The First of April Part 1

The First of April.

by William Combe.

DEDICATION

TO A

CELEBRATED DUTCHESS.

MADAM,

I am rather apprehensive that you will rank me among the Impertinents of the Age, in giving a performance which treats professedly of the Triumphs of Folly, the Sanction of Your Grace. But tho', in the too great quickness of apprehension, this may be the case; I have not the least doubt but, in some succeeding moments of coolness and candour, you will accompany me through this Address; and not suffer a condemning spirit to pa.s.s a final sentence upon me, without giving some little attention to my justification.

I need not tell Your Grace, that, in former times, every Family of Distinction was considered as incomplete in its establishment, if it did not possess a certain whimsical Character called a _Fool_; who was either to afford amus.e.m.e.nt to his witty Master by the real singularity of his Humour,--or to act as a foil to his foolish Lord by well-timed displays of affected Folly.--These appendages to Greatness have long been laid aside.--Indeed, the present Age, which is remarkable for its refinements, has, in the general methods of forming the Great, blended the two Characters;--and it does not seldom happen, as Your Grace very well knows, that a Modern Man of Fashion serves his Company both as their _Host_ and their _Buffoon_. I cannot therefore, in justice, be considered as guilty of any impropriety in addressing this work to Your Grace, as it relates to a Personage, who has heretofore possessed, as it were, a domestic union with the Great, by furnishing, from among her Children, the _chief Wits_ of their n.o.ble Houses.

Tho' it has changed its appearance, the connection has not ceased to subsist; and FOLLY, though she extends her influence over all ranks and professions, still seems more particularly attached to the higher Orders of Life.

FOLLY loves the Toilette of a Woman of Fashion!--It is her Altar.--The enormity of its expences,--the frivolousness, to say no worse, of its conversation,--and the time which is lost in attending its duties, are so many offerings to her honour. The love of display is inherent in her nature:--every place of public amus.e.m.e.nt is, more or less, her delight;--but an _Opera_ is her favourite entertainment.--There, she not only presides, but triumphs.--There, Sense, Taste, and Reason, lie beneath her Feet.

As she is now become your intimate companion, I will not mortify Your Grace with the history of her origin, and an account of her genealogy, which I am sure would greatly distress you. Believe me, Madam, I should be sorry to give you a moment's mortification. My sincere desire is to do you good, by warning you of the danger which awaits such a disgraceful connection.

At your time of life it is not wholly unnatural that you should find something pleasant in the frolic gaiety of your Friend; and the Flatterers, who are alike under her influence, may find something graceful in the manners which she might communicate to you: but in the Mirror of Wisdom, the highest beauties of FOLLY appear but as foul deformities; and she is there seen in her natural appearance, attended by Vice, Contempt, and Misery.

_The Prosperity of Fools_, says the Wise Man, _shall destroy them_. The influence of FOLLY is more dangerous, as the station it possesses is more exalted; and as the means of doing good are more enlarged among the Rich and Great, that time is the more to be lamented which they consume in frivolous pursuits and empty pleasures.

Without intruding upon your recollection the more awful obligations attendant upon your station in the world, you will forgive me if I just hint to Your Grace that Society has claims upon you, which you cannot refuse but with dishonour to yourself, and the contempt of those who possess the right which you refuse to grant; a contempt which they will not fail to bestow.

Give then to Society what it requires--a great and n.o.ble example of _female excellence_.--Discard your present a.s.sociate;--cultivate the more solid Graces;--exalt your character by the dignity of Virtue;--and let continual actions of Benevolence and Generosity mark those hours which are pa.s.sing hastily away, and will never return.

Should Your Grace honour the following Poem, if it may deserve that name, with a perusal, you will, perhaps, consider me as a visionary Character.--Be that as it may,--I am quite awake to your Honour and Interest in the Counsels I have given you; and if your Grace should adopt them, you will awake also.--The Visions of Folly will vanish away;--and your eyes will open on the real prospect of wise and honourable days.

I am, Madam, with all due respect,

Your Grace's most sincere Friend,

And humble Servant,

THE

FIRST OF APRIL.

'Twas on the Morn when _April_ doth appear, And wets the Primrose with its maiden tear; 'Twas on the Morn when laughing FOLLY rules, And calls her Sons around, and dubs them Fools; Bids them be bold, some untry'd path explore, And do such deeds as Fools ne'er did before; 'Twas on that Morn, when Fancy took her stand Beside my couch, and, with fantastic wand, Wav'd, from her airy cells, the Antic Train That play their gay delusions on the brain: And strait, methought, a rude impetuous Throng, With noise and riot, hurried me along, To where a sumptuous Building met my eyes, Whose gilded turrets seem'd to dare the skies.

To every Wind it op'd an ample door, From every Wind tumultuous thousands pour.

With these I enter'd a stupendous Hall, The scene of some approaching festival.

O'er the wide portals, full in sight, were spread Banners of yellow hue, bestrip'd with red, Whereon, in golden characters, were seen: THE ANNIVERSARY OF FOLLY'S QUEEN!

Strange motley ornaments the Building grac'd, With every emblem of corrupted Taste.

No stately Column rose to meet the Dome, No Sculpture borrow'd from the Arts of Rome; No well-wrought Frieze crept graceful on the walls, Th' _Acanthus_ weav'd no splendid Capitals; Nor did the Attic elegance supply One simple foliage for the judging eye.

But, in their stead, Confusion void of Sense, And all the pride of false Magnificence, Display'd an idle, vain, fantastic show, Fit only for the Crowd that gaz'd below.

Gay China's unsubstantial forms supply The place of Beauty, Strength, Simplicity.

Each varied colour, of the brightest hue, The green, the red, the yellow, and the blue, In every part the dazzled eyes behold, Here streak'd with silver, there enrich'd with gold; While fancied forms upon the ceiling sprawl, And shapeless monsters decorate the wall.

In every scatter'd niche I look'd in vain For Heroes famous on th' embattled plain; Or animated Bust, whose brow severe Mark'd the sage Statesman or Philosopher.

But in the place of those whose Patriot fame Gave glory to the Greek and Roman name, Or Heroes who for Freedom bravely fought, Men without heads,--and Heads that' never thought, Greet my sick eye,--with all their names enroll'd In the vain pomp of prost.i.tuted gold.

Nor had the Painter's active hand restrain'd The all-bedaubing brush: the walls were stain'd With the gay colourings of capricious Art, Wherein nor Truth nor Genius bore a part.

There _Sigismunda_'s form again I knew, Which FOLLY hinted, and old _Hogarth_ drew.

No sketch of REYNOLD's pencil did appear, Science and Taste found no admittance there; But the vain Painter had essay'd to trace, In rude distortion, and with strange grimace, Each story the Historic Pages tell, Where FOLLY triumph'd, and where WISDOM fell.

There the great BACON, whose sagacious eye Pierc'd through the gloom of dark Philosophy, And to the World unveil'd her awful face, Crouch'd a low, servile Courtier in disgrace.

There PULTENEY, who the first stout bulwark stood Of British Freedom 'gainst the torrent flood Of dire Corruption, having stemm'd the wave, Shook off the Patriot, and became the Slave.

There PITT, whose great and comprehensive soul No threats could frighten, no events controul; Whose name dash'd terror on his Country's foes, From GALLIA'S Sh.o.r.es to where the GANGES flows Through Eastern Nations;--There he wore the chain Of Royal Gold, and join'd the pension'd Train.

But the Muse weeps, and drops the silent tear O'er the sad truths which were recorded there.

High, in the midst, a Pageant of a Throne In the extreme of Tinsel Splendor shone.

No Sacred Ensigns, no Imperial Chair, Mark'd the high worth of those who counseled there; But, shaded by a Curtain's vivid green, A splendid, soft, luxuriant Couch was seen.

The spangled Banners glitter'd all around, And the unfolded Silver strew'd the ground; While the false Mirrors pain the dazzled eye With mingled Forms, and gay Perplexity.

Hung from the roof by many a golden thread, The Canopy its airy cov'ring spread, Inwove with plumage borrow'd from the wing } Of India's feather'd Tribe, or those that sing } 'Mid the green woodlands of a Western Spring. } Before the Throne a splendid Altar stood, Inlaid, in curious forms, with fragrant wood; Whereon the faithful Votaries might lay Their Offerings sacred to the festal day.

Methought, that, tir'd of the disgusting scene, Fit for Fools only, and their silly Queen, I sought in haste to leave the inglorious Throng: But as the pressing Crowd my steps prolong, The deafening Cymbals, and the noisy brawl Of pealing Laughter, ecchoed round the Hall.

And strait a troop of dancing Youths appear'd, Of rosy hue, by friendly BACCHUS chear'd.

The tinkling bells upon their feet they wore; Each, in his hand, a rural Tabor bore, Whose sides they frequent beat, and, at the sound, Aloft in air, with, antic step, they bound.

Next came a blooming Boy in robe of green; On his fair brow a flowery crown was seen, Where the pale Primrose with the Cowslip vied, And fragrant Violets shone in purple pride.

Upon a Bull he rode, whose horns were gay With many a golden flower and budding spray.

Around him every vernal Songster fled, While the Lark soar'd and whistled o'er his head.

And now he smil'd with joy, and now, apace, The crystal tears bedew'd his alter'd face.

Like the young Fondling on his Mother's breast, Who cries for absent joys, and thinks them best: 'Mid smiles, and tears, and frowns, he onward came, With gentle pace,--and APRIL was his name.

To him succeeds a light and frolic Train Of wanton Females, insolent and vain, Whose cheeks, by Art encrimson'd, far outvie The vivid hue of blushing Modesty.

Their auburn ringlets float not in the air; No silken fillet binds their flowing hair; But, plaister'd into form, the curls disgrace Each animated feature of the face.

The gladsome Fair, in honour of the day, With artificial flow'rets strew'd the way.

But in what language shall the Muse describe The dancing, dressing Millinery Tribe, Who, with their various emblems, next appear, And joyful tell th' approach of FASHION near.

With mincing step the fickle Princess came: Th' attending Crowds shout forth her empty name.

Strange was her form,--her look, her dress were strange; And yet each moment saw their sudden change.

Now her Locks soar aloft, and threat the sky; Now shade the brightness of her rolling eye: Awhile they on her wanton bosom break; Then, upward forc'd, display th' uncover'd neck.

Ere the long train could spread its shady folds,-- Drawn up,--a knot the alter'd vestment holds.

Soon fade the glories of th' enormous Plume; As soon the superseding Chaplets bloom.

The rigid Stay, whose daring height conceals Those swelling charms where many a Cupid dwells, Ere they can heave again,--no more appear; But leave each vulgar eye to revel there.

As I look'd down, the dropping Silk denies Her pretty feet to my intruding eyes: Again I look'd,--th' according flounce updrew, And gave the well-turn'd ankle to my view.

Now stiff,--now slouching in her gait she walk'd; Now lisp'd, now mouth'd each sentence as she talk'd.