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 |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
|
|
 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
“Susan,” she said, “my rev'rend spark Is left completely in the dark:
So get a light, that he may clamber With all attention to his chamber;
Then give him to his servant's care, That he may do no mischief there.”
Susan obey'd, but scream'd to see Such an alarming effigy,
When the recover'd Syntax said, “Tell me, I pray, my pretty maid,
With what your mistress is possest
That thus she treats her rev'rend guest.”
“Lord Sir, believe me, 'tis no more Than she has often done before;
One of my lady's lively airs, For she's gone laughing up the stairs
To her own room—to say her pray'rs.”
“Well,” he then thought, “I will refrain
From sense of wrong, nor e'er complain:
She will not, I now think, expose My suff'rings from her doughty blows,
And as she laughs, I will not cry; She'll keep the secret—so will I.”
So get a light, that he may clamber With all attention to his chamber;
Then give him to his servant's care, That he may do no mischief there.”
Susan obey'd, but scream'd to see Such an alarming effigy,
When the recover'd Syntax said, “Tell me, I pray, my pretty maid,
With what your mistress is possest
That thus she treats her rev'rend guest.”
“Lord Sir, believe me, 'tis no more Than she has often done before;
One of my lady's lively airs, For she's gone laughing up the stairs
To her own room—to say her pray'rs.”
“Well,” he then thought, “I will refrain
From sense of wrong, nor e'er complain:
She will not, I now think, expose My suff'rings from her doughty blows,
And as she laughs, I will not cry; She'll keep the secret—so will I.”
He now approach'd his welcome bed, But ere he laid his aching head,
Pat was inform'd, at early hour He should proceed upon his Tour.
But yet he did not like to go Without returning blow for blow,
Not as a fretful, angry stroke, But half in earnest, half in joke;
And thought he could not do it better Than by an unexpected letter.
His was a short, disturb'd repose, When from a silken bed he rose,
Just with the sun;—he then began, And thus the sly epistle ran:—
“I may,” he thought, “have been too bold,
But have I not been as severe On my own folly as on her?
If I can check these wayward tricks, And her fine understanding fix,
(From Nature's gift improv'd by art)
And give right impulse to her heart;—
If I can damp her lively glory, In chanting forth my silly story,
To make the grave Blue Stockings laugh,
While they their evening beverage quaff,
And that their meeting may be jolly,
By heighten'd pictures of my folly,
This letter, thus well understood, May prove the source of real good.”
Pat was inform'd, at early hour He should proceed upon his Tour.
But yet he did not like to go Without returning blow for blow,
Not as a fretful, angry stroke, But half in earnest, half in joke;
And thought he could not do it better Than by an unexpected letter.
His was a short, disturb'd repose, When from a silken bed he rose,
Just with the sun;—he then began, And thus the sly epistle ran:—
Madam, With all regard that's due
I offer these few hints to you;
The best return that I can make, And which you will in kindness take,
For all your laughing, quizzing, eating,
Not to forget the precious beating
Which, such was your correcting zeal, As I now write I still can feel.
Last night, I know, I play'd the fool,
And serv'd to wake your ridicule:
Your wit, your wine, your gay pretences,
Must have depriv'd me of my senses,
Or surely, I should ne'er have done What I now blush to think upon.
Could I suppose, when I came here, That one like me had aught to fear?
Say, could I think of aught so shocking
As Mock'ry clad in azure stocking?
The Muses and the Graces too I thought to find in garter blue,
That which old proverbs do maintain, Is never known to bear a stain.
And, with my sable rev'rend hue, The chasten'd fancy might review
A union rare of BLACK and BLUE.
I hop'd to list beneath the banners
Of high-wrought mind and graceful manners,
All which, enliven'd I should see With philosophic pleasantry,
While hearts congenial might consent To join in tend'rest sentiment.
—Such were my hopes, nor need I tell
What fortune those same hopes befel.
Fine taste and elegance I own I look'd for in MA'AM OMICRON,
And they I know might suited be To deck, as I had hop'd to see,
The most refin'd simplicity.
But lo! there enter'd in its stead,
What you'll remember, while you read,
Well manag'd trick and ready laughter,
Nor will I tell what followed after—
For I can only take for granted, That, by some art, I was enchanted.
—And now, as I am taking leave, Deign my kind counsel to receive.
You laugh at others, and what then?
They may return to laugh again.
How ready's your sarcastic word,
With She's a fright, and He's absurd!
But while at others' fault you frown,
Think you, alas, that you have none?
'Tis time, if I have eyes to see, To quit your frisky mockery,
In five years you'll be Forty-three!
That secret I've contriv'd to trace, Besides the dial on your face,
Believe me, Madam, tells as true As any household clock can do.
Youth may be pardon'd when it plies Its soft or sprightly coquetries,
And even be allow'd to hear The flattery which courts its ear.
Indeed, I'm not so idly bold As e'en to hint that you are old.
Yet I can ne'er allow my tongue To err, in saying you are young.
Your beauty, though once overflowing, Is like an auction lot—a-going:
In vain, Ma'am, you may scold and frown,
Time's hammer soon will knock it down,
And I do not forbode a stir Of who will be the purchaser.
Why, think you, that I could not see,
Midst all my words' embroidery, You wear a Wig—as well as me?
Nay, I could name a striking feature
That's deck'd by art and not by nature,
Though such your taste, I do confess,
When, in the splendid show of dress,
So well trick'd up your form appears, You lose full half a dozen years.
But yet I own the radiant eye,
Which still may wake th'admiring sigh;
Whose stern look still may cause alarm,
And whose soft, smiling beam may charm,
Nay, I with warm assent allow, While I with ready homage bow,
That you possess the mental grace, That in your character I trace
A mind with ample powers endued, To please the learned and the good.
Let then your affectations cease, Give joy, do good, and live in peace.
—Quit then, O quit your CIRCE'S Art,
By which you play a treach'rous part!
O leave the witch'ry of her school, Nor turn a wise man to a fool!
Strive from all whims your mind to free,
And think not, you e'er laugh at me.
—Thus I present my farewell warning,
And to your night-cap bid GOOD-MORNING.
With all regard your virtues claim, I humbly sign my humbled name,
Thus as he did the letter fold,
I offer these few hints to you;
The best return that I can make, And which you will in kindness take,
For all your laughing, quizzing, eating,
Not to forget the precious beating
Which, such was your correcting zeal, As I now write I still can feel.
Last night, I know, I play'd the fool,
And serv'd to wake your ridicule:
Your wit, your wine, your gay pretences,
Must have depriv'd me of my senses,
Or surely, I should ne'er have done What I now blush to think upon.
Could I suppose, when I came here, That one like me had aught to fear?
Say, could I think of aught so shocking
As Mock'ry clad in azure stocking?
The Muses and the Graces too I thought to find in garter blue,
That which old proverbs do maintain, Is never known to bear a stain.
And, with my sable rev'rend hue, The chasten'd fancy might review
A union rare of BLACK and BLUE.
I hop'd to list beneath the banners
Of high-wrought mind and graceful manners,
All which, enliven'd I should see With philosophic pleasantry,
While hearts congenial might consent To join in tend'rest sentiment.
—Such were my hopes, nor need I tell
What fortune those same hopes befel.
Fine taste and elegance I own I look'd for in MA'AM OMICRON,
301
The most refin'd simplicity.
But lo! there enter'd in its stead,
What you'll remember, while you read,
Well manag'd trick and ready laughter,
Nor will I tell what followed after—
For I can only take for granted, That, by some art, I was enchanted.
—And now, as I am taking leave, Deign my kind counsel to receive.
You laugh at others, and what then?
They may return to laugh again.
How ready's your sarcastic word,
With She's a fright, and He's absurd!
But while at others' fault you frown,
Think you, alas, that you have none?
'Tis time, if I have eyes to see, To quit your frisky mockery,
In five years you'll be Forty-three!
That secret I've contriv'd to trace, Besides the dial on your face,
Believe me, Madam, tells as true As any household clock can do.
Youth may be pardon'd when it plies Its soft or sprightly coquetries,
And even be allow'd to hear The flattery which courts its ear.
Indeed, I'm not so idly bold As e'en to hint that you are old.
Yet I can ne'er allow my tongue To err, in saying you are young.
Your beauty, though once overflowing, Is like an auction lot—a-going:
In vain, Ma'am, you may scold and frown,
Time's hammer soon will knock it down,
And I do not forbode a stir Of who will be the purchaser.
Why, think you, that I could not see,
Midst all my words' embroidery, You wear a Wig—as well as me?
Nay, I could name a striking feature
That's deck'd by art and not by nature,
Though such your taste, I do confess,
When, in the splendid show of dress,
So well trick'd up your form appears, You lose full half a dozen years.
But yet I own the radiant eye,
Which still may wake th'admiring sigh;
Whose stern look still may cause alarm,
And whose soft, smiling beam may charm,
Nay, I with warm assent allow, While I with ready homage bow,
That you possess the mental grace, That in your character I trace
A mind with ample powers endued, To please the learned and the good.
Let then your affectations cease, Give joy, do good, and live in peace.
—Quit then, O quit your CIRCE'S Art,
By which you play a treach'rous part!
O leave the witch'ry of her school, Nor turn a wise man to a fool!
Strive from all whims your mind to free,
And think not, you e'er laugh at me.
—Thus I present my farewell warning,
And to your night-cap bid GOOD-MORNING.
With all regard your virtues claim, I humbly sign my humbled name,
SYNTAX.
“I may,” he thought, “have been too bold,
302
If I can check these wayward tricks, And her fine understanding fix,
(From Nature's gift improv'd by art)
And give right impulse to her heart;—
If I can damp her lively glory, In chanting forth my silly story,
To make the grave Blue Stockings laugh,
While they their evening beverage quaff,
And that their meeting may be jolly,
By heighten'd pictures of my folly,
This letter, thus well understood, May prove the source of real good.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |