THE OXFORD RAKE'S PROGRESS.
Tom was a tailor's heir,
A dashing blade,
Whose sire in trade
Enough had made,
By cribbage, short skirts, and little capes,
Long bills, and items for buckram, tapes,
Buttons, twist, and small ware;
Which swell a bill out so delightfully,
Or perhaps I should say frightfully,
That is, if it related to myself.
Suffice it to be told
In wealth he roll'd,
And being a fellow of some spirit,
Set up his coach;
To 'scape reproach,
He put the tailor on the shelf,
And thought to make his boy a man of merit.
On old Etona's classic ground,
Tom's infant years in circling round
Were spent 'mid Greek and Latin;
The boy had parts both gay and bright,
A merry, mad, facetious sprite,
With heart as soft as satin.
For sport or spree Tom never lack'd;
A con{21} with all, his sock he crack'd
With oppidan or gownsman:
Could smug a sign, or quiz the dame,
Or row, or ride, or poach for game,
With cads, or Eton townsmen.
Tom's admiral design'd,
Most dads are blind
To youthful folly,
That Tom should be a man of learning,
To show his parent's great discerning,
A parson rich and jolly.
To Oxford Tom in due time went,
Upon degree D.D. intent,
But more intent on ruin:
A Freshman, steering for the Port of Stuff's,{22}
Round Isle Matricula, and Isthmus of Grace,
Intent on living well and little doing.
Here Tom came out a dashing blood,
Kept Doll at Woodstock, and a stud
For hunting, race, or tandem;
Could bag a proctor, floor a raff,
Or stifle e'en a hull-dog's gaff,
Get bosky, drive at random.
21 Eton phraseology—A friend.
22 Oxford phraseology—All these terms have been explained
in an earlier part of the work.
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But long before the first term ended,
Tom was inform'd, unless he mended,
He'd better change his college.
Which said, the Don was hobbling to the shelf
Where college butler keeps his book of Battell;
Tom nimbly ran, erased his name himself,
To save the scandal of the students' prattle.
In Oxford, be it known, there is a place
Where all the mad wags in disgrace
Retire to improve their knowledge;
The town raff call it Botany Bay,
Its inmates exiles, convicts, and they say
Saint Alban takes the student refugees:
Here Tom, to 'scape Point Non plus, took his seat
After a waste of ready—found his feet
Safe on the shores of indolence and ease;
Here, 'mid choice spirits, in the Isle of Flip,
Dad's will, and sapping, valued not young snip;
Scapula, Homer, Lexicon, laid by,
Join'd the peep-of-day boys in full cry.{23}
A saving sire a sad son makes
This adage suits most modern rakes,
23 It was in the actual participation of these bacchanalian
orgies, during the latter days of Dr. W——y, the former
head of the Hall, when infirmities prevented his exercising
the necessary watchful-ness over the buoyant spirits
committed to his charge, that my friend Bob Transit and
myself were initiated into the mysteries of the Albanians.
The accompanying scene, so faithfully delineated by his
humorous pencil, will be fresh in the recollection of the
choice spirits who mingled in the joyous revelry. To
particularise character would be to "betray the secrets of
the prison-house," and is besides wholly unnecessary, every
figure round the board being a portrait; kindred souls,
whose merrie laughter-loving countenances and jovial
propensities, will be readily recognised by every son of
Alma Mater who was at Oxford during the last days of the
beaux esprits of Alban Hall. (See Plate.) In justice to
the learned Grecian who now presides, it should be told,
that these scenes are altogether suppressed.
And Tom above all others.
I should have told before, he was an only child,
And therefore privileged to be gay and wild,
Having no brothers,
Whom his example might mislead
Into extravagance, or deed
Ridiculous and foolish.
Three tedious years in Oxford spent,
In midnight brawl and merriment,
Tom bid adieu to college,
To cassock-robe of orthodox,
To construe and decline—the box,
Supreme in stable knowledge;
To dash on all within the ring,
Bet high, play deep, or rioting,
At Long's to sport his figure
In honour's cause, some small affair
Give modern bucks a finish'd air,
Tom pull'd the fatal trigger.
He kill'd his friend—but then remark,
His friend had kill'd another spark,
So 'twas but trick and tie.
The cause of quarrel no one knew,
Not even Tom,—away he flew,
Till time and forms of law,
To fashionable vices blind,
Excuses for the guilty find,
Call murder a faux pas.
The tinsell'd coat next struck his pride,
How dashing in the Park to ride
A cornet of dragoons;
Upon a charger, thorough bred,
To show off with a high plumed head,
The gaze of Legs and Spoons;
To rein him up in all his paces,
Then splash the passing trav'lers' faces,
And spur and caper by;
Get drunk at mess, then sally out
To Lisle-street fair, or beat a scout,
Or black a waiter's eye.
Of all the clubs,—the Clippers, Screws,
The Fly-by-nights, Four Horse, and Blues,
The Daffy, Snugs, and Peep-o-day,
Tom's an elect; at all the Hells,
At Bolton-Row, with tip-top swells,
And Tat's men, deep he'd play.
His debts oft paid by Snyder's{24} pelf,
Who paid at last a debt himself,
Which all that live must pay.
Tom book'd{25} the old one snug inside,
Wore sables, look'd demure and sigh'd
Some few short hours away;
Till from the funeral return'd,
Then Tom with expectation burn'd
To hear his father's will:—
"Twice twenty thousand pounds in cash,"—
"That's prime," quoth Tom, "to cut a dash
"At races or a mill,"—
"All my leaseholds, house and plate,
My pictures and freehold estate,
I give my darling heir;
Not doubting but, as I in trade
By careful means this sum have made,
He'll double it with care."—
"Ay, that I will, I'll hit the nick,
Seven's the main,—here Ned and Dick
Bring down my blue and buff;
Take off the hatband, banish grief,
'Tis time to turn o'er a new leaf,
Sorrow's but idle stuff."
Fame, trumpet-tongued, Tom's wealth reports,
His name is blazon'd at the courts
Of Carlton and the Fives.
His equipage, his greys, his dress,
His polish'd self, so like noblesse,
"Is ruin's sure perquise."
24 Flash for tailor.
25 Screwed up in his coffin.
Beau Brummell's bow had not the grace,
Alvanly stood eclipsed in face,
The Roués all were mute,
So exquisite, so chaste, unique,
The mark for every Leg and Greek,
Who play the concave suit.{26}
At Almack's, paradise o' the West,
Tom's hand by prince and peer is press'd,
And fashion cries supreme.
His Op'ra box, and little quean,
To lounge, to see, and to be seen,
Makes life a pleasant dream.
Such dreams, alas! are transient light,
A glow of brightness and delight,
That wakes to years of pain.
Tom's round of pleasure soon was o'er,
And clam'rous duns assail the door
When credit's on the wane.
His riches pay his folly's price,
And vanish soon a sacrifice,
Then friendly comrades fly;
His ev'ry foible dragg'd to light,
And faults (unheeded) crowd in sight,
Asham'd to show his face.
Beset by tradesmen, lawyers, bums,{21}
He sinks where fashion never comes,
A wealthier takes his place.
Beat at all points, floor'd, and clean'd out,
Tom yet resolv'd to brave it out,
36 Cards cut in a peculiar manner, to enable the Leg to
fleece his Pigeon securely.
27 "Persons employed by the sheriff to hunt and seize human
prey: they are always bound in sureties for the due
execution of their office, and thence are called Bound
Bailiff's, which the common people have corrupted into a
much more homely ex-pression—to wit, Bum-Bailiffs or
Bums."—l Black Com. 346.
If die he must, die game.
Some few months o'er, again he strays
'Midst scenes of former halcyon days,
On other projects bent;
No more ambitious of a name,
Or mere unprofitable fame,
On gain he's now intent,
To deal a flush, or cog a die,
Or plan a deep confed'racy
To pluck a pigeon bare.
Elected by the Legs a brother,
His plan is to entrap some other
In Greeting's fatal snare.
Here for a time his arts succeed,
But vice like his, it is decreed,
Can never triumph long:
A noble, who had been his prey,
Convey'd the well cogg'd bones away,
Exposed them to the throng.
Now blown, "his occupation's" o'er,
Indictments, actions, on him pour,
His ill got wealth must fly;
And faster than it came, the law
Can fraud's last ill got shilling draw,
Tom's pocket soon drain'd dry.
Again at sea, a wreck, struck down,
By fickle fortune and the town,
Without the means to bolt.
His days in bed, for fear of Bums,
At night among the Legs he comes,
Who gibe him for a dolt.
He's cut, and comrades, one by one,
Avoid him as they would a dun.
Here finishes our tale—
Tom Tick, the life, the soul, the whim
Of courts and fashion when in trim,
Is left—
WAITING FOR BAIL.
By the time old Mark Supple had finished his somewhat lengthy tale, the major part of the motley group of eccentrics who surrounded us were terribly cut: the garrulous organ of Jack Milburn was unable to articulate a word; Goose B——l, the gourmand, was crammed full, and looked, as he lay in the arms of Morpheus, like a fat citizen on the night of a lord mayor's dinner—a lump of inanimate mortality. In one corner lay a poor little Grecian, papa Chrysanthus Demetriades, whom Tom Echo had plied with bishop till he fell off his chair; Count Dennet was safely deposited beside him; and old Will Stewart,{28} the poacher, was just humming himself to sleep with the fag end of an old ballad as he sat upon the ground
28 Portraits of the three last-mentioned eccentrics will be
found in page 245, sketched from the life.
resting his back against the defunct Grecian. A diminutive little cripple, Johnny Holloway, was sleeping between his legs, upon whose head Tom had fixed a wig of immense size, crowned with an opera hat and a fox's tail for a feather. "Now to bury the dead," said Eglantine; "let in the lads, Mark." "Now we shall have a little sport, old fellows," said Echo: "come, Transit, where are your paints and brushes?" In a minute the whole party were most industriously engaged in disfiguring the objects around us by painting their faces, some to resemble tattooing, while others were decorated with black eyes, huge mustachios, and different embellishments, until it would have been impossible for friend or relation to have recognised any one of their visages. This ceremony being completed, old Mark introduced a new collection of worthies, who had been previously instructed for the sport; these were, I found, no other than the well-known Oxford cads, Marston Will, Tom Webb, Harry Bell, and Dick Rymal,{29} all out and outers, as Echo reported, for a spree with the gown, who had been regaled at some neighbouring public house by Eglantine, to be in readiness for the wind-up of his eccentric entertainment; to the pious care of these worthies were consigned the strange-looking mortals who surrounded us. The plan was, I found, to carry them out quietly between two men, deposit them in a cart which they had in waiting, and having taken them to the water-side, place them in a barge and send them drifting down the water in the night to Iffley, where their consternation on recovering the next morning and strange appearance would be sure to create a source of merriment both for the city and university. The instructions were most punctually obeyed, and the amusement the freak afterwards afforded the good people of Oxford will not very
29 Well-known sporting cads, who are always ready to do a
good turn for the togati, either for sport or spree.
quickly be forgotten. Thus ended the spread—and now having taken more than my usual quantity of wine, and being withal fatigued by the varied amusements of the evening, I would fain have retired to rest: but this, I found, would be contrary to good fellowship, and not at all in accordance with college principles. "We must have a spree" said Echo, "by way of finish, the rum ones are all shipped off safely by this time—suppose we introduce Blackmantle to our grandmamma, and the pretty Nuns of St. Clement's." "Soho, my good fellows," said Transit; "we had better defer our visit in that direction until the night is more advanced. The old don{30} of——, remember, celebrates the Paphian mysteries in that quarter occasionally, and we may not always be able to shirk him as effectually as on the other evening, when Echo and myself were snugly enjoying a tête-a-tête with Maria B——and little Agnes S——{31}; we accidentally caught a glimpse of old Morality cautiously toddling after the pious Mrs. A—ms, vide-licet of arts,{32} a lady who has been regularly matriculated at this university, and taken up her degrees some years since. It was too rich a bit to lose, and although at the risk of discovery, I booked it immediately eo instunti. 'Exegi monumentum aere perennius'—and here it is."
30 We all must reverence dons; and I'm about
To talk of dons—irreverently I doubt.
For many a priest, when sombre evening gray
Mantles the sky, o'er maudlin bridge will stray—
Forget his oaths, his office, and his fame,
And mix in company I will not name.
Aphrodisiacal Licenses.
31 Paphian divinities in high repute at Oxford.
32 Pretty much in the same sense, probably, in which Moore's
gifted leman Fanny is by him designated Mistress of Arts.
And oh!—if a fellow like me
May confer a diploma of hearts,
With my lip thus I seal your degree,
My divine little Mistress of Arts.
For an account of Fan's proficiency in astronomy, ethics,
(not the Nicomachean), and eloquence, see Moore's Epistles,
vol. ii. p. 155.
"An excellent likeness, i'faith, is it," said Eglantine; whose eyes twinkled like stars amid the wind-driven clouds, and whose half clipped words and unsteady motion sufficiently evinced that he had paid due attention to the old laws of potation. "There's nothing like the cloth for comfort, old fellows; remember what a man of Christ Church wrote to George Colman when he was studying for the law.
'Turn parson, Colman, that's the way to thrive;
Your parsons are the happiest men alive.
Judges, there are but twelve; and never more,
But stalls untold, and Bishops twenty-four.
Of pride and claret, sloth and venison full,
Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull!
He ne'er, good man, need pensive vigils keep
To preach his audience once a week to sleep;
On rich preferment battens at his ease,
Nor sweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.'
If Colman had turned parson he would have had a bishoprick long since, and rivalled that jolly old ancient Walter de Mapes. Then what an honour he would have been to the church; no drowsy epistles spun out in lengthened phrase,
'Like to the quondam student, named of yore,
Who with Aristotle calmly choked a boar;'
but true orthodox wit: the real light of grace would have fallen from his lips and charmed the crowded aisle; the rich epigrammatic style, the true creed of the churchman; no fear of canting innovations or evangelical sceptics; but all would have proceeded harmoniously, ay, and piously too—for true piety consists not in purgation of the body, but in purity of mind. Then if we could but have witnessed Colman filling the chair in one of our common rooms, enlivening with his genius, wit, and social conversation the learned dromedaries of the Sanctum, and dispelling the habitual gloom of a College Hospitium, what chance would the sectarians of Wesley, or the infatuated followers even of that arch rhapsodist, Irving, have with the attractive eloquence and sound reasoning of true wit?" "Bravo! bravo!"vociferated the party. "An excellent defence of the church," said Echo, "for which Eglantine deserves to be inducted to a valuable benefice; suppose we adjourn before the college gates are closed, and install him under the Mitre." A proposition that met with a ready acquiescence from all present.{33}
33 The genius of wit, mirth, and social enjoyment, can never
find more sincere worshippers than an Oxford wine-party
seated round the festive board; here the sallies of youth,
unchecked by care, the gaiety of hearts made glad with wine
and revelry, the brilliant flashes of genius, and the eye
beaming with delight, are found in the highest perfection.
The merits of the society to which the youthful aspirant for
fame and glory happens to belong often afford the embryo
poet the theme of his song. Impromptu parodies on old and
popular songs often add greatly to the enjoy-ment of the
convivial party. The discipline of the university prohibits
late hours; and the evenings devoted to enjoyment are not
often disgraced by excess.
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