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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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
A thought the Lady now inspir'd; The time was come she so desir'd;
The secret now must be her own,
And what she wish'd to know be known:
—She fill'd her glass then smiling bow'd,
And thus th'expected grace bestow'd.
“My kindest wish I drink to you, And to dear Mrs. Syntax too;
But why when thus abroad you roam,
Leave you your charming wife at home?”
Syntax first gravely shook his head, And then in soften'd accents said,
“My answer, Ma'am, will make you grieve,
Her's is a home she ne'er will leave,
Till the last summons shall be given,
To call the virtuous soul to Heaven.
My Dolly's gone, alas! to rest, Where the green turf lies on her breast,
And as I others teach to bear With patience the inflicted care,
I must a strong example show To stem the roughest tide of woe;
But grateful to that sov'reign power,
Who rules the year, the day, the hour,
That he doth still my passage bless With what I know of happiness;
That now I have within my view,
Such warm, such gen'rous friends as you:
'Tis to my loss that I now owe, The heart-felt kindness you bestow.
To sooth my mind, to calm my grief, In changing scenes I seek relief,
—My former Tour, I grateful tell, In all its views succeeded well.
To ease my state, to fill my purse, I mounted my old Grizzle Horse,
And kindness both by night and day Was the companion of my way:
And ere my present Tour shall end,
I trust that Heaven will prove my friend,
That I again shall reach my home,
With prospects of fair days to come.”
Madam clasp'd both her hands and sigh'd,
When Hearty in firm tone replied:
“I prithee do not play the fool, Nor poke into your ridicule,
To find a 'kerchief to display Your grief by wiping tears away:
If grief by mirth cannot be cur'd, With patience it must be endur'd.
Kind, pleasant friends, and cheerful hours,
Compose the balm which reason pours,
The various rankling wounds to heal
In minds that rage, in hearts that feel.
If fever burns, if gout attacks, If the stone with its torture racks;
If your whole frame the ague shakes, Or the head to distraction aches,
Laughter and joke and wit in vain
Will strive to ease the afflicting pain:
Nor eloquence with all its charm Can one tormenting pang disarm.
The learned Leech must there apply His skill and the Dispensary.
But such a grief, my friend, as yours,
'Tis mirth relieves, 'tis pleasure cures;
Pleasure that reason doth allow,
And mirth that smoothes the wrinkled brow;
Such as our social friends afford, To cheer their hospitable board.
I'll turn Physician, and to-morrow,
Will find a medicine for your sorrow.”
The 'Squire's broad hand then gave a smack
That sounded on the Doctor's back.
“My friend,” he added, “never fear,
We'll find you some amusement here;
And I engage that you leave York, With heart as light as any cork.”
Syntax replied,—“With half an eye, I see your kind Philosophy:
But as I'm with fatigue opprest, I ask the night's refreshing rest:
And, at the morning's breakfast table, I doubt not but I shall be able,
With all fair reas'ning to bestow
What you will find a Quid pro Quo;—
Which I translate for Madam there A Rowland for your Oliver.”
Arm'd with a taper's burning light,
And having wish'd his host good night,
He to his chamber did repair, And found his Valet waiting there:
Who did not for a moment wait To burst forth in his usual prate.
Patrick.—
“Your Rev'rence, wheresoe'er I've been,
O such a house I ne'er have seen;
I trust, in Heaven, that no disaster,
Nor harm will e'er befall its master!
O never should he die, O never! Such men as he should live for ever:
The cellar's full of liquor rare, Which all who come and go may share.
If in the larder you should pop, Of all good things there's such a crop,
You'd think it was a butcher's shop.
Nay, in the pantry should you look, You might expect a pastry-cook.
O such a kitchen for my money! It overflows with milk and honey!
Nay even puss is grown so fat, She would not move to catch a rat.
No place is empty, all are full; Each servant smiling, no one dull.
Now that your Rev'rence is undrest, You'll find the bed like all the rest;
And when into these sheets you creep,
They'll surely prove brimful of sleep.”
The secret now must be her own,
And what she wish'd to know be known:
—She fill'd her glass then smiling bow'd,
And thus th'expected grace bestow'd.
“My kindest wish I drink to you, And to dear Mrs. Syntax too;
But why when thus abroad you roam,
Leave you your charming wife at home?”
Syntax first gravely shook his head, And then in soften'd accents said,
“My answer, Ma'am, will make you grieve,
Her's is a home she ne'er will leave,
Till the last summons shall be given,
To call the virtuous soul to Heaven.
My Dolly's gone, alas! to rest, Where the green turf lies on her breast,
And as I others teach to bear With patience the inflicted care,
I must a strong example show To stem the roughest tide of woe;
But grateful to that sov'reign power,
Who rules the year, the day, the hour,
That he doth still my passage bless With what I know of happiness;
That now I have within my view,
Such warm, such gen'rous friends as you:
'Tis to my loss that I now owe, The heart-felt kindness you bestow.
To sooth my mind, to calm my grief, In changing scenes I seek relief,
—My former Tour, I grateful tell, In all its views succeeded well.
To ease my state, to fill my purse, I mounted my old Grizzle Horse,
And kindness both by night and day Was the companion of my way:
And ere my present Tour shall end,
I trust that Heaven will prove my friend,
That I again shall reach my home,
With prospects of fair days to come.”
Madam clasp'd both her hands and sigh'd,
When Hearty in firm tone replied:
179
To find a 'kerchief to display Your grief by wiping tears away:
If grief by mirth cannot be cur'd, With patience it must be endur'd.
Kind, pleasant friends, and cheerful hours,
Compose the balm which reason pours,
The various rankling wounds to heal
In minds that rage, in hearts that feel.
If fever burns, if gout attacks, If the stone with its torture racks;
If your whole frame the ague shakes, Or the head to distraction aches,
Laughter and joke and wit in vain
Will strive to ease the afflicting pain:
Nor eloquence with all its charm Can one tormenting pang disarm.
The learned Leech must there apply His skill and the Dispensary.
But such a grief, my friend, as yours,
'Tis mirth relieves, 'tis pleasure cures;
Pleasure that reason doth allow,
And mirth that smoothes the wrinkled brow;
Such as our social friends afford, To cheer their hospitable board.
I'll turn Physician, and to-morrow,
Will find a medicine for your sorrow.”
The 'Squire's broad hand then gave a smack
That sounded on the Doctor's back.
“My friend,” he added, “never fear,
We'll find you some amusement here;
And I engage that you leave York, With heart as light as any cork.”
Syntax replied,—“With half an eye, I see your kind Philosophy:
But as I'm with fatigue opprest, I ask the night's refreshing rest:
And, at the morning's breakfast table, I doubt not but I shall be able,
With all fair reas'ning to bestow
What you will find a Quid pro Quo;—
Which I translate for Madam there A Rowland for your Oliver.”
Arm'd with a taper's burning light,
And having wish'd his host good night,
He to his chamber did repair, And found his Valet waiting there:
Who did not for a moment wait To burst forth in his usual prate.
Patrick.—
“Your Rev'rence, wheresoe'er I've been,
O such a house I ne'er have seen;
I trust, in Heaven, that no disaster,
Nor harm will e'er befall its master!
O never should he die, O never! Such men as he should live for ever:
The cellar's full of liquor rare, Which all who come and go may share.
If in the larder you should pop, Of all good things there's such a crop,
You'd think it was a butcher's shop.
Nay, in the pantry should you look, You might expect a pastry-cook.
O such a kitchen for my money! It overflows with milk and honey!
Nay even puss is grown so fat, She would not move to catch a rat.
No place is empty, all are full; Each servant smiling, no one dull.
Now that your Rev'rence is undrest, You'll find the bed like all the rest;
And when into these sheets you creep,
They'll surely prove brimful of sleep.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |