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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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Syntax, who felt his tutor'd heart Was doubly fitted to impart
Those higher feelings which bestow The wish to lessen human woe,
Or do their active powers employ To aid the flow of human joy,
Bade his thoughts range that they might find
A spot just suited to his mind;
If not, to pass the day alone Was a resource to him well known.
But 'twas not long ere reason's voice,
With pleasure join'd, declar'd the choice.
Miss Pallet's study was the place
Where he should find a smiling face,
Which would with brighten'd eye declare
An unaffected welcome there.
—He went, she saw, and rang the bell,
When she was heard aloud to tell
Th'attendant maid, “let who will come,
Remember I am not at home.
'Tis a vain moment I allow,” She added, “but I would bestow
If such a phrase I dare avow,
A day upon my learned friend, Which his warm favour may commend,
And in his kind remembrance shine, As it will ever do in mine.”
—Here the delighted Doctor sat In grave debate or lively chat,
With no vain folly to deride him, But with attention's ear beside him

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And such a mind, where he could pour
His sage instructions, treasur'd lore;
Nay, whence 'twould be return'd again
In accents soft and humble strain.
At length fish, ham and roasted chicken,
With peas and tart, form'd pretty picking:
Nor was there wanting port and sherry,
Which would have made him more than merry,
If he had wanted mode or measure To aid his sense of present pleasure.
Miss too from Pat contriv'd to glean
That, to complete the social scene,
A pipe the afternoon would bless With unexpected happiness:
And when she did the tube command,
He bent the knee and kiss'd the hand
That did the cherish'd gift present, Which gave perfection to content.
—Such was the sentimental duet;
With pleasure does my fancy view it:
The wise, the kind instructor he, The pleas'd, attentive list'ner she;
Receiving all his words pursued With beaming smiles of gratitude.
She was a fine, accomplish'd creature,
A student of those powers of nature,
That clothe the earth and charm the eye With ravishing variety:
And though with sister arts endow'd, She was too virtuous to be proud,
But kept the course we seldom see,
From ev'ry vain pretension free, And grac'd with calm humility.
They talk'd of arts—the room around Did with fine specimens abound;
And e'en the window open'd wide On rising hills and flowing tide,
Which her fine pencil gave to hide
An old, beplaster'd dismal wall That cross'd th'opposing interval.
—Her beauty was a certain grace That play'd about her air and face,
And a mark'd unassuming sense Was cloth'd with artless eloquence:
While his Quixotic praise enshrin'd
The embellish'd pictures of her mind.
Nor did they thoughts on Love deny,
When the fair Artist heav'd a sigh,
Though she ne'er ventur'd to explain The cause of her resistless pain:
She only said she must endure it,
And that hope told her time would cure it.
E'en by her silence it was shown That her fond heart was not her own.
So that if he did then incline
To say, “I wish thou wouldst be mine,”
He saw and heard enough to prove, 'Twas not for him to offer love.