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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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My Lord.—
“Your rapid pencil fairly traces
Men's characters as well as faces;
Your latter sketch is true to Nature, And gives me Vellum's ev'ry feature.
With all your various talents fraught, So deeply read, so ably taught,
I feel a curious wish to know
From whence your high endowments flow:
And how it happens that a man,
Whose worth I scarce know how to scan,
Should ne'er have reach'd a better state,
Than seems to be your present fate.”

Syntax.—
“My Lord, a very scanty page
Will tell my birth and parentage:
A mod'rate circle will contain My round of pleasure and of pain,
Till you, my ever-honour'd friend, Bade my horizon wide extend,
And lighted up a brighter ray To beam upon my clouded day.
“My father was a noble creature
As e'er was form'd by pregnant Nature;
A learned Clerk, a sound Divine, A fav'rite of the Virgins nine
Who dwell upon Parnassian hill, Or bathe in Heliconian rill.
In the sequester'd vale of life, An equal foe to pride and strife,
He pass'd his inoffensive day In teaching Virtue's peaceful way:
A shepherd, formed his flock to bless In this world's thorny wilderness,
And lead them, when their time is o'er,
To where, good man, he's gone before.
Ambition ne'er disturb'd his rest Nor bred a serpent in his breast
To sting his peace; no sordid care Corroded the contentment there;
While he possess'd an income clear Of full five hundred pounds a year.
“My mother, first of woman-kind, In figure, feature, and in mind,
In her calm sphere contented mov'd, The counterpart of him she lov'd.
Form'd to adorn the highest lot, She grac'd the Vicar's rural cot,

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With all those manners that became The Parson's wife, the village dame.
They liv'd and lov'd—and might have wore
The Flitch, when twenty years were o'er.
“An only child appear'd, to prove The pledge of fond, connubial love.
I was that child—a darling boy; Their daily hope—their daily joy.
My anxious father did not spare The urchin to another's care;
He taught the little forward elf To be the image of himself;
And from the cradle he began To form and shape the future man.
When fifteen summer suns had shed Their lustre on my curly head,
To Alma mater he consigned, With pious hope, my rip'ning mind.
“There, sev'n short years (for short they were)
Fair science was my only care;
I gave my nights, I gave my days, To Tully's page and Homer's lays:
Whate'er is known of ancient lore I fondly studied o'er and o'er.
I follow'd each appointed course, And trac'd up learning to its source;
But in my way I gather'd flow'rs, I sought the Muses in their bowers,
And did their fav'ring smiles repay With may a lyric roundelay;
Nor did I fail the arts to woo Of Music and of painting too.
Thus was my early manhood pass'd In happiness too great to last.
My father dy'd—and ere his urn Had fill'd my arms, I had to mourn
A mother, who refus'd to stay, When her lov'd mate was ta'en away.
“What follow'd?—I was left alone,
And the world seiz'd me as its own.
I sought gay Fashion's motley throng, On Pleasure's tide I sail'd along;
Till, by rude storms and tempests toss'd,
My shatter'd bark at length was lost;
While I stood naked on the shore, My treasure gone, my pleasure o'er.
“Now chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I cherish'd prov'd unkind:
All those who shar'd my prosp'rous day,
Whene'er they saw me—turn'd away;
And, as I almost wanted bread, I undertook a bear to lead,
To see the brute perform his dance,
Through Holland, Italy, and France;
But it was such a very Bruin, To be with him was worse than ruin;
So, having pac'd o'er classic ground,
And sail'd the Grecian Isles around,
(A pleasure, sure, beyond compare,
Though link'd in couples with a bear,)
I took my leave and left the cub Some humble Swiss to pay and drub:
Yet, when I reach'd my native shore,
Determin'd to lead bears no more,
No better prospect did I see, Than a free-school and curacy;
The country tradesmen's sons to teach;
In lonely village-church to preach,
With the proud sneer and vulgar taunt,
Oft thrown at Learning when in want;
All which you'll think, my noble friend, Did not to ease or comfort tend.
But now, another act displays The folly of my former days:
A new scene opens of my life; For faith, my Lord, I took a wife.”

My Lord.—
“I should have thought a married mate

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Must have improv'd your lonely state!
That a kind look and winning smile
Would serve, your labours to beguile.”

Syntax.—
“Love, in itself, is very good,
But, 'tis by no means, solid food;
And, ere our honey-moon was o'er, I found we wanted something more.
This was the cause of all my trouble;
My income would not carry double;
But, led away from Reason's plan, By Love, that torturer of a man,
In our delirium we forgot What is Life's unremitted lot;
That man and woman, too, are born, Beneath each rose to find a thorn!
We thought, as other fools have done,
That Hymen's laws had made us one;
But had forgot that Nature, true To her own purpose, made us two.
There were two mouths that daily cry'd,
At morn and eve, to be supplied:
Though by one vow we were betroth'd,
There were two bodies to be cloth'd;
And, to improve my happiness, Dolly is very fond of dress.
My head's content with one hat on it,
While Dorothy has hat and bonnet:
In short, there's no day passes through,
But I and my dear Doll are two.
One good has my kind fortune sped; Dolly, my Lord, has never bred.
Thus, though we're always TWO, you see
We haply yet have have ne'er been THREE.
She came a beauty to my arms; Her only dower was her charms:
But much she sav'd me, I must own, By never bringing brats to town.”

My Lord.—
“Another time, my rev'rend guest,
I hope you will relate the rest:
I truly wish the whole to know, But bus'ness calls, and I must go.
I need not, sure, repeat my words;
Command whate'er the house affords.”
The Peer thus with the Doctor parted,
And left him gay and easy hearted;
While many a pipe his thoughts digest,
Till his eyes told the hour of rest.
When the next morn, and breakfast came,
Said Syntax, “I should be to blame,
If I delay'd to tell my mind To one so gen'rous and so kind,
In hopes such counsel to receive As he will condescend to give.
For as I on my bed reclin'd, A sudden thought possess'd my mind,
Which may produce, as I've a notion,
A North-west passage to promotion.
“Loyal and true I've ever been,
And much of this same world I've seen:
Well vers'd in the historic page Of this and ev'ry other age
I could employ my studious hour
For those who hold the reins of power;
And sure a well-turn'd pamphlet might
Attention from the court invite;

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By which I could, in nervous prose, Unveil the ministerial foes;
And, with no common skill and care,
Praise and support the powers that are.
I then might be preferr'd at once; No more the prey of any dunce,
Who views poor authors as mere drudges,
And ev'ry doit he pays them grudges;
Nor cares how much he makes them feel,
Just as a cook-maid skins an eel.
It would be better far I trow, Than this same Paternoster-Row;
Where the poor bees, in Learning's hive,
Toil, but to make the tradesmen thrive—
And for their intellectual honey, Get but a poor return in money.
It would be cutting matters short, Could I but get a friend at court:
'Twould be, and I repeat the notion,
A North-West passage to promotion.”

My Lord.—
“Patient, my learned Doctor, hear;
And to my counsels give an ear:
I long have known, and known too well,
The country where you wish to dwell.
Corruption, fraud, and envy wait
At the proud Statesman's crowded gate;
There fawning flatt'ry wins its way,
There the base passions join the fray,
Like beasts that on each other prey;
While the smile hides each trait'rous heart,
And interest plays a Proteus part.
You've too much virtue, my good friend,
Your talents and your time to lend, To such a power—for such an end.
Can you work up the specious lie That does not quite the truth deny?
Can you that kind of truth relate, On which you may prevaricate?
Will you from others bear to seek
What you must think, and write, and speak?
Will you, to-day, their systems borrow,
And calmly shake them off to-morrow?
Will you, Cameleon-like, receive The Hue a Patron wants to give?
—You've too much honest pride to be A scribbler to the Treasury;
Where you must wait the lagging hour, And cringe to images of power!
To men in office, upstart elves, Who think of little but themselves.
“When long an hacknied slave you've been,
And dash'd and div'd through thick and thin;
When you have chang'd each purer thought
For morals which in courts are taught;
When all distinctions, that belong, To what is right and what is wrong,
Have, of your reason, lost their hold, For dribblets of a patron's gold;
When the bold Logic, fram'd by Truth,
Your filial boast in early youth,
Yields to the vacillating rule Of Policy's complying school;—
When guile and cunning, from your breast,
Have driven that once-honour'd guest,
You may, perhaps, or you may not, Be set aside, unheard, forgot;

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Or haply find, when Virtue's lost, Repentance, and some petty Post.
This will not do, my learned friend, You must to better things attend;
All thoughts of Downing Street forego,
And stick to Paternoster Row.
“The man of trade you cannot blame, For money is his native aim;
It is the object of all trade To make as much as can be made:
Bankers and Booksellers alike, At ev'ry point of profit strike;
And the same spirit you will meet
In Mincing Lane or Lombard Street.
'Tis not confin'd, we all must know, To vulgar tradesmen in the ROW.
Success depends on writing well—
Booksellers bow, when Volumes sell.
On the Exchange, each day at three, This self-same principle you'll see
I ead thither the vast, pressing throng;
And know, dear Sir, or right or wrong,
'Tis that which makes Old England strong.
Though roguery's in Vellum's shop, It is, my friend, the Nation's prop:
And though you please, good Sir, to flout it,
Old England could not do without it.
Without it she might be as good, But half as great she never would.
I look with pleasure to the fame That now awaits your learned name;
And when your labours are well paid, You'll be the Eulogist of Trade.
Vellum may be a purse-proud Cit,
With more of money than of wit;
But Vellum, my good Sir, can tell The kind of book that's made to sell.
Indeed, the man whose pocket's full, However empty be his skull,
Although immeasurably dull,
Will find, 'midst the ill-judging crowd, Far greater reason to be proud,
Than he whose head contains a store
Of critic skill, and learned lore,
If to his wit he does not join, The blest command of ready coin.
Write and get rich, nor fear the taunts
Of booksellers and such gallants;
Vellum has no more sordid tricks Than those that deal in Politics;
But till your various Learning's known,
And your works sell throughout the Town;
Till, having settled Fortune's spite,
Your name shall sanction what you write,
Let Vellum his rewards bestow,
Nor scoff at PATERNOSTER ROW.”

Syntax.—
“To your kind words I've nought to say,
But thank your Lordship, and obey.
And now, as twenty years have pass'd Since I beheld fair London last,
I shall employ the present day In strolling calmly to survey
What changes Time and Chance have made,
What Wealth has done, and Art essay'd,
What taste has, in its fancies, shown,
To give new splendour to the Town:
That being done, I'll take my way To Covent Garden—to the play.”