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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| I. | CANTO I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
CANTO I.
The school was done, the bus'ness o'er,
When tir'd of Greek and Latin lore,
Good Syntax sought his easy chair, And sat in calm composure there.
His wife was to a neighbour gone, To hear the chit-chat of the town;
And left him the unfrequent power Of brooding through a quiet hour.
Thus, while he sat, a busy train Of images besieged his brain.
Of Church-preferment he had none;
Nay, all his hope of that was gone:
He felt that he content must be With drudging in a Curacy.
Indeed, on ev'ry Sabbath-day,
Through eight long miles he took his way,
To preach, to grumble, and to pray;
To cheer the good, to warn the sinner,
And, if he got it,—eat a dinner;
To bury these, to christen those, And marry such fond folks as chose
To change the tenor of their life, And risk the matrimonial strife.
Thus were his weekly journeys made,
'Neath summer suns and wintry shades;
And all his gains, it did appear,— Were only thirty pounds a year,
Besides, th'augmenting taxes press To aid expense and add distress:
Mutton and beef and bread and beer,
And ev'rything was grown so dear;
The boys too, always prone to eat, Delighted less in books than meat;
So that when holy Christmas came,
His earnings ceas'd to be the same,
And now, alas, could do no more,
Than keep the wolf without the door.
E'en birch, the pedant master's boast,
Was so increas'd in worth and cost,
That oft, prudentially beguil'd, To save the rod, he spar'd the child.
Thus, if the times refus'd to mend, He to his school must put an end.
How hard his lot! how blind his fate!
What shall he do to mend his state?
Thus did poor Syntax ruminate.
When tir'd of Greek and Latin lore,
Good Syntax sought his easy chair, And sat in calm composure there.
His wife was to a neighbour gone, To hear the chit-chat of the town;
And left him the unfrequent power Of brooding through a quiet hour.
Thus, while he sat, a busy train Of images besieged his brain.
Of Church-preferment he had none;
Nay, all his hope of that was gone:
He felt that he content must be With drudging in a Curacy.
Indeed, on ev'ry Sabbath-day,
Through eight long miles he took his way,
To preach, to grumble, and to pray;
To cheer the good, to warn the sinner,
And, if he got it,—eat a dinner;
To bury these, to christen those, And marry such fond folks as chose
To change the tenor of their life, And risk the matrimonial strife.
Thus were his weekly journeys made,
'Neath summer suns and wintry shades;
And all his gains, it did appear,— Were only thirty pounds a year,
Besides, th'augmenting taxes press To aid expense and add distress:
Mutton and beef and bread and beer,
And ev'rything was grown so dear;
The boys too, always prone to eat, Delighted less in books than meat;
So that when holy Christmas came,
His earnings ceas'd to be the same,
And now, alas, could do no more,
Than keep the wolf without the door.
E'en birch, the pedant master's boast,
Was so increas'd in worth and cost,
That oft, prudentially beguil'd, To save the rod, he spar'd the child.
Thus, if the times refus'd to mend, He to his school must put an end.
6
What shall he do to mend his state?
Thus did poor Syntax ruminate.
When, as vivid meteors fly, And instant light the gloomy sky,
A sudden thought across him came,
And told the way to wealth and fame;
And, as th'expanding vision grew Wider and wider to his view,
The painted fancy did beguile His woe-worn phiz into a smile.
But, while he pac'd the room around,
Or stood immers'd in thought profound,
The Doctor, 'midst his rumination, Was waken'd by a visitation
Which troubles many a poor man's life— The visitation of his wife.
Good Mrs. Syntax was a lady Ten years, perhaps, beyond her hey-day;
But though the blooming charms had flown
That grac'd her youth, it still was known
The love of power she never lost, As Syntax found it to his cost:
For as her words were used to flow, He but replied or yes or no.—
Whene'er enrag'd by some disaster,
She'd shake the boys and cuff the master:
Nay, to avenge the slightest wrong,
She could employ both arms and tongue,
And, if we list to country tales, She sometimes would enforce her nails.
Her face was red, her form was fat, A round-about, and rather squat;
And when in angry humour stalking,
Was like a dumpling set a-walking.
'Twas not the custom of this spouse To suffer long a quiet house:
She was among those busy wives Who hurry-scurry through their lives;
And make amends for fading beauty By telling husbands of their duty.
'Twas at this moment, when, inspir'd, And by his new ambition fir'd,
The pious man his hands uprear'd, That Mrs. Syntax re-appear'd:
Amaz'd she look'd, and loud she shriek'd,
Or, rather like a pig she squeak'd,
To see her humble husband dare Thus quit his sober ev'ning chair,
And pace, with varying steps about, Now in the room and now without.
At first she did not find her tongue,
(A thing which seldom happen'd long,)
But soon that organ grew unquiet, To ask the cause of all this riot.
The Doctor smil'd, and thus address'd
The secrets of his lab'ring breast—
“Sit down, my love, my dearest dear, Nay, prithee do, and patient hear;
Let me, for once, throughout my life,
Receive this kindness from my wife;
It will oblige me so:—in troth, It will, my dear, oblige us both;
For such a plan has come athwart me,
Which some kind sprite from heav'n has brought me,
That if you will your counsels join, To aid this golden scheme of mine,
New days will come—new times appear,
And teeming plenty crown the year:
We then on dainty bits shall dine,
And change our home-brew'd ale for wine:
On summer days, to take the air, We'll put our Grizzle to a chair;
While you, in silks and muslins fine,
The grocer's wife shall far outshine,
And neighb'ring folks be forc'd to own,
In this fair town you give the ton.”
“Oh! tell me,” cried the smiling dame,
“Tell me this golden road to fame:
You charm my heart, you quite delight it.”—
“I'll make a tour—and then I'll write it.
You well know what my pen can do, And I'll employ my pencil too:—
I'll ride and write, and sketch and print, And thus create a real mint;
I'll prose it here, I'll verse it there, And picturesque it ev'rywhere:
I'll do what all have done before; I think I shall—and somewhat more.
At Doctor Pompous give a look; He made his fortune by a book;
And if my volume does not beat it, When I return, I'll fry and eat it.
Next week the boys will all go home,
And I shall have a month to come.
My clothes, my cash, my all prepare;
While Ralph looks to the grizzle mare.
Tho' wond'ring folks may laugh and scoff,
By this day fortnight I'll be off;
And when old Time a month has run, Our bus'ness, Lovey, will be done.
I will in search of fortune roam, While you enjoy yourself at home.
The story told, the Doctor eas'd
Of his grand plan, and Madam pleas'd,
No pains were spar'd by night or day To set him forward on his way:
She trimm'd his coat—she mended all
His various clothing, great and small;
And better still, a purse was found With twenty notes of each a pound.
Thus furnish'd, and in full condition To prosper in his expedition;
At length the ling'ring moment came
That gave the dawn of wealth and fame.
Incurious Ralph, exact at four, Led Grizzle, saddled, to the door;
And soon, with more than common state,
The Doctor stood before the gate.
Behind him was his faithful wife;—
“One more embrace, my dearest life!”
Then his grey palfry he bestrode, And gave a nod, and off he rode.
“Good luck! good luck!” she loudly cried,
“Vale! O Vale!” he replied.
A sudden thought across him came,
And told the way to wealth and fame;
And, as th'expanding vision grew Wider and wider to his view,
The painted fancy did beguile His woe-worn phiz into a smile.
But, while he pac'd the room around,
Or stood immers'd in thought profound,
The Doctor, 'midst his rumination, Was waken'd by a visitation
Which troubles many a poor man's life— The visitation of his wife.
Good Mrs. Syntax was a lady Ten years, perhaps, beyond her hey-day;
But though the blooming charms had flown
That grac'd her youth, it still was known
The love of power she never lost, As Syntax found it to his cost:
For as her words were used to flow, He but replied or yes or no.—
Whene'er enrag'd by some disaster,
She'd shake the boys and cuff the master:
Nay, to avenge the slightest wrong,
She could employ both arms and tongue,
And, if we list to country tales, She sometimes would enforce her nails.
Her face was red, her form was fat, A round-about, and rather squat;
And when in angry humour stalking,
Was like a dumpling set a-walking.
'Twas not the custom of this spouse To suffer long a quiet house:
She was among those busy wives Who hurry-scurry through their lives;
And make amends for fading beauty By telling husbands of their duty.
'Twas at this moment, when, inspir'd, And by his new ambition fir'd,
The pious man his hands uprear'd, That Mrs. Syntax re-appear'd:
Amaz'd she look'd, and loud she shriek'd,
Or, rather like a pig she squeak'd,
To see her humble husband dare Thus quit his sober ev'ning chair,
And pace, with varying steps about, Now in the room and now without.
At first she did not find her tongue,
(A thing which seldom happen'd long,)
But soon that organ grew unquiet, To ask the cause of all this riot.
The Doctor smil'd, and thus address'd
The secrets of his lab'ring breast—
“Sit down, my love, my dearest dear, Nay, prithee do, and patient hear;
Let me, for once, throughout my life,
Receive this kindness from my wife;
It will oblige me so:—in troth, It will, my dear, oblige us both;
For such a plan has come athwart me,
Which some kind sprite from heav'n has brought me,
That if you will your counsels join, To aid this golden scheme of mine,
New days will come—new times appear,
And teeming plenty crown the year:
We then on dainty bits shall dine,
And change our home-brew'd ale for wine:
On summer days, to take the air, We'll put our Grizzle to a chair;
7
The grocer's wife shall far outshine,
And neighb'ring folks be forc'd to own,
In this fair town you give the ton.”
“Oh! tell me,” cried the smiling dame,
“Tell me this golden road to fame:
You charm my heart, you quite delight it.”—
“I'll make a tour—and then I'll write it.
You well know what my pen can do, And I'll employ my pencil too:—
I'll ride and write, and sketch and print, And thus create a real mint;
I'll prose it here, I'll verse it there, And picturesque it ev'rywhere:
I'll do what all have done before; I think I shall—and somewhat more.
At Doctor Pompous give a look; He made his fortune by a book;
And if my volume does not beat it, When I return, I'll fry and eat it.
Next week the boys will all go home,
And I shall have a month to come.
My clothes, my cash, my all prepare;
While Ralph looks to the grizzle mare.
Tho' wond'ring folks may laugh and scoff,
By this day fortnight I'll be off;
And when old Time a month has run, Our bus'ness, Lovey, will be done.
I will in search of fortune roam, While you enjoy yourself at home.
The story told, the Doctor eas'd
Of his grand plan, and Madam pleas'd,
No pains were spar'd by night or day To set him forward on his way:
She trimm'd his coat—she mended all
His various clothing, great and small;
And better still, a purse was found With twenty notes of each a pound.
Thus furnish'd, and in full condition To prosper in his expedition;
At length the ling'ring moment came
That gave the dawn of wealth and fame.
Incurious Ralph, exact at four, Led Grizzle, saddled, to the door;
And soon, with more than common state,
The Doctor stood before the gate.
Behind him was his faithful wife;—
“One more embrace, my dearest life!”
Then his grey palfry he bestrode, And gave a nod, and off he rode.
“Good luck! good luck!” she loudly cried,
“Vale! O Vale!” he replied.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |