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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| XIII. | CANTO XIII. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO XIII.
How oft, as through Life's vale we stray.
Doth fancy light us on the way!
How oft, with many a vision bright, Doth she the wayward heart delight,
And, with a fond enliv'ning smile, The heavy hour of care beguile!
But though so oft she scatters flowers,
To make more gay our waking hours,
Night is the time when o'er the soul She exercises full controul,
While Life's more active functions pause,
And sleep its sable curtain draws:
'Tis then she waves her fairy wand
And strange things rise at her command:
She then assumes her motley reign And man lives o'er his life again;
While many an airy dream invites Her wizard masks, her wanton sprites:
Through the warm brain the phantoms play And form a visionary day.
Thus Syntax, while the bed he prest,
And pass'd the night in balmy rest,
Was led in those unconscious hours, By Fancy, to her fairy bowers,
Where the light spirits wander free In whimsical variety.
Doth fancy light us on the way!
How oft, with many a vision bright, Doth she the wayward heart delight,
And, with a fond enliv'ning smile, The heavy hour of care beguile!
But though so oft she scatters flowers,
To make more gay our waking hours,
Night is the time when o'er the soul She exercises full controul,
While Life's more active functions pause,
And sleep its sable curtain draws:
'Tis then she waves her fairy wand
And strange things rise at her command:
She then assumes her motley reign And man lives o'er his life again;
While many an airy dream invites Her wizard masks, her wanton sprites:
Through the warm brain the phantoms play And form a visionary day.
Thus Syntax, while the bed he prest,
And pass'd the night in balmy rest,
Was led in those unconscious hours, By Fancy, to her fairy bowers,
Where the light spirits wander free In whimsical variety.
No more an humble Curate now, He feels a mitre on his brow:
The mildew'd surplice, thus withdrawn,
Yields to the fine, transparent lawn,
And peruke, that defied all weather, Is nicely dress'd to ape a feather,
Grizzle no more is seen to wail, Her mangled ears and butcher'd tail;
Six Grizzles now, with ev'ry ear, And all their flowing tails appear;
When, harness'd to a light barouche,
The ground they do not seem to touch;
While onward whirl'd in wild surprise,
The air-blown Prelate thinks he flies.
Now through the long cathedral aisle
Where vergers bow and virgins smile,
With measur'd step and solemn air He gains at length the sacred chair;
And to the crowd, with look profound, Bestows his holy blessing round.
Above the pealing organs blow, To the respondent choir below;
When, bending to religion's shrine, He feels an energy divine.
Now, 'scap'd from Dolly's angry clutches,
He thinks he's married to a Duchess;
And that her rank and glowing beauty Enliven his prelatic duty.
Thus Fancy, with her antic train,
Pass'd nimbly through the Doctor's brain:
But, while she told her varying story
Of short-liv'd pomp and fading glory,
A voice upon the vision broke,— When Syntax gave a grunt—and woke,
“And may it please you, I've a word
To tell your Rev'rence, from my Lord.”
“A Lord,” he cried, “why to be free, I've been as good a Lord as he:
Throughout the night, I've been as great
As any Lord, with all his state;
But now that fine-drawn scene is o'er, And I'm poor Syntax as before.
You spoil'd my fortune, 'tis most certain,
The moment you withdrew the curtain,
So, if you please, my pretty maid, You'll tell me what my Lord has said.”
“—My Lord has sent to let you know
The breakfast is prepared below.”
“—Let my respects upon him wait,
And say that I'll be with him straight.”
Out then he bounc'd upon the floor:
The maid ran shouting through the door,
So much the figure of the Doctor, In his unrob'd condition shock'd her.
The mildew'd surplice, thus withdrawn,
Yields to the fine, transparent lawn,
And peruke, that defied all weather, Is nicely dress'd to ape a feather,
Grizzle no more is seen to wail, Her mangled ears and butcher'd tail;
Six Grizzles now, with ev'ry ear, And all their flowing tails appear;
When, harness'd to a light barouche,
The ground they do not seem to touch;
While onward whirl'd in wild surprise,
The air-blown Prelate thinks he flies.
Now through the long cathedral aisle
Where vergers bow and virgins smile,
With measur'd step and solemn air He gains at length the sacred chair;
And to the crowd, with look profound, Bestows his holy blessing round.
Above the pealing organs blow, To the respondent choir below;
When, bending to religion's shrine, He feels an energy divine.
Now, 'scap'd from Dolly's angry clutches,
He thinks he's married to a Duchess;
And that her rank and glowing beauty Enliven his prelatic duty.
Thus Fancy, with her antic train,
Pass'd nimbly through the Doctor's brain:
But, while she told her varying story
Of short-liv'd pomp and fading glory,
49
“And may it please you, I've a word
To tell your Rev'rence, from my Lord.”
“A Lord,” he cried, “why to be free, I've been as good a Lord as he:
Throughout the night, I've been as great
As any Lord, with all his state;
But now that fine-drawn scene is o'er, And I'm poor Syntax as before.
You spoil'd my fortune, 'tis most certain,
The moment you withdrew the curtain,
So, if you please, my pretty maid, You'll tell me what my Lord has said.”
“—My Lord has sent to let you know
The breakfast is prepared below.”
“—Let my respects upon him wait,
And say that I'll be with him straight.”
Out then he bounc'd upon the floor:
The maid ran shouting through the door,
So much the figure of the Doctor, In his unrob'd condition shock'd her.
Syntax now hasten'd to obey The early summons of the day.
He humbly bow'd and took his seat; Nor did his Lordship fail to greet
With kindest words his rev'rend guest— As how he had enjoy'd his rest;
Hop'd ev'ry comfort he had found;
That his night slumbers had been sound,
And that he was prepar'd to share, With keen regard, his morning's fare.
The Doctor smil'd, and soon made free With my Lord's hospitality;
Then told aloud his golden dream,
Which prov'd of mirth a fruitful theme.
“'Tis true,” he said, “when I awoke,
The charm dissolv'd, the spell was broke;
The mitre and its grand display, With my fine wife, all pass'd away:
Th'awak'ning voice my fortune cross'd;
I op'd my eyes, and all was lost;—
But still I find, to my delight, I have not lost my appetite.”
Sir John.—
He humbly bow'd and took his seat; Nor did his Lordship fail to greet
With kindest words his rev'rend guest— As how he had enjoy'd his rest;
Hop'd ev'ry comfort he had found;
That his night slumbers had been sound,
And that he was prepar'd to share, With keen regard, his morning's fare.
The Doctor smil'd, and soon made free With my Lord's hospitality;
Then told aloud his golden dream,
Which prov'd of mirth a fruitful theme.
“'Tis true,” he said, “when I awoke,
The charm dissolv'd, the spell was broke;
The mitre and its grand display, With my fine wife, all pass'd away:
Th'awak'ning voice my fortune cross'd;
I op'd my eyes, and all was lost;—
But still I find, to my delight, I have not lost my appetite.”
“As for the mitre and the gold,
Which Fancy gave you to behold,
They, to a mind with learning fraught, Do not deserve a passing thought;
But I lament that such a bride Should thus be stolen from your side.”
Syntax.—
“For that choice good I need not roam;
I've got, Sir John, a wife at home,
Who can from morn to night contrive To keep her family alive:
Such sprightly measures she can take,
That no one sleeps when she's awake.
For me, if Fortune would not show'r
Some portion of her wealth and pow'r,
I would forgive her on my life, Though she forgot to add a wife.
Indeed, Sir John, we don't agree, Nor join in our philosophy;
For did you know what that man knows,
Had you e'er felt his cutting woes,
Who has of taunts a daily plenty,
Whose head is comb'd, whose pocket's empty,
You ne'er would call those shiners trash
Whose touch is life—whose name is Cash.
50
“A truce, I pray, to your debate;
The hunters all impatient wait;
And much I hope our learned Clerk Will take a gallop in the Park.”
Syntax.—
“Your sport, my Lord, I cannot take,
For I must go and hunt a Lake;
And while you chase the flying deer, I must fly off to Windermere.
'Stead of hallooing to a fox, I must catch echoes from the rocks;
With curious eye and active scent, I on the picturesque am bent;
This is my game, I must pursue it, And make it where I cannot view it:
Though in good truth, but do not flout me,
I bear that self-same thing about me.
If in man's form you wish to see The picturesque, pray look at me;
I am myself without a flaw, The very picturesque I draw.
A Rector, on whose face so sleek In vain you for a wrinkle seek,
In whose fair form, so fat and round, No obtuse angle's to be found,
On such a shape no man of taste Would his fine tints or canvas waste;
But take a Curate who's so thin,
His bones seem peeping through his skin,
Make him to stand, or walk or sit, In any posture you think fit,
And, with all these nice points about him,
No well-taught painter e'er would scout him:
For with his air, and look, and mien, He'd give effect to any scene.
In my poor beast, as well as me, A fine example you may see;
She's so abrupt in all her parts— O what fine subjects for the arts!
Thus, thus we travel on together, With gentle gale or stormy weather;
And, though we trot along the plains Where one dead level ever reigns,
Or pace where rocks and mountains rise,
Who lift their heads, and brave the skies;
I, Doctor Syntax, and my horse, Give to the landscape double force.
—I have no doubt I shall produce A volume of uncommon use,
That will be worthy to be plac'd Beneath the eye of men of taste;
And I should hope, my Lord, that you Will praise it and protect it too;
Will let your all sufficient name The two-fold patronage proclaim;
That time may know, till time doth end,
That C--- was my honour'd friend.”
Sir John.—
“And can you, learned Doctor see
When that important hour shall be?”
Syntax.—
“Sir Knight, that was not wisely spoke;
The point's too serious for a joke;
And you must know, by Heav'n's decree,
That hour will come to you and me,
And then succeeds—Eternity.”
My Lord.—
“Peace, peace, Sir John, and let me tell
The Doctor that I wish him well:
I doubt not but his work will prove, Most useful to the arts I love.
But pray, good Sir, come up to town,
That seat of wealth and of renown:
Come up to town nor fear the cost, Nor time nor labour shall be lost,
I'll ope my door and take you in—
You've made me laugh, and you shall win:
We'll then consult how I can best Advance your real interest:
51
I mean, you see, that it shall crown Your wishes while you stay in town;
But you may, as it suits you, use it,— No one, I fancy, will refuse it.”
The Doctor, when he view'd the paper, Instead of bowing—cut a caper.
My Lord now sought th'expected chace,
And Syntax, in his usual pace,
When four long tedious days had past,
The town of Keswick reach'd at last,
Where he the famous work prepar'd, Of all his toil the hop'd reward.
Soon as the morn began to break, Old Grizzle bore him to the Lake,
Along the banks he gravely pac'd, And all its various beauties trac'd:
When, lo, a threat'ning storm appear'd!
Phœbus the scene no longer cheer'd;
The dark clouds sunk on ev'ry hill; The floating mists the vallies fill:
Nature, transform'd began to low'r;
And threaten'd a tremendous shower.
“I love,” he cried, “to hear the rattle, When elements contend in battle;
For I insist, though some may flout it, Who write about it, and about it,
That we the picturesque may find In thunder loud, or whistling wind:
And often, as I fully ween, It may be heard as well as seen:
For, though a pencil cannot trace A sound as it can paint a place,
The pen, in its poetic rage, Can make it figure on the page.”
My Lord now sought th'expected chace,
And Syntax, in his usual pace,
When four long tedious days had past,
The town of Keswick reach'd at last,
Where he the famous work prepar'd, Of all his toil the hop'd reward.
Soon as the morn began to break, Old Grizzle bore him to the Lake,
Along the banks he gravely pac'd, And all its various beauties trac'd:
When, lo, a threat'ning storm appear'd!
Phœbus the scene no longer cheer'd;
The dark clouds sunk on ev'ry hill; The floating mists the vallies fill:
Nature, transform'd began to low'r;
And threaten'd a tremendous shower.
“I love,” he cried, “to hear the rattle, When elements contend in battle;
For I insist, though some may flout it, Who write about it, and about it,
That we the picturesque may find In thunder loud, or whistling wind:
And often, as I fully ween, It may be heard as well as seen:
For, though a pencil cannot trace A sound as it can paint a place,
The pen, in its poetic rage, Can make it figure on the page.”
A fisherman, who pass'd that way, Thought it civility to say—
“And, please you, Sir, 'tis all in vain To take your prospects in the rain;
On horseback too you'll ne'er be able—
'Twere better sure to get a table.”—
“Thanks,” Syntax said, “for your advice,
And faith I'll take it in a trice;
For, as I'm moisten'd to the skin, I'll seek a table at the Inn;”—
But Grizzle, in her haste to pass, Lur'd by a tempting tuft of grass,
A luckless step now chanc'd to take, And sous'd the Doctor in the Lake:
But, as it prov'd, no worse disaster Befel poor Grizzle and her master,
Than both of them could well endure,
And a warm Inn would shortly cure.
To that warm Inn they quickly hied, Where Syntax, by the fire-side,
Sat in the Landlord's garments clad, But neither sorrowful nor sad;
Nor did he waste his hours away, But gave his pencil all its play,
And trac'd the landscapes of the day.
“And, please you, Sir, 'tis all in vain To take your prospects in the rain;
On horseback too you'll ne'er be able—
'Twere better sure to get a table.”—
“Thanks,” Syntax said, “for your advice,
And faith I'll take it in a trice;
For, as I'm moisten'd to the skin, I'll seek a table at the Inn;”—
But Grizzle, in her haste to pass, Lur'd by a tempting tuft of grass,
A luckless step now chanc'd to take, And sous'd the Doctor in the Lake:
But, as it prov'd, no worse disaster Befel poor Grizzle and her master,
Than both of them could well endure,
And a warm Inn would shortly cure.
To that warm Inn they quickly hied, Where Syntax, by the fire-side,
Sat in the Landlord's garments clad, But neither sorrowful nor sad;
Nor did he waste his hours away, But gave his pencil all its play,
And trac'd the landscapes of the day.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |