University of Virginia Library

CANTO IV.

Syntax, in deep, and pensive mood,
Tow'rds London now his way pursued:
The eastern sky involv'd in cloud
Did from his eye the sun-beams shroud,
And not one active darting ray Gave spirit to the early day:
While the mist, hanging o'er the brow Of woody upland, sunk below
Amid the smoke, rais'd on the gale,
From hamlet cottage in the vale.—
No lark was heard, ascending high, To give his carol to the sky;
Nor did the blackbird or the thrush Make vocal the green, dewy bush:
The rooks, departing from the wood,
On the high branches cawing stood,
Whose noisy notes alone were heard,
With raven's croak, ill-omen'd bird,
And gloomy nature's self gave warning Of a dull, uninspiring morning,
At least, of thoughts alive and gay,
Which sometimes flow from radiant day.
What was the cause doth not appear;
Whether oppressive atmosphere,
Or that the pillow had not blest The Doctor with his usual rest;
Or whether it was fancy's whim, (Which seldom rul'd or troubled him,)
He was not in his usual trim;
So that he, as he ponder'd o'er The dark side of his nuptial Tour,
Had half a mind to turn again To the green shades of Sommerden,
And be contented with the good Which he might find in widowhood.
“Since I left home,” he mutt'ring said,
“What to my wish has been display'd?
The high-flown fair whom I have sought
Did not awake one tender thought:
Such sense mix'd up with so much folly
At times would make me melancholy:—
They might, perchance, an hour, a day, Contrive to pass in smiles away,
But Fortune I should ne'er forgive, If I with such were doom'd to live.
—It is not that a woman's mind May not be of superior kind,
Or that its powers may not be fraught
With views enlarg'd and depth of thought,
Or that a lady's studious hours May not have treasur'd learning's stores:
I know that many have been known, Who in the realms of science shone,
Whose learning, judgment, critic taste,
Have seldom been by men surpass'd,
And yet who never soar'd above The line where duty bade them move,
And were not seen to give offence
To that prime virtue, Common-Sense.
But these are form'd for higher life, And not to be a parson's wife,
Unless by fortune he had been A bishop, or at least a dean.
Whose dames, thus living at their ease,
May chuse what pastime they shall please.”
The clouds now broke and many a ray
Of sunshine darted on the day;
When, as inspiring Phœbus shone,
The Doctor chang'd his grumbling tone,
While a good breakfast had the merit To quicken his dejected spirit;
And now his homeward way to trace
He thought would be downright disgrace;
That perseverance was a feature
Which aggrandis'd our common nature:
And no great act he could relate, Of ancient or of modern date,
But to that virtue did refer Its energetic character.
Thus, without further doubt or fear, He was resolv'd to persevere.—
Nay, as his spirits 'gan to rise, He ventur'd to soliloquise,
And did his waken'd hopes express,
Of what he thought he might possess.
“LONDON is the general mart,
The warehouse vast that does impart
Whate'er the life of man requires, To minister to its desires:
But mine's a search of tender feeling;—
Those articles I cannot deal in
Which demand a golden treasure To furnish out luxurious pleasure,
To gratify each active sense, Or love of proud magnificence;
These come not in my humble view,
They are not what my thoughts pursue:
I've but a faithful heart to offer, And a warm parson's home to proffer,
Where a fond pair may love and live.
Though this is all I have to give,
Yet I shall think it rather hard If, as my errant toil's reward,
I cannot find a Ma'am or Miss Somewhere in this metropolis,
Who may indulge a secret wish To dip her sop in Hymen's dish;
Who'd like to leave its noisy riot, To live with me in rural quiet.
But after all if I should fail, And all my hostile stars prevail,
I will not my false hopes lament, But teach my mind to be content,
Contrive to cheer my widow'd life Without the blessing of a wife,
And while I live, I ne'er again Will leave the woods of Sommerden.”
Such were the thoughts from day to day,
Which beguil'd his untroubled way,
'Till rising above the cloud of smoke
St. Paul's Dome on the prospect broke;
And, pacing on, he enter'd town By the north side of Mary-bonne.
A proper inn he sought of course,
Where there was food for man and horse,
'Till he could find a decent station In point of air and situation,
As it might most convenient seem, And fitted to his leading scheme.
Thus as he trotted through a street,
Whose houses seem'd compact and neat,
Apartments to be let was seen Upon a door of brightest green,
And underneath a name had place, As dealer in fine foreign lace:
The curtain'd windows caught the eye,
With their gay, festoon'd drapery,
And in balconies there were seen Flowers and plants of ever-green,
Where the geraniums blossom'd red And myrtles rose from mossy bed,
While all, as far as he could see, Appeared to suit him to a T.
—He thought what trouble it would save,
If here he could a lodging have;
So he knock'd smartly at the door And was admitted to explore
The diff'rent rooms by a fat lady,
Who certainly was past her heigh-day,
But if time had destroy'd her figure,
Her tongue retain'd its pristine vigour;
Thus she so manag'd to succeed By flatt'ring chat, that he agreed
No other residence to seek, And took th'apartments for a week.
He answer'd to the usual claim, And paid a pound-note to the dame;
Deliver'd his portmanteau there, To the old lady's promis'd care,
Then took his leave with spirits light And promis'd to be there at night.
Pat too receiv'd commands to find A liv'ry stable to his mind,
Where both the travell'd nags and he Might find due hospitality;
And bade him keep it in his pate To be with him next morn at eight.
“Well, now” said Syntax, “I'll e'en go And visit Pater-noster-Row,
Vellum I trust will much rejoice
To hear once more my well-known voice.”
He went, and as St. Paul's struck three, His appetite rejoic'd to see
The print and paper-selling sinner Preparing for a plenteous dinner.
—After much warm and friendly greeting
At this so unexpected meeting,
When the good Doctor's hungry zeal Was settled by a hearty meal,
While a full pint of wine at least, Had given spirits to the feast,
Vellum his curious talk began, To dip into the Doctor's plan,
And by his shrewd discourse discover
What just now made him such a rover.
“—You cannot have been long in town,
Or some Muse with the news had flown
And have contriv'd to let us know The pleasing tidings in the Row:
For you, no doubt Sir, must have brought
Some work with taste and learning fraught,
Something of bold and new design, Dug from the never-failing mine
That's work'd within your fertile brain,
Where all is cut and come again;
And much I hope you will command My practis'd and obstetric hand,
And chuse me, as my skill you know, Among the midwives of the Row,
To bring it forth, with your fair name, To a long, future life of fame.”
A smile now seem'd to give assent,
And Vellum's visage beam'd content:
But when he from the Doctor heard
What street and place he had preferr'd,
And that he was thus lodg'd alone In a snug house in Mary-bonne,
He thought without a smile or joke
He should speak out—and thus he spoke.
“Where'er you are there must be good,
Whate'er may be the neighbourhood;
But, 'tis a region, let me say, Where, you, Sir, will not wish to stay,
Though I do not presume to measure
Either your fancy or your pleasure:
But should you wish to quit the place,
Which possibly may be the case,
I have a friend who has left town For sev'ral months and who does own
Nice chambers in an Inn of Court, Where sages of the Law resort;
And he has left, as you may see, The entire care of them to me,
Furnish'd with all accommodation
That well may suit your rev'rend station;
And where you may employ your pen, As quiet as at Sommerden,
With a neat laundress to attend you,
To whose good care I should commend you.”
Said Syntax, “In a day or two, I'll ask another interview,
And then the subject we'll renew.”
—The hasty evening pass'd away On gen'ral topics of the day;
How learning sped was not neglected,
And authors of all kinds dissected;
'Till the departing hour was come, And Syntax sought his novel home.
To the opening door there came
The old, fat, grinning, prating dame,
Who begg'd that he would take a chair
In her boudoir, and seat him there:
Smart, well-dress'd, giggling Misses three,
Compos'd the old lady's company.
“These, I presume, these charming fair,”
He said, “are your maternal care?”
“These are my chicks,” the dame replied,
“At once my profit and my pride,
Some folks have talk'd about their beauty,
But this I know, they do their duty,
And e'en if scandal dare to flout 'em,
I'm sure I could not do without 'em.”
But with his day's fatigue oppress'd, Syntax begg'd leave to go to rest.
“Laura,” she said, I “prithee come, And light the Doctor to his room.”
She rose and as she squeez'd his arm
He calmly smil'd, but thought no harm;
He took it in the kindest sense, And thought it frolic innocence;
Bore, from her hand the blazing light,
Then bade God bless her and good night.
He was next morn in full array And planning out the future day,
When Pat appear'd quite pale and wan,
And thus in ruffled tones began:
“I hope you will not take offence If I just tell your Reverence,
This is a house of evil fame, I know its character and name:
A coach is here—Be off, I pray, Nor here another minute stay;
You now, Sir, may remove in quiet, Or the old hag will breed a riot.”
Nay, now, from what he saw last night,
The Doctor thought that Pat was right,
Who soon the trav'lling baggage bore
Straight to the hackney at the door;
And then flew back to save his master From any insolent disaster:
But, as the staircase he descended, He found the passage well defended.
There the hag stood, all hubber-bubber,
A half-dress'd form of living blubber.
“What going, Sir, without a warning?”
“Yes,” Syntax said, “and so good-morning.”
“But stop Sir, pray, and hear me speak;—
You still must pay me for a week.”
“One pound,” says Pat, “for one night's rent,
Is pay enough, so be content.”
But she by some outlandish name
Bawl'd, “Captain come!”—The Captain came,
When he display'd a horrid grin More frightful from his hairy chin,
And threaten'd loud; but Patrick stood, In a stout, sturdy attitude.
“Ah, move,” he said, “and you shall feel
That Paddy has a heart of steel;
Nay, Captain, he may prove to you, That he has hands of iron too.”
Whether the Captain did not like
The kinds of blows that Pat might strike,
With mumbling oaths and ghastly frown,
He went up-stairs as he came down,
Thus neither light nor heavy-hearted,
But between both the Sage departed;
Though not o'erburden'd with content, To Vellum now again he went.
There are, and many I have known,
Though not to naughty habits prone,
Who are scarce ever heard to swear,
And seldom miss their Sunday prayer,
Yet of their lively roving boast, When youthful fancies rul'd the roast;
And when their latter days prevail, Or o'er their wine, or punch, or ale,
And while the smoking fume ascends Among familiar, social friends,
Will chuckle at an idle thought,
Which Scandal's gossip tongue has brought,
And cautious looking round the while,
Will give the half corrected smile.
Such solemn Vellum was, and when Syntax he saw so soon again,
That Mary-bonne, a shrewd guess told him,
The Doctor found too hot to hold him.
—But though our fanciful Divine Ne'er thought to play the libertine,
He could not, as he sipp'd his tea, Refrain from mystic drollery,
And by that drollery did provoke The Bookseller to cut a joke,
And, with a blinking eye, let fall Quaint words in sense equivocal.
—But now, to cut the matter short, Nice Chambers in an Inn of Court
Receiv'd the Sage that very night,
And there he found that all was right;
With Laundress ready to attend His service as an humble friend.
The travelling steeds at liv'ry stood
Somewhere in the near neighbourhood,
So that Pat ever was at hand, For any duty or command.
—In thought the morrow was employ'd,
Which, as it pass'd, was not enjoy'd;
For he began to think his scheme Was but an idle, fruitless dream,
While reason, in this state of doubt,
Seem'd not dispos'd to help him out.
In ev'ry shape the cause he tried, But still he was not satisfied.
Thus as he pac'd from room to room, Contemplating his future doom,
With scarce a hope his mind to cheer, And yielding to a coward fear;
“Is it that I a place have chose,”
He gravely said, “where life's worst foes
Their unpropitious gains receive,
From eyes that weep and hearts that grieve?
Is it that I with Lawyers share This dismal roof, this tainted air,
That I an humble spirit bear,
And seem no longer to preserve The active mind, the daring nerve;
Nay, am at once dispos'd to yield The conquests of the promis'd field?”
Thus as he spoke, good Mrs. Broom,
The Laundress, came into the room,
And hearing how he talk'd and sigh'd, Thus in respectful tone replied.
“Believe me in this staircase here,
I've pass'd, good Sir, full many a year;
And I have many a Lawyer serv'd
Who ne'er from truth or justice swerv'd;
Though, Sir, perhaps, within this court
There may be some of ev'ry sort:
But if you chose to change the air,
For Portland-place or Portman-square,
Of those who live in splendour there
I fear that you might say the same Nor do injustice to their name.
Some vile professor of the Laws Has grip'd you hard within his paws,
I must suppose, and given you cause
The common anger to sustain Against the Laws and Lawyers' train.
Excuse me, Sir, but I must smile At whims that do our minds beguile.
I met just now, upon the stairs, A Dandy in his highest airs,
Who calls the Lawyer that's above The faithful clerk of doating love;
And swears that by his powerful pen He proves himself the best of men.
Though, Sir, if I must speak the truth,
This gallant and delighted youth
Is on the lawyer's toil intent, Whose skill draws up an instrument,
Which, when in all due form prepar'd,
Will give him his vast love's reward:
O 'tis a most delicious sound Beauty, and forty thousand pound!”
The Doctor smil'd nor check'd the dame,
Who thus continued to exclaim;
“Marriage I think, as well I know Is the far happiest state below;
I twice have prov'd that happy state;
Twice I have lost a faithful mate, Nor do I think it yet too late,
To seek again love's soft dominion,
Were John Quill-drive of my opinion.”
This chatter, and of marriage too,
Brought the same subject to the view
Of Syntax in a better state Than he had given it thought of late:
Besides, good wine and dainty fare
Are sometimes known to lighten care:
Nay, man is often brisk or dull As the keen stomach's void or full.
The Doctor, to all meals inclin'd,
Had on a well-dress'd sweet-bread din'd,
While a nice pie of sav'ry meat Gave added poignance to the treat;
As the good Laundress wish'd to show,
That she did kitchen cunning know,
And, therefore, had contriv'd the best To furnish out a tempting feast:
While Vellum had Madeira sent Which might a Bacchanal content.
He ate, he drank, his spirits rose,
And cheerful thoughts succeed to those
Which through the hopeless morning past,
Had his shrunk mind with doubts o'ercast.
—Again he pac'd the chamber floor,
And talk'd his various projects o'er.—
“E'en should they fail he knew no harm,
That ought to give his mind alarm:
The smiles of Fortune, if attain'd, Must be by perseverance gain'd;
Therefore, be gone, thou Coward, Fear,
For Syntax still shall persevere.”
Thus as these thoughts his spirits cheer'd
Vellum with smile and bow appear'd;
“I come to know, Sir, if you find The situation to your mind;
And if ought can be added to it I trust that you will let me know it;
For you shall see it is my pride To have it instantly supplied.”
The Doctor fail'd not in expressing
His thanks for all he was possessing.
—Now Vellum had a ready nose
For scenting works, in verse and prose,
Which Authors, for some special reason,
Might keep a secret for a season:
Authors, we mean, whose favour'd name
Is trumpeted by Madam Fame.
A dinner he was us'd to try, With a few scraps of flattery:
Of wealth and gen'rous deeds would boast,
A theme on Authors seldom lost;
And these, kept up with prudent skill,
Might bring the Author to his will.
Hence may be trac'd the worldly feeling
That brought on all this friendly dealing;
For surely Vellum could not dream
But that it was some learned scheme
Which brought the Doctor up to town,
When all the snow of life was flown.
Syntax, with native keenness felt
At what the cunning tradesman spelt;
At the same time he did not feel It would be prudent to reveal
The curious wish that bade him roam
So far in summer months from home;
But to avert his prying eye The sage began this colloquy:—
“You have already had a ken Of what I call a specimen,
When piety inspir'd my pen,
And much, my friend, I wish to know, Could I a pious volume show,
All fair and ready for the press, What you may think of its success,
And as we both may be concern'd, If fame and money may be earn'd?”
V.
“What mean you?—Sermons?”—

S.
“Yes the same.”

V.
“Sermons by you, and with your name:—
Upon a first and gen'ral view, I rather think that they will do:
At all events, Sir, as a friend, I to your int'rests will attend.”

Thus with solemn face he spoke, And we will guess, by way of joke
What to himself Old Vellum said, As the sly, secret hints of trade.
Deep thought two forehead wrinkles prov'd,
But neither tongue nor lips were mov'd,
While to his interest never blind,
These hints were whisper'd to his mind:
“Sermons by him!—O quite the thing,
To publish in the ensuing spring!
They will I'm sure be all the fashion,
And read, perhaps, by half the nation.
For Sermons, as the taste prevails, Are read as eagerly as tales,
And if the preacher has renown No works more popular are known.
I'll try to-morrow ere we dine To fix the copy-right as mine.”
But still he thought: “Why need I stay,
To strike this stroke, another day!
Another day? No, No—I vow I'll strive to make the bargain now.”
Thus these dumb hopes acquired strength,
So that he let them speak at length,
But in a calm and measur'd tone:—
“—These Sermons, Doctor, I must own
I rather wish”—“My honest friend,”
Syntax exclaim'd, “I must attend
To other matters which, 'tis known,
Have caus'd my pilgrimage to town;
And it will be a week or two Before I can attend to you:
But sure I am—it cannot be That we should ever disagree.”
Vellum, well pleas'd that he had made
Some progress in the way of trade,
Which, as he plann'd it, would repay
All his shrewd sense could do or say,
His sly enquiries now repress'd, And hush'd his wary zeal to rest:
Thus, having smok'd a pipe or two In social mood, he bade adieu.
Syntax, who had not liv'd so long
Without that sense of right and wrong,
Which Observation's known to give To those who think as well as live,
Felt Vellum's use—but then he knew
That int'rest must be kept in view;
That this same money-scraping sinner
Would ne'er be lur'd to give a dinner,
Nor would his spirit e'er incline To ask a Letter'd Man to dine,
Or bow, or smile, or send his wine,
Unless he thought by way of trade,
His kindness would be well repaid.
He therefore kept 'neath lock and key These Volumes of Divinity;
And did his distant promise make, To keep curmudgeon zeal awake.
—Thus it appears the day was pass'd,
And night's calm hour arriv'd at last;
For, Vellum and the Laundress gone, The Doctor now was left alone;
As Pat took up his night's abode
Where Punch with her companion stood,
And moisten'd many a Dublin tale
With the rich draughts of London ale.
But Syntax, ere he went to rest, Ponder'd on what might be the best,
What it became him now to do, And which the way he should pursue.
“Can I,” he calmly said, “do better,
Than send my Lady Macnight's letter?
And thus fair Mrs. Briskit see With all her wild vivacity
Nor fear to risk what she may do With all her fun and frolic too.”
Thus, the next morn, a formal note He with all due politeness wrote,
To let her know what joy 'twould give him,
Did she but say she would receive him.
“—This evening Madcap is at home,”
The answer said, “so prithee come.”—
“How,” she exclaim'd “shall I enjoy,
The visit of this Rev'rend Boy!
I shall be in my highest sphere, When the Quixotic Parson's here!”
No sooner was it said than done,
And thus commenc'd the scheme of fun.
All in due time a stout house-maid Was like the lady's self array'd;
The pendants dangle from her ears,
The plumage o'er her brow appears;
The ostrich spoils, so green, so red,
Bent graceful from her auburn head,
While all that pucker'd silk could show
Appear'd in flounce and fur below,
And muslin's broider'd folds display'd The pow'rs of millinery aid.
The Reticule grac'd one rude hand, The other did a fan command;
But Molly, in this tonish dress Was the sublime of awkwardness.
While she, indeed, or sat or stood, All motionless as log of wood,
She look'd like wholesome flesh and blood;
But when she mov'd and when she spoke,
Then was to come the promis'd joke,
As Syntax, by the trick betray'd Would for the mistress take the maid,
And let forth many a classic speech,
Which pedant gallantry might teach;
While Madam, from some cushion'd height,
Nor seen, nor yet quite out of sight,
Could from behind a curtain's sweep With silent caution take a peep,
At the cross-purposes display'd 'Tween Syntax and the lady-maid:
But when the parley awkward grew She might at once appear to view,
And in brisk measure rush between To give new spirit to the scene.
Such was the plan this lively dame
Had laid to form the evening's game,
And in due course the evening came.
Pat now applied his utmost art To make his Rev'rend Master smart,
Who when he cast a partial eye, The smooth-fac'd mirror passing by,
Just whisper'd, on the glancing view,
“'Tis not amiss—I think 'twill do.
And now,” he said, “'twere well to try A taste of that electuary,
Which, as I've known, so often serves
To give fresh vigour to the nerves.”
He with the dose was well content,
For 'twas of that which Vellum sent.
Now in a hack was Syntax shook, And Pat behind his station took,
When thus, in all becoming state,
They pass'd along through Gray's Inn Gate.
—The Doctor let his fancy bend, As to the evening he should spend;
And how he might be best prepar'd To play a safe and cautious card;
For sure he was from all he knew, There would be fun and frolic too;
But what this gamesome Ma'am would do
His mental eye could not foresee, Though in such near futurity.—
Thus as he conn'd his lesson o'er,
The carriage reach'd the promis'd door.
—In the mean time the bouncing maid
Was taught the part that should be play'd;
And thus the artful Mistress gave
Th'instruction how she should behave.
“When he shall ask you how you do,
You'll say, I'm well and thank you too.
But beyond this you must not go, Nor e'er reply but YES or NO.”
What other fancies she was told A few lines onward will unfold.
He enter'd, when with awkward air She motion'd him to take a chair,
And, having plac'd it by her side,
He thus began—She thus replied:—
“Ma'am, 'tis an honour you confer”—
She said—“I'm well and thank you Sir.”
“—I have a letter here to show
From Lady Macnight”—She said “No.”
“I hope you'll take it not amiss, If I present it!”—She said, “Yes.”
“I'm Doctor Syntax as I live.”— She answer'd with a Negative.
O ho! he thought, but I'll go on,
For Madam I suppose for fun Is playing an Automaton;
And if that is the Lady's cue, I will be somewhat funny too.
“Madam,” he said, “that lovely face Seems to invite a soft embrace,
And if you please”—She answer'd, “Yes.”
The Doctor therefore took a kiss,
Which she return'd with such a blow
As her rude hands could well bestow:
But while, astonish'd and amaz'd, He on the angry figure gaz'd,
The Lady thought it time to move From her snug hiding-place above:
Into the room at once she darted;
The Doctor turn'd around and started,
And, scarce recov'ring from the slap, Sunk unawares in Molly's lap.
She shov'd him briskly tow'rds the dame,
Who push'd him back from whence he came,
And thus, by force of arms uncouth, He play'd at to and fro with both;
Such as a shuttlecock explores, Between two active battledores.
Molly, who thought her bus'ness o'er,
Made hasty passage through the door,
And left the Madcap Madam Briskit
With her sage, rev'rend beau to frisk it.
—But now another air prevail'd, When she her visitor assail'd
With humble grace and winning smile,
So form'd displeasure to beguile;
And, having kindly grasp'd his hand,
With looks not easy to withstand:
“I am,” she said, “a silly creature,
And you, I know, are all good nature,
Which will without offence receive The droll reception that I give.
'Tis thus I ever treat my friends, But I will make you full amends:
For though the evening has begun In gamesome play and active fun,
Reason shall better things supply, And all shall end in harmony.”
—The Lady did her promise keep, Her gambol spirits went to sleep:
And in whate'er she did or said Such serious goodness was display'd,
So pleasing to his ear and eye, As well as reverend dignity,
So subject to sound reason's rule, He wonder'd she could play the fool.
She spoke with magic on her tongue,
While with a Syren's voice she sung;
Then touch'd the organ with such skill
That wound the Doctor to her will,
And by her flatt'ring power to please So charm'd his sensibilities,
That he did all his views relate To seek again the marriage state;
Nor did the dear Divine conceal
One awkward wish that he might feel.
—At once the frolic Madam caught
A plan with precious mischief fraught:
“O what an idle silly dance,”
She said, with warmth, “to trust to chance,
To hope by accident to find A mate that's suited to your mind!
You've but a fortnight here to stay, Scarce time to hear a Yea or Nay:
You can't to courtship's rules conform;
A siege won't do—attack by storm!”
Then she exclaim'd with tongue and eyes
“We for a Wife will advertise!”
She squeez'd his hand—and he complies.
“The happiest Hymen I e'er knew,”
She said, “from advertisements grew;
And to my friend, I wish it known That I shall scarce except my own.
Nay do but trust the whole to me, I am the soul of secrecy.
If this nice project should succeed,
You'll thank and bless me for the deed:
If it should fail, it is no more Than wisdom's self has done before.
—Of candidates you need not fear; Perhaps too many may appear;
But, ere their forms salute your eyes, I'll learn their secret histories;
And you shall see, my rev'rend friend,
The one which I may recommend,
And if you think that one's the thing,
Then for the licence and the ring.”
—The Doctor took it all for granted: It seem'd as if he were enchanted.
Then, in impressive eloquence, He spoke at once his grateful sense
Of her warm friendship and regard,
Though goodness is its own reward:
But both in mode as well as measure, He left it all to her good pleasure.
'Twas midnight past when he departed.
Charm'd with the plan and quite light-hearted,
Leaving his lady friend to dream Of all the mischief of her scheme.
Syntax now set his heart at rest,
Thought what was done was for the best,
And to fill up the interval He would on dear Miss Pallet call.
Here his reception was most kind: Sweet manners with superior mind,
And taste and genius were combin'd.
—When the first formal chat was o'er,
The works of Artists they explore,
Whose labours gain'd the height of fame
And fix'd the imperishable name.
They then the living talents try, With just remark and critic eye.
“And now,” she said, “you will incline
To tell me what you think of mine.
I hear you say, ‘how sweet, how fine!’
But if, while your kind words commend,
You should see faults—O what a friend!”
“—I see no faults—but let me tell, The leading power of painting well
Must spring from studying various nature,
In ev'ry form and ev'ry feature:
'Tis that alone which can impart
The height and depth and breadth of art;
Nor do I see your pencil err From that primeval character.”
“Doctor,” she said, “O will you stay
And take your dinner here to-day:
You then will hear two Artists prate Of Art—and who each other hate.
Such things there are—e'en lib'ral arts
Are known to poison human hearts,
And their warm feelings oft supply With envy base and jealousy.”
—The Artists came—“Sir, Mr. B---
'Tis Doctor Syntax: Mr. G---”
The dinner soon appear'd in view, And pass'd as other dinners do:
But with the fruit the talk began, And thus around the table ran.
—Said Syntax, “I my wonder own Where a fair lady's heart is shown,
That among all the figures here,
The God of Love does not appear.”
“—We known professors of the art,”
Says G--- “have got him quite by heart:
We want no model, do you see, Of this familiar Deity:
Sure am I, that I'm not so stupid,
But sleeping I could paint a Cupid.”—
“—I wish you would the trouble take To paint a Cupid when awake,”
Said titt'ring B--- “I know 'twill prove A very sleepy God of Love.”
“Have done! have done!” Miss Pallet said,
“The passion shall be well display'd,
Not as a painter's eye may view it,
But as the Doctor's tongue can do it:—
And therefore, Sirs, I humbly move
That he may speak his thoughts on Love.”
“—'Tis a nice theme,” Syntax replied,
“But ladies must not be denied:
Mine are peculiar thoughts I fear, And I ask candour's self to hear.
—The passion that commands the heart Is in this world a thing apart;
And throughout life, as we may learn,
Has nothing like a fix'd concern:
It makes fools wise, and wise men fools,
But not by any written rules.
Love, as recording Hist'ry shows, Leads wisdom often by the nose:
Nature does female weakness arm With that inexplicable charm
That oft without exterior grace, Or piercing eye or lovely face,
Or e'en th'alluring power of wit, Makes all-presuming man submit;
Assumes the full domestic reign,
And sees him smile to wear the chain.
It is a secret sympathy, A hidden power that doth decree,
As in the world we often see,
Natures the most oppos'd to join At the matrimonial shrine;
Nay, has been often known to match
Affection warm with hands that scratch;
And e'en in Hymen's net trepan, The polish'd Peer and blowzy Nan.
Such the effect, but then the cause Is work'd by nature's hidden laws,
And if you ask me to explain
The Whys and Wherefores, 'tis in vain,
I cannot, and think no man can.”
“The Doctor knows the human heart,”
Says B--- “But can he talk of Art?”
“—That,” says the Lady, “will appear:
If you will listen, you shall hear.
—What think you of this sketch, my friend?”
“In ev'ry part I do commend
Its force, its freedom,” Syntax said: When either Artist shook his head.
The Doctor then, in prudence clos'd The observations he propos'd:
But thus continued:—“May I ask, Should it be no unpleasant task,
To tell me, if the Arts abound And flourish fair in British ground,
Where Science is so largely found?”
“O no,” 'twas said, “they're going down,
There's scarce an Artist of renown.”
The Sage then mention'd many a name
That dwelt upon the lips of fame.
“O no,” they said; then one by one,
With many a shrug, they ran them down,
And only differ'd in degree As they let loose their calumny.
This colour'd not, that wanted vigour,
A third knew nothing of the figure:—
Thus having clos'd their critic law,
They Syntax ask'd if he could draw:
When he his ready pencil took And in the blank page of a book,
Design'd a gallows, from which swung
Two figures that by cordage hung.
“Pray,” it was said, “who may be those?
They are two murderers I suppose.”
“Yes,” Syntax said, “of my formation,
They're murderers of Reputation.”
—B--- a short time in silence sat, Then slid away and took his hat:
The other sought the self-same track,
Nor said adieu, nor e'er came back.
“I think the lecture I have given,
Has not sent your good friends to Heaven,”
Syntax observ'd. “No,” 'twas replied, “O what a lesson to their pride!
Which if we could their feelings trace,
Has sent them to another place.—
Though they have merit which is known,
They hate all merit but their own:
They cordially detest each other, But both will join t'abuse another.
They're useful to me in my art, And both lay claim to my poor heart:
But when they make their wishes known,
I laughing vow 'tis fled and gone:
Still they are faithless; but to you, I may declare that it is true;
Though with calm patience I must wait
'Till the stars smile upon my fate.—
And now, dear Sir, I beg and pray, Come often while in town you stay,
And be assur'd whene'er you come To none but you I'll be at home!”
Syntax took leave with great delight,
In hopes to pass a tranquil night,
Without one unpropitious thought
Which a day's hurry might have brought:
But at his door attendant care, In Pat's pale face, was waiting there.
With something like a wat'ry eye Pat said, “I fear poor Punch will die.
I did not know where you were gone,
That I might ask what should be done;
But as I knew you would not spare Expence to save the poor old mare,
I did the best assistance claim, And Doctor Glanders quickly came:
I know not what he might discover, But I am sure he gives her over:
Your Rev'rence—but to hear her moan,
And Oh!—so like a Christian groan,
Yes, it would melt a heart of stone.”
“—My good friend Pat, what can I do?
The poor beast I must leave to you.
Go take your ale to sooth your sorrow,
And see me early on the morrow.”
—Pat came to orders—op'd the door
And said, “poor Punch, Sir, is no more.
How oft have I the mare bestrode,
In field, through woods, and on the road!
Poor thing! she knew my voice as well
As the flock knows its leader's bell.
I've brush'd her grey skin o'er and o'er,
But I shall rub her down no more;”
“—Now Pat, I pray you, hold your peace,”
The Doctor said, “your wailing cease:
I'm sorry that I've lost the mare, But 'tis a loss which I can bear:
It is not worth this mighty pother;
She's gone, and we must get another:
Yet I will, for old Punch's sake, Go and all due enquiry make,
And hear the stable-people state, What caus'd her unexpected fate.”
Syntax arriv'd when Glanders there
Was looking at the breathless mare:
And soon an angry conflict rose,
Big with hard words that threaten'd blows.—
“What caus'd her death, Sir?” ask'd the sage,
“Hard work,” old Glanders said, “and age.”
S.
“What do you think I'm such a Turk,
To kill the mare by over-work,
Who did, I say, for years conduce Both to my pleasure and my use?
Whate'er my many faults may be, I ne'er fail'd in humanity;
This my whole life I trust will show,
And all who long have known me know.
Nay, from your looks, it is a chance,
But she died from your ignorance.”

G.
“Four hundred miles, though travell'd slow
At her old age, you must allow Is hardish work,—What say you now?
I tell you too, I drew my knowledge From the Veterinary College.
John Ostler there, I pray appear, You know, at least, for many a year
I with success have practis'd here.
Again I say and you may stare, It was hard work that kill'd your mare.”

“—Oh! Oh!” cried Pat, “how my hand itches,
Thou guinea pig, in boots, and breeches,
To trounce thee well!—Thou lying sinner,
To beat thee I would lose my dinner!”
—Glanders deign'd not to make reply,
But, with grave look and leering eye,
Just utter'd: “Here is my account, And I now beg the small amount.”
Syntax began to fume and vapour, And tore at once the dirty paper.
Within the house his voice was heard,
When the yard's master soon appear'd,
And did in humblest terms request
The Doctor's rage might be supprest.
“Though of strange form and uncouth feature,
Old Glanders is a useful creature:
And though his ways are coarse and rude,
He is with ample skill endued,
And is pursued by hourly calls For all the ails of animals;
Nay, does his ready aid supply, From sporting stable to the stye.
Indeed, I think, if skill or care
Could have preserv'd your old grey mare,
She would not have been lying there.
Leave, Sir, this bus'ness all to me, It is beneath your dignity;
And, if another horse you buy, My judgment shall its aid supply.”
—Smiles and kind words, how great their skill,
To regulate the wayward will!
And, in this out-of-humour hour, Syntax was soften'd by their power.
“Thank you,” he said, “my honest friend,
To your good counsel I attend.”
Then spoke, as round his eyes he threw,
“Pat come with me!—Poor Punch, adieu!”
“An' please you, I ne'er long'd,” says Pat,
“Since my round head has worn a hat,
T'employ my fists as on that fellow,
That half-grown, o'er-grown Punchinello!”
Said Syntax, “prithee hold thy tongue:
I fear that we have both been wrong;
And, when we do our errors find, 'Tis well to give them to the wind,
And with more care our way pursue In what we yet may have to do.”
Good, rev'rend man, with all thy knowledge,
First gain'd at school, enlarg'd at college,
And by hard study still improv'd
In the long track where thought has mov'd;
With thy strict honour, gen'rous worth,
And all those virtues which have birth
In the warm, unpolluted heart, Where cunning low or tutor'd art.
Was never, never known to dwell,
Whence all who know thee love thee well;
With piety that from above Has caught the flame of sacred love,
That, not confin'd to time or place, Extends to all the human race;
With all that thou hast known and seen
In the wide space that lies between
The time when on the chin appears
Manhood's first down and fifty years;
With that shrewd and sagacious mind
That can the depths of learning find,
And with a critic eye explore The dubious paths of ancient lore,
Draw hidden knowledge from the night
Of ages past, and give it light—
With this and all your boasted care, You see not the insidious snare
That female frolic does prepare,
Not to seek vice within its bower, For that is not within her power,
Nor, to say truth, does her design To such dark malice e'er incline;
But 'tis to make you play the fool, To be the sport of ridicule,
To make you in the mischief chime, As buffoon in the pantomine,
And hold your fancies up to view T'amuse her half-bred, giggling crew,
In such a way, and such a place, As might be bordering on disgrace.—
—It almost makes me melancholy,
To think my pen must tell your folly;
But still I can with safety say,
When you, my friend, from wisdom stray,
It is your virtues that betray,
Or failings which, to good allied, Are fighting seen by virtue's side.
Such are the sources, I well know, From which your venial errors flow;
But with them all, I wish most true, That I were half as good as you.
—For how can the mind's eye see clear,
When vanity presents the ear?
How can suspicion close the heart,
When grateful thoughts their warmth impart?
How can it fond belief deny, When urg'd by sensibility?
How turn away and not attend, When beauty says, I am your friend?
And when it adds, my friendship use,
Can the kind spirit then refuse?—
—But I cease to apostrophise The unthought frailties of the wise;
And, my kind friends, shall lay before ye
The future progress of my story.
The Doctor now employ'd his pen, In letters kind to Sommerden;
With feelings rather grave than gay He pass'd a sentimental day:
Though a late evening hour was cheer'd,
When Vellum's smiling face appear'd.
They smok'd their pipes and chatted o'er
The topics of the passing hour.
At length 'twas said; “I here have brought,
As matter for your future thought,
A written paper that contains What I propose as mutual gains,
Which will, as you may plainly see, Transfer your manuscript to me.”
Syntax the paper keenly ey'd, And thus without reserve replied:
“I own your very liberal feelings,
My friend, in all our former dealings,
And I'm content, I must avow, With what you're pleas'd to offer now;
And when I throw into account Your kindness, with its full amount,
What I expected to receive Is less than you propose to give.”
—The solemn contract thus agreed, Without delay in word and deed,
Old Vellum, when away he went, Left Syntax, like himself, content.
—The literary business done, And the pleas'd Doctor now alone,
On what was pass'd in accents grave
His candour thus its judgment gave.
“—He acted with a tradesman's care,
But all I've seen was right and fair,
And I in justice must commend His conduct as a civil friend;
And should I hear abuse of Vellum,
I would in strong expressions tell 'em
This reputable man of letters Is just and gen'rous as his betters.”
The morning came and Pat appear'd, Full of the story he had heard,
With feelings of parental care But still of anger no small share
'Gainst those that brought the infant there.
He did not fear the child would perish,
He knew there was a heart to cherish,
Nor ever to the parish send it,
But where 'twas left would there befriend it.
—At length there with the laundress came
An humble, curtsying, comely dame,
Of pleasing aspect, neatly dress'd,
With the poor foundling at her breast,
Where active instinct seem'd to cling As if it were its native spring.
“Last week,” she said, “I lost my own, And I will nurse this little one
With all the fond and tender care As if my child were milking there.
Who knows, good Sir, but on my word, I think its sire may be a Lord.
Dear heart, the linen is so fine, And work'd with such a nice design,
Nay, here and there, with flow'rs beset, My fancy sees a Coronet!”
“Heaven,” said the Doctor, “only knows
To whom the babe existence owes;
But this I know, and will not spare, To whom it owes a parent's care:
Therefore, good woman, I commend Its wants to you, and pray attend,
As if th'unconscious infant had Some rake of title for its dad,
Who for your service paid you well, That you might not the secret tell.
I have no other anxious wish, But from the full and flowing dish
Which nature gives you, it may share Its wonted meal, with ev'ry care,
'Till the due weaning hour demands
Increas'd attention at your hands;
When I shall leave a faithful friend Who to your counsel will attend,
And whose kind power is well prepar'd To satisfy and to reward.
For, while I live, the life that Heaven Has thus to my protection given
Shall want no necessary care That Christian duty bids prepare.”
The nurse each promise kind profess'd,
And clasp'd the infant to her breast;
While Mrs. Broom, with fond surprise, Applied her apron to her eyes.
The good folks wept and then they smil'd,
Bless'd the good deed and kiss'd the child;
Nor took their leaves with signs of sorrow,
When told to bring him there to-morrow.
Syntax, who felt his tutor'd heart Was doubly fitted to impart
Those higher feelings which bestow The wish to lessen human woe,
Or do their active powers employ To aid the flow of human joy,
Bade his thoughts range that they might find
A spot just suited to his mind;
If not, to pass the day alone Was a resource to him well known.
But 'twas not long ere reason's voice,
With pleasure join'd, declar'd the choice.
Miss Pallet's study was the place
Where he should find a smiling face,
Which would with brighten'd eye declare
An unaffected welcome there.
—He went, she saw, and rang the bell,
When she was heard aloud to tell
Th'attendant maid, “let who will come,
Remember I am not at home.
'Tis a vain moment I allow,” She added, “but I would bestow
If such a phrase I dare avow,
A day upon my learned friend, Which his warm favour may commend,
And in his kind remembrance shine, As it will ever do in mine.”
—Here the delighted Doctor sat In grave debate or lively chat,
With no vain folly to deride him, But with attention's ear beside him
And such a mind, where he could pour
His sage instructions, treasur'd lore;
Nay, whence 'twould be return'd again
In accents soft and humble strain.
At length fish, ham and roasted chicken,
With peas and tart, form'd pretty picking:
Nor was there wanting port and sherry,
Which would have made him more than merry,
If he had wanted mode or measure To aid his sense of present pleasure.
Miss too from Pat contriv'd to glean
That, to complete the social scene,
A pipe the afternoon would bless With unexpected happiness:
And when she did the tube command,
He bent the knee and kiss'd the hand
That did the cherish'd gift present, Which gave perfection to content.
—Such was the sentimental duet;
With pleasure does my fancy view it:
The wise, the kind instructor he, The pleas'd, attentive list'ner she;
Receiving all his words pursued With beaming smiles of gratitude.
She was a fine, accomplish'd creature,
A student of those powers of nature,
That clothe the earth and charm the eye With ravishing variety:
And though with sister arts endow'd, She was too virtuous to be proud,
But kept the course we seldom see,
From ev'ry vain pretension free, And grac'd with calm humility.
They talk'd of arts—the room around Did with fine specimens abound;
And e'en the window open'd wide On rising hills and flowing tide,
Which her fine pencil gave to hide
An old, beplaster'd dismal wall That cross'd th'opposing interval.
—Her beauty was a certain grace That play'd about her air and face,
And a mark'd unassuming sense Was cloth'd with artless eloquence:
While his Quixotic praise enshrin'd
The embellish'd pictures of her mind.
Nor did they thoughts on Love deny,
When the fair Artist heav'd a sigh,
Though she ne'er ventur'd to explain The cause of her resistless pain:
She only said she must endure it,
And that hope told her time would cure it.
E'en by her silence it was shown That her fond heart was not her own.
So that if he did then incline
To say, “I wish thou wouldst be mine,”
He saw and heard enough to prove, 'Twas not for him to offer love.
With Syntax and his Idol mio Who would not wish to form a trio!
When, sometimes grave, and sometimes gay,
The lengthen'd evening pass'd away.
—The Doctor was forewarn'd by pride
Ma'am Briskit's impudence to hide,
And, therefore, he made nothing known
Of folly he had blush'd to own;
But with a tear and half a smile That did his feelings reconcile,
He told the foundling's curious lot, And what a present he had got.
By some it would be thought distressing,
But he—that it would prove a blessing—
A blessing where a power was given
T'obey the first command of Heaven,
And like th'Egyptian princess, save An outcast infant from the grave.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “it shall receive
Each fond attention I can give,
And 'till a parent comes to claim The rights of a parental name,
I will my sense of duty prove, Nor shall it want a parent's love:
And if, my dear and charming friend,
You to its state would condescend,
If your blest charity would share, Or watch, at least, the nurse's care,
'Till it grows into strength to bear
A journey to my tranquil home,
Where you, I trust, will one day come,
I will before Heaven's altar plead, To bless you for the virtuous deed!”
“Fear not,” she said, with moisten'd eye,
“My friendship or my charity;
And, when the spring's returning hours,
Shall clothe with green your peaceful bowers,
The babe in all its cherish'd charms Shall fill its foster-father's arms.”
—The time now came when they must part
With mutual wishes of the heart.
The fair-one, with a modest grace, Receiv'd the Doctor's kind embrace,
With promise to embrace again, Ere he set off for Sommerden.
Next morn he ask'd the child to see, And all was as it ought to be:
But, as the time was drawing on When he had settled to be gone,
It now became his anxious care The loss unlook'd for to repair
Of Punch, that dear, departed mare.
His breakfast paper told the tale, At Hyde-Park-Corner, of a sale,
Where he indulg'd the hope to find A beast of burden to his mind.
Bays, chestnuts, blacks and greys were shown,
Or for the road, or field, or town,
And one stout mare he chanc'd to see,
Which seem'd to suit him to a T:
Nay, while he on the creature gaz'd, He had its ev'ry action prais'd
By certain busy jockey buyers, Who look'd too honest to be liars.
He bade—the mare was soon his own,
The money paid, the bus'ness done,
And he in gay equestrian pride Forth from the yard was seen to ride:
But soon his sad mistake was found;
He ne'er had ask'd if she were sound.
—What was the mischief of her nature,
Or what vagary seiz'd the creature;
What trick her hinder parts assail, Or prickly branch to wound her tail,
Which stable frolic might impel, Though I suspect, I cannot tell,
But she set off at such a rate That, as he pass'd the turnpike gate,
The toll-man well nigh met his fate.
Away the hat and peruke flew, A cabbage-merchant he o'erthrew;
And while the dame was sprawling laid,
Her angry donkey kick'd and bray'd:
Nay, nought could check the wild mare's rage
But running headlong 'gainst the stage,
Which caus'd a scene of strange distress,
That language knows not to express.
Half breathless and with naked pate Syntax on his mad palfrey sat;
While she at length obey'd the reins,
Stopp'd by the shock which shook her brains.
The inner passengers alarm'd
Scream'd from affright, though none were harm'd;
While from the dickey and the roof
Was heard the loud and coarse reproof,
Mix'd with loud laugh and scoffing groan,
As the unconscious coach drove on.
The Doctor, with astonish'd air, Dismounted from the trembling mare,
And soon, alas, was taught to find Th'unwelcome secret—she was blind!
'Tis well that, for the Doctor's cost,
No limb was broke, no life was lost,
And half-a-score of shillings paid
For all the tricks that had been play'd,
The wand'ring hat and wig were sought,
Which on a poor sweep's head were brought;
Who met them on his road to town And proudly wore them as his own.
—Just in the midst of this disaster,
Pat had now haply reach'd his master.
And, with the sightless mare, they sought
The place where she had just been bought:
When Syntax loudly 'gan to preach Or rather to let forth a speech,
When he so talk'd of rogues and cheating,
That certain horsewhips threaten'd beating:
But Pat stood forth and loudly vow'd, Whoever such an insult show'd
Should ne'er again speak out a threat, Or lift an angry hand to beat,
Wielding a pretty piece of wood
That would have made his promise good.
But as he still continued railing And in harsh terms the place assailing,
Nay, did in venom'd language strike Buyers and sellers all alike,
The Doctor might have found disgrace
Among the sharp-set jockey race;
But so it was, a friend was nigh To calm his rash perplexity—
The kind and friendly baronet, Whom he some years ago had met
In his first journey to the North, And known for opulence and worth,
Who shaking Syntax by the hand
Could scarce a bursting laugh command,
Thinking to what a market he Had brought his learn'd philosophy,
And in his Greek and Latin trade What a blind purchase he had made.
“My wonder there is no concealing,”
The Knight exclaim'd, “to find you dealing
In this far-fam'd equestrian college,
Where all your stores of various knowledge
Would be as useless as the stone Which you now chance to stand upon.
But now, my friend, take no more care
About this awkward, strange affair.
I am a Yorkshireman and breed For this same market many a steed,
And I, my rev'rend friend will see Into this same rascality:
I will take care that you shall find The bus'ness settled to your mind.
I therefore counsel you to pop
Your head in some Bookseller's shop,
And there your vacant time amuse
'Till four, with chit-chat or the news;
Then for my dinner pray prepare, On the south-side of Portman-Square,
And let your servant too be there.”
“Thank you, good Sir, and I obey,” Was all the Doctor had to say.
Suffice it, at the hour of four, Sir John receiv'd him at his door,
With “your foul, ugly matter's o'er.
I've swapped your grey mare for a bay, And you have not a doit to pay:
A useful, handsome, trav'lling hack, As e'er had Doctor on its back;
And if your sturdy valet's come,
He may now mount and take her home.”
Orders were given, and smiling Pat, With many a doffing of his hat,
Was quickly seen with sprightly air
Trotting the purchase 'cross the square.
Syntax, with all that powerful feeling
Which good hearts catch from gen'rous dealing,
Said little, rather he said naught;
His mind involv'd in grateful thought,
Check'd the quick impulse of his tongue,
'Till dinner o'er the glasses rung;
When Burgundy and brisk Champagne Awoke the gay convivial strain.
The Doctor told his hist'ry o'er, Sir John delighted wish'd for more,
And Time, as it was growing late, Broke up at length the tête-à-tête.
But ere the well-fed Doctor went, Contented he, his host content,
The latter did his wishes tell Before he said, good-night, farewell!
“You say that ere three days are past
You tow'rds your northern home must haste;
Now let me tell you, ere a day Is clos'd, as you pursue your way,
You will a stately mansion see, Where you must stop and ask for me.
There dwells a noble Lord, whose worth
Equals your patron's in the North,
And as a truth I'm pleas'd to tell, Whom I admire and love as well.
In him the image you will see Of noble hospitality
By whom your worth will be discern'd
And learning known, for he is learn'd.
To-morrow I this place shall seek, Where I prepare to pass a week,
And you will do yourself much wrong,
If you remain not there as long;
Nay, I myself will smooth the way, Or for your short or longer stay.
—Syntax revolving in his mind Honour and luxury combin'd,
And where his dazzled eyes would see Life in its rich embroidery,
Express'd in a most joyous measure Both his obedience and his pleasure.
—He took his leave—the hour was late
As he return'd through Gray's-Inn-Gate,
When he found Pat his vigils keeping,
In snoring and most soundly sleeping,
Who, after many a hurried shake That did th'o'erpow'ring stupor wake,
Would in exulting tones declare The virtues of the purchas'd mare,
Whom all announc'd as safe and sound,
And must have cost full three-score pound.
This and much more:—“Have done! have done!”
Syntax exclaim'd, “the clock strikes one!”
When, with the day's fatigue opprest,
His bed he sought and sunk to rest.
The morrow was a busy day: For his departure no delay
Th'impatient Doctor would admit: London he now resolv'd to quit;
Nay, thought it could not be too soon, Why not that very afternoon?
To Pat he made his wishes known, With orders, that all might be done,
To quicken the departing hour
Which would commence his homeward tour.
But Pat just hinted they must stay For packing due another day,
As the soil'd linen was just sent To wash-tub's cleansing management,
And certain clothes, from rents and tears,
Were at the tailor's for repairs.
Now, as th'unwelcome truths he told,
The room-door open'd and behold
Good Mrs. Broom—when with her came
The smirking, curtsying, comely dame,
Who, smiling on the foundling's charms,
Would place it in the Doctor's arms.
He, half-afraid and half-asham'd, Refus'd the boon, when she exclaim'd,
“You need not fear, depend upon't
You've held five hundred at the font,
And do not, Sir, look grave and frown,
I'm sure you'll love it as your own.”
It was not that his heart relented Or of his charity repented;
But that he saw another cause In present haste to make a pause
That a whole day might be beguil'd In some provision for the child.
At length, howe'er, the babe he kiss'd,
And when he had the charge dismiss'd,
He told the laundress to apply To the parochial ministry,
That ev'ry sacred rite be done, And the poor child be christen'd John.
He order'd too, that twice each week,
The nurse would dear Miss Pallet seek,
Who would o'er all his wants preside, As a kind patroness and guide.
“But let me ask, for, in this town,”
The Doctor said, “strange things are done,
How shall I know, when, brought to me,
It is the self-same child I see;
And that the foundling does not come
A changeling to my distant home!”
“Fear not,” she answer'd, “I will show
A sign by which the child you'll know;
It is not in the baby's face, Nor do I chuse to name the place:
A Strawberry, as blushing red As when it ripens on its bed,
Does on a certain part appear,
Though I, Sir, must not tell you where;
Nay, it is such a curious mark, That you may feel it in the dark.
The mother, when encreas'd in waist,
Long'd I suppose the fruit to taste,
And, as her wish was not obtain'd,
Th'unconscious child this mark has gain'd.
—When I was big, Sir, with my Stephen,
Who now is singing hymns in Heaven,
I long'd for Pork—I'm not mistaken,
And the dear child was mark'd with Bacon:
Nay, at the time when beans were ripe
It grew more like its prototype,
And never fail'd to meet the eye In vegetating sympathy.
The mother's longing makes it so
As Doctors say—and they should know.”
The Sage, who was his coffee taking,
Laugh'd 'till his very sides were shaking;
And, waken'd to a lively key, By Goody Broom's philosophy,
He lost at once his teasing sense Of hurry and impatience,
And thus determin'd to delay His journey to another day;
And with Miss Pallet to enjoy, Without allay, without alloy,
The hours that might remain his own Ere he forsook the smoky town,
To her his willing steps he bent, And as her list'ning ear she lent.
He told his plans, unveil'd his cares,
Display'd what were his hopes and fears,
His purpose ne'er again to roam
From his lake-side and pleasant home;
Nor more indulge in fancy's dream,
Nor let the air-built flatt'ring scheme
Of worldly interest turn aside His mind from reason as its guide;
But while th'allotted moments pass, As the sands lessen in the glass,
By duty's ordinance to move In the strait path of social love;
T'enjoy the various good that's given,
To seek and teach the way to heaven,
And cheerful view the curtain fall—
The common fate that waits us all.
I do not mean to reason, why ('Tis not in my philosophy)
A dainty dinner meal inherits The power to elevate the spirits;
But this I know, that Syntax never Appear'd so lively or so clever,
As when he found superior work For the display of knife and fork:
Thus when the Lady's dinner came, The mild and sentimental flame
By lively sallies was suppress'd And yielded to the active zest
Which, at the table and long after,
Made dear Miss Pallet burst with laughter.
But, as the time drew nigh to part,
More solemn thoughts resum'd his heart,
And the fair Artist thus combin'd The sense of her reflecting mind.
“—Your high renown, dear Sir, for learning,
Is far beyond my weak discerning:
But still I surely may aspire To feel as well as to admire
The eloquence and brilliant wit That does each rising object fit;
And humour that ne'er passes by The offer'd opportunity.
Yet I must own, that I prefer The dignity of character,
Which, leaving frolic out of sight,
Does the mind's higher taste delight;
The nobler sense which virtue loves,
And while it pleasure gives improves;
Becalms the pressing sense of pain,
When fun plays all its tricks in vain:
Nay, e'en in sorrow's mournful hour, It offers its consoling power;
And though tears glisten in the eyes,
The heart in smiles will sympathise.
The tale that does our feelings soften
Cannot be heard or read too often;
But laughing tricks, however treated, Are stupid always when repeated:
When novelty no more supplies The quick sensation of surprise,
The joke grows dull nor will beguile
The forewarn'd list'ner e'en to smile.
The proverb says, there's nought so stale,
So stupid as a twice told tale.
Unless it has a higher bent, When rais'd and gemm'd by sentiment,
Then 'twill repeated pleasure give,
While the heart melts and virtues live:
And you ne'er please my mind so much,
As when on those high points you touch
Which the soul's brighter flights display
That bear me from myself away.
But you command the two-fold power:
The solemn and the lively hour
Alike, in pleasing change, submit Or to your wisdom or your wit;
And, with rare energies combin'd, You rule the muscles and the mind.
Within the hour that's passing by My heart has felt a heav'nly sigh,
And laughter moisten'd either eye:
But though my higher feelings bend
To the grave maxims you commend,
Believe me, I am nothing loath In season due to feel them both.”
This and much more the Doctor heard,
When he his foundling's suit preferr'd,
And as he urg'd her heart to move With pitying and protecting love,
She said her utmost to content him
About the child whom Heaven had sent him,
And to repay her gen'rous care,
Ask'd but his blessing and his prayer.
That blessing from his heart was given,
And his prayer crav'd the grace of Heaven:
For well he knew that pious prayer Is sure to find admission there:
And he had learn'd the happy way,
Both how to bless and how to pray.
—A warm embrace, a fond adieu, Clos'd this kind-hearted interview,
With hopes of time so charming, when
They both should meet at Sommerden.
The morning of the following day Did by its hurrying scene betray
His wild impatience to be gone From this ungenial, smoky town.
Once more he saw the foundling press'd
To the fond nurse's welcome breast,
And view'd with scrutinizing eye The spot mark'd by the Strawberry.
His bills were then cast up and paid,
And gen'rous presents duly made,
When Mrs. Broom, with added zeal,
Prepar'd once more his dainty meal:
Thus did he in contentment dine,
And cocker'd up with hope and wine,
He felt the evening, as the last, Must be with friendly Vellum past.
Nor did the Doctor fail to go To the bright region of the Row;
There tiff'd his punch and talk'd and smok'd,
Was sometimes grave and sometimes jok'd;
But when he ventur'd to explore Th'adventure at the chamber door,
And 'gan to tell the curious tale, Vellum cried hush! and, like a snail,
Mov'd slowly onward, as in search Of some one waiting in the lurch.
At length he said, “It is most true,
The secret I may tell to you, I wish'd to keep my wife in view:
I sought with caution to find out What my good woman was about;
For, I believe, in human nature,
There ne'er was such a curious creature,
So fond to place a list'ning ear Where'er she may a secret hear;
But as a meagrim in her head Has sent her to an early bed,
You may, my Rev'rend Sir, proceed, And tell of this irrev'rent deed.”
—Syntax proceeded to unveil The strange and unexpected tale,
Nor, from false shame or awkward pride, Did he his real feelings hide:
Nay, told, with an expressive eye, Where last he saw a Strawberry.
“—Mercy,” said Vellum, “if my dear
Had caught a tithe of what I hear,
O what a blessed curtain lecture Might my foreboding fear conjecture!
She would, by jealousy beguil'd, Have made me father of the child,
And sworn that you, to hide my sin,
Had ta'en th'adult'rous bantling in.
You hear Paul's clock now striking ten,
And 'till that hour is struck again,
When the grave bus'ness of the day
Must call me from her tongue away,
She would not those revilings cease Which interrupt domestic peace,
And ev'ry child she heard or view'd
Would have the painful scene renew'd.
She also might, to aid her jeers, Have beat my wig about my ears,
For 'tis, to you the truth I own,
No more than what her hand has done;
Nay, from the pillows, 'tis most certain,
I've oft been shelter'd by the curtain.
Doctor, that matrimonial ring I've found a very serious thing!
And should Poll be the first to die,
Should that be Heav'n's kind destiny,
That ring she in her shroud shall wear, Nor will I e'er the loss repair:
Nay, when this symbol death shall smother,
I swear I ne'er will buy another.
—If you had said, to save my bacon,
Dear Madam, you are quite mistaken,
You're not to Vellum's virtue just, And wrongfully his love mistrust,
As I explain the facts to you, The story's literally true;
Had you said this and even more Her tranquil spirit to restore,
You would have heard this warm reply,
‘Doctor! I tell you, Sir, you lie!’
—Not all the water in the streams That swell the flow of silver Thames,
No, nor the Thames, in all its pride,
When heighten'd by the Ocean's tide,
No, nor all the power of reason,
Would cleanse me from the fancied treason.”
—Syntax did not the subject press,
But smil'd and wish'd him all success
In ev'ry scheme of passing life, That might embrace or books or wife:
When Vellum thus, in flatt'ring strain,
Did certain gainful views maintain.
“—Genius like yours, profound, refin'd, Inspiring such an active mind,
Cannot sit still beneath the shade
Which your name has immortal made,
But must in those pursuits engage
Which both improve and charm the age,
And I my services commend To my learn'd patron and my friend;
From whom I've had a letter'd store, And only want a little more.”
“'Tis very true,” replied the Sage,
“That I have many a scatter'd page,
Which I may still collect together,
In wint'ry nights and rainy weather:
But, as I think again in town My time-worn phiz will not be shown,
You for your own, or for my sake, Or both perhaps, a tour must make,
And fetch the Learning from the Lake.”
—Thus with kind words from head and heart,
These friendly folk were seen to part:
Vellum's rich hopes were running o'er,
And Syntax gain'd an added store
To what from Sommerden he brought,
When he, with nuptial fancies fraught,
The promis'd smiles of Hymen sought.
—As he pass'd on, St. Paul's hoarse bell
Struck, as he said, the welcome knell
Of his departure, to regain The blessings of his Sylvan reign.
Impress'd with this delightful thought,
A calm but short night's rest he sought.