University of Virginia Library

CANTO XXIII.

“Whate'er of genius or of merit The child of labour may inherit,
They will not in this mortal state,
Or give him wealth, or make him great,
Unless that strange, capricious dame,
Whom Pagan poets Fortune name,
That unseen, ever active pow'r, Propitious, aids his toilsome hour.
Throughout my life I've struggled hard;
And what has been my lean reward?
What have I gain'd by learned lore, By deeply reading o'er and o'er,
What ev'ry ancient sage has writ, Renown'd for pure and Attic wit;
Or those rich volumes which dispense The strains of Roman eloquence?
No fav'ring patrons have I got, But just enough to boil the pot.
What though by toil and pain, I know
Where ev'ry Hebrew root doth grow,
And can each hidden truth descry From Genesis to Malachi;
Yet I have never been decreed To sheer the fleeces that I feed:
No, they enrich the idle dunce Who never saw his flock but once,
And meanly grudges e'en to spare My pittance for their weekly fare.
Have I made any real friends, By wasting eyes and candles' ends?
And though a good musician too, What did my fiddle ever do?
I sometimes might employ its pow'r To soothe an over anxious hour;
But though it with my temper suits, It never yet could soften brutes.
My sketching-pencil, too, is known In ev'ry house throughout the town;
For, to replace some horrid scrawl, My drawings hang on ev'ry wall:
And yet, 'tis true, as I'm a sinner, They seldom pay me with a dinner.
What do I get poor boys to teach? And drive in learning at the breech?
A task, which Lucian says, is given
As the worst punishment from Heaven.
While Fortune's boobies cut and carve,
I may be said to teach and starve;
Too happy, if, on Christmas-day, I've just enough the duns to pay.
Though sometimes I have almost swore
When, from the threshold of the door, My poverty repell'd the poor;
When the cask, empty'd of its ale, No more the thirsty could regale.
“At length the lucky moment came
To fill my purse and give me fame!
And, after all my labours past, Hope bids me look for rest at last.
For scarce had I one prosp'rous hour
Till Fortune bid me Write a Tour.
Oft have I said in words unkind, That strumpet Fortune's very blind!
But now I think the wench can see, Since she's become so kind to me.
To say the truth, I scarce believe The favours which I now receive:
In a Lord's house I take my rest, A welcome and an honour'd guest:
The favours on my Tour I found Are by his present kindness crown'd.
I'd heard indeed, that these same Lords
Were only friendly in their words;
But truth alone my patron moves,
Whose friendship ev'ry promise proves.”
Thus Syntax did his feelings broach, As he reclin'd within a coach;
For, pond'ring as he pass'd along, He was sore pummell'd by the throng:
Now by a porter's package greeted,
Now on the pavement he was seated;
While, deafen'd by a news-boy's din
A fruit-girl's barrow strikes his shin;
And as his cautious course he guides,
The passing elbows punch his sides;
While a cart-wheel, with luckless spirt,
Gives him a taste of London dirt:
At length, to get in safety back, He sought the comforts of a Hack.
His little journey at an end, The Doctor join'd his noble friend:
Together they in comfort dine,
Then munch'd their cakes, and sipp'd their wine;
When Syntax, briefly, thus display'd
His parley with the man of trade.
“I owe unto your Lordship's name My future gains in gold and fame.
My uncomb'd wig,—my suit of black,
Which had grown rusty on my back,
My grizly visage, pale and thin,
My carcass, nought but bones and skin,
Presented to the Tradesman's eye The ghastly form of Poverty:
Nor would he deign to cast a look Upon the pages of my book;
But, with the fierceness of Turk, In sorry terms revil'd my work;
And let loose all his purse-proud spleen
Against a thing he ne'er had seen:
But your kind note, where it was said, That all expenses should be paid,
New-dy'd my coat, new-cock'd my hat,
Powder'd my wig, and made me fat.
His eye now saw me plump and sleek, With not a wrinkle in my cheek;
And strength, and stateliness, and vigour,
Completed my important figure;
While, in my pocket, his keen look
Glanc'd at your Lordship's pocket-book.
'Twas now—‘I'm sure the work will sell,
And pay the learned author well:’
Then grac'd his shrill and sputt'ring speeches
With pulling up his monstrous breeches;
And made me all the humblest bows His vast protuberance allows:
For had he come with purse in hand,
E'en Satan might his press command;
So that the book had not a flaw To risk the dangers of the law.
Prove but his gains—and he'd be civil, Or to the Doctor or the Devil.”
Thus Syntax and his patron sat, And thus prolong'd the ev'ning chat.
My Lord.—
“Your rapid pencil fairly traces
Men's characters as well as faces;
Your latter sketch is true to Nature, And gives me Vellum's ev'ry feature.
With all your various talents fraught, So deeply read, so ably taught,
I feel a curious wish to know
From whence your high endowments flow:
And how it happens that a man,
Whose worth I scarce know how to scan,
Should ne'er have reach'd a better state,
Than seems to be your present fate.”

Syntax.—

My Lord.—
“I should have thought a married mate
Must have improv'd your lonely state!
That a kind look and winning smile
Would serve, your labours to beguile.”

Syntax.—
“Love, in itself, is very good,
But, 'tis by no means, solid food;
And, ere our honey-moon was o'er, I found we wanted something more.
This was the cause of all my trouble;
My income would not carry double;
But, led away from Reason's plan, By Love, that torturer of a man,
In our delirium we forgot What is Life's unremitted lot;
That man and woman, too, are born, Beneath each rose to find a thorn!
We thought, as other fools have done,
That Hymen's laws had made us one;
But had forgot that Nature, true To her own purpose, made us two.
There were two mouths that daily cry'd,
At morn and eve, to be supplied:
Though by one vow we were betroth'd,
There were two bodies to be cloth'd;
And, to improve my happiness, Dolly is very fond of dress.
My head's content with one hat on it,
While Dorothy has hat and bonnet:
In short, there's no day passes through,
But I and my dear Doll are two.
One good has my kind fortune sped; Dolly, my Lord, has never bred.
Thus, though we're always TWO, you see
We haply yet have have ne'er been THREE.
She came a beauty to my arms; Her only dower was her charms:
But much she sav'd me, I must own, By never bringing brats to town.”

My Lord.—
“Another time, my rev'rend guest,
I hope you will relate the rest:
I truly wish the whole to know, But bus'ness calls, and I must go.
I need not, sure, repeat my words;
Command whate'er the house affords.”
The Peer thus with the Doctor parted,
And left him gay and easy hearted;
While many a pipe his thoughts digest,
Till his eyes told the hour of rest.
When the next morn, and breakfast came,
Said Syntax, “I should be to blame,
If I delay'd to tell my mind To one so gen'rous and so kind,
In hopes such counsel to receive As he will condescend to give.
For as I on my bed reclin'd, A sudden thought possess'd my mind,
Which may produce, as I've a notion,
A North-west passage to promotion.
“Loyal and true I've ever been,
And much of this same world I've seen:
Well vers'd in the historic page Of this and ev'ry other age
I could employ my studious hour
For those who hold the reins of power;
And sure a well-turn'd pamphlet might
Attention from the court invite;
By which I could, in nervous prose, Unveil the ministerial foes;
And, with no common skill and care,
Praise and support the powers that are.
I then might be preferr'd at once; No more the prey of any dunce,
Who views poor authors as mere drudges,
And ev'ry doit he pays them grudges;
Nor cares how much he makes them feel,
Just as a cook-maid skins an eel.
It would be better far I trow, Than this same Paternoster-Row;
Where the poor bees, in Learning's hive,
Toil, but to make the tradesmen thrive—
And for their intellectual honey, Get but a poor return in money.
It would be cutting matters short, Could I but get a friend at court:
'Twould be, and I repeat the notion,
A North-West passage to promotion.”

My Lord.—
“Patient, my learned Doctor, hear;
And to my counsels give an ear:
I long have known, and known too well,
The country where you wish to dwell.
Corruption, fraud, and envy wait
At the proud Statesman's crowded gate;
There fawning flatt'ry wins its way,
There the base passions join the fray,
Like beasts that on each other prey;
While the smile hides each trait'rous heart,
And interest plays a Proteus part.
You've too much virtue, my good friend,
Your talents and your time to lend, To such a power—for such an end.
Can you work up the specious lie That does not quite the truth deny?
Can you that kind of truth relate, On which you may prevaricate?
Will you from others bear to seek
What you must think, and write, and speak?
Will you, to-day, their systems borrow,
And calmly shake them off to-morrow?
Will you, Cameleon-like, receive The Hue a Patron wants to give?
—You've too much honest pride to be A scribbler to the Treasury;
Where you must wait the lagging hour, And cringe to images of power!
To men in office, upstart elves, Who think of little but themselves.
“When long an hacknied slave you've been,
And dash'd and div'd through thick and thin;
When you have chang'd each purer thought
For morals which in courts are taught;
When all distinctions, that belong, To what is right and what is wrong,
Have, of your reason, lost their hold, For dribblets of a patron's gold;
When the bold Logic, fram'd by Truth,
Your filial boast in early youth,
Yields to the vacillating rule Of Policy's complying school;—
When guile and cunning, from your breast,
Have driven that once-honour'd guest,
You may, perhaps, or you may not, Be set aside, unheard, forgot;
Or haply find, when Virtue's lost, Repentance, and some petty Post.
This will not do, my learned friend, You must to better things attend;
All thoughts of Downing Street forego,
And stick to Paternoster Row.
“The man of trade you cannot blame, For money is his native aim;
It is the object of all trade To make as much as can be made:
Bankers and Booksellers alike, At ev'ry point of profit strike;
And the same spirit you will meet
In Mincing Lane or Lombard Street.
'Tis not confin'd, we all must know, To vulgar tradesmen in the ROW.
Success depends on writing well—
Booksellers bow, when Volumes sell.
On the Exchange, each day at three, This self-same principle you'll see
I ead thither the vast, pressing throng;
And know, dear Sir, or right or wrong,
'Tis that which makes Old England strong.
Though roguery's in Vellum's shop, It is, my friend, the Nation's prop:
And though you please, good Sir, to flout it,
Old England could not do without it.
Without it she might be as good, But half as great she never would.
I look with pleasure to the fame That now awaits your learned name;
And when your labours are well paid, You'll be the Eulogist of Trade.
“Vellum may be a purse-proud Cit,
With more of money than of wit;
But Vellum, my good Sir, can tell The kind of book that's made to sell.
Indeed, the man whose pocket's full, However empty be his skull,
Although immeasurably dull,
Will find, 'midst the ill-judging crowd, Far greater reason to be proud,
Than he whose head contains a store
Of critic skill, and learned lore,
If to his wit he does not join, The blest command of ready coin.
Write and get rich, nor fear the taunts
Of booksellers and such gallants;
Vellum has no more sordid tricks Than those that deal in Politics;
But till your various Learning's known,
And your works sell throughout the Town;
Till, having settled Fortune's spite,
Your name shall sanction what you write,
Let Vellum his rewards bestow,
Nor scoff at PATERNOSTER ROW.”

Syntax.—
“To your kind words I've nought to say,
But thank your Lordship, and obey.
And now, as twenty years have pass'd Since I beheld fair London last,
I shall employ the present day In strolling calmly to survey
What changes Time and Chance have made,
What Wealth has done, and Art essay'd,
What taste has, in its fancies, shown,
To give new splendour to the Town:
That being done, I'll take my way To Covent Garden—to the play.”

“Then,” said his Lordship, “when we meet,
I shall expect a special treat,
To hear my learned friend impart His notions of dramatic art.”
The Doctor bow'd, and off he went, Upon his curious progress bent:
He pac'd the Parks—he view'd each Square,
And, staring, he made others stare.
At length, at the appointed hour, He hasten'd to the Playhouse door,
And took his place within the pit, Beside a critic and a wit,
As wits and critics now are known
Who hash up nonsense for the Town;
And, in the daily columns, show How small the sum of all they know.
“I think,” said Syntax, looking round,
“It is not good, this vast profound:
I see no well-wrought columns here; No attic ornaments appear;
Nought but a washy, wanton waste Of gaudy tints and puny taste:
Too large to hear too long to see— Full of unmeaning symmetry.
The parts all answer one another;
Each pigeon-hole reflects its brother;
And all, alas! too plainly show How easy 'tis to form a Row:
But where's the grand, the striking whole?
A Theatre should have a soul.”
“Excuse me, Sir,” the Critic said, “These Theatres are all a trade:
Their owners laugh at scrolls and friezes;
'Tis a full house, alone, that pleases:
And you must know, it is the plan To stick and stuff it as they can:
Your noble, architect'ral graces
Would take up room, and fill up places.”
“This may be true, Sir, to the letter;
But genius would have manag'd better,”
Syntax replied:—“Nay, I am willing
To let them gain the utmost shilling;
But surely talent might be found, (The natives, too, of British ground,)
Who could have blended attic merit With this proprietory spirit.”
Thus as he spoke, the curtain rose, And forced his harangue to a close:
But still, as they the drama view'd, The conversation was renew'd,
And lasted till the whole was o'er;
When, as they pass'd the Playhouse door,
The Critic said—“'Twill wound my heart
If you and I so soon must part:
O, how I long to crack a bottle With such a friend of Aristotle!
Now, as you seem to know him well, Perhaps his residence you'll tell.”
“Where it is now I do not know,” Syntax reply'd;—“and I must go;
But this I can most boldly say— You scarce will meet him at the play.”
When fairly got into the street, “O,” thought the Doctor, “what a treat
For my good Lord, when next we meet!”