Part 126 (1/2)

With eager haste to town they flew, Where all must please, for all was new.

But here, by strict poetic laws, Description claims its proper pause.

The rosy morn had raised her head From old t.i.thonus' saffron bed; And embryo sunbeams from the east, Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, When forth advanced the gilded chaise; The village crowded round to gaze.

The pert postilion, now promoted From driving plough, and neatly booted, His jacket, cap, and baldric on, (As greater folks than he have done,) Looked round; and, with a c.o.xcomb air, Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair Bowed graceful, from a separate door, And Jenny, from the stool before.

Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes New objects every moment rise.

Each carriage pa.s.sing on the road, From the broad waggon's ponderous load To the light car, where mounted high The giddy driver seems to fly, Were themes for harmless satire fit, And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit.

Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, No noise was harsh, no danger frightful.

The dash and splash through thick and thin, The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, (Where well-bred landlords were so ready To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, Determined to be pleased, and please.

Now nearer town, and all agog, They know dear London by its fog.

Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, Through Brentford win a pa.s.sage free By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!'

At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, With palaces to grace its side, Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze Concludes the journey of three days.

Why should we paint, in tedious song, How every day, and all day long, They drove at first with curious haste Through Lud's vast town; or, as they pa.s.sed 'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, Describe how strong their wonder grew At buildings--and at builders too?

Scarce less astonishment arose At architects more fair than those-- Who built as high, as widely spread The enormous loads that clothed their head.

For British dames new follies love, And, if they can't invent, improve.

Some with erect paG.o.das vie, Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, Convolved, contorted, and compressed; With intermingling trees, and flowers, And corn, and gra.s.s, and shepherd's bowers, Stage above stage the turrets run, Like pendent groves of Babylon, Till nodding from the topmost wall Otranto's plumes envelop all!

Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, Unconscious that their tails perfume, In scented curls, the drawing-room.

When Night her murky pinions spread, And sober folks retire to bed, To every public place they flew, Where Jenny told them who was who.

Money was always at command, And tripped with pleasure hand in hand.

Money was equipage, was show, Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; The _pa.s.se-partout_ through every vein Of dissipation's hydra reign.

O London, thou prolific source, Parent of vice, and folly's nurse!

Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs Sp.a.w.n hourly births--and all with stings: But happiest far the he, or she,

I know not which, that livelier dunce Who first contrived the coterie,

To crush domestic bliss at once.

Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, As Nero fiddled to the flames.

Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak With reverence, though in numbers weak; Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, We spare the follies for the pile.

Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, With lamps above, and lamps below, Thy charms even modern taste defied, They could not spoil thee, though they tried.

Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings Must sweep thee off with vulgar things!

Let architects of humbler name On frail materials build their fame, Their n.o.blest works the world might want, Wyatt should build in adamant.

But what are these to scenes which lie Secreted from the vulgar eye, And baffle all the powers of song?-- A brazen throat, an iron tongue, (Which poets wish for, when at length Their subject soars above their strength,) Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, Who only reads the public news And idly utters what she gleans From chronicles and magazines, Recoiling feels her feeble fires, And blus.h.i.+ng to her shades retires, Alas! she knows not how to treat The finer follies of the great, Where even, Democritus, thy sneer Were vain as Herac.l.i.tus' tear.

Suffice it that by just degrees They reached all heights, and rose with ease; (For beauty wins its way, uncalled, And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) Each gambling dame she knew, and he Knew every shark of quality; From the grave cautious few who live On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, To the light train who mimic France, And the soft sons of _nonchalance_.

While Jenny, now no more of use, Excuse succeeding to excuse, Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew To s.h.i.+lling whist, and chicken loo.

Advanced to fas.h.i.+on's wavering head, They now, where once they followed, led.

Devised new systems of delight, A-bed all day, and up all night, In different circles reigned supreme.