University of Virginia Library

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.