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 |  |
“—Oh! Oh!” cried Pat, “how my hand itches,
Thou guinea pig, in boots, and breeches,
To trounce thee well!—Thou lying sinner,
To beat thee I would lose my dinner!”
—Glanders deign'd not to make reply,
But, with grave look and leering eye,
Just utter'd: “Here is my account, And I now beg the small amount.”
Syntax began to fume and vapour, And tore at once the dirty paper.
Within the house his voice was heard,
When the yard's master soon appear'd,
And did in humblest terms request
The Doctor's rage might be supprest.
“Though of strange form and uncouth feature,
Old Glanders is a useful creature:
And though his ways are coarse and rude,
He is with ample skill endued,
And is pursued by hourly calls For all the ails of animals;
Nay, does his ready aid supply, From sporting stable to the stye.
Indeed, I think, if skill or care
Could have preserv'd your old grey mare,
She would not have been lying there.
Leave, Sir, this bus'ness all to me, It is beneath your dignity;
And, if another horse you buy, My judgment shall its aid supply.”
—Smiles and kind words, how great their skill,
To regulate the wayward will!
And, in this out-of-humour hour, Syntax was soften'd by their power.
“Thank you,” he said, “my honest friend,
To your good counsel I attend.”
Then spoke, as round his eyes he threw,
“Pat come with me!—Poor Punch, adieu!”
“An' please you, I ne'er long'd,” says Pat,
“Since my round head has worn a hat,
T'employ my fists as on that fellow,
That half-grown, o'er-grown Punchinello!”
Said Syntax, “prithee hold thy tongue:
I fear that we have both been wrong;
And, when we do our errors find, 'Tis well to give them to the wind,
And with more care our way pursue In what we yet may have to do.”
Good, rev'rend man, with all thy knowledge,
First gain'd at school, enlarg'd at college,
And by hard study still improv'd
In the long track where thought has mov'd;
With thy strict honour, gen'rous worth,
And all those virtues which have birth
In the warm, unpolluted heart, Where cunning low or tutor'd art.
Was never, never known to dwell,
Whence all who know thee love thee well;
With piety that from above Has caught the flame of sacred love,
That, not confin'd to time or place, Extends to all the human race;
With all that thou hast known and seen
In the wide space that lies between
The time when on the chin appears
Manhood's first down and fifty years;
With that shrewd and sagacious mind
That can the depths of learning find,
And with a critic eye explore The dubious paths of ancient lore,
Draw hidden knowledge from the night
Of ages past, and give it light—
With this and all your boasted care, You see not the insidious snare
That female frolic does prepare,
Not to seek vice within its bower, For that is not within her power,
Nor, to say truth, does her design To such dark malice e'er incline;
But 'tis to make you play the fool, To be the sport of ridicule,
To make you in the mischief chime, As buffoon in the pantomine,
And hold your fancies up to view T'amuse her half-bred, giggling crew,
In such a way, and such a place, As might be bordering on disgrace.—
—It almost makes me melancholy,
To think my pen must tell your folly;
But still I can with safety say,
When you, my friend, from wisdom stray,
It is your virtues that betray,
Or failings which, to good allied, Are fighting seen by virtue's side.
Such are the sources, I well know, From which your venial errors flow;
But with them all, I wish most true, That I were half as good as you.
—For how can the mind's eye see clear,
When vanity presents the ear?
How can suspicion close the heart,
When grateful thoughts their warmth impart?
How can it fond belief deny, When urg'd by sensibility?
How turn away and not attend, When beauty says, I am your friend?
And when it adds, my friendship use,
Can the kind spirit then refuse?—
—But I cease to apostrophise The unthought frailties of the wise;
And, my kind friends, shall lay before ye
The future progress of my story.
Thou guinea pig, in boots, and breeches,
To trounce thee well!—Thou lying sinner,
To beat thee I would lose my dinner!”
—Glanders deign'd not to make reply,
But, with grave look and leering eye,
Just utter'd: “Here is my account, And I now beg the small amount.”
Syntax began to fume and vapour, And tore at once the dirty paper.
Within the house his voice was heard,
When the yard's master soon appear'd,
And did in humblest terms request
The Doctor's rage might be supprest.
“Though of strange form and uncouth feature,
Old Glanders is a useful creature:
And though his ways are coarse and rude,
He is with ample skill endued,
And is pursued by hourly calls For all the ails of animals;
Nay, does his ready aid supply, From sporting stable to the stye.
Indeed, I think, if skill or care
Could have preserv'd your old grey mare,
She would not have been lying there.
Leave, Sir, this bus'ness all to me, It is beneath your dignity;
And, if another horse you buy, My judgment shall its aid supply.”
—Smiles and kind words, how great their skill,
To regulate the wayward will!
And, in this out-of-humour hour, Syntax was soften'd by their power.
“Thank you,” he said, “my honest friend,
To your good counsel I attend.”
Then spoke, as round his eyes he threw,
“Pat come with me!—Poor Punch, adieu!”
“An' please you, I ne'er long'd,” says Pat,
“Since my round head has worn a hat,
T'employ my fists as on that fellow,
That half-grown, o'er-grown Punchinello!”
Said Syntax, “prithee hold thy tongue:
I fear that we have both been wrong;
And, when we do our errors find, 'Tis well to give them to the wind,
And with more care our way pursue In what we yet may have to do.”
Good, rev'rend man, with all thy knowledge,
First gain'd at school, enlarg'd at college,
And by hard study still improv'd
In the long track where thought has mov'd;
With thy strict honour, gen'rous worth,
And all those virtues which have birth
In the warm, unpolluted heart, Where cunning low or tutor'd art.
348
Whence all who know thee love thee well;
With piety that from above Has caught the flame of sacred love,
That, not confin'd to time or place, Extends to all the human race;
With all that thou hast known and seen
In the wide space that lies between
The time when on the chin appears
Manhood's first down and fifty years;
With that shrewd and sagacious mind
That can the depths of learning find,
And with a critic eye explore The dubious paths of ancient lore,
Draw hidden knowledge from the night
Of ages past, and give it light—
With this and all your boasted care, You see not the insidious snare
That female frolic does prepare,
Not to seek vice within its bower, For that is not within her power,
Nor, to say truth, does her design To such dark malice e'er incline;
But 'tis to make you play the fool, To be the sport of ridicule,
To make you in the mischief chime, As buffoon in the pantomine,
And hold your fancies up to view T'amuse her half-bred, giggling crew,
In such a way, and such a place, As might be bordering on disgrace.—
—It almost makes me melancholy,
To think my pen must tell your folly;
But still I can with safety say,
When you, my friend, from wisdom stray,
It is your virtues that betray,
Or failings which, to good allied, Are fighting seen by virtue's side.
Such are the sources, I well know, From which your venial errors flow;
But with them all, I wish most true, That I were half as good as you.
—For how can the mind's eye see clear,
When vanity presents the ear?
How can suspicion close the heart,
When grateful thoughts their warmth impart?
How can it fond belief deny, When urg'd by sensibility?
How turn away and not attend, When beauty says, I am your friend?
And when it adds, my friendship use,
Can the kind spirit then refuse?—
—But I cease to apostrophise The unthought frailties of the wise;
And, my kind friends, shall lay before ye
The future progress of my story.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |