A postscript to the new Bath guide :: :: University of Virginia Library

A postscript to the new Bath guide

A Poem by Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]

Pasquin, Anthony (1761-1818)

[section]

[dedication]

POSTSCRIPT TO THE NEW BATH GUIDE.

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Let those laugh now, who never laugh'd before,
Let those who always laugh'd—now laugh the more.

To Richard Phillips, Esq.

POSTSCRIPT TO THE NEW BATH GUIDE.

LETTER I. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

A Description of Bath, and its principal Buildings, as they appear on entering the Suburbs from London—Reflections on the modern Improvements in Architecture—The Man's Twenty Reasons, a Tale.

Tho' fatigu'd, dull, unnerv'd, and oppress'd with ennui,
In that drowsy hiatus 'twixt dinner and tea,
I have ta'en up the pen to comply with your wishes,
And depict gay Bathoñia, and all her queer fishes:

From the neat York Hotel, where I've fix'd my head quarters,
I intend to pay court to Mnemosyne's daughters;
And Report (for once right) made this just observation,
That the House and the Host are both worth—imitation.
But all I can say on the subject at present
Is—that the coup d'œil is excessively pleasant:
Such Parades, such vast circles, such rivers, such bridges,
Such valleys, such woods, such brown uplands, such ridges;
Such heights, such facades, such big titles, such buildings,
Such quarries tormented, such groves, and such gildings;
In short, such a mass as in haste won't be found,
Tho' Perception should wander the world's mote round.

I saw a huge pile to the right made me stare,
Resembling a myriad of—Castles in Air!

Where all the five orders are cut into pieces,
To humour those dolts who take mountains on leases:
There pedestals Tuscan, and Doric volutes,
Mix with Composite plinths, as the object best suits;
And rank is revers'd, like a magical prayer,
For the young tops the old—a la militaire!
There Palladio hangs like a fav'rite disgrac'd,
And poor antient Symmetry's murder'd by Taste.
It commands such a view of the Town, 'tis amazing:
What a scene for a Claude, what a place for star-gazing!
I marvel that Newton, or Hadley, or Flamstead,
Ne'er thought of such wonders or here or at Hampstead.
Some aver it was built for the mad and the proud,
Because half the atticks are lost in a cloud:
'Twould be awful to look from so lofty a place,
If volumes of smoke did not fill up the space,

Which extends from the terrace which labourers shew,
To the valleys, at least—fifteen fathom below!

The Committee of Bath, that the sick mayn't forsake her,
Are pulling down Hovels and Inns by the acre;
Like Etna's eruptions the stones tumble round us,
That Eolian gusts may be free to confound us:
But they make strangers pay the expence of these beauties,
By doubling the taxes of travelling duties:
To be sure this is kind, and would yet seem much kinder,
Were it possible Fashion's poor oafs could be blinder.

Your Letter, dear Bob, came six hours before me,
In which for the scandal of Bath you implore me:
Perhaps you'll be fretful to tarry without it;
I was going to say—I've heard nothing about it:

And the cause is, I know not or spinster or male,
But I'll send, if I can, my excuse in a Tale.

The Man's Twenty Reasons for not doing as he was desired.

A TALE.

When Carolus Secundus, and his suite
Of Barons, Baronets, and Knights to boot:
With Lords and Lacqueys old and young,
Pass'd through some little corporated place,
'Twas keen observ'd by Buckingham's wild Grace
The Bells had not been rung.
Touch'd by the sentiment his minion spoke,
Voluptuous Charles, who lov'd a joke,

With seeming anger call'd the Mayor before him,
And thus began to bore him:
‘What is the reason,’ said the merry King,
‘When I am present, that no bellmen ring?
‘Aye, by my scepter, friend, you well may stare:’—
“I'll give you twenty reasons,” said the Mayor,
“If I my mind may tell free:
“But first—we have no bells within the belfry.”—
‘I need no other reasons, you're so wise,’
Exclaim'd the King, with high-wrought mirth inspir'd,
Shaking his sides, he wip'd his tear-full eyes:
The Courtiers titter'd, and the Mayor retir'd.

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.

LETTER II. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

Moralizing on the Obligations of our Nature—The Deception arising from Warm Expectations—Description of a singular Dream.

“Oh! wearisome condition of humanity,
“Born to one law, and to another bound:
“Vainly begotten, yet forbidden vanity,
“Created sick—commanded to be sound.”

Thus sang Sir Fulke Greville—and chaunted most truly,
Tho' his retrograde Faith call'd his Reason unruly.

I was knit (as they tell me) for excellent ends,
Tho' the future and I have not yet been good friends;
And thrown on this planet of woe nine months after,
The inmate of Guilt, and the subject of Laughter:
Where, from infantine rev'llings to blithe juvenility,
To keep myself safe employ'd all my agility;
When the Tempests of life assail Meekness to kill her,
Like an atom, I'm blown from a post to a pillar;
And I surely had sunk the fell victim of Sorrow,
Had not Hope's brilliant pencil pourtray'd sweet To-Morrow.
But that morrow, like many a fraud in society,
Fled my mental embraces as Peace flies Impiety:
Or could I receive her as Hope's promis'd pattern,
She came, like a Beauty besmear'd as a slattern.
Yet strange as this wond'rous hypothesis seems,
I adore the false nymph, tho' she cheat me with dreams.—

Of dreams apropos, for I lately have had one,
Which perhaps Scotia's elders would solve as a bad one:
Methought I saw Error, array'd as a Spider!
Whose circles progressive spread wider and wider;
With no barrier to stop the wild progress of Action,
Tho' every fibre seem'd touch'd by Attraction:
Thus the mighty Arachne tremendously reign'd,
While Ruin and Scorn the frail fabrick sustain'd:
Round her lime-fraught domain both the worthless and wise
Curvetted and swarm'd like rash—overgrown flies!
And some, who perchance flew too close to the snare,
Were caught, like weak Martyrs, and poiz'd in the air;
Each skain of the web was oppress'd with a hundred,
Who had run after Fame, but in running had blunder'd:
On this hung a row of wild Mathematicians;
On the next gasp'd a synod of Metaphysicians;

On the third, Epicurean dull humaniz'd beasts;
On the fourth, a vast herd of polemical Priests:
And so thick and remote their base bodies extended,
That the dolts to the sight seem'd with vacuum blended.

But think not, dear Bob, that this apt visitation
Left nought on my Judgment for man's reformation:
For this lesson I drew from the ideal spinner,
That the end of the Proud's to give—Reptiles a dinner!
Who buzz, singe their pinions at Novelty's fire,
Taint the viands of Truth, become blind, and expire.

Tho' I know you're no Daniel at clearing a mystery,
There are, from this vision, would make out a history:
As I've read in old writ that the Deities deign
To reveal unborn deeds by the sports of the brain:

Get some of the Sophs to interpret its meaning,
As the fruit of the soil may be well worth the gleaning:
For e'en we, so the children of Obloquy tell us,
Have College-bred Dreamers who're comical Fellows!

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.

LETTER III. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

A CORPORATION DINNER.

The People of Bath, e'er since Quin's halcyon days,
On the Haunch and the Dory bestow ample praise,
And expend a great part of the Denizens' treasure,
In eating, which they think Life's primary pleasure:
Being known to the Mayor thro' a distant relation,
I was prest hard to dine with the whole Corporation:

As dinner was order'd precisely at three,
I reach'd the Town-Hall with their time to agree,
Where I found the gourmands all prepar'd cap-a-pee.
In the room tres magnifique—an elegant building!
Was a head of Minerva invelop'd by gilding:
The sprigs of virtù say 'twas done in a freak
By a worthy old magistrate—one Master Leake,
Who lov'd simple Truth, and abhorr'd the antique,
But especially her who taught Grecians their letters,
And made low Plebeians as wise as—their betters.
When Hunger had whetted my stomach's desires,
I took my seat next to some Somerset 'Squires:
When Alderman Stump (with two cheeks like two codlins,
Who resembles Old Stupid the provost of Maudlin's,
Tho' in nasal proportions the Cit's somewhat coarser)
Politely insisted I'd swallow a forcer!

His intentions at first I could not comprehend,
But he soon put my doubts and my fears at an end,
By calling a waiter, who stood by just handy,
To bring from the side-board a bumper of Brandy.—
The Guests all expectant, by this time near frantic,
Look'd like half-famish'd Sharks in the foaming Atlantic:
Three fourths had ta'en doses to aid Nature's pow'rs,
And each view'd his watch, and thought minutes were hours:
“Where the Devil's the Dinner?” claim'd one at the top,
“Where the Devil's the Dinner?” bawl'd Alderman Sop.
At length the long wish'd-for blest consequence came,
And the Cook op'd the door with his face in a flame,
Follow'd close by some dozens, who each bore a dish,
Encumber'd with Poultry, with Flesh, or with Fish.
We were all so close hemm'd, scarce an earthquake could rout us:
And Soups and Sirloins smoak'd abundant about us:

Now each seiz'd his prey ere the Cook could uncover,
And the Chaplain said grace—with his fork in a Plover.
I sat harrow'd with thought when I saw them begin,
And exclaim'd, Heaven help us if eating's a sin!
For all went to labour, like Masons at Babel,
And Confusion burst forward and govern'd the table:
Three fourths had assembled at gaunt Famine's call,
And 'twas each for himself, and the Lord for us all:
“Here Waiter, you Waiter—come, none of your sneers”—
“I have bawl'd my throat sore,—sure the scroundrels h's no ears?”
“More Bread—bring some Porter—you dog, where's the Mustard?”
“A wing of that Duck—more Leveret—some Custard!”
“Why all the fat's gone from the Turtle—here's manners!”
“Zounds! the geese are as tough as the hides of old tanners.”

“A Bottle of Wind there, for I and my Friend here.”—
“This Feast is not worth half the time that we spend here.”—
“Neighbour Spriggins—I challenge your glass Hob-a-Nob.”—
“Where the Devil's the Wen'son?—this Dinner's a job.”
“More Pepper—a slice of that Haunch where the rest cut—
“You Villain! the Gravy has spoil'd my new waistcoat.”
“I've been roaring for that Spanish Hingun this hour.”
“A morsel of Weal—'sblood the Sherry is sour.”—
Thus Anarchy's claims became broader and broader,
Till a voice from the chair thunder'd—‘Gentlemen, Order!’
Now silence prevail'd, and the Monster was tam'd,
Till—“all charge your Glasses” was loudly proclaim'd—
Then Bottles and Bowls went in quick circulation,
Full of liquor, that threaten'd a small inundation:

Often three hands at once grappled hard a decanter,
For Thirst conquer'd Mirth, and e'en Wit would not banter.
Here's the King! roar'd the Mayor with a sonorous sound,
“Here's the King!” echoed all the queer Banqueters round:
And to prime us with spirits before we sat down,
We all gave a bumper to one Mistress Brown.
Some growl'd this was doing the business too quickly,
But the few that demurr'd were or stupid or sickly:
And a Codger observ'd he was happy to dine,
When the Mayor knew his cue—for the Mayor deals in wine.

All the noise we had past, was yet nought to what follow'd,
Some grumbled—some curst, and some belch'd, and some halloo'd:
I shall never forget when the Pastry came in,
What a vehement shout—what a sense-stunning din!

The Cook had scarce plac'd the first Pye as Cooks must,
Before seven knives were stuck deep in the crust:
While others, sore gall'd that their neighbours had trick'd 'em,
Pick'd the juice from the edge with their fingers, and lick'd 'em:
But an old surly Cit, to accomplish his wishes,
Spread his wide broadcloth sleeves o'er the hot smoking dishes:
Then strove to impress them with Decency's rule,
By the subsequent Tale,—and the Cit was no fool.

CHRISTIAN ADMONITION.

A TALE.

WHEN bulwark-rending Winds in stern November
Disturb'd the bosom of the briny ocean,
A circumstance occurr'd, I well remember,
Which put my doubts of Priestly Zeal in motion.

'Twas on the Cornish coast,
Where Famine seldom finds a tender host:
While a huge Vicar was all-furious ranting,
And on the attributes of Heav'n descanting,
A Man, half breathless, ran into the Church,
And bawl'd—a Ship was driven on the shore!—
The congregation rais'd a hideous roar,
And rose to leave the Parson in the lurch.
Stop! rav'd the Priest, I have a word to say—
Before you run and pounce upon your prey,
Let me, I charge ye, utter a short prayer:
But first I must come down, my Christian chickens—
Report, my brethren, says, we've got a wreck,
From whence you all expect some pretty pickings:
As that's the case, let no one break his neck—
We'll all start fair.—

LETTER IV. Major General Firebrand, to Colonel Carbuncle, at the Horse-Guards.

SYMPTOMS of the GOUT.

After jostlings and rumblings—thank Heaven, all past,
I am nestled in Death's Anti-Chamber at last.
Thus far I've obey'd the Licentiate Bolus,
Who when every thing got to the worst,
To avoid being curst,
Sent Hope and me here to—console us.

But Physicians can singer his treasure,
And use e'en Achilles at pleasure;
For when they have drugg'd him as thin as a lath,
To keep up a semblance of skill,
Against the Patient's will
They send the Dolt to Bath!
'Tis a shame, my good friend, which I'm sure you must own,
That Disease will not let an old Soldier alone,
To descend to the Grave, his forefathers' abode,
But Anguish must goad him a-down the steep road.—
As frail Nature's decay'd—to know what has shock'd her,
I have sent honest Dick for an eminent Doctor:
His name is Deathfilius, he'll tell what the fact is,
He's a man of vast parts, with abundance of practice:
By the Lord, here he is,—I must lay down the pen,—
When he's gone I'll begin my sick minutes agen.

Your servant, good Sir!—prithee Dick, hand a chair—
See I'm flannel'd all o'er, not a bit of me's bare:—
Could my Wife leave her Tomb, by my faith I should fright her,
No Mummy of Egypt was ever bound tighter:—
And behold these damn'd cradles I wear 'stead of shoes,
All slash'd here and there to imprison my toes.
Ah! zounds—there's another of those hellish twitches!
Oh! that Pain could be drumm'd from the body by riches!
I'd spend my last Guinea with singular rapture,
And in Life's happy Volume begin a new Chapter.

By the corslet of Mars I don't know what can ail me,
But my vigour, my limbs, and my appetite fail me:
My feet are both crippled, I can't stand upright
Without these thick crutches—I'm losing my sight.

Oh! don't touch that part, there the Fiends make most ravage,
'Tis as sore as the scull of a newly scalp'd Savage:—
I'm as dry as a spunge, and could drink up a river,
All my joints are as hot as Silenus's Liver:—
I wish that Greek Zeno'd establish'd a College,
To teach us good fellows some practical knowledge;
How we all, when we pleas'd, might get rid of our feeling,
And not with curst cramps thro' creation be reeling.

Now I'll shew you a sight that would make Bruno talk,—
Behold my big knuckles!—these lumps are all chalk:
On my honour 'tis true—I could now keep a score
On a slate in a Bar, or behind the room door.
If you find out the cause of these evils, and cure me,
I will make you a Man, or may Glory abjure me.

On this the prodigious Physician,
To investigate right my condition;
With finger and thumb prest his chin,
And appear'd to retire within:
His cheeks grew more round, tho' intent was his stare,
Like a bladder when filling with air;
Till the judgment becoming mature,
His action was sure:
Then with no small assumption of medical fuss,
Began thus:—
“Your pulse is at ninety—aye, something is wrong;
“Let me handle your foot—if you please, shew your tongue—
“I wish from my soul that your blood beat more slow—
“How are you for motions?” I told him—so, so.—
Upon this old Deathfilius, with evident pride,
And cane to his nostril, most vehement cried:

“Ah! a la bonheur, I have found your case out—
“I'll be shot if all these are not Symptoms of Gout!!!”

As I know, friend Carbuncle,
You're pinch'd by your Uncle,
And sometimes tormented with chronick complainings;
To save your professional gainings,
And preserve your lank purse from the loss of a fee,
I've inclos'd you the recipe Galen gave me.
Catharticum.
Gummi gambogiæ, sacchari purificati,
Mercurii dulcis sublimati,
Scrupulum unum.
(All these clean the guts and new tune 'em.)
Then next you must mix, tho' their rage will confine us,
Radicis jalapii plus aut minus.

There, you varlet, 's a gift your abdomen will rinse,
And the Doctor affirms 'tis a dose for a Prince.

HECTOR FIREBRAND.

Bath, 1789.

POSTSCRIPT.

I pray don't forget to tell Charlotte at Brookes's,
That I'm quite a new man, so much alter'd my looks—is.

LETTER V. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

An Apology for Travelling—The Complexion of the Company—A Family Piece.

You ask me the cause, my friend Bob, for that flurry,
Which continual keeps the big world in a hurry:
We've a nervous impatience—a wish to be going,
Makes us hate what we do, tho' we toil'd to be doing:
It is this wretched impulse our labours to lighten,
Goads the weary to Tunbridge—from Tunbridge to Brighton—

From thence to Southampton—so ad infinitum—
In the hope what they never have seen—will delight 'em.

Here I am almost deafen'd with Fashion's rude jars,
And surrounded, like Phœbus, with Planets and Stars:
E'en Macpharaoh's fierce eye gilds a kindred wrinkle,
But tho' some blaze inordinate, others scarce—twinkle:
For Bath, like the Firmament, spacious and fine,
Possesses no-body but sometimes will shine!

Here Parsons by droves, all elate, hasten down,
To partake of the joys of this health-giving Town:
And to come neither Judges nor Barristers fail,
To catch Pleasure flying, and seize her entail:
Then who, say, should marvel at Bath's matchless glory,
When they've Law and the Gospel on every story?

As I heard he was here, I have seen my old Tutor,
Whose Susan you know once conceiv'd me her suitor:
I found the grave Priest as a Pastor should be,
With his glass in his hand, and his Wife—on his knee:
As his all-a-gog spinsters sat rang'd vis-à-vis.
They had just done their Dinner—some Nuts were before 'em,
And the Misses, tho' dumb, seem'd to threaten Decorum—
Such simp'ring, such perking, such airs they had got,
That all seem'd to think themselves—what they were not—
But the Matron's so vast, so unwieldy, and fat,
To Rubens, for study, the Dame might have sat
As Potiphar's rib, ere she fell by demerit,
For Rubens lov'd flesh, though he painted with spirit.
But again at the daughters—Ruth, Sue, and Deb Dickens,
Whom you satiris'd once as such voracious chickens,

Hung around their old Dad, like three oak-creeping suckers,
To extract all his coin, to get—bibs and new tuckers:
And oft never quit their importunate teizing,
Till they've drain'd his strong box, and seiz'd all worth the seizing.
Thus social ingrates wound the beings who rear 'em,
As the fruit frequent breaks the kind branches that bear 'em.
When the Doctor remonstrates about their expences,
All the girls ope at once, and confound his five senses:
“La, Papa!” cries the eldest Miss D. “do you think
“We are all come to Bath just to eat and to drink,
“Or to vegetate coldly like figs on a stalk,
“To bathe, drink our coffee, play, sing, sleep and talk?”
“Or to mope” (added Susan) “like queer Dr. Parr?”
“Lord bless me, who'd think we should come here so far
“To be kept like choice sweetmeats shut up in a jar,

“And learn musty rules, and half-smother'd expire,
“While the beaux are all smacking their lips with desire?”
“Or to hear (cried young Debby) our Pa talk of Greece,
“When he knows we come here to get—Husbands a-piece:
“Why mayn't we have luck, like the Worcestershire Wroughtons,
“And egad! now or never we must make our fortins.”
Thus my reason was bruis'd by these parrot-taught Minxes,
Who confident chatter'd like so many Sphinxes.

“I protest I'm asham'd—the good Parson rejoin'd—
“To be goaded so often to tell you my mind.
“A pretty repast this to please my friend Peery;
“And with giving advice I declare I'm grown weary:
“When your wishes are prudent, I'll second them gladly—
“But the Men are not caught, my dear children, so madly:

“You should not rush forward like bold Widow Heely,
“For the gift's undervalu'd that's given too freely.
“The times are so woefully led by Depravity,
“Young women must now study more than suavity;
“And sometimes, like corkscrews, must zig-zag incline,
“Indirect and unseen—if they hope for the wine.
“Job says,—to have Patience is better than beauty,
“And we all should mind Job girls, for Job knew his duty.”

“What a fuss about Job” (roar'd the Dame) “and his Patience;
“One would think, I pertest, that such frumps were relations.
“If I must speak, I think that my daughters are right;—
“Who knows but our Debby may marry a Knight?
“I saw her nod twice at a spark shall be nameless,
“Nay, prithee don't blush child—the action was blameless.

“When you next go to Chapel, pray dress yourself sprucely,
“And let not your hair hang so rakish and loosely.
“Now, Husband, you know what I meant for to say,
“I am upright and downright—for that is my way;
“And if Mister Peery is here—'tis no murther,—
“Mister Peery's a friend, and 'twill never go further.”
“Hush, hush!” bawl'd the Priest; “as I hope to be sav'd,
“There's a carriage—or may I be rudely beknav'd:
“Drop the subject at present, and tie up your tongues;
“Tho' regardless of me—prithee pity your lungs.
“As I live 'tis the Marquis—I know by the knocks;
“Go rehearse your best curtsies, and crimp all your locks;
“Perhaps the incumbent is dead on that living,
“The Marquis has now the sole power of giving;
“If that is the case, I perhaps may be freer
“To part with my money, and buy you new gear:

“Tho' to do you all justice—you each have the skill
“To make me profuse in despite of my will.—
“I'm asham'd of this lodging—the stair-case so dark is—
“Is no one below to attend on the Marquis?
“If the servant's gone out, I declare I will trounce him,
“Run, run! here comes Thomas, I vow, to announce “him.”

I escap'd with whole ears, ere the family cleft 'em,
Spoke to Doctor and Peer, made my congé, and left 'em.

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.

LETTER VI. The Countess of Cockles, (a dramatic Author) to the Honourable Miss Fanny Fitzkickerly, in Portman-Square.

The illiberal charge of Female Concupiscence defeated—Description of a Rout—The Hostess pourtrayed in lively Colours— The ill Consequences of the Vulgar presuming to be sincere —Aërial Personages embodied by the Imagination—Definition of Wit.

When Pope wrote his tenets,—Heav'n knows where he got 'em,—
And told a vile world we were rakes—at the bottom!
It is clear he knew little of that which he ought,
To suppose silly man claim'd the round of our thought.

The mind of the sex is contrasted in hue,
Hence the impulse that makes 'em look black, pale and blue;
And tho' millions may meet in a Congress as friends,
The main springs of life guide to different ends.
Be the Nymph melancholic, learn'd, beauteous, or gay,
Yet the issue is Pride—be the soil what it may!

Notwithstanding the feverette heats and attacks me,
And spasmodic pains, which I fear will relax me;
I have been to a rout big with high expectations,
Where Folly I found had still—many relations.
The Routs of this Place, like the Balls at Elections,
Comprehend in one mass all degrees and complexions:
The place was Macpharaoh's—the time was last night,
Where we'd much serious play, and much—well-manner'd spite:

Antithetic debating—some snarl—could you doubt it,
While a Feminine Conclave talk'd—how and about it?
Mid the crowd there were some with the Graces at strife,
For this Hostess invites—all the world and his wife:
But no generous impulse, no beatified charms,
Bid her gather her Pyebald associates in arms:
Her motive is obvious—I hope it is rare—
To malign some meek Trader, or crush a poor Play'r:
Some tailleuse pour femme who'd presented her Bill,
Some hard-trodden victim who'd question'd her Will!
“Us Fashion,” thus vaunts she, “are born 'bove controul,
“The Vulgar should never suppose they've a soul;
“Like the Camels of Egypt they're sent for our uses,
“Whose purse gives them strength, credit, spirit, and juices.
“It was but last week one averr'd to her face,
“Lady Birdlime by chance had secreted some lace;

“And when the low wretch, who had fearch'd her, could feel it,
“He seem'd by his looks to imply she would—steal it!
“But we all took her cause up—he now wants a guinea,
“And strives with nine brats like the rash Hugolini.”

Thus breathes this old Sybil—twelve years beyond fifty,
In her vanities prodigal—charities thrifty:
And many a varlet and wench eat her Mutton,
Who care not for Truth or the owner a button:
Though every day drags her nearer the earth,
That day to some indirect deed must give birth.
A popular Doctor, who lives near the Crescent,
Swore her humours were gross, and her muscles putrescent;
When she can't blight her inmates, she pilfers their purses,
And wrestles with Death, midst confederate curses.

In the groupe was the Widow of Major Mac Tweezer,
Who was kill'd by a shot, tho' courageous as Cæsar!
And Miss Dolly Dewlips, with two or three more,
Who are adepts at opening Obloquy's door;
Who can gobble, and wriggle, and triumph, and titter,
When the ear of a Beauty drinks axioms bitter;
When sweet Rural Modesty trembles and blushes,
While her efforts to please giant Impudence crushes.

We had many tall Irish, we'd Colonel O'Trigger,
With Sir Murrough O'Driscol—at least something bigger;
Whose cousin absconded last month with an Heiress,
They were married at Lisle, and are now safe in Paris:
All these are Milesians—I hope they're ne'er sick,
For they say the rich blood in their veins is so thick,

That it flows thro' the art'ries like half-frozen jelly,
And takes up an hour—says Lady O'Kelly—
In journeying down from the heart to the belly.
Some sneeringly made of their Titles a jest,
And seem'd thankful that Black-Legs were now in request:
Tho' I know not I vow what their schemes or their trade is,
They are gen'rous to all, and polite to the Ladies:
And I scarce will believe that the Demons of Knavery
Can be hid 'neath the habits of Bounty and Bravery.

There were Doctors, and Deacons, and Vicars, and Pastors,
With here and there sprinkled some Deans or their Masters;
Who have pour'd down in droves from their Livings, or London,
Their ills to undo—but nine-tenths to be—undone.

Here with spouse under arm the Priest struts like a drake,
With three rosy Spinsters who gape in his wake.
We had Cornet Squewhiff too, who sure you must know,
As a wonderful Wit—and a terrible Beau!
There are many who call him the Window, who view him,
Because, if you please, you can always—see thro' him.

THE BROWN JUGS.

WE'D the Earthenware ---'s stale, dark, and hideous,
Who catch publick notice by gigglings invidious;
Tho' contempt is the subsequent fruit of their schemes,
And Averno and Apes burst the chain of their dreams;
Their twists and their jerks shew their wish to be sinning,
And to glad Folly's suite are eternally grinning:

Though they all are repulsive, and no one can love 'em,
Yet each cocks her nose at all beings—above 'em;
And they stalk near the beauteous to make Bipeds stare,
Like worthless Brown Jugs—amid Porcelain ware!
Decry all those transports for which their hearts languish,
And affect a half-smile, while they're writhing with anguish.

The scandalous Synod had scarcely got through
One rubber at Whist, or the entrè at Loo,
When Sir Luke Demiwriggle and Lady came in,
Whom some call a sly Cousin-German to Sin:
The Knight is a thing—full of twopenny airs,
Of whom every one prates, but not any one cares:
Like colloquial Pigs they can never agree,
One grunts in B alt and the other in D:

Poor Man! half his moments are marshall'd by Terror,
Lest his high-mettled Dame should be tickled by Error:
Tho' to me she seems dos'd like an over-fed Cat,
To be sure they do say—but no matter for that!

Miss Jiggitt was there too—the first of Bath Bridgets,
A fusty old Virgin, replete with odd fidgets:
Bald, meagre, and brazen, like Dowager Larkit,
She ofttimes has carried her spare-ribs to market,
But no Batchelor ever would purchase her meat,
As her purse was too scant, and her juices—not sweet!

We had Bel Perpendicular, selling her scorn,
Half-knit and half-nurs'd, tho' high-bred and high-born;
Yet this mincing Automaton foplings entices,
With her paste-boardish body, and feet crampt in vices:

She's so white and so soft—just like lying-in food,
And looks like a Rabbit o'er-truss'd and o'er-stew'd!
Her perks are so novel—all ask where she got 'em,
And her coat and sub-coat seem pinn'd close to her bottom:
While she struts like a Piedmontese Nymph 'fore the wind,
Or a Pea-hen who'd lost all her feathers—behind!

As I sipp'd some Orgeat, a slim Beast made for shew
(Which the Men call a Monkey, but Ladies—a Beau!)
Came jutting its corkscrew proportions before me,
And seem'd by its gesture it meant to implore me:
At length its mouth op'd, and the organs of speech,
Uniting their tones, gave it strength to beseech:
Like Punch in the Shew, it could grin, squeak, and chatter,
Tho' Propriety scorn'd both the mien and the matter:

Its cheeks were betinted with rouge and with white,
And some stays cas'd its body to hold it upright;
It look'd like a doll bought of Germanic venders,
Or those lumps meant for men before Fate thought of genders:
Thus it humbly conjur'd with apologies fit,
I would give it my own—Definition of Wit.
With bliss in my heart and contempt in my eye,
I made it this prompt instantaneous reply:
'Tis Society's shame,
'Tis what Taste has forgot,
'Tis the Mind's brightest flame;
And 'tis what—you have not.

CUNEGUNDA FILLIGREE COCKLES.

Queen's-Square, Bath, 1789.

POSTSCRIPT.

Tell the sweet Pall-Mall Duchess I'll copy her rule,
And subscribe fifty pounds to the Cumberland School;
I've a few truant guineas, and cannot do better
Than bestowing them thus—to make Heaven my debtor.

LETTER VII. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

Declaratory Ingenuousness—Strange Commixture of Human Actions—A Hit at the Widows—The Discomfiture of the Fubseys in their Efforts to be genteel—Old Q—Progress of an Amour—The Lover's Oath.

I'm an Idler innate, if innately no Poet,
But of that Bob enough—since the world and you know it:
As the grief-cumber'd Hours each other succeed,
My Reason rebels while the Will prompts the Deed.
Tho' such candid confessions with Wit disagree,
I'll rehearse what I think, and relate what I see.

This scroll, like a French Table d'Hote, shall have all things,
The mean and magnificent—great things, and small things.

Tho' my wrath is high kindled with follies this minute,
The next shews an act with philanthropy in it:
In checquer'd confusion thus life rolls away,
And Evil and Good journey on through the day:
Thus Grace leads Repulsion, not envious to slight her,
But merely to make her own beauties seem brighter.
Here Charity rescues the wretch from his doom,
And Paupers catch comfort but see not from whom.
Thus Holy-Writ prints, mortal sense to enshroud,
Shew God's hand with a gift, but the rest's in a cloud.

Here all ranks and parties assume an alertness,
A je ne sçai quoi, a parade, and a pertness.

As I frequently ambulate through this gay Town,
The reverse of what ought makes Philosophy frown:
There is something with which e'en those things seem contented,
Which my Pity oft view'd, and when viewing lamented:
Content—nay they're proud, and that ill-nurtur'd spirit,
Seem'd strong in proportion as all wanted merit:
Tho' they issued from filth, and are ignorant of letters,
Their phrase is—that Man, when they point to—their betters!

Here Widows resort in astonishing crowds,
With the ensigns of war on their top-gallant shrouds;
To inform the observant they're arm'd for a Storm,
Like the Spahi's Red-Flag—when the fight waxeth warm.

From the desperate hope to be—demi-genteel,
In the eve of their being, brown Citizens steal
From the haunts of Old Lud (where their forefathers tarried,
And caught the stiff prejudice—moulted and married)
To voluptuous Bath—where they visit the Rooms,
And blush when the Mirror reflects their false Plumes;
Creep in corners to hide from blythe Fashion's keen gaze,
As Abraham wink'd at the Angel's bright blaze:
There Madam, and Misses, and Sir, view the sport,
In rapturous awe, like Omai at Court;
And Fear strikes 'em dumb to see Tyson advance,
When the Monarch of Taste asks the Fubseys to dance:
At length more courageous, the Draper sits down,
And ventures to cut in at Whist—for a Crown;
Where the skill he once shew'd 'mid a Mansion-house throng,
Is now all absorb'd—in the dread to do wrong;

Plays a Club for a Spade, trembles—reddens—revokes,
And lastly recedes from intolerant jokes:
While his partner's fierce eye, as he pulls out his purse,
Pursues the maim'd Cit with a harsh still-born curse.—

Borne home to his Inn full of anguish and care,
The first time of his life, hapless dolt, in a Chair;
Recounts his misfortunes to Spouse and his Daughters,
But resolves to take leave both of Bath and its Waters;
And wind up that Clock with great pains in Old Jewry,
Which here had run down with precipitate fury;
Prefer solid gain to weak rantipole dreams,
And embrace Tare and Trett, and some starvation schemes;
Then his Dame shall as painfully draw one poor guinea,
From the old ram-skin fob of the misconceiv'd ninny;
As zealous inveterate laundresses squeeze
The last latent drop from a new-wash'd chemise!

Of all the odd Bipeds who hitherward scud,
Since scrophulous Bladud who hallow'd the mud;
The needle of Wonder turns most to Old Q,
Who defies iron Time, and the worst he can
Antiquity braces his nerves as he grows,
And tempers life's ills for this Nestor of beaus;
When Intemperance lists to Propriety's sneer,
She laughs at her malice, and shews the gaunt Peer;
Like Richlieu, who, palsied, would kisses implore,
He nibbles at youth, and gallants at fourscore.
As the strength of the wine on the element bubbles,
His well-tutor'd spirit o'ertops human troubles.

You ask my success with the beauties of Bath;—
How could I hope much who am thin as a lath?
My amours have, as yet, scarce extended to any,
Except a coarse Soubrette from Abergavenny,

Who brushes the cobwebs from Lucas's cielings,
And by shewing her limbs wakes Debility's feelings.
But those Cambrian wenches are all so strong knitted,
That the toil and the blessing are scarcely well fitted;
For they fight, scratch, and spit, so harsh, furious and warm,
'Tis like gathering a weed off the Alps—in a storm!
Ere the vestal would yield to what Passion would make her,
The low Nymph made me swear that I'd never forsake her.
I have sent you the oath, which, though aptly mysterious,
My Helen received as deep, true, firm, and serious.

THE OATH.

By those delicious pulpy lips,
Where Cupid his ambrosia sips,
Those lips whose pressure would assuage
The frigid force of ice-bound age!

By all the graces of thy mien,
Where ease and elegance are seen!
By the delusions of that Cestus,
Which Venus gave you when she blest us!
By the keen magic of that spot,
Where grief in rapture is forgot!
Celestial spot! whose slightest touch,
Or gives too little—or too much!
With this badinage I shall finish my letter—
I hope you think Paris could ne'er protest better.

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.

LETTER VIII. Margery Cockney, to Agnes Blowzy, at Weymouth in Dorsetshire.

Perils of a long Journey—Vanities of Dress—Love without Money, like a Hive without Honey—Observations on the Pump-Room—A Family Misfortune—A Quarrel in the Kitchen—The Card Party—Vulgar Postscript.

Ecod here we are—now you'll say I'm a rover,
For to come all this way, and to live in such clover:
Sir Toby Beefsuet, the Ladies, and I,
Came cramm'd in a coach, like tit-bits in a pye:
My dead Missisis sister, you know that's her way,
Miss Tabby Belweather, would come in a shay:

Your favourite Roger, and Dick who so cross is,
Came riding down a'ter on hackheney horses:
I think Roger and Dick tore their breeches together,
For I heard Roger say that they both had lost leather!
On Maulburrur Downs we were werry much frighten'd,
And Sir Toby said how that his purse would be lighten'd:
For he saw a huge robber—this story distrest us—
But the man gallop'd on, and ne'er stopp'd to mislest us.

Young Misses have been to a consort 'mong Play'rs,
I heard Bella say 'twas to larn some new airs:
If that was the case, she'd no need to be sent there,
For I'll swear she'd enow before ever she went there:
They went fine as fippence—Miss Dy's a good creter,
I'm sure hands and pins coodint make 'em look neater:

They were both tall and straight as the popular tree,
Miss Dy had got on her brown niggledygee;
She look'd like an angel, so ruddy and plump,
And wore, the first time, her new Polinac rump.
And as for the vhite and the red on her cheek,
She need ne'er turn her back any day in the veek.
I am sartin we us'd a large bowl full at least
Of starch, for to stiffen some gauze for the breast;
Where it boug'd like them pouters we once saw at Preston,
Whose craws were much bigger you know than the rest-on.
To 'scort our young Madams, a gentleman came,
A perdigious fine presense—I'll tell you his name—
One Captain O'Blarney—so lac'd and so sleek,
A more properer man you won't see in a veek:
I should like such a lovyer—a spruce handsome feller,
Oh! he sith'd out quite loud as he handed Miss Bella

From the drawing-room stair-case all down to the carriage—
But Sir Toby, they say, won't consent to their marriage.
Because why, that the Captain's too poor for the match;
I am sure I think Bella is no such great catch!
But his wants will soon end—I heard Miss Bell relate,
That he'd got an aversion to some great estate:
I can't tell where he's born—whether Scot or Bavarian,
But Sir Toby says how he's an any-thing-arian!

T'other day Roger came a colloging to me,
He's a tongue that would vheedle a bird from a tree:
Aye Roger, I know you, says I, I'm no dunce,
If you mean for to marry—why say so at once:
I think the false-hearted to jail all should be sent,
I'm like Dolly Plainways—I hates what's clandecent:

I was one on his taw—though he'd call'd me his dear,
He now slunk away—with a flea in his ear.

Last Tuesday I went with our Dick and some more,
And stood and peep'd in at the great Pump-Room door,
Where the quality go—and as I was a saying,
I heard about twenty musicianers playing:
There some was a walking, and some was a thinking,
And some was a talking, and some was a drinking;
And some look'd below at the bathers, and smil'd,
And some came out coddled as if they'd been bil'd!
I ax'd if they'd robb'd or done crimes that was bigger,
No, they stew'd 'em they said for to give 'em new wiggur.
Then a chairman came up with a monsterous frown,
And said—by your leave, and he then push'd me down.

Pray wou'd you believe it? Indeed I don't joke,
Old Tabby Belweather last night had a stroke!
This affair has thrown all in a serious quandary,
Our folk say as how she came down here to marry:
I saw her next day in the bed lye a gasping,
As pale as your shift, and she shook like an aspen;
This misfortin wou'd sure make a werry great rout,
But we're sworn to be silent, and dare not speak out.
A Doctor's been here, a fine man, though a stranger,
And said “This here Lady's in no such wast danger,
“For I hope by some dipping and medical arts,
“To restore all her tones, and to brace up her parts.”
Poor thing!—if these desperate doings should ruin her—
And who knows but it may, for they now talk of stewing her.
Oh! the palsy's a terrible ill I assure you,
It transmogrifies quite, and there's few that can cure you!

Do you know that I've had a great quarrel with Roger—
I'm sure Sue set him on, for I've seen the rogue dodge her;
As I eat a few broth with our Dick in the kitchen,
Says Roger, our Madge is so woundy bewitching,
I believe I should wed her, she's quite to my taste,
If it va'nt for that dropsy which swells her fine waist:
It's a pity that them there disorders should teaze us,
And spoil such a wench, who was born but to please us.
He would a gone on—for he'd just begun barely,
But I fell in a passion, and scolded him rarely.
Then says Roger, says he, now dear Madge do be gracious,
Let your breath cool your porridge, don't be so voracious!
You impudent feller, says I, then, how durst you,
A'ter all you have said, be surpris'd if I curst you.
We shou'd had some more words, had not Cicely Brady
Kept bawling like thunder—Here, Roger, my Lady

Has been wanting you, man, for I'm sure 'bove an hour—
Then Roger run off, like a cat from a shower.

Ah! Agnes, I'm almost an otomy grown,
I have now got no stomach, I'm worn to the bone;
I have lost, lack-a-day, my poor appetite quite,
I does nothing but piddle, from morning to night—
Our Dick said, this morning, the family go
Next veek into Viltshire, and if it is so,
Poor I shall be left all alone by myself,
To mope like a mouse without cheese on a shelf:
You know I loves siety, though I hates strife,
And they'll force me to lead here a dissolute life.

We'd a drum t'other night;—tho' it was not well-bred,
I listen'd awhile, and heard all that they said:

“I have lost my best heart,” “squeak'd Miss Chubb,” and for what,
“And I wow, Maem, your diamonds are all gone to pot!”
“I'm amaz'd for to hear you talk so now, Miss Chubb,
“We should beat 'em with ease had you brought forth your Club!”
“Dear Maem, we were eight—though I wink'd in your face,
“And held up two fingers, you'd not shew your Ace!”
“Ah! Sir,” said Miss Muzzy, the game we can't save,
“In such cases as these, by all means play the Knave!”
“My stars!” bawl'd Miss Tittup, “here's nobody scores:”
Then Lord Gig ax'd Miss Dy for to play at All-Fours;
And the Captain, who never says any thing rude,
Told Miss Bell he was sorry to find she was Lood.

Now I hopes you are well, as we both were at Brighton,
And as I am, dear Agnes, at this present writing.

MARGERY COCKNEY.

Bath, 1789.

POSTSCRIPT.

Pray, Agnes, did you never know one Ralph Heaten,
Who cudgell'd with your brother Will and who beat'un?
As sure as a gun he's in Ilchester pris'n,
And for robbing his Master of what wasn't his'n!

To prevent all mistakes, or inquisitive fuss,
When you mean for to write, you'll direct to me thus:
Mistress Margery Cockney, it's at Number hait,
In Milsom-Street, near to the Hoctogen Gate;
A maid of all work to Sir Toby Beefsuet,
The house goes up steps, and is kept by Ann Blewit.

LETTER IX. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

Meditation on the Force of Habit—An Elegy written in Soho-Square, on seeing Mrs. Cornelys' House in ruins.

'Tis difficult from Custom to depart,
She tints the will—she clings about the heart:
Parent of Sorrow—relative of Glee,
The Demon's hope—the Fool's apology—
Oh! Habit, Habit! whither wilt thou lead,
While Fame capriciously upholds thy deed;

Our earliest apothegms her sorc'ries blind,
She wars with Wit for empire o'er the mind;
Fights to the last unknowing how to yield,
And inch by inch disputes the mental field.—
How few, like Russia's Lord, dare burst her chain,
Restrict her step, or regulate her reign;
The godlike Peter, all her force beguil'd,
And drove her 'yond the precincts of the wild;
Bade radiant Science 'mid his desarts rise,
Then gave her volumes to a nation's eyes:
The savage struggles of rude judgment fann'd,
And sent her eel meand'ring through the land.

Touch'd by the subject—with its wonders fraught—
I spun this timely issue from my thought:—

An ELEGY written in Soho-Square, on seeing Mrs. Cornelys' House in Ruins.

I

HITHER ye lowly, insolent, and vain,
Whose frantic deeds give Meditation food;
Ye varied tribes, who circle Pleasure's fane,
Ye jocund prodigals of social good:
The fallen fragments of this pile survey,
Then yield to Memory's toils the residue of day,

II

Here civil Phrenzy was approv'd and known,
Here Fashion's tainted stream was taught to flow;
Here Reason left her elevated throne,
To scatter frolickly the seeds of Woe:
The cares of state, the props of general weal,
Sunk 'neath the rapid pressure of the dancer's heel.

III

Here Beauty rov'd triumphant in her charms,
To bear the diadem of Pride away;
Here gallant Fraud assail'd her with his arms,
Waken'd her senses, and embrac'd his prey;
Touch'd by the barb of Grief, the victim fell,
While Desperation's minions rung her virgin knell!

IV

Ah luckless Nymph! that fascinating breast,
(Pure as the whitest of the Alpine snows)
Which heav'd at tales of Excellence distrest,
And lost in others' pangs its own repose:
Bemoan'd the innovations of Decay,
And blaz'd, and wept, and perish'd like the genial day.

V

Here rude Intemperance the meek annoy'd,
Here Habit gave the lesser Evils birth;
With cruel Industry were both employ'd,
To weave their strength and banish modest Worth!
They burst those chords which made the bosom swell,
And trembling mark'd its way to Pity's silent cell.

VI

Here high-swoln Vanity, of motley hue,
Superbly hail'd her congregated fools;
Who scoff'd the Virtues as they rose in view,
And wrote in adamant her baneful rules;
While the seducing Lute's enerving strain
Beguil'd the hood-wink'd throng from intellectual pain.

VII

Here many a heart, for godlike efforts brac'd,
Was riv'd and sully'd by Pollution's breath:
Their generous atoms were by Vice disgrac'd,
They found, alass! the truth of Life—in Death:
Thus hinds are led, when shut from Cynthia's ray,
By brilliant, faithless Gleams, through Ruin's miry way.

VIII

Here calm Philosophy to maniacs bow'd,
Here Rumour's progeny upheld her reign;
Here Science mingled with the babbling crowd,
Whom Rapture beckon'd 'mid Delusion's train;
And Bacchus' goblet with his gifts o'erflow'd,
Till the nectareous juice bestain'd the chequer'd road.

IX

Here oft' the Spendthrift of unvalued hours
Survey'd, with apathy, the ills of Time,
Who, Heav'n-directed, circumscrib'd his powers,
And smote his being ere he knew his prime;
'Till all his honours flitted like a dream,
Melted by recreant Guilt's intolerable beam.

X

Ah! whither are those myriads Taste combin'd,
Who leagu'd the moral canons to destroy?
And where those lawless tumults of the mind,
That Wit call'd madness, and the madd'ning, joy?
All, all are vanish'd from th'astonish'd sight,
Sunk beneath Hope's bright smile, and shrouded by the night.

XI

Those walls which echo'd with a lover's sighs,
And gave responsive many an ideot's tale;
Those gaudy scenes which dazzled magic eyes,
Those pregnant sounds which harmoniz'd the gale;
Are all dismember'd, driven, crush'd, and torn,
Like worthless, weightless chaff, o'er Hyrcan desarts borne.

XII

Voluptuousness no more shall chasten Thought,
Phœbus no more shall on their vigils peep;
Who mis-beheld those ecstasies they sought,
Who violated Peace, who murder'd Sleep.
The rout is o'er, the revelry is done,
And irresistless Fate has clouded Folly's sun!

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.

LETTER X. Phalim O'Shaughnessy, valet to Viscount Bandash, to his kinsman Bryan O'Geohegan, at Castle-Blunderbuss, near Cunnemara, County of Galway, Connaught, Ireland.

Family Congratulations—Account of the Journey—Mistakes of a Foreigner—Singular Occurrences—The Irish Club— Proper Admonition—The Future Tense, a Tale.

My dare fellow, it's well for yourself, d'ye see,
That I larnt to write in the school of Tralee;
If I had not, the divil a bit could I tell,
A sprig of the Geohegans—Phalim was well:—

My master and I are at Bath, my frind Bryan,
We have been here a month, and are lodg'd at the Lion:
He's as slim as an eel-skin, though my foster-brother,
For his Honour, you know, got his milk from my mother:
I wonders myself how the women can whelp 'em;
He's a Lord to be sure, but such Lords—Oh! Lord help 'em.
When I reach'd Holyhead, to go cliver and clean,
I took an outside in the Chister machine:
About three in the morning a spalpeen came to me,
Shook my shoulders, and bawl'd—zounds, I thought he'd undo me!—
‘Don't you go wid the coach, Mister Pat? if you do,
‘You had best tumble out, for they won't wait for you.’—
Och I fir'd with rage, when I heard the fool ask it,
What want I wid the coach, 'sblood, who go in the basket?

You may tell Kathleen Fagan we niver shall deal,
She's like Mullingar heifers gra—beef to the heel!
Besides Father Shay knows she's near double my age,
And is all a one side—like the Kilkinny stage!
If she brags how I kiss'd her in Terry Fay's fold,
You may say that's a secret, and shou'dn't be told.
I heard Juggy your neighbour one day went and died,
You'll have now no disputes 'bout her dirty backside:
You may do as you plase with your pigs and your tree,
Och that strap had a tongue that would cut one—in three;
Now we talk of brute baists—is that cow going dry,
Which you bought of Mahony who lives near—Athy?
I have sane the King's-Bath—it's a Loch, my dear joy!
I took Pat too, who's grown a great lump of a boy:

Do you know when I come there, they offer'd me water!
To be sure they were civil—a man and his daughter:—
Is it water you mane, frind? says I—what could ail him?
No, honey, your wine's good enough for poor Phalim!
When I wint to Rourke's lodgings, who once could so whack hard,
A vokeen bid me walk up three pair of stairs back'ard!
Pullaloo, do axe Luke, who liv'd here, if he knew it,
Bad luck to their manners—myself wou'dn't do it.
We've a club call'd the Welters—we met t'other night,
Amid porter and punch, and debate and delight:
All tight Irish Lads—we scarce knew where to stow 'em,
Now I'll tell you their names, though perhaps you won't know 'em:—

Mullachy, who scor'd Thady Gallagher's scull,
And Darby Mackloughlin, who frighten'd the bull,
O'Callaghan, Murphy and Michael O'Scuddery,
With Owen O'Fargus and Dermot Bulruddery;
Larry Kavanagh came too, and Dennis Bradogue,
Who was born next the Harp in Glassmockinyogue:
Macdonough and O'Donoghoe, and big Brennan,
With Shamus O'Lyn, and the bold Major Lennan:
There was Festus Mullowney—Macarty and Moony,
Mac Swinney and Broughallen—Ryan and Cooney!
Lennard Rafferty's brother, who made my first brogues,
And Cockran and Quiny—both Munster-cotch'd rogues:
We had O'Gamahoe—Maurice Shahy and Carrol,
But for want of a chair the last sat on a barrel;
Flaharty and Donovan,—Balfe and O'Hara,
With Casey and Cassidy,—Mulhawn and Mara:

We had Logan O'Fag in the room, for he curst in it,
He'd bate England's best man till he made him the worst in it.
We'd a rap from Cork town there—Cornelius O'Dogherty,
And Broderick Blayney, and Terence and Fogarty:
There was Launsterum Poney and Spoleen O'Cuff,
Who you know always goes—t'other side of enough!
And Murdock Macmanus—Shane Coffy, and Flannagen,
Who got leather'd so hard, he'll ne'er be his own man again.
By my soul these are lads—About nine Peter Bell come in,
Och the Divil unroof ev'ry house we're not welcome in.
Magra your old frind is as stiff as dry starch,
That same Dith cuts us down like a shamrock in March:

But we're all mortal men, and as brittle as glass,
Here to-day, and gone yesterday—just like mown grass.—
Fait! myself's been unwell, who you know was so frisky,
All my spirits are fled now I cannot get whisky:
Half my memory's gone—by my troth it's e'en so,
I remember what's due—but forgets what I owe!
Do you know two Canaries last Tuesday night robb'd me,
One taif held my arms, while the other taif fobb'd me:
To be sure, my dear fellows, says I, from mere fun,
Do pray take it all—for by Chreest I have none.
Tim Kilty and I, the first time in our lives,
Have been to a horse-race—we both took our wives:
We went on Shank's mare—we were all in undress,
Och honey we got there in no time and less:

There Tim back'd a fine, tall, strong gelding—one Botheram,
A Yorkshire-bred hunter, they foal'd him at Rotheram;
He laid sivin thirteens, but some cullinogue crost it,
I can't tell how it was, but I know Kilty lost it:
Though Tim thought he'd won, and kept jumping and crying,
As the horses run over the sod, just like flying!
“Och Botheram for ever—look there—I adore him,
“See, see, how he drives all the others before him.”
But the mob laugh'd at Tim, and one prig came to snub him,
By the Holy, myself had a great mind to drub him.
May Perdition resave me, and choak me with vapours,
But they've put this affair now in all their news-papers:
Psha, tunder a nouns, at a jontleman's blunder,
Must Ireland, England, and Middlesex, wonder?

I have been too at Bristol, to see Duffy Flood,
Where the streets are all lanes, and the river's all mud;
The Channel comes up twice a day—oh! it graves 'em,
But disliking their selfishness, pukes as he laves 'em.
There was Katty O'Snatch, Connel Sullivan's sister,
Who you know run away, when her family mist her.
Like a Waterford marchant I found Duffy too,
He was knee-deep in bustle—with nothing to do!
By the piper of Loughlin, I've been to a ball,
I'd a ticket free—gratis—for nothing at all.
You know Travaire the Cobler—in Dublin so idle,
Och the De'el take him hunting without any bridle:
He brought away fifty good shoes in a sack,
But for every pair he gave single ones back,

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And told all his frinds as he took the hoofs round,
That he'd fail'd, and could pay but—tin shillings per pound!

When I supp'd at the Greyhound with Bullooney Briggs,
Where we put tirteen bottles gra—under our wigs!
Says myself to the waiter, here bring this down stairs,
Will I have any praters—will I sind for some pears:
“That depends on yourself,” said a jontleman near me,
Though no parson I thought but Bullooney could hear me!
“Excuse me, said he, and take all in good part,
“But your brogue, I believe, balks the wish of your heart:
“My remarks don't proceed from impertinent freedom,
“I give you these hints, and depend on't you need 'em;
“I honour your land—I liv'd in the Queen's County,
“I have laugh'd at your jest, and have fed on your bounty.”

101

Says myself, as for brogue, I have scarce none at all,
Or if I have any, the twist is so small,
You would niver have known it, if downright ill-nater
Was not in your visage a principal fater.
Tut, man, what a bodder you make here about it,
Whin you can't spake good English, you all know without it.

But I'll now close my letter—I'll bid you adieu—
For Your Phalim is tir'd—myself's done my do.

PHALIM O'SHAUGHNESSY.

Bath, 1789.

By the tumb of Saint Patrick—my frind over-night
Sent this song in the morning to set Phalim right;
I have spill'd it, and turn'd it—and now I will lend it,
Do you, Brian, rade it,—I can't comprehend it.

102

THE FUTURE TENSE,

A TALE.

THE tongue, oft innocently, coineth errors,
Pregnant with mischief, and resistless terrors:
If you've a son whose wishes prompt to go
Through kingdoms insular or 'yond the Po;
Before on rude or civil isles you land him,
Be sure the native million understand him.

A Poor Gascon fell plump into a river,
Who'd been in Britain half a year or more;
Just as the water 'gan to cool his liver,
He call'd for aid from Trav'llers on the shore:
One of the gazing crew was instant stript,
To rescue the faint alien from the stream;

103

But scarce into the flood had leapt,
Before the luckless oaf was heard to scream
In wild despair,
Tearing his raven hair,
I will be drown'd—I will be drown'd,
Nobody shall give me help:
The other cried, disgusted at the sound,
If that's the case—in God's name take your fill,
I meant you well, but you shall have your will.
A circling eddy gathering round his head,
Involv'd the luckless whelp,
Who mingled with the dead.

104

AN APOLOGY For not weeping over the Remains of a Female Friend.

(Found in the Upper-Rooms.)

Cold drops that tear which blazons common woe,
What callous rock retains its crystal rill?
Ne'er will the soften'd mould its liquid shew—
Deep sink the waters that are smooth and still.

Ah! when sublimely agoniz'd I stood,
And Memory gave her beauteous frame a sigh;
While Feeling triumph'd in my heart's warm flood,
Grief drank the offering ere it reach'd the eye.

105

LETTER XI. Correggio Candid, to the celebrated Mr. Daniel, of Bath.

The Portrait-Painter's Golden Rules.

Say, flattering Artist, favourite of the Graces,
Is your bright fancy never smote by Terror?
But though you draw a myriad of faces,
List to these rules, and you may laugh at Error.
Quilletus once averr'd,
That Beauty perish'd with the Golden age;

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But he was quite absurd,
As you shall find,
When you've perus'd my thoughts on human kind,
And scann'd this friendly page.

Though Fresnoy wrote upon the art,
And knew the subject well;
The way to fascinate the heart,
That Bard could never tell:
He sung in many a strain of radiant Truth:
Though Truth's a damsel pretty,
She does not always meet the wish of Youth,
Or Fashion—or the tenants of the City:
Nine-tenths of mortals such queer freaks have got,
They'd all appear to others—what they're not!

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As you're not vain or arrogantly nice,
But one of us;
Go mentally transcribe this apt advice:—
The envied Attributes inhabit thus:
On the proud forehead Greatness latent roves,
And amplifies the face:
Blythe in the eye disport the wanton Loves
Who mortal Woes destroy,
And bathe in fluids warm from the spring of Joy.
The mouth—the mouth's the residence of Grace.—
But 'tis the nose, or be it large or small,
Abases or gives dignity to all.
The other lineaments, combin'd together,
Are but mere fungus—pith or biped's leather.

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Keep all the projections in happy relief,
Let the soft clear-obscure smooth the edge of each feature,
Be the keeping accordant with Joy—Wit, or Grief,
And let the repose of the whole be in Nature.—
Make all the sons of Mars look fierce and big,
Adroitly mix th'alluring and tremendous,
And give Physicians—plenitude of wig,
As iron Habit Physic's sons will send us.

Pourtray old Ladies young, and young ones handsome;
Then all will hurry to your silken net,
And you shall get
L'argent enough to purchase Louis' ransom.

Some faces, like the progress of the day,
Are sombrous—luminous, and black, and grey:

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Now charg'd with woe—now pregnant with delight,
Red—pale—green—purple—yellow—blue, and bright;
Like Proteus' jacket all their hues deceive,
Which eminently differ morn and eve.
When those present themselves, be this your study:
Paint to their wishes—make them sick or ruddy!
Such ne'er obey th'opinion of the town,
They see Truth jaundic'd, and their will's their own.

Reynolds, the Monarch of your frail profession,
Once gave a booby-heir—acute expression,
To please an ideot mother;
But when that honour'd sprig of Knighthood drew it,
Nor friend—nor foe—nor men—nor women knew it,
And poor Sir Joshua trowell'd out another!

110

When Fashion's children visit your recess,
Preserve your temper—you can do no less—
For human fiends exist, so mean—so base,
To answer some unworthy end,
Or tantalize a friend;
They'll ridicule your labours to your face.
Though such there are,
Who damn because—they dare!
Let not their little malice shake a nerve,
Smile from on high—look down—improve your meed,
Till Nature's jealous of the glowing deed;
Then shew mankind what Hate will not observe.—
Think not my dogmas insolent or rough,
And learn to know when you have done—enough!

Copy not Romney's mad—affected style,
Which makes the Judgment stare;

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That man's so fond of angles false and vile,
He'd make a circle—square!
His markings, as he calls them, are but flaws,
Which Genius scoffs, and Elegance abhors.
Though pliant Hayley lauds him in the land,
Touching a theme he does—not understand:—
You'll say, and faith your argument is clear,
Romney designs a score of Lords a year.

The POINT of ASTONISHMENT.

A TALE.

When a Bigot affirm'd that Saint Denis, o'er land,
Had walk'd twenty steps—with his head in his hand:
Ma foi, cried a Lady, with scorn in her eyes,
What a marvellous sight to have seen;

112

Though believe me 'twould never have mov'd my surprize,
That the Martyr could journey nineteen.
Ah no! rejoin'd t'other, that's odd, I confess,
I'm so curious to hear you, I'm ready to burst;
Thus the Dame—then my thoughts I'll not leave you to guess,
I am only amaz'd he could compass—the first.

CORREGGIO CANDID.

Bath, 1789.

113

LETTER XII. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

The BEAUTIES of BATH.

So to raise up the head of poor half-martyr'd Hymen,
My associate Robert will dare Habit's crimen;
In God's name be it so—now to strengthen your wishes,
I will give to your sense some of Nature's best dishes;
Resistless morçeaus—for she toils to preserve 'em,
And sends Wit to dress 'em, for such—as deserve 'em.
Why a man may not wed, there are few who can tell him,
Why he may, there are millions who pant to impel him.

114

“Two happy days in marriage are allow'd,
A Wife in wedding sheets, and in—her shroud;
Then why should such a state be call'd accurst,
Since the last day's as happy as the first.”

*A CELESTIAL BILL OF FARE. MISS W*******N.*

LIKE a rich piece of tapestry, once in request,
But now out of date, though 'twas wove of the best;
The dignified W*******n, half faded, comes for'ard,
Disrob'd of those whims, which her youth luckless borrow'd:
Her gift of all gifts yet ungiven is musty,
Her curvettings are harmless, her chains are grown rusty;
That bauble which rip'd, when in Fashion's beam basking,
Though once madly priz'd, you may now have for asking;

115

Ere Time's dusky pencil had sullied her beauties,
Her vanity shook e'en Morality's duties:
When she put on her stays and her rouge in the morning,
She consulted her glass—for new methods of scorning!
Her aim was to mortify recreant man,
By her lip—or her eye—or her tongue—or her fan—
Cock'd her nose at the fruit—when to eat they'd implore her:
But no one, ah! me, put their fruit now before her—
She pouts—she decries—she is famish'd 'mid plenty,
And has now not one captive, who once could boast twenty;
Paints—patches—jerks—ogles—looks pretty, and sighs,
Till the wounds of Disdain draw—the tears from her eyes;
Then her diurnal roses are wash'd by the shower,
And Nature looks pallid, where—Art made a flower—
For the pangs of the mind tint the cheeks of the proud,
As fields take their hue from the state of the cloud—

116

Like the sapient Hebrew, who call'd Pleasure vain,
She now treats with scorn what she—cannot obtain;
And toothless, like him, is compell'd to shun ill,
And philosophize wisely—in spite of her will.

MISS C*****E.

INIMITABLE maid—so pure—so bright—
Who glads the ample orb of public sight:
Ah! quit thy honour'd enviable recess;
Whether on Vegetation's richest flowers
Thou sleep'st, or hid in amaranthine bowers;
Or in the mazes of the desart stray,
To shun the zenith of the sultry day:
Thy mother Nepthe's high designs fulfil,
Expectant youth awaits thy gentle will,
And trembling waits to bless:

117

I hail thee not to mingle with a crew
Of rude licentious slaves, who pain create,
Who shame their being—who abase their state,
And Passion's soft suggestions never knew—
I'll lead you to an elevated throne,
So high—so rare—it was design'd your own:—
Untouch'd yet by the sandals of Disdain,
Its base—its steps—its glory-giving seat—
Will kiss your snowy well-proportion'd feet:
There Merit sighs—shall Merit sigh in vain?
His charms are smote by ill-requited vows,
A wreath of cypress circumvolves his brows—

By all the Graces of thy peerless mien,
By all those raptures you upraise when seen,
By all the witcheries of thy sapphire eyes,
By that complacence which the wisest prize,

118

I invocate your mercy for a youth,
From Glory issued, and inform'd by Truth—
Such swains are seldom found!
I give the plaint to Echo for your ear,
No common minion shall the mandate bear;
That airy nymph, Narcissus taught to know
The keen sensations of all-mouldring woe:
She, pitying him, will dulcify the sound.

MISS B***Y.

AUGUST, yet meek; superior, but not vain;
Extatic B***y joins the envied train.
To live beneath the radiance of her eye,
The haughty supplicate—the gallant sigh;
The milder Graces prompt her blameless deed,
She claims our honour, and receives the meed.

119

As o'er the haunts of Innocency spread
The dulcet woodbine to illume her shed;
Thus steals the smile upon her coral lip,
Where Nation's Lords might honey'd essence sip;
Giving what Agony denies to Sin,
External sweetness to the good within:
Deep in the bright recesses of her breast,
The fear of God rules Fashion's gay behest;
For her the ministry of Peace prevail,
And smooth the points of the Æolian gale:
For her the Seasons in obedience rise,
For her the Thunders sleep amid the skies.
Like Britain's Charlotte, who sublimes command,
And breathes 'twixt Vengeance and a guilty land.

120

THE MISS J***S's.

LIKE those silver-plum'd Doves which through air's buoyant spaces,
Bore Venus from Heaven to visit the Graces;
This elegant twain with benignity move,
Who dignify Nature, and consecrate Love.
With sweet Affections genial impulse fraught,
Their glist'ning eyes are placid as their thought.

When they mix in the serpentine dance,
E'en Arrogance shrinks as they come;
Competition goads Fear to advance,
And Envy's pert tittups are dumb.

A true sense of superior worth
Withholds them from aims to be proud;

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See they look, so supreme is their birth,
Like Immortals in Life's busy crowd.

THE MISS M***KS.

NOT that calm redd'ning splendour so joyful or sweet is,
When Phœbus first mounts from the lap of his Thetis,
(And laughingly issues his heart-cheering ray,
To banish blithe sylphs from the regions of day,
And extirpate the dew where the fold found repose,
And absorb the big tear from the grief-oppress'd rose;)
Or so lovelily gay, or so charg'd with delight,
As when the meek M***ks burst array'd on the sight:
To think of such nymphs—and to think such nymphs kind,
Is suggesting a bliss that's too vast for the mind.

122

THE MISS W******KS.

WITH Paphian twistings—with well-marshall'd sighs—
With glittering trophies—with love-swimming eyes—
With gauze-fashion'd bulwarks swell'd wide to assail—
With rich gaudy ribbands enforc'd by the gale:
As Favonius moves the leaf'd twigs of the willow—
As Motion upheaves the perturbed salt billow—
With felicitous blandishments—passionate aims—
The blythe varied W******ks for glee urge their claims:
No blunders intolerant sickly their movements—
When they imitate Fashion, their toils are—improvements;
Deep skill'd in the science of delicate duties—
They are all pretty women—though none are true beauties.
The eye of Miss Jane whispers—Love me, I pray,
And you'll find me a circling—sweet gal;
But the diamond of Susan in darting its ray,
All conscious says—d---me, you shall!

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Say who for such frames would not Liberty barter?
Say who'd be suspicious—of catching a tartar?

ELIZA.

LO—faultless Eliza! persuasive and mild—
She's Propriety's handmaid, and Beauty's own child!
Though by witcheries arm'd, and created to please,
Her trembling accomplishments blaze by degrees;
And Intreaty's most polish'd address must be sung,
Ere the Sciences steal from her mind to her tongue.
Thus the night-chill'd, bent, shrunk, modest tulip requires
Extramundane support from a God's vivid fires,
Imploring hot beams from Day's luminous Ruler,
While the faint reeking herds couch in shades for a cooler:—
Those tears which roll down at the moans of Distress,
Like Heaven's own balm drop to strengthen and bless;

124

Those smiles never lift up her virginal cheek,
But to glad timid Worth, and embolden the meek:
Such mellifluous tones from her minstrelsy flow,
They arrest and subdue intellectual Woe!
E'en to govern the spheres radiant Fate would implore her,
Had not Orpheus been wrapt in Empyrean before her—
Should Affliction's keen barb gore her soul's subtle rind,
May the potent Nepenthe bring Peace to her mind.
Could I, like Tibullus, my anguish rehearse,
Irresistible magic should freight every verse.
Ah! come, my Eliza! be happy—be wise—
Ere Time blunt those arrows, which Love gave your eyes;
Let the minions of Hope to young Rapture consign you,
Till the high floods of Joy meliorate and refine you.

125

MISS FULLER.

KIND Jove in our dish a sweet inmate has flung us,
The pride of Iërne—Anne Fuller—'s among us—
Had I own'd my heart's laws I had surely caress'd her,
But Decency frown'd, so I starv'd and address'd her.

VERSES TO THE WITTY AND BEAUTIFUL MISS ANNE FULLER.

REFULGENT nymph! by every Grace caress'd,
By Truth uplifted and by Faith impress'd;
Mature the toil you nobly have began,
And chain the properties of savage man:
Phœbus shall regulate your dulcet lays,
And bind your virgin temples with his deathless bays.

When Judgment bade you sanctify the page,
To brace the morals of a sullied age,

126

Your vivid sense imbib'd the sacred fire,
And heav'nly Harmony array'd your lyre;
The Muses led you to their silver spring,
And blanch'd your florid fancy ere you aim'd to sing.

Had I omnipotence within my power,
I'd sheathe with poignant bliss each hast'ning hour;
Then gaunt Calamity should ne'er controul
The energetic movements of your soul;
Nor Winter's icy dart, nor Summer's flame,
Abridge the fascination of your peerless frame.

When youth shall fabricate the fraudful vow,
When Care shall menace with his iron brow,
When Nature's ills thy quiet shall assail—
May all the arrows of their mission fail
To wound your attributes, for good design'd,
Or drive the winged halcyon from your placid mind.

127

May all your steps elude the haunts of Strife,
May Peace direct you down the stream of life!
Never shall Obloquy your mansion seek,
Or Anguish blight the roses on your cheek;
Nor vagrant Zephyr insolent misspread
The hazel-curling tresses of thy envied head!

May generous Sympathy each woe destroy,
And bear you trembling to the heights of joy;
Quicken the burthen of each life-fraught vein,
But stop the impulse ere it reaches pain!
While Honour consecrates thy spotless name,
And breathes your ample merits in the ear of Fame.

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, Bath, 1789.

128

POSTSCRIPT.

As Beauties departed deserve our regard,
As well as those breathing we cherish;
I've inclos'd you some lines by a Bath nurtur'd bard—
'Tis piteous such Greatness should perish.

ELEGIACK VERSES ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE MARCHIONESS OF LANSDOWN.

INMATE of Horror, relative of Sin,
Tremendous, gaunt, repulsive and accurst;
Whose ebon rod awakens Misery's din,
Who craves Oblivion's draughts to sate thy thirst:
Say why thus limitless you prowl behind,
To immolate with glee the hope of human kind?

129

Are we thus subject to engendering ill?
Is all the future given to thy will?
Shall each succeeding hour be charg'd with woe,
And men feel blest but as they do not know?
Ah! cruel Despot, thou hast broke the spring
Of polish'd life, and shorn the social wing.
Thus Salem's fane by Ruin was despoil'd,
Thus Fury smote the lilly in the wild:
Thus dark'ning vapours sully Nature's day,
And steal from Rapture's sight the vital ray.
Thus from the harbinger of Beauty's bane
Shrinks Vegetation through her gay domain,
When Autumn's boist'rous, nipping ministry
Blight the first leaf, and wound the trembling tree.
On whom that envied wreath shall we bestow,
Which Merit braided for her silver brow?

130

Who will presume to gird that magic Zone,
Which she was wont to wear;
When in the radiant circles of the fair,
Orinda supereminently shone?
Her Charms call'd gladness in the gazer's eye,
Her Wit o'eraw'd the arrogance of fools:
She gave to Grief a sympathetic sigh,
And all her deeds will live as moral rules.
Her honied Eloquence enchain'd the peevish throng,
Who sled their waspish feuds to listen to her song.
Her life renew'd th'establishment of Good,
Her act was even nobler than her blood:
The icy barb of Death was sheath'd by Peace,
Her resignation made his victories cease.
Lovely in Innocence, by Peace upborne,
She sparkled even in the blaze of day:

131

Fresh as a dew-drop on the armed thorn,
Bright as the diamond's impressive ray:
But all her purity could not avail,
Or add one moment to her mortal dream.
Who can resist when destinies assail?
That awful Cause to whom all good is given,
Deputing from on high a chosen beam,
Exhal'd the Gem to Heaven.

133

LETTER XIII. Alice Blowzy, to Margery Cockney, at Bath.

Unaffected Congratulation—Royal Personages—Common Complaints —Terrors of Sea-Bathing—Roger discarded.

Efegs, my sweet Madge, you can't think how I love you,
Much better than those who may say they're above you;
You're such a good creter—your letters came duly,
For which pray accept my acknowledgments truly:
To prove that I bid not old cronies go whistle,
You see, my dear Madge, I have sent you this 'pistle:

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Oh! Madge, what d'ye think?—as I hope to be married,
Though here but three weeks and two days we have tarried,
I have seen both the King, and the Queen, and Princesses,
As they walk'd on the 'Splade in their new morning dresses:
They none-on had crowns Madge—for all their great riches,
The Queen wore a cloak, and the King sattin breeches.
As the people got round-un, and bless'd-un, and hollow'd,
A desperate sight of outlandish things follow'd;
To tell what they were—I pertest I want words,
I believe they were men, but some folks call'd-um Lords!

This place is too hard, and I'd not been allur'd to it,
But they said 'twould be nothing when I got manur'd to it;
I'd go out with a friend for to drink some warm toddy,
But my Missis you know's such a queer sort of body,

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And I dare not do nothing she'd wish me not do,
For who knows what she'll leave me—she's rich as a Jew.
You have a' not got any green sarcenet, have you?
If you have, send a bit of the same Madam gave you—
I likes this place wastly—the rooms are so hairy,
We've a helegant hall and a helegant dairy.
As to uncle Ben's Will, I've consulted a lawyer—
A comely fine person, his name's Rapine Sawyer:
The man's quite a picter—he's cash at command,
And has promis'd to take my affairs in his hand.
Madam's Nephew's been here—with his gig and two bays,
I ne'er saw a more finer young youth in my days!—
My Missis, in one of her ill-nater'd fits,
Said the people of Weymouth half live by their wits:
Do you know I'm so curious I ne'er shall be quiet,
Until I've discover'd this odd sort of diet;

136

For though 'bout such wittals she made such a pother,
It's I'm sure what I never could get from my mother.

We have been in the sea—I declare it is true,
I wore a red shift, but old Madam's was blue:
When we got to the beach, there was nothing could suit her,
Till Sir Ebony Leatherhead came to salute her;
A surly old put, who ne'er gives any wails,
His hair all hung down on each side like rats' tails:
I perceive, said my Lady, though you'd wish to blind it,
You have been in this morning, pray how did you find it?
'Twas too deep, said the Knight, for me safely to strike,
And 'twas rough on the surface, but that's what I like.
Now a feller came to her, and offer'd to whip
Her quite down to the place where the Ladies all strip:

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But as things look'd but odd, and the man wasn't clean,
She thought it much safer to use a machine.

What a fuss about Roger your letters all bring,
My favourite Roger—it's no such a thing:
If he goes for to say that he kiss'd me now, Margery,
You may tell-un it's false—be assur'd it's a parjury.

ALICE BLOWZY.

Weymouth, 1789.

139

LETTER XIV. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

A Description of the Ball for the Master of the Ceremonies, and the Company.

All hail happy Bath and its wonderful Waters!
That to God's visitations would never give quarters;
See Malady shrinks—who rode post to infect us,
As the Demon retires when Randolphs correct us.

It is said that when Hogarth, who sported with Nature,
Drew the outréd contour of a prominent feature,

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The curious not long o'er the portraiture hover'd—
Be it nose, chin, or eyebrow, the end was discover'd:
Though the points of the fool were but partially shewn,
His intent was embrac'd, and the dolt was well known.

'Mid the following yahoos I bring 'fore the eye,
There is much that's mysterious, and much to descry:
Whom I mean or do not, the observant must guess,—
Do you find the wearer, and I'll find the dress.

I have been to King's ball, and the Lower-Rooms seem'd
An enchantment in ether where meteors gleam'd:
There star with star mingled, and ray mix'd with ray,
Till Beauty made night more resplendent than day.
As the Graces curvetted I stood in surprize,
In doubt which were brightest—their jewels or eyes.

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All the Fogrums are here, and came drest to the ball,
Sir Phil—Lady Bosky—Miss Charlotte—and all:
You must know that they value themselves on their blood,
For the Fogrums have triumph'd since Dan Noah's flood.

Miss Rosa Randan was involv'd with the rest,
Whose o'er-righteous movements make caution a jest;
She conjures up Ills, though she breathes but to fear 'em,
And sees Improprieties 'fore she comes near 'em;
Too studious anticipates moral offence,
And is held from all joy—by refinement of sense:
Her immaculate toils to be gay and polite,
Are like suburb civilities—awkward, but right:
When I paid those devoirs which were legally due,
She trembling replied—with her body askew;
And blush'd, like Carlisle, caught in Ribaldry's net,
Or Lady Bumblanche when she buys—a bidet;

142

Her austere education is surely distressing,
Which stands, like a cork, 'twixt her wish and the blessing.

The big Widow Hautgout, who's nick-nam'd Crushpillion,
Would present her huge front to make up a cotillion:
As I saw the Dame flounder, and struggle, and blow,
The weight of her frame shook the walls to and fro;
With a kerchief—Necessity sent as a boon,
She mopp'd the rank floods from her blazing full-moon.

We'd a mundungus Sappho—a limb of flirtation,
Who rides on a fiddlestick through the creation;
Who smears with lame couplets Italian walls;
And, like the foul snail, leaves her filth where she crawls;
Who makes a dead sage hallow personal malice,
As of old hell-born Priests bore the bane on the chalice;

143

Who mumbles her sweetmeat and growls for the crumbs,
Though what holds the zest cleaves around her worn gums.
But shall apathis'd Prudence moan females are frail?
When the serpent of knowledge was mov'd by—its tail!

There was Charles the attractive—that son of good-humour,
With his purple proboscis, and mouth full of—rumour;
The wise greet his jest as kine solace in clover,
For the wit from his mind like a fountain runs over;
And some in broad day run with Rapture to fetch it,
While others employ Recollection to catch it:
When Care to this paragon sends a hard crust,
To masticate as mortals must:
To shun the woe which follows it,
He soaks it in wine, and swallows it.

144

A COLLOQUY in the ROOMS.

THUS Folly all woe-begone wail'd to Contempt:—
‘Skirtminus my sov'reignty troubles;
‘But no one, they say, is from sorrow exempt,
‘And that all temp'ral joys are but bubbles.

‘He affects to call vulgar what Pallas calls wise,
‘And the points of his fury dissembles:
‘He proves that the dogmas of Prudence are lies,
‘He dares to talk loud while—he trembles.

‘The biped's too base to be easy disgrac'd,
‘And too dull for the impulse of passion;
‘For he's long been a fistula, Ridicule plac'd
‘In the pestilent ano of Fashion.’

145

Thus Contempt in reply:—“I'll nurse him and his brood;
“Our int'rests, you know, must not sever:
“Be you doubly zealous to furnish me food,
“And I'll take the Fopling—for ever!”

HORACE PEERY.

York Hotel, 1789.

P. S. If you imagine Vapid got his pence
By talking sense,
Like Friar Bacon,
You are much mistaken.

The Attorney and the Publican.

A TALE.

Thus Bibo was assail'd by Lawyer Pillage,
(They both had property in the same village:

146

The former kept an auberge call'd the Bear,
The latter's practice oft made Patience swear:)
“Bibo, by various arts men gather riches;
“While I spoil sheepskins Nature sent for breeches,
“You are indebted for your wealth to sots,
“And get a livelihood by—filling pots.”

Then Bibo thus replied,
With civil insolence and vulgar pride:
‘Though I believe you learned in the laws,
‘For once friend Pillage you've mistook the cause:
‘Had I done so, I'd ne'er been worth a shilling,
‘I got my thousands man by—never filling.’

147

POETICK ADMONITION TO DOCTOR LONG OF BATH,

The greatest Chiropodist* in the Universe.*

FAIRE SA CHARGE AVEC DIGNITE NOUS SERIONS JUSTE.

I

Loth as I am to praise the crowd,
I must do merit honour;
And praise deservedly bestow'd,
Brings credit to the donor.

148

II

Whether from Leyden's learned spot,
Or Salamanca's vale,
Or Edinburgh's tremendous knot,
Great Doctor Long—all hail!

III

Shall such a sage as Heav'n made you,
Become a sapient prig?—
Throw by that scratch, I prithee do,
And wear a larger wig.

IV

'Bout spectacles, cravats, and canes,
Most Galens make a fuss;
Without 'em could they squeeze the brains,
Of spectacles—like us!

149

V

Such petite arts, such fourberies,
Make many a blockhead pass—
As wise enough to steal a fee,
Whom nature meant—an ass!

VI

I pray be careful of your pence,
Thou wondrous man of men:
For such a Biped with such sense
We ne'er shall see again.

VII

Deem not this well-meant zeal unkind—
Contempt pursues each elf!
And when old Time has marr'd your mind,
She'll take you to herself!

150

VIII

Be like a beau garçon, quite clean,
To ease the pangs of Beauty:
And mark your instrument is keen,
To execute your duty.

IX

When modish Husbands call on thee,
To extirpate their corns;
I charge you make no simile
Analagous to—horns.

X

Whene'er you prune a Blacklegs' toe,
Who lives by fraud and trick;
I hope you'll goad the social foe,
And cut him—to the quick.

151

XI

When lofty Prudes demand thy skill,
Observe each virgin's eye:
Be cautious how you meet their will,
Nor lift the leg—too high.

XII

When Avarice claims thy regard,
To sooth his pedal smart;
Though you should note his feet are hard,
Say nothing 'bout—his heart.

XIII

The Sick, the Sound, the Short, the Tall,
Contribute to thy schemes:
Here the Great Vulgar and the Small
Are fond of the extremes.

152

XIV

Chiefs shall surround thy form to gaze,
In thee all have affiance;
God said,—Let Long like Phœbus blaze
O'er all the fields of science.

Bath, July 8th, 1789.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

POSTSCRIPT TO THE NEW BATH GUIDE.

LETTER I. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

The Man's Twenty Reasons for not doing as he was desired.

A TALE.

LETTER II. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

LETTER III. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

A CORPORATION DINNER.

CHRISTIAN ADMONITION.

A TALE.

LETTER IV. Major General Firebrand, to Colonel Carbuncle, at the Horse-Guards.

SYMPTOMS of the GOUT.

POSTSCRIPT.

LETTER V. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

LETTER VI. The Countess of Cockles, (a dramatic Author) to the Honourable Miss Fanny Fitzkickerly, in Portman-Square.

THE BROWN JUGS.

POSTSCRIPT.

LETTER VII. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

THE OATH.

LETTER VIII. Margery Cockney, to Agnes Blowzy, at Weymouth in Dorsetshire.

POSTSCRIPT.

LETTER IX. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

An ELEGY written in Soho-Square, on seeing Mrs. Cornelys' House in Ruins.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

LETTER X. Phalim O'Shaughnessy, valet to Viscount Bandash, to his kinsman Bryan O'Geohegan, at Castle-Blunderbuss, near Cunnemara, County of Galway, Connaught, Ireland.

THE FUTURE TENSE,

A TALE.

AN APOLOGY For not weeping over the Remains of a Female Friend.

(Found in the Upper-Rooms.)

LETTER XI. Correggio Candid, to the celebrated Mr. Daniel, of Bath.

The Portrait-Painter's Golden Rules.

The POINT of ASTONISHMENT.

A TALE.

LETTER XII. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

The BEAUTIES of BATH.

A CELESTIAL BILL OF FARE. MISS W*******N.

MISS C*****E.

MISS B***Y.

THE MISS J***S's.

THE MISS M***KS.

THE MISS W******KS.

ELIZA.

MISS FULLER.

VERSES TO THE WITTY AND BEAUTIFUL MISS ANNE FULLER.

POSTSCRIPT.

ELEGIACK VERSES ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE MARCHIONESS OF LANSDOWN.

LETTER XIII. Alice Blowzy, to Margery Cockney, at Bath.

LETTER XIV. Horace Peery, Esq; to Bob Classic, at Oxford.

A COLLOQUY in the ROOMS.

The Attorney and the Publican.

A TALE.

POETICK ADMONITION TO DOCTOR LONG OF BATH,

The greatest Chiropodist in the Universe.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

*A CELESTIAL BILL OF FARE. MISS W*******N.*

The greatest Chiropodist* in the Universe.*