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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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
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| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. | CANTO XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO XXIV.
Now Syntax, as he travell'd back, Lolling and stretching in a hack,
Could not but ponder in his mind On what he had just left behind.
“I've seen a play,” he mutt'ring said;—
“'Twas Shakespeare's—but in masquerade!
I've seen a farce, I scarce know what; 'Twas only fit to be forgot.
I've seen a Critic, and have heard The string of nonsense he preferr'd.
Heaven bless me! where has Learning fled?
Where has she hid her sacred head?
O how degraded is she grown, To spawn such boobies on the town!
The sterling gold is seen no more; In vain we seek the genuine ore:
Some mixture doth its worth debase;
Some wire-drawn nonsense takes its place.
How few consume the midnight oil! How few in Learning's labour toil!
Content, as they incurious stray Through Life's unprofitable day,
With straws that on the surface flow,
Nor look for pearls that live below:
They ne'er the hidden depths explore,
But gather sea-weed on the shore!
There was a period, when the stage Was thought to dignify the age;
When learned men were seen to sit Upon the benches of the pit;
When to his Art and Nature true,
GARRICK his various pictures drew;
While ev'ry passion, ev'ry thought, He to perfection fully wrought;
By Nature's self supremely taught,
He did her very semblance bear, And look'd as she herself were there.
Whether old Lear's form he wore, With age and sorrow cover'd o'er;
Or Romeo's am'rous flame possess'd, That torture of the human breast;
Or gay Lothario's glowing pride, In conquest o'er his rival's bride;
Or when, with fell ambition warm, In Macbeth or in Gloster's form,
He gave each passion to the eye In all its fine variety,
The words he did not loudly quote;
But acted e'en as Shakespeare wrote.
Could not but ponder in his mind On what he had just left behind.
“I've seen a play,” he mutt'ring said;—
“'Twas Shakespeare's—but in masquerade!
100
I've seen a Critic, and have heard The string of nonsense he preferr'd.
Heaven bless me! where has Learning fled?
Where has she hid her sacred head?
O how degraded is she grown, To spawn such boobies on the town!
The sterling gold is seen no more; In vain we seek the genuine ore:
Some mixture doth its worth debase;
Some wire-drawn nonsense takes its place.
How few consume the midnight oil! How few in Learning's labour toil!
Content, as they incurious stray Through Life's unprofitable day,
With straws that on the surface flow,
Nor look for pearls that live below:
They ne'er the hidden depths explore,
But gather sea-weed on the shore!
There was a period, when the stage Was thought to dignify the age;
When learned men were seen to sit Upon the benches of the pit;
When to his Art and Nature true,
GARRICK his various pictures drew;
While ev'ry passion, ev'ry thought, He to perfection fully wrought;
By Nature's self supremely taught,
He did her very semblance bear, And look'd as she herself were there.
Whether old Lear's form he wore, With age and sorrow cover'd o'er;
Or Romeo's am'rous flame possess'd, That torture of the human breast;
Or gay Lothario's glowing pride, In conquest o'er his rival's bride;
Or when, with fell ambition warm, In Macbeth or in Gloster's form,
He gave each passion to the eye In all its fine variety,
The words he did not loudly quote;
But acted e'en as Shakespeare wrote.
“Nor was he less (for he could range In ev'ry wayward busy change
Known in the field of scenic art— The true cameleon of the heart)
When he assum'd the merry glee Of laughter-loving Comedy.
“In Ranger's tricks, or when he strove
In Benedict to hide his love;
When he in Drugger's doublet shone, Or Brute's rude ribaldry put on;
When he the jealous Kitely play'd; When the same passion he essay'd
In Felix;—with what truth and force
He urg'd that passion's diff'rent course,
Work'd up its features all anew— But still he was to Nature true!
Nay, e'en in Farce he could awake
The fun that made the gall'ries shake
The heart he cheated of its woe, And made the poignant tear to flow,
Lit up a joy in ev'ry eye, Or drown'd the soul in agony.
He ever was to Nature true;— By no false arts did he subdue
Th'attentive mind, the list'ning ear; In all the Drama's wide career,
He ne'er outstepp'd th'unerring rule,
Which he had learn'd in Nature's school:
In ev'ry part he did excel; He aim'd at all, and all was well.
In those good times none went to see The mere effects of scenery;
The constant laugh, the forc'd grimace, The vile distortions of the face;
In those good times none went to see Pierots and Clowns in Comedy,
Men sought perfection to discern, And learned Critics went to learn.
“Shakespeare, immortal Bard sublime!
Unmatch'd within the realm of time!
He did not with Promethean aim, Attempt to steal æthereal flame;
Rather to him the thoughts of Heaven, Were, by Celestial bounty, given:
He read profound, in ev'ry page Of Nature's volume, ev'ry age
And act of man! Each passion's course
He traces with resistless force;
Nay, with a more than mortal art, Gives unknown feelings to the heart;
And doth the yielding fancy bear, Just as his magic wills—and where.
“His page still lives, and sure will last
Till Time and all its years are past.
The Poet, to the end of Time,
Breathes in his works and lives in rhyme;
But, when the Actor sinks to rest, And the turf lies upon his breast,
A poor traditionary fame Is all that's left to grace his name.
The Drama's children strut and play,
In borrow'd parts, their lives away;
And then they share the obvious lot;
Smith will, like Cibber, be forgot!
Cibber with fascinating art, Could wake the pulses of the heart;
But her's is an expiring name, And darling Smith's will be the same.
Of GARRICK'S self e'en nought remains;
His art and him one grave contains:
In others' minds to make him live, Is all remembrance now can give.
All we can say—alas! how vain! We ne'er shall see his like again.”
Just as this critic-speech was o'er
The coach stopp'd at his Lordship's door:
But my good Lord was gone to bed; So Syntax to his chamber sped,
Where, with his pipe, and o'er his bottle,
He chew'd the cud of Aristotle,
Till, stretch'd upon a bed of down,
Sleep did his head with poppies crown;
And well he slept, until a voice Desir'd to know if 'twas his choice
Still to sleep on? And then it stated—
His Lordship and the breakfast waited.
“Well,” said my Lord, when he appear'd,
“I hope the play your spirits cheer'd;
Falstaff, the morning critics tell, Was never surely play'd so well.”
“These critics,” Syntax smiling said,
“Are wretched bunglers at their trade:
One sat beside me in the Pit, No more a critic than a wit!
Between the acts we both exprest, Or what was worst, or what was best;
And whil'd those intervals away In changing thoughts upon the play;
And, though both form'd to disagree,
Nought pass'd but perfect courtesy.
Perhaps it may your fancy suit To hear our classical dispute:
I think, my Lord, 'twould prove a treat,
Should you allow me to repeat
All that this criticising sage Knew of the humours of the stage:
For, as to what should form a play;
How actors should their parts convey;
What are the Drama's genuine laws,
The source from whence true Genius draws
Such scenes, as when to Nature shown,
She loud exclaims—They are my own;
He knew no more it will appear, Than the tea-urn that's boiling here;
Like that, he did no more than bubble, And without any toil or trouble:
They felt the trouble who sat near him;
For, sure enough, 'twas toil to hear him.
After some gen'ral trifling chat Of the new Play-house, and all that,
The scenes that pass'd before our eyes,
Produc'd these questions and replies:
In short, I'll state our quids pro quos Just in the order they arose.”
Critic.—
Known in the field of scenic art— The true cameleon of the heart)
When he assum'd the merry glee Of laughter-loving Comedy.
“In Ranger's tricks, or when he strove
In Benedict to hide his love;
When he in Drugger's doublet shone, Or Brute's rude ribaldry put on;
When he the jealous Kitely play'd; When the same passion he essay'd
In Felix;—with what truth and force
He urg'd that passion's diff'rent course,
Work'd up its features all anew— But still he was to Nature true!
Nay, e'en in Farce he could awake
The fun that made the gall'ries shake
The heart he cheated of its woe, And made the poignant tear to flow,
Lit up a joy in ev'ry eye, Or drown'd the soul in agony.
He ever was to Nature true;— By no false arts did he subdue
Th'attentive mind, the list'ning ear; In all the Drama's wide career,
He ne'er outstepp'd th'unerring rule,
Which he had learn'd in Nature's school:
In ev'ry part he did excel; He aim'd at all, and all was well.
In those good times none went to see The mere effects of scenery;
The constant laugh, the forc'd grimace, The vile distortions of the face;
In those good times none went to see Pierots and Clowns in Comedy,
Men sought perfection to discern, And learned Critics went to learn.
101
Unmatch'd within the realm of time!
He did not with Promethean aim, Attempt to steal æthereal flame;
Rather to him the thoughts of Heaven, Were, by Celestial bounty, given:
He read profound, in ev'ry page Of Nature's volume, ev'ry age
And act of man! Each passion's course
He traces with resistless force;
Nay, with a more than mortal art, Gives unknown feelings to the heart;
And doth the yielding fancy bear, Just as his magic wills—and where.
“His page still lives, and sure will last
Till Time and all its years are past.
The Poet, to the end of Time,
Breathes in his works and lives in rhyme;
But, when the Actor sinks to rest, And the turf lies upon his breast,
A poor traditionary fame Is all that's left to grace his name.
The Drama's children strut and play,
In borrow'd parts, their lives away;
And then they share the obvious lot;
Smith will, like Cibber, be forgot!
Cibber with fascinating art, Could wake the pulses of the heart;
But her's is an expiring name, And darling Smith's will be the same.
Of GARRICK'S self e'en nought remains;
His art and him one grave contains:
In others' minds to make him live, Is all remembrance now can give.
All we can say—alas! how vain! We ne'er shall see his like again.”
Just as this critic-speech was o'er
The coach stopp'd at his Lordship's door:
But my good Lord was gone to bed; So Syntax to his chamber sped,
Where, with his pipe, and o'er his bottle,
He chew'd the cud of Aristotle,
Till, stretch'd upon a bed of down,
Sleep did his head with poppies crown;
And well he slept, until a voice Desir'd to know if 'twas his choice
Still to sleep on? And then it stated—
His Lordship and the breakfast waited.
“Well,” said my Lord, when he appear'd,
“I hope the play your spirits cheer'd;
Falstaff, the morning critics tell, Was never surely play'd so well.”
“These critics,” Syntax smiling said,
“Are wretched bunglers at their trade:
One sat beside me in the Pit, No more a critic than a wit!
Between the acts we both exprest, Or what was worst, or what was best;
And whil'd those intervals away In changing thoughts upon the play;
And, though both form'd to disagree,
Nought pass'd but perfect courtesy.
Perhaps it may your fancy suit To hear our classical dispute:
I think, my Lord, 'twould prove a treat,
Should you allow me to repeat
All that this criticising sage Knew of the humours of the stage:
For, as to what should form a play;
How actors should their parts convey;
102
The source from whence true Genius draws
Such scenes, as when to Nature shown,
She loud exclaims—They are my own;
He knew no more it will appear, Than the tea-urn that's boiling here;
Like that, he did no more than bubble, And without any toil or trouble:
They felt the trouble who sat near him;
For, sure enough, 'twas toil to hear him.
After some gen'ral trifling chat Of the new Play-house, and all that,
The scenes that pass'd before our eyes,
Produc'd these questions and replies:
In short, I'll state our quids pro quos Just in the order they arose.”
“Oh, what a Falstaff! Oh, how fine!
Oh, 'tis great acting—'tis divine!”
Syntax.—
“His acting's great—that I can tell ye;
For all the acting's in his belly.”
Critic.—
“But, with due def'rence to your joke,
A truer word I never spoke
Than when I say—you've never been The witness of a finer scene.
Th'admir'd actor whom you see Plays the fat Knight most charmingly:
'Tis in this part he doth excel; Quin never played it half so well.”
Syntax.—
“You ne'er saw Quin the stage adorn:
He acted ere your sire was born,
And critics, Sir, who liv'd before you,
Would have disclos'd a different story.
This play I've better acted seen In country towns where I have been.
I do not hesitate to say— I'd rather read this very play
By my own parlour fire-side, With my poor judgment for my guide,
Than see the actors of this stage,
Who make me gape at Shakespeare's page.
When I read Falstaff to myself, I laugh like any merry elf;
While my mind feels a cheering glow That Shakespeare only can bestow.
The swagg'ring words in his defence,
Which scarce are wit and yet are sense;
The ribald jest—the quick conceit—
The boast of many a braggart feat;
The half-grave questions and replies, In his high-wrought soliloquies;
The dubious thought—the pleasant prate,
Which give no time to love or hate,
In such succession do they flow, From no to yea—from yea to no,
Have not been to my mind convey'd By this pretender to his trade.
The smile sarcastic, and the leer That tells the laughing mock'ry near;
The warning look that ere 'tis spoke, Aptly forbodes the coming joke;
The air so solemn, yet so sly, Shap'd to conceal the ready lie;
The eyes, with some shrewd meaning bright,
I surely have not seen to-night:
Again, I must beg leave to tell ye, 'Tis nought of Falstaff but his belly.”
Critic.—
“All this is fine—and may be true;
But with such truths I've nought to do.
I'm sure, Sir, I shall say aright, When I report the great delight
Th'enraptur'd audience feel to-night:
103
To fill the columns of to-morrow.
My light critique will be preferr'd The public always take my word;
Nay, the loud plaudits heard around
Must all your far-fetch'd thoughts confound:
I truly wonder when I see, You do not laugh as well as me.”
Syntax.—
“My muscles other ways are drawn:
I cannot laugh, Sir,—while I yawn.”
Critic.—
“But you will own the scenes are fine.”
Syntax.—
“Whate'er the acting, they're divine,
And fit for any pantomime.
Of this it is that I complain; These are the tricks which I disdain:
The painter's art the play commends; On gaudy show success depends:
The clothes are made in just design;
They are well character'd and fine.
The actors now, I think, Heav'n bless 'em,
Must learn their art from those who dress 'em;
But give me actors, give me plays, On which I could with rapture gaze,
Tho' coats and scenes were made of baise:
For if the scene were highly wrought; If players acted as they ought;
You would not then be pleas'd to see This heavy mass of frippery.
Hear, Horace, Sir, who wrote of plays
In Ancient Rome's Augustan days:—
‘Tanto cum strepitu ludi spectantur, et artes,
Divitiæque peregrinæ: quibus oblitus actor
Cum stetit in Scena, concurrit dextera lævæ.
Dixit adhuc aliquid? nil sane. Quid placet ergo?
Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno.”
Critic.—
“Your pardon, Sir, but all around me,
There are such noises they confound me:
And, though I full attention paid, I scarcely know a word you said.
To say the truth I must acknowledge
'Tis long since I have quitted college:
Virgil and Horace are my friends I have them at my finger's ends:
But Grecian Lore, I blush to own, Is wholly to my mind unknown.
I therefore must your meaning seek:
Oblige me, Sir, translate your Greek.
But see, the farce is now begun, And you must listen to the fun,
It sure has robb'd you of your bile;
For now, methinks, you deign to smile.
Syntax.—
“The thing is droll, and aptly bent
To raise a vulgar merriment:
But Merry-Andrews, seen as such, Have often made me laugh as much.
An actor does but play the fool
When he forsakes old Shakespeare's rule,
And lets his own foul nonsense out,
To please th'ill-judging rabble rout:
But when he swears, to furnish laughter,
The beadle's whip should follow after.
There's Terence, Sir, and then there's Plautus;
They've both a better lesson taught us.”
104
“Terence, I know, he wrote in Latin,
Just as a weaver makes his satin;
He well deserv'd the comic bays: For Westminster he wrote his plays;
And Plautus was a fellow famous, He wrote a Farce call'd Ignoramus;
Where Lawyers, by profession bold, In Latin and in English scold.”
“At length, my Lord, the parley ended
Which, to amuse, cannot be mended.
You well may laugh so loud, but I Feel myself more dispos'd to cry,
When thus I see what asses sit In judgment upon works of wit.
“I own, my Lord, I love a play—
When some performer's turn'd away,
By Green-Room tyrants, from the boards
Of London stage, our town affords
To tempt or her or him to stay, For a few nights, upon their way;
Then Doll and I are seen to sit Conspicuous in our Country Pit.”
Thus as he spoke, with frequent bows,
And fifty whens, and wheres, and hows,
Vellum appear'd, with solemn look, To talk about the Doctor's Book.
He said, “'Twas true a learned friend
The Manuscript did much commend;
He thinks it is a work of merit,
Written with learning, taste, and spirit;
The sketches too, if he don't err, Possess appropriate character;
'Tis to the humour of our age, And has your Lordship's patronage;
I therefore wish the work to buy, And deal with liberality.
'Tis true that paper's very dear, And workmen's wages most severe:
The volume's heavy, and demands
Th'engraver's with the printer's hands:
Besides, there is a risk to run; Before the press its work has done
New taxes may, perhaps, be laid On some prime article of trade,
And then the price will be so high;— The persons are but few who buy
Books of so very costly kind; But still the work is to my mind.
I'll try my luck, and will be bound
To give, my Lord, three hundred pound.”
Which, to amuse, cannot be mended.
You well may laugh so loud, but I Feel myself more dispos'd to cry,
When thus I see what asses sit In judgment upon works of wit.
“I own, my Lord, I love a play—
When some performer's turn'd away,
By Green-Room tyrants, from the boards
Of London stage, our town affords
To tempt or her or him to stay, For a few nights, upon their way;
Then Doll and I are seen to sit Conspicuous in our Country Pit.”
Thus as he spoke, with frequent bows,
And fifty whens, and wheres, and hows,
Vellum appear'd, with solemn look, To talk about the Doctor's Book.
He said, “'Twas true a learned friend
The Manuscript did much commend;
He thinks it is a work of merit,
Written with learning, taste, and spirit;
The sketches too, if he don't err, Possess appropriate character;
'Tis to the humour of our age, And has your Lordship's patronage;
I therefore wish the work to buy, And deal with liberality.
'Tis true that paper's very dear, And workmen's wages most severe:
The volume's heavy, and demands
Th'engraver's with the printer's hands:
Besides, there is a risk to run; Before the press its work has done
New taxes may, perhaps, be laid On some prime article of trade,
And then the price will be so high;— The persons are but few who buy
Books of so very costly kind; But still the work is to my mind.
I'll try my luck, and will be bound
To give, my Lord, three hundred pound.”
After some little chat on trade The bargain was completely made—
The work transferr'd, the money paid.
“Tho',” said my Lord, “I think your gains
By no means equal to your pains:
(For Vellum will a bargain drive As well as any man alive;)
The work must give my friend a name, And stamp his Literary fame,
'Twill Paternoster Row command, And keep old Vellum cap-in-hand;
And when a name is up, 'tis said, The owner may lay snug in bed.
Write on—the learned track pursue—
And Booksellers shall cringe to you.”
Much pass'd upon his Lordship's part,
Which shew'd the goodness of his heart;
While Syntax made his full replies,
Not with his tongue—but with his eyes.
The work transferr'd, the money paid.
“Tho',” said my Lord, “I think your gains
By no means equal to your pains:
(For Vellum will a bargain drive As well as any man alive;)
The work must give my friend a name, And stamp his Literary fame,
'Twill Paternoster Row command, And keep old Vellum cap-in-hand;
And when a name is up, 'tis said, The owner may lay snug in bed.
Write on—the learned track pursue—
And Booksellers shall cringe to you.”
Much pass'd upon his Lordship's part,
Which shew'd the goodness of his heart;
While Syntax made his full replies,
Not with his tongue—but with his eyes.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |