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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| II. | CANTO II. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO II.
The farewell ceremony o'er, Madam went in and bang'd the door:
No woeful tear bedew'd her eye, Nor did she heave a single sigh;
But soon began her daily trade, To chide the man and scold the maid;
While Syntax, with his scheme besotted,
Along the village gently trotted.
The folks on daily labour bent, Whistled and caroll'd as they went;
But as the Doctor pass'd along,
Bow'd down their heads, and ceas'd their song.
He gravely nodded to the people; Then looking upwards to the steeple,
He thus, in mutt'ring tones express'd The disappointments of his breast.
“That thankless parent, Mother Church,
Has ever left me in the lurch;
And while so many fools are seen To strut a Rector or a Dean,
Who live in ease, and find good cheer On ev'ry day of ev'ry year,
So small her share of true discerning,
She turn'd her back on all my learning.
I've in my vineyard labour'd hard, And what has been my lean reward?
I've dug the ground, while some rich Vicar
Press'd the ripe grape, and drank the liquor;
I've fed the flock, while others eat The mutton's nice delicious meat;
I've kept the hive, and made the honey,
While the drones pocketed the money.
But now, on better things intent, On far more grateful labour bent,
New prospects open to my view: So, thankless Mother Church, adieu!”
Thus, having said his angry say, Syntax proceeded on his way.
No woeful tear bedew'd her eye, Nor did she heave a single sigh;
But soon began her daily trade, To chide the man and scold the maid;
While Syntax, with his scheme besotted,
Along the village gently trotted.
The folks on daily labour bent, Whistled and caroll'd as they went;
But as the Doctor pass'd along,
Bow'd down their heads, and ceas'd their song.
8
He thus, in mutt'ring tones express'd The disappointments of his breast.
“That thankless parent, Mother Church,
Has ever left me in the lurch;
And while so many fools are seen To strut a Rector or a Dean,
Who live in ease, and find good cheer On ev'ry day of ev'ry year,
So small her share of true discerning,
She turn'd her back on all my learning.
I've in my vineyard labour'd hard, And what has been my lean reward?
I've dug the ground, while some rich Vicar
Press'd the ripe grape, and drank the liquor;
I've fed the flock, while others eat The mutton's nice delicious meat;
I've kept the hive, and made the honey,
While the drones pocketed the money.
But now, on better things intent, On far more grateful labour bent,
New prospects open to my view: So, thankless Mother Church, adieu!”
Thus, having said his angry say, Syntax proceeded on his way.
The morning lark ascends on high, And with its music greets the sky:
The blackbird whistles, and the thrush
Warbles his wild notes in the bush;
While ev'ry hedge and ev'ry tree Resound with vocal minstrelsy.
But Syntax, wrapt in thought profound,
Is deaf to each enliv'ning sound:
Revolving many a golden scheme, And yielding to the pleasing dream,
The reins hung loosely from his hand;
While Grizzle, senseless of command,
Unguided, pac'd the road along, Nor knew if it were right or wrong.
Through the deep vale, and up the hill, By rapid stream or tinkling rill,
Grizzle her thoughtful master bore,
Who, counting future treasure o'er,
And, on his weighty projects bent, Observ'd not whither Grizzle went.
Thus did kind Fancy's soothing power
Cheat him of many a fleeting hour;
Nor did he know the pacing Sun Had half his daily circuit run.
Sweet, airy sprite, that can bestow A pleasing respite to our woe,
That can corroding care beguile,
And make the woe-worn face to smile!
But, ah! too soon the vision passes, Confounded by a pack of asses!
The donkeys bray'd; and lo! the sound
Awak'd him from his thought profound;
And as he star'd, and look'd around,
He said—or else he seem'd to say— “I find that I have lost my way.
Oh what a wide expanse I see, Without a wood, without a tree;
No one at hand, no house is near, To tell the way, or give good cheer;
For now a sign would be a treat, To tell us we might drink and eat;
But sure there is not in my sight The sign of any living wight;
And all around upon this common I see not either man or woman;
Nor dogs to bark, nor cocks to crow,
Nor sheep to bleat, nor herds to low:
Nay, if these asses did not bray, And thus some signs of life betray,
I well might think that I were hurl'd Into some sad, unpeopled world.
How could I come, misguided wretch!
To where I cannot make a sketch?”
Thus as he ponder'd what to do, A guide post rose within his view:
And, when the pleasing shape he spied,
He prick'd his steed and thither hied;
But some unheeding, senseless wight,
Who to fair learning ow'd a spite,
Had ev'ry letter'd mark defac'd,
Which once its several pointers grac'd.
The mangled post thus long had stood,
An uninforming piece of wood;
Like other guides, as some folks say,
Who neither lead, nor tell the way.
The Sun, as hot as he was bright, Had got to his meridian height:
'Twas sultry noon—for not a breath
Of cooling zephyr fann'd the heath;
When Syntax cried—“'Tis all in vain
To find my way across the plain;
So here my fortune I will try, And wait till some one passes by:
Upon that bank awhile I'll sit, And let poor Grizzle graze a bit;
But, as my time shall not be lost, I'll make a drawing of the post;
And, tho' a flimsy taste may flout it,
There's something picturesque about it:
'Tis rude and rough, without a gloss,
And is well cover'd o'er with moss;
And I've a right—(who dares deny it?)
To place yon group of asses by it.
Aye! this will do: and now I'm thinking,
That self-same pond where Grizzle's drinking,
If hither brought 'twould better seem,
And faith I'll turn it to a stream:
I'll make this flat a shaggy ridge, And o'er the water throw a bridge:
I'll do as other sketchers do— Put any thing into the view;
And any object recollect, To add a grace, and give effect.
Thus, though from truth I haply err, The scene preserves its character.
What man of taste my right will doubt,
To put things in, or leave them out?
'Tis more than right, it is a duty, If we consider landscape beauty:
He ne'er will as an artist shine, Who copies Nature line by line:
Whoe'er from Nature takes a view, Must copy and improve it too.
To heighten every work of art, Fancy should take an active part:
Thus I (which few I think can boast)
Have made a Landscape of a Post.
“So far, so good—but no one passes,
No living creature but these asses;
And, should I sit and hear them bray, I were as great a beast as they:
So I'll be off; from yonder down I may, perhaps, descry a town;
Or some tall spire among the trees,
May give my way-worn spirits ease.”
The blackbird whistles, and the thrush
Warbles his wild notes in the bush;
While ev'ry hedge and ev'ry tree Resound with vocal minstrelsy.
But Syntax, wrapt in thought profound,
Is deaf to each enliv'ning sound:
Revolving many a golden scheme, And yielding to the pleasing dream,
The reins hung loosely from his hand;
While Grizzle, senseless of command,
Unguided, pac'd the road along, Nor knew if it were right or wrong.
Through the deep vale, and up the hill, By rapid stream or tinkling rill,
Grizzle her thoughtful master bore,
Who, counting future treasure o'er,
And, on his weighty projects bent, Observ'd not whither Grizzle went.
Thus did kind Fancy's soothing power
Cheat him of many a fleeting hour;
Nor did he know the pacing Sun Had half his daily circuit run.
Sweet, airy sprite, that can bestow A pleasing respite to our woe,
That can corroding care beguile,
And make the woe-worn face to smile!
But, ah! too soon the vision passes, Confounded by a pack of asses!
The donkeys bray'd; and lo! the sound
Awak'd him from his thought profound;
And as he star'd, and look'd around,
He said—or else he seem'd to say— “I find that I have lost my way.
Oh what a wide expanse I see, Without a wood, without a tree;
No one at hand, no house is near, To tell the way, or give good cheer;
For now a sign would be a treat, To tell us we might drink and eat;
But sure there is not in my sight The sign of any living wight;
And all around upon this common I see not either man or woman;
Nor dogs to bark, nor cocks to crow,
Nor sheep to bleat, nor herds to low:
Nay, if these asses did not bray, And thus some signs of life betray,
I well might think that I were hurl'd Into some sad, unpeopled world.
9
To where I cannot make a sketch?”
Thus as he ponder'd what to do, A guide post rose within his view:
And, when the pleasing shape he spied,
He prick'd his steed and thither hied;
But some unheeding, senseless wight,
Who to fair learning ow'd a spite,
Had ev'ry letter'd mark defac'd,
Which once its several pointers grac'd.
The mangled post thus long had stood,
An uninforming piece of wood;
Like other guides, as some folks say,
Who neither lead, nor tell the way.
The Sun, as hot as he was bright, Had got to his meridian height:
'Twas sultry noon—for not a breath
Of cooling zephyr fann'd the heath;
When Syntax cried—“'Tis all in vain
To find my way across the plain;
So here my fortune I will try, And wait till some one passes by:
Upon that bank awhile I'll sit, And let poor Grizzle graze a bit;
But, as my time shall not be lost, I'll make a drawing of the post;
And, tho' a flimsy taste may flout it,
There's something picturesque about it:
'Tis rude and rough, without a gloss,
And is well cover'd o'er with moss;
And I've a right—(who dares deny it?)
To place yon group of asses by it.
Aye! this will do: and now I'm thinking,
That self-same pond where Grizzle's drinking,
If hither brought 'twould better seem,
And faith I'll turn it to a stream:
I'll make this flat a shaggy ridge, And o'er the water throw a bridge:
I'll do as other sketchers do— Put any thing into the view;
And any object recollect, To add a grace, and give effect.
Thus, though from truth I haply err, The scene preserves its character.
What man of taste my right will doubt,
To put things in, or leave them out?
'Tis more than right, it is a duty, If we consider landscape beauty:
He ne'er will as an artist shine, Who copies Nature line by line:
Whoe'er from Nature takes a view, Must copy and improve it too.
To heighten every work of art, Fancy should take an active part:
Thus I (which few I think can boast)
Have made a Landscape of a Post.
“So far, so good—but no one passes,
No living creature but these asses;
And, should I sit and hear them bray, I were as great a beast as they:
So I'll be off; from yonder down I may, perhaps, descry a town;
Or some tall spire among the trees,
May give my way-worn spirits ease.”
Grizzle again he soon bestrode, And wav'd his whip and off he rode:
But all around was dingy green, No spire arose, no town was seen.
At length he reach'd a beaten road:
How great a joy the sight bestow'd!
So on he went in pleasant mood, And shortly gain'd a stately wood,
Where the refreshing zephyrs play'd
And cool'd the air beneath the shade.
Oh! what a change, how great the treat,
To fanning breeze from sultry heat!
But ah! how false is human joy! When least we think it, ills annoy:
For now, with fierce impetuous rush,
Three ruffians issued from a bush;
One Grizzle stopp'd and seiz'd the reins,
While they all threat the Doctor's brains.
Poor Syntax, trembling with affright, Resists not such superior might,
But yields him to their savage pleasure,
And gives his purse with all its treasure.
Fearing, howe'er, the Doctor's view Might be to follow and pursue;
The cunning robbers wisely counted
That he, of course, should be dismounted;
And still that it would safer be, If he were fastened to a tree.
Thus to a tree they quickly bound him;
The cruel cords went round and round him;
And, having of all power bereft him,
They tied him fast—and then they left him.
But all around was dingy green, No spire arose, no town was seen.
10
How great a joy the sight bestow'd!
So on he went in pleasant mood, And shortly gain'd a stately wood,
Where the refreshing zephyrs play'd
And cool'd the air beneath the shade.
Oh! what a change, how great the treat,
To fanning breeze from sultry heat!
But ah! how false is human joy! When least we think it, ills annoy:
For now, with fierce impetuous rush,
Three ruffians issued from a bush;
One Grizzle stopp'd and seiz'd the reins,
While they all threat the Doctor's brains.
Poor Syntax, trembling with affright, Resists not such superior might,
But yields him to their savage pleasure,
And gives his purse with all its treasure.
Fearing, howe'er, the Doctor's view Might be to follow and pursue;
The cunning robbers wisely counted
That he, of course, should be dismounted;
And still that it would safer be, If he were fastened to a tree.
Thus to a tree they quickly bound him;
The cruel cords went round and round him;
And, having of all power bereft him,
They tied him fast—and then they left him.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |