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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| X. | CANTO X. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO X.
Poor mortal man in ev'ry state What troubles and what ills await!
His transient joy is chas'd by sorrow,
To-day he's blest;—a wretch to-morrow.
When in the world he first appears,
He hails the light with cries and tears:
A school-boy next, he fears the nod
Of pedant pow'r, and feels the rod:
When to an active stripling grown
The Passions seize him as their own;
Now lead him here, now drive him there,
The alternate sport of Joy and Care;
Allure him with their glitt'ring treasure,
Or give the brimming cup of pleasure;
While one eludes his eager haste, The other palls upon the taste.
The pointed darts from Cupid's quiver,
Wound his warm heart, and pierce his liver;
While charm'd by fair Belinda's eyes,
He dines on groans, and sups on sighs.
If from this gay and giddy round He should escape both safe and sound,
Perhaps, if all things else miscarry,
He takes it in his head to marry;
And in this lottery of life, If he should draw a scolding wife,
With a few children, eight or ten
(For such things happen now and then),
Poor hapless man! he knows not where
To look around without a care.
Ambition in its airy flight, May tempt him to some giddy height;
But, ere the point he can attain, He tumbles, ne'er to rise again.
Pale Av'rice may his heart possess, The bane of human happiness,
Which never feels for others' woe, Nor ever does a smile bestow:
A wretched, meagre, griping elf, A foe to all, and to himself.
Then comes Disease, with baneful train, And the pale family of Pain:
Till death appears in awful state, And calls him to the realms of Fate.
—How oft is Virtue seen to feel The woeful turn of Fortune's wheel,
While she with golden stores awaits, The wicked in their very gates.
But Virtue still the value knows Of honest deeds, and can repose
Upon the flint her naked head; While Vice lays restless on the bed
Of softest down, and courts in vain The opiate to relieve its pain.
It was not Vice that e'er could keep
Dear Syntax from refreshing sleep;
For no foul thought, no wicked art, In his pure life e'er bore a part.
Some ailment dire his slumbers broke,
And, e'er the sun 'rose he awoke;
When such a tremor o'er him pass'd;
He thought that hour would prove his last.
His limbs were all besieg'd by pain; He now grew hot, then cold again:
His tongue was parch'd, his lips were dry,
And, heaving the unbidden sigh,
He rang the bell, and call'd for aid,
Then groan'd so loud th'affrighted maid
Spread the alarm throughout the house,
When straight the landlord and his spouse
Made all dispatch to do their best
And ease the sufferings of their guest.
“Have you a Doctor?” Syntax said; “If not, I shortly shall be dead.”
“O yes; a very famous man; He'll cure you, Sir, if physic can!
I'll fetch him quick; a man renown'd
For his great skill the country round.”
The Landlord soon the Doctor brought,
Whose words were grave, whose looks were thought:
By the bed-side he took his stand, And felt the patient's burning hand;
Then, with a scientific face, He told the symptoms of the case.
“His frame's assail'd with fev'rish heats;
His pulse with rapid movement beats;
And now, I think, 'twould do him good,
Were he to lose a little blood:
Some other useful matters too, To ease his pain, I have in view.
I'll just step home, and in a trice, Will bring the fruits of my advice;
In the mean time, his thirst assuage
With tea that's made of balm or sage.”
He soon return'd,—his skill applied,—
From the vein flow'd the crimson tide,
And, as the folk behind him stand,
He thus declar'd his stern command;
“At nine these powders let him take;
At ten this draught,—the phial shake;
And you'll remember at eleven,
Three of these pills must then be given;
This course you'll carefully pursue, And give, at twelve, the bolus too:
If he should wander, in a crack Clap this broad blister on his back;
And, after he has had the blister, Within an hour apply the clyster.
I must be gone; at three or four I shall return with something more.”
His transient joy is chas'd by sorrow,
To-day he's blest;—a wretch to-morrow.
When in the world he first appears,
He hails the light with cries and tears:
A school-boy next, he fears the nod
Of pedant pow'r, and feels the rod:
36
The Passions seize him as their own;
Now lead him here, now drive him there,
The alternate sport of Joy and Care;
Allure him with their glitt'ring treasure,
Or give the brimming cup of pleasure;
While one eludes his eager haste, The other palls upon the taste.
The pointed darts from Cupid's quiver,
Wound his warm heart, and pierce his liver;
While charm'd by fair Belinda's eyes,
He dines on groans, and sups on sighs.
If from this gay and giddy round He should escape both safe and sound,
Perhaps, if all things else miscarry,
He takes it in his head to marry;
And in this lottery of life, If he should draw a scolding wife,
With a few children, eight or ten
(For such things happen now and then),
Poor hapless man! he knows not where
To look around without a care.
Ambition in its airy flight, May tempt him to some giddy height;
But, ere the point he can attain, He tumbles, ne'er to rise again.
Pale Av'rice may his heart possess, The bane of human happiness,
Which never feels for others' woe, Nor ever does a smile bestow:
A wretched, meagre, griping elf, A foe to all, and to himself.
Then comes Disease, with baneful train, And the pale family of Pain:
Till death appears in awful state, And calls him to the realms of Fate.
—How oft is Virtue seen to feel The woeful turn of Fortune's wheel,
While she with golden stores awaits, The wicked in their very gates.
But Virtue still the value knows Of honest deeds, and can repose
Upon the flint her naked head; While Vice lays restless on the bed
Of softest down, and courts in vain The opiate to relieve its pain.
It was not Vice that e'er could keep
Dear Syntax from refreshing sleep;
For no foul thought, no wicked art, In his pure life e'er bore a part.
Some ailment dire his slumbers broke,
And, e'er the sun 'rose he awoke;
When such a tremor o'er him pass'd;
He thought that hour would prove his last.
His limbs were all besieg'd by pain; He now grew hot, then cold again:
His tongue was parch'd, his lips were dry,
And, heaving the unbidden sigh,
He rang the bell, and call'd for aid,
Then groan'd so loud th'affrighted maid
Spread the alarm throughout the house,
When straight the landlord and his spouse
Made all dispatch to do their best
And ease the sufferings of their guest.
“Have you a Doctor?” Syntax said; “If not, I shortly shall be dead.”
“O yes; a very famous man; He'll cure you, Sir, if physic can!
I'll fetch him quick; a man renown'd
For his great skill the country round.”
37
Whose words were grave, whose looks were thought:
By the bed-side he took his stand, And felt the patient's burning hand;
Then, with a scientific face, He told the symptoms of the case.
“His frame's assail'd with fev'rish heats;
His pulse with rapid movement beats;
And now, I think, 'twould do him good,
Were he to lose a little blood:
Some other useful matters too, To ease his pain, I have in view.
I'll just step home, and in a trice, Will bring the fruits of my advice;
In the mean time, his thirst assuage
With tea that's made of balm or sage.”
He soon return'd,—his skill applied,—
From the vein flow'd the crimson tide,
And, as the folk behind him stand,
He thus declar'd his stern command;
“At nine these powders let him take;
At ten this draught,—the phial shake;
And you'll remember at eleven,
Three of these pills must then be given;
This course you'll carefully pursue, And give, at twelve, the bolus too:
If he should wander, in a crack Clap this broad blister on his back;
And, after he has had the blister, Within an hour apply the clyster.
I must be gone; at three or four I shall return with something more.”
Now Syntax and his fev'rish state Became the subject of debate.
The mistress said she was afraid No medicine would give him aid;
For she had heard the screech-owl scream,
And had besides a horrid dream.
Last night the candle burn'd so blue; While from the fire a coffin flew;
And, as she sleepless lay in bed, She heard a death-watch at her head.
The maid and ostler too declar'd
That noises strange they both had heard.
“Aye,” cried the Sexton, “these portend To the sick man a speedy end;
And, when that I have drank my liquor,
I'll e'en go straight and fetch the Vicar.”
The mistress said she was afraid No medicine would give him aid;
For she had heard the screech-owl scream,
And had besides a horrid dream.
Last night the candle burn'd so blue; While from the fire a coffin flew;
And, as she sleepless lay in bed, She heard a death-watch at her head.
The maid and ostler too declar'd
That noises strange they both had heard.
“Aye,” cried the Sexton, “these portend To the sick man a speedy end;
And, when that I have drank my liquor,
I'll e'en go straight and fetch the Vicar.”
The Vicar came, a worthy man, And like a good Samaritan
Approach'd in haste the stranger's bed,
Where Syntax lay with aching head;
And, without any fuss or pother, He offer'd to his rev'rend brother
His purse, his house, and all the care
Which a kind heart could give him there.
Approach'd in haste the stranger's bed,
Where Syntax lay with aching head;
And, without any fuss or pother, He offer'd to his rev'rend brother
His purse, his house, and all the care
Which a kind heart could give him there.
Says Syntax, in a languid voice, “You make my very soul rejoice;
For if within this house I stay, My flesh will soon be turn'd to clay:
For the good Doctor means to pop Into my stomach all his shop.
I think, dear Sir, that I could eat, And physic's but a nauseous treat:
If all that stuff's to be endur'd, I shall be kill'd in being cur'd.
“O,” said the Vicar, “never fear; We'll leave the apparatus here.
Come, quit your bed—I pray you, come,—
This arm shall bear you to my home,
Where I, and my dear mate will find
Med'cine more suited to your mind.”
Syntax now rose, but feeble stood,
From want of food and loss of blood;
But still he ventur'd to repair To the good Vicar's house and care;
And found at dinner pretty picking,
In pudding boil'd and roasted chicken.
Again, 'twas honest Grizzle's fate
To take her way through church-yard gate;
And, undisturb'd, once more to riot
In the green feast of church-yard diet.
The Vicar was at Oxford bred, And had much learning in his head;
But, what was far the better part, He had much goodness in his heart:
He also had a charming wife The pride and pleasure of his life;
A loving, kind and friendly creature, As blest in virtue as in feature,
Who, without blisters, drugs, or pills, Her patient cured of all his ills.
Three days he stay'd a welcome guest,
And eat and drank of what was best;
When, on the fourth, in health renew'd,
His anxious journey he pursued.
For if within this house I stay, My flesh will soon be turn'd to clay:
For the good Doctor means to pop Into my stomach all his shop.
I think, dear Sir, that I could eat, And physic's but a nauseous treat:
If all that stuff's to be endur'd, I shall be kill'd in being cur'd.
“O,” said the Vicar, “never fear; We'll leave the apparatus here.
Come, quit your bed—I pray you, come,—
This arm shall bear you to my home,
Where I, and my dear mate will find
Med'cine more suited to your mind.”
38
From want of food and loss of blood;
But still he ventur'd to repair To the good Vicar's house and care;
And found at dinner pretty picking,
In pudding boil'd and roasted chicken.
Again, 'twas honest Grizzle's fate
To take her way through church-yard gate;
And, undisturb'd, once more to riot
In the green feast of church-yard diet.
The Vicar was at Oxford bred, And had much learning in his head;
But, what was far the better part, He had much goodness in his heart:
He also had a charming wife The pride and pleasure of his life;
A loving, kind and friendly creature, As blest in virtue as in feature,
Who, without blisters, drugs, or pills, Her patient cured of all his ills.
Three days he stay'd a welcome guest,
And eat and drank of what was best;
When, on the fourth, in health renew'd,
His anxious journey he pursued.
In two days more before his eyes The stately towers of York arise.
“But what,” said he, “can all this mean!
What is yon crowded busy scene?
Ten thousand souls, I do maintain, Are scatter'd over yonder plain.”
“Aye, more than that,” a man replied,
Who trotted briskly by his side,
“And if you choose, I'll be your guide:
For sure you will not pass this way, And miss the pleasure of the day:
These are the races, to whose sport Nobles and gentry all resort.”
Thought Syntax I'll just take a look; 'Twill give a subject to my book.
So on they went;—the highway friend His services did thus commend.
“I will attend you to the course, And tell the name of ev'ry horse;
But first we'll go and take a whet, And then I'll teach you how to bet;
I'll name the horse that's doom'd to win—
We'll take the knowing fellows in.”
Just as he spoke, the sports began;
The jockies whipp'd, the horses ran;
And, when the coursers reach'd the post,
The man scream'd out—Your horse has lost:
I've had the luck—I've won the day,
And you have twenty pounds to pay.”
Syntax look'd wild—the man said “Zounds!
You know you betted twenty pounds;
So pay them down, or you'll fare worse,
For I will flog you off the course.”
The Doctor rav'd, and disavow'd The bold assertion to the crowd.
What would have been his hapless fate, In this most unexpected state,
May well be guess'd: But, lo! a friend
Fortune was kind enough to send.
An honest 'Squire, who smok'd the trick,
Appear'd well-arm'd with oaken stick,
And placing many a sturdy blow Upon the shoulders of the foe,
“It is with all my soul I beat This vile, this most notorious cheat.”
The 'Squire exclaim'd; “and you, good folk,
Who sometimes love a pleasant joke,
As I am partly tired of thumping,
Should treat the scoundrel with a pumping.”
The crowd with their commission pleas'd
Rudely the trembling Black-leg seiz'd,
Who, to their justice forc'd to yield,
Soon ran off dripping from the field.
“But what,” said he, “can all this mean!
What is yon crowded busy scene?
Ten thousand souls, I do maintain, Are scatter'd over yonder plain.”
“Aye, more than that,” a man replied,
Who trotted briskly by his side,
“And if you choose, I'll be your guide:
For sure you will not pass this way, And miss the pleasure of the day:
These are the races, to whose sport Nobles and gentry all resort.”
Thought Syntax I'll just take a look; 'Twill give a subject to my book.
So on they went;—the highway friend His services did thus commend.
“I will attend you to the course, And tell the name of ev'ry horse;
But first we'll go and take a whet, And then I'll teach you how to bet;
I'll name the horse that's doom'd to win—
We'll take the knowing fellows in.”
Just as he spoke, the sports began;
The jockies whipp'd, the horses ran;
And, when the coursers reach'd the post,
The man scream'd out—Your horse has lost:
I've had the luck—I've won the day,
And you have twenty pounds to pay.”
Syntax look'd wild—the man said “Zounds!
You know you betted twenty pounds;
So pay them down, or you'll fare worse,
For I will flog you off the course.”
The Doctor rav'd, and disavow'd The bold assertion to the crowd.
What would have been his hapless fate, In this most unexpected state,
May well be guess'd: But, lo! a friend
Fortune was kind enough to send.
An honest 'Squire, who smok'd the trick,
Appear'd well-arm'd with oaken stick,
And placing many a sturdy blow Upon the shoulders of the foe,
“It is with all my soul I beat This vile, this most notorious cheat.”
39
Who sometimes love a pleasant joke,
As I am partly tired of thumping,
Should treat the scoundrel with a pumping.”
The crowd with their commission pleas'd
Rudely the trembling Black-leg seiz'd,
Who, to their justice forc'd to yield,
Soon ran off dripping from the field.
Syntax his simple story told,— The 'Squire, as kind as he was bold,
His full protection now affords,
And cheer'd him both with wine and words.
“I love the Clergy from my heart, And always take a Parson's part.
My father, Doctor, wore the gown— A better man was never known:
But an old uncle, a poor elf, Who to save riches, starv'd himself,
By his last will bequeath'd me clear
At least two thousand pounds a year,
And sav'd me all the pains at college,
To pore o'er books and aim at knowledge:
Thus free from care, I live at ease; Go where I will, do what I please,
Pursue my sports, enjoy my pleasure,
Nor envy Lords their splendid treasure.
I have an house at York beside,
Where you shall go and straight reside,
And ev'ry kindness shall be shown,
Both for my Dad's sake, and your own:
For know, good Sir, I'm never loth
To mark my friendship for the Cloth.
Hearty's my name, and you shall find
A welcome, Doctor, to your mind:
And I've a wife so blithe and gay, Who ne'er says yes when I say nay.”
Syntax observ'd, “that was a blessing
A man might boast of in possessing.”
His full protection now affords,
And cheer'd him both with wine and words.
“I love the Clergy from my heart, And always take a Parson's part.
My father, Doctor, wore the gown— A better man was never known:
But an old uncle, a poor elf, Who to save riches, starv'd himself,
By his last will bequeath'd me clear
At least two thousand pounds a year,
And sav'd me all the pains at college,
To pore o'er books and aim at knowledge:
Thus free from care, I live at ease; Go where I will, do what I please,
Pursue my sports, enjoy my pleasure,
Nor envy Lords their splendid treasure.
I have an house at York beside,
Where you shall go and straight reside,
And ev'ry kindness shall be shown,
Both for my Dad's sake, and your own:
For know, good Sir, I'm never loth
To mark my friendship for the Cloth.
Hearty's my name, and you shall find
A welcome, Doctor, to your mind:
And I've a wife so blithe and gay, Who ne'er says yes when I say nay.”
Syntax observ'd, “that was a blessing
A man might boast of in possessing.”
At length arriv'd, a lady fair Receiv'd them with a winning air.
“Ah,” said the 'Squire, “I always come,
My dearest girl, with pleasure home:
You see a rev'rend Doctor here,
So give him of your choicest cheer:”
“Yes,” she replied, “O yes, my dear.”
“Nor fail all kindness to bestow:” “O no, my dear,” she said, “O no.”
Thus happy Syntax join'd the party Of Madam and of 'Squire Hearty.
“Ah,” said the 'Squire, “I always come,
My dearest girl, with pleasure home:
You see a rev'rend Doctor here,
So give him of your choicest cheer:”
“Yes,” she replied, “O yes, my dear.”
“Nor fail all kindness to bestow:” “O no, my dear,” she said, “O no.”
Thus happy Syntax join'd the party Of Madam and of 'Squire Hearty.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |