The Dance of Life A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | CHAPTER VII. FASHIONABLE LIFE. |
| VIII. |
 | CHAPTER VII. FASHIONABLE LIFE. The Dance of Life |  |
218
CHAPTER VII. FASHIONABLE LIFE.
THE Knight, who found he reap'd no good
From this same life of solitude,
Rush'd to the world, as in despair,
In hope to find a cordial there.
The world receiv'd him as its guest,
And soon display'd th'alluring feast,
Where splendid dissipation reigns,
To prove a cure for all his pains:
There, with impetuous haste he found
What all his sorrows quickly drown'd:
Sad recollections soon were o'er,
And Henry was himself no more.
Wealth, figure, fashion all combin'd
To change the texture of his mind.
From this same life of solitude,
Rush'd to the world, as in despair,
In hope to find a cordial there.
The world receiv'd him as its guest,
And soon display'd th'alluring feast,
Where splendid dissipation reigns,
To prove a cure for all his pains:
There, with impetuous haste he found
What all his sorrows quickly drown'd:
Sad recollections soon were o'er,
And Henry was himself no more.
Wealth, figure, fashion all combin'd
To change the texture of his mind.
219
While every passion was awake
Doubtful which flow'ry path to take,
The first his fancy seiz'd was Taste,
Impure to-day—to-morrow chaste,
And oft has brought great wealth to waste.
His eager wish the Phantom caught,
And thus the willing votary taught.
“—Your park is fine, in sylvan pride
“The noble woods stretch far and wide,
“And fringe the lawns with ample shade,
“While verdure freshens every glade.
“The Lake, whose waters ne'er o'erflow,
“Brightens the vale that's seen below.
“The Doric porch, the column's height,
“And castle tower enchant the sight,
“While the whole offers to the eye
“More than Arcadian scenery.
“But then the House distracts the view,
“A structure strange, half old, half new:
“The old is but a cumb'rous pile,
“The new is in a wretched style;—
“'Tis my advice, the place to crown,
“Without delay to pull it down
“And build anew: a structure rear
“That may in graceful state appear,
“Not simply plain, nor idly great,
“But such as suits your country seat;
“Such as your rank and wealth demands,
“The work of no inferior hands;
“Where use and elegance combine,
“Where attic symmetry may join,
“To form a grand, and chaste design.”
—Thus spoke the power: the eager Knight
Seiz'd the idea with delight.
“O charming, lively Sprite,” he said,
“Thy every wish shall be obey'd.”
When lo! the Architects appear,
With anxious hope, the pile to rear:
The masons shout, the sculptors bend,
The artists and their arts attend;—
All preparation's duly made,
And the first stone in pomp is laid.
Palladio and Vitruvius groan
Beneath the enormous weight of stone:
The walls ascend, the columns rise
Of every order, every size;
Taste rules the work—the money flies.
“But while the building's going on,
Sir Henry asks, “What's to be done?”
Fashion replies—“What others do:”
And then discovers to his view,
In gay and fanciful parade,
The ball, the rout, the masquerade:
The four-in-hand, the lounging hours,
The tonish club, the tempting bowers
Where Beauty, free from Love's alarms,
To the best bidder sells her charms.
“Or when you're tir'd of the town
“Newmarket's interesting Down
“May change the scene: in short, my wand
“Will conjure up, at your command,
“Whate'er the varying will may chuse,
“Time's certain progress to amuse.
“—Thus, when five years, or so, are o'er,
“And my vagaries please no more,
“By that time your fine country seat
“Will, in its splendor, be compleat;
“And, having spent your youthful fire,
“There in calm dignity retire.
“And, when you've wedded some fair dame,
“Of noble stock and titled name,
“With wealth to rub out every score,
“You'll think of me and mine no more;
“But, 'midst your num'rous acres great,
“In all the pomp of rural state,
“You undisturb'd may pass your days
“In all the pride of rural praise.
“Proud of your kennel and your stable,
“With num'rous offspring round your table,
“Your neighbours all you may outvie
“In jovial hospitality.
“As from your hall-door may be shown
“A country wide, and all your own;
“You will a first-rate place command
“Among the gentry of the land;
“And, e'er you close Life's fair career,
“Who knows but you may be a Peer.”
Doubtful which flow'ry path to take,
The first his fancy seiz'd was Taste,
Impure to-day—to-morrow chaste,
And oft has brought great wealth to waste.
His eager wish the Phantom caught,
And thus the willing votary taught.
“—Your park is fine, in sylvan pride
“The noble woods stretch far and wide,
“And fringe the lawns with ample shade,
“While verdure freshens every glade.
“The Lake, whose waters ne'er o'erflow,
“Brightens the vale that's seen below.
“The Doric porch, the column's height,
“And castle tower enchant the sight,
“While the whole offers to the eye
“More than Arcadian scenery.
“But then the House distracts the view,
“A structure strange, half old, half new:
“The old is but a cumb'rous pile,
“The new is in a wretched style;—
220
“Without delay to pull it down
“And build anew: a structure rear
“That may in graceful state appear,
“Not simply plain, nor idly great,
“But such as suits your country seat;
“Such as your rank and wealth demands,
“The work of no inferior hands;
“Where use and elegance combine,
“Where attic symmetry may join,
“To form a grand, and chaste design.”
—Thus spoke the power: the eager Knight
Seiz'd the idea with delight.
“O charming, lively Sprite,” he said,
“Thy every wish shall be obey'd.”
When lo! the Architects appear,
With anxious hope, the pile to rear:
The masons shout, the sculptors bend,
The artists and their arts attend;—
All preparation's duly made,
And the first stone in pomp is laid.
221
Beneath the enormous weight of stone:
The walls ascend, the columns rise
Of every order, every size;
Taste rules the work—the money flies.
“But while the building's going on,
Sir Henry asks, “What's to be done?”
Fashion replies—“What others do:”
And then discovers to his view,
In gay and fanciful parade,
The ball, the rout, the masquerade:
The four-in-hand, the lounging hours,
The tonish club, the tempting bowers
Where Beauty, free from Love's alarms,
To the best bidder sells her charms.
“Or when you're tir'd of the town
“Newmarket's interesting Down
“May change the scene: in short, my wand
“Will conjure up, at your command,
“Whate'er the varying will may chuse,
“Time's certain progress to amuse.
222
“And my vagaries please no more,
“By that time your fine country seat
“Will, in its splendor, be compleat;
“And, having spent your youthful fire,
“There in calm dignity retire.
“And, when you've wedded some fair dame,
“Of noble stock and titled name,
“With wealth to rub out every score,
“You'll think of me and mine no more;
“But, 'midst your num'rous acres great,
“In all the pomp of rural state,
“You undisturb'd may pass your days
“In all the pride of rural praise.
“Proud of your kennel and your stable,
“With num'rous offspring round your table,
“Your neighbours all you may outvie
“In jovial hospitality.
“As from your hall-door may be shown
“A country wide, and all your own;
“You will a first-rate place command
“Among the gentry of the land;
223
“Who knows but you may be a Peer.”
This lavish scheme not only pleas'd,
But was with instant ardor seiz'd;
And soon or late the verse may tell
What good or ill the Knight befel.
Impetuous in every plan,
To the extreme of all he ran.
A house was bought in Portman Square,
And soon each luxury was there:
With all that furnish'd a pretence
To sanctify profuse expence.
Thus Fashion, as the story tells,
Bedeck'd him with a cap and bells:
For oft, although of different name,
Folly and Fashion are the same.
Hence he was shortly seen to own
The most compleat stage-coach in town;
And when were four such horses seen,
As he drove over Turnham Green.
But though each trick he had been shown
By three mail coachmen and his own;
He ne'er was able to command
In a right style, his four-in-hand.
Nay, by some wry and awkward hitch
He threw a gig into a ditch—
Shatter'd the chaise, and hurt the horse,
And, which by some was thought still worse,
Broke Mr. Fig the Grocer's leg,
And spoil'd the shawl of daughter Peg.
To hush it up, the following day,
He had five hundred pounds to pay.
Nor was this all—on Hounslow's plain,
Sharing the glory of the train,
He was o'erturn'd—and his disgrace
Furnish'd a hoaxing, sly grimace
To all the stage and hackney race.
He heard the Quiz, “an awkward Feller,”
Whene'er he pass'd the White-horse Cellar;
And felt at length the silly pride
A mere stage coach with skill to guide:
He therefore laid that scheme aside.
Splendor and Figure now succeed
An higher vanity to feed:
And soon he drove, an Hyde-Park Swell,
His Arabs in a curricle;
Or his bright bays, in whirling state,
Who each of them had won a plate.
In the first stile the Knight appear'd,
Where'er the Ton its standard rear'd,
With all that money could supply
For figure, show, and luxury.
—A thought upon his fancy stole,
That a fair bride would crown the whole.
“O fie,” said Fashion, “prithee stay,
“And that so serious point delay,
“Which, when once done, is done for aye:
“Nor can my changeful power unloose,
“Howe'er it frets, the livelong noose;
“Which, if my aid is ask'd to alter,
“I can but recommend a halter.
“When a few years are gone and o'er,
“And the world's pastimes please no more;
“When Duns encrease, and Lawyers threat,
“And Parliament screens not from debt;
“When Fortune plays her scurvy tricks
“On a rich wife you then may fix:
“When every other plan miscarries,
“I do not blame the man who marries.
“Scout not the doctrine which I deal in:
“The child of Fashion laughs at feeling:
“The Heart, on my gay pleasures bent,
“Disdains all fine-spun sentiment.
“Conscience, my boy, has nought to do
“With such a votary as you:
“I mean the formal, busy thing
“That's given to secret whispering;
“Which has one morn and evening song,
“Whose burthen is—You're doing wrong.
“Honour, indeed, must be your pride,
“And its known rules your constant guide;
“A spirit which obeys alone
“The praise and censure of the Ton;
“And lives in a continual pother
“To avoid the one, and gain the other.
“Marry not yet, I do beseech you,
“Hymen will surely over-reach you:
“But if you will the bondage seek
“Prepare to be a Jerry Sneak;—
“Or where's the mighty fame to boast,
“I'm married—and I rule the roast?
“You either must submit or hector;
“Then take a frail one and protect her.
“The making love's a silly trade,
“When you can find it ready made:
“And what can be a better reason
“Than,—you may change it every season;
“And, good or bad, you know, a wife
“Is held a Tenement for Life.
“Besides, your mansion's not compleat:
“A wife must have a country seat:
“Stay till you've rear'd that costly pile,
“And please yourself in town the while.”
But was with instant ardor seiz'd;
And soon or late the verse may tell
What good or ill the Knight befel.
Impetuous in every plan,
To the extreme of all he ran.
A house was bought in Portman Square,
And soon each luxury was there:
With all that furnish'd a pretence
To sanctify profuse expence.
Thus Fashion, as the story tells,
Bedeck'd him with a cap and bells:
For oft, although of different name,
Folly and Fashion are the same.
Hence he was shortly seen to own
The most compleat stage-coach in town;
And when were four such horses seen,
As he drove over Turnham Green.
224
By three mail coachmen and his own;
He ne'er was able to command
In a right style, his four-in-hand.
Nay, by some wry and awkward hitch
He threw a gig into a ditch—
Shatter'd the chaise, and hurt the horse,
And, which by some was thought still worse,
Broke Mr. Fig the Grocer's leg,
And spoil'd the shawl of daughter Peg.
To hush it up, the following day,
He had five hundred pounds to pay.
Nor was this all—on Hounslow's plain,
Sharing the glory of the train,
He was o'erturn'd—and his disgrace
Furnish'd a hoaxing, sly grimace
To all the stage and hackney race.
He heard the Quiz, “an awkward Feller,”
Whene'er he pass'd the White-horse Cellar;
And felt at length the silly pride
A mere stage coach with skill to guide:
He therefore laid that scheme aside.
225
An higher vanity to feed:
And soon he drove, an Hyde-Park Swell,
His Arabs in a curricle;
Or his bright bays, in whirling state,
Who each of them had won a plate.
In the first stile the Knight appear'd,
Where'er the Ton its standard rear'd,
With all that money could supply
For figure, show, and luxury.
—A thought upon his fancy stole,
That a fair bride would crown the whole.
“O fie,” said Fashion, “prithee stay,
“And that so serious point delay,
“Which, when once done, is done for aye:
“Nor can my changeful power unloose,
“Howe'er it frets, the livelong noose;
“Which, if my aid is ask'd to alter,
“I can but recommend a halter.
“When a few years are gone and o'er,
“And the world's pastimes please no more;
226
“And Parliament screens not from debt;
“When Fortune plays her scurvy tricks
“On a rich wife you then may fix:
“When every other plan miscarries,
“I do not blame the man who marries.
“Scout not the doctrine which I deal in:
“The child of Fashion laughs at feeling:
“The Heart, on my gay pleasures bent,
“Disdains all fine-spun sentiment.
“Conscience, my boy, has nought to do
“With such a votary as you:
“I mean the formal, busy thing
“That's given to secret whispering;
“Which has one morn and evening song,
“Whose burthen is—You're doing wrong.
“Honour, indeed, must be your pride,
“And its known rules your constant guide;
“A spirit which obeys alone
“The praise and censure of the Ton;
“And lives in a continual pother
“To avoid the one, and gain the other.
227
“Hymen will surely over-reach you:
“But if you will the bondage seek
“Prepare to be a Jerry Sneak;—
“Or where's the mighty fame to boast,
“I'm married—and I rule the roast?
“You either must submit or hector;
“Then take a frail one and protect her.
“The making love's a silly trade,
“When you can find it ready made:
“And what can be a better reason
“Than,—you may change it every season;
“And, good or bad, you know, a wife
“Is held a Tenement for Life.
“Besides, your mansion's not compleat:
“A wife must have a country seat:
“Stay till you've rear'd that costly pile,
“And please yourself in town the while.”
These hints were fashion'd to agree
With the young Knight's vivacity.
At that same Evening he display'd
His figure at a masquerade:
There, in the motley croud he sought
What Fashion told him might be bought:
A mart where meretricious vice
Sets off her wares at every price.
At length he saw a form as fair
As the young poet's fancies are:
When, fir'd with love, he tries his art
To paint the tyrant of his heart.
A satin vest her shape confin'd
Broider'd with flowers of every kind,
E'en such as Flora might have wove,
An offering for the God of Love:
Of tissue were her sandals made,
With bright and spangled spots inlaid:
Behind a robe of saffron flow'd,
Which added grandeur as she trod:
The ringlets of her auburn hair
Adorn her brow, in wanton air,
And o'er her shoulders careless spread;
While a gay garland crowns her head:
A gauzy veil of rosy hue
Her bosom half expos'd to view,
While a loose, purple mantle tried
To shade the charms it would not hide.
Sir Henry, struck with so much grace
Ask'd, on bent knee, to see her face:
Vain all the art he could employ;
To his request the fair was coy.
But, whether with a kind intent,
By stolen force or accident,
The verse does not pretend to tell,
From off her face the vizor fell:
He saw, she conquer'd,—and her power
Made him a slave that very hour.
—The yielding fair one now displays
Her beauties in the costly blaze
Of tonish splendor: Thus ensnar'd
No fondness, no expence was spar'd,
That proud Maria might be shown
The finest Demi-rep in Town:
While Bond-street Loungers smile to see
The harlot in a vis-à-vis,
Who whilom, neither clean nor sweet,
Cried Haddocks in that very street.
With the young Knight's vivacity.
At that same Evening he display'd
His figure at a masquerade:
228
What Fashion told him might be bought:
A mart where meretricious vice
Sets off her wares at every price.
At length he saw a form as fair
As the young poet's fancies are:
When, fir'd with love, he tries his art
To paint the tyrant of his heart.
A satin vest her shape confin'd
Broider'd with flowers of every kind,
E'en such as Flora might have wove,
An offering for the God of Love:
Of tissue were her sandals made,
With bright and spangled spots inlaid:
Behind a robe of saffron flow'd,
Which added grandeur as she trod:
The ringlets of her auburn hair
Adorn her brow, in wanton air,
And o'er her shoulders careless spread;
While a gay garland crowns her head:
A gauzy veil of rosy hue
Her bosom half expos'd to view,
229
To shade the charms it would not hide.
Sir Henry, struck with so much grace
Ask'd, on bent knee, to see her face:
Vain all the art he could employ;
To his request the fair was coy.
But, whether with a kind intent,
By stolen force or accident,
The verse does not pretend to tell,
From off her face the vizor fell:
He saw, she conquer'd,—and her power
Made him a slave that very hour.
—The yielding fair one now displays
Her beauties in the costly blaze
Of tonish splendor: Thus ensnar'd
No fondness, no expence was spar'd,
That proud Maria might be shown
The finest Demi-rep in Town:
While Bond-street Loungers smile to see
The harlot in a vis-à-vis,
Who whilom, neither clean nor sweet,
Cried Haddocks in that very street.
230
Thus for three years he danc'd along
To Fashion's gay, deluding song:
Though such the hoarded store that yet
He was not in one Tradesman's debt.
But tir'd of shewing off his graces
In the same way, in the same places,
He took it in his head to play,
As he thought, in a mod'rate way:
The billiard table he preferr'd,
And Fortune, for some time, appear'd
To crown his hopes, as he could boast,
That he had rather won than lost.
But soon his gains grew rather thrifty,
By winning ten and losing fifty.
And here, alas, the treacherous flame
Lit in his heart the love of game;
When he ambition'd higher deeds:
Newmarket saw his num'rous steeds,
And Racing Calendars proclaim
His new-fledg'd honours and his name:
But they, so deck'd by Hope, appear
To cost him—very, very dear.
With the best Horse and sure to win,
Amid the noisy, clam'rous din
That's heard at ev'ry betting-post;
Yet, somehow, his fond hopes were cross'd,
And, when th'expecting race was run,
It seldom happen'd that he won.
To Fashion's gay, deluding song:
Though such the hoarded store that yet
He was not in one Tradesman's debt.
But tir'd of shewing off his graces
In the same way, in the same places,
He took it in his head to play,
As he thought, in a mod'rate way:
The billiard table he preferr'd,
And Fortune, for some time, appear'd
To crown his hopes, as he could boast,
That he had rather won than lost.
But soon his gains grew rather thrifty,
By winning ten and losing fifty.
And here, alas, the treacherous flame
Lit in his heart the love of game;
When he ambition'd higher deeds:
Newmarket saw his num'rous steeds,
And Racing Calendars proclaim
His new-fledg'd honours and his name:
But they, so deck'd by Hope, appear
To cost him—very, very dear.
231
Amid the noisy, clam'rous din
That's heard at ev'ry betting-post;
Yet, somehow, his fond hopes were cross'd,
And, when th'expecting race was run,
It seldom happen'd that he won.
The Steward, who had never known
His former Master live in town,
But for a hasty month or two,
Could not conceive how money flew
In that gay vortex of expence,
Of folly, and improvidence;
Though he at length began to fear
The Knight was getting in arrear,
So oft and urgent, was his claim
For money, e'er the rent-day came
—Gravely, though verging to threescore,
Knew of what's call'd the world, no more
Than a young urchin who, at school,
Can just repeat a grammar rule:
For the lamenting Doctor thought
A letter, with sage maxims fraught
And warnings kind, at least would prove
A tribute of his grateful love,
If its warm energies should fail
In higher objects to prevail.
He wrote—the Knight ne'er ceas'd to whistle
While he perus'd this wise epistle:
But, as it was in kindness meant,
He frown'd not, but an answer sent
To the good Doctor's homely nieces,
In silks and bonnets, and pelisses;
With each a mantle, or a shawl,
To stop the old man's tedious brawl.
Thus the good Ladies thought it best
To set their uncle's zeal at rest;
That silence was the prudent measure;—
“Why risk so kind a friend's displeasure?
“Repay his goodness with your prayer,
“And leave him to Heaven's guardian care.”
But that same care he so much wanted
It does not seem that Heaven granted.
—Two years pass'd on and all supplies
His rent-roll, over-drawn, denies;
Nay, e'en his former friends the Jews,
Another thousand pounds refuse.
His fine town-house must pass away
The Sharper's foul demands to pay:
The country mansion is compleat,
But does not yield a crust to eat;
An empty pile to greet the eye
Of careless trav'ler passing by.
To quell the Tradesman's daily call
His horses go to Tattersall:
And that Sir Henry was undone,
Becomes the topic of the Ton.
When his best friends he chanc'd to meet,
They say—“How do,”—and cross the street:
He finds they every hour decline,
Since they're no longer ask'd to dine.
At length he thinks the world a cheat,
And dives into its deep deceit:
Yet still he boasts one faithful breast,
With whose affection he is blest.
His former Master live in town,
But for a hasty month or two,
Could not conceive how money flew
In that gay vortex of expence,
Of folly, and improvidence;
Though he at length began to fear
The Knight was getting in arrear,
So oft and urgent, was his claim
For money, e'er the rent-day came
—Gravely, though verging to threescore,
Knew of what's call'd the world, no more
Than a young urchin who, at school,
Can just repeat a grammar rule:
232
A letter, with sage maxims fraught
And warnings kind, at least would prove
A tribute of his grateful love,
If its warm energies should fail
In higher objects to prevail.
He wrote—the Knight ne'er ceas'd to whistle
While he perus'd this wise epistle:
But, as it was in kindness meant,
He frown'd not, but an answer sent
To the good Doctor's homely nieces,
In silks and bonnets, and pelisses;
With each a mantle, or a shawl,
To stop the old man's tedious brawl.
Thus the good Ladies thought it best
To set their uncle's zeal at rest;
That silence was the prudent measure;—
“Why risk so kind a friend's displeasure?
“Repay his goodness with your prayer,
“And leave him to Heaven's guardian care.”
But that same care he so much wanted
It does not seem that Heaven granted.
233
His rent-roll, over-drawn, denies;
Nay, e'en his former friends the Jews,
Another thousand pounds refuse.
His fine town-house must pass away
The Sharper's foul demands to pay:
The country mansion is compleat,
But does not yield a crust to eat;
An empty pile to greet the eye
Of careless trav'ler passing by.
To quell the Tradesman's daily call
His horses go to Tattersall:
And that Sir Henry was undone,
Becomes the topic of the Ton.
When his best friends he chanc'd to meet,
They say—“How do,”—and cross the street:
He finds they every hour decline,
Since they're no longer ask'd to dine.
At length he thinks the world a cheat,
And dives into its deep deceit:
234
With whose affection he is blest.
Maria was the tender Fair
Who would his adverse fortune share;
And if her smiles should fail to cheer,
Would meet his sorrows with a tear.
—She met him with her usual grace:
The well-known smiles bedeck'd her face,
But he determin'd to await
The morning till he told his fate.
The morning came and common chat
Prevail'd while they at breakfast sat:
But as the Knight, with rueful face,
Had just prepar'd to state his case,
She in a fondling tone began.
“Thou most belov'd and generous man!
“My Barouche now is three years old,
“A new one in a better mould,
“I must entreat you to provide;
“For I'm asham'd, my Love, to ride
“In such a shabby thing: beside,
“There's Sophy Brass, who you'll agree,
“Is nothing, when compar'd to me,
“Has a new carriage all so gay,
“In which she daily shews away:—
“And shall a Banker's trull outdo
“The friend of such a man as you.
“Believe me, I shall make a stir,
“If I'm to be out-shone by her.
“The morning's fine, 'tis charming weather,
“In my old Tub we'll go together
“And call at Hatchet's; his great trade
“May furnish one that's ready made;
“Or tell him, e'er a month is o'er,
“To bring a new one to my door.”
—As he pull'd on his boots he sigh'd,
And with embarrass'd look replied:—
“As for Barouches, be it known
“I soon, dear Girl, must sell my own:
“The horses are already gone.
“There's a sad rent in my affairs;
“But you, I know, will sooth my cares:
“Though the world frowns you will beguile
“My downcast spirits with a smile.
“Now, till this cloud is past and over,
“We both must cease to live in clover.
“With humble stile you'll be content:
“Besides, you have your Settlement.”
When redd'ning up, she fiercely said,
“And, if it is not duly paid,
“You, Sir, in Limbo shall be laid.”
—The contest warm'd, and words arose
In all the force of vulgar prose.
My Muse is chaste, nor can rehearse
The criminating slang in verse:
But she may tell,—with vixen grace,
Miss threw the coffee in his face,
And in her passion's wild uproar,
Dash'd the rich Crock'ry on the floor;
Then spurn'd him, in the way of trade,
From out the house for which he paid.
Who would his adverse fortune share;
And if her smiles should fail to cheer,
Would meet his sorrows with a tear.
—She met him with her usual grace:
The well-known smiles bedeck'd her face,
But he determin'd to await
The morning till he told his fate.
The morning came and common chat
Prevail'd while they at breakfast sat:
But as the Knight, with rueful face,
Had just prepar'd to state his case,
She in a fondling tone began.
“Thou most belov'd and generous man!
“My Barouche now is three years old,
“A new one in a better mould,
“I must entreat you to provide;
“For I'm asham'd, my Love, to ride
“In such a shabby thing: beside,
235
“Is nothing, when compar'd to me,
“Has a new carriage all so gay,
“In which she daily shews away:—
“And shall a Banker's trull outdo
“The friend of such a man as you.
“Believe me, I shall make a stir,
“If I'm to be out-shone by her.
“The morning's fine, 'tis charming weather,
“In my old Tub we'll go together
“And call at Hatchet's; his great trade
“May furnish one that's ready made;
“Or tell him, e'er a month is o'er,
“To bring a new one to my door.”
—As he pull'd on his boots he sigh'd,
And with embarrass'd look replied:—
“As for Barouches, be it known
“I soon, dear Girl, must sell my own:
“The horses are already gone.
“There's a sad rent in my affairs;
“But you, I know, will sooth my cares:
236
“My downcast spirits with a smile.
“Now, till this cloud is past and over,
“We both must cease to live in clover.
“With humble stile you'll be content:
“Besides, you have your Settlement.”
When redd'ning up, she fiercely said,
“And, if it is not duly paid,
“You, Sir, in Limbo shall be laid.”
—The contest warm'd, and words arose
In all the force of vulgar prose.
My Muse is chaste, nor can rehearse
The criminating slang in verse:
But she may tell,—with vixen grace,
Miss threw the coffee in his face,
And in her passion's wild uproar,
Dash'd the rich Crock'ry on the floor;
Then spurn'd him, in the way of trade,
From out the house for which he paid.
In this sad plight what could he do?
At length, a kind, relenting Jew
Furnish'd a sum that, for the hour,
Preserv'd him from the Catchpole's power,
And forwarded his grand intent
To get a seat in Parliament,
When, at his leisure, he might form
Some plan to hush the threat'ning storm;
Some well-laid, œconomic scheme
That might his former life redeem,
And his derang'd affairs restore
To the full shape they whilom wore.
—For 'tis but right it should be known,
That 'midst the follies he must own,
In passion's unrestrain'd career,
For misery he had a tear,
Nor fail'd a pleasure to receive,
When he forbade the heart to grieve;
While Friendship found a sure supply
In all his prodigality.
Nay, no small part of his distress
Arose from his desire to bless,
And add to others' happiness.
In his gay hours he ne'er was seen
Deprav'd in manner, words or mien;
And, when all reason he outran,
He still retain'd The Gentleman.
Though sometimes hid they were not lost,
Those feelings which were once his boast.
Thus, by the gale of passion blown,
When all his present means were gone;
When heavy clouds began to lour,
And his heart felt the adverse hour,
Repentance found him well prepar'd
To meet his folly's just reward,
With the firm purpose to redress,
By noble means, his past excess.
Of Heaven he ask'd the strength to bear
The pain he might be doom'd to share,
Till time and patience should restore
His state to what it was before.
—But, to proceed—He now went down
To canvass greedy Grapple Town.
'Twas a fierce contest, and the Knight
Saw all his deeds in black and white,
In printed bill or awkward scrawl,
Display'd upon each vacant wall.
The ribbald verse, the angry prose
Did all his spendthrift life expose:
The hireling songsters, up and down,
Chaunted his frailties through the town;
Nor did his party's loud huzzas
That boldly clamour'd forth his praise,
Nor could the smiling salutation
Drive from his heart the keen vexation,
Which, 'mid the hubbub of the day,
Would, to his bosom, force its way,
And e'en, in all his hopes despite,
Destroy the sabbath of the night.
He felt it all, for well he knew
That all they said and sung was true.
—The Election o'er, the public voice
Declar'd Sir Henry was its choice.
He bow'd from his triumphant chair,
And, as the crowd their Fav'rite bear,
He kiss'd his hand to many a Fair.
Who, from their windows, smil'd to see
Their Hero pass in victory.
—He thought the Election was compleat,
So came to Town and took his seat;
And, in St. Stephen's Chapel, He
Enjoy'd three months' security:
But charge of Brib'ry being prov'd,
He from his priv'lege was remov'd.
How sad the change! but I should fail
In dwelling on the wretched tale:
The clam'rous Duns, th'Attorney's threat,
The Catchpoles, who each step beset,
With all the base outrageous tenders
Of Usurers and Money-lenders,
Who shortly forc'd him to retreat
To the sad refuge of the Fleet.
—But there, at least, he was alone,
And though each former friend was flown,
By no grim threat'ning looks opprest,
He could hold counsel with his breast.
Nay, there he first began to think
He was not on the very brink
Of utter ruin: He, indeed,
Thought his affairs might be retriev'd.
When his long list of debts he read,
He seem'd on tott'ring ground to tread;
But when he turn'd to his estate
And saw its revenues how great,
Though little us'd to calculate,
The prospect promis'd to display,
Through the dark clouds, a gleam of day.
At length, a kind, relenting Jew
237
Preserv'd him from the Catchpole's power,
And forwarded his grand intent
To get a seat in Parliament,
When, at his leisure, he might form
Some plan to hush the threat'ning storm;
Some well-laid, œconomic scheme
That might his former life redeem,
And his derang'd affairs restore
To the full shape they whilom wore.
—For 'tis but right it should be known,
That 'midst the follies he must own,
In passion's unrestrain'd career,
For misery he had a tear,
Nor fail'd a pleasure to receive,
When he forbade the heart to grieve;
While Friendship found a sure supply
In all his prodigality.
Nay, no small part of his distress
Arose from his desire to bless,
And add to others' happiness.
238
Deprav'd in manner, words or mien;
And, when all reason he outran,
He still retain'd The Gentleman.
Though sometimes hid they were not lost,
Those feelings which were once his boast.
Thus, by the gale of passion blown,
When all his present means were gone;
When heavy clouds began to lour,
And his heart felt the adverse hour,
Repentance found him well prepar'd
To meet his folly's just reward,
With the firm purpose to redress,
By noble means, his past excess.
Of Heaven he ask'd the strength to bear
The pain he might be doom'd to share,
Till time and patience should restore
His state to what it was before.
—But, to proceed—He now went down
To canvass greedy Grapple Town.
'Twas a fierce contest, and the Knight
Saw all his deeds in black and white,
239
Display'd upon each vacant wall.
The ribbald verse, the angry prose
Did all his spendthrift life expose:
The hireling songsters, up and down,
Chaunted his frailties through the town;
Nor did his party's loud huzzas
That boldly clamour'd forth his praise,
Nor could the smiling salutation
Drive from his heart the keen vexation,
Which, 'mid the hubbub of the day,
Would, to his bosom, force its way,
And e'en, in all his hopes despite,
Destroy the sabbath of the night.
He felt it all, for well he knew
That all they said and sung was true.
—The Election o'er, the public voice
Declar'd Sir Henry was its choice.
He bow'd from his triumphant chair,
And, as the crowd their Fav'rite bear,
He kiss'd his hand to many a Fair.
240
Their Hero pass in victory.
—He thought the Election was compleat,
So came to Town and took his seat;
And, in St. Stephen's Chapel, He
Enjoy'd three months' security:
But charge of Brib'ry being prov'd,
He from his priv'lege was remov'd.
How sad the change! but I should fail
In dwelling on the wretched tale:
The clam'rous Duns, th'Attorney's threat,
The Catchpoles, who each step beset,
With all the base outrageous tenders
Of Usurers and Money-lenders,
Who shortly forc'd him to retreat
To the sad refuge of the Fleet.
—But there, at least, he was alone,
And though each former friend was flown,
By no grim threat'ning looks opprest,
He could hold counsel with his breast.
Nay, there he first began to think
He was not on the very brink
241
Thought his affairs might be retriev'd.
When his long list of debts he read,
He seem'd on tott'ring ground to tread;
But when he turn'd to his estate
And saw its revenues how great,
Though little us'd to calculate,
The prospect promis'd to display,
Through the dark clouds, a gleam of day.
That he might instantly pursue
The plan which started to his view,
Urg'd by that strong, impetuous zeal
Which his warm mind could ne'er conceal,
Whate'er his object or his aim
Or true or false, it was the same,
He summon'd Faithful to attend,
His Steward and his humble Friend;
Who oft, with anxious heart, had griev'd
At the sad tidings he receiv'd;
And call'd on his last sands to run
Before Sir Henry was undone.
He us'd to sit, and sigh, and say,
“I rather would be turn'd to clay,
“Than live to see that mournful day.”
He instantly obey'd the call
Which was receiv'd at Graceful Hall;
For long he had, with ceaseless care,
Watch'd all his Masters' interests there.
—In the mean time a Lawyer shrewd,
Who all the law-craft understood,
And more than once, with great success,
By his professional Finesse,
Sir Henry served in some distress,
Came to propose his utmost aid
In all the vigour of his trade,
The Knight's condition to relieve,
And ease and liberty to give.
With him he brought a cunning elf,
A wrinkled rascal like himself,
Whom he could warmly recommend
As a most worthy, wealthy friend.
Now as no evil could ensue
From this unlook'd-for interview,
Sir Henry thought he might as well
Listen to what he had to tell.
Old Capias then disclos'd his plan,
And thus the conversation ran.
“—Your debts, good Sir, in the account,
“Appear to an immense amount;
“But you may take my honest word,
“I will reduce them to a third;
“And, when that's done, I'll find the way,
“In no time, that same third to pay.
“Your gaming debts the Statute Laws
“Will settle with one clinching clause;
“And Usury may come in aid
“To save your Loans from being paid:
“For your Annuities I've a scheme,
“At half their purchase to redeem:
“Those Dealers look with fearful eye
“Upon a Suit in Chancery.
“O, hang the Rogues! one half, at least,
“Of their base claims shall be decreas'd!
“Let them do right, or to their sorrow,
“I'll file a dozen bills to-morrow.
“Give your instructions, I'll to work,
“And cut and slash like any Turk.
“Just sign this parchment, and the Friend,
“Who does upon my steps attend
“And with great ready wealth abounds,
“Will, if you want a thousand pounds
“For present use, without more warning,
“Furnish the sum to-morrow morning,
“While he will to my wishes grant
“What money I may chance to want:
“Nor shall my honest labours cease
“Till we have brought you your release.
“—There's one estate knows no Entail,
“And that we will put up to sale:
“I know its worth, and do aver
“I've got a ready purchaser.
“Your great Advowson you may sell,
“And there are woods that you can fell,
“They're not quite fit to cut, 'tis true,
“But what is that, dear Sir, to you?
“The money which you want, they find;
“Besides, they leave the Land behind;
“The grain will grow where once they stood,
“And corn is better far than wood.
“The Deed's in all due form prepar'd,
“That nought the bus'ness may retard:
“Thus you may in the world appear,
“Nor your friends know you have been here.
“—By this same parchment you assign
“To me, and this good friend of mine,
“All your Estates, and their Arrears,
“For the small space of seven years,
“With all their rights—in short, the whole
“To our full power and controul;
“And all the appurtenances due,
“As they are vested now in you;—
“And when that hasty term shall cease,
“We will our transient rights release.
“You then shall without debts repair,
“To your improv'd possessions there,
“And thank us for our faithful care.
“E'er one short week is gone and o'er
“You shall pass through the grated door;
“The social world again shall see
“And breathe the air of Liberty.
“Then we advise, with best intent,
“A visit to the Continent,
“Where due allowances shall give
“The means, in figure fair, to live:
“There at your ease you may remain,
“Till we invite you back again.”
—What more the Lawyer had to say
Was interrupted by a fray,
In which a female voice prevail'd
By a rough Turnkey's tones assail'd.
One of the Jail's attendant witches
Had just purloin'd a pair of breeches:
One of those washer-women hags
Who, prim'd with gin, and proud in rags,
These scenes of misery infest,
And add distress to the distrest.
—Sir Henry now was heard to say,
“Still I am doom'd to be the prey
“Of villainy in every form;
“But I will weather out the storm,
“And patience, which I so much want,
“The powers above I trust will grant.”
Capias lift up his hands and eyes
At such unheard enormities:
And, with new reasons which he drew
From the strange outrage in their view,
He urg'd the Knight to sign the deed
That from this Den he might be freed,
Where every sense must feel and see
A noisome nest of misery.
—Sir Henry look'd around and sigh'd;
But still in nervous tones replied:
“It is a Den to which no friends
“Like Daniel's Angel e'er descends;
“But, in my breast, to check despair,
“An Angel virtue may prepare
“Those firm intents, whose power may guide
“My passage through the troublous tide,
“And, each dark trace of error o'er,
“May peace and happiness restore.
“Now honest Capias and his Friend
“Will to my solemn words attend.
“'Tis true, I have been Folly's tool;
“But know—that I'm no more a fool.
“I've a long path of folly past:
“But, Capias, I am wise at last;
“And wisdom, you the truth may trust,
“Consists, shrewd Sir, in being just.
“What should be done, I sure can do,
“Why may I not, as well as you.
“—But not an acre will I sell,
“No, not an oaken tree, I'll fell:
“My woodlands, an whole cent'ry's shade,
“I ne'er will see a ruin made.
“What sell the Advowson? if I do,
“I should be mean, and base as you.
“No interest shall my mind enslave,
“To forfeit the kind word I gave,
“Which forc'd a smile of grateful grace
“On my old rev'rend Tutor's face,
“That he, in preaching and in prayer,
“Should occupy the pulpit there.
“O may my heart ne'er cease to ake,
“When I that sacred promise break!
“Believe me, in this place I'll stay,
“Though it be to the Judgement day,
“Till all I owe, I duly pay.
“Your offers, therefore, I decline:
“Your time is precious, so is mine:
“This curious conclave now is o'er,
“And I will show you to the door.”
The Lawyer seem'd dispos'd to stay,
As he had something more to say:
But Levi whisper'd in his ear,
“We have no further bus'ness here:
“His virtue interrupts our plan;
“That foolish Boy, do all we can,
“Will be a wronghead, honest man.”
The plan which started to his view,
Urg'd by that strong, impetuous zeal
Which his warm mind could ne'er conceal,
Whate'er his object or his aim
Or true or false, it was the same,
He summon'd Faithful to attend,
His Steward and his humble Friend;
Who oft, with anxious heart, had griev'd
At the sad tidings he receiv'd;
And call'd on his last sands to run
Before Sir Henry was undone.
242
“I rather would be turn'd to clay,
“Than live to see that mournful day.”
He instantly obey'd the call
Which was receiv'd at Graceful Hall;
For long he had, with ceaseless care,
Watch'd all his Masters' interests there.
—In the mean time a Lawyer shrewd,
Who all the law-craft understood,
And more than once, with great success,
By his professional Finesse,
Sir Henry served in some distress,
Came to propose his utmost aid
In all the vigour of his trade,
The Knight's condition to relieve,
And ease and liberty to give.
With him he brought a cunning elf,
A wrinkled rascal like himself,
Whom he could warmly recommend
As a most worthy, wealthy friend.
Now as no evil could ensue
From this unlook'd-for interview,
243
Listen to what he had to tell.
Old Capias then disclos'd his plan,
And thus the conversation ran.
“—Your debts, good Sir, in the account,
“Appear to an immense amount;
“But you may take my honest word,
“I will reduce them to a third;
“And, when that's done, I'll find the way,
“In no time, that same third to pay.
“Your gaming debts the Statute Laws
“Will settle with one clinching clause;
“And Usury may come in aid
“To save your Loans from being paid:
“For your Annuities I've a scheme,
“At half their purchase to redeem:
“Those Dealers look with fearful eye
“Upon a Suit in Chancery.
“O, hang the Rogues! one half, at least,
“Of their base claims shall be decreas'd!
“Let them do right, or to their sorrow,
“I'll file a dozen bills to-morrow.
244
“And cut and slash like any Turk.
“Just sign this parchment, and the Friend,
“Who does upon my steps attend
“And with great ready wealth abounds,
“Will, if you want a thousand pounds
“For present use, without more warning,
“Furnish the sum to-morrow morning,
“While he will to my wishes grant
“What money I may chance to want:
“Nor shall my honest labours cease
“Till we have brought you your release.
“—There's one estate knows no Entail,
“And that we will put up to sale:
“I know its worth, and do aver
“I've got a ready purchaser.
“Your great Advowson you may sell,
“And there are woods that you can fell,
“They're not quite fit to cut, 'tis true,
“But what is that, dear Sir, to you?
“The money which you want, they find;
“Besides, they leave the Land behind;
245
“And corn is better far than wood.
“The Deed's in all due form prepar'd,
“That nought the bus'ness may retard:
“Thus you may in the world appear,
“Nor your friends know you have been here.
“—By this same parchment you assign
“To me, and this good friend of mine,
“All your Estates, and their Arrears,
“For the small space of seven years,
“With all their rights—in short, the whole
“To our full power and controul;
“And all the appurtenances due,
“As they are vested now in you;—
“And when that hasty term shall cease,
“We will our transient rights release.
“You then shall without debts repair,
“To your improv'd possessions there,
“And thank us for our faithful care.
“E'er one short week is gone and o'er
“You shall pass through the grated door;
246
“And breathe the air of Liberty.
“Then we advise, with best intent,
“A visit to the Continent,
“Where due allowances shall give
“The means, in figure fair, to live:
“There at your ease you may remain,
“Till we invite you back again.”
—What more the Lawyer had to say
Was interrupted by a fray,
In which a female voice prevail'd
By a rough Turnkey's tones assail'd.
One of the Jail's attendant witches
Had just purloin'd a pair of breeches:
One of those washer-women hags
Who, prim'd with gin, and proud in rags,
These scenes of misery infest,
And add distress to the distrest.
—Sir Henry now was heard to say,
“Still I am doom'd to be the prey
“Of villainy in every form;
“But I will weather out the storm,
247
“The powers above I trust will grant.”
Capias lift up his hands and eyes
At such unheard enormities:
And, with new reasons which he drew
From the strange outrage in their view,
He urg'd the Knight to sign the deed
That from this Den he might be freed,
Where every sense must feel and see
A noisome nest of misery.
—Sir Henry look'd around and sigh'd;
But still in nervous tones replied:
“It is a Den to which no friends
“Like Daniel's Angel e'er descends;
“But, in my breast, to check despair,
“An Angel virtue may prepare
“Those firm intents, whose power may guide
“My passage through the troublous tide,
“And, each dark trace of error o'er,
“May peace and happiness restore.
“Now honest Capias and his Friend
“Will to my solemn words attend.
248
“But know—that I'm no more a fool.
“I've a long path of folly past:
“But, Capias, I am wise at last;
“And wisdom, you the truth may trust,
“Consists, shrewd Sir, in being just.
“What should be done, I sure can do,
“Why may I not, as well as you.
“—But not an acre will I sell,
“No, not an oaken tree, I'll fell:
“My woodlands, an whole cent'ry's shade,
“I ne'er will see a ruin made.
“What sell the Advowson? if I do,
“I should be mean, and base as you.
“No interest shall my mind enslave,
“To forfeit the kind word I gave,
“Which forc'd a smile of grateful grace
“On my old rev'rend Tutor's face,
“That he, in preaching and in prayer,
“Should occupy the pulpit there.
“O may my heart ne'er cease to ake,
“When I that sacred promise break!
249
“Though it be to the Judgement day,
“Till all I owe, I duly pay.
“Your offers, therefore, I decline:
“Your time is precious, so is mine:
“This curious conclave now is o'er,
“And I will show you to the door.”
The Lawyer seem'd dispos'd to stay,
As he had something more to say:
But Levi whisper'd in his ear,
“We have no further bus'ness here:
“His virtue interrupts our plan;
“That foolish Boy, do all we can,
“Will be a wronghead, honest man.”
Now, as Sir Henry ponder'd o'er
What he so oft had thought before,
Faithful arrives, with bow profound:
Then casts his moisten'd eye around,
And, with a feeling of despair,
He sunk with anguish on a chair.
What he so oft had thought before,
Faithful arrives, with bow profound:
Then casts his moisten'd eye around,
And, with a feeling of despair,
He sunk with anguish on a chair.
250
“It is too much,” the good man said,
“That virtue should be so betray'd;
“That my Sir William Graceful's Son
“By a base world should be undone;
“Should in such misery appear
“As is his sad allotment here!
“I have one offer now to make:
“Refuse it, and my heart will break.
“—From twenty years until threescore,
“It may, indeed, be somewhat more,
“I've serv'd, to all their int'rests true,
“Your father, grandfather, and you.
“The favour that to me was shown,
“The happy life which I have known,
“Were their kind gifts, and shall I see
“Sir Henry in adversity;
“Nor strive, with all my humble power,
“To ease the unexpected hour.
“The store which I have strove to save,
“Their and your bounty kindly gave:
“Let me not take it to my grave!
“There is no children's claim to find
“What I may chance to leave behind:
“Should it be wanted, 'tis your due:
“Let me return it then to you.
“Your gracious pardon O bestow!—
“But may it not be useful now?
“O let me not your bosom wound!
“But I have sav'd ten thousand pound,
“And which,”—
Sir Henry.
“That virtue should be so betray'd;
“That my Sir William Graceful's Son
“By a base world should be undone;
“Should in such misery appear
“As is his sad allotment here!
“I have one offer now to make:
“Refuse it, and my heart will break.
“—From twenty years until threescore,
“It may, indeed, be somewhat more,
“I've serv'd, to all their int'rests true,
“Your father, grandfather, and you.
“The favour that to me was shown,
“The happy life which I have known,
“Were their kind gifts, and shall I see
“Sir Henry in adversity;
“Nor strive, with all my humble power,
“To ease the unexpected hour.
“The store which I have strove to save,
“Their and your bounty kindly gave:
“Let me not take it to my grave!
251
“What I may chance to leave behind:
“Should it be wanted, 'tis your due:
“Let me return it then to you.
“Your gracious pardon O bestow!—
“But may it not be useful now?
“O let me not your bosom wound!
“But I have sav'd ten thousand pound,
“And which,”—
—“Dear Faithful, you impart
“A pleasure to my anxious heart,
“Which to its painful thoughts a prey,
“It has not known full many a day;
“Nor will Heaven grant me time to live,
“A measure due of thanks to give.
“No, keep your gold, my worthy friend,
“And to my solemn words attend.
“I want that which no gold can buy,—
“Your knowledge and integrity,
252
“Form'd by my vagrant erring ways,
“And by your counsels sage restore
“My state to what it was before.
“I know full well all you must feel
“Who love me with such fervent zeal:
“But calm your thoughts, my faithful friend;
“Things at the worst are sure to mend.
“We must not sit down here and sigh;
“That will not cure calamity.
“The man who was to hardship put,
“Because his cart was in a rut,
“Petition'd Jove to help him out;
“When Jove replied, you're young and stout:
“Try your own strength, you silly elf;
“And you will do the thing yourself.—
“Myself shall do it; and I view
“Another better self in you.
“—It now shall be my ardent care
“The gaping chasm to repair;
“The gaping chasm I have made,
“By wild extravagance betray'd;
253
“I solemnly submit to you.
“—Think not these bars my peace invade,
“Or walls that do my chamber shade;
“The deed I'll do will give me rest,
“And let in sunshine on my breast:
“Adversity to Reason's eyes,
“Is oft a blessing in disguise.
“I'm not yet sick nor melancholy;
“All this is interest paid for folly:
“I'll bear it as the just intent
“Of Heaven to be my punishment.
“Though by the harpies of the Law
“I now were forc'd to lay on straw,
“In pain and in misfortune's spite,
“My future doings shall be right:
“Honour and Justice shall prevail,
“And flourish with me in a Jail.
“—If my dear Mother had but liv'd,
“If Cælia had the chase surviv'd;
“If they had to these years been given,
“If either had been spar'd by Heaven;
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“Into the vortex of the world:
“'Twas a sad error, for my grief
“In that wild world to seek relief.
“But now, thank Heaven, my folly's o'er:
“I trust that I shall sin no more;
“Nor, in the end, will I disgrace
“The name and honour of my race.
“Whether my debts are right or wrong,
“Whether the time be short or long,
“Here I'll remain till all are paid:
“To that account my scheme is laid.
“If dire necessity demands,
“I and this prison will shake hands.
“Have I been dup'd, mislead and cheated?
“'Tis I who have myself ill-treated.
“To seal the contracts I was willing,
“And I will pay the utmost shilling.
“The Usurers came not to me;
“'Twas I paid court to usury:
“Their aid I ask'd, their faith I tried,
“And I rejoic'd when they complied.
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“Must not, my friend, to ruin fall;
“And o'er its large and fine domain
“Let its unceasing beauty reign;
“And keep it with attentive care,
“As if its owner flourish'd there:
“There nought must look like waste or ruin,
“The oaks must feel not my undoing.
“Let not the poor, who us'd to share
“My annual alms and Christmas fare,
“Lose, to my misery and shame,
“The smiling boon they us'd to claim.
“On Granny's grave your care bestow:
“There let the Summer Flow'rets blow,
“And the bright evergreens be found
“Upon the consecrated ground.
“Though on the waves of folly tost,
“Though for a time forgot and lost,
“The lessons, by her care imprest
“And rooted deep within my breast,
“Again resume their quick'ning power
“And animate the present hour.
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“Where Cælia perish'd be forgot:
“Protect from harm the Cypress shade,
“Where Death his cruel power display'd.
“These trifles must my rent-roll spare:—
“And now, with calculating care,
“Inform me when its affluent power
“Will give me Freedom's honest hour.
“I've done, and leave you to look o'er
“This sad and lamentable score:
“'Tis a sad sample of my sinning:—
“But let us come to a beginning.”
Faithful.
“In looking over this account,
“Your debts appear of large amount;
“Though not so large as late I fear'd
“From the reports which I had heard.
“But since you're here and with the spirit
“Which I rejoice that you inherit,
“If you can view that grated bar
“And patient hear those portals jar
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“Shall be with ample honour paid:
“Nay more,—I'll answer, you shall come
“With a replenish'd coffer home.
“This may be done; but then five years!
“To me the term an age appears.
“Besides, your health, while thus you dwell
“In this foul air and narrow cell
“May suffer: O first let me try
“To gain your instant liberty!
“Then—
Sir Henry.
—“It would be a useless pain:—
“All such endeavours will be vain!
“Beshrew the dilatory dream!
“Mine, Faithful, is the only scheme:
“I say, no other shall be tried,
“With that my mind is satisfied.
“You know me well, or this or none:
“The plan is just, 'tis all my own;
“And you will see the bus'ness done.
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“Hard hearts may soften and relent;
“And, e'er its time, the tyrant law
“May loose me from its griping claw.
“Once more, I say, on no pretence
“Will I be tortur'd with suspence:
“O grieve not that you leave me here!
“Much worse than this I well can bear.
“The soldier in a rude campaign,
“The sailor on a boist'rous main,
“Does not one half the comfort know
“That this dark chamber may bestow.
“The man, my friend, when acting right,
“Will see the sun at twelve at night;
“Howe'er by outward ills opprest,
“Will feel its rays within his breast:
“I'll smile, though every limb should smart,
“While there is health within my heart.
“—Here are no Duns to fret and tease,
“And you have set my heart at ease:
“This night within that paltry bed,
“I shall, in comfort, lay my head.
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“So hurry down and set about it.
“Tell, tell good Gravely, not to weep,
“Nor let my faults disturb his sleep.
“He shall the fatted calf prepare
“To welcome back the graceless Heir;
“He will again enjoy his dinner
“With the sincere, repentant sinner;
“And shall confirm the pardon given
“By the redeeming Grace of Heaven.”
Old Faithful wond'ring heard, and hurl'd
A silent curse against a world,
That by its foul, insidious art,
Could thus defile a virtuous heart.
Indeed, he almost ceas'd to grieve
As he did such commands receive,
And lowly bending took his leave.
Sir Henry, whose impetuous mind
Seiz'd on whatever he design'd,
For five years settled, soon began
To better his domestic plan;
And by those means which, in our power,
In dreary Jail or Pleasure's bower,
Will purchase all, as we well know,
That each condition can bestow;
To better regions he ascends,
Where a more decent race attends;
Where by no bars the eye's annoy'd,
And common comforts are enjoy'd.
His books are rang'd in order due,
The chess-board, and his music too,
With other implements, appear
To soothe the mind and charm the ear.
Thus, banishing his recent cares,
For five years study he prepares.
—The Knight nor sorrowful, nor gay,
Had got a fortnight on his way,
When one fine morn, e'er he arose,
And in the midst of calm repose,
A sudden noise his slumbers broke,
And looking round as he awoke,
A figure by his bed-side stood,
In humble, smiling attitude,
Who gave a packet to his hands,
By good old Faithful's strict commands.
Sir Henry, rising in his bed,
Broke the black seal, and thus he read.
“Most honour'd Sir,
Seiz'd on whatever he design'd,
For five years settled, soon began
To better his domestic plan;
260
In dreary Jail or Pleasure's bower,
Will purchase all, as we well know,
That each condition can bestow;
To better regions he ascends,
Where a more decent race attends;
Where by no bars the eye's annoy'd,
And common comforts are enjoy'd.
His books are rang'd in order due,
The chess-board, and his music too,
With other implements, appear
To soothe the mind and charm the ear.
Thus, banishing his recent cares,
For five years study he prepares.
—The Knight nor sorrowful, nor gay,
Had got a fortnight on his way,
When one fine morn, e'er he arose,
And in the midst of calm repose,
A sudden noise his slumbers broke,
And looking round as he awoke,
A figure by his bed-side stood,
In humble, smiling attitude,
261
By good old Faithful's strict commands.
Sir Henry, rising in his bed,
Broke the black seal, and thus he read.
“Most honour'd Sir,
“The day I bless
“That gives me so much happiness.
“O such great news I have to tell!
“But you, good Sir, deserve it well.
“Miss Cælia's Father, old Sir John,
“To a far better world is gone,
“And, as you would have been his Son,
“If the young Lady had but liv'd,
“Had she that fatal chase surviv'd;
“And as he had no relative
“To whom he ought his wealth to give;
“He has, with all due form and care,
“Made you his sole and legal heir.
“His fine estate to you is known,
“Because it haply joins your own,
“With a large sum in statu quo,
“Which will pay every debt you owe.”
Sir Henry on the paper gaz'd
With eager look and mind amaz'd.
The tears then started from his eyes,
And, with a look of wild surprize,
He left his bed, and on his knee,
In a rapt, pious extasy,
His loud and ardent thanks were given
To the beneficence of Heaven.
—The messenger unus'd to see
Such wild impetuosity,
And seiz'd with symptoms of affright
At the vagaries of the Knight,
Begg'd him, his spirits to compose,
To rise, and to put on his cloaths.
“Let not my freaks your mind annoy,
“I am half mad, but 'tis with joy.”
Sir Henry said—“You're right, my friend,
“To your good counsel I'll attend:
“And then I think, I can't do better
“Than finish Faithful's wond'rous Letter.”
The night-cap from his head was thrown,
And soon wrapt up in morning gown,
He sat him down upon the bed,
And the remaining pages read.
“That gives me so much happiness.
“O such great news I have to tell!
“But you, good Sir, deserve it well.
“Miss Cælia's Father, old Sir John,
“To a far better world is gone,
“And, as you would have been his Son,
“If the young Lady had but liv'd,
“Had she that fatal chase surviv'd;
“And as he had no relative
“To whom he ought his wealth to give;
“He has, with all due form and care,
“Made you his sole and legal heir.
“His fine estate to you is known,
“Because it haply joins your own,
“With a large sum in statu quo,
“Which will pay every debt you owe.”
262
With eager look and mind amaz'd.
The tears then started from his eyes,
And, with a look of wild surprize,
He left his bed, and on his knee,
In a rapt, pious extasy,
His loud and ardent thanks were given
To the beneficence of Heaven.
—The messenger unus'd to see
Such wild impetuosity,
And seiz'd with symptoms of affright
At the vagaries of the Knight,
Begg'd him, his spirits to compose,
To rise, and to put on his cloaths.
“Let not my freaks your mind annoy,
“I am half mad, but 'tis with joy.”
Sir Henry said—“You're right, my friend,
“To your good counsel I'll attend:
“And then I think, I can't do better
“Than finish Faithful's wond'rous Letter.”
The night-cap from his head was thrown,
And soon wrapt up in morning gown,
263
And the remaining pages read.
“When I left you, I soon left Town:
“To Graceful Hall I hasten'd down;
“But soon was hurried to attend
“The summons of your worthy friend.
“He had been ill for some time past,
“And Doctors said he would not last.
“At his command I took my seat,
“And thus I faithfully repeat,
“In his own words, all that he said,
“As he reclin'd upon his bed.
“—He first enquir'd if all were true
“Which country neighbours said of you:
“I thought it but a silly pride,
“That what was true should be denied;
“I therefore did the whole reveal,
“For why should I a word conceal?
“Your present state, your good designs,
“In which superior virtue shines,
“I did not hesitate to tell,
“And he receiv'd the story well.
“As he turn'd gently round he sigh'd,
“And thus the Baronet replied.
“'Tis nothing, this:—when I was young,
“Why I myself did things as wrong.
“Besides, my frolics were no more
“Than what my Father did before.
“Our frailties are to mortals given
“To exercise the Grace of Heaven:
“They need not fill us with affright,
“When, on the whole, our lives are right:
“This is a truth I dare avow;
“And it affords me comfort now.
“Death brought him to this ugly scrape:
“And Death will help him to escape:
“For, Faithful, know,” He smiling said,
“All will be right, when I am dead.
“If she, alas, who gave him birth,
“That Paragon of grace, and worth,
“Had been, by Heaven's mercy spar'd,
“His life to guide, his heart to guard;
“If he had my dear Daughter led
“To Hymen's chaste and virtuous bed,
“His bark would never have been tost,
“Nor threaten'd to be sunk and lost,
“Amid those gales the passions blow,
“And secret rocks that lurk below;
“No wish would e'er have bid him roam
“Beyond the haven of his home.
“Into the world he rush'd amain;
“And took the lead in Pleasure's train:
“I trembled when, to check despair.
“He sought a dangerous refuge there;
“And as he bent to that gay shrine
“Old Gravely join'd his fears with mine.
“The world, which all its engines mov'd,
“Too potent for his reason prov'd;
“Under that power's supreme command
“He fell, alas, where few could stand;
“But, at returning Reason's call,
“He rose, where Reason's self might fall.
“E'en Virtue sometimes languid proves
“In the warm heart that Virtue loves;
“Though soon the struggling power returns,
“And with an added ardor burns.
“But I said nought,—my girl was gone;
“I was left cheerless and alone:
“Nor was I of an age to last,
“And sport and pastime all were past.
“Relief I courted where my mind
“By pensive steps became resign'd;
“And Stedfast, who had taught my youth
“The laws of Honour and of Truth,
“Now strove to keep within my view
“The final bliss to Virtue due,
“In Heaven's everlasting store,
“When Life and all its cares are o'er.
“Henry may gain a future Bride:
“But I lost all when Cælia died:
“He was her fond affection's heir,
“And He shall all my fortunes share.
“I give him what that Saint in Heaven
“Would, had she liv'd, herself have given;
“And, as I trust to see her soon,
“The Angel will applaud the boon.
“To Graceful Hall I hasten'd down;
“But soon was hurried to attend
“The summons of your worthy friend.
“He had been ill for some time past,
“And Doctors said he would not last.
“At his command I took my seat,
“And thus I faithfully repeat,
“In his own words, all that he said,
“As he reclin'd upon his bed.
“—He first enquir'd if all were true
“Which country neighbours said of you:
“I thought it but a silly pride,
“That what was true should be denied;
“I therefore did the whole reveal,
“For why should I a word conceal?
“Your present state, your good designs,
“In which superior virtue shines,
264
“And he receiv'd the story well.
“As he turn'd gently round he sigh'd,
“And thus the Baronet replied.
“'Tis nothing, this:—when I was young,
“Why I myself did things as wrong.
“Besides, my frolics were no more
“Than what my Father did before.
“Our frailties are to mortals given
“To exercise the Grace of Heaven:
“They need not fill us with affright,
“When, on the whole, our lives are right:
“This is a truth I dare avow;
“And it affords me comfort now.
“Death brought him to this ugly scrape:
“And Death will help him to escape:
“For, Faithful, know,” He smiling said,
“All will be right, when I am dead.
“If she, alas, who gave him birth,
“That Paragon of grace, and worth,
“Had been, by Heaven's mercy spar'd,
“His life to guide, his heart to guard;
265
“To Hymen's chaste and virtuous bed,
“His bark would never have been tost,
“Nor threaten'd to be sunk and lost,
“Amid those gales the passions blow,
“And secret rocks that lurk below;
“No wish would e'er have bid him roam
“Beyond the haven of his home.
“Into the world he rush'd amain;
“And took the lead in Pleasure's train:
“I trembled when, to check despair.
“He sought a dangerous refuge there;
“And as he bent to that gay shrine
“Old Gravely join'd his fears with mine.
“The world, which all its engines mov'd,
“Too potent for his reason prov'd;
“Under that power's supreme command
“He fell, alas, where few could stand;
“But, at returning Reason's call,
“He rose, where Reason's self might fall.
“E'en Virtue sometimes languid proves
“In the warm heart that Virtue loves;
266
“And with an added ardor burns.
“But I said nought,—my girl was gone;
“I was left cheerless and alone:
“Nor was I of an age to last,
“And sport and pastime all were past.
“Relief I courted where my mind
“By pensive steps became resign'd;
“And Stedfast, who had taught my youth
“The laws of Honour and of Truth,
“Now strove to keep within my view
“The final bliss to Virtue due,
“In Heaven's everlasting store,
“When Life and all its cares are o'er.
“Henry may gain a future Bride:
“But I lost all when Cælia died:
“He was her fond affection's heir,
“And He shall all my fortunes share.
“I give him what that Saint in Heaven
“Would, had she liv'd, herself have given;
“And, as I trust to see her soon,
“The Angel will applaud the boon.
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“Here his voice paus'd;—he sunk to sleep,
“And I remain'd to sigh and weep.
“The thought of you my sorrow dried:
“But he ne'er 'woke:—that night he died.
“—Good Parson Stedfast, by the will
“Is nam'd its objects to fulfill;
“And when fulfill'd, you, Sir, are bound
“To pay him twice five thousand pound.
“To the tomb where Miss Cælia lies,
“He will attend the obsequies
“Of his old Friend; That duty done
“He then with me will haste to Town;
“And soon the joyous day will come
“That brings you back in triumph home:—
“Nor will that day more joy impart
“E'en to your own recover'd heart,
“Than to that, long with grief opprest,
“Which beats within old Faithful's breast.”
“And I remain'd to sigh and weep.
“The thought of you my sorrow dried:
“But he ne'er 'woke:—that night he died.
“—Good Parson Stedfast, by the will
“Is nam'd its objects to fulfill;
“And when fulfill'd, you, Sir, are bound
“To pay him twice five thousand pound.
“To the tomb where Miss Cælia lies,
“He will attend the obsequies
“Of his old Friend; That duty done
“He then with me will haste to Town;
“And soon the joyous day will come
“That brings you back in triumph home:—
“Nor will that day more joy impart
“E'en to your own recover'd heart,
“Than to that, long with grief opprest,
“Which beats within old Faithful's breast.”
| CHAPTER VII. FASHIONABLE LIFE. The Dance of Life | |