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 |  |
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.
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,
320
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.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |