University of Virginia Library

CANTO III.

Now Syntax was, it might be thought,
To serious contemplation wrought
By all he had so lately seen, Nay what he had so lately been,
That there was matter to supply Twelve miles a good soliloquy.
But he wish'd not his mind to fix On the strange widow and her tricks:
For though, as he employ'd the key, T'unlock the gates of memory,
Some motley whimsies might appear,
Which had found a sly corner there,
And would awake a sense of mirth;
Yet he must feel that they gave birth
To certain interludes beside, Which serv'd to wound his solemn pride.
For, though so pure might be his aim,
Reflection gave him much to blame;
And 'stead of furnishing content,
Still conscience whisper'd him—Repent.
Thus in the struggle to forget The being caught within the net,
Where nought that he had hop'd was gain'd,
Nor e'en the slightest good obtain'd;
Of all his usual life bereft, He neither look'd to right nor left,
Nor down to earth, nor towards the spheres,
But onward 'tween his horse's ears
Where to a point his eyes he brought,
Which though wide open, yet saw nought;
A situation often known To thought, when it is left alone.
At length the pensive Doctor doz'd,
And both his eyes were quickly clos'd;
For a soft, all-subduing sleep Did on his senses gently creep,
And Pat, a faithful servant he, Did on this sleepy point agree.
This page attempts not to explore, As Æsop did in days of yore,
How beasts and birds and reptiles thought,
And by what potency were taught
To think and speak and act like men,
Which they don't now,—if they did then.
Monkeys, it seems, might grin and vapour,
There cut a joke, here cut a caper;
The Lion might be call'd to rule, An Elephant might keep a school;
The Snake, with gratitude at strife, Might strike at his preserver's life;
While from base, mean and selfish ends,
The Hare might lose her many friends;
And thus the animals dispense The sterling rules of common-sense.
But well-fed Punch was form'd by nature,
A mere instinctive, useful creature;
Who on the road or in the stable, Would not have answer'd for a fable:
Sure-footed, subject to no whim, And sound alike in wind and limb;
Who both the whip and spur obey'd, In the proportion they were laid;
But if he happen'd not to feel An angry hint from thong or steel,
He, by degrees, would seldom fail T'adopt the gallop of a snail.
Just now, then it may be suppos'd That, while his drowsy rider doz'd,
He thought he had a right to go As slow as any horse could do:
But still he'd change his forward way, To ease a passing cart of hay,
Or to the right or left would pass, To snatch a tempting tuft of grass.
The sun grew hot and Punch was dry, A rippling brook was running by:
Towards the clear stream his way he bent,
Snuff'd the cool air, and in he went;
When after having drank his fill
His feet were cool'd, and he stood still;
When, feeling neither whip nor spur,
He thought there was no hint to stir.
Pat did the self-same footsteps trace,
And his horse sought the self-same place.
Thus, side by side, the cattle stood,
Knee deep within the crystal flood;
While fast asleep the riders sat, The Doctor here, and there was Pat:
And how long on the river's lap They might have thus enjoy'd their nap,
It is not worth the while to guess, It would, of course, be more or less;
But a tinker on his ass, Happ'ning that morn, that way to pass,
Could not but think it rather droll To see them sleeping cheek-by-jowl:
Nor could he check his rude, gruff laughter,
To hear them snoring o'er the water:
Then with a piece of solid metal, He struck with force a hollow kettle,
And instant the resounding stroke, The master and his valet woke.
With the sudden noise they started, And from their wat'ry station parted,
The Doctor thought a shot was fired,
And from what quarter he enquired;
The Tinker said, “You need not fear, No enemy, good Sir, is here:
I travel all the country round, To fill up holes, where holes abound.
I am a trav'ling tink'ring stranger,
Who thought, Sir, that you were in danger;
For had you met an overthrow In the mill-dam that is below,
'Twould have been labour all in vain, To get your Honour out again:
And as I could not reach to shake you,
I made the noise I did to wake you.”
“I thank you, friend,” the Doctor said,
“Kindness like yours should be repaid;
It is a debt, I freely own, So, Patrick, give him half-a-crown.”
Poor Tink'ring Tom was quite delighted,
Who look'd not to be thus requited,
For all he did, and all he spoke, Was in the way of saucy joke:
But so it was, and off he went Singing his way, with loud content;—
While his brass kettles told the tale,
As they resounded through the vale.
“How long,” says Pat, “we might have stay'd
In the quick waters' running shade,
And why my brown horse and your mare
Chose to take a position there,
Now I'm awaken'd, makes me stare:
For howsoe'er we slept or doz'd
An' please you, Sir, our eyes were clos'd.”
“Pat,” said the Doctor, “you're a fool;
The morn was hot, the river cool,
The beasts were early out and dry, And drowsy too, like you and I,
For I throughout the night before, Had not slept out a second hour:
—But let us on our journey haste, The breakfast-time advances fast,
And I've within a certain power That tells it me besides the hour.
Nor must you, Pat, forget to rig In its first honours, my last wig,
Renew its curls, and thus restore Its form to what it was before;
Its air Canonic was beset By that vain, whimsical Coquette,
To whom I owe resentment yet;
Though, as a Christian, it were better To forgive her and forget her.”
Thus as he reason'd to and fro, Not yet determin'd what to do,
He reach'd a pretty town, whose name Does not possess historic fame,
But boasts an inn which Syntax blest
For morning meal and welcome rest.
The wig, with all due skill, repair'd, The chin dismantled of its beard,
His whole exterior made as smart As could be done by Patrick's art,
He set off, with design to call, Ere the sun set, at Tulip-Hall,
And on the way his mind supply With gen'ral terms of Botany;
Call on his mem'ry to review Whate'er he once of Flora knew;
Then add sweet, sentimental bloom, A type of offerings yet to come,
And with such fragrant hope prepare A welcome from the flowery Fair.
Thus as he thought a voice behind,
Which seem'd to load the passing wind,
Exclaim'd—“What, Doctor, is it you?
My eyes, I thank them, tell me true:
And pray accept my solemn greeting, At such an unexpected meeting.”
Syntax replied, “The same receive, Which I to Doctor Julep give.”
—It turn'd out that their journey lay,
For sev'ral miles, the self-same way,
When the Physician thus began To tell his visit and its plan.
“Capias, the Lawyer, whom you know
Left business some few years ago:
In short he now has given up thinking
Of nought but eating and of drinking.
Nay once a fortnight 'tis at least, That after some redundant feast,
For me he in a hurry sends As one among his oldest friends,
To ease his overloaded paunch Of what remains of ham and haunch,
And to exert my utmost power His weaken'd stomach to restore;
But soon, alas, too soon I think, His food will be confin'd to drink,
When he must yield to his disease, And I shall lose his gen'rous fees;
For I am not asham'd to tell The Lawyer pays the Doctor well.
Forgot is his Attorney's trim, His wary tricks are chang'd to whim,
In stucco'd eating-room he dines, But takes his glass with all his wines,
And where to vary his regale, The cask pours forth the foaming ale;
For to his cellar he descends
And 'neath its vaults he treats his friends;
There the ever-moving glass Quickens the hours as they pass,
While the tale, the joke, the song, The Bacchanalian feast prolong.
There of his Vintage he's profuse, And e'en if Bacchus were to chuse,
Wherever he might chance to dine, With Capias he would take his wine,
O, how I wish you would attend, This visit to my jovial friend:
To him, dear Sir, you're not a stranger,
Nor will your virtue be in danger!
He'll kindly put you at your ease,
With him you'll do just what you please:
Nay, 'twill amuse you thus to see And hear, the strange variety.”
“You know I'm not so very nice,”
Said Syntax, “to pronounce it vice
When friends in mod'rate glasses join,
And cheer their heart with gen'rous wine;
Social love appears the best When seated at the friendly feast,
Nor can it wound a D.D.'s pride, When I've an M.D. by my side.
I'll therefore join this pleasant frolic, But, if I chance to get the cholic,
You must, my learned friend, agree, To cure the pain without a fee.”
This, by the Doctors twain, agreed,
Well-pleas'd they on their way proceed.
Capias, with smiles his guest receives,
And a loud, hearty welcome gives;
Nor did he cease repeated greeting
Till dinner came—and then to eating.
Not a word pass'd but when he boasted
The ven'son to a turn was roasted;
And of the dishes, as they came, He told their excellence and name.
The dinner o'er with thanks to Heaven
For all the various bounties given,
The Bacchanalian suite attend And to the cellar they descend,
In the vaulted cave benighted, Till by suspended lanterns lighted,
The colour'd blaze dispers'd the gloom Of the subterranean room.
—Syntax on all around him gaz'd, The more he saw, the more amaz'd;
Bottles on bottles seem'd to rise In ev'ry form, of ev'ry size,
And casks, of large and lesser shape,
Rich with the juice of ev'ry grape,
Were there in order due maintain'd By thirst luxurious to be drain'd.
—Syntax now felt himself inclin'd
T'indulge the impulse of his mind;
But this was not a time for thinking
'Mid such a fearful threat of drinking.
He now took the appointed seat, Suspicious of the liquid treat,
Resolv'd to keep his reason clear
And watch what might be doing there.
—Capias exclaim'd, “This is the toast,
Which in this place must rule the roast,
And my good friends, I'm sure, will see Its claim to fair priority:
I give the Law,—to that are owing
The means to set these currents flowing:”
He loudly then pronounced the word,
And straight the ruby bumper pour'd.
The Doctors both the reason saw Of his just preference to Law.
—Capias again fill'd up his glass. “The second toast that I shall pass
Julep with pleasure will receive, 'Tis one that he himself would give:
Here's PHYSIC—call'd the eye of science,
Life's firmest friend and best reliance:
Without it boldly I declare I should not now be sitting here,
Thanks to the learned Doctor there.
You both, I think, forebode the next, Or as a toast, or as a text;
Though last, the highest in degree, So now I give DIVINITY.”
The flowing wine here found a pause;
Capias talk'd loudly on the laws;
When Julep, without vain pretence, But with a ready eloquence,
Display'd his scientific knowledge, As a learn'd member of the College;
While Syntax thought it best would suit His priestly office to be mute.
Nor did the Lawyer now appear
To wish the Doctor's thoughts to hear,
For then he happen'd to be thinking
'Twas time to take again to drinking,
“To what we've drunk, we all agree,
And now,” he said, “I'll give all three,
LAW, PHYSIC and DIVINITY!
—All toasting hence, my friends, will cease,
And each may do as he shall please.”
Syntax who sat serenely by, Kept on his glass a wary eye,
While the physician and his host Grew rivals as to drinking most;
When the good-humour of the day Seem'd to be melting fast away.
“Let me,” said Julep, “recommend,
Good Capias, as your real friend,
From this wild drinking to refrain, Nor let me counsel you in vain.
From that vast paunch what ills betide you,
As big as any cask beside you!
For, if you thus go drinking on, I e'en must tap that Human Ton.”
—“Tap me? I then shall ne'er recover:
No,” Capias said, “'twill soon be over:
Life's stream will quickly run to waste,
For what's tapp'd here can never last:
From long experience I must own, Belly or cask, 'twill soon be gone.
But hark, you ignoramus elf,
Feel your own paunch and—tap yourself!
And now I'll ask the grave Divine
Which is the biggest, yours or mine!”
—“You, like your brethren of the law,”
Cried Julep, “always find a flaw,
And, as you strive to patch it o'er, Contrive to make as many more.
This history I have the power To lengthen out at least an hour,
But 'twould be painful to rehearse, So I will sing it in a verse.
“When the terrible law, Lays its horrible paw
On a poor man he's sure to be undone;
Nay, 'twill cause his undoing And e'en prove his ruin,
Though as rich as the Lord Mayor of London.”
“Your tricks,” said Capias, “never cease
To humbug health into disease:
And thus you find the wealthy ninnies,
Who take your pills and give you guineas.
You know, old Galen, this is true, And I can sing as well as you.
“—You Doctors ne'er fail Whatever we ail,
To talk us all o'er as you please;
For whether you cure us, Or in church-yard immure us,
'Tis the same—you all pocket our fees!”
Thus they drank and thus disputed, Thus they argued and confuted;
Thus they sang or strove to sing, It was much the self-same thing,
With some little stammering;
Then they slept and woke again, 'Till the stable-clock struck ten.
Syntax to escape was thinking From this beastly scene of drinking,
When he would almost have preferr'd
A hog-trough with the grunting herd:
Nay, as he rather had a feeling That sleep was o'er his senses stealing,
He thought it better to remove To some sweet place of rest above;
When, as he turn'd his heavy head He saw behind a supper spread,
Attended by a household dame, Whom we shall now Rebecca name.
Thither he dragg'd his wooden chair, And took a fix'd position there:
To Becky's hand he gave a squeeze,
And thus address'd her—“If you please,
I'll taste your tempting toasted cheese,”
“No, Sir,” she said, “here's better picking
Broil'd ham and a nice mushroom'd chicken,
So season'd I should not be willing To swallow it for twenty shilling;
Though as a relish, I can boast The making an anchovy toast:
And something's here with name uncivil,
For our cook christens it a Devil.”
—“A Devil, in any shape, sweet maid
A Parson fears not,” Syntax said;
“I'll make him minc'd-meat, 'tis my trade.
But while your sav'ry bits I'm eating
Tell me what means this vaulted meeting?
Whence comes the whim and what's the cause
That moves this agent of the laws
To play a part that seems high treason
Against the sov'reign law of reason?”
“Through summer months, it is his rule,”
Rebecca said, “because 'tis cool.—
For the first hour of their descent 'Tis all kind words and compliment,
But sure as my stool is a barrel,
They first dispute, and then they quarrel,
Then sleep and wake and snort and snore
'Till they, dear souls, can drink no more.
—It is my office to appear With this superfluous supper here;
For, when before them I have plac'd it,
Heav'n bless the topers, they ne'er taste it;
And while they sleep, I leave the cats
To guard the dainties from the rats.
But that self-same fat doctor there
Plays a sly game, as I could swear:
For though he drinks and talks and sleeps,
Yet he a careful measure keeps;
For he contrives to save his head, And walks off steadily to bed;—
While Mr. Capias, to his cost, Drinks 'till his ev'ry sense is lost,
When all the household, while they bless him,
Bear him up-stairs and there undress him.
He wakes at morn with aching head,
And rumbling stomach over-fed, When Julep seats him by the bed.
The pill, the purge, the powders follow:
Which he, alas, is doom'd to swallow:
Then for a grumbling week, forsooth,
He does not use a grinding tooth:
For nought is on his table seen, But sago, broths and medicine.
Indeed, whene'er his room I tread, To ope the curtains of his bed,
I almost fear to find him dead.
—The Doctor having done his deed, Is by the grunting patient fee'd,
Takes leave and darts off, like a rocket,
With five fresh guineas in his pocket.”
Said Syntax, “'Tis a wretched sight,
So let your fair hand take a light,
And shew me where to rest to-night;
For, without any formal warning, I will be off to-morrow morning;
And leave, sweet maid, my pious prayer,
A tribute to your gracious care.
As soon as cocks begin to crow, I hope to be prepar'd to go.”
But though those birds their matins sung
Before his wak'ning bell had rung,
It had not struck the seventh hour When he was jogging on his Tour.
Some miles they pass'd, but not a word
The Doctor or his man preferr'd.
At length his Rev'rence wish'd that Pat
Should let loose his amusing chat
Of what he did and all he saw, While they were with the man of law.
“—Whate'er,” he said, “I look'd to see,
Was just, Sir, what it ought to be.
So kindly Mrs. Becky chatter'd,
And Oh, how Pat from Cork was flatter'd!
Of the good things I had the best;
And, faith Sir, I'm not now in jest:
For Mrs. Becky was so kind, That she, perhaps, might have a mind
In my warm heart to make the stir If I had been a widower;
For when I told her I was married, O quite another face she carried.
And, please you, Sir, could it be shown
That my sweet person were my own,
I could work up a bargain well As, if you please, I hope to tell.
I think 'tis true or I mistake, That Becky butters well her cake;
She does whatever she may please, And she not only keeps the keys,
But faith nor does she think it worse,
She handles the old lawyer's purse.
Besides whene'er he turns to clay, And that she looks for ev'ry day,
'Twas whisper'd in my ear that she Expects a good round legacy.
Thus, when his guzzling season's o'er, She will ne'er go to service more,
But be a comely, wealthy wife, And bless some honest man for life;
Nay, had I been from marriage free, I might have been the happy he.”
He paus'd.—The Doctor ever kind,
Who felt what pass'd in Patrick's mind,
With smiling glance, gave this reply: “I do not wish just yet to die,
But when, please Heaven, my course is run,
And life's appointed work is done,
Patrick may find that Syntax knew
His worth, and could reward it too.”
The honest fellow touch'd his hat:
“My heart now thanks you, Sir, for Pat.”
He softly spoke, and breath'd a sigh,
Then drew his hand athwart his eye:
And if 'twere ask'd what he felt there; It might be said, a grateful tear:
They journeyed on nor fast nor slow, But much as other people do:
And, at an anti-dinner hour, Syntax was seated in a bower,
For bower it was, though we must call
The blooming mansion, Tulip-Hall.
Fresh, balmy sweets were found to breathe
From blushing vase or pendant wreath,
While springing flowers of ev'ry dye Enchanted the admiring eye.
Nor was this all, the landscape's pride
With the gay garden's beauty vied:
Wide spreading groves with lawns between,
In summer foliage, grac'd the scene,
And the glittering streamlets play'd
In eddies through the sunny glade,
While flocks were scatter'd o'er the dale
Where tall pines whisper in the gale,
And midway, in th'ethereal blue, The spire divides the distant view.
As Syntax did the landscape trace The widow'd mistress of the place
Appear'd with welcome in her face,
Which she confirm'd with cheering voice.
“To see you, Sir, I do rejoice,
Pleas'd too that you did not delay Your coming here beyond to-day:
We want just such a man as you To please and to instruct us too:
For I expect three charming neighbours
Who aid me in my floral labours:
But I this counsel must impart;—
Cast a broad buckler o'er your heart:
For 'tis my duty, though a stranger, To warn you of a certain danger
Thus you will, now, your mind prepare Our lively, social joys to share;
While I to-morrow shall decree To Flowers and to Philosophy.
But as the toilette now attends To deck me out to meet my friends,
I leave you, Sir, till I am drest, To do whate'er may suit you best.”
Then from her breast-knot gay she took
A nosegay, and, with gracious look,
“This gift,” she said, “I pray receive, It is the sweetest I can give.”
“Nay,” he replied, “the gift I view,
Is sweeter, since it came from you—”
And thus the young acquaintance grew.
—The Doctor up the village walk'd
And with the gazing peasants talk'd,
When as a church rose in his view,
He thought there was a parson too;
So to the vicarage he hied Where at the window he espied
A damsel full of joke and laughter,
Who prov'd to be the parson's daughter.
He with respectful look and mien, Ask'd if her father could be seen,
When, with quick speech and sprightly eye,
The fair one hasten'd to reply,
“I'm sorry you to-day are come, As my dear father is from home,
For he is gone to take his station At the Archdeacon's visitation.”—
“Will you then say, my pretty dear!
That Doctor Syntax has been here,
And if it is my lot to stay At Tulip-Hall another day,
If I to-morrow should remain, I hope, sweet maid, to call again:
In the mean time, I pray, receive, 'Tis all, I fear, I have to give,
These flowers, in whose form is shown, A native beauty like your own;
And may it, many a coming year, In all its present glow appear!”
He did his fragrant gift present, She revell'd in the charming scent,
And smil'd a grateful compliment.
—A matron who was on the watch, From upper window in the thatch,
Thought it but proper to descend, And give the warnings of a friend.
“I'm sister, Sir, to our Divine, Nay that Miss is a niece of mine,
And much I wish to hint to you What my good brother's self would do;
That you must your keen thoughts prepare
To guard against some hidden snare,
By which you may become the tool Of Lady Tulip's ridicule:
For she delights, at the expence Of men of gravity and sense,
To make some saucy trick prevail, And furnish out a merry tale,
In which her well-fed guests combine,
And scandal-mongers love to join;
As by example will appear From the recital you shall hear.
“Last week, she had the art to move
A neighb'ring 'Squire to offer love;
And while upon his knees he swore He lov'd as none e'er lov'd before,
She scream'd aloud, while 'tis as certain,
Three Misses, hid behind the curtain,
Did with their added clamours rouse
The various guardians of the house,
Who in the carpet did enfold him,
And all along the flooring roll'd him;
Then squatted on him, but no further,
As they might run the risque of murther.
Embrown'd with dust, all hot and panting,
Cursing the hour of his gallanting,
How he recover'd, no one knows
But round the neighbourhood there goes,
Or true or false, a curious story, Which I decline to lay before you:
But wheresoe'er the 'Squire can move,
He hears the tale of making love;
And all repeat the carpet brawl That shook the floors of Tulip-Hall.
Now, should this strange, capricious dame
Attempt on you some idle game,
Let not, I beg, your patience leave you,
Be calm, come here, and we'll receive you.”
The Doctor thus was well prepar'd To keep himself upon his guard,
And when he reach'd the hall, he found
Th'assembled Misses ranged around,
In the full ton, and rather pretty, With apt pretensions to be witty.
The dinner came with taste prepar'd,
And Syntax its rare bounties shar'd:
In the dessert fresh garlands bloom,
Whose odours fill'd the ambient room;
And much he thought the coming hours
Would blossom with the world of flowers,
Their classes, orders, native dies, Their species and varieties,
Their leaves, trunk, stem, supports and root,
Their flow'ring, with their seed or fruit;—
He thought they would Linnæus quote,
And all Miss Wakefield speak by rote.
But not a word was said of flowers,
No sweets were there, they dealt in sours,
For not a thought dismiss'd a sound
But some known name receiv'd a wound.
Among the grave, they nought could see But symbols of hypocrisy,
While those whom merry fancy rules Were noisy and outrageous fools;
The grave, the gay, the old and young,
Felt the full malice of their tongue:
And as for beauty, not a grace Was own'd to smile about the place.
Tea came, nor did its cheering water
Check the malignant, smashing slaughter:
For still they told of ev'ry feud That did disturb the neighbourhood:
The gossip's tale and envy's gall Resounded in the blooming hall.
—The sage benignant utter'd nought
But thus indulg'd the secret thought:
“Where all these fragrant flow'rets blow,
Rue, wormwood, nettles, ought to grow.”
At length the temple of perfume Was quitted for the billiard-room.
Ladies command, he must obey, So Syntax took a cue to play.
Tho' he did not the laugh approve, As he propos'd to play for Love,
Or when the usual sum was nam'd,
For which these ladies always gam'd.
But, yet it seem'd as if he won,
Though when the pastime they had done,
He was inform'd, and to his cost, The several parties he had lost,
As they were coolly counted o'er By the tall Miss who kept the score.
Whate'er he fancied in their feats,
He could not say he thought them cheats,
So he put on a smiling face, And paid his losings with a grace.
—The ev'ning rather calmly past,
When they all said, good-night, at last;
And the next morn, the breakfast o'er,
The whole a pleasing prospect wore;
When Ma'am proposed to show the glory
Of her renown'd Conservatory,
Where every plant and flower was found
That takes a root in British ground,
While many a native it could boast
Of distant clime and foreign coast:
Nor did her fine harangue neglect The true Botanic Dialect.
But just as Syntax felt inclin'd To speak the impulse of his mind,
And, with a ready force, dispense His scientific eloquence,
She urg'd him to direct an eye To a fine Rose of Tartary:
“It is upon the upper row, So mount, and bring it here below,
And I'll refresh it as I stand With a full wat'ring-pot in hand.”
Careful and step by step he mov'd, But just as he successful prov'd,
A shelf gave way, another follow'd,
Ma'am Tulip scream'd, the gard'ner hallooed,
While Syntax join'd the gen'ral bawling,
And soon upon the ground was sprawling;
When, scatter'd round upon the green,
Pots, flowers and hat and wig were seen.
The lady trembling, from the spout Let the cool, sprinkling water out,
Which did in various streamlets play On Syntax as he struggling lay.
“O cease,” he cried, “these rills to pour,
My head is neither pot nor flower,
And for the flowers my brains produce,
They're not for Lady Tulip's use:
If with these dripping favours crown'd,
Have mercy, or they'll all be drown'd.”
He roll'd away and then uprose His moisten'd drap'ry to compose;
But when she saw on looking round
The fragments scatter'd o'er the ground,
O never did the realms of Drury Display a more decided fury.
“See,” she exclaim'd, “you horrid Bruin,
The matchless mischief you've been doing!
These plants, I tell you, cost me more
Than a year's tithes could e'er restore.
Ill-luck in its worst guise, is seen, In that beshrivell'd face and mien!
Be gone, you old, ill-boding fright,
Haste, leave my house, and quit my sight!
The lemon-scented moss that came
From—I've forgot the frightful name,
And my conundrum tulip's gone, A flower so rare, that's scarcely known
In any hot-house but my own.
It makes my blood with vengeance boil,
That you this Eden should despoil!”
“Eden,” he said, “it may appear, For I behold a Serpent here;
Though not with one attractive feature
To tempt the heart of human creature.”
“Gard'ners,” she cried, “where are you all?
Expel this instant from the hall
This saucy parson, chase him hence, And kick him for his insolence.”
At him the wat'ring pot she threw, His arms repell'd it as it flew,
When it return'd a hollow sound, As it bounc'd from the verdant ground.
But when a fork she sought to wield,
The Doctor did not wait to yield, But to the fury left the field;
And with quick steps the prudent sage Sought refuge at the Vicarage;
Where, with his pipe and balmy ale, He jok'd and told his curious tale.
“But how,” said he, “does she contrive To keep this influence alive?
And what are they who thus submit
To her strange pranks and ribald wit?”
“Good Doctor Syntax, have you been
So many years in life's strange scene,”
The Vicar said, “and ask to prove How all the various passions move?
Your experience sure can tell Who know so much and think so well,
That, where the powers of wealth abound,
There humble parasites are found;
Whose base and reptile soul will bear, If they be said a soul to share,
The humbling tricks, and be the game
Of such a witch as Tulip's dame,
Brib'd by the feed she can afford To offer at her plenteous board.
I hate her, as she loves to deal in
Pranks that betray such want of feeling.
Though wealth may this world's heaven impart,
That breast's a hell which wants a heart!
She strove one day to give me pain,
But she'll ne'er play that game again.
I let the haughty Madam see, That a poor Vicar could be free,
And stamp upon her tyranny;
Nor do I think she's free from fear Of him who is now sitting here.
She once seiz'd on my blushing daughter
To be a theme for open laughter,
But Sophy dear, who does inherit A portion of her father's spirit,
Return'd a calm but modest dressing,
For which I gave the girl my blessing.
But as the Lady, from her store, Is sometimes lavish to the poor,
Hence, as her due, respect attends,
Whene'er we meet—but there it ends.”
Syntax his rev'rend host approv'd, For 'twas the spirit which he lov'd.
—Thus having pass'd a cheerful day,
Tow'rds ev'ning he pursued his way.
As he jogg'd to his night's abode
The thoughtful trav'ler lost his road;
And as he stopp'd awhile to know The ready way he ought to go,
The distant shouts of joy were heard, But not a living soul appear'd.
At length Pat cried, “I see them come,
And 'faith, it is a harvest home.”
Said Syntax, “What a charm to see This show of glad simplicity!
How diff'rent this delightful scene
From those where we so late have been,
Where wealth dealt out its doles of folly,
Enough to make one melancholy.”
The throng'd procession now drew near,
In front the mingled groups appear
Of jovial peasants, who employ Their voices loud, in hymns of joy.
Then comes the lab'ring waggon's load,
Dragg'd on along the winding road,
Rich with the sheaves the harvest yields,
The closing bounty of the fields.
—The Farmer, joy from top to toe, With loud huzza led on the show,
While rustic music join'd the strain
Of Harvest Home, and cheer'd the plain.
—Th'enliven'd Doctor thus addrest The jolly master of the feast.
“My honest friend, I joy to see This rich reward of industry,
And may this plenty still appear To greet you many a future year,
And to your honest wish be given, The bounties of indulgent Heaven!”
He then at once declar'd his name,
Told who he was, and whence he came,
And ask'd the farmer just to show The way which he proposed to go.
“Leave, Sir,” he said, “that thought behind,
It is an awkward way to find:
To-night, I pray, no further roam,
But stay, and join our Harvest Home;
And in the morn without delay, I will conduct you on your way.
It will to us an honour be, And by my looks I trust you see
I speak with humble honesty.
All welcome and respect that's due, Shall, Rev'rend Sir, be paid to you:
Besides, Sir, and that's worth possessing,
Our feast will have your pious blessing.
O think not that the clam'rous noise
With which the peasant tells his joys,
Makes him forget to whom he owes
The plenty which the year bestows.”
Said Syntax, “No!—It is the heart
That does the grateful sense impart:
Though rude the language, if the prayer
Can trace it to its fountain there,
Howe'er or whene'er it is given,
'Twill surely reach the courts of Heaven!
—Beneath the temple of the skies You offer your glad sacrifice;
And that I join it you will see From the example set by me.”
—The dance, the music and the song, United as they came along,
And gave a spirit to the scene, Amid the gambols on the green,
—Syntax would now his skill display Among the minstrels of the day,
And ask'd a fiddle to be sought; The instrument was quickly brought:
In answer to his active hand, When he march'd on and led the band.
The joyous show in rural state, Now approach'd the mansion gate,
Where its delighted mistress stood With comely look and smiling mood;
While her three daughters fair display
Their charms with flow'rs and ribbons gay,
And sung—“With joy we see you come,
Welcome, Welcome Harvest Home!”
The rural banquet now appear'd,
Each loaded dish was loudly cheer'd;
Beef roast and boil'd, the Briton's fare, Was in abundant plenty there:
The pastry too, with walls of crust, Waited the ploughman's eager thrust;
The pudding, with its plums well-stor'd,
And many a cheesecake crown'd the board:
Nor was the custard, so renown'd As rural dainty, absent found;
While Bacchus did to Ceres pay The friendly homage of the day;
Nor did his flowing tribute fail, In copious jugs of foaming ale.
—The Sage uprose:—with solemn look
And silent preface, thus he spoke.
“To Thee, the giver of all good, We offer up our gratitude,
For all the blessings that we share From thy benign, paternal care;
And while our thanks we thus employ
For blessings which we now enjoy,
The crying wants of those supply, Who bend beneath adversity:
Relieve them from thy plenteous store,
That they like us may want no more.
As Ravens from thy hand are fed, O give us all our Daily Bread!
And in what state soe'er we move, That all our doings may improve
Assist us, Gracious Power, and we
Shall learn thy laws—and live to Thee!”
—A chorus of Amens succeed, Which gave the sign from word to deed.
The Doctor now resum'd his seat,
And smiling view'd the piles of meat;
When hasty hunger seem'd to wait Round ev'ry dish, on ev'ry plate:
E'en sixty mouths were soon seen wagging,
And not a single jaw-bone lagging.
Ere a short hour was gone and past, This mighty meal had seen its last,
While many an empty dish display'd
The change by hungry labour made.
The brimming cups now took their round,
When jests and merry tales abound:
And social fun and many a joke Bend with the pipe's ascending smoke.
The toasts are given, and jovial song
Does the gay, festive hour prolong.
Then to the garden turf they sped;—
The moon shone brightly over head,
And many a maid and many a swain
Tripp'd nimbly on the shaven plain;
Nor was their merry-making done 'Till Luna yielded to the Sun.
But just as Phœbus 'gan to peep From his night's lodging in the deep,
The farmer thus his friends address'd:
“I give, ere we depart to rest, The health of our kind, rev'rend guest,
With hearty thanks that he should come
To grace our humble Harvest Home.
The toast which I with pleasure give,
You will, with gen'ral joy receive;
Then join the heart-felt wish with me;
So here's his health—with three times three!”
The Doctor felt an honest pride,
Then wav'd his hand and thus replied:—
“Think not because I preach on Sundays,
I may not aid your joy on Mondays!
Think not I fear dread Heav'n's displeasure,
Because I guide your festive measure,
Or that I thus your feast prolong With social mirth or lively song;
These doth indulgent Heaven dispense To labour and to innocence.
—Continue worthy to receive The bounties Heaven is pleas'd to give;
The blossoms of the fragrant Spring, The Summer, when the valleys sing
With yellow harvest, and demand The sickle in the reaper's hand:
The Autumn, when the fruitage glows,
Bending to earth the laden boughs;
And when the barn in Winter pours,
To pay your toil, its hoarded stores:
For these your hearts and voices raise
In humble prayer and grateful praise;—
And, in your various stations move With virtue, harmony and love.
Your duty crown with cheerful labour,
And upright dealings with your neighbour.
What conscience tells must not be done,
That is the deed which you must shun;
What conscience tells that you should do,
That is the way you must pursue;
And acting thus, you will possess The surest means of happiness.
With patience bear the ills that wait On mortal man, whate'er his state,
In lowly cot, or rich or great:
And when fair fortune beams its ray, Grateful enjoy the prosp'rous day;
Whether 'tis sunshine or the storm, To your known duties still conform.
Practise these lessons of a friend; Then comfort will your lives attend,
And peace will bless your latter end.”
Thus did the sage his counsels close,
Then sought his pillow's calm repose.
The Muse may have forgot the hour
When Morpheus yielded up his power,
And Syntax from his slumbers broke, As if 'twere said—when he awoke:
And surely 'tis enough to say, He found his spirits light and gay;
When, in their full and lively flow, He join'd the worthy folk below;
Nor was the Don displeas'd to see The morning's hospitality;
And to improve the plenteous fare The welcome smile abounded there.
—To all the Doctor's friends 'tis known,
And he himself will frankly own,
That whether good or ill o'ertakes him,
An active stomach ne'er forsakes him;
And he did such a breakfast make On new bak'd loaf and oven-cake,
That they all look'd with wond'ring eye,
At his gaunt mouth's artillery.
—The Honest Farmer, such was known
His name and all his life to crown,
For 'twas in gen'ral use become To call Tom Truman Honest Tom,
Now hop'd his rev'rend guest would stay
And glad his house another day, For still it would be holiday:
But Syntax said he must be gone, And begg'd the favour to be shown
To Crotchet Lodge, the nearest way, As there his promis'd errand lay.
“O,” said the farmer, “from my grounds
You may see clear the wood that bounds
The place where Madam doth reside, 'Tis not a hasty hour's ride;
Within that time, I'm sure your mare,
With all her fat, will take you there.”
—A smile now play'd on Truman's face,
On which the sage thought he could trace
A certain inward, secret feeling, That his good host aim'd at concealing;
Which, could he urge him to declare,
Might give him hints that would prepare
His mind with caution due to greet Whate'er reception he should meet.
“Tell me,” he said, “friend, what you know
Of this same place where I'm to go;
As it may be of use to me, To hear what I perchance may see:
You will oblige me to explain
What whimsies haunt Miss Crotchet's brain,
As ladies who thus live alone Are sometimes to odd habits prone,
And more so when old maidens grown:
As 'gainst her droll'ries, should she show them,
I can protect me, did I know them;
Nor can you fear I should betray What to my ear you may convey.”
But while the farmer seem'd to doubt If he should let the matter out;
The mistress of the mansion said, “Why, Thomas, need you be afraid?
She's music-mad, the country knows it,
And ev'ry day her fancy shows it.
Where is a lady ever seen To play upon a violin?
And more than half her time is spent In scraping on that instrument;
And we have heard, when thus engag'd, She looks a bedlamite enrag'd.
Sometimes she smiles and then will frown,
Casts her eyes up and then looks down,
Is known to swear as well as sigh, And scream aloud in extasy;
Nay, she is even said to swoon, When German Peg plays out of tune:
For while she works her fara-diddle,
The old girl strums a monstrous fiddle,
Of such a size, our Clerk can prove,
That asks a strong man's strength to move;
He as a workman did attend it,
And once was call'd in haste to mend it:
He says its belly would contain More than will fill a sack with grain.
—Nor is this all, no not by half, And oft her whimsies make me laugh
When any of the straggling poor, Relief to ask approach her door,
She does not question their distress,
Or how their wants she may redress,
But for an instant song will call, And if they sing, whate'er they squall,
They're usher'd to the servants'-hall,
And 'mid the men and maids and boys,
She laughs and listens to their noise;
And those who chaunt a pleasant ballad,
Will to their roast meat get a sallad:
But if they cannot sing or play, They penniless are sent away.
Such are her whims, and many more The country rumours have in store.
But when her music quits its tether,
Which sometimes haps for days together,
She then like other folks is seen In quiet chat with easy mien.
While thus postpon'd her music's labours
She hospitably treats her neighbours;
And then, perhaps, as you may see, Madam is no more mad than me.”
The Doctor thus the matron heard And felt her story had prepar'd
His fancy to play off its art, Not with a view to guard his heart,
For he no reason had to fear That Crotchet's female chanticleer
Would e'er excite one idle wish To dip in matrimonial dish.
He thought, with widows I have fail'd,
And now a maid must be assail'd:
I little from the scheme expect, But still I'll not the chance neglect;
For this world's plans so strangely vary,
That oft our fairest hopes miscarry,
While sometimes those designs succeed
When dark despair beclouds the deed.
How oft when storms disturb the morn,
The sun's bright rays the noon adorn;
Nay, when the day has boist'rous been,
The evening's gay with smile serene.
Thus without much of hope or fear,
To Crotchet-Lodge my course I steer,
While I a cautious mind prepare For all that may befal me there;
Ready to meet with steady eye, Whether the fair one may supply
Her Discord or her Harmony:
E'en though she's govern'd by the moon,
She'll beat in time and scold in tune.
—And now, good friends, my thanks receive;
I wish that I had more to give!
But still my grateful thoughts are bent
On more than bare acknowledgment.
Permit me then, to say again That my warm home is Sommerden:
Nay, what I mean, full well you know, When, honest Tom, I tell you so;
And while I take you by the hand
My heart's regard you may command.”
—Syntax now gave the dame a kiss As well as to each rustic miss
Who did the busy needle ply, The boast of Truman's family.
Thus did he his farewell conclude With the fond blessing of the good;
And soon his ready way pursued.
Of the gay Lodge he came in view, And pac'd down the long avenue;
Where cages hung on ev'ry tree, From which was heard the melody
Of birds, who in their nature rove, The choristers of every grove:
But thus confin'd the whole day long
They charm with their untutor'd song;
While fountains with their tinkling falls Fill'd up the silent intervals.
The doors no noisy knocker plied To bid the portals open wide;
But when the fingers touched the string
Soft silver bells in cadence ring,
Which a smart, tuneful Indian call To give admittance to the hall,
While his big pouting lips dispense The pipe's Pandean eloquence.
Thus Syntax did an entrance gain
And soon his ear was charm'd to pain;
For, in each window there reclin'd A harp that felt the sweep refin'd
Of the soft zephyr's waving wind;
No hands could touch the strings so fine.
What sweep, what solemn airs divine
Now up the diapason roll, Then sink again into the soul,
And wake sweet musings in the heart As seraphs did a hymn impart
Beyond the reach of mortal art;
And did enchantment soft supply, By its aërial minstrelsy.
The Doctor pass'd through many a door;
The little Negro walk'd before,
And, in his way, he play'd a tune,
'Till they had reach'd a gay saloon,
Whose ceiling and its walls display'd A various kind of serenade,
Where all the Muses nine appear In Heliconian character;
Nay, Music all around inspires;—
The very chairs are deck'd with lyres,
While satyrs, with their piping reed, Support the sofa's lolling bed;
And clocks with spreading symbols screen
Their dials that they scarce are seen;
Not plac'd so much to mark the time,
As to play tunes and ring a chime.
The organ too, whose sound obeys
The nimble hand that sweeps the keys,
Or that whose settled tunes he finds Whoe'er the turning barrel grinds:
And still the zephyrs breath'd the swell
Of sounds from power invisible.
—Thus the Doctor's ears and eyes
Were quite suspended with surprise:
In short, all that he saw around him
Serv'd to delight and to confound him.
He thought, if e'er beneath that roof
The harmonious virtues stood aloof,
Nay he was sure if Discord e'er
Should make a moment's entrance there,
The witch would vanish in despair.
Thus as his wav'ring mind compar'd
What he now saw with what he'd heard,
His faith began to be at strife With the tale told by Truman's wife;
Nay other items did conspire To set the old woman down a liar.
When, as he thus pursued his thought,
With grace and as a lady ought
Miss Crotchet enter'd, brisk and gay, Apologis'd for her delay,
With pleasing smile possess'd a chair,
And welcom'd Doctor Syntax there;
Then did a slight discourse pursue As other well-bred ladies do;
The weather and the road he came,
What news was on the wings of fame,
And if his neighb'ring Lakes had reason
To hope an overflowing season.
Thus she a sprightly turn display'd, But not a word of music said:
The Doctor, therefore, thought that he Must enter upon harmony,
And what he saw and heard supplied A theme to please a lady's pride.
Please her it did, for off she ran
With the same thought—and thus began.
“You, Doctor, as I understand, Are fit to lead an opera band;
And, therefore, you may scarce incline
To add to such a crash as mine:
But if your powers will condescend To treat me as a common friend,
You shall, Sir, in the evening try My little school of harmony.
It is not oft 'mong ladies seen, But I play on the violin.
To touch the harp and the piano
In what each farmer's daughter can do;
And therefore 'tis I wish to move
With those who by their science prove An honour to the art I love.
Hence my fond mind is solely bent To chuse this arduous instrument.
I have a foreign person here, Who at our dinner will appear,
A widow of the music tribe, Whom I with handsome sal'ry bribe
To live with me in friendly guise, As mistress of my harmonies:
She plays the bass, blows the bassoon,
And keeps the instruments in tune;
Teaches the parish boys to sing
Psalms, anthems, and God save the King.”
Thus as she spoke a bugle's blast
Summon'd them to the hour's repast,
When she propos'd the famous glee Of the Non Nobis Domine,
In which the ladies' parts were sung
Without or time, or tune, or tongue,
And Syntax felt, with all his care,
He should not pass his evening there;
That they would never keep in tune
Through the approaching afternoon;
For Music, with this mighty show,
Was the last thing they seem'd to know.
But still the good things he assail'd
Where Music's ev'ry form prevail'd,
That sing-song fancy could supply To deck the skill of cookery,
Or the same whimsy could impart To the confectionery art:
Thus songs in sav'ry wrappers shone On cutlets a la Maintenon,
While Blanc-mange dotted o'er with notes,
Made Music slip adown their throats;
Then sweets in ev'ry form display The instrumental orchestra:
Thus fiddles, flutes and harps unite To harmonise the appetite.
At length came the appointed hour
When, in the garden's gaudy bower,
Where flowers and climbing plants o'erlaid
Combin'd to form a scented shade,
These vot'ries of sweet sounds appear To wake Apollo's list'ning ear.
—Miss C--- began with furious force,
The Doctor follow'd her of course,
While the old dame with slower pace,
Came rumbling after on the bass:
But ere they got to the conclusion,
Th'harmonious piece was all confusion.
If great Corelli from the dead Could but have rais'd his list'ning head
And just then heard his mangled strain,
He would have wish'd to die again.
Miss was too fast by many a bar, The old-one was behind as far,
While Syntax strove their faults to cover
By smoth'ring one and then the other.
“Oho,” he whisper'd, “this same trio
Will shortly end in my Addio.”
—He thought at least he would be civil
And try to check the coming evil;
For he saw in Miss Crotchet's face
That rage was working his disgrace.
“If Music be the food of love Let us another trio prove,”
Syntax exclaim'd; when she replied, “I tell you I am petrified;
To me, you humstrum, it appears,
That you have neither eyes nor ears
You could as well bestride the moon,
As keep your time or stop in tune;
And 'twas, in an extreme degree, Impertinence to play with me.”
—Instead of Time he thought he'd beat,
With all good manners, a retreat;
But, in retiring from the threat, With which he thought he was beset,
He overturn'd the o'ergrown fiddle,
And set his foot plump in the middle:
The crash produc'd a shriek of rage,
Which nought he utter'd could assuage
When, to avoid the rout and roar,
He quickly pass'd the mansion door,
And, driven by Discord, sought to fly
From this strange scene of harmony,
While, with vocifering halloo, He call'd on his man Pat to follow.
But Pat had half an hour's stay, Before he told of his delay,
Which he let loose in his droll way.
“The lady, Sir, 'tis very sad, Is, I am sure, at times, half-mad!
She rush'd into the servants' hall And utter'd, with an angry squall,
‘Your master is a brute, I say, And I have sent the fool away.’
‘No man,’ I said, ‘would call him so,
But this arm's vengeance he should know,
Though as he's gone, why I must go!’
Orders she gave to lock the door And pointing wildly to the floor,
‘Stand here,’ she said ‘and sing a song,
Or you shall stop the whole night long.’
I bow'd and did at once let fly A pretty piece of melody,
Such as did never yet miscarry To please the lads of Tipperary:
The chamber madams whisper'd—Hush!
And knew not if to laugh or blush;
While the cook dame, call'd laughing Nan,
Beat time upon the dripping-pan.
The butler turn'd his head away, So how he look'd I cannot say;
While stiff the little Negro stood,
Shew'd his white teeth and grinn'd aloud.
—At the fourth verse off Madam flew,
And here, Sir, I'm return'd to you.”
The Doctor now could not beguile His feelings with his usual smile,
But lean'd his head against a tree, And, spite of cleric dignity,
Let his gay muscles off at score, As Pat ne'er saw him do before;
But when his spirit had regain'd The gen'ral tenor they maintain'd,
He bade Pat ask how far from hence Was Lady Macnight's residence;
“I know 'tis somewhere here about, And we must try to find it out.
She's cousin to my friends the Hearties,
And sometimes join'd their pleasant parties,
Three years must now have flown away,
When, if I ever pass'd this way,
I promis'd I would shew my face,
With her kind leave, at Comet Place.”
A peasant said the road was strait,
And nine miles from the turnpike-gate;
But as the moon began to peep Above the wood on yonder steep,
It would be soon as light as day, And they could never lose their way.
“But as 'tis late,” the Doctor said, “Our journey must not be delay'd;
Though for this fair Astronomer, Night is the time to visit her,
While she may chase through fields of air The aberration of a star.”
Punch felt the tickling of a spur, And Pat's fat sides were in a stir:
Nor was it long ere, from the road, They hail'd the lady's fair abode
That, plac'd upon a woody height,
Display'd full many a glimm'ring light,
Which from the various windows shone
And check'd the lustre of the moon.
The Doctor now made known his name,
When soon appear'd the smiling dame.
“I scarce, dear Sir, my joy can measure,
At this so unexpected pleasure;
And 'tis with singular delight I see my learned friend to-night.”
Thus she exclaim'd, when Syntax fear'd
That some celestial sign appear'd,
And stead of supper and a bed Whereon to lay his aching head,
He should be hurried to survey
The greater Bear or Milky Way; But thus she did his fears allay:
“Whene'er the moon shews all her power
And shines through each nocturnal hour,
My distant neighbours always come
As her clear beams will light them home,
And I have now a pleasant party Which only wants my Cousin Hearty,
Though as you're come I'm quite content,
Without a word of compliment.”
The Doctor soon in pleasant mood, Amid the gay assembly stood:
Curtsies and bows and shaking hands With all that etiquette demands
Pass'd on with due becoming grace, Engaging words and smiling face.
The Doctor talk'd and sipp'd his tea With pleasing, mild hilarity;
Nor did he fail a meal to make On butter'd bread and sav'ry cake.
This done, the patronising dame Propos'd some lively, gen'ral game;
And Syntax drew his ready chair In the night's play to take a share.
Pope Joan was nam'd and soon prepar'd:
When each receiv'd the destin'd card.
The comely fair by whom he sat, A lady cheerful in her chat,
Propos'd by way of social whim To share the gain and loss with him.
Who could refuse a pleas'd assent?
And all around there beam'd content.
The game, in gen'ral way, went on,
And Syntax thought they rather won:
But still the lady often cried, “Doctor, our wants must be supplied,
Fortune, at present, is unkind,
And we, dear Sir, must raise the wind.”
He thought, indeed, he rais'd enough,
While she ne'er gave a single puff,
But of the cash maintain'd control And in her lap conceal'd the whole.
At length when this gay game was o'er,
She said, “Alas, we're wond'rous poor,
And to propose to make division Of what is here would be derision.”
Then from her lap, whch seem'd half full, She almost fill'd her reticule,
And left the Sage, with silent lips, To comment on copartnerships;—
While she stalk'd off with waving plume
To wander through some distant room.
—The supper came and pass'd away,
With many a song and frolic gay;
And when the household clock struck one,
The country neighbours all were gone.
—But ere the chamber lights were brought,
The scientific dame besought
The Doctor's patience to bestow His ear for half an hour or so,
While she inform'd him by the way Of the great object of the day.
“For you must know,” she said, “at noon,
O'er the sun's disk the errant moon
Will pass, as that orb has not done
For many a year long fled and gone;
And, in this state of her career, How I rejoice to see you here,
As you will aid my measuring eye By your more learn'd Geometry.
That done, we then may pass the day In tracing out some starry way;
And if it proves a radiant night You'll set my computations right;
When, to conclude, I will make known
A system new and quite my own.”
—The Doctor's chin now touch'd his breast:
She bow'd—and they both went to rest.
The morrow in due progress came,
When Syntax by th'impatient dame
Was led, not to the upper story Which form'd her fix'd observatory,
Where many an instrument appears,
As quadrants, telescopes and spheres,
To aid the scrutinising eye In its vast commerce with the sky:
But did in a balcony place The glass, where she as well could trace
The lunar passage o'er the sun As could from greater height be done.
—At length arriv'd the pregnant noon,
When o'er the sun the darken'd moon
Mov'd on the grand eclipse and show'd
What man to daring science ow'd.
But though the mind may strive to trace
The orbs that float in boundless space,
Though it may pass through realms of air,
Converse with planets rolling there, And by its name call ev'ry star;
The body ne'er will be content Without its native nourishment;
And hunger will suggest the sign Of when to breakfast, sup or dine,
Or when the luncheon should reveal Its interlocutory meal.
That meal, by frequent signals sought, Pat now in eager hurry brought:
But whether 'twas the slipp'ry floor, Or running dog, or banging door,
It may not be required to tell; Certain it is the valet fell,
Swore a loud oath, when plate and platter
And spoons and sauce-boats made a clatter;
While yelping curs, or kick'd or wounded,
Were in the gen'ral din confounded;
A noise which both the gazers drew From their celestial interview.
They saw, by Patrick's luckless trips,
The luncheon in complete eclipse,
As his huge form was rolling over Each dainty dish and smoking cover,
While down his skirts there seem'd to stray
Fresh streamlets of the milky way.
“—The scene around, above, below,”
The Doctor said, “our problems show,
Whether it is attractive power, Or the repellent rules the hour:
Patrick we see could not resist, Or with his feet or with his fist:
His feet gave way, the balance lost,
His paunch to right and left is tost;
The fingers driven from the thumb Make the tureen a vacuum:
And there we see the varlet lie, A proof of Central Gravity.”
Madam replied, “O never mind, A fresh supply we soon shall find,
And, as when Falstaff cried peccavi,
We'll change the gravity for gravy.
Nature hates vacuums, as you know, We therefore will descend below,
And fill, with dainties nice and light The vacuum in your appetite.”
—All this was done, as it might be, On axioms of Philosophy;
When the grave lady thus requested:—
“As other matters are digested,
And we have now an hour to spare,
Let us each take our reas'ning chair,
Then talk of what we've seen and know
Of things above and things below, And do you first your system show;
When you have done, my learn'd divine,
Then I will venture upon mine.”
Syntax.—
“When from the earth we lift our eye
To the vast concave of the sky,
We view it like a curtain spread That shows the welcome morning red;
The noon with golden splendour bright,
And the dark veil that clothes the night:
Thus both the light and shade are given,
With all the varying scenes of Heaven.
But when we lose the sun's bright ray,
The gloomy night succeeds to day:
Again his flaming lustre burns, And then the cheerful day returns:
Still we behold, as they appear, The varying pictures of the year,
The morn may yield its splendid reign
To cloudy mists and pouring rain:
And oft the noon is overcast,
'Mid the black storm and lightning's blast;
While pitchy clouds obscure the night,
And quench the bright stars' glimm'ring light.
Then, to our eyes, the giant sun His annual circuit seems to run
In one grand course, and his career
Assigns the day, and forms the year;
But when his setting orb retires, Or earth no more perceives his fires,
The moon presents her silver ray, And kindly sheds a fainter day:
Yet still she keeps her monthly race
With various beams and changeful face.
—Each planet in its proper sphere Does round its distant orbit steer;
While, with peculiar lustre crown'd, They course a fix'd eternal round,
And, in th'immeasurable space, They know no change of time or place;
But in their rise and their decline All with a foreign radiance shine,
Their brilliant beams are not their own,
But borrow'd of the parent sun,
From whom all nature doth inherit That active and creating spirit
Which gives to life each aim and end,
Where'er his genial rays extend.
—Again we see the thousand stars, Not rang'd in circles or in squares,
But proving with their various light
The hand that made them Infinite.—
If such the harmony that reigns, If thus the Almighty power ordains,
May not these orbs, which your faint eye Sees fix'd in one eternal sky,
To which, as it may seem, is given To shine in a remoter heaven,
Each as a sun its splendour give, And other worlds the rays receive?
Around the zones of other skies,
Their moons may shine, may set and rise
To other globes which raise their pole,
Whose lands spread wide, whose oceans roll,
Whose mountains lift their lofty head,
And shape the valley's deepen'd bed,
With climates that may smile or frown,
To changes subject like our own;
Nay, in the space of air and sky,
Suns, moons and stars and earths may lie Invisible to human eye,
E'en with the powers which have been given
To penetrate the paths of Heaven.
—The comet, whose resistless force Asks cent'ries to complete its course,
I shall not follow as it flies, Nor trace its eccentricities;
Nor speak of sun-beams which are fraught
With swiftness that out-travels thought,
But lost in wonder close my view, And listen silently to you.”

—He ceas'd, and now with conscious pride,
The scientific dame replied;
“You have with truth your system told,
But may I, Doctor, be so bold
To say, that you have said no more Than many a one has done before;
Though not with such perspicuous sense,
Or the same pleasing eloquence.
—Yes, on my loaded shelves you see Each volume on astronomy,
That has increas'd the author's fame With added honour to his name:
I have all instruments at hand That this vast science may demand,
Which do their wond'rous aid supply
To make acquaintance with the sky;
But I new systems shall explore; I wish to know a little more.—
—Perhaps, you'll say, 'tis whim or fun,
And that a woman's tongue must run;
Or that conceit or silly pride Do my weak, friv'lous fancies guide;
Or that by something like defiance To the establish'd rules of science,
To be held forth I thus may strive, As the most learned dame alive;
If such your thoughts, I hope you'll find
Some reason soon to change your mind,
Or that disdainful of the fame
Which those Blue-stocking fair ones claim,
Who confine their pretty fancies, To poems, novels and romances,
Who take no flight, but are content To steep their minds in sentiment:
I wish to soar a little higher Than their fine, fangled thoughts aspire;
If this be your sagacious guess, You prophesy with some success.
I only ask you to attend With the calm candour of a friend,
As least, if you an error see, You will not pass a harsh decree,
But treat it with humanity.”
The Doctor, not by intuition, But by a feeling call'd suspicion,
Was on her subject led to fear That the new doctrine he should hear
Might require a cautious sense, To give his thoughts without offence.
Oft with Blue-stockings upon earth Reason he found a source of mirth;
And e'en when Fancy play'd her tricks He could a pleas'd attention fix:
But when Blue-stockings please to soar,
Where none had ever been before,
He rather trembled at the height
Which mark'd this lady's promis'd flight.
When such a one her notions shrouds In regions far above the clouds,
While she does her pure æther quaff,
He might not check a sudden laugh,
Which certainly would not agree With the most calm philosophy;
And thus whate'er she might discover,
He wish'd the dang'rous trial over.
Hence did he frame each future thought
To be with proper answers fraught,
And thus he hop'd he was prepar'd, When ask'd, to offer his award.
—Such was his aim, and then he heard
The wonders which she now preferr'd.
Lady Macnight.—
“You have explain'd in language clear
Each planet's course as they appear,
As they appointed are to run In their own orbits round the sun;
You travell'd in your airy car To visit ev'ry ruling star,
And did not, for a moment, err In marking their true character,
Nor in assigning each its place In the immensity of space:
But here you stop and nothing know
Beyond the glasses' Raree-Show.
Men, whose renown'd and learned name Irradiates the field of fame,
With all their genius to explore, Have indeed told us something more.
When Nature's laws lay hid in night,
Newton unveil'd new rays of light,
And gave the wond'ring world to see, By his sublime Geometry,
Those hidden powers which he has shown To act in Nature's unison:
But of those orbs which deck the sky,
Tho' view'd by his pervading eye, He gave no local history.
Nor did he e'er pretend to tell
What Beings might within them dwell,
Their forms, their natures and their speech,
To what perfection they might reach,
And how their systematic powers, Differ from this same world of ours:
What are their plants and flowers and trees,
If they have running streams and seas,
And whether fleeting time appears Like ours divided into years,
And if their years by lunar powers
Are form'd of months and days and hours:
Whether their life concludes by death, Or if men die for want of breath,
And if to their fond hope is given Another world, a future Heaven.
What do I gain, when I but see These planets' eccentricity,
Unless my reason could pervade
For what wise purpose they were made?
—You'll laugh no doubt, and say I dream,
If I should now unfold my scheme,
And think, perhaps, that I may vie With Bedlam in its lunacy.
But I, dear Sir, am not so bent Upon my mind's experiment,
As to look grave if my excursion Should minister to your diversion;
Nor does the thought make me uneasy
That some have fancied I was crazy.
—While my poor dear Sir John was living,
Whose soul, I trust, is now in Heaven,
Some booby, in a long hiatus, Urg'd him to burn my Apparatus:
When he said, ‘No!—While she maintains
Each due decorum, while she gains
Their warm regard to whom she's known,
And who her smiling friendship own;
While I her fond affection share And feel her faithful, tender care;
While she to household rule attends,
And makes home pleasant to my friends,
What care I, as at early morn, I urge the chase, with hound and horn,
Or cheer at night each jovial soul With the full glass and flowing bowl,
If she employs her eager eye To trace the wonders of the sky!
Yes wives there are, and not a few, Who a more idle course pursue,
Nor is there one of those who shine The votaries of fashion's shrine
Whom I would e'er exchange for mine.’
—Thus did my dear lamented Knight Set the intruding fellow right:
And much I hope, good Sir, that you
May think my husband's praises true;
And they, I trust, who know me well Will the same friendly story tell.”

Syntax.—
“They who have gravely trod the round
Of gen'ral science must have found
That trifles, nay, that whims have led,
When floating in a thinking head,
To quicken genius as it tries The course of new discoveries:
E'en accident has made a stir In brains of the philosopher.
A codling falling from a tree Might fix the point of gravity:
Or house-maid's twirling of a mop Might into Newton's cranium pop
The principle, by which was found Whether the poles are flat or round.
And why, my Lady, may not you Strike from your study something new,
And, what's still better, useful too?”

Lady Macnight.—

Syntax.—
“Nay Madam, you have gone as far,
Riding a cock-horse on a star,
Nay farther than has yet been known By any Genius but your own:
—Indeed, I must admire your fancy, In this star-gazing necromancy;
For you have nat'ralis'd your sphere, As I could ne'er expect to hear.—
Though with the plan I can't agree, I thank you for its drollery;
And though I cannot well allow The principle which you avow,
Your story, Shakespeare gives the hint,
Though strange, has much of matter in't.”

Lady Macnight.—
“A few words more and I have done
With these attendants on the sun.
—In the bright orb that's known to claim
Venus as its establish'd name,
I shall pursue my arduous way In the conjectures of the day,
That Beauty is the height sublime Of Virtue in that genial clime,
Whose light and heat, within its zone,
Bears no resemblance to our own;
And the grand crime they there confess, Is what we here term Ugliness.
The good and ill which there prevail Is measur'd by a settled scale
Among its people, as each feature Is favour'd or deform'd by nature;
And all the value of their duty Is form'd by more or less of beauty;
And thus it is that I pervade Its moral light, its moral shade.
—The flowing hair, the well-turn'd brow,
The fine form'd arches just below, And skin that vies with driven snow:
The bright, the soft and sleepy eye, The two-fold rows of ivory;
The pouting, ruby-colour'd lips, Where sweetness its own nectar sips;
The cheeks with rosy blush o'erspread, And dimples sinking in the red;
The neck that doth the bosom join By a scarce seen but graceful line,
While the firm semi-orbs below Heave with a gentle to and fro;
And arms whose less'ning round extends
To the fine, taper fingers' ends:—
—Such is the form, and such the grace,
That's virtue in the female race;
While man's proportions are the same, But suited to a stronger frame.
Each virtue is, and more or less They virtuous are, who most possess;
While the vicious nature lies Proportion'd by its contraries.
Therefore it is that I suppose The squinting eye, the wide-spread nose,
The yawning mouth, that may appear
Stretching athwart from ear to ear;
The rising back, a sad mischance, And stomach's rude protuberance,
Are crimes which, by their law's intent,
Receive proportion'd punishment;
While ugliness in ev'ry sense, Must be a capital offence;
And they will be condemn'd to die,
Whose crime's complete deformity.
So much, dear Doctor, for my Venus,
And what as yet has pass'd between us.’
—She paus'd—but when she 'gan to tell Of Mercury, the dinner-bell
Brought her fine fancies to a close; And as the Rev'rend Doctor rose
He said, “I here beg leave to mention
How much I'm pleas'd with your invention,
But still I think it might be right
To calm its course and check its flight,
Nor let it wander out of season But yield it to the rule of reason;
And instead of its commanding, Let it obey, your understanding;
Consult your own superior sense, And gratify your pride from thence:
For all is known we ought to know Of things above, or things below,
'Till other Boyles and Newtons rise
T'unveil dark Nature's mysteries.
I do not strictly mean to say You throw your studious hours away,
Or that your star-work is misspent, For still the pastime's innocent;
But yet I think that à la lettre, You might employ those hours better:
Nor do I wish to read a lecture Upon the errors of conjecture,
Which may refinement's thoughts expose
To smiling friends and scoffing foes;
I only ask you to receive The friendly counsel that I give:
If to the Planets you must soar, Be silent, wonder and adore.
Though they're in diff'rent stations plac'd In the immeasurable waste,
Though their ends may not be the same,
Each is to answer one great aim,
And with some local means endued, To aid the universal good,
Will'd by the Power whose plastic hand
Doth all immensity command,
And whose vast, universal sway Creation's countless worlds obey.”
He spoke, and in due order pass'd,
To things more suited to his taste.
Indeed, he was well pleas'd to see A change in the philosophy;
And with his knife and fork to reason On ev'ry dainty dish in season,
And make his choice 'tween wrong and right,
As guided by his appetite.
At length the plenteous dinner o'er, As he did in his goblet pour
The sparkling wine, he begg'd to give, A toast she surely would receive.
“Here's to the health of friends above,
I care not in what star they move,
Or whatsoe'er their modes may be;—
May they have din'd as well as we!”—

—The afternoon they stroll'd away, In various chit-chat, grave and gay,
And time brought on the close of day;
When Syntax begg'd she would make known
“Any commands she had in town,
As early on the following day, Thither he must direct his way.”
“O,” she replied, “I will commend
Your Rev'rence to my charming friend
Dear Mrs. Briskit, whom I've known
Since I was taught to walk alone.
In her I know that you will find Good manners and a fashion'd mind:
But if she has a fault, Heav'n bless her,
'Tis the high spirits which possess her:
She'll laugh with you in endless glee At my high-flown Astronomy!
Though, as her husband's lately sent On business to the Continent,
She sees 'till his return but few: Yet this I know, with honour due,
Her door will open be to you.
—And now I think on't there's another
To whom without or form or pother
I must, dear Doctor, introduce you:
O how that dear girl will amuse you!
My sweet Miss Pallet, she is one,
To whom, my friend, you must be known,
A female Artist, whose fair name Is rising rapidly to fame,
And all the paintings round the room
Did from her earliest pencil come:
Her works you will with pleasure view,
Nay, you can give instruction too.
My fond hopes wait on her success, As I was her first patroness;
And she my friendship will commend,
When I present her such a friend.”
While she these kindly passports wrote,
He did the passing time devote
To a small volume, whose rich page Would his delighted mind engage,
And when her scribbling work was done,
He thus his farewell thoughts made known:
“—As your pen mov'd, by chance I took
From off your shelves a fav'rite book,
Of solemn bards the boasted pride,
You know him well, 'tis Akenside—
And in his high-wrought work you'll see
Fancy rob'd in Philosophy, What that pow'r is and ought to be;
And in its page the Muses show What Fancy does to reason owe:
Nay, there a lesson may be known
How you, fair dame, may guide your own.
—And as my grateful thanks I tell, And while I humbly say, farewell,
Your gracious kindness may receive
The faithful counsel which I give.—
Like poor Sir John's advising friend, I would not dare to recommend
That you should venture to destroy The apparatus you employ,
But lock the door of that high story,
Which forms your learn'd Observatory;
Against the stars at once rebel, And throw the KEY into a WELL.”