The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse :: :: University of Virginia Library

My dearest Hannah; Let me now, once more,
The conduct of the Rich, and Proud, explore.
From full experience, or clear knowledge, state,
The Arts, and Habits, of the Gay and Great.
Line out a little more this mighty Race,
Whate'er their Titles—Property—or Place.
Inspect each Frame—scan all their Conduct o'er,
While Reason rummages their mental Store,
And well infers, from every Act, and Word,
What Common-sense deems wicked, or absurd—
Mark well the traits, and tones, with ears, and eyes,
While Judgment weighs as Understanding pries—
Examine all their Language—every look—
Long figur'd down in Memory's faithful Book—
Endeavouring every step to trace some proof,
Why thus they hold their heads so far aloof,
O'er Us, and others; poor Plebians born!
And, if they look at all, look down with scorn;
Tho', maugre all their malice—Pomp—and Pride—
From Clowns and Artists are all wants supplied—
Still daily Debtors to the boorish Brood,
For toys and trinkets—covering—clothing—food—
As I, with more precision, hope to prove,
Ere Providence to Heav'n my Soul remove.
Meantime I'll labour at my moral plan,
To state the common Character of Man;
And sketch each Gift and Grace, that, clearly, shew
The Courtier and the Clown; the High and Low.
Deem not, my Muse, dear Hannah, idly halts,
Describing Courtiers' foibles, Grandeur's faults;
Or, while she registers Wealth's righteous Debts,
Devoid of gratitude, Our own forgets;
Or thinks the boons bestow'd on Boors, the while,
The just reward of temperance, care, and toil—
No! Heaven, to all, gives all they are, or have,
From first conception till they reach the grave!
Nor was it mere unconsciousness of mind,
That made me leave that humbling thought behind,
But, knowing well, if e'er the Rich should read,
They'd thank me to omit the Christian's Creed;
For any subject yields them more delight,
Than bringing that bless'd object so to sight;
And why? It makes their Self-complacence less,
Exhibiting full proofs of nothingness—
And Honours, Titles, Pomp, and Pride, must fall,
Confronted, thus, with Heav'n's Great All in All!

Who can the most minute advantage find,
In Measure, Form, or Face, or Mien, or, Mind?
Disinterested Act, or virtuous Deed,
Beyond the boundaries of our abject Breed?
Imperfect Animals, like Us, 'tis plain,
In Instincts, Appetites, and Passion's train.
Nor Sense discriminates, nor Fancy tow'rs,
With keener ken, or happier plume, than Ours.
Their Piety, and pure Benevolence,
Not more extensive, and not more intense;
But while our Hearts indulge each generous wish
In wisdom Heav'n withholds the Loaves and Fish.

Their Charity, 'tis true, appears to sight,
Thro' Providence's bounty, much more bright;
But should Heav'n show'r on Us as ample shares,
Perhaps our boons might bless Man more than theirs—
For We, who oft have felt Want's cruel claim,
Best sympathize with those that feel the same;
While they that richly clothe, and rankly feed,
But little care for Nakedness, or Need!

That Love, like Piety, is prompt and true,
Which glads the heart, not glares in public view—
In this they differ, and in this, alone,
That warms the hearts of others—this our own.

No Passion's bright, and permanently burns,
But Christ has kindled, and to Heav'n returns;

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How then can theirs, whose objects claim their birth,
From nothing high'r than dust and dregs of Earth;
Which never soar, or seek for ought above,
But food for Vanity, or vicious Love.

In Vanity and Vice the Rich excel,
In all that tastes of Earth, or stinks of Hell!
In follies, fashions, and in crafty cant,
Our simple, unlearn'd, progeny of Want—
In all the Arts that minister delights
To both their beastly, rampant, Appetites—
In every curious Science, that supplies
Rich feasts to feed insatiate Ears and Eyes—
In all that pampers ostentatious Pride,
And artful Cunning each vain view to hide—
In idle ingenuity of Dress,
And skill in complicated Politesse—
In counteracting Heav'n's, and Nature's, laws,
By Customs, covering Vice with veils of gauze;
While Wisdom's eye darts thro' the thin disguise,
And feels her Spirit pity, and despise—
Things neither honest—useful—great—or good—
Things we would never copy if we cou'd—
Like Bedlam's tenant's rambling weak and wild;
Or sillier than the simplest puling Child—
Preposterous both in hope and habitude;
While we are open—honest—rough—and rude
We, like the pristine Altars, built with sods;
The architecture—rules—rites—offerings—Gods!
They, Baal's altars; rear'd for idol shew,
By Art and Whim—their objects all below—
The worship—incense—institutes—their own—
Tho' richly carv'd, and polish'd, still of stone!

As Nature's complicated wants impress
They swill and swallow down the motley mess;
And, when replenish'd, their impulsive pow'rs
Throw off all fog and feculence like ours.
Like us pure atmospheric air inspire—
Like our's their foul mephitic streams retire—
Like our's their moist, and musty matter, all,
That filters from the skin, or skirts let fall;
Unless their richer food, at every vent,
May happily improve each higher scent.
Her more delicious impulse we obey,
In general usage, just the self-same way,
Except with such supreme enjoyment cloy'd,
The pure beatitude of hallow'd Bride;
The concubine embrace; and harlot range;
Fastidious grown with cheapness, choice, and change,
Their bosoms burn with fierce, unnatural fires,
Committing crimes beyond ev'n Brute's desires—
Tho' mark'd in males, with females own no name,
Sodom's destruction! Corinth's noted shame!
Nor let this well-known simple truth surprise,
We boast as many ears—as many eyes—
A nose, like theirs; whose accuracy tells,
As nicely, fetid, and all fragrant, smells—
A tongue, which dainty tastes as well discerns—
But not so apt untruths, and flattery, learns.
Two limbs, like theirs, as upright frames support;
More fit for toil; not so to cringe at Court—
Not laid at length, indulging dangerous ease,
Till fulsome indolence brings forth disease,
But hourly filling up some useful plan,
For honouring God, or benefiting Man.
Two arms, and hands, more active—hardy—strong—
Not all unskill'd in penning prose, or song,
To tell corporeal wants, or mental woe,
Which, from their tyrant conduct, frequent, flow;
But more in culturing or mechanic skill,
To aid their wants, or gratify their will;
Or, skill'd in curious Arts, each pow'rs employ'd
To prompt their Vanity, and puff their Pride.
We feel as tremblingly alive as them—
More free from insipidity and phlegm—
Are conscious what is courteous, true, and just—
More faithful to our promise, troth, and trust—
Our sense of Justice much more finely feels;
Our injur'd Honour makes more pure appeals—
Their's, still to vengeful arms, or art, applies;
Our's to that Will which governs Earth and Skies.
Like them we sometimes laugh, more frequent weep—
Like their's our Souls and Bodies sink in Sleep—
But, unlike Gentlemen and Ladies, We,
In hours, and times, and manners, disagree.

Night, sober Matron! dreams, and wakes, and starts;
As moon-struck Maniacs fill their frantic parts;
While gamblers, players, pimps, from routs, and balls;

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And concerts, noisey squeaks, and opera squalls,
With prancing steeds, and coaches constant rattle,
Soothe not to sleep, but rouze, like days of battle.

With downcast eye, and bashful, reddening, cheek,
Aurora, modest Vestal! mild and meek!
Views herds of Apes, and Swine, and Goats, releas'd
From filthy bagnio-bed, or beastly feast,
While shame-fac'd Phœbus, blushing thro' the shade,
Beholds the yet-unfinish'd Masquerade.
His bloated face, at first, intensely glows,
As o'er that gulph of Vice his glance he throws—
Till, mounting high'r, he marks each hill and dale,
While mix'd emotions turn his features pale,
To see the contrast 'twixt the Nymphs and Swains,
And London's idle, loathsome, letch'rous, trains;
For, looking down from his meridian steep,
He sees his deepest debtors fast asleep!
Their listless limbs in sickly slumbers lie,
Till he hath travell'd more than half the sky;
And Hinds have half perform'd their daily toil,
Procuring comforts which they spend and spoil;
And yet their haughty hearts those Hinds despise,
Whose labours yield their Luxury's best supplies!

Some female few, at eight, begin to yawn—
At nine the pucker'd curtains calmly drawn—
For tinkling bells proclaim they're not quite dead,
While calling help to breakfast, first, in bed.

With fervour pure do then their Spirits rise
To greet the Sovereign of the Earth and Skies?
First raise their Souls in simple praise, and thanks,
Like us, poor creatures of inferior ranks?
And then, with persevering ardour, pray,
For kind protection thro' remaining day?
No! prompt Imagination's plastic pow'rs,
First forms their plans for day-light's lingering hours;
While Memory, opening wide her folding-doors,
Exhibits all her wonderous, warehouse-stores,
Such sundry stores, as, group'd in all their glories,
Would quite confound all auction inventories!
Such countless articles, expos'd to sale,
Ev'n Christie's pedant cant, and phrase, must fail!
To give crude specimen of what's contain'd
All Bond-street's tawdry toy-shops must be drain'd—
Perfumery must exhaust its utmost arts,
Cosmetics, and pure colours, fill their parts—
Foreign Frisseurs their puffs and powders lend,
And Drapery, Mercery, Millin'ry, attend.
Watches, their aid supply, in glittering pairs—
Bright buckles, shoes, and hose, contribute their's—
While endless Haberdash'ry helps, the rout,
With plumes, and ribbands, flying all about—
Lockets, and rings, and pendants, gorgeous glow,
With pearls and precious stones, in many a row
And bracelets deck'd with Lover's blessed faces,
Supplying Fathers—Brothers—Husbands—places.
Lascivous songs—romances—novels—plays—
To fill up idle hours, and Sabbath-days—
Boxes of gold, and canisters, for snuff—
And plenteous stores of like important stuff;
While millions more respective corners claim,
No muse has ever honour'd with a Name.

Then, the Ladies who ne'er forgot their cates,
That throng their larders, or their procreant pates;
With many a solid, and substantial, dish,
Yclep'd, in common, Game—Fowl—Flesh—or Fish—
Roots—Herbs—and Fruits—but so by skill compounded,
Poor Taste and Language, both, become confounded!
No Auther names them on the kitchen shelves,
Nor Cooks can scarcely stammer out themselves!
Choice wines of every flavour—every clime—
Whose titles puzzle thought, and baffle rhyme;
Class'd, and consider'd, which, and when, most meet
For pompous Peers, and Diplomatique's treat—
Or else reflecting on inferior sorts,
Which, well arrang'd, and added to the orts
Of all the manag'd meats that then remain,
May humbler Friends, and Authors, entertain.
Now view their various debts, and stock in trade—
Visits to be return'd—and visits paid—
Some, principals must pay—some, Servant's blanks—
Cards of condoleance; or, returning thanks—
Billets, polite, irrelevant, or vague—
A moment's pleasure, or a moment's plague.
These Understanding needs must set to rights,
With vast events that pass'd preceding nights—
What bows and curtsies, compliments and smiles,
Made ample recompence for pains and toils;

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What careless looks, nods, dips, or hints unkind,
Stirr'd Anger up, and urged Revenge behind,
Forming her plan to point keen Hatred's glance,
Or meditating speech for Spite's advance:
Sweet billet-doux in some snug corner sleep;
And assignations, near, just, slily, peep;
While deep-laid schemes, and intrigues, huddled by,
Shun all but Her's, and—one all-seeing Eye!
While sylphic Fancy runs these objects o'er,
They hurry up, and sip one breakfast more—
Then order dinner—dress, for Morn, by Twelve,
That Fashion in her farm may dig and delve,
And call her Servants, and her Cattle, out,
To push her pressing businesses about.
Her daily labour's much; and must be done;
Her Team is, therefore, order'd out by One:
But, for convenience, and to 'scape reproach,
Custom has made her Cart become a Coach.
Two Beaux, behind, of spruce, pragmatic, look,
With live-long list, prepar'd from Porter's book,
Of names, on cards, or strips of cards, in store,
They rattle round, and fly from door to door.
With milk-white hose, and heads full fraught with meal,
On tiptoe standing, with high-lifted heel,
Dancing on cushions, or on solid planks,
With little comfort, and as little thanks;
The pair of Macaronies, propp'd on high,
Encounter all the storms of Earth and Sky—
Descending show'rs of rain—hail—sleet—or snow—
Or whirling winds, and clouds of dust below.
One, while the other stands erect, and pert,
Is often forc'd to foot it through the dirt;
And, ere the clamorous carriage turns, and stops,
Down from his elevated perch he drops;
Compell'd by duty, maugre spot, or splash,
Across the muddy street, half-way, to dash,
That no demur, such urgent matter stay,
Or precious time, like theirs, be thrown away.

Before the steeds are stay'd, and harness eas'd,
The steps are climb'd, and noisey knocker seiz'd,
When, instant, sounds the thundering, tonish, rap,
Disturbing, oft, a modern morning's nap.
The name's announc'd—and, if the plan's well laid,
And Sir; or Madam; understands the trade,
The Porter's well-instructed how to lie;
And, “not at home's” the impudent reply.
A card's presented, current as bank-note,
To clear off some afflicting debt afloat;
A bill, momentous! Politesse must pay,
Lest such important Commerce might decay:
Then, having open'd, or thus clos'd, Accounts,
The Visit's paid—the Footman flies and mounts—
His post regain'd, and plac'd beside his brother,
They fly again and finish such another.

Surmise may sometimes make the Members doubt
Whether the wonderous Head be in or out,
And, tho' 'tis usual, when the Head demurs,
That not a tongue, or toe, or finger, stirs;
In this dilemma, all talk, stretch, and flee,
Because the Head has issued no decree;
And while the Members thus each other shove,
Till each obtains its order from above,
It seems as if they foolishly forgot
Whether they had a Head at home, or not:
The Porter stares—the smirking, grinning Groom,
Hops treble steps to gain the dressing-room,
And, there arriv'd, it's not completely clear
Whether the Person seen, and heard, be there—
For, tho' the Vision's obvious to the Eye,
And Ear notes, “Not at home!” in sharp reply,
Still who'd conceive their Senses did not joke,
And, thus, an airy Apparition spoke—
Yet skilful Scholars soon prove so expert,
They heed not what their Eyes and Ears assert;
But will, when cross-examin'd, clearly find
Their perfect Ears and Eyes are deaf and blind!

When, thus, the Oracle this lie declares,
The eager Groom runs tabbering down the stairs;
And, when his flying feet attain the door,
His tongue maintains the lie it learnt before:
A meet Academy for deathless Man,
To ply his lessons on the Devil's plan!

Perhaps Reflection, in a moment, may
Turn Resolution quite a different way;
And, ere the Coachman half a street has driv'n,
A sudden, peevish, countermand be giv'n;
For frail Caprice has this peculiar claim,
Never to rest one second just the same.

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When Pride experiences some little pique,
With such high Spirits it may last a Week—
If injur'd Etiquette brings up the rear,
It often feels a festering all the Year—
But if it irritates to open strife,
It's mean and low to let it end with Life.

Thus, while such precious moment's idly spent,
Pride wakes Impatience—rouzes Discontent—
Gives arbitrary orders to Chagrin
To call her crabbed Sister peevish Spleen;
And, while this Mob of Passions makes a stir,
Which seldom will admit of much demur,
The baffled Visitor begins to pout,
At Consequence so shamelessly shut out.

Like ebullition shakes Phaeton's frame,
For great and little Souls are form'd the same;
The odd's, this, only; Great-ones ne'er forget,
But o'er the meanest trifles fume, and fret;
The Little make a moment's fiery rout,
But soon the fickle glaring flame goes out.
The Coachman's fire the apparatus feels—
The whip—the springs—axles, and whirling wheels!
But most the Coursers suffer for the crime,
Flogg'd, without mercy, to redeem the time.
Inveterate vengeance, while this pet prevails,
Impels the high Pacha of two horse-tails;
And tho' Mercurial messenger's dispatch'd,
To try if Mr. Coachman can be catch'd;
Order'd, with energy, as fast to follow
As foot could fall, and loud as lungs could halloo,
Nor let endeavours full exertion slack,
Till he should overtake, and bring him back;
That such a rude affront be rectified,
And some concession made to pompous Pride—
For, if the pannels bore a Baron's arms,
Conflicting passions work'd up wild alarms,
Lest some great Character should form offence,
With such vile degradation driven thence—
But, if a Duke's rich coronet they held,
Beyond all bounds the agitation swell'd—
'Tis all in vain! the furious Driver flies,
Cracks the keen thong, and drowns the deafening cries!
But what mere Man would hope the goal to gain,
When twice four legs contended thus with twain?

Did ever Athens, with ambitious aims,
When she appointed her Olympic games,
Such hopeless emulation e'er excite,
That Man should strive with Charioteers in flight?
Once, tho' my Father tried at half the feat,
A paltry Steed the rapid Racer beat.

Pedestrian biped pow'rs must vainly urge
To match a Coachman with an angry scourge;
Much less could common Mortal's quickest pace
Hope to o'ertake when long begun the race.
Besides, it stands a well-established fact,
That, when a Footman aims with force to act,
Inflated lungs are clos'd their utmost length,
To help his speed, and fortify his strength—
Then who would think His swiftness could excel,
Whose breath was wasted with outrageous yell,
In constant clamour, hallooing “Coachman! hoy!”
As long as breath could bawl, or feet could fly—
So this Embassador still flies behind
Till legs lose all their wings, and lungs their wind,
But sees himself still farther in the rear,
For Coachman scorns to stop, and hates to hear.

While beating breast, and limbs relax'd, and slow,
The Pursuivant bears back his tale of woe,
And melancholy message, pale, imparts;
While arrogant Employer storms and starts—
His best attempts as dull, and stupid, blames,
Perhaps bestows some unbecoming names;
While his mean Soul, to meek dependence wrought,
Fawns, as if conscious of some serious fault—
Then quits the presence, with his body curv'd,
As tho' the infamy was all deserv'd;
Leaving his Principal amidst abuse,
To frame some Falshood, aptly call'd Excuse.

Sometimes by Vassals visits are perform'd,
And, under spurious colours, Castles storm'd;
While gate-bell cries with loud and lasting din,
As tho' to let some feudal Baron in—
Or bolted outer doors are batter'd hard,
To claim admission for fictitious Card;
For, tho' they rattle like the Folks of Rank,
The obstreporous bustle proves a paltry blank.

Aristocratic Pride must surely wake,
When thus deluded, doubly, by mistake,

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'Tis as if Parish-officer should send
A Pauper, badg'd, as Wealth's familiar Friend,
And occupy his place, upon a par
With Rank and State, a Ribband or a Star.
But at such craft they mutually connive
To keep their languid consequence alive—
That end obtain'd they ne'er the means despise
But bless the constant stir, and clamorous noise:
And how can any such deception blame;
All hypocritic Courtiers act the same.

Some People's more polite occasions call
That doors, like day-light, should be free for all—
But, chiefly, on the Sabbath's hated hours,
When cruel Custom dearer joys devours;
That Fashion, Rank, and Riches, then may find,
A common market for each trading Mind;
When every stamp of Merchants may attend,
By barter, all their various wares, to vend.
On equal terms all individuals treat,
Whether their articles be small, or great.
'Twould introduce confusion to refuse
Their stock of Knowledge, or their stock of News.
Their traffic's not like merchandise at large,
Commercial People cast up cost and charge;
And, with maturest Wisdom—judgment—sense—
Compare the profits with the whole expence:
But profits and expence they scorn to learn,
Such low pursuits are never their concern.
They only wish to teach, or strive to hear,
What to their hankering hearts is doubly dear,
News, which in each gazette of Fashion's found,
And grows, like weeds, on Scandal's dungy ground—
Knowledge, which serious Christians never sought;
The follies of their Friends, or Neighbour's fault—
But, while they make these faults and follies known,
They cautiously contrive to hide their own.
I never bore an honourable part,
In trade, or commerce, at such curious Mart,
But have been told of matters, mighty strange,
Transacted on such fashionable 'Change—
When parties met, and could not well agree,
On trading terms, in common Coterie,
They've hinted assignations, tête-à-tête,
To make a private bargain quite complete.
Disinterested Souls! so pleas'd with play
They mutually would give Themselves away.
Like little Children; doubling all their joys,
By chaffering trifles, or exchanging toys.
Sordid Self-love so foreign from their heart,
None courts increase, but labours to impart,
All but such copies of each other's face
As carry scandal, or produce disgrace;
Or characters, in gross caricature,
Of other's sought, but none of Self endure.
No simple action, sentiment, or thought,
In such Bazaars is ever sold or bought—
Nor are Truth, Innocence, or Love, sincere;
Or Piety, or Morals, ever there.
In such commodities they never deal;
These they affect not, those they never feel.
Flattery, and Falshood; Vanity and Vice;
Are the main objects of their Merchandise—
While feathers, tinsel, toys, are bought and sold,
Dearer than diamonds, pearls, or purest gold.
Spite's credulous reports, and Envy's tales,
Are current, cent per cent, at all their Sales;
And every Dealer's eager as a Jew
Catching old clothes, to seize on something new.
At every high exchange each other hustle,
And, o'er their bargains make such mighty bustle,
In full confusion, Women mixt with Men,
It looks like antient Chaos come agen—
Like jostling Jonathan's loud hue and cry,
Where every One has Stocks to sell, or buy—
Or like St. Luke's, or Bedlam's, wild abuse,
When every frantic Patient's just broke loose.
Is this the properest plan for spending time,
To quiet Conscience, and escape from Crime?
The path a Christian Spirit should pursue,
To help a Neighbour, or give God his due?
Is this a course to keep the Soul aloft,
Above all sin, and make a sick-bed soft?
The conduct that will ease the dying breath,
And glad the bosom in the grasp of Death?
Assist firm Faith to look, with lifted head,
When Jesus comes to judge the Quick and Dead?
Is this devoting Soul's and Body's pow'rs
To Him who gave them all their gracious dow'rs?

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Do Spirit's energies, and fleshly Frame,
Thus laud and magnify their Maker's name?
Are these the best returns their Hearts can pay,
For providential blessings, Night and Day?
For all His bounteous boons of Ease, and Health?
Each privilege of Reason, Pow'r and Wealth?
To Him, for stronger obligations still,
Subordinating Sense, and Time, and Will?
To Him subjecting Passions—Pride—and Lust—
Who, for the love of them, embrac'd the Dust?
For love of them resign'd his heavenly Crown?
From boundless bliss to scorn and death came down
And bore all sufferings, for their sakes, below,
To save their Souls from endless pain and woe?
Alas! their Lives but little proof afford,
They love his Person, or respect his Word;
But all their shameless Conduct clearly shews
They loathe his Lovers, and affect his Foes!