The Dance of Life A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. | CHAPTER III. BOYHOOD. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
 | CHAPTER III. BOYHOOD. The Dance of Life |  |
93
CHAPTER III. BOYHOOD.
'TIS a nice moment, when a Boy,
Who, having been his Mother's joy,
And nurs'd in the domestic fold,
With hourly care till ten years old;
Who, during Learning's loose restraint,
Could scarce find cause for a complaint;
And found each path, in vacant hours,
Strew'd by a Mother's hand with flowers;
It must be strange, at such an age,
To launch into the world's vast stage;
For such a Public School will prove
To him, who ne'er was known to rove,
Who ne'er had even wish'd to roam
Beyond the dear delights of home,
Where ev'ry want was quick supplied,
And scarce a wayward wish denied;
Where all were proud from High to Low,
Obsequious to his will to bow.
Who, having been his Mother's joy,
And nurs'd in the domestic fold,
With hourly care till ten years old;
Who, during Learning's loose restraint,
Could scarce find cause for a complaint;
And found each path, in vacant hours,
Strew'd by a Mother's hand with flowers;
It must be strange, at such an age,
To launch into the world's vast stage;
For such a Public School will prove
To him, who ne'er was known to rove,
Who ne'er had even wish'd to roam
Beyond the dear delights of home,
94
And scarce a wayward wish denied;
Where all were proud from High to Low,
Obsequious to his will to bow.
How chang'd the scene which now he proves;
In what a different orb he moves;
Where the young passions bad and good,
Friendship's warm flame or angry feud
First take possession of the mind,
And tell how Nature is inclin'd.
The rude, rough wit, the manual game,
The notions new of pride and shame;
The frequent jeer, the daring wrong,
Which the weak suffer from the strong;
The tyrant stroke that all must feel,
And which the tongue dares not reveal;
While patience bears the slavish hour,
Borne by the hope of future power;
Which, into higher order cast,
Will recompense whate'er is past.
The Upper Form will ever rule
The inferior classes of the School;
And these, with weak complaint obey,
Because they know the time, when they
Will take their turn to be obey'd
With the submission which they paid.
In what a different orb he moves;
Where the young passions bad and good,
Friendship's warm flame or angry feud
First take possession of the mind,
And tell how Nature is inclin'd.
The rude, rough wit, the manual game,
The notions new of pride and shame;
The frequent jeer, the daring wrong,
Which the weak suffer from the strong;
The tyrant stroke that all must feel,
And which the tongue dares not reveal;
While patience bears the slavish hour,
Borne by the hope of future power;
Which, into higher order cast,
Will recompense whate'er is past.
95
The inferior classes of the School;
And these, with weak complaint obey,
Because they know the time, when they
Will take their turn to be obey'd
With the submission which they paid.
But still these scenes are mix'd with pleasure,
With lively sports, and laughing leisure;
Which will the active mind prepare
For hours of toil and studious care.
These, Learning rules in awful pride;
While stern Correction, by its side,
With angry mien and threat'ning nod,
Grasps in its hand the birchen rod;
Whose menace wakens torturing fears,
Whose stroke draws forth the bitter tears.
—Hal was not backward to discern,
What Masters taught that he must learn;
No favour or affection stood
'Tween what he wish'd, or what he would;
No Granny now was by his side
To please his whims, or soothe his pride;
No summons to a sumptuous dinner,
Would bribe to spare the threaten'd Sinner;
No mother, with endearing smile,
Was there, his sorrows to beguile;
No fretful humour was allow'd,
For all with calm submission bow'd:
Whate'er was error he must shun,
And do whate'er was to be done:
No hypocritic, sly pretence,
Would there gloss over an offence;
No art the penetrating eye
Would rob, of its sagacity,
But Justice be dealt forth to all
In Education's splendid Hall:
There unbought praise proclaims the meed
Of studious toil or classic deed;
Nor smarting chastisement is spar'd,
The sluggard Culprits due reward.
With lively sports, and laughing leisure;
Which will the active mind prepare
For hours of toil and studious care.
These, Learning rules in awful pride;
While stern Correction, by its side,
With angry mien and threat'ning nod,
Grasps in its hand the birchen rod;
Whose menace wakens torturing fears,
Whose stroke draws forth the bitter tears.
—Hal was not backward to discern,
What Masters taught that he must learn;
No favour or affection stood
'Tween what he wish'd, or what he would;
96
To please his whims, or soothe his pride;
No summons to a sumptuous dinner,
Would bribe to spare the threaten'd Sinner;
No mother, with endearing smile,
Was there, his sorrows to beguile;
No fretful humour was allow'd,
For all with calm submission bow'd:
Whate'er was error he must shun,
And do whate'er was to be done:
No hypocritic, sly pretence,
Would there gloss over an offence;
No art the penetrating eye
Would rob, of its sagacity,
But Justice be dealt forth to all
In Education's splendid Hall:
There unbought praise proclaims the meed
Of studious toil or classic deed;
Nor smarting chastisement is spar'd,
The sluggard Culprits due reward.
97
The verse might here a page employ
In pitying this dear, humour'd Boy;
And fond affection might create
The hardships of his alter'd state,
With the sad difference which he found
Between his home and classic ground:
How oft he cast a wishful look
Towards the blest spot which he forsook:
How oft, amid his chamber's gloom
He sigh'd, and thought of Granny's Room,
Where he no kind indulgence wanted,
And ev'ry thing he wish'd was granted;
Nay, every harsh o'erbearing word
Which his grim Tutor had preferr'd
Mem'ry no longer thought austere;
And he would now rejoice to hear.
This piteous Tale we might pursue:
But for one cause—It is not true.
In pitying this dear, humour'd Boy;
And fond affection might create
The hardships of his alter'd state,
With the sad difference which he found
Between his home and classic ground:
How oft he cast a wishful look
Towards the blest spot which he forsook:
How oft, amid his chamber's gloom
He sigh'd, and thought of Granny's Room,
Where he no kind indulgence wanted,
And ev'ry thing he wish'd was granted;
Nay, every harsh o'erbearing word
Which his grim Tutor had preferr'd
Mem'ry no longer thought austere;
And he would now rejoice to hear.
This piteous Tale we might pursue:
But for one cause—It is not true.
Our Harry was no common Boy:—
Indeed Dame Nature was not coy
When she employ'd her plastic art,
To frame his head, and mould his heart.
He had both talents and discerning,
And for his age a love of learning;
But then by fits and starts he took it,
For steady toil he could not brook it.
No one more keenly felt the shame
That waits upon a blockhead's name;
But oft, from bold and gamesome spirit,
He felt the stroke which blockheads merit:
Nor was he less alive to praise
Though Fear sometimes conferr'd the Bays:
For oft he did his toil pursue,
Because the Birch was in his view.
It was not pain, but the disgrace
That made tears trickle down his face;
And he felt trebly ev'ry blow
Which stern correction did bestow;
When through pure carelessness he shar'd
The wanton Scholar's sore reward.
—But other feelings he possess'd:
No terror e'er assail'd his breast,
When for some novel, daring deed,
He was e'en threaten'd to be flea'd
That Learning should allow his merit,
And Boys admire his ardent spirit,
Was what he studied to combine
In one original design.
—In all the various feats that claim
Renown to gild a School-boy's name,
His courage ne'er was known to fail:
He sought the stream, he leap'd the pale
Of neighb'ring Orchards; or where'er
The apple or the juicy pear
In fair luxuriant plenty, grew
And hung all tempting to the view,
Nor the deep ditch or lofty wall
Alarm'd him, he surmounted all;
And, in disdain of rod and rule,
Became the Hero of the School.
Indeed Dame Nature was not coy
98
To frame his head, and mould his heart.
He had both talents and discerning,
And for his age a love of learning;
But then by fits and starts he took it,
For steady toil he could not brook it.
No one more keenly felt the shame
That waits upon a blockhead's name;
But oft, from bold and gamesome spirit,
He felt the stroke which blockheads merit:
Nor was he less alive to praise
Though Fear sometimes conferr'd the Bays:
For oft he did his toil pursue,
Because the Birch was in his view.
It was not pain, but the disgrace
That made tears trickle down his face;
And he felt trebly ev'ry blow
Which stern correction did bestow;
When through pure carelessness he shar'd
The wanton Scholar's sore reward.
—But other feelings he possess'd:
No terror e'er assail'd his breast,
99
He was e'en threaten'd to be flea'd
That Learning should allow his merit,
And Boys admire his ardent spirit,
Was what he studied to combine
In one original design.
—In all the various feats that claim
Renown to gild a School-boy's name,
His courage ne'er was known to fail:
He sought the stream, he leap'd the pale
Of neighb'ring Orchards; or where'er
The apple or the juicy pear
In fair luxuriant plenty, grew
And hung all tempting to the view,
Nor the deep ditch or lofty wall
Alarm'd him, he surmounted all;
And, in disdain of rod and rule,
Became the Hero of the School.
Thus, Time in due succession past,
His sixteenth year arriv'd at last,
When free'd from a stern Master's nod
And all the threat'nings of the rod
He, with good store of Classic knowledge,
If that were all, was sent to College;
And Alma Mater smiles to see
Our Harry 'mong her progeny
Here he was fitted, as at School,
To play the Scholar and the Fool;
And he continu'd, nothing loth,
To give a varying shew of both.
His sixteenth year arriv'd at last,
100
And all the threat'nings of the rod
He, with good store of Classic knowledge,
If that were all, was sent to College;
And Alma Mater smiles to see
Our Harry 'mong her progeny
Here he was fitted, as at School,
To play the Scholar and the Fool;
And he continu'd, nothing loth,
To give a varying shew of both.
| CHAPTER III. BOYHOOD. The Dance of Life | |