Letters to Julia, in Rhyme ... Third Edition. To which are added: Lines Written at Ampthill-Park. By Henry Luttrell |
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| 1. | TO JULIA.
LETTER I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
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 | Letters to Julia, in Rhyme |  |
1
TO JULIA. LETTER I.
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LETTER I.
A Remonstrance—Hyde-Park—The Ride— The Promenade—Almack's—Newmarket— Topics of the Day—Sketch of a Small-talker —The Park on Sundays—A Lover of the Picturesque—A Shower—Kensington-Gardens —A retired Boxer—The Serpentine—in Winter—in Summer—A submissive Lover— The Mysteries of Dress—Importance of the Cravat—An Apostate Beau—A modern Dinner —When to venture out.
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Julia, in vain, from three to four,
Day after day, I haunt your door.
In vain, betokening many a call,
My cards lie scattered in your hall,
Or crowd your chimney-piece by dozens.
Is this the way folks use their cousins?
'Tis thus you treat me, Julia, is it?
Well, well, I shan't repeat my visit.
My patience is at last o'ercome
By your pert porter's “not at home.”
Trust me, both you and he will stare
When next I'm seen in Portman-Square;
And, since you shun me, conscience-smitten,
What can't be spoken must be written.
Day after day, I haunt your door.
In vain, betokening many a call,
My cards lie scattered in your hall,
Or crowd your chimney-piece by dozens.
Is this the way folks use their cousins?
'Tis thus you treat me, Julia, is it?
Well, well, I shan't repeat my visit.
My patience is at last o'ercome
By your pert porter's “not at home.”
4
When next I'm seen in Portman-Square;
And, since you shun me, conscience-smitten,
What can't be spoken must be written.
Young, beautiful, of gentle blood,
The flower of early widowhood,
With Nature's charms, and Fortune's plenty
Showered on a head of two-and-twenty,
Julia, to men with hearts and eyes,
Faith, you're a tempting, glorious prize.
But if more tempting still, no matter,
Fair cousin, I disdain to flatter.
Beauties must sometimes take jobations,
And bear with humdrum from relations.
Others, as fair as you, have fretted,
First mother-spoiled, then husband-petted,
At the first sound of aught sincere
Grating harsh music on their ear.
So listen, Julia. Truth to you,
Howe'er unwelcome, must be new.
And if it hurt your pride, why, let it.
You want a lecture, and must get it.
The flower of early widowhood,
With Nature's charms, and Fortune's plenty
Showered on a head of two-and-twenty,
Julia, to men with hearts and eyes,
Faith, you're a tempting, glorious prize.
But if more tempting still, no matter,
Fair cousin, I disdain to flatter.
Beauties must sometimes take jobations,
And bear with humdrum from relations.
Others, as fair as you, have fretted,
First mother-spoiled, then husband-petted,
At the first sound of aught sincere
Grating harsh music on their ear.
5
Howe'er unwelcome, must be new.
And if it hurt your pride, why, let it.
You want a lecture, and must get it.
Long wooed, and meaning to be won,
Why have you thus poor Charles undone?
Say to what purpose, to what end
You thus coquet it with my friend?
Why will you thus monopolize
His words and thoughts, his ears and eyes?
Why rob him of his dearest treasure
In every moment of his leisure?
Must pranks like these be played to prove
How far a slave is gone in love
Who, mastered by his head-strong passion,
Adores you—till he's out of fashion?
Why have you thus poor Charles undone?
------ Sybarin cur properes amando
Perdere?------
Horace, Ode 8. Book I.
Perdere?------
Horace, Ode 8. Book I.
To this Ode, the author of these rhymes is indebted for the first conception of what he has endeavoured to execute. It occurred to him that, by filling up such an outline on a wider canvass, it might be possible to exhibit a picture, if imperfect not unfaithful, of modern habits and manners, and of the amusements and lighter occupations of the higher classes of society in England. Classical readers may not, perhaps, be displeased at meeting with occasional allusions to a favourite author; while to others they will be, at the worst, indifferent.
The plan of this poem having been, in the present edition, materially altered, some of these allusions have, necessarily, been omitted, and, as the Ode is so short, the notes are no longer encumbered with references to those that are still retained.
Say to what purpose, to what end
You thus coquet it with my friend?
Why will you thus monopolize
His words and thoughts, his ears and eyes?
Why rob him of his dearest treasure
In every moment of his leisure?
Must pranks like these be played to prove
How far a slave is gone in love
Who, mastered by his head-strong passion,
Adores you—till he's out of fashion?
No, never have I known a change
In man so sudden and so strange;
A revolution so entire
In every habit and desire.
Time was, he minded not a feather
If it was bright or cloudy weather,
Nor what Moore's almanack foretold
Of wind or rain, of heat or cold;
But joined his cronies in the Park,
“Fellows of likelihood and mark,”
In trot or canter, on the backs
Of ponies, hunters, chargers, hacks,
Proud to display their riders' graces
Through all imaginable paces,
From walks and ambles up to races.
Or on an Andalusian barb
Alone, in military garb,
With shoulders duly braced, and back'd head,
And regimental air, contracted
On service in his last campaign,
From overrunning France and Spain,
Guided, with skilful, gentle force,
Each motion of his managed horse.
Now dashing on, now lounging slow,
Through the thronged ride, to Rotten Row.
In man so sudden and so strange;
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In every habit and desire.
Time was, he minded not a feather
If it was bright or cloudy weather,
Nor what Moore's almanack foretold
Of wind or rain, of heat or cold;
But joined his cronies in the Park,
“Fellows of likelihood and mark,”
In trot or canter, on the backs
Of ponies, hunters, chargers, hacks,
Proud to display their riders' graces
Through all imaginable paces,
From walks and ambles up to races.
Or on an Andalusian barb
Alone, in military garb,
With shoulders duly braced, and back'd head,
And regimental air, contracted
On service in his last campaign,
From overrunning France and Spain,
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Each motion of his managed horse.
Now dashing on, now lounging slow,
Through the thronged ride, to Rotten Row.
There ancient gentlemen come forth
Screened from the breezes of the north,
To bask them in the province won
From winter by the southern sun;
When birds on leafless branches sing,
And the last days of April bring
A lame apology from Spring.
There, on their easy saddles, pumping
Fresh air into their lungs by bumping,
Under the lee of wood and wall
They nod and totter to their fall;
Their only business to contrive
The ways and means to keep alive,
And, if permitted by the Fates,
Encumber long their sons' estates;
Which, in compassion to the Jews,
The Fates aforesaid oft refuse.
Screened from the breezes of the north,
To bask them in the province won
From winter by the southern sun;
When birds on leafless branches sing,
And the last days of April bring
A lame apology from Spring.
There, on their easy saddles, pumping
Fresh air into their lungs by bumping,
Under the lee of wood and wall
They nod and totter to their fall;
Their only business to contrive
The ways and means to keep alive,
And, if permitted by the Fates,
Encumber long their sons' estates;
8
The Fates aforesaid oft refuse.
But when from violated May
Winter's rude form is chased away,
When skies more blue and bright appear,
And sunshine marks the ripened year,
Charles in his Tilbury would roll,
Or, in the evening, gently stroll
Where all the Town, arrayed en masse,
Disputes each inch of withered grass,
As if some spell their steps had bound
Fast to that single spot of ground.
Where countless wheels together dash,
Swift whirling—and, amidst the crash,
Horse jammed with foot, in gay confusion,
Just manage to escape contusion,
Wedging their shoulders into carriages,
To make reports of balls and marriages;
Of passports just obtained, or missed
For Almack's on each Lady's list;
What names of all the young and fair,
High-born and rich, are blazoned there;
Who are returned as sick, and who dead,
Among the luckless girls excluded.
Nor marvel that a prize which, won
Is capital, and yields to none
In the World's lottery—when lost,
Not health alone, but life should cost.
Winter's rude form is chased away,
When skies more blue and bright appear,
And sunshine marks the ripened year,
Charles in his Tilbury would roll,
Or, in the evening, gently stroll
Where all the Town, arrayed en masse,
Disputes each inch of withered grass,
As if some spell their steps had bound
Fast to that single spot of ground.
Where countless wheels together dash,
Swift whirling—and, amidst the crash,
Horse jammed with foot, in gay confusion,
Just manage to escape contusion,
Wedging their shoulders into carriages,
To make reports of balls and marriages;
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For Almack's on each Lady's list;
What names of all the young and fair,
High-born and rich, are blazoned there;
Who are returned as sick, and who dead,
Among the luckless girls excluded.
Nor marvel that a prize which, won
Is capital, and yields to none
In the World's lottery—when lost,
Not health alone, but life should cost.
Say you, to whom in beauty's pride
This paradise is opened wide,
While its inexorable portals
Are closed against less favoured mortals,
Have you not marked how one rejection
Has spoiled a blooming nymph's complexion?
Have you not known a second leave her
In strong convulsions or a fever?
And can you doubt the tales you've heard
Of what has happened from a third?
All on that magic list depends;
Fame, fortune, fashion, lovers, friends:
'Tis that which gratifies or vexes
All ranks, all ages, and both sexes.
If once to Almack's you belong,
Like monarchs, you can do no wrong;
But, banished thence on Wednesday night,
By Jove, you can do nothing right.
This paradise is opened wide,
While its inexorable portals
Are closed against less favoured mortals,
Have you not marked how one rejection
Has spoiled a blooming nymph's complexion?
Have you not known a second leave her
In strong convulsions or a fever?
And can you doubt the tales you've heard
Of what has happened from a third?
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Fame, fortune, fashion, lovers, friends:
'Tis that which gratifies or vexes
All ranks, all ages, and both sexes.
If once to Almack's you belong,
Like monarchs, you can do no wrong;
But, banished thence on Wednesday night,
By Jove, you can do nothing right.
There, baffled Cupid points his darts
With surer aim, at jaded hearts;
And Hymen, lurking in the porch,
But half conceals his lighted torch.
Hence the petitions and addresses
So humble to the Patronesses;
The messages and notes, by dozens,
From their Welch aunts, and twentieth cousins,
Who hope to get their daughters in
By proving they are founder's kin.
Hence the smart miniatures enclosed
Of unknown candidates proposed;
Hence is the fair divan at Willis's
Beset with Corydons and Phillises,
Trying, with perseverance steady,
First one, and then another Lady,
Who oft, you've told me, don't agree,
But clash like law and equity;
Some for the Rules in all their vigour,
Others to mitigate their rigour.
With surer aim, at jaded hearts;
And Hymen, lurking in the porch,
But half conceals his lighted torch.
Hence the petitions and addresses
So humble to the Patronesses;
The messages and notes, by dozens,
From their Welch aunts, and twentieth cousins,
Who hope to get their daughters in
By proving they are founder's kin.
Hence the smart miniatures enclosed
Of unknown candidates proposed;
These lines refer to what is said to have actually happened a few seasons ago. In a letter to one of the patronesses, requesting a subscription for a young lady then a stranger in London, came enclosed her portrait. But beauty itself is seldom current in high life without the stamp of fashion; and the device, though ingenious, was not successful.
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Beset with Corydons and Phillises,
Trying, with perseverance steady,
First one, and then another Lady,
Who oft, you've told me, don't agree,
But clash like law and equity;
Some for the Rules in all their vigour,
Others to mitigate their rigour.
How shall my Muse, with colours faint
And pencil blunt, aspire to paint
Their high-raised hopes, their chilling fears,
Entreaties, threatenings, smiles, and tears!
The vainest Beauty will renounce
Her newly smuggled blonde or flounce;
The gamester leave a raw beginner;
The diner-out forego his dinner;
The stern reformer change his notions,
And wave his notices of motions;
The bold become an abject croucher,
And the grave giggle—for a voucher;
Too happy those who fail to nick it
In stumbling on a single ticket.
See, all bow down—maids, widows, wives
As sentenced culprits beg their lives,
As lovers court their fair ones'graces,
As politicians sue for places;
So these, by sanguine hopes amused,
Solicit,—and are so refused.
And pencil blunt, aspire to paint
Their high-raised hopes, their chilling fears,
Entreaties, threatenings, smiles, and tears!
The vainest Beauty will renounce
Her newly smuggled blonde or flounce;
The gamester leave a raw beginner;
The diner-out forego his dinner;
The stern reformer change his notions,
And wave his notices of motions;
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And the grave giggle—for a voucher;
Too happy those who fail to nick it
In stumbling on a single ticket.
See, all bow down—maids, widows, wives
As sentenced culprits beg their lives,
As lovers court their fair ones'graces,
As politicians sue for places;
So these, by sanguine hopes amused,
Solicit,—and are so refused.
Hark where in yonder group they chatter
Of many a less important matter,
Touching no more on any theme
Than just enough to skim the cream.
If there's to-day as great a show
Of beauty as a week ago?
Whose curricle is that? and whether
Those iron-greys step well together?
If Ebers better suits than Waters
Our opera-going wives and daughters?
If the French play succeeds, that trade
So thriving once to Mr. Slade?
They talk of levees, royal fêtes,
Of strong divisions, hot debates,
Of motions, speeches, names misquoted
In the last list of those who voted;
Of the undoers and undone
By sums at Brooks's lost or won;
Where play unfathomably deep,
From night till morning murders sleep;
And acres take their leave, and fly
Away on wings of ivory.
Of many a less important matter,
Touching no more on any theme
Than just enough to skim the cream.
If there's to-day as great a show
Of beauty as a week ago?
Whose curricle is that? and whether
Those iron-greys step well together?
13
Our opera-going wives and daughters?
If the French play succeeds, that trade
So thriving once to Mr. Slade?
They talk of levees, royal fêtes,
Of strong divisions, hot debates,
Of motions, speeches, names misquoted
In the last list of those who voted;
Of the undoers and undone
By sums at Brooks's lost or won;
Where play unfathomably deep,
From night till morning murders sleep;
And acres take their leave, and fly
Away on wings of ivory.
Thence to Newmarket and the races
They shift, and tell of lengthened faces,
When for their debts Black Monday calls
Folks to account at Tattersall's;
Of all the baffled hedger feels
When legs are taking to their heels;
How suddenly aghast he looks,
When his, the paragon of books,
That Book whose value far outshone
Lord Spencer's famed Decameron,
Becomes, hey, presto! quick as thought,
Not worth the fraction of a groat!
They shift, and tell of lengthened faces,
When for their debts Black Monday calls
Folks to account at Tattersall's;
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When legs are taking to their heels;
How suddenly aghast he looks,
When his, the paragon of books,
That Book whose value far outshone
Lord Spencer's famed Decameron,
Becomes, hey, presto! quick as thought,
Not worth the fraction of a groat!
But still, whatever cause they call,
Scandal, dear scandal, seasons all.
Here barefaced lies, there playful sallies,
These aimed in sport, and those in malice,
Assail the absent, who among
Their friends are always in the wrong:
But, since 'tis clear no earthly face is
At the same moment in two places;
Since, thus, on every side are hurled
Detraction's darts throughout the world,
Shall not her feeblest victims be
Armed with enough philosophy,
Calmly the common ill to bear,
Which thus with all Mankind they share?
Scandal, dear scandal, seasons all.
Here barefaced lies, there playful sallies,
These aimed in sport, and those in malice,
Assail the absent, who among
Their friends are always in the wrong:
But, since 'tis clear no earthly face is
At the same moment in two places;
Since, thus, on every side are hurled
Detraction's darts throughout the world,
15
Armed with enough philosophy,
Calmly the common ill to bear,
Which thus with all Mankind they share?
Such is the tattle of our Beaus.
These mingled elements compose
Where'er you drive, or ride, or walk,
The Macedoine of London-talk.
What if the mixture strange appear
To Squires? should they affect to sneer,
Let them in earnest, or in fun, try
If they can match it in the country;
If of their fabric any particle
Is equal to our town-made article;
If their choice topics are as charming,
Their justice-ing, or hounds, or farming;
At which, o'er-jaded by the labour
Of listening, tenant nods, and neighbour;
Nay, the poor chaplain shakes his head,
And steals, unbeneficed, to bed.
These mingled elements compose
Where'er you drive, or ride, or walk,
The Macedoine of London-talk.
What if the mixture strange appear
To Squires? should they affect to sneer,
Let them in earnest, or in fun, try
If they can match it in the country;
If of their fabric any particle
Is equal to our town-made article;
If their choice topics are as charming,
Their justice-ing, or hounds, or farming;
At which, o'er-jaded by the labour
Of listening, tenant nods, and neighbour;
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And steals, unbeneficed, to bed.
How much at home was Charles in all
The talk aforesaid—nicknamed small!
Never embarrassed, seldom slow,
His maxim always, “touch and go.”
Chanced he to falter? A grimace
Was ready in the proper place;
Or a chased snuff-box, with its gems
And gold, to mask his has and hems,
Was offered round, and duly rapped,
Till a fresh topic could be tapped.
What if his envious rivals swore
'Twas jargon all, and he a bore?
The surly sentence was outvoted,
His jokes retailed, his jargon quoted;
And while he sneered or quizzed or flirted,
The world, half angry, was diverted.
The talk aforesaid—nicknamed small!
Never embarrassed, seldom slow,
His maxim always, “touch and go.”
Chanced he to falter? A grimace
Was ready in the proper place;
Or a chased snuff-box, with its gems
And gold, to mask his has and hems,
Was offered round, and duly rapped,
Till a fresh topic could be tapped.
What if his envious rivals swore
'Twas jargon all, and he a bore?
The surly sentence was outvoted,
His jokes retailed, his jargon quoted;
And while he sneered or quizzed or flirted,
The world, half angry, was diverted.
17
Now is the clatter of his mill,
With all its rush of waters, still;
His chimes are motionless become,
His ear-subduing larum dumb.
Now seldom seen, more seldom heard,
He shrugs—but utters scarce a word,
And bears about, like muzzled hound,
“A tongue chained up, without a sound!”
With all its rush of waters, still;
His chimes are motionless become,
His ear-subduing larum dumb.
Now seldom seen, more seldom heard,
He shrugs—but utters scarce a word,
And bears about, like muzzled hound,
“A tongue chained up, without a sound!”
Once would he loiter, ere 'twas dark,
With Nymphs and Satyrs in the Park:
The Park! that magnet of the town,
That idol to which all bow down!
Mount, Julia, ('tis the noon of May)
Mount your barouche, or dappled grey,
And on some gentle elevation
Pranked in new verdure, take your station.
See how the universal throng,
Borne in one swelling tide along,
Crowds to its turf-clad altars, there
To beg the blessing of fresh air!
Throughout the week, but most on one day
Enjoyed beyond all others—Sunday,
With many a mutual punch and shove,
To Hyde-Park-Corner on they move,
Like bees, that, when the weather's warm,
Grow weary of their hives and swarm:
All active on that day of rest;
Pressing on every side, and pressed
In Phebus' eye, from east to west,
With a fair chance, while thus they busy 'em,
To sleep that evening in Elysium.
With Nymphs and Satyrs in the Park:
The Park! that magnet of the town,
That idol to which all bow down!
Mount, Julia, ('tis the noon of May)
Mount your barouche, or dappled grey,
And on some gentle elevation
Pranked in new verdure, take your station.
See how the universal throng,
Borne in one swelling tide along,
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To beg the blessing of fresh air!
Throughout the week, but most on one day
Enjoyed beyond all others—Sunday,
With many a mutual punch and shove,
To Hyde-Park-Corner on they move,
Like bees, that, when the weather's warm,
Grow weary of their hives and swarm:
All active on that day of rest;
Pressing on every side, and pressed
In Phebus' eye, from east to west,
With a fair chance, while thus they busy 'em,
To sleep that evening in Elysium.
Observe that truant from his desk,
Staunch lover of the picturesque,
Whose soul is far above his shop!
Sudden he bids his charmer stop,
And the proud landscape, from the hill, eye
Which crowns thy terrace, Piccadilly.
“My dear,” he cries, “while others hurry,
“Let us look over into Surry.
“Mark how the summer-sun declines,
“Yet still in full-orbed beauty shines!
“Mark how on fire beneath his beams,
“The fret-work of the Abbey gleams,
“As on its towers a golden flood
“Is poured above the tufted wood!”
While thus the dilettante gazes,
And revels in poetic phrases,
His charmer, (kindred spirits, see
The force of heaven-born sympathy)
Is busied in a tasteful trial
To spell the hour upon the dial!
Staunch lover of the picturesque,
Whose soul is far above his shop!
Sudden he bids his charmer stop,
And the proud landscape, from the hill, eye
Which crowns thy terrace, Piccadilly.
19
“Let us look over into Surry.
“Mark how the summer-sun declines,
“Yet still in full-orbed beauty shines!
“Mark how on fire beneath his beams,
“The fret-work of the Abbey gleams,
“As on its towers a golden flood
“Is poured above the tufted wood!”
While thus the dilettante gazes,
And revels in poetic phrases,
His charmer, (kindred spirits, see
The force of heaven-born sympathy)
Is busied in a tasteful trial
To spell the hour upon the dial!
Meanwhile the mighty snow-ball gathers.
Lads, lasses, mothers, children, fathers,
All equal here, as if the pavement
To level them were like the grave meant,
As if one will informed the whole,
Press onward to a common goal.
Here mingle, in one mass confounded,
All shapes, all sizes, slim, and rounded,
With all imaginable features
That e'er distinguished human creatures.
Nor less their habits disagree:
Some have, at sunset, risen from tea;
Some linger on, till Dusk, at nine,
Bids them retire to dress and dine.
The same delights together jumble
The rich and poor, the proud and humble.
The' enfranchised tradesman, when he stirs,
Here, jostles half his customers.
Here, in a rage, the Bond-street spark
Is bearded by his father's clerk;
While yon proud dame (O sad event) is
Out-elbowed by her own apprentice!
Lads, lasses, mothers, children, fathers,
All equal here, as if the pavement
To level them were like the grave meant,
As if one will informed the whole,
Press onward to a common goal.
20
All shapes, all sizes, slim, and rounded,
With all imaginable features
That e'er distinguished human creatures.
Nor less their habits disagree:
Some have, at sunset, risen from tea;
Some linger on, till Dusk, at nine,
Bids them retire to dress and dine.
The same delights together jumble
The rich and poor, the proud and humble.
The' enfranchised tradesman, when he stirs,
Here, jostles half his customers.
Here, in a rage, the Bond-street spark
Is bearded by his father's clerk;
While yon proud dame (O sad event) is
Out-elbowed by her own apprentice!
What goads them on?—The influence
Of Nature and of Common Sense.
Thus shaking off the weekly yoke
Of business and its weekly smoke,
They give their gasping lungs fair play,
And their cramped limbs a holiday;
With verdure thus refresh their eyes,
And purchase health by exercise.
Thus, (since like others less polite
Fine folks have lungs, and limbs, and sight,
All destined to the same employment,
All eager for the same enjoyment),
Here Sense and Nature have it hollow,
And Fashion is constrained to follow;
To join the vulgar happy crew,
And fairly do as others do.
Of Nature and of Common Sense.
Thus shaking off the weekly yoke
Of business and its weekly smoke,
21
And their cramped limbs a holiday;
With verdure thus refresh their eyes,
And purchase health by exercise.
Thus, (since like others less polite
Fine folks have lungs, and limbs, and sight,
All destined to the same employment,
All eager for the same enjoyment),
Here Sense and Nature have it hollow,
And Fashion is constrained to follow;
To join the vulgar happy crew,
And fairly do as others do.
Of this thy progeny be proud,
O England! though a motley crowd.
Can Europe or the world produce,
Alike for ornament and use,
Such models of stout active trim men,
Or samples of such lovely women?
Such specimens of order, dress,
Health, comfort, in-bred cleanliness,
As here displayed, the summer-sun
Lingering seems proud to shine upon?
O England! though a motley crowd.
Can Europe or the world produce,
Alike for ornament and use,
Such models of stout active trim men,
Or samples of such lovely women?
22
Health, comfort, in-bred cleanliness,
As here displayed, the summer-sun
Lingering seems proud to shine upon?
But, O! the treachery of our weather,
When Sunday-folks are met together!
Its tempting brightness scarce matured,
How suddenly the day's obscured!
Bless me, how dark!—Thou threatening cloud,
Pity the un-umbrella'd crowd.
The cloud rolls onward with the breeze.
First, pattering on the distant trees
The rain-drops fall—then quicker, denser,
On many a parasol and spencer;
Soon drenching, with no mercy on it,
The straw and silk of many a bonnet.
Think of their hapless owners fretting,
While feathers, crape, and gauze are wetting!
Think of the pang to well-dressed girls,
When, pinched in vain, their hair uncurls,
And ringlets from each lovely pate
Hang mathematically straight!
As off, on every side, they scour,
Still beats the persecuting shower,
Till, on the thirsty gravel smoking,
It fairly earns the name of soaking.
Breathless they scud; some helter-skelter
To carriages, and some for shelter;
Lisping to coachmen drunk or dumb
In numbers—while no numbers come.
Some in their clinging clothes so lank,
Others so bouncing, all so blank,
With sarsnets stained, with stockings splashed,
With muslins prematurely washed,
Enraged, resigned, in tears, or frowning,
Look as if just escaped from drowning;
While anxious thoughts pursue them home,
Whence their next Sunday-dress must come.
When Sunday-folks are met together!
Its tempting brightness scarce matured,
How suddenly the day's obscured!
Bless me, how dark!—Thou threatening cloud,
Pity the un-umbrella'd crowd.
The cloud rolls onward with the breeze.
First, pattering on the distant trees
The rain-drops fall—then quicker, denser,
On many a parasol and spencer;
Soon drenching, with no mercy on it,
The straw and silk of many a bonnet.
Think of their hapless owners fretting,
While feathers, crape, and gauze are wetting!
23
When, pinched in vain, their hair uncurls,
And ringlets from each lovely pate
Hang mathematically straight!
As off, on every side, they scour,
Still beats the persecuting shower,
Till, on the thirsty gravel smoking,
It fairly earns the name of soaking.
Breathless they scud; some helter-skelter
To carriages, and some for shelter;
Lisping to coachmen drunk or dumb
In numbers—while no numbers come.
Some in their clinging clothes so lank,
Others so bouncing, all so blank,
With sarsnets stained, with stockings splashed,
With muslins prematurely washed,
Enraged, resigned, in tears, or frowning,
Look as if just escaped from drowning;
While anxious thoughts pursue them home,
Whence their next Sunday-dress must come.
24
Poor Charles! No creature sees him, late,
'Twixt Stanhope-street and Apsley-gate;
Where loth to miss, yet, should he meet you,
He dreads to hear a rival greet you;
One whom your softened looks and voice
Should speak the object of your choice.
To see him, sauntering up the ride,
Hang o'er the saddle, at your side,
Or snugly seated in your carriage,
Talking, ye gods, perchance—of marriage!
'Twixt Stanhope-street and Apsley-gate;
Where loth to miss, yet, should he meet you,
He dreads to hear a rival greet you;
One whom your softened looks and voice
Should speak the object of your choice.
To see him, sauntering up the ride,
Hang o'er the saddle, at your side,
Or snugly seated in your carriage,
Talking, ye gods, perchance—of marriage!
In his loved walks he wanders not;
Nor lounges in that favourite spot,
Where, coasting on a rural plan
As near the chimneys as they can,
Crowds, by that tyrant custom yoked,
Meet every summer, to be choked,
Finding dust pleasanter, no doubt,
With fashion—than fresh air, without.
Not like the vulgar folks, who run
To thy fair gardens, Kensington,
To tread on verdure, and inhale
The freshness of the western gale.
Who hasten to the calm retreats
Of those alcoved old-fashioned seats
Where vows uncouth in hobbling rhymes
Betray the loves of former times,
With dates exact of Beauties reckoned
So killing—under George the Second.
Where Cockneys, duly taught that fame
Howe'er achieved is but a name,
Have proved they had it in their blood,
By tampering with the unconscious wood,
To be immortal—if they could.
Nor lounges in that favourite spot,
Where, coasting on a rural plan
As near the chimneys as they can,
Crowds, by that tyrant custom yoked,
Meet every summer, to be choked,
Finding dust pleasanter, no doubt,
With fashion—than fresh air, without.
25
To thy fair gardens, Kensington,
To tread on verdure, and inhale
The freshness of the western gale.
Who hasten to the calm retreats
Of those alcoved old-fashioned seats
Where vows uncouth in hobbling rhymes
Betray the loves of former times,
With dates exact of Beauties reckoned
So killing—under George the Second.
Where Cockneys, duly taught that fame
Howe'er achieved is but a name,
Have proved they had it in their blood,
By tampering with the unconscious wood,
To be immortal—if they could.
Do, let some sunny day be chosen,
And ramble in these gardens, cousin.
There mark what formal parties flit
In silence by, or primly sit
On the same bench, 'tis doubtful whether
Huddled by chance or choice together.
'Twere hard, methinks, their fate to brook,
Were they not happier than they look,
While jocund Spring with all its flowers,
In vain leads on the laughing Hours.
In vain the chesnut on their sight
Bursts in full blossoms, silver bright;
Lilacs their purple cones unfold,
Or rich laburnums stream in gold.
No smile is on their lips, no word
Of cheerful sound among them heard,
As if all virtue lay in gravity,
And smiles were symptoms of depravity.
O! that some undertaker had of 'em
A score or two! He'd be so glad of 'em
To teach his mutes less lively paces,
And sadden their too merry faces!
And ramble in these gardens, cousin.
There mark what formal parties flit
In silence by, or primly sit
26
Huddled by chance or choice together.
'Twere hard, methinks, their fate to brook,
Were they not happier than they look,
While jocund Spring with all its flowers,
In vain leads on the laughing Hours.
In vain the chesnut on their sight
Bursts in full blossoms, silver bright;
Lilacs their purple cones unfold,
Or rich laburnums stream in gold.
No smile is on their lips, no word
Of cheerful sound among them heard,
As if all virtue lay in gravity,
And smiles were symptoms of depravity.
O! that some undertaker had of 'em
A score or two! He'd be so glad of 'em
To teach his mutes less lively paces,
And sadden their too merry faces!
That this is not a very easy task, appears from the complaint of Mr. Sable, the undertaker, in Sir Richard Steel's amusing comedy—
“Look yonder at that hale well-looking fellow. Did I not pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did I not give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week to be sorrowful? And the more I give you, I think the gladder you are.”
The Funeral, Act 4. Scene 1.
If, Julia, ere your rambles end,
You chance to meet my dismal friend,
Start not. Of all you see, no phiz is
More blank, more woe-begone than his is.
Say, can a lover, half refused,
And half accepted, be amused?
A swain now confident, now moping,
Sometimes despairing, sometimes hoping?
By you disheartened, he despises
All his accustomed exercises.
No more with pliant arm he stems
The tide or current of the Thames.
Indulges in his favorite sport
No longer at the tennis-court,
Nor, with the heroes of the wicket,
Revives his Eton-days at cricket.
You chance to meet my dismal friend,
27
More blank, more woe-begone than his is.
Say, can a lover, half refused,
And half accepted, be amused?
A swain now confident, now moping,
Sometimes despairing, sometimes hoping?
By you disheartened, he despises
All his accustomed exercises.
No more with pliant arm he stems
The tide or current of the Thames.
Indulges in his favorite sport
No longer at the tennis-court,
Nor, with the heroes of the wicket,
Revives his Eton-days at cricket.
I doubt if he has pluck remaining
To venture on a six weeks' training,
Since Love has sounded a retreat
From rubbing, racing, and raw meat.
Once, on the Fancy how he doted!
Never was amateur so noted.
Never contended with the fist
So promising a pugilist.
But hold.—His prowess to describe
Asks all the jargon of the tribe;
And though enough to serve my turn
From “Boxiana” I might learn,
Or borrow from an ampler store
In the bright page of Thomas Moore,
Too rich in both to grudge a bit
Either of poetry or wit,
Yet ladies of your gentle taste
Would find such learning, here, misplaced.
To venture on a six weeks' training,
Since Love has sounded a retreat
From rubbing, racing, and raw meat.
28
Never was amateur so noted.
Never contended with the fist
So promising a pugilist.
But hold.—His prowess to describe
Asks all the jargon of the tribe;
And though enough to serve my turn
From “Boxiana” I might learn,
Or borrow from an ampler store
In the bright page of Thomas Moore,
Too rich in both to grudge a bit
Either of poetry or wit,
Yet ladies of your gentle taste
Would find such learning, here, misplaced.
Past are those glories! Now, it ruffles
His temper but to hear of muffles:
Him at the Fives-Court, him at Moulsey
Never henceforward will a soul see.
No, Julia. Who would be a boxer
When she he dotes on vows it shocks her?
Or who, forbid'n by Beauty, chooses
But in her cause to hazard bruises?
His temper but to hear of muffles:
Him at the Fives-Court, him at Moulsey
Never henceforward will a soul see.
29
When she he dotes on vows it shocks her?
Or who, forbid'n by Beauty, chooses
But in her cause to hazard bruises?
The Serpentine, that Prince of Rivers,
(But name it, how the recreant shivers!)
Tempts him no more to roam at large in
The throngs that hasten to its margin
What time the slanting wintry sun
Just skirts the' horizon, and is gone;
When from his disk a short-lived glare
Is wasted on the clear cold air;
When the snow sparkles, on the sight
Flashing intolerable white;
And, swept by hurried feet, the ground
Returns a crisp and crushing sound.
(But name it, how the recreant shivers!)
Tempts him no more to roam at large in
The throngs that hasten to its margin
What time the slanting wintry sun
Just skirts the' horizon, and is gone;
When from his disk a short-lived glare
Is wasted on the clear cold air;
When the snow sparkles, on the sight
Flashing intolerable white;
And, swept by hurried feet, the ground
Returns a crisp and crushing sound.
There, once, well strapped from point to heel,
Glided his foot on glittering steel,
Like a light vessel on her keel;
And, rapid as the viewless wind,
Left all his rivals far behind.
While they, poor fellows, for their pains,
Too happy to compound for sprains,
Tumbled, to edify the Town,
On every side, like ninepins, down.
Glided his foot on glittering steel,
Like a light vessel on her keel;
30
Left all his rivals far behind.
While they, poor fellows, for their pains,
Too happy to compound for sprains,
Tumbled, to edify the Town,
On every side, like ninepins, down.
Never were yet achieved by skaits
Such outside edges, threes, and eights,
As when he wheeled and circled, scorning
The “mighty crack's” prophetic warning
That soon the fetters were to break
That bound the surface of the lake.
Well knew he to retreat in time.
For—have you seen a Pantomime,
Where, at the waving of a wand,
Or word of magical command,
Trap-doors, for ghosts to disappear,
Start open, as its end draws near?
Thus, when the necromancer, Thaw,
Gives to his subject-streams the law,
Woe to the loiterers! In a trice
Splits, far and wide, the treacherous ice,
Plunging (if only to the chin
How lucky!) many a victim in.
Such outside edges, threes, and eights,
As when he wheeled and circled, scorning
The “mighty crack's” prophetic warning
That soon the fetters were to break
That bound the surface of the lake.
Well knew he to retreat in time.
For—have you seen a Pantomime,
Where, at the waving of a wand,
Or word of magical command,
Trap-doors, for ghosts to disappear,
Start open, as its end draws near?
Thus, when the necromancer, Thaw,
Gives to his subject-streams the law,
31
Splits, far and wide, the treacherous ice,
Plunging (if only to the chin
How lucky!) many a victim in.
Here, Julia, first ('tis talked of yet)
You and your destined lover met.
Here first, while many a nymph admired him,
Your frozen fur-clad beauties fired him.
Sweet was your eye's bewitching blue,
Although your lips were azure too.
Soft was your cheek, though thence the rose
Strayed, frost-directed, to your nose.
But never be your temper ruffled
By hues so whimsically shuffled.
Reflect how soon those wandering graces
Are settled in their native places;
How the blood mantles, how the eyes
Sparkle from air and exercise;
And every charm which Frost withdraws
Returns, with interest, when it thaws.
You and your destined lover met.
Here first, while many a nymph admired him,
Your frozen fur-clad beauties fired him.
Sweet was your eye's bewitching blue,
Although your lips were azure too.
Soft was your cheek, though thence the rose
Strayed, frost-directed, to your nose.
But never be your temper ruffled
By hues so whimsically shuffled.
Reflect how soon those wandering graces
Are settled in their native places;
How the blood mantles, how the eyes
Sparkle from air and exercise;
32
Returns, with interest, when it thaws.
Think, if your features grow less pleasing,
Thus cooled below the point of freezing,
How oft on shapes, though closely wadded,
Love takes his stand, and proves his Godhead,
Sending, through folds on folds, his dart
Unblunted to the destined heart:
So magnets, moved beneath, enable
Needles to caper on a table;
So, through conductors, in the dark
You 've seen conveyed the electric spark.
What if Love's fires, in frost and snow,
But metaphorically glow
With unsubstantial heat?—You know it's
Quite fierce enough to warm the poets.
Thus cooled below the point of freezing,
How oft on shapes, though closely wadded,
Love takes his stand, and proves his Godhead,
Sending, through folds on folds, his dart
Unblunted to the destined heart:
So magnets, moved beneath, enable
Needles to caper on a table;
So, through conductors, in the dark
You 've seen conveyed the electric spark.
What if Love's fires, in frost and snow,
But metaphorically glow
With unsubstantial heat?—You know it's
Quite fierce enough to warm the poets.
Well may the coyest of the Nine
Be proud to sing the Serpentine;
For never breeze has swept, nor beam
Shed light upon a luckier stream.
'Tis but a brook, whose scanty source
Hard by, just struggles in its course,
But scarce has reached, slow trickling thence,
The bounds of royal influence,
When, such the favour and protection
That flows from interest and connexion,
'Tis bidden a nobler form to take,
And spreads and widens to a lake.
Be proud to sing the Serpentine;
33
Shed light upon a luckier stream.
'Tis but a brook, whose scanty source
Hard by, just struggles in its course,
But scarce has reached, slow trickling thence,
The bounds of royal influence,
When, such the favour and protection
That flows from interest and connexion,
'Tis bidden a nobler form to take,
And spreads and widens to a lake.
But poets of a loftier mood
Than mine, should celebrate the flood;
Numbers more musical should tell
What beauties on the margin dwell.
Here frown, 'tis true, no hills gigantic,
Of towering height and shapes romantic;
Here are no torrents, caves, nor rocks,
No sweeping blasts, nor thunder-shocks;
And, though their absence is a pity,
I must confess it,—no banditti:
No echoes wake, within thy bounds,
From deep-toned horn, or deep-mouthed hounds,
As, hotly chased from crag to crag,
Bursts in full speed the panting stag;
Nor, when unruffled by a storm,
Does thy clear wave reflect the form
Of some rude castle, seat sublime
Of war, and violence, and crime;
Nor can I summon to my verse
One sounding syllable in Erse;
Nor paint, alas! as Scott has done,
The glories of the setting sun,
When monks are chanting choral hymns on
A lake on fire with gold and crimson,
And o'er them comes the fragrant breath
Of Evening from the purple heath.
What though our Lake, when sultry day dies,
Can boast—not one, but many Ladies?
No damsel here,—but hold, I falter,
Nor dare pursue the steps of Walter,
Nor his who dips the crystal surge in
Fair Musidora, conscious virgin,
And her bathed beauties, by and by, lands.
In short—Hyde-Park is not the Highlands.
Than mine, should celebrate the flood;
Numbers more musical should tell
What beauties on the margin dwell.
Here frown, 'tis true, no hills gigantic,
Of towering height and shapes romantic;
Here are no torrents, caves, nor rocks,
No sweeping blasts, nor thunder-shocks;
34
I must confess it,—no banditti:
No echoes wake, within thy bounds,
From deep-toned horn, or deep-mouthed hounds,
As, hotly chased from crag to crag,
Bursts in full speed the panting stag;
Nor, when unruffled by a storm,
Does thy clear wave reflect the form
Of some rude castle, seat sublime
Of war, and violence, and crime;
Nor can I summon to my verse
One sounding syllable in Erse;
Nor paint, alas! as Scott has done,
The glories of the setting sun,
When monks are chanting choral hymns on
A lake on fire with gold and crimson,
And o'er them comes the fragrant breath
Of Evening from the purple heath.
What though our Lake, when sultry day dies,
Can boast—not one, but many Ladies?
35
Nor dare pursue the steps of Walter,
Nor his who dips the crystal surge in
Fair Musidora, conscious virgin,
And her bathed beauties, by and by, lands.
In short—Hyde-Park is not the Highlands.
But, though adorned with none of these,
Still we have lawns, and paths, and trees.
Why should our landscape blush for shame?
'Tis fresh and gay, if flat and tame.
None view it awe-struck or surprised;
All own 'tis smart and civilized.
Here are the Royal Gardens seen,
Waving their woods of tufted green
Above the Powder Magazine:
Beyond it, the sub-ranger's villa,
Where, once, lay anchored the flotilla
To stir us up with warlike rage meant,
In peace-time, by a mock engagement.
Next come, to furnish due variety,
The sheds of the Humane Society,
And, winding among all, a drive
With gigs and curricles alive.
At length behold the smooth cascade,
Born of the trowel, rule and spade,
Near which, perchance, some truant urchin
(His maudlin mother left the lurch in)
For halfpence with his play-mate wrangles,
Or with a pin for minnows angles;
Or coaxes from her callow brood
The dingy matron-swan, for food,
And eyes her ruffled plumes, and springs
Aside, in terror of her wings.
Still we have lawns, and paths, and trees.
Why should our landscape blush for shame?
'Tis fresh and gay, if flat and tame.
None view it awe-struck or surprised;
All own 'tis smart and civilized.
Here are the Royal Gardens seen,
Waving their woods of tufted green
Above the Powder Magazine:
Beyond it, the sub-ranger's villa,
Where, once, lay anchored the flotilla
To stir us up with warlike rage meant,
In peace-time, by a mock engagement.
36
The sheds of the Humane Society,
And, winding among all, a drive
With gigs and curricles alive.
At length behold the smooth cascade,
Born of the trowel, rule and spade,
Near which, perchance, some truant urchin
(His maudlin mother left the lurch in)
For halfpence with his play-mate wrangles,
Or with a pin for minnows angles;
Or coaxes from her callow brood
The dingy matron-swan, for food,
And eyes her ruffled plumes, and springs
Aside, in terror of her wings.
These charms, and more than these, are thine,
Straight though thou art, O Serpentine!
Soft blows the breeze, the sun-beams dance
And sparkle on thy smooth expanse.
To thy cool stream the deer confides
His branching horns, and dappled sides;
And cattle on thy shelving brink
Snuff the sweet air, or stoop to drink.
There (as a merry making gathers
Young children round their old grand fathers,)
Trees meet in all their generations,
From withered stumps to new plantations,
Backed by the “glittering skirts” of London,
Its buildings now in shade, now sunn'd on.
And though 'twould any tourist gravel
Or home or foreign be his travel,
In rummaging his sketch-book through
To find a more enlivening view,
Yet, to go further and fare worse,
Folks waste their time, and drain their purse!
Straight though thou art, O Serpentine!
Soft blows the breeze, the sun-beams dance
And sparkle on thy smooth expanse.
37
His branching horns, and dappled sides;
And cattle on thy shelving brink
Snuff the sweet air, or stoop to drink.
There (as a merry making gathers
Young children round their old grand fathers,)
Trees meet in all their generations,
From withered stumps to new plantations,
Backed by the “glittering skirts” of London,
Its buildings now in shade, now sunn'd on.
And though 'twould any tourist gravel
Or home or foreign be his travel,
In rummaging his sketch-book through
To find a more enlivening view,
Yet, to go further and fare worse,
Folks waste their time, and drain their purse!
Mark where, in spring, the grass between
Each dusty stripe looks fresh and green.
Methinks I trace the russet track
Worn by the hoofs of Charles's hack,
Practised to tread, with gentle pace,
The paths of that enchanting place.
That gentle pace I see him check,
Throw the loose reins on Sancho's neck,
And from the saddle, at his ease,
Enjoy the landscape and the breeze.
There move the nymphs, in mingled ranks,
On to the river's gravelly banks,
Glancing between the rugged boles
Of ancient elms their parasols,
Whose hues—but similes must fail.
A rainbow, or a peacock's tail,
Or painter's pallet, to the eye
Scarce offers such variety
As the protecting silk which shades
At once, and decks these lovely maids,
While smartly spencered, ev'n the ugly
Beneath its cupolas look smugly.
Meantime, escaped their eastern dens,
A crowd of sober citizens,
Thus tempted, seem to have forgot
Their Sunday's lesson,—“Covet not,”
And in the mirror of these waters
Admire each other's wives and daughters,
Who linger where the river shelves,
Not backward to admire themselves.
Each dusty stripe looks fresh and green.
38
Worn by the hoofs of Charles's hack,
Practised to tread, with gentle pace,
The paths of that enchanting place.
That gentle pace I see him check,
Throw the loose reins on Sancho's neck,
And from the saddle, at his ease,
Enjoy the landscape and the breeze.
There move the nymphs, in mingled ranks,
On to the river's gravelly banks,
Glancing between the rugged boles
Of ancient elms their parasols,
Whose hues—but similes must fail.
A rainbow, or a peacock's tail,
Or painter's pallet, to the eye
Scarce offers such variety
As the protecting silk which shades
At once, and decks these lovely maids,
While smartly spencered, ev'n the ugly
Beneath its cupolas look smugly.
39
A crowd of sober citizens,
Thus tempted, seem to have forgot
Their Sunday's lesson,—“Covet not,”
And in the mirror of these waters
Admire each other's wives and daughters,
Who linger where the river shelves,
Not backward to admire themselves.
Poor love-sick Charles, from scenes so gay
By moody passion kept away!
Thither he spurs his hack no more,
But votes the whole concern a bore;
Has weaned his feet from ice and skaits,
And left to Cocker threes and eights.
The breeze may blow, the sun may shine,
He's never at the Serpentine:
In vain the girls and deer so fallow
Sport on its banks,—he swears 'tis yellow,
And wonders he could ever dream
Of beauty in so foul a stream.
By moody passion kept away!
Thither he spurs his hack no more,
But votes the whole concern a bore;
Has weaned his feet from ice and skaits,
And left to Cocker threes and eights.
The breeze may blow, the sun may shine,
He's never at the Serpentine:
In vain the girls and deer so fallow
Sport on its banks,—he swears 'tis yellow,
40
Of beauty in so foul a stream.
Dark are the mists exhaled from passion.
How have they dimmed this glass of fashion!
Julia, to you the loss we owe
Of all that's perfect in a Beau.
You've marred the model, bent the rule,
Disgraced and broken up the school
Where unfledged coxcombs, newly caught,
Were, by his bright example, taught
More in one season, than their peers
Now master in a dozen years.
How have they dimmed this glass of fashion!
Julia, to you the loss we owe
Of all that's perfect in a Beau.
You've marred the model, bent the rule,
Disgraced and broken up the school
Where unfledged coxcombs, newly caught,
Were, by his bright example, taught
More in one season, than their peers
Now master in a dozen years.
But how shall I, unblamed, express
The awful mysteries of Dress?
How, all unpractised, dare to tell
The art sublime, ineffable,
Of making middling men look well;
Men who had been such heavy sailers
But for their shoe-makers and tailors?
For as, when steam has lent it motion
'Gainst wind and tide, across the ocean,
The merest tub will far outstrip
The progress of the lightest ship
That ever on the waters glided,
If with an engine unprovided;
Thus Beaus, in person and in mind
Excelled by those they leave behind,
On, through the world, undaunted, press,
Backed by the mighty power of Dress;
While folks less confident than they
Stare, in mute wonder,—and give way.
The awful mysteries of Dress?
How, all unpractised, dare to tell
The art sublime, ineffable,
Of making middling men look well;
41
But for their shoe-makers and tailors?
For as, when steam has lent it motion
'Gainst wind and tide, across the ocean,
The merest tub will far outstrip
The progress of the lightest ship
That ever on the waters glided,
If with an engine unprovided;
Thus Beaus, in person and in mind
Excelled by those they leave behind,
On, through the world, undaunted, press,
Backed by the mighty power of Dress;
While folks less confident than they
Stare, in mute wonder,—and give way.
Charles was a master, a professor
Of this great art—a first-rate dresser
Armed at all points, from head to foot,
From rim of hat to tip of boot.
Above so loose, below so braced,
In chest exuberant, and in waist
Just like an hour-glass or a wasp,
So tightened, he could scarcely gasp.
Cold was the nymph who did not dote
Upon him, in his new-built coat;
Whose heart could parry the attacks
Of those voluminous Cossacks,
Those trowsers named from the barbarians
Nursed in the Steppes—the Crim-Tartarians,
Who, when they scour a country, under
Those ample folds conceal their plunder.
How strange their destiny has been!
Promoted, since the year fifteen,
In honour of these fierce allies,
To grace our British legs and thighs.
But fashion's tide no barrier stems;
So the Don mingles with the Thames!
Of this great art—a first-rate dresser
Armed at all points, from head to foot,
From rim of hat to tip of boot.
Above so loose, below so braced,
In chest exuberant, and in waist
42
So tightened, he could scarcely gasp.
Cold was the nymph who did not dote
Upon him, in his new-built coat;
Whose heart could parry the attacks
Of those voluminous Cossacks,
Those trowsers named from the barbarians
Nursed in the Steppes—the Crim-Tartarians,
Who, when they scour a country, under
Those ample folds conceal their plunder.
How strange their destiny has been!
Promoted, since the year fifteen,
In honour of these fierce allies,
To grace our British legs and thighs.
But fashion's tide no barrier stems;
So the Don mingles with the Thames!
Yet weak, he felt, were the attacks
Of his voluminous Cossacks;
In vain to suffocation braced
And bandaged was his wasp-like waist;
In vain his buckram-waded shoulders
And chest astonished all beholders;
Wear any coat he might, 'twas fruitless;
Those shoes, those very boots were bootless
Whose tops ('twas he enjoined the mixture)
Are moveable, and spurs a fixture;
All was unprofitable, flat,
And stale without a smart Cravat,
Muslined enough to hold its starch;
That last key-stone of Fashion's arch!
Of his voluminous Cossacks;
In vain to suffocation braced
And bandaged was his wasp-like waist;
43
And chest astonished all beholders;
Wear any coat he might, 'twas fruitless;
Those shoes, those very boots were bootless
Whose tops ('twas he enjoined the mixture)
Are moveable, and spurs a fixture;
All was unprofitable, flat,
And stale without a smart Cravat,
Muslined enough to hold its starch;
That last key-stone of Fashion's arch!
“Have you, my friend,” I've heard him say,
“Been lucky in your turns to-day?—
“Think not that what I ask alludes
“To Fortune's stale vicissitudes.
“Or that I'm driven from you to learn
“How cards, and dice, and women turn,
“And what prodigious contributions
“They levy, in their revolutions:
“I ask not if, in times so critical
“You've managed well your turns political,
“Knowing your aptitude to rat.
“My question points to—your Cravat.
“These are the only turns I mean.
“Tell me if these have lucky been?
“If round your neck, in every fold
“Exact, the muslin has been rolled,
“And, dexterously in front confined,
“Preserved the proper set behind;
“In short, by dint of hand and eye,
“Have you achieved a perfect tie?
“Been lucky in your turns to-day?—
“Think not that what I ask alludes
“To Fortune's stale vicissitudes.
“Or that I'm driven from you to learn
“How cards, and dice, and women turn,
“And what prodigious contributions
“They levy, in their revolutions:
44
“You've managed well your turns political,
“Knowing your aptitude to rat.
“My question points to—your Cravat.
“These are the only turns I mean.
“Tell me if these have lucky been?
“If round your neck, in every fold
“Exact, the muslin has been rolled,
“And, dexterously in front confined,
“Preserved the proper set behind;
“In short, by dint of hand and eye,
“Have you achieved a perfect tie?
“Should yours (kind heaven, avert the omen!)
“Like the cravats of vulgar, low men,
“Asunder start—and, yawning wide,
“Disclose a chasm on either side;
“Or should it stubbornly persist,
“To take some awkward tasteless twist,
“Some crease indelible, and look
“Just like a dunce's dog's-eared book,
“How would you parry the disgrace?
“In what assembly show your face?
“How brook your rival's scornful glance,
“Or partner's titter in the dance?
“How in the morning dare to meet
“The quizzers of the park or street?
“Your occupation's gone,—in vain
“Hope to dine out, or flirt again.
“The Ladies from their lists will put you,
“And even I, my friend, must cut you!”
“Like the cravats of vulgar, low men,
“Asunder start—and, yawning wide,
“Disclose a chasm on either side;
“Or should it stubbornly persist,
“To take some awkward tasteless twist,
45
“Just like a dunce's dog's-eared book,
“How would you parry the disgrace?
“In what assembly show your face?
“How brook your rival's scornful glance,
“Or partner's titter in the dance?
“How in the morning dare to meet
“The quizzers of the park or street?
“Your occupation's gone,—in vain
“Hope to dine out, or flirt again.
“The Ladies from their lists will put you,
“And even I, my friend, must cut you!”
Such once was Charles.—No doctrine sounder
Than his, no principles profounder.
And well he practised what he knew,
Himself the great sublime he drew!
Yes,—ere, in deep dismay, the town
Mourned o'er his abdicated crown,
Such was our hero. Now where is he?
Fall'n headlong from a height so dizzy,
Regardless of the shame and risk,
Thanks to your eyes, you basilisk!
These, Julia, are the tender mercies
Of you enchantresses, you Circes!
See him, almost a sloven grown,
Charmed by your shape, neglect his own.
With absent thoughts, like needle true,
Not on his cravat fixed, but you,
On cheeks that glow, on lips that pout
He muses, till his hand is out.
Then, all his turns are put to flight,
Then fade the tapers on his sight;
Visions of Love and Beauty rise,
And wean him from his dearest ties.
Than his, no principles profounder.
And well he practised what he knew,
Himself the great sublime he drew!
Yes,—ere, in deep dismay, the town
Mourned o'er his abdicated crown,
46
Fall'n headlong from a height so dizzy,
Regardless of the shame and risk,
Thanks to your eyes, you basilisk!
These, Julia, are the tender mercies
Of you enchantresses, you Circes!
See him, almost a sloven grown,
Charmed by your shape, neglect his own.
With absent thoughts, like needle true,
Not on his cravat fixed, but you,
On cheeks that glow, on lips that pout
He muses, till his hand is out.
Then, all his turns are put to flight,
Then fade the tapers on his sight;
Visions of Love and Beauty rise,
And wean him from his dearest ties.
Cousin of mine, you must confess
To some strange heresies in dress;
In ours I mean, since few have shown
More taste and judgment in your own.
Our clothes, forsooth, become us better
When made to fit, and not to fetter.
Oft have you wondered why and when
Were girths and stays usurped by men;
Nay, vowed you thought a pound of starch
Too much for building Fashion's arch.
These are odd fancies; but submission
Is Charles's duty, and ambition.
No more he bears a bosom full
Of buckram, or o'ercharged with wool.
A hint from you is quite enough
To “cleanse it of that perilous stuff.”
He looks, poor fellow, less genteely,
'Tis certain, but he moves more freely
Now that, like culprits freed from jail,
His waist is fairly out on bail.
Julia, you've moved its habeas-corpus;
But when the man is grown a porpus,
Long, long before the season's ended,
You'll wish it had been still suspended.
To some strange heresies in dress;
47
More taste and judgment in your own.
Our clothes, forsooth, become us better
When made to fit, and not to fetter.
Oft have you wondered why and when
Were girths and stays usurped by men;
Nay, vowed you thought a pound of starch
Too much for building Fashion's arch.
These are odd fancies; but submission
Is Charles's duty, and ambition.
No more he bears a bosom full
Of buckram, or o'ercharged with wool.
A hint from you is quite enough
To “cleanse it of that perilous stuff.”
He looks, poor fellow, less genteely,
'Tis certain, but he moves more freely
Now that, like culprits freed from jail,
His waist is fairly out on bail.
Julia, you've moved its habeas-corpus;
But when the man is grown a porpus,
48
You'll wish it had been still suspended.
Converted thus, with all the zeal
Which converts or affect or feel,
For errors past he makes amends,
By quizzing all his former friends;
Forgets how long he was their tutor,
And grows their bitterest persecutor;
Derides the stiff cravats and collars
And braces of his favourite scholars,
Laughs at his own apostate-jokes,
And dresses—just like other folks.
Which converts or affect or feel,
For errors past he makes amends,
By quizzing all his former friends;
Forgets how long he was their tutor,
And grows their bitterest persecutor;
Derides the stiff cravats and collars
And braces of his favourite scholars,
Laughs at his own apostate-jokes,
And dresses—just like other folks.
Now from the throne of Fashion hurled,
He picks a quarrel with the world;
Courts it no longer, keeps no measures
With any of its whims or pleasures;
But, splenetic and sulky grown,
Like beast or savage lives alone.
He picks a quarrel with the world;
Courts it no longer, keeps no measures
With any of its whims or pleasures;
But, splenetic and sulky grown,
Like beast or savage lives alone.
49
If * * * * * * sends a card to dine,
The fool's engaged, or drinks no wine;
Though, all last season, what a swiller he
Was of Champagne, mousseux and sillery,
At every mouthful, all the way
From soup to fondu and soufflé!
Digressing, in the heat of action,
To Burgundy, from mere distraction,
And thence to perfumed hock, and from it
Scenting the vintage of the comet.
Scarce pausing when he had so far eat,
How knowingly he'd sip his claret!
With gentle undulation handle
The glass, upheld 'twixt nose and candle,
That glass so thin in bowl and stem,
Which just suspends the liquid gem;
Then, with a wager or an oath,
Pronounce upon its age and growth.
The fool's engaged, or drinks no wine;
Though, all last season, what a swiller he
Was of Champagne, mousseux and sillery,
At every mouthful, all the way
From soup to fondu and soufflé!
Digressing, in the heat of action,
To Burgundy, from mere distraction,
And thence to perfumed hock, and from it
Scenting the vintage of the comet.
Scarce pausing when he had so far eat,
How knowingly he'd sip his claret!
With gentle undulation handle
The glass, upheld 'twixt nose and candle,
That glass so thin in bowl and stem,
Which just suspends the liquid gem;
Then, with a wager or an oath,
Pronounce upon its age and growth.
How changed! For him the iced Champagne
Steams from its silver vase in vain.
Round after round, decanters pass
Unheeded by his empty glass.
He's quite ashamed to be punctilious,
But never was a man so bilious;
Talks of the fruits of living gaily,
Of Calomel, and Doctor Baillie;
Has lost his taste, can scarcely tell
A Salmi from a Bechamel;
Swears there's no banquetting like love,
No turtle like the turtle-dove;
And, ere the wine comes round again,
Shies, bolts—and slips away by ten.
Steams from its silver vase in vain.
50
Unheeded by his empty glass.
He's quite ashamed to be punctilious,
But never was a man so bilious;
Talks of the fruits of living gaily,
Of Calomel, and Doctor Baillie;
Has lost his taste, can scarcely tell
A Salmi from a Bechamel;
Swears there's no banquetting like love,
No turtle like the turtle-dove;
And, ere the wine comes round again,
Shies, bolts—and slips away by ten.
Now, Julia, though the truth be stinging—
But hark! the muffin-bell is ringing;
Those doughy dainties cried about
Tell me 'tis time to venture out.
And, see, my groom, another warner,
Comes with my horses round the corner,
A hint that I must ride, not write,
In mercy to my appetite.
A truce with jealousies, and loves,
And danglings.—John, my hat and gloves.
But mark me—I've a stock of rhyme
And reason for another time;
Which will be wanted, I conjecture,
Fair cousin, for a smarter lecture;
One that may chance to break the spell
Of wayward Beauty. Now, farewell!
But hark! the muffin-bell is ringing;
Those doughy dainties cried about
Tell me 'tis time to venture out.
And, see, my groom, another warner,
Comes with my horses round the corner,
A hint that I must ride, not write,
In mercy to my appetite.
51
And danglings.—John, my hat and gloves.
But mark me—I've a stock of rhyme
And reason for another time;
Which will be wanted, I conjecture,
Fair cousin, for a smarter lecture;
One that may chance to break the spell
Of wayward Beauty. Now, farewell!
| Letters to Julia, in Rhyme | |