University of Virginia Library

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.”