The three tours of Doctor Syntax :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Combe, William (1742-1823)

[section]

A TOUR IN SEARCH OF THE PICTURESQUE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

CANTO XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

The Smoking Soliloquy.

Song.

THE TOUR IN SEARCH OF CONSOLATION.

THE TOUR OF THE REVEREND DOCTOR SYNTAX IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.

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CANTO XXII.

The clock struck five when Syntax woke:
The sounding door his slumbers broke:
When a soft female voice related That breakfast and her master waited:
Up rose the Doctor, down he went, With joyful look and heart content.
“Well,” said the 'Squire, “I hope you'll stay
And pass with me another day;
The sporting season's coming on, And something now is to be done;
For I must breath my dogs a-bit, And try my gun at some tom-tit.
You'll take a stroll around the fields,
And see what game my manor yields.”
Says Syntax, “'Tis not in my power To pass with you another hour;
While you perform your sporting feats,
I must be tramping London streets:
You, therefore, will my thanks receive,
For now, Sir, I must take my leave.”
The 'Squire reply'd—“All I can say— Another time a longer stay.”
He then walk'd off with dog and gun, While Syntax travell'd slowly on;
And, o'er the hill, or on the plain, Indulg'd the contemplative strain.

“I cannot, while I Nature view, Cloth'd in her robe of verdant hue,
Or when the changeful veil is thrown,
Of Summer's gold or Autumn's brown,
Or midst the scenes of snow and frost, When her gay colouring is lost;
I cannot but the Pow'r admire That gives such charms to her attire:
Nor do her wond'rous shapes, that rise
In countless forms to meet the eyes,
Mark with less force th'unerring soul,
Which with such beauty decks the whole.
The mountain's top that seems to meet
The height of Heaven's Imperial seat;
The rocks, the valley's guardian pride,
Or bound'ries of the ocean's tide,
That oft, in grand confusion hurl'd, Seem like the fragments of a world;

While the low hill and vale between, Appear to variegate the scene.
But lesser forms invite to trace Fair Nature's ever varying face:
The humble shrub, the spreading tree, In this same principle agree.
Along the ground the brambles crawl,
And the low hyssop tops the wall;
The bull-rush rises from the sedge,
The wild-rose blossoms in the hedge;
While flowers of ev'ry colour shed A fragrance from their native bed.
The streamlet, winding through the glade,
The hanging wood, the forest shade;
The river's bold and flowing wave, Doth many a peopled margin lave,
Till, with increasing course, 'tis seen
To blend its white waves with the green.
Nor these alone;—how various they Who cleave the air or skim the sea,
Or range the plain or, from the brow, Look down upon the vale below!
The cygnet's snow, the pea-cock's dyes,
The pigeon's neck, the eagle's eyes;
Nor in less beauty do they rove, Who form the music of the grove.
The elephant's resistless force; The strength and spirit of the horse;
The ermine's softness and the boar, With rising bristles cover'd o'er.
Thus, throughout Nature's various state, Of living or inanimate,
In ev'ry diff'rent class we see How boundless the variety!
What playful change in all we know Of the mysterious world below;
In all where instinct motion gives, In what by vegetation lives:
But these are trivial when we look,
Through the first page of Nature's book,
When, half-inspir'd, we're taught to scan The vast varieties of man.”

Thus, in deep metaphysic mood, Syntax his shorten'd way pursued,
And many a system had been brought To ripen in his learned thought;
But none arose which did not tend Poor human nature to befriend;
None were but aptly form'd to prove The firm support of social love.
Thus all bemus'd he took his way, Unconscious of the passing day;
And, thus employ'd in cogitating, No wonder he ne'er thought of baiting;
No wonder that it came to pass When Grizzle saw a little grass,
That he, contemplating the view Of knotty questions, never knew
She stopp'd to take a bite or two:
Or, when they pass'd a limpid brook,
That she a plenteous beverage took;
Or if, by chance upon the road, They found a cart with hay well-stow'd,
She lagg'd behind to crop the fare, And levy contributions there.
But now a Trumpet's warlike sound
'Woke Syntax from his dream profound;
While Grizzle frisk'd, and mov'd on straight,
With many a prancing to the gate,
Where in a gorgeous cap of fur, Stood the proclaiming trumpeter,
With face as the old Lion red Which dangling hung above his head.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “I now could swear
I see again the Grizzle mare;
I know her well by that same scar Which she got with me in the war;
For she received that angry hack While I was sounding on her back;
A furious Hussar at me came, And struck at me but miss'd his aim;

When my poor mare receiv'd the blow,
And straight the blood began to flow;
Nay, the same sword had crack'd my crown,
But my brave comrade Stephen Brown,
Came up and cut the Frenchman down.
I have been borne by that same grey
Through many a rough and bloody day:
Her ears well know the martial strain;— I'm glad to see her once again.”
“That well may be:—but for her ears—
A wicked clown's infernal shears
Have robb'd her,” Syntax smiling said, “Of the fair honours of her head;
Nor did one tender thought prevail,
From the same fate to save her tail.”
He then proceeded to relate Her past mishap and present state;
And ask'd the Trumpeter to share A flowing bowl and ev'ning fare.
Now Syntax sat and heard the story
The soldier told of England's glory;
How British columns fought their way.
And drove the foe and won the day:
How oft he did his breath enlarge,
To call to arms and sound the charge;
But, though he rous'd to many a feat, He never sounded a retreat.
Still he declin'd in modest tone— For England's glory was his own.

“Oft have I seen in bright array, (Sure promise of a glorious day)
The martial bands alive to meet
Their foes, and lay them at their feet;
And, when my breathing trumpet told 'em
To go and conquer—to behold 'em,
At once their beaming blades display,
And rush on their victorious way,
I felt the inexpressive joy Which grim-fac'd danger could not cloy.
If that same Grizzle Steed you rode
Could speak, she'd tell the ground she trod
Was oft, alas! all cover'd o'er With soldiers slain and clotted gore.
Full many a hair-breadth 'scape I've seen; In many a peril I have been;
And soon again the time may come, When, order'd from our native home,
We shall seek foreign climes, to share The dangers and the din of war;
So be it, I'm prepar'd to go, Wherever I may meet the foe;
And should it be my lot to die, I have no wife or babes to cry:
And 'mid what blood-shed I may fall,
There'll be an end of Thomas Hall.”

Said Syntax, “It is well my friend, To be prepar'd to meet our end:
To do that well, I'm call'd to preach; 'Tis a prime duty which I teach;
But thoughts of a far diff'rent kind Just now employ my anxious mind:
The present busy hours must claim Attention to my purse and fame:
And, as I think 'twould prove a joke
To show my mare to London folk,
It has just come into my mind To leave poor Grizzle here behind,
And let some stage or mail convey My bags and me my onward way.
Perhaps, for old acquaintance sake,
Of my poor beast the care you'll take.”

If so,”—the trumpeter replied— “'Twill be my honour and my pride.
God bless your Rev'rence,—never fear—
Your mare shall have protection here;
When you return her looks will tell
That her Old Friend has us'd her well.”

A horn now told the near approach Of some convenient, rapid coach;
And soon a vehicle and four Appear'd at the Red Lion door:
Into his place the Doctor pounc'd;
The coachman smack'd, and off they bounc'd.
The scene around was quite composing,
For his companions all were dosing;
So he, forsooth, conceiv'd it best To close his lids and try to rest.
When the morn dawn'd he turn'd an eye
Upon his slumb'ring company:
A red-fac'd man, who snor'd and snorted,
A lady with both eyes distorted,
And a young miss of pleasing mien, With all the life of gay sixteen.
A sudden jolt their slumbers broke; They started all, and all awoke;
When Surly-boots yawn'd wide, and spoke.
“We move,” said he, “confounded slow:”
“La, Sir,” cried Miss, “how fast we go!”
While madam, with a smirking face, Declar'd it was a middling pace.
“Pray, what think you, Sir?”—“I agree,”
Said simp'ring Syntax, “with all three:
Up hill, our course is rather slow; Down hill, how merrily we go;
But when 'tis neither up nor down, It is a middling pace I own.”
“O la!” cried miss, “the thought's so pretty!”
“Oh yes!” growl'd Red-face, “very witty!”
The lady said, “If I can scan The temper of the gentleman,
He's one of those, I have no doubt, Who loves to let his humour out,
Nor fails his thread-bare wit to play On all who come within his way:
But we who in these stages roam,
And leave our coach-and-four at home,
Deserve our lot when thus we talk
With those who were ordain'd to walk!
And now my niece, you see how wrong It is to use your flippant tongue,
And chatter as you're apt to do With any one—the Lord knows who.”
Surly turn'd round, and friendly sleep Soon o'er his senses 'gan to creep:
So Syntax thought he'd overlook The embryo of his future Book:
Thus all was silence till they came To the great town we London name.
Our sage thought wisely that the din
Which he could hear about an Inn,
Would not assist his studious hours, Nor aid his intellectual powers,
To make his volume fit to show The Dons of Paternoster Row;
And as his Patron of the North,
The Lord renown'd for sense and worth,
Had bid him make his house his home
Whenever he to town should come,
He was resolved to try his fate In knocking at his Lordship's gate.
At that same gate he soon appear'd:
My Lord, with smiles the Doctor cheer'd.

“You have done well, my learned friend,
Hither your early steps to bend;
Bus'ness has brought me up to town, And thus you'll find me all alone:
Here pitch your tent and pass your hour
In working up your pleasant Tour;
And, when 'tis done I'll aid your scheme—
It shall not prove an idle dream.”
Syntax receiv'd his Lordship's grace
With moisten'd eye, but smiling face,
And for ten days, at morn and night,
He toil'd to bring his book to light;
While the few intervening hours
Were render'd gay with wine and flow'rs.
My Lord, by gen'rous friendship mov'd,
Now read his Volume, and approv'd.
“Think not,” said he, “I fondly give Opinions, tending to deceive:
That I'm sincere, my friend you'll see,
When I declare that you are free To dedicate your Book to me:
Nor is this all—I'll recommend My very pleasant, learned friend
To one who has as lib'ral feeling As any in this kind of dealing:
And when my letter you present, He'll take the work, and give content.
Thus, my good Sir, I've done my best:
You'll see him and explain the rest.”

The Doctor now received his papers In spirits almost to cut capers;
Nor did he then delay to go, Not to the realms of sight and show,
But those of Paternoster Row.
The shop he enter'd; all around
He saw the shelves with volumes crown'd,
In Russia and Morocco bound,
And when he had, with fond delight, Glanc'd o'er the literary sight,
“Go, call your master,” Syntax said, “To an attendant on the trade;
Tell him that a D. D. is here:” The lad then answer'd with a sneer,
“To no D. D. will he appear;
He would not come for all the knowledge
Of Oxford or of Cambridge College:
I cannot go, as I'm a sinner; I dare not interrupt his dinner:
You know not how I should be blam'd!”
Stamping his foot, Syntax exclaim'd,
“Apollo and the Muses nine!
Must Learning wait while Tradesmen dine?”
“They're common hacks,” replied the boy;
“We never such as those employ;
I've heard their names, but this I know,
They seldom come into the Row.”
The master who had fill'd his crop In a smart room behind the shop,
On hearing a loud angry voice,
Came forth to know what caus'd the noise;
And left his wife, and bottle too, To see about this strange to-do.
He was a man whose ample paunch
Was made of beef, and ham, and haunch:
And when he saw the shrivell'd form Of Syntax, he began to storm.

Bookseller.—
“I wish to know, Sir, what you mean,
By kicking up, Sir, such a scene!
And who you are, Sir, and your name
And on what errand here you came?”

Syntax.—
“My errand was to bid you look
With care and candour on this Book;
And tell me whether you think fit To buy, or print, or publish it?
The subject which the work contains Is Art and Nature's fair domains;
'Tis form'd the curious to allure;— In short, good-man, it is a Tour;
With Drawings all from Nature made,
And with no common skill display'd:
Each house, each place, each lake, each tree,
These fingers drew—these eyes did see.”

Bookseller.—
“A Tour indeed! I've had enough
Of Tours and such-like flimsy stuff.
What a fool's errand you have made,
(I speak the language of the trade,)
To travel all the country o'er, And write what has been writ before!
We can get Tours—don't make wry faces,
From those who never saw the places!
I know a man who has the skill To make you Books of Tours at will;
And from his garret in Moorfields Can see what ev'ry country yields;
So, if you please, you may retire, And throw your Book into the fire:
You need not grin, my friend, nor vapour;
I would not buy it for waste paper!”

Syntax.—
“Blockhead! and is it thus you treat
The man by whom you drink and eat?
Do you not know, and must I tell ye,
'Tis they fill out your monstrous belly?
Yes, booby; from such skulls as mine
You lap your soup, and drink your wine,
Without one single ray of sense But what relates to pounds and pence.
Thus good and evil form the whole—
Heaven gave you wealth, and me a soul:
And I would never be an ass For all your gold, with all your brass.
When humble Authors come to sue, (Those very men that pamper you,)
You feel like Jove in all his pride, With Juno squatting by his side.”

Bookseller.—
“How dare you, villain, to defame
My dearest wife's unsully'd name?
Yes, she's my wife! ten years ago The Parson join'd our hands at Bow,
And she's the flower of all our Row.
As for Miss Juno, she's a harlot,
You foul-mouth'd, and malicious varlet!
A prostitute, who is well known To all the rakes about the town;
First with a footman off she ran, And now lives with an Alderman.”

Syntax.—
“Have done—have done, pray read that letter,
And then I think you'll treat me better.”

Bookseller.—
“Sir, had you shown the letter first,
My very belly should have burst
Before I would have said a word
Your learned ears should not have heard;

But, in this world wherein we live, We must forget, Sir, and forgive.
These little heats will sometimes start
From the most friendly, gen'rous heart.
My Lord speaks highly of your merit, As of the talents you inherit;
He writes himself supremely well;
His works are charming—for they sell.
I pray you take a glass of wine; Perhaps, Sir, you have yet to dine:
We now, I fear, have nothing hot: My dear, put something in the pot;
'Twill soon be done; or tell our Nan To toss a cutlet in the pan.
His Lordship here expressly says
Your work transcends his utmost praise;
Desires the printing may commence,
And he'll be bound for the expense.
The book will sell, I have no doubt, I'll spare no pains to bring it out:
A work like this must not be stinted,
Two thousand copies shall be printed.
And if you please”

Syntax.—
“I cannot stay; We'll talk of that another day:
When I came out, I gave my word To take my dinner with my Lord.”

Bookseller.—
“Perhaps some other time you'll come,
When my good Lord may dine from home;
It will be kind, indeed, to share, Quite as a friend, our humble fare;
In the mean time you may command,
In ev'ry sense, my heart and hand.”

Thus (such are this world's odds and ends)
Though foes they met—they parted friends.