University of Virginia Library

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A MORAL EPISTLE FROM THE PAVILION AT BRIGHTON TO CARLTON HOUSE, LONDON.

DEAR COUSIN CARLEY,

It was said, and said wisely, that telling one's grief,
In a certain degree, will insure us relief:
And I hope you're too just, though I'm craz'd and forlorn,
To unite with the vulgar, and treat me with scorn.
That I'm not what I was, is but wofully true;
But I trust I shall ever be valu'd by you.
Ah me! what a change has occurr'd in my state,
Since he who enjoy'd me has prov'd an ingrate!

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I am like an old wife, now, continually weeping—
Who would think, from my visage, I e'er was in keeping?
When he first nestled here he was handsome and thin,
No razor had then mown his stubbleless chin:
He was sportive and careless, bland, upright, and young,
And I smil'd on his feats when he said or he sung:

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Then youth bore its own, pardon, while stumbling o'er ill,
As the passions o'erthrew what was meant by the will.

When the full ardent Moon, from her silvery post,
O'erheated the sculls of the world's motley host;
Made the chymist more zealous to transmute his dross,
And adventurers losing to treble that loss;

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I have seen him inwove with a pestilent crew,
Who nine-tenths came undone, and the rest to undo!
When those caitiffs came thund'ring in impudent state,
And drew up their tandems and gigs at my gate,
Full of wrath at their daring, I rav'd and I swore,
Then I let in an Eddy that slamm'd to the door:
But, alas! it avail'd not—'twas open'd again,
And the P--- rose, and welcom'd the toad-eating train!
He urbane smil'd on all, where 'twas sin to look sad,
As God's light aids in common the good and the bad.
I tore off Folly's cloak to exhibit the wrong;
How I toil'd to advise, but was stunn'd with a song:
I made signs on my plaster to rally them all,
But no Daniel was there to decipher the wall.—
Ah! I know his large heart and beneficent plan;
Though he's run from the course, yet he feels like a man:
Though he dissipates seeds of an undeserv'd sorrow,
And gaily puts off half his ills till the morrow,
His radical nobleness knows no decay;
He will act, but not cant—he'll relieve ere he'll pray:
As Charity's retinue own, while embrac'd,
In his gift he gives twice, 'tis a deed so well grac'd.

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When their mirth grew to madness, and jests met the ear,
Which Philosophy scorns, and no maiden should hear,
Convuls'd with disdain I soon alter'd their note,
For I shut up the principal valve of my throat;
Till the smoke in vast volumes pour'd into their room,
And enwrapp'd the loud mob in a horrible gloom,
More fœtid than Vulcan inhal'd with his breath;
More thick than e'er pass'd o'er the threshold of Death;
More choking than Cyclops drank in at their forge;
More rank than the reptile of Thebes could disgorge:
As they gasp'd, it rush'd down their intestines, and clogg'd 'em,
And from pharynx to rectum begrim'd and befogg'd 'em:
While hoarsely they growl'd at the house and the smother,
Though, by knowing the cause, they had curs'd one another.
'Mid their baneful carousals I've fum'd and I've fretted,
Till from kitchen to garret I've croak'd and I've sweated;
By pressure I made my joints crack—I can't bawl—
And drops, drawn from my heart, ran from every wall:
But his H---ss, not knowing my woes or displeasure,
Renew'd the broad catch, and refill'd every measure;
While the rascals around him, revil'd the damp mansion,
And my marrow scorch'd up by the fire's expansion:
Which so heated my fibres and bones—I mean wood—
That a putrescent fever polluted my blood;
Which settled behind the bed's-head of the P---e,
And I've not had my health or my ease ever since;

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Yet I'm sure he would grieve, his politeness is such,
Had he known that a lady had suffer'd so much.
Thus they swill'd and reswill'd, and repeated their boozings,
Till their shirts became dy'd with purpureal oozings.
When the taster sought wine of a primary sort,
I have cough'd 'neath the bin, and shook all the old port,
Till 'twas muddy as Will B---ck's brains—yet each varlet
Said 'twas bright as a ruby, and toasting some harlot,
Would then smack his lips in despite of my labor!
Oh ye gods! how I wish'd for a fist and a sabre,
To cut down the hiccupping braggarts with glee,
That is, if their heads could be injur'd by me.
When Weltjie has cook'd for the half-famish'd group,
How oft have I belch'd pecks of soot in his soup:
Yet e'en that could not drive them from board or from bed,
Though 'twas render'd as black as an Ethiop's head:
When I've made it as foul as a Scot's ragged tartan,
The rogues gulp'd it down, and all swore it was Spartan.
When they've sat near the fire in knee-squeezing rows,
I have spit out a coal, and demolish'd their hose:
All my grates have breath'd sulphur to stifle their powers;
I'd a watch in my sides to beat minutes and hours:
When I've seen a Blight glide 'twixt the earth and the skies,
I've coax'd in the demon, and ruin'd their eyes:
I have edg'd down a poker on legs swell'd with gout,
Till the miscreant has roar'd like swine stuck in the snout:
When Lord --- from my windows was making a beck,
I have hurl'd down my sashes, and wounded his neck;

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Though my rage could but bruise him black, yellow, and blue,
'Twas a hint that might show what the nation should do:
But each knave all the arts of my anger withstood,
For the leeches will suck while the body has blood.
I'd have prophesied much, had I Cerberus' three tongues;
I would fulminate oaths, but, alas! I've no lungs.
When they thought 'twas an earthquake that palsied my walls,
It was I who was shuddering to witness their brawls.
There's no office so dirty but they would fulfil;
There's no sense of debasement could alter their will:
When the munching of immature codlings might gripe him,
They would tear out the leaves of the Psalter to wipe him.
Yet these summer-fed vermin will fly him, if e'er
His wintery fortunes should leave his trunk bare;
Then he'll know that but virtue can keep the soul great,
As they'd make their past meanness the cause of their hate!
I have dropp'd lumps of lime in their glasses while drinking;
I've made thieves in the candle to move him to thinking;
I have clatter'd my casements and chairs to confound 'em;
I have let in the dews and the blast all around 'em;
I have elbow'd my timbers 'gainst many a head;
I have stirr'd up the sewers to stink 'em to bed:
Yet this mass of antipathy marr'd my own liver,
And my tears fill'd the gutter like Egypt's deep river.

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—My eyes, my dear Coz, are exhausted with crying;
So I'll give o'er at present—I'm yours till I'm dying.