University of Virginia Library

My Lady had the story heard, And when at dinner she appear'd,
Enquired as if she nothing knew How he had kept from out her view,
And what he with himself had done
Throughout the morning's glorious run.
He told his tale, 'twas such a treat,
That they could scarcely drink or eat,
It produc'd such food for laughter Both during dinner and long after,
“When you put on your wings and flew,
And vanish'd quickly from my view,
Forc'd to my fortune to submit, I fell,” he said, “into a pit;
And such appear'd my wretched birth,
I thought that I had run to earth,
And should require no other aid Than an old sexton and a spade.”
“Well,” said my Lord, “no sport shall break
Or even risk the Doctor's neck,
For the next hunting morning, he Shall pass his better hours with me
In hunting through my library.”
“Alas, my Lord,” the Doctor said, “I wish that you could be obey'd,
But I must add that, to my sorrow,
My sporting here will end to-morrow:
For I have other game in view, Another chace I must pursue:
I, my good Lord, must cease to roam,
And turn my willing steps tow'rds home.
I there have friends to whom I owe
The ev'ery comfort which I know, And they a kind impatience show
To see their Pastor once again Among his flock at Sommerden.”
“—I'm sorry, if it must be so,” A soft voice said, “but ere you go,
Try to persuade your friend Sir John To take a wife, nor live alone.
He has great wealth and ancient birth, And is possess'd of real worth,
Yet so wrong-headed he prefers To swell the list of bachelors.
I tell you, Doctor, what is true, And now I leave him, Sir, to you.”
Syntax replied—“I will obey—And now, Sir Knight, mind what I say.
I'm but an organ rather rude Of one most excellently good,
Though, as I speak by her decree, I claim all due authority.
—I have been married and can state
The pleasures that on marriage wait;
I know what 'tis to lose a wife, The pride and comfort of my life;
Nor does a day pass o'er my head, But I lament my Dolly dead:
Then listen as your Syntax preaches
The doctrine his experience teaches.
Of wisest maxims this is one, It is not good to live alone:
'Tis grievous through life's path to stray
Without companions on the way; If it were only thus to say:
How very glorious is the sight, How the sun, in its utmost height,
Tinges with gold the wood-clad hill,
While its beams glisten on the rill!
—With what a grace that myrtle grows!
How fragrant is that op'ning rose!
How sweet the bird that does prolong
The vernal ev'ning with a song!
But O what joy their hearts will prove,
Who, as they journey, say, We love!
—When ills the married pair betide, Each feels a comfort or a guide:
For we will not exceptions make
Which captious minds may chuse to take:
And if a marriage proves a pain, If it should feel a galling chain,
It is the fault of those who bear it;
They forge it first before they wear it:
They merit all that they endure Who feel the evils they could cure.
When ills assail, who has not seen That sufferings have lessen'd been,
When they participation prove From friendship, tenderness or love?
How soon the fretful pain grows less,
When kind hearts share in the distress:
Nay sorrow almost disappears, When each wipes off the other's tears:
'Tis better, though it still annoys,
Than many things the world calls joys.
The wifeless man retains his pleasure
But a short time, whate'er its measure;
And his vexations all grow stronger,
Nay, which is worse, they last the longer:
While he who has a tender heart In a wife's breast, and will impart
All that he feels within his own,
The cheering thought, the sigh, the moan,
Will two-fold ev'ry pleasure know And take but half his share of woe.”
—Sir John replied with gentle grace, But smile sarcastic on his face:
“All this is very fine you say About life's matrimonial way,
Where, though sometimes a flow'ret blows,
Yet there are prickles on the rose;
And may we not have cause to mourn,
When we are wounded by a thorn?
But then, besides these self-same thorns,
Hymen is sometimes crown'd with horns.”
“—Whose fault is that?” Syntax replied,
“Treat your wife always as a bride,
And let your honeymoon survive, 'Till one or other cease to live.
Be good, be kind, love as you ought, The wife will rarely be in fault:
'Tis want of husband's love and care
That plants those ugly branches there.
O cultivate the nuptial soil With fond affection's anxious toil;
Where, if love's fragrant flowers you sow,
Nor Thorns nor Horns will ever grow.
And now, my worthy friend, Sir John,
My grave, appointed task is done.”—
He ceas'd and bow'd, when, all around, Praise did in ev'ry form abound:
The ladies scream'd out with applause
For pleading thus the female cause:
While one from off her finger took A ring, and with a gracious look
Bade him the brilliant trifle take And wear it for her sex's sake:
While Sir John said, “my shame to smother,
Accept, I pray you, such another,
Impute it to my stupid brain That thus you preach, and preach in vain.
The time may come when Cupid's arrow
May set in flow my frozen marrow;
Or when bright eyes their beams may dart,
And wake my now too slumb'ring heart:
Then, when to marry is my lot, I'll send to you to tie the knot.”
—Thus the enliven'd ev'ning pass'd And all were sorry 'twas the last:
For not alone the Doctor's sense, His scholarship and eloquence
Had given the hours a quicker flow Than common conversations do;
But he possess'd the power to please By his mild eccentricities.
—The parting words were very kind, Nor in the common form design'd,
Just to be civil and no more, To be forgot the following hour;
But such as were to virtue due, And were the boon of friendship too.
The following morn and when the sun
Had scarce three hours his course begun,
Syntax was trotting on his way, And a long journey clos'd the day:
Nor was it 'till the third day's end
That he shook hands with Dicky Bend.
—Here he well knew he could impart The secret wishes of his heart;
Here tell his late adventure o'er And all his future hopes explore,
While friendship would its aid prepare
To grant the wish or soothe the care.
Nor did he for a day postpone To make his hopes and wishes known.
The provost answer'd:—“My dear friend,
You know full well you may depend
On all that I can say or do To forward the important view,
That I may venture to presage Does your whole anxious mind engage.
You wish another wife to gain, Nor will the wish be made in vain,
If, as I hope, you will approve The lady offer'd to your love.
Of my dear wife a friend most dear To-morrow is expected here;
Who, if I do not greatly err, In manner, form, and character
Is just the fair you would prefer.
You would not startle, if 'tis said She may be call'd an ancient maid,
But then, to give the maid her due,
My friend, she's young enough for you,
Of my wife's age, and to be free, My wife is young enough for me.
If the Divine and learned Sage Wishes a plaything for his age,
She's still so fashion'd as to prove What reason can demand of love.
She has enough of what is good To fill your void of widowhood;
A lady bred, and, I can tell, She tickles the piano well:
And truly, speaking of the heart, Her bosom bears your counterpart.
There's fortune too, a pretty thing, T'enrich the matrimonial ring.
Her nuptial prospects have miscarried,
But still she wishes to be married;
And my wife says it is her aim To bear a known and learned name:
A fact, I think, the truth secures, When I declare that name is yours.”
Syntax exclaim'd, “Aye, this would do!
'Tis a fair prospect to the view, But my stars must be rul'd by you.”
—The following day the lady came: Nor need I tell her maiden name,
For ere a week or so was o'er That maiden name was hers no more.
On the third day kind Mrs. Bend, Who with both, as a mutual friend,
Had talk'd the important matter over, Presented Syntax as a lover;
While Dicky whisper'd, “push it well,
And you'll soon bear away the belle;
Let her know all that you can do; And Miss, fear not, will buckle to.”—
The lady, as for many a year Soft things were strangers to her ear,
Seem'd to be carried by surprise,
For high-flown thoughts and gentle sighs
Possess'd, it seems, the wish'd-for power,
And she said aye within the hour,
Nay, on the third or fourth day after:
They were both noos'd in Hymen's garter.
—Nought now was heard but Love and Dear,
My Dear go there! my Love come here!
And, since it is such charming weather, O let us take a stroll together!
While she would sing to some fine tune,
“Our life shall be one honeymoon.”
Thus it appear'd, and Dicky Bend Rejoic'd to see his happy friend;
And only wish'd the joy might last When many a future year was past.
—Patrick to Sommerden was sent To tell the tale of this event,
And to employ his utmost care How to receive the nuptial pair.
He with great glee the tidings carried:
And that his Reverence was married
Did ev'ry village tongue employ To tell its wonder and its joy.
The Worthies were but lately come Back to their long deserted home,
And felt it as a sad disaster To be without their much-lov'd pastor:
But still it touch'd a doubtful string
The kind of wife that he would bring.—
Syntax to his friends had written, That he had been by reason smitten;
That he was not so very stupid As to play a game with Cupid;
But he had found a proper wife
Who, he believ'd, would through his life
Strive to exert her various powers
In quickening his slow-pacing hours,
And that 'twould be her constant aim To be an honour to his name:
She, he was sure, would gain her ends,
To charm himself and please his friends.”
Pat, who had seen both great and small,
Was ask'd, and he confirm'd it all.
“A lady of genteeler air,” He said, “was not seen any where;
Nor is there one about the Lake Who will a better figure make:
On Thursday next they will be here, And the whole parish will appear
In its best figure and array, To celebrate the holiday,
When my dear master comes again
With his fine bride to Sommerden.”
The day arriv'd, the sun shone bright,
And ev'ry face gay with delight,
The motley crowd were seen to wait Impatient at the village gate;
And when the expected pair appear'd,
One gen'ral voice of joy was heard.
The Bride, whose tonish inclination Attended to the ruling fashion,
To make her entry had bedress'd Her upright form in all her best,
And thought it a becoming care To make the natives gaze and stare.
The plumage nodded from her head,
Her pale cheeks wore a tint of red:
And, as the carriage pass'd along, She bow'd to the admiring throng:
Nay, scatter'd silver 'mong the boys
Whose huzzas join'd the jovial noise.
Some lin'd the paths beside the road,
As some the way with branches strew'd.
Four damsels of superior grace, The humble beauties of the place,
By Worthy's care all clad in white, With rose-red ribbons gay bedight,
A garland bore, whose flow'rs combine
To make the nuptial symbol fine;
And Sal and Kate and Doll and Betty
Were never known to look so pretty;
While many a tender village swain
View'd them and own'd a lover's pain.
The steeple bells were loudly ringing, The parish choir preceded singing,
Accompanied by fifes and drums,
“Behold the conquering hero comes.”
Ma'am own'd she felt no small delight At this unlook'd for rural sight,
But felt it more because it prov'd How much the Doctor was belov'd.
—The long procession mov'd on straight
To the old hall's wide op'ning gate,
Where Worthy and his charming mate
Stood with kind smiles upon their faces,
And their known hospitable graces,
The married couple to receive With the best welcome they could give.—
“The Husband,” Syntax said, “commends
His dear wife to his best of friends.”—
“The love we to that husband bear
That dear wife will most fondly share.”
The 'Squire replied; when to her breast Madam receiv'd the bridal guest.
—The bride at once felt she was come
To where she found an instant home:
Such cheerful kindness did appear, The wish to please look'd so sincere,
The forms which well-bred manners boast
Were in frank ease so quickly lost,
That ere an hour or two were o'er The stranger feel was felt no more;
And Mrs. Syntax gladly found,
Ere she could throw her thoughts around,
A husband kind, by all belov'd,
And friends her heart at once approv'd.
—The crowd retreated to the green,
Where a sheep roasting whole was seen;
And many a stream of ale increas'd The pleasure of the joyous feast;
While song and dance and pastime gay Conclude the Hymeneal day.
Thus hope on future prospects smil'd,
Nor was it of its views beguil'd.
The higher class of neighbours came To visit the new-married dame,
And all delighted were to see The mistress of the Rectory:
Nay, the gay Ladies round the Lake
Did from her dress the fashion take.
At first she seem'd but stiff and starch,
And walk'd as upright as a larch,
But she knew when to condescend And to the due occasion bend.
She saw that former modes of life Would suit not with a Parson's wife;
She therefore pass'd the farmer's gate
And chatter'd with his flatter'd mate;
Would ask a chair and sit before The threshold of the cottage door;
Call forth the children from within,
And stroke the head and chuck the chin,
Praise the attentive parents' care, And talk of favours they should share,
If she the active fruits should see Of virtue and of industry.
Though in her bounties unrestrain'd She still her dignity maintain'd;
Though she would at the cottage call And talk in gentle speech to all;
Yet when she thus impos'd her law,
Their love was not unmix'd with awe.
Thus she assum'd the village reign, Nor did she bear the rule in vain;
And oft-times both the Worthies bless'd
The new-brought treasure they possess'd.
—Thus, while she gave the village place Another and a better face,
Syntax a change had undergone, By which at first he scarce was known,
—He now a varying semblance wore From what he ever seem'd before,
He now a diff'rent form was seen, So nicely dress'd and always clean,
He might be taken for a Dean:
Besides, as Pat was heard to say, His chin was clean-shav'd ev'ry day.
Nay, while in contemplative mood, His various studies he pursued,
Not as it us'd to be before, In some old coat to threadbare wore:
He now in robe of purple dye, Maintain'd Canonic dignity.
His gaiters with dust cover'd o'er Were seen upon his legs no more,
But when he rode his top-boots shone, Or hussar'd à la Wellington.
The squeez'd-up hat that deck'd his brow
Was chang'd to solemn beaver now:
His queer, grey caxon laid aside, A smart brown wig the place supplied,
Which, manag'd well with comb and care,
The semblance bore of native hair.
Thus chang'd, the wond'ring people star'd,
And the first time that he appear'd
At church in all this novel gear, There scarce was one attentive ear;
The gaping wonder and surprise Forc'd all the soul into the eyes.
—The gentry much admir'd the art That made the learned sloven smart;
And all around approv'd the dame Who quietly contriv'd the same:
But she had something more to do,
To change his gen'ral manners too.
—His violin was not unstrung, But only touch'd when Madam sung;
Or when the Lady chose by chance To join the Worthies in a dance;
No more he fiddled to the people,
When they bejigg'd it 'neath the steeple;
No more he prais'd the most adroit,
Who urg'd the ball or threw the quoit;
But still the people all around him
As kind and friendly ever found him,
As when he wore a six-days' beard And in his grizzle wig appear'd.
He still smil'd 'mong the village folk,
Though he left off his funny joke;
And such was the continual good Which they in word or deed pursued,
That when he and his stately Lady
Stroll'd round the village, 'twas a gay day.
The winter came, the winds were bleak,
And the cold breeze blew o'er the Lake,
When Madam Syntax never stirr'd But well beruft'd and well befurr'd.
While the Sage was to public view
Wrapp'd-up and well bemuffled too.
His neck was bound with hairy skin, That form'd a pillow for his chin:
So careful did the Dame appear,
To guard from cold her swaddled dear.
—Some hinted, 'twas a silly whim, To deck the Doctor in this trim,
And make him look so like a bear
Whose skin he thus was seen to wear;
But that these fancies prov'd of course
The Grey Mare was the better Horse.
How that might be I cannot tell,
But this was known—all things went well,
And if her fancy was for sway, She rul'd by seeming to obey.
The Worthies too, who Syntax lov'd,
The new-born'd changes much approv'd:
They joy'd to see his alter'd phiz, That he no longer was a quiz;
And were delighted at the plan That made him look a Gentleman;
That his exterior might not err From his pure, native character.
On moonlight nights the neighbours round
Or music or card-parties found,
All in due form and social glee, Or at the Hall or Rectory;
While each, in some kind welcome way, Did hospitable rites repay.
The higher show, the Christmas ball,
Were the display of Worthy-Hall;
While lesser pleasures did engage Th'attentions of the Parsonage:
But, in regard and kindness shown, These families appear'd as one.
—Thus pleasantly the Winter pass'd,
When ling'ring Spring arriv'd at last;
And when it was now growing gay With the sweet offerings of May,
A Letter to the Doctor came Inscrib'd with sweet Miss Pallet's name.
In a few days the bantling came,
Whom now we Little Johnny name,
And Mrs. Syntax thought the story So added to the Doctor's glory,
That she seem'd proud of Little John, As if the babe had been her own.
Though sprinkled from the sacred rill
Of parish-church on Holborn-Hill,
She would it were baptis'd again With all due form at Sommerden:
And so it was, when Worthy's self Stood sponsor for the little elf;
And Madam Syntax held it there With promise of her future care.
Each ceremonial rite was done, Again the child was christen'd John:
No other name, alas was known.
To give the name it ought to bear, No parents did the duty share,
Th'unnat'ral parents were not there,
But such as happy chance had sent, Or Heaven had in its mercy lent.
—The Register, as all may see, Records th'eventful history.
All things pass'd on in that calm way
Which leaves description nought to say.
All that the Doctor found of leisure
From parish cares and social pleasure
Was to his Study's toil confin'd; Where ev'ry impulse of his mind
Was urg'd to gratify the aim On basis firm to fix his claim
To Learning's meed and Future Fame:
And when Ma'am's busy morn was o'er
Among her birds, her flowers and poor,
She was beheld in silent pride Embroid'ring at his table's side.
Nay, oft-times she would fetch the book
In which enquiry ask'd to look,
And having found the wish'd-for page,
Would smile and say: “Look there, my Sage!”
—Thus hours and days and seasons went As it appear'd in full content:
At least complaint in silence slept, Or was a perfect secret kept.
During the summer Dickey Bend With Madam visited his friend,
And joy'd to find their nuptial scheme
Had not turn'd out an idle dream,
Fair Pallet also came to glean The charms of the surrounding scene,
And gladly bore away to town The beauties she had made her own.
Nay, Vellum also did repair To talk of print and paper there;
And, in due time, he bore away The treasure of a future day,
Which the learn'd Author had prepar'd
With promise of no slight reward.