Letters to Julia, in Rhyme ... Third Edition. To which are added: Lines Written at Ampthill-Park. By Henry Luttrell |
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| II. |
| III. | TO JULIA.
LETTER III. |
| IV. |
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 | Letters to Julia, in Rhyme |  |
107
TO JULIA. LETTER III.
108
Love—Of two Kinds—The lighter and more fashionable preferred—London—Its Independence, Variety, Equality—Its Display of Female Beauty—End of the London-Season—Signs and Prodigies forerunning it—A hot Day in August—A Water-Party—A Steam-boat on the Thames—The Blisses of Brighton—Autumn and Winter in the Country—Shooting—Hunting—An Expostulation interrupted.
109
Dear cousin, for a young beginner,
You're an incorrigible sinner,
And fairly force me once again
In Charles's cause to wield my pen.
But, Julia, 'tis a last endeavour.
Be kind, or cruel—now, or never.
I laugh at love so long in making,
And own myself ashamed of taking
The part of one who, recreant grown,
Dares not, or will not, take his own.
You're an incorrigible sinner,
And fairly force me once again
In Charles's cause to wield my pen.
But, Julia, 'tis a last endeavour.
Be kind, or cruel—now, or never.
I laugh at love so long in making,
And own myself ashamed of taking
The part of one who, recreant grown,
Dares not, or will not, take his own.
110
Spite of the flatterers at your levee,
This real love is somewhat heavy.
It dulls the lively, cows the brave,
And to a tyrant binds a slave.
'Tis dear, in short, and overrated.
Give me the love that's light and plated,
That pleasant—shall I call it passion?
Which is, and ought to be the fashion;
Which, seated in the fibres round
The heart, still leaves the centre sound.
Had Charles by Cupid and his mother
Been stocked with this, instead of t' other,
Had he the spirit of a mouse,
Still would he, ghost-like, haunt your house?
Still follow yours of all the faces
And figures at our public places?
Or toil along the drive and ride,
In constant canter at your side,
Courting the very dust that rises
From the dear wheels of her he prizes,
Or by cold looks and words o'ercome,
Keep champing on the curb at home?
This real love is somewhat heavy.
It dulls the lively, cows the brave,
And to a tyrant binds a slave.
'Tis dear, in short, and overrated.
Give me the love that's light and plated,
That pleasant—shall I call it passion?
Which is, and ought to be the fashion;
Which, seated in the fibres round
The heart, still leaves the centre sound.
Had Charles by Cupid and his mother
Been stocked with this, instead of t' other,
Had he the spirit of a mouse,
Still would he, ghost-like, haunt your house?
Still follow yours of all the faces
And figures at our public places?
Or toil along the drive and ride,
In constant canter at your side,
Courting the very dust that rises
From the dear wheels of her he prizes,
111
Keep champing on the curb at home?
Though for the man you had not cared
A straw, methinks you might have spared
This last and bitterest aggravation
Of all his wrongs, my dear relation:
Because, inhabiting alone
Your villa near the ten mile stone,
Less saucy as the clubs grow thinner,
You tremble for your weekly dinner,
And can't endure to lose a guest
So popular, in such request,
You shift the' implicit slave at will
'Twixt Portman-square and Richmond-hill,
And dare, with all the season's fun done,
To keep him dangling still in London.
A straw, methinks you might have spared
This last and bitterest aggravation
Of all his wrongs, my dear relation:
Because, inhabiting alone
Your villa near the ten mile stone,
Less saucy as the clubs grow thinner,
You tremble for your weekly dinner,
And can't endure to lose a guest
So popular, in such request,
You shift the' implicit slave at will
'Twixt Portman-square and Richmond-hill,
And dare, with all the season's fun done,
To keep him dangling still in London.
Fashion, you know, prescribes the minute
When to be out of it and in it.
She waves her wand.—Crowds haste away
From fields and groves to Town in May.
Again 'tis waved,—and woe betide
The Autumn lingerers! They must hide,
Or swear they're passing through, to go
To Norfolk in an hour or so,
Meaning next month to show their faces,
If possible, in twenty places.
They're off—fine sport—the weather mild,
Birds plentiful, but rather wild;
Acres of turnips, miles of sand,
Few poachers, and a great command.
Late, if they stay a moment more.—
Adieu—the chaise is at the door.—
When to be out of it and in it.
112
From fields and groves to Town in May.
Again 'tis waved,—and woe betide
The Autumn lingerers! They must hide,
Or swear they're passing through, to go
To Norfolk in an hour or so,
Meaning next month to show their faces,
If possible, in twenty places.
They're off—fine sport—the weather mild,
Birds plentiful, but rather wild;
Acres of turnips, miles of sand,
Few poachers, and a great command.
Late, if they stay a moment more.—
Adieu—the chaise is at the door.—
Such is the jargon you must bear,
The cant of every closing year,
From those who, haply uninvited,
Fear you should think them cut or slighted;
Who square by other people's notions
And feelings, all their thoughts and motions.
And, ruled by what the world will say,
That Mrs. Grundy of the play,
Refuse to taste, or hear, or see,
But at the nod of Vanity.
The spark whom Norfolk-squires are courting
Has, ten to one, no turn for sporting.
Detests a gun, likes London better
Than woods or stubbles, bird or setter,
And would not, if he dared, be seen
Beyond Kew-bridge or Turnham-green.
The cant of every closing year,
From those who, haply uninvited,
Fear you should think them cut or slighted;
Who square by other people's notions
And feelings, all their thoughts and motions.
113
That Mrs. Grundy of the play,
Refuse to taste, or hear, or see,
But at the nod of Vanity.
The spark whom Norfolk-squires are courting
Has, ten to one, no turn for sporting.
Detests a gun, likes London better
Than woods or stubbles, bird or setter,
And would not, if he dared, be seen
Beyond Kew-bridge or Turnham-green.
O London, comprehensive word!
Whose sound, though scarce in whispers heard,
Breathes independence!—if I share
That first of blessings, I can bear
Ev'n with thy fogs and smoky air.
Of leisure fond, of freedom fonder,
O grant me in thy streets to wander;
Grant me thy cheerful morning-walk,
Thy dinner and thy evening-talk.
What though I'm forced my doors to make fast?
What though no cream be mine for breakfast?
Though knaves around me cheat and plunder,
And fires can scarcely be kept under,
Though guilt in triumph stalks abroad
By Bow and Marlborough-street unawed,
And many a rook finds many a pigeon
In law, and physic, and religion,
Eager to help a thriving trade on,
And proud and happy to be preyed on?—
What signify such paltry blots?
The glorious sun himself has spots.
Whose sound, though scarce in whispers heard,
Breathes independence!—if I share
That first of blessings, I can bear
Ev'n with thy fogs and smoky air.
Of leisure fond, of freedom fonder,
O grant me in thy streets to wander;
Grant me thy cheerful morning-walk,
Thy dinner and thy evening-talk.
114
What though no cream be mine for breakfast?
Though knaves around me cheat and plunder,
And fires can scarcely be kept under,
Though guilt in triumph stalks abroad
By Bow and Marlborough-street unawed,
And many a rook finds many a pigeon
In law, and physic, and religion,
Eager to help a thriving trade on,
And proud and happy to be preyed on?—
What signify such paltry blots?
The glorious sun himself has spots.
London, within thy ample verge
What crowds lie sheltered, or emerge
Buoyant in every shape and form,
As smiles the calm or drives the storm;
Blest if they reach the harbour free
Of golden Mediocrity!
Here, ev'n the dwellings of the poor
And lonely are, at least, obscure,
And, in obscurity, exempt
From poverty's worst plague, contempt.
Unmarked the poor man seeks his den;
Unheeded issues forth again.
Wherefore appears he? None inquires,
Nor why nor whither he retires.
All that his pride would fain conceal,
All that Shame blushes to reveal,
The petty shifts, the grovelling cares
To which the sons of Want are heirs,
Those ills, which, grievous to be borne,
Call forth—not sympathy but scorn,
Here lost, elude the searching eye
Of callous Curiosity.
What crowds lie sheltered, or emerge
Buoyant in every shape and form,
As smiles the calm or drives the storm;
Blest if they reach the harbour free
Of golden Mediocrity!
115
And lonely are, at least, obscure,
And, in obscurity, exempt
From poverty's worst plague, contempt.
Unmarked the poor man seeks his den;
Unheeded issues forth again.
Wherefore appears he? None inquires,
Nor why nor whither he retires.
All that his pride would fain conceal,
All that Shame blushes to reveal,
The petty shifts, the grovelling cares
To which the sons of Want are heirs,
Those ills, which, grievous to be borne,
Call forth—not sympathy but scorn,
Here lost, elude the searching eye
Of callous Curiosity.
And what though Poverty environ
Full many a wretch with chains of iron?
These in no stricter bondage hold
Their slaves than manacles of gold.
The costliest fetters are as strong
As common ones, and last as long.
Whom gall they most?—'Tis doubtful which,
The very poor, or very rich;
Those scourged by wants and discontents,
Or these by their establishments;
Victims, from real evils free,
To nerves, cui bono? and ennui.
Don't fancy now that this “cui bono”
Has some strange meaning, Julia. No, no.
Be not alarmed, nor blush, nor smile.
The words but ask—Is Life worth while?
Full many a wretch with chains of iron?
116
Their slaves than manacles of gold.
The costliest fetters are as strong
As common ones, and last as long.
Whom gall they most?—'Tis doubtful which,
The very poor, or very rich;
Those scourged by wants and discontents,
Or these by their establishments;
Victims, from real evils free,
To nerves, cui bono? and ennui.
Don't fancy now that this “cui bono”
Has some strange meaning, Julia. No, no.
Be not alarmed, nor blush, nor smile.
The words but ask—Is Life worth while?
Still, Poverty, in every place
Still ghastly is thy spectre-face.
But he whose lips have never quaffed
From thy lean hands the bitter draught,
Who joins to health and competence
Good temper and a grain of sense,
Here may defy or follow Fashion;
Indulge his whim, his taste, or passion,
Pursue his pleasures or his labours,
Aloof from squires, unwatched by neighbours.
Still ghastly is thy spectre-face.
But he whose lips have never quaffed
From thy lean hands the bitter draught,
117
Good temper and a grain of sense,
Here may defy or follow Fashion;
Indulge his whim, his taste, or passion,
Pursue his pleasures or his labours,
Aloof from squires, unwatched by neighbours.
What though to rail or laugh at money
Be over-dull, or over-funny,
(Since who would ridicule employment,
Or cry down power, or quiz enjoyment,)
London is, surely, to a tittle
The place for those who have but little.
Here I endure no throbs, no twitches
Of envy at another's riches,
But, smiling, from my window see
A dozen twice as rich as he;
And, if I stroll, am sure to meet
A dozen more in every street.
None are distinguished, none are rare
From wealth which hundreds round them share,
But, neutralized by one another
Whene'er they think to raise a pother,
Be they kind-hearted, or capricious,
Vain, prodigal, or avaricious,
Proud, popular, or what they will,
Are elbowed by their rivals still.
Be over-dull, or over-funny,
(Since who would ridicule employment,
Or cry down power, or quiz enjoyment,)
London is, surely, to a tittle
The place for those who have but little.
Here I endure no throbs, no twitches
Of envy at another's riches,
But, smiling, from my window see
A dozen twice as rich as he;
And, if I stroll, am sure to meet
A dozen more in every street.
118
From wealth which hundreds round them share,
But, neutralized by one another
Whene'er they think to raise a pother,
Be they kind-hearted, or capricious,
Vain, prodigal, or avaricious,
Proud, popular, or what they will,
Are elbowed by their rivals still.
Should one among them dare be dull,
Or prose, because his purse is full;
Should he, in breach of all decorum,
Make the least mention of the Quorum;
Drop but a hint of what transgressions
Are punished at the Quarter-sessions;
Or murmur at those vile encroachers
On rural privilege—the poachers;
Soon would a general yawn or cough
From such a trespass warn him off,
Spite of his India-bonds, and rents,
His acres, and his three-per-cents.
None would endure such parish-prate,
Were half the island his estate;
Though he in ready cash were sharing
The wealth, without the sense, of Baring.
Or prose, because his purse is full;
Should he, in breach of all decorum,
Make the least mention of the Quorum;
Drop but a hint of what transgressions
Are punished at the Quarter-sessions;
Or murmur at those vile encroachers
On rural privilege—the poachers;
Soon would a general yawn or cough
From such a trespass warn him off,
119
His acres, and his three-per-cents.
None would endure such parish-prate,
Were half the island his estate;
Though he in ready cash were sharing
The wealth, without the sense, of Baring.
A village is a hive of glass.
There nothing undescried can pass.
There all may study, at their ease,
The forms and motions of the bees;
What wax or honey each brings home
To swell the treasures of the comb,
Upon his loaded thighs and wings;
And which are drones, and which have stings;
Whether in consequence be higher
The Rector, or the neighbouring Squire,
Or he, the' Attorney of the place,
With knocker brazen as his face.
There nothing undescried can pass.
There all may study, at their ease,
The forms and motions of the bees;
What wax or honey each brings home
To swell the treasures of the comb,
Upon his loaded thighs and wings;
And which are drones, and which have stings;
Whether in consequence be higher
The Rector, or the neighbouring Squire,
Or he, the' Attorney of the place,
With knocker brazen as his face.
120
But count the motes or specks who can
On this our huge Leviathan!
Or note, with curious pencil, down
The motions of this monster-town!
Weak is the voice of Slander here;
Not half her venom taints the ear.
Few feel the fulness of her power,
“Her iron scourge, or torturing hour;”
And yet, so general is the scrape,
Few from her malice quite escape.
All, in a common fate confounded,
Are slightly scratched, none deeply wounded.
Such is The Town!—Do right or wrong,
None will abuse or praise you long.
The moments you enjoy or bear
Soon pass, and then—you've had your share.
The idlest babbler can't afford
To treat you with another word;
The jest has lost its sting, the tale
Grows, in its very utterance, stale;
Trifling, important, many, few,
All, to be talked of, must be new.
On this our huge Leviathan!
Or note, with curious pencil, down
The motions of this monster-town!
Weak is the voice of Slander here;
Not half her venom taints the ear.
Few feel the fulness of her power,
“Her iron scourge, or torturing hour;”
And yet, so general is the scrape,
Few from her malice quite escape.
All, in a common fate confounded,
Are slightly scratched, none deeply wounded.
Such is The Town!—Do right or wrong,
None will abuse or praise you long.
The moments you enjoy or bear
Soon pass, and then—you've had your share.
The idlest babbler can't afford
To treat you with another word;
The jest has lost its sting, the tale
Grows, in its very utterance, stale;
121
All, to be talked of, must be new.
Here stands proclaimed a general mart.
Traffic who will. Here science, art,
Wit, learning, courage, genius, sense,
And every kind of excellence
In the thronged lists of wealth and fame,
Contend for fortune, or a name.
Say that, from feebleness of will,
From indolence, or want of skill,
Not venturing on a game so high,
You view it as a stander-by;
A risk so great, so large a stake,
Would keep the heaviest eyes awake.
Traffic who will. Here science, art,
Wit, learning, courage, genius, sense,
And every kind of excellence
In the thronged lists of wealth and fame,
Contend for fortune, or a name.
Say that, from feebleness of will,
From indolence, or want of skill,
Not venturing on a game so high,
You view it as a stander-by;
A risk so great, so large a stake,
Would keep the heaviest eyes awake.
Here, all the senses are on duty.
Mark how the streets are paved with beauty!
Mark with what triumph in their eye
The charmers of the sex pass by!
Shine but the sun, they swarm uncounted,
On foot, in carriages, or mounted;
Or, smiling, people the balconies
Near which stands many a smart Adonis,
Up-gazing at his fair Amanda,
Who, gently pacing the veranda,
Seems with her fairy-foot to set
The stock, sweet-pea, and mignonette,
Whose mingled Covent-garden sweets
Are wafted o'er the watered streets.
Mark how the streets are paved with beauty!
Mark with what triumph in their eye
The charmers of the sex pass by!
122
On foot, in carriages, or mounted;
Or, smiling, people the balconies
Near which stands many a smart Adonis,
Up-gazing at his fair Amanda,
Who, gently pacing the veranda,
Seems with her fairy-foot to set
The stock, sweet-pea, and mignonette,
Whose mingled Covent-garden sweets
Are wafted o'er the watered streets.
Cousin, if still you play the prude,
Can Charles in such a multitude
Look round untempted long? Whereere
His fancy points, to brown or fair,
Whether, allured by thin or plump,
He likes a May-pole or a dump,
Say, can he fail at last to find
The very creature to his mind?
In vain he lifts in his defence
Thy leaden shield, Indifference;
A thousand arrows, if he stirs,
Stick in his skirts, like Gulliver's.
But, since inflicted oft in sport, all
His wounds are luckily not mortal;
While every single smile or frown
Is deadly in a country-town.
While, in a village, every dart
Strikes to and rankles in the heart!
Can Charles in such a multitude
Look round untempted long? Whereere
His fancy points, to brown or fair,
Whether, allured by thin or plump,
He likes a May-pole or a dump,
Say, can he fail at last to find
The very creature to his mind?
123
Thy leaden shield, Indifference;
A thousand arrows, if he stirs,
Stick in his skirts, like Gulliver's.
But, since inflicted oft in sport, all
His wounds are luckily not mortal;
While every single smile or frown
Is deadly in a country-town.
While, in a village, every dart
Strikes to and rankles in the heart!
But Autumn comes.—The die is cast.
And London must be left at last.
What endless shifts, what lame excuses
Each longing lingering look produces,
Till we are driven, perforce, away,
Loth to depart, ashamed to stay!
Yet Fate our nerves, in mercy, spares;
And seldom takes us unawares.
The' unwelcome news by many a token
To practised eyes and ears is broken;
Ne'er does the mournful hour draw nigh
Unmarked by many a prodigy.
And London must be left at last.
What endless shifts, what lame excuses
Each longing lingering look produces,
Till we are driven, perforce, away,
Loth to depart, ashamed to stay!
Yet Fate our nerves, in mercy, spares;
And seldom takes us unawares.
124
To practised eyes and ears is broken;
Ne'er does the mournful hour draw nigh
Unmarked by many a prodigy.
Through silent and deserted streets
No kindred form the lounger meets;
No curricle nor chariot wears
The pavement of the western squares;
But hackney-coachmen fold their hands,
And sleep, despairing, on their stands.
You trace no fresh-caught rustic dodging
Now here, now there, to find a lodging,
Or vainly tugging at the bells
Of twenty over-crammed hotels.
No kindred form the lounger meets;
No curricle nor chariot wears
The pavement of the western squares;
But hackney-coachmen fold their hands,
And sleep, despairing, on their stands.
You trace no fresh-caught rustic dodging
Now here, now there, to find a lodging,
Or vainly tugging at the bells
Of twenty over-crammed hotels.
Now, fagged at balls through many a night,
Girls look like ghosts by candle-light.
No longer smarting from the rubs
Of wits and quidnuncs at the clubs,
Folks, through the season dumb as cattle,
Take courage, and at random prattle.
Untouched since play no more is deep,
Dice in their boxes are asleep,
And ivory-counters seem to weep.
Girls look like ghosts by candle-light.
------ simulacra, modis pallentia miris,
Visa sub obscurum noctis.
Visa sub obscurum noctis.
Virgil. Georg. i.
In the former editions of this poem, the author, having, in enumerating the signs at the close of a London-season, imitated, occasionally, Virgil's description of the prodigies on the death of Julius Cæsar, has here added a few lines, to complete a burlesque imitation of the entire passage;—with what success the reader will be the more readily enabled to determine by references in the subsequent notes. The order of the original lines is not exactly pursued, but they are all, more or less closely, alluded to.
No longer smarting from the rubs
Of wits and quidnuncs at the clubs,
125
Take courage, and at random prattle.
Untouched since play no more is deep,
Dice in their boxes are asleep,
And ivory-counters seem to weep.
Now orders fill our public-places
With overheated brazen faces.
Now the New-River's current swells
The reservoir of Sadler's Wells,
And, in some melo-drame of slaughter,
Floats all the stage with real water.
Now butchers mourn their tainted flesh,
And not a monger's fish is fresh.
Now school-boys, fretted by hot weather,
Grow quarrelsome, and fight together;
And, at the pumps, as evening closes,
You see no end of bloody noses.
While sounds, at midnight, fill the air,
Of mirth, and hunger, and despair,
From nymphs who ply their luckless calling,
Ungreeted but by watchmen bawling.
With overheated brazen faces.
Now the New-River's current swells
The reservoir of Sadler's Wells,
And, in some melo-drame of slaughter,
Floats all the stage with real water.
Now butchers mourn their tainted flesh,
And not a monger's fish is fresh.
Now school-boys, fretted by hot weather,
Grow quarrelsome, and fight together;
And, at the pumps, as evening closes,
You see no end of bloody noses.
While sounds, at midnight, fill the air,
Of mirth, and hunger, and despair,
126
Ungreeted but by watchmen bawling.
See how the blue and brilliant lights
Burst through the air on gala-nights!
What hands explore their neighbours' pockets,
What eyes are starting from their sockets
At squibs, and wheels, and mounting rockets,
Ere yet the gardens of Vauxhall
Close with their leaves' untimely fall!
There, Julia, oft, by Charles escorted,
You've smiled to see the crowd transported,
Where lamps in bright festoons were blazing,
Stand, upward to the' orchestra gazing
In wonder at the band, who dare
The freshness of the midnight-air,
And run through all their sharps and flats
Beneath the shade of three-cocked hats,
Those hats which, smote by Fashion's hand,
Here make their last and noblest stand;
Still at Vauxhall the Fates decree 'em
These fidlers' heads for a museum.
So the wild bulls which once were found
Through many a waste on English ground,
In these degenerate days are known
To breed at Chillingham alone.
Burst through the air on gala-nights!
What hands explore their neighbours' pockets,
What eyes are starting from their sockets
At squibs, and wheels, and mounting rockets,
Ere yet the gardens of Vauxhall
Close with their leaves' untimely fall!
There, Julia, oft, by Charles escorted,
You've smiled to see the crowd transported,
Where lamps in bright festoons were blazing,
Stand, upward to the' orchestra gazing
In wonder at the band, who dare
The freshness of the midnight-air,
And run through all their sharps and flats
Beneath the shade of three-cocked hats,
Those hats which, smote by Fashion's hand,
Here make their last and noblest stand;
127
These fidlers' heads for a museum.
So the wild bulls which once were found
Through many a waste on English ground,
In these degenerate days are known
To breed at Chillingham alone.
The seat of the Earl of Tankerville, in Northumberland. The wild cattle alluded to in the text are supposed to have been the original breed of the North of England, when the park at Chillingham was first inclosed, in the reign of Edward the First. Their size is small, their colour uniformly white, and they still retain their natural wildness, feeding principally at night, and so shunning the presence of man that it is possible to be many days at Chillingham, in the summer, without obtaining a sight of them.
They are, when required for the table, shot like deer; and the number in keep, at one time, varies from eighty to a hundred.
These animals, it is said, may be seen else-where in England, but the best authorities concur in confining the genuine breed to the Park at Chillingham alone.
Shot from yon Heavenly Bow, at White's,
No critic-arrow now alights
On some unconscious passer-by,
Whose cape's an inch too low or high;
Whose doctrines are unsound in hat,
In boots, in trowsers, or cravat;
On him who braves the shame and guilt
Of gig or Tilbury ill-built;
Sports a barouche with pannels darker
Than the last shade turned out by Barker;
Or canters, with an awkward seat
And badly mounted, up the street.
Silenced awhile that dreadful battery
Whence never issued sound of flattery;
That whole artillery of jokes,
Levelled point-blank at humdrum folks;
Who now, no longer kept in awe
By Fashion's judges, or her law,
Strut by The Window, at their ease,
With just what looks and clothes they please!
No critic-arrow now alights
On some unconscious passer-by,
Whose cape's an inch too low or high;
Whose doctrines are unsound in hat,
In boots, in trowsers, or cravat;
On him who braves the shame and guilt
Of gig or Tilbury ill-built;
Sports a barouche with pannels darker
Than the last shade turned out by Barker;
Or canters, with an awkward seat
And badly mounted, up the street.
128
Whence never issued sound of flattery;
That whole artillery of jokes,
Levelled point-blank at humdrum folks;
Who now, no longer kept in awe
By Fashion's judges, or her law,
Strut by The Window, at their ease,
With just what looks and clothes they please!
No longer, from the footman's thumb
And finger, peals of thunder come.
Closed are the doors, the knockers dumb.
No cards, in broad-cast sown about,
Affright us with a brim-full rout;
For routs, although they scorn to finish
Ev'n in the dog-nights, must diminish.
Yet oh! how flat and undesirable
Are open space, and air respirable!
Their lessening throngs in haste they muster,
And in some narrow door-way cluster,
Smiling, when novices too shy
In vain to force the barrier try,
Squeeze, press—do all things but get by,
In spite of twenty quaint devices
To reach that goal,—the cakes and ices;
Though all beyond those straits is ocean
Pacific, without life or motion!
And finger, peals of thunder come.
Closed are the doors, the knockers dumb.
No cards, in broad-cast sown about,
Affright us with a brim-full rout;
For routs, although they scorn to finish
Ev'n in the dog-nights, must diminish.
Yet oh! how flat and undesirable
Are open space, and air respirable!
Their lessening throngs in haste they muster,
And in some narrow door-way cluster,
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In vain to force the barrier try,
Squeeze, press—do all things but get by,
In spite of twenty quaint devices
To reach that goal,—the cakes and ices;
Though all beyond those straits is ocean
Pacific, without life or motion!
No longer in a stormy night,
(The London-Coach-maker's delight)
Comes on the startled ear, from far,
The hubbub of domestic war.
Hushed is the sound of swearing, lashing,
Of tangled wheels together clashing,
Of glasses shivering, pannels crashing,
As coachmen try their rival forces
In whips, and carriages, and horses.
In vain their mistresses may fret,
Be frightened, trampled on, or wet.
How, but by prancing in the mud,
Can pampered cattle show their blood?
Honour's at stake;—and what is comfort,
Safety, or health, or any sum for't?
The bills, 'tis true, to those up-stairs,
Are somewhat heavy, for repairs;
But courage, Jehu! Such disasters
Are not your business, but your master's.
(The London-Coach-maker's delight)
Comes on the startled ear, from far,
The hubbub of domestic war.
Hushed is the sound of swearing, lashing,
Of tangled wheels together clashing,
Of glasses shivering, pannels crashing,
As coachmen try their rival forces
In whips, and carriages, and horses.
In vain their mistresses may fret,
Be frightened, trampled on, or wet.
130
Can pampered cattle show their blood?
Honour's at stake;—and what is comfort,
Safety, or health, or any sum for't?
The bills, 'tis true, to those up-stairs,
Are somewhat heavy, for repairs;
But courage, Jehu! Such disasters
Are not your business, but your master's.
Now many a pleasant hungry sinner
Finds tapering off the' accustomed dinner.
No more he reads on pasteboard nicely
Ranged o'er his chimney, “Eight precisely.”
No crow-quill notes with corners three,
Littered about for friends to see,
Coax him to tête-à-têtes, and tea.
But, lingering till the chaise is gone
Which holds the last Amphitryon,
Ungreeted at his morning station
Ev'n by a verbal invitation,
Late and alone he dines at Brooks's;
Tries what a newspaper or book says
Till half past ten; and then, poor man,
Gets through the evening as he can.
Finds tapering off the' accustomed dinner.
No more he reads on pasteboard nicely
Ranged o'er his chimney, “Eight precisely.”
No crow-quill notes with corners three,
Littered about for friends to see,
Coax him to tête-à-têtes, and tea.
But, lingering till the chaise is gone
Which holds the last Amphitryon,
Ungreeted at his morning station
Ev'n by a verbal invitation,
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Tries what a newspaper or book says
Till half past ten; and then, poor man,
Gets through the evening as he can.
'Tis August. Rays of fiercer heat
Full on the scorching pavement beat,
And o'er it the faint breeze, by fits
Alternate, blows and intermits.
For short-lived green, a russet brown
Stains every withering shrub in Town.
Darkening the air, in clouds arise
The' Egyptian plagues of dust and flies;
And wasps, those foragers voracious,
Buzz through the shops, in swarms audacious.
At rest, in motion—forced to roam
Abroad, or to remain at home,
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions—‘Be ye hot!’
Day is intolerable—night
As close and suffocating quite;
And still the Mercury mounts higher,
Till London seems again on fire!
Full on the scorching pavement beat,
And o'er it the faint breeze, by fits
Alternate, blows and intermits.
For short-lived green, a russet brown
Stains every withering shrub in Town.
Darkening the air, in clouds arise
The' Egyptian plagues of dust and flies;
And wasps, those foragers voracious,
Buzz through the shops, in swarms audacious.
At rest, in motion—forced to roam
Abroad, or to remain at home,
Nature proclaims one common lot
For all conditions—‘Be ye hot!’
132
As close and suffocating quite;
And still the Mercury mounts higher,
Till London seems again on fire!
Now is the time, ye flush of money,
To vest it in an eight-oared Funny;
Or man some stately barge, and in it
Embark the “Cynthia of the minute,”
To quit old scores by land, and give her
A day's amusement on the river.
The part of Cynthia, cousin, few
Have acted half so well as you;
Oft have you named the party; they
Had but one duty—to obey.
For Ladies, when the Dog-star flames,
Are worse than press-gangs on the Thames.
No man's protection is regarded,
And none escape,—unless they are dead.
As, in the Isles between the tropics,
(How similes set off one's topics!)
Land-crabs, at certain times, agree
To quit the mountains for the sea,
Thus, as the tide runs up or down,
Our Belles, with one accord, from town,
Rush to the river, and embark
For Richmond-hill or Greenwich-Park.
Some shoot the bridge, and downward trip
Among the shipping, to the Ship;
Some seek a less encumbered quarter,
The Castle, or the Star and Garter.
But Ships or Castles, parks or hills,
Small is the difference—in their bills.
Admire the views, ye funnies, barges,
And boats—but tremble at the charges!
To vest it in an eight-oared Funny;
Or man some stately barge, and in it
Embark the “Cynthia of the minute,”
To quit old scores by land, and give her
A day's amusement on the river.
The part of Cynthia, cousin, few
Have acted half so well as you;
Oft have you named the party; they
Had but one duty—to obey.
For Ladies, when the Dog-star flames,
Are worse than press-gangs on the Thames.
No man's protection is regarded,
And none escape,—unless they are dead.
133
(How similes set off one's topics!)
Land-crabs, at certain times, agree
To quit the mountains for the sea,
Thus, as the tide runs up or down,
Our Belles, with one accord, from town,
Rush to the river, and embark
For Richmond-hill or Greenwich-Park.
Some shoot the bridge, and downward trip
Among the shipping, to the Ship;
Some seek a less encumbered quarter,
The Castle, or the Star and Garter.
But Ships or Castles, parks or hills,
Small is the difference—in their bills.
Admire the views, ye funnies, barges,
And boats—but tremble at the charges!
Now smitten by the cloudless beams
Of a hot sun the river steams.
Hushed is the breeze; a dazzling glare
Shot from the water, fires the air.
And since, alas! in sultry weather
Few are the amateurs who feather
And pull, like watermen, together,
Long ere the destined voyage is ended,
Their dashing oars are half suspended,
Till, checked awhile, beneath the awning
Breaks out, at length, a general yawning,
As melting in “day's garish eye,”
Becalmed and motionless they lie.
Or worse befalls. For oft a raw gust
Broods o'er the burning brow of August,
And “hushed, expects” throughout the day,
“In grim repose its evening prey.”
Bursting at last, a sudden squall
Drenches the ladies near Black-wall;
Or the vext waters make a breach
Clean over them in Chelsea-reach.
Of a hot sun the river steams.
134
Shot from the water, fires the air.
And since, alas! in sultry weather
Few are the amateurs who feather
And pull, like watermen, together,
Long ere the destined voyage is ended,
Their dashing oars are half suspended,
Till, checked awhile, beneath the awning
Breaks out, at length, a general yawning,
As melting in “day's garish eye,”
Becalmed and motionless they lie.
Or worse befalls. For oft a raw gust
Broods o'er the burning brow of August,
And “hushed, expects” throughout the day,
“In grim repose its evening prey.”
Bursting at last, a sudden squall
Drenches the ladies near Black-wall;
Or the vext waters make a breach
Clean over them in Chelsea-reach.
135
How in this moment will they hate
The very mention of White-Bait,
And every over-rated dish
Of pond, and sea, and river-fish!
How long for home and London-smoke,
And loath the Ship and Artichoke!
For, fair ones, what are woods and hills,
Music and feasts, to damps and chills?
What, if you can't contrive to parry
The dose-ing, sleek apothecary?
If, jaded ere you land and sup,
Next morning you are all laid up?
The very mention of White-Bait,
And every over-rated dish
Of pond, and sea, and river-fish!
How long for home and London-smoke,
And loath the Ship and Artichoke!
For, fair ones, what are woods and hills,
Music and feasts, to damps and chills?
What, if you can't contrive to parry
The dose-ing, sleek apothecary?
If, jaded ere you land and sup,
Next morning you are all laid up?
Sometimes (the chance is rare indeed)
These water-parties may succeed,
When wind and tide and settled weather
Club all their influence together;
When through alternate ebbs and flows
Briskly the barge or wherry goes;
And on its course, on either side,
Shines the green landscape's glittering pride.
What then? The river and its banks
For one such prize yield twenty blanks.
These water-parties may succeed,
When wind and tide and settled weather
Club all their influence together;
When through alternate ebbs and flows
Briskly the barge or wherry goes;
136
Shines the green landscape's glittering pride.
What then? The river and its banks
For one such prize yield twenty blanks.
Now many a city-wife and daughter
Feels that the dipping rage has caught her.
Scarce can they rest upon their pillows,
For musing on machines and billows;
Or, should they slumber, 'tis to dream
All night of Margate and of steam;
Of Steam, much stronger than a giant,
And, duly conjured, more compliant.
At eight, that bustling happy hour,
His boat is ready at the Tower.
Embarked, they catch the sound, and feel
The thumping motion of his wheel.
Lashed into foam by ceaseless strokes,
The river roars, the funnel smokes,
As onward, like an arrow, shoots
The Giant, with the seven-league boots,
Plying his paddles, and outstripping
With ease the sails of all the shipping
Through every reach—mast following mast
Descried, approached, o'ertaken, passed.
Look where you will, you find no traces
Of qualm-anticipating faces.
No calm, so dead that nothing stirs,
Delays the sea-sick passengers.
No baffling breeze's adverse force
Prevails against their destined course.
But while their mouths can scarcely utter,
O'ercrammed with tea and bread-and-butter,
While on the deck some stretch their legs,
Some feast below on toast and eggs,
Cheered by the clarinet and song,
Ten knots and hour they spank along,
By Gravesend, Southend, through the Nore,
Till the boat lands them all at four,
Exulting, on the Margate-shore!
Feels that the dipping rage has caught her.
Scarce can they rest upon their pillows,
For musing on machines and billows;
Or, should they slumber, 'tis to dream
All night of Margate and of steam;
Of Steam, much stronger than a giant,
And, duly conjured, more compliant.
At eight, that bustling happy hour,
His boat is ready at the Tower.
Embarked, they catch the sound, and feel
The thumping motion of his wheel.
Lashed into foam by ceaseless strokes,
The river roars, the funnel smokes,
137
The Giant, with the seven-league boots,
Plying his paddles, and outstripping
With ease the sails of all the shipping
Through every reach—mast following mast
Descried, approached, o'ertaken, passed.
Look where you will, you find no traces
Of qualm-anticipating faces.
No calm, so dead that nothing stirs,
Delays the sea-sick passengers.
No baffling breeze's adverse force
Prevails against their destined course.
But while their mouths can scarcely utter,
O'ercrammed with tea and bread-and-butter,
While on the deck some stretch their legs,
Some feast below on toast and eggs,
Cheered by the clarinet and song,
Ten knots and hour they spank along,
138
Till the boat lands them all at four,
Exulting, on the Margate-shore!
These Kent delights—while others post
As nimbly to the Sussex-coast.
Starting each hour, ere day begins
Till evening falls, from twenty inns,
Inside and out, a clustering load,
They spin along the level road;
That road so oft curtailed, and passed
Each year more quickly than the last.
What crowds from every coach alight on
The russet Steyne, and beach of Brighton!
To view from its parades and cliffs
Gulls, bathers, fishermen, and skiffs;
To pay for appetite and air
The price of heat, and dust, and glare!
To watch, by day, the surf in motion
Unwearied, from the boisterous ocean;
And, ancle-deep in burning shingles,
Sigh for green fields and shady dingles!
Or pace along the shore, remarking
A shoal of passengers embarking
(Well if they don't repent the step)
To join the packet for Dieppe;
Looking as grave as undertakers,
Their boat half swamped among the breakers,
Some sick, all terrified, in crossing
To where the distant bark lies tossing!
To note, by night, with magnanimity
The fluttering of unlined dimity,
As through the room the curtains sail,
Obedient to the western gale.
To think how time and use disables,
Through years of letting, chairs and tables;
Or trace the moon-beams on the foam,
And muse on comforts left at home!
As nimbly to the Sussex-coast.
Starting each hour, ere day begins
Till evening falls, from twenty inns,
Inside and out, a clustering load,
They spin along the level road;
That road so oft curtailed, and passed
Each year more quickly than the last.
What crowds from every coach alight on
The russet Steyne, and beach of Brighton!
To view from its parades and cliffs
Gulls, bathers, fishermen, and skiffs;
To pay for appetite and air
The price of heat, and dust, and glare!
139
Unwearied, from the boisterous ocean;
And, ancle-deep in burning shingles,
Sigh for green fields and shady dingles!
Or pace along the shore, remarking
A shoal of passengers embarking
(Well if they don't repent the step)
To join the packet for Dieppe;
Looking as grave as undertakers,
Their boat half swamped among the breakers,
Some sick, all terrified, in crossing
To where the distant bark lies tossing!
To note, by night, with magnanimity
The fluttering of unlined dimity,
As through the room the curtains sail,
Obedient to the western gale.
To think how time and use disables,
Through years of letting, chairs and tables;
Or trace the moon-beams on the foam,
And muse on comforts left at home!
140
Now sounds through every manor flying
Give notice that new guns are trying.
Sportsmen on Yorkshire mountains grousing
Feel the bog shake, and dread a sousing.
Unclouded skies their heat redouble;
The “swart star” rages o'er the stubble.
Smote by his beams, the river shrinks,
The dusty common yawns in chinks;
Dogs in the fancied chase grow hot,
And birds impatient to be shot.
These signs, and more—but 'twould encumber
My verse to reckon up their number,
The air in short, the sea, the sun,
Proclaim The Capital undone.
Give notice that new guns are trying.
Sportsmen on Yorkshire mountains grousing
Feel the bog shake, and dread a sousing.
Unclouded skies their heat redouble;
The “swart star” rages o'er the stubble.
Smote by his beams, the river shrinks,
The dusty common yawns in chinks;
Dogs in the fancied chase grow hot,
And birds impatient to be shot.
These signs, and more—but 'twould encumber
My verse to reckon up their number,
The air in short, the sea, the sun,
Proclaim The Capital undone.
Julia, forgive me this digression,
And summon all your self-possession
To listen to a truth, unnettled,
By every day's experience settled:
That absence, if not over-long
And frequent, can do love no wrong;
That to the nymph for whom he burns
With fresh delight her swain returns,
After a trifling separation:
Thus, for example, the Vacation,
Beckoning to rural leisure down
Lawyers and lovers too from Town,
By well-timed absence both recruits,
And fits them for their several suits.
That past, the chase, again renewed,
With double ardour is pursued.
And summon all your self-possession
To listen to a truth, unnettled,
By every day's experience settled:
141
And frequent, can do love no wrong;
That to the nymph for whom he burns
With fresh delight her swain returns,
After a trifling separation:
Thus, for example, the Vacation,
Beckoning to rural leisure down
Lawyers and lovers too from Town,
By well-timed absence both recruits,
And fits them for their several suits.
That past, the chase, again renewed,
With double ardour is pursued.
How strange a thing a woman's heart is!
You talk of dinners and of parties,
As if for keeping Charles in town
Such lame excuses would go down.
A truce with fibs,—they only prove
One honest downright truth—you love.
And since your love through all disguises
Still buoyant to the surface rises,
Be ruled by what a friend advises.
Even, or odd—say yes or no.
Marry the man, or let him go
At large among his country-friends,
When August and the winter ends,
And send him with a lengthened chain
Back to his much-loved sports again.
You talk of dinners and of parties,
As if for keeping Charles in town
Such lame excuses would go down.
A truce with fibs,—they only prove
One honest downright truth—you love.
142
Still buoyant to the surface rises,
Be ruled by what a friend advises.
Even, or odd—say yes or no.
Marry the man, or let him go
At large among his country-friends,
When August and the winter ends,
And send him with a lengthened chain
Back to his much-loved sports again.
Now, through the season (such the fruits
Of your caprice) he never shoots;
So that I've lost those welcome presents
Of hares and partridges and pheasants,
Which, when the holidays drew near,
Sent to enrich my Christmas-cheer,
Oft on the turkeys would encroach
That dangled from the Norfolk-coach.
Can I resign without regret
These dainties, or the day forget
When last he purchased, by a grant on
His dipped estate, a gun from Manton,
(No matter which, they're two, you know,
Some fancy John, and others Joe,)
That gun of guns, which none but ninnies
Could reckon dear at sixty guineas!
Scarce have we thought the stories long,
Midst cooling muffins and Souchong,
Of all its crinkums and devices
Afforded at such moderate prices
That some, perhaps too partial, say
They are not sold, but given away.
O! why are Mantons such as these,
Just like the annuals one sees
At Messrs. Lee and Kennedy's;
Those plants so beautiful and dear
That never last a second year!
Of your caprice) he never shoots;
So that I've lost those welcome presents
Of hares and partridges and pheasants,
Which, when the holidays drew near,
Sent to enrich my Christmas-cheer,
Oft on the turkeys would encroach
That dangled from the Norfolk-coach.
Can I resign without regret
These dainties, or the day forget
143
His dipped estate, a gun from Manton,
(No matter which, they're two, you know,
Some fancy John, and others Joe,)
That gun of guns, which none but ninnies
Could reckon dear at sixty guineas!
Scarce have we thought the stories long,
Midst cooling muffins and Souchong,
Of all its crinkums and devices
Afforded at such moderate prices
That some, perhaps too partial, say
They are not sold, but given away.
O! why are Mantons such as these,
Just like the annuals one sees
At Messrs. Lee and Kennedy's;
Those plants so beautiful and dear
That never last a second year!
Fain, while the Muse my memory jogs,
Fain would I celebrate his dogs;
But how do justice to their breed,
Their perfect breaking, nose, and speed,
When I'm too modest to aspire
Ev'n to a sketch of his attire?
O cousin, could you but have seen
The gaiters brown, the jacket green,
In which, through all the live-long day,
Fresh and untired, he blazed away,
Scrambling through bush and briar, to trace
Haply, but half another brace!
Then, as he neared the garden, hark
From both his barrels, just at dark,
Two short, smart pops! Ill-omened sound,
Echoed o'er many a turnip-ground,
Where coveys fed, in fear and sorrow
Prophetic of their fate to-morrow!
Fain would I celebrate his dogs;
144
Their perfect breaking, nose, and speed,
When I'm too modest to aspire
Ev'n to a sketch of his attire?
O cousin, could you but have seen
The gaiters brown, the jacket green,
In which, through all the live-long day,
Fresh and untired, he blazed away,
Scrambling through bush and briar, to trace
Haply, but half another brace!
Then, as he neared the garden, hark
From both his barrels, just at dark,
Two short, smart pops! Ill-omened sound,
Echoed o'er many a turnip-ground,
Where coveys fed, in fear and sorrow
Prophetic of their fate to-morrow!
In wood or field, at any game
Unerring was his practised aim;
Whether with many or with few
He braved the perilous battue;
Whether he watched where wild-ducks spring
Scared from the lake, and clamouring;
Or marked, within some dingle warm,
The woodcock's solitary form;
Or, in the sedges ancle-deep,
Grudged not for snipes, whole hours, to creep;
And seldom missing, as I've heard,
Snipe, wild-duck, pheasant, cock, or bird,
He never, (this I don't pretend
To vouch for) never winged a friend,
Nor risked, to gain a foremost place,
The peppering of his neighbour's face!
In short he was, as rumour runs,
The very Paragon of Guns.
Unerring was his practised aim;
145
He braved the perilous battue;
Whether he watched where wild-ducks spring
Scared from the lake, and clamouring;
Or marked, within some dingle warm,
The woodcock's solitary form;
Or, in the sedges ancle-deep,
Grudged not for snipes, whole hours, to creep;
And seldom missing, as I've heard,
Snipe, wild-duck, pheasant, cock, or bird,
He never, (this I don't pretend
To vouch for) never winged a friend,
Nor risked, to gain a foremost place,
The peppering of his neighbour's face!
In short he was, as rumour runs,
The very Paragon of Guns.
Now, the least mention of preserves,
Turnips, or stubbles, shakes his nerves.
Forgetting if the noise be louder
From gun, or fulminating-powder,
Through autumn's heat, through winter's rigour,
The recreant never draws a trigger.
His game-book's lost, his pointers stray,
And his crack Manton's given away!
Turnips, or stubbles, shakes his nerves.
146
From gun, or fulminating-powder,
Through autumn's heat, through winter's rigour,
The recreant never draws a trigger.
His game-book's lost, his pointers stray,
And his crack Manton's given away!
I question if, another year,
He means to hunt in Leicestershire;
Though there alone, beneath the sun,
A horse can go, a dog can run.
Once how he flew, like lightning, down
To Melton, and then back to town,
In quick alternate motion tost,
Like shuttlecock, by thaw and frost!
Pray, Julia, just to get a notion
Of this Meltonic see-saw motion,
Listen.—It freezes—to the door
Upwhirls his wadded chaise and four.
He's in, he's off,—nor marks (so easy
The motion) how the roads grow greasy;
How clogged his wheels, as slow they travel
Through clinging clay and grinding gravel;
How drops begin to shower from leaves,
And icicles to melt on eaves;
The country, ere he reaches town,
Looking, each mile, more soft and brown,
Till Highgate's arch-wayed hill is past,
And all beyond is mire at last!
He means to hunt in Leicestershire;
Though there alone, beneath the sun,
A horse can go, a dog can run.
Once how he flew, like lightning, down
To Melton, and then back to town,
In quick alternate motion tost,
Like shuttlecock, by thaw and frost!
Pray, Julia, just to get a notion
Of this Meltonic see-saw motion,
Listen.—It freezes—to the door
Upwhirls his wadded chaise and four.
147
The motion) how the roads grow greasy;
How clogged his wheels, as slow they travel
Through clinging clay and grinding gravel;
How drops begin to shower from leaves,
And icicles to melt on eaves;
The country, ere he reaches town,
Looking, each mile, more soft and brown,
Till Highgate's arch-wayed hill is past,
And all beyond is mire at last!
Mire,—how delightful!—in a trice
He dashes back to meet—the ice.
Frost, like a bailiff or a constable,
Cries “Stand!”—and claps him up at Dunstable,
Shewing, if on he dares to go,
For writ or staff—the drifted snow.
There, at the Sugar-Loaf, a guest
Reluctant under close arrest,
Confined till larks and patience fail him,
He waits another thaw to bail him,
Far from his grooms and favourite stud,
The very quintessence of blood;
As distant as the merest stranger
From that mysterious rack and manger
Where many a hunter, duly fed,
Unconsciously eats off his head,
Destined at last, as oft befalls,
To get it back at Tattersall's.
He dashes back to meet—the ice.
Frost, like a bailiff or a constable,
Cries “Stand!”—and claps him up at Dunstable,
Shewing, if on he dares to go,
For writ or staff—the drifted snow.
There, at the Sugar-Loaf, a guest
Reluctant under close arrest,
148
He waits another thaw to bail him,
Far from his grooms and favourite stud,
The very quintessence of blood;
As distant as the merest stranger
From that mysterious rack and manger
Where many a hunter, duly fed,
Unconsciously eats off his head,
Destined at last, as oft befalls,
To get it back at Tattersall's.
No more the punctual groom shall shake
His master till they both awake,
To listen to the wind and rain
By fits, loud clattering on the pane,
And envy those who stretch and yawn,
Careless of bleak December's dawn;
Or doze, perchance, some lie inventing
To shirk this famous day for scenting,
While gusts more strong and showers more thick
Give him strange thoughts of shamming sick.
Till, mindful of his former fame,
He combats drowsiness with shame;
Breaks from the chains which bind the lazy,
Votes a wet morning only hazy,
And, ere the half-hour's chimes are counted,
Is fairly up, equipped, and mounted.
His master till they both awake,
To listen to the wind and rain
By fits, loud clattering on the pane,
And envy those who stretch and yawn,
Careless of bleak December's dawn;
Or doze, perchance, some lie inventing
To shirk this famous day for scenting,
149
Give him strange thoughts of shamming sick.
Till, mindful of his former fame,
He combats drowsiness with shame;
Breaks from the chains which bind the lazy,
Votes a wet morning only hazy,
And, ere the half-hour's chimes are counted,
Is fairly up, equipped, and mounted.
No more he trots, like folks who trip
Into a boat to join a ship,
Mud-booted, to the ground, on hack;
Nor creeps, on jaded hunter, back
Over the heath, along the lane,
Guessing and floundering in the rain;
The mile-stone missed, the finger-post
Then farthest, when he needs it most;
Haunted, amidst the deepening gloom,
By phantoms of that eating-room
Where the bright blaze good cheer and wine
Might tempt worse appetites to dine;
And musing on what hours may pass
Ere his the morsel, or the glass.
No spark of all the chase's heat
Left in his numbed and dangling feet;
No chance of rest, nor hope to sup,
Unless the friendly moon gets up,
And, faintly struggling through the fog,
Hints, just in time,—“Beware the bog!”
Into a boat to join a ship,
Mud-booted, to the ground, on hack;
Nor creeps, on jaded hunter, back
Over the heath, along the lane,
Guessing and floundering in the rain;
The mile-stone missed, the finger-post
Then farthest, when he needs it most;
Haunted, amidst the deepening gloom,
By phantoms of that eating-room
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Might tempt worse appetites to dine;
And musing on what hours may pass
Ere his the morsel, or the glass.
No spark of all the chase's heat
Left in his numbed and dangling feet;
No chance of rest, nor hope to sup,
Unless the friendly moon gets up,
And, faintly struggling through the fog,
Hints, just in time,—“Beware the bog!”
How do benighted sportsmen roam,
When, haply, not three fields from home;
Like Tony's mother led astray
By that spoiled urchin in the Play,
Who while he takes her, round about,
Back to the spot whence both set out,
Still, to alarm the silly woman,
Talks of ‘Squash Lane,’ and ‘Crackskull Common!’
When, haply, not three fields from home;
Like Tony's mother led astray
By that spoiled urchin in the Play,
Who while he takes her, round about,
Back to the spot whence both set out,
Still, to alarm the silly woman,
Talks of ‘Squash Lane,’ and ‘Crackskull Common!’
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Thus in the dark he rode to cover.
Thus from the death, when all was over.
For, like a shrimp, a fox-chase fails,
Both have but sorry heads and tails.
But Charles was still unflinching found,
If outward, or if homeward bound;
Patient, untired,—and, when he hunted,
Careless what dangers he affronted.
Then with firm seat, and bosom steeled,
He shone the foremost of the field;
All doubting if, in skill and force,
He was the cleverer, or his horse.
Close to the hounds, the triumph filled
His heart with rapture, if they killed;
And if they failed,—why, riding hard,
Like virtue, was its own reward.
His was the transport that atones
For broken limbs and collar-bones;
His all the energies which urge on
Men, in defiance of the surgeon,
Far from their wives and tender pledges,
Dashing o'er fences, ditches, hedges,
Where none would venture but a fool
Or madman, if his blood was cool.
Thus from the death, when all was over.
For, like a shrimp, a fox-chase fails,
Both have but sorry heads and tails.
But Charles was still unflinching found,
If outward, or if homeward bound;
Patient, untired,—and, when he hunted,
Careless what dangers he affronted.
Then with firm seat, and bosom steeled,
He shone the foremost of the field;
All doubting if, in skill and force,
He was the cleverer, or his horse.
Close to the hounds, the triumph filled
His heart with rapture, if they killed;
And if they failed,—why, riding hard,
Like virtue, was its own reward.
His was the transport that atones
For broken limbs and collar-bones;
His all the energies which urge on
Men, in defiance of the surgeon,
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Dashing o'er fences, ditches, hedges,
Where none would venture but a fool
Or madman, if his blood was cool.
A Nimrod he, from taste and passion—
Unlike the ill-starred slave of Fashion
Who hunts, o'er meaner sportsmen crowing,
In Leicestershire, because 'tis knowing;
Because, at Melton, all partakers
In hunting should be men of acres,
Or flush of money in the Stocks,
In order to suppress the fox.
That secret foe to southern breezes;
That inward chuckler when it freezes;
When scentless air and hardened soil
Save both his credit and his toil.
Then, nothing loth, he flies to meet
Those loungers in St. James's-street,
Who break, like him, the Melton-tether,
Enjoying, while they d—n, the weather.
But suddenly, unused to stay
Our winter through, the frost gives way.
The fatal hour is come—is past;
And in despair he goes at last
Back to his post, to bear the brunt
And feign the raptures of the hunt!
Unlike the ill-starred slave of Fashion
Who hunts, o'er meaner sportsmen crowing,
In Leicestershire, because 'tis knowing;
Because, at Melton, all partakers
In hunting should be men of acres,
Or flush of money in the Stocks,
In order to suppress the fox.
That secret foe to southern breezes;
That inward chuckler when it freezes;
When scentless air and hardened soil
Save both his credit and his toil.
Then, nothing loth, he flies to meet
Those loungers in St. James's-street,
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Enjoying, while they d—n, the weather.
But suddenly, unused to stay
Our winter through, the frost gives way.
The fatal hour is come—is past;
And in despair he goes at last
Back to his post, to bear the brunt
And feign the raptures of the hunt!
Behold him there, the luckless varlet,
In oil-skin hat, in coat of scarlet,
Superbly mounted, duly dressed,
And looking lively, though distrest!
Think not of all who there assemble
With chattering teeth, and limbs that tremble,
Think not that, with a common aim
And garb, their feelings are the same.
No, no,—the sport has many a lover
As cool as he, at every cover.
In oil-skin hat, in coat of scarlet,
Superbly mounted, duly dressed,
And looking lively, though distrest!
Think not of all who there assemble
With chattering teeth, and limbs that tremble,
Think not that, with a common aim
And garb, their feelings are the same.
No, no,—the sport has many a lover
As cool as he, at every cover.
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But soon, whate'er they feel or feign,
The chaff is winnowed from the grain.
They find;—hark forward! off they go
To the mad cry of Tally Ho!
Affecting now to urge the speed
And rouse the courage of his steed,
What though he spurs, and plies the lash,
And seems not only stout, but rash?
Soon, by experience dearly bought,
Soon will the' aspiring Youth be taught
That valour is a poor possession,
Without its better half, discretion.
The chaff is winnowed from the grain.
They find;—hark forward! off they go
To the mad cry of Tally Ho!
Affecting now to urge the speed
And rouse the courage of his steed,
What though he spurs, and plies the lash,
And seems not only stout, but rash?
Soon, by experience dearly bought,
Soon will the' aspiring Youth be taught
That valour is a poor possession,
Without its better half, discretion.
Warned by the knowing ones to keep
Aloof from every useless leap,
And copy those whose practised eye
Turns to the well-known gap, hard-by,
He learns, in rising at a gate,
The value of the hint too late.
For, awkward where he should be limber,
Just as 'tis cleared, he touches timber;
Falls, and before he can recover him,
Aghast, sees half the field ride over him;
A perfect judge, though bruised to jelly,
Of every horse's girth and belly.
Thrice he his suppliant arms extends
In vain to all his dearest friends;
And lies, perchance, where Fate has spilled him
Till they have run the fox and killed him!
Aloof from every useless leap,
And copy those whose practised eye
Turns to the well-known gap, hard-by,
He learns, in rising at a gate,
The value of the hint too late.
155
Just as 'tis cleared, he touches timber;
Falls, and before he can recover him,
Aghast, sees half the field ride over him;
A perfect judge, though bruised to jelly,
Of every horse's girth and belly.
Thrice he his suppliant arms extends
In vain to all his dearest friends;
And lies, perchance, where Fate has spilled him
Till they have run the fox and killed him!
Don't fancy; Julia, if you please,
That Charles resembles one of these,
Who care not what their hunters cost
To buy or keep, if seldom crost.
He, of the true, the genuine sort
Whose heart and soul are in the sport,
Feels the strong passion scarce kept under
By mightier love;—nor should I wonder
If of his pleasure thus debarred,
And exercise, he thought it hard;
Nay, though obedient to a tittle
In all things else, demurred a little.
But no.—In aid of Love's decree,
Comes a worse tyrant, Poverty.
Few long can scramble but the rich
In Leicestershire, o'er hedge and ditch.
Money alone, as sportsmen know
Too well, by what they pay—or owe,
Makes Melton-mares and horses go.
That Charles resembles one of these,
Who care not what their hunters cost
To buy or keep, if seldom crost.
He, of the true, the genuine sort
Whose heart and soul are in the sport,
Feels the strong passion scarce kept under
By mightier love;—nor should I wonder
156
And exercise, he thought it hard;
Nay, though obedient to a tittle
In all things else, demurred a little.
But no.—In aid of Love's decree,
Comes a worse tyrant, Poverty.
Few long can scramble but the rich
In Leicestershire, o'er hedge and ditch.
Money alone, as sportsmen know
Too well, by what they pay—or owe,
Makes Melton-mares and horses go.
But, Julia, since, without a blush,
You've weaned him from the fox's brush,
From pouches, belts, and barrels double,
From covies, covers, woods, and stubble,
Be warned, and make him not, to crown
These injuries, a slave in town.
Trifle with meaner swains—you're free,
But Charles is public property;
Fashion's unerring regulator,
Sole arbiter, supreme dictator;
To slight his power, his throne to seize on,—
Why, at the least, 'tis petty treason.
You've weaned him from the fox's brush,
From pouches, belts, and barrels double,
From covies, covers, woods, and stubble,
Be warned, and make him not, to crown
These injuries, a slave in town.
157
But Charles is public property;
Fashion's unerring regulator,
Sole arbiter, supreme dictator;
To slight his power, his throne to seize on,—
Why, at the least, 'tis petty treason.
These lines were meant to be my last.
My word was pledged, my promise past,
Ne'er to record with ink and pen
Your follies or your faults again;
But hard the task with time to strive;
I thought it three that struck—'twas five,
The hour when every office blocks
With one accord its letter-box,
And servants, something loth, must fag
To catch the bell-man and his bag.
Well, well.—“I had a thing to say,
But let it pass.”—Refreshed to-day,
My Muse may muster to your sorrow
A few more couplets for to-morrow,
Harder perhaps to read than prose,
If not so easy to compose.
But since the jade inspires no better,
Julia, farewell.—Here ends my letter.
My word was pledged, my promise past,
Ne'er to record with ink and pen
Your follies or your faults again;
But hard the task with time to strive;
I thought it three that struck—'twas five,
The hour when every office blocks
With one accord its letter-box,
And servants, something loth, must fag
To catch the bell-man and his bag.
Well, well.—“I had a thing to say,
But let it pass.”—Refreshed to-day,
158
A few more couplets for to-morrow,
Harder perhaps to read than prose,
If not so easy to compose.
But since the jade inspires no better,
Julia, farewell.—Here ends my letter.
| Letters to Julia, in Rhyme | |