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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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
That quiet spirit call'd self love, So apt the human breast to move,
Began a little place to find Within the Doctor's wav'ring mind;
And, if it did not turn them out, Was prone to calm each rising doubt;
While the warm sense of conscious pride
Inclin'd him to the flatt'ring side
Of what the smiling widow spoke, Whether in earnest or in joke.
He now a sofa's corner grac'd,
On the same seat the Dame was plac'd,
Though to some distance she retir'd,
As chaste, decorous form requir'd.
In gilded frame there hung between,
From Titian's hand, a fav'rite scene,
Where young Adonis did appear;—
A boar's head crown'd the pointed spear,
While 'neath the silken folds behind The doting Venus lay reclin'd.
The lady cast her eyes above As if she view'd the Queen of Love,
Then to her side a look she threw,
Where she had Syntax in her view;
But it was rather to explore The heads of Syntax and the boar,
When whim endeavour'd, if it could, To find out some similitude,
While her gay fancy strove to rig The beast's head in a parson's wig.
—Some little chit-chat 'bout the arts, But not a word as yet of Hearts,
Of ling'ring time fill'd up the measure,
'Till supper waited Madam's pleasure,
Which was in tasteful order set In an adjoining cabinet,
Whose classic paintings like the rest, The genius of the place confest.
—Two Bacchanalian infants lay Upon a tiger's skin at play,
Beneath an overshadowing vine
Around the elm whose branches twine,
And purple clusters hang between To give a richness to the scene;
While views of wood and water-fall Are scatter'd o'er the crimson wall:
But Syntax look'd to satisfy His palate rather than his eye,
And that eye was dispos'd to stare When it beheld the bill of fare.
One dish a single pigeon grac'd,
On t'other side three larks were plac'd;
A tart, about two inches square, Cut out and fashion'd like a star,
Potatoes two, most nicely roasted,
The produce which her garden boasted,
And in the midst, the eye to please, A milk-white Lilliputian cheese,
Were all arrang'd in order due, And look'd so pretty to the view.
The Doctor, who so long had fasted,
Nor since 'twas noon a morsel tasted,
Besides he had kick'd down his tea, Beheld this festive symmetry
Deck'd out in all the simple cost
That Wedgwood's pottery could boast,
In hungry fury, almost able With the scant meal to eat the table:
Nay, while the puny bits she carv'd,
Poor Syntax fear'd he should be starv'd.
The wine was call'd, the summons cheer'd
His spirits till the wine appear'd.
Two minniken decanters shone Like twenty prisms form'd into one;
Nay, with such lustre did they shine,
The eye could scarce discern the wine,
And quite perplex'd his eager sight, To know if it were red or white.
The Hostess fill'd her ready glass,
And did the health to Syntax pass:
It held what might just wet her lip, But was not large enough to sip.
Then, with Bon Soir! her guest was greeted,
And he the sleepy toast repeated:
But the cheering hopes were o'er, The gay decanters held no more.
“I'm tir'd with our sheep-shearing feast,”
She said, “and long for balmy rest.
Hence, Sir, you will excuse my dress, As I've just been a shepherdess,
And therefore suited my array To the employment of the day:
To-morrow I'll put on my best In honour of my honour'd guest.”
She order'd then her chamber light,
Wish'd calm repose and bade good night.
The Doctor follow'd in high dudgeon,
At having been so tame a gudgeon;
Hungry and sore with discontent, He growl'd and mutter'd as he went,
“Of starving jokes, I'll make her sick,
And faith I'll play her trick for trick,
Before to-morrow's course is run, I will return her fun for fun:
And may my hopes all go to pot, If my resentment is forgot!”
Poor anxious Pat begg'd leave to know
What seem'd to plague his Rev'rence so:
Nor did his kind enquiries fail Of hearing the droll, starving tale.
“'Tis strange,” he in his way replied,
“For I, Sir, thought I should have died,
Of roast and boil'd, of bak'd and fried:
Not such a kitchen one in twenty, So cramm'd with overflowing plenty.
But just permit me to observe, Your Rev'rence surely need not starve;
You may defy, though you've forgot, The utmost spite of spit and pot;
For safe within your great-coat pocket,
As big as any two pound rocket,
A fine Bologna is well-stow'd By way of prog upon the road;
And many a biscuit too pack'd up,
On which your Rev'rence now may sup,
Nor do I think that I shall fail To get a jug of foaming ale.”
He said, and soon the ale appear'd,
The sight the Doctor's spirits cheer'd,
And to complete his well-laid plot, A nice clean pipe he also got;
Nay more, some high-dried weed he brought,
Without which pipes are good for nought.
The sausage gave its poignant slice, The biscuit too was very nice;
He gave a whiff, the ale he quaff'd,
And at the Widow's banquet laugh'd:
The feast, which mov'd his humble pride,
Now shook with mirth his aching side.
Thus with these means of consolation,
And cure of thought that brings vexation,
Syntax dismiss'd his faithful valet To snore the night out on his pallet;
While in arm-chair, with half shut eye, He spoke a brief soliloquy:
“Thou welcome tube, to whom belongs
To make the mind forget her wrongs,
Thou bid'st my keen resentment cease
And yield to harmony and peace!
The Widow's mischief now is o'er, And I shall frown and fret no more,
But arm myself with watchful care, To fall into no other snare:
Nay, if her genius should succeed, I'll bid good humour meet the deed;
And let her frolic and her joke—
If she must have them—end in Smoke!”
At length he felt 'twas time to rest,
And Morpheus claim'd him as his guest,
When in due time, refresh'd and gay, He hail'd the promise of the day,
And in the book-room was display'd The luxury of breakfast laid.
His eyes now joyous wander'd o'er The contrast of the night before:
The tea in fragrant fumes ascends, The sister coffee too attends,
While many a smoking cake appears
In butter sous'd o'er head and ears;
Boil'd eggs, slic'd beef and dainty chicken
Invite him to more solid picking,
While honey of delicious taste, Adds sweetness to the morn's repast.
But Syntax here was all alone, For Madam did not rise till noon;
So that there were no forms to tease him,
And he could take whate'er might please him:
Nor did he the free choice refuse,
He pleas'd his taste, he read the news,
Then search'd the well-rang'd shelves, to find
A classic breakfast for his mind.
He now took Ovid and Lucretius To con o'er what those poets teach us,
That if he should be left alone With this same Madam Omicron,
He might th'important question move, Of the Philosophy of Love;
And find, at least, how all things stood;
If with success she might be woo'd,
Or, as he thought, if he should be A play-game to her vanity:
Though, if her fancy should not chuse him,
Her fine vagaries might amuse him,
At all events, he was prepar'd To take what fortune should award.
The Dame, howe'er, he did not see
'Till the house-clock had sounded three.
Began a little place to find Within the Doctor's wav'ring mind;
And, if it did not turn them out, Was prone to calm each rising doubt;
While the warm sense of conscious pride
Inclin'd him to the flatt'ring side
Of what the smiling widow spoke, Whether in earnest or in joke.
He now a sofa's corner grac'd,
On the same seat the Dame was plac'd,
Though to some distance she retir'd,
As chaste, decorous form requir'd.
In gilded frame there hung between,
From Titian's hand, a fav'rite scene,
Where young Adonis did appear;—
A boar's head crown'd the pointed spear,
While 'neath the silken folds behind The doting Venus lay reclin'd.
The lady cast her eyes above As if she view'd the Queen of Love,
294
Where she had Syntax in her view;
But it was rather to explore The heads of Syntax and the boar,
When whim endeavour'd, if it could, To find out some similitude,
While her gay fancy strove to rig The beast's head in a parson's wig.
—Some little chit-chat 'bout the arts, But not a word as yet of Hearts,
Of ling'ring time fill'd up the measure,
'Till supper waited Madam's pleasure,
Which was in tasteful order set In an adjoining cabinet,
Whose classic paintings like the rest, The genius of the place confest.
—Two Bacchanalian infants lay Upon a tiger's skin at play,
Beneath an overshadowing vine
Around the elm whose branches twine,
And purple clusters hang between To give a richness to the scene;
While views of wood and water-fall Are scatter'd o'er the crimson wall:
But Syntax look'd to satisfy His palate rather than his eye,
And that eye was dispos'd to stare When it beheld the bill of fare.
One dish a single pigeon grac'd,
On t'other side three larks were plac'd;
A tart, about two inches square, Cut out and fashion'd like a star,
Potatoes two, most nicely roasted,
The produce which her garden boasted,
And in the midst, the eye to please, A milk-white Lilliputian cheese,
Were all arrang'd in order due, And look'd so pretty to the view.
The Doctor, who so long had fasted,
Nor since 'twas noon a morsel tasted,
Besides he had kick'd down his tea, Beheld this festive symmetry
Deck'd out in all the simple cost
That Wedgwood's pottery could boast,
In hungry fury, almost able With the scant meal to eat the table:
Nay, while the puny bits she carv'd,
Poor Syntax fear'd he should be starv'd.
The wine was call'd, the summons cheer'd
His spirits till the wine appear'd.
Two minniken decanters shone Like twenty prisms form'd into one;
Nay, with such lustre did they shine,
The eye could scarce discern the wine,
And quite perplex'd his eager sight, To know if it were red or white.
The Hostess fill'd her ready glass,
And did the health to Syntax pass:
It held what might just wet her lip, But was not large enough to sip.
Then, with Bon Soir! her guest was greeted,
And he the sleepy toast repeated:
But the cheering hopes were o'er, The gay decanters held no more.
“I'm tir'd with our sheep-shearing feast,”
She said, “and long for balmy rest.
Hence, Sir, you will excuse my dress, As I've just been a shepherdess,
And therefore suited my array To the employment of the day:
To-morrow I'll put on my best In honour of my honour'd guest.”
She order'd then her chamber light,
Wish'd calm repose and bade good night.
295
At having been so tame a gudgeon;
Hungry and sore with discontent, He growl'd and mutter'd as he went,
“Of starving jokes, I'll make her sick,
And faith I'll play her trick for trick,
Before to-morrow's course is run, I will return her fun for fun:
And may my hopes all go to pot, If my resentment is forgot!”
Poor anxious Pat begg'd leave to know
What seem'd to plague his Rev'rence so:
Nor did his kind enquiries fail Of hearing the droll, starving tale.
“'Tis strange,” he in his way replied,
“For I, Sir, thought I should have died,
Of roast and boil'd, of bak'd and fried:
Not such a kitchen one in twenty, So cramm'd with overflowing plenty.
But just permit me to observe, Your Rev'rence surely need not starve;
You may defy, though you've forgot, The utmost spite of spit and pot;
For safe within your great-coat pocket,
As big as any two pound rocket,
A fine Bologna is well-stow'd By way of prog upon the road;
And many a biscuit too pack'd up,
On which your Rev'rence now may sup,
Nor do I think that I shall fail To get a jug of foaming ale.”
He said, and soon the ale appear'd,
The sight the Doctor's spirits cheer'd,
And to complete his well-laid plot, A nice clean pipe he also got;
Nay more, some high-dried weed he brought,
Without which pipes are good for nought.
The sausage gave its poignant slice, The biscuit too was very nice;
He gave a whiff, the ale he quaff'd,
And at the Widow's banquet laugh'd:
The feast, which mov'd his humble pride,
Now shook with mirth his aching side.
Thus with these means of consolation,
And cure of thought that brings vexation,
Syntax dismiss'd his faithful valet To snore the night out on his pallet;
While in arm-chair, with half shut eye, He spoke a brief soliloquy:
“Thou welcome tube, to whom belongs
To make the mind forget her wrongs,
Thou bid'st my keen resentment cease
And yield to harmony and peace!
The Widow's mischief now is o'er, And I shall frown and fret no more,
But arm myself with watchful care, To fall into no other snare:
Nay, if her genius should succeed, I'll bid good humour meet the deed;
And let her frolic and her joke—
If she must have them—end in Smoke!”
At length he felt 'twas time to rest,
And Morpheus claim'd him as his guest,
When in due time, refresh'd and gay, He hail'd the promise of the day,
And in the book-room was display'd The luxury of breakfast laid.
His eyes now joyous wander'd o'er The contrast of the night before:
The tea in fragrant fumes ascends, The sister coffee too attends,
296
In butter sous'd o'er head and ears;
Boil'd eggs, slic'd beef and dainty chicken
Invite him to more solid picking,
While honey of delicious taste, Adds sweetness to the morn's repast.
But Syntax here was all alone, For Madam did not rise till noon;
So that there were no forms to tease him,
And he could take whate'er might please him:
Nor did he the free choice refuse,
He pleas'd his taste, he read the news,
Then search'd the well-rang'd shelves, to find
A classic breakfast for his mind.
He now took Ovid and Lucretius To con o'er what those poets teach us,
That if he should be left alone With this same Madam Omicron,
He might th'important question move, Of the Philosophy of Love;
And find, at least, how all things stood;
If with success she might be woo'd,
Or, as he thought, if he should be A play-game to her vanity:
Though, if her fancy should not chuse him,
Her fine vagaries might amuse him,
At all events, he was prepar'd To take what fortune should award.
The Dame, howe'er, he did not see
'Till the house-clock had sounded three.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |