The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | CANTO IV. |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO IV.
'Tis said that children at the breast Will often cry themselves to rest;
And elder folk may find relief From the wakeful hours of grief,
By talking o'er their cares till sleep Does on the weary senses creep.
—Thus Syntax when he went to bed With his last frolic in his head,
While shame forbore not to impart Some awkward feeling to his heart,
Tried in all ways, in ev'ry shape, From self-reproaches to escape:
But all in vain his pleadings strove Th'accusing spirit to remove,
Which charg'd his guilt as petty treason
Against the sov'reign power of reason,
Whose justice, by its mildest rule, Must set him down a harmless fool.
—“Well,” he exclaim'd, “no ill was meant:
Law, rigid Law, looks to th'intent
Of what we do; and I protest, Were there a window in my breast,
The keenest eye I should not fear T'indulge its curious prying there.
Vagaries may, perhaps, maintain Their frolic season in my brain:
Nay I must own that folly's power Has thus enslav'd me for an hour,
And did my careless footing get Entangled in its gaudy net,
A scene that I shall ne'er forget.
But while I dare, Heav'n knows 'tis true
Expose my naked heart to view,
And call or friend or foe to pry Into my thoughts with busy eye;
Why need I toss and tumble here,
Oppress'd with doubt, alarm'd with fear?
—O Nature, my complaints forgive, Let me thy soft embrace receive;
Make me forget in thy repose, The folly of my fancied woes!”
And elder folk may find relief From the wakeful hours of grief,
By talking o'er their cares till sleep Does on the weary senses creep.
—Thus Syntax when he went to bed With his last frolic in his head,
While shame forbore not to impart Some awkward feeling to his heart,
Tried in all ways, in ev'ry shape, From self-reproaches to escape:
But all in vain his pleadings strove Th'accusing spirit to remove,
Which charg'd his guilt as petty treason
Against the sov'reign power of reason,
Whose justice, by its mildest rule, Must set him down a harmless fool.
—“Well,” he exclaim'd, “no ill was meant:
Law, rigid Law, looks to th'intent
Of what we do; and I protest, Were there a window in my breast,
The keenest eye I should not fear T'indulge its curious prying there.
Vagaries may, perhaps, maintain Their frolic season in my brain:
Nay I must own that folly's power Has thus enslav'd me for an hour,
And did my careless footing get Entangled in its gaudy net,
A scene that I shall ne'er forget.
But while I dare, Heav'n knows 'tis true
Expose my naked heart to view,
And call or friend or foe to pry Into my thoughts with busy eye;
Why need I toss and tumble here,
Oppress'd with doubt, alarm'd with fear?
—O Nature, my complaints forgive, Let me thy soft embrace receive;
Make me forget in thy repose, The folly of my fancied woes!”
If more he spoke he never knew, As nature shed th'oblivious dew;
Then, list'ning to his humble prayer,
Drew her dark curtain round his care,
And did to sleep each sense incline, Till the cathedral clock struck nine.
The bell was rung, when Pat appear'd,
And feign would have his master cheer'd,
With his bright hist'ry of the fray That did disfigure yesterday;
But Syntax gravely wav'd his hand,
And Patrick knew the mute command.
For such a tale the Doctor's ear Was not just then prepar'd to hear,
Nor ne'er did Pat feel such a balk, For 'twas just then he wish'd to talk.
Ne'er in his life o'er right or wrong, Was he so prompt to wag his tongue.
But he was sent off to new rig, With his best skill, the rumpled wig.
And all the honours to restore Which it had lost the day before.
—And now the Sage, in due array,
With night-cap white and night-gown grey,
Descended to his morning fare, And found his smiling Hostess there;
Who soon express'd a wish to see Th'effect of her chirurgery:
When she declar'd another day Would chase all symptoms of the fray.
“O,” cried the 'Squire, “Our life would be
One sad dull scene of apathy,
Were we not forc'd by time and chance, Our steps to vary as we dance.
Without these shakes I would not give
A rush in this same world to live;
We, without these enliv'ning jogs, Should be no more than useless logs.
Such things my friend will never heed;
'Twas a fine woman did the deed;
And with kind gallantry he'll greet her,
Whene'er it is his chance to meet her.”
Syntax.—
Then, list'ning to his humble prayer,
Drew her dark curtain round his care,
And did to sleep each sense incline, Till the cathedral clock struck nine.
The bell was rung, when Pat appear'd,
And feign would have his master cheer'd,
With his bright hist'ry of the fray That did disfigure yesterday;
But Syntax gravely wav'd his hand,
And Patrick knew the mute command.
191
Nor ne'er did Pat feel such a balk, For 'twas just then he wish'd to talk.
Ne'er in his life o'er right or wrong, Was he so prompt to wag his tongue.
But he was sent off to new rig, With his best skill, the rumpled wig.
And all the honours to restore Which it had lost the day before.
—And now the Sage, in due array,
With night-cap white and night-gown grey,
Descended to his morning fare, And found his smiling Hostess there;
Who soon express'd a wish to see Th'effect of her chirurgery:
When she declar'd another day Would chase all symptoms of the fray.
“O,” cried the 'Squire, “Our life would be
One sad dull scene of apathy,
Were we not forc'd by time and chance, Our steps to vary as we dance.
Without these shakes I would not give
A rush in this same world to live;
We, without these enliv'ning jogs, Should be no more than useless logs.
Such things my friend will never heed;
'Twas a fine woman did the deed;
And with kind gallantry he'll greet her,
Whene'er it is his chance to meet her.”
“No, no,—should I that Lady meet,
'Twould give me pains in both my feet.
I do believe whene'er she stirs,
Like a game-hen she's steel'd with spurs;
While to protect her powerful charms,
She may wear gauntlets on her arms;
And I must own, as truth's my duty, The widow is a striking beauty.
For hugs and kicks I am her debtor, And no, I never shall forget her;
But much I wish, by any rule I could forget I've play'd the fool.
A distich, I remember well, Does in plain verse this maxim tell:—
‘In many ills which man endures,
‘'Tis Beauty wounds and Beauty cures;’
And this same proverb, as you see, Is haply realis'd in me.
The handsome widow gave the wound,
While to my lovely friend I'm bound
By whose kind care a cure is found.”
The blush that ting'd the Lady's face,
The whisper'd thanks, the curtsying grace,
I leave for curious Fancy's eye;— She'll sketch them better far than I.
The breakfast follow'd and the day
In pleasant chit-chat pass'd away,
The next, already at the gate Phillis and Punch were seen to wait:
And at no very early hour, Syntax proceeded on his Tour.
But yet he travell'd not alone, In all the state of number one,
For Hearty soon appear'd in view, To make the party number two;
And Madam, who perceiv'd his mind,
Was to indulge her wish inclin'd,
Declar'd she could not stop behind:
Thus the equestrian folk we see,
Were now increas'd to number three;
And, when th'attending grooms arrive, The cavalcade consist of five.
Thus they proceeded on their way,
Sometimes were grave, and sometimes gay.
—Madam, who rode with Dian's grace,
Would dash into a cant'ring pace,
And, as they cross'd a level plain, The Nimrod fair could not refrain
From offering to try her steed With Phillis in the way of speed:
But whether Syntax had no skill In jockey's arts or check'd the will
Of his fleet mare, I cannot say, But the fair Lady won the day.
“Well,” said the Doctor, “thus you see
What scope for my philosophy!
Men only now and then defeat me,
But women, why they always beat me.”
—Thus after saunt'ring on their way,
Till the sun beam'd his noontide ray;
They stopp'd, and din'd, and said adieu, As all kind-hearted people do;
And the York friends engag'd to make An autumn visit to the Lake.
The 'Squire his wishes did impart From a full, open, honest heart;
The tear dropp'd down from Madam's eye,
The Doctor bless'd them with a sigh;
And all exclaim'd, Good bye! Good bye!
The whisper'd thanks, the curtsying grace,
I leave for curious Fancy's eye;— She'll sketch them better far than I.
The breakfast follow'd and the day
In pleasant chit-chat pass'd away,
The next, already at the gate Phillis and Punch were seen to wait:
And at no very early hour, Syntax proceeded on his Tour.
But yet he travell'd not alone, In all the state of number one,
For Hearty soon appear'd in view, To make the party number two;
And Madam, who perceiv'd his mind,
Was to indulge her wish inclin'd,
Declar'd she could not stop behind:
Thus the equestrian folk we see,
Were now increas'd to number three;
And, when th'attending grooms arrive, The cavalcade consist of five.
192
Sometimes were grave, and sometimes gay.
—Madam, who rode with Dian's grace,
Would dash into a cant'ring pace,
And, as they cross'd a level plain, The Nimrod fair could not refrain
From offering to try her steed With Phillis in the way of speed:
But whether Syntax had no skill In jockey's arts or check'd the will
Of his fleet mare, I cannot say, But the fair Lady won the day.
“Well,” said the Doctor, “thus you see
What scope for my philosophy!
Men only now and then defeat me,
But women, why they always beat me.”
—Thus after saunt'ring on their way,
Till the sun beam'd his noontide ray;
They stopp'd, and din'd, and said adieu, As all kind-hearted people do;
And the York friends engag'd to make An autumn visit to the Lake.
The 'Squire his wishes did impart From a full, open, honest heart;
The tear dropp'd down from Madam's eye,
The Doctor bless'd them with a sigh;
And all exclaim'd, Good bye! Good bye!
Life, to reflecting minds 'tis known, Oft finds a just comparison
In any journey that we make For bus'ness or for pleasure's sake.
Indeed, in ev'ry point of view, Though 'tis not altogether new,
Those who think right will find it true.
—The tranquil morn begins the day, No angry storm impedes the way:
At length when the meridian sun Has half his daily circuit run,
With crowds the high road's cover'd o'er;
Some push behind, some run before,
All by the same desire possest To gain a welcome state of rest.
And if, by fav'ring fortune brought, We find the happiness we sought,
Still we look on, with anxious eye, To the dark hour, when with a sigh
We bid farewell and say, Good bye.
Life's but a journey that we take, 'Tis but a visit that we make;
And when we part at close of day With the companions of our way;
Whene'er our friendly visit's o'er We quit the hospitable door;
Our hearts the grateful words supply,
We wish all well and say, Good bye.
Such were the thoughts that many a mile
Did the good Doctor's mind beguile:
But, now and then, the widow's fray
Would some unpleasant thoughts convey:
He fear'd the story might be known, And form a fable for the town,
Which busy Scandal, right or wrong,
Might spread abroad with tattling tongue;
A furbish tale, whose lies would work
Their way through ev'ry street in York,
Or might a curious passage take, In tell-tale letter, to the Lake.
“—O sage Discretion!” he exclaim'd,
“By Classic Poet thou art nam'd
The chief of Virtues! Without thee, Learning and sage Philosophy,
And wit and talents, rightly weigh'd, Are but the shadows of a shade!
Like vessels on the briny realm Making their way without a helm,
By ev'ry wind and billow tost, Always in peril, sometimes lost:
But where thy counsels do preside,
Where thou dost all our courses guide,
No surer safeguard can be given, The proxy thou of fav'ring Heaven.
No, never, never, never more, Will I launch from the tranquil shore;
Unless, my faithful steersman, thou
Shalt spread the sail or guide the prow!
Discretion hail!—I fain would be Thy never-failing votary!
Hadst thou an altar, I would bring The fairest, purest offering,
That my best powers could bestow, The pray'r sincere, the sacred vow,
And feel that ev'ry off'ring given Would be a sacrifice to Heaven.”
Thus as good Syntax travell'd on, He failed not, ever and anon,
With an alternate smile or sigh, To break forth in soliloquy.
This promis'd not to mend his pace,
And ere he reach'd the destin'd place,
Where he propos'd the night to pass,
To smoke his pipe and take his glass,
An humble inn stood by the road, That promis'd a more calm abode,
Where no stage-coach or chaises rattle,
Or noisy post-boys scourge their cattle;
But where the unassuming guest Gets a clean meal and goes to rest.
Here Syntax, soon involv'd in smoke,
With a brisk landlord crack'd a joke:
A steak well-dress'd and jug of ale, Compos'd the evening's regale.
The country papers then he read, And Betty lighted him to bed.
Nor would he have unclos'd his eyes,
Till Betty screaming bade him rise;
But when the sun, with beaming ray,
Had chang'd the darksome night to day,
Some noise, he knew not wherefore, broke
Upon his rest, and straight he woke;—
When, as he listen'd, it appear'd, That he Pat's noisy language heard.
And vulgar mirth seem'd to resound About the purlieus of a pond,
Where Pat, up to his neck in water,
Prov'd the droll cause of all the laughter.
He op'd the casement and look'd out To see what Patrick was about.
“Are you awake,” he cried, “or sleeping,
That such a dirty pool you creep in?”
“Faith, Sir,” said he, “they did so creep
About me that I could not sleep.
Or bugs, or fleas, whate'er they be,
Their stings have play'd Old Nick with me.
I brush'd them off, but all in vain, By thousands they return'd again,
So I came in the pond to dash And gave the creatures such a wash,
That if they wish'd to live and breathe
They would no longer stay beneath:
But all of them, from very dread, Would hurry upwards to the head,
There nestle safe within my cap, Where they'll be caught as in a trap;
And thus be doom'd to certain slaughter,
Though ev'ry wretch should cry for quarter.”
The whimsy strange, the droll conceit, Was to the Sage a perfect treat,
That sent him laughing to his bed, Where he again repos'd his head.
In any journey that we make For bus'ness or for pleasure's sake.
Indeed, in ev'ry point of view, Though 'tis not altogether new,
Those who think right will find it true.
—The tranquil morn begins the day, No angry storm impedes the way:
At length when the meridian sun Has half his daily circuit run,
With crowds the high road's cover'd o'er;
Some push behind, some run before,
All by the same desire possest To gain a welcome state of rest.
And if, by fav'ring fortune brought, We find the happiness we sought,
Still we look on, with anxious eye, To the dark hour, when with a sigh
We bid farewell and say, Good bye.
Life's but a journey that we take, 'Tis but a visit that we make;
And when we part at close of day With the companions of our way;
Whene'er our friendly visit's o'er We quit the hospitable door;
Our hearts the grateful words supply,
We wish all well and say, Good bye.
Such were the thoughts that many a mile
Did the good Doctor's mind beguile:
But, now and then, the widow's fray
Would some unpleasant thoughts convey:
He fear'd the story might be known, And form a fable for the town,
Which busy Scandal, right or wrong,
Might spread abroad with tattling tongue;
A furbish tale, whose lies would work
Their way through ev'ry street in York,
Or might a curious passage take, In tell-tale letter, to the Lake.
“—O sage Discretion!” he exclaim'd,
“By Classic Poet thou art nam'd
The chief of Virtues! Without thee, Learning and sage Philosophy,
193
Like vessels on the briny realm Making their way without a helm,
By ev'ry wind and billow tost, Always in peril, sometimes lost:
But where thy counsels do preside,
Where thou dost all our courses guide,
No surer safeguard can be given, The proxy thou of fav'ring Heaven.
No, never, never, never more, Will I launch from the tranquil shore;
Unless, my faithful steersman, thou
Shalt spread the sail or guide the prow!
Discretion hail!—I fain would be Thy never-failing votary!
Hadst thou an altar, I would bring The fairest, purest offering,
That my best powers could bestow, The pray'r sincere, the sacred vow,
And feel that ev'ry off'ring given Would be a sacrifice to Heaven.”
Thus as good Syntax travell'd on, He failed not, ever and anon,
With an alternate smile or sigh, To break forth in soliloquy.
This promis'd not to mend his pace,
And ere he reach'd the destin'd place,
Where he propos'd the night to pass,
To smoke his pipe and take his glass,
An humble inn stood by the road, That promis'd a more calm abode,
Where no stage-coach or chaises rattle,
Or noisy post-boys scourge their cattle;
But where the unassuming guest Gets a clean meal and goes to rest.
Here Syntax, soon involv'd in smoke,
With a brisk landlord crack'd a joke:
A steak well-dress'd and jug of ale, Compos'd the evening's regale.
The country papers then he read, And Betty lighted him to bed.
Nor would he have unclos'd his eyes,
Till Betty screaming bade him rise;
But when the sun, with beaming ray,
Had chang'd the darksome night to day,
Some noise, he knew not wherefore, broke
Upon his rest, and straight he woke;—
When, as he listen'd, it appear'd, That he Pat's noisy language heard.
And vulgar mirth seem'd to resound About the purlieus of a pond,
Where Pat, up to his neck in water,
Prov'd the droll cause of all the laughter.
He op'd the casement and look'd out To see what Patrick was about.
“Are you awake,” he cried, “or sleeping,
That such a dirty pool you creep in?”
“Faith, Sir,” said he, “they did so creep
About me that I could not sleep.
Or bugs, or fleas, whate'er they be,
Their stings have play'd Old Nick with me.
I brush'd them off, but all in vain, By thousands they return'd again,
So I came in the pond to dash And gave the creatures such a wash,
That if they wish'd to live and breathe
They would no longer stay beneath:
But all of them, from very dread, Would hurry upwards to the head,
There nestle safe within my cap, Where they'll be caught as in a trap;
194
Though ev'ry wretch should cry for quarter.”
The whimsy strange, the droll conceit, Was to the Sage a perfect treat,
That sent him laughing to his bed, Where he again repos'd his head.
A waggoner, in lively mood, Let loose his jokes where Patrick stood,
An object which, none will deny, Might call forth rustic ribaldry.
“I do advise you,” said the clown, “To let the ostler rub you down;
And if his brush is well applied,
'Twill drive the vermin from your hide:
But where's the mighty cause for wonder,
That Paddy should commit a blunder?
For well I know by your glib tongue, To what fine country you belong,
And if your red rag did not shew it,
By your queer fancies I should know it.”
“—Hark you,” said Pat, “your jokes on me,
Might pass as harmless pleasantry!
But when you laugh at Ireland's name,
You do, my friend, mistake your game,
And you shall see, nay you shall rue, What a stout Irish Lad can do.”
—The word was follow'd by a blow Which laid the saucy rustic low,
And when by rude Hibernian strength,
The clown had measur'd all his length,
Pat roll'd him onward round and round,
'Till he was sous'd into the pond.
“A truce,” said he, “to your grimaces,
You see we've only chang'd our places:
But the same honest hands no doubt,
That roll'd you in, shall pull you out.
I'm not so easy to be fool'd, But since, I trust, your mirth is cool'd,
To prove that I ne'er meant to harm you,
I'll give you something that shall warm you.
We'll take a morning glass as friends,
And here our short-liv'd anger ends;
But first we will fresh clothes supply;
Nor take our whet, till we are dry.
—Now as you drive your waggon on,
Through different roads from town to town,
Whene'er you meet a Paddy Whack,
Think whose strength laid you on your back;
And though you felt his pow'rful arm,
You also found his heart was warm.”
Nought happen'd now that's worth relating:
At nine the horses were in waiting:
The morning scene made Syntax gay, And smiling he pursued his way:
But nought he heard or did appear; That asks for a description here.
Through the long day he travell'd on;
The night he pass'd at Warrington;—
Where his keen, philosophic eye Enjoy'd the highest luxury.
It seems, this venerable town Retains a national renown,
For its superior skill display'd, By which all kinds of glass are made;
And where the traveller, inclin'd With curious heart t'enrich his mind,
Will never fail to pass a day; The scene will well reward his stay.
Syntax with eager impulse fraught,
And pleasing hopes, the Glass-house sought,
Where each polite desire is shown, To make the general fabric known.
The Doctor did himself proclaim, Declar'd his dignity and name;
Nor did the Sage his fancy balk, To shew his learning by his talk.
That glass was known to distant ages,
He prov'd from philosophic pages;
But did not venture to decide How in those ages 'twas applied:
But soon broke forth in rapt'rous tone, To tell its uses in our own.
“—This fair transparent, substance bright,
Keeps out the cold, lets in the light,
And when flame multiplies its rays, Will imitate the diamond's blaze.
But here's the important point of view,
Without it what would Beauties do!
They'd be but miserable elves, If they could never see themselves.
How would they then arrange their graces,
And plant fresh smiles upon their faces,
If they had nought but polish'd mettle, Or the bright cover of a kettle?
Alas! Old England's not the clime,
Where maidens fair may pass their time
By a transparent fountain's side, To decorate their beauty's pride;
No wat'ry mirrors we possess, Which aided Dian's nymph to dress.
Our ladies, lack-a-day, would shiver,
To make their toilettes by a river.
—Indeed it has not yet been shown
That he who first made glass is known:
Had it been so, he would have trod Olympus as a Demigod,
And temples to his name would rise As to those known divinities,
To whom their useful arts have given
A place within the Poet's Heaven:
“Though,” he exclaim'd, “it doth appear,
Each Glass-house is his temple here,
Where Art and Commerce both combine
In gratitude and praise to join.”
An object which, none will deny, Might call forth rustic ribaldry.
“I do advise you,” said the clown, “To let the ostler rub you down;
And if his brush is well applied,
'Twill drive the vermin from your hide:
But where's the mighty cause for wonder,
That Paddy should commit a blunder?
For well I know by your glib tongue, To what fine country you belong,
And if your red rag did not shew it,
By your queer fancies I should know it.”
“—Hark you,” said Pat, “your jokes on me,
Might pass as harmless pleasantry!
But when you laugh at Ireland's name,
You do, my friend, mistake your game,
And you shall see, nay you shall rue, What a stout Irish Lad can do.”
—The word was follow'd by a blow Which laid the saucy rustic low,
And when by rude Hibernian strength,
The clown had measur'd all his length,
Pat roll'd him onward round and round,
'Till he was sous'd into the pond.
“A truce,” said he, “to your grimaces,
You see we've only chang'd our places:
But the same honest hands no doubt,
That roll'd you in, shall pull you out.
I'm not so easy to be fool'd, But since, I trust, your mirth is cool'd,
To prove that I ne'er meant to harm you,
I'll give you something that shall warm you.
We'll take a morning glass as friends,
And here our short-liv'd anger ends;
But first we will fresh clothes supply;
Nor take our whet, till we are dry.
—Now as you drive your waggon on,
Through different roads from town to town,
Whene'er you meet a Paddy Whack,
Think whose strength laid you on your back;
And though you felt his pow'rful arm,
You also found his heart was warm.”
Nought happen'd now that's worth relating:
At nine the horses were in waiting:
The morning scene made Syntax gay, And smiling he pursued his way:
But nought he heard or did appear; That asks for a description here.
Through the long day he travell'd on;
The night he pass'd at Warrington;—
Where his keen, philosophic eye Enjoy'd the highest luxury.
It seems, this venerable town Retains a national renown,
For its superior skill display'd, By which all kinds of glass are made;
And where the traveller, inclin'd With curious heart t'enrich his mind,
195
Syntax with eager impulse fraught,
And pleasing hopes, the Glass-house sought,
Where each polite desire is shown, To make the general fabric known.
The Doctor did himself proclaim, Declar'd his dignity and name;
Nor did the Sage his fancy balk, To shew his learning by his talk.
That glass was known to distant ages,
He prov'd from philosophic pages;
But did not venture to decide How in those ages 'twas applied:
But soon broke forth in rapt'rous tone, To tell its uses in our own.
“—This fair transparent, substance bright,
Keeps out the cold, lets in the light,
And when flame multiplies its rays, Will imitate the diamond's blaze.
But here's the important point of view,
Without it what would Beauties do!
They'd be but miserable elves, If they could never see themselves.
How would they then arrange their graces,
And plant fresh smiles upon their faces,
If they had nought but polish'd mettle, Or the bright cover of a kettle?
Alas! Old England's not the clime,
Where maidens fair may pass their time
By a transparent fountain's side, To decorate their beauty's pride;
No wat'ry mirrors we possess, Which aided Dian's nymph to dress.
Our ladies, lack-a-day, would shiver,
To make their toilettes by a river.
—Indeed it has not yet been shown
That he who first made glass is known:
Had it been so, he would have trod Olympus as a Demigod,
And temples to his name would rise As to those known divinities,
To whom their useful arts have given
A place within the Poet's Heaven:
“Though,” he exclaim'd, “it doth appear,
Each Glass-house is his temple here,
Where Art and Commerce both combine
In gratitude and praise to join.”
Syntax now wish'd to try his skill In forming some neat utensil;
When ev'ry part was duly fitted, And to his hand the tube submitted:
The strict directions he obey'd And something like a bottle made.
Patrick too was prepar'd to blow A shape, tho' what he did not know;
But while he did apply his art, A funny workman twitch'd a part,
Which modish modesty would blame
If I proposed to guess the name;
So that by some strange jerk uncouth, Pat drew the flame into his mouth.
And while he amused the people round him,
By spitting, kicking, and confounding,
He scarce escaped the sad disaster, Of setting fire to his master.
—All were well pleas'd but Pat, who swore
He never swallow'd fire before,
And was glass blown by such a whim,
It never should be blown by him.
Having increas'd his stock and store Of various scientific lore,
The Docter took his leave gay-hearted,
And for his destin'd rout departed.
His way towards Chester he pursued,
And, with exploring thought review'd
The great exertions which were made By human art, inspir'd by trade:
And where improving science shows
How much man's pregnant genius owes
To Commerce, whose vast power extends
E'en to the world's remotest ends,
And in succession brings to view Whate'er the hands of man can do.
Nature expects mankind should share, The duties of the public care;
Who's born for sloth? To some we find
The plough-share's annual task assign'd;
Some at the sounding anvil glow, Some the swift-gliding shuttle throw;
Some studious of the wind and tide,
From Pole to Pole our commerce guide;
Some, taught by industry, impart With hands and feet the works of art;
While some of genius more refin'd,
With head and tongue assist mankind;
Each, aiming at one common end, Proves to the whole a needful friend.
In ev'ry rank, or great or small, 'Tis Industry supports us all.
Thus as he mus'd, kind chance bestow'd,
Which sometimes happens on the road,
A brisk companion, cheerful, gay, Form'd to amuse the loit'ring way.
They first convers'd about the weather;
But as they trotted on together,
More serious topics soon prevail, Nor did the lib'ral converse fail.
Of Chester's city they talk'd o'er, The history in times of yore;
Its diff'rent changes they relate, And what compos'd its present state.
The Doctor also wish'd to see What in its near vicinity,
Might Reason's curious wish invite With the fair promise of delight.
“Oh! Eaton-Hall,” it was replied,
“Is now become the country's pride;
And pardon me, if I should say, A want of taste you will betray,
If you should Cheshire leave nor see That scene of splendid dignity,
Where, as all tongues around can tell,
Rank, Opulence, and Virtue dwell:
Whose noble owner all revere, Our constant toast, the Peerless Peer.”
Syntax.—
When ev'ry part was duly fitted, And to his hand the tube submitted:
The strict directions he obey'd And something like a bottle made.
Patrick too was prepar'd to blow A shape, tho' what he did not know;
But while he did apply his art, A funny workman twitch'd a part,
Which modish modesty would blame
If I proposed to guess the name;
So that by some strange jerk uncouth, Pat drew the flame into his mouth.
And while he amused the people round him,
By spitting, kicking, and confounding,
He scarce escaped the sad disaster, Of setting fire to his master.
—All were well pleas'd but Pat, who swore
He never swallow'd fire before,
And was glass blown by such a whim,
It never should be blown by him.
Having increas'd his stock and store Of various scientific lore,
196
And for his destin'd rout departed.
His way towards Chester he pursued,
And, with exploring thought review'd
The great exertions which were made By human art, inspir'd by trade:
And where improving science shows
How much man's pregnant genius owes
To Commerce, whose vast power extends
E'en to the world's remotest ends,
And in succession brings to view Whate'er the hands of man can do.
Nature expects mankind should share, The duties of the public care;
Who's born for sloth? To some we find
The plough-share's annual task assign'd;
Some at the sounding anvil glow, Some the swift-gliding shuttle throw;
Some studious of the wind and tide,
From Pole to Pole our commerce guide;
Some, taught by industry, impart With hands and feet the works of art;
While some of genius more refin'd,
With head and tongue assist mankind;
Each, aiming at one common end, Proves to the whole a needful friend.
In ev'ry rank, or great or small, 'Tis Industry supports us all.
Thus as he mus'd, kind chance bestow'd,
Which sometimes happens on the road,
A brisk companion, cheerful, gay, Form'd to amuse the loit'ring way.
They first convers'd about the weather;
But as they trotted on together,
More serious topics soon prevail, Nor did the lib'ral converse fail.
Of Chester's city they talk'd o'er, The history in times of yore;
Its diff'rent changes they relate, And what compos'd its present state.
The Doctor also wish'd to see What in its near vicinity,
Might Reason's curious wish invite With the fair promise of delight.
“Oh! Eaton-Hall,” it was replied,
“Is now become the country's pride;
And pardon me, if I should say, A want of taste you will betray,
If you should Cheshire leave nor see That scene of splendid dignity,
Where, as all tongues around can tell,
Rank, Opulence, and Virtue dwell:
Whose noble owner all revere, Our constant toast, the Peerless Peer.”
“Much it delights me when I'm told
Of those who highest stations hold,
And, 'midst their grandeur when we view
The highest rank of virtue too: Who all ignoble actions scorn,
Whose conduct proves them nobly born
And well maintain their ancient name,
By virtue and unblemish'd fame:—
But such who great and good combine,
May claim a higher praise than mine.
—The name, indeed, by birth descends,
But Honour on themselves depends,
The Coronet will never hide Presuming ignorance and pride.
Learning by study must be won; 'Twas ne'er entail'd from son to son:
197
But if by false ambition led, In honour's paths they cease to tread,
The ancient merits of their race Serve but to heighten their disgrace.”
Thus as the conversation past, To Chester's walls they came at last;
And thus the Doctor's travelling friend Address'd him at the City's end:
“In this fam'd town I office bear, Nay, I'm of some importance here,
An Alderman, who has been Mayor:
And I shall feel it, Sir, a pride, Through every part to be your guide;
Then readily obey your call To wait on you to Eaton-Hall:
For much I wish to hear you trace The sumptuous beauties of the place.
I was not born in art to trudge, But still I know enough to judge
When scientific men display Their knowledge in that pleasing way,
Which has delighted me to-day.”
Syntax, most willing to receive The proffer'd kindness, took his leave.
—The morrow came—the city view'd, To Eaton they their way pursued,
Where the Sage trac'd with prying eye The architect'ral pageantry,
That taste and skill and labour'd art Had lavish'd over ev'ry part;
When with fond admiration fraught
He thus express'd each rising thought:
And thus the Doctor's travelling friend Address'd him at the City's end:
“In this fam'd town I office bear, Nay, I'm of some importance here,
An Alderman, who has been Mayor:
And I shall feel it, Sir, a pride, Through every part to be your guide;
Then readily obey your call To wait on you to Eaton-Hall:
For much I wish to hear you trace The sumptuous beauties of the place.
I was not born in art to trudge, But still I know enough to judge
When scientific men display Their knowledge in that pleasing way,
Which has delighted me to-day.”
Syntax, most willing to receive The proffer'd kindness, took his leave.
—The morrow came—the city view'd, To Eaton they their way pursued,
Where the Sage trac'd with prying eye The architect'ral pageantry,
That taste and skill and labour'd art Had lavish'd over ev'ry part;
When with fond admiration fraught
He thus express'd each rising thought:
“Much it delights my mind to read Of dauntless and heroic deed,
Where the historian's words record The patriot valour of the sword:
And, when the bloody field was done,
What banner mark'd the glory won,
Which honour order'd to be worn, A sacred badge, by sons unborn.
But more it joys me when I see, (Long past the age of Chivalry,)
Fair virtue change its helmed face, For ev'ry soft domestic grace,
And all the fire of martial strife Yield to the charities of life.
—Thus as I view the pictur'd wall, Th'historic page of Eaton-Hall,
I see the one, where Cressy's fame
Gives splendour to a Grosv'nor's name;
The other, in a milder sound, Is heard from all the country round.
Where the historian's words record The patriot valour of the sword:
And, when the bloody field was done,
What banner mark'd the glory won,
Which honour order'd to be worn, A sacred badge, by sons unborn.
But more it joys me when I see, (Long past the age of Chivalry,)
Fair virtue change its helmed face, For ev'ry soft domestic grace,
And all the fire of martial strife Yield to the charities of life.
—Thus as I view the pictur'd wall, Th'historic page of Eaton-Hall,
I see the one, where Cressy's fame
Gives splendour to a Grosv'nor's name;
The other, in a milder sound, Is heard from all the country round.
“I measure with admiring eye The lapse of ages long pass'd by,
From the old time, when ev'ry throne Did a stern royal warrior own;
When the stain'd sword all respite spurn'd,
And seldom to its sheath return'd;
When ceaseless battle strew'd the plain
With mangled forms of thousands slain;
And efforts of contending might
The balance held 'twixt wrong and right.
But reason by experience, taught, The reign of law and justice sought,
And though, at times, the spear would show
The foreign or domestic foe,
Learning and science gave their aid, While mild religion, heav'nly maid,
Was lov'd, was cherish'd and obey'd,
And laws and manners more refined Chastis'd and purified the mind.
But all the thanks my voice can give To Heaven I offer, that I live,
In these fair after-days, when peace
Has bid each warring age to cease;
When men prefer the joys of home, To ev'ry eager wish to roam.
Where honour doth its harvest yield Of carnage in the tented field;
When battle is reluctant sought, But when compell'd is bravely fought,
To save the land from foreign foes, Domestic tumults to oppose;
In ev'ry country to disown A tyrant pow'r, however shown,
And guard the freedom of our own.
From the old time, when ev'ry throne Did a stern royal warrior own;
When the stain'd sword all respite spurn'd,
And seldom to its sheath return'd;
When ceaseless battle strew'd the plain
With mangled forms of thousands slain;
And efforts of contending might
The balance held 'twixt wrong and right.
But reason by experience, taught, The reign of law and justice sought,
And though, at times, the spear would show
The foreign or domestic foe,
Learning and science gave their aid, While mild religion, heav'nly maid,
Was lov'd, was cherish'd and obey'd,
And laws and manners more refined Chastis'd and purified the mind.
But all the thanks my voice can give To Heaven I offer, that I live,
In these fair after-days, when peace
Has bid each warring age to cease;
When men prefer the joys of home, To ev'ry eager wish to roam.
Where honour doth its harvest yield Of carnage in the tented field;
When battle is reluctant sought, But when compell'd is bravely fought,
198
In ev'ry country to disown A tyrant pow'r, however shown,
And guard the freedom of our own.
“But if I'm heard thus to prefer Our present modes and character,
You well might ask me why I praise
What bears the shape of other days,
When arts, of ancient Greece the boast, Were in the gloomy ages lost;
And why we see this palace rise Like those a monkish time supplies?
Or rather why we do not see Palladian art and symmetry?
Why from the solid, simple base Springs not the column's attic grace?
Why trails not with a flowing ease The curling foliage o'er the frieze?
And chaste relievos lay before you Some fancied or historic story?
Why many a God and Goddess pure,
Half given to view and half obscure,
Does not by some fam'd sculptor's skill,
The niche's well plac'd concave fill?
While urns, with well-wrought decoration,
On ballustrades assume their station;
And festoons wave in flow'ry show, To grace the intervals below.—
All this, good Sir, is pretty reas'ning,
And to the subject gives a seas'ning;
But my old taste and ancient pride Thus argues on the other side.
You well might ask me why I praise
What bears the shape of other days,
When arts, of ancient Greece the boast, Were in the gloomy ages lost;
And why we see this palace rise Like those a monkish time supplies?
Or rather why we do not see Palladian art and symmetry?
Why from the solid, simple base Springs not the column's attic grace?
Why trails not with a flowing ease The curling foliage o'er the frieze?
And chaste relievos lay before you Some fancied or historic story?
Why many a God and Goddess pure,
Half given to view and half obscure,
Does not by some fam'd sculptor's skill,
The niche's well plac'd concave fill?
While urns, with well-wrought decoration,
On ballustrades assume their station;
And festoons wave in flow'ry show, To grace the intervals below.—
All this, good Sir, is pretty reas'ning,
And to the subject gives a seas'ning;
But my old taste and ancient pride Thus argues on the other side.
“I think that it should be the aim Of families of ancient name,
Never, from fashion, to transfer Their long establish'd character;
Nor e'er blot from th'historic eye, One page that tells their ancestry,
But still involve with modern state, Some figure of their ancient date.
That they whose grandsires' honours shine In holy wars of Palestine;
Or, in the glitt'ring armour steel'd,
Wav'd the bright sword in Cressy's field,
Should still with ancient pride adorn
The mansions where their sires were born.
And if old Time's destroying power Has shaken ancient hall or bower,
The new rais'd structure should dispense The style of old magnificence:
The grandeur of a former age Should still the wond'ring eye engage,
And the last Heir be proud to raise A mansion as of former days.
The Hero helm'd or bearded Lord With warlike or with civil sword,
Dar'd foreign foes, or kept in awe Th'unruly by the power of law;
But though with manners more refin'd,
Which soften and enlarge the mind,
The last successor claims the praise For virtue in these later days,
Still as his embow'd roofs he sees, And walls bedeck'd with traceries;
Windows with rainbow colours bright,
With many a fancied symbol dight;
And when he views the turrets rise In bold irregularities;
He feels that no Corinthian pile Would tell, though of the richest style,
That warriors, statesmen, learned sages,
Had borne his name in former ages,
While he, by ev'ry virtue known, Does honour to it in his own.”
With all the learned Doctor said
And the just thoughts he had display'd,
The Alderman was so delighted, The Sage to dinner he invited,
Who sometimes grave and sometimes gay,
Charm'd his kind host throughout the day.
—The next it was his lot to see The pleasant town of Shrewsbury,
And ere the journeying morrow clos'd,
He Ludlow reach'd, where he repos'd;
And here, perhaps, it might be thought
Historic fancies would be sought;
That Syntax, culling from the lore Of ages long since past and o'er
The deeds and names that give renown
To this once warlike, princely town,
Would trace its ancient pedigree When Roger of Montgomery
The castle rais'd, whose ruins now Nod o'er the lofty verdant brow,
And ask the pencil to display The picture of its proud decay.
But no, thoughts of another kind Arose in his enraptur'd mind.
This was the scene where Milton's powers
Awaken'd the Dramatic hours,
Where Nobles and fair Dames, array'd In due theatric stole, display'd
The Magic scenes, in wood and dell,
Where Comus work'd his wicked spell,
While, guarded by protecting Heaven, To Virtue is the triumph given.
With fancy working on his thought, At early morn the brow he sought,
And calmly stretching him along, Aloud he read th'immortal song,
Beneath the walls, where Milton's voice
Had taught the echoes to rejoice.
—Thus in enthusiastic dream The Drama's various figures seem
To pass, in all the scenic show, That grac'd, so many years ago,
The painted hall, where great and good
The praise such verse demands bestow'd,
And to the Mask with loud acclaim Gave the due meed of early fame.
—But Syntax as he musing lay And thought the passing time away,
Felt an oblivious spirit creep O'er his rapt sense, and sunk to sleep:
And how long he would there have laid, Into this torpid state betray'd,
As by no proof it can be shown, To my dull muse remains unknown.
—But Pat, who had his master miss'd, Could not his curious wish resist,
To take a stroll and play the scout, Pace the old castle round about,
In hopes that he should find him out.
When at his length he saw him laid,
He would have thought that he were dead,
Had not the music of his nose Made known that it was but a dose.
Here Patrick thought it right to wake him,
And his rude hands began to shake him.
The Doctor rose with wild surprise,
First shook his head, then rubb'd his eyes,
And several minutes pass'd, before Reflection did his sense restore.
His mouth gap'd wide, a sigh he fetch'd
In various forms his arms he stretch'd,
And when he felt himself awake,
He view'd the scene, and thus he spake:
Never, from fashion, to transfer Their long establish'd character;
Nor e'er blot from th'historic eye, One page that tells their ancestry,
But still involve with modern state, Some figure of their ancient date.
That they whose grandsires' honours shine In holy wars of Palestine;
Or, in the glitt'ring armour steel'd,
Wav'd the bright sword in Cressy's field,
Should still with ancient pride adorn
The mansions where their sires were born.
And if old Time's destroying power Has shaken ancient hall or bower,
The new rais'd structure should dispense The style of old magnificence:
The grandeur of a former age Should still the wond'ring eye engage,
And the last Heir be proud to raise A mansion as of former days.
The Hero helm'd or bearded Lord With warlike or with civil sword,
Dar'd foreign foes, or kept in awe Th'unruly by the power of law;
But though with manners more refin'd,
Which soften and enlarge the mind,
The last successor claims the praise For virtue in these later days,
Still as his embow'd roofs he sees, And walls bedeck'd with traceries;
Windows with rainbow colours bright,
With many a fancied symbol dight;
And when he views the turrets rise In bold irregularities;
He feels that no Corinthian pile Would tell, though of the richest style,
That warriors, statesmen, learned sages,
Had borne his name in former ages,
While he, by ev'ry virtue known, Does honour to it in his own.”
With all the learned Doctor said
And the just thoughts he had display'd,
The Alderman was so delighted, The Sage to dinner he invited,
199
Charm'd his kind host throughout the day.
—The next it was his lot to see The pleasant town of Shrewsbury,
And ere the journeying morrow clos'd,
He Ludlow reach'd, where he repos'd;
And here, perhaps, it might be thought
Historic fancies would be sought;
That Syntax, culling from the lore Of ages long since past and o'er
The deeds and names that give renown
To this once warlike, princely town,
Would trace its ancient pedigree When Roger of Montgomery
The castle rais'd, whose ruins now Nod o'er the lofty verdant brow,
And ask the pencil to display The picture of its proud decay.
But no, thoughts of another kind Arose in his enraptur'd mind.
This was the scene where Milton's powers
Awaken'd the Dramatic hours,
Where Nobles and fair Dames, array'd In due theatric stole, display'd
The Magic scenes, in wood and dell,
Where Comus work'd his wicked spell,
While, guarded by protecting Heaven, To Virtue is the triumph given.
With fancy working on his thought, At early morn the brow he sought,
And calmly stretching him along, Aloud he read th'immortal song,
Beneath the walls, where Milton's voice
Had taught the echoes to rejoice.
—Thus in enthusiastic dream The Drama's various figures seem
To pass, in all the scenic show, That grac'd, so many years ago,
The painted hall, where great and good
The praise such verse demands bestow'd,
And to the Mask with loud acclaim Gave the due meed of early fame.
—But Syntax as he musing lay And thought the passing time away,
Felt an oblivious spirit creep O'er his rapt sense, and sunk to sleep:
And how long he would there have laid, Into this torpid state betray'd,
As by no proof it can be shown, To my dull muse remains unknown.
—But Pat, who had his master miss'd, Could not his curious wish resist,
To take a stroll and play the scout, Pace the old castle round about,
In hopes that he should find him out.
When at his length he saw him laid,
He would have thought that he were dead,
Had not the music of his nose Made known that it was but a dose.
Here Patrick thought it right to wake him,
And his rude hands began to shake him.
The Doctor rose with wild surprise,
First shook his head, then rubb'd his eyes,
And several minutes pass'd, before Reflection did his sense restore.
His mouth gap'd wide, a sigh he fetch'd
In various forms his arms he stretch'd,
200
He view'd the scene, and thus he spake:
“To be by local impulse mov'd, I oft have thought, but never prov'd,
Until I Milton's Comus read Beneath the walls where it was bred:
Thus would you woo the Muse of Gray,
It should be by the church-yard way.
Say, do you seek to charm the time,
In chaunting Pope's melodious rhyme,
Go wander 'midst the forest groves,
Which the chaste muse of Windsor loves:
Or would you feel dramatic rage In pondering over Shakespeare's page,
You should pursue th'awak'ning theme,
On the green banks of Avon's stream.
—When the sun's soft declining light Has yielded to the shades of night,
Then the more pensive hours prolong O'er the inspired verse of Young,
Poet and Saint, to whom were given
These sacred names of Earth and Heaven.”
Until I Milton's Comus read Beneath the walls where it was bred:
Thus would you woo the Muse of Gray,
It should be by the church-yard way.
Say, do you seek to charm the time,
In chaunting Pope's melodious rhyme,
Go wander 'midst the forest groves,
Which the chaste muse of Windsor loves:
Or would you feel dramatic rage In pondering over Shakespeare's page,
You should pursue th'awak'ning theme,
On the green banks of Avon's stream.
—When the sun's soft declining light Has yielded to the shades of night,
Then the more pensive hours prolong O'er the inspired verse of Young,
Poet and Saint, to whom were given
These sacred names of Earth and Heaven.”
Patrick, who did not feel the fuss, His master made with Pegasus,
Nor what his active brain was brewing Upon a bank and 'neath a ruin,
Conducted him with wond'ring grin,
And brought him mutt'ring to the inn.
—Whether it happen'd that the ground
Where Syntax lay in sleep profound,
Was moist with dew, or sunny ray Did an unwholesome heat convey,
It was not long ere he complain'd
That both his arms and back were pain'd;
While a dull, dizzy something shed Its drowsy influence o'er his head:
But when a shiv'ring fit came on,
He thought that something must be done,
And Pat was sent off in a trice To bring at once the best advice.
The Doctor came with solemn face, And heard the patient state his case,
His hand was felt, the pulse beat high,
The tongue was pale, the mouth was dry;
When Galen spoke, “Upon my word
A grievous cold has been incurr'd;
But gentle sweats I trust will cure The fev'rish heats which you endure.
An ague threatens, but I hope A mild puke will that evil stop:
A most precipitate attack Disturbs the region of the back;
But a strong simulating plaister Will rid you soon of that disaster.
A bed, good Sir, I recommend To aid th'effects which I intend.
With op'ning draught I shall begin Just to prepare the way within:
The powders sent will then restore The native fluids to each pore,
When perspiration may return, And the dry skin no longer burn.
I will another visit pay, And see you at the close of day.”
But ere the Doctor came again Poor Syntax felt increase of pain:
And now was added to the rest An inflammation of the breast:
Bleeding he therefore must apply As a specific remedy.
Galen the pointed lancet drew;
The vein was pierc'd, the blood out flew,
While the brain teem'd with fancies light
Through the slow progress of the night.
When the morn came the patient dos'd,
A blister therefore was propos'd,
And cooling draughts in plenty follow'd
Which the reluctant Doctor swallow'd;
Though he declar'd and almost swore
That, live or die, he'd take no more.
At length the pains forsook his head,
On the fourth morn he left his bed,
And thus employ'd his well known power
Of reas'ning on the passing hour:
“The lib'ral callings all agree Are Physic, Law, Divinity;
And he who can combine them all To be obedient to his call,
Will have fulfill'd th'ambitious plan To be a truly learned man.
Divinity I may profess; That from my title I possess:
Of Physic I have got my fill As will appear by Doctor's bill.
And I shall then by legal deed Ere on my journey I proceed,
With grave as well as just content, Make my last will and testament:
For once, at least, then I shall be Law, Physic, and Divinity.”
—A Lawyer now was to be found;
And where's the spot of British ground,
Where our experience doth not show
That such a spreading plant will grow,
And where his dwelling is not known
As the best house in any town?
The attorney came, a figure grave, And Syntax his instructions gave.
“—As, Sir, the period is uncertain
When death may draw the sable curtain
That shuts out man from all the strife, The joys, or casualties of life;
He has a duty to fulfil, A solemn one, to make his will:
And on my prudence 'tis a blot, That I this duty have forgot.
But Heaven has just now pleas'd to give
Some hints that I may cease to live;
And that this same destroyer, Death, May rob me of my vital breath,
When health and strength and pleasure flout it,
And I, perhaps, least think about it:
Then thus, Sir, let your active quill, Sketch out the purpose of my will.
—My name, and titles, and abode, You'll state in form and legal mode;
And then, in order due, proceed To trace this mortuary deed.
My Soul I give to him who gave it,
Trusting his pard'ning grace to save it.
As for my body may it lay Where my wife moulders in decay,
And wait with her the judgment day.
For any injury I have done (Though I do not remember one,)
I ask that pardon to be given,
Which I myself may hope from Heaven.
—And by this will it is intended A hundred pounds may be expended
In some neat useful piece of plate, That might a side-board decorate,
And be by 'Squire Hearty view'd As a small mark of gratitude.
—And as I cannot name a foe, I have no pardon to bestow,
Unless a certain widow's breast Should be of enmity possest—
My friend 'Squire Hearty knows the rest:
If so,—I ask the 'Squire to buy A ring or tonish fantasy,
And to the Widow Hopeful give it,
If she will with good grace receive it;
But both as to the mode and measure,
I leave it to the said 'Squire's pleasure;
And my executor will pay What he demands without delay.
My books I give unto my friend The learn'd and Rev'rend Doctor Bend:
And when he dies, that store of knowledge
He will bequeath unto his college,
To which, we both must own, we owe The better part of all we know.
To the wise Fund that's rais'd in aid
Of those who in the writing trade,
Although they empty all their skulls, Obtain but scanty bellyfulls,
I give two hundred pounds, and wish
I could throw more into the dish.
—Ah! no one better knows than me The toil and painful drudgery
Of those, whose fortune 'tis to rule
With birchen rod the thankless school!
And shameful 'tis when they're bereft Of due support, and often left
On casual bounty to assuage The sorrows of neglected age;
Though they by whom the mind's endued
With earliest thoughts of what is good;
They who the infant nation rear, Demand the full-grown nation's care.
Three hundred pounds I leave to be My mite thrown in their treasury,
Who form'd the gen'rous scheme to aid,
The schoolmaster's ungrateful trade.”
He gave his psalm-book to the singers,
Nor did forget the parish ringers:
The clerk, the sexton, and the poor, Had some kind portion of his store.
To the Divine, who should succeed The flock which he had fed, to feed,
He gave his gown, his scarf, and cassock,
And to his wife, dear Dolly's hassock.
At length the residue he left, When he should be of life bereft,
Unto 'Squire Worthy's free controul,
To whom, indeed, he ow'd the whole.
Nor what his active brain was brewing Upon a bank and 'neath a ruin,
Conducted him with wond'ring grin,
And brought him mutt'ring to the inn.
—Whether it happen'd that the ground
Where Syntax lay in sleep profound,
Was moist with dew, or sunny ray Did an unwholesome heat convey,
It was not long ere he complain'd
That both his arms and back were pain'd;
While a dull, dizzy something shed Its drowsy influence o'er his head:
But when a shiv'ring fit came on,
He thought that something must be done,
And Pat was sent off in a trice To bring at once the best advice.
The Doctor came with solemn face, And heard the patient state his case,
His hand was felt, the pulse beat high,
The tongue was pale, the mouth was dry;
When Galen spoke, “Upon my word
A grievous cold has been incurr'd;
But gentle sweats I trust will cure The fev'rish heats which you endure.
An ague threatens, but I hope A mild puke will that evil stop:
A most precipitate attack Disturbs the region of the back;
But a strong simulating plaister Will rid you soon of that disaster.
A bed, good Sir, I recommend To aid th'effects which I intend.
With op'ning draught I shall begin Just to prepare the way within:
The powders sent will then restore The native fluids to each pore,
When perspiration may return, And the dry skin no longer burn.
I will another visit pay, And see you at the close of day.”
But ere the Doctor came again Poor Syntax felt increase of pain:
And now was added to the rest An inflammation of the breast:
Bleeding he therefore must apply As a specific remedy.
Galen the pointed lancet drew;
The vein was pierc'd, the blood out flew,
While the brain teem'd with fancies light
Through the slow progress of the night.
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A blister therefore was propos'd,
And cooling draughts in plenty follow'd
Which the reluctant Doctor swallow'd;
Though he declar'd and almost swore
That, live or die, he'd take no more.
At length the pains forsook his head,
On the fourth morn he left his bed,
And thus employ'd his well known power
Of reas'ning on the passing hour:
“The lib'ral callings all agree Are Physic, Law, Divinity;
And he who can combine them all To be obedient to his call,
Will have fulfill'd th'ambitious plan To be a truly learned man.
Divinity I may profess; That from my title I possess:
Of Physic I have got my fill As will appear by Doctor's bill.
And I shall then by legal deed Ere on my journey I proceed,
With grave as well as just content, Make my last will and testament:
For once, at least, then I shall be Law, Physic, and Divinity.”
—A Lawyer now was to be found;
And where's the spot of British ground,
Where our experience doth not show
That such a spreading plant will grow,
And where his dwelling is not known
As the best house in any town?
The attorney came, a figure grave, And Syntax his instructions gave.
“—As, Sir, the period is uncertain
When death may draw the sable curtain
That shuts out man from all the strife, The joys, or casualties of life;
He has a duty to fulfil, A solemn one, to make his will:
And on my prudence 'tis a blot, That I this duty have forgot.
But Heaven has just now pleas'd to give
Some hints that I may cease to live;
And that this same destroyer, Death, May rob me of my vital breath,
When health and strength and pleasure flout it,
And I, perhaps, least think about it:
Then thus, Sir, let your active quill, Sketch out the purpose of my will.
—My name, and titles, and abode, You'll state in form and legal mode;
And then, in order due, proceed To trace this mortuary deed.
My Soul I give to him who gave it,
Trusting his pard'ning grace to save it.
As for my body may it lay Where my wife moulders in decay,
And wait with her the judgment day.
For any injury I have done (Though I do not remember one,)
I ask that pardon to be given,
Which I myself may hope from Heaven.
—And by this will it is intended A hundred pounds may be expended
In some neat useful piece of plate, That might a side-board decorate,
And be by 'Squire Hearty view'd As a small mark of gratitude.
—And as I cannot name a foe, I have no pardon to bestow,
Unless a certain widow's breast Should be of enmity possest—
My friend 'Squire Hearty knows the rest:
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And to the Widow Hopeful give it,
If she will with good grace receive it;
But both as to the mode and measure,
I leave it to the said 'Squire's pleasure;
And my executor will pay What he demands without delay.
My books I give unto my friend The learn'd and Rev'rend Doctor Bend:
And when he dies, that store of knowledge
He will bequeath unto his college,
To which, we both must own, we owe The better part of all we know.
To the wise Fund that's rais'd in aid
Of those who in the writing trade,
Although they empty all their skulls, Obtain but scanty bellyfulls,
I give two hundred pounds, and wish
I could throw more into the dish.
—Ah! no one better knows than me The toil and painful drudgery
Of those, whose fortune 'tis to rule
With birchen rod the thankless school!
And shameful 'tis when they're bereft Of due support, and often left
On casual bounty to assuage The sorrows of neglected age;
Though they by whom the mind's endued
With earliest thoughts of what is good;
They who the infant nation rear, Demand the full-grown nation's care.
Three hundred pounds I leave to be My mite thrown in their treasury,
Who form'd the gen'rous scheme to aid,
The schoolmaster's ungrateful trade.”
He gave his psalm-book to the singers,
Nor did forget the parish ringers:
The clerk, the sexton, and the poor, Had some kind portion of his store.
To the Divine, who should succeed The flock which he had fed, to feed,
He gave his gown, his scarf, and cassock,
And to his wife, dear Dolly's hassock.
At length the residue he left, When he should be of life bereft,
Unto 'Squire Worthy's free controul,
To whom, indeed, he ow'd the whole.
The Doctor came to bring his bill, And was a witness to the will.
—Thus, having done this solemn deed, Syntax did on his way proceed.
—Thus, having done this solemn deed, Syntax did on his way proceed.
This Mask was performed at Ludlow Castle in the year 1634, before the Earl of Bridgewater, then President of Wales, an Office since abolished. The principal parts were performed by Lord Brackley, Mr. Egerton, and Lady Alice Egerton. The Poem is supposed to have been occasioned by the two brothers having lost their sister in returning to the castle through the woods in Oakley Park.
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