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 |  |
“You, Doctor, as I understand, Are fit to lead an opera band;
And, therefore, you may scarce incline
To add to such a crash as mine:
But if your powers will condescend To treat me as a common friend,
You shall, Sir, in the evening try My little school of harmony.
It is not oft 'mong ladies seen, But I play on the violin.
To touch the harp and the piano
In what each farmer's daughter can do;
And therefore 'tis I wish to move
With those who by their science prove An honour to the art I love.
Hence my fond mind is solely bent To chuse this arduous instrument.
I have a foreign person here, Who at our dinner will appear,
A widow of the music tribe, Whom I with handsome sal'ry bribe
To live with me in friendly guise, As mistress of my harmonies:
She plays the bass, blows the bassoon,
And keeps the instruments in tune;
Teaches the parish boys to sing
Psalms, anthems, and God save the King.”
Thus as she spoke a bugle's blast
Summon'd them to the hour's repast,
When she propos'd the famous glee Of the Non Nobis Domine,
In which the ladies' parts were sung
Without or time, or tune, or tongue,
And Syntax felt, with all his care,
He should not pass his evening there;
That they would never keep in tune
Through the approaching afternoon;
For Music, with this mighty show,
Was the last thing they seem'd to know.
But still the good things he assail'd
Where Music's ev'ry form prevail'd,
That sing-song fancy could supply To deck the skill of cookery,
Or the same whimsy could impart To the confectionery art:
Thus songs in sav'ry wrappers shone On cutlets a la Maintenon,
While Blanc-mange dotted o'er with notes,
Made Music slip adown their throats;
Then sweets in ev'ry form display The instrumental orchestra:
Thus fiddles, flutes and harps unite To harmonise the appetite.
At length came the appointed hour
When, in the garden's gaudy bower,
Where flowers and climbing plants o'erlaid
Combin'd to form a scented shade,
These vot'ries of sweet sounds appear To wake Apollo's list'ning ear.
—Miss C--- began with furious force,
The Doctor follow'd her of course,
While the old dame with slower pace,
Came rumbling after on the bass:
But ere they got to the conclusion,
Th'harmonious piece was all confusion.
If great Corelli from the dead Could but have rais'd his list'ning head
And just then heard his mangled strain,
He would have wish'd to die again.
Miss was too fast by many a bar, The old-one was behind as far,
While Syntax strove their faults to cover
By smoth'ring one and then the other.
“Oho,” he whisper'd, “this same trio
Will shortly end in my Addio.”
—He thought at least he would be civil
And try to check the coming evil;
For he saw in Miss Crotchet's face
That rage was working his disgrace.
“If Music be the food of love Let us another trio prove,”
Syntax exclaim'd; when she replied, “I tell you I am petrified;
To me, you humstrum, it appears,
That you have neither eyes nor ears
You could as well bestride the moon,
As keep your time or stop in tune;
And 'twas, in an extreme degree, Impertinence to play with me.”
—Instead of Time he thought he'd beat,
With all good manners, a retreat;
But, in retiring from the threat, With which he thought he was beset,
He overturn'd the o'ergrown fiddle,
And set his foot plump in the middle:
The crash produc'd a shriek of rage,
Which nought he utter'd could assuage
When, to avoid the rout and roar,
He quickly pass'd the mansion door,
And, driven by Discord, sought to fly
From this strange scene of harmony,
While, with vocifering halloo, He call'd on his man Pat to follow.
But Pat had half an hour's stay, Before he told of his delay,
Which he let loose in his droll way.
“The lady, Sir, 'tis very sad, Is, I am sure, at times, half-mad!
She rush'd into the servants' hall And utter'd, with an angry squall,
‘Your master is a brute, I say, And I have sent the fool away.’
‘No man,’ I said, ‘would call him so,
But this arm's vengeance he should know,
Though as he's gone, why I must go!’
Orders she gave to lock the door And pointing wildly to the floor,
‘Stand here,’ she said ‘and sing a song,
Or you shall stop the whole night long.’
I bow'd and did at once let fly A pretty piece of melody,
Such as did never yet miscarry To please the lads of Tipperary:
The chamber madams whisper'd—Hush!
And knew not if to laugh or blush;
While the cook dame, call'd laughing Nan,
Beat time upon the dripping-pan.
The butler turn'd his head away, So how he look'd I cannot say;
While stiff the little Negro stood,
Shew'd his white teeth and grinn'd aloud.
—At the fourth verse off Madam flew,
And here, Sir, I'm return'd to you.”
And, therefore, you may scarce incline
To add to such a crash as mine:
But if your powers will condescend To treat me as a common friend,
You shall, Sir, in the evening try My little school of harmony.
It is not oft 'mong ladies seen, But I play on the violin.
To touch the harp and the piano
In what each farmer's daughter can do;
And therefore 'tis I wish to move
With those who by their science prove An honour to the art I love.
Hence my fond mind is solely bent To chuse this arduous instrument.
I have a foreign person here, Who at our dinner will appear,
A widow of the music tribe, Whom I with handsome sal'ry bribe
To live with me in friendly guise, As mistress of my harmonies:
She plays the bass, blows the bassoon,
And keeps the instruments in tune;
Teaches the parish boys to sing
Psalms, anthems, and God save the King.”
Thus as she spoke a bugle's blast
Summon'd them to the hour's repast,
When she propos'd the famous glee Of the Non Nobis Domine,
In which the ladies' parts were sung
Without or time, or tune, or tongue,
And Syntax felt, with all his care,
He should not pass his evening there;
That they would never keep in tune
Through the approaching afternoon;
For Music, with this mighty show,
Was the last thing they seem'd to know.
321
Where Music's ev'ry form prevail'd,
That sing-song fancy could supply To deck the skill of cookery,
Or the same whimsy could impart To the confectionery art:
Thus songs in sav'ry wrappers shone On cutlets a la Maintenon,
While Blanc-mange dotted o'er with notes,
Made Music slip adown their throats;
Then sweets in ev'ry form display The instrumental orchestra:
Thus fiddles, flutes and harps unite To harmonise the appetite.
At length came the appointed hour
When, in the garden's gaudy bower,
Where flowers and climbing plants o'erlaid
Combin'd to form a scented shade,
These vot'ries of sweet sounds appear To wake Apollo's list'ning ear.
—Miss C--- began with furious force,
The Doctor follow'd her of course,
While the old dame with slower pace,
Came rumbling after on the bass:
But ere they got to the conclusion,
Th'harmonious piece was all confusion.
If great Corelli from the dead Could but have rais'd his list'ning head
And just then heard his mangled strain,
He would have wish'd to die again.
Miss was too fast by many a bar, The old-one was behind as far,
While Syntax strove their faults to cover
By smoth'ring one and then the other.
“Oho,” he whisper'd, “this same trio
Will shortly end in my Addio.”
—He thought at least he would be civil
And try to check the coming evil;
For he saw in Miss Crotchet's face
That rage was working his disgrace.
“If Music be the food of love Let us another trio prove,”
Syntax exclaim'd; when she replied, “I tell you I am petrified;
To me, you humstrum, it appears,
That you have neither eyes nor ears
You could as well bestride the moon,
As keep your time or stop in tune;
And 'twas, in an extreme degree, Impertinence to play with me.”
—Instead of Time he thought he'd beat,
With all good manners, a retreat;
But, in retiring from the threat, With which he thought he was beset,
He overturn'd the o'ergrown fiddle,
And set his foot plump in the middle:
The crash produc'd a shriek of rage,
Which nought he utter'd could assuage
When, to avoid the rout and roar,
He quickly pass'd the mansion door,
And, driven by Discord, sought to fly
From this strange scene of harmony,
While, with vocifering halloo, He call'd on his man Pat to follow.
322
Which he let loose in his droll way.
“The lady, Sir, 'tis very sad, Is, I am sure, at times, half-mad!
She rush'd into the servants' hall And utter'd, with an angry squall,
‘Your master is a brute, I say, And I have sent the fool away.’
‘No man,’ I said, ‘would call him so,
But this arm's vengeance he should know,
Though as he's gone, why I must go!’
Orders she gave to lock the door And pointing wildly to the floor,
‘Stand here,’ she said ‘and sing a song,
Or you shall stop the whole night long.’
I bow'd and did at once let fly A pretty piece of melody,
Such as did never yet miscarry To please the lads of Tipperary:
The chamber madams whisper'd—Hush!
And knew not if to laugh or blush;
While the cook dame, call'd laughing Nan,
Beat time upon the dripping-pan.
The butler turn'd his head away, So how he look'd I cannot say;
While stiff the little Negro stood,
Shew'd his white teeth and grinn'd aloud.
—At the fourth verse off Madam flew,
And here, Sir, I'm return'd to you.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |