
The Tradesmen lack trade—at their shop-doors they stand,
And all the “neat articles” lie upon hand.

You said in your last that you wished to possess
Some more observations on fashion and dress,—
Then first you must know I have lately been struck,
That the flounce has at length given way to the tuck.
Then purchase some muslin, dear Sister, I pray,
And tuck yourself up in an elegant way.
You next must observe it is proper to wear
A sert of plantation arranged in your hair;

At the balls and the plays all the Ladies I see,
Look exactly like Daphne turned into a tree:
How blest are the moments when Fashion allows
Fresh roses to bloom on a young Lady's brows;
It ever must sanction her smiles when she knows
That all her flirtations are under the rose.

Fashion changes each month, and new models her throng—
Now waists are all short, and then waists are all long;
Fresh wreaths in the garden of Fancy they cull—
Now dresses are scanty, and then they are full;
Unique compositions they eagerly view,
Exhausting old shapes, and imagining new:
And now all the damsels intend, I believe,
To try the costume of their grandmother Eve.

But, belles, be advised, for 'tis folly to waste
These gratuitous sights upon men of no taste;
All beaux of discernment have now seen enough
Of the delicate white and the beautiful buff;
And when, for the good and amusement of man,
You strip your fair shoulders, and shew all you can,
We're really inclined to believe you deplore,
That foolish decorum wont let you shew more;

And we often conclude, after all we have seen,
So much nature without shews the nature within.

Oh, Woman!—by Nature ordained to bestow
Every joy that enlivens us pilgrims below;
Through life ever hovering near to assuage,
The ills that assail us from boyhood to age;
In every affliction man's surest relief,—
In sickness his nurse, and his solace in grief;
When his spirit is clouded by error and shame,
Her tenderness still may the truant reclaim;
And he whom no threats and no terrors could move,
Will bow to the milder dominion of love.

In the realms of the gay we behold her advance,
All lightness and loveliness joining the dance;
But the revellers gone, in seclusion she moves,
Regardless of all save the one that she loves.

Enchantress! adorned with attractions like these,
In mind and in person created to please;
Oh! why will you sully the charms you possess,
Instructing mankind how to worship you less,
Thus, perfect by Nature, can Fashion impart
One additional charm with the finger of art?

No—fruitless the search for fresh beauties must be,
While all that is beautiful centres in thee.

If still thou wouldst reign, and for ever receive
That homage which man is ambitious to give,
Oh! yield not to art's insignificant wiles,—
Be omnipotent only in dimples and smiles.

Perhaps, my dear Sister, you think I had better
Have spared this digression, and stuck to my letter;
But when woman's the theme you may surely excuse
The wildest career of a masculine Muse,—
'Tis the heart, not the judgment, that governs the pen,
When female perfections are painted by men.

EPISTLE THE EIGHTH, FROM Q. TO HIS UNCLE JOHN.

Dear Uncle, I know how astonished you'll look,
When you hear that your Nephew has written a book,
Which has lately been printed;—I'm flattered, and told
By some means or other has also been sold;
And as this is the case, you'll perhaps be amused
To hear how these “Sketches of Bath” have been used.

One exclaimed “these Rough Sketches are very so so:
“Who is Q. in the Corner? I'm dying to know.”
“I'm sure,” cries another, “I know very well,
“But don't think it proper at present to tell:
“I think them excessively good, I confess;
“He's a person of consequence—pray can you guess?”
“A person of consequence! is he indeed?
“Oh! I'll read them again—they can't fail to succeed;

“I did not discover their worth the first tinne,
“On a second perusal I think them sublime:
“Oh! name me the author—what is he, and who?
“Perhaps 'tis Lord Byron, perhaps Caraboo,
“Or perhaps we ere long may discover between us,
“They're the lyric remains of the Hottenttot Venus.”

One Lady exclaims, “though the Author professes,
“That no private scandal his poem possesses;
“Though he says he's not personal, yet I can see,
“That half of the stuff was intended for me;
“Such rhymes never yet were invented by men,
“I suspect that they flow from a feminine pen;
“Or, perhaps, from a host of old maids, who may think
“To smother their fortunate rivals in ink.”
One thinks the Translations of Horace the best,
Another pronounces them worse than the rest;
What one may condemn as ridiculous stuff,
Another declares is amusing enough;
Each chooses a different limb of my Muse,
What one person praises, the next will abuse.
If each man who reads was allowed to remove
That part of a book which he does not approve,

When by blots all had made their antipathy plain,
I marvel exceedingly what would remain;
Thus were I to heed the objections of all,
My verse would diminish to nothing at all.

I pity all those who, at different times,
Have had the discredit of making my rhymes,
As the Authors of Sketches, some names have been hinted,
Which ne'er (save on visiting cards) will be printed,
Who would think themselves wronged, if accused of uniting
Those abstruse sort of sciences—reading and writing.
But some are suspected whose worth far exceeds
My past and my present poetic misdeeds,
Whose names on Parnassus already attain
A Corner which Q. may long sigh for in vain;
And should critics in future my writings condemn,
'Twill sooth me to think I was taken for them.

I own, in the court of Parnassus, my rhymes
May be tried and convicted of various crimes;
My Muse as a nuisance may oft be indicted,
Proved guilty of folly and dullness united;
My book may be said to be crowded with flaws,
And condemned for a breach of poetical laws;

My pen may have scribbled full many a word
'Gainst the peace of Apollo, our Sovereign Lord;
But though my offences may greatly increase,
I can ne'er be accused of a breach of the peace;
No person or persons can e'er represent
That I wounded their feelings with evil intent,
For if satire e'er lurks at the point of my pen,
I aim it at manners, but never at men.

END OF THE EPISTLES.

Miscellaneous Poems.

THE MUSE OF SORROW.

I

Mourn , England, mourn! thy joy is passed away,
Charlotte, the idol of thy hopes, is gone;
Whose virtues promised, on some future day,
To be the pride and splendour of thy throne:
The prospect of her greatness e'en outshone
The golden annals of Eliza's fame;
Her form, her mind, her manners were thine own;
A loyal People's love endeared her claim,
And every English heart exulted in her name.

II

But yesterday! with what delight we traced
The future honors of her high career;
Young, beautiful, and mighty—she was placed
Apparently above the storms severe
That frown upon mankind; the warrior's spear
Was twined with olive, and the welcome strain
Of Peace and Victory resounded here:
Alas! we hoped these blessings might sustain
Through many happy years her bright, auspicious reign.

III

All that the valour of our arms has done
To calmer moments seemed to smooth her way,
And every battle British Chiefs have won
Appeared prophetic of her tranquil sway;
This was our consolation in the day
Of darkness and of peril;—this the light,
Which, even in the midst of war's array,
Oft cheered our drooping spirits with the sight
Of joys in store for her, and laurels ever bright.

IV

Prosperity and peace returned again,
The reign of Tyranny was overthrown,
While discontented factions strove in vain
To shade the lustre of her Father's crown:
Happy was England then! no awful frown
Forbad her ardent spirit to rejoice;
And, 'midst the martial triumphs of renown,
Were heard the nuptial song, the festive voice,
When noble Charlotte claimed the Husband of her choice.

V

To her high station and her princely birth
The Nation's homage and respect were due;
But private virtue and domestic worth
Obtained a tribute of affection too;
Those of a humbler sphere in her might view
A bright example—her delight had been
In calm serenity—but Fancy drew
Time's shadowy veil aside, and she was seen
By Hope's expectant eye Old England's future Queen.

VI

It was our Prayer, that when our honored guide
Hereafter should be lost, we might bestow
On her our love and duty, and with pride
Behold the diadem adorn her brow;
It was our Hope to have beheld her now
A happy Mother; every heart was gay,
And all combined their loyalty to shew;
The voice of revelry, the sportive lay
Echoed on every side in honor of the day.

VII

But when that day arrived, which seemed adorned
With all our hopes could paint, when joy was near,
And young and old with one fond impulse turned
To hail the Royal Infant, and to hear
Congratulations breathed; their short career
Of triumph was o'erthrown; affliction came,
By disappointment rendered more severe;
Forgotten was their hope, their pride, their fame,
They mourned their Charlotte's Death, and sorrowed o'er her name.

VIII

Ill-fated Mother! from life's fairest scene,
In health and splendour prematurely torn;
To-day how joyous England would have been
Hadst thou been spared, hereafter to have worn
Her brilliant Crown! But though with tears we mourn
Thy early death, yet HE who gave the blow
Has also taught us how it may be borne;
HE brings us consolation, for we know
That Thou art far removed from every earthly woe.

TO THE MEMORY OF LAURA.

How vain are our visions, how transient our joys,
The bright beam of happiness soon disappears;
And the arrow of fate in a moment destroys
The fabric that Hope has been building for years:

The place of my birth can no longer enchant,
Its former attractions seem withered to me;
I find a sad relic in every plant,
And a trace of my Laura in every tree.

Its jessamine bowers the spot may unfold,
And roses as lovely may cluster the stem;
It is brilliant and bright as a casket of gold,—
The casket remains—but, oh! where is the gem?

Each favorite object distinctly I trace,
But the spell that endeared them I cannot recall;
'Twas the form of my Laura enlivened the place,
And she was the star that illumined it all.

For ever I go, and relinquish the scene,
Where often in happier moments we met;
Yet still I bear with me such traces within
Of her charms and her goodness—I cannot forget.

'Tis true I may gaze on the groves she has seen,
I may gather the flowrets she used to prefer;
I may walk in the path where her footsteps have been—
But I need no such ties to remind me of her.

The heart is the only true record of love,
Where those who were dear to us live to the last;
Her form will be with me wherever I rove,
A mournful memento of days that are past.

The dark wave of Time in its progress removes
Our long-cherished trifles from memory's list;
But fondly we cling to our earliest loves,
When those that endeared them no longer exist.

LOVE.

Oh! Love is born in youthful days,
When pleasure sheds her purest rays;
And love endures to latest years,
To sooth our woes—to dry our tears:
It cannot lengthen early bliss,
Or cause times fleet career to stop,
But offers age much more than this—
Its social joy—its firmest prop.

It cannot join the ties that sever,
Or make gay moments last for ever,
But if Love's real spark remain,
Moments as gay may come again:
It cannot freshen autumn leaves,
Or breathe new life on vigour flown;
And ah! why should it—when it gives
To age a sunshine of its own.

But oft when angry-thoughts divide
Hearts which affection once had tied,
We say that love is ever found
A stormy sea where rocks abound;
Yes there are storms that overwhelm
The fickle bark which folly guides,
But when true Love is at the helm,
Anger's short tempest soon subsides.

TO A LADY, FROM WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD RECEIVED A CASE OF RAZORS.

Dear Sarah! if my verse could boast
As high a polish as your token,
No smooth expression should be lost,
No courtly phrase be left unspoken.

And if my wit could e'er attain
As keen an edge as these display,
My Muse should give one brilliant strain,
Your brilliant present to repay.

But though my verse is far less keen,
When tempered with my utmost skill:
Receive my thanks, however mean,
And for the deed accept the will.

And oh! if thou wert prone to range,
(And female friendships often shift)
Believe me, I should feel the change
More cutting—even than your gift.

THE LOVER'S SONG.

What will not lovers undertake,
In every clime, for woman's sake?
What daring deed has ever proved
Too bold for him that truly loved?
Though danger should his steps retard,
Her chosen cause he'd still prefer;
And think her smiles a bright reward
For all that he endured for her.
My tale is true,
And I would do
As much, or more for I know who.

Orpheus such constancy could boast,
That when Eurydice was lost,
He left the world—and breathed a strain
Which almost lured her back again;
And Pyramus, who (sages say)
Whispered soft things in Thisbe's ear,
Through stone partitions found a way,
To prove that she alone was dear.
My tale is true,
And I would do
As much, or more for I know who.

Leander braved the stormy flood,
To seek his Hero's solitude;
Who nightly raised her torch, to guide
Her faithful lover o'er the tide:
He came at the appointed hour,
Though waves were rough and stars were dim;
For oh! the light on Sestos' tower
Appeared a brilliant star to him.
My tale is true,
And I would do
As much, or more for I know who.

FINIS.