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Read Ebook: The Naughty Man; or Sir Thomas Brown Love Courtship and Marriage in High Life. A Poetical Satire by Bliss Frank Chapman
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Transcriber's note:
THE NAUGHTY MAN; OR, SIR THOMAS BROWN.
Love, Courtship and Marriage in High Life.
A Poetical Satire,
OCTAVIUS.
THE NAUGHTY MAN;
OR,
SIR THOMAS BROWN.
Much of delusion mixed with truth we find, Strange whims, and twinings in the human mind:
Delusions, fictions, foibles, glittering lies, Frescoed with truth, seem real as the skies. At the same table, sitting side by side, Oft we do see Humility and Pride, Wit, Genius, Learning, the great man of law, In social converse with the man of straw. Extremes oft meet around the festive board, An honest beggar and a thieving lord; Jew, Gentile, Greek, will with the Christian sit, Say grace, or not--it matters not a whit; They pass the time most pleasantly away, But cheat each other on the coming day. The rich, the poor, the freeman and the slave, The noble monarch and the princely knave, Are onward floating with the ebbing tide Down the great stream of life--on every side Dangers beset--on the storm-beaten coast Are wreck'd together--in the grave are lost.
Once on a time, not many days ago, When many taught there was no hell below, Not in the spring, or lovely month of May, When birds did sweetly sing, and fields look'd gay, When flowers were fresh, and opening buds were fair, When brides look'd lovely--blossoms in their hair; Oh, no! 'twas the last day of dying year, A raw, cold winter's day, frosty and clear; What then took place, permit me to rehearse, Not in stale prose, but in more lively verse; And if, perchance, to make complete a rhyme, Or try to make a jingling couplet chime, I should speak boldly--but, of course, sincere-- Don't think the truth I utter too severe; And do not say--"thou little groveling elf, Turn thine eyes inward--look upon thyself." Most flattering words from eager lips may fly, But shall I pause to harmonize a lie? If, with my pen, I use most comic art, To 'mend the manners, or reform the heart, Don't think I do it out of any spite; Surely! I would not libel one, a mite. I use fictitious names--the facts I give In a mild form, to save the sensitive.
In the great city Gotham, near the sea, Where Queen Fashion rul'd the aristocracy, Lived the proud millionnaire, Sir Thomas Brown, With riches enough to purchase a crown; He had sons, and daughters settled in life, He was a widower, having no wife, True! he was old, being now eighty-three, But managed to get down to breakfast, and tea, His eyesight grown dim, and shaky his hand, Of course--needed help to button a band,
In making his toilet--now, pray don't stare-- He wanted some one to comb out his hair, To brush his new teeth--put on his collar, To dust off his clothes, and things that follow. 'Tis true! it gave all the children pleasure, To dust, brush and scrub him without measure. Now this ancient relic of ages past, This human caricature, worthy of Nast, This feeble old man, one foot in the grave, Inspir'd by Cupid, at once became brave. So he hobbled around, seeking for Ruth, And found her a widow, blooming in youth. A widow! ah, yes! now that was a fact, Possessing much good sense in the abstract; Sir Thomas was human! why then complain? We are all human, in sunshine or rain.
But who was Ruth? methinks I hear you say. I'll answer in mine own peculiar way: Her eyes were sparkling--as brilliant and bright As glittering stars in a clear frosty night,
Her head was bedecked with beautiful hair, Her teeth well preserved--her complexion fair, With a smiling face--lips red as a cherry, She would laugh, sing, and chat, ever make merry; A leader of fashions, lively and gay, She turned day into night--night into day; Most fully developed, with full rounded arms, No wonder frail men were struck with her charms; In London, Paris, on Italia's soil, She played all her games according to Hoyle, She homage received from men of all ranks, Returned them no love--but simply her thanks. A pure, spotless virgin, true! she was not, But a superb widow! without a spot Or blemish to mar; a Venus in form; No wonder she took her lovers by storm.
I need not tell how this Sir Thomas Brown, Made love to this lady of great renown, And offer'd this sweet and beautiful dame In accents most tender, his heart and name; How he was accepted, and on said day-- The last of the year, he led her away To the Altar--the twain became one, In spite of his children, daughter and son. 'Twas nicely arranged, 'twas secretly planned-- The bride--she looked sweet, the groom--he looked bland. No maids, no groomsmen attended them there, The Priest tied the knot with his usual care. Now married--they went at once to her home, For she lived in style, and almost alone, With servants, 'tis true--perhaps half-a-score, Including the one who guarded the door; And there for weeks, they in quiet remained, For seeking seclusion, cannot be blamed, He, now being blessed with a charming wife, She, to his comfort devoting her life; They laughed, and joked, and cut their capers, As they read together the morning papers.
Like whirlwinds disturbing a night's repose, Came whispered breathings; then loud cries arose, Some boldly cursed this matrimonial life, Some cursed the old man, and some cursed the wife. As ancient Hero's are renown'd in song For rescuing virtue from the oppressor's wrong,
So let these stand on the historic page As the great living bombasts of the age; In the great sermons they do daily preach, In the great lessons they do daily teach, They ring the faults of others--not their own, They growl and snarl like a dog with his bone; They villify others--glorify self, Ofttimes they do it for mere worldly pelf; They weep and groan with apparent sorrow, At things they will do themselves on the morrow. Like crested snake in Afric's sunny vales, Which shifts its skin, throws off its tarnished scales, So will they change their colors--seem more young, But carry poisonous venom in each tongue.
LAST WILL and TESTAMENT of Sir Thomas Brown, Signed, witnessed, and sealed--it was all written down
If a widow would marry--sometimes the case-- Must she call in the neighbors as a preface, And ask their consent that she wed Mr. Brown, Or be laughed at--defamed, throughout the town? We will not attempt at this time to relate, The dangers attending the marital state--
A good loving husband, with a virtuous wife Of course, will augment all the joys of life; From this stated axiom we cannot fly, For this self-evident truth, is not a lie. If Wedlock's a lottery, as some maintain, Then some will be losers, and some will gain; If trusting to fate, or trusting to chance, Powerless to act, as in nightmare or trance-- You marry a rake, or marry a shrew, The blame must be laid, as it should be, on you, For he is a fool deserving of pains, Who marries without consulting his brains; The brains and heart must work together, If you would sail through life in cloudless weather.
Transcriber's note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Archaic spelling that may have been in use at the time of publication has been retained.
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