University of Virginia Library

Whilst Laureate Southey dedicates his lays
To males and females born in other days;
Whilst Byron writes, and leaves the world to guess
Whether he's more than mortal man—or less;
Whilst gentle Moore in love's own language speaks
The charms of smiling eyes and dimpled cheeks;
And nameless scribblers labour to instil
A goose's wisdom with a goose's quill:
I seize my pen, determined to rehearse
The sports of Bladud in heroic verse;
To sing of those who walk in fashion's path,
And thus immortalize the charms of Bath!
Spread your light wings, my Muse, and never heed
The rules of those who write or those who read;
Shall Genius be confined, or shall my rhyme
Be circumscribed within the bounds of time?
Can earthly bounds poetic heroes bind,
Or paltry space enclose “the chainless mind?”
No! modern poets think it no disgrace
To spurn the unities of time and place;
'Tis fit they should the laws of time contemn,
For future times will never hear of them.

Sweet Bath! the liveliest city of the land,
Where health and pleasure ramble hand in hand,
Where smiling belles their earliest visit pay,
And faded maids their lingering blooms delay;
Delightful scenes of elegance and ease,
Realms of the gay, where every sport can please!
How often have I loitered through the street,
Where Bond Street loungers at each step you meet;
How often have I paused on all the joys,
Boys who ape manhood, men transformed to boys;
The never failing pump, the busy scene,
Where doting sixty copies gay sixteen:
The crowded room with seats beneath the clock,
Where talking dames and politicians flock.

I check my Pegasus—and post-chaise too,
And pause, of Bath to take a distant view;
And first—the Abbey Church its splendour rears,
The sacred monument of former years;
Behold its sculpture—and mark, whilst you view it,
The pretty little houses sticking to it;
The citizens of Bath, with vast delight,
To hide their noble church from vulgar sight,
Surround its venerable sides with shops,
And decorate its walls with chimney tops!
Surely from these designs, so pure, so chaste,
Bath has been called emporium of taste:
Oh! men of classic judgment! bear them hence
To Grecian relics of magnificence;
There let them deck (to prove their polished minds)
Athenian temples with Venetian blinds!
And, to perpetuate their own renown,
Improve the Venus—with a satin gown!
I cast my eyes around, and next observe
The Royal Crescent with its graceful curve,
And then above where other crescents grow,
That seem to emulate the curve below;
And there's the Circus, elegant no doubt,
That bellows of which Brook Street is the snout;
And mark where many a handsome building mounts,
Streets, squares, and terraces, with freestone fronts;
Whilst other edifices built for show,
Mere lath and plaster, glitter in a row.
But hold! enough of this perspective scene,
I now proceed to show what moves within.
'Tis twelve at noon, or rather I should say,
To fashionable folks 'tis break of day;
Still on their downy pillows they repose,
And Bath itself seems half inclined to doze.
Here beaux and belles, to pass their hours away,
Sport half the night, and slumber half the day;
Whose nerves can scarce the load of life sustain,
'Till charming candlelight returns again,
And thus the vulgar beams of daylight shun;
While close drawn curtains quite exclude the sun.
The constant youth, amid his slumbers, still
Dreams of his partner in last night's quadrille;
And though in sheets and blankets tuck'd up tight,
Seems, in his sleep, to chasser to the right.
With eyes but half unclosed, the rising fair
Takes out the useful papers from her hair,
Gives to each curl its most attractive grace,
And puts her folding drapery in place;
Upon her head arranged in varied dyes,
Bows upon bows, and plumes on plumes arise;
Where'er she goes, a crowd around her gathers,
To view her charms as countless as her feathers;
And for each conquest, and each beau's mishap
She seems to add a feather in her cap.
By day all languor—stretch'd upon the bed,
With feeble body, and with aching head;
Her limbs, extended motionless and faint,
Seem chain'd and stiffen'd by some sad complaint;
And her pale cheek, apparently, reveals
A complication of all earthly ills.
But night comes on; then friendly rouge supplies
Health to her cheek, and brightness to her eyes;
Her invalid envelopments give place
To airy muslin, and transparent lace;
And, drest for conquest, lovely dimples play
Around those lips that scarcely moved all day.
That tongue, which lately clothed in sickly white,
Exposed its symptoms to the Doctor's sight,
Now nimbly moves, from languor's bondage free,
And charms the crowd with jest and repartee.
Ladies, no longer young, but who in truth
Retain the folly and conceit of youth,
Are toiling to remove each wrinkled taint,
By laying on another coat of paint,
Are watering the buds that time has blighted,
In fact are labouring to be delighted.
The Lords of the Creation, half awake,
Adorn themselves, their daily lounge to take;
Each lordly man his taper waist displays,
Combs his sweet locks, and laces on his stays,
Ties on his starch'd cravat with nicest care,
And then steps forth to petrify the fair.
The streets begin to fill, the motley throng,
To see and to be seen, now trip along;
Some lounge in the Bazaars, whilst others meet
To take a turn or two in Milsom Street;
Some eight or ten round Mirvan's shop remain
To stare at those who gladly stare again.
All who are musical then call at White's,
To buy the dances played on Thursday nights;
Whilst he, to prove the value of his airs,
And willing to exchange his notes for theirs,
Bids his young man awake the trembling chords,
To play the music set to Byron's words;
And fur-clad dandies disregard each tone,
Prizing no airs and graces but their own;
Orpheus charmed stocks and stones—and he may claim,
At times, an audience very much the same.
Walking the streets, a stranger would suppose
That half the tradesmen were about to close;
Ranged in the windows, tempting bills are seen,
Mentioning bargains to be found within;
But “selling off” seems frequently alone
A ruse de guerre to carry business on;
And from its frequent use, it would appear
They sell off regularly once a-year!
Time flies! the ambulating throng grows less,
The gay ones hasten home to dine and dress;
The beaux in Milsom-Street, who sought renown
By walking up, in order to walk down,
All, all are gone, each well-drest form retreats,
And scarce a dangler lingers in the streets.
By day, the ladies constantly are seen
In cloth or fur enveloped to the chin;
But now 'tis evening, and the air grows colder,
They strip, judiciously, the neck and shoulder;
The chairs are ordered, and the moment comes
When all the world assemble at the Rooms;
For higher powers have decreed of late,
That dancing shall commence at half-past eight!
And should the dancers dare to disobey,
And by their non-appearance cause delay,
To throw at once perdition on their hopes,
The new committee threaten them with ropes.
Ranged on the benches sit the lookers on,
Who criticise their neighbours one by one;
Each thinks herself in word and deed so bless'd
That she's a bright example for the rest;
Numerous tales and anecdotes they hatch,
And prophecy the dawn of many a match,
And many a matrimonial scheme declare,
Unknown to either of the happy pair.
Much delicate discussion they advance
About the dress and gait of those who dance:
“This gown is made too short—and that too long,
That lady's petticoats are pinn'd all wrong;
One stoops too much, and one is so upright,
He'll never see his partner all the night;
One is too lazy, and the next too rough;
This jumps too high, and that not high enough.”
Thus each receives a pointed observation,
Not that it's scandal! merely conversation.
There politic mammas are always found
Whose cash is scanty, but whose girls abound;
They eye the danglers, calculate their pelf,
And hope one daughter more will leave the shelf.
Their sidelong glances and their smiles disclose
Many steel traps to catch unwary beaux;
But modern beaux, whose constant thoughts alone
Are permanently fix'd on number one,
In choosing partners—dream not of a wife,
And love duets that do not last for life.
The evening glides away in recreation,
In whisper'd tête-à-tête, and sweet flirtation:
(Report declares the youth is fairly caught,
The day is fix'd, the bridal clothes are bought,
Favours and cakes are order'd, without doubt—
But then report at times is rather out);
They each regale on ice and converse sweet,
He kindly makès an offer—of his seat,
The thing is talk'd of and declared by all;
He makes proposals—to procure her shawl,
And hands her off with gay and gallant air,
Not to the altar—only to her chair!

In this distinguish'd circle you will find
Many degrees of man, and womankind;
All but old women; saucy muse, for shame!
In Bath 'tis wrong to mention such a name;
Here, salutary rules exclude all those
Whom no one hears of, and whom no one knows;
That no plebeian breathings may infect
An atmosphere at all times so select;
No banker's clerks these splendid realms invade,
No folks who carry on a retail trade,
No actors by profession must appear,
To act their parts or speak their speeches here;
Yet even here, amid the crowds you view,
'Tis sometimes difficult to tell who's who.
Subscription balls are also carried on
By those who love to part with one pound one;
“Elegant Extracts,” where they keep it up
Till five or six, and sumptuously sup.
A time there was, in gothic days, when all
Were quite contented with a public ball;
None issued invitations, I've been told,
For more than rooms conveniently could hold.
They, ignorantly, would have thought it airs
To ask their friends and leave them on the stairs;
But customs alter: folks, in times like these,
Who give a party, call it what they please.
The cards once out, it matters not at all
Whether the drawing-room is large or small;
They get a harp, the pleasure to enhance,
And then the thing becomes a private dance.
Whilst these select abodes their charms display,
The young poussetting, as the old survey;
Many at home remain, and treat their friends
With cakes, cards, coffee, and wax candle ends.
How wise are they, who thus, whilst others roam,
Prefer sequestered joys, and stay at home.
“At home!” what numberless delights are found,
What sweet emotions mingle with the sound!
'Tis said, that far from cities, there are those
Who daily in domestic scenes repose;
To them their native home appears most dear,
When doors are closed and none but friends are near.
But here, to be “at home,” is to invite
Half of the world to crowd your house at night,
That all the other half may lie awake,
Scared by the noise your doors and chairmen make.
Here too, it seems, domestic joys consist
In scandal, crowded rooms, ice creams, and whist;
Candles and ladies' eyes here shine most bright,
When both should be extinguished for the night.
Inventions multiply, white-lies abound,
Sometimes a solitary truth goes round,
For those who talk all morning and all night,
Must, inadvertently, at times be right.
Oh! blest retreat; where beauteous dames impart
The mingled charms of nature and of art;
Art puts all faded objects out of sight,
Whilst nature kindly brings all things to light.
Ye favour'd beaux! these specimens behold,
Catching your hearts, who thinks of catching cold?
Their gowns they shorten too, and each reveals
A proper quantity of neck and heels.
But fashions change, and soon we may prepare
To see the beaux as beautifully bare;
Nor should the change surprise us, for the men
Expose themselves a little now and then.
Here you will find (the rites of Bacchus done)
Men of all characters, and men of none.
Here ancient bucks their wither'd limbs display,
Vainly endeavouring to hide decay;
Though still the form of symmetry is seen,
And cork supplies the place where flesh has been.
Though stays may compensate for vigour gone;
Though white of eggs cement his whiskers on;
Though artificial curls are neatly spread
To hide the sad hiatus on his head:
Can cork, or borrow'd curls Time's progress stop?
Can age be strengthen'd by a whalebone prop?
Do what he will—the number of his years
Through all his boyish mummery appears;
And age, from all the worth of age exempt,
Can only be an object of contempt.
Of gamesters too the motley throng consists,
Of married debauchees and duellists:
Bladud's hot water has been long renown'd,
Which flows in ancient courses under ground;
Apparently the tepid fluid runs
Within the veins of some of Bladud's sons;
Yet though these youths are often in hot water,
It often ends in smoke, but not in slaughter.
In this auspicious region all mankind
(Whate'er their taste) congenial joys may find;
Here monied men may pass for men of worth;
And wealthy cits may hide plebeian birth.
Here men devoid of cash may live with ease,
Appear genteel, and pass for what they please;
Here single men their better half may claim,
And flirting spinsters lose that doleful name;
Here husbands, weary of domestic strife,
May please themselves, and live a single life;
And married ladies, in their husband's view,
May freely flirt, and boast their conquests too;
Here boys and girls may marry in their teens,
And live on visionary ways and means;
Here fortune-hunting beaux delude the fair
With large estates and castles in the air;
Here lovely belles so sensitive appear,
They fall in love at least four times a year;
And dames, who well the board of green cloth know,
Sit—where they sat near sixty years ago.
Here busy Scandal's ever ready tongue
Will interfere to regulate the young,
Brings every hidden mystery to light,
Corrects the weak, and sets the erring right,
Declares what actions they should choose or shun,
What they may do, and what must not be done.
Here doctors conscientiously contrive,
By daily calls, to keep their friends alive;
Who, though declining, many days may see,
Whilst daily calls produce a daily fee.
All systems change, and physic, like the rest,
When newly fashion'd operates the best;
Thus each practitioner his system draws
From some internal, ever-ruling cause,
And laying former doctrines on the shelf,
Cures by a mode peculiar to himself.
One feels your pulse and potently observes—
All your complaints originate in nerves.
If still unsatisfied, the next you call
Will vow that people have no nerves at all.
One says the stomach is the tainted part,
One says the head's in fault, and one the heart;
One undertakes to set you up with ease,
And swears that bile occasions your disease,
Says bile affects you if you glow or shiver,
And throws new lights upon his patient's liver.
A time there was, ere modern ills were known,
When matrons had a system of their own;
Each wife possess'd a closet amply fill'd
With drugs well mix'd, and waters well distill'd;
Alternate food and physic stored her book,
With precepts for the doctress and the cook;
There sage prescriptions follow'd rich receipts,
And nauseous bitters counteracted sweets.
If sickness pain'd her spouse, her ready skill
Possess'd a remedy for every ill;
Each season'd dish, each potent draught she knew:
She made him sick, and cured his sickness too.
But this is past,—no spouse now risks his life,
Trusting his constitution to his wife.
Let London boast her stage, and still retain
Her Covent-Garden and her Drury-Lane,
So elegantly big, that scarce a word
Of what is going forward can be heard,
And perch'd aloft, it is in vain you hope
To see the stage without a telescope;
Here Bath presents a tempting bill of fare,
At the new theatre, in Beaufort Square.
Our theatre is neat, though there are seen
No gas without, or gay saloons within;
'Tis small, I own, but whilst its size we scan—
“These little things are great to little man.”
What though our stage some few recruits may own,
As senseless as the boards they tread upon;
Though here at times some heroes may be found,
Who bid defiance both to sense and sound,—
Confounding every passage they rehearse,
Bad by degrees and miserably worse;
Yet in this soil, by favour's sunshine rear'd,
Some buds of real talent have appear'd;
And splendid stars now grace the London sphere,
Whose earliest rays were nursed and kindled here.

These are thy follies, Bath,—yet even here
Some qualifying virtues oft appear;
And having sketch'd the errors that pervade,
'Tis fair some light should mingle with the shade.
All seem aware of what the proverb means,
“Charity hides a multitude of sins;”
And therefore keep their consciences secure,
By many benefactions to the poor.
Thus Mistress Whist this golden rule regards,
And gives the poor the cash she wins at cards:
Thus he who hears a worthy preacher speak
Against his actions in the former week,
Buys absolution at an easy rate,
By placing his donation in the plate.
At circulating libraries we view
No tempting raffles, or delightful loo;
No fair adventurers can there advance
To try their luck at morning games of chance;
No winners seize the spoils, or proudly share
“Trifles from Brighton,” or gay Tonbridge ware.
In these resorts the loungers take their stations,
And ask to see the last new publications:
Monthly Reviews, and Poems neatly stitch'd,
Novels that tend to prove the world's bewitch'd,
And Ladies' Magazines just come from town,
With “Lines on Love,” and patterns for a gown;
These Laura views, as if a hasty look
Could estimate the value of a book;
And if some touch of scandal she perceives,
Some tale initialed, 'twixt the uncut leaves,
She gladly pays the shopman the amount,
Or begs he'll put it down to her account.
Here maiden ladies constantly pursue
Something they have not read, or “something new;”
Some seek the reading-room, and there peruse,
According to their tastes, the London news;
The politician reads, with looks sedate,
Letters from Paris, and last night's debate;
The female is not happy till she sees
The daily list of deaths and marriages.
One, with uncommon thirst of knowledge blest,
Thinks of herself unmindful of the rest,
Seizes the Times, and not content with one,
Grasps at the Globe, and sits upon the Sun!
And now my task is o'er, my grey goose quill!
Will others say we've acted well or ill?
Methinks I hear the critic tribe discuss
The merit of our lines, and argue thus—
“What have we here, shall striplings seize the pen,
And scan the faults of older, abler men?
Is all this meant for wit?—or does he hope
To lash with Churchill, ridicule with Pope?
Shall any dare to tread in Anstey's path,
And write satiric verses upon Bath?”
I answer, I have imitated none,
Such as they are, my thoughts have been my own;
If none must tread where others trod before,
Let no one dare compose a stanza more;
Let no man deem it worth his while to think,
Or idly waste his paper, pens, and ink;
For if he writes, a footing he must get
In some Parnassus undiscover'd yet.
If in my lines no point of wit they view,
It lacks the venom'd point of malice too;
No individuals are here abused;
No private characters are roughly used;
No shafts are aim'd to injure worth or merit—
I make the cap—but not the heads to wear it.