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

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.