 | Poetical sketches |  |
73
THE WARM BATH.
BATHS and the nymph I sing, who waits,
Assiduous Touter ! at the gates;
Anxious with cards, her name that bear,
To catch th' arriving traveller;
Lest nimbler claimants step between,
To recommend their own machine.
She patient, with her pockets full,
Sits all day opposite the Bull:
Happy, that lords her tickets took—
Too happy might she duck a duke!
Assiduous Touter ! at the gates;
Anxious with cards, her name that bear,
To catch th' arriving traveller;
Lest nimbler claimants step between,
To recommend their own machine.
She patient, with her pockets full,
Sits all day opposite the Bull:
Happy, that lords her tickets took—
Too happy might she duck a duke!
‘But of Dame Ducker why this stir?
‘Another bard will sing of her:
‘And, if your depth you wish to show
‘By learned Tract de Balneo,
‘Long since Andrea Baccio
‘Told us, in his huge tome de Thermis,
‘What a cold bath—and what a warm is:
‘For who would venture on lavation,
‘Without such previous information?
‘You've read, no doubt, and well could state his
‘De Tepidis, de Temperatis;
‘What Buxtons were in Latium found,
‘To bless the medicated ground;
‘What Harrogates for taste and smell—
‘As nose and palate both can tell ;
‘Chalybeate, leaden, golden springs;
‘The latter—what delightful things!
‘In this bank-paper token age,
‘Had we such, they'd be all the rage;
‘And ministers, with such Pactolus,
‘No more with rags and lead cajole us!
‘Of Titus next perhaps you'd tell,
‘Who dipp'd, as he did all things, well;
‘On Dioclesian's baths dissert,
‘Vast lakes to scour imperial dirt:
‘(As if our English loyalty
‘Could e'er surmise a prince might be,
‘Great as he is by art and nature,
‘At bottom but a dirty creature,
‘And from his elevated seat
‘More water ask'd to make him sweet!)
‘Then, fast as muse's wing can strain,
‘Hurry your readers o'er to Spain:
‘And bid them at th' Alhambra stare,
‘Though Salamanca still is there;
‘And Wellington his banner waves,
‘By tyrants only fear'd and slaves.
‘Another bard will sing of her:
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‘By learned Tract de Balneo,
‘Long since Andrea Baccio
‘Told us, in his huge tome de Thermis,
‘What a cold bath—and what a warm is:
‘For who would venture on lavation,
‘Without such previous information?
‘You've read, no doubt, and well could state his
‘De Tepidis, de Temperatis;
‘What Buxtons were in Latium found,
‘To bless the medicated ground;
‘What Harrogates for taste and smell—
‘As nose and palate both can tell ;
‘Chalybeate, leaden, golden springs;
‘The latter—what delightful things!
‘In this bank-paper token age,
‘Had we such, they'd be all the rage;
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‘No more with rags and lead cajole us!
‘Of Titus next perhaps you'd tell,
‘Who dipp'd, as he did all things, well;
‘On Dioclesian's baths dissert,
‘Vast lakes to scour imperial dirt:
‘(As if our English loyalty
‘Could e'er surmise a prince might be,
‘Great as he is by art and nature,
‘At bottom but a dirty creature,
‘And from his elevated seat
‘More water ask'd to make him sweet!)
‘Then, fast as muse's wing can strain,
‘Hurry your readers o'er to Spain:
‘And bid them at th' Alhambra stare,
‘Though Salamanca still is there;
‘And Wellington his banner waves,
‘By tyrants only fear'd and slaves.
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‘Toledo's turrets, black and white,
‘Look lovely, in the pale moon light;
‘And were the magic pencil mine,
‘To sketch and fill the fair design,
‘Bid here the dome's huge convex bend,
‘There castles frown and spires ascend;
‘Above, the mountain rear it's brow,
‘The valley's plenty laugh below;
‘I'd trace a scene should quickly call
‘You, lingering from the ruin'd hall
‘Where old Abderrahman reposed,
‘When sleep his Moorish eye-lids closed;
‘And make you deem—so rich the view—
‘What you have read of Eden true!
‘To Scott alone such pencil's given,
‘Dipt in the rainbow hues of heaven:
‘He only might permitted be
‘(Such the true poet's witchery)
‘If call'd on English baths to rhyme,
‘Bravely neglecting space and time,
‘With Rome's sad wrecks to mock our sense,
‘Or Saracen magnificence;
‘And whirl the veriest torpedo
‘Now to Grenada, now Toledo!
‘Befits not one of humbler wing,
‘Aught but the theme assign'd to sing.’
‘Look lovely, in the pale moon light;
‘And were the magic pencil mine,
‘To sketch and fill the fair design,
‘Bid here the dome's huge convex bend,
‘There castles frown and spires ascend;
‘Above, the mountain rear it's brow,
‘The valley's plenty laugh below;
‘I'd trace a scene should quickly call
‘You, lingering from the ruin'd hall
‘Where old Abderrahman reposed,
‘When sleep his Moorish eye-lids closed;
‘And make you deem—so rich the view—
‘What you have read of Eden true!
‘To Scott alone such pencil's given,
‘Dipt in the rainbow hues of heaven:
‘He only might permitted be
‘(Such the true poet's witchery)
‘If call'd on English baths to rhyme,
‘Bravely neglecting space and time,
‘With Rome's sad wrecks to mock our sense,
‘Or Saracen magnificence;
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‘Now to Grenada, now Toledo!
‘Befits not one of humbler wing,
‘Aught but the theme assign'd to sing.’
On theme, so limited, 'tis hard
For gifted or ungifted bard,
Standing on one leg or a pair,
To bring two hundred lines to bear .
Had I been summon'd to describe
In lengthen'd strain th' amphibious tribe,
Half nereids they, half flesh and blood,
Though most at home when in the flood;
I would have framed fit invocation,
To herald my versification—
For gifted or ungifted bard,
Standing on one leg or a pair,
To bring two hundred lines to bear .
Had I been summon'd to describe
In lengthen'd strain th' amphibious tribe,
Half nereids they, half flesh and blood,
Though most at home when in the flood;
I would have framed fit invocation,
To herald my versification—
“O come, Hygeia, wrapt in mantle blue,
“Thy cheek besprent with spray, the billows' dew!
“Traverse thy yellow sands with ancle bare,
“Arms more than rosy red, and dripping hair;
“And all thy temples' portals flinging wide,
“Which tower (like fanes Venetian) o'er the tide,
“Give to thy morning worshippers to lave,
“With pure ablution, in the cleansing wave!
“But ah! too like the fount of Salmacis ,
“Goddess, thy cleansing wave at Scarbro' is;
“Where in gross union male and female blend,
“Thy rites too social for the pure t'attend.”
“Thy cheek besprent with spray, the billows' dew!
“Traverse thy yellow sands with ancle bare,
“Arms more than rosy red, and dripping hair;
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“Which tower (like fanes Venetian) o'er the tide,
“Give to thy morning worshippers to lave,
“With pure ablution, in the cleansing wave!
“But ah! too like the fount of Salmacis ,
“Goddess, thy cleansing wave at Scarbro' is;
“Where in gross union male and female blend,
“Thy rites too social for the pure t'attend.”
These, and a thousand distichs more,
I could have penn'd upon the shore:
To Amphitrite sung a sonnet,
Or mermaid, as without a bonnet
She fingers o'er her sea-green locks,
And makes her toilet 'mid the rocks:
No more with comb and glass they dress
At Exmouth, or at Inverness ;
But listeners showery sounds surprise
Of wild Æolian melodies!
I could have penn'd upon the shore:
To Amphitrite sung a sonnet,
Or mermaid, as without a bonnet
She fingers o'er her sea-green locks,
And makes her toilet 'mid the rocks:
No more with comb and glass they dress
At Exmouth, or at Inverness ;
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Of wild Æolian melodies!
Nay, had it been a shower-bath, some
Jove issued demi-god might come,
At my fond call, in gremium ;
And that poor soil fecundify
With fruits and flowers, that never die.
But a mere warm bath—there's the rub—
What god would patronise a tub;
An artificial stream unlock,
A boiler tend, or turn a cock?
Without more preface then, or proem,
Headlong I plunge into—my poem.
Jove issued demi-god might come,
At my fond call, in gremium ;
And that poor soil fecundify
With fruits and flowers, that never die.
But a mere warm bath—there's the rub—
What god would patronise a tub;
An artificial stream unlock,
A boiler tend, or turn a cock?
Without more preface then, or proem,
Headlong I plunge into—my poem.
80
Who that ethereal lustre may express,
That genuine grace, that simple loveliness,
Which, though with Phidian marbles it might vie,
Shrinks all abash'd e'en from it's own pure eye;
Shuts out th' intruding god of day, and dreads
The very woven forms on which it treads?
That genuine grace, that simple loveliness,
Which, though with Phidian marbles it might vie,
Shrinks all abash'd e'en from it's own pure eye;
Shuts out th' intruding god of day, and dreads
The very woven forms on which it treads?
O modesty! how amiably breaks
The sudden flush, warm mantling o'er thy cheeks;
When, centre of the crowded circle's gaze,
Thou feel'st th' approving voice of honest praise!
In vain, disrobed by Fashion's harlot hand,
Bold Beauty flutters shameless o'er the land;
Now here now there, a meteor mischief, flies
Illusive flickering 'neath the midnight skies:
With pale alarm we note th' ill-omen'd form,
And deem it portent of a hastening storm.
Not Helen only set a realm on blaze;
Through woman's wiles all human strength decays:
By female magic lull'd, the mightiest sleep,
And o'er their spell-bound sovereign nations weep.
The sudden flush, warm mantling o'er thy cheeks;
When, centre of the crowded circle's gaze,
Thou feel'st th' approving voice of honest praise!
In vain, disrobed by Fashion's harlot hand,
Bold Beauty flutters shameless o'er the land;
Now here now there, a meteor mischief, flies
Illusive flickering 'neath the midnight skies:
With pale alarm we note th' ill-omen'd form,
And deem it portent of a hastening storm.
Not Helen only set a realm on blaze;
Through woman's wiles all human strength decays:
By female magic lull'd, the mightiest sleep,
And o'er their spell-bound sovereign nations weep.
And can no cure for this bright bane be found?
No moral styptic check this bleeding wound?
And shall not man, by sad experience wise,
Shun the fair ruin flaring in his eyes?
No moral styptic check this bleeding wound?
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Shun the fair ruin flaring in his eyes?
O! how might woman rule with blameless sway;
How might our race improve, as they obey:
Would but the light deluder cease to move
By Fashion's influence fashion's fools to love!
Untainted by the Bacchanal's hot breath,
Ungarlanded, except by Virtue's wreath:
Would she but cease for fops to spread the lure,
And seek the pure in heart, herself as pure;
As Ella, or as Laura, maid or wife,
The grace of this—the guide to future life!
But, what from Helen's foul amour can rise,
Save Troy's red flames ascending to the skies!
How might our race improve, as they obey:
Would but the light deluder cease to move
By Fashion's influence fashion's fools to love!
Untainted by the Bacchanal's hot breath,
Ungarlanded, except by Virtue's wreath:
Would she but cease for fops to spread the lure,
And seek the pure in heart, herself as pure;
As Ella, or as Laura, maid or wife,
The grace of this—the guide to future life!
But, what from Helen's foul amour can rise,
Save Troy's red flames ascending to the skies!
Turn we, my muse, where Ella, simple maid,
Sits pale with cold and shivering at a shade;
Or shudders through some crevice to descry—
Crevice before unmark'd, a curious eye!
Move no light clouds across the curtain'd glass,
But stamp a human peeper as they pass.
Even fancied sounds her timid ear appal;
A step draws near—she catches at a shawl.
Thrice did'st thou entering, Ella, bar the door:
Thrice lock, to “make assurance doubly sure.”
Thine idle terrors then, dear girl, restrain,
Phantasmagoric etchings of the brain:
Those flitting forms are imaged by thy fear—
No peeping Tom of Coventry is near;
And, if such Tom of Scarbro' there should be,
He'd instantly be sent to Coventry.
O, if not the good angel of thy fate,
Trust her—the faithful guardian at the gate.
Sits pale with cold and shivering at a shade;
Or shudders through some crevice to descry—
Crevice before unmark'd, a curious eye!
Move no light clouds across the curtain'd glass,
But stamp a human peeper as they pass.
Even fancied sounds her timid ear appal;
A step draws near—she catches at a shawl.
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Thrice lock, to “make assurance doubly sure.”
Thine idle terrors then, dear girl, restrain,
Phantasmagoric etchings of the brain:
Those flitting forms are imaged by thy fear—
No peeping Tom of Coventry is near;
And, if such Tom of Scarbro' there should be,
He'd instantly be sent to Coventry.
O, if not the good angel of thy fate,
Trust her—the faithful guardian at the gate.
Had but such caution mark'd poor Lady Scrub,
Ere, cynic-like, she stept into her tub;
Had she but shot one bolt—why did she not?
The proverb says, ‘Fools bolts are quickly shot—’
She ne'er from Captain Pepys had shrunk appall'd,
Ne'er fruitlessly for distant Jenny squall'd;
Ne'er toil'd in vain her embonpoint to hide,
Perversely buoyant, by the vessel's side!
“Ah why,” the muse expostulating cries,
“Are ladies careless, or have captains eyes?”
Ere, cynic-like, she stept into her tub;
Had she but shot one bolt—why did she not?
The proverb says, ‘Fools bolts are quickly shot—’
She ne'er from Captain Pepys had shrunk appall'd,
Ne'er fruitlessly for distant Jenny squall'd;
Ne'er toil'd in vain her embonpoint to hide,
Perversely buoyant, by the vessel's side!
“Ah why,” the muse expostulating cries,
“Are ladies careless, or have captains eyes?”
Here leave we Ella half an hour,
To float like some fair lotus flower,
Which on the Nile's broad surface swims,
And dips by turns it's flexile limbs;
Diffusing, in it's lily pride,
A holy halo o'er the tide—
That half hour's space elapsed, to be
Venus Anadyomene.
To float like some fair lotus flower,
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And dips by turns it's flexile limbs;
Diffusing, in it's lily pride,
A holy halo o'er the tide—
That half hour's space elapsed, to be
Venus Anadyomene.
W.
A name, appropriated to the canvassers on each new arrival; possibly from the French, tout, as they lose nothing—at least, for want of asking.
Baccius, in the work above-quoted, in which the writer has occasionally dipped, has a chapter expressly—De Aquis sapore et odore abominabilibus. Of these, from his detailed account, there seems to have been no lack in the ancient world; and, as defined by the author (quæ a sulphuris natura ac diversarum invicem terrarum permistione resultant) they appear to have been true Harrogate.
On the Thermæ, both of Titus and Dioclesian, see Baccius, VII. 3.—Of the latter, which with their accompaniments appear to have employed in the building 40,000 Christians, a very full account is given, under the quaint idea of their several parts corresponding with the proportions of the human body, in the sixth chapter.
Cui non audita est obscænæ Salmacis undæ!
Ovid Met. Unde sit infamis, quare male fortibus undis
Salmacis, &c.
Id.
Ovid Met. Unde sit infamis, quare male fortibus undis
Salmacis, &c.
Id.
Consult Col. G---, of the N--- Militia; whose horse, by direction I suppose of his patron Neptune, threw his presumptuous rider into the sea.
From Inverness we have heard more than enough of mermaids. Mr. Toupin, from Exmouth, has still more recently described the singular tones of one seen last August near the Bar of that place, which were not inaptly compared by one of the party to the mild melodies of the Æolian harp, combined with a sound similar to that made by a stream of water falling gently on the leaves of a tree. Monthly Mag. Nov. 1812.—p. 345.
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