The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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| XXV. | CANTO XXV. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
105
CANTO XXV.
My Lord retir'd—the Doctor too, As he had nothing else to do,
Thought he would take a peep and see His noble Patron's Library.
So down he sat, without a care, In a well-stuff'd Morocco chair,
And seiz'd a book; but Morpheus shed
The poppies o'er his rev'rend head;
While Fancy would not be behind, So play'd her tricks within his mind,
And furnish'd a most busy dream,
Which Syntax made his pleasant theme,
Soon as he met my Lord to dine, Or rather, while they took their wine.
The Dream.—
Thought he would take a peep and see His noble Patron's Library.
So down he sat, without a care, In a well-stuff'd Morocco chair,
And seiz'd a book; but Morpheus shed
The poppies o'er his rev'rend head;
While Fancy would not be behind, So play'd her tricks within his mind,
And furnish'd a most busy dream,
Which Syntax made his pleasant theme,
Soon as he met my Lord to dine, Or rather, while they took their wine.
That I was in the Strand I dream'd,
And o'er my head methought there seem'd,
A flight of volumes in the air, In various bindings gilt and fair:
Th'unfolded leaves, expos'd to view,
Serv'd them as wings on which they flew,
Through the mid air they pass'd along
In stately flight a num'rous throng;
And from each book a label fell, Form'd ev'ry author's name to tell!
Nor was it long before I saw, With a fond, reverential awe,
The celebrated Bards and Sages
Which grac'd the Greek and Roman ages,
All headed by a solemn fowl Which bore the 'semblance of an Owl.
'Twas Pallas' Bird, who led them straight
Through Temple-Bar's expanded Gate.
—Year-Books, Reports, and sage grave Entries,
At either Temple-gate stood sentries:
While Viner his Abridgment shows In sixty well-arm'd Folios.
The Lamb, it baa'd, the Horse, it neigh'd,
In rev'rence of the cavalcade,
Near Clifford's-Inn appear'd to stand Of Capiases an ugly band;
For when their parchment flags appear'd,
Instant the crowded street was clear'd,
And the procession pass'd along, Untroubled by a pressing throng.
St. Dunstan's savages were mute, But still they gave their best salute;
Disdaining Eloquence and Rhymes,
They 'woke their bells to speak in chimes.
Erskine's fam'd Pamphlet Cap-a-pee, With many an I, and many a Me,
Issu'd from Serjeants'-Inn, and made
A speech to grace the grand parade.
The Stationers came forth to meet
The stranger forms in Ludgate-street;
Each one, upon his brawny back, Bearing a large sheet Almanac.
For a short time the Learned train Stopp'd before Ave-Maria-Lane,
That Galen might just view the College,
The seat of medicinal knowledge.
Nor did they fail awhile to tarry Before St. Paul's learn'd Seminary,
Where Lilly's Grammar did rehearse Propria quæ Maribus in verse.
At Cheapside-end there seem'd to stand
A pageant, rather huge than grand;
106
Appear'd like some vast, massive rock:
On its firm base a figure stood A composite of brass and wood:
The months and weeks around it stand,
With each a number in its hand
Of Bibles, Hist'ries and Reviews, And Magazines of ev'ry Muse,
With coverlids of various hue, Pea-green and red, and brown and blue.
The shape was clad in Livery-gown;
The face had neither smile nor frown,
While it held out a monstrous paunch
As fat with many a ham and haunch.
Two Printers' Devils o'er his head A crimson canvas widely spread,
Whereon was writ in gilded show— “Genius of Paternoster-Row.”
The mighty Giants of Guildhall, Urg'd by a sympathetic call,
No sooner heard the clock strike One,
Than from their stations they came down;
And in Cheapside they took their stand, In honour of the Classic Band;
But when they heard the clock strike Two,
March'd back as they were wont to do.
Now as they came near the Old-Jewry,
Like Dulness work'd into a Fury,
A vulgar shape appear'd, who flew
On pinions mark'd with ONE and TWO;
And other items which denote, That four-pence is well-worth a groat.
It seem'd to lead a num'rous train Who render'd further passage vain.
Straight he came forward to produce A Blank-Sheet as a flag of truce.
Near him two flutt'ring Pamphlets bore
Standards, with figures cover'd o'er;
A gilt Pence-table grac'd the one, The Price of Stock on t'other shone.
A picquet guard of Valuations, And Int'rest Tables took their stations
Around their leader, who drew nigh, To make his bold soliloquy;
But e'er he speaks, my proper course is
Just to describe the City Forces.
Bill-Books and Cash-Books form'd the van,
An active and a numerous clan:
The Journals follow'd them whose skill Is exercis'd in daily drill:
On either side appear'd to range
Unpaid Accounts, Bills of Exchange,
The Files of Banker's Checks: these three
Manœuv'red as Light Infantry;
While many a stationary book Its regular position took;
And Quires of Blotting Paper stood To suck up any flow of blood.
The Ledgers the main body form, Arm'd to resist the coming storm;
Whose pond'rous shapes could boldly show
A steady phalanx to the foe.
Discord appear'd with base intent The hostile spirit to foment:
Not Discord that precedes the car Of Mars whene'er he goes to war;
But of a different rank and nation, Known by the name of Litigation;
Born on some foul Attorney's desk; Bred up to harass and perplex;
Whose appetite is for dispute, And has no wish but for a suit.
She rose upon a Gander's wing, And round about began to fling
Pleas, Declarations, and each bit
Of Parchment that could form a Writ.
Not Discord that precedes the car Of Mars whene'er he goes to war;
But of a different rank and nation, Known by the name of Litigation;
Born on some foul Attorney's desk; Bred up to harass and perplex;
Whose appetite is for dispute, And has no wish but for a suit.
She rose upon a Gander's wing, And round about began to fling
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Of Parchment that could form a Writ.
The News-papers with pen in hand, In the balconies took their stand;
Waiting with that impartial spirit, Which all well know they all inherit,
To make the hurry of the Battle
Through all the next day's columns rattle;
And, with one conscience, to prepare The Hist'ry of this Paper war.
The Herald now the silence broke,
'Twas mighty Cocker's self that spoke;
And thus to Pallas' Bird address'd The solemn purpose of his breast.
“I state my claim to ask and know
From whence you come and where you go,
And by what licence you appear With all your foreign Pagans here?
Come you with all this cavalcade T'insult the Vehicles of Trade,
And our dear, home-bred rights invade?
A mighty force awaits you here, To check and punish your career;
And I am order'd by my masters, Who fear disturbance and disasters,
To bid you quickly turn about,
From London streets to take your rout,
Or we shall quickly turn you out.
My name is Cocker, which is known
In ev'ry Counting-house in Town:
Nay, such my use and reputation, I am respected through the nation.
Yes, I'm the Father, I who speak, Of Mercantile Arithmetic;
Source of a race that far outvies Your Greek and Latin progenies:
And now I hope that in a crack You'll send an humble answer back,
Or else expect a fierce attack.
I'll count twice two, and then add four,
That time I'll give, but give no more.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.—
I've done, and will no longer wait.”
Waiting with that impartial spirit, Which all well know they all inherit,
To make the hurry of the Battle
Through all the next day's columns rattle;
And, with one conscience, to prepare The Hist'ry of this Paper war.
The Herald now the silence broke,
'Twas mighty Cocker's self that spoke;
And thus to Pallas' Bird address'd The solemn purpose of his breast.
“I state my claim to ask and know
From whence you come and where you go,
And by what licence you appear With all your foreign Pagans here?
Come you with all this cavalcade T'insult the Vehicles of Trade,
And our dear, home-bred rights invade?
A mighty force awaits you here, To check and punish your career;
And I am order'd by my masters, Who fear disturbance and disasters,
To bid you quickly turn about,
From London streets to take your rout,
Or we shall quickly turn you out.
My name is Cocker, which is known
In ev'ry Counting-house in Town:
Nay, such my use and reputation, I am respected through the nation.
Yes, I'm the Father, I who speak, Of Mercantile Arithmetic;
Source of a race that far outvies Your Greek and Latin progenies:
And now I hope that in a crack You'll send an humble answer back,
Or else expect a fierce attack.
I'll count twice two, and then add four,
That time I'll give, but give no more.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.—
I've done, and will no longer wait.”
The Bird of Pallas who could speak, In English or in Attic Greek,
As suited best—did not prolong His answer in the Vulgar Tongue.
As suited best—did not prolong His answer in the Vulgar Tongue.
“'Twas a petition, duly made By certain of your Sons of Trade,
To beg my mistress would permit That they should buy a little Wit;
And here import, though in defiance Of common rules, a little Science.
I ask not, if 'twas their intent To gain a name—or ten per cent.;
Whether 'tis wisdom or misdoing;
Whether 'twill prove their good or ruin,
Or the result of civic sense, Or a shrewd, mercantile pretence:
Whether 'tis Interest or Pride That turns them from old rules aside;
That urges them to tax their trade, For off'rings to th'Immortal Maid:
These self-same matters, to be free, Are, Mister Cocker, nought to me.
'Tis by Minerva's high command, That I conduct this Classic Band;
'Tis she commands, and we obey; Nor shall you stop us on the way,
Whether it does or does not suit Your Pleasure, to the Institute
We'll go, you calculating brute.
Say, will your low-born volumes dare
With these brave vet'rans to compare?
What's all this bustle—all this fuss?
Think you they can contend with us?
They who are slaves, so base and willing,
Of any pound, and pence, and shilling.
As the pen gives they're forc'd to drink The venal dips of any ink;
And when they're filled, their lives expire,
Consign'd to light a kitchen fire;
Or sent away to such vile use As Chandlers or as Hucksters chuse:
If they oppose our stated way, We'll sweep them from the face of day.
“At the same time we wish for peace,
And that your saucy threats may cease.
We do not mean to mock the City With any hope of being witty:
We do not bring our learned powers To vex its speculating hours;
Or with poetic visions cross Your schemes of Profit and of Loss.
We did not first suggest the deed, To bring you books you cannot read.
Meetings were form'd and speeches made,
And all by weighty men of trade,
To frame the unforeseen request; And surely we have done our best,
When we each Classic did provide, With a Translation by its side.
—Dryden is ready to rehearse All Virgil's Works in English verse;
And Grecian Homer rests his hope Of being understood by Pope.
Leland will give you, if ye please, The speeches of Demosthenes;
While Northern Guthrie will bestow The Eloquence of Cicero.
To Thomas Styles and John a Nokes
Carr will repeat old Lucien's Jokes;
While Juvenal's sharp satire shines In William Giffard's rival lines.
Coleman and Thornton will convey Right notions of a Latin Play.
Whate'er the ancient critics wrote,
You now may in plain English quote,
And drink Pye's health, when o'er the bottle, For Anglicising Aristotle!
Nay, all the Ancient Bards have sung
You now may sing in Vulgar Tongue!
What could we more?—so cease your riot,
And let us pass along in quiet.
Dismiss your Counting-house parade;
Send off these cumbrous tomes of trade:
Back to their counters let them roam,
And sip their ink, and stay at home;
Nor e'er again their threats oppose To Grecian and to Roman foes.”
Cocker.—
To beg my mistress would permit That they should buy a little Wit;
And here import, though in defiance Of common rules, a little Science.
I ask not, if 'twas their intent To gain a name—or ten per cent.;
Whether 'tis wisdom or misdoing;
Whether 'twill prove their good or ruin,
Or the result of civic sense, Or a shrewd, mercantile pretence:
Whether 'tis Interest or Pride That turns them from old rules aside;
That urges them to tax their trade, For off'rings to th'Immortal Maid:
These self-same matters, to be free, Are, Mister Cocker, nought to me.
'Tis by Minerva's high command, That I conduct this Classic Band;
'Tis she commands, and we obey; Nor shall you stop us on the way,
Whether it does or does not suit Your Pleasure, to the Institute
We'll go, you calculating brute.
Say, will your low-born volumes dare
With these brave vet'rans to compare?
What's all this bustle—all this fuss?
Think you they can contend with us?
108
Of any pound, and pence, and shilling.
As the pen gives they're forc'd to drink The venal dips of any ink;
And when they're filled, their lives expire,
Consign'd to light a kitchen fire;
Or sent away to such vile use As Chandlers or as Hucksters chuse:
If they oppose our stated way, We'll sweep them from the face of day.
“At the same time we wish for peace,
And that your saucy threats may cease.
We do not mean to mock the City With any hope of being witty:
We do not bring our learned powers To vex its speculating hours;
Or with poetic visions cross Your schemes of Profit and of Loss.
We did not first suggest the deed, To bring you books you cannot read.
Meetings were form'd and speeches made,
And all by weighty men of trade,
To frame the unforeseen request; And surely we have done our best,
When we each Classic did provide, With a Translation by its side.
—Dryden is ready to rehearse All Virgil's Works in English verse;
And Grecian Homer rests his hope Of being understood by Pope.
Leland will give you, if ye please, The speeches of Demosthenes;
While Northern Guthrie will bestow The Eloquence of Cicero.
To Thomas Styles and John a Nokes
Carr will repeat old Lucien's Jokes;
While Juvenal's sharp satire shines In William Giffard's rival lines.
Coleman and Thornton will convey Right notions of a Latin Play.
Whate'er the ancient critics wrote,
You now may in plain English quote,
And drink Pye's health, when o'er the bottle, For Anglicising Aristotle!
Nay, all the Ancient Bards have sung
You now may sing in Vulgar Tongue!
What could we more?—so cease your riot,
And let us pass along in quiet.
Dismiss your Counting-house parade;
Send off these cumbrous tomes of trade:
Back to their counters let them roam,
And sip their ink, and stay at home;
Nor e'er again their threats oppose To Grecian and to Roman foes.”
“Fools may be found, I do not doubt it,
Within this City as without it:
This truth, indeed, is very clear,
For they were fools who brought you here.
I pray thee tell me what has wit To do with any plodding cit!
Of wit we know not what is meant, Unless 'tis found in Cent. per Cent.
Learning, a drug has always been; No Warehouseman will take it in:
Should practis'd Mercers quit their satin
To look at Greek and long for Latin?
Should the pert, upstart, Merchant's boy
Behold the Tower, and think of Troy?
Or should a Democratic Hatter 'Bout old Republics make a clatter?
Should City Praters leave their tools, To talk by Ciceronian rules;
And at our meetings in Guildhall Puzzle the mob with Classic brawl?
109
No—let them stick to common sense:
You may your ancient Bards rehearse,
But there's no common-sense in verse;
Not all the Classics at your tail
Would weigh an ounce in Reason's scale.
I treat the name of Rome with scorn;
Give me the Commerce of Leghorn.
From Italy's prolific shore The wond'rous science was brought o'er,
The bright invention which convey'd Such vast facilities to Trade:
The Double Entry far outvies All pictur'd, sculptur'd fantasies;
And sure I am, his honour'd name Deserves a brighter wreath of Fame,
To whose keen mind the scheme occur'd,
Than e'er was won by conqu'ror's sword.
What did the Greeks, pray, know of Trade?
Ulysses, as I've heard it said,
Was full ten months oblig'd to roam, Before he brought his cargo home:
A voyage in that self-same sea, Our coasting brigs would make in three.
The INSTITUTION was diplay'd As a mere trump'ry trick of trade,
Deck'd out, 'tis true, with great parade;
While you are coming as a bribe,
To make our purse-proud cits subscribe;
And aid the primary intent Of dividends of ten per cent.
We have our pedant tradesmen too, Who talk as if they something knew,
And Learning's cud pretend to chew:
Who get cramp words, and court the Muse
In Magazines and in Reviews.
Yes, we have those whose priggish rage is,
Not to read books—but title-pages;
Who spare no cost in drink and meat To furnish out a tempting treat
That may attract an attic train To Mincing or to Philpot-Lane;
Who snatch the feast, and go away To mock the patron of the day.
There are who strive to have it thought,
That they have minds with Learning fraught:
Though, if they have so small discerning,
To interrupt their trade with Learning;
The day will come when they'll be found
With certain shillings in the pound.
But, to be brief—consult your fame,
And go back gravely, as you came;
Or we shall send you somewhat faster,
Nor for your wounds afford a plaister.
—Look at that form which soars in air,
And shines like a portentous star;
It is th'armorial symbol bright, Of a renown'd, commercial Knight,
Who sought not a superior fame Than doth befit a Merchant's name.
See how his ensign is unfurl'd O'er the Emporium of the world,
And does, with threat'ning aspect view,
Your Owlish worship and your Crew;
While in its motions we descry The sure presage of Victory.
Yes, on success I calculate, As sure as four and four make eight.
110
Errors excepted, of my just account.”
The Owl.—
“Good Mister Cocker I have heard
All that your wisdom has preferr'd;
And I entreat you turn your head,
In which such numbers have been bred,
And see a certain wind prevail, To make your grasshopper turn tail;
From which my wise soothsayer draws An omen fatal to your cause;
And you may hear his tongue proclaim,
‘Your boobies will all do the same.’
But talking is of little use— Therefore at once I break the truce.”
As Critics now when call'd to duel, Disdainful of the common fuel,
No more with shot or bullet vapour,
But wound with ink, and kill with paper:
Both sides for conflict dire prepare;
And thus commenc'd the threaten'd war.
No more with shot or bullet vapour,
But wound with ink, and kill with paper:
Both sides for conflict dire prepare;
And thus commenc'd the threaten'd war.
Euclid at Master Cocker flew, Whom by one stroke he overthrew;
Then with a knotty problem bound him,
And left him struggling where he found him.
Cæsar, with all his Latins, pounc'd
On the light parties, whom they trounc'd,
And soon a dreadful havoc made Of bills that never would be paid;
While Bankers' Checks made quick retreat,
And huddled into Lombard-Street.
With equal force the Greeks attack, And drove the heavy legions back:
Ledgers and Journals lay all scatter'd;
Bill-Books and Cash-Books were bespatter'd:
Short was the contest; struck with dread, Confus'd the City forces fled.
For aid on Stationers they call, But they were busy at their Hall;
And this same Hall their trade-craft found
To be a sort of neutral ground;
As they conceiv'd the havoc made, Might serve the paper-making trade:
To side with either they were loth, In hopes to profit from them both.
The Postman now his clarion blew;
His blasts were vain—they would not do;
The Letter-Books disorder'd flew;
While Pindar from Bow-steeple clock
Look'd down, and, as he view'd the shock
Chaunted, nor did he chaunt in vain, A loud and animating strain.
Forth from the Bank a troop was sent
Of threes and fours and fives per cent.
But they ran off, nor struck a blow; For Stocks that day were very low.
The Policies remain'd secure, Waiting for arms of signature;
For what brave spirit e'er would fight 'em
When nobody would underwrite 'em.
And now these doughty cits were beat,
Down ev'ry lane, up ev'ry street,
But met to form each broken rank, Before the Portals of the Bank:
There they a solemn council hold,
Whether, by added strength grown bold,
To a new contest they should come, Or sneak away disbanded home.
Thus the old Classics having beat
The vulgar foe, sought Coleman-Street;
But as they pass'd, a numerous host At Coopers'-Hall, had taken post.
Two blue-coat urchins play'd the fife
Which call'd them to the martial strife;
When 'stead of pointed darts and lances,
They pelted the Antiques with Chances:
But Fortune, who is ever blind, Turn'd short and left her bands behind:
Their Leader lost, away they steal,
And hide their numbers in the Wheel.
Then with a knotty problem bound him,
And left him struggling where he found him.
Cæsar, with all his Latins, pounc'd
On the light parties, whom they trounc'd,
And soon a dreadful havoc made Of bills that never would be paid;
While Bankers' Checks made quick retreat,
And huddled into Lombard-Street.
With equal force the Greeks attack, And drove the heavy legions back:
Ledgers and Journals lay all scatter'd;
Bill-Books and Cash-Books were bespatter'd:
Short was the contest; struck with dread, Confus'd the City forces fled.
For aid on Stationers they call, But they were busy at their Hall;
And this same Hall their trade-craft found
To be a sort of neutral ground;
As they conceiv'd the havoc made, Might serve the paper-making trade:
To side with either they were loth, In hopes to profit from them both.
The Postman now his clarion blew;
His blasts were vain—they would not do;
The Letter-Books disorder'd flew;
While Pindar from Bow-steeple clock
Look'd down, and, as he view'd the shock
Chaunted, nor did he chaunt in vain, A loud and animating strain.
Forth from the Bank a troop was sent
Of threes and fours and fives per cent.
But they ran off, nor struck a blow; For Stocks that day were very low.
The Policies remain'd secure, Waiting for arms of signature;
For what brave spirit e'er would fight 'em
When nobody would underwrite 'em.
And now these doughty cits were beat,
Down ev'ry lane, up ev'ry street,
But met to form each broken rank, Before the Portals of the Bank:
There they a solemn council hold,
Whether, by added strength grown bold,
To a new contest they should come, Or sneak away disbanded home.
111
The vulgar foe, sought Coleman-Street;
But as they pass'd, a numerous host At Coopers'-Hall, had taken post.
Two blue-coat urchins play'd the fife
Which call'd them to the martial strife;
When 'stead of pointed darts and lances,
They pelted the Antiques with Chances:
But Fortune, who is ever blind, Turn'd short and left her bands behind:
Their Leader lost, away they steal,
And hide their numbers in the Wheel.
At length the Classic Sages great Their Parthenonian retreat:
But while the echoing walls around With Io Pæans loud resound;
Again the vengeful foes appear'd, Again their angry standards rear'd.
“Must we once more,” the Ancients said,
“O'ercome these frantic imps of trade?
Is there no power to save our race
From war, when conquest is disgrace?”
The Greeks then call'd on PORSON'S name:
The Latins echo'd back the same;
And straight in Grecian stole array'd, Appear'd the venerable shade:
Homer went down upon his knees And so did Tragic Sophocles
With all the names that end in ης
“Hail, sacred tomes!” he said, “to you
I grateful ow'd whate'er I knew:
From you I gain'd my mortal fame, The honours of a scholar's name:
To you the immortal power I owe, To give the aid I now bestow:
I come from that Celestial Hall
Where they all dwell who wrote you all.”
He spoke—and lo! a Volume came, Of size immense and rueful name:
Its back no verbal title bore; But num'rous dates of time long o'er;
While on its letter'd sides appears,
“LONDON GAZETTES for FIFTY YEARS!!”
Straight to the foe, that, all aloof, Flutter'd about each neighb'ring roof,
It did full many a page unfold,
And show'd Whereas and cried, “behold!”
While that same word, upon the walls Blaz'd forth in flaming Capitals.
Whereas a thousand voices rung,
And on the wing there upwards sprung
A flight of Dockets, who were join'd By dire Certificates unsign'd:
These saw the foes, and, chill'd with dread,
Trembled and shriek'd aloud, and fled.
The Ghost now vanish'd from the view;
The Bird of Pallas vanish'd too.
And then I thought the classic elves
Instinctive sought their proper shelves,
Where undisturb'd each learned Tome
May slumber to the day of Doom.
I 'woke and felt a real glee At the same fancied victory:
Nor would I change my Classic lore, Poor as I am, for all the store,
Which plodding anxious trade can give
In constant doubt and fear to live.
My treasures are all well secur'd, I want them not to be insur'd:
My Greek and Latin are immur'd
Within the warehouse of my brain, And there in safety they remain:
My little cargo's lodg'd at home,
Where storms and tempests never come.
Learning will give an unmix'd pleasure,
Which gold can't buy, and trade can't measure,
But each within its destin'd station:
Learning's my pride and consolation,
That high-form'd inmate of the soul,
Which, as the changing seasons roll,
Acquires new strength, preserves its power,
And smiles in life's extremest hour.
The learned man, let who will flout him,
Doth always carry it about him,
And should he idly fail to use it, Though it may rust, he will not lose it:
Fortune may leave off her caressing,
But she can't rob him of that blessing.
Full many a comfort money gives; But ask him who for money lives,
Whether he other pleasures shares, Than sordid joys and golden cares?
How oft I've pass'd an evening hour
Within an hawthorn's humble bower,
And read aloud each charming line,
That doth in Virgil's Georgics shine:
Though Wealth pass'd by in stately guise, I felt no rankling envy rise;
Nor could the show my mind engage From the Immortal Poet's page.
When homeward as I us'd to stray, Along the unfrequented way,
Enraptur'd as I stroll'd along, With Philomela's evening song,
I felt what worldlings never share; Oblivion of all human care:
Such hours are few, but well we know,
That Learning can those hours bestow.
But while the echoing walls around With Io Pæans loud resound;
Again the vengeful foes appear'd, Again their angry standards rear'd.
“Must we once more,” the Ancients said,
“O'ercome these frantic imps of trade?
Is there no power to save our race
From war, when conquest is disgrace?”
The Greeks then call'd on PORSON'S name:
The Latins echo'd back the same;
And straight in Grecian stole array'd, Appear'd the venerable shade:
Homer went down upon his knees And so did Tragic Sophocles
With all the names that end in ης
“Hail, sacred tomes!” he said, “to you
I grateful ow'd whate'er I knew:
From you I gain'd my mortal fame, The honours of a scholar's name:
To you the immortal power I owe, To give the aid I now bestow:
I come from that Celestial Hall
Where they all dwell who wrote you all.”
He spoke—and lo! a Volume came, Of size immense and rueful name:
Its back no verbal title bore; But num'rous dates of time long o'er;
While on its letter'd sides appears,
“LONDON GAZETTES for FIFTY YEARS!!”
Straight to the foe, that, all aloof, Flutter'd about each neighb'ring roof,
It did full many a page unfold,
And show'd Whereas and cried, “behold!”
While that same word, upon the walls Blaz'd forth in flaming Capitals.
Whereas a thousand voices rung,
And on the wing there upwards sprung
A flight of Dockets, who were join'd By dire Certificates unsign'd:
These saw the foes, and, chill'd with dread,
Trembled and shriek'd aloud, and fled.
The Ghost now vanish'd from the view;
The Bird of Pallas vanish'd too.
And then I thought the classic elves
Instinctive sought their proper shelves,
Where undisturb'd each learned Tome
May slumber to the day of Doom.
I 'woke and felt a real glee At the same fancied victory:
Nor would I change my Classic lore, Poor as I am, for all the store,
Which plodding anxious trade can give
In constant doubt and fear to live.
112
My Greek and Latin are immur'd
Within the warehouse of my brain, And there in safety they remain:
My little cargo's lodg'd at home,
Where storms and tempests never come.
Learning will give an unmix'd pleasure,
Which gold can't buy, and trade can't measure,
But each within its destin'd station:
Learning's my pride and consolation,
That high-form'd inmate of the soul,
Which, as the changing seasons roll,
Acquires new strength, preserves its power,
And smiles in life's extremest hour.
The learned man, let who will flout him,
Doth always carry it about him,
And should he idly fail to use it, Though it may rust, he will not lose it:
Fortune may leave off her caressing,
But she can't rob him of that blessing.
Full many a comfort money gives; But ask him who for money lives,
Whether he other pleasures shares, Than sordid joys and golden cares?
How oft I've pass'd an evening hour
Within an hawthorn's humble bower,
And read aloud each charming line,
That doth in Virgil's Georgics shine:
Though Wealth pass'd by in stately guise, I felt no rankling envy rise;
Nor could the show my mind engage From the Immortal Poet's page.
When homeward as I us'd to stray, Along the unfrequented way,
Enraptur'd as I stroll'd along, With Philomela's evening song,
I felt what worldlings never share; Oblivion of all human care:
Such hours are few, but well we know,
That Learning can those hours bestow.
My Lord continued the debate: And time pass'd on in pleasant prate,
Till night broke up the Tête-à-Tête.
Till night broke up the Tête-à-Tête.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |