The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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| VII. | CANTO VII. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
237
CANTO VII.
The Doctor in warm lodging seated, In hope of being kindly treated,
With solace both of bed and board,
Which smiling promise could afford,
His busy cogitation ran Upon some pleasant gen'ral plan,
Which might be prudent he should take For int'rest or diversion sake;
Or, he indeed felt nothing loth If possible, to join them both.
Free from restraint, with purse well lin'd,
And by no serious claim confin'd,
With no one call upon this time, From sober prose or sprightly rhyme,
The breakfast o'er, he pac'd the room,
And thus laid out the days to come,
Which were allotted him to stay In this grand scene of grave and gay;
What he should first begin to do, And which inviting way pursue.
—Thus he in contemplative mood The carpet's gaudy surface trod,
And, with hand lifted to his eye, Burst into this soliloquy;
“I shall not count each fleeting year,
Since fav'ring fortune call'd me here,
And gave me more than humble claim To a fair literary name:
Which, though it seems I should not boast,
I must preserve from being lost:
And as I've heard that various arts Which a base servile press imparts,
Do their delusive tricks employ, And give the name which I enjoy
To pettifogging works which I Must view, as from a critic's eye,
With contempt and contumely—
—It is a duty which I owe To all the readers who bestow
Their kind smiles on my rhyming toil And well repay my midnight oil,
Who patronise my labours past, And may protect me to the last:
Nay, well I know it is not long, They'll have to chear my evening song:
The wintry note must soon be o'er,
That's faintly warbled at fourscore—
But 'tis my duty, I repeat, Thus to unfold the foul deceit,
Nor let a spurious Syntax claim Their favour to a pilfer'd name;
To set, as his, their works afloat, Which real Syntax never wrote;
Nay, such as in ill-fortune's spite, The real Syntax could not write.—
These scribes I'll fail not to expose,
Who, foes to truth and learning's foes,
Do in one artifice agree To father their poor works on me.
To speak out, there is no concealing,
This is downright dishonest dealing,
And honest tradesmen will condemn The foul, audacious, stratagem.”
The Doctor ceas'd, then seiz'd his pen,
To tell his friends at Sommerden,
Of all his hist'ry that was past Since he had written to them last;
That a calm settlement in town, Did his long ling'ring journey crown,
And that in fourteen days to come,
He would address his face t'wards home.
This brief, domestic business o'er,
He took his hat and pass'd the door:
With the umbrella 'neath his arm To guard him from all show'ry harm:
He walk'd the streets with wond'ring eye And busy curiosity,
To see what pow'r and wealth had done,
While all those tranquil years had flown,
Since he by fortune's guidance came,
And gain'd that share of honest fame,
Which talents such as his could claim:
And while he ne'er from virtue swerves,
Virtue may own that he deserves.
—He stroll'd about, nor could he pass
A street, where in some pane of glass,
He did not calmly smile to see His own delightful effigy.
All this he thought look'd wond'rous well Had he another work to sell:
For though he now was quite at ease
And calls for cash no longer tease;
Yet still he thought his idle time,
Might have enlarg'd, by prose or rhyme,
If with due care and thought pursued, The faculty of doing good.
And as the great historian tells Whose pen's delightful style excels
The writers of the present age, Who have fill'd up th'historic page;
That while he 'mid the arches stray'd
Of Rome's proud fanes in ruins laid,
His glowing comprehensive mind That great presiding work design'd,
Which in each future age's eye Will give him immortality.
—Thus, if in this capricious state,
Small things may be compar'd with great,
Syntax amid th'o'erwhelming noise
Of rattling wheels, of men and boys,
With the rude hurry of the street, Which did his various senses greet,
Thought on a work, whate'er it be,
Which is a secret yet to me; But if he lives, the world will see.
—Nothing, indeed, escaped his view,
He saw St. Dunstan's men strike two,
And walking on he look'd around To see what more was to be found;
When on a door was fix'd a book, In which he felt dispos'd to look,
And saw, amidst the noisy din, There was a sale of books within.
This he presum'd would form a treat, So in he went, and took a seat.
As far as he could judge or see, There was a curious company;
Authors, booksellers, and what not Had in the place together got;
Though, here and there, he seem'd to ken A little lot of gentlemen,
Who sometimes gave a book to run As it appear'd from vexing fun,
And rais'd a work above its price, To tease a tradesman's avarice:
While those same worthies of the Row,
Would pay the gents a quid pro quo.
The sale went on, and books knock'd down
From fifty pounds to half a crown.
Syntax in musing silence thought
On what was sold and what was bought;
And let his keen reflection trace How solid learning chang'd its place.
Some Authors by the hammer's fiat Were sent away to sleep in quiet,
While others, who with leaves unclos'd,
Had for full half a century doz'd,
Were doom'd to pass their dog's-ear'd lives, As ever-moving fugitives.
Thus from their titles, looks and dates,
He doom'd them to their sev'ral fates;
Though, as he sat with watchful eye, He sometimes even long'd to buy;
But sage discretion held his hand,
And did his longing tongue command.
At length the solemn auctioneer Did in his hand a tome uprear,
All gilt, and in morocco green, Fit for the boudoir of a queen;
I know not why so very fine, Thought Syntax, for the work is mine:
But now I shall most surely know
What to fair truth the work doth owe, And public fancy may bestow;
For here its value I shall see, Without a spice of flattery.
Its value was most warmly stated, Its Author's talents celebrated,
Its humour, verse and moral powers,
Suited to grave and laughing hours,
And deck'd by nature and by fun, With the gay skill of Rowlandson.
Syntax delighted beyond measure Nodded to express his pleasure,
But started when the auctioneer Told him he was the purchaser.
Auctioneer.—
With solace both of bed and board,
Which smiling promise could afford,
His busy cogitation ran Upon some pleasant gen'ral plan,
Which might be prudent he should take For int'rest or diversion sake;
Or, he indeed felt nothing loth If possible, to join them both.
Free from restraint, with purse well lin'd,
And by no serious claim confin'd,
With no one call upon this time, From sober prose or sprightly rhyme,
The breakfast o'er, he pac'd the room,
And thus laid out the days to come,
Which were allotted him to stay In this grand scene of grave and gay;
What he should first begin to do, And which inviting way pursue.
—Thus he in contemplative mood The carpet's gaudy surface trod,
And, with hand lifted to his eye, Burst into this soliloquy;
“I shall not count each fleeting year,
Since fav'ring fortune call'd me here,
And gave me more than humble claim To a fair literary name:
Which, though it seems I should not boast,
I must preserve from being lost:
And as I've heard that various arts Which a base servile press imparts,
Do their delusive tricks employ, And give the name which I enjoy
To pettifogging works which I Must view, as from a critic's eye,
With contempt and contumely—
—It is a duty which I owe To all the readers who bestow
Their kind smiles on my rhyming toil And well repay my midnight oil,
Who patronise my labours past, And may protect me to the last:
Nay, well I know it is not long, They'll have to chear my evening song:
The wintry note must soon be o'er,
That's faintly warbled at fourscore—
But 'tis my duty, I repeat, Thus to unfold the foul deceit,
Nor let a spurious Syntax claim Their favour to a pilfer'd name;
To set, as his, their works afloat, Which real Syntax never wrote;
Nay, such as in ill-fortune's spite, The real Syntax could not write.—
These scribes I'll fail not to expose,
Who, foes to truth and learning's foes,
Do in one artifice agree To father their poor works on me.
To speak out, there is no concealing,
This is downright dishonest dealing,
And honest tradesmen will condemn The foul, audacious, stratagem.”
The Doctor ceas'd, then seiz'd his pen,
To tell his friends at Sommerden,
Of all his hist'ry that was past Since he had written to them last;
That a calm settlement in town, Did his long ling'ring journey crown,
And that in fourteen days to come,
He would address his face t'wards home.
This brief, domestic business o'er,
He took his hat and pass'd the door:
238
He walk'd the streets with wond'ring eye And busy curiosity,
To see what pow'r and wealth had done,
While all those tranquil years had flown,
Since he by fortune's guidance came,
And gain'd that share of honest fame,
Which talents such as his could claim:
And while he ne'er from virtue swerves,
Virtue may own that he deserves.
—He stroll'd about, nor could he pass
A street, where in some pane of glass,
He did not calmly smile to see His own delightful effigy.
All this he thought look'd wond'rous well Had he another work to sell:
For though he now was quite at ease
And calls for cash no longer tease;
Yet still he thought his idle time,
Might have enlarg'd, by prose or rhyme,
If with due care and thought pursued, The faculty of doing good.
And as the great historian tells Whose pen's delightful style excels
The writers of the present age, Who have fill'd up th'historic page;
That while he 'mid the arches stray'd
Of Rome's proud fanes in ruins laid,
His glowing comprehensive mind That great presiding work design'd,
Which in each future age's eye Will give him immortality.
—Thus, if in this capricious state,
Small things may be compar'd with great,
Syntax amid th'o'erwhelming noise
Of rattling wheels, of men and boys,
With the rude hurry of the street, Which did his various senses greet,
Thought on a work, whate'er it be,
Which is a secret yet to me; But if he lives, the world will see.
—Nothing, indeed, escaped his view,
He saw St. Dunstan's men strike two,
And walking on he look'd around To see what more was to be found;
When on a door was fix'd a book, In which he felt dispos'd to look,
And saw, amidst the noisy din, There was a sale of books within.
This he presum'd would form a treat, So in he went, and took a seat.
As far as he could judge or see, There was a curious company;
Authors, booksellers, and what not Had in the place together got;
Though, here and there, he seem'd to ken A little lot of gentlemen,
Who sometimes gave a book to run As it appear'd from vexing fun,
And rais'd a work above its price, To tease a tradesman's avarice:
While those same worthies of the Row,
Would pay the gents a quid pro quo.
The sale went on, and books knock'd down
From fifty pounds to half a crown.
Syntax in musing silence thought
On what was sold and what was bought;
And let his keen reflection trace How solid learning chang'd its place.
239
While others, who with leaves unclos'd,
Had for full half a century doz'd,
Were doom'd to pass their dog's-ear'd lives, As ever-moving fugitives.
Thus from their titles, looks and dates,
He doom'd them to their sev'ral fates;
Though, as he sat with watchful eye, He sometimes even long'd to buy;
But sage discretion held his hand,
And did his longing tongue command.
At length the solemn auctioneer Did in his hand a tome uprear,
All gilt, and in morocco green, Fit for the boudoir of a queen;
I know not why so very fine, Thought Syntax, for the work is mine:
But now I shall most surely know
What to fair truth the work doth owe, And public fancy may bestow;
For here its value I shall see, Without a spice of flattery.
Its value was most warmly stated, Its Author's talents celebrated,
Its humour, verse and moral powers,
Suited to grave and laughing hours,
And deck'd by nature and by fun, With the gay skill of Rowlandson.
Syntax delighted beyond measure Nodded to express his pleasure,
But started when the auctioneer Told him he was the purchaser.
“The Book's knock'd down at two pound two,
The money to be paid by you.”
Syntax.—
“This sure is reas'ning most absurd,
Why, Sir, I never spoke a word:
I might have nodded twice or thrice,
To see the book fetch such a price:
With secret pride I was complying,
But that had nought to do with buying.”
Auctioneer.—
“Nodding is bidding, Sir, well known
In ev'ry auction-room in town, And now the Book, Sir, is your own.”
Syntax.—
“I know 'tis mine—because I wrote it,
But you will never say I bought it.
Nay that would be a scurvy trick, Enough to make the Author sick.
If my nods bought it, as you say, Why nods should be the coin to pay.
For the same book I could not bid, A fool I must be if I did.
Besides I safely may express, That he who doth the Work possess,
Were I at any time to try His honest liberality,
Would give me copies half a score,
Did I demand them, aye and more.”
The Doctor now engross'd the eye Of the surrounding company,
Nor was his person sooner known
Than ev'ry mark'd respect was shown:
Nay, as he did the case explain, The Volume was put up again;
While on its page 'twas made a claim,
That he would just inscribe his name,
When this same autograph was found
To raise the price another pound,
And Syntax felt an added glee
When 'twas knock'd down for three pounds three.
The hammer's daily business done,
The Doctor prov'd a source of fun;
And then, discarding all restraint,
In hum'rous guise and language quaint,
Talk'd o'er his blunder frank and free, To aid the circle's pleasantry.
He now assum'd a critic look, And as he turn'd from book to book,
Prov'd by his words, that, great and small,
He knew, as he had read, them all:
And shew'd his learning was profound, To the attentive list'ners round.
—A Bookworm Knight the Sage address'd,
And thus his invitation press'd:
“Doctor, I speak it à la lettre, I should be glad to know you better;
And if you'll come with me and dine
I'll give you ven'son, give you wine,
And for dessert, we will compare My rich shelves of editions rare,
Such, as when you have look'd them o'er,
You'll say you never saw before.”
Nor was his person sooner known
Than ev'ry mark'd respect was shown:
Nay, as he did the case explain, The Volume was put up again;
While on its page 'twas made a claim,
That he would just inscribe his name,
When this same autograph was found
To raise the price another pound,
And Syntax felt an added glee
When 'twas knock'd down for three pounds three.
The hammer's daily business done,
The Doctor prov'd a source of fun;
240
In hum'rous guise and language quaint,
Talk'd o'er his blunder frank and free, To aid the circle's pleasantry.
He now assum'd a critic look, And as he turn'd from book to book,
Prov'd by his words, that, great and small,
He knew, as he had read, them all:
And shew'd his learning was profound, To the attentive list'ners round.
—A Bookworm Knight the Sage address'd,
And thus his invitation press'd:
“Doctor, I speak it à la lettre, I should be glad to know you better;
And if you'll come with me and dine
I'll give you ven'son, give you wine,
And for dessert, we will compare My rich shelves of editions rare,
Such, as when you have look'd them o'er,
You'll say you never saw before.”
The Doctor, tho' in gen'ral bent On intellectual nourishment,
Thought a good dinner, thus premis'd Was not a thing to be despis'd;
And thus in rather lively tone, He made his grateful feelings known:
“Your dinner I'll partake with pleasure,
And view your literary treasure:
For whatsoe'er some sophs maintain About the spirits and the brain,
As Prior tells, a clever poet, And had a certain way to shew it,
That they their forces must augment With some æthereal nourishment:
But any simple Tom will tell ye, The source of life is in the belly,
From whence are sent out those supplies,
Without whose propriate sympathies,
We should be neither strong nor wise:
For the main strength of ev'ry member
Depends upon the stomach timber;
And if we would improve our thought
We must be fed as well as taught.
E'en Horace boasts his power to shine, When aided by Falernian wine,
And other bards, if bards speak true,
When they could get it drank it too.”
Thought a good dinner, thus premis'd Was not a thing to be despis'd;
And thus in rather lively tone, He made his grateful feelings known:
“Your dinner I'll partake with pleasure,
And view your literary treasure:
For whatsoe'er some sophs maintain About the spirits and the brain,
As Prior tells, a clever poet, And had a certain way to shew it,
That they their forces must augment With some æthereal nourishment:
But any simple Tom will tell ye, The source of life is in the belly,
From whence are sent out those supplies,
Without whose propriate sympathies,
We should be neither strong nor wise:
For the main strength of ev'ry member
Depends upon the stomach timber;
And if we would improve our thought
We must be fed as well as taught.
E'en Horace boasts his power to shine, When aided by Falernian wine,
And other bards, if bards speak true,
When they could get it drank it too.”
Syntax was now well pleas'd to find A treat for body as for mind;
While, with all his gen'ral knowledge, Or of the world or of the college,
The Book-worm Knight was quite delighted,
And thought how it might be requited;
When he in welcome words declar'd, “I know not how, Sir, to reward
The real pleasure which occurs From such society as yours:
You know the hour at which I dine; And if my table and my wine
Should, as I hope, Sir, suit your taste, Let not a day, I beg, be past
While you're in town and have the leisure,
To me 'twill be a real pleasure,
Without your coming here to share, Such as it is, my daily fare.
But still I must myself explain, That you may not call here in vain.
—Thursday, the next that is to come, I have engag'd to be from home,
To dinner at Freemasons'-Hall, A charitable festival.
And now I think on't, you my friend, Must thither on my steps attend.
You, Doctor, shall my shadow be At this self-same solemnity;
Whose grand design is to impart Help to the wretched sons of art,
To raise their hopes, to sooth their grief,
And give their weeping wants relief.
Besides, my friend, as I am told, You do with skill the pencil hold,
And therefore I've a two-fold claim Upon your heart and on your name.
I here present you with a book, And ask you o'er its leaves to look,
Nor do I fear you will deny Your presence at this charity.”
Syntax.—
While, with all his gen'ral knowledge, Or of the world or of the college,
The Book-worm Knight was quite delighted,
And thought how it might be requited;
When he in welcome words declar'd, “I know not how, Sir, to reward
The real pleasure which occurs From such society as yours:
You know the hour at which I dine; And if my table and my wine
Should, as I hope, Sir, suit your taste, Let not a day, I beg, be past
While you're in town and have the leisure,
To me 'twill be a real pleasure,
Without your coming here to share, Such as it is, my daily fare.
But still I must myself explain, That you may not call here in vain.
—Thursday, the next that is to come, I have engag'd to be from home,
To dinner at Freemasons'-Hall, A charitable festival.
And now I think on't, you my friend, Must thither on my steps attend.
You, Doctor, shall my shadow be At this self-same solemnity;
Whose grand design is to impart Help to the wretched sons of art,
241
And give their weeping wants relief.
Besides, my friend, as I am told, You do with skill the pencil hold,
And therefore I've a two-fold claim Upon your heart and on your name.
I here present you with a book, And ask you o'er its leaves to look,
Nor do I fear you will deny Your presence at this charity.”
“I've known, good Sir, what 'tis to want;
I've felt the time when cash was scant;
Nor am I backward to relieve Those who feel want and such as grieve,
And look about, with sadden'd eye, On their surrounding penury.
I would from my example teach, By all the means within my reach,
The Heav'n-taught doctrines which I preach.
—Devoutly I have lov'd the arts,
And mine's among the grateful hearts,
Which own the pleasures they bestow, Though I myself but little know:
And far as my poor means extend, I will not fail to be their friend:
To this same feast I will repair;
Syntax, be sure, will meet you there.”
—Thus arts and artists were befriended,
And here the conversation ended.
The Doctor sought a welcome hack,
That to his lodgings bore him back.
The following morn in thoughtful mood,
He either saunter'd sat or stood,
Doubtful what course he should pursue,
And to what point direct his view.
His noble friend, to whom he ow'd What fav'ring fortune had bestow'd,
Had some time since deserted town,
And to his country-seat gone down;
So he determin'd to repeat At the due hour the friendly treat,
So kindly offer'd, nor be shy Of Book-worm's hospitality.
But the nice blunder of our sage, As mentioned in a former page,
Had of the auction form'd a tale,
Which 'mong the book-tribe did prevail;
And by this story it was known That Syntax was arriv'd in town.
—Thus as the bells rang out for pray'rs,
He heard some footsteps on the stairs,
When Patrick stiffly usher'd in, Two persons, who, with civil grin
And rather vulgar salutation, Began th'unlook'd-for conversation.
“It was with pleasure, Sir, we heard,
That you in London had appear'd,
And as your prudence may prepare To cover your expenses there,
We, who well know your reputation,
Would be first oars on the occasion.
'Tis a fine time, Sir, to let loose Such parts as yours, or to amuse
Or to instruct in ev'ry way, Wherein you can your pen display.
A hint to you, Sir, may suffice: You must not then be over-nice;
And take care that your active mind
Does not approach too near the wind:
Thus, if my long experienc'd nob Has not forgot to form a job,
Which has been, in such various way, The object of my busy day,
Since I was in the quick employ Of a Book-seller's errand-boy,
And rose from the inferior guise Of telling, to the printing lies,
Which work'd up by such men as you,
One half the world will think them true;
We may, I say, create a mint, Work'd up of manuscript and print,
Which, by our secret arts, may join To stamp the necessary coin.
—We only ask, if the intent Can 'scape an Act of Parliament;
We've but to think, and with good reason,
What misdemeanour is and treason:
Nay, we know better than the bible, What is, and what is not a libel.
Thus in each scribbling act and deed In safety we may sure proceed.”
Syntax.—
And here the conversation ended.
The Doctor sought a welcome hack,
That to his lodgings bore him back.
The following morn in thoughtful mood,
He either saunter'd sat or stood,
Doubtful what course he should pursue,
And to what point direct his view.
His noble friend, to whom he ow'd What fav'ring fortune had bestow'd,
Had some time since deserted town,
And to his country-seat gone down;
So he determin'd to repeat At the due hour the friendly treat,
So kindly offer'd, nor be shy Of Book-worm's hospitality.
But the nice blunder of our sage, As mentioned in a former page,
Had of the auction form'd a tale,
Which 'mong the book-tribe did prevail;
And by this story it was known That Syntax was arriv'd in town.
—Thus as the bells rang out for pray'rs,
He heard some footsteps on the stairs,
When Patrick stiffly usher'd in, Two persons, who, with civil grin
And rather vulgar salutation, Began th'unlook'd-for conversation.
“It was with pleasure, Sir, we heard,
That you in London had appear'd,
And as your prudence may prepare To cover your expenses there,
We, who well know your reputation,
Would be first oars on the occasion.
'Tis a fine time, Sir, to let loose Such parts as yours, or to amuse
Or to instruct in ev'ry way, Wherein you can your pen display.
A hint to you, Sir, may suffice: You must not then be over-nice;
And take care that your active mind
Does not approach too near the wind:
Thus, if my long experienc'd nob Has not forgot to form a job,
Which has been, in such various way, The object of my busy day,
242
And rose from the inferior guise Of telling, to the printing lies,
Which work'd up by such men as you,
One half the world will think them true;
We may, I say, create a mint, Work'd up of manuscript and print,
Which, by our secret arts, may join To stamp the necessary coin.
—We only ask, if the intent Can 'scape an Act of Parliament;
We've but to think, and with good reason,
What misdemeanour is and treason:
Nay, we know better than the bible, What is, and what is not a libel.
Thus in each scribbling act and deed In safety we may sure proceed.”
“What in my writings has appear'd,
What of me you have ever heard,
What in my visage do you see To show the lines of infamy,
As to suppose, I would disgrace My name, my character, my race,
And thus degrade by basest arts,
Whate'er they be, my mind and parts—
The bounteous gifts of God and nature,
And thus blaspheme a kind Creator?
For thus Heav'n's gifts to misapply Is little short of blasphemy.
—Listen, I bid you, to that bell I understand its language well,
It speaks of death—it is a knell,
Which has just call'd some spirit home,
To quit this life for worlds to come—
And in the course of some few hours
The awful summons may be yours:
And where the devil do you see, Will then your ill got treasure be.”
“—Doctor,” the other man replied, “By preaching, we're not satisfied.
We have another plan in view Which has been freely told to you.
—You'll let it work within your brain: To-morrow we will call again,
And more at large the scheme explain.”
Syntax.—
“Nay, I at present have a scheme
Of which you neither of you dream.
That you shall down those stairs betake you,
As fast as my man Pat can make you.”
The hint was given, and his strong arm,
Fill'd these associates with alarm;
Head-long and side-long down they went,
'Till they completed their descent:
While Betty with her mop and pail On the mid-stair case did not fail
With well-applied and furious dashing,
To give these pamphleteers a-washing.
Vellum who was waiting there Came in for his allotted share:
He had the auction story heard,
And brought his hopes to be preferr'd,
As printer, publisher, what not, By which some profits might be got,
If Syntax had to London brought Any new work by fancy taught,
Which might his character maintain And promise a return of gain.
Vellum arriv'd, all calm and quiet, Just at the moment of the riot,
When squalling, swearing, rattling, rumbling,
These pettifoggers came down tumbling
243
So that he harmless shar'd their fate;
And, coming with a fair intent,
Could not conceive what all this meant.
The noise itself may be conceiv'd When a close passage floor receiv'd
Three booksellers, together found Sprawling upon the hollow ground;
While without hat, wig, or umbrella,
They kick'd and each abus'd his fellow
With horrid oaths and daring threats Of constables and magistrates,
And calls on Syntax to prepare For grave reproaches of the Mayor:
While Pat stood on the landing-place With vict'ry smiling in his face.
This strange and blust'ring bustle ended,
Vellum upon the stage attended;
And had receiv'd no further hurt Than might be caus'd by sav'ry dirt.
“Know you these men,” the Doctor said,
“By whom I have just been betray'd
Into a violence of wrath That may not quite become my cloth?”
Vellum.—
“O I was glad to see them bang'd,
Nor should I weep if they were hang'd;
For I suspect they are the same Who pilfer'd your respected name;
And 'tis apparent with a view No lib'ral tradesman would pursue,
Though it appears the knavish trick Has made at length the public sick.”
Syntax.—
“Ne'er mind, whatever their intent,
I take it as a compliment:
And calmly let the matter pass— For this I know, a knave's an ass.
—But what brings Vellum to my view?”
Vellum.—
“To pay my best respects to you:—
And as perhaps you may have brought
A Manuscript with learning fraught;
Or some nice, pretty little skit Upon the times and full of wit,
A dealing I should hope to drive
By which our mutual gains might thrive,
And keep our friendly terms alive—
Perhaps, Sir, in your country fancies,
You have compos'd some other dances.
Your Dance of Life and Dance of Death
Have added foliage to the wreath
That binds your brow. But I could tell
That which would answer full as well.
What think you of the Doctor's Dance,
To make the tricks of physic prance
With clysters, boluses, and pills, And all those cures for mortal ills,
Where morbid fancy takes the rule, And leads the wise to play the fool;
While stores of hypochondriac wealth,
Are wasted in vain search of health.
Your fiddle might, in solemn sport,
Make the law trip through ev'ry court,
And modernise the ancient brawls Of Serjeants in the Temple Halls.
—But matrimony! what supply Of infinite variety
244
Of happy harmony and strife, Too often seen through ling'ring life,
And give new pictures in each stage,
From smiling youth to snarling age!
O this would do, excuse the hint, With all your wit and sketches in't!
I will risk paper, plates and print;
I'll take the trouble and the care, And equal profits we will share.”
Syntax.—
“The change is curious I must own:—
When I, my friend, was last in town,
You thought me poor and friendless too,
And look'd for homage you deem'd due
From coinless bards to men like you:
Then all your purse-proud spirit woke,
Till a great friend that spirit broke. But now, good Vellum, now I see
Your purse-proud pride will bow to me.
And, let me say, my friend, beside, I've somewhat of an author's pride,
Nay, am dispos'd to bear me high With your inferiority:
For know the diff'rence is as great Between our real and genuine state,
As regions where the planets glow,
And, those you tread, with well-shod toe,
The realms of Paternoster-Row.
The life of genius will extend The passing time's remotest end,
While yours with all your golden crop
Will not outlast your groaning shop.
Wealth is the work of worldly art,
While Heaven's dispensing powers impart
Those gifts with which inspired nature
Re-animates the human creature,
And bids his native spirit soar To heights of thought unknown before.
Kings may make Lords and tricks may thrive
But Heav'n alone can Genius give!
—Now if your brain and mine were sifted,
How would our sev'ral sculls be gifted?
Yours would be full of golden schemes,
And stuff'd with money-getting dreams;
While I should hope that mine might prove
The seat of visions form'd by love,
From ev'ry sordid notion free, And warm with Heav'n-born Charity.
Hence 'tis, that I shall not submit To all that Vellum thinks is wit;
What I shall do 'tis mine to tell; I'm born to write, he's made to sell.
But this I say as my award, When any future work's prepar'd,
He shall its honest fortune guard.
Such is the promise you receive.”
—Vellum bow'd low and took his leave.
The day soon came when Bookworm's call
Summon'd him to Free-masons' Hall.
A num'rous company appear'd, The sev'ral toasts were loudly cheer'd;
And after he had calmly heard
Displays of various eloquence, Replete with warm and manly sense,
From royal lips and noble mind; In gen'ral praises Syntax join'd:
At length he felt his bosom fir'd, And with the love of art inspir'd,
He rose, his modest silence broke; And thus the zealous Doctor spoke:
Syntax.—
The day soon came when Bookworm's call
Summon'd him to Free-masons' Hall.
A num'rous company appear'd, The sev'ral toasts were loudly cheer'd;
And after he had calmly heard
Displays of various eloquence, Replete with warm and manly sense,
From royal lips and noble mind; In gen'ral praises Syntax join'd:
At length he felt his bosom fir'd, And with the love of art inspir'd,
245
“I, who am seldom call'd to stray
From life's retir'd and secret way;
I, who presume not to impart The progress or the rules of art;
I, who with weak and erring hand
The pencil's humblest powers command;
I, who, with timid mind expose My undigested thoughts to those,
Whose elevated genius sways The rising arts of modern days,
Have but one object to pursue, In thus addressing me to you.
'Tis not improving art to teach, A subject far beyond my reach;
But suited to my rank and state On those high powers to dilate,
Which the ingenuous arts possess, In fav'ring human happiness;
In strengthening the moral sense By their impressive influence:
While they the improving power impart
To quicken and to mend the heart,
To animate, by powers combin'd Pictures of virtue in the mind,
And soften, when well understood,
Manners, till then unform'd and rude.
Horace has said, well known in story,
Who liv'd in height of Roman glory,
And was at once the barb and sage Of the renown'd Augustan age,
When the fine arts in radiance shone,
As Rome Imperial had not known,
And ere the Vandal bade them cease, Were rising up to rival Greece:
To this bright wit it did appear That what alone we list'ning hear,
Does not so soon affect the heart, As does the eye, by works of art.
“I shall not strive to state the measure
Of the secure refining pleasure,
Which the productive arts can give, And we may ev'ry day receive;—
'Tis not for my weak voice to stray Into that boundless, glowing way
Where arts of the remotest age May on the canvas charm the sage,
Present, in figure, form and fashion, The grand events of ev'ry nation,
And shew each hero known in story, Amid the blaze of mortal glory;
Can, 'neath the dreary realms of frost, Give to the eye the sunny coast,
And the most distant scenes display Of ev'ry country's various day:
Can decorate the plaster'd wall Of my embower'd, humble hall,
With Alpine heights and icy vales,
Where the fierce snowy blast prevails,
While the big mountain-torrent's course,
Descending with impetuous force,
Does the astonish'd channel fill, Making a river of a rill.
Nay more, the scenes of human strife, Of transient variegated life,
The ocean's or the tented view Of Trafalgar and Waterloo.
Nor these alone, the poet's fire Does the bold artist's hand inspire,
And shews, as we the thought pursue, The painter and the poet too.
But I must leave these powers of art
To those who can their charms impart;
246
The secrets which they know so well.
“If then the arts are thus endued With such a power of doing good,
What have they not a right to claim Of smiling ease and honest fame!
And much it doth my heart delight To view th'exhilarating sight
Of numbers, who, in art's proud growth,
I bless just Heav'n, enjoy them both.
They with their pow'rful pencil teach,
And to the eye their doctrines preach,
When, from the eye, the moral art Steals into and improves the heart.
Thus do their generous minds embrace,
Without reserve, Art's pining race;
Whether the victim of disease, Or fortune's eccentricities;
Or weaken'd by the slow decay That wastes the mind and form away.
—O 'tis enough—an artist grieves, And strait the warm relief receives.
Are Art's young offspring in distress? Here is a power prepar'd to bless.
No narrow, cold exception's made, No stated limits that invade
Th'expansive wishes to apply The cheering Aids of Charity.
For You direct its noble aim
To All, 'mid Fortune's frowns, who claim
From weeping Art a well known name.
—The tott'ring easel naked stands, No eye the pallet's tints commands,
The pencil's fallen from the hands,
Whose nerves have felt the palsied stroke,
While penury reviews the shock
With tearful eye, that doth not know A termination to its woe.
Ye wretched come, and dry the tear, Behold the termination here!
And O may Heaven, with ray divine, Illuminate the work benign;
And, year to year, may be renew'd, The added power of doing good!
—Thus may the arts of Britain's Isle, Beneath a nation's bounty smile!
Thus may we hope, when all protect,
When talent need not fear neglect,
That native genius will encrease, And British arts may rival Greece.
—Thus I presume to blend at least,
The Artist and the Christian Priest:
And, with a two-fold zeal, prefer, In this united character,
My prayers to the Almighty power, To bless this righteous, festal hour!
And, having thus my blessing given,
I leave the rest to fav'ring Heaven.”
What have they not a right to claim Of smiling ease and honest fame!
And much it doth my heart delight To view th'exhilarating sight
Of numbers, who, in art's proud growth,
I bless just Heav'n, enjoy them both.
They with their pow'rful pencil teach,
And to the eye their doctrines preach,
When, from the eye, the moral art Steals into and improves the heart.
Thus do their generous minds embrace,
Without reserve, Art's pining race;
Whether the victim of disease, Or fortune's eccentricities;
Or weaken'd by the slow decay That wastes the mind and form away.
—O 'tis enough—an artist grieves, And strait the warm relief receives.
Are Art's young offspring in distress? Here is a power prepar'd to bless.
No narrow, cold exception's made, No stated limits that invade
Th'expansive wishes to apply The cheering Aids of Charity.
For You direct its noble aim
To All, 'mid Fortune's frowns, who claim
From weeping Art a well known name.
—The tott'ring easel naked stands, No eye the pallet's tints commands,
The pencil's fallen from the hands,
Whose nerves have felt the palsied stroke,
While penury reviews the shock
With tearful eye, that doth not know A termination to its woe.
Ye wretched come, and dry the tear, Behold the termination here!
And O may Heaven, with ray divine, Illuminate the work benign;
And, year to year, may be renew'd, The added power of doing good!
—Thus may the arts of Britain's Isle, Beneath a nation's bounty smile!
Thus may we hope, when all protect,
When talent need not fear neglect,
That native genius will encrease, And British arts may rival Greece.
—Thus I presume to blend at least,
The Artist and the Christian Priest:
And, with a two-fold zeal, prefer, In this united character,
My prayers to the Almighty power, To bless this righteous, festal hour!
And, having thus my blessing given,
I leave the rest to fav'ring Heaven.”
Thus Syntax pleaded Mercy's cause:
While the Hall echoed with applause.
While the Hall echoed with applause.
The few days Syntax pass'd in town, He seldom was an hour alone.
He had a pleasing neighbour found,
Indeed, he might have look'd around,
And made a long, enquiring pother, Before he found out such another.
Here he the social evening felt,
Where beauty smil'd, and goodness dwelt.
Here he met all things to his mind, With constant kindness over-kind.
—Wherever he is doom'd to go, In this meand'ring scene below,
In the world's busy to and fro,
He never will, in all its din, Forget the good of Thavies Inn.
At length, howe'er, the time was come,
When he engag'd to be at home;
Besides a letter from the Lake Did on his town amusements break.
It seems, a worthy, wealthy Knight, Sir William Constant he was hight;
Gentle yet brave, humane and free, Who might have shone in chivalry,
If he had liv'd in those fine gay days,
When champions tilted for the ladies;
Disdainful of each flatt'ring art, Had made the offer of his heart
To the fair Heiress of the place, Adorn'd with ev'ry female grace:
And soon the secret was made known,
That she, sweet girl, return'd her own.
The Doctor, as she upward grew, Had fill'd her mind with all it knew:
Her filial love was scarcely more, Than that she to her master bore:
Nor would she tie the holy bands Till he return'd to join their hands.
He suffer'd not the least delay, But quitted town that very day,
And, at its hasty journey's end He pass'd the night with Dicky Bend.
For his return he then prepar'd, And Punch and Phillis were not spar'd
He thought and rode, and rode and thought,
Till a few days the travellers brought
To where was offer'd to their view
Keswick's broad Lake and waters blue;
While the old tower, with many a bell, Did loudly their arrival tell;
And on the hill and in the glen Gladness enliven'd Sommerden.
Smiles beaming on each lively face, The fond salute, the warm embrace,
Did every pleasing thought recall, And all was joy at Worthy Hall.
—Pat, found his dame with ruddy cheek;
His laughing babes were fat and sleek;
While through the following curious week,
He daily did attention draw, To what he'd seen or never saw:
With truth, or tales, or merry blunder,
He fill'd the gaping folk with wonder:
And Pat, no more a pavior, he Now wore the Doctor's livery.
At length arriv'd the happy day,
For all was joy, and all were gay, 'Twas Hymen's glorious holiday:
When was prepar'd within the grove, The feast of Hymeneal love.
—In all due form the knot was tied;
Th'exulting bridegroom and the bride
In nuptial figure soon appear'd, The assembled village loudly cheer'd,
And as the plenteous feast began,
The board was crown'd, the vessels ran,
From whence the foaming cups o'erflow'd;
And ev'ry breast with pleasure glow'd.
—The happy Syntax took the chair, Beside him were the wedded pair,
While near him all in smiling state The 'Squire and his Maria sate,
Who never had such pleasure known
Since such a day had been their own.
The dinner o'er, the Doctor rose, And did the heart-felt toast propose:
“Health to the bridegroom and the bride, And ev'ry other good beside:
O may they live from life till death,
As they have liv'd who gave them breath!
And now we leave you to be gay,
To pass your time in sport and play, For this is Hymen's holiday.”
The days pass'd on, which pass'd too soon,
And form'd the happy honey-moon:
But, when that joyous time was o'er,
Things went on as they'd done before.
Syntax resum'd his former station, With all his native animation.
Again the Rect'ry he enjoy'd, Again the studious hours employ'd;
Look'd on for pleasures yet to come,
And felt again that—home was home.
He had a pleasing neighbour found,
Indeed, he might have look'd around,
And made a long, enquiring pother, Before he found out such another.
Here he the social evening felt,
Where beauty smil'd, and goodness dwelt.
Here he met all things to his mind, With constant kindness over-kind.
—Wherever he is doom'd to go, In this meand'ring scene below,
In the world's busy to and fro,
He never will, in all its din, Forget the good of Thavies Inn.
247
When he engag'd to be at home;
Besides a letter from the Lake Did on his town amusements break.
It seems, a worthy, wealthy Knight, Sir William Constant he was hight;
Gentle yet brave, humane and free, Who might have shone in chivalry,
If he had liv'd in those fine gay days,
When champions tilted for the ladies;
Disdainful of each flatt'ring art, Had made the offer of his heart
To the fair Heiress of the place, Adorn'd with ev'ry female grace:
And soon the secret was made known,
That she, sweet girl, return'd her own.
The Doctor, as she upward grew, Had fill'd her mind with all it knew:
Her filial love was scarcely more, Than that she to her master bore:
Nor would she tie the holy bands Till he return'd to join their hands.
He suffer'd not the least delay, But quitted town that very day,
And, at its hasty journey's end He pass'd the night with Dicky Bend.
For his return he then prepar'd, And Punch and Phillis were not spar'd
He thought and rode, and rode and thought,
Till a few days the travellers brought
To where was offer'd to their view
Keswick's broad Lake and waters blue;
While the old tower, with many a bell, Did loudly their arrival tell;
And on the hill and in the glen Gladness enliven'd Sommerden.
Smiles beaming on each lively face, The fond salute, the warm embrace,
Did every pleasing thought recall, And all was joy at Worthy Hall.
—Pat, found his dame with ruddy cheek;
His laughing babes were fat and sleek;
While through the following curious week,
He daily did attention draw, To what he'd seen or never saw:
With truth, or tales, or merry blunder,
He fill'd the gaping folk with wonder:
And Pat, no more a pavior, he Now wore the Doctor's livery.
At length arriv'd the happy day,
For all was joy, and all were gay, 'Twas Hymen's glorious holiday:
When was prepar'd within the grove, The feast of Hymeneal love.
—In all due form the knot was tied;
Th'exulting bridegroom and the bride
In nuptial figure soon appear'd, The assembled village loudly cheer'd,
And as the plenteous feast began,
The board was crown'd, the vessels ran,
From whence the foaming cups o'erflow'd;
And ev'ry breast with pleasure glow'd.
—The happy Syntax took the chair, Beside him were the wedded pair,
While near him all in smiling state The 'Squire and his Maria sate,
Who never had such pleasure known
Since such a day had been their own.
The dinner o'er, the Doctor rose, And did the heart-felt toast propose:
“Health to the bridegroom and the bride, And ev'ry other good beside:
O may they live from life till death,
As they have liv'd who gave them breath!
And now we leave you to be gay,
248
The days pass'd on, which pass'd too soon,
And form'd the happy honey-moon:
But, when that joyous time was o'er,
Things went on as they'd done before.
Syntax resum'd his former station, With all his native animation.
Again the Rect'ry he enjoy'd, Again the studious hours employ'd;
Look'd on for pleasures yet to come,
And felt again that—home was home.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |