University of Virginia Library

CANTO II.

What is a Coxcomb?—'tis a fellow A kind of dashing Punchinello,
That does his best attractions owe To glitter and to outward show!
Nor is it to the form confin'd, For there are Coxcombs of the mind,
And, perhaps, fairest ridicule Rests with a better right and rule
Where the young man, just come from college,
With slight bespatterings of knowledge,
Does the grave attention claim, That's due alone to learning's name;
Than where he in life's early vigour,
With glowing cheek and striking figure,
And all those spirits that give wing To the blooming hours of spring,
Asks of vain Fashion's various art Those gay attractions to impart;
Those trappings of exterior show,
Which catch the eye and form the beau.
—The real worth, the sterling good, Require, to be well understood,
Reason, reflection, piercing sense, And, above all, experience;
While what the surface may display To gen'ral gaze, in open day,
Claims little but to see and hear, A ready eye, an open ear.
Syntax well knew that what gave birth
To knowledge and to inbred worth
He could unfold with sure reliance, And set all doubtings at defiance,
Nor did he fear a search to stir In quest of real character;
But still he thought that something more
Than moral charms and learned lore,
Something that's sprightly, gay, gallant,
Must deck his journey militant:
“For,” he exclaim'd, “in this same Tour
I do foresee, nay I am sure, What obstacles I shall endure!
I almost tremble to recount them,
But then how glorious to surmount them.
I must a diff'rent course pursue From all that I've been us'd to do;
My habits I must lay aside, And cocker up my mind with pride;
Feed my calm fancy with a treat Of what the world may term conceit;
For I shall never gain my ends, With all the flattery of friends,
Unless I mend my awkward paces And gain the favour of the Graces.
In common visits I could do, But I'm to visit and to woo:
I may my flatt'ring unction ply To please a lady's vanity;
But then do I possess the art To play the humbug with the heart?
“The Dame who 'midst the fragrance lives,
That her conservatory gives,
Will ne'er allow tobacco's fume To vapour in her drawing-room:
I fear Ma'am Tulip, whose fine eyes Are us'd to nature's richest dyes,
Which, from the morn to night, she sees
On flow'rs and plants, on shrubs and trees,
May with a sudden shriek start back
When she beholds my dingy black:
My speech then must be rich with flowers, As her own aromatic bowers;
And I must bow and I must bend, Ere to her favour I pretend;
And I must tell her she's as fair As any of her lilies are.
If I should dare to snatch a kiss, While I taste th'ambrosial bliss,
The loves to which the plants are prone,
And Dr. Darwin's verse has shown, I must implore to be her own:
I must implore to let me hope That I may be her Heliotrope,
And in return that she may be A smiling Heliotrope to me.
But I must never say or sing That the fine season is the spring;
Though after all, I fear she'll find That I have left May-day behind;
That I am, what she does not want, A stout, tho' but autumnal plant;
And much I fear I shall not prove That autumn is the time for love:
However I will do my best And to my stars must leave the rest.
“Still, on my way new doubts, I find,
Are ever springing in my mind:
Whether with comment or with text, I feel how I shall be perplex'd,
Whene'er the learned dame I see, The mirror of philology.
She has just pass'd the spring of life; So far she'll suit me as a wife;
But to my hopes O what a blow If I should dare to tell her so!
For 'tis her wish, as it appears, To sink at least some saucy years,
And therefore beautiful and young Must be familiar to my tongue!
For surely I've too much discerning,
If I should think mere praise for learning
Would bribe her glowing heart's consent,
However deck'd with compliment:
If I could brush up to her door With liv'ried train and coach-and-four
I then of love might truly speak, And tell my Cyprian tales in Greek.—
But much I fear my simple guise, Will not attract the widow's eyes;
The way to favour I must find By the exertions of the mind,
And by the sentimental art Make out a passage to her heart.
And if I can the way discover To be just smil'd on as a lover,
I'll treat this Lady Omicron With Ovid and Anacreon,
And by those am'rous poets' fire, I may her classic warmth inspire:
Ill-fortune then alone will hinder My scatt'ring sparks upon her tinder;
And waking feelings which may move Her bosom to contemplate love.
“As to Miss Crotchet, I must try To work her into harmony.
The poet and historian tells Music, that by its powerful spells,
Has been a source of miracles;
And I may hope, without much stir, To work a miracle on her,
If such it be, by music's art To tickle an old maiden's heart.
—At all events I'll be as fine As doth become a sound divine;
New clad, new hatted and new wigg'd, With all becoming order rigg'd,
In that due figure to appear Which suits the views of this career,
Whose final hist'ry will display The colour of my future day.”
Thus did he reason, thus he thought,
Then into use his fiddle brought,
And all his tender, melting airs To win Miss Crotchet he prepares;
Then turns at times his curious eye To scientific botany,
Which might prepare him for his call And welcome kind at Tulip-Hall;
And thus by various means improve
The ways he plann'd of making love.
In the mean time he stroll'd about, At farm or cot popp'd in and out,
And, with kind condescending glee,
Chatted with those he chanc'd to see.
One morn, as in the church-yard walking,
He to himself was calmly talking,
While Mat, the Sexton, sung a stave, Half in and half out of a grave;
He was saluted by a dame, And Cath'rine Horner was her name;
On whom, long past her early youth,
Old Time had work'd with rankling tooth:
Her wrinkled cheeks, so lank and dry,
Form'd channels for each wat'ry eye,
And on her chin the curling hair Was thinly sprinkled here and there.
With age she was completely shent,
Her knees with tott'ring weakness bent,
And on a young man's arm she leant;
When thus she to the Doctor spoke,
In tones between a squeak and croak:
“I hope my suit may not miscarry; I am to ask you, Sir, to marry.”
His Rev'rence then, with scornful eye, Began this curious colloquy.
Syntax.—
“To marry?—whom? you doting fool!
What's got into your brainless scull?”
Th'old woman, striving to display A bashful look, begg'd leave to say
“I meant not, Sir, to give offence Unto your honour's reverence:
I mean no harm as I can see, When I ask you to marry me.”—
Now Syntax, had he seen a ghost,
Could not have look'd more terror-crost,
“What means the witch?” he stamping said,
“Or has your old age turn'd your head?”

M. H.
“I've reach'd, 'tis true, my latter season,
But still, I hope, I've kept my reason;
I cannot be an idle prater, If I but seek to follow nature;
I only wish you'd marry me To the young man whom here you see;
And I declare as I'm alive, I was last week but sixty-five.
I know I ne'er was much a beauty, But honest Jack will do his duty;
And why should I withhold consent, If I'm well-pleas'd, and he's content?
I know that many silly folk Will turn grave things into a joke,
But where's the joke in this connection?
He gains support, I gain protection;
And let them laugh, when they shall see
That he has made a fool of me.
The girls may scoff, but they'd be glad
To have for sweethearts such a lad.
If I told all that I could tell”—

Syntax.—
“If you were quiet, 'twere as well.
Sexton, I now must trust to you What with these people I'm to do.”

Sexton.—
“An' please you, Sir, I know the story
Of this same pair who stand before you:
And though I feel I am but dull— One is a knave and one's a fool:
Her cottage, that's by yonder wall, He wishes to be his—that's all.
Besides 'tis known that Mother Horner
Has gold and notes in some sly corner,
And when that he has nos'd them out,
The Raff will make them fly about:
Though young he is a sorry sot, Her little all will go to pot;
If he's permitted to deceive her He soon will to the parish leave her.
I know the boy from five years old, Saucy and impudent and bold:
When than that stone he was not higher
He was a most notorious liar;
And I must own I should be loth To take his word upon his oath:
This leg of mine 'gainst that dead bone
I'll lay, that he's not twenty-one.
Always so wicked, and so wild, 'Tis said he's Farmer Fatgut's child,
For he maintain'd him while he liv'd,
And his tricks oft the old man griev'd.
He has been caught in laying snares
For catching 'Squire Worthy's hares,
And now with artful, am'rous fuss, He's laid a snare for that old puss;
And, if not stopp'd in what he's doing,
He'll lead the old fool to her ruin;
For if he could, ne'er mind the sin, He'd eat her flesh and sell her skin.”

Again the old dame rais'd her voice,
“Pray,” said the Doctor, “cease your noise,
Or else I fear you'll wake the dead,
Beneath the ground whereon you tread.”
The Sexton once more stopp'd his trade,
And spoke while resting on his spade:
“Your Rev'rence, please you, need not fear,
She'll recollect who's sleeping here:
'Twas one who gave her many a thwacking,
To punish her foul tongue for clacking.
Persuade her that her tongue would wake
Old Simon, and she ne'er would speak.
I knew old Simon Horner well, I dug his grave, I rung his knell,
Nay, well I know this is the spot Where his remains were left to rot;
And I do think, or I'm a fool, That this is honest Simon's scull;
And while I'm shov'ling 'mong these stones,
I bring to light his mould'ring bones.
Look dame and see how he is grinning,
To keep his wanton rib from sinning.”
“Have done,” the Doctor said, “have done,
Matthew this is too solemn fun;
If she will wed, why I must wed her, And let deriding folly bed her.
I cannot marry them to-day, So quickly send them both away.”
—Jack made appearance to resist,
Clench'd both his hands and shew'd his fist,
When the bold grave-man, at the meeting,
Gave the rude clown so sound a beating
That he forsook his hop'd-for bride,
While with his spade the conq'ror plied,
Stroke after stroke, the seat of shame,
Which blushing Muses never name,
And drove him, bellowing as he fled, From out the region of the dead.
Th'affrighted dame, pale and down-hearted,
To find that she was thus deserted,
Mutt'ring revenge, and swearing too,
Which she was sometimes apt to do,
While hobbling o'er sepulchral stones,
Was pelted by her husband's bones,
And Matthew chose to let her know
Whose bones they were at ev'ry throw.
And thus she pass'd amid the jeer Of all who were assembled there,
'Till of her cot she turn'd the latch And sought the shelter of her thatch.
Syntax, half smiling, said, “This tale
Will long be echoed through the vale;
And many here will lie and rot Before the story is forgot.”
Time passes on, whate'er our schemes,
Our waking or our sleeping dreams,
Whether life's pleasure or its pain Join in our course or form the train;
And it ran on until the hour Call'd Syntax to th'appointed Tour:
Nor had he ever yet been seen As to outward form and mien,
In all that gives exterior show, So near what might be styl'd a beau,
As when he bade his home adieu With one great object in his view,
To take for better or for worse Heav'n's best of gifts or direst curse,
Which adds a smile or frown to life, In the fix'd image of a WIFE.
All things were in fit style prepar'd,
With his known valet for his guard:
Well-curried Punch the Doctor bore,
Which Pat bestrode in former Tour;
While he a farmer's gelding rode, Of strength to bear the weighty load:
For prancing Phillis now was gone To canter through a honey-moon;
And Syntax hop'd to see the day
When Punch would trot the self-same way.
—The journey's secret had been kept,
And while each curious tattler slept,
At early dawn, in tranquil state, The Doctor pass'd the village gate,
Look'd cheerful, nay, seem'd quite delighted,
In hope his pains would be requited.
In our life's chase what various game
Becomes the mortal huntsman's aim!
And then, with what discordant views He that variety pursues!
They, who with independence bless'd,
And by no urgent wants oppress'd,
Who range at large and unconfin'd, Free as the impulse of the wind,
Are often driven to and fro By the various gusts that blow,
Unless calm reason checks her force
And keeps them in their steady course.
The passions are of life the gales;
Then keep the helm and watch the sails,
And with a clear and steady eye Look to the haven where you hie.
“Nay ought I not,” thought our Divine,
“To look to that which may be mine?
It seems, indeed, a pretty port, Where Cupid may, perhaps, resort,
And learning with the Graces three Is said to live in harmony;
And who knows it may be my fate
To nestle there and change my state!
Its Mistress I've ne'er chanc'd to see,
Nor have her eyes e'er look'd on me, Or my originality.
It is not that my form pretends To dash at matrimonial ends;
'Tis by my tongue I must succeed,
'Tis that must do th'important deed:
I must depend on classic vigour To give allurement to my figure;
And, watching her coquettish art, Make my way boldly to her heart.
'Tis not by canting or by whining, Or a long course of undermining,
That this fine fort can be obtain'd; By sudden storm it must be gain'd.
Throw out false colours to her eye, By weavings fine of flattery;
That she those weaker parts may show
Which will not stand a sudden blow.
If thus my powers should succeed 'Twill be a more than glorious deed.
And if I fail 'twill be no more Than many a one has done before:
E'en heroes of the first renown, Have had their hopes all tumbled down,
But then they did not strive in vain Bravely to build them up again,
While persevering ardours bless Their final darings with success.
Thus cheer'd by hope, my prospect's fair,
But for struggles I prepare, I snap my fingers at despair.
Of these so tempting fair-ones three One will be full enough for me;
And my work must be idly done If I do not secure that one—
And if dispos'd to be as kind As the old dame I left behind:
If I could find a Widow Horner Wealthy and willing in a corner,
Well-looking and dispos'd to cooing; O it would save a world of wooing!
And then I should re-visit home Without another wish to roam.”
Thus half in earnest, half in joke,
He in soft, mutt'ring whispers spoke.
—Of saunt'ring folk he would enquire The name of ev'ry village spire,
Who was the Parson, who the 'Squire;
Whether the one his virtues prov'd
By such good deeds as made him lov'd,
And if the other did excel In the first art of preaching well.
Nor did he ever fail to speak With those he chanc'd to overtake;
And even had they nought to say He was as well content as they;
So that they did well-pleas'd appear, And give his words a list'ning ear.
'Twas thus he fail'd not to beguile With pleasant chat the ling'ring mile.
Phœbus his course had almost run,
And soon would put his night-cap on,
Thus to prepare him for his nap On the soft down of Thetis' lap
When the embower'd spot was seen
Of which Ma'am Omicron was Queen.
—A chance companion on the road, Who liv'd not far from her abode,
And happ'd to know the Doctor well,
Propos'd her mode of life to tell.
The Doctor too was glad to hear, And op'd an interested ear.
“In this fair Lady are combin'd The beauties of the form and mind.
She's rich withal and has withstood Five years of tempting widowhood,
When many a suitor, but in vain, Has strove her favour to obtain,
The soldier bold, the dashing 'squire,
Have hop'd to wake the amorous fire;
Beaux of various sorts and size Have thought to bear away the prize;
But she, as it is said, has sworn She ne'er to Hymen would return,
Unless the saffron-mantled power Would join her in his roseate bower,
To one with ancient learning fraught,
With all that modern science taught,
And in whose talents might be trac'd The seeds of genius and of taste.
For one endued with such a mind She'd leave exterior grace behind:
A scholar and a virtuous sage, Whate'er his shape, whate'er his age,
Would her discerning heart engage.
A witty, a deformed Scarron She would prefer, like Maintenon,
To all that superficial race Who know no charm beyond the face
And are enchanted by the plume
That waves in fashion's drawing-room.”
Syntax this question then preferr'd:
“Think you that she will keep her word?”
When he was answer'd frank and free,
As such enquiries ought to be:
“My understanding's too refin'd To fathom a fine Lady's mind,
I cannot know and do not care What whimsies may be passing there,
For my best half doth never own A thought that is to me unknown.
A fond and amiable she, As frank as honest heart can be;—
But hear the best authority.
—The Widow's Rector oft displays
His thoughts of what she does and says,
And he is known, I believe, to shine As a sagacious, learn'd divine.
He has free entrance at the Hall, Whenever he is pleas'd to call,
Though I've been told it is but rare He's known to pay his visits there,
For when she's in a certain whim
She strives to play some trick with him.
—He says he's sure she will not stray From virtue's fair and open way,
Nor that she e'er will give offence To the mind's purest innocence:
But she's as lightsome as a fairy In pranks and whimsical vagary:
As a coquette she daily dances, Then gratifies blue stocking fancies;
To-day, to deck her charms inclin'd, To-morrow to enrich her mind;
Nay, 'mong the Jacks, the Dicks, the Harrys,
'Twill not surprise him if she marries,
If she chuse one of science full, Or one impenetrably dull,
Some grave man for his sterling sense, Or parson for his eloquence:
Nor would he wonder, if through life
She ne'er renew'd the name of wife.
And now, Sir, you may form a notion
Of Madam Omicron's promotion.”
It must be own'd that all this news
To Syntax was of sovereign use,
To shape the plans he had in view, Inform him what he had to do,
And how and in what way to woo.
—Thus arm'd, he sent Pat on before,
T'announce his coming at the door,
Where Madam O---, with smiling face,
And the most condescending grace,
Gave her best welcome to the cot, Which was her philosophic lot,
For such she's named the charming spot.
The walls were festoon'd o'er with flowers,
Here winged boys and there the hours
Floated along in airy ease, The surface of the lengthen'd frieze;
And all around he seem'd to see Some well-dress'd Pagan Deity.
She plac'd him in a satin chair, 'Tween Mercury and Jupiter,
And plac'd a stool with fruitage drest On which his either foot to rest.
—Thus seated with the Olympic folk, Syntax began to scent a joke;
And, fitting their forms to his own,
Doubted if he should smile or frown.
“If this,” he thought, “be classic fun,
I'll gravely wait what's to be done:
If of the scene I am the jest I'll work my way and act my best.”
The Doctor felt that his queer phiz
Was such as might invite a quiz;
For, right or wrong, he seem'd to see Quizzing was her propensity.
At all points therefore he prepar'd To keep himself upon his guard,
In jesting to give joke for joke, If it were wit, give stroke for stroke;
If learning he were call'd to ply, To mix it up with flattery,
And cull from poets and from sages The gallantries of former ages.
An antique tripod now appear'd Upon three grinning Satyrs rear'd,
And at each corner there was wrought The visage of a bearded goat;
The basins which contain'd the tea Show'd ornamental sympathy,
For they shone bright with golden darts,
The cakes too bore the form of hearts,
While the dark vase that held the cream Did the Etruscan fabric seem.
—And now a glove the Widow dropp'd
When up in haste the Doctor popp'd,
To give back with an eager grace, The fallen trifle to its place;
When the stool tripp'd, and threw him o'er
In sprawling length along the floor:
The tripod also sought the ground, The goats and satyrs lay around,
And china's broken forms display'd The ruin which his fall had made.
Ma'am to the bell plied such a stroke
That the rich silken cordage broke,
And pale-fac'd maids came rushing in
To know what caus'd the mighty din.
The Doctor rose, confus'd, amaz'd, And on the shatter'd ruins gaz'd,
When he exclaim'd, “The best design
Doth often meet a fate like mine!”
But soon the sage was kindly greeted And soft consoling words repeated.
“O be not at this bustle griev'd If you no mischief have receiv'd,
If safe in hand, if safe in arm, Let not your looks express alarm;
O never, never mind the rest, And be not, Doctor, so distrest!
Genius does awkward things they say—
I'm doing them, aye, ev'ry day:
And, when that you shall know me better,
You'll find in me, Sir, à la lettre,
What Pope so honours with applause,
That temper which, whate'er the cause,
Ne'er makes complaints, nor frowns, nor squalls,
E'en though the fav'rite china falls.
But to dispel your startled care, In the next room we'll seek a chair,
And Bacchus' self shall meet you there.”
“—A chair,” said Syntax, “by your leave,
I will with your commands receive,
But, please you, I'll excuse the stool
Which caus'd me thus to play the fool,
Unless you can procure me one To mourn the mischief I have done;
Where I may seat me and repent, In form of awkward penitent.”
—The Dame exclaim'd, with uplift eye, As if in rapt'rous extacy,
“O bravo, Doctor! O what a wit! How nicely too you manage it!
All the best china I've in store I'd willing see upon the floor;
O it would be a trifling price To make the paltry sacrifice,
If but my fancy would take wing, And make me say so good a thing!
But wit like yours is never taught,
Nor can with power of gold be bought;
'Tis genius, or the happiest nature, That of this gift is the creator;
But she forgot as you may see, To give th'awak'ning charm to me.
Hence 'twould be venial if from you I could purloin a flash or two,
To keep for use and lively play, Upon some chosen, gawdy day.”
That quiet spirit call'd self love, So apt the human breast to move,
Began a little place to find Within the Doctor's wav'ring mind;
And, if it did not turn them out, Was prone to calm each rising doubt;
While the warm sense of conscious pride
Inclin'd him to the flatt'ring side
Of what the smiling widow spoke, Whether in earnest or in joke.
He now a sofa's corner grac'd,
On the same seat the Dame was plac'd,
Though to some distance she retir'd,
As chaste, decorous form requir'd.
In gilded frame there hung between,
From Titian's hand, a fav'rite scene,
Where young Adonis did appear;—
A boar's head crown'd the pointed spear,
While 'neath the silken folds behind The doting Venus lay reclin'd.
The lady cast her eyes above As if she view'd the Queen of Love,
Then to her side a look she threw,
Where she had Syntax in her view;
But it was rather to explore The heads of Syntax and the boar,
When whim endeavour'd, if it could, To find out some similitude,
While her gay fancy strove to rig The beast's head in a parson's wig.
—Some little chit-chat 'bout the arts, But not a word as yet of Hearts,
Of ling'ring time fill'd up the measure,
'Till supper waited Madam's pleasure,
Which was in tasteful order set In an adjoining cabinet,
Whose classic paintings like the rest, The genius of the place confest.
—Two Bacchanalian infants lay Upon a tiger's skin at play,
Beneath an overshadowing vine
Around the elm whose branches twine,
And purple clusters hang between To give a richness to the scene;
While views of wood and water-fall Are scatter'd o'er the crimson wall:
But Syntax look'd to satisfy His palate rather than his eye,
And that eye was dispos'd to stare When it beheld the bill of fare.
One dish a single pigeon grac'd,
On t'other side three larks were plac'd;
A tart, about two inches square, Cut out and fashion'd like a star,
Potatoes two, most nicely roasted,
The produce which her garden boasted,
And in the midst, the eye to please, A milk-white Lilliputian cheese,
Were all arrang'd in order due, And look'd so pretty to the view.
The Doctor, who so long had fasted,
Nor since 'twas noon a morsel tasted,
Besides he had kick'd down his tea, Beheld this festive symmetry
Deck'd out in all the simple cost
That Wedgwood's pottery could boast,
In hungry fury, almost able With the scant meal to eat the table:
Nay, while the puny bits she carv'd,
Poor Syntax fear'd he should be starv'd.
The wine was call'd, the summons cheer'd
His spirits till the wine appear'd.
Two minniken decanters shone Like twenty prisms form'd into one;
Nay, with such lustre did they shine,
The eye could scarce discern the wine,
And quite perplex'd his eager sight, To know if it were red or white.
The Hostess fill'd her ready glass,
And did the health to Syntax pass:
It held what might just wet her lip, But was not large enough to sip.
Then, with Bon Soir! her guest was greeted,
And he the sleepy toast repeated:
But the cheering hopes were o'er, The gay decanters held no more.
“I'm tir'd with our sheep-shearing feast,”
She said, “and long for balmy rest.
Hence, Sir, you will excuse my dress, As I've just been a shepherdess,
And therefore suited my array To the employment of the day:
To-morrow I'll put on my best In honour of my honour'd guest.”
She order'd then her chamber light,
Wish'd calm repose and bade good night.
The Doctor follow'd in high dudgeon,
At having been so tame a gudgeon;
Hungry and sore with discontent, He growl'd and mutter'd as he went,
“Of starving jokes, I'll make her sick,
And faith I'll play her trick for trick,
Before to-morrow's course is run, I will return her fun for fun:
And may my hopes all go to pot, If my resentment is forgot!”
Poor anxious Pat begg'd leave to know
What seem'd to plague his Rev'rence so:
Nor did his kind enquiries fail Of hearing the droll, starving tale.
“'Tis strange,” he in his way replied,
“For I, Sir, thought I should have died,
Of roast and boil'd, of bak'd and fried:
Not such a kitchen one in twenty, So cramm'd with overflowing plenty.
But just permit me to observe, Your Rev'rence surely need not starve;
You may defy, though you've forgot, The utmost spite of spit and pot;
For safe within your great-coat pocket,
As big as any two pound rocket,
A fine Bologna is well-stow'd By way of prog upon the road;
And many a biscuit too pack'd up,
On which your Rev'rence now may sup,
Nor do I think that I shall fail To get a jug of foaming ale.”
He said, and soon the ale appear'd,
The sight the Doctor's spirits cheer'd,
And to complete his well-laid plot, A nice clean pipe he also got;
Nay more, some high-dried weed he brought,
Without which pipes are good for nought.
The sausage gave its poignant slice, The biscuit too was very nice;
He gave a whiff, the ale he quaff'd,
And at the Widow's banquet laugh'd:
The feast, which mov'd his humble pride,
Now shook with mirth his aching side.
Thus with these means of consolation,
And cure of thought that brings vexation,
Syntax dismiss'd his faithful valet To snore the night out on his pallet;
While in arm-chair, with half shut eye, He spoke a brief soliloquy:
“Thou welcome tube, to whom belongs
To make the mind forget her wrongs,
Thou bid'st my keen resentment cease
And yield to harmony and peace!
The Widow's mischief now is o'er, And I shall frown and fret no more,
But arm myself with watchful care, To fall into no other snare:
Nay, if her genius should succeed, I'll bid good humour meet the deed;
And let her frolic and her joke—
If she must have them—end in Smoke!”
At length he felt 'twas time to rest,
And Morpheus claim'd him as his guest,
When in due time, refresh'd and gay, He hail'd the promise of the day,
And in the book-room was display'd The luxury of breakfast laid.
His eyes now joyous wander'd o'er The contrast of the night before:
The tea in fragrant fumes ascends, The sister coffee too attends,
While many a smoking cake appears
In butter sous'd o'er head and ears;
Boil'd eggs, slic'd beef and dainty chicken
Invite him to more solid picking,
While honey of delicious taste, Adds sweetness to the morn's repast.
But Syntax here was all alone, For Madam did not rise till noon;
So that there were no forms to tease him,
And he could take whate'er might please him:
Nor did he the free choice refuse,
He pleas'd his taste, he read the news,
Then search'd the well-rang'd shelves, to find
A classic breakfast for his mind.
He now took Ovid and Lucretius To con o'er what those poets teach us,
That if he should be left alone With this same Madam Omicron,
He might th'important question move, Of the Philosophy of Love;
And find, at least, how all things stood;
If with success she might be woo'd,
Or, as he thought, if he should be A play-game to her vanity:
Though, if her fancy should not chuse him,
Her fine vagaries might amuse him,
At all events, he was prepar'd To take what fortune should award.
The Dame, howe'er, he did not see
'Till the house-clock had sounded three.
She now appear'd in all the pride Of figure and of ton beside:
Her form was fine, for plastic Nature
Had work'd with pleasure on her stature.
Of those bright, heav'nly rivals three, Who call'd on Paris to decree
The envied apple, form'd of gold,
The Dame seem'd cast in Juno's mould,
To whom 'tis by the poets given
To wear the breeches e'en in Heaven;
And Madam, as her neighbours sing,
Would do on earth the self-same thing.
Grand, full of animated grace, The chasten'd smile play'd on her face,
And though old Time, that scurvy fellow,
Had brought her to be more than mellow;
Yet taste and art contriv'd to shade
The inroads which his hand had made.
The Doctor view'd her to and fro; And eyed her form from top to toe,
Transfix'd he stood by wild surprize
Told by his tongue and by his eyes,
And stammer'd, for he scarce could speak,
A line in Latin, then in Greek;
Nay told her that she rivall'd Eve,
Who did from Milton's strains receive
That praise which dwells on every tongue,
And has by many a Muse been sung.
The thought with flatt'ring brilliance shone,
And more than pleas'd Ma'am Omicron:
For though each self-prevailing thought
Was with a lurking laughter fraught,
Yet her heart aim'd not at concealing
A pleasure at the Doctor's feeling;
Who, from his lips as well as eye, Gave fuel to her vanity.
Her thanks with so much grace were given,
That Syntax seem'd half-way to Heaven;
Nay, his heart beat with such delight,
He fancied he had got there quite.
She now propos'd a garden walk Where, in some sentimental talk
They might the sun-shine hours consume,
'Till summon'd to the eating-room.
“—O plaintive Hammond, how he shines,”
Said Syntax, “in these charming lines!
“How sweet to wind along the cool retreat
To look and gaze on Delia as I go;
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!”
She bow'd, and with a side-long glance,
Threw the poor Doctor in a trance,
In which he felt strong inclination
To hint at Love's o'ercoming passion;
But still he felt afraid to stir, 'Till he receiv'd a hint from her.
They gain'd the slope, they sought the glade,
Or, seated 'neath the beechen shade,
They search'd those principles of taste,
Which to Elysium turn the waste;
Here make the crystal waters flow,
Or dash from heights on rocks below, And there erect the portico;
Or column raise, or sink the grot, But ne'er let nature be forgot.
Through fragrant shrubberies they rove,
But not a word was said of Love,
'Till they approach a basin's side, In whose transparent waters glide
The fish, who their bright forms display'd
In gold and silver scales array'd.
“I do not as Narcissus did, Of whom in classic tale we read,”
Syntax exclaim'd, with fond delight, “I view not in the mirror bright
My meagre self; a form divine Does in the liquid crystal shine.
Ah, Lady, and I feel it true, The shadow steals its charms from you!
Here would it stay when you were gone,
And thus be seen when you are flown,
Here would I ask a cot, and gaze
Through the bless'd remnant of my days.”
But on the vision too intent, O'er the green brink he fondly bent,
And sudden dash'd into the water,
While Ma'am ran off to hide her laughter,
And send her household to await The Doctor in his dripping state:
But the mirror was so shallow There was not room to sink or wallow;
And without aid he soon was seen Shaking his wet legs on the green:
But Pat his ready help applied,
And soon each moisten'd part was dried.
The dinner was a plenteous feast Where ev'ry varying dish was best,
And Bacchus in the realms above Ne'er furnish'd better wine for Jove.
Thus when he had his fill of both And all was mov'd off with the cloth,
Thought Syntax, “I'm not such a fool To let a dip my courage cool;
Besides, with Heaven's own vintage warm'd,
I feel that I am doubly arm'd,
And will not any longer wait, To try my chance and know my fate.”
But while he his best looks prepar'd To see what fortune might award,
He was address'd in gentle tone, And ask'd by Mrs. Omicron,
If by his logic he could prove Where was the real seat of Love;
She begg'd that philosophic spirit, Which Fame allow'd him to inherit,
To fix and settle her opinion As to its rights and its dominion.
—This was the topic which he sought
And such the doctrine which he taught.
“—Lucretius, now before me, says (A poet whom all lovers praise)
That love is seated in the liver,
That there the Boy exhausts his quiver;
While Ovid sings it is the heart In which he aims to dip his dart:
For me I know not how to trace it
Unless 'tis where you chuse to place it.”
“Pooh! pooh!” she said, “I'm grown so stupid,
As to forget the laws of Cupid;
Nay, having lov'd a husband once, I am become so great a dunce,
That now I think 'twould be in vain, Howe'er I strove—to love again.”
“Nonsense!” th'enliven'd sage replied,
“Take my experience for your guide:
No greater weakness than to mourn And weep beside a husband's urn:
Believe me 'tis an idle whim When you've your duty done to him,
Not such an useless grief to smother And do that duty to another.
Still, while the form of beauty lives,
And the cheeks' roseate glow survives:
While sympathetic feelings warm, And hope and fear may wake alarm,
It is the sober call of reason To cull the fruitage of the season,
To love again, again to coo, And wed—as you and I might do.”
He paus'd—a willing ear he lent To hear his hope's accomplishment,
But Ma'am said nought—though that's consent,
He thought, if but the adage old Does a decided truth unfold;
At least he chose thus to infer And be self-love's interpreter:
Though soon this charm the lady broke,
And thus with serious aspect spoke.
“The dream in which your fancies shine
Will never be a dream of mine,
No ne'er again my heart will prove The pleasures or the pains of love;
Whether 'tis in the heart or liver, I defy Cupid and his quiver,
Though I may not disdain the hour
Which bears me into Hymen's bower,
But then it will be reason's care To lead me as a votary there;
And all that I shall look to find Will be the husband of my mind.
Or be he fat, or be he thin, Whether his long and pointed chin
Appears as if it meant to rest Upon the cushion of his chest,
Or if his prolongated nose
Should guard his grinning mouth from blows,
Whether the one or t'other eye Or both indeed should look awry,
I care not—'tis his sense refin'd, And chaste decorums of the mind,
Which will my inclinations move To join in pure seraphic love.”
The Doctor wonder'd at the whim, But it might be a hint to him;
So, on his steady purpose bent, He still pursued his argument.
—He reason'd long, he reason'd deep, He reason'd till she fell asleep:
He saw indeed her eyes were clos'd,
Though he ne'er fancied that she dos'd,
But thought she took this blindfold course
To give attention greater force.
The tea and rattling china's sound,
Now 'woke her from her sleep profound;
But 'twas again to hear him prove,
What ancient bards had sung of love,
And what philosophers had wrote,
He did not fail with warmth to quote:
The subject was not of her chusing,
But still she found the sage amusing:
Science and wit he did combine, 'Till the turret-clock struck nine,
When there appear'd the ev'ning wine,
With season'd sandwiches to boot, That would the nicest palate suit.
—To the Muse it is not known Whether it were from frolic done,
The Doctor's high-flown thoughts to quicken,
And cause the evening plot to thicken,
But the round tray did not resort To the dull flow of humble port,
Inspiring champagne, sparkling, bright,
Was the rich order of the night,
When Syntax, having wet his whistle,
Seiz'd on the high-wrought, fam'd epistle
Which Sappho to her Phaon wrote; A poem far too long to quote,
But, mov'd by the impassion'd verse
Thus did the lover's pains rehearse,
Or whether the enliv'ning juice Had made his spirits too profuse,
The widow felt the gay divine Dispos'd to act the libertine;
And therefore thought it time to rule His wilfulness to play the fool.
“Doctor, you just now talk'd of livers,
Of bleeding hearts and Cupid's quivers;
But you would wish me to suppose Love makes his entry at the toes,
Or wherefore do you thus incline To let your broad foot press on mine.
For shame, Sir, you who court the Graces!
Your feet are in improper places;
Why, my good friend, it is most shocking,
You'll rub the blue, Sir, off my stocking.
Susan, I'm sure, will look askew, If on the clocks she chance to view
The symptoms of your awkward shoe.”
Instant she rose and seiz'd the light,
“'Tis time,” she said, “to say good night.”
“Good-night,” in rapture he repeated,
And thus his hurrying hostess greeted.
“But ere you go, O let me sip Th'ambrosial sweetness of your lip!”
One warm salute he stole—no more, Though he attempted half a score:
But she her open hands applied To his lank cheeks on either side,
Then gave his ears a wringing pull,
Twitch'd his long nose, and rapp'd his scull,
Turn'd his fine wig all o'er and o'er,
And brought the hinder part before;
Blew out the light, and off she went, As if on bitter vengeance bent.
“Susan,” she said, “my rev'rend spark Is left completely in the dark:
So get a light, that he may clamber With all attention to his chamber;
Then give him to his servant's care, That he may do no mischief there.”
Susan obey'd, but scream'd to see Such an alarming effigy,
When the recover'd Syntax said, “Tell me, I pray, my pretty maid,
With what your mistress is possest
That thus she treats her rev'rend guest.”
“Lord Sir, believe me, 'tis no more Than she has often done before;
One of my lady's lively airs, For she's gone laughing up the stairs
To her own room—to say her pray'rs.”
“Well,” he then thought, “I will refrain
From sense of wrong, nor e'er complain:
She will not, I now think, expose My suff'rings from her doughty blows,
And as she laughs, I will not cry; She'll keep the secret—so will I.”
Now with a sort of doubtful whistle He wafer'd close his warm epistle,
And without pause, he thought it best
To leave the letter thus address'd:
“This packet Susan's bid to take, When Madam chuses to awake.”
This done he did no longer wait,
Punch ready stood;—he mounted straight,
And trotted briskly through the gate.