Women, as Chesterfield long since avowed,
Love to be jammed and hustled in a crowd,
But I detest it. I delight in space;
A mob's a mob, whatever be its place.
A man, whose name I do not care to tell,
(Jones, Brown, or Robinson will do as well),
Grown rich in trade, must needs at last aspire
To buy a country seat and act the squire.
Became a magistrate, to sessions went,
And talked of poachers, foxes, crops, and rent;
Denounced the malt tax, took to Church, learnt whist,
Allowed his daughter to turn Ritualist,
Came out a Tory of the deepest blue,
Though once a Radical and Baptist too-
Conformed, in short, in every point, and then
Was welcomed by the country gentlemen.
His wife too, anxious to essay the sphere
Of rank and birth and fashion, said: "My dear,
We'll give a ball at Almack's. Write and say
We want the rooms. What? When? Six weeks to-day."
"Whom can we ask-we do not know a soul ?"
"Leave that to me, and I'll arrange the whole.
We know the Duchess; I'll consult her Grace,
She'll issue all the cards, and fill the place."
The Duchess graciously invited all
Her friends, and hers alone, to Jones's ball;
The numerous guests arrive, her Grace receives
With all the ease of birth and strawberry leaves;
The Joneses, who at length discerned their doom
Remained-the only strangers in the room.
The crowd grows thicker, and the luckless host
Makes to the door, and leans against its post,
Buried in thought, he cursed himself, his wife,
Society, and fashionable life,
When a familiar voice salutes his ear:
"What? Jones? Why, who the devil asked you here ?" We live, my friend, in a commercial age,
A duke sells game, a duchess patronage.
Men gather money with such reckless haste,
That, while they save, they don't see what they waste;
For, after each has given his steadiest pains,
His losses far outnumber all his gains.
All kindly sympathies of human life
Are trodden out amid the restless strife;
What sense has that man of the nobler joys
Whose heart is full of dirt, whose head of noise?
Whose mind is bent so wholly upon pelf
That he disdains what is not like himself?
Who thinks his dross the grandest thing on earth,
And by his money only measures worth;
Who always fancies that the meanest vice,
The loftiest virtue, has a market price;
Who's truthful, since he knows there's loss in doubt;
Who's honest, only since he's not found out?
Now let him save, scrape, labour to the end,
Forfeit peace, wisdom, honour, own no friend,
Bury his heart inside his gathered store
(He gains this only, and he gains no more);
One sentence tells the substance of his claims-
One sentence represents his highest aims:
"There Twopence-halfpenny turns up his nose,
And scorns the wealth which Twopence-farthing shows."
Suppose you were to follow nature's voice,
Suppose no habit did pervert your choice,
How, if you had resolved to settle down,
Could you do better than select this town?
Half rural, and half urban, it supplies
All that life needs, and so with London vies.
Its park and gardens are, believe me, just
As in a village, free from smoke and dust.
Here it is possible, in sleepy nooks,
To pore or nod o'er endless rows of books;
Here, as I glance through many an ancient page,
And con the learning of a bygone age,
I marvel, as these fossil thoughts I note,
That folks were found to read what others wrote.
Is London cheerier in November's rime,
Or is it healthier in the summer time,
When every man who is not six foot five
(If Tyndall's right) breathes air that's all alive?
Close to the ceaseless rumble of the street,
Your sleep is sound perhaps, but is it sweet?
The bright and fragrant turf where nature smiles
Is ten times pleasanter than Minton's tiles.
The fresh drawn water, sparkling from my well,
Is better far to sight, to taste, to smell,
Than what you get from Chelsea water-works,
Where sewage festers and where poison lurks;
Which eats the lead, and fruitful of disease,
Gives you the colic, and your doctor fees.
You Londoners still show how much you prize
The rustic life, which you, forsooth, despise.
In every part of town the proof is seen.
Look at the stunted flowers of Bethnal Green-
The little greenhouses of tinted glass-
The tiny plots of cherished City grass.
Your rents are far beyond my modest mark,
They're doubled, if the house commands the Park.
Thrust Nature out, ay, drive her far away,
Back she returns, and slily holds her sway.
Fashion may thwart her will, but should she please
She bursts the strongest barriers at her ease.
The thoughtless victim of a tradesman's sham,
Who knows not Mechlin lace from Nottingham;
The gull, who, hoaxed by Yorkshire copers, buys
A hack that roars, and jibs, and rears, and shies;
The fool, whom florid circulars incline
To risk his savings in an Emma mine;
Who backs turf favourites to a huge amount,
Or plays écarté with a Polish count:
Not one of these provokes a surer fate,
None buys experience at a dearer rate,
Than he who says he does what others do,
But can't tell what is false and what is true.
If, adding much to what you had before
Good fortune spoils you, bad will spoil you more;
Allow your happiness on wealth to hinge,
You'll find the loss of wealth the sharpest twinge;
You have enough; be happy as you are,
For greater riches mean but greater care;
Beneath a modest roof, content will gain
What kings and courtiers seek, and seek in vain;
Use what you have for what is just and fit,
Then yours belongs to you, not you to it.
Sent to a distant land in early youth
Brown made his way by honour, thrift, and truth. Ten years he worked and saved, then satisfied, Back to his native land our merchant hied.
A man of worth as well as wealth, he sought
How he might wisely use the cash he'd brought.
He clearly saw his fortune could be graced
Only by prudence, candour, judgment, taste,
Assumed no airs, indulged in no pretence,
Guided his words, his acts, by common sense,
Maintained his self-respect, though glad to please,
Seemed not to aim, but won his aims with ease,
And proved that he had learned the highest tact
When no one feared, and no one dared detract,
(I don't say hate, for some men are so nice
That they can't bear a man without a vice).
Well, such a hater, with a well-bred sneer
(He took good care that all the room should hear),
Said, "Dawdle asked me, Brown, if I could tell
What are your shield, your arms, your motto:" well:
Brown winced, grew red, looked puzzled for a while,
Then answered gaily with a pleasant smile:
"My shield is Or, sir, and the arms I bear
Three mushrooms rampant; motto, 'Here we are.'
You know the story of the Stag and Horse,
And how, by dint of his superior force,
(His horns enabling him to stand at bay),
The Stag contrived to drive the Horse away,
Usurped the common pasture as his own,
In clover lived and reigned, and reigned alone;
And how, despairing of a better plan,
The baffled Horse implored the help of Man,
Lent all his strength to aid his patron's wit,
Endured the saddle, rider, spur, and bit,
Triumphed and victor in a righteous cause,
For ever bears the bit between his jaws.
Thus he who, dreading poverty, consents
To barter freedom for the Three per Cents,
And seeks, poor devil, how to scrape and save,
Still bears a master, and still lives a slave,
Because, forsooth, his spirit can't endure
To hear that Smith is rich while he is poor.
Men's fortunes are like boots, this pair when worn
Is found too tight, and gives the man a corn;
Put on a pair that's bigger than is meet,
You sprain your ancle or you gall your feet.
Live,
And if you ever find that I am not,
Should you discern at any time that I
Angle for favour, flatter, fawn, or lie,
Quit work for which an honest market
And seek more fortune by dishonest ways,
Censure me roundly, warn your erring friend,
Spare no reproach and fear not to offend.
then, contented with your lot,
What each man has, what each can earn and hoard,
As he employs it, is his slave or lord,
The man who deals in pigs, if they're alive,
Finds it saves time to carry, not to drive.
Would you were here! I sit and write to you,
Hard by the wall, inside a tower, at New.
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