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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| XXI. | CANTO XXI. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO XXI.
Sleep, to the virtuous ever kind,
Soon hush'd the Doctor's turbid mind,
And, when the morning shed its dew, He 'rose his journey to pursue.
Of tea and toast he took his fill, Then told the Host to bring the bill;
But when it came it made him stare To see some curious items there!
“Go tell your Ostler to appear; I wish to see the fellow here.”
The Ostler now before him stands,
Then bows his head, and rubs his hands.—
“In this same bill, my friend, I see You're witty on my mare and me:
For all your corn, and beans, and hay,
'Tis a fair charge which I shall pay;
But here a strange demand appears—
‘For cleaning down her tail and ears!’
Now know, my lad, if this is done On me to play your vulgar fun,
(For ears and tail my mare has none,)
I'll make this angry horse-whip crack In all directions on your back.”
The man deny'd an ill-intent; He knew not what his Rev'rence meant;
So thought it best to say no more, But bring up Grizzle to the door.
Of painted canvas were her ears; Upon her stump a tail appears;
So chang'd she was, so gay, so smart,
Deck'd out with so much curious art,
That even Syntax hardly dare To claim his metamorphos'd mare.
He said no more—but kenn'd the joke Was not the sport of vulgar folk;
So trotted off—and kindly lent His smile to aid the merriment.
Soon hush'd the Doctor's turbid mind,
And, when the morning shed its dew, He 'rose his journey to pursue.
Of tea and toast he took his fill, Then told the Host to bring the bill;
But when it came it made him stare To see some curious items there!
“Go tell your Ostler to appear; I wish to see the fellow here.”
The Ostler now before him stands,
Then bows his head, and rubs his hands.—
“In this same bill, my friend, I see You're witty on my mare and me:
For all your corn, and beans, and hay,
'Tis a fair charge which I shall pay;
But here a strange demand appears—
‘For cleaning down her tail and ears!’
Now know, my lad, if this is done On me to play your vulgar fun,
(For ears and tail my mare has none,)
I'll make this angry horse-whip crack In all directions on your back.”
The man deny'd an ill-intent; He knew not what his Rev'rence meant;
So thought it best to say no more, But bring up Grizzle to the door.
Of painted canvas were her ears; Upon her stump a tail appears;
So chang'd she was, so gay, so smart,
Deck'd out with so much curious art,
That even Syntax hardly dare To claim his metamorphos'd mare.
He said no more—but kenn'd the joke Was not the sport of vulgar folk;
So trotted off—and kindly lent His smile to aid the merriment.
Now, as his journey he pursu'd He thus broke forth in solemn mood
“Though time draws on when those at home
Expect that I should cease to roam,
(Though I have objects in my view Which are of great importance too,)
Yet, as this is the day of rest Appointed both for man and beast,
To the first church I will repair, And pay my solemn duties there.”
“Though time draws on when those at home
Expect that I should cease to roam,
(Though I have objects in my view Which are of great importance too,)
Yet, as this is the day of rest Appointed both for man and beast,
To the first church I will repair, And pay my solemn duties there.”
Thus as he spoke, a village chime Denoted it was service time
And soon a ruddy Curate came, To whom he gravely told his name,
His rank and literary fame;
And said, as he'd been us'd to teaching,
He'd give him half an hour's preaching.
This was accepted with a smile, And they both strutted up the aisle;
When, in due time, and with due grace,
Syntax display'd his preaching face.
And in grave tones, though somewhat hoarse,
He gave the following discourse.
“The subject I shall now rehearse,
Is JOB the fifth,—the seventh verse.
And soon a ruddy Curate came, To whom he gravely told his name,
His rank and literary fame;
And said, as he'd been us'd to teaching,
He'd give him half an hour's preaching.
This was accepted with a smile, And they both strutted up the aisle;
When, in due time, and with due grace,
Syntax display'd his preaching face.
And in grave tones, though somewhat hoarse,
He gave the following discourse.
82
Is JOB the fifth,—the seventh verse.
“‘As sparks rise upwards to the sky, So man is born to misery.’
“This is a truth we all can tell; In ev'ry state we know it well.
The infant in his cradle lies, And marks his trouble as he cries;
From his young eyes the waters flow, The emblems of his future woe:
His cheeks the varying scenes display
That mark a changeful April day:
Symbols of joy and hope appear, And now a smile, and then a tear.
The years of pulling childhood o'er,
The nurse's care he knows no more:
The Learning's discipline assign'd, The Tutor forms his early mind;
And hopes and fears alternate rise In all their strange varieties.
How oft, disdainful of restraint, His voice lifts up the loud complaint,
While stern correction's pow'rful law
Keeps the young urchin-mind in awe,
And some dark cloud for ever low'rs,
To shade his bright and playful hours.
Nor, when fair Reason's steady ray Begins to light Life's early day;
Though the thick mist it instant clears,
It dries not up the source of tears;
Nay, 'tis its office, as we know, Sometimes to make those tears to flow.
For now the Passions will impart
Their impulse to th'unconscious heart,
Will mingle in Youth's ardent hours,
And plant the thorns amid the flow'rs;
While Fancy, in its various guise, With plumage of a thousand dies,
Flits round the mind in wanton play,
To bear each serious thought away.
The Pleasures seldom tempt in vain To join their gay, deluding train;
Courting the easy hearts to stray
From Reason's path and Wisdom's way:
And oh! how oft the senses cloy With what is call'd the height of Joy!
While pale Repentance comes at last, To execrate the Pleasure past!
—At length to finish'd manhood grown,
The world receives him as its own.
Life's active busy scenes engage Each moment of maturer age:
Here Pleasure courts him to her bow'rs,
Where serpents lurk beneath the flow'rs.
—Ambition tempts him to explore The height where daring spirits soar,
While wealth presents the glitt'ring ore,
Which mingles in each mortal plan, And is the great concern of man.
—Thus Pleasure, Wealth, or love of pow'r
Employ man's short or lengthen'd hour.
“In youth or manhood's early day,
Pleasure first meets him on the way.
The Syren sings, his eager ear Drinks in the sound so sweet to hear;
To the delicious song a slave, He leaves his vessel to the wave:
The helm forsaken, on it goes,
The lightnings flash, the whirlwind blows;
When, by the furious tempest toss'd, The gay, the gilded bark is lost!
But should he, 'mid the ocean's roar,
Be cast upon some distant shore;
Then wand'ring on the lonely coast, He sighs to think what he has lost;
Health, ease, and ev'ry joy that heav'n Had to his early wishes given.
Life still is his—but life alone Cannot for follies past atone,
Then pain assails, and Hope is flown.
He feels no more the sunny rays, Of smiling hours and prosp'rous days:
The world turns from him, nor will know
The man of sorrow and of woe;
But bids him to some cell repair, In hope to find Contrition there.
The infant in his cradle lies, And marks his trouble as he cries;
From his young eyes the waters flow, The emblems of his future woe:
His cheeks the varying scenes display
That mark a changeful April day:
Symbols of joy and hope appear, And now a smile, and then a tear.
The years of pulling childhood o'er,
The nurse's care he knows no more:
The Learning's discipline assign'd, The Tutor forms his early mind;
And hopes and fears alternate rise In all their strange varieties.
How oft, disdainful of restraint, His voice lifts up the loud complaint,
While stern correction's pow'rful law
Keeps the young urchin-mind in awe,
And some dark cloud for ever low'rs,
To shade his bright and playful hours.
Nor, when fair Reason's steady ray Begins to light Life's early day;
Though the thick mist it instant clears,
It dries not up the source of tears;
Nay, 'tis its office, as we know, Sometimes to make those tears to flow.
For now the Passions will impart
Their impulse to th'unconscious heart,
Will mingle in Youth's ardent hours,
And plant the thorns amid the flow'rs;
While Fancy, in its various guise, With plumage of a thousand dies,
Flits round the mind in wanton play,
To bear each serious thought away.
The Pleasures seldom tempt in vain To join their gay, deluding train;
Courting the easy hearts to stray
From Reason's path and Wisdom's way:
And oh! how oft the senses cloy With what is call'd the height of Joy!
While pale Repentance comes at last, To execrate the Pleasure past!
—At length to finish'd manhood grown,
The world receives him as its own.
Life's active busy scenes engage Each moment of maturer age:
Here Pleasure courts him to her bow'rs,
Where serpents lurk beneath the flow'rs.
—Ambition tempts him to explore The height where daring spirits soar,
While wealth presents the glitt'ring ore,
Which mingles in each mortal plan, And is the great concern of man.
—Thus Pleasure, Wealth, or love of pow'r
Employ man's short or lengthen'd hour.
“In youth or manhood's early day,
Pleasure first meets him on the way.
The Syren sings, his eager ear Drinks in the sound so sweet to hear;
To the delicious song a slave, He leaves his vessel to the wave:
The helm forsaken, on it goes,
The lightnings flash, the whirlwind blows;
When, by the furious tempest toss'd, The gay, the gilded bark is lost!
83
Be cast upon some distant shore;
Then wand'ring on the lonely coast, He sighs to think what he has lost;
Health, ease, and ev'ry joy that heav'n Had to his early wishes given.
Life still is his—but life alone Cannot for follies past atone,
Then pain assails, and Hope is flown.
He feels no more the sunny rays, Of smiling hours and prosp'rous days:
The world turns from him, nor will know
The man of sorrow and of woe;
But bids him to some cell repair, In hope to find Contrition there.
“Nor is Ambition more secure, Nor less the ills which they endure
Within whose breast is seen to dwell The vice by which the Angels fell,
The love of rule, the thirst of pow'r, Ne'er give a peaceful, tranquil hour;
'Tis the fierce fever of the soul That maddens for supreme controul;
Whose burning thirst continual grows:
Whose pride no lasting pleasure knows;
While Hatred, Envy, jealous Fear, Wait on the proud and bold career.
Contention ev'ry act attends;
Now friends are foes—now foes are friends:
Enjoyment quickens new desire, And Hope for ever fans the fire.
Whene'er the nearer height is gain'd, A loftier still must be attain'd;
And then the eye looks keenly round In hope another's to be found;
One—such is the aspiring soul—
Whose tow'ring height shall crown the whole.
But oft, as the aspirant gains The object of his toil and pains,
The giddy view each sense appals— In vain for some kind help he calls;
The faithless friend, th'insulting foe, Rejoice as to the gulph below
He headlong falls—a prey to lie Of grinning Scorn and Infamy.
“Now Riches next demand our thought:
But gold may be too dearly bought,
As in each clime and ev'ry soil, It wakes the universal toil.
For this, defying health and ease, The Sailor ploughs the distant seas:
This shares the Soldier's daring aim,
Who fights for wealth as well as fame:
But, though all wish its pow'rs to wear,
It proves the source of many a care.
—Of all the vices that infest The purlieus of the human breast,
The love of Mammon is the worst, The most detested and accurst.
Pleasure's gay moments may impart Some gladness to the human heart;
Ambition, too, we often find The inmate of a noble mind;
But love of riches ever bears The token of the lowest cares.
We see one base unvarying vice In the pale form of Avarice:
It only lifts its pray'r to Heav'n T'increase the store already given;
Nor does it e'er the gift repay, By shedding one kind cheering ray
Upon the weather-beaten shed,
Where Want scarce finds the scanty bread,
By wiping from the widow's eye The flowing tears of misery;
Or giving to the naked form The vestment that will keep it warm.
For gold it courts the sleepless night,
And toils through day's returning light:
Nor these alone;—the cool deceit—
The treach'rous heart—the hidden cheat—
The ready lie—the hard demand— And Law's oppressive griping hand;
These dæmons never fail to wait At Mammon's dark and dreary gate.
What does he love! can it be told? Yes, I can tell:—he loves his gold:
In that one term he comprehends
His kindred, neighbourhood, and friends.
But e'en should Fortune daily pour Her treasures to increase his store,
Say, is he happy?—Does he feel A pleasure which he dare reveal?
Ah, no!—his throbbing anxious breast
Continued doubts and fears molest.
See how he trembles with affright
When Justice claims the widow's right,
And bids him at the bar appear, To answer to the Orphan's tear,
By restoration to atone For many a wrong that he has done!
Nay, a still far severer doom May aggravate the time to come:
The scourge without, the scourge within May lash the unavailing sin?
And, after all his toil and care, 'Tis well if he escape Despair.
“But e'en when Pleasure is not cross'd
With ruin'd health and fortune lost,
Yet still it leaves a void behind— And dulness stupifies the mind.
The season of enjoyment o'er, The phantom then can please no more:
Brief is its time, it soon is past; A vernal bloom not made to last.
Say, what presents its longest doom? A flower, a fever, and a tomb!
“What, though Ambition holds its pow'r
To Life's extreme, but certain hour,
Is not its most exalted joy Encumber'd with some base alloy?
And, on its proudest, loftiest height, Say, does it always find delight?
Say, could it ever guard its heart From Fear's assault, and Envy's dart!
It cannot shut th'averted eye From passing life's mortality:
E'en from its most aspiring brow, It must behold a grave below.
“Though Wealth should haply be attain'd
By fair pursuits, with honour gain'd,
Yet in its train how oft we see The pallid forms of misery.
Intemp'rance yields its foul delight And feeds the obnoxious appetite;
While Luxury in a thousand ways To sensual carelessness betrays,
And lights up in the mortal frame Disease's slow corroding flame.
Fortune in fickle mood may frown. The firmest base may tumble down;
While it appears in strength secure, It falls and leaves its owner poor.
The largest heaps of treasur'd wealth Cannot restore declining health;
They cannot bribe the sun to stay, And mitigate his burning ray;
Nor will the North's imperious cold
Dissolve to genial warmth for gold:
Time will not one short moment stay,
Though millions lay athwart his way;
Nor all the wealth that Crœsus bore
Can add to Life one moment more.
The regal palace and the cot Are subject to one common lot;
The rich and poor, and small and great,
Alike must feel the stroke of fate:
Virtue alone, we ought to know, Is real happiness below;
And yet how oft her kindness proves,
By toil and pain, the child she loves.
Honour, of noble minds the flow'r, Is oft betray'd by Treachery's pow'r:
And Charity, we often see, The dupe of base Hypocrisy.
Within whose breast is seen to dwell The vice by which the Angels fell,
The love of rule, the thirst of pow'r, Ne'er give a peaceful, tranquil hour;
'Tis the fierce fever of the soul That maddens for supreme controul;
Whose burning thirst continual grows:
Whose pride no lasting pleasure knows;
While Hatred, Envy, jealous Fear, Wait on the proud and bold career.
Contention ev'ry act attends;
Now friends are foes—now foes are friends:
Enjoyment quickens new desire, And Hope for ever fans the fire.
Whene'er the nearer height is gain'd, A loftier still must be attain'd;
And then the eye looks keenly round In hope another's to be found;
One—such is the aspiring soul—
Whose tow'ring height shall crown the whole.
But oft, as the aspirant gains The object of his toil and pains,
The giddy view each sense appals— In vain for some kind help he calls;
The faithless friend, th'insulting foe, Rejoice as to the gulph below
He headlong falls—a prey to lie Of grinning Scorn and Infamy.
“Now Riches next demand our thought:
But gold may be too dearly bought,
As in each clime and ev'ry soil, It wakes the universal toil.
For this, defying health and ease, The Sailor ploughs the distant seas:
This shares the Soldier's daring aim,
Who fights for wealth as well as fame:
But, though all wish its pow'rs to wear,
It proves the source of many a care.
—Of all the vices that infest The purlieus of the human breast,
The love of Mammon is the worst, The most detested and accurst.
Pleasure's gay moments may impart Some gladness to the human heart;
Ambition, too, we often find The inmate of a noble mind;
But love of riches ever bears The token of the lowest cares.
We see one base unvarying vice In the pale form of Avarice:
It only lifts its pray'r to Heav'n T'increase the store already given;
Nor does it e'er the gift repay, By shedding one kind cheering ray
Upon the weather-beaten shed,
Where Want scarce finds the scanty bread,
By wiping from the widow's eye The flowing tears of misery;
Or giving to the naked form The vestment that will keep it warm.
For gold it courts the sleepless night,
And toils through day's returning light:
84
The treach'rous heart—the hidden cheat—
The ready lie—the hard demand— And Law's oppressive griping hand;
These dæmons never fail to wait At Mammon's dark and dreary gate.
What does he love! can it be told? Yes, I can tell:—he loves his gold:
In that one term he comprehends
His kindred, neighbourhood, and friends.
But e'en should Fortune daily pour Her treasures to increase his store,
Say, is he happy?—Does he feel A pleasure which he dare reveal?
Ah, no!—his throbbing anxious breast
Continued doubts and fears molest.
See how he trembles with affright
When Justice claims the widow's right,
And bids him at the bar appear, To answer to the Orphan's tear,
By restoration to atone For many a wrong that he has done!
Nay, a still far severer doom May aggravate the time to come:
The scourge without, the scourge within May lash the unavailing sin?
And, after all his toil and care, 'Tis well if he escape Despair.
“But e'en when Pleasure is not cross'd
With ruin'd health and fortune lost,
Yet still it leaves a void behind— And dulness stupifies the mind.
The season of enjoyment o'er, The phantom then can please no more:
Brief is its time, it soon is past; A vernal bloom not made to last.
Say, what presents its longest doom? A flower, a fever, and a tomb!
“What, though Ambition holds its pow'r
To Life's extreme, but certain hour,
Is not its most exalted joy Encumber'd with some base alloy?
And, on its proudest, loftiest height, Say, does it always find delight?
Say, could it ever guard its heart From Fear's assault, and Envy's dart!
It cannot shut th'averted eye From passing life's mortality:
E'en from its most aspiring brow, It must behold a grave below.
“Though Wealth should haply be attain'd
By fair pursuits, with honour gain'd,
Yet in its train how oft we see The pallid forms of misery.
Intemp'rance yields its foul delight And feeds the obnoxious appetite;
While Luxury in a thousand ways To sensual carelessness betrays,
And lights up in the mortal frame Disease's slow corroding flame.
Fortune in fickle mood may frown. The firmest base may tumble down;
While it appears in strength secure, It falls and leaves its owner poor.
The largest heaps of treasur'd wealth Cannot restore declining health;
They cannot bribe the sun to stay, And mitigate his burning ray;
Nor will the North's imperious cold
Dissolve to genial warmth for gold:
Time will not one short moment stay,
Though millions lay athwart his way;
Nor all the wealth that Crœsus bore
Can add to Life one moment more.
The regal palace and the cot Are subject to one common lot;
The rich and poor, and small and great,
Alike must feel the stroke of fate:
Virtue alone, we ought to know, Is real happiness below;
85
By toil and pain, the child she loves.
Honour, of noble minds the flow'r, Is oft betray'd by Treachery's pow'r:
And Charity, we often see, The dupe of base Hypocrisy.
“Who then will venture to declare That man's mistitled sorrow's heir?
But, Brethren, let us not complain,
That Heaven's unjust, when we sustain
Th'allotted term of Care and Pain.
Our life in such a mould is cast, 'Tis plain it is not made to last;
'Tis but a state of trial here, To fit us for a purer sphere;
A scene of contest for a prize, That in another region lies,
In better worlds and brighter skies:
Here doom'd a painful lot to bear, Our Happiness is treasur'd there.
To struggle with the woes of life, To wage with evil, constant strife;
T'oppose the Passions as they rise, And check their wild propensities;
T'improve our nature, and to bear With patience, the allotted share
Of human woes—and thus fulfil The wise and the eternal will,
That forms the grand, mysterious plan For Mortal and Immortal man.
But, Brethren, let us not complain,
That Heaven's unjust, when we sustain
Th'allotted term of Care and Pain.
Our life in such a mould is cast, 'Tis plain it is not made to last;
'Tis but a state of trial here, To fit us for a purer sphere;
A scene of contest for a prize, That in another region lies,
In better worlds and brighter skies:
Here doom'd a painful lot to bear, Our Happiness is treasur'd there.
To struggle with the woes of life, To wage with evil, constant strife;
T'oppose the Passions as they rise, And check their wild propensities;
T'improve our nature, and to bear With patience, the allotted share
Of human woes—and thus fulfil The wise and the eternal will,
That forms the grand, mysterious plan For Mortal and Immortal man.
“Man is, indeed, by Heaven's decree, As happy as he ought to be;
As suited to his state and nature, A restless, frail, and finite creature:
His work well done—his labour o'er— Evil and sorrow are no more;
And, having pass'd the vale of death,
He claims the never-fading wreath;
Glory's Eternal Crown to share, Which Cherubs sing, and Angels wear:
Then is complete th'amazing plan, And Mortal is Immortal man.”
Here Syntax thought it fit to close:—
Th'admiring congregation rose;
And after certain hems and ha's, The 'Squire nodded his applause:
Nay, such attention he had given To the sage Minister of Heaven,
That neither did he sleep nor snore— A wonder never known before.
Then quickly issuing from his pew, He came to thank the Doctor too.
“Sir, your discourse so good and fine, Proves you to be a great Divine,
While I, alas! am but a sinner; So you'll go home with me to dinner;
And, shortly after ev'ning pray'r, The Curate, too, will meet you there.”
The Doctor found the house well stor'd;
A chatt'ring wife, and plenteous board:
The dinner was a pleasing sight, For preaching gets an appetite:
And Syntax could perform them both As well as any of the cloth.
At length the eatables remov'd, The 'Squire began the talk he lov'd.
'Squire.—
As suited to his state and nature, A restless, frail, and finite creature:
His work well done—his labour o'er— Evil and sorrow are no more;
And, having pass'd the vale of death,
He claims the never-fading wreath;
Glory's Eternal Crown to share, Which Cherubs sing, and Angels wear:
Then is complete th'amazing plan, And Mortal is Immortal man.”
Here Syntax thought it fit to close:—
Th'admiring congregation rose;
And after certain hems and ha's, The 'Squire nodded his applause:
Nay, such attention he had given To the sage Minister of Heaven,
That neither did he sleep nor snore— A wonder never known before.
Then quickly issuing from his pew, He came to thank the Doctor too.
“Sir, your discourse so good and fine, Proves you to be a great Divine,
While I, alas! am but a sinner; So you'll go home with me to dinner;
And, shortly after ev'ning pray'r, The Curate, too, will meet you there.”
The Doctor found the house well stor'd;
A chatt'ring wife, and plenteous board:
The dinner was a pleasing sight, For preaching gets an appetite:
And Syntax could perform them both As well as any of the cloth.
At length the eatables remov'd, The 'Squire began the talk he lov'd.
“Have you much game, Sir, where you live?”
Syntax.—
“An answer, Sir, I scarce can give:
I never hunt, nor bear a gun; I have no time, nor like the fun.
Learning's the game which I pursue: I have no other sport in view:
But I have heard—the country round
With hares and partridge does abound;
Though on my table it is rare To see or one or t'other there.
Oft when I rise at early morn, And hear the cheerful, echoing horn,
I'm forc'd from the inspiring noise, To hunt a pack of idle boys;
And when they babble, in their din, I am a special whipper-in:
Nay, if they should be found at fault, I crack my whip, Sir, as I ought.”
Syntax now told his story o'er, A story told so oft before;
When soon the 'Squire began to feel A slumber o'er his senses steal:—
The Curate, too, bemus'd in beer,
Was more disposed to sleep than hear.
Says Syntax, “See the effect of drink!
Heav'n spare the souls which cannot think!
But I will not their sleep molest; The Sabbath is a day of rest.”
In short his words no more prevail;
There now were none to hear his tale:
He strove another pipe to smoke, But there were none to hear his joke:
So on his elbow he reclin'd, And thus the sleeping party join'd.
—The clock struck ten ere they awoke,
When a shrill voice their slumbers broke;
In such a tone it seem'd to come, That Syntax thought himself at home:
So, having yawn'd and shook their heads,
They wish'd good-night, and sought their beds.
86
The Curate, too, bemus'd in beer,
Was more disposed to sleep than hear.
Says Syntax, “See the effect of drink!
Heav'n spare the souls which cannot think!
But I will not their sleep molest; The Sabbath is a day of rest.”
In short his words no more prevail;
There now were none to hear his tale:
He strove another pipe to smoke, But there were none to hear his joke:
So on his elbow he reclin'd, And thus the sleeping party join'd.
—The clock struck ten ere they awoke,
When a shrill voice their slumbers broke;
In such a tone it seem'd to come, That Syntax thought himself at home:
So, having yawn'd and shook their heads,
They wish'd good-night, and sought their beds.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |