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 |  |
Syntax to escape was thinking From this beastly scene of drinking,
When he would almost have preferr'd
A hog-trough with the grunting herd:
Nay, as he rather had a feeling That sleep was o'er his senses stealing,
He thought it better to remove To some sweet place of rest above;
When, as he turn'd his heavy head He saw behind a supper spread,
Attended by a household dame, Whom we shall now Rebecca name.
Thither he dragg'd his wooden chair, And took a fix'd position there:
To Becky's hand he gave a squeeze,
And thus address'd her—“If you please,
I'll taste your tempting toasted cheese,”
“No, Sir,” she said, “here's better picking
Broil'd ham and a nice mushroom'd chicken,
So season'd I should not be willing To swallow it for twenty shilling;
Though as a relish, I can boast The making an anchovy toast:
And something's here with name uncivil,
For our cook christens it a Devil.”
—“A Devil, in any shape, sweet maid
A Parson fears not,” Syntax said;
“I'll make him minc'd-meat, 'tis my trade.
But while your sav'ry bits I'm eating
Tell me what means this vaulted meeting?
Whence comes the whim and what's the cause
That moves this agent of the laws
To play a part that seems high treason
Against the sov'reign law of reason?”
“Through summer months, it is his rule,”
Rebecca said, “because 'tis cool.—
For the first hour of their descent 'Tis all kind words and compliment,
But sure as my stool is a barrel,
They first dispute, and then they quarrel,
Then sleep and wake and snort and snore
'Till they, dear souls, can drink no more.
—It is my office to appear With this superfluous supper here;
For, when before them I have plac'd it,
Heav'n bless the topers, they ne'er taste it;
And while they sleep, I leave the cats
To guard the dainties from the rats.
But that self-same fat doctor there
Plays a sly game, as I could swear:
For though he drinks and talks and sleeps,
Yet he a careful measure keeps;
For he contrives to save his head, And walks off steadily to bed;—
While Mr. Capias, to his cost, Drinks 'till his ev'ry sense is lost,
When all the household, while they bless him,
Bear him up-stairs and there undress him.
He wakes at morn with aching head,
And rumbling stomach over-fed, When Julep seats him by the bed.
The pill, the purge, the powders follow:
Which he, alas, is doom'd to swallow:
Then for a grumbling week, forsooth,
He does not use a grinding tooth:
For nought is on his table seen, But sago, broths and medicine.
Indeed, whene'er his room I tread, To ope the curtains of his bed,
I almost fear to find him dead.
—The Doctor having done his deed, Is by the grunting patient fee'd,
Takes leave and darts off, like a rocket,
With five fresh guineas in his pocket.”
Said Syntax, “'Tis a wretched sight,
So let your fair hand take a light,
And shew me where to rest to-night;
For, without any formal warning, I will be off to-morrow morning;
And leave, sweet maid, my pious prayer,
A tribute to your gracious care.
As soon as cocks begin to crow, I hope to be prepar'd to go.”
But though those birds their matins sung
Before his wak'ning bell had rung,
It had not struck the seventh hour When he was jogging on his Tour.
Some miles they pass'd, but not a word
The Doctor or his man preferr'd.
At length his Rev'rence wish'd that Pat
Should let loose his amusing chat
Of what he did and all he saw, While they were with the man of law.
“—Whate'er,” he said, “I look'd to see,
Was just, Sir, what it ought to be.
So kindly Mrs. Becky chatter'd,
And Oh, how Pat from Cork was flatter'd!
Of the good things I had the best;
And, faith Sir, I'm not now in jest:
For Mrs. Becky was so kind, That she, perhaps, might have a mind
In my warm heart to make the stir If I had been a widower;
For when I told her I was married, O quite another face she carried.
And, please you, Sir, could it be shown
That my sweet person were my own,
I could work up a bargain well As, if you please, I hope to tell.
I think 'tis true or I mistake, That Becky butters well her cake;
She does whatever she may please, And she not only keeps the keys,
But faith nor does she think it worse,
She handles the old lawyer's purse.
Besides whene'er he turns to clay, And that she looks for ev'ry day,
'Twas whisper'd in my ear that she Expects a good round legacy.
Thus, when his guzzling season's o'er, She will ne'er go to service more,
But be a comely, wealthy wife, And bless some honest man for life;
Nay, had I been from marriage free, I might have been the happy he.”
He paus'd.—The Doctor ever kind,
Who felt what pass'd in Patrick's mind,
With smiling glance, gave this reply: “I do not wish just yet to die,
But when, please Heaven, my course is run,
And life's appointed work is done,
Patrick may find that Syntax knew
His worth, and could reward it too.”
The honest fellow touch'd his hat:
“My heart now thanks you, Sir, for Pat.”
He softly spoke, and breath'd a sigh,
Then drew his hand athwart his eye:
And if 'twere ask'd what he felt there; It might be said, a grateful tear:
When he would almost have preferr'd
A hog-trough with the grunting herd:
Nay, as he rather had a feeling That sleep was o'er his senses stealing,
He thought it better to remove To some sweet place of rest above;
When, as he turn'd his heavy head He saw behind a supper spread,
Attended by a household dame, Whom we shall now Rebecca name.
Thither he dragg'd his wooden chair, And took a fix'd position there:
To Becky's hand he gave a squeeze,
And thus address'd her—“If you please,
I'll taste your tempting toasted cheese,”
“No, Sir,” she said, “here's better picking
Broil'd ham and a nice mushroom'd chicken,
So season'd I should not be willing To swallow it for twenty shilling;
Though as a relish, I can boast The making an anchovy toast:
And something's here with name uncivil,
For our cook christens it a Devil.”
—“A Devil, in any shape, sweet maid
A Parson fears not,” Syntax said;
“I'll make him minc'd-meat, 'tis my trade.
But while your sav'ry bits I'm eating
Tell me what means this vaulted meeting?
Whence comes the whim and what's the cause
That moves this agent of the laws
To play a part that seems high treason
Against the sov'reign law of reason?”
308
Rebecca said, “because 'tis cool.—
For the first hour of their descent 'Tis all kind words and compliment,
But sure as my stool is a barrel,
They first dispute, and then they quarrel,
Then sleep and wake and snort and snore
'Till they, dear souls, can drink no more.
—It is my office to appear With this superfluous supper here;
For, when before them I have plac'd it,
Heav'n bless the topers, they ne'er taste it;
And while they sleep, I leave the cats
To guard the dainties from the rats.
But that self-same fat doctor there
Plays a sly game, as I could swear:
For though he drinks and talks and sleeps,
Yet he a careful measure keeps;
For he contrives to save his head, And walks off steadily to bed;—
While Mr. Capias, to his cost, Drinks 'till his ev'ry sense is lost,
When all the household, while they bless him,
Bear him up-stairs and there undress him.
He wakes at morn with aching head,
And rumbling stomach over-fed, When Julep seats him by the bed.
The pill, the purge, the powders follow:
Which he, alas, is doom'd to swallow:
Then for a grumbling week, forsooth,
He does not use a grinding tooth:
For nought is on his table seen, But sago, broths and medicine.
Indeed, whene'er his room I tread, To ope the curtains of his bed,
I almost fear to find him dead.
—The Doctor having done his deed, Is by the grunting patient fee'd,
Takes leave and darts off, like a rocket,
With five fresh guineas in his pocket.”
Said Syntax, “'Tis a wretched sight,
So let your fair hand take a light,
And shew me where to rest to-night;
For, without any formal warning, I will be off to-morrow morning;
And leave, sweet maid, my pious prayer,
A tribute to your gracious care.
As soon as cocks begin to crow, I hope to be prepar'd to go.”
But though those birds their matins sung
Before his wak'ning bell had rung,
It had not struck the seventh hour When he was jogging on his Tour.
Some miles they pass'd, but not a word
The Doctor or his man preferr'd.
At length his Rev'rence wish'd that Pat
Should let loose his amusing chat
Of what he did and all he saw, While they were with the man of law.
“—Whate'er,” he said, “I look'd to see,
Was just, Sir, what it ought to be.
So kindly Mrs. Becky chatter'd,
And Oh, how Pat from Cork was flatter'd!
309
And, faith Sir, I'm not now in jest:
For Mrs. Becky was so kind, That she, perhaps, might have a mind
In my warm heart to make the stir If I had been a widower;
For when I told her I was married, O quite another face she carried.
And, please you, Sir, could it be shown
That my sweet person were my own,
I could work up a bargain well As, if you please, I hope to tell.
I think 'tis true or I mistake, That Becky butters well her cake;
She does whatever she may please, And she not only keeps the keys,
But faith nor does she think it worse,
She handles the old lawyer's purse.
Besides whene'er he turns to clay, And that she looks for ev'ry day,
'Twas whisper'd in my ear that she Expects a good round legacy.
Thus, when his guzzling season's o'er, She will ne'er go to service more,
But be a comely, wealthy wife, And bless some honest man for life;
Nay, had I been from marriage free, I might have been the happy he.”
He paus'd.—The Doctor ever kind,
Who felt what pass'd in Patrick's mind,
With smiling glance, gave this reply: “I do not wish just yet to die,
But when, please Heaven, my course is run,
And life's appointed work is done,
Patrick may find that Syntax knew
His worth, and could reward it too.”
The honest fellow touch'd his hat:
“My heart now thanks you, Sir, for Pat.”
He softly spoke, and breath'd a sigh,
Then drew his hand athwart his eye:
And if 'twere ask'd what he felt there; It might be said, a grateful tear:
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |