the old tricks of the orchestra.Moore's late comical and satirical poems besides are all imitations of old Christopher Anstey-and quite inferior, in every respect, both to the Bath Guide of that accomplished lounger, and the Pleader's Guide, the less celebrated but scarcely less masterly work of his son.
We have no notion who the author of this Letter to Julia may be-but we venture to predict, that the public will never discover in him any new masquerade, either of Frere or of Moore or indeed of any writer already known to them. He is evidently a man of great accomplishments, on whom (unlike Tom Moore) his accomplishments sit quite easy.-Nay, he is evidently an admirable scholar, and yet he displays few of the little attic touches that Frere has at command-altho' his Whistlecrafts do not make any great show of them.-He is no less evidently a man of fashionand, what is still better, a perfect gentleman. Last of all, and best of all, he is a poet of very exquisite powersand if, as we conjecture, his name should turn out to be quite a new one, we have no doubt it will, as soon as he pleases, become a very splendid one.*
He has undertaken, in this airy production, to give a sort of general sketch of the present life of haut-ton in London; and he has done so, on the whole, with great success, although we must think the framework on which he has chosen to fix his delineations, is such as to give an impression, alike unnecessary and uncongenial, of awkwardness and heaviness. The beautiful raillery of the sixteen lines of the original,
"Sybarin cur properes amando Perdere ?" &c.
cannot be made to extend itself into the leading and presiding idea of a poem of 221 pages, without disadvantages of which the author himself is probably, now that his work is finished and out of his hands, as sensible as any of his readers. The occasional glimpses of this flimsy thread, however, must not be permitted to lessen our admiration of the
beautiful gems he has strung upon it -nor, on the whole, will any body venture to blame this person as the first man of genius that has written a fine poem on a bad (that is to say, an ill-chosen and inadequate) plan.
The lady (real or imaginary) to whom the Epistle is addressed, is a perfect beauty, and has been married for some weeks to a young gentleman, whose name is supposed to have been of high distinction in all the rolls of fashionable resort-but who, swayed or seduced by the authority or the charms of his bride, from all his former sources of occupation and of pleasurehas, since his wedding, become quite an altered man, and lost favour sadly among all his old confederates, the author of the Letter included, who makes the last effort of his friendship in the shape of this shrewd rather than respectful remonstrance to the fair cause of the metamorphosis herself. His petition very impertinently sheweththat whereas her husband was formerly one of the gayest sparrers, swimmers, loungers, quadrillers, waltzers, canterers, drinkers, revellers, gamblers, neckloth-tiers, stay-lacers, &c. &c. &c. about town-he has assumed within the last two months a totally new and melancholy change of aspect. He has given up stays-he ties his neckcloth in a simple knot (in utter contempt of Mr Nichol's, and his hopeful)-when he rides, it is for health or on business, not for show on the Park or in Bond-street-when he dances, it is only to enliven his own harvest-home-when he drinks, it is because he is thirsty-when he eats, it is because he is hungry. He sits at home on the corner of a sofa with his wife; and the curricles of his ancient associates rattle in vain before the perpetual Venetians of his window. The purpose of the prayer is, of course, that Julia should dispense with this constancy of attendance on the part of her lord and master-of which immediate dispensation he enforces the propriety by many arguments-some of them new-all of them ingenious-→→ not a few more convincing than delicate. Nothing can be more simple than the skeleton of the Lay-Sermon -now for some specimens of its style.
Since writing the above, we have been informed, that the author is Mr Luttrell, who wrote some pretty verses last year, entitled, "Lines written at Ampthill Park." We mention his name only because we understand it to be quite public in London.
One of the most notable of Charles's derelictions is that of the Park.
Poor Charles! No creature sees him, late, "Twixt Stanhope-street and Apsley-gate! And in commenting on this, the adviser takes occasion, of course, to introduce a variety of descriptive sketches. The following are from the "afternoon park-lounge," The first paragraph will, we fear, be considered as too personal by the lovers of the "Examiner."
Perchance, a truant from his desk, Some lover of the picturesque, Whose soul is far above his shop, Hints to his charmer where to stop; And the proud landscape, from the hill, eye Which crowns thy terrace-Piccadilly! Perchance Leigh Hunt himself is near, Just waking from a reverier- Whispering, "My dear, while others hurry, "Let us look over into Surry." There, as the summer-sun declines, Yet still in full-orbed beauty shines, As, all on fire beneath his beams, The fret-work of the Abbey gleams; While on its towers a golden flood Is poured, above the tufted wood, His charmer (kindred spirits, see The blest effects of sympathy;) Is busied in a tasteful trial To spell the hour upon the dial! Mark how 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, And urged them to a common goal. See, in the living mass confounded, All shapes, all sizes, slim, and rounded; Every variety of 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 pursuits together jumble The rich and poor, the proud and humble. Th' enfranchised tradesman, if 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.
Heedless, though hundreds by them flit, Mark! where in groups prim parties sit On the same bench, ('tis doubtful whether Huddled by chance, or choice together ;) Nor sign of pleasure seen, nor word Of cheerful sound among them heard, As if all virtue lay in gravity, And smiles were symptoms of depravity. "Twere hard, methinks, their fate to brook, Were they not happier than they look; While opening spring with all its flowers, In vain leads on the laughing hours;
On their dull looks and blunted sense Wasting its choicest influence; While as, at length aroused, they travel A snail's pace on the glittering gravel, Bursts the full chestnut on their sight, In spiral blossoms, silver-bright; Lilacs their purple cones unfold, And rich laburnums gleam in gold.
Julia, I own, you may command some Attention-you are young and handsome, Are fond, of course-perhaps, are true- As yet, that secret rests with you. Still be advised, and, lest you lose it, Enjoy your influence-don't abuse it. Why thus encroaching? wherefore want To fetter your enslaved gallant; As an Egyptian queen, we're told, Served a great conqueror of old, Whom from his height of fame she hurl'd, And wheedled-to resign a world?
The next count on which the exdandy is found guilty, is that of being a traitor to the authority of Mr Jackson, his place and dignity-in other words, of having cut Egan, and having thrown away his copy of that invaluable statute-book, "Boxiana."
I doubt if he has pluck remaining To venture on a six weeks training, That first of pugilistic blisses, Since he has found your smiles and kisses (So strange his taste) a greater treat Than rubbing, racing, or raw meat. And yet, one fonder of the Fancy Than Charles, of old, did ever man see? Skilled in defence, in onset skilled, All wondered as he fibbed and milled, Laying his adversary low
In no time, by a favourite blow.
Past are those glories! now, it ruffles His temper but to hear of muffles: Him at the Fives Court, or at Moulsey, Never henceforward will a soul see. Now, he's an humble tame adorer, Sneers at a facer or a floorer, Of all he learned so well of Crib, Remembering only how to fib.
The cudgels are then taken up in behalf of the scenery of the Serpentine-but our Readers will find themselves mistaken, if they look among this West-Endian's verses for any of the "Italianly" raptures of the Cockney-school.
Why should our landscape blush for shame ? "Tis fresh and gay, if flat and tame. None view it awe-struck or surprised; But still '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 fill us all with warlike rage meant, In peace-time, by a mock engagement. Next come, to furnish due variety,
The sheds of the Humane Society, In case of thaws, or inebriety; And, winding among these, a drive With gigs and curricles alive. Thence (amidst plumes and weeping willows. Swept by the zephyr, tiny billows Come rippling to the smooth cascade, So lately founded by the aid
Of pick-axe, trowel, rule, and spade Near which (his mother left the lurch in) Perchance some lounging truant urchin 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 ! And, when the quivering sun-beams dance And sparkle on thy smooth expanse ; When to thy stream the deer confides His branching horns and dappled sides; And cattle on thy shelving brink Snuff the sweet air, or stoop to drink Where trees, through all their generations, From withered stumps to new plantations, Meet, as a merry-making gathers Young children round their old grand. fathers;
Backed by the "glittering skirts" of London, Its buildings now in shade, now sunn'd on, "Twould surely any tourist gravel, (Or home or foreign be his travel,) In rummaging his sketch-book through, To find a more enlivening view Than here, by art and nature moulded, Is to his careless eye unfolded. Yet, to go further and fare worse, Folks waste their time, and drain their purse! There, where, in spring, the grass between Each dusty stripe looks fresh and green, Methinks I see the russet track Worn by the hoofs of Charles's hack, Practised to tread, with gentle pace, The paths of that enchanting place. Yet Charles that gentle pace would check, Throw the loose reins on Sancho's neck, And from the saddle, at his case, Enjoy the landscape and the breeze, As moved 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 Under 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, VOL. VII.
Who linger where the river shelves, Not backward to admire themselves.
Say, Julia, had you no compunction In issuing such a hard injunction? Say for what cause, avowed or hidden, A lounge so harmless is forbidden, While Charles the laughing world to blind, Hints that a man may change his mind? 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 how he e'er could dream Of beauty in so foul a stream!
Next follows what is deservedly the most elaborate passage of the whole poem.
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 sailors But for their shoe-makers and tailors ? So, by the cutler's sharpening skill, The bluntest weapons wound and kill: So, when 'tis scarcely fit to eat, Good cooks, by dressing, flavour meat. And as, by steam impressed with 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. Oft have I traced him through the town, Mowing whole ranks of beauty down, 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 his voluminous Cossacks-
Trowsers so called from those barbarians Nursed in the Steppes-the Crim-Tarta-
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. 3 X
Fashion's a tide which nothing stems; So the Don mingles with the Thames!
But, ere his darts were aimed to kill, One charm, he knew, was wanting still. "Weak," would he cry, "are the attacks Of your voluminous Cossacks. In vain to suffocation braced And bandaged is your wasp-like waist; In vain your buckram-waded shoulders And chest astonish all beholders; Wear any coat you will, 'tis fruitless; Those shoes, those very boots are bootless, Whose tops ('twas I advised the mixture) Are moveable, and spurs a fixture; All is 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
"Been lucky in your turns to-day?— Think not that what I ask alludes To Fortune's stale vicissitudes, To her capricious ups and downs, Her treacherous smiles, or withering frowns: Nor have I now, alas! to learn How cards, and dice, and women turn, And what prodigious contributions They levy, in their revolutions: Nor heed I, if, in times so critical, You've manag'd well your turns political. The turns of your Cravat I mean, Tell me if these have lucky been? Have your attempts at once succeeded, Or (while an hour has passed unheeded And unregretted) have you toiled Till a week's laundry has been spoiled, Ere round your neck, in every fold Exact, the muslin has been rolled, And, dexterously in front confined, Has kept the proper set behind; Not letting loose, nor pinning in One jot too much of cheek or chin? In short, by dint of hand and eye, Have you achieved a perfect tie ?- These are my turns-twere idle pother To waste a thought on any other. "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, Letting, behind its checkered screen, The secrets of your throat be seen; 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!"
Such once was Charles. No doctrine sounder
Than his, no principles profounder.
Mark the contrast-" Heu quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!
No more his well-brushed hair is sleek With eau de miel, or huile antique. The golden key no more unlocks, By Bramah's aid, his rose-wood box; And with the treasures there displayed, Dazzles the wondering chambermaid; As, on her broom reclined, she pauses, Ogling the silver cups and vases, Whence steams a mingled soft perfume, New to her nostrils, through the room.
No more with buckram or with wool His overloaded bosom's full; One glance from you is quite enough To" cleanse it of that perilous stuff." Loosed by the spell of your endearments, His tortured ribs have burst their cerements, And, like delinquents freed from jail, His waist is fairly out on bail. Julia, you've moved its habeas-corpus ; But when the man has grown a porpus, Long, long before the season's ended, 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 at once their 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.
Another splendid episode is occupied with a description of Almack's. The indecency of Waltzers is, as usual, abused, and so is the awkwardness of British Quadrillers, with printed cards in their hands; but the strictness of the regulations, and the air of Master Willis, attract the greatest portion of our author's ridicule.
What form is that, with looks so sinister?-- Willis, their Excellencies' minister.- See where in portly pride he stands To execute their high commands; Unmoved his heart, unbribed his hands. See, where the barrier he prepares Just at the bottom of the stairs, Midst fragrant flowers and shrubs exotic; A man relentless and despotic As he of Tunis, or Algiers, Or any of their Grand Visiers.
Suppose the prize by hundreds miss'd Is yours at last.-You're on the list.— Your voucher's issued, duly signed; But hold your ticket's left behind. What's to be done? there's no admission. In vain you flatter, scold, petition, Feel your blood mounting like a rocket, Fumble in vain in every pocket.
"The rule's so strict I dare not stretch it," Cries Willis, "pray, my lord, go fetch it."—
"Nonsense!" you cry, "so late at night Surely you know me, sir, by sight." "Excuse me the committee sat
Approach, O votary of Hymen! Be thou of forward, or of shy men. Approach, and at the luck rejoice
This is the moment to advance, To claim your partner in the dance, And if your fancy paints one fairer Than other nymphs, to win and wear her.
This morning."" Did they, what of that ?" Which yields such beauty to your choice. "An order given this very day My lord, I dare not disobey." "Your pardon."-Further parley's vain ; So for your ticket, in the rain, Breathless you canter home again. Thus cured (and can th' expense be less?) Are absence, and forgetfulness.
What sounds were those?-O earth and heaven!
Heard you the chimes half-past eleven ? They tell, with iron tongue, your fate, Unhappy lingerer, if you're late. Haste, while you may.-Behold! approaches The last of yonder string of coaches; Stern Willis, in a moment more, Closes th' inexorable door,
And great the conjuror must be Who can cry," open, Sesamé !"
Such is the rule, which none infringes. The door one jot upon its hinges Moves not. Once past the fatal hour, Willis has no dispensing power. Spite of persuasion, tears, or force, "The law," he cries," must take its course." And men may swear, and women pout. No matter-They are all shut out. "Friend, I'm The Ministry-give way!" "Avaunt, Lord Viscount Castlereagh ! You're doubtless in the Commons' House A mighty man, but here a mouse. This evening there was no debate Or business, and your lordship's late. We show no favour, give no quarter Here, to your ribbon, or your garter. Here for a Congress no one cares, Save that alone which sits up stairs."
Fair Worcester pleads with Wellington; Valour with Beauty. "Hence, begone! Perform elsewhere your destined parts, One conquer kingdoms, t'other hearts. My lord, you'll have enough to do; Almack's is not like Waterloo. Awhile lay by that wreath of laurels, Culled in composing Europe's quarrels ; Secure, the war-whoop at her door, In Britain's cause to gather more."- For the first time in vain, his Grace Sits down in form before the place, Finds, let him shake it to the centre, One fortress that he cannot enter, Though he should offer on its borders The sacrifice of half his orders.
The English Duke-the Spanish Lord— The Prince of Flanders-drops his sword; Compelled at last, ere break of day, To raise the siege, and march away!
But ere you try your fortune, lend An ear to good advice, my friend, And keep, if not an elder brother, Your distance from her aunt and mother. Of youthful hearts those ruthless breakers Will weigh your passion with your acres ; They deem no folly half so great As love, without a large estate; And think the nation ne'er will thrive Where younger sons presume to wive. Do what you will, say what you can, "Manors," they tell you, make the man."
From Almack's to a honey-moon scene, the transition is not, or shall not be difficult.
Say, why should grots and shrubberies hide
A lawful bridegroom and a bride! Why must they, lost in shady groves, Fit shelter for unlicensed loves, Steal from th' approving world, and seek A long probationary week
Of close retirement, as profound As if they both were under ground? Twelve hours of every four-and-twenty Left to themselves, methinks, were plenty. Then why to villas hurry down, When these, fond pair, are yours in town?
Be counselled.-Stir not, near or far, But stay, I charge you, where you are. The dream of passion soon or late Is broken-don't anticipate. Haste not to lose your hopes in fears, Stark mad for moments, dull for years; Devour not, for your comfort's sake, At once, like children, all your cake; Truth (on your memory well engrave it) Whispers, you cannot eat and have it. Gold is too precious lay it not So thickly on a single spot;
But beat the bullion-husbands, wives- And spread it over all your lives.
In the August Number it would be unpardonable to omit the following picture of London "once again on fire!"
Through silent and deserted streets No kindred form the lounger meets ; No curricle nor chariot wears
The pavement of the western squares; But hackney-coachmen fold their hands,
So much for the entrance-Now for And sleep, despairing, on their stands;
To give their graceful motions scope, Now, tightly stretched, the barrier-rope Hems in Quadrillers, nymph and spark, Like bounding deer within a park; Now dropped, transforms the floor again For Waltzers, to an open plain.
Or, roused, make signs with whip and fingers To tempt the bashful fare, who lingers Doubtful to mount or not, and staring At houses painting and repairing. You mark no fresh-caught rustic dodging Now here, now there, to find a lodging, Indifferent to what rent he's liable, So that the street is " undeniable,"
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