LETTER VIII.
High Harrogate, August 26th.
This week in such various amusement has past,
I have scarce had an hour to myself since my last,
On Monday all day we for wagers were prancing,
And concluded at night with most exquisite dancing;
Our belles and our ball every other excell'd,
And our supper the finest you ever beheld;
With Agnes I danc'd and with Agnes I sat, 801
And enjoy'd much communion tho' but little chat.
On Tuesday we all sally'd out on the green,
To see Mr. —— drive his dashing machine,
In a figure of eight, but alas he was cross'd,
And his coach and four bays were to —n—s—n lost!
For his horses tho' doubtlessly brutes of great sense,
Were unskill'd in the shaping or saving of pence;
But he quickly redeem'd them and mounting again,
Return'd our brisk cheers as he drove o'er the plain.
The next day we were treated with excellent races,
But alas when they clos'd there were many long faces;
And especially poor Lady Shufflecut's prov'd,
She had dabbled too much in the current she lov'd;
So profusely her bets had been offer'd around,
That her wings were close clipp'd ere she drove from the ground;
When eagerly seeking her loss to repair,
She doubled the mischief that fell to her share;
And in words cabalistic combin'd with "done, done,"
The evening completed what morning begun,
And tho' till broad day-light she push'd on her chance,
Yet fortune ne'er deign'd an encouraging glance,
For Major O'Baffin and Twig'em together,
Pluck'd her poor little Ladyship down to a feather.
What pity a female whom nature assign'd,
Such a portion of beauty in person and mind,
Whose softness and wit might have temper'd thro' life,
The sweetest ingredients we seek in a wife,
Should absorb'd in one crime make a hell of that breast,
Where dove-like benignity once form'd her nest,
For sure if all storms were together combin'd,
Of hail, rain, and tempest, steel, thunder, and wind,
The light'ning's red glare, and the volcano laming,
Will but shadow the passions of woman when gaming,
Unmask'd, and unsex'd she presents to our view,
The image of vice in her own native hue,
At the fury before us in horror we gaze,
And ask where the woman is fled in amaze?
Whence sprung this dread Demon ye sages tell,
Was she born upon earth, or transported from hell,
What plagues and what pestilence met in their rambling,
To form this detestable passion for gambling,
Society's Upas that withers the ground,
And poisons the blossoms of virtue around,
Destroying and blasting all promise of worth,
Like the curse of the locusts "that ravaged the earth."
When Avarice with Misery alone in his cot,
Had endur'd many years an old bachelor's lot,
He sought from this partner to make a division,
By seeking himself, for a change of condition,
Concluding like many old men, that a wife,
Would banish grim Misery his cottage for life,
And the better this end so desir'd to obtain,
He fix'd on a damsel, young, splendid, and vain,
Her name Prodigality—not over nice,
The lady lov'd Avarice alone for his vice,
And reckon'd the pleasure of emptying his coffer,
Would atone for all other defects in the offer,
They marry and fly at the lady's suggestion,
A very long way from the cot of discretion, 860
For Extravagance sold them a villa and park,
Which was stock'd by Expence with all wares like an ark,
Yet the bridegroom astonish'd beheld with great pain,
That Mis'ry was still the first man in their train,
He stalk'd o'er their garden—sat down at their table,
He perch'd on the coach, and he groan'd in the stable;
And the tongue of the lady tho' flippant and strong,
Could not keep his keen face from her dressing-room long,
Nay e'en when her first blooming daughter was born,
Old Misery stood sponsor in spite of her scorn,
And while she his rude interference was blaming,
With mighty sang froid he pronounc'd the babe "Gaming."
Prodigality sought for a nurse at her leisure,
And consign'd the fair imp to be dandled by pleasure,
Hence some have mistaken this child for another,
Amusement—no kin, but a mere foster brother.
As the young one grew up she full early display'd,
Her sire's inclination for scraping in trade,
Was wond'rous alert at a close calculation,
And scann'd the whole science of deep computation,
When embu'd with her father's all grasping desires,
The rashness of daring her mother inspires,
And bids her ne'er hesitate roundly to send,
A bold speculation in search of her end, 884
Thus covetous meanness combines with profusion,
To spread o'er her actions the veil of delusion;
While Misery attends her wherever she goes,
With hosts of bad passions, and myriads of woes,
The foremost I ween is that canker-worm Care,
And the last that black fiend which proceeds from despair,
Life knows not one torment that gnaws like the first,
And the last of all deaths, is the death most accurst.
I hope you'll excuse this long fabling digression,
As a thing very common in bards by profession,
And to tell you the truth having been somewhat bit,
I find I have gain'd a new edge to my wit,
Yes! thanks to O'Baffin, his friendship's unriddled,
And her Ladyship's simper, with "Blunderhead's diddled."
But 'tis well I'm no worse and the wisdom they taught me,
Experience alone I'm afraid could have bought me,
For I foolishly slighted Sir J—n G—ff—d's hint,
Tho' I knew his heart sterling as gold from the mint;
I wish my good Col'nel aware of this Major,
Would take home his wife in the country to cage her,
For this Cormorant's eyes while they glanc'd on my purse,
Mark'd the Col'nel I doubt for a robb'ry far worse,
Ah mother! dear mother! I now can perceive it,
The world is far worse than I once could believe it,
When we mountaineers from the Peak make these sallies,
We meet with strange cattle in civiliz'd vallies,
And our good education I honestly own,
But fits us to mix with each other alone,
Our naiveté, simplicity, openness, truth,
The romantic attachments of warm-hearted youth,
In the world's chilling atmosphere meet with such shocks,
We had better ne'er roam from our own native rocks,
But at present away with these moral excursions,
And return we again to the list of diversions. 916
Next came donkey races and pony likewise,
Each nobly contending a suitable prize,
For the last a fine saddle was stuck up to view,
Which after hard riding was won by the blue,
Then we all were amus'd by men jumping in sacks,
Tho' it laid the competitors soon on their backs,
But the best sport of all since it shew'd the most skill,
Was two well lather'd pigs left to run at their will
Which who seiz'd by the tail was to have for the catching,
But the grunters in this had the best in the matching,
And I never yet saw such most excellent fun,
As they made of the fellows who ventur'd to run;
Nor do I yet think that they fairly were caught,
But the company all left the place ere they ought,
For a very fine turtle that day was set out,
By a West India heiress presented sans doute,
And people of taste were impatient to try,
If Harrogate turtle with London could vie;
And 'tis with great pride my good madam I tell,
'Twas allow'd that our cook did all London excel,
I'm sure that Lord Goût, and Sir Harry Fullfare,
Each ate three good pints of the soup for their share,
And Mrs. Gourmander with Lady Allferret,
Were equally strong in their proofs of its merit,
And as very good eating some men of deep thinking,
Have roundly declar'd calls for very good drinking;
This alliance so nat'ral we sought to pursue,
And gave to the turtle the honour its due,
And that night for the first time I stagger'd to bed,
With more wine on my stomach, than sense in my head,
But a dose of the water as soon as 'twas day,
Dispers'd all my head-ache and left me quite gay,
And 'twas well that this good panacea I took,
Or Agnes had murder'd my hopes with a look;
For at best they're so delicate poor little things,
One glance of her anger would clip all their wings,
But I nourish the nestlings as well as I'm able,
And consider each smile as an anchor and cable,
My courage sometimes rises up to my cheek,
Where it flushes and glows yet forbids me to speak;
I would give all the world to make love to one woman,
With the ease Col'nel B—tem—n can do it in common,
So pointed, yet meek, sentimental, and charming,
Tho' always encroaching yet never alarming; 960
But no wonder the Colonel shines in this way,
For practice makes perfect in all things they say,
And to maid, wife, or widow he's constantly paying,
Those tender attentions most dear, most betraying,
Unmindful I ween what vexations and smarts,
Must follow the game in this "play upon hearts."
Far different the bosom true passion inspires,
That silently loves, and devoutly admires,
It sighs not by rule nor makes speeches by measure,
Nor studies the arts of allurement at leisure,
Yet feeling all eloquent sometimes reveals,
That state of the soul which timidity seals,
And I take it the very best chance for a lover,
Is that moment when fortune his flame may discover;
Since no damsel will shrink from a peep at the breast,
Where her own lovely form is so sweetly imprest,
For should she regret that the picture's ill plac'd,
Yet she'll value the wearer for exquisite taste.
My Agnes of late has convers'd more than common,
With a Mrs. Latouche a most excellent woman,
Whose husband like many brave fellows beside,
By his country was torn from the arms of his bride,
For three years has he left her his absence to mourn,
But she now has some hopes of his speedy return,
She visits this place with a poor ailing aunt,
Whom she tends with that kindness all invalids want,
And proves in her tenderness, faithfulness, duty,
Her virtue at least is as great as her beauty,
Twin soul with my charmer I think it no wonder,
(Tho' I'm sorry sometimes) they are seldom asunder,
I fancy whenever I see them conversing,
The wife all the worth of her lord is rehearsing,
But I dare not yet hope that my Agnes replies,
By adverting to poor Mr. Blunderhead's eyes.
But my hopes or my fears I'll no longer intrude,
For this monstrous long scrawl 'tis high time to conclude.
&c. &c. &c.