The Progress of DULNESS.

[Part II.]

'TWAS in a town remote (the place
We leave the reader wise to guess;
For readers wise can guess full well,
What authors never meant to tell)

There dwelt secure a Country-clown,
The wealthiest Farmer of the town;
Tho' rich by villainy and cheats,
He bought respect by frequent treats;
Gain'd offices by constant seeking,
Squire, Captain, Deputy and Deacon;
Great was his pow'r; his pride as arrant:
One only Son his heir apparent.
He thought the Stripling's parts were quick,
And vow'd to make a man of Dick;
Bless'd the pert dunce, and prais'd his looks,
And put him early to his books.

More oaths than words Dick learn'd to speak,
And studied knav'ry more than greek;
Three years at school, as usual, spent,
Then all equipt to College went,
And pleas'd in prospect, thus bestow'd
His meditations, as he rode.

"All hail, unvex'd with care and strife,
The bliss of Academic Life;
Where kind repose protracts the span,
While Childhood ripens into man;
Where no hard parent's dreaded rage
Curbs the gay sports of youthful age;
Where no vile fear the Genius awes
With grim severity of laws;
Where annual troops of Bucks come down,
The flow'r of ev'ry neighb'ring town;
Where wealth and pride and riot wait,
And ev'ry rogue may find his mate.

Far from those walls, from pleasure's eye,
Let care and grief and labour fly,
The toil to gain the laurel-prize.
That dims the anxious student's eyes,
The pedant-air of learned looks,
And long fatigue of turning books.
Let poor, dull rogues, with weary pains,
To college come to mend their brains,
And drudge four years, with grave concern,
How they may wiser grow and learn.
Is wealth of indolence afraid,
Or does wit need pedantic aid?
The man of wealth the world descries,
Without the help of learning, wise;
The magic pow'rs of gold, with ease,
Transform us to what shape we please,
Give knowledge bright and courage brave,
And wits, that nature never gave.
But nought avails the hoarded treasure;
In spending only lies the pleasure.

There Vice shall lavish all her charms,
And Rapture fold us in her arms,
Riot shall court the frolic soul,
And Swearing crown the sparkling bowl;
While Wit shall sport with vast applause,
And scorn the feeble tie of laws;
Our midnight joys no rule shall bound,
While games and dalliance revel round.
Such pleasures youthful years can know,
And Schools there are, that such bestow.

And oh, that School how greatly blest,
By fate distinguish'd from the rest,
Whose seat is fix'd on sacred ground,
By Venus 'nunn'ries circled round;
Where not, like monks, in durance hard,
From all the joys of love debarr'd,
The solitary Youth in pain
For rapture sighs, yet sighs in vain:
But kind occasion prompts desire
And crowns the gay, licentious fire,
And Pleasure courts the sons of Science,
And Whores and Muses hold alliance.

Not Those so blest, for ease and sport,
Where Wealth and Idleness resort,
Where free from censure and from shame,
They seek of learning, but the name,
Their crimes of all degrees and sizes
Aton'd by golden sacrifices:
Where kind instructors fix their price,
In just degrees on ev'ry vice,
And fierce in zeal 'gainst wicked courses,
Demand repentance — of their purses;
Till sin, thus tax'd, produces clear
A copious income ev'ry year,
And the fair Schools thus free from scruples,
Thrive by the knav'ry of their Pupils.

Ev'n thus the Pope, long since has made
Of human crimes a gainful trade;
Keeps ev'ry pleasing vice for sale,
For cash, by wholesale, or retail.
There, pay the prices and the fees,
Buy rapes, or lies, or what you please,
Then sin secure, with firm reliance,
And bid the ten commands defiance.

And yet, alas, these happiest Schools
Preserve a set of musty rules,
And in their wisest progress show,
Perfection is not found below.
Ev'n there, indulg'd, in humble station,
Learning resides by toleration;
No law forbids the youth to read;
For sense, no tortures are decreed;
There study injures but the name,
And meets no punishment, but shame. "

Thus reas'ning, Dick goes forth to find
A College suited to his mind;
But bred in distant woods, the Clown
Brings all his country-airs to town;
The odd address with awkward grace,
That bows with all-averted face;
The half heard compliments, whose note
Is swallow'd in the trembling throat;
The stiffen'd gait, the drawling tone,
By which his native place is known;
The blush, that looks, by vast degrees,
Too much like modesty to please:
The proud displays of awkward dress,
That all the Country-fop express,
The suit right gay, tho' much belated,
Whose fashion's superannuated;
The watch, depending far in state,
Whose iron chain might form a grate;
The silver buckle, dread to view,
O'ershad'wing all the clumsy shoe;
The white-glov'd hand, that tries to peep
From ruffle, full five inches deep;
With fifty odd affairs beside,
The foppishness of country-pride.

Poor Dick! tho' first thy airs provoke
Th' obstrep'rous laugh and scornful joke,
Doom'd all the ridicule to stand,
While each gay dunce shall lend a hand;
Yet let not scorn dismay thy hope
To shine a Witling and a Fop.
Blest impudence the prize shall gain,
And bid thee sigh no more in vain.
Thy varied dress shall quickly show
At once the spendthrift and the Beau.
With pert address and noisy tongue,
That scorns the fear of prating wrong,
'Mongst listning coxcombs shalt thou shine,
And ev'ry voice shall echo thine.
As when, disjointed from the stock,
We view with scorn the shapeless block,
The skilful statuary hews us
The wood in any form he chuses;
So shall the arts of Fops in town
From thee smooth off the rugged clown,
The rubbish of thy mien shall clear,
Till all the Beau in pomp appear.

How blest the brainless Fop, whose praise
Is doom'd to grace these happy days,
When wellbred Vice can genius teach,
And fame is placed in Folly's reach;
Impertinence all tastes can hit,
And ev'ry Rascal is a Wit.
The lowest dunce, without despairing,
May learn the true sublime, of swearing,
Learn the nice art of jests obscene,
(While Ladies wonder what they mean)
The heroism of brazen lungs,
The rhet'ric of eternal tongues;
While whim usurps the name of spirit,
And impudence takes place of merit,
And ev'ry money'd Clown and Dunce
Commences Gentleman at once.

For now, by easy rules of trade,
Mechanic Gentlemen are made!
From handycrafts of fashion born;
Those very arts so much their scorn.
To tailors half themselves they owe,
Who make the clothes, that make the Beau.

Lo! from the seats, where (Fops to bless)
Learn'd Artists fix the forms of dress,
And sit in consultation grave,
On folded skirt, or straitned sleeve,
The Coxcomb trips with sprightly haste,
In all the flush of modern taste:
Oft turning, if the day be fair,
To view his shadow's graceful air;
Wellpleas'd with eager eye runs o'er
The laced suit glittring gay before;
The ruffle, where from open'd vest
The rubied brooch adorns the breast;
The coat with length'ning waist behind,
Whose short skirts dangle in the wind;
The modish hat, whose breadth contains
The measure of its owner's brains;
The stockings gay with silken hues;
The little toe-encircling shoes;
The cane, on whose carv'd top is shown
And head just emblem of his own;
While wrapt in self, with lofty stride,
His little heart elate with pride,
He struts in all the joys of show,
That Tailors give, or Beaus can know.

And who for Beauty need repine,
That's sold at ev'ry Barber's sign;
Nor lies in features or complexion,
But curls dispos'd in meet direction,
With strong pomatum's grateful odour,
And quantum sufficit of powder?
These charms can shed a sprightly grace,
O'er the dull eye and clumsy face;
While the trim Dancing-master's art
Shall gestures, trips and bows impart,
Give the gay piece its final touches,
And lend those airs, would lure a Dutchess.

Thus shines the form, nor aught behind,
The gifts that deck the Coxcomb's mind;
Then hear the daring muse disclose
The sense and Piety of Beaus.

To grace his speech, let France bestow
A set of compliments for show;
Land of Politeness! that affords
The treasure of newfangled words,
And endless quantities disburses
Of bows and compliments and curses:
The soft address, with airs so sweet,
That cringes at the Ladies feet;
The pert, vivacious, play-house style,
That wakes the gay assembly's smile;
Jests that his brother-beaus may hit,
And pass with young Coquettes for wit,
And, priz'd by Fops of true discerning,
Outface the pedantry of learning.
Yet Learning too shall lend its aid,
To fill the Coxcomb's spongy head,
And studious oft he shall peruse
The labours of the Modern Muse.
From endless loads of Novels gain
Soft, simpring tales of am'rous pain,
With double meanings, neat and handy,
From Rochester and Tristram Shandy. 
The blundring aid of weak Reviews,
That forge the fetters of the muse,
Shall give him airs of criticizing
On faults of books, he ne'er seteyes on.
The Magazines shall teach the fashion,
And common-place of conversation,
And where his knowledge fails, afford
The aid of many a sounding word.

Then least Religion he should need,
Of pious Hume he'll learn his creed,
By strongest demonstration shown,
Evince that nothing can be known;
Take arguments, unvex'd by doubt,
On Voltaire's trust, or go without;
'Gainst Scripture rail in modern lore,
As thousand fools have rail'd before:
Or pleas'd, a nicer art display
T' expound its doctrines all away,
Suit it to modern taste and fashions
By various notes and emendations;
The rules the ten commands contain,
With new provisos well explain;
Prove all Religion was but fashion,
Beneath the Jewish dispensation,
A ceremonious law, deep-hooded
In types and figures long exploded;
Its stubborn fetters all unfit
For these free times of Gospel-light,
This Rake's Millennium, since the day
When Sabbaths first were done away;
Since Shame, the worst of deadly fiends,
On Virtue, as its 'Squire, attends;
Since Pandar-conscience holds the door,
And lewdness is a vice no more;
And fools may, swift as crimes convey 'em,
Flee to their place, and no man stay 'em.

Alike his poignant with displays
The darkness of the former days,
When men the paths of duty sought,
And own'd what revelation taught;
E'er human reason grew so bright,
Men could see all things by its light,
And summon'd Scripture to appear,
And stand before its bar severe,
To clear its page from charge of fiction,
And answer pleas of contradiction;
E'er myst'ries first were held in scorn,
Or Bolingbroke, or Hume were born.

And now the Fop, with great energy,
Levels at Priestcraft and the Clergy,
At holy cant and godly pray'rs,
And bigot's hypocritic airs;
Musters each vet'ran jest to aid,
Calls Piety the Parson's trade;
Cries out 'tis shame, past all abiding,
The world should still be so Priest-ridden;
Applauds free thought, that scorns controul,
And gen'rous nobleness of soul,
That acts its pleasure, good or evil,
And fears nor Deity, nor Devil.
These standing topics never fail
To prompt our little Wits to rail,
With mimic droll'ry of grimace,
And pleas'd impertinence of face,
'Gainst Virtue arm their feeble forces,
And sound the charge in peals of curses.

Blest be his ashes! (under ground
If any particles be found)
Who, friendly to the Coxcomb-race,
First taught these arts of common-place,
These topics fine, on which the Beau
May all his little wits bestow,
Secure the simple laugh to raise,
And gain the Dunce's palm of praise.
For where's the theme that Beaus could hit
With least similitude of wit,
Did not Religion and the Priest
Supply materials for the jest?
The poor in purse, with metals vile
For current coins, the world beguile;
The poor in brain, for genuine wit
Pass off a viler counterfeit;
(While various thus their doom appears,
These lose their souls, and those their ears)
The want of fancy, whim supplies,
And native humour, mad caprice;
Loud noise for argument goes off,
For mirth polite, the ribald's scoff;
For sense, lewd droll'riesentertain us,
And wit is mimick'd by prophaneness.

Thus 'twixt the Tailor and the Player,
And Hume, and Tristram and Voltaire,
Complete in modern trim array'd.
The Clock work-Gentleman is made;
As thousand Fops e'er Dick have shone,
In airs, which Dick e'er long shall own.

But not immediate from the Clown,
He gains this zenith of renown;
Slow dawns the Coxcomb's op'ning ray:
Rome was not finish'd in a day.
Perfection is the work of time;
Gradual he mounts the height sublime;
First shines abroad with bolder grace,
In suits of second-handed lace,
And learns by rote, like studious play'rs,
The fop's infinity of airs;
Till merit, to full ripeness grown,
By constancy attains the crown.

Now should our tale at large proceed
Here I might tell, and you might read
At college next how Dick went on,
And prated much and studied none;
Yet shone with fair, unborrow'd ray,
And steer'd where nature led the way.
What tho' each academic Science
Bade all his efforts bold defiance!
What tho' in Algebra his station
Was negative in each equation;
Tho' in Astronomy survey'd,
His constant course was retrograde;
O'er Newton's system tho' he sleeps,
And finds his wits in dark eclipse!
His talents prov'd of highest price
At all the arts of Cards and Dice;
His genius turn'd, with greatest skill,
To whist, loo, cribbage and quadrille,
And taught, to ev'ry rival's shame,
Each nice distinction of the game.

As noonday sun, the case is plain,
Nature has nothing made in vain.
The blind mole cannot fly; 'tis found
His genius leads him under ground;
The man, that was not made to think,
Was born to game, and swear, and drink:
Let Fops defiance bid to satire,
Mind Tully's rule, and follow nature.

Yet here the Muse, of Dick, must tell
He shone in active seenes as well;
The foremost place in riots held;
In all the gifts of noise excell'd;
His tongue, the bell, whose rattling din wou'd
Summon the Rake's nocturnal synod;
Swore with a grace, that seem'd design'd
To emulate th' infernal kind,
Nor only make their realms his due,
But learn, betimes, their language too;
And well expert in arts polite,
Drank wine by quarts to mend his sight,
(For he that drinks, till all things reel,
Sees double, and that's twice as well)
And e'er its force confin'd his feet,
Led out his mob to scour the street;
Made all authority his may game,
And strain'd his little wits toplague 'em.
Then, ev'ry crime aton'd with ease,
Pro meritis receiv'd degrees;
And soon, as fortune chanc'd to fall,
His Father died and left him all:
Then, bent to gain all modern fashions,
He sail'd to visit foreign nations,
Resolv'd, by toil unaw'd t' import,
The follies of the British Court;
But in his course o'erlook'd whate'er
Was learn'd or valu'd, rich or rare.

As fire electric draws together
Each hair and straw and dust and feather,
The travell'd Dunce collects betimes
The levities of other climes;
And when long toil has giv'n success,
Returns his native land to bless,
A Patriot-fop, that struts by rules,
And Knight of all the shire of fools.

The praise of other learning lost,
To know the world is all his boast,
By conduct teach our Country-wigeons,
How Coxcombs shine in other regions,
Display his travell'd airs and fashions,
And scoff at College-educations. 

Whoe'er at College points his sneer,
Proves that himself learn'd nothing there,
And wisely makes his honest aim
To pay the mutual debt of shame.

Mean while our Hero's anxious care
Was all employ'd to please the Fair;
With vows of love and airs polite,
Oft sighing at some Lady's feet;
Pleas'd, while he thus in form addrest her,
With his own gracefulness of gesture,
And gaudy flatt'ry, that displays
A studied elegance of phrase.
So gay at balls the Coxcomb shone,
He thought the Female world his own.
By beauty's charms he ne'er was fir'd;
He flatter'd where the world admir'd.
Himself (so well he priz'd desert)
Possest his own unrivall'd heart;
Nor charms, nor chance, nor change could move
The firm foundations of his love:
His heart, so constant and so wise,
Pursued what Sages old advise,
Bade others seek for fame or pelf;
His only study was Himself.

Yet Dick allow'd the Fair, desert,
Nor wholly scorn'd them in his heart;
There was an end (as oft he said)
For which alone the Sex were made,
Whereto, of nature's rules observant,
He strove to render them subservient;
And held the Fair by inclination,
Were form'd exactly for their station,
That real virtue ne'er could find
Her lodging in a female mind;
Quoted from Pope, in phrase so smart,
That all the Sex are "rakes at heart,"
And prais'd Mahomet's sense, who holds
That Women ne'er were born with souls.

Thus blest, our Hero saw his name
Rank'd in the foremot lists of fame.
What tho' the learn'd, the good, the wise,
His light, affected airs despise!
What tho' the Fair, of higher mind,
With brighter thought and sense refin'd,
Whose fancy rose on nobler wing,
Scorn'd the vain, gilt, gay, noisy thing!
Each light Coquette spread forth her charms,
And lur'd the Hero to her arms.
For Beaus and light Coquettes, by fate
Were each design'd the other's mate,
By instinct love, for each may find
It's likeness in the other's mind;
Then let the wiser sort desert 'em,
For 'twere a sin to try to part 'em.

Nor did the coxcomb-loving climate
To these alone his praises limit.
Each gayer Fop of modern days
Allow'd to Dick the foremost praise,
Borrow'd his style, his airs, grimace,
And aped his modish form of dress.
Ev'n Some, with sense endued, felt hopes
And rais'd ambition to be fops:
But Men of sense, 'tis fix'd by fate,
Are Coxcombs but of second rate.
The pert and lively Dunce alone
Can steer the course that Dick has shown;
The lively Dunce alone can climb
The summit, where he shines sublime.

But ah! how short the fairest name
Stands on the slipp'ry steep of fame!
The noblest heights we're soonestgiddy on:
The sun ne'er stays in his meridian;
The brightest stars must quickly set;
And Dick has deeply run in debt.
Now what avails his splendid show,
With all the arts, that grace the Beau!
Not all his oaths can Duns dismay,
Or deadly Bailiffs fright away;
Not all his compliments can bail,
Or minuets dance him from the jail.
Law not the least respect can give
To the laced coat, or ruffled sleeve.
Off fly at once, in saddest woe,
The dress and trappings of the Beau;
His splendid ornaments must fall,
And all is lost; for these were all.

What then remains? in health's decline,
By lewdness, luxury and wine,
Worn by disease, with purse too shallow,
To lead in fashions, or to follow,
The meteor's gaudy light is gone;
Lone Age with hasty step comes on;
The charms he once with pride display'd,
All vanish'd into empty shade;
And only left, in tawdry show,
The superannuated Beau.
How pale the palsied Fop appears,
Low-shivring in the vale of years;
The ghost of all his former days,
When folly lent the ear of praise.
And Beaus with pleas'd attention hung
On accents of his chatt'ring tongue.
Now all those days of pleasure o'er,
That chatt'ring tongue must prate no more.
From ev'ry place, that bless'd his hopes,
He's elbow'd out by younger Fops.
Each pleasing thought unknown, that chears
The sadness of declining years,
In lonely age he sinks forlorn,
Of all, and ev'n himself, the scorn.

The Coxcomb's course were wondrous clever,
Would health and money last forever,
Did Conscience never break the charm,
Nor fears of future worlds alarm.

But oh, since youth and years decay,
And life's vain follies fleet away,
Since Age has no respect for Beaus,
And Death the gaudy scene must close,
Happy the Man, whose early bloom
Provides for endless years to come;
That learning seeks, whose useful gain
Repays the course of studious pain,
Whose fame the thankful age shall raise,
And future times repeat its praise;
Attains that heart-felt peace of mind,
To all the will of heav'n resign'd,
Which calms in youth, the blast of rage,
Adds sweetest hope to sinking age,
With valued use prolongs the breath,
And gives a placid smile to death.

Then let us scorn the praise that springs
From gaudy, sublunary things.
Hate the vain joys, that vice can claim,
To nobler thoughts exalt our aim,
With ardour seek th' immortal prize,
And seize our portion in the skies.