Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ETONIAN; THE BACHELOR, by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ETONIAN; THE BACHELOR, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: You wonder that your ancient friend / has come so near his journey's end
Last Line: And find some cause to envy mine!
Subject(s): Marriage; Single People; Weddings; Husbands; Wives; Bachelors; Unmarried People


You wonder that your ancient friend
Has come so near his journey's end,
And borne his heavy load of ill
O'er Sorrow's slough, and Labour's hill,
Without a partner to beguile
The toilsome way with constant smile,
To share in happiness and pain,
To guide, to comfort, to sustain,
And cheer the last, long, weary stage,
That leads to Death, through gloomy Age!
To drop these metaphoric jokes,
And speak like reasonable folks,
It seems you wonder, Mr Pringle,
That old Tom Quince is living single!

Since my old crony and myself
Laid crabbed Euclid on the shelf,
And made our Conge to the Cam,
Long years have pass'd; and here I am
With nerves and gout, but yet alive,
A Bachelor, and fifty-five.
Sir, I'm a Bachelor, and mean,
Until the closing of the scene,
Or be it right, or be it wrong,
To play the part I've play'd so long,
Nor be the rat that others are,
Caught by a ribbon or a star.

'As years increase,' your worship cries,
'All troubles and anxieties
Come swiftly on: you feel vexation
About your neighbours, or the nation;
The gout in fingers or in toes
Awakes you from your first repose;
You'll want a clever nurse, when life
Begins to fail you! -- take a wife;
Believe me, from the mind's disease
Her soothing voice might give you ease,
And when the twinge comes shooting through you,
Her care might be of service to you!'

Sir, I'm not dying, though I know
You charitably think me so;
Not dying yet, though you, and others,
In augury your learned brothers,
Take pains to prophesy events,
Which lie some twenty winters hence.
Some twenty? -- look! you shake your head,
As if I were insane or dead,
And tell your children and your wife, --
'Old men grow very fond of life!'
Alas! your prescience never ends
As long as it concerns your friends;
But your own fifty-third December
Is what you never can remember!
And when I talk about my health,
And future hopes of weal or wealth,
With something 'twixt a grunt and groan,
You mutter, in an under-tone,
'Hark, how the dotard chatters still!
He'll not believe he's old or ill!
He goes on forming great designs, --
Has just laid in a stock of wines, --
And promises his niece a ball,
As if gray hairs would never fall!
I really think he's all but mad.'
Then, with a wink and sigh, you add,
'Tom is a friend I dearly prize,
But -- never thought him over wise!'

You -- who are clever to foretel
Where ignorance might be as well,
Would marvel how my health has stood:
My pulse is firm, digestion good,
I walk to see my turnips grow,
Manage to ride a mile or so,
Get to the village church to pray,
And drink my pint of wine a day;
And often, in an idle mood,
Emerging from my solitude,
Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls,
And scare the sparrows and the owls,
Or talk with Dick about my crops,
And learn the price of malt and hops.

You say, that, when you saw me last,
My appetite was going fast,
My eye was dim, my cheek was pale,
My bread -- and stories -- both were stale,
My wine and wit were growing worse,
And all things else, -- except my purse;
In short, the very blind might see
I was not what I used to be.

My glass (which I believe before ye)
Will teach me quite another story;
My wrinkles are not many yet, --
My hair is still as black as jet,
My legs are full -- my cheeks are ruddy --
My eyes, though somewhat sunk by study,
Retain a most vivacious ray,
And tell no stories of decay;
And then my waist, unvex'd, unstay'd,
By fetters of the tailor's trade,
Tells you, as plain as waist can tell,
I'm most unfashionably well.

And yet you think I'm growing thinner! --
You'd stare to see me eat my dinner!
You know that I was held by all
The greatest epicure in Hall,
And that the voice of Granta's sons
Styled me the Gourmand of St John's,
I have not yet been found unable
To do my duty to my table,
Though at its head no Lady gay
Hath driven British food away,
And made her hapless husband bear
Alike her fury and her fare.
If some kind-hearted chum calls in,
An extra dish, and older bin,
And John in all his finery drest,
Do honour to the welcome guest;
And then we talk of other times,
Of parted friends, and distant climes,
And lengthen'd converse, tale, and jest,
Lull every anxious care to rest,
And when unwillingly I rise,
With newly-waken'd sympathies,
From conversation -- and the bowl,
The feast of stomach -- and of soul,
I lay me down and seem to leap
O'er forty summers in my sleep;
And youth, with all its joy and pain,
Comes rushing on my soul again.
I rove where'er my boyhood roved --
I love whate'er my boyhood loved --
And rocks, and vales, and woods, and streams,
Fleet o'er my pillow in my dreams,
'Tis true some ugly foes arise
E'en in this earthly paradise,
Which you, good Pringle, may beguile
By Mrs P's unceasing smile.
I am an independent elf,
And keep my comforts in myself.
If my best sheep have got the rot --
Or if the Parson hits a blot --
Or if young Witless prates of laurel --
Or if my tithe produces quarrel --
Or if my roofing wants repairs --
Or if I'm angry with my heirs --
Or if I've nothing else to do --
I grumble for an hour or two;
Riots, or rumours, unrepress'd,
My niece, or knuckle, over-dress'd,
The lateness of a wish'd-for post,
Miss Mackrell's story of the ghost,
New wine, new fashions, or new faces,
New bills, new taxes, or new places,
Or Mr Hume's enumeration
Of all the troubles of the nation,
Will sometimes wear my patience out!
Then, as I said before, the gout --
Well, well, my heart was never faint!
And yet it might provoke a saint.
A rise of bread, or fall of rain,
Sometimes unite to give me pain,
And oft my lawyer's bag of papers
Gives me a taste of spleen and vapours.
Angry or sad, alone or ill,
I have my senses with me still;
Although my eyes are somewhat weak,
Yet can I dissipate my pique
By Poem, Paper, or Review;
And though I'm dozy in my pew,
At Dr Poundtext's second leaf,
I am not yet so very deaf
As to require the rousing noise
Of screaming girls and roaring boys.
Thrice -- thrice accursed be the day
When I shall fling my bliss away,
And, to disturb my quiet life,
Take Discord in the shape of wife!
Time, in his endless muster-roll,
Shall mark the hour with blackest coal,
When old Tom Quince shall cease to see
The Chronicle with toast and tea,
Confine his rambles to his park,
And never dine till after dark,
And change his comfort and his crony,
For crowd and conversazione.

If every aiding thought is vain,
And momentary grief and pain
Urge the old man to frown and fret,
He has another comfort yet:
This earth has thorns, as poets sing,
But not for ever can they sting:
Our sand from out its narrow glass
Rapidly passes! -- let it pass!
I seek not -- I -- to check or stay
The progress of a single day,
But rather cheer my hours of pain
Because so few of them remain.
Care circles every mortal head, --
The dust will be a calmer bed!
From Life's alloy no Life is free,
But -- Life is not eternity!

When that unerring day shall come
To call me from my wandering, home,
The dark, and still, and painful day,
When breath shall fleet in groans away,
When comfort shall be vainly sought,
And doubt shall be in every thought,
When words shall fail th' unutter'd vow,
And fever heat the burning brow,
When the dim eye shall gaze, and fear
To close the glance that lingers here,
Snatching the faint departing light,
That seems to flicker in its flight,
When the lone heart, in that long strife,
Shall cling unconsciously to life,
I'll have no shrieking female by
To shed her drops of sympathy;
To listen to each smother'd throe,
To feel, or feign, officious woe;
To bring me every useless cup,
And beg 'dear Tom' to drink it up;
To turn my oldest servants off,
E'en as she hears my gurgling cough;
And then expectantly to stand,
And chafe my temples with her hand;
And pull a cleaner nightcap o'er 'em,
That I may die with due decorum;
And watch the while my ebbing breath,
And count the tardy steps of death;
Grudging the Leech his growing bill,
And wrapt in dreams about the will.
I'll have no Furies round my bed! --
They shall not plague me -- till I'm dead!

Believe me! ill my dust would rest,
If the plain marble o'er my breast,
That tells, in letters large and clear,
'The Bones of Thomas Quince lie here!'
Should add a talisman of strife,
'Also the Bones of Jane, his Wife!'

No, while beneath this simple stone
Old Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone,
Some Village Oracle, who well
Knows how to speak, and read, and spell,
Shall slowly construe, bit by bit,
My 'Natus' and my 'Obiit',
And then, with sage discourse and long,
Recite my virtues to the throng.

'The Gentleman came straight from College!
A most prodigious man for knowledge!
He used to pay all men their due,
Hated a miser, -- and a Jew,
But always open'd wide his door
To the first knocking of the poor.
None, as the grateful Parish knows,
Save the Churchwardens, were his foes;
They could not bear the virtuous pride
Which gave the sixpence they denied.
If neighbours had a mind to quarrel,
He used to treat them to a barrel;
And that, I think, was sounder law
Than any book I ever saw.
The Ladies never used to flout him;
But this was rather strange about him,
That, gay or thoughtful, young or old,
He took no wife for love or gold;
Woman he call'd "a pretty thing", --
But never could abide a ring!'

Good Mr Pringle! -- you must see
Your arguments are light with me;
They buzz like feeble flies around me,
But leave me firm, as first they found me:
Silence your logic! burn your pen!
The poet says 'we are all men';
And all 'condemn'd alike to groan'!
You with a wife, and I with none.
Well! -- yours may be a happier lot,
But it is one I envy not;
And you'll allow me, Sir, to pray,
That, at some near-approaching day,
You may not have to wince and whine,
And find some cause to envy mine!





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