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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| XIX. | CANTO XIX. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO XIX.
The Sun arose in all its pride:—
“Hail the bright orb,” the Doctor cried,
“That makes the distant mountains glow,
And clears the misty vales below!
O! let me bless the power divine That bade its splendid fires to shine,
Invigorating warmth to give To all that grow and all that live.
Which in the bowels of the earth, Brings the rich metal into birth;
Or, piercing through the secret mine,
Makes rubies blush and diamonds shine:
While man, the first, the head of all That breathes upon this earthly ball
As freely feels its force as they Of insect tribe who in its ray,
Pass their short hour and pass away.
O, what a picture greets my sight! How my heart revels in delight,
While I behold the advancing day O'er the wide scene its power display!
While, as I gaze, th'enchanted eye Drinks in the rich variety!
How the gleam brightens yonder tower!
How deep the shade within the bower!
The spreading oak and elm between, How fine those blushes intervene!
Those brilliant lights!—they would demand
Claude's pencil or a Titian's hand!
E'en while the distant hills I view, Their orient colours change to blue.
The stream, within whose silver wave, Poets might see the Naiads lave,
Now, lost in shade, no more is seen To flow among the alders green;
But, let the eye its course pursue, Again it brightens in the view;
Reflecting as its current flows, Each flower that on the margin blows!
“Hail the bright orb,” the Doctor cried,
“That makes the distant mountains glow,
And clears the misty vales below!
O! let me bless the power divine That bade its splendid fires to shine,
Invigorating warmth to give To all that grow and all that live.
Which in the bowels of the earth, Brings the rich metal into birth;
Or, piercing through the secret mine,
Makes rubies blush and diamonds shine:
While man, the first, the head of all That breathes upon this earthly ball
As freely feels its force as they Of insect tribe who in its ray,
Pass their short hour and pass away.
O, what a picture greets my sight! How my heart revels in delight,
While I behold the advancing day O'er the wide scene its power display!
While, as I gaze, th'enchanted eye Drinks in the rich variety!
How the gleam brightens yonder tower!
How deep the shade within the bower!
The spreading oak and elm between, How fine those blushes intervene!
Those brilliant lights!—they would demand
Claude's pencil or a Titian's hand!
E'en while the distant hills I view, Their orient colours change to blue.
The stream, within whose silver wave, Poets might see the Naiads lave,
Now, lost in shade, no more is seen To flow among the alders green;
But, let the eye its course pursue, Again it brightens in the view;
Reflecting as its current flows, Each flower that on the margin blows!
“Hail favour'd casement! where the sight Is courted to enjoy delight,
T'ascend the hill and trace the plain,
Where lavish Nature's proud to reign!
Unlike those pictures that impart The windows of Palladian art,
From whence no other object's seen But gravel-walk, or shaven green;
Plann'd by the artist on his desk; Pictures that are not picturesque.
But I should not perform my duty Did I relinquish all this beauty;
Nor snatch, from this expansive view, Some pretty little scene or two.
T'ascend the hill and trace the plain,
Where lavish Nature's proud to reign!
Unlike those pictures that impart The windows of Palladian art,
From whence no other object's seen But gravel-walk, or shaven green;
Plann'd by the artist on his desk; Pictures that are not picturesque.
But I should not perform my duty Did I relinquish all this beauty;
Nor snatch, from this expansive view, Some pretty little scene or two.
“The cot that's all bewhitened o'er, With children playing at the door;
A peasant hanging o'er the hatch, And the vine mantling on the thatch;
While the thick coppice, down the hill,
Throws its green umbrage o'er the rill,
Whose stream drives on the busy mill,
In pleasing group their forms combine, And suit a pencil such as mine.
Nor shall I miss the branchy screen
Of those fine elms that hide the green,
O'er which the tap'ring spire is seen.
I'll add no more—for to my mind,
The scene's complete—and well design'd.
There are, indeed, who would insert Those pigs which wallow in the dirt;
And though I hold a pig is good Upon a dish, prepar'd for food,
I do not fear to say the brute Does not my taste in painting suit;
For I most solemnly aver, That he from genuine taste must err,
Who flouts at grace or character;
And there's as much in my old wig As can be found about a pig.
For, to say truth, I don't inherit This self-same picturesquish spirit,
That looks to nought but what is rough,
And ne'er thinks Nature coarse enough.
Their system does my genius shock, Who see such graces in a dock;
Whose eye the picturesque admires
In straggling brambles, and in briers;
Nay, can a real beauty see In a decay'd and rotten tree.
I hate with them the trim of Art; But from this rule I'll ne'er depart;
In grandame Nature's vast collection, To make a fair and fit selection,
Which, when in happy contrast join'd,
Delights th'inform'd, well-judging mind.”
A peasant hanging o'er the hatch, And the vine mantling on the thatch;
While the thick coppice, down the hill,
Throws its green umbrage o'er the rill,
Whose stream drives on the busy mill,
In pleasing group their forms combine, And suit a pencil such as mine.
Nor shall I miss the branchy screen
Of those fine elms that hide the green,
O'er which the tap'ring spire is seen.
I'll add no more—for to my mind,
The scene's complete—and well design'd.
72
And though I hold a pig is good Upon a dish, prepar'd for food,
I do not fear to say the brute Does not my taste in painting suit;
For I most solemnly aver, That he from genuine taste must err,
Who flouts at grace or character;
And there's as much in my old wig As can be found about a pig.
For, to say truth, I don't inherit This self-same picturesquish spirit,
That looks to nought but what is rough,
And ne'er thinks Nature coarse enough.
Their system does my genius shock, Who see such graces in a dock;
Whose eye the picturesque admires
In straggling brambles, and in briers;
Nay, can a real beauty see In a decay'd and rotten tree.
I hate with them the trim of Art; But from this rule I'll ne'er depart;
In grandame Nature's vast collection, To make a fair and fit selection,
Which, when in happy contrast join'd,
Delights th'inform'd, well-judging mind.”
But lo! the Farmer, at the gate, Proclaim'd aloud, the hour of eight;
And Syntax now in haste descends To join his kind, expecting friends.
“Well,” said his Host, “another day
I trust your Reverence will stay.”
“I thank you for the offer made, But that can't be,” the Doctor said;
“I have a weary way to go, And much to see, and more to know;
Indeed so far I've got to roam, A fortnight scarce will take me home;
And thanking you for all your care, I must beg leave to seek my mare.”
Grizzle was quickly to be found; And, as the good folks stood around,
Syntax thought proper to discourse Upon the Virtues of his horse;
Nor did he fail at large to tell That she had serv'd him passing well,
While he forgot not to bewail Her loss of ears and loss of tail.
For though, among the passing folk, His beast created many a joke,
And though the foul and sad disaster
Oft forc'd a laugh against the master,
They should not part while he was able
To keep himself and keep a stable;
Nay, to the last, he'd cut and carve,
That his poor Grizzle might not starve.
Thus, as his hist'ry he recounted Into the saddle up he mounted,
And there for sometime having sat, He clos'd at length his farewell chat.
He thought it best t'avoid caressing;
So gave no kiss, but gave his blessing.
—On home, on book, on fame, intent, The Doctor ponder'd as he went:
At night he look'd his paper o'er, And added to the learned store:
But the next morn, another scene, The vast expanse of liquid green,
The ocean's self—broke on his eye, In inexpressive majesty,
There, as he look'd, full many a sail Gave its white canvas to the gale.
And many a freighted vessel bore Its treasure to the British shore.
When, as he trac'd the winding coast, In praise and admiration lost,
Up-rising in the distant view, Half-seen through the ethereal blue,
A city's stately form appear'd; Upon the shore the mass was rear'd,
With glistening spires, while below Masts like a forest seem'd to grow.
'Twas Liverpool, that splendid mart, Imperial London's counterpart,
Where wand'ring Mersey's rapid streams
Rival the honours of the Thames,
And bear on each returning tide, Whate'er by commerce is supplied,
Whate'er the winds can hurry o'er From ev'ry clime and distant shore.
Thus Syntax pac'd along the strand,
Through this fine scene of sea and land:
But nearer now the town appears, The hum of men salutes his ears;
And soon, amid the noisy din, He found the comforts of an Inn.
He eat, he drank, his pipe he smok'd,
And with the Landlord quaintly jok'd;
But e'er he slept, he pass'd an hour In adding something to his Tour;
Then sought his couch, in hopes the morn
Would with new thoughts the page adorn.
The morning came—he sallied out To breathe the air, and look about.
Where'er he turn'd, his ev'ry sense Grasp'd one vast scene of opulence;
In all he saw there was display'd The proud magnificence of trade.
Syntax an humble scholar bred,
With nought but learning in his head;
Profound, indeed, in classic art, And goodness reigning in his heart,
Yet forty pounds a year was all He could his fix'd revenue call;
For which on ev'ry Sabbath-day,
He went eight miles to preach and pray.
His school too, brought but little gains,
And scarce repaid him for his pains;
It gave, 'tis true, to drink and eat, It furnish'd him with bread and meat,
And kept the wolf without the door, But Syntax still was very poor.
His wife, indeed, had got the art, To keep herself a little smart,
Yet he, good man, was always seen With scanty coat and figure mean;
Though still he never threw aside
The pedant's air—the pedant's pride.
Thus, through the streets of this rich place,
He strutted with his usual grace;
And thus he walk'd about the town, As if its wealth had been his own:
But of his wealth he could not vapour—
Twelve guineas and a piece of paper
(The present of a noble Lord,) Was all his pockets did afford:
Though still the lining of his coat Secreted 'Squire Hearty's note,
And now he thought 'twould not be rash To turn the paper into cash.
Thus, at his breakfast, while he sat, And social join'd the common chat,
He took occasion to enquire Who would comply with his desire,
Who would his anxious wish fulfil, And give him money for his bill.
An arch young sprig, a banker's clerk,
Resolv'd to hoax the rev'rend spark,
And counsell'd him to take a range
Among the Merchants on the 'Change.
“Some one, perhaps, may want to send, A payment to a London friend;
He'll in your wishes gladly join, And take the draft and pay the coin.”
The Barber now the Doctor shear'd,
And soon whipp'd off his three-days' beard,
His wig, which had not felt a comb, Not once since he had quitted home,
Was destin'd now, with friz and whirl, To be tormented into curl:
His coat, which long had ta'en the rust, Was soon depriv'd of all its dust;
His gaiters too, were fresh japann'd;
Such were the Doctor's stern command;
And now with spirits fresh and gay, To the Exchange he took his way,
To try in this commercial town A little commerce of his own.
Th'Exchange soon met his wond'ring sight;
The structure fill'd him with delight.
“Such are the fruits of trading knowledge!
Learning,” he cried, “builds no such college!
Indeed, I entertain a notion, (I speak the thought with true devotion,)
Though we in Holy Scripture read That Tyre and Sidon did exceed
In wealth, the cities of the world,
Where ships their wand'ring sails unfurl'd,
That e'en her merchants bore the bell In eating and in drinking well;
Were richer than the lordly great, And vy'd with princes in their state;
Yet, with all their power and rule, I think that they ne'er went to school
In such a 'Change as Liverpool.”
And Syntax now in haste descends To join his kind, expecting friends.
“Well,” said his Host, “another day
I trust your Reverence will stay.”
“I thank you for the offer made, But that can't be,” the Doctor said;
“I have a weary way to go, And much to see, and more to know;
Indeed so far I've got to roam, A fortnight scarce will take me home;
And thanking you for all your care, I must beg leave to seek my mare.”
Grizzle was quickly to be found; And, as the good folks stood around,
Syntax thought proper to discourse Upon the Virtues of his horse;
Nor did he fail at large to tell That she had serv'd him passing well,
While he forgot not to bewail Her loss of ears and loss of tail.
For though, among the passing folk, His beast created many a joke,
And though the foul and sad disaster
Oft forc'd a laugh against the master,
They should not part while he was able
To keep himself and keep a stable;
Nay, to the last, he'd cut and carve,
That his poor Grizzle might not starve.
Thus, as his hist'ry he recounted Into the saddle up he mounted,
And there for sometime having sat, He clos'd at length his farewell chat.
He thought it best t'avoid caressing;
So gave no kiss, but gave his blessing.
—On home, on book, on fame, intent, The Doctor ponder'd as he went:
At night he look'd his paper o'er, And added to the learned store:
But the next morn, another scene, The vast expanse of liquid green,
The ocean's self—broke on his eye, In inexpressive majesty,
There, as he look'd, full many a sail Gave its white canvas to the gale.
And many a freighted vessel bore Its treasure to the British shore.
When, as he trac'd the winding coast, In praise and admiration lost,
Up-rising in the distant view, Half-seen through the ethereal blue,
A city's stately form appear'd; Upon the shore the mass was rear'd,
With glistening spires, while below Masts like a forest seem'd to grow.
'Twas Liverpool, that splendid mart, Imperial London's counterpart,
73
Rival the honours of the Thames,
And bear on each returning tide, Whate'er by commerce is supplied,
Whate'er the winds can hurry o'er From ev'ry clime and distant shore.
Thus Syntax pac'd along the strand,
Through this fine scene of sea and land:
But nearer now the town appears, The hum of men salutes his ears;
And soon, amid the noisy din, He found the comforts of an Inn.
He eat, he drank, his pipe he smok'd,
And with the Landlord quaintly jok'd;
But e'er he slept, he pass'd an hour In adding something to his Tour;
Then sought his couch, in hopes the morn
Would with new thoughts the page adorn.
The morning came—he sallied out To breathe the air, and look about.
Where'er he turn'd, his ev'ry sense Grasp'd one vast scene of opulence;
In all he saw there was display'd The proud magnificence of trade.
Syntax an humble scholar bred,
With nought but learning in his head;
Profound, indeed, in classic art, And goodness reigning in his heart,
Yet forty pounds a year was all He could his fix'd revenue call;
For which on ev'ry Sabbath-day,
He went eight miles to preach and pray.
His school too, brought but little gains,
And scarce repaid him for his pains;
It gave, 'tis true, to drink and eat, It furnish'd him with bread and meat,
And kept the wolf without the door, But Syntax still was very poor.
His wife, indeed, had got the art, To keep herself a little smart,
Yet he, good man, was always seen With scanty coat and figure mean;
Though still he never threw aside
The pedant's air—the pedant's pride.
Thus, through the streets of this rich place,
He strutted with his usual grace;
And thus he walk'd about the town, As if its wealth had been his own:
But of his wealth he could not vapour—
Twelve guineas and a piece of paper
(The present of a noble Lord,) Was all his pockets did afford:
Though still the lining of his coat Secreted 'Squire Hearty's note,
And now he thought 'twould not be rash To turn the paper into cash.
Thus, at his breakfast, while he sat, And social join'd the common chat,
He took occasion to enquire Who would comply with his desire,
Who would his anxious wish fulfil, And give him money for his bill.
An arch young sprig, a banker's clerk,
Resolv'd to hoax the rev'rend spark,
And counsell'd him to take a range
Among the Merchants on the 'Change.
“Some one, perhaps, may want to send, A payment to a London friend;
He'll in your wishes gladly join, And take the draft and pay the coin.”
The Barber now the Doctor shear'd,
And soon whipp'd off his three-days' beard,
His wig, which had not felt a comb, Not once since he had quitted home,
Was destin'd now, with friz and whirl, To be tormented into curl:
74
His gaiters too, were fresh japann'd;
Such were the Doctor's stern command;
And now with spirits fresh and gay, To the Exchange he took his way,
To try in this commercial town A little commerce of his own.
Th'Exchange soon met his wond'ring sight;
The structure fill'd him with delight.
“Such are the fruits of trading knowledge!
Learning,” he cried, “builds no such college!
Indeed, I entertain a notion, (I speak the thought with true devotion,)
Though we in Holy Scripture read That Tyre and Sidon did exceed
In wealth, the cities of the world,
Where ships their wand'ring sails unfurl'd,
That e'en her merchants bore the bell In eating and in drinking well;
Were richer than the lordly great, And vy'd with princes in their state;
Yet, with all their power and rule, I think that they ne'er went to school
In such a 'Change as Liverpool.”
He enter'd now—and heard within The crowded mart—a buzzing din,
A sound confus'd, the serenade Of ardent gain, and busy trade:
At length his penetrating eye Was thrown about him, to descry
Some one in whose sleek, smiling face,
He could the lines of kindness trace:
And soon a person he address'd,
Whose paunch projected from his breast;
Who looking with good-humour fraught,
Appear'd the very man he sought;
When, with an unassuming grace, To him he thus disclos'd his case.
“You will this paper, Sir, peruse: And then, perhaps, you'll not refuse
The favour which I ask to grant, And give the money that I want;
The draft is good—and, on my word, It was a present from a Lord.”
Merchant.—
A sound confus'd, the serenade Of ardent gain, and busy trade:
At length his penetrating eye Was thrown about him, to descry
Some one in whose sleek, smiling face,
He could the lines of kindness trace:
And soon a person he address'd,
Whose paunch projected from his breast;
Who looking with good-humour fraught,
Appear'd the very man he sought;
When, with an unassuming grace, To him he thus disclos'd his case.
“You will this paper, Sir, peruse: And then, perhaps, you'll not refuse
The favour which I ask to grant, And give the money that I want;
The draft is good—and, on my word, It was a present from a Lord.”
“That may be true: but Lords, I fear,
Will meet but little credit here:
'Tis a fair draft upon the view— Yes, he's a Lord—but who are you?”
Syntax.—
“Look, and an honest man you'll see, A Doctorin Divinity,
Whose word's his bond; nor e'er was known
To do a deed he would not own.”
Merchant.—
“I've nought to say—all this may be—
But have you no security;
Pray, Doctor, can't you find a friend To answer for what you pretend?”
Syntax.—
“No, I have none!—I am not known
Within the precincts of this town.”
Merchant.—
“And do you come to Liverpool
To find a poor good-natur'd fool?
With all your learning and your worth,
Pray have you travell'd so far north,
To think we have so little wit, As by such biters to be bit?
To learning we make no pretence: But, Doctor, we have common sense.
For learned men we do not seek: And if I may with freedom speak,
I take you for a very Greek.”
Syntax.—
“To know the Greek I do profess—
'Tis my delight and happiness;
75
Through the long night, with aching head,
When my wife wanted me in bed.”
Merchant.—
“Then go to Homer, if you will,
And see if he'll discount your bill.
But the clock strikes.—Good bye, old Sinner!
'Tis time for me to go to dinner.”
“You want the monies!” said another,
A bearded, Israelitish brother.
“'Tis a suspected bill I find; But you look poor and I am kind.
Well, we must take the chance of trade;
For twenty pounds the draft is made;
It is too much, as I'm alive, But give it me—and, here, take five.”
“Patience, good Heaven!” the Doctor said;
“Is this the boast and pride of trade!—
Each man, they do not know, to treat As an incorrigible cheat;
And, when he does his want prefer To play the base extortioner?
Commerce, I envy not thy gains,
Thy hard-earn'd wealth, thy golden pains,
(For that's hard-earn'd, though gain'd with ease,
Where Honour's sacred functions cease.)
The dangers which thy vot'ries run, Or to undo, or be undone;
Whose hungry maws are daily bent On the fine feast of cent. per cent.;
Whose virtue, talents, knowledge, health,
Are all combin'd in that word—wealth.
'Tis a proud scene of money'd strife Forms this magnificence of life;
But poor and rich with all they have,
Will find at length a common grave.
Continue, bounteous Heav'n! to me, A feeling heart, and poverty.
These wights despise me, 'cause I'm poor!
But yet the wretched seek my door:
I fear no Duns, I'm not in debt, I tremble not at the Gazette:
'Twould to my profit be, and fame, Did but its page display my name;
Can these proud merchants say the same?”
More he had said—but now his bell The beadle rang aloud, to tell
That the good folks should vanish straight,
As he must shut the pond'rous gate.
But Syntax did not seem to hear— So the man rang it in his ear.
Syntax.—
A bearded, Israelitish brother.
“'Tis a suspected bill I find; But you look poor and I am kind.
Well, we must take the chance of trade;
For twenty pounds the draft is made;
It is too much, as I'm alive, But give it me—and, here, take five.”
“Patience, good Heaven!” the Doctor said;
“Is this the boast and pride of trade!—
Each man, they do not know, to treat As an incorrigible cheat;
And, when he does his want prefer To play the base extortioner?
Commerce, I envy not thy gains,
Thy hard-earn'd wealth, thy golden pains,
(For that's hard-earn'd, though gain'd with ease,
Where Honour's sacred functions cease.)
The dangers which thy vot'ries run, Or to undo, or be undone;
Whose hungry maws are daily bent On the fine feast of cent. per cent.;
Whose virtue, talents, knowledge, health,
Are all combin'd in that word—wealth.
'Tis a proud scene of money'd strife Forms this magnificence of life;
But poor and rich with all they have,
Will find at length a common grave.
Continue, bounteous Heav'n! to me, A feeling heart, and poverty.
These wights despise me, 'cause I'm poor!
But yet the wretched seek my door:
I fear no Duns, I'm not in debt, I tremble not at the Gazette:
'Twould to my profit be, and fame, Did but its page display my name;
Can these proud merchants say the same?”
More he had said—but now his bell The beadle rang aloud, to tell
That the good folks should vanish straight,
As he must shut the pond'rous gate.
But Syntax did not seem to hear— So the man rang it in his ear.
“I pray, my friend, what's all this rout
With your fierce bell?”
Beadle.—
“To ring you out.”
Syntax.—
“I've been us'd to hear the din
Of bells that always rang me in.”
Beadle.—
“All I've to say, for you to know,
I'll shut the gate if you don't go:
I sure shall leave you in the lurch,
For now, good Sir, you're not at church.”
Syntax.—
“Indeed, my friend, you speak most true:
I know all that as well as you.
This is no temple; for 'tis clear I find no money-changers here;
Nor will I say my mind conceives It may be call'd a den of thieves.
76
They shall no more at Syntax scoff;— Grizzle and I will soon be off.
Thanks to my stars, I've got enough
Of that same yellow, useful stuff,
As will my ev'ry want befriend, And bear me to my journey's end.
Arriv'd in town, my noble Lord Will welcome me to bed and board;
When it will make his Lordship sport, As I these trading tricks report;
How near I was the being cheated;
And how his ancient name was treated.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |