University of Virginia Library

THE TOUR IN SEARCH OF CONSOLATION.

CANTO I.

Syntax.—
“Talk not to me Of Doctors, man, who for their fee
Would thin mankind: O what a strife
'Twixt Physic's arts and human life;
And well I knew, to my sore pain,
Which will a certain conquest gain,
Unless Dame Nature steps between
And drives th'Empiric from the scene.”

Amen.—
“The Mother, please you, Sir, doth wait
With the poor Child at church-yard gate.”

Syntax.—
“The Child! What Child? you drive me mad:
I have no child, I wish I had!
No child to my fond hopes is given,
And my poor wife is gone to Heaven.
Haste then away,—and let the knell
Her death and my misfortunes tell.”

Amen.—
“Friend Pat, it doth my mind surprise
That our good Vicar here, so wise,
So learn'd withal, and so devout, Should not as yet have found it out,
That thus to grieve is a disgrace To his high calling and his place.
In the first lesson, 'twas last Sunday,
He read of what will happen one day,
To all such who for those things grieve,
Which will leave them or they must leave:
And 'twould have made me very glad,
Had he then left off being sad;
For all the parish round can tell I love my Reverend Master well.
True he has lost a comely dame, But many a man has lost the same,
As fair, aye, and as good as she, (I mean no incivility.)
But still I thought that our Divine Let his good Lady dress too fine;
And shew such colours to the view As she sat in the upmost pew,
That made the congregation stare, And think of her instead of prayer.
But though it is a mournful loss It should not all his thoughts engross.
I have had my misfortune too, But I don't grieve as some folks do.
Last year I lost, as you well know,
By lightning's stroke, my brindled cow,
But had it been my limping Joan,
I should not grieve as some have done.
I see Pat smiles, but never mind,—
To Heaven's good will, I'll be resign'd.
—Though Amen was not bred at college,
He's not without some little knowledge,
And I full five and twenty year Have always been school master here;
And almost all you know and see,
Have learn'd their P's and Q's from me.”

Pat.—
“Master Amen, faith you have rung
A pretty peal upon your tongue.
You talk of Heaven o'er and o'er, As if it lay at your back-door,
And may you when Death does unlock it,
Find a good passport in your pocket.
—Upon my soul, you men of letters
Can spell some scandal of your betters;
But I have thought, as I have said,
That since our Doctor's Lady's dead,
As sure as this high tower's a steeple,
He would not mourn like common people;
As sure as that old tree's a yew, He would not grieve as poor folk do;
They must forget their grief, and toil,
Or bread won't bake, and pot won't boil.
Faith, Master Amen, do you see, On this point we shall ne'er agree!
This morning as he saunter'd by My cottage-door he heav'd a sigh,
And my big heart, so sick and sad, Return'd him all the sighs it had.
You, Master Amen, never prov'd What 'tis to lose a wife you lov'd,—
You talk of wives, if your old Joan Were just now laid beneath a stone,
How I should laugh to hear you groan.
How friendly you would be with Death,
If he would kindly stop her breath;
And yet you mock at the disaster
That now afflicts your worthy Master,
A man and yet a parson too Whose little finger held to view
More real learning could command,
Than all the Amens in Cumberland.
—The Doctor's sad,—and so was I When it pleas'd my first wife to die;
And faith, my friend, to ease my sorrow, I took another on the morrow,
And as she to strange tricks was given,
I wept not when she went to Heaven.
And as to wed I was not loth, I got one here, that's worth 'em both.
But the sun shines, and I'll away, Nor talk of sorrow all the day.”

Syntax.—
“I see, my friend, as you review
My mournful state, you feel it too;
But still, alas, you do not know The force of that tremendous blow,
Nor the sharp gangrene of the wound
Which does my very self confound:
Though Heaven, I doubt not, will at length
Give to my prayers that holy strength,
Which will with time my grief subdue, My former cheerfulness renew,
And bring me back to peace and you.
I do not to your ear reveal Half of the sorrow which I feel;
Nor in my pale face do you see A tithe of my lorn misery.
'Tis not for your contented mind, Whom pain ne'er told to be resign'd,
Whose every path of life has been Smiling, delightful and serene,
Smooth as the lake, when in the grove No pendent leaf is seen to move,
To know and may you never know Upon your heart the heavy blow,
Which would awake a tender plea,
For such as mourn and grieve like me.
Such loss as mine you ne'er have known,
But had th'allotment been your own,
You would not in such terms reprove,
Nor thus reproach the man you love.
—Look, Worthy, look to yonder chair,
And view the form that's sitting there;
Behold your dear Maria's smile, That does your every care beguile;
Oh listen to her tuneful voice Whose tones are signals to rejoice;
Catch the fond glance of that bright eye Beaming with tender sympathy;
Who, ere you utter the request, Contrives your wish should be possest:
Who looks for joy but as you share it,
And mocks the pain should you not bear it:
Who has no other hope in view But to prepare delight for you.
See how the auburn ringlets grace Her sweet, her animated face,
Where the soft, winning looks dispense Affection's silent eloquence;
And when those lips her thoughts declare,
What accents claim your ravish'd ear!
Though many hasty years have flown Since first Maria was your own;
They still bear on them as they fly, Symbols of Truth and Constancy;
With the fair hope that they will last
When many future years are past:
Should you lose her you then would feel
The pang, which words can ne'er reveal.”

Mrs. Worthy.—
“O stop, my Love, this serious strife,
And just now listen to your wife;—
While you, my melancholy friend, Will to a female friend attend.
You've often said my tuneful voice, For such you call'd it, would rejoice,
By its all-fascinating power, The dulness of the dullest hour,
And now my doctrine you shall hear; So listen with attentive ear.
—I cannot think this high-ton'd preaching
Is the most cordial way of teaching;
Far other means I should employ To blunt the arrows, which annoy
With their sharp points your wounded breast,
And keep you from your wonted rest.
—There was a time when you obey'd Whate'er your friend Maria said,
And I expect in this same hour, You yield to my indulgent power,
—Physicians who profess the skill To cure by potion and by pill,
When, in their treatment of our ails
They find the warmer med'cine fails,
Think it discreet to change their course,
And try the cool prescription's force:
So I, who see discourses fraught
With seas'ning grave and serious thought,
Do not the wish'd-for end attain, Nor ease the patient of his pain,
Shall now a diff'rent practice try; Far other means I will apply,
Nor do I fear my remedy.
—You know, Dear Doctor, it is true,
To shew our love and humour you,
We've all assum'd a solemn grace, With each a melancholy face;
Nay, for a time have scarcely spoke, Nor ever heard a sprightly joke:
We have done all your loss requir'd, Of which we now are grown so tir'd,
That we shall our old ways pursue, And leave sad looks to grief and you,
Unless you quit this whimp'ring fuss, And take to livelier ways with us.
New thoughts, new objects, new desires,
Are what your strange disease requires;
And as, indeed, your looks appear A more auspicious gloom to wear,
I think that I've a certain cure For all the pain which you endure.”—

Syntax.—
“O tell me!”

Mrs. Worthy.—
“Make another Tour.
And when you've made it you shall write it;—
The world, I'll wager, will not slight it:
For where's the city, where's the town, Which is not full of your renown?
Nay, such is your establish'd name, So universal is your fame,
That Dunces, though to dulness doom'd,
Have with a Dunce's art presum'd,
To pass their silly tales and tours, And other idle trash, for Yours.
'Tis true, you now no longer want What in you former Tour was scant:
Nay, now your pow'rful pen you'll wield,
Your venerable name to shield, And drive the Braggarts from the field.
Another circuit you shall roam, And bring your old contentment home:
Nay who can tell,—to sweeten life, You may bring home another wife.
In your long journey you may see Some virgin fair or widow'd she,
Some pleasing dame at liberty,
Who would her weary freedom give, In matrimonial bonds to live:
And if I do not greatly err From my own sex's character,
Do you, my friend, but say to her
Such things, and in the same degree As you to-night have said to me,
—Aye, if I had ten thousand pound, I would in penalties be bound,
To hold myself a fixture dumb,
Nor speak for full three months to come,
(A punishment which well you know No woman thinks to undergo)
If the fair lady does not yield, And leave you victor of the field;
As if young Cupid from his quiver,
Had drawn a dart and pierc'd her liver:—
For some have said, as you can prove, The liver is the seat of love.”

CANTO II.

The morning smil'd, the beaming ray
Of Phœbus made all nature gay.
Blue was the Lake's expansive flood, And many a gentle zephyr woo'd
The wave that rippled o'er the deep,
Nor would allow the wave to sleep.
The mountains rising rude and bold
Shew'd their rude summits tipt with gold,
While branching oaks, the forest's pride,
Hung down and cloath'd their shaggy side:
The cattle wander o'er their mead, The flocks all by the wood-side feed.
The brook flows murmuring along, The grove is vocal by the song
With which kind nature doth inspire,
In summer morn, the feather'd choir.
At intervals is heard the roar Of water-fall, which tumbling o'er
The craggy brow, delights the eye And ear, with rude variety.
Nor these alone: what labour shows, And does by rural toil disclose,
To aid the picture nature gives, By which in some new form she lives,
While art, by active life refin'd, Improves that picture in the mind;—
And thus, with blended objects fraught,
Unites the sense to solid thought.
The husbandman's attentive toil
Turns with his plough th'expecting soil,—
And now with no unsparing hand The grain he scatters o'er the land;
The yellow harvest next appears, With lofty stem and loaded ears,—
The barn capacious then receives
Th'abundant loads which labour gives;
And thus each scene of nature's shown,
With varying beauties not her own.
How does the fisher's boat awake, The dulness of the dormant lake!
While, aided by the gentle gale,
Trade guides her barge with swelling sail:
Or should the bark of pleasure skim The water o'er with gallant trim,
While oars in dashing measure sweep The yielding bosom of the deep,
What interest, as they intervene, Each gives to every charming scene.
The waggon with its pond'rous load
That grinds to dust the beaten road:
The trav'lers, who throughout the day In various guise pursue their way,
The herdsman's wealth, the goatherd's store,
The hill and dale and height explore;
The shatter'd castle's lofty tower The former seat of lordly power;
The ivied arch by river's side, The sad remains of cloister'd pride;
The smoke that rises o'er the trees And curls obedient to the breeze;
The bridge that many an age has stood
And stretch'd its arch across the flood;—
The village spire, but dimly seen, The straw-roof'd cot upon the green,
With spreading vine bemantled o'er,—
The children gazing from the door,
And homely peasants as they ply The various calls of industry;—
These, and how many more combine, To aid fair nature's rude design;—
But they defy so weak a muse as mine.
Such are the forms which Fancy gives,
By which e'en Fancy smiles and lives.
Such were the thoughts which nature's charm
With ever-varying beauty warm,
Did, as he gaz'd around, suggest,
To the good Doctor's pensive breast;—
For though he thought the plan pursued,
Was haply form'd to do him good,
Yet still he felt that much remain'd Before his cure would be obtain'd.
But though he fail'd not to obey The power that gives and takes away,
Whose perfect wisdom's seen to measure
Man's hours and fortunes at its pleasure,
Yet he ne'er vainly strove to steel His heart, and bid him not to feel,
But yielded to what Heav'n thought fit,—
To sigh, to sorrow, and submit.
For comfort he would ne'er apply To what is call'd Philosophy;
He did not rest his hopes on earth, Or any strength of mortal birth;
No, all his hopes he strove to raise Where angels wonder as they gaze.
—Thus he rode on, but now and then
He turn'd to look toward Sommerden.
At length the spire, with sun-beams bright, Began to lessen in his sight;
But when it vanish'd from his view, He heav'd a sigh, and pensive grew,
Nor till successive beauties rose, Which splendid nature did disclose
To charm his eye, to warm his heart, And make him think upon his art,
Had he his gloomy care resign'd, Or call'd a smile into his mind.
But nature on his fancy wrought, And chang'd the tenour of his thought,
While he with contemplative eye Trac'd and retrac'd the scenery,—
And picture after picture, true To all he saw, his fancy drew.
Thus, as the Sage pursued his way, He bade his mind the scenes survey,
And as the Muse may now conjecture, Read to himself a kind of lecture
On nature's charms, and how by art, He could the picturesque impart,
As he had often done before, When journeying on his former Tour,
Which this same Muse, a tell-tale drab,
On a past page has dar'd to blab;—
And as he felt 'twould ease his pain, He now would try to do again,
And heighten nature's varying feature
By adding many a living creature;
Thus calling to immediate use What time destroys and men produce.
—These thoughts, impress'd upon his mind,
To serious musings much inclin'd,
Directed all his views of nature In praise of their sublime Creator;
And, from his contemplative mood, Which all his love of talk withstood,
He suddenly the silence broke, And thus with solemn air he spoke:
—Father of good, Almighty power! Who at Creation's wond'rous hour,
Didst call from Chaos into birth
This goodly scene of things, the Earth;—
Man's state of trial, his sure way, And passage to eternal day:
But 'tis not now I shall assign The goodness of thy power divine,
In forming the benignant plan To suit the character of man,—
Nor shall I bid my thoughts explore The depth of metaphysic lore,
To prove, in erring reason's spite, That whatsoever is, is right:
I leave that to reflection's pow'r, In piety's more sacred hour,
When 'tis my duty to impart Truth's doctrine to the doubting heart.
Here, I must own, whate'er I see,
The scenes around me preach to me:
Each brook and rock, as Shakspeare says,
(The Bard sublime of former days,) Excites the tongue to grateful praise.
Can I view nature's grand display, Now brightening in the sunny ray,
That my enquiring eye regales With interchange of hills and dales;
The silver lake and rushing flood, The verdant lawn and pendent wood,
Which, softly touch'd or boldly wrought, Delight or elevate the thought,
Without receiving through the eye The moral sensibility?
Or without list'ning, through the sense,
To nature's speechless eloquence?
These call me as my view's pursued, To praise the Author of all good!
For good the wondering mind may trace
In the vast fields of endless space;
E'en good reflection's eye may see In every leaf, on ev'ry tree,
In ev'ry blade of grass that's seen
To clothe the earth with vesture green;
In oaks that form the civic wreath,
Or the wild rose that blooms beneath,
In the steep rock's stupendous brow,
Or the grey moss that clings below.
These are thy works, Parent of good!
Thus felt, thus seen, thus understood,
They wake the enliv'ning gratitude,
That, thus directed, is combin'd With the first virtues of the mind!
How much I thank a parent's care
Which, while he did his child prepare
With pregnant seeds of classic lore,
And op'd fair learning's various store,
With all of science and of knowledge,
That could be taught in school and college;
Yet suffer'd art to guide my hand And the free pencil's power command.
Thus I possess the skill to trace And call to view the hidden grace,
The secret beauty, that no eye, Untaught by art, can e'er descry;
That bids th'enquiring mind explore Things dimly seen or gilded o'er,
And which it scarce had known before.
Delightful art! ere plenty stor'd With friendly hand, my daily board,
While ill-paid labour did instil Knowledge to boys against their will:
Though I could just rub on by teaching,
And pay for Grizzle's keep by preaching;
When, to do good I was most willing, And not an independent shilling
Did in my scanty purse appear To purchase sorrow's falling tear:
Yes, thou didst nature's scenes pourtray,
And my heart grew like nature gay.
Delightful art! that through the eye
Didst oft my drooping mind supply
With images, whose beauty's power
Gave pleasure to the passing hour!
Thou bad'st me hope that time would bring A better fortune on its wing:
Hope was fulfill'd, and Fortune came,
Nor without some small share of fame.
Thus, by transcendent Nature fir'd, By love of Picturesque inspir'd,
Through these blest scenes I sought to roam,
Where Fortune gave my present home;
And where, though unrelenting fate Has robb'd me of my darling mate,
Yet, while lamenting what I've lost, I still have much of good to boast,
And for that good my grateful heart
Must bless Thee, thou delightful art!
—He paus'd, and ere he spoke again,
Patrick exclaim'd “Amen, Amen!”
The Doctor quickly turn'd around, Scar'd at the unexpected sound,
“And please your Rev'rence,” Pat then said,
“O the fine prayer that you have pray'd!
For sure, on horseback, ne'er was heard
Such pious words to Heaven preferr'd,
And many would be hard put to't To say such fine things e'en on foot:
So faith, and please you, Sir, I thought It did not finish as it ought:
For though we are not in a church, I would not leave it in the lurch,
Thus when your pray'r was done, I then
Like a good Christian said, Amen!”
The Doctor turn'd his head aside To hide a smile and thus replied:
Ne'er mind, my friend, whate'er is meant
With honest zeal and good intent
Requires not, in calm reason's eye, Or pardon or apology.
But still you need not silence break,
Unless the occasion bids you speak,
Unless my words as they transpire A needful answer may require:
Sometimes my bosom's senate sits In silent thought, nor then admits
A single word its force to try, And ruffle my tranquillity.
—How strange this custom may appear
To others, I nor know nor care;
But oft I feel a pleasing joy When thus I do an hour employ,
When thus with bold ideas fraught,
I clothe with words my secret thought:
Nor shall I e'er the whim disown To give them utt'rance when alone,
So that my words fair virtue please,
And yield th'impatient bosom ease.”
Patrick.—
“An' please you, Sir, at early hour
When I've been working near the tower,
To place a tomb-stone on the head
Of one, Heaven save him, who is dead,
I've seen you o'er the church-yard come, Talking as loud as any drum,
Sometimes as if in angry rage, Like Playmen acting on the stage:
At others, you so slowly walk, That I could only see you talk.”

Again the Doctor wav'd his hand, And Pat was silent at command.
“I've one word more,” the Doctor said, “And I expect to be obey'd.
Whatever you may see me do, Keep this command in constant view;
If I ride on nor silence break, If to myself you hear me speak,
Let not, I beg, your flippant tongue Disturb me as I jog along.”
Pat bow'd, and by his reason's force He felt he might disturb discourse,
But thought it was a curious joke To disturb one who never spoke.
Though hard the task which was assign'd,
Patrick was patient and resign'd.
Blest Contemplation, oft thy power
Charms and improves the passing hour!
'Tis in that hour the mind receives The best impression virtue gives.
For thus, with higher thought prepar'd, As its instructor and its guard,
Vice and its passions ne'er invade The bosom thus so sacred made,
Where solemn musings calm the mind
And leave all boist'rous cares behind.
Vice, it is true, o'er crime may brood In some dark dismal solitude;
There it may whet the murd'rous knife
That threatens some unwary life;
There treason may its schemes employ
To rob, to pillage, and destroy.
But Contemplation, Heavenly Maid! By calling virtue to its aid,
Does with her power benign, controul Each strong emotion of the soul,
Bids every mental tempest cease, And soothes the bosom into peace.
At this same moment, Honest Pat, As if to parley, touch'd his hat,—
But when he saw the waving hand, He understood the kind command.
Indeed he had a tale to tell, (And much his tongue long'd to rebel)
Of murder, robbery and blood, At midnight hour, and in a wood,
Which though he knew not how or why,
Had just popp'd on his memory:
For he had oft in alehouse glory Told his strange terror-striking story;
And, in his own pathetic strain He wish'd to tell it once again;
But the hand told him 'twas in vain.
The signal therefore he obey'd, To hear what more his master said;
Who thus as he pac'd on at leisure,
Conveyed to Pat his further pleasure.
“All those to whom I've long been known,
Must see I've habits of my own,
Gain'd in the solitary hour, That's pass'd in learning's silent bower,
And brought to practice 'mid the toil
That oft consumes the midnight oil:
They know, nor do I fear to own, I often talk when I'm alone,
And to myself declaim as loud As I were speaking to a crowd.
Patrick, I have said this before, Nor let me say it o'er and o'er;
I tell you it would give me pain, Were I to give these hints again.”
Now in grave, contemplative mood,
Syntax his beauteous way pursued;
Detaching with his skilful eye, From this proud stretch of scenery,
Such chosen parts as might display,
The landscape grand, or rude, or gay;
The spreading wood, the awful steep, Impending o'er the crystal deep,
And many a more familiar scene, That here and there might intervene,
Such as his less ambitious art To the fair sketch-book could impart,
And graphic notices secure, To give these views a miniature.
The native beauties that preside And form the charms of Ambleside,
As they all open'd on the sight, Perplex'd the bosom with delight;
—Then Stockgill Force, with deaf'ning roar,
Did from a height stupendous pour
Its rushing streams from unseen source
Impetuous; they their foaming course,
Dash'd on from rock to rock, pursue, Now hid, now open to the view:
When many a craggy bottom past, They the deep Rothay reach at last,
And, rushing on in bold career, Give up their waves to Windermere.
At once delighted and amaz'd, Syntax now made a pause and gaz'd;
Though in his visits here before This scene his eyes had wander'd o'er,
Nay, here his pencil had essay'd, And with attentive pleasure made
Bold sketches from this very scene,
Where with his neighbours he had been;
Yet former knowledge to renew, He thought he now would take a view,
And from his pouch the sketch-book drew;
Thus while his Art he now employ'd And the rich scene around enjoy'd,
Forth from behind a bulky tree, As urg'd by curiosity,
A person stole with gentle pace And keen enquiry in his face:
At length he grew a little bolder,
And just peep'd o'er the Doctor's shoulder,
With a keen forward eye to see The pencil's active industry.
Says Pat, “unless you court disaster,
You'd better not disturb my master,
For if you do,—you may not dream
That you'll go headlong down the stream.”
Syntax now look'd around to see What caus'd Pat's incivility,
Then quickly wav'd his awful hand, And as he dealt forth the command;
He saw half-screen'd beside a bush,
What seem'd a brother of the brush,
Who 'neath each arm display'd to shew A cumbersome Port-Folio.
And on his dress, through ev'ry part, Was seen some implement of Art:
But soon he prov'd without restraint,
That he could talk as well as paint.
Artist.—
“From what I see and doth appear,
You, Sir, may be a stranger here;
And as you now employ your Art, I may some useful hints impart.
I am an Artist, would you see Art's finest works, pray come with me.
You may view all, if you are willing; The Exhibition costs a shilling;
And in this stream I would be drown'd,
Should you not think it worth a pound.
Nay, if your means the price supply,
Such as you chuse, why you may buy.”

Syntax, it seems, had heard before Of this same Artist, (with his store
Of Sketches, Drawings and Designs,
Display'd on walls and hung on lines,)
Who does to rival skill demur, And is his own Interpreter.
So he indulg'd him in his glory, And let him enter on his story.
—As he the Exhibition view'd, The Artist his discourse pursued.
Artist.—
“I need not tell you, Sir, that Art
Demands a power in ev'ry part,
Which should pervade its form and feature;
And that, as you must know, is Nature.
Say, wherefore, does my active eye Seize on her various scenery?
And wherefore is it thus confest, That I ne'er fail to chuse the best?
—Because I seek her wheresoe'er She woos me to her mild and fair;
Because, when she's sublimely good,
She courts me in the wild and rude.
I ask you where is her abode Which by my feet has not been trod?
The heights, the depths, the falling floods,
The rugged rocks or spreading woods?
Where, tell me, is th'Arcadian scene,
With sun-shine gay, as em'rald green,
Where my researches have not been?
In all this beauteous country round, No, not a spot is to be found,
At orient morn, or ev'ning grey, Where I've not urg'd my studious way:
Where, by a nice experience taught,
Each varying, transient tint is caught.
Here clouds upon the mountain rest,
And sink in mists upon its breast:
Here the light falls with silver beam,
Or the sun glows with golden gleam.
There the flood pours its foamy wave,
Or various forms in shadow lave;
And glimm'ring in the crystal plain, In fainter outline live again,
There, where is seen within the glade,
The less or greater depth of shade;
Where the thin air conducts the eye, Transparent mirror, to the sky;
And wheresoe'er the varying feature Aids the full aggregate of Nature,
My Art can dip the pencil in it, And fix the beauty of the minute.
—Hence my superior works, and hence In Art I claim pre-eminence.
—There are your Artists, who, in town,
From gaudy daubs expect renown;
Whose rank true taste will ne'er prefer To that of an Upholsterer;—
Nor does their utmost stretch of art Excel the Paper-Stainer's part.
They do not Nature's works pursue, As I with patient labour do.
They may from some steep warehouse ridge
Sketch water-falls at London-Bridge;
Or study the transparent wave, That does the grassy meadows lave,
Where the New River's lagging on
Through the bright scene of Islington:
They let their wearied pencil breathe,
From crowded choice, on Hampstead-Heath,
Or leaning 'gainst a stunted oak, Make bright designs of London smoke:
There they in tints so mild and mellow,
May mark out sun-beams red and yellow,
And study foliage from a rood, Or a score yards, of underwood:
Then their big minds with mountains fill,
By views of Harrow on the Hill;
And catch, from the New Road so strait,
The Picturesque of Turnpike Gate.
There's Hyde-Park too, the charming scene,
Which they may view so flat, so green;
And trace the ever-varying line, Along the strait-bank'd Serpentine.
Thus with their pencils on they go, From low to high, from high to low,
And fancy hills, as they move on The level walks of Kensington;
Where, though it loyal bosoms shock, They turn the Palace to a Rock.
Some will the Picturesque beseech To aid the view of Chelsea-Reach;
But left by Genius in the lurch, Can only reach to Chelsea-Church:
Then, as it were, to crown the whole,
To fill the view, to charm the soul,
How proudly they let loose their eye, From St. Paul's Golden Gallery,
To view the vast horizon round That half-a-dozen miles may bound.
—These glorious Artists of the Town, Will club expenses to come down,
The boast of Nature here to see And slyly borrow Art from me.
Yes, I have often seen them smile, Their fruitless envy to beguile.
—But now pray turn your eye to see
What hangs on lines from tree to tree.
They are my works which I display In the full air of open day:
And, though expos'd to sun and sky, My Colours, Sir, will never fly.”

Syntax.—
“Upon my word you make me stare,
And I most solemnly declare, I thought them linen that you wear:
Your shirts and shifts hung out to dry, In washerwoman's symmetry.”

Artist.—
“Not one R. A. has got the gift
To make him such a shirt or shift;
They're first-rate works that deck the line,
'Twas this hand drew them, they are mine,
And I declare among them all That each is an Original.”

Syntax.—
“'Tis not for me to controvert
What you so boldly do assert;
But as my eye these drawings strike,
They, my good friend, are all alike.
You cannot wish the truth to smother,
That they are Copies of each other.
If so, why, surely, he who calls These copied works Originals,
Gives such a meaning to the word, I, as a scholar, never heard.”

Artist.—
“I tell you, if the copies prove,
(Nor does my understanding rove,)
True both in tint and touch and line, To the original design,
And copied by the self-same hand
That does my pencil's power command;
Those Drawings must, to Critic eye, Share in th'Originality;
And be the number what they may, If they unerring Truth display,
I say, in spite of envy's brawls, That they are all Originals.”

Syntax.—
“At least, I think it must be known,
That, Mr. Artist, you are one.”

By these keen fancies render'd gay, Syntax proceeded on his way.
At length, a beauteous place of rest,
Lowood, receives the trav'ling guest.
And here he found a two-fold treat;— Hungry, he relish'd what he eat;
While Nature did his bosom cheer, As he glanc'd over Windermere.
The humbler views that deck the Lake,
The hills, the groves, the farms that break
In blended beauty on the sight,
He saw, but the bold mountain's height,
Which gave the wond'rous scenes sublime,
He sought not, for he had not time, And if he had, my simple rhyme
Would scarce have such a height assail'd,
Where far superior bards have fail'd.
Now Patrick, having fed his cattle,
Brush'd up his breakfast with a battle:
Not such as boxing heroes try To gain the well paid victory;
Or where resentment's rage fulfilling,
One blood gives t'other blood a milling:
But such as can be said or sung, By that same weapon call'd a tongue,
Which he display'd in warlike story,
That told of brave Old England's glory.
Thus he address'd the kitchen folk;
Thus, with extended arm, he spoke.
Patrick.—
“Since I left Ireland's blessed shore,
Since I through seas have travell'd o'er,
O what strange things my eyes have seen!
In what far countries I have been!
How I've been toss'd and tumbled o'er,
From land to sea, from sea to shore!
In how much blood my feet have wallow'd,
And what salt-water I have swallow'd!
What mighty battles have been fought,
Where Patrick did not pass for nought!
How many drums have I heard rattle
To call the eager troops to battle!
How many trumpets I've heard sound,
To call the prancing steeds around;
To bring the horsemen all together,
In brazen helms with horse-hair feather;
All in bright uniforms, as red As the warm blood they soon would shed.
'Twould do you good if you inherit An English or an Irish spirit,
To see a Hussar how he crops
The Frenchmen's heads like turnip-tops!
How many swords have I seen bright,
And glimm'ring in the morning's light,
That, ere the noon-tide hour was o'er,
Were steep'd in blood and dripp'd with gore!
You may not, my good friends, conceive it,
Or when I've spoke may not believe it,
But this right hand has cut off heads
With as much ease as it now spreads
This yielding butter on the toast. O what a host of lives are lost,
In all the horrid wear and tear Of that same sport which you call war,
When monarchs frown and nations jar!
Arrah, my Dears, it does confound me,
To think how many fell around me;
And that I, Patrick, should appear All safe and sound and sitting here.
Behold those lofty mountains there
That lift their heads so high in air,
Which through the glass my eye-sight sees;
O they're so like the Pyrenees!
They only want the Frenchmen flying,
Men shouting here, and there all dying:
Some dead and welt'ring in their blood,
And others floating down the flood.
If they were here I should maintain,
That we were fighting now in Spain:
If they were here with half an eye, They'd tell you so as well as I!
And were it, as my tongue has told me,
You a brave soldier would behold me;
Nor I at all, at all afraid, Or of the living or the dead:
And I, now here, I, honest Pat,
Would mind it all no more than that!”—

He snapp'd his fingers with an air, And sought the quiet of his chair.
The ostler grinn'd, the cook was frighted,
The barber, fond of news, delighted,
Clos'd his sharp razors and drew near To listen with attentive ear.
But while Pat's thirsty lips assail The cup brimful of foaming ale,
A cannon's loud, obstrep'rous sound Re-echoed all the country round.
He started at the warlike roar, The goblet fell upon the floor,
And he rush'd quickly through the door.
Whether it courage was or fear That caus'd the downfall of the beer,
Or did his quick-pac'd stride impell,
The Muse does not pretend to tell:—
But as he did from Erin come, Where courage beats the rattling drum,
Where, when the trumpet sounds alarms,
Thousands of heroes rush to arms,
It well becomes us to conceive That he did not his breakfast leave,
But from that bold and daring spirit,
Which brave Hibernia's sons inherit.
The hero had not far to run, And soon he stood beside the gun,
Where Syntax, with a curious eye, Guided by sound Philosophy,
Explor'd in thought each neighb'ring vale,
And watch'd the current of the gale:
Measur'd the objects all around,
As they might check or quicken sound;
And by some principle to find This joint effect of noise and wind.
But soon a more poetic thought On his inspired fancy wrought.
—Again the cannon gave its roar To every near and distant shore;
When its rude clamour call'd around The strange, reverberating sound:
Now sinking low, now rising high In wonderful variety,
Of classic images a score Did on the Doctor's mem'ry pour.
“Echo,” he said, “I know thee well;
Thou dost in rocks and caverns dwell,
Or where the crag beneath the hill, Renews its image in the rill!
There I have heard thee, there my song
Thy chastened notes did oft prolong;
So mild, so gentle, soft and clear,
Thy voice has charm'd my list'ning ear!
A modest nymph, I hail thy power Within my garden's shady bower,
But here, by some reverse, grown bold, Echo, thou art an arrant scold;
And mak'st the hills and valleys sing With thy so wond'rous vapouring!
—What say you Patrick, have you any
Of these same echoes at Kilkenny?”
Patrick.—
“Yes, Sir, indeed, enough to shock you,
For faith, they can do nought but mock you;
Nay, if you swear, Sir, by my troth, The Echo will repeat the oath;
And if God bless you, you exclaim, The Echo will declare the same.
Say good, or bad, why in a crack, The ready voice will give it back.
The Echo which you hear at home Does from the parish steeple come;
At least, so all the people say, And I have heard it many a day:
Nay this I know that Old Tom White
Has heard it morn and noon and night,
Since he remembers he could hear;
And he has reach'd his eightieth year.
Now, after all, I see no wonder
When this great gun lets loose its thunder:
The Echo surely says no more Than the great gun has said before,
In an odd way, I own, and stronger, While it may last a little longer.
But give me such as I've been told, Unless poor Pat has been cajoled,
That when a question is preferr'd, Will answer give to every word;
—Your Rev'rence, I've a soldier's thought,
Could it be into practice brought;
'Twould give new strength, when cannon rattle,
And aid the mischief of a battle;
If, well ramm'd down and loaded high, The gun its shot could multiply,
As it can thus increase its sounds,
What added treat of blood and wounds
It would inflict by this same power, In the brisk contest of an hour;
In all directions balls would fly With such unknown variety;
The shot would revel in such plenty,
One gun would prove as good as twenty.”

The Doctor smiled at the conceit:
Who would not smile at such a treat
Of wand'ring fancy, which would feign
Ape reason in poor Patrick's brain;
While of the list'ning country folk,
Some star'd, and others smelt a joke.
Now from the margin of the Lake,
The trav'llers did their journey make
Towards Bowness, when, it was not long
Before the Doctor spied a throng,
A motley troop, that lay at ease Beneath the wood's embow'ring trees.
Some slept upon the naked ground,
With one poor blanket wrapp'd around;
Scarce shelter'd from the open sky, But by the leaves' green canopy;
Others awake the slumb'ring fire
With weeds, with greenwood, and with briar,
Or watch the pot with hungry care, That did the mingled food prepare.
These feed the infant at the breast, Or nurse its outcries into rest;
While bare-feet children, brisk and gay,
Amuse the hour in various play:
And as the aged Crones sat smoking,
The young were laughing, singing, joking;
But though the scene seem'd to express
The outward shew of wretchedness,
No visage mark'd that heart-felt care Had taken up its dwelling there.
“Whom have we here?” the Doctor cried:
Pat touch'd his hat, and thus replied.
Patrick.—
“They're Gipsies, who, at times, are found
In ev'ry part, the country round.
All their strange habits I can tell, I know these wand'ring people well;
And I, perhaps, can tell you more,
Than e'er your Rev'rence heard before:
For one of them once took a twist To quit his people and enlist,
And serv'd, a gallant soldier he, In the same company with me.
Though he the Gipsy's life gave o'er, Jack Gipsy was the name he bore,
And bore it till poor gallant Jack Was laid in battle on his back;
I see him now as his death's wound Ran blood upon the sandy ground.
Full often have I heard him give The hist'ry how these vagrants live.
From place to place they're seen to roam,
Nor e'er possess a constant home:
They wander here, and wander there And shew their faces ev'rywhere:
They are all thieves, as it is said, And thus they gain their daily bread.
When of their thieving folks complain, Away they go,—but come again:
And though the people sometimes bang 'em,
I never heard that Judges hang 'em.
They have no trade, nor buy, nor sell,
But when they're paid will fortunes tell;
And I have heard they can deliver
Such strange things as make people shiver.
Religion Jack did ne'er profess,
Till he had shoulder'd Old Brown Bess:
For they ne'er keep a sabbath day,
Nor are they known to preach or pray;
They're said to be so prone to evil, As to have dealings with the Devil.
That the weak bend them to the strong
Is their great scheme of right and wrong;
With them it is a leading rule, That cunning should outwit the fool;
That no one is unjustly treated, Who with his open eyes is cheated.
They think it folly to pass by The tempting opportunity,
Which chance may offer, to obtain
Whate'er their wants may wish to gain:
They hold a pregnant lie well told, Is worth at least its weight in gold;
And their great care is to prevail By trick when bolder means may fail;
While their first wisdom is to teach
How to keep from the hangman's reach.
No matrimonial rites do they With solemn, plighted vows obey;
Thus jealousy, that painful feeling, Is what these people do not deal in:
Nor have they much of that foul jarring
Which brings on matrimonial sparring
In which, when foolishly enrag'd, I fear that I have been engag'd.
—Whenever they are on the rout 'Tis well to keep a good look-out;
An orchard, hen-roost, farmer's yard, Will then require a barking guard:
Besides they have a watchful eye To linen that's hung out to dry.
In short, whatever arts they deal in,
They have a perfect knack at stealing.
—If in those pots I were to peep, Perhaps a quarter of a sheep,
A fowl or something else as good,
Might sometimes prove they've dainty food,
Though, in hard times, they'll not say no,
To rats and mice and carrion crow.
—There's not a corner to be found In all Old England's ample round,
And Ireland too, where I have been,
Where these brown vagrants are not seen;
Nay, I have heard that they are known In countries far beyond our own;
Where with their fortune-telling art,
They play a strange mysterious part.
'Tis said that their strange, gibb'rish tongue,
Does to themselves alone belong.
Indeed, I oft have heard them speak, But to my mind it might be Greek:
It is not English I declare;— And 'tis not Irish, that I'll swear.
The men are active, stout and strong,
The women charming, when they're young:
Though with strange art their skins they dye,
Their teeth are white as ivory.
And with their hair so long and jetty Egad, Sir, they are very pretty:
And their black eyes, Oh! ------

Syntax.
------ “Patrick, cease
Your nonsense, and pray hold your peace.
I've heard all these things o'er and o'er,
But now I'll know a little more;
Nor e'er shall find such fit occasion,
To confer with this vagrant nation.”

Syntax, whene'er a fancy seiz'd him,
Which from some flatt'ring impulse pleas'd him
Did not with calm good reason view it,
Whether he should or not pursue it,
But struck at once, without delay, To where his fancy led the way:
And now he thought that he might trace
Some hist'ry of this vagrant race;
That keen enquiry might obtain
What had been sought, but sought in vain.
Then leaving Phillis to the care Of wond'ring Pat, with solemn air,
He walk'd to view the motley band,
And thus address'd them, while his hand
Wav'd as a signal of command.
They seem'd to give attentive ear His unexpected words to hear.
Syntax.—
“Is there among you, one whose age,
A long experienc'd, Gipsy sage,
Can from tradition's treasur'd store, Assist my wishes to explore
Your name, your origin, and why, In vagrant uniformity,
You live with all those joys at strife, Which tend to sweeten human life:
Who want and wretchedness prefer To man's all social character;
And while industrious habits give The means in honesty to live,
You breathe in idleness, and roam Without a house, without a home.
What are the means by which you thrive,
Gain health, and keep yourselves alive!
You are preparing all to eat; Tell me who thus provides the treat?
The fear of God, the love of man, Do not affect your savage clan:
The beadle's lash, the threats of law,
Alone can keep your minds in awe;
While penal chast'nings to evade, Is the grand scheme of Gipsy trade.
Besides, I'm told, with impious art You play the necromancer's part;
And e'en pretend with daring eye, To look into futurity:
Nay, thus presumptuous, seem to shew,
What mortals were not born to know;
Yet by quick tongue and shrewd grimaces,
And looks enliv'ning nut-brown faces,
You raise false hopes and idle fears
In the fool's breast, and call forth tears
From the poor mope, whom whimp'ring folly
Disturbs with simple melancholy.
The circle movement of the arm, A signal of th'expected charm;
An eager, penetrating eye, The artful smile, the ready lie,
To animate credulity;
Make up the curious receipt By which you frame the dear-bought cheat.
It is most strange the various tricks By which you do the attention fix,
Not merely of confiding youth, Who hear whate'er they wish as truth;
But e'en of sober minds, endued With a calm sense of what is good
Which, doubting, half believing, try A vagrant's skill in palmistry.
—Is it by systematic rule, Which you all learn in Gipsy school;
Or, from the moment's happy chance, You seize the boon of ignorance?
These things I fain would hear you tell
In a plain way without a spell.
Be candid, then, and no small gains, Shall instantly reward your pains.”
There now came forward from the wood,
Where he had all attention stood,
With grizzle beard, an aged man Who might be Patriarch of the Clan.
His face with deepest brown was dyed,
A gaping woman grac'd his side,
And, in quick tones he thus replied.

Gipsy.—

Syntax.—
“Do now, I pray, the truth reveal
If you don't borrow, don't you steal?
And as your people stroll along, Do they distinguish right from wrong?
Do they reflect on wrong or right, If they can get a dinner by't?
Nay, if your parties at a lift Should chance to take a shirt or shift,
Or purloin, as a useful pledge, The linen whit'ning on a hedge,
To mend the rags that hung about 'em,
Pray do your ancient customs scout 'em?
And do your younger people feel The elders' anger when they steal?
Or do they not receive applause, When stealing they evade the laws?
Say do you not the trick commend,
When you with hurried tongue pretend,
And ready, well-fram'd lies, to state Your knowledge of the book of fate;
And, with fallacious promise cheat Weak minds, to pay for the deceit?”

Gipsy.—
“I own, Sir, in the Gipsy brood,
That there are bad as well as good:
But is not this a common case, In ev'ry state, in ev'ry place;
And if the Gipsy breaks the law, He can no more escape its paw
Than any other who offends Against its object and its ends.
Do we alone then make a tool Of those who chuse to play the fool?
No, this same trick is often seen, Where Gipsy-folk have never been:
Where fashion's votaries resort, Or midst the splendor of a Court,
Or in the conflicts of the bar Where Lawyers wage their wordy war.
It is not Jack, it is not Joan, It is not humble folks alone,
Who willing come to try our art, And what our knowledge can impart:
It is not the deploring maid Whom village Strephon has betray'd;
Nor those alone, so lowly born,
Whom wealth and greatness treat with scorn,
Who to the Gipsy's haunts apply, For peeps into futurity.
—The heir will come who wants to know,
When his rich Dad will pass below:
Or Miss, when her old aunt shall die,
Whether a husband she may buy With the expected legacy.
Aye many of the tonish crowd The gay, the gallant, and the proud,
Nay those who self-conceited strut,
Will sometimes seek the Gipsy's hut.
How often I've been call'd to fix Attention in a coach and six.
And where, for what my wit has told,
My hand has oft been cross'd with gold.
Yes lovely, fair and courtly dames, And I could mention certain names,
Have come to me devoid of state To hear my tidings of their fate.
Smile not for know my art can scan
That you're a grave and learned man,
Who knows the world, and such as you,
Must own that what I say is true.
—If all, who play deceit for gain, Were forc'd to join the Gipsy train,
The world would share one common fate,
And thus its fortune I relate: The world would be one Gipsy state.
“But after all, how small our gain,
Expos'd to insult we remain, A wand'ring, persecuted train.
Still 'twould be vain for you to guess
Why clad in seeming wretchedness
We this strange mode of living chuse, And all your social good refuse:
But that's a branch of Gipsy art That nought will bribe us to impart.
That secret, all which you could pay Will never tempt us to betray.
Show me your hand and I will state Your fortune and your future fate:
But, wheresoe'er our lot is thrown, We never will unfold our own.”
The Doctor from his pocket drew
His purse, and random silver threw,
And as his waiting steeds he sought
He thus, in smiling silence, thought,
“He never may have been at school, But, faith, this fellow is no fool.”

Patrick, unwilling to be idle, As he held Phillis by the bridle,
With half a score black eyes around him,
Darting their glances to confound him,
Thought, while his Master chose to trace The hist'ry of the Gipsy race,
It would be ungallant, nay wrong,
Thus to stand still and hold his tongue,
Which, from experience, as he knew, He was not very apt to do.
Besides here was a fit occasion To gratify his inclination.
Indeed, the Fair-ones, though the claim
Is more than doubtful to the name;
For Gipsy art, as is well known, Doth dye their skins in deepest brown:
As a black swan, it would be rare To see the face of Gipsy fair.
Well then, these Brown-ones did not wait
For him to open the debate;
But, having gently strok'd his cheek,
Which was, I fear, nor smooth nor sleek,
And slyly chuck'd his bearded chin,
Which brought on a good-humour'd grin,
They jabber'd forth that they were willing
To tell his fate for half a shilling.
Pat smil'd consent, his sixpence paid,
And thus the witch commenc'd her trade.
Gipsy.—
“I see, as sure as you have life,
That you have never had a wife.”

Patrick.—
“As sure as hogs are made of bacon,
Your tongue is woefully mistaken,
You are a pretty piece of youth, But, faith, I wish you'd speak the truth.
Ne'er had a wife, I think you say Is that your conjuration pray?
If you say wives I ne'er had any Your guess-work is not worth a penny:
For sure as your black eyes can see, My pretty mistress, I've had three,
And one, I'll swear it, was alive
This morning, when the clock struck five.”

Gipsy.—
“Again I will retrace your hand;
With keener view its palm command.
I now see why my eye miscarried:
'Tis plain enough you have been married:
By a false line I was beguil'd; I see you never had a child.”

Patrick.—
“My honey, that is one lie more,
For faith, I tell you, I have four;
As hearty babes as man could own,
With cheeks as red as yours are brown:
So you your chatt'ring may give o'er;
Arrah, my dears, I'll hear no more.
Go tell his fortune to my Hack, But mind the package on his back:
For, by the King, if you touch that,
You shall know something more of Pat.”

He now turn'd round and instant saw A quiet piece of Gipsy law.
A female hand had found its way, To where his trav'lling treasure lay;
And was just taking at a spirt His last new shoes and Sunday shirt,
Thus, when the solemn Doctor came,
He heard his furious groom exclaim—
“Now would your honour's self believe it!
My innocence could not conceive it,
That yon young girl whom you may see,
Who's out of sight behind the tree,
Would on her own ten naked toes, Have run off in my new made shoes,
Had I not turn'd a lucky eye, To stop her nimble thievery.
O how I long this whip to crack In well laid lashes on her back:
I'd make the wicked baggage feel Full sorely what it is to steal.”
This furious sally having heard, Syntax a short remark preferr'd.
“My observations shall be brief: The Gipsy wish'd to play the thief,
And that you knew, full well, she would,
If by your negligence she could.
Therefore, I pray, your anger cool,
For, Patrick, you have play'd the fool.”
—The Sage then mutter'd:—“à la lettre,
I fear that I have done no better.”
Now from an overshadow'd height, Appear'd to the enamour'd sight
In trees embower'd, an object fraught
With solemn sense and higher thought,
A rich, and an exhaustless mine Of what is best;—a solemn shrine
Where learned piety might bring Its reverential offering.
'Twas Calgarth, of that spot the pride,
Where Watson liv'd, where Watson died.
Syntax stood still, with mind subdued,
Chang'd from the savage and the rude,
Which he had now so lately view'd,
In nature's most degraded state, To think on what is good and great.
Big with the thought he silence broke,
And thus the warm Enthusiast spoke.
“Llandaff, I would my poor acclaim
Could elevate the voice of fame That chaunts thy venerable name!
Does not a nation speak thy praise, Say does not grateful Science raise
Those fond memorials which will last When future ages shall be past;
While Learning, by its sage decree Will tell how much it owes to thee!
—But here I pause, for words will fail, Nor will my utmost powers avail,
To paint thee truly, as I scan, The zealous, powerful friend of man:
Who when the Demon had unfurl'd
His standard o'er the Christian world;
When, by accumulated guilt, Rivers of Christian blood were spilt;
When we were told that we should reap
No good from Death but endless sleep;
That all the sacred ties which bind In social bliss the human kind,
That all the hopes which Truth had given
That sacred Truth inspir'd by Heaven,
Were fram'd in artificial guise, The work of priestly fallacies;
When Sophistry its arts applied, To turn the minds of men aside
From ev'ry wise, unerring rule,
Which Life is taught in Wisdom's school:
When the vile passions were address'd
To root out virtue from the breast;
When e'en the Gospel was arraign'd,
And by blaspheming doctrines stain'd,
Or threaten'd by the dark'ning veil
That turn'd the shudd'ring virtues pale:
When, by a hellish impulse driven,
Nations themselves made war on Heaven,
As the bold, fabled Titans strove, To wrestle with Olympian Jove:
When Britain now no longer free From Imps of Infidelity,
Who dar'd, with a relentless hand, To scatter poison o'er the land,
Llandaff,—

Thus as he did in solemn guise And looks devout soliloquise,
To sacred Calgarth, and to Heaven, His eyes alternately were given.
His hand he wav'd, which seem'd to tell,
As well as hand could speak—farewell!
Though many a fir-clad mountain high
Appear'd to court his curious eye;
Though many a rich or rugged vale
That hugg'd the stream or nurs'd the gale,
Gave to the view the craggy scene Of culture fair or bosom green;
He rather his employment sought In the recess of learned thought;
Nor had he ceas'd thus to explore, Till his day's journey had been o'er;
But Punch ran by him on the road Frisking along without his load;—
While Pat, behind, was loudly bawling,
And kicking in the dust and sprawling.
—The Doctor rous'd by all this clatter,
Return'd to see what was the matter.
“How happen'd it,” he gravely said,
“That on the ground you thus are laid?”
Pat rose,—then gave himself a shake,
And staring did this answer make:
“By my soul, Sir, I scarce can tell,
How I came here,—and why I fell:
But I believe, that, on my way, With nought to do,—and less to say;
Dulness did o'er my senses creep, And I presume I went to sleep.
The flies might sting,—and so the hack
Kick'd his fat load from off his back:
For, faith, I think, he would not take
Such freaks, if I had been awake.
No bones are broke, and I'm not bruis'd,
By this same fall I'm not ill-us'd;
For in such cases, while alive Fat is a fine preservative.
But no harm's done: the worst is past; I wish this fall may be my last;
Though, in this world, as we must own,
There's many an up, and many a down;
As was the joke of my wife Peg,
Who had one short and one long leg,
And when she walk'd about, she knew
Her legs would prove her maxim true.”
Syntax who was so grave by nature, That rarely he relax'd a feature,
Now suffer'd nonsense to beguile His lean, lank face into a smile:
Nay almost laughing, thus he said,
As the thought on his fancy play'd,—
“Pat, thou art full of strange conceit And in thy way a perfect treat:
So catch thy beast, once more bestride him,
And with a better caution ride him:
But let not thy resentment guide The angry spur to goad his side;
Nor let thy whip apply its thong,
For Punch, friend Pat, has done no wrong;
And if 'tis just to give such greeting,
We know who 'tis deserves the beating.”
Pat smil'd,—and having kiss'd the hack,
Was soon re-seated on his back.
The Doctor now pursued his way, Till night trod on the heels of day:
And when full many a mile was past, Kendal receiv'd the Sage at last.
—Now in an inn and all alone, He thought on what the day had done;
That ev'ry day, in its career, Is but a picture of the year;
And in each year when it is flown, The image of our life is shown.
At morn his journey he began, And quick the speedy minutes ran,
While all he met or left behind Delighted his reflecting mind.
The noon and its succeeding hours To action call'd his active powers,
The evening's come,—the well-fed guest
Content, though tir'd, retires to rest.—
The following morn the hour of eight Saw Phillis saddled at the gate;
And Punch and Pat appear'd to view, Waiting in all attendance due.
The toilette of a coat and hat Was quite familiar work to Pat;
With flourish and without a grin,
He could make smooth the roughest chin,
Nor was this all, for he could rig With friz and curl the Doctor's wig;
Whate'er the busy camp could teach,
Had prov'd to be in Patrick's reach.
Thus the good Doctor's air and mien
Were quite correct, so smug and clean,
As in old times they ne'er had been.
—Besides, Pat had his native parts, And Master was of many Arts;
For at a push without ado, He could put on a horse's shoe;
With strength could wield a threshing flail,
A needle drive, or drive a nail;
He could grind knives, or garters knit, In short for most things he was fit.
Besides kind Nature did impart To Patrick's breast an honest heart;—
From all delusion he was free; The pattern of Fidelity.
The Parson-Errant travell'd on, And found that ev'rything was done,
That he could wish for or desire, By his accomplish'd trusty 'Squire:
In fact, for all things that the mind
Could hope in such a scheme to find,
It may be thought, from hour to hour, A kind of ready-furnish'd Tour.
Thus no slight trouble could delay The tranquil progress of the day
And all as yet was clean and tight,
Where'er the Doctor pass'd the night:
Though we're not pledge for what may wait
His progress in the book of fate.
But Pat had a small spice of pride
Which sometimes turn'd his tongue aside,
Nor suffer'd truth to be his guide:
And, in the kitchen of an inn, He seldom thought it was a sin,
By many a bold and bloody story
To boast his own and England's glory;
And raise his Master's rank and station,
To be first Parson in the nation.
—He would exclaim, his Rev'rence there,
Nursing his pipe in easy chair,
And at this moment reading Greek, A dozen languages can speak:
And as for trav'lling, he has been Where scarce another man was seen,
Where he has rode on camels' backs,
And elephants were common hacks.
This day the Doctor was a Dean, The next he was a Bishop seen,
But from a hatred of all show, Was travelling incognito.
A landlord fat, who lov'd a joke, And did Pat's boasting chatter smoke,
Half-whisper'd,—“Faith I'm glad I know it,
And my Lord Bishop's bill shall show it.”
—When Patrick, who was shrewd and quick
And up to any kind of trick,
Said, “when my Lord, in coach and four
Shall make a stoppage at your door,
You may, with all habitual skill, Tickle up items at your will;
But as for reasons which are known To his wise head and that alone,
He chuses thus to travel on;
Take care his bill is free from show, And every charge, incognito.”
Now Syntax did his way pursue As other lonely trav'llers do:
But he did this old maxim own, Ne'er to be lonely when alone:
For he could call from ev'ry age, The Bard, the Hero and the Sage,
From annals of recording fame, He could disclose each fav'rite name,
And whether in his easy chair He sat with comtemplative air,
Or did, in solemn musings rove Beside the stream or in the grove;
Or mounted on his palfrey gay He journeyed onward through the day,
He could call forth to his mind's eye, That bright, select society,
Who never, when he ask'd their aid, The pleasing summons disobey'd,
But did the lengthen'd way beguile
Full many an hour and many a mile.
Whether the heroes of the age That lived in Homer's splendid page,
Or th'awak'ning names that shine In Virgil's every feeling line:
Whether the men of later times In story told or sung in rhymes;
Whether the Romans or the Gauls
Who pull'd down towns or built up walls;
Or who, in far posterior days Call'd forth his censure or his praise:
Whether Aristotelian sense Or Greek or Roman eloquence
Awoke his mind or turn'd his eye, With critic perspicuity,
To con their various beauties o'er,
And find out charms unknown before;
As Syntax chose not to unfold,
'Twould be but guess-work were it told:—
Suffice it then at once to say, That in the ev'ning of the day,
He reach'd an inn in country town,
Which might have boasted of renown
In times of yore, long past and gone:
But now a straggling street display'd,
With little sign of bustling trade:
While in the midst a building stood Of stone, of plaster, and of wood,
Where sometimes Justice did resort,
To deck its bench, and hold her court.
This inn, as quite a thing of course,
Provided food for man and horse.
The room which was the Doctor's lot,
Was the best place the inn had got:
No carpet grac'd it, but the floor Was all with sand besprinkled o'er,
And almanacks hung on the door;
One for the present year, and one
For that which now was past and gone.
Prints deck'd the wall of ev'ry hue,
Yellow and red, and green and blue,
Churches and horses, heads and towers,
With ballad histories and flowers;
The humblest specimens of art Did all their gaiety impart;’
While in the chimney roses bloom
To breathe their fragrance round the room,
And flaunting peony so red Did on the hearth its foliage shed.
Then on the mantel-shelf above, There was the plaster form of Love;
And on each side of Cupid shone The shapes of Mars and Wellington.
—He with a curious smiling eye, View'd all this mural pageantry:
Then, in arm'd chair in corner plac'd
With a soft, well-clad cushion grac'd,
He bade his host, who told the fare, A speedy supper to prepare.
The cloth was clean, the chop well drest,
The home-brew'd ale was of the best,
And Syntax 'joy'd the humble feast.
The damsel, who, with rosy look, Curtsied at every word she spoke,
And might be thought a rural beauty,
Perform'd with care th'attendant duty.
The pipe was on the table laid, Where Maro's Georgics were display'd;
So thus he smok'd and thus he read, Till nature bade him seek his bed.
The Doctor now was seen to clamber
Up a rude stair-case to his chamber,
Where by the day's fatigue oppress'd,
He said his prayer and sunk to rest:
But ere an hour or two were gone, About the time the clock struck one,
A bustling noise his slumbers broke, He snorted, started and awoke.
Recov'ring then from his surprise,
He shook his head and rubb'd his eyes.
The cloudless Cynthia, glist'ning bright,
Cast o'er the room its borrow'd light;
And, as her silver beams she threw, Expos'd all round him to his view,
He thought he saw a troop of cats, But it appear'd that they were rats,
Who seem'd all frisking, quite at home,
In playing gambols round the room.
If they were fighting or were wooing,
He could not tell what they were doing,
But now it was his serious aim, To terminate this noisy game;
For to these rav'nous creatures, he Had a deep-felt antipathy:
Nor would he dare to venture forth Unclad, for half that he was worth.
He hiss'd and hooted, though in vain;
They fled, but soon return'd again.
To drive away this daring crew, He with great force, his pillow threw;
But soon he saw them mock and scout it,
Running around and all about it.
The bolster follow'd, and a stool Was sent their furious feats to cool,
And as a kinsman aids his brother,
The shoes, soon follow'd one another.
The night-cap too now left his head; In vain the missile weapon fled;
In short the Muse's tongue is tied To tell all that he threw beside.
—At length his wonted courage came,
Resentment did his blood inflame;
Nay he resolv'd to cut all short, And in his shirt to spoil the sport:
But that the vermin might not wound him,
He strove to wrap the curtain round him.
The curtain which by time was worn, Soon in a mighty rent was torn;
By his main force the tester shook, And boxes fill'd with caps, forsook
The place where through the week they slept,
And were for Sunday fin'ry kept;
With hats and ribbons and such geer,
As make folks gay throughout the year.
Some fell upon the Doctor's head, His figure grac'd, or strew'd the bed;
While some in millinery shower Were scatter'd all around the floor;
And as they in confusion lay, Seem'd to give spirit to the fray.
Now Molly hearing all this clatter,
Cried, through the key-hole, “what's the matter?
If you are ill, I recommend That we should for the Doctor send.”
“—Send some one,” Syntax said, “I pray,
To drive these vermin far away,
Send me the Doctor, or I'm undone,
Who made a poor boy May'r of London.
Send me a cat whose claws will cure The noisome evil I endure.
With half-a-crown I will reward
The beast who comes to be my guard.”
Molly ran off, and soon there came The Ostler, Benedict by name,
To ease the Doctor of alarm, With a fierce puss beneath each arm;
They soon compos'd this scene of riot,
And Syntax then repos'd in quiet.
The morning came, th'unconscious sun,
Display'd what mischief had been done;
The rats it seems had play'd the rig In tearing up the Doctor's wig.
All discompos'd awhile he strutted, To see his peruke thus begutted;
Yet when at length in arm-chair seated,
He saw how his head-dress was treated,
When his cool thoughts became intent On this unrivall'd accident,
A laugh, that foe to transient cares,
Seem'd to burst from him unawares;
And laughing, as his best friends knew, He was not very apt to do.
Pat, who had heard of the disaster,
Came to hold council with his master;
The host too bow'd and bade good-morrow,
And with down looks express'd his sorrow:
For though, the master of the inn, He for so many years had been,
He loudly vow'd he ne'er had heard Such a complaint as this preferr'd:
For none before who sought his house,
E'er heard a rat or saw a mouse.
Pat long'd full sore to say,—he lied; But he refrain'd, and thus replied:
“This is most strange, for where I slept,
They I am sure their councils kept:
There are these vermin beasts in plenty,
If I saw one, faith, I saw twenty.
But I don't mind them no not I.— I've had them oft for company.
I've been where rats and all their cousins,
Have run across my bed by dozens.”
Syntax.—
“It is an animal I hate; Its very sight I execrate:
A viper I would rather see, Than one of this dire family.
That they suck eggs I may allow,
That they munch grain we all must know;
But I ne'er heard, I do declare, That these same vermin feed on hair.”

Pat.—
“No, no, your Rev'rence, Old Nick rate 'em,
They suck the oil and the pomatum;
And when in scrambling they grew louder,
O, they were fighting for the powder.
But still 'tis shocking, past enduring,
For the wig's maim'd beyond all curing.
—If they could have but eat the brains
Once cover'd by these sad remains,
And by a miracle been taught Just to employ them as they ought:
I know full well, Sir, what I mean,
Yes, yes, 'tis true, they would have been
The wisest rats, however droll, That ever crept into a hole.”

Syntax.—
“I thank you Pat, as I can spare This lot of artificial hair,
But for my brains, no rats shall taste 'em,
They shall remain where nature plac'd 'em.
But tell me, Landlord, does your town A skilful Peruke-maker own,
Who can this Caxon dire restore To the same form it had before.”

Landlord.—
“O yes, what can be done by art,
Dick Razor's knowledge will impart:
A clever hand as you have seen And who in London oft has been.
At certain seasons of the year Our 'Squires hold a Sessions here,
And then he doth display his trade By combing ev'ry Lawyer's head:
I doubt not, Sir, that to a hair, He will your mangled wig repair.”
Dick Razor came, the Peruke saw,
Rais'd up his eyes, hung down his jaw;
And said at once—“whoever wore it, No art of man can e'er restore it;
But I've a wig, I know will do, Which, Sir, within an hour or two,
I'll trick and furbish up for you.
—It was a counsellor's, a tie, That did a solemn air supply,
When he let loose his hackneyed tongue
To prove wrong right, and rightful wrong.
But if that wig which deck'd his brain
Could speak and with clear words explain
How many lies came from that head
Which its fine flowing curls o'erspread,
I do believe, nay, I could swear, There'd be a lie for ev'ry hair.
Before,—the curls are well confin'd, The tails fall gracefully behind;
While a full wilderness of friz Became the Lawyer's cunning phiz.
—'Tis true, for upwards of a year I dress'd his wig and shav'd him here;
But though he ne'er forgot his fee, He walk'd off without paying me.
Three years and more are past and gone
Since the voracious bird has flown;
And no harm's done to this said elf, To sell his wig and pay myself.
The wig is good,—in London made—
Work'd up by one who knew his trade:
Cut off its tails and when 'tis shewn,
You'll scarcely know it from your own.”

Syntax.—
“I've heard enough, my honest friend,
And as I seek my journey's end,
I wish you to your shop would walk, I want my wig and not your talk.
Go with the Tonsor, Pat, and try To aid his hand, and guide his eye.”

They left the room, and straight the News
Was brought the Doctor to peruse.—
With night-cap grac'd, he sat him down,
To see how this world waddled on.
The fragrant tea his thirst supplied, The triple toast was not denied;
And as he drank, and as he eat, Big with the comforts of the treat,
The night and all its horrid plot, The Wig, the Vermin were forgot:
For, while he did his beverage quaff,
He conn'd each various paragraph;
And as he did the columns scan, Review'd the Epitome of Man:
Nay, as he ran the pages o'er, He made his flight from shore to shore:
The North, the South, the East, the West,
Were on his busy mind imprest:
The striking images of things Were borne along on fancy's wings;
And, with a glowing ardour fraught,
He thus proclaim'd each rising thought:
“What I now read, I well may say, Is what men hear of ev'ry day:
Of all the paths that lead through Life,
Of joy and sorrow, peace and strife:
Of station's proud and splendid state, Of what is good, of what is great;
Of what is base, of what is mean, The strut of Pride, the look serene,
The comic and the tragic scene:
Of those who 'neath the portals proud Disdain to join the vulgar crowd,
While at Ambition's splendid shrine
They bend and call the thing divine;
Or those who, by their airs and graces,
Their smiling looks, their painted faces,
Strive some gay, glitt'ring toy to gain And often strive and toil in vain:
The haughty stride of bloated power,
Gay pleasure's couch in gilded bower;
The warrior's spear bedipp'd in blood, And discord wild in angry mood:
Of all the scenes where fancy ranges,
Its sportive tricks, its endless changes,
Of rival foes, who, big with hate, Give and receive the stroke of fate;
Of Cupid's fond and doleful ditties,
Which passion sings and reason pities;
Of love requited or forlorn, Of faith return'd or mock'd with scorn:
Of fortune with her smiling train, Or downcast ne'er to rise again;
Or those by fate ordained to feel Th'alternate whirlings of its wheel:
Of virtue to each duty just, Of fraud, low rankling in the dust;
Of Friendship's strong, unbroken tie, Affection's heart-felt sympathy;
Of Hatred's fierce and scowling frown, And Jealousy that does not own,
Its wakeful pang; of pallid Fear, Or Cunning's shrewd, insidious leer;
Of honeymoons that speed so fast,
They're gone before ten days are past:
Of ignorance that never knows From whence it comes or where it goes;
Of Folly in its motley coat, That acts and thinks and talks by rote;
And yet, howe'er by fortune hurl'd,
Skips on and laughs throughout the world;
While Wisdom, though 'tis known to save
A sinking nation from the grave;
Though she alone can form the plan Of real happiness to man;
Will often see her sons neglected,
While knaves and blockheads are protected.
But still the mind that loves her laws,
Whose courage dare support her cause,
Though fools may scoff and knaves may grin,
And join the senseless rabble's din,
May, for base ends, roar loud and bellow
For any factious Punchinello;
He that with virtue is endued, Will win th'applauses of the good,
And more, altho' the crowd may frown, He will be sure to have his own,
And what by kings can ne'er be given,
He will possess the smiles of Heaven.—
If such distinctions then pervade, By rigid rules, the writer's trade;
Whether in folios they deal, Or in the daily page reveal,
By reas'ning prose, or lively rhymes, The hist'ry of the passing times;
They who from party views or ends,
Ne'er strive to serve their private friends,
Or with design'd intention stray From truth's clear, open, manly way;
Their works, whate'er may be their name
Deserve the grateful meed of fame,
What human nature's known to feel
The pages must with care reveal:
What human nature's doom'd to do, These pages hold to public view:
Of all things that we daily see, They give the passing history.
The Journalists are bound to tell,
When things go ill, when things go well.
It is their office e'en to draw An owl, a pheasant, a mackaw,
Whether of bright or dingy feather, Or separate, or all together:
Whether in sunshine or by night, Objects are offer'd to the sight:
To paint as forms appear, the shape Of an Apollo or an ape,
And solid, sound instruction give Or from the dead, or those who live:—
To offer praise, or let loose blame On vice or virtue's various aim;
To shoot their darts as folly flies, And give protection to the wise:
While they as steersmen strive to guide
Each bark that's carried by the tide,
And with its cargo wins its way From hour to hour, from day to day,
Just as the stream or varying gale
Claims the strong oar, or swells the sail.
—This task, thus carefully pursued Deserves the fame of doing good;
Though if their interest gives them leave My double dealing to deceive;
If they the cause of truth betray, And deal forth falsehoods day by day;
If they from any cause inherit A factious zeal, a party spirit,
If they, the fix'd determin'd foes, Whoe'er they be, of these or those,
Employ a subtle, partial pen, Not 'gainst the measures but the men,
If they from justice dare to swerve, I know full well what they deserve.
But if they put no man's ambition With public good in competition;
If when the ancient law's defac'd, They think the Nation is disgrac'd:
If when ill ministers oppress Though a good monarch means redress,
They draw the well-fram'd veil aside That does the secret errors hide;—
If they praise those who never fawn'd,
Nor their fair honor ever pawn'd:
Whose hands, with no corruption stain'd,
Have ev'ry sordid bribe disdain'd;
Who serve the crown with loyal zeal, Yet zealous for the public weal;
Who stand the bulwark of our laws
And wear at heart their country's cause;
Neither by place nor pension bought,
Who speak the very thing they thought;
Who ne'er, to serve a paltry end, To knavish jobs will condescend:
When Truth thus holds the daily pen
To laud the deeds of virtuous men,
And with due caution to relate What passes in the world of state,
Among the little or the great;
Th'instructive and the fearless part Is prais'd by ev'ry patriot heart.
—The Journalist, to party blind, Who strikes at vice of ev'ry kind,
And thus assists the public mind,
To this proud title will ascend:—
The people's and the Sov'reign's friend.
Thus, as the musing Doctor spoke, Pat, enter'd smiling at the joke.
That he a Parson's head should rig So smartly in a Lawyer's wig,
The ensign of the wordy war, Which forms the conflicts of the Bar:
That it should now from contest cease And deck the Minister of Peace.
But so it was—Dick Razor's skill Had cut and dockt it to his will;
So that the Sage, but for the cost, Might think it was the wig he lost.
The shaver a wide grin display'd To think the Lawyer's bill was paid;
And that the wig which crown'd his nob,
Had done this unexpected job.
—The Doctor said, “we never know, As through the vale of life we go,
Who may thus prove our real friends, To aid our objects and our ends.
—The Lion as the fable says, Ow'd to a Mouse his future days;
And you, I think, who in this town, Bear such professional renown,
When you your friendly neighbours meet
And join the ev'ning's social treat;
When as you take the cheerful glass, And while the observations pass
On Fortune's or Misfortune's brats,
Will not forget your friends the Rats.”
Dick Razor.—
“While I the razor can prepare,
Or give new fashion to the hair;
While I can smooth the bristly chin, Nor ever wound the tender skin;
While I the Pleader's head prepare In all the dignity of hair;
To make, as he lays down the laws, The worse appear the better cause:
Ne'er shall I from my mem'ry drive
The strange events by which men thrive,
Nor e'er forget these imps of prey,
Or Lawyers who are worse than they.”
Thus Dick unto his home departed,
With cash in hand and merry-hearted.
Syntax with the meridian sun Had his day's journey now begun:
When as the Landlord scratch'd his pate,
And humbly bow'd beside the gate,
Says Pat, “my friend as I am starting,
I'll give you a kind word at parting.
There was a man in former time, But in what age or in what clime
I cannot say, a sportsman he, A perfect hunting prodigy,
Who, as he beat about his grounds,
Was chas'd and eat up by his hounds:
If you would, therefore, save your skin, And all the flesh it buckles in,
Look, that you keep a guard of cats, Or you'll be eat up by your rats.”

The Doctor now pursued his way, Nor haste was his, nor slow delay,
Till, at the welcome close of day,
He join'd, at York, the friendly party
Of the good 'Squire and Madam Hearty.

CANTO III.

O how I wish that I could sing,
And touch the sweetly sounding string,
In soft harmonious praise to join Of her who claims a source divine,
An offspring of celestial birth And Charity yclep'd on earth;
Where they to whom its spirit's given
Enjoy the best foretaste of Heaven:—
For what in life can mortals know, So sure a balm to human woe,
As that which certain joy imparts,
Or plucks the pang from mourning hearts;
That bids the turbid passions rest
And soothes to peace the troubled breast.
—If Vengeance with its hostile brood
Of stern resolves inflames the blood,
And lifts the hand to strike the blow That meditates an added woe;
—If Malice, with insidious aim, Prepares, in secret, to defame
The virtues of a spotless name;
—If Envy, with distorted eye Does ev'ry failing magnify,
Gleams hatred on superior worth, And fain would bury deep in earth
Each plant that blooms with blossoms fair,
Which Virtue makes her darling care;—
If, 'mid this odious group appears Mild charity that knows no fears;
E'en Vengeance owns a soften'd soul,
And yields to the benign controul:
Malice, the influence kind obeys,
Checks its foul tongue and learns to praise
While Envy does her name belie, By smiles of gen'rous sympathy.
But such is not the only good That by this virtue is pursued;
In many a stream its bounties flow, To ease the weight of human woe;
While it exerts its pow'r to bless, By aiding human happiness.
It gives to pleasure higher aims, It sweetens honour's fairest claims,
And banishes each fretful strife That oft disturbs domestic life.
It gives to manners social ease, And heightens each desire to please:
To ev'ry station adds a grace, And renders cheerful ev'ry face;
As it with changeful charm appears,
Now gives the smile, now dries the tears,
Sees amid foes fair peace restored, And crowns the hospitable board.
'Tis that to Syntax which affords
A welcome not express'd by words;
But which dumb feeling can impart,
When issuing from a gen'rous heart:
For Charity ne'er stands aloof Beneath the comfortable roof
Where Hearty's wishes now attend To give each comfort to his friend;
Where he may find for weeks to come,
If he so please, that he's at home;
For there 'tis Charity we see, In form of Hospitality.
Shakes by the hand and kisses kind,
Told 'tween these friends the mutual mind;
And much warm salutation past,
Then, what had happen'd since they last
Were in that friendly room together,
The state of things and of the weather,
Employ'd them 'till the Minster chime
Announc'd the approaching supper time,
A pleasing sound to strike the ear Of any hungry traveller;
And Syntax was prepar'd to meet With due regard the coming treat.
He seem'd not chang'd in Hearty's view; He eat as he was wont to do;
Nor did he let the bev'rage pass, 'Till he had emptied many a glass.
But to the 'Squire it strange appear'd,
That Dolly's name had not been heard;
The theme of so much lively praise In other times, in former days:
But now of her he had not spoke, Nor turn'd a matrimonial joke,
Nor seem'd inclin'd a tale to swell, Nor sang forth, Vive la Bagatelle.
But though he seem'd not over-glad, His looks did not declare him sad:
Besides, the journey of the day Might check his being very gay.
Though if an appetite e'er prov'd
That a man's hours in comfort mov'd,
'Squire Hearty thought his pleasant friend
Enjoy'd our being's aim and end;
(By which the poet's lines express The character of Happiness )
And that, when he had ceas'd to sup,
The sage would clear the matter up.
By many surely 'tis believ'd, (Though they perhaps may be deceiv'd,)
For on what grounds I cannot see, That, urg'd by Curiosity,
The Ladies look with keener ken, Than the less eager eye of men:
But howsoe'er the truth may prove, This principle began to move
In Madam Hearty's anxious thought,
Why Mrs. Syntax was not brought.
It seem'd so strange and so unkind, That she should thus be left behind.
She might indeed have had an heir, Since she had paid a visit there,
And could not leave so great a joy, As nursing a dear, darling boy:
But wherefore should the Doctor hide
What might be such a source of pride?
She might be ill and could not come;
But then he would not quit his home.
These and a dozen queries more Her doubting fancy brooded o'er:
But howsoe'er her wish might long,
She knew her place and held her tongue,
And left the 'Squire to decree Th'unfolding of this mystery.
The supper done, the chat began, And thus the conversation ran.
'Squire Hearty.—
“Though unexpected you are come,
I'm glad you think my house your home;
And if the proverb says what's true,
Which those old saws are apt to do,
The merry but unlook'd-for guest Full often proves to be the best:
But that's all one 'twixt you and me, And so with all sincerity,
I bid you welcome in my wine, In which your Hostess here will join.”

A thought the Lady now inspir'd; The time was come she so desir'd;
The secret now must be her own,
And what she wish'd to know be known:
—She fill'd her glass then smiling bow'd,
And thus th'expected grace bestow'd.
“My kindest wish I drink to you, And to dear Mrs. Syntax too;
But why when thus abroad you roam,
Leave you your charming wife at home?”
Syntax first gravely shook his head, And then in soften'd accents said,
“My answer, Ma'am, will make you grieve,
Her's is a home she ne'er will leave,
Till the last summons shall be given,
To call the virtuous soul to Heaven.
My Dolly's gone, alas! to rest, Where the green turf lies on her breast,
And as I others teach to bear With patience the inflicted care,
I must a strong example show To stem the roughest tide of woe;
But grateful to that sov'reign power,
Who rules the year, the day, the hour,
That he doth still my passage bless With what I know of happiness;
That now I have within my view,
Such warm, such gen'rous friends as you:
'Tis to my loss that I now owe, The heart-felt kindness you bestow.
To sooth my mind, to calm my grief, In changing scenes I seek relief,
—My former Tour, I grateful tell, In all its views succeeded well.
To ease my state, to fill my purse, I mounted my old Grizzle Horse,
And kindness both by night and day Was the companion of my way:
And ere my present Tour shall end,
I trust that Heaven will prove my friend,
That I again shall reach my home,
With prospects of fair days to come.”
Madam clasp'd both her hands and sigh'd,
When Hearty in firm tone replied:
“I prithee do not play the fool, Nor poke into your ridicule,
To find a 'kerchief to display Your grief by wiping tears away:
If grief by mirth cannot be cur'd, With patience it must be endur'd.
Kind, pleasant friends, and cheerful hours,
Compose the balm which reason pours,
The various rankling wounds to heal
In minds that rage, in hearts that feel.
If fever burns, if gout attacks, If the stone with its torture racks;
If your whole frame the ague shakes, Or the head to distraction aches,
Laughter and joke and wit in vain
Will strive to ease the afflicting pain:
Nor eloquence with all its charm Can one tormenting pang disarm.
The learned Leech must there apply His skill and the Dispensary.
But such a grief, my friend, as yours,
'Tis mirth relieves, 'tis pleasure cures;
Pleasure that reason doth allow,
And mirth that smoothes the wrinkled brow;
Such as our social friends afford, To cheer their hospitable board.
I'll turn Physician, and to-morrow,
Will find a medicine for your sorrow.”
The 'Squire's broad hand then gave a smack
That sounded on the Doctor's back.
“My friend,” he added, “never fear,
We'll find you some amusement here;
And I engage that you leave York, With heart as light as any cork.”
Syntax replied,—“With half an eye, I see your kind Philosophy:
But as I'm with fatigue opprest, I ask the night's refreshing rest:
And, at the morning's breakfast table, I doubt not but I shall be able,
With all fair reas'ning to bestow
What you will find a Quid pro Quo;—
Which I translate for Madam there A Rowland for your Oliver.”
Arm'd with a taper's burning light,
And having wish'd his host good night,
He to his chamber did repair, And found his Valet waiting there:
Who did not for a moment wait To burst forth in his usual prate.
Patrick.—
“Your Rev'rence, wheresoe'er I've been,
O such a house I ne'er have seen;
I trust, in Heaven, that no disaster,
Nor harm will e'er befall its master!
O never should he die, O never! Such men as he should live for ever:
The cellar's full of liquor rare, Which all who come and go may share.
If in the larder you should pop, Of all good things there's such a crop,
You'd think it was a butcher's shop.
Nay, in the pantry should you look, You might expect a pastry-cook.
O such a kitchen for my money! It overflows with milk and honey!
Nay even puss is grown so fat, She would not move to catch a rat.
No place is empty, all are full; Each servant smiling, no one dull.
Now that your Rev'rence is undrest, You'll find the bed like all the rest;
And when into these sheets you creep,
They'll surely prove brimful of sleep.”

—The Doctor smil'd, the curtains drew;—
And soon found Patrick's notions true.
'Twas now past ten, the Doctor gone,
The 'Squire and Ma'am were left alone,
And while he pac'd the parlour floor,
They talk'd their friend the Doctor o'er.
I've said before, the Dame so kind, Was always of her husband's mind;
And did so to his temper suit, That such a thing as a dispute
Had never happen'd from the hour,
When they both bow'd to Hymen's power:
Like Trueman's Cocks, who, at the Pit,
Could boast they never had a hit,
And this was true,—but then 'tis thought,
These self-same game-birds never fought.
To give assent and to obey Was here the order of the day.
For he was gen'rous, kind and free, The soul of hospitality,
And she knew how to give a grace To all the plenty of the place.
“My dear, I have a plan,” he said,
“Which is now working in my head,
And in it you must bear your part.”
Mrs. Hearty.—
That I will do with all my heart.

Hearty.—
The widow who has cast her weeds
Is tired of the life she leads.

Mrs. H.—
That is a truth which I well know,
For she has often told me so.

H.—
And sure she could not better do
Than marry Syntax; what think you?

Mrs. H.—
'Twould be the very thing my love!
Oh, she would fit him like a glove!

H.—
And if I'm not mistaken, he Would love her to idolatry!

Mrs. H.—
She's of the very make and trim
To suit just such a man as him.

H.—
He in his qualities and mind Must rank as of superior kind.
I think him a delightful creature:
But then in outward form and feature,
Say does he that appearance wear,
Which is most cherish'd by the fair?

Mrs. H.—
It is most true, his nut-brown face,
With his long chin devoid of grace,
And his droll manners may not prove, Incentives to a widow's love.

H.—
But who can tell what she may do,
When all his learning's brought in view?

Mrs. H.—
Indeed, my love, that's very true.

H.—
When so much Latin, so much Greek,
Does her approving favour seek;
When all the learning of all ages, Drawn from philosophers and sages,
Who liv'd renown'd in distant climes,
And are the boast of former times,
When they are brought her smiles to greet,
And laid devoutly at her feet;
They with his virtues and his name,
Might in her bosom raise a flame.

Mrs. H.—
O let him but those bellows blow,
And Love would soon be in a glow.

H.—
But after all there's no harm done,
Whether the Dame be lost or won:
Though if we should not lose our labour,
We shall procure a pleasant neighbour.
I love the Doctor,—so do you.

Mrs. H.—
Love him, my dear, aye that I do.

H.—
At least, I think we'll try the scheme,
Perhaps it may not prove a dream.

Mrs. H.—
As for the scheme, I scarce can doubt it;
And, if you please, we'll set about it.

H.—
To-morrow then you will prepare The Lady for her visitor:—
So when we've din'd, I will attend him,
And leave kind Cupid to befriend him.
The morning came, and breakfast done,
Th'important plan was thus begun.

Hearty.—
“I do not to fine words pretend,
But Syntax knows me for his friend.
I feel your loss, and kindly share it, And much I wish you to repair it.
For your late wife your grief to smother,
There's but one way,—why get another:
And I can, as I hope, provide, A comely, rich, accomplish'd bride.
We have a friend within the city, Who is not old, and still is pretty:
She learning loves and learned men,
Reads books, and can employ her pen:
Admires your works, repeats your name,
And with her praise adorns your fame:
Speaks French, and plays upon the lute,
And will your taste exactly suit.
A Lady's age is seldom known: 'Tis said, indeed, she's thirty-one;
But were I ask'd her years to fix, I might suspect them thirty-six;
Nor would she yet be out of date, Supposing she was thirty-eight.
Besides she has a jointure clear, Of full five hundred pounds a year:
The mansion, too, is all her own,
Which might a Bishop's wishes crown.”

Syntax.—
“I thank you, my most valued friend,
For all the good which you intend;
But 'tis the morning of my grief: I look not yet for such relief
As you propose: It is too soon:— O let me wait at least till noon!”

Hearty.—
“What is the honey-moon! The time
When married love is in its prime:
When all the sweets have been enjoy'd,
And many a love-sick pair is cloy'd;
Whose joys are not suppos'd to last,
When that fix'd, stated period's past.
But when th'enliv'ning season's over The husband is no more the lover;
Then common sense assumes its turn,
Cupid's bright torches cease to burn,
And married folk may then jog on,
As I and my good wife have done.
And faith I do not see the reason,
Why sorrow should not have its season:
Why, while a Moon for Joy we borrow,
We may not do the same for Sorrow;
Why a good husband, such as you,
When he has mourn'd a month or two,
Should not then seize the fav'ring hour,
To haste again to Hymen's bower:
'Tis downright folly to refuse it, And your superior sense will chuse it.
Turn the thing over in your mind, And then as soon as we have din'd,
You shall with a Knight-errant spirit,
Which I well know that you inherit,
Go and declare your rightful claim To ask the favour of the dame,
Your speech you, as a lance, will wield,
Your wit will prove a powerful shield,
And I've no doubt you'll gain the field.
But e'en should not the prize be won, No ill ensues, no harm is done.”

—Now there's a feeling, more or less, Which I believe we all possess:
And, if by reason 'tis controul'd, May aid the courage of the bold;
To manners it may add a grace, And with gay smiles adorn the face:
Nay, in its soften'd state impart, A gen'rous impulse to the heart:—
'Tis vanity; which now impress'd Its influence on the Doctor's breast,
And whisper'd to him to attend To the warm counsels of his friend.
Thus Pat was order'd to unfold
All that the trav'lling-trunk could hold;
To shew the drap'ry to the day, And bring the best suit into play,
To give the wig a modish figure, And ev'ry curl becoming vigour.
Pat thus employ'd his utmost art,
And Syntax soon was trim and smart, Prepar'd to play a lover's part:
Nay he was as to outward show, A gay ecclesiastic Beau.
The party now sat down to dine,
The well-dress'd dish, the gen'rous wine,
Cocker'd the Doctor into spirit, And sense of his superior merit.
—The toilet too had done its part, With every fashionable art,
And yielded its cosmetic arms To heighten the fair Widow's charms.
—Thus as the Minster clock struck five, Syntax inspir'd and all alive,
With humble air, that look'd like shame,
Appear'd before th'expecting dame.
But while she did the forms prepare Of who sits here, or who sits there,
The 'Squire had popp'd behind the screen,
To hear what pass'd and not be seen.
“—I see,” she said, “that Hearty's gone,
And means to leave us here alone.
I love him well, he is my friend, But much I wish that he would mend
His antic tricks, his darling fun,
Which men of sterling sense would shun.
On gen'ral conduct we agree, Though his wit is not wit for me.
But we must let, in life's short day,
Those whom we value have their way.
The best are to some failings prone,
And we should try to mend our own.”
Syntax.—
“Madam I came, as 'tis my duty,
To pay my homage to your beauty!
But from the sentiments you deal in, You make in me superior feeling
To that inspir'd by the rose, Which on the cheek of beauty blows:
And I must other thoughts infer To please the fair Philosopher.
Philosophy in various ways Asks of the wise the highest praise.
I mean not that, whose study pries Into those dark obscurities
Of doubtful Science, where the eye Is dimm'd by its uncertainty;
But that, whose search does not prolong,
Beyond what's right and what is wrong;
Which you will think is well defin'd The moral structure of the mind.
Him I pronounce a perfect sage, Of any clime, of any age,
Above all learning he may show
Who does his high-wrought science know;
Who, to all common int'rests blind,
Instructs the conscience of mankind.
—But when we see, though rare the sight,
This happy science shining bright,
And 'neath the warmth of Beauty's ray Beaming around the moral day,
Thus giving to fair virtue's laws,
Those smiles which best support her cause;
It is a vision sweet to view, And such as I behold in you.”
—The widow simper'd, smil'd, and sigh'd,
And bending forward, thus replied:
“—Doctor you clothe your manly sense
In a most winning eloquence:
With ease and energy it flows And bears conviction as it goes.
To your whole reas'ning I incline;— So pray, Sir, take a glass of wine,
And, with this wish, I'll take its brother:—
May we know more, Sir, of each other.”
With his right hand upon his breast,
The Doctor then the Dame address'd—
“Madam, I swear your charms are such,
Of you I could not know too much.”
“O,” she exclaim'd, “I'm all confusion,
You compliment in such profusion!
Pray cool your palate with the fruit,— In the mean time I'll try my lute,
And sing a philosophic air; 'Twill suit your doctrine to a hair:
It was but yesterday I bought it, And I could almost think you wrote it.
I cannot say that I approve The songs that tell of nought but love;
Where Love is here, and Love is there,
In short, where Love is every where;
Which, in soft language, teach our misses
To warble sighs and long for kisses.
To leave it altogether out, Might be an affectation thought;
But Love should not, I do contend, Begin and go on to the end;
Which, for I speak, Sir, as I feel, And for its truth I now appeal
To ev'ry husband, ev'ry wife, Is so unlike the real life.—
—My voice is slender, and I play But in a very common way:
Though well I know that to the sky, You will applaud my melody;
Nay, if in ev'ry note I fail, You'll call me sweetest nightingale.”

Song.

Pat.
“Aye faith, it is, my dearest dear,
And weighs a thousand pounds a year.”

Lucy.
“Have you in many places been?”

P.
“In service, I suppose you mean:
Only two masters I have serv'd, And from my duty never swerv'd.
I serv'd the King, may Heaven bless him,
As, when he dies, it will possess him.
At his command, a gallant rover,
I've travell'd half this wide world over:
I've drawn my sword, and aye, by dozens,
Have cut down Frenchmen and their cousins.
For many a blessed hour I've trod The field, my ancles deep in blood.
O these were sights enough to make A heart like pretty Lucy's ache!”

L.
“And did you e'er receive a wound?”

P.
“Aye faith, I've lain upon the ground
For half a day, when death and life
Were quarrelling like man and wife,
Which should possess itself of Pat; But, in Heav'n's mercy, for all that
I'm here quite well, and stout to view, And ready to make love to you.
I'm nought but scars as you would know,
If I could dare my form to show,—
'Tis hack'd and hew'd from top to toe.”

L.
“Dear Mr. Pat, you melt my heart;
What cut and slash'd in ev'ry part?”

P.
“The trunk, 'tis true, has suffer'd sore,
Nor could it, Beauty, suffer more;
But for the branches of the tree, They're all just as they ought to be:
But for my wounds I have a plaister,
In a most kind and gen'rous master.”

L.
“What children has the Doctor pray?
And may I ask what age are they?”

P.
“Children indeed, why he had five;
But none of them are now alive:
And his sweet wife, our country's pride,
Three months ago in childbed died.
Her death made many a bosom ake Upon the banks of Keswick Lake.
She thought not, as fine ladies do, Of dresses smart, all pink and blue,
Who think to catch the wand'ring eye Of any fool that's passing bye.
Where'er she mov'd, so nice, so fair, All view'd the well-bred lady there:
But more who did my mistress see Saw the mild form of Charity.
—As for my master, he can shew
More learning than e'en Bishops know.
What knowledge lies beneath his hat
And the fine wig that's comb'd by Pat!
No, your great Church does not contain
The treasure lock'd within his brain.”

L.
“But what of that, it will not do,
If here your master comes to woo:
Learning, I'm sure, will never thrive In widows' hearts of thirty-five.”

P.
“Pooh, nonsense, this is all your sporting;
My master comes not here a courting;
O Heaven forbid, says honest Pat,
That he should play a prank like that!
For worse or better should he take
Your mistress, many a heart would break
Of dame or damsel round our lake.
Besides there is a widow, Dear,
With full twelve-hundred pounds a year:
And what I tell you, faith, is true, For to speak lies I could not do
To such a pretty girl as you—
Should he not lead her to the altar,
She'd cure her love-fit with a halter.”

What other powers of Pat's invention,
It might have been our lot to mention;
If nought had stopp'd his tongue's career,
Or clos'd poor Lucy's curious ear,
This John-Trot verse does not profess To tell, or e'en presume to guess.
—But here the upstairs noise and riot
Disturb'd at once the kitchen's quiet.
—The damsels flew and sought the scene
Where Madam, Syntax, and the screen,
The curious medley there display'd, Which has been either sung or said.
Pat, who knew nought of what above Had happen'd or in hate or love,
Thought that whate'er should come to pass,
He might fill up another glass:—
The wine was sweet, the ale was good,
And jug in hand he list'ning stood.
Thus, while attentive to the rout, He heard a voice cry, “turn him out,
Shew the base daring wretch the door, And never let him enter more.”
He heard,—when, with a face all flame,
Down stairs in haste the cook-maid came,
And while, with staring eyes, amaz'd, He on the angry vision gaz'd
Mutt'ring strange words of dire intent Of base design and ravishment,
She seiz'd at once, then plung'd the mop Into a pail of dirty slop,
And, with a scullion's strong-arm'd grace,
Drove it full dash in Patrick's face;
Nor fail'd she with repeated blow, And deep-ton'd tongue, to bid him go.
He, at a loss the rage to shun Of this fierce kitchen Amazon,
Struggled as well as he was able By way of shield to seize the table;
And, in this strange bespatter'd state,
With hasty footsteps sought the gate.
But now 'tis needful to enquire The fate of Syntax and the 'Squire,
And just to settle the arrears Of blasted hopes and rising fears.
If e'er a pair of fine blue eyes Were seen expressive of surprise,
If e'er surprise, chang'd to alarm,
Display'd a face, now pale, now warm,
As these two feelings might impart Their various impulse to the heart;
'Twas when his Hostess did explore The Doctor as he op'd the door;
And, with unusual length of chin, He faintly bow'd and enter'd in.
But ere the Lady found her tongue,
For she saw something had been wrong,
He, in a rather humbler tone, Thus made his serious frolic known:
“To the fair widow I have been, Of course the blessed dame I've seen.
—You must perceive I'm in a ruffle,
For to speak truth, we've had a scuffle:
Nay, I have somewhat more to say, I've been ill-treated in the fray!”
He then told all he did endure, Declar'd his wounds and ask'd a cure.
—Madam now cast a curious eye, To see if she must laugh or cry,
And as a smile from Hearty broke, She turn'd the scuffle to a joke.
“No harm, I trust,” she said, “is done,
'Twas but a piece of Cupid's fun:
That Urchin is a very pickle, And sometimes does his fancy tickle
'Mong lovers thus to make a pother,
T'amuse himself and please his mother;
But these vagaries when they're o'er
Are laugh'd at and disturb no more.”
Hearty seiz'd Syntax by the hand,
And said, “I here the culprit stand;
Nay, I must now your pardon beg, For bruised shin or wounded leg.
'Twas by my awkwardness I own
The clumsy screen was tumbled down;
And for the ill that did attend, You have a right to blame your friend:
But my dear wife, a Doctor she, In all domestic pharmacy,
Will try her utmost skill and care, Your awkward inj'ries to repair;
And by to-morrow you shall lose All feeling of the widow's shoes.
But she, good Sir, must be forgiven, For Charity's the child of Heaven.
If we would calmly pass along, Nor tempt the jostling of the throng,
As in this crowded world we live, We must forget and must forgive.
You will by active duty teach The doctrines you to others preach:
Nor fail to hold up to their view The lesson and th'example too.
To-morrow she shall make amends,
When you shall kiss her and be friends.”
Syntax.—
“Forgive her? aye with all my heart,
For that is ev'ry Christian's part
But no, I never shall forget The kicking I am in her debt.
And all her kissing I oppose, She's mischief's self and my bruis'd toes
Tell me, that she may snap my nose.”

Madam now gave her needful aid, The opodeldoc was display'd,
And busy in her healing scheme The Doctor's feet receiv'd the stream
Of oily fluids, to allay The tumours rising from the fray.
This she perform'd with tender grace,
When Pat appear'd with batter'd face,
And, as she did the poultice spread, Half-tipsy he thus stamm'ring said,
“—How with my master it turn'd out Upstairs, in all that noisy rout;
I cannot now pretend to know. But faith I suffer'd much below;
Where half a score of Abigails Attack'd me with their mops and pails.
Oh, how these furies did ill-treat me And almost to a jelly beat me!
Do but, your Honour, see my head!”
“Be off, good Pat,” the 'Squire said,
“To Anne or Susan now apply, On their kind aid you may rely,
With brandy bathe your forehead's bruise, A medicine of sovereign use,
That never fails to aid the cure Of such a hurt as you endure.”
Says Pat, “my humble thanks to you,
But that same liquid will not do:
Though you are pleas'd its use to teach, It never will my forehead reach,
For sure as North lies straight to South,
Brandy will never pass my mouth.
Whene'er it comes, with gin or whisky,
So near my lips it makes them frisky:
And then my mouth so round and hollow,
O what an itch it has to swallow!”
“Howe'er that be,” 'Squire Hearty said,
“Go and repair your shatter'd head,
Then take your meal, and off to bed.”
The Doctor, on the sofa laid, A solemn train of thought betray'd.
It was not that he suffer'd pain, That he could smile at and disdain,
But calm reproaches play'd their part In the recesses of his heart:
And when the 'Squire began to chide, Syntax, with serious air replied:
“I thank you for your kind intent, But I've deserv'd my punishment.
I have not broke a moral duty In visiting this furious beauty:
But still it was a boyish trick Which now I think on't makes me sick.
Though scarce four months have dragg'd away,
Since I wept through the dismal day,
When my heart's darling and its pride, In all her glow of virtue died,
I sought, as I shall ne'er forget, To play the fool with a coquette.
When I reflect, best shade, on thee, My lost, lamented Dorothy;
When I but think how much I ow'd To that affection you bestow'd;
When by the fondest union known, You but so lately were my own;
By what dark witchcraft was I brought
To cast my darling from my thought!
If that same crape which decks my head,
In honour of the honour'd dead,
Could but speak now, 'twould send a volley
Of loud reproaches at my folly.”
Hearty.—
“My friend, complain not,—ere the sun
Has its next daily circuit run, Again you'll walk and jump and run.

Syntax.—
“Think not, dear Sir, that I complain
Of what no longer gives me pain:
Pain's not the burthen of my song; It is, that I've been doing wrong.
I only wish to-morrow's morn May find no more the rankling thorn,
Which, at this moment doth infest
With its sharp point my conscious breast.
Though, if repentance could but lull My grief for having play'd the fool,
Should well weigh'd hopes these thoughts beguile,
I shall not only run but smile.
But I will now exclaim no more; Soon will your friendly meal be o'er,
And though my mind is so opprest I look not for a wink of rest,
I will into my cabin creep, And there the widow's vigils keep,
Who broke my shins—and murders sleep.”

CANTO IV.

Syntax.—
“No, no,—should I that Lady meet,
'Twould give me pains in both my feet.
I do believe whene'er she stirs,
Like a game-hen she's steel'd with spurs;
While to protect her powerful charms,
She may wear gauntlets on her arms;
And I must own, as truth's my duty, The widow is a striking beauty.
For hugs and kicks I am her debtor, And no, I never shall forget her;
But much I wish, by any rule I could forget I've play'd the fool.
A distich, I remember well, Does in plain verse this maxim tell:—
‘In many ills which man endures,
‘'Tis Beauty wounds and Beauty cures;’
And this same proverb, as you see, Is haply realis'd in me.
The handsome widow gave the wound,
While to my lovely friend I'm bound
By whose kind care a cure is found.”

Syntax.—
“Much it delights me when I'm told
Of those who highest stations hold,
And, 'midst their grandeur when we view
The highest rank of virtue too: Who all ignoble actions scorn,
Whose conduct proves them nobly born
And well maintain their ancient name,
By virtue and unblemish'd fame:—
But such who great and good combine,
May claim a higher praise than mine.
—The name, indeed, by birth descends,
But Honour on themselves depends,
The Coronet will never hide Presuming ignorance and pride.
Learning by study must be won; 'Twas ne'er entail'd from son to son:
Superior worth high rank requires, For that mankind revere their sires:
But if by false ambition led, In honour's paths they cease to tread,
The ancient merits of their race Serve but to heighten their disgrace.”

CANTO V.

Nimrod.—
“My life, I rather fear, supplies
But little you may not despise:
But still, you sages of the schools Will not declare us sportsmen fools,
If each, in his due weight and measure,
Should analyse his pain and pleasure!
'Tis true for forty years and more,
(For I have long been past threescore,)
My life has never ceas'd to be One scene of rural jollity:
But hurrying Time has fled so fast, My former pastimes all are past:
Yet, though our nature's seasons are Mix'd up with portion due of care;
Though I have many dangers run, I'm still alive at seventy-one.
—Nimrod was always in his place; He was the first in evr'y chace:
Nor last when, o'er th'enliv'ning bowl,
The hunters felt the flow of soul:
The first, when, at the break of day, It was—To Cover, hark away!
The last, when midnight heard the strain
Which sung the pleasures of the plain.”

Syntax.—
“But hunting lasts not all the year:
How did you then the moments cheer
In the vacation of your sport? To what employ did you resort?
You read, perhaps, and can unfold How in old times the hunter bold
Did, with strong lance and jav'ling slay The brindled lion as his prey,
Or chas'd the boar, or sought reward In spotted clothing of the pard.”

Nimrod.—
“I've not quite lost the little knowledge,
Which I obtain'd in school and college;
But the old Greeks, those fighting-cocks,
Did not pretend to hunt the fox:
For where, think you, their hounds were bred,
Or how, think you, their dogs are fed,
If it be true as I have read,
That in a freak and at a sup, They'd turn and eat their huntsman up?
No, Sir, my books enjoy themselves
In long known quiet on their shelves.
—In summer, when the chase is o'er,
And echoing horn is heard no more,
The harvest then employ'd my care,
The sheaves to bind, the flocks to shear;
The autumn did its fruitage yield In ev'ry orchard, ev'ry field,
And emptied casks again receive The juice Pomona loves to give.
The winter comes, and once again Echoes awake in wood and plain,
And the loud cry of men and hound,
Was heard again the country round.
Though I those days no more shall see,
They're gone and past and lost to me:
But as a poet doth relate, When the world's victor feasting sat
And trumpets gave the martial strain,
He fought his battles o'er again;—
Thus I can from my windows see Scenes of the Nimrod chivalry;
And with these old dogs on the floor, I talk the former chases o'er.
There's Music, whose melodious tone
Was to each pathless covert known;
And Captain who was never wrong,
Whenever heard to give his tongue;
There's Paragon whose nose could boast,
To gain the trail whenever lost:
And Darling, in the scented track
Would often lead the clam'rous pack;
While Reynard chill despair would feel
When Favourite was at his heel.
Doctor, these dogs which round me lay,
Were famous creatures in their day,
And while they live they ne'er shall cease
To know what plenty is and peace;
Be my companions as you see, And eke out their old age with me.
With them I sit and feel the glow
Which fond remembrance doth bestow:
And when, in fancy's dream, I hear The tumults break upon my ear,
The shouting cry, the joyous sounds
Of huntsmen and the deep-mouth'd hounds:
My old age ceases to lament My crippled limbs, my vigour spent;
I, for those moments, lose my pain, And halloo as if young again.
'Tis true, in leaps I've dar'd to take, That I have often risk'd my neck:
But though, thank Heaven, I've sav'd my back,
My ev'ry rib has had a crack.
And twice, 'tis true, the surgeon's hand
Has my hard batter'd scull trepann'd;
To which I had a broken arm: And now I've told you all the harm
Which my remembrance bids me trace In my adventures of the chace.
—For these swell'd hands and tender feet
That fix me in this gouty seat,
Which keep me coop'd as I appear, And as you see me sitting here,
'Twas not my age of hunting past, Which thus has kennel'd me at last:
It is Port-wine and that alone
Which brought those wretched symptoms on.
'Twas not the pleasures of the day
That bade my stubborn health decay,
But the libations of the night, To which I owe this piteous plight.
Now of this mansion take a view, And Doctor, I believe it true,
Could it be gaug'd and fill'd with liquor,
Myself, my sportsmen and the Vicar,
Whate'er of wine it might contain Have drunk it o'er and o'er again.
—Philosophers and sage grave men
Have, by their preaching and their pen,
Enforc'd it as a certain rule Of conduct in the human school,
That some prime feeling doth preside
In each man's bosom as his guide,
Or right or wrong, as it may prove The passions and affections move:
Thus some on lower objects pore, Others aloft sublimely soar,
While many take the devious way
And scarce know how or where they stray:
But I ne'er thought of moving higher
Than a plain hunting country squire,
And you will think perhaps my aim
Has been content with vulgar fame,
When it has been my highest boast,
To ride the best and drink the most;
To guide the hounds with matchless grace,
To be the leader of the chace,
And, when 'twas over, to be able To lay my guests beneath the table,
While I, with no unsteady head, Could walk unstagg'ring to my bed,
Laugh at a milk-sop's whimp'ring sorrow,
Nor feel a head-ache on the morrow.
You grave Divines perhaps may flout it,
But still I love to talk about it,
And sometimes too my neighbours join;
Though, while they take their gen'rous wine,
I feel at length 'tis very cruel To pledge their toasts in water-gruel.”

Syntax.—
“Let then your water-gruel season
Awake the slumb'ring power of reason!
You think on pleasures but in vain, Pleasures you ne'er can know again:
Arm then your breast against the fall Which, soon or late, awaits us all:
The chase of life will soon be past,
And Death will earth us all at last.”

Nimrod.—
“You are a scholar and can tell
Whether I reason ill or well;
But, you must know, I've often thought,
That what the Classic poets taught,
And all their sabling fancy yields Of Styx and the Elysian fields,
Was not ill-suited to engage The hopes of such an early age;
And now, when rightly understood, Is no mean motive to be good;
Where virtuous spirits might enjoy Without an end, without alloy,
Whatever was their prime delight, Before they pass'd the shades of night.
—If I remember well, we read Heroes enjoy'd heroic deed:
Bards did their fav'rite themes rehearse
In raptures of immortal verse;
While there the hunters could pursue, The game for ever in their view.
Elysian horses ne'er would halt, Elysian hounds ne'er be at fault,
And neither wanted corn or care, For there of course they liv'd on air:
While on those fields forbid to roam,
The Poacher Death could never come.”

Syntax.—
“I thank you 'Squire for the treat
Of this same classical conceit:
But sure I am it would not do; It could not be a Heaven for you.
Though hunted with immortal skill Elysian hounds could never kill,
For foxes there would never die, But run to all eternity:
And as they would not lose their breath,
You ne'er could be in at the death.
—I willingly allow the fame Due to the Greek and Roman name,
But to their genius 'twas not given
E'en to conceive the Christian's Heaven.
We of this age alone can see The form of Immortality,
That's fashion'd to a higher sphere,
When this our world shall disappear:
On that alone our hopes should rest, For be assur'd—it is the best;
And when from hence fate bids you go,
I trust that you will find it so.
—I've spoke the language of my heart,— So now permit me to depart.
The storm is past, the show'rs are flown.
And I must hasten to be gone.”

Syntax.—
“My Host, I doubt not, told me true
When he referr'd me, Sir, to you,
That you would to my mind explain The meaning of this noisome train,
Which, in the ev'ning of the day, Not only stopp'd me in my way,
But with their rout were pleas'd to greet me,
And with most foul salutes to meet me.
Its history perhaps may be Far in remote antiquity,
But mem'ry does not now recall A trace of its original.”

Curate.—
“Nor yet can I,—but I suppose
It was among the vulgar shows
When Butler wrote, as his droll wit In Hudibras has painted it:
A book writ in most merry strain,
The boast of Charles the second's reign,
And so much fun it did impart, The King could say it all by heart,
Though you must know, he quite forgot
To ask if Butler starv'd or not.
But I shall not attempt to tell A story you could paint so well
—As to this custom, I must own, It might as well be let alone;
But when in matrimonial strife A husband's cudgell'd by his wife,
In country-place, 'tis rather common
This way to compliment the woman,
And by this noisy, nasty plan, To cast disgrace upon the man.”

Syntax.—
“But tell me, if this kind of sporting
May happen when one goes a-courting;
And, if he may these honours prove,
Who's cudgell'd while he's making love.
If so, I am already done, To figure in a Skimmington.”

Curate.—
“No, no, the pair must mated be
Who suffer this foul courtesy;
But how, good Sir, can I suppose That you encounter'd female blows,
That any woman low or high Would treat you with indignity?”

Syntax.—
“It is not surely to my glory;—
But listen, and I'll tell my story:
—Sometime ago, I lost my wife, And mine is now a single life:
When by the counsels of a friend,
Who thought my present state to mend,
I, without telling whens and hows, To a fair widow made my bows:
A buxom, tall and comely dame,
Who wish'd, 'twas said, to change her name,
And if I could her thoughts divine,
Would not, perhaps, have sneez'd at mine.
She was with elegance array'd, And full-trimm'd fashion's ton display'd.
We chatter'd first about the weather;
But when our chairs got near together,
And hints had pass'd of tender things;
She took her lute and touch'd the strings.
She sang, and her soft accents prov'd How sweet it was to be belov'd;
When a confounded, cumbrous screen,
That kept us both from being seen,
Surpris'd us by its sudden fall: After a most tremendous squall,
As she was sinking with alarms, I caught the fair-one in my arms,
Where after lying still and quiet, She thought it fine to breed a riot;
Nay, when the hurrying servants came, Call'd me by ev'ry horrid name;
Then, with a blow I scarce could stand,
She to my head applied her hand,
And ev'ry finger had a nail That did my pallid cheeks assail,
Which, as I vainly struggling stood,
Were seen defac'd by trickling blood.
Then, as she call'd me knave and brute, I felt the fury of her foot,
Whose pointed strokes were sharp and shocking,
And, were I to unroll my stocking,
The vengeful marks I now could show Of kickings got three weeks ago:
And, my sad story to prolong,
She did not spare her shrill-ton'd tongue.
When she was in my arms enfolded
How I was kick'd and cuff'd and scolded!
No hen-peck'd mate was e'er worse used,
My face was scratch'd, my legs were bruis'd,
My wig despoil'd, my neck-cloth torn: So I ran off, amaz'd, forlorn,
From all this am'rous fire and fuel, To poultices and water-gruel:
But thanks to Heaven, who gave me life,
The Harridan was not my wife.
—Thus I have plac'd before your view, A history, so sad, so true,
As it may be of use to you.
Shun then all widows, nor be seen
To court a dame, where there's a screen.”

Curate.—
“These things will happen, as we see,
From time and chance we none are free, Each must fulfil his destiny.
—I also can unfold a fray, Which was brought on by am'rous play,
Though not so splendid in its way,
Nor was such triumph to be won As with your high-wrought Amazon.
“The time's long past, and I've forgot
Whether I had been rude or not.
I cannot say or yes or no, Though probably it might be so;
But, poising a large folio book, My landlady's outrageous cook,
Who, whate'er were her other charms, Had a most potent pair of arms,
Laid me all prostrate on the floor, And thus concluded my amour.
—'Twas Raleigh's Hist'ry of the World,
That Sally Dripping's fury hurl'd;
But as the world had ta'en the field, I felt it no disgrace to yield:
And thus, I think, my Rev'rend brother
Our fates resemble one another.”

Syntax.—
“Our tempers, too, for you have spoke,
As is my taste in classic joke.
Nor do I wonder some may see A likeness between you and me:
Though that indeed might well appear Before we met together here;
Because in ev'ry town is seen A book I wrote to cure the spleen,
In which, by faithful art pourtray'd, My portrait is at length display'd.
I see you've my facetious grin, Nor do you lack my length of chin;
I think too as my eyes presage That we may be of equal age,
And in our sev'ral shapes are shown An equal share of skin and bone.
So far I think we're rather like, As may the calm observer strike:
Besides, the church doth clothe our back In the similitude of black,
And we prefer our brains to rig In the grave dignity of wig,
Leaving the simple hair to grace The dandy preacher's boyish face.
—So far so like our persons are, Such our appearance must declare,
That it may make good humour laugh,
As we our evening bev'rage quaff,
While I may hope that we may find A better likeness in the mind.”

CANTO VI.

Of transient evils we endure Sleep is a kind and frequent cure;
And the vexations over night Will sometimes fly at morning's light.
We know it will not always ease The pangs that wait upon disease:
The fever's watchful burning heat, When the impetuous pulses beat,
May ask the wish'd-for boon in vain, The eyes to close and banish pain:
But still the gout, the racking stone, Its calming influence grateful own,
When, aided by the opiate power, They steal but one appeasing hour.
—The mind is not indebted less For short cessations of distress,
When it puts off the evening sorrow, Until the wakeful hour to-morrow,
While fancy on its powers may call T'amuse th'oblivious interval.
Syntax, 'tis true, there's no concealing,
Had in his mind a certain feeling,
When moral sense and cleric pride Would wounded be and mortified.
Besides, if that known, chattering dame, Who flies about, entitled Fame,
Should his late evening's hist'ry take
T'amuse his friends around the Lake,
To him or them in any measure,
It would not prove a source of pleasure.
But whatsoever harm was done, He felt 'twas to himself alone;
And what his folly did impart Arose but from a warmth of heart.
Reason had bent to the controul Of what was the mere flow of soul;
While conscience set the matter even, And thus he felt himself forgiven.
—His pipe he smok'd, the wine was good
Becalm'd his thoughts, by sleep subdued
Without a hint from aching head, At early hour he sought his bed.
What dreams by fancy were begot Or did he dream, or did he not,
The Muse would think it vain to pry, Into the fruitless mystery:
But when his eyes op'd on the morrow
Kind sleep had eas'd him of his sorrow,
And the vexation over-night Had left him at the morning's light.
Charm'd with the beauty of the day,
And the surrounding scene so gay,
Where nature in her loveliest hue Display'd the animating view
Of woods above, of meads below,
Where 'mid the green the flow'rets blow, And crystal waters softly flow;
While active rural life combin'd To fit the landscape for the mind,
As it invites reflection's eye To the earth's rich variety.—
With such a scene to gaze upon Th'enraptur'd Doctor travell'd on.
—Within the winding of a vale, 'Mid blended charm of hill and dale,
And shaded by a spreading grove
Where Dryads might be feign'd to rove,
A stately, ancient mansion rose, Which titled ancestors had chose
In former times to be the seat Where rural grandeur found retreat,
And now might seem to trav'ller's eye Beaming with hospitality.
—'Twas here that Syntax chanc'd to see
A woman spinning 'neath a tree,
Whose boughs o'er-spread a straw-roof'd cot,
Which was some lab'ring peasant's lot.
“Tell me,” he said, “my honest dame,
The state, the character and name,
Of him or her who, by Heav'n's grace,
Doth own that noble, charming place.”
“'Tis Lady Bounty,” she replied, “Who does in that fine house reside:
All that you see, Sir, is her own, But she has long been better known
For the good deeds which do resound
From grateful tongues the country round:
To bless us all it doth appear That Heaven has plac'd this lady here.
It seems to be her only joy Her time, her fortune, to employ
In doing what is real good. —My tears express my gratitude;
For in that cot my husband lies
With useless limbs, and sightless eyes:
Whom the swift lightning's piercing flame
Has render'd senseless, blind and lame,
But all the comfort he can know, Her care, her kindness do bestow:
Nor does she loll at home at ease; She watches o'er her charities:
E'en here she comes, as sent by Heaven,
To see that what she gives is given.
—Nay, while the poor she doth supply, A splendid hospitality
The rich who visit her receive,
With the proud welcome she can give.”
Syntax, with all this story charm'd,
And his benignant bosom warm'd,
Resolv'd to view these proud domains
Where so much native beauty reigns,
And ply his skill to sketch the scenes Where so much virtue intervenes.
—Near an alcove he took his seat In view of this superb retreat:
Then, in his sketch-book 'gan to trace
The leading features of the place:
And with a practis'd eye, combine The picturesque of his design.
—A gard'ner soon to Patrick came
To know his master's rank and name,
When Pat ran all his virtues o'er,
Told what he was—and somewhat more.
The pencil now employ'd its power;
Nor had the Doctor pass'd an hour
In tracing, with his utmost care, A scene at once, so grand, so fair,
When Lady Bounty came to know What for his ease she could bestow,
And with an hospitable grace, The well-known feature of the place,
To dine he kindly was invited, Nor was the smiling goodness slighted;
Then with this welcome she address'd
Her rev'rend and delighted guest:
“—Since Doctor Syntax here is come, He must believe himself at home,
And all that can his wishes crown He will consider as his own:
For while he sojourns he will be The object of all courtesy;
And to a yet far distant day 'Tis hop'd he will prolong his stay.”
The dinner o'er the blessing given
For ev'ry bounteous grace of Heaven,
The Doctor who would never balk A certain love he had to talk,
And which we know is least withstood
When wine is plenty and is good,
Had in a strain of modest glee Told all his curious history.
Not that the Muse did mean to hint He here would go beyond the stint
Of learned sages' due decorum,
When the full bottles smile before 'em.
—The interesting story done, Which had a fond attention won,
The mansion's mistress silence broke And thus in pleasing accents spoke.
Lady Bounty.—
“It doth indeed my spirits cheer,
To see the Rev'rend Doctor here,
Whose many virtues and whose taste, Appear by none to be surpass'd;
Nay, that same chance I happy call
Which turn'd his face tow'rds Bounty Hall:
And while his conversation gives
That pleasure which with knowledge lives,
I trust he will employ a day His graphic talents to display
On the rich charming scenes which bound
My range of ornamental ground:
And that by his superior taste My antique sculptures may be plac'd,
(Too long the victims of neglect) In proper sight with due effect:
It is a favour I shall ask That he would undertake the task;
Nay, such assistance to impart Is a free boon he owes to Art,
Which, for these trophies' sake, demands
The labour of his head and hands.”

The Doctor, highly flatter'd, bow'd, And marks of due obedience shew'd,
Then promis'd with to-morrow's sun The curious work should be begun,
Nor would he go till it were done.
The morning came, with utmost care The Rev'rend Artist did prepare
With all his pencil's skill to trace The beauties of this favour'd place;
When Lady Bounty, to beguile His labours with approving smile,
Stood on the terrace-wall to view The Doctor's progress as he drew:
When, at once furious and alarm'd,
And with most uncooth weapons arm'd,
Led on by Pat, a noisy crew Did a wild swarm of bees pursue,
And, with a loud and tinkling sound Of rustic cymbals chasing round
The flying rovers, eager strive To tempt them to the offer'd hive:
But all these sounds were made in vain;
They did their humming flight maintain,
And, spite of pan and pot and kettle,
Chose on the Doctor's head to settle.
—It must be thought indeed most strange,
That this wing'd populace, who range
In search of sweets, should hope to swig The liquid nectar in a wig;
And there though learning might be crown'd,
That food ambrosial would be found:
But still it seems the Royal Bee Would thither lead her colony.
—The Doctor felt no small alarm
As he beheld the approaching swarm;
And when their buzzing threats surround him,
The fears of such a foe confound him,
Who with a thousand stings might wound him.
The screaming Lady did entreat That he would not forsake his seat,
But by all means avoid a riot, And let them take their course in quiet;
As then, she from experience knew, No harm, no evil would ensue.
The Doctor said, “while I have breath,
I'll run and not be stung to death.”
Then off his hat and wig he threw, And up the terrace steps he flew;
While Patrick with impetuous tread,
Flung the hive towards his Master's head,
To save his bald pate from the chace Of this same flying stinging race.
Away they hurried down the slope,
Which was so steep they could not stop;
Syntax went first and Patrick after,
And both plung'd headlong in the water,
Which, in a sweeping, close meander,
Beneath the terrace chose to wander:
Though no harm did this fall bestow, But being wet from top to toe:
And that was small, when ev'ry care Of the kind Lady would prepare
What the good Doctor's state required: All he could ask for or desir'd,
Was ready to obey his call; And ev'ry soul in Bounty-Hall
Did the officious service ply, So that he soon was warm and dry,
Talk'd o'er in terms of frolic ease His curious battle with the bees,
And made his tumble in the water A source of fun and gen'ral laughter.
His hat and wig the honeyed race Had not found a fit resting place,
Or as retir'd and snug retreats
Where they might lodge ambrosial sweets;
So that unspoil'd they did remain When to their owner brought again.
—His troubled toil he soon renew'd, And with such eager zeal pursued
Th'allotted task—that ere the sun
Had gone its round, his work was done.
—Syntax had made the chaste design
With equal space and measur'd line,
Which would each pleasing form admit Where'er the spot best suited it.
The statues now in order plac'd The niches on the terrace grac'd,
And sculptur'd vases were display'd To range along the balustrade:
While the sad willow's pendent bough Hangs o'er the solemn urn below,
And the sarcophagus is seen Amid the cypress' darksome green.
But it appears, this was not all That Syntax did at Bounty-Hall:
His pencil promis'd to impart The utmost power of its art,
That Madam's Boudoir might abound
With drawings of the scenes around.
The Lady in no common measure,
To him thus spoke her grateful pleasure:
Lady Bounty.—
“How to express my just regard
And how to shape a due reward,
For all the service you have shown,
For what you're doing and have done,
I cannot to my mind declare, Though that shall be my future care:
But still there is another call Upon your heart at Bounty-Hall,
For much I wish that you would trace The features of my homely face;
It would please me and others too To have my portrait done by you;
And you, my Rev'rend Sir, shall know
The reasons why my wishes flow That you this favour should bestow.
Expanded on the stuccoed wall Of my old mansion's stately hall,
You see my form at large appear When in my three-and-twentieth year,
And deck'd in all the proud array Which gaudy fashion could display;
But then, I trust, my conduct prov'd That I was worthy to be lov'd
By virtue's image, who was then My husband and the best of men.
To wealth and station full allied, My ev'ry wish was gratified,
And I my splendid course pursued, A star of no small magnitude,
And one bright track I did maintain, With love and honour in my train.
Thus fifteen years of life I pass'd In happiness too great to last,
When death at length appear'd, and then I lost, alas! that best of men.
He left no heirs to stamp his name With perpetuity of fame,
But it appears as Heav'n's decree That duty should devolve on me,
And, from the moment when he died,
Here have I liv'd and have applied
My wealth and time and thoughts alone
In doing what he would have done,
And, as he on his death-bed lay, His last instructions to obey.
But though some form my state requires,
Some outward show, yet my desires,
Heav'n knows, impel me to prefer The form of his just almoner.
Then to the canvas pray impart, With touch of unassuming art,
Not Lady Bounty of the world, With all her glitt'ring robes unfurl'd:
But as my present form you see In dignified simplicity,
Such, as if here a year you stay, You'll see her, Doctor, every day.”

Syntax.—
“Madam, you know, you may command
The work of my inferior hand,
But my poor pencil is confin'd To labours of an humble kind:
Nor have I ventur'd on the toil That dares consume the painter's oil.
But if you please to send to town And order proper colours down,
With canvas, pallet, and the rest Which I may want—I'll do my best.”

Lady Bounty.—
“It shall be done, without delay;—
But some short time must pass away,
Ere your most friendly pencil traces
My grateful looks and fading graces.
And I have still a boon to ask, To you, I trust, a pleasing task;
You, whose peculiar virtue knows To act the part which I impose:
You, who can well discharge your duty
To female youth and female beauty,
By fixing in the early mind Those principles by truth design'd
To guard them from the heart's deceit, Which to our sex is more replete
With dangers than it is to man, As your experience well can scan.
—You must know then: our schemes to vary
That I protect a seminary
For female youth, at no great distance,
To which I ask your kind assistance,
Its style and manners to review, And there to pass a day or two,
Till the arts' implements recall Your presence back to Bounty-Hall.”

The Doctor with his task content, Gave a most ready, grave consent;
And, under Lady Bounty's care, He, the next morn, was usher'd there.
From eight at least to fourteen years,
The troop of female youth appears:
With heartfelt pleasure Syntax view'd The interesting sisterhood;
Some were the rosebuds of the day,
Some did their op'ning leaves display;
But all did the fair promise give, That they were fitted to receive
The counsels which the sage inclin'd To pour into their early mind.
The evening came, the scene was gay, All clad in summer's best array,
When the fair youthful band were seen
Arrang'd upon the shaven green.
—Beneath an oak's wide-spreading shade,
While through its boughs the zephyr play'd,
The sage, with reverential pride, Plac'd the preceptress by his side.
He threw a genial smile around Upon the animated ground;
Then upward look'd, as if was given, A silent orison to Heaven;
And soon a mute attention hung Upon the wisdom of his tongue.
Syntax.—

The Doctor rose, the blessing given
With waving hand and looks to Heaven,
He calmly left the leafy bower, And sought the contemplative hour:
The evening pass'd and much he thought
Of the young train whom he had taught;
Then went to rest, but, ere he slept,
Review'd th'affecting scene, and wept.
What active cause his slumbers broke Or why at early hour he woke
It would be needless to enquire; But ere the neighb'ring parish spire
Receiv'd the sun's first golden ray
And told the bright approach of day,
Syntax had left his downy rest; When, all bewigg'd and fully drest,
He to the window turn'd his eye, And view'd with sudden extasy
A scene of nature that combin'd Whate'er could fill the painter's mind.
—Through a deep verdant vale below, A crystal stream was seen to flow,
While swelling hills with forests crown'd,
Did all the nearer prospect bound,
And mountains clad in airy blue Clos'd with their tops the distant view:
Nor did there want the mantled tower,
Or pointed spire or village bower;
Besides the morning's moisture threw O'er woody dells a misty hue,
That form'd a dusky base below, To heighten the ascending glow,
Which the horizon's golden ray Did on the summit's peak display.
Struck with the beauty of the view, He brush'd away the morning dew,
To make a hasty sketch or two.
Pat follow'd quick, when, having seen His master seated on the green,
And with attentive care employ'd, On the gay work he so enjoy'd,
He rov'd about, now here, now there,
He scarce knew why, he scarce knew where:
When, as beside a hedge he stray'd,
From the sweet voice of village maid,
He heard a simple strain prolong
From tender heart this piteous song:
Pat listen'd and soon made reply In his own native minstrelsy.
He clos'd his strain and through the screen
Form'd of wild flowers and branches green,
A lass slow pacing on was seen.
A russet gown the maiden wore, And on her arm a basket bore;
The rosy blush was on her cheek,
And dark brown locks hung o'er her neck,
While eyes of blue seem'd to impart The symptoms of a melting heart.
—Pat took a peep and quite delighted,
Thought that the time should not be slighted,
And that the means he might improve To try and make a little love.
—Though, thought he, I'm not so clever
To leap across a flowing river,
I think at least I have the sense To get me o'er a quickset fence:
No sooner said than done: the rover Took a long run and soon was over:
The damsel started at the sight, But soon recover'd from the fright;
When he with smile and gentle talk, Begg'd to attend her on her walk,
To bear her eggs and while the thrush
Sung sweetly from the neighb'ring bush,
In pleasing courtesy confer, And mention all he thought of her.—
—Susan, poor girl, at first was coy, But there's a certain am'rous boy,
Who cares not how he wastes his darts,
Nor whether high or vulgar hearts
Receive their points, so he can play And thus amuse his time away.—
Thus ere Pat's tongue for half an hour
Had exercis'd its flatt'ring power,
She had withdrawn her look severe, And seem'd to give a list'ning ear.
While this love-talk was going on, Syntax his morning task had done,
And was returning stout and able, To prey upon the breakfast table.
Thus, passing on, he chanc'd to see, Beneath an overshadowing tree,
Patrick engag'd in am'rous guise Devouring Susan with his eyes;
While she, with half averted look, The kind discrimination took.
—The Doctor, sitting on a stile, Resolv'd that he would stop awhile,
And please his fancy with the view Of how the curious courtship grew.
—Sometimes their jogging elbows spoke Half in earnest, half in joke;
Then their join'd hands appear'd in view,
And then the nymph her hand withdrew,
Tapping the lover on the shoulder;
At which he bolder grew and bolder;
When his arm gently clasp'd her waist,
Nor did she think the grasp misplac'd;
For, though she made attempt to shove it,
The feeble act did not remove it.
—And now the smiling Doctor thought
'Twas time to set it all at nought,
To interfere in the debate, And spoil, at once, the tête à tête.
He then appear'd, poor Pat was hush'd,
The nymph at first look'd down and blush'd,
Then tript away on all her legs, To better market with her eggs.
Syntax.—
“What fancy has your folly led
To stuff with trash that poor girl's head:
To trump up a long list of lies About her ears, her nose and eyes,
That though you've been all Europe o'er,
You ne'er saw such a wench before:
And while your nonsense you were plying,
You knew, you fool, that you were lying.”

Patrick.—
“An't please your Rev'rence, 'twas but sporting
What a man says when he's a-courting.
Believe me, Sir, no ill was meant, And all was done with kind intent.
I met the maid, and could not balk My fancy for a little talk:
She seem'd well pleas'd—I did my best;
'Twas only making love in jest:
'Tis what I've heard that great folks do,
Whenever they are pleas'd to woo.
When I serv'd Col'nel Debonnair, I've heard him to a lady swear,
Though brown as chestnut, she was fair.
And faith, Sir, I have heard him tell A shrieking miss she sang so well,
That her sweet accents did inspire A notion of the Heav'nly quire.
I've heard him too, and not in fun, Tell a fat widow, like a tun,
That she was as a Venus made, A pattern for the Sculptor's trade;
He meant it true,—for she believ'd it,
And, with a thousand thanks receiv'd it.
But all these fancies are forgiv'n;
If e'er man went, he's gone to Heaven:
He was the best of men, all said Who knew him, whether live or dead;
For on one hard and well-fought day,
He on the cold stone lifeless lay.”

Syntax.—
“This is not the time or season
For me on serious points to reason:
But he who says what is not true, Whether he be a fool like you,
Or has th'acknowledg'd reputation Of being wisest in the nation,
Will have commited an offence
'Gainst virtue, reason, common-sense;—
For on the heart a Lie's a blot, Whether in palace or in cot.”

Here this unsought-for converse ended,
The ladies on the sage attended,
And at the sound of breakfast bell, Took 'special care to feed him well:
Nor did they want an equal zeal At ev'ry stated, plenteous meal:
While to the charming female college,
He well return'd the food of knowledge.
—On the next day a friendly call Re-summon'd him to Bounty Hall.
The messenger arriv'd from town, Had brought the apparatus down,
By which the Doctor was to ply His fav'rite art with novelty;
To see what his unpractis'd toil Could do with canvas and with oil.
The pallet set, with colours grac'd, The easel in due posture plac'd,
The curtain'd window's softened glare,
Of fav'ring light th'admitted share,
The Lady seated and full-drest,
Call'd up those looks she thought the best,—
When Syntax, with uplifted eye, And somewhat of a doubting sigh,
Whisper'd a soft soliloquy;
Or, with hesitation fraught, Rather indulg'd a doubtful thought.
How oft my pencil has prepar'd To trace the guests of farmer's yard,
How often has it brought to view With nice design and likeness true,
The horse, the ass, the goat, the cow, All shelter'd by a barley-mow:
While here I'm puzzled at the feature Of a human Christian creature:
But patience calls me to the test, And I must strive to do my best.”
He wav'd his pencil, form'd the line
That shapes the human face divine,
Gave all the features their due places,
And hop'd to finish with the graces.
Puffing and painting on he went,
Sometimes displeas'd, sometimes content,
Until it was too plainly seen, One eye was blue, the other green;
Whereas, on a correct survey, Her Ladyship's bright eyes were grey.
The Lady when she took a view Declar'd the gen'ral likeness true,
But still she thought it might be stronger;
He took the hint, and made it younger.
By daubing out and laying in The tints alternate thick and thin,
He kept within a mod'rate line: But made the drap'ry wond'rous fine.
—She thought 'twould have a pretty look
If in her hand she held a book,
Which, with a demi-serious mood, Might much improve her attitude:
But it so happ'd, he cast an eye Upon a cake and currant-pye,
Which an adjoining table grac'd With other articles of taste;
And thus the Doctor, while proceeding,
Thought more of eating than of reading:
For here attention felt a break, Out went the book—What a mistake!
And in her hand he plac'd the cake.
—The laugh was loud, they sought the board,
The cake was eat, the book restor'd,
The pencil mov'd, the flounces twirl
And round the robe impetuous curl.
—Syntax now thought, I've done my best;
At least, my Lady is well drest,
And, as my art can go no further, I hope, without committing murther,
I have at length just made an end Of my kind, hospitable friend.
—The work, 'tis true, had no pretence To that superior excellence
Which some could to the canvas give,
Whereon the figures seem to live;
And though this picture cannot vie With aught 'bove mediocrity,
Yet those to whom my Lady's known Did all the gen'ral likeness own;
And she herself, above the rest,
Her warm and grateful praise express'd.
—When 'twas presented to the eye, In a room hung with tapestry,
Of ancient work, with figures grim
Of monstrous shape and threat'ning limb;
Whose colours, the whole room pervading,
Had for a century been fading;
The contrast gave a glowing grace, Both to the air, the form, the face,
To which the Rev'rend Limner's art Did those apparent powers impart,
That, to his eye, he scarce could tell The wonder it was done so well.
But ere he quitted Bounty-Hall Syntax receiv'd a serious call,
With strong expressions, to attend The wish of Doctor Dicky Bend:
And much he did anticipate The comforts which would on him wait
In the recesses of a college, Scenes of good living and of knowledge,
Which to the mind and body give The solid means for both to live.
The Doctor thought to steal away, As he was wont, by break of day;
But Lady Bounty's rank and station
Had check'd the vulgar inclination,
And he determin'd to regret, With all due form and etiquette,
In looks that mourn and words that grieve,
That he was forc'd to take his leave.
—The morning came, the breakfast o'er,
Phillis and Punch were at the door:
When Syntax, in respectful tone, Made all his grateful wishes known,
While ev'ry hope words could express
For health, long life and happiness,
Follow'd in due and stated course, With solemn, modulated force.
Then her right hand he gently drew,
Kiss'd it, and bow'd, and said “Adieu.”
—Affected by this tender grace A tear stole gently down her face;
And wiping her be-moisten'd eye, She offer'd this sincere reply:
“—Doctor, your virtues I revere,
And wish your stay were longer here:
Doctor, your learning I admire, And much I grieve that you retire:
Your piety involves my heart, And I lament that you depart.
But still I thank the happy chance,
That did your wand'ring steps advance
To where I pass my tranquil days In striving humble worth to raise,
And in the circuit of my power,
To cheer the poor man's toilsome hour;
In youthful minds the seed to sow Of virtue, and where thistles grow
To pluck them, that they may not spoil
The fruits produc'd by honest toil;
Nay, I am proud, that my great view
Has been approv'd and prais'd by you.
And while I wish you ev'ry good, I thus my kind farewell conclude:
—Here whensoe'er you wish to come This house will prove a real home:
Come when you will, bring whom you may,
And, as you please, prolong your stay:
You'll have the welcome of my heart; Nor go, till I pronounce depart.”
—She now presented to his hand A cover rich with velvet band,
Where taste must have been proud to ply Its needle in embroidery.
A clasp, enrich'd with gold, confin'd The memoranda of the mind,
Which on the inmost page so white, The ready pencil might indite.
“Take this,” she said, “and when your thought
Is with a sudden image fraught,
—Inscribe it here and let it live, Nor be a hasty fugitive:
It thence may gain a passage free To dwell within your memory:
And at those moments do not spare,
For your warm friend a transient prayer.”
The Doctor here made no reply, But a warm tear in either eye,
And quietly pursued his way In thoughtful mood from day to day,
'Till he attain'd his journey's end And shook the hand of Dicky Bend.
It was not long ere they were seated, And had each other kindly greeted;
Talk'd o'er the college news, and told
Who lately died and who grew old,
Or look'd for tardy time to pay The hopes of the impatient day;
What the preferment in their giving,
And who had got the last good living.
They then both div'd in classic lore, And did the various toil explore
Of learning and of learned elves: At length they talk'd about themselves.
When, looking downwards, Dicky Bend
Call'd on the Doctor to attend.
D--- Bend.—
“My invitation gave a hint
As if that something more was in't,
Than a mere gen'ral kind request To come and eat and drink the best
Which my known hospitable board Does to a valued friend afford.
In short 'tis some time since I found How dull the solitary round
Of a continued single life; I therefore look'd out for a wife;
And soon the widow of a friend Did by her qualities commend
A fitness for the married state, And suited just to such a mate,
As I, at length, am like to prove, Now past the warmer age of love.
Indeed I'm told the gen'ral voice Of all my friends approves my choice.
We are not strangers to each other:
I knew her husband and her mother:
Known a good wife to Johnny Free, Why then, I ask you, may not she
Be just as good a wife to me?
Beauty indeed she does not boast; She never was the college toast:
But manners sweet, with winning smile,
That do the feeling heart beguile,
All these she surely doth possess, And more than I can well express;
Nay somewhat of a sleepy eye— But you will see her bye and bye.”

Syntax.—
“Let now I pray the subject cease,
It wakes those thoughts which wound my peace:
No more of wives before we dine, You know that I'm depriv'd of mine;
So leave that topic to the wine.”

The dinner o'er, the Lady came,
Who look'd so soon to change her name,
And did with grateful care attend To say kind things to Dicky's friend,
By whom the office would be done To make her and her Dicky one.
—'Twas with discretion well arrang'd,
That his old state should not be chang'd
With the well, long-known Mrs. Free, Within the University;
For should it hap to reach the knowledge
Of the young gownsmen in the college,
The gen'ral quiz, the frolic tale,
Would through his cloister'd haunts prevail:
The grey-beard Cupid's wings would sprawl
On many a disfigur'd wall,
And Hymen's well-known saffron shirt
Would be well sprinkled o'er with port.
The Provost had a Rect'ry neat Which serv'd him as a country seat,
Snugly retir'd from public noise, And fit for hymeneal joys.
The coppice did his meadows bound,
The purling riv'let flow'd around,
And fruits and fragrant flow'rs were seen
To deck the smooth-fac'd bowling-green.
Full many a leaf of various hue Did its neat snow-white front bestrew,
While o'er the porch the branches twine
Of the sweet smelling jessamine.
—What did it want t'increase the measure
Of calm repose and rural pleasure,
But to advance domestic life; That Dicky Bend should get a wife?
And such he was about to prove, The gift of reason and of love.
For this he left his stately college,
And the more deep research of knowledge,
To pass his annual vacation In ease and rural recreation.
From his o'er-ruling cares releas'd, Here he became a Parish Priest;
And Syntax here perform'd the rite Which did his worthy friend unite,
In the indissoluble tie, Which hallow'd Altars sanctify.
The merry peal awoke the day,
And flow'rets strew'd the church-yard way,
And all the village folk were gay.
—The benediction then was given,
With prayers of all the poor to Heaven,
For it was known that Dicky Bend Had ever been the poor man's friend.
—The hours were pass'd in tranquil joy,
No sick'ning cup, no feast to cloy;
Nought struck the ear, or met the eye, But friendship, love and harmony:
A scene that might give ample scope To furnish out a solid hope,
That Dicky Bend, with such a wife Would find the rarest good of life.
Syntax th'important deed had done.
And now no longer would postpone
The last great point he had in view, In town to pass a week or two.
He on the wedding's joyful eve,
Of Bride and Bridegroom took his leave,
To gain some neighb'ring inn's abode
Where, seated on a turnpike road,
He might a quick conveyance find.
—Phillis and Punch were left behind,
Their time in idleness to pass, And fatten on the Provost's grass.
—The Doctor had not long to wait,
A stage-coach stopp'd before the gate:
He a convenient sitting shar'd; Pat took his place beside the guard;
And, having safe arriv'd in town, At Hatchett's Hotel were set down.
Nor had the busy following day In vain research been pass'd away,
For free from the street's rattling din,
He found repose in Thavies Inn,
Where from the town's unceasing riot,
He could enjoy his time in quiet;
If he should chuse his pen to wield In learning's wide polemic field;
Or let his lively fancy play With reigning subjects of the day,
Or sport away his leisure time, In lighter works of prose or rhyme:
This place appear'd a calm retreat For learning or the Muses' seat,
Such as he thought could scarce be found
Within the City's ample bound.
—Whether he thus the scene employs, Or how its comforts he enjoys;
What pleasure seeks, what cares dispel,
Perhaps, a future page may tell.

CANTO VII.

Auctioneer.—
“The Book's knock'd down at two pound two,
The money to be paid by you.”

Syntax.—
“This sure is reas'ning most absurd,
Why, Sir, I never spoke a word:
I might have nodded twice or thrice,
To see the book fetch such a price:
With secret pride I was complying,
But that had nought to do with buying.”

Auctioneer.—
“Nodding is bidding, Sir, well known
In ev'ry auction-room in town, And now the Book, Sir, is your own.”

Syntax.—
“I know 'tis mine—because I wrote it,
But you will never say I bought it.
Nay that would be a scurvy trick, Enough to make the Author sick.
If my nods bought it, as you say, Why nods should be the coin to pay.
For the same book I could not bid, A fool I must be if I did.
Besides I safely may express, That he who doth the Work possess,
Were I at any time to try His honest liberality,
Would give me copies half a score,
Did I demand them, aye and more.”

Syntax.—
“I've known, good Sir, what 'tis to want;
I've felt the time when cash was scant;
Nor am I backward to relieve Those who feel want and such as grieve,
And look about, with sadden'd eye, On their surrounding penury.
I would from my example teach, By all the means within my reach,
The Heav'n-taught doctrines which I preach.
—Devoutly I have lov'd the arts,
And mine's among the grateful hearts,
Which own the pleasures they bestow, Though I myself but little know:
And far as my poor means extend, I will not fail to be their friend:
To this same feast I will repair;
Syntax, be sure, will meet you there.”

Syntax.—
“What in my writings has appear'd,
What of me you have ever heard,
What in my visage do you see To show the lines of infamy,
As to suppose, I would disgrace My name, my character, my race,
And thus degrade by basest arts,
Whate'er they be, my mind and parts—
The bounteous gifts of God and nature,
And thus blaspheme a kind Creator?
For thus Heav'n's gifts to misapply Is little short of blasphemy.
—Listen, I bid you, to that bell I understand its language well,
It speaks of death—it is a knell,
Which has just call'd some spirit home,
To quit this life for worlds to come—
And in the course of some few hours
The awful summons may be yours:
And where the devil do you see, Will then your ill got treasure be.”
“—Doctor,” the other man replied, “By preaching, we're not satisfied.
We have another plan in view Which has been freely told to you.
—You'll let it work within your brain: To-morrow we will call again,
And more at large the scheme explain.”

Syntax.—
“Nay, I at present have a scheme
Of which you neither of you dream.
That you shall down those stairs betake you,
As fast as my man Pat can make you.”
The hint was given, and his strong arm,
Fill'd these associates with alarm;
Head-long and side-long down they went,
'Till they completed their descent:
While Betty with her mop and pail On the mid-stair case did not fail
With well-applied and furious dashing,
To give these pamphleteers a-washing.
Vellum who was waiting there Came in for his allotted share:
He had the auction story heard,
And brought his hopes to be preferr'd,
As printer, publisher, what not, By which some profits might be got,
If Syntax had to London brought Any new work by fancy taught,
Which might his character maintain And promise a return of gain.
Vellum arriv'd, all calm and quiet, Just at the moment of the riot,
When squalling, swearing, rattling, rumbling,
These pettifoggers came down tumbling
Upon him full, with all their weight,
So that he harmless shar'd their fate;
And, coming with a fair intent,
Could not conceive what all this meant.
The noise itself may be conceiv'd When a close passage floor receiv'd
Three booksellers, together found Sprawling upon the hollow ground;
While without hat, wig, or umbrella,
They kick'd and each abus'd his fellow
With horrid oaths and daring threats Of constables and magistrates,
And calls on Syntax to prepare For grave reproaches of the Mayor:
While Pat stood on the landing-place With vict'ry smiling in his face.
This strange and blust'ring bustle ended,
Vellum upon the stage attended;
And had receiv'd no further hurt Than might be caus'd by sav'ry dirt.
“Know you these men,” the Doctor said,
“By whom I have just been betray'd
Into a violence of wrath That may not quite become my cloth?”

Vellum.—
“O I was glad to see them bang'd,
Nor should I weep if they were hang'd;
For I suspect they are the same Who pilfer'd your respected name;
And 'tis apparent with a view No lib'ral tradesman would pursue,
Though it appears the knavish trick Has made at length the public sick.”

Syntax.—
“Ne'er mind, whatever their intent,
I take it as a compliment:
And calmly let the matter pass— For this I know, a knave's an ass.
—But what brings Vellum to my view?”

Vellum.—
“To pay my best respects to you:—
And as perhaps you may have brought
A Manuscript with learning fraught;
Or some nice, pretty little skit Upon the times and full of wit,
A dealing I should hope to drive
By which our mutual gains might thrive,
And keep our friendly terms alive—
Perhaps, Sir, in your country fancies,
You have compos'd some other dances.
Your Dance of Life and Dance of Death
Have added foliage to the wreath
That binds your brow. But I could tell
That which would answer full as well.
What think you of the Doctor's Dance,
To make the tricks of physic prance
With clysters, boluses, and pills, And all those cures for mortal ills,
Where morbid fancy takes the rule, And leads the wise to play the fool;
While stores of hypochondriac wealth,
Are wasted in vain search of health.
Your fiddle might, in solemn sport,
Make the law trip through ev'ry court,
And modernise the ancient brawls Of Serjeants in the Temple Halls.
—But matrimony! what supply Of infinite variety
Does it not to the Muse present Of misery and merriment,
Of happy harmony and strife, Too often seen through ling'ring life,
And give new pictures in each stage,
From smiling youth to snarling age!
O this would do, excuse the hint, With all your wit and sketches in't!
I will risk paper, plates and print;
I'll take the trouble and the care, And equal profits we will share.”

Syntax.—
“The change is curious I must own:—
When I, my friend, was last in town,
You thought me poor and friendless too,
And look'd for homage you deem'd due
From coinless bards to men like you:
Then all your purse-proud spirit woke,
Till a great friend that spirit broke. But now, good Vellum, now I see
Your purse-proud pride will bow to me.
And, let me say, my friend, beside, I've somewhat of an author's pride,
Nay, am dispos'd to bear me high With your inferiority:
For know the diff'rence is as great Between our real and genuine state,
As regions where the planets glow,
And, those you tread, with well-shod toe,
The realms of Paternoster-Row.
The life of genius will extend The passing time's remotest end,
While yours with all your golden crop
Will not outlast your groaning shop.
Wealth is the work of worldly art,
While Heaven's dispensing powers impart
Those gifts with which inspired nature
Re-animates the human creature,
And bids his native spirit soar To heights of thought unknown before.
Kings may make Lords and tricks may thrive
But Heav'n alone can Genius give!
—Now if your brain and mine were sifted,
How would our sev'ral sculls be gifted?
Yours would be full of golden schemes,
And stuff'd with money-getting dreams;
While I should hope that mine might prove
The seat of visions form'd by love,
From ev'ry sordid notion free, And warm with Heav'n-born Charity.
Hence 'tis, that I shall not submit To all that Vellum thinks is wit;
What I shall do 'tis mine to tell; I'm born to write, he's made to sell.
But this I say as my award, When any future work's prepar'd,
He shall its honest fortune guard.
Such is the promise you receive.”

Syntax.—
“I, who am seldom call'd to stray
From life's retir'd and secret way;
I, who presume not to impart The progress or the rules of art;
I, who with weak and erring hand
The pencil's humblest powers command;
I, who, with timid mind expose My undigested thoughts to those,
Whose elevated genius sways The rising arts of modern days,
Have but one object to pursue, In thus addressing me to you.
'Tis not improving art to teach, A subject far beyond my reach;
But suited to my rank and state On those high powers to dilate,
Which the ingenuous arts possess, In fav'ring human happiness;
In strengthening the moral sense By their impressive influence:
While they the improving power impart
To quicken and to mend the heart,
To animate, by powers combin'd Pictures of virtue in the mind,
And soften, when well understood,
Manners, till then unform'd and rude.
Horace has said, well known in story,
Who liv'd in height of Roman glory,
And was at once the barb and sage Of the renown'd Augustan age,
When the fine arts in radiance shone,
As Rome Imperial had not known,
And ere the Vandal bade them cease, Were rising up to rival Greece:
To this bright wit it did appear That what alone we list'ning hear,
Does not so soon affect the heart, As does the eye, by works of art.
“I shall not strive to state the measure
Of the secure refining pleasure,
Which the productive arts can give, And we may ev'ry day receive;—
'Tis not for my weak voice to stray Into that boundless, glowing way
Where arts of the remotest age May on the canvas charm the sage,
Present, in figure, form and fashion, The grand events of ev'ry nation,
And shew each hero known in story, Amid the blaze of mortal glory;
Can, 'neath the dreary realms of frost, Give to the eye the sunny coast,
And the most distant scenes display Of ev'ry country's various day:
Can decorate the plaster'd wall Of my embower'd, humble hall,
With Alpine heights and icy vales,
Where the fierce snowy blast prevails,
While the big mountain-torrent's course,
Descending with impetuous force,
Does the astonish'd channel fill, Making a river of a rill.
Nay more, the scenes of human strife, Of transient variegated life,
The ocean's or the tented view Of Trafalgar and Waterloo.
Nor these alone, the poet's fire Does the bold artist's hand inspire,
And shews, as we the thought pursue, The painter and the poet too.
But I must leave these powers of art
To those who can their charms impart;
Who can with truth and nature tell
The secrets which they know so well.