2 It appears, that about the middle of the fifteenth century
it was the custom for males and females to bathe together,
in puris naturalibus, which was at length prohibited by
Bishop Beckyngton, who ordered, by way of distinction, the
wearing of breeches and petticoats; this indecency was
suppressed, after considerable difficulty, at the end of the
sixteenth century, (quere, what indecency does our author of
the "Walks through Bath" mean? the incumbrance of the
breeches and petticoats, we must imagine). It also seems,
that about 1700 it was the fashion for both sexes to bathe
together indiscriminately, and the ladies used to decorate
their heads with all the advantages of dress, as a mode of
attracting attention and heightening their charms. The
husband of a lady in one of the baths, in company with Beau
Nash, was so much enraptured with the appearance of his
wife, that he very im-prudently observed, "she looked like
an angel, and he wished to be with her." Nash immediately
seized him by the collar, and threw him into the bath; this
circumstance produced a duel, and Nash was wounded in his
right arm: it however had the good effect of establishing
the reputation of Nash, who shortly after became master of
the ceremonies.
"You cannot conceive what a number of ladies
Were wash'd in the water the same as our maid is:
How the ladies did giggle and set up their clacks
All the while an old woman was rubbing their backs;
Oh! 'twas pretty to see them all put on their flannels,
And then take the water, like so many spaniels;
And though all the while it grew hotter and hotter,
They swam just as if they were hunting an otter.
'Twas a glorious sight to behold the fair sex
All wading with gentlemen up to their necks,
And view them so prettily tumble and sprawl
In a great smoking kettle as big as our hall;
And to-day many persons of rank and condition
Were boil'd, by command of an able physician."
From the baths we migrated to the grand promenade of fashion, Milsom Street, not forgetting to take a survey of the old Abbey Church, which, as a monument of architectural grandeur without, and of dread monition within, is a building worthy the attention of the antiquarian and the philosopher; while perpetuating the remembrance of many a cherished name to worth, to science, and to virtue dear, the artist and the amateur may derive much gratification from examining the many excellent pieces of sculpture with which the Abbey abounds. But for us, gay in disposition, and scarcely allowing ourselves time for reflection, such a scene had few charms, unless, indeed, the English Spy could have separated himself from the buoyant spirits with which he was attended, and then, wrapt in the gloom of the surrounding scene, and given up to serious contemplation, the emblems of mortality which decorate the gothic pile might have conjured up in his mind's eye the forms of many a departed spirit, of the blest shades of long-lost parents and of social friends, of those who, living, lent a lustre to the arts, of witty madcaps frost-bitten by the sable tyrant Death, nipped in the very bud of youth, while yet the sparkling jest was ripe upon the merry lip, and the ruddy glow of health upon the cheek gave earnest of a lengthened life———But, soft! methinks I hear my reader exclaim, "How now, madcap, moralizing Mr. Spy? art thou, too, bitten by the desire to philosophize, thou, 'the very Spy o' the time,' the merry buoyant rogue who has laughed all serious scenes to scorn, and riding over hill, and dale, and verdant plain upon thy fiery courser, fleet as the winds, collecting the cream of comicalities, and, beshrew thee, witling, plucking the brightest flowers that bloom in the road of pleasure to give thy merry garland's perfume, and deck thy page withal, art thou growing serious? Then is doomsday near; and poor, deserted, care-worn man left unprotected to the tempest's rage!" Not so, good reader, we are still the same merry, thoughtless, laughing, buoyant sprite that thou hast known us for the last two years; but the archer cannot always keep his bow upon the stretching point; so there are scenes, and times, and fancies produced by recollective circumstances and objects, which create strange conceits even in the light-hearted bosom of the English Spy. Such was the train of reflections which rushed in voluntarily upon my mind as I noted down the passing events of the day, a practice usual with me when, retiring from the busy hum of men, I seek the retirement of my chamber to commit my thoughts to paper. I had recently passed through the depository where rest the remains of a tender mother—had sought the spot, unnoticed by my light-hearted companions, and having bedewed with tears of gratitude her humble grave, gave vent to my feelings, by the following tribute to a parent's worth.
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
Beneath yon ivy-mantled wall,
In a lone corner, where the earth
Presents a rising green mound, all
Of her who lov'd and gave me birth
Lies buried deep. No trophied stone,
Or graven verse denotes the spot:
Her worth her epitaph alone,
The green-sward grave her humble lot.
How silent sleep the virtuous dead!
For them few sculptured honours rise,
No marble tablet here to spread
A fame—their every act implies.
No mockery here, nor herald's shield,
To glitter o'er a bed of clay;
But snow-drops and fresh violets yield
A tribute to worth pass'd away.
Tread lightly, ye who love or know
En life's young road a parent's worth,
Who yet are strangers to the woe
Of losing those who gave you birth,
Who cherish'd, fondled, fed, and taught
From infancy to manhood's pride,
Directing every opening thought,
Teaching how Reason's power should guide.
Ye rich and bold, ye grave and gay,
Ye mightiest of the sons of men,
Wealth, honours, fame shall sink away,
And all be equalized again;
Save what the sculptor may pourtray,
And any tyrant, fool, or knave
Who has the wealth, may in that way
His name from dull oblivion save;
That is, he may perpetuate
His worthlessness, his frauds, and crimes;
No matter what his tomb relate,
His character lives with the times.
Shade of my parent! couldst thou hear
The voice of him, thine only child,
Implore thy loss with filial tear,
And deck thy grave with sonnets wild,
'Twould all thy troubles past repay,
Thy anxious cares, thy hopes and fears,
To find as time stole life away,
Thy mem'ry brighten'd with his years.
Yes, sacred shade! while mem'ry guides
This ever wild eccentric brain,
While reason holds or virtue chides,
Still will I pour the filial strain.
"What," said my old friend Horace Eglantine, after reading this tribute to parental worth, "Bernard Blackmantle moralizing; our Spy turned monody-maker, writing epitaphs, and elegies, and odes to spirits that have no corporal substance, when there are so many living subjects yet left for his merrier muse to dwell upon? Come, old fellow, shake off this lethargy of the mind, this vision of past miseries, and prepare for present merriments.
'The streets begin to fill, the motley throng
To see and to be seen, now trip along;
Some lounge in the bazaars, while 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.'
In short, my dear fellow, we are all waiting your company to join the swells in Milsom-street; where, I have no doubt, you will find many a star of fashion, whose eccentricities you will think justly entitles him to a niche in your gallery of living characters.
'Lords of the creation, who, 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.'